Soul Wars

by Josh Reynolds

  Miska approached the statue, Porthas trailing after her. Mortals moved quickly from their path, but Miska paid them little mind. The statue was that of a woman - proud, clad in the robes and armour of the Collegiate Arcane. ‘She looks familiar,’ Porthas murmured.

  ‘She should,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘She once beat you at arm wrestling.’

  Miska turned. A mage-sacristan, clad in gold and azure, strode towards them ‘Zeraphina,’ Miska said, in greeting. ‘I wondered where you were.’

  ‘I came looking as soon as Knossus mentioned that you’d arrived,’ Zeraphina said. They knocked their staves together in greeting. Zeraphina glanced at Porthas. ‘Come for a rematch, then, you great ox?’

  Porthas laughed. ‘Once was enough, my lady. I learned my lesson.’

  Miska smiled and nodded to the statue. ‘Did you pose for that?’

  Zeraphina looked at it and frowned. ‘No. Nor would I have, had they bothered to ask.’ She shook her head. ‘Ugly great thing. There’s one for Knossus, as well.’ She pitched her voice low. ‘Waste of silver, in my opinion.’

  ‘Do not judge them harshly, sister,’ Miska said. ‘They merely sought to honour your sacrifice.’ She looked at the statue. ‘I expect that it has brought great comfort to them, in times of need.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Zeraphina said doubtfully. ‘I’m told pilgrims come from across Lyria to pray before it.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I only wish that I could answer their prayers.’

  ‘We can answer one at least, sister.’ Miska looked at her. ‘Come. Balthas and Knossus should be finished yelling at one another by now. They’ll need our counsel, I expect. There is much that needs doing.’

  Zeraphina laughed. ‘Need? Yes. Will they listen? I’ll not give odds on that.’

  The three Stormcasts departed. Behind them, the devoted continued to pray, unaware that the object of their veneration had stood before them, only moments earlier.

  Chapter thirteen

  Inevitable

  SHYISH, THE REALM OF DEATH

  Ayala turned, peering east. The wind brought with it a grave-chill, and the hint of a sour meat stink that was unpleasantly familiar. The old woman pulled her tatterdemalion robes tight about her, suddenly cold. Her hand fell to the curved knife sheathed on her hip. It was a good knife, blessed and edged with silver, but it made her feel no safer.

  This was not a night for safety. No night was safe, not in Shyish. But this night especially - something felt wrong. Something had changed, though she didn’t know what. A few days ago, the sky had twisted in on itself, and the ground had shuddered. Tremors weren’t unknown in the desert, but never were they so forceful.

  There was something coming. She felt it in her water, the way a sand-rat felt the shadow of a bird’s wings. From close by, music rose towards the stars as her kith and kin held back the shadows with the old songs. They would be dancing too, around the fire, whirling so that their robes caught the light and made the air swim with reflected colour. Noise and colour - these were the strongest proofs against the dark.

  ‘The wind in your bones, grandmother?’ her granddaughter, Uskya, called out as she drew near. Ayala turned. Uskya was the image of her mother, Ayala’s daughter, dead these past two turns of the season. The young woman was dark of eye and hair, with the slim build that characterised the Zirc. Her robes were of many colours, the same as Ayala’s, the same as those worn by every nomad in the nine hundred tribes. ‘Come back to the fire, we’ll soon drive it out. Feytos has made dinner.’

  ‘I know, child. Why do you think I’m out here?’ Feytos, her other grandchild, was chieftain now, like his father before him Among the Zirc, it was tradition that a chieftain prepare the evening meal. Unfortunately for all of them, Feytos was a terrible cook.

  Ayala glanced back towards the quintet of towering wagon-fortresses that bore her tribe across the desert sands. The enormous conveyances resembled wheeled citadels, their frames studded with balconies, garrets and towers. Higher than all of these were great pipes of bronze. Thin streams of steam wafted from the pipes, signalling the cooling of the massive boilers that turned the wheels.

  The wagon-fortresses were arranged in a rough circle about the gigantic bonfire that the nomads had started. Feeding the fire had taken more of their precious supply of wood than Ayala approved of. But if there was ever a night for it, this was it.

  Uskya laughed and interlaced her arm with Ayala’s. ‘He is not that bad a cook, grandmother. And the meat is good - the best the Azyrites had.’

  Ayala sniffed. ‘The best they were willing to trade, you mean. They keep the best for themselves, always.’ The traders at Fort Alenstahdt were shrewder than she liked. They made her brothers, sneak-thieves all, look like naive children when it came to bargaining. All of the Azyrites were like that, though.

  She looked up at the stars. They seemed so cold and remote, this night. The Zirc worshipped Sigmar, who wore the firmament as a nomad wore robes. The Azyrites claimed to worship him as well, though their golden man-god seemed nothing like the Wind-Walker she and her tribesfolk venerated.

  The wind shifted, bringing with it the sound of moaning. Out in the dark, jackals began to yelp. Uskya shuddered. ‘Deadwalkers,’ she said.

  Ayala nodded, eyes narrowed. ‘And close.’ The hungry dead roamed the desert in grave herds, usually only a few dozen, but sometimes numbering in the hundreds. She listened and heard the slow - shuffle of feet across the sand.

  ‘Getting closer,’ Uskya added. She tugged on Ayala’s arm ‘Come. Let us go back.’

  Ayala resisted. She’d seen something - starlight, glinting off steel. ‘There’s something else out there. Do you hear it?’ Like the rattle of war-plate, and the slow rasp of bone on bone. Her hand fell to the hilt of her knife.

  The wind was howling now. Sand scraped her cheeks. Something - a man, perhaps - staggered over the top of the nearest dune, stumbled and fell. It rolled across the sand, leaving a wide trail. Uskya took a step towards it. ‘Is he…?’

  Ayala caught her wrist. ‘No.’

  The body flopped over and lurched upright with a crackle of strained ligaments. It gave a ghastly moan and sprang forwards, faster than Ayala expected. Usually, the dead were slow. But this one moved almost as quickly as a normal man. She jerked her granddaughter out of its path and reached for her knife. The corpse floundered into her, teeth gnashing.

  As they fell, she saw more deadwalkers begin to stagger down the dunes. She fumbled at the dead man’s face, trying to keep his teeth from her throat. Uskya appeared over the deadwalker’s shoulder, her own knife in her hand. She drove her blade into the corpse’s neck, trying to sever its brainstem. The corpse jerked, knocking her sprawling. It lurched half-up, eyes fixed on new prey.

  Ayala slashed out, recapturing its attentions. Her blade ripped the dried flesh from its cheek, exposing bone. It turned with a groan and snapped at her. She felt a jolt of pain and jerked back. The corpse followed, and she slammed her knife into the rotting hole where its nose had been. Angling the blade, she sliced into what was left of its brain. Black ichor gushed over her hand, and the corpse toppled off her. She jerked her blade free and Uskya rushed to her, helping her to her feet. ‘Hurry, grandmother, hurry! They are coming!’

  Corpses shambled towards them, slower than the first, but not by much. And marching in their wake, skeletal forms, clad in rotting leather and tarnished armour.

  Behind them, cries of alarm rose from the bonfire. Someone had finally noticed the dead. Something shrieked past, riding the night wind. Ayala looked up, as Uskya caught her uninjured arm. The old woman’s eyes widened as she saw ghostly shapes, swooping down through the black, skimming past the stumbling corpses. They seemed to fill the sky, from end to end, like carrion birds drawn to the feast.

  Her folk had many names for them So too did the Azyrites. She shoved Uskya towards the wagons. ‘The light, we must get
into the light.’ Uskya didn’t argue. She had known what those shrieks heralded since childhood. All Zirc did.

  The sands boiled behind them as they ran for the gap between wagon-fortresses, and the firelight beyond. Things cackled, just out of sight. Unseen hands tore at Uskya’s robes, and Ayala turned, slashing the silver blade out. The cackling things retreated, but only for a moment. And the walking dead drew ever closer.

  ‘Cold… so cold…’ Uskya said, clutching at herself where the dead had gripped her. Ayala nodded.

  ‘So are they,’ she said. ‘Hurry.’ The glow of the bonfire washed over them. The camp was in an uproar. Men and woman huddled together, fearful of the things that spun like great moths or bats, just out of the glare of the light, while others ran for the wagons or slashed uselessly at the spirits. Shadow-shapes stretched across the sands, clutching at the inattentive. Nomads shouted and thrust spears or blades into the gauzy things, trying to pin them to the ground. The dead slipped away, only to return like nightmares.

  ‘What is this, grandmother?’ Uskya asked. ‘Why is this happening?’

  Ayala said nothing. Her kin raced about, gathering up what belongings they could, before hurrying to reach the safety of the wagon-fortresses. Steam belched from the copper pipes, as desperate crews stoked the boilers. Horns blew, and lanterns were lit, washing the sands with light. She saw her grandson, Feytos, bellowing orders to his kinsmen.

  He wore his armour beneath his robes, as was habit with most of the men. He gestured with a silver sword, bought at great expense from some Azyrite merchant. ‘Get to the wagons,’ he roared. ‘Full steam west. Make for Fort Alenstahdt!’ He caught sight of them ‘There you are - quickly, get aboard.’

  His eyes widened slightly as he noticed Ayala’s wound, but before he could speak, something crashed down on him from above. It screamed like a water-panther as it landed, and Feytos died with its blade in his back.

  The thing rose, jerking the blade free. It was like no dead man Ayala had ever seen: a thin, stretched shape, wrapped in black iron and grave shroud. Eyes like amethyst light blazed from within a shadowed helm, and the face that held them twisted and changed from that of a man to a fleshless rictus as she watched.

  It took a step towards them, moving with an awkward, stuttering gait. It twitched and was suddenly closer. Every spasm brought it nearer. The world around her seemed to slow, and the night became as tar. She heard Uskya shouting, as if from a vast distance. But she could not look away. His eyes blazed brighter and brighter, drawing her in. The world closed about her and fell away.

  And then the dead man was staring down at her.

  Pharus stared down at the old woman, studying her. She gazed up at him, as if frozen. Everything seemed frozen, as around them, the dead went about their bloody work. The air was filled with screaming. Of the spirits that surrounded him, the chainrasps were the most numerous. Spiteful things, broken by Nagash’s will, their forms dictated by the circumstances of their death, they filled the clearing amid the wagons in a dolorous tempest, whispering and wailing.

  But there were others as well. Black-eyed dreadwardens, scythe-wielding reapers and glaivebearing stalkers swooped and drifted among the panicking nomads, killing any who tried to resist or were too slow to reach the dubious safety of the wagons. Some of the nighthaunts served him, while others were bound to Malendrek.

  The Knight of Shrouds was howling out his contempt nearby. Malendrek had ridden his skeletal steed into the heart of one of the wagons, leading his ghostly horsemen in an orgy of bloodshed. Somewhere out in the desert, Grand Prince Yaros and Crelis Arul would be making their own way towards the slaughter, leading their forces.

  A mass sigh ran through a knot of nearby chainrasps, and they scattered, revealing a hunched, broken shape, wrapped in a rusty shroud of keys and locks. The spirit’s face was hidden beneath a helmet that might once have been in the shape of a dog’s muzzle, or a bird’s beak, and it wore a crude, rusting hauberk of scalloped plates. In its colourless hands, it gripped handfuls of chain, which flickered with nauseating energies.

  Those chains, Pharus knew, could draw in a soul, and trap it. Fellgrip was a jailer of the dead. It was trailed by a coterie of lesser phantasms - its wardens. These spirits clustered about the hunched thing, whispering to it and lashing out at the other, lesser chainrasps with clubs and rusty axes, driving them away from their master.

  ‘Fellgrip,’ Pharus said. Fellgrip twitched its chains at the sound of his voice, and their rattling sent a shiver through Pharus’ soul. The temptation to strike the Spirit Torment down was almost overwhelming - something about it unsettled him, and instilled in him a sense of terrible foreboding. It stared down at the old woman with malign intensity, and he extended his sword between them. ‘Go. Collect the tithe. This one is mine.’

  Fellgrip gave a disgruntled warble and drifted away, followed by its lackeys. Arkhan had bound the creature to him, somehow, as he had bound several other powerful spirits. Pharus turned back to his prey.

  The old woman still stood as if frozen. Steam billowed, mingling with the smoke of the bonfire, enveloping them both. Several of the wagons were starting to move, their great wheels shaking the earth. Pharus reached out, almost gently, and caught the old woman by the throat. She barely struggled. There was a wound on her arm, and he could see the black strands of deadwalker poison spreading through the flickering light of her soul. A quick death would be a mercy for her.

  He raised his blade. It yearned to taste her blood and flesh, and he yearned for it as well. To sup on the moment of her death, to take some of her warmth into himself. He was cold. So cold. So empty.

  Something silver flashed out of the corner of his eye. He felt a blow and flung the old woman aside. The younger nomad stood before him, holding the silver sword of the man he’d killed. She darted past him, to the side of the old woman. ‘I won’t let you hurt her,’ she shouted. Her voice echoed strangely, and he paused. Her face reminded him of another… younger, but with the same eyes, full of fear and determination…

  …hurt her…

  …won't let you hurt her…

  He twitched the echo aside and raised his blade.

  …the dead were everywhere in the streets, everywhere he turned…

  …his halberd swept down, chopping through a door as dead hands caught at him…

  ‘Elya,’ he croaked. A name. Whose name?

  …a small girl - Elya? - wailed as something from the grave clutched her to its bosom…

  He stopped, sword raised. It was as if something held him fast.

  …he had raised his lantern, and there was thunder…

  He heard the hiss of a voice inside him.

  Free them, Pharus. Life is a cage, and only the dead are truly free.

  It was not the first time Pharus had heard that voice, since leaving Nagashizzar. It had been barely audible, at first. A soft murmuring. But it had grown louder, the farther they travelled from the Silent City. It spoke to him of what he must do, of the justice owed him He could not ignore it, and so he listened.

  Still, he hesitated. The words felt wrong, somehow.

  Nagash freed you. Nagash will free them all. They will see, as you now see.

  But the very notion seemed somehow antithetical to him He shook his head, trying to clear it. A human gesture, more from instinct than need. The doubts fluttered like moths and receded. The sword felt heavy in his grip and slowly, he lowered it. The old woman, on her feet now, caught the younger by the hand and dragged her away from him He did not move to stop them

  He caught sight of something that might have been the hint of a skull in the facets of his sword. Its gaze burned into him, and he shuddered as a sense of displeasure radiated through him He tore his eyes away and turned, needing something… hungry for something…

  ‘You hesitated.’

  He spied a thin shape, stretched and to
o tall, wafting towards him, dragging a massive axe in its wake. Spirits hurried from its path, almost as quickly as they had made way for Fellgrip. The newcomer’s face, half-hidden beneath a ragged hood, lacked definition, save where it was forced into shape by the mask of ashes and dried blood she wore. She smiled at Pharus, revealing blackened teeth.

  ‘Why did you hesitate, my sweet lord? Even in life, I never hesitated.’

  ‘It is not for you to question me, spirit,’ Pharus snarled.

  She bowed mockingly. ‘Have you forgotten my name already, my lord? Shall I remind you? I am Rocha, my lord. Entyr Rocha, Lady of the Fourth Circle. In life, I was High Executioner of Helstone. In death, I am the axe in your hand. But speak, and I shall mete out justice to those who defy you.’ She looked past him, in the direction the women had fled. ‘Shall I hunt them down, lop off their heads and present them to you?’ She lifted her axe, and Pharus saw that the blade had been stained black with blood.

  ‘No,’ he said. The air smelled of death. Bodies lay in heaps and piles. One of the wagons burned, and chainrasps cavorted in the flames, as nomads screamed. Deadwalkers and deathrattle warriors stalked through the haze of smoke, pursuing the living.

  ‘The Mortarch of Sacrament bid me serve you,’ Rocha hissed, drifting closer. ‘He casts forth his hand, and a thousand gallows-ropes snap taut. A true lord, wise and mighty.’ She peered at him ‘But you are not. Not yet. Light still flickers in you. I can taste it and - oh - it is a deceitful thing. It will lead you astray, that light.’ She hesitated. ‘I thought to grasp it, once. I was betrothed to a prince. A mighty prince.’

  She trailed off, her gaze unfocused, lost in memories. The spirits that clung to her began to moan and wail, and her gaze sharpened once more. ‘But he is gone, and I am here. I sent a thousand or more souls to face the Black Judge when I was alive, and many more since.’ She ran a thumb along the pitted edge of her axe. ‘It was my duty then, and my only pleasure now. As it should be yours.’ Her voice was as harsh as a raven’s caw. ‘Rejoice, for you have found justice at last. The guilt of life is taken from you, and you are free.’