‘Fresh ingredients, gathered by my… aides,’ the necromancer said, gesturing to the sellswords. ‘They were infected, you know. They would have turned, regardless. This way, they shall serve a greater purpose. They shall be tools of war, rather than mindless beasts.’ He glanced at one of the bravos. ‘Deal with them’
The man, scarred and missing an ear, goggled. ‘What?’
‘I’m paying you to ensure that my studies are not interrupted, am I not?’ The necromancer gestured. ‘Kill them’
‘But they, they’re.’ the bravo began.
The necromancer sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll do it myself.’ He raised a hand. Achillus lunged for the steps, as
Balthas felt the aether quaver. Sickly green flame speared through the gathered sellswords, slaying them instantly. As they fell, the necromancer spun and flung out a hand. He spat a single, deplorable word that echoed like a cemetery bell.
From the cellar, the dead answered. Swiftly, more swiftly than seemed possible, the deadwalkers began to climb, one atop the next, scrambling over the lip of the pit with bestial agility. They rushed towards the Sequitors, slavering and snarling.
Balthas turned. ‘Mara - look to the pit. Leave the necromancer to Achillus and me.’ The Sequitors braced themselves, and Mara set herself between the deadwalkers and the doorway. Stormsmite mauls thudded down, pulping flesh and bone, as crumbling hands scraped against soulshields. Satisfied they would keep the dead corralled, Balthas turned back to the steps.
Achillus was already halfway up. The necromancer was chanting. The bodies of his sellswords twitched and rose, but not to attack the approaching lord-veritant. Instead, the dead slumped over the necromancer, intertwining their broken limbs.
Amethyst light danced across them, and flesh ran like wax, until one body bled into the next. The necromancer rose up, borne aloft on the hands and feet of the dead. Skulls cracked open and stretched over the necromancer’s head, forming a hood of bone and hair. The bodies had become akin to a twitching, steaming suit of war-plate, crafted from meat rather than metal.
‘Nagash calls and his faithful answer,’ the mortal shrieked. ‘When he reaches out, it is with a thousand hands. When he speaks, it is with a thousand voices. Hear the word of Nagash - hail Nagash! Hail the Undying King!’
The conglomeration took a plodding step forwards, towards the edge of the landing. Floorboards bent beneath its grotesque weight. The mortal swung out a hand, entombed within a number of others, creating a massive paw with hundreds of writhing fingers. The hand slammed into Achillus as he reached the top step, and there was a spark of azure light. The lord-veritant was sent tumbling down the steps, cursing the entire way.
The necromancer followed, shattering the steps as he descended, one great paw gouging apart the wall alongside him A massive knot of fists barrelled down. Achillus rolled aside and scrambled to his feet. The necromancer heaved himself around in pursuit. ‘I will crack open your shell and offer up your soul to Nagash,’ he screamed.
‘No. You will not.’ Balthas stepped quickly between them, his staff raised. The conglomeration lurched forwards and grappled him It was stronger than it looked. Faster. But Balthas held it at bay.
The necromancer snarled at him, baring rotten teeth. ‘Stand not between the Undying King and his kingdom!’ Balthas felt a preternatural chill slither through him at the words. He caught hold of the skull-and-scalp helmet, and felt the pulse of its wearer’s twisted soul. It was like broken shards of black glass, biting into his palm. The necromancer had used what was left of his own soul to weave together his grisly war-plate - the binding spell was a thing of brute force and crude edges, lacking in any subtlety. It was easy enough to find the loose strands of magic and tug apart the knot holding it all together.
As Balthas unravelled the spell, he felt the mortal’s soul twitch and flutter in his grasp. Panic rose in the necromancer’s gaze, and he thrashed, trying to free himself. Balthas held fast, however, and the mortal could not pull away. ‘N-no, no you cannot…’ the necromancer whined. ‘I was promised justice - justice against those who hounded me.’
‘Is this justice, then?’ Balthas said. The first flap of flesh-plate peeled away from the whole. More followed, with a hideous sucking sound. ‘This abomination? If you think so, you are as broken as these husks.’ Broken limbs and meat sloughed away all at once, leaving the necromancer dangling in Balthas’ grip. He shook the pathetic creature. ‘Answer me.’
The necromancer cursed and clawed at his forearm. Dark strands of aether tightened about his crooked fingers. Balthas saw the spell forming before the mortal spoke. He squeezed, cutting off the necromancer’s air. The mortal gasped, and the spell turned to ash on the air. Disgusted, Balthas tossed him aside.
The necromancer clambered to his knees, wheezing. ‘You… you are too late,’ he coughed. ‘The dead outnumber the living. And the lords of death march upon you. They are coming, and all who are imprisoned shall be freed by-’ He was silenced by Achillus’ blade, as it parted his head from his neck. Balthas looked down at the decapitated body as it twitched in its death throes.
‘He was no threat,’ he said, after a moment.
‘Not to us,’ Achillus said, glancing meaningfully at the bodies in the pit. He took down one of the lanterns hanging on the wall and cast it down, where the dead lay thickest. The cheap salamander oil spread quickly, carrying a trail of flame.
‘Come, brother,’ Achillus said, stepping over the flames. ‘The shadows lengthen and other tasks await us.’
‘Whatever else comes, we must hold the Shimmerway,’ Lynos Gravewalker said. ‘If our route to the Shimmergate is compromised, there will be no retreat.’
‘I thought the Anvils of the Heldenhammer never retreated,’ Orius Adamantine said, smiling slightly. The two lords-celestant stood atop the Mere-Wall, overlooking the Glass Mere and the hundreds of thriving fish farms that clung to the shore, and the villages that spread along and up the sides of the wall like barnacles.
Meeting here had become something of a tradition for the two. It was quieter here than along the outer walls. Fewer soldiers, fewer people making their way from one section of the city to the next. Fewer distractions. And something about the smell of fish and the sound of water lapping against the shore put Lynos in a contemplative frame of mind. One more conducive to the discussion of strategy.
Birds cried out raucously as they circled the freshwater lake, and Lynos could hear the shouts of fishermen as they went about the business of the day. They seemed to have no idea of what was coming. No understanding of the tensions that gripped the city. Or perhaps, they simply didn’t care. Even with war on the horizon and the city in upheaval, fishmongers needed fish and fishermen needed coin. Was that bravery, he wondered, or foolishness? He looked at his fellow lord-celestant. ‘We prefer not to retreat, on the whole. But sometimes it is unavoidable. Besides which, who are you to talk of such things?’
Orius laughed. The Adamantines had a similar reputation for stubbornness in the face of long odds. ‘True. But you are right, brother. We must ensure that the city’s main artery remains in our hands.’ He frowned. ‘I do not like to think of the armies of the dead spilling into Azyr. Or of what slumbers beneath us waking up.’
Lynos bowed his head. ‘Were Pharus with us, I would have no fear of that.’ He shook his head and looked up at the dark sky. Clouds covered the sun, and what little light managed to get through was weak and muddy. ‘But he is not, and we must press on, regardless.’ Despite his words, it felt wrong, going into battle without his lord-castellant. Pharus was the rock upon which the Gravewalkers stood.
Without him, everything felt off-kilter somehow. He took a deep breath and pushed the thought aside. ‘Another debt added to Nagash’s tally,’ Lynos rumbled. ‘Like Makvar, at Gothizzar. He fell, waiting for aid that never came.’
‘And has born enmity for the dead ever since,’ Orius finishe
d. ‘Yes, you’ve told me this tale before, Lynos. I’ve fought alongside Makvar - I know his anger as well as I know my own. Or yours, come to that.’ He shook his head. ‘This is different. Nagash played Makvar false, but did not openly move against him. The same when the Shadowed Soul invaded his demesnes thirty years ago on his ill-fated expedition - then, too, Nagash ceded the field rather than risk open war.’
‘Something has changed,’ Lynos said, nodding. ‘The air tastes different. Feels different. As if the game has changed.’
‘We have relied on the Undying King being, if not an ally, then the enemy of our enemy. If he moves against us, things become less certain. Nagash is a different sort of foe to the servants of the Ruinous Powers, or the orruks.’ Orius looked down into the waters of the Glass Mere, as if seeking his reflection. From this high up, and in the weak light, Lynos knew that even his eyes would discern nothing save stretches of dark on dark. ‘And we face a different sort of war. One I fear that we are not prepared for.’
‘And there you would be wrong, brothers,’ Knossus Heavensen called out as he approached, his helmet under one arm ‘Sigmar foresaw this moment the day Tarsus Bull-Heart failed to return from Stygxx, and his Warrior Chamber came back in pieces. We of the Sacrosanct Chamber have been raised up to face that which is coming. It is our sacred duty, and now Glymmsforge is protected by, not one, but two such chambers.’
‘Which can only mean that Sigmar foresees this city enduring the brunt of whatever is coming,’ Lynos said flatly. It had been almost a week since the second Sacrosanct Chamber - this one bearing the colours of his own Stormhost - had arrived. As yet, the lord-arcanum - Balthas, Lynos thought he was called - had avoided him. He suspected he knew why. Pharus had not yet been reforged. In fact, none of those who’d died in the necroquake had.
One way or another, Lynos intended to bring the lord-arcanum to task and get some answers. Orius nudged him ‘Smoke,’ the other lord-celestant said. He pointed. ‘The northern district.’
‘The Fane of Nagash-Morr,’ Knossus said, without looking.
Lynos peered in the direction of the smoke. ‘I thought it sealed not long after the cataclysm Has some fool attempted to reopen it?’
‘Not fools. Worshippers. Mortals who believe in the lie of Nagash’s benevolence. They seek his protection from the dead.’ Knossus sighed. ‘Perhaps for them, there is safety there. But the Undying King is our enemy, and he can be allowed no foothold, however benign, in this city. I ordered Lord-Veritant Achillus and Lord-Arcanum Balthas to clear it, and bring the temple down, stone by stone.’
‘I should have been there,’ Lynos growled. He felt a pulse of frustration. This was his city, when all was said and done. The responsibility was his.
Knossus looked at him ‘You cannot be everywhere, brother. The deed is done, or soon will be.’ He sighed and looked out over the Mere. ‘I forgot… I forgot how beautiful it was.’ He spoke so softly, Lynos almost didn’t hear him Then he sighed again and turned. ‘Come. I came to collect you both. It is time to hold what might be our final council of war, before things reach the end.’
‘Is it so close, then?’ Orius asked, looking towards the desert. The horizon had grown steadily darker as the days passed, and the nights seemed longer.
‘Closer than we know,’ Knossus said, solemnly. ‘Come, brothers. The others will be waiting. We must ready Glymmsforge for war.’
‘I dislike burning temples, brother,’ Balthas said, as he and Lord-Veritant Achillus climbed the stone steps to the council chambers of the stormkeep. The fortress of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer crouched at the city’s heart, within sight of the Shimmergate. It was a squat, black edifice, built for chilly efficiency rather than grandeur. Balthas approved.
There had been more to do, after the necromancer’s death. The tasks seemed endless. Mystic wards to be strengthened and places of ill-repute searched. Ghosts to lay and bodies to burn in cleansing fire.
‘Even ones devoted to Nagash?’ Achillus asked, not harshly. He had become less surly after the battle with the necromancer. Not friendly… but tolerable.
‘They were doing no harm to any but themselves.’ Balthas shook his head. ‘Also, I mourn the loss of their libraries - those who spend their time in the company of the dead have long memories, and keep good records.’
‘They will rebuild,’ Achillus said. ‘They always do.’ He sighed. ‘Peaceful as the adherents of Nagash-Morr are, they are still a warrior-cult, and dedicated to a god we are now at war with. Sooner or later, they would have made the wrong choice.’
‘To serve their god, you mean?’ He thought of the mortals, standing disconsolate as their place of worship was erased in mystic fire. They had not resisted - indeed, they seemed to have expected it. The priests, in their amethyst robes and with their faces painted in ash and dust, had calmed the crowd. They had spoken of inevitability and acceptance. Of how all things died, and death was not the end.
‘To make war on ours,’ Achillus said. He looked at Balthas. ‘You are new here, lord-arcanum You do not understand the ways of Shyish. The ebb and flow of this realm is unlike any other. This is the realm of a god who - at his best - is inimical to all that we represent. We cannot allow him a foothold here, in this enclave of Azyr. Not now. Perhaps not ever again.’
‘You say that as if you think this war will end with the status quo restored,’ Balthas said. ‘Nagash has upended the status quo. Things will never be the same.’
‘All the more reason to burn his fanes and scatter his worshippers, then.’ Achillus stopped, one step above Balthas. ‘This is the red edge of the frontier, Balthas. Here, the influence of our god wanes as another grows. We do what we can to shine Azyr’s light here, but some shadows are too persistent, even for us.’ He gestured to the lantern atop his staff, its soft blue radiance washing over the stones around them
Balthas stared into that light for a moment. Then he looked away. ‘You are correct, of course. The thought of all that knowledge - going up in smoke.’
Achillus snorted. ‘If you think they allowed us to destroy anything of any real value, then you are not half the sage people claim’ He turned and began to ascend once more. ‘I’ve burned that temple eight times in the past eighty years, brother. They keep rebuilding it. And they invite me to the first service they hold, each time.’
Balthas paused. ‘Do you go?’
‘Every time.’ Achillus laughed. A moment later, Balthas joined him
The council chambers rested at the heart of the stormkeep. A circular space, it was dominated by a map of the city. The map was the height of a man, and nearly as long as the wall to which it was affixed, showing every alleyway and beggar’s gate in Glymmsforge.
It had been drawn with a care and precision beyond that of any human cartographer. Only duardin draftsmen were so precise, for all that they disliked the use of such ephemeral materials. Their mapmakers preferred metal and stone to ink and parchment. Similar maps stretched nearby. One was of the known regions of the underworld of Lyria, while the other was of the Zircona Desert and the outposts along the Great Lyrian Road.
There was no table, no chairs. A rough-hewn bench occupied one wall, and a number of stools were scattered about, for the use of mortals. A few ragged battle-banners covered what the maps didn’t, and other trophies hung here and there - skulls taken from great beasts, mostly. By and large, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer put little stock in trophies.
Flickering storm-lanterns hung from the rafters, casting a cerulean light over the chamber. Balthas saw the two lords-celestant, Lynos Gravewalker of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, and Orius Adamantine of the Hammers of Sigmar, studying the map closely and conferring in low tones with a mortal soldier, wearing the mauve and black of the Glymmsmen. The Freeguilder held a war-helm, wrought in the shape of a skull, beneath one arm, and his close-cropped hair was crimson.
‘Varo Tyrmane, Lord-Captain o
f the Glymmsmen,’ Achillus said, softly. He indicated a burly duardin sitting perched on a stool nearby. ‘And that’s Grom Juddsson, representative of the Riven Clans.’ Juddsson was clad in rich robes and fine war-plate, and his beard was oiled and curled into tight ringlets, threaded with silver. He stared pensively at the map, gnawing on the stem of a pipe.
Tyrmane and Juddsson weren’t the only mortals present. A representative of the Collegiate Arcane, clad in fine purple robes, stood off to the side, murmuring instructions to the bevy of scribes surrounding her. A group of Freeguild officers, wearing the uniforms of several regiments other than the Glymmsmen, spoke quietly in one corner.
Balthas recognised some of them - a captain of the Silver Company, out of Chamon, with his pristine white doublet and polished armour; a line-sergeant of the Ironsides, a gun-company normally contracted by the Ironweld Arsenal; and a boyr of the Sons of the Black Bear, a lance of knights from the northern baronies of Azyr. The knight was the biggest of the three, his bearskin cloak making him seem massive next to the others.
Achillus went to speak with Knossus, who stood conferring with the representative of the Collegiate Arcane and his mage-sacristan, Zeraphina. Balthas stood, slightly ill at ease in this gathering of strangers. He wished he hadn’t left Miska to oversee the deconstruction of the temple, but someone had needed to ensure that the fires didn’t spread.
He felt, rather than saw, someone approach. ‘You have been avoiding me, lord-arcanum’ The voice was stern and somewhat morose.
Balthas sighed and turned to face Lynos Gravewalker. The lord-celestant was a sombre titan, as befitted one who had spent much of the past century seeing that the dead rested easy in their tombs. From what Balthas knew of him, he knew better than most the dangers of Shyish, and had a keen mind for one whose whole purpose was war. ‘I assure you that I have not, lord-celestant,’ he said. A lie, but a kind one. ‘Circumstances have prevented me from making a proper introduction, for which you have my apologies.’
Soul Wars Page 25