‘They tell me that Pharus has not been reforged.’
Balthas looked at him ‘Who says this?’
Lynos shrugged. ‘The aether speaks. I listen.’ He frowned. ‘Is it true?’
Balthas studied the map. ‘It is as Sigmar wills.’
‘That is not an answer, lord-arcanum’
‘No. It is not.’ Balthas sighed. ‘There were… complications.’
‘Tell me,’ Lynos growled.
‘His soul was. lost during the necroquake.’
‘Lost?’ Lynos ran his hand through his hair. ‘Lost.’ He looked away. ‘Pharus was my shield. The rock upon which I built my strategies. And now he is gone. I feel as though I have lost my hand.’
Balthas hesitated. He reached out, some half-formed thought of comforting the lord-celestant on his mind. But he pulled his hand back at the last moment. Lynos would not thank him. For all the lord-celestant knew, Balthas had been forced to destroy Pharus. Instead, he stared at the map, analysing the city, noting its weaknesses and strengths.
Glymmsforge had grown from humble beginnings. A rough palisade, erected around the Shimmergate had been reinforced time and again over the course of five decades, expanding into a dozen concentric rings of stone. Man, duardin and aelf had worked as one, to erect a monument to civilisation amid the wilderness.
His eyes slid across the map. The bulk of the city, as well as a vast freshwater lake known as the Glass Mere, was confined within the innermost rings. The outer rings formed a defensive network that had been refined over decades. But the city’s most powerful defences were not its high walls and batteries of cannons.
Every brick in every wall had been blessed, or else marked by holy sigils. The bones of common saints were interred in every market square and byway. The districts of the city spread outwards from the temples of the gods - not just Sigmar, though his were the most prominent. In the Dweomervale, in the city’s southern district, a basalt shrine to Malerion crouched amid gloomy streets. In the Lyrian Souk, a vine-shrouded sanctuary to Alarielle, the Everqueen, spread living branches over the rooftops. There were others.
The largest was the Grand Tempestus - an imposing edifice of stone, built by the first devoted to set foot in Glymmsforge. It rested at the heart of the original city and had grown as Glymmsforge grew - from rough palisade chapel to a veritable fortress of faith.
These temples radiated an aura that made it difficult for the dead and the damned to gain a foothold in the city. It was cleverly done. Balthas traced the ley lines - the currents of celestial power - running through the city. ‘Like a spirit trap, writ large,’ he murmured. ‘Who built it, I wonder?’
‘My ancestor,’ Knossus said, from behind him ‘Or, rather, the ancestor of the man I was. He built the city. Designed it. And the generations that followed built on his work.’
Balthas glanced at him ‘He knew of the Ten Thousand Tombs?’
Knossus nodded. ‘Parts of the city were built with them in mind. The Grand Tempestus lies over the only stable entrance into the catacombs below. All of the others were found and sealed by the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, over the years.’
‘Wise. And now you’ve sealed the final entrance.’ Balthas tapped the map with his staff. ‘Even so - is it guarded?’
‘It is. A cohort of Liberators - specially chosen - ward the Grand Tempestus.’
‘Is that enough?’
Knossus smiled sadly. ‘I suspect not. But we will come to that in a moment.’ He struck the floor with the ferrule of his staff. ‘Friends, let us begin.’ He looked around, as all eyes turned towards him. ‘There is a storm on the horizon. We can all feel it. All who live in Glymmsforge can feel it. From the highest seat on the city’s conclave, to the meanest beggar in the Lyrian Souk. Shyish is in upheaval. The hills rise wild, and the dead rise with them. They will come to Glymmsforge, if they are not already on the way here.’
‘You are certain then?’ the duardin, Juddsson, growled.
‘We have the word of refugees flooding the city. The Zirc nomads are circling their fortress-wagons around their oases, and we have lost contact with more outposts than I care to consider - all along the Great Lyrian Road. As it stands, only Fort Alenstahdt is still sending regular reports.’ Knossus indicated the desert map. ‘And those reports are dire indeed - deadwalker herds massing in the dunes, and men going missing in the night.’
Balthas peered at the map. Fort Alenstahdt was only a few days’ travel from Glymmsforge. If the enemy were on the move towards the city, following the road, Fort Alenstahdt would fall right in the likely path of attack.
‘None of that is what I’d call hard evidence,’ Juddsson said. ‘The deadwalkers are always massing, and men always go missing.’
‘The aether is alive with malign portents, Master Juddsson,’ the representative from the Collegiate Arcane said. ‘Even your own runelords must have some concerns.’
‘Aye, but it’s always best to confirm such things, Lady Aelhad,’ the duardin said, gesturing at her with the stem of his pipe. ‘Manlings have been known to panic over a change in the weather. No disrespect intended.’
‘It’s more than the weather, Grom, and you know it,’ Tyrmane said, flatly. ‘Don’t think we don’t know that the Riven Clans have been quietly sealing off their tunnels from the rest of the city. If there’s panicking, your folk are the ones doing it.’
Juddsson peered at Tyrmane. ‘There’s a difference between being sensible, and losing your head over a few deadwalkers, Varo.’ He smiled thinly. ‘In any event, it’s not our tunnels you should be worrying about. My folk have been hearing things from those Grungni-be-damned catacombs. Sounds like this storm of yours is already here, and raging beneath our feet.’ He looked at Knossus. ‘Then, that’s why you’re here, eh?’
‘I am here to ensure that Glymmsforge stands,’ Knossus said. ‘Whatever comes, the city will weather it. That is my oath, Grom Juddsson. What about you?’
The duardin sat back and tugged at his beard. He looked away, frowning. ‘This is our ground, now. We’ll hold it, come fire or foe.’
‘We shall do it together,’ Knossus said. Juddsson glanced at him and, after a moment, nodded tersely. Balthas watched the exchange admiringly. He’d seen similar confrontations several times over the course of the week. He was forced to admit that Knossus was skilled in the art of politesse. Without him playing peacemaker, the city’s defenders might well have done Nagash’s work for him
‘If the enemy comes, why should we have to do anything, save sit behind these walls and pepper them with silver shot?’ the Ironsides sergeant grunted. ‘I was under the impression this city was impregnable.’
‘No city is impregnable,’ Orius said. ‘Some are simply more difficult to get into than others.’ He glanced at Lynos, who nodded with some reluctance.
‘It’s true. The city has been besieged before. Our walls are high and thick, but the dead are relentless and do not tire. They will come again and again, until they succeed or we destroy them to the last corpse and banish the last spirit.’
‘This city possesses some defence against the dead other than walls,’ Balthas said, gesturing to the map. ‘I noticed the great channels of silver that circumnavigate the districts, and the purple salt that fills it.’ The channels were marked on the map, and they formed a precise circle of many lines, stretching across the city and encompassing each district in turn. Despite its seemingly continuous nature, the circle was broken in twelve places. ‘What do these points mark?’
‘The Twelve Saints,’ Knossus said, as he laid a hand flat against the map. ‘The mausoleum gates they are interred within form the extremities of a star of protection about the city. They are at once our strongest points and our weakest. Only the most powerful of spirits can endure the celestial energies radiating from those sacred bones.’ He frowned. ‘If they are to truly take the city, they would nee
d to destroy as many as they can and breach the wards keeping Glymmsforge sacrosanct.’
‘If they’re smart, they’ll focus only on a handful,’ Lynos said. ‘Three, maybe four. Once they’ve forced a wedge in our defences, they could flood the city.’
Knossus nodded. ‘Yes. The question before us is which ones?’
‘We cannot defend them all.’ Balthas studied the map. ‘We lack the numbers.’ He indicated the concentric walls. ‘Perhaps we should pull back to the inner walls. Conduct a defence in depth, rather than a more conventional stratagem.’
‘Is he insulting us?’ Orius murmured to Lynos, loud enough for Balthas to hear.
‘Not intentionally, I suspect,’ Lynos said.
Balthas frowned. ‘This city has defences, does it not? Runnel networks to pour blessed lead down on the enemy, and more besides. Evacuate the outer city, close the portcullises and use the time to reinforce the inner walls.’
‘We’d be sacrificing a third of the city,’ Orius said.
‘To save the rest,’ Balthas said. ‘Surely that is an acceptable trade?’
‘And what of those who live there? We cannot evacuate them all on short notice,’ Varo Tyrmane said. The mortal did not sound opposed to the idea, so much as curious. ‘Their deaths will only add to the enemy’s numbers.’
‘We could begin the evacuation now,’ Balthas said.
‘And we’d have a full-scale panic on our hands a few hours later,’ the Silver Company captain said. ‘The citizenry are on edge. Attacks by the dead have been on the increase for days. If it starts to look like we’re abandoning half the city, the situation will become untenable.’
Balthas shook his head in annoyance. He thought of the necromancer’s words. What did a lunatic like that know that they didn’t? ‘It is already untenable. The enemy is coming. We cannot simply do nothing and hope for victory. Even high walls and sacred circles can only do so much…’ He trailed off and looked at the map again. ‘But they do enough.’
‘Brother - what is it?’ Knossus asked.
‘We have been asking the wrong question,’ Balthas said, leaning towards the map, trying to see what it didn’t show. ‘Too focused on the where and when, but not the why.’
Knossus looked at him ‘What do you mean, brother?’
‘If this city is inviolate, why bother attacking? Nagash is not some blood-mad warlord, seeking to impress the Ruinous Powers. He never does anything without purpose. If the dead are mustering, then there is a flaw in our defences. One we are not seeing.’ Balthas turned. A murmur swept through the others, at this. Knossus looked at the map.
‘I hope you are wrong, brother. But I fear that you are not.’
Chapter fifteen
The Fall of
Fort Alenstahdt
FORT ALENSTAHDT, THE GREAT LYRIAN ROAD
Juvius Thrawl wrapped his scarf about his face and flung the door to the station office open. Purple sand, cast into the air by the wind, scraped against his exposed flesh as he hurried towards the walls. The portly scribe had an armful of scrolls and records, several of which he dropped as he navigated the cramped courtyard of Fort Alenstahdt.
Made from blocks of sandstone and imported timber, the fort was shaped roughly like a star, with sloping walls and a wide courtyard, dotted with long, timber-frame structures. The station office was one of these, while the others were mostly used as barracks and storehouses. An immense well-house rose from the centre of the courtyard, and was connected to the walls by gantries of rope and wood. Great, tottering stacks of crates, barrels and sacks lined the walls, and groups of Thrawl’s fellow scribes moved among them, recording the contents or preparing them to be transported to Glymmsforge.
From its position, Fort Alenstahdt stood watch over the Great Lyrian Road, a flat serpent of raised stone that stretched across the Zircona Desert from Glymmsforge. It was dotted by duardin-made oases and trading enclaves like the fort, garrisoned by whoever the merchant families of Glymmsforge could pay to do the work. Often, that meant one of the smaller clans of fyreslayers or otherwise uncontracted bands of Freeguild mercenaries.
The fort was a way station, situated amid a nexus of ancient trade routes stretching across the Zircona Desert. Those routes had been set by the great fortress-wagons of the Zirc nomads, which forever trundled across the deserts of the underworld, carrying the tribes from one oasis to the next. The nomads traded shadeglass and other oddities culled from the sands for iron and silver, both of which were in high demand by the desert tribes.
Thrawl sidestepped a pair of scribes arguing with a duardin trader. The duardin thumped a meaty fist into his palm, his tone becoming bellicose. His bodyguards fingered their axes and glared silently at the Freeguild soldiers lounging nearby, watching the proceedings with rude amusement.
The men wore what could laughingly be called a uniform - voluminous breeches of varying shades, tucked into knee-high boots, heavy leather coats made from the hide of some large species of reptile and reinforced caps of the same, hidden beneath the floppy, wide-brimmed hats that seemed to serve only to hide their grinning, scarred faces.
Both wore bandoliers heavy with powder, shot and an assortment of knives, axes and various implements of murder. Their hair and moustaches were long, and intricately braided. Both carried the long-barrelled handguns prized by the members of their company.
The Leatherbacks were a gun company, from the fenlands that stretched across the south of Ghur. As far as Thrawl was concerned, to call them disreputable was to do a disservice to the term. They were all but barbarians, with manners that put orruks to shame. Worse, they were all related, in ways too complex for an outsider to sort out. Thrawl had spent most of his time at the fort navigating a web of internecine alliances, blood feuds and grudges that had the local duardin nodding in appreciation.
But they were hardy warriors, capable of enduring the blistering days and freezing nights without complaint. They had little fear of the deadwalkers that roamed the dunes, and often trapped the hungry corpses in cages to use for target practice. And if they were a bit rough with the Zirc nomads who came to trade, so much the better as far as their employers were concerned.
One of the pair watching the argument lifted his handgun in the general direction of the duardin and sighted down the barrel. The other scratched his throat meaningfully, as the trader’s bodyguards tensed. Thrawl wasn’t concerned. The duardin knew better than to cause a scene, and the Leatherbacks were too lazy to actually start a fight.
Thrawl nodded to the one aiming his weapon. ‘Where’s Poppa?’ he called out, fighting to be heard over the argument.
‘Parapet,’ the soldier grunted, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. His accent was atrocious, and he spoke with a pronounced drawl. Then, that wasn’t surprising, given where he and his fellows came from He lowered his weapon and gave it a fond pat.
Those Leatherbacks that weren’t lucky enough to own such a weapon had to make do with a glaive or a halberd, until someone better equipped died and they could ‘inherit’ a handgun. In his time at the fort, Thrawl had seen no less than three duels fought over such abandoned weapons. The duels were theoretically fought only to first blood, but said blood usually wound up spurting from somewhere vital. The Leatherbacks would just as cheerfully murder their own kin as they would the enemy, if it meant getting their hands on a gun.
Thrawl started towards the parapet, but cursed as he trod on the tail of a dog - one of a dozen curs that seemed to have followed the Leatherbacks from their last duty. The big, yellow brute yelped and turned, teeth bared. Thrawl, used to such displays by now, fumbled loose a scroll and smacked the mongrel on the snout. It blinked and backed off, growling. Thrawl swept past, before it recovered its courage. More of the beasts lay in the shadows beneath the parapets, hiding from the wind. Several barked lazily as he climbed the crude wooden steps up to the top of the wall, and the enclosed pa
rapet above.
Poppa Chown was waiting on him, at the top. The mountainous commander of the Leatherbacks was silver-haired, twice the height of his tallest warrior and heavy with fat and muscle. Even his scars had scars. His clothes had been altered to fit his massive frame, and gave him a tatterdemalion aspect beneath his battered coat. He sat on an iron stool in front of a firing slit, his rifle between his knees. It was half again as long as a handgun, with a narrow barrel that scraped the roof of the parapet and a reinforced stock that Thrawl knew was heavy enough to crush a deadwalker’s skull.
His men bustled about him, keeping watch on the road and the desert that stretched out to the horizon on either side. Chown glanced around as Thrawl entered the parapet. ‘Ho, children - look. The scribe has come to visit.’ Chown spoke around a mouthful of the brownish herb he incessantly chewed, and he punctuated his welcome with a gobbet of spittle that narrowly missed Thrawl’s boot. ‘Say hello to the scribe, pups.’
Nearby warriors shouted obscenities or made rude gestures. Thrawl ignored them ‘I need your pay records,’ he said, without preamble.
Chown turned with a grunt and squinted at him. ‘Why?’
‘To ensure that they align with my copies.’
‘They do.’
‘Even so, I wish to make sure.’
Chown smiled, showing off brown teeth. ‘Don’t you trust Poppa?’ He gestured expansively, and his men laughed knowingly. Chown’s title was informal but accurate. He was the patriarch of a wide-ranging clan, as well as its captain. He was father, master and commander, and his men loved and hated him in equal measure.
‘I don’t trust my own father, let alone you,’ Thrawl said bluntly.
Chown gave a bellow of laughter and slapped his knee. ‘And nor should you,’ he growled cheerfully. ‘We’re cheating you.’
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