‘I know.’
‘Then you don’t need the books.’ Chown made to turn back. Thrawl stepped up beside him.
‘I need them if I want to see how much you’re cheating my employers by.’
Chown glanced up at him and grinned. ‘Intending to skim off the difference and fatten your own purse, eh?’
‘Obviously.’ Thrawl looked out through the gun-slit. He could see the great wagon-fortresses of the Zirc nomads moving across the horizon, trying to outrace the storm everyone knew was coming but no one was talking about. Behind the hulking conveyances, Thrawl could see the purple glare on the horizon. It was brighter than it had been yesterday.
He shivered, suddenly cold. He fumbled a sigmarite amulet out from within his robes and rubbed it with his thumb. It was just a cheap thing, made from lead. His mother had given it to him before his departure, thinking it would protect him from the horrors of Shyish. Its weight was comforting, when the shadows of this realm pressed too close.
‘The desert is on fire,’ Chown said, idly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pouch of tanned leather. He extracted a handful of leaves from the pouch before offering it to Thrawl as he stuffed the leaves into his mouth. Thrawl waved the pouch away, faintly disgusted by the musky odour emanating from it.
‘It’s getting closer, then,’ Thrawl said, softly. They’d felt the realm shake, and the packs of deadwalkers roaming the desert had become more focused. Worse were the reports from the nomads, of the things they’d seen and heard, out in the wastes.
‘Death always does.’
Thrawl frowned. ‘Is that meant to be reassuring?’
Chown chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged.
Thrawl sighed. This hadn’t been his first choice of posting, but it had been the only one available. Men and women who could read and write were in high demand on the frontier. Someone had to keep proper records, to keep barbarians like Chown from bankrupting Azyrite merchants. And to keep said merchants honest when it came time to pay their taxes.
Besides records, Thrawl had amused himself with writing a concise history of Fort Alenstahdt. He fancied his Dispatches from Zircona might one day be read alongside such volumes as Herst’s History of Greater Lyria, Tertoma’s Forty Days in the Writhing Weald and Guillepe Barco’s infamous The Klaxus Wars: An Eyewitness Account.
At the moment, he was stuck on the chapter concerning the recent earth-tremors and the increased deadwalker activity. Accounts he’d gathered from passing traders and pilgrims made it seem as if every tomb and grave had disgorged its contents. It all seemed so… impossible. But that word had little meaning on the frontier. He sighed again. ‘I hate the desert. I hate Shyish.’
Chown grunted. ‘You should put in for a change of post, scribe.’
Thrawl snorted. ‘And do you have a recommendation, then?’
‘The Black Marsh Barony, scribe - good place. That’s where we’re from A place for men. Not like this desert. Only bones in the desert.’ Chown leaned over and spat a mouthful of whatever he’d been chewing, hitting a dog that lay nearby. The beast yelped and whirled to its feet, snapping at the air in confusion. The men laughed. Chown wiped his lips and grinned. ‘Sand gets everywhere. Scrape a man to his stilts.’
‘Then why are you here?’ Thrawl asked.
Chown rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘We go where the money is, friend.’ He frowned. ‘And where our creditors aren’t.’
Thrawl laughed. ‘You must have a lot of creditors, to wind up out here.’ Few Freeguild companies sought frontier duty - it was alternately boring and dangerous work, with little chance of filling the coffers. Most preferred to bivouac behind high walls, and patrol civilised streets, rather than chance the wilds.
Chown shrugged. ‘Powder and shot is expensive. And we don’t like cities.’ He stiffened and gestured to one of his men. ‘Buzos, bring Poppa his spyglass, there’s a lad.’ Buzos hurried over, holding a heavy spyglass made from brass and gold. Its shell was scuffed and tarnished, but the lenses were almost perfect.
Thrawl blinked. ‘Why does that have the Glymm crest on it?’
Chown shrugged again. ‘It’s a mystery. Hush now, scribe. Something is happening out there. The Zirc are sounding their prayer-horns.’
Thrawl strained, listening for the familiar, winding call of the horns. The Zirc rarely sounded them and usually only just before a sandstorm. They worshipped the storm-winds, and some said that the nomads followed them across the desert. He squinted, trying to see what was going on. The wind had risen to a harsh shriek, and his eardrums ached.
‘The soul-winds are screaming,’ Chown grunted. ‘The dead are angry.’
‘When are they not?’
‘In Ghur, we know how to treat the dead-that-are-not.’ Chown drew a line across his throat. ‘The stake, the sword, the fire. Simple. But here. not so simple. The dead are different here.’ He handed Thrawl the spyglass. ‘Look, scribe.’
Thrawl’s mouth was dry as he looked through the spyglass. Chown was right. There was a storm on the horizon. But not of sand or rain.
Instead, a howling gale of spectral green energy was racing across the dunes towards them. He thought he glimpsed horsemen there among the roiling tide, and worse things besides. He stared, - unable to tear his eyes away. Unable to speak.
‘No, not simple at all,’ Chown said.
The nighthaunt host sped across the burning sands like the evening tide. Cackling chainrasps led the way. Their clawed, skeletal limbs emerged from tattered grave-shrouds, and their fleshless countenances gnawed mindlessly at the air as they spilled towards the trundling wagon-fortresses. A volley of flaming arrows raced to meet them.
‘Idiotic savages,’ Malendrek said, watching as the arrows fell harmlessly among his hosts. ‘However far they flee, they cannot escape us.’ The Knight of Shrouds sat atop his skeletal steed, his flickering gaze locked on the line of towering, wooden conveyances. ‘Perhaps they prefer to die tired,’ Pharus said. He stood near the Knight of Shrouds, his sword planted point-first before him, his gauntlets resting atop the pommel, watching the assault. ‘Well-rested or exhausted, they will perish all the same,’ Malendrek croaked, not looking at him ‘All living things must die. My nighthaunts will rip the lives from these nomads. Their souls are our tithe to the Undying King, whose will we enact with this joyful slaughter.’
The first of the chainrasps reached the rearmost wagon. They clawed at the wood, their talons steaming as they encountered the sigils of protection carved there. The Zirc had enough experience with the dead to know how best to hold them at bay. But this was no ordinary attack - the chainrasps were not simply feral spirits, but an army. They would find a way in, eventually.
‘They must be punished for their defiance,’ Malendrek continued, hauling back on his steed’s rotting reins and causing it to rear. ‘Retribution must be had.’
Pharus did not reply. Malendrek wasn’t really talking to him Since departing Nagashizzar, he had come to realise that the Knight of Shrouds liked to hear himself talk. Malendrek waxed philosophical, when he wasn’t uttering bitter denunciations of individuals Pharus was not familiar with.
But despite being obviously mad, Malendrek was smart. He had a keen strategic mind, beneath all the ranting. As they moved across the desert, following the trade roads, the army of the dead had added to its ranks. They had collected the inhabitants of mining encampments and oases. Souls were harvested from cooling bodies and added to the nighthaunt ranks, while the carcasses were later dragged stumbling in the army’s wake. An efficient use of materials, in Pharus’ opinion.
But the deadwalkers were slow and the deathrattle even slower. They would take days to reach the walls of Glymmsforge. Only the nighthaunts had the speed to strike the city before the gap in its defences was discovered. Which it would be, eventually.
Another volley arced from the upp
er levels of the rearmost wagon-fortress. Pharus watched the arrows fall, a part of him calculating the trajectories. The second volley did no more harm than the first. The Zirc were not unprepared. They would have other, more effective means of defence in readiness.
He turned, studying the sloped walls of the fort beyond the wagons. The Zirc had led them right to it. It was a crude thing. A muddle of harsh lines, interrupting the serenity of the desert.
As has ever been the way of Azyr.
Pharus nodded. Sigmar’s influence was spread in stone and starlight. Where his armies marched, cities sprouted in their wake and grew fat and strong on the resources of the realms.
The folk of Azyr are ticks, buried into the flesh of worlds.
Phams nodded again, unable to deny it. The folk of Azyr felled forests, flattened mountains, emptied seas - all in the name of Sigmar. Gods other than him were cast aside and forgotten by fickle mortals, seeking stifling safety within walls of celestine.
They will do the same to Shyish, if they are not stopped. The living are ever hungry, ever greedy, the voice inside him murmured. They are not fit caretakers for existence. Only the dead can uphold the foundations of existence. Only in the arms of death, can the realms know true peace. Until all are one in Nagash…
‘And Nagash is all,’ Phams said. He could see why the Zirc had led them this way. A ruthlessly pragmatic folk, these nomads. The fort was close enough to divide their pursuers’ attentions. The Knight of Shrouds was already casting baleful glares in the direction of the sandstone walls, and muttering to himself.
The living were greedy. But so too were some among the dead.
The fort must be taken. No word can escape, no warning.
Pharus uprooted his sword and looked at Malendrek. ‘With your permission, I shall deal with the fort,’ he said. ‘I shall cast stone from stone and drive the souls within into the arms of the hungry dead.’
Malendrek looked down at him. ‘You still stink of Azyr,’ he said, idly. ‘I can taste the storm on your soul, Pharus Thaum. You wear the raiment of a deathlord, but you will never truly be one. Your hubris knows no bounds.’
Pharus met the burning gaze without hesitation. There was no fear in him, and he knew, in some secret part of his soul, that Malendrek was just another pawn.
Just as you are.
‘I am but a weapon in the hands of the Undying King,’ Pharus said. ‘Let me gather the tithe, Knight of Shrouds. Let me do as Nagash made me to do.’
Malendrek turned away. ‘Do as you will, little soul. I have the business of death to be about.’ He urged his steed forwards, and its hooves left burning impressions in the sand as it galloped after the Zirc wagons.
Pharus turned to find Dohl hovering behind him ‘We are ready to greet our new brothers and sisters in death,’ the guardian of souls rasped. ‘But give the command, and we shall welcome them into our ranks, Lord Pharus.’ He raised his lantern, and the dead of the Grand Oubliette and a dozen oases roiled around him, screaming and howling. At Pharus’ nod, Dohl thrust his lantern forwards, and the hordes of chainrasps rushed towards the distant walls of the fort with an eager roar.
Pharus lifted his blade. He felt strangely eager - here then was the first test of his new self. The enemy before him served the same master who had abandoned him Would they see the truth, as he had? Or would they merely fall and be added to the horde now surging past him? Inside him, something laughed.
It does not matter. Nagash is all, and all are one in him.
‘Come, my sweet lord, why do you dawdle? There is justice to be done.’ Rocha drifted past him, trailing pale, blood-stained fingers across his armour. ‘And heads to be lopped.’ She gave a cackle and sprang into the air, joining the mad rush. Pharus glanced at Dohl, who gave a dolorous sigh.
‘She is but a tool, my lord - blunt yet effective,’ he said, as he followed after his flock, surrounded by a knot of moaning, whimpering spirits. Pharus felt a lurch within him as the lantern’s glow passed beyond him. He wanted more than anything in that moment to bask once more in that eerie radiance.
But there is blood to be spilled. The Great Work must be done.
‘Follow, Fellgrip,’ he said, not looking at the hunched jailer. It had not left his side since they had departed Nagashizzar. Like a faithful hound, it had become his shadow. Even so, he felt an uneasiness at its proximity. The chainrasps and other spectres that made up his forces refused to get any closer to Fellgrip than they had to, as if afraid that it might seek to return them to the prison they had so recently been roused from.
Pharus launched himself at the heavy wooden gates of the fort, sword held low. They stank of holy unguents and blessed waters, and he felt his form solidifying and his rush slowing. The storm of chainrasps swirled about him, like a flock of confused birds.
Their defences are weak. Pathetic. You are the storm. You are death. None may gainsay you. Strike. Strike!
His sword snapped out, the shadeglass blade passing easily through the thick wood. As the splintered sections of the gate crashed aside, his army roiled past him, filling the courtyard beyond like a malevolent cloud. He saw mortals run, fleeing for the dubious safety of the buildings. Handguns roared, as a line of Freeguild soldiers in leather coats and wide-brimmed hats fired a volley. Chainrasps shrieked as silver shot burned through them. Their rush dissolved, as the hurtling spirits shot away in all directions, seeking easier prey. The handgunners stepped back, already reloading. A second line stepped forwards.
Pharus strode towards them, dust swirling about him. He could hear screaming. Men and women and… children. He paused. Something was burning, and a woman was screaming, and a child… Elya? No, that wasn’t her name. He looked down at the sword in his hand, not recognising it for a moment. ‘Elya,’ he said, groping for an answer.
She is safe now. As all true children of Shyish will be safe. But these are different. Outsiders, brought to this realm to fight and die in Sigmar’s name.
Anger flowed through him, bright and cold. ‘Would you die here, in the name of a tyrant?’ His voice, hollow and harsh, scraped across the stones of the fort. ‘Or would you live out your full span in service to him to whom all that lives must eventually kneel?’
As if in reply, the handgunners fired. Pharus raced through the storm of shot, Fellgrip trailing in his wake. He lashed out, smashing guns and bones. He was not quite solid, but his blade was, and its edge was sharp. He saw Fellgrip swing his heavy chains about, staving in ribs and crushing skulls. As men fell to these clubbing blows, the spark of their life was drawn into the chains and trapped there.
Chainrasps joined Pharus in his attack, as the gun-line disintegrated. They plucked struggling warriors from the ground and dragged them into the air, where they were torn apart, screaming. ‘Kneel, fools,’ he thundered. ‘Accept death, and be one with Nagash - Nagash is all, and all are one in him.’ His words rang out over the battlefield, but few paid them any attention.
He saw snarling dogs bite at the chainrasps, and men bearing silver glaives pin a struggling phantom to the side of a wagon. A horned spectre swung a wide scythe, sweeping a trio of warriors from their feet. A duardin, clad in the finery of a trader, hacked about him with a rune-inscribed hand-axe, as his bodyguards were pulled apart by the cackling gheists.
Balls of silver and lead punched into the back of his armour, as Freeguild soldiers fired a ragged volley down from the parapet above. He felt slivers of pain echo through him as he whirled, his face stretching in an inhuman snarl. He launched himself at them, his blade sweeping out. A soldier screamed and fell away, and Pharus felt a surge of strength wind through him. The blade ate lives, adding their span to his own and warming the cold within him for a few moments. He twisted, angling his blade towards another mortal.
More silver shot struck him, tearing ragged holes in his substance. He screamed in frustration and flowed towards the foe. Why could the
y not see that he was trying to help them? Why did they resist? His sword licked out, separating a head from shoulders. The soldiers on the wall fell back, some reloading, others thrusting glaives and halberds uselessly at the chainrasps swarming over the walls. A bellicose giant towered among the men, swinging a rifle like a club, exhorting them to greater efforts.
There. The leader. Without him, the others would break. They would retreat, and die in the doing. Pharus raced towards the giant. ‘Kneel, mortal - seek forgiveness in the arms of death,’ he roared. ‘Only Nagash can save you now.’
‘Poppa does not kneel, rag-a-bones,’ the giant bellowed. He reversed the rifle as Pharus drew close, and fired. A spray of silver and iron ripped across Pharus, pock-marking his war-plate and stinging his eyes. He shrieked and rose up, clawing at his face. He felt the stock of the rifle crash against his armour and lashed out with his sword. The giant roared and slammed into him, as if seeking to tackle him
‘Fool,’ Pharus snarled, ‘I have no neck to wring, no limbs to break - I am beyond the weaknesses of flesh.’ He caught at the giant’s unshaven throat and flung him from the parapet. The warrior crashed down with a groan, somehow still holding on to his weapon.
Pharus stepped off the parapet and stalked down through the air towards his opponent. He could smell the stink of the man’s injuries - the sharp tang of spilled blood and broken bone. Death was close. Death was here. Pharus raised his blade over the injured warrior. ‘Rejoice, mortal - death spreads its wings above you.’
He slashed down. The giant interposed his weapon at the last moment, but the shadeglass blade continued its downward stroke unimpeded. It passed through his broad chest. The giant stiffened. A cloud of blood erupted from his open mouth. For a moment, he clutched awkwardly at the slick edge of the blade, and Pharus thought he might succeed in extracting it. Then, with a sigh, he sagged back.
Dogs began to howl throughout the fort, and nearby soldiers wailed. Shots plucked at Pharus as he wrenched his sword free. He turned. A mind-chilling smoke billowed from Dohl’s lantern, to float over the battlefield. Wherever it passed, the souls of the newly fallen were wrenched screaming from their bloody bodies, to rise and join the ranks of the dead.
Soul Wars Page 27