Out among the dunes, he heard the lonely cry of a solitary jackal, and wondered if it was a warning of some sort. Perhaps it was simply a reminder that all things passed and had their end. Even deathlords.
He climbed a dune, the soft amethyst sands barely disturbed by the chill breeze of his passing. His feet did not sink into the sand, did not press it flat or make any indentation. There was no sign that he had passed that way at all. A part of him - small and distant - felt sadness at the thought. It was as if he were nothing more than a dark dream, set loose from the confines of a sleeper’s head.
A sea of ragged tents spread out below him. The dead did not make camp, save when it amused them to do so. Yaros’ deathrattle had raised the tents scattered about the dunes in a parody of military discipline. Fleshless menials, indentured in death as they had been in life, moved among the tents, hard at their unceasing labours. They followed ancient routines, gathering buckets of sand from long dry wells and butchered non-existent game animals. Nearby, deathrattle soldiers erected field defences that would see no use - had seen no use in decades.
These slaves of the Grand Prince ignored him. He suspected that they could not perceive him. Or that if they did, he appeared much differently. He passed among them, unnoticed and unhindered.
It was rare that he was alone, since leaving Nagashizzar. Dohl hovered ever at his elbow, drowning out his doubts with the glow of his lantern. And if it was not Dohl, it was Fellgrip or Rocha. He could not say which of the three he found more distasteful. They were no more his warriors than he was Malendrek’s. They were loyal to Nagash alone. As he was. As he must be. To be otherwise was unthinkable.
He turned back the way they had come and saw the black radiance on the horizon there. A watchful flame, burning in the night. It would grow, in time, until it ate the stars themselves, and turned the sands of all deserts to glass. And he would be a part of it.
Pharus felt no joy at the thought. No fear. Only a dim satisfaction. The way a blade might feel, could it feel, when it was wielded with true skill. He tore his gaze from that dark glow and looked out over the dunes, towards the city on the opposite horizon. Satisfaction faded, replaced by anticipation as he watched the shuffling columns of the dead advance endlessly across the moonlit sands.
He stared at the city. Until recently, he might have stood on those walls and stared out at the dead as they massed for their assault. ‘Reflections and shadows,’ he murmured, flexing a gauntlet. He could not feel the weight of his armour. He’d found that to be the most disconcerting thing about being dead. War-plate should have weight - solidity. But his felt no more substantial than cobwebs.
Only the sword had weight. Too much, for its size. It had grown heavier, the farther they travelled from the Nadir. As if it had become more real, somehow. Or perhaps he had become less so. The thought was not a comforting one. Now, he felt content - felt whole - only in the glow of Dohl’s lantern.
He was sure now that he had once borne a similar artefact. A thing infused with the false light of Azyr. Sometimes, he found himself reaching vainly for it, as the memories fluttered vainly at the edges of his perception. It was as if some part of him were attempting to remind himself of what he had once been. That longing was akin to a wound that would not heal, and only added to the agonies he felt. He had been a part of something, and now was not. And that absence made him angry.
That was the one thing that all of the dead had in common - anger. Anger at the pain they had suffered, at the glories denied them or the promises broken. A righteous anger, shared by the lowest cadaver and Nagash himself. Anger at the living. Anger at the realms themselves, for their defiance of the inevitable.
As the anger rose so too did the cold and the hunger. One fed the other, and he wanted to shriek aloud, to join his voice to that of the feral gheists that prowled the dunes. To scream in rage for an eternity, until all else was silence.
‘It is beautiful, is it not?’
Pharus turned. Crelis Arul stood behind him, accompanied by her wolves. They snarled at him, flashing broken fangs. He gestured with his sword. ‘If they attack, I will slay them,’ he rasped.
‘They are no more alive than you are, little spirit.’ She stepped forwards to join him, ignoring his blade. ‘It is beautiful. So much life, and death. I can hear them, the harvested, in their houses of stone, crying out to us. Can you hear them?’
Pharus peered at her, and then at the city. ‘I hear voices on the wind. In the sand.’
‘Innumerable souls drift about us, unseen and unheard save to those who stand upon the border between life and death.’ Arul cocked her head, as if listening. ‘They say that we are in Lyria - where the dead are given succour and strength through the celebration of their mortal deeds. There are a thousand or more underworlds in Shyish, you know. They rest within one another, like pearls in an oyster. We are a realm of nested secrets - peel back one layer and a new one presents itself.’
She took hold of the flesh of her arm and stripped it back, revealing bloody bone beneath. There were words and sigils in an unfamiliar tongue carved into the bone. ‘See? Secrets.’ She patted the torn flesh back into place.
Pharus sheathed his blade and looked away. ‘If there are spirits here, why do they not serve Nagash?’ He was almost offended by the thought. Death was the end of all lies, of all defiance - so how could such a thing be?
Arul laughed. ‘Nagash is god of justice. And these souls have earned their reward. Why would he bend them to his will, when there are more fitting tools to hand?’ She tapped a crumbling finger against his chest-plate. ‘If we are cruel, it is because we must be. Because it is required that we be so. Did Arkhan not teach you that?’
‘I do not yet know what the Mortarch of Sacrament has taught me. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. A lesson’s worth is judged in the field.’ The words came unbidden to his lips. They were from his other life. He heard a voice, and a name - Lynos. He bowed his head. He was cold and empty. His sword shuddered in its sheath. It, too, was hungry.
Arul watched him, her eyes gleaming behind her veil. ‘Cruel,’ she repeated, ‘because we must be. Nagash has stripped you of warmth and joy, so that you might be a better weapon. As you have stripped the life from others, so that they might join us and see the beauty that awaits them, on this side.’
‘I can hear something else,’ Pharus said. He touched his sword. ‘It echoes, with every swing of this blade - a single voice, calling out of the deep places. Urging me on.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you hear it as well?’ Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added, ‘What does it say to you?’
‘If you were wiser, you would not ask that question.’ She looked towards the distant city. ‘We all hear it, and it tells us all different things. It whispers to us in our own voice, but it is his.’ She turned to him ‘You know this.’
‘Arkhan said that the Undying King would always be with me.’
Arul nodded. ‘As he is with all of us.’ She tapped her arm, where the ripped flesh had sloughed back together. ‘Inside us. Watching through our eyes, listening with our ears. We are him, and he is us.’ She folded her hands, as if in prayer. ‘As all things will be, in time.’
‘Yes.’
Pharus heard a sound, as of waves crashing against the shore, and an unnatural wind kicked up, casting the sand about in all directions. He looked up. Shrieking chainrasps were hurtling towards the city on a wave of eldritch energy. Among them were scythe-wielding wraiths and heralds of disaster, tolling deadly bells. Malendrek was at their head with his host of spectral riders, riding high, like foam on a cresting wave.
Pharus knew at once that Malendrek was seeking to claim the glory for himself. That need drove the Knight of Shrouds. Arul clucked her tongue. ‘So impatient, that one.’
Pharus did not reply. Instead, he sped back, to where he’d left Dohl and the others. If Malendrek intended to enter the city tonight, th
en Pharus would be right there with him
As Nagash had commanded, so must it be. The deathstorm had begun.
Chapter seventeen
Deathstorm
The wind whipped along the spires and buttresses of the northern mausoleum gate and set the lamps to flickering, when Lieutenant Vale got word that the lord-arcanum was on his way. He didn’t know what that meant, but rolled out his men for inspection. With the rest of Third Company being deployed elsewhere, that left his section in sole charge of the northern mausoleum gate. There were enough warm bodies to man the walls - just. The city’s forces were stretched thin everywhere.
The men came with much grumbling and the clatter of kit being hastily pulled on. None of them wanted to be outside their gatehouse-barracks on a night like this, and he didn’t blame them. The nights were getting longer, and there was a purple fire on the horizon. Bad omens clustered thick, wherever you looked. And worst of all - it was raining.
‘Get in line, get in line,’ he hollered, as he splashed through the mud. A hundred men or more could comfortably line up single file in the courtyard.
Wide avenues of cobblestones ran through the courtyard, stretching from the pair of massive portcullises that were set into the high walls between the largest bastions. Once, those avenues had been crowded by columns of refugees, traders and pilgrims. Now, they were empty of everything save the overturned carts and makeshift barricades Captain Fosko had ordered set up before his departure. Storm-lanterns hung from nearby posts and support beams, casting a watery blue light over the proceedings. ‘Boots on, breeches up, you jack-a-ninnies,’ he shouted, slapping his gauntlets against his thigh as he strode down the line.
‘I’m not sure that I’m drunk enough for this,’ Sergeant Gomes said, upending his flask. Vale glanced at the squat figure of his second in command. ‘Stow the flask, Gomes,’ Vale said, but quietly. ‘Kurst is coming this way. I’ll never hear the end of it if he sees you with a flask pressed to your lips.’ The warrior-priest was his section’s disapproving shadow, assigned to them by Captain-General Varo Tyrmane himself, the better to keep his men’s blades blessed and their souls relatively intact.
‘Oh joy, the Vulture shows his beak,’ Gomes muttered. Vale frowned, but didn’t chastise his sergeant. Kurst did resemble a carrion-bird, and an ugly one at that; a thin, gangling man, clad in loose black robes and out-sized black armour, with baroque decorations of stylised bones and scythes. He was bald, save for a fringe of lank, colourless hair that spilled down the back of his scrawny neck. His face was pinched in a permanent expression of disapproval, and he thumped the head of his warhammer into his palm repeatedly as he stalked the line of assembled soldiers.
‘I’ve always wondered where they dug him up - he must be sixty turns of the wheel if he’s a day,’ Gomes said. ‘You can practically smell the grave-mould on him’
‘A man like that doesn’t get older - just nastier,’ Vale said. ‘And that’s not grave-mould. I’ve heard he doesn’t bathe. Says it weakens the ligaments.’
Gomes chuckled. ‘One good smack and he’d go to dust, ligaments or no.’
‘Feel free. But not when I’m around.’
Gomes gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Worried about your prospects, lieutenant?’
‘Not just mine,’ Vale said. ‘I - Hsst. They’re here.’
The Stormcasts arrived, the lord-arcanum at their head. Knossus Heavensen made for an impressive figure, sitting astride his massive gryph-charger. Vale had grown up around Stormcasts, but he felt himself somewhat awestruck by the gold-clad warriors of the Sacrosanct Chamber as they marched into the courtyard.
Gomes took another surreptitious slug from his flask. ‘They say he’s really young Knossian Glymm, come again to defend the city he saved from Vaslbad the Unrelenting.’
‘He’s a Stormcast. They were all once someone else. Now be quiet.’ Vale swallowed and stepped forwards, one hand on the hilt of the blade sheathed at his side. He caught sight of Kurst, doing the same. The warrior-priest stared at the Stormcasts with almost feverish intensity. As if they were living saints, or gods made flesh. He cleared his throat. ‘Welcome, lord-arcanum Would you like to inspect the troops?’
He realised how inane the question was, even as it left his lips. The lord-arcanum looked down at him, gold helm running with rivulets of rain. Then he looked around. Vale knew he was taking in the state of the courtyard. Vale closed his eyes, silently cursing himself for not ordering the men to make things ready for inspection.
‘I stood here, once before,’ Knossus said, his voice echoing through the courtyard. ‘It seemed larger, then.’ He looked down at Vale. ‘You are in command?’
‘Lieutenant Holman Vale, my lord. Third Company.’ Vale gave the traditional salute - two thumps and a wave - and tried to stand as straight as possible. ‘I have the honour of warding this place.’
‘Do you know who is interred here, Lieutenant Vale?’
‘I… I’m afraid not, my lord. Before my time, rather.’ Vale glanced around and saw Kurst nearby. He gestured hastily, and the warrior-priest smirked.
‘Orthanc Duln, the Hero of Sawback,’ Kurst murmured helpfully. Vale grimaced. He had no idea who that was, or even where Sawback was. Ghur? It sounded Ghurdish. Vale looked up at Knossus and smiled weakly.
‘There we have it - Orton.’
‘Orthanc Duln,’ Kurst corrected.
Vale shot him a glare. ‘Right, yes, sorry, Orthanc Duln.’
Knossus chuckled, and the sound nearly turned Vale’s bowels to water. ‘Your youth excuses you, lieutenant. So long as you do your duty, it is no sin. The Celestial Saints are remembered by Sigmar and we who serve as his hand, and that is all that matters.’ He slid from the saddle with a crash of sigmarite. Even on the ground, he loomed head and shoulders over Vale.
‘Why - ah - to what do we owe the honour of your presence?’
‘There is a problem’
Vale froze, wondering if they’d found out about the pilfered wages. Or worse. There was no telling what Gomes got up to in his free time. He’d heard rumours of extortion, and local shopkeepers paying protection, to keep non-existent deadwalkers at bay. ‘P-problem?’
‘A weakness in our defences.’ Knossus turned, studying the arcanogram carved into the street. A flicker of relief passed through Vale. They didn’t know about the money, then. Then he realised what the lord-arcanum was saying.
‘Oh. Ah.’ Vale glanced up at the walls. ‘Has something happened?’
‘A long time ago, I fear,’ Knossus said. He extended his staff and gently pushed Vale back a step. ‘My warriors and I shall join the defence of this place. See to your men, lieutenant. The enemy is coming, even now.’
Vale felt a cold slither of fear and turned away. Kurst followed him ‘Is he right?’ Vale asked. Kurst snorted.
‘You only have to stand atop the wall to see that much. The eldritch glow on the horizon grows closer with every passing night. The winds wail, carrying the groans of deadwalkers. Listen, fool - hear them?’
Vale stopped. He’d never thought about it before, but Kurst was right. He’d been hearing the sound for days without knowing what it was - a dull, somnolent groaning. Like the rumble of distant thunder. He shuddered and ran a hand through his hair, trying to think. Gomes stumped towards him ‘Should I dismiss the lads?’
‘Yes, but double the watch.’
Gomes blinked. ‘They won’t like that.’
‘I don’t give a damn,’ Vale snapped. ‘You heard him - they all heard him - something is wrong.’ He swallowed. ‘The wall won’t hold.’
‘Then we shall be the wall,’ Kurst said. He thumped his hammer into his palm ‘We shall build it with steel and silver, or, failing that, with our bodies.’
Vale shared a look with Gomes. ‘Right. Yes. Obviously.’ He turned away, watching as the Stormcasts set up some sort of massive ballis
tae, near the entrance to the courtyard, where the two portcullis pathways intersected. Others, carrying heavy crossbows, were climbing up to the parapets, to join the mortal soldiers on duty there.
‘What is he doing?’ Gomes muttered.
Vale looked and saw Knossus gesturing ritualistically over the section of the arcanogram that ran through the gatehouse. Motes of corposant bristled about his hand as he moved it back and forth over the silver runnels. Light danced across the purple sands, and the air flickered with something like a heat mirage.
Ghostly images wafted into being about the lord-arcanum Vale saw a stooped figure - an older man, worn sharp by life and heavily scarred, wearing the uniform of a Glymmsman - raise a breacher-spade over the sands and thrust it down.
Gomes cursed softly. ‘I know that face. That’s Vorgen Malendrek. The Hero of the Southern Gate…’
Vale looked at him in confusion. ‘Who?’
‘Before your time, lad,’ Kurst said, flatly. ‘Captain of Fifth Company. Or he was. He warded the southernmost gate during Vaslbad’s attack on the city, and held Undst Keep against the Slender
Knight.’
‘Why haven’t I heard of him?’
‘He survived, didn’t he?’ Gomes said, grinning. ‘Nobody likes it when heroes survive.’ He leaned over and spat. ‘But he vanished not long ago. Everyone thought he’d been taken in the night by a gheist.’ He peered at the image. ‘What is he doing with that spade?’
The image flickered eerily, as the breacher-spade came down again and again. Kurst hissed. ‘The blessed salts - he’s digging them out!’
Vale stared at the image in horror. ‘If the salts are gone…’
From the wall, he heard the winding call of a war-horn. He jerked around, eyes wide. The horn blared again, the echo of its warning shuddering through the rain. The image of Vorgen Malendrek vanished, as the lord-arcanum looked up. Vale heard shouts and cries of alarm. A man hurried to the edge of a parapet. ‘Deadwalkers, sir! Thousands of them’
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