Vale felt his stomach fall into his boots. Mouth dry, he looked at the lord-arcanum. The Stormcast nodded, and Vale was suddenly glad for his presence.
‘It begins,’ Knossus said.
The gutters of the Gloaming were overflowing with rainwater when Elya arrived. It had started slow, but the bottom had fallen out of the clouds somewhere between Fish Lane and Scratchjack Alley. Now alarm bells rang from the high places of the slums, warning the inhabitants that the city was under attack, or soon would be. The clamour of desperate shopkeepers hammering boards over doors and windows mingled with the sounds of looting, and the cries of those with nowhere to go. Weapons rattled in the dark, and horses whickered in growing nervousness.
Black Walkers stood on every corner, ringing their own bells and calling out the names of gods who were no longer listening, if they ever had in the first place. Flagellants wandered the streets, lashing themselves and screaming pious maledictions at those who gave way before them. The Glymmsmen were nowhere in sight, and it was left to local roughs and bravos to take charge. This they did with brutal efficiency. Streets were barricaded with whatever was to hand. Those seeking the dubious safety of these ramparts were stripped of what little of value they had, and put to work reinforcing the barricades.
Elya fought her way through a crowded street, liberally applying her elbows and feet, trying to reach the rickety exterior stairs that led up to the rooms she shared with her father. A man cursed as she stamped on his instep, and hopped back. She darted through the opening and winnowed swiftly through the forest of legs. Hands grabbed at her, for what reasons she couldn’t say, but none managed to catch her.
The slums weren’t safe anymore. They were never safe, really, but even less so now. The cats had told her what was coming, what they could feel on the air. Like a storm in the offing, and not one they could survive out in the open.
When storms came, cats sought high, dry places. There was only one place like that, in easy distance. As she started up the stairs, she glanced west and saw the dome of the Grand Tempestus rise over the city. Even at night, through the pall of rain, it was visible. Others would be heading there, looking for refuge. She had to hurry.
Things shattered on the street, hurled from the rooftops by roof-runners or vandals. She heard singing from one of the rooms as she passed by an open window. A sad song, slow and maudlin. There was smoke on the wind - something was burning, even in the downpour. A fire had raged through part of the Gloaming the day before. Deadwalkers, people had said. And the Leechbane. But no one knew for sure.
Elya didn’t want to know. One brush with the Leechbane was enough. She reached her window. The doors of their rooms had been boarded over since the night her mother had died. The window was the only way in and out. She paused and glanced back.
Someone was screaming, somewhere close by. A long, drawn-out wail of denial that sounded barely human. And maybe it wasn’t. She shivered and slunk over the sill.
‘Halha, I’m back,’ she said, softly. She caught a glint of silver, and saw her guest standing close to the window, tense, blade in hand. The trader woman’s yellow robes had been discarded and replaced by dark ones, to better hide her identity. Her gold had been scattered in Elya’s secret caches throughout the Gloaming, in payment for allowing her a place to hide. After checking to see whether or not she’d been bitten, obviously.
Halha relaxed as she recognised Elya. ‘You weren’t gone very long,’ she said. She had a curious, lilting accent, like most folk from Gravewild. As if they were half-singing, all the time.
‘Is he…?’ Elya whispered, glancing towards the cot.
‘Asleep,’ Halha said. She sheathed her dagger. ‘Still asleep. He moaned a few times, but did not stir otherwise.’ She glanced towards the window. ‘What is going on? Those bells - what do they mean?’
‘The city is under attack,’ Elya said. She looked around. There was nothing worth taking. ‘We must go.’
‘Go? Go where?’
‘The Grand Tempestus,’ Elya said. ‘We will be safe there.’
Halha looked doubtful. ‘I do not think anywhere in this city is safe.’ The woman looked away, her eyes wet. ‘We should not have come here. But Takha insisted. Said we’d be safer in a city than on the road.’
Elya took a bowl of water from the floor and poured it over her father. Duvak sat upright, spluttering. He stank of ale and cheaper intoxicants, and the water she’d dumped on him was as close to a bath as he’d had in a week. He blinked blearily at her. Then at Halha. ‘Who’s she?’ he slurred.
‘Up, father. The bells are ringing.’
‘I don’t care. Let me sleep, girl. I’m tired.’ He made to flop back down, and Elya caught at him
‘You’re always tired. Get up. They say the dead are at the walls.’
Duvak grunted. ‘I don’t care.’ He pushed her back.
Elya shoved him ‘Get up, get up!’ She glanced at Halha. ‘Help me.’
Halha hesitated, and then drew her knife. She leaned over Duvak and pricked his throat with her blade. ‘Up, fool. Or die here.’
Duvak blinked up at her, befuddled. ‘Who are you?’ But he responded to Elya’s prodding and rolled out of his sodden bedding. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, looked towards the window. He was still dressed in his lamplighter’s gear - badly dyed black-and-mauve clothes, with a leather harness for his wicks and oils. The harness was empty. He hadn’t bothered to resupply after his last shift.
‘We have to go, father. The dead are coming.’
He looked towards the door. ‘But your mother. She’s not back yet, is she?’
Elya paused. She ignored the look Halha gave her and instead, with an ease born of long practice, said, ‘She’s waiting for us at the Grand Tempestus. We need to go, or she’ll worry.’
Duvak hesitated. Then, he nodded. ‘Yes. She’ll worry. Don’t want her to worry.’ She knew from his tone that he didn’t believe what he was saying. He’d remembered, if only a bit. He always remembered, eventually.
She took his hand and looked at Halha. ‘Come. We have to hurry.’
Balthas stood on the steps of the Grand Tempestus, watching impatiently as the Glymmsmen readied the plaza for war. The echoes of the battle-horns still shuddered through the air. Beside him stood the mortal commander.
Captain Fosko, commander of the Glymmsmen’s Third Company, was old, as mortals judged such things. His uniform was shiny with wear in places, and his armour was dull. But it was well taken care of, as was the sword on his hip. His fingers tapped against the skull-pommel of the blade, and the palm of his free hand scraped over his shaven pate, back and forth. The sound of it grew irritating after a few moments, and Balthas said, ‘Must you?’
Fosko started, as if surprised that Balthas could speak. ‘What?’
‘That noise irks me.’
Fosko stared at him, and then looked at his hand. ‘My apologies, my lord. I was lost in thought. It won’t happen again.’
‘You may continue to think. Simply cease rubbing your head.’
Fosko gave a snort of laughter. ‘Was that a joke?’ He peered up at Balthas. ‘I wasn’t aware your sort could make jokes, my lord.’
Balthas looked down at him ‘Humour is a skill like any other. One may learn it, if one is of a mind to do so.’ He looked back out over the plaza. ‘That said, it wasn’t a joke.’
Fosko nodded. ‘You are unhappy, my lord.’
‘And you are observant.’
Fosko shrugged. ‘Not hard to see. You radiate your displeasure like a storm cloud. Is this not as glorious a battle as you were promised?’
Balthas pondered the question for a moment. He was not particularly displeased. Annoyed, perhaps, by the situation - it was not ideal, having to defend such a place, with so many mortals underfoot. The Glymmsmen could be put to better use elsewhere. ‘There are no glorious battle
s. Glory is accrued in the aftermath and doled out by poets and historians.’
Fosko shook his head. ‘Then why are you here?’
‘For the same reason you are, I imagine.’
‘I am defending my home. The city I was born in.’ Fosko reached up as if to rub his head, but stopped. ‘I remember my grandfather telling me stories of when the first walls went up. When every night was a war against things that would drain a strong man’s blood, or stop your heart with a gesture.’ He leaned over and hawked a wad of phlegm onto the stones at his feet. ‘It’s better now than it was. But here we are again, with the dead at our throats.’
‘If it bothers you, why stay?’ Knossus had tried to explain, in his heavy-handed way, but Balthas still didn’t understand. It made no sense to him. What was a place like this, next to Sigmaron, or even Azyrheim? No real history, no wisdom, sat in this place. The only things of any value here were the catacombs below, and that was debatable.
Fosko looked out over the plaza, as his warriors worked to fortify it. ‘This place is more than markings on a map. This city is birthplaces and burial grounds. It is where I fell in love with my wife, and where my son was born. It is where my friends lived and died, where my grandfather fought a duel for my grandmother’s hand, in the streets of the Lyrian Souk. It is the sum of us, and all that we are. I would no more abandon it than I would betray it.’
Balthas looked at the old man. ‘Is it worth dying for? New memories can be made elsewhere. New stories told.’
‘Only someone with no memories would ask that.’ The old soldier gestured apologetically. ‘Forgive me. I meant no disrespect.’
‘And yet you gave it.’
Fosko laughed. ‘Yes.’
After a moment, Balthas laughed as well. ‘How much do you know of us, captain?’
‘I’ve been around your kind since I was a child. I watched from under a table as my father and the other guild captains conferred with the Gravewalker on military matters. And when my father lost his skull to a Bloodbound axe, it was one of your host who brought it back to us, so that it might be enshrined in the family mausoleum’ He gestured to Balthas’ war-plate. ‘That black armour you wear is as much a holy symbol to us as the High Star.’
Balthas nodded. ‘You were right when you said I had no memories. I am a city, built on secrets. Much like this one. Instead of catacombs, I have a life I cannot recall. Once, I might have lived in a place like this, and I might even have felt as you do. Even so, I do not understand it. Maybe it is beyond me.’ He leaned against his staff. ‘That is not easy for me to admit. I have seen things no mortal can conceive of. I have walked in the fiery heart of a star and endured the chill of the firmament. But I would not die for those reminiscences.’
Fosko squinted up at the sky. ‘Maybe those are the wrong sort of memories.’
Balthas looked at him for a moment. ‘Perhaps.’
They stood in newly companionable silence, watching the preparations. The Freeguild soldiers moved with impressive speed. Bucket brigades doused the barricades in water taken from the Glass Mere and blessed by the priests who moved through the ranks. Handgunners took up position at the entrances to the plaza, their weapons loaded with silver, salt and iron. Swordsmen rubbed holy oils into their blades, and softly sang hymns that had been old when the city was young.
Nearby, Grom Juddsson and his clan warriors had broken open casks of some dark duardin spirit, and were upending them. The warriors of the Riven Clans were the other unnecessary mortal defenders assigned to the plaza - they would hold the western edge, while the Freeguild held the east. Other kin-bands of duardin from the Clans were scattered throughout the city, defending the holdings of their particular clan.
The duardin drank until their beards were dripping, and the smell of their libations hung on the wet air, bitterly pungent. Balthas watched in disapproval as two heavily armoured duardin crashed into one another, heads lowered. As they slumped, Juddsson and the others cheered and toasted them. Fosko chuckled.
‘Rowdy, aren’t they?’
‘I thought duardin only toasted victory.’
Fosko snorted. ‘They do. The Riven Clans have never lost a battle. Or so they claim. They toast to their impending victory, so that it might be written in stone.’ He turned away. ‘Here they come.’
Balthas followed his gaze. He saw the soldiers making way for a tide of humanity. ‘What is this? Reinforcements?’
Fosko laughed. ‘Ha! No. Not enough room in the inner wards for everyone in the city, especially these days. Some have to make do the best they can.’ Then, more loudly, ‘Make way for them, make way!’ He waved a hand, and soldiers scrambled out of the path of the fearful citizenry. They moved towards the temple steps in a great mass. Some were praying, others talking among themselves. Men and women and children. Old and young. The adults in evidence were more the former.
‘Anyone with an able body is on the walls, or heading that way,’ Fosko said. ‘That leaves the gaffers and grannies to herd the children to safety. Such as it is.’ He spat.
‘We are here,’ Balthas said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We will protect them.’
‘And who’ll protect us while we’re doing that?’
Balthas hiked a thumb at the statue of Sigmar. ‘Him.’
Fosko glanced back and frowned. ‘You might have something there.’ He hesitated. ‘Have you ever…? I mean…’ He fell silent, looking uncertain.
‘I have,’ Balthas said, quietly. ‘It was he who sent me here.’ He looked down at the mortal. ‘He would be proud of you, I think.’
Fosko’s face tightened. He turned away. ‘I do my duty,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘Always have. Always will.’ He pointed and bellowed suddenly. ‘You, there - leave the bloody cart! No room for that in the temple. Idiot.’ He whistled. ‘Horst! Damael! Add that cart to the wall.’
A shamefaced carter hurried up the steps, leaving an overburdened cart at the bottom. Two of Fosko’s soldiers toppled it, scattering its contents as they manhandled it towards the barricades. Fosko shook his head, looking at the detritus strewn across the ground. ‘Fool. Risking his life for a few valuables.’
‘Weren’t you the one just telling me about dying for memories?’
‘Things aren’t memories. Things can be replaced.’ Fosko grunted. ‘Family and home is worth dying for. A cart full of badly made glassware and stolen silks is not.’
‘I shall keep that in mind.’
Fosko laughed. And Balthas followed suit, a moment later. But the moment was interrupted by the blare of a horn, from somewhere on the rooftops around the plaza. Fosko cursed. ‘That’s torn it. They’ve sighted the foe - finish up those barricades, fools! We’ll have deadwalkers on us before you know it!’ He stepped down from the steps, bellowing orders. Balthas left him to it.
He opened his senses, testing the aetheric winds. They were strong here - stronger than they ought to have been. He wondered whether that was due to the surge in wild magics. But with them came something else - a spiritual murk, as if the realm itself had been struck by some malaise. He could see it in the tight faces of the mortals hurrying past him - a bone-deep fear. Primal and gnawing.
Something was coming. Something more dangerous than any nighthaunt or shambling deadwalker. Whatever it was, it was the reason he had been sent here. He was as certain of that as he was his own name.
He glanced back at the face of the temple and the great statue of Sigmar the Liberator. The sculptor had crafted the God-King’s face with a determined snarl, and he seemed on the verge of exhaustion as he raised Ghal Maraz to shatter the chains of the souls cowering below him.
Balthas studied Sigmar’s face for a moment longer. Then he turned and whistled. Quicksilver rose to his feet and padded towards his master, grumbling softly in eagerness. Balthas hauled himself into the saddle. As he did so, he saw Miska striding towards him
<
br /> ‘I heard the horns,’ she said.
‘The enemy draws close,’ Balthas said, hauling on Quicksilver’s reins. He gestured with his staff, as the rest of his subordinates gathered around. ‘Porthas, stand ready for my call. Mara, take your Sequitors to the steps. Usher the mortals to safety. Quintus, you and your Castigators will support Porthas. Gellius, Faunus - set up the celestar ballista on the portico. Wait for my signal. Swiftly now!’
His officers moved quickly, calling out to their cohorts. Balthas nodded, pleased by the display of discipline. He was confident that they would do as he’d ordered. Their discipline was the rock upon which the dead would break.
‘I will stand with Porthas,’ Miska said, making to follow the Sequitors.
‘No,’ Balthas said. ‘I will do that. Take Helios and his Celestors and fortify the temple. We will need to fall back and I want you waiting. Seek out the Liberator-Prime, Calys Eltain. I want her warriors ready.’
‘You think Fosko and the duardin will fail.’
‘Can you feel it? That blotch on the aether.’ He looked down at her. ‘Something is coming. Something beyond the reach of shot and pike.’ He shook his head. ‘This is the foe we were made to fight. It is outside their experience.’
She frowned. Her hand fell to the spirit-bottles hanging from her belt. ‘Yes.’
‘We must be ready for the inevitable. We will cover their retreat, when the time comes.’ He turned, scanning the sky. It had gone ominously dark. Not the dark of a storm, or of the night, but something else. There was a sourness on the air, clinging to everything, and it was only growing stronger.
Miska started up the steps, calling out to Helios as she went. Balthas watched her go, and then turned back to the approaching enemy. He urged Quicksilver forwards, and the gryph-charger bounded down the steps, squalling in readiness. Freeguild warriors made way for the lord-arcanum, eyeing both him and his steed with nervousness. Fosko was waiting for him at the outer edge of the temple plaza. The captain turned, eyebrow raised.
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