‘Come to stand with us, then?’
‘Yes,’ Balthas said, looking down at him
‘Just you?’
‘I am enough.’ He could see the wheels turning in Fosko’s head. The old soldier was no fool - he and his men were expendable, so long as the temple remained inviolate. Balthas wondered whether he would protest. But, after a moment, Fosko simply nodded.
‘Let’s hope so.’
Miska found Calys Eltain standing watch above the nave. The Liberator-Prime stood on the balcony, arms crossed, her helm hanging from her belt. Her face was set and stiff, as if she wished she were anywhere else. Then, given how Balthas had treated her, that was understandable. The lord-arcanum was off-putting, even at the best of times.
The mage-sacristan strode to join the other Stormcast, pausing only to allow a priest to hurry past. Calys glanced at her. ‘I heard the horns. The enemy has entered the city.’
‘As was expected,’ Miska said. ‘My warriors and I will fortify this place, to prevent the enemy from entering easily.’ She could see Helios and the others spreading out below. They would perform the necessary rites to render the twelve entrances of the temple inviolate against fell spirits and shambling corpses.
‘It is made of stone and hardened timber. What more can be done?’
‘Much, if you know how.’ Miska looked up at the glass dome of the roof. Golden sigils marked each pane of glass in the dome. Designed to draw the radiance of Azyr down to comfort the worshippers within its walls, the whole structure thrummed with divine power. She hoped it would be enough. ‘Your warriors?’
‘One at each entrance, save for the main. They will hold, whatever comes.’
‘And the main?’
Calys looked at her. ‘It is mine. It is my duty to hold this place. To keep the enemy from discovering what is hidden beneath us.’
‘That is our goal as well.’
‘I have never heard of you, or your chamber. And now, here, two of your sort, come to reinforce us. First Knossus, and now this Balthas.’ Calys looked down, into the nave below and the people flooding the aisle. ‘Almost as if the God-King were waiting for an excuse to unleash you.’
‘That you have never heard of us does not mean we have been hiding,’ Miska said. ‘We have taken the field a total of fifteen times, since I was first called to Sigmar’s side. Fifteen campaigns in the mortal realms, none so long as I might wish. Balthas is brutally efficient when he puts his mind to it.’ ‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing.’
Miska didn’t reply. She looked at the statue which loomed over the interior of the temple - Sigmar the Liberator, holding the realms on his back, his foot crushing the skull of a vaguely amorphous daemonic shape. Miska wasn’t certain just which of the Ruinous Powers it was supposed to be - perhaps all of them. ‘We are not soldiers by nature, not like you, though we are no less warriors. Our discipline has taken us down a different path.’ She held up her hand and let crackling strands of aether dance in her palm ‘We seek not the foe in the open field, but a more insidious opponent - one we have not successfully defeated.’
‘Dathus - Lord-Relictor Dathus - mentioned something about that. He said that you of the Sacrosanct Chambers wage war on the Anvil of Apotheosis itself.’ Calys shook her head. ‘I was not certain what he meant.’
Miska hesitated. The problems with the reforging process were not a secret. But neither was it spoken of openly. Before she could reply, Calys went on. ‘They say that you witness the reforging.’
‘I have that honour.’
‘Have you - I mean…’ She hesitated. She looked down, watching the refugees crowd into the temple. ‘I did not know him well. I did not know him at all. But he saved me. You understand?’
Miska did. The bonds between the warriors of Azyr were as strong as sigmarite. She would die for any warrior under her command, and they would do the same for her. ‘What was his name?’
‘Pharus. Pharus Thaum. He was our lord-castellant.’ Calys looked at her. ‘He saved me. He died, saving me.’ She looked down and, for the first time, Miska noticed the gryph-hound laying at Calys’ feet. The beast looked up at her and yawned.
‘I know that name,’ Miska said, after a moment. ‘The secrets of the reforging process are ever-changing, like the aether itself. No two spirits are the same, and thus no two reforgings are alike.’ ‘Then he has been.’ Calys trailed off.
Miska looked away. ‘Pharus burned like a star - he burned too brightly and was consumed by his own strength. That is what happened to him.’
‘Then he is dead twice-over, because of me.’ Calys leaned against the stone rail of the balcony. It crumbled in her grip.
‘No.’ Miska caught her by the shoulder. ‘We are forged from memories and starlight, Calys Eltain. Both are volatile. They can consume us, as easily as they comfort us.’ She decided not to mention that Thaum’s soul might be loose somewhere in Shyish. ‘Pharus fought and died, as a son of Azyr. We should all be so lucky, when our time comes.’
Calys turned away from her. ‘I hope so,’ she said, staring at the statue of Sigmar. ‘I pray it is so.’
From outside, the horn blew again. Miska looked up. Dark clouds were visible through the glass dome, blotting out the stars. She felt the aether stir, and a cold sensation slid through her. She looked at Calys. ‘The enemy are here.’
Calys drew her warblade. ‘Good.’
Pharus ran across the sands towards the northern gatehouse, an army of ghosts at his back. He was moving faster than any mortal man, swept along in the wake of Malendrek’s fury. The Knight of Shrouds had given the call to war, and the nighthaunts answered. They sped through the shuffling ranks of deadwalkers, rising up and past them in a hurricane of grey-green energy.
‘Faster, faster,’ Rocha shrilled from nearby. The executioner was almost a blur of darkness, her gore-streaked features pulled tight with unholy anticipation. ‘There is justice to be meted out, and a tithe owed - faster!’
Pharus kept up with her easily, Fellgrip hurtling in his wake, chains rattling. He could hear Dohl’s sonorous voice somewhere behind them, exhorting the multitude of spirits to greater speeds. They were a wave, crashing towards the distant shore - thousands of spirits, driven by one will. Pharus felt it fill him, and for a moment, he felt neither the cold nor the hunger, only a sense of fulfilment. As if the hand of his lord and master were upon his shoulder, as if it were Nagash’s voice, rather than Dohl’s, urging them on.
But the closer they got to the walls of the city, the brighter it became, until it was akin to staring into the heart of a roaring fire. The light pained and confused him, and drove the chainrasps about him into a wailing frenzy. It was as if the city were encased in a dome of light, and he could see no way through.
He staggered, slowing, limbs smoking. It was as if he’d run into a solid wall of heat. A chainrasp came apart with a despairing shriek. Another fluttered away, its tattered form alight with blue flames.
A great wail rose up, as the nighthaunts hurled themselves at the light, seeking to blot it out with their forms. As they struck it, thunder echoed through Pharus, and he saw streaks of lightning pass through the dead. Memories flickered - Sigmar had protected the city. Had set the dead to oppose the dead. Twelve saints and a circle of blessed salt.
‘We must dim the light,’ Dohl bellowed, from behind him ‘Overwhelm it!’ His lantern blazed, and more and more of the lesser spectres streaked towards the city. But they would not be able to pierce the barrier.
And yet, there was a gap. A pinhole in the light. Pharus stared, trying to see past the glare. He spied Malendrek riding hard for the gap, his deathly riders spread out behind him. They pulled the rest of the nighthaunt horde in their wake. Pharus drew his blade and hurtled in pursuit. ‘There,’ he roared. ‘Follow the Knight of Shrouds!’
He felt the winds of Shyish billow about him, lending him s
peed. There was a sound in his head - a triumphant shriek, rising from far away. The sword shuddered in his grip as the hateful azure light swelled to either side of him, blotting out the desert and even the gheists which surrounded him
He heard the clangour of great bells, and smelled again the smoke of his dying place. He felt the cruel heat of his remaking and knew that this was the same power. Once, it might have warmed him. Now, it burned him, and might burn him away to nothing, were it not for Nagash. The hilt of his sword grew hot in his hands as he trudged forwards, determined to follow Malendrek through the light.
The heat grew unbearable, and he felt himself become thin and weightless. As if, at any moment, he would be consumed. Dimly, he heard the scream of gheists and the rumble of thunder. Malendrek’s voice boomed out ahead of him ‘You will all be remade in darkness,’ the Knight of Shrouds shrieked.
Pharus felt a wrenching within him, and then he was through. Past the light, smoke rising from his armour and from his sword. He stood in a courtyard - familiar, but only just. The air was thick with the stink of Azyr, and the sweeter smell of mortal fear and blood. Thunder boomed, and he staggered back, throwing up a hand to shield his gaze as lightning washed across the stones.
He turned, seeking Malendrek. He saw the Knight of Shrouds locked in battle with a golden-armoured Stormcast lord, mounted on a screeching gryph-charger. Dark blade crashed against lightning-wreathed staff, as armoured warriors and mortal soldiers struggled against growing numbers of nighthaunts. The gheists slid through the walls of the gatehouse as if it were no more substantial than water. Some burst into flame as they breached the walls, but most endured and launched themselves gladly at the living.
Pharus took a step towards the duel, wondering if he ought to aid Malendrek. Something murmured within him, and he turned, spying the gate. It crackled with azure energy as well, but not so potent as that which banded the city. The light kept out nighthaunts, but the gates and the walls held out everything else.
He raced towards the heavy portcullis, blade held low. He had destroyed the gates of Fort Alenstahdt; he saw no reason he couldn’t do it again. But as he made to strike them, bolts of crackling energy slammed into the ground around him from above. He looked up to see a trio of Stormcasts on the parapet, levelling heavy crossbows. One fired, and he swept his blade out, bisecting the macelike bolt.
The resulting explosion knocked him backwards. Aetheric energies clawed at his substance, and he howled in pain. As he forced himself to his feet, he heard the clatter of sigmarite from behind him. He whirled, barely managing to interpose his blade between himself and a blow that might have sent his spirit shrieking back to Nagashizzar. Three Stormcasts, wielding shields and heavy mauls, closed in on him He parried a blow, only to be knocked sprawling by another explosive volley from above. The three Stormcasts converged on him as he rose, trying to keep him away from the gate.
He cast about, seeking some sign of Fellgrip or Dohl. Where were they? Had they not made it past the light, as he had? A maul slammed down, and he twitched aside. Corposant flared, and he felt it burn. Snarling in frustration, he slashed out, and a Stormcast sagged back, body reduced to crackling motes of energy.
Pharus heard a scream from above and risked a glance. One of the Stormcast archers plummeted to the ground, body coming apart in strands of lightning. He saw Rocha chop through the sternum of another, her axe parting sigmarite in a burst of amethyst heat. She tore her weapon free and drifted down to stand between him and his opponents.
‘Attend to the gate, knight. Let an executioner ply her trade.’ Rocha raised her axe in challenge. ‘Come then, iron-souls. Come and let me judge you.’
The first warrior lunged, maul snapping out. Rocha twisted aside, as weightless as a shadow. Her axe drew black sparks from the warrior’s shield, and the force of her blow drove him back several steps.
‘You, who took my betrothed from me, on our dying day, and then again when the Undying King might have returned him to me,’ Rocha howled as he strode towards the portcullis. Her words beat on the air like the tolling of a funerary bell. ‘He was mine, promised and owed, and you took him!’
Pharus turned, leaving her to it. He slashed his blade across the silver chains that connected the portcullis to the ground, parting the metal like paper. Lightning flashed, and crawled across him He could feel a weight press down upon him from all directions, and heard a voice murmuring on the air - prayers or imprecations, he could not tell which. There was a saint entombed somewhere in these stones, a corpse infused with the lie of Azyr’s strength.
He drove his sword into the wood of the gate and grasped the portcullis. It was marked with protective sigils, and his hands smoked and steamed as he took hold of it. With a hiss of effort, he began to force it up. Blue flame spilled across his armour as he did so. A lesser spectre would have been destroyed utterly. Even one like Dohl or Rocha would have been consumed. But Pharus was not like them He had felt the fires of Azyr before, and persisted. As he would persist now. The flames spread, licking at his substance.
He turned, catching the edges of the portcullis on his shoulders, forcing it above his head. He could hear the mechanisms that controlled it shattering somewhere above him, and cries of panic from the mortals set to guard it. Sparks rained down, as pulleys snapped and chains spilled from their alcoves to puddle on the ground.
He left the ground, rising, pushing, forcing it up and up, so that the stones of the gateway cracked and burst. Below, he saw Rocha push the Stormcasts back, step by step, with the fury of her assault. Her voice echoed over the screech of bending metal. ‘You took him and clad him in silver so that he did not know me, and I will have justice.’ She spat the words at them, as if they were arrows. ‘I will take what I am owed in blood, until he is returned to me. My prince of the Fourth Circle…’
A Stormcast lunged for her, and she spun with a shriek, her jaw unhinging like that of a serpent. Her axe crashed down, splitting the warrior’s shield and removing the arm that it was strapped to. The Stormcast staggered back, but had no time to fall before the axe licked out and removed his other arm. He slumped back against a support beam, blood pumping into the dirt. His companion darted towards the executioner, deceptively swift despite his bulk. His maul crashed down with a snarl of radiant energies, and Rocha shrieked in pain.
Pharus hesitated. Some spark of the man he had been urged him to go to her aid. A warrior aided his comrades.
But you are not a warrior. You are a tool. Tools perform their function, and nothing more.
Yes. Rocha’s function was to fight for him - to perish once more, for him. And his was to crack the city wide, so that it might feel the full fury of Nagash.
With a howl of his own, he forced the portcullis up and wrenched it forwards. Stone shattered, and the twisted remnants of the portcullis were ripped from the gateway, to slam down into the courtyard below. Still burning, Pharus dropped and caught the hilt of his blade. He tore it loose in a burst of splinters, spun and slashed out.
The shadeglass blade cut easily through the thick wood, and the gates came apart with a mournful groan. They crashed away in a cloud of dust. The reverberations echoed through the courtyard. He dropped to one knee, his form smouldering. A moment later, the first of the deadwalkers emerged from the cloud and shambled past him. Then another and another.
He heard cries of alarm from the mortals and shouts from the Stormcasts, as this new threat confronted them Pharus rose to his feet, an island of shadow amid a sea of dead flesh. A sea that would drown Glymmsforge and even Azyr, in time.
Thus, Nagash has commanded.
‘Thus it will be done,’ Pharus intoned.
Then, hand on his sword, he followed the rest of the dead to war.
Chapter eighteen
Gravewalkers
It had all gone very wrong, very quickly, Vale thought.
Gomes was dead, torn apart by cackli
ng gheists. Most of his men were dead. Those that weren’t had fallen back from the courtyard, leaving the enemy to the Stormcasts. Now they took cover in shattered storefronts and behind overturned carts of the streets past the gate, watching as powers beyond them clashed. Vale sat, his back to a stone wall, his sigmarite sigil clutched in his hands, whispering every prayer he knew. It was only one, really, but he wasn’t certain of the words, so he tried several versions.
He’d been too young to serve during Vaslbad’s assault on the city, but he’d fought deadwalkers before. They were dangerous, but you could put them down with steel and fire, if you were careful. But this was something else. Something worse. Gheists crawled along the rooftops and circled in the air like birds of prey. They reached through stone and wood as if it weren’t there, and could pluck out a man’s heart in a trice. Honest steel did nothing, and silver wasn’t much better.
Vale heard a shout and saw the black-armoured form of the Vulture lurch into motion. The warrior-priest’s hammer snapped out in a looping blow, and a gheist fell away. The spirit crumbled to dust and tatters. Kurst stomped forwards through its drifting remains, his croaking voice raised in a battle-hymn.
‘Up - up, you sons of Sigmar,’ the warrior-priest snarled, as he smashed another gheist aside. ‘Up, you gentle princes of Azyr! There is work to be done. Fasten your hands to the plough, and turn the soil - cast the dead back, and bury them deep! Up, you cowards and fools, up and look to the stars - there is courage there, if there be none in your gizzards!’
He reached down and jerked Vale to his feet. ‘Draw your sword, captain, or I’ll crack your skull here and now. Time to put in honest effort for your pay.’
Vale shoved the priest away and drew his sword. He didn’t quite extend it between them. ‘I’m no coward, but what good is steel against these things?’
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