She paused, watching as soldiers took up positions among the pillars and statues. Their commander shouted hoarsely, directing them with his blade. The duardin she saw were more subdued, but they readied their shields, making improvised bulwarks between the centre of the temple and the main doors.
Elya watched for a time, and then continued to pick her way across the stone carvings, as light as the cats that watched her progress from above and around her. They were scattered throughout the temple, seeking someplace safe and warm to wait out the storm.
Above her, a cat hissed suddenly. She froze as something passed across the face of a nearby window. A shape that wasn’t a shape. She could hear the nicksoul gibbering as it slithered across the glass, scrabbling ineffectually at it, for the glass was blessed and it couldn’t get in. It sounded like the mad men who sat on the corners and talked to people who’d died in the last siege. Just words, words, words and none of them making any sense.
Curious, she crept towards the window. It was one of hundreds, set into the base of the roof, below the immense glass dome that looked down on the nave. The windows were small circles of stained glass, meant to let in coloured shafts of light. Now, they were all covered in frost, so thickly that she thought it a wonder that they didn’t crack.
The glass bled cold, and her breath frosted the air. The thing on the other side grimaced at the sight of her and began to twist itself in knots. It had maggots where its eyes ought to have been, and its teeth were nothing but sharp splinters.
But it had been a person, once. A man, she thought. No, a boy. It spoke to her, too fast and sounding like it couldn’t catch its breath. The words tumbled over one another, and she couldn’t make sense of them It pressed broken fingers to the glass, and hoar frost spread wherever it touched. She hesitated, and then reached out, placing her fingers against the glass. It was so cold it burned.
The nicksoul stopped talking. It stared at her with its squirming gaze, and she could almost feel those maggots gnawing at her own eyes. She blinked and looked away. It hissed, not like a cat, but like a Mere-eel - a wet, guttural sound. ‘He is coming,’ it rasped. ‘He knows you, and he is coming.’
A cat climbed up onto her shoulder and growled, tail lashing. The nicksoul jerked back, as if it’d been stung. Elya turned, something telling her to look up. The dome overhead was dark, and things that might have been stars flickered in that darkness.
But they weren’t stars.
Stars did not scream.
‘They’re flocking like crows,’ Mara growled, pointing her maul towards the dome at the top of the Grand Tempestus. ‘Should we do something?’
‘And what more would you have us do, Sequitor-Prime?’ Balthas said, flatly. ‘Turn from the enemy in front of us, to face another?’ He glanced back at the temple and shook his head. ‘Besides, if Miska and the others have done as I commanded, the nighthaunts will not be able to enter the temple - not easily, at least.’
‘Small comfort to those within,’ Mara said, turning back to the battle before them. She ducked her head as a deadwalker slammed against her shield. She braced herself and swept her maul beneath the rim of her shield, shattering the corpse’s legs. As it fell, she stamped on its skull, putting an end to its struggles. But there were more behind it. There were always more. So many that they threatened to swamp the battle-line.
‘I do not care about their comfort. Only that they survive.’ Balthas thrust his staff forwards, and unleashed a crackling bolt into the corpses clambering at the Sequitors’ shield wall. ‘And that we survive.’
‘Better odds of that now that the Gravewalker has arrived,’ Mara said. She indicated the other side of the plaza, where Lynos Gravewalker’s warriors had emerged, to launch their own attack. Balthas had seen his plan immediately. The lord-celestant had intended to catch the dead between their chambers and scatter them
But that was proving more difficult than Balthas had hoped. For every deadwalker that fell, half a dozen spectres seemed to take its place, hurling themselves against the shields of the Stormcasts. Lynos’ lines were beginning to falter as their momentum stalled. Unlike the rotten corpses that packed the plaza, the nighthaunts were calculating foes. They had a dark animus of their own, though they were as enslaved to the will of their creator as the deadwalkers were.
With his storm-sight, Balthas could see the faint glow of the souls they had once been, before the winds of Shyish had inundated them, twisting them all out of sorts. Flickering embers of amber, of jade and even azure were caught in a tangled shroud of amethyst - so dark it was almost black.
Trapped by the magics of the ones who had drawn them up from their deaths. The sight of those magics made his skull ache, and he longed to unravel those black skeins.
Threaded amongst this heaving shroud were crackling striations of cerulean - the soulfire of the newly arrived warriors. Balthas winced as he watched a jagged bolt of lightning slash upwards. The mage-warriors of the Sacrosanct Chambers could weather such an assault, thanks to their mystic training. He often forgot that other Stormcasts lacked that training. They were at a disadvantage when it came to combating the aethereal hosts of Nagash.
But there was something else there. Something that taunted the edges of his storm-sight. He felt it on the wind, like the refrain of a half-forgotten song. It pulled at his attentions, distracting him from the battle. The blotch on the aether - it crashed against his senses, demanding that he face it. And suddenly, he knew what it was.
He could feel it now, at the edge of his perceptions. Like a storm that had turned back on itself. Somewhere, in the confusion, the soul of Pharus Thaum awaited him
Decision made, Balthas raised his staff. ‘Porthas, Mara,’ he shouted. ‘Lock shields and advance. They present their flank - let us bloody it, and show them why we were chosen to bear the mantle of Sigmar’s wrath.’
‘As you will it,’ Porthas growled. ‘Shields up, brothers and sisters.’ At his command, his Sequitors moved forwards one pace, shoving back the deadwalkers before them.
Balthas swung his staff out, indicating the deadwalkers. ‘Quintus, clear the path.’
On the steps of the temple, the Castigators fired their greatbows over the heads of the Sequitors. A chain of crackling energy washed through the deadwalkers’ ranks, and the Sequitors bulled forwards, into the teeth of it. The aetheric energy washed harmlessly over their war-plate as they forced burning deadwalkers aside, trampling those that fell.
Slowly, in disciplined fashion, the Sequitors dressed their ranks, falling into a wedge. Porthas led the way, a half-step ahead of the others, his greatmace whirling. Balthas followed, after signalling to Gellius and Faunus. The two engineers swung their ballista around and fired into the ranks of the dead that stood between the Gravewalkers and the warriors of the Sacrosanct Chamber, clearing the path.
‘Advance. Let nothing stay you. Not even death.’ Balthas gripped his staff tightly, and overhead, thunder rumbled. Somewhere ahead of him, something was waiting. And he intended to meet it.
Pharus felt the hint of something familiar - a scent, a sound, something else - brush across his consciousness, but flicked it aside. His sword crashed against that of the lord-celestant, and the facets of shadeglass flared amethyst. They spun in a wide circle, trading blows. His opponent was skilled, but Pharus had passed beyond skill.
‘I know you, I think,’ he said hesitantly, as they broke apart. ‘I know your voice, your gaze…’ The battle surged around them, and lightning snapped at the skies. More souls lost. ‘You are as I was, aren’t you? A slave. A pawn.’
‘Silence, grave-maggot,’ the lord-celestant rumbled. ‘The dead will not speak.’
Their blades crashed together again, and Pharus forced his opponent back a half-step. The lord-celestant grunted in shock. ‘Sigmar aid me,’ he growled.
Sigmar does not listen. Sigmar cares nothing for him, or you.
&nb
sp; Pharus forced the lord-celestant back another step, the words ringing in his head. ‘Sigmar cares nothing for you.’
‘Lies!’ Their blades crashed together again. The battle around them seemed to slide into the distance.
You are condemned, so that he might play the conqueror once again.
‘How many times have you died? How many times have you seen warriors perish and return, lessened?’ Pharus snarled the words, hurling them like javelins, the voice beating in his brain, as the lord-celestant reeled back.
‘You know nothing, spectre,’ the lord-celestant said. ‘You are a hollow thing, made in the image of a hollow god.’ Pharus hesitated, staring into his opponent’s eyes. He wanted to tear them out and deny the contempt they held.
He is blind, the voice said. Blinded by the light of Azyr, as they all are. They see only the light, not what it hides.
‘He uses you up, burning away memory and soul,’ Pharus said. ‘What will remain of you, in the end?’ Hatred swelled up, subsuming uncertainty. ‘You will be nothing,’ he said. ‘A husk, clad in black.’
‘And what are you?’ the lord-celestant spat.
‘I am a thing of purpose,’ Pharus said. ‘And I will have justice.’ The Stormcast hesitated. Pharus battered aside his blade, just for an instant, and swept his sword out, quickly. The black blade chewed through sigmarite, ripping and tearing the armour plates with fell strength. It darted, adder-quick, to pierce the flesh within. The lord-celestant groaned and sank back, blue lightning snarling around the edges of the wound.
Pharus reversed his blade and lifted it in both hands, ready to plunge it down into the lord-celestant. To finish him. But he hesitated. ‘No. You’ll not escape that way. I’ll make you see the truth. And then we will fight beside one another.’
One thrust will be enough to hold him. Trap him. Quickly!
‘Fellgrip - attend me! I have a task for you, jailer.’
The Spirit Torment drifted forwards, chains rattling like laughter. The lord-celestant struggled to rise, but Pharus set a foot on his chest and pinned him in place. He raised his blade high, for the killing thrust. ‘You will see what I have seen and you will join me. There is no other choice.’
‘There is always a choice, creature,’ a voice thundered behind him. ‘Even in the blackest shadow, there is a speck of light.’
Pharus turned and saw an immense, silvery, feathered shape bulling towards him. Chainrasps scattered like leaves in a wind as the gryph-charger bounded through their ranks. Lightning crackled about the head of the rider’s staff. Something in Pharus flinched back from that blue radiance, as he turned to face this new opponent. The rider wore the black and gold of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, but his war-plate was more ornate than that of Lynos - even so, he was familiar, somehow. As if they had faced one another before. The rider bellowed a single word, and a chain of lightning spat from the head of his staff.
It struck a chainrasp and leapt from phantasm to phantasm, causing the lesser spirits to spasm and jerk in seeming agony. They squalled like injured beasts as the celestial energies played about the links of their chains, and tore their aethereal forms to rags and tatters. The gryph-charger loped through their dispersing remains. It crashed into Pharus and knocked him sprawling.
Pharus made to clamber to his feet, armour creaking. The gryph-charger reared up over him, shrieking angrily. Its claws slammed down, tearing through his war-plate. Amethyst lightning sparked out through the ruptures, and the beast twisted aside with a yowl of pain. Pharus slashed out, driving the beast back. His blade bit into its flank, and a heavy hoof hammered into his hip, staggering him
The rider twisted about and drove the ferrule of his staff down, into the side of Phams’ head. Pharus reeled, his spirit shuddering within his war-plate. Azure lightning crackled, and pain exploded within him. The gryph-charger turned, lashing out with hooves and claws. Chainrasps swirled about steed and rider like angry hornets.
Pharus retreated, trying to escape the terrible radiance bleeding off the rider. Images crashed through his head, insistent and painful. He saw the newcomer standing before him, shouting his name, and the awful, yawning tunnel of stars overhead. He felt the play of lightning - as hot and as agonising as the real thing - and the sudden lurch, as he fell upwards and away, caught in a cosmic wind. He shook his head, hoping to clear it.
Ignore him. He is nothing.
He saw the wounded lord-celestant clambering to his feet, as a phalanx of Liberators broke through the chainrasps and formed up about their wounded lord. He snarled in frustration and tried to sidestep the gryph-charger. His prey would not escape him ‘Rocha - aid me, executioner!’ he called out.
‘A pleasure, my sweet lord,’ Rocha shrilled, as she hurtled past, overhead. Her great axe licked out, cracking against the rider’s staff. The souls of those she’d slain clambered over her opponent, clawing at him. The gryph-charger squalled, as its rider hauled on the reins and turned to face Rocha.
With his opponent distracted, Pharus launched himself at the Liberators, and his sword purred as it chopped through sigmarite shields. He felt strong as he cut them down. Their lightning washed through him, and the cerulean sparks became amethyst as they played across his war-plate.
Yes. Free them. Collect the tithe. Claim their souls in the name of the Undying King.
The Stormcasts fought valiantly, but he cast them aside with ease. Strength flooded him, and in the facets of his blade, he saw the reflected unlight of the black sun. It was as if Nagash stood at his shoulder, whispering into his ear.
Rejoice, for you are nothing more than a blade in the Undying King’s hand, and his foes shall fall before you, like wheat before the reaper’s scythe.
The last Liberator sank to one knee and was battered aside. Then, there was nothing between him and his quarry. Pharus gave the lord-celestant no chance to speak. He lunged, sword held low, and drove it through his opponent’s midsection. The force of the blow carried them both, and the Stormcast slammed into the base of one of the statues that lined the plaza like silent observers. Pharus leaned forwards, driving the blade in deeper, until it bit into the stone.
Yes. Take him.
‘Surrender,’ he said, his voice a hoarse croak.
‘N-no,’ the lord-celestant gasped, clutching at him His helmet had been knocked from him by the force of the impact, and his bare features sent distracting moths of memory fluttering across Pharus’ mind’s eye. His eyes still blazed, but more weakly now than before.
‘Yes. You will see the truth, as I have.’ Pharus made to twist his blade, to finish his task, but hesitated. Something in him raged, slamming against the bars of its cage. ‘The truth,’ he said again. Then, more softly, ‘Do you know what it is?’
There is only one truth, Pharus Thaum. There is only one end, to your path.
‘S-Sigmar,’ the dying warrior said. Pharus wondered if the lord-celestant was answering his question, or merely pleading with the one who had sent him here to perish.
Pharus twisted the blade and put an end to his quarry’s struggles.
‘No. Not Sigmar. There is only one truth, and it is Nagash.’
Balthas felt, rather than saw, Lynos’ demise. As he twisted in his saddle, he saw a crackling coil of lightning streak skywards, only to be drawn, with a scream of tortured energies, into the chains of the crooked, hunched spirit he’d noticed earlier.
‘No,’ he said, shocked to his core by the sight. He’d known it was possible to trap a Stormcast’s soul, but to see it happen… For a moment, he sat frozen. Then he heard Porthas shout a warning and felt his opponent’s axe grate against his back. The chipped blade tore through his cloak and drew sparks from his back-plate.
The force of the blow knocked him from the saddle, and as he struck the ground, his staff rolled from his grip. The ghostly executioner rose up over him, cackling wildly, lifting its axe in both
hands. ‘Come, Fellgrip,’ it shrieked. ‘Here is another soul for you.’ The axe hissed down.
A greatmace blocked the blow. Porthas slammed his shoulder into the nighthaunt, knocking it aside. ‘No,’ the Sequitor-Prime rumbled. ‘No more souls.’ He turned, whirling his greatmace up, and brought it down on the plaza. Lightning erupted from the cobbles, driving back the swarming gheists, if only for a moment. Balthas took the opportunity to get back to his feet.
Around them, the battle had devolved into confusion. Nighthaunts crawled over Stormcasts, pulling them down or slowing them long enough for the deadwalkers to do so. Lightning burst upwards again and again, as more warriors fell.
Worse, more deadwalkers were pouring into the plaza. Where they were coming from, Balthas didn’t know, but they were closing in on the Castigators on the temple steps, despite the impressive rate of fire produced by Quintus’ warriors.
As he snatched up his staff, he caught sight of the dark-clad spirit who’d killed Lynos. The armour it - he - wore was baroque and tattered, hanging off a body and limbs that were barely there. The blade in his hand was black, and gleamed like glass.
As if sensing his attentions, the creature turned to meet his gaze. The world seemed to slow and dim. The crash of lightning became a drawn-out rasp, and the screams of the dying and the dead merged into a great roar. Balthas was unable to look away as the creature began to stride towards him, moving normally despite the slowed nature of everything around them Balthas could hear the rattle of tattered armour and the crackle of the purple lightning that seethed beneath it. ‘I know you,’ the creature said. Its voice boomed like thunder, drowning out all other sound.
That voice was familiar - painfully so. Balthas had heard it before, in the Chamber of the Broken World, echoing in his head as it did now. He had known the moment was coming, but there had been no way to truly prepare for the shock of it.
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