Soul Wars

by Josh Reynolds

  The thing before him was a blight on the aether - a storm, caged in shadows. The wrongness of it made his senses ache. It flickered eerily, moving out of synch with the world around it. It was a thing that should not be, the essence of one god enslaved by another. Within the confines of its monstrous helm, its features bled and shifted - first human, then a bare skull, then something in between.

  ‘I know you,’ it - he - said again.

  Balthas raised his hand, and tried to draw the lightning to it. ‘And I know you, Thaum,’ he said, as weak energies flickered about his gauntlets. ‘I name thee Pharus Thaum, and bid thee-’

  ‘Silence,’ Thaum hissed, suddenly in front of him. His face stretched and wrinkled like canvas, lightning-scarred bone peeking through ravaged flesh. It was like a too-small mask, pulled over something horrid. Balthas took a step back as their eyes locked, and he saw…

  Screaming, Thaum fell and fell…

  A child’s face, a girl… Elya…

  A God of Death, tearing him asunder and remaking him…

  A tide of fell spirits, sweeping up towards the Shimmergate, towards Azyr…

  Thaum shrilled in pain and twisted away, breaking contact. ‘You,’ he rasped. ‘You hurt me before. You tried to make me something else - tried to take who I was.’

  ‘No, I tried to help you - Sigmar tried to-’

  ‘I said be silent.’ Thaum spun, sword raised. The black blade slashed down, slowly, so slowly, but as inevitable as nightfall. In its facets, Balthas thought he saw a skeletal face, leering at him, its eye sockets blazing amethyst. And that face was reflected in Thaum’s own - no longer that of a man, but a skull, stretched and warped as if something were growing within it. And he knew then what his failure meant.

  ‘No!’

  Porthas struck Balthas, slamming him aside, breaking the spell. As Balthas fell, he saw the blade part Porthas’ helm like paper. The Sequitor-Prime toppled away, body shattering into starlight and lightning. The crooked spirit - the jailer-thing - swooped on the rising soul, chains clanking.

  Enraged, Balthas instinctively caught hold of the aether and drew it taut. ‘You shall not have him,’ he roared. He slammed his fists down and lightning exploded upwards, driving back the spirits that pressed close all about him and sending the jailer-thing fleeing, its twisted form alight. Thaum too staggered back, shrieking in pain as the lightning tore at him

  Balthas rose and swept out his hand, ignoring the pain of the storm as it raged through him Lightning punched Thaum backwards, sending the creature rattling across the plaza. Before he could pursue, a blow caught him across the back, knocking him to one knee. He heard the familiar cackle of the axe-wielding spectre, as it swept about him like a serpent readying itself to strike.

  The axe came down, nearly taking his head off. He lunged awkwardly to the side, moving swiftly, trying to put some distance between them, so that he could employ his magics. He caught sight of his staff and shoved a deadwalker aside as he made to reach it. He whistled sharply, hoping that Quicksilver was still alive and able to hear him

  The spectre pursued him, the ghostly skulls swirling about it gibbering and muttering. ‘I know you,’ the spectre hissed. ‘One like you took my prince from me - drew him up and bound him in star-iron. Made a false king of him and set treacherous thoughts in his head. Theft. Treachery. By these crimes, and a thousand others, have you been judged. And the sentence - death!’

  Balthas turned and interposed his staff. He caught the blade of the axe as it descended, and the storm surged through him, cascading across the weapon and up into its ghostly wielder. The spectre screamed, not in triumph this time, but agony.

  A moment later, the axe exploded into white-hot shards. The spectre flew backwards, form blurring and rippling as the celestial energies coursed through it. The creature plummeted to the street, its smoky form shredded and coming apart. It clutched at itself in agony, as the broken shards of lesser spirits clustered about it. These parasitic phantoms shot towards him as he approached.

  He heard a screech, and Quicksilver pounced on one of the phantoms, the aetheric energies curling about his beak and talons allowing him to pull the dead thing apart as if it were living prey. Balthas stepped past the gryph-charger, closing in on his would-be executioner. The spectre tried to rise, its form tattered and fading. ‘I will not… where is he… where is my prince?’ it shrilled, lunging at him, ragged claws extended. ‘Tell me!’

  Balthas thrust his staff out, like a spear. The nighthaunt shuddered as the end of the staff punched through its chest. It clutched at him, and in that moment, the madness seemed to clear from its eyes. ‘Tarsem,’ it whispered. Balthas sent a pulse of aetheric energy through the staff and the nighthaunt came apart with a small, sad sigh.

  Dead hands clutched at him as he pulled himself into the saddle, and tore at Quicksilver’s fur and feathers. The gryph-charger snarled and lashed out, crushing the deadwalkers. But more pressed forwards. Lightning erupted upwards across the plaza, as Stormcasts were pulled down by the dead.

  ‘They die as slaves. They will be reborn as something better.’

  Balthas twisted in his saddle, as the words stung his ears. Pharus Thaum approached slowly, surrounded by chainrasps. Despite the din of battle, he could hear the ghostly warrior’s words clearly. Smoke rose from Thaum’s armour, but the creature seemed otherwise unharmed.

  ‘As you will be reborn. As I was.’

  ‘This is not rebirth,’ Balthas spat. ‘This is a mockery.’

  Thaum laughed, and for a moment, it was as if another voice, deeper and greater, echoed him ‘It is justice. In death, I was redeemed. My eyes were opened to the truth of things. I see now that I fought in service of a lie. In service to a false king. And I have returned to cast down his works, and salt the earth.’

  ‘And I will stop you.’

  ‘You cannot stop the inevitable,’ Thaum roared. He surged towards Balthas, blade raised. Balthas lifted his staff, and light blazed outwards. The air contracted and suddenly gleamed gold as a wall rose up, separating them Thaum’s blade struck the conjured wall, cracking it, but Balthas had bought himself a few moments.

  He cast his voice into the air, knowing the aether would carry it to the ear of every Stormcast. ‘Sequitors - fall back to the Grand Tempestus. All others - draw the enemy off, fall back into the surrounding streets. The battle will not be won here. I will buy you the time you need to disengage, but move swiftly.’

  As he spoke, Balthas caught at the aether, his anger at the deaths of Lynos and Porthas - at his own failure - giving him focus. His fingers bent, and the air grew hot. He spat a single word, in the Igneous dialect of Aqshy. It reverberated through the thickening atmosphere. The rain around him turned to steam as he raised his staff.

  Then, as one, every deadwalker in sight burst into flame. Not the orange fire of Aqshy, but the cobalt blaze of Azyr - a cleansing flame, rather than a devouring one. The fires of the stars themselves, focused through his will. As the azure conflagration blazed upwards, consuming and purifying, the nighthaunts drew back. The ragged spectres fled before the threat of the fire, and those that were too slow or too weak were immolated along with the deadwalkers.

  The golden wall dissipated, as Thaum finally broke through it. He roared in pain as the blue flames swirled up around him and set him alight. His form wavered and he quickly retreated, with a last, parting glare at his tormentor. It would take more than flames to slay such a spirit, Balthas knew. Perhaps it would take more power than he possessed.

  ‘But it will be done, regardless,’ he growled. Just not here, he knew. Not now.

  There was no salvaging this fight - the formulas of battle had irreparably broken down. A new strategy was called for.

  As he urged Quicksilver back towards the Grand Tempestus, he flung out his staff, drawing the currents of aether to him. Where Quicksilver ran, the dead burst int
o cleansing flame in his wake, creating a corridor of purifying flame for the Sequitors to follow through.

  Nearing the steps, he saw Quintus’ Castigators falling back towards the portico, as nighthaunts swirled about them. More gheists had fallen on the celestar ballista, and Gellius and Faunus were struggling to keep the weapon intact and firing. A hunched reaper drove its scythe blade through Faunus, and was consumed in the engineer’s apotheosis. Gellius roared a curse and lashed out with his maul, destroying another spirit, even as his partner’s soul was ripped upwards, back to Azyr.

  ‘Quintus - pull back,’ Balthas said, trusting in the aether to carry his words. ‘We are coming.’ The Castigators fired another volley and began to stream up the steps, smashing aside nighthaunts with blasts of cerulean force.

  As Quicksilver reached the steps, the heavy doors to the temple were flung wide and Miska led Helios and his Celestors out onto the portico. The mage-sacristan tore one of the spirit-bottles from her hip and sent it hurtling towards a knot of gheists. It struck the stones and exploded, releasing a frenzied storm-spirit. A crackling cloud of lightning zigzagged through the nighthaunts, reducing them to burnt particles, before at last escaping into the aether.

  Helios and his warriors advanced across the portico at a stately pace, leaving crackling footprints of lightning in their wake. Celestial energies crawled across their armour, leaping out to cascade across the Castigators who retreated past them. Nighthaunts swooped towards the newcomers, cackling and screaming. The Celestors moved as one, creating an interwoven net of blows that reduced the howling chainrasps to sizzling ash. Lightning sawed out in a devouring fury from between their weapons, to lick through the air before contracting back.

  Wherever the nighthaunts went, the lightning was there, reaching out to entangle and burn them, before retreating between the blades and staves of the Celestors. As this crackling display held the gheists’ attentions, Mara led the remaining Sequitors onto the portico and through the doors of the Grand Tempestus, followed closely by Gellius, his ballista across his shoulders.

  Balthas galloped past Helios, calling out as he did so, ‘Efficiently done. Now fall back.’ The Celestors fell in behind him and followed him through the great double doors. Balthas hauled on the reins, turning Quicksilver about in time to see Miska stride after Helios. She slammed her staff down, and the doors slammed shut behind her with a rolling boom She nodded.

  ‘The Grand Tempestus is sealed, lord-arcanum. No spirit will enter.’

  Balthas was about to reply, when a sound echoed through the entry hall. The harsh scrape of many dead hands, clawing at the doors. The light of the storm-lanterns seemed to dim as the sound grew louder, and was joined by a piercing susurrus of babbling voices.

  Miska stared at the doors for a moment. Then looked back at Balthas. ‘They will not enter easily, at least,’ she amended.

  ‘For the moment, that will be enough,’ Balthas said. ‘It will have to be.’

  Pharus stared at the doors of the Grand Tempestus, idly tracing the scorch marks on his war-plate. ‘Balthas Arum,’ he said. He did not know why he knew the name, but he did. Something in him laughed as he said it, as if at an old joke, now mostly forgotten. ‘Balthas… Arum…’ The name sounded wrong, somehow. As if it were a lie.

  What is a Stormcast but a lie made flesh? A false promise, given substance by hollow faith. Stolen souls, caged and warped into new shapes by a trickster god. And who tried to do the same to others, in a parody of their deceitful master…

  Again, the sour laughter came and this time, it rose through him and escaped his lips unbidden. He laughed low, loud and long, glorying in the certainty which gripped him.

  Yes, you see now. You have bested them. They are naught but shadows.

  ‘They are but shadows,’ he said. He was close, now, and nothing - not his former brothers, not this Balthas Arum - would keep him from fulfilling his purpose.

  ‘It is good to see you so pleased, Pharus. I feared you would find no joy in your purpose, as happens to so many who are bent to the great wheel.’

  Pharus turned. ‘My Lady of All Flesh,’ he said, bowing. ‘What news?’

  ‘Glymmsforge burns,’ Crelis Arul said, with some satisfaction. She rested atop her palanquin, her wolves growling softly as they gnawed on something wet and red. ‘Malendrek wages the war he has dreamed of, and Yaros ensures that he is free to do so. As I have ensured that you are able to fulfil your desires.’ She gestured to the remaining deadwalkers, as they pounded at the doors of the Grand Tempestus. ‘Have they served you well?’

  ‘They performed their function satisfactorily.’

  She pressed her hands together. ‘Oh, excellent. It makes my heart sing, to hear you say that.’ She turned, as if scenting the wind. ‘As it sings to hear the call of butchered meat. I can feel them waking up… My children. They see with new eyes, and hunt with new hunger. I must go and gather them.’ She stroked a wolf’s skull and looked down at Pharus. ‘Will you accompany me, oh knight?’

  ‘I will not,’ Pharus said. He knelt beside the spot where the lord-celestant had perished. He could hear the warrior’s soul howling as it rattled in Fellgrip’s chains. Soon, his brother would know the same peace he did. So why did that thought bother him so? He pushed it aside, as the voice in him whispered in satisfaction. ‘My duty is here, in this place. This is why I was remade.’

  Arul laughed softly. ‘Is it, now? How wonderful to have such a clarity of purpose.’

  Pharus glanced up at her. ‘And do you not? Does dead flesh not beseech you to raise it up, as the souls of the living call to me and ask for their freedom?’

  ‘I think you were a thing of singular purpose, even before Nagash reshaped you. But we shall speak more on it, later. Once the city is ours, and the Shimmergate shakes with the tread of a million corpses.’ She gestured, and her palanquin turned away. ‘Fight well, Pharus Thaum Our master stands at your shoulder, and you would do well not to disappoint him.’

  Rest assured, you shall not. So long as you perform your function.

  ‘I will not fail.’ Pharus watched her depart, and then looked back at the Grand Tempestus. It called to him. Not the temple itself, but what lay beneath it. He looked down and picked up a Stormcast helmet, laying smouldering upon the stones. He looked at its stern features, seeking something familiar. Had he known the one who wore it? Would he know their face, if he saw it again?

  ‘What now, my lord?’ Dohl asked, drifting towards him. As ever, the guardian of souls was trailed by a flock of chainrasps, all murmuring and twitching in the light of Dohl’s lantern. Pharus felt his growing unease fade.

  ‘Let Malendrek rip the city’s belly open. We go for the jugular.’ Pharus stared into the scowling countenance of the mask. Sigmar’s face. ‘He makes us wear his face,’ he said. ‘As if we are but pieces of him, shed from the whole.’ He cast the helmet aside.

  Nagash and Sigmar. Apotheosis and dissolution.

  The sun and its shadow, the voice murmured.

  ‘The God-King seeks to blind you, to make you see as he sees,’ Dohl said, as he drifted alongside Pharus. ‘To convince enough souls of a lie is to make it the truth. But we stand firm. Nagash is all, and all are one in Nagash. He is the absolute, and the end. He is justice in an unjust universe.’ Dohl lifted his lantern, and chainrasps gathered about him, seeking the hollow comfort of his light. ‘He is vengeance for the innocent and punishment for the guilty. In Nagash, order is restored, and the madness of existence broken to the wheel of fate.’ Dohl’s voice rose to a sibilant groan, echoing over the shattered courtyard.

  Nearby nighthaunts joined their voices to his, until a solid wave of mournful noise washed over the temple. Pharus swept his sword out in silent command. Nighthaunts drifted towards the temple, singly and in groups. If there was a weakness, they would find it. One gap, one chink - that was all Pharus needed.

  He
glanced down at what was left of Rocha’s axe, lying scattered across the plaza nearby. It still smouldered from the lightning. He felt no regret over the spirit’s fate. That had been her purpose, and there was nothing more to it. When a piece of the mechanism broke, it was stripped out, without sentiment. As he would be, if he failed.

  But he would not fail. Nagash commanded that the Ten Thousand Tombs be opened, and Pharus would do so, whatever or whoever sought to bar his path. ‘As Nagash wills,’ he said, softly, ‘so must it be.’

  Chapter twenty

  Refuge

  Inside the Grand Tempestus, all was quiet.

  Few people spoke, beyond muffled prayers or the coughing of the injured. The Glymmsmen and duardin tended their wounded, while keeping wary eyes on the visible entrances. The citizens had gathered in bunches throughout the nave, or against the walls. Some moved aside as Balthas led Quicksilver down the nave, away from the main doors.

  His warriors split up into smaller cohorts composed of Sequitors and Castigators, towards the twelve entry-points. Helios and his Celestors sat in a watchful line before the main doorway, their weapons across their knees and corposant dancing across their armour. Gellius had set his ballista up on the altar - shaped like a massive, twelve-pointed star - where he had a clear view of the entirety of the nave and the main entry hall.

  Calys Eltain’s Liberators still held their posts, at the doorways. He saw no reason to pull them from that duty - twelve warriors more or less would make little difference. They would act as alarms, just in case the wards were breached and the dead managed to get inside. When he said as much, Miska frowned. ‘She - they - deserve better than that, I think.’

  Balthas didn’t look at her. ‘We all do.’

  ‘Especially the mortals.’ Miska looked around. Her face was set in a frown. ‘I suspect you used Fosko and Juddsson to absorb the brunt of the enemy - to gauge their strength. We should have pulled them back from the beginning. I knew that and said nothing. Too many died that need not have.’