‘You disapprove of my strategy?’
‘You are lord-arcanum.’
‘I am. And I saw fit to preserve my troops for as long as possible.’ Balthas sighed and looked at her. ‘The mortals had their duty, as we have ours. Now we must concentrate on what comes next.’ He gestured to Fosko, and the Freeguilder trotted over, followed closely by Juddsson. The duardin thane was pale and moved slowly, but seemed to be on the mend. ‘Status?’ Balthas asked, without preamble.
‘Most of my men are walking wounded,’ Fosko said, bluntly.
‘Bitten?’
Fosko grimaced. ‘No, thank Sigmar. But we’re checking, even so. If we find one… we’ll deal with it, quietly.’ He looked as if he wanted to spit, but refrained. ‘I left the best part of my command out there, lord-arcanum. The dead were on us too quick - we’re used to dealing with single nighthaunts, or just a handful. Never seen this many in one place.’ He swallowed. ‘Never wanted to.’
Juddsson nodded grimly. ‘We weren’t prepared. Too many manling promises of impenetrable walls lulled us. And now we’re trapped.’
‘Feel free to leave,’ Fosko said.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Juddsson sneered.
‘No. You would have to open the doors,’ Balthas said. ‘That would not be ideal. We are not trapped,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This place is sturdy. It can be defended, if not easily.’
‘A siege might last days, or weeks. If we’re cut off from the rest of the city.’ Fosko let the thought hang, unfinished. ‘We should ask Obol about supplies. See what the Azyrites have been hoarding in this oversized chapel of theirs.’
Balthas turned, scanning the crowd of mortals. Priests in robes of blue and gold wandered through the crowd, speaking softly to those who huddled weeping, or sternly to those whose faith seemed lacking. The one in charge was a portly man, with a cavernous scar disfiguring one side of his round features. It ran across his eye, which gleamed white in its ravaged socket, and up over the crown of his bald head. He wore gold-plated armour over his robes, but cradled a battered, utilitarian-looking mattock in the crook of his arm. He was speaking to an elderly couple as Balthas approached, the others in tow.
‘Lector Obol,’ Balthas said, pitching his voice low.
Obol turned, his good eye widening slightly. Balthas knew a little about him, from Fosko. One of several priests - or lectors, as the Church of Sigmar called them - sent by the Grand Theogonist from Azyr to oversee the spiritual welfare of the citizens of Glymmsforge, both Azyrite and otherwise. A former war-priest, Obol now spent most of his time seeing to the upkeep of the Grand Tempestus. Obol bowed as low as he was able, given his bulk. ‘My lord. You honour me - honour us - with your presence.’
Obol glanced at Fosko and smiled. ‘Glad to see you survived, you old wastrel.’ His smile faded. ‘Can’t say I expect we’ll all be so lucky, if this keeps up, though.’
‘Supplies,’ Balthas said. Obol blinked.
‘Some stores, in case of disaster,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Not enough for this lot, though. Even depending on whether you eat.’ He looked at Balthas, eye narrowed. ‘Forgive my impertinence, lord, but. do you?’
‘We do. But we do not need to, save rarely.’
‘Shame,’ Obol said. He patted his belly. ‘Sigmar knows best, I suppose, but a good meal sets the world to rights, I’ve found.’
‘Often, by the looks of you,’ Juddsson grunted. The duardin sat heavily on a nearby bench. Obol laughed.
‘And have you ever turned down a meal, thane?’
Juddsson squinted at him and rubbed his chest as if it pained him ‘What sort of fool does that?’ He turned. ‘I remember installing a well. So there’s water, at least.’
Balthas looked down at him. ‘You built this place?’
Juddsson gestured dismissively. ‘Why do you think I wanted to be the one to defend it? Took me months to get the capstones set properly. I wasn’t going to just sit back and let a bunch of walking corpses infest it.’ He stroked his beard. ‘We could always use the tunnels, if need be.’
Fosko frowned. ‘The catacombs would be worse than staying up here. Besides, I’d heard they’d sealed them off.’
‘Not the catacombs,’ Juddsson said. ‘There are tunnels running throughout the city. We of the Riven Clans dug most of them If we could get down there, we might stand a chance.’
‘And go where?’ Obol said. ‘The city is under siege. The dead are everywhere. At least here, we know they can’t get in. Sigmar would not allow it.’
Juddsson fell silent. Balthas looked up, at the high dome overhead. It was covered in a heaving shroud of gheists and hoar frost. ‘Sigmar might not allow it, but he is not the only god present here, today, I fear,’ he said. Obol paled and made the sign of the twin-tailed comet.
‘Then it is true, what they say… Nagash moves against Azyr?’
Balthas looked at him ‘Who is this “they” everyone refers to?’ He held up a hand. ‘Never mind. Yes. I want an accounting of supplies. You will provide it.’ Obol bowed awkwardly and hurried away, calling for several of the junior priests to accompany him Balthas turned to Fosko. ‘This place must be fortified. I want the entry halls blocked off, if possible. It won’t stop the nighthaunts, but the deadwalkers are a different story.’
Fosko frowned. ‘We’re staying, then?’
‘For the moment,’ Balthas said. Fosko nodded and turned to rejoin his men. When he’d gone, Juddsson laughed harshly.
‘Busy work, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
Juddsson tapped the side of his head. ‘I’m no fool. This place was never meant to be a fortress, whatever manlings think. And it won’t keep the dead out for long, blessings or no. So you’re thinking of something else. Fosko doesn’t see it yet, but he will.’ He peered towards his own warriors. They had erected their heavy shields into a bulwark and were priming their drakeguns. One of them began to sing, softly at first, and then more loudly. Other duardin joined in, their deep voices echoing through the nave.
Balthas watched, perturbed. ‘What are they doing?’
‘Singing,’ Juddsson growled. ‘Did you think we did not know how?’
Balthas hesitated. ‘I knew. I have simply never heard it.’
‘Few have, outside the clan-halls. Our songs are not for the ears of the unwrought. Today, we make an exception.’
‘Is it a dirge?’
Juddsson looked at him ‘Of course not. Why would you think that?’
Balthas didn’t reply. Juddsson snorted and heaved himself upright, and made as if to stand. Balthas moved to help him, but Juddsson waved him off. ‘The day I need help to stand is the day I no longer deserve to do so.’
Juddsson limped towards his warriors, one hand pressed to his chest. In moments, his voice joined theirs, rising in song. Balthas watched them sing for a moment. He glanced up at the windows, where ghostly faces were pressed to the glass, wailing silently. He imagined the nighthaunts clinging to the outside of the cathedral and felt faintly nauseated.
‘They will not get in,’ Miska said, after a moment. She had stood silent, while he conversed with the others, keeping her thoughts to herself. Now he looked at her, wanting her opinion. He felt uncertain… something he was not used to.
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Once, I might have been. But now. that thing - that creature leading the dead - was Thaum I saw it. Felt it.’ Balthas sagged back, onto the bench Juddsson had vacated. He wanted to take off his helm, but didn’t. It would be a sign of weakness, and he needed to be strong. Strong enough to make right what he had allowed to go wrong. ‘It - he - killed Lynos. His own lord-celestant. And Porthas.’
‘He almost killed you as well,’ Miska said.
‘Something has happened to him He has been altered someh
ow. His soul is tainted. The light of Azyr is trapped in a shroud of darkness.’ Balthas shook his head. ‘Only a god could do such a thing.’ ‘Nagash.’
He nodded. ‘He has captured the soul of a Stormcast before. More than once. Indeed, for some years, we thought it was his driving obsession. But never before has he managed something like this. I am forced to wonder - if he has the capability now, are any of us safe?’
‘Sigmar would not allow it.’
‘We must pray that it is so.’ Balthas bent forwards. ‘I saw into his mind - what was left of his mind.’ He grimaced. ‘It was like. a nest of maggots, making a hollow carcass dance. It is him, but he is just a mask for the thing inside. And I saw its plan.’
‘The Ten Thousand Tombs,’ Miska said, anticipating him
‘A place of censure. A moment of black time, stretched across roots of stone and left to fester.’ Balthas closed his eyes, trying to forget the feeling of being in Thaum’s head. ‘There are ten thousand souls imprisoned below us. Fell souls - warlords and sorcerers, tyrants and failed heroes. More potent than the spirits commonly hurled against us, and left imprisoned here by the will of the Undying King.’
‘Why would he do such a thing?’ Miska asked. ‘I have always wondered. Surely such souls might have been more useful on the battlefield, rather than chained here in the dark.’
‘Unless even Nagash feared they might prove too hard to control,’ Balthas said. ‘That he seeks them now should give us all pause.’ He looked at her. ‘Where is Calys Eltain? I must speak with her.’
‘She is at her post.’ Miska looked down at him ‘Are you going to tell me why?’
‘We know where they are going. Why else would Nagash send Pharus Thaum back to Glymmsforge, save to open the vaults he once defended? And to get there, they will tear this temple down, stone by stone. It is not safe here. We cannot defend this place for long. We will be overwhelmed long before Knossus is able to reinforce us. The only safety is down.’
‘The catacombs?’
‘We cannot make our stand here. They will overwhelm us sooner or later. So we must withdraw to face them on more optimal ground. There are reinforcements below.’
‘If we cease our prayers, they will rush in.’
‘Then someone must stay.’
‘A death sentence.’ She did not sound angry. Balthas nodded.
‘Yes.’
‘Volunteers?’
‘One will be enough.’
‘And you have one in mind?’
Balthas was silent. Miska smiled faintly. ‘Go - speak to Eltain. I will tell him.’ She turned away. Balthas raised his hand. Dropped it.
‘Thank you, mage-sacristan.’
‘It is my duty, lord-arcanum.’
He watched her go and then let his gaze drift across the interior of the temple. Even now, preoccupied as he was, he couldn’t help but calculate the geometries of the place. It was such a small thing - plain and pale next to the glories of Sigmaron. As Glymmsforge paled next to Azyrheim. But both were groping towards that glory, in their own way.
That, in the end, was the difference between gods. Where Nagash forced everything into the same shape - his own - Sigmar sought to raise his people up. To serve Sigmar was to forever reach for the stars above. To serve Nagash was to never notice the stars at all.
His eyes found the reliquary that rested at the opposite end of the nave from the main doors. It was the largest chamber in the temple, built to house the bones of the faithful, and now a hundred or more citizens of Glymmsforge crowded within its embrace. Innumerable skulls, marked by the symbol of the High Star, peered down at the gathered mortals. Longer bones had been laid beneath the skulls, and thousands of phalanges hung from the ceiling.
The reliquary radiated a peace utterly at odds with the dead things outside. Here, a soul could find true rest, safe from the machinations of the Undying King. A shame that such peace would soon be disrupted. Another necessary sacrifice.
It seemed to him as if there were too many of those, of late.
Perhaps Miska and Tyros were right. He was easily distracted. He had not steeped himself in blood, the way others had. He had always thought himself possessed of a higher purpose - not just a warrior, but a seeker of hidden truths.
But what was the truth, here? The only one he saw was that he had failed, and his failure had compounded itself in ways he had never imagined. There was no telling what Thaum had done, or would do, if he was not released from Nagash’s control. He leaned his head against his staff, seeking equilibrium.
He stared at the bones, at the ranks and rows of sainted dead lining the reliquary, and wondered where they were now. Lyria was but one underworld among millions. He could feel spirits here, watching. They existed outside the awareness of all but the most sensitive of mortals, and those possessing a spark of the divine. The truly dead, those who had passed beyond even the reach of gods, into spheres unknown and unknowing.
Only a rare few in the realms were so lucky as to travel on to that undiscovered country at the moment of their death. Many souls were trapped in the weft and weave of the realms, drawn into the aether that permeated everything. Sometimes they escaped, but other times, they simply… sat. Waiting for one god or another to collect them, or for the winds of magic to cast them back into physical form, through rebirth or reincarnation.
He knew this as surely as he knew that the war being fought in the realms was not just a battle over physical territory, but a war for souls. The souls of all those who had been or ever would be. Even those souls already claimed by another.
He closed his eyes, listening to the wails emanating from beyond the walls of the temple. He felt suddenly weary, and his grip tightened about his staff. Corposant flared softly, dancing in tune to his simmering frustration. He had failed. Twice now, he had faced Pharus Thaum, and twice he had failed to contain him Twice he had failed to prevent the repercussions of the rogue soul’s rampage. The third time would be the last. He did not know how he knew this, only that it was as certain as the stars above. As constant as the firmament.
As this understanding filled him, so too did warmth, driving back the edges of fatigue and bringing with it clarity. He could see the way ahead clearly now. He was on the correct path. The battle could not be won here. But elsewhere, it might be possible. Like a hunter, he had to find the proper ground.
He could almost feel Sigmar’s hand on his shoulder. Magic, sorcery, aetherworking, whatever you called it, it was all about ritual. About the meeting of craft and circumstance, the right words, the right gesture, at the right time. Too early or too late, and the spell would not work. Like a hunter, taking aim at his prey. Release the arrow too soon, and the prey escaped. The time had not been right, before. But it would be. He just had to recognise the moment, and… let his arrow fly.
‘You look tired. I didn’t think your sort could get tired.’
Balthas turned. Juddsson stood nearby. ‘We can,’ Balthas said. ‘But I am not. Have you finished singing, then?’
Juddsson grunted and tugged on his beard. ‘Yes, for the moment.’ He sniffed. ‘We’re in the krut, and no two ways about it.’
‘Yes, but I might have a solution. Come with me.’
Juddsson grinned. ‘I knew you were a clever one. The moment I saw you, I said to myself - Grom, there’s a clever sort of manling.’
Balthas frowned. ‘Let us hope you are proven correct.’
He and Juddsson found Calys standing near the main doors, her gaze fixed. She spun as she registered their presence, her blade springing up. Balthas didn’t hesitate. ‘Your dutifulness does you credit, Liberator-Prime.’
She nodded tersely and turned her attentions back to the doors. ‘As you say, lord-arcanum.’ Balthas could feel her dislike of him, and he smiled. Eltain was not practised in hiding her feelings.
‘The Ten Thousand Tombs,’ he said
. ‘You were one of those who guarded it?’
‘I was sent down only recently,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Can you find your way into it?’
‘I barely found my way out - let alone back in - unaided. The ruins change shape constantly. Pharus did something. He created false walls and streets to nowhere, to confuse intruders.’
‘Pharus did nothing. We built those things.’ Juddsson frowned. ‘Granted, he came up with the idea and drew the plans, but it was duardin hands that piled those stones. And duardin minds that improved on his human cleverness.’ He packed so much condescension into the final word that Balthas felt vaguely insulted on the former lord-castellant’s behalf.
He looked down at the duardin. ‘Then you, or one of your clansmen, can lead us.’
Juddsson laughed harshly, and then winced. He clutched at his chest. ‘No, manling. That place was built to isolate itself. Things move at random. Walls switch places, floors dip, paths bend back on themselves.’ He shook his head. ‘We know our business. Pharus didn’t want anyone getting in there without his permission, so we made sure of it. Only the warriors assigned to protect the tombs know the way in and out.’ He frowned and looked at Calys. ‘Most of them, anyway.’
‘And Elya,’ Calys said, idly.
Both Juddsson and Balthas looked at her. ‘Who?’ Balthas asked.
‘The child. The girl. Phams said that she kept managing to get in, and he didn’t know how.’ She shrugged. ‘If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed him.’
Balthas shook his head. ‘A child?’
‘She’s shrewd.’
Balthas frowned. The rudiments of a plan were beginning to form. ‘Let us hope so.’ He looked at Juddsson. ‘The tunnels below - the ones you mentioned before, with Fosko and Obol - do all of them lead in the same direction?’
Juddsson saw what he was getting at immediately. ‘No, some lead elsewhere in the city. We can reach our clan halls, even.’ He squinted, looking around. ‘Slow going, with these. Especially if we have to fight.’
Soul Wars Page 36