The explosion followed a moment later. The reliquary was full of fire, and a whistling thicket of silver shot. Deadwalkers fell, burning. Nearby chainrasps squealed and fled. Pharus held his ground, ignoring the flames that swept up around him, seeking to consume him, though he had neither flesh nor bone. He roared in rage and snatched his sword from its sheath. He slashed down, striking the slab, again and again.
Chunks of stone fell away, cleaved raggedly from the whole by his blows. When enough of it was gone, he cast out a hand and shoved the remains of the slab aside, bending the unseen mechanisms out of joint. Flames roared past him, into the passage beyond. Burning deadwalkers stumbled past. A moment later, the nighthaunts flooded into the passageway, their screams and howls echoing from the stones.
‘The strength of Nagash cannot be denied,’ Dohl murmured. As he urged the nighthaunts into the reliquary, their presence snuffed the flames, drawing the heat from the air almost instantly.
Pharus did not reply. He stared into the passage, listening to the grinding of stone, once so familiar and now so strange. Dohl drew close, the light of his lantern washing over Pharus. ‘Do you hear them, my lord? Lost souls, calling to you out of lightless gulfs. They know you are here. Jailer-turned-redeemer. They welcome you. Do you hear them?’
Pharus did. Ten thousand voices, calling up out of the dark. Calling for him.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘The inevitable awaits.’
Balthas led the way, the remains of his Chamber marching in his wake. There were barely thirty of them left. But enough to do what must be done.
Quicksilver paced beside him, Elya sitting in the saddle. She looked tiny, there, even with the cats that clung beside her. More felines ran underfoot. At times, there seemed to be dozens of them, or only a handful.
The slope was uneven. More than once, a Stormcast nearly lost their footing, sending a cascade of loose stone tumbling down into the gulf below. Every time, they would stop until the echoes of clattering stone faded. Then, they would proceed once more.
Balthas could hear the steady, grinding rumble of stone scraping against stone. Dust hung thick on the air. It sifted down from above in ribbon-like waves, and cascaded across the Stormcasts’ armour. Occasional flashes of light rose from below, reflected from innumerable mirrored surfaces to bounce along the curve of the slope.
It was like an orrery. But within that orrery was contained a smaller puzzle box of shifting lines and sliding squares. Everything was in motion, if slowly. He could feel the aether sliding with it - the blessings and protections of Azyr, marking the sphere of tombs. Even without seeing them, he could feel the arcanograms that Pharus had engineered. As the shape of the catacombs shifted, so too did the arcanograms. From barrier to funnel to trap and back again.
‘He was clever,’ Miska said, from just behind him
‘He still is,’ Balthas said. ‘That is the problem’
The slope widened ahead of them, and in the light, Balthas could make out the crude apertures of tombs and crypts, built into the walls. These were all sealed, with stone and silver chain, and he could see mystic wards glowing like phosphorescent fungi.
The ground beneath their feet trembled now, and an almost solid curtain of dust wafted down through the air. Elya leaned forwards. ‘We have to wait,’ she said, shouting to be heard over the rumbling that pressed in on them from all sides. Balthas raised his staff, and the column of Stormcasts crashed to a halt. The path ahead had come to an abrupt end. The crypt faces were broken and had collapsed into slumped piles that tapered off over the edge of the sudden aperture. Balthas peered down.
From where he stood, the catacombs below resembled the apex of a vast, almost spherical, column composed of intertwining tiers of streets and avenues. The column was trapped in a web of stone pathways and bridges, which stretched in all directions. The tiers shifted independently of one another, sliding up or to the side, or else sinking down as another rose in their place.
The whole thing was a work of genius. Balthas wondered what Pharus had been in his mortal life - just another warrior, or something more? Had Sigmar imbued him with the creativity needed to conceive of such a thing, or had it always resided within him? And how much of it was left to him now? Had Nagash left him that genius, or had the Undying King cast it aside, as something useless?
He suspected the latter. Pharus had seemed a clockwork thing, to him A hollow shell, driven by an unnatural force. A puppet of soul-stuff. He heard someone approach. Calys Eltain. ‘Something you wish to say, Liberator-Prime?’
He felt her hesitate. Her aura was in upheaval. Her soul was tangled in knots of confusion. ‘We should not be down here,’ she said, after a moment. It was not the question she wanted to ask, he thought. But he decided to answer it anyway.
‘Have you never wondered why the God-King set watch on these tombs, rather than destroy them?’ Balthas asked, not looking at her. ‘All of this could have been avoided, had he simply obliterated them, and all that lies within. It is well within his power to do so.’
‘I had not considered it. That he commands is enough.’
‘No. It is not,’ Balthas snapped. ‘Nor does he expect it to be so.’ He turned swiftly, and she backed up a step. ‘Sigmar encourages questions, Liberator-Prime. He encourages thought, as well as deed. Our enemies are not merely things of flesh and bone, but malign abstractions, requiring weapons beyond these we hold in our hands. To win the war ahead of us, we must consider all aspects of the thing, not merely the thing itself. Think. Why would he not dispose of those souls held here?’
Calys frowned. ‘He has some use for them’
Balthas nodded. ‘Exactly. The dead are as clay for the gods. Souls can be reforged. Even those tainted in some way. We know this. Take for instance Tornus the Hero, who stands pre-eminent among the ranks of the Redeemed. Once, a foul thing, a pustule of Chaos - now one of the Huntsmen of Azyr.’ He leaned close. ‘There are others among our ranks whose souls were first claimed not by Chaos, but by Nagash - confined to skeletal husks or reduced to maddened spirits, and yet they too were remade into servants of Azyr.’
He looked away. ‘Ten thousand dead are interred in this well of souls. Ten thousand warriors who might one day serve to turn the tide of the war we wage. Perhaps they too will wear the heraldry of the Anvils of Heldenhammer, in time, as we do. Or perhaps not. But the potential is there. And our need is great.’
‘So we are here… for potential?’
‘For hope. For a better day.’ Balthas straightened. ‘For the chance to repair what is broken and remake what is destroyed. That is why I hunt through ancient tomes and scour musty pages. seeking some sign of hope. Some promise that all that has been, might be again.’ He set his staff. ‘If we are tools, we are employed in great purpose. I take comfort in that.’ A bridge of stone appeared out of the darkness to the left, slowly swinging towards the edge of the path. It crashed into place, the vibrations running up through his legs.
He heard the creak of unseen locking mechanisms, and dust spewed from the small gap between edge and bridge. He lifted his staff. ‘Come. Time is fleeting.’
He led the way across, moving swiftly, aware that the bridge could break away to continue its circuit at any time. As soon as the last Sequitor set foot on the path beyond, the bridge broke away and sank out of sight, accompanied by the clank of chains and gears. The path ahead dipped sharply, descending in a slope towards a circuitous walkway below. Crypts and mausoleums tottered over the path, supported by angled pillars and struts. The route split and wandered in a hundred directions, winding among the houses of the dead.
Balthas gestured for Calys to join him. ‘Do you recognise this place?’
The Liberator-Prime shook her head. ‘I recognise some of the tombs, but the last time I saw them they were elsewhere.’ She looked at Elya. The girl pointed straight ahead.
‘Follow the silences, it’s ea
sier.’
Balthas grunted. ‘Where is the main entrance?’
Elya turned, squinting. She pointed north, away from the slope. ‘That way, I think.’
‘If she’s right, then that’ll be part of the Avenue of Souls,’ Calys said. ‘It stretches from the main entrance and runs along the circumference of the pit holding the Ten Thousand Tombs. She reached down and stroked Grip’s narrow skull, ruffling the beast’s feathers. ‘There are dozens of false paths stretching off from it, though. It’s as easy for the living to become lost as the dead.’
Balthas looked at Elya. ‘Can you lead us safely along it?’
She nodded, frowning. ‘I think so. It’s easier when I don’t have to think about it.’
With the girl’s guidance, they made their way down among the tombs. Several times, the path ahead shook and sank out of sight, or bent in an unexpected direction as the ground shifted. Mirrored slabs had been placed at odd angles, distorting the light and making paths appear where there were none. Only Balthas’ floating wisps of corposant enabled him to identify these tricks. More than once, the Stormcasts found themselves walking into a cul-de-sac that moments later split away to reveal a new course. A mortal would have become hopelessly lost in the ever-shifting necropolis.
As they passed through the stone canyons, the doors of some vaults rattled. Chains clinked and dolorous voices called out of the dark. The dead did not sleep easy. ‘It is louder than it was,’ Calys said. ‘It is as if they are waiting for something.’
‘They are, and it is on our heels,’ Balthas said. He moved ahead of the column, peering into the darkness with his storm-sight. He could see hundreds of unquiet souls, clawing at the walls of the crypts around them. Hungry corpses thrashed in the gibbet cages that hung overhead, and shadow-shapes skittered out of sight. Eerie moans drifted among the crypts, following the Stormcasts as they made their descent.
When they reached the bottom of the slope, the path spread like the fingers of a hand. Immense crypts and burial vaults hugged the sides of the path, and leaned awkwardly, casting long shadows. The Avenue of Souls wound through this thicket of stone - not a rough path, but cobbled and slabbed in pale stone. It reminded Balthas of a spinal column, stretching as it did throughout the catacombs.
Balthas called a halt. He could hear bells ringing, in the distance, as his subordinates gathered about him. ‘One of the bell towers,’ Calys said. ‘There are twelve of them, one at every major thoroughfare on the avenue. They only ring when there is danger…’ Her hand dropped to her blade. Around them, Sequitors took up position, creating a wide square about the rest of the Sacrosanct Chamber. They locked shields and sank to one knee, waiting for orders. Castigators took up positions behind them, greatbows at the ready.
‘The enemy is coming. We got ahead of them, but only just. We must decide now - make our stand, or press on.’ Balthas looked around. The Avenue of Souls rose upwards to the north and the heart of the catacombs. Tombs jutted at wrong angles, and seemed to be collapsing with infinite slowness all about them. Everything was in motion, constantly. He could feel the path shifting beneath his feet.
‘A good place for an ambush,’ Mara said, looking around. The Sequitor-Prime removed her helm, revealing close-cropped hair. Dark eyes narrowed as she took in their surroundings with a veteran’s attention to detail. ‘They might not expect it.’
Quintus grunted. ‘And they might ambush the ambushers.’ The Castigator-Prime shook his head. ‘This is unstable ground. Bad for making a stand.’
‘Not if we’re careful,’ Gellius said. The engineer frowned, like a craftsman facing a stubborn bit of wood. ‘We can hold them here, with a few warriors. Not forever, but long enough to slow them down, my lord. Give you time to reach the heart of this labyrinth, if that is your plan.’ He peered down the avenue, towards the sound of the bells, and then looked at Balthas. ‘The stone here is weak - too much movement. A few blasts, and down it’ll come, every crypt and brace.’ He grinned. ‘If Sigmar is with us, I’ll bury the lot of them.’
‘Not alone you won’t,’ Mara said. ‘I will take half of my cohort, and a third of Quintus’, if he’s willing.’ She glanced at Quintus, who, after a moment, nodded. She looked back at Balthas. ‘The rest, and the survivors of Porthas’, will be enough to make a stand with you, my lord. We will bloody them for you.’ She looked at him. ‘It is the pragmatic choice, my lord. Efficient.’
Balthas looked down at her. He barely knew her. Mara, like Quintus and the others, was almost a cipher to him. He had never made the effort to know them, not really. And now, who they were was to be lost. They would not survive, and what emerged from the Anvil of Apotheosis would be a different person.
‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. He glanced at Calys. ‘You will take command of the remaining
Sequitors.’ It was not a request. She nodded, after a brief hesitation.
‘As you will, lord-arcanum.’
Balthas paused. Knossus would have had a speech for a moment like this, he was certain. But he had no words. He looked at Mara and Gellius. ‘Sigmar go with you, sister. And you as well, Gellius.’
Gellius smiled. ‘He always has, my lord. Today shouldn’t be any different.’
Calys did not look back, as they left Mara, Gellius and the others behind. The dark seemed to press in from all sides, and somewhere bells were ringing plaintively. It had not felt so stifling before, and Calys wondered what might be awakening in the depths. And what might be awaiting them, when they finally arrived.
She glanced at Elya, still sitting atop Balthas’ steed. She tried not to think about the danger the girl was in, and wished she’d sent the child with the others, into the duardin tunnels. Then, perhaps Elya wouldn’t be any safer with her father.
She frowned, thinking about the way Duvak had screamed at the sight of her. Balthas was right - something in the lamplighter was broken. He barely functioned, beyond the rote mundanity of his job. Elya didn’t seem to mind, but it was hard to tell. The girl was as difficult to read as the cats who followed her.
A different thought intruded as she watched them. Something she’d heard and dismissed, if briefly. She’d wanted to ask Balthas earlier, but her courage had failed her. But now, watching Balthas striding alongside Elya, the desire to know was renewed. She turned, searching for the one she might ask about it.
‘What did you mean, when you said that the lord-arcanum would get to face Pharus again?’ she murmured, as she fell into step beside Miska, where she strode at the head of the column, her gaze sweeping their surroundings warily.
The mage-sacristan stiffened. She did not look at Calys. ‘I misspoke.’
‘Did you? How do the dead know how to get down here? I assumed they would follow us, but Balthas seems to believe differently. And he said Pharus’ name as well, then. You said his soul was lost, mage-sacristan. What did you mean by that?’
Miska bowed her head. ‘I meant what I said, Liberator-Prime. He is lost.’
‘Then how can Balthas face him?’
Miska looked at her. ‘Do you truly wish to know?’
Calys hesitated. She wanted to say yes, but couldn’t bring the word to her lips. Something in the mage-sacristan’s tone sent a chill through her. She had been taught that to become one with Azyr, as all Stormcasts were, was something irrevocable. Stormcast souls could be lost, or even destroyed, but never changed. If that were not true…
She looked down at her hands, disturbed by the implication. ‘Can he be returned to us?’ she asked, finally. ‘Can he be made. what he was?’
Miska sighed. ‘No.’
‘Are you so sure?’ It came out as an accusation. Miska glanced at her, a sharp smile on her features. Calys stepped back, suddenly ashamed. The look in the other Stormcast’s eyes was as hard and as cold as the winds of the Borealis Mountains.
‘If I were not, I would not be who I am, sister. A
nd perhaps I would be happier for it.’ Miska looked away. ‘We would all be happier for it, I think. But we are who we are, and we are needed, sadly.’
Calys shook her head. ‘Why did you not tell me?’
‘And what purpose would that serve?’ Miska smiled - not cold now, but sad. ‘Our purpose - the things we must do on occasion - they are whispered of among some of our brethren. None wish to believe, but all fear it nonetheless. As they should.’
Calys looked away. ‘You speak so plainly of it, sister.’
Miska shrugged. ‘It is no longer a whisper. Instead it is a roar. Sigmar cast aside the veil of secrecy, and now our existence, our purpose, is known.’ She looked ahead, to where Balthas walked beside his steed and Elya. ‘Balthas came here because of Pharus. He feels that he failed and seeks to redeem himself - and Pharus, as well. So you see, you are not alone in your guilt, misplaced as it is.’
Calys frowned, studying the lord-arcanum. She wondered if she had misjudged him She nodded at Miska and moved to catch up with Balthas. He glanced at her as she drew near. ‘Lord-arcanum, I-’ she began. She was interrupted by the gryph-charger. The animal reared with a shriek, as crackling arrows hummed out of the shadows and thudded into the avenue before him Light flared in the dark. ‘Hold,’ a deep voice called out, from somewhere above. ‘Announce yourselves.’
‘Dathus,’ Calys shouted, recognising the voice. ‘It’s me, lord-relictor. I come bringing aid.’ She stepped forwards, arms raised.
‘Calys?’ The light grew brighter, revealing the figure of the lord-relictor, standing atop a broken stairway. Retributors moved into view, through the crypts. Dathus looked battered, as though he’d been fighting his own war down in the dark. His mortis armour was dented and scorched, and a wide crack ran through the left eye of his skull helm. The Retributors who accompanied him looked much the same. ‘What are you doing here?’
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