‘We are here to help,’ Balthas said.
Dathus started. Then, he bowed his head. ‘Lord-arcanum.’ He straightened and hurried down the steps. ‘Calys, what is going on?’
‘The dead have entered the city, brother. Worse, they have entered the catacombs. We mean to intercept them, before…’ Calys trailed off. Dathus’ eyes widened within his helm.
‘If that’s so, how did you find your way down here to warn us?’ Then, more urgently, ‘Is there a gap in our defences?’
‘The child, Elya, led us.’ Balthas began. Calys turned. Elya was no longer sitting atop Quicksilver. Neither were there any cats visible. ‘She’s gone,’ Balthas said.
‘Gone?’ Calys turned, searching, her voice rising. A cold surge that might have been fear swept through her. A raw sensation, and one she was not used to. ‘Where is she?’ She made as if to go back, but Miska reached out to stop her.
‘She slipped away a few moments ago.’
‘You saw her go?’ Calys demanded.
‘She went back.’
‘Back? Back where? How could you let her go? She’s just a child!’ Calys shook off Miska’s hand. ‘I must find her.’ She started back the way they’d come. ‘I made an oath.’
‘And does that oath outweigh your duty?’ Dathus said, sharply. ‘That child knows these catacombs better even than Pharus did. If she is hiding, not even the dead will find her.’
Calys whirled, denial springing to her lips. But before she could voice it, she heard the bells. They were ringing somewhere to the south. And beneath their clamour, the groaning of the dead. Not the pathetic things, trapped in their tombs, but the feral dead. Nighthaunts and nicksouls. Balthas caught her arm, and she looked at him.
‘There is no time,’ Balthas said.
‘She is in danger,’ Calys said, hoarsely. ‘I told Phams - I swore to him that I would protect her. I cannot…’ Her words trailed away. ‘I swore to him,’ she said.
Balthas stared at her a moment, as if searching for something. Then, with a sigh, he released her. ‘Go,’ he said, softly. ‘And Sigmar go with you, sister.’
Pharus stared into the dying priest’s face, seeking some sign that the mortal understood. That in these final moments, he’d grasped the truth Pharus had brought him. That there was no salvation in Azyr, only in death.
But the priest simply died. And then. nothing. Pharus shook the body. He looked at Dohl, hovering nearby, the light of his lantern illuminating the slaughterhouse interior of the bell tower. The priests had put up a desperate fight, but prayers and silver alone were little match for nighthaunts. ‘Where is he?’ Pharus croaked. ‘Draw his gheist from him.’
‘Alas, my lord, I cannot. This place is warded with filthy starlight. It has poisoned the air and the soil. We can free those dead things already trapped here, but we cannot draw up the newly fallen. They are imprisoned.’ Dohl leaned close. ‘But that will change, once you have freed the ten thousand. This place will belong to Nagash once more, and the fallen will rise at your command.’
At the command of Nagash.
Pharus let the body fall. ‘At his command, you mean.’
Dohl bowed his head. ‘Of course, my lord. As you say.’
Pharus turned and grasped the hilt of his blade, where it jutted from between the shoulder blades of another priest. The sword resisted for a moment, before it allowed him to retrieve it. There was no blood, clinging to the edge, as if the facets of the blade had absorbed them He stared into the facets, seeking a sign that all would be as Dohl had sworn. But he saw nothing save amethyst motes, swirling in the black.
Listen.
He paused, listening. From all around him rose voices, crying out for release. Some were unbearably close, while others seemed impossibly far away.
They call to you. Listen - hear the prisoners cry out for their liberator.
He did not sheath the blade. He would need it again soon enough. Above, the bells were still ringing, though all the priests were dead. Whether they were ringing in joy or sorrow, he did not know. Perhaps both. Joy of what was to come, sorrow at the loss of what had been. To be dead was to be trapped eternally between the two.
To be dead is to serve Nagash. Nothing more. Nagash is all.
‘And all are one in Nagash,’ he murmured. Outside of the bell tower, his nighthaunts were busy clawing at the crypts and tombs, opening those only protected by the weakest of wards. His army would grow, even if they could not draw up the spirits of those they had slain. ‘Get them moving,’ he said. ‘We must reach the tombs.’
Dohl began to speak, but Pharus ignored his exhortations. He drifted out of the shadow of the bell tower. The air trembled as the ground shifted. The patch that the bell tower stood on felt as if it was sliding out of position, and the path ahead vanished amid a sudden profusion of stone crypts and slabs. But he was not confused. He counted silently, and the path changed again, revealing itself.
This place has no secrets from you. That is why only you could do this.
The bell towers were one of the secrets to navigating the catacombs. Their position was fixed. In fact, most of the catacombs were physically fixed in place. But they gave the appearance of moving, thanks to carefully placed mirrors and illusory backdrops. Silvered chains rose from the dust as a section of stone slid out of place, blocking the route to a section of the nearby necropolis. Nighthaunts retreated, wailing disconsolately.
Pharus watched, trying to banish the voice that whispered urgently, just below the surface of his thoughts. It was the price he paid for remembering the way through this maze, but it was becoming harder to ignore, the further he travelled into the catacombs.
You will ignore it. Your purpose is set. Inevitable.
‘Inevitable,’ he said. He turned west and saw the catacombs fall away in a sea of irregular tiers. Storm-lanterns burned in the dark, tiny pinpricks of azure light. Their presence disturbed the black, and he felt a twitch of anger, somewhere deep in him.
The light of Azyr, the voice hissed. The light that bars the dead. You must snuff it.
The sands in his sword’s hourglass hissed, and he felt something in him draw him back around. Towards the heart of the labyrinth.
You will snuff it. You will douse the sun in shadow, and silence the stars.
First one step, then two. The need - the command - beat at his brain like the heat of a sun. Until he was striding along the avenue, followed by a storm of dead souls.
Dohl joined him ‘You seem eager, my lord.’
Flood the catacombs, the voice murmured. Crack open all vaults, and set the prisoners free. Where death once ruled, let it rule again.
‘Send chainrasps to the east and the west, as we drive north,’ Pharus said, not looking at the guardian of souls. ‘I would not fight an organised enemy. Keep them looking in all directions at once.’
‘A wise plan, a keen plan, my lord,’ Dohl croaked. ‘We shall fight not as an army, but as a force of nature - a flood, a fire…’
‘A storm,’ Pharus said. He was moving swiftly now, not running but flowing. Dohl kept pace, the light of his lantern growing brighter, until it was almost blinding. Wailing spirits surged in their wake, filling the air and scrabbling across the stones of the ground. Some flew like birds or slithered like snakes. Others stalked on shattered limbs, or dragged broken gallows in their wake. Regardless of their appearance, they all crashed together and hurtled on, in the wake of the lantern’s light. Some of the eagerness that gripped Pharus held them as well, burning through them and driving them into new heights of frenzy.
They flowed in a wave of spectral energy across the avenue, and along the slope above and below. His followers passed through stone, and around the pillars with their glowing wards and between the lengths of silver chain stretched across the smaller paths. Bells had begun to ring, deeper in the catacombs, and he felt a flicker o
f satisfaction.
The flicker was snuffed, as something exploded in the midst of the chainrasp horde just behind him. The glare of lightning washed across him and broke the momentum of the advance. He turned, as smaller explosions swept across the slope above. Crypts tore loose from their foundations and slid down, gaining speed, until an avalanche of stone was rumbling down on the avenue.
Chapter twenty-two
The War of
Heaven and Death
‘We should not have let her go alone,’ Miska said. Calys had already vanished among the sliding corridors of mausoleums. She could hear the crash of Gellius’ ballista and the all-consuming rumble of stone. Lightning flashed to the south, tearing holes in the dark. The dead were close. She reached down, touching the spirit-jars hanging from her belt, making sure they were close to hand. She looked at Balthas. He didn’t reply. He stared back the way they’d come, as if entranced by the sounds of battle.
She turned to the lord-relictor, Dathus. ‘Go. Muster who you can. Ring the bells, call every warrior, Stormcast or mortal. I fear they will be needed.’
‘And what about you?’
‘We came to defend this place. And that is what we will do. We will delay them Give you the time you need. Go, brother! Ring the bells! Sound the call to war. And leave us to do what we were made to do.’
Dathus hesitated. Then, he nodded and turned away, heading north. He barked an order, and his warriors followed him at a trot. They soon vanished into the gloom that shrouded the avenue, leaving behind only the echo of sigmarite ringing against stone. Satisfied, Miska turned back to Balthas.
‘I was wrong,’ Balthas said, so softly that she almost didn’t hear him.
She looked at him ‘About what?’
Balthas caught hold of Quicksilver’s saddle and hauled himself up. ‘I thought I could choose the moment. But it chose me, instead. Chose us.’ He looked down at her. ‘I thought we were to meet them in the open, Shyish against Azyr, on the black rim of the world. There was a… a resonance to it. But instead, the moment comes upon us here, in the middle of a forest of crypts. The final clash comes, not over ancient tombs, but over a child’s soul. Do you understand?’
He sounded so annoyed that she could not help but smile. ‘I do. I wondered why you were so insistent on bringing her. And if you’re asking my opinion, well, I would rather fight to preserve a single living soul than ten thousand dead ones.’
He gave a disgruntled sigh. ‘I think I would as well.’ Balthas straightened in his saddle. ‘Gellius and Mara are buying us the time we need to get into position. The aether swims and surges. The foe will come this way. And we will meet them Head to head, and soul to soul.’ He lifted his staff. ‘Castigators to the fore. Sequitors, make ready to advance. Miska…?’
‘Aye, Grave Warden?’
‘I want Pharus. Clear me a path.’
She nodded serenely. ‘We shall provide you a fitting honour-guard.’ She turned and signalled to the remaining Celestors. They were gathered behind the Castigators, kneeling, their heads bowed. As they prayed, small sparks of lightning danced across them.
They rose at her gesture, and she joined them Memories of a time half-forgotten rose. Of the rattle of shields and the call to war. The feeling of running across the taiga, beside a hundred others, racing to meet the enemy. It was a good feeling, that. She smiled.
‘Come, brothers. Let us be as the storm wind, and wipe this place clean.’
Pharus stood unmoving as the broken crypts crashed around him, scattering the chainrasps. Another large explosion bit a chunk from the avenue, casting gheists back into the slide of the avalanche. Pharus followed the trajectory and swept his sword out, pointing. ‘There - take them,’ he howled.
He sprang up the incline, racing towards the spot he’d indicated. He could feel the heat of the magics that gathered there. Explosions gnawed at the crypts around him, but he avoided them with ease. He saw the ballista mounted atop the roof of a semi-collapsed crypt, and the other warriors below - Judicators, he thought. No. They weren’t Judicators. These were something else. Reeking of magic.
He raced towards them, but a wall of shields interposed itself with a crash. The shields blazed with celestial light, forcing him to stop short. He stepped back, letting chainrasps flow past him. Some were consumed as they struck the shield wall. Others were torn asunder by the crackling mauls the Stormcasts wielded. But some got past. They crawled over the living warriors, seeking any gap in their war-plate.
He heard the clangour of funerary bells, as a flock of reapers swept through the air, down towards the warriors. The great scythes slashed down, cutting into ensorcelled war-plate in a burst of sparks. Stormcasts fell back, raising their shields to block this new attack. But one of them lunged forwards, out of the press, her maul swinging down.
Pharus avoided the blow, and it shattered part of a nearby statue with thunderclap force. His blade snaked out, scraping a scar across the face of her shield. She retreated. Pharus pursued, his blade held low. He did not waste words on her. The shield was suddenly limned in blue fire, and he shied back, momentarily blinded.
He heard the crackle of the maul as it looped towards him, and ducked away. The radiance of the weapon burned him as it passed by. Half-blind, he drove her back with a wide sweep of his blade. Light washed over him, clearing his eyes. He saw Dohl rise up behind her, and his tomb-blade sweep down. The warrior staggered, and Dohl finished her with a blow from his staff, crushing her skull. Her soul fled upwards with a roar.
‘We are soon to overcome the enemy,’ Dohl said. He swung his staff out, casting the glow of his lantern across the nearby crypts. The Stormcasts were still fighting, but wherever Dohl’s lantern passed, the weakened stone of the tombs shattered, releasing the spirits trapped within. The organised shield wall had dissolved into struggling islands of cobalt light, slowly being swallowed up by the dark.
‘Let us finish this,’ Pharus began. Behind him, something hissed. He turned. There were dozens of cats perched among the tumbledown tombs and archways, glaring hatefully at him ‘Elya,’ he said. The name tasted strange, on his lips. Why had he said it?
‘What?’ Dohl asked.
‘Pharus?’ a child’s voice called out. The din of battle seemed to die away. The sword in his hand became heavier, threatening to drag him down. The sands sifting within the hourglass sounded like a nest of serpents. Past the cats, he caught sight of a small face, streaked with dirt. A child. A girl.
‘Elya,’ he said, again. Memories fluttered, moth-gentle, across his mind’s eye. He hesitated. ‘You are… Elya.’ The words came out almost as a question. He took a step towards her. The cats hissed again, their eyes gleaming in the light of Dohl’s lantern. She retreated, her eyes wide, face a pale oval.
She fears you. She is nothing. Ignore her.
‘Leave her, my lord,’ Dohl intoned. ‘What is a child, save a morsel of fear?’
‘Quiet,’ Pharus snarled, turning to extend his sword towards Dohl. ‘Quiet,’ he said, to the voice. He turned back and reached out his hand. ‘Elya? Is it you?’ More memories, filling the empty caverns of his mind. ‘Elya. come here.’
Silence, save for the hissing of cats. The child was gone. Fled. He lifted his blade. He was dead, and the dead had no fear, but even so, he felt a certain wariness. There was something at work here that he could not perceive, and it drove him to distraction. ‘Dohl, cast your light. Find her.’
She is not important. Do not turn from your path.
‘She is but one little life, my lord. Leave her, and she will be snuffed with the rest.’
‘Find her!’ Pharus lifted his blade, so that the tip rested where the hollow of Dohl’s throat would have been, if he’d had one. ‘Find her, or I will claim your lantern for my own.’
‘My lord. the battle.’
Pharus turned without a word and sped in the direction
he thought the child had gone. He did not know why. He could feel the cold and hunger returning, and his armour felt more like a cage than ever before. He had to fight it to move, even to lift his blade, but a voice deep in him - a different voice, this, to the other - spurred him on, telling him that he had to find her - he had to-
He stopped. Turned. His reflection glared at him from every direction. He had been led down a mirrored path, and everywhere he looked, a face he only dimly recognised looked back at him He could see the skulls beneath their skin, and felt the amethyst heat of his own reflected gaze. And behind them, above them, in and out of them, something great and terrible crouched, its talons on his shoulders.
‘What.?’ He hesitated. The shadow behind him rose, its eyes blazing with cold fire.
Fool. Would you cast aside the chance at justice so quickly?
‘I have cast nothing aside. The child is.’
Nothing. She is nothing. A memory. A useless thing, well discarded.
As the words echoed in the hollows of him, he saw something else. A light, shining through the gaps in his war-plate. Not amethyst, but azure. He felt the twisting bite of lightning inside him, and snarled, forcing it down.
‘This place. It eats at me.’
Which is why you must not delay. Break the seals. Free the dead. Purify this place.
He reached out a skeletal hand, but his reflection did not mimic the gesture. Instead, it simply stared at him, as if in pity. The eyes - his eyes - blazed cerulean, and Pharus felt a flare of rage. He swept his blade from its sheath. The glass shattered, revealing a new path. He sheathed his sword.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘This way.’ He could hear the crackle of lightning, and the crash of sigmarite, echoing from elsewhere in the catacombs. The battle wasn’t over yet. But it soon would be. Then, then he would… What? He paused, trying to think. Trying to push past the rush of memories…
…the dead were everywhere in the streets, everywhere he turned…
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