…his halberd swept down, chopping through a door as dead hands caught at him…
…Elya wailing as something from the grave clutched her to its bosom…
…he raised his lantern, and there was thunder…
‘My lord,’ Dohl began, from behind Pharus, drawing him from his memories. The light of the guardian’s lantern washed across the mirrored slabs, doubling and redoubling in its intensity. ‘There are greater matters, at hand. Fate cannot be denied. It is.’
‘Inevitable,’ Pharus said, not stopping. ‘Then why do you fret so, guardian? What was it you told me - that such worries would pass?’ He slashed out, shattering another mirror to his left. He paused, - staring at the mirror in front of him Whose face was that, staring back? ‘If it is inevitable, then what I do here is of no matter.’
‘You lose sight of your purpose.’
No. It had not been him Not him as he was, or even as he had been, but who he had been before the gods had taken an interest in him. Was that whose voice cried out, somewhere inside him?
It does not matter. There is no truth in the past. Only in the present. The past and future are nothing more than false promises. Your course is set. Certain. Holdfast to your purpose.
‘I will not be swayed from it,’ he said. But the memories.
…thunder, and the screams of the dead, as Azyr caught them up…
…thief, the spirit shrieked as it burned, thief….
‘I see everything,’ he said, staring at the glass and what it held. Another him, burning in the flames of Nagashizzar. One quick stroke destroyed it. As it collapsed in a mass of winking shards, he saw the shape that had been crouched behind it. Shapes, rather. Cats sped away, scattering into the catacombs. And among them, their queen. ‘Elya.’ She did not stop.
He loped after the girl, driven by something he did not understand. Spirits howled in his wake, drawn to the hunt by the light of Dohl’s lantern. Hunger warred with cold in him, and something else. A need greater than either. Around him, his reflection warped and stretched, as the thing that rode deep in his soul raged in fury.
Calys raced through the catacombs, moving as swiftly as she could. Grip ran alongside her, and they both followed a familiar shape - the scar-lipped cat that seemed to be wherever Elya was. The beast scampered through the crypts and ruins, moving swiftly. The cat had appeared, as if aware of who she sought, and Calys had followed it without thinking.
She could hear the thunder of battle all around her, but she ignored it. Balthas’ warriors had their duty, and she had hers. She concentrated on the cat. Grip gave a sudden squall and put on a burst of speed, racing ahead. Calys followed. She heard Elya scream, and cried out. ‘Elya!’
She turned, trying to follow the scream, but the labyrinth spun around her. Then, she caught sight of the light. An eerie glow, flickering among the tombs. She raced towards it, drawing her blade as she went. As she neared the light, she realised she was actually above it. She caught sight of Elya, climbing a statue.
Calys thudded across the half-sunken roof of a crypt and leapt. She slammed down near the statue. ‘Elya,’ she called out.
‘Calys,’ something said. Something that glowed with an eerie grey-green light.
Calys turned as the light washed over her, and saw something foul emerge from the dark, dragging its tomb-blade in its wake. ‘Calys Eltain,’ it said again, in a dull, harsh voice. ‘I know you. I… remember you. This place. it is making me remember.’ The thing straightened to its - his - full height. A thin, almost skeletal shape, clad in black-iron armour and ragged burial shrouds, its gaze bored into her. It’s voice, distorted as it was, seemed familiar.
‘You will not touch her,’ Calys said to the creature, warblade extended. She glanced up and saw Elya scrambling to the top of the statue. She turned her attentions back to her foe. ‘I will not let you.’
The dead thing laughed, a harsh croak of sound. ‘Calys,’ he rasped. ‘I think we have been here before, you and I.’ He tapped the side of his helm ‘Do you remember? Or did Sigmar take that from you?’
Calys hesitated. ‘Remember what?’
‘The night I killed you.’
She blinked in sudden, sickened recognition, as she saw the flicker of azure lightning in the dead man’s gaze. ‘Pharus?’
Pharus surged towards her, more swiftly than her eye could follow. Their blades connected with a crash, and she was driven back, into a half-toppled pillar, losing her shield in the process. Nighthaunts swirled up around them, like a swarm of angry night-wasps. But they did not come any closer, retreating as the watching cats hissed and spat. Something about the animals kept them at bay. She caught hold of her warblade with both hands.
‘You’re the one who died,’ Calys said, trying to force him back. But he was strong. Too strong. The edge of the black blade pressed down towards her, despite her best efforts. Past his shoulder, she caught sight of Grip, crouched atop a crypt nearby. The gryph-hound was readying itself to leap, its eyes gleaming.
‘Before that,’ Pharus hissed, as his balefire gaze burned through her, down into her soul. ‘I remember it all, now. I remember that night, and your daughter’s screams, and I see you, not just this shell, but who you were before. I see the ghost of you, Calys Eltain. I see it, hiding in the false radiance of Azyr, and I will drag it out, into the true light. And you will thank me.’ He glanced up at Elya, who stared down at them in horror. ‘And you will thank me as well, child. You will be together again. You will have justice - both of you.’
‘No!’ Calys drew on the last of her strength, and twisted away from him. Their blades parted with a screech. As she stepped aside, he caught her a blow on the side, dropping her to the ground. Desperate, she rolled onto her back, interposing her blade as his descended. The blow rocked her, nearly tearing the warblade from her hands.
Grip leapt. The gryph-hound slammed into his back, claws scrabbling. The beast’s beak snapped uselessly at Pharus’ non-existent flesh. He staggered. ‘Get off me, beast,’ he snarled, with no sign of recognition. Grip held on, claws tearing strips from Pharus’ armour. They reeled, and Pharus finally flung the animal aside. She was up again in a moment, feathers stiff, tail lashing, and lunged again.
Pharus’ hand snapped out and caught hold of Grip’s head. He turned and swung her into the base of the statue that Elya had sought refuge atop. There was a sharp crack, and Grip flopped down, still and silent. The animal was dead.
Pharus turned back to Calys. ‘First the beast… now you.’ He raised his sword, but stopped. He looked up at something. Calys risked a glance, and saw Elya staring down at them from the top of the statue, tears streaking her grimy features. Pharus seemed frozen. Uncertain. Instinct took over, and Calys drove her sword up, through the plates of his armour. Pharus roared and staggered back, ripping the blade out of her hands. She was on her feet in a moment. ‘Run, Elya. Run and hide!’
Calys went for the hilt of her blade. She ducked under Pharus’ wild slash and tore her weapon loose. Pharus howled, his face distending and twisting. They traded blows, reeling through the crypts. The air throbbed with the grinding of stone, and the landscape was beginning to shift. Pharus caught her with a savage blow and knocked her sprawling. She scrambled back as he advanced.
‘You cannot escape death, Calys. Not forever.’ He raised his blade. ‘In the end, the dark always swallows the light.’ But before his blade could fall, lightning snarled out, catching Pharus in its clutches. He screamed and staggered. A shadow fell over them both, as something snarled. Calys looked up, into the curved beak of a gryph-charger, crouched atop a sunken crypt. Balthas nodded to her.
‘Up, sister. See to the child. Her part in this - and yours - is done.’
‘You,’ Pharus said, glaring up at the lord-arcanum. ‘You. Again. Twice you have put yourself in my path.’
‘As I will continue to do, until matters between
us are settled to my satisfaction.’ Balthas thumped his steed in the flanks, and the gryph-charger leapt with a scream. The beast crashed into Pharus, carrying him backwards. Calys scrambled to her feet as they disappeared into the tangle of shifting paths. A nighthaunt shrieked towards her and she ducked aside, racing towards the statue. She saw Elya crouching near Grip.
‘She’s dead,’ Elya said, cradling the gryph-hound’s head.
Calys reached for her, but spun as something lean and terrible rose up behind her. The hideous light emanating from the spectre’s lantern washed across her, nearly driving the strength from her limbs. She sagged back, standing between it and Elya.
‘Soon, you will join the beast,’ the spectre intoned, raising the blade it held. ‘Rejoice. Die and see the beautiful thing that awaits, past the edge of the final moment.’
‘I have died once, creature. I do not intend to do so again!’ Calys lashed out, aiming not at the nighthaunt, but at its lantern. Her warblade struck home, and a flare of necromantic energy raged out, knocking her backwards. Her blade shivered to fragments, and her arm went numb. The spectre wailed as its lantern exploded, and the staff crumbled away in its grip. The flame within the lantern licked hungrily at its arms, causing it to twist in agony as it reached for her, snarling and cursing.
But before it could lay hands on her, a lilting refrain pierced the cacophony of battle. The burning wraith turned, as pieces of it broke away and were drawn towards Miska, as she stepped into the open. The mage-sacristan’s song rose in volume and urgency, and the bottle she held began to glow with a soft light. Slowly, like oil spilling across water, the spectre was drawn into the bottle, its screams dwindling as it shrunk and twisted.
Miska sealed the bottle and peered at it. ‘A strong one, this. Without your blade, I wouldn’t have been able to trap him’ She looked at Calys. ‘Where is Balthas?’
Calys pointed as lightning crashed and a gryph-charger screeched, somewhere out of sight. As she did so, a swarm of chainrasps shot towards them, emerging from the paths between tombs. The mage-sacristan turned and sang a single note. The wind rose into a howling gale, and the semi-aethereal creatures were somehow swept back the way they’d come. She turned back. ‘Up, sister. Gather the child. We have a battle to win.’
‘What about Balthas?’ Calys said, and bent. ‘On my back,’ she said, glancing at Elya. The girl swiftly complied.
‘Balthas has his own battle to fight,’ Miska said.
‘Let us hope, for all our sakes, that he wins it.’
Quicksilver’s lunge carried them through the necropolis. Already weakened tombs collapsed, throwing up clouds of dust and squalling spirits. Mirrors shattered and stone pathways were gouged up by the gryph-charger’s elemental fury. Pharus Thaum howled as he was driven back, into a fallen pillar. The stone cracked as he struck it, and the aetheric energies that issued from the gryph-charger’s claws set his armour aflame.
Roaring, he slammed the hilt of his blade against Quicksilver’s skull, staggering the beast. As the animal reared, gheists swarmed over Balthas and his steed, striking at them with rusty weapons and splintered claws.
Quicksilver stumbled back, screeching. Nighthaunts clung to him, biting and tearing. Balthas sprang from the saddle moments before the gryph-charger fell. He landed hard, but scrambled to his feet as Pharus Thaum rushed towards him, sword held low. ‘Madness,’ the dead man said, his voice like sour thunder. ‘Madness to pit yourself against the inevitable.’
‘As Sigmar commands,’ Balthas said. He raised his staff.
‘Sigmar the liar,’ Thaum spat. ‘Sigmar the betrayer. I spent decades in the dark, protecting his city, his people, and then I was cast aside. As you will be cast aside when your use ends.’
‘You were not cast aside,’ Balthas said, avoiding the black blade. It tore through his cloak. He spat a word, and Pharus was driven back by a sudden celestial wind. ‘The value of a thing is not simply in its immediate use, brother, but in its potential. No true craftsman disposes of his tools, whatever their condition. He repairs them, or else repurposes them’
‘And what if I do not wish another purpose?’ Thaum snarled, advancing against the wind. ‘What if I was satisfied to be as I was? What then?’
‘Then blame the one who took that from you, not the one who sought to help.’ Balthas extended his staff. ‘This is not you, brother. You speak with the voice of another. A blacker will than your own drives you, as it drives those broken souls you command. I can hear its echo in every word that passes your dead lips.’
‘My will is my own,’ Thaum said. ‘I was promised justice, and I will have it.’ His blade licked out, and Balthas was forced to interpose his staff. The black sword chopped into it, and he was driven back a step.
‘A lie.’ Balthas braced himself. ‘Once, maybe, but now - you are hollow. A mask, hiding the face of another. You are but the puppet of a will greater than your own.’
‘We are both pawns together, then. It makes no difference. I will cast the stones of this city into the heavens and break free all those imprisoned below. Lyria will belong to Nagash once more, and all the souls that dwell within will know true peace. That is inevitable. That is justice.’ His voice, once a hollow rasp, had deepened. The sound of it made the marrow in Balthas’ bones curdle.
‘That is not justice. That is oblivion.’ Balthas twisted the blade aside and drove the end of his staff into the centre of Thaum’s chest. Thaum reeled, and Balthas ripped his staff free and slammed it against the side of the nighthaunt’s helm
As the creature reeled, Balthas turned. The necropolis rocked as his warriors clashed with the dead. They had arrived too late to save Mara, but some of her cohort still fought, and now the two forces moved as one against the horde of spirits. With Pharus distracted, the creatures were little more than feral gheists - certainly not an organised threat.
Even so, gheists rose from the ground all around him, dripping upwards, their bodies distended like hot wax. Balthas slammed the ferrule of his staff down and scratched an arcanogram in the stone. The nighthaunts screamed as the stones they emerged from became threaded with silver. They sank out of sight, their twisted forms burning with a cleansing flame.
Pharus lunged through the flames. Blade met staff and they skidded back, smashing into a crypt. It collapsed with a rumble as they twisted away, weapons still locked. Balthas grunted as the amethyst lightning flickering beneath Pharus’ armour licked across his own, charring away the ritual sigils marked there.
‘Nagash has commanded,’ Pharus snarled. ‘So must it be.’
Balthas said nothing as they staggered in a macabre dance, neither willing to give ground. Fire swept out around them, first amethyst, then cobalt, setting the ancient stones alight. He felt strange, as if something inside him had torn loose and were burning, along with the stones. Every blow took a century to fall, every riposte, an epoch. But Balthas met his opponent blow for blow, and held him. Even as his arms grew numb and his head began to ache, filled as it was with thunder and heat. He could call to mind none of the magics he knew - instead his mind was full of lightning, and all he could see was fire. A hundred thousand fires, a million, more, all burning in the dark.
Nagash had set the realms aflame. What he had done could not be undone. What he had started could not be stopped. But Balthas knew they must try, even so. And as he fought, he knew that he had done this before, in another life, in another realm. He had set himself against the inevitable, and failed.
But he would not do so again.
Lightning burned through him, snarling outwards to engulf Thaum. For a moment, they were connected, as they had been in the Chamber of the Broken World. He saw all that had happened, all that Thaum had done, and knew that Thaum saw into his mind as well. For an instant, they saw one another with perfect, aching clarity.
The dead man staggered, smoke boiling from the gaps in his armour. And w
ithin the smoke, Balthas saw a light. Just a spark of cerulean, tiny and barely there at all. But it was a spark nonetheless, trapped in the hollows of Thaum’s shell. An ember of the man he had been, waiting to be rekindled.
The moment had come.
Now, a voice rumbled.
Balthas stretched out his hand, his magics spearing out towards the spark of blue. But the moment stretched and warped out of sorts. The sands in the hourglass pommel of Thaum’s blade ceased their flow. Time… stopped.
‘You.’
A single word, followed by a laugh that curdled his soul. Unable to stop himself, Balthas looked up into a gargantuan rictus. A god was looking down at him. Not as one foe looked at another, but as a sage might study some unknown species of insect.
The cavern seemed suddenly small. The sounds of battle faded to a dim rustling, as if all sound and fury had been drained from the moment. Taller than any living man, clad in shrouds and bones, the Undying King loomed over his servant, eyes blazing with unlight. Thaum jerked and twitched like a marionette with tangled strings.
‘You,’ Nagash said again, as if savouring the word. ‘I know you, little soul. I know your scent. You were mine, once, as Pharus Thaum was.’ He leaned through the glare of lightning and fire, his witchfire gaze fixed on Balthas. It burned hot and cold at the same time, and Balthas felt something in him shrivel. This was no nighthaunt or daemon to be banished, but a god. He possessed no power that could match the immensity before him.
‘Insult of insults, that he uses you to block my path,’ Nagash continued. His voice was like some great, black bell, tolling out Balthas’ final hour. ‘I will crack open this black shell you wear and scoop out the spirit within. Shall I show you who you were, little soul? Shall I answer those questions I see burning in your mind?’
Balthas blinked sweat from his eyes. In the fires around him, he could see things. Faces. People. Places. Moments from a life that was no longer his - a voyage to a great city, and a flare of light as lead became gold. The whicker of a horse, and the flap of great wings. The pain of unintended betrayal, and the relief brought by redemption. He felt an ache inside himself, as if Nagash had reached into him and torn something loose. He closed his eyes to the swirl of broken memories, and felt what might have been a hand on his shoulder. A voice, as deep as the seas and as warm as the summer wind, spoke softly in his ear.
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