I told you I would be here, Balthas. Let me guide your aim.
‘I have no questions,’ Balthas said, through gritted teeth. A new strength flooded his limbs, dulling the pain. He felt something beyond strength, growing inside him. ‘I am not who I was. The past is ash. And the future is yet to be written.’
‘Yes. By dead hands. I will order a record made, so that in the silent aeons to come, I might read it and remember.’ Purple flame caressed Balthas’ form. His war-plate grew warm, almost painfully so. ‘No,’ Balthas said. The heat increased. He could smell his flesh burning. He wanted to scream, but he lacked the breath to do so. Lightning erupted from his flesh, savaging the air.
‘No,’ another voice echoed, and the sound boomed out, shaking the stillness. Nearby flames darkened and then paled, becoming azure.
Nagash drew back, as if nonplussed by this turn of events. ‘Who would stand between the Undying King and his prey?’ he roared, shaking the cavern.
‘Me, brother. Always me.’
The words echoed from Balthas before he realised he was speaking. He felt invigorated, suddenly. He pushed himself to his feet, lightning crawling across the edges of his armour. ‘I stand against you here, and along every wall. I stand against you, as the day stands against night.’
The words - the voice - neither were his. Balthas felt as if something were inside him. As if he were no more than a mask that the speaker had chosen to wear in that moment. But he felt no fear. This moment - all that had happened - had been planned for. Sigmar had seen it, in the stars, and set the blocks to tumbling into place. What came next was a matter of gods, not men, whether dead or alive.
He had chosen his moment, and Sigmar would guide his aim
‘Without the night, there is no day,’ Nagash said. He swept closer, and Thaum stumbled in his wake. ‘Without death, no life. To stand against me is to stand against the law of all things. Are you so prideful, then?’
‘No longer. Necessity guides my hand.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Balthas saw something take shape around him. A vast form, greater than his own, and yet similar. Thaum made a harsh croak of recognition, and Balthas wondered what he saw.
Nagash seemed to swell, until his skeletal form filled Balthas’ vision. ‘Necessity. What would you know of such a thing? I am necessity. By my will alone shall the realms be preserved from the ravages of Chaos. When I have claimed all that I am owed, when all are one in death, I shall cast my spite into the teeth of the dark gods, and drag them from their petty thrones.’
‘And then you will rule over a silent kingdom, until the last star is snuffed, and even death perishes at last.’
Nagash was silent. Sigmar sighed, and Balthas thought of a high wind, stripping the bark from trees. ‘Can you even conceive of such a thing, brother? Or is your arrogance so ironclad that your own end is an impossibility to you?’ The God-King extended his hand, and Balthas, unable to resist, followed suit. ‘We were allies, once. Brothers in spirit, if not blood. We tamed these realms and set the foundations for what they would become.’
‘You freed me,’ Nagash said, simply. ‘A debt was owed. It has been repaid in full.’ He shook his monstrous skull in dismissal. ‘Is this the moment where you speak of our similarities, God-King? Where you play the wronged innocent, and once more extend the hand of friendship?’
‘No. That moment has come and gone.’ The lightning roiled outwards, burning black knots into the nearby crypts. Nagash’s towering shape wavered, the amethyst fires retreating before the fury of the storm ‘The War of Heaven and Death begins anew. But this time, I will not make the mistake of mercy.’
‘I am stronger now than I was then, barbarian.’
‘And I am wiser. Let us see which of those proves the greater advantage, brother.’ Sigmar looked down. His eyes burned like dying stars, and in that look, Balthas saw what was to come next. He saw Thaum rising up before him, wreathed in amethyst flame. Nagash roared and Thaum hurtled forwards, raising his blade.
Balthas flung his hand out, and lightning roared down. Thaum screamed and lunged through the smoke of his own burning. Balthas interposed his staff at the last moment, and the two warriors stumbled back, their weapons locked together.
‘End me, fool,’ Thaum snarled, his voice small against the immensity of Nagash, which still loomed above. He sounded strange, as if some struggle Balthas could not see were occurring within him Above, both gods stood, watching as their champions reeled. ‘End me if you can. Or I shall surely end you.’
Balthas said nothing. His eyes sought the azure spark he had seen earlier. He saw it, flickering through a hole in Thaum’s armour. A gouge made by the claws of a beast, perhaps, or a Liberator’s warblade.
There, Sigmar whispered. A bit of me, trapped in the dark. A bit of who he was, struggling against the shadows that bind him. Set it free, Balthas. Give him the peace he has been denied.
Balthas, holding his staff with one hand, drove his other into the gap. He felt the heat of the spark, felt it respond to his presence. It flared, a mote of light, hidden in the darkest shadow. Thaum stiffened. Blue light seeped from his tattered shape, piercing his limbs and torso in thin streams. He twitched. ‘I… remember,’ he said, and his face softened.
‘I am sorry,’ Balthas said, softly. Hoarsely. And then, one last time, he called down the lightning. The spark blossomed as the lightning fed into it. It grew, spreading within Thaum’s form Azure cracks formed on his armour and intangible flesh, growing wider.
His phantom shape began to crumble like paper in a fire. His sword fell from his hands and shattered, black shards spilling across the ground. He staggered back, a man-shaped torch of cobalt.
Thaum tried to speak, as the black helm slipped from a head that was no more solid than a wisp of smoke. He threw back his head, and gave a final, desolate howl before the storm caged within him broke free at last. His form shivered apart with a clap of thunder.
The shock wave shook the entire catacombs. Chunks of stone fell from above, crashing down into the necropolis, and the crypts surrounding Balthas crumbled into broken rubble as the fury of the storm radiated outwards in a single, frenzied moment. It washed over the catacombs and surged through the ranks of the dead, immolating the nighthaunts in a burst of cerulean radiance.
Pharus Thaum was gone.
Nothing more than ash, trailing away through the ravaged air. Nagash’s form wavered like smoke on the breeze. But as he faded, he spoke one final time. ‘You served me once, Balthas Arum, in another turn of the wheel, as a world burned, and you will do so again. As all who live shall eventually serve me.’
Then, he too was gone.
Balthas sank to one knee, breathing heavily. He felt wrung out - hollow. Smoke rose from the joins of his war-plate, and he knew the flesh beneath was blistered and burnt. Damaged beyond the scope of the healing arts of Azyr, perhaps. What was left of Thaum’s war-plate lay nearby, smouldering. Beneath the exhaustion, he felt a flicker of regret.
He had come to bring a rogue soul peace. And he had done so. But somehow, victory felt like defeat. The sounds of battle had faded, with Pharus’ fall, with the lightning. He tried to push himself to his feet, but he couldn’t force his limbs to bear his weight. Not yet. He looked within himself, seeking some sign of Sigmar’s presence. But the God-King was gone. This battle was ended, but there were others requiring his attentions. The War of Heaven and Death had begun anew.
‘Lord-arcanum - do you live?’
Calys Eltain made her way towards him, her free hand pressed to her side. Blood stained her war-plate. Miska and several Sequitors followed her, stepping warily through the blasted rubble. Miska led Quicksilver by the reins. Balthas felt a flicker of relief at the beast’s survival. Wearily, he bent his head, until it was resting against his staff. ‘That… is entirely a matter of perspective,’ he croaked.
‘He’s gone again,’ Elya sai
d, clinging to Calys’ back. Balthas did not meet her eyes.
‘He’s gone,’ he repeated. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Then, he pushed himself erect. ‘But the battle is not done. Glymmsforge is still under siege.’ He looked at Calys. ‘And the Ten Thousand Tombs still need defending.’
She met his gaze and nodded. Balthas turned to Miska. ‘Gather whoever is still standing. Knossus is going to need us.’
‘As you say, my lord,’ she said, bowing her head. She hesitated. ‘You did well, brother.’ She turned away, shouting for the others. Balthas stroked Quicksilver’s neck, as the brute butted him in the chest.
‘Easy. We have work yet to do.’ Balthas dragged himself into the saddle, his body protesting. He looked up. Nagash, like Sigmar, was gone, but Balthas could still hear his final taunt, could still feel it echoing through the dark places within him.
You served me once, in another turn of the wheel, as a world burned, and you will do so again… Balthas shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, softly. ‘Never.’
And as he urged Quicksilver into motion, he found that he almost believed it.
Epilogue
As Certain
As the Stars
NAGASHIZZAR, THE SILENT CITY
The desert was still burning.
Arkhan knew it would be for some time. He stood atop the ruins of one of the black watchtowers which lined the outer districts of Nagashizzar. The spirits bound to it had been freed during the necroquake, and so he could stand in blissful silence for a time. His dread abyssal, Razarak, lay nearby, tail clattering as it sat and waited patiently for its master to finish his ruminations. The skull-faced beast hissed softly, and Arkhan nodded.
‘The sky is beautiful, yes.’
The horizon was awash in purple light, and ash fell like snow. Nagashizzar shook with its master’s rage. Whatever came next, in the battle for Glymmsforge, for Lyria or the other underworlds, Nagash would not be satisfied. Once more, Sigmar had thwarted him. The War of Heaven and Death would continue.
The Mortarch of Sacrament could not help but feel some small satisfaction at the way things had gone. He had wagered heavily, and lost little. Nagash had no one to blame but himself. The Undying King’s rage would fall on lesser champions, and Arkhan would stand blameless, and loyal, as ever.
The failure had revealed much that was of interest. The Ten Thousand Tombs yet remained waiting - Sigmar had not destroyed them. Perhaps he lacked the power. Or, more likely, the God-King saw them for what they were: a resource yet untapped. The thought sent a prickle of apprehension through Arkhan’s bones. If Sigmar had at last realised what Nagash and the Ruinous Powers already knew - that mortal souls were the most valuable resource in all the realms - then the game had truly entered a new, more deadly phase.
Razarak shifted its weight and hissed in warning. This, plus a bat-like screech from above, alerted Arkhan to the arrival of an uninvited guest. He looked up and saw the feline shape of a second dread abyssal swoop towards the tower. Ashigaroth was as recognisable as its master, and about as trustworthy.
The beast slammed into the edge of the tower and perched there, amid the crumbling ramparts of stone. It shrieked challengingly at Razarak, who responded with a restrained yawn. Arkhan gestured surreptitiously, and his steed settled back, content to ignore the newcomer. Ashigaroth’s rider dropped from the saddle with a rattle of armour and the clink of spurs. Arkhan turned away.
‘I do not recall requesting your presence, Mannfred.’
‘Your little toy failed, liche. As did your scheme. Neferata is probably laughing herself sick in whatever palace she’s currently occupying.’
Mannfred von Carstein’s voice plucked at Arkhan’s awareness like the buzzing of a singularly annoying insect. He turned slightly, as the vampire sidled towards him, smirking. ‘I felt Nagash’s shout of rage echo through my skull. Thought it wise to return and offer my services. Perhaps he’ll send me after Glymmsforge next. Now that you’ve failed.’
‘The battle for the city still rages, leech. Malendrek might yet attain the victory Nagash demands. The Knight of Shrouds could well be elevated to the station he so desires. A new Mortarch come among us.’
Mannfred snorted. ‘Doubtful.’
Arkhan said nothing. Privately, he agreed. Malendrek was powerful, but a fool. He was a weapon crafted from need and regret, blind to his own shortcomings. Much like the one who had created him. He brushed the thought aside as quickly as it had occurred to him ‘The future is written. What will be, will be.’
‘How very philosophical of you.’
‘Perspective, not philosophy. The end is not in doubt. Only the speed with which it arrives.’ Arkhan looked out over the desert. ‘Though it is best that it does not do so too soon.’
‘That almost sounds like you don’t want it to end at all,’ Mannfred said, slyly. ‘Have you come around to my view at last, liche?’
‘No. I merely wish it to arrive at its predestined time. Death has its place, as all things do. It is part of the cosmic balance - as certain as the stars shine in the heavens, death welcomes all things.’
Mannfred laughed. ‘A measured response. Nagash would not approve, I think. Especially as it concerns the certainty of the stars.’ He tapped his claws against the pommel of the basket-hilted sword sheathed at his waist. ‘I am curious - how does this wish of yours align with your manipulations of Nagash’s newest servant? What scheme was born at the crossing of those two threads, liche?’
‘There was no scheme.’
Mannfred drew his blade with a flourish and let the edge kiss the underside of Arkhan’s jawbone. Behind them, Razarak heaved itself to its feet with a rumbling snarl. Ashigaroth crouched, growling shrilly. Arkhan gestured for his steed to remain where it was. This was nothing more than a bit of play-acting on the vampire’s part.
Mannfred leaned close. ‘Do me the courtesy of assuming that I am not so blind as all that, Arkhan, my old friend. I knew you were up to something the moment you sent Neferata and I away. And so did she.’
‘And yet she is not here.’
‘She is better-mannered than I am Rest assured, her spies in Nagashizzar and Glymmsforge both have reported all that occurred to her already. But I am here, and put the question to you as one equal to another. What were you up to, if not to seize the glory of conquering Glymmsforge for yourself?’
Arkhan sighed, a sound like wind whistling among gravestones. He reached up and pushed
Mannfred’s blade aside. ‘My concerns are neither glory nor conquest. The universe is caught fast between two spheres of order. One, a sword. The other, a shield.’ He thumped the ground with his staff. ‘Shyish is the sword. Azyr, the shield. Thus has it always been. Thus must it always be.’
Mannfred frowned and sheathed his blade. ‘Nagash does not agree.’
‘No. But he believes. And that is all that matters. Between them, Azyr and Shyish held the Ruinous Powers at bay for centuries. Even when lesser gods fell by the wayside, the Lords of Death and Heaven stood firm. They are two parts of the same whole - beginning and ending. One cannot stand without the other. The realms cannot stand without either.’
Mannfred chuckled. ‘I begin to see, now, I think. How clever you are.’ He clapped his hands mockingly. ‘You think to manipulate the gods into open conflict, so that they might - what? - become allies once more, once they’ve vented their divine furies? Lanced the holy boil?’ He leered at Arkhan, teeth bared in a snarl of derision. ‘And then what, eh? Will they turn their attentions to the true foe who besets us?’
Arkhan shook his head. ‘I manipulate no one. Nagash would have done this regardless. But, as you said - there was opportunity in the madness. And so I seized it.’ He paused. ‘And for the first time in centuries, the Undying King and the God-King met face-to-face. And neither destroyed the other.’
‘Clever, liche, clever, clever
, clever. Risky, though. A gamble.’
‘Yes.’
‘And what if your gamble should fail?’
‘Then silence shall fall over the realms, and Nagash shall stand alone.’
Mannfred frowned. ‘An unpleasant thought. An eternity of stultifying darkness. Even the damnations of Chaos might be preferable to that.’ He shivered suddenly, as if recalling an unpleasant memory. He looked at Arkhan. ‘If you’d told me sooner, I might have aided you. Neferata would have too. It serves our interests, as well.’
Arkhan looked at Mannfred. ‘If I had told you, you would have simply sought your own advantage. I required a tool fit for purpose, and fortune bestowed one upon me. A weapon of both Azyr and Shyish, but truly part of neither.’
‘And now that that weapon is destroyed?’
‘There will be others. A saying occurs to me, though I cannot recall where I might have heard it… Rival lions must drink from the same oasis.’
Mannfred threw back his head and laughed. ‘Quaint, but apt.’ He turned back towards his steed, flinging the edge of his cloak over his shoulder with a flourish. ‘Let us hope you are right, Arkhan. Let us also hope that Nagash realises it, before it is too late. For if this war continues, it will not be long before the Ruinous Powers seek to turn it to their advantage.’ The vampire climbed into the saddle. ‘And if that happens, we are all surely doomed.’
He thumped Ashigaroth in the flanks, and the dread abyssal leapt from the tower with a raucous cry. Arkhan watched them swoop away, towards the horizon.
‘Yes. Let us hope,’ he said. After a moment, he turned away to take his own leave. Nagash would call for him, soon. There were new plans to be made. New wars to wage.
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