Soul Wars

Chapter eleven Shimmergate

‘Easy, Quicksilver. Easy.’ Balthas stroked the gryph-charger’s feathered neck. The great beast felt his impatience and pawed at the ground in unsettled fashion. ‘We will be away soon. Won’t we, sister?’ He glanced at Miska. ‘They are late.’

‘They will be here.’ She stood beside him, staff in hand. Helios and his Celestors stood just behind them, acting as honour-guard. The swordsmen were the most skilled of his warriors, and Balthas valued their capabilities. Behind them, the remainder of the Grave Wardens Sacrosanct Chamber made ready to depart through the Shimmergate.

He studied the realmgate, his fingers tapping against the massive, scabbarded broadsword hanging from his saddle. He could not remember the last time he’d drawn it. Though he was as capable a swordsman as any, the blade lacked the elegance of aether. And he felt more comfortable with a staff in his hand than a blade.

The realmgate was a blur of light, encompassed by a circle of stone. It had been carved in ages past by unknown hands, though legends as to the mason’s identity abounded. Some thought her a sorcerer, seeking her lost love in the underworld of Lyria. Others said it had been shaped by a duardin craftsman, seeking a path to a hidden treasure. Whoever they had been, the Shimmergate was all that remained to mark their memory.

‘Nervous?’ Miska asked, not looking at him.

‘And why would you think that?’ he snapped. Suddenly ashamed, he made a show of studying the two cohorts of Sequitors that stood in disciplined ranks behind the Celestors. Mara and Porthas, their commanders, spoke quietly to one another, with a casual friendliness that Balthas sometimes envied. Mara was stocky, wielding a heavy, angular stormsmite maul and soulshield, much like her warriors. Porthas was built like an ox, and he had his two-handed greatmace balanced across his shoulders.

The Sequitors resembled Liberators, but their similarity to the rank and file of the Warrior Chambers was merely cosmetic. Unlike their brethren, the Sequitors were able to channel the limited magics that coursed through them into the armaments they bore. Thus empowered, their weapons were capable of slaying things resistant even to the touch of holy sigmarite. As they had done often, at Balthas’ command.

Miska looked up at him, eyebrow raised. He sighed and sat back. ‘Fine, yes. Somewhat. I have grown used to the veil of secrecy woven about us. To discard it now feels wrong…’

‘It is necessary.’

‘Unfortunately.’ He sighed again. ‘Perhaps I am simply annoyed. My researches were at a delicate phase.’ They hadn’t been, and they both knew it, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

‘They will keep.’

Balthas looked at her. ‘You’re excited, aren’t you?’

A half-smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘But this is what you wanted.’ She sounded as if she were asking a question, rather than simply stating fact.

‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. He let his gaze drift past her, to where the final elements of his chamber were assembling. Quintus and his cohort of Castigators were diligently checking over the functions of their thunderhead greatbows. Resembling large crossbows, the bolts they loosed were heavy things, resembling a smaller version of a stormsmite mace. The heads of the projectiles were filled with the condensed breath of a stardrake. On impact, they unleashed a tempest of aetheric energy that would tear through foes, mortal or otherwise.

Miska gave a bark of laughter. ‘You’ve never been one for the battlefield.’ She shook her head. ‘Remember that city in Chamon – Agnostai? Rather than lay siege to the city, you turned their gold stores to granite.’

‘It worked, didn’t it?’ Balthas smiled. He had always possessed an affinity for the transmutive magics of Chamon. The alchemical winds responded to his will with an ease that surprised him at times. It was as if they recognised him, somehow. ‘Their army surrendered en masse, without a single arrow loosed or sword drawn. Mercenaries are loathe to fight without the promise of pay.’

‘Was that really the reason? Or were you more interested in getting into the Silver Sepulchre than wasting time taking the city?’

Balthas frowned. ‘The Sepulchre contained certain remains necessary to my research.’

‘So you assured me at the time.’

Balthas heard the unspoken criticism. ‘Finding a way that does not work is not failure. Only through meticulous trial and error will we discover that which we seek, sister.’

‘Spoken like a true alchemist.’

Balthas sniffed. ‘I trust you recall that I am your lord-arcanum and not a mere Sequitor, to be spoken to in such a disrespectful manner.’

Miska peered at him. After a moment, she inclined her head. ‘You are correct. Forgive me, my lord. Discipline is the foundation of victory.’

‘You are forgiven.’ He turned as a sardonic cheer went up from his warriors. Two figures, heavily encumbered, climbed the rocky slope. One of them waved slowly, in sombre acknowledgement of the cheers. ‘Finally.’

He urged Quicksilver towards the two warriors as they carried their burden up the slope. ‘Gellius, Faunus – you’re late,’ he said. The armour of the two Sacristan Engineers was hung with the tools and oddments of their duty, and they rattled as they climbed.

Gellius, the larger of the two, shifted the weight of the celestar ballista he carried on his back. ‘Better late than never, my lord,’ he said solemnly.

Balthas frowned. ‘I would reprimand you, if there were time.’ He looked at the other engineer. ‘I trust you will apologise on behalf of your brother-engineer, Faunus?’

‘If you require it.’ Faunus hefted an ornate astrolabe and peered through its scope. ‘A few final calculations and we’ll be ready.’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ Balthas said, annoyed.

‘Have we ever failed you, my lord?’ Gellius asked, patting the ballista he carried. ‘She’s a temperamental one, but faithful. As are we.’

Balthas made to reply when Quicksilver shrieked suddenly. He felt the aether tense and shiver. He turned, following the pull of it. Nearby, the arctic winds spun, casting up snow and sunlight alike. There was a snap of air, followed by the crunch of snow beneath a heavy tread. Sigmar appeared, striding across the snow, his golden war-plate gleaming and the heavy fur cloak he wore swirling about his shoulders.

Warriors sank to their knees, heads bowed, as the God-King passed among them. Balthas slid from his saddle as Sigmar drew close. Gellius and Faunus both dropped to one knee, and Balthas made to do so as well, but Sigmar stopped him. ‘Up.’ The God-King gestured sharply. He studied the Shimmergate for a moment. The light seemed to brighten beneath his attentions. He turned.

‘Come with me, Balthas.’ Sigmar turned and crunched through the snow. Balthas hesitated and glanced back at Miska, who motioned for him to go. As he followed Sigmar, he tried not to stare at the ground – the God-King left no tracks. The snow shifted beneath his weight, but there was nothing to mark his passing.

Sigmar glanced back at him, a half-smile on his face. Balthas realised, with some embarrassment, that the God-King somehow knew what he was thinking. ‘I forget, sometimes, about leaving tracks,’ he said. ‘I remember the sound. The wet crunch of snow beneath my feet, the feel of the icy wind, cutting through my furs. The weight of Ghal Maraz in my hands. But I forget other things – the way your weight displaces the snow. The ache that comes with hard travel, the way your lungs strain. Sweat.’ He stopped before an outcropping. ‘It’s easy, to forget.’

They stood in silence, gazing out over the horizon. Somewhere, a mountain eagle shrieked, as it took wing over its kingdom. Sigmar watched the bird, for long moments. Then, he turned. ‘You wish to go to find the rogue soul.’

Balthas nodded, uncertain as to where this was going. Had Sigmar not already given his permission? ‘Aye, my lord. It – he – escaped me. But he shall not do so a second time. I have the scent of his soul.’ He hesitated. ‘And there is only one place he could go, now.’ He glanced back towards the Shimmergate. ‘The boughs of the World-Tree bend low.’

‘Nagash has broken the order of things. The dead stir in every realm, shaken from their long sleep. I see the soil shift on forgotten graves, and bones gleam in the moonlight. Ghosts wander through the streets of the cities of men.’ Sigmar frowned. ‘Even here. Even here, the effects of his imprudence are felt.’ His hand clenched, and the sky shuddered with thunder. Lightning flashed in his gaze.

‘He has unleashed a cataclysm from which the realms will be slow to recover,’ Balthas said. He could still feel the echoes of that hellish reverberation in his bones. Wild magic boiled on the air, invisible to all save those with the wit to see.

‘We have entered a new, more deadly age,’ Sigmar said, watching the horizon. ‘Only time will tell whether it proves to be the last, or merely the latest.’ He smiled, but there was little humour in it. ‘Many crimes can be laid at the feet of the Undying King, but being boring was never one of them.’ Sigmar threw back his head and laughed.

The sound boomed out, shaking rocks and snow from the high peaks, and nearly pitched Balthas from his feet. ‘The wars we waged, Nagash and I. The schemes we concocted. We stole fire from the belly of Symr, Balthas. We cast up mountains and filled seas with the blood we shed against our enemies.’ His laughter trailed off, and his smile grew thin and strained. ‘And now we are at war once more. Heaven and Death, and all the realms caught between them.’ He looked at Balthas. ‘I can see your guilt burning in you.’

Balthas froze, but only for an instant. Sigmar sighed. ‘You blame yourself for your brother escaping. You think of it as a failure, rather than simply a thing that happened.’

‘It was my weakness that allowed it – him – to fall…’

‘It was not. Others had the opportunity to stop him. They did not succeed.’

‘Others are not me.’ Balthas cursed himself the moment the words left his mouth. But Sigmar merely nodded, as if he had expected nothing less.

‘I have heard similar sentiments before.’ He sank to his haunches and scooped up a handful of snow. Even crouched, he was massive, and Balthas felt as a child must, when a parent seeks to impart a lesson.

Sigmar held his hand out, and the snow swirled and shifted, taking shape. For a moment, it resembled a tree, and then something that put Balthas in mind of the interior of an anthill. ‘You hold yourself to a higher standard than your brothers.’

Balthas did not reply.

Sigmar did not look up from the snow as it twisted and changed shape. ‘You see yourself at odds with them, even if you do not admit it.’

‘Not at odds, my lord,’ Balthas said softly. ‘Never that.’

Sigmar nodded, not looking at him. ‘No? Perhaps not. Perhaps you are wiser than the gods, Balthas. I hope so.’

Balthas did not flinch. ‘If I am wise, it is because you made me so, my lord.’

Sigmar rose to his feet. ‘You flatter me.’ He held out his hand, and gestured to the swirling snow. It had expanded, taking the shape of a walled city. ‘Do you recognise the city?’

‘Glymmsforge,’ Balthas said, after a moment.

‘Yes. In the underworld of Lyria. That is where you are going. That is where you will find what you seek.’ Sigmar gestured again, and the snow melted and reformed – a man’s face, this time. Balthas recognised Pharus Thaum. ‘I felt his soul shatter as the cataclysm caught it. The energies of the Anvil ran wild, and a true son of Azyr became something less. A moment repeated too often for my liking.’

‘And mine, my lord.’

‘I told you before, Balthas, that you must hunt this prey for me. But for now, set your eyes upon a new quarry. Look.’ Again, the snow changed. It rose and spread, became a sphere, and then a column. Something was familiar about it. Balthas thought he had seen it before. Sigmar nodded, as if he had spoken. ‘You saw this in his mind as you confronted him, did you not? Do you recognise it?’

‘He was… guarding it?’

‘Yes. The duty he gave his life for. The Ten Thousand Tombs.’ Sigmar turned his hand, causing the image to rotate and spread. ‘A warren of catacombs, old when Lyria was young. A poisonous crop, planted by the hand of a dead man, against the day it might be needed. The souls of fallen heroes and bloodthirsty conquerors, imprisoned and awaiting the day of their freedom. Black souls that might rend the city asunder, if they were to be freed.’

Balthas grunted. ‘Does Knossus– do they know?’

Sigmar nodded. ‘It was discovered soon after the Shimmergate was claimed. The city was built atop it, in part to protect the tombs from those who might try to open them. One of the many unspoken responsibilities your Stormhost bears.’

‘Pharus has fallen. Who guards it now?’

Sigmar looked down at him, and Balthas nodded in understanding. ‘That is why you are letting me go – I am to take up where Pharus left off.’ He looked away. ‘It is fitting. I failed him in life. In death, I must make amends.’

Sigmar nodded. ‘If that is the way you wish to view it.’

‘And what of Pharus Thaum, my lord?’ Balthas asked. ‘Am I to just… abandon his soul to its fate?’ He shook his head. ‘Let someone else play the sentry, my lord, please. Let me find Thaum and bring him to Azyr’s light once more. Let me wash clean the stain of failure. Please.’

Sigmar’s expression was sad. ‘Would that I could, my son. But I cannot.’

‘But why?’ Balthas asked, knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself. ‘How can we abandon him?’

Sigmar sighed. ‘Nagash has his soul now, Balthas. I can feel it. I felt it too late to stop it – did not recognise what was happening in time. It is as if a piece of me is trapped, somewhere in the dark.’ The God-King opened his hands and let the snow drift to the ground, to rejoin the carpet of white.

He looked down at Balthas. ‘He is lost to us – to me – whatever his fate. But as you saw into his mind, so too will Nagash. And he will know the secret of reaching what we have hidden from him, all these years. His servants will seek out the Ten Thousand Tombs and attempt to open them. This cannot be allowed. Even if Glymmsforge itself falls, the Ten Thousand Tombs must remain sealed.’ Sigmar set a heavy hand on Balthas’ shoulder. ‘Do you understand?’

‘I do, my lord.’

‘That means that you will be under Knossus’ command.’ For a moment, Balthas thought he saw the God-King smile. ‘Do you understand that?’

‘I do.’ Balthas fought to keep his voice even. The elation he’d felt earlier was gone. He bowed his head and said, more firmly, ‘I do, my lord.’

Sigmar gave a satisfied nod. ‘I know that you do, Balthas. And it pleases me. Now go. Glymmsforge awaits.’

‘I will not fail you, my lord.’

‘None of you ever have, Balthas. I do not expect you will start now.’

Balthas turned and hurried down the trail. ‘Balthas,’ Sigmar called out. Balthas stopped halfway, and turned.

‘I told you that there was a time when I wandered the snows. In those days, I too was a hunter. I hunted meat rather than know­ledge, but the two things are not so different. One fills the belly, one fills the mind. But sometimes… sometimes the prey escaped.’ Sigmar stared up at the stars, his expression unreadable. ‘This was not failure. The time simply was not right. So I learned to wait. To hold my shot. To seek a better spot from which to observe my prey. To seek the proper moment.’

‘And how did you know when that moment was?’

Sigmar chuckled, and the sound throbbed through Balthas. ‘You’ll know, Balthas. When the moment is right, you will let your arrow fly. And I will be there to guide your aim.’

Balthas bowed his head. When he rasied it again, Sigmar was gone, with only a flurry of loose snow to mark his passing.

‘I will not fail you,’ Balthas said again.

His words were carried away by the wind.

‘Hold the lantern higher, Verga,’ Calys barked. ‘Even my eyes can’t pierce this murk.’ At her words, the Liberator behind her raised the storm-lantern she held, allowing the flickering blue radiance to wash across the interior of the mausoleum. ‘The last of them came in here. I’m certain of it.’

The storm-lanterns held a shred of lightning culled from the eternal storm. No shadow could resist their light. In theory, at least. But the gloom that lurked among the catacombs beneath the city was thicker than any shadow. It seemed to seep from the stones and collect in every tomb and mausoleum. And it hid monsters.

A plague of spirits haunted the catacombs. They’d already destroyed or imprisoned many, but there were always more. Lurking just out of the corner of the eye.

Calys glanced at the warriors who followed her. ‘Stay alert. This one is shrewder than the others.’ Some gheists were like rabid beasts, lacking even the basest cunning. But others were possessed of a dreadful wisdom. She had only brought two others – Verga and Faelius – with her into the maze of tombs, leaving Tamacus and the rest of her cohort to watch the entrance to the avenue. Their prey was a monstrous thing – shroud-like, with long, spindly limbs and clacking jaws. It seemed impossible that it could hide in such a confined space, but it had left a clear trail.

The air had turned cold in its wake, and a glimmer of hoar frost hung over the walls, marking where it passed through the crypt. A stone bier rose up before her, the carved lid cast aside and laying broken on the floor. All that remained within it was a clutter of burial wrappings and dust. The nooks that lined the walls were much the same, save that they were filled with cobwebs as well.

‘Something is here,’ Faelius murmured behind her. He lifted his grandhammer and tilted his head, listening to the wind that whipped through the tombs. ‘I can feel it watching us.’ He turned. ‘Waiting.’

‘Waiting for us to lower our guard, you mean,’ Verga said. She jabbed the tip of her blade into the rubble on the floor, disturbing a flood of tomb-spiders. The pallid insects scuttled across the floor, seeking the safety of the shadows.

Scrape-thump.

The sound was soft. Barely audible. But Calys heard it. She froze, and the others followed suit, listening.

Scrape-thump. Scrape-thump.

‘Like a shroud being dragged over rocks,’ Faelius said. ‘And the air… Smell it? Like milk gone sour.’ He turned. ‘Or a corpse.’

‘Those two things don’t smell anything alike,’ Verga said.

‘Quiet,’ Calys said, sharply. She could hear a quiet rustling. Her breath puffed out through the mouth-slit of her war-mask. Hoar frost crept across the panes of her armour, cracking and scattering as she moved.

Scrape-thump. Clack.

Instinct compelled her to look up. The thing was splayed across the roof of the crypt, like some great bat. Long, thin limbs bent with a sound like ice cracking as it flopped down towards her, equine skull rattling. Calys yelled and slashed at it with her warblade. The sword passed through the folds with ease, tearing the voluminous shroud but striking nothing solid. She found herself swallowed in its flabby embrace, tangled in the ragged cloak. Claws skittered across her war-plate, too-long fingers seeking a way in.

Then, the crypt echoed with a boom of thunder as Faelius’ grandhammer slammed down. The nighthaunt wailed and swept away from Calys, sending her staggering back against the bier. It spiralled towards Faelius, fleshless jaws wide. The Liberator whipped his ­hammer up, trying to smash its skull. The spectre plunged through him as if he weren’t there. A bullseye of ice crept across the warrior’s chest-plate, and he stumbled, the hammer slipping from his hands. The nighthaunt tore through his back and turned, lunging for Verga as Faelius toppled forwards, limbs twitching.

‘Fall back, Verga – get into the open,’ Calys shouted. She tossed aside her sword and lunged for the grandhammer. The creature seemed to fear it. Faelius groaned and tried to sit up as she stepped over him and snatched up his weapon. ‘Stay down, Faelius,’ she said, as she hurried after Verga and the nighthaunt. The other Liberator had done as she commanded and retreated into the open.

The avenue beyond was lined with mausoleums, one piled atop the next in tottering walls that stretched up to the roof of the ­passageway. Drifts of dust and bone fragments pressed thick against the stoops of the lowest crypts. Walkways of timber or bridges of stone stretched between the highest crypts, forming a second ceiling, thick with grave-mould and cobwebs. Gallows-cages hung from the bridges, and the chained skeletons within them thrashed in silent fury as they caught sight of her.

Calys saw Verga immediately. The Liberator backed away from the spectre as it darted from side to side, trying to avoid the glare of the storm-lantern. It moved like oil on water – there, but not. It slid through the air, stretching itself impossible distances, before contracting suddenly. She could see its pale shape through the swirl of the shroud – emaciated to the point of inhumanity. Ribs stretched pearlescent flesh taut, and its limbs were all sharp, broken angles.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Its equine jaws snapped as it circled Verga, drawing closer with every circuit. She swept her blade out, trying to hew through it, but it avoided her blow. Long talons scratched across her arm, leaving trails of ice. She stumbled, and the spectre reared up over her, claws groping for her throat.

‘Verga – move!’ Calys roared, swinging the hammer up. The spectre turned with a hiss, and the grandhammer met its skull. Bone cracked and burst as the hammer passed through it and slammed down. The ground ruptured, and lightning speared up, burning the spectre from the inside out. Wreathed in flames, it hurtled upwards, broken skull gaping in a silent scream. It clawed at itself, until it at last came apart in a shower of burning rags.

Calys took a slow breath as the spectre was consumed. She looked at Verga and gestured with the hammer. ‘Go and help Faelius.’

A voice echoed down from above. ‘A well-struck blow, sister.’

Calys looked up and saw Lord-Relictor Dathus watching her. He stood atop a set of stairs that led nowhere above, set in an open space between crypts. The steps curved up and then around and back down in a stony loop, winding through the crypts. As he descended, the upper steps swung away, and a false archway, resembling a crypt opening, crashed down in its place. Dust sifted down across her armour, and a sudden breeze from somewhere washed over her. She grimaced. There were always mysterious draughts and smells down here, and Calys had yet to become inured to them. Sometimes, she wondered if Pharus had ever grown used to the stench and the damp before… She pushed the thought aside.

‘I have struck better,’ she said as Dathus reached the bottom. The lord-relictor had been gone for several days, conferring with the new commander, Lord-Arcanum Knossus, as well as Lord-Celestant Lynos and the others in charge of the city’s defences. ‘Any news?’ she asked, resting Faelius’ hammer across her shoulders. ‘About Lord-Castellant Pharus, I mean.’

‘None,’ Dathus said. ‘I am sorry, Calys. Knossus had nothing to share in regard to his fate.’ He looked out over the sea of tombs and grunted. ‘He had nothing at all to share, in fact. Other than that the necroquake reached Azyr itself, and shook the pillars of the heavens.’

Calys felt the cold weight of dread in her belly. ‘Azyr…’

‘It endures, as ever. Be at peace, sister. The God-King would not let the realm fall now, not after all this time.’ Dathus shook his head. ‘Though, to hear Knossus tell it, it was a close thing. Even the Anvil of Apotheosis was affected, if only for a short time.’ He looked at her. ‘We live in dangerous times, sister. Come. Walk with me a spell.’

Calys fell into step with the lord-relictor, after retrieving her blade and checking on Faelius. The Liberator had already recovered somewhat, and she returned his grandhammer. As they walked, she signalled to Tamacus and the others, alerting them to the nighthaunt’s destruction. They would continue to sweep this section, hunting for any other lingering spectres that might be lurking in the tombs.

The path inclined upwards as she and Dathus walked along the avenue, and the mausoleums to either side grew sparse. Statues loomed out of the dark, staring down at them with unseeing eyes. Soon, they were walking along a stretch of path that took them towards the Ten Thousand Tombs.

The ground shuddered beneath her feet as unseen sections peeled away with a scrape of stone and clouds of dust, swinging out and up or down. New twists and turns were added to the path ahead, and from behind came the rumble of a new wall sliding into place. The outer catacombs were always in motion these days. Those dead things still loose in them wandered the confusing tangle of passages, unable to escape.

She heard a shout from overhead and saw the arch of a bridge drift towards its new position. A cohort of Stormcasts stood atop it, braced against the shuddering of the stone. As the bridge locked into place, they strode across it, shields raised against whatever awaited them in the dark beyond. ‘It never ends, does it?’ she said.

‘Duty never does.’

She looked at Dathus. ‘What news from above?’

‘The same, but worse,’ Dathus said. ‘The city is in upheaval. It is all we can do to keep it in hand. The dead rise in greater numbers, and every day, refugees bring word of fresh horrors rising from oases and slipping down out of the high crags. Every restless soul in Shyish has been stirred to wakefulness, and all of them thirst for the blood of the living.’

‘None have slipped past us,’ Calys said, firmly.

Before Dathus could reply, there was the sound of scrabbling at the entrance to a nearby tomb. It was a sound that had become all too familiar to Calys of late. The stones cracked and crumbled, as if something were trying to dislodge them. Calys made to draw her blade, but Dathus waved her back. He set his hand on the face of the tomb, and a blue radiance played across the cracks. ‘Sleep, child of death,’ the lord-relictor growled. ‘Your time is not yet arrived.’

The scrabbling faded, as if the occupant of the tomb had resumed its fitful slumber. Dathus stepped back, allowing a nearby group of mortal priests to go about their duty. They would re-bless the tomb, and that which lay within, anointing it with sacred unguents and marking it with sigils of warding, as they and their predecessors had done for almost a century. Calys doubted it would hold for long, despite their efforts.

‘That happens too often for my liking,’ she said.

Dathus turned away from the tomb. ‘The constant fluctuation of the catacombs causes stress fractures in the stonework – a hazard of Pharus’ cleverness.’

Calys nodded. Any spirits that escaped would be confused by the eternally shifting underworld, and easily trapped. But that same shifting allowed some to escape in the first place. Luckily, those that most often did so were the easiest to recapture. She suspected that too had been part of Pharus’ design.

A shadow passed over them, as an archway bridge swung out over the slope of tombs and graves. Dust rained down in a constant patter, dulling her war-plate. She strode to the edge of the slope, walking across the roof of a crypt that jutted out over the abyss below.

From this highest point, the catacombs somewhat resembled a massive orrery of interlocking stone rings. Mausoleums and crypts clung like barnacles to each ring, as well as the tumbledown slopes that filled the gaps between. The great mechanisms that controlled the movement of the catacombs hung suspended in great orbs of stone, which hung directly over the Ten Thousand Tombs.

Dathus joined her, his eyes following hers. ‘I’ve set a guard on them, just in case. They have orders to activate the final sequence, should it appear that the tombs are in danger of being opened.’

Calys frowned. The sequence would collapse the catacombs, bury­ing them forever. But destroying the catacombs would almost certainly destroy Glymmsforge as well. Not immediately, perhaps. But the reverberations of such an act would ripple outwards, weakening streets and foundations. Not even duardin craftsmanship would survive such devastation. ‘It won’t come to that,’ she said firmly.

‘The dead are remorseless,’ Dathus said. ‘And we must stand ready to deny them this place, whatever the cost.’

‘Why do they hate us?’ The question slipped from her lips before she could stop it.

‘They do not,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Not truly. Nor, I think, does Nagash. To hate, one must care. And the God of the Dead cares for little save himself.’ He looked out, over the edge of the crypt. ‘Sigmar delights in us, as he delighted in our fathers and their fathers. Our creations, our courage, even our hubris – it delights him.’

‘A funny word, that, to use in relation to a god.’

‘But fitting.’ Dathus looked at her. ‘It is said by some, among my brotherhood, that the realms spin in eternal opposition – one pulling against the other. Azyr pulls against Shyish, Ghyran against Ghur, Hysh against Ulgu, and Aqshy against Chamon. Each the mirror image of the other, some in subtle ways, others more obvious. And as Azyr and Shyish stand in opposition, so too do the gods. Sigmar is the beginning and Nagash, the ending.’ He gestured, and a spark of lightning danced across his knuckles and palm as he turned his hand, this way and that. ‘But Nagash is a greedy god and seeks to be both beginning and end. So he raises the dead from their sleep of ages and sends them to attack the living.’

‘Like Elya’s mother,’ Calys said absently. The child was never far from her thoughts these days.

Dathus studied her and she looked away, suddenly uneasy. The music of the catacombs had become louder. She heard the creak of stone, and the slow drip of water, from somewhere. Bats stirred in the high roosts, chittering in fear.

And down below, the dead, in their ten thousand tombs, began to moan.

‘Something is coming,’ Dathus said. Calys nodded silently. She could feel it, on the damp air. Like the quaver of silent thunder. ‘Glymmsforge is slowly sealing itself off from the rest of the underworld,’ the lord-relictor continued. ‘Even so, huge numbers of refugees still clamour at the outer gates, seeking entry. Every ­hamlet and trading outpost within a hundred leagues has been denuded of inhabitants, as the dead rise and stalk the living with a greater frequency than ever before. Mortals come to the city in their hundreds, in search of sanctuary.’

‘A dangerous journey,’ Calys said. ‘There are deadwalkers in the desert.’

‘Indeed, and they are congregating in ever-greater numbers – immense herds of corpses stumble in the wake of the refugee caravans, pulling down stragglers and adding them to legions of the dead,’ Dathus growled. ‘In the corpse-yards of the southern districts, and the walled gardens of the aristocracy in the north, spectral shapes prey on rich and poor alike. We are under siege, within and without.’

‘What of this new lord – Knossus – what has he done?’

‘He strikes down the dead where he finds them,’ Dathus said. ‘And with a power beyond any that even I possess.’ He stopped as the archway ahead cracked in half and fell away with mechanical smoothness, revealing a sharply angled wall, marked with mystic sigils. Mirrored walls closed in about them as the floor descended, carrying them downwards in response to their weight. ‘This place truly is a marvel.’

‘The duardin are a clever folk,’ Calys said.

‘Pharus was clever,’ Dathus corrected. ‘Duardin traps are stolid things. Efficient, but not so creative as this. Only a mind like Pharus’ could have calculated all of this. Finding weak points and turning them into a strength was his gift. I once thought he would guard this place until the end of time itself.’ He fell silent.

‘He will return,’ Calys said.

‘But in what form?’ Dathus murmured. Calys was about to ask him what he meant, when he stopped and turned. ‘The city is closing in on itself. Every avenue and gate, save the main thoroughfare, is slamming shut. Knossus has commanded that Glymmsforge isolate itself from Lyria, to better weather the coming storm.’

Calys nodded. That made sense. The city – and by extension, the Shimmergate – would be easier to protect if it were sealed off. But that meant cutting off support to the outlying communities, as well as outposts like Fort Alenstahdt. Necessary sacrifices – but even so, she was glad she wasn’t the one giving the order.

Dathus continued. ‘To that end, we must seal off the Ten Thousand Tombs, so that no servant of Death might reach them. Do you understand?’ He gazed out over the sea of tombs that stretched in all directions around them. ‘Even I am not sure how it works. Briaeus and the others who served with Pharus the longest assure me that they can do so. But it is not something that might be undone at a whim.’

Calys understood at once. ‘Once sealed, it cannot easily be unsealed.’

The lord-relictor nodded. ‘Someone must stay above, to ensure that it is the case. And to defend the gateway, should it come to that. That responsibility is yours, if you wish it.’ Dathus looked at her, the light of the lanterns playing across his skull-helm.

Calys hesitated. Then she nodded. ‘I will bar the path, brother.’

Dathus returned her nod with one of his own. ‘I expected no less.’ He set a fist atop her shoulder-plate. ‘I will be staying down here, with Briaeus and the others. We will hold this place from within, as you hold it from without. Gather your cohort and go, sister. Lord-Arcanum Knossus has commanded that we seal off this place immediately, and I would not wish you caught in those tunnels when the process begins.’ He extended his hand. ‘May Sigmar bless and keep you, Calys Eltain.’

She caught his hand. ‘May he do the same for you, Dathus.’

Dathus laughed softly. ‘I have no doubt he will, after his own fashion.’