Soul Wars

Chapter twelve Razor’s Edge

Elya ran through the crowd thronging the street.

The tide of humanity was larger than any she’d experienced, even during high market days. Thousands of new faces, voices and smells, packed into the long, central avenue that linked each of the city’s rings, moving towards the heart of Glymmsforge.

She saw two women, one old, one young, dressed like traders from the distant city of Gravewild, in yellow linen and golden ornaments, and a fat man, dressed like a nobleman, in rich brocade and an embossed breastplate. There were duardin as well, clad in dusty travel robes, and she saw men and women dressed in the rough leathers of miners. Many carried weapons, and most looked as if they had been forced to put them to use recently. Everyone, whoever they were, had that pinched, hungry look she knew well. Everyone in the Gloaming looked like that, especially of late.

Glymmsmen threaded among the crowd in knots of black, inspecting the people, seeking signs of soulblight infection or cult markings. You could never be too careful, that’s what her father said. The Freeguild seemed to agree – they were out in force. And more besides. On one of the high, stone plinths that overlooked the avenue, a massive figure stood watching the crowd. With a shiver, she recognised the figure as the lord-veritant of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. There were stories about the Leechbane – all of them bad.

Folk in the Gloaming said he’d led the purges of the northern slums, when they’d been overrun by grave-eaters, many years before she’d been born. And that he’d done the same more recently in the districts of the wealthy, when several families had come under the sway of a soul-leech. Not all Stormcasts were like Pharus or Calys. Some were much, much worse. She shivered again and moved quickly away from him, startling a flock of pigeons that were searching the street for food.

The purple-hued birds sprang into the air and rose high and away. Some folk claimed they collected the souls of the dead for Elder Bones, but the cats claimed that wasn’t so. It was the big, black ­carrion birds that served the King of the Dead, and the spindle-legged jackals that wandered the desert. The pigeons served a smaller god, and a quieter one by far. Or so the cats said.

The sky overhead was the colour of a bruise, and the wind rolling in off the desert was cold. She dodged around a burly road-agent, who cursed at her as she ran by. She spotted a pickpocket she knew from the Gloaming and gave him a wide berth. A moment later, she heard shouting and knew he’d been spotted. The crowd heaved suddenly as the thief ran past, and she was nearly trampled. Dodging bodies, she thought about climbing to a higher vantage point and seeking somewhere quieter to watch things, but decided against it.

She’d taken to the streets when she’d felt the ground begin to shake, earlier. Dust had geysered from the cracks in the street, and the buildings had shuddered. Something was happening down below, and people were worried. She would have asked Pharus about it, but he was… gone. She rubbed her face.

Calys had said he would come back, but Elya wasn’t sure she trusted the Stormcast. Pharus had been her friend, she thought. Calys wasn’t. She wasn’t sure what Calys was.

Calys scared her father. All Stormcasts scared her father, but he’d never yelled as he had when he’d seen Calys for the first time. He’d looked at her face and just screamed and screamed, as if he’d seen a nicksoul. The way he had the night her mother had died. Elya shied away from the thought. She hugged herself, suddenly cold.

She didn’t like to think about that night or any of it. She’d been too little to remember much of it – much of her. She recalled her mother’s face, twisted up and wrong somehow, and the sound of her father weeping. And then Pharus, with his lantern. The light had been so warm and her mother had gone away, but her father had kept crying. He still cried, some nights, when he didn’t get enough to drink. Or had too much to drink.

Her mother was dead. Had been dead. She’d become sick and died. Then she’d returned, and Pharus had killed her again. And now Pharus was dead too. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t come back, because if he did, she might begin to wonder why he had and not her mother. She stopped and for a moment became a little island in the sea of people. She scraped the heel of one palm across her eyes and frowned. She heard shouting.

There was a commotion going on up ahead. Voices rose up and the crowd convulsed like a thing in pain. Metal flashed, and a cry went up. Elya’s eyes widened, all thoughts of Pharus and her mother forgotten. The fat man she’d seen earlier had shoved one of the trader women – the older one – to the ground. The man drew a knife from within his robes. ‘Grave-eater,’ he screamed, kicking at his victim.

At his words, the crowd surged back from him, Elya included. Men and women had shouted those words from street corners since she’d been a baby. Sometimes, when people died, they came back. Not as nicksouls or wailgheists, but as grave-eaters – hungry corpses that had no mind, only appetite. Overcoming the sudden spurt of fear, she winnowed closer, trying to see. The fat man gestured at the old woman on the ground as her companion tried to intervene.

‘She is sick,’ the younger woman shouted, crouching beside her companion. ‘She is hurt – please. We have done nothing…’

‘She’s infected,’ the fat man spat. ‘Look at her! She’s turning already.’

More shouts as a Glymmsman forced his way through the crowd. ‘What’s going on here?’ The soldier reached out to grab the fat man, startling him. The fat man’s blade flashed, and the Glymmsman spun away, clutching a red arm and cursing. His cries drew the attention of his fellows, and those soldiers closest moved to confront the fat man, who stared at the Glymmsman he’d injured in shock.

‘I didn’t mean…’ he began.

On the ground, the old woman had begun to thrash and twitch, her heels and head striking the cobbles. The young woman was scrambling backwards, her face twisted up in a horrified expression. ‘No, Takha, no – oh, blessed Sigmar, no!’

When the old woman sat up, the young woman began to wail. The soldiers hadn’t noticed yet. The fat man had their attention. Two Glymmsmen had tackled him to the ground. The three of them rolled in the dust, the man’s cries muffled. Fists thudded into flesh, and the knife clattered away. More Freeguild hurried towards the brawl, fighting through the crowd.

When the old woman attacked, she went for the fat man first. She caught him by a flailing arm and sank her teeth into the meat of his forearm. He screamed a high, thin wail, and Elya shrank back. Her sudden movement attracted the attentions of the grave-eater, and the old woman scuttled towards her on all fours, bloody mouth working. People screamed and fought to get out of the way, as Elya turned to run. The corpse bounded through them, snapping its jaws wildly.

She ducked the dead woman’s flailing hand and scrambled under an abandoned cart. The grave-eater groped blindly for her, teeth gnashing like those of a maddened cur. Elya pulled all her limbs close, huddling away from the dead woman. ‘There she is – seize her!’ a man shouted, from close by.

The old woman whirled, snarling, as a Glymmsman grabbed for her. She leapt on the soldier and bore him backwards, ­biting at his throat. Elya crawled out from under the cart, hoping to put some distance between herself and the old woman. She tried to ignore the screams. Glymmsmen raced past her, cursing and shouting.

She caught sight of the fat man, trying to crawl away. He wouldn’t get far. Sometimes, when the grave-eaters bit you, you became like them. It might take days, or just a few seconds – but it would happen. That was probably what had happened to the old woman. She’d been bitten, somewhere out in the desert, and had turned after entering the city.

The Freeguilder was screaming, as the old woman gnawed at him. He would turn too, just like the fat man. Worse, he probably knew what would happen to him, if he had the bad luck to survive his mauling. Elya heard the crash of metal on stone and saw the crowd part with a frightened murmur for the Leechbane. The lord-veritant strode towards the confrontation, the lantern atop his staff glowing as brightly as the one Pharus had carried. But he wasn’t Pharus. Pharus wouldn’t have done what the lord-veritant did next.

‘Move back,’ he said, his voice cutting through the confusion like a blade. Glymmsmen drew back, and the Leechbane drew his sword.

He took off the old woman’s head with the first sweep of his long blade. He killed the wounded Freeguilder next, as easily as a cat might kill a mouse, before any of the soldier’s comrades could speak up. And then he stalked towards the fat man, who tried to get to his feet, his face pale. Elya closed her eyes as the fat man began to scream and then stopped, suddenly, as the sword flicked out a third time.

Silence fell across the street. Elya huddled beside the cart, trying to make herself as small as possible. If the Leechbane thought she’d been bitten, he wouldn’t hesitate to take her head as well. The only way to put down a grave-eater plague was to stop it before it got started, or kill everyone who might turn.

But if he’d noticed her, he gave no sign. Instead, he’d turned, as high up above the city, the Shimmergate was shining again, blazing like a small sun. Every eye in the avenue turned towards it, drawn with lodestone certainty, wondering what it portended.

Elya took the opportunity to slip away, moving as quietly as a cat.

Balthas watched the sun rise over the walls of Glymmsforge, and wondered why anyone would come to such a place as this. Everything in the underworld had a faded, colourless quality, to one used to the vibrancy of Azyr. Did this place really have so much more to offer than Azyrheim, or any of the Cities of the Dawn? Why would mortals flock to places like this?

Then, he’d long ago come to the conclusion that many mortals were simply contrary. They simply did not know what was good for them. Like those attempting to flood the city, seeking the protection of its walls. Congregating in one place, however well-defended, was tantamount to inviting attack. They did not see that their numbers only added to the burden borne by the defenders.

His Sacrosanct Chamber had arrived to little fanfare, just before dawn. The city was readying itself for war and had no time to spare greeting late arrivals. He felt no insult, and had set about determining the location of the Ten Thousand Tombs, only to find the catacombs barred to him – barred to everyone – by order of Knossus Heavensen.

Messengers had come. Knossus requested his presence, here on the walls that surrounded the steps to the Shimmergate. The final redoubt, from which the city might make a last stand, and the oldest, strongest walls in Glymmsforge. There were soldiers on the parapets here, Freeguild in the mauve and black of the city’s largest regiment. They gave Balthas a wide berth, which suited him.

He watched as a woman hurried up a set of nearby steps, carrying a basket of bread. Soldiers crowded around her as she handed the loaves out. One kissed her, and they spoke quietly. Intently. Balthas watched their soul-fires intertwine, briefly, before they broke apart and went their separate ways. He could taste their shared memories on the air, as well as the love they felt for one another. Annoyed by the intrusive sensation, he turned away.

He could sense Miska and Helios, waiting below on the avenue that ran between the two innermost city walls, as he stood impatiently here, awaiting his fellow lord-arcanum, even though he was far senior to the younger warrior. He found his thoughts drawn to Agnostai and the Gilded Reach. Places his careful studies had taken him, and places impulsive Knossus had already been.

It was not a rivalry, for rivalry implied competition. Knossus went where he would and did as he willed, driven by the same desires that drove Balthas. And like Balthas, he did not deign to notice those who lagged in his wake.

It was Knossus who had solved the audient puzzles that sealed the Chiming Vault, and unravelled the riddle of the shadeglass mechanisms within. It was Knossus who had at last translated the alchemical texts taken from the Silver Sepulchre. And it was Knossus who had been honoured by Sigmar, for his victories.

Perhaps Tyros was right, and some part of him resented the other lord-arcanum’s success. Glories that should rightfully have been his had they not fallen into the lap of another. It was irksome. Frustrating, even. He did not like to think of himself as prey to such weaknesses. And yet, here he was, gnawing at himself as he considered the situation.

‘What are you doing, brother?’

‘Calculating, Knossus. How much grain is in the city’s stores?’ Balthas turned as Knossus Heavensen joined him on the top of the wall. He pretended not to notice as the Freeguild sank to their knees, heads bowed. ‘How much water in the wells? How many more men can be mustered to the walls at notice?’

‘I have done those calculations, brother. I have waged this war a hundred thousand times, in life and beyond.’ Knossus took off his helmet and hooked it to his belt. His tattooed features turned towards Balthas. ‘This was my city, once.’

‘Yes. Perhaps it will be so again, in the event of this war’s successful prosecution.’ Balthas did not take off his own helm. He’d always felt more comfortable with something covering his face, when he had to walk abroad. In Sigmaron, it wasn’t so noticeable, but here, something in him wanted a wall between him and this realm.

He caught sight of a small, slinking shape padding across the para­pet. And another, crouched on the parapets curving above them. ‘We are being watched. Cats. And a child.’ Balthas looked at the other lord-arcanum. ‘Why are there so many cats here, Knossus?’

‘And children?’ Knossus was smiling.

Balthas grunted. ‘I am well aware of how that particular infestation comes to be.’

Knossus laughed softly. ‘She is an urchin, I expect. There are thousands of them in the city. There always have been.’ He frowned. ‘Despite the best efforts of some.’

Balthas looked away. ‘Mortals are fragile,’ he said. Soldiers glanced at him, and then hurriedly looked away. Balthas paid them little mind.

‘More than you know and less than you think,’ Knossus said. He took a breath, as if preparing for something painful. ‘Sigmar sent your chamber to aid mine.’

‘And so we will. By descending into the Ten Thousand Tombs and guarding them.’

‘They are already under guard, by Lord-Relictor Dathus, of the Gravewalkers Chamber. I have ordered them sealed off. There is no way down. Not without destroying the very defences that have been erected to protect them. I have been assured of it, by the duardin engineers who created them.’

Anger speared through Balthas. ‘Are you mad? How am I to defend something I can’t even get to?’

‘By helping me defend the city,’ Knossus said. ‘I have had reports of what is coming. Three of the desert outposts set along the Great Lyrian Road have been attacked, all contact with them lost. I fear my chamber will not be enough to stem the tide. I need you.’

‘I have my mission, brother. Given to me by the God-King himself.’

‘As do I. They are one and the same.’ Knossus pointed, out over the desert. ‘An army of mad souls, charnel leavings and bird-picked bones is on the horizon, whether we can see it or not. Every dead thing for a thousand leagues is coming here, to Glymmsforge. You know that. You can feel it on the air, as well as I.’

‘Which is why I must defend the Ten Thousand Tombs. The city is secondary to that, brother. Even you must admit that – or perhaps you are letting your nostalgia override your wisdom.’ Balthas regretted the words, even as he spoke them. But it was too late to take them back. He straightened as Knossus stared at him.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I know who you were, Knossus. And I know that is why Sigmar sent you here.’ It came out as an accusation. ‘This city was yours, you said. An attachment of your mortal self – something you ought to have left behind. Tell me, did you ask him to let you garrison this place? Is this your reward for glories accumulated?’

‘How can you think that?’ Knossus asked, his face tight with anger. ‘He sent me here to defend his holdings. And that is what I will do. This city will weather the deathstorm that threatens it, and its people will survive.’

‘This city is no concern of mine. Only what it rests atop.’ Balthas gestured dismissively. ‘You are the greatest of us, a scion of the mightiest Stormhost.’ He indicated the nearby soldiers. ‘You have an army, and the blessings of Sigmar. You have command of a city. What need is there for me?’

‘Are you still so angry with me, then?’ Knossus said softly, after a moment. ‘After all this time, have you still not forgiven me for Agnostai? Will you make me wage a war on two fronts, Gravewarden?’

Balthas looked at him. ‘Wage however many wars you like, brother. You’ll hear not a word from me. It is what you do best, after all.’

Knossus sighed and looked away. ‘Always so stubborn.’

‘If I am stubborn, it is because my mission was given to me by the God-King himself.’ Balthas drew himself up. ‘The Ten Thousand Tombs are my only concern, brother. Not whatever grudge you imagine I bear you.’ He tried to keep his voice mild, but an edge crept in regardless.

Knossus’ tattooed features quirked in something that might have been a smile. ‘That I bear you,’ he said slowly, repeating Balthas’ words. ‘Is that how you think of it, Balthas?’

‘I do not think of it at all.’

‘You were always a bad liar.’

Balthas grunted. ‘Perhaps. Then, perhaps I have never seen the need.’ He made to step past Knossus, but the other caught his arm.

‘What have I done? What offence have I given you?’ Knossus demanded. ‘From the moment we met, you have snapped and snarled at me, beneath your breath.’

Balthas shook him off. ‘I do not know,’ he said, after a moment. He looked out towards the desert. ‘I do not know,’ he repeated, more quietly. ‘Maybe I am envious. Maybe I see in you what I should be, and am not. Or maybe, I simply find you off-putting.’

Knossus snorted. He too looked towards the desert. ‘You would not be the first.’ He glanced at Balthas. ‘You frustrate me, brother. All of us, really. You were among the first of our number, but you wall yourself off from all save Tyros, and even he must make effort to speak to you.’ He leaned against the parapet, his palms braced on the crenellations. ‘Look, brother. Look around you. See what you dismiss so casually. For once, look past yourself.’

Balthas sighed but did as Knossus asked, looking with his storm-sight as well as his eyes. He saw the fear on the faces of every mortal stationed on the wall. More, he saw the hope in their eyes and heard the prayers on their lips. They were frightened, but not broken. Not beaten. They would stand, as surely as the Stormcasts themselves. They would fight and perish, and perhaps, some few among them might return, clad in sigmarite, to fight again. He flinched away from the thought.

It was an honour to be called to Sigmar’s service. But that honour weighed heavy on even the strongest soul. He looked at Knossus. ‘What is it that you want me to see, brother? That they are afraid? That they are brave, for all their fragility? I know this.’ Then, after a moment, ‘I never doubted it.’

‘If you know it, then you know nothing is more important than what we do here. Glymmsforge must stand. Whatever else, it must stand. Else these people – our people – will perish, and their souls will be added to the tally of the dead.’

Balthas glanced back at the Shimmergate, rising above them. He groped for an answer – a logical solution to the problem at hand. ‘Why not evacuate them?’

‘Would you abandon Sigmaron? Or would you fight to the last, to defend it?’

‘This is not Sigmaron.’

‘But it is their home.’ Knossus stepped back. ‘I need you, Balthas. The deathstorm approaches, and we must stand against it. All of us – mortal and immortal alike. The Ten Thousand Tombs are defended. I need you here, in the open air.’

He sighed and looked out over the desert. Balthas waited, growing more uncomfortable by the moment. Finally, Knossus shook his head. ‘If Sigmar sent you, that means he suspects that there is an ulterior motive for what is to come. Perhaps I should let you do as you wish. Even if it means weakening the defence of the city.’ Knossus looked away. ‘For the first time, in a long time, I do not know the best course ahead, and it troubles me.’

Balthas hesitated. Part of him rejoiced, for here was victory. Knossus at a loss, for once. But instead of enjoying it, he remembered Sigmar’s words.

You see yourself at odds with them, even if you do not admit it.

Not at odds, my lord. Never that.

Perhaps you are wiser than the gods, Balthas.

‘If I am wise, it is because you made me so, my lord,’ he murmured, feeling small within his shell of sigmarite. Knossus looked at him in confusion. Balthas sighed. ‘Perhaps we should find common ground upon which to make our stand, Knossus.’

He reached up, as if to clasp Knossus’ shoulder, but could not bring himself to go that far. He let his hand drop. ‘Sigmar placed me under your command, brother. So command me, and I will do all that I can to see it – and my own duty – fulfilled.’

Knossus smiled. ‘Sometimes, Balthas, I am proud to be your brother.’

‘As you should be,’ Balthas said.

From the avenue below, Miska watched the two lords-arcanum converse, and sighed. Helios shook his head. ‘He wastes so much energy on resentment.’ He stood nearby, balancing his stormstaff on the end of his blade, much to the enjoyment of the urchins lurking nearby. He had his helmet off, as did she. It eased some of the discomfort mortals felt in their presence, if they could see the faces of the Stormcasts who walked among them.

‘It is not resentment.’

‘What would you call it?’ Helios flipped his staff with his blade, caught it with his free hand and sent it spinning up into the air. The children laughed and clapped.

Miska watched them, unsmiling. ‘Balthas is akin to a mechanism. He has his lines, and he runs on them. The messiness of the world causes him much consternation.’ And this was a messy situation, to be sure.

The city wore a mask of order, but beneath that was only confusion. Glymmsforge had been rocked by the necroquake, its foundations cracked and the certainties of its citizens cast to the wind. Now, as people from outside sought safety in its walls and the dead rose, the city was balanced on the razor’s edge. One misstep, and it would be lost.

Helios laughed softly and caught his staff. ‘He will have to get used to it.’ He bowed slightly to the urchins, who cheered. ‘The masque is finished, the veil cast aside. We stand revealed, for good or ill.’

Miska grunted and leaned against her staff. Helios spoke the truth – few mortals gave them more than a second glance, now. One Stormcast was very much like another, to them, barring differences in heraldry. ‘Very poetic.’

‘Well, I am a poet.’ He looked around the courtyard, his stormstaff bouncing against his shoulder. Miska followed his gaze. Soldiers, scribes and citizens hurried about their business around them. A man selling hot potatoes from a rickety cart called out his wares as he navigated the press of bodies. Fishermen, coming from the Glass Mere with baskets of fish on their backs, threaded through the crowd, pursued by opportunistic cats. Life continued.

Miska did not often lose herself in the few memories of her mortal life she possessed. But here, for a moment, she was tempted. Instead, she shook the thought off and signalled to Porthas, who loitered nearby. The Sequitor-Prime ambled towards her, bouncing a steaming potato on one palm. He took a bite and chewed noisily. ‘Do we have our orders?’ he asked, around a mouthful.

‘Not yet, but I have no doubt we will, soon enough. I want you ready to move, when it happens. Where are the others?’

Porthas swallowed a chunk of potato. ‘Waiting in the plaza beneath the Shimmergate.’ He looked around. ‘The city is on edge. I can feel it.’ He took another bite. ‘Good potato, though.’

Helios laughed. ‘It’s the simple things, eh, Porthas?’

‘A potato is a potato, whatever the weather,’ the big Stormcast said. He looked at Miska. ‘You can feel it, can’t you, mage-sacristan? The fear. The confusion.’ He popped the last of his potato into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

Miska watched the faces of the mortals around them. There was fear there, to be sure. Uncertainty. They could smell death on the wind as easily as she. But also determination. That was good. They would need that resolve.

She heard a sharp sound – the clangour of small bells – echoing from somewhere close by. Curious, she turned in the direction of the noise. ‘Stay here,’ she said to the others. ‘I would see what that is.’

‘Not unaccompanied, you won’t,’ Helios said mildly. He glanced at Porthas.

‘She won’t be,’ Porthas said. ‘You wait here, for the lord-arcanum.’ He fell into step beside Miska. She shook her head.

‘I do not require a bodyguard.’

‘It is not about what you require,’ Porthas said. His blunt, scarred features twisted up in a smile. ‘You are our mage-sacristan, my lady, and due a certain respect.’

‘Only when it suits you, I notice.’

Porthas shrugged. ‘And it suits us now.’ He patted the haft of his greatmace. ‘Besides, we are strangers here, and this city is on edge. No telling what might happen. Helios and I are expendable, my lady. You and the lord-arcanum are not.’

‘We are all expendable, Porthas,’ Miska said. ‘That is why the Anvil of Apotheosis was made.’

‘Now you sound like the lord-arcanum.’

She glanced at him. ‘He has his moments, brother.’

Porthas grunted, but didn’t reply. Miska frowned. Porthas rarely let anything resembling an opinion slip. Taciturnity was his art, and he was a master of it. That was why Balthas favoured his cohort over others. The lord-arcanum preferred his followers to act without speaking, when possible. Sometimes, she thought Balthas would prefer an army of automatons over living warriors.

The sound of the bells continued, leading them through the press of the avenue and out into the western market square. It was a wide, twelve-sided plaza, banded by market stalls and storefronts. Wooden buildings rose at awkward angles, tottering arthritically over the open space of the plaza. Broadsheet sellers wearing heavy wooden placards wandered among the crowd, shouting out the latest news or getting in brawls with one another. There were at least four active printing presses in the city, locked in an unending battle for dominance. Elsewhere, spice merchants hawked their wares to passing trade, and fishmongers chopped away at the bounty of the Glass Mere.

Miska paused for a moment, enjoying the anarchic vitality of the city. There was nothing like it in Sigmaron. Even Azyrheim was more orderly than this. Porthas nudged her. ‘There – look.’ He pointed.

She followed his gesture and saw a thirty-foot statue of silver ­rising from a plinth of black stone. A crowd of the devoted, clad in sackcloth and ashes, and wearing chains hung with a profusion of tiny silver bells, prostrated themselves before the statue. The sound originated with their movements, and the market crowd gave them a wide berth.

Miska approached the statue, Porthas trailing after her. Mortals moved quickly from their path, but Miska paid them little mind. The statue was that of a woman – proud, clad in the robes and armour of the Collegiate Arcane. ‘She looks familiar,’ Porthas murmured.

‘She should,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘She once beat you at arm wrestling.’

Miska turned. A mage-sacristan, clad in gold and azure, strode towards them. ‘Zeraphina,’ Miska said, in greeting. ‘I wondered where you were.’

‘I came looking as soon as Knossus mentioned that you’d arrived,’ Zeraphina said. They knocked their staves together in greeting. Zeraphina glanced at Porthas. ‘Come for a rematch, then, you great ox?’

Porthas laughed. ‘Once was enough, my lady. I learned my lesson.’

Miska smiled and nodded to the statue. ‘Did you pose for that?’

Zeraphina looked at it and frowned. ‘No. Nor would I have, had they bothered to ask.’ She shook her head. ‘Ugly great thing. There’s one for Knossus, as well.’ She pitched her voice low. ‘Waste of silver, in my opinion.’

‘Do not judge them harshly, sister,’ Miska said. ‘They merely sought to honour your sacrifice.’ She looked at the statue. ‘I expect that it has brought great comfort to them, in times of need.’

‘Perhaps,’ Zeraphina said doubtfully. ‘I’m told pilgrims come from across Lyria to pray before it.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I only wish that I could answer their prayers.’

‘We can answer one at least, sister.’ Miska looked at her. ‘Come. Balthas and Knossus should be finished yelling at one another by now. They’ll need our counsel, I expect. There is much that needs doing.’

Zeraphina laughed. ‘Need? Yes. Will they listen? I’ll not give odds on that.’

The three Stormcasts departed. Behind them, the devoted continued to pray, unaware that the object of their veneration had stood before them, only moments earlier.