Soul Wars

Chapter fourteen Inviolate

‘Welcome to the Gloaming,’ Lord-Veritant Achillus said.

Balthas looked around, unimpressed. His surroundings put him in mind of a honeycomb, perforated by courtyards and blind alleys. He saw wretched structures with broken windows patched over with rag-and-board, dirt-smeared walls and rotting foundations. A canopy of crude bridges and gantries stretched above the street, from one side to the other. The sounds of singing, fighting, squabbling and screaming echoed all about him. ‘It’s a slum,’ he said.

‘Yes. And a large one.’ The lord-veritant stopped, as something crashed down on the street ahead. Balthas glanced up and saw a head vanish inside an open window. Shouts and curses echoed down from other windows, and rooftops. The city was in uproar. Not fully fledged panic, yet. But tensions were high. The Glymmsmen were stretched thin, handling the influx of new people to the city, all of whom brought with them tales of the dead.

In the wake of the cataclysm, it was too much. Flagellants roamed the streets, howling prayers. The citizens, inured to siege mentality, resignedly readied themselves for another assault. But this was different, and they knew it – for the enemy was already here.

More things – bricks – crashed down. People ran along the rooftops, shouting warnings. Balthas glanced back at the cohorts of Sequitors and Castigators following in his wake. They had orders to ignore such provocation, where possible.

‘They seem unhappy with our presence,’ Mara said. The Sequitor-Prime looked around, her gaze sharp behind her war-mask. She was not used to this, Balthas knew. The enemy was normally in front of them and clearly defined.

‘It is rare that we bring glad tidings,’ Achillus said. He raised his staff, and the lantern atop it flashed. ‘Especially to the Gloaming.’ As the light washed across the nearby storefronts and walkways, the catcallers above fell silent. ‘But they know me, here. And they know not to cross me.’

‘How many times have you had to do this?’ Balthas asked.

Achillus shrugged. ‘Enough to know that it is never simple.’ He paused. ‘Shyish is not simple. The dead are too close, here. Their whispers are shouts, and some among the living are too willing to listen.’

‘This is not the same thing. Deadwalkers are more akin to a pox than anything else.’

‘I know what deadwalkers are, lord-arcanum,’ Achillus said bluntly. ‘I have fought them since the first stones of Glymmsforge were set.’ The light from his lantern drove back the shadows and revealed ­huddled beggars in alleyways and cats slinking through gutters. Pigeons burst into flight, startled by the radiance. And something else – a warmer glow, like a current of hot air, tinged with amethyst. ‘This way.’

‘You have the trail?’ Balthas asked, following the lord-veritant down the street. They’d come into the Gloaming seeking several individuals who’d escaped a riot elsewhere in the city. A deadwalker had been involved – a trader from Gravewild, Balthas had been told. The creature had bitten several others, before it had been put down. Not all of the injured had been caught before they slipped away.

Achillus didn’t reply. Balthas frowned in annoyance. He did not require companionability in an ally, but Achillus seemed disinclined to give him the respect his position warranted. He wondered if this were some jest of Knossus’, to assign him so surly a liaison. His Sacro­sanct Chamber, along with Knossus’, was scattered across the city, investigating a thousand and one problematic incidents.

The dead no longer rested easy in Glymmsforge, and the fear in the streets grew stronger hour by hour. Deadwalkers haunted the slums, as ghostly shapes loped along isolated streets. A colony of great bats had descended upon a private park, in the inner ring of the city, and drained the life from the scions of a noble family. Undead street curs hunted cats in the back alleys, and phantom fires danced across the rooftops.

But so far, the city held. Balthas had to admit, if grudgingly, that this was mostly due to Knossus’ efforts. The other lord-arcanum was everywhere, fighting to hold together the fragile calm. His warriors walked the streets alongside the city’s defenders, and carried hope with them. It wouldn’t last, but for the moment, Glymmsforge stood inviolate.

‘There,’ Achillus said, loudly.

Balthas looked up. The tenement was a tottering pile of wood and stone with a slanted roof and haphazardly arranged chimneys. Rickety steps climbed up the sides, and crude gantries of wood and rope connected the building to those on either side, as well as one directly across the street. Washing lines stretched beneath these paths, and sodden clothes hung dripping from the highest. The doors and windows were seemingly boarded over from the inside, as if the inhabitants were afraid of someone getting in.

There was a smell on the air – subtle and foul. To Balthas’ storm-sight, the structure was bathed in a dark, amethyst radiance. Soulfire flickered somewhere inside. ‘Yes,’ he said. The magics he sensed were savage things – wilder than they should have been, and more potent. It was as if the winds of magic had grown stronger following the necroquake. But that was a problem for another time.

He turned to his Sequitors. ‘Mara, your cohort will enter the building with us.’ Mara nodded and turned, barking orders to her Sequitors. Balthas glanced at the Castigator-Prime. ‘Quintus, take your warriors and block off the surrounding streets. Nothing gets out, unless I say otherwise.’

‘As you will it, my lord,’ Quintus said, and genuflected. The Castigator-Prime gestured and his cohort scattered, two warriors to each street and side-passage. Balthas nodded in satisfaction and looked at Achillus.

‘You are certain of this, brother?’

‘I am.’ Achillus studied the doorway. ‘Several of the injured fled the attack. They might turn, if they haven’t already. If the curse spreads, this city will face a war on two fronts. The deadwalkers will scatter, and every new death will only feed their number.’

‘And if they are not gripped by this curse?’

Achillus said nothing. Balthas looked at the building. ‘A graceless structure,’ he said.

‘Function over form,’ Achillus said. He started forwards. Balthas fell into step with him. Mara and her warriors followed them, the clank of their armour loud in the quiet. Achillus drew his blade and shattered the boards blocking the doorway. A thick stink washed out over them.

Crossbow bolts splintered on Achillus’ chest-plate. He looked down, and then up. ‘That was foolish,’ he said solemnly. Then, he was through the doorway, blade singing out. Balthas followed him, staff held low. He saw Achillus cleave a mortal in two, and another standing at the top of a set of stairs, hastily reloading his crossbow. The man was a bravo, clad in rattletrap gear and bearing the scars of a life lived on the wrong side of Azyr’s law. Balthas saw the story of him at a single glance and chose a fitting end.

He gestured, drawing the skeins of aether tight, and the second crossbowman screamed as his form stiffened and became stone. The newly made statue rocked slightly and then toppled from the top of the steps to crash into the floor below. Achillus glanced at him and nodded. ‘Well done.’

‘It lacked subtlety,’ Balthas said. He looked around. Cheap lanterns hung from the walls. The bottom floor of the structure had been broken open, revealing the cellars below. Planks of wood crossed the hole like makeshift bridges. From below, he heard a dull moaning, muffled by the confines of the cellars.

Sequitors pounded past him, assuming defensive positions. He stepped to the edge of the hole and peered down. Deadwalkers ­shuffled aimlessly in the great pit below. Some scratched at the walls, while others gnawed on their own flesh. Many were old things, dried to sticks and covered in decades of filth. Others were fresh – their wounds only hours old, if that. ‘What is this?’ he said.

‘A plague pit,’ a voice said, from above. ‘Or it was.’

A man clad in thin, patched robes, stepped onto the landing above, accompanied by several warriors who had the look of sellswords. They looked distinctly unhappy about the situation, unlike their employer. He had a thin, haunted look, and the ghost of a smile passed over his face. ‘I spent months, digging through records and reports, until I found it. You burned it, once. I suspect it looks different now. But they were still here, buried in the dark. Truly, the dead are persistent.’

Achillus glanced at Balthas. ‘I thought this place looked familiar.’

Balthas shook his head. ‘Not all of those corpses are old.’ The man was mad. Worse, his soul was a tattered sack, leaking a sickening amethyst light. Balthas had fought sorcerers steeped in death-magic before, and began to draw strands of aether tight, readying himself.

‘Fresh ingredients, gathered by my… aides,’ the necromancer said, gesturing to the sellswords. ‘They were infected, you know. They would have turned, regardless. This way, they shall serve a greater purpose. They shall be tools of war, rather than mindless beasts.’ He glanced at one of the bravos. ‘Deal with them.’

The man, scarred and missing an ear, goggled. ‘What?’

‘I’m paying you to ensure that my studies are not interrupted, am I not?’ The necromancer gestured. ‘Kill them.’

‘But they… they’re…’ the bravo began.

The necromancer sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll do it myself.’ He raised a hand. Achillus lunged for the steps, as Balthas felt the aether quaver. Sickly green flame speared through the gathered sellswords, slaying them instantly. As they fell, the necromancer spun and flung out a hand. He spat a single, deplorable word that echoed like a cemetery bell.

From the cellar, the dead answered. Swiftly, more swiftly than seemed possible, the deadwalkers began to climb, one atop the next, scrambling over the lip of the pit with bestial agility. They rushed towards the Sequitors, slavering and snarling.

Balthas turned. ‘Mara – look to the pit. Leave the necromancer to Achillus and me.’ The Sequitors braced themselves, and Mara set herself between the deadwalkers and the doorway. Stormsmite mauls thudded down, pulping flesh and bone, as crumbling hands scraped against soulshields. Satisfied they would keep the dead corralled, Balthas turned back to the steps.

Achillus was already halfway up. The necromancer was chanting. The bodies of his sellswords twitched and rose, but not to attack the approaching lord-veritant. Instead, the dead slumped over the necro­mancer, intertwining their broken limbs.

Amethyst light danced across them, and flesh ran like wax, until one body bled into the next. The necromancer rose up, borne aloft on the hands and feet of the dead. Skulls cracked open and stretched over the necromancer’s head, forming a hood of bone and hair. The bodies had become akin to a twitching, steaming suit of war-plate, crafted from meat rather than metal.

‘Nagash calls and his faithful answer,’ the mortal shrieked. ‘When he reaches out, it is with a thousand hands. When he speaks, it is with a thousand voices. Hear the word of Nagash – hail Nagash! Hail the Undying King!’

The conglomeration took a plodding step forwards, towards the edge of the landing. Floorboards bent beneath its grotesque weight. The mortal swung out a hand, entombed within a number of others, creating a massive paw with hundreds of writhing fingers. The hand slammed into Achillus as he reached the top step, and there was a spark of azure light. The lord-veritant was sent tumbling down the steps, cursing the entire way.

The necromancer followed, shattering the steps as he descended, one great paw gouging apart the wall alongside him. A massive knot of fists barrelled down. Achillus rolled aside and scrambled to his feet. The necromancer heaved himself around in pursuit. ‘I will crack open your shell and offer up your soul to Nagash,’ he screamed.

‘No. You will not.’ Balthas stepped quickly between them, his staff raised. The conglomeration lurched forwards and grappled him. It was stronger than it looked. Faster. But Balthas held it at bay.

The necromancer snarled at him, baring rotten teeth. ‘Stand not between the Undying King and his kingdom!’ Balthas felt a preternatural chill slither through him at the words. He caught hold of the skull-and-scalp helmet, and felt the pulse of its wearer’s twisted soul. It was like broken shards of black glass, biting into his palm. The necro­mancer had used what was left of his own soul to weave together his grisly war-plate – the binding spell was a thing of brute force and crude edges, lacking in any subtlety. It was easy enough to find the loose strands of magic and tug apart the knot holding it all together.

As Balthas unravelled the spell, he felt the mortal’s soul twitch and flutter in his grasp. Panic rose in the necromancer’s gaze, and he thrashed, trying to free himself. Balthas held fast, however, and the mortal could not pull away. ‘N-no, no you cannot…’ the necro­mancer whined. ‘I was promised justice – justice against those who hounded me.’

‘Is this justice, then?’ Balthas said. The first flap of flesh-plate peeled away from the whole. More followed, with a hideous sucking sound. ‘This abomination? If you think so, you are as broken as these husks.’ Broken limbs and meat sloughed away all at once, leaving the necromancer dangling in Balthas’ grip. He shook the pathetic creature. ‘Answer me.’

The necromancer cursed and clawed at his forearm. Dark strands of aether tightened about his crooked fingers. Balthas saw the spell forming before the mortal spoke. He squeezed, cutting off the necro­mancer’s air. The mortal gasped, and the spell turned to ash on the air. Disgusted, Balthas tossed him aside.

The necromancer clambered to his knees, wheezing. ‘You… you are too late,’ he coughed. ‘The dead outnumber the living. And the lords of death march upon you. They are coming, and all who are imprisoned shall be freed by–’ He was silenced by Achillus’ blade, as it parted his head from his neck. Balthas looked down at the decapitated body as it twitched in its death throes.

‘He was no threat,’ he said, after a moment.

‘Not to us,’ Achillus said, glancing meaningfully at the bodies in the pit. He took down one of the lanterns hanging on the wall and cast it down, where the dead lay thickest. The cheap salamander oil spread quickly, carrying a trail of flame.

‘Come, brother,’ Achillus said, stepping over the flames. ‘The shadows lengthen and other tasks await us.’

‘Whatever else comes, we must hold the Shimmerway,’ Lynos Gravewalker said. ‘If our route to the Shimmergate is compromised, there will be no retreat.’

‘I thought the Anvils of the Heldenhammer never retreated,’ Orius Adamantine said, smiling slightly. The two lords-celestant stood atop the Mere-Wall, overlooking the Glass Mere and the hundreds of thriving fish farms that clung to the shore, and the villages that spread along and up the sides of the wall like barnacles.

Meeting here had become something of a tradition for the two. It was quieter here than along the outer walls. Fewer soldiers, fewer people making their way from one section of the city to the next. Fewer distractions. And something about the smell of fish and the sound of water lapping against the shore put Lynos in a contemplative frame of mind. One more conducive to the discussion of strategy.

Birds cried out raucously as they circled the freshwater lake, and Lynos could hear the shouts of fishermen as they went about the business of the day. They seemed to have no idea of what was coming. No understanding of the tensions that gripped the city. Or perhaps, they simply didn’t care. Even with war on the horizon and the city in upheaval, fishmongers needed fish and fishermen needed coin. Was that bravery, he wondered, or foolishness? He looked at his fellow lord-celestant. ‘We prefer not to retreat, on the whole. But sometimes it is unavoidable. Besides which, who are you to talk of such things?’

Orius laughed. The Adamantines had a similar reputation for ­stubbornness in the face of long odds. ‘True. But you are right, brother. We must ensure that the city’s main artery remains in our hands.’ He frowned. ‘I do not like to think of the armies of the dead spilling into Azyr. Or of what slumbers beneath us waking up.’

Lynos bowed his head. ‘Were Pharus with us, I would have no fear of that.’ He shook his head and looked up at the dark sky. Clouds covered the sun, and what little light managed to get through was weak and muddy. ‘But he is not, and we must press on, regardless.’ Despite his words, it felt wrong, going into battle without his lord-castellant. Pharus was the rock upon which the Gravewalkers stood. Without him, everything felt off-kilter somehow. He took a deep breath and pushed the thought aside. ‘Another debt added to Nagash’s tally,’ Lynos rumbled. ‘Like Makvar, at Gothizzar. He fell, waiting for aid that never came.’

‘And has born enmity for the dead ever since,’ Orius finished. ‘Yes, you’ve told me this tale before, Lynos. I’ve fought alongside Makvar – I know his anger as well as I know my own. Or yours, come to that.’ He shook his head. ‘This is different. Nagash played Makvar false, but did not openly move against him. The same when the Shadowed Soul invaded his demesnes thirty years ago on his ill-fated expedition – then, too, Nagash ceded the field rather than risk open war.’

‘Something has changed,’ Lynos said, nodding. ‘The air tastes different. Feels different. As if the game has changed.’

‘We have relied on the Undying King being, if not an ally, then the enemy of our enemy. If he moves against us, things become less certain. Nagash is a different sort of foe to the servants of the Ruinous Powers, or the orruks.’ Orius looked down into the waters of the Glass Mere, as if seeking his reflection. From this high up, and in the weak light, Lynos knew that even his eyes would discern nothing save stretches of dark on dark. ‘And we face a different sort of war. One I fear that we are not prepared for.’

‘And there you would be wrong, brothers,’ Knossus Heavensen called out as he approached, his helmet under one arm. ‘Sigmar foresaw this moment the day Tarsus Bull-Heart failed to return from Stygxx, and his Warrior Chamber came back in pieces. We of the Sacrosanct Chamber have been raised up to face that which is coming. It is our sacred duty, and now Glymmsforge is protected by, not one, but two such chambers.’

‘Which can only mean that Sigmar foresees this city enduring the brunt of whatever is coming,’ Lynos said flatly. It had been almost a week since the second Sacrosanct Chamber – this one bearing the colours of his own Stormhost – had arrived. As yet, the lord-arcanum – Balthas, Lynos thought he was called – had avoided him. He suspected he knew why. Pharus had not yet been reforged. In fact, none of those who’d died in the necroquake had.

One way or another, Lynos intended to bring the lord-arcanum to task and get some answers. Orius nudged him. ‘Smoke,’ the other lord-celestant said. He pointed. ‘The northern district.’

‘The Fane of Nagash-Morr,’ Knossus said, without looking.

Lynos peered in the direction of the smoke. ‘I thought it sealed not long after the cataclysm. Has some fool attempted to reopen it?’

‘Not fools. Worshippers. Mortals who believe in the lie of Nagash’s benevolence. They seek his protection from the dead.’ Knossus sighed. ‘Perhaps for them, there is safety there. But the Undying King is our enemy, and he can be allowed no foothold, however benign, in this city. I ordered Lord-Veritant Achillus and Lord-Arcanum Balthas to clear it, and bring the temple down, stone by stone.’

‘I should have been there,’ Lynos growled. He felt a pulse of frustration. This was his city, when all was said and done. The responsibility was his.

Knossus looked at him. ‘You cannot be everywhere, brother. The deed is done, or soon will be.’ He sighed and looked out over the Mere. ‘I forgot… I forgot how beautiful it was.’ He spoke so softly, Lynos almost didn’t hear him. Then he sighed again and turned. ‘Come. I came to collect you both. It is time to hold what might be our final council of war, before things reach the end.’

‘Is it so close, then?’ Orius asked, looking towards the desert. The horizon had grown steadily darker as the days passed, and the nights seemed longer.

‘Closer than we know,’ Knossus said, solemnly. ‘Come, brothers. The others will be waiting. We must ready Glymmsforge for war.’

‘I dislike burning temples, brother,’ Balthas said, as he and Lord-Veritant Achillus climbed the stone steps to the council chambers of the stormkeep. The fortress of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer crouched at the city’s heart, within sight of the Shimmergate. It was a squat, black edifice, built for chilly efficiency rather than grandeur. Balthas approved.

There had been more to do, after the necromancer’s death. The tasks seemed endless. Mystic wards to be strengthened and places of ill-repute searched. Ghosts to lay and bodies to burn in cleansing fire.

‘Even ones devoted to Nagash?’ Achillus asked, not harshly. He had become less surly after the battle with the necromancer. Not friendly… but tolerable.

‘They were doing no harm to any but themselves.’ Balthas shook his head. ‘Also, I mourn the loss of their libraries – those who spend their time in the company of the dead have long memories, and keep good records.’

‘They will rebuild,’ Achillus said. ‘They always do.’ He sighed. ‘Peaceful as the adherents of Nagash-Morr are, they are still a warrior-cult, and dedicated to a god we are now at war with. Sooner or later, they would have made the wrong choice.’

‘To serve their god, you mean?’ He thought of the mortals, standing disconsolate as their place of worship was erased in mystic fire. They had not resisted – indeed, they seemed to have expected it. The priests, in their amethyst robes and with their faces painted in ash and dust, had calmed the crowd. They had spoken of inevitability and acceptance. Of how all things died, and death was not the end.

‘To make war on ours,’ Achillus said. He looked at Balthas. ‘You are new here, lord-arcanum. You do not understand the ways of Shyish. The ebb and flow of this realm is unlike any other. This is the realm of a god who – at his best – is inimical to all that we represent. We cannot allow him a foothold here, in this enclave of Azyr. Not now. Perhaps not ever again.’

‘You say that as if you think this war will end with the status quo restored,’ Balthas said. ‘Nagash has upended the status quo. Things will never be the same.’

‘All the more reason to burn his fanes and scatter his worshippers, then.’ Achillus stopped, one step above Balthas. ‘This is the red edge of the frontier, Balthas. Here, the influence of our god wanes as another grows. We do what we can to shine Azyr’s light here, but some shadows are too persistent, even for us.’ He gestured to the lantern atop his staff, its soft blue radiance washing over the stones around them.

Balthas stared into that light for a moment. Then he looked away. ‘You are correct, of course. The thought of all that knowledge – going up in smoke…’

Achillus snorted. ‘If you think they allowed us to destroy anything of any real value, then you are not half the sage people claim.’ He turned and began to ascend once more. ‘I’ve burned that temple eight times in the past eighty years, brother. They keep rebuilding it. And they invite me to the first service they hold, each time.’

Balthas paused. ‘Do you go?’

‘Every time.’ Achillus laughed. A moment later, Balthas joined him.

The council chambers rested at the heart of the stormkeep. A circular space, it was dominated by a map of the city. The map was the height of a man, and nearly as long as the wall to which it was affixed, showing every alleyway and beggar’s gate in Glymmsforge.

It had been drawn with a care and precision beyond that of any human cartographer. Only duardin draftsmen were so precise, for all that they disliked the use of such ephemeral materials. Their mapmakers preferred metal and stone to ink and parchment. Similar maps stretched nearby. One was of the known regions of the underworld of Lyria, while the other was of the Zircona Desert and the outposts along the Great Lyrian Road.

There was no table, no chairs. A rough-hewn bench occupied one wall, and a number of stools were scattered about, for the use of mortals. A few ragged battle-banners covered what the maps didn’t, and other trophies hung here and there – skulls taken from great beasts, mostly. By and large, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer put little stock in trophies.

Flickering storm-lanterns hung from the rafters, casting a cerulean light over the chamber. Balthas saw the two lords-celestant, Lynos Gravewalker of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, and Orius Adamantine of the Hammers of Sigmar, studying the map closely and conferring in low tones with a mortal soldier, wearing the mauve and black of the Glymmsmen. The Freeguilder held a war-helm, wrought in the shape of a skull, beneath one arm, and his close-cropped hair was crimson.

‘Varo Tyrmane, Lord-Captain of the Glymmsmen,’ Achillus said, softly. He indicated a burly duardin sitting perched on a stool nearby. ‘And that’s Grom Juddsson, representative of the Riven Clans.’ Juddsson was clad in rich robes and fine war-plate, and his beard was oiled and curled into tight ringlets, threaded with silver. He stared pensively at the map, gnawing on the stem of a pipe.

Tyrmane and Juddsson weren’t the only mortals present. A representative of the Collegiate Arcane, clad in fine purple robes, stood off to the side, murmuring instructions to the bevy of scribes surrounding her. A group of Freeguild officers, wearing the uniforms of several regiments other than the Glymmsmen, spoke quietly in one corner.

Balthas recognised some of them – a captain of the Silver Company, out of Chamon, with his pristine white doublet and polished armour; a line-sergeant of the Ironsides, a gun-company normally contracted by the Ironweld Arsenal; and a boyr of the Sons of the Black Bear, a lance of knights from the northern baronies of Azyr. The knight was the biggest of the three, his bearskin cloak making him seem massive next to the others.

Achillus went to speak with Knossus, who stood conferring with the representative of the Collegiate Arcane and his mage-sacristan, Zeraphina. Balthas stood, slightly ill at ease in this gathering of strangers. He wished he hadn’t left Miska to oversee the deconstruction of the temple, but someone had needed to ensure that the fires didn’t spread.

He felt, rather than saw, someone approach. ‘You have been avoiding me, lord-arcanum.’ The voice was stern and somewhat morose.

Balthas sighed and turned to face Lynos Gravewalker. The lord-celestant was a sombre titan, as befitted one who had spent much of the past century seeing that the dead rested easy in their tombs. From what Balthas knew of him, he knew better than most the dangers of Shyish, and had a keen mind for one whose whole purpose was war. ‘I assure you that I have not, lord-celestant,’ he said. A lie, but a kind one. ‘Circumstances have prevented me from making a proper introduction, for which you have my apologies.’

‘They tell me that Pharus has not been reforged.’

Balthas looked at him. ‘Who says this?’

Lynos shrugged. ‘The aether speaks. I listen.’ He frowned. ‘Is it true?’

Balthas studied the map. ‘It is as Sigmar wills.’

‘That is not an answer, lord-arcanum.’

‘No. It is not.’ Balthas sighed. ‘There were… complications.’

‘Tell me,’ Lynos growled.

‘His soul was… lost during the necroquake.’

‘Lost?’ Lynos ran his hand through his hair. ‘Lost.’ He looked away. ‘Pharus was my shield. The rock upon which I built my strategies. And now he is gone. I feel as though I have lost my hand.’

Balthas hesitated. He reached out, some half-formed thought of comforting the lord-celestant on his mind. But he pulled his hand back at the last moment. Lynos would not thank him. For all the lord-celestant knew, Balthas had been forced to destroy Pharus. Instead, he stared at the map, analysing the city, noting its weaknesses and strengths.

Glymmsforge had grown from humble beginnings. A rough palisade, erected around the Shimmergate had been reinforced time and again over the course of five decades, expanding into a dozen concentric rings of stone. Man, duardin and aelf had worked as one, to erect a monument to civilisation amid the wilderness.

His eyes slid across the map. The bulk of the city, as well as a vast freshwater lake known as the Glass Mere, was confined within the innermost rings. The outer rings formed a defensive network that had been refined over decades. But the city’s most powerful defences were not its high walls and batteries of cannons.

Every brick in every wall had been blessed, or else marked by holy sigils. The bones of common saints were interred in every market square and byway. The districts of the city spread outwards from the temples of the gods – not just Sigmar, though his were the most prominent. In the Dweomervale, in the city’s southern district, a basalt shrine to Malerion crouched amid gloomy streets. In the Lyrian Souk, a vine-shrouded sanctuary to Alarielle, the Everqueen, spread living branches over the rooftops. There were others.

The largest was the Grand Tempestus – an imposing edifice of stone, built by the first devoted to set foot in Glymmsforge. It rested at the heart of the original city and had grown as Glymmsforge grew – from rough palisade chapel to a veritable fortress of faith.

These temples radiated an aura that made it difficult for the dead and the damned to gain a foothold in the city. It was cleverly done. Balthas traced the ley lines – the currents of celestial power – running through the city. ‘Like a spirit trap, writ large,’ he murmured. ‘Who built it, I wonder?’

‘My ancestor,’ Knossus said, from behind him. ‘Or, rather, the an­cestor of the man I was. He built the city. Designed it. And the generations that followed built on his work.’

Balthas glanced at him. ‘He knew of the Ten Thousand Tombs?’

Knossus nodded. ‘Parts of the city were built with them in mind. The Grand Tempestus lies over the only stable entrance into the cata­combs below. All of the others were found and sealed by the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, over the years.’

‘Wise. And now you’ve sealed the final entrance.’ Balthas tapped the map with his staff. ‘Even so – is it guarded?’

‘It is. A cohort of Liberators – specially chosen – ward the Grand Tempestus.’

‘Is that enough?’

Knossus smiled sadly. ‘I suspect not. But we will come to that in a moment.’ He struck the floor with the ferrule of his staff. ‘Friends, let us begin.’ He looked around, as all eyes turned towards him. ‘There is a storm on the horizon. We can all feel it. All who live in Glymmsforge can feel it. From the highest seat on the city’s conclave, to the meanest beggar in the Lyrian Souk. Shyish is in upheaval. The hills rise wild, and the dead rise with them. They will come to Glymmsforge, if they are not already on the way here.’

‘You are certain then?’ the duardin, Juddsson, growled.

‘We have the word of refugees flooding the city. The Zirc nomads are circling their fortress-wagons around their oases, and we have lost contact with more outposts than I care to consider – all along the Great Lyrian Road. As it stands, only Fort Alenstahdt is still sending regular reports.’ Knossus indicated the desert map. ‘And those reports are dire indeed – deadwalker herds massing in the dunes, and men going missing in the night.’

Balthas peered at the map. Fort Alenstahdt was only a few days’ travel from Glymmsforge. If the enemy were on the move towards the city, following the road, Fort Alenstahdt would fall right in the likely path of attack.

‘None of that is what I’d call hard evidence,’ Juddsson said. ‘The deadwalkers are always massing, and men always go missing.’

‘The aether is alive with malign portents, Master Juddsson,’ the representative from the Collegiate Arcane said. ‘Even your own runelords must have some concerns.’

‘Aye, but it’s always best to confirm such things, Lady Aelhad,’ the duardin said, gesturing at her with the stem of his pipe. ‘Manlings have been known to panic over a change in the weather. No dis­respect intended.’

‘It’s more than the weather, Grom, and you know it,’ Tyrmane said, flatly. ‘Don’t think we don’t know that the Riven Clans have been quietly sealing off their tunnels from the rest of the city. If there’s panicking, your folk are the ones doing it.’

Juddsson peered at Tyrmane. ‘There’s a difference between being sensible, and losing your head over a few deadwalkers, Varo.’ He smiled thinly. ‘In any event, it’s not our tunnels you should be worrying about. My folk have been hearing things from those Grungni-be-damned catacombs. Sounds like this storm of yours is already here, and raging beneath our feet.’ He looked at Knossus. ‘Then, that’s why you’re here, eh?’

‘I am here to ensure that Glymmsforge stands,’ Knossus said. ‘Whatever comes, the city will weather it. That is my oath, Grom Juddsson. What about you?’

The duardin sat back and tugged at his beard. He looked away, frowning. ‘This is our ground, now. We’ll hold it, come fire or foe.’

‘We shall do it together,’ Knossus said. Juddsson glanced at him and, after a moment, nodded tersely. Balthas watched the exchange admiringly. He’d seen similar confrontations several times over the course of the week. He was forced to admit that Knossus was skilled in the art of politesse. Without him playing peacemaker, the city’s defenders might well have done Nagash’s work for him.

‘If the enemy comes, why should we have to do anything, save sit behind these walls and pepper them with silver shot?’ the Ironsides sergeant grunted. ‘I was under the impression this city was impregnable.’

‘No city is impregnable,’ Orius said. ‘Some are simply more difficult to get into than others.’ He glanced at Lynos, who nodded with some reluctance.

‘It’s true. The city has been besieged before. Our walls are high and thick, but the dead are relentless and do not tire. They will come again and again, until they succeed or we destroy them to the last corpse and banish the last spirit.’

‘This city possesses some defence against the dead other than walls,’ Balthas said, gesturing to the map. ‘I noticed the great channels of silver that circumnavigate the districts, and the purple salt that fills it.’ The channels were marked on the map, and they formed a precise circle of many lines, stretching across the city and encompassing each district in turn. Despite its seemingly continuous nature, the circle was broken in twelve places. ‘What do these points mark?’

‘The Twelve Saints,’ Knossus said, as he laid a hand flat against the map. ‘The mausoleum gates they are interred within form the extremities of a star of protection about the city. They are at once our strongest points and our weakest. Only the most powerful of spirits can endure the celestial energies radiating from those sacred bones.’ He frowned. ‘If they are to truly take the city, they would need to destroy as many as they can and breach the wards keeping Glymmsforge sacrosanct.’

‘If they’re smart, they’ll focus only on a handful,’ Lynos said. ‘Three, maybe four. Once they’ve forced a wedge in our defences, they could flood the city.’

Knossus nodded. ‘Yes. The question before us is which ones?’

‘We cannot defend them all.’ Balthas studied the map. ‘We lack the numbers.’ He indicated the concentric walls. ‘Perhaps we should pull back to the inner walls. Conduct a defence in depth, rather than a more conventional stratagem.’

‘Is he insulting us?’ Orius murmured to Lynos, loud enough for Balthas to hear.

‘Not intentionally, I suspect,’ Lynos said.

Balthas frowned. ‘This city has defences, does it not? Runnel networks to pour blessed lead down on the enemy, and more besides. Evacuate the outer city, close the portcullises and use the time to reinforce the inner walls.’

‘We’d be sacrificing a third of the city,’ Orius said.

‘To save the rest,’ Balthas said. ‘Surely that is an acceptable trade?’

‘And what of those who live there? We cannot evacuate them all on short notice,’ Varo Tyrmane said. The mortal did not sound opposed to the idea, so much as curious. ‘Their deaths will only add to the enemy’s numbers.’

‘We could begin the evacuation now,’ Balthas said.

‘And we’d have a full-scale panic on our hands a few hours later,’ the Silver Company captain said. ‘The citizenry are on edge. Attacks by the dead have been on the increase for days. If it starts to look like we’re abandoning half the city, the situation will become untenable.’

Balthas shook his head in annoyance. He thought of the necromancer’s words. What did a lunatic like that know that they didn’t? ‘It is already untenable. The enemy is coming. We cannot simply do nothing and hope for victory. Even high walls and sacred circles can only do so much…’ He trailed off and looked at the map again. ‘But they do enough.’

‘Brother – what is it?’ Knossus asked.

‘We have been asking the wrong question,’ Balthas said, leaning towards the map, trying to see what it didn’t show. ‘Too focused on the where and when, but not the why.’

Knossus looked at him. ‘What do you mean, brother?’

‘If this city is inviolate, why bother attacking? Nagash is not some blood-mad warlord, seeking to impress the Ruinous Powers. He never does anything without purpose. If the dead are mustering, then there is a flaw in our defences. One we are not seeing.’ Balthas turned. A murmur swept through the others, at this. Knossus looked at the map.

‘I hope you are wrong, brother. But I fear that you are not.’