Soul Wars

Chapter fifteen The Fall of Fort Alenstahdt

Juvius Thrawl wrapped his scarf about his face and flung the door to the station office open. Purple sand, cast into the air by the wind, scraped against his exposed flesh as he hurried towards the walls. The portly scribe had an armful of scrolls and records, several of which he dropped as he navigated the cramped courtyard of Fort Alenstahdt.

Made from blocks of sandstone and imported timber, the fort was shaped roughly like a star, with sloping walls and a wide courtyard, dotted with long, timber-frame structures. The station office was one of these, while the others were mostly used as barracks and storehouses. An immense well-house rose from the centre of the courtyard, and was connected to the walls by gantries of rope and wood. Great, tottering stacks of crates, barrels and sacks lined the walls, and groups of Thrawl’s fellow scribes moved among them, recording the contents or preparing them to be transported to Glymmsforge.

From its position, Fort Alenstahdt stood watch over the Great Lyrian Road, a flat serpent of raised stone that stretched across the Zircona Desert from Glymmsforge. It was dotted by duardin-made oases and trading enclaves like the fort, garrisoned by whoever the merchant families of Glymmsforge could pay to do the work. Often, that meant one of the smaller clans of fyreslayers or otherwise uncontracted bands of Freeguild mercenaries.

The fort was a way station, situated amid a nexus of ancient trade routes stretching across the Zircona Desert. Those routes had been set by the great fortress-wagons of the Zirc nomads, which forever trundled across the deserts of the underworld, carrying the tribes from one oasis to the next. The nomads traded shadeglass and other oddities culled from the sands for iron and silver, both of which were in high demand by the desert tribes.

Thrawl sidestepped a pair of scribes arguing with a duardin trader. The duardin thumped a meaty fist into his palm, his tone becoming bellicose. His bodyguards fingered their axes and glared silently at the Freeguild soldiers lounging nearby, watching the proceedings with rude amusement.

The men wore what could laughingly be called a uniform – voluminous breeches of varying shades, tucked into knee-high boots, heavy leather coats made from the hide of some large species of reptile and reinforced caps of the same, hidden beneath the floppy, wide-brimmed hats that seemed to serve only to hide their grinning, scarred faces.

Both wore bandoliers heavy with powder, shot and an assortment of knives, axes and various implements of murder. Their hair and moustaches were long, and intricately braided. Both carried the long-barrelled handguns prized by the members of their company.

The Leatherbacks were a gun company, from the fenlands that stretched across the south of Ghur. As far as Thrawl was concerned, to call them disreputable was to do a disservice to the term. They were all but barbarians, with manners that put orruks to shame. Worse, they were all related, in ways too complex for an outsider to sort out. Thrawl had spent most of his time at the fort navigating a web of internecine alliances, blood feuds and grudges that had the local duardin nodding in appreciation.

But they were hardy warriors, capable of enduring the blistering days and freezing nights without complaint. They had little fear of the deadwalkers that roamed the dunes, and often trapped the hungry corpses in cages to use for target practice. And if they were a bit rough with the Zirc nomads who came to trade, so much the better as far as their employers were concerned.

One of the pair watching the argument lifted his handgun in the general direction of the duardin and sighted down the barrel. The other scratched his throat meaningfully, as the trader’s bodyguards tensed. Thrawl wasn’t concerned. The duardin knew better than to cause a scene, and the Leatherbacks were too lazy to actually start a fight.

Thrawl nodded to the one aiming his weapon. ‘Where’s Poppa?’ he called out, fighting to be heard over the argument.

‘Parapet,’ the soldier grunted, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. His accent was atrocious, and he spoke with a pronounced drawl. Then, that wasn’t surprising, given where he and his fellows came from. He lowered his weapon and gave it a fond pat.

Those Leatherbacks that weren’t lucky enough to own such a weapon had to make do with a glaive or a halberd, until someone better equipped died and they could ‘inherit’ a handgun. In his time at the fort, Thrawl had seen no less than three duels fought over such abandoned weapons. The duels were theoretically fought only to first blood, but said blood usually wound up spurting from somewhere vital. The Leatherbacks would just as cheerfully murder their own kin as they would the enemy, if it meant getting their hands on a gun.

Thrawl started towards the parapet, but cursed as he trod on the tail of a dog – one of a dozen curs that seemed to have followed the Leatherbacks from their last duty. The big, yellow brute yelped and turned, teeth bared. Thrawl, used to such displays by now, fumbled loose a scroll and smacked the mongrel on the snout. It blinked and backed off, growling. Thrawl swept past, before it recovered its courage. More of the beasts lay in the shadows beneath the parapets, hiding from the wind. Several barked lazily as he climbed the crude wooden steps up to the top of the wall, and the enclosed para­pet above.

Poppa Chown was waiting on him, at the top. The mountainous commander of the Leatherbacks was silver-haired, twice the height of his tallest warrior and heavy with fat and muscle. Even his scars had scars. His clothes had been altered to fit his massive frame, and gave him a tatterdemalion aspect beneath his battered coat. He sat on an iron stool in front of a firing slit, his rifle between his knees. It was half again as long as a handgun, with a narrow barrel that scraped the roof of the parapet and a reinforced stock that Thrawl knew was heavy enough to crush a deadwalker’s skull.

His men bustled about him, keeping watch on the road and the desert that stretched out to the horizon on either side. Chown glanced around as Thrawl entered the parapet. ‘Ho, children – look. The scribe has come to visit.’ Chown spoke around a mouthful of the brownish herb he incessantly chewed, and he punctuated his welcome with a gobbet of spittle that narrowly missed Thrawl’s boot. ‘Say hello to the scribe, pups.’

Nearby warriors shouted obscenities or made rude gestures. Thrawl ignored them. ‘I need your pay records,’ he said, without preamble.

Chown turned with a grunt and squinted at him. ‘Why?’

‘To ensure that they align with my copies.’

‘They do.’

‘Even so, I wish to make sure.’

Chown smiled, showing off brown teeth. ‘Don’t you trust Poppa?’ He gestured expansively, and his men laughed knowingly. Chown’s title was informal but accurate. He was the patriarch of a wide-ranging clan, as well as its captain. He was father, master and commander, and his men loved and hated him in equal measure.

‘I don’t trust my own father, let alone you,’ Thrawl said bluntly.

Chown gave a bellow of laughter and slapped his knee. ‘And nor should you,’ he growled cheerfully. ‘We’re cheating you.’

‘I know.’

‘Then you don’t need the books.’ Chown made to turn back. Thrawl stepped up beside him.

‘I need them if I want to see how much you’re cheating my employers by.’

Chown glanced up at him and grinned. ‘Intending to skim off the difference and fatten your own purse, eh?’

‘Obviously.’ Thrawl looked out through the gun-slit. He could see the great wagon-fortresses of the Zirc nomads moving across the horizon, trying to outrace the storm everyone knew was coming but no one was talking about. Behind the hulking conveyances, Thrawl could see the purple glare on the horizon. It was brighter than it had been yesterday.

He shivered, suddenly cold. He fumbled a sigmarite amulet out from within his robes and rubbed it with his thumb. It was just a cheap thing, made from lead. His mother had given it to him before his departure, thinking it would protect him from the horrors of Shyish. Its weight was comforting, when the shadows of this realm pressed too close.

‘The desert is on fire,’ Chown said, idly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pouch of tanned leather. He extracted a handful of leaves from the pouch before offering it to Thrawl as he stuffed the leaves into his mouth. Thrawl waved the pouch away, faintly disgusted by the musky odour emanating from it.

‘It’s getting closer, then,’ Thrawl said, softly. They’d felt the realm shake, and the packs of deadwalkers roaming the desert had become more focused. Worse were the reports from the nomads, of the things they’d seen and heard, out in the wastes.

‘Death always does.’

Thrawl frowned. ‘Is that meant to be reassuring?’

Chown chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged.

Thrawl sighed. This hadn’t been his first choice of posting, but it had been the only one available. Men and women who could read and write were in high demand on the frontier. Someone had to keep proper records, to keep barbarians like Chown from bankrupting Azyrite merchants. And to keep said merchants honest when it came time to pay their taxes.

Besides records, Thrawl had amused himself with writing a concise history of Fort Alenstahdt. He fancied his Dispatches from Zircona might one day be read alongside such volumes as Herst’s History of Greater Lyria, Tertoma’s Forty Days in the Writhing Weald and Guillepe Barco’s infamous The Klaxus Wars: An Eyewitness Account.

At the moment, he was stuck on the chapter concerning the recent earth-tremors and the increased deadwalker activity. Accounts he’d gathered from passing traders and pilgrims made it seem as if every tomb and grave had disgorged its contents. It all seemed so… impossible. But that word had little meaning on the frontier. He sighed again. ‘I hate the desert. I hate Shyish.’

Chown grunted. ‘You should put in for a change of post, scribe.’

Thrawl snorted. ‘And do you have a recommendation, then?’

‘The Black Marsh Barony, scribe – good place. That’s where we’re from. A place for men. Not like this desert. Only bones in the desert.’ Chown leaned over and spat a mouthful of whatever he’d been chewing, hitting a dog that lay nearby. The beast yelped and whirled to its feet, snapping at the air in confusion. The men laughed. Chown wiped his lips and grinned. ‘Sand gets everywhere. Scrape a man to his stilts.’

‘Then why are you here?’ Thrawl asked.

Chown rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘We go where the money is, friend.’ He frowned. ‘And where our creditors aren’t.’

Thrawl laughed. ‘You must have a lot of creditors, to wind up out here.’ Few Freeguild companies sought frontier duty – it was alternately boring and dangerous work, with little chance of filling the coffers. Most preferred to bivouac behind high walls, and patrol civilised streets, rather than chance the wilds.

Chown shrugged. ‘Powder and shot is expensive. And we don’t like cities.’ He stiffened and gestured to one of his men. ‘Buzos, bring Poppa his spyglass, there’s a lad.’ Buzos hurried over, holding a heavy spyglass made from brass and gold. Its shell was scuffed and tarnished, but the lenses were almost perfect.

Thrawl blinked. ‘Why does that have the Glymm crest on it?’

Chown shrugged again. ‘It’s a mystery. Hush now, scribe. Something is happening out there. The Zirc are sounding their prayer-horns.’

Thrawl strained, listening for the familiar, winding call of the horns. The Zirc rarely sounded them and usually only just before a sandstorm. They worshipped the storm-winds, and some said that the nomads followed them across the desert. He squinted, trying to see what was going on. The wind had risen to a harsh shriek, and his eardrums ached.

‘The soul-winds are screaming,’ Chown grunted. ‘The dead are angry.’

‘When are they not?’

‘In Ghur, we know how to treat the dead-that-are-not.’ Chown drew a line across his throat. ‘The stake, the sword, the fire. Simple. But here… not so simple. The dead are different here.’ He handed Thrawl the spyglass. ‘Look, scribe.’

Thrawl’s mouth was dry as he looked through the spyglass. Chown was right. There was a storm on the horizon. But not of sand or rain.

Instead, a howling gale of spectral green energy was racing across the dunes towards them. He thought he glimpsed horsemen there among the roiling tide, and worse things besides. He stared, ­unable to tear his eyes away. Unable to speak.

‘No, not simple at all,’ Chown said.

The nighthaunt host sped across the burning sands like the evening tide. Cackling chainrasps led the way. Their clawed, skeletal limbs emerged from tattered grave-shrouds, and their fleshless countenances gnawed mindlessly at the air as they spilled towards the trundling wagon-fortresses. A volley of flaming arrows raced to meet them.

‘Idiotic savages,’ Malendrek said, watching as the arrows fell harmlessly among his hosts. ‘However far they flee, they cannot escape us.’ The Knight of Shrouds sat atop his skeletal steed, his flickering gaze locked on the line of towering, wooden conveyances. ‘Perhaps they prefer to die tired,’ Pharus said. He stood near the Knight of Shrouds, his sword planted point-first before him, his gauntlets resting atop the pommel, watching the assault. ‘Well-rested or exhausted, they will perish all the same,’ Malendrek croaked, not looking at him. ‘All living things must die. My nighthaunts will rip the lives from these nomads. Their souls are our tithe to the Undying King, whose will we enact with this joyful slaughter.’

The first of the chainrasps reached the rearmost wagon. They clawed at the wood, their talons steaming as they encountered the sigils of protection carved there. The Zirc had enough experience with the dead to know how best to hold them at bay. But this was no ordinary attack – the chainrasps were not simply feral spirits, but an army. They would find a way in, eventually.

‘They must be punished for their defiance,’ Malendrek continued, hauling back on his steed’s rotting reins and causing it to rear. ‘Retribution must be had.’

Pharus did not reply. Malendrek wasn’t really talking to him. Since departing Nagashizzar, he had come to realise that the Knight of Shrouds liked to hear himself talk. Malendrek waxed philosophical, when he wasn’t uttering bitter denunciations of individuals Pharus was not familiar with.

But despite being obviously mad, Malendrek was smart. He had a keen strategic mind, beneath all the ranting. As they moved across the desert, following the trade roads, the army of the dead had added to its ranks. They had collected the inhabitants of mining encampments and oases. Souls were harvested from cooling bodies and added to the nighthaunt ranks, while the carcasses were later dragged stumbling in the army’s wake. An efficient use of materials, in Pharus’ opinion.

But the deadwalkers were slow and the deathrattle even slower. They would take days to reach the walls of Glymmsforge. Only the nighthaunts had the speed to strike the city before the gap in its defences was discovered. Which it would be, eventually.

Another volley arced from the upper levels of the rearmost wagon-fortress. Pharus watched the arrows fall, a part of him calculating the trajectories. The second volley did no more harm than the first. The Zirc were not unprepared. They would have other, more effective means of defence in readiness.

He turned, studying the sloped walls of the fort beyond the wagons. The Zirc had led them right to it. It was a crude thing. A muddle of harsh lines, interrupting the serenity of the desert.

As has ever been the way of Azyr.

Pharus nodded. Sigmar’s influence was spread in stone and starlight. Where his armies marched, cities sprouted in their wake and grew fat and strong on the resources of the realms.

The folk of Azyr are ticks, buried into the flesh of worlds.

Pharus nodded again, unable to deny it. The folk of Azyr felled forests, flattened mountains, emptied seas – all in the name of Sigmar. Gods other than him were cast aside and forgotten by fickle mortals, seeking stifling safety within walls of celestine.

They will do the same to Shyish, if they are not stopped. The living are ever hungry, ever greedy, the voice inside him murmured. They are not fit caretakers for existence. Only the dead can uphold the foundations of existence. Only in the arms of death, can the realms know true peace. Until all are one in Nagash…

‘And Nagash is all,’ Pharus said. He could see why the Zirc had led them this way. A ruthlessly pragmatic folk, these nomads. The fort was close enough to divide their pursuers’ attentions. The Knight of Shrouds was already casting baleful glares in the direction of the sandstone walls, and muttering to himself.

The living were greedy. But so too were some among the dead.

The fort must be taken. No word can escape, no warning.

Pharus uprooted his sword and looked at Malendrek. ‘With your permission, I shall deal with the fort,’ he said. ‘I shall cast stone from stone and drive the souls within into the arms of the hungry dead.’

Malendrek looked down at him. ‘You still stink of Azyr,’ he said, idly. ‘I can taste the storm on your soul, Pharus Thaum. You wear the raiment of a deathlord, but you will never truly be one. Your hubris knows no bounds.’

Pharus met the burning gaze without hesitation. There was no fear in him, and he knew, in some secret part of his soul, that Malendrek was just another pawn.

Just as you are.

‘I am but a weapon in the hands of the Undying King,’ Pharus said. ‘Let me gather the tithe, Knight of Shrouds. Let me do as Nagash made me to do.’

Malendrek turned away. ‘Do as you will, little soul. I have the business of death to be about.’ He urged his steed forwards, and its hooves left burning impressions in the sand as it galloped after the Zirc wagons.

Pharus turned to find Dohl hovering behind him. ‘We are ready to greet our new brothers and sisters in death,’ the guardian of souls rasped. ‘But give the command, and we shall welcome them into our ranks, Lord Pharus.’ He raised his lantern, and the dead of the Grand Oubliette and a dozen oases roiled around him, screaming and howling. At Pharus’ nod, Dohl thrust his lantern forwards, and the hordes of chainrasps rushed towards the distant walls of the fort with an eager roar.

Pharus lifted his blade. He felt strangely eager – here then was the first test of his new self. The enemy before him served the same master who had abandoned him. Would they see the truth, as he had? Or would they merely fall and be added to the horde now surging past him? Inside him, something laughed.

It does not matter. Nagash is all, and all are one in him.

‘Come, my sweet lord, why do you dawdle? There is justice to be done.’ Rocha drifted past him, trailing pale, blood-stained fingers across his armour. ‘And heads to be lopped.’ She gave a cackle and sprang into the air, joining the mad rush. Pharus glanced at Dohl, who gave a dolorous sigh.

‘She is but a tool, my lord – blunt yet effective,’ he said, as he followed after his flock, surrounded by a knot of moaning, whimpering spirits. Pharus felt a lurch within him as the lantern’s glow passed beyond him. He wanted more than anything in that moment to bask once more in that eerie radiance.

But there is blood to be spilled. The Great Work must be done.

‘Follow, Fellgrip,’ he said, not looking at the hunched jailer. It had not left his side since they had departed Nagashizzar. Like a faithful hound, it had become his shadow. Even so, he felt an uneasiness at its proximity. The chainrasps and other spectres that made up his forces refused to get any closer to Fellgrip than they had to, as if afraid that it might seek to return them to the prison they had so recently been roused from.

Pharus launched himself at the heavy wooden gates of the fort, sword held low. They stank of holy unguents and blessed waters, and he felt his form solidifying and his rush slowing. The storm of chainrasps swirled about him, like a flock of confused birds.

Their defences are weak. Pathetic. You are the storm. You are death. None may gainsay you. Strike. Strike!

His sword snapped out, the shadeglass blade passing easily through the thick wood. As the splintered sections of the gate crashed aside, his army roiled past him, filling the courtyard beyond like a malevolent cloud. He saw mortals run, fleeing for the dubious safety of the buildings. Handguns roared, as a line of Freeguild soldiers in leather coats and wide-brimmed hats fired a volley. Chainrasps shrieked as silver shot burned through them. Their rush dissolved, as the hurtling spirits shot away in all directions, seeking easier prey. The handgunners stepped back, already reloading. A second line stepped forwards.

Pharus strode towards them, dust swirling about him. He could hear screaming. Men and women and… children. He paused. Something was burning, and a woman was screaming, and a child… Elya? No, that wasn’t her name. He looked down at the sword in his hand, not recognising it for a moment. ‘Elya,’ he said, groping for an answer.

She is safe now. As all true children of Shyish will be safe. But these are different. Outsiders, brought to this realm to fight and die in Sigmar’s name.

Anger flowed through him, bright and cold. ‘Would you die here, in the name of a tyrant?’ His voice, hollow and harsh, scraped across the stones of the fort. ‘Or would you live out your full span in service to him to whom all that lives must eventually kneel?’

As if in reply, the handgunners fired. Pharus raced through the storm of shot, Fellgrip trailing in his wake. He lashed out, smashing guns and bones. He was not quite solid, but his blade was, and its edge was sharp. He saw Fellgrip swing his heavy chains about, staving in ribs and crushing skulls. As men fell to these clubbing blows, the spark of their life was drawn into the chains and trapped there.

Chainrasps joined Pharus in his attack, as the gun-line disintegrated. They plucked struggling warriors from the ground and dragged them into the air, where they were torn apart, screaming. ‘Kneel, fools,’ he thundered. ‘Accept death, and be one with Nagash – Nagash is all, and all are one in him.’ His words rang out over the battlefield, but few paid them any attention.

He saw snarling dogs bite at the chainrasps, and men bearing silver glaives pin a struggling phantom to the side of a wagon. A horned spectre swung a wide scythe, sweeping a trio of warriors from their feet. A duardin, clad in the finery of a trader, hacked about him with a rune-inscribed hand-axe, as his bodyguards were pulled apart by the cackling gheists.

Balls of silver and lead punched into the back of his armour, as Freeguild soldiers fired a ragged volley down from the parapet above. He felt slivers of pain echo through him as he whirled, his face stretching in an inhuman snarl. He launched himself at them, his blade sweeping out. A soldier screamed and fell away, and Pharus felt a surge of strength wind through him. The blade ate lives, adding their span to his own and warming the cold within him for a few moments. He twisted, angling his blade towards another mortal.

More silver shot struck him, tearing ragged holes in his substance. He screamed in frustration and flowed towards the foe. Why could they not see that he was trying to help them? Why did they resist? His sword licked out, separating a head from shoulders. The soldiers on the wall fell back, some reloading, others thrusting glaives and halberds uselessly at the chainrasps swarming over the walls. A bellicose giant towered among the men, swinging a rifle like a club, exhorting them to greater efforts.

There. The leader. Without him, the others would break. They would retreat, and die in the doing. Pharus raced towards the giant. ‘Kneel, mortal – seek forgiveness in the arms of death,’ he roared. ‘Only Nagash can save you now.’

‘Poppa does not kneel, rag-a-bones,’ the giant bellowed. He reversed the rifle as Pharus drew close, and fired. A spray of silver and iron ripped across Pharus, pock-marking his war-plate and stinging his eyes. He shrieked and rose up, clawing at his face. He felt the stock of the rifle crash against his armour and lashed out with his sword. The giant roared and slammed into him, as if seeking to tackle him.

‘Fool,’ Pharus snarled, ‘I have no neck to wring, no limbs to break – I am beyond the weaknesses of flesh.’ He caught at the giant’s unshaven throat and flung him from the parapet. The warrior crashed down with a groan, somehow still holding on to his weapon.

Pharus stepped off the parapet and stalked down through the air towards his opponent. He could smell the stink of the man’s injuries – the sharp tang of spilled blood and broken bone. Death was close. Death was here. Pharus raised his blade over the injured warrior. ‘Rejoice, mortal – death spreads its wings above you.’

He slashed down. The giant interposed his weapon at the last moment, but the shadeglass blade continued its downward stroke unimpeded. It passed through his broad chest. The giant stiffened. A cloud of blood erupted from his open mouth. For a moment, he clutched awkwardly at the slick edge of the blade, and Pharus thought he might succeed in extracting it. Then, with a sigh, he sagged back.

Dogs began to howl throughout the fort, and nearby soldiers wailed. Shots plucked at Pharus as he wrenched his sword free. He turned. A mind-chilling smoke billowed from Dohl’s lantern, to float over the battlefield. Wherever it passed, the souls of the newly fallen were wrenched screaming from their bloody bodies, to rise and join the ranks of the dead.

The soldiers were retreating in confusion, seeking the protection of outbuildings and stables. The most organised knot of them was steadily falling back towards what could only be the fort’s chapel, along with the surviving civilians. The structure shone like a beacon, its every stone limned with azure light to his altered sight. He wanted to tear it apart and bury it in the sand, but knew that to cross its threshold would cause him more pain than any silver shot or blade.

Pharus hesitated. Perhaps it was best to leave it.

What is pain, to one already dead? Every life in the fort is owed to Nagash.

He started after the retreating Freeguild, his sword twitching in his grip. As he closed in, a shot ricocheted off his helm, distracting him. He spun, blade licking out. His attacker stumbled back with a yelp, just out of reach. Not a soldier. By his robes, Pharus judged him a scribe. A smoking pistol, its barrel etched with duardin runes, thumped to the ground as the little man scrambled to his feet. He thrust a hand into his robes, clawing for something as Pharus closed in on him.

Pharus raised his blade, and the scribe snatched a medallion from his robes. As he brought it into the open, it blazed forth with a blue radiance. ‘Back,’ the little man screeched, thrusting the sigil towards him. Pharus flinched away, unable to bear the sight of it.

‘That will not stay my hand, mortal. Not for long.’

‘Long enough,’ the little man said.

Pharus glanced at him and then turned. He could see the last of the Freeguild survivors hurrying towards the chapel, despite the chainrasps harrying them. ‘You are brave,’ he said, flexing his hand. The sword thrummed in his grip, eager to taste the life of the little man. ‘Do you think Sigmar will take you to his bosom, when I strike you down?’

‘I… I don’t know,’ the little man said. ‘But I’m not afraid to find out.’

‘In Helstone, hubris was a crime.’ Rocha rose up behind the little man. Before Pharus could stop her, her axe swept out, removing the man’s head. His body sank down, the hated symbol falling from his limp hand. The executioner stared down at the body, jaw working soundlessly. She looked at Pharus. ‘So was hesitation.’

Pharus extended his sword towards her. ‘Remember who you serve, executioner.’ He felt something stir in him – anger? Sadness? He could not tell, and told himself that he did not care. He again caught a glimpse of something, lurking in the facets of his blade – watching him, judging. A great eye, like an amethyst star, burned into his own.

‘The same king as you, Pharus Thaum.’ Rocha grinned, baring broken teeth. He wondered if she too could see what passed through the facets of his blade. Her expression of glee faded as the spirits clinging to her pulled her away, towards the next bloody deed. She laughed wildly and raised her axe in gaunt hands. Pharus watched her go, and then turned back to the chapel.

As he did so, he caught sight of the scribe’s sigil, lying forgotten on the ground. He flicked it away, out of sight, with the tip of his blade. Then, filled only with cold and hunger, he started towards the chapel, to cast stone from stone, as he’d sworn.

To do as Nagash had made him to do.