Soul Wars

Chapter seventeen Deathstorm

The wind whipped along the spires and buttresses of the northern mausoleum gate and set the lamps to flickering, when Lieutenant Vale got word that the lord-arcanum was on his way. He didn’t know what that meant, but rolled out his men for inspection. With the rest of Third Company being deployed elsewhere, that left his section in sole charge of the northern mausoleum gate. There were enough warm bodies to man the walls – just. The city’s forces were stretched thin everywhere.

The men came with much grumbling and the clatter of kit being hastily pulled on. None of them wanted to be outside their gatehouse-barracks on a night like this, and he didn’t blame them. The nights were getting longer, and there was a purple fire on the horizon. Bad omens clustered thick, wherever you looked. And worst of all – it was raining.

‘Get in line, get in line,’ he hollered, as he splashed through the mud. A hundred men or more could comfortably line up single file in the courtyard.

Wide avenues of cobblestones ran through the courtyard, stretching from the pair of massive portcullises that were set into the high walls between the largest bastions. Once, those avenues had been crowded by columns of refugees, traders and pilgrims. Now, they were empty of everything save the overturned carts and makeshift barricades Captain Fosko had ordered set up before his departure. Storm-lanterns hung from nearby posts and support beams, casting a watery blue light over the proceedings. ‘Boots on, breeches up, you jack-a-ninnies,’ he shouted, slapping his gauntlets against his thigh as he strode down the line.

‘I’m not sure that I’m drunk enough for this,’ Sergeant Gomes said, upending his flask. Vale glanced at the squat figure of his second in command. ‘Stow the flask, Gomes,’ Vale said, but quietly. ‘Kurst is coming this way. I’ll never hear the end of it if he sees you with a flask pressed to your lips.’ The warrior-priest was his section’s disapproving shadow, assigned to them by Captain-General Varo Tyrmane himself, the better to keep his men’s blades blessed and their souls relatively intact.

‘Oh joy, the Vulture shows his beak,’ Gomes muttered. Vale frowned, but didn’t chastise his sergeant. Kurst did resemble a carrion-bird, and an ugly one at that; a thin, gangling man, clad in loose black robes and out-sized black armour, with baroque decorations of stylised bones and scythes. He was bald, save for a fringe of lank, colourless hair that spilled down the back of his scrawny neck. His face was pinched in a permanent expression of disapproval, and he thumped the head of his warhammer into his palm repeatedly as he stalked the line of assembled soldiers.

‘I’ve always wondered where they dug him up – he must be sixty turns of the wheel if he’s a day,’ Gomes said. ‘You can practically smell the grave-mould on him.’

‘A man like that doesn’t get older – just nastier,’ Vale said. ‘And that’s not grave-mould. I’ve heard he doesn’t bathe. Says it weakens the ligaments.’

Gomes chuckled. ‘One good smack and he’d go to dust, ligaments or no.’

‘Feel free. But not when I’m around.’

Gomes gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Worried about your prospects, lieutenant?’

‘Not just mine,’ Vale said. ‘I– Hsst. They’re here.’

The Stormcasts arrived, the lord-arcanum at their head. Knossus Heavensen made for an impressive figure, sitting astride his massive gryph-charger. Vale had grown up around Stormcasts, but he felt himself somewhat awestruck by the gold-clad warriors of the Sacro­sanct Chamber as they marched into the courtyard.

Gomes took another surreptitious slug from his flask. ‘They say he’s really young Knossian Glymm, come again to defend the city he saved from Vaslbad the Unrelenting.’

‘He’s a Stormcast. They were all once someone else. Now be quiet.’ Vale swallowed and stepped forwards, one hand on the hilt of the blade sheathed at his side. He caught sight of Kurst, doing the same. The warrior-priest stared at the Stormcasts with almost feverish intensity. As if they were living saints, or gods made flesh. He cleared his throat. ‘Welcome, lord-arcanum. Would you like to inspect the troops?’

He realised how inane the question was, even as it left his lips. The lord-arcanum looked down at him, gold helm running with rivulets of rain. Then he looked around. Vale knew he was taking in the state of the courtyard. Vale closed his eyes, silently cursing himself for not ordering the men to make things ready for inspection.

‘I stood here, once before,’ Knossus said, his voice echoing through the courtyard. ‘It seemed larger, then.’ He looked down at Vale. ‘You are in command?’

‘Lieutenant Holman Vale, my lord. Third Company.’ Vale gave the traditional salute – two thumps and a wave – and tried to stand as straight as possible. ‘I have the honour of warding this place.’

‘Do you know who is interred here, Lieutenant Vale?’

‘I… I’m afraid not, my lord. Before my time, rather.’ Vale glanced around and saw Kurst nearby. He gestured hastily, and the warrior-priest smirked.

‘Orthanc Duln, the Hero of Sawback,’ Kurst murmured helpfully. Vale grimaced. He had no idea who that was, or even where Sawback was. Ghur? It sounded Ghurdish. Vale looked up at Knossus and smiled weakly.

‘There we have it – Orton…’

‘Orthanc Duln,’ Kurst corrected.

Vale shot him a glare. ‘Right, yes, sorry, Orthanc Duln.’

Knossus chuckled, and the sound nearly turned Vale’s bowels to water. ‘Your youth excuses you, lieutenant. So long as you do your duty, it is no sin. The Celestial Saints are remembered by Sigmar and we who serve as his hand, and that is all that matters.’ He slid from the saddle with a crash of sigmarite. Even on the ground, he loomed head and shoulders over Vale.

‘Why – ah – to what do we owe the honour of your presence?’

‘There is a problem.’

Vale froze, wondering if they’d found out about the pilfered wages. Or worse. There was no telling what Gomes got up to in his free time. He’d heard rumours of extortion, and local shopkeepers paying protection, to keep non-existent deadwalkers at bay. ‘P-problem?’

‘A weakness in our defences.’ Knossus turned, studying the arcanogram carved into the street. A flicker of relief passed through Vale. They didn’t know about the money, then. Then he realised what the lord-arcanum was saying.

‘Oh. Ah.’ Vale glanced up at the walls. ‘Has something happened?’

‘A long time ago, I fear,’ Knossus said. He extended his staff and gently pushed Vale back a step. ‘My warriors and I shall join the defence of this place. See to your men, lieutenant. The enemy is coming, even now.’

Vale felt a cold slither of fear and turned away. Kurst followed him. ‘Is he right?’ Vale asked. Kurst snorted.

‘You only have to stand atop the wall to see that much. The eldritch glow on the horizon grows closer with every passing night. The winds wail, carrying the groans of deadwalkers. Listen, fool – hear them?’

Vale stopped. He’d never thought about it before, but Kurst was right. He’d been hearing the sound for days without knowing what it was – a dull, somnolent groaning. Like the rumble of distant thunder. He shuddered and ran a hand through his hair, trying to think. Gomes stumped towards him. ‘Should I dismiss the lads?’

‘Yes, but double the watch.’

Gomes blinked. ‘They won’t like that.’

‘I don’t give a damn,’ Vale snapped. ‘You heard him – they all heard him – something is wrong.’ He swallowed. ‘The wall won’t hold.’

‘Then we shall be the wall,’ Kurst said. He thumped his hammer into his palm. ‘We shall build it with steel and silver, or, failing that, with our bodies.’

Vale shared a look with Gomes. ‘Right. Yes. Obviously.’ He turned away, watching as the Stormcasts set up some sort of massive ballistae, near the entrance to the courtyard, where the two portcullis pathways intersected. Others, carrying heavy crossbows, were climbing up to the parapets, to join the mortal soldiers on duty there.

‘What is he doing?’ Gomes muttered.

Vale looked and saw Knossus gesturing ritualistically over the section of the arcanogram that ran through the gatehouse. Motes of corposant bristled about his hand as he moved it back and forth over the silver runnels. Light danced across the purple sands, and the air flickered with something like a heat mirage.

Ghostly images wafted into being about the lord-arcanum. Vale saw a stooped figure – an older man, worn sharp by life and heavily scarred, wearing the uniform of a Glymmsman – raise a breacher-spade over the sands and thrust it down.

Gomes cursed softly. ‘I know that face. That’s Vorgen Malendrek. The Hero of the Southern Gate…’

Vale looked at him in confusion. ‘Who?’

‘Before your time, lad,’ Kurst said, flatly. ‘Captain of Fifth Company. Or he was. He warded the southernmost gate during Vaslbad’s attack on the city, and held Undst Keep against the Slender Knight.’

‘Why haven’t I heard of him?’

‘He survived, didn’t he?’ Gomes said, grinning. ‘Nobody likes it when heroes survive.’ He leaned over and spat. ‘But he vanished not long ago. Everyone thought he’d been taken in the night by a gheist.’ He peered at the image. ‘What is he doing with that spade?’

The image flickered eerily, as the breacher-spade came down again and again. Kurst hissed. ‘The blessed salts – he’s digging them out!’

Vale stared at the image in horror. ‘If the salts are gone…’

From the wall, he heard the winding call of a war-horn. He jerked around, eyes wide. The horn blared again, the echo of its warning shuddering through the rain. The image of Vorgen Malendrek vanished, as the lord-arcanum looked up. Vale heard shouts and cries of alarm. A man hurried to the edge of a parapet. ‘Deadwalkers, sir! Thousands of them.’

Vale felt his stomach fall into his boots. Mouth dry, he looked at the lord-arcanum. The Stormcast nodded, and Vale was suddenly glad for his presence.

‘It begins,’ Knossus said.

The gutters of the Gloaming were overflowing with rainwater when Elya arrived. It had started slow, but the bottom had fallen out of the clouds somewhere between Fish Lane and Scratchjack Alley. Now alarm bells rang from the high places of the slums, warning the inhabitants that the city was under attack, or soon would be. The clamour of desperate shopkeepers hammering boards over doors and windows mingled with the sounds of looting, and the cries of those with nowhere to go. Weapons rattled in the dark, and horses whickered in growing nervousness.

Black Walkers stood on every corner, ringing their own bells and calling out the names of gods who were no longer listening, if they ever had in the first place. Flagellants wandered the streets, lashing themselves and screaming pious maledictions at those who gave way before them. The Glymmsmen were nowhere in sight, and it was left to local roughs and bravos to take charge. This they did with brutal efficiency. Streets were barricaded with whatever was to hand. Those seeking the dubious safety of these ramparts were stripped of what little of value they had, and put to work reinforcing the barricades.

Elya fought her way through a crowded street, liberally applying her elbows and feet, trying to reach the rickety exterior stairs that led up to the rooms she shared with her father. A man cursed as she stamped on his instep, and hopped back. She darted through the opening and winnowed swiftly through the forest of legs. Hands grabbed at her, for what reasons she couldn’t say, but none managed to catch her.

The slums weren’t safe anymore. They were never safe, really, but even less so now. The cats had told her what was coming, what they could feel on the air. Like a storm in the offing, and not one they could survive out in the open.

When storms came, cats sought high, dry places. There was only one place like that, in easy distance. As she started up the stairs, she glanced west and saw the dome of the Grand Tempestus rise over the city. Even at night, through the pall of rain, it was visible. Others would be heading there, looking for refuge. She had to hurry.

Things shattered on the street, hurled from the rooftops by roof-runners or vandals. She heard singing from one of the rooms as she passed by an open window. A sad song, slow and maudlin. There was smoke on the wind – something was burning, even in the downpour. A fire had raged through part of the Gloaming the day before. Deadwalkers, people had said. And the Leechbane. But no one knew for sure.

Elya didn’t want to know. One brush with the Leechbane was enough. She reached her window. The doors of their rooms had been boarded over since the night her mother had died. The window was the only way in and out. She paused and glanced back.

Someone was screaming, somewhere close by. A long, drawn-out wail of denial that sounded barely human. And maybe it wasn’t. She shivered and slunk over the sill.

‘Halha, I’m back,’ she said, softly. She caught a glint of silver, and saw her guest standing close to the window, tense, blade in hand. The trader woman’s yellow robes had been discarded and replaced by dark ones, to better hide her identity. Her gold had been scattered in Elya’s secret caches throughout the Gloaming, in payment for allowing her a place to hide. After checking to see whether or not she’d been bitten, obviously.

Halha relaxed as she recognised Elya. ‘You weren’t gone very long,’ she said. She had a curious, lilting accent, like most folk from Gravewild. As if they were half-singing, all the time.

‘Is he…?’ Elya whispered, glancing towards the cot.

‘Asleep,’ Halha said. She sheathed her dagger. ‘Still asleep. He moaned a few times, but did not stir otherwise.’ She glanced towards the window. ‘What is going on? Those bells – what do they mean?’

‘The city is under attack,’ Elya said. She looked around. There was nothing worth taking. ‘We must go.’

‘Go? Go where?’

‘The Grand Tempestus,’ Elya said. ‘We will be safe there.’

Halha looked doubtful. ‘I do not think anywhere in this city is safe.’ The woman looked away, her eyes wet. ‘We should not have come here. But Takha insisted. Said we’d be safer in a city than on the road.’

Elya took a bowl of water from the floor and poured it over her father. Duvak sat upright, spluttering. He stank of ale and cheaper intoxicants, and the water she’d dumped on him was as close to a bath as he’d had in a week. He blinked blearily at her. Then at Halha. ‘Who’s she?’ he slurred.

‘Up, father. The bells are ringing.’

‘I don’t care. Let me sleep, girl. I’m tired.’ He made to flop back down, and Elya caught at him.

‘You’re always tired. Get up. They say the dead are at the walls.’

Duvak grunted. ‘I don’t care.’ He pushed her back.

Elya shoved him. ‘Get up, get up!’ She glanced at Halha. ‘Help me.’

Halha hesitated, and then drew her knife. She leaned over Duvak and pricked his throat with her blade. ‘Up, fool. Or die here.’

Duvak blinked up at her, befuddled. ‘Who are you?’ But he responded to Elya’s prodding and rolled out of his sodden bedding. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, looked towards the window. He was still dressed in his lamplighter’s gear – badly dyed black-and-mauve clothes, with a leather harness for his wicks and oils. The harness was empty. He hadn’t bothered to resupply after his last shift.

‘We have to go, father. The dead are coming.’

He looked towards the door. ‘But your mother… She’s not back yet, is she?’

Elya paused. She ignored the look Halha gave her and instead, with an ease born of long practice, said, ‘She’s waiting for us at the Grand Tempestus. We need to go, or she’ll worry.’

Duvak hesitated. Then, he nodded. ‘Yes. She’ll worry. Don’t want her to worry.’ She knew from his tone that he didn’t believe what he was saying. He’d remembered, if only a bit. He always remembered, eventually.

She took his hand and looked at Halha. ‘Come. We have to hurry.’

Balthas stood on the steps of the Grand Tempestus, watching impatiently as the Glymmsmen readied the plaza for war. The echoes of the battle-horns still shuddered through the air. Beside him stood the mortal commander.

Captain Fosko, commander of the Glymmsmen’s Third Company, was old, as mortals judged such things. His uniform was shiny with wear in places, and his armour was dull. But it was well taken care of, as was the sword on his hip. His fingers tapped against the skull-pommel of the blade, and the palm of his free hand scraped over his shaven pate, back and forth. The sound of it grew irritating after a few moments, and Balthas said, ‘Must you?’

Fosko started, as if surprised that Balthas could speak. ‘What?’

‘That noise irks me.’

Fosko stared at him, and then looked at his hand. ‘My apologies, my lord. I was lost in thought. It won’t happen again.’

‘You may continue to think. Simply cease rubbing your head.’

Fosko gave a snort of laughter. ‘Was that a joke?’ He peered up at Balthas. ‘I wasn’t aware your sort could make jokes, my lord.’

Balthas looked down at him. ‘Humour is a skill like any other. One may learn it, if one is of a mind to do so.’ He looked back out over the plaza. ‘That said, it wasn’t a joke.’

Fosko nodded. ‘You are unhappy, my lord.’

‘And you are observant.’

Fosko shrugged. ‘Not hard to see. You radiate your displeasure like a storm cloud. Is this not as glorious a battle as you were promised?’

Balthas pondered the question for a moment. He was not particularly displeased. Annoyed, perhaps, by the situation – it was not ideal, having to defend such a place, with so many mortals underfoot. The Glymmsmen could be put to better use elsewhere. ‘There are no glorious battles. Glory is accrued in the aftermath and doled out by poets and historians.’

Fosko shook his head. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘For the same reason you are, I imagine.’

‘I am defending my home. The city I was born in.’ Fosko reached up as if to rub his head, but stopped. ‘I remember my grandfather telling me stories of when the first walls went up. When every night was a war against things that would drain a strong man’s blood, or stop your heart with a gesture.’ He leaned over and hawked a wad of phlegm onto the stones at his feet. ‘It’s better now than it was. But here we are again, with the dead at our throats.’

‘If it bothers you, why stay?’ Knossus had tried to explain, in his heavy-handed way, but Balthas still didn’t understand. It made no sense to him. What was a place like this, next to Sigmaron, or even Azyrheim? No real history, no wisdom, sat in this place. The only things of any value here were the catacombs below, and that was debatable.

Fosko looked out over the plaza, as his warriors worked to fortify it. ‘This place is more than markings on a map. This city is birthplaces and burial grounds. It is where I fell in love with my wife, and where my son was born. It is where my friends lived and died, where my grandfather fought a duel for my grandmother’s hand, in the streets of the Lyrian Souk. It is the sum of us, and all that we are. I would no more abandon it than I would betray it.’

Balthas looked at the old man. ‘Is it worth dying for? New memories can be made elsewhere. New stories told.’

‘Only someone with no memories would ask that.’ The old soldier gestured apologetically. ‘Forgive me. I meant no disrespect.’

‘And yet you gave it.’

Fosko laughed. ‘Yes.’

After a moment, Balthas laughed as well. ‘How much do you know of us, captain?’

‘I’ve been around your kind since I was a child. I watched from under a table as my father and the other guild captains conferred with the Gravewalker on military matters. And when my father lost his skull to a Bloodbound axe, it was one of your host who brought it back to us, so that it might be enshrined in the family mausoleum.’ He gestured to Balthas’ war-plate. ‘That black armour you wear is as much a holy symbol to us as the High Star.’

Balthas nodded. ‘You were right when you said I had no memories. I am a city, built on secrets. Much like this one. Instead of catacombs, I have a life I cannot recall. Once, I might have lived in a place like this, and I might even have felt as you do. Even so, I do not understand it. Maybe it is beyond me.’ He leaned against his staff. ‘That is not easy for me to admit. I have seen things no mortal can conceive of. I have walked in the fiery heart of a star and endured the chill of the firmament. But I would not die for those reminiscences.’

Fosko squinted up at the sky. ‘Maybe those are the wrong sort of memories.’

Balthas looked at him for a moment. ‘Perhaps.’

They stood in newly companionable silence, watching the preparations. The Freeguild soldiers moved with impressive speed. Bucket brigades doused the barricades in water taken from the Glass Mere and blessed by the priests who moved through the ranks. Hand­gunners took up position at the entrances to the plaza, their weapons loaded with silver, salt and iron. Swordsmen rubbed holy oils into their blades, and softly sang hymns that had been old when the city was young.

Nearby, Grom Juddsson and his clan warriors had broken open casks of some dark duardin spirit, and were upending them. The warriors of the Riven Clans were the other unnecessary mortal defenders assigned to the plaza – they would hold the western edge, while the Freeguild held the east. Other kin-bands of duardin from the Clans were scattered throughout the city, defending the holdings of their particular clan.

The duardin drank until their beards were dripping, and the smell of their libations hung on the wet air, bitterly pungent. Balthas watched in disapproval as two heavily armoured duardin crashed into one another, heads lowered. As they slumped, Juddsson and the others cheered and toasted them. Fosko chuckled.

‘Rowdy, aren’t they?’

‘I thought duardin only toasted victory.’

Fosko snorted. ‘They do. The Riven Clans have never lost a battle. Or so they claim. They toast to their impending victory, so that it might be written in stone.’ He turned away. ‘Here they come.’

Balthas followed his gaze. He saw the soldiers making way for a tide of humanity. ‘What is this? Reinforcements?’

Fosko laughed. ‘Ha! No. Not enough room in the inner wards for everyone in the city, especially these days. Some have to make do the best they can.’ Then, more loudly, ‘Make way for them, make way!’ He waved a hand, and soldiers scrambled out of the path of the fearful citizenry. They moved towards the temple steps in a great mass. Some were praying, others talking among themselves. Men and women and children. Old and young. The adults in evidence were more the former.

‘Anyone with an able body is on the walls, or heading that way,’ Fosko said. ‘That leaves the gaffers and grannies to herd the children to safety. Such as it is.’ He spat.

‘We are here,’ Balthas said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We will protect them.’

‘And who’ll protect us while we’re doing that?’

Balthas hiked a thumb at the statue of Sigmar. ‘Him.’

Fosko glanced back and frowned. ‘You might have something there.’ He hesitated. ‘Have you ever…? I mean…’ He fell silent, looking uncertain.

‘I have,’ Balthas said, quietly. ‘It was he who sent me here.’ He looked down at the mortal. ‘He would be proud of you, I think.’

Fosko’s face tightened. He turned away. ‘I do my duty,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘Always have. Always will.’ He pointed and bellowed suddenly. ‘You, there – leave the bloody cart! No room for that in the temple. Idiot.’ He whistled. ‘Horst! Damael! Add that cart to the wall.’

A shamefaced carter hurried up the steps, leaving an overburdened cart at the bottom. Two of Fosko’s soldiers toppled it, scattering its contents as they manhandled it towards the barricades. Fosko shook his head, looking at the detritus strewn across the ground. ‘Fool. Risking his life for a few valuables.’

‘Weren’t you the one just telling me about dying for memories?’

‘Things aren’t memories. Things can be replaced.’ Fosko grunted. ‘Family and home is worth dying for. A cart full of badly made glassware and stolen silks is not.’

‘I shall keep that in mind.’

Fosko laughed. And Balthas followed suit, a moment later. But the moment was interrupted by the blare of a horn, from somewhere on the rooftops around the plaza. Fosko cursed. ‘That’s torn it. They’ve sighted the foe – finish up those barricades, fools! We’ll have deadwalkers on us before you know it!’ He stepped down from the steps, bellowing orders. Balthas left him to it.

He opened his senses, testing the aetheric winds. They were strong here – stronger than they ought to have been. He wondered whether that was due to the surge in wild magics. But with them came something else – a spiritual murk, as if the realm itself had been struck by some malaise. He could see it in the tight faces of the mortals hurrying past him – a bone-deep fear. Primal and gnawing.

Something was coming. Something more dangerous than any nighthaunt or shambling deadwalker. Whatever it was, it was the reason he had been sent here. He was as certain of that as he was his own name.

He glanced back at the face of the temple and the great statue of Sigmar the Liberator. The sculptor had crafted the God-King’s face with a determined snarl, and he seemed on the verge of exhaustion as he raised Ghal Maraz to shatter the chains of the souls cowering below him.

Balthas studied Sigmar’s face for a moment longer. Then he turned and whistled. Quicksilver rose to his feet and padded towards his master, grumbling softly in eagerness. Balthas hauled himself into the saddle. As he did so, he saw Miska striding towards him.

‘I heard the horns,’ she said.

‘The enemy draws close,’ Balthas said, hauling on Quicksilver’s reins. He gestured with his staff, as the rest of his subordinates gathered around. ‘Porthas, stand ready for my call. Mara, take your Sequitors to the steps. Usher the mortals to safety. Quintus, you and your Castigators will support Porthas. Gellius, Faunus – set up the celestar ballista on the portico. Wait for my signal. Swiftly now!’

His officers moved quickly, calling out to their cohorts. Balthas nodded, pleased by the display of discipline. He was confident that they would do as he’d ordered. Their discipline was the rock upon which the dead would break.

‘I will stand with Porthas,’ Miska said, making to follow the Sequitors.

‘No,’ Balthas said. ‘I will do that. Take Helios and his Celestors and fortify the temple. We will need to fall back and I want you waiting. Seek out the Liberator-Prime, Calys Eltain. I want her warriors ready.’

‘You think Fosko and the duardin will fail.’

‘Can you feel it? That blotch on the aether.’ He looked down at her. ‘Something is coming. Something beyond the reach of shot and pike.’ He shook his head. ‘This is the foe we were made to fight. It is outside their experience.’

She frowned. Her hand fell to the spirit-bottles hanging from her belt. ‘Yes.’

‘We must be ready for the inevitable. We will cover their retreat, when the time comes.’ He turned, scanning the sky. It had gone ominously dark. Not the dark of a storm, or of the night, but something else. There was a sourness on the air, clinging to everything, and it was only growing stronger.

Miska started up the steps, calling out to Helios as she went. Balthas watched her go, and then turned back to the approaching enemy. He urged Quicksilver forwards, and the gryph-charger bounded down the steps, squalling in readiness. Freeguild warriors made way for the lord-arcanum, eyeing both him and his steed with nervousness. Fosko was waiting for him at the outer edge of the temple plaza. The captain turned, eyebrow raised.

‘Come to stand with us, then?’

‘Yes,’ Balthas said, looking down at him.

‘Just you?’

‘I am enough.’ He could see the wheels turning in Fosko’s head. The old soldier was no fool – he and his men were expendable, so long as the temple remained inviolate. Balthas wondered whether he would protest. But, after a moment, Fosko simply nodded.

‘Let’s hope so.’

Miska found Calys Eltain standing watch above the nave. The Liberator-Prime stood on the balcony, arms crossed, her helm hanging from her belt. Her face was set and stiff, as if she wished she were anywhere else. Then, given how Balthas had treated her, that was understandable. The lord-arcanum was off-putting, even at the best of times.

The mage-sacristan strode to join the other Stormcast, pausing only to allow a priest to hurry past. Calys glanced at her. ‘I heard the horns. The enemy has entered the city.’

‘As was expected,’ Miska said. ‘My warriors and I will fortify this place, to prevent the enemy from entering easily.’ She could see Helios and the others spreading out below. They would perform the necessary rites to render the twelve entrances of the temple inviolate against fell spirits and shambling corpses.

‘It is made of stone and hardened timber. What more can be done?’

‘Much, if you know how.’ Miska looked up at the glass dome of the roof. Golden sigils marked each pane of glass in the dome. Designed to draw the radiance of Azyr down to comfort the worshippers within its walls, the whole structure thrummed with divine power. She hoped it would be enough. ‘Your warriors?’

‘One at each entrance, save for the main. They will hold, whatever comes.’

‘And the main?’

Calys looked at her. ‘It is mine. It is my duty to hold this place. To keep the enemy from discovering what is hidden beneath us.’

‘That is our goal as well.’

‘I have never heard of you, or your chamber. And now, here, two of your sort, come to reinforce us. First Knossus, and now this Balthas.’ Calys looked down, into the nave below and the people flooding the aisle. ‘Almost as if the God-King were waiting for an excuse to unleash you.’

‘That you have never heard of us does not mean we have been hiding,’ Miska said. ‘We have taken the field a total of fifteen times, since I was first called to Sigmar’s side. Fifteen campaigns in the mortal realms, none so long as I might wish. Balthas is brutally efficient when he puts his mind to it.’

‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing.’

Miska didn’t reply. She looked at the statue which loomed over the interior of the temple – Sigmar the Liberator, holding the realms on his back, his foot crushing the skull of a vaguely amorphous daemonic shape. Miska wasn’t certain just which of the Ruinous Powers it was supposed to be – perhaps all of them. ‘We are not soldiers by nature, not like you, though we are no less warriors. Our discipline has taken us down a different path.’ She held up her hand and let crackling strands of aether dance in her palm. ‘We seek not the foe in the open field, but a more insidious opponent – one we have not successfully defeated.’

‘Dathus – Lord-Relictor Dathus – mentioned something about that. He said that you of the Sacrosanct Chambers wage war on the Anvil of Apotheosis itself.’ Calys shook her head. ‘I was not certain what he meant.’

Miska hesitated. The problems with the reforging process were not a secret. But neither was it spoken of openly. Before she could reply, Calys went on. ‘They say that you witness the reforging.’

‘I have that honour.’

‘Have you – I mean…’ She hesitated. She looked down, watching the refugees crowd into the temple. ‘I did not know him well. I did not know him at all. But he saved me. You understand?’

Miska did. The bonds between the warriors of Azyr were as strong as sigmarite. She would die for any warrior under her command, and they would do the same for her. ‘What was his name?’

‘Pharus. Pharus Thaum. He was our lord-castellant.’ Calys looked at her. ‘He saved me. He died, saving me.’ She looked down and, for the first time, Miska noticed the gryph-hound laying at Calys’ feet. The beast looked up at her and yawned.

‘I know that name,’ Miska said, after a moment. ‘The secrets of the reforging process are ever-changing, like the aether itself. No two spirits are the same, and thus no two reforgings are alike.’

‘Then he has been…’ Calys trailed off.

Miska looked away. ‘Pharus burned like a star – he burned too brightly and was consumed by his own strength. That is what happened to him.’

‘Then he is dead twice-over, because of me.’ Calys leaned against the stone rail of the balcony. It crumbled in her grip.

‘No.’ Miska caught her by the shoulder. ‘We are forged from memories and starlight, Calys Eltain. Both are volatile. They can consume us, as easily as they comfort us.’ She decided not to mention that Thaum’s soul might be loose somewhere in Shyish. ‘Pharus fought and died, as a son of Azyr. We should all be so lucky, when our time comes.’

Calys turned away from her. ‘I hope so,’ she said, staring at the statue of Sigmar. ‘I pray it is so.’

From outside, the horn blew again. Miska looked up. Dark clouds were visible through the glass dome, blotting out the stars. She felt the aether stir, and a cold sensation slid through her. She looked at Calys. ‘The enemy are here.’

Calys drew her warblade. ‘Good.’

Pharus ran across the sands towards the northern gatehouse, an army of ghosts at his back. He was moving faster than any mortal man, swept along in the wake of Malendrek’s fury. The Knight of Shrouds had given the call to war, and the nighthaunts answered. They sped through the shuffling ranks of deadwalkers, rising up and past them in a hurricane of grey-green energy.

‘Faster, faster,’ Rocha shrilled from nearby. The executioner was almost a blur of darkness, her gore-streaked features pulled tight with unholy anticipation. ‘There is justice to be meted out, and a tithe owed – faster!’

Pharus kept up with her easily, Fellgrip hurtling in his wake, chains rattling. He could hear Dohl’s sonorous voice somewhere behind them, exhorting the multitude of spirits to greater speeds. They were a wave, crashing towards the distant shore – thousands of spirits, driven by one will. Pharus felt it fill him, and for a moment, he felt neither the cold nor the hunger, only a sense of fulfilment. As if the hand of his lord and master were upon his shoulder, as if it were Nagash’s voice, rather than Dohl’s, urging them on.

But the closer they got to the walls of the city, the brighter it became, until it was akin to staring into the heart of a roaring fire. The light pained and confused him, and drove the chainrasps about him into a wailing frenzy. It was as if the city were encased in a dome of light, and he could see no way through.

He staggered, slowing, limbs smoking. It was as if he’d run into a solid wall of heat. A chainrasp came apart with a despairing shriek. Another fluttered away, its tattered form alight with blue flames.

A great wail rose up, as the nighthaunts hurled themselves at the light, seeking to blot it out with their forms. As they struck it, thunder echoed through Pharus, and he saw streaks of lightning pass through the dead. Memories flickered – Sigmar had protected the city. Had set the dead to oppose the dead. Twelve saints and a circle of blessed salt.

‘We must dim the light,’ Dohl bellowed, from behind him. ‘Overwhelm it!’ His lantern blazed, and more and more of the lesser spectres streaked towards the city. But they would not be able to pierce the barrier.

And yet, there was a gap. A pinhole in the light. Pharus stared, trying to see past the glare. He spied Malendrek riding hard for the gap, his deathly riders spread out behind him. They pulled the rest of the nighthaunt horde in their wake. Pharus drew his blade and hurtled in pursuit. ‘There,’ he roared. ‘Follow the Knight of Shrouds!’

He felt the winds of Shyish billow about him, lending him speed. There was a sound in his head – a triumphant shriek, rising from far away. The sword shuddered in his grip as the hateful azure light swelled to either side of him, blotting out the desert and even the gheists which surrounded him.

He heard the clangour of great bells, and smelled again the smoke of his dying place. He felt the cruel heat of his remaking and knew that this was the same power. Once, it might have warmed him. Now, it burned him, and might burn him away to nothing, were it not for Nagash. The hilt of his sword grew hot in his hands as he trudged forwards, determined to follow Malendrek through the light.

The heat grew unbearable, and he felt himself become thin and weightless. As if, at any moment, he would be consumed. Dimly, he heard the scream of gheists and the rumble of thunder. Malendrek’s voice boomed out ahead of him. ‘You will all be remade in darkness,’ the Knight of Shrouds shrieked.

Pharus felt a wrenching within him, and then he was through. Past the light, smoke rising from his armour and from his sword. He stood in a courtyard – familiar, but only just. The air was thick with the stink of Azyr, and the sweeter smell of mortal fear and blood. Thunder boomed, and he staggered back, throwing up a hand to shield his gaze as lightning washed across the stones.

He turned, seeking Malendrek. He saw the Knight of Shrouds locked in battle with a golden-armoured Stormcast lord, mounted on a screeching gryph-charger. Dark blade crashed against lightning-wreathed staff, as armoured warriors and mortal soldiers struggled against growing numbers of nighthaunts. The gheists slid through the walls of the gatehouse as if it were no more substantial than water. Some burst into flame as they breached the walls, but most endured and launched themselves gladly at the living.

Pharus took a step towards the duel, wondering if he ought to aid Malendrek. Something murmured within him, and he turned, spying the gate. It crackled with azure energy as well, but not so potent as that which banded the city. The light kept out nighthaunts, but the gates and the walls held out everything else.

He raced towards the heavy portcullis, blade held low. He had destroyed the gates of Fort Alenstahdt; he saw no reason he couldn’t do it again. But as he made to strike them, bolts of crackling energy slammed into the ground around him from above. He looked up to see a trio of Stormcasts on the parapet, levelling heavy crossbows. One fired, and he swept his blade out, bisecting the mace-like bolt.

The resulting explosion knocked him backwards. Aetheric energies clawed at his substance, and he howled in pain. As he forced himself to his feet, he heard the clatter of sigmarite from behind him. He whirled, barely managing to interpose his blade between himself and a blow that might have sent his spirit shrieking back to Nagashizzar. Three Stormcasts, wielding shields and heavy mauls, closed in on him. He parried a blow, only to be knocked sprawling by another explosive volley from above. The three Stormcasts converged on him as he rose, trying to keep him away from the gate.

He cast about, seeking some sign of Fellgrip or Dohl. Where were they? Had they not made it past the light, as he had? A maul slammed down, and he twitched aside. Corposant flared, and he felt it burn. Snarling in frustration, he slashed out, and a Stormcast sagged back, body reduced to crackling motes of energy.

Pharus heard a scream from above and risked a glance. One of the Stormcast archers plummeted to the ground, body coming apart in strands of lightning. He saw Rocha chop through the sternum of another, her axe parting sigmarite in a burst of amethyst heat. She tore her weapon free and drifted down to stand between him and his opponents.

‘Attend to the gate, knight. Let an executioner ply her trade.’ Rocha raised her axe in challenge. ‘Come then, iron-souls. Come and let me judge you.’

The first warrior lunged, maul snapping out. Rocha twisted aside, as weightless as a shadow. Her axe drew black sparks from the warrior’s shield, and the force of her blow drove him back several steps.

‘You, who took my betrothed from me, on our dying day, and then again when the Undying King might have returned him to me,’ Rocha howled as he strode towards the portcullis. Her words beat on the air like the tolling of a funerary bell. ‘He was mine, promised and owed, and you took him!’

Pharus turned, leaving her to it. He slashed his blade across the silver chains that connected the portcullis to the ground, parting the metal like paper. Lightning flashed, and crawled across him. He could feel a weight press down upon him from all directions, and heard a voice murmuring on the air – prayers or imprecations, he could not tell which. There was a saint entombed somewhere in these stones, a corpse infused with the lie of Azyr’s strength.

He drove his sword into the wood of the gate and grasped the portcullis. It was marked with protective sigils, and his hands smoked and steamed as he took hold of it. With a hiss of effort, he began to force it up. Blue flame spilled across his armour as he did so. A lesser spectre would have been destroyed utterly. Even one like Dohl or Rocha would have been consumed. But Pharus was not like them. He had felt the fires of Azyr before, and persisted. As he would persist now. The flames spread, licking at his substance.

He turned, catching the edges of the portcullis on his shoulders, forcing it above his head. He could hear the mechanisms that controlled it shattering somewhere above him, and cries of panic from the mortals set to guard it. Sparks rained down, as pulleys snapped and chains spilled from their alcoves to puddle on the ground.

He left the ground, rising, pushing, forcing it up and up, so that the stones of the gateway cracked and burst. Below, he saw Rocha push the Stormcasts back, step by step, with the fury of her assault. Her voice echoed over the screech of bending metal. ‘You took him and clad him in silver so that he did not know me, and I will have justice.’ She spat the words at them, as if they were arrows. ‘I will take what I am owed in blood, until he is returned to me. My prince of the Fourth Circle…’

A Stormcast lunged for her, and she spun with a shriek, her jaw unhinging like that of a serpent. Her axe crashed down, splitting the warrior’s shield and removing the arm that it was strapped to. The Stormcast staggered back, but had no time to fall before the axe licked out and removed his other arm. He slumped back against a support beam, blood pumping into the dirt. His companion darted towards the executioner, deceptively swift despite his bulk. His maul crashed down with a snarl of radiant energies, and Rocha shrieked in pain.

Pharus hesitated. Some spark of the man he had been urged him to go to her aid. A warrior aided his comrades.

But you are not a warrior. You are a tool. Tools perform their function, and nothing more.

Yes. Rocha’s function was to fight for him – to perish once more, for him. And his was to crack the city wide, so that it might feel the full fury of Nagash.

With a howl of his own, he forced the portcullis up and wrenched it forwards. Stone shattered, and the twisted remnants of the portcullis were ripped from the gateway, to slam down into the courtyard below. Still burning, Pharus dropped and caught the hilt of his blade. He tore it loose in a burst of splinters, spun and slashed out.

The shadeglass blade cut easily through the thick wood, and the gates came apart with a mournful groan. They crashed away in a cloud of dust. The reverberations echoed through the courtyard. He dropped to one knee, his form smouldering. A moment later, the first of the deadwalkers emerged from the cloud and shambled past him. Then another and another.

He heard cries of alarm from the mortals and shouts from the Stormcasts, as this new threat confronted them. Pharus rose to his feet, an island of shadow amid a sea of dead flesh. A sea that would drown Glymmsforge and even Azyr, in time.

Thus, Nagash has commanded.

‘Thus it will be done,’ Pharus intoned.

Then, hand on his sword, he followed the rest of the dead to war.