Soul Wars

Chapter twenty-one Descent

Thunder rumbled above.

Balthas paused, listening. Helios had done as promised. He had bought them time enough, and now Juddsson and his warriors were leading Fosko, Obol and the others to the halls of the Riven Clans. Whether there was safety there or not, Balthas could not say. Regardless, the mortals were well out of what came next.

‘Helios has returned to the stars,’ Miska said, from beside him. He looked at her and reached up to ruffle Quicksilver’s feathery mane.

‘He held them longer than I calculated.’

‘He did not return to Azyr alone. Can you feel it?’

Balthas nodded. The aether seemed lighter somehow. As if a burden had been lifted from the realm. He looked around. The tunnel sloped sharply downwards and was narrow enough that the Stormcasts could only move through it three abreast. The shadows were pushed back by the flickering glow of their staves, and the glimmer of corposant that clung to the arms and armour of the warriors following in their wake.

Built by duardin engineers, the tunnel was dry and sturdy, with heavy bracers of stone holding the crushing earth at bay. It twisted and turned back in on itself in ways that made sense only to the duardin, but always going down. Several times they came to crossways, and had to wait for Elya to come back and lead them into the correct passage. Smaller tunnels split off from the main, at intervals, but most had been sealed recently – bricked up or otherwise blocked off, and marked with runes of protection and warding.

Despite those runes, even here there were spirits. Balthas could see the dutiful echoes of long-dead duardin, working as they had in life, shoring up the stone and smoothing the floors. He’d read, once, that the duardin afterlife was very much just a continuation of life – the reward for a life of honour and hard labour was to live that life over, forever.

There was a pleasing sensibility to that. Then, Balthas could look forward to much the same – an eternity of war, waged beneath the stars. If he were lucky. He thought of Pharus and flinched away from the implication.

‘The child has vanished again,’ Miska said. Elya ranged far ahead of them, moving more quickly than the column of Stormcasts she led into the underworld.

‘Can you see any cats?’

‘A few.’ Eyes gleamed in the dark, the creatures crouched in nooks and crannies, or slunk along the bracers. The soft pad of cat-feet, beneath the grinding tread of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer.

‘Then she is close.’ Balthas was confident that the girl was leading them in the right direction. There was something about the child – an ineffable quality that bemused and intrigued him. The story he’d told her had just been a story. One more folktale culled from his decades of study. That did not mean it wasn’t the truth.

The mortals of the realms worshipped many gods, some old, some new, some real, some false. Who was to say that there hadn’t been a god of cats, who did as cats often do and slunk into some small crack in the universe to wait out catastrophe?

Quicksilver grunted, and Balthas glanced back to see Calys making her way towards him, the gryph-hound, Grip, padding in her wake. She had been bringing up the rear, after having sent the rest of her cohort with the mortals. He knew what she wanted, even before she spoke. ‘We’re close,’ she said. ‘I can feel the vibration in the stones.’

‘Good. Any signs of pursuit?’

‘Not yet. We’ll know as soon as it happens. Juddsson and Fosko left a surprise for them – they hid their remaining stores of powder and silver shot in the reliquary, ready to explode if the passage is opened.’

Balthas grunted. ‘That will do little to deter them.’

Miska turned. ‘Perhaps we should consider doing the same ourselves. A few warriors might hold this passage, for a time.’

‘But not long enough to do any good. Besides which, they won’t come this way. Pharus knows the secret route, hidden in the reliquary. He will attempt to force that one.’

‘Then why are we here, rather than there?’ Calys said.

‘To get ahead of them, if possible. There are reinforcements below. Lord-Relictor Dathus, and those forces under his command. If we can join our forces to theirs, while Pharus is still trying to find his way through his own labyrinth, we might stand a chance of bringing him to open battle.’ He looked at her. ‘Without him, without a central, driving will, the nighthaunts will scatter.’ He looked up. ‘The battle for the city will continue. But the horde which follows us will take no further part in it… and the Ten Thousand Tombs will remain sealed.’

‘And you will get to face him head on, once more,’ Miska said.

Before Balthas could reply, a cat yowled. He looked up and spotted the same scar-lipped feline that seemed to shadow Elya wherever she went. He looked ahead and saw the child seated atop a bracer, waiting on them. ‘It’s here,’ she said, as she dropped to the ground, light as one of her four-legged companions.

‘Where?’ Balthas looked past her. The tunnel continued on, its end swallowed in darkness. He wondered if it were a false seeming of some sort.

‘Here.’ She pointed down, at a rusty, iron grate set into the floor. Balthas had noticed many such grates since their descent, set every few thousand paces. Presumably these were to prevent flooding, in the case of the Glass Mere’s rise. What marked this one as different, he couldn’t say.

‘Why this one? Why not the others?’

Elya looked up at him. ‘Got to go this way, otherwise you can’t follow me.’ She looked down, into the dark. ‘You’re too big to go down the other ones.’

‘How long will it take?’

She shrugged. ‘You’re not very fast,’ she said doubtfully.

‘We’re fast enough.’ Balthas pulled his staff to him and murmured a single word. A ball of corposant bloomed atop the staff. He plucked it free and dropped it through the grate. The light split into two, and two into four, until a dozen will o’ the wisps danced in the dark below. ‘And now we can see where we are going.’

A slope – steep and twisting, like a mountain path – descended away from the grate, and into the dark. Balthas could hear a steady crash, as of waves, rising from somewhere out of sight. He murmured a few words and waved his hand over the grate, and the rusty iron became red dust, which sifted away as if it had never been.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is time we see what it is that Nagash so desires.’

Close. He was so close, he could feel it.

‘Rip it open,’ Pharus snarled. He slashed his sword out, shattering the holy bones that hid what he sought. The circular stone slab was as almost as large as the wall that held it. It slanted downwards all but imperceptibly. Marked along its circumference were celestial sigils that stung his gaze and forced him to turn away.

Wherever he looked, the skulls of saints grinned mockingly at him. He longed to drag them back and raise them up, but the symbol of the High Star carved into them prevented it. To show them that peace was an illusion, save in Nagash. That the dead, as ever, had been denied their true place by the living. As those below had been denied.

Can you hear them, Pharus Thaum? They are calling to you, out of the black.

‘Yes,’ he said. He could hear them. Demanding their freedom, pleading for forgiveness for their crimes against the Undying King. An eager army, ready to do battle with the stars themselves. That was what he had been sent to acquire, and he would do so, whatever the cost.

Even if it means your own destruction.

Pharus stopped for a moment, confused. That had almost sounded like a question. His helm seemed to contract about his head, as if to squeeze such thoughts away. He stepped back, head aching, as the few remaining deadwalkers pressed forwards, unhampered by the sigils. Broken fingers gripped the edges of the stone, as sun-dried muscle and ligament strained. A deadwalker tore its arms loose and stumbled back, jaw working. Pharus removed its head and shoved it aside. If it could not move stone, it had no use. ‘Use the bones,’ he croaked, not watching. ‘Lever it out of place.’

Broken femurs and arm bones belonging to the fallen deadwalkers were stabbed into what little gap there was. Rusty blades joined them, as the deadwalkers employed the weapons they might have wielded in life. Slowly, the great slab began to move. Somewhere, unseen levers tripped, and gears began to turn. All it required was a strong enough hand to start the process.

‘I remember opening it once before – my own two hands, then, and those of others… Briaeus…’ he murmured. A name without a face. He shook the memory aside. It did not matter.

‘You have more than two hands now. You have a thousand of them.’ Dohl said, from where he waited just outside of the reliquary. ‘The hands of every dead thing here are yours, my lord, as yours are Nagash’s. All are one in him, and he is all.’

‘Yes,’ Pharus said, stroking the hourglass pommel of his blade. The sands hissed, sifting away. They never seemed to run out. He bowed his head. His helm felt heavy, suddenly. The weight of his armour threatened to drag him down. This place – the air closed around him like stone. It was worse since the death of the Stormcast who’d despatched Fellgrip.

He glanced back at the spot where the body had come apart in an explosion of lightning. The stones, pillars and walls were burnt black. The interior of the temple stank of celestial fire, and many of the weaker chainrasps had been consumed in the warrior’s death throes.

Like the others, he had not understood the gift Pharus had offered him. And now he had returned to the tyrant’s embrace. Angry now, he turned back. The slab was moving, but the deadwalkers continued to heave at it. The rest of them waited to descend. The first wave, to reveal any ambushes or traps.

There was a sound – sharp and rough.

He registered the spark a moment after it occurred. A piece of flint, trapped beneath the slab, scraped by the movement. A spark dancing across a mound of powder. Fire streaked along beneath the piled bones, cutting strange patterns beneath them. He turned, following it, dredging his memory. He had seen this before, what was it? What was–

The explosion followed a moment later. The reliquary was full of fire, and a whistling thicket of silver shot. Deadwalkers fell, burning. Nearby chainrasps squealed and fled. Pharus held his ground, ignoring the flames that swept up around him, seeking to consume him, though he had neither flesh nor bone. He roared in rage and snatched his sword from its sheath. He slashed down, striking the slab, again and again.

Chunks of stone fell away, cleaved raggedly from the whole by his blows. When enough of it was gone, he cast out a hand and shoved the remains of the slab aside, bending the unseen mechanisms out of joint. Flames roared past him, into the passage beyond. Burning deadwalkers stumbled past. A moment later, the nighthaunts flooded into the passageway, their screams and howls echoing from the stones.

‘The strength of Nagash cannot be denied,’ Dohl murmured. As he urged the nighthaunts into the reliquary, their presence snuffed the flames, drawing the heat from the air almost instantly.

Pharus did not reply. He stared into the passage, listening to the grinding of stone, once so familiar and now so strange. Dohl drew close, the light of his lantern washing over Pharus. ‘Do you hear them, my lord? Lost souls, calling to you out of lightless gulfs. They know you are here. Jailer-turned-redeemer. They welcome you. Do you hear them?’

Pharus did. Ten thousand voices, calling up out of the dark. Calling for him.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘The inevitable awaits.’

Balthas led the way, the remains of his Chamber marching in his wake. There were barely thirty of them left. But enough to do what must be done.

Quicksilver paced beside him, Elya sitting in the saddle. She looked tiny, there, even with the cats that clung beside her. More felines ran underfoot. At times, there seemed to be dozens of them, or only a handful.

The slope was uneven. More than once, a Stormcast nearly lost their footing, sending a cascade of loose stone tumbling down into the gulf below. Every time, they would stop until the echoes of clattering stone faded. Then, they would proceed once more.

Balthas could hear the steady, grinding rumble of stone ­scraping against stone. Dust hung thick on the air. It sifted down from above in ribbon-like waves, and cascaded across the Stormcasts’ armour. Occasional flashes of light rose from below, reflected from innumerable mirrored surfaces to bounce along the curve of the slope.

It was like an orrery. But within that orrery was contained a smaller puzzle box of shifting lines and sliding squares. Everything was in motion, if slowly. He could feel the aether sliding with it – the blessings and protections of Azyr, marking the sphere of tombs. Even without seeing them, he could feel the arcanograms that Pharus had engineered. As the shape of the catacombs shifted, so too did the arcanograms. From barrier to funnel to trap and back again.

‘He was clever,’ Miska said, from just behind him.

‘He still is,’ Balthas said. ‘That is the problem.’

The slope widened ahead of them, and in the light, Balthas could make out the crude apertures of tombs and crypts, built into the walls. These were all sealed, with stone and silver chain, and he could see mystic wards glowing like phosphorescent fungi.

The ground beneath their feet trembled now, and an almost solid curtain of dust wafted down through the air. Elya leaned forwards. ‘We have to wait,’ she said, shouting to be heard over the ­rumbling that pressed in on them from all sides. Balthas raised his staff, and the column of Stormcasts crashed to a halt. The path ahead had come to an abrupt end. The crypt faces were broken and had collapsed into slumped piles that tapered off over the edge of the sudden aperture. Balthas peered down.

From where he stood, the catacombs below resembled the apex of a vast, almost spherical, column composed of intertwining tiers of streets and avenues. The column was trapped in a web of stone pathways and bridges, which stretched in all directions. The tiers shifted independently of one another, sliding up or to the side, or else sinking down as another rose in their place.

The whole thing was a work of genius. Balthas wondered what Pharus had been in his mortal life – just another warrior, or something more? Had Sigmar imbued him with the creativity needed to conceive of such a thing, or had it always resided within him? And how much of it was left to him now? Had Nagash left him that genius, or had the Undying King cast it aside, as something useless?

He suspected the latter. Pharus had seemed a clockwork thing, to him. A hollow shell, driven by an unnatural force. A puppet of soul-stuff. He heard someone approach. Calys Eltain. ‘Something you wish to say, Liberator-Prime?’

He felt her hesitate. Her aura was in upheaval. Her soul was tangled in knots of confusion. ‘We should not be down here,’ she said, after a moment. It was not the question she wanted to ask, he thought. But he decided to answer it anyway.

‘Have you never wondered why the God-King set watch on these tombs, rather than destroy them?’ Balthas asked, not looking at her. ‘All of this could have been avoided, had he simply obliterated them, and all that lies within. It is well within his power to do so.’

‘I had not considered it. That he commands is enough.’

‘No. It is not,’ Balthas snapped. ‘Nor does he expect it to be so.’ He turned swiftly, and she backed up a step. ‘Sigmar encourages questions, Liberator-Prime. He encourages thought, as well as deed. Our enemies are not merely things of flesh and bone, but malign abstractions, requiring weapons beyond these we hold in our hands. To win the war ahead of us, we must consider all aspects of the thing, not merely the thing itself. Think. Why would he not dispose of those souls held here?’

Calys frowned. ‘He has some use for them.’

Balthas nodded. ‘Exactly. The dead are as clay for the gods. Souls can be reforged. Even those tainted in some way. We know this. Take for instance Tornus the Hero, who stands pre-eminent among the ranks of the Redeemed. Once, a foul thing, a pustule of Chaos – now one of the Huntsmen of Azyr.’ He leaned close. ‘There are others among our ranks whose souls were first claimed not by Chaos, but by Nagash – confined to skeletal husks or reduced to maddened spirits, and yet they too were remade into servants of Azyr.’

He looked away. ‘Ten thousand dead are interred in this well of souls. Ten thousand warriors who might one day serve to turn the tide of the war we wage. Perhaps they too will wear the heraldry of the Anvils of Heldenhammer, in time, as we do. Or perhaps not. But the potential is there. And our need is great.’

‘So we are here… for potential?’

‘For hope. For a better day.’ Balthas straightened. ‘For the chance to repair what is broken and remake what is destroyed. That is why I hunt through ancient tomes and scour musty pages… seeking some sign of hope. Some promise that all that has been, might be again.’ He set his staff. ‘If we are tools, we are employed in great purpose. I take comfort in that.’ A bridge of stone appeared out of the darkness to the left, slowly swinging towards the edge of the path. It crashed into place, the vibrations running up through his legs.

He heard the creak of unseen locking mechanisms, and dust spewed from the small gap between edge and bridge. He lifted his staff. ‘Come. Time is fleeting.’

He led the way across, moving swiftly, aware that the bridge could break away to continue its circuit at any time. As soon as the last Sequitor set foot on the path beyond, the bridge broke away and sank out of sight, accompanied by the clank of chains and gears. The path ahead dipped sharply, descending in a slope towards a circuitous walkway below. Crypts and mausoleums tottered over the path, supported by angled pillars and struts. The route split and wandered in a hundred directions, winding among the houses of the dead.

Balthas gestured for Calys to join him. ‘Do you recognise this place?’

The Liberator-Prime shook her head. ‘I recognise some of the tombs, but the last time I saw them they were elsewhere.’ She looked at Elya. The girl pointed straight ahead.

‘Follow the silences, it’s easier.’

Balthas grunted. ‘Where is the main entrance?’

Elya turned, squinting. She pointed north, away from the slope. ‘That way, I think.’

‘If she’s right, then that’ll be part of the Avenue of Souls,’ Calys said. ‘It stretches from the main entrance and runs along the circumference of the pit holding the Ten Thousand Tombs. She reached down and stroked Grip’s narrow skull, ruffling the beast’s feathers. ‘There are dozens of false paths stretching off from it, though. It’s as easy for the living to become lost as the dead.’

Balthas looked at Elya. ‘Can you lead us safely along it?’

She nodded, frowning. ‘I think so. It’s easier when I don’t have to think about it.’

With the girl’s guidance, they made their way down among the tombs. Several times, the path ahead shook and sank out of sight, or bent in an unexpected direction as the ground shifted. Mirrored slabs had been placed at odd angles, distorting the light and making paths appear where there were none. Only Balthas’ floating wisps of corposant enabled him to identify these tricks. More than once, the Stormcasts found themselves walking into a cul-de-sac that moments later split away to reveal a new course. A mortal would have become hopelessly lost in the ever-shifting necropolis.

As they passed through the stone canyons, the doors of some vaults rattled. Chains clinked and dolorous voices called out of the dark. The dead did not sleep easy. ‘It is louder than it was,’ Calys said. ‘It is as if they are waiting for something.’

‘They are, and it is on our heels,’ Balthas said. He moved ahead of the column, peering into the darkness with his storm-sight. He could see hundreds of unquiet souls, clawing at the walls of the crypts around them. Hungry corpses thrashed in the gibbet cages that hung overhead, and shadow-shapes skittered out of sight. Eerie moans drifted among the crypts, following the Stormcasts as they made their descent.

When they reached the bottom of the slope, the path spread like the fingers of a hand. Immense crypts and burial vaults hugged the sides of the path, and leaned awkwardly, casting long shadows. The Avenue of Souls wound through this thicket of stone – not a rough path, but cobbled and slabbed in pale stone. It reminded Balthas of a spinal column, stretching as it did throughout the catacombs.

Balthas called a halt. He could hear bells ringing, in the distance, as his subordinates gathered about him. ‘One of the bell towers,’ Calys said. ‘There are twelve of them, one at every major thoroughfare on the avenue. They only ring when there is danger…’ Her hand dropped to her blade. Around them, Sequitors took up position, creating a wide square about the rest of the Sacrosanct Chamber. They locked shields and sank to one knee, waiting for orders. Castigators took up positions behind them, greatbows at the ready.

‘The enemy is coming. We got ahead of them, but only just. We must decide now – make our stand, or press on.’ Balthas looked around. The Avenue of Souls rose upwards to the north and the heart of the catacombs. Tombs jutted at wrong angles, and seemed to be collapsing with infinite slowness all about them. Everything was in motion, constantly. He could feel the path shifting beneath his feet.

‘A good place for an ambush,’ Mara said, looking around. The Sequitor-Prime removed her helm, revealing close-cropped hair. Dark eyes narrowed as she took in their surroundings with a veteran’s attention to detail. ‘They might not expect it.’

Quintus grunted. ‘And they might ambush the ambushers.’ The Castigator-Prime shook his head. ‘This is unstable ground. Bad for making a stand.’

‘Not if we’re careful,’ Gellius said. The engineer frowned, like a craftsman facing a stubborn bit of wood. ‘We can hold them here, with a few warriors. Not forever, but long enough to slow them down, my lord. Give you time to reach the heart of this labyrinth, if that is your plan.’ He peered down the avenue, towards the sound of the bells, and then looked at Balthas. ‘The stone here is weak – too much movement. A few blasts, and down it’ll come, every crypt and brace.’ He grinned. ‘If Sigmar is with us, I’ll bury the lot of them.’

‘Not alone you won’t,’ Mara said. ‘I will take half of my cohort, and a third of Quintus’, if he’s willing.’ She glanced at Quintus, who, after a moment, nodded. She looked back at Balthas. ‘The rest, and the survivors of Porthas’, will be enough to make a stand with you, my lord. We will bloody them for you.’ She looked at him. ‘It is the pragmatic choice, my lord. Efficient.’

Balthas looked down at her. He barely knew her. Mara, like Quintus and the others, was almost a cipher to him. He had never made the effort to know them, not really. And now, who they were was to be lost. They would not survive, and what emerged from the Anvil of Apotheosis would be a different person.

‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. He glanced at Calys. ‘You will take command of the remaining Sequitors.’ It was not a request. She nodded, after a brief hesitation.

‘As you will, lord-arcanum.’

Balthas paused. Knossus would have had a speech for a moment like this, he was certain. But he had no words. He looked at Mara and Gellius. ‘Sigmar go with you, sister. And you as well, Gellius.’

Gellius smiled. ‘He always has, my lord. Today shouldn’t be any different.’

Calys did not look back, as they left Mara, Gellius and the others behind. The dark seemed to press in from all sides, and somewhere bells were ringing plaintively. It had not felt so stifling before, and Calys wondered what might be awakening in the depths. And what might be awaiting them, when they finally arrived.

She glanced at Elya, still sitting atop Balthas’ steed. She tried not to think about the danger the girl was in, and wished she’d sent the child with the others, into the duardin tunnels. Then, perhaps Elya wouldn’t be any safer with her father.

She frowned, thinking about the way Duvak had screamed at the sight of her. Balthas was right – something in the lamplighter was broken. He barely functioned, beyond the rote mundanity of his job. Elya didn’t seem to mind, but it was hard to tell. The girl was as difficult to read as the cats who followed her.

A different thought intruded as she watched them. Something she’d heard and dismissed, if briefly. She’d wanted to ask Balthas earlier, but her courage had failed her. But now, watching Balthas striding alongside Elya, the desire to know was renewed. She turned, searching for the one she might ask about it.

‘What did you mean, when you said that the lord-arcanum would get to face Pharus again?’ she murmured, as she fell into step beside Miska, where she strode at the head of the column, her gaze sweeping their surroundings warily.

The mage-sacristan stiffened. She did not look at Calys. ‘I misspoke.’

‘Did you? How do the dead know how to get down here? I assumed they would follow us, but Balthas seems to believe differently. And he said Pharus’ name as well, then. You said his soul was lost, mage-sacristan. What did you mean by that?’

Miska bowed her head. ‘I meant what I said, Liberator-Prime. He is lost.’

‘Then how can Balthas face him?’

Miska looked at her. ‘Do you truly wish to know?’

Calys hesitated. She wanted to say yes, but couldn’t bring the word to her lips. Something in the mage-sacristan’s tone sent a chill through her. She had been taught that to become one with Azyr, as all Stormcasts were, was something irrevocable. Stormcast souls could be lost, or even destroyed, but never changed. If that were not true…

She looked down at her hands, disturbed by the implication. ‘Can he be returned to us?’ she asked, finally. ‘Can he be made… what he was?’

Miska sighed. ‘No.’

‘Are you so sure?’ It came out as an accusation. Miska glanced at her, a sharp smile on her features. Calys stepped back, suddenly ashamed. The look in the other Stormcast’s eyes was as hard and as cold as the winds of the Borealis Mountains.

‘If I were not, I would not be who I am, sister. And perhaps I would be happier for it.’ Miska looked away. ‘We would all be happier for it, I think. But we are who we are, and we are needed, sadly.’

Calys shook her head. ‘Why did you not tell me?’

‘And what purpose would that serve?’ Miska smiled – not cold now, but sad. ‘Our purpose – the things we must do on occasion – they are whispered of among some of our brethren. None wish to believe, but all fear it nonetheless. As they should.’

Calys looked away. ‘You speak so plainly of it, sister.’

Miska shrugged. ‘It is no longer a whisper. Instead it is a roar. Sigmar cast aside the veil of secrecy, and now our existence, our purpose, is known.’ She looked ahead, to where Balthas walked beside his steed and Elya. ‘Balthas came here because of Pharus. He feels that he failed and seeks to redeem himself – and Pharus, as well. So you see, you are not alone in your guilt, misplaced as it is.’

Calys frowned, studying the lord-arcanum. She wondered if she had misjudged him. She nodded at Miska and moved to catch up with Balthas. He glanced at her as she drew near. ‘Lord-arcanum, I–’ she began. She was interrupted by the gryph-charger. The animal reared with a shriek, as crackling arrows hummed out of the shadows and thudded into the avenue before him. Light flared in the dark. ‘Hold,’ a deep voice called out, from somewhere above. ‘Announce yourselves.’

‘Dathus,’ Calys shouted, recognising the voice. ‘It’s me, lord-relictor. I come bringing aid.’ She stepped forwards, arms raised.

‘Calys?’ The light grew brighter, revealing the figure of the lord-relictor, standing atop a broken stairway. Retributors moved into view, through the crypts. Dathus looked battered, as though he’d been fighting his own war down in the dark. His mortis armour was dented and scorched, and a wide crack ran through the left eye of his skull helm. The Retributors who accompanied him looked much the same. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘We are here to help,’ Balthas said.

Dathus started. Then, he bowed his head. ‘Lord-arcanum.’ He straightened and hurried down the steps. ‘Calys, what is going on?’

‘The dead have entered the city, brother. Worse, they have entered the catacombs. We mean to intercept them, before…’ Calys trailed off. Dathus’ eyes widened within his helm.

‘If that’s so, how did you find your way down here to warn us?’ Then, more urgently, ‘Is there a gap in our defences?’

‘The child, Elya, led us…’ Balthas began. Calys turned. Elya was no longer sitting atop Quicksilver. Neither were there any cats visible. ‘She’s gone,’ Balthas said.

‘Gone?’ Calys turned, searching, her voice rising. A cold surge that might have been fear swept through her. A raw sensation, and one she was not used to. ‘Where is she?’ She made as if to go back, but Miska reached out to stop her.

‘She slipped away a few moments ago.’

‘You saw her go?’ Calys demanded.

‘She went back.’

‘Back? Back where? How could you let her go? She’s just a child!’ Calys shook off Miska’s hand. ‘I must find her.’ She started back the way they’d come. ‘I made an oath.’

‘And does that oath outweigh your duty?’ Dathus said, sharply. ‘That child knows these catacombs better even than Pharus did. If she is hiding, not even the dead will find her.’

Calys whirled, denial springing to her lips. But before she could voice it, she heard the bells. They were ringing somewhere to the south. And beneath their clamour, the groaning of the dead. Not the pathetic things, trapped in their tombs, but the feral dead. Nighthaunts and nicksouls. Balthas caught her arm, and she looked at him.

‘There is no time,’ Balthas said.

‘She is in danger,’ Calys said, hoarsely. ‘I told Pharus – I swore to him that I would protect her. I cannot…’ Her words trailed away. ‘I swore to him,’ she said.

Balthas stared at her a moment, as if searching for something. Then, with a sigh, he released her. ‘Go,’ he said, softly. ‘And Sigmar go with you, sister.’

Pharus stared into the dying priest’s face, seeking some sign that the mortal understood. That in these final moments, he’d grasped the truth Pharus had brought him. That there was no salvation in Azyr, only in death.

But the priest simply died. And then… nothing. Pharus shook the body. He looked at Dohl, hovering nearby, the light of his lantern illuminating the slaughterhouse interior of the bell tower. The priests had put up a desperate fight, but prayers and silver alone were little match for nighthaunts. ‘Where is he?’ Pharus croaked. ‘Draw his gheist from him.’

‘Alas, my lord, I cannot. This place is warded with filthy starlight. It has poisoned the air and the soil. We can free those dead things already trapped here, but we cannot draw up the newly fallen. They are imprisoned.’ Dohl leaned close. ‘But that will change, once you have freed the ten thousand. This place will belong to Nagash once more, and the fallen will rise at your command.’

At the command of Nagash.

Pharus let the body fall. ‘At his command, you mean.’

Dohl bowed his head. ‘Of course, my lord. As you say.’

Pharus turned and grasped the hilt of his blade, where it jutted from between the shoulder blades of another priest. The sword resisted for a moment, before it allowed him to retrieve it. There was no blood, clinging to the edge, as if the facets of the blade had absorbed them. He stared into the facets, seeking a sign that all would be as Dohl had sworn. But he saw nothing save amethyst motes, swirling in the black.

Listen.

He paused, listening. From all around him rose voices, crying out for release. Some were unbearably close, while others seemed impossibly far away.

They call to you. Listen – hear the prisoners cry out for their liberator.

He did not sheath the blade. He would need it again soon enough. Above, the bells were still ringing, though all the priests were dead. Whether they were ringing in joy or sorrow, he did not know. Perhaps both. Joy of what was to come, sorrow at the loss of what had been. To be dead was to be trapped eternally between the two.

To be dead is to serve Nagash. Nothing more. Nagash is all.

‘And all are one in Nagash,’ he murmured. Outside of the bell tower, his nighthaunts were busy clawing at the crypts and tombs, opening those only protected by the weakest of wards. His army would grow, even if they could not draw up the spirits of those they had slain. ‘Get them moving,’ he said. ‘We must reach the tombs.’

Dohl began to speak, but Pharus ignored his exhortations. He drifted out of the shadow of the bell tower. The air trembled as the ground shifted. The patch that the bell tower stood on felt as if it was sliding out of position, and the path ahead vanished amid a sudden profusion of stone crypts and slabs. But he was not confused. He counted silently, and the path changed again, revealing itself.

This place has no secrets from you. That is why only you could do this.

The bell towers were one of the secrets to navigating the catacombs. Their position was fixed. In fact, most of the catacombs were physically fixed in place. But they gave the appearance of moving, thanks to carefully placed mirrors and illusory backdrops. Silvered chains rose from the dust as a section of stone slid out of place, blocking the route to a section of the nearby necropolis. Nighthaunts retreated, wailing disconsolately.

Pharus watched, trying to banish the voice that whispered urgently, just below the surface of his thoughts. It was the price he paid for remembering the way through this maze, but it was becoming harder to ignore, the further he travelled into the catacombs.

You will ignore it. Your purpose is set. Inevitable.

‘Inevitable,’ he said. He turned west and saw the catacombs fall away in a sea of irregular tiers. Storm-lanterns burned in the dark, tiny pinpricks of azure light. Their presence disturbed the black, and he felt a twitch of anger, somewhere deep in him.

The light of Azyr, the voice hissed. The light that bars the dead. You must snuff it.

The sands in his sword’s hourglass hissed, and he felt something in him draw him back around. Towards the heart of the labyrinth.

You will snuff it. You will douse the sun in shadow, and silence the stars.

First one step, then two. The need – the command – beat at his brain like the heat of a sun. Until he was striding along the avenue, followed by a storm of dead souls.

Dohl joined him. ‘You seem eager, my lord.’

Flood the catacombs, the voice murmured. Crack open all vaults, and set the prisoners free. Where death once ruled, let it rule again.

‘Send chainrasps to the east and the west, as we drive north,’ Pharus said, not looking at the guardian of souls. ‘I would not fight an organised enemy. Keep them looking in all directions at once.’

‘A wise plan, a keen plan, my lord,’ Dohl croaked. ‘We shall fight not as an army, but as a force of nature – a flood, a fire…’

‘A storm,’ Pharus said. He was moving swiftly now, not running but flowing. Dohl kept pace, the light of his lantern growing brighter, until it was almost blinding. Wailing spirits surged in their wake, filling the air and scrabbling across the stones of the ground. Some flew like birds or slithered like snakes. Others stalked on shattered limbs, or dragged broken gallows in their wake. Regardless of their appearance, they all crashed together and hurtled on, in the wake of the lantern’s light. Some of the eagerness that gripped Pharus held them as well, burning through them and driving them into new heights of frenzy.

They flowed in a wave of spectral energy across the avenue, and along the slope above and below. His followers passed through stone, and around the pillars with their glowing wards and between the lengths of silver chain stretched across the smaller paths. Bells had begun to ring, deeper in the catacombs, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction.

The flicker was snuffed, as something exploded in the midst of the chainrasp horde just behind him. The glare of lightning washed across him and broke the momentum of the advance. He turned, as smaller explosions swept across the slope above. Crypts tore loose from their foundations and slid down, gaining speed, until an avalanche of stone was rumbling down on the avenue.