Soul Wars

Chapter twenty-two The War of Heaven and Death

‘We should not have let her go alone,’ Miska said. Calys had already vanished among the sliding corridors of mausoleums. She could hear the crash of Gellius’ ballista and the all-consuming rumble of stone. Lightning flashed to the south, tearing holes in the dark. The dead were close. She reached down, touching the spirit-jars hanging from her belt, making sure they were close to hand. She looked at Balthas. He didn’t reply. He stared back the way they’d come, as if entranced by the sounds of battle.

She turned to the lord-relictor, Dathus. ‘Go. Muster who you can. Ring the bells, call every warrior, Stormcast or mortal. I fear they will be needed.’

‘And what about you?’

‘We came to defend this place. And that is what we will do. We will delay them. Give you the time you need. Go, brother! Ring the bells! Sound the call to war. And leave us to do what we were made to do.’

Dathus hesitated. Then, he nodded and turned away, heading north. He barked an order, and his warriors followed him at a trot. They soon vanished into the gloom that shrouded the avenue, leaving behind only the echo of sigmarite ringing against stone. Satisfied, Miska turned back to Balthas.

‘I was wrong,’ Balthas said, so softly that she almost didn’t hear him.

She looked at him. ‘About what?’

Balthas caught hold of Quicksilver’s saddle and hauled himself up. ‘I thought I could choose the moment. But it chose me, instead. Chose us.’ He looked down at her. ‘I thought we were to meet them in the open, Shyish against Azyr, on the black rim of the world. There was a… a resonance to it. But instead, the moment comes upon us here, in the middle of a forest of crypts. The final clash comes, not over ancient tombs, but over a child’s soul. Do you understand?’

He sounded so annoyed that she could not help but smile. ‘I do. I wondered why you were so insistent on bringing her. And if you’re asking my opinion, well, I would rather fight to preserve a single living soul than ten thousand dead ones.’

He gave a disgruntled sigh. ‘I think I would as well.’ Balthas straightened in his saddle. ‘Gellius and Mara are buying us the time we need to get into position. The aether swims and surges. The foe will come this way. And we will meet them. Head to head, and soul to soul.’ He lifted his staff. ‘Castigators to the fore. Sequitors, make ready to advance. Miska…?’

‘Aye, Grave Warden?’

‘I want Pharus. Clear me a path.’

She nodded serenely. ‘We shall provide you a fitting honour-guard.’ She turned and signalled to the remaining Celestors. They were gathered behind the Castigators, kneeling, their heads bowed. As they prayed, small sparks of lightning danced across them.

They rose at her gesture, and she joined them. Memories of a time half-forgotten rose. Of the rattle of shields and the call to war. The feeling of running across the taiga, beside a hundred others, racing to meet the enemy. It was a good feeling, that. She smiled.

‘Come, brothers. Let us be as the storm wind, and wipe this place clean.’

Pharus stood unmoving as the broken crypts crashed around him, scattering the chainrasps. Another large explosion bit a chunk from the avenue, casting gheists back into the slide of the avalanche. Pharus followed the trajectory and swept his sword out, pointing. ‘There – take them,’ he howled.

He sprang up the incline, racing towards the spot he’d indicated. He could feel the heat of the magics that gathered there. Explosions gnawed at the crypts around him, but he avoided them with ease. He saw the ballista mounted atop the roof of a semi-collapsed crypt, and the other warriors below – Judicators, he thought. No. They weren’t Judicators. These were something else. Reeking of magic.

He raced towards them, but a wall of shields interposed itself with a crash. The shields blazed with celestial light, forcing him to stop short. He stepped back, letting chainrasps flow past him. Some were consumed as they struck the shield wall. Others were torn asunder by the crackling mauls the Stormcasts wielded. But some got past. They crawled over the living warriors, seeking any gap in their war-plate.

He heard the clangour of funerary bells, as a flock of reapers swept through the air, down towards the warriors. The great scythes slashed down, cutting into ensorcelled war-plate in a burst of sparks. Stormcasts fell back, raising their shields to block this new attack. But one of them lunged forwards, out of the press, her maul swinging down.

Pharus avoided the blow, and it shattered part of a nearby statue with thunderclap force. His blade snaked out, scraping a scar across the face of her shield. She retreated. Pharus pursued, his blade held low. He did not waste words on her. The shield was suddenly limned in blue fire, and he shied back, momentarily blinded.

He heard the crackle of the maul as it looped towards him, and ducked away. The radiance of the weapon burned him as it passed by. Half-blind, he drove her back with a wide sweep of his blade. Light washed over him, clearing his eyes. He saw Dohl rise up behind her, and his tomb-blade sweep down. The warrior staggered, and Dohl finished her with a blow from his staff, crushing her skull. Her soul fled upwards with a roar.

‘We are soon to overcome the enemy,’ Dohl said. He swung his staff out, casting the glow of his lantern across the nearby crypts. The Stormcasts were still fighting, but wherever Dohl’s lantern passed, the weakened stone of the tombs shattered, releasing the spirits trapped within. The organised shield wall had dissolved into struggling islands of cobalt light, slowly being swallowed up by the dark.

‘Let us finish this,’ Pharus began. Behind him, something hissed. He turned. There were dozens of cats perched among the tumbledown tombs and archways, glaring hatefully at him. ‘Elya,’ he said. The name tasted strange, on his lips. Why had he said it?

‘What?’ Dohl asked.

‘Pharus?’ a child’s voice called out. The din of battle seemed to die away. The sword in his hand became heavier, threatening to drag him down. The sands sifting within the hourglass sounded like a nest of serpents. Past the cats, he caught sight of a small face, streaked with dirt. A child. A girl.

‘Elya,’ he said, again. Memories fluttered, moth-gentle, across his mind’s eye. He hesitated. ‘You are… Elya.’ The words came out almost as a question. He took a step towards her. The cats hissed again, their eyes gleaming in the light of Dohl’s lantern. She retreated, her eyes wide, face a pale oval.

She fears you. She is nothing. Ignore her.

‘Leave her, my lord,’ Dohl intoned. ‘What is a child, save a morsel of fear?’

‘Quiet,’ Pharus snarled, turning to extend his sword towards Dohl. ‘Quiet,’ he said, to the voice. He turned back and reached out his hand. ‘Elya? Is it you?’ More memories, filling the empty caverns of his mind. ‘Elya… come here.’

Silence, save for the hissing of cats. The child was gone. Fled. He lifted his blade. He was dead, and the dead had no fear, but even so, he felt a certain wariness. There was something at work here that he could not perceive, and it drove him to distraction. ‘Dohl, cast your light. Find her.’

She is not important. Do not turn from your path.

‘She is but one little life, my lord. Leave her, and she will be snuffed with the rest.’

‘Find her!’ Pharus lifted his blade, so that the tip rested where the hollow of Dohl’s throat would have been, if he’d had one. ‘Find her, or I will claim your lantern for my own.’

‘My lord… the battle…’

Pharus turned without a word and sped in the direction he thought the child had gone. He did not know why. He could feel the cold and hunger returning, and his armour felt more like a cage than ever before. He had to fight it to move, even to lift his blade, but a voice deep in him – a different voice, this, to the other – spurred him on, telling him that he had to find her – he had to–

He stopped. Turned. His reflection glared at him from every direction. He had been led down a mirrored path, and everywhere he looked, a face he only dimly recognised looked back at him. He could see the skulls beneath their skin, and felt the amethyst heat of his own reflected gaze. And behind them, above them, in and out of them, something great and terrible crouched, its talons on his shoulders.

‘What…?’ He hesitated. The shadow behind him rose, its eyes blazing with cold fire.

Fool. Would you cast aside the chance at justice so quickly?

‘I have cast nothing aside. The child is…’

Nothing. She is nothing. A memory. A useless thing, well discarded.

As the words echoed in the hollows of him, he saw something else. A light, shining through the gaps in his war-plate. Not amethyst, but azure. He felt the twisting bite of lightning inside him, and snarled, forcing it down.

‘This place… It eats at me.’

Which is why you must not delay. Break the seals. Free the dead. Purify this place.

He reached out a skeletal hand, but his reflection did not mimic the gesture. Instead, it simply stared at him, as if in pity. The eyes – his eyes – blazed cerulean, and Pharus felt a flare of rage. He swept his blade from its sheath. The glass shattered, revealing a new path. He sheathed his sword.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘This way.’ He could hear the crackle of lightning, and the crash of sigmarite, echoing from elsewhere in the catacombs. The battle wasn’t over yet. But it soon would be. Then, then he would… What? He paused, trying to think. Trying to push past the rush of memories…

…the dead were everywhere in the streets, everywhere he turned…

…his halberd swept down, chopping through a door as dead hands caught at him…

…Elya wailing as something from the grave clutched her to its bosom…

…he raised his lantern, and there was thunder…

‘My lord,’ Dohl began, from behind Pharus, drawing him from his memories. The light of the guardian’s lantern washed across the mirrored slabs, doubling and redoubling in its intensity. ‘There are greater matters, at hand. Fate cannot be denied. It is…’

‘Inevitable,’ Pharus said, not stopping. ‘Then why do you fret so, guardian? What was it you told me – that such worries would pass?’ He slashed out, shattering another mirror to his left. He paused, ­staring at the mirror in front of him. Whose face was that, staring back? ‘If it is inevitable, then what I do here is of no matter.’

‘You lose sight of your purpose.’

No. It had not been him. Not him as he was, or even as he had been, but who he had been before the gods had taken an interest in him. Was that whose voice cried out, somewhere inside him?

It does not matter. There is no truth in the past. Only in the present. The past and future are nothing more than false promises. Your course is set. Certain. Hold fast to your purpose.

‘I will not be swayed from it,’ he said. But the memories…

…thunder, and the screams of the dead, as Azyr caught them up…

…thief, the spirit shrieked as it burned, thief…

‘I see everything,’ he said, staring at the glass and what it held. Another him, burning in the flames of Nagashizzar. One quick stroke destroyed it. As it collapsed in a mass of winking shards, he saw the shape that had been crouched behind it. Shapes, rather. Cats sped away, scattering into the catacombs. And among them, their queen. ‘Elya…’ She did not stop.

He loped after the girl, driven by something he did not understand. Spirits howled in his wake, drawn to the hunt by the light of Dohl’s lantern. Hunger warred with cold in him, and something else. A need greater than either. Around him, his reflection warped and stretched, as the thing that rode deep in his soul raged in fury.

Calys raced through the catacombs, moving as swiftly as she could. Grip ran alongside her, and they both followed a familiar shape – the scar-lipped cat that seemed to be wherever Elya was. The beast scampered through the crypts and ruins, moving swiftly. The cat had appeared, as if aware of who she sought, and Calys had followed it without thinking.

She could hear the thunder of battle all around her, but she ignored it. Balthas’ warriors had their duty, and she had hers. She concentrated on the cat. Grip gave a sudden squall and put on a burst of speed, racing ahead. Calys followed. She heard Elya scream, and cried out. ‘Elya!’

She turned, trying to follow the scream, but the labyrinth spun around her. Then, she caught sight of the light. An eerie glow, flickering among the tombs. She raced towards it, drawing her blade as she went. As she neared the light, she realised she was actually above it. She caught sight of Elya, climbing a statue.

Calys thudded across the half-sunken roof of a crypt and leapt. She slammed down near the statue. ‘Elya,’ she called out.

‘Calys,’ something said. Something that glowed with an eerie grey-green light.

Calys turned as the light washed over her, and saw something foul emerge from the dark, dragging its tomb-blade in its wake. ‘Calys Eltain,’ it said again, in a dull, harsh voice. ‘I know you. I… remember you. This place… it is making me remember.’ The thing straightened to its – his – full height. A thin, almost skeletal shape, clad in black-iron armour and ragged burial shrouds, its gaze bored into her. It’s voice, distorted as it was, seemed familiar.

‘You will not touch her,’ Calys said to the creature, warblade extended. She glanced up and saw Elya scrambling to the top of the statue. She turned her attentions back to her foe. ‘I will not let you.’

The dead thing laughed, a harsh croak of sound. ‘Calys,’ he rasped. ‘I think we have been here before, you and I.’ He tapped the side of his helm. ‘Do you remember? Or did Sigmar take that from you?’

Calys hesitated. ‘Remember what?’

‘The night I killed you.’

She blinked in sudden, sickened recognition, as she saw the flicker of azure lightning in the dead man’s gaze. ‘Pharus?’

Pharus surged towards her, more swiftly than her eye could follow. Their blades connected with a crash, and she was driven back, into a half-toppled pillar, losing her shield in the process. Nighthaunts swirled up around them, like a swarm of angry night-wasps. But they did not come any closer, retreating as the watching cats hissed and spat. Something about the animals kept them at bay. She caught hold of her warblade with both hands.

‘You’re the one who died,’ Calys said, trying to force him back. But he was strong. Too strong. The edge of the black blade pressed down towards her, despite her best efforts. Past his shoulder, she caught sight of Grip, crouched atop a crypt nearby. The gryph-hound was readying itself to leap, its eyes gleaming.

‘Before that,’ Pharus hissed, as his balefire gaze burned through her, down into her soul. ‘I remember it all, now. I remember that night, and your daughter’s screams, and I see you, not just this shell, but who you were before. I see the ghost of you, Calys Eltain. I see it, hiding in the false radiance of Azyr, and I will drag it out, into the true light. And you will thank me.’ He glanced up at Elya, who stared down at them in horror. ‘And you will thank me as well, child. You will be together again. You will have justice – both of you.’

‘No!’ Calys drew on the last of her strength, and twisted away from him. Their blades parted with a screech. As she stepped aside, he caught her a blow on the side, dropping her to the ground. Desperate, she rolled onto her back, interposing her blade as his descended. The blow rocked her, nearly tearing the warblade from her hands.

Grip leapt. The gryph-hound slammed into his back, claws scrabbling. The beast’s beak snapped uselessly at Pharus’ non-existent flesh. He staggered. ‘Get off me, beast,’ he snarled, with no sign of recognition. Grip held on, claws tearing strips from Pharus’ armour. They reeled, and Pharus finally flung the animal aside. She was up again in a moment, feathers stiff, tail lashing, and lunged again.

Pharus’ hand snapped out and caught hold of Grip’s head. He turned and swung her into the base of the statue that Elya had sought refuge atop. There was a sharp crack, and Grip flopped down, still and silent. The animal was dead.

Pharus turned back to Calys. ‘First the beast… now you.’ He raised his sword, but stopped. He looked up at something. Calys risked a glance, and saw Elya staring down at them from the top of the statue, tears streaking her grimy features. Pharus seemed frozen. Uncertain. Instinct took over, and Calys drove her sword up, through the plates of his armour. Pharus roared and staggered back, ripping the blade out of her hands. She was on her feet in a moment. ‘Run, Elya. Run and hide!’

Calys went for the hilt of her blade. She ducked under Pharus’ wild slash and tore her weapon loose. Pharus howled, his face distending and twisting. They traded blows, reeling through the crypts. The air throbbed with the grinding of stone, and the landscape was beginning to shift. Pharus caught her with a savage blow and knocked her sprawling. She scrambled back as he advanced.

‘You cannot escape death, Calys. Not forever.’ He raised his blade. ‘In the end, the dark always swallows the light.’ But before his blade could fall, lightning snarled out, catching Pharus in its clutches. He screamed and staggered. A shadow fell over them both, as something snarled. Calys looked up, into the curved beak of a gryph-charger, crouched atop a sunken crypt. Balthas nodded to her.

‘Up, sister. See to the child. Her part in this – and yours – is done.’

‘You,’ Pharus said, glaring up at the lord-arcanum. ‘You. Again. Twice you have put yourself in my path.’

‘As I will continue to do, until matters between us are settled to my satisfaction.’ Balthas thumped his steed in the flanks, and the gryph-charger leapt with a scream. The beast crashed into Pharus, carrying him backwards. Calys scrambled to her feet as they disappeared into the tangle of shifting paths. A nighthaunt shrieked towards her and she ducked aside, racing towards the statue. She saw Elya crouching near Grip.

‘She’s dead,’ Elya said, cradling the gryph-hound’s head.

Calys reached for her, but spun as something lean and terrible rose up behind her. The hideous light emanating from the spectre’s lantern washed across her, nearly driving the strength from her limbs. She sagged back, standing between it and Elya.

‘Soon, you will join the beast,’ the spectre intoned, raising the blade it held. ‘Rejoice. Die and see the beautiful thing that awaits, past the edge of the final moment.’

‘I have died once, creature. I do not intend to do so again!’ Calys lashed out, aiming not at the nighthaunt, but at its lantern. Her warblade struck home, and a flare of necromantic energy raged out, knocking her backwards. Her blade shivered to fragments, and her arm went numb. The spectre wailed as its lantern exploded, and the staff crumbled away in its grip. The flame within the lantern licked hungrily at its arms, causing it to twist in agony as it reached for her, snarling and cursing.

But before it could lay hands on her, a lilting refrain pierced the cacophony of battle. The burning wraith turned, as pieces of it broke away and were drawn towards Miska, as she stepped into the open. The mage-sacristan’s song rose in volume and urgency, and the bottle she held began to glow with a soft light. Slowly, like oil spilling across water, the spectre was drawn into the bottle, its screams dwindling as it shrunk and twisted.

Miska sealed the bottle and peered at it. ‘A strong one, this. Without your blade, I wouldn’t have been able to trap him.’ She looked at Calys. ‘Where is Balthas?’

Calys pointed as lightning crashed and a gryph-charger screeched, somewhere out of sight. As she did so, a swarm of chainrasps shot towards them, emerging from the paths between tombs. The mage-sacristan turned and sang a single note. The wind rose into a howling gale, and the semi-aethereal creatures were somehow swept back the way they’d come. She turned back. ‘Up, sister. Gather the child. We have a battle to win.’

‘What about Balthas?’ Calys said, and bent. ‘On my back,’ she said, glancing at Elya. The girl swiftly complied.

‘Balthas has his own battle to fight,’ Miska said.

‘Let us hope, for all our sakes, that he wins it.’

Quicksilver’s lunge carried them through the necropolis. Already weakened tombs collapsed, throwing up clouds of dust and squalling spirits. Mirrors shattered and stone pathways were gouged up by the gryph-charger’s elemental fury. Pharus Thaum howled as he was driven back, into a fallen pillar. The stone cracked as he struck it, and the aetheric energies that issued from the gryph-charger’s claws set his armour aflame.

Roaring, he slammed the hilt of his blade against Quicksilver’s skull, staggering the beast. As the animal reared, gheists swarmed over Balthas and his steed, striking at them with rusty weapons and splintered claws.

Quicksilver stumbled back, screeching. Nighthaunts clung to him, biting and tearing. Balthas sprang from the saddle moments before the gryph-charger fell. He landed hard, but scrambled to his feet as Pharus Thaum rushed towards him, sword held low. ‘Madness,’ the dead man said, his voice like sour thunder. ‘Madness to pit yourself against the inevitable.’

‘As Sigmar commands,’ Balthas said. He raised his staff.

‘Sigmar the liar,’ Thaum spat. ‘Sigmar the betrayer. I spent decades in the dark, protecting his city, his people, and then I was cast aside. As you will be cast aside when your use ends.’

‘You were not cast aside,’ Balthas said, avoiding the black blade. It tore through his cloak. He spat a word, and Pharus was driven back by a sudden celestial wind. ‘The value of a thing is not simply in its immediate use, brother, but in its potential. No true craftsman disposes of his tools, whatever their condition. He repairs them, or else repurposes them.’

‘And what if I do not wish another purpose?’ Thaum snarled, advancing against the wind. ‘What if I was satisfied to be as I was? What then?’

‘Then blame the one who took that from you, not the one who sought to help.’ Balthas extended his staff. ‘This is not you, brother. You speak with the voice of another. A blacker will than your own drives you, as it drives those broken souls you command. I can hear its echo in every word that passes your dead lips.’

‘My will is my own,’ Thaum said. ‘I was promised justice, and I will have it.’ His blade licked out, and Balthas was forced to interpose his staff. The black sword chopped into it, and he was driven back a step.

‘A lie.’ Balthas braced himself. ‘Once, maybe, but now – you are hollow. A mask, hiding the face of another. You are but the puppet of a will greater than your own.’

‘We are both pawns together, then. It makes no difference. I will cast the stones of this city into the heavens and break free all those imprisoned below. Lyria will belong to Nagash once more, and all the souls that dwell within will know true peace. That is inevitable. That is justice.’ His voice, once a hollow rasp, had deepened. The sound of it made the marrow in Balthas’ bones curdle.

‘That is not justice. That is oblivion.’ Balthas twisted the blade aside and drove the end of his staff into the centre of Thaum’s chest. Thaum reeled, and Balthas ripped his staff free and slammed it against the side of the nighthaunt’s helm.

As the creature reeled, Balthas turned. The necropolis rocked as his warriors clashed with the dead. They had arrived too late to save Mara, but some of her cohort still fought, and now the two forces moved as one against the horde of spirits. With Pharus distracted, the creatures were little more than feral gheists – certainly not an organised threat.

Even so, gheists rose from the ground all around him, dripping upwards, their bodies distended like hot wax. Balthas slammed the ferrule of his staff down and scratched an arcanogram in the stone. The nighthaunts screamed as the stones they emerged from became threaded with silver. They sank out of sight, their twisted forms burning with a cleansing flame.

Pharus lunged through the flames. Blade met staff and they skidded back, smashing into a crypt. It collapsed with a rumble as they twisted away, weapons still locked. Balthas grunted as the amethyst lightning flickering beneath Pharus’ armour licked across his own, charring away the ritual sigils marked there.

‘Nagash has commanded,’ Pharus snarled. ‘So must it be.’

Balthas said nothing as they staggered in a macabre dance, neither willing to give ground. Fire swept out around them, first amethyst, then cobalt, setting the ancient stones alight. He felt strange, as if something inside him had torn loose and were burning, along with the stones. Every blow took a century to fall, every riposte, an epoch. But Balthas met his opponent blow for blow, and held him. Even as his arms grew numb and his head began to ache, filled as it was with thunder and heat. He could call to mind none of the magics he knew – instead his mind was full of lightning, and all he could see was fire. A hundred thousand fires, a million, more, all burning in the dark.

Nagash had set the realms aflame. What he had done could not be undone. What he had started could not be stopped. But Balthas knew they must try, even so. And as he fought, he knew that he had done this before, in another life, in another realm. He had set himself against the inevitable, and failed.

But he would not do so again.

Lightning burned through him, snarling outwards to engulf Thaum. For a moment, they were connected, as they had been in the Chamber of the Broken World. He saw all that had happened, all that Thaum had done, and knew that Thaum saw into his mind as well. For an instant, they saw one another with perfect, aching clarity.

The dead man staggered, smoke boiling from the gaps in his armour. And within the smoke, Balthas saw a light. Just a spark of cerulean, tiny and barely there at all. But it was a spark nonetheless, trapped in the hollows of Thaum’s shell. An ember of the man he had been, waiting to be rekindled.

The moment had come.

Now, a voice rumbled.

Balthas stretched out his hand, his magics spearing out towards the spark of blue. But the moment stretched and warped out of sorts. The sands in the hourglass pommel of Thaum’s blade ceased their flow. Time… stopped.

‘You.’

A single word, followed by a laugh that curdled his soul. Unable to stop himself, Balthas looked up into a gargantuan rictus. A god was looking down at him. Not as one foe looked at another, but as a sage might study some unknown species of insect.

The cavern seemed suddenly small. The sounds of battle faded to a dim rustling, as if all sound and fury had been drained from the moment. Taller than any living man, clad in shrouds and bones, the Undying King loomed over his servant, eyes blazing with unlight. Thaum jerked and twitched like a marionette with tangled strings.

‘You,’ Nagash said again, as if savouring the word. ‘I know you, little soul. I know your scent. You were mine, once, as Pharus Thaum was.’ He leaned through the glare of lightning and fire, his witchfire gaze fixed on Balthas. It burned hot and cold at the same time, and Balthas felt something in him shrivel. This was no nighthaunt or daemon to be banished, but a god. He possessed no power that could match the immensity before him.

‘Insult of insults, that he uses you to block my path,’ Nagash continued. His voice was like some great, black bell, tolling out Balthas’ final hour. ‘I will crack open this black shell you wear and scoop out the spirit within. Shall I show you who you were, little soul? Shall I answer those questions I see burning in your mind?’

Balthas blinked sweat from his eyes. In the fires around him, he could see things. Faces. People. Places. Moments from a life that was no longer his – a voyage to a great city, and a flare of light as lead became gold. The whicker of a horse, and the flap of great wings. The pain of unintended betrayal, and the relief brought by redemption. He felt an ache inside himself, as if Nagash had reached into him and torn something loose. He closed his eyes to the swirl of broken memories, and felt what might have been a hand on his shoulder. A voice, as deep as the seas and as warm as the summer wind, spoke softly in his ear.

I told you I would be here, Balthas. Let me guide your aim.

‘I have no questions,’ Balthas said, through gritted teeth. A new strength flooded his limbs, dulling the pain. He felt something beyond strength, growing inside him. ‘I am not who I was. The past is ash. And the future is yet to be written.’

‘Yes. By dead hands. I will order a record made, so that in the silent aeons to come, I might read it and remember.’ Purple flame caressed Balthas’ form. His war-plate grew warm, almost painfully so. ‘No,’ Balthas said. The heat increased. He could smell his flesh burning. He wanted to scream, but he lacked the breath to do so. Lightning erupted from his flesh, savaging the air.

‘No,’ another voice echoed, and the sound boomed out, shaking the stillness. Nearby flames darkened and then paled, becoming azure.

Nagash drew back, as if nonplussed by this turn of events. ‘Who would stand between the Undying King and his prey?’ he roared, shaking the cavern.

‘Me, brother. Always me.’

The words echoed from Balthas before he realised he was speaking. He felt invigorated, suddenly. He pushed himself to his feet, lightning crawling across the edges of his armour. ‘I stand against you here, and along every wall. I stand against you, as the day stands against night.’

The words – the voice – neither were his. Balthas felt as if something were inside him. As if he were no more than a mask that the speaker had chosen to wear in that moment. But he felt no fear. This moment – all that had happened – had been planned for. Sigmar had seen it, in the stars, and set the blocks to tumbling into place. What came next was a matter of gods, not men, whether dead or alive.

He had chosen his moment, and Sigmar would guide his aim.

‘Without the night, there is no day,’ Nagash said. He swept closer, and Thaum stumbled in his wake. ‘Without death, no life. To stand against me is to stand against the law of all things. Are you so prideful, then?’

‘No longer. Necessity guides my hand.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Balthas saw something take shape around him. A vast form, greater than his own, and yet similar. Thaum made a harsh croak of recognition, and Balthas wondered what he saw.

Nagash seemed to swell, until his skeletal form filled Balthas’ vision. ‘Necessity. What would you know of such a thing? I am necessity. By my will alone shall the realms be preserved from the ravages of Chaos. When I have claimed all that I am owed, when all are one in death, I shall cast my spite into the teeth of the dark gods, and drag them from their petty thrones.’

‘And then you will rule over a silent kingdom, until the last star is snuffed, and even death perishes at last.’

Nagash was silent. Sigmar sighed, and Balthas thought of a high wind, stripping the bark from trees. ‘Can you even conceive of such a thing, brother? Or is your arrogance so ironclad that your own end is an impossibility to you?’ The God-King extended his hand, and Balthas, unable to resist, followed suit. ‘We were allies, once. Brothers in spirit, if not blood. We tamed these realms and set the foundations for what they would become.’

‘You freed me,’ Nagash said, simply. ‘A debt was owed. It has been repaid in full.’ He shook his monstrous skull in dismissal. ‘Is this the moment where you speak of our similarities, God-King? Where you play the wronged innocent, and once more extend the hand of friendship?’

‘No. That moment has come and gone.’ The lightning roiled outwards, burning black knots into the nearby crypts. Nagash’s towering shape wavered, the amethyst fires retreating before the fury of the storm. ‘The War of Heaven and Death begins anew. But this time, I will not make the mistake of mercy.’

‘I am stronger now than I was then, barbarian.’

‘And I am wiser. Let us see which of those proves the greater advantage, brother.’ Sigmar looked down. His eyes burned like dying stars, and in that look, Balthas saw what was to come next. He saw Thaum rising up before him, wreathed in amethyst flame. Nagash roared and Thaum hurtled forwards, raising his blade.

Balthas flung his hand out, and lightning roared down. Thaum screamed and lunged through the smoke of his own burning. Balthas interposed his staff at the last moment, and the two warriors stumbled back, their weapons locked together.

‘End me, fool,’ Thaum snarled, his voice small against the immensity of Nagash, which still loomed above. He sounded strange, as if some struggle Balthas could not see were occurring within him. Above, both gods stood, watching as their champions reeled. ‘End me if you can. Or I shall surely end you.’

Balthas said nothing. His eyes sought the azure spark he had seen earlier. He saw it, flickering through a hole in Thaum’s armour. A gouge made by the claws of a beast, perhaps, or a Liberator’s warblade.

There, Sigmar whispered. A bit of me, trapped in the dark. A bit of who he was, struggling against the shadows that bind him. Set it free, Balthas. Give him the peace he has been denied.

Balthas, holding his staff with one hand, drove his other into the gap. He felt the heat of the spark, felt it respond to his presence. It flared, a mote of light, hidden in the darkest shadow. Thaum stiffened. Blue light seeped from his tattered shape, piercing his limbs and torso in thin streams. He twitched. ‘I… remember,’ he said, and his face softened.

‘I am sorry,’ Balthas said, softly. Hoarsely. And then, one last time, he called down the lightning. The spark blossomed as the lightning fed into it. It grew, spreading within Thaum’s form. Azure cracks formed on his armour and intangible flesh, growing wider.

His phantom shape began to crumble like paper in a fire. His sword fell from his hands and shattered, black shards spilling across the ground. He staggered back, a man-shaped torch of cobalt.

Thaum tried to speak, as the black helm slipped from a head that was no more solid than a wisp of smoke. He threw back his head, and gave a final, desolate howl before the storm caged within him broke free at last. His form shivered apart with a clap of thunder.

The shock wave shook the entire catacombs. Chunks of stone fell from above, crashing down into the necropolis, and the crypts surrounding Balthas crumbled into broken rubble as the fury of the storm radiated outwards in a single, frenzied moment. It washed over the catacombs and surged through the ranks of the dead, immolating the nighthaunts in a burst of cerulean radiance.

Pharus Thaum was gone.

Nothing more than ash, trailing away through the ravaged air. Nagash’s form wavered like smoke on the breeze. But as he faded, he spoke one final time. ‘You served me once, Balthas Arum, in another turn of the wheel, as a world burned, and you will do so again. As all who live shall eventually serve me.’

Then, he too was gone.

Balthas sank to one knee, breathing heavily. He felt wrung out – hollow. Smoke rose from the joins of his war-plate, and he knew the flesh beneath was blistered and burnt. Damaged beyond the scope of the healing arts of Azyr, perhaps. What was left of Thaum’s war-plate lay nearby, smouldering. Beneath the exhaustion, he felt a flicker of regret.

He had come to bring a rogue soul peace. And he had done so. But somehow, victory felt like defeat. The sounds of battle had faded, with Pharus’ fall, with the lightning. He tried to push himself to his feet, but he couldn’t force his limbs to bear his weight. Not yet. He looked within himself, seeking some sign of Sigmar’s presence. But the God-King was gone. This battle was ended, but there were others requiring his attentions. The War of Heaven and Death had begun anew.

‘Lord-arcanum – do you live?’

Calys Eltain made her way towards him, her free hand pressed to her side. Blood stained her war-plate. Miska and several Sequitors followed her, stepping warily through the blasted rubble. Miska led Quicksilver by the reins. Balthas felt a flicker of relief at the beast’s survival. Wearily, he bent his head, until it was resting against his staff. ‘That… is entirely a matter of perspective,’ he croaked.

‘He’s gone again,’ Elya said, clinging to Calys’ back. Balthas did not meet her eyes.

‘He’s gone,’ he repeated. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Then, he pushed himself erect. ‘But the battle is not done. Glymmsforge is still under siege.’ He looked at Calys. ‘And the Ten Thousand Tombs still need defending.’

She met his gaze and nodded. Balthas turned to Miska. ‘Gather whoever is still standing. Knossus is going to need us.’

‘As you say, my lord,’ she said, bowing her head. She hesitated. ‘You did well, brother.’ She turned away, shouting for the others. Balthas stroked Quicksilver’s neck, as the brute butted him in the chest.

‘Easy. We have work yet to do.’ Balthas dragged himself into the saddle, his body protesting. He looked up. Nagash, like Sigmar, was gone, but Balthas could still hear his final taunt, could still feel it echoing through the dark places within him.

You served me once, in another turn of the wheel, as a world burned, and you will do so again…

Balthas shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, softly. ‘Never.’

And as he urged Quicksilver into motion, he found that he almost believed it.