Soul Wars

Chapter two Glymmsforge

The sun set over the city of Glymmsforge.

The sky darkened, turning a deeper purple than Elya had ever seen before. Something about it chilled her, and she looked back to the heaps of refuse she’d been sorting through. She had to be quick, else the nightsoil men would catch and beat her. It had taken her days to recover last time.

Elya was small, thin and dark. Ten winters, or maybe eleven, but looked eight. Her clothes were loose and oft-mended. She went through the refuse with an experienced eye, picking through what had been dumped by vegetable sellers and butchers. She found a lump of fish meat and tossed it to one of the cats that hunted alongside her.

There were a dozen cats in the alleyway, eating scraps or hunting the vermin attracted by it. Most were the small, black cats native to Shyish, but some were strays from other realms – large, spotted hunters from Ghur, and sleek, almost hairless mousers from the sandy wastes of Aqshy, the Realm of Fire.

Wherever humans went, so did cats. They were as deadly an escort as ever padding through the dim streets. They loved Elya and had since the cradle. She knew this as well as she knew the sun would rise and the dead would walk. As she knew that the sky should not be purple. She glanced up again, chewing on something that was only a bit mushy. It wouldn’t be enough, but it was something. A cat meowed, and she stroked it. The big, brindle tom flashed a scarred lip as it rubbed against her.

The cats were worried. She could feel it. It was as if they sensed something on the wind. ‘Is it a storm?’ she asked, softly. Sometimes sandstorms whipped through the streets. If she was caught away from home by one, she’d have to seek shelter wherever she could find it. ‘I could go down to the catacombs. Pharus would understand.’

The tomcat meowed again, as if in agreement, then abruptly stiffened and hissed. Elya heard the clatter of a nightsoil cart approaching and darted from the alleyway, followed by the cats. She heard a shout behind her but didn’t stop.

Elya ran through the concentric streets, trying not to think of the sky or how hungry she was. She followed the cats, trusting them to lead her along safe routes. She ran barefoot, her soles toughened by days at play on walls and rooftops of the Gloaming. The cobblestones were warm underfoot, for the moment. As night fell, however, they would become like ice.

Around her, the city woke up for the evening. Sprigs of icethorn and mistletoe were hung upon doorframes and silvered mirrors set in windows. Lamplighters, clad all in black and wearing protective posies of strong-smelling herbs, lit the lanterns that hung above every archway and lintel. Her father, Duvak, would be among them, she hoped, earning money they desperately needed. If he hadn’t crawled into a jug of wine and forgotten his duties.

She caught sight of Freeguild soldiers, in the mauve-and-black uniforms of the Glymmsmen, on their evensong patrol. Some carried long, sharpened stakes of Aqshian flamewood, just in case, while others carried mirrored shields or handguns loaded with salt-and-silver shot. The people of Glymmsforge knew well the dangers of the night and had long since made them routine and ritual both.

The cats led her through one of the twelve great market squares around which life in the city often seemed to revolve. She sprang over a nightsoil cart, eliciting a shout from the collector, and ducked through a vegetable stall, snatching a pallid carrot as she went. She was hungry, and stealing food wasn’t really thievery.

Munching on the carrot, she leapt up onto the display board of a spice stall and danced through the bowls of spices without tipping over a single one. The cats ran alongside or ahead of her, streaking through the evening crowd.

While a few stones were tossed in her direction by angry market-goers, no one dared bother the cats. Not for no reason was a proud mouser a part of the city’s amethyst-and-sable heraldry. Cats were among the most powerful of the city’s defences. Besides keeping out vermin, they could detect the things that were not there. Many a haunting shade or alleyghast had been revealed by the warning hiss of a cat.

Elya followed the cats into a cul-de-sac, one of thousands in this district. Above her, windows clattered shut for the evening, and the smells of holy herbs and braziers of gloomweed filled the air. Somewhere, she could hear the clangour of iron funerary bells, and she knew that the Black Walkers were about and on patrol.

She scrambled behind an abandoned cask as the noise grew louder. A line of shuffling figures came into sight, passing the mouth of the cul-de-sac. The Black Walkers wore dark sackcloth and heavy hoods of the same, hiding their features. Strange sigils had been chalked onto their robes and hoods, and the heavy chains they wore clattered and clanked as they brushed across the cobbles. The funerary bells they rang made the air tremble, as they sang a slow dirge in some language she didn’t recognise. She didn’t emerge from hiding until the last of them had vanished, heading west towards the mausoleum gate.

Her father called them priests, but she didn’t know what god they served. Azyrites seemed to detest them. Elya, born in Shyish, was wary of them. In better days, her father had often told her stories of how the ghosts of dead gods haunted their ruined temples, and how some men still worshipped them, in secret places. Elya shivered. The ghosts of men were dangerous enough. She looked down at the brindle tomcat crouched beside her. ‘We need to go down,’ she said, as the sound of bells faded.

The cul-de-sac sloped downwards. The buildings to either side grew higher, as if trying to escape the shadows of the streets around them. They almost blocked out the sky, which had turned the colour of a bruise. The cats led her to the back wall, where dark thorn brambles and gloomweed grew wild, creeping across the cracked stones. She followed them through the brambles and into a crack in a wall, squeezing slightly, scraping her shins and banging her head. Behind the crack was a tunnel of sorts, a place where the stones leaned against one another in haphazard fashion.

Water collected here, running in chill rivulets between the stones. The dark swallowed her. It was cool and damp. The sounds of the marketplace and the clangour of the bells were muted. All she could hear was the constant drip of the water and the purring of her four-legged companions.

They led her around and down, through dark passages and cramped stairwells, into the deep catacombs. Elya scampered through the maze of forgotten rooms, through flooded cellars and beggar-warrens. She had made the journey a thousand times before, and felt none of the fear one might expect as she descended into the dark.

Elya liked the catacombs. They were far away from the bustle of the city. She liked the long, silent avenues that stretched for miles on end. She could wander for hours among the great mausoleums that had been carved into the sides of the curving tunnels and among the hills of crypts, one set atop the next, stretched up, up and up. Or down, down and down, depending on your perspective. She passed freely through the mirrored passages and the webs of silver chain that kept the unquiet dead at bay.

But most of the dead were at peace here, in the dark. Even so, mortals weren’t allowed down here. Pharus said so. He lived down here, in the dark. He had only come up to the light once, that she could remember.

But she didn’t like to think about that day. Her mind shied away from it, away from a red memory, full of sound and fury.

The cats stopped. So did she. She dropped to her haunches, watching the dark ahead. The walls moved, down here. Things were never the same way twice. Sometimes, she’d scared herself by walking into her own reflection, or found herself trapped in a tunnel that was no tunnel at all, but instead a construct of canvas and clever angles. The guardians of the catacombs liked to play tricks. But the cats always knew where they were and warned her.

The big, brindle mouser with the scarred lip hissed softly. Elya flattened herself and scuttled off the path. A moment later, the tromp of heavy feet sounded in the dark. Armour rang against the stone, as clear as the bells of the Black Walkers. But these warriors served a living god, rather than a dead one.

From her hiding spot, she watched the giant warriors, clad in black war-plate and bearing weapons such as a mortal man might struggle to lift, stride down the path. Stormcast Eternals were a common enough sight in Glymmsforge. They guarded the city from danger – both above and below. These wore heavier armour than the ones she usually saw, decorated with morbid totems that made her skin crawl, and they carried heavy, two-handed hammers.

She felt a thrill of fear. The Stormcasts were frightening, though not in the same way as the Black Walkers. They were like statues come to life, too big and too strong not to evoke nervousness. But they meant no harm, she knew. Not to her, at least.

The two warriors stopped, just opposite her hiding place. They spoke to one another in low tones that set her bones to vibrating. Then, one turned and stared at her hiding spot. She held her breath.

‘I see you, child,’ he said, in a voice like crashing rock. He sounded disapproving.

‘I wasn’t hiding,’ she called out.

‘That is good to hear, given how poor a job you made of it.’ He sank to his haunches, reaching one enormous hand out to a cat that rubbed itself against his greave. The animal accepted the touch with dignified grace and then ambled away, tail flicking. ‘There are more of them today.’

Elya stepped into the open, holding the brindle tom in her arms. The cat glared at the Stormcasts as if they were rivals, rather than giants. ‘They’re keeping me company,’ she said, with a hint of pride. ‘They’re my carters.’

‘Your…?’ the crouching Stormcast said, in confusion.

‘She means courtiers, Briaeus,’ the other interjected. ‘She thinks she is their queen.’

The brindle tom snarled. Briaeus ignored the animal. ‘Pharus told us you were not allowed down here, girl. Come, I will escort you to the entrance.’ Briaeus reached for her. Elya flinched back, clutching her cat to her chest. The tom snarled again, and other nearby cats wailed in warning. The Stormcast paused.

‘Perhaps you should let her go, Briaeus,’ his companion murmured.

Briaeus glanced back. ‘Our orders…’

Elya seized her chance. She dropped the cat and darted past Briaeus’ outstretched hand, as swift as her limbs could carry her. He rose to his feet and made as if to lurch after her, but his companion stopped him. His words rumbled after her as she ran.

‘Let her go. Pharus will deal with her.’

‘This is a waste of time,’ Gomes said, raising his lantern. The light washed across the path ahead, and long shadows stretched away into the sandy wastes outside the city.

The walls of Glymmsforge rose high above the small troop of Glymmsmen, soaring up into the black. From outside, Lieutenant Holman Vale could make out the irregular craters that scarred their surface – signs of the many sieges the city had endured.

More evidence of past wars littered the waste ground that sloped away from the walls. The mouldering wreckage of ancient siege engines loomed like lonely trees, and broken stones dotted the sands. Vale barely remembered the last war – he’d been a child. Gomes did, though he rarely spoke of it, and only when he was in his cups.

‘There’s no one out here. No one alive, anyway. And if they are, what of it?’ Gomes continued. He was squat and broad, and his black-and-mauve uniform was untidy. But the blade he held in his other hand was well cared for.

‘If they are, we must do our duty, sergeant, and see that they make it into the city safely,’ Vale said, glancing at the men who followed him. He’d brought five, including Gomes. It didn’t feel like enough, now that they were away from the gates.

It was too quiet out here. There were sprawling shanty towns clinging to the city walls to the south and the west, but none nearby. Too much blood had been spilled here. He cleared his throat. ‘After all, can’t have people camping in the spoil grounds all night, sergeant. That’s dangerous.’

‘And it also means they don’t pay our private toll, eh, lieutenant?’ Gomes said. Several men chuckled. Vale nodded.

‘Exactly, sergeant. Everyone pays the toll, if they want to come through our gate.’ Vale glanced back at the sloped walls of Glymmsforge’s northern mausoleum gate. The mausoleum gates were strongholds unto themselves – dodecagonal bastion-forts, jutting from the compass edges of the city. Each was composed of twelve overlapping, triangular bastions, laid out in a semi-radial pattern from the curve of the wall. And each was manned by a company of Glymmsmen. In the case of the northern gate, it was Vale’s company.

Vale was young, with a newly bought commission weighing him down. His family were traders – beer, mostly, though some silks and spices – with more money than influence. That was set to change, though, if Vale’s father had anything to say about it. Vale had taken a posting with the Glymmsmen, while his sister had entered Sigmar’s service. If all went well, in a few years the Vale name would rival that of the city’s other leading families.

If all went well. If a deadwalker didn’t feast on his guts, or a gheist didn’t stop his heart. There would be promotions aplenty in his future, even if Captain Fosko didn’t look as if he was going anywhere, anytime soon. He frowned at the thought. Fosko was old and hard and fixed in his place, like one of the gargoyles that adorned the city’s walls. Worse, he was happy where he was.

‘I know that look,’ Gomes muttered, glancing back at him. ‘Thinking about old Fosko, sitting in his warm quarters, sipping tea, while we’re out here in the dark and cold?’

‘Hoping he stays there,’ Vale said, annoyed by his subordinate’s perspicacity. ‘Otherwise we won’t be collecting any private tolls at all tonight. Where are these traders of yours? You said they came this way.’ It wasn’t unusual for people to duck out of line and seek an easier – or cheaper – way into the city. But only the foolish did so at night.

‘I said someone said they might have,’ Gomes corrected, testily. ‘No one on duty saw them. One minute they were in line, the next they weren’t. We’re stretched thin on the gate – old Fosko wants men walking patrol, not searching people for contraband.’

‘Maybe because he knows half of that contraband winds up in your private stores, sergeant,’ a soldier said, eliciting a number of chuckles.

Gomes turned and gestured with his blade. ‘Stow it, Herk. And the rest of you, keep quiet. Never know who or what might be listening out here.’

Herk and the others fell silent, as Vale studied his sergeant. Gomes was old for his rank. But he was a good line officer, when he wasn’t inebriated. And he knew how to keep the books looking tidy, despite the fact they were drawing pay for around a third again more men than were actually in their section.

That, along with the private tolls they levied from those passing through the mausoleum gate during evensong, had allowed Vale to accrue a tidy sum. When he had enough, he intended to purchase a suitably comfortable commission. Probably somewhere in the inner city. There were precious few prospects in the outer. This line of thought was interrupted by the whicker of a horse.

Gomes stopped. Vale stepped up beside him. ‘See something?’

‘No, but I hear them.’

The unseen horse whinnied again, more loudly this time. It sounded afraid. The wind had picked up, and sand stung Vale’s eyes. The lantern light flickered, and Gomes lowered it. Hooves thumped against the ground, as if the animal were turning in a hasty circle. Vale could hear metal clinking – the sound of tack and harness?

‘What was that?’ Herk said suddenly. Vale glanced at him.

‘What was what?’

‘I thought I told you to stow it, Herk,’ Gomes growled.

‘The stars… What’s wrong with the stars?’ Herk said, his voice edging towards shrill.

Vale looked up. The stars seemed to waver, as an amethyst radiance spread across the night sky in all directions. He heard the sands hiss, as if caught in a storm-wind. It almost sounded like voices whispering. He tried to ignore it.

Before his eyes, the stars vanished, swallowed up by the amethyst haze that occluded the sky. Vale tore his gaze from it and looked at Gomes. ‘What happened to the stars?’

Gomes’ reply was interrupted by a squeal of fear and the sound of galloping hooves. Vale shoved Gomes aside as a horse without a rider raced past, scattering the small group of soldiers. Vale heard a scream, somewhere out in the dark, as he picked himself up. It was joined by another, and another.

‘Jackals,’ he said.

‘No. Not jackals,’ Gomes said, swinging the lantern out. But there was nothing to be seen, save will o’ the wisps dancing, drifting across the detritus of war. Corpse-lights bobbed along the tops of the far dunes, and Vale turned abruptly. He’d heard something close by, like the sudden, repeated intake of breath.

One of the men started, cursed, spun. ‘Something touched me,’ he said.

‘There’s nothing,’ Herk said.

‘It touched me, I tell you!’

Vale made to chastise them but closed his mouth without speaking. The air tasted sour. He felt ill. There was something wrong. Looking around, he could see that the others felt the same. He glanced up and then quickly away. Where had the stars gone?

‘Lieutenant, we have to get back inside the walls,’ Gomes said hoarsely, his face pale in the lantern’s glow. He looked frightened. Vale had never seen Gomes frightened, and it sent a pulse of fear through him. He nodded, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘I am fully in agreement, sergeant. At the trot, lads.’

No one argued. As they hurried back the way they’d come, all thoughts of tolls forgotten, the wind dropped.

To Vale, it seemed as if all of Shyish were holding its breath.

Lord-Castellant Pharus Thaum stood at ease on the edge of an abyss. The circular chasm lay hidden at the heart of the catacombs that sprawled far beneath Glymmsforge. Ancient pillars, carved from the rock of the walls and covered in indecipherable script rose about the cavern, holding up its ceiling.

Between the pillars rested hundreds of shallow alcoves, each containing a mummified corpse, wrapped in linen and cobwebs. Blessed chains of iron and silver had been strung across each alcove, as if to keep the cadavers within quiescent. More alcoves, similarly shrouded, ran along the curve of the abyss and down into lightless depths. Chains stretched like the strands of a great web between the alcoves, and from each link had been hung devotional ribbons and purity scrolls.

Mortal priests, their faces daubed with ash and sacred unguents, sat in leather slings and hauled themselves along the chains, murmuring constant prayers. Other priests, too old and wizened to traverse the chains safely, limped along the edges of the abyss. They rang silver bells and cast droplets of water gathered from the pure rivers of Azyr onto the alcoves along the walls. They went from nook to nook and back again, following a pattern set down years ago, in the first, black days of Pharus’ time as seneschal of the Ten Thousand Tombs.

Pharus was an officer of the Gravewalkers Chamber, of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer Stormhost, second in command to Lord-Celestant Lynos Gravewalker. Clad in blessed sigmarite and bearing a halberd and warding lantern, it was Pharus’ task to stand sentinel – an immoveable bulwark on which the stratagems of his lord-celestant could turn. For the past decade that had meant warding the Ten Thousand Tombs and their contents.

He took a bite of the apple he held, enjoying the bitter tang of its juices. A bag of them hung from his belt – one of the few pleasures he allowed himself. The apples were a reminder of better times and the garden he glimpsed, sometimes, in the memories that hung just out of his reach. At his feet, his gryph-hound, Grip, lay contentedly gnawing on the remains of a rat.

Any other Stormcast might have chafed at such a duty as this, monotonous as it was. But for Pharus, it was an opportunity to indulge his creativity. He was a lord-castellant, and where he stood, fortresses inevitably rose. Such was the case with the catacombs. He had turned the ancient necropolis into a confusing labyrinth of false streets, mirrored cul-de-sacs and avenues to nowhere, all in the name of keeping his charges safe. Pharus fancied that not even the Huntsmen of Azyr could find their way through his maze without aid.

‘The sky has gone purple.’

Pharus sighed. ‘Elya.’ He looked down at the pale face at his elbow. ‘I thought I told you not to come down here, child.’ He wondered how she’d managed to avoid his patrols.

‘Yes.’ Elya flopped down beside Grip and sprawled over the gryph-hound. The beast grumbled and nudged the girl with her beak. Elya looked up at Pharus. ‘Did you hear me? I said the sky has gone a funny colour.’

‘I heard you. Have you eaten today?’ The child looked undernourished. Her father spent most of what they had on drink, Pharus knew. The man was a broken soul, like so many in the city. Like Elya herself might one day be. If she survived. The streets were not safe for a child, even in one of Sigmar’s cities. Her words registered, as he reached for an apple. ‘Purple?’ he asked. That was unusual. He glanced at one of the nearby tombs, reassuring himself that it was sealed shut.

‘Purple,’ she said. ‘Like just before a sandstorm, only darker.’

He tossed the apple to the girl, still pondering this news. ‘Eat it slowly. I don’t want you to get a stomach ache like last time.’ He watched her take a bite. ‘How do you keep finding your way down here?’

‘The cats help me.’

Pharus glanced down, as a black cat rubbed itself against his greave. ‘Of course they do.’ He looked at Elya. She was filthy and scrawny. Not much different than the first time he’d seen her, screaming. Crying as her mother – the thing that had been her mother – sought to draw the life from her. He pushed the thought aside.

‘By rights, I should have you escorted to the surface,’ he said. He’d done it before, with other intruders. He’d done worse to some, in fact. Sigmar had decreed that no living soul, save those who had been chosen for their faith and purity, were allowed anywhere near the Ten Thousand Tombs. ‘And beaten, perhaps, for good measure,’ he added lamely. She didn’t reply, too busy with her apple.

Though he’d never admit it, he’d come to almost welcome her inevitable appearance. Sometimes, looking at her, he saw another face overlaying hers – another child, from another life. Like the apples, she was a reminder of who he had been before Pharus Thaum had existed. Before he’d lost and gained everything in a single blast of lightning.

It was a sign of weakness. A breach in his defences. But no matter how hard he tried to repair it, it always opened anew. And part of him was glad of it. Grip looked up, growling, the feathers on her neck stiffening. Pharus took another bite of his apple. ‘You’re late,’ he said, chewing.

‘My apologies, my lord. This place is… difficult to navigate.’ A woman’s voice, as resonant as his own, if not so deep.

‘Thank you. I have laboured many years to make it so.’ Pharus turned to examine the new arrival. Calys Eltain was a warrior and officer of the Gravewalkers Chamber, as Pharus was. The Liberator-Prime had her sigmarite shield slung across her back, and a hand resting on the pommel of the warblade sheathed on her hip. She had her helmet tucked under her free arm, exposing olive, ­freckled features, and close-cropped black hair.

Familiar, those features – enough to prompt a faint twinge of guilt. He’d seen it, the moment Eltain had arrived from Azyr a few months earlier. Pharus glanced at Elya, but the child was ignoring the newcomer, concentrating on her apple. Relief warred with sadness, and he turned his attentions back to Eltain.

The Liberator-Prime had fought in a hundred battles or more, since her recent rebirth on the Anvil of Apotheosis, evincing a stubbornness that put even Pharus to shame, at times. She was a born defender, and her tactical acumen had marked her for high rank, eventually. ‘Your cohort is the latest to be rotated down here,’ he said, without preamble. ‘Do you know why?’

Calys hesitated. ‘I believe so, yes.’

Pharus nodded. ‘Good. Saves me having to explain things. It will not be for long. A few months. Then you will be sent above. But every cohort must endure a term in the dark, if they wish to be allowed to war in the light. I trust that will not be an inconvenience for you?’

‘My warriors and I are at your service, my lord. But I was ­unaware that there was anything in these catacombs that required a guard.’ She looked around. Her gaze was keen. Calculating. She was observant. That was good. Too many Stormcasts ignored anything beyond the reach of their warblade.

‘This is a realm for secrets, sister. You get used to it.’

Calys nodded absently. ‘I know.’ She glanced at Elya. The child peered at her now in open curiosity. Perhaps she’d never seen a Stormcast who wasn’t a man. ‘Also cats and children, apparently.’

‘There are plenty of both in Glymmsforge. Another thing you get used to.’ He looked down at the girl. ‘I must speak to my sister. Go. Back to the city. And don’t play among the tombs. You wouldn’t want the nicksouls or the men o’ bones to catch you, eh?’

Elya scampered away. Pharus waited until she had vanished back up the path and then turned to the new arrival. ‘You will need to learn the safe routes through the labyrinth. They change daily, but there is a pattern.’

‘Another thing to get used to?’

Pharus inclined his head. ‘Even so. The dead find such things confusing. They are creatures of habit, haunting familiar places and stalking the streets they walked in life.’ He paused, studying her. ‘The weaker spirits can be trapped in mirrors or befuddled by moving walls.’

‘Do the dead attack down here often?’

‘More often than you might think.’ Pharus peered down into the abyss. ‘They don’t always hurl themselves against the walls above. Sometimes they come by more circuitous routes. The catacombs that surround us are full of unquiet spirits. Some escape, from time to time, and must be hunted down.’

Calys nodded. ‘The dead cannot be trusted.’

‘Not here, at least.’ Pharus smiled. An old saying, in Shyish. He wondered if she recalled where she’d picked it up. Part of him hoped not. ‘But they have been quiet since Vaslbad the Unrelenting tried to crack the city several years ago. Besides the usual nighthaunts, shackle­ghasts and scarefingers, I mean.’ He saw that the Liberator-Prime wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she was staring off in the direction Elya had disappeared. He frowned. ‘Speak freely.’

‘The child,’ Calys said. ‘Is she a beggar? I thought I recognised her for a moment.’

‘No. Her father is a lamplighter, when he’s not the worse for drink.’ He hesitated, choosing his next words with care. ‘Her mother is… dead. Twice over.’

Calys looked at him. Pharus tossed the core of his apple to Grip. The gryph-hound snapped it out of the air and crunched it. ‘Her mother – the thing that had been her mother – came for her one night, several years ago. Before you were made one of us, I believe. Smelling of tomb-salts and grave-earth. I banished the creature.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Since then, the child has become my shadow.’

‘You let her come down here?’

‘I cannot stop her. She’s worse than the cats. Always finding new paths through the dark.’ He scratched his chin. ‘It’s a challenge, to be sure.’

‘She could be harmed.’ There was a hint of disapproval there, and something else… Outrage? Or concern. He smiled without mirth.

‘Yes. She knows that. I do not think she cares.’ Pharus tapped the side of his head. ‘Children often have an exaggerated sense of their own durability. I remember that much, from my time as a mortal.’

Calys hesitated. ‘Did you have…’ She trailed off, realising her lack of tact. Pharus waited. It was considered impolite, among the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, to ask about such things. The past was the past. It meant less than dust. And yet, like dust, it clung to you. Even when you thought yourself free of it, it was still there.

‘Yes,’ he said, and felt the old familiar pain, again. As always, he welcomed it. The pain reminded him of why he fought. As it would remind Calys, in time. If she ever remembered who she had been, and what she had lost. ‘Perhaps I may find their shades one day, in one of the underworlds, once our war is won.’ He shook his head. ‘I like to think so, at least. However unlikely it is.’

‘You think the war will end, then?’

‘I think we must have hope. If not for ourselves, then for children like Elya. Else what is the struggle for?’ He clapped her on the shoulder. ‘You are new to Glymmsforge. You will learn in time that hope is the most potent weapon we possess in these dark lands. More, it may well protect you from the enemy.’

‘And what enemy do we face here? Rogue spirits?’ Calys tapped the pommel of her warblade. ‘They cannot be worse than the servants of the Ruinous Powers.’

Pharus laughed. The sound echoed through the cavern, disturbing the bats in their high roosts. ‘The dead do not rest easy here, however pleasant it may seem,’ he said. ‘A great voice calls to them out of the dark heart of this realm and stokes their rage. It drives them to madness.’ He leaned on his halberd and stared down into the great well. ‘Having heard it myself, I can understand.’

‘You heard it – him, I mean. The voice of Nagash?’

‘So have you. You were reforged recently, were you not?’

‘Yes, but… I heard nothing.’

‘You did. You simply may not recall. If you don’t, you are a lucky soul indeed.’ Pharus looked at her. ‘Nagash is God of Death and when we perish, he seeks his due. He claws at us, even as we ascend to Azyr. Tearing away bits of us – of who we are – in his great greed.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘I listen. I learn.’ Pharus smiled, his scars pulling tight. ‘You would be wise to do so as well, if you wish to survive, sister. We are strong, but we must be wise, too. The realms are not forgiving of the foolish.’ His smile widened. ‘Still, there are pleasures to be had.’ He reached down into the satchel hanging from his belt. He retrieved two more apples and extended one to her.

‘Would you like an apple? I get them by the bushel from the market, on the rare occasions I seek the sun, such as it is. Nothing better than a good apple, I always say.’ He held it out to her. ‘A vice, I admit, but only a little one.’

Calys took the apple and stared at it, as if she had never seen one. He smiled and gestured. ‘You eat it,’ he said.

‘I know what an apple is.’

‘Just checking. Some experiences are not universal, I have discovered. For instance, I had never seen a megalofin, until after my reforging. And then I was eaten by one.’

Calys choked and stared at him. ‘What?’

‘I survived, obviously. Take more than that to kill me. Still, not an experience I am eager to repeat.’ He bounced an apple on his palm. ‘It’s why I choose to take pleasure in the small things.’

‘And why you choose to let a mortal child play down here?’

Pharus took a bite of his apple and looked at her. She hesitated then looked away. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I spoke out of turn.’

Pharus took another bite. He knew better than to say anything. How to explain, how to say those words?

‘I am not one to punish you for speaking truth,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Down here, we must trust each other. We must know without a doubt that the warriors to either side will stand. To perish in Shyish is a terrible thing, sister, and all the more so for we who do not die as men do. This you will learn.’ But I will do my best to see that you never do, for two deaths are enough for any soul.

Before she could reply, a tremor ran through the chamber. Grip stood suddenly, every hair and feather stiff and trembling. Cats hissed and scampered away, seeking safety. The gryph-hound shrilled, and Pharus tossed aside his half-eaten apple. ‘It sounds as if your first lesson is about to begin, sister. Something is amiss, and that usually means we’re in for it.’

‘What is–’ Calys began, as the first shock wave hit.

Pharus was nearly thrown from his feet as the chamber shuddered. Pillars cracked and twisted on their bases, before slamming into the chamber floor. Great clouds of dust rose from ruptures in the ground.

‘What is this, what’s going on?’ Calys asked. She had retained her footing, but only just. ‘Is this normal?’ The chamber was shaking, as if it had been caught in the grip of ague. Pillars cracked and ­crumbled, and the web of chains clattered below.

Pharus snarled in frustration. ‘No. It’s an adventure every day down here.’ He thrust the ferrule of his halberd against the floor, bracing himself. He saw priests scrambling for safety, and heard the cries of those still caught among the chains in the abyss. He thought of Elya and felt a moment of fear for the child. Briefly, he considered sending someone to search for her, but pushed the thought aside. He had a duty to protect the catacombs, and what lay within. Elya would have to look after herself. At least for the moment.

From somewhere within the labyrinth, funerary bells began to ring, sounding the alarm. He held up a hand. ‘Listen – the bells.’ Each of the twelve major thoroughfares in the catacombs had its own set of bells, with their own particular tone, high up in a reinforced tower. When a thoroughfare came under threat, the bells would be rung by the priests stationed there, summoning aid from the rest of the catacombs.

Some were silvery temple bells, while others were great, brass monsters, looted from ruined citadels. All of them were ringing now, thanks to the shock waves tearing through the catacombs, but only one set was doing so with purpose – a ponderous sound, like the thunder of inevitability. ‘The Black Bells of Aarnz.’

‘The what?’

‘This way. Along the Avenue of Souls.’ He started in the direction of the bells, Grip at his heels. As he strode out of the chamber, navigating against the convulsions, he gestured to nearby priests. ‘All of you – get to safety. Let the chains look after themselves. Go!’ The mortals streamed away, the able-bodied helping the wounded. Calys hurried in his wake.

‘My cohort,’ she began. They passed fallen stones, and Pharus saw broken, ash-smudged limbs sticking out from under piles of debris. Groups of priests worked frantically to free those who might be trapped, and Pharus was forced to send them on their way with gestures and curses. Anyone caught under those rocks was dead, or soon would be. He heard screams, echoing up from distant tunnels, and the crash of stones.

‘Your cohort will already be heading in that direction, if they have any sense.’ He glanced at her. ‘Can you taste it? The air has gone sour.’ Chunks of loose stone pattered against his war-plate. It felt as if the catacombs were collapsing in on themselves. For a brief instant, he had an image of them being buried under tonnes of mouldering stone, like the mortal priests. He shook it aside.

The Avenue of Souls ran along the northern rim of the abyss, beneath an uneven archway of hundreds of stone buttresses, illuminated by innumerable flickering candles. The buttresses had been fashioned at Pharus’ request by the craftsmen of the Riven Clans – duardin, long dispossessed of their ancient homelands, who had come to Shyish seeking new ones. In Glymmsforge, they had found such a place.

The ramparts held back an unmoving mass of tombs and mausoleums, piled atop one another in untidy fashion. Once, they had lined the slope in neat rows, with great steps and porticos to connect one row to the next. But time and disaster had rendered them into a morass of stone, held from complete collapse only by the duardin-crafted ramparts.

A mausoleum broke loose from its perch and tumbled down the slope, smashing aside smaller vaults in its plunge, before finally crashing into a buttress and collapsing it. An avalanche of broken stone swept dangerously close and spilled across the pathway, momentarily obscuring everything in a grey haze of dust. Coughing, Pharus waved a hand, trying to clear the air. His eyes narrowed as he noticed motes of purple light dancing through the cloud. ‘Oh, no.’

‘What?’ Calys coughed.

‘The air – feel it? It’s…’

Grip snarled a warning. Pharus, acting on instinct, swept his halberd out. A decaying corpse slumped back, minus its head. More bodies stumbled out of the dust, reaching for the two Stormcasts with crumbling fingers. They were wrapped in burial shrouds, their mouths sewn shut and their eyes hidden behind folds of cloth. None of this seemed to hamper them, however. They pressed close, in eerie silence. Purple sparks danced across their juddering limbs and through the rents in their decaying flesh.

Grip darted forwards, beak snapping shut on a desiccated leg. The gryph-hound jerked the deadwalker off its feet and began to drag it away. Calys swung her shield into position as a corpse lunged towards her. Her warblade snipped out, removing the groping hands at the wrists. Pharus watched her fight, analysing her technique even as he swept his halberd out in a wide arc. The way a warrior fought was as good a look into their soul as any.

Calys fought like a miser. No movement wasted, every twist of her blade a thing of precision. She created a cage of steel about herself, and then expanded or contracted that cage depending on the needs of the moment. It spoke to a certain efficiency.

A corpse floundered against him, broken fingers scrabbling at his chest-plate. He swept it aside and smashed it from its feet. More of them staggered out of the dust, twitching as the magics that animated them flared and pulsed, out of control. The ground shuddered beneath his feet. There was a sound like thunder, tolling up from below. He could hear screaming as well, and shouts.

More bells had begun to ring throughout the catacombs, as his warriors reacted to the threat. Pharus had devised a number of stratagems and drilled his warriors in them. The order in which the bells rang would tell them what to do, where to go. But never before had so many bells rung – and never all at once.

The dust grew thick on the air, coating his war-plate. He lost sight of Calys for a moment, as the cloud roiled. He felt the ground shake as another pillar fell. The ground shuddered so wildly he barely kept his feet. Stone ruptured and chains burst. Spectral faces congealed in the dust, only to dissipate moments later. He saw Grip drag another walking corpse to the ground as he spun his halberd in a tight circle, momentarily casting the deadwalkers back. There seemed to be hundreds of them, pressing in from all sides.

Calys fell back towards him. ‘We’re cut off. Nowhere to go.’

‘Then we hold what we have,’ Pharus said. He considered unhooking his warding lantern, but dismissed the thought. Its holy light would have little effect on the dead. Better to deal with them the old-fashioned way – brute force. He thrust his halberd forwards, crunching it into a deadwalker’s chest. He heaved the twitching carcass up and hurled it into its fellows, knocking several of them to the ground. But more pressed in.

The air parted suddenly, as something fast and bright pierced the gloom. A sizzling arrow punched through a corpse’s skull, spinning it around and casting it to the ground. More arrows followed the first, plucking the dead from their feet. The dust tore like cloth as Stormcasts charged through, falling upon the deadwalkers like wolves.

A trio of Retributors forced their way through the press, their lightning hammers casting broken corpses from their path. Liberators and Judicators advanced slowly in their wake, finishing off any deadwalker that managed to avoid the crackling arcs of the Retributors’ hammers. Pharus recognised the warrior in the lead – Briaeus, Retributor-Prime.

He was clad in the heavy bastion armour of his conclave, decorated with tokens of death and good fortune. He swung and spun his ­hammer with graceful ease, wielding it like an artist might wield a brush.

He called out to Pharus as he smashed a quartet of corpses to the ground. ‘Ho, lord-castellant, are you in need of aid?’ One of the deadwalkers hauled itself erect, and he caught it up by the neck, as if it weighed nothing.

‘If I were, you would be the first I’d call for, Briaeus. Now, tell me,’ Pharus said, clasping the Retributor-Prime’s forearm. ‘I heard the bells.’

‘The sleepers have awoken,’ the big warrior rumbled. ‘The lesser dead, all throughout the catacombs. It’s as if someone reached into every mausoleum and tomb, and shouted them awake, all at once.’ He glanced up and quickly stepped to the side as a chunk of masonry crashed down and shattered. ‘And the catacombs are coming apart at the seams.’

‘They’ll survive,’ Pharus said confidently.

‘That’s not what I am worried about,’ Briaeus growled. ‘These quakes are tearing open even the most tightly sealed of the tombs – there are things abroad in these tunnels that should not walk.’ He hefted the struggling deadwalker and shook it, as if for emphasis. Its spine snapped, and the Retributor slung it away from him with a growl of disgust.

‘What could be worse than walking corpses?’ Calys asked.

Somewhere, out among the tombs, something screamed. A long, low wail of desolation, echoing down through the broken hummocks of stone. Pharus looked at Calys. ‘I expected you to know better than to ask such a thing, and here, of all places.’

Calys shook her head. ‘My apologies.’

Above them, specks of witch-light danced through the tombs. Behind them, a great clamour rose from the abyss, as of many ­muffled voices, shouting in their confinement. Pharus glanced uneasily past the pillared supports of the ramparts, at the edge of the pit. Briaeus was right. It was as if something had woken all of the dead beneath Glymmsforge.

‘Is this some… spell, perhaps?’ Briaeus asked.

Pharus shook his head. ‘If so, it’s unlike any we’ve seen before.’

Another scream sounded. More voices were added to that hellish choir. They echoed throughout the chamber and were joined by others from elsewhere. It sounded as if the entirety of the catacombs were howling.

‘Lord-castellant – look.’ Calys pointed.

Something like a mist had begun to drift down the slope, gathering speed. It flooded between the tombs and swept through the shattered gateways, pouring down over the broken porticos. Motes of violet light swirled within it, growing brighter as it drew closer to the Stormcasts. Pharus slammed the ferrule of his halberd down on the ground. ‘Form up, form up. Shields to the fore!’

Liberators hurried to form a shield wall. Pharus was pleased to see Calys take her place, without waiting for his order. Sigmarite war-shields were locked together to form an unbreakable bulwark. Judicators raised their bows and sent a volley of crackling arrows arcing over the heads of the Liberators. The arrows sped down, and muffled explosions of lightning flared briefly beneath the mist. Undaunted, it rolled on, picking up speed, as the screaming intensified.

Pharus grunted. That wasn’t good. ‘Brace and hold,’ he snarled. Briaeus and his Retributors stepped forwards, lightning hammers at the ready.

‘I prefer deadwalkers,’ the Retributor-Prime said.

‘So do I,’ Pharus said. He lifted his halberd. At his side, Grip crouched, feathers stiff, tail lashing. The gryph-hound whined shrilly as the mist billowed down the crest of the slope and spilled over the buttresses. There were distorted faces in its convolutions. Wide, howling mouths and bulging eyes that swelled, split and disgorged more of the same. A constant, churning mass of spectral agony.

Nighthaunts. Hideous spirits that had no corporeal body to speak of. Some were the restless souls of the wrongfully dead, while others had been wrenched from their living bodies by dark magics and cast adrift into eternity. Regardless of their origins, the result was always the same – a hateful creature of undeath.

The fog bank of howling souls struck the shield wall a moment later, and rolled over it. Sigmarite warblades, crackling with the lightning of Azyr, passed through the whirling storm of lost souls with no resistance. The weaker spirits came apart like smoke and fluttered away. But the stronger ones thrust aethereal claws through the joins in the Stormcasts’ war-plate. The dead could not easily be killed, but they had little difficulty harming the living.

Wispy talons slid through holes in masks, and Stormcasts staggered, choking. Broken blades and phantasmal weapons crashed down, sometimes with no effect – but other times, the blades bit abnormally deep into armour. Only the Stormcasts’ preternatural skill saved them from agonising death, as the host of spirits enveloped them. Warblades flashed, dissipating some spirits and causing others to retreat. But not enough.

‘Hold them,’ Pharus roared. ‘Briaeus – drive them back!’

The blows of Briaeus and his fellow paladins were more effective than those of their brethren. The lightning hammers snapped out, trailing sizzling bands of energy, and spirits convulsed and came apart as they were struck. But there were only three of them, and they could not be everywhere.

‘Judicators – loose,’ Pharus shouted, whirling his halberd out to tear through the misty neck of a nighthaunt. At his command, the Judicators loosed arrows into the morass of tormented souls, further scattering them, though not permanently.

Pharus heard Calys cry out and saw her stagger back, a writhing spectre clinging to her. One unnaturally long hand was thrust into her chest. ‘No!’ He swept his halberd out. The blade chopped into the murky substance of the wraith’s form, and it spasmed in apparent pain. His blow tore it from her and sent it whirling away. As she fell backwards, the shield wall began to crumple. Pharus sank down beside her.

‘Do you yet live, sister?’

‘I… believe so,’ she gasped, clutching at her chest. ‘That… I have… I think I have felt that cold pain before…’ She looked at him, her eyes wide behind the mask of her helm. ‘I can see…’ She shook her head, as if confused. He knew what she was feeling, the sudden flood of half-forgotten sensations. ‘What was that?’

‘Death,’ Pharus said flatly. Nearby, another Liberator gave a strangled scream as a ghost reached through his armour and stopped his heart with its chill claws. The warrior’s body came apart in motes of crackling, azure lightning as he slumped. With a shuddering snarl of lightning, his soul was cast upwards, back to Azyr and the Anvil of Apotheosis, there to be reforged.

Pharus flinched away from that light. He had not yet endured a second death, and he had no intention of doing so, if it could be helped. He reached down and caught hold of the back of Calys’ war-plate. ‘We are giants, raised up and cast down, to rid the land of evil and keep safe all that is good,’ he roared, as he dragged her to her feet. ‘Hold fast and swing true.’ He looked at her. ‘Stand, sister.’

‘I am fine. It… it… I felt it, in my heart. Squeezing my heart.’ She clutched at her chest. ‘My armour did nothing.’

‘It kept you alive,’ Pharus growled. He unhooked his lantern and hung it from the top of his halberd. Where its light touched, the spirits recoiled. They were not of Chaos, but they were corrupt nonetheless. ‘Now ready yourself. They come again. If you must die, let it be on your feet.’ He raised his halberd high, so that the light of the lantern washed across the shield wall. ‘Stand, brothers and sisters. Not one step back.’ He slammed the halberd down, and the light of his warding lantern blazed forth.

‘Whatever comes – we hold!’