Ghoulslayer

Chapter Twenty The Lingering Keep

Maleneth was shocked to realise that she had fallen asleep. The motion of the Spindrift had settled into a steady, loping rhythm, and she had gone untold days without rest, but she still cursed as she woke, grabbing her knives and glancing around for attackers.

Trachos was at her side, his massive, battered armour shielding her from the wind. Beyond the ship the darkness was absolute, but Gotrek and Lhosia were still engulfed in a dazzling corona, scattering splashes of purple and gold over the Eventide.

The grinding of the engines was unchanged, but there was a new sound rising, an oceanic roar that Maleneth guessed was the reason she had awoken.

‘What is that?’ she asked, but as the decks completed another rotation, her question was answered. Up ahead, just a few miles away from the prow of the Spindrift, was a colossal fortress. It was the largest structure she had seen since arriving in Shyish, and it was built in the same style as the Barren Points – a tangled briar of iron and bone, curving and bur-like with looping, knotted towers. It burned purple on the horizon, like a sinking violet sun.

‘The capital,’ replied Trachos. His voice had regained some of the automaton-like coldness. ‘They call it the Lingering Keep.’

‘That noise.’ She frowned. ‘Is that cheering?’

He nodded and pointed past the prow.

A few hundred feet ahead of the ship, Prince Volant was flying through the flashing lights, leading his honour guard of mounted knights. His scythe was held victoriously over his head, and the crowds on the city walls had raised their voices in tribute.

‘You’d think he’d won a war,’ she sneered. ‘Rather than organising a hasty retreat.’

‘He has returned to them. Perhaps they did not expect him to.’ Trachos pointed at the cocoons on the deck. ‘And he has returned with these.’

They both fell quiet as they watched the city rushing towards them, taking a moment to study the strangeness of the place. As its sharp, thorny details grew clearer, Maleneth realised just how vast it was. It was almost on the scale of the free cities built by her own order. There was a curved, tusk-like tower right at its centre, many hundreds of feet tall, soaring over the rest of the barb-like structures, glittering with narrow arrow-slit windows. ‘Prince Volant’s palace, I presume,’ she said, pointing it out.

‘No. I heard Lord Aurun talking while you were asleep. That tower is called the Halls of Separation. That’s where the Erebid need to take their ancestors.’ Again, he surprised Maleneth with how normal he sounded. ‘How unique those buildings are. I have never seen such strange architecture. I wonder if in all of Shyish there are two underworlds that look the same. We all have such a different idea of what lies beyond the grave.’

‘There will be no grave for you.’ She raised her knife in the air with a dramatic flourish. ‘You live on! Stormcast Eternal! Unfettered by mortality! A light in the darkness! Burning for all eternity!’

He studied her from behind his battered faceplate. ‘You’re mocking me.’

Maleneth lowered her blade and shook her head. ‘I was, but you’re too damned earnest for it to be any fun.’

He maintained his stare. ‘I had a normal life. I was a mortal man before Sigmar chose me to join his Stormhosts. I was destined to live, hate, love and die just like everyone else.’ He looked at the approaching city. ‘Who knows, perhaps this would have been my afterlife? I do not even recall what nation I belonged to before I became…’ He tapped his armour. ‘Before I was remade in Sigmar’s image. But whatever fate was allotted to me has been taken. I serve the God-King. And nothing else matters.’

Maleneth shrugged. ‘What more could you want? You serve your god through strength and courage. You spill blood in his name. You rid the realms of his enemies. Isn’t that enough?’

‘As long as I can remember whose blood to spill.’ He shook his head. ‘My god is not like yours, aelf. Khaine requires you to give him blood and power. He has no interest beyond that. The God-King does not seek power merely for its own sake.’

She sneered. ‘You really have been reborn, haven’t you? Have you forgotten what happened to you last time you were in Shyish? Are you so sure Sigmar’s creations are as perfect and divine as all that? Are you really so different from me?’ She leant closer. ‘Why did Sigmar send hammer-wielding killers into the realms? Was it to broker peace? Was it to negotiate a truce? No. He sent you to wreak murder and ruin. Your god is no different from mine. Every time you crush another skull, Sigmar smiles, Lord Ordinator. Every drop of blood is a tribute.’

‘You’re wrong. Sigmar sent his Stormhosts to free mankind from the yoke of its oppressors. To save it from tyranny.’

‘And what about when you were killing those unarmed families, Trachos? Were you freeing them from tyranny?’ Maleneth’s voice was full of scorn, but she realised, to her surprise, that she was genuinely interested to hear his answer.

Trachos nodded. ‘I have strayed close to the precipice. But now I see that there is hope, even with this tiny ember of humanity I have left, I can–’

The cheers suddenly grew in fervour, drowning Trachos out, and she saw that they had nearly reached the city walls.

‘What?’ she said, wanting to hear what Trachos had to say, but it seemed he could not hear her over the din.

They both stood up and watched over the railings as the rotations of the Spindrift began to slow.

The light around Gotrek and the priestess faded, giving the pair a less divine appearance.

Your chance is almost gone, said Maleneth’s former mistress. In a few more minutes he will be flesh and blood again. You’ll have to move now if you want to get that rune.

He’s surrounded by soldiers, Maleneth thought. And he’s in the process of saving all of our lives. Do you really expect me to plant a knife in him now?

She untied herself and climbed stiffly to her feet, slapping her cramped limbs and stretching her back until the Spindrift was steady enough for her to cross the deck and approach the Slayer.

Trachos clanked after her.

You’ll have no chance with the Stormcast Eternal watching. Get him away. Trick him into going below decks.

Maleneth ignored the voice, staring at Gotrek. His eyes were closed and, like Lhosia, he was sitting completely still. His skin was still pale and shell-like, and he looked more like a statue than a living being. Robbed of his erratic, surly manner and bombastic voice, he seemed an entirely different proposition. Traces of light still played around him, and she could almost imagine that the people of Morbium were cheering for him rather than their prince. They certainly would be if they knew what he had done.

Something is happening here, she thought. Something is happening with this Slayer. He is not like anything I have encountered before.

Fool. Stop being pathetic! Look! His skin is almost normal again. Do it now.

It’s more than just the rune, she decided. He is destined for something. Whatever he thinks of gods, I think one of them has sent him here. He must have some kind of divine patron. How else could he have faced everything he has faced, with so little planning or logic, and still be alive? He’s brutish and thoughtless and has no ounce of finesse, but nothing touches him. How can that be? Something is propelling him through these trials, directing him and loading him with power. And if I killed him here, now, I would never know what it was – or what Gotrek is. What he’s here for.

Blood of Khaine! What are you talking about? He’s not propelled by a god – he’s propelled by stupidity. There’s no divinity in that sweating lump. Look at him! You said it yourself – he’s a talking hog, too ignorant to recognise the danger he keeps throwing himself in. The only thing he’s here for is to destroy himself in the most vainglorious way possible. There is nothing to be gained by letting him live. Kill him now, while you have the chance. Give him the doom he wants, or you will die here. With these vile people. And so will I.

Maleneth shook her head.

Gotrek opened his eyes, blinking and confused, looking as if he had spent a night drinking. He caught sight of Maleneth and Trachos, watching him in dazed wonder.

‘Grungni’s balls. Why are you looking at me like that?’

Lhosia opened her eyes at the sound of his voice and gazed at the lights, fading quickly around the deck as the Spindrift slowed. ‘It worked,’ she said, glancing over the prow at the city as she lifted her hand from Gotrek’s rune.

Gotrek stood, rolled his shoulders and sniffed, making a long, liquid rattling sound. ‘What next, lass?’ He stomped over to the railing and looked out at the prince and the walls of the Lingering Keep. ‘Where do we need to take these things before your prince will consider them saved?’

Lhosia gently removed her hand from the cocoon, and across the ship, the lights began to fade. ‘Incredible,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. They were all present. Every one of the ­Unburied. There were a thousand souls on this ship.’

‘Priestess!’ bellowed Gotrek, waving her over to the railings and nodding to the city. ‘What now?’

Lord Aurun staggered towards them, flanked by Gravesward. He was covered in cuts and bruises, but his eyes were bright.

‘Now the prince will perform his rite.’ He gestured at the cocoons. ‘With the Unburied assembled in the Lingering Keep, he will be able to save them.’ He smiled at Lhosia. ‘The prince told me you and he will harness the light of a magic stone. He said you will rebuild the Iron Shroud and put an end to this invasion.’

The wonder faded from Lhosia’s eyes. ‘Would that it were that simple, old friend. The prince has a powerful relic called the Cerement Stone. He believes that with the Unburied in the Lingering Keep, he and I will be able to channel their power into the stone and create a new ward, strong enough to protect them. We will be able to keep them safe from the mordants. It will be a kind of Iron Shroud, but not one that will protect the whole princedom.’ She looked back the way they had come, at the vast darkness that had once been lit by the prominents. ‘Nothing can be done for the rest of Morbium.’

‘But if we are locked away in the capital, what will become of us?’ said Aurun. ‘Wouldn’t we starve?’

‘The prince has not shared all the details with me.’ She shook her head, looking grim. ‘He said nothing of our survival, only of the Unburied.’

Aurun frowned as the ship’s momentum carried them over the final approach to the city and the ship rumbled to a halt. It bumped to a stop alongside a broad wynd that led to a set of enormous gates forged to resemble folded wings, mirroring the shield designs of the Gravesward. The highway teemed with refugees, hundreds of exhausted-looking people hauling carts and sacks towards the city. Many of them were wounded, and they all looked emaciated, but they were cheering Prince Volant with even more gusto than the soldiers on the battlements.

The soldiers on the boat leapt to action, hurling ropes to the wynd, where gaunt-faced refugees grabbed them and tied the aether-ship to the metal road.

Lord Aurun led the way down a gangplank, proud and victorious, waving to people like a monarch as the rest of the ship’s passengers trailed after him.

Gotrek was right beside Aurun, looking eagerly up at the city gates as Maleneth and Trachos hurried after him.

The Gravesward formed an avenue of shields for them to march down, and as Prince Volant soared overhead, over the city walls, Aurun and the others marched through the gates, entering a square crowded with hundreds more refugees and soldiers.

The noise was incredible. The people saw the cocoons and cheered even louder, crying, ‘Morbium Eternal!’

Prince Volant landed in the centre of the square, his bone steed clattering against the flagstones. He dropped from his saddle, attempting to look triumphant but unable to completely hide the fact that he was injured. He moved in awkward, sudden lurches, but waved his men away when they rushed to help.

‘I have kept the oath of the Morn-Princes!’ he cried, looming over the crowd. ‘I will never abandon our past!’ He waved his scythe at the cocoons, which were being carried into the square. ‘We will endure!’

The crowd hurled his words back at him.

‘Incredible,’ whispered Maleneth to Gotrek. ‘They’ve lost their entire kingdom and now they’re cheering a half-dead prince.’

Gotrek glared at her. ‘They kept their oath. That means nothing to an aelf, but it means a lot to them. I thought these realms were peopled solely by treacherous thagi and cack-handed morons. But these people are prepared to risk everything for the honour of their ancestors.’ He took a deep breath, threw back his shoulders and punched his chest. ‘It does me good, aelf. It does me good to see this. Perhaps not all of the old ways have been forgotten.’

They joined the crowd around Prince Volant as he continued his speech, describing the battles he had fought to save the Unburied as more and more people crushed into the square.

‘They look worse than their pet corpses,’ muttered Maleneth. ‘And what do they think will happen when the ghouls get here?’

Gotrek was about to answer when a loud clattering sound announced the approach of more soldiers. A column of Gravesward entered the square, riding beneath an arch and heading straight for the prince. They were mounted on wingless versions of the prince’s skeleton steed, and their armour showed no signs of battle, shimmering with a dull lustre in the light that spilled through the streets. There was a carriage at the head of the column that looked like a mobile ossuary – an elaborate construction of sharpened bones led by four bleached, fleshless horses. As the carriage reached Volant, a knight climbed down. He wore a wreath of iron rose petals and held himself with the casual, languid bearing of an aristocrat.

‘Your majesty!’ the noble called out across the noise of the crowd. ‘The Unburied prophesied your return, but it is wonderful to see you so soon.’

Prince Volant laughed. ‘Soon?’ He gazed out across the crowd, study­ing the crowded streets. ‘We must talk, Captain Ridens.’

The captain nodded and gestured to a nearby building. ‘The chapter house, your majesty. We will have privacy in there.’

The knights made another colonnade of shields, and they passed through the crowds and approached a tall, narrow building that looked quite different from those around it. Most of the architecture that lined the square was built of the same bone-like contortions as the rest of the city, but this building was a slab of ink-black stone and its design was simple and unadorned. The only decoration was a pair of folded white moth wings on the door.

The captain led the way inside, closely followed by Prince Volant, who had to stoop under the doorframe, High Priestess Lhosia, Gotrek, Maleneth, Trachos and finally Lord Aurun and a detachment of Gravesward. Aurun ordered some of his men to stand watch outside, then slammed the door.

The entrance was long, narrow and lined with crackling torches. It led into a wide circular chamber with a domed roof and twelve alcoves spread equally around its circumference. In each alcove was a white shield, forged in the shape of a wing and carved with small lines of text.

There was a circular stone table at the centre of the room, and Prince Volant strode across to lean over it, fists pressed to the stone and head bowed. He was breathing heavily.

‘Your majesty,’ said Lord Aurun, hurrying towards him. ‘We must tend to your wounds. Let me send for an apothecary.’

Volant removed his black-and-white helmet and dropped it onto the table with a clang, then waved Aurun away. ‘Later.’ He glanced at one of the soldiers. ‘Food. And water.’

The knight nodded and hurried away as Volant turned towards the captain. ‘Tell me everything.’

He nodded, speaking quickly. ‘The garrisons from the prominents have been deployed across the city walls, as you instructed.’

‘How many?’

‘Nearly four thousand, your highness.’

‘How many archers?’

The captain hesitated. ‘There are four thousand men in total, your majesty. Roughly two thousand Gravesward. The rest are archers, assorted foot soldiers and militia.’

Volant stared at him for a moment. He sighed and nodded. ‘And the Unburied?’

‘Other than those you have just brought from the Barren Points, every surviving cocoon has been taken to the Halls of Separation, as you instructed.’

Volant nodded again. ‘The host that follows in our footsteps is larger than anything we anticipated. Four thousand soldiers will not suffice.’

The captain paled, but before he could reply, the prince continued.

‘But neither would fifty thousand. Our only hope is to hold the walls until I and the high priestess have completed the rite. With the power of the Unburied gathered together in a single location, we can use the Cerement Stone to guarantee their future.’

The captain nodded. ‘We have positioned the men exactly as you ordered, your majesty.’

‘I will see for myself before I leave the walls.’ Volant grimaced and pressed a hand to his side, closing his eyes. Then he noticed that the captain was looking awkwardly at him. ‘Anything else?’

The captain nodded. ‘Something peculiar happened at the Sariphi Docks. The relics…’ He frowned, struggling to explain himself. ‘The relics began moving. And making noises.’

‘Relics? Which relics?’

‘The aether-ships, Morn-Prince – the ironclads and frigates. They were shaking and rattling, shedding light from their hulls. Some of them moved with such force that they damaged the nearby buildings.’

Volant glanced at Gotrek and Lhosia.

Gotrek shrugged and looked at Trachos. ‘Blame the manling.’

The captain had not looked at Gotrek or Trachos properly until that moment. He now stared at them in surprise.

‘Your companions, your majesty. Are they the cause of the problems at the docks?’

Trachos shrugged. ‘The old Kharadron devices form a network across your whole princedom. In triggering the duardin mechanisms at the Barren Points, it’s possible I have also triggered engines here.’

‘Triggered them?’ said the captain. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If that’s everything, I will inspect the walls,’ said Volant, ignoring the captain’s question and waving to the door.

‘One minute.’ Gotrek held up his hand, and Prince Volant halted. ‘We had a deal. I saved your corpse eggs. Now it’s time to keep your side of the bargain.’

‘Nothing is saved yet,’ replied the prince. ‘The mordants will be here within hours. We need to hold these walls until the high priestess and I have performed our rite, or the Unburied will be destroyed along with everything else.’

Gotrek narrowed his eye. ‘Get them to the capital. That was the deal. You owe me a god.’

‘You swore to save them,’ said Volant, speaking softly despite Gotrek’s bullish tone.

Maleneth noticed that the prince spoke to the Slayer very differently to the way he addressed the captain. The impatience was gone. He was talking to Gotrek as an equal.

‘You have shown bravery and skill beyond anything I would expect to see in a non-Erebid. And there is power in you that goes beyond my understanding. I thought you were insane when you spoke of challenging Nagash, but now…’ Volant shrugged. ‘Now I think you might just be destined for something greater than the rest of us, Gotrek Gurnisson.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ he muttered, ‘but I did not come here to fight your wars.’

Volant shook his head. ‘I am not asking you to fight our wars. I would ask only this – lend me your axe and your courage one last time. Today will either rob us of thousands of years of tradition or see us victorious, preserving the dignity of our elders as the rest of Shyish falls to ruin. If you will help my knights hold the city walls, I can go with Lhosia to the Halls of Separation and make my fore­fathers proud, either by my triumph or by my glorious death.’

Gotrek looked at the shields mounted in the alcoves and the poems carved into them. There was a long, tense moment as he seemed to forget about his surroundings. ‘I lost everything,’ he said finally, his voice low. ‘And now I’m stuck in this shoddy, mannish age.’ He scowled at Maleneth. ‘Surrounded by people who care nothing for tradition and respect.’ He met the prince’s eye and nodded. ‘It would do me good to fight for something again. To fight alongside someone who wishes to preserve rather than change.’ Gotrek nodded. ‘I’ll hold the wall for you, Morn-Prince.’

He stepped closer and tapped his axe on the prince’s armour. ‘But know this. I will also hold you to your oath. When those cocoons are safe, you send me to Nagash.’ He spat on the floor. ‘Or you will have something worse than ghouls to worry about.’

Prince Volant nodded. ‘We have an understanding.’