Ghoulslayer

Chapter Thirty Deathwise

As they reached the building’s upper levels, they found themselves surrounded by Unburied. Maleneth remembered what Lhosia had said about each cocoon carrying hundreds, even thousands of souls, and she marvelled when she saw that the walls were covered in countless hundreds of them. They were all cradled in niches of smooth bone, like seeds in an enormous white pod, and the nearer they were to the platform, the brighter they shone. As she ran, Maleneth felt as though she were racing into the heart of a star with giant embers tumbling all around her, burning as they fell. The platform was made of the same pale, translucent material as everything else, and shadowy figures were walking across the surface, passing back and forth above her head.

They were still several minutes away from the platform when Mal­eneth cried out in alarm and stumbled to a halt.

‘Keep moving, aelf!’ snapped Gotrek, glancing back at her. As soon as he saw what had happened to her, he stopped too.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

‘Doing? I did nothing!’ she said, staring at her arms. Her skin was naturally pale, but it had been transformed, turned into the same bone-like substance as the walls. Even her clothes had changed to the same material. ‘This is what happened to you!’ she cried, pointing at the rows of cocoons. ‘When you joined yourself to those things. It’s happening to you now! Look!’

Gotrek exclaimed in annoyance. His leathery, tattooed muscles now resembled dusty alabaster, as did the plate of armour on his shoulder. He stared at his palm, grimacing at the change in his flesh.

‘Don’t move!’ called Trachos.

‘Don’t move? What do you mean, don’t move? We need to get up there.’ Gotrek turned to continue up the stairs.

‘Remember what the priestess told you,’ said Trachos. ‘You’re fragile in that state. Tread carefully.’

Gotrek halted and looked back. ‘And what about you?’

Trachos’ armour was now the same chalky white as everything else. He shook his head, staring at his arms.

‘Ha!’ crowed Maleneth. ‘Not so eternal after all. Tread carefully yourself!’

The figures overhead suddenly rushed to one side of the platform, and the cocoons on the walls pulsed even brighter.

‘Sod this,’ grunted Gotrek, and carried on up the stairs, but he was moving noticeably slower.

The final stretch of steps opened into a fan shape as they led onto the platform. Gotrek, Trachos and Maleneth walked out into the light together, shielding their eyes as they stepped onto the smooth, powdery floor, gripping their weapons. It occurred to Maleneth that they were moving like old comrades in arms, standing side by side, trusting each other implicitly. As soon as she noticed this, she sidestepped away from the other two, muttering in annoyance.

As Maleneth grew accustomed to the light, she saw that her skin had regained its normal appearance. The others were the same. The transformation that had overtaken them on the stairs had ceased as soon as they stepped up onto the dais.

There were a dozen people assembled on the platform. To her left was Lord Aurun, flanked by six knights of the Gravesward. He looked like he was about to be crowned – chin raised, shoulders back and eyes gleaming with pride.

In the centre of the platform were High Priestess Lhosia, three other priests and the towering shape of Prince Volant. The priests were standing in a circle around the prince, arms raised and hands clasped, and Volant was kneeling. It looked like he was holding an exploding star. Thousands of white moths fluttered around his hands, forming a ball of teeming, flashing wings.

Gotrek opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Prince Volant’s voice rang out through the lights. His words were cracked with pain but still sure and proud.

‘Deathwise we fly, rescued from life and cradled by sod. From the tombs of fell-handed forefathers, red-scarred and charred, death-tongued and hale, we bring faith, we bring hope, we bring eternity.’

Maleneth wanted to announce their arrival, but the air was so heavy with sorcery that she dared not speak for fear of triggering some kind of transformation.

Lhosia echoed Volant’s invocation, and then the prince spoke again. His voice was lower this time, and more resonant, echoing through the shadows. ‘Deathwise we fly, rescued from life and cradled by sod. From the tombs of fell-handed forefathers, red-scarred and charred, death-tongued and hale, we bring treasurelings. We bring gifts. We bring offerings to the deep, deepest dark.’

This time the words had a dramatic effect. The cocoons in the walls pulsed, then grew dark. There was a pair of small braziers positioned at the top of the steps, and if it weren’t for their flames, the whole platform would have been plunged into darkness.

‘Those are not the words,’ said Lhosia, backing away, breaking the circle and staring up at the prince. ‘What are you doing?’

When Lhosia had loosed her grip, some of the moths had flown away, scattering over the platform and fluttering up, into the spire of the tower.

Volant looked up through the clouds of whirling insects, his face grim.