Soul Wars

Chapter seven Fires of War

Sigmar Heldenhammer, God-King of Azyr and Lord of the Storm Eternal, looked out over the burning ruin of the Sigmarabulum and bowed his head. For a moment, he’d thought he’d heard something. A voice, crying out in the wilderness, seeking his aid.

But that was nothing new. A thousand voices cried in his ear with every moment. Too many to hear them all clearly. Some prayed. Others wept. There were few he could aid in any tangible way. But this one had been different. Louder, somehow. Before being suddenly silenced, as if by a great wind.

He stood at one of the huge cracks that gaped in the walls of the Chamber of the Broken World. Through it, he could see the full extent of the devastation that afflicted the great citadel-ring. Smoke rose towards the stars in spindle-legged shapes, and fire boiled up from cracked foundries. Strange shimmers of heat folded across entire districts, hiding them from view. Lightning flashed as the dead were put to rest.

He could taste the after-echoes of the great cataclysm, still resonating outwards. For all he knew, into universes undreamed. Everything stank of death. Every stone and star was soiled by the energies that had surged up from Shyish. The realms still shuddered, their very substance threatened by the sudden realignment of ages-old patterns. And still, aftershocks radiated upwards, as he suspected they would for some time.

Even Mallus had been affected. The dead world was gripped by tectonic disturbances such as it had not suffered in centuries. The fires in its core blazed, threatening to consume even more of the remaining surface, and the storms of broken souls that swept eternally between the poles had grown in ferocity. Sigmar half expected it to rip itself from its place in the heavens and cast itself down. But some things were beyond even Nagash.

There was no question that the God of Death was the author of this upheaval. It had originated in Shyish and shaken the Tree of Worlds from root to bough. ‘Nagash,’ he said softly. Then, more loudly. ‘Nagash. Always Nagash.’

Nagash. The Undying King. Brother and betrayer. Sigmar saw again the great cairn where Nagash had been imprisoned, its stones piled by unknown hands, and heard a voice, whispering in the dark. ­Unafraid, he had torn at the stones until his hands had wept starlight. When Nagash had reached out, Sigmar had held out his hand. And for a time, that had been enough.

But that time was long past, and almost forgotten.

Unaware of what he was doing, he raised his fists and slammed them out against the edges of the crack. Stones hewed from comets cracked, as lightning snarled about his clenched fingers. The fists came up and drove out a second time, with piston-like force, further shattering the walls and cracking the floor beneath.

Sigmar stepped back, as the ancient stones crumbled away and fell from sight. Rage undimmed, he fought to control himself. It was like trying to wrestle a storm into a box, but he’d had aeons of practice. Long past were the days when his fury might shake the heavens, or flood the lands below. He was a different god now, to the one he had been. Arrogance had been burned out of him by the fires of shame.

‘But some things never change, eh?’ he said, half to himself. ‘And some gods are as foolish as they were millennia ago.’ He turned to the golden-armoured figure standing behind him. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, Knossus Heavensen – some things never change, no matter our desires.’ He noticed the paleness of Knossus’ tattooed features and the stiffness of his posture, and realised belatedly that the lord-arcanum was disturbed by his display of anger. ‘Do not fear, lord-arcanum. My anger is not directed at you.’

‘I did not think it was, my lord.’ Knossus spoke with all due reverence, and bowed. He had his helmet clutched under one arm and his staff in the other hand. His war-plate was marked by signs of battle and stained with ash. Knossus and his warriors had fought for hours alongside other Sacrosanct Chambers to recapture those souls that had escaped from the soul-mills and rampaged across the Sigmarabulum.

Sigmar grimaced. ‘Do not bow, Knossus. I require no worship from you.’ He looked past the lord-arcanum. The Chamber of the Broken World was being repaired, but slowly. He had prevented its collapse, but the cataclysm had damaged more than just the walls and pillars. At the heart of the chamber, the Anvil had at last returned to normal, shedding the purple miasma that had clung to it.

Knossus straightened. ‘I know, my lord. But I give it freely.’

Sigmar looked down at him. ‘Perhaps I should have clad you in silver, instead of gold.’ He smiled as he said it, but Knossus took the statement at face value.

‘If such be your will, my lord.’

Sigmar sighed. ‘It was a jest, Knossus.’

A brief smile played across the lord-arcanum’s features. ‘I am aware, my lord.’

Sigmar laughed, and somewhere far away, thunder rumbled. He clapped Knossus on the shoulder, nearly knocking the Stormcast from his feet. ‘Good. Now tell me what there is to be told.’ He turned back to the crack in the wall.

‘The soul-mills are repaired. The aftershocks are fading. The dead…’ Knossus hesitated. Sigmar glanced at him.

‘The dead do not rest easy,’ he said.

Knossus nodded. ‘Even in Sigmaron, they rise and attack. The Vaults of the Firmament cracked wide in the cataclysm. Thousands of suddenly ambulatory corpses have spilled out into the streets, attacking any they come across. Some are no more than feral husks. Others are possessed of more malign awareness. It is as if a call to war has gone out, and now even the honoured fallen turn on us.’

‘A call to war,’ Sigmar repeated. ‘Perhaps that is what it was.’ He was already aware of everything Knossus had told him. He could feel the dead, clawing at the insides of their tombs, and hear the wailing of souls driven to madness.

He looked out, past the edges of the Sigmarabulum and down into Azyr itself, where high, snow-capped mountains rose over great plains and seas. The dead walked in Sigmaron, as Knossus said, and in Azyrheim, below it. In every great city of Azyr, the dead stirred. And not just there. Wherever one of his cities rose, he could see. Deadwalkers stumbled through the streets of Excelsis and Greywater Fastness. Cackling spirits threatened the Phoenix Temple in Phoenicium, and long-forgotten armies of fleshless deathrattle warriors stirred themselves from the boiling mud-flats and marched on the walls of Hammerhal Aqsha.

The embers of his rage flickered, threatening to blaze forth once more. He watched all that he had built in these scant decades since the opening of the Gates of Azyr come under attack, and his hands itched for the weight of his warhammer, Ghal Maraz. He longed to take it up once more and hurl himself down into Shyish. To at last answer the questions that lay between himself and the Undying King. But he had learned his lesson.

He turned from the wall and strode past Knossus. ‘I suspected this day would come the moment Nagash chose to reject my offer of alliance. He was always stubborn. But I hoped he’d see sense.’

Knossus followed him, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps there is method to his madness. We have pushed back the dark gods on almost every front. They are not defeated, but they are on uncertain ground. The other gods rally against them, and even Archaon cannot be every­where at once.’ He hurried to catch up to Sigmar’s longer stride. ‘This may well be Nagash’s only chance – we are stretched thin, and our eyes are on other foes.’

Sigmar slowed and glanced down at him. ‘There is more to this than simple strategy. I think this was the culmination of something set in motion long ago. Nagash has always taken a longer view than most gods. Even myself. I think in terms of centuries. Nagash thinks in terms of epochs.’ He stopped. ‘He has already foreseen the moment that the last star flickers out, and prepared accordingly.’

‘Surely that will never happen.’ Knossus sounded aghast.

Sigmar looked around before answering. The detritus of the battle against the lightning-gheist lay scattered everywhere. Scorched weapons and torn armour lay mixed among the rubble. Half a dozen Celestors and a mage-sacristan had perished, attempting to bring the rogue soul to bay. That the lord-arcanum known as Balthas had managed to survive, and defeat it, was a testament to his strength.

Balthas. There was a soul to be watched. An old soul. Sigmar glanced up, at Mallus, and then away. Balthas had requested that his Chamber be sent in pursuit of the escaped soul. Sigmar was still considering that request.

He glanced at Knossus. ‘It is not in my power to say what will happen, or won’t. All things move towards their end, whatever the will of men or gods.’ He picked up a crumpled helmet. The warrior who’d worn it was now in one of the soul-mills. He could feel the last moments of their life and the echo of their death. He could hear their soul screaming, begging for release. Sigmar closed his eyes. The helmet fell to the ground. Someone would clean it up later. It would be reforged and made ready for war again. All things could be reforged. Even gods.

‘But that end is not here yet, my lord,’ Knossus said.

Sigmar opened his eyes and looked up at the dark curve of the sky. He could see every star, and beyond. In the quiet between battles, when the affairs of the realms did not distract him, they sang to him, sometimes, calling down to him, bidding him join them in the eternal dance. He felt their pull now and knew that one day, he might no longer be able to resist their call. But not today. Not until the war was won.

‘No. It is not. You will go to Shyish.’

Knossus bowed his head. ‘As you will it, my lord.’

‘As it must be, Knossus.’ Sigmar approached the Anvil. The mage-sacristans who had been working to cleanse it retreated, bowing low. Sigmar gestured, catching up some of the skeins of magic that emanated from it. He could feel the heat of the world from which the substance of the Anvil had been drawn.

Mallus. It’d had another name, once. In another age, in another life. Once, it had been as vibrant as the realms and dearer to him than anything. Now, it was simply raw materials for a war beyond comprehension. A world and all those who might have once lived on it, made over into weapons.

‘As it must be,’ Sigmar said, again. ‘Until the war is won.’

Balthas whipped his staff up and about, striking the dead thing as it lunged for him. A skull, brown with age, cracked, expelling a violet light. The corpse, a scarecrow of leathery skin stretched over thin bones, wrapped in mouldering robes of azure and rusted armour, collapsed in a heap. It was not alone. A dozen more stumbled along the parapet towards the lord-arcanum, clad in the finery of ages. They wore the tattered vestments of healers and philosophers, generals and diplomats. In life, they had been heroes. In death, they were little more than beasts.

Some stumbled on limbs that did not function correctly. Others scampered across the crenellations of the World-Wall – the highest rampart of Sigmaron, and the closest one to Mallus – with simian ease. Balthas braced himself as the quickest of these leapt for him, fleshless jaws champing. He swept his staff up, catching it in the chest and pitching it over the side. For a moment, Sigmaron seemed to fall away from him, in descending tiers of pale stone. A vertiginous slope of towers and buttresses. Now, clouds of smoke obscured some of those structures. He turned back and reversed his staff, thrusting it out to catch a second corpse. A brittle sternum crumpled, and he drove the deadwalker back with two quick steps.

As the corpse reeled, Balthas slammed his staff down, a corona of corposant playing atop it. A bolt of lightning thundered down, striking the cadaver and immolating it. Smaller chains of lightning leapt out to strike the rest, one after another. The celestial energy cascaded through the dead, reducing them to ashes and blackened bones. He watched them burn with no small amount of satisfaction.

‘Neatly done, my lord. Even if you have once again declined the use of your blade.’

He turned as Miska joined him on the parapet of the World-Wall. She eyed the smouldering lightning scars with approval. ‘Then, you have ever possessed a talent for the aetheric.’ As ever, her voice rasped across his hearing, like a whetstone across a blade.

‘It was but the work of a moment and of no import,’ he said modestly. ‘Any aether-mage could have done the same.’

‘That is true.’

He ignored her dismissal. ‘The others?’

‘Scattered along the World-Wall, as you ordered. We have cleansed all but the lowest tiers of these hungry corpses.’

Balthas nodded in satisfaction. He had claimed the honour of cleansing the World-Wall for his chamber the moment Sigmar had ordered their chamber despatched to Sigmaron. ‘Good. We will regroup and descend to the lower tiers.’

‘Azyrheim is still shaking, they say.’

‘Who says?’ Balthas grunted, as he glanced upwards. Above them, the Sigmarabulum was still burning. It hung in the sky like a caged comet, thick scars of smoke stretching out towards the uncaring stars. Mallus, too, burned. The red world shuddered, as if it were a great beast disturbed by some distant sound. He looked away, unsettled by the sight.

Miska shrugged. ‘Many people.’ She looked down at the palace-city. Something flashed, over the western slopes of the mountain. ­‘Reinforcements, departing through the Shimmergate,’ she said, shading her eyes. ‘The city of Glymmsforge is under threat. The armies of death ride full upon it.’

Balthas snorted. ‘When do they not?’ He’d already known that. Shyish, more than any other realm, had suffered from the cataclysm. Sigmar’s territories in the Realm of Death – those underworlds and ruins ceded to him by treaty or omission – were under threat from the resurgent forces of the walking dead.

Miska gave him a disapproving look. ‘They are under siege.’

‘They are always under siege. Azyr itself is under siege. Besieged is our default state.’ He gestured impatiently. ‘Forgive me if I am not shocked that a cataclysm of such resonance is soon followed by opportunistic savagery.’ Balthas shook his head. ‘Whatever this necro­quake was, it had its origins in Shyish. That much I am certain of. Of course the legions of the Undying King see this as the time to attack – Nagash probably caused this!’

He realised belatedly that he was shouting. He calmed himself and ignored Miska’s raised eyebrow. She looked away. ‘Knossus will be in command, they say. He goes to reinforce Glymmsforge.’

Irritated, Balthas frowned. He’d known that as well, though he’d given it little consideration. It was of no import to him where Knossus Heavensen went. ‘They are very well informed, whoever they are.’ He glared at her, though without any true rancour. Miska was immune to his glare, in any event. She peered at him.

‘It is the talk of the palace. You should unstop your ears and listen – you might learn something.’ Her tone skirted the edge of insubordination. ‘Sigmar throws open the vaults of our temple, and sets us loose at last. The veil of secrecy is cast aside. We will march openly with our brethren, now, for the first time.’

‘We? Is our chamber to march upon Shyish as well, then?’

‘A figure of speech.’

Balthas grunted. Miska was right – he hadn’t been listening. He had buried himself in the hunt for the dead, as penance for his failure on the Sigmarabulum. He had never before allowed a soul to escape, and it weighed on him. Removed from the moment, he knew that it was not his fault. Not truly. But there was a difference between knowing and believing.

He was conscious of Miska’s eyes on him, and straightened. ‘It is of no import. Until I am informed otherwise, our chamber has a mission. There are still maddened souls racing loose through the citadel-crags of Sigmaron. Someone needs to chain them.’

‘As you say, lord-arcanum.’ She knelt and ran her hand through a pile of dust and bone fragments. Something that shone with an azure radiance clung to her gauntlet. It crackled softly as she brushed it into one of the vials that hung from her belt.

She held the vial up to her lips and whispered softly to it. Or perhaps sang. Balthas was never quite sure. Regardless, the spirit would be contained in the vial until such time as she chose to release it – usually with explosive results. She stood.

‘Do you think they resent you, those spirits you hold captive?’ he asked. Some of the vials hanging from her waist held the souls of fellow Stormcasts, reduced to frenzied storm-spirits by a failed reforging process. He couldn’t imagine they were happy with the current state of affairs.

‘I doubt they think at all. To be reduced to such a state is to lose all comprehension of one’s self and one’s surroundings.’ She smiled sadly. ‘They are nothing more than echoes of pain and fear. In my vials, they slumber until such time as Sigmar calls them home.’

‘You hope they slumber.’

Miska sighed. ‘You are more snappish than usual. Is it because Knossus is going to Shyish, and not you?’

He paused. Then, annoyance overwhelmed his reserve. ‘Glymmsforge was founded by our Stormhost. But we are not sent – why?’ He slammed the ferrule of his staff against the stones. ‘I will tell you why,’ he added quickly, before she could speak. ‘Because of my failure. This is punishment.’

‘Do you truly believe that?’

Balthas didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t know. He simply felt. ‘I have asked Sigmar to allow us to go to Shyish,’ he said. He was not asking for her approval, or so he told himself. He was lord-arcanum, and his commands were to be obeyed. Even so, he felt a faint flicker of relief when she nodded.

‘Good. It has been too long since we have gone to war.’

‘War? No. The rogue soul. It escaped – I can feel it. Pharus Thaum yet persists, somewhere in the realms. I suspect Shyish, if only because of what has happened – a simplistic theory, I admit, but we must start somewhere.’ He clenched a fist. ‘I will drag him back to the Anvil, and purge his soul of madness.’

‘He is beyond reforging now, even if we find him.’

‘Then he will be destroyed. But I will drag him back regardless.’ He slammed his staff down again, and lightning crawled across the stones of the parapet. ‘He was chosen, and he must submit. If he cannot bear the weight of such responsibility, then he will add his strength to the cosmic storm.’ He shook his head. ‘This must be done. That is our purpose.’

Miska nodded agreeably. ‘So it is.’ She looked out over the palace-city. Though she said nothing more, he could almost hear the thoughts running through her head. He became suddenly possessed of the urge to explain his determination.

‘Why would a soul fight so hard?’ Balthas looked out over the city. ‘Only pain results from such struggle.’

Miska was silent for a moment. Then, she said, ‘Perhaps some part of him feared losing those things that made him who he was. Memories are the landmarks by which we find our way.’

‘They – we – do not need to find our way, sister.’ He gestured up at Sigendil. ‘There is our way. There is our guiding light. As bright now as it has always been.’

‘And do you not dream, brother? In those rare, few moments of sleep you allow yourself, do you not see what life was, before the thunder claimed you?’

Balthas hesitated. ‘Do you?’

Miska smiled thinly. ‘I know my name, brother. I know the feel of ice, weighing down my furs, and the sound of sled-runners ­biting the ice.’ Her accent thickened slightly as she spoke. ‘I know the taste of a deer’s heart, steaming and still bloody, on a cold morning. I know the songs of my brothers and the way my father taught a bear to dance, to the delight of our village.’ She looked up at the High Star, her expression almost wistful. ‘I know all these things and hold them close in me. Were I to fall in battle, I do not know that any could take them from me, easily. I, too, might lash out on instinct, if it seemed I might lose myself in the pain of reforging.’

Balthas shook his head. ‘I remember things as well, but nothing I would risk eternity for.’ Idly, he glanced up at Mallus, and then away. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘And that, then, is why you are lord-arcanum. You have the proper perspective for the task at hand.’ She didn’t sound as if she believed him. ‘Let us hope it stays that way.’

Miska was not prone to cryptic pronouncements. If she did not elaborate, that meant she didn’t know. ‘Earlier, before the cataclysm… you sensed something. What was it? The cataclysm itself, or something more?’

She leaned on her staff, her face pensive. ‘Sometimes the Anvil shows us things. There is a pattern to everything, if you can but see it.’ She held out a hand. ‘The air feels wrong, somehow. As if the very realms have been wrenched out of shape.’ She looked at him. ‘I think that this is merely the beginning, brother.’

Balthas looked out over the palace-city and felt a moment’s apprehension. After a moment, he said, ‘I think that you are right, sister. Something has awakened in the depths of Shyish, and I think we must be ready for whatever is to come next.’

Arkhan the Black strode through the ruins of Nagashizzar, alone save for his thoughts. He needed no bodyguards, for what could threaten one who was second only to a god? Besides, he wanted no spies present for this, save the one always present in his head. That he thought that way at all was, he suspected, merely the habit of a life he might once have lived.

It was hard to recall, after all these centuries, what mortal life had been like. Sometimes he wondered if he had ever been mortal at all, or had sprung fully formed from the dust of Shyish. Half-formed memories clung to the underside of his mind like bats to a cavern wall, occasionally fluttering up to disturb his equanimity. Were they truly his, or were they merely fabrications? Was he himself, or was he merely another facet of Nagash, given shape and voice so that the Undying King might have someone to talk to? Could a god, even one like Nagash, become lonely?

Arkhan pushed the thought aside with a familiar weariness. An aeon of experience had taught him that such questions were an ouroboros, circular and without end. Perhaps that had been Nagash’s intention all along – to trap his vizier in a cage of introspection and thus force him to second-guess his every decision. Maybe it was simply a game to Nagash. A dark joke, played on his most loyal servant.

Arkhan laughed hollowly to himself. That he could do so was proof enough that Nagash was otherwise distracted, as he’d hoped. He could still sense the tang of lightning on the air and hear the echoes of the spirit’s screaming. What it had been was as good as forgotten. What it would become, under Nagash’s careful ministrations, was impossible to guess.

The Undying King shaped his servants to suit his needs. Would he create a thing of bones and dry marrow, or a howling spectre? Maybe he would weave bits of flesh and muscle together, in a monstrous conglomeration. Whatever the result, it would be Arkhan’s duty to teach it its place in the hierarchy of death. Soon enough, it would join the others.

The call had gone out, and the servants of the Great Necromancer answered. Great flocks of bats – or things that resembled bats – covered the face of the moon. The dunes were trampled flat by the unceasing tread of fleshless feet. The air was thick with the stink of rotting meat and grave-miasma. The masters of the restless dead – the Deathlords of Shyish – were returning to Nagashizzar, to heed the word of their lord and master.

Arkhan stopped, sensing something. The faint brush of a familiar mind. Some deathlords, it seemed, were swifter than others.

‘Well, old liche, this is a pretty mess you’ve allowed.’

The voice – cultured, disdainful – echoed over the empty avenue. Arkhan looked up. A lone pillar stood, commemorating a fallen temple. Atop it, a lean shape, clad in baroque, ridged armour, crouched.

‘I allow nothing. I merely do his will. As we all must, Mannfred.’

Mannfred von Carstein stood and stretched. Arkhan wondered how long the Mortarch of Night had been crouched there, waiting to make his presence known. Probably some time. Mannfred had always possessed a flair for the theatrical. The Soulblight prince was tall and muscular, beneath his archaic war-plate. Bare arms, marked by scars, some ritual, some not, folded over his chest as he looked down his nose at Arkhan. ‘Speak for yourself, liche. I serve my own ambition, always.’

‘And here I thought it was pragmatism.’

Mannfred’s supercilious expression melted into a snarl, as a woman’s voice pierced the shadows of the avenue and echoed up. Both Mortarchs turned, as the third member of their triumvirate revealed herself. Neferata, Mortarch of Blood, stepped into the light of the moon and stood for a moment, as if awaiting applause. When none appeared forthcoming, she moved to join Arkhan.

‘Do come down, Mannfred,’ she called out. ‘We have much to discuss.’ The Soulblight queen was formidable, for all her slight build. She moved with a predator’s grace, and her armour had been crafted by the finest smiths – living or dead – in Shyish. Her bearing was regal, and something in her gaze pulled at Arkhan, stirring the embers of the man he might once have been.

‘Neferata,’ he said. She smiled. He knew that she saw into the hole where his heart might once have been. Whether she was amused or disappointed by what she found there, he neither knew nor cared.

‘Arkhan. You seem surprised to see me.’

‘Perhaps he’s simply astonished that you deigned to appear in person, O Queen of Mysteries,’ Mannfred said. A moment later, he leapt from his perch and landed lightly before them, his tattered cloak swirling about him. One hand on the hilt of his sword, the bald-headed vampire strutted towards them. ‘I know I am. Then, perhaps he expected neither of us to attend this gathering.’ He wagged a finger at Arkhan. ‘A miscalculation, liche.’

‘Lower your finger, or I will rip it off.’ It was no surprise to Arkhan that they were here. Only that they had arrived so soon. Both had their spies in Nagashizzar. Perhaps they had already been racing towards the city. But to aid Nagash – or hinder him? He looked at Neferata. ‘You felt it?’

‘Impossible not to,’ Neferata said. She looked around, taking in the shattered pillars and piles of rubble waiting to be cleared. ‘He’s done it at last. I don’t know whether to feel elated or terrified.’

‘I’d settle for understanding how he did it,’ Mannfred growled. ‘All this time – this is what he’s been planning? What’s the point?’

‘Efficiency,’ Arkhan said. He looked up. The stars still shone in the heavens, but they seemed further away, somehow. ‘He has upended the natural order. Whether it will remain so is a question I cannot answer.’

‘Which means the Undying King, in all his wisdom, doesn’t know,’ Mannfred said, smiling nastily. He cocked his head, as if scenting the wind. ‘Can you smell that? It smells like… opportunity. How delightful. Is that why you called us here? Are we to finally topple him?’ It was said in jest. Mannfred was too cunning to think such a thing was possible, especially now. Nonetheless, Arkhan felt a flicker of anger at the vampire’s temerity.

‘Quiet. This is no time for foolish ambition.’ Neferata gestured dismissively. ‘Nagash has endangered us all with this ploy. The Ruinous Powers will not stand to be challenged so. They will seek to claim Shyish now.’

‘You mean they haven’t been doing that already?’ Mannfred spat. He threw up his hands. ‘Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You’ve been hiding in one concealed city or another for the past few centuries, while the rest of us were fighting a war.’

Neferata whirled, a snarl rippling across her face. ‘I have not been hiding, fool. I have been doing as anyone with a brain would do – gathering resources and preparing for the greater conflict to come. My spies are spread across the Mortal Realms and beyond – even in the Varanspire itself. The very stronghold of our enemy!’

‘And what have they told you that’s of use, eh? Did they warn you that this was coming?’ Mannfred leaned towards her, fangs bared. The two vampires snarled at one another, each only moments away from lunging at the other’s throat.

Arkhan struck his staff against the ground. ‘Cease. Your bickering serves no purpose here, save as a distraction to the Great Work.’

They turned to look at him. Neither was particularly cowed. They did not fear him – they had known each other too long for that – but they respected him, as much as they hated each other. Or perhaps they simply hated him less.

‘Nagash has called out into the dark, and the lesser deathlords answer,’ he intoned, before either could speak. ‘They seek his favour, and he burdens them with purpose. The cities of Azyr will fall, and he will reclaim lordship of those underworlds lost to us.’

‘We know this. We heard his voice echoing out of the night as they all have.’ Mannfred flung out a hand. ‘That is why we came.’

‘And that is why he is telling us to go,’ Neferata said, smiling slightly. She understood, even if Mannfred didn’t. She looked at Mannfred. ‘Nagash seeks new Mortarchs from among those who answer his call quickest. The wars to come will be tests, as well as battles to reclaim territory.’ She laughed softly. ‘How… efficient.’

Mannfred frowned. ‘He intends to replace us,’ he said.

‘No. Merely to add to our ranks. To find those worthy of being his heralds in a new age of gods and monsters.’ Arkhan turned and studied the ruins around them. ‘Nagash has played the miser since the Three-Eyed King shattered his skull and cast us all into disarray. He has hoarded his power and played the long game.’

Mannfred smiled slowly. ‘And now we approach the end game, is that it?’ He laughed. ‘I see it now – I didn’t before, I admit. But you’re still the same old Arkhan, whatever has happened. You fear we will interfere with things. Undermine the others for our own benefit.’ He glanced at Neferata. ‘I wonder, who do you think is speaking to us now, really? Arkhan, or our master?’ He leered at Arkhan. ‘Who delivers this warning, eh?’

‘Does it matter?’ Arkhan said.

‘Always.’ Neferata looked at him. ‘Context is as important as the message itself. If you speak with his voice, then we know this is his will. If it is you – well, one might be inclined to wonder why you are so eager for us to stay away at this time?’ She tapped her lip with a finger. ‘Then, of course, there is the probability that this is some esoteric trap – a test, perhaps, of our loyalty. Why call us here, only to tell us to leave?’

‘You would have come anyway,’ Arkhan said. ‘Indeed, both of you were already on the way here, were you not?’

Mannfred chuckled. ‘He has us there.’ He bowed mockingly. ‘I sensed a disturbance in the aether and came only to see if I might aid our great lord.’ He glanced sidelong at Neferata. ‘What about you, O Queen of Mysteries?’

She ignored him. ‘It matters not why I came. Now that I am here, I am loathe to depart without some assurances.’ She leaned close. ‘What game is being played here, Arkhan? And what is our part in it?’

‘The only game that matters. And your part is the same as it has always been.’ He pointed at her. ‘To serve Nagash’s will, in all things. And it is his will that you depart.’

She frowned but did not protest. She knew the truth of his words. She could feel them, in whatever passed for her blood. She glanced at Mannfred. He grinned at her and she turned away. ‘As you say, Arkhan. But be warned, if this is a ploy of some sort, I will learn of it, and I will punish you for it.’

‘Promises, promises,’ Mannfred murmured. Neferata did not deign to reply. Instead, she lifted a hand in a regal gesture. Overhead, something shrieked, and the dark shape of Nagadron, Neferata’s­ dread abyssal, dropped to the street. Paving stones splintered beneath its weight, and a cloud of dust swept over Mannfred and Arkhan as they retreated. Nagadron glared at the Mortarchs, despite its lack of eyes. Its tail lashed in barely restrained fury, and its snarl echoed over the avenue.

Neferata trailed pale fingers along the beast’s crimson-armoured skull as she climbed gracefully into the saddle. ‘Remember what I said, Arkhan. Do not test my favour, for you will soon find yourself out of it entirely.’ As she straightened in her saddle, Nagadron loosed an ear-splitting screech and sprang into the air. In moments, the dread abyssal was gone, loping towards the southern horizon.

Mannfred turned to Arkhan. ‘She won’t forget this insult, old liche.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Forgotten and forgiven. Neferata’s problem is that she wishes to be the spider at the centre of every web. If there is a scheme in the offing, she wishes to be a part of it. But I am wise enough to recognise when something holds no value to me.’ He looked around. ‘Nagash has made this realm the battleground of existence now. He has drawn a line in the sand and dared the other gods to cross it. We must be ready when they do.’

So saying, Mannfred bowed low and turned away, drawing his cape about him as he did so. He stalked off – not in the same direction as Neferata, Arkhan noticed. The Mortarchs had not truly been united in centuries. Once, in better days, they had been Nagash’s hands and will – united in purpose, if not outlook. Now, they were an alliance of rivals, each seeking their own benefit at the expense of the others.

Even he was not immune. Nagash had indeed called for them; had desired that his Mortarchs lead the assaults upon the Azyrite enclaves. Now, he would have to make do with lesser champions, when neither Neferata nor Mannfred deigned to appear. Champions like the one he would make from the Azyrite spirit he had acquired.

If Arkhan had still had a face, he might have smiled. A new age had begun. The old spheres of influence crumbled, and new ones rose to replace them.

For too long, he had played nursemaid to deceitful children. He had aided and abetted his fellow Mortarchs in their intrigues, allowing them to think him a neutral party. A puppet-thing, empty of all ambition.

But ambition took many forms. There were many types of power, even in the Realm of Death. Mannfred was right. Opportunity was rife.

And Arkhan the Black intended to seize it.