Soul Wars

Chapter eight The Winds of Azyr

The air tasted sweet, for all that it still stank of smoke. Calys Eltain drew another discreet breath of fresh air through the mouth-slit of her war-mask. She’d never thought that she could miss such a little thing, but after many days down in the dark of the catacombs, a taste of relatively clean air was worth its weight in sigmarite. Grip seemed to agree. The gryph-hound fairly pranced in Calys’ wake, chirping softly.

Calys was careful not to let the sweet air distract her from her duties. Her gaze swept the barred storefronts and shuttered windows to either side of the cobbled street. Buildings slumped in ruin, having collapsed during the cataclysm. The street before her was cracked and broken in places. Dark stains marred the cobbles and walls, and she could taste the tang of faded lightning.

She and her brotherhood moved in loose formation around Lord-Relictor Dathus, warding him from all possible harm. Not that she expected any. The city was quiet after the necroquake. Even the occasional aftershock did little to break the fearful serenity that had descended over Glymmsforge. The citizens were hardier than they looked, inured against the horrors of the dead, to some degree.

‘Things are quieter than I recall,’ Dathus said. His voice echoed against the stones of the street. ‘Where are the hawkers of wares and the urchins running underfoot?’ He turned, his skeletal war-mask catching the dim light of the lanterns that burned above the nearby doorframes. Calys could feel mortal eyes on them, watching from the dubious safety of crippled buildings.

‘They watch us,’ Tamacus, one of her Liberators, murmured. ‘They are frightened.’

‘They are wary,’ Calys corrected, without looking at him. ‘They have weathered cataclysms, if not so far-reaching, before. The underworlds are less stable than most places.’ She caught sight of a pale face, watching through the gaps in a boarded-up window. The face vanished a moment later.

‘The lamplighters have been out, at least,’ Dathus said.

‘It is almost morning,’ Calys said, without looking at him. It was hard to tell, these days. Since the necroquake, the sky rarely brightened beyond the colour of a new bruise. Dark clouds hung thick above the Zircona Desert, and not even the highest spires of Glymmsforge pierced them. She’d begun to wonder if the sun was even still there.

As if reading her thoughts, Dathus gave a harsh laugh. ‘I’ve long since given up trying to tell. Day and night are one and the same, now. And I fear it will be that way for some time.’ The lord-relictor sounded tired, but moved with brisk energy.

Since the cataclysm, he and Calys and the others had worked to reseal every open tomb and shattered alcove in the catacombs. Luckily, the Ten Thousand Tombs themselves had remained inviolate. Whatever magic sealed them still retained its potency. But the mortal priests tasked with securing the chains and saying the prayers of binding had reported sounds from within some. As if whatever terrors were contained within them were slowly beginning to stir.

Dathus had grown increasingly taciturn, as if mentally preparing himself for the worst. But at the moment, he seemed positively ebullient. Calys had allowed herself to hope that the worst might be behind them. Especially since word had come from Lord-Celestant Lynos that reinforcements were on their way.

Glymmsforge had been under siege since the quake. The dead had risen in the city’s burying grounds, despite the precautions taken to prevent that very thing. Deadwalkers roamed the slums, preying on the poor. Flay-braggarts and roof-walkers prowled the tomb yards of the aristocracy. Black hounds had been seen ­loping through the walls of Mere Gate, their ghostly howls causing the waters to turn to ice.

Worse were the tales brought to the city by the ever-increasing numbers of refugees, seeking safety behind high walls. The dead had never rested easy in this realm, but the sheer number of ravenous spirits and shambling corpses now flooding the underworld was unheard of in the annals of Lyria.

Shyish was the Realm of Death, and there was not a stone in it that did not have its own ghost. And now, it seemed as if all of those ghosts were awake and thirsty for the blood of the living. Reports from Fort Alenstahdt said that the packs of deadwalkers that roamed the desert were growing in number, and that the great wagon-fortresses of the Zirc nomads were beginning to circle, as if in preparation for a storm.

‘The child was back again, yesterday,’ Dathus said suddenly.

Calys didn’t react. ‘What child?’ She felt the gazes of Tamacus and the other Liberators in her cohort flick towards her and then quickly away.

‘I caught her creeping among the highest tombs, watching me.’

‘How many cats were with her this time?’ Tamacus said, before Calys could silence him. She glared at him, and he bowed his head in silent apology.

‘More than I felt comfortable confronting on my own,’ Dathus said. It was hard to tell if that was a jest. He drew close to Calys. ‘I got the impression she was looking for you. Why?’

Despite herself, Calys glanced at the lord-relictor. Elya had become a nuisance, of late. She’d thought – hoped – the child would avoid the catacombs for a time. At least until Pharus’ return. If he returned. Instead, it seemed as if she lived in the tunnels now. Then, having seen the hovel she and her father inhabited, perhaps the tunnels were preferable. They lived in the Gloaming – the slums that clung to the outer edge of the city.

It was an unpleasant place. Hovels made from scavenged material pressed up against cheap rooming houses and taverns that were little more than benches and some tents. Most were refugees from elsewhere in Shyish, seeking a better life under the aegis of Azyr. Others were the poor of Azyrheim and a hundred other great cities, seeking new opportunities in a younger metropolis.

Elya’s remaining parent was a wastrel lamplighter named Duvak. He’d already been well on his way to drinking himself into a stupor the first time she’d escorted the child home. He’d panicked at the sight of Calys and begun screaming. She wasn’t sure why. Elya had managed to quiet him, with an ease that spoke to long experience. Calys had left swiftly, after eliciting a promise from the child that she wouldn’t be caught in the catacombs again. A promise the child had since skirted around the edges of.

‘Is that what she said?’ she asked carefully. ‘That she was looking for me?’

‘She said nothing. I intuited. Briaeus and the others have seen her often. She is always quick to scamper out of reach, save when you are around. I’m told you’ve escorted her home twice since the necroquake. Unless I am mistaken, that is not one of your duties, Liberator-Prime.’

‘The child should not be down in the dark.’

‘Pharus allowed her to come and go as she pleased. Or so Briaeus swears.’

‘Pharus is not here.’ She looked away. He was right to chastise her. It was a dereliction of duty, whatever her rationalisations, whatever she had promised. ‘I shall ignore her in the future, lord-relictor. My apologies.’

‘I said nothing about ignoring her. I merely asked why she might be looking for you.’ He looked away. ‘Mortals are a gift fraught with heartache. We who fight in their name exist outside time, while they are slaves to it.’ He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. When he continued, his voice had lost some of its harsh edge. ‘There was a boy – a son of one of the Freeguild officers who ward this city. His name was – is – Fosko. When he was a child, I used to bring him trinkets to occupy him, whenever we had need to confer with his father on military matters. He reminded me of someone, I think. A son, a brother – I cannot say.’ He fell silent. Calys looked at him.

‘What happened to him?’

‘He got old, Calys. In the blink of an eye, he went from a child to a man, weathered by time and war. He joined his father’s regiment. He is a captain in their ranks, now. Soon, he will die. Either from natural causes or battle. When I look at him, I still see the boy he was, rather than the man he has become. And it pains me, Calys. For I can preserve the souls of my brothers and sisters, but not him.’ He gestured about him. ‘Not any of them. We can but protect them for a short time, and then it is in the hands of Sigmar.’

‘Is that your way of telling me not to get attached?’

‘If you like.’

Calys shook her head. ‘It’s not my idea, I assure you. She seems fixated on those catacombs. She says the cats lead her where they will.’

Dathus nodded. ‘That may well be the case. The cats of Glymmsforge are strange beasts, even in a realm full of such. Perhaps I should speak to her.’ He paused. ‘If I can catch her, that is.’ Another pause. ‘I suspect my mortis armour frightens her.’

Calys almost laughed, but managed to restrain herself. The thought of Dathus trying to catch the child as she sneaked about the catacombs was a deeply amusing one. Thunder rumbled through the city, shaking the rooftops and setting birds to flight. Lightning flashed, somewhere above them. Dathus gestured with his staff. ‘The Shimmergate opens, sister. We had best proceed swiftly, else Lynos will wonder at our absence.’

They moved quickly through the streets. Calys felt the eyes of the citizenry on them the entire way. Despite her earlier words, not all of the gazes were wary. Some were indeed fearful. But that fear was not directed at the dead. There had been purges in the past. Revolts against Azyr’s rule were not common, but neither were they unknown.

In every instance, it had been the Anvils of the Heldenhammer who had put the rebellion down. Calys had participated in one such purge only a few months ago, dealing with a coven of Soulblight vampires hiding among the city’s gentry. The leeches had turned entire Azyrite families of impeccable lineage into blood-hungry fiends, and then sought to manipulate the city’s growth for their own ends. Calys had sought out and beheaded the coven-leader, casting the creature’s still-shrieking head into a bonfire herself.

She wondered if it had been that action which had brought her to the attention of Lord-Castellant Pharus. She’d had no time to ask him – and no intention of asking Dathus. There was a time and a place for such things, and now wasn’t it.

‘Behold, the Shimmergate – the path of starlight,’ Dathus said. She looked ahead. The streets had widened, spreading into a vast plaza. It was lined with massive statues of jasper and gold, only a few of which had been broken during the cataclysm. The statues, she knew, depicted the city’s founders, the Glymm. Curious, she studied those carven faces as they passed through the shadows of the statues.

‘They were from Azyr, originally,’ Dathus said, noting her attentions. ‘Warrior-mages from the Nordrath Mountains, they came seeking new opportunities in the years after the Gates of Azyr had been cast wide. New lands to conquer, new fortunes to be made. Minor aristocrats like the Glymm became veritable kings in the underworld of Lyria.’

‘Glymmsforge doesn’t have a king,’ Calys said. The last royal son of the Glymm line had died defending the city against Vaslbad’s legions, leaving no known heir. Now, the city that bore his family’s name was overseen by a conclave of aristocrats, merchants and philosophers.

‘No. Perhaps it is for the best.’ Dathus sounded bleakly amused.

The representatives of the conclave stood at the other end of the plaza, waiting for their honoured guests to arrive. Most were clad in the finery of their office, though the representative of the Freeguilds wore his mauve-and-black uniform. His only concession to formality was an engraved, silver-plated breastplate and a high-crested helm of the same. Unlike the others, he was armed, though the blade was ceremonial.

Towering above the mortals were a trio of Stormcast Eternals. Two of them wore the black of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, but the third wore the gold of the Hammers of Sigmar. The security of the city was shared between the two Stormhosts, though the latter had no permanent garrison in Glymmsforge.

Instead, they rotated chambers, on a seasonal basis. At the moment, it was the task of the Adamantine – a Warrior Chamber that had earned its battle-honours mostly in Aqshy, from what little Calys knew of them. The lord-celestant of the golden-armoured warriors stood beside the commander of Calys’ chamber, Lynos Gravewalker, and the Lord-Veritant, Achillus Leechbane.

At the other end of the plaza was the foot of the Shimmergate. The realmgate that connected Lyria to Azyr sat at the top of twelve, spiralling stairways of purest amethyst. The stairways intertwined as they rose to meet the shimmering blur of light that hung in the skies over the city, like a tear in the firmament.

At the moment, a cloud of cobalt mist billowed from the light and rolled down the steps. It brought with it the smells of clean water and cold heights. The air thrummed with aetheric tension. Calys shifted uncomfortably as the tang of lightning played across her senses. Beside her, Grip fluffed out her feathers and scented the air with a contented chirrup. ‘The winds of Azyr,’ Dathus murmured. ‘So clean as to pain the senses.’

The plaza, normally full of merchants and citizens going about their business, had been cleared for the evening. Bands of Glymmsmen stood watchfully at the entry streets, leaning on halberds or carrying crossbows. The Freeguild soldiers seemed on edge. Then, perhaps it was understandable. For most of them, the Shimmergate was as close to Azyr – and Sigmar – as they would ever get.

Calys led her cohort towards the gathering of notables. Dathus walked beside her, his previous good humour seemingly evaporated. As they drew close, she studied the golden-armoured lord-celestant. She’d heard stories of the Hero of Klaxus. Most Stormcasts had. Orius Adamantine had been among the first of their kind to march to war, and the list of his battle-honours took up an entire tome in of itself.

He stood at ease beside Lynos. The two lords-celestant were of a similar size, though where Lynos was pale, Orius was dark. He held his tempestos hammer in the crook of his arm, and his black hair was bound in long, serpentine locks and tied back. His golden war-plate showed the signs of hard use, and his heraldry was chipped and marred. Orius, it was said, had little interest in appearances – only in effectiveness.

He nodded in greeting. ‘Dathus. I thought you hidden away forever, down in the dark. Tell me, do the dead still sleep uneasily?’

‘When they sleep at all, lord-celestant.’ Dathus bowed slightly to the two lords-celestant. ‘I trust I was not called away from my responsibilities simply to see old friends?’

‘Hardly,’ Lynos growled. ‘The Shimmergate opens. Reinforcements from Azyr. Command of the city is to be turned over to them.’ He said it flatly and with no small amount of bitterness. Calys understood. Lynos had led the defence of the city for three decades, and in that time had turned back enemies both living and dead. Now, apparently, he was expected to turn his responsibilities over to another – and an unknown, at that.

‘So I heard,’ Dathus said mildly. ‘Who?’

‘We do not know. Sigmar has not seen fit to tell us.’ Orius smiled mirthlessly. ‘Perhaps he was busy keeping the stars from falling out of the sky.’

Lynos glared at him, in a not altogether unfriendly fashion. ‘We will know soon enough, I suppose,’ he said, somewhat grudgingly. He turned to the representatives from the city’s rulers and moved to speak to them.

Calys relaxed slightly, having safely delivered Dathus. She peered up at the statues that rose like siege-towers around them. ‘They were a mighty people in their day,’ a deep, harsh voice said, from behind her.

She turned to see Lord-Veritant Achillus watching her. His war-plate was covered in marks of purity and warding, as was the cloak of rich crimson he wore. The Lantern of Abjuration mounted at the top of his staff flashed softly as he joined her. Unlike most Stormcasts, who were warriors first and foremost, the duty of a lord-veritant was to root out corruption and evil in those territories claimed by Azyr.

‘It has been some time, Calys,’ Achillus said, nodding to her. ‘The last I saw you, you were covered in gore and carrying the head of a Soulblight vampire.’

‘It was an honour to assist you in that matter, lord-veritant.’ Calys bowed her head.

‘You did well. One of the reasons I recommended your cohort to Lord-Castellant Pharus. You have the stomach for war against the dead. A trait we are in need of.’

‘Is it to be war, then? The cataclysm…’

‘Was a precursor to something greater, yes.’ Achillus looked down at Grip. He sank to one knee, and the gryph-hound sidled towards his outstretched hand. ‘This is Pharus’ gryph-hound,’ he rumbled, stroking Grip’s neck. He looked up at Calys. ‘Are you caring for her now?’

‘She cares for herself, mostly.’

Achillus stood. ‘They do that. Pharus would be pleased to see it, nonetheless.’

‘Is there…’ She hesitated. It was not her place to ask such things.

Achillus shook his head. ‘No.’ He looked towards the realmgate. ‘Perhaps our reinforcements bring word.’ Calys turned.

The mist pouring from the Shimmergate had thickened noticeably. There was a sound, like crystal breaking, and lightning flashed within the tear. Then, shapes appeared in the mist, moving with disciplined swiftness. Stormcasts, from their bulk, but unlike any she had ever seen before. They wore the heraldry of the Hammers of Sigmar, but crackled with a strange radiance. ‘Who are they?’

Achillus grunted. ‘Someone I had not thought to see here. Things must be dire, indeed.’ He and Lynos shared a look. Calys could tell the lord-celestant was as puzzled as she was.

Lynos looked at Orius. ‘Brother, they wear your heraldry.’

Orius frowned and shook his head. ‘Even so, I do not recognise them.’

At the head of the column came a warrior all in gold, save for his azure robes and cloak. He bore a staff in one hand and rode atop a storm-grey gryph-charger. The great beast squalled in challenge as it loped down the wide steps with a familiar feline grace. Like its smaller cousin, the gryph-hound, the great beast was a blend of cat and bird, save that it was large enough to bear an armoured Stormcast on its back with ease. Its bifurcated tail lashed as it descended, and its rear hooves thudded as they struck the steps.

Behind the beast and its rider came phalanx upon phalanx of similarly clad warriors. Some bore blade and staff, others wielded heavy shields and maces that crackled with aetheric energies. Behind them came warriors in pale robes, bearing baroque crossbows.

As the gryph-charger touched the bottom step, the beast leapt forwards, as if enjoying its sudden freedom. It bounded towards the city’s delegation, screeching in challenge. Calys saw the mortals pale, and the Freeguild representative instinctively grasped for the hilt of his sword. She didn’t fault him – a hungry gryph-charger was a match for most things that walked or crawled in the realms. A normal man had little chance against one.

The rider hauled on the reins, and the beast slid to a halt, its back hooves drawing sparks from the plaza stones. The Stormcast slid easily from the gryph-charger’s back, and strode towards the waiting delegation, staff in hand. ‘I am Lord-Arcanum Knossus Heavensen. I come bearing the word and wrath of the God-King of Azyr, Sigmar Heldenhammer. Glymmsforge stands imperilled. But it shall not fall. Not while I stand with it.’ His voice boomed out across the plaza.

‘Sacrosanct Chamber,’ Achillus murmured, glancing at Dathus, who nodded tersely.

‘Then the worst is yet to come,’ the lord-relictor said.

Lynos and Orius met the newcomer. After a moment’s hesitation, the three warriors exchanged handclasps. Knossus pulled his helmet off, and Calys noticed an immediate resemblance between his tattooed features and the great statues. She wondered if the mortals who bowed so respectfully saw it as well. She thought that perhaps a few of them did, given their hasty glances between the newcomer and the nearest likeness.

The last Glymm had returned to his city, in its hour of need.

Pharus awoke in darkness.

It was not a true awakening. Not a slow climb from sleep. Instead, it was akin to a candle being lit. One moment, nothing. Then, light. Awareness. Weight. Pain.

He tried to collect his scattered thoughts. They slipped through his grasp like frightened fish. He remembered some things but not others. He knew his name, but not who he was. What he was. It was there, dancing around the edge of his consciousness, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. He looked around.

Faint motes of purple light danced along the air, casting an amethyst haze across a sea of shattered pillars and broken stones. Something about his surroundings was familiar, but he could not say why. Instinctively, he looked up. He didn’t recognise the stars.

He was shrouded in heavy chains, pitted with age and hairy with mould. He tried to shrug them off but found that he could barely move them, no matter how much he thrashed. The air was thick with dust and smoke, but he had no difficulty breathing. A moment later, he realised that it was because he wasn’t breathing at all. He looked down at himself. Something was wrong. He couldn’t focus on his limbs, on his body. As if he were no more substantial than a mirage. But he hurt all over. It felt as if he had swallowed an ember, and it was slowly burning its way through him.

‘Where… where am I?’ he croaked. His voice sounded odd. Broken. Like a distorted echo. And something out in the dark replied. A murmuring whisper, as of many voices speaking swiftly and quietly. Then came the hiss-scrape of bones on stone. Lights appeared in the dark. Not motes, but flickering, indigo flames.

The creatures were dead, their crumbling forms wreathed in ­purple fire. As they drew close, the dark retreated. Pharus saw that he was chained atop a shattered dais that might once have belonged in a temple. Glimmering dust heaped against the sides in untidy dunes and scraped against his chains as the breeze kicked up.

Despite the macabre appearance of the newcomers, Pharus felt no fear. Even as they gathered about him, and the heat of their flames washed over him. He knew that he should, but instead felt only a sense of resignation. As if this were somehow expected. Unavoidable.

‘Inevitable.’

The word hung like the peal of a bell. Pharus jerked in his chains as a tall form stepped out of the dark and followed the burning creatures up onto the dais. The skeletal being, clad in robes and armour, and clutching a staff, drew close, and fiery corpses drew back, to make way. ‘That is the word you are looking for, I believe.’

‘Who…?’

‘Who am I, or who are you?’ A fleshless hand extended, and Pharus flinched back. ‘The answer is the same, save for details. I am Arkhan the Black, Mortarch of Sacrament. I am the Hand of Nagash. When I speak, it is with his voice. When I act, it is with his will.’

Something coalesced within Pharus’ mind. ‘Shyish. I am in Shyish.’

‘Yes. And you are Pharus Thaum. Once of Azyr. Now of Shyish.’

Pharus shook his head. ‘I… no. No, I am not – I…’ The chains seemed heavier all of a sudden. The world seemed to grow thin at the edges. He felt stretched out of shape. He shook his head, trying to focus. ‘Why am I here?’

‘You are dead.’

The word sliced through him. ‘No.’ The denial was instinctive. Again, he tried to throw off the chains, as he felt certain he should have been able to do. He had been strong once, stronger than this. Or had that merely been a dream? Everything was muddled – foggy. It was as if he were watching things from a distance.

‘It was not a dream,’ Arkhan said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘But as you have shed the mortal coil, so too have you shed the strength that came with it. The spark of the divine that once ran through you, now consumes you. Can you feel it?’

Pharus could. It wasn’t an ember now, but a full fire, crawling up through his insides, spreading through the hollows of his non-existent bones. If he had no body, why did he hurt so? ‘What have you done to me?’ he snarled, still struggling futilely. Rage flared in him, a hungry, howling wrath that made his chains clatter and his not-limbs ache.

‘Nothing, yet.’ Arkhan extended his staff and used the tip to lift Pharus’ chin, somehow, despite the insubstantial nature of his form. ‘You are shapeless, still. Held to a familiar form only by the chains that bind you. Soon, they will not be necessary.’ He stepped back, and Pharus slumped, pulled down by the weight of the chains.

‘Who am I?’ he muttered, trying to force his scattered thoughts to coalesce. It was hard. The anger made it hard to focus. He saw broken images – a necropolis. Warriors in black armour. A child. ‘Elya?’ he whispered. Was that her name? Who was she? More images now, growing firmer in his mind. A woman and child. Blood on pale stone. A cat’s eye, gleaming in the dark. A great chamber. Lightning slamming into him, filling him, remaking him. ‘Sigmar,’ he groaned, and the name burned as it passed his lips. ‘I was… I… Why am I not reforged?’

Memories circled his awareness like a flock of crows. As they dived and spun, he recalled his life in disordered bits and pieces. The smell of a garden in the cool of evening. The weight of a practice blade, and his father’s voice, cautioning him. And… a woman’s hand, in his. Her lips, close to his ear. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to force the pieces into place. He smelled smoke and heard the crash of gates being battered open. The scream of a woman – the same woman as before – and… children? No, a child. ‘Elya,’ he said again. Why was that name important? Who was she? A child’s face swam before his eyes, but was soon supplanted by another. Two children, but only one name.

Then, the lightning. Again, the lighting. Dragging him away from the garden, from the woman and her child – his child – away from it all. Away even from his memories. They slipped out of reach, like smoke on the wind. ‘They are dead.’

‘All things die,’ Arkhan said.

Anger burned in him, and amethyst lightning crawled across the chains that bound him. ‘I might have saved them.’

Arkhan nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Why did he take me, then?’

Pharus felt the liche study him. Arkhan made a sound that might have been laughter. ‘He needed weapons. And you were to hand. You are chattel, little spirit. Best get used to it.’

‘No. No. I…’ Pharus shook his head, trying to clear it. The lightning snarled and snapped like an enraged beast, and the chains began to smoke. ‘Am I a prisoner?’

‘No more so than myself. You will bear a blade of black iron and shadeglass, shaped by the heat of dying stars, in Nagash’s name. Does this please you, little spirit?’

Pharus glared at the liche, trying to muster his strength. There was a heat, building in him. A dull pain, made worse by the lightning that flickered across his form. ‘I feel no pleasure. Only pain.’

‘It will pass. It is not true pain, only its echo. Soon, you will forget.’

‘I will believe that when the fire beneath my skin goes out.’ Pharus clawed at himself, to no avail. His form wavered and billowed in its chains, like a plume of smoke. It felt as if there were a storm crackling inside him, seeking freedom. ‘I have no flesh, and yet it burns.’

‘Is that so surprising? Your soul fell through the firmament. It burst through the walls between realms and burned itself a path back here – to your place of creation.’ Arkhan chuckled. ‘You should be proud. Few souls could have survived such a fall.’

‘I did not survive.’ The words dredged up a new geyser of pain, and Pharus screamed and thrashed, rattling his chains.

Arkhan ignored his display. ‘You still speak.’

‘So do you,’ Pharus hissed. ‘And you are not alive.’ The chains creaked as he fought to stand. The spirits that had accompanied Arkhan drew back as the iron nails holding the chains pinned to the dais began to pull loose.

‘And yet, I exist. Survival is persistence.’ Arkhan circled him, like a trader studying a bit of livestock. ‘The power of Azyr strengthened you. Fortified your soul. And now Nagash will make use of what Azyr has cast aside.’

‘Be quiet,’ Pharus snarled. ‘I was not… I wasn’t cast aside. I… I…’ His thoughts were a confusing tangle. He remembered the God-King’s eyes and the disappointment in them. It had pierced him, made him hesitate. Made him fall. He threw back his head and howled. Lightning licked out, scorching the nearby stones.

‘Yes,’ Arkhan said. ‘You remember.’

‘Quiet,’ Pharus roared, jerking towards the liche. His form blurred and crackled, threatening to come apart. He felt the lightning course through him, and he groaned. It ached like a wound gone septic. The chains held him back, despite his frenzy, trapping the storm within him.

‘You remember. That is good. It hurts. That is also good. Let the memory of that pain sustain you, warrior. For all too soon, you will forget it.’ Arkhan raised his staff and slammed it down. An amethyst light spilled from it, driving back the shadows, revealing what lurked among the ruins.

Corpses stood, watching the dais in awful silence. So many, Pharus could not count them all. Among the tottering carrion flitted phantasmal shapes, wrapped in chains or bearing implements of execution. The burning spirits that surrounded Pharus on the dais gripped the links of his chains, hampering his struggles. He fought against them, but to no avail. They had the strength of the dead.

‘They come to honour you, for you are unique among the dead,’ Arkhan said. ‘And not just them. Look.’ The Mortarch extended his hand as something passed silently among the ranks of the dead. ‘They come bearing gifts.’

Robed and hooded, with tall antlers the colour of obsidian crowning their heads, a line of women – or things shaped like women – wound its way towards where Pharus stood, chained. He stared in wonder and horror as they drew near. What was left of his spirit shuddered, as he saw pale flowers sprout in their wake and wither before the passing of their shadows. From within their hoods, pale faces, blanched of all colour, looked out at the world with eyes as black as the nadir itself. They came barefoot and burdened with weapons and armour, wrapped in burial shrouds.

‘The daughters of the underworld,’ Arkhan intoned. ‘They have come, bearing the tools with which you will break through the gates you once defended.’ He lifted his staff. ‘Kneel, spirit. Kneel and receive the gifts of the Undying King.’

Something sparked within Pharus. ‘I do not kneel,’ he said, raggedly. ‘I did not bow…’ Something in Arkhan’s words stirred yet more memories. He remembered the necropolis again, but more, he remembered that he had defended it – or defended something else from it. ‘I did not bow.’

At Arkhan’s gesture, burning spirits retreated, hauling on the chains as they did so. Pharus was dragged to his knees a moment later. Arkhan looked down at him. ‘It seems that you do. And it seems that you did. Else we would not be here now.’

Pharus snarled and tried to rise, but the chains were impossibly heavy. He had no form to bind, no body to bear the weight, and yet he did. He bowed his head, suddenly weary. He was so tired, more tired than he had ever been in life. This place bore down on him, crushing all thought of resistance. He looked again at the approaching women. ‘Who – what – are they?’

‘The wives, daughters, sisters and mothers of those who would not bend knee to Nagash. Ancient kings and prideful chieftains, highborn queens and savage warlords – they defied him, so he took what they loved most and made them love him. He bent their souls into shapes more pleasing to him and made them his chatelaines. They rule the lesser underworlds in his name, watching over the forests of souls, and they guard those relics he deems to have no immediate purpose, until he calls for them once more.’ Arkhan looked at him. ‘It is a high honour he does you to call them forth, in such a manner.’

Pharus said nothing as the spectral women drew closer. Spectres retreated before them, giving them a wide berth. Vicious as the spirits were, these creatures were worse. The air twisted about them, forming strange patterns. The flowers that bloomed and died in their wake whispered shrilly for the entirety of their short existences. Worst of all were their faces – impossibly young, with eyes like black pits. They were ancient things, wearing pretty masks, and Pharus could not meet their gazes.

They ascended the dais, moving silently. Arkhan met the one in the lead and bowed respectfully. ‘Welcome, O brides of night, O enemies of the day. Welcome, ye maidens, mothers and crones, those who go to and fro amongst the places of tombs, and by paths of sullen moonlight. Welcome, thou who does rejoice in the howling of jackals and the spilling of warm blood.’ Arkhan struck the stones with his staff. ‘I bid thee welcome three times, and three times that span shall your binding be lifted for this night’s labours.’

A sigh went through the newcomers, and, as one, they spoke. ‘Greetings, O Prince of Forgotten Deserts, O Lover of Night’s Queen. We have been called, and we have come.’ They knelt among a spill of flowers, creeping across the stones, and lifted their burdens high. ‘We have brought the tokens of our love, and offer them up.’

Arkhan nodded and stepped aside. ‘Gird him, ye daughters of benighted spheres.’

The women rose, their black eyes fixed on Pharus. He forced himself to his feet as they encircled him. ‘Get away from me, hags,’ he spat, giving vent to the anger. They ignored him and began to unwrap the objects they had brought. He looked at Arkhan. ‘I will not let them touch me. I will break them… burn them.’

‘Choice is an illusion.’ Arkhan stepped close. ‘Once, this war-plate was meant for another. A soul like yours, humming with lightning, twisted and broken by years upon the wheel… but not fully. Not to the satisfaction of our lord and master. And so he discarded it, as he does all things that prove to be of no use.’ Arkhan’s gaze flickered. ‘Something to remember, perhaps.’

He caught hold of the chains. ‘Nagash is all, and all are one in Nagash. But do not confuse certainty of purpose with infallibility. The dead can be destroyed as surely as the living, if one knows how. I am the Hand of Death, and I will crush you, if he deems you to be of no further use.’

Enraged, Pharus twisted in his chains, writhing against the hooks that bit into his aethereal form. ‘Free me, and let us see who crushes whom.’ He thrashed, trying to get at the Mortarch. ‘Perhaps it is you who will prove to be of no use, liche.’

Arkhan laughed hollowly and let the chains fall slack. He stepped back and gestured with his staff. The black links burst, and Pharus lunged forwards, free, the storm unfettered. He groped for the Mortarch with crackling talons, wanting nothing more than to rip him limb from limb. Arkhan reached out and caught him – somehow – by the throat. Fleshless fingers tightened, and Pharus’ essence contracted painfully.

‘You are a little thing, and young besides. I have been dead longer than these realms have been alive. Sometimes I think that, perhaps, I was born dead. You are nothing, next to me, as I am nothing, next to him.’ He lifted Pharus easily. Pharus writhed, clawing at Arkhan’s arm. The liche’s sleeve began to smoulder, but he paid it no mind. His grip tightened even more, and Pharus screamed. His lightning, his substance, coiled in on itself, and he felt his soul burn. His screams quavered through the air, and the gathered dead groaned in amusement, or perhaps sympathy.

Arkhan released him. ‘But you have your uses yet, and so I will spare you the chastisement you deserve. I am patient, and perhaps… perhaps you will learn.’ Pharus sank down, his form wavering like a candle-flame caught in a draught. Weakened, he barely struggled as the women went to work, cladding him in his new armour. Wracked by pain, he looked up, seeking the stars, but saw nothing save the vast, hungry black of the sky. An abyss, rising upwards forever.

He looked up at Arkhan. ‘Learn what?’ he asked, more quietly than before. As each piece of war-plate was set in place, the pain began to diminish and so too did his rage. Even so, his soul squirmed at its touch. Somehow, he knew that it was a cage, more than a protection. But he desired an end to the pain more than freedom.

‘Your place.’ Arkhan watched the proceedings with a flickering gaze. ‘Nagash yearns for order. Only when the cosmos is united under a singular consciousness, with every spirit and body bent towards the directives of that consciousness, will he be satisfied. Only when all things know their proper place, will he be content.’

‘All are one in Nagash,’ the women intoned, as they worked. ‘Nagash is all.’

Pharus stared at them. ‘But I still think… I still have a will. A mind.’

‘Whose mind? Whose will? Nagash is vast and contains multitudes.’ Arkhan turned. ‘We are all a part of him, and he acts through us.’

‘Then we are slaves.’

Arkhan looked at him. ‘Something you should be used to. And there is freedom in this sort of slavery. At least it is honest, if nothing else.’

Pharus fell silent. His broken thoughts jangled in his skull like shards of broken glass. The harder he sought to grasp them, the more pain it caused him. He cradled his head. It had no weight. Nothing about him had weight or solidity, save when he concentrated. It was as if he and the world were held separate by unseen walls.

‘I cannot think. I cannot remember. It is as if the past is a foreign country.’

‘You get used to it, in time,’ Arkhan said. ‘As one century bleeds into the next, you will forget that you were ever anything other than what you are now. Once time ceases to have meaning, so too does the past fade and the future become intangible. You will exist in an eternal present, unburdened by worry or regret.’

‘I do not want that.’ He looked away. ‘I was promised something. Nagash promised me something… but I cannot remember what it was.’

Arkhan laughed hollowly. ‘It is not about what you desire. It is about efficiency. Clear your mind of such thoughts. Does a sword think of its time as raw ore, or the day it will be rusty and useless?’

‘Do you feel regret?’ Pharus asked. ‘Do you feel anything that is not his will?’

Arkhan’s eyes blazed suddenly. Then, like a fire burning itself out too quickly, they dimmed. ‘If I do, it is only because he allows it. Nagash is a just god, little spirit.

‘And justice is often cruel.’