Soul Wars

Chapter twenty Refuge

Inside the Grand Tempestus, all was quiet.

Few people spoke, beyond muffled prayers or the coughing of the injured. The Glymmsmen and duardin tended their wounded, while keeping wary eyes on the visible entrances. The citizens had gathered in bunches throughout the nave, or against the walls. Some moved aside as Balthas led Quicksilver down the nave, away from the main doors.

His warriors split up into smaller cohorts composed of Sequitors and Castigators, towards the twelve entry-points. Helios and his Celestors sat in a watchful line before the main doorway, their weapons across their knees and corposant dancing across their armour. Gellius had set his ballista up on the altar – shaped like a massive, twelve-pointed star – where he had a clear view of the entirety of the nave and the main entry hall.

Calys Eltain’s Liberators still held their posts, at the doorways. He saw no reason to pull them from that duty – twelve warriors more or less would make little difference. They would act as alarms, just in case the wards were breached and the dead managed to get inside. When he said as much, Miska frowned. ‘She – they – deserve better than that, I think.’

Balthas didn’t look at her. ‘We all do.’

‘Especially the mortals.’ Miska looked around. Her face was set in a frown. ‘I suspect you used Fosko and Juddsson to absorb the brunt of the enemy – to gauge their strength. We should have pulled them back from the beginning. I knew that and said nothing. Too many died that need not have.’

‘You disapprove of my strategy?’

‘You are lord-arcanum.’

‘I am. And I saw fit to preserve my troops for as long as possible.’ Balthas sighed and looked at her. ‘The mortals had their duty, as we have ours. Now we must concentrate on what comes next.’ He gestured to Fosko, and the Freeguilder trotted over, followed closely by Juddsson. The duardin thane was pale and moved slowly, but seemed to be on the mend. ‘Status?’ Balthas asked, without preamble.

‘Most of my men are walking wounded,’ Fosko said, bluntly.

‘Bitten?’

Fosko grimaced. ‘No, thank Sigmar. But we’re checking, even so. If we find one… we’ll deal with it, quietly.’ He looked as if he wanted to spit, but refrained. ‘I left the best part of my command out there, lord-arcanum. The dead were on us too quick – we’re used to dealing with single nighthaunts, or just a handful. Never seen this many in one place.’ He swallowed. ‘Never wanted to.’

Juddsson nodded grimly. ‘We weren’t prepared. Too many manling promises of impenetrable walls lulled us. And now we’re trapped.’

‘Feel free to leave,’ Fosko said.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Juddsson sneered.

‘No. You would have to open the doors,’ Balthas said. ‘That would not be ideal. We are not trapped,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This place is sturdy. It can be defended, if not easily.’

‘A siege might last days, or weeks. If we’re cut off from the rest of the city…’ Fosko let the thought hang, unfinished. ‘We should ask Obol about supplies. See what the Azyrites have been hoarding in this oversized chapel of theirs.’

Balthas turned, scanning the crowd of mortals. Priests in robes of blue and gold wandered through the crowd, speaking softly to those who huddled weeping, or sternly to those whose faith seemed lacking. The one in charge was a portly man, with a cavernous scar disfiguring one side of his round features. It ran across his eye, which gleamed white in its ravaged socket, and up over the crown of his bald head. He wore gold-plated armour over his robes, but cradled a battered, utilitarian-looking mattock in the crook of his arm. He was speaking to an elderly couple as Balthas approached, the others in tow.

‘Lector Obol,’ Balthas said, pitching his voice low.

Obol turned, his good eye widening slightly. Balthas knew a little about him, from Fosko. One of several priests – or lectors, as the Church of Sigmar called them – sent by the Grand Theogonist from Azyr to oversee the spiritual welfare of the citizens of Glymmsforge, both Azyrite and otherwise. A former war-priest, Obol now spent most of his time seeing to the upkeep of the Grand Tempestus. Obol bowed as low as he was able, given his bulk. ‘My lord. You honour me – honour us – with your presence.’

Obol glanced at Fosko and smiled. ‘Glad to see you survived, you old wastrel.’ His smile faded. ‘Can’t say I expect we’ll all be so lucky, if this keeps up, though.’

‘Supplies,’ Balthas said. Obol blinked.

‘Some stores, in case of disaster,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Not enough for this lot, though. Even depending on whether you eat.’ He looked at Balthas, eye narrowed. ‘Forgive my impertinence, lord, but… do you?’

‘We do. But we do not need to, save rarely.’

‘Shame,’ Obol said. He patted his belly. ‘Sigmar knows best, I suppose, but a good meal sets the world to rights, I’ve found.’

‘Often, by the looks of you,’ Juddsson grunted. The duardin sat heavily on a nearby bench. Obol laughed.

‘And have you ever turned down a meal, thane?’

Juddsson squinted at him and rubbed his chest as if it pained him. ‘What sort of fool does that?’ He turned. ‘I remember installing a well. So there’s water, at least.’

Balthas looked down at him. ‘You built this place?’

Juddsson gestured dismissively. ‘Why do you think I wanted to be the one to defend it? Took me months to get the capstones set properly. I wasn’t going to just sit back and let a bunch of walking corpses infest it.’ He stroked his beard. ‘We could always use the tunnels, if need be.’

Fosko frowned. ‘The catacombs would be worse than staying up here. Besides, I’d heard they’d sealed them off.’

‘Not the catacombs,’ Juddsson said. ‘There are tunnels running throughout the city. We of the Riven Clans dug most of them. If we could get down there, we might stand a chance.’

‘And go where?’ Obol said. ‘The city is under siege. The dead are everywhere. At least here, we know they can’t get in. Sigmar would not allow it.’

Juddsson fell silent. Balthas looked up, at the high dome overhead. It was covered in a heaving shroud of gheists and hoar frost. ‘Sigmar might not allow it, but he is not the only god present here, today, I fear,’ he said. Obol paled and made the sign of the twin-tailed comet.

‘Then it is true, what they say… Nagash moves against Azyr?’

Balthas looked at him. ‘Who is this “they” everyone refers to?’ He held up a hand. ‘Never mind. Yes. I want an accounting of supplies. You will provide it.’ Obol bowed awkwardly and hurried away, calling for several of the junior priests to accompany him. Balthas turned to Fosko. ‘This place must be fortified. I want the entry halls blocked off, if possible. It won’t stop the nighthaunts, but the deadwalkers are a different story.’

Fosko frowned. ‘We’re staying, then?’

‘For the moment,’ Balthas said. Fosko nodded and turned to rejoin his men. When he’d gone, Juddsson laughed harshly.

‘Busy work, is it?’

‘What do you mean?’

Juddsson tapped the side of his head. ‘I’m no fool. This place was never meant to be a fortress, whatever manlings think. And it won’t keep the dead out for long, blessings or no. So you’re thinking of something else. Fosko doesn’t see it yet, but he will.’ He peered towards his own warriors. They had erected their heavy shields into a bulwark and were priming their drakeguns. One of them began to sing, softly at first, and then more loudly. Other duardin joined in, their deep voices echoing through the nave.

Balthas watched, perturbed. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Singing,’ Juddsson growled. ‘Did you think we did not know how?’

Balthas hesitated. ‘I knew. I have simply never heard it.’

‘Few have, outside the clan-halls. Our songs are not for the ears of the unwrought. Today, we make an exception.’

‘Is it a dirge?’

Juddsson looked at him. ‘Of course not. Why would you think that?’

Balthas didn’t reply. Juddsson snorted and heaved himself upright, and made as if to stand. Balthas moved to help him, but Juddsson waved him off. ‘The day I need help to stand is the day I no longer deserve to do so.’

Juddsson limped towards his warriors, one hand pressed to his chest. In moments, his voice joined theirs, rising in song. Balthas watched them sing for a moment. He glanced up at the windows, where ghostly faces were pressed to the glass, wailing silently. He imagined the nighthaunts clinging to the outside of the cathedral and felt faintly nauseated.

‘They will not get in,’ Miska said, after a moment. She had stood silent, while he conversed with the others, keeping her thoughts to herself. Now he looked at her, wanting her opinion. He felt uncertain… something he was not used to.

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Once, I might have been. But now… that thing – that creature leading the dead – was Thaum. I saw it. Felt it.’ Balthas sagged back, onto the bench Juddsson had vacated. He wanted to take off his helm, but didn’t. It would be a sign of weakness, and he needed to be strong. Strong enough to make right what he had allowed to go wrong. ‘It – he – killed Lynos. His own lord-celestant. And Porthas.’

‘He almost killed you as well,’ Miska said.

‘Something has happened to him. He has been altered somehow. His soul is tainted. The light of Azyr is trapped in a shroud of darkness.’ Balthas shook his head. ‘Only a god could do such a thing.’

‘Nagash.’

He nodded. ‘He has captured the soul of a Stormcast before. More than once. Indeed, for some years, we thought it was his driving obsession. But never before has he managed something like this. I am forced to wonder – if he has the capability now, are any of us safe?’

‘Sigmar would not allow it.’

‘We must pray that it is so.’ Balthas bent forwards. ‘I saw into his mind – what was left of his mind.’ He grimaced. ‘It was like… a nest of maggots, making a hollow carcass dance. It is him, but he is just a mask for the thing inside. And I saw its plan.’

‘The Ten Thousand Tombs,’ Miska said, anticipating him.

‘A place of censure. A moment of black time, stretched across roots of stone and left to fester.’ Balthas closed his eyes, trying to forget the feeling of being in Thaum’s head. ‘There are ten thousand souls imprisoned below us. Fell souls – warlords and sorcerers, tyrants and failed heroes. More potent than the spirits commonly hurled against us, and left imprisoned here by the will of the Undying King.’

‘Why would he do such a thing?’ Miska asked. ‘I have always wondered. Surely such souls might have been more useful on the battlefield, rather than chained here in the dark.’

‘Unless even Nagash feared they might prove too hard to control,’ Balthas said. ‘That he seeks them now should give us all pause.’ He looked at her. ‘Where is Calys Eltain? I must speak with her.’

‘She is at her post.’ Miska looked down at him. ‘Are you going to tell me why?’

‘We know where they are going. Why else would Nagash send Pharus Thaum back to Glymmsforge, save to open the vaults he once defended? And to get there, they will tear this temple down, stone by stone. It is not safe here. We cannot defend this place for long. We will be overwhelmed long before Knossus is able to ­reinforce us. The only safety is down.’

‘The catacombs?’

‘We cannot make our stand here. They will overwhelm us sooner or later. So we must withdraw to face them on more optimal ground. There are reinforcements below.’

‘If we cease our prayers, they will rush in.’

‘Then someone must stay.’

‘A death sentence.’ She did not sound angry. Balthas nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘Volunteers?’

‘One will be enough.’

‘And you have one in mind?’

Balthas was silent. Miska smiled faintly. ‘Go – speak to Eltain. I will tell him.’ She turned away. Balthas raised his hand. Dropped it.

‘Thank you, mage-sacristan.’

‘It is my duty, lord-arcanum.’

He watched her go and then let his gaze drift across the interior of the temple. Even now, preoccupied as he was, he couldn’t help but calculate the geometries of the place. It was such a small thing – plain and pale next to the glories of Sigmaron. As Glymmsforge paled next to Azyrheim. But both were groping towards that glory, in their own way.

That, in the end, was the difference between gods. Where Nagash forced everything into the same shape – his own – Sigmar sought to raise his people up. To serve Sigmar was to forever reach for the stars above. To serve Nagash was to never notice the stars at all.

His eyes found the reliquary that rested at the opposite end of the nave from the main doors. It was the largest chamber in the temple, built to house the bones of the faithful, and now a hundred or more citizens of Glymmsforge crowded within its embrace. Innumerable skulls, marked by the symbol of the High Star, peered down at the gathered mortals. Longer bones had been laid beneath the skulls, and thousands of phalanges hung from the ceiling.

The reliquary radiated a peace utterly at odds with the dead things outside. Here, a soul could find true rest, safe from the machinations of the Undying King. A shame that such peace would soon be disrupted. Another necessary sacrifice.

It seemed to him as if there were too many of those, of late.

Perhaps Miska and Tyros were right. He was easily distracted. He had not steeped himself in blood, the way others had. He had always thought himself possessed of a higher purpose – not just a warrior, but a seeker of hidden truths.

But what was the truth, here? The only one he saw was that he had failed, and his failure had compounded itself in ways he had never imagined. There was no telling what Thaum had done, or would do, if he was not released from Nagash’s control. He leaned his head against his staff, seeking equilibrium.

He stared at the bones, at the ranks and rows of sainted dead lining the reliquary, and wondered where they were now. Lyria was but one underworld among millions. He could feel spirits here, watching. They existed outside the awareness of all but the most sensitive of mortals, and those possessing a spark of the divine. The truly dead, those who had passed beyond even the reach of gods, into spheres unknown and unknowing.

Only a rare few in the realms were so lucky as to travel on to that undiscovered country at the moment of their death. Many souls were trapped in the weft and weave of the realms, drawn into the aether that permeated everything. Sometimes they escaped, but other times, they simply… sat. Waiting for one god or another to collect them, or for the winds of magic to cast them back into physical form, through rebirth or reincarnation.

He knew this as surely as he knew that the war being fought in the realms was not just a battle over physical territory, but a war for souls. The souls of all those who had been or ever would be. Even those souls already claimed by another.

He closed his eyes, listening to the wails emanating from beyond the walls of the temple. He felt suddenly weary, and his grip tightened about his staff. Corposant flared softly, dancing in tune to his simmering frustration. He had failed. Twice now, he had faced Pharus Thaum, and twice he had failed to contain him. Twice he had failed to prevent the repercussions of the rogue soul’s rampage. The third time would be the last. He did not know how he knew this, only that it was as certain as the stars above. As constant as the firmament.

As this understanding filled him, so too did warmth, driving back the edges of fatigue and bringing with it clarity. He could see the way ahead clearly now. He was on the correct path. The battle could not be won here. But elsewhere, it might be possible. Like a hunter, he had to find the proper ground.

He could almost feel Sigmar’s hand on his shoulder. Magic, sorcery, aetherworking, whatever you called it, it was all about ritual. About the meeting of craft and circumstance, the right words, the right gesture, at the right time. Too early or too late, and the spell would not work. Like a hunter, taking aim at his prey. Release the arrow too soon, and the prey escaped. The time had not been right, before. But it would be. He just had to recognise the moment, and… let his arrow fly.

‘You look tired. I didn’t think your sort could get tired.’

Balthas turned. Juddsson stood nearby. ‘We can,’ Balthas said. ‘But I am not. Have you finished singing, then?’

Juddsson grunted and tugged on his beard. ‘Yes, for the moment.’ He sniffed. ‘We’re in the krut, and no two ways about it.’

‘Yes, but I might have a solution. Come with me.’

Juddsson grinned. ‘I knew you were a clever one. The moment I saw you, I said to myself – Grom, there’s a clever sort of manling.’

Balthas frowned. ‘Let us hope you are proven correct.’

He and Juddsson found Calys standing near the main doors, her gaze fixed. She spun as she registered their presence, her blade springing up. Balthas didn’t hesitate. ‘Your dutifulness does you credit, Liberator-Prime.’

She nodded tersely and turned her attentions back to the doors. ‘As you say, lord-arcanum.’ Balthas could feel her dislike of him, and he smiled. Eltain was not practised in hiding her feelings.

‘The Ten Thousand Tombs,’ he said. ‘You were one of those who guarded it?’

‘I was sent down only recently,’ she said doubtfully.

‘Can you find your way into it?’

‘I barely found my way out – let alone back in – unaided. The ruins change shape constantly. Pharus did something. He created false walls and streets to nowhere, to confuse intruders.’

‘Pharus did nothing. We built those things.’ Juddsson frowned. ‘Granted, he came up with the idea and drew the plans, but it was duardin hands that piled those stones. And duardin minds that improved on his human cleverness.’ He packed so much condescension into the final word that Balthas felt vaguely insulted on the former lord-castellant’s behalf.

He looked down at the duardin. ‘Then you, or one of your clansmen, can lead us.’

Juddsson laughed harshly, and then winced. He clutched at his chest. ‘No, manling. That place was built to isolate itself. Things move at random. Walls switch places, floors dip, paths bend back on themselves.’ He shook his head. ‘We know our business. Pharus didn’t want anyone getting in there without his permission, so we made sure of it. Only the warriors assigned to protect the tombs know the way in and out.’ He frowned and looked at Calys. ‘Most of them, anyway.’

‘And Elya,’ Calys said, idly.

Both Juddsson and Balthas looked at her. ‘Who?’ Balthas asked.

‘The child. The girl. Pharus said that she kept managing to get in, and he didn’t know how.’ She shrugged. ‘If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed him.’

Balthas shook his head. ‘A child?’

‘She’s shrewd.’

Balthas frowned. The rudiments of a plan were beginning to form. ‘Let us hope so.’ He looked at Juddsson. ‘The tunnels below – the ones you mentioned before, with Fosko and Obol – do all of them lead in the same direction?’

Juddsson saw what he was getting at immediately. ‘No, some lead elsewhere in the city. We can reach our clan halls, even.’ He squinted, looking around. ‘Slow going, with these. Especially if we have to fight.’

‘You won’t have to. The dead aren’t interested in slaughter. At least not these.’ Balthas looked back at the windows, above the main doors. Pale, distorted faces screamed in silence there. ‘They’ll follow us.’

‘How can you be sure?’

Balthas looked down at him. Juddsson grunted and made a gesture of surrender. ‘Fine. You know your business.’ He tugged on his beard, frowning. ‘I’ll just go make the preparations, then, shall I?’ He stumped away, still pulling on his beard.

‘What is going on? What are you planning?’ Calys said, deference tossed aside.

Balthas studied the doors. ‘We must leave this place.’

‘I have orders to ensure that nothing gets past these doors.’

‘And you would perish in the doing so, your soul to be claimed by phantasmal jailers.’ Balthas gestured dismissively. ‘An inefficient use of resources. Once we get into the catacombs, you will be needed.’

Calys shook her head in confusion. ‘Go down – but we can’t…’

‘We can.’

Calys eyes widened slightly. ‘Elya. You mean to use her.’

‘You said she managed to find her way below. We need a guide.’

Calys frowned. ‘She’s a child. It would not be safe.’

Balthas looked at her. ‘Yes, and there is nowhere safer in this city than with us.’ He paused. ‘If we do not do this, the dead will surely break open the Ten Thousand Tombs. You will fail in your duty, Liberator-Prime. We both will.’

She stared at him for a moment. Then nodded. ‘Come. I will take you to her.’

They made their way back to the reliquary, where the air stirred with the echoing hush of prayer. Many of the mortals had wrapped themselves in cloaks and blankets, passed out by the priests who moved among them. Some huddled in the corners, staring at nothing. Others spoke quietly among themselves. This ceased, as Balthas and Calys appeared. A priestess hurried towards them, but Balthas waved her aside. ‘Where is the child?’ he asked.

The priestess hesitated. Balthas realised that specificity was called for – there were many children in the reliquary. ‘The girl,’ he said. The priestess looked around helplessly.

‘Elya,’ Calys called, softly.

‘Here,’ a small voice called out. Calys started towards the back of the reliquary. Balthas followed. They found the child – a girl of perhaps ten seasons – sitting beside a lanky man, sleeping fitfully. A young woman sat near them, and she started at their appearance. Elya whispered to her, and then settled back beside her father.

Balthas could smell the fear that permeated him. His mind, slumbering as it was, was an open book to Balthas’ storm-sight and all but impossible to ignore. Scattered memories flashed across his perceptions. The man – Elya’s father – lived in a stew of recrimination and terror. Something had broken him, in ways too difficult to repair.

‘Duvak,’ Calys said. Balthas looked at her. She pulled off her helmet and hung it from her belt. ‘His name is Duvak. Duvak Eltos. He is her father. A lamplighter.’

‘He is broken.’

‘One does not preclude the other,’ Calys said, looking down at the man. There was something in her gaze that made Balthas look away. He looked at the girl. Elya was dark and scrawny. An urchin – an orphan, for all that she still had a parent. She met his gaze without flinching. He was struck, in that moment, by the thought that this was the child he’d seen in Thaum’s memories. He did not question it – something deep in him told him it was true. But what did it mean?

‘Do you have a face?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ Balthas tapped his helm and sat down beside her. ‘This is it.’

‘Father says that we’re fated to die. Will I have a face like that, after I die?’

He studied her for a moment, trying to find the words. He suspected that even as a mortal, he had not understood children. ‘Fate is another word for certainty. And the only certain thing in any realm is that nothing is certain. Not even death.’

‘The cats don’t believe in death. They say it’s just a longer sort of dream.’ Elya looked up. Balthas followed her gaze. Half a dozen felines lay nonchalantly among the stacked bones, or paced across the floor, tails twitching.

One, a brute with a scarred lip, leapt up into the girl’s lap. It glared balefully at Balthas for long moments, then turned away with a disdainful twitch of its ears. Elya smiled and scratched the animal. ‘I think he’s the king,’ she whispered.

‘I wasn’t aware that cats had such a thing.’

She frowned. ‘Or maybe he’s a marquis.’

‘Maybe. Despite the folktales, cats have no king. Only a queen. And a queen may have many toms, but a tom only one queen.’ He scratched the animal under the chin. ‘Your mother was from Ghur, wasn’t she? I can see the skeins of amber running through your blood.’

Elya shrugged with childish inscrutability. Balthas nodded as if she’d replied, and glanced at Calys. She was still watching Duvak sleep. He wondered what was going through her mind. ‘Did you know that there were once many gods? As many gods as there were people, for every tribe and clan had their god. They were the gods of small things – of rivers and trees and fair winds. Death gods, as well.’

Elya looked at him, interested now. ‘What happened to them?’

‘Oh, their stories had many different endings. Some weren’t really gods at all, in the end – just monsters. Others became as beasts, and lost sight of all that they had been. A few, like the King of Broken Constellations, were killed, while others, like Yahm, old god of the rivers, were defeated and imprisoned by those who came after.’ Balthas leaned forwards. ‘But some… escaped. They slipped between the cracks in the realms, where even the Ruinous Powers dare not go. One of those gods was the mother of all cats.’

Elya frowned. ‘Not all cats.’

‘The first ones, at least. She left her children in every realm. Some were big, some small. Some weren’t really cats at all.’ He glanced at Quicksilver, who lay nearby, beak resting atop his crossed forepaws, and then at Elya. ‘But all gods leave a little of themselves behind, when they go. An echo, a whisper.’

‘A ghost,’ Elya said.

Balthas nodded. ‘If you like. Not all of those echoes take a familiar form. And maybe the new queen of the cats isn’t a cat at all. Or maybe it’s just a story.’ He hesitated for a moment, considering why Sigmar had seen fit to place this girl in his path. Not just to guide him, but for some other reason, perhaps. He hoped so. He held out his hand. ‘I need your aid, Elya. I must get into the catacombs, and swiftly. I do not have the time to do so by the normal routes. Can you help me?’

She hesitated. ‘Something is coming, isn’t it? Not just the nicksouls.’

‘Yes. But we can stop it. If you help me.’ He turned, suddenly aware that every cat in the room was watching him. Armoured though he was, he could not help but feel almost like a mouse, in that moment. If Elya noticed, she gave no sign.

Before she could reply, Duvak screamed. He’d awoken at some point and was now wailing like an animal, trying to scuttle away from Calys, who reached out as if to comfort him. Balthas caught her wrist. ‘Leave him,’ he said, more harshly than he’d intended. Calys jerked her hand free and turned away, pulling on her helmet as she did so. Duvak had pressed himself against the wall of the reliquary, and was muttering a name, over and over again. The young woman Balthas had noticed earlier went to him, murmuring gently.

Balthas stood. He glanced up again, at the cats watching him. Watching it all.

Elya looked up at him, her expression unreadable. ‘I’ll help,’ she said.

Pharus stretched out his hand towards the doors and felt heat envelop it. The Grand Tempestus was covered in wards much like those that had protected the city. But only the prayers of those within were keeping them from being overwhelmed by the sheer number of nighthaunts clawing at the structure. Given enough time, the gheists could overcome such lesser defences. Especially with Dohl urging them to greater frenzy.

Throughout the city, Dohl’s fellow lantern-bearers were doing much the same. The air throbbed with the agonies of Glymmsforge. Malendrek had wounded the city. Now it was up to Pharus to finish the deed.

Idly, he wondered what the Knight of Shrouds’ final fate would be. As far as he knew, Malendrek still fought somewhere in the city, locked in battle with the golden-armoured Stormcasts. Perhaps he would be destroyed. Or perhaps Glymmsforge would fall, and he would be named Mortarch, to join Arkhan and the others.

Either way, Pharus found that he cared little. Malendrek was a hollow thing, and his petty ambitions paled beside Pharus’ sense of purpose. He drew his hand back and studied the smoking gauntlet. The pain was lost in the cold that gripped him. The satisfaction of battle had faded, leaving him empty once more. Leaving him craving the lives he could sense within the temple. Lives he could not claim. Not yet.

Screams drew his attention above, where a gheist hurled itself away from the temple, its ragged shape crumbling to fiery splinters of ash as it was overcome by the wards. ‘More where that came from, my lord,’ a nearby dreadwarden croaked. The creature still wore the remnants of a roadwarden’s armour over its cadaverous form. In life, it had hunted brigands and outlaws. Now, in death, it acted as their overseer.

It raised its staff, surmounted by a ghastly candelabra made from the hand of a hanged man. The candle-flames dancing atop the tip of each finger flared, and chainrasps drifted towards the gale of howling spirits that enshrouded the Grand Tempestus. ‘Always more,’ the dreadwarden continued. ‘No end to them, my lord. No use in them, save this. As Nagash wills, so must it be.’

‘As Nagash wills,’ Pharus said, turning his back on the creature. He had no interest in speaking to such lowly gheists. Unlike Dohl, or Rocha, their minds were circular tracks, broken only by memories of their mortal lives. Even Fellgrip was more companionable, for all its silence. The jailer floated at his elbow, its chains shimmering with caged lightning.

He could hear the cries of the souls trapped within those links, and wondered what it was like. Were they aware of where they were? Or was their pain that of an animal – senseless and maddening? The thought brought with it only the barest tremor of regret. But pain was the price of truth. Such was the will of Nagash. And as Nagash willed, so must it be. He turned his attentions back to the Grand Tempestus, watching as wave after wave of nighthaunts attacked the outside of the temple, watching as the temple and those within stubbornly refused to bow to the inevitable.

The realms suffered from an excess of will. That was a cosmic truth. Too many souls, too much will, too many lives running counter to the black geometries which guided all things. Nagash sought only to curb this excess, to ensure the continued persistence of the realms. Death was the reaper, and the realms were his fields – overgrown and thick with vermin. Now he plied the scythe, to put right all that had gone wrong.

Was it right, that the grain resisted the bite of the reaper’s blade? Why do it? Pharus thought that he once must have known the answer, but could not call it to mind now. He touched his head, feeling the weight of his helm. It constricted him, in some manner. As the armour caged him, so too did the helmet cage his thoughts. Made him think in orderly lines. He knew that now, but felt no urgency about it. Urgency – worry – these had no place in death’s order. Acceptance of inevitability brought peace.

All things died, and in death was purpose. More purpose than any possessed in life. Purpose… The thought brought back memories of life, of days spent watching over the dead. He remembered the smell of dust and incense, of dry, brittle bones and damp stone. He remembered the sound of ten thousand dead souls, scrabbling at the walls of their tombs. How could he have heard that desperate sound and not felt some touch of pity? How could he not have known the magnitude of the crime he was committing?

The lie of Sigmar blinded you to the truth.

‘But I can see clearly now,’ he murmured. He knew what must be done, and how to do it. ‘I will cast aside the silver chains and shatter the warded stones. I will free the dead.’

You will do all of this and more. You will drag down the cruel stars, and prove their promises false. Such is the will of Nagash.

‘And his will must be done.’ Pharus felt Dohl approach. The warmth of Dohl’s lantern brought its own sort of clarity, different to that imposed by his war-plate.

‘Do you feel it, my lord?’ the guardian of souls intoned. ‘The wards weaken.’

‘Not quickly enough,’ Pharus said.

‘But soon. I–’ Dohl turned. Pharus felt it as well. The wards were falling. As if the prayers of those within were faltering at last. The hateful light that enshrouded the temple bled away, like frost before the sun. There was a sound, as of the shattering of a thousand mirrors and a last flare of cerulean light. It spread outwards, driving his forces back, but only momentarily.

In the silence that followed, he drew his sword and echoed its hiss of eagerness. The time had come at last. The scythe would meet the grain, and there would come a great wailing. Then, only silence.

As Nagash commanded.

Helios knelt in the centre of the nave, head bowed.

He ignored the formless shapes darkening the windows, and the sounds that echoed through the archways. They would be inside soon, but he felt no fear. No worry. Only peace. This was but a ­single moment, in a vast sea of such.

Contrary to appearances, the Celestor-Prime was not praying. Prayer was for those in search of reassurance. Helios had no need of such comfort. He simply needed to prepare. He concentrated on the tempest sweeping over the city, and began to draw down some of its strength into himself. He would need it, for a time.

Just until he had passed this final test.

Fear of death was the first test of a Celestor, and the last. It stretched across the entirety of the warrior’s span, akin to a shadow, cast over life. It could not be bested, only endured – acknowledging that was part of the test. He had learned that lesson, among others, atop the towers of the Sigmarabulum. Twelve weeks of meditation beneath the firmament, with only the stars for company and rain to quench his thirst.

Helios had seen that what once had seemed immense, was merely an arrangement of small things, all colliding in the cosmic current. The winds of Azyr blew where they would. Uncounted worlds rolled on in the deep. Distant stars were born, and then died, before their first gleaming had ever reached his eyes. And all without regard for what he, or any other, endured. Life was an infinitesimal part of that great dance – it meant nothing to the stars or the winds. With that realisation had come a sense of tranquillity.

A warrior – a true warrior – must have courage. Not the courage of one fighting for hearth and home, or the courage of a beast at bay, but a true courage – to live life to the fullest, even knowing of its unimportance. The courage to lack certainty and yet persevere. Such was the courage a Celestor learned, atop their tower.

He had learned that death, while certain, was only a little thing. Barely a pause in the music of the spheres. It was not an end, for there was no true ending, merely one more moment among many. The stars shone forever in the black, whether one was there to see them, or not. Though, he was not so stoic as to deny that he would miss watching them.

Glass cracked, somewhere above him. He could hear the sound of the enemy – like a gale wind, tearing at the stones. The protections of Azyr were fading, the strength of Shyish rising. He stood, stormstaff in one hand, tempest blade in the other. The weapons felt light, lighter than ever before. As if he might wield them forever and never grow tired. Or, perhaps as if he had just picked them up, for the first time.

In the dark above, dead things moaned. Their whispers fell like snow. They recounted the sins of their pasts, attempting to frighten him. But he could not be frightened by mere memories. That was what they were, after all. Bad memories and bitter times.

Then, what was time but a circle of moments? Invariably, the same one came around again, if you lived long enough. It was not immortality. There was no such thing as immortality, for it implied a linear constancy. But time did not flow straight. It bunched and wavered, and finally bent back on itself. One moment, flowing into the next, like a river.

The lord-arcanum thought differently, he knew. For Balthas, the stars were finite. He thought in terms of epochs, of history. One millennium upon the next. Time was a mountain, for Balthas. The future rose ever up and away, while the past crumbled below you. Helios wondered if there was something in that. He shook his head. No. Perhaps not. Balthas saw the heavens, but not the stars which made them up.

Then, that was his duty. To see the grand design, in all its glory. But for a humble Celestor, the stars were enough. He cocked his head, listening to something clawing at the stones. A shard of glass fell from a window above. He watched it fall, watched the light play off the shards as they scattered across the floor.

Miska had not asked him to volunteer. It had not been necessary. When the mage-sacristan had explained the plan, Helios had understood, instantly. The final instant, come around again at last. He had lived, once, and died, in a moment like this, though he could not recall it in any detail. And now, having lived, he would die again. Painfully, perhaps. But gloriously, in a manner befitting a warrior such as himself. Balthas was a generous lord, to bestow such a gift.

He smiled. There was a poem, at least, somewhere in the meander­ing. He set the tip of his blade against the stones and began to scratch out the first stanza. He was still writing when the first window fully gave way, and the dead poured in.

He wondered what they thought, as they saw the empty nave and felt the silence. Balthas had led the others below, while the dead slammed themselves uselessly against the outside of the temple. Now, hopefully, they were on their way. But he would buy them a few moments more, just to make sure.

Shrieking spirits raced towards him through a storm of glass. He swept his staff out and caught one a solid blow. It convulsed as lightning danced across the links of its chains, and was reduced to a charnel mist. He did not stop, but remained in motion – thrusting, slashing, spinning. A few moments, well spent. A dozen spirits, laid to rest. He stepped back, and resumed his composition.

A dull boom sounded from the main doors of the temple. Spirits clustered in the broken windows, murmuring and rattling their chains. Helios did not look up as the bravest of their number rushed at him. The poem claimed the entirety of his attentions. His staff lashed out, and a spirit was reduced to tatters. The others retreated. As he scratched words into stone, arcs of celestial energy flickered about him and danced along the lengths of his weapons.

Another boom, accompanied this time by a sizzle-scorch sound, as the mystic barriers gave way. And, at last, the sound of splintering wood. An eerie mist seeped through the archways, slithering about the pillars and coiling in the alcoves. Still, the Celestor-Prime did not look up. The poem was close to completion.

Heavy boots thudded against the stone. An incongruous sound, utterly at odds with the hissing, sand-scrape of the nighthaunts. A smell, like ionised metal mingled with rotting meat, invaded his senses. He paused. ‘You are a new thing, under the sun.’

The figure stood before him, a black pillar amid the ghostly mist. He was thin, almost spindly, as if all that was not bone and muscle had been sheared away, leaving but a shadow in its place. The armour he wore drank in the light, as did the blade he held balanced across his shoulders.

‘I am the truth,’ the dead man intoned.

‘How portentous. A moment… I have almost completed my poem.’

‘Poem?’ The dead man sounded bemused.

‘It is important to finish what one begins. Don’t you agree?’

Silence was the only reply. Helios scratched a final word and stepped back. ‘There. Now, we can speak.’ He planted his blade before him, his hand resting on the pommel as he tapped his shoulder with his staff. ‘Tell me your name, spirit, so that I might recount it, in moments to come.’

‘I am Thaum. And once, I was as you are.’

‘Oh, I doubt that. There is no one like me.’

‘Regardless, you are here, and your soul is forfeit.’ Thaum gestured, and a spectre, wreathed in chains and padlocks, drifted forwards. ‘You will be made to see, as I have seen. Falsehood will be burned from you, by the radiance of the black sun.’

‘All things are possible.’ Helios studied the spirit, noting the amethyst light that bled from its padlocks. ‘But we have not come to that moment, yet.’

‘It is inevitable.’ Thaum stepped closer, his black eyes empty of anything save purpose. Helios nodded.

‘And yet, here I stand.’

‘Not for long.’ Thaum thrust his blade out, and the nighthaunts swept forwards in a howling typhoon. Helios sprang to meet them, moving swiftly. With every gesture, lightning arced out to ripsaw through the legion of spirits. It was rare that Helios could fight to the fullest, for the energies within him were as dangerous to his fellow Stormcasts as they were to the enemy. But here, now, in this moment, he was free to do so.

Chains struck the floor or tore divots from the pillars as the fight moved through the temple. Helios allowed the nighthaunts to drive him where they would, for he had no strategy beyond holding their attentions. He swept staff and blade out, catching unwary spirits in chains of his own – ones made from lightning.

Still, they pursued him, flooding through the temple in a wave of tattered shadows. Distorted faces grimaced and yowled, as clammy hands fumbled at him or rusty chains drew sparks from his war-plate. For every one he destroyed, two more took its place. Spiked clubs and ruined swords bit at him as he spun and twisted, staying out of reach.

He could feel their madness clawing at him, a tangible chill that made his limbs heavy and his head reel. A miasmatic frost clung to the plates of his armour. But the lightning within him carried him on, if not so fast or so sure.

Slowed, he found himself being driven back towards a semi­circle of drifting shapes. He heard the thump of rawhide drums and glimpsed the leer of bestial skulls within ragged cowls. The nighthaunts, wielding long, black glaives, began to close in on him as their lesser kin continued to harry and hamper him.

They had been wearing him down. Inevitable, as their master had said. The drifting spectres drew near, and he was forced to turn and parry a blow that would’ve split his heart. His tempest blade swept out, and a ragged cloak folded over as the gheist was torn apart. More blades thrust towards him, and he was forced to retreat.

Everywhere he looked, the dead looked back. He spun and lashed out, his storm staff passing through several grisly visages with little resistance. Lightning sparked out, dancing through their ranks. He turned, spinning his staff. The tempest built within him. But he would not release it for just any spirit. Not when he had gone to the trouble of weaving a trap of his own. They had harried him, and he had allowed it, knowing that they would drive him ever closer to – ah. And there it was.

The jailer-spirit, in its screaming chains, descended on him as he fought, seemingly oblivious to its approach. Miska had told him all about the creature – about what Balthas had seen. The souls of his brothers were caught up in its chains, condemned to an unknown fate. The mage-sacristan hadn’t known if destroying the creature would be enough to free them, but Helios saw no harm in trying.

He waited until it was within reach, then turned, letting his staff slide through his hand, so that the tip slammed into the bestial helmet. The creature squalled and swung its chains at him. He ducked aside and twisted his staff, catching the links. A flip of his wrist further tangled them about the length of the staff, and he could feel the soul within calling out for release. Before the spirit could rip itself free, he lunged, striking it in the head again. As he did so, he let the tempest loose.

Chains of crackling energy lashed out from him, ensnaring the jailer-spirit. Some of it raced along the creature’s own chains, setting the rusty links alight with cobalt flame. The light swelled about him, washing away the shadows and momentarily driving back the dead. Helios felt his staff grow hot as he struck again and again, until it punched through the creature and struck the floor. The jailer-spirit gave an ear-splitting screech as celestial lightning ripsawed through it.

Helios released his stormstaff an instant before it splintered, consumed by the energies racing through it. The explosion hurled him backwards into a pillar. The stone cracked, and he tumbled to the floor. As his staff broke apart, so too did the jailer-spirit, which burned with a purifying radiance. Its chains melted into molten slag. Helios heard the imprisoned souls sing out as they were freed, and lightning speared upwards from the burning links, shattering the great dome above and casting a rain of glass down onto the spirits below.

As the reverberations faded, Helios rose to his feet, bits of glass sliding from him. He tried to take in a breath, and his ribs creaked painfully. His neck and shoulders ached, where he’d struck the pillar. His armour was scorched and dented by the fury of the tempest he’d unleashed. Besides the pain, he felt wrung out – empty. But satisfied. A final bit of good, before the end. Not enough, never enough, but some.

‘You will pay for that,’ Thaum said, in the silence that followed. He emerged slowly through the gathering ranks of the dead, sword-tip carving black trails in the stones at his feet. ‘Your soul will scream in agony, before you are remade in the image of he whom you defy.’

‘To speak and act are one and the same. Nothing will prevent me from doing as I have said.’ Helios swept his tempest blade up, and gripped the hilt with both hands. ‘Can the same be said of you?’ He drew the blade back and readied himself. ‘Come. Let us see.’

Thaum roared, mouth distending abnormally, and charged. Helios stepped forwards.

When the moment came around at last, he was ready.