Soul Wars Page 14

  NAGASHIZZAR, THE SILENT CITY

  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.

  Chapter eight

  The Winds of Azyr

  FREE CITY OF GLYMMSFORGE

  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.