Soul Wars Page 16

  ‘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?’

  Phams 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 he
re 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.’

  Chapter nine

  The Living and

  the Dead

  SIGMARON, PALACE-CITY OF SIGMAR

  ‘It is not seemly for our lord to hide himself away, so,’ Helios said. The Celestor turned, moving swiftly, sword rising. Miska stepped back, out of reach, and thrust her staff towards his abdomen. Helios twisted aside, light on his feet, despite his war-plate.

  ‘We all seek answers in different ways, brother.’

  Around them, the Garden of the Moon stirred with a breeze. The great, silver trees that made up the garden had been caught in the fires that rag
ed across Sigmaron, and many had warped and blackened, as had the pale grasses that grew in their shadow. But they would recover, in time. Aelf treesingers roamed the groves, encouraging new growth, and their lilting song provided accompaniment to the clashing of blades.

  Helios’ cohort of Celestors sat or stood nearby, watching the duel. The swordsmen looked less battered than might be expected, given their efforts over the last few days. Then, that was simply the general mark of their competence. Not all of them had eyes for the bout between their Celestor-Prime and the mage-sacristan. Some duelled amongst themselves, while others saw to the care of their weapons.

  ‘And what is the question?’ Helios thrust his blade like a spear, but without speed or force. Miska tapped the point aside with her knuckles. ‘What gnaws at him so, that he ignores us for days on end and vanishes into a tomb of paper?’

  ‘The only question that matters,’ she said, whirling her staff towards his ankles. He leapt straight up, avoiding the blow. The watching Celestors applauded cheerfully. ‘The question we were forged to answer. Balthas is diligent. That is no sin, whatever your feelings on the matter.’

  ‘I do not judge him harshly, sister. I merely think it unwise to allow him to wall himself off from the world and all its wonders.’ He slid towards her, blade whirling. She backed away warily. Helios was as swift as the solar wind for which he’d been named.

  Helios continued, pressing with words as well as his blade. ‘He has ever been brittle in his manner, but of late, he has become harsh as well. It is as if he has judged us, and found us wanting, in some manner.’

  Miska laughed. ‘You say that as if it’s an impossibility.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Helios stepped back, arms spread, inviting attack. ‘Am I not incomparable in my prowess? Are my brothers and sisters not exceptional?’

  Miska lunged. The head of her staff crackled with energy as it darted towards him. He twisted, batting it aside at the last moment. He stumbled slightly, but she recognised the ploy for what it was and held back. He straightened a moment later, grinning ruefully. She raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged. ‘You are more observant than most, sister.’