Soul Wars Page 19

  ‘What was your name?’

  ‘You know my name. I was the commander of the southernmost gate. The slayer of the Slender Knight. I was a hero.’ Bitterness swelled in the dead man’s voice. There was naked longing there, a desire now impossible to fulfil.

  ‘I do not recall you,’ Pharus said. Then, more maliciously, ‘Perhaps you were not as important as you claim.’ He was surprised by his own venom and the pleasure he took in saying the words.

  Malendrek shrieked and made to draw his blade. Arkhan stepped between them, his eyes glowing with a witch-light greater than Malendrek’s own. ‘Will you strike a servant of your master without cause?’ He slammed his staff down, and amethyst fires sprang up. ‘Are you a living man, to let hot anger stir your turgid blood?’

  Malendrek snarled curses. Pharus reached for his own blade, but a glance from Arkhan stopped him. ‘Cease,’ the Mortarch of Sacrament intoned. Malendrek drifted back and glared at them.

  Before he could speak, Yaros gave a dusty chuckle. The wight king stood nearby, watching the confrontation. ‘One more pawn, or one less, the game is set already. And the true winner sits there, watching us play at influence.’ He raised his axe. ‘Hail, Nagash. Hail, O Undying King.’

  Phams turned. Nagash was indeed watching them, slumped on his throne, his talons pressed together in a steeple before his bowed head. The Undying King sat as if engaged in some inconceivable calculation. Spirits writhed about him, whispering and singing hymns to his might and mercy. Massive, skeletal morghasts crouched to either side of his throne, their cruel glaives held ready to defend their master.

  Nagash flicked a finger, and what Pharus had at first taken to be a pile of bones and rags heaped on the wide, rough-hewn steps of the dais, rose awkwardly to its feet. Arul clapped her hands gently. ‘Oh, how delightful - he has resurrected dear old Blood-a-bones to amuse us. It has been so long.’

  Blood-a-bones proved to be a tatterdemalion of colour and injury. A court jester, clad in rotting costume and dented bells. He twitched up and bowed low. ‘Greetings, gentles all,’ he shrilled in a childish voice. ‘Our king welcomes you to his hall - see there, the stars shine through the holes in the roof, and the dead sweep away the dust on the floor.’ He flung up a broken hand and spun in a madcap circle, jaw sagging. ‘He strives, oh he strove, to make it pretty for you.’

  ‘Dance, jester,’ Nagash intoned.

  At his words, the jester capered in awkward circles, as the carrion birds that circled Nagash’s throne pecked at him His ragged costume was sewn to his mouldering flesh, and bare bone poked through his peeling features. Despite the state of him, he seemed in good humour. He bounced and spun, moving more swiftly than any dead thing ought, and the tarnished bells attached to his costume jangled piercingly. As he whirled, he sang without melody.

  ‘Our king is kind, so kind, and he will take what grows in every creature’s womb and make it his own,’ the jester screeched. ‘He will make every house a tomb, and as his great hand sweeps across the sea, all the fish will rise with their bellies up. The jackals bow to him, and the birds as well.’ He batted at the birds as they dived for what remained of his eyes. Jackals darted through the ranks of the dead and snapped at his flailing limbs. ‘He leaves a trail of fire across the desert, so that all who seek him might find their way. Rejoice! Rejoice! The Undying King is come again, in all his glory!’

  Pharus felt no horror, no disgust at the display, though he knew he ought to. Only curiosity. Was there some message in the jester’s song, or was it merely gibberish? The question vanished from his mind as Nagash gestured once more, and the jester began to twirl faster and faster. He careened from one side to the other, losing bits of himself as he danced. ‘Rejoice! Rejoice! He is all, and we are him, and all are one! Rejoice!’

  With a final despairing ululation, the jester collapsed into a heap. Light still burned in the sockets of his skull, but his song was finished. Jackals worried at his carcass, snarling and fighting with one another. Nagash gazed down at the remains in silence.

  ‘Behold,’ he intoned, in a voice like the grinding of stone. ‘I am risen.’ He looked up, and his burning gaze swept across the ranks arrayed before him. As one, the dead sank to their knees. Pharus found himself drawn down with the others, unable to resist the unspoken command. Like the jester, they moved as the Undying King willed.

  Nagash stood. ‘I cast forth my hand and the trees raise up their roots.’ He threw out a talon, and great roots, colourless and sickly looking, erupted from beneath the avenue with a rumble and a roar. They rose high, coiling about nearby pillars, stretching towards the dark sky. Twisted faces blossomed on the pallid bark like fungus. They wailed. Some cursed Nagash’s name, while others begged for mercy. Pharus looked away.

  ‘Where I set my foot, the earth buckles,’ Nagash continued. He stepped down onto the steps of the dais, and the stone cracked loudly. Dust geysered as he descended, and the ground shook. ‘My gaze boils the sea and my voice calls down the stars. I am risen, and all is silence.’ The words echoed from the pillars. Nagash gestured. ‘Arkhan. Come forth and attend me, my most faithful servant.’

  ‘I am at your command, my lord, as ever,’ Arkhan called out, as he strode towards the steps leading up to the dais. ‘But speak, and I shall move the realms themselves.’ He climbed to stand beside Nagash. The liche looked tiny, next to his towering master.

  ‘There is no need, my servant, for I have already done so. I have realigned the heavens themselves.’ Nagash looked down, his flickering gaze fixing on Pharus for a moment, before sliding back to Arkhan. ‘Is this all, then? Am I abandoned by my servants?’

  ‘Never, my lord. A thousand wars are waged even now, in your name. A hundred deathlords march across the amethyst sands, travelling from the north, the east and the south. Spirit, bone and meat answer your call.’

  ‘And my Mortarchs?’

  Arkhan set his staff and rolled his shoulders in an elegant shrug. ‘They go where they will and kill where they wish. As you made them to do, my lord. Rest assured, they have tendered their apologies for their absence and assure you that they strive ever in your mighty name. They build empires to your glory, O Undying King.’

  Nagash gave a rumbling laugh. ‘I am sure that is what they say.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘No matter. The vagaries of the soulblighted do not interest me this day. I seek to raise up new champions and conquer old lands.’ He looked out over the gathered dead. ‘The time has come. Shyish must be cleansed. All who do not kneel before me must be made to do so. As it once was, so shall it be again, forevermore. Stand forth, my Knight of Shrouds.’

  Malendrek drifted forwards silently. Nagash stretched out his hand. ‘You sought my favour, Vorgen Malendrek, and thus I have bestowed it. I have made you more than you were and raised you up, so that you might take vengeance for yourself upon those who used you so cruelly. Will you do this for me, my servant?’

  ‘Speak the name, my lord, and I shall cast them into ruin,’ Malendrek said, in a voice like the cawing of many birds. Pharus thought he detected a note of eagerness in the ghostly warrior’s tone. As if he already knew what Nagash intended to ask of him.

  ‘Glymmsforge,’ Nagash said. Malendrek gave a lingering sigh. Nagash gestured. ‘The way is already open. A gap in the defences. Use it. Crack the city wide and reclaim it, and the underworld of Lyria, for me.’ Nagash looked at the others. ‘Crelis Arul and Yaros of Dmezny - you shall serve my champion in this. Aid him. Break the city. Glory awaits.’

  For a moment, Pharus thought one or the other might protest being subordinated to the ghostly warrior. But neither did. The hierarchy of the dead was set, it seemed - spirit, bone and then meat.

  ‘And what of your newest servant, my lord?’ Arkhan asked. He gestured to Pharus. ‘One once of Azyr’s heights, now of Shyish’s depths. What task shall he be bent to?’

  Nagash turned his lamp-like gaze upon Ph
arus once more. For long moments, he stared, as if puzzled by the presence of the being before him. Finally, he looked at Arkhan. ‘By your whim was I encouraged to show mercy. Thus, to your whim I yoke him. Let him prove himself worthy of my mercy, howsoever you see fit, my loyal Mortarch. And if he should fail, you shall bear the brunt of my ire.’

  Arkhan bowed low. ‘As you command, so must it be, my lord.’

  Nagash returned to his throne, and the audience came to an end. The other deathlords turned away to depart, though not without a few backward looks and a glare from Malendrek. Pharus wondered if he’d made an enemy there, and what it meant. He waited, uncertain, as Arkhan descended the steps of the dais. If a skeleton could look pleased, Arkhan did so.

  Nagash, for his part, looked neither pleased nor pensive. The fleshless rictus of the Undying King’s features did not change, as he sank back onto his throne in a clamouring of armour and bone. Carrion birds circled him, and swooped down to perch on his shoulders and knees. They set up a raucous chorus, screeching and cawing, as if advising the god of some mischief elsewhere. The jackals began to howl, casting their eerie song to the wind.

  Pharus stared up at Nagash and knew, somehow, that the god did not notice him. It was as if, having delivered his commands, his mind had withdrawn to other spheres. Arkhan confirmed this, a moment later.

  ‘Shyish stirs, and so the reaper must ready his scythe,’ the liche said, as he joined Pharus. ‘You and the others will be its edge, and Glymmsforge, the harvest.’

  ‘I cannot feel him anymore - my head feels… empty.’ Pharus touched his helm. ‘I feel empty. He is silent.’ He wanted to hear that awful voice again, to feel it resonate within him. It drove out all fear and worry, and crushed doubt and uncertainty.

  ‘Fear not, Pharus. He is with you always. He is hidden within even the deepest of your thoughts, and in the hollows of your soul. What you see, he sees. What you feel, he feels. You are his hands and eyes and mouth. Even when you think yourself alone, he is there.’ Arkhan caught him by the shoulder. ‘This god will not abandon you, Pharus. That I swear to you.’

  Pharus looked at Arkhan’s hand and felt the crackle of the lightning raging inside him. As if sensing this, Arkhan stepped back. ‘You were a jailer, once. Do you recall this?’

  ‘I. yes.’ Pharus dredged the slow currents of his memory. ‘The Ten Thousand Tombs. Beneath Glymmsforge. I. guarded them.’ The words came with difficulty and only brought more questions. Like sand, the memories sifted through his fingers no matter how tightly he grasped at them.

  ‘Yes. And now you will crack open the prison you built, and free those within.’ Arkhan studied him, his gaze revealing nothing. ‘Ten thousand souls, entombed by my hand, in the waning days of the Age of Myth. I had done so many times before, and since, to aid my lord and master. I would see these awakened. They will prove the undoing of the false city and shall march through the Shimmergate, with you at their head. You will be a sword, thrust into the heart of Azyr.’ He clenched a fist.

  ‘Thus Nagash has commanded, and thus it will be done.’

  Chapter eleven

  Shimmergate

  ‘Easy, Quicksilver. Easy.’ Balthas stroked the gryph-charger’s feathered neck. The great beast felt his impatience and pawed at the ground in unsettled fashion. ‘We will be away soon. Won’t we, sister?’ He glanced at Miska. ‘They are late.’

  ‘They will be here.’ She stood beside him, staff in hand. Helios and his Celestors stood just behind them, acting as honour-guard. The swordsmen were the most skilled of his warriors, and Balthas valued their capabilities. Behind them, the remainder of the Grave Wardens Sacrosanct Chamber made ready to depart through the Shimmergate.

  He studied the realmgate, his fingers tapping against the massive, scabbarded broadsword hanging from his saddle. He could not remember the last time he’d drawn it. Though he was as capable a swordsman as any, the blade lacked the elegance of aether. And he felt more comfortable with a staff in his hand than a blade.

  The realmgate was a blur of light, encompassed by a circle of stone. It had been carved in ages past by unknown hands, though legends as to the mason’s identity abounded. Some thought her a sorcerer, seeking her lost love in the underworld of Lyria. Others said it had been shaped by a duardin craftsman, seeking a path to a hidden treasure. Whoever they had been, the Shimmergate was all that remained to mark their memory.

  ‘Nervous?’ Miska asked, not looking at him

  ‘And why would you think that?’ he snapped. Suddenly ashamed, he made a show of studying the two cohorts of Sequitors that stood in disciplined ranks behind the Celestors. Mara and Porthas, their commanders, spoke quietly to one another, with a casual friendliness that Balthas sometimes envied. Mara was stocky, wielding a heavy, angular stormsmite maul and soulshield, much like her warriors. Porthas was built like an ox, and he had his two-handed greatmace balanced across his shoulders.

  The Sequitors resembled Liberators, but their similarity to the rank and file of the Warrior Chambers was merely cosmetic. Unlike their brethren, the Sequitors were able to channel the limited magics that coursed through them into the armaments they bore. Thus empowered, their weapons were capable of slaying things resistant even to the touch of holy sigmarite. As they had done often, at Balthas’ command.

  Miska looked up at him, eyebrow raised. He sighed and sat back. ‘Fine, yes. Somewhat. I have grown used to the veil of secrecy woven about us. To discard it now feels wrong…’

  ‘It is necessary.’

  ‘Unfortunately.’ He sighed again. ‘Perhaps I am simply annoyed. My researches were at a delicate phase.’ They hadn’t been, and they both knew it, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

  ‘They will keep.’

  Balthas looked at her. ‘You’re excited, aren’t you?’

  A half-smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘But this is what you wanted.’ She sounded as if she were asking a question, rather than simply stating fact.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. He let his gaze drift past her, to where the final elements of his chamber were assembling. Quintus and his cohort of Castigators were diligently checking over the functions of their thunderhead greatbows. Resembling large crossbows, the bolts they loosed were heavy things, resembling a smaller version of a stormsmite mace. The heads of the projectiles were filled with the condensed breath of a stardrake. On impact, they unleashed a tempest of aetheric energy that would tear through foes, mortal or otherwise.

  Miska gave a bark of laughter. ‘You’ve never been one for the battlefield.’ She shook her head. ‘Remember that city in Chamon - Agnostai? Rather than lay siege to the city, you turned their gold stores to granite.’

  ‘It worked, didn’t it?’ Balthas smiled. He had always possessed an affinity for the transmutive magics of Chamon. The alchemical winds responded to his will with an ease that surprised him at times. It was as if they recognised him, somehow. ‘Their army surrendered en masse, without a single arrow loosed or sword drawn. Mercenaries are loathe to fight without the promise of pay.’

  ‘Was that really the reason? Or were you more interested in getting into the Silver Sepulchre than wasting time taking the city?’

  Balthas frowned. ‘The Sepulchre contained certain remains necessary to my research.’

  ‘So you assured me at the time.’

  Balthas heard the unspoken criticism. ‘Finding a way that does not work is not failure. Only through meticulous trial and error will we discover that which we seek, sister.’

  ‘Spoken like a true alchemist.’

  Balthas sniffed. ‘I trust you recall that I am your lord-arcanum and not a mere Sequitor, to be spoken to in such a disrespectful manner.’

  Miska peered at him After a moment, she inclined her head. ‘You are correct. Forgive me,
my lord. Discipline is the foundation of victory.’

  ‘You are forgiven.’ He turned as a sardonic cheer went up from his warriors. Two figures, heavily encumbered, climbed the rocky slope. One of them waved slowly, in sombre acknowledgement of the cheers. ‘Finally.’

  He urged Quicksilver towards the two warriors as they carried their burden up the slope. ‘Gellius, Faunus - you’re late,’ he said. The armour of the two Sacristan Engineers was hung with the tools and oddments of their duty, and they rattled as they climbed.

  Gellius, the larger of the two, shifted the weight of the celestar ballista he carried on his back. ‘Better late than never, my lord,’ he said solemnly.

  Balthas frowned. ‘I would reprimand you, if there were time.’ He looked at the other engineer. ‘I trust you will apologise on behalf of your brother-engineer, Faunus?’

  ‘If you require it.’ Faunus hefted an ornate astrolabe and peered through its scope. ‘A few final calculations and we’ll be ready.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ Balthas said, annoyed.

  ‘Have we ever failed you, my lord?’ Gellius asked, patting the ballista he carried. ‘She’s a temperamental one, but faithful. As are we.’

  Balthas made to reply when Quicksilver shrieked suddenly. He felt the aether tense and shiver. He turned, following the pull of it. Nearby, the arctic winds spun, casting up snow and sunlight alike. There was a snap of air, followed by the crunch of snow beneath a heavy tread. Sigmar appeared, striding across the snow, his golden war-plate gleaming and the heavy fur cloak he wore swirling about his shoulders.

  Warriors sank to their knees, heads bowed, as the God-King passed among them. Balthas slid from his saddle as Sigmar drew close. Gellius and Faunus both dropped to one knee, and Balthas made to do so as well, but Sigmar stopped him. ‘Up.’ The God-King gestured sharply. He studied the Shimmergate for a moment. The light seemed to brighten beneath his attentions. He turned.