The final stretch of steps opened into a fan shape as they led onto the platform. Gotrek, Trachos and Maleneth walked out into the light together, shielding their eyes as they stepped onto the smooth, powdery floor, gripping their weapons. It occurred to Maleneth that they were moving like old comrades in arms, standing side by side, trusting each other implicitly. As soon as she noticed this, she sidestepped away from the other two, muttering in annoyance.
As Maleneth grew accustomed to the light, she saw that her skin had regained its normal appearance. The others were the same. The transformation that had overtaken them on the stairs had ceased as soon as they stepped up onto the dais.
There were a dozen people assembled on the platform. To her left was Lord Aurun, flanked by six knights of the Gravesward. He looked like he was about to be crowned – chin raised, shoulders back and eyes gleaming with pride.
In the centre of the platform were High Priestess Lhosia, three other priests and the towering shape of Prince Volant. The priests were standing in a circle around the prince, arms raised and hands clasped, and Volant was kneeling. It looked like he was holding an exploding star. Thousands of white moths fluttered around his hands, forming a ball of teeming, flashing wings.
Gotrek opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Prince Volant’s voice rang out through the lights. His words were cracked with pain but still sure and proud.
‘Deathwise we fly, rescued from life and cradled by sod. From the tombs of fell-handed forefathers, red-scarred and charred, death-tongued and hale, we bring faith, we bring hope, we bring eternity.’
Maleneth wanted to announce their arrival, but the air was so heavy with sorcery that she dared not speak for fear of triggering some kind of transformation.
Lhosia echoed Volant’s invocation, and then the prince spoke again. His voice was lower this time, and more resonant, echoing through the shadows. ‘Deathwise we fly, rescued from life and cradled by sod. From the tombs of fell-handed forefathers, red-scarred and charred, death-tongued and hale, we bring treasurelings. We bring gifts. We bring offerings to the deep, deepest dark.’
This time the words had a dramatic effect. The cocoons in the walls pulsed, then grew dark. There was a pair of small braziers positioned at the top of the steps, and if it weren’t for their flames, the whole platform would have been plunged into darkness.
‘Those are not the words,’ said Lhosia, backing away, breaking the circle and staring up at the prince. ‘What are you doing?’
When Lhosia had loosed her grip, some of the moths had flown away, scattering over the platform and fluttering up, into the spire of the tower.
Volant looked up through the clouds of whirling insects, his face grim.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Cerement Stone
The prince was not wearing his helmet, and as he turned to face Gotrek, his eyes creased into a slight smile.
‘You made it.’ He ignored the confused-looking priests and walked over to the Slayer. ‘I hoped you would, but the odds were long. You are a unique individual, Gotrek Gurnisson. A rare find.’
Lhosia was staring at the dark cocoons on the walls, looking increasingly more outraged. ‘What are you doing, Morn-Prince? Why did you alter the rite?’
‘You hoped I would make it?’ said Gotrek. ‘What are you talking about?’
Volant watched Gotrek with glazed, lifeless eyes. He looked like he was intoxicated. ‘You hold the gods in the contempt they deserve.’ He waved a dismissive hand at everyone else on the platform. ‘When you said you had come to bring your fury down on Nagash, it made my heart sing, Gotrek. We are of a similar mind, you and I. And you have done great work, bringing these souls here.’ He pointed at the small patch of darkness hanging in the centre of the moths. ‘I could never have managed this without you.’
Lhosia and the other Erebid stared at the prince, mystified, as he continued.
‘This offering guarantees the future of the Erebid.’
Gotrek shook his head. ‘Offering?’
Volant looked sadly at Lhosia. ‘We’ve kept our ancestors hidden for all these centuries. But now we are undone. The Lord of Undeath has harnessed a power beyond anything he has wielded before. We can no longer just cling to our prayers and hope to outrun the tide.’
‘What have you done?’ asked Lhosia quietly.
‘I have gathered hundreds of divine souls,’ said Volant, glancing at the dark shape in the centre of the moths. ‘Souls that have eluded Nagash for centuries.’
Lord Aurun glared at the Morn-Prince, gripping his scythe with such fury that his arms were shaking.
Maleneth looked at where Volant had been kneeling and saw a shimmer of purple in the ball of moths. It was a gemstone, faceted and dark.
‘Do you mean that the Cerement Stone will preserve the Unburied?’ said Lhosia.
Prince Volant shook his head, suddenly seeming tired. He massaged his scalp as he paced across the dais, distorting the intricate tattoos on his face. ‘Nothing preserves life except power. I see that now. For a long time I thought there might be another way, but now I see that the only way to gain freedom from the gods is to buy it. Prayers, devotions, ancestor worship… It’s all meaningless. But offerings win the favour of any god. And thanks to this duardin, the Cerement Stone has captured more souls than I could ever have hoped. And now it will send them to Nagash.’
‘Nagash?’ gasped Lhosia, glancing over at Lord Aurun, her face drained of colour.
‘Seize him!’ howled Lord Aurun, pointing his scythe at the sorcerer. ‘He’s a traitor!’
Aurun and the Gravesward rushed forwards, weapons raised, but Prince Volant shook his head despairingly at them. Just as they were about to reach him, he lashed out with his scythe, slicing through armour and hurling his attackers across the dais.
The knights stumbled and fell, clutching their throats and chests. There was a loud clattering as scythes and shields bounced across the floor.
Aurun leapt to his feet and attacked again, but Volant clubbed him down, towering over the knight and pummelling him with the haft of his scythe.
The prince looked around at the gasping knights, then nodded and addressed Gotrek again.
‘This tower is linked to Nagash’s own citadel, and I have now linked it to the Cerement Stone as well. I have all the souls I need to complete the ritual – I can now do as I promised and send you with them. You can finally confront your past.’
‘What?’ Gotrek shook his head. ‘Why? Why would you send your ancestors to Nagash? After everything you people said about your forebears.’
The prince’s expression darkened. ‘Morbium is gone!’ He waved dismissively at Lord Aurun. ‘No one else here has the sense to see it, but I realised the truth weeks ago. Months ago. And I have been living with it ever since, knowing that everything we have worked for all these centuries has come to nothing. Knowing that every one of the prominents will sink beneath the Eventide. It shamed me, Gotrek Gurnisson!’ His voice cracked. ‘I was going to be the one Morn-Prince who failed to preserve his bloodline. The one ruler of Morbium who let memories be lost! The Great Necromancer was going to take everything! Every trace of our past.
‘At first I thought there might be a way to find an offering outside Morbium. I employed shrivers to scour the princedoms, looking for a gift that would be fit for a god – some way to buy our safety. But it was hopeless. What single individual would satisfy Nagash? I needed more. Only the Unburied would appease the Great Necromancer. These souls that have eluded him for so long.’
‘Kurin?’ laughed Maleneth. ‘He was working for you?’ She looked triumphantly at Gotrek. ‘I told you that conjuror in Klemp was a fraud. He was fishing for victims to send to Nagash. I bet he was delighted when he heard you say you wanted to go to him!’