Calys looked away. ‘He liked apples.’ She didn’t know why she said it, but it seemed appropriate.
Dathus looked away. Somewhere, in the dark, bells were ringing. ‘The aftershocks of the cataclysm have faded, but the dead are still in uproar, still stalking the lightless avenues. It will take many weeks to lay them all to rest.’
‘Then it was necromancy?’
Dathus frowned. ‘Some are calling it a necroquake. As good a term as any.’ He looked at her, his face expressionless. ‘Lord-Celestant Lynos has agreed that it is best that I take command down here for the duration of the current crisis. I have spoken to Briaeus and the others. Now I come to you.’ He studied her. ‘You have only recently come down here. If you wish your cohort to be rotated out, I feel it only fair to give you the opportunity.’
Calys glanced down at Grip. Then she shook her head. There was no need to consult with her cohort. Tamacus and the others would follow her lead. ‘No. We will stay.’
‘Good.’ Dathus did not sound as if he had doubted that she would. He leaned on his staff and stared out into the dark ruins. ‘The aether is in uproar. The winds of magic blow strong, even down here. The gate of every tomb rattles, and the shadows are full of faces. We will need to be wary, in the coming weeks and months.’
Calys looked around, though there was nothing to see. ‘It sounds as if Nagash has declared war on Azyr.’ Calys glanced at the lord-relictor.
Dathus laughed harshly. ‘He did that long ago, sister. This is just a renewal of hostilities.’ He lifted his staff. ‘Azyr and Shyish. Apex and nadir. The Heavens are potential writ large. They stir the soul and feed the soil. They bring light to the darkness and cast long shadows. All things are possible, if one but looks to the stars.’ He gestured to the roof of the cavern. ‘But in Death, potential ends. It damps the fires of creation and brings silence to all places.’
He tapped the side of his head. ‘I hear him, in the hollows of my soul. Like a great bell, tolling the end of all days. He wishes to recast us all in his image and make all souls one with his own. He will devour us, wholly and utterly, if we let him.’
Calys ran a hand through her hair. ‘Is the city safe?’.
‘For the moment, and so long as we keep watch over the Ten Thousand Tombs,’ the lord-relictor said. ‘Do you know what lies within them?’
Calys shook her head. ‘Rumours, only.’
‘An army. A legion of the dead, sealed away against the day of Nagash’s return, many centuries ago.’ He smiled coldly. ‘But we found them first and ensured that they would never awaken. Not while the Anvils of the Heldenhammer stood watch here, in the dark. That was Pharus’ task, and one he relished.’
‘And now?’
‘It will be mine, until a suitable replacement can be found.’ He studied her for a moment. He looked as if he wished to say something, but the sudden clangour of bells interrupted him. He sighed and got to his feet. ‘Another empty tomb has been found. Another black soul, loose in these catacombs.’
Calys made to follow him, but Dathus waved her back. ‘No. Briaeus and I will deal with it. You will see to the evacuation of the wounded. We will speak more later.’ He turned, eyes narrowed. ‘I fear that the cataclysm was but a prelude to something worse. Keep your sword close, Calys Eltain.’ His words echoed after him as he strode away. She watched him go and then looked down at Grip.
‘What was it Pharus said? An adventure every day?’
The gryph-hound yawned. Calys snorted. She needed to rejoin her cohort and resume her duties. She looked up. The dark seemed to stretch out in all directions and swallow every sound. An eternal void. She lost herself in it for a few moments. Or perhaps longer. Then, she heard Grip growl. She blinked and shook herself.
A cat was watching her. No, more than one. They prowled among the tombs, tails lashing. Thinking of Dathus’ instructions, she suddenly recalled the child – Elya – and wondered whether she had managed to escape the catacombs. Ordinarily, the child would have slipped her mind entirely. What mattered one child, in such devastation?
Yet… the girl had been important to Pharus. And something about her puzzled Calys. There were hundreds of urchins like her roaming the streets above. So why did this one feel… important?
She shook her head, annoyed. Ever since the wraith had touched her, she had been plagued by wisps of memory. Nothing solid, just snatches of a song that might have been a lullaby, the feel of a small hand in hers; frustrating glimpses of a forgotten time. She looked down at the cats. ‘Well? What do you want?’
The cats scampered away. She followed them. They led her along winding paths, through a field of fallen pillars and crushed tombs. She heard the voices of her fellow warriors, echoing through the ruin. A crowd of Stormcasts and several mortal priests were gathered around a small, angry shape. ‘Where is he? Where did he go?’ Elya screamed, pounding small fists against a hapless Stormcast’s armour. The warrior held his arms a safe distance from the child, perhaps worried about accidentally injuring her. ‘Bring him back!’
The cats scattered into the dark as one of the priests noticed her arrival and bowed low, making way. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.
A Liberator looked at her. One of the ones who had arrived with Dathus. ‘The child – she somehow got past the traps. Our orders–’
‘Our orders are to ward against the dead. Not the living. Let her go.’
‘But–’
Elya squirmed out of her captor’s grip and darted towards Calys. ‘Where is he?’ she cried. ‘Why isn’t he here?’
Calys sank down to one knee, and the child rushed into her unprepared arms. Instinctively, the Liberator-Prime caught and held her. The child felt fragile in her grip, like a thing of spun glass, and small. So small. Murmuring soothingly, she smoothed the girl’s tangled hair. The torn edges of her memory fluttered again across her mind’s eye. It was as if she had lived this moment before, many times. Calys wondered if somewhere in Shyish there were children with her eyes. And if so, did they remember her at all? She pushed the thought aside. ‘Why are you here, Elya? It is not safe.’
‘Where is he?’ Elya glared up at her, on the cusp of panic. She seemed to realise for the first time who she was speaking to. Tear tracks cut through the mask of filth that covered her thin features as she tried to free herself from Calys’ grip. Uncertain, Calys released her. The child backed away, features sharp with fear and fatigue.
‘You mean the lord-castellant?’ None of the other Stormcasts would meet her gaze, as she looked around helplessly. ‘He… I… Child, he is…’
Elya stiffened. ‘He’s gone, isn’t he?’ she said, in a voice old beyond her years. ‘The nicksouls got him. He said they wouldn’t, but they did. The way they got my mother.’
Calys nodded and pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart still hurt, where the wraith had touched it. ‘Yes.’
The child’s eyes were dry, as if she had cried all the tears in her. ‘Father says you come back, when you die. Like Mother.’
Something in the way she said it caused Calys’ heart to spasm. ‘No. We do not come back the way… the way your mother did. But sometimes we do come back.’
‘Will he come back?’
‘If Sigmar wills it.’
‘Will I come back, when I die?’
‘I…’ Calys trailed off. How did one answer such a question? Instead, she opted to avoid it entirely. ‘Your father will be worried. It is still dangerous on the streets. You must go home.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Someone will take you home.’ Then, a moment later, ‘I will take you home.’
The child frowned. ‘You don’t know where I live.’ It almost sounded like a question.
‘You will show me.’