Pharus sank to his knees. ‘Nagash,’ he croaked.
‘Yes. I am Nagash. I am the end of all flesh.’ Each word was a hammer blow. The bones that made up the ground rattled with his laughter. ‘And I am your lord and master, little spirit. Whatever your name, you belong to me. Sigmar has given up all claim to you. Bow, and be born anew.’
‘No.’ Pharus turned away, the word like ash on his lips. The mist swirled about him, hemming him in. He could no longer see the faces, but he could hear their cries. He wanted to weep, but tears did not come. Nagash’s face seemed to leer at him from every direction.
‘Yes. Sigmar has cast you aside. And now, in my benevolence, I take you up. Bow, little spirit. Bow, and rejoin those you love.’
‘No,’ Pharus said, but the denial sounded weak. He heard the sound of wings again and felt the world quake. Something circled the spiked trees, and the screams grew louder. Or perhaps there were more of them now. Were those whom he’d left behind among them? He staggered, trying to reach the trees, but they receded further from him with every step, and the red rain fell thick and stinking upon him. He could barely see for the blood.
‘Do you deny the truth of your own eyes, then? Look. See. Memories are wounds in the psyche, little spirit. They leave deep scars and tell stories, if one but has the wit to see and listen. Look. Look.’
A massive hand, as cold as the grave, encircled his head, forcing him to look. Sigmar’s face, as vast as the open sky, was staring down at him, from some impossible distance. Those great eyes, as cold as the arctic wind, met his own, and Pharus felt himself shrivel beneath them. Sigmar had judged him and found him wanting. That was why he had been cast down. Wasn’t it?
‘Sigmar is not just,’ Nagash intoned. ‘Sigmar is a deceiver. Treacherous and cruel. He takes what he wishes and leaves nothing but ash in his wake. Do you see?’
Pharus remembered it all, now. He could still feel the fire of the Anvil, burning his soul clean. It had eaten away at all that he had been, from his last moment to his first, and he’d thought it might consume him entirely. He’d burned and become something else. Burning and becoming, over and over again. The pain had been too great, and when the world had begun to shake, he’d ripped himself from the flames, unable to bear them any longer.
‘Because they were changing you into something you were not. They were burning away all that you had been, and changing it into something… simpler. Easier to grasp. A tool. A lie.’ Nagash’s grip tightened, and Pharus squirmed, instinctively trying to free himself.
‘No,’ he said, his voice sounding high and frightened to his ears. ‘No. That’s not right. That’s not what happened.’
‘But it is. Look. Look close. See the betrayal.’
The mist swirled, and for a moment, he was elsewhere – a great chamber, which echoed with the screams of the newly born and the heat of creation’s fire. The pillars of heaven shook as abominable thunder sounded in the dark. Figures, clad in gleaming war-plate – they had tried to stop him, to thrust him back into the fire.
Pain…
Thunder coursing through him…
The feeling of armour crumpling beneath his fists, the sound of their screams…
He’d crushed them and cast them down. He felt no pleasure at this, only shame. Why could they not see that he did not wish to go? Why did they not understand his agony? Why could he not make them understand?
I name thee Pharus Thaum, the warrior cried, as he cast his lightning…
More pain, so much pain…
He felt again the panic – the nauseating fear – the pain – as he lurched for freedom. Away from the storm, the pain.
‘The stars, the tempest, they called out to you, though you did not know how or why, only that you must reach them and find an end to pain,’ Nagash said. ‘But it was not the stars you heard. It was me. It was my voice, tolling you down to where you were always meant to be. You were born in this realm, as all living things are born only to die. And you recognised that truth, in your torment.’
‘No,’ Pharus said, his voice barely a whisper. Nagash’s grip tightened.
‘Yes,’ Nagash said. ‘You sought to find peace in the dark of creation’s light. Was that not your right? Did you not deserve it – you served and fought and died, and now only desired peace. Silence. Oblivion. Not to burn and become someone new, someone else.
‘But they would not stop. Again and again, they tried to drag you back. They took those you loved from you, and then, when that was not enough, they sought to take all memory of them. To leave you empty, save for the storm.’
Pharus twisted, feeling again the agony that grew with every passing moment. He could not think – could not see, could not feel anything save pain – and then… and then…‘Sigmar,’ he said, half pleading. He reached out, stretching a hand that burned and smoked. Reaching towards Sigmar. Rising above him, a mountain walked. A titan made from starlight, in whose voice echoed the litany of war.
Sigmar, looking down at him, his eyes… sad?
‘No,’ Nagash whispered. ‘Disappointed. A craftsman, briefly examining a broken tool, before casting it aside.’
‘No,’ Pharus said. ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘But he did. Sigmar saw you, saw your pain and looked away.’ Nagash laughed, and the sound tore strips from Pharus’ soul. ‘Why did he look away? Had you not served him?’
‘I… I…’ Pharus tried to find the words but could not. The question filled him.
‘You were no longer of use, and so you were cast aside,’ Nagash said. ‘The fate of all useless things, in his realm. But you have use yet, Pharus Thaum. I will remake you. I will cast you into fires of unlight and forge a weapon from your tattered shroud. If you but bow to me, I will give you back what you have lost.’
Nagash released him, and Pharus fell onto his hands and knees among the bones. Broken skulls stared up at him, witch-light dancing in their sockets. Again, he heard screams and smelled smoke. His limbs trembled, as he felt the hammer-stroke of his final blow, as the city – his city – burned. What was its name? Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he remember anything about the time before the fire and the Anvil?
‘Why can’t I see their faces?’ he croaked.
The skulls spoke with Nagash’s voice. ‘The memory was stolen. Sigmar stripped it from you, as he snatched you away from the predestined end of your story. He took of you what he needed and cast the rest aside.’ The bones began to shift and roll beneath him. He staggered upright, trying to find stable footing. His legs sank into the clattering, churning mass, and something sharp dug into his calves. He screamed – or thought he did – and clawed at the bones, trying to haul himself free.
Pharus looked up and stretched a bloody hand to the starlit expanse now visible above. ‘Sigmar, help me,’ he begged. Sigmar gazed down at him. His eyes were not cold now, but hot. They had swelled to encompass suns, and their glare beat down on him, burning him as the Anvil had done. Sigmar spoke, but Pharus could not understand the words – it came as the roaring of a tempest, driving him flat, deeper into the churning maelstrom of bones. Fleshless hands tore at him, clinging to his limbs, dragging him down.