‘They are wary,’ Calys corrected, without looking at him. ‘They have weathered cataclysms, if not so far-reaching, before. The underworlds are less stable than most places.’ She caught sight of a pale face, watching through the gaps in a boarded-up window. The face vanished a moment later.
‘The lamplighters have been out, at least,’ Dathus said.
‘It is almost morning,’ Calys said, without looking at him. It was hard to tell, these days. Since the necroquake, the sky rarely brightened beyond the colour of a new bruise. Dark clouds hung thick above the Zircona Desert, and not even the highest spires of Glymmsforge pierced them. She’d begun to wonder if the sun was even still there.
As if reading her thoughts, Dathus gave a harsh laugh. ‘I’ve long since given up trying to tell. Day and night are one and the same, now. And I fear it will be that way for some time.’ The lord-relictor sounded tired, but moved with brisk energy.
Since the cataclysm, he and Calys and the others had worked to reseal every open tomb and shattered alcove in the catacombs. Luckily, the Ten Thousand Tombs themselves had remained inviolate. Whatever magic sealed them still retained its potency. But the mortal priests tasked with securing the chains and saying the prayers of binding had reported sounds from within some. As if whatever terrors were contained within them were slowly beginning to stir.
Dathus had grown increasingly taciturn, as if mentally preparing himself for the worst. But at the moment, he seemed positively ebullient. Calys had allowed herself to hope that the worst might be behind them. Especially since word had come from Lord-Celestant Lynos that reinforcements were on their way.
Glymmsforge had been under siege since the quake. The dead had risen in the city’s burying grounds, despite the precautions taken to prevent that very thing. Deadwalkers roamed the slums, preying on the poor. Flay-braggarts and roof-walkers prowled the tomb yards of the aristocracy. Black hounds had been seen loping through the walls of Mere Gate, their ghostly howls causing the waters to turn to ice.
Worse were the tales brought to the city by the ever-increasing numbers of refugees, seeking safety behind high walls. The dead had never rested easy in this realm, but the sheer number of ravenous spirits and shambling corpses now flooding the underworld was unheard of in the annals of Lyria.
Shyish was the Realm of Death, and there was not a stone in it that did not have its own ghost. And now, it seemed as if all of those ghosts were awake and thirsty for the blood of the living. Reports from Fort Alenstahdt said that the packs of deadwalkers that roamed the desert were growing in number, and that the great wagon-fortresses of the Zirc nomads were beginning to circle, as if in preparation for a storm.
‘The child was back again, yesterday,’ Dathus said suddenly.
Calys didn’t react. ‘What child?’ She felt the gazes of Tamacus and the other Liberators in her cohort flick towards her and then quickly away.
‘I caught her creeping among the highest tombs, watching me.’
‘How many cats were with her this time?’ Tamacus said, before Calys could silence him. She glared at him, and he bowed his head in silent apology.
‘More than I felt comfortable confronting on my own,’ Dathus said. It was hard to tell if that was a jest. He drew close to Calys. ‘I got the impression she was looking for you. Why?’
Despite herself, Calys glanced at the lord-relictor. Elya had become a nuisance, of late. She’d thought – hoped – the child would avoid the catacombs for a time. At least until Pharus’ return. If he returned. Instead, it seemed as if she lived in the tunnels now. Then, having seen the hovel she and her father inhabited, perhaps the tunnels were preferable. They lived in the Gloaming – the slums that clung to the outer edge of the city.
It was an unpleasant place. Hovels made from scavenged material pressed up against cheap rooming houses and taverns that were little more than benches and some tents. Most were refugees from elsewhere in Shyish, seeking a better life under the aegis of Azyr. Others were the poor of Azyrheim and a hundred other great cities, seeking new opportunities in a younger metropolis.
Elya’s remaining parent was a wastrel lamplighter named Duvak. He’d already been well on his way to drinking himself into a stupor the first time she’d escorted the child home. He’d panicked at the sight of Calys and begun screaming. She wasn’t sure why. Elya had managed to quiet him, with an ease that spoke to long experience. Calys had left swiftly, after eliciting a promise from the child that she wouldn’t be caught in the catacombs again. A promise the child had since skirted around the edges of.
‘Is that what she said?’ she asked carefully. ‘That she was looking for me?’
‘She said nothing. I intuited. Briaeus and the others have seen her often. She is always quick to scamper out of reach, save when you are around. I’m told you’ve escorted her home twice since the necroquake. Unless I am mistaken, that is not one of your duties, Liberator-Prime.’
‘The child should not be down in the dark.’
‘Pharus allowed her to come and go as she pleased. Or so Briaeus swears.’
‘Pharus is not here.’ She looked away. He was right to chastise her. It was a dereliction of duty, whatever her rationalisations, whatever she had promised. ‘I shall ignore her in the future, lord-relictor. My apologies.’
‘I said nothing about ignoring her. I merely asked why she might be looking for you.’ He looked away. ‘Mortals are a gift fraught with heartache. We who fight in their name exist outside time, while they are slaves to it.’ He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. When he continued, his voice had lost some of its harsh edge. ‘There was a boy – a son of one of the Freeguild officers who ward this city. His name was – is – Fosko. When he was a child, I used to bring him trinkets to occupy him, whenever we had need to confer with his father on military matters. He reminded me of someone, I think. A son, a brother – I cannot say.’ He fell silent. Calys looked at him.
‘What happened to him?’
‘He got old, Calys. In the blink of an eye, he went from a child to a man, weathered by time and war. He joined his father’s regiment. He is a captain in their ranks, now. Soon, he will die. Either from natural causes or battle. When I look at him, I still see the boy he was, rather than the man he has become. And it pains me, Calys. For I can preserve the souls of my brothers and sisters, but not him.’ He gestured about him. ‘Not any of them. We can but protect them for a short time, and then it is in the hands of Sigmar.’
‘Is that your way of telling me not to get attached?’
‘If you like.’
Calys shook her head. ‘It’s not my idea, I assure you. She seems fixated on those catacombs. She says the cats lead her where they will.’
Dathus nodded. ‘That may well be the case. The cats of Glymmsforge are strange beasts, even in a realm full of such. Perhaps I should speak to her.’ He paused. ‘If I can catch her, that is.’ Another pause. ‘I suspect my mortis armour frightens her.’
Calys almost laughed, but managed to restrain herself. The thought of Dathus trying to catch the child as she sneaked about the catacombs was a deeply amusing one. Thunder rumbled through the city, shaking the rooftops and setting birds to flight. Lightning flashed, somewhere above them. Dathus gestured with his staff. ‘The Shimmergate opens, sister. We had best proceed swiftly, else Lynos will wonder at our absence.’
They moved quickly through the streets. Calys felt the eyes of the citizenry on them the entire way. Despite her earlier words, not all of the gazes were wary. Some were indeed fearful. But that fear was not directed at the dead. There had been purges in the past. Revolts against Azyr’s rule were not common, but neither were they unknown.