Achillus grunted. ‘Someone I had not thought to see here. Things must be dire, indeed.’ He and Lynos shared a look. Calys could tell the lord-celestant was as puzzled as she was.
Lynos looked at Orius. ‘Brother, they wear your heraldry.’
Orius frowned and shook his head. ‘Even so, I do not recognise them.’
At the head of the column came a warrior all in gold, save for his azure robes and cloak. He bore a staff in one hand and rode atop a storm-grey gryph-charger. The great beast squalled in challenge as it loped down the wide steps with a familiar feline grace. Like its smaller cousin, the gryph-hound, the great beast was a blend of cat and bird, save that it was large enough to bear an armoured Stormcast on its back with ease. Its bifurcated tail lashed as it descended, and its rear hooves thudded as they struck the steps.
Behind the beast and its rider came phalanx upon phalanx of similarly clad warriors. Some bore blade and staff, others wielded heavy shields and maces that crackled with aetheric energies. Behind them came warriors in pale robes, bearing baroque crossbows.
As the gryph-charger touched the bottom step, the beast leapt forwards, as if enjoying its sudden freedom. It bounded towards the city’s delegation, screeching in challenge. Calys saw the mortals pale, and the Freeguild representative instinctively grasped for the hilt of his sword. She didn’t fault him – a hungry gryph-charger was a match for most things that walked or crawled in the realms. A normal man had little chance against one.
The rider hauled on the reins, and the beast slid to a halt, its back hooves drawing sparks from the plaza stones. The Stormcast slid easily from the gryph-charger’s back, and strode towards the waiting delegation, staff in hand. ‘I am Lord-Arcanum Knossus Heavensen. I come bearing the word and wrath of the God-King of Azyr, Sigmar Heldenhammer. Glymmsforge stands imperilled. But it shall not fall. Not while I stand with it.’ His voice boomed out across the plaza.
‘Sacrosanct Chamber,’ Achillus murmured, glancing at Dathus, who nodded tersely.
‘Then the worst is yet to come,’ the lord-relictor said.
Lynos and Orius met the newcomer. After a moment’s hesitation, the three warriors exchanged handclasps. Knossus pulled his helmet off, and Calys noticed an immediate resemblance between his tattooed features and the great statues. She wondered if the mortals who bowed so respectfully saw it as well. She thought that perhaps a few of them did, given their hasty glances between the newcomer and the nearest likeness.
The last Glymm had returned to his city, in its hour of need.
Pharus awoke in darkness.
It was not a true awakening. Not a slow climb from sleep. Instead, it was akin to a candle being lit. One moment, nothing. Then, light. Awareness. Weight. Pain.
He tried to collect his scattered thoughts. They slipped through his grasp like frightened fish. He remembered some things but not others. He knew his name, but not who he was. What he was. It was there, dancing around the edge of his consciousness, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. He looked around.
Faint motes of purple light danced along the air, casting an amethyst haze across a sea of shattered pillars and broken stones. Something about his surroundings was familiar, but he could not say why. Instinctively, he looked up. He didn’t recognise the stars.
He was shrouded in heavy chains, pitted with age and hairy with mould. He tried to shrug them off but found that he could barely move them, no matter how much he thrashed. The air was thick with dust and smoke, but he had no difficulty breathing. A moment later, he realised that it was because he wasn’t breathing at all. He looked down at himself. Something was wrong. He couldn’t focus on his limbs, on his body. As if he were no more substantial than a mirage. But he hurt all over. It felt as if he had swallowed an ember, and it was slowly burning its way through him.
‘Where… where am I?’ he croaked. His voice sounded odd. Broken. Like a distorted echo. And something out in the dark replied. A murmuring whisper, as of many voices speaking swiftly and quietly. Then came the hiss-scrape of bones on stone. Lights appeared in the dark. Not motes, but flickering, indigo flames.
The creatures were dead, their crumbling forms wreathed in purple fire. As they drew close, the dark retreated. Pharus saw that he was chained atop a shattered dais that might once have belonged in a temple. Glimmering dust heaped against the sides in untidy dunes and scraped against his chains as the breeze kicked up.
Despite the macabre appearance of the newcomers, Pharus felt no fear. Even as they gathered about him, and the heat of their flames washed over him. He knew that he should, but instead felt only a sense of resignation. As if this were somehow expected. Unavoidable.
‘Inevitable.’
The word hung like the peal of a bell. Pharus jerked in his chains as a tall form stepped out of the dark and followed the burning creatures up onto the dais. The skeletal being, clad in robes and armour, and clutching a staff, drew close, and fiery corpses drew back, to make way. ‘That is the word you are looking for, I believe.’
‘Who…?’
‘Who am I, or who are you?’ A fleshless hand extended, and Pharus flinched back. ‘The answer is the same, save for details. I am Arkhan the Black, Mortarch of Sacrament. I am the Hand of Nagash. When I speak, it is with his voice. When I act, it is with his will.’
Something coalesced within Pharus’ mind. ‘Shyish. I am in Shyish.’
‘Yes. And you are Pharus Thaum. Once of Azyr. Now of Shyish.’
Pharus shook his head. ‘I… no. No, I am not – I…’ The chains seemed heavier all of a sudden. The world seemed to grow thin at the edges. He felt stretched out of shape. He shook his head, trying to focus. ‘Why am I here?’
‘You are dead.’
The word sliced through him. ‘No.’ The denial was instinctive. Again, he tried to throw off the chains, as he felt certain he should have been able to do. He had been strong once, stronger than this. Or had that merely been a dream? Everything was muddled – foggy. It was as if he were watching things from a distance.
‘It was not a dream,’ Arkhan said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘But as you have shed the mortal coil, so too have you shed the strength that came with it. The spark of the divine that once ran through you, now consumes you. Can you feel it?’
Pharus could. It wasn’t an ember now, but a full fire, crawling up through his insides, spreading through the hollows of his non-existent bones. If he had no body, why did he hurt so? ‘What have you done to me?’ he snarled, still struggling futilely. Rage flared in him, a hungry, howling wrath that made his chains clatter and his not-limbs ache.
‘Nothing, yet.’ Arkhan extended his staff and used the tip to lift Pharus’ chin, somehow, despite the insubstantial nature of his form. ‘You are shapeless, still. Held to a familiar form only by the chains that bind you. Soon, they will not be necessary.’ He stepped back, and Pharus slumped, pulled down by the weight of the chains.
‘Who am I?’ he muttered, trying to force his scattered thoughts to coalesce. It was hard. The anger made it hard to focus. He saw broken images – a necropolis. Warriors in black armour. A child. ‘Elya?’ he whispered. Was that her name? Who was she? More images now, growing firmer in his mind. A woman and child. Blood on pale stone. A cat’s eye, gleaming in the dark. A great chamber. Lightning slamming into him, filling him, remaking him. ‘Sigmar,’ he groaned, and the name burned as it passed his lips. ‘I was… I… Why am I not reforged?’