Memories circled his awareness like a flock of crows. As they dived and spun, he recalled his life in disordered bits and pieces. The smell of a garden in the cool of evening. The weight of a practice blade, and his father’s voice, cautioning him. And… a woman’s hand, in his. Her lips, close to his ear. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to force the pieces into place. He smelled smoke and heard the crash of gates being battered open. The scream of a woman – the same woman as before – and… children? No, a child. ‘Elya,’ he said again. Why was that name important? Who was she? A child’s face swam before his eyes, but was soon supplanted by another. Two children, but only one name.
Then, the lightning. Again, the lighting. Dragging him away from the garden, from the woman and her child – his child – away from it all. Away even from his memories. They slipped out of reach, like smoke on the wind. ‘They are dead.’
‘All things die,’ Arkhan said.
Anger burned in him, and amethyst lightning crawled across the chains that bound him. ‘I might have saved them.’
Arkhan nodded. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Why did he take me, then?’
Pharus felt the liche study him. Arkhan made a sound that might have been laughter. ‘He needed weapons. And you were to hand. You are chattel, little spirit. Best get used to it.’
‘No. No. I…’ Pharus shook his head, trying to clear it. The lightning snarled and snapped like an enraged beast, and the chains began to smoke. ‘Am I a prisoner?’
‘No more so than myself. You will bear a blade of black iron and shadeglass, shaped by the heat of dying stars, in Nagash’s name. Does this please you, little spirit?’
Pharus glared at the liche, trying to muster his strength. There was a heat, building in him. A dull pain, made worse by the lightning that flickered across his form. ‘I feel no pleasure. Only pain.’
‘It will pass. It is not true pain, only its echo. Soon, you will forget.’
‘I will believe that when the fire beneath my skin goes out.’ Pharus clawed at himself, to no avail. His form wavered and billowed in its chains, like a plume of smoke. It felt as if there were a storm crackling inside him, seeking freedom. ‘I have no flesh, and yet it burns.’
‘Is that so surprising? Your soul fell through the firmament. It burst through the walls between realms and burned itself a path back here – to your place of creation.’ Arkhan chuckled. ‘You should be proud. Few souls could have survived such a fall.’
‘I did not survive.’ The words dredged up a new geyser of pain, and Pharus screamed and thrashed, rattling his chains.
Arkhan ignored his display. ‘You still speak.’
‘So do you,’ Pharus hissed. ‘And you are not alive.’ The chains creaked as he fought to stand. The spirits that had accompanied Arkhan drew back as the iron nails holding the chains pinned to the dais began to pull loose.
‘And yet, I exist. Survival is persistence.’ Arkhan circled him, like a trader studying a bit of livestock. ‘The power of Azyr strengthened you. Fortified your soul. And now Nagash will make use of what Azyr has cast aside.’
‘Be quiet,’ Pharus snarled. ‘I was not… I wasn’t cast aside. I… I…’ His thoughts were a confusing tangle. He remembered the God-King’s eyes and the disappointment in them. It had pierced him, made him hesitate. Made him fall. He threw back his head and howled. Lightning licked out, scorching the nearby stones.
‘Yes,’ Arkhan said. ‘You remember.’
‘Quiet,’ Pharus roared, jerking towards the liche. His form blurred and crackled, threatening to come apart. He felt the lightning course through him, and he groaned. It ached like a wound gone septic. The chains held him back, despite his frenzy, trapping the storm within him.
‘You remember. That is good. It hurts. That is also good. Let the memory of that pain sustain you, warrior. For all too soon, you will forget it.’ Arkhan raised his staff and slammed it down. An amethyst light spilled from it, driving back the shadows, revealing what lurked among the ruins.
Corpses stood, watching the dais in awful silence. So many, Pharus could not count them all. Among the tottering carrion flitted phantasmal shapes, wrapped in chains or bearing implements of execution. The burning spirits that surrounded Pharus on the dais gripped the links of his chains, hampering his struggles. He fought against them, but to no avail. They had the strength of the dead.
‘They come to honour you, for you are unique among the dead,’ Arkhan said. ‘And not just them. Look.’ The Mortarch extended his hand as something passed silently among the ranks of the dead. ‘They come bearing gifts.’
Robed and hooded, with tall antlers the colour of obsidian crowning their heads, a line of women – or things shaped like women – wound its way towards where Pharus stood, chained. He stared in wonder and horror as they drew near. What was left of his spirit shuddered, as he saw pale flowers sprout in their wake and wither before the passing of their shadows. From within their hoods, pale faces, blanched of all colour, looked out at the world with eyes as black as the nadir itself. They came barefoot and burdened with weapons and armour, wrapped in burial shrouds.
‘The daughters of the underworld,’ Arkhan intoned. ‘They have come, bearing the tools with which you will break through the gates you once defended.’ He lifted his staff. ‘Kneel, spirit. Kneel and receive the gifts of the Undying King.’
Something sparked within Pharus. ‘I do not kneel,’ he said, raggedly. ‘I did not bow…’ Something in Arkhan’s words stirred yet more memories. He remembered the necropolis again, but more, he remembered that he had defended it – or defended something else from it. ‘I did not bow.’
At Arkhan’s gesture, burning spirits retreated, hauling on the chains as they did so. Pharus was dragged to his knees a moment later. Arkhan looked down at him. ‘It seems that you do. And it seems that you did. Else we would not be here now.’
Pharus snarled and tried to rise, but the chains were impossibly heavy. He had no form to bind, no body to bear the weight, and yet he did. He bowed his head, suddenly weary. He was so tired, more tired than he had ever been in life. This place bore down on him, crushing all thought of resistance. He looked again at the approaching women. ‘Who – what – are they?’
‘The wives, daughters, sisters and mothers of those who would not bend knee to Nagash. Ancient kings and prideful chieftains, highborn queens and savage warlords – they defied him, so he took what they loved most and made them love him. He bent their souls into shapes more pleasing to him and made them his chatelaines. They rule the lesser underworlds in his name, watching over the forests of souls, and they guard those relics he deems to have no immediate purpose, until he calls for them once more.’ Arkhan looked at him. ‘It is a high honour he does you to call them forth, in such a manner.’
Pharus said nothing as the spectral women drew closer. Spectres retreated before them, giving them a wide berth. Vicious as the spirits were, these creatures were worse. The air twisted about them, forming strange patterns. The flowers that bloomed and died in their wake whispered shrilly for the entirety of their short existences. Worst of all were their faces – impossibly young, with eyes like black pits. They were ancient things, wearing pretty masks, and Pharus could not meet their gazes.
They ascended the dais, moving silently. Arkhan met the one in the lead and bowed respectfully. ‘Welcome, O brides of night, O enemies of the day. Welcome, ye maidens, mothers and crones, those who go to and fro amongst the places of tombs, and by paths of sullen moonlight. Welcome, thou who does rejoice in the howling of jackals and the spilling of warm blood.’ Arkhan struck the stones with his staff. ‘I bid thee welcome three times, and three times that span shall your binding be lifted for this night’s labours.’