A sigh went through the newcomers, and, as one, they spoke. ‘Greetings, O Prince of Forgotten Deserts, O Lover of Night’s Queen. We have been called, and we have come.’ They knelt among a spill of flowers, creeping across the stones, and lifted their burdens high. ‘We have brought the tokens of our love, and offer them up.’
Arkhan nodded and stepped aside. ‘Gird him, ye daughters of benighted spheres.’
The women rose, their black eyes fixed on Pharus. He forced himself to his feet as they encircled him. ‘Get away from me, hags,’ he spat, giving vent to the anger. They ignored him and began to unwrap the objects they had brought. He looked at Arkhan. ‘I will not let them touch me. I will break them… burn them.’
‘Choice is an illusion.’ Arkhan stepped close. ‘Once, this war-plate was meant for another. A soul like yours, humming with lightning, twisted and broken by years upon the wheel… but not fully. Not to the satisfaction of our lord and master. And so he discarded it, as he does all things that prove to be of no use.’ Arkhan’s gaze flickered. ‘Something to remember, perhaps.’
He caught hold of the chains. ‘Nagash is all, and all are one in Nagash. But do not confuse certainty of purpose with infallibility. The dead can be destroyed as surely as the living, if one knows how. I am the Hand of Death, and I will crush you, if he deems you to be of no further use.’
Enraged, Pharus twisted in his chains, writhing against the hooks that bit into his aethereal form. ‘Free me, and let us see who crushes whom.’ He thrashed, trying to get at the Mortarch. ‘Perhaps it is you who will prove to be of no use, liche.’
Arkhan laughed hollowly and let the chains fall slack. He stepped back and gestured with his staff. The black links burst, and Pharus lunged forwards, free, the storm unfettered. He groped for the Mortarch with crackling talons, wanting nothing more than to rip him limb from limb. Arkhan reached out and caught him – somehow – by the throat. Fleshless fingers tightened, and Pharus’ essence contracted painfully.
‘You are a little thing, and young besides. I have been dead longer than these realms have been alive. Sometimes I think that, perhaps, I was born dead. You are nothing, next to me, as I am nothing, next to him.’ He lifted Pharus easily. Pharus writhed, clawing at Arkhan’s arm. The liche’s sleeve began to smoulder, but he paid it no mind. His grip tightened even more, and Pharus screamed. His lightning, his substance, coiled in on itself, and he felt his soul burn. His screams quavered through the air, and the gathered dead groaned in amusement, or perhaps sympathy.
Arkhan released him. ‘But you have your uses yet, and so I will spare you the chastisement you deserve. I am patient, and perhaps… perhaps you will learn.’ Pharus sank down, his form wavering like a candle-flame caught in a draught. Weakened, he barely struggled as the women went to work, cladding him in his new armour. Wracked by pain, he looked up, seeking the stars, but saw nothing save the vast, hungry black of the sky. An abyss, rising upwards forever.
He looked up at Arkhan. ‘Learn what?’ he asked, more quietly than before. As each piece of war-plate was set in place, the pain began to diminish and so too did his rage. Even so, his soul squirmed at its touch. Somehow, he knew that it was a cage, more than a protection. But he desired an end to the pain more than freedom.
‘Your place.’ Arkhan watched the proceedings with a flickering gaze. ‘Nagash yearns for order. Only when the cosmos is united under a singular consciousness, with every spirit and body bent towards the directives of that consciousness, will he be satisfied. Only when all things know their proper place, will he be content.’
‘All are one in Nagash,’ the women intoned, as they worked. ‘Nagash is all.’
Pharus stared at them. ‘But I still think… I still have a will. A mind.’
‘Whose mind? Whose will? Nagash is vast and contains multitudes.’ Arkhan turned. ‘We are all a part of him, and he acts through us.’
‘Then we are slaves.’
Arkhan looked at him. ‘Something you should be used to. And there is freedom in this sort of slavery. At least it is honest, if nothing else.’
Pharus fell silent. His broken thoughts jangled in his skull like shards of broken glass. The harder he sought to grasp them, the more pain it caused him. He cradled his head. It had no weight. Nothing about him had weight or solidity, save when he concentrated. It was as if he and the world were held separate by unseen walls.
‘I cannot think. I cannot remember. It is as if the past is a foreign country.’
‘You get used to it, in time,’ Arkhan said. ‘As one century bleeds into the next, you will forget that you were ever anything other than what you are now. Once time ceases to have meaning, so too does the past fade and the future become intangible. You will exist in an eternal present, unburdened by worry or regret.’
‘I do not want that.’ He looked away. ‘I was promised something. Nagash promised me something… but I cannot remember what it was.’
Arkhan laughed hollowly. ‘It is not about what you desire. It is about efficiency. Clear your mind of such thoughts. Does a sword think of its time as raw ore, or the day it will be rusty and useless?’
‘Do you feel regret?’ Pharus asked. ‘Do you feel anything that is not his will?’
Arkhan’s eyes blazed suddenly. Then, like a fire burning itself out too quickly, they dimmed. ‘If I do, it is only because he allows it. Nagash is a just god, little spirit.
‘And justice is often cruel.’
Chapter nine
The Living and the Dead
‘It is not seemly for our lord to hide himself away, so,’ Helios said. The Celestor turned, moving swiftly, sword rising. Miska stepped back, out of reach, and thrust her staff towards his abdomen. Helios twisted aside, light on his feet, despite his war-plate.
‘We all seek answers in different ways, brother.’
Around them, the Garden of the Moon stirred with a breeze. The great, silver trees that made up the garden had been caught in the fires that raged across Sigmaron, and many had warped and blackened, as had the pale grasses that grew in their shadow. But they would recover, in time. Aelf treesingers roamed the groves, encouraging new growth, and their lilting song provided accompaniment to the clashing of blades.
Helios’ cohort of Celestors sat or stood nearby, watching the duel. The swordsmen looked less battered than might be expected, given their efforts over the last few days. Then, that was simply the general mark of their competence. Not all of them had eyes for the bout between their Celestor-Prime and the mage-sacristan. Some duelled amongst themselves, while others saw to the care of their weapons.
‘And what is the question?’ Helios thrust his blade like a spear, but without speed or force. Miska tapped the point aside with her knuckles. ‘What gnaws at him so, that he ignores us for days on end and vanishes into a tomb of paper?’
‘The only question that matters,’ she said, whirling her staff towards his ankles. He leapt straight up, avoiding the blow. The watching Celestors applauded cheerfully. ‘The question we were forged to answer. Balthas is diligent. That is no sin, whatever your feelings on the matter.’
‘I do not judge him harshly, sister. I merely think it unwise to allow him to wall himself off from the world and all its wonders.’ He slid towards her, blade whirling. She backed away warily. Helios was as swift as the solar wind for which he’d been named.