Arkhan silently extended his staff east. Pharus turned. Dust clouds rolled across the far end of the avenue, momentarily blotting the black sun from sight. When they cleared, Pharus saw, at the far end of the avenue, an immense structure of black shadeglass. It resembled a dais, but was leagues across and surmounted by a towering throne, taller than any gargant, and circled by flocks of carrion birds. A great figure reclined atop the throne, and Pharus recognised the being who had remade him.
Nagash. Unspoken, the name echoed through him regardless, down into the hollows of his spirit. The confusion he felt, the doubt and anger, it vanished all in an instant. The storm in him subsided, like a startled beast. Hoar frost crept suddenly across the panes of his armour, and he felt a chill digging into the marrow of his non-existent bones. Cries echoed up around him, so many as to occasionally merge into a single, great howl. He stepped back as something that might have been fear stirred in him.
The Undying King sat on his throne, amid a slow typhoon of souls, swirling about him in desperate celebration. Broken skeletons, crawling along the avenue, reached out to the distant figure as if in supplication. Pharus felt the pull himself. Impossible to ignore or defy. It was as if there were a great weight pressing down on him and pulling him all at once. Somehow, all things bent towards Nagash, even the winds and the light of the distant stars. It was as if he were a hole in the realm, and all that existed fell into him, to be lost forevermore.
He groaned, and looked away, unable to bear such awful majesty for long. ‘He is all, and all are one in him,’ Arkhan said. ‘Do not resist. Let the silence of him fill you and smother all doubt in its cradle.’
‘I hear something.’ Pharus cradled his head. ‘Like a swarm of insects, rattling in my skull.’ He twitched, trying to escape the sound. ‘Is that him?’
Arkhan gave a rattling laugh. ‘Come. He calls to you, and you must answer.’ He stepped onto the avenue, and Pharus followed. The spirits that huddled along either side set up a great wailing, which Pharus thought must be akin to applause. A hundred thousand souls clustered among the ruins. Some were nothing more than bobbing motes of witch-light, while others seemed almost alive, save for their pallor.
More souls drifted down like ash from above, falling towards Nagashizzar from the dark skies. Some of these joined the throng that lined the avenue, while others were caught by the wind and whisked away, trailing despairing moans in their wake.
‘Where are they all coming from?’ Pharus asked.
‘Everywhere and nowhere. Wherever a mortal’s story begins, it ends here, and here is where all men must eventually come. Some will stay in Nagashizzar, caught fast by their crimes. Others will pass through the Sepulchral Gate and into whatever underworld calls them home. As it is inscribed there – by the manner of their death shall ye know them.’
The avenue quickly became crowded by swaying deadwalkers and eerily still deathrattle warriors. They made way for Arkhan, their ranks shuffling aside as if shoved back by invisible hands. Arkhan led Pharus through them, towards the great dais at the end of the avenue, where Malendrek and the other deathlords stood waiting for the word of Nagash.
Pharus felt their gazes on him as he approached, and he wondered what they made of him. Yaros seemed as stoic as any skeleton, the hollow sockets of his eyes burning dimly. Arul, the Lady of All Flesh, greeted them softly, her voice a liquid slur.
‘Lord Arkhan – it has been too long since you have visited my charnel gardens. They wax vibrant these days.’ She held out a mouldering hand, and Arkhan took it with courtly aplomb. His fleshless jaws brushed across her bruised knuckles.
‘I am sure their fragrance is as potent as ever, my lady.’
Her flat, milky eyes fixed on Pharus. ‘And who is this handsome spirit? He wears the raiment of a deathlord, and yet I do not know him.’ She held out her hand to Pharus. He hesitated, but only for a moment. He took it and bent. Had he been alive, he thought the stench of her would have choked him. She was a dead thing and stank of rot.
‘He is called Pharus Thaum, and he is newly made,’ Arkhan said.
‘Ah, a new soul. How charming.’ She reached up and traced crumbling fingers across the side of Pharus’ helm. ‘He smells of… lightning.’
Malendrek stirred. The burning slits of his eyes, visible within his helm, narrowed. ‘What game are you playing, Mortarch?’ he rasped. ‘The glory to come will be mine and no other’s. Certainly not any pet of yours.’
Arkhan turned. ‘Remember to whom you speak, Knight of Shrouds. You are not so high in our lord’s esteem that I cannot rend you asunder and reweave your soul into a more fitting shape.’ Malendrek drew himself up, one hand falling to the hilt of his blade.
‘Careful, Black One,’ he said. ‘You serve as his hand for the moment, but there are worthier souls in creation.’
Arkhan laughed. ‘Your ambition is admirable, though wasted, Knight of Shrouds. If you wish to supersede me, you must get in line. Be warned though, I am told it is quite lengthy.’
Malendrek hissed. ‘Speak, then. Who is this? Some broken liche of your circle?’ He looked at Pharus. ‘Arul is right. He stinks of lightning.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Wait. I know him, now. Pharus Thaum – guardian of the dark places. One of Sigmar’s revenants. Another who received the blessings meant for me. And now you are here. The wheel of fate surely turns in strange directions.’
Pharus gazed at him in incomprehension. ‘Do we– did we know each other?’ Something in the creature’s words stoked the storm in him. Amethyst lightning sparked and crawled across the gaps in his armour.
Malendrek’s eyes blazed bright as his pale hand fell to the hilt of his blade. ‘We fought side by side, against the soulblight warlord, Vaslbad. In Glymmsforge.’
‘What was your name?’
‘You know my name. I was the commander of the southernmost gate. The slayer of the Slender Knight. I was a hero.’ Bitterness swelled in the dead man’s voice. There was naked longing there, a desire now impossible to fulfil.
‘I do not recall you,’ Pharus said. Then, more maliciously, ‘Perhaps you were not as important as you claim.’ He was surprised by his own venom and the pleasure he took in saying the words.
Malendrek shrieked and made to draw his blade. Arkhan stepped between them, his eyes glowing with a witch-light greater than Malendrek’s own. ‘Will you strike a servant of your master without cause?’ He slammed his staff down, and amethyst fires sprang up. ‘Are you a living man, to let hot anger stir your turgid blood?’
Malendrek snarled curses. Pharus reached for his own blade, but a glance from Arkhan stopped him. ‘Cease,’ the Mortarch of Sacrament intoned. Malendrek drifted back and glared at them.
Before he could speak, Yaros gave a dusty chuckle. The wight king stood nearby, watching the confrontation. ‘One more pawn, or one less, the game is set already. And the true winner sits there, watching us play at influence.’ He raised his axe. ‘Hail, Nagash. Hail, O Undying King.’
Pharus turned. Nagash was indeed watching them, slumped on his throne, his talons pressed together in a steeple before his bowed head. The Undying King sat as if engaged in some inconceivable calculation. Spirits writhed about him, whispering and singing hymns to his might and mercy. Massive, skeletal morghasts crouched to either side of his throne, their cruel glaives held ready to defend their master.
Nagash flicked a finger, and what Pharus had at first taken to be a pile of bones and rags heaped on the wide, rough-hewn steps of the dais, rose awkwardly to its feet. Arul clapped her hands gently. ‘Oh, how delightful – he has resurrected dear old Blood-a-bones to amuse us. It has been so long.’
Blood-a-bones proved to be a tatterdemalion of colour and injury. A court jester, clad in rotting costume and dented bells. He twitched up and bowed low. ‘Greetings, gentles all,’ he shrilled in a childish voice. ‘Our king welcomes you to his hall – see there, the stars shine through the holes in the roof, and the dead sweep away the dust on the floor.’ He flung up a broken hand and spun in a madcap circle, jaw sagging. ‘He strives, oh he strove, to make it pretty for you.’