‘Dance, jester,’ Nagash intoned.
At his words, the jester capered in awkward circles, as the carrion birds that circled Nagash’s throne pecked at him. His ragged costume was sewn to his mouldering flesh, and bare bone poked through his peeling features. Despite the state of him, he seemed in good humour. He bounced and spun, moving more swiftly than any dead thing ought, and the tarnished bells attached to his costume jangled piercingly. As he whirled, he sang without melody.
‘Our king is kind, so kind, and he will take what grows in every creature’s womb and make it his own,’ the jester screeched. ‘He will make every house a tomb, and as his great hand sweeps across the sea, all the fish will rise with their bellies up. The jackals bow to him, and the birds as well.’ He batted at the birds as they dived for what remained of his eyes. Jackals darted through the ranks of the dead and snapped at his flailing limbs. ‘He leaves a trail of fire across the desert, so that all who seek him might find their way. Rejoice! Rejoice! The Undying King is come again, in all his glory!’
Pharus felt no horror, no disgust at the display, though he knew he ought to. Only curiosity. Was there some message in the jester’s song, or was it merely gibberish? The question vanished from his mind as Nagash gestured once more, and the jester began to twirl faster and faster. He careened from one side to the other, losing bits of himself as he danced. ‘Rejoice! Rejoice! He is all, and we are him, and all are one! Rejoice!’
With a final despairing ululation, the jester collapsed into a heap. Light still burned in the sockets of his skull, but his song was finished. Jackals worried at his carcass, snarling and fighting with one another. Nagash gazed down at the remains in silence.
‘Behold,’ he intoned, in a voice like the grinding of stone. ‘I am risen.’ He looked up, and his burning gaze swept across the ranks arrayed before him. As one, the dead sank to their knees. Pharus found himself drawn down with the others, unable to resist the unspoken command. Like the jester, they moved as the Undying King willed.
Nagash stood. ‘I cast forth my hand and the trees raise up their roots.’ He threw out a talon, and great roots, colourless and sickly looking, erupted from beneath the avenue with a rumble and a roar. They rose high, coiling about nearby pillars, stretching towards the dark sky. Twisted faces blossomed on the pallid bark like fungus. They wailed. Some cursed Nagash’s name, while others begged for mercy. Pharus looked away.
‘Where I set my foot, the earth buckles,’ Nagash continued. He stepped down onto the steps of the dais, and the stone cracked loudly. Dust geysered as he descended, and the ground shook. ‘My gaze boils the sea and my voice calls down the stars. I am risen, and all is silence.’ The words echoed from the pillars. Nagash gestured. ‘Arkhan. Come forth and attend me, my most faithful servant.’
‘I am at your command, my lord, as ever,’ Arkhan called out, as he strode towards the steps leading up to the dais. ‘But speak, and I shall move the realms themselves.’ He climbed to stand beside Nagash. The liche looked tiny, next to his towering master.
‘There is no need, my servant, for I have already done so. I have realigned the heavens themselves.’ Nagash looked down, his flickering gaze fixing on Pharus for a moment, before sliding back to Arkhan. ‘Is this all, then? Am I abandoned by my servants?’
‘Never, my lord. A thousand wars are waged even now, in your name. A hundred deathlords march across the amethyst sands, travelling from the north, the east and the south. Spirit, bone and meat answer your call.’
‘And my Mortarchs?’
Arkhan set his staff and rolled his shoulders in an elegant shrug. ‘They go where they will and kill where they wish. As you made them to do, my lord. Rest assured, they have tendered their apologies for their absence and assure you that they strive ever in your mighty name. They build empires to your glory, O Undying King.’
Nagash gave a rumbling laugh. ‘I am sure that is what they say.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘No matter. The vagaries of the soulblighted do not interest me this day. I seek to raise up new champions and conquer old lands.’ He looked out over the gathered dead. ‘The time has come. Shyish must be cleansed. All who do not kneel before me must be made to do so. As it once was, so shall it be again, forevermore. Stand forth, my Knight of Shrouds.’
Malendrek drifted forwards silently. Nagash stretched out his hand. ‘You sought my favour, Vorgen Malendrek, and thus I have bestowed it. I have made you more than you were and raised you up, so that you might take vengeance for yourself upon those who used you so cruelly. Will you do this for me, my servant?’
‘Speak the name, my lord, and I shall cast them into ruin,’ Malendrek said, in a voice like the cawing of many birds. Pharus thought he detected a note of eagerness in the ghostly warrior’s tone. As if he already knew what Nagash intended to ask of him.
‘Glymmsforge,’ Nagash said. Malendrek gave a lingering sigh. Nagash gestured. ‘The way is already open. A gap in the defences. Use it. Crack the city wide and reclaim it, and the underworld of Lyria, for me.’ Nagash looked at the others. ‘Crelis Arul and Yaros of Dmezny – you shall serve my champion in this. Aid him. Break the city. Glory awaits.’
For a moment, Pharus thought one or the other might protest being subordinated to the ghostly warrior. But neither did. The hierarchy of the dead was set, it seemed – spirit, bone and then meat.
‘And what of your newest servant, my lord?’ Arkhan asked. He gestured to Pharus. ‘One once of Azyr’s heights, now of Shyish’s depths. What task shall he be bent to?’
Nagash turned his lamp-like gaze upon Pharus once more. For long moments, he stared, as if puzzled by the presence of the being before him. Finally, he looked at Arkhan. ‘By your whim was I encouraged to show mercy. Thus, to your whim I yoke him. Let him prove himself worthy of my mercy, howsoever you see fit, my loyal Mortarch. And if he should fail, you shall bear the brunt of my ire.’
Arkhan bowed low. ‘As you command, so must it be, my lord.’
Nagash returned to his throne, and the audience came to an end. The other deathlords turned away to depart, though not without a few backward looks and a glare from Malendrek. Pharus wondered if he’d made an enemy there, and what it meant. He waited, uncertain, as Arkhan descended the steps of the dais. If a skeleton could look pleased, Arkhan did so.
Nagash, for his part, looked neither pleased nor pensive. The fleshless rictus of the Undying King’s features did not change, as he sank back onto his throne in a clamouring of armour and bone. Carrion birds circled him, and swooped down to perch on his shoulders and knees. They set up a raucous chorus, screeching and cawing, as if advising the god of some mischief elsewhere. The jackals began to howl, casting their eerie song to the wind.
Pharus stared up at Nagash and knew, somehow, that the god did not notice him. It was as if, having delivered his commands, his mind had withdrawn to other spheres. Arkhan confirmed this, a moment later.
‘Shyish stirs, and so the reaper must ready his scythe,’ the liche said, as he joined Pharus. ‘You and the others will be its edge, and Glymmsforge, the harvest.’
‘I cannot feel him anymore – my head feels… empty.’ Pharus touched his helm. ‘I feel empty. He is silent.’ He wanted to hear that awful voice again, to feel it resonate within him. It drove out all fear and worry, and crushed doubt and uncertainty.