‘Fear not, Pharus. He is with you always. He is hidden within even the deepest of your thoughts, and in the hollows of your soul. What you see, he sees. What you feel, he feels. You are his hands and eyes and mouth. Even when you think yourself alone, he is there.’ Arkhan caught him by the shoulder. ‘This god will not abandon you, Pharus. That I swear to you.’
Pharus looked at Arkhan’s hand and felt the crackle of the lightning raging inside him. As if sensing this, Arkhan stepped back. ‘You were a jailer, once. Do you recall this?’
‘I… yes.’ Pharus dredged the slow currents of his memory. ‘The Ten Thousand Tombs. Beneath Glymmsforge. I… guarded them.’ The words came with difficulty and only brought more questions. Like sand, the memories sifted through his fingers no matter how tightly he grasped at them.
‘Yes. And now you will crack open the prison you built, and free those within.’ Arkhan studied him, his gaze revealing nothing. ‘Ten thousand souls, entombed by my hand, in the waning days of the Age of Myth. I had done so many times before, and since, to aid my lord and master. I would see these awakened. They will prove the undoing of the false city and shall march through the Shimmergate, with you at their head. You will be a sword, thrust into the heart of Azyr.’ He clenched a fist.
‘Thus Nagash has commanded, and thus it will be done.’
Chapter eleven
Shimmergate
‘Easy, Quicksilver. Easy.’ Balthas stroked the gryph-charger’s feathered neck. The great beast felt his impatience and pawed at the ground in unsettled fashion. ‘We will be away soon. Won’t we, sister?’ He glanced at Miska. ‘They are late.’
‘They will be here.’ She stood beside him, staff in hand. Helios and his Celestors stood just behind them, acting as honour-guard. The swordsmen were the most skilled of his warriors, and Balthas valued their capabilities. Behind them, the remainder of the Grave Wardens Sacrosanct Chamber made ready to depart through the Shimmergate.
He studied the realmgate, his fingers tapping against the massive, scabbarded broadsword hanging from his saddle. He could not remember the last time he’d drawn it. Though he was as capable a swordsman as any, the blade lacked the elegance of aether. And he felt more comfortable with a staff in his hand than a blade.
The realmgate was a blur of light, encompassed by a circle of stone. It had been carved in ages past by unknown hands, though legends as to the mason’s identity abounded. Some thought her a sorcerer, seeking her lost love in the underworld of Lyria. Others said it had been shaped by a duardin craftsman, seeking a path to a hidden treasure. Whoever they had been, the Shimmergate was all that remained to mark their memory.
‘Nervous?’ Miska asked, not looking at him.
‘And why would you think that?’ he snapped. Suddenly ashamed, he made a show of studying the two cohorts of Sequitors that stood in disciplined ranks behind the Celestors. Mara and Porthas, their commanders, spoke quietly to one another, with a casual friendliness that Balthas sometimes envied. Mara was stocky, wielding a heavy, angular stormsmite maul and soulshield, much like her warriors. Porthas was built like an ox, and he had his two-handed greatmace balanced across his shoulders.
The Sequitors resembled Liberators, but their similarity to the rank and file of the Warrior Chambers was merely cosmetic. Unlike their brethren, the Sequitors were able to channel the limited magics that coursed through them into the armaments they bore. Thus empowered, their weapons were capable of slaying things resistant even to the touch of holy sigmarite. As they had done often, at Balthas’ command.
Miska looked up at him, eyebrow raised. He sighed and sat back. ‘Fine, yes. Somewhat. I have grown used to the veil of secrecy woven about us. To discard it now feels wrong…’
‘It is necessary.’
‘Unfortunately.’ He sighed again. ‘Perhaps I am simply annoyed. My researches were at a delicate phase.’ They hadn’t been, and they both knew it, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting it.
‘They will keep.’
Balthas looked at her. ‘You’re excited, aren’t you?’
A half-smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘But this is what you wanted.’ She sounded as if she were asking a question, rather than simply stating fact.
‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. He let his gaze drift past her, to where the final elements of his chamber were assembling. Quintus and his cohort of Castigators were diligently checking over the functions of their thunderhead greatbows. Resembling large crossbows, the bolts they loosed were heavy things, resembling a smaller version of a stormsmite mace. The heads of the projectiles were filled with the condensed breath of a stardrake. On impact, they unleashed a tempest of aetheric energy that would tear through foes, mortal or otherwise.
Miska gave a bark of laughter. ‘You’ve never been one for the battlefield.’ She shook her head. ‘Remember that city in Chamon – Agnostai? Rather than lay siege to the city, you turned their gold stores to granite.’
‘It worked, didn’t it?’ Balthas smiled. He had always possessed an affinity for the transmutive magics of Chamon. The alchemical winds responded to his will with an ease that surprised him at times. It was as if they recognised him, somehow. ‘Their army surrendered en masse, without a single arrow loosed or sword drawn. Mercenaries are loathe to fight without the promise of pay.’
‘Was that really the reason? Or were you more interested in getting into the Silver Sepulchre than wasting time taking the city?’
Balthas frowned. ‘The Sepulchre contained certain remains necessary to my research.’
‘So you assured me at the time.’
Balthas heard the unspoken criticism. ‘Finding a way that does not work is not failure. Only through meticulous trial and error will we discover that which we seek, sister.’
‘Spoken like a true alchemist.’
Balthas sniffed. ‘I trust you recall that I am your lord-arcanum and not a mere Sequitor, to be spoken to in such a disrespectful manner.’
Miska peered at him. After a moment, she inclined her head. ‘You are correct. Forgive me, my lord. Discipline is the foundation of victory.’
‘You are forgiven.’ He turned as a sardonic cheer went up from his warriors. Two figures, heavily encumbered, climbed the rocky slope. One of them waved slowly, in sombre acknowledgement of the cheers. ‘Finally.’
He urged Quicksilver towards the two warriors as they carried their burden up the slope. ‘Gellius, Faunus – you’re late,’ he said. The armour of the two Sacristan Engineers was hung with the tools and oddments of their duty, and they rattled as they climbed.
Gellius, the larger of the two, shifted the weight of the celestar ballista he carried on his back. ‘Better late than never, my lord,’ he said solemnly.
Balthas frowned. ‘I would reprimand you, if there were time.’ He looked at the other engineer. ‘I trust you will apologise on behalf of your brother-engineer, Faunus?’
‘If you require it.’ Faunus hefted an ornate astrolabe and peered through its scope. ‘A few final calculations and we’ll be ready.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ Balthas said, annoyed.
‘Have we ever failed you, my lord?’ Gellius asked, patting the ballista he carried. ‘She’s a temperamental one, but faithful. As are we.’
Balthas made to reply when Quicksilver shrieked suddenly. He felt the aether tense and shiver. He turned, following the pull of it. Nearby, the arctic winds spun, casting up snow and sunlight alike. There was a snap of air, followed by the crunch of snow beneath a heavy tread. Sigmar appeared, striding across the snow, his golden war-plate gleaming and the heavy fur cloak he wore swirling about his shoulders.