‘I do, my lord.’
‘That means that you will be under Knossus’ command.’ For a moment, Balthas thought he saw the God-King smile. ‘Do you understand that?’
‘I do.’ Balthas fought to keep his voice even. The elation he’d felt earlier was gone. He bowed his head and said, more firmly, ‘I do, my lord.’
Sigmar gave a satisfied nod. ‘I know that you do, Balthas. And it pleases me. Now go. Glymmsforge awaits.’
‘I will not fail you, my lord.’
‘None of you ever have, Balthas. I do not expect you will start now.’
Balthas turned and hurried down the trail. ‘Balthas,’ Sigmar called out. Balthas stopped halfway, and turned.
‘I told you that there was a time when I wandered the snows. In those days, I too was a hunter. I hunted meat rather than knowledge, but the two things are not so different. One fills the belly, one fills the mind. But sometimes… sometimes the prey escaped.’ Sigmar stared up at the stars, his expression unreadable. ‘This was not failure. The time simply was not right. So I learned to wait. To hold my shot. To seek a better spot from which to observe my prey. To seek the proper moment.’
‘And how did you know when that moment was?’
Sigmar chuckled, and the sound throbbed through Balthas. ‘You’ll know, Balthas. When the moment is right, you will let your arrow fly. And I will be there to guide your aim.’
Balthas bowed his head. When he rasied it again, Sigmar was gone, with only a flurry of loose snow to mark his passing.
‘I will not fail you,’ Balthas said again.
His words were carried away by the wind.
‘Hold the lantern higher, Verga,’ Calys barked. ‘Even my eyes can’t pierce this murk.’ At her words, the Liberator behind her raised the storm-lantern she held, allowing the flickering blue radiance to wash across the interior of the mausoleum. ‘The last of them came in here. I’m certain of it.’
The storm-lanterns held a shred of lightning culled from the eternal storm. No shadow could resist their light. In theory, at least. But the gloom that lurked among the catacombs beneath the city was thicker than any shadow. It seemed to seep from the stones and collect in every tomb and mausoleum. And it hid monsters.
A plague of spirits haunted the catacombs. They’d already destroyed or imprisoned many, but there were always more. Lurking just out of the corner of the eye.
Calys glanced at the warriors who followed her. ‘Stay alert. This one is shrewder than the others.’ Some gheists were like rabid beasts, lacking even the basest cunning. But others were possessed of a dreadful wisdom. She had only brought two others – Verga and Faelius – with her into the maze of tombs, leaving Tamacus and the rest of her cohort to watch the entrance to the avenue. Their prey was a monstrous thing – shroud-like, with long, spindly limbs and clacking jaws. It seemed impossible that it could hide in such a confined space, but it had left a clear trail.
The air had turned cold in its wake, and a glimmer of hoar frost hung over the walls, marking where it passed through the crypt. A stone bier rose up before her, the carved lid cast aside and laying broken on the floor. All that remained within it was a clutter of burial wrappings and dust. The nooks that lined the walls were much the same, save that they were filled with cobwebs as well.
‘Something is here,’ Faelius murmured behind her. He lifted his grandhammer and tilted his head, listening to the wind that whipped through the tombs. ‘I can feel it watching us.’ He turned. ‘Waiting.’
‘Waiting for us to lower our guard, you mean,’ Verga said. She jabbed the tip of her blade into the rubble on the floor, disturbing a flood of tomb-spiders. The pallid insects scuttled across the floor, seeking the safety of the shadows.
Scrape-thump.
The sound was soft. Barely audible. But Calys heard it. She froze, and the others followed suit, listening.
Scrape-thump. Scrape-thump.
‘Like a shroud being dragged over rocks,’ Faelius said. ‘And the air… Smell it? Like milk gone sour.’ He turned. ‘Or a corpse.’
‘Those two things don’t smell anything alike,’ Verga said.
‘Quiet,’ Calys said, sharply. She could hear a quiet rustling. Her breath puffed out through the mouth-slit of her war-mask. Hoar frost crept across the panes of her armour, cracking and scattering as she moved.
Scrape-thump. Clack.
Instinct compelled her to look up. The thing was splayed across the roof of the crypt, like some great bat. Long, thin limbs bent with a sound like ice cracking as it flopped down towards her, equine skull rattling. Calys yelled and slashed at it with her warblade. The sword passed through the folds with ease, tearing the voluminous shroud but striking nothing solid. She found herself swallowed in its flabby embrace, tangled in the ragged cloak. Claws skittered across her war-plate, too-long fingers seeking a way in.
Then, the crypt echoed with a boom of thunder as Faelius’ grandhammer slammed down. The nighthaunt wailed and swept away from Calys, sending her staggering back against the bier. It spiralled towards Faelius, fleshless jaws wide. The Liberator whipped his hammer up, trying to smash its skull. The spectre plunged through him as if he weren’t there. A bullseye of ice crept across the warrior’s chest-plate, and he stumbled, the hammer slipping from his hands. The nighthaunt tore through his back and turned, lunging for Verga as Faelius toppled forwards, limbs twitching.
‘Fall back, Verga – get into the open,’ Calys shouted. She tossed aside her sword and lunged for the grandhammer. The creature seemed to fear it. Faelius groaned and tried to sit up as she stepped over him and snatched up his weapon. ‘Stay down, Faelius,’ she said, as she hurried after Verga and the nighthaunt. The other Liberator had done as she commanded and retreated into the open.
The avenue beyond was lined with mausoleums, one piled atop the next in tottering walls that stretched up to the roof of the passageway. Drifts of dust and bone fragments pressed thick against the stoops of the lowest crypts. Walkways of timber or bridges of stone stretched between the highest crypts, forming a second ceiling, thick with grave-mould and cobwebs. Gallows-cages hung from the bridges, and the chained skeletons within them thrashed in silent fury as they caught sight of her.
Calys saw Verga immediately. The Liberator backed away from the spectre as it darted from side to side, trying to avoid the glare of the storm-lantern. It moved like oil on water – there, but not. It slid through the air, stretching itself impossible distances, before contracting suddenly. She could see its pale shape through the swirl of the shroud – emaciated to the point of inhumanity. Ribs stretched pearlescent flesh taut, and its limbs were all sharp, broken angles.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Its equine jaws snapped as it circled Verga, drawing closer with every circuit. She swept her blade out, trying to hew through it, but it avoided her blow. Long talons scratched across her arm, leaving trails of ice. She stumbled, and the spectre reared up over her, claws groping for her throat.
‘Verga – move!’ Calys roared, swinging the hammer up. The spectre turned with a hiss, and the grandhammer met its skull. Bone cracked and burst as the hammer passed through it and slammed down. The ground ruptured, and lightning speared up, burning the spectre from the inside out. Wreathed in flames, it hurtled upwards, broken skull gaping in a silent scream. It clawed at itself, until it at last came apart in a shower of burning rags.