‘Like Elya’s mother,’ Calys said absently. The child was never far from her thoughts these days.
Dathus studied her and she looked away, suddenly uneasy. The music of the catacombs had become louder. She heard the creak of stone, and the slow drip of water, from somewhere. Bats stirred in the high roosts, chittering in fear.
And down below, the dead, in their ten thousand tombs, began to moan.
‘Something is coming,’ Dathus said. Calys nodded silently. She could feel it, on the damp air. Like the quaver of silent thunder. ‘Glymmsforge is slowly sealing itself off from the rest of the underworld,’ the lord-relictor continued. ‘Even so, huge numbers of refugees still clamour at the outer gates, seeking entry. Every hamlet and trading outpost within a hundred leagues has been denuded of inhabitants, as the dead rise and stalk the living with a greater frequency than ever before. Mortals come to the city in their hundreds, in search of sanctuary.’
‘A dangerous journey,’ Calys said. ‘There are deadwalkers in the desert.’
‘Indeed, and they are congregating in ever-greater numbers – immense herds of corpses stumble in the wake of the refugee caravans, pulling down stragglers and adding them to legions of the dead,’ Dathus growled. ‘In the corpse-yards of the southern districts, and the walled gardens of the aristocracy in the north, spectral shapes prey on rich and poor alike. We are under siege, within and without.’
‘What of this new lord – Knossus – what has he done?’
‘He strikes down the dead where he finds them,’ Dathus said. ‘And with a power beyond any that even I possess.’ He stopped as the archway ahead cracked in half and fell away with mechanical smoothness, revealing a sharply angled wall, marked with mystic sigils. Mirrored walls closed in about them as the floor descended, carrying them downwards in response to their weight. ‘This place truly is a marvel.’
‘The duardin are a clever folk,’ Calys said.
‘Pharus was clever,’ Dathus corrected. ‘Duardin traps are stolid things. Efficient, but not so creative as this. Only a mind like Pharus’ could have calculated all of this. Finding weak points and turning them into a strength was his gift. I once thought he would guard this place until the end of time itself.’ He fell silent.
‘He will return,’ Calys said.
‘But in what form?’ Dathus murmured. Calys was about to ask him what he meant, when he stopped and turned. ‘The city is closing in on itself. Every avenue and gate, save the main thoroughfare, is slamming shut. Knossus has commanded that Glymmsforge isolate itself from Lyria, to better weather the coming storm.’
Calys nodded. That made sense. The city – and by extension, the Shimmergate – would be easier to protect if it were sealed off. But that meant cutting off support to the outlying communities, as well as outposts like Fort Alenstahdt. Necessary sacrifices – but even so, she was glad she wasn’t the one giving the order.
Dathus continued. ‘To that end, we must seal off the Ten Thousand Tombs, so that no servant of Death might reach them. Do you understand?’ He gazed out over the sea of tombs that stretched in all directions around them. ‘Even I am not sure how it works. Briaeus and the others who served with Pharus the longest assure me that they can do so. But it is not something that might be undone at a whim.’
Calys understood at once. ‘Once sealed, it cannot easily be unsealed.’
The lord-relictor nodded. ‘Someone must stay above, to ensure that it is the case. And to defend the gateway, should it come to that. That responsibility is yours, if you wish it.’ Dathus looked at her, the light of the lanterns playing across his skull-helm.
Calys hesitated. Then she nodded. ‘I will bar the path, brother.’
Dathus returned her nod with one of his own. ‘I expected no less.’ He set a fist atop her shoulder-plate. ‘I will be staying down here, with Briaeus and the others. We will hold this place from within, as you hold it from without. Gather your cohort and go, sister. Lord-Arcanum Knossus has commanded that we seal off this place immediately, and I would not wish you caught in those tunnels when the process begins.’ He extended his hand. ‘May Sigmar bless and keep you, Calys Eltain.’
She caught his hand. ‘May he do the same for you, Dathus.’
Dathus laughed softly. ‘I have no doubt he will, after his own fashion.’
Chapter twelve
Razor’s Edge
Elya ran through the crowd thronging the street.
The tide of humanity was larger than any she’d experienced, even during high market days. Thousands of new faces, voices and smells, packed into the long, central avenue that linked each of the city’s rings, moving towards the heart of Glymmsforge.
She saw two women, one old, one young, dressed like traders from the distant city of Gravewild, in yellow linen and golden ornaments, and a fat man, dressed like a nobleman, in rich brocade and an embossed breastplate. There were duardin as well, clad in dusty travel robes, and she saw men and women dressed in the rough leathers of miners. Many carried weapons, and most looked as if they had been forced to put them to use recently. Everyone, whoever they were, had that pinched, hungry look she knew well. Everyone in the Gloaming looked like that, especially of late.
Glymmsmen threaded among the crowd in knots of black, inspecting the people, seeking signs of soulblight infection or cult markings. You could never be too careful, that’s what her father said. The Freeguild seemed to agree – they were out in force. And more besides. On one of the high, stone plinths that overlooked the avenue, a massive figure stood watching the crowd. With a shiver, she recognised the figure as the lord-veritant of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. There were stories about the Leechbane – all of them bad.
Folk in the Gloaming said he’d led the purges of the northern slums, when they’d been overrun by grave-eaters, many years before she’d been born. And that he’d done the same more recently in the districts of the wealthy, when several families had come under the sway of a soul-leech. Not all Stormcasts were like Pharus or Calys. Some were much, much worse. She shivered again and moved quickly away from him, startling a flock of pigeons that were searching the street for food.
The purple-hued birds sprang into the air and rose high and away. Some folk claimed they collected the souls of the dead for Elder Bones, but the cats claimed that wasn’t so. It was the big, black carrion birds that served the King of the Dead, and the spindle-legged jackals that wandered the desert. The pigeons served a smaller god, and a quieter one by far. Or so the cats said.
The sky overhead was the colour of a bruise, and the wind rolling in off the desert was cold. She dodged around a burly road-agent, who cursed at her as she ran by. She spotted a pickpocket she knew from the Gloaming and gave him a wide berth. A moment later, she heard shouting and knew he’d been spotted. The crowd heaved suddenly as the thief ran past, and she was nearly trampled. Dodging bodies, she thought about climbing to a higher vantage point and seeking somewhere quieter to watch things, but decided against it.
She’d taken to the streets when she’d felt the ground begin to shake, earlier. Dust had geysered from the cracks in the street, and the buildings had shuddered. Something was happening down below, and people were worried. She would have asked Pharus about it, but he was… gone. She rubbed her face.
Calys had said he would come back, but Elya wasn’t sure she trusted the Stormcast. Pharus had been her friend, she thought. Calys wasn’t. She wasn’t sure what Calys was.
Calys scared her father. All Stormcasts scared her father, but he’d never yelled as he had when he’d seen Calys for the first time. He’d looked at her face and just screamed and screamed, as if he’d seen a nicksoul. The way he had the night her mother had died. Elya shied away from the thought. She hugged herself, suddenly cold.