She didn’t like to think about that night or any of it. She’d been too little to remember much of it – much of her. She recalled her mother’s face, twisted up and wrong somehow, and the sound of her father weeping. And then Pharus, with his lantern. The light had been so warm and her mother had gone away, but her father had kept crying. He still cried, some nights, when he didn’t get enough to drink. Or had too much to drink.
Her mother was dead. Had been dead. She’d become sick and died. Then she’d returned, and Pharus had killed her again. And now Pharus was dead too. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t come back, because if he did, she might begin to wonder why he had and not her mother. She stopped and for a moment became a little island in the sea of people. She scraped the heel of one palm across her eyes and frowned. She heard shouting.
There was a commotion going on up ahead. Voices rose up and the crowd convulsed like a thing in pain. Metal flashed, and a cry went up. Elya’s eyes widened, all thoughts of Pharus and her mother forgotten. The fat man she’d seen earlier had shoved one of the trader women – the older one – to the ground. The man drew a knife from within his robes. ‘Grave-eater,’ he screamed, kicking at his victim.
At his words, the crowd surged back from him, Elya included. Men and women had shouted those words from street corners since she’d been a baby. Sometimes, when people died, they came back. Not as nicksouls or wailgheists, but as grave-eaters – hungry corpses that had no mind, only appetite. Overcoming the sudden spurt of fear, she winnowed closer, trying to see. The fat man gestured at the old woman on the ground as her companion tried to intervene.
‘She is sick,’ the younger woman shouted, crouching beside her companion. ‘She is hurt – please. We have done nothing…’
‘She’s infected,’ the fat man spat. ‘Look at her! She’s turning already.’
More shouts as a Glymmsman forced his way through the crowd. ‘What’s going on here?’ The soldier reached out to grab the fat man, startling him. The fat man’s blade flashed, and the Glymmsman spun away, clutching a red arm and cursing. His cries drew the attention of his fellows, and those soldiers closest moved to confront the fat man, who stared at the Glymmsman he’d injured in shock.
‘I didn’t mean…’ he began.
On the ground, the old woman had begun to thrash and twitch, her heels and head striking the cobbles. The young woman was scrambling backwards, her face twisted up in a horrified expression. ‘No, Takha, no – oh, blessed Sigmar, no!’
When the old woman sat up, the young woman began to wail. The soldiers hadn’t noticed yet. The fat man had their attention. Two Glymmsmen had tackled him to the ground. The three of them rolled in the dust, the man’s cries muffled. Fists thudded into flesh, and the knife clattered away. More Freeguild hurried towards the brawl, fighting through the crowd.
When the old woman attacked, she went for the fat man first. She caught him by a flailing arm and sank her teeth into the meat of his forearm. He screamed a high, thin wail, and Elya shrank back. Her sudden movement attracted the attentions of the grave-eater, and the old woman scuttled towards her on all fours, bloody mouth working. People screamed and fought to get out of the way, as Elya turned to run. The corpse bounded through them, snapping its jaws wildly.
She ducked the dead woman’s flailing hand and scrambled under an abandoned cart. The grave-eater groped blindly for her, teeth gnashing like those of a maddened cur. Elya pulled all her limbs close, huddling away from the dead woman. ‘There she is – seize her!’ a man shouted, from close by.
The old woman whirled, snarling, as a Glymmsman grabbed for her. She leapt on the soldier and bore him backwards, biting at his throat. Elya crawled out from under the cart, hoping to put some distance between herself and the old woman. She tried to ignore the screams. Glymmsmen raced past her, cursing and shouting.
She caught sight of the fat man, trying to crawl away. He wouldn’t get far. Sometimes, when the grave-eaters bit you, you became like them. It might take days, or just a few seconds – but it would happen. That was probably what had happened to the old woman. She’d been bitten, somewhere out in the desert, and had turned after entering the city.
The Freeguilder was screaming, as the old woman gnawed at him. He would turn too, just like the fat man. Worse, he probably knew what would happen to him, if he had the bad luck to survive his mauling. Elya heard the crash of metal on stone and saw the crowd part with a frightened murmur for the Leechbane. The lord-veritant strode towards the confrontation, the lantern atop his staff glowing as brightly as the one Pharus had carried. But he wasn’t Pharus. Pharus wouldn’t have done what the lord-veritant did next.
‘Move back,’ he said, his voice cutting through the confusion like a blade. Glymmsmen drew back, and the Leechbane drew his sword.
He took off the old woman’s head with the first sweep of his long blade. He killed the wounded Freeguilder next, as easily as a cat might kill a mouse, before any of the soldier’s comrades could speak up. And then he stalked towards the fat man, who tried to get to his feet, his face pale. Elya closed her eyes as the fat man began to scream and then stopped, suddenly, as the sword flicked out a third time.
Silence fell across the street. Elya huddled beside the cart, trying to make herself as small as possible. If the Leechbane thought she’d been bitten, he wouldn’t hesitate to take her head as well. The only way to put down a grave-eater plague was to stop it before it got started, or kill everyone who might turn.
But if he’d noticed her, he gave no sign. Instead, he’d turned, as high up above the city, the Shimmergate was shining again, blazing like a small sun. Every eye in the avenue turned towards it, drawn with lodestone certainty, wondering what it portended.
Elya took the opportunity to slip away, moving as quietly as a cat.
Balthas watched the sun rise over the walls of Glymmsforge, and wondered why anyone would come to such a place as this. Everything in the underworld had a faded, colourless quality, to one used to the vibrancy of Azyr. Did this place really have so much more to offer than Azyrheim, or any of the Cities of the Dawn? Why would mortals flock to places like this?
Then, he’d long ago come to the conclusion that many mortals were simply contrary. They simply did not know what was good for them. Like those attempting to flood the city, seeking the protection of its walls. Congregating in one place, however well-defended, was tantamount to inviting attack. They did not see that their numbers only added to the burden borne by the defenders.
His Sacrosanct Chamber had arrived to little fanfare, just before dawn. The city was readying itself for war and had no time to spare greeting late arrivals. He felt no insult, and had set about determining the location of the Ten Thousand Tombs, only to find the catacombs barred to him – barred to everyone – by order of Knossus Heavensen.
Messengers had come. Knossus requested his presence, here on the walls that surrounded the steps to the Shimmergate. The final redoubt, from which the city might make a last stand, and the oldest, strongest walls in Glymmsforge. There were soldiers on the parapets here, Freeguild in the mauve and black of the city’s largest regiment. They gave Balthas a wide berth, which suited him.
He watched as a woman hurried up a set of nearby steps, carrying a basket of bread. Soldiers crowded around her as she handed the loaves out. One kissed her, and they spoke quietly. Intently. Balthas watched their soul-fires intertwine, briefly, before they broke apart and went their separate ways. He could taste their shared memories on the air, as well as the love they felt for one another. Annoyed by the intrusive sensation, he turned away.