Miska paused for a moment, enjoying the anarchic vitality of the city. There was nothing like it in Sigmaron. Even Azyrheim was more orderly than this. Porthas nudged her. ‘There – look.’ He pointed.
She followed his gesture and saw a thirty-foot statue of silver rising from a plinth of black stone. A crowd of the devoted, clad in sackcloth and ashes, and wearing chains hung with a profusion of tiny silver bells, prostrated themselves before the statue. The sound originated with their movements, and the market crowd gave them a wide berth.
Miska approached the statue, Porthas trailing after her. Mortals moved quickly from their path, but Miska paid them little mind. The statue was that of a woman – proud, clad in the robes and armour of the Collegiate Arcane. ‘She looks familiar,’ Porthas murmured.
‘She should,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘She once beat you at arm wrestling.’
Miska turned. A mage-sacristan, clad in gold and azure, strode towards them. ‘Zeraphina,’ Miska said, in greeting. ‘I wondered where you were.’
‘I came looking as soon as Knossus mentioned that you’d arrived,’ Zeraphina said. They knocked their staves together in greeting. Zeraphina glanced at Porthas. ‘Come for a rematch, then, you great ox?’
Porthas laughed. ‘Once was enough, my lady. I learned my lesson.’
Miska smiled and nodded to the statue. ‘Did you pose for that?’
Zeraphina looked at it and frowned. ‘No. Nor would I have, had they bothered to ask.’ She shook her head. ‘Ugly great thing. There’s one for Knossus, as well.’ She pitched her voice low. ‘Waste of silver, in my opinion.’
‘Do not judge them harshly, sister,’ Miska said. ‘They merely sought to honour your sacrifice.’ She looked at the statue. ‘I expect that it has brought great comfort to them, in times of need.’
‘Perhaps,’ Zeraphina said doubtfully. ‘I’m told pilgrims come from across Lyria to pray before it.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I only wish that I could answer their prayers.’
‘We can answer one at least, sister.’ Miska looked at her. ‘Come. Balthas and Knossus should be finished yelling at one another by now. They’ll need our counsel, I expect. There is much that needs doing.’
Zeraphina laughed. ‘Need? Yes. Will they listen? I’ll not give odds on that.’
The three Stormcasts departed. Behind them, the devoted continued to pray, unaware that the object of their veneration had stood before them, only moments earlier.
Chapter thirteen
Inevitable
Ayala turned, peering east. The wind brought with it a grave-chill, and the hint of a sour meat stink that was unpleasantly familiar. The old woman pulled her tatterdemalion robes tight about her, suddenly cold. Her hand fell to the curved knife sheathed on her hip. It was a good knife, blessed and edged with silver, but it made her feel no safer.
This was not a night for safety. No night was safe, not in Shyish. But this night especially – something felt wrong. Something had changed, though she didn’t know what. A few days ago, the sky had twisted in on itself, and the ground had shuddered. Tremors weren’t unknown in the desert, but never were they so forceful.
There was something coming. She felt it in her water, the way a sand-rat felt the shadow of a bird’s wings. From close by, music rose towards the stars as her kith and kin held back the shadows with the old songs. They would be dancing too, around the fire, whirling so that their robes caught the light and made the air swim with reflected colour. Noise and colour – these were the strongest proofs against the dark.
‘The wind in your bones, grandmother?’ her granddaughter, Uskya, called out as she drew near. Ayala turned. Uskya was the image of her mother, Ayala’s daughter, dead these past two turns of the season. The young woman was dark of eye and hair, with the slim build that characterised the Zirc. Her robes were of many colours, the same as Ayala’s, the same as those worn by every nomad in the nine hundred tribes. ‘Come back to the fire, we’ll soon drive it out. Feytos has made dinner.’
‘I know, child. Why do you think I’m out here?’ Feytos, her other grandchild, was chieftain now, like his father before him. Among the Zirc, it was tradition that a chieftain prepare the evening meal. Unfortunately for all of them, Feytos was a terrible cook.
Ayala glanced back towards the quintet of towering wagon-fortresses that bore her tribe across the desert sands. The enormous conveyances resembled wheeled citadels, their frames studded with balconies, garrets and towers. Higher than all of these were great pipes of bronze. Thin streams of steam wafted from the pipes, signalling the cooling of the massive boilers that turned the wheels.
The wagon-fortresses were arranged in a rough circle about the gigantic bonfire that the nomads had started. Feeding the fire had taken more of their precious supply of wood than Ayala approved of. But if there was ever a night for it, this was it.
Uskya laughed and interlaced her arm with Ayala’s. ‘He is not that bad a cook, grandmother. And the meat is good – the best the Azyrites had.’
Ayala sniffed. ‘The best they were willing to trade, you mean. They keep the best for themselves, always.’ The traders at Fort Alenstahdt were shrewder than she liked. They made her brothers, sneak-thieves all, look like naïve children when it came to bargaining. All of the Azyrites were like that, though.
She looked up at the stars. They seemed so cold and remote, this night. The Zirc worshipped Sigmar, who wore the firmament as a nomad wore robes. The Azyrites claimed to worship him as well, though their golden man-god seemed nothing like the Wind-Walker she and her tribesfolk venerated.
The wind shifted, bringing with it the sound of moaning. Out in the dark, jackals began to yelp. Uskya shuddered. ‘Deadwalkers,’ she said.
Ayala nodded, eyes narrowed. ‘And close.’ The hungry dead roamed the desert in grave herds, usually only a few dozen, but sometimes numbering in the hundreds. She listened and heard the slow shuffle of feet across the sand.
‘Getting closer,’ Uskya added. She tugged on Ayala’s arm. ‘Come. Let us go back.’
Ayala resisted. She’d seen something – starlight, glinting off steel. ‘There’s something else out there. Do you hear it?’ Like the rattle of war-plate, and the slow rasp of bone on bone. Her hand fell to the hilt of her knife.
The wind was howling now. Sand scraped her cheeks. Something – a man, perhaps – staggered over the top of the nearest dune, stumbled and fell. It rolled across the sand, leaving a wide trail. Uskya took a step towards it. ‘Is he…?’
Ayala caught her wrist. ‘No.’
The body flopped over and lurched upright with a crackle of strained ligaments. It gave a ghastly moan and sprang forwards, faster than Ayala expected. Usually, the dead were slow. But this one moved almost as quickly as a normal man. She jerked her granddaughter out of its path and reached for her knife. The corpse floundered into her, teeth gnashing.
As they fell, she saw more deadwalkers begin to stagger down the dunes. She fumbled at the dead man’s face, trying to keep his teeth from her throat. Uskya appeared over the deadwalker’s shoulder, her own knife in her hand. She drove her blade into the corpse’s neck, trying to sever its brainstem. The corpse jerked, knocking her sprawling. It lurched half-up, eyes fixed on new prey.
Ayala slashed out, recapturing its attentions. Her blade ripped the dried flesh from its cheek, exposing bone. It turned with a groan and snapped at her. She felt a jolt of pain and jerked back. The corpse followed, and she slammed her knife into the rotting hole where its nose had been. Angling the blade, she sliced into what was left of its brain. Black ichor gushed over her hand, and the corpse toppled off her. She jerked her blade free and Uskya rushed to her, helping her to her feet. ‘Hurry, grandmother, hurry! They are coming!’