He stopped, sword raised. It was as if something held him fast.
…he had raised his lantern, and there was thunder…
He heard the hiss of a voice inside him.
Free them, Pharus. Life is a cage, and only the dead are truly free.
It was not the first time Pharus had heard that voice, since leaving Nagashizzar. It had been barely audible, at first. A soft murmuring. But it had grown louder, the farther they travelled from the Silent City. It spoke to him of what he must do, of the justice owed him. He could not ignore it, and so he listened.
Still, he hesitated. The words felt wrong, somehow.
Nagash freed you. Nagash will free them all. They will see, as you now see.
But the very notion seemed somehow antithetical to him. He shook his head, trying to clear it. A human gesture, more from instinct than need. The doubts fluttered like moths and receded. The sword felt heavy in his grip and slowly, he lowered it. The old woman, on her feet now, caught the younger by the hand and dragged her away from him. He did not move to stop them.
He caught sight of something that might have been the hint of a skull in the facets of his sword. Its gaze burned into him, and he shuddered as a sense of displeasure radiated through him. He tore his eyes away and turned, needing something… hungry for something…
‘You hesitated.’
He spied a thin shape, stretched and too tall, wafting towards him, dragging a massive axe in its wake. Spirits hurried from its path, almost as quickly as they had made way for Fellgrip. The newcomer’s face, half-hidden beneath a ragged hood, lacked definition, save where it was forced into shape by the mask of ashes and dried blood she wore. She smiled at Pharus, revealing blackened teeth.
‘Why did you hesitate, my sweet lord? Even in life, I never hesitated.’
‘It is not for you to question me, spirit,’ Pharus snarled.
She bowed mockingly. ‘Have you forgotten my name already, my lord? Shall I remind you? I am Rocha, my lord. Entyr Rocha, Lady of the Fourth Circle. In life, I was High Executioner of Helstone. In death, I am the axe in your hand. But speak, and I shall mete out justice to those who defy you.’ She looked past him, in the direction the women had fled. ‘Shall I hunt them down, lop off their heads and present them to you?’ She lifted her axe, and Pharus saw that the blade had been stained black with blood.
‘No,’ he said. The air smelled of death. Bodies lay in heaps and piles. One of the wagons burned, and chainrasps cavorted in the flames, as nomads screamed. Deadwalkers and deathrattle warriors stalked through the haze of smoke, pursuing the living.
‘The Mortarch of Sacrament bid me serve you,’ Rocha hissed, drifting closer. ‘He casts forth his hand, and a thousand gallows-ropes snap taut. A true lord, wise and mighty.’ She peered at him. ‘But you are not. Not yet. Light still flickers in you. I can taste it and – oh – it is a deceitful thing. It will lead you astray, that light.’ She hesitated. ‘I thought to grasp it, once. I was betrothed to a prince. A mighty prince.’
She trailed off, her gaze unfocused, lost in memories. The spirits that clung to her began to moan and wail, and her gaze sharpened once more. ‘But he is gone, and I am here. I sent a thousand or more souls to face the Black Judge when I was alive, and many more since.’ She ran a thumb along the pitted edge of her axe. ‘It was my duty then, and my only pleasure now. As it should be yours.’ Her voice was as harsh as a raven’s caw. ‘Rejoice, for you have found justice at last. The guilt of life is taken from you, and you are free.’
She shuddered slightly, and Pharus saw that the weak spirits were clutching at her arms and pulling at her hair. He could hear their voices clearly now – high, thin accusations and curses. She floated back to the slaughter, muttering to the gibbering spirits in resigned tones. He watched her go and felt a flicker of something – unease? Sympathy?
‘Do not waste your sorrow upon her, my lord. Innocent blood stains her hands, and her crimes fill volumes in the Libraries of Mourning.’
Pharus turned. The spectre behind him was tall and clad in black burial robes. He wore a sword on his waist, its sheath tattered and the bare blade etched with dolorous sigils. His face was hidden behind an iron death-mask, such as those worn by the ancient folk of the Ghurdish Hills. The mask was a beast’s head, complete with tusks and curling horns.
A suit of shattered armour hung from his starveling frame, and in one pale hand he clutched a staff, topped by an ancient lantern. Within the lantern, a shrivelled hand sat, each of its fingers topped by an eerie, green flame. The light of the creature’s lantern was… warm. Comforting almost. Part of him longed to bask in it.
‘Omphalo Dohl,’ Pharus said. ‘Come to chastise me as well?’ Dohl was another servant, gifted to him by Arkhan.
‘Not so, my lord. Never. I am but a humble shepherd of broken souls.’ Dohl’s voice was reminiscent of a funerary bell. Each word was like a portent of doom.
The nighthaunt drifted closer, and the light from his lantern washed across Pharus. The gnawing hunger and cold that had begun to build in him faded momentarily, and he sighed. ‘That light – it reminds me of something else. I think… I think I used to carry such a light, once.’
He looked around. The battle – if it could be called that – was all but over. Deadwalkers crouched over unmoving forms, tearing mindlessly at the cooling flesh. Deathrattle stood silent and unmoving, awaiting commands. And the nighthaunts flocked like carrion birds to the high tiers of the fortress-wagons, hunting any who might still be hiding.
Dohl drifted closer. His eyes were black behind his mask. As pitiless as the void. But not malignant. Not evil. Merely… empty. ‘It was taken from you, along with all that you were or could have been. You were denuded of your power and strength, and cast down by an uncaring god. Gaze into my light, if you would see the truth.’
Pharus looked away. ‘I know the truth. Why would a god lie?’
‘What is a lie but the shadow of a truth?’ Dohl pulled his staff back, so that the light faded. Pharus grimaced. The hunger was back and worse than before. It clawed at his non-existent insides, and he felt ravenous. Not for meat or drink but for something else. He wanted to lash out. To tear open living flesh and draw out the screaming soul within.
‘No,’ he muttered. ‘No. No, I do not want that.’
But he did. That need pulsed in him, loud and insistent. What right had the living to the pleasures now denied him? What right had they to the sun, to the breeze, to the touch of a loved one? Or even something so simple as the taste of an apple? Was it not just, then, to take such unearned and unappreciated privileges from them?
As if reading his thoughts, Dohl said, ‘In death’s shadow, all men are equal, in misery and reward. For the Undying King bestows blessings as well as curses. But only upon those who acknowledge his primacy.’
Pharus closed his eyes. But even then, he could see the light of Dohl’s lantern. It was inescapable. ‘He gave me my form,’ he said softly. ‘Remade me from nothing.’
He freed you from captivity. He will give you justice.
‘Sigmar abandoned you,’ Dohl said. ‘Nagash saved you.’
As he will save all that is.
Pharus bowed his head. ‘Yes.’
Dohl loomed close. ‘I sense your doubt, my lord. It hangs heavy over you. Look into my lantern light, and your doubt will burn away. You will see the truth, and all doubt will be lifted from you.’
Pharus opened his eyes. He turned, ready to look, when a harsh laugh caught his attention. He whirled, and Dohl hissed in annoyance. ‘Who dares–?’