‘You have the trail?’ Balthas asked, following the lord-veritant down the street. They’d come into the Gloaming seeking several individuals who’d escaped a riot elsewhere in the city. A deadwalker had been involved – a trader from Gravewild, Balthas had been told. The creature had bitten several others, before it had been put down. Not all of the injured had been caught before they slipped away.
Achillus didn’t reply. Balthas frowned in annoyance. He did not require companionability in an ally, but Achillus seemed disinclined to give him the respect his position warranted. He wondered if this were some jest of Knossus’, to assign him so surly a liaison. His Sacrosanct Chamber, along with Knossus’, was scattered across the city, investigating a thousand and one problematic incidents.
The dead no longer rested easy in Glymmsforge, and the fear in the streets grew stronger hour by hour. Deadwalkers haunted the slums, as ghostly shapes loped along isolated streets. A colony of great bats had descended upon a private park, in the inner ring of the city, and drained the life from the scions of a noble family. Undead street curs hunted cats in the back alleys, and phantom fires danced across the rooftops.
But so far, the city held. Balthas had to admit, if grudgingly, that this was mostly due to Knossus’ efforts. The other lord-arcanum was everywhere, fighting to hold together the fragile calm. His warriors walked the streets alongside the city’s defenders, and carried hope with them. It wouldn’t last, but for the moment, Glymmsforge stood inviolate.
‘There,’ Achillus said, loudly.
Balthas looked up. The tenement was a tottering pile of wood and stone with a slanted roof and haphazardly arranged chimneys. Rickety steps climbed up the sides, and crude gantries of wood and rope connected the building to those on either side, as well as one directly across the street. Washing lines stretched beneath these paths, and sodden clothes hung dripping from the highest. The doors and windows were seemingly boarded over from the inside, as if the inhabitants were afraid of someone getting in.
There was a smell on the air – subtle and foul. To Balthas’ storm-sight, the structure was bathed in a dark, amethyst radiance. Soulfire flickered somewhere inside. ‘Yes,’ he said. The magics he sensed were savage things – wilder than they should have been, and more potent. It was as if the winds of magic had grown stronger following the necroquake. But that was a problem for another time.
He turned to his Sequitors. ‘Mara, your cohort will enter the building with us.’ Mara nodded and turned, barking orders to her Sequitors. Balthas glanced at the Castigator-Prime. ‘Quintus, take your warriors and block off the surrounding streets. Nothing gets out, unless I say otherwise.’
‘As you will it, my lord,’ Quintus said, and genuflected. The Castigator-Prime gestured and his cohort scattered, two warriors to each street and side-passage. Balthas nodded in satisfaction and looked at Achillus.
‘You are certain of this, brother?’
‘I am.’ Achillus studied the doorway. ‘Several of the injured fled the attack. They might turn, if they haven’t already. If the curse spreads, this city will face a war on two fronts. The deadwalkers will scatter, and every new death will only feed their number.’
‘And if they are not gripped by this curse?’
Achillus said nothing. Balthas looked at the building. ‘A graceless structure,’ he said.
‘Function over form,’ Achillus said. He started forwards. Balthas fell into step with him. Mara and her warriors followed them, the clank of their armour loud in the quiet. Achillus drew his blade and shattered the boards blocking the doorway. A thick stink washed out over them.
Crossbow bolts splintered on Achillus’ chest-plate. He looked down, and then up. ‘That was foolish,’ he said solemnly. Then, he was through the doorway, blade singing out. Balthas followed him, staff held low. He saw Achillus cleave a mortal in two, and another standing at the top of a set of stairs, hastily reloading his crossbow. The man was a bravo, clad in rattletrap gear and bearing the scars of a life lived on the wrong side of Azyr’s law. Balthas saw the story of him at a single glance and chose a fitting end.
He gestured, drawing the skeins of aether tight, and the second crossbowman screamed as his form stiffened and became stone. The newly made statue rocked slightly and then toppled from the top of the steps to crash into the floor below. Achillus glanced at him and nodded. ‘Well done.’
‘It lacked subtlety,’ Balthas said. He looked around. Cheap lanterns hung from the walls. The bottom floor of the structure had been broken open, revealing the cellars below. Planks of wood crossed the hole like makeshift bridges. From below, he heard a dull moaning, muffled by the confines of the cellars.
Sequitors pounded past him, assuming defensive positions. He stepped to the edge of the hole and peered down. Deadwalkers shuffled aimlessly in the great pit below. Some scratched at the walls, while others gnawed on their own flesh. Many were old things, dried to sticks and covered in decades of filth. Others were fresh – their wounds only hours old, if that. ‘What is this?’ he said.
‘A plague pit,’ a voice said, from above. ‘Or it was.’
A man clad in thin, patched robes, stepped onto the landing above, accompanied by several warriors who had the look of sellswords. They looked distinctly unhappy about the situation, unlike their employer. He had a thin, haunted look, and the ghost of a smile passed over his face. ‘I spent months, digging through records and reports, until I found it. You burned it, once. I suspect it looks different now. But they were still here, buried in the dark. Truly, the dead are persistent.’
Achillus glanced at Balthas. ‘I thought this place looked familiar.’
Balthas shook his head. ‘Not all of those corpses are old.’ The man was mad. Worse, his soul was a tattered sack, leaking a sickening amethyst light. Balthas had fought sorcerers steeped in death-magic before, and began to draw strands of aether tight, readying himself.
‘Fresh ingredients, gathered by my… aides,’ the necromancer said, gesturing to the sellswords. ‘They were infected, you know. They would have turned, regardless. This way, they shall serve a greater purpose. They shall be tools of war, rather than mindless beasts.’ He glanced at one of the bravos. ‘Deal with them.’
The man, scarred and missing an ear, goggled. ‘What?’
‘I’m paying you to ensure that my studies are not interrupted, am I not?’ The necromancer gestured. ‘Kill them.’
‘But they… they’re…’ the bravo began.
The necromancer sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll do it myself.’ He raised a hand. Achillus lunged for the steps, as Balthas felt the aether quaver. Sickly green flame speared through the gathered sellswords, slaying them instantly. As they fell, the necromancer spun and flung out a hand. He spat a single, deplorable word that echoed like a cemetery bell.
From the cellar, the dead answered. Swiftly, more swiftly than seemed possible, the deadwalkers began to climb, one atop the next, scrambling over the lip of the pit with bestial agility. They rushed towards the Sequitors, slavering and snarling.
Balthas turned. ‘Mara – look to the pit. Leave the necromancer to Achillus and me.’ The Sequitors braced themselves, and Mara set herself between the deadwalkers and the doorway. Stormsmite mauls thudded down, pulping flesh and bone, as crumbling hands scraped against soulshields. Satisfied they would keep the dead corralled, Balthas turned back to the steps.
Achillus was already halfway up. The necromancer was chanting. The bodies of his sellswords twitched and rose, but not to attack the approaching lord-veritant. Instead, the dead slumped over the necromancer, intertwining their broken limbs.