Amethyst light danced across them, and flesh ran like wax, until one body bled into the next. The necromancer rose up, borne aloft on the hands and feet of the dead. Skulls cracked open and stretched over the necromancer’s head, forming a hood of bone and hair. The bodies had become akin to a twitching, steaming suit of war-plate, crafted from meat rather than metal.
‘Nagash calls and his faithful answer,’ the mortal shrieked. ‘When he reaches out, it is with a thousand hands. When he speaks, it is with a thousand voices. Hear the word of Nagash – hail Nagash! Hail the Undying King!’
The conglomeration took a plodding step forwards, towards the edge of the landing. Floorboards bent beneath its grotesque weight. The mortal swung out a hand, entombed within a number of others, creating a massive paw with hundreds of writhing fingers. The hand slammed into Achillus as he reached the top step, and there was a spark of azure light. The lord-veritant was sent tumbling down the steps, cursing the entire way.
The necromancer followed, shattering the steps as he descended, one great paw gouging apart the wall alongside him. A massive knot of fists barrelled down. Achillus rolled aside and scrambled to his feet. The necromancer heaved himself around in pursuit. ‘I will crack open your shell and offer up your soul to Nagash,’ he screamed.
‘No. You will not.’ Balthas stepped quickly between them, his staff raised. The conglomeration lurched forwards and grappled him. It was stronger than it looked. Faster. But Balthas held it at bay.
The necromancer snarled at him, baring rotten teeth. ‘Stand not between the Undying King and his kingdom!’ Balthas felt a preternatural chill slither through him at the words. He caught hold of the skull-and-scalp helmet, and felt the pulse of its wearer’s twisted soul. It was like broken shards of black glass, biting into his palm. The necromancer had used what was left of his own soul to weave together his grisly war-plate – the binding spell was a thing of brute force and crude edges, lacking in any subtlety. It was easy enough to find the loose strands of magic and tug apart the knot holding it all together.
As Balthas unravelled the spell, he felt the mortal’s soul twitch and flutter in his grasp. Panic rose in the necromancer’s gaze, and he thrashed, trying to free himself. Balthas held fast, however, and the mortal could not pull away. ‘N-no, no you cannot…’ the necromancer whined. ‘I was promised justice – justice against those who hounded me.’
‘Is this justice, then?’ Balthas said. The first flap of flesh-plate peeled away from the whole. More followed, with a hideous sucking sound. ‘This abomination? If you think so, you are as broken as these husks.’ Broken limbs and meat sloughed away all at once, leaving the necromancer dangling in Balthas’ grip. He shook the pathetic creature. ‘Answer me.’
The necromancer cursed and clawed at his forearm. Dark strands of aether tightened about his crooked fingers. Balthas saw the spell forming before the mortal spoke. He squeezed, cutting off the necromancer’s air. The mortal gasped, and the spell turned to ash on the air. Disgusted, Balthas tossed him aside.
The necromancer clambered to his knees, wheezing. ‘You… you are too late,’ he coughed. ‘The dead outnumber the living. And the lords of death march upon you. They are coming, and all who are imprisoned shall be freed by–’ He was silenced by Achillus’ blade, as it parted his head from his neck. Balthas looked down at the decapitated body as it twitched in its death throes.
‘He was no threat,’ he said, after a moment.
‘Not to us,’ Achillus said, glancing meaningfully at the bodies in the pit. He took down one of the lanterns hanging on the wall and cast it down, where the dead lay thickest. The cheap salamander oil spread quickly, carrying a trail of flame.
‘Come, brother,’ Achillus said, stepping over the flames. ‘The shadows lengthen and other tasks await us.’
‘Whatever else comes, we must hold the Shimmerway,’ Lynos Gravewalker said. ‘If our route to the Shimmergate is compromised, there will be no retreat.’
‘I thought the Anvils of the Heldenhammer never retreated,’ Orius Adamantine said, smiling slightly. The two lords-celestant stood atop the Mere-Wall, overlooking the Glass Mere and the hundreds of thriving fish farms that clung to the shore, and the villages that spread along and up the sides of the wall like barnacles.
Meeting here had become something of a tradition for the two. It was quieter here than along the outer walls. Fewer soldiers, fewer people making their way from one section of the city to the next. Fewer distractions. And something about the smell of fish and the sound of water lapping against the shore put Lynos in a contemplative frame of mind. One more conducive to the discussion of strategy.
Birds cried out raucously as they circled the freshwater lake, and Lynos could hear the shouts of fishermen as they went about the business of the day. They seemed to have no idea of what was coming. No understanding of the tensions that gripped the city. Or perhaps, they simply didn’t care. Even with war on the horizon and the city in upheaval, fishmongers needed fish and fishermen needed coin. Was that bravery, he wondered, or foolishness? He looked at his fellow lord-celestant. ‘We prefer not to retreat, on the whole. But sometimes it is unavoidable. Besides which, who are you to talk of such things?’
Orius laughed. The Adamantines had a similar reputation for stubbornness in the face of long odds. ‘True. But you are right, brother. We must ensure that the city’s main artery remains in our hands.’ He frowned. ‘I do not like to think of the armies of the dead spilling into Azyr. Or of what slumbers beneath us waking up.’
Lynos bowed his head. ‘Were Pharus with us, I would have no fear of that.’ He shook his head and looked up at the dark sky. Clouds covered the sun, and what little light managed to get through was weak and muddy. ‘But he is not, and we must press on, regardless.’ Despite his words, it felt wrong, going into battle without his lord-castellant. Pharus was the rock upon which the Gravewalkers stood. Without him, everything felt off-kilter somehow. He took a deep breath and pushed the thought aside. ‘Another debt added to Nagash’s tally,’ Lynos rumbled. ‘Like Makvar, at Gothizzar. He fell, waiting for aid that never came.’
‘And has born enmity for the dead ever since,’ Orius finished. ‘Yes, you’ve told me this tale before, Lynos. I’ve fought alongside Makvar – I know his anger as well as I know my own. Or yours, come to that.’ He shook his head. ‘This is different. Nagash played Makvar false, but did not openly move against him. The same when the Shadowed Soul invaded his demesnes thirty years ago on his ill-fated expedition – then, too, Nagash ceded the field rather than risk open war.’
‘Something has changed,’ Lynos said, nodding. ‘The air tastes different. Feels different. As if the game has changed.’
‘We have relied on the Undying King being, if not an ally, then the enemy of our enemy. If he moves against us, things become less certain. Nagash is a different sort of foe to the servants of the Ruinous Powers, or the orruks.’ Orius looked down into the waters of the Glass Mere, as if seeking his reflection. From this high up, and in the weak light, Lynos knew that even his eyes would discern nothing save stretches of dark on dark. ‘And we face a different sort of war. One I fear that we are not prepared for.’
‘And there you would be wrong, brothers,’ Knossus Heavensen called out as he approached, his helmet under one arm. ‘Sigmar foresaw this moment the day Tarsus Bull-Heart failed to return from Stygxx, and his Warrior Chamber came back in pieces. We of the Sacrosanct Chamber have been raised up to face that which is coming. It is our sacred duty, and now Glymmsforge is protected by, not one, but two such chambers.’