Achillus went to speak with Knossus, who stood conferring with the representative of the Collegiate Arcane and his mage-sacristan, Zeraphina. Balthas stood, slightly ill at ease in this gathering of strangers. He wished he hadn’t left Miska to oversee the deconstruction of the temple, but someone had needed to ensure that the fires didn’t spread.
He felt, rather than saw, someone approach. ‘You have been avoiding me, lord-arcanum.’ The voice was stern and somewhat morose.
Balthas sighed and turned to face Lynos Gravewalker. The lord-celestant was a sombre titan, as befitted one who had spent much of the past century seeing that the dead rested easy in their tombs. From what Balthas knew of him, he knew better than most the dangers of Shyish, and had a keen mind for one whose whole purpose was war. ‘I assure you that I have not, lord-celestant,’ he said. A lie, but a kind one. ‘Circumstances have prevented me from making a proper introduction, for which you have my apologies.’
‘They tell me that Pharus has not been reforged.’
Balthas looked at him. ‘Who says this?’
Lynos shrugged. ‘The aether speaks. I listen.’ He frowned. ‘Is it true?’
Balthas studied the map. ‘It is as Sigmar wills.’
‘That is not an answer, lord-arcanum.’
‘No. It is not.’ Balthas sighed. ‘There were… complications.’
‘Tell me,’ Lynos growled.
‘His soul was… lost during the necroquake.’
‘Lost?’ Lynos ran his hand through his hair. ‘Lost.’ He looked away. ‘Pharus was my shield. The rock upon which I built my strategies. And now he is gone. I feel as though I have lost my hand.’
Balthas hesitated. He reached out, some half-formed thought of comforting the lord-celestant on his mind. But he pulled his hand back at the last moment. Lynos would not thank him. For all the lord-celestant knew, Balthas had been forced to destroy Pharus. Instead, he stared at the map, analysing the city, noting its weaknesses and strengths.
Glymmsforge had grown from humble beginnings. A rough palisade, erected around the Shimmergate had been reinforced time and again over the course of five decades, expanding into a dozen concentric rings of stone. Man, duardin and aelf had worked as one, to erect a monument to civilisation amid the wilderness.
His eyes slid across the map. The bulk of the city, as well as a vast freshwater lake known as the Glass Mere, was confined within the innermost rings. The outer rings formed a defensive network that had been refined over decades. But the city’s most powerful defences were not its high walls and batteries of cannons.
Every brick in every wall had been blessed, or else marked by holy sigils. The bones of common saints were interred in every market square and byway. The districts of the city spread outwards from the temples of the gods – not just Sigmar, though his were the most prominent. In the Dweomervale, in the city’s southern district, a basalt shrine to Malerion crouched amid gloomy streets. In the Lyrian Souk, a vine-shrouded sanctuary to Alarielle, the Everqueen, spread living branches over the rooftops. There were others.
The largest was the Grand Tempestus – an imposing edifice of stone, built by the first devoted to set foot in Glymmsforge. It rested at the heart of the original city and had grown as Glymmsforge grew – from rough palisade chapel to a veritable fortress of faith.
These temples radiated an aura that made it difficult for the dead and the damned to gain a foothold in the city. It was cleverly done. Balthas traced the ley lines – the currents of celestial power – running through the city. ‘Like a spirit trap, writ large,’ he murmured. ‘Who built it, I wonder?’
‘My ancestor,’ Knossus said, from behind him. ‘Or, rather, the ancestor of the man I was. He built the city. Designed it. And the generations that followed built on his work.’
Balthas glanced at him. ‘He knew of the Ten Thousand Tombs?’
Knossus nodded. ‘Parts of the city were built with them in mind. The Grand Tempestus lies over the only stable entrance into the catacombs below. All of the others were found and sealed by the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, over the years.’
‘Wise. And now you’ve sealed the final entrance.’ Balthas tapped the map with his staff. ‘Even so – is it guarded?’
‘It is. A cohort of Liberators – specially chosen – ward the Grand Tempestus.’
‘Is that enough?’
Knossus smiled sadly. ‘I suspect not. But we will come to that in a moment.’ He struck the floor with the ferrule of his staff. ‘Friends, let us begin.’ He looked around, as all eyes turned towards him. ‘There is a storm on the horizon. We can all feel it. All who live in Glymmsforge can feel it. From the highest seat on the city’s conclave, to the meanest beggar in the Lyrian Souk. Shyish is in upheaval. The hills rise wild, and the dead rise with them. They will come to Glymmsforge, if they are not already on the way here.’
‘You are certain then?’ the duardin, Juddsson, growled.
‘We have the word of refugees flooding the city. The Zirc nomads are circling their fortress-wagons around their oases, and we have lost contact with more outposts than I care to consider – all along the Great Lyrian Road. As it stands, only Fort Alenstahdt is still sending regular reports.’ Knossus indicated the desert map. ‘And those reports are dire indeed – deadwalker herds massing in the dunes, and men going missing in the night.’
Balthas peered at the map. Fort Alenstahdt was only a few days’ travel from Glymmsforge. If the enemy were on the move towards the city, following the road, Fort Alenstahdt would fall right in the likely path of attack.
‘None of that is what I’d call hard evidence,’ Juddsson said. ‘The deadwalkers are always massing, and men always go missing.’
‘The aether is alive with malign portents, Master Juddsson,’ the representative from the Collegiate Arcane said. ‘Even your own runelords must have some concerns.’
‘Aye, but it’s always best to confirm such things, Lady Aelhad,’ the duardin said, gesturing at her with the stem of his pipe. ‘Manlings have been known to panic over a change in the weather. No disrespect intended.’
‘It’s more than the weather, Grom, and you know it,’ Tyrmane said, flatly. ‘Don’t think we don’t know that the Riven Clans have been quietly sealing off their tunnels from the rest of the city. If there’s panicking, your folk are the ones doing it.’
Juddsson peered at Tyrmane. ‘There’s a difference between being sensible, and losing your head over a few deadwalkers, Varo.’ He smiled thinly. ‘In any event, it’s not our tunnels you should be worrying about. My folk have been hearing things from those Grungni-be-damned catacombs. Sounds like this storm of yours is already here, and raging beneath our feet.’ He looked at Knossus. ‘Then, that’s why you’re here, eh?’
‘I am here to ensure that Glymmsforge stands,’ Knossus said. ‘Whatever comes, the city will weather it. That is my oath, Grom Juddsson. What about you?’
The duardin sat back and tugged at his beard. He looked away, frowning. ‘This is our ground, now. We’ll hold it, come fire or foe.’
‘We shall do it together,’ Knossus said. Juddsson glanced at him and, after a moment, nodded tersely. Balthas watched the exchange admiringly. He’d seen similar confrontations several times over the course of the week. He was forced to admit that Knossus was skilled in the art of politesse. Without him playing peacemaker, the city’s defenders might well have done Nagash’s work for him.
‘If the enemy comes, why should we have to do anything, save sit behind these walls and pepper them with silver shot?’ the Ironsides sergeant grunted. ‘I was under the impression this city was impregnable.’