But there is blood to be spilled. The Great Work must be done.
‘Follow, Fellgrip,’ he said, not looking at the hunched jailer. It had not left his side since they had departed Nagashizzar. Like a faithful hound, it had become his shadow. Even so, he felt an uneasiness at its proximity. The chainrasps and other spectres that made up his forces refused to get any closer to Fellgrip than they had to, as if afraid that it might seek to return them to the prison they had so recently been roused from.
Pharus launched himself at the heavy wooden gates of the fort, sword held low. They stank of holy unguents and blessed waters, and he felt his form solidifying and his rush slowing. The storm of chainrasps swirled about him, like a flock of confused birds.
Their defences are weak. Pathetic. You are the storm. You are death. None may gainsay you. Strike. Strike!
His sword snapped out, the shadeglass blade passing easily through the thick wood. As the splintered sections of the gate crashed aside, his army roiled past him, filling the courtyard beyond like a malevolent cloud. He saw mortals run, fleeing for the dubious safety of the buildings. Handguns roared, as a line of Freeguild soldiers in leather coats and wide-brimmed hats fired a volley. Chainrasps shrieked as silver shot burned through them. Their rush dissolved, as the hurtling spirits shot away in all directions, seeking easier prey. The handgunners stepped back, already reloading. A second line stepped forwards.
Pharus strode towards them, dust swirling about him. He could hear screaming. Men and women and… children. He paused. Something was burning, and a woman was screaming, and a child… Elya? No, that wasn’t her name. He looked down at the sword in his hand, not recognising it for a moment. ‘Elya,’ he said, groping for an answer.
She is safe now. As all true children of Shyish will be safe. But these are different. Outsiders, brought to this realm to fight and die in Sigmar’s name.
Anger flowed through him, bright and cold. ‘Would you die here, in the name of a tyrant?’ His voice, hollow and harsh, scraped across the stones of the fort. ‘Or would you live out your full span in service to him to whom all that lives must eventually kneel?’
As if in reply, the handgunners fired. Pharus raced through the storm of shot, Fellgrip trailing in his wake. He lashed out, smashing guns and bones. He was not quite solid, but his blade was, and its edge was sharp. He saw Fellgrip swing his heavy chains about, staving in ribs and crushing skulls. As men fell to these clubbing blows, the spark of their life was drawn into the chains and trapped there.
Chainrasps joined Pharus in his attack, as the gun-line disintegrated. They plucked struggling warriors from the ground and dragged them into the air, where they were torn apart, screaming. ‘Kneel, fools,’ he thundered. ‘Accept death, and be one with Nagash – Nagash is all, and all are one in him.’ His words rang out over the battlefield, but few paid them any attention.
He saw snarling dogs bite at the chainrasps, and men bearing silver glaives pin a struggling phantom to the side of a wagon. A horned spectre swung a wide scythe, sweeping a trio of warriors from their feet. A duardin, clad in the finery of a trader, hacked about him with a rune-inscribed hand-axe, as his bodyguards were pulled apart by the cackling gheists.
Balls of silver and lead punched into the back of his armour, as Freeguild soldiers fired a ragged volley down from the parapet above. He felt slivers of pain echo through him as he whirled, his face stretching in an inhuman snarl. He launched himself at them, his blade sweeping out. A soldier screamed and fell away, and Pharus felt a surge of strength wind through him. The blade ate lives, adding their span to his own and warming the cold within him for a few moments. He twisted, angling his blade towards another mortal.
More silver shot struck him, tearing ragged holes in his substance. He screamed in frustration and flowed towards the foe. Why could they not see that he was trying to help them? Why did they resist? His sword licked out, separating a head from shoulders. The soldiers on the wall fell back, some reloading, others thrusting glaives and halberds uselessly at the chainrasps swarming over the walls. A bellicose giant towered among the men, swinging a rifle like a club, exhorting them to greater efforts.
There. The leader. Without him, the others would break. They would retreat, and die in the doing. Pharus raced towards the giant. ‘Kneel, mortal – seek forgiveness in the arms of death,’ he roared. ‘Only Nagash can save you now.’
‘Poppa does not kneel, rag-a-bones,’ the giant bellowed. He reversed the rifle as Pharus drew close, and fired. A spray of silver and iron ripped across Pharus, pock-marking his war-plate and stinging his eyes. He shrieked and rose up, clawing at his face. He felt the stock of the rifle crash against his armour and lashed out with his sword. The giant roared and slammed into him, as if seeking to tackle him.
‘Fool,’ Pharus snarled, ‘I have no neck to wring, no limbs to break – I am beyond the weaknesses of flesh.’ He caught at the giant’s unshaven throat and flung him from the parapet. The warrior crashed down with a groan, somehow still holding on to his weapon.
Pharus stepped off the parapet and stalked down through the air towards his opponent. He could smell the stink of the man’s injuries – the sharp tang of spilled blood and broken bone. Death was close. Death was here. Pharus raised his blade over the injured warrior. ‘Rejoice, mortal – death spreads its wings above you.’
He slashed down. The giant interposed his weapon at the last moment, but the shadeglass blade continued its downward stroke unimpeded. It passed through his broad chest. The giant stiffened. A cloud of blood erupted from his open mouth. For a moment, he clutched awkwardly at the slick edge of the blade, and Pharus thought he might succeed in extracting it. Then, with a sigh, he sagged back.
Dogs began to howl throughout the fort, and nearby soldiers wailed. Shots plucked at Pharus as he wrenched his sword free. He turned. A mind-chilling smoke billowed from Dohl’s lantern, to float over the battlefield. Wherever it passed, the souls of the newly fallen were wrenched screaming from their bloody bodies, to rise and join the ranks of the dead.
The soldiers were retreating in confusion, seeking the protection of outbuildings and stables. The most organised knot of them was steadily falling back towards what could only be the fort’s chapel, along with the surviving civilians. The structure shone like a beacon, its every stone limned with azure light to his altered sight. He wanted to tear it apart and bury it in the sand, but knew that to cross its threshold would cause him more pain than any silver shot or blade.
Pharus hesitated. Perhaps it was best to leave it.
What is pain, to one already dead? Every life in the fort is owed to Nagash.
He started after the retreating Freeguild, his sword twitching in his grip. As he closed in, a shot ricocheted off his helm, distracting him. He spun, blade licking out. His attacker stumbled back with a yelp, just out of reach. Not a soldier. By his robes, Pharus judged him a scribe. A smoking pistol, its barrel etched with duardin runes, thumped to the ground as the little man scrambled to his feet. He thrust a hand into his robes, clawing for something as Pharus closed in on him.
Pharus raised his blade, and the scribe snatched a medallion from his robes. As he brought it into the open, it blazed forth with a blue radiance. ‘Back,’ the little man screeched, thrusting the sigil towards him. Pharus flinched away, unable to bear the sight of it.