‘That will not stay my hand, mortal. Not for long.’
‘Long enough,’ the little man said.
Pharus glanced at him and then turned. He could see the last of the Freeguild survivors hurrying towards the chapel, despite the chainrasps harrying them. ‘You are brave,’ he said, flexing his hand. The sword thrummed in his grip, eager to taste the life of the little man. ‘Do you think Sigmar will take you to his bosom, when I strike you down?’
‘I… I don’t know,’ the little man said. ‘But I’m not afraid to find out.’
‘In Helstone, hubris was a crime.’ Rocha rose up behind the little man. Before Pharus could stop her, her axe swept out, removing the man’s head. His body sank down, the hated symbol falling from his limp hand. The executioner stared down at the body, jaw working soundlessly. She looked at Pharus. ‘So was hesitation.’
Pharus extended his sword towards her. ‘Remember who you serve, executioner.’ He felt something stir in him – anger? Sadness? He could not tell, and told himself that he did not care. He again caught a glimpse of something, lurking in the facets of his blade – watching him, judging. A great eye, like an amethyst star, burned into his own.
‘The same king as you, Pharus Thaum.’ Rocha grinned, baring broken teeth. He wondered if she too could see what passed through the facets of his blade. Her expression of glee faded as the spirits clinging to her pulled her away, towards the next bloody deed. She laughed wildly and raised her axe in gaunt hands. Pharus watched her go, and then turned back to the chapel.
As he did so, he caught sight of the scribe’s sigil, lying forgotten on the ground. He flicked it away, out of sight, with the tip of his blade. Then, filled only with cold and hunger, he started towards the chapel, to cast stone from stone, as he’d sworn.
To do as Nagash had made him to do.
Chapter sixteen
Grand Tempestus
‘The desert burns,’ Knossus said, staring at the horizon. He looked at Balthas. ‘The enemy is close at hand. Can you feel it?’
Balthas nodded. The temperature had dipped precipitously over the past day. The heavy braziers set at intervals along the eastern wall struggled to hold the cold at bay. Flames snapped and whipped in the wind that moaned across the ramparts.
He gazed along the wall’s length. The great cannons of the Ironweld were arrayed in batteries as far as the eye could see. Glymmsforge’s arsenal was the largest in Shyish, and growing by the year. But all the powder and shot in the realm would not be enough to stop what he suspected was coming.
Still looking at the cannons, he asked, ‘Any word from the fort?’ Fort Alenstahdt had fallen silent as the fires on the horizon grew brighter. Galen Sleekwing, Prosecutor-Prime of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer’s Angelos Chamber, had demanded the right to send out patrols of Prosecutors, but Knossus had refrained. There were things abroad in the dark skies that no warrior, no matter how skilled, could face and survive.
‘None. Not for three days. If anyone is alive out there, they have other things to worry about.’ Knossus leaned against his staff, looking surprisingly weary. Balthas could tell that the responsibility was wearing on him. They possessed superhuman vitality, but even it had its limits. And the city was under siege, even if there was no enemy in sight yet. The dead rose in greater numbers than ever before, despite the usual precautions.
In the past day, drowned corpses had surfaced in the Glass Mere to attack the villages that clustered along the shore-wall, and the effluvia of an abattoir in the tannery quarter had congealed into something monstrous and hungry. Each day brought new horrors, necessitating some form of intervention. Which further distracted from the efforts of the city’s defenders to prepare themselves for the attack that was almost certainly coming.
Out among the dunes, Balthas heard the cry of a jackal. The eerie sound rose and quavered out. As if in reply, the howling of dogs rose over the city. The soldiers on the wall glanced at one another nervously. Balthas could see the fear that tinged their auras. He sent a whisper of power through his staff, so that its glow blossomed suddenly, washing across the wall. The fear in those nearest to him eased.
‘Compassion, brother?’ Knossus asked.
‘Pragmatism. Fear sharpens the senses, but too much can overwhelm them.’ Balthas looked up at the dark sky. He couldn’t see the stars. A flicker of unease gripped him, but he said nothing of it. ‘They must be alert.’
‘As must we.’ Knossus looked out over the desert. ‘Death draws closer with every breath we take. It feels as if the underworld itself is closing in about us. As if Nagash has us in his fist.’ He sighed. ‘I thought I had seen my darkest days already, but this feels unsettlingly familiar.’
‘Have you found the weakness in the city’s wards yet?’
‘No. But I am drawing close.’ Knossus gestured to the north. ‘There is a tang in the air, there – a musty note beneath everything. It is there, I think.’
‘We must seal it, then, and swiftly,’ Balthas said. ‘While it exists, the city is weakened. Its defences are incomplete.’
Knossus blocked Balthas’ path with his staff. ‘I will deal with it. There is something else that you must do. The Grand Tempestus.’
Balthas paused. ‘I was under the impression that it was protected.’
‘It is. By you.’ Knossus smiled. ‘Sigmar sent you here for this purpose, brother. Defending the city’s walls is my responsibility. You will defend its heart. I have already sent word to Calys Eltain, placing her under your command.’
Balthas bowed his head. ‘My… thanks, brother.’
‘You will not be alone. The Grand Tempestus sits amid the main artery of the city – I have despatched forces to hold the surrounding streets. They will be of some help to you.’
‘Mortals?’ Balthas said, doubtfully.
‘Lynos and Orius are needed elsewhere. It will be up to us to hold the enemy on the walls. Hopefully, you will not see a single spectre or walking corpse.’
Balthas looked back towards the desert and the witch-light glow dancing on the horizon. He did not share Knossus’ seeming confidence. Whatever was coming, it would take more than walls and mystic wards to stop it.
But he did not voice his concerns. Instead, he simply turned away. ‘I hope you are right, brother. And Sigmar help us if you are not.’
Calys Eltain descended the steps of the Grand Tempestus, leading her cohort of warriors into the wide plaza that stretched before it. The cathedral rose up above and around her, an imposing edifice of celestine and marble that always smelled of ozone and rain. A massive statue of Sigmar the Liberator stood over the main doors, hammer raised to smash the chains of the oppressed. More statues, these of saints, Azyrite and otherwise, lined either side of the colossal, slabbed steps. Some were of Stormcasts but most were of mortal humans – men and women, sages and warrior-priests, great warriors and healers.
It had begun to rain, diffusing the glow of the storm-lanterns hung from the high posts at the bottom of the steps. The circumference of the plaza was interrupted by twelve streets, each demarcated by a high archway of stone that stretched between the buildings to either side. Freeguild troops in the uniform of the Glymmsmen marched through one of the archways, their voices raised in conversation or song.
Calys stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up. She could not see the stars. The sky resembled a black wound. She frowned, uneasy. Beside her, the gryph-hound, Grip, chirped softly. Calys looked down, watching as the mortal soldiers filed into the plaza. Some had begun to unlimber artillery pieces, while others were banging on the doors of nearby shops and dwellings.