The duardin drank until their beards were dripping, and the smell of their libations hung on the wet air, bitterly pungent. Balthas watched in disapproval as two heavily armoured duardin crashed into one another, heads lowered. As they slumped, Juddsson and the others cheered and toasted them. Fosko chuckled.
‘Rowdy, aren’t they?’
‘I thought duardin only toasted victory.’
Fosko snorted. ‘They do. The Riven Clans have never lost a battle. Or so they claim. They toast to their impending victory, so that it might be written in stone.’ He turned away. ‘Here they come.’
Balthas followed his gaze. He saw the soldiers making way for a tide of humanity. ‘What is this? Reinforcements?’
Fosko laughed. ‘Ha! No. Not enough room in the inner wards for everyone in the city, especially these days. Some have to make do the best they can.’ Then, more loudly, ‘Make way for them, make way!’ He waved a hand, and soldiers scrambled out of the path of the fearful citizenry. They moved towards the temple steps in a great mass. Some were praying, others talking among themselves. Men and women and children. Old and young. The adults in evidence were more the former.
‘Anyone with an able body is on the walls, or heading that way,’ Fosko said. ‘That leaves the gaffers and grannies to herd the children to safety. Such as it is.’ He spat.
‘We are here,’ Balthas said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We will protect them.’
‘And who’ll protect us while we’re doing that?’
Balthas hiked a thumb at the statue of Sigmar. ‘Him.’
Fosko glanced back and frowned. ‘You might have something there.’ He hesitated. ‘Have you ever…? I mean…’ He fell silent, looking uncertain.
‘I have,’ Balthas said, quietly. ‘It was he who sent me here.’ He looked down at the mortal. ‘He would be proud of you, I think.’
Fosko’s face tightened. He turned away. ‘I do my duty,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘Always have. Always will.’ He pointed and bellowed suddenly. ‘You, there – leave the bloody cart! No room for that in the temple. Idiot.’ He whistled. ‘Horst! Damael! Add that cart to the wall.’
A shamefaced carter hurried up the steps, leaving an overburdened cart at the bottom. Two of Fosko’s soldiers toppled it, scattering its contents as they manhandled it towards the barricades. Fosko shook his head, looking at the detritus strewn across the ground. ‘Fool. Risking his life for a few valuables.’
‘Weren’t you the one just telling me about dying for memories?’
‘Things aren’t memories. Things can be replaced.’ Fosko grunted. ‘Family and home is worth dying for. A cart full of badly made glassware and stolen silks is not.’
‘I shall keep that in mind.’
Fosko laughed. And Balthas followed suit, a moment later. But the moment was interrupted by the blare of a horn, from somewhere on the rooftops around the plaza. Fosko cursed. ‘That’s torn it. They’ve sighted the foe – finish up those barricades, fools! We’ll have deadwalkers on us before you know it!’ He stepped down from the steps, bellowing orders. Balthas left him to it.
He opened his senses, testing the aetheric winds. They were strong here – stronger than they ought to have been. He wondered whether that was due to the surge in wild magics. But with them came something else – a spiritual murk, as if the realm itself had been struck by some malaise. He could see it in the tight faces of the mortals hurrying past him – a bone-deep fear. Primal and gnawing.
Something was coming. Something more dangerous than any nighthaunt or shambling deadwalker. Whatever it was, it was the reason he had been sent here. He was as certain of that as he was his own name.
He glanced back at the face of the temple and the great statue of Sigmar the Liberator. The sculptor had crafted the God-King’s face with a determined snarl, and he seemed on the verge of exhaustion as he raised Ghal Maraz to shatter the chains of the souls cowering below him.
Balthas studied Sigmar’s face for a moment longer. Then he turned and whistled. Quicksilver rose to his feet and padded towards his master, grumbling softly in eagerness. Balthas hauled himself into the saddle. As he did so, he saw Miska striding towards him.
‘I heard the horns,’ she said.
‘The enemy draws close,’ Balthas said, hauling on Quicksilver’s reins. He gestured with his staff, as the rest of his subordinates gathered around. ‘Porthas, stand ready for my call. Mara, take your Sequitors to the steps. Usher the mortals to safety. Quintus, you and your Castigators will support Porthas. Gellius, Faunus – set up the celestar ballista on the portico. Wait for my signal. Swiftly now!’
His officers moved quickly, calling out to their cohorts. Balthas nodded, pleased by the display of discipline. He was confident that they would do as he’d ordered. Their discipline was the rock upon which the dead would break.
‘I will stand with Porthas,’ Miska said, making to follow the Sequitors.
‘No,’ Balthas said. ‘I will do that. Take Helios and his Celestors and fortify the temple. We will need to fall back and I want you waiting. Seek out the Liberator-Prime, Calys Eltain. I want her warriors ready.’
‘You think Fosko and the duardin will fail.’
‘Can you feel it? That blotch on the aether.’ He looked down at her. ‘Something is coming. Something beyond the reach of shot and pike.’ He shook his head. ‘This is the foe we were made to fight. It is outside their experience.’
She frowned. Her hand fell to the spirit-bottles hanging from her belt. ‘Yes.’
‘We must be ready for the inevitable. We will cover their retreat, when the time comes.’ He turned, scanning the sky. It had gone ominously dark. Not the dark of a storm, or of the night, but something else. There was a sourness on the air, clinging to everything, and it was only growing stronger.
Miska started up the steps, calling out to Helios as she went. Balthas watched her go, and then turned back to the approaching enemy. He urged Quicksilver forwards, and the gryph-charger bounded down the steps, squalling in readiness. Freeguild warriors made way for the lord-arcanum, eyeing both him and his steed with nervousness. Fosko was waiting for him at the outer edge of the temple plaza. The captain turned, eyebrow raised.
‘Come to stand with us, then?’
‘Yes,’ Balthas said, looking down at him.
‘Just you?’
‘I am enough.’ He could see the wheels turning in Fosko’s head. The old soldier was no fool – he and his men were expendable, so long as the temple remained inviolate. Balthas wondered whether he would protest. But, after a moment, Fosko simply nodded.
‘Let’s hope so.’
Miska found Calys Eltain standing watch above the nave. The Liberator-Prime stood on the balcony, arms crossed, her helm hanging from her belt. Her face was set and stiff, as if she wished she were anywhere else. Then, given how Balthas had treated her, that was understandable. The lord-arcanum was off-putting, even at the best of times.
The mage-sacristan strode to join the other Stormcast, pausing only to allow a priest to hurry past. Calys glanced at her. ‘I heard the horns. The enemy has entered the city.’
‘As was expected,’ Miska said. ‘My warriors and I will fortify this place, to prevent the enemy from entering easily.’ She could see Helios and the others spreading out below. They would perform the necessary rites to render the twelve entrances of the temple inviolate against fell spirits and shambling corpses.
‘It is made of stone and hardened timber. What more can be done?’
‘Much, if you know how.’ Miska looked up at the glass dome of the roof. Golden sigils marked each pane of glass in the dome. Designed to draw the radiance of Azyr down to comfort the worshippers within its walls, the whole structure thrummed with divine power. She hoped it would be enough. ‘Your warriors?’