‘One at each entrance, save for the main. They will hold, whatever comes.’
‘And the main?’
Calys looked at her. ‘It is mine. It is my duty to hold this place. To keep the enemy from discovering what is hidden beneath us.’
‘That is our goal as well.’
‘I have never heard of you, or your chamber. And now, here, two of your sort, come to reinforce us. First Knossus, and now this Balthas.’ Calys looked down, into the nave below and the people flooding the aisle. ‘Almost as if the God-King were waiting for an excuse to unleash you.’
‘That you have never heard of us does not mean we have been hiding,’ Miska said. ‘We have taken the field a total of fifteen times, since I was first called to Sigmar’s side. Fifteen campaigns in the mortal realms, none so long as I might wish. Balthas is brutally efficient when he puts his mind to it.’
‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing.’
Miska didn’t reply. She looked at the statue which loomed over the interior of the temple – Sigmar the Liberator, holding the realms on his back, his foot crushing the skull of a vaguely amorphous daemonic shape. Miska wasn’t certain just which of the Ruinous Powers it was supposed to be – perhaps all of them. ‘We are not soldiers by nature, not like you, though we are no less warriors. Our discipline has taken us down a different path.’ She held up her hand and let crackling strands of aether dance in her palm. ‘We seek not the foe in the open field, but a more insidious opponent – one we have not successfully defeated.’
‘Dathus – Lord-Relictor Dathus – mentioned something about that. He said that you of the Sacrosanct Chambers wage war on the Anvil of Apotheosis itself.’ Calys shook her head. ‘I was not certain what he meant.’
Miska hesitated. The problems with the reforging process were not a secret. But neither was it spoken of openly. Before she could reply, Calys went on. ‘They say that you witness the reforging.’
‘I have that honour.’
‘Have you – I mean…’ She hesitated. She looked down, watching the refugees crowd into the temple. ‘I did not know him well. I did not know him at all. But he saved me. You understand?’
Miska did. The bonds between the warriors of Azyr were as strong as sigmarite. She would die for any warrior under her command, and they would do the same for her. ‘What was his name?’
‘Pharus. Pharus Thaum. He was our lord-castellant.’ Calys looked at her. ‘He saved me. He died, saving me.’ She looked down and, for the first time, Miska noticed the gryph-hound laying at Calys’ feet. The beast looked up at her and yawned.
‘I know that name,’ Miska said, after a moment. ‘The secrets of the reforging process are ever-changing, like the aether itself. No two spirits are the same, and thus no two reforgings are alike.’
‘Then he has been…’ Calys trailed off.
Miska looked away. ‘Pharus burned like a star – he burned too brightly and was consumed by his own strength. That is what happened to him.’
‘Then he is dead twice-over, because of me.’ Calys leaned against the stone rail of the balcony. It crumbled in her grip.
‘No.’ Miska caught her by the shoulder. ‘We are forged from memories and starlight, Calys Eltain. Both are volatile. They can consume us, as easily as they comfort us.’ She decided not to mention that Thaum’s soul might be loose somewhere in Shyish. ‘Pharus fought and died, as a son of Azyr. We should all be so lucky, when our time comes.’
Calys turned away from her. ‘I hope so,’ she said, staring at the statue of Sigmar. ‘I pray it is so.’
From outside, the horn blew again. Miska looked up. Dark clouds were visible through the glass dome, blotting out the stars. She felt the aether stir, and a cold sensation slid through her. She looked at Calys. ‘The enemy are here.’
Calys drew her warblade. ‘Good.’
Pharus ran across the sands towards the northern gatehouse, an army of ghosts at his back. He was moving faster than any mortal man, swept along in the wake of Malendrek’s fury. The Knight of Shrouds had given the call to war, and the nighthaunts answered. They sped through the shuffling ranks of deadwalkers, rising up and past them in a hurricane of grey-green energy.
‘Faster, faster,’ Rocha shrilled from nearby. The executioner was almost a blur of darkness, her gore-streaked features pulled tight with unholy anticipation. ‘There is justice to be meted out, and a tithe owed – faster!’
Pharus kept up with her easily, Fellgrip hurtling in his wake, chains rattling. He could hear Dohl’s sonorous voice somewhere behind them, exhorting the multitude of spirits to greater speeds. They were a wave, crashing towards the distant shore – thousands of spirits, driven by one will. Pharus felt it fill him, and for a moment, he felt neither the cold nor the hunger, only a sense of fulfilment. As if the hand of his lord and master were upon his shoulder, as if it were Nagash’s voice, rather than Dohl’s, urging them on.
But the closer they got to the walls of the city, the brighter it became, until it was akin to staring into the heart of a roaring fire. The light pained and confused him, and drove the chainrasps about him into a wailing frenzy. It was as if the city were encased in a dome of light, and he could see no way through.
He staggered, slowing, limbs smoking. It was as if he’d run into a solid wall of heat. A chainrasp came apart with a despairing shriek. Another fluttered away, its tattered form alight with blue flames.
A great wail rose up, as the nighthaunts hurled themselves at the light, seeking to blot it out with their forms. As they struck it, thunder echoed through Pharus, and he saw streaks of lightning pass through the dead. Memories flickered – Sigmar had protected the city. Had set the dead to oppose the dead. Twelve saints and a circle of blessed salt.
‘We must dim the light,’ Dohl bellowed, from behind him. ‘Overwhelm it!’ His lantern blazed, and more and more of the lesser spectres streaked towards the city. But they would not be able to pierce the barrier.
And yet, there was a gap. A pinhole in the light. Pharus stared, trying to see past the glare. He spied Malendrek riding hard for the gap, his deathly riders spread out behind him. They pulled the rest of the nighthaunt horde in their wake. Pharus drew his blade and hurtled in pursuit. ‘There,’ he roared. ‘Follow the Knight of Shrouds!’
He felt the winds of Shyish billow about him, lending him speed. There was a sound in his head – a triumphant shriek, rising from far away. The sword shuddered in his grip as the hateful azure light swelled to either side of him, blotting out the desert and even the gheists which surrounded him.
He heard the clangour of great bells, and smelled again the smoke of his dying place. He felt the cruel heat of his remaking and knew that this was the same power. Once, it might have warmed him. Now, it burned him, and might burn him away to nothing, were it not for Nagash. The hilt of his sword grew hot in his hands as he trudged forwards, determined to follow Malendrek through the light.
The heat grew unbearable, and he felt himself become thin and weightless. As if, at any moment, he would be consumed. Dimly, he heard the scream of gheists and the rumble of thunder. Malendrek’s voice boomed out ahead of him. ‘You will all be remade in darkness,’ the Knight of Shrouds shrieked.
Pharus felt a wrenching within him, and then he was through. Past the light, smoke rising from his armour and from his sword. He stood in a courtyard – familiar, but only just. The air was thick with the stink of Azyr, and the sweeter smell of mortal fear and blood. Thunder boomed, and he staggered back, throwing up a hand to shield his gaze as lightning washed across the stones.