Balthas glanced west, where the warriors of the Riven Clans faced the dead from behind high shields, with shot and thunder. The duardin had formed three squares of wide, rectangular shields wrought to resemble the faces of dragons. Drakeguns bellowed through specially designed slots in the mouth of each ‘dragon’, filling the air with fire and silver. As nighthaunts swooped down from above, warriors waiting behind the gunners hefted rune-embossed shields, creating a makeshift roof over the gromril square.
But for every weak spirit that scrabbled ineffectually at the raised shields, a cackling spectre reached down and tore at the warriors beneath. Already, the outermost squares were buckling as the duardin were forced to defend themselves against the chainrasps and chatter-gheists that slithered across the cobbles, beneath the arc of their guns.
A war-horn echoed from within the centre square, and the duardin began to retreat. Unlike many of his folk, Juddsson was no fool – he wouldn’t waste lives on a losing proposition. The duardin would retreat up the steps of the Grand Tempestus and reform on the portico, as the Freeguild were already doing.
Balthas thumped Quicksilver’s flanks, and the gryph-charger darted through the field of silver corpses, carrying them to where Fosko led the rearguard in holding back the dead. The old officer was shouting curses as he plied his blade like a butcher’s cleaver. ‘Hold them back, you worthless sacks of cats’ meat,’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘First man to take a step back without my order gets my steel in his belly.’
Spears of Aqshian flamewood thrust into the horde, as Glymmsmen braced massive pavise shields against the wall of rotting meat that pressed against them. The spears shattered skulls and snapped spines, dropping twitching deadwalkers to the cobbles. Fosko and those soldiers not wielding spears finished off those corpses that were still moving. It was efficient, if brutal, but the sheer number of the enemy was beginning to tell. As Balthas drew close, a soldier was dragged screaming through the shield wall and torn apart by the groaning corpses. What was left of him began to twitch almost instantly. Soon, it would rise and join the charnel legion.
Balthas could taste the necromantic energies permeating the throng, like a sourness at the back of his throat. It had become a war of attrition, and only one side was replenishing its forces. The Freeguild and the duardin were leaving too many bodies behind as they fell back. The mortals had become a hindrance, rather than a help.
Even so, they had helped him to gauge the strength of the enemy. This was no sortie, no random herd of corpses, but an all-out attack. And that meant the enemy he had been sent here to fight was upon them. ‘Pull them back, Fosko,’ he snarled, jerking on Quicksilver’s reins. ‘You’ve done your duty – now let me do mine.’
He thrust his staff up and gave the signal. From the portico came a roar as the celestar ballista sounded its fury. Streaks of blue-white energy arced over the heads of the retreating mortals, and where they landed, chain-explosions of arcane energy ripped through corpse and gheist alike. As Gellius swung the ballista around, taking full advantage of its wide field of fire, Faunus readied bolts for loading. Balthas knew from experience that they could manage an impressive rate of fire, even by the standards of the Conclave of the Thunderbolt.
In the momentary lull that followed, he urged Quicksilver forwards, into the mass of dead flesh. The gryph-charger shrieked as he bore a corpse down and snapped its spine. Overhead, the nighthaunts roiled, some swooping towards the lord-arcanum, screaming. Balthas raised his staff and called down the wrath of the storm.
Lightning fell from the sky to leap from spectre to gheist, rending the bodiless spirits asunder. As falling ash mixed with the rain, Balthas swept his staff out, crushing a deadwalker’s skull. As it fell, he murmured a transmutive incantation and transformed the flesh and bone of the deadwalkers around him to purest silver.
He turned in his saddle and spotted Fosko and his remaining men falling back, past the first battle-line of Sequitors. Porthas moved to cover their retreat in his own inimitable fashion. The Sequitor-Prime roared and swung his greatmace out, casting deadwalkers into the air. ‘Come then, come and set yourselves in the path of the storm. See what it profits you!’ He bellowed an order, and his warriors fell in behind him, creating a wedge of sigmarite, with Porthas as its point. He strode into the melee, greatmace swinging.
With every thunderous impact, deadwalkers were reduced to drifting cinders. Nighthaunts swooped towards him, wailing. Porthas set his feet and swung. A gheist exploded into rags of smoky effluvia, banished from the Mortal Realms. ‘Shields up,’ Porthas snarled. With a rattle, soulshields were angled to protect the Sequitors from the nighthaunts trying to pounce on them from above. Ghostly weapons bounced harmlessly from the shields, and the nighthaunts retreated in disarray.
As they fell back, Quintus shouted, and his Castigators fired. Aetheric energies burst upwards, as the bolts slammed into the ground beneath the nighthaunts. Several of the spectres were disincorporated by the blazing energies.
Balthas turned Quicksilver back towards the Grand Tempestus. ‘Porthas – cover the Glymmsmen’s retreat,’ he shouted, as the gryph-charger leapt over the heads of the Sequitors. ‘Mara, advance ten paces and set shields – hold until Porthas is clear.’ He galloped towards the temple, trusting in his subordinates to do as he’d ordered. They would clear back the deadwalkers and nighthaunts, before retreating themselves.
The surviving Glymmsmen were reforming near the steps. Fosko was shouting orders, gathering his soldiers into defensive squares. Nearby the duardin survivors had done much the same, warding their kin as they retreated up to the portico. Their shield wall was more precise, but Balthas could sense their agitation. He urged Quicksilver towards them, ignoring their glares and discomfited grumbling. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, without preamble. ‘Something is amiss.’
‘Our thane is injured,’ one of the duardin growled. ‘One of those spirits damn near plucked his heart from his chest.’
Balthas slid from Quicksilver’s back. ‘Take me to him.’
The duardin grunted and led Balthas through the shield wall, to where several duardin crouched over another, clad in rich robes and silver-plated gromril armour. Balthas recognised Grom Juddsson, though the duardin looked the worse for wear. His flesh was pale, almost translucent in places, and his breathing laboured. He clutched at his chest, and his eyes were squeezed shut.
Balthas sank down beside him. His storm-sight showed him the extent of the injuries done to the burly duardin. They weren’t merely physical. Whatever sort of spirit had attacked him, it had left traces of itself on his soul – a sort of spiritual frostbite. If not treated, it could eat a mortal hollow in a few days, or even hours.
‘Which one are you, then?’ Juddsson gasped. ‘Hard to tell with those helmets.’
‘Balthas.’
‘I don’t know you.’ Juddsson arched his back and grunted in pain. ‘Feels like there are rats in my chest, trying to claw their way out,’ he growled.
‘I can help you with that. But it will hurt.’
‘It already hurts.’
‘It will get worse.’
Juddsson’s grin wasn’t quite a rictus, but close. ‘Manling magic?’ he gasped. The other duardin murmured in distaste and glowered at Balthas.
‘Of a sort.’
Juddsson laughed harshly and lay back. ‘Do it. I’ll not die on my back, from wounds I can’t even see.’
Balthas placed his palm on Juddsson’s chest and murmured an incantation. The aether contracted around him. The air sparked and writhed, as thin rivulets of corposant ran down his staff and along his arms into the chest of the wounded duardin. Juddsson bucked. ‘Hold him down,’ Balthas snapped.