‘I feel no joy.’
Dohl looked at him. ‘You will, in time. Not that pale sensation that afflicts the living, but the true joy. The joy of knowing your ultimate place, without doubt or fear. This is the truth of the Corpse Geometries. The black formulae, which encompass all things.’
Pharus twitched, annoyed by the creature’s apparent need to spout philosophical musings at every opportunity. What did such mutterings matter to such as them? But he said nothing. Let Dohl blather. Let them all chatter and weep and whisper as much as they liked, so long as they fulfilled their purpose.
A horn blew suddenly, echoing out over the cathedral grounds. The nighthaunts began to shriek and wail in agitation. The stones reverberated with the force and fury of the sound. As the echoes faded, Pharus heard the crash of boots on cobbles. A moment later, a battle-line of Stormcasts marched out from between the buildings on the opposite side of the plaza.
His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, and he could hear the sands shifting in the hourglass. And something else, as well… A rattle of bones and the slow, stentorian chuckle of a god on his throne.
A volley of crackling arrows arced over the heads of the newly arrived Stormcasts, and struck many of the milling cadavers that crowded the plaza. Bodies fell for a second time, blackened and smoking. But others pressed forwards over them, lurching now in the direction of the newcomers.
‘Fellgrip. Attend me,’ Pharus croaked. He looked at Rocha, who floated nearby. ‘You as well. Their leader is mine. Carve me a path, executioner.’
Rocha grinned, displaying her broken teeth. ‘It would be my honour, sweet lord.’ She launched herself towards the approaching Stormcasts with a wild shriek. A clamouring of chainrasps followed her, until the air was choked with them.
Pharus looked back at Dohl. ‘Continue your ministrations, Dohl. Call up more souls. Keep the rest of our foes hemmed in. They wish to defend that temple, let them. But do not let them come to the aid of the Gravewalker.’
Dohl inclined his head. ‘As you will it, my lord.’ His gaze flickered strangely, and Pharus hesitated. Was there amusement there, in the dead man’s voice? He turned away, drawing his blade. The sands raced through the hourglass as he swept the sword out and flung himself towards the enemy.
The wave of nighthaunts crashed over the Stormcasts, shrieking and howling. Some among these spirits bore heavy scythes, or rang great bells and wailed hymns extolling Nagash’s eternal glory. Sigmarite shields held against the sweeping blows of the scythes, but only for a few moments before the blessed metal parted, and the rust-streaked blades bit into the warriors behind.
Rocha led the reapers in their harvest, her great single-bladed axe rising and falling in mighty arcs. She was laughing, as she fought, but Pharus could make out the tears of blood streaking her countenance. Crackling arrows hissed towards her, only to shudder to pieces as the disembodied, chattering skulls of her victims interposed themselves.
The Stormcasts’ shield wall bowed, as the nighthaunts spilled over it, and past. Pharus followed more slowly, watching as chainrasps pulled down a struggling warrior and thrust their crude weapons through the gaps in his war-plate. That he might once have known the warrior’s name gave him little pause as he gestured to Fellgrip. ‘Take him.’
The jailer gave an eager hiss as it flung itself on the dying warrior. Heavy chains slammed down. The Liberator’s helm crumpled as Fellgrip finished what the chainrasps had begun. As the warrior’s soul erupted upwards, Fellgrip swept its chains out, ensnaring the lighting before it could escape.
Pharus had seen to it that Fellgrip collected as many Azyrite souls as possible since they’d breached the gate. The jailer’s chains shook with imprisoned souls, and Pharus could hear them screaming, if he bothered to listen.
They scream only because they do not understand. They do not see. But they will come to do so, as you have done. All are one in Nagash.
‘Nagash is all,’ he rasped, as his sword licked out and danced across the back of a Liberator’s neck, killing her instantly. ‘All are Nagash.’ He whirled, chopping through the upraised arm of the warrior behind him. The Stormcast sagged back, and Pharus thrust his blade through one of the eye-slits of the wounded warrior’s helm.
Yes. Free them, Pharus. Help them escape the cage Sigmar has built around them.
‘I will help them,’ he snarled, tearing his sword free. As he left the soul to Fellgrip, a heavy blow caught him on the side of the head. His helmet was torn free in a burst of celestial radiance, and he wavered where he stood. Snarling, he turned and slashed at his attacker. Their swords connected with a harsh scrape, and Pharus saw his opponent for the first time – the lord-celestant of the enemy forces.
Their eyes locked. The shadow of half-forgotten memories fell over him. In his mind’s eye, he saw a hard face, worn to sharp edges by a century of duty. Another slave of the stars, bound in chains of light. One who had once been as close as a brother. A name floated just out of reach, and he snarled in frustration. He knew this warrior – so why could he not remember his name?
All useless things are discarded. What purpose does such a little memory serve?
Pharus hesitated. He felt a hand clap against his shoulder. He heard a great, bellowing laugh – rare, that, for Lynos – was that his name? – almost never laughed. He felt the weight of his lantern, shining with all the glory of–
Their blades sprang apart with a screech of steel. He dodged a wild sweep of his opponent’s hammer and backed away. He bent and reclaimed his fallen helm. As he placed it over his head, he felt his doubts recede.
He lunged, blade raised.
Chapter nineteen
Broken Souls
Elya climbed through the stone canopy of the Grand Tempestus. As she climbed, she listened with half an ear to the babble of panicked humanity rising from below. Her father was somewhere among them, trying to crawl into a bottle. Maybe his last.
She’d left Halha with him. The trader seemed eager for something to occupy her time and was keeping Duvak from making a mess of things, or getting into a fight. Normally, that responsibility was Elya’s, but it was hard to sit and do nothing but watch her father pickle himself and talk about people who weren’t there anymore.
People were screaming and crying. The air throbbed with tension, and the sounds of battle from outside were only making things worse. She’d had to climb to get away from it. There were many people, in too small a space, despite the fact that the nave of the temple was as wide as a city boulevard, and almost as long.
She paused, watching as soldiers took up positions among the pillars and statues. Their commander shouted hoarsely, directing them with his blade. The duardin she saw were more subdued, but they readied their shields, making improvised bulwarks between the centre of the temple and the main doors.
Elya watched for a time, and then continued to pick her way across the stone carvings, as light as the cats that watched her progress from above and around her. They were scattered throughout the temple, seeking someplace safe and warm to wait out the storm.
Above her, a cat hissed suddenly. She froze as something passed across the face of a nearby window. A shape that wasn’t a shape. She could hear the nicksoul gibbering as it slithered across the glass, scrabbling ineffectually at it, for the glass was blessed and it couldn’t get in. It sounded like the mad men who sat on the corners and talked to people who’d died in the last siege. Just words, words, words and none of them making any sense.