He is blind, the voice said. Blinded by the light of Azyr, as they all are. They see only the light, not what it hides.
‘He uses you up, burning away memory and soul,’ Pharus said. ‘What will remain of you, in the end?’ Hatred swelled up, subsuming uncertainty. ‘You will be nothing,’ he said. ‘A husk, clad in black.’
‘And what are you?’ the lord-celestant spat.
‘I am a thing of purpose,’ Pharus said. ‘And I will have justice.’ The Stormcast hesitated. Pharus battered aside his blade, just for an instant, and swept his sword out, quickly. The black blade chewed through sigmarite, ripping and tearing the armour plates with fell strength. It darted, adder-quick, to pierce the flesh within. The lord-celestant groaned and sank back, blue lightning snarling around the edges of the wound.
Pharus reversed his blade and lifted it in both hands, ready to plunge it down into the lord-celestant. To finish him. But he hesitated. ‘No. You’ll not escape that way. I’ll make you see the truth. And then we will fight beside one another.’
One thrust will be enough to hold him. Trap him. Quickly!
‘Fellgrip – attend me! I have a task for you, jailer.’
The Spirit Torment drifted forwards, chains rattling like laughter. The lord-celestant struggled to rise, but Pharus set a foot on his chest and pinned him in place. He raised his blade high, for the killing thrust. ‘You will see what I have seen and you will join me. There is no other choice.’
‘There is always a choice, creature,’ a voice thundered behind him. ‘Even in the blackest shadow, there is a speck of light.’
Pharus turned and saw an immense, silvery, feathered shape bulling towards him. Chainrasps scattered like leaves in a wind as the gryph-charger bounded through their ranks. Lightning crackled about the head of the rider’s staff. Something in Pharus flinched back from that blue radiance, as he turned to face this new opponent. The rider wore the black and gold of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, but his war-plate was more ornate than that of Lynos – even so, he was familiar, somehow. As if they had faced one another before. The rider bellowed a single word, and a chain of lightning spat from the head of his staff.
It struck a chainrasp and leapt from phantasm to phantasm, causing the lesser spirits to spasm and jerk in seeming agony. They squalled like injured beasts as the celestial energies played about the links of their chains, and tore their aethereal forms to rags and tatters. The gryph-charger loped through their dispersing remains. It crashed into Pharus and knocked him sprawling.
Pharus made to clamber to his feet, armour creaking. The gryph-charger reared up over him, shrieking angrily. Its claws slammed down, tearing through his war-plate. Amethyst lightning sparked out through the ruptures, and the beast twisted aside with a yowl of pain. Pharus slashed out, driving the beast back. His blade bit into its flank, and a heavy hoof hammered into his hip, staggering him.
The rider twisted about and drove the ferrule of his staff down, into the side of Pharus’ head. Pharus reeled, his spirit shuddering within his war-plate. Azure lightning crackled, and pain exploded within him. The gryph-charger turned, lashing out with hooves and claws. Chainrasps swirled about steed and rider like angry hornets.
Pharus retreated, trying to escape the terrible radiance bleeding off the rider. Images crashed through his head, insistent and painful. He saw the newcomer standing before him, shouting his name, and the awful, yawning tunnel of stars overhead. He felt the play of lightning – as hot and as agonising as the real thing – and the sudden lurch, as he fell upwards and away, caught in a cosmic wind. He shook his head, hoping to clear it.
Ignore him. He is nothing.
He saw the wounded lord-celestant clambering to his feet, as a phalanx of Liberators broke through the chainrasps and formed up about their wounded lord. He snarled in frustration and tried to side-step the gryph-charger. His prey would not escape him. ‘Rocha – aid me, executioner!’ he called out.
‘A pleasure, my sweet lord,’ Rocha shrilled, as she hurtled past, overhead. Her great axe licked out, cracking against the rider’s staff. The souls of those she’d slain clambered over her opponent, clawing at him. The gryph-charger squalled, as its rider hauled on the reins and turned to face Rocha.
With his opponent distracted, Pharus launched himself at the Liberators, and his sword purred as it chopped through sigmarite shields. He felt strong as he cut them down. Their lightning washed through him, and the cerulean sparks became amethyst as they played across his war-plate.
Yes. Free them. Collect the tithe. Claim their souls in the name of the Undying King.
The Stormcasts fought valiantly, but he cast them aside with ease. Strength flooded him, and in the facets of his blade, he saw the reflected unlight of the black sun. It was as if Nagash stood at his shoulder, whispering into his ear.
Rejoice, for you are nothing more than a blade in the Undying King’s hand, and his foes shall fall before you, like wheat before the reaper’s scythe.
The last Liberator sank to one knee and was battered aside. Then, there was nothing between him and his quarry. Pharus gave the lord-celestant no chance to speak. He lunged, sword held low, and drove it through his opponent’s midsection. The force of the blow carried them both, and the Stormcast slammed into the base of one of the statues that lined the plaza like silent observers. Pharus leaned forwards, driving the blade in deeper, until it bit into the stone.
Yes. Take him.
‘Surrender,’ he said, his voice a hoarse croak.
‘N-no,’ the lord-celestant gasped, clutching at him. His helmet had been knocked from him by the force of the impact, and his bare features sent distracting moths of memory fluttering across Pharus’ mind’s eye. His eyes still blazed, but more weakly now than before.
‘Yes. You will see the truth, as I have.’ Pharus made to twist his blade, to finish his task, but hesitated. Something in him raged, slamming against the bars of its cage. ‘The truth,’ he said again. Then, more softly, ‘Do you know what it is?’
There is only one truth, Pharus Thaum. There is only one end, to your path.
‘S-Sigmar,’ the dying warrior said. Pharus wondered if the lord-celestant was answering his question, or merely pleading with the one who had sent him here to perish.
Pharus twisted the blade and put an end to his quarry’s struggles.
‘No. Not Sigmar. There is only one truth, and it is Nagash.’
Balthas felt, rather than saw, Lynos’ demise. As he twisted in his saddle, he saw a crackling coil of lightning streak skywards, only to be drawn, with a scream of tortured energies, into the chains of the crooked, hunched spirit he’d noticed earlier.
‘No,’ he said, shocked to his core by the sight. He’d known it was possible to trap a Stormcast’s soul, but to see it happen… For a moment, he sat frozen. Then he heard Porthas shout a warning and felt his opponent’s axe grate against his back. The chipped blade tore through his cloak and drew sparks from his back-plate.
The force of the blow knocked him from the saddle, and as he struck the ground, his staff rolled from his grip. The ghostly executioner rose up over him, cackling wildly, lifting its axe in both hands. ‘Come, Fellgrip,’ it shrieked. ‘Here is another soul for you.’ The axe hissed down.
A greatmace blocked the blow. Porthas slammed his shoulder into the nighthaunt, knocking it aside. ‘No,’ the Sequitor-Prime rumbled. ‘No more souls.’ He turned, whirling his greatmace up, and brought it down on the plaza. Lightning erupted from the cobbles, driving back the swarming gheists, if only for a moment. Balthas took the opportunity to get back to his feet.