‘And I will stop you.’
‘You cannot stop the inevitable,’ Thaum roared. He surged towards Balthas, blade raised. Balthas lifted his staff, and light blazed outwards. The air contracted and suddenly gleamed gold as a wall rose up, separating them. Thaum’s blade struck the conjured wall, cracking it, but Balthas had bought himself a few moments.
He cast his voice into the air, knowing the aether would carry it to the ear of every Stormcast. ‘Sequitors – fall back to the Grand Tempestus. All others – draw the enemy off, fall back into the surrounding streets. The battle will not be won here. I will buy you the time you need to disengage, but move swiftly.’
As he spoke, Balthas caught at the aether, his anger at the deaths of Lynos and Porthas – at his own failure – giving him focus. His fingers bent, and the air grew hot. He spat a single word, in the Igneous dialect of Aqshy. It reverberated through the thickening atmosphere. The rain around him turned to steam as he raised his staff.
Then, as one, every deadwalker in sight burst into flame. Not the orange fire of Aqshy, but the cobalt blaze of Azyr – a cleansing flame, rather than a devouring one. The fires of the stars themselves, focused through his will. As the azure conflagration blazed upwards, consuming and purifying, the nighthaunts drew back. The ragged spectres fled before the threat of the fire, and those that were too slow or too weak were immolated along with the deadwalkers.
The golden wall dissipated, as Thaum finally broke through it. He roared in pain as the blue flames swirled up around him and set him alight. His form wavered and he quickly retreated, with a last, parting glare at his tormentor. It would take more than flames to slay such a spirit, Balthas knew. Perhaps it would take more power than he possessed.
‘But it will be done, regardless,’ he growled. Just not here, he knew. Not now.
There was no salvaging this fight – the formulas of battle had irreparably broken down. A new strategy was called for.
As he urged Quicksilver back towards the Grand Tempestus, he flung out his staff, drawing the currents of aether to him. Where Quicksilver ran, the dead burst into cleansing flame in his wake, creating a corridor of purifying flame for the Sequitors to follow through.
Nearing the steps, he saw Quintus’ Castigators falling back towards the portico, as nighthaunts swirled about them. More gheists had fallen on the celestar ballista, and Gellius and Faunus were struggling to keep the weapon intact and firing. A hunched reaper drove its scythe blade through Faunus, and was consumed in the engineer’s apotheosis. Gellius roared a curse and lashed out with his maul, destroying another spirit, even as his partner’s soul was ripped upwards, back to Azyr.
‘Quintus – pull back,’ Balthas said, trusting in the aether to carry his words. ‘We are coming.’ The Castigators fired another volley and began to stream up the steps, smashing aside nighthaunts with blasts of cerulean force.
As Quicksilver reached the steps, the heavy doors to the temple were flung wide and Miska led Helios and his Celestors out onto the portico. The mage-sacristan tore one of the spirit-bottles from her hip and sent it hurtling towards a knot of gheists. It struck the stones and exploded, releasing a frenzied storm-spirit. A crackling cloud of lightning zigzagged through the nighthaunts, reducing them to burnt particles, before at last escaping into the aether.
Helios and his warriors advanced across the portico at a stately pace, leaving crackling footprints of lightning in their wake. Celestial energies crawled across their armour, leaping out to cascade across the Castigators who retreated past them. Nighthaunts swooped towards the newcomers, cackling and screaming. The Celestors moved as one, creating an interwoven net of blows that reduced the howling chainrasps to sizzling ash. Lightning sawed out in a devouring fury from between their weapons, to lick through the air before contracting back.
Wherever the nighthaunts went, the lightning was there, reaching out to entangle and burn them, before retreating between the blades and staves of the Celestors. As this crackling display held the gheists’ attentions, Mara led the remaining Sequitors onto the portico and through the doors of the Grand Tempestus, followed closely by Gellius, his ballista across his shoulders.
Balthas galloped past Helios, calling out as he did so, ‘Efficiently done. Now fall back.’ The Celestors fell in behind him and followed him through the great double doors. Balthas hauled on the reins, turning Quicksilver about in time to see Miska stride after Helios. She slammed her staff down, and the doors slammed shut behind her with a rolling boom. She nodded.
‘The Grand Tempestus is sealed, lord-arcanum. No spirit will enter.’
Balthas was about to reply, when a sound echoed through the entry hall. The harsh scrape of many dead hands, clawing at the doors. The light of the storm-lanterns seemed to dim as the sound grew louder, and was joined by a piercing susurrus of babbling voices.
Miska stared at the doors for a moment. Then looked back at Balthas. ‘They will not enter easily, at least,’ she amended.
‘For the moment, that will be enough,’ Balthas said. ‘It will have to be.’
Pharus stared at the doors of the Grand Tempestus, idly tracing the scorch marks on his war-plate. ‘Balthas Arum,’ he said. He did not know why he knew the name, but he did. Something in him laughed as he said it, as if at an old joke, now mostly forgotten. ‘Balthas… Arum…’ The name sounded wrong, somehow. As if it were a lie.
What is a Stormcast but a lie made flesh? A false promise, given substance by hollow faith. Stolen souls, caged and warped into new shapes by a trickster god. And who tried to do the same to others, in a parody of their deceitful master…
Again, the sour laughter came and this time, it rose through him and escaped his lips unbidden. He laughed low, loud and long, glorying in the certainty which gripped him.
Yes, you see now. You have bested them. They are naught but shadows.
‘They are but shadows,’ he said. He was close, now, and nothing – not his former brothers, not this Balthas Arum – would keep him from fulfilling his purpose.
‘It is good to see you so pleased, Pharus. I feared you would find no joy in your purpose, as happens to so many who are bent to the great wheel.’
Pharus turned. ‘My Lady of All Flesh,’ he said, bowing. ‘What news?’
‘Glymmsforge burns,’ Crelis Arul said, with some satisfaction. She rested atop her palanquin, her wolves growling softly as they gnawed on something wet and red. ‘Malendrek wages the war he has dreamed of, and Yaros ensures that he is free to do so. As I have ensured that you are able to fulfil your desires.’ She gestured to the remaining deadwalkers, as they pounded at the doors of the Grand Tempestus. ‘Have they served you well?’
‘They performed their function satisfactorily.’
She pressed her hands together. ‘Oh, excellent. It makes my heart sing, to hear you say that.’ She turned, as if scenting the wind. ‘As it sings to hear the call of butchered meat. I can feel them waking up… My children. They see with new eyes, and hunt with new hunger. I must go and gather them.’ She stroked a wolf’s skull and looked down at Pharus. ‘Will you accompany me, oh knight?’
‘I will not,’ Pharus said. He knelt beside the spot where the lord-celestant had perished. He could hear the warrior’s soul howling as it rattled in Fellgrip’s chains. Soon, his brother would know the same peace he did. So why did that thought bother him so? He pushed it aside, as the voice in him whispered in satisfaction. ‘My duty is here, in this place. This is why I was remade.’
Arul laughed softly. ‘Is it, now? How wonderful to have such a clarity of purpose.’