Pharus glanced up at her. ‘And do you not? Does dead flesh not beseech you to raise it up, as the souls of the living call to me and ask for their freedom?’
‘I think you were a thing of singular purpose, even before Nagash reshaped you. But we shall speak more on it, later. Once the city is ours, and the Shimmergate shakes with the tread of a million corpses.’ She gestured, and her palanquin turned away. ‘Fight well, Pharus Thaum. Our master stands at your shoulder, and you would do well not to disappoint him.’
Rest assured, you shall not. So long as you perform your function.
‘I will not fail.’ Pharus watched her depart, and then looked back at the Grand Tempestus. It called to him. Not the temple itself, but what lay beneath it. He looked down and picked up a Stormcast helmet, laying smouldering upon the stones. He looked at its stern features, seeking something familiar. Had he known the one who wore it? Would he know their face, if he saw it again?
‘What now, my lord?’ Dohl asked, drifting towards him. As ever, the guardian of souls was trailed by a flock of chainrasps, all murmuring and twitching in the light of Dohl’s lantern. Pharus felt his growing unease fade.
‘Let Malendrek rip the city’s belly open. We go for the jugular.’ Pharus stared into the scowling countenance of the mask. Sigmar’s face. ‘He makes us wear his face,’ he said. ‘As if we are but pieces of him, shed from the whole.’ He cast the helmet aside.
Nagash and Sigmar. Apotheosis and dissolution.
The sun and its shadow, the voice murmured.
‘The God-King seeks to blind you, to make you see as he sees,’ Dohl said, as he drifted alongside Pharus. ‘To convince enough souls of a lie is to make it the truth. But we stand firm. Nagash is all, and all are one in Nagash. He is the absolute, and the end. He is justice in an unjust universe.’ Dohl lifted his lantern, and chainrasps gathered about him, seeking the hollow comfort of his light. ‘He is vengeance for the innocent and punishment for the guilty. In Nagash, order is restored, and the madness of existence broken to the wheel of fate.’ Dohl’s voice rose to a sibilant groan, echoing over the shattered courtyard.
Nearby nighthaunts joined their voices to his, until a solid wave of mournful noise washed over the temple. Pharus swept his sword out in silent command. Nighthaunts drifted towards the temple, singly and in groups. If there was a weakness, they would find it. One gap, one chink – that was all Pharus needed.
He glanced down at what was left of Rocha’s axe, lying scattered across the plaza nearby. It still smouldered from the lightning. He felt no regret over the spirit’s fate. That had been her purpose, and there was nothing more to it. When a piece of the mechanism broke, it was stripped out, without sentiment. As he would be, if he failed.
But he would not fail. Nagash commanded that the Ten Thousand Tombs be opened, and Pharus would do so, whatever or whoever sought to bar his path. ‘As Nagash wills,’ he said, softly, ‘so must it be.’
Chapter twenty
Refuge
Inside the Grand Tempestus, all was quiet.
Few people spoke, beyond muffled prayers or the coughing of the injured. The Glymmsmen and duardin tended their wounded, while keeping wary eyes on the visible entrances. The citizens had gathered in bunches throughout the nave, or against the walls. Some moved aside as Balthas led Quicksilver down the nave, away from the main doors.
His warriors split up into smaller cohorts composed of Sequitors and Castigators, towards the twelve entry-points. Helios and his Celestors sat in a watchful line before the main doorway, their weapons across their knees and corposant dancing across their armour. Gellius had set his ballista up on the altar – shaped like a massive, twelve-pointed star – where he had a clear view of the entirety of the nave and the main entry hall.
Calys Eltain’s Liberators still held their posts, at the doorways. He saw no reason to pull them from that duty – twelve warriors more or less would make little difference. They would act as alarms, just in case the wards were breached and the dead managed to get inside. When he said as much, Miska frowned. ‘She – they – deserve better than that, I think.’
Balthas didn’t look at her. ‘We all do.’
‘Especially the mortals.’ Miska looked around. Her face was set in a frown. ‘I suspect you used Fosko and Juddsson to absorb the brunt of the enemy – to gauge their strength. We should have pulled them back from the beginning. I knew that and said nothing. Too many died that need not have.’
‘You disapprove of my strategy?’
‘You are lord-arcanum.’
‘I am. And I saw fit to preserve my troops for as long as possible.’ Balthas sighed and looked at her. ‘The mortals had their duty, as we have ours. Now we must concentrate on what comes next.’ He gestured to Fosko, and the Freeguilder trotted over, followed closely by Juddsson. The duardin thane was pale and moved slowly, but seemed to be on the mend. ‘Status?’ Balthas asked, without preamble.
‘Most of my men are walking wounded,’ Fosko said, bluntly.
‘Bitten?’
Fosko grimaced. ‘No, thank Sigmar. But we’re checking, even so. If we find one… we’ll deal with it, quietly.’ He looked as if he wanted to spit, but refrained. ‘I left the best part of my command out there, lord-arcanum. The dead were on us too quick – we’re used to dealing with single nighthaunts, or just a handful. Never seen this many in one place.’ He swallowed. ‘Never wanted to.’
Juddsson nodded grimly. ‘We weren’t prepared. Too many manling promises of impenetrable walls lulled us. And now we’re trapped.’
‘Feel free to leave,’ Fosko said.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Juddsson sneered.
‘No. You would have to open the doors,’ Balthas said. ‘That would not be ideal. We are not trapped,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This place is sturdy. It can be defended, if not easily.’
‘A siege might last days, or weeks. If we’re cut off from the rest of the city…’ Fosko let the thought hang, unfinished. ‘We should ask Obol about supplies. See what the Azyrites have been hoarding in this oversized chapel of theirs.’
Balthas turned, scanning the crowd of mortals. Priests in robes of blue and gold wandered through the crowd, speaking softly to those who huddled weeping, or sternly to those whose faith seemed lacking. The one in charge was a portly man, with a cavernous scar disfiguring one side of his round features. It ran across his eye, which gleamed white in its ravaged socket, and up over the crown of his bald head. He wore gold-plated armour over his robes, but cradled a battered, utilitarian-looking mattock in the crook of his arm. He was speaking to an elderly couple as Balthas approached, the others in tow.
‘Lector Obol,’ Balthas said, pitching his voice low.
Obol turned, his good eye widening slightly. Balthas knew a little about him, from Fosko. One of several priests – or lectors, as the Church of Sigmar called them – sent by the Grand Theogonist from Azyr to oversee the spiritual welfare of the citizens of Glymmsforge, both Azyrite and otherwise. A former war-priest, Obol now spent most of his time seeing to the upkeep of the Grand Tempestus. Obol bowed as low as he was able, given his bulk. ‘My lord. You honour me – honour us – with your presence.’
Obol glanced at Fosko and smiled. ‘Glad to see you survived, you old wastrel.’ His smile faded. ‘Can’t say I expect we’ll all be so lucky, if this keeps up, though.’
‘Supplies,’ Balthas said. Obol blinked.
‘Some stores, in case of disaster,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Not enough for this lot, though. Even depending on whether you eat.’ He looked at Balthas, eye narrowed. ‘Forgive my impertinence, lord, but… do you?’