‘We do. But we do not need to, save rarely.’
‘Shame,’ Obol said. He patted his belly. ‘Sigmar knows best, I suppose, but a good meal sets the world to rights, I’ve found.’
‘Often, by the looks of you,’ Juddsson grunted. The duardin sat heavily on a nearby bench. Obol laughed.
‘And have you ever turned down a meal, thane?’
Juddsson squinted at him and rubbed his chest as if it pained him. ‘What sort of fool does that?’ He turned. ‘I remember installing a well. So there’s water, at least.’
Balthas looked down at him. ‘You built this place?’
Juddsson gestured dismissively. ‘Why do you think I wanted to be the one to defend it? Took me months to get the capstones set properly. I wasn’t going to just sit back and let a bunch of walking corpses infest it.’ He stroked his beard. ‘We could always use the tunnels, if need be.’
Fosko frowned. ‘The catacombs would be worse than staying up here. Besides, I’d heard they’d sealed them off.’
‘Not the catacombs,’ Juddsson said. ‘There are tunnels running throughout the city. We of the Riven Clans dug most of them. If we could get down there, we might stand a chance.’
‘And go where?’ Obol said. ‘The city is under siege. The dead are everywhere. At least here, we know they can’t get in. Sigmar would not allow it.’
Juddsson fell silent. Balthas looked up, at the high dome overhead. It was covered in a heaving shroud of gheists and hoar frost. ‘Sigmar might not allow it, but he is not the only god present here, today, I fear,’ he said. Obol paled and made the sign of the twin-tailed comet.
‘Then it is true, what they say… Nagash moves against Azyr?’
Balthas looked at him. ‘Who is this “they” everyone refers to?’ He held up a hand. ‘Never mind. Yes. I want an accounting of supplies. You will provide it.’ Obol bowed awkwardly and hurried away, calling for several of the junior priests to accompany him. Balthas turned to Fosko. ‘This place must be fortified. I want the entry halls blocked off, if possible. It won’t stop the nighthaunts, but the deadwalkers are a different story.’
Fosko frowned. ‘We’re staying, then?’
‘For the moment,’ Balthas said. Fosko nodded and turned to rejoin his men. When he’d gone, Juddsson laughed harshly.
‘Busy work, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
Juddsson tapped the side of his head. ‘I’m no fool. This place was never meant to be a fortress, whatever manlings think. And it won’t keep the dead out for long, blessings or no. So you’re thinking of something else. Fosko doesn’t see it yet, but he will.’ He peered towards his own warriors. They had erected their heavy shields into a bulwark and were priming their drakeguns. One of them began to sing, softly at first, and then more loudly. Other duardin joined in, their deep voices echoing through the nave.
Balthas watched, perturbed. ‘What are they doing?’
‘Singing,’ Juddsson growled. ‘Did you think we did not know how?’
Balthas hesitated. ‘I knew. I have simply never heard it.’
‘Few have, outside the clan-halls. Our songs are not for the ears of the unwrought. Today, we make an exception.’
‘Is it a dirge?’
Juddsson looked at him. ‘Of course not. Why would you think that?’
Balthas didn’t reply. Juddsson snorted and heaved himself upright, and made as if to stand. Balthas moved to help him, but Juddsson waved him off. ‘The day I need help to stand is the day I no longer deserve to do so.’
Juddsson limped towards his warriors, one hand pressed to his chest. In moments, his voice joined theirs, rising in song. Balthas watched them sing for a moment. He glanced up at the windows, where ghostly faces were pressed to the glass, wailing silently. He imagined the nighthaunts clinging to the outside of the cathedral and felt faintly nauseated.
‘They will not get in,’ Miska said, after a moment. She had stood silent, while he conversed with the others, keeping her thoughts to herself. Now he looked at her, wanting her opinion. He felt uncertain… something he was not used to.
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Once, I might have been. But now… that thing – that creature leading the dead – was Thaum. I saw it. Felt it.’ Balthas sagged back, onto the bench Juddsson had vacated. He wanted to take off his helm, but didn’t. It would be a sign of weakness, and he needed to be strong. Strong enough to make right what he had allowed to go wrong. ‘It – he – killed Lynos. His own lord-celestant. And Porthas.’
‘He almost killed you as well,’ Miska said.
‘Something has happened to him. He has been altered somehow. His soul is tainted. The light of Azyr is trapped in a shroud of darkness.’ Balthas shook his head. ‘Only a god could do such a thing.’
‘Nagash.’
He nodded. ‘He has captured the soul of a Stormcast before. More than once. Indeed, for some years, we thought it was his driving obsession. But never before has he managed something like this. I am forced to wonder – if he has the capability now, are any of us safe?’
‘Sigmar would not allow it.’
‘We must pray that it is so.’ Balthas bent forwards. ‘I saw into his mind – what was left of his mind.’ He grimaced. ‘It was like… a nest of maggots, making a hollow carcass dance. It is him, but he is just a mask for the thing inside. And I saw its plan.’
‘The Ten Thousand Tombs,’ Miska said, anticipating him.
‘A place of censure. A moment of black time, stretched across roots of stone and left to fester.’ Balthas closed his eyes, trying to forget the feeling of being in Thaum’s head. ‘There are ten thousand souls imprisoned below us. Fell souls – warlords and sorcerers, tyrants and failed heroes. More potent than the spirits commonly hurled against us, and left imprisoned here by the will of the Undying King.’
‘Why would he do such a thing?’ Miska asked. ‘I have always wondered. Surely such souls might have been more useful on the battlefield, rather than chained here in the dark.’
‘Unless even Nagash feared they might prove too hard to control,’ Balthas said. ‘That he seeks them now should give us all pause.’ He looked at her. ‘Where is Calys Eltain? I must speak with her.’
‘She is at her post.’ Miska looked down at him. ‘Are you going to tell me why?’
‘We know where they are going. Why else would Nagash send Pharus Thaum back to Glymmsforge, save to open the vaults he once defended? And to get there, they will tear this temple down, stone by stone. It is not safe here. We cannot defend this place for long. We will be overwhelmed long before Knossus is able to reinforce us. The only safety is down.’
‘The catacombs?’
‘We cannot make our stand here. They will overwhelm us sooner or later. So we must withdraw to face them on more optimal ground. There are reinforcements below.’
‘If we cease our prayers, they will rush in.’
‘Then someone must stay.’
‘A death sentence.’ She did not sound angry. Balthas nodded.
‘Yes.’
‘Volunteers?’
‘One will be enough.’
‘And you have one in mind?’
Balthas was silent. Miska smiled faintly. ‘Go – speak to Eltain. I will tell him.’ She turned away. Balthas raised his hand. Dropped it.
‘Thank you, mage-sacristan.’
‘It is my duty, lord-arcanum.’
He watched her go and then let his gaze drift across the interior of the temple. Even now, preoccupied as he was, he couldn’t help but calculate the geometries of the place. It was such a small thing – plain and pale next to the glories of Sigmaron. As Glymmsforge paled next to Azyrheim. But both were groping towards that glory, in their own way.