That, in the end, was the difference between gods. Where Nagash forced everything into the same shape – his own – Sigmar sought to raise his people up. To serve Sigmar was to forever reach for the stars above. To serve Nagash was to never notice the stars at all.
His eyes found the reliquary that rested at the opposite end of the nave from the main doors. It was the largest chamber in the temple, built to house the bones of the faithful, and now a hundred or more citizens of Glymmsforge crowded within its embrace. Innumerable skulls, marked by the symbol of the High Star, peered down at the gathered mortals. Longer bones had been laid beneath the skulls, and thousands of phalanges hung from the ceiling.
The reliquary radiated a peace utterly at odds with the dead things outside. Here, a soul could find true rest, safe from the machinations of the Undying King. A shame that such peace would soon be disrupted. Another necessary sacrifice.
It seemed to him as if there were too many of those, of late.
Perhaps Miska and Tyros were right. He was easily distracted. He had not steeped himself in blood, the way others had. He had always thought himself possessed of a higher purpose – not just a warrior, but a seeker of hidden truths.
But what was the truth, here? The only one he saw was that he had failed, and his failure had compounded itself in ways he had never imagined. There was no telling what Thaum had done, or would do, if he was not released from Nagash’s control. He leaned his head against his staff, seeking equilibrium.
He stared at the bones, at the ranks and rows of sainted dead lining the reliquary, and wondered where they were now. Lyria was but one underworld among millions. He could feel spirits here, watching. They existed outside the awareness of all but the most sensitive of mortals, and those possessing a spark of the divine. The truly dead, those who had passed beyond even the reach of gods, into spheres unknown and unknowing.
Only a rare few in the realms were so lucky as to travel on to that undiscovered country at the moment of their death. Many souls were trapped in the weft and weave of the realms, drawn into the aether that permeated everything. Sometimes they escaped, but other times, they simply… sat. Waiting for one god or another to collect them, or for the winds of magic to cast them back into physical form, through rebirth or reincarnation.
He knew this as surely as he knew that the war being fought in the realms was not just a battle over physical territory, but a war for souls. The souls of all those who had been or ever would be. Even those souls already claimed by another.
He closed his eyes, listening to the wails emanating from beyond the walls of the temple. He felt suddenly weary, and his grip tightened about his staff. Corposant flared softly, dancing in tune to his simmering frustration. He had failed. Twice now, he had faced Pharus Thaum, and twice he had failed to contain him. Twice he had failed to prevent the repercussions of the rogue soul’s rampage. The third time would be the last. He did not know how he knew this, only that it was as certain as the stars above. As constant as the firmament.
As this understanding filled him, so too did warmth, driving back the edges of fatigue and bringing with it clarity. He could see the way ahead clearly now. He was on the correct path. The battle could not be won here. But elsewhere, it might be possible. Like a hunter, he had to find the proper ground.
He could almost feel Sigmar’s hand on his shoulder. Magic, sorcery, aetherworking, whatever you called it, it was all about ritual. About the meeting of craft and circumstance, the right words, the right gesture, at the right time. Too early or too late, and the spell would not work. Like a hunter, taking aim at his prey. Release the arrow too soon, and the prey escaped. The time had not been right, before. But it would be. He just had to recognise the moment, and… let his arrow fly.
‘You look tired. I didn’t think your sort could get tired.’
Balthas turned. Juddsson stood nearby. ‘We can,’ Balthas said. ‘But I am not. Have you finished singing, then?’
Juddsson grunted and tugged on his beard. ‘Yes, for the moment.’ He sniffed. ‘We’re in the krut, and no two ways about it.’
‘Yes, but I might have a solution. Come with me.’
Juddsson grinned. ‘I knew you were a clever one. The moment I saw you, I said to myself – Grom, there’s a clever sort of manling.’
Balthas frowned. ‘Let us hope you are proven correct.’
He and Juddsson found Calys standing near the main doors, her gaze fixed. She spun as she registered their presence, her blade springing up. Balthas didn’t hesitate. ‘Your dutifulness does you credit, Liberator-Prime.’
She nodded tersely and turned her attentions back to the doors. ‘As you say, lord-arcanum.’ Balthas could feel her dislike of him, and he smiled. Eltain was not practised in hiding her feelings.
‘The Ten Thousand Tombs,’ he said. ‘You were one of those who guarded it?’
‘I was sent down only recently,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Can you find your way into it?’
‘I barely found my way out – let alone back in – unaided. The ruins change shape constantly. Pharus did something. He created false walls and streets to nowhere, to confuse intruders.’
‘Pharus did nothing. We built those things.’ Juddsson frowned. ‘Granted, he came up with the idea and drew the plans, but it was duardin hands that piled those stones. And duardin minds that improved on his human cleverness.’ He packed so much condescension into the final word that Balthas felt vaguely insulted on the former lord-castellant’s behalf.
He looked down at the duardin. ‘Then you, or one of your clansmen, can lead us.’
Juddsson laughed harshly, and then winced. He clutched at his chest. ‘No, manling. That place was built to isolate itself. Things move at random. Walls switch places, floors dip, paths bend back on themselves.’ He shook his head. ‘We know our business. Pharus didn’t want anyone getting in there without his permission, so we made sure of it. Only the warriors assigned to protect the tombs know the way in and out.’ He frowned and looked at Calys. ‘Most of them, anyway.’
‘And Elya,’ Calys said, idly.
Both Juddsson and Balthas looked at her. ‘Who?’ Balthas asked.
‘The child. The girl. Pharus said that she kept managing to get in, and he didn’t know how.’ She shrugged. ‘If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed him.’
Balthas shook his head. ‘A child?’
‘She’s shrewd.’
Balthas frowned. The rudiments of a plan were beginning to form. ‘Let us hope so.’ He looked at Juddsson. ‘The tunnels below – the ones you mentioned before, with Fosko and Obol – do all of them lead in the same direction?’
Juddsson saw what he was getting at immediately. ‘No, some lead elsewhere in the city. We can reach our clan halls, even.’ He squinted, looking around. ‘Slow going, with these. Especially if we have to fight.’
‘You won’t have to. The dead aren’t interested in slaughter. At least not these.’ Balthas looked back at the windows, above the main doors. Pale, distorted faces screamed in silence there. ‘They’ll follow us.’
‘How can you be sure?’
Balthas looked down at him. Juddsson grunted and made a gesture of surrender. ‘Fine. You know your business.’ He tugged on his beard, frowning. ‘I’ll just go make the preparations, then, shall I?’ He stumped away, still pulling on his beard.
‘What is going on? What are you planning?’ Calys said, deference tossed aside.
Balthas studied the doors. ‘We must leave this place.’
‘I have orders to ensure that nothing gets past these doors.’
‘And you would perish in the doing so, your soul to be claimed by phantasmal jailers.’ Balthas gestured dismissively. ‘An inefficient use of resources. Once we get into the catacombs, you will be needed.’