Screams drew his attention above, where a gheist hurled itself away from the temple, its ragged shape crumbling to fiery splinters of ash as it was overcome by the wards. ‘More where that came from, my lord,’ a nearby dreadwarden croaked. The creature still wore the remnants of a roadwarden’s armour over its cadaverous form. In life, it had hunted brigands and outlaws. Now, in death, it acted as their overseer.
It raised its staff, surmounted by a ghastly candelabra made from the hand of a hanged man. The candle-flames dancing atop the tip of each finger flared, and chainrasps drifted towards the gale of howling spirits that enshrouded the Grand Tempestus. ‘Always more,’ the dreadwarden continued. ‘No end to them, my lord. No use in them, save this. As Nagash wills, so must it be.’
‘As Nagash wills,’ Pharus said, turning his back on the creature. He had no interest in speaking to such lowly gheists. Unlike Dohl, or Rocha, their minds were circular tracks, broken only by memories of their mortal lives. Even Fellgrip was more companionable, for all its silence. The jailer floated at his elbow, its chains shimmering with caged lightning.
He could hear the cries of the souls trapped within those links, and wondered what it was like. Were they aware of where they were? Or was their pain that of an animal – senseless and maddening? The thought brought with it only the barest tremor of regret. But pain was the price of truth. Such was the will of Nagash. And as Nagash willed, so must it be. He turned his attentions back to the Grand Tempestus, watching as wave after wave of nighthaunts attacked the outside of the temple, watching as the temple and those within stubbornly refused to bow to the inevitable.
The realms suffered from an excess of will. That was a cosmic truth. Too many souls, too much will, too many lives running counter to the black geometries which guided all things. Nagash sought only to curb this excess, to ensure the continued persistence of the realms. Death was the reaper, and the realms were his fields – overgrown and thick with vermin. Now he plied the scythe, to put right all that had gone wrong.
Was it right, that the grain resisted the bite of the reaper’s blade? Why do it? Pharus thought that he once must have known the answer, but could not call it to mind now. He touched his head, feeling the weight of his helm. It constricted him, in some manner. As the armour caged him, so too did the helmet cage his thoughts. Made him think in orderly lines. He knew that now, but felt no urgency about it. Urgency – worry – these had no place in death’s order. Acceptance of inevitability brought peace.
All things died, and in death was purpose. More purpose than any possessed in life. Purpose… The thought brought back memories of life, of days spent watching over the dead. He remembered the smell of dust and incense, of dry, brittle bones and damp stone. He remembered the sound of ten thousand dead souls, scrabbling at the walls of their tombs. How could he have heard that desperate sound and not felt some touch of pity? How could he not have known the magnitude of the crime he was committing?
The lie of Sigmar blinded you to the truth.
‘But I can see clearly now,’ he murmured. He knew what must be done, and how to do it. ‘I will cast aside the silver chains and shatter the warded stones. I will free the dead.’
You will do all of this and more. You will drag down the cruel stars, and prove their promises false. Such is the will of Nagash.
‘And his will must be done.’ Pharus felt Dohl approach. The warmth of Dohl’s lantern brought its own sort of clarity, different to that imposed by his war-plate.
‘Do you feel it, my lord?’ the guardian of souls intoned. ‘The wards weaken.’
‘Not quickly enough,’ Pharus said.
‘But soon. I–’ Dohl turned. Pharus felt it as well. The wards were falling. As if the prayers of those within were faltering at last. The hateful light that enshrouded the temple bled away, like frost before the sun. There was a sound, as of the shattering of a thousand mirrors and a last flare of cerulean light. It spread outwards, driving his forces back, but only momentarily.
In the silence that followed, he drew his sword and echoed its hiss of eagerness. The time had come at last. The scythe would meet the grain, and there would come a great wailing. Then, only silence.
As Nagash commanded.
Helios knelt in the centre of the nave, head bowed.
He ignored the formless shapes darkening the windows, and the sounds that echoed through the archways. They would be inside soon, but he felt no fear. No worry. Only peace. This was but a single moment, in a vast sea of such.
Contrary to appearances, the Celestor-Prime was not praying. Prayer was for those in search of reassurance. Helios had no need of such comfort. He simply needed to prepare. He concentrated on the tempest sweeping over the city, and began to draw down some of its strength into himself. He would need it, for a time.
Just until he had passed this final test.
Fear of death was the first test of a Celestor, and the last. It stretched across the entirety of the warrior’s span, akin to a shadow, cast over life. It could not be bested, only endured – acknowledging that was part of the test. He had learned that lesson, among others, atop the towers of the Sigmarabulum. Twelve weeks of meditation beneath the firmament, with only the stars for company and rain to quench his thirst.
Helios had seen that what once had seemed immense, was merely an arrangement of small things, all colliding in the cosmic current. The winds of Azyr blew where they would. Uncounted worlds rolled on in the deep. Distant stars were born, and then died, before their first gleaming had ever reached his eyes. And all without regard for what he, or any other, endured. Life was an infinitesimal part of that great dance – it meant nothing to the stars or the winds. With that realisation had come a sense of tranquillity.
A warrior – a true warrior – must have courage. Not the courage of one fighting for hearth and home, or the courage of a beast at bay, but a true courage – to live life to the fullest, even knowing of its unimportance. The courage to lack certainty and yet persevere. Such was the courage a Celestor learned, atop their tower.
He had learned that death, while certain, was only a little thing. Barely a pause in the music of the spheres. It was not an end, for there was no true ending, merely one more moment among many. The stars shone forever in the black, whether one was there to see them, or not. Though, he was not so stoic as to deny that he would miss watching them.
Glass cracked, somewhere above him. He could hear the sound of the enemy – like a gale wind, tearing at the stones. The protections of Azyr were fading, the strength of Shyish rising. He stood, stormstaff in one hand, tempest blade in the other. The weapons felt light, lighter than ever before. As if he might wield them forever and never grow tired. Or, perhaps as if he had just picked them up, for the first time.
In the dark above, dead things moaned. Their whispers fell like snow. They recounted the sins of their pasts, attempting to frighten him. But he could not be frightened by mere memories. That was what they were, after all. Bad memories and bitter times.
Then, what was time but a circle of moments? Invariably, the same one came around again, if you lived long enough. It was not immortality. There was no such thing as immortality, for it implied a linear constancy. But time did not flow straight. It bunched and wavered, and finally bent back on itself. One moment, flowing into the next, like a river.