‘Maybe because he knows half of that contraband winds up in your private stores, sergeant,’ a soldier said, eliciting a number of chuckles.
Gomes turned and gestured with his blade. ‘Stow it, Herk. And the rest of you, keep quiet. Never know who or what might be listening out here.’
Herk and the others fell silent, as Vale studied his sergeant. Gomes was old for his rank. But he was a good line officer, when he wasn’t inebriated. And he knew how to keep the books looking tidy, despite the fact they were drawing pay for around a third again more men than were actually in their section.
That, along with the private tolls they levied from those passing through the mausoleum gate during evensong, had allowed Vale to accrue a tidy sum. When he had enough, he intended to purchase a suitably comfortable commission. Probably somewhere in the inner city. There were precious few prospects in the outer. This line of thought was interrupted by the whicker of a horse.
Gomes stopped. Vale stepped up beside him. ‘See something?’
‘No, but I hear them.’
The unseen horse whinnied again, more loudly this time. It sounded afraid. The wind had picked up, and sand stung Vale’s eyes. The lantern light flickered, and Gomes lowered it. Hooves thumped against the ground, as if the animal were turning in a hasty circle. Vale could hear metal clinking - the sound of tack and harness?
‘What was that?’ Herk said suddenly. Vale glanced at him.
‘What was what?’
‘I thought I told you to stow it, Herk,’ Gomes growled.
‘The stars… What’s wrong with the stars?’ Herk said, his voice edging towards shrill.
Vale looked up. The stars seemed to waver, as an amethyst radiance spread across the night sky in all directions. He heard the sands hiss, as if caught in a storm-wind. It almost sounded like voices whispering. He tried to ignore it.
Before his eyes, the stars vanished, swallowed up by the amethyst haze that occluded the sky. Vale tore his gaze from it and looked at Gomes. ‘What happened to the stars?’
Gomes’ reply was interrupted by a squeal of fear and the sound of galloping hooves. Vale shoved Gomes aside as a horse without a rider raced past, scattering the small group of soldiers. Vale heard a scream, somewhere out in the dark, as he picked himself up. It was joined by another, and another.
‘Jackals,’ he said.
‘No. Not jackals,’ Gomes said, swinging the lantern out. But there was nothing to be seen, save will o’ the wisps dancing, drifting across the detritus of war. Corpse-lights bobbed along the tops of the far dunes, and Vale turned abruptly. He’d heard something close by, like the sudden, repeated intake of breath.
One of the men started, cursed, spun. ‘Something touched me,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing,’ Herk said.
‘It touched me, I tell you!’
Vale made to chastise them but closed his mouth without speaking. The air tasted sour. He felt ill. There was something wrong. Looking around, he could see that the others felt the same. He glanced up and then quickly away. Where had the stars gone?
‘Lieutenant, we have to get back inside the walls,’ Gomes said hoarsely, his face pale in the lantern’s glow. He looked frightened. Vale had never seen Gomes frightened, and it sent a pulse of fear through him. He nodded, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘I am fully in agreement, sergeant. At the trot, lads.’
No one argued. As they hurried back the way they’d come, all thoughts of tolls forgotten, the wind dropped.
To Vale, it seemed as if all of Shyish were holding its breath.
Lord-Castellant Pharus Thaum stood at ease on the edge of an abyss. The circular chasm lay hidden at the heart of the catacombs that sprawled far beneath Glymmsforge. Ancient pillars, carved from the rock of the walls and covered in indecipherable script rose about the cavern, holding up its ceiling.
Between the pillars rested hundreds of shallow alcoves, each containing a mummified corpse, wrapped in linen and cobwebs. Blessed chains of iron and silver had been strung across each alcove, as if to keep the cadavers within quiescent. More alcoves, similarly shrouded, ran along the curve of the abyss and down into lightless depths. Chains stretched like the strands of a great web between the alcoves, and from each link had been hung devotional ribbons and purity scrolls.
Mortal priests, their faces daubed with ash and sacred unguents, sat in leather slings and hauled themselves along the chains, murmuring constant prayers. Other priests, too old and wizened to traverse the chains safely, limped along the edges of the abyss. They rang silver bells and cast droplets of water gathered from the pure rivers of Azyr onto the alcoves along the walls. They went from nook to nook and back again, following a pattern set down years ago, in the first, black days of Pharus’ time as seneschal of the Ten Thousand Tombs.
Pharus was an officer of the Gravewalkers Chamber, of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer Stormhost, second in command to Lord-Celestant Lynos Gravewalker. Clad in blessed sigmarite and bearing a halberd and warding lantern, it was Pharus’ task to stand sentinel - an immoveable bulwark on which the stratagems of his lord-celestant could turn. For the past decade that had meant warding the Ten Thousand Tombs and their contents.
He took a bite of the apple he held, enjoying the bitter tang of its juices. A bag of them hung from his belt - one of the few pleasures he allowed himself. The apples were a reminder of better times and the garden he glimpsed, sometimes, in the memories that hung just out of his reach. At his feet, his gryph-hound, Grip, lay contentedly gnawing on the remains of a rat.
Any other Stormcast might have chafed at such a duty as this, monotonous as it was. But for Pharus, it was an opportunity to indulge his creativity. He was a lord-castellant, and where he stood, fortresses inevitably rose. Such was the case with the catacombs. He had turned the ancient necropolis into a confusing labyrinth of false streets, mirrored cul-de-sacs and avenues to nowhere, all in the name of keeping his charges safe. Pharus fancied that not even the Huntsmen of Azyr could find their way through his maze without aid.
‘The sky has gone purple.’
Pharus sighed. ‘Elya.’ He looked down at the pale face at his elbow. ‘I thought I told you not to come down here, child.’ He wondered how she’d managed to avoid his patrols.
‘Yes.’ Elya flopped down beside Grip and sprawled over the gryph-hound. The beast grumbled and nudged the girl with her beak. Elya looked up at Pharus. ‘Did you hear me? I said the sky has gone a funny colour.’
‘I heard you. Have you eaten today?’ The child looked undernourished. Her father spent most of what they had on drink, Pharus knew. The man was a broken soul, like so many in the city. Like Elya herself might one day be. If she survived. The streets were not safe for a child, even in one of Sigmar’s cities. Her words registered, as he reached for an apple. ‘Purple?’ he asked. That was unusual. He glanced at one of the nearby tombs, reassuring himself that it was sealed shut.
‘Purple,’ she said. ‘Like just before a sandstorm, only darker.’
He tossed the apple to the girl, still pondering this news. ‘Eat it slowly. I don’t want you to get a stomach ache like last time.’ He watched her take a bite. ‘How do you keep finding your way down here?’
‘The cats help me.’
Pharus glanced down, as a black cat rubbed itself against his greave. ‘Of course they do.’ He looked at Elya. She was filthy and scrawny. Not much different than the first time he’d seen her, screaming. Crying as her mother - the thing that had been her mother - sought to draw the life from her. He pushed the thought aside.
‘By rights, I should have you escorted to the surface,’ he said. He’d done it before, with other intruders. He’d done worse to some, in fact. Sigmar had decreed that no living soul, save those who had been chosen for their faith and purity, were allowed anywhere near the Ten Thousand Tombs. ‘And beaten, perhaps, f
or good measure,’ he added lamely. She didn’t reply, too busy with her apple.
Though he’d never admit it, he’d come to almost welcome her inevitable appearance. Sometimes, looking at her, he saw another face overlaying hers - another child, from another life. Like the apples, she was a reminder of who he had been before Pharus Thaum had existed. Before he’d lost and gained everything in a single blast of lightning.
It was a sign of weakness. A breach in his defences. But no matter how hard he tried to repair it, it always opened anew. And part of him was glad of it. Grip looked up, growling, the feathers on her neck stiffening. Pharus took another bite of his apple. ‘You’re late,’ he said, chewing.
‘My apologies, my lord. This place is… difficult to navigate.’ A woman’s voice, as resonant as his own, if not so deep.
‘Thank you. I have laboured many years to make it so.’ Pharus turned to examine the new arrival. Calys Eltain was a warrior and officer of the Gravewalkers Chamber, as Pharus was. The Liberator-Prime had her sigmarite shield slung across her back, and a hand resting on the pommel of the warblade sheathed on her hip. She had her helmet tucked under her free arm, exposing olive, freckled features, and close-cropped black hair.
Familiar, those features - enough to prompt a faint twinge of guilt. He’d seen it, the moment Eltain had arrived from Azyr a few months earlier. Pharus glanced at Elya, but the child was ignoring the newcomer, concentrating on her apple. Relief warred with sadness, and he turned his attentions back to Eltain.
The Liberator-Prime had fought in a hundred battles or more, since her recent rebirth on the Anvil of Apotheosis, evincing a stubbornness that put even Pharus to shame, at times. She was a born defender, and her tactical acumen had marked her for high rank, eventually. ‘Your cohort is the latest to be rotated down here,’ he said, without preamble. ‘Do you know why?’
Calys hesitated. ‘I believe so, yes.’
Pharus nodded. ‘Good. Saves me having to explain things. It will not be for long. A few months. Then you will be sent above. But every cohort must endure a term in the dark, if they wish to be allowed to war in the light. I trust that will not be an inconvenience for you?’
‘My warriors and I are at your service, my lord. But I was unaware that there was anything in these catacombs that required a guard.’ She looked around. Her gaze was keen. Calculating. She was observant. That was good. Too many Stormcasts ignored anything beyond the reach of their warblade.
‘This is a realm for secrets, sister. You get used to it.’
Calys nodded absently. ‘I know.’ She glanced at Elya. The child peered at her now in open curiosity. Perhaps she’d never seen a Stormcast who wasn’t a man. ‘Also cats and children, apparently.’
‘There are plenty of both in Glymmsforge. Another thing you get used to.’ He looked down at the girl. ‘I must speak to my sister. Go. Back to the city. And don’t play among the tombs. You wouldn’t want the nicksouls or the men o’ bones to catch you, eh?’
Elya scampered away. Pharus waited until she had vanished back up the path and then turned to the new arrival. ‘You will need to learn the safe routes through the labyrinth. They change daily, but there is a pattern.’
‘Another thing to get used to?’
Pharus inclined his head. ‘Even so. The dead find such things confusing. They are creatures of habit, haunting familiar places and stalking the streets they walked in life.’ He paused, studying her. ‘The weaker spirits can be trapped in mirrors or befuddled by moving walls.’
‘Do the dead attack down here often?’
‘More often than you might think.’ Pharus peered down into the abyss. ‘They don’t always hurl themselves against the walls above. Sometimes they come by more circuitous routes. The catacombs that surround us are full of unquiet spirits. Some escape, from time to time, and must be hunted down.’
Calys nodded. ‘The dead cannot be trusted.’
‘Not here, at least.’ Pharus smiled. An old saying, in Shyish. He wondered if she recalled where she’d picked it up. Part of him hoped not. ‘But they have been quiet since Vaslbad the Unrelenting tried to crack the city several years ago. Besides the usual nighthaunts, shackleghasts and scarefingers, I mean.’ He saw that the Liberator-Prime wasn’t looking at him Instead, she was staring off in the direction Elya had disappeared. He frowned. ‘Speak freely.’
‘The child,’ Calys said. ‘Is she a beggar? I thought I recognised her for a moment.’
‘No. Her father is a lamplighter, when he’s not the worse for drink.’ He hesitated, choosing his next words with care. ‘Her mother is… dead. Twice over.’
Calys looked at him. Pharus tossed the core of his apple to Grip. The gryph-hound snapped it out of the air and crunched it. ‘Her mother - the thing that had been her mother - came for her one night, several years ago. Before you were made one of us, I believe. Smelling of tomb-salts and grave-earth. I banished the creature.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Since then, the child has become my shadow.’
‘You let her come down here?’
‘I cannot stop her. She’s worse than the cats. Always finding new paths through the dark.’ He scratched his chin. ‘It’s a challenge, to be sure.’
‘She could be harmed.’ There was a hint of disapproval there, and something else. Outrage? Or concern. He smiled without mirth.
‘Yes. She knows that. I do not think she cares.’ Pharus tapped the side of his head. ‘Children often have an exaggerated sense of their own durability. I remember that much, from my time as a mortal.’ Calys hesitated. ‘Did you have.’ She trailed off, realising her lack of tact. Pharus waited. It was considered impolite, among the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, to ask about such things. The past was the past. It meant less than dust. And yet, like dust, it clung to you. Even when you thought yourself free of it, it was still there.
‘Yes,’ he said, and felt the old familiar pain, again. As always, he welcomed it. The pain reminded him of why he fought. As it would remind Calys, in time. If she ever remembered who she had been, and what she had lost. ‘Perhaps I may find their shades one day, in one of the underworlds, once our war is won.’ He shook his head. ‘I like to think so, at least. However unlikely it is.’
‘You think the war will end, then?’
‘I think we must have hope. If not for ourselves, then for children like Elya. Else what is the struggle for?’ He clapped her on the shoulder. ‘You are new to Glymmsforge. You will learn in time that hope is the most potent weapon we possess in these dark lands. More, it may well protect you from the enemy.’
‘And what enemy do we face here? Rogue spirits?’ Calys tapped the pommel of her warblade. ‘They cannot be worse than the servants of the Ruinous Powers.’
Pharus laughed. The sound echoed through the cavern, disturbing the bats in their high roosts. ‘The dead do not rest easy here, however pleasant it may seem,’ he said. ‘A great voice calls to them out of the dark heart of this realm and stokes their rage. It drives them to madness.’ He leaned on his halberd and stared down into the great well. ‘Having heard it myself, I can understand.’
‘You heard it - him, I mean. The voice of Nagash?’
‘So have you. You were reforged recently, were you not?’
‘Yes, but. I heard nothing.’
‘You did. You simply may not recall. If you don’t, you are a lucky soul indeed.’ Pharus looked at her. ‘Nagash is God of Death and when we perish, he seeks his due. He claws at us, even as we ascend to Azyr. Tearing away bits of us - of who we are - in his great greed.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I listen. I learn.’ Pharus smiled, his scars pulling tight. ‘You would be wise to do so as well, if you wish to survive, sister. We are strong, but we must be wise, too. The realms are not forgiving of the foolish.’ His smile widened. ‘Still, there are pleasures to be had.’ He reached down into the satchel hanging from hi
s belt. He retrieved two more apples and extended one to her.
‘Would you like an apple? I get them by the bushel from the market, on the rare occasions I seek the sun, such as it is. Nothing better than a good apple, I always say.’ He held it out to her. ‘A vice, I admit, but only a little one.’
Calys took the apple and stared at it, as if she had never seen one. He smiled and gestured. ‘You eat it,’ he said.
‘I know what an apple is.’
‘Just checking. Some experiences are not universal, I have discovered. For instance, I had never seen a megalofin, until after my reforging. And then I was eaten by one.’
Calys choked and stared at him ‘What?’
‘I survived, obviously. Take more than that to kill me. Still, not an experience I am eager to repeat.’ He bounced an apple on his palm ‘It’s why I choose to take pleasure in the small things.’
‘And why you choose to let a mortal child play down here?’
Pharus took a bite of his apple and looked at her. She hesitated then looked away. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I spoke out of turn.’
Pharus took another bite. He knew better than to say anything. How to explain, how to say those words?
‘I am not one to punish you for speaking truth,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Down here, we must trust each other. We must know without a doubt that the warriors to either side will stand. To perish in Shyish is a terrible thing, sister, and all the more so for we who do not die as men do. This you will learn.’ But I will do my best to see that you never do, for two deaths are enough for any soul.
Before she could reply, a tremor ran through the chamber. Grip stood suddenly, every hair and feather stiff and trembling. Cats hissed and scampered away, seeking safety. The gryph-hound shrilled, and Pharus tossed aside his half-eaten apple. ‘It sounds as if your first lesson is about to begin, sister. Something is amiss, and that usually means we’re in for it.’
‘What is-’ Calys began, as the first shock wave hit.
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