‘You are where jackals prowl and beetles scurry. Where bats roost and rats nest. This is the cremation ground, the black hour, the final moment. A place both merciless and of infinite mercy.’
Overhead, things that were not birds swooped and spun in a macabre dance, riding a grave-wind. They dived down through the red rain, as if luxuriating in it. Sometimes, they swooped close, and he thought he glimpsed pale faces set atop leathery bat-like forms. They cackled, circling him, and trilled hungrily as he tried to find some route of escape.
‘Here, the flesh of reason is eaten and the marrow sucked from its bones. Here, only the night wind stirs, and all that there is to see is the abyss between stars. Rejoice, little soul, for you have at last reached that point where all fear dies and true understanding begins. Rejoice, and be welcome.’
Phams felt something catch hold of him. Fingers like meat hooks fastened upon him and spun him about. A lean figure coalesced out of the mist before him. A tall man, taller than any Pharus had ever seen. Built spare, and dark, with lean features. He was clad in ornate robes of an unfamiliar style, and his head was shaved to the quick. The man released Pharus and spread his arms. Pharus backed away, his shoulder at once frozen to numbness and burning with pain. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, his voice a shrill rasp.
‘I am he to whom all men must eventually kneel. I am the end of all things.’ The newcomer smiled, but there was no warmth in it. No light. His voice resonated through Pharus, shaking him to his core. The man looked up. Red rain stained his face and robes, but he seemed heedless of it. ‘Do you hear them? I think they scream your name.’
‘That is not my name,’ Pharus said. His heart spasmed in his chest. What was his name? Not Pharus. Why did he think his name was Pharus? He’d had a different name once, hadn’t he? He shook his head again, trying to clear it. As if amused by his confusion, the swooping shapes cackled again, and he heard the throaty, growling chuckles of the unseen carrion-eaters. The tall man’s smile widened, becoming almost a rictus.
‘It is the name of the man you were. A forgotten name for a forgotten life. And those who scream it were known to him. The detritus of a wasted moment. You were taken, and they paid the price. Look.’ The man gestured, extending a brown hand to the mist. It roiled and cleared, and the rain slackened, revealing what had heretofore been hidden. Unwilling, but unable to stop himself, Pharus looked.
He could see their faces, or the echoes of such. Faint, and growing fainter with every moment that passed. Like a tapestry tossed into a fire, the edges of his memories blackened and shrank. He remembered a battle and a sound like a vast gate, swinging shut. He remembered the smell of burning flesh and the yelping howls of cannibal tribesmen. But mostly, he remembered the soft sound of a woman weeping, and a child, crying in fear. He wanted to speak to them, to beg their forgiveness, though he did not know why.
‘Look upon the faces of those you abandoned. Seek their forgiveness.’
‘No. That’s not true. I did not abandon them.’ But as he said it, he knew it to be a lie. Perhaps he had not meant to. Perhaps he’d had no choice. But he’d left them, and his last memory of them was of screaming. Oh, how they had screamed, and he had screamed as well, but his cries and theirs had been drowned out by thunder. By that treacherous thunder. His groping fingers found the sigil on his breastplate and traced the fiery silhouette of the comet, with its twin tails. ‘Sigmar…’ He had prayed for deliverance, and the god had heard him and answered. But not in the way he had wished.
‘Yes. Sigmar did this to you. Do you see it now?’
Pharus flung out a hand as if to push the words away. ‘No.’ He saw the hilt of his broken sword, rising above the bones. He tore it free and turned, anger giving him strength. The tall man spoke lies. They had to be lies, else the truth would tear the heart from him ‘No. Who are you? Name yourself!’
‘You know my name. All men know it. It is the first name you learn and the last you speak. I am your fellow traveller, accompanying each of you, from cradle to grave.’ The lean face split in a rictus smile - a slash of bone-white through the brown. ‘Say my name, man. Call out to me, as you called out to him, and I will give them back to you. That is in my power. That is your due. I am a just god.
But speak my name, and you shall see them again.’
The man drew close, ignoring the blade. As he walked, he swelled in size, until his shadow swallowed Pharus whole. Flesh drew taut beneath robes gone suddenly ragged, and tore, exposing bone. ‘Speak it, Pharus Thaum. Recognise me, and rejoice.’ Long fingers plucked papery skin away, exposing the skull beneath the mask. Eyes like beacons fixed on Pharus, and the sword grew impossibly heavy in his hand. ‘My name, in the tongue of the first men, means nothing. Absence. Null. I am nothing, and I am everything. Do you know me now, man? Will you call out to me, as all men must?’
Pharus sank to his knees. ‘Nagash,’ he croaked.
‘Yes. I am Nagash. I am the end of all flesh.’ Each word was a hammer blow. The bones that made up the ground rattled with his laughter. ‘And I am your lord and master, little spirit. Whatever your name, you belong to me. Sigmar has given up all claim to you. Bow, and be born anew.’
‘No.’ Pharus turned away, the word like ash on his lips. The mist swirled about him, hemming him in. He could no longer see the faces, but he could hear their cries. He wanted to weep, but tears did not come. Nagash’s face seemed to leer at him from every direction.
‘Yes. Sigmar has cast you aside. And now, in my benevolence, I take you up. Bow, little spirit. Bow, and rejoin those you love.’
‘No,’ Pharus said, but the denial sounded weak. He heard the sound of wings again and felt the world quake. Something circled the spiked trees, and the screams grew louder. Or perhaps there were more of them now. Were those whom he’d left behind among them? He staggered, trying to reach the trees, but they receded further from him with every step, and the red rain fell thick and stinking upon him He could barely see for the blood.
‘Do you deny the truth of your own eyes, then? Look. See. Memories are wounds in the psyche, little spirit. They leave deep scars and tell stories, if one but has the wit to see and listen. Look. Look.’
A massive hand, as cold as the grave, encircled his head, forcing him to look. Sigmar’s face, as vast as the open sky, was staring down at him, from some impossible distance. Those great eyes, as cold as the arctic wind, met his own, and Pharus felt himself shrivel beneath them. Sigmar had judged him and found him wanting. That was why he had been cast down. Wasn’t it?
‘Sigmar is not just,’ Nagash intoned. ‘Sigmar is a deceiver. Treacherous and cruel. He takes what he wishes and leaves nothing but ash in his wake. Do you see?’
Pharus remembered it all, now. He could still feel the fire of the Anvil, burning his soul clean. It had eaten away at all that he had been, from his last moment to his first, and he’d thought it might consume him entirely. He’d burned and become something else. Burning and becoming, over and over again. The pain had been too great, and when the world had begun to shake, he’d ripped himself from the flames, unable to bear them any longer.
‘Because they were changing you into something you were not. They were burning away all that you had been, and changing it into something… simpler. Easier to grasp. A tool. A lie.’ Nagash’s grip tightened, and Pharus squirmed, instinctively trying to free himself.
‘No,’ he said, his voice sounding high and frightened to his ears. ‘No. That’s not right. That’s not what happened.’
‘But it is. Look. Look close. See the betrayal.’
The mist swirled, and for a moment, he was elsewhere - a great chamber, which echoed with the screams of the newly born and the heat of creation’s fire. The pillars of heaven shook as abominable thunder sounded in the dark. Figures, clad in gleaming war-plate - they had tried to stop him, to thrust him back into the fire.
Pain…
&nbs
p; Thunder coursing through him…
The feeling of armour crumpling beneath his fists, the sound of their screams…
He’d crushed them and cast them down. He felt no pleasure at this, only shame. Why could they not see that he did not wish to go? Why did they not understand his agony? Why could he not make them understand?
I name thee Pharus Thaum, the warrior cried, as he cast his lightning…
More pain, so much pain…
He felt again the panic - the nauseating fear - the pain - as he lurched for freedom Away from the storm, the pain.
‘The stars, the tempest, they called out to you, though you did not know how or why, only that you must reach them and find an end to pain,’ Nagash said. ‘But it was not the stars you heard. It was me. It was my voice, tolling you down to where you were always meant to be. You were born in this realm, as all living things are born only to die. And you recognised that truth, in your torment.’
‘No,’ Pharus said, his voice barely a whisper. Nagash’s grip tightened.
‘Yes,’ Nagash said. ‘You sought to find peace in the dark of creation’s light. Was that not your right? Did you not deserve it - you served and fought and died, and now only desired peace. Silence. Oblivion. Not to burn and become someone new, someone else.
‘But they would not stop. Again and again, they tried to drag you back. They took those you loved from you, and then, when that was not enough, they sought to take all memory of them. To leave you empty, save for the storm.’
Pharus twisted, feeling again the agony that grew with every passing moment. He could not think - could not see, could not feel anything save pain - and then… and then… ‘Sigmar,’ he said, half pleading. He reached out, stretching a hand that burned and smoked. Reaching towards Sigmar. Rising above him, a mountain walked. A titan made from starlight, in whose voice echoed the litany of war.
Sigmar, looking down at him, his eyes… sad?
‘No,’ Nagash whispered. ‘Disappointed. A craftsman, briefly examining a broken tool, before casting it aside.’
‘No,’ Pharus said. ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘But he did. Sigmar saw you, saw your pain and looked away.’ Nagash laughed, and the sound tore strips from Pharus’ soul. ‘Why did he look away? Had you not served him?’
‘I. I.’ Pharus tried to find the words but could not. The question filled him.
‘You were no longer of use, and so you were cast aside,’ Nagash said. ‘The fate of all useless things, in his realm. But you have use yet, Pharus Thaum. I will remake you. I will cast you into fires of unlight and forge a weapon from your tattered shroud. If you but bow to me, I will give you back what you have lost.’
Nagash released him, and Pharus fell onto his hands and knees among the bones. Broken skulls stared up at him, witch-light dancing in their sockets. Again, he heard screams and smelled smoke. His limbs trembled, as he felt the hammer-stroke of his final blow, as the city - his city - burned. What was its name? Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he remember anything about the time before the fire and the Anvil?
‘Why can’t I see their faces?’ he croaked.
The skulls spoke with Nagash’s voice. ‘The memory was stolen. Sigmar stripped it from you, as he snatched you away from the predestined end of your story. He took of you what he needed and cast the rest aside.’ The bones began to shift and roll beneath him. He staggered upright, trying to find stable footing. His legs sank into the clattering, churning mass, and something sharp dug into his calves. He screamed - or thought he did - and clawed at the bones, trying to haul himself free.
Pharus looked up and stretched a bloody hand to the starlit expanse now visible above. ‘Sigmar, help me,’ he begged. Sigmar gazed down at him His eyes were not cold now, but hot. They had swelled to encompass suns, and their glare beat down on him, burning him as the Anvil had done. Sigmar spoke, but Pharus could not understand the words - it came as the roaring of a tempest, driving him flat, deeper into the churning maelstrom of bones. Fleshless hands tore at him, clinging to his limbs, dragging him down.
‘He denies you, Pharus Thaum You are a useless thing.’
‘That’s not my name!’ Pharus tore himself free and lashed out at his captors, until his knuckles were bloody and exhaustion gripped him. He clambered free and started to wade away from the voices, the thunder and the churning. He had to escape. To get away. To… to… what? A carrion bird flapped alongside him, easily keeping pace. It cocked one black eye at him.
‘It is the only name you have now,’ the bird croaked. ‘The name he gave you. The name on your tomb. Embrace it, and I will give it meaning. Bow, little spirit, and you will have justice. That is my oath to you. Bow, and I will give back all that he has taken.’
Crude stones erupted from beneath the bones, and Pharus staggered back. They rose all around him, like the bars of a cage. He spun, and the black echo of him, trapped in the flat panes of the stones, spun with him. The reflection changed as it moved through the stones, shedding its mortality to become a hulking engine of divine wrath. ‘No,’ he begged. ‘No, do not make me, please.’
‘It is inevitable,’ the carrion bird cawed, from its perch atop one of the stones. ‘Rejoice, for you have found true purpose. All are one in Nagash, and Nagash is all. Bow, Pharus Thaum, and find new meaning.’
Pharus backed away as a massive gauntlet, the colour of midnight, emerged from the stone. The rest of the armoured figure followed, lurching across the bones that cracked and crumbled beneath its tread. As it reached for him, it seemed to lose all cohesion, becoming a tarry mass. Pharus twisted away from it, but the bubbling substances splattered across him It burned, and he screamed. He tore at his own flesh, trying to scrape away the steaming tar. But his desperate movements only spread the substance.
‘Bow, and become greater than that which was lost. Bow, and see again the faces of the forgotten. Bow, and justice will be yours.’
Pharus sank to his knees, still screaming. He tipped forwards, abasing himself, as the pain ate away at him He screamed their names, though he thought he had forgotten them, and heard them crying out in welcome. Or perhaps mourning. Nagash’s voice filled him like cold fire, burning him inside as he was burned out.
‘Yes. We shall have justice for the wrongs done to us, you and I. This is my will, and so shall it be. Now sleep, and be made whole.’
Pharus felt the ground beneath him begin to rise. The stones - no, not stones, he saw now, but the tips of great black talons - drew close, folding over him, entombing him He was caught fast, burning and screaming, as he had been on the Anvil. Burning, and becoming.
Chapter seven
Fires of War
The Chamber of the Broken World
THE SIGMARABULUM
Sigmar Heldenhammer, God-King of Azyr and Lord of the Storm Eternal, looked out over the burning ruin of the Sigmarabulum and bowed his head. For a moment, he’d thought he’d heard something. A voice, crying out in the wilderness, seeking his aid.
But that was nothing new. A thousand voices cried in his ear with every moment. Too many to hear them all clearly. Some prayed. Others wept. There were few he could aid in any tangible way. But this one had been different. Louder, somehow. Before being suddenly silenced, as if by a great wind.
He stood at one of the huge cracks that gaped in the walls of the Chamber of the Broken World. Through it, he could see the full extent of the devastation that afflicted the great citadel-ring. Smoke rose towards the stars in spindle-legged shapes, and fire boiled up from cracked foundries. Strange shimmers of heat folded across entire districts, hiding them from view. Lightning flashed as the dead were put to rest.
He could taste the after-echoes of the great cataclysm, still resonating outwards. For all he knew, into universes undreamed. Everything stank of death. Every stone and star was soiled by the energies that had surged up from Shyish. The re
alms still shuddered, their very substance threatened by the sudden realignment of ages-old patterns. And still, aftershocks radiated upwards, as he suspected they would for some time.
Even Mallus had been affected. The dead world was gripped by tectonic disturbances such as it had not suffered in centuries. The fires in its core blazed, threatening to consume even more of the remaining surface, and the storms of broken souls that swept eternally between the poles had grown in ferocity. Sigmar half expected it to rip itself from its place in the heavens and cast itself down. But some things were beyond even Nagash.
There was no question that the God of Death was the author of this upheaval. It had originated in Shyish and shaken the Tree of Worlds from root to bough. ‘Nagash,’ he said softly. Then, more loudly. ‘Nagash. Always Nagash.’
Nagash. The Undying King. Brother and betrayer. Sigmar saw again the great cairn where Nagash had been imprisoned, its stones piled by unknown hands, and heard a voice, whispering in the dark.
Unafraid, he had torn at the stones until his hands had wept starlight. When Nagash had reached out, Sigmar had held out his hand. And for a time, that had been enough.
But that time was long past, and almost forgotten.
Unaware of what he was doing, he raised his fists and slammed them out against the edges of the crack. Stones hewed from comets cracked, as lightning snarled about his clenched fingers. The fists came up and drove out a second time, with piston-like force, further shattering the walls and cracking the floor beneath.
Sigmar stepped back, as the ancient stones crumbled away and fell from sight. Rage undimmed, he fought to control himself. It was like trying to wrestle a storm into a box, but he’d had aeons of practice. Long past were the days when his fury might shake the heavens, or flood the lands below. He was a different god now, to the one he had been. Arrogance had been burned out of him by the fires of shame.
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