Soul Wars

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘More than I felt comfortable confronting on my own,’ Dathus said. It was hard to tell if that was a jest. He drew close to Calys. ‘I got the impression she was looking for you. Why?’

  Despite herself, Calys glanced at the lord-relictor. Elya had become a nuisance, of late. She’d thought - hoped - the child would avoid the catacombs for a time. At least until Pharus’ return. If he returned. Instead, it seemed as if she lived in the tunnels now. Then, having seen the hovel she and her father inhabited, perhaps the tunnels were preferable. They lived in the Gloaming - the slums that clung to the outer edge of the city.

  It was an unpleasant place. Hovels made from scavenged material pressed up against cheap rooming houses and taverns that were little more than benches and some tents. Most were refugees from elsewhere in Shyish, seeking a better life under the aegis of Azyr. Others were the poor of Azyrheim and a hundred other great cities, seeking new opportunities in a younger metropolis.

  Elya’s remaining parent was a wastrel lamplighter named Duvak. He’d already been well on his way to drinking himself into a stupor the first time she’d escorted the child home. He’d panicked at the sight of Calys and begun screaming. She wasn’t sure why. Elya had managed to quiet him, with an ease that spoke to long experience. Calys had left swiftly, after eliciting a promise from the child that she wouldn’t be caught in the catacombs again. A promise the child had since skirted around the edges of.

  ‘Is that what she said?’ she asked carefully. ‘That she was looking for me?’

  ‘She said nothing. I intuited. Briaeus and the others have seen her often. She is always quick to scamper out of reach, save when you are around. I’m told you’ve escorted her home twice since the necroquake. Unless I am mistaken, that is not one of your duties, Liberator-Prime.’

  ‘The child should not be down in the dark.’

  ‘Pharus allowed her to come and go as she pleased. Or so Briaeus swears.’

  ‘Pharus is not here.’ She looked away. He was right to chastise her. It was a dereliction of duty, whatever her rationalisations, whatever she had promised. ‘I shall ignore her in the future, lord-relictor. My apologies.’

  ‘I said nothing about ignoring her. I merely asked why she might be looking for you.’ He looked away. ‘Mortals are a gift fraught with heartache. We who fight in their name exist outside time, while they are slaves to it.’ He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. When he continued, his voice had lost some of its harsh edge. ‘There was a boy - a son of one of the Freeguild officers who ward this city. His name was - is - Fosko. When he was a child, I used to bring him trinkets to occupy him, whenever we had need to confer with his father on military matters. He reminded me of someone, I think. A son, a brother - I cannot say.’ He fell silent. Calys looked at him.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He got old, Calys. In the blink of an eye, he went from a child to a man, weathered by time and war. He joined his father’s regiment. He is a captain in their ranks, now. Soon, he will die. Either from natural causes or battle. When I look at him, I still see the boy he was, rather than the man he has become. And it pains me, Calys. For I can preserve the souls of my brothers and sisters, but not him’ He gestured about him ‘Not any of them We can but protect them for a short time, and then it is in the hands of Sigmar.’

  ‘Is that your way of telling me not to get attached?’

  ‘If you like.’

  Calys shook her head. ‘It’s not my idea, I assure you. She seems fixated on those catacombs. She says the cats lead her where they will.’

  Dathus nodded. ‘That may well be the case. The cats of Glymmsforge are strange beasts, even in a realm full of such. Perhaps I should speak to her.’ He paused. ‘If I can catch her, that is.’ Another pause. ‘I suspect my mortis armour frightens her.’

  Calys almost laughed, but managed to restrain herself. The thought of Dathus trying to catch the child as she sneaked about the catacombs was a deeply amusing one. Thunder rumbled through the city, shaking the rooftops and setting birds to flight. Lightning flashed, somewhere above them Dathus gestured with his staff. ‘The Shimmergate opens, sister. We had best proceed swiftly, else Lynos will wonder at our absence.’

  They moved quickly through the streets. Calys felt the eyes of the citizenry on them the entire way. Despite her earlier words, not all of the gazes were wary. Some were indeed fearful. But that fear was not directed at the dead. There had been purges in the past. Revolts against Azyr’s rule were not common, but neither were they unknown.

  In every instance, it had been the Anvils of the Heldenhammer who had put the rebellion down. Calys had participated in one such purge only a few months ago, dealing with a coven of Soulblight vampires hiding among the city’s gentry. The leeches had turned entire Azyrite families of impeccable lineage into blood-hungry fiends, and then sought to manipulate the city’s growth for their own ends. Calys had sought out and beheaded the coven-leader, casting the creature’s still-shrieking head into a bonfire herself.

  She wondered if it had been that action which had brought her to the attention of Lord-Castellant Pharus. She’d had no time to ask him - and no intention of asking Dathus. There was a time and a place for such things, and now wasn’t it.

  ‘Behold, the Shimmergate - the path of starlight,’ Dathus said. She looked ahead. The streets had widened, spreading into a vast plaza. It was lined with massive statues of jasper and gold, only a few of which had been broken during the cataclysm. The statues, she knew, depicted the city’s founders, the Glymm Curious, she studied those carven faces as they passed through the shadows of the statues.

  ‘They were from Azyr, originally,’ Dathus said, noting her attentions. ‘Warrior-mages from the Nordrath Mountains, they came seeking new opportunities in the years after the Gates of Azyr had been cast wide. New lands to conquer, new fortunes to be made. Minor aristocrats like the Glymm became veritable kings in the underworld of Lyria.’

  ‘Glymmsforge doesn’t have a king,’ Calys said. The last royal son of the Glymm line had died defending the city against Vaslbad’s legions, leaving no known heir. Now, the city that bore his family’s name was overseen by a conclave of aristocrats, merchants and philosophers.

  ‘No. Perhaps it is for the best.’ Dathus sounded bleakly amused.

  The representatives of the conclave stood at the other end of the plaza, waiting for their honoured guests to arrive. Most were clad in the finery of their office, though the representative of the Freeguilds wore his mauve-and-black uniform His only concession to formality was an engraved, silver-plated breastplate and a high-crested helm of the same. Unlike the others, he was armed, though the blade was ceremonial.

  Towering above the mortals were a trio of Stormcast Eternals. Two of them wore the black of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, but the third wore the gold of the Hammers of Sigmar. The security of the city was shared between the two Stormhosts, though the latter had no permanent garrison in Glymmsforge.

  Instead, they rotated chambers, on a seasonal basis. At the moment, it was the task of the Adamantine - a Warrior Chamber that had earned its battle-honours mostly in Aqshy, from what little Calys knew of them. The lord-celestant of the golden-armoured warriors stood beside the commander of Calys’ chamber, Lynos Gravewalker, and the Lord-Veritant, Achillus Leechbane.

  At the other end of the plaza was the foot of the Shimmergate. The realmgate that connected Lyria to Azyr sat at the top of twelve, spiralling stairways of purest amethyst. The stairways intertwined as they rose to meet the shimmering blur of light that hung in the skies over the city, like a tear in the firmament.

  At the moment, a cloud of cobalt mist billowed from the light and rolled down the steps. It brought with it the smells of clean water and cold heights. The air thrummed with aetheric tension. Calys shifted uncomfortably as the tang of lightning played across her senses. Beside her, Grip fluffed out her
feathers and scented the air with a contented chirrup. ‘The winds of Azyr,’ Dathus murmured. ‘So clean as to pain the senses.’

  The plaza, normally full of merchants and citizens going about their business, had been cleared for the evening. Bands of Glymmsmen stood watchfully at the entry streets, leaning on halberds or carrying crossbows. The Freeguild soldiers seemed on edge. Then, perhaps it was understandable. For most of them, the Shimmergate was as close to Azyr - and Sigmar - as they would ever get.

  Calys led her cohort towards the gathering of notables. Dathus walked beside her, his previous good humour seemingly evaporated. As they drew close, she studied the golden-armoured lord-celestant. She’d heard stories of the Hero of Klaxus. Most Stormcasts had. Orius Adamantine had been among the first of their kind to march to war, and the list of his battle-honours took up an entire tome in of itself.

  He stood at ease beside Lynos. The two lords-celestant were of a similar size, though where Lynos was pale, Orius was dark. He held his tempestos hammer in the crook of his arm, and his black hair was bound in long, serpentine locks and tied back. His golden war-plate showed the signs of hard use, and his heraldry was chipped and marred. Orius, it was said, had little interest in appearances - only in effectiveness.

  He nodded in greeting. ‘Dathus. I thought you hidden away forever, down in the dark. Tell me, do the dead still sleep uneasily?’

  ‘When they sleep at all, lord-celestant.’ Dathus bowed slightly to the two lords-celestant. ‘I trust I was not called away from my responsibilities simply to see old friends?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Lynos growled. ‘The Shimmergate opens. Reinforcements from Azyr. Command of the city is to be turned over to them’ He said it flatly and with no small amount of bitterness. Calys understood. Lynos had led the defence of the city for three decades, and in that time had turned back enemies both living and dead. Now, apparently, he was expected to turn his responsibilities over to another - and an unknown, at that.

  ‘So I heard,’ Dathus said mildly. ‘Who?’

  ‘We do not know. Sigmar has not seen fit to tell us.’ Orius smiled mirthlessly. ‘Perhaps he was busy keeping the stars from falling out of the sky.’

  Lynos glared at him, in a not altogether unfriendly fashion. ‘We will know soon enough, I suppose,’ he said, somewhat grudgingly. He turned to the representatives from the city’s rulers and moved to speak to them

  Calys relaxed slightly, having safely delivered Dathus. She peered up at the statues that rose like siege-towers around them ‘They were a mighty people in their day,’ a deep, harsh voice said, from behind her.

  She turned to see Lord-Veritant Achillus watching her. His war-plate was covered in marks of purity and warding, as was the cloak of rich crimson he wore. The Lantern of Abjuration mounted at the top of his staff flashed softly as he joined her. Unlike most Stormcasts, who were warriors first and foremost, the duty of a lord-veritant was to root out corruption and evil in those territories claimed by Azyr.

  ‘It has been some time, Calys,’ Achillus said, nodding to her. ‘The last I saw you, you were covered in gore and carrying the head of a Soulblight vampire.’

  ‘It was an honour to assist you in that matter, lord-veritant.’ Calys bowed her head.

  ‘You did well. One of the reasons I recommended your cohort to Lord-Castellant Pharus. You have the stomach for war against the dead. A trait we are in need of.’

  ‘Is it to be war, then? The cataclysm…’

  ‘Was a precursor to something greater, yes.’ Achillus looked down at Grip. He sank to one knee, and the gryph-hound sidled towards his outstretched hand. ‘This is Phams’ gryph-hound,’ he rumbled, stroking Grip’s neck. He looked up at Calys. ‘Are you caring for her now?’

  ‘She cares for herself, mostly.’

  Achillus stood. ‘They do that. Pharus would be pleased to see it, nonetheless.’

  ‘Is there.’ She hesitated. It was not her place to ask such things.

  Achillus shook his head. ‘No.’ He looked towards the realmgate. ‘Perhaps our reinforcements bring word.’ Calys turned.

  The mist pouring from the Shimmergate had thickened noticeably. There was a sound, like crystal breaking, and lightning flashed within the tear. Then, shapes appeared in the mist, moving with disciplined swiftness. Stormcasts, from their bulk, but unlike any she had ever seen before. They wore the heraldry of the Hammers of Sigmar, but crackled with a strange radiance. ‘Who are they?’

  Achillus grunted. ‘Someone I had not thought to see here. Things must be dire, indeed.’ He and Lynos shared a look. Calys could tell the lord-celestant was as puzzled as she was.

  Lynos looked at Orius. ‘Brother, they wear your heraldry.’

  Orius frowned and shook his head. ‘Even so, I do not recognise them.’

  At the head of the column came a warrior all in gold, save for his azure robes and cloak. He bore a staff in one hand and rode atop a storm-grey gryph-charger. The great beast squalled in challenge as it loped down the wide steps with a familiar feline grace. Like its smaller cousin, the gryph-hound, the great beast was a blend of cat and bird, save that it was large enough to bear an armoured Stormcast on its back with ease. Its bifurcated tail lashed as it descended, and its rear hooves thudded as they struck the steps.

  Behind the beast and its rider came phalanx upon phalanx of similarly clad warriors. Some bore blade and staff, others wielded heavy shields and maces that crackled with aetheric energies. Behind them came warriors in pale robes, bearing baroque crossbows.

  As the gryph-charger touched the bottom step, the beast leapt forwards, as if enjoying its sudden freedom. It bounded towards the city’s delegation, screeching in challenge. Calys saw the mortals pale, and the Freeguild representative instinctively grasped for the hilt of his sword. She didn’t fault him - a hungry gryph-charger was a match for most things that walked or crawled in the realms. A normal man had little chance against one.

  The rider hauled on the reins, and the beast slid to a halt, its back hooves drawing sparks from the plaza stones. The Stormcast slid easily from the gryph-charger’s back, and strode towards the waiting delegation, staff in hand. ‘I am Lord-Arcanum Knossus Heavensen. I come bearing the word and wrath of the God-King of Azyr, Sigmar Heldenhammer. Glymmsforge stands imperilled. But it shall not fall. Not while I stand with it.’ His voice boomed out across the plaza.

  ‘Sacrosanct Chamber,’ Achillus murmured, glancing at Dathus, who nodded tersely.

  ‘Then the worst is yet to come,’ the lord-relictor said.

  Lynos and Orius met the newcomer. After a moment’s hesitation, the three warriors exchanged handclasps. Knossus pulled his helmet off, and Calys noticed an immediate resemblance between his tattooed features and the great statues. She wondered if the mortals who bowed so respectfully saw it as well. She thought that perhaps a few of them did, given their hasty glances between the newcomer and the nearest likeness.

  The last Glymm had returned to his city, in its hour of need.

  NAGASHIZZAR, THE SILENT CITY

  Pharus awoke in darkness.

  It was not a true awakening. Not a slow climb from sleep. Instead, it was akin to a candle being lit. One moment, nothing. Then, light. Awareness. Weight. Pain.

  He tried to collect his scattered thoughts. They slipped through his grasp like frightened fish. He remembered some things but not others. He knew his name, but not who he was. What he was. It was there, dancing around the edge of his consciousness, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. He looked around.

  Faint motes of purple light danced along the air, casting an amethyst haze across a sea of shattered pillars and broken stones. Something about his surroundings was familiar, but he could not say why. Instinctively, he looked up. He didn’t recognise the stars.

  He was shrouded in heavy chains, pitted with age and hairy with mould. He tried to shrug them off but found that he
could barely move them, no matter how much he thrashed. The air was thick with dust and smoke, but he had no difficulty breathing. A moment later, he realised that it was because he wasn’t breathing at all. He looked down at himself. Something was wrong. He couldn’t focus on his limbs, on his body. As if he were no more substantial than a mirage. But he hurt all over. It felt as if he had swallowed an ember, and it was slowly burning its way through him.

  ‘Where… where am I?’ he croaked. His voice sounded odd. Broken. Like a distorted echo. And something out in the dark replied. A murmuring whisper, as of many voices speaking swiftly and quietly. Then came the hiss-scrape of bones on stone. Lights appeared in the dark. Not motes, but flickering, indigo flames.

  The creatures were dead, their crumbling forms wreathed in purple fire. As they drew close, the dark retreated. Pharus saw that he was chained atop a shattered dais that might once have belonged in a temple. Glimmering dust heaped against the sides in untidy dunes and scraped against his chains as the breeze kicked up.

  Despite the macabre appearance of the newcomers, Pharus felt no fear. Even as they gathered about him, and the heat of their flames washed over him He knew that he should, but instead felt only a sense of resignation. As if this were somehow expected. Unavoidable.

  ‘Inevitable.’

  The word hung like the peal of a bell. Pharus jerked in his chains as a tall form stepped out of the dark and followed the burning creatures up onto the dais. The skeletal being, clad in robes and armour, and clutching a staff, drew close, and fiery corpses drew back, to make way. ‘That is the word you are looking for, I believe.’

  ‘Who.?’

  ‘Who am I, or who are you?’ A fleshless hand extended, and Pharus flinched back. ‘The answer is the same, save for details. I am Arkhan the Black, Mortarch of Sacrament. I am the Hand of Nagash. When I speak, it is with his voice. When I act, it is with his will.’

  Something coalesced within Pharus’ mind. ‘Shyish. I am in Shyish.’