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, for 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.