The ground beneath their feet trembled now, and an almost solid curtain of dust wafted down through the air. Elya leaned forwards. ‘We have to wait,’ she said, shouting to be heard over the rumbling that pressed in on them from all sides. Balthas raised his staff, and the column of Stormcasts crashed to a halt. The path ahead had come to an abrupt end. The crypt faces were broken and had collapsed into slumped piles that tapered off over the edge of the sudden aperture. Balthas peered down.
From where he stood, the catacombs below resembled the apex of a vast, almost spherical, column composed of intertwining tiers of streets and avenues. The column was trapped in a web of stone pathways and bridges, which stretched in all directions. The tiers shifted independently of one another, sliding up or to the side, or else sinking down as another rose in their place.
The whole thing was a work of genius. Balthas wondered what Pharus had been in his mortal life – just another warrior, or something more? Had Sigmar imbued him with the creativity needed to conceive of such a thing, or had it always resided within him? And how much of it was left to him now? Had Nagash left him that genius, or had the Undying King cast it aside, as something useless?
He suspected the latter. Pharus had seemed a clockwork thing, to him. A hollow shell, driven by an unnatural force. A puppet of soul-stuff. He heard someone approach. Calys Eltain. ‘Something you wish to say, Liberator-Prime?’
He felt her hesitate. Her aura was in upheaval. Her soul was tangled in knots of confusion. ‘We should not be down here,’ she said, after a moment. It was not the question she wanted to ask, he thought. But he decided to answer it anyway.
‘Have you never wondered why the God-King set watch on these tombs, rather than destroy them?’ Balthas asked, not looking at her. ‘All of this could have been avoided, had he simply obliterated them, and all that lies within. It is well within his power to do so.’
‘I had not considered it. That he commands is enough.’
‘No. It is not,’ Balthas snapped. ‘Nor does he expect it to be so.’ He turned swiftly, and she backed up a step. ‘Sigmar encourages questions, Liberator-Prime. He encourages thought, as well as deed. Our enemies are not merely things of flesh and bone, but malign abstractions, requiring weapons beyond these we hold in our hands. To win the war ahead of us, we must consider all aspects of the thing, not merely the thing itself. Think. Why would he not dispose of those souls held here?’
Calys frowned. ‘He has some use for them.’
Balthas nodded. ‘Exactly. The dead are as clay for the gods. Souls can be reforged. Even those tainted in some way. We know this. Take for instance Tornus the Hero, who stands pre-eminent among the ranks of the Redeemed. Once, a foul thing, a pustule of Chaos – now one of the Huntsmen of Azyr.’ He leaned close. ‘There are others among our ranks whose souls were first claimed not by Chaos, but by Nagash – confined to skeletal husks or reduced to maddened spirits, and yet they too were remade into servants of Azyr.’
He looked away. ‘Ten thousand dead are interred in this well of souls. Ten thousand warriors who might one day serve to turn the tide of the war we wage. Perhaps they too will wear the heraldry of the Anvils of Heldenhammer, in time, as we do. Or perhaps not. But the potential is there. And our need is great.’
‘So we are here… for potential?’
‘For hope. For a better day.’ Balthas straightened. ‘For the chance to repair what is broken and remake what is destroyed. That is why I hunt through ancient tomes and scour musty pages… seeking some sign of hope. Some promise that all that has been, might be again.’ He set his staff. ‘If we are tools, we are employed in great purpose. I take comfort in that.’ A bridge of stone appeared out of the darkness to the left, slowly swinging towards the edge of the path. It crashed into place, the vibrations running up through his legs.
He heard the creak of unseen locking mechanisms, and dust spewed from the small gap between edge and bridge. He lifted his staff. ‘Come. Time is fleeting.’
He led the way across, moving swiftly, aware that the bridge could break away to continue its circuit at any time. As soon as the last Sequitor set foot on the path beyond, the bridge broke away and sank out of sight, accompanied by the clank of chains and gears. The path ahead dipped sharply, descending in a slope towards a circuitous walkway below. Crypts and mausoleums tottered over the path, supported by angled pillars and struts. The route split and wandered in a hundred directions, winding among the houses of the dead.
Balthas gestured for Calys to join him. ‘Do you recognise this place?’
The Liberator-Prime shook her head. ‘I recognise some of the tombs, but the last time I saw them they were elsewhere.’ She looked at Elya. The girl pointed straight ahead.
‘Follow the silences, it’s easier.’
Balthas grunted. ‘Where is the main entrance?’
Elya turned, squinting. She pointed north, away from the slope. ‘That way, I think.’
‘If she’s right, then that’ll be part of the Avenue of Souls,’ Calys said. ‘It stretches from the main entrance and runs along the circumference of the pit holding the Ten Thousand Tombs. She reached down and stroked Grip’s narrow skull, ruffling the beast’s feathers. ‘There are dozens of false paths stretching off from it, though. It’s as easy for the living to become lost as the dead.’
Balthas looked at Elya. ‘Can you lead us safely along it?’
She nodded, frowning. ‘I think so. It’s easier when I don’t have to think about it.’
With the girl’s guidance, they made their way down among the tombs. Several times, the path ahead shook and sank out of sight, or bent in an unexpected direction as the ground shifted. Mirrored slabs had been placed at odd angles, distorting the light and making paths appear where there were none. Only Balthas’ floating wisps of corposant enabled him to identify these tricks. More than once, the Stormcasts found themselves walking into a cul-de-sac that moments later split away to reveal a new course. A mortal would have become hopelessly lost in the ever-shifting necropolis.
As they passed through the stone canyons, the doors of some vaults rattled. Chains clinked and dolorous voices called out of the dark. The dead did not sleep easy. ‘It is louder than it was,’ Calys said. ‘It is as if they are waiting for something.’
‘They are, and it is on our heels,’ Balthas said. He moved ahead of the column, peering into the darkness with his storm-sight. He could see hundreds of unquiet souls, clawing at the walls of the crypts around them. Hungry corpses thrashed in the gibbet cages that hung overhead, and shadow-shapes skittered out of sight. Eerie moans drifted among the crypts, following the Stormcasts as they made their descent.
When they reached the bottom of the slope, the path spread like the fingers of a hand. Immense crypts and burial vaults hugged the sides of the path, and leaned awkwardly, casting long shadows. The Avenue of Souls wound through this thicket of stone – not a rough path, but cobbled and slabbed in pale stone. It reminded Balthas of a spinal column, stretching as it did throughout the catacombs.
Balthas called a halt. He could hear bells ringing, in the distance, as his subordinates gathered about him. ‘One of the bell towers,’ Calys said. ‘There are twelve of them, one at every major thoroughfare on the avenue. They only ring when there is danger…’ Her hand dropped to her blade. Around them, Sequitors took up position, creating a wide square about the rest of the Sacrosanct Chamber. They locked shields and sank to one knee, waiting for orders. Castigators took up positions behind them, greatbows at the ready.
‘The enemy is coming. We got ahead of them, but only just. We must decide now – make our stand, or press on.’ Balthas looked around. The Avenue of Souls rose upwards to the north and the heart of the catacombs. Tombs jutted at wrong angles, and seemed to be collapsing with infinite slowness all about them. Everything was in motion, constantly. He could feel the path shifting beneath his feet.