‘No!’ Calys drew on the last of her strength, and twisted away from him. Their blades parted with a screech. As she stepped aside, he caught her a blow on the side, dropping her to the ground. Desperate, she rolled onto her back, interposing her blade as his descended. The blow rocked her, nearly tearing the warblade from her hands.
Grip leapt. The gryph-hound slammed into his back, claws scrabbling. The beast’s beak snapped uselessly at Pharus’ non-existent flesh. He staggered. ‘Get off me, beast,’ he snarled, with no sign of recognition. Grip held on, claws tearing strips from Pharus’ armour. They reeled, and Pharus finally flung the animal aside. She was up again in a moment, feathers stiff, tail lashing, and lunged again.
Pharus’ hand snapped out and caught hold of Grip’s head. He turned and swung her into the base of the statue that Elya had sought refuge atop. There was a sharp crack, and Grip flopped down, still and silent. The animal was dead.
Pharus turned back to Calys. ‘First the beast… now you.’ He raised his sword, but stopped. He looked up at something. Calys risked a glance, and saw Elya staring down at them from the top of the statue, tears streaking her grimy features. Pharus seemed frozen. Uncertain. Instinct took over, and Calys drove her sword up, through the plates of his armour. Pharus roared and staggered back, ripping the blade out of her hands. She was on her feet in a moment. ‘Run, Elya. Run and hide!’
Calys went for the hilt of her blade. She ducked under Pharus’ wild slash and tore her weapon loose. Pharus howled, his face distending and twisting. They traded blows, reeling through the crypts. The air throbbed with the grinding of stone, and the landscape was beginning to shift. Pharus caught her with a savage blow and knocked her sprawling. She scrambled back as he advanced.
‘You cannot escape death, Calys. Not forever.’ He raised his blade. ‘In the end, the dark always swallows the light.’ But before his blade could fall, lightning snarled out, catching Pharus in its clutches. He screamed and staggered. A shadow fell over them both, as something snarled. Calys looked up, into the curved beak of a gryph-charger, crouched atop a sunken crypt. Balthas nodded to her.
‘Up, sister. See to the child. Her part in this – and yours – is done.’
‘You,’ Pharus said, glaring up at the lord-arcanum. ‘You. Again. Twice you have put yourself in my path.’
‘As I will continue to do, until matters between us are settled to my satisfaction.’ Balthas thumped his steed in the flanks, and the gryph-charger leapt with a scream. The beast crashed into Pharus, carrying him backwards. Calys scrambled to her feet as they disappeared into the tangle of shifting paths. A nighthaunt shrieked towards her and she ducked aside, racing towards the statue. She saw Elya crouching near Grip.
‘She’s dead,’ Elya said, cradling the gryph-hound’s head.
Calys reached for her, but spun as something lean and terrible rose up behind her. The hideous light emanating from the spectre’s lantern washed across her, nearly driving the strength from her limbs. She sagged back, standing between it and Elya.
‘Soon, you will join the beast,’ the spectre intoned, raising the blade it held. ‘Rejoice. Die and see the beautiful thing that awaits, past the edge of the final moment.’
‘I have died once, creature. I do not intend to do so again!’ Calys lashed out, aiming not at the nighthaunt, but at its lantern. Her warblade struck home, and a flare of necromantic energy raged out, knocking her backwards. Her blade shivered to fragments, and her arm went numb. The spectre wailed as its lantern exploded, and the staff crumbled away in its grip. The flame within the lantern licked hungrily at its arms, causing it to twist in agony as it reached for her, snarling and cursing.
But before it could lay hands on her, a lilting refrain pierced the cacophony of battle. The burning wraith turned, as pieces of it broke away and were drawn towards Miska, as she stepped into the open. The mage-sacristan’s song rose in volume and urgency, and the bottle she held began to glow with a soft light. Slowly, like oil spilling across water, the spectre was drawn into the bottle, its screams dwindling as it shrunk and twisted.
Miska sealed the bottle and peered at it. ‘A strong one, this. Without your blade, I wouldn’t have been able to trap him.’ She looked at Calys. ‘Where is Balthas?’
Calys pointed as lightning crashed and a gryph-charger screeched, somewhere out of sight. As she did so, a swarm of chainrasps shot towards them, emerging from the paths between tombs. The mage-sacristan turned and sang a single note. The wind rose into a howling gale, and the semi-aethereal creatures were somehow swept back the way they’d come. She turned back. ‘Up, sister. Gather the child. We have a battle to win.’
‘What about Balthas?’ Calys said, and bent. ‘On my back,’ she said, glancing at Elya. The girl swiftly complied.
‘Balthas has his own battle to fight,’ Miska said.
‘Let us hope, for all our sakes, that he wins it.’
Quicksilver’s lunge carried them through the necropolis. Already weakened tombs collapsed, throwing up clouds of dust and squalling spirits. Mirrors shattered and stone pathways were gouged up by the gryph-charger’s elemental fury. Pharus Thaum howled as he was driven back, into a fallen pillar. The stone cracked as he struck it, and the aetheric energies that issued from the gryph-charger’s claws set his armour aflame.
Roaring, he slammed the hilt of his blade against Quicksilver’s skull, staggering the beast. As the animal reared, gheists swarmed over Balthas and his steed, striking at them with rusty weapons and splintered claws.
Quicksilver stumbled back, screeching. Nighthaunts clung to him, biting and tearing. Balthas sprang from the saddle moments before the gryph-charger fell. He landed hard, but scrambled to his feet as Pharus Thaum rushed towards him, sword held low. ‘Madness,’ the dead man said, his voice like sour thunder. ‘Madness to pit yourself against the inevitable.’
‘As Sigmar commands,’ Balthas said. He raised his staff.
‘Sigmar the liar,’ Thaum spat. ‘Sigmar the betrayer. I spent decades in the dark, protecting his city, his people, and then I was cast aside. As you will be cast aside when your use ends.’
‘You were not cast aside,’ Balthas said, avoiding the black blade. It tore through his cloak. He spat a word, and Pharus was driven back by a sudden celestial wind. ‘The value of a thing is not simply in its immediate use, brother, but in its potential. No true craftsman disposes of his tools, whatever their condition. He repairs them, or else repurposes them.’
‘And what if I do not wish another purpose?’ Thaum snarled, advancing against the wind. ‘What if I was satisfied to be as I was? What then?’
‘Then blame the one who took that from you, not the one who sought to help.’ Balthas extended his staff. ‘This is not you, brother. You speak with the voice of another. A blacker will than your own drives you, as it drives those broken souls you command. I can hear its echo in every word that passes your dead lips.’
‘My will is my own,’ Thaum said. ‘I was promised justice, and I will have it.’ His blade licked out, and Balthas was forced to interpose his staff. The black sword chopped into it, and he was driven back a step.
‘A lie.’ Balthas braced himself. ‘Once, maybe, but now – you are hollow. A mask, hiding the face of another. You are but the puppet of a will greater than your own.’
‘We are both pawns together, then. It makes no difference. I will cast the stones of this city into the heavens and break free all those imprisoned below. Lyria will belong to Nagash once more, and all the souls that dwell within will know true peace. That is inevitable. That is justice.’ His voice, once a hollow rasp, had deepened. The sound of it made the marrow in Balthas’ bones curdle.