Nagash was silent. Sigmar sighed, and Balthas thought of a high wind, stripping the bark from trees. ‘Can you even conceive of such a thing, brother? Or is your arrogance so ironclad that your own end is an impossibility to you?’ The God-King extended his hand, and Balthas, unable to resist, followed suit. ‘We were allies, once. Brothers in spirit, if not blood. We tamed these realms and set the foundations for what they would become.’
‘You freed me,’ Nagash said, simply. ‘A debt was owed. It has been repaid in full.’ He shook his monstrous skull in dismissal. ‘Is this the moment where you speak of our similarities, God-King? Where you play the wronged innocent, and once more extend the hand of friendship?’
‘No. That moment has come and gone.’ The lightning roiled outwards, burning black knots into the nearby crypts. Nagash’s towering shape wavered, the amethyst fires retreating before the fury of the storm. ‘The War of Heaven and Death begins anew. But this time, I will not make the mistake of mercy.’
‘I am stronger now than I was then, barbarian.’
‘And I am wiser. Let us see which of those proves the greater advantage, brother.’ Sigmar looked down. His eyes burned like dying stars, and in that look, Balthas saw what was to come next. He saw Thaum rising up before him, wreathed in amethyst flame. Nagash roared and Thaum hurtled forwards, raising his blade.
Balthas flung his hand out, and lightning roared down. Thaum screamed and lunged through the smoke of his own burning. Balthas interposed his staff at the last moment, and the two warriors stumbled back, their weapons locked together.
‘End me, fool,’ Thaum snarled, his voice small against the immensity of Nagash, which still loomed above. He sounded strange, as if some struggle Balthas could not see were occurring within him. Above, both gods stood, watching as their champions reeled. ‘End me if you can. Or I shall surely end you.’
Balthas said nothing. His eyes sought the azure spark he had seen earlier. He saw it, flickering through a hole in Thaum’s armour. A gouge made by the claws of a beast, perhaps, or a Liberator’s warblade.
There, Sigmar whispered. A bit of me, trapped in the dark. A bit of who he was, struggling against the shadows that bind him. Set it free, Balthas. Give him the peace he has been denied.
Balthas, holding his staff with one hand, drove his other into the gap. He felt the heat of the spark, felt it respond to his presence. It flared, a mote of light, hidden in the darkest shadow. Thaum stiffened. Blue light seeped from his tattered shape, piercing his limbs and torso in thin streams. He twitched. ‘I… remember,’ he said, and his face softened.
‘I am sorry,’ Balthas said, softly. Hoarsely. And then, one last time, he called down the lightning. The spark blossomed as the lightning fed into it. It grew, spreading within Thaum’s form. Azure cracks formed on his armour and intangible flesh, growing wider.
His phantom shape began to crumble like paper in a fire. His sword fell from his hands and shattered, black shards spilling across the ground. He staggered back, a man-shaped torch of cobalt.
Thaum tried to speak, as the black helm slipped from a head that was no more solid than a wisp of smoke. He threw back his head, and gave a final, desolate howl before the storm caged within him broke free at last. His form shivered apart with a clap of thunder.
The shock wave shook the entire catacombs. Chunks of stone fell from above, crashing down into the necropolis, and the crypts surrounding Balthas crumbled into broken rubble as the fury of the storm radiated outwards in a single, frenzied moment. It washed over the catacombs and surged through the ranks of the dead, immolating the nighthaunts in a burst of cerulean radiance.
Pharus Thaum was gone.
Nothing more than ash, trailing away through the ravaged air. Nagash’s form wavered like smoke on the breeze. But as he faded, he spoke one final time. ‘You served me once, Balthas Arum, in another turn of the wheel, as a world burned, and you will do so again. As all who live shall eventually serve me.’
Then, he too was gone.
Balthas sank to one knee, breathing heavily. He felt wrung out – hollow. Smoke rose from the joins of his war-plate, and he knew the flesh beneath was blistered and burnt. Damaged beyond the scope of the healing arts of Azyr, perhaps. What was left of Thaum’s war-plate lay nearby, smouldering. Beneath the exhaustion, he felt a flicker of regret.
He had come to bring a rogue soul peace. And he had done so. But somehow, victory felt like defeat. The sounds of battle had faded, with Pharus’ fall, with the lightning. He tried to push himself to his feet, but he couldn’t force his limbs to bear his weight. Not yet. He looked within himself, seeking some sign of Sigmar’s presence. But the God-King was gone. This battle was ended, but there were others requiring his attentions. The War of Heaven and Death had begun anew.
‘Lord-arcanum – do you live?’
Calys Eltain made her way towards him, her free hand pressed to her side. Blood stained her war-plate. Miska and several Sequitors followed her, stepping warily through the blasted rubble. Miska led Quicksilver by the reins. Balthas felt a flicker of relief at the beast’s survival. Wearily, he bent his head, until it was resting against his staff. ‘That… is entirely a matter of perspective,’ he croaked.
‘He’s gone again,’ Elya said, clinging to Calys’ back. Balthas did not meet her eyes.
‘He’s gone,’ he repeated. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Then, he pushed himself erect. ‘But the battle is not done. Glymmsforge is still under siege.’ He looked at Calys. ‘And the Ten Thousand Tombs still need defending.’
She met his gaze and nodded. Balthas turned to Miska. ‘Gather whoever is still standing. Knossus is going to need us.’
‘As you say, my lord,’ she said, bowing her head. She hesitated. ‘You did well, brother.’ She turned away, shouting for the others. Balthas stroked Quicksilver’s neck, as the brute butted him in the chest.
‘Easy. We have work yet to do.’ Balthas dragged himself into the saddle, his body protesting. He looked up. Nagash, like Sigmar, was gone, but Balthas could still hear his final taunt, could still feel it echoing through the dark places within him.
You served me once, in another turn of the wheel, as a world burned, and you will do so again…
Balthas shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, softly. ‘Never.’
And as he urged Quicksilver into motion, he found that he almost believed it.
Epilogue
As Certain As The Stars
The desert was still burning.
Arkhan knew it would be for some time. He stood atop the ruins of one of the black watchtowers which lined the outer districts of Nagashizzar. The spirits bound to it had been freed during the necroquake, and so he could stand in blissful silence for a time. His dread abyssal, Razarak, lay nearby, tail clattering as it sat and waited patiently for its master to finish his ruminations. The skull-faced beast hissed softly, and Arkhan nodded.
‘The sky is beautiful, yes.’
The horizon was awash in purple light, and ash fell like snow. Nagashizzar shook with its master’s rage. Whatever came next, in the battle for Glymmsforge, for Lyria or the other underworlds, Nagash would not be satisfied. Once more, Sigmar had thwarted him. The War of Heaven and Death would continue.
The Mortarch of Sacrament could not help but feel some small satisfaction at the way things had gone. He had wagered heavily, and lost little. Nagash had no one to blame but himself. The Undying King’s rage would fall on lesser champions, and Arkhan would stand blameless, and loyal, as ever.