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The dead started rising at night, in secret. A few zombies here, a few revenants there, people would disappear, and some weeks later their families would bury closed caskets because the body had been partially eaten and the mortuary priests of the city could only do so much. When another water riot started, we wondered why it took so long to stop...they usually disperse by dinner time when the hooligans decide they've had enough watchmen billy-clubs upside the head. In the morning, bodies were being stacked like cordwood. A curfew was declared, not that that means anything in this city.
Things were really bad when they started deputizing able-bodied citizens to be peace-officers. I and my children were foreign, so no one bothered us, but I did hear about boys younger than my son taken to serve. Eventually districts of the city were cordoned off, and there was talk of evacuation. It was too late, the undead poured out of the old king's palace that night. The watch and the militia did their best, but there were too many. My children and I sat huddled in our third floor of our insula, everything we could move barring the door. I watched the dead pour through the streets, tearing apart anyone and anything not clever enough to or capable of hiding or fleeing.
Tisal, my son, was talking (quietly, at my insistence) about how we would escape the city. His plans were...likely unfeasible, but talking helped calm him down, so I let him talk. It seemed to keep Kina (my daughter) from crying, too, so there was that. He was in the middle of theorizing how we might get fresh water for our escape when light cut through the smoke. The first one I saw out the window of the insula was three blocks away, but others start spiking through the haze and fading light of the sunset. Then one struck further down the street our building was on, and all at once, a tremendous crash, like a dozen thunderclaps all at once, silenced Tisal and ended the groans and susurrus of the dead.
When the blinding light faded, golden-armored warriors stood, looking as though they had just descended from a great height. As one they rose from their kneeling position, brandishing weapons of divine steel wreathed in lightning. The undead had only moment to comprehend this development before their necks were severed, heads dashed open on the street, and bodies riddled with arrows. At first, it seemed as those these holy warriors would be overwhelmed as the watch and militia were, but it was not to be. Even when borne down by a dozen undead, still these warriors would rise, fighting even with the knuckles of their gauntlets and the greaves of their armored feet when deprived of their weapons. The surge of the dead slowed, then halted, then began to dissipate as they were crushed, smote, or blasted apart.
These warriors, I would later learn, are called the Stormcast Eternals, in the tongue of the Azyrian heavens. They fight on behalf of their god-king Sigmar, who is known in these lands as the Hammer-Bearer.
For hours they fought, but eventually they broke the horde. The dead were many, but even they were no match for warriors clad in heavenly armor and wielding divine weapons. I'm told the dread necromancer responsible for the horde faced the leader of the Stormcast Eternals in mortal combat, and was blasted to ash by heavenly fire. I did not see it, but the story is on so many lips it must be at least partly true.
The next day, what was left of the city's military came to take accounting of the survivors and the dead, and were relieved to find us alive...apparently we were one of the few families in the Skraen district with the sense to barricade our home's doors. They declared it safe to move about the city. They and some of the golden warriors were chasing the last of the undead through the old palace's catacombs, but there should be no more on the surface.
Shaken but glad to be alive, I took my children from our insula to the center of the city, hoping to see if the Iskari temple survived, and to see if the priest was there, as he would surely know where we could find food and water. When we arrived, found the plaza in front of the temple has been converted into a camp by the golden warriors, who though still obviously mighty warriors not of this world, did not look markedly different from any other army at camp, except for the lack of alcohol or supply train.
Asking my fellow inhabitants of the city was by and large not much help, as many of them were busy with their own issues, but after asking around enough, I learned that relief efforts were being coordinated by one of the king's ministers, and that I should seek him west of the temple. We did not have much further luck narrowing the search, so I elected to risk bothering one of the Stormcast Eternals. I left my children at the steps of the temple with instructions not to go too far from there.
“Salve, citizen,” he responded to me flawlessly, as though he grew up speaking the language. “Are you well? Do you need medical attention?”
“I do not think so,” I said. “My children and I have gone days without food. I was told I could find Minister Verolanus here?”
“You can,” the Stormcast said. “While I can't tell you where the minister has gone off to, I last saw him-”
“Lord-Celestant!” a voice called, as a group of golden warriors approached. Unlike most of warriors, who were in decent condition, this group had dust-encrusted armor, and smelled as though they'd been trudging through the open desert.
“My apologies, dama,” he said, holding up a hand. “This report was due two hours ago and I'm eager to receive it.”
The leader of the troupe carved a quick hand-motion in the air and her subordinates did likewise, which I took to be a salute of some sort. “The catacombs under western district are clear. Or at least clear enough that the Knight-Veritant can't find any more bodies moving that shouldn't be.”
“You're certain?” the Lord-Celestant asked.
“I am, sir,” she said again. I stared at her, wondering why her voice sounded so familiar.
“Well, then, don't let me keep you. Get washed up and get some food in you. This woman, I'm sorry...” He looked expectantly at me.
“Sabina,” I supplied.
“Sabina and her children need food and water as well. Perhaps take them by the mess until that minister who's supposed to be coordinating relief turns up again?”
“Of course, Lord-Celestant,” she said, carving another salute through the air. She sheathed her blade and undid the buckles on her helmet. She turned to face me. “Dama Sabina, I am Liberator-Prime Raldinna Sunward. If you'll come with me.”
And I stood there, transfixed, as the Lord-Celestant excused himself. This 'Raldinna' had my dead wife's Nalantia's face. None of her scars, and rather than the round and soft cheeks I was used to holding, she was taut muscle and sinew, cheekbones showing far more sharply. Her long hair, usually brushed and braided by me, was cropped eye-length short, and hung in a sweaty mess over her brow. My mind worked furiously. This isn't Nalantia, she died years ago, her brothers buried her, you were there, Tisal was there, Kina was too young to understand why Mommy Nal wouldn't be around any more but she was there. It can't be her, Nalantia isn't some gigantic warrior, she was a baker who spoke out against unfair taxes and was 'mugged by ruffians' because of it. You're not seeing her, you're seeing someone who looks like her but isn't her. This is a trick of the mind.
“Dama Sabina?” she repeated. “Can you hear me?”
There it is. The voice. I might not trust my eyes, but the voice is unmistakable. The same voice that would read me terrible love poems, but sing beautiful hymns while baking in our shop back in Tawreft. The same voice that would tell stories to Tisal and Kina to get them to fall asleep. The same voice I'd given up on hearing again years ago.
“I can,” I managed to work out. “You said your name is Raldinna?”
“Yes, Dinna for short, if you like,” she said. “The Lord-Celestant said you have children with you?”
“Yes, yes, I do, they're by the entrance to the temple, let me get them.”
“Lead the way,” Dinna said, brushing her hair from her eyes and moving to fall in step behind me.
“Please-” I started, then stopped because I was unsure of what to say. “Please wait here. The last few days have been a lot, and seeing you coming right up behind me might be a bit much. Let me talk to them, I will be right back.” She looked confused, but relented. “As you wish.”
While it was a short walk to find Tisal and Kina, it felt far longer. What should I say to Tisal? Should I say anything at all? Did I go mad in our little insula, watching our friends and neighbors torn limb from limb, eaten, and turned into abominations?
They were where I'd left them, but Kina had probably complained about being tired, and was now on Tisal's back, as he would carry her at her request in happier times. “Tisal!” I said. “I've found food. Come.” Tisal looked relieved, made sure his sister was secure on his back with a quick glance and fell in step with me.
I stole a sidelong glance at him when we came within sight of Dinna. Tisal looked up at her, squinted, blinked, and then looked again. Dinna gamely stated “I apologize for the quality of the food you're about to get, but soldier's fare is easy to carry down from on high.”
Tisal's eyes widened at hearing her voice, and turned to look at me. I gave him a look that could pit stone and said “This is Raldinna Sunward. She helped liberate the city. Introduce yourself, Tisal.”
“Blessings on you, Dama Sunward,” Tisal said. “My name is Tisal, and this is Kina.”
“Please, don't let me keep you waiting, let's get something to eat,” Dinna said, beckoning us to follow. We fell in step behind her.
I let her get a little ahead of us as we walked and Tisal matched my pace. When we were far enough back that I felt safe I said to Tisal quietly “Tell me you see it, too.”
“Something's not right with her face. And she's taller. So much taller,” Tisal said, shifting Kina's weight again. “She looks...younger. Younger than I remember.”
“We were only a year apart when we married. If she was alive, she'd look as old as I am. Not...like that.”
“And she's so skinny. All muscle and no fat.”
“Like she eats beans and mutton and nothing else,” I said. “But it is her.”
“That's Momma Nal's voice,” Tisal said. “How did this happen?”
“I don't know.”
“She doesn't recognize us,” Tisal continued. “How could she not recognize us?”
“She doesn't know her own name,” I supplied. “Maybe...whatever scooped her out of the grave took all her memories, too.”
“It's not right,” Tisal said, brow furrowing. “They stole her from her rest and made her a soldier.”