by Nick Horth
He ignored her. Several of his hirelings approached, and together they hauled the heavy marble lid of the coffin loose. It fell to the floor of the chamber with a crash, releasing a cloud of dust. Shev moved closer and peered into the sarcophagus, her heart thumping.
There lay Occlesius. She thought, for a queasy moment, that he was alive. Though the corpse’s skin was pale and stretched, his hair frayed and his teeth yellowed, the preservation of the body was remarkable. Even his eyes remained intact, piercing blue orbs that gazed contentedly off into nothing. In repose he was a nondescript man, quite unlike the illustrations and depictions that she had seen of the great Realms-Walker. He was small and shaven-headed, with a wispy little beard and a weak chin. Time had worn his skin to a grey sheen; his bald pate was heavily liver-spotted, indicating a life spent out under the sun. His clothes were fine silk of a vibrant turquoise, and he wore several rings and bracelets of impressive craftsmanship, bejewelled and gleaming. Around his neck was a chain of silver, from which hung an amber claw sigil.
It was decidedly odd, looking into the face of someone you had spent years studying and researching. For all that time the Realms-Walker had been little more than a name on a page, a thread connecting her to the mysteries of the past. Looking into that coffin was like gazing upon history itself.
Clutched in the arms of the corpse was a silver-bound tome, its surface filigreed with runes and markings she could not decipher. The Golden Lord wrenched the tome from the dead man’s grasp.
‘The collected writings and memories of Occlesius of Asciltane, the Realms-Walker,’ the Golden Lord whispered. ‘At long last.’
Shev gazed into the eyes of the dead man. She frowned. There was something strange about the man’s crystal blue orbs. The right was milky and glazed, while the left seemed sharper, glimmering in the torchlight. She reached out and tapped it with her finger. It was hard, clicking at the touch of her fingernail. She glanced around. The Golden Lord was engrossed in the tome, not even looking in her direction.
‘It must be here,’ he muttered. ‘It must.’
She had no idea what he was talking about. The sellswords were eyeing the frescoes and golden filigrees of the tomb, no doubt wondering if anything in here could be easily looted. Fishing a small knife from her belt, Shev delicately pried the orb out of its socket. It popped out easily, and she palmed it. It was indeed a crystal, fashioned in the image of an eyeball. Upon further inspection, she could see small trails of silver light whirling and coalescing within the iris, casting a faint light across her palm. Odd.
As she watched, the streams of light grew brighter and more insistent, the crystal flaring in her hand like the thorax of a glowfly. She stared into its depths, almost hypnotised by the mesmerising patterns. There was something there, in the depths. She peered closer.
You know, in many cultures it is considered the height of rudeness to break into a man’s tomb and start digging the eyes from his sockets.
Shev gave a startled yelp and dropped the crystal, which bounced hard on the edge of the coffin and rolled across the floor.
Will you please be more careful with that? said the voice in her head, with an air of extreme irritation. It was incredibly difficult to attain, and if it breaks, there is no telling what will happen to me.
The Golden Lord rapped his staff upon the floor. He was staring at her from across the chamber.
‘What did you do?’ he said. His voice was ice-cold.
Shev struggled for words.
‘I…’ she began.
I do not like this one’s tone, said the voice in her head.
‘What?’ she gasped.
He’s trouble. Believe me. At my age, you get a sixth sense for these kind of things.
‘Stop it!’ she shouted, clutching her head as if she could squeeze the unwelcome intrusion out of her skull. ‘What in the name of Sigmar is going on?’
‘Tell me. Now,’ growled the Golden Lord.
Oh, how rude of me. Allow me to introduce myself. Occlesius of Asciltane, at your service, my lady, said the voice. Or at least as much as a disembodied consciousness can be. I am sorry, I have had precious few intelligent conversations in the past few hundred years. I fear I am going somewhat peculiar.
‘Peculiar?’ she spluttered.
‘Who are you speaking to?’ snapped the Golden Lord. ‘Answer me.’
She backed away, but someone grabbed her from behind. She smelt that familiar pungent stench and knew it was Howle. She struggled, but he twisted her arm painfully, locked her in place.
The Golden Lord strode over to her, his staff grasped in two hands.
‘You will tell me what happened, now,’ he growled. ‘Or I will allow Howle here to begin his work. I have witnessed the results of his art, Madame Arclis, and I have no wish to see them practised upon you. So speak.’
‘There was a voice… in my head,’ she gasped, nodding to the crystal that lay dormant on the floor. ‘That thing, it was speaking to me.’
The Golden Lord strode over to the orb. He knelt down to inspect it, then reached out a hand, slowly, to grasp it.
‘Could it be?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Shadeglass, taken from the haunted City of Mirrors. Now I understand. Our great thinker could not bear to enter the lands of the dead, not with so many sights left to see. No, he sought to exist beyond the grasp of the Tyrant of Bones.’
The Golden Lord stood, grasping the orb tightly in one fist.
‘Listen to me, Occlesius,’ he said. ‘Do not address the girl, but speak to me alone. How long have you dwelt here, amidst the rubble of your life’s work? Hundreds of years at the very least. I can help you, Realms-Walker. I can take you from this place, free you from the prison you have made for yourself. There are ways, my friend. Ways to restore you to life. All I ask in return is this – tell me where to find the Silver Shard.’
There was a rustling sound, like the brushing of a soft hand over silk. Shev thought she saw a flicker of movement within the mirror to her left.
The Silver Shard, said the voice of the Realms-Walker. By the way the Golden Lord’s head twitched and the mercenaries jumped in shock, Shev was sure they all had heard it too this time. He sounded cautious, perhaps even afraid. How do you know of that name?
‘My reasons are my own,’ the Golden Lord continued. ‘I know you travelled to the Lost City of Xoantica, Occlesius. I know that you alone returned, from an expedition of five hundred souls. Tell me where it lies.’
I know not, said the voice. I cannot tell you, for the memories are lost to me. Only a shadow remains, the echo of a nightmare I cannot recall.
‘Try,’ said the masked man. ‘There are worse fates than death, Realms-Walker, and I will subject you to them all if you do not tell me what I wish to know.’
All I know is that death surrounds this Silver Shard. Abandon your quest, masked one.
‘I tire of this,’ said the Golden Lord. He hurled the orb to the floor, and it skittered across the stones. Then he raised his staff, which crackled and spat arcs of lightning.
What are you doing? cried the voice of Occlesius.
‘If you do not tell me how to find Xoantica, I will shatter this crystal. What will happen to your spirit, I wonder, when I break the cage that holds it? Perhaps you will travel to the underworld, and the Great Necromancer will finally get his due. Let us find out.’
He aimed the tip of the staff at the crystal, and unleashed a stream of crackling energy. Green smoke began to rise from the sparking orb.
No! You cannot do this.
‘Of course I can,’ said the Golden Lord, continuing to pour lightning into the relic. There was a high-pitched shriek that echoed around the chamber, a disembodied sound of pure agony.
If you destroy me, I cannot give you the answers you seek!
‘Then I will find them another way. I am a patient man, Realms-
Walker. I have nothing but time. You, on the other hand, are swiftly running out.’
The screams continued. Shev twisted free of Howle’s grip.
‘Stop,’ she said, moving to the Golden Lord and reaching out a hand to grab his arm. He pushed her away indifferently. The lightning was blinding now. It rippled across the roof of the chamber, and a cascade of dust poured down from the shuddering roof of the tomb.
I will tell you nothing! came the voice, sounding pained and thin.
‘You will tell me everything,’ snarled the masked man. He touched the tip of his staff to the crystal. There was another burst of electricity, and Shev heard a crack, like splintering stone.
Far to the north! Please, I am not ready for death. There is so much yet to learn. Travel to the farthest reaches of the Taloncoast, where the mountains drift far above the earth.
‘The Fatescar Mountains,’ the Golden Lord said. ‘I know of this place. Continue.’
Hidden in the highest peaks is a city named Xoantica. It is shielded from mortal eyes by illusion and magic. That is all I can remember. Only death lies within that place, I promise you that. If you enter, you will not leave.
The Golden Lord’s spell ended abruptly. The floor was charred and smoking, and the crystal orb glowed bright, like a hot ember.
‘Allow me to worry about that,’ he said. He bent and picked up the blazing crystal in one gauntleted hand. ‘You merely have to worry about guiding me there.’
I am speaking to you alone now, aelf, came the Realms-Walker’s voice, low and urgent and pained. This man will lead you to your death. You must escape, as soon as you can, and take me with you. This man cannot be allowed to find Xoantica. Please.
‘Madame Arclis,’ said the Golden Lord, turning to her. ‘I want to thank you for taking me this far. Without your assistance I may never have found this tomb. And yet, I am now faced with a dilemma. You are in the unfortunate position of knowing too much about my intended destination. I wonder, can I trust you to keep my secrets? I am not a trusting man by nature.’
Someone stepped in close and grabbed her by the arm. She felt the edge of a blade in the small of her back. She could tell by the rush of stale breath that it was Howle. Shev’s eyes darted to the stairs. Two sellswords, Kurdh and a lean spearwoman, stood guard there.
The Golden Lord sighed, and held up a hand.
‘Please, do not be foolish,’ he said. ‘Even without the ministrations of Mister Howle, you would not make it more than twenty paces. Honestly, I am not some mindless savage. I do genuinely appreciate your skills and your knowledge of the Taloncoast. You are a uniquely gifted woman, Shevanya.’
‘You lied to me,’ she said. ‘All this time, all the nonsense you spouted, and you’re nothing but a petty thief after some magical trinket.’
‘You knew I was no historian, no scholar. I never even played the part with any relish. I happen to be very skilled at deception, but the truth is that with you it was never called for. Don’t lie to yourself, Shevanya. You are not in this trade for anything but your own sense of adventure. Tell me, how many great discoveries have you presented to the Colleges of Azyr? How many of your expeditions have been authorised and funded by the proper authorities? The truth is that you are a tomb robber, and an exceptionally gifted one. Embrace that. I could use your skills.’
Shev said nothing. His words were close – so close – to those her father had spoken the last time they had argued. Before he had died and left her alone in that silent house, alone with her memories and her regret.
The masked man sighed, and waved Howle back with an impatient gesture. The old killer loosened his grip, but she could feel him poised, waiting for an excuse to strike.
‘I am sorry I led you here under false pretences. I would rather keep you at my side than have to resort to a more… unpleasant option. I believe that we can achieve great things together.’
It might have been the unsubtle threat that finally made up her mind. Perhaps it was the way that the Golden Lord’s men slowly moved to block the exits. Either way, she decided it was time for her to dissolve this partnership. She had one chance, maybe, to take them by surprise. Her hand went to her pocket, and closed around a flat disc of cold metal. A trinket of duardin manufacture that she had reserved especially for moments of great need such as this.
‘Very well,’ she said, stepping forward with one hand outstretched, the other clenched in a fist at her side. ‘Let’s find this Silver Shard of yours. Together.’
The Golden Lord reached out his hand to shake hers.
She hurled the metal disc to the floor, raising an arm to shield her eyes.
The chamber exploded with light and noise, a thunderous crack of silver-blue lightning that blasted them all from their feet and left a vicious ringing in their ears. The three mirrors shattered as one, sending shards of glass whipping across the chamber. Howle released his grip on her arm, and Shev snapped an elbow back into his nose, feeling a satisfying crunch as it struck home. She was on her feet in a moment. Around her, the Golden Lord’s sellswords rolled and cursed in a daze. The Golden Lord was on his knees, hands covering his face. His mask lay scarred and smoking on the floor. He glanced towards her, and beneath the web of his fingers she saw something writhe and blink. Not human eyes. Not eyes at all, in fact.
If there were any lingering doubts about abandoning this expedition, they evaporated in an instant.
He turned away, grabbing for his mask. The crystal spilled from his grasp and skittered across the floor towards her, and she bent and scooped it up.
Miss… Arclis, is it? came the voice in her head again. May I suggest a swift egress?
Shev spun on her heel towards the entrance to the tomb. There was Kurdh, staggering to his feet, sword in hand. She bounded over to him, dodging around his clumsy attempt to grab her and sank her knee into his groin. He folded with a groan, and she pushed him aside, feeling only the slightest hint of guilt. Compared to the rest of them, Kurdh really wasn’t such a bad sort. And then she was free, bursting up the stairs into the gloom of the cathedral.
Chapter Six
As she emerged from the tomb and started forwards, two sellswords came around the corner to bar her path, weapons raised, staring in confusion. The sound of clattering footsteps echoed up from below. She spun on her heels and ran in the other direction, darting off into the darkness, her former companions close behind. She pounded through a door at the far side of the hall, entering a corridor lined with shattered marble busts. After several yards, the corridor opened out into a vast hall, filled with looming statues and row upon row of stacked tomes, stretching up into the gloom of the arched ceiling. As Shev darted between the closest opening there was a deafening blast, and a stack of yellowed, curling scrolls to her left exploded in a cloud of choking dust. She could hear muttered curses behind her, echoing across the open chamber.
‘No guns, fool! You’ll bring the whole cursed place down on us,’ someone barked. Howle, perhaps.
Well, that was something, Shev thought.
Her relief lasted a scant few moments. Crossbow bolts slammed into the bookcases and display cases around her as she wheeled around a tight corner. Loud, but nowhere near as deafening as the gunshot. Glass shattered and another cloud of dust erupted into the air. Someone had themselves a repeater bow.
Left! The path to your left, said the voice of Occlesius.
More and more voices echoed around the great hall now, as Howle’s sellswords filtered into the maze of bookshelves, hoping to cut off her escape. She had to get out of here before they surrounded her. As she pelted down another long corridor, more bolts skipped and deflected off the stone floor. Something whipped past her cheek, close enough to singe her hair. Two figures stepped out ahead of her at the end of the channel – a burly woman armed with a wicked silversteel mace, and a sallow man wielding a hooked dagger. Shev kept running, and they rushed
to meet her.
At the last moment, Shev shifted her momentum, leapt out to the right and caught a foothold on the nearest shelf. As the woman swung her mace diagonally across, missing her by several blessed inches, Shev planted her other boot on the sellsword’s face, feeling a satisfying crunch as her heel squashed the woman’s nose flat. She kicked off, launching herself high over the remaining mercenary’s trailing dagger, landing cat-like high up on the far bookcase, scrambling and hauling herself up as more bolts thudded around her.
She was just hauling herself over the lip of the case when something slammed into her shoulder, pitching her forward. Agony rippled down her left arm, and she lost her grip and tumbled over the far side of the rack, grabbing futilely at anything within reach as she went. Her fingers closed around a cluster of books, but the paper tore at her touch, and she only succeeded in pulling them down with her. She struck the stone floor with enough force to blast the breath from her body, and her jaw bounced hard, sending her head spinning. Spitting blood, she hauled herself to her knees. Despite the chaos and shouting around her, she spared a moment to collate her various agonies. Jaw possibly broken. Ankle little more than a ball of pain. At least two ribs fractured, and a headache like she’d spent the last fortnight swigging duardin fyrewhiskey. Oh, and the crossbow bolt buried in her shoulder. She reached back and tugged out the barb, which took a chunk of flesh with it. The pain almost dropped her to her knees again. What a joyous day this was turning out to be.
‘Where now?’ she said, throwing the bloody shard away.
The statue, said the voice in her head. Climb the statue at the end of the hall. There is a window there at the very top, which should take you safely outside.
‘Should?’ she said.
Well, it’s been quite some time, but as far as I can remember the fall should not be lethal.
She sighed and glanced around, blurrily. There was thick stone at her back, the outer wall of the reliquary. To her left and right, more bookcases, and ahead a statue of a winged creature in flight, half-draconic, half-leonine. Above this marble sculpture was a small arc of violet stained glass, bathing the nearby walls and floor in a haze of purple. More voices reverberated around her. It was hard to pick them out above the ringing in her ears, but it sounded like they were getting closer with every moment. Shev rushed forward, staggered on her injured ankle but hobbled on, making for the statue.
