Callis & Toll: The Silver Shard

by Nick Horth

  ‘Tell me again,’ said Toll. ‘All of it. Everything you can remember about him, anything he said to you, any detail that you can recall.’

  Shev sighed, and raised her eyes to the ceiling of her cell.

  ‘I’ve told you over and over,’ she said. ‘What more can I say?’

  The witch hunter got up from his chair facing her cell, and paced the room, spinning his wide-brimmed hat in his hands. She watched him, eyes heavy with fatigue. His questioning had not been exactly what she expected. When he had first appeared, emerging from the darkness bearing a single candle, one hand on his sword hilt, she had feared the worst.

  She had heard the stories. Everyone had. When agents of the Order of Azyr roamed the streets, people vanished. As a child growing up in Excelsis, she remembered one occasion when she had passed the Halls of Questioning with her father and they had heard the faint sound of screams on the wind. His face had gone very pale, and he had ushered her away, answering her intrigued questions with only stern silence.

  But there had been no sharp instruments, no hot pokers or thumbscrews.

  ‘Torture is a blunt weapon,’ Toll had said, interpreting her surprise. ‘It has its uses. But I find it unreliable. Cut a man enough and he’ll tell you everything you want to hear, and nothing you can trust. Besides, I take no pleasure in pain for the sake of pain, unlike many of my colleagues. I prefer to utilise leverage.’

  ‘Leverage?’

  ‘You are alone, hundreds of miles from any port of safe haven. For the moment, I deem you to be useful. You know of Vermyre’s activities, you know more than most regarding his state of mind, his physical condition. That information is of value to me. It would benefit you to continue to prove useful, Miss Arclis.’

  And so she had talked until her throat was sore, at great length, recalling every conversation, every thought she had ever had concerning the man she had known as the Golden Lord, this Ortam Vermyre. Toll listened intently, interrupting her every now and then with urgent questions, sometimes entirely unexpected queries that threw her off guard. Had she ever seen him consume food or water? Did he walk with a limp? When did she meet with him, at what times and in which locations?

  This had continued for hours, and she was thoroughly exhausted. She had not slept more than an hour or two in the last few days. The fug of tiredness was causing her to repeat herself, or confuse dates and times.

  Now she could hear the tramp of feet on the decks above, and the distant echo of bellowed orders. It was sometime near dawn, and the ship was stirring. They had been going all night. Toll stopped his pacing and placed his hat back on his head. If he was as shattered as she was, he didn’t show it. He nodded to her.

  ‘You’re of no use to me half-asleep,’ he said. ‘Rest. We will continue this later.’

  With that, the man headed for the stairs, leaving her alone in the gloom once more. She reached for the shadeglass gem, concealed in a hidden pocket built in the sole of her right boot. They’d searched her thoroughly, but not well enough to discover all of her tricks.

  The witch hunter is persistent, Occlesius mused. And he wishes this Vermyre dead. Fiercely.

  ‘I’ve no argument with that,’ muttered Shev.

  Hmm. I must say, I’ll be rather annoyed if I’ve finally escaped from my tedious imprisonment in Quatzhymos only to spend the rest of my days in some dank dungeon.

  ‘So what do you think?’ asked Callis, feeling almost human again after a night’s sleep, a wash and a change of clothing. He leaned on the rail of the ship alongside Toll, watching as the Thrice Lucky drifted out of the bay and into open water. He would not miss this godsforsaken place, that was certain.

  ‘About the girl’s story?’ said the witch hunter. ‘She doesn’t strike me as a cutthroat. Nor a thief, in all honesty. I don’t think she was misleading about Vermyre, at least. But she’s hiding something. I’ve been doing this long enough to recognise the signs. There’s more to her than meets the eye.’

  Callis nodded. ‘I was thinking much the same.’

  There was an awkward silence, broken only by the roar of waves crashing against the hull. Callis glanced at Toll out of the corner of his eye. The witch hunter stared expressionlessly towards the departing coast. He looked old. Tired.

  ‘Speak, if you have something to say,’ Toll said at last. ‘But for Sigmar’s sake stop staring at me like that.’

  Callis shook his head.

  ‘You almost got yourself killed back there,’ he said.

  ‘I almost get myself killed every other day,’ Toll replied. ‘It is an unfortunate but necessary part of my profession.’

  ‘Don’t do that. Don’t brush this off. I’ve never seen you charge into battle like that, without any regard for your life. You’ve made this personal.’

  Toll turned sharply and met his gaze.

  ‘Of course it’s personal,’ he growled. ‘This is not some simple criminal we’re chasing, one of thousands I’ve put down over the years. This man, I knew him. I called him friend. For years, Callis. For decades, and I never saw it. Not once. He made a fool of me, and he killed the best, most loyal duardin I ever knew. And you wonder why I want to see him dead, at any cost?’

  ‘At the cost of your own life?’

  ‘Of course. Vermyre cannot be allowed to live, Callis. He almost brought a city of the God-King to its knees. Can you even comprehend what would have happened, had his plans reached fruition? The lives that would have been lost? The slaughter, the horror?’

  Toll suddenly reached out and grasped Callis by the shoulder, his fingers digging in painfully. He leaned in, his teeth gritted and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Don’t get in my way again, Armand. If I have to give my life to see that man dead, it’s a price I will pay gladly. If you cannot understand that, then you have no place at my side.’

  Callis shrugged him off.

  ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’ came a cheerful voice. Captain Zenthe came over, trailed by her first mate, Oscus. The dark-skinned aelf commanded the Thrice Lucky when Zenthe was ashore, which Callis took to be a mark of how firmly she trusted him.

  ‘Nothing that concerns you,’ said Toll.

  ‘On my ship, everything concerns me, Hanniver,’ the aelf replied. ‘But suit yourself. There’s a strong wind up, and the seas are calm. We’ll make good speed.’

  ‘Not quickly enough,’ muttered the witch hunter. ‘Vermyre’s already on the move. Every second we delay gives him the chance to reach the Fatescars before us.’

  ‘He won’t arrive before us. We’re making for Bilgeport,’ said Captain Zenthe. ‘The corsair city. It’s a pit of scum, but the sky-traders do good business there. We can hire an airship, book passage to the mountains.’

  ‘It means dealing with the Kharadron,’ said Oscus. ‘They’ll bleed us for this. For certain, if they know there’s a prize waiting at the end of the journey.’

  Zenthe waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘I’ve negotiated with the sky runts before. They bluster and bellow, but they’re a practical enough bunch where money is concerned. I’ll get us passage.’

  Callis had never had any dealings with the duardin sky-sailors, but he knew their reputation. Avaricious, insular, easy riled and not to be crossed. Few knew the hidden places of the realms better, it was said, though they did not share their knowledge or expertise without exacting a hefty fee in return. It hardly surprised him that they frequented the corsair city of Bilgeport.

  ‘The High Captains of Bilgeport have haunted the trade-lanes for a dozen years,’ Toll said. ‘I trust them less than I’d trust a crystal-viper. They’re bold these days. They know our armies are overstretched, and they bleed our trade fleets dry and sell us back our own goods at twice the price, blaming their attacks on barbarians or sea monsters.’

  Zenthe grinned.

  ‘My type of vermin. Don’t wor
ry yourself, witch hunter. The moment they see the shadow of the Thrice Lucky drift into port they’ll be grovelling at my feet.’

  ‘They’re killers and thieves.’

  ‘Yes they are. And if you want to track your man down, you’ll have to learn to bear it. At least for now. This is the wilds, Hanniver. We’re far away from the Coast of Tusks and from your precious city. You’re only one man, and your reputation means less than nothing out here.’

  The witch hunter assented with a nod, but Callis was fairly sure that was not his last word on the subject.

  ‘It’s a long journey to Bilgeport,’ said Zenthe, fetching a black leather flask from her belt and ripping free the stopper with her teeth. She took a long draught and offered it to Callis, who shook his head.

  ‘Suit yourself. Anyway, we’ll soon be heading into dangerous waters. You keep your eyes open and act as we say, and you might just make it through alive.’

  Callis felt his stomach sink. During the voyage from Excelsis, they had found themselves within an inch of a bloody death on several occasions. Pods of leathery behemoths that hurtled through the waves at frightening speed, and unleashed tidal waves large enough to drown an entire town every time they breached the surface. Gales of razor-sharp teeth that had whipped and shredded at the hull as they huddled below decks. Translucent, glowing pseudopods that wrapped around the hull in the depths of night, searching for flesh to drain dry. With these memories fresh in his mind, he wondered exactly what constituted dangerous waters to the aelf captain.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shev spent two days swaying between sheer boredom and extreme discomfort. The hardwood planks of her cell made her bones ache terribly, and when she tried to snatch a few hours of precious sleep, the rolling and yawing of the ship sent her tumbling painfully back and forth. Thankfully, Occlesius seemed just as sick of the situation as she did, and rarely emerged to pester her with his endless questions. He seemed rather sullen, as if he resented her short temper and rudeness. She could not care less for that, as long as he stayed out of her head. Every now and then, aelven corsairs wandered through the hold on some errand or another, but despite her best efforts they paid her no attention beyond fetching her stale, maggot-ridden bread, oversalted meat and water every morning.

  On the third day she was woken from a fitful slumber by a rapping at her cell. She blinked, bleary-eyed, and saw Captain Zenthe leaning against the bars, dragging the hilt of her sword along the wood.

  ‘Well rested?’ asked the corsair.

  ‘Obviously not,’ muttered Shev, rubbing at her sore back. ‘So you finally remembered about me then.’

  ‘How could I forget,’ said Zenthe, with a grin. ‘It’s not every day you come across an aelf treasure-seeker who consorts with the most wanted heretic on the Taloncoast.’

  ‘Historian,’ said Shev. ‘Not a treasure hunter.’

  Zenthe shrugged. ‘As you like. Point is, you’ve got plenty of secrets tucked in that brain of yours. Plenty of knowledge that might benefit an intrepid ship’s captain such as yours truly. Get up.’

  Interesting, said Occlesius. I wonder if our witch hunter friend is aware of this little chat.

  Zenthe rapped her knuckles on the hardwood cell door, which swung open. Cautiously, Shev clambered to her feet.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ asked the captain. ‘Come with me.’

  Zenthe’s cabin looked more like the shop of an obsessive antiquarian than a ship captain’s home. She could barely move for trinkets, gew-gaws, mementos and trophies. Yellow, curling maps were piled high on a bleached wooden desk, scattered with compasses, quills and all manner of nautical implements, the function of which escaped Shev. Dangling from the ceiling, gently swaying, was a globe of turquoise glass, home to a cephalopodic form that peered at her through one ink-black orb with an air of intense irritation. A row of blades of all different shapes and sizes covered the rear wall, from fine Excelsian steel sabres to strange, vicious-looking duelling hooks attached to spiked gauntlets. There was a strong smell of oil and rich wood, with a hint of spices.

  A truly fascinating collection, mused Occlesius. Clearly this aelf has done a fair bit of travelling herself. Pray ask her what that squid creature up there is, I’ve never seen one of those before.

  ‘No,’ hissed Shev under her breath.

  ‘Sit,’ said Zenthe, gesturing to a stool piled high with detritus. Shev brushed it aside as carefully as she could manage. Something darted out from under the pile of leather-bound tomes and scattered trinkets. A golden scarab: no living creature, but a ticking, whirring automaton. It settled on Zenthe’s desk, until the aelf captain brushed it away with an irritated swipe and put her boots up on the hardwood surface. She stared at Shev with narrowed eyes, rapping one finger on the side of the desk. There was a rather long silence.

  ‘So,’ said Zenthe, finally. ‘How does someone like you end up in league with a traitor like Vermyre?’

  ‘I told you before, I had no idea who he was.’

  ‘You must have heard of the battle of Excelsis. Towers in the sky, daemons on the streets. The purges. The burnings. It’s not only Hanniver Toll who hunts the man. I’ve never seen so many bounty-seekers and findsmen on the prowl. His face is on the wall of every outpost from here to Hammerhal.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like that anymore,’ muttered Shev, suppressing a shudder as she recalled the things that writhed within the Golden Lord’s face.

  Zenthe frowned at the remark, but didn’t press further.

  ‘I had no idea who he was,’ Shev continued. ‘He was just someone with resources. Someone who seemed to share the same interests as me. He was clever. Careful. He knew his work, and he knew when to let me take the lead.’

  There was a knock on the door, and an aelf entered. He hobbled across to Zenthe’s desk, bearing two plates. His left leg tap-tapped on the floor as he walked. It was made of dully gleaming steel, thin with sharp, splayed claws. The smell of smoke-cured fish caught Shev’s nostrils and her stomach groaned with longing.

  Zenthe nodded at the cook and pushed a plate across to her guest.

  ‘Eat,’ she said.

  She needed no urging, and fell upon the meal like a starving wolf at a carcass.

  ‘How did you get into all this?’ asked the captain. ‘Raiding ruins is not exactly common work.’

  ‘My father raised me out here,’ said Shev through a mouthful of food. ‘In the wilds, on endless journeys, excavations. He was Azyr-born. Fascinated by what lay beyond the gates of the celestial city, out in the realms. He was searching for answers as to what the world was like before the fall. How people lived. How they died. He never stopped travelling, and I went with him. Eventually age caught up with him, and he couldn’t do it anymore.’

  ‘He aged? So he was not an aelf, then? Not your real father?’

  ‘As real as any,’ snapped Shev. ‘He never abandoned me on some street corner like my own flesh and blood did. He raised me, taught me.’

  Zenthe held up her hands.

  ‘Aye, I understand. The man was a saint. Good for him. So you’ve travelled far, then? You’ve visited many ruins and tombs that happen to be stuffed with priceless valuables ripe for the taking?’

  ‘I told you, I’m no grave-robber.’

  The captain waved that off, as if it were of no consequence at all.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much a woman can make from the black market sale of old world relics?’ she said. ‘There are so many fat, rich fools from Azyr looking to spend their coin on useless trinkets from one dead kingdom or another. I could use your knowledge, girl. This is the way fortunes are made.’

  Shev wasn’t about to say that coin didn’t mean a thing to her, but the idea of helping rich Azyrites loot all the priceless artefacts they desired and haul them off back to their palatial residences and private collections was not exactly appealing.

 
‘I keep telling you,’ she said. ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ sighed Zenthe. ‘I was hoping that if we were to work together I might be able to persuade Toll not to put a bullet in your head once he’s done with you, but it seems it isn’t to be.’

  ‘He’s a witch hunter. He speaks with the authority of Sigmar himself. How could you stop him, even if you wanted to?’

  The captain’s eyes narrowed, and she snarled, revealing sharp white teeth.

  ‘The only word that matters on the Thrice Lucky is my own. Toll is a guest on my ship, only for as long as I allow it. He’s already stretching my patience thin by dragging me on this fool’s endeavour. You know, there will already be some upstart fool back in Excelsis laying their plans for usurping my territory. Do you know how many souls I’ll have to send back to the deep when I return?’

  ‘Why come out here at all?’

  ‘Because being at the top of the food chain becomes dull after a while.’

  Zenthe speared a chunk of smoked fish with her knife and devoured it, never taking her eyes from Shev. She lowered the knife slowly, until it pointed at Shev’s coat pocket.

  ‘So,’ the captain said. ‘Are you going to tell me about that shiny trinket you’ve been cradling?’

  Shev froze.

  Careful, said Occlesius. I warned you that this one was dangerous.

  ‘This,’ she said, reflexively grasping one hand to the shadeglass orb. ‘It’s just an heirloom. From my mother’s family. I keep it close.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Zenthe. ‘Let me see it, just to be sure.’

  She stretched one hand out, twirling her knife in the other.

  Hesitantly, Shev fished the orb from her pocket and handed it to the aelf. Zenthe closed one eye and held the crystal up to the light. She rolled it in her hand, and tapped it with her blade. Then she leaned back, tossing it up into the air deftly, eyeing Shev. Catching it, she wrapped the stone in her palm, slammed her hand on the desk and raised it again, fingers splayed, to show that the orb had disappeared.