by Nick Horth
‘You thrice-cursed son of a pox-ridden–’ howled Azrekh.
‘Please, let us maintain a professional demeanour,’ snapped Bengtsson, cutting the duardin captain off. ‘I can hardly be blamed for your failure to review our contract in even the most cursory fashion.’
‘The prisoners you took from the Thrice Lucky,’ growled Toll. ‘Where are they?’
Azrekh stared back at the witch hunter. ‘Dead, mostly. The rest are chained up in the dungeons, below the salt-warrens. So what happens now, witch hunter?’
Toll stared down upon the High Captains for a long moment. Nothing could be heard but the actinic hum of the sky-ship’s great spherical engine.
‘All of you stand accused of heresy and sedition, of piracy and the pillaging of supply routes to the God-King’s free cities. In doing so you endangered the lives of innocent citizens and loyal soldiers of Azyr alike. There is only one punishment fitting for your crimes.’
Toll turned to Bengtsson, eyes as hard and pitiless as the deep ocean.
‘Bring it down,’ he said.
Zenthe began to laugh as the duardin gunners hauled the deck guns round to target the far wall of the arena, where torrents of water still poured through the giant sluices, filling the stone bowl beneath them. Callis could see corpses bobbing in that foaming pool, both aelf and beast.
Then the guns opened up.
The sound was deafening. Callis covered his ears as the enormous, six-barrelled volley gun mounted on the fore of the vessel stitched a line of thudding explosions across the sluice-gates. Swivel guns below the rim of the gunwale added their formidable firepower to the barrage, aiming at the wooden stands, which came apart as easily as wet parchment as high-explosive shells detonated and shredded the huge supports resting beneath the seats. Once again the screams of the audience rang out, but now they were filled not with bloodlust but with terror. Dozens of bodies tumbled out into empty space as the stands began to come apart under the barrage, striking the stone floor below with bone-cracking force. The High Captains’ box was bracketed by blossoming gouts of flame as more rounds slammed home. The flags of the pirate leaders swirled and rocked in the firestorm, catching alight and raining down into the churning waters of the arena.
Kaskin turned to run, but his immense body only made it a few paces before a cannon round blasted apart the archway beneath him. The High Captain waved his hand desperately, almost comically, before the ground beneath his feet betrayed him, and with an ear-splitting scream he fell away into a cloud of smoke and rising dust. Callis saw Azrekh, not running but firing a pistol and screaming in defiance, yellowed teeth bared like those of a mad beast. There was a bursting cloud of blood and the High Captain was hurled back, head over heels, his chest a ragged ruin.
Callis watched the devastation, feeling slightly sick. This was not a pinpoint, surgical cannonade, but a barrage designed to spread fear and destruction as far as possible. He gripped Toll’s arm, meaning to ask the witch hunter to stop the carnage, but Toll simply met his gaze and gave a slow shake of his head. Zenthe’s laughter echoed over the symphony of rattling volley-gun fire and the rising crescendo of detonating cannon round. The stands were now a crumbling inferno. With an awful groan, the far wall of the arena gave way, and a great tidal wave of unleashed water poured free, smashing open the gate at the opposite side of the circle, surging out into the city streets. An ogor, riddled by bullets, lay slumped over the great gate-wheel.
The Indefatigable began to rise away from the carnage, soaring over the city. The rising flood spread out amongst the narrow streets with the vengeful rage of a beast unleashed from a cage, smashing down makeshift hovels and clay-walled buildings, devouring all in its path. When the entire lower level of Bilgeport was flooded with filthy mud-brown water, the guns finally ceased firing.
According to Bengtsson’s calculations it would take two to three days to reach the Fatescar Mountains, if the weather held to its current maudlin haze.
‘Always avoid those skies if we can help it,’ said the admiral, as he spread out a chart across his desk, indicating a strangely geometric formation of mountains marked to the far north-east of the Taloncoast. ‘The winds will change upon you in a moment, and we’ve had more than one sky-ship disappear out here, without a trace.’
‘We know the rumours,’ said Zenthe. The corsair was leaning against the far wall, eyeing the cluttered contents of the admiral’s chamber with interest.
‘Indeed,’ muttered the duardin irritably. ‘No doubt you’ve extensive experience of sailing these sky-lanes. Perhaps I should hand my commission and my share of this journey’s galkhron over to you?’
Zenthe held up her hands in a gesture of appeasement.
‘Take pity upon a captain without a ship or crew of her own,’ she said.
‘As I recall, you do have a crew,’ Callis pointed out. ‘Still locked up in the Bilgeport dungeons.’
‘And before we departed I sent Oscus to see to their release,’ said Zenthe, shrugging. ‘By the time we return, I expect they’ll have looted everything of value in that cesspit of a city. For now, I’m nothing more than your humble passenger.’
Seemingly satisfied with Zenthe’s answer, Bengtsson turned to Toll. ‘Do you even know what you’re looking for? If there truly is some lost city out there, no one’s seen it and lived to tell the tale. We might be chasing a ghost.’
‘Vermyre knows where it is,’ said Toll. ‘If he’s willing to risk everything he has to get there, you can be sure that Xoantica is real. And every moment we waste, he draws closer to his prize. This Silver Shard, whatever it is, cannot be allowed to fall into his hands.’
Bengtsson shrugged. ‘As long as you pay what was promised, I’ll sail you to the jaws of Ignax herself.’
‘And what exactly did you promise the good admiral here?’ asked Zenthe, studying Toll through narrowed eyes.
‘You’ll both get what is due,’ snapped Toll, with an uncharacteristic outburst of irritation. Callis studied the witch hunter’s drawn, pale face. ‘Until then, you both work for me. Get me to the Fatescars, admiral.’
With that Toll left, leaving Zenthe and Bengtsson to an uneasy silence. Callis trailed after the witch hunter as he strode out of the cramped corridor of the Indefatigable and into the glaring light of the midday sun. They were far out over the ocean now, and the wind was whipping past them at a fearsome pace. Far below was the sea, a shimmering carpet of azure, and above, the clouds whirled and spun in an endless, maddening dance. Above, far to the left and right, Callis could see the two other vessels in Bengtsson’s fleet, ranging slightly ahead of the ironclad.
Toll leaned against the gunwale, hand clutching his ribs. They’d stopped a few short hours to heal and resupply their vessels, but it was hardly the long recuperation they needed. None of Toll’s wounds were serious, but they were certainly taking a cumulative cost upon the man. Every step appeared to hurt.
‘You should go below and rest,’ said Callis.
‘Later,’ said Toll. They shared an uncomfortable silence for several minutes, simply staring at the clouds rushing past and shoals of skimmerfish jumping and whirling in the seas below.
‘I thought, when I first met you, that you were nothing like the stories of the witch hunters that I had heard as a boy,’ said Callis. ‘Ruthless, cruel fellows, who would kill anyone they suspected of heresy without question or hesitation. I thought you were different. But then I saw what you did today.’
‘Did it disappoint you?’ asked Toll.
‘You know for certain that everyone we killed today was guilty? That no innocent person got caught up in the carnage, or drowned when we flooded the city streets?’
‘The innocent do not flock to a place like Bilgeport, Armand. These people have existed out here for too long, leeching off the lifeblood of the free cities. Enough is enough. They required an example of what happens when you defy
the will of Azyr.’
‘Firing into crowds is not what I signed up for, Toll.’
‘That same crowd was more than happy to watch you, Zenthe and the others torn to shreds in that arena. That same crowd was filled with killers, pillagers and other scum. Shed no tears for them, Callis.’
‘I don’t. That’s not my point.’
‘Many of my kin would have set this whole port alight. They would have slaughtered every man, woman and child that draws breath within these walls, and they would have done so without qualms. I do not share that ruthlessness, but I am also not a man who suffers sedition and acts of treachery against the rightful rule of order.’
Callis shook his head. ‘There’s right and wrong, Hanniver. Even in this trade.’
‘Tell that to the thousands of loyal Sigmarites that the High Captains robbed and killed over the course of their rule. Enough of this navel-gazing, Armand. We have a task to see through. If you care so much for innocents, think of the thousands dead at Vermyre’s hand. For their sake, at least, I need you focused on the mission ahead.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Despite her current predicament, Shev could not help gasping aloud in wonder as she looked upon the Fatescar Mountains.
The first she saw of them was an immense, polyhedral mountain ridge looming out of the mist, impossibly smooth and angular, floating in mid-air several thousand leagues above rolling forest hills. As far as she could tell, the mountain itself was formed from natural stone. It was worn, weathered and covered in thick vegetation. As they drew nearer, she saw a crystal-clear waterfall spilling over the nearest face of the immense structure, raining down upon the canopy far below.
Gradually, more of the floating rocks began to appear. Some were flat shelves of stone, others had a more rounded, organic shape. In one, she thought she recognised the profile of a human face, thick and overgrown with a beard of evergreen trees. In another, a sun-dial. There, the hilt of a titanic dagger. More geometric shapes, endlessly varied in size and form. Smaller islands of stone orbited those immense mountains, half-shaped and crumpled, as if they were the abandoned projects of a bored deity, left scattered upon his workbench.
‘My gods,’ she whispered. It was so beautiful, yet somehow terrifying at the same time. To know that mortalkind had once wielded such incredible power. The power to create a world, or destroy one.
The crystal ship rocked and yawed beneath them, causing them to stumble a few steps. Vermyre laid a hand on Shev’s shoulder to steady her. She flinched, aware the man was trying to restore the easy camaraderie they had shared when they first began their search for Occlesius. It was a futile effort, now that she knew what lurked beneath that golden mask. Just being near Vermyre made her skin crawl.
‘Incredible, is it not?’ said Vermyre, with a note of awe in his voice. ‘I have heard the tales, of course. I have even seen the sketches of explorers who have ventured here, but to see it in person…’
‘They were building something that they never finished,’ said Shev, indicating the bizarre arrangement of shapes. ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know what they were creating.’
Momentarily forgetting her situation, she found herself lost in thought. Civilisations did not create wonders like this for no reason. Maybe there was a theological component here, a relic of old gods worshipped long before the peoples of this region turned to the worship of Sigmar. Yet the more she looked, the less likely that seemed. There was a lack of uniformity to the shapes that was somehow unnerving.
‘Perhaps we shall discover the truth behind this place very soon. Perhaps a remnant of their ancient empire yet lives, within these very mountains. We will discover the truth together, Shevanya.’
One of the avian creatures approached, and trilled something in a language she could not understand, but still made goosebumps rise on her flesh. Vermyre nodded, and waved a hand to dismiss the beast. She noticed that the beastmen had drawn and nocked arrows upon their bows, and there was a definite sense of unease in the air.
‘Something is trying to draw us away,’ Vermyre muttered. ‘There is an illusion hanging over this place, I can smell it. Something dwells within these mountains, and it does not care for intruders.’
Shev frowned. Now that she looked closer at the wondrous view before her, she realised that there was something strange about this place. There was a stillness to it, a silent tension that seemed quite out of place in the otherwise raucous wilds of the Taloncoast.
‘There’s no birdsong,’ she muttered.
‘What?’ asked Vermyre.
‘There are no sounds of any kind,’ she said. ‘Listen. Surely you’d expect birds to roost up on these mountains, far away from danger. Can you see any signs of life down there?’
They circled the hexagonal mountain slowly, listening to the roar of the waterfall as it arced over the lip of the floating rock and poured away into nothingness. Now that Shev looked closer, the treeline seemed unnaturally orderly, arranged in neat, strict rows like those of a plantation. She peered into the gloomy, overhanging canopy, searching for a hint of movement, but found nothing. Not a creature stirred amidst the mountains.
‘Curious,’ whispered Vermyre.
Shev’s sense of unease only grew as they sailed further into the mountains. It was hard to put her finger on, exactly. She felt like someone who had just awoken, and was trying desperately to sort the illusions of a dream from the hazy, unreal world she had been born into.
They drifted through a swirl of mist that left dew-drops across their skin, and rose over the crest of a wide, flat disc whose scattering of trees were arranged in a strange spiral pattern. Beyond rose the largest island yet. It was shaped in the image of a human face, strangely featureless and monolithic. There were no eyes, nor ears; simply the smooth, mannequin-like shape of the face, blackened and weathered. Across its great, stern brow ran a crown of mountainous peaks, capped with scatterings of foliage. Water trickled down the face of the titan in great gushing falls, pouring from its open mouth, which had been worn away over the centuries so that it gave the impression that the great head had its mouth opened in a scream.
The largest of Vermyre’s beastmen came forward, striding across the crystal ship in that odd, jerking gait. The other tzaangors looked upon it with reverence, and it was not hard to see why. Clearly this was some form of high priest or shaman. It stood a head taller than Shev, its piercing gaze burning from beneath a plated war-mask that ran the length of its beak, and shimmered with a faint luminescence. Two great, curved horns rose back from its brow, bedecked with silver chains and marked with runes that turned Shev’s stomach. Its chest was bare, but below a belt of gold it wore a half-robe of bright orange. Dangling crystal chimes tinkled as it walked. Its staff was silver, capped with a swirling eye of jade, and it carried a ritual dagger at its belt.
As it neared, she smelled a sweet yet sour stench, sweat mixed with sour-smelling unguents. It stared at her and cocked its head slightly, and she felt a shiver run through her body as she looked into its pitiless eyes.
‘We are close,’ it hissed, surprising her by speaking the common tongue in a voice that was strangely human, considering its hideous appearance. ‘This isle, I sense a great enchantment upon it. Something powerful resides within those peaks.’
‘Then that’s where we go, Yha’ri’lk,’ said Vermyre. ‘Let us descend.’
The crystal ship yawed and dipped its nose, and they sailed through the mists towards the titanic head. Great trails of vines drooped from its empty eye sockets, and as they soared over its brow they caught their first glimpse of the forgotten city of Xoantica.
Shev’s breath caught in her throat. She saw spires of white marble hidden between mountain peaks that rose on both sides: a city of pure white arranged in concentric circles around a central tower that stretched high into the skies, its arrow-head tip almost brushing the low-hanging clouds. The body of the
spiral tower was worked in gold, and glimmered in the hazy mid-morning light.
Below, she could see abandoned arterial thoroughfares that stretched throughout the city, lined by solemn statues of robed figures whose features she could not make out from this distance. There was no sign of damage, that she could see, but a tangible sense of doom hung heavily over the place. It felt like nothing more than an enormous graveyard, each white-marble structure a monument to the dead.
‘Many people died here,’ said Vermyre. ‘I can feel it. The place is rife with death.’
He turned to Yha’ri’lk.
‘Take us down,’ he said.
They came to rest on a plateau of smooth ground overlooking the northern edge of the city. The air was still, and without even the sound of the wind rushing past them the silence was even more unnerving. Vermyre’s beastmen clutched their silver spears nervously, their avian heads snapping this way and that as if they smelled predators drawing close. On the ground there were perhaps fifty of the creatures, though she saw more circling overhead on their bizarre, half-organic flying discs. The ones above carried ornate bows, strung with crystal shafts.
Vermyre was studying the shadeglass gem with a look of intense concentration. Shev dreaded to think what priceless information he was garnering from its helpless occupant. Quite apart from getting his hands upon the Silver Shard, the damage Vermyre could reap if he was armed with the sheer amount of knowledge that Occlesius possessed did not bear thinking about.
‘We move,’ he said at last, and they began to make their way down the bluff towards the empty city.
A great arch loomed ahead, its wrought-iron gate ajar. The gatehouse was ornamented with two sweeping statues which leaned out from the central columns: smooth, faceless figures wielding staves of gold, holding their weapons crosswise over the entrance to Xoantica. The gateway was wide enough to admit dozens of carts, and the road was paved with flat, square stones of pure white, marvellously shaped. Somehow, the surface was as smooth as if it had been laid yesterday, with none of the wear and tear one might expect from a busy thoroughfare. Shev took in the gatehouse, which was supported by a thick white marble wall and a row of granite columns threaded with trails of gold. There was almost no depth to the carvings, no sign of ostentation beyond the obviously expensive materials. It was a grandiose piece of architecture, but it felt strangely sterile, almost funereal.
