Callis & Toll: The Silver Shard

by Nick Horth

  ‘We can’t stop, Armand,’ came Toll’s voice, and Callis felt a reassuring grip on his shoulder. ‘We’re too deep. Too far in. There’s an enchantment over this place, a powerful spell that’s warping time and space. All we can do is continue, and try to find the source of it.’

  ‘I can’t… concentrate,’ hissed Callis. ‘My head is spinning. Every time I open my eyes, the world shifts.’

  ‘This is old magic,’ said Zenthe, and her voice echoed as if from far away. ‘Older than any of us here. I’ve never felt anything like it.’

  ‘We continue,’ repeated Toll, hefting Callis to his feet. ‘We are close, I can feel it.’

  And so they walked on. Buildings rose up on all sides, strangely organic shapes carved from pure-white marble, great columned halls and soaring towers that twisted off into the maddening sky. He saw the dark thresholds of their doorways, and it was easy to imagine that alien eyes were peering out from within. But he sensed that there was no life here. Not even the tiniest insect stirred, and the wind itself was non-existent, as if the weather itself dared not tread within these borders.

  He did not know how long they walked in silence. At last, they turned a corner and emerged onto an enormous central thoroughfare that stretched on and on towards a domed hall of immense proportions, capped by a spiralling tower of white gold. The road curved away ahead of them, leaving the earth and reaching towards the kaleidoscopic sky, where a dozen identical roads – complete with their own set of identical, haggard travellers – wound towards that same apex.

  Across the empty air, far away in the distance, they could hear the sound of clashing blades, and shrill, inhuman screams.

  ‘Vermyre,’ spat Toll, drawing his blade. ‘He is here. We must hurry.’

  Shev watched as the lizards came at Vermyre in their scores. Yet none could lay a hand upon him. He conjured streams of living flame which enveloped the saurian beasts, melting them to ashes in a matter of moments. He turned the ground to liquid silver, and drowned them in molten metal. Others, he simply struck with his staff, sending shattered, broken bodies flying in all directions.

  He was laughing as he slew, an unhinged sound. Shev stayed close, because he was the only thing between her and these guardians, whatever they might be, but every inch of her body crawled with horror as she watched Vermyre unleash his monstrous rage. She looked for an escape route, but saw nowhere to run. The tzaangors eagerly indulged their own passion for slaughter alongside their master. The reptilian creatures were tough and strong, but Yha’ri’lk’s warriors were many, and they were fighting with an exultant glee that the defenders of this strange city could not match. Their arrows brought down charging foes by the score, and as the saurians died they erupted into searing motes of star-light, evaporating into the aether. Shev felt a great sadness with each fresh kill, one that she could not entirely put her finger on. Despite their savagery, there was a nobility to these creatures, an honest and natural ferocity quite unlike the vicious ­sadism of her current allies.

  ‘Enough,’ said Vermyre, through another burst of wet laughter. ‘Let this distraction cease. ‘Yha’ri’lk, follow me. The rest of your warriors will hold these steps, and let not a single enemy through.’

  The tzaangor shaman screeched a command, and his hundred or so warriors formed up around the entrance of the domed hall. Several of the beasts bent in prayer, and began to chant in a harsh, hideous tongue. The air turned hot and oppressive, but before Shev could witness the results of their sorcery, Vermyre grabbed her and dragged her through the enormous archway and into the domed structure. The sounds of battle abruptly ceased as soon as they crossed the threshold. Looking around, she saw a cavernous entrance hall soar away into darkness far above, and a single, broad stairway spiralling towards that black nothingness. Like everything else in Xoantica, the building was an astonishing piece of architecture, carved flawlessly from the same silver-lined marble, but it was almost entirely free of ornamentation. The walls were edged in gold and gently curved towards the summit of the tower, but there were no epic scenes of battle, no monuments to the glory of those who had once ruled here.

  ‘Come now,’ said Vermyre, ushering her towards that winding stair. Yha’ri’lk and a retinue of warriors followed, leaving the majority behind to defend the stairway.

  They began to climb.

  The entrance to the great, domed hall was the site of furious battle. Bipedal, reptilian creatures swarmed up the central steps towards a barricade manned by tzaangors, with long horns and armour that gleamed bright silver in the hazy light.

  ‘More tzaangors,’ hissed Callis. ‘Looks like Vermyre has not cut all ties with his former allies.’

  ‘We’re walking into quite the melee here,’ said Zenthe. ‘These other creatures, how do we know they’re not going to turn on us the second they see us?’

  ‘We don’t,’ replied Toll. ‘But we’re going up there, nonetheless. You and the admiral are welcome to wait for us here, but if Vermyre sets his hands upon the Silver Shard, there’s no telling what nightmares he’ll unleash. If we have to kill our way through these things, so be it.’

  Together, they ran on. As they neared, they saw that the lizard-creatures were not pouring from hidden boltholes or underground lairs. Instead they seemed to materialise out of the very air, summoned into being and given violent purpose by some unknown force. They wielded ancient-looking weapons crafted from gold and obsidian, crude in construction but somehow imposing also, as if they were an echo from an older and more savage age. Their scales were flecked with crimson war-paint, and jewels and necklaces hung from their scaly flesh.

  As Callis and the others approached, a score of the beasts detached from the main host and began to encircle them, eyes glassy and unknowable, weapons raised but not yet in a threatening manner. Ahead, the two stairs wound their way around the side of a central bannister of gold, leading up to the gigantic doors of the building, which were strangely featureless and unadorned.

  ‘We seek no quarrel,’ said Toll, raising his weapon high and away from the creatures. ‘There is a man who has come here, an evil man, twisted by the powers of the Dark Gods. We seek to end him.’

  The creatures continued to circle, their obsidian shields lowered towards the newcomers, maces and axes readied. Callis sensed a strange sort of synchronicity to their movement, a faintly unnatural edge that reminded him of the metal automatons he had seen Ironweld engineers put to use. These were not natural creatures, he realised. At least, not entirely. There was some force at play here greater than any of them knew.

  The circle tightened as the beasts stepped in as one.

  ‘I don’t think our lizard friends here want our help,’ whispered Zenthe. ‘I think that if we want into that building, we’re going to have to blast our way in.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Toll.

  He stepped forward, and from beneath his robes he produced an amulet fashioned in the shape of Sigmar’s hammer.

  There was a flicker of something in the lead creature’s eye, just for a moment.

  ‘I serve the God-King,’ said Toll, brandishing the amulet. ‘The Lord of Azyr, bane of Chaos in all its forms. I swear before you now, I come to rid the taint of the Dark Gods from this place.’

  The creatures ceased their prowling, and stood stock still. Then, again moving with impossible synchronicity, they peeled off and raced up the steps towards the fray, utterly ignoring Toll and his band.

  Bengtsson let out a slow whistle of relief.

  ‘Well, that’s a fortunate turn of events,’ he said. ‘Bad enough just the one army wanting us dead, without those damned things after us too.’

  ‘Well said, duardin,’ nodded Zenthe. ‘Now, if we’re done talking?’

  Blades raised, Arika Zenthe bounded up the winding steps towards the sounds of battle.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The staircase wound on and on. Sh
ev was hardly in poor physical shape, but even she had to stop and catch her breath on more than one occasion. It was more than the distance travelled. It was the oppressive air in the place that pressed down upon them with crushing force. In her travels, Shev had been to many places which seemed – for want of a better word – cursed. Ruined cities where even centuries after the carnage that had seen them fall, ghosts of the dead still lingered. She had that feeling now, multiplied a hundredfold. It was as if the city of Xoantica itself was enraged by their presence, and had leveraged all of its formidable power towards crushing their will. She was filled with a deep despair, and a growing terror that she would never escape this lost city alive. She would be trapped here, along with all the others, damned to an eternity of wandering these halls.

  Vermyre bounded up the stairs like an eager child, full of nervous energy even after his battle with the saurian warriors. Where, for the others, each step further into this cursed city seemed to sap the strength and will from their bones, the opposite seemed to be true for their leader.

  ‘So close now,’ he muttered, over and over.

  Shev made the mistake of looking down to see how far they had come. She saw nothing but a pitch-black abyss stretching away into nothingness. Her head spun, and she stumbled, cracking her knees painfully upon the stairs.

  Vermyre paused to drag her none too gently to her feet.

  ‘Do not look back,’ he hissed. ‘Whatever crafted this enchantment, it wants us to give in to doubt and confusion, to turn back in defeat. But if we are strong, we can break through this illusion. Push beyond, to our true destination. Stay with me, girl.’

  What was there to do? To retreat now, to trek back all the way across the great expanse of the ruined city seemed a far more harrowing task than to simply push ahead. So Shev gathered her wits, shook the dazed confusion from her mind, and began to walk.

  One foot after another, that was the way. Forget everything but the slow, steady advance. Step by step. Shev fell into a kind of hypnosis, and time lost all meaning. And then, like emerging from a strange trance, her boots were once more on level ground.

  She found herself looking upon a gateway large enough for a gargant to pass through, lined by statues of gold – looming figures, hooded and robed. Beyond was a narrow hall, leading to a great pair of double doors. The hooded statues were arranged in pairs along the corridor, facing one another with staves raised high to form a solemn salute. A small, circular window high above washed the chamber with a silver glow, revealing images worked into the floor. Stern patriarchs directing hordes of faceless slaves in the construction of a great city. Several robed figures standing upon a crest of rock, hands outstretched as mountains were rent asunder at their command. Amorphous, tentacled creatures descending from a blackened sky. Those same robed figures were depicted in this last image, but Shev could not tell whether they were standing in defiance of the shapeless beasts from above, or whether they were beckoning them down from the skies.

  Vermyre looked towards the distant doorway.

  ‘Behind these doors lies the Silver Shard,’ he said. He nodded to Yha’ri’lk, who gestured two of his warriors forward. The creatures advanced cautiously, spears levelled, eyes darting across the chamber in search of hidden threats.

  The leading creature had reached the mouth of the corridor, where the chamber floor was broken into rows of tiles inlaid with strange, sweeping sigils. It looked like nothing more than a scroll of hieroglyphs writ large across the floor, stretching the length of the adjoining hall. The tzaangor passed beneath the first archway of raised spears, its own weapon raised high as if it expected the statues to strike down at any moment. There was no movement at all. The chamber remained eerily silent.

  Emboldened, the second creature moved forward. Its clawed foot pressed down upon the floor, and was instantly engulfed in a roaring column of fire that rose to the ceiling, filling the chamber with heat and light. Shev gasped and staggered backwards, knocking into Vermyre. They tumbled to the floor together, and amidst the tangle of limbs, Shev slid her hand into the man’s pocket. Her fingers closed around Occlesius’ shadeglass gem.

  Vermyre’s bloodshot eyes met hers, filled with fury, and she knew instantly he had sensed her theft.

  He grasped at her, his hand locking around her arm with terrifying strength. She could smell the rancid sourness of his breath. She drove the tip of her thumb through the eye socket of his mask, wincing as it sank into something soft and gelid. Vermyre howled with pain, and his grip released just enough for her to squirm free and scramble to her feet.

  The columns of flames cleared, leaving nothing of the unfortunate tzaangor behind but a cloud of drifting ashes. Its companion took an ill-judged step backwards and was engulfed in another gout of fire, this time gushing from a hidden aperture in the wall of the corridor.

  Shev put her head down and bolted for the hallway. A slim chance at freedom was better than none.

  That was very nicely done indeed, came Occlesius’ voice in her head. His normally sprightly voice was thin and strained. We must get out of here. I touched his mind as he invaded my own, Miss Arclis. The man is unravelling, body and soul.

  ‘I really hope you know how to get us through this,’ she said, racing towards the corridor at full speed.

  ‘Stop her,’ roared Vermyre, and Yha’ri’lk’s warriors moved to cut her off. She ducked around the first beast’s searching claws, jumped and tucked into a roll that took her somersaulting past the next creature. Then there was clear space between her and the double doors fifty yards away.

  Left, and forward twenty strides.

  She twisted her run, and as she did so a bolt of arcane energy soared past her and struck one of the tiles ahead, unleashing another flaming blast. She put her hands up to guard her face and ran on, counting the distance in her head.

  Stop! She stuttered to a halt, skidding across the polished floor. Footsteps behind her closed in fast, but there was no time to turn.

  Jump to the tile marked with the spiral star. To your right.

  She glanced up, saw the tile, tensed her legs and jumped. Something caught her by the ankle and she slammed to the floor with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. Wheezing, she turned to see a tzaangor’s face, its cruel eyes gleaming beneath a half-mask of silver. It reached down to grab her by the throat.

  She tucked her legs in, planting her boots squarely on the creature’s tattooed chest before thrusting out with all her strength. The tzaangor stumbled backwards, landing hard on a tile and unleashing another column of flame that rushed up from below to swallow it whole. Ignoring the dying creature’s piercing screams, she rolled upright and jumped for the spiral-marked tile again, tucking into a roll as she landed.

  Fifteen paces away now. So very close.

  ‘Where next?’ she screamed, her voice ragged as she tried to catch her breath. She heard more blasts of fire, and more screaming. She turned to see three more tzaangors, gaining on her with every moment, cruel blades clutched in their hands and murder in their beady eyes.

  I… cannot recall.

  ‘Think, damn you!’

  Shouting does not help my powers of recall, the Realms-Walker snapped. There was a pattern, I recall, a cypher reflected in the path one must follow. A prayer in an ancient tongue. But what was it?

  One of the tzaangors was getting closer by the moment, preparing to leap over to the spiral-marked slab. She unclipped her tool-pack from her belt and hurled it. It landed square in the centre of the adjoining tile, and just as the tzaangor jumped across the five-foot gap, a blast of flame issued forth which sent its body tumbling away, ablaze.

  ‘I’m out of tricks, Realms-Walker,’ she hissed. ‘What do I do?’

  All glory to Nem’k’awet, the Lord of Silver Skies, muttered Occlesius. He who stands betwixt the pillars of Knowledge and Damnation… what next… what next… Kir’li’sami’yen th
e… the Herald of Ascension. Ovkoris, the Whispering Blade! That’s it, Miss Arclis, the sword, look for a sword!

  Her frantic eyes scoped the room, until finally – there – the tile to her upper left. Etched upon it was a sword, radiating what looked like beams of light.

  Shev leapt, landing painfully on her knees and skidding across the final row of tiles. She had made it. Once more the floor was solid marble, and no more statues loomed above her.

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ she said, with a sigh.

  Oh, don’t mention it. I was actually convinced I had got that last one wrong.

  She saw Vermyre staring at her from the far end of the corridor, and she tipped him a salute, tossing the shadeglass gem in her hands. Blood ran freely from the mouth of the man’s mask.

  ‘You have made a grave mistake, Shevanya,’ he said, his voice even but with an unmistakeable tremor of rage. ‘I had every intention of letting you leave this place alive, but now? I think not. You will perish along with all the others.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ she said.

  With that, she gave a swift bow, before turning to heave open the doors.

  Callis dodged a jabbing spear, and struck at the arm wielding it. He was rewarded by a pained shriek and a spurt of purplish blood. The tzaangor rocked back and was buried under a charging horde of saurians, who hacked and clubbed it to death. He turned, looking for the others. They were hard pressed, facing a wall of beastmen who gibbered with a lunatic glee as they fought, not giving an inch despite the numbers arrayed against them. They had formed their bizarre, disc-shaped mounts into a makeshift barrier that whirled and spun, the razor-sharp teeth of the unsettlingly organic devices shredding the flesh of any creatures that strayed too close.

  The lizard warriors continued to hurl themselves selflessly at the intruders from all sides, but they could not dislodge them. Worse, now more tzaangors were flying down from above to join the melee, drawn here by the shrieking calls of their kin.