City of Secrets

by Nick Horth

‘Shut your mouth,’ said a third man, and this one was calm and professional. The leader, Callis guessed. ‘We speak no names. You, take the road along. The creature’s bleeding and half-crazed, so even you should be able to track it. Everyone else, with me. Look for blood, footsteps, anything. He can’t have gone far.’

  Thank Sigmar for the rain, thought Callis. The downpour had already washed the evidence of his presence from the crash site. He eased himself up and out of the swirling mud that grasped at his knees, and drifted through the waist-deep water. He could see shadows moving towards him through the gaps in the rotten wood foundations.

  ‘Sigmar’s teeth,’ one of the shadows cursed. ‘This was meant to be a simple bit of business. How did it come to this?’

  ‘Someone fouled up,’ the man’s companion said. A woman’s voice, gravelly and slightly nasal, as if its owner was suffering a heavy cold. ‘We had the rotations sorted. That old fool Ames was set to lead the outer city patrol, and he’d never have set foot in the Veins. Doubtless the old sot drank himself insensible and left his corporal in charge. Man named Armand Callis. Galtrey recognised him.’

  Callis’ blood ran cold. Galtrey was the name of a fellow corporal in the Coldguard, a veteran held in high regard. That couldn’t be coincidence, surely. This wasn’t some isolated case of a single soldier earning outside his wage. This was something bigger, something organised. Sigmar alone knew how high up this went. Not only that, they knew his name. By sunrise the whole damned city might be looking for him.

  The first figure splashed closer, idly swatting at the water with a long dirk. He was only a dozen feet from Callis now. The corporal held his breath. He felt a tickle across the back of his neck, and something many-legged and hairy scuttled across his face, inching up past his brow and coming to rest on his scalp. His skin crawled, but he dare not move a muscle, so close were his pursuers.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ the man was saying.

  ‘No reason you should have,’ replied the woman. ‘He’s a straight arrow, Galtrey says. Eyes on the career ladder. Doesn’t gamble, doesn’t earn.’

  ‘Now I really want to gut him.’

  The woman sighed, and cursed softly. ‘Not today. Wherever our missing corporal is, he ain’t here. We could search these piss-reeking alleys for weeks and not find him. Going to have to do this the other way. Let’s go.’

  The pair turned and waded back towards the street, and Callis waited a few excruciating moments for them to pass out of earshot before swatting at the unwelcome intruder in his hair. It gave a shrill screech as it sailed through the air, splashing into the murk.

  He felt nauseous. The accumulated pain and fatigue from his many wounds seemed to all rush in at once then, and it was all the corporal could do to stop himself from sinking face down into the cold, filthy rainwater.

  ‘No,’ he whispered to himself.

  It wasn’t over yet. He needed to ditch his uniform, find somewhere to lay low and get his wounds seen to. Maybe one of the slum hospitals near the harbour. He needed to figure out what it was that he had seen in the mist, and what his next move was. He was not done yet. Whatever this conspiracy was, he was going to find some way to unmask it – or die in the attempt. Armand Callis turned and staggered through the cold and the filth, away from his traitorous comrades and deeper into the depths of the Veins.

  The crooked man’s insane laughter followed him.

  Hanniver Toll paused, and took a deep lungful of dockside air in through his nose. In rushed the sour reek of dried fish left too long in the sun, the aromatic hint of exotic spices, the tang of fresh-forged metal and the unmistakable stench of thousands of bodies grunting, sweating and hollering their lungs dry as they went about the sacred business of trade. The people of Excelsis ambled through the white whalebone stalls of fishermen and hunters, past garish tents of many colours that promised exotic treasures from distant Qallifae, far-off Hyesca, and a hundred other places, some of which even Toll had not heard of. Ships of all descriptions lined the dockside. Squat, barrel-shaped duardin steam-cogs were anchored alongside swift aelven tide-cutters, the crews shouting boisterous, good-natured insults at each other over the clatter of the market. There were big war galleys, flanks bristling with flame-shot cannon and lance launchers, and even a couple of Scyllan shellships – as Toll looked, one of the giant crustaceans hauled itself clear of the water and into one of the great docking bays, its many-hued, iridescent carapace sliding slowly aside to reveal the crew inside, already securing crates and chests of rare goods. Every captain here would be looking to offload enough of his stock to pay for a nice, reliable augury from the Prophesier’s Guild that would lead him to his next haul, and make enough extra to keep his crew paid up and happy. He didn’t envy them that particular balancing act.

  Toll let his gaze drift across to the stalls. Suspended on great hooks on all sides, dangling limply in a mockery of their former savage ferocity, were aquatic monsters of all descriptions. Razor-squid, their gaping maws lined with a thousand serrated beaks. Great wyre-sharks, with jaws wide enough to swallow five men whole. Ghyreks, the sabre-toothed mammalian predators that could fly as well as they could swim, so that even out of water a sailor could not escape their vicious fangs. Tall, wiry aelves in leather coats and aprons were gutting and skinning these monsters, or hauling and stringing up fresh specimens for the attention of wandering traders. The acrid stench of the carcasses only added to the stew of potent aromas hereabouts.

  ‘By the God-King,’ he said through a wide grin, ‘is that not the most beautiful smell that ever blessed your nose, Kazrug?’

  The duardin swayed to the side as a cart, piled high with freshly bought goods and drawn by a screeching, two-headed creature with avian features and rows of needle-sharp teeth, nearly crushed him into the mire beneath their feet. Kazrug snapped a sour look back at his companion.

  ‘Stinks of dung and rotten fish,’ he snapped. ‘And the next fat little human who jostles me will be hauling his goods home with two broken arms. Why’d you drag us here anyhow?’

  Toll nodded to a shop-front on their left, a rare refuge from the bustling mass of merchants and dockhands. The two pushed their way through the throng, Kazrug with markedly less restraint. A perfumed, pale-haired merchant wrapped in turquoise robes found himself planted on his backside in a pile of spilt fish guts. He spluttered in outrage as two scrawny servants hauled his not-inconsiderable mass to its feet, but then his eyes found Kazrug’s face. He took in the countless gouges and scars that ran from the duardin’s broad neck to his single cold, grey eye. His doughy cheeks paled as he saw the chipped blue gemstone that occupied the other socket. And, of course, it was impossible not to notice the gleaming broadaxe that poked its savage head over the duardin’s chainmail-armoured shoulder.

  ‘My apologies,’ the merchant murmured, a wan smile upon his lips.

  ‘Accepted,’ grunted Kazrug, and shouldered his way past.

  Toll shook his head and sighed as his stocky companion approached.

  ‘You know, Kazrug, I believe our time working together has proven the efficacy of showing a little restraint at times. Could you try not to antagonise absolutely everybody that crosses our path?’

  Kazrug made a harsh barking sound, the nearest he ever came to laughter.

  ‘The job we do, and you’re worried about upsetting one pampered stinkwater salesman?’

  ‘It’s called perfume,’ said Toll, ‘and this is the city of secrets. As I have told you a hundred times, everyone in Excelsis is hiding something, and every friendly face could be the one that drives a knife into your back.’

  Kazrug rolled his one good eye, and Toll abandoned his planned lecture. He would have to handle the subtlety, but he’d been in enough life or death situations with his foul-tempered companion over the years that he understood the value of having a well-swung duardin axe in his corner.

  ‘In answer to your origina
l question,’ he said, ‘we are here because last night a patrol of Excelsis guardsmen was found slaughtered in the depths of the Veins.’

  Kazrug grunted in something approaching surprise. The odd dead soldier was not uncommon in Excelsis, a city that boasted a number of ruthless criminal gangs amongst its many dangers, but an entire squad? That was unusual.

  Toll drew a rolled parchment from his long coat, and unfurled it in front of his companion. Upon it was drawn the face of a young man with a sharp, angular face and hooded eyes. His hair was clipped short in the common manner of the city’s soldiery, and he bore a well-managed beard and moustache, curled slightly with wax. Above the image were the words, ‘Sought: Corporal Armand Callis of the Coldguard Regiment for the most foul betrayal of his fellow warriors. For murder and theft, and racketeering on a grand scale. Reward for any information leading to his capture – 30,000 glimmerings.’

  Kazrug whistled.

  ‘They’re not messing about with this boy, are they?’ he muttered. ‘With a three-count of glimmerings up for the taking he’ll be dead in a gutter by sundown. Why are we interested?’

  ‘Guardsman Callis is the only surviving member of this missing squad,’ said Toll. ‘I’ve talked to my sources in the Coldguard Bastion, and they say he’s a career type, smart and capable enough. Not even a hint of criminal activity prior to this.’

  ‘Were you not just telling me that you can’t trust a damned human in this cesspit of a city?’

  ‘I was, and for once I thank you for listening. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know that something here doesn’t add up. Regardless, if Callis is involved in the kind of business that gets four Coldguard soldiers slain, then we need to find him.’

  ‘You think this runs deeper than a black market deal gone wrong?’ asked Kazrug.

  Toll leaned against the wall of the store, and gazed out across the harbour.

  ‘The city is vulnerable right now,’ he said. ‘We’re still losing patrols out in the wilds. Fortress Abraxicon guards the Realmgate, and we haven’t been able to contact them for a week now. Then a prophecy drops into our laps. A perfect augury. Shows us the orruks of the Shattered Shins gathering, shows us right where Warboss Grukka is camped. And the Stormcasts march to war.’

  ‘This ain’t nothing new,’ Kazrug shrugged. ‘Ain’t the first time Sigmar’s boys have marched out to meet a greenskin force that the seers have spotted before time.’

  ‘That’s true. But we’ve had two prominent members of the Prophesier’s Guild turn up dead in the last two months. Both of natural causes, sure. Old, frail men. No signs of foul play. Yet now a group of soldiers are found dead.’

  Kazrug scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘It’s all bits and pieces, though. Not a single thing that ties together.’

  ‘Correct, and in all likelihood I’m just being my usual paranoid self. On the off chance I’m not, however, I’d like to talk to this Armand Callis before the executioner’s axe finds him.’

  The first thing that Armand Callis noticed was the smell. It was a pungent reek of unwashed bodies and unchecked decay. For just a moment, he thought he was dead, another unnamed corpse dumped in the pauper graves for the endlessly hungry denizens of the earth to drag down and devour.

  It was the fact that every square inch of his body ached and burned with agony that dissuaded him of that notion, along with the low murmuring of pained voices. Damp, stinking rags covered his face. He groaned, and pawed at the wrappings with a shaking hand. They parted, and a gleam of daylight speared through to embed itself in his skull. He let out a pitiful moan that sounded less like a man than a wounded beast, and replaced the bandage to blot out the painful brightness.

  ‘Sigmar’s Throne, lad,’ came a voice from his right. ‘They certainly did a number on you, didn’t they?’

  Callis’ hand flicked instinctively to his hip, searching for a blade, but of course there was nothing there. Gritting his teeth, he shifted backwards, feeling a cold stone wall at his back. He propped himself up, ignoring the stabbing knives of pain that tore at his ribs, and tore free the wrappings. He let the light flood in, accepting the agony. If he was to going to die here, he wanted to see it coming. Slowly the corona of searing white light faded, and the room around him coalesced.

  It was a typical Excelsis poor-house, a blend of daubed, bleached bone and sun-dried clay, materials that abounded in the Coast of Tusks and made for a cheap yet largely sturdy foundation. Scattered about the floor were beds of woven fibre, upon which lay scores of filthy, moaning figures, all wrapped in rags as he was. Between these stricken wretches drifted figures in white robes, their faces wrapped in handkerchiefs of white cloth, their hands gloved and their heads covered by dark skullcaps. They looked almost wraith-like in the gloom.

  ‘You’re currently staying in one of the city’s most delightful hospices,’ came that voice again. ‘A fine establishment indeed, beloved of the lame and the ruined. Cheap beds with fine linen sheets and a host of eager bed-lice whose bites will keep you warm through the long nights. Goodlady Morwen is an acquaintance of mine, and she alerted me as soon as she realised it was our famous errant guardsman who had stumbled into her establishment in the early hours of the morning, two nights past.’

  Before Callis was a small, unassuming man, perched lazily on a hardwood stool. He wore an overcoat that seemed a size or two too large for him, dark blue breeches and a pair of worn travelling boots. His face was broad and plain, and the lower half was covered by a thin and scruffy beard perhaps a week or two old. His eyes were a pale grey, and the slightly receding sandy-brown hair atop his head showed glimpses of the same. He was idly rolling a wide-brimmed hat in his hands, but his eyes were fixed upon Callis.

  ‘You’ve had a busy few days, haven’t you guardsman?’ he said.

  ‘Are you here to kill me?’ Callis rasped. He was shocked by the sound of his own voice. It was the rattling hiss of a man dying from blacklung. ‘Normally I’d take offense at that, but frankly with the way I’m feeling, death would come as something of a relief. So get about granting it if you’re going to.’

  There was a snort of laughter from the other side of his bed, and Callis turned, startled, to see a particularly ugly duardin staring back at him, a grin splitting his craggy, scarred face. The duardin was short one eye, which had been replaced by a chipped blue gemstone, and had a wicked axe slung over one shoulder. All in all, his was not a particularly comforting presence to wake up to.

  ‘He’s got stones, this one,’ the duardin rumbled.

  ‘I have no wish to see you dead,’ the seated man said, his soft voice a harmonious counterpart to his companion. ‘But I am interested in how an unremarkable corporal in the Coldguard manages to slay his entire squad, run off into the night, and come to rest in a slum hospital with the majority of his vital organs pulped like a juvafruit salad.’

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘I do. Armand Callis, corporal of no particular renown. You have a couple of border skirmishes under your belt, a run-in or two with scattered bands of orruks. You handled yourself well enough, they say.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I also know that your face is up on every wall in the city,’ the man continued, ignoring the question. ‘They say you slaughtered your fellows and disappeared into the night like the White Reaper himself.’

  Callis felt a shiver run down his spine at the mere mention of that name.

  The man sighed, and laid his wide-brimmed hat on his lap. He leaned forward, studying Callis with those piercing eyes. There was an unsettling intensity behind the gaze.

  ‘No second-generation reclaimed corporal is worth thirty thousand glimmerings,’ he muttered, low but clear enough so that the stricken man heard every word. ‘And you don’t strike me as the type to slaughter your own men on a whim. Which leads me to wonder – who wants you dead or rotting in jail? And what did you witne
ss that makes you so dangerous to them?’

  The image of the wizened sorcerer flashed into Callis’ mind, his clawed hands raised and the city ablaze beneath him. He could smell the scorched ruins of what once had been men, and could feel once again the smoke rushing into his lungs and his eyes, burning everything it touched. He hacked and coughed, and he saw the seated man recoil in surprise. Eventually his retching subsided, and he wiped bloody phlegm from his mouth.

  ‘Who are you?’ Callis croaked. ‘If you were Guild you’d have me in irons or dead already. You’re no bounty hunter or findsman. You’ve no gang markings. Why do you care about any of this?’

  ‘My name is Hanniver Toll,’ the man said, rising from his stool. ‘I can help you, guardsman, but I need you to tell me everything that happened and everything you saw. Leave nothing out.’

  Despite the fact he had no idea who the man was, Callis almost told him everything. It would have been a relief just to get it all out. He almost spoke of the visions that plagued his mind, and the friends he had seen murdered at the hands of Coldguard soldiers. But then he saw old Happer, guts torn out of him, bleeding his last into the rain-slick streets. He saw Longholme and Jammud fall, transfixed by crossbow bolts. And most awful of all he saw Sergeant Werrigen, his face as placid and unconcerned as if he was squashing a bug, as he slid his blade into Custin’s chest.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now if you’re going to stick a knife in me, get on with it.’

  Toll sighed as he rose to his feet, putting on his hat as he did so. ‘So we choose the hard way. Very well. I wish you the best of luck, citizen Callis. Do give my regards to the headsman. Come Kazrug, we are obviously not wanted here. Let us leave this man to his supper.’ He disdainfully examined his surroundings as he walked purposefully to the door, where he stopped and turned to regard the guardsmen with a final pitying expression. ‘Which I’m sure, by the way, will be delightful.’

  The duardin stood, hefted his axe and strode off to follow Toll out of the room, caring very little for those delinquents unfortunate enough to be lying in his path. A chorus of groans followed him as he departed.