Gloomspite - Andy Clark

by Warhammer

  This time Hendrick definitely caught Borik’s grumbling, something about getting paid for their troubles, not shot at.

  ‘The city is closed by order of the captain of the Draconium City Watch and the arch-lector of the militia-militant,’ came the reply from the walls. ‘If you’ve got a message to deliver, feel free to shout it up and I’ll be sure to see it goes as far as it needs.’

  Hendrick was certain he knew how far that would be. He planted his feet, leant on the pommel of his hammer and squinted up through the rain at the battlements above.

  ‘We’re not bandits, we’re mercenaries, and I’m willing to bet we’ve seen more blood and strife in the last turning than you’ve seen in your entire career,’ he called. ‘So, when I say this message is important, and we suffered to get it here, I’m not wasting air. Now go and get one of your superiors so I can talk to someone with some sense.’

  ‘Step back from the gate and get gone, or the next shots won’t miss,’ came the reply, the voice from the wall clearly angry now.

  ‘For Sigmar’s sake, just listen, will you!’ shouted Hendrick, his temper flaring in turn. ‘We’re trying to help!’

  ‘Last warning,’ came the voice. Hendrick was half tempted to take another swing at the gate, just out of frustration, but he knew that giving the soldiers on the wall an excuse to shoot him was stupid. Instead, he turned on his heel without another word and stalked back to his comrades.

  ‘We’ll move back out of bow range and wait,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ said Bartiman. ‘We tried, Hendrick, but they don’t want to listen. This was sunk the moment we walked up and found the city’s gates shut and its guards ready to shoot anything that moves.’

  ‘But what’s got them so spooked in the first place?’ asked Romilla. ‘There must be a reason for the over-caution, the lockdown. I believe we’re doing Sigmar’s work here after all, Hendrick. I don’t think we should give up so easily.’

  ‘We’ve existing employers waiting for us to deliver their goods,’ said Borik. ‘That takes precedence. Shouldn’t have diverted to begin with.’

  ‘The Moonshadow brings death to Draconium,’ shouted Eleanora, making them all jump. Her voice, normally quiet and hesitant, rang out clear as she recited Varlen’s last ravings word for word. ‘The Moonshadow brings death to Draconium. Beware the squirming beasts and the eyes that see into your soul, trust the omens, watch not out but down, for moonrise brings the lurking ones and their tainted curse.’

  Hendrick felt a chill run down his spine. He hadn’t remembered his brother’s exact last words, had been too lost to the mayhem and the horror of the moment to take them in. Now Eleanora’s recitation brought that awful night flooding back. It ripped away the comforting veil of a half-turning’s slow forgetting and filled his mind’s eye with the image of his brother, flesh twisted, body burning in the pyre’s flames, eyes wild but horribly clear as he screamed out the words the crown had made him say.

  ‘We have to give them the warning,’ said Eleanora, shying from his sudden, fierce glare. ‘If they won’t let us in then we have to give it from here.’

  Hendrick took a deep breath, glared up at the gatehouse and around at his companions, then stomped off into the fringe of the marsh.

  ‘We wait,’ he said in a tone that brooked no further argument. ‘Olt, Romilla, get us a shelter up. Bartiman, hot food. The rest of us will stand guard in case they get any stupid ideas of running us off.’

  ‘If they let us in then I can use their workshop,’ he heard Eleanora explaining to Romilla as he stomped away. He scowled, feeling bad for upsetting the young engineer but too angry to trust himself to speak right now. They would wait in this biting rain, he could sit and hate himself for a while, and if nothing had changed by dawn tomorrow then Hendrick promised himself he’d think of something. But he wasn’t going to just give up.

  He owed Varlen that much.

  An hour passed, then another. The rain drummed upon the thick canvas of the shelter that Olt and Romilla had raised. Water dripped from its edges and found its way in on gusts of wind to dampen their spirits and their cookfire both. Romilla prayed quietly for guidance. Aelyn faded into the marsh, saying she preferred to keep watch where she could commune with the land. Bartiman pored over an old tome, shielding it with the hem of his cloak and tutting occasionally at some gust of wind or rain. Eleanora had dug some new gadget from her pack to tinker with, breaking off every now and then to stare longingly towards the city gates, while Olt crouched near the fire and sharpened his axes over its flame with a whetstone.

  Borik spent a while patrolling out in the rain, which pinged harmlessly from the shaped metal of his Kharadron armour. He looked like some golem or automaton, Hendrick thought, no hint of bare flesh showing, breath hissing through his armour’s tubes.

  Eventually, the duardin clomped over to where Hendrick stood just under shelter, staring balefully at the gatehouse from under his hood.

  ‘Those fellas on the barge offered us shelter,’ said Borik, halting beside Hendrick and fiddling with one of the gauges on his cannon. ‘They’ve thirty sellswords between their three barges. Firearms. Food.’

  ‘We’re fine here,’ said Hendrick.

  Borik grunted, finished the adjustments on his weapon, stared at the city.

  ‘Don’t feel right here,’ he said after a pause. ‘Even I’ll admit that. Surprised those bargemen are still here.’

  ‘Aelyn said something the same,’ replied Hendrick.

  ‘Look at them,’ said Borik, lowering his voice and gesturing to their companions. ‘Read the mood, Hendrick. That’s not right.’

  ‘We lost Varlen a matter of days ago–’ began Hendrick, but the duardin cut him off.

  ‘You and your brother, Grungni rest his spirit, hired me to be your bodyguard did you not?’

  ‘That we did,’ replied Hendrick.

  ‘So, if I tell you that I can feel something… wrong… here, and that it’s obvious everyone feels it too, you should listen, because I’m doing my best to fulfil the contract I drew up with Varlen. There’s a sense of menace hanging over this city. Those clouds are building up like the whole place is holding its breath. I’ve no desire to be sailing these aether-currents when that storm breaks,’ said Borik.

  Hendrick gave the duardin a level look. ‘That was more words than I’ve heard you string together in turnings,’ he said.

  Borik didn’t reply, just stared back through the hazy green eye-lenses of his helm.

  Hendrick sighed and shook his head. ‘If those idiots would just hear us out… Sigmar’s hammer, if they’d just let us through the portcullis to speak with someone in the gatehouse that would be enough.’

  ‘This isn’t our city, it isn’t our responsibility, and it isn’t going to get us paid,’ said Borik flatly. ‘A captain’s got to command, I understand that. But he’s got to read the aether, Hendrick, and he’s got to read his crew. I sailed the skies a long time, and I’ve seen even the finest bands of privateers become a mutinous mob when they were pushed far enough. I’m not saying that’s us, not for a moment, but–’

  Just then, a shout came from the battlements. A woman’s voice, strong and clear, carrying through the rain.

  ‘Hey, you out there. The mercenaries.’

  Hendrick stepped out from cover. He stared up at the battlements. The daylight was beginning to fade as the hour grew late and the storm clouds massed, but he could make out a tall figure leaning over the battlements. Her shock of red hair was vivid in the twilight.

  ‘Are you someone with the sense to listen to us?’ he called back. ‘Or am I going to have to dance around a few more arrows first?’

  ‘The former,’ came the reply. ‘You’ve got five minutes until I open this gate, then two more after that before it shuts again whether you’re inside or not. And if you mean the city any harm, Sigmar h
elp me I’ll run you through myself. Clear?’

  ‘Clear,’ Hendrick shouted back, feeling something loosen a little in his chest. He ignored the indignant shouts of the bargemen as he and his comrades broke down their shelter and traipsed towards the gate. They were getting somewhere.

  The gatehouse backed onto a broad courtyard, from which cobbled streets thrust away into the city like splayed fingers. Buildings rose on all sides, large and small, dilapidated and newly built, lantern-lights flickering in their windows and doorways as the evening drew in. Factory stacks rose from nearby streets, smoke rising from them to add to the malaise above the city. The sounds and smells of civilisation filled the air, though muffled by the curtain of steadily falling rain. Lamplight danced on slick cobbles in the twilight.

  As they stepped through the second set of gates, Hendrick and his companions found themselves halted by a thicket of halberd blades. The men and women who confronted them wore black uniforms and cloaks clasped with sigils wrought from various precious metals. Cogwork lanterns and pistols hung from their belts.

  At their head stood the woman who had addressed him from the walls. She was tall and powerfully built, and accompanied by a rangy and rather aristocratic young man that Hendrick took to be her second. Both wore more ornate versions of their followers’ uniforms.

  ‘Welcome to Draconium,’ said the red-haired woman. ‘Now, who in the realms are you, and where did you come by your warning?’

  ‘Hendrick Saul, sergeant of the Swords of Sigmar mercenary company. My companions and I…’ his throat clicked, but he swallowed over it and pressed on. ‘Our leader was recently slain by the curse of a malefic artefact, but before his death he garnered a mystical revelation that danger threatened your city.’

  Hendrick saw the young officer’s lip curl at his words, saw his distaste at the Swords’ rag-tag appearance. He caught the boy’s eye and favoured him with a dangerous smile. The officer paled slightly.

  ‘If you’re done intimidating my lieutenant, Hendrick Saul, then you’ll follow me. All of you, we’ve carriages waiting.’

  She had half turned away before Hendrick asked, ‘Who are you, and carriages to where? We’re not going anywhere until we know that much, at least.’

  ‘I’m Watch Captain Morthan, and I’m taking you to the regent militant’s palace,’ she said over her shoulder.

  Hendrick hastened after the captain, his companions following. The watchmen kept their halberds levelled menacingly as they herded the Swords of Sigmar across the square. Hendrick glanced up at the gatehouse as he went and saw figures in blue-and-white tabards clutching spears and staring down at him from the inner rampart with hostile eyes.

  The coaches waited in a broad side-street, heavy constructions of dark wood and brass drawn by lithe beasts with scaly hides and no eyes that Hendrick could see. He recognised them as gnarlkyd, one of the more unsettling Aqshyan beasts – yet far more docile and benign than their monstrous appearance suggested. Spark-lanterns were flickering to life along the street, and in their wan glow the rain turned to silver streaks and the shadows between the buildings deepened.

  ‘I take it that was the militia-militant on the walls,’ said Romilla as they approached the coaches. ‘They appeared less receptive to our message than you, captain. Why is that?’

  ‘My watchmen will relieve you of your weapons,’ said Morthan, ignoring the question. She held up a hand to forestall any protest. ‘I am about to bring you straight into the presence of this city’s divine ruler, so appointed by Sigmar himself and beloved of all. You can either go unarmed, and thus deliver your warning as you say you came to do, or you can enjoy a night manacled naked down in the scald-cells. They’re called that because the rain gets in, really floods them on a night like this. The skin on your legs would be a dear and distant memory by morning, I assure you. Now, weapons, please. You’ll get them back after we’re done.’

  Hendrick barked a laugh despite himself, then shot a warning glare at Borik. The duardin shrugged as though to say ‘Why single me out?’, but a pair of watchmen had almost to wrestle his cannon out of his hands. Hendrick handed over his hammer, the pair of daggers in his belt and the spare in his right boot, then climbed up into the waiting wagon. He locked eyes with Aelyn as he did so.

  ‘I don’t like it any more than you,’ he muttered to her as she followed him into the coach. ‘But we’re getting what we came for, aren’t we?’

  Aelyn said nothing, only slid in on the bench opposite him. The interior of the coach was roomy and lantern-lit, its benches padded. Hendrick, Aelyn, Eleanora and Borik climbed into one coach, Romilla, Bartiman and Olt into a second. Hendrick found himself also sharing the space with a pair of watchmen, as well as the captain, who placed herself next to Aelyn and gave Hendrick an appraising stare. Thuds and creaks came from the outside of the coach and it settled more heavily; additional watchmen clambering onto the running boards, Hendrick assumed.

  He heard the whicker of a lash being plied, then they pulled away with a lurch.

  Streets and buildings passed by in a rain-grimed blur as the carriages sped deeper into the city. Hendrick stared out into the gloom for a few moments, watched the spark-lamps drifting by like will-o’-the-wisps, then turned back to find Captain Morthan still watching him.

  ‘Where did your comrade hear those words that she shouted at our walls?’ asked Morthan.

  ‘Why did you believe us when the men up there so clearly didn’t?’ he countered. Morthan turned her attention instead to Eleanora.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Eleanora VanGhest.’

  ‘Where did you hear those words, Miss VanGhest?’ asked Morthan. ‘And why are you dressed like an Ironweld engineer?’ she added with a slight frown.

  ‘I heard them from Varlen as he was dying,’ replied Eleanora. ‘They were his last words, so I remembered them because last words are important. And I’m dressed like an Ironweld engineer because I am an Ironweld engineer, second cog-circle and–’ she halted mid-flow as Hendrick held up a hand to forestall her.

  ‘Thank you, Eleanora, but Captain Morthan doesn’t need to hear all of it.’

  Eleanora nodded, counting rapidly off on her fingers, right then left.

  Morthan blinked, then turned her attention back to Hendrick. The carriage lurched over an arching bridge, shaking them all in their seats.

  ‘What am I to make of you all?’ she asked Hendrick. ‘Humans, a duardin, an aelf of the Wanderer tribe if I’m not mistaken, a lady engineer, supposedly… that was a wizard and a priest that got into the other carriage together, yes? And whoever you’ve got stashed away under that bloody great cloak. And you, ragged band that you are, turn up shouting about a warning, though what you’re warning of seems a trifle vague. Then she,’ the captain jabbed a finger at Eleanor, ‘comes out with squirming beasts, and eyes looking into your soul, and dark omens…’

  ‘You recognise some of this, don’t you?’ said Hendrick, realisation dawning. ‘That’s why you let us in instead of ignoring us out of hand.’

  ‘Part of me fears you are complicit, the other part believes you may be the very thing I need to sway the regent militant,’ she said. Hendrick could see fierce calculation going on behind her piercing green eyes.

  ‘We just want to deliver our warning and then be on our way,’ said Hendrick. ‘I can see something’s got your militia jumpy, but honestly, captain, I don’t even know what you think we might be complicit in.’

  ‘I hope that’s true,’ she said as the carriage began to slow. ‘Because I’m about to put you in front of the ruler of the city, and if you harbour any hostile intent whatsoever you’ll soon be found out and drowned in scaldwater for your troubles.’

  Hendrick and his companions stepped down from the carriages to find themselves on the edge of a wide plaza, surrounded by magnificent buildings, patrolled by tabarded militiamen and lit by copious ornate lam
ps. Hendrick saw a column-fronted structure, huge and boxy with statues of Stormcast Eternals battling daemons running along its frontage. There was a great structure of glass and banded iron, lit from within and housing what looked like a captive jungle. Tall mansion houses jostled one another self-importantly along one edge of the plaza, and beyond them through the rain Hendrick could see another, lower wall with its own ramparts, towers and patrolling guards.

  However, his attention skated from these lesser sites of magnificence to the awe-inspiring monolith that reared over all of it on the plaza’s eastern edge.

  ‘The Palace of the Regent Militant,’ said Captain Morthan, sounding, Hendrick thought, somewhat sardonic.

  The palace looked more like a castle or fortified cathedral, its buttressed walls and high towers wrought in black and white marble and gleaming gold. Beautifully worked frescoes decorated its walls. Braziers burned all over the structure, making it glow like a star brought to earth, and Hendrick could smell incense and hear plainsong floating from within.

  He couldn’t help but notice an especially prominent fresco of a heavily-thewed warrior in the robes of a Sigmarite novice, striking the head from a grotesque Chaos champion directly above the palace’s main doors.

  ‘The regent militant?’ he guessed, gesturing. Captain Morthan snorted.

  ‘In his younger days, he was quite the hero,’ she said. ‘Now, come on, I sent Lieutenant Grange ahead with word of your coming. We’re expected.’

  They might well have been expected, but that didn’t mean they were considered important. After being marched through the piously opulent interior of the palace, Hendrick and his retinue wound up in a richly appointed ante-chamber to await their audience. Under the stares of the watchmen and the gold-robed palace guards, surrounded by beautiful crystal lanterns, ornate furnishings and religious statuary and artworks, Hendrick became more conscious than ever of his and his companions’ appearance.