Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  Spotting it, Ahazian snatched it up just in time to block a slash from her sword. The other vampires circled them, waiting for an opening. Every fibre of his being demanded that he stay and fight – that he prove his superiority, or die in the attempt. But what was the point of such a small death? Khorne would barely notice. No, better to quit the field and seek a more glorious destruction. One worth his time.

  He rose to his feet, and they edged away. The wound in his back had already clotted and begun to scab over. It would take more than that to seriously injure a warrior of his pedigree. He laughed, low and long. ‘This has been amusing, pretty one. But I have more important matters to attend to than this dance of yours.’

  Ahazian jerked forwards, towards the closest of the blood knights. The vampire, unprepared, fell beneath a flurry of savage blows, and then he was past them. Before they could stop him, he caught one of the coal-black steeds by its rough mane and hauled himself into the saddle, thrusting his hammer through his belt as he did so. The animal twisted, trying to bite him, but a swift blow made it think twice. He jerked the reins, and slammed his heels into its flanks. The animal leapt forwards with a despairing shriek. He leaned low over its neck, urging it on to greater speed.

  He burst from the mausoleum-citadel, riding hard. The dead waited for him, in the moonlit silence beyond. The bodies of his bloodreavers lay scattered about, in heaps and piles. Soon, they would rise and join their slayers, to fight eternally – a fitting reward for them. Ahazian Kel laughed as he readied his axe. He would chop a path to freedom, before the vampires could follow. Let them pursue him, if they would. Let all of the dead souls in this realm muster against him. It did not matter.

  One way or another, the Spear of Shadows would be his.

  Two

  Volker

  It was not the first time that the skaven had attacked the City of Secrets. Nor, sadly, would it be the last. Excelsis attracted enemies the way dung attracted flies. And the only way to deal with flies was to swat them. Luckily, in his time in the Realm of Beasts, Owain Volker had become quite adept at swatting flies of all shapes and sizes.

  The gunmaster stood in one of a handful of hastily dug trenches that sprawled between the skaven and the half-finished walls of Excelsis. The trenches, dug in the hard earth by duardin picks, were reinforced by sandbags and wooden duckboards. Firing steps marked the rearmost trenches, allowing the handgunners of the freeguilds – the city’s mortal defenders – to ply their trade in relative safety. Volker’s trench was farther back from the front line, where the artillery crews of the Ironweld could deliver their munitions without fear of immediate reprisal.

  He let out a slow breath, and pulled back on the trigger of his long rifle. He had compensated for windage and elevation, and calculated the powder load accordingly; all second nature to him now. Preparing a shot was an instinctive act rather than a conscious one, and accomplished with impressive speed.

  The ball traversed the rifle-bore and spiralled along a swift, stable trajectory. By the time he felt the kick of the shot through the ironwood stock, the ball had already found its target. The skaven, a black-furred brute clad in red war-plate, with a wooden back-banner heavy with skulls, snapped backwards, snout first.

  Nearby ratkin scattered in all directions, seeking cover, before the body completed its journey to the ground. Volker frowned. Normally, there was precious little of that on the wild plains of the Coast of Tusks. But the skaven were inveterate builders, despite lacking any sense of craftsmanship. They had swarmed over the pitiful shanty towns that clustered like barnacles in the shadow of the Bastion – the great wall that nominally protected the city – tearing them apart and putting the wood and stone to use as crude defensive works.

  Now, in the ruins of those wretched slums, the vile ratmen and their loathsome kin readied themselves for the next push. He lifted his rifle and stepped back. ‘What do you think?’ he asked his companion.

  ‘A fair shot, lad.’ The speaker was a duardin, heavy-set and round faced beneath his carefully groomed beard. Makkelsson was a paragon of duardin virtues – gruff, observant and stubborn beyond reason. All of which made him a natural artillery engineer. The cannon he oversaw sat behind and just above them, on a carefully constructed wooden firing platform. To the side of the platform, at the foot of the steps and stacked carefully behind a protective pavise, was a small hill of powder barrels and shot.

  The cannon was an old weapon, a survivor of the Great Exodus, and its age-blackened barrel was marked with scenes from long-forgotten wars. Makkelsson’s gunners, human and duardin alike, sat on the platform and spoke loudly in Khazalid – the ancestral tongue of the Dispossessed. The first thing all members of the Ironweld had to learn was the duardin language. It just made things easier in the long run.

  Makkelsson clapped Volker on the shoulder. ‘The ratmen will be scurrying around like mad until one of them gets up the minerals to take command.’ He leaned against the trench wall and offered Volker the flask he’d been sipping from. Volker took the flask gratefully and washed the taste of powder and smoke out of his mouth.

  ‘I hope it takes longer than last time.’ Volker took the range-finder from his eye. The monocular goggle, composed of half a dozen gold-framed glass lenses of varying sizes, helped him to focus on the target, no matter the range. He’d painstakingly cut and fitted the lenses himself, in his first year as an apprentice to the engineers of the Ironweld Arsenal.

  ‘The miners say they can hear things scurrying, down in the dark,’ Makkelsson murmured, tapping the duckboards with a foot. ‘The rats are digging down even as they hold us here. Spend too long killing them up here and we’ll never find them all below.’

  ‘And so? There’s not a rat living that can gnaw through the Bastion’s roots.’ Volker offered Makkelsson his flask back. ‘If only the perimeter walls had been completed, they’d never have dared show their whiskers in the open like this.’ He glanced back towards the city.

  The thick, high walls of the Bastion loomed over the southern plains, square and imposing. Its towers were lined with siege-cannons, their focal lenses glinting in the ochre light of the setting suns. Above the walls, Volker could make out the vast cloud-wreathed shape of the Spear of Mallus – a broken chunk of the world-that-was, cast down into the Sea of Tusks generations past. The city had grown up around it, spreading outwards from the bay thrown up by the Spear’s tumultuous arrival. From its sprawling docklands to its floating towers, Excelsis offered opportunity and sanctuary to all.

  But while the offer was for all, not everyone enjoyed the largesse equally. Before the Bastion and stretching well past the line of defensive trenches were ramshackle slums, stacked atop one another like teetering cages; a stifling network of rookeries and tangled, ­uncobbled streets, at the mercy of the elements and worse, until such time as the Bastion could be extended to encompass them.

  The city was growing swiftly. Too swiftly, according to some. And the city’s walls had to be broken down and reconsecrated with every new district added. The last consecration had begun almost thirty years ago, and still wasn’t complete, thanks in part to the too-frequent earthquakes that rocked the region. And while parts of the Bastion remained unconsecrated, the outer city was vulnerable to attack.

  The skaven had chosen their moment well. Only the warnings of the Collegiate Arcane had given the city’s guardians time to prepare a suitable defence for those unconsecrated areas. Even then, they’d lost an entire district of the slums to the skaven. If the ratmen managed to retain their foothold here, they’d be almost impossible to root out. Volker was determined to do his part in seeing the loathsome creatures eradicated. While he’d come of age in holy Azyrheim, amid the wonders of the Ancestral City, Excelsis was his home now.

  The traditional leather coat of a gunmaster wasn’t his only protection. An intricately wrought breastplate, decorated with a stylised representation of Sigmar’s thunderbolt
, protected his torso, and he wore thick leather gauntlets and reinforced boots. An artisan pistol was thrust through his belt and two repeater pistols were holstered at the small of his back. A satchel of shot-cylinders and powder-loads sat beside him on the ground, within easy reach. A weapon’s use was in direct proportion to the availability of ammunition. Words of wisdom from his mentor, Oken.

  The old duardin had taught him everything he knew about the art of gunsmithing and more besides. Oken had shown him what it meant to be a member of the Ironweld Arsenal, and the burden of responsibility that came with it.

  To be a member of the Ironweld was to be heir to the triumphs and losses of two nigh-extinct cultures, to walk the line between two fallen worlds, and pay homage to both, in word and deed. The masterwork long rifle he held was a thing of precise beauty, crafted according to these tenets. It had never failed him, even as he had never failed to care for it. Care for your weapons and they care for you – another bit of insight from Oken.

  Volker smiled, thinking of the irascible ancient. The duardin was old, even by the standards of the Dispossessed. But like many duardin, age had only made him that much tougher. He remembered the first time they’d met, over a blacksmith’s anvil. He’d been a child then. He recalled the way Oken had deftly repaired a broken toy, thick fingers moving with surprising delicacy. ‘Do you want to learn how?’ he’d asked, after he’d finished, his voice like stones rattling in an iron bucket. And Volker had.

  His smile faded. He wished Oken were here now. The old grouch was a comfort to have around, though Volker would never dare say so aloud. Comfort was something he sorely needed at the moment.

  He was the youngest gunmaster in the Ironweld, barely thirty winters. Once, he’d thought that might buy him the respect of his fellows. Instead, it had only made things harder. Herzborg and the other gunmasters resented him, and their influence counted for more than his, here on the fringes of civilisation. Not that he had any influence, really.

  Volker had no aptitude for politicking, only for weapons. He could pluck the wings from a rotfly with an artisan pistol, but couldn’t navigate the sullen currents of influence within the Ironweld without three guides, a map and several torches.

  Case in point – his current position. Acting as a glorified ­handgunner, rather than among his fellow officers crafting strategy back in the Bastion. Or even in command of his own artillery detachment in the field. It stung. Makkelsson noticed the look on his face and chuckled. ‘Better off out here, lad. Fresh air. Powder in your lungs. Healthy.’

  ‘Healthier for who? I – ah. Look who it is.’

  Makkelsson turned and frowned. ‘Now I know we’re in trouble.’

  Volker laughed. Old Friar Ziska stumped towards them, his profusion of bells and chains creating a mighty racket. The Sigmarite priest wore threadbare robes, which did little to conceal his muscular form. An abundance of prayer scrolls flapped about him, sewn into the robes. Select passages from the Book of Lightning had been tattooed on his bald head and chest, and his bare feet stamped on the duckboards. Ziska was one of the Devoted of Sigmar, and about two charges light of a load. If he’d been let loose to inspire the men, someone was expecting an attack soon.

  ‘And thus did Sigmar smite the perfidious realms with his storm, and cast his bolts of blessed fury, to free these lands from wickedness,’ the priest bellowed, ringing the largest of his bells for all he was worth. ‘Thus are served all who challenge Azyr, and the might of the Heavens.’ He strode down the gun line, his chains rattling and his bells jangling. He carried no obvious weapons, but Volker had seen the good friar crush an orruk’s skull with the bell he held. It was crafted from meteoric iron, and as deadly as any blade.

  Makkelsson shook his head. ‘Manlings,’ he muttered.

  ‘We are a devout folk,’ Volker said, smiling.

  ‘You’re devout,’ Makkelsson said. ‘He’s bakrat.’ He tapped his head. ‘Got a bad seam running through him.’

  ‘Inspiring, though.’ Ziska had begun to sing a somewhat bawdy hymn, and the cannon crews were clapping and whistling in time. ‘In his own fashion,’ Volker added, lamely. He turned back towards the enemy lines, watching as black shapes mustered in the ruins. ‘They’ll be making another push soon.’

  ‘Aye. They’ve been gathering their courage for the past hour.’

  ‘Too much open ground out there,’ Volker said. ‘They’ll have the advantage of numbers, and the space to use them.’

  ‘Better a rat in the open than in the tunnels,’ Makkelsson said. ‘At least this way we can see how many we kill.’ The duardin tugged on his beard, expression thoughtful. ‘I wonder what the bounty is on skaven tails, these days?’

  ‘If I thought the Small Conclave would actually pay it, I might find out.’

  Makkelsson snorted. ‘True. Never met a more tight-fisted bunch.’

  Volker looked at him. Makkelsson shrugged. ‘Tight-fisted for humans, I mean,’ he clarified.

  Volker chuckled, and sat back against the wall of the trench, his long rifle leaning against his shoulder, the stock braced between his knees. He pulled a rag from his sleeve and began to wipe the rifle down, removing excess powder from the firing mechanism. ­Makkelsson sank to his haunches, watching Volker work.

  ‘You treat that rifle like a rinn,’ he said, approvingly. He fished a pipe from his smock, filled it, and lit it with a spare fuse. A smell like the sour shadows of the deepest coastal caverns rose from the bowl. ‘Oken taught you well.’

  ‘That’s the only way to do anything,’ Volker said. ‘Or so the old grump says.’

  Makkelsson laughed, a deep sound, low and rumbling. ‘Aye, he is that.’ He looked around. ‘He’ll be sorry he missed this.’

  Volker paused. ‘Really?’

  Makkelsson frowned, considering. ‘Probably not.’

  A single, winding note filled the air. Volker looked up. ‘I guess someone took charge,’ he said, gathering his feet under him and standing up, as Makkelsson hurried back to his cannon. Warning bells began to ring, up and down the line. The duckboards reverberated with the tread of armoured demigods, as the hulking, black-clad shapes of the Sons of Mallus moved through the travel trenches towards the front line.

  A retinue of the black-armoured Stormcast Eternals took up positions in the gunners’ trench, ready to defend the Ironweld’s precious artillery from any skaven who managed to get this far. Volker eyed the gigantic warriors surreptitiously.

  It had been almost a century since the Gates of Azyr had been flung open and Sigmar’s storm had raged forth to reclaim the mortal realms. Volker could remember his grandmother’s stories of those first, harrowing days and the demigods who had marched into the maw of Chaos, carrying with them the hopes of the free peoples. The Stormcasts had fought battle after battle against the enemies of Azyr, and forged alliances with old allies and new. Only when the Realmgate Wars had at last ended had those first courageous colonists been allowed to step forth and claim their ancestral birthrights.

  Now, with time and tide behind them, Excelsis and the other Founding Cities were permanent footholds in the mortal realms. And so long as men like Volker manned the guns, they would remain so, whatever the cost. But it helped to have allies such as the Stormcast Eternals. Excelsis was home to no less than three Stormkeeps, manned by warriors from three Stormhosts, including the Sons of Mallus.

  The roar of war-machines split the air. Volker heard Makkelsson snarl a command, and the cannon belched death, adding its bellow to that of the rest of the artillery detachment. From further back he heard the shrill shriek of a rocket battery. The rockets soared overhead, racing to meet the advancing skaven.

  Volker laid his rifle against the edge of the trench and flipped down his range-finder. He flicked through the selection of glass lenses until he found the correct one and leaned forwards, the rifle’s stock braced against his shoulder. He selected a target and
fired – another pack-leader. Pick off the leaders, and the rest of the rats would scurry back into their holes. Without waiting to see whether his shot had hit, he began to reload.

  Around him, the Stormcasts had moved into position, shields raised and warblades ready. He prayed they wouldn’t be needed. If the skaven got this far, there’d be little chance of stopping them. The firing platforms shook to their struts as rocket batteries and cannons fired. Handgunners opened up as well, filling the air with powder smoke. A solid wall of shot met the skaven, and tore those at the front of the advance to shreds.

  The skaven that reached the front line of trenches found themselves face to face with freeguild guard, bolstered by retinues of Stormcasts. Those who weren’t slain out of hand scrambled back across the wasteland between the slums and the trenches. In the forwards trenches, duelling war-cries sounded, as the men of the Iron Bulls and the Bronze Claws regiments celebrated.

  Volker lifted his rifle. ‘They’re retreating,’ he said.

  ‘They always retreat,’ one of the Stormcast said. Her voice thrummed through him like the echo of fading thunder, familiar and welcome, though her accent was strange. Her name was Sora. He’d got to know her somewhat in the weeks since the skavens’ arrival. ‘It is their primary strategy.’

  Volker laughed. ‘And a masterful one it is. Let’s hope they stick to it.’

  She looked down at him. ‘If they run too far, we will not be able to kill them.’

  Makkelsson piped up. ‘They won’t be able to kill us, either. That’s the important bit.’ Murmurs of agreement rose from down the line. The Stormcast looked around, as if puzzled.

  ‘I would not let them hurt you,’ she said. She removed her helmet, and inhaled deeply. With her close-cropped silver hair and bright blue eyes, she put Volker in mind of some hill-country matriarch. Which, like as not, she had been, before Sigmar had chosen her to fight in his name. He couldn’t help but wonder who she had been, before the blessed lightning had carried her to Sigmar’s side so long ago.