Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  ‘However you learned of them, they serve a new master now.’ Adhema rolled one of the bodies over with her foot. ‘More gods than Grungni desire the Eight Lamentations, and those gods have many servants. Indeed, I followed one such to this realm. I had assumed he might come here. Instead, I find these.’ She shrugged. ‘Still, lucky for you, eh?’

  ‘Luckier still to kill you now, leech.’ Lugash raised his axe menacingly. ‘The dead can’t be trusted. Especially the kind that can talk.’ He took a step towards the vampire, but before he’d got very far she jabbed the tip of her sword to his nose. Lugash froze. The vampire had moved faster than any of them had been able to follow.

  ‘And here I was speaking so sweetly,’ Adhema said, silky menace evident in every word. ‘I can speak more harshly, if you like. Perhaps I’ll cut you a third ear, to facilitate your listening.’

  ‘Or you could forgive him, and join our company,’ Volker said quickly, ignoring the astounded looks the others gave him. Adhema glanced at him. ‘It’s clear you’re after the same thing we are. Why not pool our resources? We might get further working together than apart.’

  Adhema grinned. ‘And what about when the day is won?’

  ‘Let us win it first, and then we can talk.’

  Adhema cocked her head, as if listening to something. Then her grin matured into a smile. She lifted her blade from Lugash’s nose and sheathed it with a flourish. ‘Wise words, from one so young.’ She pulled off her helmet and ran a hand through her tangled locks. She had a narrow face, aristocratic and hard. Red eyes met his own. ‘I look forwards to fighting beside you… Owain.’

  Nyoka cleared her throat. ‘The Feathers may well serve a new master, but they appear to be searching for the same thing as last time.’ She gestured to the book, as she checked over the unconscious men.

  ‘They were after the same thing you are,’ Adhema said, leaning against a shelf. ‘The same thing I came for, as well.’ She smiled at Nyoka’s look of consternation. ‘A secret is only as good as the people who keep it.’ She gestured to the beads. ‘Though what this one is, exactly, escapes me.’

  ‘It is a bead book,’ Lugash said softly. ‘Ordinarily, they’d hang from an iron frame. This one must have been lost.’ He ran his calloused fingers along the rune-marked beads, mouth moving silently.

  ‘Shu’gohl gnaws the earth as it passes,’ Nyoka said. ‘Many ancient places now reside in his gullet. Perhaps the remains of one of your people’s lodges are among them.’

  ‘What does it say?’ Volker asked.

  ‘It’s an old dialect – one of the Far Lodges, I think. Those who were cut off with the coming of Chaos.’ He frowned. ‘It’s incomplete. There’s something about a weapon, and a fortress…’ He began to read. ‘They were once part of the Lofnir lodge, but there was a disagreement of some sort, as there always is, in lodges of a certain size.’ He smiled bitterly, as if reminded of a private joke. ‘Falnekk, twelfth son of Hardrekk-Grimnir took one-sixteenth of the lodge’s gold, as well as a grumdael, into the gaze of the sun, there to set his vault among the deep roots of the thunwurtgaz…’

  Volker mouthed the words, wracking his brain for a translation into a more familiar dialect. The words were almost like those he was familiar with, but not quite. ‘An artefact?’

  Lugash nodded absently. He blinked. ‘That can’t be right. It says they went to the great forest of Gorch, bearing ur-gold and an artefact won in battle.’

  Volker frowned. ‘A forest? That seems unusual.’ He’d heard of Gorch. It was the largest forest near the Coast of Tusks, stretching for untold leagues and thick, besides. It was said, by those who’d had the bad fortune to skirt its edges, that it was always night in Gorch, for no light passed through its ever-growing canopy.

  ‘There must be a mistake.’ Lugash made to examine the beads more closely. The duardin sounded almost insulted. ‘Proper duardin don’t live in trees.’

  ‘Except for the ones who do,’ Zana said. A sudden clatter interrupted any reply Lugash might have made. The sound brought them all around, weapons drawn. Zana laughed. ‘Look who finally showed up.’

  ‘What is this blasphemy?’ Lector Calva roared. He stood amid the devastation, surrounded by freeguild soldiery and accompanied by several other warrior-priests. He raised his warhammer threateningly. ‘What have you fools done?’

  ‘Killed some Chaos filth. You’re welcome.’ Lugash dragged one of the corpses up by its hood of feathers and then dropped it. ‘Where were you, by the way? Haranguing the faithful?’

  Calva glared at the fyreslayer, his face purpling with anger. Nyoka stepped between them. ‘Our brothers are injured. See to them.’ Her voice had the ring of authority. Volker studied her as she faced the apoplectic lector. She might be an acolyte now, but had she always been one? Or had Calva’s arrival brought more changes than just the obvious? Her acquaintance with Grungni was beginning to make more sense.

  The other priests snapped into action, hurrying to the aid of the unconscious men. Calva’s glare found new targets, but he made no attempt to stop them. His authority was apparently as tenuous as Volker had suspected. The lector looked around, frowning. ‘The air smells of witchery.’

  ‘They are – were – sorcerers,’ Nyoka said, handing her hammer to one of the other priests. He took it gingerly, wincing at the blood and brain matter clinging to it. ‘And they have paid the price for it.’

  ‘Not them,’ Calva said. His monocle gleamed as he fixed it on Adhema. ‘Take that thing into custody.’ The freeguild started forwards, weapons lowered. Volker unslung his long rifle and cocked it. The sound was loud, as he’d intended. The freeguilders stopped. They knew that sound. Calva did as well.

  ‘Again,’ he said, heavily. ‘Again, you would put yourself between the righteous and the unrighteous. Why?’

  Volker didn’t reply. Nor did he aim the weapon at anyone in particular. He simply waited, with the patience of a gunmaster of the Ironweld. ‘What are you doing, Azyrite?’ Zana murmured, coming to stand behind him.

  Volker had no answer for her. In truth, he didn’t know why he was doing it. Gratitude, perhaps. Or pragmatism – the vampire knew things, that was obvious. He still wasn’t sure why she’d bothered to intervene, but until he had reason to suspect otherwise, she might prove a strong ally. And even if not, he’d prefer to keep her where he could see her.

  ‘Negotiating, I think,’ Roggen said. He leaned on his sword, seemingly at ease. ‘He does it very well.’

  Calva ground his teeth, looking from one person to the next. His face went through several interesting contortions and hues, as he visibly fought to control his temper. Then, with a sigh, he said, ‘This place has seen enough violence. Go – take your leech and go.’

  He glanced at Nyoka, but said nothing. Merely glared. A hard glare, that, but wary now; not quite so arrogant. Nyoka, for her part, merely nodded serenely. She looked down at Lugash. ‘You remember what you read?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he growled. He tapped the side of his head. ‘Duardin don’t forget.’

  ‘Good. Then we should get out of here, before your lector changes his mind.’ Zana sheathed her sword with a clatter. She glanced at Adhema. ‘You could say thank you.’

  Adhema smiled. ‘I could have handled them.’

  Zana nodded. ‘Maybe you could have, at that.’ She grinned. ‘Spared you the effort, though. So a little gratitude would be nice.’ Adhema clicked her heels together and bowed mockingly. Zana looked at Volker. ‘Sure you don’t want to shoot her?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not today.’ He started towards the doors. ‘I fear we might need her, before we’re done.’

  Ahazian Kel rode through the shadows of great worms, hunched low over the neck of his steed. Arrows jutted from his back and shoulders, his arms, and one singularly annoying one from his throat. It made cursing difficult, and he dearly wished to curse.


  The riders had come upon him suddenly. Vurm-tai nomads – worm-riders. Some steppe clans had taken to following the migration routes of the great worms and picking over what was left in their wake, or raiding the caravans that travelled to and from the worm-cities. He glanced up at the heaving bastion of segmented flesh that blocked the horizon from view and shook the earth beneath the hooves of his steed.

  It was as dark as night here, in the lee of the great worm, Rhu’goss. Ancient wounds, carved by the efforts of thousands of slaves, marred its hide. Once those wounds had boasted of the glory of Khorne. Now, healed and scabbed over, they spoke of defeat, and challenge. What had once belonged to the gods had been taken and made weak once more, by the storm of Sigmar. Fresh rains had washed away sour ichor, and closed the unhealing wounds sliced into the great beast’s flesh at the order of its conqueror.

  Far above him he could just make out the watch towers and defensive emplacements clustered at irregular intervals along the beast’s flank. Having been conquered once, the inhabitants of Rhu’goss were determined never to let it happen again. Mirror-lights shone down like stars, sweeping the grasslands for any sign of trouble. Great horns blew warning notes as one such beam passed over him and his pursuers. He paid them no mind.

  Ahazian turned, tracking the outriders as they sought to intercept him. They were a dark folk, burnished by sun and rain, and clad in scavenged armour decorated with worm-scale, furs, and feathered back-banners rising above their heads. Their horses were spotted, long-limbed beasts, with tangled manes, protected by boiled leather armour. The nomads weren’t archers by inclination. That they’d tagged him as many times as they had was due more to volume than skill. Like his own folk, the Vurm-tai preferred the cut and thrust of honest battle. Each rider carried a profusion of weapons for that purpose.

  They would try to knock him from his steed or cripple the beast. Then they would surround him like wolves around a crag-elk, wearing him down until a killing blow could be delivered. Ahazian grinned, despite the pain. A fine people. An honourable folk. It was a shame he’d have to kill them. But needs must, and he was getting hungry besides. As was his steed. He reached down and slapped the black stallion’s neck. ‘Time to hunt, pretty one.’

  The black horse squealed eagerly. They’d come to something of an understanding, in the time since they’d galloped through the Jaws and into this realm. Both of them were hunters, and eaters-of-men. Both were content to serve, so long as their needs were met.

  The riders were closer now, veering towards him, arrows nocked and ready to fly. So close he could see feral grins stretching across weather-beaten faces, and old scars marking leathery skin. How long had they ruled the shadow-steppes, in the protective thunder of the worms? A century? More? They had never been conquered, these folk. Never bowed to any power, Ruinous or otherwise. They worshipped the worms and their own strength.

  It would be a pleasure to teach them of their folly.

  Ahazian tore the arrow from his throat and hauled his legs up onto the saddle. Perched there, one hand tangled in his steed’s mane for balance, he hefted his goreaxe. His skullhammer whined in resentment, consigned to his belt for the moment. ‘Patience, my friend, patience,’ he murmured. ‘Good things come to those who… wait.’ As the word left his lips, he left the saddle, leaping towards the closest rider with a joyful yell.

  He crashed into the startled nomad, knocking him from his saddle. They fell in a tangle and Ahazian buried his axe in the man’s skull. His steed leapt upon the nomad’s, sinking its teeth into the other horse’s throat. Ahazian kicked his way free of his victim, retrieved his axe and drew his hammer.

  It had been hours since his last bloodletting. It might as well have been a century. He slammed his weapons together and laughed. ‘Come then, my friends – come and fight. But sing your death-songs now, to save time.’

  A horse galloped past. He ducked the swing of an axe and smashed the animal’s legs out from under it. The beast rolled, screaming. Its rider was on his feet quickly, hurt but moving. He flung himself at Ahazian, single-bladed axe raised over his head. He was a tall man, snake-thin, wearing rough leathers beneath a loose cuirass made from worm-scale and braided animal hide. The only bit of metal on him was his helmet – a battered conical war-hood with a curving visor over his eyes. He spat something in the worm-tongue as he chopped down at Ahazian. The deathbringer twitched aside and drove his skull­hammer into his opponent’s spine, shattering it.

  Horses circled him. More arrows came, but fewer now. Warriors slid from their saddles, whooping in eagerness. Some had brightly painted shields decorated with furs and feathers, while others carried long spears with thin, fang-like blades. Those with shields smacked them with the flat of their weapons, chanting eerily, as the rest converged. The worm continued on its way, unaware of the drama playing out in its shadow.

  Ahazian turned, trying to keep all of his enemies in sight. Thirty, at least. Despite their numbers, he smiled. A good fight, this. Not his best, but… adequate. Nearby, his steed continued to feast on its screaming prey and he smiled in amusement. Such a beautiful beast. He hoped he would not have to kill it.

  The noise of weapons hammering shields began to annoy him. What were they waiting for? An invitation? He raised his weapons and spread his arms, waiting. A warrior stepped forwards out of the crowd.

  ‘Zig-mah-HAI!’ the warrior bellowed as he slammed his axe against the surface of his shield. For the first time, Ahazian noticed the azure zigzags that marked their arms and armour. Crudely rendered lightning bolts. Sigmarites, then. No wonder they had pursued him so fiercely. The others took up the chant, stamping their feet and whistling.

  His own people had worshipped Sigmar, before the coming of Khorne. The Skull-Splitter. The Hammer of Witches. They had cast captives and slaves into the fire by the hundreds, all in his name, but the storm-god had never so much as spoken to them. He preferred his people to be sheep, not wolves. And the Ekran, for all their faults, had most certainly been wolves.

  Ahazian stretched, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders, loosening them. ‘Come on then. Let us give the Skull-Splitter a show.’

  The warrior sprang towards him, axe raised. Ahazian met him. His axe sheared through his opponent’s, even as his hammer crushed the man’s shield. The warrior staggered, a look of anger on his face. No fear there, only frustration. Ahazian kicked him in the chest, pulverising his ribs. He pursued the wounded man and casually pulped his knee. The warrior fell, and Ahazian took his head. He reached down and hooked the head with the tip of his axe, holding it up. He flung it at the feet of the closest nomad. ‘Next.’

  One by one they came to die in the shadow of the worm. He could not fault their determination, or their courage. Axes and blades scarred his war-plate and his flesh, but he never slowed or stopped. He had held his own against hundreds. Thirty was nothing; a drop of blood in the ocean he’d already spilled. And would yet spill, once the Spear of Shadows was his. The thought drove him on, faster and fiercer.

  To hold such a weapon was to be one with war itself. To dance on the black rim of destruction, surrounded on all sides by a wine-dark sea. That was the dream of a Kel, the only dream worth seeing to fruition. An eternity of death and slaughter, spent among the funeral pyres of a thousand kingdoms. He laughed at the thought of it, and how close it was.

  Khorne was no conqueror, no king. He was no lord, to be paid fealty to. Khorne was a tempest, a raw force, to be followed and filled with. Khorne was the war-wind, the blood-dimmed tide, sweeping over all things and subsuming them. Only in giving in to war could a warrior truly know victory. Only in fighting without purpose could one find the true beauty in battle. There was no purpose worth fighting for. Only the fight itself.

  ‘And when war is all, what will you do, Ahazian Kel?’

  Ahazian spun, skullhammer snapping out. It passed through the speaker’s head, as if the skull in question were no
more substantial than smoke. Volundr stared at him, red eyes gleaming within his monstrous helm, thick arms crossed over his chest. He’d wrought his sending from the steam rising from the cooling bodies of the dead. The warrior-smith glanced around. ‘I had thought you smarter than this, hero of Ekran.’

  Ahazian looked. The Vurm-tai were dead; thirty men, butchered like lambs. They had stood their ground and died to a warrior. He felt a flicker of remorse. Had he been wiser, he would have let one live, to pass his bravery down to further generations. It was the only way to ensure worthy opponents in the eternity to come.

  ‘They attacked me,’ he said, turning back to Volundr. ‘Perhaps they were tired of life. It is a hard one, in these lands. Maybe a glorious death seemed preferable.’

  ‘Or maybe you provoked them.’

  Ahazian shrugged. ‘And so? I emerge victorious.’

  ‘Time is not our ally, boy.’

  Ahazian frowned. ‘Do not call me boy, warrior-smith. I left childhood behind long ago.’

  ‘Then why don’t you act like it?’ Volundr pointed. ‘The fragment sings – listen to it, and do not tarry! You are alone in a sea of enemies, and not even your vaunted strength will be enough to carry you through. Use your wits as well as your weapons, or you will fail.’

  Ahazian bristled. ‘I am a Kel of the Ekran. I do not fail.’ He thrust his axe through his belt and reached up to grab the sliver of Gung on its rawhide thong. Volundr was right – it was singing, though he’d been deaf to it during the bloodletting.

  Images passed through his mind, shadowy and undefined. Landmarks. A place – where? He blinked, trying to understand what he was seeing. He heard muffled sounds, smelled a verminous odour. Felt a wash of unnatural heat.

  ‘You see it, don’t you?’

  Volundr’s voice snapped him back to reality. ‘You see where the spear is hidden,’ the warrior-smith continued. His eyes blazed and his hands clenched. ‘Find it – now. Or die in the attempt.’