Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  Warpfang looked up at the Bastion, wrinkled his snout and spat. The air tasted of gunpowder and blood. The ancient warlord gestured, and the palanquin shifted around, the slaves who carried it grunting and groaning from effort. Warpfang eyed his nervous subordinates stonily. ‘Lucky-lucky, you are,’ he growled. ‘Lucky I have made contingency plans, yes-yes.’

  His subordinates glanced at each other in confusion. Contingency plans? Warpfang licked his muzzle and chittered. They smelled nervous, as well they might. Skaven contingency plans often involved a purging of the ranks. He hunched forwards, clawed gauntlets resting heavily on the armrests of his seat. ‘Your failure was foreseen,’ he hissed. ‘And planned-schemed for.’ He swept a paw out in a dismissive gesture. ‘We will pull-scurry back, yes-yes. Put a killing ground between us and the man-things. Fortify these ruins.’

  His commanders nodded enthusiastically. This way of warfare was more to their liking. Also, it would keep them busy, and away from each other’s throats for the time being. Warpfang had learned much, in his time. Most skaven armies were not defeated by the enemy, but rather the machinations of their own commanders. The constant in-fighting and back-biting led to a breakdown in discipline, which then spread like a rot to even the lowliest slave. Armies could unravel in a single night, if discipline was not maintained.

  And if there was one thing Warpfang knew how to do, it was maintain discipline. A second gesture sent his officers scrambling to obey his orders. He twisted in his seat, taking a last glance at the Bastion. His lip curled over his teeth and his tail lashed.

  It was said that the city was awash in prophecy. Such a thing could be useful to the Verminus clans, and Clan Rictus in particular. But for Warpfang it was more a matter of proving his own superiority. For almost a century, he had met every challenge, and, if not triumphed, at least survived. But here was the greatest challenge yet. And he was determined to meet it, teeth bared, and from a safe distance.

  He snickered softly. Once, nothing could have kept him from leading the attack himself. But he was old now, and age brought wisdom. Let others lead the charge; he would reap the rewards they won. That was his right and privilege.

  But for now, he needed to speak to Quell again. To see where his weapon was. He hissed a command and his slaves bore him away, back to the calm of his burrow. The slaves whimpered and moaned as they hurried the palanquin down the steep tunnel and into the hastily dug warrens that acted as Warpfang’s field headquarters.

  As the palanquin jolted along, Warpfang considered the situation. Quell had promised him a weapon of unimaginable power. Something fit to crack the walls of Excelsis and allow the skaven to plunder its portents and prophecies for themselves. Thus far, Warpfang had seen neither tail nor tip of the promised weapon. But he was confident Quell would hold to his end of the bargain. If he did not, Warpfang would throttle the life from him with his own paws.

  This pleasant thought was interrupted by the smell of fear-musk and the nervous chittering of his guards. He blinked and focused on the entrance to his burrow. There were bodies there – several ­deathvermin, all in various states of mutilation. The rest of the elite warriors were huddled as far away from the entrance as they could get, weapons levelled at whatever lurked within. As they caught sight of the palan­quin, one of them began to splutter an explanation, but Warpfang waved him to silence.

  He sighed and barked a command. The slaves sank to their haunches, lowering the palanquin as gently as they could. Warpfang clambered down, grunting as his joints popped and creaked alarmingly. He was getting stiff in his dotage. Too much sitting, not enough killing. He rubbed the oily surface of the warpstone that covered his muzzle, and considered his options. Then, as ever, Warpfang seized fate by the ­dangling bits and bit down hard.

  The aged skaven stumped into the burrow unaided and alone. The deathvermin chittered encouragingly, but made no move to follow. He hadn’t expected them to. He moved slowly, not out of fear, but simply out of lack of urgency. ‘They were expensive,’ he said, without rancour. ‘Many-many warptokens.’

  ‘What is that to me?’ the creature that waited for him growled. Skewerax, the Frenzy that Walked. The War-Shadow. The Verminlord Warbringer was a hulking nightmare, hairy, muscular limbs shrouded in serrated plates of scarred metal. Ruinous sigils were cut into the plates of the daemon’s armour, and his sinuously curving horns, each larger than a clanrat, rose regally over his noble head. A shaggy mane, matted with the blood of thousands, spilled across his broad shoulders. Even one as jaded as Warpfang felt his heart quicken at the sight of so magnificent a murderer.

  Skewerax glared at him from the deepest darkness of the burrow. The verminlord took up most of the space behind the throne, and over it. One pointed hoof was planted on the seat, a brawny arm braced across his knee. With the paw at the end of his other arm, he poked the cages full of rats, causing them to shriek and squeal in agitation. His talons were wet with blood, Warpfang noticed. The blood of his warriors. The daemon killed as easily as a mortal breathed.

  Despite the blood, and the odour of homicidal mania seeping from the entity’s pores, Warpfang remained calm. He had endured the creature’s tantrums before, and always survived. The key was not to panic. Granted, this was easier said than done.

  ‘Why have you chosen to bestow the honour of your presence upon me, most fierce and magnificent one?’ he asked, eyes downcast. The daemon, like all his kind, went where he willed, and little could be done to gainsay him. Verminlords gnawed through reality as easily as a wolf-rat gnawed through bone, and they scurried through the realms-between-realms in their hundreds. That Skewerax was here now was likely more a sign that the creature was bored, than that he’d come for any real purpose.

  ‘Coward,’ Skewerax said flatly.

  Warpfang grunted and peered at the creature. ‘No. Cunning.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Cannot break through, must wait. So – wait.’ He shrugged. ‘Simple.’

  ‘Are you calling me stupid, warlord?’ Skewerax growled. Acidic slaver dripped from the rat-daemon’s muzzle and scarred the surface of the throne. Warpfang watched the slaver fall and then looked up.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Yes-yes, you are,’ the daemon snarled. He leaned over the throne, planting his talons on the ground before it, and ducked his horned head. Red eyes blazed with fury. ‘You think I am stupid-foolish, that I am blind-dumb. But I am seeing all things, warlord. I am scenting what you are hiding, yes-yes.’ An accusatory talon jabbed forwards. Warpfang didn’t move. To move would be to risk death, and Warpfang had lived too long to die now.

  Occasionally, he wondered why he endured the daemon’s attentions. There were ways of getting rid of such a beast, if warptokens were no object. Verminlords were beloved of the Horned Rat, true, but so was treachery. He had once contemplated binding the daemon into a blade or gemstone, so that he might put Skewerax’s power to more efficient use. But he had never got around to it. Sometimes – now, for instance – he regretted that.

  Skewerax crawled over the throne and hunched towards the old warlord. The daemon’s long horns set the rat-cages to swinging. ‘You think you are smarter than me, rot-jaw. Me – the greatest battle-fighter of the age!’

  Warpfang looked away from those hell-bright eyes, unable to stand their gaze. ‘No-no, great one. But this is a menial thing. Unimportant. Strategy, yes-yes?’

  Skewerax made a disgruntled sound, low in his throat. ‘Strategy?’ The word sounded like a curse. Warpfang glanced up at the towering brute.

  ‘Yes-yes, oh mighty one. Strategy. A necessary scuttling, most savage of all skaven.’ Warpfang gestured. ‘A sideways scuttling, yes?’

  ‘Sideways,’ Skewerax rumbled, uncertainly. Warpfang nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Until the weapon arrives, yes-yes.’ Quell’s weapon. The weapon that would end this siege and see Warpfang master of the largest warren this side of the Blighted City. />
  ‘Yesss.’ Skewerax’s eyes narrowed. ‘Quell must have the weapon. He said he would. He would not lie to me, no-no. Not Quell.’

  It was Warpfang’s turn to hesitate. There was something in the daemon’s tone of voice he didn’t like, as if they were talking about two different things. It wouldn’t surprise him to find out that Skewerax was intent on treachery – such was its nature. And he knew Skewerax was in contact with Quell. The daemon was acting as the renegade’s patron, in much the same way Warpfang himself was. Between them, they might even succeed in keeping Quell alive until winter. Warpfang had his doubts, though he kept them to himself. But would Quell betray one patron for the other? Maybe. It was not outside the realm of possibility. But would even Quell be that petulant? ‘And then he will bring it here?’ he asked, carefully. If the weapon was ready, he needed it sooner rather than later.

  ‘Here? Yes-yes, he must bring it here, so that I might slay-swift the man-things!’ Skewerax reared up, his horns gouging holes in the ceiling. The rats began to scream in their cages as an abominable heat pulsed from the verminlord’s eyes. ‘Where is Quell, stone-snout? Why is he not here-now?’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask him, oh most dreadful of dooms,’ Warpfang murmured. ‘It might make him scurry-hurry faster, yes-yes.’ The daemon had a short memory, and patience to match. The creature was useful on the battlefield, and a sign of the Horned Rat’s favour, but a menace otherwise. Nonetheless, over the years of their acquaintance, Warpfang had learned the art of persuading the daemon to turn its less-than-keen insight elsewhere, leaving him to run the day-to-day operations of their various undertakings unhindered.

  If Quell had some scheme of his own in mind, then throwing Skewerax at him might just derail it. The daemon was no subtle schemer. Skewerax was a berserker. Not stupid, no-no. But his thinking was a straight line, from desire to pounce. Perhaps Quell hoped that he would be easier to manipulate, without Warpfang’s influence. Well, best to disabuse him of that notion, and swiftly.

  ‘Why not speak to him, Great Ravager?’ Warpfang indicated the rats in their cages. ‘I’m sure Quell is eager to hear from you, yes-yes.’

  Skewerax glared at the cages. ‘Another device?’ He tapped one, alarming its occupants. ‘Why must he make so many?’ There was an air of petulance about the daemon now. A simple creature, confronted with the impossibly complex.

  ‘Would you like me to show you how to work it, oh most insightful of strategists?’

  Skewerax growled. ‘I am not stupid. I can work it.’ He gestured. ‘Leave me.’

  Warpfang did, and not without some relief, though the daemon’s disrespect gnawed at his vitals. It would take Skewerax some time to figure out how to work the far-squealer, which would, in turn, keep him occupied. And an occupied daemon was a daemon that wasn’t interfering. Warpfang rubbed his paws together in satisfaction.

  Soon, he would have his weapon. And then the city.

  Thirteen

  Hunter of The Skies

  Adhema watched the crew of the aether-vessel scurry about their tasks, as the Zank glided far above the Amber Steppes. She leaned against the rail, watching the night pass by, and the shadow of the vessel trail across the grasslands far below. She peered down as a herd of wild horses galloped along, just ahead of whatever pursued them. Three days out from Shu’gohl and there was blood in the air, and death on the wind. Despite this, the heartbeats of the duardin around her were steady enough that she was almost lulled into hibernation. Only the smell kept her awake.

  Due to the altitude, or perhaps because of the curious function of the aether-endrins, odour crystallised here. The sour rock stink of duardin hung frozen in the air, and she was unable to escape it. She resolved to ignore it as best she could. But it was hard.

  It had been worse in the hold, with the others. The rank odour of the demigryph mingling with the stink of the duardin and the blood-song of the others, growing stronger day by day. Three days out, and she’d had enough. A confined space was too much like a tomb and she’d spent enough time inside one of those for one eternity. It wasn’t much better out here, however. Duardin everywhere.

  There were Kharadron traders in Shyish, though it was rare they descended past the highest mountain peaks, where their native kin dwelt. The duardin clans of Shyish rarely lived beneath the earth, instead preferring the heights. There were too many things creeping through the dark of the underworld for their liking, she suspected. Some risked it – the duardin of the deserts and wastelands of the south, for instance. But others made their nests in mountain peaks, away from the gaze of those who travelled below.

  Wise, perhaps, given the incessant wars that still raged across the kingdoms of the living and the dead alike.

  Now she speaks of wisdom. How droll, sister. And was it wise, then, in your considered opinion, to join your fate to those of these others?

  ‘I was merely following your example, my lady,’ Adhema whispered. The wind took her words, but she knew Neferata could hear them nonetheless. She was not startled by her queen’s sudden interjection. She had been expecting it since leaving Shu’gohl. ‘Strong allies make for high ramparts, as you have so often said.’

  And are they strong, then?

  ‘Strong enough. There are more hunters on the trail than we anticipated. Given that, I thought it best to eliminate competition and gain a few more swords at my back in one fell swoop.’ She looked up, watching the clouds break like waves. ‘I saw an opportunity and seized it. Am I to be chastised for that?’

  Careful, Adhema. You dance perilously close to insubordination.

  ‘I was often complimented for my dancing, in Szandor.’

  So I recall.

  Adhema sensed Neferata’s amusement. ‘They will serve well enough to ward my flanks, before the last charge. And when the day is won, and our enemy lies gasping out his life, I will claim that which I seek, as is only fair.’

  And if they seek to stop you, as they must?

  Adhema hesitated for a fraction of an instant. She felt no loyalty for the mortals. They certainly felt none for her. And yet, had not the Azyrite put himself between her and the warrior-priest? Perhaps that had only been repayment of a debt, but she did not think so. A strange folk, Azyrites. They held their honour sacred, in a way that was at once familiar and strange to her.

  Honour had been all, to the aristocracy of Szandor. Even the highborn ladies would shuck robes and headdresses to match blades at dawn, in snowy fields. She smiled, thinking of the time she had lengthened her cousin’s smile with a single, lucky slash. The girl had worn her gashed cheeks as a badge of honour – still did, as a matter of fact.

  But the honour of the Azyrite was not as the honour of her kin – it was a plebeian thing, rough and simple. He trusted her because she had given him no reason not to do so. Trust was a precious jewel to her kind, rare and valuable. And not to be shared.

  ‘I would leave their bodies beside that of our enemy,’ Adhema said, at last.

  Good. Do not lose sight of our goal, sister. You must acquire the spear – or see it destroyed. The Huntsman is too deadly to be allowed to fall into the hands of those who might use it against me – against us.

  ‘I will do what must be done, my lady.’ Adhema stretched, enjoying the press of the wind against her body. She felt the dark tremor of the terrorgheist’s sluggish spirit, some distance away. The great bat followed the aethercraft, though not closely. She would need the brute eventually, to make her exit – or to provide a distraction.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary.

  Though it would be a pleasure to open the throat of the mercenary, and the doomseeker. They had insulted her, and only death would ­settle things there. She chuckled softly, imagining their bodies, pale and bloodless under a silvery moon.

  Do not allow yourself to become distracted, sister.

  Neferata’s warning was like a spike dr
iven into her brain, and she winced. The Queen of Mysteries had ways of ensuring the focus of her handmaidens, though she preferred gentler methods on the whole. ‘I will not, my queen.’ Adhema gripped the rail. ‘I will succeed, and the spear will be yours.’

  Good. Safe journey, sister. Neferata’s velvet purr faded, leaving a familiar sense of emptiness. Adhema sighed and shook her head, trying to clear it of the echo of her mistress’ voice.

  ‘Something troubling you?’

  Adhema blinked and turned. The Azyrite stood behind her, leaning on his rifle. She could taste his scent – gun oil and fresh water – on the air and feel the heat of his blood. She licked her lips and smiled.

  Perhaps a small distraction wouldn’t hurt.

  Volker stiffened as the vampire turned. For a moment, her eyes had glowed red and he suddenly remembered the stories he’d heard as a boy. Of the thirsty dead, and the danger of meeting their gaze. He glanced away instinctively. She laughed.

  ‘Scared, Azyrite?’

  ‘No. But there’s no shame in fear. Keeps a man alive.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Adhema studied him. ‘You serve the Crippled God,’ she said, bluntly. ‘Most unusual, for a human.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Adhema shrugged. ‘I think so. And I have lived a very long time.’

  Volker looked at her. ‘How long?’

  ‘Long enough. Why do you serve him?’

  ‘Why do you serve your mistress?’

  ‘I only have one mistress. You have two gods.’ Adhema gestured to his medallion, which clinked against the rim of his breastplate. He hastily thrust it back beneath his armour.

  ‘Grungni is an ally of Sigmar.’

  ‘Is he? There is talk, you know. Whispers that imply otherwise. The dead murmur, and we hear.’ She smiled thinly. ‘They say the Crippled God has abandoned the old alliance, as others have done before him. That he too chafes beneath the rule of the God-King.’