Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  Volker lifted his rifle and braced it on the rail. Through his rangefinder, he could see the eerie glow of sorcery, bristling across the mega­lofin’s massive skull. ‘There’s someone on his head.’

  ‘What?’ Brondt spluttered, turning to stare at the approaching leviathan. ‘That’s cheating!’

  ‘That’s life in the realms,’ Zana said. ‘He’s getting closer, Brondt. Any other tricks up your sleeve? Maybe a flotilla or two?’ She gripped her sword helplessly. Nyoka and the others looked equally nonplussed. Even Adhema seemed taken aback by the situation. But then, it likely wasn’t every day that the vampire found herself on the wrong end of the food chain, Volker concluded.

  Brondt glared at Zana, but vented his ire on the speaking-tube instead. ‘I need more speed, Thalfi,’ he roared. ‘All ahead full, endrinmaster, and damn the stars.’ A voice crackled in reply, and the soft glow of the aether-endrins began to brighten. ‘All hands to the volley cannons and aethershot carbines. Brace for engagement.’ The crew hurried to obey, shoving past Roggen and the others.

  ‘I must see to Harrow – if she gets loose…’ the knight said, as he hurried below decks.

  ‘Leave that beast where it is. We might need you up here,’ Zana shouted after him. ‘Or at least wake up Lugash while you’re down there!’ When he didn’t stop, she shook her head in disgust. ‘I suppose we won’t need him, at that. Not much any of us can do to that thing.’ She glanced at Adhema. ‘Not even you.’

  ‘Keep talking, and you will see what I can do, mortal.’

  ‘Quiet,’ Nyoka said, her voice a whip-crack of authority. ‘Discord is the sour in the meat. Thus spake Gu’ibn’sahl the Sage to the Conclave of the Third Segment.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?’ Zana asked Volker. He pointed at the Great King.

  ‘She’s saying we’ve got more important things to worry about than each other.’

  The air shuddered as the Great King bulled through the clouds, drawing ever closer. Volker ignored the thrill of fear that congealed within him, and tried to focus on the tiny figure standing atop the creature. It was a man, he thought, but surrounded by a scintillating shroud of weirdly coloured flame. He shifted the rifle’s position, ignoring the voices raised in argument behind him. He heard a soft murmuring and realised that Nyoka had begun to pray. The words gave him some comfort and he mouthed them along with her.

  He’d faced sorcerers before, but always on the battlefield, and always at a distance. That was the best way to handle anyone who glowed strangely and shouted a lot. This one was controlling the Great King, if the ghostly chains and fiery lashes were anything to go by. Urging the megalofin towards them with pain and sorcery.

  The Great King opened its jaws wide, obscuring the horizon. ‘Vent the starboard belaying valves,’ Brondt roared, clutching the speaking-tube as if to throttle it. The Zank lurched sideways, venting aether-gas from its starboard valves. Volker readjusted his aim to compensate, counting down. He had the range, barely. But he needed to be sure. A wounded sorcerer was a dangerous sorcerer.

  The vast shape closed in, bringing with it the stink of death. ­Volker’s vision was momentarily filled by teeth. Metal screeched, and the endrins’ hum became erratic. The deck shuddered beneath his feet. He heard the rumble of the volley cannons, and the dark was lit up by bursts of fire. A gunhauler swept past the Zank, guns blazing. Some of the smaller vessels were still in the fight, but they seemed helpless to stop the leviathan.

  The craft shivered as the great teeth slammed down on the observation cupola, tearing it loose from the hull. Aethershot carbines barked, as Brondt bellowed orders to his crew. Explosions caressed the monster’s hide. The megalofin swept past the Zank, shaking it down to its rivets. The Kharadron fired every weapon at their disposal, trying to discourage the beast, but whether due to sorcery or its own hunger, the Great King was determined to have them. It thrashed through the clouds, blotting out the stars, the moons, the ground below, each in turn as it circled its prey and sought to intercept it.

  The aether-vessel rolled and banked, moving so swiftly that its straining endrins moaned like lost souls. The clouds were lit up by the fiery breath of the volley cannons. Belaying valves kept the Zank out of the Great King’s jaws, but only just. The deck pitched and yawed, sending the crew, as well as Zana and the others, stumbling against the rails. Volker lashed himself to the rail by the edge of his coat, threading it around the metal and tying it in a knot. Through it all, he kept his rifle aimed, waiting for the shot.

  ‘Fragmentation charges – seed the clouds,’ Brondt roared, maintaining his footing on the rolling deck through sheer willpower. ‘Do it!’

  Volker heard the rumble-chunk of oscillating mechanisms. Housing plates on the hull sprang open, as crewmembers below decks rolled out the charges. Sputtering shapes vanished into the clouds, followed by the bone-deep boom of explosions. The megalofin roared in fury as the clouds erupted into a firestorm. Volker blinked tears from his eyes as a solid wave of heat rolled over him. The paintwork peeled from the rear of the Zank, and metal blackened. But the Great King emerged from the conflagration, jaws wide and hunger undiminished.

  Brondt, cursing vituperatively, wrenched the speaking-tube around and drew his volley pistol. ‘Stonehelm, get your Thunderers up here, on the double. I–’ He was interrupted by a sudden lurch as the Great King passed close by, nearly throwing the vessel off course. The mega­lofin was drawing nearer with every circuit.

  Volker tuned out Brondt’s increasingly hoarse bellows and concentrated on his calculations. He followed the megalofin’s progress, tracking it, accounting for windage and range. Waiting for the right moment. He blinked. There.

  The Great King dived down, like the black thing from his dreams. It was too big for Volker to perceive it, save as a tidal wave of teeth and scarred flesh. But the figure on its head was easy to track. It was just a matter of seeing through the colours. A tremor ran through his legs. The Zank was turning in the air, and there was a sound like a dying animal. One of the endrins was venting aether-gas. Something had been damaged in the last pass, given the way Brondt was cursing. Guns thundered into the mouth of destruction. The Great King came on, remorseless. As inevitable as death.

  ‘Azyrite, what are you doing – we’ve got to get below,’ Zana said, grabbing his shoulder. ‘If we’re up here when that thing hits…’

  ‘I’m concentrating,’ Volker said, shaking her off.

  ‘And we’re crashing,’ Zana shouted. He ignored her, took a steadying breath and pulled the trigger. The long rifle roared, but the sound was lost in the scream of the Zank’s dying. The aethercraft turned in the air, losing its hold on the sky, emitting aether-gas. Volker lost his balance and slid across the deck with bone-jarring force as his coat tore, crashing into Zana. She hit the rail and nearly went over. Volker wasn’t so lucky.

  Zana caught his hand, just before he left the deck. ‘Hold on, Azyrite!’ She clung tight to the rail. Volker concentrated on gripping her hand, and his rifle. Everything was shaking, and he couldn’t tell what was up or down any more. The ship seemed to be spinning end over end as it plummeted down towards a vast expanse of green below. His stomach lurched as his legs kicked out over the void.

  The Great King had got below them somehow. The megalofin was burning, though whether due to sorcery or the Kharadron weapons, he couldn’t tell. Whatever the cause, the fire crawling across its hide didn’t seem to hinder the leviathan in any way. It plunged upwards to meet them, its maw growing larger and larger. Volker wanted to close his eyes, but couldn’t look away from the yawning, tooth-studded chasm.

  And then, it was gone. Surging past the dying vessel, towards the cold reaches of the firmament, perhaps in search of something to quench the flames. A last, spiteful lash of its wide tail caught the falling craft and sent it spinning further and faster downwards. He heard Zana yelling and Brondt bellowing comm
ands, and then he heard only the howl of the wind and the frantic thrashing of his own heart, as the ground raced up to meet them.

  Ahazian drew back on the reins. In the distance, the trees of Gorch rose high, like the wall of some incomprehensibly vast citadel. It was said that the smallest of those trees was equal to the greatest siege tower, both in height and sturdiness. That so little light could pierce the green canopy, that the roots of the trees and what dwelled within them did so in permanent gloom. His dreams had been green for some time. Green and murmuring, like the constant pacing of hairy bodies, moving back and forth just out of sight.

  But the dreams had changed, as had the song. The Huntsman no longer whispered of the cool, dark forest, but instead of – what? He didn’t know. But his head echoed with the clamour of it, and his nose burned from the stink of spilled oil and reeking bodies.

  Ahazian was no fool. Someone had got to the spear before him. There were other possibilities, but that was the most likely. Annoyed, he’d driven his steed hard across the Amber Steppes, barely pausing, save when the beast needed feeding. Luckily, there were orruks and nomads aplenty in these lands, and they all had more courage than sense.

  But now someone was standing between him and his destination. A heavy chariot, of bone and black iron, was nearby, among the bloody grasses. A team of night-black steeds pawed at the ground, their flesh marked by bony encrustations and their manes matted and stiff, like quills. The horse-things snorted as he drew his own steed up short, and his mount bugled in challenge.

  The tawny grasses hissed in the wind. Broken piles of rock pierced the surface, built in ages past by a now-scattered people. Great poles of wood, hung with bronze plates decorated with strange, vine-like sigils, jutted from them at odd angles. They were the remains of walls, perhaps, or barrows. Ahazian neither knew nor cared, save that they made an ideal spot for an ambush, as the broken arrows still jutting from his armour attested to. Ravens gambolled among the stones, croaking and squawking, even as they watched his approach with inordinate interest.

  ‘The birds said you would be coming this way. They led me to this place.’

  Ahazian turned, as the owner of the chariot stepped out from between the nearest stack of rocks, reeking of death. Strange charms and tokens hung from about his neck – death fetishes and shrunken heads. The breastplate of his black armour was etched with scenes of battle. His helmet was crafted in the shape of a skull, and the haft of his axe was a human femur. The axe rested over one broad shoulder as he set himself in Ahazian’s path. The warrior gestured.

  ‘Long ago, I learned the tongue of carrion birds. Today, it has served me well.’

  ‘Or badly,’ Ahazian said. His weapons stirred, scenting death. He slid from the saddle and gave his steed a slap, to send it trotting out of the way. He rolled his shoulders, loosening them, and cracked his neck.

  ‘I know your scent, deathbringer,’ the hulking warrior rumbled, watching him. ‘I am Skern, the Gallowswalker. Gift me your name, so that I might etch it into my blade afterwards.’ He lifted his axe for emphasis.

  ‘Ahazian Kel, a Kel of the Ekran, and the doom of any who would stand between me and my destiny.’ Ahazian studied the warrior. ‘We have met before, in the Soulmaw.’ The great weapons-smithy between worlds, where the tools of Khorne’s wars were forged. Where Ahazian had learned of the Eight Lamentations, and been set on his current path.

  Skern laughed, a sound like the clicking of bones against a tombstone. ‘Yes. I would have taken your head then, had the forgemasters not separated us.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ahazian mused. This was an old rite, and one he knew well. Two deathbringers could not meet in peace. Such was the will of Khorne. No warrior could defy it. And no warrior worth his name would wish to do so. ‘And which of them do you serve, Gallowswalker? From the stink of you, I’d say Zaar, the Hound of Shyish.’

  ‘Aye, as you serve the Skull-Cracker,’ Skern chortled. ‘I have too long spilt the dusty marrow of the dead. I would have the taste of living blood in my mouth.’ He lifted his axe and extended it. ‘Yours, for preference.’

  ‘We serve the same cause, brother. Khorne guides us.’ Ahazian gripped his weapons tightly. He remembered the brute now – one of the deathbringers summoned by the forgemasters, even as he himself had been. There had been others, each chosen by one of Volundr’s rivals to serve them in the quest for the Eight Lamentations. Only one champion would survive, as only one forgemaster could prosper.

  ‘And Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows. But Zaar does, and he would see your master humbled in the eyes of the Blood God. He would see me take that trinket you wear, and claim the prize in his name.’ He gestured to the fragment of the spear, dangling from its rawhide thong.

  ‘And what would you see, Skern Gallowswalker?’

  ‘Blood, Ahazian Kel. Freshly spilled and dripping from my axe.’ Skern lunged, axe whirling over his head. Ahazian dived aside, avoiding the blow. He came to his feet in a crash of armour and swung his skullhammer, hoping to end the fight quickly. Every moment he delayed, the further away his quarry drew.

  Perhaps that was the point. The birds watched in silence from the rocks, their gazes knowing and cruel. More than just the servants of Khorne were on the hunt for the Eight Lamentations. And some of them were known for subtlety.

  Skern caught the head of the hammer on his palm, and held it. ­Ahazian blocked the brute’s axe with his own and they stood for a moment, straining against one another. Skern leaned close. ‘I nearly had you in the lowlands, before you fled Shyish,’ he growled. ‘I thought to claim the fragment then, but you had already reached the Jaws.’

  ‘I did not flee, and you should have tried harder.’ Ahazian jerked his head forwards and cracked their skulls together. Surprised, Skern stumbled back. Their axes parted with a screech. Ahazian spun and drove his goreaxe into Skern’s forearm. The warrior’s hand spasmed and his axe fell to the ground. He roared and buffeted Ahazian with a tooth-rattling blow, knocking him sprawling. His weapons were torn from his grip by the force of the blow. Their frustrated screams rose wild in his mind, forcing out all other thought.

  Skern snatched up his axe with his unwounded hand and whirled it around, chopping a chunk out of the rune decorating Ahazian’s helm, as the deathbringer tried to rise. Ahazian fell back, dazed. Skern advanced on him, axe raised.

  ‘I will hang your skull from my belt, in honour of your bravery,’ Skern said.

  ‘Don’t count your skulls before they’re collected,’ Ahazian hissed. He swept his foot out, knocking Skern’s legs from under him. Ahazian leapt onto the fallen deathbringer, clawing for his throat, even as he batted the axe from his hand. He tore the gorget away with a screech of popping rivets, exposing the leathery neck beneath, and sank his fingers into Skern’s throat. Skern clawed at his head and neck, trying to heave him off or blind him, but Ahazian held him down. Throttling him, slowly but surely. It was not as satisfying as the axe, or the hammer, but it was just as effective.

  Volundr had warned him of this, that the other forgemasters might resort to butchery when cunning failed. The skullgrinders could not strike at one another, for they had sworn an oath before the throne of Khorne to restrain their fury against each other, until such time as Khorne reigned supreme. But they could spill an ocean of servants’ blood, if it suited them. The fragment of Gung was invaluable, and he’d known that he wasn’t the only one seeking it. That Skern had been determined enough to pursue him this far was something of a surprise – but then, single-mindedness was a common trait among deathbringers.

  Skern’s fists pounded against his arms and shoulders as Ahazian squeezed his throat more tightly yet. The fire in the deathbringer’s eyes blazed bright. Surrender was anathema to such as him – another common trait. But Ahazian had strangled stronger foes. He had ­throttled his sister’s children in their cots, and his grandfather upon his throne. Skern was nothing, next
to that.

  And soon enough, that was proven true. The fire flickered, dimmed and was snuffed. Ahazian waited, counting the seconds. Waited until the fists uncurled, like dying spiders. Until the armour sagged with a clatter. Until the neck-bone crumbled. Breathing heavily, Ahazian stood. He snatched up Skern’s axe and swung it down, separating the other champion’s head from his shoulders. Just in case. Then he freed the horses from Skern’s chariot and scattered them. The beasts would have freed themselves in any case, but he saw no reason not to aid them.

  He embedded the axe in a rock pile and hung Skern’s head from it, so that his ghost could watch as the carrion birds feasted on his body. He looked up at the black birds watching him from above. ‘Well, then – did that work out as you hoped?’ he asked, as he retrieved his weapons. ‘Did you lead him here to kill me – or for me to kill him?’

  The ravens croaked mockingly. Ahazian took a step towards the birds, and they sprang into the air, flapping away in a swirl of feathers. The deathbringer stared after them, but only for a moment.

  He still had a quest to finish, and a weapon to claim.

  Fifteen

  Spider-Haunt

  Volker cracked an eyelid. The world had stopped spinning, but his stomach hadn’t got the message yet. Blood dripped into his eyes, and his head felt like someone had tried to kick it off. He was lying against the railing, and everything was green. He smelled wet bark and something else – something acrid. It reminded him of Excelsis, and dark alleyways.

  Spider webs. He coughed, trying to remember how to breathe. There were spider webs in the trees. The world had been reduced to a canopy of vines, entangled branches and thick, interwoven leaves. And there were thick mats of webbing spread liberally across all of it. So thick was the white substance that rainwater had collected in it, in places, and turned stagnant. Around these sour pools, patches of spongy fungus had grown and spread, like a cancerous infection, stretching from tree to tree.