Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  ‘She is communing with spirits,’ Nyoka murmured, from beside him. The priestess sat before the fire, her legs folded beneath her, back straight, her hammer flat on the ground before her. She had her eyes closed, and Volker wondered how she’d known who he was looking at.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Only one spirit,’ she said, without opening her eyes. Thunder ­rumbled distantly, and she smiled, as if she had received an answer to an unspoken question. Chilled, Volker turned away. The others spoke quietly among themselves. Roggen and Zana had the easy familiarity of old comrades. Even Lugash had thawed some. Or perhaps he was simply still in a good mood from killing spiders.

  ‘What do you think happened to them? This lodge, I mean.’ Zana took a bite of dried meat, and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Are they still here?’

  ‘No.’ Lugash scraped a whetstone along the edge of his axe. ‘If they were, those filthy spiders wouldn’t be.’ He paused, a wistful expression on his face. ‘So many of the Far Lodges are no more. They vanished into the fires, forgotten, save in the records of their kin. We seek them still, though most think them no more than ash on the wind.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ Volker asked.

  Lugash resumed sharpening his axe. ‘I think it does not matter what I think. It is what it is, and no thought or wish can change that.’

  Before anyone could respond, something rumbled, out in the dark. Not thunder this time, but something else. Lugash was on his feet in moments, head cocked. ‘Drums,’ he grunted. Adhema chuckled.

  ‘So, you finally heard them. They must be drawing close enough for mortal ears.’ She stretched lazily. ‘You are correct. They are drums. They’ve been banging away since the sun set.’

  ‘If the duardin are gone, who’s out there beating on drums?’ Zana asked.

  ‘Greenskins,’ Roggen said, feeding Harrow a chunk of dried meat. ‘We passed several of their curse markers earlier.’ He looked around. ‘Did I forget to mention that?’

  Lugash laughed harshly. ‘No need to mention it. I saw them.’

  ‘I bloody well didn’t!’ Zana sat up. ‘This is like that time you forgot to mention when we were being trailed by those one-eyed beasts in the Mistmere.’

  ‘I did not want to worry you,’ Roggen protested.

  ‘They almost cracked open my skull!’

  Volker spoke up before she could continue. ‘Orruks?’ he asked Roggen. He’d fought orruks before, and had little wish to repeat the experience. Lugash snorted.

  ‘Grots,’ he spat. ‘Spiderfang.’ He gestured to the webs that clung to the trees. ‘Use your eyes, manling.’

  ‘It’d help if you used your mouth, and let us know we were walking into enemy territory,’ Volker said. ‘What’s got them stirred up? Us – or maybe Brondt and the others?’ He felt a sickly sensation at the thought. The Kharadron were tough, and armed to the teeth, but that meant little to foes like the Spiderfang tribes. They would swarm and swarm again, so long as their shamans commanded it.

  ‘No,’ Adhema said. ‘There’s something else on the air.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Lugash growled. ‘They’re on the war-road. We’re not enough of a threat to get them that agitated.’ He sounded disappointed.

  ‘Then let’s hope whatever it is keeps them occupied until we’ve found what we came for,’ Volker said. They sat the rest of the night in silence, save for the thud-thud-thud of the drums.

  Echoing like the heartbeat of something vast, unseen and hungry.

  Neferata, Queen of Mysteries, Chatelaine of the Last High House, and Mortarch of Blood, watched the world through the eyes of her servant, and sighed. ‘She persists still, our sister. I should not be surprised, I suppose. She possesses a certain raw vigour, that one.’ She reclined on her divan and reached for a goblet filled with crushed ice and blood. Refreshing, in the proper proportions.

  Proportion was everything. Too much or too little, and the balance was thrown off. Things went askew. Neferata believed in balance. With proper balance came possibility, and with possibility came opportunity. And Neferata hoarded opportunities like a miser hoarded wealth. She was rich in prospects, and doled them out where and when seemed most conducive to her benefit. But mostly, she collected them.

  Such was the case now. The ancient weapons known as the Eight Lamentations were opportunity wrought in daemon-iron. The potential they represented was great indeed. With one, an individual might change the course of a battle. With two, a war. With all eight, one might – well. Best not even to consider that, until the day in question. Neferata sipped at her goblet, and pondered the possibilities.

  A wide bowl sat before her divan, filled with blood. In the blood, she could see what her servants saw, if she wished. Slaves, shorn of all flesh and spirit, continuously refreshed the bowl from the great clay jugs balanced on their bony shoulders. Spirit-courtiers gathered about the bottom of the dais upon which her divan sat, their soft voices raised in a constant murmur. Mingled among them were representatives from the various mortal and deathrattle kingdoms seeking an alliance or some favour.

  Skeletal warriors, clad in ragged mail and battle-scarred hauberks, stood guard to either side of her divan, their fleshless hands resting on the pommels of barrow blades. Her handmaidens wafted through the crowd of living and dead souls, speaking quietly to some and ignoring others. They would collect those petitions they deemed most worthy of her attentions, to be mulled over at her leisure.

  But for the moment, her interest was only in Adhema’s quest. The blood knight was cunning, and savage, but prone to whimsy. That tendency would be the end of her, at some point, but not yet. Not today. The duardin aethercraft had crashed in the dense forest of Gorch, and Neferata found her ability to scry there less certain than she liked. Almost as if something were preventing her from seeing within the shadows of those great trees.

  ‘There is a mind there. A force, hungry and aware, however dimly.’ She spoke idly. The handmaiden sitting at the foot of her divan gestured.

  ‘The spider in its web,’ she murmured.

  Neferata frowned, and nodded.

  ‘Perhaps, Naaima. Gorkamorka was ever profligate with his power, bestowing it on every creature to draw his blood. But then, one cannot expect much in the way of sense from the personification of destruction.’

  ‘It is not the only force peering into the gloom,’ Naaima continued. She dipped a hand into the bowl and traced crimson birds on the stones of the dais. ‘The crows gather.’

  Neferata sighed. ‘Yes. That is to be expected. When one of the four moves, the others do so as well, to counter or aid him, as the whim strikes them. Khorne roared his intentions to all the realms, and his brothers – and servants – react. Some more swiftly than others.’ Naaima drew another shape in blood – three ovals, one set above the other two. ‘And the gods are not alone in this. The Three-Eyed King seeks the weapons as well.’

  ‘That was to be expected. His servants scour the realms for any item that might turn the tide in his favour, as do my own. The Eight are simply new notches added to a long list.’ The detritus of millennia littered the realms – the graveyard wreckage of forgotten kingdoms, the tombs of ancient heroes, even the hidden prizes of daemonic gamesmen. Any of which might hold the key to victory in one of the thousands of wars being waged across the realms. Her servants had flooded into the mortal realms, seeking artefacts and grimoires, or information relating to such. Her armies fought battles all across Shyish to claim long-hidden treasure barrows or misplaced libraries. And her enemies fought just as hard to prevent her from doing so.

  She rubbed her temple, considering. Adhema was no babe in the woods, and could take care of herself easily enough. She was not the only one of Neferata’s handmaidens seeking the whereabouts of the Eight Lamentations. But she was the closest to her goal. Neferata leaned forwards, gesturing to her slaves to refresh the bowl.

 
With the Spear of Shadows in her possession, she could break the back of the armies that assailed Shyish, one after the next, by eliminating their commanders. Cut off the head and the serpent dies, as the saying went. Without their leaders, the servants of the Dark Gods were like so many sheep, waiting for the slaughter. Fierce sheep, true, but sheep nonetheless. Her hands itched to hold that weapon, to speak a name and watch them die.

  That was power fit for a queen.

  Coldness leaked over her hand. She looked down at her goblet, and saw that she’d crushed it. With a moue of distaste, she handed it to one of the slaves. ‘Fetch me another. Something older. I find myself in a contemplative mood.’ Delicately, she extended her hand. A flurry of spectral courtiers rushed forwards at the invitation, their aethereal mouths suckling at her fingers, desperate for a taste of life, however far removed from the source.

  Neferata watched them lap at the blood with fond indulgence. Then, with a curt gesture, she sent the spirits fluttering away. She glanced at the bowl and saw that the blood had gone murky again. Wherever Adhema was, Neferata could not advise her now. She sighed and sat back, annoyed.

  ‘Fight well, sister. Or perish bravely. Either is preferable to failure.’

  Sixteen

  Forest Citadel

  Time passed all but unnoticed in the eternal green twilight of Gorch. Days were shorter in Ghur, and nights longer. Or so it seemed to Volker. The forest had taken them into itself, and the outside world might as well have not existed at all. In the shadows of the great trees, the air congealed into formless clouds, dripping rain or sending fierce breezes gusting through the leaves. Animals hunted each other through the swaying, creaking ruins of a long-vanished kingdom.

  Roggen and Harrow ranged ahead of the group, scouting the canopy above for any sign of danger and testing the strength of the branch-path ahead. Despite its sturdiness, the structure was not in good condition. Several times the group had to divert their course because of a gaping hole in the path, or a thick patch of thorny vines that resisted even Lugash’s best efforts to hack through them.

  Then there were the omnipresent webs. Everywhere Volker looked there was evidence of infestation. Whole pathways were entombed in white shrouds, and sheer walls of the substance stretched between the great trees like organic bastions. It was those that stretched across the canopy high above that were the worst. Volker could see the indistinct, scurrying shapes of spiders of all sizes moving to and fro. Sometimes, it even seemed as if the arachnids were following them. Obeying the orders of distant drummers, perhaps.

  The drumming started up every night like clockwork. Sometimes it grew to a riotous cacophony, drowning out all other sound. Other times, it was but a dim pressure, just at the edge of hearing. It was as if they were searching for something. That worried him.

  But there were other things, besides noise and skittering shadows. There was a familiar stink on the air, rancid and sharp. He knew it well, after all these weeks. Skaven-stink. The raw tang of their abhorrent machinery clung faintly to everything, and more than once he caught sight of char-marks and blood spatter, in out-of-the-way places. He made no mention of it to the others, though he suspected Lugash already knew. The duardin often had an intent look on his face, and he scanned the canopy above and the branches below often. Seeking enemies who might be lurking just out of sight.

  Volker understood. At times, it was as if the forest itself were pressing down on him. Watching him, the way a predator might watch unwary prey. A feeling was building in him – a worry that they were too late. That something or someone had already beaten them to their goal. More than once, as the days passed, he caught himself looking for ravens perched in the trees.

  On the fourth day, as the faint drip of sunlight dimmed, and the shadows crept out to glide across the canopy, fireflies swarmed up from secret knotholes. They danced in flickering waves across the muggy air, casting a pale glow over the ancient duardin paths. For a moment, the threat of skaven or shapeshifting sorcerers seemed distant.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Volker said. He walked along beside Roggen and Harrow, his long rifle resting in the crook of his arm. ‘You forget, sometimes.’

  ‘There is beauty in everything, my friend,’ Roggen said. ‘Even our dead companion.’ He jerked his head back towards Adhema, who stalked along in silence. Behind her, Nyoka walked beside Lugash, the two of them in quiet conversation. Zana followed behind, ­whistling softly, one hand on the pommel of her sword.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Volker said. Roggen chuckled.

  ‘I have never fought beside a vampire before. There are few of them in the Jade Kingdoms. That we know of, at least.’ He reached for the wineskin hanging from his saddle horn. He offered it to Volker after he’d taken a swig. Volker accepted gratefully. They’d brought what supplies they could carry, but there was no telling how long they would last. Harrow seemed content to eat spiders, but Volker couldn’t say the same. When he mentioned it to Roggen, the big knight shrugged.

  ‘Worst comes to worst, we can hack open a cocoon or three. There might be something worth eating in them.’ He popped the cork back into his wineskin and hung it in its place. ‘You learn to take what the forest provides, where I come from.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Ghyran. Though I’ve heard we’re not as welcome as we might once have been.’ He glanced questioningly at Roggen.

  ‘We did not always get along with you Azyrites, it is true,’ Roggen said, cheerfully. ‘When you first came, and began building your great cities, filling the air with smoke and noise. Not the best neighbours.’ He pulled off his helmet and hung it from his saddle.

  Volker shrugged uncomfortably. ‘And now?’

  ‘After Greenstone Vale, things are better.’

  ‘Green…?’

  Roggen gestured. ‘The last stand of the old Ghyranic Orders. Their way had come to an end and they could not see it. The Jade Kingdoms were changing, and they had been abandoned by their lords. So they resolved to defy the will of gods and men alike.’ He chuckled sadly. ‘Five hundred warriors, from the ancient knightly orders, made a final stand at Greenstone Vale. Outnumbered sixty to one by freeguilder and Ironweld. So many arrows were loosed that they blocked the sun.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘Later, men swore they had seen a daemon with a hundred faces and robes of every colour dancing among the dead, celebrating the success of the trick it had played.’ He sighed. ‘But that is a story guilty men tell themselves, I think.’ He looked at Volker. ‘Things are better now.’

  ‘Were you – were you there?’ Volker asked.

  Roggen laughed. ‘By the Lady, no. I was but a child. My grandfather, though… he saw the last ride of the Order of Seven Leaves, as they charged the gun lines with lowered lances. Mighty warriors, though not mighty enough in the end.’ He stroked Harrow’s neck. ‘It is the nature of life, that the old ways must give way before the new. The realms cannot continue on as they are. Life itself is out of balance. So we must do what we can. All of us, from the greatest to the least.’ A smile split his bearded features. ‘The foundations of victory are ever built on the heroism of little men.’

  Volker looked up at him. Roggen laughed. ‘A saying of my order. Occasionally, even we need reminding of the importance of what we do.’

  ‘A good saying.’

  ‘I think so,’ Roggen said. He pulled Harrow up short, as they cleared a bend in the path. ‘By the Lady of Leaves,’ he muttered.

  Volker froze, as he spotted what had brought Roggen up short. The stakes had been shoved through deep gouges in the wood of the path ahead. The skulls that topped them were old, and of varying origin – human, some of them. Others belonged to orruks, or troggoths. But most… most belonged to duardin. Hundreds of them, lining the path ahead. Worse, some even still had their beards. Every skull had crooked greenskin symbols carved into them, or else had been painted with warning pictograms.

 
Lugash said nothing at the sight. He stumped past them, through the thicket of death, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The others followed more slowly, picking their way carefully through the stakes, careful not to disturb them. Adhema fingered a lank, rotting braid dangling from a small skull. ‘Now we know what happened to them, I suppose.’

  Lugash whirled, a fierce look on his face. His runes blazed up, so brightly that Adhema flinched back, lips writhing away from her fangs. For a moment, Volker thought he might attack the vampire. Adhema seemed to, as well, for she half drew her sword. But the doomseeker only said, ‘Don’t touch them. Don’t any of you touch them.’ His voice was quiet. Harsh. He spat onto the ground at the vampire’s feet, turned and trudged on.

  More skulls hung from nets of vine and woven scalps above the branch-path, clattering softly in the warm air between crumbled cocoons. Fetishes and curse-tokens were threaded among them, and these sent a thrill of unease through Volker. The grots had marked their territory well.

  The webs grew so thick on the path that they were forced to hack through them, as if they were foliage. Spiders, disturbed by the intrusion, climbed higher, leaving the travellers to pass through a corridor of webs and clumped cocoons of all shapes and sizes unmolested.

  Withered mummies, drained of all vital fluid by the spiders, screamed silently on each side of them. The brown shapes hung or slumped in their hundreds, within the glistening white strands. Volker kept his gaze resolutely to the fore, trying to ignore the empty stares of the dead. Finally, they came to a massive gateway rising up over the branch-path.

  The gateway had been hewn from a tree trunk, and carved into a stylised representation of Grimnir, his fiery mane curling up and away from his fierce features. A grimace of fury contorted that wide face, and the entryway passed through the god’s snarling mouth. There was no portcullis or door to bar their way. Only more webs.

  Past the gateway was an immense plaza, ringed by great curving columns of split trunks. It appeared as if several trees had been bent together and then carefully hollowed out. The conglomerate trunk continued on undisturbed, high above the plaza, balancing on the massive columns. More gates, each shaped like the first, lined the ring of columns, the wide mouth of each marking the beginning or end of a path. Dozens of walkways crafted from tangled vines and slats of crudely chopped wood stretched net-like above the plaza.