Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  Warpfang had employed him to design a weapon capable of breaching the Bastion. And Skewerax had tasked him with finding and acquiring the Spear of Shadows. Quell, like any halfway intelligent warlock engineer, had combined both tasks, thus saving himself valuable time and energy. Only a skaven of his unmitigated brilliance could have conceived of it – a self-propelled weapon, capable of crossing the realms in the blink of an eye and crushing anything that got in its way. And soon enough, he would have the opportunity to commence the first true trial run.

  ‘Yesss,’ he hissed, gazing at the spear. ‘We shall not waste you on a man-thing or a duardin-thing, no-no. We shall cast you at a city-burrow, yes-yes, and you shall take us there. The warp-wheel shall crush the walls of Excelsis, and then – the walls of every other man-thing city in the mortal realms!’ He threw back his head and cackled wildly, shaking his paws in excitement. His laughter turned to curses as a spider fell onto his face from above, and his dreams of destruction were forgotten as he struggled to crush the skittering arachnid.

  And in its nest of chains, the spear hummed to itself, and thought sharp thoughts.

  ‘Greetings, Ahazian Kel.’

  Ahazian jerked his steed’s reins, forcing the animal to rear up as a shape wavered into being before him. A brightly coloured shape, delicate-seeming and crystalline, save where it was scorched black, and badly tattered. ‘Sorcerer,’ he snarled. He could smell the magics bleeding off the Arcanite.

  ‘Barbarian,’ the Arcanite replied. He stood in Ahazian’s path, hands folded over the pommel of the curved blade planted before him. ‘Any further insults to share, or might we speak as civilised men?’

  ‘I see only one man here,’ Ahazian said, calming the restive stallion. ‘But speak your piece, sorcerer, and be quick. Some of us have things to do.’

  ‘Yes. You seek the Spear of Shadows. As do I.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Yuhdak of the Ninefold Path.’

  ‘Never heard of you.’

  Yuhdak chuckled softly. ‘No, I expect not. But I have heard of you, Ahazian Kel. Last hero of the lost Ekran. Kinslayer and regicide.’

  Ahazian shrugged. ‘What of it?’ The sorcerer’s image wavered in the steppe wind, like smoke from a fire. A sending, then. It was to be expected. Such creatures were cowards by nature, preferring to let others do their fighting for them. ‘I know who I am, and I don’t care who you are. State your business, or step aside.’

  ‘I wish to make a bargain with you.’

  Ahazian frowned. He briefly considered riding through the phantasm and continuing on his way, but decided to hear the creature out. ‘What sort of bargain?’

  ‘One that will enrich us both.’

  ‘Speak plainly, or not at all.’

  ‘I shall keep to simple words, then. We seek the same thing. With my help you will find it and claim it, in Khorne’s name.’

  Ahazian grunted. ‘And what is in it for you?’

  ‘The Three-Eyed King wishes to add the Eight Lamentations to his arsenal. After you have claimed them, you will wield your pick of them at Archaon’s command.’

  Ahazian laughed. ‘And why would I do that? I do not serve him.’

  ‘And who do you serve?’

  Ahazian shook his head. ‘That is my business.’

  Yuhdak nodded obligingly. ‘No matter. The two are unrelated. The master you serve today is not necessarily the one you serve tomorrow.’ The Arcanite gestured, as if in invitation. ‘Think on it, Ahazian Kel. You are a warrior without a warlord. Archaon could be that warlord, and the wars you would wage in his name would be glorious indeed. Especially if you wielded one of the Eight.’

  ‘And who are you to make such offers? Do you sit at his right hand, trickster?’

  ‘I am no trickster, Kel. I am a pilgrim of chance, and a student of fate. I do not seek to bend or alter what is. And I do not make offers – I merely put forth possibilities. A wise man must keep all possibilities in mind, lest he be taken unawares.’

  ‘And a brave man has no need of wisdom, for courage is a keener blade than any other.’ Ahazian straightened in his saddle. ‘What prompts this offer?’

  ‘You are distrustful.’

  ‘Of you?’ Ahazian laughed. ‘Certainly.’

  Yuhdak chuckled. ‘Wise.’ He gestured to his blackened armour and tattered robes. ‘My trail has been… difficult. I cannot overcome such obstacles alone. Thus I require aid to complete the quest the Three-Eyed King has given me.’

  ‘If Archaon wishes for these blades, let him bargain with the Blood God.’ Ahazian smiled. ‘Or with me.’ He glanced about, noting the dark shapes gliding through the air, high above. Ravens, watching. Circling. And he thought, ah, the nature of the game had changed again. So be it.

  ‘Well, the sooner they are acquired, the sooner such negotiations can begin,’ Yuhdak said. He reached up and touched the cracked surface of his helmet. ‘The quicker the better, ideally. I am offering my aid, child of Khorne. Will you accept it?’

  Ahazian pondered the being before him, and the vagaries of fate. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that it is not I who needs aid, but yourself. Else you would not have come to me.’ He leaned over the horn of his ­saddle. ‘It is something I am not unfamiliar with, for many have sought my aid down the long road of years. And I say to you what I said to them – my arm is yours, for the right price.’

  Yuhdak was silent for long moments. ‘Archaon–’ he began.

  ‘Is not here, Arcanite. You wish my help? Then what do you offer? Will you help me achieve my goal?’

  ‘Our goal is the same.’

  Ahazian shook his head. ‘I did not say which goal.’ He laughed and straightened. ‘I find myself considering the future, sorcerer. Too much time riding, not enough killing. Softens a man’s certainties, and makes the path ahead seem fluid. Makes one consider – what did you call them – possibilities?’

  ‘Ah,’ Yuhdak breathed. ‘I had heard that the Kels of Ekran were a single-minded lot.’

  ‘Rumour and innuendo,’ Ahazian said, bluntly.

  ‘As you say,’ Yuhdak murmured, bowing low. ‘Let us bind our fates, blood-brother, even as the gods themselves once did. Who can say whether or not this is even as they intended? Not me. And I would not be so foolish as to try.’

  ‘And the spear?’

  ‘Khorne is a reasonable god, when all is said and done. And you are a reasonable man. We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Yuhdak lifted his blade. ‘Do we have an accord, Ahazian Kel?’

  ‘We do, Yuhdak of the Ninefold Path.’

  Even as he said it, the sending wavered and vanished. He felt the flat of a blade tap against his leg, and looked down. His own reflection, stretched and distorted across the cracked facets of Yuhdak’s helmet, looked up at him. Somehow, while he’d been distracted by the sending, the Arcanite had crept up behind him, and so silently that not even his horse had noticed. Ahazian growled, already annoyed with his decision.

  ‘Good,’ the sorcerer said, and Ahazian could almost hear his smile. ‘I think this alliance shall prove fruitful for both of us, my friend.’

  Volker leaned forwards and filled Oken’s mug. ‘Drink slowly, old one. There’s plenty more where this came from.’

  They sat once more in the hold of the newly repaired, much ­battered Zank, which was creeping its way through the skies above the Amber Steppes. The endrins did not hum like before, but instead ­rattled and groaned. The aethercraft did not slide across the sky, but instead wobbled and limped.

  How Brondt and his crew had managed to get their vessel back into the air, let alone flying somewhat steadily, Volker hadn’t dared to ask. It had been difficult enough convincing the Kharadron captain to follow the black trail the skaven had left, rather than returning to Shu’gohl as he’d intended. Only a promise of payment had seen him agree, howev
er grudgingly, to press on.

  Oken looked better than he had a few hours ago. Much of the colour had returned to his face, though he still looked abnormally thin. But then he’d never been heavy. He was broad, like all duardin, but age had sapped some of his mass. Shaggy hair, the colour of iron filings scattered across the snow, was held back from his sharp features by a simple rawhide thong, and his beard was plaited and bound by a copper cap. His spectacles balanced precariously on a nose that had lost all shape after one blow too many, and his hands trembled slightly as they clutched the mug.

  Brondt had broken out something from the crew’s stores – a strong mead, made in the northern hill-country of Chamon. There were flakes of gold floating in it, and it smelled strongly of honey. Oken sniffed it. ‘Not my usual,’ he grunted. ‘But needs must.’ He took a deep swallow. He looked at Volker. ‘Grungni sent you, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Zana said. She sat nearby, with the others, save Roggen, who was on the other side of the hold tending to Harrow. The demigryph had sustained numerous minor wounds, but seemed little the worse for wear despite this. Her rumbling purr provided a quiet accompaniment to the conversation.

  ‘I’ll not waste thanks on someone who’s getting gold for their trouble,’ he said, casting a weary glare at her. She smirked and saluted him. The gesture was vaguely offensive, and Oken chuckled.

  ‘Get on with it, grey-beard,’ Lugash growled. ‘You’ve wet your lips, now use them. Where’s the blasted spear?’

  Volker shot a glare at the doomseeker, but Oken seemed unaffected by the other duardin’s tone. ‘I told you. The skaven have it. Though Maker alone knows how they learned of it. But they did, and they came in force – hundreds of them, swarming through the branches and roots, burning anything that got in their way.’ Oken closed his eyes and took a gulp of mead. ‘We kept our distance, tried to stay ahead of them, but the forest was swarming with grots by then. We were forced to climb higher, to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.’ He frowned. ‘It didn’t work. We lost Thunor and Kjarlsson on the second day. Skaven were everywhere by then, scampering after that blasted machine of theirs.’

  ‘We saw the tracks – what was it?’ Volker asked.

  ‘Some sort of wheel, but armoured and big – bigger than it ought to have been. It rolled over gargants like nothing and left a trail of mashed spiders for leagues. Even the giant ones were no match for it. It just ground on, setting fire to the trees and tearing apart webs. If Gorch were drier, the whole forest would have gone up.’

  Oken emptied his cup and extended it for a refill. Only after Volker had complied did he continue. ‘We made it to the Heartwood Citadel in time to see the attack begin. Decided to take advantage of it, and slip in. The skaven beat us to it.’ He sagged, tired. ‘We fought them in the vault, but they had it before we even realised. And then…’ He trailed off. ‘None of the others survived, I suppose.’

  Volker shook his head.

  ‘Ah, well. Good lads, those. Their spirits will need singing into the Deep Halls.’ Oken looked up. ‘The ratkin have the Huntsman. Maker alone knows what their plans are, but we need to find them, and stop them before they do it.’ He drained his cup and set it aside. ‘Or worse, someone else gets to it first.’ He frowned. ‘It was… singing, down there, in the dark. Not so you could hear it, but you could feel it, deep in your bones. A sort of sick feeling.’

  ‘The grots were frightened of it,’ Nyoka said softly. She looked around. ‘The stakes, remember?’ Oken nodded and patted her hand, fondly.

  ‘Aye, my lady. That they were. They could hear it themselves. That’s why they sought to bind the ghosts of their enemies to stand guard over it, and left that big bastard spider down there in the pit.’

  ‘What were they worried about?’ Volker asked. ‘The spear?’

  Oken shook his head. ‘Not the spear, but whoever it was calling for.’ He frowned. ‘The weapons seek out strong wielders. Like parasites, they’re always on the lookout for a stronger pair of hands, a keener mind, a tougher body. They’ll turn in a weak warrior’s hand, if his opponent catches their fancy.’

  ‘You make it sound as if they’re alive,’ Volker said.

  ‘They are, in a way. Not smart, but… cunning. An animal cunning.­ That’s why those old Khazalids, in their wisdom, decided to lock up the ones they had rather than try to put them to use. Can’t trust a weapon with a mind of its own.’ Oken pulled off his spectacles and held them up. The glass was scratched and cracked, and he sighed. He folded them carefully and slid them into his coat. ‘And the ­Thunwurtgaz Lodge felt the same way. But it’s out now, and in the hands of the enemy. The ratkin won’t hold onto it for long, no more than the grots could. It’s probably still singing – calling out for someone, anyone to wield it…’

  Volker frowned. ‘I think I know who’s coming for it.’ Quickly, he filled Oken in on their encounter with the shape changers in the Libraria Vurmis, and the Great King’s sorcerous rider. The old duardin shook his head, his expression sour.

  ‘We need to get to it first. If some Chaos filth gets it, and worse, knows what it is, they could very well decide to hurl it at Sigmar, or Grungni.’

  ‘Or Alarielle,’ Roggen said softly. ‘The Lady of Leaves has been hurt much, these past centuries. I would not see her hurt again.’

  ‘How chivalrous of you,’ Adhema murmured. She smiled crookedly. ‘You’re missing the obvious target, of course.’

  Volker looked at her. ‘Who? Nagash, I suppose.’

  Adhema laughed. ‘No, fool. The Three-Eyed King.’ She leaned forwards, her face half in shadow. ‘This is not a war with two sides, or even three, or four. The enemy is not united, and there are those in their ranks who would see Archaon toppled from his throne just as surely as we would. It could be that our foes are his foes.’

  ‘And so?’ Lugash rumbled. ‘What of it? They are still our foes.’

  ‘As you say,’ Adhema said, leaning back. ‘It might be wise to consider all possibilities, though. Just in case.’

  ‘And who does your mistress seek to slay?’ Oken asked.

  ‘I should have thought that would be obvious,’ Adhema said. ‘Anyone who gets in her way. A spear that can strike any target, even one in a different realm? My lady could change the course of entire wars with one death. Efficient, no?’

  ‘That depends entirely on the death in question,’ Roggen said.

  Adhema smiled lazily at him and shrugged. ‘Perhaps we see these things differently than you.’ Her smile faded. ‘Each of the Eight has a purpose. Gung kills, Sharduk breaks, so on and so forth. Who better than the Queen of Mysteries to see that they serve those purposes properly?’

  ‘I can think of several people,’ Volker said.

  Adhema sat back. ‘I bet you can, poppet. Starting with yourself.’ She looked around. ‘Let’s not pretend any more, children. We are not friends. We are allies of convenience, at best. The gods fling us about and we dance at their command. This is but the newest game. And I intend to win it.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  Volker blinked, realising suddenly that he was the one who’d spoken. He cleared his throat. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said again. ‘It’s not a game. Not to me. Not to us – any of us. To them, maybe. To the enemy. But not even Nagash thinks this is a game. This is a war, for the fate of all things, and all who have ever lived or died are combatants. And the gods cannot win without us, even as we cannot survive without them.’ He looked around. ‘Some of us are here for pay – for honour – for promises made and desires unfulfilled. But all those things can be settled after the fact. Right now, we have common cause and an enemy standing in front of us. And that’s enough.’ He hesitated. ‘Or it should be.’

  Adhema laughed softly. ‘Pretty words.’ She lay down, hands clasped behind her head. ‘Wake me when we find the enemy, Azyrite. Perhaps I’ll have decided whose side I’m o
n by then.’

  Twenty-One

  Lion Crag

  Quell peered up at the monstrosity looming over him. It was not really there, being merely a trick of the warp light, but he thought it best to bow anyway. Prudence was the armour of the cunning. Especially against a being like Skewerax, the Frenzy that Walked.

  The image of the Verminlord Warbringer was not so impressive as seeing such a creature in the flesh, but it was still quite imposing. The image rose from the crackling web of warp lightning being emitted by Quell’s mechanisms. Quell’s slaves and guards cowered, banging their snouts against the floor of the engine chamber or gnawing their tails to keep from screaming as the green light washed over them. One of the unlucky slaves working the oscillation overgrinder’s dais was now utterly mad, and writhed mindlessly, foam dappling his jaws, as the others heedlessly trod him into paste. Quell poured a line of powdered warpstone across the knuckles of his gauntlet. He snorted it and thought calming thoughts.

  It was hard. Just the sight of Skewerax was enough to drive lesser skaven into a killing frenzy. He crouched on powerful legs, his mighty claws braced on his knees, and glared at Quell, eyes blazing with divine madness. There were entire realms separating them, but Quell still felt the weight of that glare.

  ‘Well?’

  The word emerged from the daemon’s mouth like a ballista bolt. Quell pawed at his nose for a moment, sniffling, trying to regain his composure. ‘We have found it, oh Great Stabber-Slicer. Just where you said it would be.’ It hadn’t been, exactly, but Quell saw no reason to point that out. Skewerax had little patience for excuses, and less still for recriminations. One argued with the brood of the Great Horned Rat at one’s peril.

  ‘Yes-yes, of course it was. Am I not the most cunning of war-fighters, the most brilliant of planner-thinkers?’ Skewerax pounded his chest with each assertion. ‘None rival me. None can compare to my cunning-wisdom.’