Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  Chapter two

  HUNTED AND HUNTERS

  No one sane travels to that broken city.

  – Duala Berthos

  Confessions of a Roadwarden

  The wind shrieked through the ruined temple, scraping unseen claws across the face of the statue of an unknown god. High pillars, similarly weathered, rose about the statue, casting long shadows across a stretch of crumbled foyer. Reynar pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose as loose sand stung his unshaven features. It was growing dark. The sun set quickly, and night’s cold crept through the warren of abandoned streets and broken buildings. He pulled the edges of his faded blue cloak close about him.

  Through a crack in the outer wall wide enough to accommodate a ballista, Reynar watched the street, looking for any sign of their pursuers. But nothing revealed itself save shadows. He could hear the echoes of some unseen battle, at once near to hand and far away. The sounds stretched and shuddered, caught in the hollows and wrong angles of the city.

  He risked getting closer to the broken wall. The wind sliced his cheeks and knuckles, even through his clothing. He adjusted his scarf and blinked sand out of his eyes. Thunder rumbled, somewhere to the west.

  Reynar flinched back. The sound brought to mind images of Hammer­hal and Ghyran. The two realms were like night and day. Ghyran was a green place, full of sound and life. Shyish, in contrast, was mostly rock and sand, at least what he’d seen of it. The colours here were muted, the sky the colour of lead most days, and the wind could flense a man down to his bones.

  More thunder. Lightning strobed across the darkening sky, turning it from black to amethyst. Reynar turned away. He looked up at the statue, wondering what it had represented before time eroded its identity. He could make out the faint undulation of what might once have been a wide, inhuman grin.

  He turned away, suddenly cold. One of the old gods, perhaps. It was said that in Shyish there had once been a god for every soul. Now there was only one. He shivered again, trying not to think of that one. Uneasy, he reached beneath his hauberk and found his amulet. Just a bit of shine, twisted up into an incomplete but somehow double-ended shape. Almost like a broken smile.

  He’d found it here, in this temple. Just lying out, as if tossed aside by someone in a hurry. It was a good luck piece, of no value to anyone save himself. There was something comforting about the shape, the way it flowed and bent. He rubbed it with his thumb, feeling the pitted surface through the material of his glove.

  ‘Anything?’ Utrecht asked, startling him.

  ‘No,’ Reynar said, thrusting the amulet out of sight. ‘Our cache?’

  ‘Right where we left it.’

  ‘Thank the gods for small favours.’ They’d collected enough trinkets to fill a small chest. None of them were of much value that Reynar could see, but there were fools who’d pay any price if they could say it was from lost Shadespire.

  ‘Not much in there. A few pieces of shadeglass, a clockwork toy, some gems.’

  ‘Not much split five ways. Split two ways, though…’

  Utrecht snorted. ‘You do have an eye for it, captain.’ He looked up as lightning cascaded across the sky. ‘There’s a war going on to the west.’

  ‘It’s the same war, hillman. It began before we were born and it won’t end in our lifetimes.’ Reynar stepped past him, deeper into the temple. It wasn’t large, a place built for commoners to abase themselves without getting underfoot of the gentry, he thought. But older than much of the city. He’d seen similar in Hammerhal Ghyra and Glymmsforge. Centuried or no, the story was always the same.

  The main entrance was blocked by rubble. There were only two ways in and out of the place – the crack in the western wall and another, smaller gap in the east. Wherever he went, he always made sure to know where the exits were. You never knew when it would come in handy. There was sand in the corners, carried by the wind that whipped through the place, and scattered bones. Something had laired here once, Reynar thought, given the state of the remains. The only light in the temple was cast by a few scattered candles mounted in cracks in the walls.

  A massive slab of stone, likely from the shattered roof, occupied the centre of the nave. A broken skeleton was half pinned beneath it, clad in rags. Reynar glanced at it as he stepped over the twisted skull. He ran his thumb along the edge of his amulet, wondering, not for the first time, who the dead man had been. A priest, perhaps, slain in the cataclysm that had claimed the city. Or someone seeking succour from whatever god this temple had been dedicated to. ‘Didn’t do you much good, did it?’ he muttered.

  All decoration had been stripped from the walls, either by the weather or treasure-seekers. The city – at least the parts of it that were easily accessible – had been picked over decades before Reynar and the others arrived.

  But there were always stories. He’d heard tales of vast alchemical laboratories and libraries of the arcane, hidden behind cog-work doors that could not be opened. Of shadeglass constructs waiting to be activated by the unwary. The limitless treasures of the Katophranes, hidden away in the ruins. They’d seen none of these things. The closest they’d come to finding such wonders was an elaborate blade trap that had nearly taken off Kuzman’s arm.

  ‘What about the gleanings?’ Utrecht asked from behind him.

  Reynar grunted. Gleanings were a time-honoured tradition – the things you kept back from the stash. A weapon here, a bit of shine there. Nothing that could be split. He glanced towards where their bedrolls were stashed, hidden beneath a chunk of debris.

  ‘Make it quick,’ he said. ‘We need to take what we can carry and find somewhere safe for the night.’ He looked around, frowning. The campsite had been perfect. But without the others, it was too big. Too hard to defend, if it came to that.

  ‘No such thing in this city,’ Utrecht said as he scavenged among the bedrolls. Reynar joined him. The others were dead – no sense in letting anything of worth they might have go to waste. Kuzman had been keeping back a dagger with opals set into the hilt, and Dollac had a rusty mail shirt rolled up into his bedding.

  Reynar examined it, and then tossed it aside. His own hauberk was superior. The mail was lightweight, and duardin-forged. Every officer in the Faithful Blades had one. It had taken a nasty bite out of Reynar’s wages, but it was worth it. Besides his sword and his bedroll, it was the only reminder he had of his old life. They were the only ones he wanted.

  He touched the woollen blanket that hung across his shoulder and chest, under his cloak. It was bundled up and cinched tight with leather straps. Wrapped inside it was everything a soldier needed – whetstone, flint, tinder, trail jerky and an assortment of odds and ends, like hobnails and leather polish. Even a sewing kit. In the Freeguilds, you learned to travel light, or not at all. He frowned at the thought, and spat.

  Utrecht grinned. ‘Bad memories, captain?’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you – I’m not an officer anymore.’

  Utrecht laughed. ‘Not after the way we left.’

  Reynar looked at him, his gaze steady. He didn’t like to be reminded of that. He’d had to do it, but that didn’t make it better.

  Utrecht’s grin didn’t waver. ‘Do you know why I like you, Reynar?’ he said after a moment.

  Reynar didn’t answer. Utrecht went on as if he had. ‘You’re a hillman at heart. Most of you Freeguilders are too civilised to be respectable. Too much graft, not enough honest murder. But you – you’re a savage like me, whether you admit it or not. You see something you want, you take it. And if someone tries to stop you? You spill their gizzards onto the grass. That’s the way it should be.’

  ‘Maybe in the hills of Ghur.’

  Utrecht grunted. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps we’re just more honest.’ He tossed aside Hakharty’s bedding and stood. Reynar watched him for a moment, toying with Kuzman’s knife. The opals were probably worth something, but
there was no time to pry them free. He thrust the knife through his belt.

  ‘Were you really a king?’ he asked.

  Utrecht nodded. ‘For a time. Very difficult, being king. Much easier being a soldier. Plenty of wars to fight, plenty of coin, and drink to spend it on.’ He eyed Reynar. ‘Where would you Azyrites be without us to fight your battles for you?’

  Reynar had no answer for that. It was the truth, as far as that went. The first Freeguilds to set out from Azyr, almost a century ago, had been composed exclusively of Azyrites – mercenary bands forged in the Cleansing of Azyr, with rites and traditions going back centuries. But times had changed. As new cities rose on the bones of old and forgotten ones, new Freeguilds rose with them, and the original Azyrite guilds replenished depleted ranks with natives of the lower realms.

  The Faithful Blades had suffered more casualties than most and had drawn from further away to keep the regiment in fighting shape. They had been at the forefront of every battle in Verdia, and had men and women from across the Jade Kingdoms as well as the Ashlands and beyond. Utrecht had signed on as a scout, and he wasn’t the only native of Ghur to do so.

  But wherever they came from, they all died the same.

  Reynar stood, letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. ‘We should go,’ he said. ‘We’ve tarried too long.’

  Utrecht stared at him, and lifted their cache chest. Reynar ducked aside as the hillman hurled it at him. It crashed into something behind him. He came to his feet, hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Are you insane?’ he demanded. A roar interrupted any reply Utrecht might have made, and Reynar spun. Bloodreavers rushed through the gloom. One lay twitching, the chest having crushed his skull.

  ‘Saw him sneaking up on you,’ Utrecht shouted as he lunged for his axe and shield. Reynar had no time to reply – the first of the bloodreavers were upon him. There were three of them. He drew his sword and met the first savage blade to blade. They reeled back and forth, weapons locked, stumbling on the discarded bedding. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Utrecht sweep his axe up, splitting another reaver from crotch to chin.

  Reynar groped for Kuzman’s knife. Dull as it was, it was still a blade. He drove it into his opponent’s side as hard as he could. The bloodreaver roared and staggered, off balance. Reynar tore his sword free from his foe’s blade and whipped it across the reaver’s knee. He dropped, clutching at himself. Reynar kicked him in the head, knocking him sprawling. As he drove his sword down through the dazed warrior’s sternum, he saw Utrecht split the skull of the remaining reaver.

  ‘How did they find us?’ Reynar said, wrenching his blade free.

  ‘Maybe they sniffed us out. Or maybe they used sorcery.’ Utrecht turned towards the gap in the wall. ‘More of them – listen.’

  Reynar heard howls, and moments later the first of the bloodreavers burst into view. The warrior was lean and wolfish, as tall as Utrecht and covered in scars and drying gore. He wore little armour and carried a heavy, cleaver-like axe. His face had been painted with blood, and his thick mane of hair was matted crimson. He slid to a stop as he caught sight of them. His gaze fixed on Reynar. ‘You,’ he snarled. ‘At last. Your head is mine. Your death belongs to Isengrim of the Red Reef.’

  ‘Seems he knows you, captain,’ Utrecht said. ‘Anything you care to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing I’m aware of,’ Reynar said. ‘He’s mad. They’re all mad.’

  The bloodreaver bellowed and leapt forward, axe gripped in red hands. ‘Your skull is owed, weakling,’ he roared. ‘And Khorne demands that all debts be paid!’ As he bounded towards them, more bloodreavers burst into view behind him – too many to fight. Reynar glanced at Utrecht. ‘Run! Out the back!’ Utrecht nodded and turned, sprinting for the eastern side of the chamber. Reynar followed, shooting a glance back at their pursuers. The leader of the reavers was close on their heels and closing the gap.

  He didn’t know what the brute had against him, but he didn’t intend to stick around and find out. Ahead of him, Utrecht ducked through the gap in the chamber wall. Barely more than a crack in the foundations, really, made by some long ago cataclysm.

  Reynar hurtled through. The makeshift passage wasn’t wide, and he caught his sleeve on the side of it. Cloth snagged and tore as he burst out into the open air and rolled down the sand dune that had built up around the sides of the temple. Utrecht hauled him to his feet. ‘Where to now, captain?’

  Reynar looked around desperately. It was dark, and they had no light. Half-ruined structures rose all about them, identical in the gloom. The night wind was rising, and the air was choked with sand. Soon, they wouldn’t be able to see more than a hand’s length in front of their faces. He pointed. ‘North – the Gloaming Path. We might be able to lose them there.’

  Isengrim clambered through the gap, snarling in frustration. He slid down the dune, scanning the street beyond. He saw the ghostly crimson image of his quarry rise and turn. For a moment, their eyes met. Then he blinked, and the image was gone.

  Sand stung his face, and he growled. Morgash’s blood still marked his eyes. Hthara had done something to it, and it had allowed him to follow his quarry’s trail in some way he didn’t understand. Nor did he care. All he cared about was that his prey had fled. Again. He turned on the warriors who came down the dune in his wake, but a rising wind halted his words before he could speak. He turned, eyes widening. ‘Sand-devil!’

  The air shimmered amethyst as a whirling sandstorm filled the narrow street. Isengrim flung himself to the ground with an alacrity born of painful experience. Those who were too slow to follow his example screamed as the flaying wind drew them up into its embrace. They were stripped to the bone, their blood and viscera raining down on those lucky enough to avoid the sand-devil’s pull. Loose bones, still wet, thumped to the sand as the storm whirled past. Isengrim scraped gore from his face in disgust and got to his feet. ‘Where is the witch?’ he asked without preamble.

  ‘Here, chieftain,’ Urok called out, shoving Hthara down the sand. Unlike some of his warriors, the woman maintained her footing, despite her restraints. Urok caught hold of the chains and dragged her towards Isengrim. ‘I have brought her.’

  Urok sounded nervous, as if he feared what Isengrim might do to him. That was good. Fear kept a warrior’s senses sharp and thoughts of treachery at bay. Morgash hadn’t feared him enough. ‘Your magic has failed, witch,’ Isengrim growled, taking hold of Hthara’s collar and dragging her close. She had something in her hands – a rag of filthy cloth.

  ‘My magic worked. You failed to catch them.’

  Isengrim lifted her from her feet, and she clawed at his forearm. ‘But they are close, my chieftain,’ she said quickly, her chains clanking. ‘They seek escape in shadow, but the light of Khorne’s fire burns in you. He will guide you. Simply listen to his cries and follow the stink of their fear.’ She lifted the rag.

  He took it and dropped her to the ground. The rag was part of a sleeve, stained with sweat and dirt. He sniffed it, and grinned. ‘Yes. Yes, you are right, woman. Bring me my hounds, Urok. It is time they earned their keep. Perhaps they will do better than this witch.’

  Urok bowed jerkily and bellowed for the hounds. Isengrim turned. The wide avenue stretched away from him, its fractal confines bending strangely in the darkness. Shadow-shapes flickered through the facets of the mirrored walls and across the embossed faces of cog-work doors, pulling his gaze this way and that. Isengrim had a hunter’s instincts, and the city confounded him.

  But it could not deny him his chosen prey. Once Isengrim had scented a man’s blood, he would stop at nothing to claim it all. The face of his quarry flashed across his mind’s eye – narrow, shrewd, eyes like blue stones in a face worn grey and thin by a coward’s life. He had first seen it in a dream as he lay sweating from a belly wound. He touched his abdomen, where an ugly striation of scar tissue stretched from his waist to his che
st. It ached in the cold of the evening.

  The wound had been earned in battle against the lapdogs of Sigmar – golden god-slaves, armoured as if in parody of the Blood God’s chosen warriors. Gurnaek had led them – Gurnaek of the Scarlet Gale. A horse-lord and a chieftain of the Caldera. There had been more of them then. They had been many hundreds strong, a warhorde racing across the dunes. Gurnaek led them against the palisades erected along the city’s western edge and died first, as was Khorne’s will. Their blood had sanctified the ground and made it a fitting field of slaughter for those chosen to come after them.

  But some of them had survived. Isengrim had been one. He’d been hurled away from those lightning-lit palisades, his belly leaking red and his thoughts scattered to the winds. And as he lay dying, he saw the god of slaughter stalking down through the stars to watch the battle below, and for an instant that stretched into an eternity the red gaze fell on him. He’d heard the hiss of a sword sliding from its sheath and the rumble of a voice too great for his ears to perceive.

  Isengrim closed his eyes, remembering. There had been no words, only a command. His god had burned a face – that face – into the surface of Isengrim’s mind. Khorne despised nothing so much as a coward, and Isengrim’s quarry was that indeed.

  He did not know why Khorne wanted the coward’s skull, or why he had been chosen to take it. He knew only that he would. ‘I will eat your heart, coward,’ he muttered. ‘I will pluck it apart, fold by fold, and swallow it before your eyes.’

  Yelps and gibbering howls sounded from behind him as Urok and several other bloodreavers dragged the hounds forward by the chains attached to the crude brass collars about their necks. Once, they might have been men. Now, they were something else – eight broken, scarred beasts, gnashing splintered teeth and clawing at the air with bloody fingers.

  They wore the tattered, filthy remnants of clothing and armour, and their bare flesh was branded with the eightfold rune of Khorne. Their empty eyes rolled red in blistered sockets, and blood seeped from their pores like sweat. Like Hthara, they had been gifted with visions of the Blood God, but they had broken beneath that terrible honour. They weren’t good for much, but they still served in their own way.