Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  Isengrim snatched the chains from Urok and jerked them taut, sending several of the creatures flying. One leapt at him, frothing frenziedly. He drove the haft of his axe into its gut, and it folded over, whimpering.

  He stooped, holding the rag to the creature’s nose. ‘Sniff him out, curs,’ he snarled, as the other hounds gathered about him. The twitching creatures snuffled at the rag like beasts. One, a lanky thing still wearing the stained cobalt robes of its former existence, tipped back its head and bayed.

  Isengrim chopped through their chains, freeing the beasts. They scattered, loping north, vanishing into the swirling sands. He raised his axe. ‘Follow them,’ he roared, starting after the hounds. ‘But the coward is mine!’

  Chapter three

  THE GLOAMING PATH

  Built in the reign of Makretedes the Ebullient, it was said that the voices of ten generations of artisans and wonderworkers could be heard in the twisting boulevard…

  – Palento Herst

  Shadespire: The Apogee

  Shrieks and yelps punctuated the night, discernible despite the wailing of the winds. The sounds ricocheted from the sepulchral structures that rose and stretched in a strange fashion. Shadespire was deathly silent during the day, but as night fell, it resounded with a cacophonous din. Less a city, more a jungle.

  There were monsters abroad in the broken streets. Corpse-eaters and malformed beasts stalked the unwary, or each other. Great shapes flew overhead – bats, perhaps, or something worse. The nape of Reynar’s neck itched as he ran, expecting something to pounce on him at any moment. He felt as if something were whispering to him, just at the edge of his hearing. As if the city itself were trying to warn him.

  Utrecht loped easily in his wake. Reynar envied the hillman’s indefatigable endurance. He’d once seen Utrecht march a hundred leagues with three arrows in him and his brains half scrambled from a sword blow. In contrast, Reynar could barely catch his breath. Sometimes, it seemed as if he’d been tired since they’d set out to cross the Desert of Bones, seeking the city and its fabled treasures. Perhaps even before then.

  He wanted to slow down, but to do so would mean death. The bloodreavers were on the hunt, and from the sound of it, they weren’t going to give up easily. Utrecht had breath enough to laugh. ‘Sounds like the night for it, eh, captain? Reminds me of home. The winds are up, and every devil is loose.’

  ‘So long as the ones following us don’t catch up,’ Reynar said, panting. He stumbled on a femur and fought to avoid falling. He caught sight of their destination, looming out of the dark. ‘There.’

  The statue had been worn formless by the winds. A king, perhaps, or some forgotten hero. It stood on a high plinth, overlooking the streets that stretched around it. Something that might have been a hand pointed down a shrouded avenue, as if inviting passers-by in. They stopped to catch their breath in the lee of the shadow.

  ‘You certain about this, captain?’ Utrecht glared down the dark boulevard. ‘We’ve never explored that path. Might be easier just to make a stand.’

  ‘I’m not your commander anymore, remember,’ Reynar said. ‘You don’t have to come with me.’ He paused. ‘In fact, it might be easier if you stayed. Gives me a chance to get away clean.’

  Utrecht glanced at him, grinning. ‘In that case, I’ll accompany you.’

  Reynar laughed sourly. ‘I thought you’d say that.’ Thunder rolled, somewhere to the west. He paused, recalling the details of the map he’d acquired in Hammerhal. He’d always had a facility for recall, and he’d taken the precaution of memorising it. It hadn’t been much, just a tattered copy of a copy, but it had proven mostly accurate so far. ‘If we take the path, we can cut west once we reach the Court of Memories. From there, we can reach one of the trader enclaves the Azyrites have set up.’

  Utrecht snorted. ‘Traders.’

  ‘Safety in numbers.’ Reynar shared his companion’s opinion of the enclaves. Where the armies of Azyr went, traders and bureaucrats soon followed. Someone had been smart enough to realise that the presence of the Stormcasts wouldn’t be enough to dissuade explorers and treasure hunters. So, they’d decided to organise them instead. Not all of them. Not even most. But enough.

  The enclaves that dotted the western edge of the city were lawless places, save those closest to the Stormcast encampments. But there was some safety there. Light. A place to sleep and regroup without worrying about bloodreavers creeping up on them in the dark. Of course, there was also a chance someone would recognise them and they’d be arrested for desertion, among other crimes.

  But that was a problem for the future. Reynar peered around the side of the statue’s plinth, checking the street. He saw nothing, but that didn’t mean there was nothing there. He turned back. He began to speak, then froze. The flesh of Utrecht’s face had peeled away from reddened bone, exposing ragged muscle and yellow teeth. Maggots squirmed in his eye sockets and spilled down his chest as he said, ‘What is it?’

  Reynar blinked. Utrecht stared at him, whole again. ‘Captain?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’ Reynar shook his head. ‘Come on.’ He moved quickly towards the entrance to the path.

  ‘Why is it called the Gloaming Path?’ Utrecht said as he followed. ‘It’s as dark as every other part of this city.’

  ‘That was the name on the map,’ Reynar said. He could hear the desolate buildings around them groaning in the wind. Shadespire was in a state of ongoing collapse. The wind eroded stone as easily as it sliced flesh, and in another century, there might not be anything left. It might be better for everyone if that happened.

  Reyyyynar…

  ‘What?’ Reynar asked, glancing at Utrecht.

  ‘I said, the map you bought from Nechris Litharge.’ Utrecht made a dismissive gesture. ‘There’s a trustworthy name.’

  ‘It worked, didn’t it?’ Reynar said. An old argument. Litharge was widely regarded as a confidence trickster, pawning off fake shadeglass on the unsuspecting toffs of Hammerhal. But he’d been to Shadespire, or knew those who had, and his map had guided them across the desert relatively intact. ‘You didn’t have to come.’

  ‘And miss all of this?’ Utrecht said. ‘Nowhere I’d rather be, captain.’

  ‘I told you to stop calling me–’ He broke off as the ground shuddered slightly. Reynar was leaping even as the decrepit street gave way beneath him, crumbling away into a yawning chasm. He struck the other side of the rift and scrambled to his feet. Utrecht reached out and steadied him. The hillman said something, but Reynar couldn’t hear him over the rising wind.

  Reyyyynar… Come to me, Reyyyynar…

  It sounded like a woman calling out, but the words were lost in the howling gale. Wind-carried sand filled the street, washing across the buildings to either side, momentarily blinding him. He blinked, and saw what might have been a face out of the corner of his eye. It smiled, too widely by half, and opened its mouth as if to swallow him whole. Then it was gone and there was only the sand.

  He ducked his head, trying to protect his eyes. He felt a bone-deep rumble as a nearby building collapsed. Dust billowed, washing over them. ‘Hurry,’ he coughed. He stumbled towards the shadows of the Gloaming Path, but started as Utrecht caught hold of him.

  ‘I’m not walking in there without light,’ Utrecht growled. ‘Do you still have your flint and tinder?’ He snapped the arm off a nearby skeleton and tore a strip from his jerkin. He wound the rag about the bone, doused it in the dregs from one of his wineskins and held it while Reynar scraped up a spark.

  In the sudden flare of light, the street stretched ahead, its cathedral length amplified and skewed by the shadeglass plates that hung from the walls of the surrounding buildings. Light was at first reflected and then drawn away into seemingly endless darkness. Sand lay thick upon the street, heaped against the walls and covering a carpet of broken bones.

  ‘They say th
is led to the Faneway Mirror,’ Reynar said softly. ­Utrecht glanced at him, his expression perplexed. Reynar sighed. ‘It was how the Katophranes escaped death. If you believe that sort of thing.’ He brushed a hand across one of the filthy plates of glass, revealing his reflection – narrow features, unshaven and worn sharp by life. He paused. Something seemed to pass behind his reflection, as if someone were looking over his shoulder. He blinked, and it was gone.

  Reyyyynar…

  Reynar twitched, hoping the sound was just the wind. Back the way they’d come, too close for comfort, something howled. He turned, startled. Utrecht cursed. ‘They’ve caught up to us. How in the name of seven devils are they able to track us? The wind wipes away our prints.’

  ‘But it carries our scent right to them,’ Reynar said. ‘We have to hurry. Find somewhere to hole up until they lose interest. Come on.’ They hurried on, Utrecht’s torch a bobbing will o’ the wisp reflected in every pane of shadeglass.

  The panes quavered in the wind, and the omnipresent hum made Reynar’s teeth itch. Bones clattered beneath their feet as they went, and vermin darted away from the glow of the torch, their squeals echoing in the vaulted spaces of the avenue. ‘Even the rats are scared,’ Utrecht murmured.

  ‘Let’s hope those are just rats.’ Reynar stopped. The path splintered ahead of them – not an intersection, but a spray of streets, all going in different directions. Decorative archways marked each, though their exact nature had been worn smooth by time.

  ‘Which way?’ Utrecht asked.

  Thiiiis waaay… thiiis waaay…

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Utrecht growled, looking around.

  ‘No,’ Reynar lied. ‘And it doesn’t matter. They all lead to the same place.’ The Gloaming Path was like a river with many tributaries, but they all went in the same direction eventually. Reynar took a step towards one. In the dark, the wind sounded like laughter. He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘This way. Hurry.’

  The street narrowed and widened at random around them, as if the surrounding buildings were two battle lines of troops, advancing and retreating. In places, the buildings hung so close together that the sky wasn’t visible. Elsewhere, Reynar could just make out the stars through currents of windblown sand. They brought him precious little comfort, as remote as they seemed.

  Once, there had been high walkways and balconies lining the walls above, but only nubs of stone and chunks of ossified wood now marked where they’d been. Like the rest of the city, it was all falling apart. Occasionally, something moved across the shattered remnants, leaping from one to the next, but he knew better than to slow his pace to get a look. Birds croaked in the high places, disturbed by the wind and the presence of invaders. Reynar felt as if they were laughing at him. The howls of their pursuers echoed about them, seeming to come from all directions at once.

  Another shudder ran through the street, casting the birds into flight. Shadeglass slid from the heights to shatter on the street below. They followed the curve of the street, Reynar leading the way. He was starting to think they might get away when he slammed face-first into a pane of shadeglass. He staggered back with a curse, nearly falling into Utrecht.

  ‘Captain?’ Utrecht said.

  ‘The path – it’s gone,’ Reynar said, lurching forward. His hands slid across curves of glass. It had been shaped so as to prevent those who approached from seeing their reflection. ‘Where’s the path?’ he snarled, pounding a fist against the glass. He looked up and saw stone rising behind it. He’d assumed it was an archway, but what if it wasn’t? ‘This isn’t right,’ he said. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘Maybe we came the wrong way.’

  ‘There’s only the one way!’ Reynar snapped, turning. He moved past Utrecht, but glass met his hands on either side of them. They’d walked into a dead end. ‘I don’t understand… the map…’

  ‘The map was wrong,’ Utrecht said. He thrust the torch into a crack of stone along the wall and hefted his axe. ‘Or things have changed.’

  ‘Things don’t change here. It’s a dead city.’

  Howls echoed through the air. Too close. Reynar leaned against a pane of glass, eyes closed, trying to think.

  ‘It’s a shame the carrion birds will pick our bones. I can smell the wealth of ages, just out of sight,’ Utrecht said idly. ‘Gemstones from Aqshian mines and gold from the rivers of Chamon. I could have bought a kingdom, to enjoy in my dotage.’

  Reynar straightened. ‘I thought you preferred winning them, with blood and steel.’ He blinked. For a moment, he thought he’d seen something moving across the glass. A reflection within a reflection. But there was nothing there now save his own features.

  Utrecht shrugged. ‘I’m getting old, captain. I’ve been a freebooter, a vizier, a master of the guard and a king. Not much left to do but die.’

  The howls were getting closer now. Reynar could hear the scrabbling of feet on stone and glass, the rattle of weapons, the harsh panting yelps of their pursuers. He swallowed a sudden rush of bile. Was this what it had come to, then? Where was his luck now?

  ‘I’d rather not die today, if it’s all the same to you,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘There has to be a way out of here.’ He turned, searching. ‘There’s always a way out.’

  Utrecht raised his shield. ‘You look. I’ll fight.’ He stiffened. ‘Wait – hear that? Sounds like…’

  ‘Laughter,’ Reynar said. It was a soft sound. He’d taken it for sand shifting in the wind at first. But now he knew better. He looked up, squinting into the gloom above.

  ‘A woman’s.’ Utrecht grinned. ‘Maybe we have found something of value after all.’

  Reynar looked at him. ‘Is that really what’s foremost on your mind at this moment?’

  Utrecht frowned. Before he could reply, the laughter came again. Closer this time. Reynar turned, searching for the source. A woman was peering at him from a pane of shadeglass, her dark features split by a wide smile. The same woman he’d seen earlier, when the bloodreaver had been throttling him.

  You look lost.

  Her voice echoed eerily, and the sound of howling diminished.

  ‘A gheist?’ Utrecht growled. Despite his courage, the hillman had a horror of spirits and the hungry dead. He seemed to regard them as a greater threat than any cackling daemon-worshipper or malformed beastkin.

  The woman laughed again. It was a disjointed sound, echoing a half-moment after her mouth had opened. Reynar felt a chill. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘She’s a spirit. A gheist,’ Utrecht said. He stared at the apparition with loathing. ‘Don’t talk to her. You can’t trust the dead, captain.’

  A friend, if you wish. They are almost upon you.

  She circled them, moving from pane to pane, her form stretching and bending in strange ways. ‘And what do you want?’ Reynar asked.

  ‘Captain, leave it – we’ll fight the dogs,’ Utrecht said. ‘We might even win. Gork’s teeth, they might not even find us in here, all the twists and turns we took.’

  You won’t. They will. You’ll die here, and your bones will lie with the rest.

  ‘Unless…?’ Reynar demanded, turning to follow her. She stopped and looked at him.

  I can lead you to safety.

  Utrecht made to speak, but Reynar waved to cut him off. ‘In return for what?’

  Silence. The woman was gone.

  The mirror blocking the path cracked. The sound was loud, and Reynar turned, startled.

  Utrecht cursed. ‘Witchery.’

  ‘Better than death.’

  Cracks spread across the pane like spiderwebs, expanding outwards from what might have been a palm pressed against the other side. As the cracks lengthened and widened, the whole pane seemed to twist in on itself. A pallid light issued from between the cracks, and a mist rose off the sands. Reynar heard voices. Indistinct masses that might h
ave been faces appeared in the other panes of shadeglass.

  The shadeglass sagged back, as if from a blow. A cold wind rose up, and the birds were shrieking overhead. The glass parted with a sigh and fell away into darkness. Just darkness. Reynar hesitated. Behind him, the howls rose up. ‘If you’re going to go, captain, best to go now – they’ve found us!’ Utrecht gestured with his axe. Reynar looked back.

  The howlers were not hounds. Not the traditional sort, anyway. They scrambled down the twisting confines of the road on all fours, but they still resembled men. And behind them came an equally monstrous pack – the bloodreavers. More than they could fight.

  There was no choice. Only one path ahead.

  ‘I’ll hold them,’ Utrecht said. ‘You go.’

  ‘No. We go together.’ Reynar caught Utrecht by the back of his armour and dragged him, protesting, into the swirling black of the mirror.

  Isengrim followed the hounds into the Gloaming Path, growing more furious with every passing moment. The wind had made it hard for the hounds to follow his prey’s scent, and when they had caught it again, it had led them into this warren of glass and stone.

  The hounds stopped again, whining gutturally. They turned, sniffing, pawing at the walls. Isengrim crushed a skull underfoot and caught up one of the hounds, dashing its brains out against a pane of shadeglass. The glass shattered along with the hound’s head, and he hurled the twitching body aside.

  ‘My chieftain, perhaps we should try another route,’ Urok said. ‘We know where the path ahead comes out – we can cut them off…’

  Isengrim turned, a snarl on his face. Before he could reply, or split Urok’s skull for the suggestion, he heard a soft voice on the wind.

  This way… this way…