‘He needs no aid,’ said a voice like distant thunder. A golden hand as large as Reynar’s head dropped down and dragged him easily to his feet. He twisted around and looked up into the frozen scowl of a Stormcast’s war-mask. ‘Can you stand?’ the warrior said, his words thudding into the pit of Reynar’s stomach. ‘If you cannot, I will grant you mercy.’ He gestured with the heavy, two-handed hammer in his other hand.
‘I can stand,’ Reynar said, twisting free of the giant’s grip.
‘Good. Put your sword to use.’ The Stormcast spun, more swiftly than Reynar would have thought possible, and slammed his hammer into a leaping cannibal. The wretch burst like an overfull wineskin. Reynar stabbed another as he tried to knife the giant in the side.
The three Stormcasts rampaged among the attackers, killing them with ease. Reynar was reminded of a bear he’d once seen, cast into a pit to slay curs for the entertainment of gamblers. Pale, indistinct faces pressed against mirrored surfaces, watching the slaughter from above and below. Hundreds of them – including one that he thought he recognised. But she vanished a moment later, leaving behind only the faintest hint of amused laughter.
‘The dead watch us eat,’ a slobbering cannibal screeched as he crashed into Reynar. Reynar caught the man’s knife on the edge of his sword, keeping it from his throat. ‘They watch us eat and eat and we never get full,’ he shrilled, clawing at Reynar’s face.
Reynar twisted away and kicked the man in the knee. As he sank down, Reynar chopped through his neck, nearly beheading him. But another bowled him over. They were sweeping over the slope now, more than he’d have thought possible. Their cries echoed through the air as they tried to swarm the Stormcasts.
Reynar stabbed one who was trying to gut him. As she toppled aside, a wide shadow fell across him. ‘Still alive, manling?’ The voice was rough, like hot ashes spilling across cold stones. He glanced up into a wide, craggy countenance, hidden within a tangled mane and beard the colour of a long-burning flame. A thick paw dragged him to his feet. ‘Stop crawling about like vermin.’
A duardin. More, a fyreslayer. Broad and heavy-looking, the duardin wore little clothing despite the chill on the air, and what he did wear looked to be made of metal. His bare limbs were corded with muscle and marked by runes that flickered with a visible heat. He wore no helm, and his hair and beard hung in a loose, tangled mane. He held a heavy maul in one hand, its head scored with symbols, and there was a bandolier of throwing axes strapped across his barrel chest.
The duardin snatched up one of the axes and sent it spinning into the skull of a cannibal. The woman tumbled back without a sound. The duardin glanced at Reynar. ‘They forgot about you, did they? That’s always the way. They have trouble remembering not all of us have heavenly lightning running through our veins.’ An attacker scrambled towards him, and he pivoted, crushing the man’s chest and pelvis with a blow from his maul. The duardin turned back. ‘Khord, son of Fjul, scion of Vostarg Lodge.’
It took Reynar a moment to recall the proper reply. ‘Seguin Reynar, scion of… nowhere in particular.’ He turned. The fight was coming to an end. The cannibals had had their fill of lightning-wreathed hammers and blades. Dozens of bodies lay scattered about in various states of cohesion. Reynar caught sight of Utrecht’s axe and took a step towards it. Khord caught his arm.
‘No, manling. That’s not a sight you want to see.’
Reynar nodded and turned away. The Stormcasts were approaching, glass and stone crunching beneath their weight. ‘Khord. How nice of you to join us,’ the leader – Severin – said. ‘You almost earned your pay today, mercenary.’
Khord raised an eyebrow. ‘Did I not guide you here, Azyrite? And have we not found him, as she demanded?’ He caught hold of Reynar’s arm. ‘Here he is. In one piece.’
‘There were two of us,’ Reynar said. He sheathed his blade.
Khord frowned. ‘Aye, and for that, I’m sorry. These maggots move fast when they want to.’ He kicked a decapitated head down the slope. ‘Always clustering around the known pathways into this place and attacking those who have the misfortune to come here.’
‘And where is here? One of those creatures called it Shadespire. But that is impossible. I was just in Shadespire.’
Severin looked down at him. ‘This too is Shadespire. Or its reflection. Welcome, mortal, to the Mirrored City. Welcome… and be damned.’
Isengrim fell for days. Or perhaps hours. Maybe only moments. It was hard to tell, in that shifting, glittering abyss. He struck flat edges and slid away, tumbling to the next, dropping down a twisting tunnel of reflected images.
Not all of the images were of him, and even some of those that were, were somehow not: he saw himself as a boy, screaming in fear – as the youth he had been, before he’d shed the blood of those who thought to make him a slave – as a warrior, clad in gold and azure, beholden to a different master. A hundred Isengrims falling with him, with the true Isengrim. As he fell, he raged, screaming Khorne’s name, howling oaths of blood and slaughter.
He knew that Khorne would not save him. He desired only that the Blood God see his end and find it pleasing. As he struck a steep incline, he lashed out with his axe, attempting to slow or even stall his descent. Chunks of glass pelted him as he juddered to a halt. Dust rolled past him, wafting away. Faces seemed to take shape in the cloud as it dispersed.
Below him, he could see a distant fractal shape. It was like a snowflake resting on a sea of oil. A city of splintered light, its towers stretching in all directions. It flexed and twisted like a thing alive, and he could hear the dim groan of buckling timbers. The shape expanded, like clay caught between the hands of a sculptor. Tendrils of shimmering masonry rose along the sides of the tunnel, seemingly spreading up towards him.
The sound of it grew louder and louder, drowning out even the thunder of his own heartbeat. His axe slipped as the tunnel began to fray about him, cracking and twisting with violent convulsions. He heard the sound of a thousand mirrors shattering, and he was swept down in a storm of glass shards. They dug into his flesh like teeth, and he flailed wildly as he rolled towards the encroaching city. He heard voices echoing from all directions, and glimpsed strange shapes moving between the broken shards of glass.
Light blazed beneath him. The city became a star – a sun – expanding as if to engulf him. The glare was cold, and it leeched the strength from his limbs. He tried to arrest his fall again, but the glass parted like paper. He roared as the light blinded and consumed him, and then, with a rising crash, it spat him out somewhere cold and grey.
He struck something hard, twisted and slammed down again, on a hill of bones and broken stone. He rolled, maintaining his grip on his axe despite the pain and force of the impact. Chopping it down into the ground, he arrested his slide. Dust swept around him as he shoved himself to his feet.
He looked around, infuriated. He had no idea where he was. The world around him seemed to consist entirely of a tangle of stairs, walls and archways. The air smelled stale and a clammy breeze nipped at him. Bodies lay everywhere, still steaming in the cold. He had missed a fight, it seemed. That made him even angrier.
Behind him, someone chuckled. He turned swiftly, axe raised. A lean man sat atop a fallen obelisk, watching him. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ the man said. ‘Only one of you, this time.’
‘One,’ Isengrim said. ‘The others – where are they?’ He launched himself at the man, who yelped and rolled off the opposite side of the obelisk, putting it between himself and Isengrim.
‘Dead, I expect. Or not. But not here.’
Isengrim leapt over the fallen stone and reached for him. His quarry slipped out of reach, wild-eyed. ‘No, no, no. I’ve only just got back. It’s not time yet.’ He pointed at the ground haplessly as Isengrim caught hold of his collar. Isengrim glanced down. The man he held lay on the ground, skull burst open but otherwise the same. A twin, dressed even in th
e same rags, bearing the same sores and bad teeth. Pain interrupted these observations as his captive produced a knife from somewhere and sank it into his arm.
The lean man twisted the knife, trying to saw through the tendons in Isengrim’s arm. Isengrim roared and flung him aside. The man slammed into a nearby archway, shattering the thin pane of shadeglass there. As the shards rained down, he slumped among them, gurgling, a piece lodged in his jugular.
Isengrim stalked towards him, the knife still jutting from his forearm. As he approached, he heard a sound like ice cracking. He looked down at the shards of glass and saw flickers of what might have been the lean man’s face, peering up at him in frustration. The sound came again, and he realised that it emanated from the largest fragment of glass. The surface of the fragment bowed and stretched upwards. The glass sloughed away from a hand as it broke free.
Isengrim stared. The hand flailed for a moment, groping at the ground around the fragment. Then, with agonising slowness, a second hand emerged. Isengrim drew closer, staring down into the shard. The lean man’s face glared up at him. ‘I told you – it isn’t time yet,’ he snarled. His voice echoed strangely, as if coming from somewhere far away. Isengrim cocked his head, studying the apparition.
Then, with a grunt, he lifted his axe and brought it down on the glass. The man’s howl of denial was cut short as the fragment shattered. Silence fell. The man’s reflections had fled, and Isengrim laughed harshly. Wherever he was, some things remained the same. From behind him, he heard the crash of metal against stone.
He turned, tensed. A tall, thin shape watched him from one of the recursive stairways that rose over a hill of skeletal remains. The warrior was nothing but bone beneath its battered armour and torn fur cloak. It bore a great war-spear in one hand and a round shield strapped to the other.
Other shapes, similarly decayed, stood behind it. One wore a hood and tattered cloak and leaned against a farmer’s scythe, another was wearing the raiment of a savage king, while a third was clad in the unadorned war-plate of a professional soldier. Dozens of other skeletons draped in rags climbed the slopes on all sides, carrying broken and chipped weapons.
‘Who…’ the skeleton bearing the war-spear rasped. Its – his – voice was like sand scraping across stone.
Isengrim waited, but that seemed the limit of the skeletal warrior’s question. He kicked the broken glass aside and stepped forward. ‘Isengrim of the Red Reef. Isengrim Khorneson. Stand aside, lest I crack your bones. I have business to be about.’
Silence met this declaration. Isengrim hesitated. He’d fought the dead before, but there was little pleasure to be had in it. They did not bleed or scream. They had no lives to snuff, and their skulls were empty of joy or fear. He took a two-handed grip on his axe. ‘If you will not move, then come – I have no patience for this silent glaring. Come, if you think you can beat me.’
The skeleton who’d spoken twitched his spear in a dismissive gesture. One of the others, the one in ancient war-plate, stepped to meet Isengrim, as if it were the champion of some great lord. It drew a huge two-handed blade from a sheath on its back.
Isengrim waited as the skeletal warrior approached, great blade held low. The dead thing moved with more grace than he’d expected. When it struck, it did so with a wide, sweeping blow that nearly cut him in half. He leapt back, trying to put distance between himself and the sword. The skeleton paced after him, driving him steadily backwards, marking him with thin slashes. Isengrim snarled in frustration as his blood spattered the stones. Whenever he tried to dart past the slashing weapon, his opponent anticipated him and the blade licked out, drawing closer with every swing.
The other skeletons watched this macabre dance in silence, their gazes flickering like candles in the gloom. The sword swept out again, parting the air with a hiss, and Isengrim felt it slice the flesh of his cheek as he twisted aside. Off balance, he fell. Desperate, he lashed with his axe and caught his opponent in the femur.
Bone cracked and the skeletal warrior staggered. Isengrim rose with a roar, and his axe sank into his foe’s torso, shattering exposed ribs. The skeleton stumbled back. Before it could recover, Isengrim leapt onto it, bearing it to the ground. He slammed his axe down on the skeleton’s sword arm, separating its hand from its wrist. He hooked his fingers into the skull. The skeleton’s free hand clawed at his forearm, but to no avail. Isengrim bellowed and tore the skull free. He slung it aside and rose.
‘Next,’ he growled.
The leader of the dead stared at him. Then, he raised his spear. The other skeletons began to advance. No duel, this time. Only death. Isengrim bared his teeth and raised his axe. He would die – he knew that. There were too many of them. But he would not die easily, or silently. He readied himself for his final lunge. Better to meet the end head on and at a time of his own choosing rather than wait for it to find him. He started to lunge, but a single word brought him up short.
‘No.’
Isengrim looked up as the advancing skeletons paused. Their leader turned slightly. The flickers in his eye sockets blazed brighter as an armoured figure pushed through the ranks and climbed the slope. The warrior was not so tall as he seemed at first, but appeared so thanks to the style of war-plate he wore. It was not bulky, instead slimly baroque and of a type Isengrim did not recognise.
Leering faces marked the elbows and knees, and daemonic shapes cavorted across the scarred and pitted plates. The helm was wrought in the shape of a grinning countenance, round and beatific. A crest of stiffened hair rose over the top of it and descended down the warrior’s back. He wore a ragged cloak of faded azure and his hand rested on the worn pommel of a sword sheathed low on his hip.
‘Well. It has been too long, my friend.’
The warrior’s voice was deep, resonant. But unfamiliar. ‘I do not know you,’ Isengrim growled. He glanced around warily, wondering if this were some trick.
‘My apologies.’ The warrior gestured dismissively. ‘I am Zuvass. And you had best come with me.’
‘Why?’ Isengrim snarled.
‘Because otherwise, the dead will take you. And you will never catch your prey.’
Isengrim paused. What did this warrior know of his hunt? Slowly, he lowered his axe. ‘Very well,’ he said grudgingly.
Zuvass laughed – a hollow sound, full of spite and bitterness. ‘You are wise, for a man wearing so much blood.’ He turned. ‘Come. Your new master awaits.’
Chapter five
STREETS OF GLASS
In Shadespire, every street is at once a window and a door. Infinite permutations of every avenue and thoroughfare, reflected infinitely through ever more cleverly angled mirrors of polished shadeglass…
– Folly Bane
Memoirs of a Merchant-Knight
Reynar’s rescuers did not speak to him as they steadily descended the slope of bones into the maze of dimly lit streets below. Will o’ the wisps danced along currents of chill mist, casting their soft, sickly green glow over everything. Two of the Stormcasts led the way, their heavy tread scattering small avalanches of bone before them, while the third, Obryn, hung back. Khord, the fyreslayer, tramped alongside Reynar.
‘They’re watching us,’ Reynar said. Though the cannibals had seemingly retreated, he could feel their eyes on his back. He glanced warily at the strange, interweaving roof of causeways above, where figures shuffled in intermittent processions. He could hear the clanging of bells off in the distance, and a soft weeping from somewhere closer to hand. He cast about for its source but saw nothing. The shadows were deep here.
Khord grunted, but did not look up. ‘No easy thing, watching meat slip out of reach.’ He hefted his maul, as if in readiness to crush something.
Reynar frowned. ‘I’m not meat.’
Khord glanced at him. ‘We’re all meat here, manling. Best get used to it.’
‘Where is here?’
‘How many times are you going to ask that?’
‘Until I get an answer that makes sense.’ He looked around. The city was not a city, not as Reynar knew them. Rather, it seemed to be many cities, crashed together and twisted in on themselves. Like a reflection within a reflection, stretching in all directions at once. It hurt his eyes if he looked for too long. He rubbed his face. There was blood on it – not all of it his, thankfully. ‘This cannot be Shadespire. Shadespire is a ruin.’
‘Aye, and it is also this. And keep your voice low. Sound carries strangely here, and we don’t want to attract any more attention than we already have.’ Khord tapped his lips with a finger. Reynar frowned, but nodded.
The mist that seeped from the stones began to thin, allowing him to discern more about his immediate surroundings. Wherever he turned, streets bent upwards at impossible angles or fell away into glimmering abysses. Everything trembled, as if it were all in constant motion. Armies of statuary glared at one another from atop plinths or from within high alcoves. Some of them he recognised, having seen them in the ruins of the city, though these were not broken – or were broken in different ways.
There were walls of shadeglass that stretched away down the gloomy boulevards, and pale things moved behind those few facets that were intact. He could not see them clearly, and did not wish to. The air was still and cold, and tasted stale. The streets were covered in uneven carpets of shattered bone and rock, reminders of some recent cataclysm.
Thick drifts of dust, or perhaps sand, clung to undisturbed corners, seemingly spilling down from somewhere far above, or else rising from below. In these dark corners, crooked shapes huddled, murmuring softly to the things within the shadeglass. He could hear water spilling over stones, but could not see it.
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