Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  Long shadows stretched along the courtyard, draped across broken statues and collecting like puddles of rainwater amid collapsed outbuildings. Everywhere, shadeglass gleamed and shimmered as it caught the light of the fires. Isengrim wondered if this place was being watched, even now, by Mekesh’s fellow Katophranes. Did dead men lurk in the dark and the quiet, observing the living?

  He hoped so. He wanted them to see him. He wanted their master to see. He was Isengrim of the Red Reef, and he would bow before nothing save the Brass Throne.

  ‘Will there be blood, do you think?’ Ylac asked, testing the edge of his glaive. He appeared to be the sanest of those who now followed Isengrim. Once a war chief, now Ylac was content to be subordinate. Something about his time here had subdued all his ambition and fury, leaving behind only a grim pragmatism.

  ‘Perhaps. That is usually the way of it.’ Isengrim shook his head. ‘Though it may not be tonight.’

  ‘I hope it will not be long,’ Ylac said. He bit into his thumb with filed teeth and ran the bloody digit along his gums. ‘I have not cut heads in many a day… or maybe years?’ He shook his head. ‘It is hard to tell here.’

  Isengrim did not reply. He hoped there would be blood. But if there was, it must be spilled in the proper fashion. Honour was all. Without honour, what was a man, save a beast? There was honour in serving a god, in fulfilling a purpose. Without that purpose, there was nothing. Slaughter without honour was a waste of blood. Khorne cared not from whence the blood flowed, but he cared whether it filled his goblet or splashed upon his feet.

  Isengrim had held to that single belief since childhood. If Khorne demanded it, it must be done. To do otherwise was to deny your purpose. A weapon could not deny its purpose. The thought was madness.

  Of course, this place was mad.

  The fire roared up suddenly, and he turned. He realised that the courtyard had cleared of all but a few fleshless sentries. And that Vakul was staring at him. Isengrim slapped Ylac on the chest. ‘Be ready.’

  ‘He is one of Khorne’s chosen,’ the other bloodreaver hissed.

  ‘Maybe. But so am I. Stay alert.’ Isengrim stepped forward, his axe hanging loosely from his grip. Vakul moved to meet him, carrying his own weapon with similar readiness. To put a weapon down was to surrender, but to hold it away from your foe was a sign of parley. A sign that you wished to duel with words, not with steel.

  Up close, Isengrim realised how big the hulking Blood Warrior was. Vakul was almost twice his size, with thick ropes of muscle on his bare arms. His armour stank of decades of butchery, and his teeth were like brass nails.

  ‘You bring new blood into my camp,’ Vakul said without preamble. His head was tilted so that he could focus his good eye on Isengrim as he spoke. ‘You, who are new blood yourself. That is an insult.’

  Isengrim shook his head. ‘I give no insult. It is not my fault you do not do these things yourself. They were easy enough to find.’

  ‘Maybe I did not wish to find them.’

  ‘Maybe you feared to leave.’

  Vakul grinned, showing bloody teeth. He had been gnawing on his own lips, reducing them to well-chewed tatters. ‘Who are you to call me a coward?’

  ‘I am Isengrim of the Red Reef. With this axe, I cut my chains. With these hands, I strangled my enslavers. Who are you to deny my words?’

  ‘I am Vakul. I am Khorne’s own son, birthed in blood and weaned on war. As are my brothers.’ He spread his arms, indicating the other Blood Warriors who crouched or stood nearby. ‘I am remade in his image. You are but flesh, little mortal.’

  ‘Aye, I am mortal. But mortals can kill. My enslavers thought themselves beloved of a god, and I drowned them in bitter seas.’ Isengrim rested his axe over his shoulder. Vakul studied him for long moments. Then he laughed.

  ‘You are brave, little reaver.’ He turned, as if gauging the mood of his audience. Vakul was the self-selected spokesman for those servants of the Dark Gods who had thrown in their lot with Mekesh. Even so, Isengrim did not question why Zuvass had chosen him to rally the Blood God’s worshippers rather than Vakul. If Vakul had had the capacity to do so, he would have done it already.

  He was weak. Isengrim watched him carefully, noting the way he favoured his left side and the way he turned his head to speak. Vakul was blind in one eye, but there was a stiffness to his movements. An old injury, or several. It slowed him, made him hesitate. Like the others, the city had worn him down.

  If he had been strong, he would have bellowed a challenge the moment Isengrim returned with new warriors. He would have seized his opportunity and not bothered with this clash of words. Isengrim saw his game clearly enough. Vakul, uncertain of his ability to kill Isengrim, had settled for trying to impress him.

  ‘But bravery is not enough,’ Vakul went on, turning back. ‘You should not trust Zuvass. He is a liar. He has been a liar all the time I have known him. And mad, besides.’ He leaned forward. ‘He has wandered this city since before its doom, some say. They say too that he is the voice of something that sleeps beneath us.’

  ‘He does not serve Nagash.’

  ‘I do not speak of Nagash,’ Vakul said. ‘Something older – or perhaps younger. Maybe both.’ He shook his head and looked away. ‘This place… it presses down on you. It whispers to you, and promises strange things. If you were wise, you would not listen.’

  ‘Zuvass said much the same.’

  Vakul grimaced. Fresh blood ran from his savaged lips and into his beard. ‘He will betray you,’ he said flatly. ‘Once he has what he needs, he will cast you aside.’ He held out his hand. ‘If you join your axe to mine, you need never fear his treachery. We are stronger together, brother. Why stand with one unsworn when true sons of Khorne are near?’

  Isengrim laughed, more for show than out of any real mirth. Vakul’s words rang with harsh truth. ‘One who is chosen by Khorne should fear no treachery. Challenge him, if he has wronged you. As I shall when the time comes.’

  ‘You do not understand this place yet. Honour wears thin here. And even the strongest axe grows brittle. Will you join me?’

  Isengrim shook his head. ‘If you must ask, you are no true son of Khorne.’

  Vakul turned and spat into the fire. He departed without another word, his warriors following him. None of them looked back. Isengrim let out a slow breath.

  ‘A good duel. First blood to you, I think,’ Ylac said, coming to stand behind him. ‘But he is right. I do not like the smell of that laughing creature.’ He pointed, and Isengrim looked up.

  Zuvass stood watching them from the top of the wall. Isengrim wondered if he’d been there the entire time. The thought irked him. He had no doubt that this was all some ploy of his. ‘No. Nor do I,’ he growled. ‘But for now, we must tolerate him.’

  ‘And when we are done tolerating him?’

  Isengrim smiled. ‘Then his skull will decorate my belt, along with that of another.’

  Chapter ten

  SHADOWS ON GLASS

  The Katophranes’ greatest work was undoubtedly the crafting of shadeglass.

  Made from the dark ores within the Oasis of Souls, shadeglass proved to have exceptional qualities…

  – Fowler Schlocken

  Nine Days in the Ruins

  Reynar had decided to start small. Just a bit of conversation to pass the time.

  ‘I don’t trust her,’ he said, tipping the bottle back. It had survived the journey back relatively unshaken, and the others had been all too eager to sample it despite the unknown vintage. He’d discovered that alcohol, of whatever sort, was highly prized. A man could buy an army with a case of substandard rotgut. Which this almost certainly was.

  The wine tasted foul, but he took a long slug regardless, more for show than anything else. He passed it to Bolas, who nodded. ‘Me neither.’ The Aqshian belched. He sat beside the silent Tirax, as ever.
He took a swig and passed it to a dead-eyed woman with coiling, vine-like tattoos on her narrow face.

  ‘None of us do,’ she said. She fingered a scar around her throat as she spoke. ‘But what can we do? She knows how to escape and we don’t.’

  ‘And how do we know that?’ Reynar said, watching as the bottle went around the circle. He didn’t know whether they could get drunk here, but some of the others looked as if they wanted to try.

  ‘She… told us?’ Bolas said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Reynar said.

  ‘You think she’s lying,’ Dolmen said softly. He handed the bottle to Tirax, who passed it along without taking a drink.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  The Azyrite smirked. ‘You implied it.’

  Reynar spread his hands. ‘I put forth a possibility.’

  ‘You think none of us have ever put forth that possibility?’ Dolmen took the bottle and sipped. He grimaced. ‘Shyishan grapes,’ he muttered. He passed the bottle over to Reynar. ‘We’ve all thought it. That this is just some spirit’s idea of torment. But there’s a problem with that idea.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Them.’ Dolmen pointed to the walls, where the bulky forms of Stormcasts stood, staring out into the night. ‘Don’t you think they’d know if she were lying?’

  Reynar frowned. ‘They’re not infallible.’

  ‘Good as,’ Dolmen retorted. ‘I’ve seen what they can do, up close.’

  ‘So have I,’ Reynar said. ‘And I’ve seen them fail.’

  It was Dolmen’s turn to frown. ‘They can’t fail. Sigmar forged them from starlight and lightning. They are the storm manifest, implacable and unstoppable.’

  ‘Good roof will keep a storm off,’ the woman with the vine tattoos said.

  ‘How heavy is the storm?’ Bolas asked. ‘Is it a downpour, or more along the lines of a hurricane?’ He reached for the bottle, and Reynar let him have it.

  ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ Dolmen snarled.

  ‘I thought you said it was a storm,’ Bolas said.

  Dolmen shook his head and looked at Reynar. ‘If they’re wrong, then Sigmar is wrong. And if Sigmar is wrong…’ He trailed off and made the sign of the hammer. ‘Sigmar is not wrong. They are not wrong.’

  ‘How long?’ Reynar asked.

  ‘How long what?’

  ‘How long have you been looking for pieces of the Faneway?’ Reynar looked around. ‘How long have you been scrounging for her? Dolmen? Bolas?’

  ‘Weeks,’ Dolmen said.

  ‘Months,’ Bolas said, his voice soft. He shook his head. ‘It’s hard to tell. I used to mark the walls, to keep count, but… but one day there were too many marks.’ He swallowed convulsively. ‘Too many.’ He emptied the bottle and set it down carefully.

  ‘And how much longer do you think it will be before it is repaired?’ Reynar asked. ‘How many more months or years?’ He pointed at Dolmen. ‘Do you think she’d tell you if she realised that she couldn’t fix it? Or would she just keep sending you out, again and again?’

  Conversation tapered off abruptly as the others considered this. Dolmen stared into the fire and wouldn’t meet Reynar’s eyes. The bottle vanished, but Reynar paid it little heed. Instead, he looked around, studying faces. He saw fear – not naked terror, but the grinding fear that came from a loss of hope. They were scared, because they saw nothing ahead. No light, no escape, only endless night, stretching away and ahead forever.

  He felt a flicker of doubt. What if Sadila was right? Maybe they wouldn’t believe him. Not because they doubted him, but because Sadila was their last hope to escape this place. And maybe she was. Maybe he was at the mercy of a lunatic, with no option but to humour her for as long as it took to find his way out.

  Suddenly cold, he held his hands over the fire. It didn’t help. It never helped. He watched it dance. It moved strangely here, not like a real fire at all… more like a dream of fire. Maybe it was all a dream, and soon he would wake up.

  Abruptly, he stood. The others made way for him. No one tried to stop him. Hand on his sword, he looked up towards the dome. Khord would be up there somewhere, with Severin and Sadila’s other captains, none of whom he knew. He leaned over and spat.

  Is that envy or fear you feel?

  He turned. He saw his own face leering at him from the shards of shadeglass in a nearby wall. Envy or fear? A simple question. Do you wish to be a captain again? Or do you fear what these others will decide?

  Reynar looked around the courtyard, wondering if anyone else could hear it. But no one gave any indication. He moved away, trying to ignore it. Behind him, his reflection laughed. He touched his chest where his amulet hid beneath his hauberk. It was like a cold anchor, dragging him down. Or a shield, keeping the bad luck at bay. Not that it’s been much help, has it?

  Another laugh. But this time, wracked with pain. Reynar almost turned, but didn’t. At first, he’d thought it was one of Sadila’s games. Now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she wasn’t his only enemy. Maybe she wasn’t the enemy at all.

  Oh, she is. And you know it. There’s more to this. Things she’s not saying.

  Reynar closed his eyes, trying to banish the taunting voice. When he opened them, he found his gaze drawn upwards. There were a number of onion-domed towers surrounding the core of the palaces. Most had been claimed by the Stormcasts for use as impromptu barracks. But one, he knew, belonged to Ilesha Dune.

  His eyes found her tower and narrowed speculatively. The sorceress, like Khord and Severin, seemed to have the Katophrane’s ear. Dolmen didn’t trust her, and the others seemed to think she’d send daemons to tear them apart if they disturbed her. In fact, other than the Katophrane, she seemed to speak only to Khord with any regularity.

  Good to have friends, he thought, and shook his head. Friends were just another sort of trap. But they could be useful. Decision made, he started towards the tower.

  There was no door, as such. Not any longer. But a single Stormcast stood on guard, a heavy war-blade in his hands. The sheen of his golden war-plate was dulled, but his gaze was sharp and hard. Reynar knew him, though only by name. The others called him Sunblade.

  ‘No further,’ he rumbled as Reynar approached. ‘No one is allowed in Lady Dune’s tower without permission.’

  ‘It is fine, Darras. I’ve been expecting him.’ Ilesha’s voice drifted down from above. Reynar glanced up and saw the sorceress standing on a balcony that encircled the top of the tower.

  Darras glanced up, and then stepped aside. ‘Enter. But be warned. I am close to hand.’

  Reynar quickly stepped past him. He made his way up the spiral steps, into the domed upper chamber. The circumference of the room was lined at intervals by archways that led out onto the balcony. Curved roof beams made from the bones of some great beast stretched overhead. The interior of the chamber had been decorated with odds and ends of all sorts. A stack of slim books bound in gold-lined red leather. A rack of gleaming lenses and slim brass tubes. A shelf of skulls, each marked with a numeral and what he thought must be a date. A Stormcast’s helmet, broken and stained with dried blood. Various artefacts, many of shadeglass, lined a sturdy workbench situated along one wall. An iron orb studded with a variety of knives, no two alike.

  Ilesha stood at the bench, a curious cube of shadeglass in her hands. She looked up, round features taut with fatigue. ‘Don’t mind Darras. He lost a friend recently.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The city took him. As it takes so many. Souls are drawn into strange eddies and lost, sometimes forever. It happens.’

  Reynar nodded, still looking around. ‘You have quite the collection.’

  ‘My researches take me down strange and varied paths. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’

  ‘You’re the one who said you were expecting me.’

 
‘I said so to prevent Darras from taking your head. Some of Severin’s followers are a bit… excitable. Half the time, I think they’re looking for excuses.’

  ‘Only half the time?’

  She laughed and looked back at the cube in her hands. Reynar leaned forward. ‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘Some sort of toy?’

  ‘It’s a fractal maze. A prison, of sorts. Something left behind by the Katophranes to trap unwary thieves.’ She held up the square, and Reynar saw a diminished Stormcast in black war-plate trudging through a labyrinth of mirrored glass.

  ‘Is he…?’

  ‘Caught, yes. Trapped forever.’ She set the square down on the bench. ‘This is only one piece of it. I’d have to reassemble the whole maze to have any hope of freeing him.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I suspect that he’s not even aware of it. I hope so.’ She looked at him. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  Reynar made a show of studying a stack of books. Many of them looked to be cartographic journals. ‘What are these?’

  ‘Maps of the city. Answer my question.’

  ‘I was curious.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘What was it we found out there? Something important?’

  Ilesha laughed. ‘She seemed to think so.’

  ‘Sadila, you mean?’

  ‘Who else would I mean?’ She looked at him. ‘Need to be quicker to survive here. This city will swallow you up otherwise.’

  ‘I’m aware,’ Reynar said. ‘What was it?’

  She hesitated, as if wondering how much to share. Finally, she sighed. ‘A key.’

  Reynar frowned. ‘Not like any sort of key I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘And how many types of keys have you seen?’

  Reynar sighed. ‘Point taken. A key to what?’

  Ilesha peered at him. ‘And why do you want to know? Are you planning to steal it?’ She went out onto one of the balconies, where a massive contraption of brass and dark wood rested on an iron tripod. She bent to the eyepiece and adjusted several of the strange knobs and levers that ran along its length.