Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘I’m not a thief.’

  ‘You stole from the dead.’

  ‘The dead don’t have property rights.’

  ‘I know some who might argue.’

  Reynar frowned. ‘You don’t care for me, do you?’

  Ilesha looked at him. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘No one else seems to.’

  ‘Khord likes you.’ Ilesha held up a hand. Purple lights danced between her fingers. ‘And so do I. I don’t trust you, but I like you.’

  ‘I don’t trust you either.’

  She smiled at him. ‘There, see? You’re fitting in already.’

  Reynar laughed, though it was more for show. The thought of fitting in here sent a cold chill racing through him.

  Ilesha bent back to her apparatus. ‘In answer to your question, I don’t know. I assume that’s what they’re talking about in her glass grove.’

  ‘Why aren’t you there?’

  She sighed. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘How will I learn if I don’t ask?’ He spread his hands. ‘Humour me.’

  ‘I’m not there because Sadila didn’t ask me. Sadila didn’t ask me because she mistrusts magic. Or because she thinks of me as an artisan, and artisans don’t attend councils of war.’ Ilesha shrugged. ‘Katophranes are strange.’

  ‘Or maybe it’s because she’s worried you’ll figure out she’s lying.’

  Ilesha frowned. Before she could reply, he looked at the spyglass. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A telescope.’ She paused. ‘A spyglass, of sorts.’

  ‘Never seen one before.’

  ‘They were quite common when I left.’

  He leaned against the edge of the rail. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A few months. Though that doesn’t matter. Time has no meaning in Shadespire. What seems like moments to one person can seem like hours to someone else. Years, even.’

  ‘That would explain some of the things Khord said.’ Reynar scratched his chin. ‘He said he got here a few months ago, like you, but I think he missed a few decades.’

  ‘Not surprising,’ Ilesha said, peering through her spyglass. ‘From my perspective, I suspect you’re from the past as well.’ She glanced at him. ‘Time passes differently in different realms. My theory is that Nagash tangled more than the architecture when he cursed this place – I think he twisted Shadespire through time as well. Now it sits at the centre of a vast web of shadeglass made from every piece there ever was or will be.’

  Reynar nodded slowly. ‘It’s connected to every realm and every century,’ he said. The concept made his head ache and terrified him in equal measure. The pragmatic part of him wondered what it meant for his odds of escape.

  She smiled. ‘From the moment the first Katophrane crafted the first piece of shadeglass to the moment the last piece is destroyed.’ She bent back to her spyglass. ‘This place is a mystery in more ways than one.’

  ‘It’s a nightmare.’

  ‘That too.’ She adjusted the instrument. ‘There’s no day or night here. Just eternal twilight, balanced on a knife edge. A single moment stretched across eternity.’

  ‘Very poetic.’

  ‘Mm. I used to enjoy poetry. Did you ever read Helmgwar’s Ode to an Undying Queen? Lovely.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’ Reynar looked up. ‘There are things swimming up there, in the dark. I’ve seen them. Huge things… bigger than any megalofin or harkraken.’

  ‘Yes. It’s rather like being in a reef, isn’t it?’ Ilesha said, turning her spyglass to the west. ‘We are the little things – the fish and worms that reside there. And those things – well, they circle and circle, waiting for a little fish to try to leave the reef.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  Ilesha smiled. ‘I don’t know of anyone who’s ever found out.’ There was no humour in her expression. ‘But the reef is changing. There is less of it every time the tide goes out, and what remains is harder to recognise.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I have compiled five hundred and thirty-seven maps of the southern and western districts of the city in my time here.’ She gestured to the journals. ‘None of them are the same. Some are only off by a street or two. Others…’

  Reynar looked at her in confusion. Ilesha stepped back from the spyglass. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Don’t speak. Just look.’

  Reluctantly, he bent and peered through the spyglass. At first, all he saw was a shadow – shadows – in the sky, stretching away into the curtain of eternal twilight. Smoky reflections of the city from a hundred angles, jutting upwards and sideways and straight down. As if someone had punched a mirror and then set it aright without fixing the cracks.

  The city itself, the city he stood in, crumbled away at its edge, like a clump of soil floating in a river. A smattering of debris drifted away from the main mass, caught in the cosmic current. Reynar wondered if there were lost souls trapped on those islands, and what their eventual fate might be.

  Through the spyglass, he watched as streets unfolded and stretched out before curling back in on themselves, expelling clouds of will o’ the wisps into the air. He could hear the distant rumbling of this change. Towers swayed like fronds, and the buildings split like overripe fruit to reveal new shapes of stone and glass growing within them – things like great bones, or corkscrew turrets that bent in too many directions at once.

  He felt ill, and stepped away from the spyglass, fighting the bile that burned at the back of his throat. ‘What– What is it?’ he said. ‘Is it Chaos-touched?’ He felt an itch in his chest, a sudden tickle of panic at the thought. ‘Are we… Is this place tainted?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ilesha said. ‘But not by Chaos. Nagash took this place, tore it from the realms and set it adrift between them. For centuries, it has floated here, in this nowhere space. And it has begun to change. To become something more than what it was. Something unrecognisable, even to the God of the Dead. Why do you think he watches it so intently?’ She pointed out across the city.

  Reynar turned. A colossal statue sat crouched on the edge of the city. He could see it even without the spyglass. ‘Nagash,’ he muttered. The God of Death was easily recognisable. Indeed, the statue could be no one else. A shadow-wreathed titan sitting on a throne of obsidian, clad in ancient armour. The statue loomed over the eastern district, higher even than the tallest towers. ‘Who built such a thing?’

  ‘No one,’ Ilesha said. ‘It grew overnight, they say. The first night, after the curse had fallen but before the people of Shadespire had yet realised the full implications. There are more like it – smaller, obviously, but scattered throughout the city. Watching. Waiting.’

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘For whatever is happening to the city to finish, I suspect.’

  Reynar looked at her. She sounded too calm. Too composed. Perhaps that was simply the way sorcerers talked. ‘Which is what? What is happening here?’

  ‘I told you. It’s changing. Into what, I don’t know.’ For the first time, her voice faltered. ‘I doubt he knows either.’

  Reynar looked back at the statue. For a moment, it seemed as if there were amethyst flames flickering in the sockets of that immense skull. Suddenly cold, he turned his back on the distant edifice and instinctively made the sign of the hammer.

  ‘You’re an Azyrite,’ Ilesha said, watching him.

  ‘I was born in Hammerhal. My parents were Azyrites.’ Reynar forced a smile. ‘My father was… a trader in used goods. My mother told fortunes.’

  ‘He was a thief, and she was a witch.’

  Reynar shrugged. ‘If you like.’

  Ilesha had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘My apologies. I did not think before I spoke.’ She paused. ‘I can see it in your aura. Like starlight on snow.’

  Reynar frowned. ‘I
have an aura?’ He didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not. The way she said it, either was likely.

  ‘All things do. The realms permeate us even as we spread across them. Our souls resonate with the place of their origin.’ She smiled. ‘Only those who know what to look for can see it, though.’ She tapped her robes.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  She laughed. ‘I suppose it must be.’ She turned. ‘It won’t last. This place leeches such subtle colours from its inhabitants. It taints us. Eats us from the inside out.’ She sighed. ‘Not all at once, or even swiftly. But eventually. Inevitably. Even magic stops working after a time. That’s why I rarely employ it these days.’

  Reynar felt a chill pass through him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Surely you can feel it – that chill in your bones. How quickly your laughter turns sour and your thoughts become gloomy. This place is where hope comes to die and potential is strangled in its cradle.’ Her composure cracked at last. He could see the weight of time bearing down on her, and the pain in her eyes.

  He hesitated, at odds with himself. He wanted to reach out, but was unable to. It wasn’t simply that he didn’t know what to say. Friends were a trap, one he could not allow himself to fall into. Not again. Not here.

  As if reading his thoughts, Ilesha smiled sadly. She looked down at the courtyard. ‘Even the Stormcasts, who glow so fiercely, grow dimmer with every failure, every death. Soon, we may all be no more than shadows.’

  ‘And that is why we must repair the Faneway and escape before this place devours us, body and soul.’ Sadila’s voice echoed suddenly around them. It resonated from every shard of shadeglass in the chamber. The Katophrane watched them through dozens of eyes, her smile wide and knowing. Reynar met her smile with his own.

  ‘My lady, have you decided, then?’ Ilesha asked.

  ‘Yes. You have identified the markings?’

  ‘I have. I can–’

  ‘No. You are too important to risk in the wilds. If you were to ­perish, all your work would be for naught. Khord will suffice as guide. He knows this city well. He has been here long enough.’ ­Sadila looked at Reynar. ‘You will go as well, sellsword.’

  ‘Go where?’

  Sadila’s smile widened. ‘Why, the vaults of Kemos, of course.’

  ‘The vaults of Kemos,’ Zuvass said, tapping the crumbling map with a finger. ‘That’s where they will be going. And we must be there to greet them.’ He looked around the chamber, at Isengrim and the others in attendance. The Sepulchral Warden was there, as ever, and Hygaletes as well. Vakul was also present, and he was the one Isengrim watched.

  Since their confrontation in the courtyard, Vakul had avoided him. Perhaps he feared a challenge, or perhaps he simply wanted to ensure that it occurred at a time and place of his choosing. Either way, he would not get his wish. Isengrim ran his thumb along the edge of his axe, studying the Blood Warrior. If Vakul noticed, he gave no sign.

  ‘If Sadila acquires the artefacts in those vaults, she will be closer than ever to her goal,’ Zuvass continued. ‘But if we can take them, we will have the advantage.’

  Isengrim glanced around. The others – save Vakul – were nodding, as if this made sense. They sat around a heavy table that occupied the centre of the chamber at the top of the wall keep. The chamber looked out over the city and the darkness beyond through hundreds of circular apertures. Pillars laced with veins of shadeglass ran along the walls. Hand-carved statues of shadeglass representing bygone heroes or military commanders occupied the shallow niches between pillars. Beneath those statues, dead men stood silent sentry – skeletal warriors in service to the Sepulchral Warden.

  The Katophrane, Mekesh, paced behind these guards, through the statues, as silent as ever. Mekesh rarely spoke. Indeed, sometimes Isengrim forgot he was even there. Perhaps the Katophrane was simply content to leave matters to his captains. Or perhaps he had less say in things than Zuvass had claimed. But as Zuvass spoke, he stopped, a startled look on his ghostly features. ‘You are certain, then, that she intends to raid the vaults?’

  Zuvass nodded. ‘I am.’

  ‘It is forbidden,’ the Sepulchral Warden intoned.

  ‘Which is why I have no doubt you will be eager to stop her.’

  ‘How do you know all of this?’ Vakul growled. ‘How do you know what our enemy plans?’

  ‘I have my ways,’ Zuvass said. ‘And you should be well used to them by now, Vakul.’ He set his hand on the stack of weathered books that rose before him on the table. They were thin things, and so old that Isengrim was surprised they were still in one piece. ‘Or perhaps you are simply feeling belligerent because I didn’t ask your advice?’ He glanced at Isengrim, and the bloodreaver smiled.

  Vakul snarled, an animal sound that caused the others to stiffen. ‘Talk, talk, talk – you are always talking. Always telling us the things you know, as if they are treasures. What does it matter if they go to some place and steal some thing? We shall take it from them regardless.’ Vakul turned, glaring at Mekesh. ‘I will take it from them. Let me attack!’

  ‘If you attack now, it will be for naught,’ Zuvass said before Mekesh could reply. ‘Sadila will escape, if her army does not simply grind you into the stones. Either way, we will have lost. No. Better to intercept the artefact and stymie her. Patience is the key to this war, foreign as that concept might be to one such as you.’

  Vakul turned, eyes blazing. ‘I was not speaking to you.’

  ‘But I was speaking to you.’ Zuvass crossed his arms. ‘You have been quite vocal in your complaints of late, Vakul. And after all that we have done for you.’

  ‘Done for me? What about what I have done for you?’

  ‘Remind me what that was, exactly?’ Zuvass laughed. ‘Besides cower behind our walls, taking up space, I mean.’

  Vakul snatched his goreaxe up off the table and rose to his feet. Isengrim smiled and stood as well. Vakul glanced at him. He saw it now, the trap he’d fallen into. ‘Huh. Is that how it is, then?’ he growled.

  Isengrim set his feet. ‘Is there any other way it could be?’

  Vakul’s reply was a wordless roar as he leapt onto the table and over, goreaxe raised. Isengrim quickly stepped aside. Vakul was stronger, even half-crippled. But not faster, not weighed down as he was by war-plate. That was Isengrim’s only advantage, and the only one he needed. As Vakul’s axe bit into the floor, Isengrim turned, bringing his own down, not on his enemy’s flesh but the haft of his weapon.

  Vakul stumbled, his good eye widening. Isengrim bulled into him, driving him back. The only way to win a fight with one of the Blood God’s chosen was to do so quickly, before the god’s breath filled them and sent them into a red fury.

  Isengrim avoided Vakul’s groping hand and sank his axe into his opponent’s unarmoured leg, shattering his knee. Vakul stumbled against the table, eyes bulging, teeth snapping. He roared and shoved himself at Isengrim, seeking to throttle him. Isengrim twisted aside and buried his axe in a gap in Vakul’s armour, drawing blood. Vakul roared and backhanded him, knocking him sprawling.

  Head ringing, Isengrim scrabbled to his feet. He could taste blood, and he smiled. Vakul lunged for him again, but awkwardly, hampered by his ruined knee. Isengrim caught him on the left, his blade biting into damaged war-plate, tearing it open. Vakul grabbed Isengrim’s head and began to squeeze. The world started to fray at the edges.

  Isengrim wrenched his axe free in a wash of red and rammed it up, into the gap between Vakul’s chest-plate and helm. Vakul released him and tottered back, gagging. Isengrim ripped the weapon free and slammed it home again, harder this time. Bone crunched and gave way. Vakul fell, choking on his own curses. Even with his neck opened to the bone, he still struggled to rise.

  Isengrim raised his axe. ‘I claim this skull in Khorne’s name,’ he roared.

  It took two more blows to remo
ve Vakul’s head entirely. When Isengrim had finished, he sank down and dragged it towards him. He looked at Zuvass. ‘It is done.’

  ‘And magnificently.’ Zuvass looked around. ‘I trust no one has any objections?’

  ‘Was that necessary?’ Mekesh asked softly. ‘Vakul bled for our cause.’ He did not sound angry so much as sad. Isengrim sneered and pushed himself to his feet.

  ‘And now he has died for it,’ Zuvass said. ‘I take no pleasure from it, but he was becoming dangerous, Mekesh. Soon, he might have taken his warriors and left – though not before trying to kill us all. We couldn’t allow that, could we?’

  Mekesh frowned. ‘Perhaps not, but he was right about one thing. This scheme of yours seems overly complicated. It is a tangle of circumstances.’

  ‘All necessary, I assure you, my friend. I see the path ahead all too clearly.’

  Mekesh studied him. ‘I, too, once thought I could see the future. I spoke to daemons. Many of us did.’ His voice grew vague, forlorn. ‘And for our crimes, Nagash tore us from the heart of Shyish. And only by showing that we are truly repentant will he allow us to depart this vale of sorrow.’

  Isengrim laughed again. He could hear the skeletal guards tensing, their bones scraping, and knew that for all their silence, they could hear just as well as a living man. The thought only made him laugh harder.

  ‘Silence,’ Mekesh said. Then, more loudly, ‘Silence, barbarian.’ For the first time, there was a hint of emotion in his voice.

  Isengrim choked back his laughter and shook his head. ‘You are fools. All of you. Fools and worse than fools. The Lord of Bones forgives nothing, forgets nothing. He holds fast to his grudges and uses them to whet his blade. This I know, for I have shed blood by the bucket in the sandy wastes of his realm. He is a mad god.’

  ‘Blasphemy,’ the Sepulchral Warden said. There was no emotion in the utterance, no heat. A simple statement of fact. Isengrim turned, smiling savagely.