‘He is not my god, jailer.’
‘He is the god of all things, brother,’ Hygaletes said. The sellsword’s voice was infuriatingly mild, as if he were correcting a child. ‘Nagash is all, and all are one in him. All men eventually bow to him, for he is reaper and scythe’s edge in one.’
‘Nagash is all,’ the skeletal warriors intoned. ‘All are one in Nagash.’ The words echoed strangely, reverberating up from within their gaping ribcages to rattle outwards.
The Sepulchral Warden stood and levelled his great spear at Isengrim. ‘There is only one god here, barbarian. One god, one name, one power. All who are blind to it must be made to see. All who resist must be broken. All who seek escape must be contained. Only then will the Undying King cast wide the gates of light and shadow and gather the penitent to him.’
Zuvass spoke up before Isengrim could reply. ‘And so he shall. I will see to it personally, my Lord Warden. Of that, you can be sure.’ He gestured curtly to Isengrim. ‘Come.’
Isengrim followed, but only after bestowing a glare of challenge on the others, to remind them that he would not be easy meat like Vakul. As they left, he said, ‘I could have killed Vakul at any time. I should have done so sooner.’
‘Do you think Khorne will frown on the manner of his death?’
Isengrim shrugged. ‘A death is a death. But why here?’
‘They needed to see him die. There are currents to this you cannot perceive. The Sepulchral Warden is only here because Mekesh has sworn to aid him. If he thinks Mekesh has nothing to offer, he will depart and take our army with him. Or worse.’
‘I do not fear him.’
‘You should. He is the hand of Nagash, at the throat of the Katophranes. Most avoid him, or hide from him. But some seek alliance with him, or to destroy him. Sadila is one of the latter. That he still exists at all is a credit to his power.’
‘The power he has been granted, you mean.’
Zuvass gestured dismissively. ‘One and the same. Mekesh is a weakling, a minor Katophrane of no import and little influence, as you have no doubt discerned already.’
Isengrim smiled. ‘He is your mask.’
‘Yes. But he is an acceptable mask to a traditionalist like the Warden. So long as he proves an asset, at least. So long as he has resources.’
‘Like my warriors.’ Isengrim gestured with Vakul’s still-dripping head. ‘Am I merely to replace Vakul for you? Or is this part of some greater scheme?’
‘I told you – we are preparing for war.’
‘We have warriors,’ Isengrim said as he tucked Vakul’s gory locks into his belt. He would need his rival’s head as proof of his right to lead. ‘We have an enemy. What more is there?’
‘Not enough warriors. Not yet. And our enemy is cunning – she was a famed duellist, you know, in life. She relishes a challenge. We must be clever. The pieces must align just so, or victory will escape us.’
‘Us, or you?’
Zuvass looked at him. ‘A surprising insight from a man who files his teeth.’
Isengrim grinned. ‘I am not a fool. I know what auguries are. I know there are men who can see the future stretch ahead of them like a moonlit path, if they have the trick of it. I am not one, but Mekesh seems to think you are.’
‘And what do you think?’
Isengrim looked away. ‘I think the path you follow is a twisted one, and of no interest to me save that it takes me to my quarry. He will be there?’
‘Yes.’
Isengrim growled. ‘A certainty?’
Zuvass shrugged. ‘Nothing is certain. Time and memory are funny things.’
‘Then you have seen it – you have seen me take his head.’
Zuvass paused for a moment. ‘Yes.’
Isengrim nodded. ‘Good. It is good to know this.’ He ran a thumb along the edge of his bloody axe. ‘Let us go. Khorne is impatient, and I would give him what he demands.’
Chapter eleven
VAULTS OF THE KATOPHRANES
In many ways, the Katophranes of Shadespire were much like the rooklings of Helstone. Like those tiny birds, they made their nests out of whatever caught their fancy. And they protected them just as fiercely…
– Palento Herst
The Architecture of Southern Shyish
Reynar brushed a flapping curtain of rotting silk aside, revealing the narrow street ahead, and stepped beneath the archway. He blinked dust from his eyes. It felt as if he were covered in cobwebs, but he knew there was nothing there and he resisted the urge to scrape at his face and hands.
Glass crunched beneath his tread. It dusted the path like new-fallen snow, crushed into infinite particles by the passage of centuries. It gleamed in the dim light, the glow of will o’ the wisps bouncing from one fragment to the next until the whole of the way ahead seemed lit up from beneath.
It was growing in the corners and crannies. Great, fungoid masses of glass. Shimmering, faceted blisters clinging to crumbling brickwork. It was as if the whole city were being consumed by itself. He caught his reflection in a glistening scar and stared for a moment as the facets pulled his face into a wide, inhuman leer.
He shook his head and turned away. Bodies moved around him. He could hear whispered conversations and the clank of weaponry. The expedition to the vault of Kemos was going slowly. Rather than a small group, Sadila had insisted on a more substantial undertaking. A show of force, she’d said.
Reynar wondered who it was for. Not the pale, insubstantial ghosts that flitted through the canyons of glass and stone, he thought. Maybe for the dead things who hid from them as they passed, or the phantom echoes of Katophranes glaring at them from the pillars and plinths of shadeglass lining their route. A ruler’s procession through conquered territory – that’s what it reminded him of.
He looked around. There were two dozen of them this time. Dolmen was among them, and Tirax. Bolas as well, and a number of others he only recognised in passing. Leading the way were a dozen Stormcasts headed, unsurprisingly, by Severin. This expedition was too important to leave in anyone else’s hands. While the Liberator-Prime would occasionally consult with Khord on the direction they were going, he otherwise ignored the mortals trailing in his wake.
‘What was Kemos, then?’ Reynar murmured. He walked alongside Khord at the head of the party, just behind the armoured vanguard. Around them, striations of glass rose along oddly curved walls, making the path seem wider than it really was. Thick curtains of cobwebs stretched across it in places, and foul water ran in silent rivulets through cracks in the street, growing into rushing streams that fell away suddenly, pouring into lightless depths.
‘Not what. Who.’ Khord sniffed. ‘A wonderworker. An artisan. He made things for the Katophranes. Ilesha knows more about him.’ He looked around. ‘Wish she was here. Handy thing to have around, a sorceress.’
‘Sadila doesn’t seem to like her going anywhere.’
‘I don’t blame her,’ Dolmen muttered from behind them. ‘That witch is the only one that has any idea how to make use of what we scavenge.’
‘Unless Sadila is lying,’ Reynar said quietly. Khord prodded him.
‘Keep that kind of thing to yourself, manling. Especially in mixed company.’
Reynar nodded, but he could almost see the wheels turning in Khord’s mind. The duardin was no fool. He had his own doubts as to the reliability of their host. Reynar wondered what it would take to push him from doubt to action.
The path fell away from them suddenly, descending in an uneven slope. Water poured down it, running between mossy flagstones. Mushrooms the colour of bone bristled in unsightly patches. The Stormcasts led the way downward, while Reynar and the others followed more slowly.
Startled vermin scampered away, screeching, as the heavily armoured warriors reached the bottom. ‘So how do we know for sure that this vault holds anything
of value?’ Reynar asked as he slid down the debris-strewn incline. He stepped on one of the mushrooms and it released a high, thin sigh as it deflated, causing him to jump slightly. Bolas and the others laughed, and Reynar glared at them, but said nothing.
Angharad glanced at Reynar. She and another Liberator, Golius, had remained close to the mortals while the other Stormcasts ranged farther ahead. He wondered whether it was for their protection or to see that they did not attempt to flee. ‘Did you question your orders in the Freeguild, mortal?’
Reynar stumbled and caught himself on a slanted pillar. Stone crumbled beneath his hand, eaten away by some grey-green mould. He grimaced and rubbed his hand on his cloak. ‘No. But I’m not in the Freeguild anymore.’
She made a dismissive noise and turned away. Reynar looked at Khord, stumping along beside him. The duardin grinned, showing off his golden teeth. ‘We’ve got artefacts to acquire, manling. Things our host needs if she’s to break the curse that holds us here.’
‘So she says.’ He glanced around, trying to orient himself. This part of the city looked almost familiar, but everything was off slightly – a skewed reflection of the ruin in the desert. The way the street narrowed and widened at random, as if the two sides were locked in battle. The way some buildings hung so close together that they formed a roof of high balconies and walkways over his head. Had he been here before? He glanced down a side street and saw a familiar formless statue standing watch atop a high plinth.
‘The Gloaming Path,’ he murmured. Only it wasn’t. Not the one he remembered. The stones around him felt… hostile, somehow. As if they wanted nothing more than to grind him to powder.
‘Where is this vault, anyway?’ he asked, more loudly than he intended. ‘Feels like we’ve been walking for days.’
‘I thought you were a treasure hunter,’ Khord said. ‘Where do you think it is? Below the city.’
‘Where the petitioners intend that they stay,’ Bolas said.
At his comment, a murmur swept through the others. Hands tightened on weapons and eyes swept the ruins, as if the Aqshian had summoned something with his words. Reynar looked around, acutely aware of his own ignorance.
‘The who?’ He remembered the word – Khord had used it before.
‘Katophranes,’ Khord said.
‘The petitioners are mad,’ Severin growled from up ahead. Obryn marched stolidly at his side, and the other Stormcasts were spread out in a loose wedge. Like the tip of a spear. Reynar knew the tactic – had even seen it first-hand. The Stormcasts could punch a hole in the enemy battle line, allowing the Freeguild to advance through the gap. Reynar wondered what sort of enemy the Liberator-Prime was expecting.
‘Mad how?’
Severin glanced back. ‘They seek the forgiveness of an unforgiving god, and it has driven them mad. They collect shadeglass to keep it from those seeking to repair the Faneway, and use it to raise monuments to Nagash.’
‘Like us, you mean.’ Reynar shook his head. ‘And are there many of these petitioners?’
‘More than you’d think,’ Khord said. ‘Lucky for us, they don’t work together often. And they rarely stray from their own territories. Even here, mortals interpret their god’s will in different ways. And not just Nagash’s worshippers.’
Reynar glanced at Dolmen, who was muttering prayers over his hammer amulet as he walked. Then he looked around at the others. Dolmen wasn’t the only Sigmarite, but the others were of different creeds and there was little similarity between them, save in the object of their veneration. He touched his hauberk and felt the amulet hidden there.
‘I haven’t been in a Sigmarite temple in years,’ he murmured.
‘Pah. What does that matter now?’ Khord’s smile was unpleasant. A shadow of an old pain crossed his face, and he looked away. ‘Sigmar seeks dominion wherever the light of the stars might fall.’ He gestured to the Stormcasts. ‘But look around you. Where is his light now? Look at his warriors – they are not saviours, manling. They fight for a god’s dream, even in this city of nightmares. You and I, we fight to survive. For our comrades, for gold. The tangible.’ Khord tugged on his beard and shook his head. ‘The wise trust neither gods nor dreams, for they are like smoke.’
Reynar laughed. ‘I chased a dream of wealth across a desert and wound up here. Perhaps I am not as wise as I thought.’
Khord chuckled. ‘Aye, there is that.’
Out in the dark, something screamed. Severin jerked to a halt. At his gesture, the other Stormcasts spread out, weapons ready. Reynar and the others waited. More screams echoed, yelping, bestial cries that spiralled up and out. Reynar peered into the dark, trying to determine the direction they were coming from. He was reminded of the Hexwood and the horrors his regiment had faced there. Beastkin and daemons drawn from shadowed bowers to hurl themselves onto Stormcast shields and Freeguild blades. Shadespire was a forest as well, albeit of stone. And with darker shadows by far.
More cries now, coming from all directions. ‘A pack of them,’ Dolmen muttered. He lifted his rifle and sighted down the barrel, seeking a target.
‘A pack of what?’ Reynar asked, sword half drawn. He caught a glimpse of something in the dark. His own face, reflected back at him. It was smiling. He looked away hurriedly, not wanting to hear what it had to say this time.
‘Nagash did not trap only men here,’ Angharad said darkly. ‘He cast a net over a moment in time and caught more than just mortal souls.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Reynar asked. He felt a chill. ‘Daemons?’
‘Aye, and worse besides.’ Khord looked around warily. ‘We are in the deep darkness, manling, where beasts of all sorts prowl.’ He picked up a shard of glass from the ground and held it to his eye. Through its facets, his face became distorted and almost monstrous. ‘Not just things of spirit, but of flesh as well.’
‘Sorcerers of all sorts use shadeglass in their rituals,’ one of the others said. A tall man, with his head shorn clean save for a single thick scalp-lock bound in silver wire. He wore the battle-leathers of a Chamonian nomad and carried a horseman’s bow. ‘They draw forth the dead, or cast the living into this place.’ His scarred features were twisted up in an expression of worry. ‘There are horrors here that no man can stand against.’
‘That is why we are here, mortal,’ Severin said from up ahead. He looked back at them. In the half-light, the stern expression of his war-mask had become something malevolent. ‘We are not so fragile as you. Now be quiet. Voices carry too far in these streets.’
The nomad fell silent and looked away. Reynar frowned. For all that he disliked them, the Stormcasts he’d fought beside had never spoken so to their Freeguild allies. They had treated mortals as equals, whatever else. But these golden-armoured warriors seemed to regard others as little better than children.
After the last echoes had faded, Severin looked at Khord. ‘Which way?’
Khord grunted and sank to his haunches. He splayed one big hand on the stones and stared ahead. ‘The vibrations say south-west,’ he said after a moment. He hesitated. ‘Now it’s south-east.’ He turned, eyes narrowed.
Severin accepted this without argument. Reynar dropped down beside Khord. ‘It moved?’ he murmured.
‘Like a bit of ash bobbing on the wind,’ Khord muttered. ‘It happens sometimes. This city tries to swallow you. To lead you in circles.’ He stood and wiped his hand on his thigh, as if there were some residue on it. ‘South-east,’ he said again, more loudly.
Severin started forward, and the other Stormcasts with him. ‘Come,’ the Liberator-Prime growled. ‘We must find the vaults before others do.’ There was an air of determination to his words. Or possibly desperation. Reynar recalled what Angharad had said about why the Stormcasts had come to Shadespire. He wondered if Severin and his warriors had been led into this place by Sadila, as he had. Lured in to help her free herself. How many o
f those walking beside him had suffered a similar fate? And how many of them, like him, knew that they had intentionally been trapped here? He grimaced. A game, he thought. Just a bloody game.
Yes. And you must play it to the end.
He twitched as the voice echoed through him. He glanced to the side, at his reflection. For a moment, he thought it was looking at him. Leering at him. But it was only a trick of the half-light drizzling down from somewhere far above. His hand found his amulet. It had somehow sprung loose from beneath his armour and now bounced against his chest. He stilled it, and followed its strange curves with his thumb.
Somewhere above him, something cried out, either in hunger or fear. Not the same cries as before, though that was little comfort. It was followed by a trickle of eerie laughter that hung on the air like the sound of shattering glass.
Severin stopped again, one hand raised. Khord looked around, teeth gleaming in the shadows. ‘Hear that?’ he said. ‘The sound of dying, and close by.’
Reynar shook his head. ‘I hear nothing.’
Khord grunted. ‘Weak manling ears.’
Stung, Reynar strained to catch even a whisper of what the duardin was hearing. Sound travelled strangely in these streets. It ebbed and flowed with no regard for distance or volume. The sound of crashing stone became a susurrus, and the quiet murmur of a voice became like thunder. He heard stone grinding against stone, and the clatter of what might have been hooves. Abruptly, he felt the street twitch beneath his feet. He looked up and saw a nearby pillar swaying like a sapling in a breeze. Khord’s eyes widened. ‘Shardfall!’
Reynar lunged for cover, into the lee of a broken wall. The others scattered, seeking what shelter they could find. From far above them came the scream of shattering shadeglass, and a deluge of glittering shards pelted down. Thousands of fragments pierced the stones of the street, some splintering into even smaller chunks, others remaining improbably whole.
Glass dust filled the street, and Reynar could hear something screaming far away. And not just screams. He heard steel meeting steel and the hiss-crack of some strange weapon, as if they were occurring right beside him. It sounded like someone had taken advantage of the shardfall.
Shadespire: The Mirrored City Page 16
