Isengrim aided it, chopping through the orruk’s meaty wrist and severing his paw. The orruk bellowed and swung his blade at the bloodreaver’s head. Isengrim twisted aside and slammed the top of his axe into the greenskin’s face, shattering several tusks. The brute reeled back, disorientated, and Isengrim whipped his axe out and around, splitting the lumpen skull from crown to jaw.
‘Messy, but effective,’ Zuvass said.
Isengrim wrenched his axe from the twitching ruin of the orruk’s skull and turned. ‘Khorne cares not,’ he spat.
‘No, I suppose he doesn’t.’ Zuvass laid the gory length of his blade across his shoulder-plate. ‘That’s the last of them, at any rate.’
Isengrim saw that he was right. The orruks were dead – or as close as anything got in this cursed place. Skeletal warriors were positioned around the nearby mirrored columns and panes, spears levelled, waiting for possible greenskin reflections to appear.
Isengrim recalled the cannibal he’d killed and stared into the closest pane, silently urging whatever was within to emerge. Red still stained the edges of his vision. Khorne was not sated. Khorne was never sated. ‘Will they return?’ he growled.
‘Almost certainly. But they don’t always come out in the same place,’ Zuvass said, tearing a strip of ratty fur from a dead orruk’s cloak and using it to clean his blade. ‘And not always immediately. But they always come back.’ He paused. ‘We always come back. Sometimes even before we died.’
Isengrim spat. ‘To live and die and live again… that is Khorne’s gift to a warrior.’ He scraped orruk gore from his axe with his fingers and smeared the ichor across his bare chest to mingle with his own. ‘What of the bodies?’
‘They will be interred, or burned. Sometimes they get back up. It can get very confusing at times, what with dead men fighting their living selves.’ Zuvass looked around. ‘Worse, of course, is when you have to kill yourself before you arrive, or after you’ve departed. It makes one’s mind like a sieve, with memories sifting in and out.’
Isengrim stared at him in incomprehension. ‘What does that mean?’
Zuvass sheathed his sword. ‘It means, friend, that the next skull you present to your god might well be your own. I’d wager Khorne will be very appreciative.’
‘Only one skull matters to me at the moment.’ Isengrim started in the direction Sadila’s forces had fled. ‘He is close. I can smell him.’
‘Closer than you think.’
Isengrim spun to find Zuvass standing a sword’s length from him. The Chaos warrior’s hand was on his blade. ‘What?’ Isengrim growled. He lifted his axe, wondering if the time had come to take Zuvass’ head as well.
‘I said, he is closer than you think. Probably watching us right now, in fact.’ Zuvass gestured to the looming causeways.
Isengrim turned, his eyes narrowed. ‘Where? Which one?’
‘I’m not a seer, my friend.’
‘No? You act like it.’ Isengrim turned back and gestured with his axe. ‘You lay out schemes the way a spider weaves a web. One strand after the next. I grow tired of this, Zuvass. I grow weary of playing these games. If he is here, I will find him. I will kill him.’
‘You will not find him.’
Isengrim snarled, impatience bubbling over into frustration. ‘And how do you know that, if you are not a seer?’ He saw Ylac and several other bloodreavers circling, watching Zuvass warily. If Zuvass noticed them, he gave no sign.
‘Maybe because I have been here before and seen this same moment from a thousand directions. Maybe because I know that for all your skill as a killer, your quarry is equally skilled at the art of escape. Or maybe because I know that you are not an idiot, like Vakul. Things would be easier if you were. But you are not.’ Zuvass stepped close. Close enough to lose his head if Isengrim decided to swing his axe. ‘I have promised you your chance at his skull. And I always make good on my promises, my friend. But not here. Not yet.’
‘When?’ Isengrim demanded.
‘Soon.’
Isengrim considered Zuvass’ words. He could hear the truth in them, for all his distrust of the Chaos warrior. Behind Zuvass, he could see the Sepulchral Warden watching them, as if waiting for something. He realised that it wasn’t just the Warden watching, but every dead thing. All of them with eyes like amethyst stars, all with the same rictus grin. All watching. Waiting.
Ylac edged up behind him. ‘Say the word, my chieftain, and we will slay him.’
‘And in our turn, be slain by the dead,’ Isengrim said. He did not fear death, but what Zuvass had said about time made him hesitate. What if, in dying, he lost his quarry’s trail forever? He could not risk it. Not now. He lowered his axe. ‘There is time. And I can be… patient.’
Zuvass nodded. ‘I know. Now come. We have a vault to claim.’
Chapter fourteen
TREASURES OF KEMOS
The techno-artisan Kemos was among those who bent themselves to the task of defeating death. Creator of the infamous Mirrored Automaton, he was part of the great syndicate assembled to construct the Faneway Mirror…
– Hans Wath
Artefacts of Antiquity
‘Dead men and bloodreavers,’ Reynar said. ‘That’s an unexpected alliance, if ever I’ve seen one.’ He glanced at Khord, and the fyreslayer nodded grimly. They crouched within the shattered confines of one of the aqueducts that overlooked the plaza, slimy dregs of water lapping at their legs. Tomas stood behind them, keeping watch.
The aqueduct wound through the southern districts of the city, stretched like a serpent of stone atop its heavy pillars. It was a self-contained jungle of black vegetation and coarse fungus. Water dripped down from above, running in slimy rivulets through the cracks in the aqueduct’s roof. The sound of it made for a constant refrain. Reynar had a rag wrapped over his mouth and nose, but it did little to cut the smell. Neither of his companions seemed unduly bothered. They were probably used to it.
Far below them, the plaza was full of struggling bodies. The orruks were falling back, retreating the way they’d come. They left behind many of their own. Jubilant bloodreavers loosed howls of triumph, and Reynar felt a chill course through him. He wondered if his pursuer was down there somewhere. He hoped not. He had enough problems without some lunatic daemon-worshipper trying to gut him.
‘Aye, it’s passing strange,’ Khord growled. ‘Those bones – I know the Sepulchral Guard when I see them. And that tall one, in the iron and furs…’
‘The Sepulchral Warden,’ Tomas murmured. ‘Unusual to see him here, overseeing a minor skirmish.’ He paused. ‘Unless he learned someone was coming to open that vault and decided to prevent it.’
Reynar turned. ‘Who is – was – he? Someone important, I’m guessing?’
Khord spat and scratched his chin with his axe. ‘He used to be the Lord Marshal of this cursed place. Commander of her armies and enforcer of her laws. Now he’s just another puppet.’ He spat again. ‘Powerful, though. Still has an army, of sorts.’
‘Which is more than we have at the moment.’ Tomas turned, his hand falling to the axe that hung from his belt. ‘Come. We should go. If the Warden is here, then the eyes of Nagash are upon this place and we would do well not to let his gaze fall on us. Whatever lies in those vaults is lost to us. At least for now.’
‘Afraid, Azyrite?’ Khord said.
‘Aren’t you?’ Tomas turned and began to move back the way they’d come. Khord hesitated, but only for a moment. Reynar fell into step with the duardin as they followed Tomas. The Stormcast seemed tense.
‘He’s worried,’ Reynar murmured. Khord nodded.
‘He’s always worried. But this is different.’ He glanced back, frowning, as if he’d heard something. ‘If the Warden is joining the fray in such a fashion, things are changing.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘Here? Yes.’ Khord pe
ered at Reynar. ‘Things aren’t supposed to change here, manling.’
‘Things change all the time here,’ Reynar protested.
‘But not like this. Not when it comes to people. That’s this place’s curse. We drift from Katophrane to Katophrane, alliance to alliance, but nothing ever changes. We die and live and die again. The curse is never lifted. But…’ He shook his head.
‘Maybe it’s a good thing. An opportunity.’
‘No. Most like, it’s simply some new deviltry. Sadila’s time might be coming to an end. It wouldn’t surprise me if the other Katophranes had thrown their weight behind the Warden and set him on her trail.’
‘Does that happen often?’
Khord nodded. ‘The Katophranes are like spine-crabs in a stone bucket. They’ll always pull one of their own down before they get too close to escape. And Sadila makes too much noise. She provokes the others – taunts them. If Severin were smart–’
‘Severin knows what he is doing,’ Tomas rumbled. ‘Sigmar is with us.’
Reynar snorted. ‘I doubt Sigmar even knows where we are. And if he did, I doubt he’d care.’
Tomas turned. ‘What did you say?’ he growled.
Reynar stepped back. A part of him – the wise part – wanted to apologise, or run, or both. Instead, he kept his mouth shut. Tomas took a step towards him. ‘Answer me, mortal.’
‘If he cared, would you be trapped here?’ The words slipped out before Reynar could stop them. ‘It seems to me that–ahgk!’ Tomas caught him by the throat and slammed him back, against the side of the aqueduct. Reynar gasped. The Stormcast’s grip was tight, not enough to crush his throat but just enough to make breathing difficult.
‘Sigmar is with us always. He sleeps inside the heart of every man. Should I show you?’ Tomas leaned close as he spoke, and there was lightning in his eyes. Reynar tried to twist away, but Tomas’ grip didn’t slacken. ‘If I plucked out your heart, what would I find, mortal? Would I find even a spark of grace?’
Reynar’s hand drifted towards his knife. A thick hand caught his wrist.
‘Let him go, huntsman,’ Khord said. He put his maul against the Stormcast’s chest and pushed him back a step.
Tomas looked down at him. ‘You would defend him?’ he asked doubtfully.
Khord shrugged. ‘We’ve shed blood together. And without him, more of us would have died down there. Including your fellow Stormcasts. I–hsst!’ He stopped and cocked his head, eyes narrowed. ‘Hear that?’
Tomas turned. ‘No. What?’
‘The dripping has stopped.’
‘What?’
‘The water, Azyrite. It was dripping. Now it’s not. Which means something is between it and… ha!’ Khord tore one of his throwing axes from his belt and turned, hurling it into the darkness. Something squealed in pain. A body tumbled from the cracked stones above, the axe buried in its verminous skull. Khord laughed and readied his maul. ‘Look, Azyrite, we caught a rat…’
An instant later, half a dozen black-clad skaven emerged from among the thick folds of fungus with shrill cries. ‘Protect-spare the man-thing,’ one – the largest – screeched, gesturing towards them. The creatures were shrouded by slime-encrusted cloaks, their snouts wrapped in ash-smudged bandages. Their blades had been stained with some dark oil, as had their fur. They raced forward, scrabbling along the walls and loping through the water.
Tomas released Reynar, who slid down the wall, coughing. He drew his axe and moved to meet the ratkin. Khord leapt forward as well, his first blow scattering the skaven. The creatures moved swiftly, encircling the warriors to separate them. But they ignored Reynar, as if he weren’t a threat. He shoved himself to his feet. They’d regret that.
He drew his blade as a skaven pounced towards Khord’s back. It screeched in anger as he interposed himself. The ratkin was not quite his size, but was monstrous for all that – a rat with the twisted limbs of a man. Its hairless tail snapped about like a whip as it slashed at him with frenzied skill. ‘Stupid-stupid man-thing,’ it shrilled.
Their blades met, and Reynar fought to keep from slipping on the slimy stones. The creature was fast – far faster than he was. But it seemed to be trying to avoid him rather than fight. He parried its next blow and snatched his knife from his belt. He stamped on its tail, wrenching it off balance, and buried the slim blade in the back of its skull. It jerked and died without a sound.
He ripped his knife free and turned to meet the lunge of a second skaven. He heard Tomas’ boltstorm pistol whine, and dropped low. The skaven tumbled past, greasy fur aflame, twitching in its death throes. Reynar saw Tomas standing some distance away, his weapon levelled. A third skaven hung nearby, pinned to the wall by the Vanguard-Hunter’s axe. The Stormcast studied him for a moment over the barrel before lowering the pistol.
Reynar heard Khord laugh. The duardin was using a skaven cloak to wipe the gore from his maul. Two more ratkin lay dead at his feet, their skulls crushed. The remaining skaven – the leader – was nowhere to be seen. Khord caught his look and nodded. ‘It fled. They always do when the fight turns against them. Sometimes even when it doesn’t.’
‘They were waiting for us,’ Reynar said, remembering what the creature had screeched as its followers attacked – something about protecting the man-thing. ‘Or did they follow us?’ Had it meant him? He sheathed his sword and knife and cast a wary glance around, wondering if there were any more of them close by. The most dangerous skaven were the ones you never saw.
‘Opportunistic vermin,’ Tomas said, dragging his axe free of the skaven’s body. The hunched corpse flopped down with a splash. ‘Looking for plunder, most likely.’
‘Yes,’ Reynar said doubtfully.
Tomas turned, as if remembering him. He grabbed Reynar by the throat again and held him. Reynar caught at his wrist. He could breathe this time, at least. The Stormcast stared down at him for a long moment, then released him. ‘You know nothing of Sigmar’s glory,’ he said softly. ‘You have abandoned him, in deed and soul, and are blind to his light.’
‘I fought at the Verdant Abyss,’ Reynar said, rubbing his throat. ‘I saw all I needed to see there. I saw Sigmar’s wrath, come down from on high. I saw it kill the enemy in droves – but too late to do us any good.’ He slapped his hauberk. His amulet dug into his chest. ‘We held the line and died standing. Where was Sigmar then?’
‘It is not for you to question him, mortal,’ Tomas said. ‘No man may know what is in the God-King’s heart. Especially not a coward and deserter.’
Reynar’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw it. Tomas stared down at him, waiting. Khord looked back and forth between them, his eyes narrowed.
Reynar let his hand drop. Tomas snorted. Reynar smiled humourlessly. ‘I’m no coward, but neither am I a fool.’
Khord chuckled. Tomas glanced at him, and then back at Reynar. He turned away with a growl meant to rattle bones. The fyreslayer smacked Reynar in the chest, nearly flattening him. ‘You’re a worthless wanazi, but you do know how to get under their skin. That’s worth keeping you around for a bit, at least.’
Reynar rubbed his chest. ‘Thanks,’ he said after a moment.
Khord grinned and turned away. ‘Come on, manling. We need to get back. Severin and the Katophrane need to know what we saw.’
As he followed the duardin, Reynar shot a glance back the way they’d come. He thought, just for a moment, that he’d heard a laugh in the darkness – as of someone enjoying a well-timed jest.
Shaking his head, he hurried after the others.
The vault was theirs.
Isengrim peered down into the cavernous interior, unable to see anything for the gloom. A strange odour emerged from within – a chemical stink unlike anything he’d ever smelled, harsh and stinging. ‘It smells like a magma-drake’s belly,’ he grunted.
‘Close,’ Zuvass said
. ‘That, my friend, is the smell of progress.’ He gestured to a nearby petitioner. The skeleton clattered over, and Zuvass tore its arm off in a casually brutal fashion. ‘Thank you.’
He stripped a rag from a corpse, doused it in orruk blood and wound it about the twitching limb. He held it out to Ylac, who glanced at Isengrim. Isengrim nodded, and Ylac duly set his flint and tinder to the task. Soon, the makeshift torch was burning. It stank, and its glow was a sickly hue.
‘Orruk blood is highly flammable,’ Zuvass said. ‘Makes a wonderful explosive.’
‘I shall keep that in mind,’ Isengrim said. ‘What now?’
‘Now we go and find what they were looking for.’
‘The orruks, or the others?’
Zuvass looked at him. Isengrim shrugged. ‘Just asking.’
Zuvass laughed. ‘Come. I may need your blade. Who knows what other defences Kemos left to guard his treasures.’
‘Who was this Kemos?’ Isengrim asked as they descended the sloping shaft into the vault. The noxious light of Zuvass’ torch revealed curved walls of vitrified shadeglass. Blocks jutted at seemingly random intervals, giving the impression that the interior was in a state of motion. The hard black glass caught the light and stretched it in unsettling fashion, only adding to this sensation. As he looked around, it seemed to Isengrim as if innumerable shapes scattered and fled with the shrinking gloom, like roaches.
‘One of the foremost artisans of Shadespire, in his time,’ Zuvass said, letting the torch play about. ‘He designed many of its wonders before his untimely execution by Lord Hausa, Master of the Fourth House of Shadespire. Subsequently, many a Katophrane organised expeditions into the depths of the city, seeking his hidden vaults. Few were found.’
Shadespire: The Mirrored City Page 20
