‘Is that meaningful?’ Reynar asked. He stepped towards the gibbet, curious as to what had disturbed the normally stoic duardin. The corpse was broad and hunched, as if it had been beaten and broken in order to fit in its cage. Bone showed through the tattered meat. He caught a glimpse of the thinning remains of a tangled mane and a beard the colour of flame as the gibbet swung slowly in the breeze. ‘Gods…’
‘Only to me.’ Ilesha thrust the parchment back into her sleeve. She realised he wasn’t listening. ‘What is it?’
‘Me,’ Khord said, looking away from them.
Ilesha’s eyes widened. ‘Did you–’
‘No,’ Khord croaked. ‘Not that I remember.’
Reynar looked at her. ‘It’s not real. It can’t be. He’s still alive… He’d remember if he died here. Wouldn’t he?’ He looked back and forth between them.
‘The corpse isn’t fresh – it is weeks old,’ Ilesha said. She peered at Khord. ‘These gibbets are for those who cross the master of the market.’ She hesitated before adding, ‘Perhaps you should stay here. We’ll signal if we need you.’
‘Aye, I’ll wait here,’ he said gruffly. He took a seat on a fallen statue, his face turned away from the gibbet.
‘Khord,’ Reynar began. Khord fixed him with a steady glare. Reynar stepped back, his hands raised in a gesture of apology. He turned and hurried after Ilesha as she ducked beneath the archway and into the narrow passage beyond. He glanced back at the fyreslayer. ‘Is it safe, leaving him?’ he asked as he caught up with her.
‘For us, at least,’ she said. ‘If we need him, he’ll be there. That’s good enough. And Tomas is skulking around as well.’ She used her staff to thrust aside a fold of tattered cloth, revealing a broken street beyond. Great scars of glass clung to every building and spilled in untidy lines across the road. A stinking mist rose from the ruptures in the path, muddying the air. He saw a pale glow in some of the windows above, as if someone were passing behind them with a candle.
‘I recognise this place, I think,’ he said. He spotted a number of lonely plinths lining the sides of the street, each taller than a man. ‘I’ve been here before. There used to be statues there, hundreds of them – this street was longer, then.’ He stopped, trying to orient himself. He thought he could hear voices, the faint clash of blades, the thud of feet. Faint mirages of movement passed across his vision, as if there were people struggling close by, just out of sight. He thought he heard Utrecht’s voice, bellowing faintly…
Ilesha caught his arm. ‘Don’t.’
Startled, he looked at her. ‘What?’
‘Don’t listen. Feel.’ She rapped the street with her staff. ‘It’s moving. Trying to draw you away.’ The ground shuddered slightly, the stones creaking. It reminded him of a dog whining in frustration.
Reynar shook himself, and the mirage faded.
Ilesha smiled. ‘Good. Come on.’
‘How come it doesn’t try that with you?’ he complained.
‘It does. I just know better than to listen to the dead.’ She led him down a set of crooked steps hewn from the sloped street at rough, irregular intervals. ‘There we are. Right where it should be, for once.’
Ahead of them, Reynar saw a line of broken wagons that had been overturned to form a crude palisade. Many were dripping with encrustations of glass, making them resemble insects caught in amber. Behind them, he could just about see makeshift tents made from shattered spars of wood and tattered cloth. Smoke rose into the dark sky from innumerable fires, and he could hear the murmur of many voices.
‘Khord mentioned markets to me earlier,’ he said as they followed the winding steps down towards the closest of the wagons. It had been set so that it blocked the street. ‘I was expecting something more… commercial.’
‘We make do, here,’ Ilesha said. ‘Most of the old buildings are too dangerous to reoccupy. Those that aren’t are rarely large enough. And Chollat is smart enough not to bother. Tents are easier to repair, or move, if a tremor grips the market.’
As they drew closer, Reynar saw a grim-faced duardin standing on guard at the bottom of the steps, the long, iron-grey braids of his beard wrapped about his neck like a gorget. He wore patched robes beneath his battered armour and cradled a drakegun in his arms. He raised a hand, and Ilesha stopped. Reynar glanced at her. ‘What is it?’
‘Toll,’ she said simply. She twitched her head to the left, and he did a double take as he caught sight of several indistinct shapes crouched above them in the nearby ruins. Wrapped in dust-coloured rags, the sentries hunched over Azyrite handguns, hidden from all but the most observant eyes.
‘There are more,’ Ilesha said. ‘Ones we can’t see. Chollat is no fool.’
She reached into her robes, and Reynar heard the distinctive click of handguns being readied. Ilesha drew out a thin facet of shadeglass and held it up. The duardin waved her forward. Reynar followed her and watched as she handed the glass to the sentry.
‘Carved,’ he grunted, turning it over.
‘By an artisan,’ Ilesha said. He looked at her, and then stepped aside, concealing the shadeglass in his robes as he did so.
‘There’s shadeglass everywhere,’ Reynar said as they stepped through the gap between wagons and into the market. ‘What made that piece so special?’ There were people everywhere, scuttling through the shadows, lurking in alleyways, standing around makeshift firepits. He could smell meat cooking, and other, less familiar scents.
‘It’s whole,’ Ilesha said. ‘Most of what you see is broken. Just shards and splinters. That piece was intact – part of a hand mirror, I think.’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘Some think so.’
‘What do you think?’
Ilesha shrugged. ‘Theories abound.’ She looked around. ‘Stay alert. The markets are some of the most dangerous places in the city, outside the control of the Katophranes. And this is the worst of the bunch.’
‘Wonderful,’ Reynar muttered. His hand fell to his blade. He could feel eyes on them – and not friendly ones. Steeling himself, he followed Ilesha into the tangled streets of the Southern Market.
The sound of drums was like thunder. The stones of the street trembled beneath Isengrim’s feet. Whether it was simply the twitching of the city or the reverberations of the drums, he couldn’t say. He crouched behind one of the collapsed pillars with Zuvass. Beyond them, he could see the light of fires and hear the bellowing of orruks.
‘There are more of them than I thought there would be,’ Isengrim growled. The orruk camp was a disorganised mass of half-erected tents and piled stones. Great stakes had been wedged between the stones, and skulls, both orruk and otherwise, had been mounted on them. They watched as orruks fought before the fires, jostling each other with brutal abandon. With no other foes to fight, they’d turned on one another. Some sat on broken stones and splintered pillars, watching the others brawl.
Zuvass picked up a handful of loose stones. ‘Those orruks we fought earlier were only a bare handful of those lairing here.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the encampment. ‘At the moment, a brute called Ironskull is in charge. How long that will last is anyone’s guess, but we only require his attention for a short time.’
‘Another plan I know nothing of.’
Zuvass paused. ‘It’s all one plan, my friend. Many moving parts, I admit, but one plan. A simple one, really.’
‘That you have not explained.’
Zuvass looked at him. ‘Would you like me to?’ He rolled the stones on his palm. ‘Do you truly care, or is this simply misplaced pride?’
Isengrim growled. ‘Pride is the whetstone of Khorne’s axe.’
Zuvass laughed. ‘I have a feeling Khorne’s axe needs frequent sharpening. Fine. I intend to convince the orruks to attack a certain place at a certain time. For that, we must get to Ironskull without losi
ng our heads.’
Isengrim smiled. ‘We must fight.’ Several orruks lurked nearby. Ostensibly sentries, they seemed bored. He would give them something to do. But Zuvass stopped him.
‘We must be subtle – cunning. Orruks respect strength.’
‘They will only listen if we show them we are stronger,’ Isengrim said in understanding. He tightened his grip on his axe. ‘Is that why you insisted I accompany you?’
‘You should be happy. I’m giving you an opportunity to prove that you’re as murderous as you keep claiming. Yes, we must fight. But to start with, we must sneak. Do you understand that word?’
Isengrim glared at him. ‘I am not an idiot.’
‘You play the part well.’
Isengrim nearly lurched to his feet, but restrained himself. Zuvass was baiting him. Zuvass was always baiting him. It was as if he couldn’t help himself. There was a strong current of spite running through the Chaos warrior – almost self-destructive in its intensity. As if Zuvass wanted to fail almost as much as he wanted to succeed.
Isengrim did not understand. Nor did he want to. Too many thoughts dulled a warrior’s edge. ‘Enough of your wit. What do you intend?’
‘I intend for us to get as close as possible before we announce ourselves. Orruks are primitive, but not fools. Hence, we must draw away their sentries.’ He held up the handful of stones he’d accumulated. ‘Old tricks are often the best.’ He stood quickly and slung the stones in different directions. Immediately, the closest orruk sentries bellowed and scattered, following the clatter. Zuvass gestured sharply, and Isengrim followed him as he slid down the broken incline in a cloud of dust.
Zuvass strode into the centre of the camp, one hand on his sword and Isengrim trailing in his wake. ‘Gurzag Ironskull,’ Zuvass bellowed. Silence fell. For long moments, the gathered orruks stared at the invaders. Then, green paws twitched towards weapons and tusks flashed in brutal grins. Isengrim turned, trying to keep them all in sight.
‘I know you,’ someone said in a voice like falling stones. A heavyset orruk, larger than the others and wearing a filthy fur cloak over his war-plate, shoved through their ranks. ‘I seen you before. Slinking around. Why are you here?’
‘To talk.’
Gurzag laughed, a deep, guttural sound. ‘Nah. You’re here to fight, ain’t ya?’ He scraped the blades of the axes he carried together. The sound made Isengrim’s flesh crawl. He stepped forward, his own axe raised.
‘What if we are?’
Gurzag grinned. ‘Then you’re welcome,’ he roared, lunging forward. The ground shook slightly as he charged. Isengrim moved to meet him, knowing it was what Zuvass wanted. He avoided Gurzag’s first blow and blocked the second. The orruk was fast and strong. He fought with brutal economy. Isengrim’s arms and shoulders were soon aching from the effort of parrying Gurzag’s blows, and his breath was rasping in his lungs.
As they fought, the watching orruks stamped and cheered. And Zuvass… Zuvass talked. ‘You went looking for something, didn’t you?’ he said as Gurzag circled Isengrim. ‘Tried to take advantage of weakened foes and got swatted for your trouble.’ Gurzag paused to shoot a glare at Zuvass. ‘There’s no shame in it,’ the Chaos warrior continued. ‘But what if I told you where that certain something was?’
Gurzag roared and lunged. Isengrim lurched aside, narrowly avoiding a blow that would have split him from shoulder to thigh. Faster than he would have thought possible, the orruk struck again, gashing his chest. Isengrim leapt back, cursing.
Gurzag glanced at Zuvass. ‘Keep talking. I can hear you just fine while I’m choppin’ up your mate.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Zuvass said. ‘But fine. I know where the treasure is. If you want it, I’m happy to tell you.’
Isengrim, seeing Gurzag momentarily distracted, launched himself at him. Almost casually, the orruk slashed at him with an idle blow, forcing him to scramble back. Gurzag chuckled thickly and closed in. ‘Let me think on it a bit,’ he growled.
‘Think quickly, Gurzag. Others are already closing in on it.’
Gurzag surged forward, and Isengrim caught both of the orruk’s axes on the blade of his own. He was bent almost backwards, and he felt his spine quiver. Gurzag leaned over him, piggy eyes gleaming. ‘If you die, I’ll take your head and wear it, ’umie. You’ll see yourself coming, next time.’
Isengrim had no breath to reply. His legs trembled as he fought to hold himself erect. With no other option, he gave a last, desperate twist and shoved Gurzag off balance, sending him stumbling. Isengrim cracked his skull against the orruk’s, and stars bloomed behind his eyes as he fell to the ground. Gurzag stepped back, blinking, then shook his head and set a foot on Isengrim’s chest. He laughed, low and loud.
Then he reached down and hauled Isengrim to his feet. ‘Good try,’ Gurzag said. He shoved him aside and turned to Zuvass. ‘I’ve thought about it, smiler.’
‘And?’
Gurzag grinned. ‘Tell me.’
Chapter seventeen
KING OF THE
SOUTHERN MARKET
Shadespire was, at the height of its power, acknowledged by all as the grandest of the merchant princedoms that dotted the eastern sands of Shyish. Everything and anything could be had in its cramped marketplaces, from raw spices to the most precious of jewels…
– Tuman Wey
The Shadow-Routes: Trade in Eastern Shyish
The market was a ramshackle sprawl of tents, wagons and broken shop fronts interrupted by crumbling archways and spiral staircases that went nowhere. Or at least nowhere obvious. Some of them ended abruptly, as if they’d been sheared away from a larger structure. Others rose up until they were lost from sight entirely. People drifted through the shadowed lanes, wandering the crowded boulevard. Most looked as lost as he felt – others, though, had the look of predators on the hunt.
‘It looks almost… normal,’ he said. He turned, watching as several men and women in battered travel leathers crossed the street. They were armed, and had the look of hardened soldiers. ‘More people than I expected, as well.’
‘More and more of them every day. The city draws them in, like moths to a flame.’ Ilesha shook her head. ‘Shadespire is ravenous.’ She stopped and stepped back into a narrow gap between tents. She caught his arm and dragged him after her.
‘What is it?’ He had his sword half drawn.
‘Petitioners,’ Ilesha said. Reynar watched as the line of shuffling, decrepit shapes moved across the avenue, heads bowed and hands clasped. It was only as they drew close that he realised their eyes had been stitched shut and their palms had been sewn together. They chanted in hoarse whispers, moving together like some immense centipede.
‘Where are they going?’ Reynar murmured, watching them.
‘They travel the city from one end to the other, carrying Nagash’s words to every street and temple until the last of their flesh sloughs off and they join the Sepulchral Warden’s armies. Since the city changes, their pilgrimage is never-ending.’ Ilesha shivered. ‘There are worse sorts of fanatics in this city.’
‘Like Severin.’
She looked at him. ‘Severin and the other Stormcasts are following the will of Sigmar. Their determination is admirable, if nothing else.’ She pushed past him. ‘Come on. Chollat will be holding court at the heart of the market.’
‘You make him sound like a king.’
‘He is, in a sense.’
As they passed among the stalls and tents, broken, half-dead creatures offered them wares of varying quality – shadeglass plates and mirrors, broken diamonds and pieces of armour and weaponry, now tarnished by age. One dead man thrust out a stringy arm and dangled a rusty cage at them. It contained two artificial songbirds made from bronze that chirped dolefully as they pushed past.
‘What do they get out of this?’ he muttered. ‘Money is no good to them.’<
br />
‘Protection. Something to do. Sometimes they trade for things they do need.’ Ilesha waved aside the spiel of a seated figure offering up a selection of blades. Reynar paused. There was a sword much like his own among them, and another that appeared to be made of wood. As he moved to catch up to Ilesha, he glanced back and saw a slight, hunched shape scurry across the open street and into the shadows beyond.
He knew it instantly – a skaven. The creature paused just at the edge of the light and met his gaze. Then it was gone. He frowned, but didn’t mention it to Ilesha.
‘There.’ Ilesha stopped suddenly as he caught up with her. A huge tent made from the stitched remnants of once-magnificent tapestries stretched over the broken stone carcass of what might at one time have been a tavern. An intact hearth blazed, spewing smoke into the air.
An aelf in bronze leaf-shaped mail and an antlered, open-faced helm stood before the entrance, leaning on a great double-handed axe. He stiffened as he caught sight of them. ‘Halt,’ he said in mellifluous tones.
‘Chollat is expecting me, Kuras,’ Ilesha said.
Kuras frowned and ducked into the tent. He spoke to someone within, their voices muffled. When he reappeared, he waved them in, a bored expression on his angular features.
Ilesha glanced at Reynar. ‘Come on.’ She entered the tent.
After a moment’s pause, Reynar followed her. The air was smoky inside, thanks to a number of braziers that had been scattered about. They were tended by broken, dead things wrapped in rags and wearing masks of beaten gold to hide their features.
Living men and women were gathered, most standing, others sitting at tables. Some looked like scribes, but others were clearly guards. Treasures of all descriptions were heaped carelessly in the corners of the tent or piled atop the tables.
Shadespire: The Mirrored City Page 24
