‘Welcome back, Ilesha,’ a voice called out.
Chollat was smaller than Reynar had expected. He was a squat mortal with thick wrists and a shaved pate. He sat on the head of a statue that had been made into a stool. There was a chunk of shadeglass hanging before him, suspended in a nest of ropes. He scratched his chin with a blunt finger. ‘Come here and tell me what you see, Ilesha.’
Ilesha stepped past the guards and went to stand beside him. Reynar sidled after her. What he saw made him wish he hadn’t been so curious. Pale things pressed against the surface of the glass, and there was a soft, wet sound, like water trickling through a crack. Things more like weed fronds than fingers moved over the glass as shapeless faces smeared themselves across its surface. The watery hiss grew louder, and he realised it was not one sound but many. Like voices, but too soft and thin to be heard properly.
‘Trapped souls,’ Ilesha said, with no hint of unease. Reynar tore his eyes away from the pulsing, murmuring things. His stomach heaved and he clamped a hand over his mouth. They were scratching at the glass, as if trying to claw their way free.
‘Yes,’ Chollat said. ‘Fascinating, the way they dance.’ He cupped a hand to one ear. ‘Listen. They sing as well. Such pretty voices.’ He looked at Reynar, a cruel smile on his face. ‘Do you not care for the music, friend?’
Reynar frowned. ‘No. It’s not to my taste, I’m afraid.’
Chollat’s smile widened. ‘You must learn to take your pleasures where you can, in a place like this.’ He turned to Ilesha. ‘He is new. The last time you came, Khord was with you.’ He made a show of looking around. ‘Where is he? Surely he is not hiding?’ He turned. ‘Hey, Tuqo – your kinsman absents himself. Is he a coward, then?’
Reynar was startled to see a fyreslayer in the crowd of guards behind Chollat. This one carried a heavy axe cradled in the crook of one arm. His beard was tightly braided, and he wore a helm that resembled a boar’s skull, with an opening for his wild crest of hair to rise from within it. One eye was sealed shut, with a gleaming rune stamped across the lid.
‘Khord is no kinsman of mine. He is of no lodge now, whatever he claims, and kinless.’ Tuqo leaned over and spat on the ground. Chollat laughed, and several of his cronies joined in. Reynar looked around, taking them in. They had the look of street-curs – desperate to appear more savage than they were. Some might once have been soldiers, but the rest – bandits and thieves. They were only barely holding on to their courage and sanity.
‘Khord is close by,’ Ilesha said as the laughter died away. ‘And I need no bodyguard – or have you forgotten?’ She gestured, and amethyst flames crackled softly about her hand. The nearby guards drew back with muttered oaths.
Chollat’s smile faded. ‘I hardly believed it when my people told me that you were walking around my market. That witch whom you serve nowadays rarely lets you out.’
‘I have been informed that your scavengers found something of interest in one of the western districts. I would like to see it.’
Chollat grunted. ‘And why would I do that?’
‘Because you owe me.’
Chollat sat back, knuckles on his thighs. ‘Do I?’
Ilesha tilted her head, eyeing him over the tops of her spectacles. Chollat held her gaze for a moment, then sighed and clapped his hands. A hunched figure shuffled out of the depths of the tent. It was wrapped in heavy robes and wearing a golden mask, much like the others. The dead man carried something swaddled in a burial shroud.
At Chollat’s gesture, he unwrapped it and proffered it to Ilesha. ‘I know what it is you’re after. I’m not a fool. I have my own sources of knowledge – I know something valuable when I see it. It’s part of the Faneway, isn’t it?’
‘Better,’ Ilesha said, her eyes widening slightly. ‘It’s a way of telling what’s a part of it and what’s not.’ She waved a hand over the object, and tracers of light ran along its innumerable facets. She looked at Chollat. ‘I need this.’
Chollat scratched his chin. ‘Of course. And I’ll ask a fair price of you. Perhaps Sadila’s armoured war-dogs can fetch me something of equal value…’ He gestured, and the dead man brought the artefact to him. Chollat placed it on a nearby table and set his hand on it. ‘Quite the army she’s gathering, I hear. Why is that, I wonder?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ilesha said.
‘There are many who’d pay to learn that.’ Chollat smiled. He patted the artefact. ‘And to learn why she wants this. Not the usual sort of prize, is it?’
Reynar had heard enough. He knew Chollat’s type well. The merchant was after something. ‘No,’ he interjected before Ilesha could reply. ‘Which makes me wonder how you came by it. And so soon after the vault was opened?’ Ilesha cast him a warning glance, but he ignored her. ‘There were bloodreavers everywhere. And dead men, as well.’
Chollat frowned at the interruption. He gave Reynar an irritated glance. ‘Does it matter how I acquired it? Do you want it or not?’
‘We do,’ Ilesha said hurriedly.
‘Maybe not,’ Reynar said. He looked around. Nothing but hard stares greeted him. ‘I’ve heard this tune before. What’s going on here?’
Chollat peered at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean, someone gave you this artefact, didn’t they?’
Chollat’s face darkened. ‘Are you implying something?’
‘Reynar–’ Ilesha began.
‘I’m not implying it, Chollat. I’m outright saying it.’ Reynar let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. ‘I might be new here, but I recognise this song and dance – you’re too ready to hand this over. Too eager to trade a favour. How did you get it?’
Chollat leaned forward, teeth bared. ‘None of your business. Now do you want to bargain or argue?’
‘Perhaps I’m in the mood to argue,’ Reynar said, aware of the sudden silence in the tent. Chollat smiled, and Reynar tensed as he suddenly felt the flat of a blade on his shoulder.
‘Take your hand from your blade, sir, else I shall do so for you,’ a man said from behind him. His accent was strange – archaic. Reynar wondered how long he’d been trapped in this city. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Acrius Kope. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’
‘No. Can’t say that I have.’ Reynar took his hand away from his sword.
A moment of silence followed. ‘Come now, sir. No need to play coy. Acrius Kope. They know me as the Gallant of Glymmsforge. I’ve duelled aelfen swordmasters and soulblight assassins. I was once an honoured guest of Lady Neferata herself, a pleasurable evening made infamous by that inveterate gossip Emalia Grimsour. You must have heard of me. It is inconceivable that you have not. Turn around.’
Reynar turned, keeping his hand away from his blade. The sword on his shoulder slid to his throat. Kope was a narrow man, straight and keen like the sword he held, with the confident ease of a born duellist. He wore clothes that had once been fine but were now dusty and patched. But the blade in his hand was well cared for. There were three scars on his left cheek – the trident mark of a student of the Skyboldt school of swordsmanship.
Reynar had seen those sorts of scars before, on any number of officers and gentlemen. This Kope, whoever he was, had to be a killer, to earn those marks. ‘Guess we’re here to bargain,’ he said.
‘Too late for that,’ Chollat said. He looked at Ilesha. ‘He’s right, though. Someone brought it to me. Said it might bring you running. Shame Khord isn’t here, but you can’t have everything.’ He drew a thin poniard and gestured with it. ‘You’ve been making too much noise, Ilesha. You and that witch you work for. The other Katophranes aren’t happy with her. Word is she’s gathering an army of Sigmar’s chosen murderers and planning to unleash them on the rest of us. She’s opening vaults that ought not to be opened and stirring up things best left alone.’
Reynar risked a glance at Ilesha. She was frow
ning – a frightening expression on her face. It wasn’t a look of concentration, but… disappointment. Something about her face suddenly put him in mind of the golden masks the dead men around them wore, as if the round features were nothing but a disguise hiding the true skull beneath.
The air had taken on a smell like burnt meat. Will o’ the wisps danced about Ilesha’s shoulders, and the dead souls in Chollat’s glass had fallen silent. If he noticed, he gave no sign. Reynar saw that several of the guards held crossbows. All of them were aimed at Ilesha. Chollat was no fool.
‘Get to the point, Chollat,’ she said.
Chollat nodded. ‘You need to be taken off the board, Ilesha. You and all your lot. Khord, the Stormcasts, whoever has decided to side with the daughter of Hausa – the Sepulchral Warden has decreed that you can’t be allowed to run around free. I shall deliver you to him as he demands.’
‘You think he’ll reward you?’
‘I think he’ll spare me,’ Chollat said flatly. ‘And that’s enough.’ He looked at Reynar. ‘But no one mentioned you, whoever you are.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Acrius – kill him.’
‘My pleasure.’
Kope drew back his blade, and Reynar’s hand went to his own. He drew it as Kope thrust. He barely parried the blow, and reeled back, upending a table and sending the scribes sitting at it to their feet. Kope stalked towards him.
‘Chollat, there’s no need for this,’ Ilesha said.
Kope lunged. Reynar twisted aside and felt the sword scrape across his hauberk. He stumbled, reached for his knife. He whipped the blade out and up, batting aside the questing tip of Kope’s blade. The swordsman easily parried Reynar’s own thrust. ‘You’re not without some skill,’ Kope said grudgingly.
Reynar thrust again, stamping forward, trying to bull his opponent back. Kope slid away, moving lightly. Over his shoulder, Reynar saw Ilesha raising her staff. Chollat saw it too, and blanched. ‘No,’ he snarled. Tuqo whipped towards her, axe raised. Reynar made to shout a warning, but before he could get the words out, another sound intervened – a bellicose roar that shook the very stones beneath his feet.
He heard the bark of drakeguns and rifles and the screams of dying men. Horns blew, somewhere, and the aelf sentry ducked into the tent.
‘Chollat, it’s–’ The aelf was clubbed to his knees before he could finish. A second blow tore his head from his shoulders. A massive green shape sloped into the tent, blood dripping from battered war-plate.
‘What’s got two legs and bleeds?’ the orruk growled, peering down at the body. He looked up, tusks bared in a wide, savage grin. He pointed a finger at Chollat and the others. ‘Hand over the shiny, ya gits – or you get the same.’
‘Do you dream, Isengrim of the Red Reef?’ Zuvass asked.
Isengrim gave the Chaos warrior an impatient glance. He wanted to be away, on his quarry’s trail. Not here, talking yet again. Sometimes it seemed as if that was all Zuvass knew how to do. ‘What does it matter? What are we waiting for?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘Maybe I should summon my warriors and have them rip you apart.’ They were close at hand, waiting for his command, watching the surrounding streets, keeping an eye on the market. But like him, they grew impatient. He’d had to kill two already, to calm the others.
‘If you like. Then your warband will be even smaller.’ Zuvass’ words held no threat. They were simply a statement of the inevitable. Isengrim considered pressing the point, but realised that it would do little good. For better or worse, he had bound himself to Zuvass.
‘I do not like to sleep,’ he said finally.
‘I meant before you came here.’
‘So did I.’ Isengrim stooped and picked up a chunk of chipped stone. ‘It is good not to sleep.’ He carved a shallow wound on his chest with the stone. The pain helped him think. ‘Sometimes, when I slumber I dream of Khorne’s anger. He claims that I have failed. I see myself standing and my enemy – my prey – before me, but my axe does not meet flesh. I realise that the moment passed long ago without my knowledge, and I am left with nothing before I have even begun. I have failed before I even swing my axe.’
He smeared the blood over his chest, dragging it across the hundreds of scars covering him from throat to waist. Khorne demanded blood, and only a fool denied him. He painted his eyes and his face as well, wasting not a drop. ‘I was left with nothing,’ he said again, softly. He looked at Zuvass, and for a moment, he thought he saw another face superimposed over the grinning helm. He shook his head to clear it.
‘But it was just a dream,’ Zuvass said. ‘Khorne has not struck you down.’
‘No. Not yet.’ He looked around. He knew this place, if vaguely. It was the same temple he had pursued his quarry from before they had been tricked into this prison. It was different in some ways, akin to a reflection of a reflection, but he recognised the faceless statues. ‘Why are we here? What is in this place?’
‘Nothing yet. But what might grow in soil such as this? What might yet be born from this cocoon of stone and glass?’ Zuvass turned, his arms spread. ‘Perhaps a new god gestates here, a new challenger to the ruinous pantheon.’ He laughed. ‘Or perhaps there is nothing here at all. Perhaps the only voice to be heard is my own, echoing in the dark.’ He dropped his arms, as if weary. ‘Perhaps that is all there ever was.’ He drew an amulet from within his war-plate. ‘Did I ever tell you how I came here?’
‘No.’
‘I died,’ Zuvass said. ‘Once. And I came back – centuries before I’d even arrived. Time folds in on itself here. I died and returned before my sentence in this prison had even begun.’ He looked at his amulet. ‘Two lifetimes… three… more, I have searched for the right path, the path I was on before. And now I see it before me, and I cannot help but wonder…what if?’
‘What if what?’ Isengrim asked.
‘What if I ignore it? What if I continue on as I am and leave my past to follow its own course?’ He looked at Isengrim. ‘Time is a circle, my friend. A cycle repeating itself. What has been, will be, and what will be, has always been. That is what I have learned in my time here. The cycle must repeat again and again, until the one who set it spinning is satisfied.’
‘And then?’
Zuvass looked up. ‘Then we move on to the next cycle.’
Isengrim snorted. ‘And you accuse me of being a slave. What you describe is servitude. Not to a god, perhaps, but fate.’
‘We are all slaves of fate, my friend. Even the gods.’ Zuvass indicated their surroundings. ‘Take this place, for instance. It was a temple, once, to a god that has no name.’
‘The realms are littered with forgotten gods,’ Isengrim growled. ‘Khorne wears the skulls of his seven brothers, who contested with him for the Brass Throne in ancient days.’ Chaos birthed gods by the thousands, or so creatures like the witch Hthara claimed. The Ruinous Powers were simply the strongest of them – islands in an ocean of madness. And Khorne, the strongest of all.
‘Yes, that sounds like him. Never mind. Are your warriors close?’
Isengrim hesitated. ‘Yes.’ Slowly, he smiled. ‘To war, then? War at last?’
‘The first blow, at least. The orruks should be attacking the market…’ He paused, as if listening. Isengrim did the same. He could hear the faint growl of gunfire, and screams. But that wasn’t unusual in this place. Zuvass nodded, however. ‘Now, yes. Ironskull was always punctual, for a greenskin. Take your warriors and join the slaughter. Your quarry will be there.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because I set the pieces and know how the game plays out. The confusion will be your shield. And mine. Do you understand?’
‘No. How do you know he will be there?’
‘Trust me.’
Isengrim snorted. ‘You overcomplicate things.’
‘I merely take advantage of existing
complications. Try not to kill Gurzag, if you can help it. We may still need him, come the end.’
‘I make no promises.’ Isengrim left Zuvass standing there. He could feel the Chaos warrior’s eyes on him as he clambered down the slope of rubble that marked the temple’s entrance. He felt – he knew – Zuvass was intent on betrayal. He reeked of it. What form it might take or when it might occur was unknown, but he could feel it coming, like the scent of a storm on a sea breeze.
The thought pleased Isengrim. It made the world simple again. He understood treachery. It was the weapon of cowards and schemers. The weapon of the weak. Zuvass was weak, and like all weak things, he would be prey for the strong, no matter how he squirmed. Isengrim paused halfway down the slope. He brought the flat of his axe up and kissed the rune of Khorne carved there.
Soon, the coward’s skull would be his. Soon, his oath would be fulfilled.
‘Soon,’ he said.
And somewhere, he thought he heard a god howl in pleasure.
Chapter eighteen
BRAWL
It is always meet, when in certain company, to offer blades to those who come unarmed.
– Lady Emalia Grimsour
A Lady’s Guide to Consensual Bloodletting
The orruk grinned and took a step further into the tent. He had a wedge of metal nailed to his skull, covering one eye. He hefted two heavy, spiked clubs and brought them together with a loud thud. ‘You heard me – gimme the shiny.’
‘Someone kill him,’ Chollat shouted. Tuqo launched himself at the orruk even as more of the greenskins burst into the tent, bellowing. Tables were upended and non-combatants sent fleeing as the fight spread. Reynar backed away as Kope turned to face this new threat. An orruk wearing an iron face mask barrelled towards him, slashing out with a heavy axe. Kope easily hooked the blade with his sword and twisted it out of the orruk’s hand, sending it flying.
‘I have disarmed you, beast. What shall you do now?’ Kope said. The orruk, without missing a beat, slammed his skull into Kope’s with a wet crunch. Kope sagged in the greenskin’s grip, his face a concave ruin. The orruk tossed the body aside and caught sight of Reynar. He snarled and started forward as Reynar scrambled towards Ilesha.
Shadespire: The Mirrored City Page 25
