Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  Ilesha suddenly spoke, her voice shivering on the air, and a dart of crackling amethyst erupted from the tip of her staff. It punched through the orruk’s chest, collapsing armour and the flesh beneath. The orruk took another step, tottered, and fell with a querulous groan, smoke rising from the wound.

  ‘Stay close,’ she said, glancing at Reynar.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you out of my sight.’ Through several orruk-sized gaps in the tent, he saw that the market had descended into bedlam. There were orruks everywhere, overturning stalls and attacking the living and the dead alike. The greenskins seemed to be looking for something, and he had a suspicion that he knew what.

  The orruk with the metal patch roared and staggered towards them, Tuqo hanging onto his axe, which was embedded in the greenskin’s back. The brute caught Ilesha a glancing blow with a flailing fist and knocked her to the ground. Reynar drove his sword into the orruk’s exposed neck, releasing a wash of foul-smelling blood. The orruk clawed at him as he sank down, and Reynar hastily retreated, dragging his sword free as he went.

  ‘Blasted orruks, never know when to quit,’ Tuqo snarled, ripping his axe free and chopping down through the back of the wounded orruk’s neck, swiftly removing his head. ‘I know this one, Chollat – it’s one of Ironskull’s curs.’ He jerked his axe free and spun, braids flying about him, teeth bared. Outside the tent, the sounds of fighting had grown loud.

  ‘I thought you said this place was sacrosanct?’ Reynar thrust his knife back into his belt and helped Ilesha to her feet.

  ‘For everyone but orruks. They don’t trade – they just fight.’ She caught his arm. ‘We need to go – now!’

  ‘You go nowhere, sorceress,’ Chollat said. He held up a knife. ‘The Sepulchral Warden wants you lot, and I mean to give you over.’

  ‘I thought you had more spine than that, Chollat,’ Ilesha said, raising her hand.

  ‘Aye, and I like it where it is. Sadila means to upset the balance of things, and we can’t have that.’

  ‘She means to find a way to escape,’ Reynar said.

  ‘They always say that,’ Chollat growled. ‘And them that listen to the promises of the dead are mad. There’s no way out. No escape. Just endless mirrors, reflecting endlessly.’

  ‘What about you, trusting the Warden to keep his word?’ Ilesha said. ‘That one has no will of his own, whatever he claims – he’s just a puppet. Nagash’s gaoler, ensuring we all remain trapped here.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I know whose side I’d rather be on.’ Chollat gestured, and several of his warriors, including Tuqo, closed in on Ilesha and Reynar. ‘Take them!’

  ‘Damn you, Chollat,’ Ilesha said softly. She glanced at Reynar. ‘Grab the artefact.’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘In a moment.’ Ilesha thrust her staff down against the ground, hard, and a jet of amethyst flame erupted before her. It raced towards the warriors, engulfing two. The men screamed as the flames congealed about them, becoming crystalline prisons. Tuqo avoided the blast, but before he could reach her, a thrown axe sank into the ground before him. He whirled, and Reynar heard Khord’s familiar bellow.

  The duardin stepped into the tent, maul dripping with blood. ‘Things have gone wrong, I see,’ he growled. He looked at Tuqo. ‘Hello, cousin.’

  ‘No cousin of mine, kinslayer.’

  Khord bared his gold teeth. ‘Fine by me. That makes this easier.’ The two fyreslayers charged towards one another, bellowing at the top of their lungs. More amethyst flames rose up, blocking Reynar’s view of the duel. Ilesha gestured, and the flames shot out like the talons of some great beast, engulfing tables and treasures in shimmering amethyst.

  Chollat was shouting now, and crossbows twanged. The bolts struck the flames and fell, shrouded in crystal. Ilesha was making herself a target, giving Reynar a chance to circle around. The flames parted for him as he made his way towards the last place he’d seen the artefact. He swung himself over a table, scattering chunks of shadeglass.

  He could hear the tread of heavy feet on the street outside, and the sounds of battle had changed – were the orruks retreating? There was no way to tell. Past the flames, he could see orruks fighting with Chollat’s warriors. The sides of the tent had been torn away, revealing more of the street – he saw a flash of crimson and brass, and felt a chill run down his spine. The orruks weren’t the only ones who’d come looking for a fight. Ilesha was right – they had to get out of here, and quick.

  But not empty-handed. Not this time.

  He saw the artefact, still in its cloth. It lay on the ground where it had fallen. He made to snatch it up, but the tent canvas to his right tore and a scarred figure appeared, filed teeth bared.

  ‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the newcomer roared. He lashed out with his axe, nearly taking Reynar’s head off.

  ‘Well, he can’t bloody well have mine,’ Reynar snarled, driving his sword up through the bloodreaver’s exposed chest. The warrior slumped with a befuddled growl, clearly surprised. Reynar ripped his sword free and turned to see more of the savage warriors race into the tent, making a beeline for Ilesha. ‘Ilesha – to your right,’ he shouted, heading towards her.

  Ilesha turned and thumped her staff down. Motes of light shot forward, punching into the charging bloodreavers. The warriors staggered as the lights erupted from their backs, dragging twitching, wispy phantom shapes in their wake. The bloodreavers fell, like ­puppets with their strings cut.

  The motes of light rose, dragging the struggling souls with them. Ilesha swung her staff out, and they began to spin, growing brighter and brighter as she spoke in a terrible voice that seemed far too deep and resonant a sound for a mortal to make. More lights shot from the mass, striking bloodreavers, orruks and others alike, ripping their spirits from them as easily as a fishwife might bone the day’s catch.

  In the eerie light of the slaughter, Reynar saw Chollat creeping towards Ilesha, knife in hand. That was the best way to deal with a battle-mage – when they were otherwise occupied, dealing with some other poor fool. Reynar hesitated, but knew his odds were better with Ilesha than on his own. He lunged across Chollat’s path, parrying the man’s knife. Chollat spun with a snarl.

  ‘You!’

  ‘Me,’ Reynar said. He kicked out, and Chollat folded over with a yelp, clutching at himself. Reynar buried his sword in the man’s back before he could recover. Chollat died quietly, choking on his own blood. Reynar tore his sword free just as Ilesha shouted a warning.

  ‘Reynar – look out!’

  He spun, and saw an axe blade descending towards his head. He threw himself aside and the axe caught him in the ribs, knocking him sprawling. Luckily, his armour held, but the blow still sent a shiver of pain through him. Wheezing, he rolled onto his back as his attacker followed him, readying the axe for another blow. A heavy boot caught Reynar in the chest and pinned him to the ground. His sword lay just out of reach.

  The bloodreaver loomed over him, scarred and streaked with gore. Despite the mask of blood, Reynar recognised those hateful features. ‘At last,’ Isengrim of the Red Reef growled. ‘Do you remember me, coward?’

  ‘Hard to forget a face like yours,’ Reynar coughed. The bloodreaver looked much as he remembered. Trust a monster to thrive in a place like this.

  Isengrim grinned. ‘Good. Because it is the last thing you will ever see – Khorne is owed a skull, and a skull he shall have!’ He swept his axe up, and time seemed to slow and skew as Reynar’s world narrowed to that gore-stained edge. It seemed impossibly large, like the sickle shape of some red moon rising overhead. He heard laughter – his own, perhaps – echoing from every piece of shadeglass in the tent, and, as if at a distance, he heard Khord’s bullish bellow and the clash of steel. He heard Ilesha’s voice raised in a chant and the sounds of men and orruks dying. But mostly, he heard the air part as the axe descended. He groped for the hilt
of his sword and the knife in his belt, knowing he’d be too late but trying anyway.

  ‘No!’ a deep voice said. A sword deflected the blow, and the bloodreaver staggered, a look of shock on his scarred features. A black-armoured warrior – vaguely familiar – hauled Reynar to his feet. His rescuer tossed him something – the artefact, he realised – and said, ‘Run, Reynar. If you value your life, run!’

  Reynar ran.

  ‘Traitor,’ Isengrim snarled. He spun, his axe biting the air near Zuvass’ neck. The Chaos warrior interposed his sword with ease.

  ‘No. Just thinking ahead – always ahead. You’ll never get anywhere chewing over the past, Isengrim. Got to look forward.’

  Zuvass shoved him back. The Chaos warrior was strong. Stronger than Isengrim. Isengrim stumbled. Felt something hot burn across his shoulder. He turned and saw the witch, wreathed in purple flame. She had killed too many of his warriors. They stood still, trapped in amethyst crystal, or lay limp and steaming, their eyes cooked white and their bodies reduced to husks. She stank of death-magic and starlight.

  She swept her staff out, and balls of bristling light shrieked through the tent, striking anyone who came near. Isengrim snarled, his hackles twitching at the stink of magic.

  He turned back and found that Zuvass was gone – where, he could not say. His lip curled in dismissal. He would deal with the traitor later – and find his quarry. But first, the witch must be dealt with. He swung around and roared. Axe raised, he dove towards her.

  She met his charge with a gesture. Cold fire washed over him, and he thrust out his axe as if to slice himself a path. The flames kissed his flesh, and he howled in agony. He threw himself to the ground, rolling to extinguish them. A moment later he was on his feet, and his axe swept through the air where she’d been only seconds before.

  She caught his next blow on her staff and was knocked to one knee. She drew her sword with her free hand and nearly gutted him. He stepped back. ‘Khorne will grant me a mighty boon if I offer up your skull, witch.’

  ‘You have to claim it first, barbarian.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ Isengrim said. He sprang forward again. Sorcerers were powerful, but only if you were stupid enough to let them use their magics. If you stayed with your teeth at their throat, they died as easily as any warrior. Easier, in fact.

  A moment later, her sword nearly opened his throat. He twitched aside, swallowing curses. She was more skilled than she looked. He circled her, watching for an opening. Around them, the tent was fully aflame. The fighting was spilling out into the street, merging with the greater slaughter. He could smell blood and taste the iron tang of death. He laughed harshly, feeling Khorne’s tread on the air. Every drop of blood was like a light in the dark, showing the Blood God the way.

  Too far… too far… even for the Lord of Red Fields…

  Isengrim paused. The voice echoed through him from every direction at once. He glanced about and saw something watching him from the flames – many somethings, but all the same. A curve of shadow, a slash of a rictus grin.

  The air trembled. Something was coming closer.

  ‘Khorne…’

  No.

  A single word. It sliced through him like a blade of ice. He staggered. The flames gave off no heat. The witch’s face seemed to be a skull, grinning at him as she backed away. He heard not the ringing of blades but a scraping, as of a scythe across a whetstone. He felt something clutch at his heart. No.

  At his shadow.

  His eyes were drawn down to that stretch of black. A part of him, always following. Unnoticed and silent. But now it was screaming in fear. He could hear it shivering through him. Something had latched on to his shadow, something greater and darker and colder than the night itself. Something that watched him from every twist of flame. Something that spoke in a voice like tumbling tombstones.

  I… see… you…

  It had him now, holding him fast by his shadow. He felt like a wolf with its leg in a trap. There was only one thing to do. Only one thing he could think to do.

  Isengrim roared and twisted, his axe flashing in the firelight. He felt a tearing sensation and a sudden rush of cold. He fell back, free. His shadow twisted, caught fast by the presence. But he could not hear its screams anymore. He could hear nothing save the rasp of bony talons closing tight. His breath gusted from him in cold clouds.

  His prey was gone, for the moment. So was the witch.

  But there was still a battle to be won. Still blood to be spilled.

  He turned away, leaving his shadow to its fate. ‘Khorne guide me,’ he said through gritted teeth. A prayer, or perhaps a plea. He did not know which.

  Chapter nineteen

  THE SMILING GOD

  Every god is a river spawning a hundred tributaries. From one comes two, from two, four. From four… legion.

  – Hierophane the Mad

  The Black Pilgrimage

  The artefact was warm in Reynar’s hand as he raced along the street, seeking a moment’s refuge. A cold wind rose, clawing at him. Dusty motes of broken glass stung his face and neck. The sounds of battle faded behind him, swallowed up by the city. No, not swallowed. Eaten.

  He had to think. To plan. He had to come up with a plan.

  I thought this was your plan. It’s what you always do, isn’t it? Run?

  His reflection ran alongside him. Or stumbled, rather, for it was a broken thing now, trailing smoke and blood through skewed tangles of shattered glass. Barely human at all, barely him but for the voice echoing in his head, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

  You run and run and run, but you can’t outrun fate.

  ‘I can give it a damn good try,’ he panted. He looked back.

  Someone was chasing him. A black shape, there one moment, vanishing the next, lost in glass and shadow. He could hear iron-shod feet crunching across the broken ground and the rustle-scrape of black war-plate. His rescuer.

  Your damnation.

  Reynar ran on. He hoped Ilesha had escaped. And Khord as well.

  Would it be worse or better for you if they didn’t? Do you think ­Sadila would punish you for their deaths? Or would she reward you for playing the game?

  Reynar couldn’t muster the breath for a reply. The air was full of smoke and ghosts. The street seemed to curve away from him, up and over and under again, like a wheel. He saw the same statue he’d passed moments ago, only this time it was smiling at him. No, leering. A jolly expression – spiteful and mocking. He could hear glass breaking and men screaming. Like battle, in the distance.

  In the past, maybe, or perhaps in the future. It’s all one and the same in this place. You’re running in circles, you know. That’s why you can’t escape. Look behind you – quick!

  Despite himself, Reynar did. His pursuer was gaining on him, ­striding after him at a slow, steady pace. He turned back to the path ahead and saw a tall structure, domed and columned. It was vaguely familiar to him, and he ran towards it, breath burning in his lungs.

  A cold wind whipped through the streets, clawing at him. He climbed the cracked steps quickly, seeking refuge on the other side of the shadowed archway at the top. A moment later, a hundred Reynars ran through the hall of broken mirrors. They were not all the same. They were not all human. One wore tarnished silver war-plate and had a look of determination, not fear, on his haggard features. Another was a reeking thing covered in leprous boils, bearing a pitted axe. The stench of it almost permeated the mould-streaked glass.

  Others resembled him more closely, save that they wore the uniforms of different regiments or bore different weapons. They scattered in all directions as the corridor widened, only one keeping pace. One in black armour, with a leering face for a helm and a tattered cobalt cloak. Somehow, his pursuer had caught up to him without making a sound. Reynar threw himself forward as the Chaos warrior reached for him. He scrambled
behind a fallen pillar and rose to his feet, ­facing him, the artefact clutched to his chest. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Zuvass.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a name?’

  ‘More a title.’ The warrior stopped. ‘You can rest easy. I just wish to talk.’

  ‘Where’s your friend?’

  ‘Brawling with the orruks, I imagine.’ Zuvass sheathed his sword. ‘You run faster than I remember.’

  ‘Have we met?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I told you – to talk. Isn’t that better than fighting?’

  Reynar hesitated. ‘You saved me.’

  ‘I did. You’re special, you know. You’re not a mite like all the rest, clinging to the hide of something you can’t conceive. You see the bars of the cage for what they are.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You will.’ Zuvass took a step towards him, and Reynar backed away. ‘Look around. Does anything seem familiar?’`

  As before, Reynar’s reflections – for there were many of them – stretched away in lines of possibilities, all of them facing Zuvass. Some were monstrous, others more heroic than he could ever hope to be. But the warrior before him didn’t change – somehow, Reynar knew that he was a fixed point. Something inevitable that would be, must be, however the winds of fate blew. The thought chilled him.

  His sword dipped. The artefact was heavy in his grip. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘You don’t remember? You hid here with Utrecht, didn’t you?’ Zuvass leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, mockingly casual. Reynar turned, seeing the familiar in the alien now. The great pillars and the statues. All ruined, but in a different way. And everywhere, the creeping fronds of shadeglass, cannibalising and colonising its surroundings.