‘How… It wasn’t anywhere near here…’ He trailed off as the answer came to him. ‘The city moves. It’s moving right now, isn’t it?’
‘Like debris on the water. It comes together and breaks apart, but is always in motion.’ Zuvass knocked on the pillar. ‘It wanted you here, and so here you are. Here we are.’ He straightened, arms spread. ‘As sure as fate.’ He pointed to Reynar’s chest. ‘As certain as that.’
Reynar glanced down and saw that his amulet was hanging free.
Zuvass laughed. ‘You found it here, you know. Or there, rather. Did you ever ask yourself how it got here? Who left it? If we looked, I wonder… would we find it, waiting for you to pick it up at some time in the future? Or in the past? It’s hard to tell which is which in this place.’
‘What are you talking about? What does that mean?’
‘My apologies. Have you had that conversation yet? It’s hard to remember – being here is like being thrust into every memory at once. They ebb and flow like the tide, changing day by day.’ Zuvass took another step towards him. ‘Ilesha will tell you, if she hasn’t yet.’
‘How do you know her? How did you know about Utrecht?’
‘Those aren’t the questions you should be asking, my friend.’
Reynar frowned. ‘Then what are?’
Before Zuvass could reply, there was a thunderous hiss-crack as something flashed behind Reynar. He ducked instinctively. Crackling bolts of what might have been lightning shattered the mirrors, and Zuvass ducked away out of sight with a curse.
Reynar turned, and a bolt seared across his wrist. His sword fell from his hand and clattered away. A second bolt caught his cloak and yanked him back. The bolt cracked into a pillar and juddered there, pinning him. Dazed, Reynar fumbled at the clasp of his coat, but couldn’t get it loose.
‘Traitor,’ a voice said.
Reynar looked up. Tomas stood at the other end of the corridor, his boltstorm pistol levelled. Reynar made to speak, but the Vanguard-Hunter fired again. Glass to either side of Reynar shattered and rained down around him, stinging his face.
‘Traitor,’ Tomas said again. Reynar fumbled at the bolt holding his cloak pinned to the wall, cursing as it seared his fingers through the leather. ‘Severin was right. I should have killed you in the market when I had the chance.’
‘Wait,’ Reynar said, trying not to stare at the flickering light within the weapon’s muzzle. ‘Wait, wait, wait.’ The crackling bolt burned his fingers as he tried to yank it free, and he couldn’t get a grip on it – it was as if it wasn’t really there at all. The Stormcast stalked towards him, a hunter closing in on his trapped prey.
‘No.’ Tomas extended his weapon, almost touching Reynar’s head. It growled like thunder. ‘When you return, remember this moment, traitor. For I shall slay you again, and every time you appear until this place is free of its curse.’
Reynar gave up on the bolt. His hand fell to his knife, though he knew he would not be able to draw it in time. He squeezed his eyes shut as the sound of the boltstorm pistol grew loud in his ears. He could think of nothing save the amulet’s broken smile and Bellam Gund’s face. Then came a whirr of air and a hissing burst of light.
Reynar’s eyes flew open and he saw Tomas stagger back, his weapon cut in half, its ruined shape bleeding blue light. Zuvass stood between them, his sword extended. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘The moment has come back around. I never get tired of it.’
Tomas didn’t reply. The Stormcast tossed his ruined weapon aside and caught up his shock handaxe. He lunged, raptor-swift, and Zuvass met him. Sword and axe crashed together with a snarl of lightning, and weird shadows danced in the flare. They moved so swiftly that Reynar could barely keep up. He concentrated on tearing his cloak loose.
Blue cloth ripped and he sagged into a crouch. He threw up a hand as another flash of light nearly blinded him. He had to get to his sword. The crash of blades echoed through the shattered terrace. One hand on his knife, he scrambled towards the sword. Before he reached it, a golden-armoured form slammed into a nearby pillar and the column exploded. Reynar lurched aside, trying to avoid the cloud of flying rubble.
Tomas hit the ground and rolled to his feet a moment later, axe in hand. Zuvass leapt after him, his armoured boots gouging the floor as he raced towards the Stormcast. The two came together again in a crash of metal. Reynar was forced to scuttle out of their path as they reeled about, trading blows. They were evenly matched, and there was no way of telling who would win. He jerked his knife from his belt and watched, wondering if he could do what had to be done. Once, even contemplating such a thing would have seemed a blasphemy.
But now, it appeared to be the only way. It was as if a door had been opened and Tomas was standing between Reynar and survival. Just like Bellam Gund. He could feel the amulet burning against his skin, and out of the corner of his eye he could see his reflection grinning at him. The glass shimmered, making it seem as if he were winking at himself.
His other reflections were there as well, encouraging him, cursing him, pleading with him. They wanted him to run, to do it, to stop. A dozen voices – all his – echoed in his head, shouting contradictory instructions as he readied the knife. It felt heavy in his hand.
Tomas had his back to Reynar. His furs had been torn away in the battle, exposing the black joins between the golden plates of his damaged war-plate. Reynar had no idea if his blade would pierce between them, but he was going to find out.
His reflections fell silent as he leapt to his feet, both hands on the knife, and slammed it into a gap with as much force as he could muster. Tomas stiffened and groaned as the blade found flesh. He whipped around, and a sweep of his arm sent Reynar tumbling across the floor. Reynar crawled backwards as the wounded Stormcast took a step towards him. The knife in his hand seemed inconsequential. Tomas lifted his axe.
Zuvass’ blade came down, separating the Stormcast’s arm from his shoulder in a welter of lightning-tinged gore. Tomas wheeled with a roar of pain, his remaining hand clawing for the Chaos warrior. Zuvass leaned forward and drove his sword up through the Stormcast’s midsection, lifting him off his feet.
Tomas clutched at Zuvass’ helm. ‘R-remember… y-you,’ he hissed as the blade sawed through him.
‘I’m sure you will.’ Zuvass wrenched his sword loose in a spray of red. Blood leaked from the eye slits and mouth of the Stormcast’s war-mask. He sank down and toppled onto his side.
Zuvass looked down at Reynar. ‘On your feet, my friend. No need to cower now. The danger has passed.’
Reynar rose slowly to his feet, knife in hand. ‘He almost killed me.’
‘I would not have let that happen.’ Zuvass wiped his sword clean on his cloak and sheathed it. ‘You are far too vital to be disposed of so unceremoniously.’
‘So you say.’ Reynar wiped the back of his hand across his face. He stared at the leering helm-face and the eyes that gleamed behind it. Eyes like the gaps between the stars. ‘Give me one good reason not to leave here.’
Zuvass sighed. Before Reynar could react, he lunged. His fingers closed about Reynar’s throat. ‘Do you know what hell is, Reynar?’ he asked softly. ‘Monotony. Endless cycles, repeated endlessly. That’s what this place is – an oubliette of damned souls gnawing on each other for an eternity. They wanted forever, and Nagash has given it to them.’ Zuvass lifted Reynar and drove him back against the edge of the terrace. ‘But even the strongest prison walls can be felled by a single crack in the right place.’
Reynar tried to stab his captor, but the Chaos warrior caught his wrist and squeezed, forcing him to drop the knife. It clattered against the terrace and skidded over the edge. Zuvass watched it fall. ‘So that’s where it went,’ he murmured. He looked back at Reynar. ‘It’s odd, the things you remember most. Little things, usually.’ He let go of Reynar’s bruised wrist and tapped the amulet hanging around Reynar’s
neck. ‘Like this… such a tiny thing. A good luck charm. Only, it’s not so lucky, is it?’
Zuvass reached into his armour and pulled out a similar amulet. Reynar stared. ‘No, not just similar,’ Zuvass said. ‘You’re thinking that, right now, but you know better. You’re smarter than most give you credit for. It’s how you survive.’ He released Reynar. ‘Already, you’re starting to see the angles – if I’m talking to you, that means I’m not killing you. So how long can you keep me talking?’ Zuvass stepped back. ‘But still you wonder, why hasn’t he killed me?’
‘Why haven’t you?’ Reynar asked. His eyes flicked to his sword. A lunge and a bit of luck, and he might be able to get to it.
‘You won’t reach it,’ Zuvass said. Reynar froze. ‘Your luck has run out.’ He reached up as if to remove his helm.
‘Don’t,’ Reynar said, looking away. ‘Just… don’t.’
Zuvass laughed. ‘Have it your way. For what it’s worth, I said the same thing.’
Reynar shuddered and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want what you want.’ Zuvass crouched and picked up Reynar’s sword. ‘To escape Shadespire.’ He held it as if testing the blade’s balance. He swung it with an almost familiar gesture, and Reynar looked away. ‘To find my fortune, whatever that might be.’ Zuvass flipped the blade around and extended the hilt to Reynar. Reynar looked at it, but didn’t touch it.
‘And what does that have to do with me?’
‘That depends entirely on your perspective. But for the moment, let us say everything.’ Zuvass cocked his head in a manner that was at once alien and horribly familiar. ‘You are right. You can’t trust the Katophrane. She’s the one who led you into this oubliette, just as she’s led thousands of others. It’s a game to her. A way to pass the time. She draws warriors in and sends them into battle just to watch them die.’
‘And the pieces of the Faneway we’ve been collecting…?’
‘Part of the game. A way of keeping score. She has no intention of repairing anything, even if she knew how.’
Reynar took his sword and sheathed it. He thought of Ilesha, hard at work. Of Severin and the others, so sure of their path. He didn’t want to believe Zuvass, but somehow he knew it was the truth. As surely as he knew his own name. ‘How do you know?’
‘She told me,’ Zuvass said.
Reynar frowned. ‘And why should I believe you?’
‘You shouldn’t. But you want to. The only truth that matters is the one you want to believe.’ Zuvass turned. He looked out over the city. ‘This spot once overlooked the city’s market district, I’m told. If you listen closely, you can hear the cul-de-sacs eating each other.’
‘Why tell me all of this?’
‘I told you – you’re important.’ Zuvass turned back. ‘You’re the crack that brings it all crashing down.’
Reynar’s eyes narrowed. ‘You want me to betray her. Betray them.’
‘You say it like you haven’t done it before.’
Reynar flinched. ‘That was different.’
‘Was it? I doubt the comrades you left on the battlefield would see it that way. I doubt Bellam Gund would either. You and Utrecht and the others – you abandoned your brothers-in-arms at the first whiff of shadeglass. And now look at you.’
‘Tell me what you want,’ Reynar said after a moment. ‘And what I get out of it.’
‘What I want is for you to be true to yourself,’ Zuvass said. ‘And what you get is a way out of Shadespire.’
Reynar looked away. ‘She’ll expect it. Is expecting it.’
Zuvass nodded. ‘Another part of the game. She always tells one. And you’ll try to convince the others, and they’ll tear you to pieces. Hope is the greatest of addictions. Of course, they might believe you. Some of them, at any rate. And then there’d be fighting, and dying, and her enjoying the show.’
‘Then it is hopeless.’
‘No. Because she was lying. She doesn’t think you’re a coward. Cowards are no use to her. She’s counting on you wanting to spare your new friends – to help them, even if you don’t trust her. Divided loyalties are the strongest shield.’ Zuvass leaned close. ‘But we both know she’s wrong. That you don’t have friends, because they’re only another sort of prison. Be true to yourself, Seguin, and this game of hers ends.’
Reynar looked away. Thoughts shifted in his head like shards of broken glass, digging into him. Tearing holes. Letting in new light.
After a long moment, he said, ‘What do I need to do?’
Isengrim wrenched his axe from the duardin’s skull. Blood dripped onto the warrior’s leaf-shaped mail and collected in the contours of his skull-like mask. The drakegun he’d held lay nearby, the fuse snuffed by a spatter of blood. Isengrim turned, hissing as his burned flesh parted anew, spilling fresh blood down his shoulder and arm. He caught sight of the ground, full of shadows. None of them were his. His was gone. He shook his head.
Smoke hung thick on the air and a fire was raging somewhere close by. There would soon be no trace of the market or its inhabitants save ash and scraps of blackened bone. The thought was not as satisfying as it should have been.
He turned back to the tent and saw that it was already engulfed in flames. The witch had escaped with her duardin companion. But not for long. There would be a reckoning. She had killed too many of his warriors to escape with her skull intact.
He stared into the flames, watching the light devour the dark. Was his shadow still caught in there somewhere, burning and twisting in amethyst fire? He felt a chill lance through him and flexed his free hand. He felt numb in places, as if bitten to the bone by frost. Shapes seemed to dance in the flames and in the smoke above.
A guttural laugh drew him around. Gurzag Ironskull sat nearby, a wooden cask beneath one arm and his axes embedded in a stone pillar. ‘Fun, yeah?’ the orruk growled. He lifted the cask and punched a hole in it, allowing the liquid within to sluice into his open jaws. He tossed it aside when it was empty and wiped his mouth. ‘Be even more fun the next time.’
Isengrim frowned. ‘Fun,’ he said flatly. ‘Is that all this was to you?’
Gurzag shrugged. ‘If it ain’t fun, it ain’t worth doing.’
‘We failed. You failed. I failed. How is that fun?’ Isengrim took a step towards the orruk. He caught sight of Ylac trotting towards him, leading some of the others. The rest would still be about their butchery. It was a red night – a good night. But not for him. He had lost more than his quarry. A surge of frustration ran through him. He wanted to kill something. He heard a growl and glanced around.
There were orruks gathering as well. They still had a truce, but the slightest spark could set off a brawl. He felt the urge to be that spark rising. Gurzag’s head wasn’t the one he was after, but maybe it would do well enough tonight. The fire of battle would drive back the cold that threatened to claim him.
Gurzag rose to his feet and reclaimed his axes. ‘You wanna fight, then?’ he said heavily. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, and his axes flashed as he scraped them together. ‘Let’s fight. I won’t go easy on you this time.’
Isengrim took a step towards him, his axe light in his hands. His heart leapt in his chest, joyful and eager. He’d kill Gurzag, and any other orruk who dared face him. He’d heap a pyramid of skulls in this place. But before he could do more than ready himself, Zuvass stepped through the smoke, something golden in his hand. ‘I’d not test him, my friend,’ the Chaos warrior called out. ‘Gurzag will take your head, and damn the consequences. Isn’t that right, Gurzag?’
Ironskull bared his tusks at the Chaos warrior. ‘You again?’ he rumbled, as if curious. ‘Come to get your bonce split too?’
‘Not this time.’ Zuvass looked around. ‘They got away, I take it. Except for poor old Chollat, of course. But he’ll be back. Shadespire has only increased his cockroac
h-like ability to endure certain death and come out all the stronger.’ He lifted what he held – a golden Stormcast helm, still containing the head of its wearer.
‘You betrayed me,’ Isengrim growled, raising his axe.
‘Not yet.’ Zuvass tossed the Stormcast’s head at his feet. ‘I told you that you would catch him, and you will. Until then, have this skull in recompense.’
Isengrim kicked the head aside. ‘I would have had him here were it not for you!’
Zuvass spread his arms. ‘Then strike me down. And wander this prison forever.’
Isengrim raised his axe. Gurzag and the others watched. The guttural laughter of orruks filled the air, and Isengrim spun, glaring at them. Gurzag bared his tusks in a grin. ‘I like you, ’umie,’ he said. ‘Got some Gork in ya.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Got to have some Mork, though. Got to be kunnin’, yeah? Smart, like.’ He pointed one of his axes at Zuvass. ‘Him, he’s Mork, all the way down, innit?’
‘A high compliment,’ Zuvass said, nodding to Ironskull.
Isengrim took a step towards Zuvass, his axe twitching in his hand. He wanted nothing more than to strike the other warrior’s head off. Surely Khorne would prefer his skull to that of the coward? But something stayed his hand, as if a voice were whispering in his ear, telling him that now was not the time. That Khorne cared not from whence the blood flowed, only that it did. But for it to flow true, first it must find a crack.
Shadespire was a dam waiting to burst. Centuries of blood held trapped in this prison of stone and glass. An offering fit for any god, and one Khorne would smile on. If he but stayed his hand, that offering might be his to deliver up to the Skull God. And all that he had sacrificed would not be in vain.
Slowly, he lowered his axe. ‘I will spare you. But I am owed a debt.’
‘And you will have it.’ Zuvass looked at Gurzag. ‘Does our alliance still hold, Ironskull? Or are you angry as well?’
Gurzag sucked on a fang, thinking this over. ‘They have my shiny, then?’
Shadespire: The Mirrored City Page 27
