Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘Oh yes. They have it, and more besides. Storm-things and stunties, ’umies and many walls to knock over.’ Zuvass bowed. ‘All my gift to you, my friend.’

  Gurzag laughed. ‘Right then. Still friends.’

  Zuvass turned to Isengrim. ‘The last piece is in place. The riddle is ready to be solved. Gather those who remain. We have a war to wage.’

  Chapter twenty

  IN THE DARK

  There is a peace, of sorts, in surrender. The inevitable betrayal of value and honour frees the mind and soul of much detritus, allowing it to rise or fall as the winds dictate…

  – Nechris Litharge

  Marginalia of a Disordered Mind

  The causeway creaked, though there was no wind.

  Shadespire seemed to be tensing about Reynar, like an animal ready­ing itself to spring. He could see the distant towers turning slowly, so slowly, as if to watch his hurried progress. And something else – a great shape, only dimly visible, following him. Observing him. As if waiting to see what he might do.

  Hundreds of pillars lined the causeway, stretching all the way to the Jasper Palaces. Shrouds were strung from them like tapestries, or banners commemorating some ancient triumph. They rustled and twisted in the non-existent wind, and Reynar did his best to avoid their touch. He shoved past one, trying to ignore the unreal shapes that beat soundlessly against the other side. No, not soundlessly. He could hear them whispering desperately. Trying to warn him, he thought. But he ignored them. He knew what was ahead and didn’t need the dead to tell him.

  Sometimes, he thought he saw shadowy shapes lurking between the pillars. He thought of the skaven and picked up the pace.

  Reynar considered simply not going back, and taking his chances in the city. But he knew that even if he managed to survive on his own, Severin or Angharad would eventually hunt him down. They’d find Tomas and assume that he’d had something to do with the Vanguard-Hunter’s death.

  And Sadila would laugh as they killed him.

  No, best to stick to the path fate had chosen for him. At least until something better came along. It had worked for him so far, after all. He laughed bleakly, and dimly wished Utrecht were there. Someone to watch his back, come what may.

  ‘But you’re alone now,’ he said softly. ‘For good and proper.’ Alone in a city of lunatics, with no way out save one. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. He couldn’t trust Zuvass – he knew that. He couldn’t trust anyone or anything in Shadespire. Not even himself.

  Especially not yourself.

  He ignored the voice. It wasn’t him. Not really.

  Oh, but I am. Ask yourself, who are you in the dark?

  Reynar froze.

  Who are you when no one is watching?

  His mouth was suddenly dry. He turned, searching the jagged fragments of shadeglass, seeking the face he knew he would see. When he found it, his hand fell to his sword. ‘You’re not real,’ he said softly.

  Not yet, his reflection said. His doppelganger was a mass of blackened meat and broken bone. Barely human at all. Injuries marked its last shreds of visible flesh – mortal wounds, many of them. The reflection touched a gaping cut. Only maggots spilled out. Your wounds. The ones you ought to have taken. The ones you let others take in your place. The city shifted around you, just a bit, and Tirax burned. Another shift, and the axe blow meant for your head was blocked. So many twists and turns, all the way back to the beginning…

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Reynar said, his voice harsh.

  Liar.

  He turned away. ‘You’re not real. You’re just this place trying to get into my head.’ He started walking, but his reflection was there, moving parallel to him.

  I’d say I’ve already succeeded.

  Reynar frowned. ‘I’m going mad.’

  Don’t get ahead of yourself.

  He stopped. Turned. His reflection stood behind him, smirking. ‘Was that supposed to be funny?’ he demanded. Before his reflection could answer, he drew his blade and shattered the pane of shadeglass. As the shards fell, he heard the soft whisper of laughter from all around him. He turned in place, and his reflection was there at every angle, grinning at him. A rictus grin, a leering smile, like that of Zuvass’ helm. He swallowed, suddenly uncertain. A part of him wished that he was mad, that this was nothing more than a trick of the light.

  But it isn’t. Not the way you think.

  ‘Then what is it?’ He asked the question before he could stop himself. ‘What are you?’ He pointed his blade at his doppelganger.

  What you see. The road not taken, the journey abandoned. I’m nothing at all.

  ‘Speak plainly,’ he snapped.

  I’m you. Or maybe I’m not. We’re quite different, you and I. I’m starting to think we’re nothing alike at all. His reflection took a step towards him, and the facets flickered as if someone were shining a light behind them. Or maybe I’m just tired of taking on your debt.

  ‘What debt? What do you mean?’

  His reflection grinned and… changed. Twisted. Reynar stared as his face broke apart and became something else, something unfamiliar. It filled the jagged space, swelling to monstrous immensity as he gaped, frozen. Him, but not him. A him that had become something else, like an insect emerging from some terrible chrysalis.

  You belong here, Reynar. However much you twist and gnaw at yourself, the trap holds you fast. The sooner you accept it, the sooner all things will become clear.

  Reynar closed his eyes, not wanting to see what his own face had become. Something laughed deep in the glass, and there was a sound like the snap of leathery pinions. He felt a wash of cold, stinking air pass over him, as if something were flying away.

  When he opened his eyes, the glass had all shattered. He stared at the shards littering the causeway, and made to touch one but restrained himself. Whatever was going on, he wanted no part of it. He turned away, slamming his sword back into its sheath.

  This place was mad. The rules by which he had assumed the realms were governed did not apply here. The desire to escape burned twice as brightly now. He felt as if he had stepped into the jaws of a trap he couldn’t see. He had to escape before it closed shut on him and he went as mad as the others.

  Death wasn’t permanent here, he told himself as he climbed. A moment’s treachery could be undone, forgiven and forgotten. That’s what he told himself as he ran over Zuvass’ words again and again. Attacking the problem from every angle. That was how you had to do it, otherwise you missed something. If you missed something, you died.

  Like Bellam Gund. Bellam had missed all the signs, or ignored them. And he’d died. He’d had to die so that Reynar could live. In the end, that was the deciding factor. Reynar killed to survive. Whatever, whoever, it didn’t matter. Did that make him better or worse than someone like Isengrim, or Sadila? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

  He just wanted to live.

  But would Zuvass actually help him escape? He reached for his amulet and ran his thumb along its curves, thinking. He couldn’t trust the Chaos warrior. He needed a guarantee. Zuvass wanted ­Sadila for some reason. Reynar could work with that.

  Zuvass had told him of a path that ran beneath the city – much like the ones Ilesha had mentioned. Down below the palaces, where waters from the district cistern still flowed. The secret rivers of Shadespire. That was what Ilesha had called them when she’d shown him the maps. He thought of her and frowned. The power she’d displayed in the market had been terrifying. It was no wonder she’d been able to survive where others hadn’t.

  Ilesha will know, Zuvass had said. Not just about secret paths and hidden doors. He had said a lot of things. But Reynar knew that he was right. The sorceress was too smart for her own good. He stopped. Water dripped from high above, playing over his cloak and shoulders, trickling down between the links of h
is armour.

  Behind him, loose stones rattled. His hand fell to his blade, but he didn’t draw it.

  Someone was following him.

  He turned. In the gloom, red eyes shone like embers. A thin voice chittered, ‘Softly-go, softly-go, man-thing. Safe-safe, yes-yes. Zuvass pays us to keep you safe-alive, yes-yes. No fear, no fear.’

  Reynar turned back, feeling sick. He could sense them now, all around him. Not just one this time, but many. Watching him. Keeping him safe. The question was, why? Why did it have to be him? Why not simply send in the skaven if Zuvass had their loyalty?

  There was something he wasn’t seeing. Some piece missing from the puzzle. Perhaps it wasn’t simply about opening the gates and letting the enemy in. Perhaps it was about keeping one from getting out. He looked towards the distant shape of the dome and wondered if ­Sadila was watching him stumble home. Or did she think he was dead?

  He frowned and spat, trying to clear the sudden taste of bile from his mouth. He decided to follow the skaven’s advice and go softly. He kept walking. Behind him, his shadows kept pace, but soon they faded away, back among the pillars and tapestries.

  He realised why as a deep voice rolled over the causeway. ‘Who is there?’

  Reynar froze.

  He didn’t see Obryn until the Stormcast spoke again. The Liberator sat in the lee of a pillar, so still it was as if he were a part of the stones around him. ‘Are we ourselves? Or are we merely a reflection of those who came here?’ His voice rattled through Reynar. Quiet, but deep. ‘These are the things I consider in these unquiet moments between battles.’

  The Stormcast did not look at him, did not even seem to register his presence. He simply sat, his hammer balanced across his knees, his hands resting atop it. He stared out over the twisting facets of the city as if in search of something. ‘What is truth, and what is an illusion? Are we but shadows on a cave wall, cast by a fire we cannot perceive?’

  Reynar remained silent. That was more words than he’d heard Obryn utter before. The Stormcast did not move. ‘You wish to go. Is it your wish, or the echo of one made by another? Are the thoughts in your head your own, or were they placed there by another?’

  ‘Is this a riddle?’ Reynar asked after a moment.

  ‘No. I have died so many times that I cannot remember the first time.’ The Liberator’s head turned, metal grinding on metal. ‘If a sword is melted down and reforged, is it the same sword? Or is it changed by the act of recreation?’

  ‘It’s the same,’ Reynar said.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  Reynar hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. His voice was almost a whisper.

  Obryn turned away. ‘No. Severin set me here to guard the way. The city’s heart beats to the rhythm of war. Enemies gather and carrion birds circle the heights.’ Slowly, stiffly, he rose to his feet and stepped past Reynar. ‘Our foes come. I will await them, and gladly.’

  He fell silent. Reynar waited. When the Stormcast appeared to have no interest in further conversation, he started walking. Obryn gave no sign that he noticed. It was as if he had withdrawn into himself fully. Reynar glanced back at him from time to time as he crossed the causeway, until the Liberator was lost to sight.

  This, then, was the madness that awaited him if he stayed here. Death might not be permanent, but it had consequences. His luck wouldn’t last forever, and he would die again and again until he couldn’t see past the last death and passed into an aimless fugue. All he’d fought for, all he’d sacrificed – gone in an instant. Perhaps Utrecht had been right – better to have died clean than to have come here.

  He wondered where the hillman was now, whether he’d already come stumbling out of some mirror, confused and alone. Would he remember his death? Would he be looking for his old captain? Reynar hoped not, though he couldn’t say why.

  Obryn wasn’t the only sentry on patrol. He saw signs of preparations being made everywhere. He spotted choke points and barricades stretched across the causeway as well as the streets below, invisible save to someone who’d spent time on campaign with the Stormcasts. He knew there would be similar defences prepared on the other causeways. A lot of effort, though Sadila’s army was far too small to take advantage of all of it. Maybe Severin envisioned using the Jasper Palaces as a staging area for a conquest of the Mirrored City once the Faneway was repaired.

  For the Stormcasts, this place was not simply a trap. It was also a place to be conquered. And that made them no better than the orruks or the bloodreavers. They all thought that they could conquer Shadespire.

  He paused before the great causeway gate and looked east. The great monolith wrought in the shape of Nagash was no longer seated. Instead, it stood, as if waiting for something. Perhaps waiting to see how the game played out.

  A chill coursed through him, and he looked away.

  Isengrim stalked the walls, his anger growing with every step. It boiled away within him, eating at his self-control. He wanted nothing more than to raise up the crude standards his new warriors had fashioned and race into battle with… someone. Anyone.

  Khorne demanded blood and skulls, and so he must have them. Either those of the enemy or those of his followers – it made no difference. The compact must be fulfilled. An oath made to a god was as iron – unbreakable and unyielding. He paused, rocking back and forth on his heels, trying to wrestle the rage back down. To clear his mind. His teeth sank into his lip and blood welled, soothing him somewhat.

  Zuvass had prevented him from killing the coward, had denied him his destiny. The Chaos warrior had avoided him since, failing to give any explanation. Instead, he’d remained closeted with the Sepulchral Warden and Mekesh, planning the next stage of their war.

  He laughed sourly at the thought. This was no war. There was no blood and thunder, no burning cities. This was nothing more than a child’s game. He would show them war if they wished. The streets would be drowned in a tide of blood. He looked out over the city – and it felt as if something were looking back.

  Instinctively, he glanced down, checking for his shadow. It had not come back, and he could feel the cold growing in him. Only blood made the fires swell. Soon, even that might not be enough. But if he was fated to die, he would not go without fulfilling his oath.

  He extended his axe in silent challenge, then turned away. If the God of Death wanted him before then, Isengrim would meet him head on, not cowering in the shadows. ‘No more waiting,’ he said. ‘No more talking, no more playing these games.’

  Ylac stiffened at his words. The tall warrior stood nearby, leaning on his glaive. His expression perked up and he smiled, exposing his filed teeth. ‘We go, then?’

  ‘We go. They want their foe dead, and my prey awaits. I will not wait for the schemes of dead men. There is a war to be fought and blood to be spilled.’ Isengrim shoved past the other bloodreaver. ‘Gather the others. Tell them we march as soon as I return.’

  ‘Where do you go? Why not march now?’ Ylac demanded.

  Isengrim paused. ‘I made an oath. I will not be the first to break it. I go to tell the Katophrane that I march. If the dead men wish to accompany us, they may. If not, they can watch as I win their war for them.’

  Ylac bowed his head. ‘You are a true warrior, Isengrim of the Red Reef. Khorne smiled on us the day you came to this place.’

  Isengrim glanced at him, but had no reply. He left the walls, his anger smoothing into anticipation. It felt good, knowing that the decision was made. Knowing that his prey was within sight and would be at his feet at last. Soon it would be done, and what happened after was of no import.

  Soon, it would be over.

  He climbed the steps to the uppermost chambers of the keep, where Mekesh held his councils of war. Two skeletal penitents stood at watch before the rotting doors. Isengrim did not slow as they drew rust-edged blades and moved to block his path. He did
not speak, but lunged forward, his axe raised. Living or dead, they stood no chance.

  As the bone fragments settled, Isengrim kicked the sagging doors wide. They boomed open and he strode into the chamber beyond. It was circular, with panes of dirty, cracked shadeglass on every wall and the remains of a great stone table at its centre. Zuvass and the Sepulchral Warden stood at the table alongside dead men clad in the raiment of champions and princes. Skulls swivelled as Isengrim entered.

  Zuvass stepped forward. ‘You’re late, my friend. What took you so long?’

  Isengrim pushed past him and went to the table. He looked around, hawked and spat. ‘No more waiting. I lead my warriors against the enemy today.’

  ‘And you will die,’ Mekesh said. The Katophrane’s voice echoed through the chamber. Isengrim glimpsed him in one of the panes, frowning as if displeased by the interruption. ‘And she will escape again.’

  ‘I care not. Let her escape. I care only that my quarry dies beneath my axe.’ Isengrim looked around. ‘I have a hundred warriors yanking at their chains. They are eager to deal death and die themselves, so that Khorne might see them once more.’ He thumped his chest. ‘He cannot find us, but I will make for him a red road so that he might seek this place out. We will carve a wound in the shadows so that his hounds might creep forth, on the hunt…’

  Mekesh laughed softly. Isengrim turned.

  ‘You speak of daemons,’ the Katophrane said. ‘Such things find little joy here and soon dissipate like the morning fog.’

  Isengrim waved a hand dismissively. ‘I speak of blood and iron, spirit. Things you do not remember.’ He looked at Zuvass. ‘Gurzag. He will join us?’

  ‘So he says. One can never be certain of an orruk’s word.’ The Chaos warrior seemed bemused.

  Isengrim frowned. ‘He will come,’ he said. ‘He will join me at the walls, for he will be able to do nothing else. Our enemy is his, and twice her warriors have made him look foolish. Orruks respect strength. With them, I will take the walls of her palace and cast them down.’