Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘You’re certain that they’re coming?’

  Khord frowned and nodded. ‘Aye, manling.’ He set his maul across his shoulder. ‘It’s what they do. And we’ll hold, because that’s what we do.’ He clapped Reynar on the arm. ‘Best get that to Ilesha, and then get back down here. You’ll be needed, I expect. Every hand at the ore-cart, and all that.’

  Reynar nodded and made his way to the tower, weaving through the crowd. There was no Stormcast on guard. Perhaps Severin thought he’d be needed on the walls. That didn’t bode well. He made his way up, each step seeming harder than the next. The artefact grew heavier in his hands. He wished he’d left it behind. He wished he’d never gone out to get it. He wished many things, but it was too late for wishing.

  Too late for anything but what he had to do.

  Ilesha turned from the workbench as he stepped into her chamber. ‘You made it.’

  ‘Barely.’ Reynar set the artefact down. Her eyes lit up at the sight of it. ‘I was almost killed getting back here.’

  Ilesha laughed. ‘You almost sound disappointed.’ She bent to unwrap the artefact.

  Reynar looked around the chamber, taking note again of where things were. ‘If I thought getting killed would get me out of here, I might consider it.’

  ‘Are you so eager to escape, then?’ she asked, examining the map. Tracers of light followed her fingers, and he wondered if she was reading it.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘I came to the desert in search of answers. And here I have found them.’ She set the artefact aside and looked at him. ‘You came seeking the treasures of a vanished kingdom.’ She gestured. ‘Here they are. Fill your pockets.’

  ‘Treasure doesn’t do me much good when I’m trapped here.’

  She smiled. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Nor do your answers, I imagine.’

  ‘You are wrong. What I needed was time, and now I have an eternity.’ She picked up another piece and traced its facets with a finger. An amethyst radiance shimmered on the glass in the wake of her touch. ‘I learn more every day.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re the wrong person to be giving this to,’ he said, gesturing to the artefact. ‘It doesn’t sound like you wish to leave at all.’

  She paused. After a moment, she said, ‘I would like the option.’ She tapped it. ‘For good or ill, we are here. And there is no forgetting this place. Severin and the others will do as they were made to do – they will conquer in Sigmar’s name or perish in the attempt.’ She smiled. ‘Successful campaigns are run on supply lines.’

  ‘Guillepe Barco,’ Reynar said. ‘The Klaxus Wars.’

  ‘You know it?’

  He shrugged. ‘A… friend read it to me.’ He looked at the artefact. ‘Will it get us out?’

  Ilesha sighed. ‘On its own? No.’ She looked at him. ‘But it’s one step closer. It isn’t the key, but the thing that may help us fashion the key. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Reynar’s gaze drifted towards the shadeglass shards on her workbench. Even here, he had no reflection. He brushed his fingers across them, seeking some sign of himself. ‘It’s a piece of a puzzle.’

  She smiled. ‘Exactly. And an important one. One you found – even Severin can’t deny that.’ She set the artefact down. ‘Twice now you’ve salvaged something from disaster. You’ve saved lives. Angharad. Khord. Me.’

  He looked at her. She chuckled. ‘Chollat. I saw him.’

  Reynar turned away. ‘Then you saw me nearly lose my head as well.’

  ‘While saving me.’ Ilesha adjusted her spectacles. ‘I pay my debts, new boy. Reynar.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t care about that. I just want to go home. To get out of here.’ He stared at his hands. Suddenly, he wanted to tell her about the amulet. To tell her the whole story, about the temple, about Zuvass. About Bellam Gund.

  He wondered what she’d make of it. Whether she would be able to help. He doubted it. He doubted that anyone could help him now. He’d gone too far down the path to turn back. He closed his eyes. His hands curled into fists. He could hear something – someone – laughing at him. The city, perhaps.

  ‘I thought I deserved something more, and I did what I had to to get it,’ he said softly. ‘Then it wasn’t enough, so I ran, looking for more. And now here I am, still getting nowhere.’ He clenched his hands, not seeing the chamber, but a field tent, and a man he’d called friend.

  Bellam Gund, rising from his stool, turning, a smile on his face… and then the smile twisting into a cry that never came as the knife went in and in and in…

  ‘Who was he?’ she asked.

  He started. ‘Who?’

  ‘The ghost that haunts you.’ She smiled sadly and traced a sigil on the air with a finger. ‘I can almost see him, like a mirage flickering over the dunes. A friend?’

  He swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ He turned away from her.

  ‘Reynar…’ Ilesha began softly. She put her hand on his shoulder. Thunder rumbled. The sound of drums rolling out of the deep places. She turned away, eyes narrowing. ‘What’s that?’ She made to go to her spyglass.

  He needed to be quick.

  His palm caught her at the throat. She staggered, choking, eyes wide. He ducked around her, looping his arm about her, his hand covering her nose and mouth. He snatched the knife from her belt. It was badly balanced, but sharp. It would do.

  ‘I knew you were too smart for your own good,’ he said softly. He angled the knife up, seeking her heart. She clawed at his fingers as the blade neared its destination, trying to speak, but he knew better than to let her. One word and he might well die here and now. He’d seen what she could do in the market and had no interest in being on the receiving end. She twitched, and he felt her last exhalation against his palm. He eased her to the floor and sat with her for a moment, his eyes closed.

  ‘I told you what I am,’ he murmured. ‘It’s not my fault you didn’t listen.’

  He looked up, into his own eyes. His reflection peered at him through the mirror of shadeglass on the workbench. It didn’t speak to him this time. He realised, somehow, that it never would again. For good or ill, he had made his choice.

  Reynar set Ilesha’s body aside and rose to his feet. He unrolled the maps, scanning them, memorising them, looking for the thing he needed. He would need help to get to it. Friends. An instinctive glance at Ilesha, a woman he’d known for no time at all but who would be with him forever. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, louder than he’d intended. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He stepped over her and headed for the door. He paused only to take her notes and several of her logbooks, bundling them into his armour where they would be safe. They might come in handy afterwards.

  He knew where to go. He knew what had to be done.

  The city seemed desirous of their progress. Isengrim felt the street move beneath his feet, as if seeking to shorten the distance to his quarry. He grinned and sniffed the air. He could smell fires, and something else – like lightning. ‘We are close.’ It wasn’t a question.

  Hygaletes nodded. ‘Close enough.’ He dropped to his haunches, and Isengrim took the opportunity to look back at their – at his – army. Ylac and the rest of the surviving bloodreavers were spread out through the ruins, moving singly or in small groups. Fewer remained than he’d thought, but those who were left were worth twice their number. It would be enough. It would have to be.

  Hygaletes’ own warriors were few in number as well. Scarce twenty of them, clad in black rags, their faces painted to resemble skulls. Like his own followers, they carried a variety of weapons – whatever could be scavenged from the streets. Some wore archaic armour pulled from the bodies of the ancient dead. They murmured softly as they moved, praying to the Lord of Bones to guide them safely to their
death.

  Isengrim frowned and turned back to Hygaletes. They had stopped at a point where the streets gave way before a forest of causeways and viaducts. Slabbed steps coiled about thick pillars, marking routes of ascent. Dust and broken glass were heaped in shimmering dunes, and Isengrim could see shadows dancing on the stones. The dust sifted constantly, and in the quiet hissing he could almost hear voices.

  ‘We are being watched,’ he growled. He felt eyes on him from the high places. Chittering shapes slunk across archways and along the support braces of the causeways. And other things as well – dead things huddled in the shadows.

  ‘Always,’ Hygaletes said. ‘Look here.’ Isengrim crouched beside him and saw that the sellsword had drawn a map in the dust. ‘The great southern causeway is ahead. It will take us straight to the palaces.’

  ‘I thought we were to attack the walls.’

  ‘The orruks will do that.’ Hygaletes smiled. ‘Listen – you can hear their drums, to the west. Gurzag is leading them through the grand thoroughfares, making as much noise as possible, as Zuvass predicted.’

  Isengrim turned, listening. Hygaletes was right. He could hear the thump of drums in the distance. The orruks were making enough noise to awaken the whole city. He grimaced. Zuvass had been right to spare them. The orruks would provide an effective distraction. He looked up. ‘The causeway – it is undefended?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ Isengrim rose and brushed aside the map with his foot. ‘Come. My axe is thirsty.’ Without waiting for Hygaletes, he loped towards the steps to the causeway. He climbed swiftly despite the growing numbness in his legs. He could feel it spreading through him, had felt it since they set out from the wall keep, as if the Lord of Bones were on his trail and growing closer with every moment.

  He wanted to find his quarry before his own pursuer caught up with him. He murmured a prayer to Khorne beneath his breath, asking for that one boon. To die as he’d lived, blessed in the eyes of the Blood God. Not dishonoured and diminished. Not cast aside as a failure. ‘Just give me this and I shall go to my death gladly,’ he muttered.

  He felt the smooth, crystalline steps shift beneath his feet and saw a flash of something – a shape, a face, something he could not discern – pass beneath him, and the breath quickened in his lungs. At the top of the steps, on the causeway itself, he saw a corridor of once-mighty pillars, and tattered shrouds of silk rustling with a sound like the surf striking the shores of his home. For a moment, he was there once more, and he closed his eyes. Thinking of home. Of the moment Khorne had first spoken to him. The sound changed. Now it was like thunder. Like the day Khorne had demanded the coward’s skull.

  His grip on his axe tightened. It was light in his hand. Eager. When he opened his eyes, he saw the distant shape of a dome, and many towers. He grinned. ‘Is that them?’ he asked as Hygaletes joined him.

  ‘Yes. Listen. The attack has begun.’

  Isengrim could hear it – a roar like some distant conflagration. ‘Good. Come. Before the orruks kill everything.’

  He ran, ignoring the numbness. Hygaletes, Ylac and the rest followed him. They crossed the causeway as silently as several dozen armed warriors could. The Jasper Palaces grew in Isengrim’s field of vision, but it wasn’t until they were almost at the gates that they met resistance.

  Isengrim slid to a stop as the first Stormcast came into sight. The golden warrior sat still and silent, in sight of the gates. Isengrim extended his arms, keeping his warriors back, as the Stormcast rose ponderously to his feet. He swung his hammer out in a loose circle. ‘So. You come creeping like thieves. Be welcome.’

  ‘There is only one of him,’ Ylac murmured from behind.

  Isengrim nodded. ‘That means he is dangerous.’

  ‘Will you challenge him?’

  Isengrim was tempted. Spilling the blood of such a warrior might keep the cold at bay. But he shook his head. ‘He is not a warrior. He is an obstacle. Remove him.’

  Ylac grinned. ‘More glory for us.’

  The bloodreavers surged towards the Stormcast, howling and bellowing. The warrior raised his hammer, waiting.

  Thunder rumbled.

  Chapter twenty-two

  DOOR TO THE DEAD

  Secret passages and hidden pathways are a common architectural feature in Shyish. King Tarsig, father of Tarsem the Ox, took inspiration for the infamous ‘Hidden Circle’ from the Katophranes of Shadespire, who added secret roads to their city seemingly at random…

  – Ogwell Mancini

  Nine Hundred Kings: An Expanded History of Helstone

  There were orruks at the walls.

  As Reynar crossed the courtyard, he could hear the bellowing of the greenskins and the clash of weapons. Stormcasts strode towards the broken walls, where mortals fought, holding back the orruks. As he hurried into the forest of pillars that marked the lowest tier of the palaces, he saw an orruk burst through an improvised barricade and knock a Stormcast sprawling. The warrior tried to rise, but the greenskin stamped on his head, crushing both helm and skull.

  The orruk lumbered towards the front gates, roaring out a challenge. Behind him, more attempted to follow and Stormcasts moved to intercept them. People ran past Reynar, hurrying towards the walls. He made himself as unobtrusive as possible and did not stop to watch the battle.

  Two Stormcasts stood on guard near the entrance to the depths. It was a great square gap, with a set of slabbed steps leading down into the gloom. Reynar paused, composing himself, and then raced towards them, the very image of panic. ‘Orruks,’ he gasped. ‘Orruks – breaking in! They need you on the walls.’

  The Stormcasts hesitated, glancing at one another. Reynar shook his head. ‘Severin sent me – he told me to find you.’ He looked at them, his face a mask of desperation that was only partially feigned. ‘The orruks are breaking through!’

  ‘I know you,’ one of the Stormcasts rumbled. ‘You are the sellsword, Reynar. You destroyed the construct in the plaza.’

  Reynar swallowed and nodded. ‘Aye, that I am.’

  The Stormcast nodded tersely and rapped his fist against the other’s shoulder. ‘Come. We can trust his word. If he says Severin needs us, then we must go.’

  ‘But the deep path,’ the other said, gesturing to the square aperture.

  ‘I’ll watch it. Severin is sending the mortals back from the walls. Others will join me soon enough. Hurry!’

  ‘It is good,’ the first Stormcast said. ‘This is not a fight for your kind, mortal, brave as you are. We will defend the walls. Come, brother. There are orruks to kill.’ The two Stormcasts moved towards the courtyard, leaving Reynar alone. Quickly, he descended.

  Thanks to Ilesha, it was a simple enough matter to find his way down into the stony depths of the palace. The sounds of battle pursued him as he crossed stone walkways and footbridges, following the routes Ilesha had shown him. The roots of the palaces seemed to press down on him from above. Ancient floors had ruptured and collapsed, creating slopes of wooden timbers and fallen stone. Luminescent mould shone in the corners, and shimmering spillages of glass stretched from floor to ceiling, vanishing into the sluggish black waters that swirled over the lowest level.

  Even here, the shadeglass had found a way to spread itself. Crystalline webs stretched from wall and pillar, like the ligaments of some monstrous giant. The dripping water was caught and reflected, making it seem as if the air was full of light. The stone twitched beneath his feet and slid away, vanishing into the murky pools. Massive support pillars rose around him like the trunks of great trees, and where the waters touched them, they were stained black. Will o’ the wisps danced across the surface, illuminating the carpet of broken glass and bones that lay beneath.

  The road of the dead.

  Places so old and forgotten that not even Severin had thought to defend them beyond a token effort. There wasn’t a force
organised and strong enough to traverse the deep tunnels. Or so Sadila had assured them.

  ‘But she’s wrong, isn’t she?’ he said aloud. He looked around reflexively, wondering if she would appear. But he knew she wouldn’t. Just as Zuvass had assured him, Sadila would be distracted, watching the battle at the walls. Amusing herself with the death and bloodshed of her followers. That was the whole reason Zuvass had set the orruks against the Jasper Palaces – a show for Sadila’s benefit.

  He ducked beneath a spiderweb spill of glass, scraping his shoulders against the facets. Some broke off and pattered into the water that swirled about his lower legs. He fancied he saw fearful faces in the shards as they tumbled into the dark. The chill of the water crept steadily towards his waist.

  He stopped as a wash of light from a passing will o’ the wisp revealed what he was looking for. The portcullis was ancient, and caked in thick layers of rust. It sealed the bottom of a sloping passage, a profusion of chains, levers and pulleys marking the walls to either side. It reminded him of Kemos’ vault, in a way, though it was cruder by far. He scanned the levers, recalling Zuvass’ directions. He rattled one of the chains doubtfully. Rust sifted down like pollen. He coughed and studied the portcullis. Then, with a grunt of effort, he hauled on a lever. It took all his weight to move it.

  The pulleys began to turn and shift with a harsh creaking. Chains clattered up and down, seemingly at random. Some splashed into the water, while others dragged sparks from the stone walls. He stepped back as the echoing din threatened to deafen him. Something jabbed him in the back, and he spun, his hand falling to his sword.

  Khord glared at him. The duardin said something, but Reynar couldn’t hear him. He shook his head. Khord leaned close, shouting to be heard over the tumult. ‘There are bloodreavers on the upper causeways! Severin went to warn the Katophrane. The others are on the walls. What are you playing at down here?’ Khord pushed Reynar back with the head of his maul. ‘Not looking for a way out, are you? It’s not that frightening, surely.’