Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘Mekesh,’ she said.

  ‘It is over, Sadila. Your army is broken, and you are trapped.’

  Her features twisted in a snarl. ‘You cannot stop me. You are like me. A ghost caught behind glass.’ She flexed her glass talons. ‘But unlike you, I have learned to adapt.’

  ‘You have learned nothing.’

  Reynar turned. The Sepulchral Warden stalked through the trees, trailed by the dead. Among them were skeletal shapes clad in ragged robes. In life, they might have been soothsayers or sorcerers, but now they were something else. At the sight of them, Sadila took a step back. ‘Keep them away from me,’ she snarled.

  The Sepulchral Warden shook his head, like a parent dismayed by a child. ‘We have let you roam free long enough. You are capricious, daughter of the Fourth House. And murderous. You must be chained for the good of the rest.’

  ‘No. No, I am a Katophrane. A daughter of kings! I will not be chained – I will not…’ She turned, as if seeking escape, but she was surrounded by the dead. Reynar stepped back. He’d done his job, and this was no longer his affair.

  Sadila twisted towards him, her face stretched across the jagged husk of her form. ‘Reynar! Help me and I will give you anything – treasures beyond your dreams. I will… I will lead you out!’

  ‘There is no way out,’ Mekesh said solemnly. ‘There is only Shadespire.’

  The Sepulchral Warden laughed hollowly. ‘You were fools to deny Nagash. Soon, the whole city will be his. As all things must be. As you are.’

  ‘No,’ Sadila moaned. ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘Yes.’ The Sepulchral Warden’s voice was like the tolling of a bell. ‘Bind her.’

  The priestly dead raised their hands and started to chant. All of the shadeglass in the gardens began to tremble and flex, resonating with their dry, dusty voices. It rattled against the floor, and the broken trees swayed. Reynar felt a chill creep through him. He turned away, intent on leaving before anyone remembered he was there. He raised his hand to shield his eyes as an eerie green glow grew in the depths of every piece of glass, as if the dead were drawing something up out of the dark.

  Sadila was screaming now, and he hesitated in his retreat, feeling a moment of pity. That hesitation saved his life. An axe crashed down, smashing through the limb of a tree and casting fragments of glass into his face. He stumbled back, into another tree.

  Isengrim stepped into the open, his face ghastly in the light of the ritual. He grinned. ‘At last,’ he growled. The bloodreaver looked pale – wasted, as if something were drawing the life from him. Reynar wondered if he looked the same. Shadespire was eating them both, bit by bit.

  He backed away through the trees. Isengrim pursued him. The dead made no move to stop either of them.

  ‘Zuvass isn’t here to save you this time,’ Isengrim said, as if reading his mind. ‘He has promised me your head, coward. And now I’ll take it.’

  Reynar extended his sword. ‘No. No, I’ve come too far to lose my head to you.’

  Isengrim roared and launched himself at Reynar. His axe gouged open another tree as Reynar ducked aside. His blade danced across the bloodreaver’s ribs, drawing blood. Isengrim whirled, his axe spinning. Reynar fell back, blood pouring down his cheek. Isengrim pursued him, hacking at the trees in his growing frenzy.

  Reynar tried to shield himself from the flying shards of glass. Isengrim bulled into him, and he fell to the ground. His sword clattered from his grip, and as he rolled for it, the bloodreaver kicked him in the chest, battering him aside.

  He twisted away as the axe came down, and snatched up a jagged shard of glass. Isengrim wrenched his blade up, teeth bared. Reynar lunged and drove the shard into his opponent’s chest with all of his strength. He tore at Isengrim’s torso, the glass cutting through his gloves, their blood mingling. Isengrim staggered, his eyes bulging. The axe fell from his hands and he backhanded Reynar, knocking him down.

  Wheezing, Isengrim took another step back. Then, before Reynar’s disbelieving eyes, he began to drag the shard from his flesh. ‘I… will not… die… until I have taken your head,’ he grunted. ‘I will not… I will…’ Blood pumped from the wound, staining the front of his chest. One hand pressed to staunch the flow, he took an unsteady step towards Reynar. He raised the shard, but hesitated.

  The light had faded from the trees. Darkness filled every facet of glass. Reynar’s breath frosted on the air, and he heard something like the murmuring of night insects.

  Isengrim twitched, and he looked around wildly. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘No. Not yet.’ The shard slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground.

  Glass crunched. ‘No,’ Zuvass said. ‘Not yet.’

  The tip of his sword emerged from Isengrim’s chest in a welter of blood. Isengrim arched back, his mouth open, but no sound came out. He clawed at the blade, and his knees gave out, dragging him downwards. He locked eyes with Reynar as he fell, and Reynar was unable to look away.

  Zuvass looked down at the bloodreaver. ‘A shame, really. I think we were finally becoming friends.’ He leaned forward, set a boot on the back of the dead man’s head and twisted his blade free. ‘Do you even know yet why he was chasing you?’

  He held his sword up, as if examining the blood that clung to it. ‘No. I suppose you don’t. Even he didn’t know. Not really. Mysteries and secrets, the lifeblood of Shadespire.’ He looked at Reynar. ‘Don’t look so shocked. I’ve gone to too much trouble finding you to let him kill you now.’ He stepped over Isengrim’s body, his sword extended, as Reynar scrambled to his feet. ‘We have a way to go yet before then, you and I.’

  ‘It was you. You engineered this whole thing, didn’t you?’ Reynar recovered his sword and retreated, looking for a way out. Zuvass followed – slowly, as if he already knew how this ended. Maybe he did. Possibilities swam through Reynar’s mind, none of them pleasant. He was in a trap. Had been in it since he’d come to the city. ‘Playing them against each other. Bringing me here. Why?’

  ‘You know why,’ Zuvass said softly. ‘I needed you here, Seguin. You’re part of the loop.’ He pulled his – their – amulet from within his war-plate. It glinted coldly in the weird light. Reynar felt an unpleasant warmth against his chest, and knew that if he dared look, his own amulet would be gleaming in a similar fashion.

  ‘This was never about escaping, was it?’ Reynar said hoarsely. A stale breeze chilled him. Smoke hung thick on the air – the Jasper Palaces were burning. Men and women were dying. His doing.

  ‘Not yet.’ Zuvass was so close, Reynar could smell Isengrim’s blood on the Chaos warrior’s blade. ‘Not until the loop is closed.’ The tip of his sword was aimed at the hollow of Reynar’s throat.

  ‘And when does that happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it will be interesting to find out, don’t you think?’ Zuvass looked around. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How often I’ve crossed my own trail, seeking the right path. And now, at last, I’ve found it. All is as it should be.’

  ‘And me? Where do I fit in?’

  ‘Right here. Right by my side.’ He lowered his sword and caught Reynar by the front of his hauberk. Reynar didn’t resist as Zuvass dragged him to the edge of the gardens, where the walls had given way.

  ‘Look,’ Zuvass said. Down below, Reynar could see orruks and Stormcasts locked in battle. He saw people attempting to flee, only to be pursued by bloodreavers and greenskins. ‘Behold this city of madmen and monsters. Who else could you count on but me? Who else could I trust but you?’ Zuvass looked at him. ‘It’s you and I against them all.’

  Reynar shook his head. ‘You lied to me. I… I killed Ilesha. Khord. All of them. And now you’re telling me all of this was for nothing?’

  ‘Which bothers you more, the thought that you betrayed them or that they know and will be looking for you?’ Zuvass laughed softly. ‘Will they come lookin
g for you, do you think? Or will they simply curse your name for the coward you are?’

  ‘I am no coward,’ Reynar said. ‘A coward wouldn’t have risked what I have.’

  ‘Oh, you are. I know that better than anyone.’ Zuvass spread his arms. ‘A moral coward, at least. Willing to do and say anything to preserve yourself. Your autonomy. The amusing thing is, you lost that the moment you picked up that amulet.’ He tapped his own. ‘You lost it, and you haven’t realised it yet. But you will. And by then, by the time you really understand all of this, it’ll be far too late to do anything. You won’t even be able to run.’

  Reynar found himself clutching his amulet. For an instant, he considered ripping it free and hurling it away. He glanced down and saw his reflection watching him. Not smiling now, just… staring. Waiting. As the city itself seemed to be waiting.

  Zuvass watched him, as if he knew exactly what Reynar was thinking. Reynar wondered if the Chaos warrior would try to stop him from throwing the amulet away. Or maybe Zuvass hoped he would. The moment stretched. What would happen if he did it? Would Zuvass kill him – or thank him? Would the city try to stop him, after it had worked so hard to preserve him? He looked down again. His reflection was gone, as if it had never been.

  Reynar’s hand fell away from the amulet, and Zuvass relaxed slightly. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You know better.’

  Reynar turned away. ‘What now?’

  ‘Now, we continue. You and me. I’m here to help you, Seguin. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

  Zuvass laughed, and the sound of it turned Reynar’s stomach. ‘We’ll be great friends, you and I. I’ve seen it written on the walls.’

  Epilogue

  Third Moon,

  the Day of Going Forth

  AS IT WILL BE

  SADILA: Speak, sir. I command it.

  STRANGER: Indeed?

  SADILA: Speak, I say! Name thyself!

  STRANGER: You know my name.

  SADILA: I know it?

  STRANGER: You will.

  – The King in Grave-Shroud

  Act 2, Scene 1

  Shadespire was shaking. No, breaking. Coming apart like strands of thread. Glass shattered and rained down across the city in glittering shards. People ran and were cut to ribbons. Mekesh shrank back within the safety of the covered pathway as a woman, her body a mass of red wounds, dragged herself across his path, choking on her prayers. He saw a priest tear out his own eyes as he shouted Nagash’s name, and a soldier hack wildly at a cracking mirror pane as something sought to draw him into its milky surface.

  A titan out of nightmare stood over the city, staring down at the growing devastation. The God of the Dead, surveying his handiwork. Mekesh averted his eyes, desperate not to see. Not to hear that rumbling voice like millstones grinding bones to powder.

  You have been judged and found wanting, it said. And so, the sentence is passed.

  Hands over his ears, he stepped over the dying woman and hurried on towards the only place that might offer some sanctuary – the temple. An old building, its first walls raised when Shadespire had been nothing more than a palisade and a few outbuildings, it had been abandoned since they’d stopped holding the rites.

  It might even have been the first temple in the city. That was what he’d thought, then. Still thought now. There had been old stories, the mutterings of those first ancient nomads who’d sought refuge in the Oasis of Souls, that the plunging abyss was nothing less than the final resting place of something older than the realms themselves. A god cast from the void to lie broken and forgotten. Where else would a dead god go, after all, but the Realm of Death?

  ‘Where else?’ he murmured as he hurried up the steps.

  From behind him came the sound of the Faneway Mirror shattering – a single, tortured note stretched to what seemed infinity. It echoed out in all directions, carrying with it the howls of the dead. A legion of voices wailing in sudden, sharp shock as their place of refuge was wrenched from them and cast into darkness. A cold, ugly light filled the streets, spilling from the death throes of the Faneway. Shadows danced in the glare, hideous and jubilant. The air shuddered with the echo of it, and a cloud of glass dust billowed, choking the streets.

  He felt the cloud claw at his bare flesh as he ran up the steps, and motes of glass nestled in the wounds. His amulet bounced against his chest. It was strangely cold, and heavy. He clutched at it, seeking comfort. It seemed to twist in his grip, and he felt a wave of revulsion. But it was too late to turn back now. Only two paths lay before him – death and life. Sadila had called him a coward, and maybe he was. But better a living coward than a dead hero.

  Pillars cracked and spurted dust as he made his way through the temple. Everything was shaking, coming apart at the seams. Shadeglass shifted from the walls, smashing on the floor. With each crack of splintering glass, he heard the wailing of the dead. He could feel their fear and horror as their paradise became a hell.

  There was a louder sound – a great, continuous scream of tortured glass that echoed through the streets and choked the air. Mekesh staggered as another convulsion gripped the temple. A section of stone fell, nearly crushing him. He stumbled down the central nave, trying to recall the prayers he’d taught himself. The old prayers. They were half conjecture, but he grabbed for them like a drowning man. Words fell from his lips as he struggled towards the faceless statue. Meaningless, most of them, gibberish from a time out of mind.

  But potent, he hoped. Potent enough to save him. Perhaps even to save the city.

  As he reached out towards the statue, towards the god he’d called up but whose name he did not know, he heard the roof pillars crack and shatter. He looked up as the great slab crashed down. Pain exploded through him as the edge of it caught him and pinned him to the floor. He tried to scream, but only an agonised wheeze came out.

  His hands scrabbled, instinct prompting him to try and drag himself out from under the stone, to escape the pain. But his body didn’t respond. His legs and chest were caught fast. Crushed. Blood filled his lungs and dripped from his lips, mingling with his tears. He was going to die. He heaved himself up onto his elbows, choking on pain and prayers. His amulet scraped against the stone floor. It sounded like laughter.

  He heard a new sound amid the clamour of the city’s death. A strange, wet, crackling sound. His gaze was drawn to a nearby shard of shadeglass. It trembled, but not in the same way as the others. As he watched, the surface of the shard bulged, rising, as if something were pushing it up from below. Cracks appeared on its surface, bleeding an ugly light. They widened, peeled back, and a hand emerged. It rose, larger than the shard it emerged from, groping blindly for a moment before finding the edge of the slab.

  Despite the pain, Mekesh was unable to look away as the thing – the man – dragged himself bodily from the shard. It was not possible. Should not have been possible. But somehow it was. The man wore tattered war-plate and a ragged cloak of faded cerulean. He slumped against the fallen slab, coughing.

  Another pillar collapsed, shaking the floor. The stranger looked around wildly. ‘Where…?’ he croaked. His eyes narrowed. ‘I know this place.’

  Mekesh caught at the edge of his cloak. The stranger looked down at him, with something that might have been recognition in his eyes. ‘You?’

  ‘I–I am Mekesh,’ he coughed. ‘Are you… are you a servant of the god?’

  The stranger reached down and found the amulet hanging from Mekesh’s neck. He shook his head, as if confused. He pulled the amulet away and held it up, seemingly admiring its curves and whorls.

  ‘Who are you?’ Mekesh croaked.

  ‘I am… Zuvass. And we are old friends, you and I.’ He looked down at him. ‘Or we will be.’

  Mekesh felt a chill pass through him as the stranger’s smile grew impossibly wide. Not a man’s smile at all.

  Something
worse.

  Something hungry.

  ‘I have seen it.’

  About the Author

  Josh Reynolds is the author of the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and the audio dramas Blackshields: The False War and Blackshields: The Red Fief. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes Lukas the Trickster, Fabius Bile: Primogenitor, Fabius Bile: Clonelord and Deathstorm, and the novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden, Nagash: The Undying King and Soul Wars. His tales of the Warhammer old world include The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and two Gotrek & Felix novels. He lives and works in Sheffield.

  An extract from The Tainted Heart.

  Talorcan of Ravendirge examined the scaly sands with a practised gaze. The eyes that studied the crawling landscape were hard and sharp, at once both eager and wary. Wolf’s eyes, the eyes of a hunter. Among the witch-takers of the brotherhood his skill at following a trail was reckoned the best in Arlk, yet even for the best tracker the constantly moving sands of Droost were a treacherous prospect. According to the mood of the dunes, tracks might linger for days after they were made or else they might vanish in a heartbeat. The signs left by his current quarry were proving to be more of the latter. Ill luck, or was it the favour of his prey’s loathsome god? It was a question Talorcan had pondered many times over the three days the hunt had taken so far.

  Talorcan was lean of build, his visage almost hawk-like in its ­wariness and severity. His figure was shrouded in a long white cloak to better fend off the desert heat, contrasting markedly with the dark colour of his skin. Hanging about his neck on a silver chain was a golden pendant that flickered like lightning when it caught the rays of the sun: the icon of the God-King’s Hammer, emblem of mighty Sigmar. The symbol was repeated on the backs of the leather gloves that covered his hands and on the broad cuffs of the heavy lizard-skin boots he wore. Other holy symbols were displayed on the hilt of the slender sword that swung against his hip and upon the grip of the pistol nuzzled beneath his belt. Strapped to the saddle of his bird-beast mount was a case of papyrus scrolls adorned with gilded dragons and rampant griffons, sacred talismans to protect the holy texts within.