Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  Other bloat-moths soon descended, settling upon the cultist like bees on a flower. The man’s moans became frantic, burbling screams as the insects preyed on him. Talorcan watched the grisly tableau with cold satisfaction, thinking of all those this heretic had struck down with the diseases he carried in his flesh.

  ‘Are you going to stop that?’ Esselt asked as she joined Talorcan at the bottom of the dune.

  Talorcan shook his head. ‘We will learn nothing from this fanatic. He has made that clear enough. He has rebuked his last chance for Sigmar’s mercy. Maybe this is the God-King’s justice.’ He sheathed his sword and reached to his belt, removing a small clay bottle from a pouch on either hip. He handed the bottles to Esselt. ‘Still, we cannot allow any trace of the man’s corruption to linger after him.’

  Esselt looked at the bottles and the marks etched into the clay. ‘Fire in a jar,’ she commented. ‘Sometimes even I am awed by the mysteries my father has bestowed on the brotherhood.’

  ‘Leukon is unequalled as both scholar and alchemist,’ Talorcan said as he unfastened his cloak. He smiled at Esselt. ‘Mind you, it is in his capacity as a father that I feel most indebted to the man.’

  Esselt raised her eyebrow at the remark. ‘He would take that as an insult to his studies, however sincerely you meant to compliment him.’ Her expression darkened as she watched still another bloat-moth descend on the writhing cultist. ‘We had better do this before any of them drink their fill and try to leave.’

  Talorcan nodded and stalked towards the cultist. The man was covered in bloat-moths now; no less than half a dozen of the fist-sized bugs were sucking at his wounds. The witch hunter looked at his polluted cloak, at the black spots where the blood had splashed him. The taint might be cut away, but for now he had a better purpose for the fouled garment. Thrown over the cultist, it would prevent any of the disease-sucking insects from flying away.

  Poised above the stricken fanatic, Talorcan prepared to hurl the cloak across him. Before he did, he saw something crawling on the cultist’s chest, an insect much smaller than the bloat-moths but no less vile in appearance. It was a massive fly, black in body with three splotches across its back. Talorcan’s revulsion swelled when he recognised the pattern the splotches made. The Flyspot, the noxious rune of Nurgle.

  Talorcan quickly threw his cloak over the cultist, trapping the bloat-moths and blotting out the image of the Nurgle-marked fly. The cast-off cloak quivered with motion as the imprisoned insects tried to escape. Before they could, Esselt was standing over the body with the two bottles Talorcan had given her. Unstoppering one, she poured a thin liquid across the cloak, then proceeded to scatter the contents of the other across the cultist, dark grains of an acrid-smelling powder.

  The instant powder and liquid met, there was a fierce flash of light. Long fingers of flame leapt into the air as the two substances mixed and ignited. The witch hunters backed away while the alchemical fire blazed away, swiftly consuming the cultist and the scavengers preying on him. Sigmar’s fire, Leukon had named his discovery, and watching the flames obliterate the diseased fanatic, Talorcan could think of no more apt a title for the substance.

  ‘What do you think, Tal?’ Esselt asked as the immolation ran its course. ‘Do you think he was trying to get somewhere or was he trying to lead us astray from the first?’

  Talorcan gripped Esselt’s cloak and drew her close. ‘I think that answer has gone up in smoke. At least for now.’ He brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from Esselt’s forehead. ‘There are still a few things we might try, a few leads we might follow.’

  ‘Which means more riding and more desert,’ Esselt said. ‘By Sigmar, I feel as though I am part dune-jackal already.’

  ‘Only the good parts,’ Talorcan told her, wincing as she jabbed her fist into his side.

  ‘The part that will pick your carcass clean if you make another crack like that,’ Esselt threatened. She looked back to the cremated cultist. Sigmar’s fire had done its work swiftly, reducing the body to a blackened stain on the sand. ‘Seriously, Tal, if we can’t follow the trail forward what good will it do to backtrack? This scum was disguised as a pilgrim. He might have come from anywhere.’

  ‘He came from somewhere,’ Talorcan said. ‘We will find out where.’ His face darkened, his voice dropped to a frustrated whisper. ‘Soon the cult will give us a new trail to follow.’

  ‘We might not need to wait,’ Esselt stated. She hesitated, knowing that her next words weren’t going to be popular with Talorcan. ‘Three of these outbreaks have happened in the kaza covered by Urgant’s chapter house.’

  Talorcan was silent for a moment. ‘If Urgant knew anything, he would have acted upon it already.’ He shook his head. ‘I may have problems with my brother, but I do respect his competence.’

  ‘He might only have a piece of the puzzle,’ Esselt persisted. ‘If you were to pool your resources we might find an answer.’

  Talorcan arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you certain you don’t simply want to see Urgant again?’ The question was only half in jest and he made no effort to hide the worry in his gaze.

  ‘All of that was settled long ago,’ Esselt told him. She squeezed his hand and drew closer to him. ‘I do not regret my choice.’

  ‘Urgant is stubborn,’ Talorcan reminded her. ‘He might not see things that way.’

  Esselt laughed. ‘Then I’ll just have to hit him again.’ She gave Talorcan a coy look. ‘Which eye did I punch him in that last time?’

  Talorcan returned her laugh. ‘The right one,’ he said.

  Esselt leaned in and kissed him. ‘If it happens again you must remind me to go for his left.’ She turned her head and looked up at the stars. ‘I suppose we won’t set out for the chapter house until it is light.’

  ‘Too much chance of getting lost,’ Talorcan said. ‘I should call Domech in and let him know we are camping here.’

  ‘Domech is fine where he is,’ Esselt stated. ‘If he needs anything he knows where to find us.’

  ‘If he needs anything, I will shoot him,’ Talorcan vowed.

  It had been years since Talorcan had last set eyes on his brother or climbed the rough steps of Raga Tor. The chapter houses of the brother­hood were situated across the vastness of Droost, great stone towers that stabbed up from the crawling dunes. Built in the Age of Chaos, they acted as a line of forts against the prowling bands of monsters and barbarians raging across the lands of Chamon. Erected above underground wells, provided with vaults in which to raise crops of mushroom and moss, each tower had been rendered self-sufficient, capable of withstanding a prolonged siege or isolation. As sentinel outposts, the forts had performed their duties well. Now they acted as bastions of a different sort, stations from which the warriors of the Order of Azyr would fare, monitoring the far flung villages and nomad camps for signs of heresy, watching the travelling caravans for any hint of corruption. Each chapter house supported a dozen witch hunters and their retinues, all of them answerable to the captain in command of the tower.

  At Raga Tor, that captain was Urgant Fairhair.

  Looking at the sombre stone tower from the crest of a distant dune, Talorcan felt a tremor run through his body. After so long away, it was strange to return. There was a time when he had known this tower like the back of his hand. He thought he had known Urgant with similar familiarity, but in the end he had not known his brother half as well as he had thought. The rivalry that had characterised their childhood and extended into their adult lives had always been one-sided. Urgant had always come out the better in any contest with Talorcan. Always, that was, until Esselt had come into their lives.

  Talorcan scowled as he remembered the severity of their parting. Duty would compel Urgant to receive them now, but Talorcan doubted his brother would be pleased to see either him or Esselt.

  ‘Something does not feel right, Talorcan,’ Esselt said, intruding on his thou
ghts. She waved at the tower, drawing his attention to the para­pet at its top. ‘Where is their standard?’

  Talorcan drew the Kharadron far-glass from his belt. He opened the metal tube and placed its glass lens against his eye. As he trained it on the parapet, his thumb turned the calibration wheel set into its side, rotating the tiny mirrors inside the tube until the magnified view of the tower was brought into focus. Esselt was right, the standard that should have been flying above Raga Tor was gone. There was another detail as well that only the duardin glass could reveal from such a distance.

  ‘Blood spattered about the parapet,’ Talorcan said. He collapsed the far-glass and hooked it to his belt. ‘I have to go into the tower and see for myself what has happened here. I owe Urgant that much.’

  Esselt gave him a sharp look. ‘I know you are not speaking as if you are going in there alone,’ she warned. ‘If something has happened here, whatever did it might still be around. You will need someone to watch your back.’

  ‘Urgant has twelve witch hunters under him,’ Talorcan said. ‘They have likely gone away to hunt down whoever was foolish enough to defy them.’ He tried to make the words sound convincing. One glance at Esselt told him he had failed.

  ‘Then we can all wait for them to return inside,’ Esselt stated. ‘I cannot speak for Domech, but I know I should prefer to get out of the sun for a time.’

  Talorcan looked from Esselt to Domech and back again. Esselt would not let him take such a risk, even if Domech would be content to wait outside. With a sigh he relented. ‘I go first,’ he declared.

  Esselt conceded. ‘Just remember I need a lot of room to swing my sword. If we do find anything, don’t be slow getting out of my way.’

  Spurring their demigryphs to a gallop, the witch hunters quickly covered the ground between themselves and Raga Tor. At every step Talorcan hoped to hear one of Urgant’s people shout a challenge at them from the top of the tower, but there was only silence. A damning silence, for if Urgant’s men had gone away to pursue some enemy, they would not have been so reckless as to leave no one behind to guard the tower.

  Nameless fear became grim reality when the riders reached the base of the tower. The crawling sands had effaced any mark that might have been on the ground, but the erasure had not extended to the blackoak panels of the gate itself. A glance was enough to show the blood stains splashed across the entrance. Closer scrutiny showed where one of the doors had taken a deep cut, a slash that looked to Talorcan like the work of a sword.

  ‘Stay close and keep alert,’ Talorcan ordered as he dismounted. He knew it was a needless injunction. Esselt and Domech were no neophytes fresh from a cloister. They knew their business as well as he did his own. It was his concern for Urgant that made him utter such nonsense. With all the enmity between them, it was only now that he appreciated how deep his connection to his brother remained.

  The gates were both unguarded and unbarred. A kick of Talorcan’s boot sent one of the huge doors swinging inwards. The great hall inside was a shambles. The stalls of the demigryphs and draft-lizards employed by the chapter house were smashed to splinters, straw and sand scattered about. Tapestries and icons had been pulled down from the walls and befouled with every manner of filth. The ancient shield and sword that had hung above the entrance to Raga Tor’s antechamber had been ripped from their place and battered against the floor until they were misshapen lumps of metal. Everywhere there was blood, but the absence of bodies gave no scope to the extent of the carnage.

  ‘It would appear Urgant has quite a mess to clean up when he returns,’ Esselt stated. Her attitude was far less flippant than her words. She held her great sword across one shoulder as she stalked through the wreckage, watching the alcoves overlooking the great hall for any sign of an enemy.

  ‘Pray to Sigmar that he does return,’ Talorcan whispered under his breath as he made a closer study of the ruins. The gruesome familiarity of spattered gore called attention to itself, but there were other stains left behind by what could only have been a furious combat. Under a tapestry beside one of the battered stalls he found smelly brownish smears. They recalled to mind the diseased blood of the cultist he had so recently tracked down.

  Domech and Kopesh roved through the debris, the gryph-hound’s animal senses alerting it to traces invisible to the humans. Soul-bonded to his beast, Domech could understand the squawks Kopesh uttered.

  ‘Master, he has caught the scent of something.’

  Talorcan swung away from his scrutiny of the putrid traces. ‘Give Kopesh his lead then,’ he ordered. ‘Let him follow whatever sign he has found. We will keep our distance. If someone intends to spring a trap, he will be disappointed.’

  Domech knelt beside the gryph-hound, resting his hand on the creature’s forehead and communing with it. After a moment, Kopesh loped off, hastening into the antechamber. Fingers tight around the heft of the vicious bludgeon he carried, Domech followed after his gryph-hound.

  ‘I almost hope Kopesh finds someone,’ Talorcan muttered as he started towards the antechamber.

  ‘What was that?’ Esselt asked as she fell into step beside him.

  ‘I hope Kopesh finds someone,’ Talorcan repeated. He waved at the ruined great hall. ‘Because someone is going to pay for all of this. And I intend to make certain it takes much time and much pain to settle the debt.’

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  A Black Library Publication

  First published in Great Britain in 2018.

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