Shadespire: The Mirrored City Read online

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  Discover more stories set in the Age of Sigmar from Black Library

  ~ THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

  THE GATES OF AZYR

  Chris Wraight

  HALLOWED KNIGHTS: PLAGUE GARDEN

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  THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 2

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  Contains the novels Call of Archaon, Warbeast, Fury of Gork, Bladestorm, Mortarch of Night and Lord of Undeath

  ~ THE REALMGATE WARS ~

  WAR STORM

  An Age of Sigmar anthology

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  MORTARCH OF NIGHT

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  LORD OF UNDEATH

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  ~ LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

  CITY OF SECRETS

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  FYRESLAYERS

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  SKAVEN PESTILENS

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  BLACK RIFT

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  SYLVANETH

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  ~ AUDIO DRAMAS ~

  SHADESPIRE: THE DARKNESS IN THE GLASS

  Various authors

  THE PRISONER OF THE BLACK SUN

  Josh Reynolds

  SANDS OF BLOOD

  Josh Reynolds

  THE LORDS OF HELSTONE

  Josh Reynolds

  THE BRIDGE OF SEVEN SORROWS

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  THE BEASTS OF CARTHA

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  FIST OF MORK, FIST OF GORK

  David Guymer

  GREAT RED

  David Guymer

  ONLY THE FAITHFUL

  David Guymer

  Contents

  Cover

  Backlist

  Title Page

  Warhammer Age of Sigmar

  Prologue

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘The Tainted Heart’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  From the maelstrom of a sundered world, the Eight Realms were born. The formless and the divine exploded into life.

  Strange, new worlds appeared in the firmament, each one gilded with spirits, gods and men. Noblest of the gods was Sigmar. For years beyond reckoning he illuminated the realms, wreathed in light and majesty as he carved out his reign. His strength was the power of thunder. His wisdom was infinite. Mortal and immortal alike kneeled before his lofty throne. Great empires rose and, for a while, treachery was banished. Sigmar claimed the land and sky as his own and ruled over a glorious age of myth.

  But cruelty is tenacious. As had been foreseen, the great alliance of gods and men tore itself apart. Myth and legend crumbled into Chaos. Darkness flooded the realms. Torture, slavery and fear replaced the glory that came before. Sigmar turned his back on the mortal kingdoms, disgusted by their fate. He fixed his gaze instead on the remains of the world he had lost long ago, brooding over its charred core, searching endlessly for a sign of hope. And then, in the dark heat of his rage, he caught a glimpse of something magnificent. He pictured a weapon born of the heavens. A beacon powerful enough to pierce the endless night. An army hewn from everything he had lost.

  Sigmar set his artisans to work and for long ages they toiled, striving to harness the power of the stars. As Sigmar’s great work neared completion, he turned back to the realms and saw that the dominion of Chaos was almost complete. The hour for vengeance had come. Finally, with lightning blazing across his brow, he stepped forth to unleash his creation.

  The Age of Sigmar had begun.

  Prologue

  Third Moon,

  The Day of Going Forth

  AS IT WAS

  Over the sands, the dark clouds break.

  The ghost moons sink beneath the dunes.

  The shadows wake in the City of Mirrors.

  – Sadila’s Lament

  The King in Grave-Shroud

  Act 3, Scene 2

  Sadila, daughter of Hausa, child of the Fourth House of Shadespire and bearer of the Red Laurel, sighed and lowered her practice blade. The echoes of clashing steel faded upwards into the shadowed canopy overhanging the gardens of the Jasper Palaces. Polite applause from the gathered courtiers and hangers-on replaced it.

  Sadila ignored them. Sweat gleamed on her dark skin, but her breathing was steady. The hint of an ache tugged at her limbs, but she betrayed no sign of exertion beyond perspiration. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Enough for today.’

  The blade-slave crouched opposite Sadila lowered her own weapon and bowed. She was a mute, her tongue having been removed in the traditional fashion, and her flesh was tattooed with her history of purchase. The markings included a lengthy record of her time in the war-gardens, including wins and losses. The former outweighed the latter by a wide margin. It was the reason Lord Hausa had purchased her services for his eldest child. This too was tradition. The arts of blade and bow were as important to the Katophranes – the ruling elite of the city – as those of lute and brush. More important, in Sadila’s opinion.

  Without the hilt of a blade in her hand, without the feel of blood dappling her cheek, what was the point of life? What was the point of anything without such entertainments?

  Sadila straightened. She twitched her blade dismissively. ‘Go. See to your wounds.’

  The woman – Sadila had never bothered to learn her name – retreated smoothly, head still bowed. A spattered trail of red marked her path. Sadila had managed to m
ark her twice – a personal best.

  Her own limbs bore a number of bruises. The blade-slave was allowed only a dull sword, little more than a club. It was not fitting that a slave draw blood on a Katophrane, after all.

  This one would last longer than the others, she thought. Usually, they were so fragile. A few cuts and they stopped being any fun at all. Perhaps she was simply learning how to draw out the game, after all this time. To make it last. She smiled, pleased with herself. Her father would be proud of her discipline.

  Sadila sheathed her blade and removed her sword belt, absently handing it to one of her handmaidens as the trio of women hurried to her side. One sprinkled her with sweet smelling water to cool her flesh, while another slathered a salve on her bruises. Sadila surveyed the gardens as she endured their ministrations. Not so much as a leaf was out of place, as was to be expected, given that they were not living things but instead artificial – each was composed of dark glass, from their sprawling roots to their thick branches.

  They had been carved carefully by the hands of artisans long since dead and passed into the Faneway. There, their skills continued to serve their descendants. Such was the honour bestowed upon all who died within the walls of Shadespire.

  As it was, so had it always been.

  Constancy was the singular law of the City of Mirrors. What was time to those who existed outside of its grasp, save the unheeded passing of uncounted moments? A thing of no concern, save to those prone to idle whimsy. Sadila had often been accused of such by her father, even though he indulged her questions and obsessions. As he still did, despite his recent passing.

  Her audience – the bored scions of other houses, some living, some dead – had scattered to seek other entertainments, all save for one. Tall and thin, Mekesh was considered handsome by some. She had never seen it. He was too ascetic for her tastes – a lover of archery and dusty tomes, rather than blades. ‘I hear tell that Hausa has taken to haunting these gardens of late,’ he said, watching her. He fiddled with the amulet he wore as he spoke. It was a curious thing, like a bit of knotted rope or a broken smile.

  ‘And why should he not? He commissioned them.’

  ‘I meant no offence, cousin.’

  Sadila looked at him. ‘And yet, I am offended. A conundrum.’

  Mekesh smirked. ‘I have never thought you an enigma, Sadila.’ He looked around. ‘I can see why he would prefer it here… there is a certain aesthetic pleasure to be had among such artifice.’ He brushed his fingers along the flat facets of a tree’s trunk. ‘Most of his generation persist in mirrors and illuminated panes. Though my grandmother insists on inhabiting a statue she ordered commissioned before her demise.’

  Sadila sniffed. ‘Do you have a point, cousin?’

  ‘Merely making conversation.’ His smile faded. He looked suddenly nervous. ‘There are murmurs, of late. I thought we should speak of them.’ He hesitated. ‘I would hate to see you come to harm, cousin.’

  Sadila paused. She made a show of studying her reflection in the nearest tree. ‘Ah. This again. How tiresome.’

  ‘Tiresome or not, I fear there is something to these whispers. It would be wise to not simply discount them out of hand.’ Mekesh stared intently at her, his long features drawn up into an earnest expression. ‘You know as well as I that we Katophranes walk the knife’s edge – our most sacred traditions flirt with blasphemy.’

  Sadila laughed. ‘Blasphemy? This, from you?’

  Mekesh looked away. His hand tightened about his amulet, as if to hide it from view. ‘We all have our hobbies. You enjoy your blood sports, and I, my studies. Who is to say which is worse?’

  ‘I wasn’t the one censured by his own family for flirting with ungovernable spirits.’

  Mekesh sighed. ‘I made a mistake. A few mistakes, even. But this is different. It is not just me who is worried.’

  ‘And what do I care for the worries of a few milk-blooded scriveners?’ She spread her arms. ‘We are Katophranes, Mekesh. Heirs to a kingdom hewn out of desolation. Our glory knows no rival, in this realm or any other. Even death itself is no match for our might.’

  ‘Careful, cousin. Such words tend to carry further than one might wish.’

  Sadila sighed. ‘I speak only truth.’

  ‘There is more than one truth in this realm, Sadila. Let us not be so foolish as to test ours against his.’ Mekesh glanced around, eyes narrowed. He licked his lips, visibly afraid. ‘He could be listening, even now. The Undying King has spies everywhere.’

  ‘Let him. I’m sure he will be as fascinated with this conversation as I am.’

  Mekesh gaped at her audacity, as Sadila turned and stalked through the trees. The faces of the dead ghosted across the shimmering trunks, peering out with idle curiosity at the world they had left behind. Some mouthed soundless questions, trying to catch her eye, but she ignored them. The dead were inveterate gossips, even her father. They heard everything, saw everything, and loved nothing better than to share everything with everyone, whether they were interested or not.

  Once, she’d been forced to listen to a diatribe from her grandmother – consigned to the Faneway these past twenty seasons – concerning the loose morals of a woman dead longer than Sadila had been alive. That the woman was dead was no reason for her sins to be forgotten. For her grandmother and her father, and all the other Katophranes who had passed on into that gleaming nexus of shadeglass, the present was eternal.

  Time, like death, held little sway in Shadespire. The city stood proud among the amethyst dunes, a shining beacon of power – inviolate and unchanging. Prosperous and mighty, its gleaming towers of glass and polished stone thrust ever upwards, their shadows stretching for endless leagues across the Desert of Bones. This Sadila knew, just as she knew how to wield a blade.

  At the edge of the garden, she came to a great row of pillars. Each smooth, dark stone stretching from floor to roof was covered with oval mirrors, inset along their circumference at measured intervals.

  Past the pillars, she could see the broad curve of the city’s southern districts over the raised edge of a stone terrace. She stepped out onto it, closing her eyes. The Street of Spices was close to hand, and she tasted a hint of Aqshian ginger on the wind. It burned her lips and tongue, fading as swiftly as it had arrived. She heard the crashing cymbals of nomad dancers as they performed for the market crowds, and the roar of appreciative spectators rising from the fighting pits of the southern districts.

  The city lived and breathed in a way she could not explain. It hummed like a night-wasp hive, even in the darkest hours. Here, in the heart of Shyish, they had conquered the unconquerable. In a realm of endings, Shadespire alone was unending.

  She looked east, where the distant city walls rose highest. Beyond them, she could see all the way to the desert sands. The Desert of Bones was well named. It was haunted by winds that could strip flesh from bone and whisk away the soul of an unwary traveller. Those who sought to cross it were either determined or desperate, or both. But cross it, they did. And in ever-increasing numbers, all of them following the twitching shadows of distant towers to the still heart of the desert. To Shadespire.

  ‘And why not?’ she murmured. ‘We have all that they could desire.’

  ‘If they meet our price,’ Mekesh said softly from behind her. ‘And if we meet theirs.’ She felt his hesitation. Then his hands were resting on her shoulders. As children they had played at love, before she’d come to find his softness irritating. ‘We should leave.’

  She turned, knocking his hands aside. ‘Leave?’

  He stepped back, gripping his amulet. ‘Just for a time. I have spoken to others who are considering the same. There is something on the wind, Sadila. Like smoke from a distant fire, growing harder to ignore with every passing day.’ He gestured back towards the trees. ‘They can sense it as well, though few of them admit it. The aether trembles as if som
ething vast is making its way towards us. And I do not wish to be here when it arrives.’

  ‘Coward.’ She stalked past him, hand on the hilt of her blade. He hurried after her.

  ‘No. I am a Katophrane. Fear is for slaves and children. But this has nothing to do with bravery. Is it cowardice to seek shelter in a storm – or simply wisdom?’ He pointed at the streets below. ‘A storm is coming, cousin. And we would be wise to seek somewhere safe to ride it out.’

  ‘Where could be safer than here?’ Sadila jabbed him in the chest with a finger. ‘Our walls are infused with the souls of the greatest warriors to walk this realm, so that they might maintain an unceasing vigil. Automatons of shadeglass patrol our streets, unsleeping and unstoppable. The weaponry and spellcraft of a thousand kingdoms are at our fingertips, and our ancestors advise us against all difficulty. We have conquered life and death – what need we fear in this realm, or any other?’

  Mekesh did not reply. She realised that he was paying no attention to her, but instead staring at the trees. Their boughs were shaking, as if caught in a strong wind. But that was impossible. Shapes flickered in the facets. As she moved closer to inspect them, she thought she caught a glimpse of her father’s face, stretched and distorted along the length of a tree, his mouth wide in a scream she could not hear. She turned and saw the faces of the dead of the Fourth House pressed in wailing panic against every mirrored surface, their insubstantial hands clawing futilely at the shadeglass as if seeking escape.

  The air throbbed, and tasted of ash. It had grown hard to breathe. ‘What is this?’ she gasped. ‘What is happening?’ Mekesh said nothing, merely staring at the darkening trees as the souls of the dead were torn away, out of sight. Her father was the last to go, stronger than the others but not strong enough to resist whatever force gripped his spirit. She met his gaze and stepped towards the tree, reaching out, forgetting that he was not truly there. Mekesh caught her arm and held her back.

  ‘Look.’ He pointed to the pillars. Long shadows crept between them. Night was falling. But that was impossible – it was the middle of the day.

  ‘An eclipse?’ she whispered. A cold wind issued through the pillars and her question carved strange shapes on the frosty air.

  Mekesh shook his head. ‘No. Listen.’