Shadespire: The Mirrored City Page 12

  ‘How did you know how to open that?’

  ‘I wasn’t always a mercenary, manling.’ Khord peered down into the gap below. ‘Stick your hand down there and see what he’s left us.’

  ‘It might be trapped.’

  ‘That’s why I want you to stick your hand down there,’ Khord said patiently. Then, a moment later, ‘It probably isn’t.’

  ‘Then you stick yours down there.’

  Khord sighed. ‘Cowardly manling.’ He looked down into the hole.

  Reynar waited. ‘Well?’

  Khord glared at him and thrust his hand into the hole. His eyes widened, and he pulled up a disc of beaten gold. Reynar would have said it was crude had he not seen the delicate serrations that ran along its circumference. ‘Like a cogwheel,’ he said.

  ‘Like a key.’ Khord rose. ‘This is it.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I can’t. But I don’t see anything else of value.’ He examined the disc. ‘When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you learn better than to ask questions.’ He looked at Reynar. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  Isengrim was coming to loathe Shadespire.

  His axe ached for battle, but there was precious little to be had in service to the Katophrane, Mekesh. Unless arguments counted as battle. Zuvass had dragged him from palace to hovel, on missions the purpose of which was yet to be revealed.

  They had spoken to dead men reclining on broken thrones, and addled reflections whispering from shattered mirrors. Zuvass had spoken to them in the tongue of ancient Shadespire – a language Isengrim did not understand – for reasons he would not explain.

  Only twice had Isengrim been allowed to wield his axe, and in neither case had the effort been memorable. And as the ichor on his blade dried, as his memories of slaughter dulled, he grew more frustrated.

  Somewhere in the city, his quarry thought himself safe. The thought incensed him. His prey’s face burned in his memory like a brand, taunting him. He had sworn to take a skull. Khorne had commanded it, and it would be done. But when?

  ‘When?’ he snarled, blinking red from his eyes.

  ‘What was that?’ Zuvass turned. They were making their way through a crumbling passageway of stone that stank of mire and old blood. It ran beneath the city, through the collapsing underworld that had once been Shadespire’s sewer system. Blackened, stagnant waters slapped against their legs, and strange, luminescent pollen floated on the miasmic air. The stones of the walls shifted periodically, disgorging floods of bones into the soupy water.

  ‘I said I do not like skulking in the dark. Where is this warband you promised me?’ Isengrim looked around. The gaping mouths of intersecting passages greeted him wherever he turned. Some were archways of shaped stones, while others resembled the maws of caves. None of them looked inviting. All of them stank of things better left unseen.

  ‘Close. And it serves our purpose to move unobserved. Few come down into this noisome stew.’ Zuvass paused. ‘And keep your voice down. Sound carries far in these depths.’

  ‘You act as if there are spies to be wary of.’

  ‘Oh, but there are. Every Katophrane has their spies, their little maggots burrowed into the meat of the city, listening and observing. All prisons, no matter how large, have their currents of power that must be observed.’

  ‘And are we Mekesh’s spies, then? Are we maggots?’ Isengrim growled. He stepped on something unpleasant and stumbled. He thrust out a hand to brace himself, and the wall crumbled, disgorging a tide of bones onto him. Cursing, he lashed out, shattering several slimy skulls.

  Zuvass whirled. ‘I thought I told you to tread quietly.’

  Isengrim flung a broken bone at the Chaos warrior. Zuvass batted it aside. ‘And to answer your question, no, we are not spies. Our purpose is to gather swords to our master’s banner and choose the field of battle.’

  ‘And who do we war against? What has all this sneaking about been in service of?’

  Zuvass was silent for a moment. ‘Her name is Sadila. She is–’

  ‘The one who led me here.’

  Zuvass nodded. ‘Even so.’

  ‘Mekesh knew about her,’ Isengrim said.

  ‘So he did.’

  ‘Is that why you came for me?’

  ‘It is,’ Zuvass said.

  Isengrim grunted. ‘What is she?’

  Zuvass turned. ‘His enemy. Our enemy.’

  Isengrim bared his teeth. ‘Then let us kill her and be done with it.’

  Zuvass shook his head. ‘We cannot kill her. She is like Mekesh – dead. And, like Mekesh, she is building an army.’ He turned away.

  ‘And so?’

  ‘Hers is substantially larger. She has strong allies.’ Zuvass stopped and knelt. He cast aside a number of bones and stood, holding a dented helm of tarnished gold, dripping with filth. He turned towards Isengrim. ‘Allies I believe you are familiar with.’

  Isengrim stared at the stern features of the helm, recognisable even with the patina of grime that covered it. ‘Stormcasts,’ he growled softly.

  ‘Oh yes. Quite a few of them, in fact. She’s building a collection.’ Zuvass tossed him the helm and turned away. ‘That is why we need allies of our own. Ones who are willing and able to die as many times as it takes to see the deed done.’

  ‘Like me?’

  Zuvass didn’t look at him. ‘If you like.’

  ‘You were sent to look for me,’ Isengrim said, tossing the helm aside. ‘Why? Because of this dead woman you say is my enemy? Why me, when you have warriors like Vakul?’

  ‘Because of your prey.’

  Isengrim’s eyes narrowed. ‘What about him?’

  ‘You think it is coincidence that she chose him? Out of all the souls who haunted those ruins? She selected him for a reason.’

  ‘What reason?’

  Zuvass laughed. ‘Who knows?’

  Isengrim growled in annoyance. ‘So, because he is important, I am important?’

  ‘Or is he important because you are important?’ Zuvass stopped. ‘You mentioned dreams – Khorne spoke to you? Perhaps this is all meant for you, my friend.’

  ‘We are not friends.’

  ‘As I keep telling you, we will be. Patience.’

  ‘Enough of your prattling,’ Isengrim snarled. ‘Enough words, enough promises.’ Violence thrummed through him, making every nerve twitch. ‘Give me what I want, or I shall take your head.’ His voice echoed eerily through the tunnel.

  ‘Quietly, friend. Quietly. This is not a place for raised voices.’

  Isengrim roared in fury and lunged, axe raised. He could stand it no longer. Khorne’s breath filled him, driving out all hesitation. He wanted – needed – to kill something worthy of his axe. Zuvass would do well enough.

  Zuvass avoided Isengrim’s first blow with startling ease. He stepped back, putting distance between them. ‘Quiet, fool. Listen. Listen!’

  Isengrim heard the sound of splashing from one of the nearby passages. He paused, head cocked, listening. ‘What is that? More dead men?’ he growled. ‘They won’t stop me from taking your head–’

  ‘Quiet,’ Zuvass said. He drew his sword. ‘You’ve told them right where we are. Look.’

  In the dark of the passage, something moved. Isengrim bared his teeth and took a two-handed grip on his axe. There was a new scent on the air – a sickly-sweet odour like rotting meat. Something emerged from the dark, a broken, bent shape – almost animal, but not. Thin and ragged, like a mummy left in muddy water, it wore tattered robes and tarnished jewellery. Its head hung at a broken angle, and its features were withered. Lank strands of colourless hair were plastered to its scalp. Its eyes and mouth were sewn shut, but it moved with inhuman surety. Clawed hands felt at the edges of the passage as it crept fully into view.

  Isengrim took a step
towards it, and the head turned with a birdlike motion, as if it were listening. Zuvass stretched out an arm, blocking his path. Isengrim turned and saw the Chaos warrior holding a finger up to his helm. Zuvass gestured upwards. Slowly, Isengrim looked up.

  Two more of the sightless corpses clung to the ceiling. Their heads were cocked, listening. Another three emerged from a far passage, scuttling along the wall. He heard more splashing, echoing from deeper in the tunnels. It sounded as if there were dozens of the things, all converging towards them. Perhaps more. Something about them dampened his eagerness to fight. It wasn’t fear. That was what he told himself.

  More of them came creeping out of the dark, moving on all fours, clinging to the walls, slithering through the water. Zuvass motioned for him to be still. Isengrim barely twitched as one of the creatures drew close, its head tilted. He readied his axe, but Zuvass shook his head. One of the things found the fallen Stormcast helm and lifted it from the water. The creature crushed it with barely a sign of effort. There were dozens of them in the passage now, all around them. Some crouched in the water, others stood swaying, listening.

  Isengrim felt something on the air. A pulse, like an insect hum. As if the sightless corpses were searching for something. Zuvass gestured. Isengrim saw that he held a chunk of stone in one hand. Carefully, without disturbing the creatures, he tossed it down one of the passages, where it bounced and rattled away into the dark.

  As one, the dead things turned and scrambled towards the sound. They went all in a rush, leathery limbs rustling strangely as they poured into the passage. Silently, Zuvass pointed to a broken section of wall. Isengrim hesitated, watching the broken figures vanish into the gloom, before following Zuvass through the gap.

  They ascended a crudely constructed set of steps covered in a film of slime. Zuvass moved quickly. Isengrim followed more slowly, his feet slipping on the stones. At the top of the steps was a square passage, thick with some form of black mould and all but hidden by a thick shroud. Zuvass tore the cloth aside and they climbed up into a wide chamber that stank of standing water and rotting wood.

  More steps awaited them. Zuvass gestured. ‘Up we go,’ he said quietly.

  Isengrim didn’t move. ‘What were those things?’

  Zuvass shrugged. ‘Unpleasant. There are hundreds of them down here. Lost souls, driven mad by the city and lost in the darkness. They hunt by sound. If we’d fought them, more would have come, attracted by the noise.’

  ‘I will not cower before blind corpses.’

  Zuvass looked at him. ‘They do not care. They are part of the city, part of its hunger. Even your arm would grow tired eventually, and then they would tear you apart. How would you claim your quarry’s skull then?’ He turned away. ‘We are nothing to Shadespire, Isengrim. Just meat for the beast. Never forget that. Now come on.’

  They ascended quickly. The walls were drier here, and the stink of the depths receded.

  Isengrim looked around. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Part of the inner wall. Shadespire grew from a simple trading camp. The Katophranes built new walls and incorporated the old ones into their palaces and causeways. This was one such. The remains of a fortress that once overlooked the desert and now looms over… well, nothing, really. A courtyard that might once have been a garden, or a training ground.’

  ‘What is it now?’

  ‘A campsite.’

  They came to a cramped balcony that looked out over a wide space below. A hollow place, all but isolated between cross sections of an old, crumbling set of walls. Great fires had been lit all over the courtyard, and around each, dark figures huddled. Stakes laden with gory trophies criss-crossed the space, as if to delineate separate territories. Somewhere below, a voice was raised in a familiar song – a threnody of slaughters uncompleted and skulls never to be taken. An ancient hymn, older than the realms themselves.

  ‘Arbaal’s Lament,’ Isengrim said softly.

  ‘Is that what it’s called?’ Zuvass leaned on the edge of the balcony.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I told you, there are many of your sort here. Khorne hurls his slaves into the dark as if he might follow the scent of their blood to his quarry. And many gather here. I don’t know why, really. What matters is that they’re here, and I want them elsewhere. You,’ he pointed at Isengrim, ‘will go among them. Take the tenor of their mood. Find the leaders, those we might suborn to our cause.’

  Isengrim looked down. ‘There are no leaders down there.’

  ‘Oh? And how can you tell that?’

  ‘If there were, they would not be cowering in the dark, singing songs of failure and ruin. They would be stacking skulls in every plaza. They stink of fear.’ Isengrim spoke loudly, not caring if any of those below heard him.

  Zuvass nodded. ‘That is because they are afraid. This place has broken them. It breaks all things eventually. Even the most bloodthirsty maniac eventually gluts himself and realises his predicament. There is no Khorne here, no handmaidens of blood and sorrow come to sweep their souls to the courts of brass. Only cold and darkness. Only him, watching them break themselves on the edge of his will.’ He pointed.

  Isengrim looked up, and swallowed a curse. One of the nearby towers had twisted itself into a grinning skull, fires flickering deep in its cavernous sockets. It had happened so subtly that he had not heard it. It seemed as if the structure were nothing more than a gossamer shroud, and the skull rising from within its folds. Its gaze fell across the courtyard and the parapets, and a dull moan rose from those gathered around the firepits. Isengrim fought to meet that inhuman stare and not flinch back.

  It reminded him of the dark, before he’d come to this place. It reminded him of the moment before Khorne had spared him on the field of battle, the moment he’d cradled his own viscera and felt the cold creeping through him. The Death God had had him then, and lost him. The stare did not waver. The fires flared, both in its ­sockets and below.

  Isengrim took a step back. He felt the cold again, clawing at his insides. Digging in his skull. He breathed out, and frost billowed. His scars ached like fresh-made wounds.

  I… see… you…

  The words tolled within him like the strokes of a cathedral bell. And he knew, as the echoes shivered his bones, that he was not the only hunter in this cursed place. The tower gave a grinding groan and began to collapse in on itself, plumes of dust rising up. In the billowing cloud, Isengrim thought he glimpsed a vague shape, turning and striding away. He closed his eyes as the dust washed over the courtyard.

  When he opened them, Zuvass was looking at him. ‘It seems the gods are interested in you, my friend. For good or ill.’

  Isengrim spat, clearing his mouth of dust. ‘Death lost its claim on me that day on the battlefield. I am sworn to Khorne, and my soul will burn in his fires for evermore.’ He looked down into the courtyard and at the milling warriors there. Not all of them were bloodreavers. Some bore no sign of their allegiances. But all had the same defeated look.

  This place weighed on men’s souls. It pushed down until they broke beneath it like crude steel. But steel could be forged anew. Made strong again by the hand of the smith. He looked at Zuvass. ‘Why did you bring me here?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ Zuvass gestured. ‘I told you before that there are many worshippers of Khorne trapped in this city. Very few of them are of any use. And those that are have little use for us. But we need the makings of an army.’

  ‘And this rabble is it?’

  ‘Them and a few others, yes. We need them ready to fight.’

  Isengrim nodded. He knew what Zuvass wanted – someone to galvanise the warriors below, to rouse them into a killing fury and lead them to war. The haft of his axe creaked in his grip. Was this why Khorne had guided him here, to this place where the Blood God could not see, in pursuit of a single skull? If they spilled enough blood, killed enough, wo
uld the veil lift and the shadows part? Would Khorne see him here and lend him strength?

  ‘My quarry,’ he said finally.

  ‘He serves the enemy. Though not willingly.’

  Isengrim shrugged off this qualifier. Such things did not matter. That his prey was there was enough for him to make the decision. ‘Then I will lead them.’

  ‘As easy as that?’ Zuvass sounded amused.

  Annoyed, Isengrim turned on him. ‘That is why you show them to me. You promised me a warband, and though they are broken, I will kindle the heat of war in them. I can do that. I was a chieftain, a war-king. Men follow me because Khorne has shown me the path to glory.’ He lifted his axe. ‘With this axe, I shall carve it. I shall make a road of skulls, if I must, to reach my prey. Their skulls, those of the enemy… even yours.’

  Zuvass raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. ‘Not mine. I’m still using it. But you are right – that is why you were brought here.’ He motioned to the courtyard. ‘Carve your road, by all means.’

  Isengrim snorted and turned back. He stepped up onto the broken edge of the balcony and lifted his axe. ‘Hear me,’ he roared. ‘Hear the words of Isengrim of the Red Reef, Isengrim Khorneson, herald of slaughters to come and speaker of crimson tongues.’ His words ricocheted from the stones, filling the air. Heads turned. Not many. Perhaps they had heard similar words before and now they meant only shame.

  ‘Hear me,’ he cried again. ‘You cower there and hide your heads like whelps. Are you not hounds of Khorne? Does his fire not burn in you?’

  More heads turned now. More eyes. A murmur swept through their ranks. ‘Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps you are only meat. Shall I come among you, and tear and slash? If I spill your guts, will blood flow or only thin ichor?’ Isengrim let his axe rest in the crook of his arm, and snorted. ‘Are you all cowards, then? Has this place stripped you of your claws and fangs?’

  Angry mutterings now. Bellows of denial. Cowardice was invisible until someone pointed it out to you. Isengrim nodded in satisfaction. They had some fire in them, then. ‘Khorne cares not for the coward. He sees not the weakling. Only the strong attract his eye. Only the brave hear his voice. If he seems silent, it is only that you cannot hear him.’