Callis & Toll: The Silver Shard

by Nick Horth

  ‘We need a way through,’ shouted Toll.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ growled Bengtsson. He reached to the rear of his war-suit, and detached a black-leather satchel hanging from his belt. He opened it to reveal an egg-shaped device of cold metal that tapered to a blunt point at one end. At the other end was a small brass cog, and Bengtsson gave this a hard twist and hurled the object into the thick of the fighting, with a shout.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then there was an enormous explosion of flame that sent bodies hurtling through the air, both saurian and avian. Chunks of marble were torn free from the doors and sent knifing through the mass of bodies. Callis’ ears rang, even though he’d jammed his fingers in them before the blast went off, anticipating what was to come.

  ‘I did warn them,’ said Bengtsson, with a hint of irritation, observing the carnage.

  ‘Remind me to pick up a few of those beauties before we part ways,’ said Zenthe, clapping the duardin upon the back before sprinting through the gaping breach his bomb had opened in the enemy line. By the time the shaken tzaangors had recovered, Callis and the others were at the foot of the great staircase leading away into the darkness of the dome’s central tower. Bodies littered the floor, along with smears of blood and dust. Zenthe smashed a foe in the face with the pommel of her sword, ducked beneath the awkward swing of a silver-tipped spear and thrust a dagger through its wielder’s heart. Two more tzaangors, recovering quickly now, tried to pin her against the bannister of the stairway, but Bengtsson drew and fired two pinpoint shots, putting smoking holes through both of the creatures.

  Callis and Toll fought back to back, turning with practised ease, unbalancing their foes before passing them on to one another for the swift and easy kill. Callis feinted a high slash, causing a beastman to raise its spear to block the blow. Toll spun and fired beneath the unfortunate beast’s guard, blasting it several yards across the chamber. As Callis turned in that same arc, he cut the legs from under a surprised creature, which howled with agony as its ruined limbs spurted dark blood across the shining tiles.

  ‘Too many,’ grunted Toll, pausing amidst the carnage to reload his pistol.

  ‘Take the stairs,’ said Zenthe. Her blades dripped with blood, and she had that look of sheer joy on her face that always slightly unnerved Callis. ‘Myself and the good admiral can deal with things down here, can’t we?’

  ‘Don’t die up there before you pay me what’s due, witch hunter,’ growled Bengtsson.

  Without another word, Callis and Toll made for the stairs, bounding up them two at a time.

  Slamming the doors shut behind her, Shev found herself in a huge, circular chamber, so wide and high that it felt more like a cavernous cathedral than the apex of a tower. Indeed, as she took in the immense dimensions of the place, she knew with queasy certainty that there was no way this chamber matched the size of the tower top she had seen from outside the domed structure. It was far too large, and the shape was all wrong. The walls swooped overhead to form soaring arches, like the ribcage of an enormous skeleton, and far above she could see a great circular window, open to the sky. Hazy light beamed down from this opening, filling the hall with a sickly yellowish glow. Ahead, the ground sloped up slightly, several short stairs leading towards a great dais of smoothly cut obsidian.

  Upon this dais rested two things.

  The first was a shimmering wound in the world, like a disjointed reflection. Around this breach in reality, time and light flowed strangely, never quite in perfect alignment. She could make out a shape in the midst of that strange breach, a flowing shard of silver that appeared to resemble a molten blade. As she moved closer, however, she thought she might have imagined that it had any physical form at all. One moment it was a sparkling cloud of gold, the next a wave of molten metal. Ever-shifting, and almost painful to look at.

  The other thing was even stranger. It sat upon a throne of burnished gold, which hovered serenely above the gleaming floor. It was large and lumpen in form, but despite its unimposing stature it radiated immense power. Its flesh was grey-green, decayed but not rotten – it reminded Shev of the embalmed corpses she had witnessed in the throne tombs of ancient emperors. Somehow she knew, instantly, that this was the being that had laid the illusory curse that had so nearly laid them low. Yet it lay, collapsed and corpse-like, showing no interest at all in her presence.

  She had moved to within perhaps fifty yards of the dead thing’s throne when a blue light began to shine before the mummified figure, a sheet of sparkling blue motes that coalesced into the form of a small, blue-skinned reptile leaning upon a red-gold staff shaped in the image of a coiled serpent. The creature wore a startling headdress of yellow and red feathers, and looping necklaces made from precious metals dangled over its narrow chest. It cocked its head, studying her through small, quick-witted eyes.

  ‘You trespass,’ it said, its high-pitched voice strangely melodic. ‘This is no land for mortalkind. No place for the living. You bring enemies to this grave-city.’

  ‘They brought me here, and not by my will,’ gasped Shev, still unsteady on her feet. ‘What are you, anyway?’

  ‘Guardians,’ the creature chirped. ‘Of an ancient evil.’

  ‘The Silver Shard,’ she whispered, and the creature’s clever eyes bored into hers.

  The chamber shook. Shev turned and saw the doorway rattling under intense force. Vermyre was already past the trapped hallway. Somehow the door she had so easily passed through was keeping him at bay, but she was sure that could not last long.

  ‘What is this thing?’ Shev whispered, staring at the shifting pattern across the chamber. ‘Why does Vermyre want it so?’

  ‘It is a relic of a darker time,’ the creature said. ‘An abomination that should not exist. It is death, and worse, oblivion. Not for mortal hands, young one.’

  I… remember, said Occlesius. I was not a guest here, but a prisoner. Gods save me, I know what it is, Shevanya. The Silver Shard. I know the truth of it. He cannot have it! He must not have it!

  ‘The farwalker speaks truth,’ said the priest, bobbing its head.

  ‘Wait, you can hear his voice?’ Shev said, eyes furrowed in confusion.

  ‘My master can, and so passes his voice to me. Our paths have crossed before, when the farwalker was flesh and blood. He was here at the death of this city.’

  At your hands, said Occlesius. I remember the stars burning, and the screams of the dying. I remember blood staining the streets, and the mad laughter of daemons. I was bound and chained in this very chamber, another sacrifice for…something terrible.

  ‘A great blow was struck against the Dark Gods that day,’ said the creature. ‘At great cost.’

  Another hammer-blow at the door. The golden surface crumbled under the onslaught, dust and dislodged stone pouring through as the hammering continued.

  ‘And you’ve waited here, all these years? Just to protect the shard?’

  The creature gave a slight chirp, which might have indicated amusement.

  ‘We are not here. We were never here, young one.’

  ‘We have to run,’ she pleaded. ‘Please. The man that searches for this weapon, he is no normal human.’

  ‘He is tainted,’ the creature nodded. ‘The same darkness that scars his soul also resonates within the Silver Shard. It calls to him, for it longs to be free. This moment, my master has foreseen. No one will leave this place.’

  No sooner had the creature spoken than a shockwave smashed the doors from their hinges, sending them sliding across the floor. In the entranceway stood Vermyre, staff raised, madness glinting in the sockets of his golden mask.

  He entered the chamber, flanked by the remaining tzaangors.

  Vermyre’s eyes fixed upon the Silver Shard. It flickered and reformed again, and Shev was sure she saw it take the form of a gleaming longsword, its blade etched with runes, and a single, flawle
ss ruby embedded in its hilt. Then the momentary image was gone.

  ‘Turn back, cursed one,’ said the lizard priest. ‘This path leads only to your demise.’

  Vermyre strode slowly up the steps to the dais, his eyes still fixed upon his prize. Shev backed away slowly, but the man seemed to have forgotten all about her in his obsession. Yha’ri’lk and his retinue loomed over the diminutive creature, but it did not seem in the least intimidated by them. It merely tilted its head, as if passingly curious as to their intentions.

  ‘You break the peace of this chamber, and you awaken my lord,’ trilled the reptile. ‘Many tasks occupy his sleeping mind, but still he has the power to unmake you all into star-matter.’

  ‘Silence,’ spat Vermyre. He thrust his staff forward at the lizard creature, and from its tip burst a trail of blue-white flame. Barely seeming to move, the lizard wove a net of force in the air, and the unnatural fire poured across its invisible surface like water breaking upon rock. There was a blinding flash of light and a loud crack, and suddenly a formation of shield-bearing saurian warriors were arrayed about the priest. They spread out, putting themselves between Vermyre and the Silver Shard, clubs and axes raised to strike.

  ‘Get out of my way!’ Vermyre thundered. Flames erupted from the tip of his staff.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Arika Zenthe rolled underneath the clumsy swing of a beastman’s blade and swept her own sword back in a vicious arc, taking the thing’s back-jointed leg off at the knee. It collapsed to the floor, shrieking and writhing. She reversed her weapon and stabbed it through the heart.

  ‘Where are these damned things coming from?’ roared Bengtsson, who had his back pressed against the far wall, and was blasting away with his two heavy pistols. A pile of ruined corpses lay sprawled at the sky-beard’s feet. She had to admit, he had a knack for this kind of work.

  More and more of the avian creatures soared down upon those discs of warped metal, hurling themselves into the fray with manic delight. Only the equally deranged bravery of the lizardfolk had kept them at bay. Every time a rank of saurians was brought low by arrows or pierced by the tzaangors’ silver spears, more warriors appeared in flashes of searing light, racing into the fray with not a moment’s concern for their well-being. Zenthe couldn’t care less. If the foolish creatures had such a taste for death, let them do the bloody business of dying while she and the duardin stayed as far out of the fray as possible.

  She spun, carving a cross into the chest of another beastman as she brought her weapons down. The dull creature’s eyes went wide, and it gargled on its own blood before toppling to the floor.

  ‘As much fun as this is, we can’t keep it up forever,’ she said, taking a moment to survey the hall. Acrid smoke from Bengtsson’s blasting charges lingered in the air, while the dead and the dying littered the floor. Zenthe’s ears rang with the sound of the duardin’s pistol as it blazed. Hateful weapons, guns. Useful of course, but there was no subtlety to them. In her opinion, they were the mark of a clumsy and unskilled warrior.

  ‘I concur,’ Bengtsson grunted as he cracked the heavy metal barrel of his handgun over an assailant’s head. ‘Unfortunately, it seems our tactical opportunities are limited.’

  Zenthe scanned the entrance hall, looking for anything they could use. She frowned as she noticed an antechamber that ran off to the left, opening out into a wide, circular hallway filled with golden statuary.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, grabbing the duardin’s arm and directing him towards the second doorway. ‘I think our scaled friends have got this all secured. Let’s see if there’s anything in this godsforsaken place that’s worth our time.’

  Bengtsson snorted. ‘Did anything catch your eye while we were walking through this desolate place, aelf? It’s abandoned, and it seems to have been designed by a race with no appreciation for artistry or embellishment beyond a few blank-faced statues and a whole lot of marble. We’d be more likely to–’

  He fell silent as Zenthe placed a hand over the metal grille of his battle-mask. She pointed a single, slender finger towards the room ahead. It was filled to the brim with blades, staffs and other esoteric items, all suspended from the walls with silver chains. The room seemed to stretch on forever, curving around them for at least five hundred paces. Paintings hung on the walls, and along the centre of the room ran a series of hexagonal display glasses, filled with all manner of arcane devices and shining jewels.

  ‘I stand corrected,’ muttered Bengtsson.

  ‘The situation is obvious,’ said Zenthe. ‘Neither of us have yet received any remuneration from the witch hunter, yes?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘In which case, I propose that we abandon our heroic defence of the perimeter against the vile hordes, and commence a thorough inventory of this chamber, to see if there’s anything here worth looting. Agreed?’

  Bengtsson’s nod of approval was the only affirmation she required. At last, she might begin to make some actual coin from this fool’s errand.

  Shev leapt aside to avoid another torrent of flame and tumbled down the short flight of stairs, landing painfully on her back. The once silent hall had broken into madness, as Vermyre and his tzaangors unleashed their magics against the city’s bizarre defenders. The saurian warriors were enveloped by twisting trails of silver fire that wound around them like constricting snakes. One lizard approached the circle of tzaangor elders, its club raised high to crush Yha’ri’lk’s head, but before its weapon could descend, a wave of sickening colour enveloped its body, trapping it in place. The creature’s scaled flesh began to hiss and bubble, and a moment later it evaporated like boiling water, turning into a gust of superheated steam.

  Shev rolled behind the scant cover of the nearby steps, hurled javelins skipping off the polished floor around her. She looked upon the chaos before her, and knew that Vermyre and the tzaangor shamans’ combined magic was too much for the defenders. The saurian creatures bravely threw themselves through the bombardment of magical energy, trying to bury their foes under sheer weight of numbers, but it was futile. The chamber reeked of charred meat, and the bittersweet tang of boiling metal.

  Vermyre lashed his staff across like a headman’s scythe, and a rippling blast of silver-white force erupted out to strike the diminutive reptile priest across the torso, sending his broken body tumbling like a child’s toy, bright blood seeping from a diagonal wound across his chest.

  The mummified corpse upon the golden throne began to twitch and stir.

  Its gem-studded chair rose, soaring above the furious battle, and the creature’s eyes opened. They blazed with the fire of stars. It was agony to even match that primordial gaze, which Shev instinctively knew belonged to a being far older than this forgotten city. Far older, perhaps, than the realms themselves.

  Lightning rippled along the burnished gold of the mummified creature’s throne. The form stretched out a hand and channelled this fulminating power into a blast of lightning that careened across the hall and struck two of the tzaangor shamans. The beastmen shrieked and howled as their bodies were engulfed in crackling fire, their twisted flesh burned and blackened.

  Yha’ri’lk and his remaining kindred did not falter under the hail. As one, they stowed their curved ritual blades and each removed a crystal vial filled with shimmering, turquoise liquid from their belts. Chanting a mantra in a tongue that sent shivers of revulsion up Shev’s spine, the tzaangor shamans poured the contents of the crystal vials into their mouths. Their eyes began to burn with unearthly light, and their muscles corded and rippled as the sorcerous concoction seeped through their bodies.

  Still moving in unnatural synchronicity, the tzaangors raised their staffs and unleashed a tidal wave of silver fire that flooded across the hall, immolating the remaining saurian warriors and engulfing the creature’s throne. Shev could see the mummified thing twitching and screaming within the cascade of flame.

&
nbsp; Vermyre ran towards the Silver Shard, stretching out one gloved hand.

  ‘No!’ gasped the wounded saurian priest, dragging its body towards Vermyre, blood dripping from its tiny, needle-like teeth. ‘Mortal hands cannot wield the shard! Its power is too great.’

  Vermyre laughed bitterly.

  ‘I fear there is no longer anything mortal about my flesh,’ said the masked man, and with that he tore the black glove from his hand. Underneath was no human arm, but a chitinous gauntlet of azure crystal, from which stared several bloodshot eyes, embedded across its length. The tips of the fingers were boneless and shifting, like amorphous tentacles.

  The thing that had once been Ortam Vermyre, High Arbiter of Excelsis, thrust its mutated limb through the shifting portal.

  Toll staggered out onto a wide platform of obsidian. It was a great, high-ceilinged auditorium, stairs rising towards a great central dais in the distance. He saw the eruption of magic that enveloped the stage, and the strange sight of a floating throne engulfed in fire. He saw Shev Arclis cowering away from the display of ruinous magic.

  He saw all that, but his eyes were fixed only upon the sight of Ortam Vermyre, grasping in one malformed hand a sliver of shapeless silver.

  The witch hunter ran, his pistol raised high.

  ‘Ortam!’ he bellowed, and his nemesis looked up with eyes that reflected silver flame. Vermyre’s mask melted from his face as if it had been washed away by rain. In its place, Toll saw the true visage of his old friend and greatest betrayer. The entire left side of the man’s face was now a writhing mass of segmented tendrils that looked like nothing less than the twitching legs of a spider. The mouth was dragged down on that same side, half-formed into the circular maw of a carrion-eel. The left-hand eye had split and poured down towards the cheek, and trails of silver blood were dripping from this awful wound into the man’s mouth.

  ‘Look upon the face of failure, Hanniver,’ spat Vermyre. ‘Here is what your great victory at Excelsis brought me. Do not worry, my friend. My companions over there assure me this is in fact a blessing!’