City of Secrets

by Nick Horth

  Callis swallowed, which took some effort since his mouth had gone dry. ‘I’m no traitor,’ he choked out. ‘I said nothing because I had already been betrayed. If I had known…’

  Toll held up a hand, and like a flash his face was once again genial and dryly amused. All the fury and the conviction drained away like it had never existed. Callis’ head was spinning.

  ‘I’m glad we are clear, guardsman,’ he said. ‘Rest assured, if you do as I say and provide me with everything that I ask for, you need not fear any reprisal. For now, we must move. This place, as you have probably gathered, is far from safe.’

  The Witch Hunter gestured, and Callis followed him out of the kitchen and into the hall.

  The duardin Kazrug was already at the back door. He had his broad axe held ready in two hands, and two stubby, wide-barrelled pistols were tucked within easy reach at his belt. He smeared blood from his face with one forearm, and nodded at Callis.

  ‘We armin’ that one? Might be more than a few of ’em out here.’

  Toll favoured Callis with an appraising look for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Fetch an alley piece from those dead fools. And find a blade.’

  The crunch of broken amberglass came from outside the kitchen window. Toll turned and fired in one smooth motion, and a hooded and scarfed face disappeared in a flash of pink mist.

  ‘Move!’ he shouted. ‘To the back door.’

  They hurtled into the corridor. As they ran, figures appeared in the street to the front of the house, and small iron bolts began to whicker through, skipping off walls and whistling in a storm around them. Callis sent a bolt of his own back in response, and clambered on a cabinet to wrench a basket-handled sabre off its mount on the wall. His uncle’s blade, a sergeant’s weapon of rank. It was oiled, and the fine steel showed not a hint of rust despite the many nicks and chips along the length. He ran a thumb down the edge, and it came away bloody. Uncle Tor had not been a man to let his tools degrade.

  Toll dragged Callis out of the hallway just as another volley of darts smacked into the wall. One tore a line across the Witch Hunter’s cheek as it whipped past, but he barely seemed to notice. Then they were hurtling through the back door and out into the side alley behind the house, wedged in between the back wall and a chipped flint partition that obscured the next row of buildings. More hooded figures came at them, brandishing those wicked, curved knives. Kazrug aimed low with a pistol and blasted, finding a kneecap and sending one rushing figure skidding and howling along the cobbles. His fellows slowed as they scrambled over their fallen companion, and Callis dropped another with a bolt to the gut.

  ‘Move,’ shouted Toll, emptying the four barrels of his pistol into those figures approaching from the left. More went down, and a mist of smoke and blood wafted down the length of the back alley.

  The Witch Hunter ducked, stuck a hand in his coat and withdrew a small, bronze globe. He twisted it and it came apart in his hands like two halves of a juvafruit. He placed each segment in the middle of the flint wall that separated the next row of houses, a hand’s width apart.

  ‘What in Sigmar’s name are you doing?’ shouted Callis. ‘They’re almost on us!’

  Kazrug slammed into his knees and dropped him to the floor, lying on top of him with his pistol braced and aimed down the alley.

  ‘Cover yer ears, lad,’ he growled.

  Callis cursed and struggled, getting a good nostrilful of the duardin’s unholy stench as he did so, and jammed his fingers in his ears. Toll finished his task, drew his rapier and span to the side, impaling an onrushing assailant through the neck. Then he put two fingers to his own ears and crouched low.

  There was an ear-shattering explosion, and a column of dust and smoke spiralled into the air. Yet Callis felt no shockwave slam him backwards. He peered into the smoke and saw the ruin of the flint wall. It had blown outwards, and beyond he could see the rear of a house on the next street, and chunks of ruptured stone and flint littering the cobbles.

  ‘Through,’ roared Toll, hauling Callis to his feet and staggering into the cloud of dust. Kazrug followed, firing another blast from his pistol and immediately dropping it, letting the weapon dangle from the leather cords that held it to his belt. As they passed through the breach, he flipped his axe back into two hands and waited for the first face to emerge through the smoke. That unfortunate man tasted the fine edge of the brutal weapon, and a head tumbled down onto the broken street. The duardin kicked the stumbling headless torso back through the wall.

  ‘Get back,’ said Toll, and stepped up to hurl another object. This was a bright green bottle with a stopper of red wax bound with copper wire. It shattered on the far wall, and for a moment nothing happened. Hooded figures clambered through the gap as the Witch Hunter and his companions scrambled away.

  Then there was a sound like a crashing wave, and a sheet of blue flame washed out from the breach, encircling the unfortunate assassins in its path. The force of the blast hurled broken, burning bodies into the house on the far side, and sent yet more sprawling across the floor, screaming piteously as whatever alchemical concoction the bottle had been filled with devoured their flesh.

  By the time the flames cleared and the screaming ceased, the companions were half a dozen streets away and still running hard.

  Once they were out of sight of their pursuers, it was a simple thing for the trio to disappear amongst the throng of traders and workers that packed the streets of Excelsis during the day. They wove their way through the river of people, past bands of dirty, gaunt-faced pilgrims and bellowing traders, gangs of scarred and marked street toughs, and even the odd gaggle of noble youths indulging a taste for the common life. For once, Callis did not even bother to put a guarding hand over his pockets as the street kids swarmed around their knees, tugging at their sleeves and begging for a glimmering or two. He had nothing left to steal. Eventually they made their way off the main street, and shouldered through the milling crowds and into the depths of the Veins.

  ‘You’re a Witch Hunter,’ whispered Callis, as the trio slipped down another back alley, a seemingly endless channel that Toll insisted would take them out on the edge of the temple district. ‘Can’t you just call in some kind of… emergency force or something? Start putting some feet to the flame and get some answers?’

  Toll laughed. ‘It pleases me that the populace has such a generous estimation of our resources. The large majority of Excelsis’ faith militant has joined the Stormcast Eternals on their latest offensive. As for the Order, our ranks are stretched as it is. In every corner of the realm that Sigmar reconquers, a dozen threats raise their heads.’

  They walked in silence for a while, wading through the accumulated filth, past mounds of shattered bottles and piles of foul-smelling waste. The walls were close here, and so the alley made a perfect home for the dreamspinners. Callis stared queasily at the canopy of iridescent webbing overhead, occasionally catching a glimpse of one of the huge, translucent arachnids scuttling about its fortress. As he stared at the intricate patterns, they shifted and kaleidoscoped before his eyes. Colours and shapes collapsed in on themselves, whirling and reassembling into forms that promised revelation, if only his mind could interpret them.

  Something whacked him hard in the gut, and he doubled over wheezing.

  ‘Don’t stare at the durned things,’ Kazrug growled. ‘Want to end up like that one?’

  The duardin’s stubby hand was pointing at what looked like a thick, ugly clump of webbing, propped haphazardly against the alley wall. As Callis peered closer, his stomach lurched. Empty sockets stared out from the gossamer cage, and a wizened face screamed in silence, skin leathered and stretched but still recognisably human. As they looked on, needle-thin legs spread out of the corpse’s mouth, and a dagger-shaped body capped with dozens of glittering eyes levered itself out of its hiding place, and scuttled with unnerving speed up the side of the wall and out of s
ight into the canopy.

  ‘Tell me we’re almost out of this place,’ said Callis, fighting a heroic battle with his protesting innards as they squirmed in nauseated revulsion.

  ‘We are,’ said Toll. ‘And don’t worry. As long as you’re not out of your skull on brandy or whisper-smoke, you’re not likely to fall under the sway of those things. Keep your head about you, mind.’

  Callis shook his head. He had heard about the dangers of the dark corners of the city, of course he had. Yet it was one thing to hear rumours about the dreamspinners – how they gathered omens and auguries up and wove them into those fabulous patterns, how they preyed on unwary drunks, siphoning the hopes and dreams and worries from their minds and leaving them little more than drooling husks – but it was quite another to see proof of that horror right in front of him.

  They were close to the edge of the Veins now, approaching the temple district. Finally Toll lead them out of the narrow alley, and they heard the sound of carts and raised voices. Beyond was a thoroughfare, with the spires of the grand Abbey of Remembered Souls looming ominously in the distance over a row of modest town houses and the swarming heads of dozens of citizens going about their daily business.

  ‘Let’s move,’ said Toll, but Callis placed a warning hand upon his shoulder.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, and pointed down at the far end of the street. A picket line of green-cloaked guardsmen was making its way down the street, stopping cart drovers to rift through their possessions, pulling down the hoods of travellers to peer into their faces, and otherwise making it deadly obvious that they were searching for someone in particular.

  ‘Seven guesses as to who they’re looking for,’ muttered Callis miserably.

  ‘I have the authority to detain you myself, but I’d rather avoid a confrontation,’ said Toll. ‘Wait until they’re distracted, then we make for the tall building with the shattered sundial on your left.’

  It took only a few minutes for the line of guardsmen to become embroiled in a shouting match with a brawny-looking sailor, who was transporting dozens of barrels in a rickety old dray cart. One of the soldiers had jabbed at a barrel with his sword, and a torrent of amber liquid was pouring out into the gutter. A weary-looking sergeant was doing his best to defuse the merchant’s anger, and helpfully drawing the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity.

  Toll gestured forward and the three filtered through the crowd, past grumbling merchants and confused townsfolk. Callis nervously clutched at the cowl of his robes as he passed within spitting distance of his old comrades.

  On the far side of the street he could see the building the Witch Hunter had indicated, a two-storey ruin of crumbling walls and boarded-up windows. The front door was locked up tight, secured by a thick iron padlock. Toll walked right past it, heading around the side of the structure to another door that was similarly secured. With a brief glance around to check he was unobserved, the Witch Hunter placed one hand on the surface and muttered something under his breath. There was a gentle clicking sound. Toll twisted the padlock and it slid free easily. The door swung open, and he gestured Callis and Kazrug through.

  Inside was a sparse, gloomy room with a collection of mouldy pieces of furniture and little else of note. Callis heard the Witch Hunter mutter another unintelligible phrase, and then there was a low grinding sound, and a clank of gears. He turned to see the floor at the north-east corner of the room collapse into a set of stairs, heading down into darkness.

  Toll lead them down. As soon as they stepped out into a rough stone corridor, the stairs retracted behind them. The hallway ahead was lit a soft orange by several glowing stones mounted on braziers. There was a sharp, not entirely unpleasant but slightly acrid smell on the air, a chemical tang that nestled at the back of Callis’ throat.

  ‘Where in Sigmar’s name are we going?’ he said.

  ‘Just ahead,’ Toll replied. ‘You can lose the fearful expression, corporal. No one’s about to find us down here.’

  The Witch Hunter headed off down the corridor, and after a few hundred yards they came across a pair of heavy wooden doors, which he heaved open. Beyond was a small, low-ceilinged chamber, dominated by a large table that was piled high with scrolls, tomes and a bewildering array of trinkets. Bookshelves covered the walls, interrupted only by glass-fronted cabinets that housed an impressive collection of blades, black powder weapons and sinister-looking devices of a function that Callis could only begin to guess. In the north end of the room was a grand fireplace, above which hung scores of maps and nautical charts of the areas around Excelsis. To the right and left, doors led to adjacent rooms. In the room to the right, Callis saw an intricate array of alembics, crucibles and vases made from scorched green glass. Here, the chemical smell was even stronger, bordering on the unpleasant.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ said Toll, removing his hat and throwing it down on the table. ‘Not the most glamorous residence, I grant you, but it suits our purposes for the moment.’

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Callis. ‘We just stay here?’

  ‘We start with you telling me every single thing that happened the night your patrol was lost in the Veins,’ said Toll, motioning for Callis to sit in one of the three chairs near the fireplace. He sat down opposite the indicated chair, and leaned forward with his fingers steepled.

  Kazrug took a seat in the corner of the room, where he drew a pitted stone and began whetting the edge of his axe. The scraping sound did little to improve Callis’ frayed nerves. Still, as Uncle Tor had been so fond of saying, if you had an arrow in your leg, better to grit your teeth and pull it out than wait for it to fester. He took the proffered seat and closed his eyes, then began to tell the Witch Hunter everything he remembered. He started with the last evening he had spent with his squad, continued through their night time patrol and the ambush in the alleyway, and finished with the apocalyptic vision of the city in flames, shrieking daemons swooping and cavorting in the skies above. Toll listened impassively through it all, not showing a flicker of concern or disbelief, but as Callis got to the robed, wizened figure he had seen in his vision, the Witch Hunter leaned forward suddenly, eyes narrowed with interest.

  ‘This figure,’ he said. ‘Describe him, everything you noticed. Leave no detail out.’

  Callis frowned, and tried to recall.

  ‘He was an ugly old wretch. Bent-backed, so much so that he could barely walk. Hook nose, with a wart the size of a cannonball on its side.’

  ‘Anything else?’ urged Toll. ‘What did he wear? What was he carrying?’

  ‘He was dressed in simple black robes. Had a medallion or something around his neck. And he carried a staff of black iron. The tip of it formed a strange spiral symbol.’ Callis shook his head. ‘That’s everything I remember. I only glimpsed him for a few, short moments.’

  Toll sat back in contemplation. There was a long silence, broken only by the metronomic sound of Kazrug whetting his axe.

  ‘You’re sure about this?’ he asked at last, staring at Callis unblinkingly.

  The former corporal nodded. ‘Trust me, it’s not the sort of thing you forget in a hurry. I’d recognise that face anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t know if you would get the chance to,’ muttered Toll. ‘Archmage Velorius Kryn hasn’t been seen in the city for at least ten years.’

  ‘You know who it was I saw?’ said Callis, surprised. ‘How?’

  ‘Only a mage of the Chamonic discipline bears a staff of black iron such as you described,’ said Toll. His brow was furrowed, and for the first time since they had met he seemed genuinely concerned. ‘Of the seven such wizards that reside in Excelsis, only Kryn matches your description. He’s the most powerful of them by far.’

  ‘Why would he want to see the city burn?’ asked Callis. ‘What does a Collegiate wizard gain from that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Toll. ‘But this all leads back
to the Prophesier’s Guild. The shipment of auguries your squad came across in the Veins. The deaths of two prominent guild members in the last few months. And you say that when you saw Kryn in your vision, he was standing before a large cluster of arcane machinery – the largest occulum fulgurest device in the city hangs above the guildhall itself.’

  Callis’ head was spinning. This had all spiralled wildly out of control. At first he had thought he was mixed up in a simple bit of black market profiteering by bored soldiers. Now they were discussing some sort of conspiracy to strike at the heart of the city.

  ‘If this is as big as you think,’ he said, choosing each word carefully, ‘then surely it’s time to bring in someone else. The entire Excelsis Guard. Maybe even… the White Angels. Someone.’

  Toll sighed, and rubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hand.

  ‘The Coldguard, as you well know, Corporal Callis, are one of only three regiments present in Excelsis. The other regiments and the Stormcasts left this city several days ago, in force,’ he said. ‘The Order of Azyr sent reinforcements alongside them. Flagellant warbands, several of my own associates. We gambled much on the prophecy that gave us the location of the orruks. This was our chance to smash the beasts of the Shattered Shins, perhaps even wipe them out for good.’

  Toll rose to his feet, hands on hips, his fists clenching.

  ‘Now I see it,’ he continued. ‘It was all too perfect. Someone has been pulling our strings all along.’

  ‘There must be something we can do.’

  ‘There is.’ The Witch Hunter jabbed a finger towards a wardrobe on the far side of the room. ‘You’ll find some clothes in there. Get dressed into something respectable.’