City of Secrets

by Nick Horth

  ‘What have you done?’ said Toll, shaking his head in despair.

  ‘I have performed my role, as it was ordained,’ said Vermyre. ‘An old power is rising, my friend, and it is beyond foolish to think this fragile civilisation we have carved out of the mud will be able to stand in its way. I have seen it, Hanniver. The doom that awaits our race if we continue to follow the God-King on his mad crusade into damnation. Only the Dark Gods can offer salvation, and of the profane lords only Great Tzeentch is worthy of our worship.’

  ‘A god of daemons and madness and foul sorcery, who would consume our souls to feed his lust for power.’

  Vermyre shook his head. ‘I feared that I would not be able to sway you, friend. You are stubborn, more so than anyone I have ever met. But we could achieve so much together. There is a place for you, Hanniver. You need only open your eyes.’

  ‘Was it you?’ hissed Callis. He no longer cared about the weapons aimed at his chest. ‘Was it you that had my men killed, you bastard?’

  Vermyre’s eyes barely flicked towards him.

  ‘Indirectly, but yes. War is war, corporal. You led your men into the wrong alley, and you paid the price.’

  ‘They were good men!’ shouted Callis.

  ‘I’m sure they were. And now they’re dead. If you speak again I’ll have your mouth sewn up.’

  ‘All those years, Ort,’ said Toll, sagging in his chair. ‘After everything we’ve sacrificed to protect this city? And now you plan to see it burn?’

  ‘Some things are inevitable,’ said Vermyre. ‘I take no pleasure in this. Yet it must be done. This city was only ever a lie, Hanniver. I have always seen it as it truly is – an illusion of order and law in a universe where no such concepts truly exist.’

  ‘Enough o’ this,’ shouted Kazrug, brandishing his pistol and axe. ‘This one would say anything to get us to drop our weapons. He’s a liar and an oathbreaker, Toll. He’s been playin’ you for a fool for years. Don’t–’

  Vermyre raised the silver sceptre and muttered a word that turned Callis’ blood to ice. A spear of blue flame spat forth from the weapon’s serpentine jaws, and rushed forward to sink into Kazrug’s chest. The duardin’s one good eye widened in shock, then in pain. He sank to his knees.

  ‘No!’ Toll shouted, and raised his pistol. He fired straight at Vermyre. The High Arbiter already had his other hand raised, palm out. There was a tinkling sound as four crushed and shattered bullets dropped to the floor.

  Kazrug was on the floor, one hand clasped to the horrific burn wound on his chest. Hanniver was there in a moment, but there was little he could do. Callis dropped to his knees and tried to help, but Kazrug’s hand batted his away. Vermyre’s guards moved to separate them, but the traitorous High Arbiter waved an unconcerned hand to signal them back.

  ‘I’m done,’ Kazrug croaked. ‘Leave me, Witch Hunter.’

  ‘Thank you for your service, my friend,’ said Toll, unable to look at the hideous, blackened wound in the duardin’s chest.

  ‘Shh,’ gurgled Kazrug. He reached up to grasp the bronze locket around his neck, and tugged on it until the leather bond snapped. ‘You take this, you take it home. Give it to my boy. He’s got to know, Hanniver, he’s got to know.’

  ‘I’ll get it to him,’ said Toll. ‘Rest now.’

  ‘Been quite a ride, ain’t it?’ Kazrug grinned. ‘Wouldn’t have had it any… other…’

  The duardin’s eye lost focus. His hand went slack, and the locket tumbled to the floor. Toll’s face was white, his eyes screwed tight. He fumbled for the locket, and held it tight. Callis stared at the dead warrior. He’d barely known the duardin for a day, but it still hurt. Another death. Another betrayal. It was too much.

  Toll stood. Opening his eyes, he turned to face Vermyre.

  ‘I want you to know that any friendship we may once have shared is dead,’ he whispered, and his voice was as cold as a desert night. ‘I want you to know, right here and now, that I will destroy you for this. I will find the things you treasure, and I will burn them to the ground. I will take you apart, piece by piece, until agony and terror are all that is left. Then, and only then, will I allow you to burn. This I promise you.’

  Vermyre smiled, sadly. ‘I knew it would come to this, old friend. I see the truth, while you close your eyes and pray like a witless child. I pity you.’

  The High Arbiter turned, and gestured to his men. ‘Seal them in the dungeons, and place a triple guard on their cell. I warn you, if you underestimate this man, he will kill you. I must make the necessary arrangements for what is to come, but I will be back shortly. Then we will find out if these two have been keeping anything else from me.’

  The Palatine guardsmen lead them down past cellars filled with vintage wines and spirits, past food larders and servants’ quarters. They were deep underneath the palace now. Here, gilded finery had given way to roughly carved tunnels of dark stone, lit by rows of blazing torches. The dungeon itself was a small chamber lit by glow-oil lamps, which housed six separate cells arranged in a hexagonal pattern around a central column and walkway. The soldiers hurled Toll and Callis into adjacent cells. Callis struck the rough stone wall hard, and fell to his knees.

  ‘Before I leave you here, I believe I owe you a small courtesy,’ said the guard captain, removing his elaborate helm and stepping towards Callis. Two more of the soldiers grabbed his arms and twisted them behind his back, and the captain slugged him hard in the gut. The air rushed out of Callis’ lungs, and the wine he had sampled earlier made a similar break for freedom, splattering across the rough stone floor. Eagle Helm followed up with a vicious one-two combination to his jaw. His head swam, but the soldiers continued to hold him upright.

  ‘This is just a taste,’ growled the captain. ‘I’ve seen the Arbiter put the question to his prisoners. It would give you nightmares, boy.’

  Callis rolled his tongue around his mouth, feeling a loose tooth. With a snarl, he tore the tooth free, and spat it, along with a mouthful of blood, all over Eagle Helm’s breastplate and cloak.

  ‘Bet he hits harder than you, milksop,’ he snarled.

  Eagle Helm’s eyes flashed with outrage, and the last thing that Callis saw was an armoured fist arcing out towards his jaw. When he regained his senses, the former guardsman was lying on the cool floor of his cell. Something burned in his chest, and he guessed that the beating had cracked a rib. He looked around. No sign of any guards.

  ‘Of all my contacts, he was the only one I ever truly trusted,’ said Toll, slumped in the cell next to Callis. ‘How could you fail to trust someone that has repaid your faith so many times?’

  ‘That was how he got you,’ muttered Callis, wincing as he gingerly rubbed his jaw. ‘He played the long game, and it worked.’

  ‘And I got Kazrug killed,’ the Witch Hunter whispered. ‘My foolishness and my trust got us caught. And he paid the price.’

  Callis leaned up against the iron bars of the cell. His mouth felt like he’d been gargling cut glass. He sighed.

  ‘You were played,’ he said. ‘But they made a mistake.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘For Sigmar’s sake!’ Callis spat. ‘They left you alive, didn’t they? Aren’t you meant to be the man with all the answers? The furious avenger of the God-King, and all that rot? Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get us the hell out of this place. We owe that traitor wretch a further conversation.’

  Toll blinked in surprise, then narrowed his eyes. ‘You know, even the duardin never spoke to me quite that bluntly.’

  ‘What exactly have I got to lose at this point? Aside from the rest of my teeth, my nails, and various other parts of my anatomy that I’m actually rather fond of?’

  Toll stood to test the strength of the bars. Frustrated by his findings, he walked to the cell door and checked the lock.

  ‘No chance of picking thi
s,’ he said. ‘And the traitors took all my gear. If I had my tools on me I could melt this steel enough to force it open, but that’s beside the point.’

  They heard boots scuffing on stone and immediately fell silent. Two Palatine guards reappeared to make a quick circuit of the chamber. One of them stopped by Toll’s cell and slammed his halberd against the bars.

  ‘Shut your mouths, or you’ll regret opening them,’ the man growled.

  The prisoners waited until the pair circled back out into the corridor. Then Toll began to root through his long coat, searching for anything that had not been confiscated by the guards’ thorough patting-down. His hand stopped just above his heart, and his face fell.

  ‘Nothing?’ asked Callis, his own heart sinking at the Witch Hunter’s expression.

  ‘Something,’ muttered Toll. ‘Something I’d hoped to avoid using.’

  He withdrew a small oval object. It looked almost viscous in his hands, glimmering dully in the soft light of the glow-oil lamps. As Callis watched, the Witch Hunter gently caressed the edge of the object, and it quivered organically.

  ‘What in Sigmar’s name is that thing?’ said Callis, his stomach squirming in disgust.

  ‘This,’ replied Toll, ‘is a kraken’s eye. It’s also a method of direct communication to one of the most dangerous people in the city. And if I use it, I’ll be in that person’s debt. Which, historically, has never been a good place to be.’

  ‘Worse than being tortured to death by a mad cult leader in his underground dungeon?’

  ‘Potentially. Now quiet. And stand back.’

  Toll muttered a word. At least, Callis assumed it was a word, a glottal murmur that sounded like the death rattle of some aquatic monster. Instantly, the organ in the Witch Hunter’s hand contracted and pulsed. Black ink poured from the eye, coalescing into a vaguely oval shape, the size of a full-length mirror. Shapes writhed and moved in the depths of that blackness.

  ‘Captain Zenthe,’ said Toll, keeping his voice low but clear. Callis winced. If the guards happened to come back now, they were done for.

  ‘Zenthe,’ the Witch Hunter repeated. ‘I’m calling in my favour. Now answer me, damn you.’

  The ink swirled and reshaped, and now a humanoid outline was visible within the mass. Slowly the rippling surface calmed, and the outline came into sharper focus.

  A tall, thin creature stood before them, slender in a way that would have spoken of malnourishment in a human, but here promised only lithe agility and strength. She wore a long leather coat embroidered with images of the kraken, with a collar that rose in barbed spikes around her angular face. That face was striking, in the way of aelves, but harsh also, with the hint of a predator’s smile. Her hair was short at the sides, almost clipped like a soldier’s, and spiked at the tips.

  ‘Hanniver, old friend,’ she said. ‘Such a pleasure to have you call at this hour.’

  So this was the famous Captain Zenthe, thought Callis. The scourge of the Coast of Tusks, and the undisputed ruler of Excelsis Harbour. Tales of the corsair queen were told from Dagger Bay to the Ie’meth Falls and back, and grew in the telling as they went. She who had slaughtered the God of Sharks, and smashed the Sepulchral Fleet at the Strait of Bal-ah-bek. Callis really was mixing in some rarefied social circles these days.

  ‘The pleasure is all mine, Captain Zenthe,’ said Hanniver, ‘though you’ll forgive me if I get straight to the point. My time runs short.’

  ‘Straight to business, then,’ the aelf corsair smiled. ‘You never take the time to enjoy life, Hanniver. Always lurching from one crisis to the next. How exhausting that must be!’

  ‘Arika, please. You know that I would not call on you unless I was in dire need of aid. The city is infiltrated. As we speak, a cult of the Dark Gods is putting into motion its plan for the destruction of Excelsis.’

  Captain Zenthe’s soft smile did not entirely leave her lips, but it certainly fell from her eyes. She lifted a goblet to her lips and took a sip, swirling the contents around her mouth thoughtfully.

  ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ she said at last. ‘Defending the city is the Excelsis Guard’s job, not ours.’

  ‘I cannot trust the soldiery. They are compromised, perhaps at every level. Worse, the High Arbiter has betrayed us. He holds me captive in the dungeons beneath his palace.’

  Zenthe laughed. ‘That interfering pen-pusher is a traitor? Oh, that’s delicious. The pompous bastard has been trying to raise our trade tariffs for years.’

  ‘Well then, you presumably won’t have a problem ordering your men to infiltrate this compound, slaughter the guards and break me and my companion free.’

  ‘You want me to launch an assault on the private palace of the city’s most powerful and influential figure, all on your say so?’

  Toll nodded. ‘If you would.’

  Captain Zenthe roared with laughter. ‘I’ll say this about you, Hanniver – you’re rarely ever boring. There will be a price for this, you know. This tips the scales in my favour, by some distance too.’

  Boots clattered down the hall.

  ‘The guards are coming back,’ hissed Callis, leaning out as far as he could to try and get a glimpse of the main door to the dungeon. ‘Finish this now.’

  ‘When you hear the screams, that’ll be us,’ said the aelf corsair. ‘Try not to get tortured to death in the meantime, old friend.’

  With a wink, the image of Captain Zenthe collapsed in on itself. Hanniver pocketed the kraken’s eye just as the guards entered the dungeon. The leader looked about suspiciously, but said nothing.

  ‘Now we wait,’ whispered Toll as they turned to leave. ‘And we pray that Captain Zenthe wasn’t simply humouring me.’

  ‘You think she might not show?’

  ‘Perhaps. Arika Zenthe is many things, but she is no one’s fool. She knows that once she plays this card, the only way this ends is if either her or Vermyre ends up in the ground. On the other hand, the captain knows me well, and knows how important it is to stay in the Order’s good graces. So I suppose we’ll see. In the meantime, there’s nothing to do but wait.’

  As evening wore on into night, the great glow-oil lamps that bathed the grounds of the High Arbiter’s palace began to put out a different kind of light, the warming orange light of midday giving way to the cool glow of a moonlit night. Outside the magically shielded haven of the gardens, the storm raged silently overhead. The Palatine Guard were still on high alert, and patrolled the great ground in groups of three, their fine armour gleaming in the artificial luminescence.

  At the grand gate, six armed warriors studied the deathly quiet streets. They appeared outwardly calm, but an experienced observer would have noticed a tension in their movement. The High Arbiter’s mask had slipped, and these men knew they played a deadly game – if the Order, or the Dark Gods forbid it, the Stormcasts, were made aware of their perfidy, they would burn for their crimes.

  Still, they held their guard proudly. They were professionals, after all.

  Six bolts whistled from the darkness. Each struck home, sinking into weak spots in the fine Palatine armour. Six corpses fell to the ground with a clatter.

  In their wake came the shadows. They moved as swiftly as wind, covering the open ground to the main gate in mere moments. Wicked curved blades and repeating crossbows glinted in the artificial moonlight as they passed.

  Despite their elaborate armour and patrician bearing, the Palatine guardsmen were not just ceremonial troops. They were hand-picked veterans, blue-blooded Azyrites trained in the art of war from youth. They were also strict adherents to the worship of the dark powers, selected specifically by the High Arbiter himself for their vigilance and devotion.

  As the shadows flitted across the grand lawn, they wheeled to meet the threat in impressive order, halberds lowered to intercept the charge and legs braced to accept the impa
ct.

  Those shadows coalesced into whirling, spinning forms, taller than a man and blessed of a grace that the lesser races could never hope to match. Wicked scimitars smashed halberds aside, forcing open a gap through which graceful bodies danced to leave a ruin of crimson in their wake. To their credit, the Palatine Guard fought hard, falling back to pre-prepared positions, shields raised high to intercept the rain of bolts that pursued them. More than one agile form collapsed to the ground, pierced by a halberd or cut down by a heavy broadsword.

  But surprise was on the assailants’ side. From all angles came the arrows, and in their wake came the dervishes, dancing in between the clumsy strikes of the human defenders, grinning with the fierce delight of bloodshed as they sliced and carved their prey apart. Like hunting orcas they isolated their targets, fragmenting the tight ranks of the Palatine, creating breaks in the line and exploiting those weaknesses with deadly efficiency.

  At the head of the pack was a figure with cropped, white hair, cutlass in one hand and a tri-bladed main gauche in the other. She laughed as she slew, ever dancing out of the reach of the enemy, ever on the edge of calamity yet always in control. Her fencing dagger intercepted sword thrusts and shifted halberds aside, while the cutlass flicked out to open throats and puncture bellies.

  In moments, the assailants had cleared the lawn and the entrance hall. Now they filtered through the corridors of the palace like wraiths, crossbows held at the ready.

  ‘Find me the Witch Hunter,’ said Captain Arika Zenthe, flicking hot blood from her blade and smiling broadly. It had been far too long since she had let herself have a little fun.

  A scream, abruptly cut off, echoed down the hall. Toll and Callis’ hosts heard it too. They leapt to their feet, halberds drawn and shields ready.

  ‘We’re under attack,’ said the younger of the two warriors. ‘They’re coming this way, and that means they’re looking for these two.’

  ‘Finish them,’ said his companion. ‘Quickly.’

  Callis raised his hands. ‘Wait! Have you considered taking us hostage? Because I for one would be happy to oblige.’