Gloomspite - Andy Clark

by Warhammer

  They dripped rainwater onto the thick crimson rugs and tracked marsh-mud across them. They looked ragged, patched and dirty. He was in little doubt from the expressions of their guards that the Swords of Sigmar could all have used a bath, not just Bartiman.

  Captain Morthan had vanished a few minutes after their arrival, looking irritated and tired. She hadn’t returned since.

  ‘It’s been, what, an hour? More?’ asked Bartiman. ‘They could at least have offered us some sort of refreshments, couldn’t they? Its barbaric.’

  ‘You think they seem barbaric?’ muttered Olt. ‘Better hope no one in this pretty place asks me to take my cloak off. Your God-King don’t like those who worship the competition, does he?’

  Romilla shot the tribesman an irritated look but kept her peace. Hendrick was relieved. Since Olt had joined their company a year before, he and Romilla had nearly come to blows over matters of faith several times. To Olt, Sigmar was not the god, just another god, whereas Romilla had almost died for her beliefs more than once. Here in the heart of the regent militant’s palace was not a place for them to revisit that old dispute, however.

  ‘We’re for the cells after all,’ said Borik, sounding morose.

  A door swung open at his words, and Captain Morthan beckoned them from beyond it.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Hendrick.

  They followed the captain down a long corridor, then into a grand hallway crowded with columns, statues, icons of Sigmar and beautiful religious artworks. At its end, beyond a cluster of palace guards, arched stained glass doors led into a softly lit chamber from which choral singing echoed.

  Morthan led the Swords of Sigmar past the glowering guards and on, through the glass doors.

  The chamber beyond was roughly one hundred feet square. Its vaulted ceiling rose high above their heads and was illuminated with a beautiful bejewelled frieze of Sigmar sat upon his throne in High Sigmaron, surrounded by clouds, stars, cherubs and Stormcast Eternals.

  The singing came from a choir of children arranged in a pulpit partway up one wall. Incense smoke drifted from censers that hung from the four fluted columns that held the ceiling aloft. Beyond them rose three marble steps, atop which the regent militant sat upon a metal throne.

  ‘That’s sigmarite!’ blurted Eleanora. Hendrick couldn’t imagine what strings the regent would have had to pull to have a throne of that most precious of metals crafted for him, or even who might have had the skill to do so.

  The regent militant himself was a large man in every respect. Tall, broad of shoulder and wide of middle, he had a mane of white hair shaved in a line straight down its centre, a large nose and a wide, generous mouth that looked made for shouting or smiling. Hendrick could see he was old, old enough to have liver-spotted skin and more than his fair share of wrinkles, yet as he stood and opened his arms wide in greeting, the regent appeared to have the vitality of a much younger man.

  A pair of ornately armoured warriors flanked the steps of his throne; Hendrick was surprised to realise they were aelves – lithe figures in crested helms, gold armour and flowing white cloaks who stood to attention as the regent descended from his throne, and who prowled at his side radiating elegant menace as he strode forwards.

  ‘Welcome, my children, welcome to Draconium!’ he said in a booming voice. Hendrick wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it was not this.

  ‘My lord regent militant,’ said Captain Morthan, dropping to one knee and motioning for the Swords to do the same. All of them but Borik complied, Romilla going so far as to prostrate herself with a heartfelt ‘Your divine grace.’

  The regent militant laughed, taking Romilla gently by the shoulders and raising her to her feet. He smiled broadly at her.

  ‘Sister, there is no need for formality. You are all to call me Selvador, for we are all but humble equals beneath the gaze of the God-King, are we not? Come, all of you, stand, stand.’

  Hendrick rose, feeling thoroughly wrong-footed. Romilla’s expression was almost comical in its amazement, and Bartiman was smiling with relief. Surely, his expression said, here was a man who would listen to what they had to say.

  ‘Helena, my dear, how fare my brave watchmen?’ asked the regent militant.

  ‘As well as we can, my lord,’ she said, and Hendrick noted that the captain hadn’t relaxed despite the regent militant’s avuncular nature. ‘The problems persist, and dark omens continue to manifest.’

  ‘And I do not doubt for a second that, just like my dear Arch-Lector Hessam, you are more than equal to this trying time,’ said Selvador, smiling indulgently. ‘Sigmar tests us all, does he not, but we will not be found wanting! Now, I understand that these brave souls have fought their way to our gates to deliver a message, is that not true?’

  ‘My lord, they come with a warning, bought at great price. I believe they may have been sent by Sigmar himself,’ said Captain Morthan. Hendrick felt his heart beat faster, felt the predatory stares of the aelven guards and the sudden pressure as the moment they had worked for arrived all too suddenly.

  Selvador turned to look at him, then at each of his companions in turn. His expression was grave.

  ‘Well, by all means deliver your message, and I shall hear each and every word as though it came from the lips of the God-King to my unworthy ears.’

  The next ten minutes felt like an eternity. Hendrick did his best to explain how they had come by their message, though he was acutely aware that his rough soldier’s voice sounded jarring and out of place in this magnificent chamber with its soft choral song. Eleanora delivered the words again, exactly as she remembered them, and the regent militant frowned and nodded with solemn severity throughout the entire account.

  ‘Your divine grace, we are aware that this is an unusual, perhaps even a bizarre message to bring to you out of the blue,’ said Romilla after Eleanora had fallen silent. ‘I myself questioned it at first, believed that it might be some machination of the Dark Gods sent to twist our purpose or trick us from our path. But now, seeing all this, feeling the pall of disquiet that hangs over this city, my conviction is absolute. The God-King sent us to deliver this warning to you, that you might act before it is too late.’

  Hendrick felt a swell of gratitude towards Romilla, who had ­earnestly and clearly explained something he would never have been able to vocalise.

  The regent militant took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  ‘Before it is too late for what, precisely, my dear?’

  Romilla blinked, wrong-footed. ‘Well, your divine grace, to prevent whatever dreadful danger approaches.’

  Selvador nodded slowly to himself, as though at some confirmed suspicion. ‘And what would you have me do, all of you? What is it you believe that I am not doing that I should?’

  ‘My lord, the prophecy says to watch not outwards but downwards,’ said Captain Morthan. ‘I have told you of the incidents that have been–’

  Selvador cut her off with a raised hand, closing his eyes as though her words somehow pained him. ‘Helena, my dear, we have spoken of this. You have sufficient watchmen for your duties, you have sewer patrolmen to watch over the pipes and waste tunnels, and we all have our faith. My child, you may doubt yourself, but I do not. You and yours will prevail whether a time of testing lies ahead or no. And when did this warning become a prophecy?’

  Selvador’s voice was so gentle, so reasonable, thought Hendrick, as though he were reassuring worried children. Before he could stop it, part of him felt foolish for even troubling the regent militant with such nebulous concerns. The rest of him felt a vertiginous sense of the conversation sliding away from his control, and in very much the wrong direction.

  ‘My lord, my brother’s words made the danger sound dire,’ he said, trying to drag things back on course.

  ‘I am sure that they did, and I am deeply sorrowful for your loss,’ said Selvador, placing one large
hand on Hendrick’s shoulder. It wasn’t often the sergeant found himself at eye height with someone, but the regent militant was tall enough to look at him square. He did so now, compassion and faith brimming in his gaze. ‘You have lost much, I see it in you, and you desperately wish for your brother’s death to have a deeper meaning. And perhaps it does. Perhaps it did. Rest assured I shall pray to Sigmar for guidance and contemplate the matter at length. But young man, the pain I see in you tells me that your brother meant enough without his needing to be the sainted saviour of this proud city.’

  Hendrick felt a whirl of confused emotion at the old man’s words, an intense rush of frustration and sorrow and gratitude and anger so intense that it tightened his jaw and clenched his fists. He saw the aelven guards tense as they watched him, and took slow, deep breaths to calm himself.

  By the time the rushing sound had left Hendrick’s ears and the band of iron had relaxed around his chest, the matter was as good as done.

  ‘…but my lord, surely if Sigmar himself has sent us messengers–’

  ‘Captain Morthan, that is enough.’ The regent militant’s voice held a note of steel that Hendrick hadn’t heard before. ‘It is not for us to presume the will of the God-King. Draconium has faced trial and tribulation many times and prevailed every time. We overcame the orruk invasions of the Bloody Season, did we not? We weathered the pyrothaumic storms and all they wrought. By Sigmar’s grace we even overcame the summoning of daemons within the very walls of this city! I know what you want of me, but I will not send to Hammerhal for Stormcast aid. Sigmar’s holy warriors have wars enough to fight, and we have weapons enough to look to our own defence. This warning,’ he stressed the word ‘is every bit as vague as everything else you have brought to me these last days. If there are a great many crimes just now, I suggest you stop allowing the distractions of doubt and fear to rule you, and instead strike out to solve them with faith in your heart. And if your faith is wavering then you might consider following our friend here’s example, and swap your blade for a hammer.’

  Captain Morthan looked like she wanted to say more, but instead she clenched her teeth and bowed.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said.

  ‘As for you all, you have my eternal gratitude,’ said the regent militant, smiling beatifically at the Swords of Sigmar. ‘I shall mention you in my prayers to the God-King for your efforts, thank you. Now, Captain Morthan will show you to the exit. Go, enjoy the delights of this strong city and I am sure you will soon see that your concerns, while righteous, were ill-founded. And rest assured that I have heard you this night my friends. I shall pray upon the matter at length.’

  With that, the regent militant turned and resumed his throne. Hendrick was still trying to work out what to say, some fresh argument to make the old man understand the horror he’d heard in Varlen’s voice, when Morthan ushered him and his companions out of the palace and into the plaza beyond.

  And then they were outside, and the rain was falling upon them once again.

  The palace guards didn’t even spare them a look.

  They’d delivered their warning. Nothing had changed.

  ‘What now?’ asked Hendrick, feeling as lost as he ever had in his life.

  Chapter Four

  DOWNPOUR

  Krysthenna the Lantern Bearer stood in the doorway of an old warehouse in Docksflow. Outside, rain fell through the night’s darkness from the deeper black of the clouds. Krysthenna leaned from the doorway and tilted her head back to let the deluge batter her face. The rain was cool and refreshing, and its acidic sting made her skin tingle. She feared no scald-burns. Those were the mark of the impure, those without the moral fortitude to withstand Sigmar’s infinite tests. She knew herself to be pure, shriven, strong.

  Movement at the far end of the street caused Krysthenna to duck back into the shadows.

  ‘Catching raindrops like a foolish child,’ she chastised herself. ‘A Lantern Bearer cannot afford distractions.’ She peered into the dark, praying silently to Sigmar that she would not see the distinctive glare of watch lanterns suddenly sparked. The Shrine of the Last Days’ Warning was not strictly illegal in Draconium, for settlers were free to worship the prescribed gods of Sigmar’s pantheon in whatever way they saw fit. However, the truths that Krysthenna and her flock spoke were unpalatable, and so the city watch had taken every opportunity to shut them down. They had been repeatedly refused permits to preach openly on the streets, and of late the watch had taken to breaking up their prayer meetings wherever they found them.

  Some sects might have railed against such actions, might have protested of ill treatment or prejudice. The Shrine just recognised it as another test. Krysthenna felt a moment’s satisfaction that they had proven resourceful enough to overcome it.

  Sister Bulpen had been the one to suggest they meet in secret, in one of the dilapidated Docksflow warehouses. There were several such hulks slumped shoulder-to-shoulder along the Highwharf Road, abandoned since the canal was redirected to better serve Pipers two decades ago and the business went with it. Krysthenna had been surprised that no one had ever torn the structures down or repurposed them, but the thought that Sigmar provided for his chosen soon dispelled such concerns. She had purposely chosen the dampest, most rat-infested of all the warehouses, reasoning that such surroundings would keep their faith keenest. They had re-established the Shrine there, had circulated word to all the chosen brothers and sisters, and for three full turnings they had been able to practise their faith in peace.

  ‘Not for much longer though, praise Sigmar,’ murmured Krysthenna, feeling her heart flutter at the thought. ‘The Return is nigh.’

  The movement at the end of the street came again, and she relaxed as she saw several furtive figures break away from the deeper shadows and hurry down the street. There were only a couple of functioning spark-lamps along Highwharf Road, and as the figures flittered through their light she caught glimpses of nervous, soot-smudged faces.

  Krysthenna stepped back from the doorway and ushered them through, three big, rain-slicked figures breathing hard from their dash through the city’s shadows. She closed the door and turned a gentle smile upon the new arrivals as they stopped in the entrance chamber to peel off sodden cloaks and shake away stinging rainwater.

  ‘Welcome, Chosen,’ she said, raising her hands to them with her fingers interlocked then untwining like an opening gate. It was the sign of their Shrine, the Opening Gates, and the three factory workers returned the gesture.

  ‘Were you seen on your way here?’ asked Krysthenna. They shook their heads.

  ‘No, Lantern Bearer. We were careful like you said,’ replied one of them.

  ‘Well done, Chosen,’ she said. ‘Now, hasten within. You are the last, I think.’

  The factory-men hurried through a set of rotting wooden double doors that led into what had once been the warehouse proper. The doors had been hung on their inner faces with heavy black velvet, and as they parted candlelight spilled out, bearing with it the scent of incense and the loud murmur of prayer. Krysthenna followed the Chosen into her shrine, ensuring that the doors were properly closed behind her, then turned to survey They Who Heard the Warnings. Dozens of Chosen thronged the centre of the empty warehouse, stood in a great huddle of praying, swaying figures clad in the garb of labourers, clerks, butchers, artisans, alchemists and countless other occupations. The Shrine made no distinction between rich or poor, erudite or ignorant; they cared only that their Chosen believed, and that they proselytised their belief to others.

  Her order required few trappings for their faith, for all things not of the heavens were tainted. Still, various of their ancestors had preserved some meagre objects of Azyrite origin, and these holy relics had been arranged around the shrine and surrounded by candles set on rude earthenware saucers. There was little other light in the warehouse’s interior, for more black velvet had been nailed up over windows
and skylights; no sight or sound of their worship could be permitted to escape to alert the authorities of their presence.

  The drapes did not stop the rainwater from finding its way in through the cracked ceiling or shattered windows. It sluiced down the walls and pattered steadily from on high to dampen the congregation gathered below and collect in rippling pools underfoot. Krysthenna frowned as she saw parents usher their children away from the acidic waters.

  ‘Faith is protection enough,’ she reminded her flock as she moved between them, heading for the low wooden platform to their fore. ‘Recall, Chosen, that all here is tainted. All is impure, even our mortal forms. There is no safety but the illusion of safety or the reality of faith. To shy from Sigmar’s challenge is to render yourself deaf to his warning. Only in Azyr will we find sanctuary, and only upon the appointed hour.’

  Krysthenna stepped up onto her crude stage and turned to her Chosen. She was a small woman, slight and careworn with grey-brown hair scraped back in a severe bun and features that she would humbly describe as singularly unremarkable. Yet when she stood before her Chosen and the light of Sigmar flowed through her, Krysthenna felt like a giant. Her flock had told her that she underwent a visible change, seeming to become greater than her mortal self, a Lantern Bearer carrying the light of Sigmar, possessed of a saint’s voice and a hero’s piercing gaze.

  She took a deep breath, smelling cloying incense mingled with rain-stink, mouldering damp and the collected body odour of more than three hundred Chosen. All tainted, she thought, and in that moment, she despised their surroundings and the corrupt flesh she and her followers were forced to wear. In the next heartbeat the light of Sigmar surged within her again, until she felt she must almost glow.