by Warhammer
‘She was hungry,’ he said, when he noticed the stares of the others.
‘She’s always hungry,’ Zana snapped. Harrow chirped at her as she swallowed a chunk of the wolf-rat’s carcass in that peculiar, avian fashion. Zana made a rude gesture.
‘Best to keep her fed, then,’ Volker said, attempting to head off any argument. He’d been trying to keep a map of the route they were taking in his head, but it was proving impossible. The streets of the Crawling City seemed to change shape constantly, as the worm moved across the steppes. The towers and walls shifted position with frustrating regularity, and the only unchanging routes were the walkways and rope bridges high above. He turned to Nyoka. ‘Where is the libraria, exactly?’
She pointed. ‘There. The Dorsal Barbicans.’
The barbicans rose over the worm’s middle, separating the more affluent districts of the city from the lesser. The high walls were built from hardened ichor, fossilised hair and ironoak timbers, procured at great expense from Kharadron traders. Or so Nyoka claimed, as she led them towards the plaza that housed the barbican gates.
The crowds were thicker here, and the noise and smell was almost overpowering. Nyoka dived into the sea of humanity without hesitation. Volker realised belatedly that this was the city’s main thoroughfare, as he narrowly avoided being flattened by an ironmonger’s cart. The woman pulling it only paused long enough to bark a curse before forging ahead. There was no order to things – you pushed in where you found room, and only kept your place with a judicious use of elbows and harsh language. Street performers threaded through the crowd, dressed in distracting colours, and adding to the confusion with their nonsense songs and acrobatics.
‘Keep a hand on your gear, Azyrite,’ Zana murmured, from close behind him. ‘I’ve spotted at least two pickpockets.’ She elbowed someone in the chest, knocking the man out of line. His protests were swallowed up by the crowd.
‘Have you warned Roggen?’
‘No need. Only an idiot would try to sneak close to that beast of his. But you’re carrying enough hardware to earn a good thief a year’s wage.’
Volker, no stranger to the perils of the urban jungle, nodded and dropped a hand to the grip of his artisan pistol. He thrust his rifle out like a cane, prodding people from his path. People glared at him, but no one spoke up.
The plaza was made from dyed and polished setaen tiles, which had been placed to form an intricate mosaic, the meaning of which escaped Volker. Statues of the great heroes of the city’s history lined the edges of the plaza, gazing benignly down on the tide of people moving through the gates. A few guards, mostly freeguild, stood watch, but they made no effort to impede the flow of traffic.
As they passed through, Volker looked up and saw timber bridges passing between the outer walls and the inner. The inner walls spread outwards from a domed structure, like the spokes of a wheel. This central structure had been built around a great encrustation on the worm’s hide, and had only grown larger as the city swelled. High, square walls rose in a hexagonal shape towards a vast dome, covered in mirror-plates. Scattered among the mirrors were stone archways, each connected to one of the timber bridges.
The whole edifice crouched on a dais of hardened and carved ichor, and slanted slab steps cascaded down each side. There were more guards sitting or standing on these steps, leaning on their weapons. They watched as tired and thirsty travellers collected water from the bronze taps of the great barrels scattered about the courtyard. The barrels were rain siphons, Volker knew. Rainwater built up in them, and they were communal property – they had passed dozens of them, coming from the aetherdocks. He knew there were similar barrels, though much larger, atop each of the setaen towers. The water from those was mostly filtered down to the fungal farms in the dorsal districts, and the breweries and steam-houses of the anterior. The people of Shu’gohl had adapted well to their curious environment.
At the centre of the courtyard sat a statue. The crowd broke and flowed about it, like water around a rock. The statue was immense, and symbolic rather than realistic, carved from the hardened ichor of the worm. Vague shapes, standing in formation, spears and blades thrust out towards some approaching enemy. Other shapes lay as if wounded, or dead. Wreaths of hair and gold were set against the statue’s base, alongside bunches of strange, pale blossoms and piles of rolled parchments or folded papers. ‘What is all that?’ Volker asked, as they neared it.
‘Prayers for the honoured dead,’ Nyoka said.
Volker looked at her. ‘Who were they?’
‘They are who I am – the Vurmite Order. The Order of the Worm,’ Nyoka said, looking up at the statue. There was something like awe in her voice as she spoke. ‘When the foe burst upon us, we Vurmites defended the holy segments, for the grace and the light of Sahg’mahr, as was our oath and duty. Under a guard of forty, we sent off the most valuable tomes in their possession. The rest fought here, and gave their lives on the steps of the Libraria Vurmis in the name of our Lord Sahg’mahr.’ She laid a hand against the base of the statue, where what appeared to be names had been chiselled. ‘Their names – as well as the names of those who’ve fallen since – are inscribed here, so that all who pass by might see them.’ She took a breath, and seemed to steady herself. She looked at Roggen. ‘Your beast will not be allowed in the library. It must remain out here.’
Roggen frowned and stroked Harrow’s beak. ‘Will she be safe out here?’
Nyoka smiled gently and made the sign of the hammer. ‘As if Sahg’mahr himself were watching over her.’ As Roggen tied Harrow’s reins to the statue, Nyoka led Volker and the others up the stairs, and out of the press of people. Volker checked his satchel, making sure everything was in place. When he looked up, he found that the freeguild guards had snapped to attention and were blocking their way.
Lugash stepped towards them with a curse. ‘I knew it. An ambush.’
Nyoka glanced at him, startled. ‘Not of my doing, I assure you.’
‘Then you’d best tell these fools to move, woman. Or I’ll help them along.’ He leered at the guards. ‘And I promise you, they won’t enjoy the experience.’
‘Still yourself, fool,’ Zana hissed. ‘We’re not here to murder freeguilders.’
‘Then why are you here?’ The voice was sharp, and harsh. A man, older and clad in similar fashion to Nyoka, stood at the top of the steps, his hands resting on the haft of a warhammer. Old scars marred his grizzled features, and his scalp had been shorn smooth. A broad, bristling beard spilled down his barrel chest. He squinted at them through a gold-rimmed monocle. ‘Well?’ he continued. He hefted his hammer and pointed at them. ‘Speak now, or answer to a higher power. It matters not to me.’
He waited for a beat, and then, with a shrug, said, ‘So be it. Take them into custody.’
At his command, the guards levelled their spears and began to advance.
Nine
Libraria Vurmis
Adhema slunk through the curved canyons of shelves that filled the Libraria Vurmis. Her nose wrinkled at the smells of dust and age. Even as a mortal, she had never liked libraries. If knowledge could not be held in the head, what good was it? Especially secret knowledge. But Neferata insisted that her handmaidens learn to read, and do so widely and often. The great libraries of Nulahmia had been things of beauty, before their destruction; ancient, lamp-lit vaults, filled floor to ceiling with the wisdom of untold ages.
While this library was not so big as those, it was no less impressive. The central chamber accounted for most of the building’s space. The vast room was occupied by hundreds of curved, freestanding shelves, packed so close together that there was barely enough room to move between many of them. There were four levels, each one slightly smaller than the previous, rising towards the inner curve of the dome, connected by many spiral staircases. And every level was crammed with shelves.
She suspected that on some of those
shelves were volumes that Neferata’s agents were even now scouring the realms for. They sought particular volumes for their mistress’ pleasure, including books of verse written by the great poets of the Golden Age, and the alchemical texts of Chamonite philosophers. Her agents were even in Shu’gohl, haunting the book markets of the dorsal districts.
The servants of Nagash – and by extension, Neferata – were everywhere. They had flooded from Shyish not long after the opening of the realmgates leading to Azyr. Thousands – millions – of souls, carrying the word of Nagash to the farthest reaches of the mortal realms. Those in Shu’gohl were mostly mortal. Simple death-worshippers seeking the peace of the grave. But they had their uses.
She licked her lips. She could still taste the blood of the one who’d met her, and guided her to the libraria. He had offered it up ecstatically, and she had granted him that which he desired – oblivion, and oneness with the Undying King. His fellows would dispose of the body after the traditions of Shu’gohl. It would be tossed off the side of the worm, to feed the beasts that travelled in its wake.
Of course, now that she was here, she’d found that she’d been anticipated. Or rather, Neferata had. She grinned, wondering if she should alert her mistress to that fact. She’d seen the first ravens as she’d slunk in through the open windows that lined the curve of the roof, while some sort of argument erupted in the courtyard. Too many, and too quiet, to be natural. They had the whiff of the unnatural about them – a staleness that was soul-deep. Like something drained of all vitality, but still alive. Their feathers were too clean, their eyes too shiny.
Chaos, then. Only the servants of Chaos could so perfectly mimic the form of the thing and miss all the subtleties of its existence. The gods of Chaos were ruinous idiots, and their followers were little better than mad dogs.
They’d been hunting something, those birds. So she’d hunted them in turn, slinking from shadow to shadow, quiet as an evening mist. Even in full armour, Adhema could be quiet. A trick of the blood. The Dragon had taught her to fight, but Neferata had gifted her with silence. She froze as an unwary scholar nearly bumped into her. The man was small, and his dark skin tattooed in the fashion of the Ghurean Sea-Kingdoms. He could not see her, for she did not wish to be seen, but he paused nonetheless. Some animal instinct compelled him to look around, eyes narrowed.
Her hand clamped tight about the hilt of her blade, and her thirst, so recently sated, rose up again as his heartbeat thundered in her ears. She loomed over him, teeth bared, for just a moment. Then she was past him and striding away. The thirst raged within her, demanding satisfaction, even as she forced it back into its cage. It was a beast that could never be tamed, not fully. The soulblight grew worse with every year, hollowing her out and making her over into a thirsty ghost, haunting her own corpse.
A fair trade, that. An eternity of thirst, for an eternity of revenge on those who’d humbled her people. An eternity to draw spite’s full measure from those who thought themselves blessed of the gods. An eternity of service, in return for an eternity of glory.
And what glories they were. Skulking and hunting for ancient weapons, ones she wouldn’t even be allowed to wield, most likely. Neferata didn’t trust her that far. Ah well. ‘Thy will be done,’ she murmured, a slight smile curving her lips.
She stopped, watching as the birds grew agitated. They flew swift and silent, gliding through the shelves on black wings. She followed, moving quickly.
They’d found what they were looking for, and that meant she had as well.
‘This place is a holy place, and one not meant for common rabble,’ the old priest growled, as he swept his warhammer out in a gesture of righteous anger, indicating Volker and the others on the steps. The freeguild warriors formed up around him on the steps, the points of their spears glinting in the reflected light. They had a hard look to them, as befitting experienced soldiers. The campaign markers on their armour spoke to their status as veterans of some of the worst fighting this realm had seen – Lion Crag, Slothstone, a dozen others. All of them bore the sign of the hammer prominently on their gear, too, or in some cases tattooed on their flesh.
Such open devotion was not strictly frowned upon in the freeguilds, though it differed from company to company. Sigmar was their lord and master, but it was the opinion of many freeguild captains that the God-King likely preferred his warriors to keep their minds on the battlefield, rather than worrying about questions of the soul.
‘If you will not speak freely, perhaps it is best that you be put to the question,’ the priest continued, in a voice as hard and as cold as the wind. He raised his free hand, and Volker heard a clatter. Zana cursed.
‘More of them,’ she muttered. Volker glanced back, and saw a knot of uniforms moving through the crowd towards them. So far, no one was paying much attention to the confrontation, but that would change if there was swordplay. Volker frowned. What was going on here? It was as if these men had been waiting for them.
‘Lay down your arms, or brace your souls for judgement,’ the priest said. He lifted his hammer, preparing to order the soldiers to attack.
Nyoka stepped forwards quickly, arms spread. ‘Wait – Lector Calva. They are here as guests of the Libraria Vurmis. I was asked to–’
‘Yes, and by whom, I wonder.’ Calva’s metal-shod feet rang as they descended the steps. ‘Certainly not by me. Which is odd, as this place is my responsibility.’
Nyoka stiffened. ‘It is the Vurmite Order’s responsibility, you mean.’
‘Yes, but I am responsible for the Order. Ergo, the Order’s responsibilities are mine. Or do you disagree, acolyte?’ Calva’s stern gaze swept over the group as Nyoka bowed her head. Not in shame, but anger. Volker could see the muscles in her jaw tense. Calva’s lip curled slightly as he took in Lugash, who returned his sneer with interest. ‘What an odd grouping, this.’ Calva stopped as he came to Volker. His eyes widened slightly. ‘You are Azyrite.’
‘I am.’
‘From Azyrheim?’
‘Third district,’ Volker said. He bowed. ‘Gunmaster Owain Volker, of the Second Excelsis Expeditionary Force.’
Calva frowned. ‘Ironweld, are you?’
‘I have that honour.’
‘I would debate the use of that word.’ There was an undercurrent of disgust there. Volker winced. Not every Azyrite looked with favour upon the duardin. Just as many saw in the opening of the realmgates an opportunity to purify Azyr of what they considered to be impure elements. Calva studied him. ‘Sigmar, in his wisdom, sees fit to give your sort much leniency. But we are not in Azyrheim, and I am not Sigmar. Merely a humble servant of the Order of Azyr.’ He shook his head. ‘It has fallen to me to see that the Devoted of this city follow where the storm-winds blow, and not fall to the many heresies that plague these lower realms.’ He took another step towards Volker, resting his hammer in the crook of his arm. ‘What do you seek here, gunmaster? Why did this worm-girl scurry off to collect you, upon your arrival? Come to that, why come in such a secretive fashion?’
Volker wasn’t sure how to answer. How did this man know so much? He glanced at Nyoka, whose face was flushed with anger. He recognised that anger, for he’d known it before, and felt a twinge of sympathy. He cleared his throat. Before he could speak, Lugash did so for him. ‘And what business is it of yours, manling?’ the duardin growled.
‘I thought I had explained that – you must be as dim as you look, fyreslayer.’ Calva smiled thinly. ‘I was sent by the Grand Theogonist herself to see to the reorganisation of the Order of the Worm. For too long have they flouted proper celestial doctrine, in favour of benign heresy. If the Church of Sigmar is to retake its place as the guiding faith of man, all must follow its tenets, as laid down in the Age of Myth. Though I do not expect you to understand that, given that your folk worship a broken deity.’
Volker tensed, expecting an explosion of anger from the duardin. In
stead, Lugash laughed softly. ‘Yes, we do,’ he said. ‘But that is neither here nor there. We have business in this hall of words, and you will not keep us from it.’ He drew his war-iron and scraped it against his axe. The runes stamped in his flesh began to glow, and Lugash’s grin widened. ‘Though you may try, if you like.’
‘You willingly consort with this… creature, acolyte?’ Calva spat, glaring at Nyoka. ‘Perhaps you should have been purged from the Order, along with the others. It is becoming clear to me that your kind lack the spine to–’
‘To what?’ Nyoka said, meeting his glare. ‘You have no cause to prevent them from going in. The Libraria Vurmis is open to all who seek knowledge, lector. That is one of the central tenets of our oath. We died to keep this knowledge safe for all, not to lock it away for a privileged few.’
‘They died in Sigmar’s name,’ Calva said, stiffly.
‘And now you dishonour their sacrifice,’ Nyoka countered, not softly. Her words rang out over the courtyard. People had stopped, noticing the confrontation for the first time. Now they began to huddle, and a murmur of discontent rose. Calva grimaced. Whatever his faults, the old priest was observant enough to recognise what was happening.
It was becoming clear to Volker that the tension he’d noticed earlier hadn’t simply been his imagination. They’d walked into the middle of something that had been building for some time. It didn’t surprise him. The Grand Theogonist was well known for attempting to expand her influence beyond the Hallowhammer cathedrals of the devotional districts. She regularly harangued the Grand Conclave, attempting to bully them into allowing her witch-hunters greater freedom to act.
‘You dare…?’ Calva said. But more quietly. ‘Perhaps you have more spine than I gave you credit for.’ He glanced back at the libraria, considering. Then, with a disgruntled sigh, he stepped aside. ‘I do not know what is going on. But if I discover that it is heretical in nature, I will see you burn in the fires of righteousness.’ He gestured sharply, and the soldiers stepped aside, allowing them to pass. Volker felt Calva’s eyes on them the entire way as they climbed the stairs and entered the library.