Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  Volker pushed himself up. Luckily, he hadn’t lost his long rifle in the crash, but the weapon was tangled in the rail. He looked around, searching for the others. The Zank hung suspended in the monstrous canopy at a steep angle. Branches cascaded across the deck, clumped one atop the next, and vines hung down like curtains across the hull. Only the thickness of the greenery and the strength of the overgrown branches had kept the aethercraft from crashing to the ground far below. As Volker tried to stand, he almost lost his balance. The deck was tilted at a steep angle, the prow aimed downwards and the figurehead subsumed by the canopy. A thunderous creak echoed through the air as the deck shifted slightly, and pain shimmered through him.

  He groaned and rolled over. His side ached where he’d struck the rail, but nothing seemed broken. He heard a sound he thought was rain, tapping against the metal. He looked up. Something with too many eyes and too many legs looked back.

  The spider was the colour of rotten wood, and the size of a large dog. It clacked its mandibles and scuttled towards him. He rolled away from it, clawing for his artisan pistol. He whipped it out, but his vision blurred even as he pulled the trigger. The spider didn’t slow as the ball whizzed past it, to ricochet off the hull. Volker cursed and stumbled back, triggering the built-in blade concealed beneath the pistol’s barrel. The long blade extended with a click, even as the spider leapt. It struck Volker, knocking him flat against the sloped hull. The blade slid into its abdomen, and Volker twisted it as deep as it could go. Ichor spurted, covering his hand and splattering his face. There was a shrill sound – not quite a scream – and the creature spasmed. It flopped away from him, rolling down the tilted deck and vanishing into the thick canopy below. More tapping. More hissing.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Brondt said, from somewhere close by. ‘You move and they’ll be on you before you can scream.’ Volker froze. His skin crawled, as the sounds grew louder. The duardin was crouched in the branches that covered the deck, his white hair plastered to his scalp by blood. He aimed a pistol just past Volker. ‘Don’t move,’ Brondt said again. He blinked blood out of his eyes. ‘Sometimes they can spit poison.’

  Volker’s hand twitched towards his satchel. ‘I said, don’t move,’ Brondt snarled.

  ‘They’re getting closer,’ Volker muttered. ‘And you can’t see straight.’ He took a firm grip on his satchel. He heard a hiss. Brondt fired, and Volker rolled aside, pulling his satchel around. Something heavy bounced off the bag and fell scrabbling to the deck. Volker lunged with his pistol-blade, nailing the spider to the wood.

  He left it there and rolled back, just as a second arachnid scuttled towards him. A throwing axe bisected it. Volker glanced over his shoulder and saw Lugash clambering towards him through the greenery, the haft of his war-iron between his teeth and another throwing axe in his free hand. The fyreslayer grinned cheerfully around his weapon and let fly with the axe, smashing a third spider from the air. He retrieved his war-iron and laughed wildly. ‘Some fun, eh, manling?’ Kharadron crewmen, some wounded, but all armed, followed him. They took up positions with dogged efficiency, aiming volley guns and readying cutters.

  ‘No,’ Volker said, wrenching his pistol from the body of the spider he’d killed. He could hear shouts and the whine of aethercarbines. The webs that stretched across the canopy were alive with eight-legged forms, all converging on the downed craft. A screech from below alerted him to Harrow’s survival. He hoped the demigryph’s shifting around wouldn’t unbalance the craft any further.

  He stuffed his artisan pistol through his belt and drew one of his repeater pistols. Taking careful aim, he emptied the weapon into a clump of spiders, tearing the hairy bodies to wet chunks. Swiftly, he reloaded and fired again. More spiders died. But there were still hundreds coming. Too many. He glanced back at Brondt. ‘This craft of yours have any more tricks, captain?’

  The duardin was huddled near the aether-endrin, along with several other battered looking crewmen, muttering. He glared at Volker. ‘We used up all our tricks on the Great King, lad. Nothing left but fists and sharp sticks.’ He stood and drew his cutlass. He rubbed blood out of his face, smearing it into his hair and beard. He grinned savagely, and for a moment, the divide between Kharadron and fyreslayer didn’t seem so great. ‘Sometimes, it’s better that way.’

  The first wave of spiders crawled over the rail, moving in eerie silence. Then, from below, came the loud clang of hull-hatches being slammed open, followed by the roar of massed aethershot rifles. The trees echoed with the bellowing of duardin guns, as Volker suddenly remembered the Grundstok Thunderers Brondt had brought on board. Brondt laughed and chopped through a spider.

  ‘Worth every nugget, those lads,’ he said. ‘I was hoping they’d realise what was going on before we got swarmed.’

  ‘I thought you said you were out of tricks?’ Volker said, reloading his repeater pistol.

  ‘That? That’s not a trick. That’s just old-fashioned duardin ingenuity.’

  Lugash laughed and kicked a spider over the rail. The fyreslayer was covered in ichor, and was smiling widely. ‘I remember hunting magma-spiders with my brothers, when I was naught but a child. Our runefather used to promise a lump of gold to the one who killed the most…’ He laughed, and for a moment he seemed a very different duardin to the one Volker had become acquainted with over the past few days. The moment passed as quickly as it had come, however. Lugash made to chop through a spider, only to be beaten to it by Adhema, who darted out of nowhere, blade flickering.

  The vampire moved quicker than the eye could follow, her sword making short work of the remaining arachnids. When she’d finished, she turned and snagged the edge of Volker’s coat, using it to clean her blade. ‘Feh. A waste of time. Barely even worth the effort.’ Whether she was referring to the spiders, or the act of aiding them, Volker couldn’t say. Before he could ask, he saw Zana chopping her way through the broken branches and vines that shrouded the deck, followed by Nyoka and Roggen. Harrow followed the knight, squalling loudly, fur fluffed up and feathers stiff with agitation.

  ‘Keep that thing under control,’ Brondt snapped, as the demigryph swiped at a Kharadron. Roggen caught the beast’s beak and murmured softly to it. Nyoka pushed past Zana and began to move among the crew, seeing to the wounded.

  Down below, the Thunderers moved out across the branches and thicker sections of canopy, establishing a rough perimeter. Gunfire echoed rarely. The spiders had retreated, or died, leaving the immediate area free of their skittering. Volker checked his gear for damage, while the others armed themselves, or made use of the Zank’s food stores. He looked up as Nyoka bent to check his wounds.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Mostly bumps and bruises.’ The cut on his head wasn’t deep and had already dried up. Even the ache was fading, if slowly.

  ‘Yes.’ She lifted his medallion with a finger. ‘Sahg’mahr provides.’

  He took the medallion from her and tucked it back into his armour. ‘Yes. Let’s hope he continues to do so.’

  She smiled at him. Her smile was a strange thing, at once innocent and wise. She was unlike any of the Devoted he’d met. There was a calm to her that reminded him of the eye of the storm. ‘He will. He always does.’ She turned, and frowned. ‘The forest of Gorch,’ she said, staring at the heaving sargasso of vines, branches and leaves. ­‘Legend says its first saplings were watered by the blood of Gorkamorka and so grew larger than any trees should. So large that they threatened to blot out the sky, until Gorkamorka hurled his spear through the sun, and hooked great Ignax, the god-beast of Aqshy. When he dragged Ignax into Ghur, through the tunnel of sunlight, the beast’s fiery struggles scorched away the top of the forest, and stunted its growth forever.’

  ‘Not by much,’ Volker said.

  ‘No.’ She gripped his shoulder. ‘But enough. The gods do what they can. No more, and no less.’ She moved to check on Captain Brondt, who was inexpertly daubing at
his wounded scalp with a rag.

  As Nyoka bandaged his head, Brondt laid out the situation bluntly. ‘We’re done for,’ he said. He drew a thumb across his throat. ‘No sign of the gunhaulers, and no way of getting help, short of someone going and finding it.’

  ‘Can you get us back in the air?’ Zana asked. ‘What about the endrin?’

  ‘It’s busted,’ Brondt growled, tugging at the bandage Nyoka had just finished knotting. ‘Not permanently, but for the moment we’re stuck.’ He turned and kicked the crumpled aether-endrin. ‘Stuck upside down, in a canopy swarming with Grungni-be-damned spiders, and who knows what else.’ He kicked the endrin again, showering it with curses.

  ‘How long will it take to fix?’ Volker asked.

  ‘Hours. Perhaps days.’ Brondt shook his head. ‘If ever.’ He spat over the side.

  Volker straightened, and stared out over the canopy. He squinted. ‘Then we may as well take the long way.’

  ‘Where?’ Zana asked. ‘We don’t even know where we are.’

  ‘We’re in Gorch.’ Volker looked at Lugash. ‘Now we just have to find a tree in the forest. Should be easy enough.’

  Lugash nodded slowly. He peered out at the silent greenery. ‘The thunwurtgaz - the Heartwood. Largest tree in the forest. Just follow the roots and branches, and we’ll find it soon enough.’ He squinted. ‘Might take some time, though. Few days, at least.’

  Zana laughed. ‘You mean walk?’ She glanced at Adhema. ‘Can’t you summon some bats to carry us?’

  Adhema sneered. ‘Myself? Surely. You? No.’ She peered down into the darkness. ‘We’ll have to climb down.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s right,’ Volker said.

  ‘So, we’re just going to – what? – take a stroll in the forest? Have I mentioned that I hate the forest?’

  ‘Several times,’ Volker said. She had been complaining about it since they’d left Shu’gohl, though always in a somewhat jesting fashion. Now though, the humour had curdled into something less than mirthful.

  ‘Just making sure,’ Zana said. She hefted a coil of rope, one of several they’d taken from the ship’s stores, onto her shoulder and peered out over the canopy. Roggen and Lugash had similar coils, though the knight had hung his from the horn of his saddle. ‘Long way to go, if Lugash is right.’

  ‘I am right,’ Lugash snapped. He poked his brow. ‘It’s all up here, woman. Right where I put it.’

  ‘That is very comforting,’ Nyoka said. She smiled placidly at the scowling doomseeker. ‘And if you forget, Sahg’mahr will surely provide.’

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to bother him.’ Volker picked up another coil of rope and glanced at Roggen. ‘This must feel like home for you.’

  ‘No,’ the knight said, staring into the greenery. ‘Not all forests are alike. This one is… hungry. But patient.’ He pulled on his helmet. ‘We will need to be careful. We are not welcome here.’

  ‘Do forests anywhere welcome people?’ Zana asked.

  Roggen glanced at her. ‘Some. Fewer, now.’ He bent to check Harrow’s saddle. ‘A forest is like an animal. You must let it get used to you, before you can walk its paths. You must learn its moods, before you can do so safely.’

  ‘Safe being a relative term,’ Zana said.

  Roggen nodded. ‘Yes. If we move quietly, we should be fine,’ he said, patting Harrow’s flank. ‘I have travelled through spider-haunts such as this before. Do not touch the webs, unless you must. Any excess vibrations will bring them, in their hundreds.’ He hauled himself into the saddle. ‘We will go first, and mark the path.’

  Volker frowned. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? She’s quite heavy.’

  Roggen smiled. ‘She is light on her paws. And we have done this many times.’ He gave her a thump with his heels, and the demigryph leapt silently from the deck. The great beast moved with feline agility, springing from branch to branch, until it struck the slanted expanse of what appeared to be an immense bridge of wood below.

  ‘This is a probably nothing more than an evening stroll to that murder-cat of his,’ Zana muttered. Volker chuckled as he slung his rifle across his back and picked up the coil of rope. He looked at Brondt, who handed him a heavy, pistol-like device. Volker shoved it into his satchel with a nod of thanks.

  ‘When you’ve found the place, fire this into the air. If we’re able, we’ll come looking.’ He clasped Volker’s forearm in a tight grip. ‘Maker walk with you, Azyrite.’

  ‘And you, captain.’

  ‘Watch out for spiders, Brondt,’ Zana called, as she clambered over the rail.

  They made their way down slowly, and with much muffled cursing, using ropes, vines and outsized leaves for handholds. Adhema was the only one who suffered no difficulty, descending like a lizard, her armour making barely a clatter. When they reached the large pathway of wood below, Volker saw that it had, in some way, been shaped into what could only be an immense bridge, connecting one tree to another.

  ‘They used heat and air to shape the branches into sky paths,’ Lugash said, peering about him. ‘Don’t know why they bothered, when there’s likely good stone under the dirt.’ He frowned. ‘They did to this ­forest what we normally do to mountain ranges – made tunnels from the roots and branches, and holds from the trees.’ He shook his head. ‘They were odd ones, no two ways there. But then, it isn’t unusual for a lodge to go a bit funny, with isolation.’

  ‘I’ve read that there are hot springs, somewhere below,’ Nyoka said. ‘Whole oceans churn beneath the ground, though most are deeper than any mortal can reach. Seas that carry the wealth of the deep dark within their waters. Perhaps that is why they came.’

  Lugash shrugged. ‘Maybe. Still odd.’ He peered at a series of markings carved on the side. They made little sense to Volker, though they looked similar to the deep-cant used by the clans of the Dispossessed to mark their tunnels. Lugash extended his war-iron. ‘We go east from here. Stay close.’

  The branch-path swayed and creaked gently as they followed Lugash. It reminded Volker of the stone bridges he’d seen beneath Excelsis – the secret roads of the Dispossessed, extending for leagues in all directions through the stultifying dark. The sides of the path were roughly carved, but burnt smooth and black. They rose higher than a man’s head, and had been engraved with figures, maps and other, less identifiable shapes. One section was dominated by an intricate mural depicting the path’s construction, and the builders’ battles with spiders and worse things. Great bats had slumbered in the highest branches, as well as monsters with the heads of stags and the bodies of hawks.

  The path travelled through the trees, rather than around them. Gate-houses and waystations, silent now save for the soft scuttling of unseen insects, enveloped the pathway at regular intervals. The wood of the trees had been bent away and pushed outwards, without cracking or breaking it, cultivated into a hollow space of curved walls and parapets. The interiors of these hollows were vast and empty, save for where they were dominated by thick curtains of webbing. More carvings decorated the walls, and statues as well, hewn from the interior of the tree and shaped with great care. But there was no sign of life or the activity that might once have echoed through them.

  Often, Volker noted steps curving downwards or upwards in these places, leading somewhere out of sight. Heat rose from unseen depths, making the air muggy. Iron grates had been set into the floors of the waystations, and a damp warmth gusted up occasionally, as the group passed over them. ‘They channelled the heat from an underground source,’ Lugash had said, when Volker had questioned him about it. ‘Easy enough to do, in a mountain. Harder in wood.’ He’d glared at the statues then, as if questioning their propriety.

  The sheer scale of it all was staggering. Only duardin would think to make a fortress, or a city, from a forest. To link each tree, and every branch, slowly, constantly, down the long road of years. They had careful
ly shaped their environment, bending it to their will with a determination greater than any he’d known. But then, that was their way. The duardin were like stones in the sea, unchanging and unmoveable. When they set their minds to it, the world had no choice but to bend to their will, or be broken.

  But now, that will was gone. And in its place, something else had risen to claim the fruits of that ancient labour. The forest had not been tamed, at least not fully, and now it had gone savage. Monsters stalked the high places and the low.

  Often, they heard the bellicose chortle of troggoths from within the belly of a ruined tree-structure, or the lumbering thud of enormous footsteps. Once, they were forced to stop as a troop of gargants plodded by beneath them, causing the branch-path to shudder and sway dangerously. The brutes were covered in spiral tattoos and ritual scarification, wearing shrouds of vine and web. Volker wasn’t surprised. Where else would gargants live, but a gargantuan forest?

  ‘They’re on the hunt for something,’ Lugash muttered, as the great beasts vanished into the gloom. ‘Not us, but something.’

  ‘As long as it’s not us, I don’t care,’ Zana said. ‘Let’s keep going.’

  They camped that first night in the hollow bulb of what had once been a waystation. A deep chamber had been cut into the trunk of a tree, the walls smoothed by heat and blade. Runes and pictographs covered the interior, though Lugash refused to share their meaning. Indeed, the doomseeker didn’t even look at them as he lit a fire, using scraps of wood and vegetation, in the iron bowl set into a groove at the chamber’s centre.

  Rain began to fall as they settled in, striking the canopy with a rhythmic patter. Adhema sat well back from the fire, where only the barest edge of the light reached. Volker glanced at her every so often, and thought she looked as if she were listening to something no one else could hear. If the vampire noticed him watching her, she gave no sign.