Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  ‘What about Roggen?’ Nyoka said, looking back at the plaza.

  ‘You heard him. He’ll be fine.’ Zana squinted. ‘I can’t see anything. Lugash?’

  ‘Nothing to see,’ Lugash rumbled.

  ‘Wait a moment.’ Volker turned, reaching into his satchel for a glow-bag. The small sack was filled with a paste made from the excretions of a particular worm, found only in the sea-caves below Excelsis. When pressure was applied to the paste, it glowed. He squeezed the glow-bag and tossed it to his left. A pale, yellow light rose up, washing away the gloom.

  The entry hall was little more than a set of wide, slabbed steps, carved from the inner bark, and rising to a narrow landing. Large rusty braziers, each the size of several men, had been set into the edge of the landing, their clawed feet gripping the wood. The braziers were draped with dust and cobwebs, and had been cold for years. The walls behind them were covered in crude scrawling – the work of grots. The greenskins had defaced the entirety of the entry hall with their primitive efforts – brute pictograms and handprints covered the walls. The statues that had once stood sentry over the inner gate, at the opposite end of the landing, had been hacked from their pedestals and chopped to flinders.

  Spider nests clustered in the corners and webs hung like drapery from the low roof and walls. Everything stank of grot and arachnid where it did not reek of skaven. For it was clear that the ratkin had passed this way, as well. Scorch marks undulated across the walls, and bodies hung silent and small in the webs. Blood had soaked into the steps and landing, staining them a deep, dark hue.

  More stakes lined the steps, each one topped by a duardin skull, or decorated with chunks of effluent-encrusted gold. Many of these had fallen over during whatever skirmish had taken place, scattering bones and gold across the steps. A narrow archway, carved to ­resemble a crackling flame, occupied the landing. Beyond it – darkness.

  Lugash led the way up the long stretch of steps, his frown growing deeper with every step. The runes hammered into his flesh flashed and sparked, as if a volcanic heat was growing within him. Nyoka reached for his shoulder, but did not – quite – touch him. ‘We will avenge your folk,’ she said. ‘Gryhm’neer’s children are as dear to Sahg’mahr as his own.’

  Lugash didn’t look at her. ‘Grimnir tests us with pain, and rewards us with fire,’ he said. ‘That is the way of it. The dead are embers, and this –’ He held up his axe, ‘–this is the light of my flame.’ He shook himself, and stumped on ahead. ‘Besides, this lodge was not mine. These were not my kin. Let others avenge them. I have my own ghosts to appease.’

  Nyoka blinked, and looked uncertainly at the others. Zana shook her head. ‘Forget it, priestess. Easier to convince lead that it’s gold, than comfort a doomseeker.’ She looked around, eyes narrowing. ‘Wait a moment… we’re missing someone.’

  ‘The leech,’ Lugash said, without turning.

  Volker looked around. They were right.

  There was no sign of Adhema.

  Seventeen

  The Halls of The Heartwood

  In the halls of the Heartwood, Volker reached for another glow-bag, and sent it rolling across the landing of the entry, and through the archway. The soft glow illuminated a slender walkway carved whole from the inner bark of the tree. ‘Hand me one of those,’ he said, indicating the iron-framed lanterns hanging to either side of the archway. Zana brought one to him, and he emptied the contents of a glow-bag into it, smearing it across the inside of the frame. ‘It’ll last a bit longer, this way. Old miner’s trick.’

  ‘Not any miner I’ve heard of,’ she said.

  Volker shrugged. ‘You don’t know the right miners.’ He hung the lantern from the barrel of his rifle and lifted it. Light swept out, illuminating the innumerable cracks and crevices that marred the inner bark of the Heartwood.

  ‘Where do you think she went? Back outside?’ Nyoka looked around, hammer gripped tightly. The priestess seemed at home in the cramped, shadowy space. Zana, on the other hand, looked like Volker felt. Despite his admiration for the deep-folk, he had little liking for tunnels or confined spaces. He turned, casting the lantern’s glow over their surroundings, seeking any sign of the vampire.

  Adhema wasn’t anywhere to be found. She might have climbed higher than they could see, or slipped past them. No. She would be close. She might be ahead of them, or following, but she was nearby. He’d have wagered a year’s pay on it. ‘Hold this.’ He handed his rifle to Zana and reloaded his repeater pistols quickly.

  Distant shrieks echoed from the great, web-clogged holes that marked the walls and ceiling like old wounds. The webs pulsed, and Volker knew reinforcements were on the way. ‘They’ve realised we’re here.’ He holstered his pistols and reclaimed his rifle. ‘There’s no time to waste worrying about Adhema. She’ll have to fend for herself, just like Roggen.’ He looked at Lugash. ‘We need to keep moving.’

  ‘Aye, and where?’ Lugash said, peering about.

  ‘You’re the fyreslayer – where would you hide a bloody great spear?’ Zana said.

  ‘The vault,’ Lugash said, after a moment, padding deeper into the gloom. ‘Anything valuable is always in the vault. And that’ll be at the heart of this place. Follow me.’

  They followed the doomseeker through the archway, and onto the walkway. The freestanding path extended through a vast gallery, the upper reaches of which were lost to the darkness, or to enormous webs that occupied the open stretches. The space stank of greenskin and spider. By the lantern light, Volker saw immense support structures had been carved from the inner bark. All of them were hewn in the shape of duardin gods and monsters, curving around, following the circumference of the ancient tree. Smaller, more intricate carvings had been crafted beneath and between these vast effigies, though they were all but impossible to discern. These too had seen the attentions of the Spiderfang, and cascades of webbing covered them, connecting smaller figures to larger, or blanketing them entirely.

  The walkway proved to be one of many – half a dozen others extended from all directions, out of the gloom, and all connected to a circular platform, through which was thrust a curving staircase that descended deeper into the tree. The upper tangles of the staircase reached towards the highest branches of the tree, and more walkways were visible above. Peering upwards, Volker could just make out the odd buttress or protrusion – high chambers and outer galleries, all of which showed some signs of infestation.

  As he followed Lugash down the cramped stairwell, he wondered how long it would take to explore a place such as this properly. More time than a mortal man had, he concluded, somewhat sadly.

  Lugash stopped suddenly. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘The Salamazgalbarak – the Salamander’s Road.’ The aperture clung to the side of the stairwell. It was shaped like a salamander’s snarling maw, and Volker had to stoop to avoid getting splinters from the protruding fangs. The path was wider than he’d expected, and appeared to have been cored through the deepest rings of the Heartwood.

  It led to a large gallery, studded with balconies and intertwining pathways that rose and fell like roots. Stairways became ladders and ladders became tunnels, all winding back towards a central chamber, nestled at the tree’s heart. ‘It was the first place they carved – it’s always the first place we carve,’ Lugash said. ‘The vault is the heart of a lodge, in more ways than one. Our citadels grow outwards from it, generation upon generation.’

  Everywhere were signs of battle. Pockmarked, scorched walls and floors crumbling into ash. Dried smears of blood and tattered webs. Volker had fought the skaven often enough to recognise the signs of jezzail fire and warp-flame. They had fought their way inside, likely supported by armoured beasts and weapons teams. Ferocious as the Spiderfang were, they’d been no match for the better-armed and equally numerous ratkin.

  ‘Hard to believe the vermin got this far,’ Zana said, peering at the damaged walls.
<
br />   ‘They can be tenacious, when they want something,’ Nyoka said. ‘And disciplined, besides.’ Volker shivered slightly, remembering his time in the trenches and the chittering hordes scuttling through the smoke.

  ‘It’s probably a good thing,’ Zana said. ‘Otherwise, we’d never have got this far. The skaven must’ve knocked six golden bells out of the greenskins.’ A scream echoed up from somewhere, and she whirled, sword drawn. The scream faded, its echo bouncing from the walls and broken statues that littered the corridor. They waited, weapons ready, but no grots showed themselves. ‘Occupied elsewhere,’ Zana murmured.

  ‘I’m sure Roggen is fine,’ Volker said.

  ‘Sahg’mahr watches over him,’ Nyoka said. ‘As he watches over us.’

  ‘It’s not Roggen I’m worried about. It’s that bloody leech. She’s up to no good.’ Zana frowned and gestured at Volker with her sword. ‘You made a mistake, letting her come with us, Azyrite.’

  ‘How was it my decision?’ he protested. ‘I’m not in charge.’

  ‘Well, someone is in charge, and it’s not me,’ Zana snapped. They both looked at Nyoka, who seemed bemused.

  ‘I am but a humble priestess. Not a leader of men.’

  ‘Quiet, the lot of you,’ Lugash snarled. He’d stopped at the entrance to a balcony, overlooking the tree’s heart. The thick rail had been torn apart, possibly by a skaven weapon. Lugash sank to his haunches. ‘There was a fight here,’ he said, rubbing a bit of grit between his fingers. ‘A dozen duardin, by the boot-prints. We’ve crossed their trail several times now. Must’ve cut their way in, and fought their way up. Tough.’

  ‘Oken,’ Volker said. His heart leapt. If Oken had made it this far, perhaps he’d already found the spear. Volker touched one of the powder burns on the wall and tasted the residue on his finger. ‘It was definitely him.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ Zana asked.

  ‘I recognise the mixture.’ He hawked and spat, clearing the taste from his mouth. ‘We’re on the right trail.’

  ‘They must’ve used the skaven attack as a distraction. The grots would’ve been too preoccupied fighting the ratmen to see off a small group like that.’ Zana spoke clinically. Calculatingly. ‘Good plan.’

  ‘It didn’t work,’ Nyoka said. She traced the wall with her hand. Her head was cocked, as if she were listening for something. ‘The skaven fought their way down from above and up from below, trapping them.’

  ‘They pressed on, from here,’ Lugash growled. ‘Look – they blew down a walkway, used it to cut across. Risky, that.’

  ‘Not for Oken,’ Volker said. The balcony had ended at the entrance to one of the twisting walkways. Someone had used explosives, planted at the opposite end and likely lit by use of a powder trail, to send the walkway crashing down a level and creating a makeshift ramp. It would have been a difficult descent, but preferable to fighting their way through the entangled tunnels and corridors. ‘Look, rock-claws.’ He nudged a metal grapple, sunk deep into the ruptured wood. ‘And they’ve left the ropes.’

  ‘They expected to come back,’ Zana said.

  ‘They didn’t,’ Lugash said.

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ Volker said, extending the lantern out over the fallen walkway. He hefted one of the ropes and gave it an experimental tug. ‘And that’s why we’re going down.’ He hooked the lantern to his belt, slung his rifle and took hold of one of the ropes. ‘Stay up here if you like, but I’m taking the light with me.’

  Zana chuckled. ‘And that’s why you’re in charge.’

  Yuhdak of the Ninefold Path, last prince of the City of Tiers, pulled his blade from the body of a grot, and sighed. Small green bodies littered the wooden corridor behind him, stretching back to the entrance he’d made, in various states of destruction. Curtains of tattered webbing fluttered about him as he stepped over the newest body and pressed on.

  His landing had not been an easy one. The mortal’s rifle ball had struck him in the head. The crystal of his helmet was cracked and broken in places and his ears still rang. Only the magics wrought into his armour and woven into his robes had saved him when he’d slipped from his perch atop the Great King’s head.

  He had crashed into the canopy of Gorch and been set upon by hungry spiders. Hundreds of them. He had burned them from the trees, and their webs with them. The survivors had recognised the fire for what it was, and fled. He had followed, trusting in the Changer of Ways to guide his path, even as the rulers of the forest had dogged his trail.

  Yuhdak had fought his way down through the forest, by spell and blade, until he reached the highest branches of the place he sought. The duardin had colonised the forest, one tree at a time. They had travelled through branches, hollowed out to make sky-bridges, or along roots smoothed and flattened to make roads, stretching between immense towers of bark. An industrious folk, though blind to the greater cosmic truth.

  Every branch and root stretched back to this place – the oldest and greatest tree in a forest of such trees. Higher than the tallest spires of the City of Tiers, with roots sunk more deeply than any skaven burrow, it was a place unlike any other. But as with the rest of the realm, it had suffered. The duardin who had hollowed it out and made it over into a citadel were long gone, and a new folk had claimed it.

  Yuhdak spun, his sword licking out to remove a creeping grot’s head. Two more lunged at him from bore-holes in the walls and ceiling, clutching stone blades. Another burst from the webs, tattooed fingers gripping the haft of a crudely made spear.

  The scrawny shapes fell one by one, joining the rest, as the sigils on his blade glowed more brightly with each death. The weapon stretched in his grip, pleased. The daemon bound within the iron was a thing of simple hungers. Or it had been, once. With every life it took, it grew stronger, testing the sigils that held it trapped. Soon it might even resist him, or worse, seek to turn in his hand. The only trustworthy thing about daemons was that you couldn’t trust them, even with your heel on their throat.

  The thing in the blade whined in sudden agitation. The hilt squirmed in his grip. He murmured softly to it, wishing his murder-flock were here. He had not seen a single raven since his fall from the Great King. He did not think they had abandoned him. Then, like the daemon in his sword, they were not truly trustworthy. The blade whined again. Improbably, something had frightened it.

  And that something was watching him. Yuhdak could feel the weight of its attentions now. It was no daemon or sending. Nor was it simply a beast. But something else. He turned, lifting his hand. Witchfire crawled about his fingers, casting its strange light to the far corners of the ruin. In the flickering glow, he could make out the barbarous markings daubed on the walls. The grots were possessed of a manic creativity, when they weren’t busy eating each other. Curious despite himself, Yuhdak examined the markings.

  The symbols were easy to decipher. His glowing fingers traced markings relating to the weather, and great battles – mostly ambushes. But there was something else, one symbol repeated over and over again. That of the spider. Not unexpected, perhaps, given the nature of the grots’ particular breed of savagery. But there was something…

  He touched one of the eight-legged symbols, and froze. Whatever was watching him was no longer doing so passively. Instead, it was studying him with the cool gaze of a hunter that had sighted its prey. The sword quivered in his hand, the daemon screaming a warning in his head. He whirled, slashing at shadows. Shadows with too many legs, too many eyes.

  In the dark, something spoke.

  Yuhdak shuddered as that awful voice scraped against the walls of his soul. It was not the voice of a thinking being, but instead that of a force of nature. It battered at him, and he stumbled back, shaking his head, desperate to clear it. The voice continued to scythe into him, peeling his thoughts back. He tried to resist, but it was too powerful. This place belonged to it, as all places like this belonge
d to it.

  He dropped to one knee and hastily carved sigils in the rough bark of the floor. As he turned, still carving, the voice grew dim. When the last protective mark had been carved, it fell away, like the sound of a distant storm. But it did not disperse. Breathing heavily, he tried to gather his scattered thoughts.

  There were spiders watching him. Hundreds of them. Small ones mostly, no bigger than his finger, but with a few larger, fist-sized ones mixed in. All of them clung to the webs, their glittering eyes fixed on him. And whatever he’d felt was watching him through those eyes. He felt a chill as he realised what it was he faced. The Spider God. Not a true god, but as good as, in the places where it chose to spin its webs. Places like this.

  True god or no, it was as much a predator as the Great King. And just as dangerous.

  Yuhdak forced himself to remain calm. There was no profit in panic. To run or flee would only see him brought low. He needed to think. To–

  The weight of the god’s attentions suddenly shifted. Yuhdak stared into the dark as he heard a familiar croak and the flutter of wings. A stream of avian bodies filled the corridor, racing forwards to swoop down on the spiders. The ravens spun about him, a typhoon of feathers and talons. He felt the awful weight of the Spider God retract, with the instinctual wariness of a beast confronted by something new.

  Then, it was gone, scuttling away, back into the dark places, to seek easier prey. He looked up as the leader of the flock extended her hand. ‘Are you injured?’ she asked, hauling him to his feet.

  ‘Only my pride. Your flock?’

  She shrugged. ‘We persist. The Kharadron do not. All is as the Great Raven wills.’ She peered at the webs. For the first time, he heard a flicker of emotion in her voice. ‘We have incurred the wrath of something old. It has retreated, but is still close by.’

  ‘The Spider God,’ Yuhdak said. ‘A facet of Gorkamorka.’ He hesitated. ‘I think.’ He felt the old lure of forbidden knowledge. Part of him yearned to study this place and the presence he felt here. To unpick the strands of its web and see what crouched at the centre. But there were some cocoons best left unravelled.