Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ Volker said. Arrows pattered against the ground at his feet, and they ducked behind the mechanisms controlling the vault-chains. Spiders skittered towards them, their greenskin riders practically gibbering in eagerness to come to grips with an enemy they easily outnumbered.

  But just before the spiders reached them, they suddenly scattered, retreating swiftly. Horns blew and the grots shrilled warnings. The chamber shook as a gust of heat billowed up from the cistern. Volker turned, a curse dying on his lips.

  The arachnarok surged up out of the pit, its hairy body aflame and its great legs stabbing down with ballista-like force, to crack the wooden floor. It emitted a scream of frustration and pain, casting about blindly. Driblets of fire splashed across the floor, turning the wood black. ‘Looks like there’s still some fight in her,’ Lugash said, eyeing the creature. ‘Not for long, though.’ He sprinted towards the beast before Volker could stop him. Volker hooked Oken’s cocoon and dragged it into cover.

  ‘He’s going to get himself killed,’ he said.

  ‘We can but follow the paths the gods have laid out before us,’ Nyoka said. She peered up at the arachnarok as it stepped over them. ‘Still, that is a very big spider.’

  The creature wailed as one of its legs slammed down, narrowly missing the sorcerer. He rolled to his feet and hacked at the monstrous spider, ignoring the flames that licked at his robes. The monster turned, following him. Volker grunted in satisfaction, hoping they’d kill each other – or at least give him time to reload.

  Smoke flooded the chamber, rising from the now burning webs and crackling wood. Everywhere the arachnarok trod, it spread the flames. ‘Mixture was off,’ he muttered to himself. The fire wasn’t going out, as it should have. Instead, the whole chamber was rapidly becoming an inferno. Burning strands of web drifted down from above and the atmosphere grew stifling. He saw Zana staggering towards him, beating at flames on her clothing. He reached out and hauled her into cover.

  Between coughs, she said, ‘This is your doing, isn’t it?’

  ‘The mixture was off,’ he said. ‘Where’s Adhema?’

  ‘Staying out of the way,’ the vampire said, from her perch atop the mechanism. ‘The birdies are flying the coop, poppet.’ She pointed.

  Volker saw a storm of ravens spiralling away towards the safety of the tunnels. Some of them didn’t make it, and were caught by the flames, or the arachnarok’s snapping mandibles. ‘Where’s the sorcerer?’

  ‘I lost track of him once that creature started blundering around. If he’s smart, he’s already run…’ She twisted, bounding from her perch as a blade thudded down, chopping into the wood.

  ‘No one has ever accused me of intelligence,’ the Arcanite said, stepping through the smoke. He motioned, and a line of flame drove Volker and the others back, separating them from Adhema. Within the flames, hateful faces leered and gibbered, hissing curses and whispering secrets. The sorcerer tore his blade free of the mechanism as Adhema lunged for him. He parried her blow and gestured, spitting syllables, and she screamed as an amethyst light suffused her form. Her ­marble flesh was suddenly riven by black cracks and her armour squealed and began to flake away into rust. She staggered back, clutching at her head. Her hair was going white, even as her face shrank in on itself.

  ‘But then, perhaps I am not alone in my foolishness,’ he continued. He raised his sword, intending to bury it in Adhema’s heart. ‘First you, and then the rest.’

  The smoke behind him billowed and burst wide, disgorging a massive feline shape. The sorcerer turned, visible eye widening. Then he was falling backwards, buried beneath the bulk of a snarling demigryph. Roggen leaned forwards in his saddle and brought his mace down, smashing the sword from the sorcerer’s grip and sending it clattering away. ‘My apologies for my tardiness, my friends. It took me forever to find my way through this maze.’

  The knight looked much the worse for wear, his armour battered and scored by blows, and his helmet missing. Blood matted his hair and arms, but his strength seemed undiminished. Harrow too was covered in blood and wounds. The broken shafts of arrows stuck out of her hide, and her beak was chipped. The demigryph snapped at the sorcerer’s head. As she did so, his form wavered like moonlight and bled away into a radiant fog, which soon became lost in the smoke and flame.

  ‘Coward,’ Roggen said. ‘Always, they run.’ He slid from the saddle, stumbled, straightened. He was breathing heavily. ‘Still, for the best, I think. We could do with a rest.’ He glanced at Adhema. Her hair had darkened once more, though black veins still marked her cheeks. ‘Do you yet persist, my lady?’

  ‘I persist,’ she rasped, ignoring his proffered hand. ‘Only my pride was injured.’

  ‘I’m sure it will heal quickly,’ Zana said. Adhema hissed.

  The vampire looked at Roggen. ‘You saved me some pain, mortal. I’ll not forget that.’ She cocked her head. ‘Unless I do.’

  Roggen bowed his shaggy head in acknowledgement. Before he could speak, the arachnarok screamed again, reminding them that it was somehow, improbably, still active. The great spider staggered back towards the pit, flames dripping from its massive shape. It was dead, but didn’t know it yet. A brawny shape clung to its abdomen, hacking away. Lugash, Volker realised with a start.

  The fyreslayer seemed utterly unperturbed by the flames licking about him, as he chopped at the arachnarok’s flesh. The monster staggered, slamming into a support column. Wood cracked and smouldered. Lugash was thrown from his perch. He rolled across the ground, narrowly avoiding the arachnarok’s legs as it flailed about, trying to regain its balance. It screeched again, a subsonic wail of confusion and agony.

  By some instinct, it managed to home in on the stunned doomseeker. It rose up over him as he clambered dazedly to his feet. Volker lifted his rifle, knowing it was useless. Before he could pull the trigger, the chamber began to shake. The ceiling cracked, not from the heat of the rising flames but from something above.

  A moment later, an explosion tore open the chamber, splitting the ceiling and sending immense shards of burning wood hurtling down. One of the largest pierced the arachnarok through, like a well-thrown spear, pinning the giant spider to the floor of the chamber. The sudden updraught drew the fire aloft, simultaneously snuffing much of it out. Dust and splinters rained down, mingling with the smoke.

  Heavy ladders, made from chains and metal slats, clattered down from above. Weighted on the bottoms, they struck the floor and anchored themselves. Armoured figures clambered down quickly, weapons on their backs. As they dropped to the ground, they assumed a defensive formation. Any grots that hadn’t already fled were shot down with ruthless efficiency by the Grundstok Thunderers. The armoured Kharadron spread out, moving to secure the chamber.

  A moment later, Captain Brondt climbed down to join them. ‘Still alive then? Good.’ He stumped towards them, grinning widely around his cheroot, his head still bandaged. ‘That’s a favour you owe me, Mathos. For an even three, I’ll even give you transport out of this forest.’

  ‘Three? You dirty chiseller!’ Zana was on her feet. ‘Two, and I won’t say anything about that night in Haar-Kesh.’

  Brondt blanched. ‘You swore you’d take that secret to your grave,’ he said. He pointed his cheroot at her. ‘Two and a half, and I’ll forget you broke that vow.’

  ‘Two, or I’ll break more than that.’ Zana sheathed her sword with a flourish.

  Brondt grimaced. ‘Fine. Two.’

  Ignoring them, Volker dropped to his knees beside the cocoon. Nyoka was already working on it, carefully stripping the rough strands away from Oken’s semi-conscious form. The old duardin stirred with a groan. ‘O-Owain?’

  ‘It’s me, old one.’

  ‘Thought… dreaming…’ Oken slurred. ‘Spider…’

  ‘It’s dead. And you’re alive.’

  ‘Gung,’ Oken said. H
e gripped Volker’s arm tightly and tried to haul himself up, despite Nyoka’s protestations. ‘They took it, boy,’ he croaked, eyes wide and wild. ‘The skaven have the Spear of Shadows. And gods help whatever fool gets in their way.’

  Twenty

  Warp-Wheel

  The massive conglomeration of rusted iron, bronze and steel sped along the Amber Steppes, leaving the grasses aflame in its wake. It resembled nothing so much as an immense wheel, spinning about a central sphere. The wheel was as wide as a castle wall and lined with gouging teeth of iron, which caught the earth and tore it apart wherever the machine passed. It roared like a wounded animal as it ploughed ever forwards, emitting green-tinged smoke from various vents and orifices, which poisoned the air just above the burnt grasslands.

  A herd of wild horses stampeded ahead of the monstrous engine, their screams of terror lost within the mechanical cacophony. Some of the animals, slower than the others, were caught and dragged beneath the wheel, their thrashing bodies ground to a bloody mulch. Others were incinerated by the occasional bursts of warpfire that blasted from the dripping cannon muzzles studding the central sphere. Raging wildfires spread outwards from the wheel, sweeping across the steppes.

  ‘Well?’ Warlock Engineer Quell, formerly of the Clan Skryre, now a clan of one, hissed, staring at his assistant. The device currently juddering its way across the steppes was both his crowning achievement and the current object of his frustration. He sat in his throne within the command chamber. Whistling pipes, sparking conduits and trembling control devices filled the compartment, each one an invaluable part of a magnificent whole. His crew-rats scurried back and forth, seeing to the needs of the great machine, keeping it on course and intact.

  Just like Vex was supposed to be doing. Quell’s assistant rubbed his blistered snout with a gloved paw. ‘Spiders everywhere,’ he grunted. The acolyte wore heavy goggles over his eyes to protect them from the light of the engines. He was ugly, even for a skaven. His ears had been burnt to raw nubs and most of his hair had been scorched away, leaving him a scarred, hunched thing. A bandolier of tools, mostly filched from other acolytes, hung across his scrawny chest, and he played with them constantly, much to Quell’s annoyance. ‘Need to burn them out, yes-yes.’

  ‘No-no,’ Quell chittered, in frustration. ‘Fool! Idiot! No fire. Too many gases, too much pressure – you might kill us all.’ He threw up his paws in despair. ‘Surrounded by idiot-fools, yes-yes! Punishment from the Great Horned Rat! Doomed. Doomed!’

  ‘They’re just spiders,’ Vex muttered.

  ‘This engine is impregnable,’ Quell snarled. Saliva spattered the lenses of Vex’s goggles. ‘It was sabotage. Do not lie!’ He pointed an accusing talon at his assistant. ‘I will know-sense if you are lying.’

  ‘Not lying, no-no, most impressive of tutors,’ Vex assured him, unctuously. Vex did everything unctuously. It was his single redeeming quality as far as Quell was concerned. Quell believed him, for Vex was too stupid to sabotage a work of genius like the warp-wheel, the spawn of Quell’s magnificent intellect. The greatest weapon the realms had ever seen, or would see. He slumped back on the mouldering cushions of the command throne, idly chewing on a cracked talon. Despite a few mishaps, the first test of the war-engine had been completed successfully.

  The tree-citadel had been easy enough to crack, though not without some difficulty. The gyroscopic actuator needed fine-tuning, for one. Climbing the Bastion of Excelsis would be a far more perilous prospect than rolling up the side of an overlarge, spider-infested tree. And the warpfire throwers had not performed to expectations.

  But all in all, he was pleased. As Warpfang would, no doubt, be pleased. He yanked on his whiskers, annoyed by the thought. Warpfang – that decrepit, dismissive old beast – did not deserve such a glorious weapon as this. Cruel fate had bestowed unearned gifts upon the Grand High Clawmaster, and Quell longed to snatch at least one of them back.

  A small movement caught his eye. His paw slammed down, squashing the spider. His good mood evaporated. There were spiders everywhere, lurking in the ducts, spinning webs in his precious mechanisms, laying eggs, eating his rats, poisoning his slaves. The warp-wheel was inundated with eight-legged vermin. Not to mention grots. Somehow, in some way, a pack of the scrawny greenskins had got on board. Now the majority of Quell’s crew were busy trying to hunt them down, rather than exterminating the spiders.

  Quell ground the twitching remains of the spider to paste. ‘Handle it, Vex. Or I will.’

  Vex bowed, snivelling respectfully. He hurried from the bridge, snarling at the slaves chained to the bulkhead on his way. Quell sank back into his cushions, snout wrinkled in frustration. They were off schedule, thanks to the infestation.

  The only solution was to return to his lair at Lion Crag and commence a full extermination procedure, one level at a time. The warp-wheel would need to be cleansed of the infestation before he could allow it back into the field. Warpfang wouldn’t like that. Quell snickered. All the more reason to do it, then.

  He flinched, suddenly. A strange tone quavered through the hull, startling his slaves and inciting the sudden release of fear-musk. Pawing at his snout, he thrust himself out of his throne with a hiss of annoyance.

  It had been singing since they’d found it sitting down there in the dark. Right where Skewerax had said it would be. Quell’s lip curled, at the thought of the daemon. His other patron. Skewerax was influential, if stupid, and all too willing to share what he knew with others. A fool, but a mighty one. And murderous – extremely murderous.

  He padded towards a ladder descending into the heart of the war machine and slid down it with a chitter of annoyance. Slaves and crew-rats scurried out of his path as he loped along the narrow gantry leading to the engine chamber.

  Two armoured, fume-masked stormvermin guarded the chamber. The black-furred warriors stepped aside at Quell’s gesture, though not without some hesitation. He hissed at them in annoyance, but chastised them no further. They were still Warpfang’s warriors, and far more afraid of him than of Quell. Soon that might change, but for the time being the warlock engineer was content, if not happy.

  After all, without Warpfang’s generous supply of expendable bodies, he would never have managed to acquire the last element his glorious machine needed. He slunk into the chamber, and the oscillation overgrinder pulsed in its housing, as if in welcome. The dimensional orrery was composed of seven hundred and eighty-four separate parts, all handcrafted by the most dexterous of slaves, to his specifications.

  The great orrery whirred perpetually, one ring within the next, even as the dais turned, thanks to the efforts of the slaves chained to its base. The motion of the gyroscopic orrery was what propelled the warp-wheel along on its course, keeping it balanced. But it was the artefact within the orrery that would make the warp-wheel the most dangerous war-machine in the mortal realms.

  The spear hung suspended within the oscillating rings of the orrery. It was a long, black serpent of a thing, made from dark wood and darker iron. It seemed to drink in the light, and where its shadow fell, skaven slumped, listless. The blade was broad and leaf-shaped, like a hunting spear – meant for stabbing, as much as throwing. Strange sigils, which smouldered with a blue heat, were etched along the edge of the blade, and there were gouges on either side that resembled eyes.

  Sometimes, he thought it might be looking at him.

  The spear’s song changed as he entered the chamber, and became almost mocking. Quell ground his teeth, annoyed. Inanimate objects shouldn’t be able to look, or sing, or laugh, but somehow, the Huntsman did all three. The song was caused by a slight internal vibration, he thought, though he could only speculate as to the cause. He snatched up an iron discipline rod from nearby, and jabbed the weapon with it. ‘Hush-quiet, you!’

  The spear spun in its chains, and the song rose up like the growl of an irritated animal. Quell jabbed it again. The spear could
n’t be hurt – it was just an artefact, after all – but it made him feel better to give it a whack now and then.

  He tossed the rod aside with a satisfied growl. The spear was still singing, but much more quietly now. It was quite temperamental, for a weapon. Another thing Skewerax had forgotten to mention. Like the duardin who’d tried to steal their prize in Gorch, or the spiders even now infesting his machine.

  In fact, the daemon had left a lot out. Quell peered at the weapon, study­ing it with an engineer’s eye. The dull metal of the wide, leaf-shaped blade reflected no light and absorbed no heat. Indeed, it was cold. Colder than the waters of Gjoll, colder even than the void between stars. A cold fire, ever hungry, never dimming.

  There was a terrible strength in the spear. A ferocity that even Skewerax acknowledged and respected. Quell knew little of the weapon’s origins – only what his patron had deigned to share with him – yet he knew enough to recognise that the hand of a god had aided in its crafting. But its origins were of little interest to him.

  No, what was interesting was that the spear was a transdimensional object, occupying all realms simultaneously. That much Skewerax had told him, though in words of fewer syllables. Cast the spear, and it would strike its target, wherever they were. It would pierce the veil between realms and travel endless leagues to find its prey. But it didn’t return to the hand of its wielder – a serious design flaw, Quell felt.

  Therefore he had improved it. It had taken him months to make the calculations, even as his agents – and Skewerax’s – hunted for the spear’s location, but he had completed them as the warp-wheel thundered through Gorch. With the spear connected to his oscillation overgrinder, it would carve a path through the realms and drag the warp-wheel in its wake. There would be no citadel he could not crush, no kingdom he could not grind to rubble. And Excelsis would be the first.