Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer

  Warpfang tapped one talon against his warpstone tooth, deep in thought. ‘Your name is Vex, isn’t it?’ he growled, finally.

  ‘Er…’ Vex peered up at him, his beady eyes owlish behind the ­goggles. ‘Yes?’

  Warpfang leaned forwards. Vex bobbed, wanting to retreat, but prevented from doing so by the hulking shapes of the ­deathvermin standing behind him. Warpfang crooked a talon, beckoning him forwards. Vex hesitated. One of the deathvermin prodded him with the blade of his weapon. The warlock engineer scurried forwards, leaking fear-musk. Warpfang took an almost gentle grip on Vex’s whiskers.

  ‘What about the weapon?’ he hissed softly.

  Vex blinked. Swallowed. ‘Weapon, your worship?’

  Warpfang nodded heavily. ‘Weapon, Vex. Quell promised me a weapon. A weapon I paid him well for, yes-yes. Where is this weapon, Vex?’ As he spoke, he began to twist Vex’s whiskers. Tears came to Vex’s eyes, smearing across the inside of his goggles.

  ‘Destroyed,’ he shrieked.

  Warpfang snarled and tore loose a handful of whiskers. Vex collapsed with a squeal, clutching his bloody snout. Warpfang let the whiskers fall, to join their former owner. He sagged back into his throne with a sigh. ‘Destroyed,’ he murmured.

  He’d feared as much. When he’d lost contact with Quell, he’d assumed something had gone wrong. But if Vex was to be believed, there were layers to the failure. And Warpfang was intent on peeling back said layers, until he discovered what Quell had been hiding from him. So far, he’d learned that there had been, in fact, two weapons. One funded by him, and one – an ancient artefact of some sort – sought by Skewerax. Quell, with the relentless optimism of a warlock engineer, had decided to combine the two into one, while hiding that fact from both of his patrons. Warpfang looked down at Vex. ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘Other one, oh potentate of pain?’ Vex looked up. A cunning look, that. Badly disguised. Warpfang reached for his remaining whiskers. Vex clapped a paw to his snout and shrank back. ‘Other one – yes-yes, the other one, it is gone-vanished. Lost-lost in the void-black between worlds!’

  ‘A shame,’ Warpfang murmured. ‘If you had known where it was, I might have spared you.’ Vex’s eyes widened, and the cunning was replaced by sudden desperation.

  ‘There are others,’ he squeaked, throwing his paws up pleadingly.

  Warpfang paused. ‘Others?’

  ‘Other weapons, your most magnanimousness. Many weapons. Skewerax said so, yes-yes, Skewerax – he’s the one, he said–’

  Warpfang reached out with a startling swiftness and caught Vex by the throat. ‘Speak-quick, yes-yes,’ he growled, his claws digging into the cowering skaven’s throat.

  ‘He cannot speak, if you strangle him,’ a deep voice rumbled. Warpfang sighed and released Vex. The warlock engineer squeaked plaintively and crawled away, casting darting glances at the new arrival. The deathvermin were nervous as well, and the faint odour of their fear tickled Warpfang’s nose. He looked up.

  ‘Skewerax,’ he said, in greeting.

  ‘Where is my weapon?’ the verminlord hissed, slaver dripping from his fangs. He loomed over the back of the throne, his claws dug into the top of it. ‘Why is Quell not here?’

  ‘Quell is dead, according to this one.’ Warpfang gestured to Vex, who’d curled into a tiny ball on the floor.

  ‘That is no excuse,’ Skewerax said. ‘My weapon?’

  ‘Gone, beyond the reach of any skaven.’ Warpfang laughed. ‘Mine as well.’

  Skewerax leaned forwards, acidic drool spattering Warpfang’s armour. ‘Where?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Warpfang looked at the daemon. ‘There are ­others, after all. Or was he lying about that?’

  The verminlord slid back, eyes narrowed. ‘If he wasn’t?’

  ‘Then perhaps you had best tell me, oh mighty one, so that together we might claim them for the glory of the Rictus, and all the Clans Verminus.’

  The daemon stared down at him, as if considering. Then, slowly, a smile crept across the verminlord’s scarred muzzle.

  ‘Very well. Have you ever heard tell of the Eight Lamentations?’

  Ahazian Kel erupted from the smouldering wreckage. Shards of metal jutted from his bloody form, and his armour was blackened and steaming. He wrenched off his bent and twisted war-helm with a groan, exposing badly battered features, and a bloody socket where the Azyrite’s shot had burst his eye. A lucky shot, that. He tossed the helmet aside and looked around, squinting with his good eye.

  There was no way of telling how far he’d fallen, or how long he’d been buried. The warp energies had torn the war-machine apart, scattering it across the mortal realms. Caught by the explosion of the warp-portal, he had been sent somewhere else – somewhere unfamiliar. The air tasted of burnt metal and the landscape was jagged and gleaming. Strange birds with iridescent, silvery feathers swooped overhead, their raspy cries echoing down. The remains of a number of trees, broken by the sudden arrival of a section of the skaven war-machine, poked up through the wreckage, their coppery branches shimmering eerily in the firelight, as the leaves blackened and drifted away on the wind.

  Chamon, perhaps, or somewhere in Aqshy. In the distance, he saw signs of industry – great clouds of smoke staining the pale sky. He could hear the dull murmur of machinery, and every so often a ­rumble shook the air. A mine, perhaps. Whatever it was, there would be people­ there, and food. Not to mention weapons.

  Ahazian swayed on his feet, hands clutching instinctively for the weapons that were not there. He had no weapons. No spear. He growled angrily, and pawed at his aching socket. The Azyrite would pay for that. They would all pay. ‘I swear it,’ he snarled, glaring about him with his good eye. He was a Kel of the Ekran, and his oath was as iron.

  Then a treacherous voice within him whispered that he had also made an oath to acquire Gung, and look how that had turned out. Rage flared anew, burning the ache from his wounds and the weariness from his limbs. He had failed, and the loss of his eye, of his weapons, was but the price of that failure. ‘Volundr,’ he said. Then, more loudly, ‘Volundr! Where are you, warrior-smith?’

  Volundr must have seen. Must be listening. But there was no reply. No sound, save the crackling of flames and the screaming of birds. Ahazian grunted, weary again. Abandoned then. So be it.

  He started towards the smoke on the horizon, shoving wreckage from his path. He would find the spear again. He still had the shard, could still feel the echo of the Huntsman’s song in the depths of his mind. Once he had regained his strength he would begin the hunt anew. And then he would seek out the others, one by one. But he would not deliver them up to distant masters or faithless allies.

  Instead, he would put them to use. He had fought other men’s wars for long enough. He had sought peace in the shadow of lesser warriors, and paid the price. Only the Kels of Ekran knew how to properly wage war, and Ahazian would see to it that all the realms remembered why his people had once been feared. Aye, even the courtiers of Chaos, in the high halls of the Varanspire, would know and tremble. The last Kels of Ekran would march against the Three-Eyed King himself, and cast down all delusions of sanity and purpose. The realms would again be drowned in war – war, eternal and unending.

  Ahazian stopped and raised his bloody features to the sky. Somewhere far above, amongst stars that glowed like hot metal cooling in dark waters, Khorne sat on a throne of skulls. Or so the sages of blood claimed.

  ‘Khorne, I have never prayed to you. A god who needs prayers is no god at all. But if you listen, I ask a boon of you, here, today. Grant me revenge – grant me an eternity of slaughter beneath the laughing stars. Grant me this, and I will drown the realms in blood. And if you do not, then you had best strike me down now, for I will not forget.’ He spread his arms, waiting.

  Behind him, a raven croaked. Ahazian lowered his arms and turned. Black birds perche
d on the wreckage, watching him. His fingers curled into fists. ‘Come to finish the job, then, carrion crows?’

  Metal creaked. Ahazian froze, listening. He heard hissing voices, and the rattle of weapons. The wind shifted, and he smelled a rank scent. The smell of vermin. His torn lips split in a red grin as he nodded his thanks to the birds. ‘My apologies. It seems our alliance still holds.’ One of the birds dipped its beak, as if in acknowledgement.

  The first of the skaven burst from the tangle of wreckage, moving quickly. It wore tattered yellow vestments beneath its rusty mail, and carried a round, crudely forged shield of bronze and gold. It slid to a stop at the sight of him, one paw twitching above the blade thrust through its wide leather belt. From the scabrous insignia daubed on its shield, he deduced that it belonged to a different clan than those he’d fought earlier. Scavengers, then, looking to strip the wreckage of any valuables.

  More skaven joined the first, swarming out of the wreckage – a dozen, two, thirty, forty – on all sides. The sound of their squealing was deafening, and their reek drowned out even the harsh acridity of the fires. Red eyes glared at him, and warriors chittered, each one urging its fellows to lead the way.

  Ahazian spat, wiped the blood from his mouth and stretched. He rolled his neck and loosened his shoulders. He cracked his knuckles and gave the skaven a ghastly smile. ‘Come on then. What are you waiting for?’ He made a beckoning gesture. ‘Let us be about it, vermin. Some of us have places to be.’

  The skaven scurried towards him, as one.

  And Ahazian Kel leapt to meet them.

  Yuhdak sat back against the rough rock with a sigh. The image he’d conjured faded, as did all thought of aiding his ally. There were realms between them, and Yuhdak was exhausted, besides. He stretched, trying to get comfortable. He’d got as far from danger as possible, but even so he could still see the column of smoke that denoted the final fate of the skaven war-machine.

  ‘A shame. But then, the best alliances are inevitably the shortest.’ He pulled off his helmet with a muffled grunt, exposing his features to the wind. He still resembled the prince he had been in his youth, though only vaguely. His face had no real shape, and those who looked upon it inevitably could not describe it. As if it were more the idea of a face than the definite thing. Yuhdak rarely thought about it. It was a face, his face, and that was all.

  He set his helmet down and leaned back. His body ached and his wounds throbbed. That was good, for it meant he was alive. Pain was the seed of hope – hope that it might end, hope that there would be a reward on the other side.

  Hope was the truest gift of the Changer of Ways. All plans, all schemes and tricks were born of hope. ‘While we yet hope, life is worth living,’ he murmured. A hoary saying, but a truth nonetheless, and one he’d clung to throughout the long, silent years of his childhood. He dabbed at the blood staining the facets of his armour and shook his head. ‘Oh my brothers, if you could see me now. What would you make of silent, gentle Yuhdak?’

  They would have laughed, he thought. His brothers had been harsh shadows, cunning and cruel. He had loved them, as they had loved nothing save themselves. ‘But they were me, and I them, so perhaps it would be better to say that I loved myself.’ He laughed softly, and then winced. The vampire had nearly killed him. A more savage part of himself desired to find her and return the favour.

  But he was not a savage. Revenge was nothing, unless it served a greater purpose. The Three-Eyed King had taught him that, among other things. Archaon was a philosopher-king, wise and wicked. He grasped the immensity of existence with ease, and thought in terms of epochs, where others stumbled on centuries.

  Ravens croaked nearby. He looked up, and the leader of the flock met his gaze. She crouched above him, holding something in her hand. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, my lady. I am glad to see that you survived.’

  ‘Hold out your hand,’ she replied.

  He did so, and she daintily dropped a bloody eye into his palm. Yuhdak clasped it gently, feeling the strands of life that still connected it to its owner. ‘The priestess,’ he breathed. ‘You took her eye. I had forgotten.’

  The raven-woman smiled. ‘A gift, from servant to kindly master. One of several.’

  Yuhdak nodded absently. ‘A fine gift, my lady. And one I will put to use, most gratefully.’ He rolled a palm over the eye, whispering softly. A bit of bone or flesh was as good as a hook in the heart. And the eyes were called the windows to the soul for good reason. He held it up, considering. Then, decision made, he reached up and plucked out his own eye. There was some pain, of course. But pain was the inevitable price of victory.

  Squinting his remaining eye, he rolled the two loose orbs together, muttering. The rolling became swifter, and rougher, until both were squelching into one another. Sparks danced across his hands as he clasped them tight, squeezing his palms together. His servants watched in silence, their expressions unreadable.

  He spread his hands. Where there had been two eyes, there was now only one. With trembling fingers, he pressed it back into its socket, wincing as the torn nerves reattached themselves. Blinding pain radiated through his skull, but only for a moment. Then he was blinking, sight restored.

  The world had changed, subtly. His surroundings were overlaid with the ghost of somewhere else, and he heard the murmur of familiar voices. He sat back. ‘Ah. There you are.’ What the former owner of the eye saw with her remaining one, he too would see. A spy in the enemy camp, unaware and undetectable. He rubbed the raw rim of the socket, massaging it. It would take some getting used to, of course. But it was worth it. ‘You mentioned multiple gifts?’

  One of her warriors stalked forwards, dragging the limp body of a skaven. The creature was unconscious, possibly half-dead by the smell. From the raiment and the battered armour, he judged the creature to be a warlock engineer. The raven-warrior dropped the creature in front of him. Yuhdak leaned forwards, wondering what the Changer of Ways was trying to tell him, by delivering up such an unassuming prize. ‘What a curious thing.’

  He looked up at the raven-woman and smiled.

  ‘Good fortune comes in the strangest forms, doesn’t it?’

  There was no sign of Ahazian Kel.

  No matter how often he stirred the embers or peered into the flames of his forge, Volundr could not find his champion. If the kel was not dead, then he was well hidden. Or lost somewhere, in the realms. The skullgrinder gave a rumble of discontent.

  It had all gone wrong, and so swiftly. Too many moving parts, that was the problem. He’d never been good with complex mechanisms. But then, neither had his fellow forgemasters. Zaar, too, was out a champion, for the moment. The thought brought some satisfaction, though not much.

  Angry now, he swung up his war-anvil and brought it down upon the flames with a great roar, scattering embers through the smithy. Volundr kicked rolling coals aside and turned, searching for his slaves. He would need to make the appropriate sacrifices, to strengthen the reach of his gaze. He would find Ahazian Kel, or what was left of him, and hold the deathbringer to account for his failure.

  ‘So angry, and at such a little thing.’

  Volundr stiffened. A familiar voice, that, and unexpected. There was sadness in it, as well as anger. He had expected one, but not the other. He turned from the fire pit, tightening his grip on the anvil-chain. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘This place was once mine,’ Grungni said heavily. ‘I set its foundations, and carved the deepest flues. A hundred lifetimes, it took me. It was to be the greatest smithy in all the realms, its forges heated by the lifeblood of Aqshy itself.’

  ‘I remember,’ Volundr said.

  ‘Aye. You watched me set the foundation stones. A wee lad, you were then. A scrawny thing, the marks of the lash fresh on your hide. But there was strength in you.’

  Volundr spread his muscular arms. ‘And I am still stron
g, Crippled One. Have you come to test me?’ He lifted his war-anvil and gave it a tentative swing. ‘I am ready. I will meet you, hammer to hammer, god of worms.’

  Grungni said nothing. But his form seemed to swell, to fill the smithy, and his eyes drew in all the heat from the fire pits. They flickered and were snuffed out, one by one. Volundr stepped back, instinctively. ‘Hammer to hammer, is it?’ Grungni’s voice was like the rumble of a fire-mountain, on the cusp of eruption. ‘Ready, are you?’ A great hand set itself on the large anvil before Volundr. The thick fingers, each as large as Volundr’s arm, glowed with heat. The ancient metal began to hiss and bubble. The god’s fingers sank through the anvil, until the whole thing collapsed.

  Volundr felt the first flicker of fear. Appropriate, perhaps, given that the last time he’d felt fear had also been in the presence of the Crippled God. But he resisted the urge to give in to it. He was a Forgemaster of Khorne, and fear was only fuel for the fire inside. ‘If I must fight you, Maker, I will.’

  ‘Do not call me that, boy. You lost that right the day you cast your soul into the all-consuming fire. The day you chose a collar of brass, over loyalty and honour.’ Grungni’s gaze blazed brightly, almost blindingly so. Volundr stared into the light, though it stung his eyes, and burned his flesh.

  ‘A chain by any other name binds just as tightly,’ he said, flatly.

  ‘I broke your chains.’

  ‘And bound me in new ones, though you called them otherwise.’

  Grungni fell silent. The god’s presence scorched the walls black and caused the stones of the floor to run like water. His gaze beat down on Volundr like the heat of the sun. Then finally he said, ‘You cannot win. I will not let you.’

  ‘Our victory was certain the day Sigmar took the field,’ Volundr said. ‘All things end, and even the hottest fire is eventually snuffed out. You taught me that.’ He shaded his eyes against the glare and laughed bitterly. ‘You taught me much, and for that I thank you, old god. But some lessons are worth more than others.’