‘Something like that.’ She placed a hand to her chest. ‘I am Sadila, daughter of Hausa, child of the Fourth House of Shadespire and bearer of the Red Laurel. And I bid you welcome.’ Though the words were delivered in a formal tone, Reynar nonetheless felt as if he were being mocked.
‘And I am Reynar. Seguin Reynar, son of no one, child of no place and bearer of nothing, save this sword.’ He slapped his sheathed blade for emphasis, trying to show a bravado he didn’t feel. ‘And I ask again – why did you bring me here? You say you wish to employ me – why?’
‘Do you always question your employers so?’
‘Always. And you’re not my employer. Not yet.’
Sadila studied him for a moment. ‘The Faneway.’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘You know what it is?’
He paused, wondering if he should lie. ‘No. Not really.’
She smiled again. ‘It is the gate and the key. A way out of this place. But it is shattered, and scattered. You will help me rebuild it. Piece by piece.’
‘What’s in it for you?’
‘You are not the only one trapped here. I too wish to escape this place. To breathe clean air and taste food. To touch flesh and feel…’ She trailed off, falling silent. She glanced down at him. ‘Shadespire is as much my prison as yours.’
‘You seemed fairly free earlier.’
‘I and the other Katophranes – those of us who made it into the Faneway before it was destroyed – can walk wherever there is shadeglass. But it is only a half-world, a non-place. I feel nothing, taste nothing here. It is a shadow existence, and many of those trapped here have gone mad from it.’
‘But not you,’ Reynar said doubtfully.
‘Not yet.’ She drifted between the trees, her form stretching and trailing like a windblown flame. ‘Not ever, if we can free ourselves. That is why I brought you here. That is why I brought them all here. Every one of them. That is why I sought out those who came by other means, rescued those who stumbled into this place by mistake.’
‘To free you.’
‘To free us all.’
He hesitated. ‘Do they know? That you’re why they’re here?’
‘Only you.’ Sadila took a step towards him, and he flinched back. ‘The others I led with songs and voices, glimpses and hints. But I let you and your friend see me.’
‘Why?’
She strode along the wall, hands clasped before her. Demure, serene – false. It was a mask. Reynar saw through it to the ugliness beneath. It was in her eyes, in the curl of her lips. She was enjoying this. ‘Perhaps because they wouldn’t believe you if you told them.’ She vanished. ‘Because they think you’re nothing,’ she said from behind him. He turned, but she wasn’t there.
‘Just another scavenger,’ she continued. ‘But you’ll know, and you’ll squirm, trying to turn it to your advantage. And when that fails, you’ll work all the harder, just to be free of me.’
‘Am I an amusement, then?’
‘Every court needs its jester,’ she said, behind him again.
Reynar’s hand fell to his blade. He wanted to draw it, to smash what was left of the trees, if possible. Before he could do so, she slid into view in front of him.
‘Once, I would’ve made you eat that sword,’ she said, almost wistfully. ‘I would have carved you apart and left you quivering in the dirt. But alas, those days are long behind me.’
‘The way you talk, they might be coming again,’ Reynar said, forcing his anger down. Anger won him nothing. He had to think. He was no threat to her, and she knew it. That was why she taunted him. She was bored. And he could use that.
She clapped her hands. ‘Yes. A faint hope, but hope nonetheless. That’s why you and the others are here. I need warriors. I need thieves and scavengers.’
‘And in return?’
‘Safety. My guidance.’ She laughed, and there was a brittle edge to the sound. ‘For what it’s worth.’ She turned and strode away, growing larger as she went. ‘I offer you the same bargain I offered the others. Help me, so that I might repair the Faneway Mirror.’ She glanced back at him. ‘Then we will all be free of this place.’
Reynar met her gaze, but only for a moment. ‘I don’t have any other choice, do I?’
‘Not if you want to escape.’ She smiled as she said it, a pleased smile. ‘Not if you want to survive.’ The smile of a cat with a mouse caught between its paws. But a mouse could bite.
Reynar closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Fine.’
Silence.
‘What now?’ he demanded, opening his eyes. There was no answer. He looked around, but Sadila had vanished. The broken trees had gone dark, and the handmaidens had disappeared into the shadows. The sudden silence was oppressive. Despite this, he had the sense that she was still watching him from somewhere just out of sight. A whisper of laughter followed him as he hurried from the gardens.
Anger pulsed through him, and not a little fear as well. He was in over his head, and the waters were fast rising. He touched his chest, feeling the presence of his amulet. He wondered if she would send anyone to drag him back if he ran. Probably – that too would be part of the game. But why had she chosen him? Had he simply been in the wrong place at the right time? Or was it something else?
You aren’t special.
He didn’t stop, didn’t turn. The voice hummed through him. It was his own. His own doubts, echoing in his head.
That’s the answer. There is no story here, no mystery. She chose you because she could. Because she wanted a new toy and you caught her eye.
He walked faster, trying to ignore the words and the ghostly faces pressing themselves against the shadeglass facets that lined the corridor all around him. But the voice in his head kept pace.
There is no reason for any of this. No purpose. Just a lunatic’s whim.
He stopped, fingers massaging his temples, trying to quiet his rising dismay. He glanced at his reflection. At first, he thought it wasn’t there. Then it was. He touched his face, scratching at the dried blood that still marked his cheeks. He needed a bath. He paused, studying his own expression. Then, suddenly tired, he turned and continued on.
Severin turned as Reynar left the gardens. Reynar wondered if the Stormcast was surprised that he’d survived his meeting with the Katophrane.
‘What did she say to you?’ Severin asked. He didn’t sound curious so much as suspicious.
Reynar looked up at him. ‘Only what I needed to know. Not a very forthcoming spirit, this Lady Sadila. Do you trust her?’
‘I do not trust you,’ Severin said. ‘You are a sellsword and likely a deserter. A man who has turned coat once may well do so again.’
Reynar frowned. ‘Then why bother to rescue me?’
Severin ignored the question. ‘Your duties are simple,’ he said. ‘You will follow my command in all things.’ He looked at Reynar. ‘You have fought beside us before.’
‘Not you. The Hallowed Knights. The Steel Soul and his warriors.’
Severin nodded. ‘I am not the Steel Soul. You will find me a stern taskmaster.’ His tone was such that, for just an instant, Reynar was offended on behalf of the silver-armoured warriors he’d fought alongside. The piety of the Steel Soul had been grating, but he’d never dismissed mortals so easily.
‘And am I to be your squire?’ Reynar asked before he could stop himself.
Severin looked at him in obvious confusion. ‘You will join the others,’ he said. ‘There are barracks should you wish to attempt sleep. The palace baths do not function, but water can be had from one of the cisterns. There are communal fires – do not stray far beyond their light. Keep your weapons close to hand. Even here, it is not safe.’
Reynar swallowed and glanced around. ‘And then?’
Severin turned away. ‘And then, you will wait. Until I
– or one of the others – have need of your sword. Have no fear, mortal. You will earn your keep in the days to come… I will see to it.’
‘There are more dead men in this keep than living,’ Isengrim said.
He and Zuvass stood atop the city wall overlooking the inner keep and its skeletal guardians. None of the dead had so much as a whiff of flesh to them, but all bore weapons and armour. They patrolled the onion-like tiers of the keep, moving back and forth along the curved walls. Heavy support pillars ran the length of the curve, piercing each tier in turn. Tattered banners hung from the edge of each level, gently stirring despite the absence of wind.
The inner walls bore great faces carved from stone and shadeglass. These ancient countenances gazed down with benign disinterest on those who now inhabited this place. Once, he thought, this keep had echoed with the voices of soldiers, with tales of victory and boasts of prowess. Now there was only the soft murmur of dead men and the rattle of bones. Like the city, it was nothing but an echo of forgotten glories.
There were loose bones scattered all along the parapet Isengrim and Zuvass stood on, many cracked and broken, as if by some hungry beast. The thought made Isengrim glance over his shoulder at the darkness beyond the walls. He had the impression that there was something there, just out of his sight but growing closer. The swimmers in the deep, his father had called such presences. Things you could not see, but knew could see you.
He grunted and looked away, strangling the urge to stare into the dark like a frightened animal. Whatever was out there, it was beyond him, but he refused to fear it.
‘It is called the Dust Keep,’ Zuvass said.
‘What?’
‘This keep. That is its name.’ Zuvass gestured about them. ‘Not that any save a rare few remember or care. It was once the highest section of the southern walls, overlooking the Sea of Dust.’ He pointed out into the dark. ‘If you look closely, you can see what remains of the docklands, flapping uselessly in the void. Dust-barques and wind-galleys would slide across the wastes and put into port here, carrying goods from Caddow and Helstone.’
Isengrim grunted. ‘I do not care.’
‘Often, I have wandered the loose boards of those broken wharfs and explored the husks of forgotten ships. They break loose sometimes and sail into the void, carrying their secrets into the seas between realms.’ Zuvass laughed softly. ‘Sometimes I think about going with them. Just… setting myself adrift and letting the winds of fate carry me where they will.’
Isengrim snorted. ‘You’d simply exchange one prison for another.’
Zuvass looked at him. ‘Very probably.’
Isengrim shook his head. He caught sight of the Sepulchral Warden on the wall some distance away. The skeletal warrior stared out into the black of the void, as if standing sentry. ‘What is he looking for?’
‘An enemy. Or perhaps he is contemplating his death. This is where he perished, you know, in the days before Shadespire fell. The Katophranes nailed him to the outer walls of this very keep. He is, perhaps, the only truly dead man in this city.’
‘And yet he serves Mekesh?’
‘The Sepulchral Warden serves no one save Nagash. We are but tools to him.’ Zuvass indicated the skeletons on patrol. ‘Much like his loyal servants. He has armies at his command, though he rarely employs them as such. They are more in the nature of gaolers than anything else.’
‘They do not move like the dead men I have fought before. Or like the other dead things who inhabit this place.’ Isengrim’s lip curled at the thought of those broken things. They hunkered in corners, mewling prayers to a god who was not listening. They had been cattle in life, and in death they were no different.
‘That is because they are not like any dead men you have faced. It is debatable whether they are truly dead at all. They may simply be… stripped of all but the most essential parts. Their minds still function, if at a low ebb.’ Zuvass knocked on the parapet. ‘Of course, they are not the only inhabitants of this lonely little keep on the borderlands. Look there.’ He pointed down.
Warriors clad in crimson-and-brass war-plate stalked through the courtyard, shoving aside the broken wretches who wandered into their path. They spoke loudly to one another. Loudest of all was the one in the lead. Scalps dangled from the ridges of his armour, and a chain of skulls clattered against his chest-plate. As if sensing their attentions, he looked up. A crack ran down one side of his helm, revealing a milky white eye. He grinned mirthlessly and continued on, laughing gutturally at something one of the others said.
‘One of the chosen of Khorne,’ Isengrim said. Blood Warriors were soulbound to the Blood God, empowered by him and made more than mortal. They were the sharp edge of Khorne’s blade. He rubbed his cheek.
‘That was Vakul,’ Zuvass said. ‘A straggler, like you. Lost in the city until he and his few remaining warriors stumbled on this place and traded their loyalty for a place to rest. A good bargain, at the time. But one in need of renegotiation. You will have to kill him soon. And there, by the fire, that is Hygaletes, leader of the Deathsworn. Another captain in our little army.’
Isengrim peered at the man, who stood atop a shattered plinth encircled by more than a dozen seated figures. His face had been painted to resemble a skull, and he wore icons of death and sacrament on his battered armour. He held a great, iron-bound book in one arm, and gestured with the other as he read from it. ‘Who?’
Zuvass picked up a skull off the parapet. ‘Mortals sworn to the service of Nagash. Some are pilgrims who came to preserve the ruins of Shadespire from the desecration of looters. Others were drawn into worship of him after becoming lost here.’ He crushed the skull and let the fragments tumble to the ground. ‘They fight alongside the Sepulchral Warden’s warriors, when he deigns to allow it. Mostly they huddle in places like this, reading aloud from their holy books and making a nuisance of themselves.’
‘They do not look like warriors.’
‘They die like them. Over and over again.’ Zuvass dusted his hands off. ‘Hygaletes is an ally. He respects Mekesh and worships the Warden. But Vakul is a monster with a rusty chain. He grows impatient with us, as is the way with your sort.’
Isengrim ignored the insult. ‘Then kill him.’
‘I would, did I not think that his followers would use that as an excuse to abandon us. And without them, we have not even the shadow of an army.’ He looked at Isengrim. ‘They will only follow one blessed by the Blood God.’
Isengrim caught the meaning in his words and smiled mirthlessly. ‘Vakul is one of his chosen. I am nothing but another axe, here. I left my warband behind.’ He ran a thumb along the blade of his weapon and hissed in pleasure as redness welled from the digit. ‘I do not care that he frightens you. I care only about my quarry.’
‘You should care. Vakul will see you as a threat.’
Isengrim frowned. ‘And why would he do that?’
‘Because you will soon have a larger warband than him.’
‘Will I?’ he growled. He felt like an animal seeing the bars of its cage for the first time. Something warned him that he should leave now and not look back. That he should not trust this strange creature who called himself Zuvass. He ignored it. He was no coward, and new warriors to replace his old ones would be useful. He looked at Zuvass.
‘Show me this warband.’
Chapter eight
TREASURE CACHE
The artefacts crafted by the artisans of Shadespire were eagerly purchased by the nobility, even in the most backwater duchies of the Jade Kingdoms…
– Kerst Tertoma
Byways of Verdia
‘He went that way – there, down that alleyway,’ Reynar panted.
‘I see him,’ Khord snarled. The crooked shape scuttled away from them, moving swiftly for something that no longer had much in the way of muscle. It panted shrilly, clutching its treasure to its chest
, and cast a wild-eyed gaze over its shoulder.
‘Stop running, Culos,’ Khord bellowed as they rounded the corner after their quarry. ‘You’re only making me angry. And you know what happens when I get angry!’
‘No!’ Culos shrieked. ‘It’s mine! It’s my last piece! Stay away!’
‘He knows he can’t get away,’ Khord growled, shooting a glance at Reynar. ‘But he tries every time, filthy glass-pedlar.’
‘Can you blame him?’ Reynar said, leaping over a fallen chunk of masonry. ‘We’re trying to rob him, after all. In fact, this is the third time we’ve robbed him since I got here.’ As near as he could figure, it had been almost two weeks since he’d arrived. Two weeks of scrambling into the ruins, hunting bits of glass on behalf of the one who’d trapped him here. Two weeks, and he was no closer to understanding anything. ‘Even I’m getting tired of it, and I’m not the one being held upside down so as to shake loose any valuables.’
Khord growled wordlessly and picked up speed, his thick limbs pumping. The duardin could move quickly when he put his mind to it. It helped that the alley was on a downward slope. The ruins around them were black, as if touched by a recent fire, and Reynar could smell smoke. When he entered the alleyway he’d thought them intact, and made of stone rather than wood. And maybe they had been – landmarks changed moment to moment in the city. Streets slid away like water through a sieve, and stone became wood or clay, or vanished entirely, only to reappear later.
Worse still was the sound. The others were used to it and gave no sign that they noticed, but it closed in on Reynar from all sides, constantly. A harsh rustle, like teeth grinding against one another in an unseen, gargantuan mouth. As if Shadespire were some great beast and they were walking blindly among its fangs.
Luckily, the alley was a dead end – almost an alcove, so close were the buildings to either side. Culos slid to a halt among the broken bones and loose debris. He whirled, panic evident on the remnants of his wasted features. ‘No, no, no,’ he whined.
Shadespire: The Mirrored City Page 10