Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘That was a boltstorm pistol,’ Angharad said as she stepped out into the open. Slivers of shadeglass jutted from the scarred surface of her shield.

  Severin joined her. ‘Tomas is near, then. Come.’

  ‘Tomas?’ Reynar murmured, glancing at Khord.

  ‘Another Azyrite. Sneaky, though. Never where you expect him.’ The duardin looked around as he said it, as if expecting the Stormcast to appear suddenly. ‘He doesn’t stay in the palaces. Always ranging far afield. Always hunting.’

  ‘Hunting what?’

  Khord didn’t answer.

  They moved more quickly now, advancing through glens of stone and glass. Pillars rose around them, bunched closely like trees, and tattered shrouds of silk and canvas hung tangled from them like a pallid canopy.

  The shrouds rustled softly as they moved among them, and Reynar saw strange stains on many of them – like faces left behind by certain corpses when wrapped too tightly. The indistinct faces writhed, and their mouths seemed to move, to whisper as the shrouds rustled and twisted in a non-existent wind. The Stormcasts tore them down as they passed between them, carving a wide path through the false glen.

  ‘Wait,’ Dolmen called out. ‘Where’s Tustin?’

  Reynar and the others stopped. ‘Who?’

  ‘The little fellow from Ghur. The one who smelled like yak’s milk.’ Dolmen was looking around, his rifle raised. ‘He was beside me just a moment ago. Did anyone see him?’

  Reynar had a vague memory of a small man, bow-legged and dark-eyed. Angharad stalked back towards them, her form radiating impatience. ‘What is going on? Why have you stopped?’

  ‘We’re missing someone,’ Reynar said.

  ‘Where is he?’ she demanded.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to figure out.’

  She turned as if to speak, but a scream interrupted her. It came from far away, and high up. The shrouds seemed to twist and flap in joy.

  Dolmen paled. ‘Tustin,’ he said. The scream came again, long and drawn out. Not from high up this time, but somewhere close by. Dolmen swung his rifle around. ‘There. That way.’

  Angharad stalked forward, sweeping aside the shrouds with her hammer. Reynar exchanged a glance with Khord and followed, Dolmen trailing in their wake. He heard Severin shout something, but the words were lost beneath another scream, thunderous this time, louder than any human could manage unaided.

  They found Tustin a moment later. Angharad smashed a broken section of palisade from her path, revealing a shapeless cul-de-sac that seemed to stretch upwards in never-ending uneven walls of stone. Tustin was on the ground. His body looked as if it had been lying in the sun for weeks. His form was contorted, as if his final moments had been filled with agony, and his jaws had been wrenched open.

  Angharad cursed and looked around warily. Khord crouched by the body. ‘His tongue’s missing. And his eyes. Someone cut them out.’

  Reynar glanced at their surroundings. Their shadows seemed to dance on the stone walls, twisting and gyrating to music only they could hear. Another scream sounded, from far away. ‘He’s still alive,’ he said thickly. He looked at Dolmen, and the Azyrite shook his head, eyes wide.

  Khord stood. ‘No, manling. Just an echo.’ He stomped past Reynar. ‘Come on. We should get back to the others.’ Angharad hesitated, her gaze sweeping across the walls. She turned, and caught Reynar watching her.

  ‘Go, mortal. There’s nothing more to be done here.’

  Reynar said nothing. He turned and followed Khord and Dolmen. They rejoined the others without incident. No one spoke. No one asked what had happened. They pressed on, with only the soft murmur of the shrouds to accompany them.

  They emerged into a street where hundreds of broken pillars thrust out at odd angles from burst flagstones. To Reynar, it seemed as if something massive had burrowed beneath them and displaced the entirety of the road. A pall of mist clung to the stones, wafting up in chill waves.

  There were things moving in it as well – small things, mostly. Rats, he thought. He hoped. The Stormcasts ignored these shapes, but the mortals huddled together in a close phalanx. Slowly, Reynar became aware of the intrusion of a dull sound – a sort of rhythmic thudding, like a heartbeat.

  ‘Drums,’ Khord said, and spat.

  ‘Who’d be beating drums out here?’

  Khord didn’t reply. Another sound echoed down from above, the scrape of metal on stone. The duardin looked up. ‘There he is,’ he muttered.

  Severin came to a halt. Atop one of the nearby pillars, something gleamed in the mist. A moment later, a rope net thumped down. It spilled open to reveal the bloody heads of several orruks. ‘We are not alone, brother,’ a voice called. A golden shape draped in thick pelts and scaly hide dropped to the ground with surprising grace. A Stormcast, though clad in a lighter type of war-plate than Severin and the others. A Vanguard-Hunter.

  ‘Tomas. And with gifts.’ Severin looked down at the net. ‘How many?’

  ‘More than I care to see in one place,’ Tomas said. His voice was a harsh rasp, as if he had little occasion to use it. ‘They have a new leader, the one called Ironskull. He has claimed this district and all its treasures for his own.’

  ‘I know Ironskull. And I do not fear him.’ Severin turned to the other Stormcasts. ‘Even so, we should be wary. Spread out, keep watch. Any sign of greenskins, fall back.’ He looked at Tomas. ‘How close are we?’

  ‘If the duardin is right…’

  ‘I am,’ Khord said, earning himself a look from Severin.

  ‘Then we are close,’ Tomas finished. ‘There’s a plaza just at the end of the avenue. Wider than most, and with many curious structures.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Khord. ‘I remember that place. We tried to crack it open when we first arrived, though I never knew why.’ He rubbed the back of his neck gingerly. ‘Lost my head to a petitioner’s blade there. Never saw him coming.’ He looked up at Severin. ‘But we have the key now, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Let us hope it is the right one.’

  Reynar spoke up idly. ‘It will be. Ilesha said as much.’

  Severin looked at him as if suddenly realising that he was there. The Stormcast nodded slowly. ‘The sorceress is wise. But she has been wrong before.’

  ‘Let us hope now is not one of those times,’ Tomas said. ‘Come. I have marked a safe path, free of deadfalls and loose stones.’ He set off, moving quickly. The path turned out to have been marked by splashes of some thick, sour-smelling ichor – orruk blood, Reynar realised. Tomas was efficient.

  The path through the forest of pillars widened, revealing a wide plaza. Mist wreathed the broken structures to either side, and at the far end the street looked to have been peeled back and cast asunder. Something thrust up through this ruination – it resembled a towering slab of black stone, shot through with veins of green and gold. It rested at an angle, as if something had pushed it up from below and stopped just before it fully breached the surface. Two great doors of gold and bronze occupied the front of the slab, their frame wrought in the shape of stylised flames, or perhaps smoke.

  The whole plaza trembled slightly, and a section of broken wall collapsed in on itself with a rumble of displaced stone. ‘Aftershocks?’ Reynar asked.

  ‘Hopefully,’ Khord said. He frowned, studying the plaza. He spat and turned, scratching one scarred cheek. ‘I don’t trust it.’

  Severin nodded. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘That scorching on the ground and pillars – that’s not from a fire. And no guards.’

  ‘A trap?’ Reynar asked.

  Khord grunted. ‘Probably. But there’s no telling what sort.’ He looked around. ‘This place was once swarming with petitioners, but that might have been years ago, or just last week. It’s hard to tell.’

  ‘Perhaps the orruks drove them off, or destroyed them.’ Sever
in gestured dismissively. ‘We must breach the vaults before we are discovered. Come.’

  ‘We should take them now,’ Isengrim said, watching as the small force of mortals and Stormcasts appeared, making their way through the tangled streets below. He crouched beside Zuvass on a broken section of wall overlooking the plaza. Ylac and the rest of his warriors were waiting below, hidden among the ruins. ‘Before they reach that… whatever it is.’

  He wondered if his quarry was down there, among Sadila’s minions. He longed to find out, to carve a red path through mortal and Stormcast alike until he found the one he was searching for. He twitched, impatient now.

  ‘We must wait until they open it. And it is a vault. Sometimes they rise as the city shifts. They burst the street like bones piercing flesh, and every halfwit with a sword flocks to them, looking for plunder.’ Zuvass peered down into the plaza. ‘Few of them are ever opened. They hold their secrets to this day. But when one is cracked, it is almost always disastrous for all concerned.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I recall one that unleashed a flood of deadwalkers upon the western district. Hundreds had sought shelter within it as Nagash enacted his vengeance. Sealed away for centuries, they perished, and for whatever reason, Nagash allowed them to die a true death. At least until someone opened the vault.’

  Isengrim frowned. ‘I have killed deadwalkers before.’

  ‘I am sure you have. But these refused to die. And for every one put down, it seemed as if three reflections returned. Hundreds became thousands in a few days – a plague, sweeping the city. There are warriors here who now spend their time hunting their own corpse so that they might lay it to rest.’

  ‘Why did they not overrun the city?’

  ‘Who can say? Perhaps Nagash did not wish it. One day, the great mass of them were simply… gone. Swallowed up as suddenly as they’d appeared. One more mystery in a city of such.’ Zuvass tapped his chest. ‘Just like us. We are mysteries, you and I. We vanish from history, lost in this place while the realms spin on without us.’

  Isengrim grunted and looked away. He had little patience for his companion’s endless soliloquies. ‘I am not a mystery. I know who I am.’

  Zuvass turned. ‘And who are you, Isengrim of the Red Reef?’

  ‘I am what you see.’

  ‘Oh, you are more than that.’ Zuvass slid down, his back against the pillar. ‘And we have time. So tell me.’

  ‘Time? Our prey is there. Let us kill them and be done.’

  ‘Not until they open the vault, as I said.’

  ‘Why?’ Isengrim demanded.

  ‘Because something interesting is about to happen. Something that needs to happen. So we will wait. And because we need what’s inside, but they have the key.’ Zuvass tilted his head. ‘Besides, I thought your sort enjoyed boasting of your accomplishments.’ He peered at Isengrim. ‘Or do you not have any to boast of? Is that it, then? Are you a hero in search of a saga?’

  ‘I have a saga.’

  ‘Prove it.’ Zuvass spread his hands. ‘Call it a challenge, if you like.’

  Isengrim glared at him for a moment, then turned away with a snort. ‘I was born on the shores of the Sunset Sea, on the western coasts. The waters were as blood when the sun dipped below the horizon.’ He closed his eyes, remembering the smell of the sea. His impatience faded as he spoke. ‘My people raided and fished, or hunted the slow, fat beasts that swam the shallows. My tribe was one of dozens, some big, most small. We waged little wars in our boats of wood and hide. I took my first head when I was but eight turnings of the season. By the time I was ten, I wore a necklace of ears taken in honest battle.’

  ‘Precocious,’ Zuvass murmured.

  Isengrim dismissed the word, ignorant of its meaning. ‘I was a boy when the Reef-lords came for my tribe,’ he said after a moment. He ran his thumb along the edge of his axe and examined the pearl of blood that formed there. He looked at Zuvass and saw that the Chaos warrior was studying him with penetrating interest. Unsettled, he continued. ‘They ruled the black reefs and had hollowed out the stony coral to make their citadels. They only came to shore when they needed slaves.’ He grinned humourlessly. ‘They came to shore often.’

  Zuvass said nothing. Isengrim glanced at him suspiciously, wondering if the Chaos warrior was laughing at him behind his mask. But Zuvass simply stared in silence.

  ‘The Reef-lords were debased creatures – they surrounded themselves with opulence and wallowed in filth. They worshipped an androgynous thing that sang discordant songs and fed on the milk of women and cattle. I know this because I saw it. They wanted to open my belly for its pleasure… but Khorne had other plans.’

  ‘You killed it.’

  ‘I did. And all its worshippers. I broke my chains and led my folk from the slave pens.’ He closed his eyes again, letting the red memories roll over him like a wave. ‘We killed until the waters were red in truth and blood stained the reefs.’ He brought his axe up and kissed the rune of Khorne on the blade. ‘That is how I got my name.’ He looked at Zuvass. ‘Why did you wish to know?’

  Zuvass shrugged and looked away. ‘I have always been curious. It seemed a peculiar name for a reaver in the desert.’

  ‘We did not know each other in the desert.’

  Zuvass paused. ‘No. No, I suppose we didn’t.’ He turned. ‘They’re moving.’

  Isengrim looked down and saw a group of Stormcasts and mortals crossing the plaza. Was the coward among them? He could not tell. It did not matter. They would all die regardless. ‘Do we attack now?’

  ‘That depends on whether the next bit goes the way it should.’ Zuvass’ hand fell to the hilt of his blade. ‘That’s the problem with getting old. You can never be sure if things happened exactly as you remember…’

  Chapter twelve

  LONG SHOT

  The clans of the Smoak Fens are famed throughout southern Azyr as gunsmiths. The fen-dwellers are considered natural-born marksmen, and many sons and daughters of the clans have gone on to fame with the Freeguilds of Nordrath, Grimpeak and Hallowstar…

  – Ogwell Mancini

  Great Cities of Azyr

  Reynar followed the Stormcasts across the plaza. The mist seeping up from the stones was thin and cold, and he was reminded of walking across a frozen river. The Stormcasts moved swiftly, an undeniable eagerness in their stride. He and the other mortals moved more slowly, all too aware of being out in the open.

  ‘It looks like something tried to haul that vault out of the ground,’ Reynar said.

  Khord nodded. ‘The ground is unstable. The city convulses, and what’s hidden comes to light.’ As if to prove the truth of his words, a shudder ran through the plaza. Things that might have been birds rose from the surrounding ruins with shrill cries. Reynar felt a chill as he caught sight of something pale in a shattered window.

  ‘We’re being watched. Look.’

  ‘No,’ Khord said bluntly. ‘They’ve been following us since we left the Jasper Palaces. Ghosts racing through the glass. Spies of the Katophranes watching where we go.’ He looked up at Reynar. ‘There’s a war going on for this city, manling. Waged by the living on behalf of the dead. We are soldiers, following strategies that make little sense to us. This is just another battle. So keep your head down and try not to lose it.’

  The vault seemed to grow larger as they drew closer to it. It swelled, filling Reynar’s sight. It seemed as large as a keep, the great doors taller than a man and three times as wide. He could see where pieces of whatever underground corridor had led to the vault still clung to it like barnacles. A face – a glowering mask of some kind – had been emblazoned on the doors, and it glared sightlessly at them as they approached.

  Severin slowed as they neared the entrance and produced the key Reynar and Khord had found. There was a circular slot set into the doors where they met.

  �
�How can such a little thing open up such a massive vault?’ Reynar murmured, watching as Severin set the key into place and twisted it.

  He got his answer a moment later. There was a grinding sound that put him in mind of the mobile bastions of Hammerhal, the clicking of thousands of unseen cogs and levers all moving at once. The plaza shook slightly as mechanisms moved within the doors. They did not swing wide, but instead rose and slid back along unseen runnels. Stones crashed and the ground shook, throwing up clouds of dust.

  Within the vault, there was only darkness. Stale air gusted out, making Reynar and the others gag. The Stormcasts barely twitched save to ready themselves for battle as the first earth-shaking footfall sounded from within.

  Great paws carved from shadeglass and veined with gold emerged and pressed themselves against either side of the archway. A heavy, roughly humanoid form three times the height of Obryn hauled itself out into the wan twilight. It looked like it had been carved from a single great shard of shadeglass, and its proportions were lumpen and featureless.

  Inside its shapeless skull was a deep-set alcove. Within that, a mechanism that resembled a miner’s blackout lantern rotated, clattering harshly. A thin gleam of light seeped from its rattling plates.

  The monstrosity straightened. The plates swung wide.

  Khord caught the back of Reynar’s hauberk a moment before light and heat filled the air. ‘Watch out, manling.’ The fyreslayer hurled them both aside as a blaze of pure white radiance thrummed from the construct’s skull. A scream was cut short as the light seared someone behind them into greasy motes. The beam cut a swathe across the plaza, burning through the stones and pillars, reducing them to black slag. Warriors scattered, mortal and Stormcast alike.

  ‘Guess we know what made those marks,’ Reynar said as he covered his head. Khord laughed gruffly. They had scrambled behind a fallen pillar as the construct’s beam slid across the plaza. Screams pierced the air as luckless warriors were caught by the light and burned out of existence before they could find cover. Reynar couldn’t say who.