Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

  The Sepulchral Warden extended his spear, blocking his champion’s path. ‘No,’ he said to the ancient warrior. ‘Stand not between the reaper and his harvest, champion.’

  Isengrim frowned. ‘Perhaps we should shatter you as well, and take our chances,’ he said, studying the dead man. The Sepulchral Warden inclined his skull slightly. The flickering lights in his sockets met Isengrim’s stare, and the bloodreaver hesitated. There was nothing recognisably human in that gaze. But neither was it daemonic. It was something else entirely. Something familiar, and terrifying.

  I… see… you…

  He forced himself to turn from the Warden. ‘I grow weary of all this talk,’ he growled, fighting to hide his unease. He looked at Zuvass. ‘There is killing to be done.’

  ‘Indeed there is, my friend. Let us be about it.’

  Chapter thirteen

  IRONJAWS

  The orruk is nothing more than a battle in search of a field.

  – Gellert du Flay

  Five Days at Sawback

  The cries redoubled in volume and fury, filling the air.

  Reynar felt his insides clench. He’d fought orruks once, in his time with the Faithful Blades, which was one time too many. The hulking greenskins were a terrifying foe for anyone not armoured in sigmarite.

  Khord spat and lifted his maul. ‘Just some greenskin filth come to see what all the noise was.’ He grinned. ‘Probably shouldn’t have destroyed that construct – it might have come in handy right about now.’

  ‘Fall back,’ Severin roared. ‘Form a battle line to the east.’ Angharad and the other surviving Stormcasts were swift to obey. The mortals moved more slowly. Some were still in shock. Others were on the verge of flight.

  Reynar cursed and caught hold of Dolmen’s cloak. He needed to get them moving, or they were all as good as dead. ‘Form up, Azyrite,’ he snarled, shoving Dolmen back. He turned. ‘Form up, you sluggards, or by Sigmar’s brazen hammer I’ll spill your guts myself!’ He swatted Bolas with the flat of his blade. ‘On your feet, fire-blood. We’ve got orruks to kill.’

  Bolas heaved himself up from beside Tirax’s remains, a snarl on his face. Reynar matched him. ‘Fall back and form up behind Sigmar’s own, you ash-belly.’ He looked past Bolas. ‘All of you!’ He swept his sword back, gesturing to the Stormcasts. ‘If you run, you’ll only die tired.’ Safety in numbers was the first rule of survival. If you aren’t alone, the enemy can’t focus on you. There were only a dozen or so of them left, but that was enough to make a halfway decent battle line. If the Stormcasts could blunt the first wave…

  The first orruk appeared, the heavily armoured greenskin ploughing through the smoke with a spiked club clutched in one meaty paw. Roaring, he brought the club down on a man, pulping his skull. Dolmen cursed and raised his rifle. His shot punched the orruk around, but the greenskin barely paused. The orruk whirled back and charged towards them, still roaring despite the gaping wound where one of his eyes had been.

  More orruks burst from the smoke a moment later, their crude war-plate painted a dizzying array of colours. Most of them raced towards the Stormcasts, sensing a worthy fight. But a few veered towards Reynar and the others, looking for easier prey. The one Dolmen had shot reached them first, and the Azyrite was sent flying by the greenskin’s blow. He crashed down limply some distance away, his rifle spinning from his grip. Reynar heard bones snap wetly, and knew the Azyrite was dead, or as good as.

  The orruk turned, and faltered as Khord’s maul smashed down against his skull. Khord struck again, and again. The greenskin slumped with a querulous groan and collapsed. Khord turned, ripping a throwing axe from his bandolier and sending it spinning into another orruk moments before he reached Bolas. The orruk fell, skull cleft open. The duardin turned to Reynar, but before he could say anything, a greenskin smashed the duardin from his feet and sent him rolling away.

  Reynar avoided the slash of a crude axe. His sword danced across armoured plates that looked as if they’d been beaten into shape with fists rather than tools. The orruk struck him with an open hand, flattening him. Reynar scrambled across the ground, avoiding the greenskin’s subsequent attempt to stomp his head flat. The orruk pursued him, laughing gutturally. ‘Stomp ya,’ he chortled.

  His laughter was cut short as a warhammer snapped out and caught him in the face. The orruk twitched and fell backwards, his skull deformed by the force of the blow. Angharad appeared out of the smoke. A second blow prevented the greenskin from rising. She glanced at Reynar. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Angharad hauled him up. ‘Then on your feet. The battle is not yet done, mortal.’ Before he could reply, another orruk barrelled towards them through the dust and smoke, a double-bladed axe raised over his green head. Angharad caught the blow on her shield but was driven back several steps by the force of it.

  Reynar lunged, driving his sword into the orruk’s broad back, where the plates of his armour didn’t meet. The blade shuddered in his hand as it grated against bone. The greenskin staggered, dragging him from his feet, then dropped his axe and stumbled in a drunken circle, clawing blindly at Reynar.

  Angharad drove her shield into the orruk’s face, shattering a tusk and rocking the brute back on his heels. Reynar braced himself and tore his blade free, ducking aside as Angharad slammed her ­hammer down on the wounded orruk’s skull, again and again, until he finally slumped. She looked down at Reynar as she shook the gore from her weapon. ‘My thanks,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘Happy to help,’ Reynar said as he got back to his feet. The dust thrown up by the construct’s destruction was finally starting to clear, revealing a scene of confusion. Struggling knots of men and orruks filled the plaza, fighting desperately. Bodies already littered the ground. ‘We’re not going to win this. We have to retreat.’

  Angharad stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head. ‘No. We do not retreat. We do not…’ She trailed off as she took in the bodies all around them, including that of one of the remaining Stormcasts, his skull caved in by a blow from an orruk bludgeon.

  ‘How many more have to die here for a lost cause?’ Reynar pressed softly. He paused, and added, ‘The Katophrane must be told.’

  Angharad started towards the closest melee without a word. Reynar shadowed her. Whatever his feelings about her kind, there were few places safer than behind a Stormcast’s shield. He caught sight of Severin, locked in battle with a towering orruk, Obryn fighting at his side. He heard Khord’s tuneless singing, echoing over the clash of steel. The blow the duardin had taken had obviously not been fatal.

  A curl of smoke thinned, revealing Khord, his limbs stained with orruk blood. ‘Time to go, manlings,’ he shouted. ‘I’d rather not die here twice if I can help it.’ He pivoted, his blow knocking an orruk sprawling. He pounced on the greenskin, smashing his skull, before falling in alongside Reynar. The runes beaten into the fyreslayer’s skin glowed harshly, and Reynar felt as if he were standing next to a blazing forge.

  ‘We must fall back,’ Angharad shouted. Severin looked at her, hesitated, and then nodded. He shoved the huge orruk back and drove his fist into his face. The greenskin fell – whether dazed or dead, Reynar couldn’t tell.

  ‘Fall back,’ Severin bellowed. ‘Fall back.’ He levelled his broadsword at the charging orruks. ‘Obryn, Angharad, with me – we hold the line.’ Obryn roared wordlessly and slammed his hammer like a spear into an orruk’s midsection, doubling the greenskin over. A second blow dropped the orruk to the ground. Angharad took up position on Severin’s left, her shield warding him.

  Reynar and the others fell back across the smoke-shrouded plaza. Orruks converged on Severin’s trio, coming from all directions. But not as many as he’d thought. He could hear weapons clashing, and shouts and screams from the other side of the plaza. Something about those cries was unpleasantly familiar. They didn’t belong to orruks
.

  The smoke thinned for a moment, and he caught sight of a black-armoured shape striding across the plaza. Not a Stormcast. The grotesque helm turned, and he caught sight of a warped leer before the smoke swallowed the strange warrior once more.

  Beneath the clangour of battle, a hissing sound like sand on stone rose up. Through the smoke, Reynar could see the dead twitching in their prisons of glass, as if cheering – or screaming. He saw too-thin shapes loping past as they fell back.

  ‘The dead are on the move,’ Khord growled. ‘This place wasn’t as abandoned as we thought.’

  ‘Better the orruks face them than us,’ Reynar said. His amulet felt like a lead weight thumping against his chest. Something about the strange warrior’s leering helm reminded him of the shape of the amulet, as if both were part of some unseen whole.

  As they reached the edge of the forest of pillars, he heard the distinctive whistle-crack of Tomas’ boltstorm pistol. The Vanguard-Hunter crouched somewhere overhead, covering their withdrawal. Severin and the others arrived a moment later, their arms and armour stained with orruk blood.

  ‘They aren’t following,’ Severin said as he, Angharad and Obryn reached the edge of the plaza. ‘Someone or something fell on them from behind.’

  ‘Aye, we saw them.’ Khord rubbed blood from his face.

  ‘Happenstance – or a plan?’ Reynar said without thinking.

  Severin looked at him. ‘A good question, mortal. Perhaps you are not as foolish as you appear to be.’ He turned and looked back at the plaza. Reynar could tell that their failure to get what they’d come for was grating on the Stormcasts. It wasn’t something they were used to.

  ‘Perhaps we should go back,’ Angharad said. ‘Without the mortals.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Khord said. ‘Listen to that. You might be able to fight your way through it, but you might perish. And then where are we? More warriors lost, and us none the richer for it.’

  Severin looked down at the duardin. ‘Do you doubt our skills that much?’

  ‘Skill means little against numbers,’ Reynar said flatly. ‘We have no idea what’s going on, who’s fighting who, or how many of them there are. And listen.’ Drums were thumping somewhere in the ruins. ‘More orruks might well be on the way. We should go while we can.’

  After a moment’s pause, Severin nodded. He looked at Tomas. ‘We will lead the others back. Circle around and keep watch. I want to know what happens here. If there is any way to claim that which we came for, we must know.’ He gestured to Khord and Reynar. ‘You two go with him.’

  ‘Me?’ Reynar asked.

  ‘You have proven yourself clever, and observant. And I trust Khord can keep you out of trouble.’ Severin set a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Reynar fought not to flinch. ‘I almost trust you, sellsword. Do not disappoint me.’ He stepped past Reynar.

  Khord laughed. ‘It’s your own fault, manling. Should have run when you had the chance.’

  Isengrim laughed and buried his axe in the orruk’s neck. The greenskin bellowed and caught at his throat. He ducked under the orruk’s last lunge and watched him collapse, blood spurting across the stones. ‘Khorne, I present you this offering,’ he shouted, spreading his arms. ‘Drink deep, and I shall keep your cups full for so long as I may!’

  Around him, men and orruks fought and died. Smoke hung thick on the air. The plaza echoed with the sounds of battle. The fleshless warriors of the Sepulchral Warden converged on individual orruks, dissecting them efficiently before moving onto the next.

  The Warden himself fought nearby, surrounded by his favoured warriors. The champion, bearing his great blade. The reaper and his whirling scythe. And the princely warrior wearing rags that had once been rich robes and a circlet of tarnished gold. They fought as one, following the silent directives of their commander. A trail of broken greenskin bodies marked their path across the plaza.

  One of the creatures lumbered towards the dead men, and the Sepulchral Warden stepped forward with unnatural smoothness. His great spear punched out, spitting the orruk through the chest with ease. The orruk dropped his blade and clutched at the spear. The Warden advanced, driving his prey before him until the orruk lost his footing and fell. The dead man loomed over the dying greenskin, forcing the spear deeper into his torso.

  ‘You seem to have the trick of it,’ Isengrim called out. He was impressed with the dead man’s skill, despite himself. Skilful as he was, he wondered if he could beat the Warden if it came to a fight between them. The thought was an unsettling one.

  The Sepulchral Warden twisted his spear, as if to draw out the orruk’s demise. ‘I remember fighting them in sunlit wastes. I had not tasted food in days. No water had passed my lips. And still I fought.’ His words echoed as he wrenched his spear free. ‘To preserve this city and all who dwelled within its walls.’

  He turned, and his gaze fell on Isengrim. The bloodreaver met it unflinchingly. ‘I still fight, barbarian. I will fight until Shadespire is safe. Until this city and its people are whole once more. Whatever comes, I will not falter.’

  Isengrim’s retort died on his lips. Such courage was admirable, even from a dead man. He nodded brusquely, and as he turned away, he caught a glimpse of the Sepulchral Warden’s shadow, warped and too large for such a slight frame. It stretched behind him, and it seemed to belong to someone – something – much larger.

  A chill passed through him, a sense of standing at the edge of some great chasm. The shadow twisted in the pale twilight, a great head turned.

  I… see… you…

  The world slowed. The clamour of battle faded to a muted roar. The plaza trembled beneath his feet as if some titanic form were drawing closer to him with every passing moment. Around him, dead faces pressed close to the glass, watching in mute fascination. Isengrim shook his head, trying to clear it of the thunder of that impossible tread. He looked around and saw every skull in the plaza turned towards him. Their eyes burned like stars in the gloom.

  I… see… you…

  ‘See me,’ he hissed. ‘See me and claim me if you can. I’ll not run from you.’

  The moment stretched – snapped – passed – and the sound of battle rushed in again to fill the unnatural silence. More orruks came, spilling through the plaza, bellowing eagerly. Isengrim’s face split in a smile. Here was the slaughter he yearned for. There was no foe like an orruk. They too knew the joy of battle and did not fear the axe’s edge. They were strong, and the skulls of the strong were the best offerings of all.

  He laughed again, and those of his warriors within earshot laughed with him. The dead might be content to fight in silence, but Khorne demanded hymns and songs. Slaughter was celebration, and must be joyous. ‘Come, you sons of blood – let us show them the strength of the Blood God’s hand!’ If he could not have his quarry, then the orruks would do. For the moment, at least.

  Isengrim charged to meet the greenskins, teeth bared. He slammed into one, revelling in the pain of the impact. The orruk tried to bury a blade in his shoulder, but Isengrim’s blow severed his hand at the wrist. The orruk barely slowed, reaching for another blade thrust through his belt. Ylac’s glaive punched through the beast’s skull.

  ‘That was my kill, Ylac,’ Isengrim snarled.

  His subordinate laughed and jerked his weapon free. ‘More than enough skulls to go around, my chief.’ A massive orruk burst through the curtain of smoke. ‘Here’s one now…’ Ylac backed away, ceding the combat to Isengrim.

  Isengrim laughed. ‘My thanks, Ylac. Perhaps I shall take his in place of yours.’

  Piggy eyes fixed on him as a slow grin twisted the orruk’s green features into a mask of brutal glee. ‘Bonekutta is gonna chop yer,’ the greenskin roared, charging. He whirled his double-headed axe about in a wild circle, and Isengrim was hard pressed to avoid being sliced in two. He ducked away and hacked at the orruk’s side. Bonekutta spun, near
ly splitting Isengrim’s skull.

  One of the Warden’s followers chose that moment to intervene. The reaper’s scythe hissed down, sinking into Bonekutta’s back. The orruk roared and whirled, tearing the scythe from the skeleton’s grip. The hooded skeleton staggered, and Bonekutta’s axe smashed down. The reaper crumbled, skull shattered. Bonekutta laughed. ‘Want it dead? Smash da head!’

  ‘Try that on me and see how far it gets you,’ Isengrim said, taking advantage of his opponent’s momentary distraction. He caught hold of the scythe still jutting from the orruk’s back and ripped it loose in a spray of gore. Bonekutta howled in pain and spun.

  The creature was fast. But not as fast as Isengrim. He thrust his axe out, catching the orruk’s blade with his own. Surprised, Bonekutta lost his grip on his weapon, and Isengrim tore it from his opponent’s hands. He sent it flying and slammed the haft of his own axe into Bonekutta’s face. The orruk staggered, off balance.

  Isengrim roared and buried his blade in Bonekutta’s gut. Crude metal plates buckled and parted as the axe sought green flesh. The orruk howled and gripped Isengrim’s head in crushing paws. Pain exploded behind his temples, and red sparks skipped across his vision. Isengrim ripped his blade free, and the orruk’s grip went slack as his spine folded away. Isengrim staggered as the greenskin fell. Blinking spots from his eyes, he almost missed Zuvass beheading another of the creatures.

  There was something familiar about the way the other warrior moved – not graceful, but efficient. Brutal and miserly. Zuvass loosed not one blow more than was necessary, and his foes parted around him like water. Isengrim snarled, annoyed to be so easily outpaced. He kicked the dead orruk aside and started towards the next. The greenskin spun towards him, dragging about a shattered skeletal warrior. The dead thing struggled in the creature’s grip, trying to free itself.