Shadespire: The Mirrored City

by Josh Reynolds

‘And this is one of them?’

  ‘That war golem outside is as good as a signature. Kemos was not the first to construct such monstrous war-engines, but he was among the most vocal of their proponents. While traditionalists like our good friend the Sepulchral Warden had little use for such things, other Katophranes were not so discerning. A weapon was a weapon, and the more destructive, the better. A shame it is not intact. Then, it isn’t really what we’re after.’

  ‘What could be better than a weapon?’

  ‘A key.’

  ‘How do you know all of this?’

  ‘I have been here for a very long time. Now follow me.’ Zuvass lifted his torch. The path ahead sloped down and widened into a high, vaulted chamber. Great shelves of stone lined the walls, stretching back into the dark. There were dust-shrouded statues – or perhaps more war golems – slumped in deep nooks between the shelves. Most were covered in thick curtains of cobweb through which hints of strange glass and metal instruments gleamed. Unseen alembics burbled, unsettled, perhaps, by the vibrations of their footsteps. ‘Quietly now, and carefully,’ Zuvass said. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

  Isengrim growled. ‘I’m no lackwit.’ He paused as something massive and dark slithered through the shadeglass floor beneath him. At first, he took it for a bloom of spilled oil, but it moved too purposefully. It followed the light like a shadow, twisting and squirming. Pinpricks of amethyst flickered in its depths, and the longer he peered at it, the harder it was to look away.

  Closer… closer…

  The pinpricks grew to motes. Things took shape, round and dark – skulls rising out of the swirling mass.

  Closer and closer… he comes… Behind you he does tread… frightful and terrible…

  Something touched his arm, and he whirled, axe raised. Zuvass stepped back, his hand up in a warding gesture. ‘I wouldn’t listen to them, if I were you.’

  ‘Listen to who?’

  ‘The truly dead. They are inveterate liars, the lot of them.’ Zuvass stamped on the floor. ‘Be off with you. We have no interest in your gossip.’ He swung the torch about. ‘They’re like moths, attracted to the light of your soul.’

  ‘My soul belongs to Khorne.’

  ‘Then it burns twice as bright for half the time. The air is thick with hungry ghosts, especially in a place like this. They trail in Nagash’s wake, like carrion birds following a lion.’ Zuvass reached out and swept aside a thick pall of dust. Behind it, within a shallow nook, sat a blocky shape taller than Isengrim. ‘Ah. There it is. Just where her notes said.’

  ‘Whose notes?’

  Zuvass hesitated. ‘Someone I knew, once.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘As I said before – a key. Or, rather, a map.’ Zuvass handed Isengrim the torch and hauled the shape out, sending it crashing to the floor. Isengrim realised that it was a sarcophagus, like those he’d seen elsewhere in Shyish, save that this one was made from a solid piece of shadeglass. Inside, he could just make out a withered, mummified shape that reminded him of the sightless things they’d encountered in the sewers. ‘Stand back, and keep that torch high.’

  Isengrim did as he was told, a visceral sense of unease clawing at him. The walls, with their shadows within shadows, seemed to be closing in on him. He wanted to fight – to kill – but there was nothing here to expend his fury on. Only the whispers of the dead, and a thousand silent artefacts.

  Zuvass crouched beside the sarcophagus and ran his fingers along its sides. ‘There’s always a catch, if you know where to– ah.’

  There was a sound like a falling mirror, and the sarcophagus was suddenly riven with thin cracks. A colourless vapour wafted out as Zuvass thrust his fingers into the gaps and easily forced them open. Soon the sarcophagus’ occupant was revealed. Isengrim could make out the faded remnants of tattoos trailing down the corpse’s bald head and beneath its robes. More tattoos covered the hands clasped loosely about the hilt of the bronze blade that lay across its sunken chest.

  ‘Who was it?’ Isengrim muttered.

  ‘A blade-slave. These tattoos are markings of sale.’ Zuvass reached for the skull. There was a soft sound. Isengrim saw the dead man’s fingers tighten about the hilt of his blade.

  ‘Zuvass, the corpse…’

  ‘Yes,’ Zuvass said as he grabbed hold of the skull and wrenched it off. ‘I know. Catch.’ He tossed the skull to Isengrim, who was forced to drop the torch to catch it. An amethyst light shimmered in its sockets, and the headless corpse sat up, raising the sword as it did so. Zuvass stepped back, drawing his own blade.

  The body came to its feet and swung its blade, moving with a surprising grace. Zuvass parried the blow and removed one of the corpse’s arms with an economical slash. A second swipe split its spine in two. The torso continued to wriggle, trying to raise its sword. Zuvass stamped on the shoulder joint, then reached down and tore the remaining arm loose. He tossed it away and turned. ‘I thought I told you to keep the torch high.’

  Isengrim made to retort, but paused when he heard something scuttle through the shadows. Hastily, he tossed the skull to Zuvass and snatched up the still-burning torch. He swung it about. Something scaly slid away, out of sight. Isengrim bared his teeth as a thrill of atavistic worry ran through him. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, as long as the torch is still burning.’ Zuvass held up the skull and tore its jaw off, exposing a strange artefact ­buried deep in the leathery tissues of its mouth. ‘There we are. It was traditional to remove a slave’s tongue upon their first purchase. Sometimes, the Katophranes liked to replace them with jewels or golden replicas. In this case, Kemos made it into a hiding place.’

  ‘Not a very good one, if you knew about it.’

  ‘No,’ Zuvass said. He extracted the artefact and dropped the remains of the skull to the floor, then held the relic up to the torchlight.

  It was at once circular and rectangular, like several shapes trying to occupy the same space. Isengrim was reminded of the archways and steps that had tangled together far above the streets.

  ‘Kemos’ map of the great Faneway Mirror,’ Zuvass murmured.

  ‘Why does a mirror need a map? Or a key, for that matter?’

  ‘To call it a mirror is to simplify something incredibly complex. The Faneway was nothing more or less than a labyrinth of souls – a citadel of the spiritual.’

  Isengrim twitched this observation aside. ‘And this shows how to get through it?’

  ‘Better – to one who can read it, it shows how to repair it.’ Zuvass held the object up, turning it so that its impossible curves caught the light. ‘Kemos was one of several artisans who crafted their own private map of the Faneway – or so Mekesh swears.’ He ran a finger along a line, following it all the way around. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘And is that what you want to do? Repair it?’

  Zuvass laughed. ‘No, and I doubt the Sepulchral Warden would appreciate that. Many of the Katophranes believe that repairing the Faneway Mirror will free Shadespire from its curse. A fool’s dream.’ He lowered the artefact. ‘This whole place is a fool’s dream. The Katophranes, the Warden… Nagash.’

  Isengrim snorted. Zuvass seemed to take the noise for disagreement. ‘It’s true. Nagash sought to do something, and failed. You see?’ He swept out a hand. ‘He set out to create the perfect prison, inviolate and unbreakable. Instead, armies rampage across it, breaking themselves against one another. Their blood waters the stones of the city, and it laps this nourishment up greedily. Like a vampire, Shadespire is dead, but not. It sleeps in the shadowed place between moments. Growing. Waiting.’

  Despite himself, Isengrim took the bait. ‘For what?’ He thought he heard something laugh, somewhere deep in the vault, but he shook the thought off.

  ‘Well, that is the question, isn’t it? What is the city becoming? What happens if the Faneway is repaired – w
hat will emerge from this place? A hundred million imprisoned souls… or will something worse frenzy forth? What will stretch itself through every shard and fragment of shadeglass into the realms beyond? A city, or a newborn god?’ Zuvass laughed, and it was a harsh, empty sound.

  Isengrim stared at him. He felt a chill that had little to do with the temperature. ‘Is that the god you serve, then?’ he asked softly. ‘Something that does not exist?’

  ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps it is something that will always have existed.’ Zuvass looked at him. ‘The Ruinous Powers are beyond the limits of man’s perceptions, my friend. They are children who have always existed and have not yet been born, all at once. They destroy themselves every evensong and recreate themselves by dawn’s light. They dwindle for centuries only to expand anew, like fresh-kindled sparks.’

  ‘I know nothing of that. Any of it. I know only that the gods demand a man stand and fight in their name. That he does so proudly. Else he is a coward, and damned to a straw death.’ Isengrim swept his axe out, cutting the air and the cobwebs that wafted through it. ‘This thing we claim, it will help me find my quarry?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Good. Then I am satisfied.’ Isengrim nodded. His eyes strayed to the shadows, which seemed to be listening. Fireflies of amethyst light danced in the walls, and he could hear a faint rush of many voices whispering. In curiosity, he wondered – or fear?

  ‘I am overjoyed to hear it.’ Zuvass hefted the artefact, as if admiring it. ‘Now, to deliver this into the proper hands, so that things might continue as they must.’

  ‘What?’

  Zuvass looked at him. ‘Surely you didn’t think I was going to keep it? The Sepulchral Warden would insist on confiscating it, and we can’t have that. Not yet.’

  Isengrim blinked. ‘Why go to the effort to retrieve something like this if you’re just going to give it away?’

  ‘Because that’s how you put together a puzzle,’ Zuvass said. ‘One piece at a time.’

  Chapter fifteen

  CELEBRATIONS

  AND RUMINATIONS

  In those final days, the Lord Marshal of the city, Hero of the Battle of Calypsos, called upon his fellow Katophranes to make their peace with the Undying King – a crime for which he was crucified upon the highest section of the southern walls…

  – Palento Herst

  Shadespire: The Last Days

  Sadila made a sound at once maternal and mocking. ‘How disappointing.’

  Reynar eyed her. ‘Yes. How sad that we weren’t all killed.’ Sadila had insisted that he be the one to explain what they’d seen after their withdrawal from the plaza. Severin had grudgingly agreed. Tomas had vanished the moment they reached the Jasper Palaces – a not ­unusual occurrence, apparently – and Khord had made himself absent.

  She smiled. ‘I meant your failure.’

  Reynar shrugged. ‘Not mine. I wasn’t in charge.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Sadila paced through her grove of shattered trees, her form stretching and twisting like condensation on glass. Reynar restrained the urge to turn. Trying to keep her in sight was a fool’s game, and one she enjoyed too much. ‘Still, Ilesha will be disappointed. That vault might well have held the key to repairing the Faneway Mirror.’

  ‘You don’t sound all that disappointed, yourself.’

  ‘Why would I be? I have endured an eternity already – what is a few more centuries?’ But her words rang hollow. In the moments when her face was visible, Reynar could see the lie in her eyes. Her mildness was a mask hiding a fierce rage. And something else.

  ‘Now, tell me what you saw after,’ she said. ‘When you got over your fear and crept back.’

  Reynar didn’t take the bait. ‘Just as Severin undoubtedly told you – bloodreavers and dead men, fighting together. And someone called the Sepulchral Warden.’

  She started. A flinch, as of an old hurt remembered. ‘Him.’

  ‘Yes. Overseeing it all. Is he one of you? A Katophrane?’

  ‘He is nothing like me. He was never one of us.’ The venom in her voice surprised him. She stopped her pacing, her eyes fixed. ‘He was a fool then, and he’s worse than a fool now.’ The mask was off, and he could see the tiger hiding beneath. But beneath the anger, there was an undercurrent of something else. Something interesting.

  ‘You’re afraid of him,’ Reynar said, following her with his eyes.

  ‘He’s a traitor.’ She was pacing again, stalking up and down in the trees and stretching across the floor, her image spilling and skewing in all directions as if at any moment she might fly apart.

  ‘But that’s not all.’

  She stopped. ‘Are you enjoying this, Reynar? Do you think you might turn this to your advantage?’ She spun, and the trees quaked as if caught in a breeze. ‘The Sepulchral Warden can’t help you, sellsword. He would simply flay you and cast you into an oubliette with all the other living bodies he captures.’ She laughed. ‘Or maybe you are thinking of pledging your allegiance to Nagash.’

  ‘Is that an option?’

  ‘Some choose it. They enslave themselves to a god who neither notices them nor cares. But you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?’ Her grin was a challenge. ‘What sort of amulet is that you clutch so tightly when you think no one sees, Reynar?’

  He tried to hide his surprise, cursing himself inwardly. Of course she’d have seen. She was spying on him. ‘A good luck charm, nothing more.’

  ‘Oh, I think it’s more than that. I’ve seen it before, you know.’ She was moving again, circling him, too quickly for him to follow. ‘I could tell you all about it, if you like.’

  He touched his chest. The amulet was cool against his skin. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’ He dropped his hand. ‘The Sepulchral Warden serves Nagash. He intends to stop you, doesn’t he?’ He frowned speculatively. ‘Can he hurt you?’

  As he’d hoped, the question brought her close. ‘No.’

  He turned. ‘You’re lying.’

  Her face twisted into a snarl, and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. ‘I fear nothing,’ she hissed. ‘I am Sadila, daughter of Hausa. I am a Katophrane born, and this city and all who dwell within it are mine by right. Living or dead!’

  Thunder rumbled at her words. A black, sour sound rising from somewhere far away but impossibly close. It put Reynar in mind of tumbling bones, and a chill ran through him. Sadila spun, mouth open, eyes wide, and he wondered what she saw there, in her prison of glass and shadow. She turned away, her face covered, and he thought he heard her moan. Every shard and extrusion of glass trembled, and he heard more voices, echoing up as if from some great distance. Reflections for things that were not there swept across every facet and pane, like the shadows of startled birds.

  The sound faded, replaced by Sadila’s soft weeping. Her reflection crouched before him, head in her hands, body trembling. Reynar stared, uncertain as to what to do. When she looked up at him, he stepped back. Her face was not all there, as if her tears had carried some of it away.

  She drew her fingers down the blank skin, pulling away bloodless strips of meat and revealing pitted bone. She bared her teeth. ‘Get out, sellsword. Get out and leave me. I tire of you.’ The words hissed out, and he left quickly, not wanting to see what came next.

  Outside, Khord was sitting on the edge of the causeway, a clay jug of something in his hand. The fyreslayer was singing softly. ‘Valdarinn wanrag ek brynit?’ He took a long drink, splashing some down his beard. ‘Guz!’ As he caught sight of Reynar, he hopped down a trifle unsteadily and sang, more loudly, ‘Naraz!’ He reached out and caught Reynar’s arm, then swung him about as if they were dancing partners. ‘Valdarinn wanrag ek brynit?’

  Reynar disentangled himself quickly. ‘You seem cheerful,’ he said sourly.

  ‘And why wouldn’t I be? I’m alive. So are you.’

  ‘But we fa
iled.’

  ‘And what’s that to you?’ Khord poked him in the chest. ‘Eh? Long as you live.’

  Reynar pushed past him. ‘Not all of us were so lucky.’ He glanced back at the dome. ‘And for what? A madwoman’s whim.’ He looked down at Khord. ‘How is Bolas?’

  ‘He’s singing Tirax’s death-song, somewhere high, after the fashion of her folk.’ Khord cupped an ear, as if listening. ‘Not a very cheerful song.’

  Reynar shook his head. ‘If he’s that broken up, he should go look for her.’

  Khord grunted. ‘If it were that easy, I’m sure he would. He could spend a decade looking for Tirax and never find her.’ He took another swig from his jug. ‘This place plays tricks on you, manling. It shows you the wrong path, every time. It leads you by dark roads. Makes you see and hear things that aren’t there. You can’t trust anything, and when you find something – someone – you can trust… well.’

  Reynar nodded. Gods alone knew what had drawn Bolas and Tirax to each other, who’d made the first move. But he could understand why they’d sought each other out, even if he’d never felt that way himself. Friends were a liability. A weakness. But some people revelled in weakness.

  He looked over the edge of the causeway and down into the courtyard below. Fires shimmered in the gloom. Tiny circles of people were huddled together against the eternal twilight. Though he was tempted, he did not look up. Something clinked, and he realised that his amulet was dangling over the edge of the causeway like a lodestone. He caught it in his hand and stepped back. ‘Are you scared of it? Dying, I mean.’

  Khord took a long swallow of drink. ‘Aye,’ he said, smacking his lips.

  Reynar looked at him. ‘Really?’

  ‘Death isn’t the end of us, but it is the end of all this.’ Khord looked around wearily. ‘She’s not the first Katophrane to attempt repairing that blasted Faneway, you know. My kin worked for one such, for a time. We died in his service, and by the time we’d returned, all that we’d built – all the artefacts we’d found, the alliances we’d made – it was all gone.’