‘No. Not a way out.’ Reynar stepped back. Khord stared at him for a moment, and then his gaze was drawn past him to the portcullis. The stones beneath Reynar’s feet trembled, and he felt a gust of foul air. He heard the groan of the portcullis rising out of the water.
Reynar turned, and Khord moved up beside him. In the dark beyond the portcullis, something moved. He heard the splash of footsteps through the water and the echoing clink of armour. Then a tall figure clad in archaic battleplate and a heavy cloak stepped through, a great war-spear in one hand and a rusty shield in the other.
The Sepulchral Warden stared at them with flickering sockets. His fleshless jaw sagged. ‘Stand aside and you will not be harmed,’ he said. The words echoed strangely in the broken space. They slid across Reynar’s nerves like a razor. Behind the Warden, pale bones emerged into the dim light – skeletal warriors filled the tunnel beyond.
Khord laughed harshly. ‘Not even if you paid me, bag o’ bones.’ He glanced at Reynar. ‘Are you with me, manling?’
Reynar hesitated. He was saved from having to answer by the Sepulchral Warden. ‘Kill him,’ he intoned, thrusting the ferrule of his spear down into the water. Dead men swept past him, moving with unnatural speed.
Khord roared and swung his maul, shattering the first of the skeletal warriors to reach him. ‘Hurry – get aid. They’re coming through!’ More dead men closed in, thrusting rusty spears and swords at the fyreslayer. Reynar hesitated, watching. Before he could act one way or another, the Sepulchral Warden glided smoothly into battle. He moved with more grace than those who served him, easily avoiding Khord’s wild blow.
The Sepulchral Warden caught Khord’s next swing on his shield and drove his spear through the fyreslayer’s torso with ease. Such was the force of the blow that it lifted the duardin out of the water and drove him backwards against a pillar. Khord exhaled blood. He caught at the spear, choking on his own curses. ‘Manling…’ he coughed. The undead warrior looked up, meeting Reynar’s gaze, and twisted his spear, silencing Khord’s last words.
The Sepulchral Warden gave a slight nod, and Reynar shook free of his paralysis. ‘Go, sellsword,’ the dead man rasped. ‘Lead us to the Katophrane.’
Reynar turned away as the dead crept in behind him.
Isengrim roared and hacked his opponent down. The man, his face painted with ashes, died in silence. Isengrim wiped blood from his face and turned towards the dome rising high above the courtyard. His quarry was there – he was certain of it. And the spirit who had led him here. He was close. Somewhere, Khorne was howling in anticipation. But the cold was there as well, creeping up on him.
‘Push forward,’ he bellowed. ‘Take the inner causeways.’ He raised his gory axe, and his warriors shouted in triumph as they finished off the few remaining defenders. ‘Leave no skull unclaimed!’ For a moment, he wondered why Ylac wasn’t echoing him. Then he remembered that Ylac was a corpse, cooling outside the gates. So were more than a dozen others, all thanks to the Stormcast and his hammer. But they’d brought him down in the end. Even a giant could not stand with blades in his gizzards, his legs hacked apart and his skull cracked open. But he had died hard. He had died well.
The mortals warding the upper gates had not. They had died too swiftly – it had barely been worth raising his axe. He looked out over the courtyard below and heard the crash of thunder. Gurzag was doing his part. But his orruks hadn’t yet managed to breach the gate.
He looked at Hygaletes, who crouched nearby, expertly peeling a scalp from a dead man. ‘Go. See to the gates, if the orruks haven’t already. We will set loose a river of blood to drown our foes and fill Khorne’s gullet to bursting.’ He paused. ‘May you find the Lord of Bones accommodating, sellsword.’
Hygaletes smiled as he rose, his bloody trophy thrust through his belt. ‘He is that, if nothing else. I wish you good fortune, brother. May you find the skull you seek and not lose yours in the process.’ He held out his bloody fist. Isengrim hesitated, and then brought his own down atop it.
Hygaletes turned away and shouted for his people. ‘Rejoice, brothers and sisters – today is our dying day!’
With those words, the death-worshippers flooded down the steps towards the courtyard, Hygaletes in the lead. Isengrim watched them for a moment. Then, with a grunt, he turned back to the great dome. He could hear the clatter of war-plate, and he saw the gleam of Stormcast armour in the firelight. Of course there would be guards. They’d used the mortals as chattel, in order to buy time to reinforce the dome. But it would do them no good.
He began to run, his breath rasping in his ears. ‘Come, warhounds. Come, skulltakers. Let us gorge ourselves on heartflesh and marrow,’ he roared. The numbness had spread to his extremities now. The cold gripped his heart, but for the moment, it still beat. He felt as if something was lurking just over his shoulder. He staggered, one hand braced against the remains of a pillar. His warriors spilled past, howling and chanting.
Stormcasts moved to meet them – only three of them, he saw. But that was enough. He needed to clear the way for the Sepulchral Warden and the dead before their quarry – and his – had a chance to escape. He lurched forward, and had to duck beneath a flying body.
One of the Stormcasts strode through his warriors, battering them aside with shield and hammer. He longed to match himself against the golden warrior, to test the edge of his axe against her hammer. Like the one outside, she seemed to be a worthy opponent. He made to lunge at her, and she pivoted, her hammer sweeping out.
He rolled under her blow, and his axe kissed her side, drawing sparks. She spun, quicker than he’d expected, and smashed him from his feet with a blow of her shield. He skidded across the stones, his shoulder numb. She stalked towards him, her eyes like motes of lightning behind her war-mask. He shoved himself to his feet, growling. Another strike sent him stumbling back. He lurched forward, and she slammed her shield into him again. A third blow threw him against a pillar, his mouth full of blood.
She turned as a bloodreaver attacked from behind. Others converged on her, seeking to overwhelm her as they had the one on the outer causeway. She shouted out a hymn of war as she crushed an unlucky warrior’s skull and snapped another’s neck with the edge of her shield. Isengrim hesitated, wanting to take advantage of her distraction but unable to deny himself the pleasure of honest battle. With a snarl of frustration, he lunged up and took a tight grip on his axe.
‘Turn, she-wolf,’ he bellowed. ‘Turn, storm-devil. I am Isengrim of the Red Reef. Turn, and kiss the edge of my axe.’
As his warriors drew back, panting, to concentrate on her companions, she turned. ‘Your name means nothing to me.’
‘It will.’ He leapt, axe raised. She caught the attack on her shield and shoved him aside. He twisted away from her hammer, knowing one blow would be enough to finish him. It cracked the stones at his feet, and he tried to hook her shield. She batted his axe aside, knocking it from his hand, and shoved him back, the rim of her shield pressed against his throat.
She forced him against a pillar and held him there. ‘Your kind take skulls. It is fitting, then, that I take yours in payment for all those innocents you have undoubtedly slain.’ She tensed, and he knew she meant to pry his head from his shoulders.
Isengrim caught hold of the rim of the shield. The metal bit into his palms and throat. Blood coursed down his chest and arms. He spat blood onto her war-mask. ‘The skulls of the innocent hold no value to Khorne – only the worthy catch his eye.’ He gave a gurgling laugh.
She hesitated. With a roar, he swung his feet up and drove them into her abdomen. She took a step back, and he shoved her shield away. Off balance, she fell. He tore the shield from her arm and slammed it down against her helm. Dazed, she slumped. He hit her again, striking until the shield was cracked and deformed in his bloody hands.
She lay still. Dead or unconscious, he couldn’t say. It was enough. He ros
e unsteadily, panting, his arms and shoulders aching from exertion. He tossed the shield aside and recovered his axe. He saw that the other two Stormcasts were both down as well – and most of his remaining warriors with them. He looked down at her. ‘You are worthy,’ he croaked.
It took three blows to remove her head. When he’d done it, his few surviving warriors cheered. But he felt only the cold creeping through him. Stronger than before. Down below, in the ornamental plazas, men, orruks and Stormcasts fought and died. He wanted to hurl himself into that redness, to fight and perhaps perish. Anything not to feel the chill that gnawed at his vitals. He reached for the Stormcast’s head, but stopped as a shadow fell over him. He looked up into Zuvass’ metal leer.
‘Impressive,’ the Chaos warrior said. ‘But that’s not the skull you’re after, is it?’ He stood over Isengrim, the Sepulchral Warden by his side. Behind them, skeletal warriors stood ready.
Isengrim rose. ‘No.’
‘No.’ Zuvass stepped past him, one hand resting on his sword. ‘Come. The endgame approaches, my friends.’
Chapter twenty-three
THE FINAL PIECE
Treachery is not an act of cowardice, but of ambition. Only the brave attempt it. Only the heroic do so more than once.
– Nechris Litharge
Ruminations Aboard a Twilight Coach
Reynar climbed the steps towards the dome. Behind him, Angharad and the others fought against bloodreavers and dead men. They would not prevail. They would die, as Khord had died. As Ilesha had died.
He shook the thought aside. Death wasn’t death, here. They would forgive him once they learned the truth. Once he had the way out. Zuvass had promised him a way out. When he had that, none of this would matter.
He half-flinched, expecting to hear his own voice taunting him. Asking him why he believed Zuvass and not Sadila. But there was only silence. He took it as a sign that he was on the right track, even if it felt like anything but.
Metal scraped on stone. He looked up. Severin stared down at him from the top of the steps leading to the dome. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to warn the Katophrane,’ Reynar said. His mouth had gone dry. He scrambled for an explanation. He could hear the crash of Angharad’s hammer and her cries reverberating across the causeway. The dead would be here soon, if they weren’t already. He had to get past the Stormcast. He had to make sure Sadila didn’t escape. He climbed another step, fighting against the urge to break and run.
‘We have a traitor among us. Khord…’ The words tasted foul, and he faltered.
Severin frowned. ‘You are lying. I am no fool, whatever you think, mortal. I know treachery when it stands before me.’
‘But not when it stands behind you,’ Reynar said harshly. He knew it was useless. Severin was driven by a desperation greater than his own. Reynar just wanted to escape, but the Stormcast was fighting for something greater. ‘She’s played us, Severin. She’s not what she seems.’
‘Neither are you,’ the Stormcast rumbled. ‘Stay where you are, or I will slay you.’
Reynar paused, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Then, slowly, he drew it.
Severin cocked his head as if curious. ‘And what are you going to do with that, mortal?’ The contempt in his voice struck Reynar like a blow from a fist. Severin thought he was nothing. And maybe, next to the Stormcast, he was.
‘Do you know why I hate you?’ Reynar said. ‘Because you’re right. Angharad was right. Next to you, I am a coward. Next to you, I’m nothing. I’m just a man – mortal, as you keep reminding me.’ He lifted his sword, knowing it would do no good. Knowing, but still determined. ‘I have only one life to give – and I choose not to be generous with it.’
Severin raised his blade. ‘So be it.’ He began to descend, and Reynar knew in that moment that he was dead. The Stormcast wouldn’t let him get to the Katophrane. Severin might even hold back the armies of the dead.
Behind him, Reynar heard the clatter of bone on stone. Severin glanced away, and Reynar lunged. His sword drew sparks from the Stormcast’s golden war-plate, but Severin merely batted him aside. Reynar was knocked into the wall, the air driven from his lungs. He slid down, gasping. Severin caught him by the throat and lifted him. ‘You would be wise to avoid me in your next reflection,’ he said. His grip tightened, and Reynar gasped. His sword slipped from nerveless fingers.
‘Let him go, Severin.’ Zuvass’ voice echoed through the corridor. ‘Face an equal for once, if you dare.’
Severin’s grip slackened, and Reynar slid to the ground, wheezing. The Stormcast turned, his azure gaze fixed on the grey figure striding up the steps, followed by a host of the dead. ‘You,’ he said. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘I know you. We are old friends, you and I.’ Zuvass gestured, and the dead retreated, their eerie gazes fixed on the Stormcast. The Chaos warrior glanced at Reynar. ‘You have an appointment to keep, my friend. As do I. Don’t dawdle.’
Severin glanced down at him, his expression unreadable. ‘Is that it, then? Have you bargained away your soul to this thing? If you have, you might thank me for killing you now.’ He raised his blade. Reynar scrambled aside, and Severin turned as if to grab him. Zuvass charged up the steps, his blade held low.
Severin spun, alerted by the sound of Zuvass’ rush. Their swords connected with a sound like a funerary bell. Reynar snatched up his sword and left them to their duel. As he ran up the steps, he could see the battle spilling into the gardens below.
Skeletal warriors flooded the ornamental plazas, hacking and stabbing at any who tried to stem the tide. There were living warriors among the invaders as well, and isolated clashes broke out as old rivalries flared anew. Orruks and bloodreavers fell on the embattled defenders from all sides. It was a massacre. He felt nothing.
Reynar entered the gardens at a run. ‘Sadila,’ he called out. ‘Sadila – answer me!’
No reply. For a moment, he wondered if she’d already fled. Then, slowly, she appeared, slipping between the trees. ‘You surprised me, you know. I thought you’d given up. But it seems I was mistaken. And about many things.’
‘We both were.’ Reynar turned, following her with his gaze. ‘I almost believed you, you know. But I started to wonder why you seemed to care more about the danger than about what we were looking for. Even Ilesha noticed it. Even Severin. And then, well…’
‘And then you listened to someone you shouldn’t have. Who was it? Another Katophrane? One of the dead? They’ve lied to you.’ She circled him through the grove of shadeglass. ‘I can rebuild the Faneway. I can free us all. Just as I promised.’
Reynar turned, trying to keep her in view. ‘You trapped me here for your own amusement. You trapped all of us – just to watch us fight and die. Why?’
She was silent. He thought she’d slipped away somehow, that she’d realised that he was only a distraction. But then she stepped into view to his left, frowning. ‘Because I can’t,’ she said. ‘I am a Katophrane, born to bow and blade. And now I can loose no arrow and draw no blood. I am caught fast between two worlds, unable to truly affect either. But you can. And through you, I can taste it all. I can wage war – you are my blade, my bow. And through you, I can have victory over my rivals.’
‘But that’s not what you want, is it?’ Reynar said. ‘You don’t want victory, because victory means an end to your game. And what then? Do you pass on?’
Sadila hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly. ‘I do not care. You are ruining the game. I knew you would from the first moment I saw you. You’re just like all the others – too greedy, too frightened, too stupid to see that this is all there is now.’ She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter now, I suppose. It’s all coming apart again. The game is ending, and soon I must start over. I have other palaces, and I will build a new army of toys to play with.’
‘You never had an
y intention of helping anyone escape, did you?’ Reynar demanded.
She laughed. ‘There is no escape. We must find what joy we can in this prison.’
‘Then why the lies? Why send us out?’
‘Without hope, you are no better than those ragged spectres who huddle in forgotten doorways. Without hope, you do not fight – and I wanted you to fight. I wanted to see you fight. And you did, and oh, it was joyous.’ She wrapped her arms about herself in pleasure. ‘For a moment, just a moment, I remembered what it felt like to be alive. To test myself against a blade-slave.’ She looked at him. ‘But now, I must clear the board.’
Her palms flattened against the glass, and it began to crack and bulge. Fragments clashed as they stretched away from the broken body of the tree, dragging her reflection with them. More shadeglass spilled outwards as legs and body followed arms, until a clattering, jangling parody of a human shape loomed over him. Sadila’s face was reduced to scattered jigsaw pieces in the ever-shifting prism of its head. It lurched towards Reynar, leaving behind pieces of itself. Reynar backed away.
‘Do you know why I chose you, Seguin?’ Sadila said, crunching towards him. ‘It’s because I’ve seen your face before, but I can’t remember where. It aggravated me – frustrated me. I saw you and I remembered… something. A moment.’ She hesitated, shaking her head, shedding shards of glass. ‘Even now, I cannot say whether it truly happened or not. Maybe it was simply a dream.’
Reynar kept backing away. ‘You shouldn’t listen to dreams.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Too late now, though. For both of us. If we meet again, we’ll laugh about it, I’m sure.’ She reached out with her talons of broken glass. ‘But until then, know you have my gratitude for such a delightful game.’
‘Sadila. Stop this.’
Sadila froze. Losing bits of glass, her form disintegrating, she turned. Looking past her, Reynar saw a ghostly shape standing near where she’d emerged.
Shadespire: The Mirrored City Page 31