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Discover more stories set in the Age of Sigmar from Black Library

~ THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

THE GATES OF AZYR
Chris Wraight

HALLOWED KNIGHTS: PLAGUE GARDEN
Josh Reynolds

EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS
Josh Reynolds

THE TAINTED HEART
C L Werner

CALLIS & TOLL: THE SILVER SHARD
Nick Horth

SOUL WARS
Josh Reynolds

NEFERATA: MORTARCH OF BLOOD
David Annandale

NAGASH: THE UNDYING KING
Josh Reynolds

OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON
C L Werner

LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR
Various authors

THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 1
Various authors
Contains the novels The Gates of Azyr, War Storm, Ghal Maraz, Hammers of Sigmar, Wardens of the Everqueen and Black Rift

THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 2
Various authors
Contains the novels Call of Archaon, Warbeast, Fury of Gork, Bladestorm, Mortarch of Night and Lord of Undeath

~ THE REALMGATE WARS ~

WAR STORM
An Age of Sigmar anthology

GHAL MARAZ
An Age of Sigmar anthology

HAMMERS OF SIGMAR
An Age of Sigmar anthology

CALL OF ARCHAON
An Age of Sigmar anthology

WARDENS OF THE EVERQUEEN
An Age of Sigmar novel

WARBEAST
An Age of Sigmar novel

FURY OF GORK
An Age of Sigmar novel

BLADESTORM
An Age of Sigmar novel

MORTARCH OF NIGHT
An Age of Sigmar novel

LORD OF UNDEATH
An Age of Sigmar novel

~ LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

CITY OF SECRETS
An Age of Sigmar novel

FYRESLAYERS
An Age of Sigmar novel

SKAVEN PESTILENS
An Age of Sigmar novel

BLACK RIFT
An Age of Sigmar novel

SYLVANETH
An Age of Sigmar novel

~ AUDIO DRAMAS ~

SHADESPIRE: THE DARKNESS IN THE GLASS
Various authors

THE PRISONER OF THE BLACK SUN
Josh Reynolds

SANDS OF BLOOD
Josh Reynolds

THE LORDS OF HELSTONE
Josh Reynolds

THE BRIDGE OF SEVEN SORROWS
Josh Reynolds

THE BEASTS OF CARTHA
David Guymer

FIST OF MORK, FIST OF GORK
David Guymer

GREAT RED
David Guymer

ONLY THE FAITHFUL
David Guymer

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Epilogue

About the Author

An Extract from ‘The Tainted Heart’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

From the maelstrom of a sundered world, the Eight Realms were born. The formless and the divine exploded into life.

Strange, new worlds appeared in the firmament, each one gilded with spirits, gods and men. Noblest of the gods was Sigmar. For years beyond reckoning he illuminated the realms, wreathed in light and majesty as he carved out his reign. His strength was the power of thunder. His wisdom was infinite. Mortal and immortal alike kneeled before his lofty throne. Great empires rose and, for a while, treachery was banished. Sigmar claimed the land and sky as his own and ruled over a glorious age of myth.

But cruelty is tenacious. As had been foreseen, the great alliance of gods and men tore itself apart. Myth and legend crumbled into Chaos. Darkness flooded the realms. Torture, slavery and fear replaced the glory that came before. Sigmar turned his back on the mortal kingdoms, disgusted by their fate. He fixed his gaze instead on the remains of the world he had lost long ago, brooding over its charred core, searching endlessly for a sign of hope. And then, in the dark heat of his rage, he caught a glimpse of something magnificent. He pictured a weapon born of the heavens. A beacon powerful enough to pierce the endless night. An army hewn from everything he had lost.

Sigmar set his artisans to work and for long ages they toiled, striving to harness the power of the stars. As Sigmar’s great work neared completion, he turned back to the realms and saw that the dominion of Chaos was almost complete. The hour for vengeance had come. Finally, with lightning blazing across his brow, he stepped forth to unleash his creation.

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

Prologue

Third Moon,
The Day of Going Forth

AS IT WAS

Over the sands, the dark clouds break.

The ghost moons sink beneath the dunes.

The shadows wake in the City of Mirrors.

– Sadila’s Lament
The King in Grave-Shroud
Act 3, Scene 2

Sadila, daughter of Hausa, child of the Fourth House of Shadespire and bearer of the Red Laurel, sighed and lowered her practice blade. The echoes of clashing steel faded upwards into the shadowed canopy overhanging the gardens of the Jasper Palaces. Polite applause from the gathered courtiers and hangers-on replaced it.

Sadila ignored them. Sweat gleamed on her dark skin, but her breathing was steady. The hint of an ache tugged at her limbs, but she betrayed no sign of exertion beyond perspiration. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Enough for today.’

The blade-slave crouched opposite Sadila lowered her own weapon and bowed. She was a mute, her tongue having been removed in the traditional fashion, and her flesh was tattooed with her history of purchase. The markings included a lengthy record of her time in the war-gardens, including wins and losses. The former outweighed the latter by a wide margin. It was the reason Lord Hausa had purchased her services for his eldest child. This too was tradition. The arts of blade and bow were as important to the Katophranes – the ruling elite of the city – as those of lute and brush. More important, in Sadila’s opinion.

Without the hilt of a blade in her hand, without the feel of blood dappling her cheek, what was the point of life? What was the point of anything without such entertainments?

Sadila straightened. She twitched her blade dismissively. ‘Go. See to your wounds.’

The woman – Sadila had never bothered to learn her name – retreated smoothly, head still bowed. A spattered trail of red marked her path. Sadila had managed to mark her twice – a personal best.

Her own limbs bore a number of bruises. The blade-slave was allowed only a dull sword, little more than a club. It was not fitting that a slave draw blood on a Katophrane, after all.

This one would last longer than the others, she thought. Usually, they were so fragile. A few cuts and they stopped being any fun at all. Perhaps she was simply learning how to draw out the game, after all this time. To make it last. She smiled, pleased with herself. Her father would be proud of her discipline.

Sadila sheathed her blade and removed her sword belt, absently handing it to one of her handmaidens as the trio of women hurried to her side. One sprinkled her with sweet smelling water to cool her flesh, while another slathered a salve on her bruises. Sadila surveyed the gardens as she endured their ministrations. Not so much as a leaf was out of place, as was to be expected, given that they were not living things but instead artificial – each was composed of dark glass, from their sprawling roots to their thick branches.

They had been carved carefully by the hands of artisans long since dead and passed into the Faneway. There, their skills continued to serve their descendants. Such was the honour bestowed upon all who died within the walls of Shadespire.

As it was, so had it always been.

Constancy was the singular law of the City of Mirrors. What was time to those who existed outside of its grasp, save the unheeded passing of uncounted moments? A thing of no concern, save to those prone to idle whimsy. Sadila had often been accused of such by her father, even though he indulged her questions and obsessions. As he still did, despite his recent passing.

Her audience – the bored scions of other houses, some living, some dead – had scattered to seek other entertainments, all save for one. Tall and thin, Mekesh was considered handsome by some. She had never seen it. He was too ascetic for her tastes – a lover of archery and dusty tomes, rather than blades. ‘I hear tell that Hausa has taken to haunting these gardens of late,’ he said, watching her. He fiddled with the amulet he wore as he spoke. It was a curious thing, like a bit of knotted rope or a broken smile.

‘And why should he not? He commissioned them.’

‘I meant no offence, cousin.’

Sadila looked at him. ‘And yet, I am offended. A conundrum.’

Mekesh smirked. ‘I have never thought you an enigma, Sadila.’ He looked around. ‘I can see why he would prefer it here… there is a certain aesthetic pleasure to be had among such artifice.’ He brushed his fingers along the flat facets of a tree’s trunk. ‘Most of his generation persist in mirrors and illuminated panes. Though my grandmother insists on inhabiting a statue she ordered commissioned before her demise.’

Sadila sniffed. ‘Do you have a point, cousin?’

‘Merely making conversation.’ His smile faded. He looked suddenly nervous. ‘There are murmurs, of late. I thought we should speak of them.’ He hesitated. ‘I would hate to see you come to harm, cousin.’

Sadila paused. She made a show of studying her reflection in the nearest tree. ‘Ah. This again. How tiresome.’

‘Tiresome or not, I fear there is something to these whispers. It would be wise to not simply discount them out of hand.’ Mekesh stared intently at her, his long features drawn up into an earnest expression. ‘You know as well as I that we Katophranes walk the knife’s edge – our most sacred traditions flirt with blasphemy.’

Sadila laughed. ‘Blasphemy? This, from you?’

Mekesh looked away. His hand tightened about his amulet, as if to hide it from view. ‘We all have our hobbies. You enjoy your blood sports, and I, my studies. Who is to say which is worse?’

‘I wasn’t the one censured by his own family for flirting with ungovernable spirits.’

Mekesh sighed. ‘I made a mistake. A few mistakes, even. But this is different. It is not just me who is worried.’

‘And what do I care for the worries of a few milk-blooded scriveners?’ She spread her arms. ‘We are Katophranes, Mekesh. Heirs to a kingdom hewn out of desolation. Our glory knows no rival, in this realm or any other. Even death itself is no match for our might.’

‘Careful, cousin. Such words tend to carry further than one might wish.’

Sadila sighed. ‘I speak only truth.’

‘There is more than one truth in this realm, Sadila. Let us not be so foolish as to test ours against his.’ Mekesh glanced around, eyes narrowed. He licked his lips, visibly afraid. ‘He could be listening, even now. The Undying King has spies everywhere.’

‘Let him. I’m sure he will be as fascinated with this conversation as I am.’

Mekesh gaped at her audacity, as Sadila turned and stalked through the trees. The faces of the dead ghosted across the shimmering trunks, peering out with idle curiosity at the world they had left behind. Some mouthed soundless questions, trying to catch her eye, but she ignored them. The dead were inveterate gossips, even her father. They heard everything, saw everything, and loved nothing better than to share everything with everyone, whether they were interested or not.

Once, she’d been forced to listen to a diatribe from her grandmother – consigned to the Faneway these past twenty seasons – concerning the loose morals of a woman dead longer than Sadila had been alive. That the woman was dead was no reason for her sins to be forgotten. For her grandmother and her father, and all the other Katophranes who had passed on into that gleaming nexus of shadeglass, the present was eternal.

Time, like death, held little sway in Shadespire. The city stood proud among the amethyst dunes, a shining beacon of power – inviolate and unchanging. Prosperous and mighty, its gleaming towers of glass and polished stone thrust ever upwards, their shadows stretching for endless leagues across the Desert of Bones. This Sadila knew, just as she knew how to wield a blade.

At the edge of the garden, she came to a great row of pillars. Each smooth, dark stone stretching from floor to roof was covered with oval mirrors, inset along their circumference at measured intervals.

Past the pillars, she could see the broad curve of the city’s southern districts over the raised edge of a stone terrace. She stepped out onto it, closing her eyes. The Street of Spices was close to hand, and she tasted a hint of Aqshian ginger on the wind. It burned her lips and tongue, fading as swiftly as it had arrived. She heard the crashing cymbals of nomad dancers as they performed for the market crowds, and the roar of appreciative spectators rising from the fighting pits of the southern districts.

The city lived and breathed in a way she could not explain. It hummed like a night-wasp hive, even in the darkest hours. Here, in the heart of Shyish, they had conquered the unconquerable. In a realm of endings, Shadespire alone was unending.

She looked east, where the distant city walls rose highest. Beyond them, she could see all the way to the desert sands. The Desert of Bones was well named. It was haunted by winds that could strip flesh from bone and whisk away the soul of an unwary traveller. Those who sought to cross it were either determined or desperate, or both. But cross it, they did. And in ever-increasing numbers, all of them following the twitching shadows of distant towers to the still heart of the desert. To Shadespire.

‘And why not?’ she murmured. ‘We have all that they could desire.’

‘If they meet our price,’ Mekesh said softly from behind her. ‘And if we meet theirs.’ She felt his hesitation. Then his hands were resting on her shoulders. As children they had played at love, before she’d come to find his softness irritating. ‘We should leave.’

She turned, knocking his hands aside. ‘Leave?’

He stepped back, gripping his amulet. ‘Just for a time. I have spoken to others who are considering the same. There is something on the wind, Sadila. Like smoke from a distant fire, growing harder to ignore with every passing day.’ He gestured back towards the trees. ‘They can sense it as well, though few of them admit it. The aether trembles as if something vast is making its way towards us. And I do not wish to be here when it arrives.’

‘Coward.’ She stalked past him, hand on the hilt of her blade. He hurried after her.

‘No. I am a Katophrane. Fear is for slaves and children. But this has nothing to do with bravery. Is it cowardice to seek shelter in a storm – or simply wisdom?’ He pointed at the streets below. ‘A storm is coming, cousin. And we would be wise to seek somewhere safe to ride it out.’

‘Where could be safer than here?’ Sadila jabbed him in the chest with a finger. ‘Our walls are infused with the souls of the greatest warriors to walk this realm, so that they might maintain an unceasing vigil. Automatons of shadeglass patrol our streets, unsleeping and unstoppable. The weaponry and spellcraft of a thousand kingdoms are at our fingertips, and our ancestors advise us against all difficulty. We have conquered life and death – what need we fear in this realm, or any other?’

Mekesh did not reply. She realised that he was paying no attention to her, but instead staring at the trees. Their boughs were shaking, as if caught in a strong wind. But that was impossible. Shapes flickered in the facets. As she moved closer to inspect them, she thought she caught a glimpse of her father’s face, stretched and distorted along the length of a tree, his mouth wide in a scream she could not hear. She turned and saw the faces of the dead of the Fourth House pressed in wailing panic against every mirrored surface, their insubstantial hands clawing futilely at the shadeglass as if seeking escape.

The air throbbed, and tasted of ash. It had grown hard to breathe. ‘What is this?’ she gasped. ‘What is happening?’ Mekesh said nothing, merely staring at the darkening trees as the souls of the dead were torn away, out of sight. Her father was the last to go, stronger than the others but not strong enough to resist whatever force gripped his spirit. She met his gaze and stepped towards the tree, reaching out, forgetting that he was not truly there. Mekesh caught her arm and held her back.

‘Look.’ He pointed to the pillars. Long shadows crept between them. Night was falling. But that was impossible – it was the middle of the day.

‘An eclipse?’ she whispered. A cold wind issued through the pillars and her question carved strange shapes on the frosty air.

Mekesh shook his head. ‘No. Listen.’

Something rumbled in the distance. Like an avalanche, growing louder as it drew closer. Everything was shaking. Sadila heard the servants crying out in terror and the shouts of the household guards. The trees shuddered. Pillars cracked. Dust drifted down like rain. To her, it sounded as if the city were tearing itself apart.

The mirrors on the walls began to vibrate, one by one.

The trees had become as black as night.

The rumbling increased, and she pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block it out. Mekesh was shouting something, but she couldn’t hear him. Her eyes were drawn to the trees, seeking some sign of her father, or any of the dead.

The trees cracked, splintered and came apart. They collapsed, spilling across the floor in a gleaming wave. Shards of black skidded towards her and she stumbled back, nearly crashing into Mekesh. Her ears and teeth ached as the rumbling enveloped her, drowning out all other sensation. She wanted to look away from the shards of the shattered trees, but could not. There was something, or perhaps many things, moving deep within each facet.

Mekesh had her arm. He tried to yank her away, but she tore herself loose from his grip and fell to her hands and knees. She groped for a shard of glass and picked it up in trembling hands.

Out of the dark, something rose towards her, its eyes shining like twin suns of amethyst. So immense was it that only parts of it were visible in the scattered facets of shadeglass – the flare of its gaze, the flash of bone, the jagged outline of a tooth, a monstrous jigsaw of leviathan proportions. Her hands went numb and her heart strained in its cage of bone, as if it were a frightened bird seeking flight.

She moaned at the sight of the thing, stretched across the remnants of the grove. She looked up and saw that it was in every mirror. Every piece of shadeglass, no matter how small, held some fragment of the monstrous immensity.

She turned, a question on her lips, but Mekesh was gone. Fled. She already knew the answer, regardless. No native of Shyish, whether highborn or low, could fail to recognise the one who claimed dominion over their days and nights, from the moment of their birth to their final breath. Nagash had come. The Undying King stood at the gates of the deathless city.

His voice tolled in the deep, echoing out of every quivering pane like black thunder.

You have been judged and found wanting. And so, the sentence is passed.

As those hateful words reverberated through her, she heard the first crack as the mirrors in the walls and pillars shattered. It was soon followed by more – a cacophony of destruction, a shattersong that stretched past the limits of her perceptions, rippling outwards and away in every direction at once, throughout the city and perhaps beyond.

She heard the first cries from the streets outside, a communal wail of animal panic soon swept under the impossible crash of an ocean of glass. It resounded through the stones and up through her limbs, shaking her to her core. The sound of it sliced the very air and filled the gaps with the howls of the dead as their sanctuary was shattered by the hand of a god.

The shard in her hands splintered and came apart, cutting into her flesh. She let it sift between her bloody fingers like sand. The Undying King had spoken.

Beyond the pillars, shadows crawled. And a city screamed.

Chapter one

SHADOWED STREETS

Bravery killed as quickly as cowardice in those shadowed streets.

– Palem Bok
Idle Reminiscences of the Book Trade

The attack, when it came, was not entirely unexpected. The bloodreavers had been shadowing Seguin Reynar and his men for days, their hunting ululations echoing through the ruins of Shadespire, setting the carrion birds to flight. He didn’t know why the cannibals were after them, in particular – there was easier meat to be had in the rubble-strewn alleyways – but he’d learned not to waste time worrying about such things.

It didn’t matter why – it just mattered when and where.

When turned out to be now, and where was a decrepit, dust-choked avenue beneath the hollow gazes of the statues that lined either side. The statues observed the massacre with silent detachment, hooded heads bowed over clasped hands. And it was a massacre. Five men against nearly twice that number of gore-locked savages had little chance. Hardened killers though they were, Reynar and his men could not match the sheer ferocity of their attackers. Thus, one by one they fell, until only two of their number remained. Reynar himself and the Ghurdish hillman Utrecht.

‘I told you we shouldn’t have bought a map from a man named Nechris,’ Utrecht growled as a barbed axe bit into the embossed face of his shield. ‘You’ve put us right in the soup this time, captain.’ He shoved his opponent back and plied his own axe to better effect, removing his attacker’s arm at the shoulder joint.

‘We’re here, aren’t we?’ Reynar snapped. ‘And stop calling me captain.’ He twisted aside as a crude blade chopped down at him. He saw an opening and lunged. His blade, proper Aqshian steel, sank easily into his opponent’s scarified flesh, releasing a torrent of blood. The reaver sagged with something that might have been a groan – or a laugh. Reynar lashed out with his boot and kicked the dying man off his blade. There were four bloodreavers left now. Bad odds, but better than before.

‘Captain you were, captain you’ll be,’ Utrecht said, flattening a reaver with a sweep of his shield. Born in the hinterlands of Ghur, Utrecht was head and hands taller than his opponents, and built thick. He was like a bear fighting wolves. His bare arms were marked by scars, both ritual and earned in battle. He wore a crude mail hauberk and a round helm decorated with the fangs of some beast he’d slain. His axe was a long-handled, single-bladed thing that would have taken most men two hands to properly wield. But Utrecht wasn’t most men. He boasted that he’d shed blood in three realms and ruled kingdoms in two of them. Sometimes, Reynar even believed him.

Reynar was shorter than his companion, but no less deadly. He fought the way a miser spent money – carefully, and with an eye on getting back twice the value he put in. That was the Freeguild way. Never risk more than you could afford, and make them pay in blood. His sword slashed out in short, looping arcs. Aqshian steel held its edge longer than most and would cut bone the third time, or the twenty-third, as easily as it had the first. ‘We’re deserters, remember?’ he said, backing away from a hulking bloodreaver.

The warrior bore slave markings beneath the scars. He grinned, displaying broken teeth, and hefted a crude sword, probably stolen from some previous victim. ‘Blood for the god of battle,’ he mumbled through gnawed lips. ‘Skulls for his throne.’

‘Find another one,’ Reynar said. ‘I’m still using mine.’ He jerked aside as the bloodreaver’s blade swept down, shivering to fragments against the stones of the street. He staggered, off balance, and Reynar thrust his blade up through his opponent’s ribcage. The bloodreaver clawed at him, gurgling imprecations, and bore him backwards against the base of a statue. Reynar’s back spasmed as he struck the stone, his duardin-made hauberk doing little to protect him from the force of the impact. Cursing, he drove a fist into the warrior’s head, to no avail.

The bloodreaver grinned at him as he dragged himself along Reynar’s blade, further impaling himself. ‘Blood and skulls,’ he croaked, scrabbling at Reynar’s throat. His grip was like iron, and Reynar found himself unable to breathe. Desperate now, his sword arm pinned to his chest, he fumbled for the hilt of his dagger.

The world started to go black at the edges, like paper caught in a fire. His lungs strained. He saw death in his opponent’s eyes, and something else over his shoulder. A face – a woman? – watching from the other side of the street. She stood in a doorway, half-hidden in shadow, her eyes gleaming like black opals. He blinked, and she was gone.

Finally his fingers scraped the pommel of his dagger. He snatched the thin blade from its sheath and stabbed it into the side of the bloodreaver’s neck, trying for an artery. Blood spurted, and the savage staggered back, dragging Reynar after him. Reynar twisted the knife, trying to find something vital. The bloodreaver gargled hymns to the Blood God as he sank back, his grip finally loosening enough for Reynar to free himself. He stepped away, breathing heavily, as his attacker slumped into the sand. Utrecht laughed.

‘Well done, captain.’

Reynar glared at him. Utrecht had killed the rest of their foes while he’d been otherwise occupied. ‘If you were bored, you could have helped.’

‘What, and steal your kill? You’d never forgive me.’

Reynar didn’t reply. He looked around. The rest of his band were dead, and no sense checking to make sure, the way the bloodreavers had hacked them apart. Kuzman, Dollac… even Hakharty. He paused, looking down at the last, his chest caved in by an axe blow, the hilt of his broken sword still in one hand.

Hakharty had been the youngest, a drummer boy in the armies of Azyr, before Utrecht and Kuzman had filled his head with stories of fabulous plunder and taught him every sin they knew. They’d come a long way since then. Across three realms, and over the bodies of more men than Reynar had ever killed in Sigmar’s name. Hakharty had killed his share. He had been lethal with a blade. But not lethal enough.

‘He died well, for an Azyrite,’ Utrecht said.

‘There’s no good way to die, hillman.’ Reynar looked back towards the doorway where he’d seen the woman. Where he thought he’d seen the woman. She wasn’t there now, if she ever had been. One more phantom in a city of such. Shadespire had more than its share of ghosts. Overhead, something shrieked. He looked up.

Carrion birds sat atop the statues and on the broken archways, watching them. One croaked, and the others picked up the call, singing a song as old as war itself. Long shadows stretched, sliding across the bone-strewn street and making it seem as if the statues were stirring. Reynar felt a chill and looked away.

‘Shame about Kuzman,’ Utrecht said. ‘The little Ghyranite was a good cook.’

‘He was a terrible cook.’

‘But he was willing,’ Utrecht grinned. ‘More than can be said about us.’

‘I’m in charge,’ Reynar said. ‘Man in charge doesn’t cook.’

‘I know your tricks, captain. You’re only in charge when it suits you.’

Reynar glanced at him. ‘Then why follow me all the way across the desert?’

‘It was getting dull, fighting beastkin for Azyrite coin. No sport in it.’

‘And is this better?’

‘Much.’ Utrecht laughed.

Howls sounded, somewhere nearby. More bloodreavers. Reynar sheathed his weapons. ‘Come on. Time to go. We get back to camp, grab what we can and go.’

‘Are you certain? We could stay and kill a few more, if you like.’

‘Stay or follow as it suits you, Utrecht. I’m not your captain anymore, remember?’ Reynar set off down the avenue, back towards their campsite, moving as quickly as he dared. There were more dangers in the ruins than just bloodreavers. Blood and death were in ready supply here, but so far there was a distinct paucity of the riches he’d been hoping for.

He’d come to the ruins of Shadespire hoping to make his fortune. Though the city was no more than a hollow skeleton half buried in the desert, it was said that the treasures of antiquity remained untouched in its vaults and crypts. The wealth of untold empires, waiting for a clever man to find it.

Reynar had been certain he was that man. It was starting to look as if fate had other ideas. So he did what he always did when his luck turned.

He ran.

Isengrim growled in frustration. He looked over the dead, irritated that none had fallen by his axe. ‘Too slow,’ he muttered. Then, more loudly, ‘You were too slow.’ He turned and looked at his followers, who edged back in a suitably chastised fashion. They had arrived in a howling tumult, expecting enemies to slay.

Instead, they’d found only the dead and carrion birds. Eight of his warriors to claim three skulls. A bad bargain. ‘Weak,’ he said, looking down at the body of one of his men. ‘They were weak. You were slow.’ He spoke slowly, scanning their ranks, gauging their value. Then, without warning, he beheaded the closest of them – a pale-skinned northerner whose head rolled off his neck as blood gushed, filling the air with its sweet, hot stink. Nine dead now. He had fifteen left. That was enough.

He wiped gore from his face and growled again. ‘Too slow. They’ve escaped.’

‘There is other prey,’ Morgash said. A heavy brute with ash-marked skin and teeth capped in brass, Morgash liked to think of himself as Isengrim’s champion. But in truth, he was a rival. Morgash thought the Blood God smiled on him. And maybe Khorne did. But that didn’t mean Isengrim wouldn’t take his head if it proved necessary.

‘Not this prey.’ He stooped and picked up a chunk of shadeglass, broken underfoot during the confrontation. Something pale flashed within its dark facets, and he felt a chill. For an instant, it had seemed as if someone were looking at him from within the glass.

He’d heard the stories passed about the tribal fires by champion and slave alike. That there were dead souls trapped in the shards of black glass scattered across the city. That if you looked too closely, the Undying King could trap you as well, or drive you mad. He growled and tossed the shard aside. Such tales did not frighten him. He feared neither the dead nor their god.

‘Why? You bring us from our hunting grounds for what? Weak men.’ Morgash hawked and spat, showing what he thought of that. ‘We could have rejoined the joyous slaughter at the western palisades and taken skulls in Khorne’s name again. Instead, we stand here, following your fever dreams.’ Several warriors murmured in agreement.

Isengrim studied Morgash, wondering if the day of days had come at last. The mantle of chieftain could only be bought in blood. He smiled thinly. ‘If they were weak, they wouldn’t have escaped. If they were weak, they wouldn’t have made it across the desert.’

A murmur swept through his warriors at that. Morgash fell silent, but glowered at him. Isengrim turned away. ‘Urok,’ he said. Urok was his second-in-command, a rangy southron with grey in his tangled mane and beard. Urok was older than most – a survivor. Not a coward, for cowards didn’t survive. But careful.

‘My chieftain?’ Urok asked as he brusquely pushed past Morgash, earning himself an irritated glare. Isengrim watched the interaction, smiling widely.

‘Bring me Hthara,’ he said. ‘Bring me the witch. Now.’

Urok turned, bellowing for the witch to be brought forward. They never went anywhere without her these days. One did not discard a god’s gifts. Not unless they couldn’t keep up. Isengrim turned back to the dead, replaying the battle in his head. He could tell how it had gone from where the bodies had fallen and the tracks in the dust.

He stepped forward, following one set of tracks in particular. He avoided imaginary blows and returned them in kind. The warrior he hunted was fast – but fought without flourish. His steps were like a weasel’s war dance. Quick, always in motion, but always going in the same direction. Calculated. Isengrim’s smile widened.

Morgash was wrong. This prey was strong, though lacking in courage. His death would be a good death, however swiftly he ran from it. A hard death, full of screaming and blood. Such men did not die quietly. Of course, Khorne would not have sent him the witch if his prey were a weakling. From behind him sounded a clank of chains, and he turned.

Hthara came unresisting. Brass chains connected to a collar of iron bound the woman’s hands and feet, and her robes were stiff and stained with old blood, their original hue lost. Ravaged sockets peered out unseeing from within a ragged hood. She claimed to have looked full upon Khorne in all his glory and plucked out her own eyes as penance and sacrifice both. But the red mists of the Blood God’s kingdom were still in her – insensate, but ready to be awoken at the call of the worthy.

Isengrim was worthy. He knew this, because Hthara had sworn it was so, and she was too frightened of him to lie. He watched as Hthara’s keepers brought her forward and forced her to crouch before him. ‘Witch. Was my prey here?’ He asked the question knowing the answer, but his warriors would need convincing. They lacked his certainty.

Hthara sniffed the air. ‘I will need a sacrifice,’ she croaked, pulling her cloak tight about her wasted form. ‘Blood and offal, to draw Khorne’s eye.’

Isengrim nodded. ‘You shall have it.’ He paused. ‘Morgash.’

Morgash blinked. ‘What?’

Isengrim spun, axe looping out in a wide arc. Morgash parried the blow with his own crude blade but was rocked back on his heels. He wasted no time, hurling himself at his chieftain. Their dance was short, but bloody. Most of it was Morgash’s. He was too slow. Too eager. He’d thought himself blessed, but Isengrim had been chosen.

Isengrim ducked a blow that would have split his skull, and ripped open Morgash’s belly in return. Morgash grunted and stumbled, one hand fumbling at the wet loops of pink intestine that bulged from his abdomen. His weapon fell from his hand. ‘Blood and offal,’ Isengrim said as he cast aside his axe and lunged. Grabbing handfuls of innards, he wrenched them loose from Morgash’s stomach, eliciting a howl of agony.

Morgash clawed at him, but Isengrim kicked him to his knees and looped the intestines about his neck. They were too soft, too fragile, to make a proper garrotte, but it was about spectacle rather than effectiveness. Bunching the guts in one hand, he hooked the fingers of his other into Morgash’s eyes. The warrior’s screams became squeals. He flailed and thrashed, but Isengrim had him caught fast.

Morgash’s blood splattered into the dust, turning the pale grey brown. When he’d ceased struggling, Isengrim hauled back on his head, hard enough to snap his neck. He pitched the body forward and kicked it onto its back. He gestured with a gory hand. ‘Offal and blood, witch. Find me my path. Find me my prey.’

Chapter two

HUNTED AND HUNTERS

No one sane travels to that broken city.

– Duala Berthos
Confessions of a Roadwarden

The wind shrieked through the ruined temple, scraping unseen claws across the face of the statue of an unknown god. High pillars, similarly weathered, rose about the statue, casting long shadows across a stretch of crumbled foyer. Reynar pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose as loose sand stung his unshaven features. It was growing dark. The sun set quickly, and night’s cold crept through the warren of abandoned streets and broken buildings. He pulled the edges of his faded blue cloak close about him.

Through a crack in the outer wall wide enough to accommodate a ballista, Reynar watched the street, looking for any sign of their pursuers. But nothing revealed itself save shadows. He could hear the echoes of some unseen battle, at once near to hand and far away. The sounds stretched and shuddered, caught in the hollows and wrong angles of the city.

He risked getting closer to the broken wall. The wind sliced his cheeks and knuckles, even through his clothing. He adjusted his scarf and blinked sand out of his eyes. Thunder rumbled, somewhere to the west.

Reynar flinched back. The sound brought to mind images of Hammerhal and Ghyran. The two realms were like night and day. Ghyran was a green place, full of sound and life. Shyish, in contrast, was mostly rock and sand, at least what he’d seen of it. The colours here were muted, the sky the colour of lead most days, and the wind could flense a man down to his bones.

More thunder. Lightning strobed across the darkening sky, turning it from black to amethyst. Reynar turned away. He looked up at the statue, wondering what it had represented before time eroded its identity. He could make out the faint undulation of what might once have been a wide, inhuman grin.

He turned away, suddenly cold. One of the old gods, perhaps. It was said that in Shyish there had once been a god for every soul. Now there was only one. He shivered again, trying not to think of that one. Uneasy, he reached beneath his hauberk and found his amulet. Just a bit of shine, twisted up into an incomplete but somehow double-ended shape. Almost like a broken smile.

He’d found it here, in this temple. Just lying out, as if tossed aside by someone in a hurry. It was a good luck piece, of no value to anyone save himself. There was something comforting about the shape, the way it flowed and bent. He rubbed it with his thumb, feeling the pitted surface through the material of his glove.

‘Anything?’ Utrecht asked, startling him.

‘No,’ Reynar said, thrusting the amulet out of sight. ‘Our cache?’

‘Right where we left it.’

‘Thank the gods for small favours.’ They’d collected enough trinkets to fill a small chest. None of them were of much value that Reynar could see, but there were fools who’d pay any price if they could say it was from lost Shadespire.

‘Not much in there. A few pieces of shadeglass, a clockwork toy, some gems.’

‘Not much split five ways. Split two ways, though…’

Utrecht snorted. ‘You do have an eye for it, captain.’ He looked up as lightning cascaded across the sky. ‘There’s a war going on to the west.’

‘It’s the same war, hillman. It began before we were born and it won’t end in our lifetimes.’ Reynar stepped past him, deeper into the temple. It wasn’t large, a place built for commoners to abase themselves without getting underfoot of the gentry, he thought. But older than much of the city. He’d seen similar in Hammerhal Ghyra and Glymmsforge. Centuried or no, the story was always the same.

The main entrance was blocked by rubble. There were only two ways in and out of the place – the crack in the western wall and another, smaller gap in the east. Wherever he went, he always made sure to know where the exits were. You never knew when it would come in handy. There was sand in the corners, carried by the wind that whipped through the place, and scattered bones. Something had laired here once, Reynar thought, given the state of the remains. The only light in the temple was cast by a few scattered candles mounted in cracks in the walls.

A massive slab of stone, likely from the shattered roof, occupied the centre of the nave. A broken skeleton was half pinned beneath it, clad in rags. Reynar glanced at it as he stepped over the twisted skull. He ran his thumb along the edge of his amulet, wondering, not for the first time, who the dead man had been. A priest, perhaps, slain in the cataclysm that had claimed the city. Or someone seeking succour from whatever god this temple had been dedicated to. ‘Didn’t do you much good, did it?’ he muttered.

All decoration had been stripped from the walls, either by the weather or treasure-seekers. The city – at least the parts of it that were easily accessible – had been picked over decades before Reynar and the others arrived.

But there were always stories. He’d heard tales of vast alchemical laboratories and libraries of the arcane, hidden behind cog-work doors that could not be opened. Of shadeglass constructs waiting to be activated by the unwary. The limitless treasures of the Katophranes, hidden away in the ruins. They’d seen none of these things. The closest they’d come to finding such wonders was an elaborate blade trap that had nearly taken off Kuzman’s arm.

‘What about the gleanings?’ Utrecht asked from behind him.

Reynar grunted. Gleanings were a time-honoured tradition – the things you kept back from the stash. A weapon here, a bit of shine there. Nothing that could be split. He glanced towards where their bedrolls were stashed, hidden beneath a chunk of debris.

‘Make it quick,’ he said. ‘We need to take what we can carry and find somewhere safe for the night.’ He looked around, frowning. The campsite had been perfect. But without the others, it was too big. Too hard to defend, if it came to that.

‘No such thing in this city,’ Utrecht said as he scavenged among the bedrolls. Reynar joined him. The others were dead – no sense in letting anything of worth they might have go to waste. Kuzman had been keeping back a dagger with opals set into the hilt, and Dollac had a rusty mail shirt rolled up into his bedding.

Reynar examined it, and then tossed it aside. His own hauberk was superior. The mail was lightweight, and duardin-forged. Every officer in the Faithful Blades had one. It had taken a nasty bite out of Reynar’s wages, but it was worth it. Besides his sword and his bedroll, it was the only reminder he had of his old life. They were the only ones he wanted.

He touched the woollen blanket that hung across his shoulder and chest, under his cloak. It was bundled up and cinched tight with leather straps. Wrapped inside it was everything a soldier needed – whetstone, flint, tinder, trail jerky and an assortment of odds and ends, like hobnails and leather polish. Even a sewing kit. In the Freeguilds, you learned to travel light, or not at all. He frowned at the thought, and spat.

Utrecht grinned. ‘Bad memories, captain?’

‘How many times do I have to tell you – I’m not an officer anymore.’

Utrecht laughed. ‘Not after the way we left.’

Reynar looked at him, his gaze steady. He didn’t like to be reminded of that. He’d had to do it, but that didn’t make it better.

Utrecht’s grin didn’t waver. ‘Do you know why I like you, Reynar?’ he said after a moment.

Reynar didn’t answer. Utrecht went on as if he had. ‘You’re a hillman at heart. Most of you Freeguilders are too civilised to be respectable. Too much graft, not enough honest murder. But you – you’re a savage like me, whether you admit it or not. You see something you want, you take it. And if someone tries to stop you? You spill their gizzards onto the grass. That’s the way it should be.’

‘Maybe in the hills of Ghur.’

Utrecht grunted. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps we’re just more honest.’ He tossed aside Hakharty’s bedding and stood. Reynar watched him for a moment, toying with Kuzman’s knife. The opals were probably worth something, but there was no time to pry them free. He thrust the knife through his belt.

‘Were you really a king?’ he asked.

Utrecht nodded. ‘For a time. Very difficult, being king. Much easier being a soldier. Plenty of wars to fight, plenty of coin, and drink to spend it on.’ He eyed Reynar. ‘Where would you Azyrites be without us to fight your battles for you?’

Reynar had no answer for that. It was the truth, as far as that went. The first Freeguilds to set out from Azyr, almost a century ago, had been composed exclusively of Azyrites – mercenary bands forged in the Cleansing of Azyr, with rites and traditions going back centuries. But times had changed. As new cities rose on the bones of old and forgotten ones, new Freeguilds rose with them, and the original Azyrite guilds replenished depleted ranks with natives of the lower realms.

The Faithful Blades had suffered more casualties than most and had drawn from further away to keep the regiment in fighting shape. They had been at the forefront of every battle in Verdia, and had men and women from across the Jade Kingdoms as well as the Ashlands and beyond. Utrecht had signed on as a scout, and he wasn’t the only native of Ghur to do so.

But wherever they came from, they all died the same.

Reynar stood, letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. ‘We should go,’ he said. ‘We’ve tarried too long.’

Utrecht stared at him, and lifted their cache chest. Reynar ducked aside as the hillman hurled it at him. It crashed into something behind him. He came to his feet, hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Are you insane?’ he demanded. A roar interrupted any reply Utrecht might have made, and Reynar spun. Bloodreavers rushed through the gloom. One lay twitching, the chest having crushed his skull.

‘Saw him sneaking up on you,’ Utrecht shouted as he lunged for his axe and shield. Reynar had no time to reply – the first of the bloodreavers were upon him. There were three of them. He drew his sword and met the first savage blade to blade. They reeled back and forth, weapons locked, stumbling on the discarded bedding. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Utrecht sweep his axe up, splitting another reaver from crotch to chin.

Reynar groped for Kuzman’s knife. Dull as it was, it was still a blade. He drove it into his opponent’s side as hard as he could. The bloodreaver roared and staggered, off balance. Reynar tore his sword free from his foe’s blade and whipped it across the reaver’s knee. He dropped, clutching at himself. Reynar kicked him in the head, knocking him sprawling. As he drove his sword down through the dazed warrior’s sternum, he saw Utrecht split the skull of the remaining reaver.

‘How did they find us?’ Reynar said, wrenching his blade free.

‘Maybe they sniffed us out. Or maybe they used sorcery.’ Utrecht turned towards the gap in the wall. ‘More of them – listen.’

Reynar heard howls, and moments later the first of the bloodreavers burst into view. The warrior was lean and wolfish, as tall as Utrecht and covered in scars and drying gore. He wore little armour and carried a heavy, cleaver-like axe. His face had been painted with blood, and his thick mane of hair was matted crimson. He slid to a stop as he caught sight of them. His gaze fixed on Reynar. ‘You,’ he snarled. ‘At last. Your head is mine. Your death belongs to Isengrim of the Red Reef.’

‘Seems he knows you, captain,’ Utrecht said. ‘Anything you care to tell me?’

‘Nothing I’m aware of,’ Reynar said. ‘He’s mad. They’re all mad.’

The bloodreaver bellowed and leapt forward, axe gripped in red hands. ‘Your skull is owed, weakling,’ he roared. ‘And Khorne demands that all debts be paid!’ As he bounded towards them, more bloodreavers burst into view behind him – too many to fight. Reynar glanced at Utrecht. ‘Run! Out the back!’ Utrecht nodded and turned, sprinting for the eastern side of the chamber. Reynar followed, shooting a glance back at their pursuers. The leader of the reavers was close on their heels and closing the gap.

He didn’t know what the brute had against him, but he didn’t intend to stick around and find out. Ahead of him, Utrecht ducked through the gap in the chamber wall. Barely more than a crack in the foundations, really, made by some long ago cataclysm.

Reynar hurtled through. The makeshift passage wasn’t wide, and he caught his sleeve on the side of it. Cloth snagged and tore as he burst out into the open air and rolled down the sand dune that had built up around the sides of the temple. Utrecht hauled him to his feet. ‘Where to now, captain?’

Reynar looked around desperately. It was dark, and they had no light. Half-ruined structures rose all about them, identical in the gloom. The night wind was rising, and the air was choked with sand. Soon, they wouldn’t be able to see more than a hand’s length in front of their faces. He pointed. ‘North – the Gloaming Path. We might be able to lose them there.’

Isengrim clambered through the gap, snarling in frustration. He slid down the dune, scanning the street beyond. He saw the ghostly crimson image of his quarry rise and turn. For a moment, their eyes met. Then he blinked, and the image was gone.

Sand stung his face, and he growled. Morgash’s blood still marked his eyes. Hthara had done something to it, and it had allowed him to follow his quarry’s trail in some way he didn’t understand. Nor did he care. All he cared about was that his prey had fled. Again. He turned on the warriors who came down the dune in his wake, but a rising wind halted his words before he could speak. He turned, eyes widening. ‘Sand-devil!’

The air shimmered amethyst as a whirling sandstorm filled the narrow street. Isengrim flung himself to the ground with an alacrity born of painful experience. Those who were too slow to follow his example screamed as the flaying wind drew them up into its embrace. They were stripped to the bone, their blood and viscera raining down on those lucky enough to avoid the sand-devil’s pull. Loose bones, still wet, thumped to the sand as the storm whirled past. Isengrim scraped gore from his face in disgust and got to his feet. ‘Where is the witch?’ he asked without preamble.

‘Here, chieftain,’ Urok called out, shoving Hthara down the sand. Unlike some of his warriors, the woman maintained her footing, despite her restraints. Urok caught hold of the chains and dragged her towards Isengrim. ‘I have brought her.’

Urok sounded nervous, as if he feared what Isengrim might do to him. That was good. Fear kept a warrior’s senses sharp and thoughts of treachery at bay. Morgash hadn’t feared him enough. ‘Your magic has failed, witch,’ Isengrim growled, taking hold of Hthara’s collar and dragging her close. She had something in her hands – a rag of filthy cloth.

‘My magic worked. You failed to catch them.’

Isengrim lifted her from her feet, and she clawed at his forearm. ‘But they are close, my chieftain,’ she said quickly, her chains clanking. ‘They seek escape in shadow, but the light of Khorne’s fire burns in you. He will guide you. Simply listen to his cries and follow the stink of their fear.’ She lifted the rag.

He took it and dropped her to the ground. The rag was part of a sleeve, stained with sweat and dirt. He sniffed it, and grinned. ‘Yes. Yes, you are right, woman. Bring me my hounds, Urok. It is time they earned their keep. Perhaps they will do better than this witch.’

Urok bowed jerkily and bellowed for the hounds. Isengrim turned. The wide avenue stretched away from him, its fractal confines bending strangely in the darkness. Shadow-shapes flickered through the facets of the mirrored walls and across the embossed faces of cog-work doors, pulling his gaze this way and that. Isengrim had a hunter’s instincts, and the city confounded him.

But it could not deny him his chosen prey. Once Isengrim had scented a man’s blood, he would stop at nothing to claim it all. The face of his quarry flashed across his mind’s eye – narrow, shrewd, eyes like blue stones in a face worn grey and thin by a coward’s life. He had first seen it in a dream as he lay sweating from a belly wound. He touched his abdomen, where an ugly striation of scar tissue stretched from his waist to his chest. It ached in the cold of the evening.

The wound had been earned in battle against the lapdogs of Sigmar – golden god-slaves, armoured as if in parody of the Blood God’s chosen warriors. Gurnaek had led them – Gurnaek of the Scarlet Gale. A horse-lord and a chieftain of the Caldera. There had been more of them then. They had been many hundreds strong, a warhorde racing across the dunes. Gurnaek led them against the palisades erected along the city’s western edge and died first, as was Khorne’s will. Their blood had sanctified the ground and made it a fitting field of slaughter for those chosen to come after them.

But some of them had survived. Isengrim had been one. He’d been hurled away from those lightning-lit palisades, his belly leaking red and his thoughts scattered to the winds. And as he lay dying, he saw the god of slaughter stalking down through the stars to watch the battle below, and for an instant that stretched into an eternity the red gaze fell on him. He’d heard the hiss of a sword sliding from its sheath and the rumble of a voice too great for his ears to perceive.

Isengrim closed his eyes, remembering. There had been no words, only a command. His god had burned a face – that face – into the surface of Isengrim’s mind. Khorne despised nothing so much as a coward, and Isengrim’s quarry was that indeed.

He did not know why Khorne wanted the coward’s skull, or why he had been chosen to take it. He knew only that he would. ‘I will eat your heart, coward,’ he muttered. ‘I will pluck it apart, fold by fold, and swallow it before your eyes.’

Yelps and gibbering howls sounded from behind him as Urok and several other bloodreavers dragged the hounds forward by the chains attached to the crude brass collars about their necks. Once, they might have been men. Now, they were something else – eight broken, scarred beasts, gnashing splintered teeth and clawing at the air with bloody fingers.

They wore the tattered, filthy remnants of clothing and armour, and their bare flesh was branded with the eightfold rune of Khorne. Their empty eyes rolled red in blistered sockets, and blood seeped from their pores like sweat. Like Hthara, they had been gifted with visions of the Blood God, but they had broken beneath that terrible honour. They weren’t good for much, but they still served in their own way.

Isengrim snatched the chains from Urok and jerked them taut, sending several of the creatures flying. One leapt at him, frothing frenziedly. He drove the haft of his axe into its gut, and it folded over, whimpering.

He stooped, holding the rag to the creature’s nose. ‘Sniff him out, curs,’ he snarled, as the other hounds gathered about him. The twitching creatures snuffled at the rag like beasts. One, a lanky thing still wearing the stained cobalt robes of its former existence, tipped back its head and bayed.

Isengrim chopped through their chains, freeing the beasts. They scattered, loping north, vanishing into the swirling sands. He raised his axe. ‘Follow them,’ he roared, starting after the hounds. ‘But the coward is mine!’

Chapter three

THE GLOAMING PATH

Built in the reign of Makretedes the Ebullient, it was said that the voices of ten generations of artisans and wonderworkers could be heard in the twisting boulevard…

– Palento Herst
Shadespire: The Apogee

Shrieks and yelps punctuated the night, discernible despite the wailing of the winds. The sounds ricocheted from the sepulchral structures that rose and stretched in a strange fashion. Shadespire was deathly silent during the day, but as night fell, it resounded with a cacophonous din. Less a city, more a jungle.

There were monsters abroad in the broken streets. Corpse-eaters and malformed beasts stalked the unwary, or each other. Great shapes flew overhead – bats, perhaps, or something worse. The nape of Reynar’s neck itched as he ran, expecting something to pounce on him at any moment. He felt as if something were whispering to him, just at the edge of his hearing. As if the city itself were trying to warn him.

Utrecht loped easily in his wake. Reynar envied the hillman’s indefatigable endurance. He’d once seen Utrecht march a hundred leagues with three arrows in him and his brains half scrambled from a sword blow. In contrast, Reynar could barely catch his breath. Sometimes, it seemed as if he’d been tired since they’d set out to cross the Desert of Bones, seeking the city and its fabled treasures. Perhaps even before then.

He wanted to slow down, but to do so would mean death. The bloodreavers were on the hunt, and from the sound of it, they weren’t going to give up easily. Utrecht had breath enough to laugh. ‘Sounds like the night for it, eh, captain? Reminds me of home. The winds are up, and every devil is loose.’

‘So long as the ones following us don’t catch up,’ Reynar said, panting. He stumbled on a femur and fought to avoid falling. He caught sight of their destination, looming out of the dark. ‘There.’

The statue had been worn formless by the winds. A king, perhaps, or some forgotten hero. It stood on a high plinth, overlooking the streets that stretched around it. Something that might have been a hand pointed down a shrouded avenue, as if inviting passers-by in. They stopped to catch their breath in the lee of the shadow.

‘You certain about this, captain?’ Utrecht glared down the dark boulevard. ‘We’ve never explored that path. Might be easier just to make a stand.’

‘I’m not your commander anymore, remember,’ Reynar said. ‘You don’t have to come with me.’ He paused. ‘In fact, it might be easier if you stayed. Gives me a chance to get away clean.’

Utrecht glanced at him, grinning. ‘In that case, I’ll accompany you.’

Reynar laughed sourly. ‘I thought you’d say that.’ Thunder rolled, somewhere to the west. He paused, recalling the details of the map he’d acquired in Hammerhal. He’d always had a facility for recall, and he’d taken the precaution of memorising it. It hadn’t been much, just a tattered copy of a copy, but it had proven mostly accurate so far. ‘If we take the path, we can cut west once we reach the Court of Memories. From there, we can reach one of the trader enclaves the Azyrites have set up.’

Utrecht snorted. ‘Traders.’

‘Safety in numbers.’ Reynar shared his companion’s opinion of the enclaves. Where the armies of Azyr went, traders and bureaucrats soon followed. Someone had been smart enough to realise that the presence of the Stormcasts wouldn’t be enough to dissuade explorers and treasure hunters. So, they’d decided to organise them instead. Not all of them. Not even most. But enough.

The enclaves that dotted the western edge of the city were lawless places, save those closest to the Stormcast encampments. But there was some safety there. Light. A place to sleep and regroup without worrying about bloodreavers creeping up on them in the dark. Of course, there was also a chance someone would recognise them and they’d be arrested for desertion, among other crimes.

But that was a problem for the future. Reynar peered around the side of the statue’s plinth, checking the street. He saw nothing, but that didn’t mean there was nothing there. He turned back. He began to speak, then froze. The flesh of Utrecht’s face had peeled away from reddened bone, exposing ragged muscle and yellow teeth. Maggots squirmed in his eye sockets and spilled down his chest as he said, ‘What is it?’

Reynar blinked. Utrecht stared at him, whole again. ‘Captain?’

‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’ Reynar shook his head. ‘Come on.’ He moved quickly towards the entrance to the path.

‘Why is it called the Gloaming Path?’ Utrecht said as he followed. ‘It’s as dark as every other part of this city.’

‘That was the name on the map,’ Reynar said. He could hear the desolate buildings around them groaning in the wind. Shadespire was in a state of ongoing collapse. The wind eroded stone as easily as it sliced flesh, and in another century, there might not be anything left. It might be better for everyone if that happened.

Reyyyynar…

‘What?’ Reynar asked, glancing at Utrecht.

‘I said, the map you bought from Nechris Litharge.’ Utrecht made a dismissive gesture. ‘There’s a trustworthy name.’

‘It worked, didn’t it?’ Reynar said. An old argument. Litharge was widely regarded as a confidence trickster, pawning off fake shadeglass on the unsuspecting toffs of Hammerhal. But he’d been to Shadespire, or knew those who had, and his map had guided them across the desert relatively intact. ‘You didn’t have to come.’

‘And miss all of this?’ Utrecht said. ‘Nowhere I’d rather be, captain.’

‘I told you to stop calling me–’ He broke off as the ground shuddered slightly. Reynar was leaping even as the decrepit street gave way beneath him, crumbling away into a yawning chasm. He struck the other side of the rift and scrambled to his feet. Utrecht reached out and steadied him. The hillman said something, but Reynar couldn’t hear him over the rising wind.

Reyyyynar… Come to me, Reyyyynar…

It sounded like a woman calling out, but the words were lost in the howling gale. Wind-carried sand filled the street, washing across the buildings to either side, momentarily blinding him. He blinked, and saw what might have been a face out of the corner of his eye. It smiled, too widely by half, and opened its mouth as if to swallow him whole. Then it was gone and there was only the sand.

He ducked his head, trying to protect his eyes. He felt a bone-deep rumble as a nearby building collapsed. Dust billowed, washing over them. ‘Hurry,’ he coughed. He stumbled towards the shadows of the Gloaming Path, but started as Utrecht caught hold of him.

‘I’m not walking in there without light,’ Utrecht growled. ‘Do you still have your flint and tinder?’ He snapped the arm off a nearby skeleton and tore a strip from his jerkin. He wound the rag about the bone, doused it in the dregs from one of his wineskins and held it while Reynar scraped up a spark.

In the sudden flare of light, the street stretched ahead, its cathedral length amplified and skewed by the shadeglass plates that hung from the walls of the surrounding buildings. Light was at first reflected and then drawn away into seemingly endless darkness. Sand lay thick upon the street, heaped against the walls and covering a carpet of broken bones.

‘They say this led to the Faneway Mirror,’ Reynar said softly. Utrecht glanced at him, his expression perplexed. Reynar sighed. ‘It was how the Katophranes escaped death. If you believe that sort of thing.’ He brushed a hand across one of the filthy plates of glass, revealing his reflection – narrow features, unshaven and worn sharp by life. He paused. Something seemed to pass behind his reflection, as if someone were looking over his shoulder. He blinked, and it was gone.

Reyyyynar…

Reynar twitched, hoping the sound was just the wind. Back the way they’d come, too close for comfort, something howled. He turned, startled. Utrecht cursed. ‘They’ve caught up to us. How in the name of seven devils are they able to track us? The wind wipes away our prints.’

‘But it carries our scent right to them,’ Reynar said. ‘We have to hurry. Find somewhere to hole up until they lose interest. Come on.’ They hurried on, Utrecht’s torch a bobbing will o’ the wisp reflected in every pane of shadeglass.

The panes quavered in the wind, and the omnipresent hum made Reynar’s teeth itch. Bones clattered beneath their feet as they went, and vermin darted away from the glow of the torch, their squeals echoing in the vaulted spaces of the avenue. ‘Even the rats are scared,’ Utrecht murmured.

‘Let’s hope those are just rats.’ Reynar stopped. The path splintered ahead of them – not an intersection, but a spray of streets, all going in different directions. Decorative archways marked each, though their exact nature had been worn smooth by time.

‘Which way?’ Utrecht asked.

Thiiiis waaay… thiiis waaay…

‘Did you hear that?’ Utrecht growled, looking around.

‘No,’ Reynar lied. ‘And it doesn’t matter. They all lead to the same place.’ The Gloaming Path was like a river with many tributaries, but they all went in the same direction eventually. Reynar took a step towards one. In the dark, the wind sounded like laughter. He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘This way. Hurry.’

The street narrowed and widened at random around them, as if the surrounding buildings were two battle lines of troops, advancing and retreating. In places, the buildings hung so close together that the sky wasn’t visible. Elsewhere, Reynar could just make out the stars through currents of windblown sand. They brought him precious little comfort, as remote as they seemed.

Once, there had been high walkways and balconies lining the walls above, but only nubs of stone and chunks of ossified wood now marked where they’d been. Like the rest of the city, it was all falling apart. Occasionally, something moved across the shattered remnants, leaping from one to the next, but he knew better than to slow his pace to get a look. Birds croaked in the high places, disturbed by the wind and the presence of invaders. Reynar felt as if they were laughing at him. The howls of their pursuers echoed about them, seeming to come from all directions at once.

Another shudder ran through the street, casting the birds into flight. Shadeglass slid from the heights to shatter on the street below. They followed the curve of the street, Reynar leading the way. He was starting to think they might get away when he slammed face-first into a pane of shadeglass. He staggered back with a curse, nearly falling into Utrecht.

‘Captain?’ Utrecht said.

‘The path – it’s gone,’ Reynar said, lurching forward. His hands slid across curves of glass. It had been shaped so as to prevent those who approached from seeing their reflection. ‘Where’s the path?’ he snarled, pounding a fist against the glass. He looked up and saw stone rising behind it. He’d assumed it was an archway, but what if it wasn’t? ‘This isn’t right,’ he said. ‘It can’t be.’

‘Maybe we came the wrong way.’

‘There’s only the one way!’ Reynar snapped, turning. He moved past Utrecht, but glass met his hands on either side of them. They’d walked into a dead end. ‘I don’t understand… the map…’

‘The map was wrong,’ Utrecht said. He thrust the torch into a crack of stone along the wall and hefted his axe. ‘Or things have changed.’

‘Things don’t change here. It’s a dead city.’

Howls echoed through the air. Too close. Reynar leaned against a pane of glass, eyes closed, trying to think.

‘It’s a shame the carrion birds will pick our bones. I can smell the wealth of ages, just out of sight,’ Utrecht said idly. ‘Gemstones from Aqshian mines and gold from the rivers of Chamon. I could have bought a kingdom, to enjoy in my dotage.’

Reynar straightened. ‘I thought you preferred winning them, with blood and steel.’ He blinked. For a moment, he thought he’d seen something moving across the glass. A reflection within a reflection. But there was nothing there now save his own features.

Utrecht shrugged. ‘I’m getting old, captain. I’ve been a freebooter, a vizier, a master of the guard and a king. Not much left to do but die.’

The howls were getting closer now. Reynar could hear the scrabbling of feet on stone and glass, the rattle of weapons, the harsh panting yelps of their pursuers. He swallowed a sudden rush of bile. Was this what it had come to, then? Where was his luck now?

‘I’d rather not die today, if it’s all the same to you,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘There has to be a way out of here.’ He turned, searching. ‘There’s always a way out.’

Utrecht raised his shield. ‘You look. I’ll fight.’ He stiffened. ‘Wait – hear that? Sounds like…’

‘Laughter,’ Reynar said. It was a soft sound. He’d taken it for sand shifting in the wind at first. But now he knew better. He looked up, squinting into the gloom above.

‘A woman’s.’ Utrecht grinned. ‘Maybe we have found something of value after all.’

Reynar looked at him. ‘Is that really what’s foremost on your mind at this moment?’

Utrecht frowned. Before he could reply, the laughter came again. Closer this time. Reynar turned, searching for the source. A woman was peering at him from a pane of shadeglass, her dark features split by a wide smile. The same woman he’d seen earlier, when the bloodreaver had been throttling him.

You look lost.

Her voice echoed eerily, and the sound of howling diminished.

‘A gheist?’ Utrecht growled. Despite his courage, the hillman had a horror of spirits and the hungry dead. He seemed to regard them as a greater threat than any cackling daemon-worshipper or malformed beastkin.

The woman laughed again. It was a disjointed sound, echoing a half-moment after her mouth had opened. Reynar felt a chill. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘She’s a spirit. A gheist,’ Utrecht said. He stared at the apparition with loathing. ‘Don’t talk to her. You can’t trust the dead, captain.’

A friend, if you wish. They are almost upon you.

She circled them, moving from pane to pane, her form stretching and bending in strange ways. ‘And what do you want?’ Reynar asked.

‘Captain, leave it – we’ll fight the dogs,’ Utrecht said. ‘We might even win. Gork’s teeth, they might not even find us in here, all the twists and turns we took.’

You won’t. They will. You’ll die here, and your bones will lie with the rest.

‘Unless…?’ Reynar demanded, turning to follow her. She stopped and looked at him.

I can lead you to safety.

Utrecht made to speak, but Reynar waved to cut him off. ‘In return for what?’

Silence. The woman was gone.

The mirror blocking the path cracked. The sound was loud, and Reynar turned, startled.

Utrecht cursed. ‘Witchery.’

‘Better than death.’

Cracks spread across the pane like spiderwebs, expanding outwards from what might have been a palm pressed against the other side. As the cracks lengthened and widened, the whole pane seemed to twist in on itself. A pallid light issued from between the cracks, and a mist rose off the sands. Reynar heard voices. Indistinct masses that might have been faces appeared in the other panes of shadeglass.

The shadeglass sagged back, as if from a blow. A cold wind rose up, and the birds were shrieking overhead. The glass parted with a sigh and fell away into darkness. Just darkness. Reynar hesitated. Behind him, the howls rose up. ‘If you’re going to go, captain, best to go now – they’ve found us!’ Utrecht gestured with his axe. Reynar looked back.

The howlers were not hounds. Not the traditional sort, anyway. They scrambled down the twisting confines of the road on all fours, but they still resembled men. And behind them came an equally monstrous pack – the bloodreavers. More than they could fight.

There was no choice. Only one path ahead.

‘I’ll hold them,’ Utrecht said. ‘You go.’

‘No. We go together.’ Reynar caught Utrecht by the back of his armour and dragged him, protesting, into the swirling black of the mirror.

Isengrim followed the hounds into the Gloaming Path, growing more furious with every passing moment. The wind had made it hard for the hounds to follow his prey’s scent, and when they had caught it again, it had led them into this warren of glass and stone.

The hounds stopped again, whining gutturally. They turned, sniffing, pawing at the walls. Isengrim crushed a skull underfoot and caught up one of the hounds, dashing its brains out against a pane of shadeglass. The glass shattered along with the hound’s head, and he hurled the twitching body aside.

‘My chieftain, perhaps we should try another route,’ Urok said. ‘We know where the path ahead comes out – we can cut them off…’

Isengrim turned, a snarl on his face. Before he could reply, or split Urok’s skull for the suggestion, he heard a soft voice on the wind.

This way… this way…

He gestured for silence, and several of his warriors beat the hounds until their whines ceased. Silence reigned for long moments. Isengrim’s frustration built, and he raised his axe, ready to smash another mirror. And then she was there, smiling at him. A pale face, thin and narrow, like a blade. He hesitated, taken aback. It wasn’t often that someone looked pleased to see him. ‘What are you? Some spirit?’ He turned, seeking Hthara. The witch huddled into herself, not meeting his gaze. She could barely stand, having been run to her limit by the chase. ‘What is this sorcery, witch?’

‘When the dead speak, the wise do not listen, my chieftain,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘It lies. It seeks to trap you–’

To lead you… to show you…

Hthara flinched with every word. She reeked of fear. Isengrim turned back to the glass. ‘Show me what?’

Your prey…

Isengrim growled, low in his throat. ‘Where?’

She vanished, like a mirage in the desert. One moment there, the next gone. His eyes widened in growing fury. Then her voice echoed again, slipping across the air.

Follow me… follow me…

He saw the woman, running away from him through a fractal reflection. The hounds stirred and started running after her, evidently having caught the scent. They bayed in joyous hunger, and he started after them, Urok and the others on his heels. As he ran, Isengrim saw that the woman was keeping pace, running lithely through the panes of glass to either side of him. She was laughing, though he couldn’t hear her.

He was no fool. He had shed enough blood in Shadespire to know that nothing he saw was to be trusted. But the thought of his prey escaping again had driven wisdom from him. Khorne had demanded a skull, and Isengrim would gift it to him. Not for gain, or for fear, but because it was his duty. It was why he had been dragged from the field of battle. It was why he had survived. One skull was the price, and he would pay it or lose his own in the process. A fair bargain, by any standard.

‘Follow her,’ he roared, glancing back and shaking his axe. His warriors bellowed in response. Behind him, he could see Hthara chained to the back of a bulky bloodreaver. She was murmuring silently – praying, perhaps, or cursing his name. He didn’t care either way.

Their reflections stretched as they ran after the spirit-woman, as if the substance of the mirrors were loath to let them go. The city was a predator – hungry, and savage in its hunger. Isengrim could feel it stirring, and knew, with the certainty of one who has spoken to gods, that something was occurring. Something unseen. The wind had shifted, and the street trembled as if in anticipation.

And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, the spirit-woman was gone. Isengrim slowed and felt a chill course through him. The streets branched away in so many directions that he had no patience for counting them all. His warriors murmured, their unease growing as they realised how their surroundings had changed. The hounds whined and circled, unable to find the scent. Some of them were missing. He could hear them yelping mournfully, but it was as if they were leagues away. The sound echoed through the labyrinthine streets.

He heard the sound of stones shifting, cascading across one another, but saw nothing save shadowed reflections in the broken panes hanging from the walls. ‘A trap?’ he murmured, and shook his head. The whole city was a trap. ‘Urok, bring me the witch.’

No reply. He turned. ‘Urok,’ he growled. The others turned as well, searching. It wasn’t just hounds that were missing. Half their number was gone, Urok and Hthara among them. Isengrim snarled. He shoved his way through those who remained and found that the way they’d come from had become a cul-de-sac. The wind slithered through the street, carrying the soft hint of laughter.

‘Tricked,’ he said. Hthara had been right, curse her.

Suddenly, something reached from one of the panes of glass and caught a bloodreaver by the hair, pale things like wisps of frost catching at his arms and legs. He screamed, desperately hacking at his own scalp. Isengrim started towards him, pushing through the others, but arrived too late. The warrior fell into the pane like a man falling into a lake. The glass cracked and swelled, absorbing the struggling bloodreaver into itself with what might have been a contented sigh.

As Isengrim reached the pane, he saw the unlucky warrior tumbling away, growing smaller and smaller, as if he were falling into some great abyss. ‘The glass,’ he growled as he whirled to face his remaining warriors. ‘Shatter the glass – quickly!’

Only silence greeted him. He saw them clearly enough, but they were all on the other side of the pane, each warrior caught in a reflection of the street. They looked around, seeming to call out or bellow in defiance. But he heard nothing. As one, they began to run away from him, down their lost and twisting streets.

Isengrim howled in fury. But even his voice was muted here, swallowed up by the glass. More laughter greeted his cry. He spun, seeking its origin. The sound seemed to echo from all directions, filling his ears and drowning out everything save the thunder of his own pulse.

There was glass all around him, above and below. The facets shifted with a harsh, metallic rasp as they began to converge on him from all directions. He saw his face glaring at him from a hundred points, and heard his own curses echoed.

He tried to back away, but the way he’d come was gone, lost in shimmering convulsion. The walls of the passage narrowed, as if the glass were contracting about him. The panes cracked and splintered, thrusting jagged spikes towards him.

Incensed, he swung his axe out and hacked at the extrusions. They gave way with a sound like a scream, fragments swirling into the dark as if caught in a whirlwind. For a moment, he thought he saw a face that was not his own reflected in them, but then the winds caught him and he was drawn inexorably towards the splintered glass and the starless void beyond.

Chapter four

FRESH MEAT

There is a magic in the act of eating.

To consume is to assume the mantle of the consumed.

– Lady Emalia Grimsour
A Lady’s Concise History of Shyish

Reynar stumbled into the dark. He could hear Utrecht’s bellows, somewhere close and yet impossibly far. Light and dark mingled, split and merged again all around him. There was something beneath his feet, but it wasn’t stone or bone. It crunched like glass and shifted with every step, like sand. It threatened to drag him under if he stopped moving. Wherever he turned, his own face, distorted and fragmented, looked back at him.

A strong wind howled against him, as if trying to simultaneously force him back and drag him on. There were voices in it – screams, whispers, a cacophony of cries, drawn up from vast depths and hurled forcefully against his ears. Shards of flying glass plucked at his arms and cheeks, drawing blood.

He staggered on, shielding his eyes. He didn’t know where he was going, or what lay ahead. He knew only that he must move. He could not stay where he was. To either side of him, darkness hung thick between the mirrored shards, and he thought great shapes moved in it. Things larger than cities, larger than mountains, great serpentine shapes undulating in an abyss of shadow. He felt the path bow and crackle as they passed beneath it, and his myriad reflections cringed, as if privy to the true nature of the unseen leviathans.

Ahead of him, the swirling lights coalesced into the ghost of a city. Jagged towers rose like lightning, but all other detail was lost in the glare. The path he was on was like a narrow causeway, stretching across the void towards the distant city. The dark pressed close, and it had become hard to breathe. Reynar stumbled as the pathway crumbled beneath him, fragments of glass spinning away into the void. He teetered, off balance.

The city seemed impossibly far away, trapped between a gleam of light and a fold of shadow. In the dark below, indistinct shapes rose as if suddenly aware of him, and he felt a thrill of atavistic fear. The sword in his hand felt heavy, useless. Around him, his reflections cowered or fled. Were they him, or was he one of them? Which of them was the real him? For a moment, he could not tell. Reflections fell away into the dark, and he thought he heard himself scream.

The path convulsed, and shards of glass rose up around him, enveloping him. He felt himself dragged forward towards the gleaming phantom city, as if caught in a riptide. A wave of shards bowled him under and he lost sight of everything save his own distorted reflection, grimacing at him. Light swelled, filling every crack and facet.

Suddenly, he was shooting forward, almost faster than he could stand. The glass swirled about and scattered, revealing a vortex of stone – columns, pillars, archways and steps, all tangled about him in a never-ending tunnel of distorted architecture. He realised that the city – once so far away – was now spreading out before him, unfurling like a great tapestry. He saw towers that thrust at him like teeth in the maw of some great beast, and the undulations of immense walls. Gateways groaned open beneath him, and statues clamoured at the edges of his vision, reaching out with stony hands as he fell past them.

A cold wind swept up around him, catching him like a leaf. There was the sound of a mirror shattering, and then he was sliding across a slope of dust and stone. He rolled down, stopping only when he struck the broken remains of a pillar. Blood dripped from hundreds of small cuts on his limbs and face. His body aching, he waved a hand, trying to clear the dust thrown up by his arrival.

As it thinned, he heard the crunch of something drawing near. He groped for his sword, snatching it up from where he’d dropped it. Hauling himself to his feet, he coughed out a challenge. ‘Stop where you are.’

‘Captain? Is that you?’

Reynar blinked dust from his eyes. ‘Utrecht?’

‘It’s me, captain.’ Utrecht staggered towards him, his normal boisterousness subdued. He’d lost his helm, and his face was marred by cuts similar to Reynar’s own. He looked around, wide-eyed. ‘Where are we?’

Reynar turned, taking in their surroundings. They stood on a hill of broken rock and bone fragments that slid away into gloomy streets below. Around them was a labyrinth of endless stairs that rose up into shadowed heights or fell away out of sight. Cramped streets and soaring archways rose at wrong angles, bent and twisted as if by the hand of a giant. Pillars and shards of shadeglass were everywhere, underfoot or rising high. In the distance, he could make out high causeways stretching over the city like a spider’s web.

It was as if someone had folded a city in on itself and then twisted it about. Above them, nestled among a thicket of stairways and jutting statuary, a vast archway sprouted from a sideways lintel. Within the archway, a cracked pane of shadeglass slowly reformed itself with a creeping surety that sent a chill through Reynar.

He heard a whisper of laughter, snatched away by the chill wind that curled about them. His breath blossomed before him, and he noted patches of hoarfrost on nearby stones. ‘I think…’ he began.

‘Welcome, friends, welcome!’ a voice called out. Reynar cursed and turned. A lean shape was clambering up the slope towards them. Utrecht scraped the edge of his axe against his shield and Reynar glanced at him.

‘More of them, captain. They’re all around us.’

Utrecht was right. Reynar could see more shapes climbing the slope out of the mist that bunched and coiled in the shadowed streets. They emerged from cracked archways and darkened apertures, slinking into view with a sort of manic eagerness.

Utrecht stared up. ‘Look,’ he murmured.

Reynar followed his gaze and saw more shapes, clambering easily along the closest of the upside-down stairways. Men and women, clad in colourless rags and bits of tattered armour. They murmured among themselves, and he was suddenly reminded of the colonies of bats that had made Shadespire’s ruins their home. These newcomers dropped to the slope as the others climbed to where he and Utrecht stood.

The one who’d spoken smiled welcomingly, displaying a mouthful of brown teeth. ‘Welcome, my lords, welcome.’ The smile slipped. ‘And apologies. For if you are here, you are surely damned.’

‘Damned?’ Reynar said, lifting his sword. The lean man stopped and sidled to the side. Reynar followed him with the point of his blade. ‘What do you mean? Where are we?’

‘You have the look of men of the world, my lord. Tell me, does Glymmsforge still stand? When I left it, dead men were capering on its walls.’

‘It was still standing, last I heard,’ Reynar said, glancing at Utrecht. ‘How did you come here?’

The lean man gestured upwards. ‘The same way you did, I expect. Through a mirror of shadeglass, in my lodgings – a desperate flight into the unknown, as fleshless hands knocked upon my door.’ He flung out his hands in a theatrical manner. ‘You are in Shadespire, my lords.’

‘We’ve been in Shadespire for weeks, and I do not recognise this place,’ Utrecht growled. He turned slightly, trying to keep the lean man’s companions in sight. There were dozens of them, pouring out of their holes like vermin. Reynar felt disgust at the sight of them. They looked like beggars, or victims of famine. Knobbly limbs and hollow cheeks, febrile eyes and chapped lips. Some carried weapons, though many had nothing. They circled the two men, murmuring and muttering.

‘And yet, the evidence is before you,’ the lean man said. He had drawn closer to Utrecht. ‘Here is the glory of that lost city trapped between shadow and light. Long did I study the ancient texts, and I know whereof I speak.’ He bowed, almost mockingly. ‘A humble scribe, that is me. Not a brawny warrior, like yourself. But no less skilled, in my area.’ He smiled again, ingratiatingly. ‘I could explain more, if you’d like. I have acted as shepherd and guide for many a lost soul since I found myself trapped here.’

‘Trapped,’ Reynar echoed. Something in him curdled at the word. They had been led into a trap. He looked around and saw that the others were drawing close. Too close. He tensed, and tried to catch Utrecht’s eye.

‘Yes, sadly,’ the man said. He did not sound sad. Not at all. ‘We are lost, caught up in the wrath of a god, and what man might resist that?’

Utrecht turned. ‘I don’t like this, captain. Perhaps we should go.’

‘There is nowhere to go, my friends,’ the man said. ‘Nowhere at all.’ He moved so quickly, Reynar barely saw him – faster than a man ought to move. The blade was in his hand and then in Utrecht’s back before he could speak. It slid between the rings of the big man’s hauberk and sank into his flesh. The hillman bellowed in pain and turned, the rim of his shield caving in the lean man’s skull. As their leader fell, the others swarmed over him, blades in their hands. Utrecht killed one, and then the others were stabbing at him.

Several moved towards Reynar, seeking to cut him off from aiding Utrecht. He cursed as he realised that he’d allowed himself to become isolated. He parried a blow and chopped down the closest of them. ‘Hold on, Utrecht,’ he shouted. He drove an elbow into the face of another, but more pressed in, driving him back. They felt soft, like bodies left too long in the water.

Utrecht was screaming. He’d fallen back, off balance. Knives rose and fell as the jackals overwhelmed the lion through sheer numbers. His axe fell away with a clang as he collapsed, borne down by the sheer weight of his attackers.

‘No,’ Reynar said, his voice loud in his ears. Utrecht had stopped screaming, hidden beneath a pile of thin forms. Reynar heard the sounds of meat tearing and bone popping. Utrecht was dead. Had to be dead.

‘Yes,’ a haggard woman said, waving a knife at him. ‘This is what happens to meat.’ She smiled at him and darted forward. He split her skull and kicked the body aside. He began to back away, trying to keep the others in sight.

‘Get away from me,’ he said harshly. ‘Stay back.’

‘Fresh meat,’ a man said, gasping the words. ‘Meatmeatmeat…’

Others joined him in his savage chant as they closed in on Reynar. He slashed his sword out, forcing them to retreat. But not for long. Others rose from Utrecht, faces and hands bloody. ‘Still hungry,’ one moaned. ‘Always hungry.’

Reynar glanced around, trying to find an escape route. But there was nowhere to go. Everywhere he looked, the cannibals pressed close. Hands grabbed at him, pulling him this way and that. He lashed out with fist and blade, but they had no fear of either.

Teeth sank into his forearm and he kicked out, catching their owner in the gut. Arms snaked around his throat and shoulders, trying to drag him down. More teeth caught him on the leg, the hand, the ear. Fingers clawed at his face and hair, rancid breath washing over him. They were going to eat him alive.

Reynar screamed, not in defiance so much as frustration. He’d come so far, and achieved so little. The gods weren’t fair. He knew that. But still, he railed against it. Cursing, he slashed his blade out, slicing a throat and opening a gap in the tangle of limbs and jaws. He bulled through, hurling himself away. He rolled across the ground, and they flung themselves after him, laughing and howling. He kicked at them, trying to drive them back long enough to get his feet under him. But they didn’t let up.

Fists thudded into his legs and torso, and someone kicked his head. He hacked at them blindly. Fingers wriggled around his throat, squeezing. Teeth filled his vision, growing larger as they drew closer. Then there was a sound like an axe striking a log, and the teeth were suddenly spattering across his face as their owner’s skull crumpled and split. He stared at the point of a sword as it was wrenched free of the man’s head. A golden giant towered over him. ‘Do you live, mortal?’ the Stormcast Eternal rumbled. Reynar gaped up at him.

The cannibals hurled themselves at the newcomer, and the Stormcast roared and swept his massive two-handed blade out, leaving an arc of red in its wake. Broken bodies tumbled away, but more of them threw themselves forward in a frenzy. A thunderous crash rolled over the plaza, and Reynar saw another Stormcast bound up the slope of rubble, her shield thrust out to smash aside anyone in her path. She pivoted, crushing skulls and snapping bones with every swing of her warhammer. ‘Obryn, get him to his feet. I’ll aid Severin!’

‘He needs no aid,’ said a voice like distant thunder. A golden hand as large as Reynar’s head dropped down and dragged him easily to his feet. He twisted around and looked up into the frozen scowl of a Stormcast’s war-mask. ‘Can you stand?’ the warrior said, his words thudding into the pit of Reynar’s stomach. ‘If you cannot, I will grant you mercy.’ He gestured with the heavy, two-handed hammer in his other hand.

‘I can stand,’ Reynar said, twisting free of the giant’s grip.

‘Good. Put your sword to use.’ The Stormcast spun, more swiftly than Reynar would have thought possible, and slammed his hammer into a leaping cannibal. The wretch burst like an overfull wineskin. Reynar stabbed another as he tried to knife the giant in the side.

The three Stormcasts rampaged among the attackers, killing them with ease. Reynar was reminded of a bear he’d once seen, cast into a pit to slay curs for the entertainment of gamblers. Pale, indistinct faces pressed against mirrored surfaces, watching the slaughter from above and below. Hundreds of them – including one that he thought he recognised. But she vanished a moment later, leaving behind only the faintest hint of amused laughter.

‘The dead watch us eat,’ a slobbering cannibal screeched as he crashed into Reynar. Reynar caught the man’s knife on the edge of his sword, keeping it from his throat. ‘They watch us eat and eat and we never get full,’ he shrilled, clawing at Reynar’s face.

Reynar twisted away and kicked the man in the knee. As he sank down, Reynar chopped through his neck, nearly beheading him. But another bowled him over. They were sweeping over the slope now, more than he’d have thought possible. Their cries echoed through the air as they tried to swarm the Stormcasts.

Reynar stabbed one who was trying to gut him. As she toppled aside, a wide shadow fell across him. ‘Still alive, manling?’ The voice was rough, like hot ashes spilling across cold stones. He glanced up into a wide, craggy countenance, hidden within a tangled mane and beard the colour of a long-burning flame. A thick paw dragged him to his feet. ‘Stop crawling about like vermin.’

A duardin. More, a fyreslayer. Broad and heavy-looking, the duardin wore little clothing despite the chill on the air, and what he did wear looked to be made of metal. His bare limbs were corded with muscle and marked by runes that flickered with a visible heat. He wore no helm, and his hair and beard hung in a loose, tangled mane. He held a heavy maul in one hand, its head scored with symbols, and there was a bandolier of throwing axes strapped across his barrel chest.

The duardin snatched up one of the axes and sent it spinning into the skull of a cannibal. The woman tumbled back without a sound. The duardin glanced at Reynar. ‘They forgot about you, did they? That’s always the way. They have trouble remembering not all of us have heavenly lightning running through our veins.’ An attacker scrambled towards him, and he pivoted, crushing the man’s chest and pelvis with a blow from his maul. The duardin turned back. ‘Khord, son of Fjul, scion of Vostarg Lodge.’

It took Reynar a moment to recall the proper reply. ‘Seguin Reynar, scion of… nowhere in particular.’ He turned. The fight was coming to an end. The cannibals had had their fill of lightning-wreathed hammers and blades. Dozens of bodies lay scattered about in various states of cohesion. Reynar caught sight of Utrecht’s axe and took a step towards it. Khord caught his arm.

‘No, manling. That’s not a sight you want to see.’

Reynar nodded and turned away. The Stormcasts were approaching, glass and stone crunching beneath their weight. ‘Khord. How nice of you to join us,’ the leader – Severin – said. ‘You almost earned your pay today, mercenary.’

Khord raised an eyebrow. ‘Did I not guide you here, Azyrite? And have we not found him, as she demanded?’ He caught hold of Reynar’s arm. ‘Here he is. In one piece.’

‘There were two of us,’ Reynar said. He sheathed his blade.

Khord frowned. ‘Aye, and for that, I’m sorry. These maggots move fast when they want to.’ He kicked a decapitated head down the slope. ‘Always clustering around the known pathways into this place and attacking those who have the misfortune to come here.’

‘And where is here? One of those creatures called it Shadespire. But that is impossible. I was just in Shadespire.’

Severin looked down at him. ‘This too is Shadespire. Or its reflection. Welcome, mortal, to the Mirrored City. Welcome… and be damned.’

Isengrim fell for days. Or perhaps hours. Maybe only moments. It was hard to tell, in that shifting, glittering abyss. He struck flat edges and slid away, tumbling to the next, dropping down a twisting tunnel of reflected images.

Not all of the images were of him, and even some of those that were, were somehow not: he saw himself as a boy, screaming in fear – as the youth he had been, before he’d shed the blood of those who thought to make him a slave – as a warrior, clad in gold and azure, beholden to a different master. A hundred Isengrims falling with him, with the true Isengrim. As he fell, he raged, screaming Khorne’s name, howling oaths of blood and slaughter.

He knew that Khorne would not save him. He desired only that the Blood God see his end and find it pleasing. As he struck a steep incline, he lashed out with his axe, attempting to slow or even stall his descent. Chunks of glass pelted him as he juddered to a halt. Dust rolled past him, wafting away. Faces seemed to take shape in the cloud as it dispersed.

Below him, he could see a distant fractal shape. It was like a snowflake resting on a sea of oil. A city of splintered light, its towers stretching in all directions. It flexed and twisted like a thing alive, and he could hear the dim groan of buckling timbers. The shape expanded, like clay caught between the hands of a sculptor. Tendrils of shimmering masonry rose along the sides of the tunnel, seemingly spreading up towards him.

The sound of it grew louder and louder, drowning out even the thunder of his own heartbeat. His axe slipped as the tunnel began to fray about him, cracking and twisting with violent convulsions. He heard the sound of a thousand mirrors shattering, and he was swept down in a storm of glass shards. They dug into his flesh like teeth, and he flailed wildly as he rolled towards the encroaching city. He heard voices echoing from all directions, and glimpsed strange shapes moving between the broken shards of glass.

Light blazed beneath him. The city became a star – a sun – expanding as if to engulf him. The glare was cold, and it leeched the strength from his limbs. He tried to arrest his fall again, but the glass parted like paper. He roared as the light blinded and consumed him, and then, with a rising crash, it spat him out somewhere cold and grey.

He struck something hard, twisted and slammed down again, on a hill of bones and broken stone. He rolled, maintaining his grip on his axe despite the pain and force of the impact. Chopping it down into the ground, he arrested his slide. Dust swept around him as he shoved himself to his feet.

He looked around, infuriated. He had no idea where he was. The world around him seemed to consist entirely of a tangle of stairs, walls and archways. The air smelled stale and a clammy breeze nipped at him. Bodies lay everywhere, still steaming in the cold. He had missed a fight, it seemed. That made him even angrier.

Behind him, someone chuckled. He turned swiftly, axe raised. A lean man sat atop a fallen obelisk, watching him. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ the man said. ‘Only one of you, this time.’

‘One,’ Isengrim said. ‘The others – where are they?’ He launched himself at the man, who yelped and rolled off the opposite side of the obelisk, putting it between himself and Isengrim.

‘Dead, I expect. Or not. But not here.’

Isengrim leapt over the fallen stone and reached for him. His quarry slipped out of reach, wild-eyed. ‘No, no, no. I’ve only just got back. It’s not time yet.’ He pointed at the ground haplessly as Isengrim caught hold of his collar. Isengrim glanced down. The man he held lay on the ground, skull burst open but otherwise the same. A twin, dressed even in the same rags, bearing the same sores and bad teeth. Pain interrupted these observations as his captive produced a knife from somewhere and sank it into his arm.

The lean man twisted the knife, trying to saw through the tendons in Isengrim’s arm. Isengrim roared and flung him aside. The man slammed into a nearby archway, shattering the thin pane of shadeglass there. As the shards rained down, he slumped among them, gurgling, a piece lodged in his jugular.

Isengrim stalked towards him, the knife still jutting from his forearm. As he approached, he heard a sound like ice cracking. He looked down at the shards of glass and saw flickers of what might have been the lean man’s face, peering up at him in frustration. The sound came again, and he realised that it emanated from the largest fragment of glass. The surface of the fragment bowed and stretched upwards. The glass sloughed away from a hand as it broke free.

Isengrim stared. The hand flailed for a moment, groping at the ground around the fragment. Then, with agonising slowness, a second hand emerged. Isengrim drew closer, staring down into the shard. The lean man’s face glared up at him. ‘I told you – it isn’t time yet,’ he snarled. His voice echoed strangely, as if coming from somewhere far away. Isengrim cocked his head, studying the apparition.

Then, with a grunt, he lifted his axe and brought it down on the glass. The man’s howl of denial was cut short as the fragment shattered. Silence fell. The man’s reflections had fled, and Isengrim laughed harshly. Wherever he was, some things remained the same. From behind him, he heard the crash of metal against stone.

He turned, tensed. A tall, thin shape watched him from one of the recursive stairways that rose over a hill of skeletal remains. The warrior was nothing but bone beneath its battered armour and torn fur cloak. It bore a great war-spear in one hand and a round shield strapped to the other.

Other shapes, similarly decayed, stood behind it. One wore a hood and tattered cloak and leaned against a farmer’s scythe, another was wearing the raiment of a savage king, while a third was clad in the unadorned war-plate of a professional soldier. Dozens of other skeletons draped in rags climbed the slopes on all sides, carrying broken and chipped weapons.

‘Who…’ the skeleton bearing the war-spear rasped. Its – his – voice was like sand scraping across stone.

Isengrim waited, but that seemed the limit of the skeletal warrior’s question. He kicked the broken glass aside and stepped forward. ‘Isengrim of the Red Reef. Isengrim Khorneson. Stand aside, lest I crack your bones. I have business to be about.’

Silence met this declaration. Isengrim hesitated. He’d fought the dead before, but there was little pleasure to be had in it. They did not bleed or scream. They had no lives to snuff, and their skulls were empty of joy or fear. He took a two-handed grip on his axe. ‘If you will not move, then come – I have no patience for this silent glaring. Come, if you think you can beat me.’

The skeleton who’d spoken twitched his spear in a dismissive gesture. One of the others, the one in ancient war-plate, stepped to meet Isengrim, as if it were the champion of some great lord. It drew a huge two-handed blade from a sheath on its back.

Isengrim waited as the skeletal warrior approached, great blade held low. The dead thing moved with more grace than he’d expected. When it struck, it did so with a wide, sweeping blow that nearly cut him in half. He leapt back, trying to put distance between himself and the sword. The skeleton paced after him, driving him steadily backwards, marking him with thin slashes. Isengrim snarled in frustration as his blood spattered the stones. Whenever he tried to dart past the slashing weapon, his opponent anticipated him and the blade licked out, drawing closer with every swing.

The other skeletons watched this macabre dance in silence, their gazes flickering like candles in the gloom. The sword swept out again, parting the air with a hiss, and Isengrim felt it slice the flesh of his cheek as he twisted aside. Off balance, he fell. Desperate, he lashed with his axe and caught his opponent in the femur.

Bone cracked and the skeletal warrior staggered. Isengrim rose with a roar, and his axe sank into his foe’s torso, shattering exposed ribs. The skeleton stumbled back. Before it could recover, Isengrim leapt onto it, bearing it to the ground. He slammed his axe down on the skeleton’s sword arm, separating its hand from its wrist. He hooked his fingers into the skull. The skeleton’s free hand clawed at his forearm, but to no avail. Isengrim bellowed and tore the skull free. He slung it aside and rose.

‘Next,’ he growled.

The leader of the dead stared at him. Then, he raised his spear. The other skeletons began to advance. No duel, this time. Only death. Isengrim bared his teeth and raised his axe. He would die – he knew that. There were too many of them. But he would not die easily, or silently. He readied himself for his final lunge. Better to meet the end head on and at a time of his own choosing rather than wait for it to find him. He started to lunge, but a single word brought him up short.

‘No.’

Isengrim looked up as the advancing skeletons paused. Their leader turned slightly. The flickers in his eye sockets blazed brighter as an armoured figure pushed through the ranks and climbed the slope. The warrior was not so tall as he seemed at first, but appeared so thanks to the style of war-plate he wore. It was not bulky, instead slimly baroque and of a type Isengrim did not recognise.

Leering faces marked the elbows and knees, and daemonic shapes cavorted across the scarred and pitted plates. The helm was wrought in the shape of a grinning countenance, round and beatific. A crest of stiffened hair rose over the top of it and descended down the warrior’s back. He wore a ragged cloak of faded azure and his hand rested on the worn pommel of a sword sheathed low on his hip.

‘Well. It has been too long, my friend.’

The warrior’s voice was deep, resonant. But unfamiliar. ‘I do not know you,’ Isengrim growled. He glanced around warily, wondering if this were some trick.

‘My apologies.’ The warrior gestured dismissively. ‘I am Zuvass. And you had best come with me.’

‘Why?’ Isengrim snarled.

‘Because otherwise, the dead will take you. And you will never catch your prey.’

Isengrim paused. What did this warrior know of his hunt? Slowly, he lowered his axe. ‘Very well,’ he said grudgingly.

Zuvass laughed – a hollow sound, full of spite and bitterness. ‘You are wise, for a man wearing so much blood.’ He turned. ‘Come. Your new master awaits.’

Chapter five

STREETS OF GLASS

In Shadespire, every street is at once a window and a door. Infinite permutations of every avenue and thoroughfare, reflected infinitely through ever more cleverly angled mirrors of polished shadeglass…

– Folly Bane
Memoirs of a Merchant-Knight

Reynar’s rescuers did not speak to him as they steadily descended the slope of bones into the maze of dimly lit streets below. Will o’ the wisps danced along currents of chill mist, casting their soft, sickly green glow over everything. Two of the Stormcasts led the way, their heavy tread scattering small avalanches of bone before them, while the third, Obryn, hung back. Khord, the fyreslayer, tramped alongside Reynar.

‘They’re watching us,’ Reynar said. Though the cannibals had seemingly retreated, he could feel their eyes on his back. He glanced warily at the strange, interweaving roof of causeways above, where figures shuffled in intermittent processions. He could hear the clanging of bells off in the distance, and a soft weeping from somewhere closer to hand. He cast about for its source but saw nothing. The shadows were deep here.

Khord grunted, but did not look up. ‘No easy thing, watching meat slip out of reach.’ He hefted his maul, as if in readiness to crush something.

Reynar frowned. ‘I’m not meat.’

Khord glanced at him. ‘We’re all meat here, manling. Best get used to it.’

‘Where is here?’

‘How many times are you going to ask that?’

‘Until I get an answer that makes sense.’ He looked around. The city was not a city, not as Reynar knew them. Rather, it seemed to be many cities, crashed together and twisted in on themselves. Like a reflection within a reflection, stretching in all directions at once. It hurt his eyes if he looked for too long. He rubbed his face. There was blood on it – not all of it his, thankfully. ‘This cannot be Shadespire. Shadespire is a ruin.’

‘Aye, and it is also this. And keep your voice low. Sound carries strangely here, and we don’t want to attract any more attention than we already have.’ Khord tapped his lips with a finger. Reynar frowned, but nodded.

The mist that seeped from the stones began to thin, allowing him to discern more about his immediate surroundings. Wherever he turned, streets bent upwards at impossible angles or fell away into glimmering abysses. Everything trembled, as if it were all in constant motion. Armies of statuary glared at one another from atop plinths or from within high alcoves. Some of them he recognised, having seen them in the ruins of the city, though these were not broken – or were broken in different ways.

There were walls of shadeglass that stretched away down the gloomy boulevards, and pale things moved behind those few facets that were intact. He could not see them clearly, and did not wish to. The air was still and cold, and tasted stale. The streets were covered in uneven carpets of shattered bone and rock, reminders of some recent cataclysm.

Thick drifts of dust, or perhaps sand, clung to undisturbed corners, seemingly spilling down from somewhere far above, or else rising from below. In these dark corners, crooked shapes huddled, murmuring softly to the things within the shadeglass. He could hear water spilling over stones, but could not see it.

And everywhere, the mirrors – flat or curved, round or square, they occupied niches in walls or were strung beneath archways. Some sat in the hands of statues or hung from pillars. Some were covered in patinas of dust and grime, while others appeared to have been recently wiped clean. ‘Don’t look at them,’ Khord growled. ‘Not if you value your soul.’

‘I know,’ Reynar said. ‘I’m not a fool.’

‘You’re here, aren’t you? You’re either a fool or unlucky. Which is it?’

Reynar didn’t reply. Ahead of them, the street had widened into a thoroughfare, banded on either side by hooded statues. With a start, Reynar recognised the place where Kuzman and the others had died. He stopped and stared, bewildered. Khord prodded him into motion. ‘Bad place to stop, manling.’

As Reynar stumbled forward, he thought he saw the closest of the statues turn its head slightly. In the light of the will o’ the wisps, its face resembled a skull. He looked away. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked softly.

One of the Stormcasts – the one called Angharad – glanced back. ‘To the one who has requested your presence.’ She said it as if that were all the answer he required.

‘If you had been quicker, there would have been two of us.’ Utrecht hadn’t been a friend, really, but Reynar had trusted the hillman to fight beside him, and they’d endured more together than most men. He thought of the cannibals hunched over Utrecht’s twitching body, their faces all red, and bile stung the back of his throat.

Khord grunted in sympathy, but the Stormcast shook her head. ‘He is not dead.’

Reynar glared at her. ‘What?’

‘Nothing dies here,’ she said, so softly he almost missed it. She looked down at him, her eyes dark behind her battered golden war-mask. ‘Nothing escapes. Your friend is not dead, mortal.’

‘I saw him die,’ Reynar said flatly. ‘They ate him.’

She laughed. It was a hollow sound, empty of mirth. ‘I have lost my head twice, once to a bloodreaver’s axe and once to the blade of a man I called friend.’ She tapped two fingers to her neck. ‘And yet here I stand.’

‘Everyone knows Stormcasts don’t die like men.’

‘No. But I have not been reforged. I simply… awoke. Whole. Sound. With every instant of my death seared into my memory. The pain, the sight of my own body toppling backwards. All of it.’ She looked away. ‘Nothing dies here, mortal. Not men, not orruks, not us. Even those cannibals we killed – they will rise again, as hungry as ever.’

‘And we will smite them again,’ the big Stormcast, Obryn, rumbled from behind them. His voice was rough, as if he did not have occasion to use it often. ‘Crush them until they do not return. We bring the gift of oblivion, and they race to accept it.’

Angharad glanced at him, and then away. Reynar had the sense that she was unnerved by the other warrior. He didn’t blame her. The hulking Stormcast was a taciturn, menacing presence. The head of his grandhammer was still caked with gore, and his tarnished armour had seen much battle. Maybe too much.

Reynar had heard the stories. Most who served with the Freeguilds had. Tales of silent automatons and empty gazes. Of the tang of unearthly lightning, clinging to inhumanly still shapes. He had not thought it possible for Stormcasts to be more unsettling than they already were, but Obryn disturbed him in a way Angharad and Severin simply didn’t. He peered towards the front of the party, where Severin Steelheart walked.

Privately, Reynar thought that was a ridiculous name. A war-name, the Stormcasts called them. They all sounded like vainglorious boasts, to his ears – Steelheart, Shadowsoul, Bear-Eater – names more suited to barbarian tribesmen than Sigmar’s chosen champions. As if realising he was being observed, Severin glanced at him. Reynar looked away.

‘Hold,’ Severin said suddenly as they reached a mist-shrouded intersection. He stopped. ‘Brother, sister – to my side.’ Angharad and Obryn moved to join him as he readied his blade. ‘Khord, stay with the mortal. And stay quiet.’

‘Aye,’ Khord said, peering about.

‘What is it?’ Reynar asked. The air felt colder, somehow. Frost crawled across his hauberk, and his breath emerged in thick furls of white.

‘Quiet,’ Severin said without turning. Frost clung to the Stormcasts’ armour, but they didn’t so much as twitch. ‘Listen.’

The sound was faint at first – the whine of some sort of instrument, and voices raised in song. It wasn’t in any language that Reynar recognised, and he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. He peered to the left, following the sound of the music, and saw dim figures cavorting in the mist.

They moved awkwardly, with stiff, jerky gestures. Glass flashed, catching light from somewhere. As the crowd drew close, he saw that there were at least twenty of them – all broken shapes, clad in rags and leather masks. Some of them played strange flutes or slapped tambourines with lively abandon. Those that sang did so in voices that seemed stretched to the breaking point, their voices rising and falling irregularly.

At their head moved a tall figure, clad in the tattered remnants of rich robes and wearing an ornate headdress of tarnished gold and shadeglass. The leader screeched along with the others, and periodically slashed at himself with what appeared to be a tree branch made from glass. The others occasionally crowded close, and the leader would obligingly strike them as well, tearing strips of rotting flesh from their limbs.

Reynar stared at the macabre procession as it shambled past, heading away from them. Khord hawked and spat. ‘Petitioners,’ he said, without elaboration. As the last of the shuddering celebrants vanished into the mists, Severin straightened.

‘Come. Quickly.’

They moved on, more swiftly than before. Reynar had some difficulty keeping up. Khord stayed close, but the Stormcasts strode ahead without looking back. Around them, the city seemed to tense and bristle, as if unsettled by their progress.

He glimpsed movement here and there as they continued on. Scuttling shapes that might have been other travellers, moving from archway to outcropping. Some climbed winding steps up into the gloomy heights of the city, carrying flickering torches. Others drew water from the crumbled cisterns that dotted the small cul-de-sacs they passed.

There was life here, of a sort. But the thought brought no comfort. Everything smelled of death and decay, like a newly opened grave. Great phosphorescent shapes squirmed through nearby ruins, and Reynar was reminded of maggots wriggling in a wound. Things that might have been bats swooped overhead, their shrill cries like the wailing of children.

Neither Khord nor the Stormcasts seemed disturbed by any of it, which only made things worse. How long had they been here that such things had become commonplace?

‘We’re here,’ Severin said suddenly. The Stormcasts crashed to a halt, so abruptly that Reynar almost walked into them. Shaking his head, he looked around. The thoroughfare had intersected with an octagonal plaza. At the opposite end was a large terraced structure of unfamiliar design. It was predominately a dull grey hue, but in places he could see faded patches of what might once have been a vibrant crimson. It was as if they had been scraped free of all their former colour by some harsh wind.

Where once there might have been walls, now only jagged remnants remained, though Reynar could see that some attempt had been made to reinforce the largest gaps with loose rubble – all save one, which was blockaded by a massive archway containing a pair of doors made from some dull metal, now tarnished by rust. Several of the great causeways that criss-crossed the city ran to the top of the walls, ending at decorated archways.

‘Where’s here? What is this place?’ Reynar asked.

‘Come,’ Severin said, starting forward again.

Reynar looked at Khord. ‘Why did we stop?’

‘So they could tell we weren’t enemies.’ Khord pointed at the walls. ‘Now hurry up, they’re opening the gates.’

As they crossed the plaza, the groan of metal shivered through the air. The doors scraped the paving stones as a quartet of Stormcasts forced them open from inside. Only one of them was clad in gold. Reynar didn’t recognise the heraldry of the rest. Like Severin and the others, their war-plate was tarnished and showed signs of much use.

He felt the weight of their gaze as he and the others entered the gates. A courtyard spread out before him, full of toppled stones and collapsed outbuildings, bounded on all sides by smaller, square plazas. An enormous fountain full of dark, scummy water occupied the centre. Shapes wrapped in heavy robes huddled about it, and wasted, decaying faces peered out from beneath ragged hoods. There was a musty smell on the air, as of something long rotted away.

Beyond the fountain was a forest of pillars and spiral staircases that rose up from the uneven ground, seemingly all carved from some rose-coloured stone. They were topped by wide porticos and balconies of a similar hue, from which hung tattered banners of silk. Some of the pillars were shattered, while others were largely intact. Above them, Reynar could see a fractured dome rising over several high stone causeways.

Khord swept out a thick hand to indicate their surroundings. ‘Welcome to the Jasper Palaces, manling. Our home away from home. And now yours as well.’

Isengrim kept his axe close as the dead escorted him through Shadespire. He did not doubt the evidence of his eyes. He recognised landmarks, and this place stank of a dead god, the same as the other. Only a fool would deny it.

Even so, it was not the Shadespire he knew. It was akin to a shadow of a shadow. Or a reflection cast by a cracked mirror – imperfect. The streets they passed through did not fit together correctly, and every building seemed to hang at wrong angles. Even the shadows had a jagged quality, as if something had wrenched them all out of shape.

The sky – if there was a sky here – was all but blocked out by an interwoven canopy of stone causeways and walls that seemed to undulate the longer he looked at it. Will o’ the wisps danced among the nooks and crannies of stone, casting a pale grave-green light across everything. Water poured down in murky rivulets from unseen aqueducts, or gushed up from shattered cisterns, flooding collapsed areas.

A damp mist clung to everything, and seemed to thicken as they passed through it. Isengrim thought he glimpsed low, lean shapes moving alongside them, but heard nothing save the rasp of his escort’s bony feet on the stone.

The dead marched without concern for any of their surroundings. The broken things that huddled in the deepest shadows scuttled from their path, or fell forward on ruined faces, whispering things that might have been hymns. Others stumbled alongside the fleshless warriors for a time, clutching at their pale bones in an imploring fashion.

One such creature, its flesh a rotting mess, caught at Isengrim’s arm. It had neither nose nor cheeks, and its black teeth were visible through the tatters of its lips. Its eye sockets were gory ruins, as if something had hacked them free. ‘Glory to him who is all,’ it whined. ‘All are one in him, and he is all things.’ It had tarnished rings on its fingers, and its robes had once been rich brocade. Now they were little more than stinking rags.

Isengrim shoved the creature back and raised his axe. Zuvass, walking alongside him, caught his wrist. ‘I wouldn’t,’ the Chaos warrior said. ‘The Sepulchral Warden frowns on violence, especially when it’s directed towards those under his protection.’

Isengrim jerked his arm free of Zuvass’ grip. ‘Who?’

‘Him,’ Zuvass said, indicating the leader of the skeletal warriors. The creature turned, his flickering gaze resting on Isengrim for a moment. ‘In life, he was the commander of the city’s armies. In death, he defends it still.’

‘I do not fear him.’

‘Then you are a fool.’ Zuvass said it so bluntly that Isengrim was momentarily taken aback. When it finally registered, he snarled and raised his axe to brain the other man. Zuvass made no move to stop him. ‘If you’d like to prove me right, by all means – take my skull.’

Isengrim realised that the dead were watching him. Slowly, he lowered his axe. ‘Perhaps I will,’ he growled. ‘But not today.’

‘There, see? I knew there was wisdom beneath the bluster.’ Zuvass turned and sank to his haunches before the crippled wretch Isengrim had shoved aside. ‘Nagash loves you, brother,’ he said. ‘Soon, the last of your weak flesh will slough from your bones, and you will know the joy of serving him.’

The creature caught his hand between its own and brushed its ragged lips across the knuckles of his gauntlet. Zuvass placed a hand on its head and stood. He pulled his hand free of its embrace and fell into step with Isengrim. ‘What are they?’ the bloodreaver demanded. ‘They look like no deadwalkers I have ever slain.’

‘That is because they are not. Deadwalkers are little more than feral corpses, animated by the whim of a necromancer or a sudden gust of deathly magic. They are all instinct and hunger, with no sentience.’ Zuvass gestured to the huddled masses. ‘These creatures were – are – all that remains of the once-proud peoples of Shadespire. They are not dead, for death is denied them. Instead, they simply… decay. Losing a bit more of themselves with every passing day.’

Isengrim grunted. ‘And when there is nothing left?’

Zuvass indicated one of the skeletons marching alongside them. ‘Then they find new purpose. Their weaknesses purged, they take up arms in the name of him whom they now serve. Once, they turned from him. Now, they kneel all too willingly.’

‘This place is a test,’ the Sepulchral Warden said suddenly. His voice seemed to echo up out of his ribcage. The fleshless skull turned slightly. ‘Here, our devotion is weighed and we are judged for our crimes.’

‘Crimes?’

‘We turned our gazes from Nagash. We raised false idols and sought to avoid the preordained end that awaits all who live. For that crime, we have been condemned to the agony of persistence. Once, we sought never to die. Now, we seek escape from life.’

The Sepulchral Warden turned back to the path. More crippled shapes had filled the avenue, like moss-lepers begging for alms – all were rotting on the bone, their meat and muscle sloughing away in paper-thin strips. Some wore the remains of finery, while others wore nothing save tatters and rags. Some carried broken weapons. One used a chipped and blunted sword as a crutch. There was no longer a distinction of class or rank between them. All were equal.

Isengrim was repulsed by the thought. Only the strong deserved life. The weak were fit only to be meat for the strong. This was a mockery of that – weak and strong were made the same. ‘This place is wrong,’ he growled.

‘Yes,’ Zuvass said. ‘But perhaps it might be made right.’

Isengrim grunted. ‘You still have not explained why you were searching for me. Or how you knew where I would be.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

Isengrim glared at the other warrior. Zuvass, he was coming to realise, was intentionally infuriating. ‘Am I your prisoner, then?’

‘Not mine.’

‘Then whose? The dead?’ Isengrim grinned. ‘Are you a slave? Has whatever god you serve abandoned you to the mercies of these corpses?’

‘I stand where I choose, friend. And no man or god commands me.’ Zuvass glanced at him. ‘But I’m only in charge when it suits me.’ He sounded as if he were laughing. Isengrim wanted to smash his axe into the Chaos warrior’s grinning war-mask, but restrained himself. Somehow, he thought it was what Zuvass wanted.

‘And now?’

‘It suits me to play subordinate to our hosts. And it would be wise for you to do the same. Otherwise, you might find yourself prematurely interred.’ Zuvass leaned close. ‘They do that to their prisoners, you know – they seal them away in one of the great sepulchres that dot this city. Imagine it… an eternity trapped in a box. Unable to spill the blood of your foes or even your own. A torment for one such as you.’

Isengrim snorted and looked away. ‘I would butcher them first.’

‘You cannot butcher the dead. And we are all dead here, even those of us lucky enough to be clothed in flesh.’ Zuvass pressed a hand to his chest. ‘We are dead and yet do not die. An unsatisfying state of affairs to anyone save, perhaps, an orruk.’

‘And you,’ Isengrim growled. ‘You seem well pleased by this madness.’

‘I merely see the humour in it. A fitting punishment – to trap those seeking immortality in a hell of eternal life. It seems the God of Death has a sense of irony.’ Zuvass spread his arms and turned. ‘It has also made for strange bedfellows. Servants of many gods, united in common cause.’

Isengrim turned his head and spat. Zuvass glanced at him. ‘Most of us, anyway.’

‘I am no slave. I serve no cause save Khorne’s.’

‘That is, in fact, the very definition of a slave.’

Isengrim lifted his axe in warning. ‘Call me a slave again, and I’ll show you how far my chains reach.’

Zuvass made no move to draw his blade. ‘Duly noted.’ He chuckled. ‘My apologies, friend.’

‘We are not friends.’

‘Oh, but we will be. We will be as brothers, you and I. I have seen it on the walls.’

Chapter six

PALACES OF GLASS

It was said that the palaces of the Katophranes were designed not for comfort or even safety, but instead according to some artistic ideal, emerging from the soul of a people who found poetry in war and beauty in death.

– Palento Herst
Shadespire: The Rise to Empire

The Jasper Palaces were quiet. That was the first thing Reynar noticed. Sound seemed muted here, as if the stones drank it in. The courtyard was not crowded, but there were more people than he’d expected. Men and women, human and otherwise. He saw duardin and even an aelf among the haggard ranks. It reminded him of the refugee camps he’d seen while serving in the Faithful Blades.

For a moment, the memory overwhelmed him. He could smell the cooking fires and unwashed bodies, hear the whimpering of children and the whispers of their parents. He felt the uncertainty, the tension… the fear of what the future held. He felt the same tension here as well, but subdued. As if things had been bad for so long that fear had turned to resignation.

‘Once, there would not have been this many,’ Khord said. The fyreslayer was the only member of his escort to remain with him. Severin had entered the palaces proper, ostensibly to announce that Reynar had been recovered. Reynar did not know where the others had gone. Nor did he care. ‘But of late, their numbers have increased tenfold. Some, like you, come from the ruins. Others by stranger means.’

As he spoke, he glowered at a nearby duardin clad in threadbare robes and filthy scale armour. The duardin’s beard and hair looked to have been coated in dust or ash. His face had been marked in similar fashion, giving him a skull-like aspect. The duardin made a surreptitious gesture, and Khord took a threatening step towards him. The other duardin hurried away, casting hard glances over one broad shoulder.

‘Friend of yours?’

‘Are all humans friends?’

‘Not even most.’

Khord sneered. ‘It is much the same among us. There are old grudges between lodges and clans, and aye, between individuals as well.’

‘And which is the case here?’

Khord frowned. ‘None of your concern, manling.’ He stepped back hastily as a hunched, hooded figure shuffled past, holding its robes tight about itself. Reynar caught a sickly-sweet whiff of decay, and his hand dropped to his sword. Khord caught his arm.

‘He’s no threat to you, manling. Are you, Gubzes?’ he asked loudly.

The hood tilted to the side, exposing a mutilated countenance. ‘Eh? What’s that?’ Gubzes’ voice was akin to the sound of mud being poured into a bucket. ‘Marta?’

Khord frowned. ‘No, old man. Not Marta.’

Gubzes twitched, his single eye rolling in a ragged socket. ‘I’ve lost her again,’ he mumbled. With trembling fingers, he pulled an amulet of shadeglass from his robes and looked at it. ‘She won’t answer me. She won’t…’ He cocked his head, like a dog catching a scent. ‘Marta?’ He shuffled off, still mumbling.

Reynar watched him go in horrified fascination. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s rotting on the bone, like all of them – the original inhabitants of the city.’ Khord leaned over and spat. ‘They’re dead, but they don’t die. They’re trapped in their own meat – or worse. Most of them have gone a little mad. Not that I blame them.’

Reynar looked around. There were many like the unfortunate Gubzes, wandering about the courtyard or slumped beside the central fountain. ‘Why are they here?’

‘Familiarity. Self-preservation. Perhaps they simply have nowhere else to go.’ Khord glanced back towards the gates. The Stormcasts had dragged them shut after Reynar and the others entered. ‘They cannot die, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t suffer in other ways.’

Reynar shook his head and watched as Stormcasts and mortals worked to reinforce the broken walls. It reminded him of his days in a war camp. Busy work meant to keep minds and hands of mortals occupied.

‘Do they offend you so much?’

He turned. The speaker was a small, round woman, clad in bedraggled robes of amethyst and cerulean and wearing a pair of spectacles with lenses of what looked like smoked glass. Her silver hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her cheeks were tattooed with strange glyphs. She was young, despite the hair, he thought. Maybe his age, or a few years younger. ‘What?’

‘The Stormcasts. You were frowning as if they’d insulted you somehow.’

‘They didn’t,’ he said, though he didn’t sound convincing, even to himself. He glanced at Khord, who was smiling at the newcomer.

‘Ilesha,’ Khord said with a curt nod. He hiked a thumb at Reynar. ‘This is Reynar.’

‘You’re the new boy,’ Ilesha said, pushing her spectacles up onto the top of her head. ‘I am Ilesha Dune. Welcome to the last moment of your life.’

‘New boy?’ he asked.

‘A joke. Not a very good one, I’m afraid. But if you’d been a classmate, it’d have been hilarious.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Reynar could tell from her robes that she was a sorcerer – one of those taught and employed by the Collegiate Arcane. Only they wore that sort of get up, covered in astrological sigils and too much gold thread. He could smell the magic on her as well – it was like standing next to a lightning rod after a storm. He studied her warily. He’d seen sorcerers set whole battle lines aflame and conjure monsters from shadows and dust. ‘You’re a battle-mage.’

‘And you’re a soldier.’

‘I was.’

She adjusted her spectacles and peered at him. ‘Too young to retire. Mustered out? Or did you desert?’ She waved a hand. ‘Never mind. Not my business.’ She turned, watching the Stormcasts work. ‘I thought they were automatons, the first time I saw one.’

‘It’d be better if they were,’ Reynar said.

‘Some might call them heroes,’ she said.

‘Not me.’

‘No, I expect not.’ She looked at Khord. ‘He’s the one she wanted?’

‘Aye.’

She studied Reynar for a moment, then turned back to Khord. ‘Well, I’m sure she has her reasons. Brought me anything new?’

Khord shook his head. ‘Not today, lass. But we’ll go out again soon enough, I have no doubt. How do your labours proceed?’

Ilesha frowned. ‘Slowly.’ She glanced back towards the palace. ‘She either won’t explain the process, or doesn’t know. I’m having to figure it out as I go. Luckily, we have nothing but time.’

‘Process?’ Reynar asked, looking back and forth between them. Ilesha frowned, as if realising she’d said too much. Khord shook his head.

‘You’ll know soon enough, manling. Not our place to tell you.’ He gestured to the edge of the fountain. ‘Sit, until Severin gets back.’ Reynar was about to press his question, but a look from Khord made him think twice. He had no doubt that the fyreslayer had been given the task of keeping him out of trouble.

At a loss for anything else to do, Reynar sat. He could be patient when he had to be. The ability to sit still was as much a valuable skill for a soldier as moving quickly. He pulled his amulet out and ran his thumb along its curves.

He watched the heavy, armoured shapes of the Stormcasts at their labours and thought back to Hammerhal. He’d shed blood alongside the Hallowed Knights in the Hexwood, and during the Twelve Day War. He’d even received a commendation from the Steel Soul himself for valour in the face of the foe. He’d cadged drinks off that story for months afterwards, even if he hadn’t been able to meet the Lord-Celestant’s eyes at the time. He shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable.

It was the Stormcast’s voice that had done it, he recalled. Softer than one might expect, and gentle, as he’d praised Reynar’s courage. Not like thunder, but like rain. Worse, he’d meant every word. Reynar closed his eyes.

He didn’t like the Stormcasts very much. He never had. They were a constant reminder of everything he wasn’t, and while he wasn’t interested in playing the hero, it would have been nice to imagine doing so. But there was no need. Mortal men were nothing more than chattel in a game of gods and monsters. What good was Aqshian steel if your foe was clad in war-plate made from the ore of a dead world, or worse?

Suddenly angry, he thrust his amulet back out of sight. He’d come to the conclusion early on that dying to spare some Stormcast’s armour the stroke that might have scratched it was a criminal misuse of his valuable time. Instead, he’d taken the lessons he’d learned in the Freeguild and applied them to a new career – that of sellsword.

There wasn’t much difference, really. The Freeguilds of Azyr had always been mercenaries, working for whatever individual or conclave could pay their contract fee. He’d simply cut out the middle man.

Reynar pushed the thought aside, and the guilt with it. If what Angharad had said was true, then Utrecht wasn’t as dead as he’d looked. He – some version of him – might even now be wandering the city, searching for a way out. He glanced towards the walls, hoping that was the case but not really wanting to find out. He’d seen Utrecht die. And the dead ought to stay dead.

Behind him, someone laughed. A coarse sound, rough and tired. He turned, slowly, hand dropping to the hilt of the knife thrust through his sword belt, and came face-to-face with… himself. But not quite himself. A different him, bedraggled and bloody. A reflection, stretched and skewed through the shadeglass decorations of the fountain. The reflection laughed again, holding Reynar with his own eyes.

Feeling guilty?

Reynar frowned. His reflection smiled, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His mouth was dry…

…just like it was then, in Bellam Gund’s tent, knife in hand, making sure he couldn’t sound the alarm…

Reynar closed his eyes. He heard a voice trying to catch his attention. He glanced around and saw Khord watching him. He turned back. His reflection was no longer laughing. It was him again, him as he was. He turned to Khord. ‘What?’

‘What were you staring at so intently just now?’

‘Nothing.’ He looked around but saw that Ilesha was gone. ‘Your friend has deserted you.’

Khord laughed and stroked his beard. ‘Not my friend, manling. Just an acquaintance. We’re all just acquaintances here.’

‘Even the Stormcasts?’

‘Especially them.’ Khord studied the Stormcasts as they moved rocks or patrolled the gaps in the walls with inhuman diligence. ‘They’re good fighters, Steelheart’s lot and the others. But this place wears you down after a few decades.’

‘Is that how long you’ve been here?’

Khord shrugged. ‘I stopped counting the days the last time I awoke.’ The way he said it made Reynar think he wasn’t talking about sleep.

‘So it’s true. You come back, then.’ Reynar looked around. ‘There’s no death here.’

‘Plenty of death, manling. It’s just not permanent.’ Khord smiled nastily. ‘You’ll see soon enough. It’s a wonder, the first time. Grimnir’s blessing, Fjul-Grimnir calls it.’ His smile faded. ‘It stops being a wonder very quickly, though.’ He rubbed his chest, as if it pained him. ‘You can still feel them – the death blows. No scars, but the pain is there, reminding you that you’re no more than the reflection of a dead man.’

Reynar leaned forward. ‘Sounds unpleasant. And I have scars enough without phantom ones. How do I get out of here?’

Khord laughed again and stood. ‘You don’t.’ He turned as Severin strode towards them, his footfalls echoing on the stones. The huddled shapes of the palaces’ half-dead inhabitants scattered before him, and he seemed to take no note of them. Stormcasts and mortals alike paused to watch him, and Reynar’s instinctive dislike of the Liberator-Prime increased. Severin was the sort to assume he was in command if no one told him different.

‘She is ready to speak to you now,’ Severin growled. Reynar pushed himself to his feet and joined the towering Stormcast.

‘Good. I am ready to speak to her as well. Whoever she is.’

The dead brought Isengrim to the edge of the city, where the remains of mighty walls held back the sight of oblivion. Towering keeps were built into them at intervals – these were less defensive bastions and more akin to the palaces that dotted the rest of the city. Their semi-circular walls were carved to resemble giant warriors standing shoulder to shoulder behind readied shields.

From where he stood atop the keep’s highest balcony, Isengrim could see many of these gargantuan phalanxes stretching north. The balcony was a wide half-circle of flat black stone looking out over the courtyard far below. Discs of shadeglass, each the height of a man and all mostly shattered, hung from the walls. Jagged crenulations lined the edge of the balcony, topped by the remains of what might once have been decorative statues.

Far below him, skeletal warriors patrolled the top of the inner walls – whatever enemy they were watching for was inside the city. And not just the dead. There were living men and women there as well. But not many. All of them had the look of warriors, and some even bore signs that they served the Dark Gods.

Some he recognised, if distantly – warriors who worshipped the Blood God, who’d gone missing. Not from his warband, but others. Champions and savages whose deeds rivalled his own. He wondered if they, like him, had been led into this place by some trickster spirit. He’d met the gazes of some as he’d been led through the courtyard. Though he’d felt a flicker of bloodlust, he’d refrained from bellowing a challenge.

Isengrim was no blood-drunk fool. There was a reason they had not already fallen upon one another. A common foe was one of the few things that could unite the servants of the Blood God. He glanced towards Zuvass, who sat atop the crenulations of the balcony. ‘What is there to fear in a broken place such as this?’

‘Many things,’ the Chaos warrior said. ‘Shadespire has splintered into a hundred thousand fiefdoms, each with its own master or mistress. At any given moment, a dozen battles might be raging. We must be ever on guard.’

‘Are all those below like me?’

‘Some. Some are more like me. Strange bedfellows, I admit, but brought together by necessity.’ Zuvass linked his hands as if for emphasis. ‘Survival, mostly. There is safety in numbers.’

‘Safety,’ Isengrim growled, making the word a curse. He glared down at the warriors on the walls, wondering if Khorne had sent him here to claim not just one coward’s skull but many. He turned. The Sepulchral Warden had left them not long after they’d arrived. Where the dead man was now, Isengrim didn’t know. Only one of the skeletons – the one he’d fought earlier – remained, ostensibly as a guard.

The undead warrior stood before the balcony’s entrance, his two-handed blade cradled in the crook of his arm. The warrior’s flickering gaze never left Isengrim, burning into him. Annoyed, he faced the dead man. ‘Do you want a rematch, fleshless one?’ he asked, spreading his arms in invitation. ‘If so, here I am. Face me if you dare.’

The dead man twitched, as if considering the challenge. But Zuvass stepped between them. ‘The champion was once the foremost armsman in Shadespire, if others are to be believed. That you beat him once is a matter of good fortune. Twice might be testing the patience of the gods.’

‘And what would you know of gods?’ Isengrim said, transferring his glare to the Chaos warrior. ‘You, who stink of something I cannot name. Not lust or rot, not ambition or blood. But you serve the Dark Gods regardless. I can see their mark on you.’

‘There are more than four gods, my friend.’

Isengrim snorted. ‘Then you serve the god of vermin?’

Zuvass laughed. ‘No. I fear I serve a smaller god than even that. There are many such, creeping about the edges of a man’s soul. They cling unseen to the realms like remoras to a shark’s belly, battening on to the currents of emotion.’

‘Why serve a little god when greater ones might welcome you?’

‘Do we have a choice, then?’ Zuvass sounded amused.

Isengrim paused, considering this. Then he grunted. ‘No. We are chosen.’

‘And Khorne chose you. He is a profligate god, casting blessings to the wind.’

‘Watch your tongue,’ Isengrim growled.

‘Be at peace, my friend. I meant no insult. There are many here who serve Khorne. Magore Redhand leads his warriors through the city, leaving gory tributes to the Blood God in his wake. Or the reaver Gorebeard, who I myself have slain on no fewer than three occasions.’ Zuvass gestured. ‘And they are not the only slaves to darkness who roam these streets. But the Ruinous Powers themselves are barred from this nowhere place. Only one god rules here, and that is Nagash.’

Isengrim frowned. ‘I do not fear him.’

‘Some might call such a boast foolish.’ Zuvass reached out and pushed a broken statue from its plinth. It fell away, plummeting to the courtyard below, where it shattered. ‘He hears every word spoken in this place. He is master and gaoler of all who are trapped here.’

‘Not my master,’ Isengrim spat. ‘I would crush his skull if it were within reach.’

‘Would you?’ Zuvass pointed to one of the still intact discs of shadeglass.

Isengrim turned. His reflection stared past him, face pale with blood loss, twisted in a snarl. For a moment, he thought it nothing more than a memory. Then he saw the shadow of what might have been a great hand fall over him and felt something in him twist. He blinked. The image had changed. He stared at himself and traced the familiar lines of his face. ‘Sorcery,’ he murmured.

‘Yes. This place is awash in portents. We are cast adrift between secret and mystery.’

‘Pretty words. Speak plainly or not at all.’

Zuvass shrugged. ‘I can say it no plainer, my friend.’ He gestured. ‘Every moment casts its reflection, and that reflection is reflected from a hundred thousand mirrors, each one carving subtle differences – and some not so subtle – upon the moment. All that has, will or might yet occur plays out across the shattered surfaces of every mirror in this city.’

Isengrim shook his head. ‘You speak madness.’

‘I met myself once,’ Zuvass said after a moment. ‘Not me as I am, but as I will be. Or was. It’s hard to tell in this place.’ He laughed. ‘For every death here, a mirror shatters. And in every fragment is a reflection of the one who died – not all of them the same. Those reflections rise and walk, and who is to say which is the real thing and which only an illusion?’ He looked at Isengrim. ‘That is not madness. That is simply the way of this place. You’ll see, sooner or later.’

‘You speak as if this place is beyond the reach of the gods.’

Zuvass laughed. He was always laughing, as if privy to some secret jest. Isengrim glared at him. ‘What are you cackling about, fool?’

‘That you think the gods are all-powerful.’ Zuvass looked out over the keep. ‘That you think their game is anything more than the squabbling of infants. The Ruinous Powers are eternal, but what is eternity to those things that existed before thought – before perception? The things that stalk the empty space between realms, vast and hungry. Look, Isengrim. Look up, where the stars ought to be. What do you see?’

Isengrim looked up, to the eternal twilight above the keep. He saw shadows. Great swathes of shadow, folding back on itself, falling upwards forever. The sky resembled the surface of a mirror after it had been exposed to an open flame. There were motes of light scattered across it – not stars, but something else. Like cracks in glass. Every so often, something would pass behind them and cast its shadow down on the city below. Something immense, with no shape that he could perceive. He looked away, feeling suddenly small. Smaller than he had in a long time.

‘There are monsters in the deep,’ Zuvass said. ‘Hungry things that swim the seas of eternity, seeking anything they might devour. The Ruinous Powers are like them, but younger. They still play with their food.’

Isengrim snarled and spun, axe licking out. Zuvass interposed his blade so swiftly that Isengrim barely registered the movement. ‘Are you devout then, my friend? Do I insult your god by comparing him to a squalling infant?’

Isengrim bared his teeth and strained, trying to force Zuvass’ sword aside. ‘You serve them as much as I, you yapping cur,’ he said. ‘Do you think yourself safe here, in this nowhere place? The gods hear all – Khorne hears all. He may well strike you down himself.’

‘I look forward to making his acquaintance,’ Zuvass said. ‘It has been lonely here, talking to things no man ought to bow to.’ He shoved Isengrim back and sheathed his sword. He spread his hands. ‘I meant no insult, friend. I sought only to warn you – there are powers abroad in this place, and they too offer gifts in return for service. If I were you, I would not listen to them.’

Isengrim took a step towards him.

‘Peace.’

The word echoed out, quavering from every fragment of shadeglass on the walls. Isengrim turned as two masked and robed shapes shuffled towards them, carrying a heavy, oval mirror between them. The mirror had a golden frame wrought in an unfamiliar style, and the glass was dark. But in its surface Isengrim could see a man’s shape, clad in rich robes. The masked servants set the mirror down and stepped behind it, so as not to block the view of its inhabitant.

‘Zuvass,’ the man in the mirror said. ‘You have returned.’

‘I always do, Katophrane.’ Zuvass bowed low. ‘I have brought him, as I promised, my Lord Mekesh.’

The ghostly face twitched in something that was almost a smile. ‘And you always make good on your promises, don’t you, Zuvass?’

Zuvass straightened. ‘When I can.’

‘What witchery is this?’ Isengrim growled, looking back and forth between them.

‘That is our host,’ Zuvass said. ‘You would be wise to show some gratitude.’

Before Isengrim could reply, the newcomer spoke again. ‘You pursued a woman.’

Isengrim nodded slowly, glancing at Zuvass, uncertain if it was a question. ‘She led me here.’

‘Why did you follow her?’

‘She said she could lead me to the man I hunt.’ As he spoke, he felt Zuvass tense slightly. He glanced at the warrior, wondering what had seemingly perturbed him.

‘And why do you seek him?’ Mekesh asked.

Isengrim frowned. ‘He is my prey.’

‘Why? Has he wronged you?’

Isengrim laughed harshly. ‘I do not know him. Khorne showed him to me in a dream.’ He gestured to his head. ‘He put the scent of his soul in my head and commanded that I kill him.’ He shrugged. ‘So I will do it.’

‘And then?’

‘And then it will be done.’ Isengrim looked at Zuvass. ‘Is it mad? Is that why it asks these questions?’

‘I am mad, yes. We are all mad here.’ The spirit seemed to take no insult at his words. ‘You’ll fit in well, I think. And Zuvass says you are a strong fighter. I have need of warriors. Will you join me?’

Isengrim hesitated. But only for a moment. ‘If you can guide me to my prey, then I will fight for you. But if you play me false, I will break your pretty mirror.’

The spirit laughed. ‘Yes. I suspect you would.’ The shadowy shape turned towards Zuvass. ‘Take him in hand, Zuvass. I must speak now to the Sepulchral Warden.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Zuvass said, bowing low as Mekesh wavered and vanished. He turned and gestured for Isengrim to follow him away from the balcony. ‘Come, my friend. There is much to show you, and much to do.’

Chapter seven

THE LADY SADILA

I saw them there, in the silent light.

Eternal faces, encased and reflected in an infinite prism of centuries.

– Nechris Litharge
Reflections of Eternal Faces

Reynar followed Severin up what felt like hundreds of spiral stone steps, through the gutted heart of the palaces. Everything around him was either stone or shadeglass. The place was a treasure trove. The gleaming panels set into the walls were worth more individually than Reynar could have spent in a lifetime. As he strode through the corridors, his reflection lagged slightly, thanks, he assumed, to the way the mirrors were angled.

They met no one, coming or going. The palaces seemed all but deserted. ‘There’s room for an army in here… Why keep everyone contained in the courtyard?’ he asked.

‘The palaces are unstable. Unsafe. Some have become… lost in them.’ Severin looked back. ‘Stay close, if you value your life.’

‘Lost? What do you mean?’

Severin didn’t reply. The Liberator-Prime was close-mouthed. Reynar wasn’t sure whether it was simply his nature or that Severin didn’t like him. Perhaps both. With no conversation to pass the time, Reynar concentrated instead on his surroundings. However strange this place, he was determined to memorise the path, if possible. One never knew when such things might come in handy.

Despite his skill in that regard, however, the palaces almost defied the senses. They seemed to expand or contract around them, with no pattern that Reynar could detect. Corridors sprawled off from the main path, seemingly going nowhere. Walls jutted at obscure angles, as if something had forced them outward at some time in the past. Shards of shadeglass spilled across stone floors and appeared to have taken root like some form of crystalline fungus. Steps rose to meet solid ceilings, or fell away abruptly.

And then there was the noise. Soft, like the whine of insects, or the hiss of sand. But omnipresent. It grated against Reynar’s perceptions, and the more he tried to listen, the harder it was to discern. Only when he sought to ignore it did it at last resolve itself into what he thought might be voices – many of them, tumbling over one another in a nonsensical babble. He could not tell where they were coming from, only that they grew louder in some places and softer in others. He was tempted to ask Severin if he heard them, but refrained.

At last, they reached a towering archway carved to resemble an ornate laurel, decorated with skulls. At the apex of the laurel, an elaborate mask of shadeglass glared sternly down at them, its cracked facets shimmering with a strange light. Reynar shivered as they passed beneath it. He felt as if he were being judged by those unseeing eyes. Beyond the archway stretched one of the massive causeways he’d seen, leading towards the dome at the top of the palaces. ‘What is that?’ he asked.

‘The palace gardens,’ Severin said. ‘Come. She can be… impatient.’ The Stormcast led Reynar across the causeway. Lanterns hung from poles cast a soft glow across the path. Only a few of them were lit – the others hung dark, or were missing entirely. Those that did glow only did so weakly. Shadows danced along the edges of the causeway. Down below, Reynar could see the fires lit about the courtyard. He looked out past the walls and saw more motes of light in the dark.

‘Campfires,’ he murmured.

‘Some,’ Severin said, without turning. ‘Not everything that gleams in the dark is a flame. This city is caught halfway between shadow and light, and it can play tricks on the eyes. The glow of a fire can be reflected from one street to another, up and down, east to west. It can travel for many leagues, a false light that draws the unwary into deeper shadows.’

‘You sound as if you speak from experience.’

Again, Severin didn’t reply. Reynar was getting used to it. He looked up. They were high enough now that he could see past the artificial canopy of stone to the sky above. Only, it was like no sky he recognised. He averted his eyes.

The causeway was mostly intact, but there were places where it looked as if something had taken a bite out of it. Many of these gaps had been repaired with planks of wood that looked as if they had been torn from wagons or palisades. These planks creaked alarmingly beneath Severin’s weight, and Reynar tensed each time they were forced to cross one. But despite his growing unease, they made it across without incident.

The dome reminded him of certain structures he’d seen in Aqshy and Ghyran – a vertiginous curve of smooth stone octagons, interrupted at irregular points by eight-sided panes of shadeglass. Many of these were broken, but not all.

The entrance to the dome was another elaborate archway, this one shaped to resemble a great tree, its two-dimensional branches stretching up and around the circumference of the dome. It sat at the top of a set of flat, slabbed steps. Severin stopped on the top step. Reynar hesitated. ‘Not coming with me?’

‘She wishes to see you. Alone.’

‘You still haven’t said who she is,’ Reynar said.

Severin frowned. ‘She is our ally. And perhaps yours as well. It remains to be seen.’

‘And if she’s not?’

Severin turned away. Reynar sighed and turned back to the archway and the dim light beyond. More lanterns, perhaps. Or will o’ the wisps. Steeling himself, he stepped into the gardens. Immediately, glass crunched beneath his boots. The ground was covered in a shroud of shadeglass fragments. A pillared corridor stretched towards the interior of the dome. Broken panes of glass lined the walls, and his reflection bled away from him like condensation.

His footsteps echoed hollowly as he made his way towards the flickering lights. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of shapes hiding in the cracked corners of the panes. They whimpered and drew away from him as he passed by.

At the end of the corridor was another archway, this one carved in the same shape as the entryway. As he passed through it, the jagged stumps of what might have been trees rose about him in the gloom, all in varying states of destruction. After a moment, he realised that the trees too had been made from shadeglass – they were artificial, shaped and carved rather than grown. A garden not of living things but of statuary and sculpture.

At least, it had been. Now, by the light of dancing will o’ the wisps, he saw that some of the fragments of shadeglass had begun to sprout, in the same fashion as he’d seen earlier. Like the forest floor after a fire, tiny buds of gleaming glass pushed up from the wreckage and the stumps. The gardens, whatever they had once been, were something else now.

Crystal growths spread up along the inner curve of the dome, stretching in all directions. Stalactites and stalagmites of dark glass had formed in places, and a thicket of what looked to be young trees occupied the heart of the gardens.

He stopped, and turned. The gardens were larger than any Azyrite cathedral, rising and spreading to the edges of his sight. There were more trees, whole and tall, their branches scraping the top of the dome. Parts of the dome had broken away, leaving the walls pockmarked with gaping wounds through which the wind whistled.

The persistent cold was oppressive here. It almost snatched the breath from his lungs, and every inhalation brought a slash of pain to his insides. He rubbed his arms and noted the frost collecting on his hauberk. He watched the shadows cast by the will o’ the wisps dance on the inside of the dome as he waited for someone to speak. When no greeting appeared forthcoming, he called out, ‘Hello?’

His voice echoed oddly, the word bent all out of shape and stretched into a moan by the strange acoustics of this place. As the echo faded, he heard the sound of laughter. A woman’s laughter. It encircled him, rising up from every direction at once, but softly. He frowned.

As the laughter faded, a trio of shapes emerged from the gloom. Shuffling, broken things, like those he’d seen in the courtyard. But these wore finer rags by far and seemed in better shape. He thought that they had been women, once. They wore golden belts and masks and had swords belted at their waists. He tensed, but they came no closer. Instead, they stopped and bowed, as if greeting an honoured guest.

‘Welcome.’ The word hung in the air like the peal of a bell. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something flash through the facets of a shattered tree. The shape circled him like a ghyrlion on the prowl, drifting through the facets of one tree and then another. At first, he thought it might be a reflection, but soon he realised that it was in the trees, whatever it was.

As it drew closer, it resolved itself into an enormous shape stretched through every bit of glass and growth. Like a giant peering down through a net. ‘I thoughtthought you wouldwould never arrivearrive.’ The words reverberated through the broken trees, seemingly rising from every fragment and facet. Reynar could just make out its face. Her face. He felt a jolt of recognition.

‘You.’ He stared up at her. She towered over him, her image stretched from floor to ceiling, but he knew her nonetheless. The same woman – the same spirit – who’d led him here, into this strange place. She smiled, and her leviathan shape wavered and shrank, descending through the facets until she stood within the trunk of a nearby tree, almost eye to eye with him. She scratched her fingers across the glass, tracing thin lines from one edge to the other. The noise made his eyes itch.

‘Me,’ she said. Her smile was a tiger’s grin, all teeth and promise.

‘You’re the one who led us – led me – into this pit.’

‘I told you I would bring you to safety, and I did.’

‘Utrecht is dead.’

She shrugged. ‘We defy death here. You will be reunited, sooner or later, if that is your desire.’ She turned, as if looking at something he couldn’t see. ‘We always find each other again.’ There was a hint of melancholy in her tone.

‘Why did you bring me here?’ Reynar demanded.

‘For the same reason I led the others here. I need you.’ She turned back and pressed her palm to the glass. The tree was taller than him, and she filled it from roots to branches.

‘You seem to have servants aplenty.’ He gestured to the broken things that surrounded him. They watched him with empty gazes. Occasionally, one moaned softly, as if trying, and failing, to speak.

‘My handmaidens,’ his host said. ‘I took their tongues. Slaves do not need to speak. They need only obey.’ She smiled widely. ‘Should I take your tongue, Reynar?’

‘I’m not your slave.’

‘No. That’s right – you are a mercenary. To answer your question, I wish to employ you.’

‘You have a funny way of going about it.’

She laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Reynar’s hand fell to his sword. ‘Stop laughing and tell me what I want to know.’

‘Or what? I am a Katophrane. I am beyond death.’ The glass cracked around her palm, bulging outwards as if she were pressing too hard. ‘Look. See.’ Between the growing cracks, images formed and flickered, drawing his eye. He stepped closer. Streets and buildings, people of all sorts wearing unfamiliar clothes and hawking unfamiliar wares. Shadespire, as it had been.

‘I am a prisoner of eternity. As are all of my people. Our city no longer rises over the sands, but instead stretches the length of an eternal moment, all that it was lost save in the memories of its people.’ The image wavered, like a mirage. He saw the city – or parts of it – spreading out as it must have in ancient days, creeping across the desert, conquering more of it day by day, just as the Katophranes were said to have conquered death. ‘We are like smoke drawn up through a flue, twisted all out of shape by the whim of a god.’

She drew her hand across the cracks, changing their course, and Reynar watched as streets bent back on themselves and buildings unfurled like blossoms of stone and glass. Alleyways and cul-de-sacs were reflected and redoubled, their paths stretching away into oblivion. The city was changing in ways that Reynar could not comprehend. He stared as a great tower crumbled and shifted, taking on the shape of something immense and terrible – something that met his horrified gaze and returned it tenfold across uncounted centuries. It looked not at him but through him, staring all the way to the roots of his soul, seeing him stripped bare of all artifice and rationalisation.

It saw him, and laughed.

He wrenched himself away, his bowels squirming. He staggered, limbs loose, and grasped a tree for support. He realised that the broken things – the handmaidens – had prostrated themselves at the sight of whatever it had been. They moaned and cradled their heads, or plucked at their ragged garments. He felt sick, watching them abase themselves.

His host was suddenly beside him, her face spread across the jagged trunk of a fallen tree, as if she might reach out and help him. He jerked back with a hollow cry. ‘What… what was that?’ he croaked.

‘A god. Or part of one. The part that watches over this place – a shard of divinity, made over into a gaoler. It stalks the shadeglass paths, watching and listening.’

‘And you’re – what? Its prisoner?’ He laughed harshly. ‘Like the old tale of the princess in the crystal mirror?’

‘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.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Reynar said, advancing alongside Khord. He lifted his blade and placed it under the corpse-man’s chin. ‘I believe you have something we’re in want of, my friend. Hand it over and my companion won’t pulverise your knees. Again.’ He glanced at Khord, and the fyreslayer nodded approvingly.

‘Aye,’ he growled, hefting his maul.

Culos cowered back before them. It – he – had been a merchant once, Khord had claimed. Now, Culos was one of thousands of broken, creeping things that haunted the streets of Shadespire. A glass-pedlar, scrounging bits of shadeglass and using it to buy himself the protection of more able souls. He was also a liar. And a bad one.

‘This isn’t your last piece, and we both know it,’ Reynar said as he wrenched the fragment from the dead man’s crumbling hands. ‘You’re a pack rat, Culos. You’ve got a cache somewhere, probably close by.’

‘No,’ Culos whimpered. Reynar felt a spasm of pity for the broken thing. Whatever sort of man he’d once been, Culos was little more than a shadow now. He passed the shadeglass to Khord and stepped back.

‘Don’t make us carry you,’ he said. He gestured with his blade. Culos stared at him, and then looked at Khord, who grinned. He whined again, like a beaten animal, and shuffled past, moving as if every joint pained him.

And perhaps they did. From what Khord and the others had said, the dead of Shadespire felt every moment of their dissolution, even when their very nerve endings had rotted away from the bone. Reynar didn’t like to think about that.

They urged him out onto the street. The others were waiting for them. Many of Sadila’s followers were men and women like himself. Treasure hunters, scavengers and sellswords, all looking to escape the Mirrored City. He knew some of them by name now. There was the Aqshian, Bolas, with his shaved pate and burn scars; the Chamonite, Tirax Mariketes, with her battered copper war-plate, robes of black silk and veil of coins; and the Azyrite, Dolmen, clad in gear worth more comets than many of them would see in their lives, with his Ironweld long rifle.

‘You caught him, then?’ Dolmen said.

‘No thanks to you lot,’ Khord said, glowering at them. ‘Can’t catch one mangy corpse – what good are you?’ He shoved Culos forward. ‘Now, where is this hidey-hole of yours? And no tricks, or I’ll scatter your bones across the district.’

Dolmen and the others fell in around them. Reynar found himself studying them, as he often did. Some had come looking for treasure in the ruins of Shadespire – the other Shadespire – while others had somehow been drawn through mirrors of shadeglass, wandered into the wrong ruin or been cursed by a witch, as Bolas claimed.

All of them had their stories. Not all of them shared them freely, or at all. They didn’t trust each other, and Reynar didn’t blame them. They all had red hands and black deeds to their names, whether they admitted it or not.

Bolas had the look of a man who instinctively sized others up for the stew pot, while Tirax refused to reveal her face when anyone was looking. When he thought no one was listening, Dolmen prayed with the feverish intensity of one who knows it’s futile. And Khord’s laughter was a brittle thing, just on the knife edge of madness. Reynar wondered how long it would take before he was like them. He tried not to think about it.

Culos whimpered and muttered as he led them into a tangled warren of side streets that had likely been a slum even before the cataclysm that destroyed Shadespire. It put Reynar in mind of a rat’s burrow – all narrow passages and overlapping paths – and he instinctively sniffed the air.

‘Sniffing for ratkin, manling?’ Khord asked.

‘Never hurts to check,’ Reynar said as the others tensed. Most of them had fought skaven before. The ratkin infested every realm, no matter how harsh. Khord nodded.

‘No ratkin here, manling. We’d already know if there were. They always leave traces, and not just the stink of their musk.’ He set his maul across his shoulder. ‘Not that I doubt that there’s something watching us, eh, glass-pedlar?’ He made as if to catch hold of the back of Culos’ neck, but the dead man suddenly twisted out of reach.

Culos leapt away with a strange hunching motion, and Reynar heard the sound of a rope snapping. ‘Trap,’ he shouted, flinging himself to the ground. Something sharp swung down out of the darkness above and slammed a burly Shyishan right out of his boots. It carried him back, slamming into the side of the street, where it shattered, and the twitching body collapsed in a bloody heap.

Reynar glanced back and saw the remains of what might have been an improvised scythe of black glass dangling from a frayed rope. He heard Khord curse, and turned to see Culos scampering down the street as fast as his withered limbs could carry him. ‘I’ve got him,’ Dolmen snarled, lifting his rifle. Reynar slapped the barrel aside.

‘Don’t be a fool.’

‘Don’t call me a fool,’ Dolmen snapped. ‘And never touch my rifle.’

‘Then don’t shoot our damn guide.’ Reynar started after Khord, who was already stumping in their quarry’s wake. ‘At least not until we’ve got what we came for. Now try to cut him off before he gets to the Lane of Sighs.’

As he caught up with the fyreslayer, he said, ‘What are we looking for, by the way? Another piece of the Faneway?’

Khord laughed harshly. ‘Something like that.’

Reynar looked back. Dolmen and the others were moving off. If they were quick enough, they might be able to cut Culos off before he lost himself in the maze of side streets. Or they might be lost themselves. He’d heard the stories of expeditions vanishing to the last sword, or of groups going out only to return weeks later with no idea they’d been gone so long. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have split up,’ he muttered.

‘Too late to worry about that now,’ Khord said. ‘Stay close. Shadespire plays tricks on you. There are places in the city where time is like tar, trapping anything that wanders in. Or else days run like water. I’ve seen a man turn to dust just by stepping down the wrong alleyway.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Reynar said, his skin crawling. He thought he heard someone chuckle just behind him, and he spun, hand on his sword.

Khord stopped. ‘What is it now, manling?’

Reynar shook his head. ‘I thought I heard… never mind.’

‘What?’ Khord peered at him, suddenly alert. ‘What did you hear?’

‘I thought I heard Sadila.’

Khord grunted. ‘You might well have.’ He grinned. ‘She spies on us, you know. They all do. The Katophranes. They like to watch us struggle and die.’

Reynar swallowed. ‘How do you know?’

Khord shrugged. ‘What else do they have to do? Now come on. We don’t want that worm getting too far ahead of us.’

Thankfully, Culos wasn’t hard to track. He wasn’t moving fast – but fast enough to stay out of reach. Khord slowed, and Reynar was forced to do so as well to avoid running into the duardin. ‘He’s getting away,’ he said.

‘No. He’s going right where we want him to go.’

Reynar frowned. Then realisation hit. ‘You knew about the trap.’

Khord grunted. ‘Not hard to see, if you’ve the wit.’

‘You could’ve warned us.’

‘Then he would’ve led us into another. Culos is smart. He was never going to lead us where we wanted to go while we had a knife to his throat. But now he’ll run right to it.’

‘You sound sure of yourself.’

Khord looked at him. ‘Aye.’

‘Care to make it interesting?’

Khord frowned. ‘A wager?’

‘First gleanings says there’s another trap.’

Khord grinned and spat into his palm. Reynar did the same, and they clasped hands. ‘It’s a wager.’ Khord shoved him forward. ‘You first.’

Reynar sighed and started back after Culos. The glass-pedlar had reached the end of the street and was hustling down what looked to be another blind alley.

Reynar reached the mouth of the alley just as Culos wriggled through an oddly shaped gap between the wall of a building and the street. It was a slanted wedge of black, curled at the back corner of the alley. He paused, suddenly feeling as if he were being watched.

He glanced up. His heart stuttered in his chest. A skull the size of the moon, or perhaps a moon shaped like a skull, was looking down at him from far above. It lacked solidity, and seemed almost a trick of the shadowed unrealm that Shadespire drifted in, but it was there nonetheless. Gazing down not at him, he realised, but at the city. That didn’t make it better. He shook his head, trying to ignore it. That was the only way to be safe. When he looked up again, it was gone. He let out a shaky breath.

Khord pushed past him. ‘Don’t look at the sky, manling. I keep telling you – no good comes of looking up.’ He stumped towards the gap Culos had wriggled through. ‘There we are. Just like I thought.’

‘It’s a hole.’

‘It’s a window,’ Khord said. ‘This building was taller once. Or the street was lower. There’s likely whole chambers under there, and cellars beneath them.’ He sank to his haunches, his maul braced across his knees.

‘Also traps.’

Khord glanced at him, frowning. ‘Just watch the street.’

‘No. I’ll do it,’ Reynar said. ‘You keep watch.’

Khord nodded, not arguing. ‘Don’t take too long, manling. The streets are unsettled today. Something is on the prowl.’ He gestured meaningfully to the sky. Reynar allowed himself a half-second to wonder if Khord had tricked him before he bent and set about squeezing through the gap.

It was a tight fit. Culos had left pieces of tattered flesh on the stones, and Reynar scraped himself raw before he tumbled through. He slid down onto the floor beyond. Dust filled his lungs, and he coughed. At first, it was pitch black. Then motes of light seemed to bloom. Will o’ the wisps, dancing on chill drafts, illuminated the chamber with washes of pale green light. Waving a hand to clear the air, Reynar looked around.

The chamber was in disarray, and had been for some time. Roof beams had collapsed, and a wall had toppled inwards. At some point, a fire had been set. There was shadeglass – fragments of shattered artefacts – strewn about the floor and embedded in the mortar of the walls. A single support pillar marked with hundreds of large cracks occupied the centre of the chamber, and the roof overhead groaned alarmingly as Reynar stood. He could almost feel the weight of the structure above, and he tensed, half expecting it to collapse.

‘Culos,’ he murmured. No reply. He hadn’t expected any. He could see places where things had been moved as if in a hurry. Streaks in the dust. Smudged masses of mould. Disturbed trails of cold water dripping down from somewhere above. There would be another passage somewhere – a set of concealed steps, perhaps. Whatever Culos had come for was gone. He glanced back towards the gap, where Khord would be waiting.

He smiled. Not yet. They’d made a wager, after all. He intended to find the trap, and if he happened to stumble across something of value… well, that was just his good fortune. He started looking, searching for anything that Culos might have forgotten. Shards of shadeglass hung like decorations from the ceiling beams, and he was careful not to disturb them. They could be collected later if Khord decided they were important. Reynar avoided touching shadeglass now unless he had no choice.

He reached out to brace himself on a support beam. He felt the string snap before he heard it. He threw himself to the side as half a dozen spears of shadeglass dropped from somewhere above his head and embedded themselves in the ground, right where he’d been standing. He came quickly to his feet, his heart pounding.

‘Well,’ he muttered. ‘First gleanings to me.’ A woman laughed. He paused, but only for a moment. Long enough to see the flash of her smile in the dangling shards of glass. ‘Lady Sadila,’ he said with forced cheerfulness. ‘Checking up on me?’

‘There is little else to do. I have no hands to work, no belly to feed, only my mind to occupy.’ She circled him, streaming like condensation through the fragments of shadeglass hanging from the beams. ‘How long has it been? I’m sure you’ve been keeping track.’

He went back to work, trying to ignore the creeping sensation of her eyes on his unprotected back. ‘Two weeks,’ he said, moving aside a broken plank. Something with too many legs scuttled away, seeking a new shelter. ‘It’s been two weeks since I arrived.’ He turned.

Sadila studied him through the shards, a half-smile on her face. ‘Two weeks of life you would not have otherwise had.’

‘Maybe.’

Sadila’s smile widened. ‘Perhaps. You are built for survival, sellsword. That is what caught my eye from the first.’ She drew closer to him, bobbing through the fragments, her form stretching and skewing strangely. The glass clattered gently, almost like footsteps. ‘Among my people, cowards were doomed to a short life. Fear killed more quickly than any blade. But you…’

‘I’m no coward. I just know the value of my own life.’

She laughed. He hated that laugh. He turned and gestured with the chunk of wood he held. ‘What do you want, Sadila?’

‘Lady Sadila,’ she corrected, still smiling.

‘I see no lady. Only a ghost that has not the wit to lie still.’

Her smile vanished. Dead or not, she had a temper. ‘I am not a ghost. Merely a prisoner. Like you.’ She stared up at him through fragments at his feet, and across at him from the far wall where a cracked mirror hung, her unblinking gaze broken into a hundred black opal shards.

Reynar did not meet her splintered gaze. Whether Sadila had the power to hurt him directly or not, she had influence over those who could. Even as he baited her, he was careful to avoid doing anything to attract their ire.

‘It’s not much of a game so far,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You are singularly determined to be uninteresting. Two weeks, and not a scheme, not a plot – not even a whisper of an escape attempt.’ She sighed. ‘You had best make me smile soon, Reynar, or I shall grow bored. And then I will find a new amusement, and you will be cast adrift in this sunless place – after losing your head.’ She paused, her smile returning. ‘Or perhaps I will merely have your arms and legs hacked off and your limbless body left to grub in the dirt. Think on that, sellsword.’

She was gone a moment later, vanished as suddenly as she’d come. Bored perhaps, or called away by some new interest. Reynar was not so arrogant as to think he was her sole amusement. He was beginning to suspect that it was a whisper game of sorts, played with all of them to varying levels. He wondered if she spoke to Khord as well, and what she might say to him. The duardin didn’t strike him as one who could be bullied.

Something clinked beneath his foot. He looked down. Beneath a splay of tattered cloth was a broken box, full of straw and pieces of glass. A thick, heady smell rose from it, and he sank down into a crouch. Broken bottles were mixed among the straw. And one intact, buried beneath the rest. Some sort of wine, he thought, though he didn’t recognise the vintage. Old though. The sort of thing he’d have been tempted to sell, once.

He retrieved the bottle and weighed it, considering. Then he stowed it carefully in his bedroll, where it made for an awkward weight. He’d taken to carrying the blanket wherever he went. Travel light, or not at all. Still, the bottle might come in handy. He stood and stretched, trying to ease the persistent ache in his muscles. He had not slept. He’d wanted to, but sleep, like hunger, did not come here.

He heard a thump and a curse. He turned, hand on his sword. ‘Khord?’

‘Aye, manling. It’s me. You’re not dead, are you?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Good. Find anything?’ Khord asked as he stepped beneath the fire-blackened timbers. Ash swirled about him as he moved, and Reynar thought he saw faces in it before it fell away. He shook his head.

‘Nothing of interest. If Culos hid something in here, it’s gone now. Culos as well.’

‘Let the others worry about the glass-pedlar. We’ll find what he hid. We always do.’

‘We don’t even know what it is. He might’ve taken it, for all we know.’

‘He might’ve.’ Khord ran a finger along a blackened beam. He tasted the soot and smacked his lips. ‘Fresh as the day it was set,’ he murmured. He looked at Reynar. ‘We don’t know what any of it is, manling. It’s all shards and splinters. That’s why we take what we find to Ilesha and let her puzzle it out.’ He tapped the shards of hanging glass with his maul. ‘Might be these, here, even.’

‘Really?’

‘No.’ He squinted past Reynar and pointed with his maul. ‘What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’ Reynar turned. ‘I don’t see anything.’

‘That on the floor, there.’ Khord pushed past Reynar and looked down. Reynar peered over him and saw only what he’d at first taken to be a curious burn mark on the floor amid drifts of ash and burnt wood. ‘That’s a rune-hatch, or I’m a beardling. My folk devised these, among other mechanisms, for the people of Shadespire long ago.’

‘It’s a mark on the ground.’

Khord scuffed a foot over the char, revealing a small plate set into the flagstones. Its surface resembled a map of an unfamiliar labyrinth – curving lines interlocking in a strange geometric pattern. ‘No, it’s not.’

Reynar looked around. ‘He must’ve moved things around, made it look as if he’d taken everything. Figured we wouldn’t see it.’

‘He figured wrong.’ Khord crouched before the strange, puzzle-like plate and began probing its corrugated contours. ‘Probably thought it was safe enough. Didn’t reckon on us being able to – ah.’ There was a sharp metallic click. Reynar saw that Khord had somehow slotted several of the curving lines into new positions. There was a pneumatic wheeze and a sudden gust of stale air. The hatch turned inwards, as if balanced on a fulcrum.

‘How did you know how to open that?’

‘I wasn’t always a mercenary, manling.’ Khord peered down into the gap below. ‘Stick your hand down there and see what he’s left us.’

‘It might be trapped.’

‘That’s why I want you to stick your hand down there,’ Khord said patiently. Then, a moment later, ‘It probably isn’t.’

‘Then you stick yours down there.’

Khord sighed. ‘Cowardly manling.’ He looked down into the hole.

Reynar waited. ‘Well?’

Khord glared at him and thrust his hand into the hole. His eyes widened, and he pulled up a disc of beaten gold. Reynar would have said it was crude had he not seen the delicate serrations that ran along its circumference. ‘Like a cogwheel,’ he said.

‘Like a key.’ Khord rose. ‘This is it.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I can’t. But I don’t see anything else of value.’ He examined the disc. ‘When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you learn better than to ask questions.’ He looked at Reynar. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

Isengrim was coming to loathe Shadespire.

His axe ached for battle, but there was precious little to be had in service to the Katophrane, Mekesh. Unless arguments counted as battle. Zuvass had dragged him from palace to hovel, on missions the purpose of which was yet to be revealed.

They had spoken to dead men reclining on broken thrones, and addled reflections whispering from shattered mirrors. Zuvass had spoken to them in the tongue of ancient Shadespire – a language Isengrim did not understand – for reasons he would not explain.

Only twice had Isengrim been allowed to wield his axe, and in neither case had the effort been memorable. And as the ichor on his blade dried, as his memories of slaughter dulled, he grew more frustrated.

Somewhere in the city, his quarry thought himself safe. The thought incensed him. His prey’s face burned in his memory like a brand, taunting him. He had sworn to take a skull. Khorne had commanded it, and it would be done. But when?

‘When?’ he snarled, blinking red from his eyes.

‘What was that?’ Zuvass turned. They were making their way through a crumbling passageway of stone that stank of mire and old blood. It ran beneath the city, through the collapsing underworld that had once been Shadespire’s sewer system. Blackened, stagnant waters slapped against their legs, and strange, luminescent pollen floated on the miasmic air. The stones of the walls shifted periodically, disgorging floods of bones into the soupy water.

‘I said I do not like skulking in the dark. Where is this warband you promised me?’ Isengrim looked around. The gaping mouths of intersecting passages greeted him wherever he turned. Some were archways of shaped stones, while others resembled the maws of caves. None of them looked inviting. All of them stank of things better left unseen.

‘Close. And it serves our purpose to move unobserved. Few come down into this noisome stew.’ Zuvass paused. ‘And keep your voice down. Sound carries far in these depths.’

‘You act as if there are spies to be wary of.’

‘Oh, but there are. Every Katophrane has their spies, their little maggots burrowed into the meat of the city, listening and observing. All prisons, no matter how large, have their currents of power that must be observed.’

‘And are we Mekesh’s spies, then? Are we maggots?’ Isengrim growled. He stepped on something unpleasant and stumbled. He thrust out a hand to brace himself, and the wall crumbled, disgorging a tide of bones onto him. Cursing, he lashed out, shattering several slimy skulls.

Zuvass whirled. ‘I thought I told you to tread quietly.’

Isengrim flung a broken bone at the Chaos warrior. Zuvass batted it aside. ‘And to answer your question, no, we are not spies. Our purpose is to gather swords to our master’s banner and choose the field of battle.’

‘And who do we war against? What has all this sneaking about been in service of?’

Zuvass was silent for a moment. ‘Her name is Sadila. She is–’

‘The one who led me here.’

Zuvass nodded. ‘Even so.’

‘Mekesh knew about her,’ Isengrim said.

‘So he did.’

‘Is that why you came for me?’

‘It is,’ Zuvass said.

Isengrim grunted. ‘What is she?’

Zuvass turned. ‘His enemy. Our enemy.’

Isengrim bared his teeth. ‘Then let us kill her and be done with it.’

Zuvass shook his head. ‘We cannot kill her. She is like Mekesh – dead. And, like Mekesh, she is building an army.’ He turned away.

‘And so?’

‘Hers is substantially larger. She has strong allies.’ Zuvass stopped and knelt. He cast aside a number of bones and stood, holding a dented helm of tarnished gold, dripping with filth. He turned towards Isengrim. ‘Allies I believe you are familiar with.’

Isengrim stared at the stern features of the helm, recognisable even with the patina of grime that covered it. ‘Stormcasts,’ he growled softly.

‘Oh yes. Quite a few of them, in fact. She’s building a collection.’ Zuvass tossed him the helm and turned away. ‘That is why we need allies of our own. Ones who are willing and able to die as many times as it takes to see the deed done.’

‘Like me?’

Zuvass didn’t look at him. ‘If you like.’

‘You were sent to look for me,’ Isengrim said, tossing the helm aside. ‘Why? Because of this dead woman you say is my enemy? Why me, when you have warriors like Vakul?’

‘Because of your prey.’

Isengrim’s eyes narrowed. ‘What about him?’

‘You think it is coincidence that she chose him? Out of all the souls who haunted those ruins? She selected him for a reason.’

‘What reason?’

Zuvass laughed. ‘Who knows?’

Isengrim growled in annoyance. ‘So, because he is important, I am important?’

‘Or is he important because you are important?’ Zuvass stopped. ‘You mentioned dreams – Khorne spoke to you? Perhaps this is all meant for you, my friend.’

‘We are not friends.’

‘As I keep telling you, we will be. Patience.’

‘Enough of your prattling,’ Isengrim snarled. ‘Enough words, enough promises.’ Violence thrummed through him, making every nerve twitch. ‘Give me what I want, or I shall take your head.’ His voice echoed eerily through the tunnel.

‘Quietly, friend. Quietly. This is not a place for raised voices.’

Isengrim roared in fury and lunged, axe raised. He could stand it no longer. Khorne’s breath filled him, driving out all hesitation. He wanted – needed – to kill something worthy of his axe. Zuvass would do well enough.

Zuvass avoided Isengrim’s first blow with startling ease. He stepped back, putting distance between them. ‘Quiet, fool. Listen. Listen!’

Isengrim heard the sound of splashing from one of the nearby passages. He paused, head cocked, listening. ‘What is that? More dead men?’ he growled. ‘They won’t stop me from taking your head–’

‘Quiet,’ Zuvass said. He drew his sword. ‘You’ve told them right where we are. Look.’

In the dark of the passage, something moved. Isengrim bared his teeth and took a two-handed grip on his axe. There was a new scent on the air – a sickly-sweet odour like rotting meat. Something emerged from the dark, a broken, bent shape – almost animal, but not. Thin and ragged, like a mummy left in muddy water, it wore tattered robes and tarnished jewellery. Its head hung at a broken angle, and its features were withered. Lank strands of colourless hair were plastered to its scalp. Its eyes and mouth were sewn shut, but it moved with inhuman surety. Clawed hands felt at the edges of the passage as it crept fully into view.

Isengrim took a step towards it, and the head turned with a birdlike motion, as if it were listening. Zuvass stretched out an arm, blocking his path. Isengrim turned and saw the Chaos warrior holding a finger up to his helm. Zuvass gestured upwards. Slowly, Isengrim looked up.

Two more of the sightless corpses clung to the ceiling. Their heads were cocked, listening. Another three emerged from a far passage, scuttling along the wall. He heard more splashing, echoing from deeper in the tunnels. It sounded as if there were dozens of the things, all converging towards them. Perhaps more. Something about them dampened his eagerness to fight. It wasn’t fear. That was what he told himself.

More of them came creeping out of the dark, moving on all fours, clinging to the walls, slithering through the water. Zuvass motioned for him to be still. Isengrim barely twitched as one of the creatures drew close, its head tilted. He readied his axe, but Zuvass shook his head. One of the things found the fallen Stormcast helm and lifted it from the water. The creature crushed it with barely a sign of effort. There were dozens of them in the passage now, all around them. Some crouched in the water, others stood swaying, listening.

Isengrim felt something on the air. A pulse, like an insect hum. As if the sightless corpses were searching for something. Zuvass gestured. Isengrim saw that he held a chunk of stone in one hand. Carefully, without disturbing the creatures, he tossed it down one of the passages, where it bounced and rattled away into the dark.

As one, the dead things turned and scrambled towards the sound. They went all in a rush, leathery limbs rustling strangely as they poured into the passage. Silently, Zuvass pointed to a broken section of wall. Isengrim hesitated, watching the broken figures vanish into the gloom, before following Zuvass through the gap.

They ascended a crudely constructed set of steps covered in a film of slime. Zuvass moved quickly. Isengrim followed more slowly, his feet slipping on the stones. At the top of the steps was a square passage, thick with some form of black mould and all but hidden by a thick shroud. Zuvass tore the cloth aside and they climbed up into a wide chamber that stank of standing water and rotting wood.

More steps awaited them. Zuvass gestured. ‘Up we go,’ he said quietly.

Isengrim didn’t move. ‘What were those things?’

Zuvass shrugged. ‘Unpleasant. There are hundreds of them down here. Lost souls, driven mad by the city and lost in the darkness. They hunt by sound. If we’d fought them, more would have come, attracted by the noise.’

‘I will not cower before blind corpses.’

Zuvass looked at him. ‘They do not care. They are part of the city, part of its hunger. Even your arm would grow tired eventually, and then they would tear you apart. How would you claim your quarry’s skull then?’ He turned away. ‘We are nothing to Shadespire, Isengrim. Just meat for the beast. Never forget that. Now come on.’

They ascended quickly. The walls were drier here, and the stink of the depths receded.

Isengrim looked around. ‘What is this place?’

‘Part of the inner wall. Shadespire grew from a simple trading camp. The Katophranes built new walls and incorporated the old ones into their palaces and causeways. This was one such. The remains of a fortress that once overlooked the desert and now looms over… well, nothing, really. A courtyard that might once have been a garden, or a training ground.’

‘What is it now?’

‘A campsite.’

They came to a cramped balcony that looked out over a wide space below. A hollow place, all but isolated between cross sections of an old, crumbling set of walls. Great fires had been lit all over the courtyard, and around each, dark figures huddled. Stakes laden with gory trophies criss-crossed the space, as if to delineate separate territories. Somewhere below, a voice was raised in a familiar song – a threnody of slaughters uncompleted and skulls never to be taken. An ancient hymn, older than the realms themselves.

‘Arbaal’s Lament,’ Isengrim said softly.

‘Is that what it’s called?’ Zuvass leaned on the edge of the balcony.

‘Who are they?’

‘I told you, there are many of your sort here. Khorne hurls his slaves into the dark as if he might follow the scent of their blood to his quarry. And many gather here. I don’t know why, really. What matters is that they’re here, and I want them elsewhere. You,’ he pointed at Isengrim, ‘will go among them. Take the tenor of their mood. Find the leaders, those we might suborn to our cause.’

Isengrim looked down. ‘There are no leaders down there.’

‘Oh? And how can you tell that?’

‘If there were, they would not be cowering in the dark, singing songs of failure and ruin. They would be stacking skulls in every plaza. They stink of fear.’ Isengrim spoke loudly, not caring if any of those below heard him.

Zuvass nodded. ‘That is because they are afraid. This place has broken them. It breaks all things eventually. Even the most bloodthirsty maniac eventually gluts himself and realises his predicament. There is no Khorne here, no handmaidens of blood and sorrow come to sweep their souls to the courts of brass. Only cold and darkness. Only him, watching them break themselves on the edge of his will.’ He pointed.

Isengrim looked up, and swallowed a curse. One of the nearby towers had twisted itself into a grinning skull, fires flickering deep in its cavernous sockets. It had happened so subtly that he had not heard it. It seemed as if the structure were nothing more than a gossamer shroud, and the skull rising from within its folds. Its gaze fell across the courtyard and the parapets, and a dull moan rose from those gathered around the firepits. Isengrim fought to meet that inhuman stare and not flinch back.

It reminded him of the dark, before he’d come to this place. It reminded him of the moment before Khorne had spared him on the field of battle, the moment he’d cradled his own viscera and felt the cold creeping through him. The Death God had had him then, and lost him. The stare did not waver. The fires flared, both in its sockets and below.

Isengrim took a step back. He felt the cold again, clawing at his insides. Digging in his skull. He breathed out, and frost billowed. His scars ached like fresh-made wounds.

I… see… you…

The words tolled within him like the strokes of a cathedral bell. And he knew, as the echoes shivered his bones, that he was not the only hunter in this cursed place. The tower gave a grinding groan and began to collapse in on itself, plumes of dust rising up. In the billowing cloud, Isengrim thought he glimpsed a vague shape, turning and striding away. He closed his eyes as the dust washed over the courtyard.

When he opened them, Zuvass was looking at him. ‘It seems the gods are interested in you, my friend. For good or ill.’

Isengrim spat, clearing his mouth of dust. ‘Death lost its claim on me that day on the battlefield. I am sworn to Khorne, and my soul will burn in his fires for evermore.’ He looked down into the courtyard and at the milling warriors there. Not all of them were bloodreavers. Some bore no sign of their allegiances. But all had the same defeated look.

This place weighed on men’s souls. It pushed down until they broke beneath it like crude steel. But steel could be forged anew. Made strong again by the hand of the smith. He looked at Zuvass. ‘Why did you bring me here?’

‘Why do you think?’ Zuvass gestured. ‘I told you before that there are many worshippers of Khorne trapped in this city. Very few of them are of any use. And those that are have little use for us. But we need the makings of an army.’

‘And this rabble is it?’

‘Them and a few others, yes. We need them ready to fight.’

Isengrim nodded. He knew what Zuvass wanted – someone to galvanise the warriors below, to rouse them into a killing fury and lead them to war. The haft of his axe creaked in his grip. Was this why Khorne had guided him here, to this place where the Blood God could not see, in pursuit of a single skull? If they spilled enough blood, killed enough, would the veil lift and the shadows part? Would Khorne see him here and lend him strength?

‘My quarry,’ he said finally.

‘He serves the enemy. Though not willingly.’

Isengrim shrugged off this qualifier. Such things did not matter. That his prey was there was enough for him to make the decision. ‘Then I will lead them.’

‘As easy as that?’ Zuvass sounded amused.

Annoyed, Isengrim turned on him. ‘That is why you show them to me. You promised me a warband, and though they are broken, I will kindle the heat of war in them. I can do that. I was a chieftain, a war-king. Men follow me because Khorne has shown me the path to glory.’ He lifted his axe. ‘With this axe, I shall carve it. I shall make a road of skulls, if I must, to reach my prey. Their skulls, those of the enemy… even yours.’

Zuvass raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. ‘Not mine. I’m still using it. But you are right – that is why you were brought here.’ He motioned to the courtyard. ‘Carve your road, by all means.’

Isengrim snorted and turned back. He stepped up onto the broken edge of the balcony and lifted his axe. ‘Hear me,’ he roared. ‘Hear the words of Isengrim of the Red Reef, Isengrim Khorneson, herald of slaughters to come and speaker of crimson tongues.’ His words ricocheted from the stones, filling the air. Heads turned. Not many. Perhaps they had heard similar words before and now they meant only shame.

‘Hear me,’ he cried again. ‘You cower there and hide your heads like whelps. Are you not hounds of Khorne? Does his fire not burn in you?’

More heads turned now. More eyes. A murmur swept through their ranks. ‘Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps you are only meat. Shall I come among you, and tear and slash? If I spill your guts, will blood flow or only thin ichor?’ Isengrim let his axe rest in the crook of his arm, and snorted. ‘Are you all cowards, then? Has this place stripped you of your claws and fangs?’

Angry mutterings now. Bellows of denial. Cowardice was invisible until someone pointed it out to you. Isengrim nodded in satisfaction. They had some fire in them, then. ‘Khorne cares not for the coward. He sees not the weakling. Only the strong attract his eye. Only the brave hear his voice. If he seems silent, it is only that you cannot hear him.’

Challenges now, among the bellows. Figures lurched to their feet, or shoved their way towards the balcony. Isengrim grinned into the teeth of their growing fury. He slammed his fist into his chest. ‘Come then! Come. Show me.’

One warrior shoved his way to the fore, shouting curses. A bloodreaver with a face that was more scar tissue than unblemished flesh, and his lips gnawed to ragged tatters. He wore a cloak of stitched faces and held a curved blade. ‘I’ll show you,’ he roared. ‘Come down and see my courage.’

Before Zuvass could stop him, Isengrim leapt from the balcony. Warriors scattered as he landed, making room. Without pause, he launched himself at his challenger. Sword and axe met with a ringing screech. Isengrim forced his opponent back, laughing. ‘Fight harder, fool! Show me your strength. Show me your power.’

His opponent howled and tried to force Isengrim’s axe aside. Isengrim stepped back suddenly, throwing the warrior off balance for a moment. As the swordsman lunged at him again, filed teeth bared, Isengrim reversed his axe and slammed the haft into his foe’s belly, doubling him over. As the warrior sank down, Isengrim removed his head with a deft slash. Blood watered the earth, and warriors cried out as if invigorated.

He plucked the fallen head up by its hair and swung it about. ‘Here was a brave one, and Khorne shall welcome his skull. If he returns, I shall kill him again, or he shall kill me. It matters not, so long as our blood flows.’ He whirled the head and flung it over the crowd. ‘I commend his skull, and my own, to Khorne. Who will join me?’

Howls rose up, shaking the night. Weapons crashed. Isengrim smiled. Their courage had merely been sleeping. ‘Let war winds rage,’ he bellowed. ‘Let the battle be won or lost, and the slain be chosen! Listen, fools – the wings of his handmaidens beat in the deep. Even here, even in this place, Khorne calls to you and demands that you follow your oaths. Will you follow me to red ruin, or will you cower here in the hell of your own cowardice?’

His voice echoed out across the shattered courtyard. For a moment, silence was the only reply. Then, one by one, the warriors stood and raised their weapons. Chains rattled and voices roared as Isengrim’s words stoked the embers of their fury. He sneered. ‘Is that all the tongue you have? Scream, you sons and daughters of murder. Howl your curses into the teeth of the god of bones and dust. We are slaughtersworn and we do not fear death – he is our slave, fed with scraps from our table!’

As he joined his voice to theirs, he thought he heard the creak of great bones, and a voice as dry as the desert sands. I… see… you…

Chapter nine

PUZZLE WITHOUT PIECES

Mysteries are currency in Shyish. Questions without answers, stories untold – all these things are worth their weight in ur-gold.

– Lady Emalia Grimsour
A Lady’s Concise History of Nulahmia

Something clattered in the dark, and Reynar stopped, one hand pressed to a fallen pillar. He turned, scanning the Carnelian Path for any sign of what might have made the noise. Hundreds of thick pillars lined either side of the wide causeway, their bases still wreathed with the blackened remnants of the lush vegetation that had once covered them. Higher up, great spiderwebs of shadeglass stretched between the broken pillars, forming a glittering latticework.

The Carnelian Path was one of the few stable causeways remaining in the district. Some were aqueducts that once carried water from the city’s cisterns to its outer districts. Others, like this one, had been garden pathways, clearly erected so that the Katophranes might travel between their palaces and estates without having to mingle with the common folk of Shadespire.

Now, the servants of those self-same Katophranes used them to avoid many of the dangers of the shattered cityscape, when possible. Not that the causeways didn’t have dangers of their own. Strange things nested in the high places and hunted the aqueducts.

‘Hurry up, manling. Don’t want to be left behind, do you?’ Khord’s voice echoed oddly among the pillars. Reynar turned towards the sound and saw that Dolmen and the others had got far ahead of him. Too far. He started after them, but stopped as the sound came again. A whisper-quick clatter, somewhere above him. He looked up and around. At first, he saw nothing save a crimson shimmer in the gloom. Then, the shimmer split into eight, and the great webs of shadeglass trembled as their weaver crept into sight.

The spider was huge, larger than a dray horse. Its limbs gleamed like polished glass, and its dark body seemed oddly proportioned, as if it were not a natural thing but an artist’s imagining of a spider given hideous life. It descended, limbs rustling, eyes fixed on him. Atop its abdomen he glimpsed a familiar marking, and his hand went to his amulet.

It stopped some distance from him, its red eyes shining in the shadows. For a moment, the tableau held. He stared at the symbol on its back, a jagged pattern of glass rising from unliving flesh. It shone with a strange light, and his amulet felt warm against his skin. Then, with a crackle of shifting glass, the spider was gone, clambering back into the heights.

Reynar watched as it vanished into the twisted canopy of arches and stairways interweaving above him like strands of stony hair. As he looked up, he noticed other stairways rising to incalculable heights, ending abruptly with no sign as to what they had once been connected to. Ahead, whole streets bent upwards at impossible angles, and other dim shapes shuffled along. When Reynar blinked, the images were gone.

It was as if the city were not of a single, whole piece, but many, drifting together and then apart, caught on the tides of some dark sea. The thought was not a comforting one. Hammerhal had been more stable, even stretched as it was between Aqshy, the realm of fire, and Ghyran, the realm of life. This place seemed as if it might fly apart at any moment. Indeed, the longer he looked, the more it seemed as if it were about to do so. He closed his eyes, fighting the sudden vertigo.

‘You’re looking at it again, manling,’ Khord said from close by. ‘I told you not to.’

Reynar swallowed and opened his eyes, wondering how much Khord had seen. ‘Go on,’ the duardin called out to Bolas and the others, waving them on ahead.

‘There’s no hurry now that we’re in sight of home,’ Khord continued as he ambled back towards Reynar. They were close enough to see the high turrets of the Jasper Palaces rising over the surrounding city. ‘No hurry at all. No time here, no days, no nights. Just a single moment, stretched forever between light and shadow, and all of us trapped inside.’

‘You make it sound so appealing,’ Reynar said.

‘It takes a while to get used to it,’ Khord said quietly. ‘But you do get used to it.’

‘How long is a while?’

‘A few years, give or take.’

Reynar laughed harshly and shook his head. ‘I don’t think I ever will.’

Khord looked at him. ‘You’ve survived this long – not many can say that.’ He sounded pleased. Reynar was reminded of Utrecht. He had no doubt Khord would crush his skull if they were foes. But since they weren’t, the duardin saw no reason not to be friendly. The hillman had been much the same.

‘I’ve survived, but my certainty hasn’t,’ Reynar said. He paused. ‘Tell me, how did you get here?’ He asked the question without thinking, and immediately wished he could take it back. He didn’t want to know. Knowing too much about others just made things harder, in the end.

Khord scratched his chin. ‘I followed my Runefather into the dark, as a true son of the lodge must. We had made an oath to the Katophranes, in ancient days, and an oath unfulfilled is an oath broken. So we came, and we were lost.’

‘I saw no other fyreslayers,’ Reynar said after a moment. ‘Duardin, yes, but no fyreslayers. Save you.’

Khord shrugged. ‘I found my own way here.’

‘And they let you in?’

‘Maybe they simply knew better than to try to toss me out.’ Khord weighed his maul in one palm. Like his throwing axes, the weapon was made from fyresteel. ‘I am not called Skullcrusher for nothing.’

‘Do people call you that?’

Khord shrugged and grinned. ‘Someone somewhere might. My friends, perhaps.’

Reynar frowned. ‘Friends are just another sort of trap. That’s why I never had any.’ The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

‘No? That’s a shame. Friends are like gold – you can never have too many. At least, that’s the way I’ve always thought of it.’ Khord glanced at him. ‘And everyone needs one, now and again. Can’t rely on yourself all the time. A lodge is only as strong as the bonds between duardin.’

Reynar nodded. ‘Maybe so. Or maybe I’m a lodge of one.’

Khord chuckled. ‘Have it your way, manling. But you’ll learn soon enough that it’s better to have trusted swords at your back, especially here.’ He dropped to his haunches, and Reynar slid down the pillar, propping his sword across his knees. They sat in silence for long moments, watching the city.

Khord glanced at his sword. ‘I know that forge mark. Hammerhal Aqsha?’

‘Yes. My regiment was stationed in Hammerhal. Ghyra, not Aqsha.’

Khord nodded. ‘To which one did you belong?’

‘The Faithful Blades.’ Seeing Khord’s look of incomprehension, he added, ‘Blue-and-white uniforms. We were mostly auxiliary troops.’

‘Ah. I think I fought beside your kind in Aqshy – at the second battle of the Raxulian Way. You marched in support of the Stormcasts, the silver ones.’

‘The Hallowed Knights,’ Reynar said. He paused. ‘That was close to thirty years ago. Before my time. That was where we earned our regimental name, I think.’

Khord grunted. ‘Seems like only a little while ago to me. Is that fat fellow – the one with the twisted-up red beard – still in command?’

‘Gormus the Boar? No. He died at the Verdant Abyss.’ Gormus’ beard had been white when he died, and he’d been so fat it was surprising that he’d still fitted into his war-plate. But he’d been a warrior for all that, more than capable of swinging a blade.

‘Shame. He could drink a duardin under the table.’

‘His liver is what killed him, or so I’ve heard.’

Khord frowned. ‘Burst?’

‘When the spear went through it.’

Khord laughed uproariously. Reynar grinned. The duardin shook his head. ‘I like you, manling. Most of the Azyrites I’ve met are humourless sorts – like our gold-plated friends.’

‘Not my friends,’ Reynar said. He glanced around as he said it, instinctively making sure none of them were in earshot. The habit of a lifetime.

Khord gave him a knowing look. ‘I thought your sort worshipped them. You fight for Sigmar, and they’re his champions.’

‘The Freeguilds fight for comets – for gold and silver. We fight for whoever can pay. And the Sigmarite church can pay plenty.’ Reynar rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, the universal sign for payment owed. ‘Cities pay us. Merchants, kings and conclaves pay us. If they don’t, we find someone who will.’

Khord nodded. ‘My folk are much the same. If they have ur-gold, they can have our axes.’ He touched one of the golden runes hammered into his chest. It flickered briefly, and Reynar felt heat rise from the duardin’s broad form. ‘It’s a good thing, to know your own worth.’

‘That’s why I left, in the end,’ Reynar said. ‘I knew my own worth.’

Khord looked out over the city. ‘It’s a hard thing, walking alone,’ he said after a moment. ‘I died. And I came back somewhere else. My kin are lost to me.’ He sighed. ‘I will find them one day, Grimnir willing. But until then, I fight as my honour compels me.’ He looked at Reynar and grinned. Several of his teeth were gold. ‘I don’t expect that makes much sense to you.’

Reynar laughed. ‘No.’ He looked out over the city. ‘Something’s on fire.’

‘That’s the Southern Market.’ The way Khord said it made Reynar think he wasn’t in favour of it.

Reynar blinked. ‘A market? Here?’

‘Of a sort, at any rate.’ Khord frowned and spat over the edge of the causeway. ‘The dead don’t have much to trade, save what they steal from each other.’ The fyreslayer rubbed a rune on his shoulder. ‘We don’t eat. Don’t drink. Don’t need to, really, though some go mad without it, like those wretches that tried to eat you.’

Reynar looked at the duardin. ‘Then why trade?’

‘The same reason we fight – to get what we need.’ Khord gestured. ‘Sadila isn’t the only Katophrane to put her people to work, collecting bits of shadeglass. Some claim they’re trying to repair this artefact or another, but mostly they bargain with it, trading it among themselves, or use it to hire strong blades. Every moment here breeds a hundred new wars. The dead get bored easily, and they’re all mad.’

‘Even our host?’

Khord frowned and spat. ‘Maybe especially her.’ He glanced around, as if worried that someone might have heard him. ‘Or maybe not. Maybe she’s the only sane one of the bunch. She wants to escape, at least. Some of the others…’

‘They don’t?’

‘They think it is a punishment. That their time here is penance.’

The words echoed over the causeway. Reynar scrambled to his feet with a curse. Khord merely glanced around. Angharad stood nearby, watching them. ‘And perhaps they are not wrong,’ she said.

Reynar looked at her, wondering how she’d managed to sneak up on them. He wasn’t used to Stormcasts moving in silence. Normally they were all thunder and lightning, hard to miss unless you were deaf and blind. ‘And what about us?’

She looked at him, her eyes flat. ‘Perhaps some among us deserve it as well.’

Reynar turned away. Khord chuckled. ‘Is there something you require, Brightshield? Is that why you have come all the way out here to meet us?’

‘The Liberator-Prime requests your presence,’ she said stiffly. ‘When you did not return with the others, he sent me to find you.’

Khord nodded and stood. He glanced at Reynar. ‘Try not to annoy her, lad. I’d hate to have to go looking for your reflection if I don’t have to.’ He clapped Reynar on the shoulder and left him in Angharad’s company.

They stood in silence for a time. Reynar watched the distant fires, wondering what life was like there. Was it even life, or merely persistence? From what he’d been told, there wasn’t much of a choice between the two in this place.

‘You were a soldier,’ Angharad said suddenly, looking down at him.

‘And you were eavesdropping.’

‘Why did you come here?’

‘What is that to you?’

She paused. He wondered if she was used to mortals showing more deference. She pulled off her helm, revealing short-cropped hair and wide, symmetrical features, too perfect to be considered human. Or at least what Reynar considered human. ‘I am… curious.’ The way she said it made it almost sound like something shameful.

‘You tell me your story first,’ he said. ‘Then maybe I’ll tell you mine.’ It was a risk, asking such a question, but Sadila’s threat had convinced him that he needed to do something. Asking questions seemed like a good first step. If the Katophrane was listening, perhaps she would be satisfied. Then again, perhaps not.

Angharad’s eyes narrowed. ‘We came seeking the answer to a question that has troubled us since Sigmar first clad us in gold and set us loose upon his foes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But we found only more questions. We found only mysteries and lies, rather than the truth.’ She looked at him expectantly.

‘That’s not much of a story.’

Her face tightened with irritation. Before she could reply, he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Forgive me.’ He sighed. ‘My companions and I, we came to Shadespire looking for treasure and found only sand and death.’

‘Greed, then.’ Angharad seemed satisfied by that answer, as if it had confirmed some suspicion.

Reynar laughed sourly. ‘If you like. I like to think of it as a chance for a better life.’

‘You had a life. A commission in the armies of the God-King. You had duties – responsibilities. Was that not enough?’

Reynar stared at her. ‘Do you even remember what it was like to be human? I doubt it. If you did, you’d already know the answer to that question.’

Angharad said nothing.

‘My father used to say the only truth that matters is the one you want to believe,’ Reynar continued, not looking at her. ‘People look at you – at Stormcasts – as if you’re proof that Sigmar is with us. You’re his word, his oath, to the realms. That’s what they want to believe.’

‘And what do you want to believe?’

‘Does it matter?’ Reynar tapped the pommel of his sword with a thumb. He looked at her. When she didn’t reply, he nodded, as if she’d answered his question. He looked away. ‘You don’t have to stay, you know. I can find my way back.’

‘It is dangerous here.’ She said it flatly, but firmly. The cold glare on her face said that she despised him, but he knew she would stand over him, for that was what she had been made for. Part of him hated her for it. He let no sign of that show on his face as he pushed himself to his feet and patted the bottle hidden in his bedroll.

‘Come on, then. I wouldn’t want to keep you from more important duties.’

Isengrim prowled towards the fire, several of his new warriors following in his wake.

The wall keep was silent save for the low murmur of those who sheltered within. He smiled widely, displaying jagged teeth, as he felt the eyes of the living and dead drawn to him. That was the point, after all. This was an invitation as much as a show of force.

A challenge unspoken was nothing more than cowardice. Zuvass left him to it, for which Isengrim was grateful. The Chaos warrior had done him a good turn, for reasons of his own. But what came next had to be done properly. Not like a thief in the dark.

Long shadows stretched along the courtyard, draped across broken statues and collecting like puddles of rainwater amid collapsed outbuildings. Everywhere, shadeglass gleamed and shimmered as it caught the light of the fires. Isengrim wondered if this place was being watched, even now, by Mekesh’s fellow Katophranes. Did dead men lurk in the dark and the quiet, observing the living?

He hoped so. He wanted them to see him. He wanted their master to see. He was Isengrim of the Red Reef, and he would bow before nothing save the Brass Throne.

‘Will there be blood, do you think?’ Ylac asked, testing the edge of his glaive. He appeared to be the sanest of those who now followed Isengrim. Once a war chief, now Ylac was content to be subordinate. Something about his time here had subdued all his ambition and fury, leaving behind only a grim pragmatism.

‘Perhaps. That is usually the way of it.’ Isengrim shook his head. ‘Though it may not be tonight.’

‘I hope it will not be long,’ Ylac said. He bit into his thumb with filed teeth and ran the bloody digit along his gums. ‘I have not cut heads in many a day… or maybe years?’ He shook his head. ‘It is hard to tell here.’

Isengrim did not reply. He hoped there would be blood. But if there was, it must be spilled in the proper fashion. Honour was all. Without honour, what was a man, save a beast? There was honour in serving a god, in fulfilling a purpose. Without that purpose, there was nothing. Slaughter without honour was a waste of blood. Khorne cared not from whence the blood flowed, but he cared whether it filled his goblet or splashed upon his feet.

Isengrim had held to that single belief since childhood. If Khorne demanded it, it must be done. To do otherwise was to deny your purpose. A weapon could not deny its purpose. The thought was madness.

Of course, this place was mad.

The fire roared up suddenly, and he turned. He realised that the courtyard had cleared of all but a few fleshless sentries. And that Vakul was staring at him. Isengrim slapped Ylac on the chest. ‘Be ready.’

‘He is one of Khorne’s chosen,’ the other bloodreaver hissed.

‘Maybe. But so am I. Stay alert.’ Isengrim stepped forward, his axe hanging loosely from his grip. Vakul moved to meet him, carrying his own weapon with similar readiness. To put a weapon down was to surrender, but to hold it away from your foe was a sign of parley. A sign that you wished to duel with words, not with steel.

Up close, Isengrim realised how big the hulking Blood Warrior was. Vakul was almost twice his size, with thick ropes of muscle on his bare arms. His armour stank of decades of butchery, and his teeth were like brass nails.

‘You bring new blood into my camp,’ Vakul said without preamble. His head was tilted so that he could focus his good eye on Isengrim as he spoke. ‘You, who are new blood yourself. That is an insult.’

Isengrim shook his head. ‘I give no insult. It is not my fault you do not do these things yourself. They were easy enough to find.’

‘Maybe I did not wish to find them.’

‘Maybe you feared to leave.’

Vakul grinned, showing bloody teeth. He had been gnawing on his own lips, reducing them to well-chewed tatters. ‘Who are you to call me a coward?’

‘I am Isengrim of the Red Reef. With this axe, I cut my chains. With these hands, I strangled my enslavers. Who are you to deny my words?’

‘I am Vakul. I am Khorne’s own son, birthed in blood and weaned on war. As are my brothers.’ He spread his arms, indicating the other Blood Warriors who crouched or stood nearby. ‘I am remade in his image. You are but flesh, little mortal.’

‘Aye, I am mortal. But mortals can kill. My enslavers thought themselves beloved of a god, and I drowned them in bitter seas.’ Isengrim rested his axe over his shoulder. Vakul studied him for long moments. Then he laughed.

‘You are brave, little reaver.’ He turned, as if gauging the mood of his audience. Vakul was the self-selected spokesman for those servants of the Dark Gods who had thrown in their lot with Mekesh. Even so, Isengrim did not question why Zuvass had chosen him to rally the Blood God’s worshippers rather than Vakul. If Vakul had had the capacity to do so, he would have done it already.

He was weak. Isengrim watched him carefully, noting the way he favoured his left side and the way he turned his head to speak. Vakul was blind in one eye, but there was a stiffness to his movements. An old injury, or several. It slowed him, made him hesitate. Like the others, the city had worn him down.

If he had been strong, he would have bellowed a challenge the moment Isengrim returned with new warriors. He would have seized his opportunity and not bothered with this clash of words. Isengrim saw his game clearly enough. Vakul, uncertain of his ability to kill Isengrim, had settled for trying to impress him.

‘But bravery is not enough,’ Vakul went on, turning back. ‘You should not trust Zuvass. He is a liar. He has been a liar all the time I have known him. And mad, besides.’ He leaned forward. ‘He has wandered this city since before its doom, some say. They say too that he is the voice of something that sleeps beneath us.’

‘He does not serve Nagash.’

‘I do not speak of Nagash,’ Vakul said. ‘Something older – or perhaps younger. Maybe both.’ He shook his head and looked away. ‘This place… it presses down on you. It whispers to you, and promises strange things. If you were wise, you would not listen.’

‘Zuvass said much the same.’

Vakul grimaced. Fresh blood ran from his savaged lips and into his beard. ‘He will betray you,’ he said flatly. ‘Once he has what he needs, he will cast you aside.’ He held out his hand. ‘If you join your axe to mine, you need never fear his treachery. We are stronger together, brother. Why stand with one unsworn when true sons of Khorne are near?’

Isengrim laughed, more for show than out of any real mirth. Vakul’s words rang with harsh truth. ‘One who is chosen by Khorne should fear no treachery. Challenge him, if he has wronged you. As I shall when the time comes.’

‘You do not understand this place yet. Honour wears thin here. And even the strongest axe grows brittle. Will you join me?’

Isengrim shook his head. ‘If you must ask, you are no true son of Khorne.’

Vakul turned and spat into the fire. He departed without another word, his warriors following him. None of them looked back. Isengrim let out a slow breath.

‘A good duel. First blood to you, I think,’ Ylac said, coming to stand behind him. ‘But he is right. I do not like the smell of that laughing creature.’ He pointed, and Isengrim looked up.

Zuvass stood watching them from the top of the wall. Isengrim wondered if he’d been there the entire time. The thought irked him. He had no doubt that this was all some ploy of his. ‘No. Nor do I,’ he growled. ‘But for now, we must tolerate him.’

‘And when we are done tolerating him?’

Isengrim smiled. ‘Then his skull will decorate my belt, along with that of another.’

Chapter ten

SHADOWS ON GLASS

The Katophranes’ greatest work was undoubtedly the crafting of shadeglass.

Made from the dark ores within the Oasis of Souls, shadeglass proved to have exceptional qualities…

– Fowler Schlocken
Nine Days in the Ruins

Reynar had decided to start small. Just a bit of conversation to pass the time.

‘I don’t trust her,’ he said, tipping the bottle back. It had survived the journey back relatively unshaken, and the others had been all too eager to sample it despite the unknown vintage. He’d discovered that alcohol, of whatever sort, was highly prized. A man could buy an army with a case of substandard rotgut. Which this almost certainly was.

The wine tasted foul, but he took a long slug regardless, more for show than anything else. He passed it to Bolas, who nodded. ‘Me neither.’ The Aqshian belched. He sat beside the silent Tirax, as ever. He took a swig and passed it to a dead-eyed woman with coiling, vine-like tattoos on her narrow face.

‘None of us do,’ she said. She fingered a scar around her throat as she spoke. ‘But what can we do? She knows how to escape and we don’t.’

‘And how do we know that?’ Reynar said, watching as the bottle went around the circle. He didn’t know whether they could get drunk here, but some of the others looked as if they wanted to try.

‘She… told us?’ Bolas said.

‘Exactly,’ Reynar said.

‘You think she’s lying,’ Dolmen said softly. He handed the bottle to Tirax, who passed it along without taking a drink.

‘I didn’t say that.’

The Azyrite smirked. ‘You implied it.’

Reynar spread his hands. ‘I put forth a possibility.’

‘You think none of us have ever put forth that possibility?’ Dolmen took the bottle and sipped. He grimaced. ‘Shyishan grapes,’ he muttered. He passed the bottle over to Reynar. ‘We’ve all thought it. That this is just some spirit’s idea of torment. But there’s a problem with that idea.’

‘Which is?’

‘Them.’ Dolmen pointed to the walls, where the bulky forms of Stormcasts stood, staring out into the night. ‘Don’t you think they’d know if she were lying?’

Reynar frowned. ‘They’re not infallible.’

‘Good as,’ Dolmen retorted. ‘I’ve seen what they can do, up close.’

‘So have I,’ Reynar said. ‘And I’ve seen them fail.’

It was Dolmen’s turn to frown. ‘They can’t fail. Sigmar forged them from starlight and lightning. They are the storm manifest, implacable and unstoppable.’

‘Good roof will keep a storm off,’ the woman with the vine tattoos said.

‘How heavy is the storm?’ Bolas asked. ‘Is it a downpour, or more along the lines of a hurricane?’ He reached for the bottle, and Reynar let him have it.

‘It’s a figure of speech,’ Dolmen snarled.

‘I thought you said it was a storm,’ Bolas said.

Dolmen shook his head and looked at Reynar. ‘If they’re wrong, then Sigmar is wrong. And if Sigmar is wrong…’ He trailed off and made the sign of the hammer. ‘Sigmar is not wrong. They are not wrong.’

‘How long?’ Reynar asked.

‘How long what?’

‘How long have you been looking for pieces of the Faneway?’ Reynar looked around. ‘How long have you been scrounging for her? Dolmen? Bolas?’

‘Weeks,’ Dolmen said.

‘Months,’ Bolas said, his voice soft. He shook his head. ‘It’s hard to tell. I used to mark the walls, to keep count, but… but one day there were too many marks.’ He swallowed convulsively. ‘Too many.’ He emptied the bottle and set it down carefully.

‘And how much longer do you think it will be before it is repaired?’ Reynar asked. ‘How many more months or years?’ He pointed at Dolmen. ‘Do you think she’d tell you if she realised that she couldn’t fix it? Or would she just keep sending you out, again and again?’

Conversation tapered off abruptly as the others considered this. Dolmen stared into the fire and wouldn’t meet Reynar’s eyes. The bottle vanished, but Reynar paid it little heed. Instead, he looked around, studying faces. He saw fear – not naked terror, but the grinding fear that came from a loss of hope. They were scared, because they saw nothing ahead. No light, no escape, only endless night, stretching away and ahead forever.

He felt a flicker of doubt. What if Sadila was right? Maybe they wouldn’t believe him. Not because they doubted him, but because Sadila was their last hope to escape this place. And maybe she was. Maybe he was at the mercy of a lunatic, with no option but to humour her for as long as it took to find his way out.

Suddenly cold, he held his hands over the fire. It didn’t help. It never helped. He watched it dance. It moved strangely here, not like a real fire at all… more like a dream of fire. Maybe it was all a dream, and soon he would wake up.

Abruptly, he stood. The others made way for him. No one tried to stop him. Hand on his sword, he looked up towards the dome. Khord would be up there somewhere, with Severin and Sadila’s other captains, none of whom he knew. He leaned over and spat.

Is that envy or fear you feel?

He turned. He saw his own face leering at him from the shards of shadeglass in a nearby wall. Envy or fear? A simple question. Do you wish to be a captain again? Or do you fear what these others will decide?

Reynar looked around the courtyard, wondering if anyone else could hear it. But no one gave any indication. He moved away, trying to ignore it. Behind him, his reflection laughed. He touched his chest where his amulet hid beneath his hauberk. It was like a cold anchor, dragging him down. Or a shield, keeping the bad luck at bay. Not that it’s been much help, has it?

Another laugh. But this time, wracked with pain. Reynar almost turned, but didn’t. At first, he’d thought it was one of Sadila’s games. Now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she wasn’t his only enemy. Maybe she wasn’t the enemy at all.

Oh, she is. And you know it. There’s more to this. Things she’s not saying.

Reynar closed his eyes, trying to banish the taunting voice. When he opened them, he found his gaze drawn upwards. There were a number of onion-domed towers surrounding the core of the palaces. Most had been claimed by the Stormcasts for use as impromptu barracks. But one, he knew, belonged to Ilesha Dune.

His eyes found her tower and narrowed speculatively. The sorceress, like Khord and Severin, seemed to have the Katophrane’s ear. Dolmen didn’t trust her, and the others seemed to think she’d send daemons to tear them apart if they disturbed her. In fact, other than the Katophrane, she seemed to speak only to Khord with any regularity.

Good to have friends, he thought, and shook his head. Friends were just another sort of trap. But they could be useful. Decision made, he started towards the tower.

There was no door, as such. Not any longer. But a single Stormcast stood on guard, a heavy war-blade in his hands. The sheen of his golden war-plate was dulled, but his gaze was sharp and hard. Reynar knew him, though only by name. The others called him Sunblade.

‘No further,’ he rumbled as Reynar approached. ‘No one is allowed in Lady Dune’s tower without permission.’

‘It is fine, Darras. I’ve been expecting him.’ Ilesha’s voice drifted down from above. Reynar glanced up and saw the sorceress standing on a balcony that encircled the top of the tower.

Darras glanced up, and then stepped aside. ‘Enter. But be warned. I am close to hand.’

Reynar quickly stepped past him. He made his way up the spiral steps, into the domed upper chamber. The circumference of the room was lined at intervals by archways that led out onto the balcony. Curved roof beams made from the bones of some great beast stretched overhead. The interior of the chamber had been decorated with odds and ends of all sorts. A stack of slim books bound in gold-lined red leather. A rack of gleaming lenses and slim brass tubes. A shelf of skulls, each marked with a numeral and what he thought must be a date. A Stormcast’s helmet, broken and stained with dried blood. Various artefacts, many of shadeglass, lined a sturdy workbench situated along one wall. An iron orb studded with a variety of knives, no two alike.

Ilesha stood at the bench, a curious cube of shadeglass in her hands. She looked up, round features taut with fatigue. ‘Don’t mind Darras. He lost a friend recently.’

‘What happened?’

‘The city took him. As it takes so many. Souls are drawn into strange eddies and lost, sometimes forever. It happens.’

Reynar nodded, still looking around. ‘You have quite the collection.’

‘My researches take me down strange and varied paths. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’

‘You’re the one who said you were expecting me.’

‘I said so to prevent Darras from taking your head. Some of Severin’s followers are a bit… excitable. Half the time, I think they’re looking for excuses.’

‘Only half the time?’

She laughed and looked back at the cube in her hands. Reynar leaned forward. ‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘Some sort of toy?’

‘It’s a fractal maze. A prison, of sorts. Something left behind by the Katophranes to trap unwary thieves.’ She held up the square, and Reynar saw a diminished Stormcast in black war-plate trudging through a labyrinth of mirrored glass.

‘Is he…?’

‘Caught, yes. Trapped forever.’ She set the square down on the bench. ‘This is only one piece of it. I’d have to reassemble the whole maze to have any hope of freeing him.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I suspect that he’s not even aware of it. I hope so.’ She looked at him. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

Reynar made a show of studying a stack of books. Many of them looked to be cartographic journals. ‘What are these?’

‘Maps of the city. Answer my question.’

‘I was curious.’

‘About?’

‘What was it we found out there? Something important?’

Ilesha laughed. ‘She seemed to think so.’

‘Sadila, you mean?’

‘Who else would I mean?’ She looked at him. ‘Need to be quicker to survive here. This city will swallow you up otherwise.’

‘I’m aware,’ Reynar said. ‘What was it?’

She hesitated, as if wondering how much to share. Finally, she sighed. ‘A key.’

Reynar frowned. ‘Not like any sort of key I’ve ever seen.’

‘And how many types of keys have you seen?’

Reynar sighed. ‘Point taken. A key to what?’

Ilesha peered at him. ‘And why do you want to know? Are you planning to steal it?’ She went out onto one of the balconies, where a massive contraption of brass and dark wood rested on an iron tripod. She bent to the eyepiece and adjusted several of the strange knobs and levers that ran along its length.

‘I’m not a thief.’

‘You stole from the dead.’

‘The dead don’t have property rights.’

‘I know some who might argue.’

Reynar frowned. ‘You don’t care for me, do you?’

Ilesha looked at him. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘No one else seems to.’

‘Khord likes you.’ Ilesha held up a hand. Purple lights danced between her fingers. ‘And so do I. I don’t trust you, but I like you.’

‘I don’t trust you either.’

She smiled at him. ‘There, see? You’re fitting in already.’

Reynar laughed, though it was more for show. The thought of fitting in here sent a cold chill racing through him.

Ilesha bent back to her apparatus. ‘In answer to your question, I don’t know. I assume that’s what they’re talking about in her glass grove.’

‘Why aren’t you there?’

She sighed. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘How will I learn if I don’t ask?’ He spread his hands. ‘Humour me.’

‘I’m not there because Sadila didn’t ask me. Sadila didn’t ask me because she mistrusts magic. Or because she thinks of me as an artisan, and artisans don’t attend councils of war.’ Ilesha shrugged. ‘Katophranes are strange.’

‘Or maybe it’s because she’s worried you’ll figure out she’s lying.’

Ilesha frowned. Before she could reply, he looked at the spyglass. ‘What is that?’

‘A telescope.’ She paused. ‘A spyglass, of sorts.’

‘Never seen one before.’

‘They were quite common when I left.’

He leaned against the edge of the rail. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘A few months. Though that doesn’t matter. Time has no meaning in Shadespire. What seems like moments to one person can seem like hours to someone else. Years, even.’

‘That would explain some of the things Khord said.’ Reynar scratched his chin. ‘He said he got here a few months ago, like you, but I think he missed a few decades.’

‘Not surprising,’ Ilesha said, peering through her spyglass. ‘From my perspective, I suspect you’re from the past as well.’ She glanced at him. ‘Time passes differently in different realms. My theory is that Nagash tangled more than the architecture when he cursed this place – I think he twisted Shadespire through time as well. Now it sits at the centre of a vast web of shadeglass made from every piece there ever was or will be.’

Reynar nodded slowly. ‘It’s connected to every realm and every century,’ he said. The concept made his head ache and terrified him in equal measure. The pragmatic part of him wondered what it meant for his odds of escape.

She smiled. ‘From the moment the first Katophrane crafted the first piece of shadeglass to the moment the last piece is destroyed.’ She bent back to her spyglass. ‘This place is a mystery in more ways than one.’

‘It’s a nightmare.’

‘That too.’ She adjusted the instrument. ‘There’s no day or night here. Just eternal twilight, balanced on a knife edge. A single moment stretched across eternity.’

‘Very poetic.’

‘Mm. I used to enjoy poetry. Did you ever read Helmgwar’s Ode to an Undying Queen? Lovely.’

‘Never heard of it.’ Reynar looked up. ‘There are things swimming up there, in the dark. I’ve seen them. Huge things… bigger than any megalofin or harkraken.’

‘Yes. It’s rather like being in a reef, isn’t it?’ Ilesha said, turning her spyglass to the west. ‘We are the little things – the fish and worms that reside there. And those things – well, they circle and circle, waiting for a little fish to try to leave the reef.’

‘What happens then?’

Ilesha smiled. ‘I don’t know of anyone who’s ever found out.’ There was no humour in her expression. ‘But the reef is changing. There is less of it every time the tide goes out, and what remains is harder to recognise.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I have compiled five hundred and thirty-seven maps of the southern and western districts of the city in my time here.’ She gestured to the journals. ‘None of them are the same. Some are only off by a street or two. Others…’

Reynar looked at her in confusion. Ilesha stepped back from the spyglass. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Don’t speak. Just look.’

Reluctantly, he bent and peered through the spyglass. At first, all he saw was a shadow – shadows – in the sky, stretching away into the curtain of eternal twilight. Smoky reflections of the city from a hundred angles, jutting upwards and sideways and straight down. As if someone had punched a mirror and then set it aright without fixing the cracks.

The city itself, the city he stood in, crumbled away at its edge, like a clump of soil floating in a river. A smattering of debris drifted away from the main mass, caught in the cosmic current. Reynar wondered if there were lost souls trapped on those islands, and what their eventual fate might be.

Through the spyglass, he watched as streets unfolded and stretched out before curling back in on themselves, expelling clouds of will o’ the wisps into the air. He could hear the distant rumbling of this change. Towers swayed like fronds, and the buildings split like overripe fruit to reveal new shapes of stone and glass growing within them – things like great bones, or corkscrew turrets that bent in too many directions at once.

He felt ill, and stepped away from the spyglass, fighting the bile that burned at the back of his throat. ‘What– What is it?’ he said. ‘Is it Chaos-touched?’ He felt an itch in his chest, a sudden tickle of panic at the thought. ‘Are we… Is this place tainted?’

‘Yes,’ Ilesha said. ‘But not by Chaos. Nagash took this place, tore it from the realms and set it adrift between them. For centuries, it has floated here, in this nowhere space. And it has begun to change. To become something more than what it was. Something unrecognisable, even to the God of the Dead. Why do you think he watches it so intently?’ She pointed out across the city.

Reynar turned. A colossal statue sat crouched on the edge of the city. He could see it even without the spyglass. ‘Nagash,’ he muttered. The God of Death was easily recognisable. Indeed, the statue could be no one else. A shadow-wreathed titan sitting on a throne of obsidian, clad in ancient armour. The statue loomed over the eastern district, higher even than the tallest towers. ‘Who built such a thing?’

‘No one,’ Ilesha said. ‘It grew overnight, they say. The first night, after the curse had fallen but before the people of Shadespire had yet realised the full implications. There are more like it – smaller, obviously, but scattered throughout the city. Watching. Waiting.’

‘Waiting for what?’

‘For whatever is happening to the city to finish, I suspect.’

Reynar looked at her. She sounded too calm. Too composed. Perhaps that was simply the way sorcerers talked. ‘Which is what? What is happening here?’

‘I told you. It’s changing. Into what, I don’t know.’ For the first time, her voice faltered. ‘I doubt he knows either.’

Reynar looked back at the statue. For a moment, it seemed as if there were amethyst flames flickering in the sockets of that immense skull. Suddenly cold, he turned his back on the distant edifice and instinctively made the sign of the hammer.

‘You’re an Azyrite,’ Ilesha said, watching him.

‘I was born in Hammerhal. My parents were Azyrites.’ Reynar forced a smile. ‘My father was… a trader in used goods. My mother told fortunes.’

‘He was a thief, and she was a witch.’

Reynar shrugged. ‘If you like.’

Ilesha had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘My apologies. I did not think before I spoke.’ She paused. ‘I can see it in your aura. Like starlight on snow.’

Reynar frowned. ‘I have an aura?’ He didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not. The way she said it, either was likely.

‘All things do. The realms permeate us even as we spread across them. Our souls resonate with the place of their origin.’ She smiled. ‘Only those who know what to look for can see it, though.’ She tapped her robes.

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

She laughed. ‘I suppose it must be.’ She turned. ‘It won’t last. This place leeches such subtle colours from its inhabitants. It taints us. Eats us from the inside out.’ She sighed. ‘Not all at once, or even swiftly. But eventually. Inevitably. Even magic stops working after a time. That’s why I rarely employ it these days.’

Reynar felt a chill pass through him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Surely you can feel it – that chill in your bones. How quickly your laughter turns sour and your thoughts become gloomy. This place is where hope comes to die and potential is strangled in its cradle.’ Her composure cracked at last. He could see the weight of time bearing down on her, and the pain in her eyes.

He hesitated, at odds with himself. He wanted to reach out, but was unable to. It wasn’t simply that he didn’t know what to say. Friends were a trap, one he could not allow himself to fall into. Not again. Not here.

As if reading his thoughts, Ilesha smiled sadly. She looked down at the courtyard. ‘Even the Stormcasts, who glow so fiercely, grow dimmer with every failure, every death. Soon, we may all be no more than shadows.’

‘And that is why we must repair the Faneway and escape before this place devours us, body and soul.’ Sadila’s voice echoed suddenly around them. It resonated from every shard of shadeglass in the chamber. The Katophrane watched them through dozens of eyes, her smile wide and knowing. Reynar met her smile with his own.

‘My lady, have you decided, then?’ Ilesha asked.

‘Yes. You have identified the markings?’

‘I have. I can–’

‘No. You are too important to risk in the wilds. If you were to perish, all your work would be for naught. Khord will suffice as guide. He knows this city well. He has been here long enough.’ Sadila looked at Reynar. ‘You will go as well, sellsword.’

‘Go where?’

Sadila’s smile widened. ‘Why, the vaults of Kemos, of course.’

‘The vaults of Kemos,’ Zuvass said, tapping the crumbling map with a finger. ‘That’s where they will be going. And we must be there to greet them.’ He looked around the chamber, at Isengrim and the others in attendance. The Sepulchral Warden was there, as ever, and Hygaletes as well. Vakul was also present, and he was the one Isengrim watched.

Since their confrontation in the courtyard, Vakul had avoided him. Perhaps he feared a challenge, or perhaps he simply wanted to ensure that it occurred at a time and place of his choosing. Either way, he would not get his wish. Isengrim ran his thumb along the edge of his axe, studying the Blood Warrior. If Vakul noticed, he gave no sign.

‘If Sadila acquires the artefacts in those vaults, she will be closer than ever to her goal,’ Zuvass continued. ‘But if we can take them, we will have the advantage.’

Isengrim glanced around. The others – save Vakul – were nodding, as if this made sense. They sat around a heavy table that occupied the centre of the chamber at the top of the wall keep. The chamber looked out over the city and the darkness beyond through hundreds of circular apertures. Pillars laced with veins of shadeglass ran along the walls. Hand-carved statues of shadeglass representing bygone heroes or military commanders occupied the shallow niches between pillars. Beneath those statues, dead men stood silent sentry – skeletal warriors in service to the Sepulchral Warden.

The Katophrane, Mekesh, paced behind these guards, through the statues, as silent as ever. Mekesh rarely spoke. Indeed, sometimes Isengrim forgot he was even there. Perhaps the Katophrane was simply content to leave matters to his captains. Or perhaps he had less say in things than Zuvass had claimed. But as Zuvass spoke, he stopped, a startled look on his ghostly features. ‘You are certain, then, that she intends to raid the vaults?’

Zuvass nodded. ‘I am.’

‘It is forbidden,’ the Sepulchral Warden intoned.

‘Which is why I have no doubt you will be eager to stop her.’

‘How do you know all of this?’ Vakul growled. ‘How do you know what our enemy plans?’

‘I have my ways,’ Zuvass said. ‘And you should be well used to them by now, Vakul.’ He set his hand on the stack of weathered books that rose before him on the table. They were thin things, and so old that Isengrim was surprised they were still in one piece. ‘Or perhaps you are simply feeling belligerent because I didn’t ask your advice?’ He glanced at Isengrim, and the bloodreaver smiled.

Vakul snarled, an animal sound that caused the others to stiffen. ‘Talk, talk, talk – you are always talking. Always telling us the things you know, as if they are treasures. What does it matter if they go to some place and steal some thing? We shall take it from them regardless.’ Vakul turned, glaring at Mekesh. ‘I will take it from them. Let me attack!’

‘If you attack now, it will be for naught,’ Zuvass said before Mekesh could reply. ‘Sadila will escape, if her army does not simply grind you into the stones. Either way, we will have lost. No. Better to intercept the artefact and stymie her. Patience is the key to this war, foreign as that concept might be to one such as you.’

Vakul turned, eyes blazing. ‘I was not speaking to you.’

‘But I was speaking to you.’ Zuvass crossed his arms. ‘You have been quite vocal in your complaints of late, Vakul. And after all that we have done for you.’

‘Done for me? What about what I have done for you?’

‘Remind me what that was, exactly?’ Zuvass laughed. ‘Besides cower behind our walls, taking up space, I mean.’

Vakul snatched his goreaxe up off the table and rose to his feet. Isengrim smiled and stood as well. Vakul glanced at him. He saw it now, the trap he’d fallen into. ‘Huh. Is that how it is, then?’ he growled.

Isengrim set his feet. ‘Is there any other way it could be?’

Vakul’s reply was a wordless roar as he leapt onto the table and over, goreaxe raised. Isengrim quickly stepped aside. Vakul was stronger, even half-crippled. But not faster, not weighed down as he was by war-plate. That was Isengrim’s only advantage, and the only one he needed. As Vakul’s axe bit into the floor, Isengrim turned, bringing his own down, not on his enemy’s flesh but the haft of his weapon.

Vakul stumbled, his good eye widening. Isengrim bulled into him, driving him back. The only way to win a fight with one of the Blood God’s chosen was to do so quickly, before the god’s breath filled them and sent them into a red fury.

Isengrim avoided Vakul’s groping hand and sank his axe into his opponent’s unarmoured leg, shattering his knee. Vakul stumbled against the table, eyes bulging, teeth snapping. He roared and shoved himself at Isengrim, seeking to throttle him. Isengrim twisted aside and buried his axe in a gap in Vakul’s armour, drawing blood. Vakul roared and backhanded him, knocking him sprawling.

Head ringing, Isengrim scrabbled to his feet. He could taste blood, and he smiled. Vakul lunged for him again, but awkwardly, hampered by his ruined knee. Isengrim caught him on the left, his blade biting into damaged war-plate, tearing it open. Vakul grabbed Isengrim’s head and began to squeeze. The world started to fray at the edges.

Isengrim wrenched his axe free in a wash of red and rammed it up, into the gap between Vakul’s chest-plate and helm. Vakul released him and tottered back, gagging. Isengrim ripped the weapon free and slammed it home again, harder this time. Bone crunched and gave way. Vakul fell, choking on his own curses. Even with his neck opened to the bone, he still struggled to rise.

Isengrim raised his axe. ‘I claim this skull in Khorne’s name,’ he roared.

It took two more blows to remove Vakul’s head entirely. When Isengrim had finished, he sank down and dragged it towards him. He looked at Zuvass. ‘It is done.’

‘And magnificently.’ Zuvass looked around. ‘I trust no one has any objections?’

‘Was that necessary?’ Mekesh asked softly. ‘Vakul bled for our cause.’ He did not sound angry so much as sad. Isengrim sneered and pushed himself to his feet.

‘And now he has died for it,’ Zuvass said. ‘I take no pleasure from it, but he was becoming dangerous, Mekesh. Soon, he might have taken his warriors and left – though not before trying to kill us all. We couldn’t allow that, could we?’

Mekesh frowned. ‘Perhaps not, but he was right about one thing. This scheme of yours seems overly complicated. It is a tangle of circumstances.’

‘All necessary, I assure you, my friend. I see the path ahead all too clearly.’

Mekesh studied him. ‘I, too, once thought I could see the future. I spoke to daemons. Many of us did.’ His voice grew vague, forlorn. ‘And for our crimes, Nagash tore us from the heart of Shyish. And only by showing that we are truly repentant will he allow us to depart this vale of sorrow.’

Isengrim laughed again. He could hear the skeletal guards tensing, their bones scraping, and knew that for all their silence, they could hear just as well as a living man. The thought only made him laugh harder.

‘Silence,’ Mekesh said. Then, more loudly, ‘Silence, barbarian.’ For the first time, there was a hint of emotion in his voice.

Isengrim choked back his laughter and shook his head. ‘You are fools. All of you. Fools and worse than fools. The Lord of Bones forgives nothing, forgets nothing. He holds fast to his grudges and uses them to whet his blade. This I know, for I have shed blood by the bucket in the sandy wastes of his realm. He is a mad god.’

‘Blasphemy,’ the Sepulchral Warden said. There was no emotion in the utterance, no heat. A simple statement of fact. Isengrim turned, smiling savagely.

‘He is not my god, jailer.’

‘He is the god of all things, brother,’ Hygaletes said. The sellsword’s voice was infuriatingly mild, as if he were correcting a child. ‘Nagash is all, and all are one in him. All men eventually bow to him, for he is reaper and scythe’s edge in one.’

‘Nagash is all,’ the skeletal warriors intoned. ‘All are one in Nagash.’ The words echoed strangely, reverberating up from within their gaping ribcages to rattle outwards.

The Sepulchral Warden stood and levelled his great spear at Isengrim. ‘There is only one god here, barbarian. One god, one name, one power. All who are blind to it must be made to see. All who resist must be broken. All who seek escape must be contained. Only then will the Undying King cast wide the gates of light and shadow and gather the penitent to him.’

Zuvass spoke up before Isengrim could reply. ‘And so he shall. I will see to it personally, my Lord Warden. Of that, you can be sure.’ He gestured curtly to Isengrim. ‘Come.’

Isengrim followed, but only after bestowing a glare of challenge on the others, to remind them that he would not be easy meat like Vakul. As they left, he said, ‘I could have killed Vakul at any time. I should have done so sooner.’

‘Do you think Khorne will frown on the manner of his death?’

Isengrim shrugged. ‘A death is a death. But why here?’

‘They needed to see him die. There are currents to this you cannot perceive. The Sepulchral Warden is only here because Mekesh has sworn to aid him. If he thinks Mekesh has nothing to offer, he will depart and take our army with him. Or worse.’

‘I do not fear him.’

‘You should. He is the hand of Nagash, at the throat of the Katophranes. Most avoid him, or hide from him. But some seek alliance with him, or to destroy him. Sadila is one of the latter. That he still exists at all is a credit to his power.’

‘The power he has been granted, you mean.’

Zuvass gestured dismissively. ‘One and the same. Mekesh is a weakling, a minor Katophrane of no import and little influence, as you have no doubt discerned already.’

Isengrim smiled. ‘He is your mask.’

‘Yes. But he is an acceptable mask to a traditionalist like the Warden. So long as he proves an asset, at least. So long as he has resources.’

‘Like my warriors.’ Isengrim gestured with Vakul’s still-dripping head. ‘Am I merely to replace Vakul for you? Or is this part of some greater scheme?’

‘I told you – we are preparing for war.’

‘We have warriors,’ Isengrim said as he tucked Vakul’s gory locks into his belt. He would need his rival’s head as proof of his right to lead. ‘We have an enemy. What more is there?’

‘Not enough warriors. Not yet. And our enemy is cunning – she was a famed duellist, you know, in life. She relishes a challenge. We must be clever. The pieces must align just so, or victory will escape us.’

‘Us, or you?’

Zuvass looked at him. ‘A surprising insight from a man who files his teeth.’

Isengrim grinned. ‘I am not a fool. I know what auguries are. I know there are men who can see the future stretch ahead of them like a moonlit path, if they have the trick of it. I am not one, but Mekesh seems to think you are.’

‘And what do you think?’

Isengrim looked away. ‘I think the path you follow is a twisted one, and of no interest to me save that it takes me to my quarry. He will be there?’

‘Yes.’

Isengrim growled. ‘A certainty?’

Zuvass shrugged. ‘Nothing is certain. Time and memory are funny things.’

‘Then you have seen it – you have seen me take his head.’

Zuvass paused for a moment. ‘Yes.’

Isengrim nodded. ‘Good. It is good to know this.’ He ran a thumb along the edge of his bloody axe. ‘Let us go. Khorne is impatient, and I would give him what he demands.’

Chapter eleven

VAULTS OF THE KATOPHRANES

In many ways, the Katophranes of Shadespire were much like the rooklings of Helstone. Like those tiny birds, they made their nests out of whatever caught their fancy. And they protected them just as fiercely…

– Palento Herst
The Architecture of Southern Shyish

Reynar brushed a flapping curtain of rotting silk aside, revealing the narrow street ahead, and stepped beneath the archway. He blinked dust from his eyes. It felt as if he were covered in cobwebs, but he knew there was nothing there and he resisted the urge to scrape at his face and hands.

Glass crunched beneath his tread. It dusted the path like new-fallen snow, crushed into infinite particles by the passage of centuries. It gleamed in the dim light, the glow of will o’ the wisps bouncing from one fragment to the next until the whole of the way ahead seemed lit up from beneath.

It was growing in the corners and crannies. Great, fungoid masses of glass. Shimmering, faceted blisters clinging to crumbling brickwork. It was as if the whole city were being consumed by itself. He caught his reflection in a glistening scar and stared for a moment as the facets pulled his face into a wide, inhuman leer.

He shook his head and turned away. Bodies moved around him. He could hear whispered conversations and the clank of weaponry. The expedition to the vault of Kemos was going slowly. Rather than a small group, Sadila had insisted on a more substantial undertaking. A show of force, she’d said.

Reynar wondered who it was for. Not the pale, insubstantial ghosts that flitted through the canyons of glass and stone, he thought. Maybe for the dead things who hid from them as they passed, or the phantom echoes of Katophranes glaring at them from the pillars and plinths of shadeglass lining their route. A ruler’s procession through conquered territory – that’s what it reminded him of.

He looked around. There were two dozen of them this time. Dolmen was among them, and Tirax. Bolas as well, and a number of others he only recognised in passing. Leading the way were a dozen Stormcasts headed, unsurprisingly, by Severin. This expedition was too important to leave in anyone else’s hands. While the Liberator-Prime would occasionally consult with Khord on the direction they were going, he otherwise ignored the mortals trailing in his wake.

‘What was Kemos, then?’ Reynar murmured. He walked alongside Khord at the head of the party, just behind the armoured vanguard. Around them, striations of glass rose along oddly curved walls, making the path seem wider than it really was. Thick curtains of cobwebs stretched across it in places, and foul water ran in silent rivulets through cracks in the street, growing into rushing streams that fell away suddenly, pouring into lightless depths.

‘Not what. Who.’ Khord sniffed. ‘A wonderworker. An artisan. He made things for the Katophranes. Ilesha knows more about him.’ He looked around. ‘Wish she was here. Handy thing to have around, a sorceress.’

‘Sadila doesn’t seem to like her going anywhere.’

‘I don’t blame her,’ Dolmen muttered from behind them. ‘That witch is the only one that has any idea how to make use of what we scavenge.’

‘Unless Sadila is lying,’ Reynar said quietly. Khord prodded him.

‘Keep that kind of thing to yourself, manling. Especially in mixed company.’

Reynar nodded, but he could almost see the wheels turning in Khord’s mind. The duardin was no fool. He had his own doubts as to the reliability of their host. Reynar wondered what it would take to push him from doubt to action.

The path fell away from them suddenly, descending in an uneven slope. Water poured down it, running between mossy flagstones. Mushrooms the colour of bone bristled in unsightly patches. The Stormcasts led the way downward, while Reynar and the others followed more slowly.

Startled vermin scampered away, screeching, as the heavily armoured warriors reached the bottom. ‘So how do we know for sure that this vault holds anything of value?’ Reynar asked as he slid down the debris-strewn incline. He stepped on one of the mushrooms and it released a high, thin sigh as it deflated, causing him to jump slightly. Bolas and the others laughed, and Reynar glared at them, but said nothing.

Angharad glanced at Reynar. She and another Liberator, Golius, had remained close to the mortals while the other Stormcasts ranged farther ahead. He wondered whether it was for their protection or to see that they did not attempt to flee. ‘Did you question your orders in the Freeguild, mortal?’

Reynar stumbled and caught himself on a slanted pillar. Stone crumbled beneath his hand, eaten away by some grey-green mould. He grimaced and rubbed his hand on his cloak. ‘No. But I’m not in the Freeguild anymore.’

She made a dismissive noise and turned away. Reynar looked at Khord, stumping along beside him. The duardin grinned, showing off his golden teeth. ‘We’ve got artefacts to acquire, manling. Things our host needs if she’s to break the curse that holds us here.’

‘So she says.’ He glanced around, trying to orient himself. This part of the city looked almost familiar, but everything was off slightly – a skewed reflection of the ruin in the desert. The way the street narrowed and widened at random, as if the two sides were locked in battle. The way some buildings hung so close together that they formed a roof of high balconies and walkways over his head. Had he been here before? He glanced down a side street and saw a familiar formless statue standing watch atop a high plinth.

‘The Gloaming Path,’ he murmured. Only it wasn’t. Not the one he remembered. The stones around him felt… hostile, somehow. As if they wanted nothing more than to grind him to powder.

‘Where is this vault, anyway?’ he asked, more loudly than he intended. ‘Feels like we’ve been walking for days.’

‘I thought you were a treasure hunter,’ Khord said. ‘Where do you think it is? Below the city.’

‘Where the petitioners intend that they stay,’ Bolas said.

At his comment, a murmur swept through the others. Hands tightened on weapons and eyes swept the ruins, as if the Aqshian had summoned something with his words. Reynar looked around, acutely aware of his own ignorance.

‘The who?’ He remembered the word – Khord had used it before.

‘Katophranes,’ Khord said.

‘The petitioners are mad,’ Severin growled from up ahead. Obryn marched stolidly at his side, and the other Stormcasts were spread out in a loose wedge. Like the tip of a spear. Reynar knew the tactic – had even seen it first-hand. The Stormcasts could punch a hole in the enemy battle line, allowing the Freeguild to advance through the gap. Reynar wondered what sort of enemy the Liberator-Prime was expecting.

‘Mad how?’

Severin glanced back. ‘They seek the forgiveness of an unforgiving god, and it has driven them mad. They collect shadeglass to keep it from those seeking to repair the Faneway, and use it to raise monuments to Nagash.’

‘Like us, you mean.’ Reynar shook his head. ‘And are there many of these petitioners?’

‘More than you’d think,’ Khord said. ‘Lucky for us, they don’t work together often. And they rarely stray from their own territories. Even here, mortals interpret their god’s will in different ways. And not just Nagash’s worshippers.’

Reynar glanced at Dolmen, who was muttering prayers over his hammer amulet as he walked. Then he looked around at the others. Dolmen wasn’t the only Sigmarite, but the others were of different creeds and there was little similarity between them, save in the object of their veneration. He touched his hauberk and felt the amulet hidden there.

‘I haven’t been in a Sigmarite temple in years,’ he murmured.

‘Pah. What does that matter now?’ Khord’s smile was unpleasant. A shadow of an old pain crossed his face, and he looked away. ‘Sigmar seeks dominion wherever the light of the stars might fall.’ He gestured to the Stormcasts. ‘But look around you. Where is his light now? Look at his warriors – they are not saviours, manling. They fight for a god’s dream, even in this city of nightmares. You and I, we fight to survive. For our comrades, for gold. The tangible.’ Khord tugged on his beard and shook his head. ‘The wise trust neither gods nor dreams, for they are like smoke.’

Reynar laughed. ‘I chased a dream of wealth across a desert and wound up here. Perhaps I am not as wise as I thought.’

Khord chuckled. ‘Aye, there is that.’

Out in the dark, something screamed. Severin jerked to a halt. At his gesture, the other Stormcasts spread out, weapons ready. Reynar and the others waited. More screams echoed, yelping, bestial cries that spiralled up and out. Reynar peered into the dark, trying to determine the direction they were coming from. He was reminded of the Hexwood and the horrors his regiment had faced there. Beastkin and daemons drawn from shadowed bowers to hurl themselves onto Stormcast shields and Freeguild blades. Shadespire was a forest as well, albeit of stone. And with darker shadows by far.

More cries now, coming from all directions. ‘A pack of them,’ Dolmen muttered. He lifted his rifle and sighted down the barrel, seeking a target.

‘A pack of what?’ Reynar asked, sword half drawn. He caught a glimpse of something in the dark. His own face, reflected back at him. It was smiling. He looked away hurriedly, not wanting to hear what it had to say this time.

‘Nagash did not trap only men here,’ Angharad said darkly. ‘He cast a net over a moment in time and caught more than just mortal souls.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Reynar asked. He felt a chill. ‘Daemons?’

‘Aye, and worse besides.’ Khord looked around warily. ‘We are in the deep darkness, manling, where beasts of all sorts prowl.’ He picked up a shard of glass from the ground and held it to his eye. Through its facets, his face became distorted and almost monstrous. ‘Not just things of spirit, but of flesh as well.’

‘Sorcerers of all sorts use shadeglass in their rituals,’ one of the others said. A tall man, with his head shorn clean save for a single thick scalp-lock bound in silver wire. He wore the battle-leathers of a Chamonian nomad and carried a horseman’s bow. ‘They draw forth the dead, or cast the living into this place.’ His scarred features were twisted up in an expression of worry. ‘There are horrors here that no man can stand against.’

‘That is why we are here, mortal,’ Severin said from up ahead. He looked back at them. In the half-light, the stern expression of his war-mask had become something malevolent. ‘We are not so fragile as you. Now be quiet. Voices carry too far in these streets.’

The nomad fell silent and looked away. Reynar frowned. For all that he disliked them, the Stormcasts he’d fought beside had never spoken so to their Freeguild allies. They had treated mortals as equals, whatever else. But these golden-armoured warriors seemed to regard others as little better than children.

After the last echoes had faded, Severin looked at Khord. ‘Which way?’

Khord grunted and sank to his haunches. He splayed one big hand on the stones and stared ahead. ‘The vibrations say south-west,’ he said after a moment. He hesitated. ‘Now it’s south-east.’ He turned, eyes narrowed.

Severin accepted this without argument. Reynar dropped down beside Khord. ‘It moved?’ he murmured.

‘Like a bit of ash bobbing on the wind,’ Khord muttered. ‘It happens sometimes. This city tries to swallow you. To lead you in circles.’ He stood and wiped his hand on his thigh, as if there were some residue on it. ‘South-east,’ he said again, more loudly.

Severin started forward, and the other Stormcasts with him. ‘Come,’ the Liberator-Prime growled. ‘We must find the vaults before others do.’ There was an air of determination to his words. Or possibly desperation. Reynar recalled what Angharad had said about why the Stormcasts had come to Shadespire. He wondered if Severin and his warriors had been led into this place by Sadila, as he had. Lured in to help her free herself. How many of those walking beside him had suffered a similar fate? And how many of them, like him, knew that they had intentionally been trapped here? He grimaced. A game, he thought. Just a bloody game.

Yes. And you must play it to the end.

He twitched as the voice echoed through him. He glanced to the side, at his reflection. For a moment, he thought it was looking at him. Leering at him. But it was only a trick of the half-light drizzling down from somewhere far above. His hand found his amulet. It had somehow sprung loose from beneath his armour and now bounced against his chest. He stilled it, and followed its strange curves with his thumb.

Somewhere above him, something cried out, either in hunger or fear. Not the same cries as before, though that was little comfort. It was followed by a trickle of eerie laughter that hung on the air like the sound of shattering glass.

Severin stopped again, one hand raised. Khord looked around, teeth gleaming in the shadows. ‘Hear that?’ he said. ‘The sound of dying, and close by.’

Reynar shook his head. ‘I hear nothing.’

Khord grunted. ‘Weak manling ears.’

Stung, Reynar strained to catch even a whisper of what the duardin was hearing. Sound travelled strangely in these streets. It ebbed and flowed with no regard for distance or volume. The sound of crashing stone became a susurrus, and the quiet murmur of a voice became like thunder. He heard stone grinding against stone, and the clatter of what might have been hooves. Abruptly, he felt the street twitch beneath his feet. He looked up and saw a nearby pillar swaying like a sapling in a breeze. Khord’s eyes widened. ‘Shardfall!’

Reynar lunged for cover, into the lee of a broken wall. The others scattered, seeking what shelter they could find. From far above them came the scream of shattering shadeglass, and a deluge of glittering shards pelted down. Thousands of fragments pierced the stones of the street, some splintering into even smaller chunks, others remaining improbably whole.

Glass dust filled the street, and Reynar could hear something screaming far away. And not just screams. He heard steel meeting steel and the hiss-crack of some strange weapon, as if they were occurring right beside him. It sounded like someone had taken advantage of the shardfall.

‘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.’ Severin 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.

Dolmen and many of the others had come to the same realisation. The Azyrite crouched to his right, rifle hugged to his chest, head bowed in prayer. Bolas and Tirax huddled to their left, hiding behind what was left of a statue. He glimpsed a few others nearby as well, hunkering down wherever they could find cover.

‘What is that thing? Some sort of daemon?’

‘It’s a war golem. The folk of Shadespire used to use them in battle, when the occasion warranted. Though I’ve never seen one quite that big.’ Khord peered over the pillar. ‘Or that shiny.’

‘That’s magic, isn’t it? That light?’

‘They were shrewd, those old Katophranes. They could make some devilish weapons when it suited them.’ Khord looked at him. ‘There’s a sun-stone in there or I’m an orruk.’

‘A what?’

‘From Hysh. A type of stone that sucks up light and heat. Folk used them as light sources, or to stay warm. But someone’s turned this one into a weapon. Clever.’ Khord slumped down. ‘That thing can turn city walls to slag.’

‘Do those things run out of light?’

‘Rarely. We need a plan. Maybe we can draw it off…’

Thunder crashed. Reynar saw a golden shape dart between the pillars, drawing the construct’s gaze. ‘Looks like Tomas has the same idea.’ The Vanguard-Hunter loped away from the plaza, and the construct followed – but only until it reached the edge of the plaza. It stopped, but continued to burn the ruins around it.

Khord thumped the pillar with a fist. ‘Curse it. It must be bound to the vault somehow.’ He shook his head. ‘Some geas preventing it from wandering off.’

Reynar looked at Khord. ‘We need a better plan. And quick.’ He heard a roar and saw Severin lead a cohort of Stormcasts towards the war golem while its attention was diverted. Blades and hammers struck the automaton as their wielders sought the weak points in its construction.

He spotted Golius as the Liberator attacked the war golem’s legs. It looked down, and a blast of heat enveloped the Stormcast. Golius screamed and staggered back, his armour glowing cherry red. He dropped his hammer and shield and clutched at his helm. Smoke boiled from the joins of his war-plate, and Reynar could smell meat cooking.

The war golem reached down and plucked the warrior from his feet. Grasping him in both paws, it tore him in half with ease. It cast the bloody pieces aside as it strode towards Severin and the others, who fell back before its advance.

Reynar watched, half-hoping to see the Liberator-Prime incinerated. But he knew that if that happened, they would surely be next.

Unless you run. Run like the coward you are. Flee and take your chances in the city.

Reynar closed his eyes, trying not to listen.

That’s what you do when the odds turn against you, isn’t it? You run. Except for one time. The one time you should’ve run, and you didn’t, and then… well.

Reynar thrust the heels of his palms into his eyes. Trying to rub away the voice. He looked down and saw his reflection grinning up at him from the shards of shadeglass scattered at his feet. Poor Bellam Gund. But somebody had to pay, didn’t they? And who was he really?

He stared at himself. Half his face was burned, teeth gleaming through the red-and-black mess of his cheek. Dying is for other men – isn’t that what you say?

‘Yes,’ he muttered.

‘We need to get it off its feet,’ Khord snarled, startling him. Reynar risked a glance. The war golem strode across the plaza, cracking stones beneath its heavy tread. Everywhere its gaze turned, stone and glass were reduced to smoking slag. The Stormcasts attempted to stop it, but Severin’s tactical acumen seemed to have reached its limit.

He saw the deadly gaze swing towards Angharad, who stood over a fallen Stormcast. She raised her shield. The beam enveloped her, light and fire spilling across the sides of her shield. She wouldn’t last long. Why didn’t she move?

She’s not a coward. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?

He shook his head, trying to ignore the voice. ‘And then what? It can still burn us to ashes. No. We need to shatter that eye. Dolmen!’ Reynar waved at the Azyrite, trying to catch his attention. Dolmen shook his head and hunkered down. Reynar cursed and crawled towards him. ‘Just how good a shot are you, Azyrite?’ he demanded.

Dolmen looked away. ‘I’m not risking being turned into a pyre to find out.’

Reynar caught him by the front of his coat and drew his knife. ‘If you don’t, I’ll cut your throat here and now.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Dolmen spat, trying to pull himself free.

Reynar pressed his knife to the Azyrite’s stomach. ‘Why wouldn’t I? People keep telling me that death means nothing here. You’ll come back, won’t you? So what are you worried about?’

‘That doesn’t mean I want to burn to death!’

‘Then make your shot count,’ Reynar growled, trying to drag him up.

Dolmen shoved him back. ‘I’ll need somewhere off the ground. I can’t get a good shot from here.’ He peered past Reynar and pointed. ‘There, that rooftop.’

Reynar turned. Dolmen was pointing to something that might once have been a stable, across the plaza. He looked back at him. ‘Can you make it?’

‘If someone keeps that thing looking away.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Khord said. He caught the top of the pillar and swung himself over. As he landed he sprang into motion, racing towards the far side of the plaza. The construct caught sight of him and turned, internal mechanisms grinding thunderously. The beam struck the ground and swept after the duardin, carving a smoking trench across the plaza. A moment later, the flagstones ruptured beneath Khord’s feet, hurling him into the air.

‘Up! Move, move, move,’ Reynar shouted. Dolmen started weaving through the field of rubble, followed closely by several others. Tirax and Bolas fell in behind Reynar as he started making his way towards Angharad.

The Stormcast saw them coming and lowered her smouldering shield. The stones had turned to molten slag around her, and her armour gave off oppressive waves of heat. Reynar stopped short, unable to get close.

‘Get back, mortal,’ Angharad said. She sounded pained. ‘This foe is beyond any of you.’

‘Beyond you as well, from the looks of it. We have a plan.’

Angharad pulled her feet from the melted stones. ‘It had best be a good one.’ She bent down to drag her fallen comrade out of the way. The Stormcast groaned. Hurt, but alive.

‘Better than trying to beat it to death,’ Reynar said. ‘We need to keep it distracted.’

Angharad nodded. ‘Easily done.’ She raised her hammer, signalling the other Stormcasts. Severin raised his blade, returning the gesture. The scattered Stormcasts began to regroup with startling precision. They moved quickly, axes and hammers striking. The construct crushed one to the ground with a fist and sent another skidding away.

Reynar heard Severin shouting orders, and the war golem swung around, away from them. ‘He’s turned it in the wrong bloody direction,’ he snarled. He looked at the others. ‘Come on.’

Bolas blanched. ‘What can we do against that?’

‘Something. Anything.’ Reynar leapt over a fallen statue, moving quickly, before Angharad could stop him. The others followed. The construct turned, sweeping its fiery gaze across the shields of the remaining Stormcasts, driving them back.

Reynar ducked beneath half an archway, sword in hand. Tirax moved up beside him, her blade held low, her veil of coins clinking. ‘We need to turn it so Dolmen can get his shot,’ Reynar said. Tirax met his gaze and nodded silently. Together, with Bolas following, they sprinted towards the war golem.

Reynar saw Angharad hurrying to cut them off. ‘We need to turn it,’ he shouted. ‘Turn it!’ The Stormcast nodded and slammed her hammer into the construct’s leg. Shadeglass cracked, and Reynar realised that the Stormcasts’ plan had been more effective than he’d realised – they’d been steadily creating weak points to attack. A slow whittling down of a seemingly unstoppable enemy.

‘There – hit the leg,’ Reynar called out. He skidded beneath the war golem’s arm as it turned. Another beam of heat struck Angharad’s shield as she tried to keep its gaze occupied, driving her back. Tirax gave a sudden ululating cry and thrust her blade into the weak spot. The construct staggered and oscillated its head, sweeping its gaze over her. She fell, her body wreathed in flame.

Bolas cried out and raced towards her, drawing the war golem’s gaze. Reynar tackled him to the ground as Dolmen’s rifle barked, and the sound seemed to echo a thousand times across the plaza. The automaton whirled, its beam playing across the plaza walls, causing them to crumble. Bolas shoved Reynar aside and crawled towards Tirax’s smouldering remains. Reynar stared after him, but only for a moment.

He caught Khord’s eye as the fyreslayer picked himself up from where he’d been flung. The duardin was bloodied, but in one piece. ‘We have to draw its eye back this way, give Dolmen another chance to shatter it,’ he called out.

‘Right,’ Khord growled. He spared a brief glance for Tirax’s remains before charging towards the war golem, bellowing at the top of his lungs. His maul struck the cracked area of its leg, causing it to stagger again. Its beam shot upwards for a moment as the oscillating mechanism spun.

Dolmen’s rifle cracked again. There was a sound like stone splitting, and the light flickered. Smoke abruptly boiled out from beneath the plates of the construct’s head. Then came the roar of internal mechanisms suddenly awash in flame as the head exploded in a gout of fire. The war golem stumbled drunkenly, smoke billowing from within it. Slowly, it sank to its knees. The plaza shook as it finally toppled forward.

Reynar slumped back against a broken pillar, panting as his exertion caught up with him. He looked towards Bolas, who still sat nearby. ‘Bolas, are you…?’ He reached out.

Bolas twisted away from him. The Aqshian was weeping, and singing softly in a dialect Reynar didn’t recognise. Khord caught Reynar’s arm. ‘Leave him, manling. They were lovers.’

Reynar looked at him, and then at Bolas. He shook his head. ‘She’s not dead, is she? Not really. That’s what you keep saying.’

‘But in this moment, she is. He may never find her again. And even if he does, she may not be the woman he remembers. So leave him to his grief. Just for a moment.’ Khord turned and raised his maul, signalling to someone.

Through the smoke, Reynar saw Dolmen trotting towards them, his face and clothes blackened with soot. ‘A good shot,’ Reynar said. ‘I guess you weren’t boasting after all.’

‘I ought to shoot you for letting that thing almost kill me,’ the Azyrite said. ‘You told me you would distract it.’

‘And so we did,’ Khord said. ‘Though it cost us Tirax to do it.’

Dolmen glanced over at Bolas and frowned. He made the sign of the hammer and murmured a brief prayer. Reynar looked away. Though the smoke hung thick on the air, he could see the heavy shapes of Stormcasts approaching.

Angharad was the first to appear. She glanced at Bolas, and then away. ‘You did well,’ she said. ‘A good plan.’ She looked back as Severin appeared. He stood over Reynar, his eyes narrowed.

‘You did this?’ he rumbled.

Reynar met his gaze. ‘You sound surprised.’

Severin grunted and turned away. ‘I am surprised that you survived.’

Dolmen laughed, and Khord swatted him in the stomach, causing him to double over, wheezing.

Reynar shook his head. ‘I am not surprised you did. Stormcasts always do. I have no doubt you’ll climb back to Azyr on a mountain made of our bones.’

Severin glanced at him, his expression hidden by his war-mask. But his eyes were slits. Reynar smiled, pleased that his shot had connected. ‘I want you to remember this next time, by the way. When you decide we’re chattel to be herded. We stopped that thing. Not you. Us.’ He tapped his chest.

Severin glared down at him. For a moment, Reynar thought he might strike. Then, with a harsh exhalation, the Stormcast turned and stalked away. Angharad made as if to follow, but stopped. She turned back. ‘You are a fool to antagonise him. He is trying to protect you. We all are.’

‘Then you do it badly,’ Reynar said. Khord grabbed his arm, but Reynar shook him off. ‘You got most of us killed, and for what? What’s in there? Do you even know?’

‘The Lady Sadila said–’

‘Oh, the Lady Sadila, the Lady Sadila,’ Reynar said. ‘The Lady Sadila is a ghost in glass, and probably insane.’ He pointed at her. ‘And you’re insane for believing anything she says. But maybe you can’t help it. I’ve never known a Stormcast that could think for themselves.’

Angharad stared at him. ‘Do you know why you hate us?’ she asked, her voice harsh. ‘It is because we do what is right, whatever the cost. We put ourselves between you and the world and ask for nothing.’

‘I didn’t realise you knew how to lie.’ Reynar stepped back. ‘You ask for everything, and when we can’t give it, you call us “mortal”, as if being mortal is a weakness and not simply the way it is.’ He slapped his palms against his chest. ‘I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be here. I want to be rich, living off ill-gotten gains in some great city where I’m never expected to strap on a sword and die in the name of a god I never really worshipped.’

‘Blasphemy.’

‘Truth.’ He looked around. Dolmen and the others were openly staring, perhaps in shock that someone had dared to argue with Sigmar’s chosen. He looked back at Angharad. ‘Do you know, there are some places where men put themselves into debt to obtain armour and weaponry, and band together under the banner of their chosen patrons before riding to war in Sigmar’s name? They hope to die so that Sigmar might pluck them from obscurity and reforge them in his image.’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘To my knowledge, none of them have ever been chosen. You ask everything of us and give very little in return.’

‘You have your life,’ she said.

Reynar hesitated, suddenly uncertain. He felt the others draw back from him, even Khord. The silence stretched until it was abruptly broken by a guttural cry. The sound echoed across the plaza. More cries followed, inhuman bellows that shook the stones. Reynar turned. ‘What is that?’

‘Urkaklad,’ Khord growled. ‘The orruks have come.’

‘Listen – orruks,’ Isengrim said, stopping. He crept through the ruins of the plaza alongside Zuvass and Ylac. His warriors spread out behind him, moving carefully. They had descended after the fall of the war golem. Isengrim’s impatience had nearly outgrown his control.

‘Right on time,’ Zuvass murmured. He turned. ‘They’ll be coming from the west.’

‘We should not have waited,’ Isengrim said, glaring at Zuvass. The thought of losing skulls already claimed in Khorne’s name to the greenskins was a frustrating one. Even more frustrating was the idea that Zuvass had known this would happen and had said nothing.

‘We can handle a few greenskins,’ Ylac said confidently.

Zuvass laughed. ‘It won’t be a few. Occasionally, two warbands will meet, and after the dust has settled, become one. Then that one meets another and the process repeats. Until…’

Isengrim frowned. ‘There’s an army.’ War cries echoed, and he felt his followers stir. He shared their bloodlust. They wanted to attack, to launch themselves into battle and fight until either they were dead or no foes remained before them. His grip on his axe tightened.

‘More a riot, but yes. It never lasts. Nothing ever does, here.’ Zuvass glanced at Isengrim. ‘The Sepulchral Warden does all that he can to prevent such consolidation of power, fearing that it will tip the balance. The city is a prison, and prisons require order. If he doesn’t scatter them, they inevitably turn on one another and split into smaller warbands once more.’ Zuvass’ hand fell to his sword hilt and he turned, looking at something over Isengrim’s shoulder. ‘But we don’t want that just yet, do we, my friend?’

Isengrim turned, and snarled in fury. Ylac and the others did the same, whirling, weapons ready, as they saw the dead men who surrounded them – dozens of them, almost twice their own number. Before he could accuse the Chaos warrior of anything, the Sepulchral Warden appeared from among the gathered dead, trailed by his silent champion and a skeleton clad in a tattered shroud, bearing a reaper’s scythe.

‘No,’ the Warden intoned. ‘Not yet.’ He stood like a statue, his spear at rest, his shield hanging loose on his arm. The only movement was the slow stirring of his cloak in the stale breeze. Zuvass nodded in satisfaction. He looked at Isengrim.

‘Mekesh has convinced our friend that it is necessary – that the orruks may be of use in the future. But it will not last. Once this affair is concluded, things will return to the status quo. Things always settle back into the familiar, in the end. Which is why we must move swiftly, and precisely, while we have his aid.’

Isengrim glowered at the dead man. ‘And what’s in it for him?’

The Sepulchral Warden spoke. ‘The orruks will be driven from this place. The vaults will be sealed. The key hidden.’

‘Key? What key?’ Isengrim turned back to Zuvass. ‘Why are the orruks here?’

‘The same reason we are. To see that our enemy does not claim what is in that vault.’

‘And what is in it?’ Isengrim growled.

‘Nothing that need concern you, barbarian,’ the Sepulchral Warden said. ‘You are meat. Here to do as meat must – fight and die. Only when you at last shed your ugly flesh for good will you know anything more. Only then will you know the truth of all things.’

‘Whose truth?’ Isengrim asked. ‘The God of Bones? What is truth to a digger of graves and a father to worms?’ He felt a thrill of anticipation run through him as the Warden’s champion stepped forward, dragging his heavy blade up. Ylac and the closest bloodreavers tensed, readying their own weapons. Around them, the petitioners rattled their bones. It sounded almost like laughter. Isengrim bared his teeth in a hard grin, glad for the chance to fight something at last. ‘Another dance, then, bag of bones? Shall I cast them further after breaking them this time?’

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, nearly 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.

Isengrim aided it, chopping through the orruk’s meaty wrist and severing his paw. The orruk bellowed and swung his blade at the bloodreaver’s head. Isengrim twisted aside and slammed the top of his axe into the greenskin’s face, shattering several tusks. The brute reeled back, disorientated, and Isengrim whipped his axe out and around, splitting the lumpen skull from crown to jaw.

‘Messy, but effective,’ Zuvass said.

Isengrim wrenched his axe from the twitching ruin of the orruk’s skull and turned. ‘Khorne cares not,’ he spat.

‘No, I suppose he doesn’t.’ Zuvass laid the gory length of his blade across his shoulder-plate. ‘That’s the last of them, at any rate.’

Isengrim saw that he was right. The orruks were dead – or as close as anything got in this cursed place. Skeletal warriors were positioned around the nearby mirrored columns and panes, spears levelled, waiting for possible greenskin reflections to appear.

Isengrim recalled the cannibal he’d killed and stared into the closest pane, silently urging whatever was within to emerge. Red still stained the edges of his vision. Khorne was not sated. Khorne was never sated. ‘Will they return?’ he growled.

‘Almost certainly. But they don’t always come out in the same place,’ Zuvass said, tearing a strip of ratty fur from a dead orruk’s cloak and using it to clean his blade. ‘And not always immediately. But they always come back.’ He paused. ‘We always come back. Sometimes even before we died.’

Isengrim spat. ‘To live and die and live again… that is Khorne’s gift to a warrior.’ He scraped orruk gore from his axe with his fingers and smeared the ichor across his bare chest to mingle with his own. ‘What of the bodies?’

‘They will be interred, or burned. Sometimes they get back up. It can get very confusing at times, what with dead men fighting their living selves.’ Zuvass looked around. ‘Worse, of course, is when you have to kill yourself before you arrive, or after you’ve departed. It makes one’s mind like a sieve, with memories sifting in and out.’

Isengrim stared at him in incomprehension. ‘What does that mean?’

Zuvass sheathed his sword. ‘It means, friend, that the next skull you present to your god might well be your own. I’d wager Khorne will be very appreciative.’

‘Only one skull matters to me at the moment.’ Isengrim started in the direction Sadila’s forces had fled. ‘He is close. I can smell him.’

‘Closer than you think.’

Isengrim spun to find Zuvass standing a sword’s length from him. The Chaos warrior’s hand was on his blade. ‘What?’ Isengrim growled. He lifted his axe, wondering if the time had come to take Zuvass’ head as well.

‘I said, he is closer than you think. Probably watching us right now, in fact.’ Zuvass gestured to the looming causeways.

Isengrim turned, his eyes narrowed. ‘Where? Which one?’

‘I’m not a seer, my friend.’

‘No? You act like it.’ Isengrim turned back and gestured with his axe. ‘You lay out schemes the way a spider weaves a web. One strand after the next. I grow tired of this, Zuvass. I grow weary of playing these games. If he is here, I will find him. I will kill him.’

‘You will not find him.’

Isengrim snarled, impatience bubbling over into frustration. ‘And how do you know that, if you are not a seer?’ He saw Ylac and several other bloodreavers circling, watching Zuvass warily. If Zuvass noticed them, he gave no sign.

‘Maybe because I have been here before and seen this same moment from a thousand directions. Maybe because I know that for all your skill as a killer, your quarry is equally skilled at the art of escape. Or maybe because I know that you are not an idiot, like Vakul. Things would be easier if you were. But you are not.’ Zuvass stepped close. Close enough to lose his head if Isengrim decided to swing his axe. ‘I have promised you your chance at his skull. And I always make good on my promises, my friend. But not here. Not yet.’

‘When?’ Isengrim demanded.

‘Soon.’

Isengrim considered Zuvass’ words. He could hear the truth in them, for all his distrust of the Chaos warrior. Behind Zuvass, he could see the Sepulchral Warden watching them, as if waiting for something. He realised that it wasn’t just the Warden watching, but every dead thing. All of them with eyes like amethyst stars, all with the same rictus grin. All watching. Waiting.

Ylac edged up behind him. ‘Say the word, my chieftain, and we will slay him.’

‘And in our turn, be slain by the dead,’ Isengrim said. He did not fear death, but what Zuvass had said about time made him hesitate. What if, in dying, he lost his quarry’s trail forever? He could not risk it. Not now. He lowered his axe. ‘There is time. And I can be… patient.’

Zuvass nodded. ‘I know. Now come. We have a vault to claim.’

Chapter fourteen

TREASURES OF KEMOS

The techno-artisan Kemos was among those who bent themselves to the task of defeating death. Creator of the infamous Mirrored Automaton, he was part of the great syndicate assembled to construct the Faneway Mirror…

– Hans Wath
Artefacts of Antiquity

‘Dead men and bloodreavers,’ Reynar said. ‘That’s an unexpected alliance, if ever I’ve seen one.’ He glanced at Khord, and the fyreslayer nodded grimly. They crouched within the shattered confines of one of the aqueducts that overlooked the plaza, slimy dregs of water lapping at their legs. Tomas stood behind them, keeping watch.

The aqueduct wound through the southern districts of the city, stretched like a serpent of stone atop its heavy pillars. It was a self-contained jungle of black vegetation and coarse fungus. Water dripped down from above, running in slimy rivulets through the cracks in the aqueduct’s roof. The sound of it made for a constant refrain. Reynar had a rag wrapped over his mouth and nose, but it did little to cut the smell. Neither of his companions seemed unduly bothered. They were probably used to it.

Far below them, the plaza was full of struggling bodies. The orruks were falling back, retreating the way they’d come. They left behind many of their own. Jubilant bloodreavers loosed howls of triumph, and Reynar felt a chill course through him. He wondered if his pursuer was down there somewhere. He hoped not. He had enough problems without some lunatic daemon-worshipper trying to gut him.

‘Aye, it’s passing strange,’ Khord growled. ‘Those bones – I know the Sepulchral Guard when I see them. And that tall one, in the iron and furs…’

‘The Sepulchral Warden,’ Tomas murmured. ‘Unusual to see him here, overseeing a minor skirmish.’ He paused. ‘Unless he learned someone was coming to open that vault and decided to prevent it.’

Reynar turned. ‘Who is – was – he? Someone important, I’m guessing?’

Khord spat and scratched his chin with his axe. ‘He used to be the Lord Marshal of this cursed place. Commander of her armies and enforcer of her laws. Now he’s just another puppet.’ He spat again. ‘Powerful, though. Still has an army, of sorts.’

‘Which is more than we have at the moment.’ Tomas turned, his hand falling to the axe that hung from his belt. ‘Come. We should go. If the Warden is here, then the eyes of Nagash are upon this place and we would do well not to let his gaze fall on us. Whatever lies in those vaults is lost to us. At least for now.’

‘Afraid, Azyrite?’ Khord said.

‘Aren’t you?’ Tomas turned and began to move back the way they’d come. Khord hesitated, but only for a moment. Reynar fell into step with the duardin as they followed Tomas. The Stormcast seemed tense.

‘He’s worried,’ Reynar murmured. Khord nodded.

‘He’s always worried. But this is different.’ He glanced back, frowning, as if he’d heard something. ‘If the Warden is joining the fray in such a fashion, things are changing.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘Here? Yes.’ Khord peered at Reynar. ‘Things aren’t supposed to change here, manling.’

‘Things change all the time here,’ Reynar protested.

‘But not like this. Not when it comes to people. That’s this place’s curse. We drift from Katophrane to Katophrane, alliance to alliance, but nothing ever changes. We die and live and die again. The curse is never lifted. But…’ He shook his head.

‘Maybe it’s a good thing. An opportunity.’

‘No. Most like, it’s simply some new deviltry. Sadila’s time might be coming to an end. It wouldn’t surprise me if the other Katophranes had thrown their weight behind the Warden and set him on her trail.’

‘Does that happen often?’

Khord nodded. ‘The Katophranes are like spine-crabs in a stone bucket. They’ll always pull one of their own down before they get too close to escape. And Sadila makes too much noise. She provokes the others – taunts them. If Severin were smart–’

‘Severin knows what he is doing,’ Tomas rumbled. ‘Sigmar is with us.’

Reynar snorted. ‘I doubt Sigmar even knows where we are. And if he did, I doubt he’d care.’

Tomas turned. ‘What did you say?’ he growled.

Reynar stepped back. A part of him – the wise part – wanted to apologise, or run, or both. Instead, he kept his mouth shut. Tomas took a step towards him. ‘Answer me, mortal.’

‘If he cared, would you be trapped here?’ The words slipped out before Reynar could stop them. ‘It seems to me that–ahgk!’ Tomas caught him by the throat and slammed him back, against the side of the aqueduct. Reynar gasped. The Stormcast’s grip was tight, not enough to crush his throat but just enough to make breathing difficult.

‘Sigmar is with us always. He sleeps inside the heart of every man. Should I show you?’ Tomas leaned close as he spoke, and there was lightning in his eyes. Reynar tried to twist away, but Tomas’ grip didn’t slacken. ‘If I plucked out your heart, what would I find, mortal? Would I find even a spark of grace?’

Reynar’s hand drifted towards his knife. A thick hand caught his wrist.

‘Let him go, huntsman,’ Khord said. He put his maul against the Stormcast’s chest and pushed him back a step.

Tomas looked down at him. ‘You would defend him?’ he asked doubtfully.

Khord shrugged. ‘We’ve shed blood together. And without him, more of us would have died down there. Including your fellow Stormcasts. I–hsst!’ He stopped and cocked his head, eyes narrowed. ‘Hear that?’

Tomas turned. ‘No. What?’

‘The dripping has stopped.’

‘What?’

‘The water, Azyrite. It was dripping. Now it’s not. Which means something is between it and… ha!’ Khord tore one of his throwing axes from his belt and turned, hurling it into the darkness. Something squealed in pain. A body tumbled from the cracked stones above, the axe buried in its verminous skull. Khord laughed and readied his maul. ‘Look, Azyrite, we caught a rat…’

An instant later, half a dozen black-clad skaven emerged from among the thick folds of fungus with shrill cries. ‘Protect-spare the man-thing,’ one – the largest – screeched, gesturing towards them. The creatures were shrouded by slime-encrusted cloaks, their snouts wrapped in ash-smudged bandages. Their blades had been stained with some dark oil, as had their fur. They raced forward, scrabbling along the walls and loping through the water.

Tomas released Reynar, who slid down the wall, coughing. He drew his axe and moved to meet the ratkin. Khord leapt forward as well, his first blow scattering the skaven. The creatures moved swiftly, encircling the warriors to separate them. But they ignored Reynar, as if he weren’t a threat. He shoved himself to his feet. They’d regret that.

He drew his blade as a skaven pounced towards Khord’s back. It screeched in anger as he interposed himself. The ratkin was not quite his size, but was monstrous for all that – a rat with the twisted limbs of a man. Its hairless tail snapped about like a whip as it slashed at him with frenzied skill. ‘Stupid-stupid man-thing,’ it shrilled.

Their blades met, and Reynar fought to keep from slipping on the slimy stones. The creature was fast – far faster than he was. But it seemed to be trying to avoid him rather than fight. He parried its next blow and snatched his knife from his belt. He stamped on its tail, wrenching it off balance, and buried the slim blade in the back of its skull. It jerked and died without a sound.

He ripped his knife free and turned to meet the lunge of a second skaven. He heard Tomas’ boltstorm pistol whine, and dropped low. The skaven tumbled past, greasy fur aflame, twitching in its death throes. Reynar saw Tomas standing some distance away, his weapon levelled. A third skaven hung nearby, pinned to the wall by the Vanguard-Hunter’s axe. The Stormcast studied him for a moment over the barrel before lowering the pistol.

Reynar heard Khord laugh. The duardin was using a skaven cloak to wipe the gore from his maul. Two more ratkin lay dead at his feet, their skulls crushed. The remaining skaven – the leader – was nowhere to be seen. Khord caught his look and nodded. ‘It fled. They always do when the fight turns against them. Sometimes even when it doesn’t.’

‘They were waiting for us,’ Reynar said, remembering what the creature had screeched as its followers attacked – something about protecting the man-thing. ‘Or did they follow us?’ Had it meant him? He sheathed his sword and knife and cast a wary glance around, wondering if there were any more of them close by. The most dangerous skaven were the ones you never saw.

‘Opportunistic vermin,’ Tomas said, dragging his axe free of the skaven’s body. The hunched corpse flopped down with a splash. ‘Looking for plunder, most likely.’

‘Yes,’ Reynar said doubtfully.

Tomas turned, as if remembering him. He grabbed Reynar by the throat again and held him. Reynar caught at his wrist. He could breathe this time, at least. The Stormcast stared down at him for a long moment, then released him. ‘You know nothing of Sigmar’s glory,’ he said softly. ‘You have abandoned him, in deed and soul, and are blind to his light.’

‘I fought at the Verdant Abyss,’ Reynar said, rubbing his throat. ‘I saw all I needed to see there. I saw Sigmar’s wrath, come down from on high. I saw it kill the enemy in droves – but too late to do us any good.’ He slapped his hauberk. His amulet dug into his chest. ‘We held the line and died standing. Where was Sigmar then?’

‘It is not for you to question him, mortal,’ Tomas said. ‘No man may know what is in the God-King’s heart. Especially not a coward and deserter.’

Reynar’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw it. Tomas stared down at him, waiting. Khord looked back and forth between them, his eyes narrowed.

Reynar let his hand drop. Tomas snorted. Reynar smiled humourlessly. ‘I’m no coward, but neither am I a fool.’

Khord chuckled. Tomas glanced at him, and then back at Reynar. He turned away with a growl meant to rattle bones. The fyreslayer smacked Reynar in the chest, nearly flattening him. ‘You’re a worthless wanazi, but you do know how to get under their skin. That’s worth keeping you around for a bit, at least.’

Reynar rubbed his chest. ‘Thanks,’ he said after a moment.

Khord grinned and turned away. ‘Come on, manling. We need to get back. Severin and the Katophrane need to know what we saw.’

As he followed the duardin, Reynar shot a glance back the way they’d come. He thought, just for a moment, that he’d heard a laugh in the darkness – as of someone enjoying a well-timed jest.

Shaking his head, he hurried after the others.

The vault was theirs.

Isengrim peered down into the cavernous interior, unable to see anything for the gloom. A strange odour emerged from within – a chemical stink unlike anything he’d ever smelled, harsh and stinging. ‘It smells like a magma-drake’s belly,’ he grunted.

‘Close,’ Zuvass said. ‘That, my friend, is the smell of progress.’ He gestured to a nearby petitioner. The skeleton clattered over, and Zuvass tore its arm off in a casually brutal fashion. ‘Thank you.’

He stripped a rag from a corpse, doused it in orruk blood and wound it about the twitching limb. He held it out to Ylac, who glanced at Isengrim. Isengrim nodded, and Ylac duly set his flint and tinder to the task. Soon, the makeshift torch was burning. It stank, and its glow was a sickly hue.

‘Orruk blood is highly flammable,’ Zuvass said. ‘Makes a wonderful explosive.’

‘I shall keep that in mind,’ Isengrim said. ‘What now?’

‘Now we go and find what they were looking for.’

‘The orruks, or the others?’

Zuvass looked at him. Isengrim shrugged. ‘Just asking.’

Zuvass laughed. ‘Come. I may need your blade. Who knows what other defences Kemos left to guard his treasures.’

‘Who was this Kemos?’ Isengrim asked as they descended the sloping shaft into the vault. The noxious light of Zuvass’ torch revealed curved walls of vitrified shadeglass. Blocks jutted at seemingly random intervals, giving the impression that the interior was in a state of motion. The hard black glass caught the light and stretched it in unsettling fashion, only adding to this sensation. As he looked around, it seemed to Isengrim as if innumerable shapes scattered and fled with the shrinking gloom, like roaches.

‘One of the foremost artisans of Shadespire, in his time,’ Zuvass said, letting the torch play about. ‘He designed many of its wonders before his untimely execution by Lord Hausa, Master of the Fourth House of Shadespire. Subsequently, many a Katophrane organised expeditions into the depths of the city, seeking his hidden vaults. Few were found.’

‘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 – what 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 failed.’

‘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.’

‘And what of the Katophrane himself?’

Khord grunted. ‘Well, we’d failed, hadn’t we? No patience for failure, these dead royals of Shadespire. Every time, they go a little madder. Lose a little more of themselves.’ He looked at Reynar. ‘It’s a game with no end, manling. There is no way out, whatever she says. There is no escaping this place.’

‘Then why bother with any of this?’

Khord sighed. In that moment, he seemed impossibly weary. ‘Because I am of the Vostarg Lodge, and I swore an oath. That it is hopeless matters not. Indeed, the oath which cannot be fulfilled burns twice as strong. I must do this thing, or die in the attempt. And if I do not die, then I must continue to try. Even unto the falling of the last star.’ He clapped Reynar on the shoulder. ‘I know your kind don’t understand such things, but my word is fyresteel. I will break before it does.’

Reynar couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘I’ve heard it said your folk hold their grudges as close as their oaths,’ he said after a moment. Khord peered at him.

‘Aye. It differs between lodges. My own folk are pragmatic sorts – break an oath to us, we’ll break your skull. Cheat us, we’ll take what we’re owed out of your hide. That is only sensible, after all.’ He smiled. ‘Not planning to cheat me, are you, manling?’

Reynar laughed. ‘No. I doubt I could, even if I tried.’

Khord roared with laughter and slapped him on the back. ‘Hold fast to those doubts and you’ll never go wrong.’ He lifted the jug. ‘Drink? It’s mostly vinegar and backwash, but it still has taste.’

‘Where did you even find that?’

‘These palaces have deep cellars. Some of them are even stocked. You can find all sorts of things if you’re willing to brave the vermin.’ Khord patted one of the fyresteel axes in his bandolier. ‘Which I am.’

‘Cellars? Do they go out of here?’ Reynar asked, with real interest.

‘They go everywhere.’

Reynar turned. Ilesha stood at the end of the causeway. She’d come upon them so silently he hadn’t noticed. She smiled thinly and gestured. Amethyst fire danced briefly on her palm, casting her face in a strange light, before it took on the shape of a crow and flapped out over the causeway.

‘This city is riddled with secret paths and mysterious tunnels,’ she said, watching the crow until it dissipated. ‘I think it adds new ones just to toy with us. I need to borrow your friend, Khord.’

‘Take him,’ Khord said, shoving Reynar forward.

Reynar stumbled slightly, and Ilesha reached out to help steady him. ‘What do you need?’ he asked as he stepped back.

‘I want to show you something.’

He followed her down the spiral steps, wondering what it was. Behind them, Khord began to sing again. They passed Stormcasts on guard, including Ilesha’s usual guard dog, Darras. The Stormcast glared at him as the sorceress led him up to her chambers. ‘I heard things got rather exciting today,’ she said.

‘Too exciting for my taste.’

‘Angharad mentioned that you were instrumental in preventing things from being worse.’ Ilesha glanced at him over the top of her spectacles. ‘It seems you have hidden depths.’

Reynar shook his head. ‘Someone had to do something.’

‘Khord thinks you were a natural. He likes you.’

Reynar frowned. ‘Did he say that?’

‘No, but I’ve known him long enough to know that he considers you an ally. More so than Severin or the others.’ She looked at him. ‘He is lonely. We all are. A new face is like coming across an oasis in the desert.’

‘Is that why you brought me up here?’

‘Maybe.’

Suddenly uncomfortable, he went to one of the piles of books scattered about her chambers and picked one up. There was a stylised rune stamped on the cover. ‘What is all this? Are these grimoires? Those fetch a pretty penny in Hammerhal.’

Ilesha took the book from him and set it carefully back on its tottering stack. ‘Histories, mostly. Some poetry. A few cartographic compilations.’

Reynar picked up another book from a smaller pile. ‘Ogwell Mancini?’ he sounded out. Reading and writing were skills he’d picked up haphazardly, and his grasp of them was somewhat tenuous.

‘An artist and student of architecture,’ Ilesha said. ‘This is his incomplete history of the city of Helstone.’ She took it from him and flipped through the yellowed, crackling pages. ‘There’s an entire chapter on trade between the great cities of Shyish. Helstone, Nulahmia, Caddow, Shadespire… even Nagashizzar.’

‘All those cities have been ruins longer than memory.’

‘Whose memory? Yours?’ Ilesha looked at him. ‘The past is an undiscovered country, and there are many who seek to explore it.’ She glanced down at the book. ‘There are many books on Shadespire, most of them absolute rubbish – collections of anecdotes and stories gleaned from traders and exiles. Palento Herst wrote a three-volume exculpation of the Katophranes, painting them as benevolent mercantile adventurers struck low by fate. Hans Wath wrote extensively about their advances in the art of automata and engineering, but it was mostly guesswork.’

‘And you have all these books here?’

‘Those and more. I didn’t come alone, you know. I was part of an expedition.’ She sighed and turned. ‘Most of them died before we came here. In the ruins.’

Reynar nodded in understanding. ‘And the rest?’

She didn’t look at him. Reynar didn’t press her. She lacked the arrogance he associated with her sort – that sense of superiority that came of learning the secrets of magics. He thought of what she’d said about the gloom, and wondered if maybe this place had beaten all the arrogance out of her.

‘Why come here?’ he asked after a moment. ‘What did you hope to find?’

‘I told you before – knowledge.’

‘What sort of knowledge?’

‘A good question.’ She set the book aside and turned to drag the cloth away from one of the objects on her workbench, a plate of shadeglass resting on a stand. ‘I meant to show you this earlier.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

She shrugged.

Reynar restrained a smile. She wanted someone to talk to, even if that someone was him. He hesitated, but curiosity compelled him to peer at the glass. ‘What is it?’

‘Just another piece of shadeglass, or so I thought. But look.’ Ilesha gestured.

Reynar squinted, trying to see what she wanted him to see. After a moment, the cloudy surface of the plate cleared somewhat, revealing a room – not a reflection, but a different place entirely.

‘Where is that?’ He glanced at her.

She frowned. ‘Glymmsforge, I think, going by the heraldry on the account books.’ She adjusted her spectacles. ‘It’s a scribe’s offices, I suspect. Ah – and there he is.’ A little man wandered into view, wearing dark robes. His fingers were stained with ink, and his tonsure was uneven. A spill of tattooed sigils fell across his cheek, and he carried a stack of account books.

‘How are we seeing this?’ Reynar asked softly.

Ilesha smiled. ‘No need to whisper. He can’t hear us. Or see us.’ She frowned. ‘Shadeglass has a multitude of properties, only some of which I understand. And the Katophranes aren’t forthcoming.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ The scribe had opened one of his books and begun to scribble. ‘So we’re watching him through a shard of shadeglass?’

‘Or a statue, maybe an amulet… something like that. He likely thinks it no more than a bit of decorative piffle.’ She paused. ‘But for us, it’s a window to a world we cannot reach. Sometimes, I think if I could just catch his eye, something might happen.’

‘Like what?’

‘Progress.’

Reynar moved up beside her. Without thinking, he reached out to the plate. As his fingers touched it, the scribe looked up. The man’s face paled and he fell back from his desk, his mouth wide in a silent scream. Reynar jerked his hand back, startled, and the image blurred and faded. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. How did he see you?’ Ilesha leaned forward, her face taut. ‘Why did he see you?’ She ran her hands along the plate then looked at him. ‘What did you do?’ Her tone was almost accusing.

‘You saw – I just… touched it.’

‘Touch it again,’ she said, suddenly intent.

‘I don’t think I want to.’

She picked up the plate and thrust it into his hands. He took it, more to keep it from falling than out of any desire to hold it. It felt cold, and his fingertips went numb. Soft things like bunches of cloth swam into view, and he heard a murmuring like water running over smooth stones. Slowly, something took shape – a face. Not some unknown scribe this time.

Ilesha saw his expression and put a hand on his arm. ‘You know them.’

‘Bellam Gund,’ he whispered, staring at the glass. The round face was cheerful, a boy with a bought commission, but not arrogant, no. Too kind, too kind by half for a soldier’s life, but getting less kind every day.

Until he stopped being anything at all. The voice – his voice – hissed through the back of his head. He closed his eyes, trying not to hear. Failing.

‘Who’s Bellam Gund?’

‘He was… a friend. We came through the ranks together. Made captain at the same time. Posted together.’ He turned away, his stomach churning. The image began to fade, only to be replaced by his own reflection. It was smiling at him. ‘He’s dead.’

And who killed him? Who put the knife in?

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I.’ He thrust the plate into her hands, not wanting to hold it anymore. He didn’t want to see Gund’s face, or his own. Especially not his own. He could feel her eyes on him, and knew she was going to ask questions he had no answers to.

‘These tunnels,’ he said flatly, hoping to distract her. He cast his gaze quickly about the chamber. He spotted the maps she’d made. Maps of the city. Maps of the palaces. Useful things. ‘Can you show them to me?’

She hesitated, peering at the plate. She sighed and set it aside. ‘Yes. Why do you want to see them?’

He looked away. ‘It’s always good to know where all the exits are.’

Isengrim was not in the mood to celebrate, despite their victory. He stood, glaring into the darkness beyond the broken walls of the keep, waiting for the next challenge to present itself. His axe felt heavy – sated. But it would be hungry again soon. Khorne would call out, and Isengrim would answer.

His quarry was somewhere out there. He could feel it, like an itch. It preoccupied him, and made him impatient. His warriors, on the other hand, were busy carousing. Celebrations were rare here. But there was orruk meat cooking on a spit, and blood-wine squeezed from the pulped veins of the fallen and spiced with the dregs of something found in a stagnant fountain. They needed neither to eat nor drink, but it would do them no harm.

Isengrim turned, watching as his bloodreavers celebrated. Nomads from the Caldera danced in wild circles, screaming out their victory song. Reavers from the Bitter Sea slapped together their weapons, keeping time. All had been drawn here by the Blood God’s will.

Warriors from a dozen tribes, from across the width and breadth of the realms, joined together in Khorne’s shadow. Freshly flayed skulls hung from makeshift trophy poles scattered about the keep’s courtyard – not all of them belonging to orruks.

Zuvass sat away from the fires, in leisurely consultation with a hooded, cloaked figure that Isengrim suspected was one of the Horned Rat’s duplicitous followers. The creature had skulked into the keep as if it had been there a hundred times before. Maybe it had. Zuvass had allies everywhere, it seemed.

As he watched them, fingering the edge of his axe, Hygaletes joined him. He had only rarely spoken to the little sellsword since Zuvass had introduced them. Isengrim had little time for pleasantries, and something about the small man annoyed him.

‘A great victory,’ Hygaletes said.

Isengrim grunted. Hygaletes nodded, as if he’d replied.

‘Yes, very great. The Sepulchral Warden is well pleased.’ Hygaletes gestured, and Isengrim saw the dead gathering beyond the bonfires of his warriors. He watched as the Sepulchral Warden and his coterie moved through the courtyard. Corpse-people fell onto their knees about them, clasping at tattered vestments and moaning entreaties. Something that might once have been a child wailed in a broken voice, and the Warden stopped. The dead man sank to one knee, leaning on his spear. His jaw clicked as he spoke softly to the huddled thing. A bony claw stroked the hooded head, and the child-thing’s wails quietened.

‘You are wondering what he says to them,’ Hygaletes said.

‘No.’

‘He tells them that this too shall pass. That their suffering will end. That Nagash cares for them, and that their punishment is just, and finite.’ Hygaletes bowed his head. ‘He tells them that though they pay for our sins, they will be redeemed in the eyes of the Undying King, eventually. Purged of the weaknesses of flesh and made one with death.’

‘They are weak.’

‘Yes.’ Hygaletes sighed. ‘They are as the Katophranes made them. And now, Nagash remakes them in his image. When the last piece of flesh has fallen from the last bone of the last citizen of Shadespire, then they will know peace. But the Katophranes will not.’

‘Then why serve one?’ Isengrim looked at the little man. ‘Why serve a fool damned by your god? What is in it for you?’

‘Hope,’ Hygaletes said. ‘Hope that Nagash will relent and forgive those who ought to have been the greatest of his servants. Hope that those who stray might return, and yet find solace in the black fields of Stygxx.’ He looked at Isengrim. ‘Even as you might, brother.’

‘Hope is for the weak,’ Isengrim said. ‘I am not weak. My solace is in rage.’

Hygaletes smiled genially. ‘Nagash has seen you, brother. He has set his mark upon you. And that is no easy thing. I know, for I bear it as well.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Every death I die is a gift and a burden. To see the glory of what awaits only to have it snatched away is maddening. But it is all in his name. I die and return so that I might lead others to holy death. That is my duty.’

Isengrim peered at him. The little man was infuriatingly placid. But the hilt of his blade was well worn, and he had a fighter’s scars beneath his mask of char and ashes. Perhaps his deaths had drained the ferocity from him, the way it had the skeletal warriors. Isengrim frowned at the thought.

‘If Nagash wishes to claim me, he may try at any time. I am no milk blood to fear his gaze. Let him test the edge of my axe, if he has the courage.’

Hygaletes grinned. ‘He comes for us all. He is the reaper, and we, the harvest. He collects us when our season is done. Have no fear – he will not miss you.’

Isengrim stared at him. ‘You are a strange little man.’

‘And you stink of blood and offal, brother. We are but as the gods have made us.’ Hygaletes patted him on the arm in an almost paternal gesture. ‘Come, I am about to read aloud to the others from the Canticles of Arkhan, so that we might discuss the philosophies of the Black One and find comfort in them.’

Isengrim shrugged him off. ‘No,’ he said curtly. He hesitated, and then inclined his head. ‘But may the Blood God accept your offerings when they come to him.’ He strode towards the fire where Ylac and the others sat, feasting on orruk flesh despite not needing to eat.

Ylac offered him a bone still heavy with green meat. ‘Hungry, my chieftain?’

‘No.’ Isengrim waved the bone aside. ‘Neither are you.’

‘No. But it tastes good, and tomorrow I may die. So why not eat?’ Ylac shrugged, and bit into the meat. Mouth full, he asked, ‘What did the carrion crow have to say?’

‘He is mad. They are all mad.’

‘I could have told you that.’

Isengrim grunted. ‘Good allies, though.’

‘Strong enough to fight, weak enough to kill?’

Isengrim nodded. In the smoky air, shapes took form, twisting and bleeding into one another. Sometimes they had faces, other times only an absence. They seemed to reach for him with stretched-out fingers that were the merest wisps of talons. He could hear them whispering, high and thin like the murmur of night insects.

Ylac glared at them. ‘What are they?’

‘Ghosts. They press close, here, like moths to a flame.’ Isengrim slashed out with his axe, and the closest phantasm dissipated like mist. ‘What do they want?’

‘To see one whom Nagash has marked with his attentions,’ Mekesh said, startling him.

Isengrim tensed, and Ylac turned, his glaive pointed at the Katophrane’s reflection in a jagged shard that jutted from the ground nearby.

Isengrim pushed his follower’s blade down and turned. Mekesh stared at him from yet another shard. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Come. Walk with me.’

‘Why?’

Mekesh stared at him, unblinking. ‘Do you fear me, bloodreaver?’

‘I fear nothing.’

‘Then walk with me.’

He followed Mekesh’s reflection through the broken mirrors that dangled from pillars and crumbled plinths to an open patch of waste ground near the inner wall. More fragments littered the ground here, like stalks of wheat. Embedded in the stones, they rose higher than Isengrim’s head. The splintered ends seemed to be sprouting new shoots of glass that would grow and spread in time. As Mekesh walked through them, his image bent and stretched to fill them. ‘You are impatient,’ the Katophrane said. ‘Vakul was as well.’

‘Vakul is dead.’

‘For the moment.’

Isengrim stopped. Mekesh turned, smiling slightly. ‘You didn’t think of that, did you?’

Isengrim grunted. ‘It doesn’t matter. I will kill him again if he comes for me.’ He looked around. They had come farther than he’d thought. The courtyard had not seemed so large, earlier. But the fires were far and the sound of revelry was muted, as if the night had swallowed them up. ‘You wish to speak, then speak.’

‘Why did you come here, bloodreaver?’

The question took him aback. ‘I was led here. You know this.’

‘No. Why come to Shadespire at all? What drew you here? Not wealth, I think. Was it simple bloodlust? Or something else?’ Mekesh’s features seemed to flow like mist, but his eyes remained the same. His gaze held Isengrim and pierced him through.

‘A dream,’ Isengrim said after a moment.

‘I dreamed, once. I drank the wine of dreams and gave myself over to monstrous revelry.’ He traced symbols on the glass, but Isengrim could not tell what they meant. ‘I went to war with forbidden secrets and attempted to divine the nature of the realm. I sought a new god to replace the old. But what I found was no god at all. Or perhaps it will be, millennia hence.’

‘I do not understand.’

The Katophrane continued as if Isengrim hadn’t spoken. ‘Frightened, I abandoned my revelries. But the damage had been done. One crime too many, and the heap becomes overbalanced.’ Cracks formed around Mekesh’s hand, spreading outwards in all directions.

‘I fear nothing. Khorne called to me, and I will answer him.’

‘Why do you think Khorne sent you after that skull you so covet?’ Mekesh peered at him, unblinking. ‘Why that one? Why not another? What is so special about this man you chase?’

Isengrim shrugged. ‘Who can say why the gods choose any man? Maybe he has committed a crime, and Khorne demands his punishment.’

‘Or maybe he will commit a crime. The gods are not as mortals. They do not drift along time’s river, but instead are as the water itself. Everywhere and nowhere at once.’ Mekesh smiled, but Isengrim thought it was more a grimace. ‘Maybe this man will do something in days to come that Khorne hopes to prevent.’ He laughed. ‘Thus do the gods punish us all for deeds not yet done. Even you.’

Isengrim blinked. The cracks around the Katophrane’s hand had formed the shape of a skull – not a man’s skull, but that of a god. That of Nagash.

He growled softly, and Mekesh looked at him. ‘You feel him, don’t you? Here. Like a pressure at the base of your skull.’ Mekesh gestured to his head. In the firelight, his face seemed almost fleshless. ‘It weighs you down, like stones placed upon an unquiet grave.’

‘I am not dead yet.’

Mekesh smiled. ‘No.’ He fell silent, gazing at the distant fire.

Isengrim glanced at Ylac and the others, preoccupied by their celebrations, and then moved closer to the Katophrane. ‘What do you mean, that he has marked me?’

Mekesh’s eyes remained fixed on the fire. ‘Nagash marks us all, in his way. He sees all. The dead are his eyes. What we observe, he observes.’

Isengrim’s lip curled. ‘And he observes me.’

‘For the moment. Zuvass speaks highly of you.’

‘He acts as if we are friends.’

‘Perhaps you are. He speaks much the same to me, though I know it is a lie.’ Mekesh shivered slightly. ‘He is a lie.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘He killed me.’ Mekesh looked at him. ‘He is why I am here, behind glass, rather than bone or rotting meat. He came upon me that day, the last day, as I prayed to the god I glimpsed in the dark, and he spoke in a tongue I did not then understand. And he slew me.’ He touched his chest. ‘At least, I think it was him. At first, I was not sure, but now, I think so.’ He turned, staring into the depths of the glass, at something Isengrim couldn’t see. ‘My mind is torn and tattered. Strange images take shape in the lightest breeze. His face – smiling. Wide and grinning, like a skull, but not clean. A daemon’s leer.’

‘Then why do you allow him to serve you?’

A startled expression passed across Mekesh’s threadbare features. ‘I thought you understood. He doesn’t serve me. I… I…’ The Katophrane trailed off, his lucidity slipping away like a morning fog. He stepped back, as if suddenly remembering somewhere else he had to be, and was gone before Isengrim could speak.

Isengrim turned, wondering what had startled him. Looking at several of the great pillars that dotted the courtyard, he realised that motes of amethyst light danced in their cracks. With painful slowness, the stones of the three closest pillars creaked and shifted. Dust sifted as the columns wrought themselves into death’s heads – no. The face of death itself. Nagash. Isengrim shrank back instinctively and raised his axe. The transmogrified pillars glared at him knowingly. Three sets of jaws moved, cracking and dislodging loose sections of stone. No words came out, but Isengrim felt the Undying King’s voice nonetheless.

I… see… you…

The ground beneath his feet cracked and split. Sections of stone thrust upwards all around him, like the talons of some buried giant.

‘I see you as well!’ Teeth bared, Isengrim attacked the closest transformed pillar. Behind him, he heard cries of alarm as Ylac and the others noticed his peril. His blows left massive gouges in the stones, and the god’s face twisted at the provocation. The stones rising all about him began to draw close, as if to grasp him, as the other two pillars bulged in odd ways, as if they might sprout new limbs. Nagash’s faces thrust outwards, stretching towards him, eyes blazing. Wild now, he turned, chopping at them. ‘My soul is Khorne’s,’ he howled.

‘Louder. He didn’t hear you.’

Zuvass stood nearby, watching. The Chaos warrior stood at his ease, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His other hand was extended, blocking Ylac’s path. Isengrim cursed as the ground heaved beneath him and he was knocked to one knee. Nagash was still speaking, his black voice booming through the dark places of Isengrim’s soul.

The god of red fields has no power here… His axe finds no flesh… Only I see you…

Isengrim howled again, trying to keep his courage. Coldness filled him, damping the fires of his fury. Stones dug into his flesh, and he thrashed in pain. Then they fell away. He staggered, and saw Zuvass, blade in hand, easily shattering the twitching stones. Isengrim lurched around and flung his blade towards the pillar.

‘Wherever blood flows, Khorne waits,’ he roared. The axe sank into the stone, and Nagash’s face collapsed in on itself as the pillar toppled.

‘Feel better?’ Zuvass asked as the last of the stones crumbled. Isengrim retrieved his axe and turned. Whatever presence had inhabited them was gone – not fled, he knew, but merely… departed. As if it had grown bored with the game, for the moment. Or as if something else had caught its attention.

‘No.’

‘I told you, you’ve attracted the attention of the gods. The path to glory is not a quiet one, and you cannot tread it unseen.’ Zuvass sheathed his blade. ‘Or unopposed.’

‘Good,’ Isengrim said. He touched the wounds and smeared the blood across his arms and chest. He met Ylac’s gaze, and the other bloodreaver nodded. The story would spread from those who’d seen it to those who hadn’t. They would know that Isengrim of the Red Reef had defied a god. Zuvass had made sure that they’d seen it – another favour the strange warrior had done him. ‘Let them see me. Let them stop me, if they will. I will not fail. The coward’s skull is mine, and I will place it at Khorne’s feet.’

Despite his words, he felt uncertain. He looked up at the cold pinpricks of light spinning in the dark. For a moment, they resembled a great rictus stretched across the sky. He shook himself and looked away. ‘What do you want, smiler?’

‘You mean besides helping you?’

Isengrim glared at him.

Zuvass sighed. ‘To collect you, for a task.’

‘What task?’

‘You’ll see.’

Chapter sixteen

SHADOW MARKET

The marketplace is ubiquitous among the mortal races. Wherever mortals gather, such spheres of commerce inevitably develop, sprouting like weeds in the garden of prosperity…

– Kerst Tertoma
The Speaking Bough

Reynar was not asleep. He dreamed nonetheless. A lazy sort of dream, running in slow circles. He thought about all he had seen and learned, and tried to assemble the pieces into a shape useful to his needs. He felt as if he were standing at the centre of a vast maze, with no idea of where to turn first. And the maze was slowly, surely, contracting about him.

As he dreamed, he ran his thumb along the convolutions of his amulet. There was a similarity there, if you looked at it from a certain angle. A knotwork of seemingly disparate threads, all somehow running together into a single tangled mass. Like a fractured smile seen from a hundred perspectives.

Something thumped his foot. He cracked an eye. Ilesha looked down at him. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘We’re going to market.’

Reynar hastily put his amulet away. ‘Oh?’ He lay in the shadow of a fallen statue, his hands clasped on his chest, his head pillowed on his bundled cloak. Around him, the courtyard was alive with activity. Sadila had been in a frenzy since they’d reported their failure, and she had the Stormcasts running about, shoring up the defences as if she expected an attack.

‘Yes. You and Khord have volunteered to protect me.’ Ilesha’s robes were overlain with a harness of leather and bronze – some form of armour, he realised. She had a thin sword belted at her waist, and several daggers sheathed opposite it. Her gloved hands were tight about the length of a staff made from some strange black wood.

‘Have we? How generous of us.’

‘Aye, we are kindly sorts,’ Khord growled. Reynar started. He hadn’t heard the fyreslayer arrive. The duardin stood nearby, his maul balanced on one thick shoulder. ‘Now get up. Better this were swiftly done.’

Reynar rose to his feet, frowning. ‘What sort of market? We need no food. No water or wine either, though my throat is parched.’

‘You’ll see when we get there. Now come.’ Ilesha turned and Khord trotted after her. Reynar glanced up and saw Severin looking down at him from a portico above. The Stormcast had his helm beneath his arm, and his weather-beaten features were twisted in a scowl of displeasure. Reynar waved mockingly and hurried after the others.

Khord looked at him as he caught up. ‘You shouldn’t tease him so, manling, else he’ll lose all composure and come looking to take it out on your hide.’

‘He won’t.’

‘No,’ Ilesha said. ‘But Tomas might.’ She jerked her chin west, and Reynar saw a tall figure standing atop a distant column, watching them. His smile faded. The Vanguard-Hunter vanished a moment later, dropping out of sight so utterly it was as if he had never been there at all. Reynar looked away.

The gates groaned open, pushed by their Stormcast guards. Outside the broken walls, more Stormcasts stood watch among the ruins, alongside a few mortals, Bolas among them. He didn’t return Reynar’s wave of greeting, but instead resolutely turned away to stare into the twilight. Khord sighed.

‘Give him time, manling.’

Reynar shrugged, hiding his unease. Bolas’ anger might well turn to something more deadly. He’d seen that sort of thing before, during his time with the regiment. Bolas might find others who shared his distaste, and if they decided to do something about it…

She’d like that, wouldn’t she? All your little overtures undone by a moment of heroism. The voice – his voice – laughed softly. His reflection strode alongside them, through the broken walls of glass that lined the path. How many times must you trip yourself up before it costs you more dearly than you can pay? His reflection was battered and bloody, burned and smashed. Bone gleamed and his armour hung in tarnished rags. Broken teeth flashed in a taunting grin. Best not look too close – we’re not a pleasant sight at the moment.

Reynar tried to ignore the apparition. It was just a trick of the city. A shadow on glass.

That’s exactly what I am. But does that make me any less real?

Reynar shook his head. Around them, the city was quiet. He had the impression it was waiting for something. In the distance, a mountainous shape with no more substance than a morning mist moved slowly through far districts, swinging what might have been its head to and fro. It seemed to be looking for something – or someone. He felt a chill, and resolutely averted his gaze.

‘Don’t look at it,’ Ilesha said softly. Her voice, coming so suddenly, startled him. ‘In this place, it is best that you don’t notice what you don’t want to notice you.’

Reynar nodded, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword. ‘Why are we going to market, then?’ he asked, trying to focus on something else.

‘Apparently some of what we were looking for has found its way into the hands of certain parties.’ Ilesha sniffed. ‘Or so Sadila claims.’

‘You doubt her?’

Ilesha hesitated. ‘No. Not entirely. But it seems very convenient.’ She looked around. ‘Sometimes, I fear this entire thing is a game, of sorts. I can feel it – feel the eyes of an unseen audience on me as I labour to make sense of the scraps you and the others bring me. I can hear their whispers vibrating through every shard of shadeglass. They’re watching, not just because they want me to succeed, but because it’s entertainment for them.’

Reynar frowned. ‘As if we’re in a vast arena, and the Katophranes are sitting in the stands, watching us.’ He scanned the high places, feeling what Ilesha described. He thought back to what he’d seen in the plaza, and before – the faces of the dead, jostling each other for a better view.

‘Perhaps.’ Ilesha looked at him. ‘They were quite enthusiastic about blood sports, those old Katophranes. The arenas in the eastern districts still stand – towering coliseums of shadeglass and iron.’ She twitched. ‘Unpleasant places.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Reynar smiled at her, and she returned it with only a moment’s hesitation. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m surprised they let you out without a full honour guard. At the very least, Severin and his cronies.’

‘Oh, they wanted to. But where we’re going, they’d be more hindrance than help.’ She laughed softly. ‘Chollat only trusts me.’

‘Who’s Chollat?’

‘The master of the Southern Market,’ Ilesha said. ‘He was a treasure hunter. Much like you, I expect. He managed to survive for many weeks before his first death. When he returned, he decided he’d rather not die again. He began to talk to others, organising them for mutual benefit.’ She glanced at Reynar. ‘He wasn’t the first, obviously – the Katophranes did much the same, at least in the early days of Shadespire’s curse. But as they withdrew, new lords assumed command. Chollat’s one.’

‘Do you know any of the others?’

She grinned. ‘A few. Looking for more exits?’

Reynar shrugged. ‘It’s good to have options.’

‘Keep it down, both of you. We’re not alone.’ Khord had pulled ahead of them, and he glanced back, scowling. ‘This isn’t a jaunt to the ore pit.’

‘No. It’s a mission of importance.’ Ilesha swept out a hand, and nearby will o’ the wisps became agitated. The soft lights swept towards her and circled her hand like soft comets. ‘And nothing will stop us.’ She flung her hand up, and the lights rose, bristling and swelling.

The shadows that clung to the street were driven back, revealing hunched, verminous figures watching from the alleyways. They scurried away, squealing, as the light spilled across the ruins, filling every scrap of glass. Reynar heard a great sigh, and felt the pressure he hadn’t even realised was there retreat. ‘What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ Ilesha said. ‘At least, nothing of any concern.’

Reynar shared a glance with Khord, who shrugged. ‘I told you,’ the duardin said. ‘Battle-mages come in handy.’

They continued down the sloping boulevard in companionable silence, heading ever southward. Ilesha moved swiftly, with little of Khord’s wariness. It was as if she were excited – perhaps because she wasn’t often allowed out, and when she was, she was under guard, or so she said. Reynar watched her covertly. He’d only ever seen battle-mages at a distance. Being so close to one was proving an education.

All the ones he’d seen had been restrained almost to the point of immobility – stiff figures in thick robes, smelling of iron and fire. Wherever they’d looked, grasses had blackened and birds had fallen from the sky. But Ilesha was different – not softer, but less restrained. Amethyst light crackled faintly about her as she moved, as if her magics resonated with this place.

When he wasn’t watching her, he was filling in his mental map, noting the way the city seemed to shift and twitch beneath their feet like a fitful sleeper. Despite the way it morphed around him, he was starting to get a feel for things. In time, he might even be able to find his way around without help. That might come in handy.

He caught a glint of what might have been gold somewhere above, and glanced up. Tomas, shadowing them. Reynar felt his skin crawl at the thought of the silent Stormcast. Someone that big shouldn’t move that quietly. Had Severin sent Tomas to watch over them? Or to watch over him? Either way, he hoped the Stormcast would keep his distance.

He heard the thump of drums echoing through the streets. ‘They seem agitated,’ he said.

Khord grunted. ‘They’re spoiling for a fight. They’re always spoiling for a fight.’ He turned, scanning the horizon of broken rooftops and shattered towers. ‘Hopefully, it’s with someone else this time around.’ The duardin stopped. ‘There.’ He pointed to a stone archway crudely daubed in red. Rusty gibbet cages hung to either side of it. Inside one, a body slumped.

‘That wasn’t there last time,’ he growled. He peered at the corpse and grunted. ‘Of course,’ he muttered, looking away, his face pale.

‘It’s not quite where it was last time,’ Ilesha said, pulling a roll of parchment out of her sleeve. She either hadn’t noticed Khord’s unease, or didn’t care. She retrieved a nib of charcoal from a pouch on her belt and made a notation. ‘It’s shifted westward.’ She licked a finger and held it up, testing the non-existent wind. ‘Yes. Definitely westward.’

‘Is that meaningful?’ Reynar asked. He stepped towards the gibbet, curious as to what had disturbed the normally stoic duardin. The corpse was broad and hunched, as if it had been beaten and broken in order to fit in its cage. Bone showed through the tattered meat. He caught a glimpse of the thinning remains of a tangled mane and a beard the colour of flame as the gibbet swung slowly in the breeze. ‘Gods…’

‘Only to me.’ Ilesha thrust the parchment back into her sleeve. She realised he wasn’t listening. ‘What is it?’

‘Me,’ Khord said, looking away from them.

Ilesha’s eyes widened. ‘Did you–’

‘No,’ Khord croaked. ‘Not that I remember.’

Reynar looked at her. ‘It’s not real. It can’t be. He’s still alive… He’d remember if he died here. Wouldn’t he?’ He looked back and forth between them.

‘The corpse isn’t fresh – it is weeks old,’ Ilesha said. She peered at Khord. ‘These gibbets are for those who cross the master of the market.’ She hesitated before adding, ‘Perhaps you should stay here. We’ll signal if we need you.’

‘Aye, I’ll wait here,’ he said gruffly. He took a seat on a fallen statue, his face turned away from the gibbet.

‘Khord,’ Reynar began. Khord fixed him with a steady glare. Reynar stepped back, his hands raised in a gesture of apology. He turned and hurried after Ilesha as she ducked beneath the archway and into the narrow passage beyond. He glanced back at the fyreslayer. ‘Is it safe, leaving him?’ he asked as he caught up with her.

‘For us, at least,’ she said. ‘If we need him, he’ll be there. That’s good enough. And Tomas is skulking around as well.’ She used her staff to thrust aside a fold of tattered cloth, revealing a broken street beyond. Great scars of glass clung to every building and spilled in untidy lines across the road. A stinking mist rose from the ruptures in the path, muddying the air. He saw a pale glow in some of the windows above, as if someone were passing behind them with a candle.

‘I recognise this place, I think,’ he said. He spotted a number of lonely plinths lining the sides of the street, each taller than a man. ‘I’ve been here before. There used to be statues there, hundreds of them – this street was longer, then.’ He stopped, trying to orient himself. He thought he could hear voices, the faint clash of blades, the thud of feet. Faint mirages of movement passed across his vision, as if there were people struggling close by, just out of sight. He thought he heard Utrecht’s voice, bellowing faintly…

Ilesha caught his arm. ‘Don’t.’

Startled, he looked at her. ‘What?’

‘Don’t listen. Feel.’ She rapped the street with her staff. ‘It’s moving. Trying to draw you away.’ The ground shuddered slightly, the stones creaking. It reminded him of a dog whining in frustration.

Reynar shook himself, and the mirage faded.

Ilesha smiled. ‘Good. Come on.’

‘How come it doesn’t try that with you?’ he complained.

‘It does. I just know better than to listen to the dead.’ She led him down a set of crooked steps hewn from the sloped street at rough, irregular intervals. ‘There we are. Right where it should be, for once.’

Ahead of them, Reynar saw a line of broken wagons that had been overturned to form a crude palisade. Many were dripping with encrustations of glass, making them resemble insects caught in amber. Behind them, he could just about see makeshift tents made from shattered spars of wood and tattered cloth. Smoke rose into the dark sky from innumerable fires, and he could hear the murmur of many voices.

‘Khord mentioned markets to me earlier,’ he said as they followed the winding steps down towards the closest of the wagons. It had been set so that it blocked the street. ‘I was expecting something more… commercial.’

‘We make do, here,’ Ilesha said. ‘Most of the old buildings are too dangerous to reoccupy. Those that aren’t are rarely large enough. And Chollat is smart enough not to bother. Tents are easier to repair, or move, if a tremor grips the market.’

As they drew closer, Reynar saw a grim-faced duardin standing on guard at the bottom of the steps, the long, iron-grey braids of his beard wrapped about his neck like a gorget. He wore patched robes beneath his battered armour and cradled a drakegun in his arms. He raised a hand, and Ilesha stopped. Reynar glanced at her. ‘What is it?’

‘Toll,’ she said simply. She twitched her head to the left, and he did a double take as he caught sight of several indistinct shapes crouched above them in the nearby ruins. Wrapped in dust-coloured rags, the sentries hunched over Azyrite handguns, hidden from all but the most observant eyes.

‘There are more,’ Ilesha said. ‘Ones we can’t see. Chollat is no fool.’

She reached into her robes, and Reynar heard the distinctive click of handguns being readied. Ilesha drew out a thin facet of shadeglass and held it up. The duardin waved her forward. Reynar followed her and watched as she handed the glass to the sentry.

‘Carved,’ he grunted, turning it over.

‘By an artisan,’ Ilesha said. He looked at her, and then stepped aside, concealing the shadeglass in his robes as he did so.

‘There’s shadeglass everywhere,’ Reynar said as they stepped through the gap between wagons and into the market. ‘What made that piece so special?’ There were people everywhere, scuttling through the shadows, lurking in alleyways, standing around makeshift firepits. He could smell meat cooking, and other, less familiar scents.

‘It’s whole,’ Ilesha said. ‘Most of what you see is broken. Just shards and splinters. That piece was intact – part of a hand mirror, I think.’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘Some think so.’

‘What do you think?’

Ilesha shrugged. ‘Theories abound.’ She looked around. ‘Stay alert. The markets are some of the most dangerous places in the city, outside the control of the Katophranes. And this is the worst of the bunch.’

‘Wonderful,’ Reynar muttered. His hand fell to his blade. He could feel eyes on them – and not friendly ones. Steeling himself, he followed Ilesha into the tangled streets of the Southern Market.

The sound of drums was like thunder. The stones of the street trembled beneath Isengrim’s feet. Whether it was simply the twitching of the city or the reverberations of the drums, he couldn’t say. He crouched behind one of the collapsed pillars with Zuvass. Beyond them, he could see the light of fires and hear the bellowing of orruks.

‘There are more of them than I thought there would be,’ Isengrim growled. The orruk camp was a disorganised mass of half-erected tents and piled stones. Great stakes had been wedged between the stones, and skulls, both orruk and otherwise, had been mounted on them. They watched as orruks fought before the fires, jostling each other with brutal abandon. With no other foes to fight, they’d turned on one another. Some sat on broken stones and splintered pillars, watching the others brawl.

Zuvass picked up a handful of loose stones. ‘Those orruks we fought earlier were only a bare handful of those lairing here.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the encampment. ‘At the moment, a brute called Ironskull is in charge. How long that will last is anyone’s guess, but we only require his attention for a short time.’

‘Another plan I know nothing of.’

Zuvass paused. ‘It’s all one plan, my friend. Many moving parts, I admit, but one plan. A simple one, really.’

‘That you have not explained.’

Zuvass looked at him. ‘Would you like me to?’ He rolled the stones on his palm. ‘Do you truly care, or is this simply misplaced pride?’

Isengrim growled. ‘Pride is the whetstone of Khorne’s axe.’

Zuvass laughed. ‘I have a feeling Khorne’s axe needs frequent sharpening. Fine. I intend to convince the orruks to attack a certain place at a certain time. For that, we must get to Ironskull without losing our heads.’

Isengrim smiled. ‘We must fight.’ Several orruks lurked nearby. Ostensibly sentries, they seemed bored. He would give them something to do. But Zuvass stopped him.

‘We must be subtle – cunning. Orruks respect strength.’

‘They will only listen if we show them we are stronger,’ Isengrim said in understanding. He tightened his grip on his axe. ‘Is that why you insisted I accompany you?’

‘You should be happy. I’m giving you an opportunity to prove that you’re as murderous as you keep claiming. Yes, we must fight. But to start with, we must sneak. Do you understand that word?’

Isengrim glared at him. ‘I am not an idiot.’

‘You play the part well.’

Isengrim nearly lurched to his feet, but restrained himself. Zuvass was baiting him. Zuvass was always baiting him. It was as if he couldn’t help himself. There was a strong current of spite running through the Chaos warrior – almost self-destructive in its intensity. As if Zuvass wanted to fail almost as much as he wanted to succeed.

Isengrim did not understand. Nor did he want to. Too many thoughts dulled a warrior’s edge. ‘Enough of your wit. What do you intend?’

‘I intend for us to get as close as possible before we announce ourselves. Orruks are primitive, but not fools. Hence, we must draw away their sentries.’ He held up the handful of stones he’d accumulated. ‘Old tricks are often the best.’ He stood quickly and slung the stones in different directions. Immediately, the closest orruk sentries bellowed and scattered, following the clatter. Zuvass gestured sharply, and Isengrim followed him as he slid down the broken incline in a cloud of dust.

Zuvass strode into the centre of the camp, one hand on his sword and Isengrim trailing in his wake. ‘Gurzag Ironskull,’ Zuvass bellowed. Silence fell. For long moments, the gathered orruks stared at the invaders. Then, green paws twitched towards weapons and tusks flashed in brutal grins. Isengrim turned, trying to keep them all in sight.

‘I know you,’ someone said in a voice like falling stones. A heavyset orruk, larger than the others and wearing a filthy fur cloak over his war-plate, shoved through their ranks. ‘I seen you before. Slinking around. Why are you here?’

‘To talk.’

Gurzag laughed, a deep, guttural sound. ‘Nah. You’re here to fight, ain’t ya?’ He scraped the blades of the axes he carried together. The sound made Isengrim’s flesh crawl. He stepped forward, his own axe raised.

‘What if we are?’

Gurzag grinned. ‘Then you’re welcome,’ he roared, lunging forward. The ground shook slightly as he charged. Isengrim moved to meet him, knowing it was what Zuvass wanted. He avoided Gurzag’s first blow and blocked the second. The orruk was fast and strong. He fought with brutal economy. Isengrim’s arms and shoulders were soon aching from the effort of parrying Gurzag’s blows, and his breath was rasping in his lungs.

As they fought, the watching orruks stamped and cheered. And Zuvass… Zuvass talked. ‘You went looking for something, didn’t you?’ he said as Gurzag circled Isengrim. ‘Tried to take advantage of weakened foes and got swatted for your trouble.’ Gurzag paused to shoot a glare at Zuvass. ‘There’s no shame in it,’ the Chaos warrior continued. ‘But what if I told you where that certain something was?’

Gurzag roared and lunged. Isengrim lurched aside, narrowly avoiding a blow that would have split him from shoulder to thigh. Faster than he would have thought possible, the orruk struck again, gashing his chest. Isengrim leapt back, cursing.

Gurzag glanced at Zuvass. ‘Keep talking. I can hear you just fine while I’m choppin’ up your mate.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Zuvass said. ‘But fine. I know where the treasure is. If you want it, I’m happy to tell you.’

Isengrim, seeing Gurzag momentarily distracted, launched himself at him. Almost casually, the orruk slashed at him with an idle blow, forcing him to scramble back. Gurzag chuckled thickly and closed in. ‘Let me think on it a bit,’ he growled.

‘Think quickly, Gurzag. Others are already closing in on it.’

Gurzag surged forward, and Isengrim caught both of the orruk’s axes on the blade of his own. He was bent almost backwards, and he felt his spine quiver. Gurzag leaned over him, piggy eyes gleaming. ‘If you die, I’ll take your head and wear it, ’umie. You’ll see yourself coming, next time.’

Isengrim had no breath to reply. His legs trembled as he fought to hold himself erect. With no other option, he gave a last, desperate twist and shoved Gurzag off balance, sending him stumbling. Isengrim cracked his skull against the orruk’s, and stars bloomed behind his eyes as he fell to the ground. Gurzag stepped back, blinking, then shook his head and set a foot on Isengrim’s chest. He laughed, low and loud.

Then he reached down and hauled Isengrim to his feet. ‘Good try,’ Gurzag said. He shoved him aside and turned to Zuvass. ‘I’ve thought about it, smiler.’

‘And?’

Gurzag grinned. ‘Tell me.’

Chapter seventeen

KING OF THE
SOUTHERN MARKET

Shadespire was, at the height of its power, acknowledged by all as the grandest of the merchant princedoms that dotted the eastern sands of Shyish. Everything and anything could be had in its cramped marketplaces, from raw spices to the most precious of jewels…

– Tuman Wey
The Shadow-Routes: Trade in Eastern Shyish

The market was a ramshackle sprawl of tents, wagons and broken shop fronts interrupted by crumbling archways and spiral staircases that went nowhere. Or at least nowhere obvious. Some of them ended abruptly, as if they’d been sheared away from a larger structure. Others rose up until they were lost from sight entirely. People drifted through the shadowed lanes, wandering the crowded boulevard. Most looked as lost as he felt – others, though, had the look of predators on the hunt.

‘It looks almost… normal,’ he said. He turned, watching as several men and women in battered travel leathers crossed the street. They were armed, and had the look of hardened soldiers. ‘More people than I expected, as well.’

‘More and more of them every day. The city draws them in, like moths to a flame.’ Ilesha shook her head. ‘Shadespire is ravenous.’ She stopped and stepped back into a narrow gap between tents. She caught his arm and dragged him after her.

‘What is it?’ He had his sword half drawn.

‘Petitioners,’ Ilesha said. Reynar watched as the line of shuffling, decrepit shapes moved across the avenue, heads bowed and hands clasped. It was only as they drew close that he realised their eyes had been stitched shut and their palms had been sewn together. They chanted in hoarse whispers, moving together like some immense centipede.

‘Where are they going?’ Reynar murmured, watching them.

‘They travel the city from one end to the other, carrying Nagash’s words to every street and temple until the last of their flesh sloughs off and they join the Sepulchral Warden’s armies. Since the city changes, their pilgrimage is never-ending.’ Ilesha shivered. ‘There are worse sorts of fanatics in this city.’

‘Like Severin.’

She looked at him. ‘Severin and the other Stormcasts are following the will of Sigmar. Their determination is admirable, if nothing else.’ She pushed past him. ‘Come on. Chollat will be holding court at the heart of the market.’

‘You make him sound like a king.’

‘He is, in a sense.’

As they passed among the stalls and tents, broken, half-dead creatures offered them wares of varying quality – shadeglass plates and mirrors, broken diamonds and pieces of armour and weaponry, now tarnished by age. One dead man thrust out a stringy arm and dangled a rusty cage at them. It contained two artificial songbirds made from bronze that chirped dolefully as they pushed past.

‘What do they get out of this?’ he muttered. ‘Money is no good to them.’

‘Protection. Something to do. Sometimes they trade for things they do need.’ Ilesha waved aside the spiel of a seated figure offering up a selection of blades. Reynar paused. There was a sword much like his own among them, and another that appeared to be made of wood. As he moved to catch up to Ilesha, he glanced back and saw a slight, hunched shape scurry across the open street and into the shadows beyond.

He knew it instantly – a skaven. The creature paused just at the edge of the light and met his gaze. Then it was gone. He frowned, but didn’t mention it to Ilesha.

‘There.’ Ilesha stopped suddenly as he caught up with her. A huge tent made from the stitched remnants of once-magnificent tapestries stretched over the broken stone carcass of what might at one time have been a tavern. An intact hearth blazed, spewing smoke into the air.

An aelf in bronze leaf-shaped mail and an antlered, open-faced helm stood before the entrance, leaning on a great double-handed axe. He stiffened as he caught sight of them. ‘Halt,’ he said in mellifluous tones.

‘Chollat is expecting me, Kuras,’ Ilesha said.

Kuras frowned and ducked into the tent. He spoke to someone within, their voices muffled. When he reappeared, he waved them in, a bored expression on his angular features.

Ilesha glanced at Reynar. ‘Come on.’ She entered the tent.

After a moment’s pause, Reynar followed her. The air was smoky inside, thanks to a number of braziers that had been scattered about. They were tended by broken, dead things wrapped in rags and wearing masks of beaten gold to hide their features.

Living men and women were gathered, most standing, others sitting at tables. Some looked like scribes, but others were clearly guards. Treasures of all descriptions were heaped carelessly in the corners of the tent or piled atop the tables.

‘Welcome back, Ilesha,’ a voice called out.

Chollat was smaller than Reynar had expected. He was a squat mortal with thick wrists and a shaved pate. He sat on the head of a statue that had been made into a stool. There was a chunk of shadeglass hanging before him, suspended in a nest of ropes. He scratched his chin with a blunt finger. ‘Come here and tell me what you see, Ilesha.’

Ilesha stepped past the guards and went to stand beside him. Reynar sidled after her. What he saw made him wish he hadn’t been so curious. Pale things pressed against the surface of the glass, and there was a soft, wet sound, like water trickling through a crack. Things more like weed fronds than fingers moved over the glass as shapeless faces smeared themselves across its surface. The watery hiss grew louder, and he realised it was not one sound but many. Like voices, but too soft and thin to be heard properly.

‘Trapped souls,’ Ilesha said, with no hint of unease. Reynar tore his eyes away from the pulsing, murmuring things. His stomach heaved and he clamped a hand over his mouth. They were scratching at the glass, as if trying to claw their way free.

‘Yes,’ Chollat said. ‘Fascinating, the way they dance.’ He cupped a hand to one ear. ‘Listen. They sing as well. Such pretty voices.’ He looked at Reynar, a cruel smile on his face. ‘Do you not care for the music, friend?’

Reynar frowned. ‘No. It’s not to my taste, I’m afraid.’

Chollat’s smile widened. ‘You must learn to take your pleasures where you can, in a place like this.’ He turned to Ilesha. ‘He is new. The last time you came, Khord was with you.’ He made a show of looking around. ‘Where is he? Surely he is not hiding?’ He turned. ‘Hey, Tuqo – your kinsman absents himself. Is he a coward, then?’

Reynar was startled to see a fyreslayer in the crowd of guards behind Chollat. This one carried a heavy axe cradled in the crook of one arm. His beard was tightly braided, and he wore a helm that resembled a boar’s skull, with an opening for his wild crest of hair to rise from within it. One eye was sealed shut, with a gleaming rune stamped across the lid.

‘Khord is no kinsman of mine. He is of no lodge now, whatever he claims, and kinless.’ Tuqo leaned over and spat on the ground. Chollat laughed, and several of his cronies joined in. Reynar looked around, taking them in. They had the look of street-curs – desperate to appear more savage than they were. Some might once have been soldiers, but the rest – bandits and thieves. They were only barely holding on to their courage and sanity.

‘Khord is close by,’ Ilesha said as the laughter died away. ‘And I need no bodyguard – or have you forgotten?’ She gestured, and amethyst flames crackled softly about her hand. The nearby guards drew back with muttered oaths.

Chollat’s smile faded. ‘I hardly believed it when my people told me that you were walking around my market. That witch whom you serve nowadays rarely lets you out.’

‘I have been informed that your scavengers found something of interest in one of the western districts. I would like to see it.’

Chollat grunted. ‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because you owe me.’

Chollat sat back, knuckles on his thighs. ‘Do I?’

Ilesha tilted her head, eyeing him over the tops of her spectacles. Chollat held her gaze for a moment, then sighed and clapped his hands. A hunched figure shuffled out of the depths of the tent. It was wrapped in heavy robes and wearing a golden mask, much like the others. The dead man carried something swaddled in a burial shroud.

At Chollat’s gesture, he unwrapped it and proffered it to Ilesha. ‘I know what it is you’re after. I’m not a fool. I have my own sources of knowledge – I know something valuable when I see it. It’s part of the Faneway, isn’t it?’

‘Better,’ Ilesha said, her eyes widening slightly. ‘It’s a way of telling what’s a part of it and what’s not.’ She waved a hand over the object, and tracers of light ran along its innumerable facets. She looked at Chollat. ‘I need this.’

Chollat scratched his chin. ‘Of course. And I’ll ask a fair price of you. Perhaps Sadila’s armoured war-dogs can fetch me something of equal value…’ He gestured, and the dead man brought the artefact to him. Chollat placed it on a nearby table and set his hand on it. ‘Quite the army she’s gathering, I hear. Why is that, I wonder?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ilesha said.

‘There are many who’d pay to learn that.’ Chollat smiled. He patted the artefact. ‘And to learn why she wants this. Not the usual sort of prize, is it?’

Reynar had heard enough. He knew Chollat’s type well. The merchant was after something. ‘No,’ he interjected before Ilesha could reply. ‘Which makes me wonder how you came by it. And so soon after the vault was opened?’ Ilesha cast him a warning glance, but he ignored her. ‘There were bloodreavers everywhere. And dead men, as well.’

Chollat frowned at the interruption. He gave Reynar an irritated glance. ‘Does it matter how I acquired it? Do you want it or not?’

‘We do,’ Ilesha said hurriedly.

‘Maybe not,’ Reynar said. He looked around. Nothing but hard stares greeted him. ‘I’ve heard this tune before. What’s going on here?’

Chollat peered at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I mean, someone gave you this artefact, didn’t they?’

Chollat’s face darkened. ‘Are you implying something?’

‘Reynar–’ Ilesha began.

‘I’m not implying it, Chollat. I’m outright saying it.’ Reynar let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. ‘I might be new here, but I recognise this song and dance – you’re too ready to hand this over. Too eager to trade a favour. How did you get it?’

Chollat leaned forward, teeth bared. ‘None of your business. Now do you want to bargain or argue?’

‘Perhaps I’m in the mood to argue,’ Reynar said, aware of the sudden silence in the tent. Chollat smiled, and Reynar tensed as he suddenly felt the flat of a blade on his shoulder.

‘Take your hand from your blade, sir, else I shall do so for you,’ a man said from behind him. His accent was strange – archaic. Reynar wondered how long he’d been trapped in this city. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Acrius Kope. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’

‘No. Can’t say that I have.’ Reynar took his hand away from his sword.

A moment of silence followed. ‘Come now, sir. No need to play coy. Acrius Kope. They know me as the Gallant of Glymmsforge. I’ve duelled aelfen swordmasters and soulblight assassins. I was once an honoured guest of Lady Neferata herself, a pleasurable evening made infamous by that inveterate gossip Emalia Grimsour. You must have heard of me. It is inconceivable that you have not. Turn around.’

Reynar turned, keeping his hand away from his blade. The sword on his shoulder slid to his throat. Kope was a narrow man, straight and keen like the sword he held, with the confident ease of a born duellist. He wore clothes that had once been fine but were now dusty and patched. But the blade in his hand was well cared for. There were three scars on his left cheek – the trident mark of a student of the Skyboldt school of swordsmanship.

Reynar had seen those sorts of scars before, on any number of officers and gentlemen. This Kope, whoever he was, had to be a killer, to earn those marks. ‘Guess we’re here to bargain,’ he said.

‘Too late for that,’ Chollat said. He looked at Ilesha. ‘He’s right, though. Someone brought it to me. Said it might bring you running. Shame Khord isn’t here, but you can’t have everything.’ He drew a thin poniard and gestured with it. ‘You’ve been making too much noise, Ilesha. You and that witch you work for. The other Katophranes aren’t happy with her. Word is she’s gathering an army of Sigmar’s chosen murderers and planning to unleash them on the rest of us. She’s opening vaults that ought not to be opened and stirring up things best left alone.’

Reynar risked a glance at Ilesha. She was frowning – a frightening expression on her face. It wasn’t a look of concentration, but… disappointment. Something about her face suddenly put him in mind of the golden masks the dead men around them wore, as if the round features were nothing but a disguise hiding the true skull beneath.

The air had taken on a smell like burnt meat. Will o’ the wisps danced about Ilesha’s shoulders, and the dead souls in Chollat’s glass had fallen silent. If he noticed, he gave no sign. Reynar saw that several of the guards held crossbows. All of them were aimed at Ilesha. Chollat was no fool.

‘Get to the point, Chollat,’ she said.

Chollat nodded. ‘You need to be taken off the board, Ilesha. You and all your lot. Khord, the Stormcasts, whoever has decided to side with the daughter of Hausa – the Sepulchral Warden has decreed that you can’t be allowed to run around free. I shall deliver you to him as he demands.’

‘You think he’ll reward you?’

‘I think he’ll spare me,’ Chollat said flatly. ‘And that’s enough.’ He looked at Reynar. ‘But no one mentioned you, whoever you are.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Acrius – kill him.’

‘My pleasure.’

Kope drew back his blade, and Reynar’s hand went to his own. He drew it as Kope thrust. He barely parried the blow, and reeled back, upending a table and sending the scribes sitting at it to their feet. Kope stalked towards him.

‘Chollat, there’s no need for this,’ Ilesha said.

Kope lunged. Reynar twisted aside and felt the sword scrape across his hauberk. He stumbled, reached for his knife. He whipped the blade out and up, batting aside the questing tip of Kope’s blade. The swordsman easily parried Reynar’s own thrust. ‘You’re not without some skill,’ Kope said grudgingly.

Reynar thrust again, stamping forward, trying to bull his opponent back. Kope slid away, moving lightly. Over his shoulder, Reynar saw Ilesha raising her staff. Chollat saw it too, and blanched. ‘No,’ he snarled. Tuqo whipped towards her, axe raised. Reynar made to shout a warning, but before he could get the words out, another sound intervened – a bellicose roar that shook the very stones beneath his feet.

He heard the bark of drakeguns and rifles and the screams of dying men. Horns blew, somewhere, and the aelf sentry ducked into the tent.

‘Chollat, it’s–’ The aelf was clubbed to his knees before he could finish. A second blow tore his head from his shoulders. A massive green shape sloped into the tent, blood dripping from battered war-plate.

‘What’s got two legs and bleeds?’ the orruk growled, peering down at the body. He looked up, tusks bared in a wide, savage grin. He pointed a finger at Chollat and the others. ‘Hand over the shiny, ya gits – or you get the same.’

‘Do you dream, Isengrim of the Red Reef?’ Zuvass asked.

Isengrim gave the Chaos warrior an impatient glance. He wanted to be away, on his quarry’s trail. Not here, talking yet again. Sometimes it seemed as if that was all Zuvass knew how to do. ‘What does it matter? What are we waiting for?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘Maybe I should summon my warriors and have them rip you apart.’ They were close at hand, waiting for his command, watching the surrounding streets, keeping an eye on the market. But like him, they grew impatient. He’d had to kill two already, to calm the others.

‘If you like. Then your warband will be even smaller.’ Zuvass’ words held no threat. They were simply a statement of the inevitable. Isengrim considered pressing the point, but realised that it would do little good. For better or worse, he had bound himself to Zuvass.

‘I do not like to sleep,’ he said finally.

‘I meant before you came here.’

‘So did I.’ Isengrim stooped and picked up a chunk of chipped stone. ‘It is good not to sleep.’ He carved a shallow wound on his chest with the stone. The pain helped him think. ‘Sometimes, when I slumber I dream of Khorne’s anger. He claims that I have failed. I see myself standing and my enemy – my prey – before me, but my axe does not meet flesh. I realise that the moment passed long ago without my knowledge, and I am left with nothing before I have even begun. I have failed before I even swing my axe.’

He smeared the blood over his chest, dragging it across the hundreds of scars covering him from throat to waist. Khorne demanded blood, and only a fool denied him. He painted his eyes and his face as well, wasting not a drop. ‘I was left with nothing,’ he said again, softly. He looked at Zuvass, and for a moment, he thought he saw another face superimposed over the grinning helm. He shook his head to clear it.

‘But it was just a dream,’ Zuvass said. ‘Khorne has not struck you down.’

‘No. Not yet.’ He looked around. He knew this place, if vaguely. It was the same temple he had pursued his quarry from before they had been tricked into this prison. It was different in some ways, akin to a reflection of a reflection, but he recognised the faceless statues. ‘Why are we here? What is in this place?’

‘Nothing yet. But what might grow in soil such as this? What might yet be born from this cocoon of stone and glass?’ Zuvass turned, his arms spread. ‘Perhaps a new god gestates here, a new challenger to the ruinous pantheon.’ He laughed. ‘Or perhaps there is nothing here at all. Perhaps the only voice to be heard is my own, echoing in the dark.’ He dropped his arms, as if weary. ‘Perhaps that is all there ever was.’ He drew an amulet from within his war-plate. ‘Did I ever tell you how I came here?’

‘No.’

‘I died,’ Zuvass said. ‘Once. And I came back – centuries before I’d even arrived. Time folds in on itself here. I died and returned before my sentence in this prison had even begun.’ He looked at his amulet. ‘Two lifetimes… three… more, I have searched for the right path, the path I was on before. And now I see it before me, and I cannot help but wonder…what if?’

‘What if what?’ Isengrim asked.

‘What if I ignore it? What if I continue on as I am and leave my past to follow its own course?’ He looked at Isengrim. ‘Time is a circle, my friend. A cycle repeating itself. What has been, will be, and what will be, has always been. That is what I have learned in my time here. The cycle must repeat again and again, until the one who set it spinning is satisfied.’

‘And then?’

Zuvass looked up. ‘Then we move on to the next cycle.’

Isengrim snorted. ‘And you accuse me of being a slave. What you describe is servitude. Not to a god, perhaps, but fate.’

‘We are all slaves of fate, my friend. Even the gods.’ Zuvass indicated their surroundings. ‘Take this place, for instance. It was a temple, once, to a god that has no name.’

‘The realms are littered with forgotten gods,’ Isengrim growled. ‘Khorne wears the skulls of his seven brothers, who contested with him for the Brass Throne in ancient days.’ Chaos birthed gods by the thousands, or so creatures like the witch Hthara claimed. The Ruinous Powers were simply the strongest of them – islands in an ocean of madness. And Khorne, the strongest of all.

‘Yes, that sounds like him. Never mind. Are your warriors close?’

Isengrim hesitated. ‘Yes.’ Slowly, he smiled. ‘To war, then? War at last?’

‘The first blow, at least. The orruks should be attacking the market…’ He paused, as if listening. Isengrim did the same. He could hear the faint growl of gunfire, and screams. But that wasn’t unusual in this place. Zuvass nodded, however. ‘Now, yes. Ironskull was always punctual, for a greenskin. Take your warriors and join the slaughter. Your quarry will be there.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Because I set the pieces and know how the game plays out. The confusion will be your shield. And mine. Do you understand?’

‘No. How do you know he will be there?’

‘Trust me.’

Isengrim snorted. ‘You overcomplicate things.’

‘I merely take advantage of existing complications. Try not to kill Gurzag, if you can help it. We may still need him, come the end.’

‘I make no promises.’ Isengrim left Zuvass standing there. He could feel the Chaos warrior’s eyes on him as he clambered down the slope of rubble that marked the temple’s entrance. He felt – he knew – Zuvass was intent on betrayal. He reeked of it. What form it might take or when it might occur was unknown, but he could feel it coming, like the scent of a storm on a sea breeze.

The thought pleased Isengrim. It made the world simple again. He understood treachery. It was the weapon of cowards and schemers. The weapon of the weak. Zuvass was weak, and like all weak things, he would be prey for the strong, no matter how he squirmed. Isengrim paused halfway down the slope. He brought the flat of his axe up and kissed the rune of Khorne carved there.

Soon, the coward’s skull would be his. Soon, his oath would be fulfilled.

‘Soon,’ he said.

And somewhere, he thought he heard a god howl in pleasure.

Chapter eighteen

BRAWL

It is always meet, when in certain company, to offer blades to those who come unarmed.

– Lady Emalia Grimsour
A Lady’s Guide to Consensual Bloodletting

The orruk grinned and took a step further into the tent. He had a wedge of metal nailed to his skull, covering one eye. He hefted two heavy, spiked clubs and brought them together with a loud thud. ‘You heard me – gimme the shiny.’

‘Someone kill him,’ Chollat shouted. Tuqo launched himself at the orruk even as more of the greenskins burst into the tent, bellowing. Tables were upended and non-combatants sent fleeing as the fight spread. Reynar backed away as Kope turned to face this new threat. An orruk wearing an iron face mask barrelled towards him, slashing out with a heavy axe. Kope easily hooked the blade with his sword and twisted it out of the orruk’s hand, sending it flying.

‘I have disarmed you, beast. What shall you do now?’ Kope said. The orruk, without missing a beat, slammed his skull into Kope’s with a wet crunch. Kope sagged in the greenskin’s grip, his face a concave ruin. The orruk tossed the body aside and caught sight of Reynar. He snarled and started forward as Reynar scrambled towards Ilesha.

Ilesha suddenly spoke, her voice shivering on the air, and a dart of crackling amethyst erupted from the tip of her staff. It punched through the orruk’s chest, collapsing armour and the flesh beneath. The orruk took another step, tottered, and fell with a querulous groan, smoke rising from the wound.

‘Stay close,’ she said, glancing at Reynar.

‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you out of my sight.’ Through several orruk-sized gaps in the tent, he saw that the market had descended into bedlam. There were orruks everywhere, overturning stalls and attacking the living and the dead alike. The greenskins seemed to be looking for something, and he had a suspicion that he knew what.

The orruk with the metal patch roared and staggered towards them, Tuqo hanging onto his axe, which was embedded in the greenskin’s back. The brute caught Ilesha a glancing blow with a flailing fist and knocked her to the ground. Reynar drove his sword into the orruk’s exposed neck, releasing a wash of foul-smelling blood. The orruk clawed at him as he sank down, and Reynar hastily retreated, dragging his sword free as he went.

‘Blasted orruks, never know when to quit,’ Tuqo snarled, ripping his axe free and chopping down through the back of the wounded orruk’s neck, swiftly removing his head. ‘I know this one, Chollat – it’s one of Ironskull’s curs.’ He jerked his axe free and spun, braids flying about him, teeth bared. Outside the tent, the sounds of fighting had grown loud.

‘I thought you said this place was sacrosanct?’ Reynar thrust his knife back into his belt and helped Ilesha to her feet.

‘For everyone but orruks. They don’t trade – they just fight.’ She caught his arm. ‘We need to go – now!’

‘You go nowhere, sorceress,’ Chollat said. He held up a knife. ‘The Sepulchral Warden wants you lot, and I mean to give you over.’

‘I thought you had more spine than that, Chollat,’ Ilesha said, raising her hand.

‘Aye, and I like it where it is. Sadila means to upset the balance of things, and we can’t have that.’

‘She means to find a way to escape,’ Reynar said.

‘They always say that,’ Chollat growled. ‘And them that listen to the promises of the dead are mad. There’s no way out. No escape. Just endless mirrors, reflecting endlessly.’

‘What about you, trusting the Warden to keep his word?’ Ilesha said. ‘That one has no will of his own, whatever he claims – he’s just a puppet. Nagash’s gaoler, ensuring we all remain trapped here.’

‘Maybe so, but I know whose side I’d rather be on.’ Chollat gestured, and several of his warriors, including Tuqo, closed in on Ilesha and Reynar. ‘Take them!’

‘Damn you, Chollat,’ Ilesha said softly. She glanced at Reynar. ‘Grab the artefact.’

‘What? Now?’

‘In a moment.’ Ilesha thrust her staff down against the ground, hard, and a jet of amethyst flame erupted before her. It raced towards the warriors, engulfing two. The men screamed as the flames congealed about them, becoming crystalline prisons. Tuqo avoided the blast, but before he could reach her, a thrown axe sank into the ground before him. He whirled, and Reynar heard Khord’s familiar bellow.

The duardin stepped into the tent, maul dripping with blood. ‘Things have gone wrong, I see,’ he growled. He looked at Tuqo. ‘Hello, cousin.’

‘No cousin of mine, kinslayer.’

Khord bared his gold teeth. ‘Fine by me. That makes this easier.’ The two fyreslayers charged towards one another, bellowing at the top of their lungs. More amethyst flames rose up, blocking Reynar’s view of the duel. Ilesha gestured, and the flames shot out like the talons of some great beast, engulfing tables and treasures in shimmering amethyst.

Chollat was shouting now, and crossbows twanged. The bolts struck the flames and fell, shrouded in crystal. Ilesha was making herself a target, giving Reynar a chance to circle around. The flames parted for him as he made his way towards the last place he’d seen the artefact. He swung himself over a table, scattering chunks of shadeglass.

He could hear the tread of heavy feet on the street outside, and the sounds of battle had changed – were the orruks retreating? There was no way to tell. Past the flames, he could see orruks fighting with Chollat’s warriors. The sides of the tent had been torn away, revealing more of the street – he saw a flash of crimson and brass, and felt a chill run down his spine. The orruks weren’t the only ones who’d come looking for a fight. Ilesha was right – they had to get out of here, and quick.

But not empty-handed. Not this time.

He saw the artefact, still in its cloth. It lay on the ground where it had fallen. He made to snatch it up, but the tent canvas to his right tore and a scarred figure appeared, filed teeth bared.

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the newcomer roared. He lashed out with his axe, nearly taking Reynar’s head off.

‘Well, he can’t bloody well have mine,’ Reynar snarled, driving his sword up through the bloodreaver’s exposed chest. The warrior slumped with a befuddled growl, clearly surprised. Reynar ripped his sword free and turned to see more of the savage warriors race into the tent, making a beeline for Ilesha. ‘Ilesha – to your right,’ he shouted, heading towards her.

Ilesha turned and thumped her staff down. Motes of light shot forward, punching into the charging bloodreavers. The warriors staggered as the lights erupted from their backs, dragging twitching, wispy phantom shapes in their wake. The bloodreavers fell, like puppets with their strings cut.

The motes of light rose, dragging the struggling souls with them. Ilesha swung her staff out, and they began to spin, growing brighter and brighter as she spoke in a terrible voice that seemed far too deep and resonant a sound for a mortal to make. More lights shot from the mass, striking bloodreavers, orruks and others alike, ripping their spirits from them as easily as a fishwife might bone the day’s catch.

In the eerie light of the slaughter, Reynar saw Chollat creeping towards Ilesha, knife in hand. That was the best way to deal with a battle-mage – when they were otherwise occupied, dealing with some other poor fool. Reynar hesitated, but knew his odds were better with Ilesha than on his own. He lunged across Chollat’s path, parrying the man’s knife. Chollat spun with a snarl.

‘You!’

‘Me,’ Reynar said. He kicked out, and Chollat folded over with a yelp, clutching at himself. Reynar buried his sword in the man’s back before he could recover. Chollat died quietly, choking on his own blood. Reynar tore his sword free just as Ilesha shouted a warning.

‘Reynar – look out!’

He spun, and saw an axe blade descending towards his head. He threw himself aside and the axe caught him in the ribs, knocking him sprawling. Luckily, his armour held, but the blow still sent a shiver of pain through him. Wheezing, he rolled onto his back as his attacker followed him, readying the axe for another blow. A heavy boot caught Reynar in the chest and pinned him to the ground. His sword lay just out of reach.

The bloodreaver loomed over him, scarred and streaked with gore. Despite the mask of blood, Reynar recognised those hateful features. ‘At last,’ Isengrim of the Red Reef growled. ‘Do you remember me, coward?’

‘Hard to forget a face like yours,’ Reynar coughed. The bloodreaver looked much as he remembered. Trust a monster to thrive in a place like this.

Isengrim grinned. ‘Good. Because it is the last thing you will ever see – Khorne is owed a skull, and a skull he shall have!’ He swept his axe up, and time seemed to slow and skew as Reynar’s world narrowed to that gore-stained edge. It seemed impossibly large, like the sickle shape of some red moon rising overhead. He heard laughter – his own, perhaps – echoing from every piece of shadeglass in the tent, and, as if at a distance, he heard Khord’s bullish bellow and the clash of steel. He heard Ilesha’s voice raised in a chant and the sounds of men and orruks dying. But mostly, he heard the air part as the axe descended. He groped for the hilt of his sword and the knife in his belt, knowing he’d be too late but trying anyway.

‘No!’ a deep voice said. A sword deflected the blow, and the bloodreaver staggered, a look of shock on his scarred features. A black-armoured warrior – vaguely familiar – hauled Reynar to his feet. His rescuer tossed him something – the artefact, he realised – and said, ‘Run, Reynar. If you value your life, run!’

Reynar ran.

‘Traitor,’ Isengrim snarled. He spun, his axe biting the air near Zuvass’ neck. The Chaos warrior interposed his sword with ease.

‘No. Just thinking ahead – always ahead. You’ll never get anywhere chewing over the past, Isengrim. Got to look forward.’

Zuvass shoved him back. The Chaos warrior was strong. Stronger than Isengrim. Isengrim stumbled. Felt something hot burn across his shoulder. He turned and saw the witch, wreathed in purple flame. She had killed too many of his warriors. They stood still, trapped in amethyst crystal, or lay limp and steaming, their eyes cooked white and their bodies reduced to husks. She stank of death-magic and starlight.

She swept her staff out, and balls of bristling light shrieked through the tent, striking anyone who came near. Isengrim snarled, his hackles twitching at the stink of magic.

He turned back and found that Zuvass was gone – where, he could not say. His lip curled in dismissal. He would deal with the traitor later – and find his quarry. But first, the witch must be dealt with. He swung around and roared. Axe raised, he dove towards her.

She met his charge with a gesture. Cold fire washed over him, and he thrust out his axe as if to slice himself a path. The flames kissed his flesh, and he howled in agony. He threw himself to the ground, rolling to extinguish them. A moment later he was on his feet, and his axe swept through the air where she’d been only seconds before.

She caught his next blow on her staff and was knocked to one knee. She drew her sword with her free hand and nearly gutted him. He stepped back. ‘Khorne will grant me a mighty boon if I offer up your skull, witch.’

‘You have to claim it first, barbarian.’

‘A pleasure,’ Isengrim said. He sprang forward again. Sorcerers were powerful, but only if you were stupid enough to let them use their magics. If you stayed with your teeth at their throat, they died as easily as any warrior. Easier, in fact.

A moment later, her sword nearly opened his throat. He twitched aside, swallowing curses. She was more skilled than she looked. He circled her, watching for an opening. Around them, the tent was fully aflame. The fighting was spilling out into the street, merging with the greater slaughter. He could smell blood and taste the iron tang of death. He laughed harshly, feeling Khorne’s tread on the air. Every drop of blood was like a light in the dark, showing the Blood God the way.

Too far… too far… even for the Lord of Red Fields…

Isengrim paused. The voice echoed through him from every direction at once. He glanced about and saw something watching him from the flames – many somethings, but all the same. A curve of shadow, a slash of a rictus grin.

The air trembled. Something was coming closer.

‘Khorne…’

No.

A single word. It sliced through him like a blade of ice. He staggered. The flames gave off no heat. The witch’s face seemed to be a skull, grinning at him as she backed away. He heard not the ringing of blades but a scraping, as of a scythe across a whetstone. He felt something clutch at his heart. No.

At his shadow.

His eyes were drawn down to that stretch of black. A part of him, always following. Unnoticed and silent. But now it was screaming in fear. He could hear it shivering through him. Something had latched on to his shadow, something greater and darker and colder than the night itself. Something that watched him from every twist of flame. Something that spoke in a voice like tumbling tombstones.

I… see… you…

It had him now, holding him fast by his shadow. He felt like a wolf with its leg in a trap. There was only one thing to do. Only one thing he could think to do.

Isengrim roared and twisted, his axe flashing in the firelight. He felt a tearing sensation and a sudden rush of cold. He fell back, free. His shadow twisted, caught fast by the presence. But he could not hear its screams anymore. He could hear nothing save the rasp of bony talons closing tight. His breath gusted from him in cold clouds.

His prey was gone, for the moment. So was the witch.

But there was still a battle to be won. Still blood to be spilled.

He turned away, leaving his shadow to its fate. ‘Khorne guide me,’ he said through gritted teeth. A prayer, or perhaps a plea. He did not know which.

Chapter nineteen

THE SMILING GOD

Every god is a river spawning a hundred tributaries. From one comes two, from two, four. From four… legion.

– Hierophane the Mad
The Black Pilgrimage

The artefact was warm in Reynar’s hand as he raced along the street, seeking a moment’s refuge. A cold wind rose, clawing at him. Dusty motes of broken glass stung his face and neck. The sounds of battle faded behind him, swallowed up by the city. No, not swallowed. Eaten.

He had to think. To plan. He had to come up with a plan.

I thought this was your plan. It’s what you always do, isn’t it? Run?

His reflection ran alongside him. Or stumbled, rather, for it was a broken thing now, trailing smoke and blood through skewed tangles of shattered glass. Barely human at all, barely him but for the voice echoing in his head, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

You run and run and run, but you can’t outrun fate.

‘I can give it a damn good try,’ he panted. He looked back.

Someone was chasing him. A black shape, there one moment, vanishing the next, lost in glass and shadow. He could hear iron-shod feet crunching across the broken ground and the rustle-scrape of black war-plate. His rescuer.

Your damnation.

Reynar ran on. He hoped Ilesha had escaped. And Khord as well.

Would it be worse or better for you if they didn’t? Do you think Sadila would punish you for their deaths? Or would she reward you for playing the game?

Reynar couldn’t muster the breath for a reply. The air was full of smoke and ghosts. The street seemed to curve away from him, up and over and under again, like a wheel. He saw the same statue he’d passed moments ago, only this time it was smiling at him. No, leering. A jolly expression – spiteful and mocking. He could hear glass breaking and men screaming. Like battle, in the distance.

In the past, maybe, or perhaps in the future. It’s all one and the same in this place. You’re running in circles, you know. That’s why you can’t escape. Look behind you – quick!

Despite himself, Reynar did. His pursuer was gaining on him, striding after him at a slow, steady pace. He turned back to the path ahead and saw a tall structure, domed and columned. It was vaguely familiar to him, and he ran towards it, breath burning in his lungs.

A cold wind whipped through the streets, clawing at him. He climbed the cracked steps quickly, seeking refuge on the other side of the shadowed archway at the top. A moment later, a hundred Reynars ran through the hall of broken mirrors. They were not all the same. They were not all human. One wore tarnished silver war-plate and had a look of determination, not fear, on his haggard features. Another was a reeking thing covered in leprous boils, bearing a pitted axe. The stench of it almost permeated the mould-streaked glass.

Others resembled him more closely, save that they wore the uniforms of different regiments or bore different weapons. They scattered in all directions as the corridor widened, only one keeping pace. One in black armour, with a leering face for a helm and a tattered cobalt cloak. Somehow, his pursuer had caught up to him without making a sound. Reynar threw himself forward as the Chaos warrior reached for him. He scrambled behind a fallen pillar and rose to his feet, facing him, the artefact clutched to his chest. ‘Who are you?’

‘Zuvass.’

‘Is that supposed to be a name?’

‘More a title.’ The warrior stopped. ‘You can rest easy. I just wish to talk.’

‘Where’s your friend?’

‘Brawling with the orruks, I imagine.’ Zuvass sheathed his sword. ‘You run faster than I remember.’

‘Have we met?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I told you – to talk. Isn’t that better than fighting?’

Reynar hesitated. ‘You saved me.’

‘I did. You’re special, you know. You’re not a mite like all the rest, clinging to the hide of something you can’t conceive. You see the bars of the cage for what they are.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You will.’ Zuvass took a step towards him, and Reynar backed away. ‘Look around. Does anything seem familiar?’`

As before, Reynar’s reflections – for there were many of them – stretched away in lines of possibilities, all of them facing Zuvass. Some were monstrous, others more heroic than he could ever hope to be. But the warrior before him didn’t change – somehow, Reynar knew that he was a fixed point. Something inevitable that would be, must be, however the winds of fate blew. The thought chilled him.

His sword dipped. The artefact was heavy in his grip. ‘What is this place?’

‘You don’t remember? You hid here with Utrecht, didn’t you?’ Zuvass leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, mockingly casual. Reynar turned, seeing the familiar in the alien now. The great pillars and the statues. All ruined, but in a different way. And everywhere, the creeping fronds of shadeglass, cannibalising and colonising its surroundings.

‘How… It wasn’t anywhere near here…’ He trailed off as the answer came to him. ‘The city moves. It’s moving right now, isn’t it?’

‘Like debris on the water. It comes together and breaks apart, but is always in motion.’ Zuvass knocked on the pillar. ‘It wanted you here, and so here you are. Here we are.’ He straightened, arms spread. ‘As sure as fate.’ He pointed to Reynar’s chest. ‘As certain as that.’

Reynar glanced down and saw that his amulet was hanging free.

Zuvass laughed. ‘You found it here, you know. Or there, rather. Did you ever ask yourself how it got here? Who left it? If we looked, I wonder… would we find it, waiting for you to pick it up at some time in the future? Or in the past? It’s hard to tell which is which in this place.’

‘What are you talking about? What does that mean?’

‘My apologies. Have you had that conversation yet? It’s hard to remember – being here is like being thrust into every memory at once. They ebb and flow like the tide, changing day by day.’ Zuvass took another step towards him. ‘Ilesha will tell you, if she hasn’t yet.’

‘How do you know her? How did you know about Utrecht?’

‘Those aren’t the questions you should be asking, my friend.’

Reynar frowned. ‘Then what are?’

Before Zuvass could reply, there was a thunderous hiss-crack as something flashed behind Reynar. He ducked instinctively. Crackling bolts of what might have been lightning shattered the mirrors, and Zuvass ducked away out of sight with a curse.

Reynar turned, and a bolt seared across his wrist. His sword fell from his hand and clattered away. A second bolt caught his cloak and yanked him back. The bolt cracked into a pillar and juddered there, pinning him. Dazed, Reynar fumbled at the clasp of his coat, but couldn’t get it loose.

‘Traitor,’ a voice said.

Reynar looked up. Tomas stood at the other end of the corridor, his boltstorm pistol levelled. Reynar made to speak, but the Vanguard-Hunter fired again. Glass to either side of Reynar shattered and rained down around him, stinging his face.

‘Traitor,’ Tomas said again. Reynar fumbled at the bolt holding his cloak pinned to the wall, cursing as it seared his fingers through the leather. ‘Severin was right. I should have killed you in the market when I had the chance.’

‘Wait,’ Reynar said, trying not to stare at the flickering light within the weapon’s muzzle. ‘Wait, wait, wait.’ The crackling bolt burned his fingers as he tried to yank it free, and he couldn’t get a grip on it – it was as if it wasn’t really there at all. The Stormcast stalked towards him, a hunter closing in on his trapped prey.

‘No.’ Tomas extended his weapon, almost touching Reynar’s head. It growled like thunder. ‘When you return, remember this moment, traitor. For I shall slay you again, and every time you appear until this place is free of its curse.’

Reynar gave up on the bolt. His hand fell to his knife, though he knew he would not be able to draw it in time. He squeezed his eyes shut as the sound of the boltstorm pistol grew loud in his ears. He could think of nothing save the amulet’s broken smile and Bellam Gund’s face. Then came a whirr of air and a hissing burst of light.

Reynar’s eyes flew open and he saw Tomas stagger back, his weapon cut in half, its ruined shape bleeding blue light. Zuvass stood between them, his sword extended. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘The moment has come back around. I never get tired of it.’

Tomas didn’t reply. The Stormcast tossed his ruined weapon aside and caught up his shock handaxe. He lunged, raptor-swift, and Zuvass met him. Sword and axe crashed together with a snarl of lightning, and weird shadows danced in the flare. They moved so swiftly that Reynar could barely keep up. He concentrated on tearing his cloak loose.

Blue cloth ripped and he sagged into a crouch. He threw up a hand as another flash of light nearly blinded him. He had to get to his sword. The crash of blades echoed through the shattered terrace. One hand on his knife, he scrambled towards the sword. Before he reached it, a golden-armoured form slammed into a nearby pillar and the column exploded. Reynar lurched aside, trying to avoid the cloud of flying rubble.

Tomas hit the ground and rolled to his feet a moment later, axe in hand. Zuvass leapt after him, his armoured boots gouging the floor as he raced towards the Stormcast. The two came together again in a crash of metal. Reynar was forced to scuttle out of their path as they reeled about, trading blows. They were evenly matched, and there was no way of telling who would win. He jerked his knife from his belt and watched, wondering if he could do what had to be done. Once, even contemplating such a thing would have seemed a blasphemy.

But now, it appeared to be the only way. It was as if a door had been opened and Tomas was standing between Reynar and survival. Just like Bellam Gund. He could feel the amulet burning against his skin, and out of the corner of his eye he could see his reflection grinning at him. The glass shimmered, making it seem as if he were winking at himself.

His other reflections were there as well, encouraging him, cursing him, pleading with him. They wanted him to run, to do it, to stop. A dozen voices – all his – echoed in his head, shouting contradictory instructions as he readied the knife. It felt heavy in his hand.

Tomas had his back to Reynar. His furs had been torn away in the battle, exposing the black joins between the golden plates of his damaged war-plate. Reynar had no idea if his blade would pierce between them, but he was going to find out.

His reflections fell silent as he leapt to his feet, both hands on the knife, and slammed it into a gap with as much force as he could muster. Tomas stiffened and groaned as the blade found flesh. He whipped around, and a sweep of his arm sent Reynar tumbling across the floor. Reynar crawled backwards as the wounded Stormcast took a step towards him. The knife in his hand seemed inconsequential. Tomas lifted his axe.

Zuvass’ blade came down, separating the Stormcast’s arm from his shoulder in a welter of lightning-tinged gore. Tomas wheeled with a roar of pain, his remaining hand clawing for the Chaos warrior. Zuvass leaned forward and drove his sword up through the Stormcast’s midsection, lifting him off his feet.

Tomas clutched at Zuvass’ helm. ‘R-remember… y-you,’ he hissed as the blade sawed through him.

‘I’m sure you will.’ Zuvass wrenched his sword loose in a spray of red. Blood leaked from the eye slits and mouth of the Stormcast’s war-mask. He sank down and toppled onto his side.

Zuvass looked down at Reynar. ‘On your feet, my friend. No need to cower now. The danger has passed.’

Reynar rose slowly to his feet, knife in hand. ‘He almost killed me.’

‘I would not have let that happen.’ Zuvass wiped his sword clean on his cloak and sheathed it. ‘You are far too vital to be disposed of so unceremoniously.’

‘So you say.’ Reynar wiped the back of his hand across his face. He stared at the leering helm-face and the eyes that gleamed behind it. Eyes like the gaps between the stars. ‘Give me one good reason not to leave here.’

Zuvass sighed. Before Reynar could react, he lunged. His fingers closed about Reynar’s throat. ‘Do you know what hell is, Reynar?’ he asked softly. ‘Monotony. Endless cycles, repeated endlessly. That’s what this place is – an oubliette of damned souls gnawing on each other for an eternity. They wanted forever, and Nagash has given it to them.’ Zuvass lifted Reynar and drove him back against the edge of the terrace. ‘But even the strongest prison walls can be felled by a single crack in the right place.’

Reynar tried to stab his captor, but the Chaos warrior caught his wrist and squeezed, forcing him to drop the knife. It clattered against the terrace and skidded over the edge. Zuvass watched it fall. ‘So that’s where it went,’ he murmured. He looked back at Reynar. ‘It’s odd, the things you remember most. Little things, usually.’ He let go of Reynar’s bruised wrist and tapped the amulet hanging around Reynar’s neck. ‘Like this… such a tiny thing. A good luck charm. Only, it’s not so lucky, is it?’

Zuvass reached into his armour and pulled out a similar amulet. Reynar stared. ‘No, not just similar,’ Zuvass said. ‘You’re thinking that, right now, but you know better. You’re smarter than most give you credit for. It’s how you survive.’ He released Reynar. ‘Already, you’re starting to see the angles – if I’m talking to you, that means I’m not killing you. So how long can you keep me talking?’ Zuvass stepped back. ‘But still you wonder, why hasn’t he killed me?’

‘Why haven’t you?’ Reynar asked. His eyes flicked to his sword. A lunge and a bit of luck, and he might be able to get to it.

‘You won’t reach it,’ Zuvass said. Reynar froze. ‘Your luck has run out.’ He reached up as if to remove his helm.

‘Don’t,’ Reynar said, looking away. ‘Just… don’t.’

Zuvass laughed. ‘Have it your way. For what it’s worth, I said the same thing.’

Reynar shuddered and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want what you want.’ Zuvass crouched and picked up Reynar’s sword. ‘To escape Shadespire.’ He held it as if testing the blade’s balance. He swung it with an almost familiar gesture, and Reynar looked away. ‘To find my fortune, whatever that might be.’ Zuvass flipped the blade around and extended the hilt to Reynar. Reynar looked at it, but didn’t touch it.

‘And what does that have to do with me?’

‘That depends entirely on your perspective. But for the moment, let us say everything.’ Zuvass cocked his head in a manner that was at once alien and horribly familiar. ‘You are right. You can’t trust the Katophrane. She’s the one who led you into this oubliette, just as she’s led thousands of others. It’s a game to her. A way to pass the time. She draws warriors in and sends them into battle just to watch them die.’

‘And the pieces of the Faneway we’ve been collecting…?’

‘Part of the game. A way of keeping score. She has no intention of repairing anything, even if she knew how.’

Reynar took his sword and sheathed it. He thought of Ilesha, hard at work. Of Severin and the others, so sure of their path. He didn’t want to believe Zuvass, but somehow he knew it was the truth. As surely as he knew his own name. ‘How do you know?’

‘She told me,’ Zuvass said.

Reynar frowned. ‘And why should I believe you?’

‘You shouldn’t. But you want to. The only truth that matters is the one you want to believe.’ Zuvass turned. He looked out over the city. ‘This spot once overlooked the city’s market district, I’m told. If you listen closely, you can hear the cul-de-sacs eating each other.’

‘Why tell me all of this?’

‘I told you – you’re important.’ Zuvass turned back. ‘You’re the crack that brings it all crashing down.’

Reynar’s eyes narrowed. ‘You want me to betray her. Betray them.’

‘You say it like you haven’t done it before.’

Reynar flinched. ‘That was different.’

‘Was it? I doubt the comrades you left on the battlefield would see it that way. I doubt Bellam Gund would either. You and Utrecht and the others – you abandoned your brothers-in-arms at the first whiff of shadeglass. And now look at you.’

‘Tell me what you want,’ Reynar said after a moment. ‘And what I get out of it.’

‘What I want is for you to be true to yourself,’ Zuvass said. ‘And what you get is a way out of Shadespire.’

Reynar looked away. ‘She’ll expect it. Is expecting it.’

Zuvass nodded. ‘Another part of the game. She always tells one. And you’ll try to convince the others, and they’ll tear you to pieces. Hope is the greatest of addictions. Of course, they might believe you. Some of them, at any rate. And then there’d be fighting, and dying, and her enjoying the show.’

‘Then it is hopeless.’

‘No. Because she was lying. She doesn’t think you’re a coward. Cowards are no use to her. She’s counting on you wanting to spare your new friends – to help them, even if you don’t trust her. Divided loyalties are the strongest shield.’ Zuvass leaned close. ‘But we both know she’s wrong. That you don’t have friends, because they’re only another sort of prison. Be true to yourself, Seguin, and this game of hers ends.’

Reynar looked away. Thoughts shifted in his head like shards of broken glass, digging into him. Tearing holes. Letting in new light.

After a long moment, he said, ‘What do I need to do?’

Isengrim wrenched his axe from the duardin’s skull. Blood dripped onto the warrior’s leaf-shaped mail and collected in the contours of his skull-like mask. The drakegun he’d held lay nearby, the fuse snuffed by a spatter of blood. Isengrim turned, hissing as his burned flesh parted anew, spilling fresh blood down his shoulder and arm. He caught sight of the ground, full of shadows. None of them were his. His was gone. He shook his head.

Smoke hung thick on the air and a fire was raging somewhere close by. There would soon be no trace of the market or its inhabitants save ash and scraps of blackened bone. The thought was not as satisfying as it should have been.

He turned back to the tent and saw that it was already engulfed in flames. The witch had escaped with her duardin companion. But not for long. There would be a reckoning. She had killed too many of his warriors to escape with her skull intact.

He stared into the flames, watching the light devour the dark. Was his shadow still caught in there somewhere, burning and twisting in amethyst fire? He felt a chill lance through him and flexed his free hand. He felt numb in places, as if bitten to the bone by frost. Shapes seemed to dance in the flames and in the smoke above.

A guttural laugh drew him around. Gurzag Ironskull sat nearby, a wooden cask beneath one arm and his axes embedded in a stone pillar. ‘Fun, yeah?’ the orruk growled. He lifted the cask and punched a hole in it, allowing the liquid within to sluice into his open jaws. He tossed it aside when it was empty and wiped his mouth. ‘Be even more fun the next time.’

Isengrim frowned. ‘Fun,’ he said flatly. ‘Is that all this was to you?’

Gurzag shrugged. ‘If it ain’t fun, it ain’t worth doing.’

‘We failed. You failed. I failed. How is that fun?’ Isengrim took a step towards the orruk. He caught sight of Ylac trotting towards him, leading some of the others. The rest would still be about their butchery. It was a red night – a good night. But not for him. He had lost more than his quarry. A surge of frustration ran through him. He wanted to kill something. He heard a growl and glanced around.

There were orruks gathering as well. They still had a truce, but the slightest spark could set off a brawl. He felt the urge to be that spark rising. Gurzag’s head wasn’t the one he was after, but maybe it would do well enough tonight. The fire of battle would drive back the cold that threatened to claim him.

Gurzag rose to his feet and reclaimed his axes. ‘You wanna fight, then?’ he said heavily. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, and his axes flashed as he scraped them together. ‘Let’s fight. I won’t go easy on you this time.’

Isengrim took a step towards him, his axe light in his hands. His heart leapt in his chest, joyful and eager. He’d kill Gurzag, and any other orruk who dared face him. He’d heap a pyramid of skulls in this place. But before he could do more than ready himself, Zuvass stepped through the smoke, something golden in his hand. ‘I’d not test him, my friend,’ the Chaos warrior called out. ‘Gurzag will take your head, and damn the consequences. Isn’t that right, Gurzag?’

Ironskull bared his tusks at the Chaos warrior. ‘You again?’ he rumbled, as if curious. ‘Come to get your bonce split too?’

‘Not this time.’ Zuvass looked around. ‘They got away, I take it. Except for poor old Chollat, of course. But he’ll be back. Shadespire has only increased his cockroach-like ability to endure certain death and come out all the stronger.’ He lifted what he held – a golden Stormcast helm, still containing the head of its wearer.

‘You betrayed me,’ Isengrim growled, raising his axe.

‘Not yet.’ Zuvass tossed the Stormcast’s head at his feet. ‘I told you that you would catch him, and you will. Until then, have this skull in recompense.’

Isengrim kicked the head aside. ‘I would have had him here were it not for you!’

Zuvass spread his arms. ‘Then strike me down. And wander this prison forever.’

Isengrim raised his axe. Gurzag and the others watched. The guttural laughter of orruks filled the air, and Isengrim spun, glaring at them. Gurzag bared his tusks in a grin. ‘I like you, ’umie,’ he said. ‘Got some Gork in ya.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Got to have some Mork, though. Got to be kunnin’, yeah? Smart, like.’ He pointed one of his axes at Zuvass. ‘Him, he’s Mork, all the way down, innit?’

‘A high compliment,’ Zuvass said, nodding to Ironskull.

Isengrim took a step towards Zuvass, his axe twitching in his hand. He wanted nothing more than to strike the other warrior’s head off. Surely Khorne would prefer his skull to that of the coward? But something stayed his hand, as if a voice were whispering in his ear, telling him that now was not the time. That Khorne cared not from whence the blood flowed, only that it did. But for it to flow true, first it must find a crack.

Shadespire was a dam waiting to burst. Centuries of blood held trapped in this prison of stone and glass. An offering fit for any god, and one Khorne would smile on. If he but stayed his hand, that offering might be his to deliver up to the Skull God. And all that he had sacrificed would not be in vain.

Slowly, he lowered his axe. ‘I will spare you. But I am owed a debt.’

‘And you will have it.’ Zuvass looked at Gurzag. ‘Does our alliance still hold, Ironskull? Or are you angry as well?’

Gurzag sucked on a fang, thinking this over. ‘They have my shiny, then?’

‘Oh yes. They have it, and more besides. Storm-things and stunties, ’umies and many walls to knock over.’ Zuvass bowed. ‘All my gift to you, my friend.’

Gurzag laughed. ‘Right then. Still friends.’

Zuvass turned to Isengrim. ‘The last piece is in place. The riddle is ready to be solved. Gather those who remain. We have a war to wage.’

Chapter twenty

IN THE DARK

There is a peace, of sorts, in surrender. The inevitable betrayal of value and honour frees the mind and soul of much detritus, allowing it to rise or fall as the winds dictate…

– Nechris Litharge
Marginalia of a Disordered Mind

The causeway creaked, though there was no wind.

Shadespire seemed to be tensing about Reynar, like an animal readying itself to spring. He could see the distant towers turning slowly, so slowly, as if to watch his hurried progress. And something else – a great shape, only dimly visible, following him. Observing him. As if waiting to see what he might do.

Hundreds of pillars lined the causeway, stretching all the way to the Jasper Palaces. Shrouds were strung from them like tapestries, or banners commemorating some ancient triumph. They rustled and twisted in the non-existent wind, and Reynar did his best to avoid their touch. He shoved past one, trying to ignore the unreal shapes that beat soundlessly against the other side. No, not soundlessly. He could hear them whispering desperately. Trying to warn him, he thought. But he ignored them. He knew what was ahead and didn’t need the dead to tell him.

Sometimes, he thought he saw shadowy shapes lurking between the pillars. He thought of the skaven and picked up the pace.

Reynar considered simply not going back, and taking his chances in the city. But he knew that even if he managed to survive on his own, Severin or Angharad would eventually hunt him down. They’d find Tomas and assume that he’d had something to do with the Vanguard-Hunter’s death.

And Sadila would laugh as they killed him.

No, best to stick to the path fate had chosen for him. At least until something better came along. It had worked for him so far, after all. He laughed bleakly, and dimly wished Utrecht were there. Someone to watch his back, come what may.

‘But you’re alone now,’ he said softly. ‘For good and proper.’ Alone in a city of lunatics, with no way out save one. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. He couldn’t trust Zuvass – he knew that. He couldn’t trust anyone or anything in Shadespire. Not even himself.

Especially not yourself.

He ignored the voice. It wasn’t him. Not really.

Oh, but I am. Ask yourself, who are you in the dark?

Reynar froze.

Who are you when no one is watching?

His mouth was suddenly dry. He turned, searching the jagged fragments of shadeglass, seeking the face he knew he would see. When he found it, his hand fell to his sword. ‘You’re not real,’ he said softly.

Not yet, his reflection said. His doppelganger was a mass of blackened meat and broken bone. Barely human at all. Injuries marked its last shreds of visible flesh – mortal wounds, many of them. The reflection touched a gaping cut. Only maggots spilled out. Your wounds. The ones you ought to have taken. The ones you let others take in your place. The city shifted around you, just a bit, and Tirax burned. Another shift, and the axe blow meant for your head was blocked. So many twists and turns, all the way back to the beginning…

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Reynar said, his voice harsh.

Liar.

He turned away. ‘You’re not real. You’re just this place trying to get into my head.’ He started walking, but his reflection was there, moving parallel to him.

I’d say I’ve already succeeded.

Reynar frowned. ‘I’m going mad.’

Don’t get ahead of yourself.

He stopped. Turned. His reflection stood behind him, smirking. ‘Was that supposed to be funny?’ he demanded. Before his reflection could answer, he drew his blade and shattered the pane of shadeglass. As the shards fell, he heard the soft whisper of laughter from all around him. He turned in place, and his reflection was there at every angle, grinning at him. A rictus grin, a leering smile, like that of Zuvass’ helm. He swallowed, suddenly uncertain. A part of him wished that he was mad, that this was nothing more than a trick of the light.

But it isn’t. Not the way you think.

‘Then what is it?’ He asked the question before he could stop himself. ‘What are you?’ He pointed his blade at his doppelganger.

What you see. The road not taken, the journey abandoned. I’m nothing at all.

‘Speak plainly,’ he snapped.

I’m you. Or maybe I’m not. We’re quite different, you and I. I’m starting to think we’re nothing alike at all. His reflection took a step towards him, and the facets flickered as if someone were shining a light behind them. Or maybe I’m just tired of taking on your debt.

‘What debt? What do you mean?’

His reflection grinned and… changed. Twisted. Reynar stared as his face broke apart and became something else, something unfamiliar. It filled the jagged space, swelling to monstrous immensity as he gaped, frozen. Him, but not him. A him that had become something else, like an insect emerging from some terrible chrysalis.

You belong here, Reynar. However much you twist and gnaw at yourself, the trap holds you fast. The sooner you accept it, the sooner all things will become clear.

Reynar closed his eyes, not wanting to see what his own face had become. Something laughed deep in the glass, and there was a sound like the snap of leathery pinions. He felt a wash of cold, stinking air pass over him, as if something were flying away.

When he opened his eyes, the glass had all shattered. He stared at the shards littering the causeway, and made to touch one but restrained himself. Whatever was going on, he wanted no part of it. He turned away, slamming his sword back into its sheath.

This place was mad. The rules by which he had assumed the realms were governed did not apply here. The desire to escape burned twice as brightly now. He felt as if he had stepped into the jaws of a trap he couldn’t see. He had to escape before it closed shut on him and he went as mad as the others.

Death wasn’t permanent here, he told himself as he climbed. A moment’s treachery could be undone, forgiven and forgotten. That’s what he told himself as he ran over Zuvass’ words again and again. Attacking the problem from every angle. That was how you had to do it, otherwise you missed something. If you missed something, you died.

Like Bellam Gund. Bellam had missed all the signs, or ignored them. And he’d died. He’d had to die so that Reynar could live. In the end, that was the deciding factor. Reynar killed to survive. Whatever, whoever, it didn’t matter. Did that make him better or worse than someone like Isengrim, or Sadila? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

He just wanted to live.

But would Zuvass actually help him escape? He reached for his amulet and ran his thumb along its curves, thinking. He couldn’t trust the Chaos warrior. He needed a guarantee. Zuvass wanted Sadila for some reason. Reynar could work with that.

Zuvass had told him of a path that ran beneath the city – much like the ones Ilesha had mentioned. Down below the palaces, where waters from the district cistern still flowed. The secret rivers of Shadespire. That was what Ilesha had called them when she’d shown him the maps. He thought of her and frowned. The power she’d displayed in the market had been terrifying. It was no wonder she’d been able to survive where others hadn’t.

Ilesha will know, Zuvass had said. Not just about secret paths and hidden doors. He had said a lot of things. But Reynar knew that he was right. The sorceress was too smart for her own good. He stopped. Water dripped from high above, playing over his cloak and shoulders, trickling down between the links of his armour.

Behind him, loose stones rattled. His hand fell to his blade, but he didn’t draw it.

Someone was following him.

He turned. In the gloom, red eyes shone like embers. A thin voice chittered, ‘Softly-go, softly-go, man-thing. Safe-safe, yes-yes. Zuvass pays us to keep you safe-alive, yes-yes. No fear, no fear.’

Reynar turned back, feeling sick. He could sense them now, all around him. Not just one this time, but many. Watching him. Keeping him safe. The question was, why? Why did it have to be him? Why not simply send in the skaven if Zuvass had their loyalty?

There was something he wasn’t seeing. Some piece missing from the puzzle. Perhaps it wasn’t simply about opening the gates and letting the enemy in. Perhaps it was about keeping one from getting out. He looked towards the distant shape of the dome and wondered if Sadila was watching him stumble home. Or did she think he was dead?

He frowned and spat, trying to clear the sudden taste of bile from his mouth. He decided to follow the skaven’s advice and go softly. He kept walking. Behind him, his shadows kept pace, but soon they faded away, back among the pillars and tapestries.

He realised why as a deep voice rolled over the causeway. ‘Who is there?’

Reynar froze.

He didn’t see Obryn until the Stormcast spoke again. The Liberator sat in the lee of a pillar, so still it was as if he were a part of the stones around him. ‘Are we ourselves? Or are we merely a reflection of those who came here?’ His voice rattled through Reynar. Quiet, but deep. ‘These are the things I consider in these unquiet moments between battles.’

The Stormcast did not look at him, did not even seem to register his presence. He simply sat, his hammer balanced across his knees, his hands resting atop it. He stared out over the twisting facets of the city as if in search of something. ‘What is truth, and what is an illusion? Are we but shadows on a cave wall, cast by a fire we cannot perceive?’

Reynar remained silent. That was more words than he’d heard Obryn utter before. The Stormcast did not move. ‘You wish to go. Is it your wish, or the echo of one made by another? Are the thoughts in your head your own, or were they placed there by another?’

‘Is this a riddle?’ Reynar asked after a moment.

‘No. I have died so many times that I cannot remember the first time.’ The Liberator’s head turned, metal grinding on metal. ‘If a sword is melted down and reforged, is it the same sword? Or is it changed by the act of recreation?’

‘It’s the same,’ Reynar said.

‘How can you tell?’

Reynar hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. His voice was almost a whisper.

Obryn turned away. ‘No. Severin set me here to guard the way. The city’s heart beats to the rhythm of war. Enemies gather and carrion birds circle the heights.’ Slowly, stiffly, he rose to his feet and stepped past Reynar. ‘Our foes come. I will await them, and gladly.’

He fell silent. Reynar waited. When the Stormcast appeared to have no interest in further conversation, he started walking. Obryn gave no sign that he noticed. It was as if he had withdrawn into himself fully. Reynar glanced back at him from time to time as he crossed the causeway, until the Liberator was lost to sight.

This, then, was the madness that awaited him if he stayed here. Death might not be permanent, but it had consequences. His luck wouldn’t last forever, and he would die again and again until he couldn’t see past the last death and passed into an aimless fugue. All he’d fought for, all he’d sacrificed – gone in an instant. Perhaps Utrecht had been right – better to have died clean than to have come here.

He wondered where the hillman was now, whether he’d already come stumbling out of some mirror, confused and alone. Would he remember his death? Would he be looking for his old captain? Reynar hoped not, though he couldn’t say why.

Obryn wasn’t the only sentry on patrol. He saw signs of preparations being made everywhere. He spotted choke points and barricades stretched across the causeway as well as the streets below, invisible save to someone who’d spent time on campaign with the Stormcasts. He knew there would be similar defences prepared on the other causeways. A lot of effort, though Sadila’s army was far too small to take advantage of all of it. Maybe Severin envisioned using the Jasper Palaces as a staging area for a conquest of the Mirrored City once the Faneway was repaired.

For the Stormcasts, this place was not simply a trap. It was also a place to be conquered. And that made them no better than the orruks or the bloodreavers. They all thought that they could conquer Shadespire.

He paused before the great causeway gate and looked east. The great monolith wrought in the shape of Nagash was no longer seated. Instead, it stood, as if waiting for something. Perhaps waiting to see how the game played out.

A chill coursed through him, and he looked away.

Isengrim stalked the walls, his anger growing with every step. It boiled away within him, eating at his self-control. He wanted nothing more than to raise up the crude standards his new warriors had fashioned and race into battle with… someone. Anyone.

Khorne demanded blood and skulls, and so he must have them. Either those of the enemy or those of his followers – it made no difference. The compact must be fulfilled. An oath made to a god was as iron – unbreakable and unyielding. He paused, rocking back and forth on his heels, trying to wrestle the rage back down. To clear his mind. His teeth sank into his lip and blood welled, soothing him somewhat.

Zuvass had prevented him from killing the coward, had denied him his destiny. The Chaos warrior had avoided him since, failing to give any explanation. Instead, he’d remained closeted with the Sepulchral Warden and Mekesh, planning the next stage of their war.

He laughed sourly at the thought. This was no war. There was no blood and thunder, no burning cities. This was nothing more than a child’s game. He would show them war if they wished. The streets would be drowned in a tide of blood. He looked out over the city – and it felt as if something were looking back.

Instinctively, he glanced down, checking for his shadow. It had not come back, and he could feel the cold growing in him. Only blood made the fires swell. Soon, even that might not be enough. But if he was fated to die, he would not go without fulfilling his oath.

He extended his axe in silent challenge, then turned away. If the God of Death wanted him before then, Isengrim would meet him head on, not cowering in the shadows. ‘No more waiting,’ he said. ‘No more talking, no more playing these games.’

Ylac stiffened at his words. The tall warrior stood nearby, leaning on his glaive. His expression perked up and he smiled, exposing his filed teeth. ‘We go, then?’

‘We go. They want their foe dead, and my prey awaits. I will not wait for the schemes of dead men. There is a war to be fought and blood to be spilled.’ Isengrim shoved past the other bloodreaver. ‘Gather the others. Tell them we march as soon as I return.’

‘Where do you go? Why not march now?’ Ylac demanded.

Isengrim paused. ‘I made an oath. I will not be the first to break it. I go to tell the Katophrane that I march. If the dead men wish to accompany us, they may. If not, they can watch as I win their war for them.’

Ylac bowed his head. ‘You are a true warrior, Isengrim of the Red Reef. Khorne smiled on us the day you came to this place.’

Isengrim glanced at him, but had no reply. He left the walls, his anger smoothing into anticipation. It felt good, knowing that the decision was made. Knowing that his prey was within sight and would be at his feet at last. Soon it would be done, and what happened after was of no import.

Soon, it would be over.

He climbed the steps to the uppermost chambers of the keep, where Mekesh held his councils of war. Two skeletal penitents stood at watch before the rotting doors. Isengrim did not slow as they drew rust-edged blades and moved to block his path. He did not speak, but lunged forward, his axe raised. Living or dead, they stood no chance.

As the bone fragments settled, Isengrim kicked the sagging doors wide. They boomed open and he strode into the chamber beyond. It was circular, with panes of dirty, cracked shadeglass on every wall and the remains of a great stone table at its centre. Zuvass and the Sepulchral Warden stood at the table alongside dead men clad in the raiment of champions and princes. Skulls swivelled as Isengrim entered.

Zuvass stepped forward. ‘You’re late, my friend. What took you so long?’

Isengrim pushed past him and went to the table. He looked around, hawked and spat. ‘No more waiting. I lead my warriors against the enemy today.’

‘And you will die,’ Mekesh said. The Katophrane’s voice echoed through the chamber. Isengrim glimpsed him in one of the panes, frowning as if displeased by the interruption. ‘And she will escape again.’

‘I care not. Let her escape. I care only that my quarry dies beneath my axe.’ Isengrim looked around. ‘I have a hundred warriors yanking at their chains. They are eager to deal death and die themselves, so that Khorne might see them once more.’ He thumped his chest. ‘He cannot find us, but I will make for him a red road so that he might seek this place out. We will carve a wound in the shadows so that his hounds might creep forth, on the hunt…’

Mekesh laughed softly. Isengrim turned.

‘You speak of daemons,’ the Katophrane said. ‘Such things find little joy here and soon dissipate like the morning fog.’

Isengrim waved a hand dismissively. ‘I speak of blood and iron, spirit. Things you do not remember.’ He looked at Zuvass. ‘Gurzag. He will join us?’

‘So he says. One can never be certain of an orruk’s word.’ The Chaos warrior seemed bemused.

Isengrim frowned. ‘He will come,’ he said. ‘He will join me at the walls, for he will be able to do nothing else. Our enemy is his, and twice her warriors have made him look foolish. Orruks respect strength. With them, I will take the walls of her palace and cast them down.’

‘You have come far in these short weeks since I found you.’ Zuvass looked around, and Isengrim suddenly recalled his greeting. Zuvass had expected him to come – to demand the attack. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the Chaos warrior. Plans within plans, and him none the wiser. I will split your skull when this is done, smiler. I owe you for earlier, and I will collect before I am done.

‘Not far enough,’ Isengrim growled.

‘You are certain that this is the only way, Zuvass?’ Mekesh asked. The Katophrane’s voice was weak, soft, like wind whistling through stone. Isengrim stared at the apparition, wanting nothing more than to bury his axe in the shadeglass. The weak were to be trampled, to be ground under and made mortar for the walls of the strong.

That was the lesson he had learned from the Reef-lords. Weakness made you food. Only the strong avoided hungry jaws and jaded appetites. There was no strength here, only slaves. Mekesh, the Sepulchral Warden, even Zuvass… all slaves. He looked at Mekesh. ‘Why do you hesitate, spirit? Surely the dead do not know fear.’

‘The dead know nothing else,’ Mekesh said. ‘All the fears of life, and new ones besides.’ His form wavered and rippled as he circled the chamber, pacing between panes of broken glass. ‘You ask why I hesitate. I am not a warrior. I am not a savage. There is no pleasure for me in this act. It is necessary, and all the more painful for it.’

‘Then let us be about it!’ Isengrim slammed his axe into the table, cracking the stone. ‘We have enough warriors, dead and living. We have orruks, even. What more do you need?’

‘Surety of victory,’ Zuvass said after a moment.

Isengrim looked at him. ‘There is no such thing. To make war is to dance on a knife’s edge. There is no surety, save that you will be cut.’

‘There is a way. A path through the dark. The dead will walk it as you lead your warriors against the walls.’

The Sepulchral Warden turned. ‘You claim this, yet I see no proof. How do you know such a path exists?’

‘Someone told him,’ Mekesh said. Something in the way he said it gave Isengrim pause. There was something there, an undercurrent he could feel but not see. Annoyed, he shook the thought away. It did not matter. Nothing mattered save the battle to come.

Zuvass nodded. ‘A century ago, but it feels like only a few days.’ His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. ‘But someone must open the path from the other side.’

‘Me,’ Isengrim said.

‘No. Our ally is already there, waiting for the signal. That is you. Your attack is the signal that he is to open the path and let us in.’

Isengrim shook his head. ‘Deception is a waste of time. Why bother when we now have the numbers to overwhelm the enemy?’

‘Her followers are not the problem,’ Mekesh said. ‘But Sadila, daughter of Hausa, child of the Fourth House of Shadespire and bearer of the Red Laurel, is. She is the enemy, not them. She is the one we must take. If she escapes, all of this was for naught and the cycle begins anew. Her madness cannot be allowed to continue.’

Zuvass nodded. ‘The Katophrane will not flee a rabble of bloodreavers and greenskins. Why should she, after all? What have the dead to fear from the living? If she sees the Sepulchral Warden, however, she will know that we have come not for her army, but her. Which means we must be clever… however frustrating you find it, my friend.’

Isengrim snorted. ‘Fine. It matters not.’ He paused. ‘This ally you speak of – is it the coward? Is that why you spared him my axe?’

Zuvass paused, as if considering the question. ‘Yes.’

Isengrim’s lips peeled back from his teeth. ‘Did you promise him his life if he did this thing?’

‘If I did?’

‘Then you have made an oath you cannot fulfil,’ he growled. ‘You wanted war – war has come.’ He looked at the others. ‘Khorne cries out. I hear him, echoing across lightless reaches.’ Muscles swelling, he wrenched his axe loose from the table. ‘He sent me here for a purpose. This purpose. To claim the skull of a coward and offer it up. I go, with or without the rest of you. You have given me an army, and I will use it.’

‘We would not wish you to do otherwise,’ Zuvass said smoothly. ‘The gods demand, and we can but obey. Nagash, Khorne, they both desire the same thing in this case, I think.’

‘No man may know the will of Nagash,’ the Sepulchral Warden intoned.

‘But we can make a good guess, can’t we?’ Before the Warden could reply, Zuvass pressed on. ‘Sadila’s crimes have been overlooked for too long. Now she builds an army, defying the edicts of Nagash. It must be smashed. But what good does it do if she simply escapes into the Faneway and returns to bedevil us again?’

‘You mean to take her captive,’ Isengrim said.

‘I mean to take her off the board. If we simply attack, she will flee and leave her forces to die, as she has done a thousand times before.’ Zuvass shook his head. ‘No. This time, we must hold her, take her by surprise.’ He gestured to Hygaletes. ‘Hygaletes and his people know that part of the city. They will find you a path right to the gates of the Jasper Palaces.’

Hygaletes nodded brusquely. ‘Nagash is the land, and the land is Nagash. We walk within the caverns of his soul. We are blessed, and our task is a holy one.’ He clasped his hands together and bowed his head.

Isengrim snorted. ‘If this city is Nagash’s soul, then he is a foul thing indeed.’

Hygaletes looked at him, his face blank. Despite himself, Isengrim felt a sudden wariness. ‘It is not foul, brother,’ Hygaletes said softly. ‘It is a thing of dark beauty. Like the wolf-flower which blooms only in moonlight, Shadespire waits for its moment to blossom. And when it does, it shall be wondrous indeed.’ He stretched out a hand and gently clasped Isengrim’s scarred forearm. ‘And you will be here to see it, brother. Rejoice, for your end is set. Nagash has gathered you to him, as he gathers all of the devout. He asks nothing of us save that we die and serve him for evermore.’

Isengrim wrenched his arm away and stood. ‘You’re mad.’

Hygaletes smiled. ‘Yes.’ He looked at Zuvass. ‘My people will find you a path. After that, it is in Nagash’s hands.’

Isengrim grinned. ‘No. It is in mine.’ He pointed his axe at Zuvass. ‘Win or lose, I will have my due. And you will not deny me it this time. Or I will take your head as well.’

Again, Zuvass hesitated. Then he gave a half-bow. ‘Rest assured, I shall not interfere, my friend. You will have what you are owed. I will see to it myself.’

Isengrim growled in satisfaction. ‘Good.’ He looked around, meeting the cold, flickering gazes of the dead. ‘I go now, to win your war and my own.’ He tore his axe from the table and turned away. As he stalked from the chamber, he gashed his palm with the edge of his axe. He squeezed blood behind him as he walked, marking the red road to war.

Marking the way for Khorne.

Chapter twenty-one

DECISIONS

The dead return for many reasons. It is impolite to speak of them until they announce themselves.

– Lady Emalia Grimsour
A Lady’s Guide to Spectral Visitants

Angharad was waiting for Reynar when he reached the courtyard. Someone had seen him crossing the causeway and reported back. Maybe Sadila herself. ‘Come,’ she said, gesturing. ‘The Katophrane wishes to speak with you.’

‘I’m sure she does.’ Reynar shifted his burden and glanced back. The causeway gates were simple things. Decorative, rather than defensive. He wondered when the attack would begin. The distraction, as Zuvass called it. He turned away.

Angharad fell into step with him. ‘I thought for certain you would not return.’

‘Do you doubt me that much? Even after the plaza?’

Angharad laughed harshly. ‘You did only what you had to do to survive.’

Reynar frowned. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Is that so wrong though?’

‘Only cowards worry about survival.’

‘And only fools worry about anything else.’ Reynar looked up at her. ‘I’m not a coward, I just wanted something better than what I had,’ he said, and it sounded false even to him. ‘I was nothing – a jumped-up ranker with another decade of schedules and duty rosters to look forward to, if I didn’t get killed on some godsforsaken battlefield. You can’t understand that. Soldiering was just a way to pass the time and keep the rain off. And when I saw a chance to have something more, I took it.’

He knew he was talking too much, but he wanted to explain, to make her see that he’d had no choice. Maybe she’d understand if he could make her see.

Angharad looked at him. ‘I was wrong. You’re worse than a coward. Come.’

He glanced around the courtyard. He could see that more fires had been lit, and that every Stormcast in the palaces was on alert. ‘What’s going on?’

‘The orruks did not stop at the marketplace. They are on the march.’

He feigned a look of surprise. ‘Coming here?’

‘We do not know. Tomas…’ She fell silent. Reynar looked away.

‘He has not returned?’ he asked carefully. She did not reply. He cleared his throat. ‘Did the others make it back safely?’

‘Yes.’ Angharad extended her hammer. Reynar followed the gesture and saw Khord lounging near one of the fires, staring solemnly at a familiar helm wrought in the shape of a boar’s skull. As Reynar watched, the duardin tossed the helm into the fire.

Khord spotted him a moment later and raised a hand in greeting as he began to stand. Reynar made to wave back, but Angharad nudged him forward. ‘Keep moving. He will be here when you return.’

‘If I return.’

‘And why would you not?’

He laughed sourly. ‘Sadila is mad. You know it as well as I, whatever Severin insists.’

‘Mad or not, she holds the key to escaping this place.’

‘Ilesha holds the key.’ He slapped the artefact. ‘This is the key. Sadila is a lunatic whose house you’re squatting in.’ He looked at her. ‘You are no fool, Angharad. You see it, don’t you? She sent us to the plaza for her own amusement – three of us could have gone and achieved as much. But she sent an army, in order to show off for her fellow Katophranes.’

‘She sent us to save you, as well.’

‘Yes, and why?’ He shook his head. ‘She’s the one who led me here, you know.’

Angharad looked away. ‘You are lying.’

‘Why would I lie about that?’ He stopped himself. He was still talking too much. Trying to explain something that hadn’t happened yet to someone who wouldn’t be in the mood to listen when it did. He cast a glance towards Ilesha’s tower. She stood on the balcony, bent over her spyglass. Relief warred with nausea. ‘Never mind,’ he said finally. ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

‘No. It does not. We do as we must – even you.’ She looked down at him. ‘You have proven yourself. Do not falter now.’

He didn’t reply. They climbed to the inner causeway and crossed to the garden dome in silence. Reynar could hear the thump of drums somewhere in the night, and the screaming of monsters loose in the ruins. The city stirred, as if holding its breath.

He expected to see Severin there, but the Liberator-Prime was nowhere in sight. Angharad stopped at the end of the causeway. ‘Remember, mortal – hold your tongue.’ He wondered if it was meant as a warning or advice. He nodded – either way, it didn’t matter – and climbed the steps. He could feel eyes on him. Hostile ones. Or fearful. It was hard to tell which.

There were dead faces pressed against the broken glass of the walls. For once, they were not speaking, not even whispering, as if they were waiting for something. Not him, he thought. He looked for his reflection, but could not spy it amid the crowd of faceless, pale things. It was just as well. He was in no mood to talk to himself at the moment.

The gardens were cold. Colder than ever before. Frost rimed the broken glass, and the crystalline growths seemed to tremble as he walked among them. The glass trees rustled, though there was no wind. He waited, the artefact clutched to his chest.

‘You came back.’

Sadila’s voice echoed from all around him. She sounded almost displeased. Had she wanted him to flee? Had she wanted to send her dogs after him, to chase him down and watch as they butchered him?

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you might have fled. Sought safety elsewhere.’

‘Is there anywhere safer than here?’ He caught sight of her back among the trees and bowed low. ‘You have an army. A fortress. A plan.’

‘Yes. I do.’ She came closer, moving slowly. ‘Even so, I did not expect you to return.’

‘Always happy to defy expectation. That’s me.’

‘Yes. I’ve wondered – what did you do, that you should run to Shadespire?’ Sadila murmured. ‘What crime did you commit that a life scavenging in tombs seemed better?’ She circled him, her smile mocking.

‘I’ll tell you that if you tell me why you chose to lead me here.’

She paused, head cocked. Studying him. ‘I told you.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

She frowned. ‘I don’t care what you believe. It amused me, so I did it.’ She sighed. ‘The Stormcasts are so tedious, Reynar. They are used to serving oblique whims, and so do not question. And the others, well… they’ve been here too long. They’re not fun anymore. Even Ilesha has grown dull, and once I thought… well.’ She looked at him. ‘But you. I thought you would be fun.’ She gestured dismissively. ‘Did you bring it, then?’

‘What if I didn’t?’

She smiled. ‘Then I will tell Severin you are a traitor, and he will kill you.’

Reynar turned, but she was already gone, slipping deeper into the garden, laughing as she went. ‘I found it,’ he said flatly. ‘The thing you sent us to the market to look for. I found it and I brought it back.’

‘You are lucky, then, aren’t you?’

She was to his left, suddenly. He fought the urge to flinch. ‘I suppose I am.’

‘I saw you earlier, you know – circling the campfires, hissing into the ears of my loyal servants. I was so very pleased to see you finally taking the game seriously.’ She leaned close. ‘Khord, maybe? He’s a kinslayer, that one. It would be no stretch for him to break an oath. Or Ilesha, perhaps?’ She laughed. ‘She’s a plain creature, but powerful. Boring. Not like dear Severin and his followers. Have you convinced any of them to rise up yet?’

He cleared his throat. ‘No.’

She laughed again. ‘But you’ll keep trying, won’t you?’

‘Maybe I won’t,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’m starting to like it here.’ He turned, and she twitched as if startled. He smiled coldly. ‘Maybe you’re right, and this is where I belong.’

She bared her teeth in a flat grin. ‘Giving up so quickly?’

‘What does it matter, so long as we escape?’

Her grin faltered, but only briefly. ‘Yes. What does it matter? Fine. I accept your surrender.’ She turned away. ‘Go. Leave me. Take the artefact to Ilesha.’

‘As you wish.’ He made to go, but stopped. ‘Was it you?’

‘What?’

‘My reflection – the way it spoke to me – was that you?’ He turned to find her staring at him in obvious puzzlement. She cocked her head and pointed.

‘You don’t have a reflection, Reynar.’

He turned. There was nothing there. The shadeglass reflected nothing at all. ‘What…’ He stepped back, bravado evaporating. ‘Where is it?’

‘How would I know?’ Sadila said peevishly. ‘I did nothing with it. Go away. I’m bored of you now. If you aren’t going to fight, I’d rather not have to see you.’ Despite everything, he thought she was telling the truth. Suddenly cold, he fled the garden. He felt at his chest, wondering if he had been wounded somehow, as if that might explain it.

He did not follow himself down the corridor of mirrors. No reflection, no taunting corpse-self. What did it mean? Was it just another trick of this place? Or something worse?

The questions rattled in his head as he crossed the causeway. He felt cold inside, as if some part of him had suddenly gone missing. He paused, looking down at the courtyard and the ornamental plazas that spread out around it. Stormcasts strode along the tops of the walls and moved improvised bulwarks into place. Mortals scurried about, getting ready for something.

He saw Bolas down among them. The Aqshian had painted his skin with ash and was standing over the front gate, peering south. He turned, as if aware he was being watched. But he raised no hand and quickly turned back. Reynar frowned and walked on.

Khord was waiting for him at the bottom of the causeway steps. He eyed Reynar up and down and smiled. ‘Tougher than you look, manling.’

‘Tough enough.’ Reynar forced a smile. ‘Glad to see you survived as well. And Ilesha.’ He glanced up at her tower. ‘Is she up there?’

‘Where else?’ Khord peered at him. ‘When you ran, I thought for sure you were gone for good. I thought the city would devour you.’

‘It didn’t. And it didn’t devour this, either.’ Reynar showed Khord the artefact.

Khord gestured for him to put it away. ‘Keep that thing to yourself. Never know who might be watching.’ He looked around. ‘The air stinks of orruk. Gurzag is on the move. Wrecking the market was just the beginning.’

‘He’s after the map,’ Reynar said. Zuvass had explained that much. The Chaos warrior had seemed inordinately pleased with himself, as if there were some difficulty in manipulating an orruk into attacking someone – anyone.

Khord spat again. ‘More than like, he wants to smash it, just to keep anyone from using it. The Ironskull likes it here, I’ve heard.’ He looked at the wall. ‘My runes are itching. The orruks will dash themselves against the wall, and we’ll break them. It’ll be a glorious fight, though. Even Severin might crack a smile.’

‘You’re certain that they’re coming?’

Khord frowned and nodded. ‘Aye, manling.’ He set his maul across his shoulder. ‘It’s what they do. And we’ll hold, because that’s what we do.’ He clapped Reynar on the arm. ‘Best get that to Ilesha, and then get back down here. You’ll be needed, I expect. Every hand at the ore-cart, and all that.’

Reynar nodded and made his way to the tower, weaving through the crowd. There was no Stormcast on guard. Perhaps Severin thought he’d be needed on the walls. That didn’t bode well. He made his way up, each step seeming harder than the next. The artefact grew heavier in his hands. He wished he’d left it behind. He wished he’d never gone out to get it. He wished many things, but it was too late for wishing.

Too late for anything but what he had to do.

Ilesha turned from the workbench as he stepped into her chamber. ‘You made it.’

‘Barely.’ Reynar set the artefact down. Her eyes lit up at the sight of it. ‘I was almost killed getting back here.’

Ilesha laughed. ‘You almost sound disappointed.’ She bent to unwrap the artefact.

Reynar looked around the chamber, taking note again of where things were. ‘If I thought getting killed would get me out of here, I might consider it.’

‘Are you so eager to escape, then?’ she asked, examining the map. Tracers of light followed her fingers, and he wondered if she was reading it.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I came to the desert in search of answers. And here I have found them.’ She set the artefact aside and looked at him. ‘You came seeking the treasures of a vanished kingdom.’ She gestured. ‘Here they are. Fill your pockets.’

‘Treasure doesn’t do me much good when I’m trapped here.’

She smiled. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Nor do your answers, I imagine.’

‘You are wrong. What I needed was time, and now I have an eternity.’ She picked up another piece and traced its facets with a finger. An amethyst radiance shimmered on the glass in the wake of her touch. ‘I learn more every day.’

‘Perhaps you’re the wrong person to be giving this to,’ he said, gesturing to the artefact. ‘It doesn’t sound like you wish to leave at all.’

She paused. After a moment, she said, ‘I would like the option.’ She tapped it. ‘For good or ill, we are here. And there is no forgetting this place. Severin and the others will do as they were made to do – they will conquer in Sigmar’s name or perish in the attempt.’ She smiled. ‘Successful campaigns are run on supply lines.’

‘Guillepe Barco,’ Reynar said. ‘The Klaxus Wars.’

‘You know it?’

He shrugged. ‘A… friend read it to me.’ He looked at the artefact. ‘Will it get us out?’

Ilesha sighed. ‘On its own? No.’ She looked at him. ‘But it’s one step closer. It isn’t the key, but the thing that may help us fashion the key. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ Reynar’s gaze drifted towards the shadeglass shards on her workbench. Even here, he had no reflection. He brushed his fingers across them, seeking some sign of himself. ‘It’s a piece of a puzzle.’

She smiled. ‘Exactly. And an important one. One you found – even Severin can’t deny that.’ She set the artefact down. ‘Twice now you’ve salvaged something from disaster. You’ve saved lives. Angharad. Khord. Me.’

He looked at her. She chuckled. ‘Chollat. I saw him.’

Reynar turned away. ‘Then you saw me nearly lose my head as well.’

‘While saving me.’ Ilesha adjusted her spectacles. ‘I pay my debts, new boy. Reynar.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t care about that. I just want to go home. To get out of here.’ He stared at his hands. Suddenly, he wanted to tell her about the amulet. To tell her the whole story, about the temple, about Zuvass. About Bellam Gund.

He wondered what she’d make of it. Whether she would be able to help. He doubted it. He doubted that anyone could help him now. He’d gone too far down the path to turn back. He closed his eyes. His hands curled into fists. He could hear something – someone – laughing at him. The city, perhaps.

‘I thought I deserved something more, and I did what I had to to get it,’ he said softly. ‘Then it wasn’t enough, so I ran, looking for more. And now here I am, still getting nowhere.’ He clenched his hands, not seeing the chamber, but a field tent, and a man he’d called friend.

Bellam Gund, rising from his stool, turning, a smile on his face… and then the smile twisting into a cry that never came as the knife went in and in and in…

‘Who was he?’ she asked.

He started. ‘Who?’

‘The ghost that haunts you.’ She smiled sadly and traced a sigil on the air with a finger. ‘I can almost see him, like a mirage flickering over the dunes. A friend?’

He swallowed. ‘Yes.’

‘How did he die?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ He turned away from her.

‘Reynar…’ Ilesha began softly. She put her hand on his shoulder. Thunder rumbled. The sound of drums rolling out of the deep places. She turned away, eyes narrowing. ‘What’s that?’ She made to go to her spyglass.

He needed to be quick.

His palm caught her at the throat. She staggered, choking, eyes wide. He ducked around her, looping his arm about her, his hand covering her nose and mouth. He snatched the knife from her belt. It was badly balanced, but sharp. It would do.

‘I knew you were too smart for your own good,’ he said softly. He angled the knife up, seeking her heart. She clawed at his fingers as the blade neared its destination, trying to speak, but he knew better than to let her. One word and he might well die here and now. He’d seen what she could do in the market and had no interest in being on the receiving end. She twitched, and he felt her last exhalation against his palm. He eased her to the floor and sat with her for a moment, his eyes closed.

‘I told you what I am,’ he murmured. ‘It’s not my fault you didn’t listen.’

He looked up, into his own eyes. His reflection peered at him through the mirror of shadeglass on the workbench. It didn’t speak to him this time. He realised, somehow, that it never would again. For good or ill, he had made his choice.

Reynar set Ilesha’s body aside and rose to his feet. He unrolled the maps, scanning them, memorising them, looking for the thing he needed. He would need help to get to it. Friends. An instinctive glance at Ilesha, a woman he’d known for no time at all but who would be with him forever. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, louder than he’d intended. ‘I’m sorry.’

He stepped over her and headed for the door. He paused only to take her notes and several of her logbooks, bundling them into his armour where they would be safe. They might come in handy afterwards.

He knew where to go. He knew what had to be done.

The city seemed desirous of their progress. Isengrim felt the street move beneath his feet, as if seeking to shorten the distance to his quarry. He grinned and sniffed the air. He could smell fires, and something else – like lightning. ‘We are close.’ It wasn’t a question.

Hygaletes nodded. ‘Close enough.’ He dropped to his haunches, and Isengrim took the opportunity to look back at their – at his – army. Ylac and the rest of the surviving bloodreavers were spread out through the ruins, moving singly or in small groups. Fewer remained than he’d thought, but those who were left were worth twice their number. It would be enough. It would have to be.

Hygaletes’ own warriors were few in number as well. Scarce twenty of them, clad in black rags, their faces painted to resemble skulls. Like his own followers, they carried a variety of weapons – whatever could be scavenged from the streets. Some wore archaic armour pulled from the bodies of the ancient dead. They murmured softly as they moved, praying to the Lord of Bones to guide them safely to their death.

Isengrim frowned and turned back to Hygaletes. They had stopped at a point where the streets gave way before a forest of causeways and viaducts. Slabbed steps coiled about thick pillars, marking routes of ascent. Dust and broken glass were heaped in shimmering dunes, and Isengrim could see shadows dancing on the stones. The dust sifted constantly, and in the quiet hissing he could almost hear voices.

‘We are being watched,’ he growled. He felt eyes on him from the high places. Chittering shapes slunk across archways and along the support braces of the causeways. And other things as well – dead things huddled in the shadows.

‘Always,’ Hygaletes said. ‘Look here.’ Isengrim crouched beside him and saw that the sellsword had drawn a map in the dust. ‘The great southern causeway is ahead. It will take us straight to the palaces.’

‘I thought we were to attack the walls.’

‘The orruks will do that.’ Hygaletes smiled. ‘Listen – you can hear their drums, to the west. Gurzag is leading them through the grand thoroughfares, making as much noise as possible, as Zuvass predicted.’

Isengrim turned, listening. Hygaletes was right. He could hear the thump of drums in the distance. The orruks were making enough noise to awaken the whole city. He grimaced. Zuvass had been right to spare them. The orruks would provide an effective distraction. He looked up. ‘The causeway – it is undefended?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’ Isengrim rose and brushed aside the map with his foot. ‘Come. My axe is thirsty.’ Without waiting for Hygaletes, he loped towards the steps to the causeway. He climbed swiftly despite the growing numbness in his legs. He could feel it spreading through him, had felt it since they set out from the wall keep, as if the Lord of Bones were on his trail and growing closer with every moment.

He wanted to find his quarry before his own pursuer caught up with him. He murmured a prayer to Khorne beneath his breath, asking for that one boon. To die as he’d lived, blessed in the eyes of the Blood God. Not dishonoured and diminished. Not cast aside as a failure. ‘Just give me this and I shall go to my death gladly,’ he muttered.

He felt the smooth, crystalline steps shift beneath his feet and saw a flash of something – a shape, a face, something he could not discern – pass beneath him, and the breath quickened in his lungs. At the top of the steps, on the causeway itself, he saw a corridor of once-mighty pillars, and tattered shrouds of silk rustling with a sound like the surf striking the shores of his home. For a moment, he was there once more, and he closed his eyes. Thinking of home. Of the moment Khorne had first spoken to him. The sound changed. Now it was like thunder. Like the day Khorne had demanded the coward’s skull.

His grip on his axe tightened. It was light in his hand. Eager. When he opened his eyes, he saw the distant shape of a dome, and many towers. He grinned. ‘Is that them?’ he asked as Hygaletes joined him.

‘Yes. Listen. The attack has begun.’

Isengrim could hear it – a roar like some distant conflagration. ‘Good. Come. Before the orruks kill everything.’

He ran, ignoring the numbness. Hygaletes, Ylac and the rest followed him. They crossed the causeway as silently as several dozen armed warriors could. The Jasper Palaces grew in Isengrim’s field of vision, but it wasn’t until they were almost at the gates that they met resistance.

Isengrim slid to a stop as the first Stormcast came into sight. The golden warrior sat still and silent, in sight of the gates. Isengrim extended his arms, keeping his warriors back, as the Stormcast rose ponderously to his feet. He swung his hammer out in a loose circle. ‘So. You come creeping like thieves. Be welcome.’

‘There is only one of him,’ Ylac murmured from behind.

Isengrim nodded. ‘That means he is dangerous.’

‘Will you challenge him?’

Isengrim was tempted. Spilling the blood of such a warrior might keep the cold at bay. But he shook his head. ‘He is not a warrior. He is an obstacle. Remove him.’

Ylac grinned. ‘More glory for us.’

The bloodreavers surged towards the Stormcast, howling and bellowing. The warrior raised his hammer, waiting.

Thunder rumbled.

Chapter twenty-two

DOOR TO THE DEAD

Secret passages and hidden pathways are a common architectural feature in Shyish. King Tarsig, father of Tarsem the Ox, took inspiration for the infamous ‘Hidden Circle’ from the Katophranes of Shadespire, who added secret roads to their city seemingly at random…

– Ogwell Mancini
Nine Hundred Kings: An Expanded History of Helstone

There were orruks at the walls.

As Reynar crossed the courtyard, he could hear the bellowing of the greenskins and the clash of weapons. Stormcasts strode towards the broken walls, where mortals fought, holding back the orruks. As he hurried into the forest of pillars that marked the lowest tier of the palaces, he saw an orruk burst through an improvised barricade and knock a Stormcast sprawling. The warrior tried to rise, but the greenskin stamped on his head, crushing both helm and skull.

The orruk lumbered towards the front gates, roaring out a challenge. Behind him, more attempted to follow and Stormcasts moved to intercept them. People ran past Reynar, hurrying towards the walls. He made himself as unobtrusive as possible and did not stop to watch the battle.

Two Stormcasts stood on guard near the entrance to the depths. It was a great square gap, with a set of slabbed steps leading down into the gloom. Reynar paused, composing himself, and then raced towards them, the very image of panic. ‘Orruks,’ he gasped. ‘Orruks – breaking in! They need you on the walls.’

The Stormcasts hesitated, glancing at one another. Reynar shook his head. ‘Severin sent me – he told me to find you.’ He looked at them, his face a mask of desperation that was only partially feigned. ‘The orruks are breaking through!’

‘I know you,’ one of the Stormcasts rumbled. ‘You are the sellsword, Reynar. You destroyed the construct in the plaza.’

Reynar swallowed and nodded. ‘Aye, that I am.’

The Stormcast nodded tersely and rapped his fist against the other’s shoulder. ‘Come. We can trust his word. If he says Severin needs us, then we must go.’

‘But the deep path,’ the other said, gesturing to the square aperture.

‘I’ll watch it. Severin is sending the mortals back from the walls. Others will join me soon enough. Hurry!’

‘It is good,’ the first Stormcast said. ‘This is not a fight for your kind, mortal, brave as you are. We will defend the walls. Come, brother. There are orruks to kill.’ The two Stormcasts moved towards the courtyard, leaving Reynar alone. Quickly, he descended.

Thanks to Ilesha, it was a simple enough matter to find his way down into the stony depths of the palace. The sounds of battle pursued him as he crossed stone walkways and footbridges, following the routes Ilesha had shown him. The roots of the palaces seemed to press down on him from above. Ancient floors had ruptured and collapsed, creating slopes of wooden timbers and fallen stone. Luminescent mould shone in the corners, and shimmering spillages of glass stretched from floor to ceiling, vanishing into the sluggish black waters that swirled over the lowest level.

Even here, the shadeglass had found a way to spread itself. Crystalline webs stretched from wall and pillar, like the ligaments of some monstrous giant. The dripping water was caught and reflected, making it seem as if the air was full of light. The stone twitched beneath his feet and slid away, vanishing into the murky pools. Massive support pillars rose around him like the trunks of great trees, and where the waters touched them, they were stained black. Will o’ the wisps danced across the surface, illuminating the carpet of broken glass and bones that lay beneath.

The road of the dead.

Places so old and forgotten that not even Severin had thought to defend them beyond a token effort. There wasn’t a force organised and strong enough to traverse the deep tunnels. Or so Sadila had assured them.

‘But she’s wrong, isn’t she?’ he said aloud. He looked around reflexively, wondering if she would appear. But he knew she wouldn’t. Just as Zuvass had assured him, Sadila would be distracted, watching the battle at the walls. Amusing herself with the death and bloodshed of her followers. That was the whole reason Zuvass had set the orruks against the Jasper Palaces – a show for Sadila’s benefit.

He ducked beneath a spiderweb spill of glass, scraping his shoulders against the facets. Some broke off and pattered into the water that swirled about his lower legs. He fancied he saw fearful faces in the shards as they tumbled into the dark. The chill of the water crept steadily towards his waist.

He stopped as a wash of light from a passing will o’ the wisp revealed what he was looking for. The portcullis was ancient, and caked in thick layers of rust. It sealed the bottom of a sloping passage, a profusion of chains, levers and pulleys marking the walls to either side. It reminded him of Kemos’ vault, in a way, though it was cruder by far. He scanned the levers, recalling Zuvass’ directions. He rattled one of the chains doubtfully. Rust sifted down like pollen. He coughed and studied the portcullis. Then, with a grunt of effort, he hauled on a lever. It took all his weight to move it.

The pulleys began to turn and shift with a harsh creaking. Chains clattered up and down, seemingly at random. Some splashed into the water, while others dragged sparks from the stone walls. He stepped back as the echoing din threatened to deafen him. Something jabbed him in the back, and he spun, his hand falling to his sword.

Khord glared at him. The duardin said something, but Reynar couldn’t hear him. He shook his head. Khord leaned close, shouting to be heard over the tumult. ‘There are bloodreavers on the upper causeways! Severin went to warn the Katophrane. The others are on the walls. What are you playing at down here?’ Khord pushed Reynar back with the head of his maul. ‘Not looking for a way out, are you? It’s not that frightening, surely.’

‘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 rose 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 any 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.

‘Mekesh,’ she said.

‘It is over, Sadila. Your army is broken, and you are trapped.’

Her features twisted in a snarl. ‘You cannot stop me. You are like me. A ghost caught behind glass.’ She flexed her glass talons. ‘But unlike you, I have learned to adapt.’

‘You have learned nothing.’

Reynar turned. The Sepulchral Warden stalked through the trees, trailed by the dead. Among them were skeletal shapes clad in ragged robes. In life, they might have been soothsayers or sorcerers, but now they were something else. At the sight of them, Sadila took a step back. ‘Keep them away from me,’ she snarled.

The Sepulchral Warden shook his head, like a parent dismayed by a child. ‘We have let you roam free long enough. You are capricious, daughter of the Fourth House. And murderous. You must be chained for the good of the rest.’

‘No. No, I am a Katophrane. A daughter of kings! I will not be chained – I will not…’ She turned, as if seeking escape, but she was surrounded by the dead. Reynar stepped back. He’d done his job, and this was no longer his affair.

Sadila twisted towards him, her face stretched across the jagged husk of her form. ‘Reynar! Help me and I will give you anything – treasures beyond your dreams. I will… I will lead you out!’

‘There is no way out,’ Mekesh said solemnly. ‘There is only Shadespire.’

The Sepulchral Warden laughed hollowly. ‘You were fools to deny Nagash. Soon, the whole city will be his. As all things must be. As you are.’

‘No,’ Sadila moaned. ‘No, no, no.’

‘Yes.’ The Sepulchral Warden’s voice was like the tolling of a bell. ‘Bind her.’

The priestly dead raised their hands and started to chant. All of the shadeglass in the gardens began to tremble and flex, resonating with their dry, dusty voices. It rattled against the floor, and the broken trees swayed. Reynar felt a chill creep through him. He turned away, intent on leaving before anyone remembered he was there. He raised his hand to shield his eyes as an eerie green glow grew in the depths of every piece of glass, as if the dead were drawing something up out of the dark.

Sadila was screaming now, and he hesitated in his retreat, feeling a moment of pity. That hesitation saved his life. An axe crashed down, smashing through the limb of a tree and casting fragments of glass into his face. He stumbled back, into another tree.

Isengrim stepped into the open, his face ghastly in the light of the ritual. He grinned. ‘At last,’ he growled. The bloodreaver looked pale – wasted, as if something were drawing the life from him. Reynar wondered if he looked the same. Shadespire was eating them both, bit by bit.

He backed away through the trees. Isengrim pursued him. The dead made no move to stop either of them.

‘Zuvass isn’t here to save you this time,’ Isengrim said, as if reading his mind. ‘He has promised me your head, coward. And now I’ll take it.’

Reynar extended his sword. ‘No. No, I’ve come too far to lose my head to you.’

Isengrim roared and launched himself at Reynar. His axe gouged open another tree as Reynar ducked aside. His blade danced across the bloodreaver’s ribs, drawing blood. Isengrim whirled, his axe spinning. Reynar fell back, blood pouring down his cheek. Isengrim pursued him, hacking at the trees in his growing frenzy.

Reynar tried to shield himself from the flying shards of glass. Isengrim bulled into him, and he fell to the ground. His sword clattered from his grip, and as he rolled for it, the bloodreaver kicked him in the chest, battering him aside.

He twisted away as the axe came down, and snatched up a jagged shard of glass. Isengrim wrenched his blade up, teeth bared. Reynar lunged and drove the shard into his opponent’s chest with all of his strength. He tore at Isengrim’s torso, the glass cutting through his gloves, their blood mingling. Isengrim staggered, his eyes bulging. The axe fell from his hands and he backhanded Reynar, knocking him down.

Wheezing, Isengrim took another step back. Then, before Reynar’s disbelieving eyes, he began to drag the shard from his flesh. ‘I… will not… die… until I have taken your head,’ he grunted. ‘I will not… I will…’ Blood pumped from the wound, staining the front of his chest. One hand pressed to staunch the flow, he took an unsteady step towards Reynar. He raised the shard, but hesitated.

The light had faded from the trees. Darkness filled every facet of glass. Reynar’s breath frosted on the air, and he heard something like the murmuring of night insects.

Isengrim twitched, and he looked around wildly. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘No. Not yet.’ The shard slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground.

Glass crunched. ‘No,’ Zuvass said. ‘Not yet.’

The tip of his sword emerged from Isengrim’s chest in a welter of blood. Isengrim arched back, his mouth open, but no sound came out. He clawed at the blade, and his knees gave out, dragging him downwards. He locked eyes with Reynar as he fell, and Reynar was unable to look away.

Zuvass looked down at the bloodreaver. ‘A shame, really. I think we were finally becoming friends.’ He leaned forward, set a boot on the back of the dead man’s head and twisted his blade free. ‘Do you even know yet why he was chasing you?’

He held his sword up, as if examining the blood that clung to it. ‘No. I suppose you don’t. Even he didn’t know. Not really. Mysteries and secrets, the lifeblood of Shadespire.’ He looked at Reynar. ‘Don’t look so shocked. I’ve gone to too much trouble finding you to let him kill you now.’ He stepped over Isengrim’s body, his sword extended, as Reynar scrambled to his feet. ‘We have a way to go yet before then, you and I.’

‘It was you. You engineered this whole thing, didn’t you?’ Reynar recovered his sword and retreated, looking for a way out. Zuvass followed – slowly, as if he already knew how this ended. Maybe he did. Possibilities swam through Reynar’s mind, none of them pleasant. He was in a trap. Had been in it since he’d come to the city. ‘Playing them against each other. Bringing me here. Why?’

‘You know why,’ Zuvass said softly. ‘I needed you here, Seguin. You’re part of the loop.’ He pulled his – their – amulet from within his war-plate. It glinted coldly in the weird light. Reynar felt an unpleasant warmth against his chest, and knew that if he dared look, his own amulet would be gleaming in a similar fashion.

‘This was never about escaping, was it?’ Reynar said hoarsely. A stale breeze chilled him. Smoke hung thick on the air – the Jasper Palaces were burning. Men and women were dying. His doing.

‘Not yet.’ Zuvass was so close, Reynar could smell Isengrim’s blood on the Chaos warrior’s blade. ‘Not until the loop is closed.’ The tip of his sword was aimed at the hollow of Reynar’s throat.

‘And when does that happen?’

‘I don’t know. But it will be interesting to find out, don’t you think?’ Zuvass looked around. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How often I’ve crossed my own trail, seeking the right path. And now, at last, I’ve found it. All is as it should be.’

‘And me? Where do I fit in?’

‘Right here. Right by my side.’ He lowered his sword and caught Reynar by the front of his hauberk. Reynar didn’t resist as Zuvass dragged him to the edge of the gardens, where the walls had given way.

‘Look,’ Zuvass said. Down below, Reynar could see orruks and Stormcasts locked in battle. He saw people attempting to flee, only to be pursued by bloodreavers and greenskins. ‘Behold this city of madmen and monsters. Who else could you count on but me? Who else could I trust but you?’ Zuvass looked at him. ‘It’s you and I against them all.’

Reynar shook his head. ‘You lied to me. I… I killed Ilesha. Khord. All of them. And now you’re telling me all of this was for nothing?’

‘Which bothers you more, the thought that you betrayed them or that they know and will be looking for you?’ Zuvass laughed softly. ‘Will they come looking for you, do you think? Or will they simply curse your name for the coward you are?’

‘I am no coward,’ Reynar said. ‘A coward wouldn’t have risked what I have.’

‘Oh, you are. I know that better than anyone.’ Zuvass spread his arms. ‘A moral coward, at least. Willing to do and say anything to preserve yourself. Your autonomy. The amusing thing is, you lost that the moment you picked up that amulet.’ He tapped his own. ‘You lost it, and you haven’t realised it yet. But you will. And by then, by the time you really understand all of this, it’ll be far too late to do anything. You won’t even be able to run.’

Reynar found himself clutching his amulet. For an instant, he considered ripping it free and hurling it away. He glanced down and saw his reflection watching him. Not smiling now, just… staring. Waiting. As the city itself seemed to be waiting.

Zuvass watched him, as if he knew exactly what Reynar was thinking. Reynar wondered if the Chaos warrior would try to stop him from throwing the amulet away. Or maybe Zuvass hoped he would. The moment stretched. What would happen if he did it? Would Zuvass kill him – or thank him? Would the city try to stop him, after it had worked so hard to preserve him? He looked down again. His reflection was gone, as if it had never been.

Reynar’s hand fell away from the amulet, and Zuvass relaxed slightly. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You know better.’

Reynar turned away. ‘What now?’

‘Now, we continue. You and me. I’m here to help you, Seguin. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

Zuvass laughed, and the sound of it turned Reynar’s stomach. ‘We’ll be great friends, you and I. I’ve seen it written on the walls.’

Epilogue

Third Moon,
the Day of Going Forth

AS IT WILL BE

SADILA: Speak, sir. I command it.

STRANGER: Indeed?

SADILA: Speak, I say! Name thyself!

STRANGER: You know my name.

SADILA: I know it?

STRANGER: You will.

– The King in Grave-Shroud
Act 2, Scene 1

Shadespire was shaking. No, breaking. Coming apart like strands of thread. Glass shattered and rained down across the city in glittering shards. People ran and were cut to ribbons. Mekesh shrank back within the safety of the covered pathway as a woman, her body a mass of red wounds, dragged herself across his path, choking on her prayers. He saw a priest tear out his own eyes as he shouted Nagash’s name, and a soldier hack wildly at a cracking mirror pane as something sought to draw him into its milky surface.

A titan out of nightmare stood over the city, staring down at the growing devastation. The God of the Dead, surveying his handiwork. Mekesh averted his eyes, desperate not to see. Not to hear that rumbling voice like millstones grinding bones to powder.

You have been judged and found wanting, it said. And so, the sentence is passed.

Hands over his ears, he stepped over the dying woman and hurried on towards the only place that might offer some sanctuary – the temple. An old building, its first walls raised when Shadespire had been nothing more than a palisade and a few outbuildings, it had been abandoned since they’d stopped holding the rites.

It might even have been the first temple in the city. That was what he’d thought, then. Still thought now. There had been old stories, the mutterings of those first ancient nomads who’d sought refuge in the Oasis of Souls, that the plunging abyss was nothing less than the final resting place of something older than the realms themselves. A god cast from the void to lie broken and forgotten. Where else would a dead god go, after all, but the Realm of Death?

‘Where else?’ he murmured as he hurried up the steps.

From behind him came the sound of the Faneway Mirror shattering – a single, tortured note stretched to what seemed infinity. It echoed out in all directions, carrying with it the howls of the dead. A legion of voices wailing in sudden, sharp shock as their place of refuge was wrenched from them and cast into darkness. A cold, ugly light filled the streets, spilling from the death throes of the Faneway. Shadows danced in the glare, hideous and jubilant. The air shuddered with the echo of it, and a cloud of glass dust billowed, choking the streets.

He felt the cloud claw at his bare flesh as he ran up the steps, and motes of glass nestled in the wounds. His amulet bounced against his chest. It was strangely cold, and heavy. He clutched at it, seeking comfort. It seemed to twist in his grip, and he felt a wave of revulsion. But it was too late to turn back now. Only two paths lay before him – death and life. Sadila had called him a coward, and maybe he was. But better a living coward than a dead hero.

Pillars cracked and spurted dust as he made his way through the temple. Everything was shaking, coming apart at the seams. Shadeglass shifted from the walls, smashing on the floor. With each crack of splintering glass, he heard the wailing of the dead. He could feel their fear and horror as their paradise became a hell.

There was a louder sound – a great, continuous scream of tortured glass that echoed through the streets and choked the air. Mekesh staggered as another convulsion gripped the temple. A section of stone fell, nearly crushing him. He stumbled down the central nave, trying to recall the prayers he’d taught himself. The old prayers. They were half conjecture, but he grabbed for them like a drowning man. Words fell from his lips as he struggled towards the faceless statue. Meaningless, most of them, gibberish from a time out of mind.

But potent, he hoped. Potent enough to save him. Perhaps even to save the city.

As he reached out towards the statue, towards the god he’d called up but whose name he did not know, he heard the roof pillars crack and shatter. He looked up as the great slab crashed down. Pain exploded through him as the edge of it caught him and pinned him to the floor. He tried to scream, but only an agonised wheeze came out.

His hands scrabbled, instinct prompting him to try and drag himself out from under the stone, to escape the pain. But his body didn’t respond. His legs and chest were caught fast. Crushed. Blood filled his lungs and dripped from his lips, mingling with his tears. He was going to die. He heaved himself up onto his elbows, choking on pain and prayers. His amulet scraped against the stone floor. It sounded like laughter.

He heard a new sound amid the clamour of the city’s death. A strange, wet, crackling sound. His gaze was drawn to a nearby shard of shadeglass. It trembled, but not in the same way as the others. As he watched, the surface of the shard bulged, rising, as if something were pushing it up from below. Cracks appeared on its surface, bleeding an ugly light. They widened, peeled back, and a hand emerged. It rose, larger than the shard it emerged from, groping blindly for a moment before finding the edge of the slab.

Despite the pain, Mekesh was unable to look away as the thing – the man – dragged himself bodily from the shard. It was not possible. Should not have been possible. But somehow it was. The man wore tattered war-plate and a ragged cloak of faded cerulean. He slumped against the fallen slab, coughing.

Another pillar collapsed, shaking the floor. The stranger looked around wildly. ‘Where…?’ he croaked. His eyes narrowed. ‘I know this place.’

Mekesh caught at the edge of his cloak. The stranger looked down at him, with something that might have been recognition in his eyes. ‘You?’

‘I–I am Mekesh,’ he coughed. ‘Are you… are you a servant of the god?’

The stranger reached down and found the amulet hanging from Mekesh’s neck. He shook his head, as if confused. He pulled the amulet away and held it up, seemingly admiring its curves and whorls.

‘Who are you?’ Mekesh croaked.

‘I am… Zuvass. And we are old friends, you and I.’ He looked down at him. ‘Or we will be.’

Mekesh felt a chill pass through him as the stranger’s smile grew impossibly wide. Not a man’s smile at all.

Something worse.

Something hungry.

‘I have seen it.’

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and the audio dramas Blackshields: The False War and Blackshields: The Red Fief. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes Lukas the Trickster, Fabius Bile: Primogenitor, Fabius Bile: Clonelord and Deathstorm, and the novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden, Nagash: The Undying King and Soul Wars. His tales of the Warhammer old world include The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and two Gotrek & Felix novels. He lives and works in Sheffield.

An extract from The Tainted Heart.

Talorcan of Ravendirge examined the scaly sands with a practised gaze. The eyes that studied the crawling landscape were hard and sharp, at once both eager and wary. Wolf’s eyes, the eyes of a hunter. Among the witch-takers of the brotherhood his skill at following a trail was reckoned the best in Arlk, yet even for the best tracker the constantly moving sands of Droost were a treacherous prospect. According to the mood of the dunes, tracks might linger for days after they were made or else they might vanish in a heartbeat. The signs left by his current quarry were proving to be more of the latter. Ill luck, or was it the favour of his prey’s loathsome god? It was a question Talorcan had pondered many times over the three days the hunt had taken so far.

Talorcan was lean of build, his visage almost hawk-like in its wariness and severity. His figure was shrouded in a long white cloak to better fend off the desert heat, contrasting markedly with the dark colour of his skin. Hanging about his neck on a silver chain was a golden pendant that flickered like lightning when it caught the rays of the sun: the icon of the God-King’s Hammer, emblem of mighty Sigmar. The symbol was repeated on the backs of the leather gloves that covered his hands and on the broad cuffs of the heavy lizard-skin boots he wore. Other holy symbols were displayed on the hilt of the slender sword that swung against his hip and upon the grip of the pistol nuzzled beneath his belt. Strapped to the saddle of his bird-beast mount was a case of papyrus scrolls adorned with gilded dragons and rampant griffons, sacred talismans to protect the holy texts within.

‘No tracks,’ Talorcan declared, turning away from his inspection of the sands. He might have tried the Kharadron far-glass he carried, but he knew that the haze rising off the dunes would make it difficult to interpret what the duardin tool might show him.

‘Do we go back to the last sign you found?’ The question came from the rider who followed close behind the dismounted tracker. Like Talorcan, she wore a voluminous white cloak and displayed the emblems of Sigmar God-King. Where his skin was dark, hers had a creamy complexion, and the hair that drifted from under the folds of her hood had a golden quality. The saddle of his steed was laden down with sacred scrolls, while the other witch hunter’s had an immense silver great sword strapped to it, a weapon that had been anointed and blessed by no less an authority than High Priest Crautreic himself. Only the most formidable of the brotherhood’s warriors were afforded such an honour and Esselt the Braelander had earned that distinction many times over.

Talorcan met his companion’s gaze, taking pride from the confidence he saw in Esselt’s eyes. He knew she respected his skills as a hunter. He knew she was concerned about what had already proven a very difficult trail to follow. The scintillating sands of Droost’s vast desert created an eerie vision under the moon’s glow. The strange dunes of tiny metallic scales undulated slowly across the land, the light they reflected creating the illusion of a great ocean moving sluggishly towards the horizon. Though the semblance of waves and water was deceptive, the dunes were possessed of actual motion. Drawn by unfathomable forces, the scaly sands crawled across the desert, creeping to the far horizon. Caprices of action caused them at times to churn themselves into great pits that sucked down anything unfortunate enough to be crossing their shimmering surface – maelstroms of sand, leagues across, hungrily devouring those bold enough to brave the desert. Even at their calmest, the crawling dunes presented their hazards, shifting and undulating in time to the seasons, creating a fresh vista to greet the eyes of a traveller with each rising dawn. The reflective scales cast a mirrored haze into the air, a panoply of mirages by day and a villainous distortion of stars and constellations by night.

Only the most skilled could follow a trail across such a land. Though pride was counted a vice within the Order of Azyr, Talorcan felt it just the same, to know he was one of the few who could boast such ability.

‘Not yet,’ Talorcan decided. His accent was coloured with the deep, deliberate tones of the desert. He looked past her, towards the other demigryphs that made up their small flock. The first was a simple beast of burden carrying skins of water to sustain them in the wilds between Droost’s scattered oases. The second had a rider, a small man wearing a hauberk of reinforced lizard-hide and a dun-coloured burnoose. An ugly weapon, partway between maul and goad, hung from his belt alongside a vicious assemblage of knives. A set of iron manacles jangled against his hip as he caught Talorcan’s notice and set his steed trotting forwards. Keeping close to its master, a lean creature that looked part falcon and part jackal loped across the ridge of the dune.

‘Domech, here is work for you,’ Talorcan said, pointing at the ground ahead of them. The witch hunter eased his demigryph to one side as the small man dismounted and stepped forwards.

‘It is my honour to serve,’ Domech declared with a bow. The little man crouched low to the ground. The falcon-headed jackal came over to him, lowering its head so that he could set his palm against its feathered forehead. For an instant man and gryph-hound were frozen in silent communion. When his intentions were clear to the beast, Domech rose. ‘Find, Kopesh,’ he commanded, waving his hand at the dunes. ‘Find!’

Kopesh loped away, its beaked head swaying from side to side as it inspected the scaly ground. Talorcan watched the animal with almost a tinge of envy. The perfect hunter would be a combination of the gryph-hound’s senses and the trained mind of a man to interpret what it found. It was testament to the mysterious ways of the gods that Sigmar had chosen a simple man like Domech to be bonded to Kopesh rather than a more practised tracker like himself.

‘If there is anything, Kopesh will find it,’ Esselt said, watching as the gryph-hound made a wide circle across the tops of the dunes. She smiled at Talorcan. ‘Anything you missed, of course, my little dove.’

‘Would that it were always so.’ Talorcan closed a gloved hand around the talisman hanging from his neck. ‘Sigmar grant there is something to find. If there isn’t, then all we do is waste time here.’

‘Perhaps our quarry found a patch of starve-sand,’ Esselt suggested. ‘He could have been dragged down by the desert, Tal.’

Talorcan followed Kopesh’s progress, seeing the gryph-hound tighten the range of its circles. ‘It would take a very deep hole to swallow something so foul with corruption that it could vanish without some trace.’

Esselt set her hand on Talorcan’s shoulder. ‘It was a sound gamble,’ she said, gentleness in her voice. ‘You did what had to be done. There was no surety torture would have forced truth from his lips.’

‘It was still a risk,’ Talorcan warned. He thought of the caravan, the grotesque disease that had brought down so many of the pilgrims accompanying it. Pious souls from across Arlk leaving their homes to do homage to Sigmar God-King in one of his mighty temples on the River Chael. Instead of the holy sanctuaries they had found the filthy plague of Chaos. Among the true pilgrims had been a clutch of diseased cultists spreading their corruption to the unafflicted. Between them, Talorcan and Esselt had brought judgement upon six of the heretics. The seventh had been allowed to escape with one of Talorcan’s bullets lodged in his arm.

‘The ones who infiltrated the caravan are nothing, Tal,’ Esselt retorted. ‘How many caravans, how many villages and camps, have been stricken by this plague? You know it is the work of more than a single coven. There is a larger cult behind this blight. Finding them is what matters, and if that means following this wretch to the Varthian forests then we stick to his trail.’

Talorcan managed a smile and nodded. ‘I can always trust you to put things into perspective.’ He watched as Kopesh continued to circle the dunes. ‘Sigmar grant there is a trail to stick to.’

‘There will be,’ Esselt declared. ‘Sigmar will not allow this evil to go unpunished. If we keep faith, if we have the determination to persevere, then we will find the heretic and his pestiferous ilk.’

The circles the gryph-hound had been describing tightened. At last the animal stopped. Throwing its head back, Kopesh uttered a piercing shriek and began clawing at the scaly sand. Domech hurried forwards, drawing his beast back before it could dig down to what it had found.

‘Master! Mistress! Kopesh has found something!’ Domech cried out.

Talorcan hurried to Domech, leaving Esselt with their demigryphs. The moment Kopesh was pulled away from the hole, the witch hunter took up the animal’s labours. Hastily he scooped away sand, finally exposing a grotesque creature. Bloated and hairy, the insect was almost the size of his gloved hand when he took it out of the ground. More than half-dead, it did little more than wag its antennae as it was captured.

‘Kopesh, stay!’ Domech snarled, losing hold of the gryph-hound. The beast bounded forwards and began to rake the sand with its powerful claws.

Talorcan moved aside as the animal deepened the hole. He held Domech back when the little man would have pulled Kopesh away.

‘Leave him,’ he said. ‘There is something more here to be found.’

The two men watched as Kopesh exhumed a second bloat-moth and then a third. Each insect was quite dead when the gryph-hound dug them up. The animal delved deeper, finally reaching the object. Talorcan could see it was the carcass of a nomad. There was little subtlety about how the man had died. A knife was embedded in the side of his neck.

Domech started for the corpse, but Talorcan drew him back. The little man’s soul was more mercenary than pious. His loyalty was more aligned with gold than gods. It was a mindset the Order of Azyr would utilise but one that could never be fully trusted. There were times when Talorcan could almost like Domech, and then the houndmaster would do something unsavoury and remind him of the reality of their association.

‘Leave it,’ Talorcan warned Domech. ‘The taint of Nurgle may be upon the body.’

‘What have you found?’ Esselt called out.

‘The heretic was here,’ Talorcan announced as he brought one of the flies over for Esselt to inspect. She scowled down at the bug. ‘Note what is different about this one.’

‘There are still fragments of the wings,’ Esselt observed, prodding the fuzzy back and exposing a sliver of translucent membrane.

‘A bloat-moth’s wings burn in sunlight,’ Talorcan stated. ‘This one must have dug down into the sand after dawn.’ He raised his finger to emphasise the more important point. ‘But not so late in the day that it was too weak to dig for shelter.’

Esselt shook her head in disgust. ‘The very blood of this wretch is so putrid it draws carrion-eaters to him and so necrotic it makes them keep drinking when they should be flying away to hide from the sun.’

‘And it makes them shun clean fodder. There is a nomad at the bottom of that hole. Some unfortunate this villain came upon and slew. Our quarry likely has mount and water now.’ Talorcan shook his head.

‘It will only prolong the inevitable,’ Esselt said. ‘Once you and I are on their trail, there is no escape.’ She gestured towards Domech as the man once again dragged Kopesh away from the hole it had dug. ‘If the heretic has stolen a demigryph the scent will be even easier for Kopesh to follow.’

Fury crept into Talorcan’s eyes. His fist closed around the dying bloat-moth, crushing it to pulp. ‘The corruption of Chaos spares nothing,’ he swore. ‘Man, beast or vermin, it will consume all unless it is stopped. Unless it is fought at every turn and in every place where it raises its obscene banners.’

‘We will fight, Tal,’ Esselt said. ‘By the grace of Sigmar, we will win. Never again will the lands of Chamon be dragged into slavery and madness.’

Talorcan gazed out across the shimmering wastes of Droost, the harsh and hideous desert that had acted as a bulwark against the hordes of Chaos and a refuge for those fleeing before them. Now the enemy was seeking to corrupt what it had failed to conquer.

‘Never again,’ Talorcan whispered as he wiped the crushed husk from his fingers. He didn’t see the dunes as they now were, but rather as they had been during the height of the Chaos invasion, littered with the bodies of untold thousands. Entire kingdoms driven into flight and devoured by the unforgiving desert.

‘Never again,’ Talorcan vowed, fingers tightening around the Hammer hanging from his neck.

Twilight transformed the desert into an eerie vista of long shadows and fantastical reflections. Dull orange and deep purple, the rays of the fading sun shone across the dunes, leaping off the reflective sands in twisting spirals of colour. More than the heat-haze of day with its watery mirages, or the mirrored stars of night, it was in the brief twilight that Droost was at its most disorienting.

It was the sight of a dark bulk lying sprawled on the side of a dune that brought Talorcan’s senses to full alert. He could see the bloat-moths buzzing about the shape. Too bulky to be a man, it was the body of something much larger. He was certain he knew what it was – the mount their quarry had stolen from the murdered nomad.

Talorcan raised his arm, waving Esselt and Domech to a halt. He gestured to the dark bulk. He motioned for Esselt to circle around to the left of the animal while Domech and Kopesh headed to the right.

The witch hunter drew the pistol from his belt and checked its charge. Talorcan bowed his head and whispered a brief prayer before he dismounted and approached the corpse. As he drew nearer, the disorienting effects of the twilight lessened and he could pick out details of the carcass. It was indeed that of a demigryph, draped in the tasselled harness characteristic of the Carceri tribesmen. There were ugly red boils along its flanks and neck, diseased splotches that echoed those that had afflicted the pilgrims. If there had been any doubt the demigryph had been stolen by their quarry, there was none now.

Talorcan approached the carcass with his pistol upraised and one hand on the grip of the sword sheathed at his side. His eyes struggled against the deceiving flickers of purple and orange, the sinister lengthening of the shadows. He could sense that the enemy was close. With his stolen steed dying from under him, the man was afoot once more. As soon as Talorcan picked up his trail, it would be all over for the heretic.

Then Talorcan’s eyes spotted a detail he hadn’t seen initially. The demigryph was dead, but it had not fallen from exposure or disease. Its throat had been slashed. Beneath the clustered bloat-moths, he could see the jagged slit that had killed the animal. The heretic had deliberately slaughtered his mount. Talorcan spun around, his mouth open to shout a warning to his companions.

Talorcan’s warning was stifled when the ground beside the demi-gryph suddenly burst apart in a spray of sand. Lunging upwards was a gross shape clad in the soiled tatters of a pilgrim’s robe. Only vaguely did the figure resemble the cultist who had fled the stricken caravan. The disease had grown more virulent, swelling the gut and limbs with tumorous growths, distorting the face into a lumpy, featureless mash. Ugly boils dangled from the man’s throat like the wattle of a rooster. Leprous discolourations rendered his skin a patchwork of sun-baked bronze and pallid white. Translucent pus oozed from the broken arm the ambusher cradled against his chest, a limb so swollen with disease that the skin was stretched taut as a drum.

Any clean thing would have withered under such affliction. The bullet wound Talorcan had inflicted on the cultist had become infected and festered. Those who embraced the heresies of the obscene Plague God, however, drew strength from disease, becoming more powerful as the corruption spread. For the cultist each new horror that manifested within his flesh was a gift from his god, a manifestation of Nurgle’s cancerous favour. In the blemished eyes that stared from the swollen face, Talorcan found the crazed gleam of the complete fanatic.

In a flare of flame and smoke, Talorcan sent a bullet roaring from the mouth of his pistol. The shot caught the cultist high, smashing through his shoulder in a spray of brownish muck. Such as remained of the man’s face registered no sign of pain, but the shattered bones caused his outstretched arm to flop limply against his side.

Talorcan hesitated to draw his sword, instead reversing his hold upon his pistol. He could hear Esselt and Domech rushing towards him to help in the fight.

‘I want him alive!’ Talorcan shouted, warning them back. Tracking the cultist further was now impossible, but he hoped that if the man was taken alive he could still be forced to reveal something that would lead to his confederates. Gripping the pistol like a club, he brought its heavy grip smashing down against the side of his foe’s skull. An ear was mashed into paste by the blow, the scalp torn open by the silver ornaments fastened to the wooden frame. The brown sludge that bubbled from the wound splashed across the edge of Talorcan’s cloak, turning the white cloth black with its foulness.

The vicious blow staggered the cultist but did nothing to arrest his advance. He plunged down the slope and as he passed Talorcan, the fingers of his dangling arm caught at the witch hunter’s cloak. Snagged in the garment, the heretic’s grip brought Talorcan tumbling down the side of the dune with his enemy.

‘Tal!’ Esselt’s shout sounded impossibly distant to Talorcan’s ears as he came to rest at the bottom of the dune. He spat sand from his mouth and groped about for the pistol that had been knocked from his hand in the fall.

Before Talorcan could pick himself off the ground, a heavy weight slammed into him, pitching him onto his side. The wounded cultist loomed over him, gore and filth spilling from his wounds. Viciously the man drove another kick at the witch hunter’s ribs. Talorcan caught the foot before it could hit him. Wrenching it to one side, he heard something pop and was rewarded to finally see an expression of agony in the cultist’s diseased visage. Talorcan’s foe staggered back, collapsing to the ground when his savaged foot refused to support his swollen bulk.

Talorcan drew his sword as he regained his own footing. He glowered down at the stricken cultist. ‘It is alright now,’ Talorcan called out when he heard Esselt rushing down the side of the dune. ‘A bit more fight in him than I was expecting, that is all.’

‘The scum was lying in ambush for us,’ Esselt accused. The stars now shining in the sky danced across the silvered edge of her great sword, surrounding the weapon in a blue glow. ‘Was that his plan all along, or did he realise he was not going to throw us off his trail?’

‘A good question,’ Talorcan said, advancing towards the prostrate cultist. ‘I wonder how much persuasion he will take to give us an answer.’

Talorcan was a veteran of the Order of Azyr, having spent many years hunting the enemies of Sigmar. Even so, he was unprepared for the answer the cultist gave. Lurching up from the ground, the heretic glared at him and clamped his jaw tight. The next instant the diseased man spat a tatter of flesh at the witch hunter. It was his tongue.

The cultist uttered a coughing laugh as he heard Esselt’s shock and saw Talorcan draw away from the severed tongue. The laugh collapsed into anguished moans when a bloat-moth suddenly flew down onto the man’s face. The huge insect latched itself to the side of the gashed head, its sharp feet clawing a hold in the leprous skin. Then its razor-edged proboscis was unfolding, stabbing down to drink the filth oozing from the cultist’s wound.

Other bloat-moths soon descended, settling upon the cultist like bees on a flower. The man’s moans became frantic, burbling screams as the insects preyed on him. Talorcan watched the grisly tableau with cold satisfaction, thinking of all those this heretic had struck down with the diseases he carried in his flesh.

‘Are you going to stop that?’ Esselt asked as she joined Talorcan at the bottom of the dune.

Talorcan shook his head. ‘We will learn nothing from this fanatic. He has made that clear enough. He has rebuked his last chance for Sigmar’s mercy. Maybe this is the God-King’s justice.’ He sheathed his sword and reached to his belt, removing a small clay bottle from a pouch on either hip. He handed the bottles to Esselt. ‘Still, we cannot allow any trace of the man’s corruption to linger after him.’

Esselt looked at the bottles and the marks etched into the clay. ‘Fire in a jar,’ she commented. ‘Sometimes even I am awed by the mysteries my father has bestowed on the brotherhood.’

‘Leukon is unequalled as both scholar and alchemist,’ Talorcan said as he unfastened his cloak. He smiled at Esselt. ‘Mind you, it is in his capacity as a father that I feel most indebted to the man.’

Esselt raised her eyebrow at the remark. ‘He would take that as an insult to his studies, however sincerely you meant to compliment him.’ Her expression darkened as she watched still another bloat-moth descend on the writhing cultist. ‘We had better do this before any of them drink their fill and try to leave.’

Talorcan nodded and stalked towards the cultist. The man was covered in bloat-moths now; no less than half a dozen of the fist-sized bugs were sucking at his wounds. The witch hunter looked at his polluted cloak, at the black spots where the blood had splashed him. The taint might be cut away, but for now he had a better purpose for the fouled garment. Thrown over the cultist, it would prevent any of the disease-sucking insects from flying away.

Poised above the stricken fanatic, Talorcan prepared to hurl the cloak across him. Before he did, he saw something crawling on the cultist’s chest, an insect much smaller than the bloat-moths but no less vile in appearance. It was a massive fly, black in body with three splotches across its back. Talorcan’s revulsion swelled when he recognised the pattern the splotches made. The Flyspot, the noxious rune of Nurgle.

Talorcan quickly threw his cloak over the cultist, trapping the bloat-moths and blotting out the image of the Nurgle-marked fly. The cast-off cloak quivered with motion as the imprisoned insects tried to escape. Before they could, Esselt was standing over the body with the two bottles Talorcan had given her. Unstoppering one, she poured a thin liquid across the cloak, then proceeded to scatter the contents of the other across the cultist, dark grains of an acrid-smelling powder.

The instant powder and liquid met, there was a fierce flash of light. Long fingers of flame leapt into the air as the two substances mixed and ignited. The witch hunters backed away while the alchemical fire blazed away, swiftly consuming the cultist and the scavengers preying on him. Sigmar’s fire, Leukon had named his discovery, and watching the flames obliterate the diseased fanatic, Talorcan could think of no more apt a title for the substance.

‘What do you think, Tal?’ Esselt asked as the immolation ran its course. ‘Do you think he was trying to get somewhere or was he trying to lead us astray from the first?’

Talorcan gripped Esselt’s cloak and drew her close. ‘I think that answer has gone up in smoke. At least for now.’ He brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from Esselt’s forehead. ‘There are still a few things we might try, a few leads we might follow.’

‘Which means more riding and more desert,’ Esselt said. ‘By Sigmar, I feel as though I am part dune-jackal already.’

‘Only the good parts,’ Talorcan told her, wincing as she jabbed her fist into his side.

‘The part that will pick your carcass clean if you make another crack like that,’ Esselt threatened. She looked back to the cremated cultist. Sigmar’s fire had done its work swiftly, reducing the body to a blackened stain on the sand. ‘Seriously, Tal, if we can’t follow the trail forward what good will it do to backtrack? This scum was disguised as a pilgrim. He might have come from anywhere.’

‘He came from somewhere,’ Talorcan said. ‘We will find out where.’ His face darkened, his voice dropped to a frustrated whisper. ‘Soon the cult will give us a new trail to follow.’

‘We might not need to wait,’ Esselt stated. She hesitated, knowing that her next words weren’t going to be popular with Talorcan. ‘Three of these outbreaks have happened in the kaza covered by Urgant’s chapter house.’

Talorcan was silent for a moment. ‘If Urgant knew anything, he would have acted upon it already.’ He shook his head. ‘I may have problems with my brother, but I do respect his competence.’

‘He might only have a piece of the puzzle,’ Esselt persisted. ‘If you were to pool your resources we might find an answer.’

Talorcan arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you certain you don’t simply want to see Urgant again?’ The question was only half in jest and he made no effort to hide the worry in his gaze.

‘All of that was settled long ago,’ Esselt told him. She squeezed his hand and drew closer to him. ‘I do not regret my choice.’

‘Urgant is stubborn,’ Talorcan reminded her. ‘He might not see things that way.’

Esselt laughed. ‘Then I’ll just have to hit him again.’ She gave Talorcan a coy look. ‘Which eye did I punch him in that last time?’

Talorcan returned her laugh. ‘The right one,’ he said.

Esselt leaned in and kissed him. ‘If it happens again you must remind me to go for his left.’ She turned her head and looked up at the stars. ‘I suppose we won’t set out for the chapter house until it is light.’

‘Too much chance of getting lost,’ Talorcan said. ‘I should call Domech in and let him know we are camping here.’

‘Domech is fine where he is,’ Esselt stated. ‘If he needs anything he knows where to find us.’

‘If he needs anything, I will shoot him,’ Talorcan vowed.

It had been years since Talorcan had last set eyes on his brother or climbed the rough steps of Raga Tor. The chapter houses of the brotherhood were situated across the vastness of Droost, great stone towers that stabbed up from the crawling dunes. Built in the Age of Chaos, they acted as a line of forts against the prowling bands of monsters and barbarians raging across the lands of Chamon. Erected above underground wells, provided with vaults in which to raise crops of mushroom and moss, each tower had been rendered self-sufficient, capable of withstanding a prolonged siege or isolation. As sentinel outposts, the forts had performed their duties well. Now they acted as bastions of a different sort, stations from which the warriors of the Order of Azyr would fare, monitoring the far flung villages and nomad camps for signs of heresy, watching the travelling caravans for any hint of corruption. Each chapter house supported a dozen witch hunters and their retinues, all of them answerable to the captain in command of the tower.

At Raga Tor, that captain was Urgant Fairhair.

Looking at the sombre stone tower from the crest of a distant dune, Talorcan felt a tremor run through his body. After so long away, it was strange to return. There was a time when he had known this tower like the back of his hand. He thought he had known Urgant with similar familiarity, but in the end he had not known his brother half as well as he had thought. The rivalry that had characterised their childhood and extended into their adult lives had always been one-sided. Urgant had always come out the better in any contest with Talorcan. Always, that was, until Esselt had come into their lives.

Talorcan scowled as he remembered the severity of their parting. Duty would compel Urgant to receive them now, but Talorcan doubted his brother would be pleased to see either him or Esselt.

‘Something does not feel right, Talorcan,’ Esselt said, intruding on his thoughts. She waved at the tower, drawing his attention to the parapet at its top. ‘Where is their standard?’

Talorcan drew the Kharadron far-glass from his belt. He opened the metal tube and placed its glass lens against his eye. As he trained it on the parapet, his thumb turned the calibration wheel set into its side, rotating the tiny mirrors inside the tube until the magnified view of the tower was brought into focus. Esselt was right, the standard that should have been flying above Raga Tor was gone. There was another detail as well that only the duardin glass could reveal from such a distance.

‘Blood spattered about the parapet,’ Talorcan said. He collapsed the far-glass and hooked it to his belt. ‘I have to go into the tower and see for myself what has happened here. I owe Urgant that much.’

Esselt gave him a sharp look. ‘I know you are not speaking as if you are going in there alone,’ she warned. ‘If something has happened here, whatever did it might still be around. You will need someone to watch your back.’

‘Urgant has twelve witch hunters under him,’ Talorcan said. ‘They have likely gone away to hunt down whoever was foolish enough to defy them.’ He tried to make the words sound convincing. One glance at Esselt told him he had failed.

‘Then we can all wait for them to return inside,’ Esselt stated. ‘I cannot speak for Domech, but I know I should prefer to get out of the sun for a time.’

Talorcan looked from Esselt to Domech and back again. Esselt would not let him take such a risk, even if Domech would be content to wait outside. With a sigh he relented. ‘I go first,’ he declared.

Esselt conceded. ‘Just remember I need a lot of room to swing my sword. If we do find anything, don’t be slow getting out of my way.’

Spurring their demigryphs to a gallop, the witch hunters quickly covered the ground between themselves and Raga Tor. At every step Talorcan hoped to hear one of Urgant’s people shout a challenge at them from the top of the tower, but there was only silence. A damning silence, for if Urgant’s men had gone away to pursue some enemy, they would not have been so reckless as to leave no one behind to guard the tower.

Nameless fear became grim reality when the riders reached the base of the tower. The crawling sands had effaced any mark that might have been on the ground, but the erasure had not extended to the blackoak panels of the gate itself. A glance was enough to show the blood stains splashed across the entrance. Closer scrutiny showed where one of the doors had taken a deep cut, a slash that looked to Talorcan like the work of a sword.

‘Stay close and keep alert,’ Talorcan ordered as he dismounted. He knew it was a needless injunction. Esselt and Domech were no neophytes fresh from a cloister. They knew their business as well as he did his own. It was his concern for Urgant that made him utter such nonsense. With all the enmity between them, it was only now that he appreciated how deep his connection to his brother remained.

The gates were both unguarded and unbarred. A kick of Talorcan’s boot sent one of the huge doors swinging inwards. The great hall inside was a shambles. The stalls of the demigryphs and draft-lizards employed by the chapter house were smashed to splinters, straw and sand scattered about. Tapestries and icons had been pulled down from the walls and befouled with every manner of filth. The ancient shield and sword that had hung above the entrance to Raga Tor’s antechamber had been ripped from their place and battered against the floor until they were misshapen lumps of metal. Everywhere there was blood, but the absence of bodies gave no scope to the extent of the carnage.

‘It would appear Urgant has quite a mess to clean up when he returns,’ Esselt stated. Her attitude was far less flippant than her words. She held her great sword across one shoulder as she stalked through the wreckage, watching the alcoves overlooking the great hall for any sign of an enemy.

‘Pray to Sigmar that he does return,’ Talorcan whispered under his breath as he made a closer study of the ruins. The gruesome familiarity of spattered gore called attention to itself, but there were other stains left behind by what could only have been a furious combat. Under a tapestry beside one of the battered stalls he found smelly brownish smears. They recalled to mind the diseased blood of the cultist he had so recently tracked down.

Domech and Kopesh roved through the debris, the gryph-hound’s animal senses alerting it to traces invisible to the humans. Soul-bonded to his beast, Domech could understand the squawks Kopesh uttered.

‘Master, he has caught the scent of something.’

Talorcan swung away from his scrutiny of the putrid traces. ‘Give Kopesh his lead then,’ he ordered. ‘Let him follow whatever sign he has found. We will keep our distance. If someone intends to spring a trap, he will be disappointed.’

Domech knelt beside the gryph-hound, resting his hand on the creature’s forehead and communing with it. After a moment, Kopesh loped off, hastening into the antechamber. Fingers tight around the heft of the vicious bludgeon he carried, Domech followed after his gryph-hound.

‘I almost hope Kopesh finds someone,’ Talorcan muttered as he started towards the antechamber.

‘What was that?’ Esselt asked as she fell into step beside him.

‘I hope Kopesh finds someone,’ Talorcan repeated. He waved at the ruined great hall. ‘Because someone is going to pay for all of this. And I intend to make certain it takes much time and much pain to settle the debt.’

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To Erik, by way of thanks.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2018.
This eBook edition published in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Cover illustration by Marta Dettlaff.

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