Spear of Shadows - Josh Reynolds Read online

  Wolant clapped four of his hands together, interrupting. ‘Nonsense. The greater the obstacle, the greater the glory. I came only out of respect for the Folded Soul’s cunning. Not to join my fate to yours. My champion will acquire the Eight Lamentations for me, and the skulls of your servants as well, if they get in his way.’ He laughed again, and turned away. Volundr watched him stride towards one of the great archways that lined the cavern wall, and wondered whether he could split the other smith’s skull while his back was turned.

  Qyat chuckled softly, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Would that you could crack his thick skull on your anvil. Though I would be forced to slay you in turn, brother, should you choose to break the iron-oath in such a way.’

  Volundr grunted. The iron-oath was the only thing keeping the remaining forgemasters from each other’s throats. The truce was a tenuous thing, but it had held for three centuries. And he would not be the one to break it. He gestured dismissively. ‘It will be more satisfying to snatch victory from him. My champion is most determined.’

  ‘As is mine.’

  Volundr nodded. ‘Then may the best champion win.’ He turned his attentions to the fire pits and gestured, drawing up the cinders and sparks into the air. He stirred the smoke, casting his gaze across the mortal realms, seeking a singular ember of Aqshy’s fire. When he found it, he cast his words into the fire, knowing that they would be heard.

  ‘Ahazian Kel. Last of the Ekran. Deathbringer. Heed your master’s voice.’

  In a land where the moon burned cold, and the dead walked freely, Ahazian Kel heard Volundr’s voice. Though it was like heated nails digging into his mind, he decided to ignore it. Given the situation, he thought Volundr would forgive him. Then again, perhaps not. In any event, it was done and Ahazian gave it no more thought.

  Instead, he concentrated on the dead men trying to kill him. Deathrattle warriors, animated skeletons still wearing the tattered remnants of the armour that had failed them in life, emerged from the shadows of the great stone pillars extending to either side of him. They pressed close in the moonlight, crowding the wide stone avenue. Rusted blades dug for his flesh, as corroded shields slammed into the ranks of his followers, bowling several of them over.

  Ahazian gave little thought to the bloodreavers’ plight. The living were a means to an end, and the dead merely one more obstacle between him and that which he sought. Ahead of them, past the ranks of the dead, at the end of the pillar-lined avenue, were the open gates of the mausoleum-citadel. Two skeletal giants, carved from stone, knelt to either side of that immense aperture, their skulls bowed over the pommels of their swords. Somewhere, a funerary bell tolled, rousing the dead from their slumber of ages.

  Deathrattle warriors flooded the avenue. They marched out between the shadowed pillars, or from within the mausoleum-citadel, singly and in groups. Not just the dead native to this place, but even those who’d been slain here more recently heeded the tolling of the unseen bell. Though their bones had been picked clean by the jackals and birds that haunted the ruins, he still recognised the sigils that adorned their ruptured armour – the runes of Khorne and Slaanesh, the baleful glyphs of a thousand lesser gods, all were in evidence among the silent ranks of the enemy.

  In Shyish, there was only one certainty. One the gods themselves could not defy. It was a land of endings, where even the strongest would eventually falter. There could be no true victory over that which conquered all. That didn’t stop some from trying.

  But conquest was not Ahazian’s goal. Not today.

  He stood head and shoulders taller than even the tallest of the tribesmen who fought alongside him. His broad frame was hidden beneath razor-edged plates of crimson and brass armour, and the skull-visage of his helmet curved upwards, coalescing into the rune of Khorne, clearly marking his allegiances. Heavy chains draped his form, their links decorated with barbs, hooks and the occasional scalp.

  He was surrounded by a phalanx of savage tribesmen, culled from the lowlands of this region. The heads of their former chieftains slapped against his thigh, their scalps knotted to his belt. If there were a simpler way of making others do what you wished, he hadn’t yet found it. The bloodreavers wore rattletrap armour scavenged from a thousand killing fields. It was decorated with totems meant to ward off the dead, even as their flesh was painted with ashes and bone dust, to make them invisible to ghosts. None of these protections seemed to be working particularly well at the moment. They didn’t appear to mind.

  The bulk of the bloodreavers fought fiercely to either side of him, hacking and stabbing at the silent dead. Ahazian held the vanguard, as was his right, and pleasure. The Deathbringer surged forwards like the tip of the spear, his goreaxe in one hand, skullaxe in the other. Both weapons thirsted for something this enemy could not provide, and their frustration pulsed through him. The thorns of metal set into their hafts dug painfully into his palms, opening old wounds, so that his fingers were soon slick with blood. He didn’t care – let them drink, if they would. So long as they served him faithfully and well, it was the least he could do. Blood must be spilled, even if that blood was his own.

  He chopped down through a shield marked with the face of a leering corpse, and splintered the bones huddling beneath. Brute strength was enough to win him some breathing room, but it wouldn’t last for long. What the dead claimed, they held with a cold ferocity that awed even some servants of the Blood God. One of the many lessons his time in Shyish had taught him. ‘Onward,’ he snarled, trusting in his voice to carry. ‘Khorne claim him who first dares to cry hold.’

  The bloodreavers closest to him gave a shout and redoubled their efforts. He growled in satisfaction and drove his head into the rictus grin of a skeleton, shattering its skull. He swept the twitching remains aside and bulled on, dragging his followers along in his wake. A spear struck his shoulder-plate and shivered to fragments, even as he crushed the spine of its wielder. Fallen skeletons groped for his legs, and he trampled them into the dust. Nothing would be allowed to stand between him and his goal.

  What lay beyond the gateway was his destiny. Khorne had set his feet upon the path, and Ahazian Kel had walked it willingly. For what else could he do? For a kel, there was only battle. War was – had been – the truest art of the Ekran. Its reasons did not matter. Causes were but distractions to the purity of war waged well.

  Ahazian Kel, last hero of the Ekran, had sought to become as one with war itself. And so he had given himself up to Khorne. He had offered the blood of his fellow kels in sacrifice, including that of Prince Cadacus. He cherished that memory above all others, for Cadacus, of all his cousins, had come the closest to killing him.

  Now, here, was simply the next step in his journey along the Eightfold Path. He had followed that path from the Felstone Plains of Aqshy to the Ashen Lowlands of Shyish, and he would not stop now. Not until he had claimed his prize.

  Ahazian let the rhythm of war carry him forwards, into the midst of the dead. Slowly but steadily, he carved himself a path towards the gateway. Broken, twitching skeletons littered the ground behind him. His followers shielded him from the worst blows, buying his life with their own. He hoped they found some satisfaction in that – it was an honour to die for one of Khorne’s chosen. To grease the wheels of battle with their blood, so that a true warrior could meet his fate in a more suitable fashion.

  He swept his skullhammer out, smashing a skeleton to flinders, and suddenly found himself clear of the enemy. A few dozen ­bloodreavers, stronger than the rest, or simply faster, stumbled free of the press alongside him. He did not pause, but forged on, running now. The bloodreavers followed him, with barely a backwards glance between them. Those who were still locked in combat with the dead would have to fend for themselves.

  The forecourt of the mausoleum-citadel was lit by amethyst will o’ the wisps, which swum languidly through the dusty air. By their glow, he could make out strange mosaics on the wall
s and floor, depicting scenes of war and progress. Statues, weathered by time and neglect, lurked in the corners, their unseeing eyes aimed eternally upwards.

  Ahazian led his remaining warriors through the silent halls. The bloodreavers huddled together, muttering among themselves. In battle, they were courageous beyond all measure. But here, in the dark and quiet, old fears were quick to reassert themselves. Night-terrors, whispered of around tribal fires, loomed close in this place. Every shadow seemed to hold a legion of wolf-fanged ghosts, ready to spring and rip the tribesmen apart.

  Ahazian said nothing to calm them. Fear would keep them alert. Besides, it was not his duty to keep their feet to the Eightfold Path – he was no slaughterpriest. If they wished to cower or flee, Khorne would punish them as he saw fit.

  The sounds of the battle outside had faded into a dim murmur. Shafts of cold light fell from great holes torn in the roof above, and the amethyst wisps swirled thickly about them, lighting the path ahead. Ahazian swept aside curtains of cobwebs with his axe, and smashed apart toppled columns and piles of obstructing debris with his ­hammer, clearing the way.

  The spirits of the dead clustered thick the deeper they went. Silent phantoms, ragged and barely visible, wandered to and fro. Lost souls, following the paths of fading memory. The ghosts displayed no hostility, lost as they were in their own miseries. But their barely intelligible whispers intruded on his thoughts with irritating frequency, and he swiped at them in frustration whenever one got too close. They paid him no mind, which only added to his annoyance.

  When they at last reached the inner chambers, his temper had frayed considerably, and his followers kept their distance. He found himself hoping for an enemy to appear. An ambush, perhaps. Anything to soothe his frustrations.

  The throne room of the mausoleum-citadel was a circular chamber, its rounded walls rising to a high dome, shattered in some long-forgotten cataclysm. Shafts of moonlight draped the ruined chamber, illuminating the fallen remains of broken statues, and glinting among the thick shrouds of cobwebs and dust that clung to every surface.

  ‘Spread out,’ Ahazian said. His voice boomed, shattering the stillness. His warriors shuffled to obey. He stalked towards the wide dais that occupied the centre of the chamber. It was topped by a massive throne of basalt. And upon the throne, a hulking shape sat slumped. Broken skeletons littered the floor around the dais and upon the steps, the scattered bones glowing faintly of witch fire.

  Ahazian climbed the dais warily. It was almost a given in this realm that a silent corpse was a dangerous one. But the broken form slumped on its throne didn’t so much as twitch. The heavy armour was covered so thickly in cobwebs that its crimson hue, as well as the bat-winged skulls that decorated it, were all but invisible. As he drew closer, he felt a touch of awe at the sheer size of the deceased potentate. The being had been massive, as was the great, black-bladed axe that hung loosely from one fleshless hand, its edge resting on the ground. The corpse wore a heavy, horned helm, topped by a frayed crest.

  He scraped away some of the cobwebs with the edge of his axe, revealing a long, gaping rent in the filthy chest-plate, as if some wide, impossibly sharp blade had passed through the metal and into whatever passed for the dead man’s heart. ‘Ha,’ Ahazian murmured, pleased. At last, he’d found it. He buried his goreaxe in the armrest of the throne and thrust his hand into the wound. Spiders spilled out, crawling up his arm, or tumbling to the floor. He ignored the panicked arachnids and continued to root through the mouldering chest cavity, until his fingers at last closed on that which he’d fought so long to find.

  He ripped the sliver of black steel free of the husk, and there was a sound halfway between a moan and a sigh. He held his prize up to the dim light. A splinter, torn free in the death-strike. It was a fragment from a weapon – and not just any weapon, but one forged in the shadow-fires of Ulgu. One of eight.

  ‘Gung,’ Ahazian said, softly. The Spear of Shadows. Called the Huntsman by some, and the Far-Killer by others. Once hurled, Gung would always find its prey, no matter how far they fled, or the distance between caster and target. Not even the veil that separated the mortal realms could prevent the Far-Killer from slaying its quarry.

  The metal sliver seemed to tremble in his grip, as if eager to return to its nest within the corpse. ‘No, little fang, the time has come for you to awaken and lead me to that which I desire.’ He dropped the fragment into a pouch on his belt. If Volundr were right, the sliver would lead him to the Huntsman. The piece was sympathetic to the whole, and one called out to the other. All he had to do was get it away from the remains of its victim.

  As he made to descend the dais, he heard a sudden thunder. It lengthened into a drumming pulse, and he realised that it was the sound of hooves on a stone floor. His men turned towards the doors as they were smashed open, and a wedge of mounted warriors crashed into the chamber. Coal-black steeds snorted and screeched as they galloped towards the startled bloodreavers. Their riders wore obsidian armour and carried long spears and swords. Pale, feminine faces glared out from within several of the baroque, high-crested helms, while the faces of the others were hidden behind bestial visors. The horsewomen had isolated and hacked apart most of his surviving men before Ahazian could do more than shout a warning.

  As the butchery continued, one horsewoman broke away from the rest and urged her steed towards the dais. Ahazian waited. He was confident in his ability to hack his way free, if necessary, but his curiosity had got the better of him. The rider slipped from the saddle in a clatter of mail, and strode towards the dais. As she drew close, ­Ahazian caught a whiff of old blood. He chuckled. ‘I did not expect to see one of your sort here.’

  ‘My sort are everywhere. This land belongs to us, after all.’ She spun, hacking through the upraised arm of a bloodreaver as he rushed towards her. She swatted the dying man aside, and gutted a second, as he sought to capitalise on her seeming distraction. She turned back to him. ‘However many of you creatures infest it currently.’

  Ahazian shrugged. ‘I am merely a pilgrim.’

  ‘A loud one. You Bloodbound make quite a racket, when you’re of a mind.’ The vampire smiled, exposing a fang. ‘Then, I’ve never been against a bit of noise from time to time.’ She swept her sword out in a casual gesture, removing a bloodreaver’s head as the wounded man staggered towards her. ‘Screams, for instance.’

  Ahazian rolled his neck and loosened his shoulders. He was looking forwards to matching blades with her. The thirsty dead were known to be competent warriors, if nothing else. ‘Are you the queen of this bone pile, then? Have I offended you with my presence?’ He took a step down the dais. His weapons twitched in his hands, eager to bite unliving flesh.

  ‘I am not a queen, but I do serve one. And she requests that which you’ve come to pilfer.’ She extended her sword. ‘Hand it over, and I may let you depart with all of your limbs intact.’ She smiled. ‘Then again, maybe not.’

  ‘Tell your queen that she can have from me what she can seize, and nothing more.’

  The vampire nodded, as if she had expected as much. ‘If that is your wish, I shall simply have to take it from you.’

  ‘You think to kill me, pretty one?’ Ahazian gestured welcomingly with his axe. ‘Come, step up. Let us see if you are as eager to lose blood as to drink it.’

  The vampire sprang up the dais, quicker than he’d expected. She moved with deadly grace, despite her armour. Her sword scratched a line across his chest-plate, knocking him back a step. Annoyed, he swatted at her with his skullhammer. She eeled away, her blade licking out across his bare bicep, and sprang back as his axe chopped down, splintering the surface of the dais.

  ‘Fast,’ he murmured, approvingly.

  ‘Faster than you.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He spun his axe lazily. As her eyes flicked instinctively to follow it, he struck at her with the hammer. She twisted, catching the blow on her palm.
His axe bit at her thigh, and she was forced to retreat.

  Her followers slid towards him, black steel shadows, quicksilver swift. His warriors were all dead, or dying. He was alone. He smiled, pleased. There wasn’t enough battle for everyone. Their blades darted at him from a dozen directions, and he was hard-pressed to deflect them. Some slid past his guard, to score his armour or pink his flesh.

  He roared in anger and swept his goreaxe out in a wide arc. One blood knight, slower than the rest, screamed as his blow caught her in the side. She whirled away, armour crumpled and the ribs beneath caved in.

  He pursued the wounded vampire as she rolled down the steps. The others followed him, as he’d hoped. He turned, catching one in the face with his hammer. She collapsed, head reduced to ruin. A second shrieked as his axe tore across her arm. The force of the blow pitched her across the chamber.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ he laughed. ‘I am a Kel of the Ekran, leeches. I was weaned on blood, and my lullaby was the clash of swords. I am war itself, and no creature, dead or alive, can stand against me.’

  ‘Too much talking,’ the first vampire said, as she rose up behind him. Her sword slid easily between the plates of his armour and into his back. Ahazian bellowed and lurched forwards, ripping the weapon from her grip. His axe slipped from his hand. A blessed agony ripsawed through him, setting his nerves alight. Pain was a warrior’s reward, and he welcomed it. He turned, hammer raised.

  The weapon crashed down, narrowly missing her. She leapt onto his back, her weight causing him to stagger. She clawed for the hilt of her sword. He twisted, snatching her from her perch and slamming her flat against the floor. Holding her pinned with his hammer, he groped awkwardly for the blade. ‘Treacherous leech,’ he grunted.

  ‘All’s fair in war,’ she hissed. Her fist cracked across his jaw, knocking him sideways. Her strength, while not equal to his, was still impressive. As he staggered, she lunged to her feet, set a boot against his back, caught the hilt of her sword and ripped it free in a spray of blood. He howled in agony. Breathing heavily, he cast about for his axe.