Warriors Of The Freeguilds, page 20
Callis studied the aelf as she talked. She seemed admirably unruffled under the circumstances, but there was something strange about the way she spoke. Halting, as if her mind kept slipping from the subject. It was odd. Callis had seen enough terrible liars in his time as a guardsman to recognise the common tics, but this was different somehow.
‘What does Vermyre seek?’ asked Toll.
‘I…’ the woman began, then frowned and shook her head.
‘He came there for a reason. Think,’ barked the witch hunter.
‘It’s called the Silver Shard,’ the aelf said at last. Her eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, as if she didn’t quite understand the words she was speaking. ‘It’s an artefact from a time long ago. Before the tempest of Sigmar. Before the fall. Before the first tribes of mortalkind.’
‘What does he want with it?’ asked Callis. ‘Vermyre’s no fool. If he’s after some kind of relic, you can bet he has a mind to use it, and I’m betting whatever he’s planning is nothing good.’
The aelf shook her head, staring blankly into the distance.
‘This thing, it has great power,’ she said. ‘Power to shape reality. To unmake mountains and to boil the seas. But that’s not why he seeks it. At least, that’s not the only reason.’
‘Why then?’ asked Toll. The question seemed to shake the aelf out of her stupor.
‘He wants to fix himself…’ she said.
‘He’s been injured?’
‘No,’ she shuddered. ‘Or at least, not exactly. He’s been… changed. His face. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human. It was writhing, like a pit of vipers.’
Her skin turned pale, and her eyes became wide. She turned and stared at Toll, as if seeing him for the first time.
‘He’s broken,’ she whispered. ‘And he’ll do anything to fix himself. Anything. This device, he believes it’s what he’s been looking for, but he’s wrong.’
‘This artefact you speak of,’ said Zenthe, wiping orruk blood off her blade with the tail of her longcoat. ‘Where does it lie?’
‘The Fatescar Mountains. There is a city there, lost to time, hidden by illusions.’
Callis frowned. The Fatescar range dominated the northern edge of the Taloncoast, a colossal, hook-shaped expanse of strange, geometric mountains that drifted in the air above a sprawling expanse of thick jungle. What magic kept the immense rocks afloat, no one could say. He knew of several expeditions that had been launched into the area, but none had ever returned. On its own, that was not entirely surprising. There was no corner of the Taloncoast that was safe for travellers to walk. These lands were so wild that he doubted they could ever be truly tamed, even by the might of Sigmar’s heaven-forged armies.
‘I’ve heard strange tales about the Fatescars,’ said Zenthe, thoughtfully. ‘Entire fleets of privateer ships disappearing into nothing. Ships being raised high into the air upon winds of magic. Tribes of faceless serpent people. Of course, there’s a thousand tales like that from all across the Taloncoast, and most of them are bilge made up by drunkards or liars.’
‘There was once a city in those mountains,’ said Arclis. Again, she had that strange expression, like she was reading the words from a tome that only she could see. ‘From there, powerful mages ruled over the Taloncoast… and beyond. Shaping the world to their liking. It was they who discovered, or perhaps crafted, the Silver Shard, a weapon of such power that it could undo reality itself. With it they mastered the magicks of illusion and transmutation.’
Callis frowned. ‘I’ve never heard word of this empire you speak of.’
‘This was long, long ago,’ Shev said. ‘Before the God-King returned to the realms. A rival power sought to steal the source of their strength away. There was a great battle… Many deaths. The bearers of the Shard were destroyed. Utterly. Completely.’
‘Who ended them?’ asked Toll.
‘No one remembers.’
She blinked and flinched slightly, as if she had been splashed with cold water, then fell silent. Toll was watching her like a hawk, as was Zenthe. There was something strange about this one.
‘This is where Vermyre is headed?’ said Toll. ‘You are certain?’
‘Yes,’ the aelf replied. ‘He heads to Xoantica.’
‘We shall see,’ the witch hunter said. ‘Bind the aelf’s hands,’ he barked to Callis. ‘She comes with us. I have more questions for her.’
The aelf raised her chin. ‘My name is Shev Arclis, and it would do you well to use it.’
CHAPTER NINE
It took several long, miserable days for them to trek back through the jungle. Early on the first day, it began to rain so thick and fierce that you could barely see more than a few paces ahead. The sweltering heat went nowhere, and so they had the unique pleasure of being roasted alive and soaked to the skin at the same time. Zenthe’s aelves hacked their way through thick vines and boughs with their long blades, cursing to each other in guttural aelfish. To Shev’s relief, they seemed to know this land well. They deftly avoided clusters of spore-spewing mushrooms and predatory strangler vines, and worked with a quiet efficiency that was a world apart from her former companions. She studied them as they worked. Their skin was brown and sun-beaten, and marked everywhere with tattoos in black ink. They were lithe, but well-muscled, especially in the arms, and almost all of them bore nasty scars, gouges and burns – the life of a corsair in the Beastlands was rarely short of dangers.
For the first couple of days, Occlesius barely stayed quiet for more than a few minutes at a time, peppering her with questions about the wider world. It was when she told him of the rise of Chaos, the butchery and horror that had overrun the realms, that he withdrew, remaining quiet and pensive for the rest of the journey. When she did speak to him, she made sure to keep her voice to a whisper. She kept the shadeglass stone close, palming it when a grim-faced aelf corsair searched her for weapons, never revealing it when in eyeshot of her new companions. It was best, in her experience, to keep hold of whatever advantage you had for as long as possible.
Captain Zenthe never strayed far from Shev’s side. The aelf, unlike her human companions, seemed in oddly high spirits. She seemed particularly interested in her new prisoner, quizzing Shev each night when they finally sat down to rest about her past and her knowledge of the region. Every time Shev spoke of the ruins and wonders she had seen in her travels, Zenthe’s eyes sparkled like those of a hunting cat before it pounced. It was a look that Shev was entirely familiar with. She’d seen it in the eyes of countless avaricious ‘collectors’, explorers and sellswords in her time.
Watch that woman closely, said Occlesius, after one such session. She is the most dangerous creature amongst this band.
The humans, Callis and Toll, remained something of a mystery. The witch hunter was hardly what she had expected from the stories she had heard of the most feared Order of Azyr. He was quiet, unassuming, allowing Zenthe to command the expedition and bark out orders while he followed on behind in brooding silence. Occasionally, however, she felt his eyes on her, and when she turned, his gaze sent a faint shiver of unease rippling down her spine. That was another look she had seen before, in the eyes of the Golden Lord. Cold, calculating. She had no doubt that if he deemed it necessary, this man would snuff out her life without hesitation.
Callis was another oddity. He was no sellsword, that was clear. His posture was too stiff, his weapons and gear too well-oiled and expensive. He had a soldier’s bearing, alert and precise in his movement, his hand never straying from the hilt of his blade. She could hear an almost constant stream of curses coming from the man as he strode after Zenthe’s aelves, wiping sweat from his grimy brow and swatting at the finger-sized insects that buzzed and hovered around their party, waiting for their moment to dart forward and partake in a feast of drained blood. He was a city boy, not an explorer. His dark hair was cut neatly in a military style, and his neat beard and moustache had grown bushy and wiry from days out in the wilderness. His skin was dark and sun-beaten, and his unremarkable yet rugged clothes – a dark poncho over a loose cotton tunic, with simple brown breeches tucked into abhor-hide boots – suggested to her he was one of the reclaimed, a descendent of mortal tribesman, rather than a citizen of Arnhem. She wondered how it was that a simple Freeguild footslogger had ended up in the employ of the Order.
Eventually, blissfully, the jungle – and the deluge – began to recede, and they could glimpse the glimmering, azure sea in the distance, through the scraps of withered mangroves. Ahead, she saw cliffs of jagged granite curving around to form a shadowed inlet. There was no beach. The overgrown thickets of the Fatescars reached out over the water, as if outraged at this intruder into their domain. Looming in the centre of the bay was a sleek, black vessel, perhaps two hundred paces from stern to keel. It hung low to the water, almost as if it could slip into the surf like some great aquatic beast to hunt the ocean depths. Its sails were pitch black, angular like barbed daggers, and on each flank it bore a score of wicked-looking ballistae.
‘The Thrice Lucky,’ said Captain Zenthe, as they looked down upon the wolf-ship. ‘Have you ever sailed on an aelven wave-cutter, girl?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘She’s a beauty.’
‘That she is,’ said Zenthe, sounding like a doting parent discussing her favourite child. ‘Black-oak hull from the Septillion Forest, can stop a duardin cannon from a dozen paces. Two-score Azyr-forged grand arbalests, strong enough to punch through an Ur-kraken’s hide. She’s fast as a zephyr and will kill you with a look.’
‘Sigmar spare us this speech again,’ muttered Callis as he brushed past.
Zenthe gave Shev a smirk. ‘The human has no appreciation for the finer things in life.’
They picked their way gingerly down towards the bay, hauling themselves through the thick foliage. Shev’s feet ached terribly, and her wet clothes had rubbed her skin raw. She would trade a hundred gold pieces for a minute’s rest. Not that she had such money, or was within a thousand leagues of anywhere to spend it.
As they splashed into the shallow waters of the bay, heading towards the ship, a figure appeared on the deck, leaning nonchalantly against the guardrail.
It was an aelf, dressed in the same black leathers as the rest of Zenthe’s crew, and similarly swathed in ink and piercings. His angular head was bald, and he wore a violet bandana stained almost black with sweat.
‘Captain,’ he shouted, and gestured back over his shoulder. Several more of the crew approached and dangled a rope ladder over the side. Callis gestured Shev forward, and she began to climb. Zenthe didn’t bother with the aid, instead nimbly scaling the hull, somehow finding foot and handholds in the smooth black surface and leaping gracefully onto the deck.
Shev hauled herself over the side, and found herself face to face with two-score hard-eyed corsairs.
‘Lock her in the brig,’ said Toll, clambering onto the deck behind her. Zenthe nodded to two burly shiphands, who grabbed Shev none-too-gently by the shoulders and marched her towards a covered hatchway in the deck, down a flight of rough, stained stairs and into the guts of the ship. It smelled of oil, salt and blood down here, though it was a far cry from the stinking galley she and the Golden Lord had hired to transport them. The woodwork was sleek, intricate, polished. Well maintained, without a sign of rootworm infestation or other damage. More crewmembers were oiling the huge spring mechanisms of the great ballistae she had seen from afar, placing barbed spears of black iron in metal containers next to the artillery weapons. A barrel marked with a crimson skull was positioned next to each weapon, tied firmly in place and secured with an iron cap. Tracks of dull iron were embedded in the floor beneath each ballista, so that the weapons could be retracted and brought forward to the firing ports. Shev noticed the floor here was noticeably darker, chipped and stained with patches of reddish-brown.
They strode through another deck, this one filled with rows of silken hammocks, faintly luminescent in the gloom. An aelf knelt nearby, an open box at his feet. She noticed, with a slight shiver of revulsion, that he was watching several large, pale spiders crawl over the bedding, diligently stitching up holes and weaving new strands. The aelf glanced lazily in their direction, and gazed at her with disinterest as he snatched one of the wriggling arachnids and placed it back in its container.
Finally, on the next floor, they came to the brig: a small, cramped chamber at the rear of the ship. One of the aelves pushed her roughly into the cell and swung a latticed door closed. As it slammed shut, a series of interlocking spars clicked into place.
‘Could I get some water?’ she shouted, as the aelves turned to leave. ‘I’m parched.’
They ignored her. She sighed, slumped to the hard floor and tried to sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Tell me again,’ said Toll. ‘All of it. Everything you can remember about him, anything he said to you, any detail that you can recall.’
Shev sighed, and raised her eyes to the ceiling of her cell.
‘I’ve told you over and over,’ she said. ‘What more can I say?’
The witch hunter got up from his chair facing her cell, and paced the room, spinning his wide-brimmed hat in his hands. She watched him, eyes heavy with fatigue. His questioning had not been exactly what she expected. When he had first appeared, emerging from the darkness bearing a single candle, one hand on his sword hilt, she had feared the worst.
She had heard the stories. Everyone had. When agents of the Order of Azyr roamed the streets, people vanished. As a child growing up in Excelsis, she remembered one occasion when she had passed the Halls of Questioning with her father and they had heard the faint sound of screams on the wind. His face had gone very pale, and he had ushered her away, answering her intrigued questions with only stern silence.
But there had been no sharp instruments, no hot pokers or thumbscrews.
‘Torture is a blunt weapon,’ Toll had said, interpreting her surprise. ‘It has its uses. But I find it unreliable. Cut a man enough and he’ll tell you everything you want to hear, and nothing you can trust. Besides, I take no pleasure in pain for the sake of pain, unlike many of my colleagues. I prefer to utilise leverage.’
‘Leverage?’
‘You are alone, hundreds of miles from any port of safe haven. For the moment, I deem you to be useful. You know of Vermyre’s activities, you know more than most regarding his state of mind, his physical condition. That information is of value to me. It would benefit you to continue to prove useful, Miss Arclis.’
And so she had talked until her throat was sore, at great length, recalling every conversation, every thought she had ever had concerning the man she had known as the Golden Lord, this Ortam Vermyre. Toll listened intently, interrupting her every now and then with urgent questions, sometimes entirely unexpected queries that threw her off guard. Had she ever seen him consume food or water? Did he walk with a limp? When did she meet with him, at what times and in which locations?
This had continued for hours, and she was thoroughly exhausted. She had not slept more than an hour or two in the last few days. The fug of tiredness was causing her to repeat herself, or confuse dates and times.
Now she could hear the tramp of feet on the decks above, and the distant echo of bellowed orders. It was sometime near dawn, and the ship was stirring. They had been going all night. Toll stopped his pacing and placed his hat back on his head. If he was as shattered as she was, he didn’t show it. He nodded to her.
‘You’re of no use to me half-asleep,’ he said. ‘Rest. We will continue this later.’
With that, the man headed for the stairs, leaving her alone in the gloom once more. She reached for the shadeglass gem, concealed in a hidden pocket built in the sole of her right boot. They’d searched her thoroughly, but not well enough to discover all of her tricks.
The witch hunter is persistent, Occlesius mused. And he wishes this Vermyre dead. Fiercely.
‘I’ve no argument with that,’ muttered Shev.
Hmm. I must say, I’ll be rather annoyed if I’ve finally escaped from my tedious imprisonment in Quatzhymos only to spend the rest of my days in some dank dungeon.
‘So what do you think?’ asked Callis, feeling almost human again after a night’s sleep, a wash and a change of clothing. He leaned on the rail of the ship alongside Toll, watching as the Thrice Lucky drifted out of the bay and into open water. He would not miss this godsforsaken place, that was certain.
‘About the girl’s story?’ said the witch hunter. ‘She doesn’t strike me as a cutthroat. Nor a thief, in all honesty. I don’t think she was misleading about Vermyre, at least. But she’s hiding something. I’ve been doing this long enough to recognise the signs. There’s more to her than meets the eye.’
Callis nodded. ‘I was thinking much the same.’
There was an awkward silence, broken only by the roar of waves crashing against the hull. Callis glanced at Toll out of the corner of his eye. The witch hunter stared expressionlessly towards the departing coast. He looked old. Tired.
‘Speak, if you have something to say,’ Toll said at last. ‘But for Sigmar’s sake stop staring at me like that.’
Callis shook his head.
‘You almost got yourself killed back there,’ he said.
‘I almost get myself killed every other day,’ Toll replied. ‘It is an unfortunate but necessary part of my profession.’
‘Don’t do that. Don’t brush this off. I’ve never seen you charge into battle like that, without any regard for your life. You’ve made this personal.’
Toll turned sharply and met his gaze.
‘Of course it’s personal,’ he growled. ‘This is not some simple criminal we’re chasing, one of thousands I’ve put down over the years. This man, I knew him. I called him friend. For years, Callis. For decades, and I never saw it. Not once. He made a fool of me, and he killed the best, most loyal duardin I ever knew. And you wonder why I want to see him dead, at any cost?’
