Warriors Of The Freeguilds, page 35
‘We know the rumours,’ said Zenthe. The corsair was leaning against the far wall, eyeing the cluttered contents of the admiral’s chamber with interest.
‘Indeed,’ muttered the duardin irritably. ‘No doubt you’ve extensive experience of sailing these sky-lanes. Perhaps I should hand my commission and my share of this journey’s galkhron over to you?’
Zenthe held up her hands in a gesture of appeasement.
‘Take pity upon a captain without a ship or crew of her own,’ she said.
‘As I recall, you do have a crew,’ Callis pointed out. ‘Still locked up in the Bilgeport dungeons.’
‘And before we departed I sent Oscus to see to their release,’ said Zenthe, shrugging. ‘By the time we return, I expect they’ll have looted everything of value in that cesspit of a city. For now, I’m nothing more than your humble passenger.’
Seemingly satisfied with Zenthe’s answer, Bengtsson turned to Toll. ‘Do you even know what you’re looking for? If there truly is some lost city out there, no one’s seen it and lived to tell the tale. We might be chasing a ghost.’
‘Vermyre knows where it is,’ said Toll. ‘If he’s willing to risk everything he has to get there, you can be sure that Xoantica is real. And every moment we waste, he draws closer to his prize. This Silver Shard, whatever it is, cannot be allowed to fall into his hands.’
Bengtsson shrugged. ‘As long as you pay what was promised, I’ll sail you to the jaws of Ignax herself.’
‘And what exactly did you promise the good admiral here?’ asked Zenthe, studying Toll through narrowed eyes.
‘You’ll both get what is due,’ snapped Toll, with an uncharacteristic outburst of irritation. Callis studied the witch hunter’s drawn, pale face. ‘Until then, you both work for me. Get me to the Fatescars, admiral.’
With that Toll left, leaving Zenthe and Bengtsson to an uneasy silence. Callis trailed after the witch hunter as he strode out of the cramped corridor of the Indefatigable and into the glaring light of the midday sun. They were far out over the ocean now, and the wind was whipping past them at a fearsome pace. Far below was the sea, a shimmering carpet of azure, and above, the clouds whirled and spun in an endless, maddening dance. Above, far to the left and right, Callis could see the two other vessels in Bengtsson’s fleet, ranging slightly ahead of the ironclad.
Toll leaned against the gunwale, hand clutching his ribs. They’d stopped a few short hours to heal and resupply their vessels, but it was hardly the long recuperation they needed. None of Toll’s wounds were serious, but they were certainly taking a cumulative cost upon the man. Every step appeared to hurt.
‘You should go below and rest,’ said Callis.
‘Later,’ said Toll. They shared an uncomfortable silence for several minutes, simply staring at the clouds rushing past and shoals of skimmerfish jumping and whirling in the seas below.
‘I thought, when I first met you, that you were nothing like the stories of the witch hunters that I had heard as a boy,’ said Callis. ‘Ruthless, cruel fellows, who would kill anyone they suspected of heresy without question or hesitation. I thought you were different. But then I saw what you did today.’
‘Did it disappoint you?’ asked Toll.
‘You know for certain that everyone we killed today was guilty? That no innocent person got caught up in the carnage, or drowned when we flooded the city streets?’
‘The innocent do not flock to a place like Bilgeport, Armand. These people have existed out here for too long, leeching off the lifeblood of the free cities. Enough is enough. They required an example of what happens when you defy the will of Azyr.’
‘Firing into crowds is not what I signed up for, Toll.’
‘That same crowd was more than happy to watch you, Zenthe and the others torn to shreds in that arena. That same crowd was filled with killers, pillagers and other scum. Shed no tears for them, Callis.’
‘I don’t. That’s not my point.’
‘Many of my kin would have set this whole port alight. They would have slaughtered every man, woman and child that draws breath within these walls, and they would have done so without qualms. I do not share that ruthlessness, but I am also not a man who suffers sedition and acts of treachery against the rightful rule of order.’
Callis shook his head. ‘There’s right and wrong, Hanniver. Even in this trade.’
‘Tell that to the thousands of loyal Sigmarites that the High Captains robbed and killed over the course of their rule. Enough of this navel-gazing, Armand. We have a task to see through. If you care so much for innocents, think of the thousands dead at Vermyre’s hand. For their sake, at least, I need you focused on the mission ahead.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Despite her current predicament, Shev could not help gasping aloud in wonder as she looked upon the Fatescar Mountains.
The first she saw of them was an immense, polyhedral mountain ridge looming out of the mist, impossibly smooth and angular, floating in mid-air several thousand leagues above rolling forest hills. As far as she could tell, the mountain itself was formed from natural stone. It was worn, weathered and covered in thick vegetation. As they drew nearer, she saw a crystal-clear waterfall spilling over the nearest face of the immense structure, raining down upon the canopy far below.
Gradually, more of the floating rocks began to appear. Some were flat shelves of stone, others had a more rounded, organic shape. In one, she thought she recognised the profile of a human face, thick and overgrown with a beard of evergreen trees. In another, a sun-dial. There, the hilt of a titanic dagger. More geometric shapes, endlessly varied in size and form. Smaller islands of stone orbited those immense mountains, half-shaped and crumpled, as if they were the abandoned projects of a bored deity, left scattered upon his workbench.
‘My gods,’ she whispered. It was so beautiful, yet somehow terrifying at the same time. To know that mortalkind had once wielded such incredible power. The power to create a world, or destroy one.
The crystal ship rocked and yawed beneath them, causing them to stumble a few steps. Vermyre laid a hand on Shev’s shoulder to steady her. She flinched, aware the man was trying to restore the easy camaraderie they had shared when they first began their search for Occlesius. It was a futile effort, now that she knew what lurked beneath that golden mask. Just being near Vermyre made her skin crawl.
‘Incredible, is it not?’ said Vermyre, with a note of awe in his voice. ‘I have heard the tales, of course. I have even seen the sketches of explorers who have ventured here, but to see it in person…’
‘They were building something that they never finished,’ said Shev, indicating the bizarre arrangement of shapes. ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know what they were creating.’
Momentarily forgetting her situation, she found herself lost in thought. Civilisations did not create wonders like this for no reason. Maybe there was a theological component here, a relic of old gods worshipped long before the peoples of this region turned to the worship of Sigmar. Yet the more she looked, the less likely that seemed. There was a lack of uniformity to the shapes that was somehow unnerving.
‘Perhaps we shall discover the truth behind this place very soon. Perhaps a remnant of their ancient empire yet lives, within these very mountains. We will discover the truth together, Shevanya.’
One of the avian creatures approached, and trilled something in a language she could not understand, but still made goosebumps rise on her flesh. Vermyre nodded, and waved a hand to dismiss the beast. She noticed that the beastmen had drawn and nocked arrows upon their bows, and there was a definite sense of unease in the air.
‘Something is trying to draw us away,’ Vermyre muttered. ‘There is an illusion hanging over this place, I can smell it. Something dwells within these mountains, and it does not care for intruders.’
Shev frowned. Now that she looked closer at the wondrous view before her, she realised that there was something strange about this place. There was a stillness to it, a silent tension that seemed quite out of place in the otherwise raucous wilds of the Taloncoast.
‘There’s no birdsong,’ she muttered.
‘What?’ asked Vermyre.
‘There are no sounds of any kind,’ she said. ‘Listen. Surely you’d expect birds to roost up on these mountains, far away from danger. Can you see any signs of life down there?’
They circled the hexagonal mountain slowly, listening to the roar of the waterfall as it arced over the lip of the floating rock and poured away into nothingness. Now that Shev looked closer, the treeline seemed unnaturally orderly, arranged in neat, strict rows like those of a plantation. She peered into the gloomy, overhanging canopy, searching for a hint of movement, but found nothing. Not a creature stirred amidst the mountains.
‘Curious,’ whispered Vermyre.
Shev’s sense of unease only grew as they sailed further into the mountains. It was hard to put her finger on, exactly. She felt like someone who had just awoken, and was trying desperately to sort the illusions of a dream from the hazy, unreal world she had been born into.
They drifted through a swirl of mist that left dew-drops across their skin, and rose over the crest of a wide, flat disc whose scattering of trees were arranged in a strange spiral pattern. Beyond rose the largest island yet. It was shaped in the image of a human face, strangely featureless and monolithic. There were no eyes, nor ears; simply the smooth, mannequin-like shape of the face, blackened and weathered. Across its great, stern brow ran a crown of mountainous peaks, capped with scatterings of foliage. Water trickled down the face of the titan in great gushing falls, pouring from its open mouth, which had been worn away over the centuries so that it gave the impression that the great head had its mouth opened in a scream.
The largest of Vermyre’s beastmen came forward, striding across the crystal ship in that odd, jerking gait. The other tzaangors looked upon it with reverence, and it was not hard to see why. Clearly this was some form of high priest or shaman. It stood a head taller than Shev, its piercing gaze burning from beneath a plated war-mask that ran the length of its beak, and shimmered with a faint luminescence. Two great, curved horns rose back from its brow, bedecked with silver chains and marked with runes that turned Shev’s stomach. Its chest was bare, but below a belt of gold it wore a half-robe of bright orange. Dangling crystal chimes tinkled as it walked. Its staff was silver, capped with a swirling eye of jade, and it carried a ritual dagger at its belt.
As it neared, she smelled a sweet yet sour stench, sweat mixed with sour-smelling unguents. It stared at her and cocked its head slightly, and she felt a shiver run through her body as she looked into its pitiless eyes.
‘We are close,’ it hissed, surprising her by speaking the common tongue in a voice that was strangely human, considering its hideous appearance. ‘This isle, I sense a great enchantment upon it. Something powerful resides within those peaks.’
‘Then that’s where we go, Yha’ri’lk,’ said Vermyre. ‘Let us descend.’
The crystal ship yawed and dipped its nose, and they sailed through the mists towards the titanic head. Great trails of vines drooped from its empty eye sockets, and as they soared over its brow they caught their first glimpse of the forgotten city of Xoantica.
Shev’s breath caught in her throat. She saw spires of white marble hidden between mountain peaks that rose on both sides: a city of pure white arranged in concentric circles around a central tower that stretched high into the skies, its arrow-head tip almost brushing the low-hanging clouds. The body of the spiral tower was worked in gold, and glimmered in the hazy mid-morning light.
Below, she could see abandoned arterial thoroughfares that stretched throughout the city, lined by solemn statues of robed figures whose features she could not make out from this distance. There was no sign of damage, that she could see, but a tangible sense of doom hung heavily over the place. It felt like nothing more than an enormous graveyard, each white-marble structure a monument to the dead.
‘Many people died here,’ said Vermyre. ‘I can feel it. The place is rife with death.’
He turned to Yha’ri’lk.
‘Take us down,’ he said.
They came to rest on a plateau of smooth ground overlooking the northern edge of the city. The air was still, and without even the sound of the wind rushing past them the silence was even more unnerving. Vermyre’s beastmen clutched their silver spears nervously, their avian heads snapping this way and that as if they smelled predators drawing close. On the ground there were perhaps fifty of the creatures, though she saw more circling overhead on their bizarre, half-organic flying discs. The ones above carried ornate bows, strung with crystal shafts.
Vermyre was studying the shadeglass gem with a look of intense concentration. Shev dreaded to think what priceless information he was garnering from its helpless occupant. Quite apart from getting his hands upon the Silver Shard, the damage Vermyre could reap if he was armed with the sheer amount of knowledge that Occlesius possessed did not bear thinking about.
‘We move,’ he said at last, and they began to make their way down the bluff towards the empty city.
A great arch loomed ahead, its wrought-iron gate ajar. The gatehouse was ornamented with two sweeping statues which leaned out from the central columns: smooth, faceless figures wielding staves of gold, holding their weapons crosswise over the entrance to Xoantica. The gateway was wide enough to admit dozens of carts, and the road was paved with flat, square stones of pure white, marvellously shaped. Somehow, the surface was as smooth as if it had been laid yesterday, with none of the wear and tear one might expect from a busy thoroughfare. Shev took in the gatehouse, which was supported by a thick white marble wall and a row of granite columns threaded with trails of gold. There was almost no depth to the carvings, no sign of ostentation beyond the obviously expensive materials. It was a grandiose piece of architecture, but it felt strangely sterile, almost funereal.
They entered, passing through onto what Shev assumed was the arterial highway. It was wider than the buildings on either side were tall, and like the entranceway it was almost impossibly smooth and well-aligned. She thought of Excelsis, with its rough-cut cobbles and haphazard arrangement of slums and way-houses. Judging by the size of the city as they descended, she guessed Xoantica had once housed more than fifty thousand souls, but there was not a single sign of habitation anywhere. No abandoned carts, no slumped skeletons. The sheer lifelessness of the place made her shiver. She felt as if the shadows were watching her, as if the spirits of the dead were all about, unseen yet undeniably present. It was like walking through a graveyard in the early hours of the morning.
Vermyre’s tzaangors filtered out across the open street, weapons raised.
‘Do you feel it?’ asked the masked figure. ‘This place is heavy with enchantments. It has been ripped out of time, smothered by obfuscating magic.’
Far ahead they could see the gold spiral tower, rising up from a huge, domed hall that rested upon a rise in the centre of the city. The path they now walked led pretty much directly to that central building, whatever it was.
‘A temple?’ wondered Shev. ‘Or a palace, perhaps.’
‘In all likelihood home to whoever those fellows were,’ said Vermyre, gesturing ahead.
Lining the thoroughfare were immense statues of gold. They depicted stern, robed figures, heads bowed in solemn thought, staffs raised and forming an archway across the curving road. Again, the statues were oddly minimalist in design, with wide, curving outlines and featureless faces. But they were clearly figures of grave importance.
‘They bear the trappings of priests, or magi,’ said Vermrye. ‘I think it is safe to assume that these figures, whoever they are, once ruled over this city. Or at least served those who did.’
Shev’s head was beginning to throb. There was something deeply strange about the arrangement of these streets. Though the thoroughfare remained more or less stable, the side-streets – filled with rows of colonnaded halls, soaring spiral domes and grand, marbled porticos – seemed to sway and shift on the very edges of her vision, their dimension shifting slyly each time she turned her head away. The effect was nauseating and dizzying. Once, she could have sworn the ground before her appeared to slope away, and stumbled awkwardly when she stepped forward and realised that was not the case. They had walked for many hours, it seemed, when she glanced to her left. With a lurch of dismay, she saw the very gatehouse they had entered, at the far end of the street to her right, distorted strangely like an uneven reflection.
‘What?’ she breathed, shaking her head in confused disbelief.
‘Ignore it all, save this road we walk,’ said Vermyre, clasping her firmly by the forearm and dragging her onwards. ‘A spell of concealment and disorientation, nothing more. The weak-minded would eventually walk right out of the city, and forget they had ever been here. Or they might wander these roads, lost for an eternity, and simply drop down dead from exhaustion or hunger. Small wonder that none have ever visited this place and returned. Save our precious Realms-Walker, of course.’
Vermyre clutched the shadeglass gem in his fist. The light within the crystal danced madly between his gloved fingers, like a flame buffeted by the wind.
‘What are you doing to him?’ she said.
‘This place is guarded against the mortal mind,’ Vermyre replied, gesturing at the silent halls around them. ‘Old and powerful magic, beyond even my ability to decipher.’
He raised the gem high. ‘But the Realms-Walker knows the correct path, even after all these years. I know not how or why the knowledge remains with him, but it is in here. And while this stone is in my possession, Occlesius can keep nothing from me.’
