Warriors Of The Freeguilds, page 37
‘More tzaangors,’ hissed Callis. ‘Looks like Vermyre has not cut all ties with his former allies.’
‘We’re walking into quite the melee here,’ said Zenthe. ‘These other creatures, how do we know they’re not going to turn on us the second they see us?’
‘We don’t,’ replied Toll. ‘But we’re going up there, nonetheless. You and the admiral are welcome to wait for us here, but if Vermyre sets his hands upon the Silver Shard, there’s no telling what nightmares he’ll unleash. If we have to kill our way through these things, so be it.’
Together, they ran on. As they neared, they saw that the lizard-creatures were not pouring from hidden boltholes or underground lairs. Instead they seemed to materialise out of the very air, summoned into being and given violent purpose by some unknown force. They wielded ancient-looking weapons crafted from gold and obsidian, crude in construction but somehow imposing also, as if they were an echo from an older and more savage age. Their scales were flecked with crimson war-paint, and jewels and necklaces hung from their scaly flesh.
As Callis and the others approached, a score of the beasts detached from the main host and began to encircle them, eyes glassy and unknowable, weapons raised but not yet in a threatening manner. Ahead, the two stairs wound their way around the side of a central bannister of gold, leading up to the gigantic doors of the building, which were strangely featureless and unadorned.
‘We seek no quarrel,’ said Toll, raising his weapon high and away from the creatures. ‘There is a man who has come here, an evil man, twisted by the powers of the Dark Gods. We seek to end him.’
The creatures continued to circle, their obsidian shields lowered towards the newcomers, maces and axes readied. Callis sensed a strange sort of synchronicity to their movement, a faintly unnatural edge that reminded him of the metal automatons he had seen Ironweld engineers put to use. These were not natural creatures, he realised. At least, not entirely. There was some force at play here greater than any of them knew.
The circle tightened as the beasts stepped in as one.
‘I don’t think our lizard friends here want our help,’ whispered Zenthe. ‘I think that if we want into that building, we’re going to have to blast our way in.’
‘Wait,’ said Toll.
He stepped forward, and from beneath his robes he produced an amulet fashioned in the shape of Sigmar’s hammer.
There was a flicker of something in the lead creature’s eye, just for a moment.
‘I serve the God-King,’ said Toll, brandishing the amulet. ‘The Lord of Azyr, bane of Chaos in all its forms. I swear before you now, I come to rid the taint of the Dark Gods from this place.’
The creatures ceased their prowling, and stood stock still. Then, again moving with impossible synchronicity, they peeled off and raced up the steps towards the fray, utterly ignoring Toll and his band.
Bengtsson let out a slow whistle of relief.
‘Well, that’s a fortunate turn of events,’ he said. ‘Bad enough just the one army wanting us dead, without those damned things after us too.’
‘Well said, duardin,’ nodded Zenthe. ‘Now, if we’re done talking?’
Blades raised, Arika Zenthe bounded up the winding steps towards the sounds of battle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The staircase wound on and on. Shev was hardly in poor physical shape, but even she had to stop and catch her breath on more than one occasion. It was more than the distance travelled. It was the oppressive air in the place that pressed down upon them with crushing force. In her travels, Shev had been to many places which seemed – for want of a better word – cursed. Ruined cities where even centuries after the carnage that had seen them fall, ghosts of the dead still lingered. She had that feeling now, multiplied a hundredfold. It was as if the city of Xoantica itself was enraged by their presence, and had leveraged all of its formidable power towards crushing their will. She was filled with a deep despair, and a growing terror that she would never escape this lost city alive. She would be trapped here, along with all the others, damned to an eternity of wandering these halls.
Vermyre bounded up the stairs like an eager child, full of nervous energy even after his battle with the saurian warriors. Where, for the others, each step further into this cursed city seemed to sap the strength and will from their bones, the opposite seemed to be true for their leader.
‘So close now,’ he muttered, over and over.
Shev made the mistake of looking down to see how far they had come. She saw nothing but a pitch-black abyss stretching away into nothingness. Her head spun, and she stumbled, cracking her knees painfully upon the stairs.
Vermyre paused to drag her none too gently to her feet.
‘Do not look back,’ he hissed. ‘Whatever crafted this enchantment, it wants us to give in to doubt and confusion, to turn back in defeat. But if we are strong, we can break through this illusion. Push beyond, to our true destination. Stay with me, girl.’
What was there to do? To retreat now, to trek back all the way across the great expanse of the ruined city seemed a far more harrowing task than to simply push ahead. So Shev gathered her wits, shook the dazed confusion from her mind, and began to walk.
One foot after another, that was the way. Forget everything but the slow, steady advance. Step by step. Shev fell into a kind of hypnosis, and time lost all meaning. And then, like emerging from a strange trance, her boots were once more on level ground.
She found herself looking upon a gateway large enough for a gargant to pass through, lined by statues of gold – looming figures, hooded and robed. Beyond was a narrow hall, leading to a great pair of double doors. The hooded statues were arranged in pairs along the corridor, facing one another with staves raised high to form a solemn salute. A small, circular window high above washed the chamber with a silver glow, revealing images worked into the floor. Stern patriarchs directing hordes of faceless slaves in the construction of a great city. Several robed figures standing upon a crest of rock, hands outstretched as mountains were rent asunder at their command. Amorphous, tentacled creatures descending from a blackened sky. Those same robed figures were depicted in this last image, but Shev could not tell whether they were standing in defiance of the shapeless beasts from above, or whether they were beckoning them down from the skies.
Vermyre looked towards the distant doorway.
‘Behind these doors lies the Silver Shard,’ he said. He nodded to Yha’ri’lk, who gestured two of his warriors forward. The creatures advanced cautiously, spears levelled, eyes darting across the chamber in search of hidden threats.
The leading creature had reached the mouth of the corridor, where the chamber floor was broken into rows of tiles inlaid with strange, sweeping sigils. It looked like nothing more than a scroll of hieroglyphs writ large across the floor, stretching the length of the adjoining hall. The tzaangor passed beneath the first archway of raised spears, its own weapon raised high as if it expected the statues to strike down at any moment. There was no movement at all. The chamber remained eerily silent.
Emboldened, the second creature moved forward. Its clawed foot pressed down upon the floor, and was instantly engulfed in a roaring column of fire that rose to the ceiling, filling the chamber with heat and light. Shev gasped and staggered backwards, knocking into Vermyre. They tumbled to the floor together, and amidst the tangle of limbs, Shev slid her hand into the man’s pocket. Her fingers closed around Occlesius’ shadeglass gem.
Vermyre’s bloodshot eyes met hers, filled with fury, and she knew instantly he had sensed her theft.
He grasped at her, his hand locking around her arm with terrifying strength. She could smell the rancid sourness of his breath. She drove the tip of her thumb through the eye socket of his mask, wincing as it sank into something soft and gelid. Vermyre howled with pain, and his grip released just enough for her to squirm free and scramble to her feet.
The columns of flames cleared, leaving nothing of the unfortunate tzaangor behind but a cloud of drifting ashes. Its companion took an ill-judged step backwards and was engulfed in another gout of fire, this time gushing from a hidden aperture in the wall of the corridor.
Shev put her head down and bolted for the hallway. A slim chance at freedom was better than none.
That was very nicely done indeed, came Occlesius’ voice in her head. His normally sprightly voice was thin and strained. We must get out of here. I touched his mind as he invaded my own, Miss Arclis. The man is unravelling, body and soul.
‘I really hope you know how to get us through this,’ she said, racing towards the corridor at full speed.
‘Stop her,’ roared Vermyre, and Yha’ri’lk’s warriors moved to cut her off. She ducked around the first beast’s searching claws, jumped and tucked into a roll that took her somersaulting past the next creature. Then there was clear space between her and the double doors fifty yards away.
Left, and forward twenty strides.
She twisted her run, and as she did so a bolt of arcane energy soared past her and struck one of the tiles ahead, unleashing another flaming blast. She put her hands up to guard her face and ran on, counting the distance in her head.
Stop! She stuttered to a halt, skidding across the polished floor. Footsteps behind her closed in fast, but there was no time to turn.
Jump to the tile marked with the spiral star. To your right.
She glanced up, saw the tile, tensed her legs and jumped. Something caught her by the ankle and she slammed to the floor with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. Wheezing, she turned to see a tzaangor’s face, its cruel eyes gleaming beneath a half-mask of silver. It reached down to grab her by the throat.
She tucked her legs in, planting her boots squarely on the creature’s tattooed chest before thrusting out with all her strength. The tzaangor stumbled backwards, landing hard on a tile and unleashing another column of flame that rushed up from below to swallow it whole. Ignoring the dying creature’s piercing screams, she rolled upright and jumped for the spiral-marked tile again, tucking into a roll as she landed.
Fifteen paces away now. So very close.
‘Where next?’ she screamed, her voice ragged as she tried to catch her breath. She heard more blasts of fire, and more screaming. She turned to see three more tzaangors, gaining on her with every moment, cruel blades clutched in their hands and murder in their beady eyes.
I… cannot recall.
‘Think, damn you!’
Shouting does not help my powers of recall, the Realms-Walker snapped. There was a pattern, I recall, a cypher reflected in the path one must follow. A prayer in an ancient tongue. But what was it?
One of the tzaangors was getting closer by the moment, preparing to leap over to the spiral-marked slab. She unclipped her tool-pack from her belt and hurled it. It landed square in the centre of the adjoining tile, and just as the tzaangor jumped across the five-foot gap, a blast of flame issued forth which sent its body tumbling away, ablaze.
‘I’m out of tricks, Realms-Walker,’ she hissed. ‘What do I do?’
All glory to Nem’k’awet, the Lord of Silver Skies, muttered Occlesius. He who stands betwixt the pillars of Knowledge and Damnation… what next… what next… Kir’li’sami’yen the… the Herald of Ascension. Ovkoris, the Whispering Blade! That’s it, Miss Arclis, the sword, look for a sword!
Her frantic eyes scoped the room, until finally – there – the tile to her upper left. Etched upon it was a sword, radiating what looked like beams of light.
Shev leapt, landing painfully on her knees and skidding across the final row of tiles. She had made it. Once more the floor was solid marble, and no more statues loomed above her.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ she said, with a sigh.
Oh, don’t mention it. I was actually convinced I had got that last one wrong.
She saw Vermyre staring at her from the far end of the corridor, and she tipped him a salute, tossing the shadeglass gem in her hands. Blood ran freely from the mouth of the man’s mask.
‘You have made a grave mistake, Shevanya,’ he said, his voice even but with an unmistakeable tremor of rage. ‘I had every intention of letting you leave this place alive, but now? I think not. You will perish along with all the others.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ she said.
With that, she gave a swift bow, before turning to heave open the doors.
Callis dodged a jabbing spear, and struck at the arm wielding it. He was rewarded by a pained shriek and a spurt of purplish blood. The tzaangor rocked back and was buried under a charging horde of saurians, who hacked and clubbed it to death. He turned, looking for the others. They were hard pressed, facing a wall of beastmen who gibbered with a lunatic glee as they fought, not giving an inch despite the numbers arrayed against them. They had formed their bizarre, disc-shaped mounts into a makeshift barrier that whirled and spun, the razor-sharp teeth of the unsettlingly organic devices shredding the flesh of any creatures that strayed too close.
The lizard warriors continued to hurl themselves selflessly at the intruders from all sides, but they could not dislodge them. Worse, now more tzaangors were flying down from above to join the melee, drawn here by the shrieking calls of their kin.
‘We need a way through,’ shouted Toll.
‘Leave this to me,’ growled Bengtsson. He reached to the rear of his war-suit, and detached a black-leather satchel hanging from his belt. He opened it to reveal an egg-shaped device of cold metal that tapered to a blunt point at one end. At the other end was a small brass cog, and Bengtsson gave this a hard twist and hurled the object into the thick of the fighting, with a shout.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then there was an enormous explosion of flame that sent bodies hurtling through the air, both saurian and avian. Chunks of marble were torn free from the doors and sent knifing through the mass of bodies. Callis’ ears rang, even though he’d jammed his fingers in them before the blast went off, anticipating what was to come.
‘I did warn them,’ said Bengtsson, with a hint of irritation, observing the carnage.
‘Remind me to pick up a few of those beauties before we part ways,’ said Zenthe, clapping the duardin upon the back before sprinting through the gaping breach his bomb had opened in the enemy line. By the time the shaken tzaangors had recovered, Callis and the others were at the foot of the great staircase leading away into the darkness of the dome’s central tower. Bodies littered the floor, along with smears of blood and dust. Zenthe smashed a foe in the face with the pommel of her sword, ducked beneath the awkward swing of a silver-tipped spear and thrust a dagger through its wielder’s heart. Two more tzaangors, recovering quickly now, tried to pin her against the bannister of the stairway, but Bengtsson drew and fired two pinpoint shots, putting smoking holes through both of the creatures.
Callis and Toll fought back to back, turning with practised ease, unbalancing their foes before passing them on to one another for the swift and easy kill. Callis feinted a high slash, causing a beastman to raise its spear to block the blow. Toll spun and fired beneath the unfortunate beast’s guard, blasting it several yards across the chamber. As Callis turned in that same arc, he cut the legs from under a surprised creature, which howled with agony as its ruined limbs spurted dark blood across the shining tiles.
‘Too many,’ grunted Toll, pausing amidst the carnage to reload his pistol.
‘Take the stairs,’ said Zenthe. Her blades dripped with blood, and she had that look of sheer joy on her face that always slightly unnerved Callis. ‘Myself and the good admiral can deal with things down here, can’t we?’
‘Don’t die up there before you pay me what’s due, witch hunter,’ growled Bengtsson.
Without another word, Callis and Toll made for the stairs, bounding up them two at a time.
Slamming the doors shut behind her, Shev found herself in a huge, circular chamber, so wide and high that it felt more like a cavernous cathedral than the apex of a tower. Indeed, as she took in the immense dimensions of the place, she knew with queasy certainty that there was no way this chamber matched the size of the tower top she had seen from outside the domed structure. It was far too large, and the shape was all wrong. The walls swooped overhead to form soaring arches, like the ribcage of an enormous skeleton, and far above she could see a great circular window, open to the sky. Hazy light beamed down from this opening, filling the hall with a sickly yellowish glow. Ahead, the ground sloped up slightly, several short stairs leading towards a great dais of smoothly cut obsidian.
Upon this dais rested two things.
The first was a shimmering wound in the world, like a disjointed reflection. Around this breach in reality, time and light flowed strangely, never quite in perfect alignment. She could make out a shape in the midst of that strange breach, a flowing shard of silver that appeared to resemble a molten blade. As she moved closer, however, she thought she might have imagined that it had any physical form at all. One moment it was a sparkling cloud of gold, the next a wave of molten metal. Ever-shifting, and almost painful to look at.
The other thing was even stranger. It sat upon a throne of burnished gold, which hovered serenely above the gleaming floor. It was large and lumpen in form, but despite its unimposing stature it radiated immense power. Its flesh was grey-green, decayed but not rotten – it reminded Shev of the embalmed corpses she had witnessed in the throne tombs of ancient emperors. Somehow she knew, instantly, that this was the being that had laid the illusory curse that had so nearly laid them low. Yet it lay, collapsed and corpse-like, showing no interest at all in her presence.
She had moved to within perhaps fifty yards of the dead thing’s throne when a blue light began to shine before the mummified figure, a sheet of sparkling blue motes that coalesced into the form of a small, blue-skinned reptile leaning upon a red-gold staff shaped in the image of a coiled serpent. The creature wore a startling headdress of yellow and red feathers, and looping necklaces made from precious metals dangled over its narrow chest. It cocked its head, studying her through small, quick-witted eyes.
