Hammerhal & Other Stories, Page 2

  The docks rose high over Hammerhal’s warehouse district, one ring of berths and warehouses stacked atop the next, almost all the way up its length. From each ring, an ever-spreading canopy of high-altitude berths and quays extended out over the tangled streets below, like branches stretching from a tree of immense size.

  Belloc had heard that it was, in fact, just that – that much of the city had been grown rather than built. He didn’t know whether he believed that or not, though there were stranger things in this realm, to be sure.

  Hammerhal itself, for instance. The Twin-tailed City stretched across two of the eight Mortal Realms, separated by untold infinities thanks to the Stormrift Realmgate. Like all realmgates, it was a portal through which one could pass into another realm entirely. Countless numbers of these apertures in reality were scattered about the Mortal Realms, and all of the great cities were built about one or more realmgates.

  Hammerhal spread outwards from the twinned thresholds of the Stormrift Realmgate into both Ghyran, the Realm of Life, and Aqshy, the Realm of Fire. Belloc had only been to Hammerhal Aqsha once, and the experience hadn’t been a pleasant one. The air had tasted of cinders and smoke, and he’d been covered in sweat from sunup to sundown. Ghyran was better, but not by much – it was too wet here, too humid. He missed Azyr. The Celestial Realm had its problems, but at least the weather was pleasant.

  He plucked his knife free of the crate and spun it lightly between his fingers, careful not to cut himself.

  ‘Well,’ he said, glaring at the rats, ‘anything to say for yourselves?’

  When no reply was forthcoming, he kicked the mouldering crate towards them. It came apart as his boot touched it, and he yelped in disgust. Bits and pieces clattered across the ground, and the rats took the hint, scattering into the shadows.

  Belloc hopped back, scraping at the sludge on his boot with the edge of his knife. If it got into the leather, he would have to get new boots, and he’d only just managed to break these ones in. He looked around as he dislodged the last of it. There was mould everywhere, growing on every warehouse and berth that occupied the vast wooden platform of the docks. And vines. And weeds, even. It seemed inconceivable that anything should be growing this high above the city proper, but life found a way. Especially in Hammerhal Ghyra.

  This side of the bifurcated city was awash in unwelcome growth. The heat from the Fire-Bastions could only do so much; no matter how much lava was channelled into the immense stone runnels from Hammerhal Aqsha, the city’s spires and golden domes were under eternal siege from Ghyran’s excessively exuberant plant life.

  And the rats. Always the rats.

  ‘Vermin,’ Belloc muttered, thrusting his knife back into its sheath.

  That was all this job was, at times. The dock-warden scratched at his unshaven chin. He was burly, but not especially brave, even with a sword on his hip. He wasn’t ashamed. Bravery cost extra, and the owners of the docks were notoriously cheap. You got what you paid for, and they had paid for Belloc. Luckily, no one was stupid enough to climb all the way up here, just to filch grain – or worse, try and steal an airship. So it was just him and the rats.

  He wondered if Delph and the others were as bored as he was. Probably. Things were either boring or terrifying this high up, but they had drawn the short straws and been forced to patrol the uppermost ring.

  He didn’t like it up here. The Kharadron vessels smelled of strange chemicals and the vibrations of their buoyancy endrins shook the entire dock. The sky-duardin were a stand-offish folk who kept to themselves, unless they had business to attend to. He’d heard from Delph that they lived in flying cities, but didn’t know how much credence there was in that.

  Then again, Delph was a duardin herself, so perhaps she’d know, if anyone did. She said the Kharadron were duardin who had retreated to the skies when the armies of the Dark Gods had swept over the Mortal Realms. She didn’t seem to like them very much. Granted, she didn’t like anyone.

  Belloc stared at one of the Kharadron vessels. It was oddly shaped. Too many curves. The bulbous aether-endrins that held the ship aloft glowed dimly, even when at anchor. If you stared at them for too long, you got dizzy. Belloc blinked and looked away.

  There were sounds up here too, sometimes. Not the usual creaking and groaning you’d expect, but something else. Smells, too – acrid and unpleasant. Once, he thought he’d seen something watching him from the roof of a warehouse.

  Suddenly uneasy, he glanced at the unfamiliar stars above. The sky was green here, even now at night, with the faintest tinge of azure. Sometimes it was so pale it was almost white, and sometimes it was so dark as to be black, but it was always a shade of green. The stars were the worst. They were the same as in Azyr, he was certain, but somehow different, as if he were looking at them from the wrong angle.

  He blinked and tore his eyes away from the unforgiving sky. Beyond the obscuring wall of anchored airships and skycutters, Hammerhal Ghyra stretched across the horizon. It was almost beautiful from up here. Parts of the city were given over to vast groves of trees, and amongst the green he could see golden domes and white towers rising over a sea of smaller buildings.

  A constant flow of molten rock poured down through immense stone and crystal runnels that emerged from the city’s heart, where the Stormrift Realmgate was located. The glowing lines stretched like veins through the tangled streets towards the distant defensive canals which marked the outer districts. He could just make out the faint reddish glow of the Fire-Bastions on the horizon.

  Each time the city extended its borders, the Fire-Bastions were duly redirected by teams of human and duardin artisans. The engineers of the Ironweld Arsenal were capable of great feats of artifice. They bent the wisdom of two races towards devising weapons and mechanisms for the reconquest of the Mortal Realms.

  The Fire-Bastions were one such mechanism. Fed by the runnels of molten rock, they served to burn back the ­ravenous flora of the realm, keeping the outer districts of the city from being overwhelmed by fast-growing plant life.

  The hollow, ashen network of tunnels that were left behind when the Fire-Bastions were redirected were then gradually built over and hidden from sight. Belloc sometimes wondered how many of those tunnels were repurposed rather than filled in, and how many still ran beneath the winding streets of Hammer­hal Ghyra.

  ‘And probably rats in all of them,’ he muttered.

  The city was full of rats. And worse things. No one talked about it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t so. He’d left Azyrheim one step ahead of the thief-takers, but a stretch in the sky-cages didn’t seem so bad now compared to some of the things he’d seen.

  Delph and the others swore blind that the mystic wards around the city prevented anything too horrible from getting in. They said the magic kept the monsters out, but Belloc wasn’t concerned about the ones outside. He was more worried about the ones that might already be in the city somewhere. Hiding. Waiting.

  There were stories. There were always stories, even in Azyrheim. About rats that walked on two legs, and men with the heads of goats and wolf’s teeth. Belloc was no child. He knew that monsters were real, and their gods too. And he knew that nothing could keep them out for long, if they were truly of a mind to get in.

  As he gazed at the horizon, he found his eyes drawn towards the Nevergreen Mountains. He’d never seen them up close, but he’d heard about the great forest that covered their broken slopes and the things that lurked within it. Lightning flashed, arcing between the distant peaks and the night sky. He shivered. The lightning reminded him that the Stormcast Eternals had marched west, towards the mountains, two days before.

  He shivered again, thinking of those massive, silver-clad warriors as they passed through the steaming gates of the Fire-Bastions. Delph said they’d been human once, before Sigmar had blessed them with divine strength and holy armour, but what would a duardin know about such t
hings? She didn’t even worship Sigmar. Like most duardin – at least those he knew – she worshipped Grungni, the god of her folk.

  Something clattered. Belloc froze. Then, slowly, he turned.

  It was probably a rat. It was almost certainly a rat. But sometimes it wasn’t. He’d heard stories that sometimes things crawled down out of the green sky, looking for food. It was the same in Azyrheim, but it was somehow worse here. He reached for the hilt of his sword as he took a step towards where the sound had originated from – an alleyway between two warehouses.

  Belloc didn’t call for help. Delph had gotten angry the last time he’d called for help and there hadn’t been any need. He needed this job. Besides, if it was something other than a rat, calling for help would only attract its attention all the quicker.

  He took a step towards the alleyway. For a moment, he heard only the creak of rigging and the whistle of the wind blowing between the buildings. Warehouses of all sizes clustered thick here, near the edge of the ring, and they collected shadows.

  Another clatter, and a rat ran out of the alleyway, squealing.

  Belloc sighed in relief. He nearly choked on that sigh as something pounced on the rat. The rodent died instantly as four dun paws crushed it flat. A tawny, feathered skull dipped, and a hooked beak tore at its kill. Belloc took a step back. The thing turned, golden eyes fixed on him.

  ‘Gryph-hound,’ he muttered as a chill raced along his spine. The creature resembled a small lion, only with the head of a bird of prey. It was no larger than a wolf, but it was far more lethal. Its tail lashed as it crouched over its kill. He held out his hands and began to back away slowly. ‘Easy there. No harm done. Enjoy your meal.’

  It might have come off one of the airships, but there was no way to tell. Just as he was about to call out for help, he bumped into someone. An instant later, something very sharp was resting against his neck.

  ‘Hello, friend,’ said a voice. ‘No, don’t move. Especially don’t try to draw that sword you’re wearing. Things might take an unfortunate turn.’

  Belloc kept his hands from his blade. Thieves, he thought. Or worse. He made to speak, but the pressure of the blade against his throat increased slightly.

  ‘Quietly, friend. Quietly. No need to speak.’

  Belloc quickly closed his mouth.

  ‘Good,’ continued the voice. ‘Good. Now, I need you to point out the berth belonging to the sky-merchant Rollo Tarn. Remember, don’t reach for the sword.’

  Tarn? Why did they want Tarn? He didn’t ship anything valuable. Just wood. Belloc’s mind spun in confusion. No one could expect him to die for wood, could they? He gestured slowly, hesitantly. The pressure of the knife was removed, and he sucked in a breath.

  ‘There now. Excellent. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

  Belloc swallowed, but didn’t reply. He was too busy praying.

  ‘You can turn around, now.’

  Belloc did. The man before him was tall, and dressed like someone with more sense than to be creeping around the aether-docks at night. He wore a heavy, triple-caped overcoat over something that might have once been the uniform of a Freeguild warrior. A basket-hilted rapier was sheathed on one hip, and he had a brace of pistols on the other. On the lapel of his coat was pinned a symbol that Belloc recognised all too well from his time in Azyrheim: the hammer and comet of the Order of Azyr.

  Belloc drew back in fear.

  ‘Witch hunter!’

  Chapter Two

  SERVANTS OF AZYR

  Sol Gage, knight of the Order of Azyr, sighed, reversed the knife he held and forcefully tapped his prisoner on the head with its weighted pommel. The dock-warden crumpled without a sound, and the witch hunter lowered him gently to the ground. He sheathed his knife.

  ‘Bryn,’ he said, ‘get him out of sight.’

  ‘Couldn’t have thumped him in here, then?’ a deep voice growled querulously. A squat, heavy form stumped from out of the shadows behind Gage. Thick hands caught the unconscious dock-warden by the ankles, and began to drag him away.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend – I thought you might be bored.’ As Gage spoke, a second shape, much taller than the witch hunter, stepped over the dock-warden’s body. Gage glanced up into a stern yet noble countenance, wrought in silver. ‘Don’t scowl so, Carus. I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘I am not scowling.’

  Carus Iron-Oath stood head and shoulders above even the tallest of mortal men. Clad in silver war-plate forged from holy sigmarite, the Lord-Veritant of the Hallowed Knights was an imposing sight. A cloak of deep azure hung from his shoulders, and dark eyes peered out from behind his war-mask, the only sign of the man within.

  No, not just a man, Gage reminded himself. A Stormcast Eternal – one of Sigmar’s chosen warriors, forged anew on the Anvil of Apotheosis and made into something better. Or, at least, something stronger. Where most Stormcasts were warriors first and foremost, the Lord-Veritants were, like the witch hunters of the Order of Azyr, tasked with rooting out spiritual and physical corruption – though in a far more direct manner than their mortal counterparts.

  ‘I am simply ill at ease with such skulduggery, my friend,’ Carus said. ‘This is not the way it should be done. We should confront them openly, and drive back their shadows with our light.’

  Carus thumped the ground with his staff, and the Lantern of Abjuration which surmounted it flashed softly.

  ‘There will be plenty of that before the end, I have no doubt,’ replied Gage. ‘For now, we must meet shadow with shadow, lest our quarry take flight.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because they have an airship,’ Gage added, after a moment.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Are you smiling? I can’t tell.’

  Carus grunted in noncommittal fashion, and Gage sighed. Trying to elicit a chuckle from his stolid companion had become something of a challenge for him. The Stormcast Eternal whistled sharply. The gryph-hound trotted towards him, carrying the remains of the rat in her beak, and Carus stroked the creature’s wedge-shaped head affectionately.

  ‘Good girl, Zephyr,’ he rumbled.

  Gage turned his attentions to the warehouse the dock-warden had indicated. Like most of the warehouses on the aether-dock, it was a square structure, built for durability rather than for looks. It followed the duardin design, with a high-peaked roof of flat planks that kept off the worst of the weather, and a shell of walkways and loading platforms that entrapped it. It seemed to crouch in the shadow of taller warehouses, a web of wooden gantries and skycutter berths stretching above it. A large aether-quay had been built onto the roof, projecting outwards like a semi-circular awning of wooden planks and support pillars.

  Tarn’s airship, the Hopeful Traveller, was docked there, floating above the city, snug in its nest of gangplanks, ropes and pulleys. It resembled a seagoing galley, save that its masts were burdened with thick canvas aether-bags rather than billowing sails. The double rows of oars on either side of the vessel were wide, fan-shaped assemblages of wood and cloth, perfect for catching the wind.

  ‘The ship is still docked,’ Gage murmured. ‘Are you in there, I wonder?’

  ‘Your spies say he is,’ Carus said. Gage could almost hear the Stormcast frowning.

  ‘Spies can be wrong. Or suborned.’

  ‘We will find out soon enough. Whether he is or not, Rollo Tarn must be put to the question. And if he has committed crimes, he must be made to answer for them.’

  Gage nodded absently. Rollo Tarn. The name was common enough, as was the man it was attached to. A human sky-merchant of some minor standing. While the Kharadron jealously guarded their routes through the skies of the Mortal Realms, a few daring individuals had learned of other paths, sailing more dangerous winds than those taken by the sky-duardin.

  Now, thousands of airships, skycutters and leaf-boats found their
way to the aether-docks every day, sailing along the rift-lanes. While they could fly neither as high nor as swiftly as the Kharadron vessels, they served much the same purpose, carrying goods between the two halves of the Twin-tailed City. It was mostly food, these days, but some, like Tarn, had become wealthy trading in building materials.

  Despite the nature of the realm, coming by useable wood was difficult in Ghyran. The forests, by and large, belonged to the Everqueen and the sylvaneth tree-kin. Alarielle was the Goddess of Life, and Ghyran had been her demesne for as long as the Mortal Realms had existed. Though the Plague God, Nurgle, had all but wrested the realm from her, still she claimed a proprietary interest in it – the forests were hers, from the smallest sapling to the mightiest oak. And her servants would not hesitate to punish those who violated the ancient laws of the Everqueen, whatever their reasons.

  Thus, logging was all but unheard of without great ritual and expense. Yet Tarn seemed to have no trouble bringing in copious amounts of timber, which the city’s rulers, the Grand Conclave, bought eagerly, without asking too many questions. The city was hungry, in the way of all cities, and was expanding as its population swelled. Growing, as the God-King had decreed that it must. Such expansion was key to the eventual reconquest of the Mortal Realms, but it meant that the need for wood and stone was endless.

  And Tarn was only too eager to supply it. The Hopeful Traveller brought in a new load of freshly cut timber every week, and it soon vanished into the city, to be made into new buildings and palisades. But where was the wood coming from? Not a whisper of Tarn’s source had reached the usual gossips among the trade guilds. That, by itself, was suspicious.

  Unfortunately, as far as the Grand Conclave was concerned, suspicion was not enough to cancel such a lucrative contract. Tarn had made himself integral to the city’s growth. Not a crime, in itself, but there was something there. Gage could feel it.