The Silver Shard by Nick Horth

Author:Nick Horth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2018-06-05T06:41:07+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The great door groaned open, and Toll followed Drock into the depths of the ironclad. It was gloomy inside, a cramped tube of looming bulkheads and corrugated walls lit by foul-smelling lamps that cast a hazy orange light across the walls.

Toll passed chambers stuffed to the ceiling with crates, barrels, cages and other paraphernalia, lashed together with leather bindings and overseen by yet more masked duardin. They gazed impassively at him as he passed. It might simply be an illusion of the mind, but the interior of the vessel seemed far larger than he had expected. Every­thing was functional, utilitarian; there was not a stretch of wall or floor given over to aesthetics rather than practicality. Its smell was sharp and bitter, but not entirely unpleasant; the chemical tang of oils and work-leathers, sweat and hard labour.

Drock tramped up a short flight of corrugated stairs and came to another bulkhead, secured by a heavy door upon which was marked a series of runes that Toll could not understand. His knowledge of the skyfolk’s language was passable, but each of the Kharadron skyports had their own cultural subtleties and linguistic quirks. From the markings he had seen upon the vessel’s hull, Bengtsson’s crew hailed from Barak Zilfin, one of the largest of the skyfolk’s enclaves.

The gunnery sergeant rapped sharply on the door, and there was a barely audible grunt from within. Drock heaved the door open, revealing a small, dimly lit chamber dominated by a huge ironwood desk. Surrounding this ornately carved piece was a thick jungle of towering paperwork – scrolls, tomes and charts of all description, stacked together in piles so immense it seemed they would crush a person if they were to fall. In the midst of this forest of fading yellow papyrus sat another armoured duardin, hunched over a desktop scattered with maps and aethermatic gadgetry, lit by an egg-shaped lamp of polished bronze that dangled from the ceiling on a copper cord.

Just as the rest of his crew, Admiral Bengtsson was clad in a full-body leather oversuit and a mask that entirely covered his face. His mask was by far the most ornate that Toll had seen, however. It was fashioned from gleaming gold, the lower portion forming a great, wedge-like beard and sweeping moustache, the upper half an imposing duardin frown. The eyes were sky-blue sapphires, the brow ridged with rivets of silver. It was an imposing visage, to be sure.

‘Well?’ barked Bengtsson. His voice was harsh and deep, with a faint lilting quality to the accent. ‘Time’s wasting, sir. I believe you had a proposition to bring before me?’

Toll removed his hat and stepped before the admiral’s desk. There was no seat. Bengtsson was clearly not a duardin who relished company.

‘Hanniver Toll, agent of the Order of Azyr,’ he said. ‘I am in pursuit of an individual who has committed untold crimes against the free city of Excelsis. I arrived here by sail, but I fear my quarry further eludes me with every passing moment.

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