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Thieves’ Paradise – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

Of all the gaols I had ever had the misfortune of visiting, the dungeons of the Raven City might have been the most singularly unpleasant. As miserable and lightless as the city in which it was located, the fittingly named Black Pit of Lethis resembled an enormous well dug deep into the earth, circular levels of cramped cells spiralling down into the darkness. What lay at the bottom, I had no idea. The screams that drifted up from below with unsettling regularity ensured that I never wanted to find out.

‘I’m beginning to regret ever setting foot in this miserable sewer-pit of a city,’ I said, running my fingers across the rain-slick bars of the lightless abode I was currently occupying. My skeletal cellmate grinned back at me good-naturedly as a centipede skittered through his empty eye socket.

I cannot recall exactly how long I resided in this accommodation before I received my first visit from Ammos Varon. Perhaps a week, although given my location and the gloomy haze of typical Lethisian weather, it was often impossible to tell day from night.

A rattle and clank of gears heralded the descent of the guard-carriage. Attached to the front of the circular platform were two great round lamps, and as their gaze passed over me I winced and raised my hands to protect my eyes, unused to such intense brightness after several days spent lounging in the dark. The great metal beast drew nearer and nearer, eventually coming to rest at the door to my cell.

Five figures stood within. Three wore the black smock and leather masks of the prison gendarmerie, and carried nightsticks with several vicious-looking wooden studs. I’d seen those weapons used against more than one unfortunate inmate, to brutal effect. One of the masked guards stepped forward and crashed his club against the bars of my cell, causing me to skitter backwards. Then I heard the clunk of a key twisting in a padlock, and the door to my cell creaked open.

The remaining two figures entered. The taller of the pair had to duck slightly as he entered. He was a lithe human, dressed in simple, dark blue robes cinched at the waist with a golden band. He was a striking one all right – dark-skinned and handsome, with piercing eyes so pale grey they seemed almost white, set in a stern face whose age I found quite hard to pinpoint. He wore his hair shaved close to the scalp and bore a tattoo of the comet on his cheek. A curved sword dangled from his belt, and he wore a heavy travelling pack.

The second figure was a small, stocky woman dressed in a blue habit that seemed at least a size too small to contain her bulk. Ruddy-faced and vital where her companion was tall and austere, she wore a broadsword strapped diagonally across her back, as well as a bandolier of knives and hatchets. She wore the hammer prominently on a golden choker that wound tightly around her neck, and her hair was hacked short without thought for aesthetics. The warrior made for the corner of my cell and leaned against the wall there, gazing at me through her heavy-lidded eyes, arms folded and muscles straining against the fabric of her coat.

‘Shevanya Arclis,’ said the dark-skinned man. His voice was soft and precise. ‘You have made quite the impression upon the arbitrator-lords of Lethis, aelf. Trespassing. Possession of contraband artefacts. Destruction of property. Disturbance of the peace. I could go on.’

‘In my defence, the house I destroyed was infested with the spectral dead,’ I said, intending to launch into a spirited defence of my recent exploits. ‘What I did was provide a–’

The man cut me off with a raised hand.

‘I am aware of your colourful history,’ he said. ‘I know exactly why you broke into the mansion of Phylebius Crade, and let us not pretend it was for any manner of altruism. You were there to rifle through the belongings of a dead man.’

‘It turned out he wasn’t actually dead, if that makes any difference,’ I muttered.

‘It does not. Here in Lethis they take crimes against the deceased rather seriously. For such offences as you have committed, one could be locked up for the rest of their life. Or face death upon the garrotte.’

‘If they’re lucky,’ interjected the stocky woman.

There was a pregnant pause. I got the sense that my guest was attempting to drive home the gravity of my situation, which after several days trapped in this hell pit was really quite unnecessary.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, desiring to cut to the chase. ‘You’re not guilders. You’re not priests of Sigmar, come to cleanse my soul. And I don’t remember crossing any cartels or assassin cults. Not recently, anyhow.’

The warrior snorted with laughter, but a flicker of irritation shone through her companion’s stern disposition.

‘I am an agent of the most holy Order of Azyr,’ he snapped, tugging down the neck of his robes to reveal an amulet marked with the image of the flaming eye – a symbol that I recognised all too well.

I groaned.

‘It is my duty to seek out the heretic and the traitor, and–’

‘Tell me, does the Order maintain a special department whose task it is purely to make my life a misery?’ I asked.

In all rational civilised folk, the mere mention of the Order of Azyr is enough to give rise to a surge of panic. I, however, had very recently had dealings with the witch hunters. Any terror I felt was overwhelmed by a great deal of exasperation.

If he was offended or insulted by my outburst, he gave no sign. He simply stared at me with those pale eyes, letting the moment of awkward silence stretch on just long enough to remind me of my place.

‘I am very well aware of your recent exploits, Miss Arclis,’ he said at last. ‘I have read with great interest the reports of Hanniver Toll. It is only his word that ensures you yet breathe. My name is Ammos Varon. This is my bodyguard and companion, Tavyat of Sayron.’

The woman honoured me with the slightest incline of her head. Her neck looked like a slab of rhinox meat. I was pretty certain that she could bite me in half as easily as an ogor.

‘The city of Lethis falls under my jurisdiction, Miss Arclis,’ the witch hunter continued. ‘And I maintain a close eye upon all potential assets who arrive within its walls.’

‘Are you people still not done with me?’ I sighed, slumping down to take a seat next to my skeletal cellmate. ‘Did I not already risk my own neck for the Order in pursuit of the Silver Shard? Was nearly getting devoured by mutant Chaos worshippers and lizard people not enough?’

‘You remain of value, Miss Arclis,’ Varon continued, folding his hands behind his back. ‘Until such time as the Order deems otherwise. You should be glad of that. I could leave you to rot for a few months in this place, but word of your exploits along the Taloncoast has reached my ears. You are very good at breaking into places that you are not supposed to be. As it happens, I have use for someone with those particular skills.’

‘I’m no thief,’ I snapped, irritated by his insinuation. It is a constant thorn in my side that people refuse to see a difference between my archaeological studies and the actions of a common pickpocket.

‘Spare me your delusions,’ said Varon, waving a dismissive hand. ‘You profess to be a noble explorer in the image of your adoptive father. We both know better. You are a thief and a grave robber. But an exceptionally gifted one, to be sure.’

It was hardly the first time I had heard this routine, and I had to bite back another retort that would do me little good. Perhaps there was some truth to the accusation, and that was why it riled me to hear it spoken aloud.

‘The Order does not forget,’ continued Varon, ‘that when you first came to our attention, you were in the company of a known sorcerer and heretic, a man responsible for untold infamy and mass murder. You are fortunate that such a respected agent as Hanniver Toll chose to extol your usefulness and not sanction your interrogation and execution.’

I sighed, already sick of this conversation.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘What do you know of the underworlds of Shyish?’ asked Varon.

I frowned. ‘What has that to do with anything?’

‘It is not a trick question, Miss Arclis. Just tell me what you know.’

‘The Realm of Death is not one underworld, but all of them,’ I said. ‘Every afterlife ever dreamed into being by mortal souls is manifested there. Stygxx itself is an underworld, though no one can recall whose belief gave rise to it. When a mortal being from any of the other realms dies, its everlasting soul is carried there.’

Varon nodded. ‘Untold continents formed from the crystallised essence of belief,’ he said. ‘Malleable and ever-changing, at once both indestructible and ephemeral. The God-King’s mortal children once found peace within this realm, a coexistence between living and dead that benefitted all. Until the Great Fall. Until the Dark Gods dug their claws into Shyish.’

‘And feasted upon as many souls as they could devour.’

‘Indeed. The old civilisations crumbled. Many underworlds were overrun by daemonkind and by the heretical hordes. Yet some endured, and within them can be found relics of a greater age.’

‘I know all this,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘These treasures of the Age of Myth, they drew me to Shyish in the first place. This realm is a graveyard of history.’

‘You do not know how true those words are,’ Varon said. ‘There are secrets buried beneath the ash and bones of Shyish that could change the path of the Great War forever, should the enemies of Azyr lay hands upon them. Sigmar, in his great wisdom, knew this, and even before the Great Fall he spirited many dangerous relics away, concealing them from the prying eyes of mortals.’

‘What has this to do with me?’

‘To the east, across the Dwindlesea, lies the Latchkey Isle. You have heard of it?’

I nodded. In my line of work, I dealt with many thieves, lock-artists and spire runners, and often I heard them invoke the name of the Thieves’ Paradise. The Latchkey Isle was said to be an idyllic afterworld, an immense, golden-spired city packed to the brim with treasures beyond imagining. Larcenous souls believed that upon death they would ascend to this paradise, there to live an eternal life of challenge and adventure, testing their wits against an ever-changing landscape of traps, dungeons and wondrous rewards.

‘The Latchkey Isle is said to be all but impossible to navigate. The very walls and the floor beneath your feet shift with every passing hour, as the city rearranges itself like a living puzzle box. It is haunted not just by the spirits of the dead, but by magical guardian beasts and trickster-spirits. So you see, aelf, it is a perfect place to conceal something that mortal beings must never find.’

The reason for the Order’s presence at my cell was beginning to become clear.

‘I see where this is going,’ I said.

‘Within the heart of this underworld, the God-King Sigmar constructed a secret vault that none could breach. This vault conceals untold destructive power,’ said Varon. ‘Powerful magic far beyond anything you could imagine. For centuries it has remained hidden, obscured by the illusions of the Latchkey Isle. But that time is over. The Tyrant of Bones has torn this realm asunder, and underworld after underworld falls into his clutches.’

Despite myself, I shuddered. One does not travel the vast distances of the Realm of Death without encountering the undead servants of Nagash, the Great Necromancer. For a time, there had been peace between Sigmar and his ancient foe, but those days were well and truly over. The horror of the necroquake had unleashed plagues of spectral wraiths and maelstroms of deathly magic across the realms. More than one free city had fallen in recent months, claimed by the dead. There were rumours abroad that Nagashizzar had thrown open its gates and now marched upon every one of Sigmar’s strongholds in the Realm of Death. If that was true, then Lethis would certainly be amongst his foremost targets.

‘What is the Order looking for?’ I asked.

Varon studied me for a long time. Then he removed the bag he carried upon his back, and carefully lifted out an ancient leather-bound tome, thick and yellowed with age. Almost immediately a distinctly unpleasant feeling came over me – a chill such as one might feel in the presence of the dead. The book was latched with silver, and its cover was oddly textured, almost organic in appearance. To my disgust I realised that it was bound in the flesh of human hands, clasped together with their interlocking fingers forming a latch across the mouth of the book.

‘Master,’ said Tavyat, uneasily, but the witch hunter held up a hand and she fell silent.

‘This,’ he said, indicating the book, ‘is the last of the tomes of Valagharr.’

The air in the room seemed to chill even at the mention of that name.

‘You know of him?’ said Varon.

‘The Betrayer,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

‘First amongst the Amethyst Archmages, and the most trusted authority on the nature of Shyishan magic.’ Varon nodded. ‘A spell-smith without peer, and a wise counsellor who fought at the God-King’s side in untold battles. Until he turned his cloak and took up the cause of Nagash. He came to worship death, and betrayed many of Azyr’s secrets to his new master. Many of the heavens’ mightiest warriors sought to repay that slight, but Valagharr was a powerful being.’

‘I thought that he was slain long ago? That’s how the legends tell it. The Eldritch Council laid siege to his lands, and he was slain at the hands of Grandmaster Huras himself.’

‘His physical form was broken by the first of the Grandmasters,’ said Varon. ‘But Valagharr had outgrown the bonds of mortality. He was no longer a man, no longer anything living. Huras and his comrades instead sought to capture whatever passed for Valagharr’s soul. They did so, though the cost was terribly high. The traitor’s soul was trapped within a phylactery of Azyrite starstone, a cage that even a being of Valagharr’s power could not escape.’

Suddenly, everything clicked into place in my mind. ‘And they stored it away within the Latchkey Isle. Why didn’t they finish him when they had the chance?’

‘A soul is not easily unmade. And I believe the council wished to know exactly how many of their secrets Valagharr had betrayed to Nagash. I am no closer to understanding their reasons than you are, and it makes no difference in any case.’

‘Why is the Order only acting now?’ I said. ‘Surely you have known about this phylactery for some time?’

‘War has come to Shyish once more,’ said Varon. ‘And this time, it is not the servants of the Dark Gods that we face, but the infinite legions of the dead. The influence of Nagashizzar grows, corrupting all that it touches, and agents of the Great Necromancer are abroad, burrowing into every underworld like maggots writhing in a corpse. They know of the secret buried at the heart of the Latchkey Isle, and they will stop at nothing to claim it.’

‘You wish to claim it first. Then why not send an army?’

Varon shook his head. ‘There are no soldiers to spare. The Great War gathers pace once again, and there are a thousand fires spreading across the realms. The Angels of Azyr are fully committed. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer can spare no warriors, for the Raven City is threatened, and the Dark God’s servants do not cease their own atrocities. We are stretched so very thin, Miss Arclis.’

I had an inkling of how precarious the situation in Shyish was, but it was another thing entirely to hear it straight from the mouth of an agent of Azyr.

‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘this is no fortress to be breached by weight of arms. The finest greatswords in the city could not aid me in breaking into the Isle. It is not warriors that I need, but tricksters. Thieves. People with more… unconventional talents. This leads me to you.’

‘And do I have a say in the matter?’

The stocky woman snorted with amusement.

‘Of course not,’ said the witch hunter, standing and gesturing at the wardens, who swiftly moved to reopen the door of my cell. ‘But consider this a reprieve for your current predicament. You will spend the night here, and on the morrow we will make for Sorrowpoint on the coast.’

With that he departed, sweeping imperiously out of the door.

‘Cheer up,’ said his companion, with a smirk. ‘At least this is your last day in the pit.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019.
This eBook edition published in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Alexander Mokhov.

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