Gilead's Blood

by Dan Abnett

  As Gilead grappled and pawed at Fithvael’s cloak, attempting a stranglehold, his companion curled on his side, bringing his knees up to his chest. He pressed his feet lightly against Gilead’s sternum, sensing the thrumming, birdlike heartbeat there, and having found his target, he thrust his legs out to their full extent, grunting a deep exhalation as he heaved.

  Gilead’s body curled as all the breath was taken from him. Winded, he gasped for air, his eyes bulging, his jaw finally slackening. Fithvael waited as several empty seconds hung in the air. Then it was over. Gilead rolled onto his side, his arms folding tight around his knees, and Fithvael heard the first sob, saw the hitch in the hunched shoulders as the elf warrior’s body was wracked with the agony of realisation.

  Gilead was awake. For the first time in days, perhaps weeks, Gilead was back.

  ‘Now my work really begins,’ Fithvael muttered to the whitening light.

  GILEAD SHOOK AND rocked as his friend looked on, preparing further infusions and gently warming the poultices he had made the day before. Finally, Gilead was still, and, for the first time since Niobe had been lost, Gilead actually slept rather than lost consciousness. He slept on as Fithvael ensured his comfort, placing a warm poultice on the back of his neck and a cooling balm on his forehead and wrists.

  As Gilead slumbered, Fithvael prepared a simple meal - a salad of curative herbs, several patties of unleavened bread, and for himself a pair of small but fat perch lifted in quick hands from a dark stream nearby. When the repast was made and laid out in the small clean dishes that Fithvael carried in his pack, the elf revived Gilead once more, knowing that this time his old master would awaken bewildered but meek and receptive.

  FOR ALMOST A week the pair remained in the clearing. They ate and talked and rested, as their steeds relaxed and recovered too. Gilead’s horse healed quickly, much faster than his master. On the third day, Fithvael related the incident in the clearing, for Gilead had never lived that day to remember it.

  ‘You did your duty to me and to the horse,’ Gilead said sadly. ‘I could ask no more of you.’

  Gilead’s first, faltering words. An apology, perhaps a form of thanks, it mattered little to Fithvael, who had come to expect nothing at all.

  ‘I threw you from your horse for what you did to the beast. And I would do it again,’ he answered gruffly.

  On the fourth day Gilead was able to walk unaided around the clearing. Reaching full circle he ran a second lap and then a third, exhilarated.

  ‘Sit, Gilead,’ Fithvael commanded and the younger elf folded himself back onto the warm ground without question.

  ‘This search. This quest for Niobe, for the old kin, for your salvation - call it what you will. This search: it must end.’

  Gilead stared at the veteran elf.

  ‘Or… if we continue, then you must listen to reason. You must begin again, and be led by me.’

  SO FITHVAEL VOICED his plan, firmly, without any intention of giving way to the now subdued Gilead. They would continue, but they would find a real trail. They would skirt the human villages and towns, and listen in the darkest corners of alehouses and taverns to the stories of the local people. They would take their lead from the myths and legends that were told or sung in these alien places. And if they found nothing, their quest must end.

  Gilead, now both stronger of mind and sounder of limb, did as he was bidden. The two of them spent the next few days eating, sleeping and exercising by turns. Fithvael talked long into the night of reason and Tightness and of the possibility of a futile quest. He did what was in his power to prepare Gilead, knowing that this might be his last chance to save his master from the madness of his tortured mind, perhaps even from death by some senseless suicidal yearning to set things right, to turn back the wheels of time, to restore the noble elves to this land.

  *

  ON THE EIGHTH day, Fithvael and Gilead cleared the traces of their camp, saddled their steeds and left the clearing. They were searching now for signs of human habitation and they found them easily, within an hour of their departure.

  They exercised great caution at first, entering the outskirts of tiny villages only after nightfall. They sat in the darkest recesses of tiny backrooms where one tapped barrel of ale served all for a week or more and where the food was meagre or non-existent. They covered or bowed their heads and listened to the humans, attuning their ear to the hard, clipped accents of the south, learning as much from tone and cadence as from the words themselves. They listened without talking, drinking a single glass of ale each and leaving, remarked on only as strangers. None had seen an elf in these parts for a hundred years, and none expected to see an elf, so no elf was seen.

  Little by little, as the companions moved from village to village and on to larger towns, they began to pick up a trail. The humans loved to hear stories, often pleased with the same legend repeated over and over. Fithvael and Gilead began to see the patterns in the weaving of the human tales. They moved onward as their ears became attuned to the human sounds and their minds became adept at translating the harsh, quick language. Tales of elf towers and great warriors and noble elves, who had helped avert human tragedies, wove together to create an ever-richer landscape of elf habitation of this land. And Gilead had been right: the further south they travelled, the clearer and more regularly came the stories.

  BARELY A FORTNIGHT later, Gilead and Fithvael entered what might have been their twentieth tavern. A little larger than the last, they had become increasingly confident of their invisibility to these dull human folk. Fithvael strode to the barrel and plank structure that served as the bar, as Gilead, behind him, turned about looking for a safe, dark corner in which to be seated.

  As he turned, he almost struck his head on a broad, dark beam that traversed the ceiling of the low, ochre-washed room, and he instinctively took a half-pace back, stepping right into the path of a serving girl. He lowered his head by instinct as she turned to him to apologise, fearing she had been the clumsy one. Only inches from her, Gilead’s eyes fell deep into the swollen cleavage, spilling from the girl’s too tight bodice. He thought to look away from her vulgar bulk, the very antithesis of elven beauty, but he could not.

  Two or three inches of the cleft between bold human breasts fell sharply into focus as Gilead watch a bead of sweat ripen and run down the sweep of creamy flesh, before becoming entangled in the perfect twist links of a beautifully wrought heavy gold chain. The thin line of sweat caught up with itself and formed a bead again, plump and glistening on the link of the chain before falling to the next, clinging and growing and tumbling again.

  Time froze in that instant as Gilead’s gaze followed the fall of sweat down the chain until it reached the half-buried disc that nestled between the swell of the girl’s body and the tight ribbons that traversed the gap where her bodice would no longer meet.

  ‘Ex… excuse me, sir,’ she said, trying to turn in the narrow space between stools and tables.

  The spell was broken and suddenly Fithvael was at Gilead’s side.

  ‘A table, wench?’ Fithvael asked, flattening and lowering the timbre of his voice, and using as few of the strange human words as he could.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ she said. Resting her hand on Gilead’s flinching arm, she added, ‘My apologies, I should had been looking where I was going.’ Gilead mumbled something incoherent to her in a singsong tone that made her frown. She removed her hand, looked at him once more as he turned, and then went about her business gesturing at a nearby table as she went.

  ‘Did you see that?’ asked Gilead, speaking before he was even seated. ‘Did you see?’

  ‘Only that you broke her path and spoke to her. A human. We must be circumspect. We must go unremarked in these places.’

  ‘Fortune favours us now, Fithvael! Did you not see it?’

  Fithvael was agitated by the encounter, hoping it had not lasted too long, and that Gilead had not exposed them to recognition. He was eager, now, to leave the tavern at the f
irst opportunity. This was his plan. A plan adopted under duress. A plan that must be followed to the letter, and that meant as little contact with these humans as possible. He looked around him as he sipped at the bitter tasting ale, but very few minutes of surveillance reassured the old warrior that no harm had been done. Cautiously, he turned back to Gilead.

  ‘What was it you saw, old friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Around the serving girl’s neck. It was the chain at first that drew me, such craftsmanship. But I saw it, I know I saw it.’

  ‘You make no sense. Tell me slowly what it was you saw.’

  Gilead took a deep breath and looked solemnly into Fithvael’s face, leaning forward across the narrow bench-table, as though telling a secret, or intimating the ghostlier parts of some torrid tale, as the travelling storytellers did.

  ‘I did break the path of the serving girl. And when she turned to me she was standing very close. I cast down my eyes, lest she recognise my race, or question me in any way. And that was when I saw it. I have not seen such a thing these many years. Many times I have thought never to see such a thing again.’

  Gilead was in earnest, Fithvael could see it, and there appeared to be no madness in his eyes, only purpose.

  ‘The chain was such as my mother or sister would wear, fine twisted gold links in ranks with gold thread and beads woven between them, intricate as a puzzle. Only one of our own kind would wear so beautiful a jewel. No human would make such a thing, could make such a thing.’

  ‘Such jewels were common among us, but all held a purpose or a promise,’ Fithvael said. ‘This chain could be a copy of some old design. It has no significance without its seal or talisman.’

  ‘And there it is!’ cried Gilead, bringing his fist down, remembering, only at the very last, not to punch the table in his rapture.

  Fithvael looked around sharply for the girl, but he could not see her in the now smoky tavern, that throbbed with local life.

  ‘She has a talisman?’

  ‘She wears it against her stinking bosom, tarnishing its significance, as though it were nothing… but that matters not,’ Gilead went on, calming himself. ‘She surely knows something of us, of our kind. She can help us in our quest.’

  Not wanting attention to fall upon himself and his eager friend, Fithvael led Gilead out of the tavern. In the alleyway alongside the rough old building, they talked softly of what they might do to learn where the maid’s talisman had originated, but there was no time to decide. Only moments passed before a slight figure, head bowed and covered in a light shawl, entered the alleyway, almost knocking into the elf warriors, then jumping back in alarm. The shawl dropped to plump shoulders and Fithvael caught a glimpse of the chain that circled the girl’s short, white neck.

  ‘Sigmar!’ she exclaimed. ‘You quite frightened me.’

  ‘We will not hurt you,’ Fithvael said, forgetting to lower his voice, and once again the serving girl frowned and looked harder at the figures before her.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, taking a pace backwards, pulling the shawl tighter about her neck and hiding again the talisman that lay there.

  ‘We are not what we seem,’ Gilead said, stepping forward and making no attempt to hide the cadence of his voice or his alien accent as it rolled over the unfamiliar human words. ‘We quest for our own people and we desire your help in our purpose.’

  The startled girl tried to back out of the alley, but Gilead was too quick for her, holding her gently but firmly by the arms. The shawl fell away again. Fithvael picked it up from the dusty floor of the alley and wrapped it around her trembling shoulders, taking the chain lightly in his slender hand once it was settled there.

  ‘Where did you find this, child?’ Fithvael asked, caressing the delicate chain in his hands.

  The girl twisted her fingers into her cleavage and lifted out the thick flat disc that had lain beneath her bodice, brandishing it before her until her knuckles turned blue-white.

  ‘I didn’t find it. It protects me from the likes of you. It’ll ward off any evils!’

  ‘I know, child,’ said Fithvael, losing his hold on the chain and stepping back a little. ‘Once, a long time ago, it belonged to one of my kind. It was made for and worn by my kin. A powerful talisman and a great protector, as you say…’

  ‘Yet if you didn’t find it, where did it come from?’ Gilead stared into the girl’s eyes and put a little more pressure into the grip his narrow hands held her in.

  ‘Ouch! You’re hurting me,’ she cried and tried to turn in what felt to her like a vice.

  ‘Let her go free, Gilead,’ Fithvael said in the only language he knew that would ensure his friend did his bidding. Gilead dropped his hands to his side. The girl stood, staring at them both, before looking down at the disc she still held in her hand.

  White-faced and trembling, the servant girl hesitated only for a moment before lifting the back of her hair with her short, plump hands, then unclasped the chain and amulet from its place around her neck.

  ‘Th-this m-must belong t-to you,’ she stammered, head held low. She held the talisman out, at arm’s length, for Fithvael to accept from her shaking fingers.

  Fithvael looked long and hard at the disc on the end of its beautiful chain, turning it in his hands and committing its multiple inscriptions, in the ancient script, to memory. Then he placed the talisman back in the girl’s hand again and closed her fist gently around it, his long narrow hand with its elegant fingers engulfing hers in one simple movement.

  ‘No. It belongs to you now,’ he said, thrusting one hand back at Gilead for him to keep his silence. ‘Tell us only where it came from and what you know of it.’

  ‘And never speak of us,’ added Gilead.

  ‘None would believe me,’ answered the servant girl, looking into Fithvael’s eyes. It seemed she had made her decision. ‘Follow me, lords. I know a quiet place where I can tell you all I know.’

  IT WAS LATE into the night when Gilead and Fithvael returned to their horses and their camp. The grey-black embers of their banked fire reddened as Fithvael stirred life back into it and by its pale light wrote down the inscriptions he had seen on the talisman.

  It was the first solid piece of evidence that could lead them on the right track. With the inscriptions and the story the servant girl had gladly told them, albeit embroidered a little and crudely embellished here and there in the human way of telling and retelling, the elves knew all they needed to know to continue their quest with renewed vigour and determination.

  IN THAT PART of the Empire, all roads led to Nuln. From your nod, I see Nuln is known to you.

  Keeping to the woodland paths to the north of the trade route from Averheim to that old city, Fithvael and Gilead made good time and were unseen by the human traffic that swelled as it approached Nuln. As the city came into view on the horizon, the companions turned to the west, following the course of the River Reik until they discovered what they were seeking.

  From the first, the elves were surrounded by reminders of home. There was no need to forage for the smallest sign, no desperate search for a single stone or plant that might signify an elven presence. The landscape was waist-deep in elf design and culture. The plants were right, the ebb and flow of the land was right, and when they came upon the buildings of Ottryke Manor it was clear to them that every foundation stone had been hewn by elves and placed by elves. Fithvael dismounted and led his horse away to a safe distance amongst the trees. All Gilead could do was stare.

  Watching Gilead from cover, Fithvael clicked his tongue twice. Gilead’s horse lifted its nose, whinnied gently and turned to look at the veteran elf warrior. Moments later Gilead turned his head and responded to the gesture that Fithvael made to beckon him back into cover.

  ‘We have arrived,’ Gilead said, dismounting, ‘Do you not see? Elves have been here before us. This was once a great elf dwelling.’

  ‘It surely was,’ Fithvael replied, and there was an eager look in his eyes. ‘The human maid
spoke true.’

  I inherited the talisman. It was a gift to my grandmother, you see. My family worked on the estate of Ottryke, cousin to the Elector of Nuln. My grandmother was a very beautiful woman and a favourite of his Lordship. He gave her the talisman as a forget-me-not, she said, when she married and left his service. In return she sent my mother to work for him in his great house. And she works there still.

  ‘We MUST FIND the servant girl’s dame,’ said Gilead, eyes glistening with anticipation.

  ‘Less haste, lord. Let us first reconnoitre the area. It may be that these humans have no sympathy for our kind after so long a time.’

  Gilead demurred, the guilt and shame of his mental lapse still fresh in his mind.

  They spent two uneventful nights scouting every inch of the estate, but everything they saw only served to convince them of what they already believed to be true. The humans had built their own great manor on what had once been a large elven estate. The house was oriented in the traditional fashion and even the livestock pens and crop fields followed the classic elven pattern, not to mention some of the architecture - the foundations of most of the larger buildings, external walls, and even some ancient fencing were all elven in design and construction. The signs, hidden in plain view beneath and behind cruder, more recent human constructions, were there to be discovered by any eyes that could see them for what they were.

  The manor was built on an elven ruin generations ago. All the family jewels were said to be elf-made, discovered in the grounds years before. My grandmother always wore this talisman for protection against evil. I did not know if the stories were true.

  ‘HOW ARE OUR visitors?’ the lord asked the man who stood before him, his cloth hat being steadily wrung out in his hands.

  ‘The fire has been warm two days now, sire. I haven’t seen them yet. They’re not there after dark or before dawn, and I dare not seek them in the daylight.’