Gilead's Blood

by Dan Abnett

  ‘Is this wise, Gilead?’ he asked. But he got no reply. ‘The men are wasted by a lord who does not lead them, confused as to their duty. Where will this end?’

  ‘All the humans are worthless and treacherous,’ was all Gilead’s reply.

  ‘Lyonen was a worthy lad and the sergeant seems a thoughtful sort, for a human. I believe he is resolved to follow your direction.’

  ‘It matters not,’ Gilead said. ‘The end will be the same.’ And he turned away from his old friend, deep in his own thoughts, a dark look on his face.

  THE LIGHT DID not change in the cavern, although outside the dawn was fast breaking. Gilead and Fithvael were preparing to continue their underground journey, and after watching them for a few moments, the sergeant began to round up his men. They had slept little and eaten less; only the encouragement of their superior brought them to their feet. The lord still slept, slumped in an undignified posture, his drool making clean tracks across his filthy cheek.

  Despite some respectful shaking, the sergeant could not rouse him and turned to Gilead for instruction. Gilead sighed and unsheathed his sword, sending it ringing against the rock-face beside the man’s head. Spluttering and crying out, Lord Ottryke came round with a start, but said nothing when he saw it was Gilead who had awoken him.

  FITHVAEL LED THE party down through one of the recesses in the cavern wall and into a narrow, lightless corridor, Gilead again taking his place to the rear, just behind his lordship. The passage was steep and tall, but only wide enough to accommodate the narrow shoulders of an elf. Soon realising that Groulle was struggling, Fithvael advised he remove first his weapons and drag them behind him, and then, only yards later, his heavy outer clothing. Despite the tight squeeze, Groulle complied without question. But when it came to his lord’s turn, Ottryke complained vociferously to Gilead, who could still walk easily in the space.

  ‘Find us another route!’ Ottryke demanded. ‘This was not the only tunnel.’

  ‘Then take another,’ came Gilead’s reply. ‘But be warned: the elven inscriptions weave intricate spells, and only by studying them for hours was Fithvael able to lead us safely.’ Gilead spoke calmly, but when Lord Ottryke became red in the face and began blustering in protest, the elf drew his sword in the narrow tunnel, blocking the lord’s retreat. In this space, at this range, the human lord was completely unable to defend himself, or call on his guard to defend him. He had no choice. Struggling to turn his back on the elf and continue up the narrow passageway, Lord Ottryke cursed the filthy inhuman beast under his breath. He had never before been humiliated by a man, let alone by an elf such as Gilead.

  As the tunnel continued deeper into the mountain, its narrow walls became smoother and were covered in crisp carvings that looked just as they had on the day they were carved. Progress was very slow; all the humans were reduced to travelling sideways, their backs and elbows against one wall.

  Groulle continued without complaint, even though his knees and elbows were scraped with every step, leaving trails of fresh blood, which were wiped away by the shirts of the men behind him. The pain was nothing, but he hated to be in contact with those awful elven runes, the same runes that had almost spelt his doom.

  Fithvael, a step or two in front of him, ran his hands casually across the carvings as they passed, marvelling at their beauty and smiling at the welcome they spelled out.

  In the rearguard of the company, Gilead’s hopes began to rise - but with them, his impatience with the party’s patron. Ottryke seemed to stop and inspect every last graze and scratch that came his way, huffing his breath and sucking his teeth, lest he say anything that might cause Gilead to turn on him again. He refused to remove even his outer clothing and kept hold of his weapon, for all the good it would do him, long after his guards had shed theirs. It was plain from his face that only his greed was keeping him going.

  Ottryke forgot every complaint in the blink of an eye when the tunnel came to an abrupt end. Below him, as he gazed down from the top of a deeply terraced slope, he could see it all - his new-found wealth was spread below him in a gleaming, glistening mountain of beautiful, elven objects. His men were spread along the top terrace, in various stages of tattered undress, looking down in awe and wonder at the sight they beheld. Groulle’s face was pale and grey in the strange internal twilight of the cavern, his eyes bulging, unblinking. Freuden stared wearily, his face a picture of disbelief. Their sergeant stood next to Fithvael, grinning.

  ‘May you find your own riches here too,’ he said quietly to the elf.

  Then Gilead, the last, stepped out onto the terrace. He watched in disgust as Lord Ottryke stumbled, incoherently down the terraces, taking huge, rambling strides, stripping off his heavy leather jerkin and helm as he went, cackling and screeching. To Gilead the nobleman looked like nothing better than a drunken street brawler floundering after some voluptuous but disinterested whore.

  ‘The documents are mine. The history is mine.’ Gilead reminded him in a firm tone. ‘Take the gold - but leave me my people.’

  Lord Ottryke turned in bewilderment. ‘What care I for you or your precious dead?’ he said rhetorically, and turning back to his prize, threw himself down the last of the terraces until he was waist deep in cold, heavy gold.

  Fithvael and Gilead carefully picked their way through the ancient treasures. The air was dry and sweet smelling, and everything looked perfect. It took some time, but the two elves, searching methodically, finally found a series of leather cases, boxes and cylinders, standing together in a three-sided, stone repository, kept separate from the rest of the artefacts.

  All around them they could hear the commands of Lord Ottryke and the bustle of his men as they hurried to obey his frantic commands. They all wandered around, trying to assess the bulk and weight of the relics in order to work out a way of removing them to the lord’s manor.

  Ottryke himself had given up counting his wealth and had already begun to spend it in his mind, perhaps to oust his cousin, the Elector of Altdorf, from his seat. Wealth and power, power and wealth; inextricably tied in Ottryke’s mind they meant only one thing - greed.

  GILEAD LOOKED LONGINGLY at the real treasures he had found. He sat on the polished stone floor for what seemed like an age, examining the heavily embossed leather, strewn with golden runes that seemed to flicker and change shape before his eyes. He looked at the great, scrolling gold clasps and hinges. He breathed in the beauty of the craftsmanship and the perfection of the proportions of each piece.

  Fithvael stood behind him, not quite knowing what to say, but hoping, perhaps for the first time, that their long quest might finally bear fruit. He crushed the hope before it grew too great for his mind to contain, and closed a mental door on it, for now at least. Between them, he knew that he and Gilead could carry the entire burden of the history held in these sacred books and scrolls. His only other concern was how to safely leave the tomb. They could not return the way they had come. The elves who had built and booby-trapped this place had been far too clever for that. He began to look about him for answers and quickly found them high above them in the soaring, vaulted ceilings. He and Gilead could surely escape, but what of the humans? Would they have the skills or the stamina required?

  As Fithvael pondered this dilemma, his eyes were drawn down again by a low, fearful gasp. As he looked down at his friend, he saw Gilead snatch back his hand as if burnt in a furnace, then a tiny cloud of dust settled in a yellowish smudge on the perfectly white floor.

  ‘Too late!’ Gilead whispered in terror. ‘We come too late!’ With these words he rose on his knees, threw his head back and let out a vicious scream of pain and despair.

  ‘What… what is it?’ Fithvael asked, after the cry had subsided. ‘What is it, old friend?’ he asked, his hand hovering inches above Gilead’s shoulder, which, as much as he longed to, he could not bring himself to touch.

  When he got no answer, Fithvael leaned over Gilead’s slumped body to rest his hand on a beautifully tooled l
eather scroll within his reach. His fingertips had barely rested upon it before it was gone, crumbling into the air. Gilead’s second anguished howl did all the rest. All around them, whether because of some charm triggered by their presence or even the new air they had let in to this ancient place, everything was crumbling to nought. Whatever precious knowledge might have been preserved here was now lost.

  When the echoes of the horrible sound died, they were followed by another bellow. A deep-seated belly laugh, almost as raucous as the cry had been terrifying, filled the chamber. Lord Ottryke pointed one stubby finger at Gilead, rolled back his head and roared with laughter.

  ‘Your race is dead!’ he said maliciously, his mouth wide with laughter. ‘I have it all! And you - you have nothing!’

  ‘NOTHING!’ he screamed, the laughter over. All that remained in the noble’s face was triumph and hatred.

  Lord Ottryke raised his arms and turned full circle, inviting his guard to hail him the victor. Slowly they too began to laugh and point. Groulle looked ashamed and embarrassed for a moment, but caught the infection soon enough and he too laughed along with the others. Freuden took one sympathetic look at Fithvael’s blank, bleak expression and he too began to snigger, almost in spite of himself. At the back of the group, the sergeant sat down heavily. His drooping head shook slightly and he covered his face in his hands. But the gesture alone was not enough to save him when weighed against the scorn and derision of his company.

  THE JOURNEY INTO the mountain had taken days. The journey out, undertaken by two lone elves, took merely hours.

  They walked away from the mountain, ignoring the faint, distant cries that turned to screams behind them, and retraced their steps to their waiting steeds. Gilead had brought nothing out of the mountain with him. Tucked inside Fithvael’s outer garment was a scrap of bloody cloth embroidered with an elven rune, the last remains of a new tabard, once worn by the youngest member of Lord Ottryke’s household guard. If Lyonen had survived perhaps Fithvael could have found some way to save all the humans.

  When they reached their steeds, Fithvael pulled the scrap of cloth from its place against his heart and stowed it in his saddlebag. Gilead watched for a moment and then caught Fithvael’s gaze.

  ‘I have broken no bond,’ he said.

  ‘Let me grieve for the boy, at least,’ answered Fithvael.

  ‘You must grieve as your heart instructs you,’ said Gilead. ‘I made a contract with the scum lord to lead him into the tomb, a one way journey. He neither requested, nor paid, for a return trip.’

  And with that Gilead mounted his horse and started to ride back down the mountain, away from his people’s crumbling past and away from Ottryke Manor.

  5

  GILEAD’S TEST

  Promise me only this: look into my eyes and see what I see.

  ENOUGH NOW. YOU’VE had your share of tales from me this night. I’m tired, and the cold gets to my old bones. Sit up, if you will. Drink my wine, enjoy the heat of my fire. My bedroll calls for me and my throat is hoarse from too many stories.

  Well, of course there are more. More of Gilead, of loyal Fithvael. More sad and bloody stories of their twilight world.

  So they are just myths, are they? Think what you will. I know better. Myths are ten a penny and the land is full of them. The stories in my head are made of better stuff. Truth, for a start…

  You doubt me? Well then, hear this one before I retire.

  Time had gone by since their dealings at Ottryke Manor. Perhaps a year, maybe two, maybe less. And there was a battle. Bloody, devastating, furious. The hills and woods rang with the sound. Such deeds were done, but what matters for my story happened afterwards.

  The battle was at an end. There was nothing more to be known except the dirge of the wind, sighing through the blackened elms that marked that deep tract of the Drakwald.

  Fithvael began to rouse. It was cold and lightless as he lay on the dank earth of the battlefield. Yet it was neither the chill nor damp that had woken him. His unconsciousness had been broken by the singular strangeness of a warm, pulsing body lying against his. It was a sensation he did not particularly relish.

  Fithvael drew his body carefully away from the warmth. He could sense his own fragility, though he could locate no definite pain. He could feel with every fibre of his warrior instinct the devastation that surrounded him.

  But he had no memory of where or how or why.

  He cleared his nose of ash and blood and the first invasion of scents brought back stark reminders of the ten-year quest he had undertaken with Gilead, and their continued fight against the darknesses of the world. It was the stench of unnatural flesh. Dead, unnatural flesh. It was the putrefying, astringent odour of Chaos, a stench that could be mistaken for nothing else.

  Slowly, the veteran warrior elf allowed his other senses to return. Now he could feel the pitted earth beneath his body and the places where puddles of gore and stale water had formed, soaking into his outer garments and making his joints feel rigid and useless. He wanted nothing more than to move, to release his stiff, locked body and relax the muscles that were tightening with revulsion against his surroundings.

  But first he would listen, tune his hearing to this place and discover if his life was at any immediate risk.

  The silence was nearly entire save for the pulse and breath of the body that remained utterly still beside him. There was a reassuring taste in his mouth. The sweet-sour taste of sleep and his last long-forgotten meal. The feared metallic tang of his own blood and bile was entirely, blissfully absent. At least he had suffered no grievous injury.

  Regaining his confidence, Fithvael gradually opened his eyes. He had hoped against reason that the body beside his own would be Gilead’s, broken perhaps, but alive and stable, needful of the elf’s ministrations. It was not to be, and the veteran warrior smothered his disappointment.

  Fithvael and Gilead could never be as close as the twin siblings, Gilead and Galeth, had been. But the swordmaster had devoted his life to Gilead and to the quest when Galeth had died, and their relationship had become intensely close. On the battlefield, they fought as one and could communicate any amount of information with a glance or the nod of a head. They had one goal, represented one force. Their relationship had long since ceased to be that of master and servant, man and boy, or even companions. They were as much at one as two such singular, disparate individuals could ever be.

  Fithvael’s elven eyes adjusted instantaneously to the last of the night’s darkness. He smiled to himself and moved freely for the first time in hours. His mare turned her head to him, whinnied and then stood up from her resting-place beside her master. Her vigil was over.

  AS HE FELT the hilt of his sword come into contact with his assailant’s sternum, Gilead turned and swiftly scanned the area again. Time was short on any battlefield, even for a warrior of his consummate skill and shadowfast abilities. Yes, Fithvael was still with him, a hundred paces to his right, fighting strong.

  The foe were all around them. Tall, darkly noble, yet twisted and corrupt. Elves, kin and yet not kin. Blasphemous parodies of their race, death pale, dressed in reeking black armour, eyes rotting in skulls, breaths foul from black-lipped mouths. Their rusting armour was decorated in flaking gilt, fading silks, worm-eaten brocades.

  The last son of Tor Anrok and his swordmaster had penetrated the darkest depths of the southern Drakwald in search of the Tower of Talthos Elios, the birthplace of lost Niobe. They had uncovered recently coined tales that said Talthos Elios stood watch over a foul barrow, an ancient crypt that legend said descended into hell itself. Wars had been fought there, skirmishes of light against dark, until the line of Elios had sundered the spawn of darkness and driven it underground. From that day, their tower had stood, guarding the breach against further incursions.

  So the myths said, and the land is full of them. But it was a start, the faint hope of a clue, and Gilead had seized at it eagerly.

  Rumours came to them thick and
fast as they trekked into the great forest. Rumours of darkness reawakened, of a custodianship long fallen away. And then, all at once, the enemy had been on them. Not beastmen, not bulky warrior clans of Chaos.

  Elves. Ruined elves. Broken, twisted, decayed echoes of noble warriors.

  Gilead wrenched his blade from a weeping chest. He swung the sword again, in a singing arc, drawing the weight of his body around with it and sinking it so deep into the neck of the assailant behind him that it just stood, expressionless and quite literally dead on its feet.

  The stench of the bubbling, tarry fluids that gouted from the fatal, gaping wound would have been more than enough to fell a weaker constitution. It gave Gilead the merest moment to breathe and regroup. The body shielded Gilead from the onslaught of another, which had to tear its own comrade down to lunge at Gilead head on. Its jagged rows of black teeth were bared, and its lean arms, each ending in a mass of bloodied spikes, flailed wildly at the warrior elf.

  Gilead took advantage of the fact that he was holding his longsword low, two-handed, in front of him. He simply raised the blade as this latest horror surged forward. It was an easy kill. The tip of the long sword entered the enemy’s gut low, the hilt crashing home against a grotesquely misshapen codpiece. Gilead began to pull the blade free, but his adversary grabbed at it with its spike-armoured fists. The warrior sliced upwards, cutting both bestial hands in half, and his sword finally came to rest against the neck seal of the dying enemy’s body armour.

  Gilead’s eyes swept in another arcing scan, once, twice… Fithvael was gone. But the fighting was not over yet.

  Gilead had quested for ten long years to avenge his brother’s death. The ghost of Galeth had remained with him throughout, but the living twin seemed neither of this world nor the next. Ten years of his life had been spent fighting the forces of evil to bring down one pathetic man. He questioned, often, the value of his task. There was no satisfaction.

  Yet his struggle had continued and chiefly because of Fithvael. At first, Gilead had been compromised into fighting on the side of right. Now it had become his life, he would use whatever force was at his disposal to war against the darkness until the day of his death came and released him from this violent existence.