‘What is it?’ asked Gilead. ‘Why would it change the skaven king?’
‘Change him?’ asked Fithvael. ‘How did it change him?’
‘He was old and slow, and confused.’
Fithvael held the amulet up to the light between his thumb and forefinger. It did nothing. He tossed it back to Gilead.
‘He might be able to shed some light on this,’ said Fithvael, gesturing towards the cloak that still covered the hole in the ground.
‘You would rely on a Vampire Count for information?’ asked Laban. ‘That way foolishness lies, surely, cousin?’
‘I have followed a path through the plagued lands for more than a decade,’ said Gilead. ‘They brought me to the creature. I thought he must be an instrument of misery in the lives of the humans. I thought he must be a catalyst for all that has befallen the lands and the crops and creatures. And yet, he fought at my side against the skaven and now he seeks me out to do battle to the death.’
‘What of the stone?’ asked Fithvael.
Gilead held it to the light as Fithvael had done and then dropped it back into his boot.
‘There is power in it… The power to show me great artifacts, fine wonders of the world, wondrous objects of great significance. It showed me how they had been collected. It showed me that it was the greatest of them,’ said Gilead. ‘If you had only seen what I have seen.’
‘Yet I have not,’ said Fithvael.
‘Nor I,’ said Laban.
The older elves looked at the younger, and he returned to his chore.
‘By Sigmar’s beard, it was always the skaven,’ said Gilead. ‘They stole the amulet. The Rat King stole the power of eternal life.’
‘If you deduce correctly,’ said Fithvael. ‘We know the “what” and the “why”, but not the “from whom”. Where did the amulet originate? What is its purpose? Are there others?’
‘Its purpose is evil,’ said Gilead. ‘I have followed the plague, and the amulet is all I found.’
‘The amulet and the Vampire Count,’ said Fithvael.
‘He found me,’ said Gilead.
‘Did he?’ asked Fithvael. ‘Are you sure of that? Was he looking for the same thing you were looking for, or was he hunting the skaven for some other end.’
‘He is already immortal,’ said Gilead. ‘He sought me out, that he might meet his nemesis, and finally rest.’
‘That’s what he found,’ said Fithvael. ‘But, are you sure that’s what he was looking for. Are you sure he followed you until he found you, or did he find you while pursuing some other end?’
‘I know not, old friend,’ said Gilead.
‘Then, may I suggest,’ said Fithvael, ‘that you find out?’
The conversation ended, and the elves returned to their tasks.
‘How will you kill him?’ asked Laban, finally.
‘You assume that I will kill him, and not be killed by him,’ said Gilead. ‘Your confidence is misplaced.’
‘You have fought a thousand enemies before,’ said Laban. ‘You fought a thousand in one day, killing the skaven. How would you doubt your combat skills?’
‘I have fought the knight before, and could not get the better of him.’
‘You walked away from that battle,’ said Laban.
‘And so did he,’ said Gilead. ‘The way to win in combat is to respect your opponent… every opponent. Treat every battle as if it is your last. Fight every inch in every arena. Tire not. Surrender no quarter. Expect neither defeat nor victory.’
‘Show neither fear nor contempt,’ said Fithvael.
The two men were reciting a form of mantra, a prayer.
‘As my master taught me,’ said Gilead.
‘Who was your master?’ asked Laban.
‘You are looking at him,’ said Gilead, and he turned his head to look at his teacher, and, in so doing, directed the young elf’s eyes to his mentor.
‘The old servant?’ asked Laban.
Gilead glared at the youth, who blushed.
‘Begging your forgiveness, sir,’ said Laban.
‘You’ll do more than that,’ said Gilead, tossing Laban his shorter blade.
Laban caught it from the air, and looked puzzled at Gilead.
Gilead smiled at Fithvael.
‘Show the boy,’ he said.
‘It’s neither the time nor the place,’ said Fithvael, chuckling.
‘But I need to rest,’ said Gilead, ‘and what is more relaxing than watching a great show of combat skills? Indulge me.’
‘Hand me the knife, boy,’ said Fithvael.
Laban stood and offered Fithvael the blade, hilt first.
‘You’ll need this, later,’ said Fithvael, sheathing the blade and handing it to Gilead. ‘We will work unarmed.’
Fithvael was on his feet, facing Laban, his stance broad, his shoulders square, his hands hanging loosely by his sides.
‘Need you prepare?’ he asked the boy.
‘For what?’ asked Laban.
‘You heard our master,’ said Fithvael. ‘Let us indulge him with a little play. I ask again. Is there any preparation you would like to do before we commence?’
Laban looked from Gilead to Fithvael. They were both smiling, and the old elf seemed relaxed and unthreatening.
Laban looked down at his body, and at his empty hands. He was unencumbered by a cloak, and his well-fitting travelling clothes did not impede his movements.
‘What are you waiting for, boy?’ asked Gilead.
Laban looked from Gilead to Fithvael again, and Fithvael made a slight gesture with both hands, beckoning.
‘I don’t…’ began Laban.
‘Ah,’ said Gilead, ‘but you must.’ He smiled again. ‘Don’t hurt him, old man,’ he said.
‘Not for anything,’ said Fithvael.
Laban te Tuin Tor Mahone took a step towards Fithvael, keeping his knees soft, and then threw a punch in a long arc into Fithvael’s chest. Fithvael dipped his chest away, bending backwards from the waist. Laban’s fist did not connect. He had not thrown the punch hard for fear of hurting the old elf, but he was humiliated and his face flushed slightly as he cupped his fist in his hand. Next he threw a tight jab to Fithvael’s gut, but, with one step, the old man turned his body sideways and grabbed the jab before it landed against his hip. He threw the fist back at the young elf.
Fithvael stepped into the next punch, stopping Laban’s forearm against his upper arm, and planting a sharp slap on his opponent’s cheek, as if teasing him. Laban countered with a jab and a hook. Fithvael ducked so that the jab cleared his shoulder, throwing Laban against his chest, so that the hook sailed around the old man’s body, and they ended up in a clinch. Fithvael lifted Laban slightly and planted him back on his feet.
He slapped the boy again, once on each cheek, before Laban was ready to be joined once more in combat.
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ said Gilead. ‘Use your speed. He is old and past his prime.’
Laban looked at Gilead, encouraged, and changed his tactics. He flew at Fithvael, turning in the air with a high kick. Again, there was no impact as Fithvael danced out of the line of fire, but, having turned, the mentor caught the boy’s foot out of the air and twisted it. He brought Laban down to earth, as he landed heavily on his chest, his foot still in Fithvael’s hand. The mentor turned the foot, obliging Laban to turn over so that he was lying on his back with Fithvael standing over him.
‘You’re dead,’ said Gilead.
‘I didn’t want to hurt him,’ said Laban.
Fithvael let go of the boy’s foot, and gestured again for Laban to rise and attack.
‘Catch your breath, and try again,’ said Fithvael, standing before the boy; feet shoulder width apart, arms crossed over his chest.
Laban stood, wary. Then he lunged at Fithvael, head-down, as if to throw his shoulder into the old elf’s gut, in a wrestling hold. In one elegant movement, Fithvael ducked low and under Laban, and lifted him off his feet and
over his back. Fithvael came up into the standing position, his arms still crossed while Laban sprawled on the ground behind him.
Gilead laughed a low chuckle, which made Fithvael turn for a second in wonder. Laban saw the old elf turn, and chose his moment, hoping to catch the old elf at the apex of his turn, off-balance and off-guard. Fithvael was old, but he was long practised in the arts of combat, and what he lacked in strength or speed he made up for in cunning and an economy of movement. He was neither as off-balance nor as off-guard as Laban had believed him to be, and he snapped back to his stationary position, using the boy’s momentum against him, causing him to stagger out under the old elf’s arm to sprawl on his belly at Gilead’s feet.
‘The pup has much to learn,’ said Gilead. ‘When do you begin?’
‘I believe I just began,’ said Fithvael crouching at the fire they had built, digging in its embers for the tubers roasting there. He flicked one out with his knife, in Laban’s direction. The boy was sitting on the ground close by, and caught it in his hands.
‘Lesson number two,’ said Gilead as Laban dropped the tuber and began to blow on his scorched fingers. ‘Think twice before you ever catch a hot potato.’
Dusk came early in the north, and when it was impossible to distinguish between threads of black and white in the waning sunlight, Fithvael looked to Gilead for permission to lift the cloak from the hole in the ground.
Fithvael and Laban had taken an hour to clear a flat area of ground for the combat to take place in. They had grubbed up the last of the pale weeds, removed the few rocks and stones that had found their way onto the fallow land, and raked through the dusty earth with bunches of hedgerow twigs to level it. There were no makeshift weapons hidden in the ground, no rocks that could be used to add weight to a fist, no lost blades, no detritus of former skirmishes. There were no roots to fall over, and no shade advantage, since the sun was all but set; the moons were high in the sky. The space was even marked out at a distance from the ditch so that no accidental fall could put one or other opponent at an advantage.
Gilead had eaten a light meal and was well-rested and in good spirits. He did not, however, take advantage of Fithvael’s presence and run drills or sparring practice. He would take no advantage that he could not offer to his adversary.
‘Will you talk about the amulet?’ asked Fithvael. ‘Will you ask the knight’s knowledge of it?’
‘If it will further our ends,’ said Gilead. ‘If it will help to banish the plague from these lands… From all land, I will ask. I will not beg.’
‘You won’t have to,’ said Fithvael, straightening the back of the elf’s shirt. Gilead examined the cuffs that Laban had adjusted and nodded his thanks to the boy.
‘You make a fine seamstress,’ he said. ‘Your wife need waste no time in sewing for you.’
Laban dared not scowl.
‘I’ve rarely known you in such high spirits,’ Fithvael said to Gilead. ‘Should I be concerned.’
‘Only for my life,’ said Gilead. ‘I do not relish the thought of my own demise as once I might have, but it holds no fear for me, and still offers some blessed relief. I’m sure you’d rather have me smile in the face of death, than sigh, or cry out.’
‘Is he truly so able?’ asked Fithvael.
‘You saw him,’ said Gilead.
‘I saw him plough through young, stupid creatures, without an ounce of finer feeling,’ said Fithvael.
‘I am sure,’ said Gilead, ‘if he has any feeling at all, it is of the very finest sort.’
They turned to watch as the Vampire Count’s hands emerged from the hole in the ground, holding a sword and a shorter secondary blade. The hands were white, and the fine-boned digits ended in thick cruel talons, shaped like teardrops, as if filed to points. The weapons were those of an ancient Bretonnian knight, beautifully forged from folded steel, and honed to a bright, hard edge. They looked like specimen weapons, never used nor worn, never nicked nor dented. They all knew better. When the Count was waist-deep in the ground, he rested his weapons in the bottom of the ditch, and, planting his hands firmly on either side of the hole, he lifted his body and legs through the aperture.
Laban was young and idealistic, and could not countenance seconding the beast, so he held Gilead’s blades, and Fithvael stood at the Count’s side. No words passed between any of them.
Dressed in nothing but their shirts and breeches, Gilead and the Count took their weapons and saluted one another across several yards of ground. Fithvael and Laban retired to either side of the allotted area.
The combatants circled, first clockwise and then anti-clockwise, neither lifting a weapon to the other. Gilead measured the size of the Count’s stride, the softness in his knees, the weight of his shoulders. He counted his blink. He watched to see which side the Count favoured, which hand was strongest, which leg he trusted his weight to. He detected a flinching of a hamstring in the Count’s right leg, suggesting that he preferred to lunge forward and step backward on the left, so he would tend to fight across his body. Conversely the Count tended to turn his head to the left, suggesting that sight or hearing were more efficient, more acute on the right.
The Vampire Count used his time to stride out the ground, checking the size of the arena in which he must fight, the position of the moons in the sky. He listened for any life-forms that might be close by, any beasts or hidden audience. He eyed up the long, lean forms of the attendants, watching them breathe, discovering who was anxious or likely to intervene in the combat. He knew Gilead already. He knew that the missing digit did not seem to affect the Elf’s blade skills, and that the elf preferred to be the aggressor, attacking, always moving forwards. He knew that his concentration was impeccable, that no bird taking wing, nor clap of thunder would surprise or trouble him, nor the movement of the earth beneath his feet, nor a blade driven hard towards him would throw him off his game.
Gilead was a consummate warrior elf, and he was everything that a knight should be and more.
After several minutes of striding back and forth, and of watching each other, Laban began to relax, wondering if anything would happen, after all. Then the Vampire Count spoke.
‘If I am to die, this night,’ he said, ‘I die with honour at your hand.’
Laban stood up straighter and opened his eyes wider.
‘If I should die before dawn comes,’ said Gilead, ‘I die at the sword-edge of a worthy opponent.’
The Count’s statement was not a matter or form, however, not one of the many rituals he adhered to so fervently to make him feel human again.
‘The skaven,’ said the Count.
‘What of the skaven?’ asked Fithvael. ‘What of the ratmen, bloodless one?’
It was too late, Fithvael’s words were lost in the first crash of steel on steel. The first slide of blade against blade. The first exhalation of breath, the first dance of feet through the dust of the arena.
Gilead turned the Count’s attacking blade, lowering it, and causing his opponent to pull it back closer to his body to prepare for another attack. The second time that swords crossed they did so high. This time, the Count thrust his weight into Gilead, breaking the contact, but the elf was too deft for the knight, and his second blade crossed the first, its tip hooking into the basket hilt of his opponent’s secondary weapon. The Count had to adjust his balance and hold hard to his dagger to prevent its loss.
He escaped and turned, arcing his dagger through the air. Gilead did not try to make weapon contact, he simply moved his head three inches, and the blade whistled past his face, cutting through a thick lock of his white hair. He was inside the Count’s reach, and his opponent had clearly forgotten that he was without his armour. The Count had left his left flank exposed from the armpit to the hip. Gilead drove him the advantage, slicing through the fine linen shirt and into the creature’s tough flesh. There was no blood. Gilead had expected none, but he knew that his blade had hit its target. The Count appeared to feel no pain, but he close his gu
ard and brought both of his blades up in a defensive posture.
Less than a second later, Gilead and the Count were nose to nose, looking through the V-shaped gaps their long blades made in front of their faces.
‘Came you in search of me, my lord?’ Gilead asked, exhaling, and then clenching his teeth as the Count continued to bring pressure to bear on the impasse.
‘I came in search of death,’ said the Count, breaking and bouncing away, out of reach of Gilead’s blades.
The combatants circled one another again, kicking through the mass of footprints left in the dust, marking their combat as if it were a dance.
‘I followed the curse,’ said the Count, lunging forward on his right leg, against the elf’s expectations, catching the deep fold of linen under the arm of Gilead’s shirt, rending a long slit in it, but not touching his skin.
Gilead’s response was a less-well-judged slice of his short blade that tangled with the Count’s sword, the tip of which, embedded in the fabric, did rather more damage to the shirt than was strictly necessary.
Gilead stepped to the side, defending his left arm, and clearing the Count’s reach.
‘The curse?’ asked Gilead. ‘Who is the curse?’
‘Think not whom,’ said the Count, adjusting his grip on his long sword, and resting his left hand on his hip before swinging at the shoulder.
Gilead registered that the left shoulder had some weakness he had exploited by accident and decided that his next move must be to rid the Count of the second of his blades.
Meantime, the Count came forward on his left leg, extending his knee joint and pushing his right shoulder forward into a punishing thrust with the sword. Only Gilead’s slender frame saved him from a potentially fatal injury. The blade pierced skin for the first time, but only skin and an inch thickness of flesh.
‘Think what,’ said the Count. ‘Think of the cursed plague that rids the lands of their riches. Think of the barrenness of the beasts of the field and of the womenfolk.’
Gilead brought his attack heavily to the Count’s left side, wielding both weapons: his sword in a direct attack, his short blade across his body. The Count had no option but to recoil, and withdrew his bloody sword.
Hammer and Bolter: Issue 21 Page 7
