by C. L. Werner
‘But look,’ the elf exclaimed with mock astonishment. ‘One of my guests has brought a gift.’ The Black Prince’s thin hand reached to Josef’s belt, nimbly plucking the covered dagger from him.
The elf held the dagger beneath his nose, and closed his eyes as he savoured the smell of the Naggaroth steel. ‘I much regretted the loss of my dagger,’ he said. ‘It is an heirloom of my family, and there are few enough of those left to me, in these less prosperous times. I thank you for its return.’
‘The Lady’s curse be on you!’ roared Sir Lutriel, struggling to free himself from the embrace of the hulking beastmen that held him fast. The Black Prince turned and faced the Bretonnian.
‘The Lady?’ the dark elf asked. Then his eyes widened as if with sudden recollection. ‘Ah yes, that heathen deity you animals pray to. Truly, can you do no better? I have borne curses bestowed in her name for centuries now. Now, I ask you, even for a god, don’t you think that is a bit slow to act?’
‘Damn you!’ Sir Lutriel snarled. ‘Give me a sword and I’ll cut that smirk from your face!’
The Black Prince laughed. ‘I fear that such a contest would be quite dreary. I’ve faced your sort before, even your masters. In Naggaroth, they would not have even been allowed to cross swords with a cripple.’ The knight roared anew at the villain’s mockery, but the Black Prince had already turned his back on the man. ‘Do not fear, I shall arrange for you to show me just how skilled you are with the sword.’
‘We will be avenged, my father will be avenged!’ cried Josef as the Black Prince began to withdraw into the shadows along with his retinue. The elf paused, considering the boy once again with his disdainful face.
‘Surely you do not mean the bounty hunter and his comrades?’ the Black Prince laughed. He watched with amusement as the rage on the boy’s features faded into shock. ‘Yes,’ the elf’s voice sank into a soothing whisper, ‘I know all about them. In fact, I was just going to arrange a proper welcome for them.’ The reptilian smile returned to the monster’s face. ‘It is so rare for me to receive visitors.’ He looked at the beastmen holding the two prisoners. ‘Take the boy to my audience chamber.’ He pointed a slender finger at Sir Lutriel. ‘Take that to the pit, and prepare it for this evening’s festivities.’
The Black Prince did not pause to watch the beastmen drag their burdens away, but regarded his two attentive lieutenants. The elves bowed their heads as the Black Prince stared at them. ‘Drannach, Uraithen, attend me. There are things we must discuss before my other guests arrive.’ He walked away, the two dark elves following a respectful ten steps behind their master.
The Black Prince stood at the gate of the tower, once again armoured for battle. He was flanked by Lieutenant Drannach and the hulking hound-faced beastman Urgmesh. Before him, mounted on a coal-black steed, the other dark elf lieutenant stared down at his master. Like the Black Prince, he was garbed for battle, his fine, sharp features staring out from the open face of his helm. Behind him, a dozen grizzled horsemen awaited his command.
‘Hunt down these swine and bring him and his companions back to me, alive,’ the Black Prince’s melodious voice intoned from behind the mask of his helm. ‘I have already despatched the harpies to watch the mountains, lest the worm think to deceive us by taking the more difficult road. But I think it most likely that he will try the pass.’
‘And if they should elude us?’ the lieutenant asked.
‘We keep a watch here,’ the Black Prince gestured with a slender, mail-clad finger, pointing above his head. ‘I shall post watchmen above, to warn us should our visitors approach the tower, and keep a force below to greet them should they use the tunnel.’
‘I think you should find a single sentry of more service,’ the lieutenant offered. ‘A single watcher might go unseen and unnoticed. One sentinel with keen eyes would be more certain to carry warning than a dozen, who would surely be seen before the bounty hunter emerged from cover.’ The lieutenant grew quiet, then spoke again. ‘Perhaps Gruzlok; his eyes are the best of all your servants.’
‘The beastman is also simple,’ the Black Prince scoffed. ‘A dog would be hard pressed to maintain a discourse with Gruzlok.’
‘It takes no great wit to detect a company of riders approaching the tower,’ observed the lieutenant. ‘And his phenomenal vision may prove of great benefit.’ The Black Prince nodded his armoured head.
‘Quite so,’ he said. ‘I shall act upon your suggestion.’ The elf waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. The mounted lieutenant looked over at his men, inclining his head, and motioning for them to follow him.
The line of riders galloped from the tower to the narrow floor of the valley. The Black Prince watched them for a moment, then faced Drannach. ‘Come, let us see how our guests are faring,’ he said. The two dark elves withdrew back into the tower, the gate closing behind them.
The Black Prince smiled. Things were proceeding just as the Eye of Tchar had revealed. Very soon now, the events he had allowed to unfold would speed to the conclusion he had seen. The harpies—if the miserable gruesome Chaos beasts he had secured from a travelling menagerie could honestly be allowed to bear the name—would nestle amongst the crags of the Grey Mountains, to await his command to return. He had not seen them in the Eye of Tchar, so he did not want them close by when his present scheme came to fruition.
As for his lieutenants, well, they were another matter.
The Black Prince entered the great hall of the tower, striding past the bowed heads of his bandit soldiers and misshapen beastmen, not sparing a glance at any of his servants. Drannach and the beastman Urgmesh followed at his heels.
The bandit leader walked to a low dais set before a great gaping pit. With measured strides, he climbed the steps, seating himself on the high-backed seat that was a copy of the chair in his throne room. The elf considered the fiery gaze directed at him by the young boy chained at the foot of the dais, by a large dog-collar fixed about his neck. The Black Prince chuckled as he felt Josef’s hate wash over him.
‘In good time,’ the bandit lord said. ‘But first, you should enjoy the hospitality of the Black Prince.’ The elf laughed again as, with a flourish, he spread the skirt of his aketon and robe and took his seat. The noble brought his steel-clothed hands together in a single, metallic clap, then gestured with one of his hands to the pit below.
Josef hesitated for a moment, glaring at his oppressor, then risked a glance at the pit. It was a large, circular depression in the floor, some twenty feet deep, lined with steel spikes all about its upper lip. The base of the pit was covered in sand, the walls pitted with deep scratches and stains that were certainly that of spilled blood.
Bones, cracked apart by some tremendous pressure, were scattered about in the sand. The unpleasant thought occurred to Josef that they had been snapped to get at the soft marrow within. But the most terrible sight was the lone figure standing in the centre of the pit, staring at the gloating minions of the dark elf lord with eyes that were as filled with rage and fury as Josef’s own. Sir Lutriel had been stripped down to a loincloth, his back bearing the dark bruises of his treatment at the hands of the beastmen. The defiant Bretonnian knight’s gaze shifted to the massive wooden portcullis that dominated the far wall of the pit. A sound, like the shuffling of some enormous being, sounded from the darkness beyond the portal.
‘I understood that I would be given a chance to display my swordsmanship,’ Sir Lutriel bellowed. His voice was calm and still carried a note of superiority and scorn. The Black Prince laughed and gestured to one of his human brigands. The grimy killer stepped to the rim of the pit. Laughing boisterously, the bandit tossed a long-bladed knife to the sandy floor below. Sir Lutriel bent down and retrieved the knife.
‘Thank you for your graciousness,’ the knight said, bowing to the seated lord. As he rose, Sir Lutriel’s hand came upwards, hurling the blade at the Black Prince in a single, blinding motion. The steel turned end over end, then was caught by an iron-clad grasp in
ches from the breastplate of the dark elf. The Black Prince handed the knife to Drannach without even glancing at it.
‘You can hardly fault me for trying,’ Sir Lutriel’s voice rose from the floor of the pit. Another shuddering step mixed with a low snarl sounded from behind the gate. The knight turned to the portcullis.
‘A pity,’ the Black Prince’s musical voice purred, ‘now you shall have to face Marius without the benefit of that swordsmanship you were so boastful of.’ The elf clapped his hands again, the sharp ring of metal upon metal echoing across the hall. A pair of human brigands at once leapt into motion, gripping a great wheel set into the wall. With quick wrenching movements, the two men turned the wheel. In the pit below, the wooden portcullis rose.
The dark elf lieutenant led his riders down the narrow neck of the valley, spurring his steed onward. His keen gaze was able to discern the slightest detail at a great distance. He studied the terrain, watching the rocks and trees for any sign of movement or anything unusual. He did not expect to find the bounty hunter’s little band of would-be assassins at the very doorstep of the stronghold, but caution was something in his very blood.
The lieutenant wondered how things were faring back in the tower. Had the bounty hunter already arrived? Was he even now confronting the Black Prince? The elf allowed himself to smile. But his amusement swiftly faded as he turned his body around, staring with suspicion at a nearby stand of trees. He cursed himself for his lack of attention. He had travelled this path more times than he could count, yet never had there been a stand of trees where he now saw them.
The elf shouted a warning to his followers as he pulled back on the reins of his horse. But it was too late. A loud boom sounded from the trees. The dark elf felt a powerful impact strike his chest, lifting him from the saddle. His shifting mass unbalanced the startled horse, its footing already disturbed by the lieutenant’s hasty pull on the reins. The animal nickered in terror as it fell sideways. With inhuman agility and speed, the elf leaped from the saddle, determined not to be crushed under the weight of the animal. But the horse was not falling toward the ground, it was toppling over the lip of the collapsed dwarf tunnel that snaked its way down the breadth of the valley. The elf’s leap carried him further over the precipice and his scream of horror was added to that of his animal as both fell into the rift.
As the bandits watched their leader fall, they were set upon. Arrows whistled from the trees, smashing men in their throats and chests, pitching them to the ground. Before the men had even begun to react, three of their number lay on the ground, dead or dying, a fourth slumped in his saddle, his hands clutching at the arrow embedded between his ribs. The sharp report of a crossbow was added to the whistle of the arrows, and two more of the men fell dead as they spurred their horses back toward the tower. The remaining bandits retreated, another of their number falling as an arrow caught him in the back.
‘A good shot,’ mused Brunner as he reloaded his crossbow. Lithelain nodded solemnly.
‘I loathe striking an enemy in the back, but it will perhaps convince them to keep going,’ the wood elf said.
‘You could have got more of them if you’d given me one of your crossbows,’ moaned the weaselly thief Ferricks. He was sitting on a large rock, idly drawing in the dirt with a twig. ‘After all, I have proved that you can trust me. I’d have nothing to gain by betraying you at this point.’
Brunner considered the thief. ‘I feel better knowing that I don’t have to keep an eye on you,’ he declared.
‘Do you still need the trees?’ gasped the illusionist Mahlinbois. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his breathing was laboured. For nearly half an hour Mahlinbois had maintained the illusory woods, concealing the bounty hunter and his companions—ever since Lithelain had reported riders emerging from the tower. The phantom trees had seemed real enough to anyone gazing upon them from a distance of ten or more feet away, but within the area of the illusion, the trees had been nothing more than a slight, shadowy mist-like apparition, offering only the slightest impediment to the vision of the bounty hunter and his comrades.
‘No, your sorcery has served its purpose,’ Brunner said. Mahlinbois sighed, closed his eyes, and snapped the small branch he had held in his right hand to focus the illusion. The phantom trees dissipated like mist rising off a morning lake.
‘I am no sorcerer,’ Mahlinbois snapped. ‘How many times must I remind you of the fact? I am no equal to a sorcerer!’
‘We’ll find out, won’t we?’ Brunner said, his voice colder than usual. The illusionist drew back, words of protest dying on his lips. The bounty hunter stalked over to where Ehrhard Stoecker stood, holding the reins of the company’s horses. He advanced upon Paychest, removing a long black cloak from a leather bag at the side of the animal. As he turned to walk away, the bounty hunter caught the sullen look with which the writer stared at him. He turned on the man, staring into Stoecker’s disapproving face.
‘Something bothering you?’ the bounty hunter demanded.
‘You knew they were coming,’ Stoecker stated. ‘Even before Lithelain saw them, you knew they were coming. I have to wonder, how did you know? And where have Sir Lutriel and Josef gone?’
‘You ask too many questions,’ the bounty hunter grumbled, starting to walk away. Stoecker reached out, grabbing the bounty hunter’s shoulder turning him back around. He did not flinch as he saw Brunner’s hand close about the dragon-hilt of his sword.
‘You used them,’ the writer accused. ‘You knew they would go off on their own, try to beat you to your precious bounty and get captured.’ A sudden thought brought an angry hue to Stoecker’s face. ‘You’ve been using that boy all along! You’ve never cared in the slightest about his quest to avenge his father! At least Lithelain is seeking justice for his sister. You’re just trying to line your own pockets. Tell me, if Sir Lutriel hadn’t come with us, would you have sent the boy on his own to lure out the riders?’
‘Maybe I would have sent you with him,’ the bounty hunter answered. He left Stoecker, walking back toward Lithelain, the long black cloak in his hands.
Sir Lutriel retreated from the opening gate, the smug defiance falling from him as his eyes began to appreciate the massive shape moving in the shadowy chamber beyond. Slowly, the form emerged into the light. First came a sharp, black beak of bone. Behind the black beak came a massive head, clothed in dark brown feathers and edged in white. The feathers were caked in filth and blood. The bird-like head turned from side to side, in a monotonous, idiot motion. Open holes of scarred flesh marked where the beast’s eyes had once stared from the avian skull.
Two powerful, feathered legs stepped from the shadows onto the sandy floor. Six-inch claws of sharp black tipped each digit upon the foot. The body moved forward, exposing a powerful chest that was also covered in feathers, where it was not marked by welts and scars. Two raw, disgusting growths sprouted from the shoulders above the forelegs, the plucked remains of once mighty wings.
The idiot motion of the creature’s head stopped abruptly as it caught the scent of the knight. The griffon uttered a sharp, shrieking roar and stumbled the rest of the way into the pit. The rear quarters of the beast were covered in a yellowish fur, where they had not been branded and scarred. The lean, lanky body was like a leopard, the ribs pushing the feline skin from within. Great dewclaws tipped each talon of the rear legs, but the long feline tail had been cropped, worn down by a jagged cut to a small stump. Even in its mangy, tortured state, however, the maimed griffon was an impressive sight. Fifteen feet long, and six feet at the shoulder, it was still a magnificent and terrible creature.
The Black Prince laughed as the griffon shrieked again. ‘Don’t you wish you had your knife now?’ he hissed at the frightened knight.
The griffon hobbled forward, one of its rear legs displaying a debilitating break that had never healed properly. The blind head snapped forward, the beak shutting with a sharp crack. Sir Lutriel knew that it would take a single bite from those jaws to rip a
n arm from his body.
The knight began to slowly move around the edge of the fighting pit. There was no plan of attack. Even the possibility of retreating into the monster’s den was denied as the bandits lowered the portcullis once more. The knight merely hoped to win as many more minutes of life as his agility and strength might allow.
The griffon shrieked once more, a sound that was echoed by the wasted gurgle of its famished belly. The beast lunged forward, and only a last moment dive saved Sir Lutriel his life. The griffon, still smelling its adversary, lashed out with its forefoot, scraping its claws along the stone wall, leaving a series of deep scratches in the rock. Realising its error, and with surprising quickness, the monster turned, its blind head bobbing about for a moment before scenting the knight again. Once again, the claws just missed the knight as he dodged aside.
From above, Josef watched the uneven contest with open horror. There could be no doubt as to the outcome of this contest. It was like baiting a bear with terriers. The laughter of the Black Prince’s men as they watched the pathetic display sickened the boy, and gnawed at his soul. He turned his eyes once more to the figure of the dark elf on the throne. Somehow, some way, by Sigmar and all the gods of the Empire, he would kill this gloating fiend.
