Warhammer Anthology 12

by Death

  Chlod had collapsed on the ground, a huddled ball of misery, and Calard prodded him with his foot.

  “Fire,” Calard managed on the third attempt, forming the word with difficulty; his lips were completely numb.

  The peasant groaned something indecipherable, and Calard kicked him hard in the side. That got a reaction. The peasant’s face was blue, but the colour started to come back as he prepared a fire.

  Ten minutes later, the peasant had a small blaze going, and they crouched over it, warming frozen hands. Calard’s fingers began to tingle painfully as sensation returned. He removed part of his armour, unhooking the iced-up greaves as he attempted to rub some warmth into his limbs.

  With his body finally thawing, the firelight casting its orange glow across the interior of the cavern, Calard realised for the first time that the headless corpse of the wyvern was not here.

  Frowning, he lifted a burning brand from the fire and stood up, turning on the spot.

  This was most definitely where he had fought the beast; he could see evidence of the battle. Dark, rust-like patches marked the floor, and there were cracks in the wall where its monstrous sting had struck, but of the body itself there was no sign.

  “Devoured by scavengers?” he said, speaking aloud.

  “Master?” said Chlod, looking up from beside the fire, but Calard ignored him.

  The questing knight frowned. It had been only yesterday when he had killed the beast. Surely no scavenger could have devoured it in that time, bones and all, leaving no evidence of it ever having been here except for the bloodstains on the floor. Not even the other wyvern could have eaten it in that time.

  Thinking about the immense, crushing jaws of the wyverns, however, he could well believe that they would be fully capable of consuming bones. A brood of wyverns? There had been at least two of the creatures. Could there be more?

  The thought was not comforting. The stink of the beast still lingered in the cave even if its body did not, a potent animal smell that made his stomach heave.

  Holding his burning brand aloft, Calard ventured deeper into the cave. It went back further than he had thought, and as he advanced the flame of his torch sent flickering shadows across its uneven walls. There were bones scattered within naturally formed alcoves, and he knelt beside them, lifting them up for inspection. Most of them were human, but there were others that were shorter and denser. He found a shattered, fanged skull tucked away in a hollow.

  “Greenskin,” he said, kicking the skull away.

  There were strange markings on the walls, he realised, and he stepped up close to one of them, lifting his torch. Underneath a layer of rock dust and grime he could see that something had been daubed onto the walls. Frowning, he brushed his hand along the crumbling granite, revealing a crude depiction of a warrior: a warrior fighting a winged beast that was unmistakably a wyvern.

  “What in the name of the Lady?” said Calard.

  Stepping back, he saw the walls were covered in similar pictures. Everywhere he looked he saw depictions of wyverns. They were devouring people and shaggy mountain cattle, flying over crudely rendered mountains with blood dripping from their exaggerated teeth and stings. In many of the pictures, there was a solitary warrior fighting the beast. Sometimes this lone warrior stood victorious over the wyvern, his sword plunged into its heart, or its severed head lying at his feet. Sometimes the warrior lay dead at the beast’s feet.

  Calard followed the images further back into the cave, intrigued and horrified.

  Was this the remnant of some cult, venerating the Chaos beasts? Had there been wyverns in this area for hundreds, even thousands of years? Was there something here, in this cave, that drew them to it, like slivers of metal drawn to a lodestone?

  The pictures led him further away from the entrance, and the howling of the wind outside faded. Soon, even the flame of Chlod’s fire had ebbed. Abruptly, the cave ended. The floor sloped downwards, hinting at a deeper cavern, and the images too followed this descent, but he could go no further, for the way was blocked by a pool of dark water.

  Ice had formed a fragile crust around the edge of the pool, though its centre was clear. The water was black. Calard cracked the skin of ice with the heel of his boot; it was not thick. He stood there for some moments, wondering where the passage led, before shrugging and turning away. He was hungry and tired. He would have Chlod cook him a meal and then settle down to wait out the storm.

  From behind him came a splash, and Calard looked around to see the surface of the black pool rippling.

  His sword was drawn and at the ready, the heavy blade held two-handed; the flaming torch was left burning on the ground. His gaze flicked left and right, seeing movement everywhere in the shadows cast by his flaming brand, but his attention snapped back to the pool as it began to bubble, as if it were boiling.

  Not taking his eyes off the pool, Calard moved towards the edge.

  “Master?” called Chlod from some way back, his voice muffled and echoing off the walls. “Master?”

  Calard ignored the peasant, gripping the hilt of his bastard sword tightly.

  Something began to rise from the water; something large.

  The tip of its wings emerged first, then its massive head breached the surface, water spraying out as it exhaled sharply from its nostrils and sucked in a deep breath.

  Mouthing a curse, Calard saw that it was another wyvern, easily as big as the last two. Black water ran off its grey-green scales, and secondary eyelids flicked back from its hateful orbs. Its pupils contracted as it swung its head towards the bright light of Calard’s fallen torch, and it blinked in the glare.

  This must have been where the foul things were originating from. Was there some foetid brood lair in a deeper cave, and this pool was the entrance?

  He had been lucky to kill the others, he knew that. Weak and half-frozen, he knew that he would not be able to best this one if he allowed it to emerge from the water fully. It seemed not yet to have noticed him, and so Calard leapt forward as the monster began pulling itself out of the pool. Before the monster could react, he had plunged into the icy water and thrust the tip of his sword straight into one of its eye sockets.

  The wyvern shrieked in agony and thrashed its head, ripping the blade out of Calard’s hands and knocking him backwards. Blood was running from the horrible wound, forming an oily film across the surface of the black pool. Bellowing deafeningly, the beast began retreating, dragging itself back the way it had come.

  Calard heard Chlod arrive behind him, holding another flaming torch, and the peasant gasped as he saw the wyvern half-submerged in the cave pool. The beast was pulling itself back down the waterlogged cavern, first its curving back disappearing, then its wingtips. Finally, its head ducked under the water, taking Calard’s sword with it.

  Determined not to let the beast escape, Calard sucked in a deep breath and dived under the water. His armour weighed him down considerably, and he struggled not to sink. The water was dark, though the flickering light of the torch allowed him to see the vague, shadowy form of the monster as it slipped away from him. In frustration, Calard came up, knowing that to go any deeper was to drown, weighed down as he was.

  He swore loudly, and began wading to the water’s edge, unbuckling his breastplate as he did so.

  The Lady had led him here for a reason. Perhaps that reason had not been to kill one wyvern, but to butcher the entire brood.

  “Fetch me wood, tinder and flint,” he ordered Chlod. “Wrap it tightly in oilskins. I want it waterproof.”

  Chlod’s eyes boggled. “Master, surely you are not…” he began.

  “Do as I say, peasant,” snapped Calard, before lowering himself to one knee and praying. “Quickly!”

  He inspected Chlod’s work when he returned and, satisfied, he slung the bundle over his shoulder. He had stripped off his armour and was armed only with his knife, still glowing with a faint light of its own. Chlod was hopping from foot to foot, wringing his hands nervousl
y.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” said Calard. Then without further delay, he clenched the knife between his teeth and dived into the icy water once more. As far as he understood, wyverns breathed just as he did—or at least he hoped they did—and he judged that there must be air somewhere further along the submerged tunnel.

  Kicking out strongly, he passed beneath the rock, and a moment of panic washed through him as he realised that he could not now merely swim to the surface to breathe. He continued on, deeper into the cavern.

  His lungs began to burn, but he pushed on, swimming further. He continued on blindly into the darkness, his panic rising. He had gone too far to turn back now.

  It took him a moment to realise that he could see light again, a red glare from up ahead, and he kicked towards it in desperation as the last of his air turned to poison in his lungs. There was a ruby glow infusing the water, originating further along the tunnel, and with a final burst of strength Calard kicked towards it.

  He came up quickly, breaking the surface of the water and sucked in a deep breath.

  He was blinded for a moment by the red light, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the glare, all the while treading water to keep afloat. There was a metallic taste that filled his mouth and nose, and his eyes were stinging.

  “Lady above,” he breathed as he looked around.

  He was no longer underground. He was no longer anywhere that even vaguely resembled the Grey Mountains bordering Bretonnia and the Empire.

  A sky of fire burned overhead, and the heat was oppressive.

  He was in hell.

  His heart beating frantically, his mind reeling, Calard swam to the edge of the pool. The water had changed consistency, turning viscous, and he realised in horror that it was not water at all, but congealing blood.

  He clambered up onto the gore-slick rocks that rimmed the blood-pool, removing the knife from between his teeth as the contents of his stomach rose into his throat. He doubled over and was violently ill.

  Wiping his mouth, his mind rebelling, Calard straightened and turned in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings. A featureless, barren wasteland of red sand and rock spread out as far as the eye could see in every direction.

  Rippling flames consumed the heavens, the sky burning from one horizon to the other, an inferno in constant flux.

  It was ungodly hot, a merciless dry heat that scorched his lungs with every breath. The horizons shimmered with heat haze, and Calard could feel the moisture on him drying up, leaving a scab-like crust of blood across his skin.

  “Where in the name of the Lady am I?” he breathed.

  He heard laughter nearby, the mocking sound carried to him on the wind, and Calard spun around, his knife at the ready. There was no one there.

  The Lady is dead, breathed a haggard voice and Calard jerked in shock, feeling the speaker’s breath in his ear. He turned, but again there was nothing there. Mocking laughter came at him from several sides as he looked around warily, eyes wide in fear.

  We’re all dead, said a different voice.

  “Who are you?” said Calard, his voice cracking.

  You’ll soon be dead too, said another voice.

  “Show yourselves, cowards!” said Calard.

  The laughter assailed him from all sides at that, and he heard a multitude of mocking voices.

  Show ourselves, he says! laughed one, rough and masculine.

  If that is what you desire, said another, giggling.

  You’ll be with us soon, said a woman’s voice, filled with sadness.

  A deafening sound crashed in on Calard, filled with unholy screams of agony and madness. In that fraction of a second he saw figures all around him: loathsome, terrifying men and women, their flesh flayed and their muscles exposed to the elements. They stood around him in a numberless horde, eyeballs rolling loosely in their sockets, and bloodied hands clutched at him.

  As quickly as it came, the vision was gone, taking with it the hellish taunting.

  Calard cried out, his body shaking uncontrollably, the knife clasped in his sweaty hand quivering.

  “Lady of mercy, give me strength,” he breathed.

  I’m going to kill you, said a child’s voice in his ear.

  Calard turned around on the spot and saw the bones.

  He didn’t know how he had not seen them straight away. He was certain they had not been there before.

  Beside the blood-pool was the immense skeleton of a wyvern. Calard made his way around the pool towards it, moving warily. There was not a scrap of flesh or skin left on it. The bones were as dry as tinder. It was as if it had been dead for centuries.

  We are all dead, came a whispered voice behind him, and Calard’s hackles rose.

  Calard’s sword was protruding from one of the empty eye sockets of the wyvern’s skull, and he moved towards it, stepping cautiously. He sheathed his knife at his waist before gingerly lifting his sword clear. It was exactly the same as it had been when he had last held it, and the weight of it was reassuring in his hands.

  He turned around on the spot once more before coming to his decision.

  He strapped his sword across his back alongside the roll of oiled leather that contained the wood and tinder that Chlod had prepared for him, and, suppressing the disgust that he felt, he began wading back into the blood-pool.

  Taking a deep breath, readying himself for the difficult swim back, he dipped his head below the surface of the congealing gore. Diving down, kicking hard, he struck rock. In confusion, he felt around with his hands, thinking that perhaps he had risen up through a hole or a tunnel. Feeling around blindly, he could find no such entrance.

  He rose to the surface of the pool, sucked in a searing breath and dived again. Over and over he dived, searching frantically for the way back. After half an hour he gave up, despairing. Pulling himself out of the quagmire of vital fluids, he cried his horror and anguish to the heavens. Laughter all around mocked him.

  Calard sank to his knees in the red sand and prayed.

  Chlod sat staring at the icy pool of water, biting his lip. It had been two days now since his master had disappeared beneath its surface. He must be dead, he thought.

  He didn’t feel any particular grief at the thought, though it certainly made him reassess his options. During his time in Calard’s service, he had never wanted for food. Now he was alone again, he would be forced to fend for himself. Still, he had a mule, and enough supplies to last him a good week or two. He could always sell the mule if need be. Or eat it.

  Chlod grinned. Things were working out rather well.

  “Well, that’s that then,” he said to the ageing rat perched upon his knee, who twitched its nose in response. “I reckon we’ve given him enough time. He ain’t comin’ back, so it seems, so we’d best be off.”

  Chlod had wanted to make sure that Calard would not return before he abandoned him. In the past five years, he had learnt enough of his master to know that he would not look kindly upon him had he returned to find his manservant departed with all the food. He would not have put it past him to track him down, no matter how long it took, just to see him hang.

  Two days he’d waited. Chlod felt confident that Calard was not coming back.

  With that decided, he stood up, shoving his pet back into the deep pocket on the front of his tunic.

  Leading his mule, Chlod moved towards the cave entrance. He wouldn’t return to Bretonnia, he decided. He would travel back into the Empire, back to one of the enormous cities that he had visited with his former master—Altdorf perhaps.

  He was feeling quite cheery as he strode out into the snow. The storm had died down the day before, and the air was crisp and clear. He breathed in deeply, savouring the near absolute silence.

  The slight breeze changed direction, and his mule suddenly reared, nostrils flaring and ears flattening against its head.

  “Whoa!” shouted Chlod, trying to calm the beast. Then his blood ran cold as he heard a low growl from nearby.
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br />   Chlod turned slowly to see a massive, shaggy-coated animal padding towards him. It was the size of a draught horse, and its fur was pale and thick. A mane the colour of virgin snow encircled its heavily-muscled neck, and a pair of curving teeth, each the length of a short sword, emerged from its snarling mouth.

  A growl to his left announced the presence of a second cat, and he saw a third moving up to his right. He could see dark stripes upon the flanks of the snow-coloured predators, and their massive paws left deep indentations in the snow as they moved towards him.

  Chlod turned tail and ran.

  He heard his mule’s tortured scream as the cats bore it to the ground behind him. That scream was cut short, and Chlod dared not turn to see if they were now leaping for him. Expecting sabre teeth to close around his neck at any moment, Chlod fled back into the cave, the sound of crunching bones echoing around him.

  Ducking down behind a rock some way in, he turned, breathing hard, to see if the mountain cats were following him. One of the beasts came loping in after him. Its predatory gaze was fixed on his hiding place.

  Chlod fled further into the cave, falling back as far as he was able. On the cat came, unhurried and following him inexorably. As it closed, it was joined by its pack, which instinctively fanned out to cut off any chance of escape. Chlod backed into the black pool of water.

  “Cats don’t like water,” he murmured, hoping against hope that he was correct. Perhaps if he waded in deep enough they would leave him be. That faint hope was shattered as the biggest of the sabre-tusks came straight in after him, a deep growl rumbling within its chest.

  Seeing no other option, Chlod sucked in a deep breath and turned his back on the sabre-tusks. He heard them roar, and then splash towards him, and with that he dived into the black water.

  Calard’s eyes flicked open, the prayer dying on his lips as a shape rose from the blood-pool. In an instant he was on his feet, swinging his bastard sword up in readiness of attack.

  At first he thought he was having another horrific vision, seeing again one of the daemonic things that whispered in his ear. It was covered from head to toe in blood, and its thick, malformed body struggled as it tried to pull itself clear of the foul, clinging gore. It looked straight at him, eyes wide and full of terror, and Calard lowered his guard a little.