The Vampire Count took hold of the neck of his scabbard in his left hand, preparing to replace his sword, when he heard a faint, distant scratching noise that brought his nose up to meet the movement in the air to detect any fresh odour.
The smell was of carrion flesh and infection, but newer, more immediate, and more likely to be alive than dead.
The Count adjusted his grip on his sword and surged into the darkness, down a sloping corridor that gave way to another and then another. Two minutes later, he found himself at a junction of four corridors, one sloping upwards, two low and dark, but the fourth... the fourth was wide of mouth and sweeping of curve.
The Count heard a crash and a tumble, and the shriek and screech of narrow jaws and unsheathed claws. He was almost bowled over by a scratching, screaming bundle of several skaven bodies, hurtling from the tunnel like cats in the middle of a fight.
A pair of bloody, shiny eyes looked up at him, and the head they belonged to was suddenly still at the centre of the mayhem. As the ratman opened his mouth to shriek a warning to the other members of the ragged ball of fur that constituted their several bodies, the Count brought his blade across its jaw and out through the back of its head. In one sweeping motion, he separated the ratman from its life by dividing the crown of its head from its mandible. A second ratman lost an eye, and, while it was lamenting its fortune, was lanced through the belly on the end of the Count’s rapidly swinging sword. The Count misjudged his third stroke when one of the ratmen moved faster than he had anticipated, and he took two limbs from the skaven, a lower and an upper on its left side. The ratman tried for a moment to run away from its attacker, but became confused, and could only perform a sudden ragged circle before it bled out. The Count thought he had seen off the last of the little clutch of skaven when the fourth clamped one paw to its face and another to its chest and then literally keeled over in front of him before he had even swung at it. But there was a fifth ratman, who had separated itself from the melee at the first opportunity and was hot-footing it back down the tunnel, bellowing as it went.
The Count followed it, not so quickly, but with steely determination. Any live ratman would surely lead him, eventually, to the great skaven-killer that was the ethereal elf.
The pair of men, tall and slender silhouettes in the fading light, struck camp as soon as they had finished their meal and cleaned their utensils. The elegant dishes went back into their packs, and they left the site of their meal as it had been when they had arrived. The last of the fire was brushed back into the earth and carefully kicked over, and the companions left no trace of themselves as they went in search of an opening in the ground.
Their eyes adjusted quickly from the twilight to the underground gloom, and they soon found themselves navigating a series of earth tunnels, moist to the touch, but eerily quiet.
The older, shorter of the two figures led the way when the tunnels and corridors were too narrow for them to walk side-by-side, and their exceptional height meant that few of the burrows were tall enough for them to stand upright in. The older man kept his entire torso low, so that his head remained upright and level, and the youth behind him followed his lead, soon matching his stride, and growing increasingly confident.
‘How do we track him?’ asked the youth.
‘We don’t. We track death.’
‘Because of the humans?’ asked the youth.
‘Because of the humans’ stories,’ said the older man. ‘If he defended them, if he slew even half as many as they say, if he is still beneath the ground, then we will find him where we find death.’
‘Deeper then?’ asked the youth, as they came to a fork in the tunnel. He hesitated for a moment, resting the palm of his hand against the dark, packed-earth wall, and looked hard at his companion, as if concentrating. ‘There’s movement.’
‘Deeper,’ said his companion, already leading the way.
At the next turn in the tunnel, in a shallow alcove to the left of them, they saw their first dead.
‘What is it?’ asked the youth, steadying his breathing, lest the stench of putrid flesh overwhelm his senses.
‘They,’ said his companion. ‘They’re the young. That’s what their offspring look like, such as they are. Not very different from the adults, smaller of course, but equally pestilential.’
‘He did this?’ asked the youth.
His elder dropped in his knees to look a little more closely at the bundle of blood and downy fur.
‘The kill is clean, efficient, executed with a honed blade. He could have done this. No... He must have done this, for who else in these parts would wield a blade so elegantly? Certainly not the skaven, and the humans carried more tools than weapons below ground when they went into battle.’
‘It isn’t the work of a human hand,’ the youth agreed.
‘The rest might be due to fatigue or the confines of the space. The strokes do not quite conform to his usual pattern or attack, but in the absence of an alternative, we must believe that it is him.’
The pair continued for another quarter of a mile of tunnels, turning this way and that, following the vibrations in the walls. Then the older companion stopped suddenly as he felt a series of thuds through the earth floor.
‘Bodies?’ asked the youth.
‘Falling to the floor. Creatures are dying.’
The youth made to hurry forward, but the old man extended an arm to prevent him. There was a strange, animal cry, and then nothing.
‘He doesn’t need our help,’ said the old man. ‘The battle is over, until the next time.’
‘Should we let him know we’re behind him?’ asked the youth. ‘Should we call out?’
‘Subtle as ever,’ said his companion. ‘He’ll know we’re here. We’re not hiding our footfalls, and we’re speaking together freely. Even an idiot human would have no trouble tracking us down.’
Minutes later, they came upon four skaven corpses, variously annihilated with some bladed weapon.
‘Look here,’ said the youth, pointing to a corpse that had died of its injuries, the limbs on the left side of its body cut cleanly from its body. ‘This is not the work of a consummate warrior.’
His companion looked down at the body.
‘No,’ he said, ‘but the skaven are surprisingly fleet, and singular of purpose. If this rat creature darted swiftly and suddenly enough, especially with a kick of adrenaline behind it, there is just a chance that even an experienced swordsman might miss his target once in a while.’
‘It seems so unlikely,’ said the youth.
‘Perhaps,’ said the old man, ‘but he has been below ground, fighting a massed horde of skaven, for several days, and none of us is perfect... Not even–’
The skaven was almost past them before they had seen it, crossing the junction where they had found the corpses. The youth drew the shorter of his blades, but his companion had drawn a blade and driven it through the creature, high against its collarbone before he had the chance to wield it.
The skaven remained standing, clutching at its shoulder as the older man twisted his blade and opened the wound, making the ratman shriek and fall.
‘You’re right,’ said the youth, ‘they’re fast.’
‘Still not fast enough, though, lad.’
The Count turned as he heard the sudden shriek of a skaven, a ratman under attack. Moments later there was a thud, and the faint sound of words, or perhaps humming. He bent his ear and concentrated on the sounds, but they were not words in any language that he recognised, and nor were they the sudden squeaks and squawks of the skaven. He wondered for a moment if the words might have come from the elf, but dismissed the thought. The sounds came from behind and above him, and the great warrior was surely deep among the ratmen, killing and maiming, and, besides, the elf had been alone, with no one to talk to.
The next junction was a dog-legged right
turn down another slope, a marriage of stone and earth that included several ragged steps. The Count hid himself in the shadows at the bottom of the steps and waited.
He heard steps, not the scamper of claws, but the definite strides of upright bipeds. The strides seemed long for any but the tallest humans, but light and confident, more like a dance with a regular beat than simple walking. There were, however, two distinct walkers, the rhythms slightly different.
The strides sounded at first close by, but then deviated before coming back at a right angle to their original position. The corridors were irregular, labyrinthine, and sounds echoed and bounced around in the spaces in a manner that the Count found confusing. He did not trust them.
He moved away down the sloping tunnel that had begun with the stone steps, and could hear nothing.
He stopped again, and the footfalls were audible once more.
He walked back to the steps, and the footfalls stopped.
The Count was sure, now, that he was being followed. His pursuers stopping to listen for his footfalls, and walking towards him when he moved on.
He knew that he could not mask the sound of his steps, or the vibrations he made in the tunnels. He was not built for subtlety and his armour would not allow for it, but he was built to fight, and he would be ready and waiting for the battle when it came to him.
‘Do you hear that?’ asked the youth. ‘That is not the sound of his stride.’
‘Nor that of a ratman,’ said his companion.
‘A human, then?’
‘A super-human if he was responsible for the killing we’ve seen,’ said the old man. ‘A true warrior. I doubt such a man would exist among the towns and villages, and among the people we have seen here.’
‘A traveller, then, a mercenary?’ asked the youth, ‘but then why did the locals tell tales of an elf and not of this mortal?’
‘An exceptional man might seem like an elf to some of them, and might easily become an elf in the telling of their tales. The humans call it “hyperbole”, and they’re wondrous accomplished in the use of it.’
‘We should leave then?’ asked the youth. ‘We should search for him elsewhere?’
‘Where “elsewhere”,’ asked the old man, ‘when there is no word of him anywhere but here. Besides, even the most resourceful human might benefit from our assistance against the skaven.’
‘Have we not a purpose of our own?’ asked the youth.
‘Our purpose has ever been to serve,’ said the old man, ‘and serve is what we shall ever endeavour to do.’
A sheen of red light penetrated the air as the Vampire Count blinked. He knew that they were close, and he knew that he had no choice but to confront them. He expanded the muscles in his chest as if breathing deeply into stone-hard lungs, and he felt a calm descend around him. He would fight. He knew that he would fight, but, for the first time since he had been immortal, he also knew that he could fight and lose.
The youth looked at his companion, his mouth open slightly as if to say something, but his feet stilled against crumbling earth. The passage was to his right, stone steps leading down into it at an angle. He had seen something.
His old companion looked steadily into the youth’s eyes, forbidding him to move or speak.
The reddish light shone faintly but steadily to their right, a little below their head height, but the steps surely allowed for that. The old man moved silently against the wall opposite the tunnel mouth and waved a hand for the youth to stand beside, but behind, him.
They both concentrated hard on the dull light that went out and then returned as if in a blink.
The two men unsheathed their short blades, swords being too long and unwieldy in the confined space.
The youth gestured with his head tilted in the direction of the light, as if asking a question.
His companion shook his head, keeping his eyes on the opening to the tunnel.
Whatever was waiting in the entrance to the tunnel was not human, and nor was it the elf they sought. Whatever was waiting in the entrance was not skaven. It was assuredly not friend, and so it was almost certainly foe.
The old man adjusted his grip on his weapon and, as swift and silent as he could be, he flew down the steps, straight at the red light, ready to defend his life and that of his companion.
A blade came to meet his, mere inches from their faces, as the old man got his first look at his opponent. The youth followed his companion with all haste, but stopped dead in his tracks on the bottom step, stunned by what stood before him.
The youth thrust haphazardly with his blade, but not before his adversary had unsheathed a second weapon, parrying both blades, before turning both of his opponents’ weapons away.
The youth looked from his friend to his foe and back again, unsure of his standing. Should he fight alongside his companion, or should he wait to see what transpired between the two combatants? Honour required that only one of them should do battle with their adversary, that he stand down in favour of the older man, and the first to attack, but their assailant looked like a fierce creature, the stuff of legend.
The old man tossed his short blade to his left hand and drew a second with his right. He did not draw a sword, knowing that it would become an encumbrance in the limited space, and he was not eager to blunt it on steel and stone. The knife he drew from his boot was an all-purpose tool more than it was a weapon, but its long, grooved stiletto blade was honed to an edge for skinning beasts and stripping the bark from saplings, and wielding it would double his chances of striking the Vampire Count a fatal blow.
The Vampire Count came on fast and sure, and the old man had to duck and parry fast and aggressively to prevent the first three strikes of the Vampire Count’s blade from finding the flaws in his defence. Then he was on the attack, looking always for chinks in the warrior’s armour as his blades flashed left and right, aiming at joints and the soft places under the arms and thighs and in the groin. He did not expect to hit his targets against a swordsman who was clearly more than capable, fast, strong and determined, but he might put the beast on the defensive, and slow down the chances that a counter-attack might prove fatal.
The youth had never seen the old man sweat before, and was surprised to see it now. He was even more surprised by the Vampire Count’s prowess with a blade, and his confidence, especially when face to face with so masterly an opponent.
The Vampire Count grunted and feinted, and then came in at an angle across the old man’s body, and the youth finally realised that his companion might be in real trouble. The blade in his hand was ready, and he was as capable as one so young and untried could be. He had certainly proved himself in the training arenas, and had taken more instruction from the old man on their arduous journey to this place. He cut in, instinctively forcing the Vampire Count’s blade wide of his target, slewing the steel across the undead’s body at a clumsy angle, unbalancing him.
The old man got a blade in low, and felt sure that he had torn into the Vampire Count’s calf, despite there being no blood to show for his effort.
The Vampire Count didn’t falter, but stepped into the youth’s next lunge, bringing them virtually nose-to-nose with each other.
The youth breathed in as he prepared to break and thrust, and almost gagged on the rich dry smell of death mixed with the sweet aroma of lapping powders and the musky scent of the fine chamois that the Vampire Count used to polish his armour.
His old companion came to his rescue, blindsiding the Vampire Count with a sweep and a lurch, bringing the blade in his left hand up clumsily, but effectively, into range of those fierce red eyes.
The Vampire Count ducked the old man’s strike, and the youth rallied.
The youth’s next thrust was fierce, but ill-considered. He wanted nothing more than to maim and kill the vile creature, but his disgust had got the better of his fighting prowess, and his despe
ration to succeed led to a clumsy attack that was easily parried away. The youth found himself without his blade, and had to step back to regroup while the old man held back the Vampire Count as effectively as he could.
The fight slowed.
The old man brought both blades to the battle, lunging and crossing, the first blade skidding off the curving steel of a cuisse, the second barely making contact with the inside of the Vampire Count’s left forearm. The undead warrior parried lightly, making no attempt to separate the old man from his weapons, and failing to take advantage and counter-attack.
The fight slowed further, the old man testing the Vampire Count’s resolve to do him real damage, leaving an opening here, an undefended flank there. He took a tear in his cloak and a nick to an earlobe for his trouble, but no final swing, no fatal blow was struck.
The youth stood and watched, aghast, before coming back into the fray, at which point, the Vampire Count doubled his efforts to take into account his attack.
‘Fight, fiend!’ declared the youth, appalled that such a creature should dare to patronise not only himself, but his revered companion. ‘Attack!’
The old man simply stepped back, leaving the youth to do his best. His best was fine, good even, but it was not the stuff of great legends.
‘Desist,’ said the old man.
The youth fumbled his parry and was rewarded with a long scratch down the length of his right arm, as he reacted in disbelief to his old friend’s command.
The red-eyed creature desisted at once, sheathing his weapon and taking a short step backwards.
The youth attacked once more, a combination of frustration and desperation getting the better of him. He sliced a neat gouge in the Vampire Count’s cheek, and watched, horrified as it failed to fill with blood. A thin trickle of yellowish liquid eventually drizzled out of the curving gash, and the folds of skin separated slightly, but, by that time, the Vampire Count had taken hold of the youth by his shoulders and was holding the stunned boy at arm’s-length. The Vampire Count’s eyes, still red, failed to shine as brightly as they had before, and the youth thought he saw melancholy in them.
Hammer and Bolter 19 Page 8
