by Lucas Thorn
The ork spun, shouting at soldiers to push the attackers back. Back into the shrouded mist extending from the town beyond the barbican.
Above them all, the Shadowed Halls wheeled, taking their ruthless toll.
Frozen by the chaos, still cornered by his bitter appreciation of the Daughter of the Emperor, the Nameless Mage found himself turning slowly toward the Doomgate as it rolled shut with a rumbling shriek of twisting metal and grinding stone. Saw the reason for its opening.
Horror gorged on his heart as, from the darkness, came the one who would one day kill him.
And across the other side of the world, deep within the bowels of the Mage Tower, flickering candles watched the shuddering body of the Nameless Mage.
Watched.
And waited.
CHAPTER ONE
The Doomgate opened long enough to allow the four figures to rush inside. Sheets of rain at their back as the thunder tore the clouds apart. Mud spattering as their boots skidded across the wet ground.
The ork guards positioned at the opening considered them an odd group. Two men. Two women, one an elf.
An unfriendly-looking elf, they thought.
The first ran through, knees lifting high as he grabbed a fistful of his tattered robe with one hand and a spellbook with the other. Long greasy hair plastered to his gaunt face. Tall and wiry, he ran like a spider who'd lost most of his legs.
His name, though the orks didn't know it, was Chukshene.
And he was scared out of his mind.
Close behind, a young couple. Seemingly mismatched. Both tall, though the woman was taller. They sprinted inside, determination turning their faces to stone masks. The man, hair prematurely white, had a face which looked like it didn't understand humour. Especially now. Not as thin in appearance as Chukshene, he still bordered on the skeletal.
Dressed in dark pants and shirt. A heavy leather coat which fell to his knees, buttoned shut against the wind and rain. The grimoire in his hand was blanketed in shadows which coiled around his fist. It was a book of evil.
A book of darkness. Necromancy.
And the orks knew enough to take a shuffled step back.
The woman at his side carried an equally horrifying weapon. A massive battleaxe which looked to belong to someone larger than herself. Maybe to an ork, some of them thought lustfully. But she carried it as though it weighed nothing. Edged with dark purple runes, it looked hungry for violence, so none thought to try taking it from her.
She wore padded leather and chainmail as though born in it. Was tightly muscled and wore her blonde hair tied sharply back into a plaited rope. She bared her teeth in a snarl of defiance and looked like she'd carve up the first person to look at her sideways.
The young couple had run hard, their free hands clasped together. They formed a chain of two links which would never break and their names, the orks knew by profound instinct, would one day fill the pages of many tomes.
Hemlock and Melganaderna.
Lastly, the elf called Nysta moved swift.
Quiet.
Dressed in patched remnants of a uniform she'd once been proud to receive. Jacket and pants of dark black and green wyrmskin. Hardened in some places. Soft in others. Resistant to blade and fire. Her clothes were covered in sheaths and pouches. And while some of the sheaths were empty, many were not. The knives and daggers clung to her like latent death, drawing more than one surprised expression from the guards.
Long black hair, twisted into thick locks. Locks which sometimes curled around strips of old cloth torn from the bodies of those she'd defeated and wished to remember. Long thin ears jutted from her head like spearblades. A scar, running from the corner of her mouth to a point just below her eye before jagging out toward her ear. A vicious scar. One which made the grin on her face look like a sneer.
Violet eyes glittered in their sockets, flicking this way and that as they sought violence more than avoided it.
She followed one of the guard's anxious commands to head toward a stairway at the side of the barbican, but looked the most reluctant to leave what was obviously a battle. The fire in her soul screamed at her to stop.
To turn.
To face both her pursuers and the new enemies pouring through the mouth of the barbican toward the Doomgate.
The scream of a Black Blade was scarcely heard as the Doomgate's closure crushed him into silence. But the fear in its echo trembled in the air, a familiar song to the elf's ears. Beneath her feet, the ground heaved as though summoned by the soldier's deathcry.
The mismatched group had run for days. Hiding in the long grasses and bellying through the scrub. The four were matted with mud and filth. For the last part of their journey, they'd sprinted, arrows screaming from the dark behind them.
Men had followed.
Many of them.
Shouting and determined.
There'd been a skirmish. Brief and bloody.
Melganaderna's axe still bore a thin coat of gore. Hemlock hadn't sheathed his knife and his fist was wet with blood.
Chukshene's arms still crackled with spent energy.
The elf pounced up beside them as they paused in the doorway, her own body sucking grateful sucks of air. Chest working like a bellows. Blood streaming down her face from a cut above her eye. Mingling with the blood of those she'd killed.
A Flaw in the Glass hummed in her fist, the blade's venomous green enchantment glowing bright.
In her other hand, she turned Requires Only That You Hate with eager fingers as the sound of fighting filled her ears. She grinned wider, a savage grin fuelled by adrenaline which pumped through veins on volcanic wings. Inside her belly, the familiar cold ball of ice turned, in its never-ending battle between fear and rage.
She took a half-step forward.
Stopped only as a large figure rushed from their left and glared at them. An ork, his hulking mass bearing two arms whose muscle looked ready to burst free. Dark green skin glistening with sweat. Ragged black hair cut short under a horned helm. Dressed in armour covered in spikes, chains, and small shamanic fetishes dangling from hooks across his chest and upper sleeves. Little bird skulls. Sticks woven into tiny figures.
Archaic runes on stones threaded with leather.
Massive shoulders made more massive under a slab of steel coated in rippling bladed spikes flecked with gore. He'd been using them to charge his way through opposing ranks.
Her violet eyes thinned as his red gaze fastened on her for a moment longer than it should. But whether it was the knives or the way she lifted her head to answer an unspoken challenge, he grunted his respect and turned to Chukshene who'd stepped forward.
The warlock had to shout to be heard. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Is this not what you expected to see, little man?” The ork's voice crushed sound with a booming thunder. “What d'you fucking think is going on? We're under attack, stupid. Now, the question is, are you with the Emperor? Or you with that scum out there? And don't you fucking lie to me, because I'll know. I'll know, and I'll fucking tear your tongue out and stab you in the eye with it.”
Chukshene blinked, confused by the rush of words. “What?”
The ork, muscles cording, reached with blinding speed and grabbed him by his robe. Lifted. “I said, are you a fucking Fnordicman, or are you a fucking dead bastard?”
“Fnord-” Chukshene managed to gasp. Reached up to tap at the ork's hand slowly squeezing the air from his body. “Fnordic! I'm Fnordic!”
The ork squinted into the warlock's face, heavy jaw working furiously. Then he grunted again and dropped him. Turned to the others, eyes burning with the recent heat of battle. “Well? What the fuck are you? You two look like a bunch of fucking Caspies to me. White as fucking fishbone. And yellow hair like that don't grow in Ravensholme, that's for fucking sure. I know. I've been around.”
Hemlock looked to Melganaderna, who tightened her grip on the axe and growled; “Whatever we were before, we're Fnordic now. And if you do
n't like it, I'll gut you right here, you big green bastard.”
He sneered at her, giant broad teeth bared at the threat. Then, when she moved the Torment across her body and set her feet, he threw his head back and laughed.
Huge body shaking with mirth, he slapped a heavy hand on her shoulder. A hand big enough to cover her head if he'd wanted. Big enough to make her wince. “I like you already, woman. Like you a lot. And that's a fucking nice axe you've got. You'll do alright here.” He then turned to Nysta and his expression sobered quickly. “Long-ear. You don't look much to me. Bit too fucking small for this fight, I reckon. But then I look closer, and what do I see? Those knives ain't made for cooking. I should know. Killed a few bastards with knives in my time. I won't ask if you're Fnordic, or where your allegiances lie. And I've got an idea I wouldn't like the answer anyway. She wants you, long-ear. You're the reason we risked everything and nearly got stomped for it. But I want you to remember that if we hadn't opened the Doomgate, those fuckers out there would've pinned you to the Wall. Skinned you first. Sure, you might've got some hits in. Might've taken down more than your fair share by the looks of it. But, in the end, there ain't nothing you could've done to stop them. You were dead the second you broke cover if it weren't for us opening this gate. So, I reckon you owe her. Owe us. That how you see it?”
The elf looked down at the knives in her fists.
Cocked her head as though considering his words carefully. Then back to the ork.
Nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“Good. Maybe I was wrong about you, then. We'll have a talk, I think. Just you and me. But not right now.” Not caring about the arrows careening off walls nearby, he jerked a thumb toward the stairwell. “Get yourselves up there. She's waiting. Follow the stairs. And don't wander when you're inside. Don't go into any rooms. It's a bit fucked up right now and you might get lost. And if you get lost in the Wall, you get dead.”
His cryptic words meant nothing to her, but she could see Chukshene knew something. She allowed the warlock to lead the way, and tried not to stab him in the back as he started muttering.
“Oh, shit.” He hesitated as though considering escape back through the battlefield. “Oh fucking shit shit.”
“Chukshene?” Hemlock put his hand on the warlock's shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“No. I'm fucked.” He wheeled to face them. Looked over their shoulder to be sure the big ork was out of earshot. “So fucking fucked. Listen. We're in trouble. Well, not trouble as such. Not really. Well. Okay, we are. Look, I can't explain, but you have to trust me. Remember what we talked about? Don't tell her what you do. Don't mention necromancy. Not at all. Not to anyone. We're just two low-level mages headed back to the Mage Tower. Right?”
“I wasn't planning on telling anyone anything,” he said.
“Good. But if you do say something, try to be vague. Really fucking vague. Like, fucking village idiot vague.”
“I think you'll manage, 'lock,” Nysta said, finally sheathing her blades.
“You, too,” he said, not showing any amusement. “I told you before that my kind aren't wanted here. If the Mage Tower found out what I could do, they'd kill me. And not in a friendly way. That ork out there is an Imperial Guard. Which means we're going to see her. The Imperial Princess. Her and the Mage Tower never saw eye-to-eye, but there's still no telling what she'd do if she found out what we could really do. Be careful, Nysta. Please.”
The elf raised an eyebrow. “Imperial, huh? Should be easily convinced, then,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Just tell them you ain't the spellslingers they're looking for.”
CHAPTER TWO
As she climbed the stairs, Nysta checked her knives.
She didn't need to, but it helped distract from thinking about how the darkness which had infected her was now moving through her body like a school of worms. Where they'd been mostly dormant since leaving the Bloods, they were responding to whatever energy was hidden within the massive stone blocks of the Wall.
She could feel it. Little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Sometimes she thought she caught glimpses of other shadows hidden in the stone. Swimming through the rock. But when she tried to see them more clearly, it was just solid stone.
The acrid stink of magic was high in her nostrils, making her sinuses dry and sore. Ears hummed with a strange buzzing sound she couldn't shake. A mad tuneless melody which tripped and tangled through her brain.
Like the whisper of a thousand voices speaking out of synch. Insects chirruping on a hot night. Multitude of percussions out of time and step. Clashing and biting each other. Swamping her thoughts with confused fear.
Behind her, Hemlock and Chukshene were speaking fast. Chukshene to the point of animation. Hemlock more cautious.
She didn't know what they were saying. Didn't want to know. A flicker of light swept along the wall between the crease of two large blocks. A few stray sparks of electricity popped and fizzed from the ceiling.
Torches, spread evenly along the walls for light, shivered as if with cold. Mist leaked from cracks in the ground. Reaching to brush her boots like the fingers of hungry ghosts.
She was grateful when they made it to the top of the long staircase and found two orks positioned nervously. Not nervous because of her. But their surroundings.
Their hands twitched, never far from the brass pommels of their swords. They nodded at her as she approached.
“Hey, elf,” said one in greeting. Not as big as the ork they'd met downstairs, but still taller than Melganaderna. “You see any goblins?”
“Goblins?”
“Yeah. You know. Little fuckers. Green skin like us.”
“But not as pretty, Snotshank,” the other guard put in. “Not as pretty. Am I right?”
“Speak for yourself,” the first snorted.
“Usually do.”
“Well?” The ork turned back to the elf. “You see any?”
“Were we meant to?”
“She didn't see any,” the second guard breathed a sigh of relief, though his hand stayed coiled close to the sword. “Thank fuck for that.”
His partner spat a sticky globule onto the wall. “See, Forkleg? Told you there weren't anything there.”
“And I tell you, I fucking heard talking. Laughing, even. Maybe fighting.”
“It's the Song, you fucking tool. Makes you loopy.”
“No. It was goblins.” Forkleg shivered. “Unless it were ghosts. Fucking place is haunted to fuck.”
“Ghosts! Ah, that's it. I'm getting Stonedeff to put you on some other bastard's shift. I'm sick of you.” He scowled, eyes shifting uneasily. “Ghosts? Haunted? You're really getting on my tits.”
Chukshene pressed past the bemused elf. “Umm. Sorry. What's all this about goblins? Is there something we should know?”
The two orks looked at him like they'd only just noticed he was there and weren't happy about it. Sneered as one. “Probably a lot,” Snotshank said. You look pretty fucking dim for a spellslinger.”
“Pretty fucking dim,” Forkleg echoed with a chortle. “Good one.”
“Shuddup,” Snotshank growled. “You the four who came through the gates.”
Chukshene nodded. “That's us. In the flesh. Now, about this goblin thing-”
“You're the four. It weren't a question,” Snotshank said. “It were a statement.”
“Statement of fact,” Forkleg said.
“But we have a question for you, little mage.”
“Important question,” Forkleg said, flicking this sword with his fingernail so it clicked loudly. “And you'd best answer honest.”
“That's right.”
Into the moment's silence, Chukshene's voice was slow and careful. “What question would that be?”
“Question's simple.” The ork loomed over the warlock and lowered his voice. “Given you've got Her Imperial Highness waiting for you in that room right over there, why the fuck are you all standing here like a bunch of t
urkeys?”
Forkleg sniggered. “Turkeys.”
“Shuddup.” Snotshank jerked a thumb toward the open doorway a few feet away. “Get the fuck inside, turkeys. Don't keep her waiting. She hates waiting.”
“And don't shut the door behind you,” Forkleg said, moving aside so they could pass.
“Why not?” Melganaderna spoke what the elf was thinking.
“You want to get dead?” Snotshank shifted his weight to peer down at her, squinting as though trying to assess whether she was being serious. “Because that's how you get dead. You shut a fucking door? And boom. You're fucking dead. Bits of you all over everything.”
She glared back at him. “I don't respond well to threats.”
“Ain't a threat, kid.” Snotshank looked confused. “This your first time to the Wall?”
“So what if it is?”
The two orks swapped a look. Then Snotshank rolled his eyes. “Fine. I'm all scared. My knees are fucking knocking together. Look at them. Go on. Down there, not up here. My knees are down there. Just below my balls. See? Knocking. Click clack fucking click. Please don't fucking hurt me with your big fucking axe. Now, you satisfied?” He sighed. Pushed his helm back on his skull so he could rub underneath at his scalp. “Look, the rooms move. The fucking corridors move sometimes, too. You can go in, shut the door, and when you open it you'll be somewhere else. And no one can open them again for you without a key, so you're on your own. That's why we never close the doors unless we know what we're doing, right? Used to be it didn't matter much, I guess. Was how we got around. But since all this shit started with Bucky and his boys, it ain't been right. Has it, Forkleg?”
The other ork shook his head. “Not right at all.”
“Some say Bucky did it before he left. Some say the goblins. Who fucking knows or cares? All we do know is, you don't close the fucking doors anymore.”
Forkleg shuffled on his feet. “Never.”
“Has it got anything to do with the sound coming from the walls?” Chukshene asked. “What's that about? Kind of buzzing? I can't quite hear it...”
