The Black Seer positioned himself at the centre of the army, surrounded by his macabre bodyguard of grave rats, the hooded cockatrice being led on its leash by Tisknik. Huskk wanted to be close to the fighting when the elves inevitably challenged the invasion of their forest, but not so close that he would be caught up in the fighting himself. His role was to guide the army and use his magic to support the frontline fighters, not dodge elf arrows.
Grey Seer Nashrik and Fangmaster Vermitt seemed to have adopted the same strategy. Both skaven had surrounded themselves with a pack of armoured stormvermin and were keeping well away from the vanguard and the flanks. They were not keen to be the first ratmen challenged by the elves. If it came to a pitched battle, they would wait to see which side had the upper hand before committing themselves. None of the ratmen would think twice about abandoning his comrades, though the threat of Huskk’s undead might force them to do a bit more fighting than they had planned to do.
Huskk Gnawbone bruxed his fangs as he considered the short-sighted cowardice of his fellow ratmen. The fools did not understand the power which would soon be his! Power that would make him greater than the grey seers and the Lords of Decay! If they understood, they would fear the Black Seer’s wrath far more than any elf!
The necromancer laid his paw upon the skull of Nahak, feeling the malignant spirit of the liche wrapping itself about his mind, feeding its own terrible energies into his body. The Hour of Shadows would magnify all dark magic and increase the strength of all those who wielded it. Huskk’s strength would be greater still, drawing from the enhanced malignity of Nahak as well as his own sorcery. Would it be enough to offset the magic of the forest? A vicious grin spread on the ratman’s face. It would be enough to get him to the Golden Pool. After that, even the faerie queen herself wouldn’t be able to stop him!
Squeals of terror announced the first attack. Nashrik had insisted upon scattering living scouts amongst Huskk’s vanguard of walking skeletons, arguing that thinking minds could alert the army to danger far more quickly than one of the necromancer’s mindless automatons. The grey seer’s advice proved sound. By dying so noisily, the skaven scouts spread the alarm to their comrades.
The vanguard had pressed forward into a winding path bordered on every side by towering pines, the ground overgrown with briars. The undead had tromped heedlessly through the briars, their fleshless bones immune to the stabbing thorns. The scouts, however, had hesitated, trying to cut away the briars, thinking to earn some regard from their masters by clearing away the obstructions.
Seemingly from nowhere, arrows shot down, transfixing the scouts as they chopped at the briars. Elf sentinels, their lean bodies concealed beneath cloaks woven from leaves and vines, were concealed in the branches high overhead. From the moment the skaven had set foot in Athel Loren, their presence had been known. The elven archers had anticipated the line of march, hiding themselves in the trees, training their bows upon pre-selected spots, waiting for their enemies to reach the killing zone.
Huskk cursed the discipline of the camouflaged waywatchers. Given the choice between loosing their arrows into unfeeling bone or living flesh, they had chosen to strike those enemies who would cry out, whose screams might sow fear and discord among the other skaven. The necromancer could smell the increased fear among his allies, a rancid odour that made his stomach boil.
“Control your rabble,” the Black Seer snarled at Nashrik. He raised a claw, evoking just enough magic to cast an eerie glow about his fingers. “Control them, or I will!” he threatened, leaving no mistake about his meaning.
Nashrik trembled visibly, then pushed his way towards the faltering blocks of clanrat warriors. “The Horned One protect-guard all-all brave-bold skaven!” the grey seer shouted. “No-not fear-tremble! Elf-things no-not hurt-harm!” The sorcerer-priest’s speech ended in a yelp of panic as an arrow shivered through the night and skewered one of the ratmen standing beside him.
Huskk glared up into the trees, his eyes glowing as he drew upon his magic. Stretching forth his hand, the necromancer snarled a spell that was ancient when the streets of Skavenblight still swarmed with humans. A ghostly wisp of dark energy shot from his paw, moaning through the air as it unerringly sought its prey. The waywatcher realised his peril, leaping from branch to branch as he tried to escape Huskk’s magic. The effort was futile, the death-wisp correcting its trajectory instantly each time the elf moved. At last it circled around the bole of an ash tree, catching the waywatcher before he could scramble to a new location. The elf shrieked, once, then his withered body hurtled down to the forest floor, shattering into a jumble of blackened bones as it struck the ground.
The death of the waywatcher did little to improve the morale of the skaven, who could now hear the sounds of battle rising from the forest ahead. They cowered a bit closer to one another and cast longing looks at the path behind them.
Huskk closed his eyes, projecting his awareness into the skeleton warriors of the vanguard. Through their spectral senses, he saw the situation clearly. The waywatchers had been only the picket line of the elf defences. Barbaric, half-naked elves had been concealed in spider-holes along the path. At a signal from their war chief, the painted elves had sprung their ambush, leaping through the ranks of skeletons in a dazzling blur of swords and spears. The sluggish undead were cut down before they could even turn to face their enemies, the elves dancing away to find new victims before the broken skeletons even touched the ground.
From the fringes of the forest, other foes began to manifest, rising from among the trees with bodies of gnarled wood. Ghastly dryads, their wizened faces howling hatred of the invaders, their branch-like arms tipped in long talons. The enraged forest spirits struck down Huskk’s undead warriors, tearing them asunder with each sweep of their brutal claws.
The necromancer had seen enough. Huskk’s eyes closed, tendrils of darkness coiling about his body as he drew the fell energies of blackest sorcery into his body. Stretching forth his withered claw, he sent ghostly streamers of power coursing through his skeleton warriors. The invigorated undead began to react more quickly to their attackers, matching the assault of the wardancers and resisting the carnage wrought by the dryads. Huskk knew that even with their bodies quickened and strengthened by dark magic his skeletons could do nothing more than delay the wood elves. But delay would be enough.
“Attack!” the Black Seer roared, his awareness leaping back into his own body. Instantly he was compelled to expend a fragment of his magic to ward away an arrow as it came whistling at his head. A moaning death-wisp soon settled the unseen bowman. “Attack!” Huskk repeated, his eyes blazing with magic-fire. “Kill-slay all elf-things!” To emphasize his words, he sent a third death-wisp straight into the massed clanrats, transforming one of them into a pile of black bones. If the skaven thought the only thing they had to fear was the elves, then they needed to be reminded of their error.
Squeaking a half-hearted war-cry, the skaven surged forwards, racing among the trees. The ratmen were very swift when speed was needed and when the proper motivation was applied. Their charge through the trees was so rapid that only twenty or thirty of them fell prey to the lurking waywatchers. The ratmen came upon the wardancers and dryads while they were still engaged with the undead. Attacked from both sides, grossly outnumbered by the packs of snarling skaven, the elves were dragged down and butchered. The dryads persisted until a skaven weapon team trained a warpfire thrower upon one of their number, igniting the creature’s wooden body and transforming it into a walking torch.
The attentions of the hidden waywatchers turned in full upon the main body of the skaven warhost. Arrows flashed down from the trees, striking down dozens of ratmen. Fangmaster Vermitt crumpled in a bloody heap, no less than a dozen arrows protruding from the gaps in his armour. Grey Seer Nashrik was luckier, suffering only a single arrow through his forearm.
Huskk swatted aside every missile that was aimed at him, disintegrating the arrows in mid-air with a burst of dar
k magic. He did not bother to send death-wisps moaning after the hidden archers. Instead, he snarled a command to Tisknik. In response, the zombie pulled the hood from the cockatrice’s head and unhooked its leash.
The bird-beast fluttered its wings, then uttered its shrill cackle. Dozens of arrows shot down at it from the trees, but not one struck their target, glancing away as though striking an invisible wall. The protective talisman chained to the cockatrice’s foot guarded the beast against such concerns as arrows and spells. Huskk had been reluctant to part with such a potent artefact, a relic plundered from the barrow of an ancient Bretonni horse lord, but he knew that if he would reach the Golden Pool he must keep the cockatrice safe. It represented his most potent weapon against the elves and their forest.
The cockatrice took to the sky, arrows still bouncing from its protective shell. Cackling its rage, the monster soared above the trees, fixing its beady eyes upon the forest below. Black membranes slid across its eyes, filtering the creature’s malignant gaze into a deadly emanation.
One after another, the waywatchers fell from their perches, their paralysed bodies slamming into the earth. There was a fascinating quality about the gaze of the cockatrice, compelling those targeted by it to look into its eyes. Once that gaze was met, a terrible transformation took place. Skin hardened, calcifying until it became rigid and immobile, paralysing the victim. Should the cockatrice maintain its malignant attentions, the flesh of its victim would likewise begin to harden. Given enough time, the body of a cockatrice’s prey could be transformed into solid stone.
Huskk chittered maliciously as he saw the cockatrice descend, fluttering above the branches of a few dryads who had unwisely decided to linger upon the battlefield. It took longer for the tree spirits to submit to the monster’s gaze, but at length they began to grow sluggish, their trunks taking on a greyish-black colouring. A moment more and the dryads became frozen in place, their clawlike hands still reaching into the air, vainly trying to snatch the cockatrice from the sky. Vengefully, the monster slapped its scaly tail against one of the dryads. The tree-creature slammed into the ground with a heavy thud. The gaze of the cockatrice had petrified it.
“Elf-things run-flee,” Nashrik reported. The grey seer had removed the arrow from his arm and used his magic to heal the wound. It seemed to be the only contribution he had made to the battle. “Now is our chance to scurry-hurry! We can flee-leave scary-trees! Stay-hide in safe-good burrows!”
Huskk glared at the grey seer, lips pulling back to expose his sharp fangs. A malignant light glowed in the sockets of Nahak’s skull. “We go on,” the necromancer hissed. “We do not leave until we take-find the Golden Pool.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“The kindreds of Nymraif and Caidath failed to hold the intruders. They were barely able to delay them.”
Thalos Stormwind glowered as he heard the scout’s report. It had taken time to muster his kinband, to draw out his allies from the trees. He had been depending upon them to hold the skaven at the edge of the forest until he could bring his full army there. Ywain had impressed upon him the threat to the forest if anything evil should come into contact with the Golden Pool, particularly during the Hour of Shadows, when the strength of all dark magic was in flux. He glanced over at Ywain, noting the flicker of worry that disturbed her composure. The spellweaver had warned that Huskk’s magic would be strengthened during this dark time, but Thalos had been unwilling to accept the magnitude of the ratman’s power.
Thalos pressed his palm against the wooden hilt of the Dawnblade, reassured by the feel of the sword. He turned his head and regarded the nobles gathered around him in the clearing. They watched him with expectant eyes, waiting to follow his lead. Looming above them all was the treeman Daithru, the ancient’s gnarled face imperturbable as it observed the elves’ war council.
“We will send riders to warn the other kinbands,” Thalos decided, his voice grave. The entire forest would already be aware of the skaven intrusion. There was no need to warn anyone about this. The message Thalos would send was more shameful. He would have to warn the other lords of the forest that the skaven intrusion was something his own warriors might be unable to repulse. It was the duty of any highborn to protect the lands under his charge. To fail in that obligation was among the worst dishonours a highborn could bring upon himself.
Saith shook his head in disbelief, colour rising into his cheeks. “You cannot mean to do such a thing!” he objected. “The other lords will demand another noble assume leadership of your domain!”
Thalos smiled at his friend’s loyalty. “Thank you for your confidence, but I cannot allow my own fate to endanger Athel Loren.”
“It is only a filthy ratkin!” Saith cursed. “Such creatures have menaced us before and always they have been exterminated!”
“Do not underestimate this one,” Ywain cautioned. “The kindreds of Nymraif and Caidath already made that mistake.”
“The root-chewer has great magic.” Daithru’s groaning voice thundered across the clearing. “It is never wise to take a wizard lightly.” The treeman’s body shook in a great sigh. “And this one has bound a strange creature to its will, a monster whose kind has never before threatened these lands.”
Ywain shuddered as she listened to the treeman’s voice, her insides twisting into a knot of guilt. If she thought her words would do any good, she would have implored Daithru to leave the fighting to the elves. But a treeman’s mind, once decided, was as immovable as the Oak of Ages.
Thalos paced among his nobles, picturing the line of march the ratmen would take. Ywain had tried to persuade the fey to intercede, to conceal the paths and lead the skaven astray, but such tactics had failed. There was no way to deceive Huskk as to the location of the Golden Pool. The necromancer could smell such a source of sorcery from hundreds of miles away. Trying to block the trails and impede the speed of the invaders had likewise been frustratingly impossible. There were many forest spirits that resented the presence of the elves. These had taken it upon themselves to render aid to the necromancer, acting in subtle ways to help Huskk’s progress.
The highborn considered the speed of Huskk’s advance. There were only a few places where an army could close upon the skaven. The usual tactic of whittling down the invaders through the use of scouts and waywatchers had proven too costly—Huskk’s infernal monster was able to annihilate every ambush the elves set. True, the cockatrice wouldn’t attack until after the elves had started their assault, but trading one elf for three or even four skaven was an exchange Thalos found unacceptable, even more so when he learned that the necromancer was using his sorcery to resurrect the fallen ratkin as zombies.
No, they would have to meet the invaders en masse, try to destroy the enemy so quickly that Huskk’s magic couldn’t undo their losses. More importantly, they had to do something about Huskk’s damnable monster! The cockatrice had proven immune to bowfire. It would have to be met head-on, a prospect which could only result in hideous losses.
“There are only two places where we can intercept the invaders,” Thalos decided, “the Glade of Sorrows and Hawk Heath.” An idea came to the highborn as he spoke. The Glade of Sorrows was farther away, a battle there would keep Huskk away from the Golden Pool. Hawk Heath was nearer, but offered a possibility for destroying the cockatrice.
Thalos turned to Saith. “Do you think Scraaw would consent to aid us?” he asked the noble.
Saith followed his lord’s line of thinking, a grim smile appearing on his face. “The hawks will fight for their eyries,” he said. “I am certain they would fight with us.”
Thalos closed his fingers about the grip of the Dawnblade, feeling the sword’s power flowing through him. The Warden of the Wood had given the weapon to him for a reason. Perhaps this was it. “Request Scraaw’s help. We will fight the invaders at Hawk Heath. Ask Scraaw if one of his flock will consent to carry me into battle.”
Ywain gasped. “You are no hawkrider,” she reminded him. “Saith has f
lown with the warhawks before. Allow him to fly with them.”
Thalos shook his head. “It is my place to lead the battle. The Warden has entrusted me with that duty. I must go where the Dawnblade is needed.” He turned away from her before she could make further protest.
“Gather your kindreds,” Thalos told his nobles. “We meet the enemy at Hawk Heath.”
The enemy emerged from the cover of the trees and into the open field of the heath. The front ranks of skeletons and zombies paid no heed to the change of environment, but the skaven who followed behind them squealed in fright. After hours tramping along narrow forest paths, trees pressing upon them on every side, the air close and heavy, the ratmen gazed up at the starswept sky with a feeling of utter horror. A breed of agoraphobics who spent much of their lives crawling about subterranean tunnels, the skaven preferred even the haunted forest to the terrifying open sky.
Concealed among the trees bordering the heath, the elves watched their enemies creep out into the benighted field. Ywain frowned as she saw the masses of undead marching before and after the skaven. It was a testament to her adversary’s powers that he had been able to stir so many from their graves. Or perhaps it was a sign of how vast the necromancer’s powers had grown under the baleful influence of the Hour of Shadows. The spellweaver could sense her own weakness, the drain on her own powers. She could only imagine what the reverse experience must feel like, the sorcerous strength that must be flooding through Huskk’s body.
Ywain could see the loathsome necromancer striding alongside his terrible cockatrice, surrounded by a guard of walking corpses. If she could loose a spell against that vile abomination, the battle would be won. The death of Huskk would end the threat to the Golden Pool and break the will of the invading army.
The spellweaver shook her head, bitterness and frustration filling her. If her powers were at their full, she might risk such a spell, but she knew it would tax her strength to attempt it in her present condition. Worse, with his own powers so greatly increased, Huskk would be able to break her magic with a counter-spell, rendering her effort worthless.
[Storm of Magic 03] - The Hour of Shadows Page 7
