[Storm of Magic 03] - The Hour of Shadows

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  As much as she hated the danger to Thalos, Ywain understood that his plan was the best chance they had. Force of arms would have to prevail against Huskk and his army. They had to pick away at the necromancer’s forces, destroy it piecemeal so that its vast numbers couldn’t be brought to bear and overwhelm them. But to do that, they had to be free to strike and fade. Whatever the danger, the cockatrice had to be destroyed before they could stand any chance of attacking Huskk himself.

  The invaders’ march brought them very near the middle of the heath. It was here that Thalos planned the destruction of the enemy. Concealed in the grass, hidden in spider holes, a dozen waywatchers suddenly erupted from the earth, loosing a vicious volley into the oncoming skaven. Squeals of pain echoed into the night as ratmen fell to the vengeful arrows.

  Following the plan, the waywatchers did not linger after their first volley, but immediately turned and started to retreat across the field. The skaven chatted and snarled at them as they fled, but none of the ratmen gave chase. They had become accustomed to the tactics of their new warlord and were anticipating the unique spectacle which they would soon witness.

  Huskk snapped a command to the zombie ratman beside him. The creature removed the leather hood covering the cockatrice’s head. Warbling a ghastly cry, the loathsome monster took wing, rising up into the sky. Cackling savagely, the monster dove towards the fleeing elves.

  As it neared the elves, there was suddenly a burst of motion from the treetops. Immense hawks, the smallest with a wingspan of fifteen feet, rose up from the forest. Shrieking their deafening hunting calls, the giant birds streaked across the night sky.

  Screams of utter panic sounded from the skaven ranks, many of the ratmen casting down their weapons and fleeing into the trees. Here was one of the primordial terrors of their race, one of the nightmares ingrained upon the soul of every skaven. Mighty birds of prey soaring through the vast sky, ready to swoop down and seize the exposed ratkin in their talons and bear them off to their rocky eyries! Even Huskk Gnawbone was seized with horror, cringing against the ground and covering his head with his paws.

  But the warhawks had no interest in the ratmen cowering below them. Their interest lay with the intruder flying above their hunting grounds.

  The cockatrice was too absorbed in its own hunt to notice the warhawks until one of the raptors dove down upon it, slashing its side with steely talons. Ywain watched as the monster faltered in midair, falling a dozen feet before it corrected itself and rose once more into the sky. Whatever magic guarded the beast, it wasn’t proof against the attentions of an enraged warhawk.

  A second warhawk dove down upon the cockatrice, slashing its wing. The monster hissed angrily as its attacker darted away, then was forced to wheel away as a third warhawk attacked it. Confronting the cockatrice from all sides, the warhawks were preventing it from concentrating on any one of them and fixing them with its petrifying stare.

  Ywain fought back a feeling of fear as she watched a fourth warhawk dive upon the cockatrice. The brown bird with white markings was Scraaw himself and upon his back rode Thalos. The warhawk shunned attacking its enemy with its talons, instead twisting about in midair so that the elf might slash at the beast with his sword. The Dawnblade flashed at the monstrous creature, but the amber blade failed to strike its target. Thalos did not have Saith’s experience when it came to fighting from the back of a warhawk.

  The cockatrice twisted about, trying to find its latest tormentor. Before it could pursue Thalos, however, another hawkrider swooped down upon it. Saith had better luck than Thalos, stabbing his spear into the monster’s side.

  Then the hawkrider’s luck ran out. A bolt of green lightning leapt up from the ground. The malefic energy crackled across Saith and his warhawk, burning them both from the sky. Ywain could see a second skaven sorcerer, a horned creature in a grey robe drawing power into itself. The creature lacked the magnitude of power she had sensed surrounding Huskk, but the grey skaven still seemed to be benefiting from the magical flux to some degree.

  Ywain knew there was nothing her magic could do to stop Huskk Gnawbone, but against this second sorcerer, she might stand some chance. Even if she didn’t, she couldn’t stand by and watch the vile creature use its magic to burn the warhawks out of the sky. Closing her eyes, the spellweaver opened herself to the eldritch forces of the forest, absorbing the magic of Athel Loren, channelling it into the form she desired.

  The grey skaven was raising its staff, sending another bolt of green lightning into the night when the ground about its feet suddenly exploded in a tangle of thorny roots. The sorcerer’s staff fell from his paw as the roots swept upwards, winding about his body. In the blink of an eye, the ratman was trapped in a coil of crushing vegetation.

  Ywain concentrated upon the coil of roots, causing it to tighten. Her intention was to crush the evil ratman, but before she could bring the coil tight enough to achieve her purpose, a pulse of dark magic repulsed her spell. The roots shrivelled and died, falling from the grey skaven’s body in a clump of desiccated splinters. The sorcerer leapt away from the debris, scrambling for his staff before retreating to the side of his rescuer.

  Huskk Gnawbone had recovered from his fright, unleashing his deathly magic to free his confederate from Ywain’s spell. The necromancer glared maliciously at his companion, then turned to direct his energies to the battle raging in the sky overhead. Ywain saw the Black Seer raise his paws, the skull of Nahak blazing with aethyric power as the necromancer invoked another spell.

  One of the warhawks attacking the cockatrice was suddenly hurled back, swatted from the sky as though the fist of an invisible giant had slammed into it. A second warhawk was similarly repulsed. The thwarted attacks gave the cockatrice the respite it needed. Wheeling about, it brought its terrible gaze to bear upon one of the warhawks. The enormous bird cried out in pain as its body stiffened and its feathers turned to stone. It plummeted from the sky, shattering as it struck the heath.

  Most of the warhawks turned about, retreating before the malignant cockatrice. Only one of the great birds remained. Scraaw, with Thalos upon his back, dove straight down upon the cockatrice. The monster fixed its gaze upon the mighty warhawk, the bird slowly petrifying as it hurtled towards the cockatrice. The beast’s attention, however, was not fixed upon the elf sitting on Scraaw’s back. As the paralyzed warhawk hurtled past, the Dawnblade slashed out, ripping through the monster’s leathery wing.

  Scraaw crashed to the earth, his impact digging a deep furrow in the field, ploughing through the massed skaven and undead. The cockatrice smashed down beside the warhawk, its torn wing unable to keep it in the air. The monster flopped and flailed in agony, shrieking in pain. The sound roused Thalos. The highborn had been thrown to the ground when his mount crashed. Now he glared vengefully at the grotesque monster that had killed so many of the asrai and their allies. Tightening his grip on the Dawnblade, he charged towards the cockatrice.

  Ywain wasn’t the only one who saw the fight. Huskk Gnawbone’s eyes stared malevolently at the highborn who had wounded his monster and now thought to finish the beast. The spellweaver sensed him conjuring a murderous spell. The magic might not strike down Thalos before the elf killed the cockatrice, but there was no doubt in Ywain’s mind that her lover would not have long to savour his victory.

  Desperately, Ywain threw all of her flagging energy into a single conjuration. She opened a tear in the corporeal world, pushing Thalos through the tear and across the hidden path between reality and dream. The highborn vanished as he was translocated to another part of the forest. With such a hasty spell, Ywain had been unable to send him very far, but at least it was far enough to escape Huskk’s spell.

  For the moment, that was enough.

  With the cockatrice incapacitated, the elves hidden among the trees began to loose arrows into the confusion of skaven and undead filling the heath. Skeletons shattered beneath the withering volleys, ratkin were skewered upon the avenging missiles. Hundreds o
f the invaders were shot down, skaven blood staining the heath.

  All at once, a fell wind exploded across the heath, knocking arrows from the air, toppling saplings and dislodging archers from their perches in the trees. Ywain could sense the cold, clammy taint of sorcery. She could see Huskk’s body fairly burning with magical energy, blazing like a live coal against the darkness. Bolts of aethyric energy crashed all around the necromancer as the spellsingers allied to Thalos’ kinband turned their magic against the ratman. Huskk slapped aside their best efforts with a wave of his claw, evoking a counter-spell as easily as drawing a breath.

  Ywain felt a wave of despair grip her. What could she, what could anyone do against such power? The Hour of Shadows had magnified Huskk’s magic to a state where the mightiest of her own spells would be little more than a minor annoyance to him. There was nothing the weakened faerie magic of Athel Loren could muster to stop the malignant necromancer.

  Unless she drew upon a power that was not of Athel Loren! The thought came to Ywain with such suddenness that for a moment she was shocked. The more she considered the idea, however, the less crazy it sounded. The Golden Pool was a reservoir of magical energy, with the potential to wreak great destruction if it were used to work evil. But if the power was forced to serve the cause of good, used to oppose evil…

  Ywain continued to feel horror at the idea. It was still repugnant to her. She remembered all the subtle ways the Pool had used to try and draw her to it.

  Still, if she did nothing, then the Golden Pool would surely fall to Huskk and Nahak. She knew the kind of evil that event would unleash.

  Silencing her lingering doubts, Ywain turned her back upon the battlefield. She hoped the glade guard and spellsingers would be able to hold Huskk’s army long enough for her to reach the Golden Pool.

  Huskk Gnawbone slashed his paw through the air, batting aside the puny spells being directed at him. It barely taxed his enhanced abilities to protect himself from the weak forest magic, but it did require some slight concentration on his part. The persistent efforts of the elves, however ineffective they might be, were a distraction. At the moment, the Black Seer couldn’t afford any distractions. He would much rather provide one for his enemies.

  The necromancer cast a sly look at his erstwhile ally, Grey Seer Nashrik. It was time for the dolt to serve the purpose for which Huskk had spared the prophet’s life. He glared down at the grey seer, feeling his guts seethe with loathing for the craven maggot. Nashrik was crouched down, close beside Huskk’s feet, trying to ensure that the necromancer’s counter-spells would protect himself as well as the Black Seer.

  The crippling of the cockatrice had initiated a second phase to the battle. The elves began loosing volleys of arrows from every quarter, striking down fleeing ratmen on every side. The warpfire crew made the mistake of training their weapon against the treeline, a burst of green fire engulfing the foliage and turning a wide swathe into a crackling pyre. It was impossible to say how many elves were caught in the conflagration, but there was no question about how the others responded. The mercenaries from Clan Skryre crashed into the dirt, their bodies so riddled with arrows that looked as though they might have been sired by hedgehogs.

  Huskk’s undead formed into solid blocks of infantry, employing the shield-wall tactics Nahak had taught its own skeletal legions. The formation provided some defence against the arrows, but none at all from the warhawks which now ruled the sky overhead. The enormous birds dove down among the skeletons, shattering them three and four at a time with their talons before rising back into the sky, well beyond the reach of spear and sword.

  The undead were too slow to prevail in such a battle. Huskk could expend his energies, revitalize decayed muscle and bleached bone, but doing so would take time and effort. Both of these were things the necromancer did not have to spare for his undead horde. What he needed was a menace that would awe his enemies, gripping them in shocked fascination.

  Nashrik would provide that spectacle. At Huskk’s gesture, Tisknik reached down with its rotten paws and seized the grey seer, dragging him to his feet.

  “Mercy-pity!” Nashrik whined. “Must-must run-flee!”

  Huskk bared his fangs. “No-not run-flee,” he hissed. The Black Seer reached into his robes, removing a chunk of warpstone the size of his fist. Nashrik’s eyes went wide with wonder, his nose twitching. Fear was forgotten as the grey seer gazed upon the finest, purest piece of warpstone he had ever encountered. The warpstone had been cut and polished, each facet marked by a mystical scratch Huskk had no doubt stolen from the other grey seers who had challenged him. The arcane scratches acted to restrain the poisonous qualities of the warpstone while enhancing its magical potential. Such tokens were common among the order of grey seers, but never had Nashrik heard of someone creating something on such a scale.

  “Elf-things fast-quick,” Huskk hissed, waving angrily with his paw as another magical barrage tried to strike him down. “Dead-meat not fast-quick,” he added, pointing at the slow march of his zombies towards the trees. “Must have live-quick to catch-kill elf-meat.”

  Nashrik stared stupidly at Huskk, his mind unable to make the connection between the problem and why the necromancer was explaining it to him.

  The Black Seer tapped his claws against the skull of Nahak, annoyed and impatient. “The Thirteenth Ritual,” he snapped.

  Understanding finally dawned in Nashrik’s eyes. Fear spurted from his glands. His head twitched as he stared at the horde of undead scattered about the heath. The magnitude of what was being asked of him made his heart quiver. The drain on his magical abilities would leave him a burnt-out drooling madrat—if he survived at all. Rather than confess his fear, Nashrik tried to refuse on grounds that employing such a holy rite upon undead ratmen was sacrilegious.

  “Use-take,” Huskk growled, shoving the warpstone into Nashrik’s paws. “Use warpstone to make magic!”

  Nashrik grinned as he took hold of the warpstone. The renegade was right! He could use the warpstone to power the spell. He could use its energies while keeping his own in reserve!

  Another barrage of faerie fire and elven arrows convinced the grey seer that he had nothing to lose by attempting the dreaded spell. Closing his eyes, wrapping his paws carefully around the warpstone, Nashrik opened himself to the divine energies of the Horned Rat. He drew the power back into himself, then sent it slithering out through the facets of the warpstone, all the while squeaking the forbidden words in a scratchy whisper.

  The grey seer couldn’t see the subjects of his spell, but he could sense the magic coiling itself about them. A strange metamorphosis was gripping each of the walking carcasses. Each of them suddenly became rigid and unmoving as the magic of the Horned Rat flooded through their bodies. Decayed flesh sloughed away to be replaced by fresh new pelts of verminous fur. Bleached bones bubbled as rodent flesh rapidly grew around them.

  In less than a minute, the undead horde was transmogrified into a cluttering mass of full-grown, living skaven. Nashrik had done more than simply restore life to the dead husks animated by the Black Seer’s magic. The Thirteenth Ritual had erased those decayed creatures, using their bodies as a foundation from which the magic crafted entirely new skaven, creatures which owed no allegiance to Huskk Gnawbone. Creatures which owed their very existence to Grey Seer Nashrik.

  As Nashrik opened his eyes, blinking away the last fragments of dark power clinging to him after working such a mighty spell, he was impressed by the living horde that had replaced Huskk’s dead one. The change-scent skaven squeaked and snarled, both confused and exuberant in their new existence. Nashrik noted that no arrows whistled out from the trees to strike his new-made ratmen. Even the elves were awed by this display of sorcery!

  “Kill-kill!” Nashrik roared, adopting his most stiff-backed, imperious posture. He pointed his claw at the trees. The change-scent skaven regarded their grey-clad creator then, with a chorus of squeaks and howls, charged into the forest. Where the march of the un
dead had been slow and regular, the advance of the skaven was a rapid confusion of slavering fangs and rusty blades. The elves, rousing from their confusion and shock, were barely able to fell a dozen of the monsters before the first ranks were among the trees and taking the battle to the foe.

  Nashrik watched his warriors, the thrill of power and the promise of victory swelling his spleen. These were his soldiers! They would obey him! The usefulness of Huskk Gnawbone was at an end! Nashrik could steal the power of this Golden Pool, claim the necromancer’s hoarded warpstone and still bring the pelt of the Black Seer back to Skavenblight!

  A flicker of disquiet crept through Nashrik’s exultant mood. Huskk would certainly appreciate the mistake he had made. It would be best to attend to the necromancer before he could cause any trouble. It had been considerate of the fool to provide Nashrik with the means to ensure his own destruction.

  Already invoking a terrible spell of ruin, magnifying its energies through the warpstone, Nashrik spun around. His clawed paw reached forward, prepared to send a crackling blast of warp-lightning sizzling through Huskk’s withered hide.

  The grey seer blinked in confusion. Huskk wasn’t there! The craven Black Seer had fled, taking his bodyguard of grave rats and his crippled cockatrice with him!

  Nashrik’s lip curled in contempt. So the worm had realised his mistake. Well, let him try to hide. There would be no escape from the claws of the Horned Rat!

  A blast of crackling faerie fire seared past Nashrik’s shoulder, blackening one of his horns. The grey seer dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding a spear of emerald light that streaked above his prostrate form.

  The grey seer would have bigger problems to attend to than finding Huskk. Now Nashrik appreciated the full extent of his faithless ally’s perfidy! The necromancer had abandoned him to the wrath of the elves! After the mammoth spectacle of the Thirteenth Ritual, every elf in the forest knew of Nashrik’s power.