Warhammer Anthology 07

by Way of the Dead

  ‘Suppose we were to double back behind them, and try to pick them off one by one,’ Quintal suggested. He felt uncomfortable proposing a plan that the bowman would have to execute virtually single-handed.

  ‘Impossible,’ was Ashraf’s judgment. ‘That would be playing into the goblins’ hands. Countering sneak attacks is one of their skills. We have no choice but to go on, and hope that we can find a way to give them the slip.’ His tone suggested he didn’t believe they could do it.

  Quintal looked at the terrain before them, and knew exactly why his companion was so pessimistic. Like the deserts of Araby, this part of the Badlands was all sand and rock, and the sand was gathered by the wind into continually shifting dunes that limited their vision to a few hundred paces.

  Although noon was long past the sand was still very hot and yielding; it was far from an ideal surface for steel-shod horses. Quintal and Ashraf had put leather socks over the hooves of their mounts, but that wasn’t enough to save them from distress.

  Quintal raised his water bottle and shook it. There was hardly any liquid left to rattle. He put it down again even though his throat was parched.

  ‘If we don’t find water by nightfall,’ Ashraf told him, grimly, ‘We’ll be travelling on foot tomorrow. And if we don’t find water tomorrow… it might be a blessing if the greenskins were to catch up with us.’

  ‘So we keep going forward,’ Quintal said. ‘The one thing to be said for these dunes is that there’s always high ground ahead.’

  ‘And more dunes,’ the Arabian muttered.

  Quintal guessed that the odds were perhaps a thousand to one in favour of that judgment, but to his surprise, Memet Ashraf challenged it almost immediately. ‘There was a road here once,’ he said, pensively.

  ‘I see no sign of it,’ Quintal admitted.

  ‘You’re not desert-bred,’ the Arabian reminded him. ‘It is far older than any I’ve seen before, but it’s definitely a road. The orcs are desert-bred, but they’re probably too stupid to see it, so we’ll lose nothing by following it. I wonder where it leads to?’

  ‘To the city!’ Quintal exclaimed, feeling a sudden surge of exultation. ‘Elisio was telling the truth!’

  ‘To damnation, more likely,’ was Memet Ashraf’s grim verdict. ‘Even so, we have no choice but to follow it. There comes a time in every man’s life when all roads lead to damnation.’

  It was obvious to Quintal that Memet Ashraf had lost whatever faith he had had in their mission, and that even the discovery of the all-but-obliterated road could not reignite it. The Estalian could hardly blame him, for he had lost faith in the informant who had sent him on this mad expedition, and he could find little comfort in the news that there was a road here only detectable by an Arabian.

  Even so, he thought, we might as well pray that Elisio was right, as we’ve little else to offer us hope.

  Quintal was a native of Magritta, where noblemen were exceedingly proud of their naval traditions, and made great heroes of their explorers and privateers. Mindful of the bad example set by the smaller neighbouring city-state of Almyria, whose royal family were perennially engaged in murdering one another, the Magrittan nobility had found it conducive to political stability to put their younger sons in charge of ships commissioned to undertake expeditions to distant and dangerous parts of the world. A few returned very rich, but a greater number never returned. An even greater number brought their vessels home in ignominious states of disrepair, with nothing to show for their adventures but tales of treasures almost captured and battles almost won. These tales were usually discounted, but when one of Quintal’s cousins, Elisio Azevedo, whom he had been careless enough to worship in his youth - assured him that no one but loyal Luis should hear the tale of what happened to his lost ship, Quintal had been very eager to believe him.

  When the time came for him to take his own ship south, Quintal had been determined to take advantage of the knowledge that he alone possessed - if Elisio could be trusted. His cousin, alas, had suffered a fatal accident a few months after telling him the story. In spite of being warned of the dangers, Quintal had matched his cousin’s losses. He had found himself stranded on a distant shore along with the sole survivor of the foundered ship that had sent his own to the bottom.

  Had Memet Ashraf been an orc, they would doubtless have continued to fight one another until one of them lay dead. But Memet Ashraf was not an orc, and the two of them had been sensible enough to make a truce - which had turned quickly enough into a firm compact. Ever since they had stolen the horses they were now riding Quintal had been happy to think of the other man as a fast friend - although he knew that he would never be able to introduce him as a dinner-guest to any inn or home in Magritta.

  At the moment, that was the least of his troubles.

  Quintal wondered whether Memet Ashraf had ever believed a word of his second-hand tale of a city of roseate stone, almost buried by desert sands and so far south in the Badlands as to be perilously near the borders of the Land of the Dead. Probably not, he decided, but the Arabian had no destination of his own - however fanciful - and he was a desert man by birth.

  At any rate, he had consented to be led into the desert, presumably thinking it was a place they were least likely to run into the orc and goblin tribes that were the curse of the Badlands.

  Alas, it had not been unlikely enough.

  ‘Perhaps we should have stolen boars instead of horses,’ Quintal said, when they crested yet another rise only to see yet more dunes before them. ‘Perhaps, if we’re very careful, we still could.’

  ‘An Arabian does not ride a pig.’ Memet Ashraf’s reply was hoarse but scornful.

  Quintal looked back at the way they had come. Earlier in the day there had been a wind blowing which meant that their tracks in the soft sand might be obliterated, but the evening was utterly still and the route they had followed could hardly have been marked more clearly. It could not be helped. There was nothing to do but continue until the horses collapsed - then there would be nothing to do but continue on foot, until he and Ashraf became incapable of moving on.

  Quintal would be the first to fall, and he knew that however firm his new friendship was, Memet Ashraf would then go on without him, perhaps cutting his throat so that he would not fall into the hands of the orcs and goblins alive. Goblins had a reputation for ingenious and effective torture even in Estalia, whose inquisitors were legendary throughout the Old World.

  Well, Quintal thought, at least I shall never have the opportunity to pass the tale on to some younger cousin in Magritta who knows no better than to take it seriously. What could I have been thinking? Buried cities older than the desert sands! Temples raised to evil gods when the Land of the Dead was still the Land of the Living! Horned idols with enormous gems mounted in their foreheads! How could I have been so gullible? And yet… my desert-bred friend says that we are following a road. It must lead somewhere solid, even if it is to damnation as well.

  Memet Ashraf’s raw voice cut into his reverie: ‘Look there!’

  For a moment, Quintal’s carefully-balanced cynicism fell away, releasing a flood of delirious hope. But then he saw that the pirate was pointing up towards circling vultures, and his optimism faded again.

  ‘Have they come for us already?’ he moaned. ‘Is the odour of death already upon us?’

  ‘Not yet,’ the Arabian croaked. ‘They have more urgent work to do. There’s something up ahead which is not quite dead.’

  ‘And if we get there first,’ Quintal said, ‘we can hold the birds at bay and claim the prize for ourselves!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Memet Ashraf, urging his horse to one last effort.

  Quintal made to follow him, but his horse made no response at all. The sun was setting, and the twilight would not last long. His horse was finished, and the Arabian’s mount was almost as bad, although it was slightly ahead. There was no danger that Quintal would be left far behind.

  The dunes were smaller and steeper here tha
n they had been before, and the low ground between them a little stonier. Even Quintal could see signs of a road now, it was no longer straight - but it made good sense for Quintal and Memet Ashraf to follow the meandering course of the ancient path, even though they could hardly see thirty paces in front or behind.

  Ten minutes passed before they came in sight of the vultures’ quarry. Quintal’s first reaction was to groan in disappointment. He had been hoping to find another human traveller - preferably a pretty woman who had fainted from the heat even though she still had a full water bottle - or, better still, a barrel in the luggage borne by her sturdy and patient packhorse. Instead they found a boar bred by the orcs for transportation, milk and meat. It carried no saddle or harness, but it was almost certainly an escapee from orcish domestication rather than a natural inhabitant of the region. It was lying down, presumably stricken by thirst and exhaustion. Its eyes were open, and they fixed upon Memet Ashraf as he rode forward. The creature seemed incapable of movement, save for a reflexive spasm in one of its hind legs.

  Trying to look on the bright side, Quintal told himself that the animal was meat. But meat was not what he needed most; water was. He wondered, briefly, whether horses could be persuaded to drink boar’s blood, and whether they would benefit out of it if they did. Having failed to convince himself in respect of the horses, he then wondered if he could drink boar’s blood, and whether it would benefit him.

  He was surprised that Memet Ashraf was a great deal more excited by the discovery. ‘Is it really worth fighting the vultures for?’ he asked.

  ‘Boars have good noses,’ the Arabian told him, briefly. Quintal, looking down at the animal’s incredibly ugly four-horned snout, and realised that good evidently did not mean handsome. ‘Look at its tracks!’ the Arabian went on. ‘Its path has converged with ours. I don’t know where it started, but I do know that it would not have come this way if there were a better way. If there’s water anywhere, this is the signpost that will lead us to it.’

  ‘If it’s more than a few hundred paces off, it might as well be on the other side of the world,’ Quintal said.

  Memet Ashraf had dismounted now. ‘But it’s not!’ he said. ‘It’s right here, but the poor creature couldn’t get to it. It’s a well, my friend. A covered well! That’s why the road suddenly became so round-about.’

  The Arabian was using his booted feet to brush the sand away from a rounded stone. Its emerging shape declared clearly that it was no mere boulder. It was a sculpted capstone - and what could it possibly be capping, if not a well?

  ‘Help me!’ the Arabian demanded.

  Quintal was not slow to oblige. The capstone was heavy, but its weight had been carefully judged so that one man alone would be able to slide it away in case of dire necessity. They shifted it together without undue difficulty.

  Night was falling, but they would not have been able to see far into the pit even in full daylight. Memet Ashraf picked up a pebble no bigger than a knucklebone and dropped it into the darkness. The splash was somewhat delayed, but clearly audible and satisfyingly sonorous; it promised reasonable depth.

  ‘We don’t have a bucket, but we do have a rope,’ the Arabian said, exultantly. ‘One of us can let the other down, with a bottle in each hand. It might take four or five trips, but we should be able to bring up enough to put new life into the horses.’

  ‘I’m lighter,’ Quintal said, ‘and you have the stronger arms in any case. But the water’s a fair way down - is the rope long enough, and will it take the strain?’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ his companion told him, rummaging in his saddlebag for the rope.

  Quintal took off his belt, his sheathed sword and his pouch, and passed them to his companion.

  ‘These are all my worldly possessions - everything I have and everything I am is in this belt,’ he said. ‘Look after it, I beg you.’

  Ashraf nodded, and muttered: ‘You’ll be back in three minutes.’

  Alas, it required only two minutes to ascertain that the rope was not quite long enough, and that it would not take the strain of Quintal’s weight. As he reached its limit, bracing himself as best he could against the walls of the well, a worn section of the rope snapped where it was looped around his chest, and he fell out of the noose.

  He could not find a handhold or a foothold in the wall, and scrabbling after them only served to bloody his hands. He told himself that he could not have far to fall, and that he would not hurt himself because he was falling into deep water.

  He was right, although the second part of his conviction had better grounds than the first. He fell less than three times his own height, scrambling at the walls as he went, but when he hit the water the impact seemed adequately cushioned.

  He was astonished to find that the water was cold - and more surprising, had he only had time to consider the matter - it was far from still.

  Before Quintal hit the water, the circle of light at the well mouth had shrunk alarmingly. Then he was immersed in total darkness, and by the time he had struggled back to the surface the current had carried him away.

  He was not at all disappointed to be wet, or to have filled his mouth with water, but he knew that he was in dire danger. At any moment the flow might dash him against a rock or carry him into a bottleneck where he would stick fast and drown. He gulped as much air as he could, knowing that he might not have the opportunity to do so for much longer. He fought to swim against the current, hoping to bring himself to a safe pause if not to get back to the well shaft. But he was weaker than he had imagined. Magrittans were famed in Estalia as strong swimmers, but even the strongest of them would have floundered had he been brought as close to dehydration and exhaustion as Quintal.

  So far as he could judge, the tunnel through which he was being carried was almost level, and there was at least an arm’s-length of clearance above the surface. It was filled with stagnant but breathable air. He was wise enough to know that water does not flow as fast as this along a level course unless there is a cataract ahead. He could already hear the cascade. It might be as high as a man was tall, or it might descend half way to the centre of the world; all he could do was make ready for the drop and hope.

  The water hurled him over the edge, and for a moment he almost came clear of the stream. Then he hit the pool below the waterfall, and the breath was knocked out of him.

  The pool was even colder than the flood that had dumped him into it, and he was grateful for the slight additional shock. He was grateful too that the pool was relatively still once he had drifted away from the cascade. It must have an outflow somewhere, but it was relatively tranquil.

  He was able to swim now, albeit weakly. He dared not make haste in any case. He had to be wary of swimming into an unforgiving rock face or catching an arm or leg on a jutting spur.

  When his hand finally touched something solid, it felt like a ledge. In fact, he soon discovered, it was one of a whole sequence of ledges arranged in series.

  No! he thought, feeling another resurgence of optimism. Not ledges - but steps!

  He was right: a flight of stairs had been cut into the rock that lead down into the water. He was able to stand up, albeit very shakily, and climb out. Once clear of the water he sat down to rest. He squeezed the cloth of his shirt to release the water it had trapped. The pain in his hands as he increased his grip told him that he had lost a good deal of skin.

  I’m in a bathhouse! Quintal thought.

  He scrambled up the whole flight of steps feeling steadier on his feet. The water he had taken in had made him feel slightly sick as well as slaking his thirst.

  He began to walk away from the head of the staircase, taking one careful step at a time with his hand extended in the darkness before him, wary of meeting a wall. He found one eventually, but it was not set squarely across his path. It was set aslant, as if the area at the top of the steps was triangular rather than square.

  Of course it narrows, he told himself. It leads to a corridor o
f some kind. And if I follow the corridor carefully, I shall find more steps… steps that will eventually lead me all the way to the surface, for I must be in the cellar of a building - a building in a roseate city lost for thousands of years in the worst of the Badlands, where even orcs and goblins will not go. Oh, Luis, Luis, how could you ever have doubted dear Elisio’s word?

  Quintal was shivering now, and his teeth were chattering. He would have been very glad to find another flight of steps at the far end of the corridor into which he came, but it opened out instead into another wide space, of which he could see not a single detail.

  Rather than marching forwards he followed the wall, running his hands along it even though his fingers became thickly beslimed with something horrid. He paused to wipe them on his trousers, but the slime was difficult to dislodge even on the wet cloth.

  When he came to another narrow opening he had no way of knowing whether the tunnel would lead him up or down, but he tried it anyway. There was a wooden door at the further end, which seemed to have been barred. He could find no trace of a handle or a lock, but it would not yield to a tentative push. What gave him hope, though, was the fact that the invisible surface seemed to be covered in slime and fungal nodules. He concluded that it must be rotten, and if he could find its weakest point he might be able to make a hole. If he could not dislodge the bar after that, he could probably gradually widen the hole, until it was large enough to crawl through.

  It was hard work for a man in his depleted condition. When the wood finally began to splinter it produced dagger-sharp pieces. They would have been easy enough to avoid had he been able to see them, but under cover of darkness they stabbed his hands and forearms, reopening the cuts he had sustained in the well and making several new deeper ones. Even so, such was his desperation and determination that it took him less than an hour to break through.