The fighting was heavy on all sides. Even more dark elves arrived – where were they coming from? Khera was in the thick of it, and the dark elves had no answer to her vast bulk and savagery. Thin lines of blood stained her flank where weapons had bit home, but her pelt was thick and such minor scratches barely troubled her. Morgil gave a grim smile as he saw her bear down on an armour-clad druchii and rip his throat, shaking the corpse with abandon before dropping it and moving on to the next assailant.
Still they came. A Swordmaster fell directly in front of Morgil, his noble face cut open from a dark elf blade. Morgil immediately plunged into the gap and swung his axe in a wide, low arc. Ahead, he could see a tall figure at the rear of the dark elf contingent place a staff on the ground and mouth some foul speech. Morgil spat contemptuously. A sorcerer. He furiously battered the warrior aside, and rushed over to where Artheris lay. For the moment, the Swordmasters and Khera would have to hold the line.
‘My lady,’ he said quickly. ‘Can you rise? There is a sorcerer.’
Artheris smiled weakly. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear and steady.
‘Leave him to me,’ she said. ‘Concentrate on those warriors.’
Morgil nodded, and rushed back into the fray. A moment later, the sorcerer struck. His staff flung screaming bolts of snaking, ink-black matter into the melee. Swordmasters and human troops were blasted from their feet. Armour was split apart, helmets smashed. The sorcerer threw more deadly streaks of smoking sorcery. One bolt narrowly missed Morgil as he ducked beneath it. As the dark magic passed, he could feel its malign aura sweep over him. It slammed into one of the last remaining human knights. He was hurled into the air, limbs twitching, before crashing into the barricade with a sickening snap of bone.
The sorcerer raised his iron staff, and new energies burst into being around it. Morgil steeled himself. But then bolts of silver light sprung from behind him and tore towards the sorcerer. The dark elf hurriedly raised a protective ward about him, and the silver darts shattered against it like a shower of jewels. More followed, smashing into the ward with increasing speed and frequency. The sorcerer fell to one knee, battered down by the cumulative force of the new magic. Morgil smiled grimly. Even wounded, Artheris was a match for his dark lore. But she would not last long in her wounded state. Time was still of the essence.
Morgil looked around him quickly. There were few of the retinue left, and the dark elves were in the ascendancy. He tore into the warrior before him, taking his legs out from under him with a mighty swing of the axe before plunging the blade deep into his neck. With Khera at his side, he strode forward, his axe singing, eyes blazing. A fresh warrior leapt up to confront him, and he prepared to dispatch her with the same ease as the rest.
But this time it was different. Morgil swung the axe with blinding speed, hoping to catch the warrior’s trailing thigh with the blade before returning to finish the job. She was too fast, and span out of the attack. Almost too quickly to notice, she flicked a spiked dagger into his face as she turned, and immediately whirled back to renew the attack with a curved short sword dripping in poison. Morgil leapt backwards, letting the dagger fly past his cheek as he parried the sword with the handle of his axe. She was quick, very quick. This was no ordinary warrior.
The White Lion swung the axe heavily towards her, moving it swiftly in a figure of eight motion and limiting the assassin’s space to move. She responded by falling back and leaping high into the air, kicking her spiked boot out at his neck as she sailed over the arc of the axe blade. Morgil dropped down suddenly to his left and punched up with the axe, aiming to catch her on the descent and knock her off balance. The axe connected with something, but it was her own blade, brought down with blistering speed to counteract the anticipated blow. Morgil pushed heavily against the locked weapons, and his greater strength forced her briefly backwards.
Their faces came together for the merest of moments. He found himself looking into two dark eyes, two wells of hatred and bitterness. In the dilated pupils he thought for a second he caught a glimpse of his own mask of concentrated aggression. Their expressions were not so different from one another. Two sides of a coin, fighting the eternal battle, gradually becoming more and more alike.
The momentum of the movement thrust them apart once more. Morgil made to leap after her, but a fresh commotion distracted both of them. Many of the Swordmasters around the archmage had been killed, and only a few remained defiantly standing over the limp form of Artheris. On every side, dark elves swarmed forward, aided by new blasts of snake-like force from the figure of the sorcerer. Artheris was clearly flagging. But, at last, reinforcements had arrived. They had come just in time.
With hope renewed, Morgil pressed forward. Behind newly-arrived asur warriors, lines of Imperial troops could be seen bringing up the rear. Morgil saw the sorcerer look around him uneasily and begin to back away. The dark elves, caught between the two foes, were cut down mercilessly by the fresh troops. They had already lost many of their number in the assault, and now they were hopelessly outnumbered. The tide had turned, and their formation broke. The battle became a slaughter, and the druchii were now the prey.
Morgil turned to the warrior before him. She curled her lip in disdain, and leapt towards him once more. Clearly she had not lost her taste for the fight. Morgil raised his axe, expecting their duel to recommence. But her movement was a feint, and one of dazzling speed and subtlety. She darted under the savage thrust of his blade and threw herself past his guard. Morgil spun around quickly, trying to regain his balance and bring the curve of his weapon to bear. Too late, he realised he was no longer the target. Seeing that all was nearly lost, the dark elf had clearly decided on one last gamble. Pulling a second curved dagger from her armour, she twisted acrobatically away from Morgil’s attack and hurled it towards Artheris.
Morgil followed its trajectory with horror, seeing immediately that it would hit her. He roared out a warning. Even the Swordmasters couldn’t react in time. The blade spun onwards with deadly speed. But it never found its target. Khera, bloodied but unbowed, flung herself in its path. The knife sunk into the flesh up to the hilt. The huge animal roared with agony and crashed back to earth heavily.
‘Khera!’ cried Morgil, suddenly consumed by fear.
He turned to the dark elf, who backed away from him frantically. Morgil felt all restraint leave him. With an incoherent howl of rage, he launched himself forward, swinging the axe in a maelstrom of dazzling strokes. The dark elf retreated before the elemental display, looking desperately over to the sorcerer. The tall figure was backing away himself, seemingly preparing some new spell. All around him dark elf warriors were being cut down like wheat in the harvest. Blind to anything except vengeance, Morgil strode towards his prey with a dark fire in his eyes. The axe was like a reed in his hands, and the weariness of battle had fallen from him in an instant.
The dark elf hurled her remaining weapon straight at him, and turned on her heels. Morgil smacked the spinning blade aside with his axe and charged after her. She was trying to get to the sorcerer, perhaps hoping he might be able to help her. But something was happening to the tall dark-robed figure. His body was shimmering out of focus. With the assassination attempt foiled, he was clearly using his arts to depart the scene.
The assassin ran directly up to the sorcerer, grabbing his cloak frantically. But the sorcerer smiled, and pushed her viciously backwards with a blast from his staff. Then he winked out of existence. A faint smell of ozone was the only residual clue to his presence. With a look of horror and betrayal, the dark elf whirled around quickly.
Her prospects were not good. Fresh asur and human soldiers had swarmed into the narrow space. The remaining dark elves were being butchered. Morgil advanced towards the assassin, relishing the chance for vengeance. Once more, their eyes met.
With incredible strength and speed, she sprung upwards and grasped an overhanging section of the wall behind her. Morgil prepared to leap after her, but one of
the remaining warriors blocked his path. With a huge swipe of his axe, Morgil embedded his blade deeply into his armour-clad chest, causing the metal to buckle and split. He flung the limp body of the warrior aside contemptuously. The assassin clambered upwards, and was away, climbing into an open window and disappearing from view. The White Lion made to follow her, when he heard Khera’s roar of death agony. Suddenly, all thought of combat left him.
Morgil turned. Khera’s body lay amidst the carnage. A feeling of dread overtook him. He hurried over to her, heedless of all else happening around him. He lowered himself to her side. Around him, the sounds of battle abated as the dark elves were finished off. Khera’s amber eyes were weak and lacking in focus. Her breathing was shallow and came with difficulty. With some effort, she emitted a low rumble of recognition.
Morgil felt hot tears start in his eyes. The bond between them was inexplicable to outsiders. It was often dismissed as sentiment. But each had saved the life of the other more times than he could remember. Now the poisoned blade was doing its work, and the lioness was dying. Morgil looked down grimly, locked in grief.
With a grunt of pain, Khera tried to rise, but could no longer do so. Her huge body shuddered, and then lay still. Gradually, painfully, the amber light in her eyes dimmed and faded.
Morgil remained fixed in his position for some time, unable to move or respond. The world around him became a blur. Voices rose and fell, but they were insubstantial and echoing. The loss was so acute he felt physically wounded by it. His own breathing became strained. He stared down at the still form of the ivory lioness, the creature he had raised from a cub to fight by his side.
Only after what seemed like an eternity, his wits began to return. He looked up. Artheris was there, her own face drawn with pain and sorrow. She looked at him, but said nothing. Only then did Morgil realise that his face was lined with tears. Normally such emotion would have shamed him, but he cared nothing for it now. He rose shakily.
‘I will avenge her,’ he said, his voice trembling with emotion.
‘Many asur have died,’ Artheris replied. ‘You’re needed here.’
Morgil stared back at her, his face tormented.
‘An assassin escaped,’ he said, his grief sliding easily into hatred. ‘I can find her. Honour demands it.’
Artheris placed a calming hand on his shoulder.
‘Do not do this, Morgil,’ she said. ‘Your rage blinds you. Let fury be your guide, and I’ll not be able to save you a second time.’
Morgil’s eyes suddenly shone with a feral light. Artheris let go of his shoulder. Even she seemed taken aback by the savage expression in his face.
‘My fury is all there is,’ he hissed. ‘I will do this.’
Artheris seemed for a moment as if she would try and dissuade him. Indecision flickered briefly across her face. But her eyes were far-seeing. As she gazed at him, Morgil felt as if his very soul were being examined. After a moment, the archmage sighed.
‘I cannot change you,’ she said, softly. ‘It would break you, and your skills will be needed.’
She looked sorrowful, her elegant features stained by pain.
‘Go,’ Artheris said. ‘May Asuryan guide you.’
Morgil nodded curtly. He turned around and strode through the crowds of elves and men. His face was a mask of grief and dreadful purpose. None dared waylay him. He went back along the side street and into the main thoroughfare. It was almost empty of the living, though dozens of bodies lay in the mud.
Only once he was free of the site of the battle did his emotions overtake him. With a howl of rage and loss, he raised his axe high against the sky and bellowed at the heavens. His cry echoed down the narrow streets, rebounding back towards him and augmenting his fury.
Then his lungs were spent. He let his arms relax once more. The few humans in view crept nervously away, terrified by the vision of madness he presented them. Ignoring them all, Morgil took a deep breath, and set off in the direction the assassin had taken. His expression was dark, but his senses were restored to their normal pitch of acuity. All thought of his previous mission had been abandoned. He would find the dark elf and kill her. Everything else was irrelevant.
The hunt had begun.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The torches in the subterranean vaults under Altdorf had nearly all gone out. The few remaining brands cast a weak red light over the ancient stone. It mattered little to Kalia. As she went quickly through the series of chambers which had served her for so long, her eyes picked out detail in the gloom that a human would have missed in daylight. Despite her weariness she travelled surely amongst the forgotten places beneath the city, driven onward by cold fury.
There were only a few possessions to collect before she had to leave. The streets above were no doubt crawling with asur, and even the catacombs were no longer safe. Her human agents were mostly dead, her entourage destroyed. Attacking the archmage had been a risk too far. It was a bitter setback, though not nearly as bitter as Malek’s treachery. He could have taken her with him easily. Working together, they might even have been able to salvage something from the wreckage. But his true designs were obvious to her now.
He had meant her to die.
That crooked smile on his well-fed face had told her all she needed to know. She was Uthorin, he was Arkaneth. Once again, rivalry between druchii Houses had marred an attempt to strike a blow against the true enemy.
Kalia had passed through his chambers on her way back to her own shadowed lair, hoping against hope he might still be there. But he was not stupid enough to let himself be so easily caught. In his inner sanctum she had found the smashed bowl of a cauldron, stained with gore and the patina of fire. Everything of value had been hastily destroyed. Malek was not coming back.
Her fingers trembling slightly, Kalia uncorked a vial containing a dark blue liquid and poured it on her wounds. Where it touched her pale skin the potion fizzed and burned, cauterising the flesh. Clenching her teeth against the sharp pain, she worked methodically over her body. Feeling weary and slow-witted, she took a draught from another phial, one she used rarely. The potent narcotic rushed into her system, clarifying her mind and sharpening her senses. She leaned back against the dank wall for a moment, giving the powerful substances time to do their work.
She cast her mind back over the recent events. Her adversary, the White Lion, had been formidable. He fought more like one of her own kind than a typical asur. She knew enough of the ways of the Chracians to realise he would be on her trail now. The bond between master and beast was said to be closer than that between brothers. Though she despised the sentimentality, she could not ignore her peril.
Feeling energy slowly return, Kalia pushed herself back to her feet. She went through the remainder of her few belongings, taking fresh daggers and some tight-wrapped bundles of sustenance. Drawing her cloak around her, she set off once more along the narrow ways and into the darkness.
There were few options available to her. The countryside outside Altdorf was as perilous as the city itself. Even with her skills of subterfuge, a druchii was a rare sight in the realms of men. She needed respite, space to recover her strength. Ultimately, she had to find a way back to Naggaroth. But that journey would have to wait. Her only certainty was that she would not leave the shores of Elthin Arvan until Malek lay in a pool of blood at her feet. Whatever other tasks she had to perform, vengeance came first. Her seething anger was barely tempered by the thought of his lingering demise. When it came, it would be a pleasure of the most exquisite kind.
How to achieve that end was another question. Malek would most likely be forced to leave Altdorf too, at least for the time being. Guessing his movements was difficult, but not impossible. She knew the Chaos forces must have started their march south. As the war drew closer, they would come ever nearer to the city. Though any dealings with the fanatical zealots of the Ruinous Powers was an affront to her druchii sense of superiority, she also knew that a grand alliance was part of Malek
ith’s plans. As unlikely as it seemed, the Chaos armies were the allies she needed. Malek would no doubt decide the same. If Kalia were going to meet him again, there was only one place to lie in wait. At the heart of the storm, amidst the ranks of the invaders.
Of course, the plan relied on the Chaos forces deciding not to kill and eat her, something which could never be entirely certain. She would have to be careful, and use her knowledge of the Empire’s preparations judiciously. Only if she made herself invaluable could her life be safeguarded, and only if Malek performed as expected would she be bound to meet him again.
So much risk, so many uncertainties. But it was worth it for the chance, just the one chance, to slip her dagger across his throat as his fat face looked up at her in terror, pleading for the mercy that would never come.
Like the lingering memory of a nightmare, Kalia flitted swiftly along the slime-encrusted sewers and tunnels. In the wake of her passing, the echoing spaces once more sunk back into darkness and silence. For several moments, nothing stirred but the faint ripple of foetid water.
After much time had passed, a second figure emerged into the dim light of the torches from the darkness of the surrounding catacombs. He went as stealthily as she, and in the gloom seemed almost as insubstantial. But his raiment was pale, and he carried an axe. Pausing only once to check the surroundings for subtle signs of her trail, he advanced implacably, pacing as soundlessly as a feral cat after its prey.
With his departure, the deep places of Altdorf finally returned to their habitual emptiness. The torches guttered, and one by one went out.
Fassbinder brought his horse to a halt, and gazed with distaste ahead of him. The sun had risen an hour since, but the mist hanging over the Reik valley refused to lift. The mournful country was draped in a grim blanket of dank, clinging moisture. The trees on either side of his men loomed darkly in the gloom. A hundred yards in front of him the forest thinned, and the land fell tumbling towards the river. The terrain beyond was a mix of mud, scrub, thin grass and unwholesome pools of oily water.
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