03 - The Hour of Shadows

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

  The ratman’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the skull. He still felt the horror of the thing he held in his hand, but the ghostly voice had impressed that part of his mind not ruled by instinct. Old ambitions flared up within Neek’s mind. Position! Power! Access to the breeders! A cloak of cat-skin and a suit of armour such as Warlord Graknit wore!

  Such petty ambitions. I offer you true power. The power of life and death. The power beyond death.

  Suspicion flared up inside Neek’s breast. This was a thing of the dead-things, unholy kindred of the Skull-Devil! It would not offer him anything without some trick. It wanted something from him—something Neek was certain he couldn’t afford to give.

  I need flesh. I need limbs. The horse-lords have left me broken, my body torn asunder. I cannot work my magic without hands to weave the aethyr and a voice to speak the spells.

  That was it! The foul thing wanted Neek’s body! The skaven squeaked in fright, dropping the skull to the ground. The faint glow in the sockets faded as Neek backed away from it. Dimly, he imagined he could hear the dead-thing’s voice scratching at his brain.

  No! It would not have his flesh! Better to die and be eaten by his fellow skaven!

  Neek turned to run, but as he did so, he saw a black shape prowling through the grass. The shape’s scent was that of Tisknik and as the black skaven’s form became more distinct, Neek saw that there was still a hungry gleam in the beady red eyes. Tisknik moved with a limp, his leg bloodied and torn. Clearly he had fared poorly in the melee. Driven off by the other scavengers, he had followed Neek’s scent, hoping to find easier prey.

  Even weakened, Neek knew that Tisknik was still more than a match for him. There was death in the black skaven’s eyes. Neek would spill his life on Tisknik’s sword and his flesh would make his enemy strong again. The thought was more repugnant to Neek than it had been a moment ago. Every bullying indignity he had suffered at Tisknik’s paws flashed through his mind. No, the arrogant brute would not feast upon Neek’s bones!

  Subduing his instinctive horror, Neek scrambled back to the discarded skull, cradling it in his hands.

  “Yes-yes!” Neek squeaked. “Give-bring power! Share-take Neek’s body-flesh!”

  Tisknik hesitated, glaring at the smaller ratman. “The Horned One does not listen-hear runt-squeaks,” he growled.

  The scornful contempt in Tisknik’s voice sent a sliver of pure hate coursing through Neek’s heart. The runt’s vision grew dark, his body turned cold. No, it wasn’t hate rushing through his body. It was something else. Something that wasn’t a part of him.

  The darkness became bright, like a great grey mist which surrounded him. He could see Tisknik now as a strange shadow-figure of pulsing veins and pounding heart. His foe’s face and sword, these were mere echoes of substance to Neek’s new sight, but the black skaven’s veins and heart, racing with blood, these shone more brightly than the most brilliant warp-lantern.

  Now there were words forming in Neek’s mind. As quickly as they formed, the runt’s lips spoke them, his tongue curling about the strange sounds as though they were more familiar to him than his own scent. He shifted the skull to his right hand and made a curious gesture with his left paw.

  Instantly, Tisknik stopped advancing. The black skaven cried out, his squeak carrying within it a note of terror mixed with unspeakable agony. The blazing glow of Tisknik’s veins faded, collapsing in upon itself, turning blacker than the shadow body which housed them. In a moment, the completely dark body wilted to the ground. The smell of death raced through Neek’s nose.

  The ratman’s belly growled once more. Baring his fangs, he prepared to leap upon the darkened carcass that had been Tisknik. He would fill his belly with the meat of his vanquished enemy!

  No. He will be of more use to us whole and undamaged.

  The ghostly voice restrained Neek. More words flashed through his brain, and with them were more gestures which he must make. This time, he would need both hands. Carefully, he set the skull down upon the ground once more. As it touched the cold earth, Neek observed the light slowly fade once more from the eye sockets.

  It did not matter, the spell was already housed within Neek’s brain. He did not need the skull to instruct him further. Standing over the withered body of Tisknik, the runt made the gestures and spoke the words. The carcass began to twitch.

  For an instant, Neek thought the skull had betrayed him, that the spell had poured life back into Tisknik. But, no, there was no return of the fiery vibrancy of life to the dead skaven’s veins. The blackened heart did not beat, the cold blood did not flow. Tisknik was dead, but his body had been restored to the simulacrum of life, transformed into a soulless puppet.

  “Raise-lift your arm,” Neek snarled at the dead thing. Slowly, awkwardly, Tisknik lifted his arm. An excited squeak hissed past Neek’s fangs at this display of the power he had been given. This was a power greater than Warlord Graknit possessed, for the minions he commanded had minds of their own and might turn on him. Tisknik no longer had any mind, no will except that of Neek. There could never be any treachery from such an underling, only unquestioned obedience.

  Neek cast a sly look at the skull lying upon the ground. The foolish dead-thing had given him the secret of a great power, practically handed it to him without a fight. The ratman closed his eyes, concentrating his mind. Yes, the secret of the first spell was there too, the knowledge to wither flesh and drive the life-force from an enemy’s body.

  He laughed maliciously. He could leave the skull where it was. It had already given him more power than he had ever dreamed of possessing. He could leave it behind, forget all about it. He was no longer Neek Stumblepaw, but Neek Spellscratcher. Warlord Graknit would reward him well for his services.

  Neek grinned savagely. But why should he serve anyone? If the skull had given him such secrets so easily, what knowledge might it still possess? He would be foolish to cast it aside so recklessly when there was more magic it could teach him.

  The skaven turned to his zombie slave. It was almost on his tongue to order Tisknik to pick up the skull and carry it for him. The instinctive suspicion of all skaven prevented Neek from making such a blunder. The skull needed a body to make its magic. Working through Neek, it had been forced to share its power with his mind. But the zombie had no mind of its own. The skull would be able to dominate Tisknik completely. It would have no further use for Neek then.

  That wouldn’t help Neek in the slightest, because he had big plans for the skull and the secrets it would tell him.

  Ordering the zombie back, Neek retrieved the skull from the ground. He chittered maliciously as he sensed disappointment and frustration emanating from the undead spirit. He had seen through the dead-thing’s trick. Now it would be forced to deal with him like an equal.

  But first, Neek required sustenance. He thought of the skaven pawing through the ashes. Any one of them would make a fine supper. And with Tisknik enslaved to his every thought, there was no reason for Neek to risk himself getting that supper….

  CHAPTER TWO

  2450 Imperial Calendar

  A cool breeze rustled through the forest, causing branches to dance and leaves to tremble. The songs of birds echoed from the treetops. Through the undergrowth, a thousand tiny creatures crept and crawled, pushing their way through the long grass in their unending search for forage and fodder. Squirrels raced about, scampering down the trunks of mighty oaks. Black-feathered starlings probed the ground in search of worms. A lithe deer, its brown coat mottled with white, grazed upon the lichen clinging to the trunk of an old ash tree.

  Through the restful serenity of the forest, the slender figure of Ywain the spellweaver glided, moving with a natural grace which the animals of the forest might envy. The cool breeze set her dark locks swaying about her bare shoulders, the gauzy folds of her gown fluttering about her lean limbs.

  Strange lights flickered and flashed about the elf as she made her way among the trees, capering about her in swirling dis
plays of exuberance. Sometimes the lights would tug at her hair, sometimes they would play with the delicate material of her gown. A ruddy-hued glow toyed with the laces of her doeskin boots, seemingly fascinated with the way the slender cords could be tied into different shapes and knots.

  There was nothing capricious about the antics of the faerie lights, their attentions more inquisitive than malicious. The spirits who inhabited Athel Loren could be both, and among the wildest of the fey it was only a small step from curiosity to malignance, yet only the most bitter of the forest’s guardians would intentionally harm a spellweaver. The spellweavers were the stewards of Athel Loren, mediating the wishes of the fey and the needs of the wood elves, seeking balance between the natural order of the forest and those who dwelled beneath its boughs.

  Ywain tried not to notice the playful excesses of the spirits that had devoted their attentions to her. The spites would only become more persistent if they provoked a reaction with their antics. Sometimes it was difficult, however. When one of the little lights settled onto the tip of her nose and began to chirp like a cricket, it was all Ywain could do to suppress a smile. When the little light transformed itself into a tiny, wizened parody of her own visage, Ywain frowned. The spite flickered in contrition, reforming itself into an even more comically distorted reflection of the elf. This time, the spellweaver favoured the spite with a soft laugh. The light shot away from her nose, a perfect imitation of her laughter sounding from it as the spite circled happily above her head.

  The spellweaver watched the spite’s merry flight for a time, enjoying this manifestation of the forest’s friendship. It had taken the asrai thousands of years to earn the trust of Athel Loren, to claim a place for themselves among its grandeur. As much as the fey themselves, the wood elves had assumed the duty of guardians and protectors of the forest, defending it against all those who would do it harm. It was a duty the elves had come to accept as a great honour, an obligation which had reshaped not only their culture, but their very identity. They had become a part of the forest, as much a part of it as the deer which grazed its foliage and the hawks which soared through its sky. There could be no life for the asrai without Athel Loren.

  A sigh fluttered through Ywain’s breast as her mind turned away from the beauty of the forest and troubled thoughts began to stir once more. Time flowed strangely within Athel Loren, yet it could not entirely ignore the passing of years in the world beyond its boundaries.

  The Hour of Shadows was due to fall once more, bringing with it a menace more terrible than that which she had opposed before. The evil of Nahak had been reborn, bound into a new malevolence. Long had it bided its time, gathering its strength, shaping its vessel. But now, the evil would wait no longer. The Hour of Shadows was coming and with it the opportunity to again claim the power of the Golden Pool.

  A change suddenly stole upon the spites circling about her. The flickering lights darkened, their flittering flight becoming somehow subdued. One by one the spites withdrew, soaring back into the trees, vanishing into wood knots and hiding among leaves. Only the little red spite playing with her laces and the excited yellow spite who had made her laugh did not desert Ywain, but even their colours became dim and their attitude subdued.

  The change was reflected in the forest around her as well. The trees had become dark and sinister, their branches reaching out like the claws of great beasts. The bushes sported spiky thorns and the grass gave way to ground that was choked by brambles. No longer did birds sing or squirrels scamper, the only sound the warning cry of a lone falcon.

  Ywain did not need to look over her shoulder to know that the path behind her had changed, that if she were to look back she would not see the same trees and rocks she had passed before. The trails within Athel Loren were many and often strayed into strange territories. In times of need, the forest might allow a journey of hundreds of miles to take but a single hour. At others, when a traveller had offended the fey, a distance of only a dozen yards might take days.

  Ywain recognized the terrain before her. Her steps had led her here many times before. The sinister trees and the thorny bushes were like fence posts raised by the forest to surround one of its darkest places. No elf could find this place unless he were intended to find it and even the fey shunned the power locked away behind that fence. Perhaps the forest itself was afraid of the Golden Pool… and the thing which watched over it.

  She had never set eyes upon the guardian of the pool, though she had felt its voice speaking in her mind. The other spellweavers called it “the Warden of the Wood”, though they had no real inkling as to what lay behind the name. Ywain only knew it was old, impossibly old, perhaps even older than Athel Loren itself. The fey obeyed it, deferring to its commands with a respectful facility even the wisest elf mage couldn’t evoke.

  The bushes parted before Ywain’s approach, shifting aside of their own accord. Branches pulled back, brambles uprooted themselves and slithered away. With every step she took, the path opened a little more. She could hear the foliage closing up behind her, reminding her of the portcullis of Duc Sarlat’s castle.

  Ywain was past the fence now, standing within a broad clearing of open ground. Though she had seen this place many times, she could not control the sense of alarm which thrilled through her body as she gazed upon the barren, lifeless earth. Not a weed, not a flower or blade of grass grew within the clearing. For a circumference of a thousand yards, the ground was bare. It was not dead ground, but was rich and black with nutrients. It was soil that should have been abundant with growth, yet it was as forsaken as a slab of granite. The Warden of the Wood had made it so. It had forbidden the forest to grow here, and so the forest did not grow beyond the fence of thorns.

  At the very centre of the clearing, set into the ring of black, lifeless ground, was the Golden Pool. A vast pit, a hundred feet across, that glistened in the daylight with the glow of a second sun. Ywain felt her pulse quicken as she gazed upon the pool. Beads of sweat rose upon her breast, her delicate composure snapped as a husky moan whispered through her lips. If only she could cross that dead ground and refresh herself in the luxurious embrace of the pool’s warm waters!

  Ywain’s slender hand pulled at the bodice of her gown. She caught herself with a start, her cheeks reddening as she realized what she had allowed herself to do. The lure of the pool retreated as anger and guilt filled her heart. She knew the pool’s tricks, the lures it would use. The Warden of the Wood was not the only intelligence at work behind the fence. The Golden Pool did not communicate with words, but it could evoke feelings in those who were not guarded against its wiles.

  The spellweaver smoothed back her hair, chiding herself for being so foolish. The pool didn’t even have water to bathe in! It was composed of solid amber, the fossilised resin of ancient trees. Its surface was as frozen and hard as the skin of a mountain. It had to be, for only such a substance could bind the power contained within the Golden Pool, the concentrated destructiveness of a storm of magic.

  Evil calls out to evil.

  The two spites that had remained with her became agitated as the voice spoke to Ywain. They tugged at her with little clawed hands, trying to pull her back towards the fence and away from the fearsome thing whose presence they could feel wrapping itself around her.

  “The Golden Pool still binds it,” Ywain spoke. Though she knew it was useless, her eyes searched the line of trees, studied the thorny bushes, seeking any sign of the thing whose voice she heard inside her mind.

  Evil calls out to evil.

  “I know the Hour of Shadows draws near,” Ywain said. “I have seen the malignance of Nahak rising from its own destruction to threaten Athel Loren once more. It uses the rat-creature Huskk Gnawbone as its pawn. The ratmen will march upon the forest and seek to capture the Golden Pool.”

  The Hour of Shadows weakens the forest, strengthens the magic of darkness. Athel Loren will not be able to defend herself.

  “The asrai stand ready to defend our home,”
Ywain assured the Warden. “We will not allow this evil to triumph. Huskk Gnawbone marches to his destruction.”

  His magic will be great even without the power of the pool. Your magic will be weakened, just as the strength of the fey will weaken. The ordeal will not be easy.

  Ywain’s eyes turned towards the Golden Pool, a thought stirring her mind. “The pool’s power will be stronger in the Hour of Shadows.”

  Evil calls out to evil.

  The spellweaver turned her head around, catching a suggestion of something massive and monstrous moving beyond the fence. The Warden’s words had felt different just then, tinged with more than warning. She had never before sensed any manner of feeling behind the thing’s voice before, yet now she had the impression of something closer to emotion than she had ever felt before. There had been a quality almost of regret in the Warden’s voice.

  Your people will need help to overcome the corruption. Bring Thalos Stormsword here. I will present him with the weapon that will preserve the forest.

  Ywain stared at the fence, unable to believe the words. Never in all her centuries of communing with the Warden had the thing ever allowed her to bring another elf to the Golden Pool, much less requested someone brought to it. The strangeness of the request made her doubt the thing’s intentions. She felt a swelling of concern for Thalos, worry that the Warden meant him some harm.

  The hurt which has been done to him has already been done. Bring him before me and it may be that great good may rise from his suffering.

  Ywain bowed her head, hiding her eyes at this mention of Thalos’ pain. She had been responsible for that hurt, a hurt which she was not gracious enough to allow to heal. She was a spellweaver and mistress of the Golden Pool, but she was also a woman and possessed a woman’s desires.

  The spites suddenly became less frantic, relenting in their efforts to draw her away from the Golden Pool. Ywain could sense the presence of the Warden withdrawing from her. She knew it would not return until she brought Thalos through the fence.