by C. L. Werner
Chapter Eight
Pyra folded her arms across her breast and watched as pillars of dust continued to rise from the broken hill. Only a faint sheen of sweat on her body betrayed the great effort she had made to work her spell. For all of her scorn for the crudity of northmen magic, in the darkest corridors of her soul, she shuddered at the malign power she had pitted her sorcery against. The magus did not simply exploit the winds of magic, use them like fuel or even wield them like a thing of ithilmar or steel. No, in some obscene way, the Chaos wizard was part of the magic, his very essence in communion with the awful power spilling from the rent between worlds. It was a thing Pyra could regard only with equal parts of terror and envy.
‘I believe Prince Inhin wanted a prisoner,’ Naagan’s cold voice broke through her dazed mind.
‘There are survivors,’ Pyra told him, hating the way her voice exposed the weakness she felt. She tried to make up for it by staring hard into the disciple’s eyes. ‘Unlike some, I obey the commands of my prince.’
Inhin chuckled as he saw Naagan flinch as Pyra suggested his disloyalty. The noble put his arm around the sorceress, kissing her ear. ‘You have done quite admirably, my sweet. I only hope the effort was not too taxing.’
‘My prince, there is still the matter of a prisoner,’ Naagan reminded.
Inhin pointed a warning finger at the disciple. ‘Do not be overeager to fatten Khaine on the blood of captives. I will provide for the Lord of Murder in good time. Right now, there are questions I want answered.’ He turned his head, staring past the sinister disciple. Unheard, the cloaked figures of Inhin’s shades had drawn near. The noble gestured at their leader.
‘One prisoner,’ Inhin ordered. ‘One of the Empire-men. You can kill any others.’
The shade smiled beneath his hood as his master made the bloodthirsty suggestion. The cloaked scout nodded as he gazed at the distant pillar of dust, imagining the broken, wounded things choking beneath that cloud. There would indeed be work for his knife. He gave a whispered command and the rest of the cloaked sneaks began to file off across the bubbling plain of clay.
Pyra’s eyes narrowed as she saw Beblieth’s lithe figure stalk after the departing shades.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ the sorceress demanded.
Beblieth did not try to hide the fire in her stare when she turned upon Pyra. ‘Prince Inhin needs a prisoner,’ she grinned. ‘He also said we were free to kill any others.’ She looked over at the dark elf noble, expectant and eager. Inhin gave the slightest nod of his head and the witch elf was off, outpacing the shades with a grace and speed that made even the sure-footed scouts look clumsy sluggards by comparison.
‘Murderous wench,’ Pyra spat as she watched the witch elf prance across the solid patches of clay protruding through the mire.
Inhin shook his head and sighed. ‘You have your playthings,’ he said, glancing at the armoured bulk of Sardiss. ‘Do not begrudge me mine.’
Blood cascaded from an ugly gash on Father Wilhelm’s bare head. The priest wiped at his eyes, trying to clear them of the crimson that smeared his vision. The ground continued to roil and tremble beneath him, his lungs felt scratchy with the tang of dust. His side felt as though on fire; a shard of jagged stone had torn through his mail to chew its way into the flesh beneath. The fingers of his left hand were fat and purple, a sliver of bone sticking out from his thumb. But he was alive, and for that he gave praise to Sigmar.
Father Wilhelm’s eyes settled upon an object lying beside him. He bent down, almost collapsing as pain from his side pulsed through him. He fought through the agony, falling only to his knees. Timidly, almost tenderly, he shifted rubble from the object that had caught his eye. He closed his right hand about the heft of his warhammer and thanked Sigmar once more for sparing him the destruction that had been visited upon the debased northmen.
The clatter of stone against stone drew the priest’s attention. Wilhelm watched as small rocks bounced down the ragged heap of ruin. At first, only a few, then the few became many. Cold dread worked its way into the priest’s spine. Fear overwhelmed pain and he rose to his feet, clenching his warhammer as best he could in a single-handed grip. The prayers he offered to his god changed from gratitude to entreaty.
A sapphire claw burst from the pile. An instant later, the heap was falling forwards, broken from within by an armoured devil. There was no dust staining the Chosen’s mail, as though the base elements were repulsed by the abomination inside. Unblemished, the armour of sapphire and bronze gleamed in the sickly light of a maddened sky. Only the sinister sword was changed. No longer did it burn with the malignity of a Dark God, but was instead a sickly thing of fanged steel and daemon-skin wrappings. Eyes puckered open along the length of the blade and a mouth slobbered from the weapon’s pommel.
‘Thank your little Sigmar for sparing me as well,’ Urbaal mocked, his voice a metal vibration behind the death mask of his helm.
‘Blasphemer!’ Wilhelm spat, but there was no strength behind his disgust.
Urbaal laughed darkly, marching forwards like a lion on the prowl. ‘Blasphemy? One cannot blaspheme against a myth, false-father. I have forgotten much, southlander. I cannot name the man and woman who gave me life. I cannot remember the land that first bore my step. Even the first soul I sent shrieking into the claws of the Raven God, even this is lost to me!’ The burning eyes of Urbaal’s helm flickered menacingly. Instinctively, Father Wilhelm recoiled from the display of unclean magic.
‘This, I know,’ Urbaal hissed, touching his gauntlet to the side of his horned helm. ‘I know that your god is a lie.’
The Sigmarite roared as he heard the blasphemy spoken. Wilhelm flung himself at the gloating northman, at the monster that claimed it had once been human. Urbaal blocked the sloppy swing of the priest’s warhammer. The impact of sword against hammer set the broken bones of Wilhelm’s hand grinding together. The priest cried out, stumbling back as pain flooded through him. He let the warhammer fall from his grip, clutching his maimed hand. Urbaal stalked after the faltering priest.
White light gathered about Wilhelm’s hands, flowing from the whole one into the injured one. The divine power raced through his tortured appendage, knitting together broken bones, binding shattered flesh. Urbaal turned his face, unable to endure the purity of the priest’s magic.
‘My god stands with me,’ Wilhelm snarled, lifting the discarded warhammer from the ground. Once again, a fiery glow seemed to bleed up from the depths of the weapon. ‘Before him, all darkness must fall!’
Urbaal growled, forcing himself to endure the hateful aura surrounding the priest. The Chosen’s sword clashed against the warhammer, the two champions locking once more in a struggle for dominance. Urbaal’s hellish eyes narrowed. Savagely, he brought the armoured knee of his leg smashing into the priest’s wounded side. Father Wilhelm gasped, crumpling in a moaning mass as raw suffering exploded through his body. As his hammer fell from his hand, the glow surrounding him flickered and died.
The Chosen loomed over the priest, pinning him to the earth with a bronze boot. He pressed his weight down upon the southlander, crushing already splintered ribs. Wilhelm cried out, blood bubbling between his teeth.
‘Sigmar, I commend my soul to you!’ the priest groaned.
The corrupt sword of Urbaal stood poised above Wilhelm’s shaven head. ‘It is not Sigmar who will claim your soul, southlander.’ The Chosen paused, his eyes glowering down at his fallen enemy. ‘In the Halls of Tzeentch, you will find a real god, false-father. Perhaps the Changer will even remake your soul into something better.’ Urbaal laughed and raised his sword for the killing blow.
‘But somehow, I doubt it,’ the Chosen snarled as he split Wilhelm’s skull like an egg.
Beblieth easily outdistanced the shades, entering the billowing column of dust and debris. A dazed southlander stumbled into her path. She swung at him with one of her daggers, freezing when it was only an inch before his terrified eyes. She smiled as s
he saw the horrified disbelief on the man’s face. Perhaps he had never seen an elf before. In the distance, Beblieth heard a pained moan. Her smile tightened. With the first dagger poised before the man’s face, she raked the second across the back of his neck. The man fell in a gurgling puddle at her feet.
He’d never see another elf, Beblieth mused as she stalked away from her kill. Inhin might want a prisoner, but he’d only get one after Beblieth had sated her own needs. She hesitated as she saw something with broken legs trying to free itself from beneath a boulder. She could not tell if it was northman or southlander. Either way, it gave a most satisfying shriek when she punched both her blades through its eyes. She wiped the sticky mess from her blades in the animal’s hair and started to stalk through the fog of dust to the next moaning thing. The witch elf froze, casting an amused glance over her shoulder.
Like lightning, she spun, catching the bolt searing through the air at her. She grinned at the shocked shade who had tried to shoot her in the back.
‘Prince Inhin… he wants… one alive,’ the scout sputtered, trying to decide if he dared fit another bolt to his weapon.
Beblieth smiled at him, then looked thoughtfully at the bolt she held. ‘He wants a southlander,’ she stated. ‘He didn’t say anything about you.’
The shade shrieked as Beblieth flung one of her daggers at him. The poisoned weapon sheared through his hand, sending fingers spilling to the earth. The screaming elf tried to push the poison from his wound with his remaining hand, even as he turned and started to run. He had only gone a few paces before a stabbing pain in his breast brought him up short. Cold lips brushed against his ear.
‘I believe this is yours,’ the witch elf hissed, driving the crossbow bolt deeper into the shade’s heart.
There was still some life in the scout’s eyes when Beblieth seized him by the shoulders and spun him around. Whatever life was left was quickly exterminated as a half-dozen bolts thudded into the shade. Beblieth let her now dead shield fall, pushing the body forwards as she dove left for cover.
‘Traitoress!’ a druchii voice raged. ‘Murdering fanatic!’
More bolts came clattering against the boulder behind which Beblieth had taken refuge. The witch elf smiled, her pulse racing with the thrill of battle. Inhin’s shades would not relent until she was dead. Six arrogant braggarts who fancied themselves expert killers. Her smile faded as she caught a faint sound to her right. Seven, including the one trying to flank her. The one the bowmen were trying so hard to keep her from noticing.
Beblieth ran her fingernail along the edge of her dagger, covering it in a fresh paste of poison. She’d offer the one trying to circle her to Khaine. The others would just be practise.
Before she could move, however, Beblieth heard the sharp scream of the sneaking dark elf. Something huge and brawny rose from behind the rocks, the shade gripped in both of the brute’s hands. With a bull-like roar, the brawny figure brought the scout smashing down into one of the boulders, splashing the elf’s brains across the stones. Beblieth expected the hulk to beat his chest in triumph, like some jungle ape, but the anticipated display was spoiled by a fresh fusillade from the crossbowmen. Only the blinding effect of the dust could have kept the shades from finding their mark. The brute dove from his boulder, crashing down behind Beblieth.
The dark elf could see that the brute was a northman, a hulking mass of swollen muscle, his head sporting great horns, his flesh peppered with little fangs of bone. She felt her skin crawl as she saw the way the animal’s eyes watched her. Beblieth smiled when she noted the absence of any weapon in the northman’s sinewy paws. It was the cold, vindictive smile of a viper.
‘The one you killed was mine,’ the witch elf spat, forcing her tongue to the harsh speech of slaves. ‘Now I must offer Lord Khaine something else.’
The horned brute had been reaching for her. Now he recoiled. It was not quick enough. Nothing merely human was. Blinded by a flash of leg and a curve of thigh, now the dumb northman was treated to a better view of her sinuous body as Beblieth stabbed her daggers into his chest. She twisted them in the wound, ensuring they would not close, then danced back, all in a dazzling display of violence that would have staggered the quickened senses of an elven swordmaster.
The beast was staring in disbelief at his injuries, at the dripping daggers in Beblieth’s hands. He made a staggering step towards her, then took a second. It was only when he managed a third that Beblieth’s face twisted with concern. A fourth step and she knew something was wrong. The poison should have spilled the man to the ground, have him screaming in pain until his lungs burst from the effort! Instead, he was coming for her!
Muscle and tissue began to melt and flow like wax, reshaping themselves into a monstrous claw. Kormak snarled through his fangs as he closed upon the witch elf.
‘My turn,’ the marauder spat.
The witch elf spun and dropped, slashing at Kormak with both of her poisoned daggers. The Norscan felt the burning metal rip through his flesh, one tearing through his leg, the other cutting a deep furrow in his arm. His body shuddered as the deadly taint on the blades entered his bloodstream. Growling like an enraged bear, Kormak brought his claw-arm scything at the witch elf.
Beblieth twisted at the waist, throwing herself from the path of the mutant claw, her hands slapping against the broken stones. She twisted again, using the muscles of her upper body to propel herself at the marauder. The elf’s inhuman speed was blinding, her daggers nothing more than an impression of pain as they again bit into Kormak’s flesh.
The marauder felt his brain darken, then the flush of purging fire roared through him again. He ground his teeth against the pain, accepting it as the cost for life. He knew the witch elf’s poison would have killed him at the first touch but for Tolkku’s preserving magic. Clearly the zealot still lived and intended that his thrall should do likewise.
Kormak lashed out at his foe as she tried to slink away again. It was his turn to surprise the witch elf, his mutant arm sweeping forwards as he willed flesh and bone to lengthen and stretch. This time it was the elf who felt pain stab into her body as Kormak’s claw snapped tight about her waist. Thin blood spurted from the gruesome wounds, splattering Kormak’s crude armour.
‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’ Kormak snarled, tightening his grip. He felt something crack beneath the pressure and enjoyed the pain that pulled at the elf’s face.
Suddenly, the marauder was struck from behind. He grunted as a pair of bolts slammed into him. The lack of concentration was enough. Beblieth tore herself free from his hold, dropping down in a crouch. Vindictively, she stabbed her dagger into Kormak’s chest, digging for his heart.
Kormak slapped her away, a clumsy effort that she easily avoided. He noticed that her escape was not so seductively graceful as before and that she bled profusely from the ugly holes his claw had chewed into the milky skin around her waist.
Beblieth flung herself flat as several crossbow bolts streaked over her head. Kormak was staggered by the fresh dose of poison she had stabbed into him, unable to even think about the bolts that slammed into his body.
From the ground, Beblieth watched as Kormak ripped the bolts from his flesh. Her eyes narrowed with disgust as she saw the wounds close. She cast her gaze around her, then a cruel gleam sparkled as she saw what she expected to find.
‘Forget the warrior, fools!’ she shouted. ‘Kill the sorcerer or we are all dead!’
To emphasise her point, she threw a stone at the pile of boulders just beyond Kormak. Almost, but not quite hidden behind the pile was the tattooed shape of Tolkku the zealot.
The fusillade of bolts stopped. Beblieth watched as the shades abandoned their vengeful attempt to kill her. They had seen the way Kormak had resisted her poisons and knew it was no natural force that preserved him against them. None of them wanted to take the chance that the sorcerer who was protecting Kormak might have more dire spells to work directly against them.
Kormak ignored the slinking s
hades as the elves swept past him, intent upon climbing the rubble pile to reach Tolkku. He had eyes only for the bleeding witch elf. He could see that her wounds were sapping her quickness and strength. He could see that with every breath, the odds favoured him more than his foe.
‘I’ll make your death quick,’ he promised, his mutant limb reshaping itself into a fanged axe.
Beblieth cocked her head, looking at him with the same sort of patience that might be shown to an idiot child. ‘Are you sure, barbarian?’ she purred. ‘I think I hear your master calling you!’
It was true. Kormak could feel the imperious, driving pain gathering in his mind. He knew the sorcerous touch of Tolkku’s commanding skull. He did not need to see the zealot to know he had cast aside his healing talisman for the skull of command. As the shades drew nearer, Tolkku’s summons became even more painful. The Norscan felt blood trickle from his ears and knew he could resist his hated master no longer.
Beblieth clutched her sides, watching the marauder stalk away. Desperately she wanted to drive her blades into his back, but feared that her slowed reflexes would make her easy prey for the brute. She would not die at an animal’s hands.
‘We will meet again,’ the witch elf promised as she watched Kormak climb up towards the shades.
Naagan would heal her wounds, make her whole again. When next they met, the marauder would not surprise her with his loathsome mutations. She would be ready for him. Ready to offer him to Khaine.
Like a wounded wolf, Beblieth slunk away. There was murderous purpose in her retreat. She had counted the shades climbing the rubble. There was one missing. It was just possible one of them had found Inhin a prisoner.
It would be tragic if the wrong elf received credit for bringing the prince his prize.
Panic started to creep into Tolkku’s eyes as he watched the shadowy shapes climb towards him. Even over the broken jumble of cracked stone there was an inhuman grace to their movements, a surety of purpose and footing that was both chilling and malevolent. Tolkku drew sorcerous energy into his body, urging the commanding pressure of his talisman to bring his slave to him. The Norscan brute would save him from the dark elves.
