by C. L. Werner
The zealot’s body shuddered as a crossbow bolt smashed into his shoulder. He struggled to remain standing. A second missile slammed into his leg, knocking him down. The priest withdrew his magical protection from Kormak, drawing the healing energies down into himself, using it to still the crawl of poison in his own veins. With another, even more desperate part of his brain, Tolkku focused upon channelling his command through the painted talisman of bone and teeth. The Norscan would come, or he would let the magic build up inside his head until it burst!
Another bolt smashed into Tolkku’s body, lancing through his side like a dull sliver of fire. Tolkku grasped at the dripping wound with his free hand, trying to pull the missile free. He glared at his attackers as they approached him, staring into the almond-shaped eyes and their merciless arrogance.
One of the shades cried out, blood exploding from his face as his eyes burst beneath the malignance of Tolkku’s magic. The others uttered shouts of warning, fitting fresh bolts to their weapons. Tolkku raged at the slinking shades, heaping contempt upon their courage and ancestry. The elves, if they understood, did not acknowledge the zealot’s insults. Instead they peered from behind their refuge and aimed their weapons.
The wailing shriek of an elf spoiled the aim of the others. They spun to see one of their number hanging like a gutted rag doll from the chitinous claw of a roaring Kormak. The marauder shook his mutant limb, shaking the carcass free. The limp wreckage slumped against the rocks, its broken spine jutting from the ghastly gash in its back.
The three remaining shades fired at the marauder. One bolt smashed into his knee, dropping him. Another lanced through his chest, puncturing his lung as it punched out his back. The third glanced off one of his horns, a finger’s length of bone splintering from the impact. The shades hissed among themselves. Two turned to finish off the crippled Tolkku, the third drew a fresh bolt for his crossbow and took careful aim at Kormak’s forehead.
With a brutish bellow, Kormak pounced at the dark elf, lashing at the shade by stretching the bones of his mutant arm. Even extended, he was too far away to strike the assassin, but the unexpected horror of the mutation was enough. The shade’s eyes went round with shock, his aim spoiled by his moment of fright. Instead of smashing through his skull, the hastily fired bolt tore through the meat of Kormak’s arm. The wounded marauder cursed as he felt poison sizzle through his muscles, numbing them. In only a few steps, his arm felt like a dead lump of lead. Only his feral bloodlust kept him going. Even until the last moment, the shade expected the poison to drop him.
Now Kormak was close enough to reach the elf. His mutant arm snapped closed upon the crossbow as the shade struggled to reload it. The elf abandoned his weapon to the marauder’s grip, dragging a slender sword from the sheath at his side. A blur of silvery metal, the thorn-like sword slashed through Kormak’s arm, biting deep enough to grate against the bone.
Kormak screamed through clenched fangs and brought his other arm smashing around. The elf dropped beneath the punch and tried to pull away. His sword resisted his effort to rip it free, its edge trapped in Kormak’s unnatural flesh. Distracted by the struggle, the shade’s face broke when the Norscan drove his head into it.
A thin, weedy wail rose from the shade as he clutched his dripping features, trying to push teeth back into his mouth. Kormak hobbled after him, the agony of his mangled leg increasing with each step. The elf was not so pained as to ignore his enemy. The shade drew a throwing knife from the sleeve of his cloak, sending the deadly blade flickering into the Norscan’s chest. Kormak staggered, unable to pursue the dark elf as he scrambled over the rocks to recover the weapon of the scout whose eyes Tolkku had burst.
The dark elf was scowling through the mask of blood that had become his face as he aimed the crossbow at Kormak. He never loosed the bolt, however. As he turned to attack, Kormak ripped the elf’s blade free of his arm, throwing it like a spear at the cloaked monster. The thin, almost weightless blade of ithilmar crunched through the shade’s midsection.
There was disbelief in the elf’s eyes as he stared at his own sword protruding from his belly. Then the expression froze as life faded from the shade. Without a sound, he pitched from the top of the boulder, landing in a broken jumble almost at Kormak’s feet.
The marauder grunted with pain as he forced himself back to his feet. He lumbered up over the rocks, compelled to answer the imperious summons of his master without regard to his own suffering. He could hear the sounds of battle, the war cries of men and elves. How he would fight, he did not know. How he would save Tolkku, he did not know. It was enough that he would be able to still the electric fire pounding inside his head.
Tolkku was sprawled on his side, bleeding from his many wounds, the painted skull still clutched tightly in his splayed fingers. Over him stood the armoured malignity of Urbaal, his sapphire mail stained with thin elvish blood. One of the shades lay dead at the Chosen’s feet, brains leaking into the ground. The other backed away, slowly sheathing his sword and unslinging his crossbow.
The surviving elf was just below the level of the rocks upon which Kormak perched. The marauder drew upon the last reserves of strength in his poisoned body. Like a great tiger, his massive frame coiled and grew tense, every muscle taut with strain. Kormak launched himself from the rocks, smashing down into the slinking elf. The shade heard him, throwing his crossbow into the Norscan’s face. Fangs snapped, his nose crumpled as the heavy weapon smashed into him, but there was no stopping his momentum. With the violence of a meteor, Kormak came crashing down, the cloaked elf beneath him. The sound of splintering bones rose from the crushed body. Kormak grabbed the elf’s head, twisting it full around, breaking the shade’s neck like a twig.
The Norscan slumped against his last victim, his breathing growing shallow as the druchii poison took its toll. It was an effort just to keep his eyes open, to watch the grinning Tolkku as he slowly stood, amber light dancing from his fingers as he used magic upon himself. The zealot’s wounds were like butter, knitting together, pushing free the elven missiles embedded in his flesh.
Urbaal stared at the zealot, then regarded the prone Kormak. The Chosen stared at the many wounds riddling the marauder’s flesh, impressed that even Tolkku’s magic had kept him standing for so long. Even a champion of the Raven God could appreciate the fighting prowess of such a warrior.
‘Mend him,’ Urbaal told the zealot.
Tolkku looked up, surprised by the warleader’s command. There were still wounds in his own flesh that needed tending. The Norscan would keep. If he didn’t, then there would be another skull in Tolkku’s collection.
Urbaal noticed the zealot’s hesitancy. Clawed fingers closed about the Kurgan’s throat, lifting him off the ground. ‘See to his hurts,’ the Chosen growled, ‘then lick your own wounds.’ He dropped Tolkku to the ground. The painted skull rolled from the zealot’s fingers. Tolkku made a desperate grab for it, but pulled back when Urbaal’s boot came between his hand and his talisman.
The Chosen looked down at Tolkku then turned his head to stare at Kormak. Urbaal brought his boot smashing down into the painted skull, shattering it into a hundred fragments.
‘Find a new pet, zealot,’ Urbaal said. He locked eyes with Kormak. ‘This one is too good a fighter to be your dog.’
The anguished scream rang out over the dark elf encampment. The sentries watching the perimeter shrugged, ignoring the shriek. They had been listening to the sounds for hours now and even the most sadistic of them no longer found them engaging. Instead they watched the bleak landscape of violet grass and weed-choked knolls, waiting for the monstrous scavengers that might be drawn to the screams. Already they had accumulated a pile of scaly, jackal-like things and feathered vultures that seemed equal parts centipede and bat. One grotesque creature, large as a Norscan sweat lodge and armoured like a dwarf steamship, had emerged from the long grass, defying the best efforts of the druchii to drive it off. It relented only when it had an elf warrior clenched tightly
in its trifold jaws, crunching his armour like the shell of a nut. Each sentry dreaded the possibility the loathsome monster might return.
Prince Inhin was oblivious to the concerns of his warriors, focused entirely upon the mangled man stretched between two posts set in the ground. He had supervised the torture of the wretch, using an old trick employed by the now extinct feral humans of Naggaroth. A long strip of damp leather had been wound around the man’s body, like a great slimy bandage. Then the elves settled into their chairs and watched as the sickly northern sun slowly dried the binding. The stretched leather contracted and tightened as moisture was sucked from it.
The elves didn’t even bother to ask any questions until the second hour. Their captive had been screaming his throat raw, begging and promising whatever he thought his captors wanted to hear. Inhin listened to the desperate babble with boredom clouding his eyes. Truly humans were nothing but low beasts, incapable of anything but fighting and rutting. An elf would have tried to find some harmony in his pleas, added an ascetic of poetry to his cries. A human just screamed and whined like a wounded dog.
Pyra leaned over the moaning captive, her dark tresses spilling down, brushing against his face, filling his nose with the lusty smell of her perfume. She smiled at him, but it was the chilling smile with which a spider might favour a fly.
‘We are looking for Dolchir,’ she said, astonishment working into the Grey Lancer’s face as he heard the perfect Reikspiel sing from her cruel lips. ‘He calls himself a loremaster of the high elves and he is responsible for bringing your… herd… into the northlands.’
Pyra pressed her finger against the man’s mouth as he tried to speak. He winced as her nail stabbed into his cheek, drawing a trickle of blood. ‘I know you want to show us where he is. He is our enemy. It is because of him that you have suffered so. I won’t lie to you and offer you life. You would be a fool to believe me. But I can offer you revenge. You do want revenge?’
She pulled away her finger. The man spat at her. ‘Daemoness!’ he cursed. ‘I will not betray my regiment or my Empire!’
The sorceress patted his bloodied hair. ‘A few more hours and I think you will change your mind.’ She gestured to Naagan. The grim disciple of Khaine came forward with a silver-chased jar. He poured the briny mixture of saltwater onto the prisoner. He shrieked as the tightened leather began to expand again, removing the constricting pressure of his bonds. The salt burned as it oozed into his cuts.
‘Breathe easier, brave little beast,’ Pyra told him. ‘It will take time for the bindings to dry again. For them to close about you, grind your bones together like some great python.’ A soft laugh escaped her as she saw the anguished horror of realisation flood the Grey Lancer’s eyes.
Pyra rose, turning towards Inhin. ‘I think the animal is broken now,’ she said.
The prince snapped his fingers, motioning Beblieth forwards. Inhin had chosen to overlook the suspicious fact that none of his shades had returned with the witch elf. It was more politic to accept the absurdity of her story about barbarian wizards and mutants killing them all.
‘Let the thong tighten around it one more time,’ Inhin told her. ‘Just to remind it what pain feels like. Then you may cut it free. Tell it to guide us to its camp.’
Beblieth bowed as the noble started to walk away. The witch elf fingered the ugly scars around her waist and moistened her mouth.
‘Oh, and Beblieth,’ Inhin called over his shoulder. ‘Leave the animal at least one finger to point with.’
Chapter Nine
Sardiss marched at the head of Inhin’s warriors, holding the leash of the mutilated human guiding them. The Black Guard was imposing in his mail, poised like a steel spider, one hand resting casually against the pommel of his blade. The dark elves around him gave Sardiss a wide berth, fearful both of his sinister skill with the blade and of the loathing with which he was held by their prince. Eventually, an accident would befall the Black Guard. When it did, no one wanted to be caught too close to him.
Prince Inhin himself was well away from the head of the column, secure at the centre of his warriors, Pyra – and her sorcery – at his side. There was a puffed-up air of arrogance in the noble’s step now. Soon they would find Archmage Dolchir’s camp. They would slaughter the foolish asur and his stupid humans, seize the Spear and with it bind Tchar’zanek’s Raven Host to his every command.
Naagan watched them all, wondering if Pyra had not overplayed her hand leading the prince along. Inhin was no fool, even yet he might suspect treachery. The disciple patted the vials of poison secreted beneath his robes, a venom for every purpose his devious mind could conceive. He almost hoped Inhin would make trouble.
The dark elf heard the slightest rustle of underbrush beside him. After leaving the plain of clay, the terrain had become a rolling landscape of prickly cactus and gigantic ferns, all powdered with a scarlet mush that was too sticky to be called snow. There was a resemblance to clotted blood about it that both disturbed and excited Naagan. It meant they were nearing their goal, the landscape of the Wastes changing itself to reflect the murderous madness of Khorne as they drew close to the Bastion Stair.
‘You are sure they know,’ Naagan said. He did not turn his head, only shifted his eyes as Beblieth drew closer. The disciple kept one hand coiled about his own dagger, an instinctive reaction to having the fey witch elf so near. As far as Inhin knew, Beblieth was out ahead of the column, scouting the terrain in case their tortured guide was leading them into a trap. It was as well the northmen had killed all of Inhin’s shades before they set out to find Dolchir. It made less work for Beblieth.
‘I killed three of their sentries and left a trail even a blind ogre could follow,’ Beblieth assured him. ‘Dolchir is not the only asur among the humans. Several of our degenerate kinsmen from Nagarythe were with him.’
Naagan stroked his chin, smiling his cadaverous smile. ‘That is good. With the Shadow Warriors to guide them, even the humans should be able to prepare a fine ambush. Inhin’s warriors will be butchered.’
Beblieth scowled. ‘It would be simpler just to kill the preening peacock.’ She drew one of her daggers, making a slicing motion with the blade.
The disciple shook his head. ‘Pyra fears Inhin’s warriors will try to avenge him if he were murdered. Or worse, they may follow Sardiss. She may treat with the Witch King yet, but if so, she would have it be her choice.’ Naagan returned his attention to the warriors marching through the red slush. ‘No, she is right to thin their numbers. Soldiers take strength from their comrades. Kill many of those comrades and the survivors weaken. Become pliable.’
The witch elf made a dismissive shake of her head. ‘And how then does the sorceress think she will defeat Dolchir if not by using Inhin’s warriors?’
Naagan laughed. ‘The archmage does not have many asur with him. His troops are animals begged from the Empire, human chattel whose only value is their numbers. Pyra plans to make up the losses Inhin suffers with reinforcements. Animals of her own. Animals loyal to her, not our dear prince. Pyra’s sorcery has revealed to her a warband of orcs some small distance from here. The brutes are no friends of the barbarians of this land, nor of the humans Dolchir has allied with. Her magic will bend the stupid monsters to her will and with their strength to support her, she will be able to dominate Inhin’s troops.’
The disciple’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head as faint shouts reached him. The smile returned to his leering face.
‘Unless I am mistaken, it seems Inhin has encountered trouble around the next bend,’ he said. ‘We should see what we can do to help him,’ Naagan continued, slowly strolling towards the sounds of conflict. He could see the column breaking apart, swarming like an angry anthill as the dark elves were thrown into confusion by the Imperial ambush. There was a serene look of contemplation on his face and he wondered how much more vibrant the scarlet slush would look with the blood of druchii upon it.
Kormak followed Urbaal through the jumbled
wreck of Vakaan’s hill of sorcery. Freed from Tolkku’s magic, the marauder knew he was bound to Urbaal by chains every bit as strong. Chains of obligation. Chains of a debt owed and unpaid. There was another reason though, a reason deeper even than the rough sense of personal honour demanded by a Norscan’s beliefs. Urbaal was Chosen, the mark of Tzeentch was even more firmly upon him than it was upon Kormak’s mutant flesh. He could feel the eyes of the gods upon Urbaal, he knew the magnitude of the duty entrusted to him by Tchar’zanek. Urbaal would find glory or doom. Kormak would follow him to claim his part of destiny.
Tolkku followed after the two warriors, his stained face pinched into a bitter scowl. The zealot’s healing arts had given Kormak back his strength and expunged the dark elf poison from his veins, but the marauder was under no illusion that the Kurgan had done it for his benefit. His sour gaze was that of a cheated horse trader, wishing only for the speedy death of his former property. Only fear of Urbaal kept the priest’s hate in check.
Kormak smiled at that thought. If the zealot imagined the only danger to him was the Chosen’s displeasure, then he was sadly mistaken. He appreciated the reasons Urbaal had included the healer in his retinue. But there would come a time when the zealot’s black arts were no longer vital to Urbaal’s quest. Kormak would be watching most eagerly for that moment.
The three northmen prowled among the boulders looking for other survivors. Sometimes they found a broken southlander dragging his ruined body through the rubble, wretches who were easily settled with a boot crunching down upon their necks, but of Urbaal’s warriors there were only shattered corpses. Kormak lingered over one black-armoured giant, tearing a curvy bronze axe with a gnarled handle of elk antler from his dead hand. He tested the balance of the weapon, finding it light and awkward. He stuffed it beneath his belt just the same. Even the delicate pony-axe of a Hung nomad could spill its share of blood.
