Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  Mormacar looked at the others, sure that they would see sense. If the oafish Norseman was convinced, surely his elven brethren would join him. He was shocked when not one voice rose up in support.

  “I’m sorry, lad,” said Galaher gravely, “we know what we must do.” The others nodded in agreement and clustered around the old elf.

  The Shadow Warrior could scarcely believe his ears. It seemed the former slaves were prisoners still, if only in their minds. He started to speak but Einar cut him off.

  “Don’t waste your breath, Mormacar,” spat the Norseman in disgust. “Let’s go.” Spinning on his heels, the furious giant stomped down the tunnel.

  Mormacar hesitated, hoping even now that someone would join them. None stepped forward. With sadness in his heart, he approached Galaher and pressed a sword into his hand. “You’ll need this, brother,” the Shadow Warrior said quietly. Then he turned away and followed Einar down the passage.

  Many hours later, the two warriors stood in a large cavern which was dimly illuminated by glowing fungi. Peering intently down the three passages that descended further into darkness, Einar, for once sounding hesitant, asked, “Well, which way now?”

  Mormacar considered each of the tunnels carefully before answering. “I think we must follow the right-hand path.” He indicated barely discernible marks. “See all the bootprints there? It is clearly frequently used.”

  “Which makes it that much more likely we’ll run into some of the dark elf scum,” Einar said, grinning as he ran his fingers up and down his blade.

  “True, but remember that we are trying to escape, not to settle the score,” Mormacar said levelly, “That can wait for another day. Agreed?”

  “Cease your prattle, elfling,” Einar scoffed. “The blood of berserkers runs in my veins. I do what I must.”

  “Fine,” the elf said curtly, suppressing an urge to comment on the apparent foolishness of all Norsemen. “Let’s go.”

  By Mormacar’s estimate, the two warriors were already several leagues underground. After leaving the other prisoners behind, they had hurried down a cavernous tunnel that shot through the bowels of the earth, turning neither right or left. The sounds of the other fugitives had soon been lost as the two warriors continued their descent. Wary of both pursuers and whatever unknown dangers might lie ahead, they had nonetheless set a quick pace. Eventually they had come to this large cavern. Now, as they made their way down the right-hand passage, they were quickly confronted with more choices, as passages split, caverns multiplied, and tracks became ever harder to identify.

  Shadow Warrior and Norseman pressed on urgently, stopping only to drink from the few streams and stagnant pools they happened across in their wanderings. Eventually, after what must have been many hours, sheer exhaustion dictated that they stop and rest, and the two collapsed next to a evil smelling pool. They sat in silence, breathing heavily and occasionally drinking the scum-covered water at their side. The weeks of overwork and under-nourishment at the hands of the dark elves were taking their toll. And now that they were deep under the earth, the icy chill made a mockery of their ragged clothing.

  “Perhaps the others were right after all,” Mormacar ventured, shivering as he choked back some of the vile water. Suppressing the urge to retch, he sprawled on the ground, his muscles aching with every movement.

  The Norseman snorted. “The others are surely dead already,” he replied. “At least we are still alive.”

  Mormacar accepted this assessment without comment; he knew Einar was right. Sighing, he added, “I never expected to end my days like this, wandering under the Land of Chill. Curse the day those hellspawn captured me!”

  “The day I was caught was a dark one as well,” Einar said softly, his face betraying shame and despair. His voice trailed off. Abruptly, he shook his head as if to clear it, and stared at Mormacar. “Tell me, how did you come to be in hellish mines of Hag Graef?”

  A black look crossed over Mormacar’s face as he remembered his last day of true freedom. By his own estimate, it was probably no more than two months since his capture, but it seemed so long ago. “I was travelling with a band of my brethren, the Night Stalkers of the Shadow Warriors. We’ve been fighting the thrice-damned dark elves for centuries on Ulthuan and it’s a war that never ends.” As Mormacar talked, he held his head high and his exhausted slump became a proud pose. “While other of my kin live in shining cities and try to forget the Witch King’s bloody hordes, my folk scour the Shadowlands for invaders and bring red death to the Forsworn defilers.”

  Thoughts of what the dark elves had done to his homeland filled his mind, and Mormacar strove to push down the hatred that welled-up in his heart. Consumed by his own emotions, he failed to notice the grin of approval break out on the Norseman’s face. “In any case,” he continued, “my brethren and I set an ambush for a raiding party. We thought to trap them, but fell into a trap ourselves.” His voice grew quieter. “While we rained death on the Forsworn below, another group of them surprised us from behind. Before I could even unsheathe my sword, one of the cowards struck me from behind.” He spat in disgust. “The next thing I knew, I awoke in Hag Graef.”

  Einar nodded, having heard many similar tales in the slave pits. “Those evil scum do not fight with honour,” he noted. “Poison, foul magic and tricks are not the weapons of true warriors.”

  Mormacar could not but agree. Strangely curious about this barbaric human, the Shadow Warrior asked, “What of you? How did you come to be so far from frozen Norsca?”

  “That is a tale worthy of the skalds, elfling,” the Norseman replied, “although I doubt any lived to take the story back to Norsca.” He shook his head as he continued, “Ah, a black day it was indeed. I was sailing with Grimnir Ogre-kin, as fierce a reaver as ever prowled the Sea of Claws.” Einar settled back, as if the two of them were drinking mead in front of the hearth. “We’d just raided an Empire merchant fleet and our holds were heavy with booty. Then a great storm blew out of the east, like the breath of the gods themselves.” Mormacar cracked a smile. Storytelling came easily to the Norseman. “My ship was separated from Grimnir’s and we tossed on the seas for three days. When the storm finally blew its last, we were adrift and mastless.” Einar shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ground. “It was then that the dark elves found us. It was a fearsome sight, a castle that floats on the sea, filled with sea serpents and worse. Truly an abomination sent by Mistress of the Damned herself.” The Norseman crossed his arms in front of him, making an ancient ward against evil. “Seeing its towering walls and countless warriors, I knew that we would soon be dead.”

  “It was a black ark that you beheld,” Mormacar said. “None can stand against them.”

  Einar nodded but he was talking quickly now, his blood racing as he was caught up in remembrance. “I swore a vow to the Father of Battle to die before surrendering. Soon the murderers boarded my ship and we fought like berserkers that day.” Suddenly, Einar was on his feet, braids flying wildly as he shook his head back and forth. “I wish the skalds could sing of the deeds of Halfdan Wolfclaw, Skragg the Grim and Canute Shieldbreaker, for few have equalled their skill at arms. One by one, though, all were slain, pierced by bolts, hacked down by swords or felled by black magic.” He stood there, shaking his fist at unseen foes while Mormacar looked on, wondering if the Norseman had lost his mind. “My heart cried out for vengeance as more and more of the dragon-cloaked corsairs boarded my ship. At last, only I was left alive.”

  Mormacar could see that guilt stained the Norseman, guilt at not dying with his shipmates like a good captain should.

  “I lay about me with my axe, slicing and cleaving, but I could not kill them all. When the bodies were piled up high around me, one of their foul wizards ensorcelled me.” Einar slammed his fist into cavern wall and howled in frustration. “Instead of letting me die with my crew, the captain of that evil vessel took me to Hag Graef in chains. When we escape, I will hunt him down and feed him his own heart. O
nly then will my comrades be avenged.” Story finished, Einar slumped to the floor in despair. His hand, now bloody and torn, was still clenched tight as he continued to relive that fateful day.

  Mormacar stared at the Norseman, impressed despite himself. “I think you may have missed your calling, Einar. You should have been a storyteller yourself.”

  Einar chuckled a little at this and Mormacar joined him. For a short while, they forgot the mistrust between elf and man and enjoyed the laughter together. But the moment ended quickly, as the harsh reality of their situation intruded upon them once more. An uncomfortable silence descended on the two fugitives and Mormacar feared that Volundson would sink back into his guilty despair. But then Einar forced another laugh to break the silence. “If you liked that tale,” the Norseman said, “let me tell you of the battle at Brienne. Grimnir’s wrath was something to behold that day—”

  “Einar, shut up,” whispered Mormacar, squinting in obvious concentration. The Norseman bristled, but Mormacar’s insistent gesture silenced him. “Do you hear that?” asked the elf.

  “Hear what?”

  “Listen closely, I heard something.” The Shadow Warrior stood up silently and crept over to one of the passages. Volundson followed, listening intently.

  After a minute, the Norseman said, “I don’t hear anything, elfling. Have your wits left you?”

  “Follow me, you oaf,” Mormacar hissed, yanking his dagger free from his belt. “And be quiet.”

  The elf padded silently through the dank and gloomy passages, followed clumsily by the big Norseman. At each intersection, the Shadow Warrior would stop, listen, and then pick a new direction. After a few minutes, even Einar could hear the clash of metal and the shouts of combat.

  “What now?” Einar asked. “Who knows what lurks this far under the earth?”

  “Whoever it is,” the elf whispered, “let’s hope they know a way out of here. This way, and try harder to be quiet.”

  A gruff belch was all he got by way of a reply. The two fugitives set off again, easily able to follow the echoing cacophony. The minutes passed slowly, as each warrior wondered what lay ahead. They were concentrating so much on the noises that they all but tripped over the body of a dark elf lying in the passage. His head had been ripped from his shoulders and was nowhere in sight. Mormacar stuck his dagger in his belt and took the dead elf’s sword. Slowly, silently, the two warriors inched ahead.

  Finally, they came to a large cavern, whose circular shape and smooth walls made it seem man-made. Peering inside, they beheld a furious conflict. Battle cries, howls of pain and triumph, and the sound of clashing steel filled the air. Around a dozen dark elves were locked in combat with savage lizard creatures. These green and black scaled monsters walked on two legs and wielded crude spears and clubs with considerable skill, although Mormacar and Einar did not fail to notice that they used their razor-sharp teeth at every opportunity. The cavern was already littered with corpses, both elf and lizardman, and the fight had clearly become a grim battle of attrition. Most of the smaller lizard creatures were dead already, but their larger cousins were putting up quite a fight.

  Two in particular towered above the battle, their huge spears smashing in elf skulls with unmatched strength. As the fugitives watched, one of these gargantuan lizardmen was felled by a savage attack from a frenzied witch elf. Her twin blades danced over the slow-moving reptile, slicing scales and driving deep into the monster’s vitals. With a bellowing death scream, the creature fell backward, crushing a dark elf warrior beneath its ponderous bulk, lumping onto the monster’s carcass, the witch elf beheaded the monster with one blow and a rapturous howl of “Blood for Khaine!”

  Mormacar, utterly transfixed by this titanic clash, suddenly realised that he looked into the twisted face of Lady Bela. The Shadow Warrior’s blood turned cold, and he was so full of loathing at the sight of her that he almost didn’t notice that the battle was coming to him. One of the Forsworn had broken and was running right towards the hidden fugitives. A small, crested lizardman and the other hulking giant chased the fleeing warrior. Einar and Mormacar fell back down the passage and waited in a small alcove. Mormacar could feel the cold, hard, rock against his back but the sword felt good in his hands. Presently the terrified dark elf ran around the corner. Before he even realised that he faced a new foe, the Forsworn found Mormacar’s cold steel in his belly. Face to face with his enemy, Mormacar watched the life drain from his victim’s eyes. Stepping back, he let the body slide off his sword and fall to the ground.

  Overcome by all-consuming hatred, he hadn’t even noticed that Einar had split the crested lizardman nearly in two. There was no time to celebrate, however, as the crash of clawed feet and an ominous bellowing reminded both of them of the other imminent threat.

  The huge lizardman, a mighty spear grasped in its clawed hands, stalked around the corner, roaring fiercely. Einar and Mormacar looked at each other, then jumped forward to attack. Although slow to react, the beast had scales as tough as hardened steel and the two warriors found that their blows were all but ineffectual. The raging beast hissed angrily and smashed Einar to the ground with the butt of his spear. In the same movement, its heavy tail snaked out and slammed down on the Norseman’s chest, knocking the wind of him.

  While the beast was momentarily fixated on Einar, Mormacar seized his chance. Balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, he took his dagger in his right hand, steadied himself, and then threw the wicked blade at the scaly monstrosity. The beast reared back in agony as Mormacar’s dagger flew straight and true into its eye. The Shadow Warrior grasped his sword in both hands and drove it into the creature’s exposed throat. Black blood gushed from the wound, showering the elf and causing him to lose his grip on the blade. The lizard creature, two blades buried in its flesh, stood there stupefied for a few moments, then fell forward with a ground-jarring crash.

  Einar sat up, looked at the Shadow Warrior, and marvelled, “Truly a feat for the sagas. The Father of Battle has blessed you today.”

  Mormacar motioned him to be silent. The elf quietly recovered his weapons and did his best to clean the blood off their hilts. No new foes ventured down their passage and eventually the sounds of battle began to fade. Soon all was quiet.

  As the two warriors crouched in the passage, wondering who had won the brutal battle, animalistic howls of “Khaine” grimly answered their question. Then they heard the Lady Bela, her usually icy voice hot with the joy of bloodletting. “We leave in ten minutes,” she said simply. “Be ready.”

  “But lady,” one of her warriors objected, “what of the wounded and the missing?”

  Even from where they sat, the two fugitives could hear the ferocious slap Lady Bela delivered to her soldier. “You insubordinate wretch, if you ever question me again your entire family will go to the altar of Khaine! Anyone too wounded to travel is to be killed, as are all these lizardmen who yet offend me with their breathing. Now, move! It’s a long way to Arnhaim and we wouldn’t want to disappoint our high elf brothers.”

  The remaining dark elves did their work quickly and soon the whole band marched off in the darkness.

  “Faster,” the Lady Bela urged, her voice now distant, “we’ve got a prediction of victory to deliver.”

  When their footsteps could no longer be heard, Einar boomed, “That was refreshing. It’s been too long since my last battle. I would have preferred dark elves to lizardmen, but a fight’s a fight.”

  “You are familiar with those things?” Mormacar asked, gazing down at the corpses at his feet.

  “Only by reputation,” the Norseman replied. “I’ve heard stories of these creatures but I never believed they truly existed.” They walked carefully into the cavern but found nothing but the slain. “Leaving aside the question of what these lizardmen were doing under Naggaroth, what are we going to do now?”

  The Shadow Warrior considered the question and decided quickly. “I think we should try to follow the dark elves.”

&n
bsp; “I see,” the Norseman sneered, “you miss your girlfriend already.”

  Mormacar glared back at him. “No, you brainless oaf, but if anyone knows the ways out of these caverns, it’s the Lady Bela. Did you not hear her say they were heading to Arnhaim?”

  “Aye, I did,” Volundson said, “but I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s a high elf bastion south of Naggaroth—but it must be a thousand miles away. I don’t know what Lady Bela’s plans are, but she must be stopped.”

  “Speculate later, elfling. If we’re going to follow them, we should do so quickly.” Looking about the cavern, Einar’s eyes lit up. “But not before availing ourselves of the opportunity for booty.”

  “How can think of treasure at a time like this,” Mormacar asked incredulously.

  Einar, already sifting through the backpack of a dead elf, pulled out a parcel. “If you’re not interested in treasure, I suppose I’ll have to eat all this food by myself.”

  Mormacar nodded approvingly. “Perhaps you are not such a fool after all, Einar Volundson.”

  After gathering up all the food, clothing and weapons they could carry, the two warriors set out after Lady Bela. If they looked ridiculous in the ill-fitting clothing of their former tormentors, they did not care. They were warm, they had food in their bellies for the first time in days, and they were still free. And they intended to stay that way.

  The following week was a hellish one for the two fugitives as they trailed their former tormentors through the labyrinth of caves far beneath Hag Graef. They had to stay near enough to Lady Bela’s band to follow their tracks but far enough away to avoid detection. They ensured that one of them was always awake, keeping watch and wak-fire, lest they draw unwanted attention to themselves, so they continued to navigate by the eerie light of the fungi.

  The Lady Bela travelled at a terrific pace and rarely sent out scouts. Indeed all her attention seemed fixated on some distant goal, although neither of the two fugitives could say what that might be. Despite their fatigue and the darkness, man and elf would not be left behind. The followed the Forsworn with a manic single-mindedness, so desperate were they to see the light of day again. As the days passed, uncharted by sun or moon, Mormacar and Einar dropped into a monotonous, numbing routine. Conversation had died out after only a few days. It was all they could do to keep going.