When the dark elves finally did stop, the two fugitives, tired and dazed, nearly stumbled into the large cavern occupied by their foes. But the Norseman saw the glint of steel in the gloom and pulled his companion back down the tunnel in silence until they found a small cavern full of dripping stalactites. Despite the slimy floor, Mormacar flung himself down and immediately fell asleep.
The elf awoke to the sound of drums, and at first thought he was back in fair Ulthuan. But a quick look at Einar, who looked nearly dead as he sat on watch, brought his dreaming mind crashing back to reality. “Einar,” he whispered, “what’s going on?” The Norseman slid back a few paces, but kept his eye on the passage ahead. “It sounds like a foul ritual of some sort,” replied Einar, his voice full of loathing. “You slept through the chanting, but it’s been going for at least an hour by my reckoning.”
Mormacar nodded, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Gathering up his few possessions, he asked, “Shall we pay a visit to the Lady Bela?”
The Norseman grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that, elfling. If I sit here any longer, I may well turn to stone.”
The two warriors crept forward. Mormacar still cringed at what the Norseman considered to be “moving quietly”, but the drumming and chanting drowned out even his blundering. After a few minutes they approached an enormous cavern lit up brilliantly with dozens of flaming torches. The bright illumination was almost too much to bear, so used were they to the dim light of the caves. A few minutes of blinking and quiet cursing and their eyes had adjusted enough to see into the chamber beyond. They crept closer still, and it was then that Mormacar spotted a jagged column of black rock that thrust up from the floor. Signalling Einar with his eyes, Mormacar dashed the few yards to the column, followed quickly, if not gracefully, by Einar. Safely obscured, they crouched behind the rock and peered inside.
At the far end of the cavern was a tall altar of glassy black stone carved with evil runes and darkly stained. A hooded figure lay chained to this hideous slab, his frantic straining useless against the strong steel of the manacles. Surrounding the altar were four mighty stalagmites, and upon each of these was chained another hooded form. Below the altar, dark elf warriors beat wildly on a dozen drums while half-clad witch elves danced around the cavern singing the praises of Khaine, god of murder. Presiding over this scene, her face glowing with ecstasy in the torch light, was the Lady Bela.
“This is truly a place of evil,” whispered Einar, his gaze transfixed on the spectacle before him.
Mormacar nodded in response. This is what Ulthuan would be like without the constant vigilance of the Shadow Warriors, he thought grimly. But even his brethren were but a breaker against the dark tide of Naggaroth.
The wailing of the witch Elves reached a fevered pitch, and Lady Bela began to dance around the altar, lashing about with her whip in a fit of rapture. As she passed each of the stalagmites, she tore the mask from the face of the bound victim. Mormacar’s heart caught in his throat as he recognised all four as prisoners from his cell who had gone upward with Galaher to try to escape. Seeing the terror on their faces, there was no comfort in knowing that he had chosen the right path.
Now all the assembled dark elves began to chant, “Khaine! Khaine! Khaine!”
Lady Bela pulled a jagged blade from her belt, threw her head back, and howled like an animal. “Lord Khaine,” she intoned, her voice hot with passion, “accept this sacrifice!” With that, her blade swept down and plunged into the chest of a screaming victim. Mormacar could watch no more and he turned away, his heart heavy. He could hear the laughter of Lady Bela, and the scuffling of her minions as they fought over the crimson prize he knew she had thrown them.
But realising this was no ordinary ritual, Mormacar steeled himself and turned his head back to watch. And as the last heart was torn from the last victim, a dark mist began to rise around the altar. It seemed that Lord Khaine was listening.
Einar dropped down behind the rock they were hiding behind, and pulled Mormacar down with him. “Haven’t you seen enough?” he said, his voice full of disgust. “Or are you waiting for Khaine himself to appear?”
Mormacar knocked the Norseman’s hand away. “This ritual is important, Einar, and we must find out why. If it’s too much for you cover your eyes!”
The Norseman bristled, and anger flashed in his eyes. Standing slowly, he spat, “I’ve seen more blood than any gutless elf. Pray you never know how much!” Then he turned his gaze away from the Shadow Warrior, and once again looked down on the Lady Bela.
Mormacar, cursing fate for throwing him together with this lout of a Norseman, did the same.
During their heated exchange, the black mist had surrounded the altar and now Lady Bela seemed to be adrift in clouds of inky darkness. She swayed back and forth above the altar, running the flat of her blade over the still-hooded form bound there. “Lord Khaine,” she shouted, “I ask for your favour in exchange for one final gift!” She grasped the hood and tore it free. “See!” she growled. “Galaher Swiftblade!”
Mormacar froze in horror as the hood came free. There was poor Galaher, beneath the knife of the murderous Lady Bela. Instinctively, he pulled his blade free and made to leap over the rock, but strong hands restrained him.
“Don’t do it, elfling!” Einar hissed urgently. “You’ll get us both killed!”
“Let me go, Volundson! It’s Galaher down there!” Mormacar strained against Einar’s arms but couldn’t break free.
“Remember your own words,” the Norseman whispered in his ear, as he struggled to hold back to writhing elf. “We will have our vengeance later. Now, we must escape.”
Mormacar struggled half-heartedly but his body slowly relaxed. As much as he hated it, he knew the Norseman was right. But Galaher! What of Galaher?
As if in answer to his unspoken question, Lady Bela’s voice echoed through the chamber. “Lord Khaine, even now our armies are on the march. Accept the blood of this elf Lord as a sacrifice fitting your dark majesty!”
Once again the chants rose high, and the Lady Bela’s knife plunged down. If she had hoped for a howl of fear, she was disappointed. Galaher had long ago become resigned to his fate, and the sharp blade brought him the eternal rest he craved.
Mormacar wept silently as Lady Bela sacrificed Galaher Swiftblade to her dark god. Einar held him but there was no need; Mormacar knew what he had to do.
Lady Bela dropped her knife, so she could hold the elf’s heart in both hands. “Lord Khaine, this heart is yours!” she intoned. “In return, I ask only one question. Will it burn with the fire of victory, or shrivel with the decay of defeat? Hear your humble servant and know that victory will bring hundreds more to your bloody altars!” Gripping the heart tightly, she tore it free from Galaher’s body. Holding it high, she shouted, “For you, Lord Khaine, and victory!”
“For Khaine and victory!” howled the assembled witch Elves. Every eye in the cavern was fixed on the pulsing heart. No one moved, no one breathed—and then the heart exploded in black flame that licked up and down Lady Bela’s arms. She embraced the flame like a sister, and shouted one word with indescribable joy: “Victory!”
The dark elves screamed with delight. Lady Bela lowered the heart and looked with pride on her savage minions. Smiling her cruel smile, she tossed the flaming heart into the boiling mist below the altar. The black flame ignited the unnatural mist, and the heart exploded to form a vortex of swirling energy.
Lady Bela mounted the altar and with a shout of, “To Arnhaim and victory!” she dove into the vortex and disappeared. One by one, her minions followed her lead.
Soon, Mormacar and Einar were alone in the great chamber with the bodies of the slain. As the two dumbfounded warriors looked on, the vortex began to shimmer and shrink. Mormacar quickly regained his senses and shouted, “Quickly, Einar, we must follow them!”
The Norseman, eyes wild, said, “Are you insane?”
“If you want to live, follow me!” Mormacar yelled. Wit
h that, he vaulted the rock and ran towards the shrinking vortex. Einar hesitated for a moment and then barrelled after him. Without a word, Mormacar dove into the endless blackness that hung over the floor.
Einar shouted, “The gods love a fool!” and flung himself after the elf as the vortex winked out of existence.
Mormacar landed hard on cold stone. A few seconds later, Einar appeared from nowhere and nearly fell on top of him. From the expression on the Norseman’s face, he seemed entirely surprised to be alive. Warding himself against evil, the superstitious Norseman asked, “In the name of all the gods, what was that?”
Mormacar stood up and listened intently. Mindful of the chanting and howling of the dark elves, which could still be heard from a nearby tunnel, he whispered, “That was the darkest of magics.” Mormacar could feel the taint on him, and he brushed furiously on his ragged clothing in a vain attempt to wipe himself clean. “It must have been some kind of gate. We could be anywhere now.”
“Then we have little choice,” Einar replied, at last rising from the cold floor. “We must follow Lady Bela before her trail is lost.” Mormacar nodded in agreement. Their path was clear.
So the two warriors wearily resumed their previous routine. They followed Lady Bela and her minions, keeping their distance as best they could. Her pace had once again accelerated, and they pushed themselves hard to keep up. Two days later, the tunnels took a definite upward turn. This small victory gave the two fugitives a renewed burst of energy.
Early the following day, Mormacar stopped without warning, and Einar crashed into him, sending them both to the ground. “Mind yourself, elfling,” the angry Norseman whispered. “I’ve killed men for less.”
“Forget bloodletting for a single moment and smell,” Mormacar said insistently.
“Smell? I think you’ve eaten too many strange mushrooms these past few days.”
Mormacar grabbed the Norseman and shook him. “Use your senses! Can’t you smell the fresh air?”
Einar drew his hand back to strike the agitated elf, but paused and then broke into a toothy grin. “Aye, I can smell it. Fresh air, elfling! It can’t be far now.”
The two pressed on through the day, noting excitedly the widening of the tunnel. Then, without warning, they simply emerged above ground. It was night, so they had not seen light ahead, but there was no mistaking the stars above. The two warriors looked at each other and could not speak. What words could describe their feelings after such an ordeal? They simply clasped hands and laughed. They laughed at their fate, laughed at their luck, and laughed at the stars. And the laughter was real because it was theirs and they were free.
Looking about, they saw that they had emerged in the shadows of a imposing chain of mountains. Jagged spires reached for the heavens, towering above the exhausted fugitives. Below them stretched a valley, perhaps once fertile but now full of withered trees and blasted earth. Still, Einar and Mormacar could not help but find the sight full of beauty. Compared to the mines of Hag Graef and the terror of the underworld, this place was paradise.
Warily now, lest a wrong step end their journey in tragedy, elf and man crept down into the valley spread out below them. They searched amongst the withered trees for a sign of their foes, but found none. When they were sure it was safe, the fugitives made camp and then slept.
They awoke the next day refreshed, but their eyes burned in the dawning sunlight. It suddenly seemed so bright, so used had they become to the darkness below. Walking under the barren trees of the forest, Mormacar and Einar slowly regained their eyesight.
That night, Mormacar consulted the stars and tried to figure out where they were. “I don’t know how the Lady Bela did it, Einar, but we are only about two hundred miles from Arnhaim. We could make it there in nine days if we push ourselves, twelve if we don’t.”
The Norseman chuckled, scratching at his ragged beard. “Something tells me, elfling, that you want us to push on ahead.”
“You are no fool,” Mormacar said. “I don’t know what Lady Bela has planned, but we must stop her.”
“So be it. We can rest behind the walls of your bastion.”
Without further discussion, the two warriors continued their great trek through the wilderness, leaving the vast Black Spine Mountains behind. Of Lady Bela and her dark elves, they saw no sign. It was as if the witch elf and her minions had been swallowed alive by the ancient forest.
Einar and Mormacar spent the days travelling and the evenings swapping tales. They were pleased to find that the further east they travelled, the greener the land became. They soon left the blasted forest behind and entered a region of wild grass broken up with copses of trees. The crossbows they had looted from the dark elves allowed them to hunt some game. The Norseman turned out to be a fine trapper, which more than made up for his lack of aim. And thanks to Mormacar’s ability to build a nearly smokeless fire, they were able to enjoy their first hot meals in memory. By the week’s end they had shaken the worst effects of their imprisonment in Hag Graef.
At the end of the seventh day’s march, Mormacar spotted a wispy plume of smoke to the east, where a series of low hills rose above a forest of pine. Cautiously, the two warriors headed towards it, hoping to find a friendly settlement of some kind. Coming to a gentle hill, Einar and Mormacar quickly climbed it. Dropping to the ground, they crawled the last few feet to the top and then peered below. Bile came to Mormacar’s throat as he realised what they had stumbled upon.
Beneath them lay an entire dark elf army. Mormacar looked in horror at the spectacle before him. The plains below were covered with the tents of the Forsworn, and the once-green grassland had been turned brown and lifeless beneath thousands of boots. It seemed all of Naggaroth was going to war, and the elaborate tents flew the shrieking banners of the dread cities of the dark elves.
Hundreds upon hundreds of warriors swarmed across the camp, united in their hatred of their high elf kin. The executioners of Har Ganeth, fearsome in the billowing black cloaks, strode amongst the crowd, their brutal axes sharpened and ready. Savage witch elves danced lewdly around a great cauldron of blood. Black armoured knights whipped their reptilian steeds into readiness for the battle ahead and engineers worked feverishly to build more of their dreaded repeating bolt-throwers. It was as if the Witch King himself had vomited forth a black stain onto the green lands below.
“Einar,” Mormacar whispered, “they mean to attack Arnhaim!” His heart sank when he thought of his kin in the unsuspecting city.
“Aye, elfling, the words of Lady Bela now ring true.” Einar looked into his companion’s eyes and, seeing the fire that burned there, knew their ordeal wasn’t yet finished.
“We must reach Arnhaim first and warn my people,” the Shadow Warrior said, his voice strained. “The Forsworn must be stopped.”
“You know I have no love for your folk, Mormacar,” the Norseman replied, “but to thwart the dark elf scum I will gladly help you and your kin.”
Mormacar gripped Einar’s hand. They had fought and bled together, their fates bound inextricably together. The Shadow Warrior stood, then turned to make his way down the hill. His keen eyes quickly picked out the skulking forms of two dark elf scouts who were silently making their way up towards them.
“Einar!” he yelled, unloading a bolt at the nearest scout.
The Norseman turned about as a speeding dark elf bolt pierced his left leg. Mormacar’s missile also found its mark, burying itself in the scout’s chest. Norseman and dark elf both fell to the ground, as the two remaining combatants closed. Mormacar drew his sword but kept the repeating crossbow hanging loosely in his left hand. The scout smiled wickedly, unsheathed his own blade, and charged up the hill. Mormacar parried a brutal overhead blow, brought up his crossbow, and fired it point blank into his enemy’s stomach. The scout fell back with a grunt and rolled down the hill. The Shadow Warrior ran to finish off his foe, but could not plunged his sword home before the wounded scout had screamed long and loudly.
&nbs
p; “Einar, let’s get out of here!” the elf shouted, his eyes picking out the shadows of more enemy scouts.
“I’m not going anywhere on this leg,” the Norseman said gravely. “Leave me and go warn your people.”
Only now did Mormacar see the Norseman’s wound. Einar had tugged the bolt free and tied off the bleeding, but he could hardly walk. “Einar, I can’t just leave you here! Not after what we’ve been though.”
“Yes, you can, because you must. Together, we’ll never make it, but alone you just might.” The Norseman smiled grimly. “Perhaps now I can make an end for myself worthy of a saga. I’ll hold them here as long as I can. Now, go!”
Mormacar embraced the big Norseman. “Einar Volundson, I swear this oath before all the gods: the skalds will sing of your bravery this day.”
With a leaden heart, Mormacar turned and ran down the hill. He wanted to turn back, to stay until the bitter end, but he knew that he couldn’t desert the people of Arnhaim. Even now, he could see dark elf soldiers rushing towards Einar. The Shadow Warrior doubled his speed, determined to make his friend’s sacrifice meaningful. Einar stood alone on the hill, a sword in either hand and death in his eyes. His life would not be sold cheaply.
The Shadow Warrior made it to the forest, and already he was breathing heavily. Diving behind a fallen tree trunk, he stopped to scan for pursuers. There were none yet. The dark elves’ attention was fixed on Einar, who lay about him with mighty strokes and sent his foes reeling down the hill. Mormacar tore his eyes from Einar and, moving quickly, plunged into the forest and headed east. He needed to skirt the enemy camp if he was going to make it to the plains beyond. As he ran, he could hear the bloodthirsty howls of the frenzied Norseman. The Father of Battles was surely proud that day.
Tales of the Old World Page 60
