by Warhammer
‘I am with you,’ answered Siobhain.
The flows of magic were sluggish here. Unless he missed his guess, they were currently all being drawn off to the Stone of Ogham, which was most likely the source of this foul weather. He considered trying to channel the winds towards him but decided against it. There was too much chance of some strange feedback effect. The stones distorted magic mightily. This being the case he would need to draw on his personal power and that of the staff of Lileath. Hopefully that would be sufficient.
Swiftly, he wove a web of divination, sending feelers of magic out in a network all around him. They would trip at the presence of orcs and greenskins and warn him of any within about thirty strides. Next he channelled a normal wind towards him, cleaving through the mist. Momentarily it parted the clouds giving him a clear view of the path. Half a dozen orcs raced towards him. He snarled and sent a blast of destructive energy towards them. They bellowed in rage and pain as it ripped through them, boiling flesh from bone like overcooked meat on a joint. One of them, on the very fringe of the spell, was only mildly singed. He leapt forward with eye-blurring speed, his huge scimitar raised in both hands, ready to smite the sorcerer.
Teclis stepped to one side and swung the staff downward, tripping the orc. As it sprawled on its face, he inserted his blade below the flange of its helmet, severing the vertebrae in the neck and cutting the spinal cord like a surgeon. The creature spasmed interestingly as it lost control of its motor functions and began to die. Teclis saw no reason to put it out of its misery and turned to look for a new target. Siobhain put her spear into its back.
A horde of small greenskins scuttled forward. A wave of short spears blurred towards him. There was no time for anything subtle. He spoke a word of command and a wave of flame consumed most of the missiles. He sprang to one side away from the area targeted just in time to hear them clatter onto the stones.
Annoyed by being taken off guard by such crude creatures, he strode into their midst. His blade flickered out, piercing an eyeball here, a windpipe there. The goblins responded with their own weapons, but they were partially deflected by the energy field he had already woven around himself. It was a subtle spell of his own devising which used the force of an enemy’s blow against itself. The harder they hit, the more violently their blades were repelled. The danger was that they might strike with enough force to overload the spell. That was why it was best to keep moving and dodge and duck and weave.
Teclis smiled now. In every elf, he suspected, there was a core of bloodlust and what some would call cruelty. In battle this was drawn to the surface. He had seen the mask of culture fall from the faces of too many of his warrior kin not to recognise its presence in himself. It did not disgust him, as it might a human, it was merely another interesting emotion to be catalogued and, if he was honest, enjoyed. Perhaps it was the tainted blood of Aenarion, he thought?
He laughed, and was surprised to see that his laughter elicited looks of horror from Siobhain and the humans around him. Of course, perhaps they did not feel the battle joy flowing through their veins. They were not elves, after all. Nor could they understand what this meant to him personally. He ducked another blow and brought the tip of the staff crunching down on a booted goblin foot. The little creature screeched in pain and clutched its toes, hopping almost comically for the few seconds before he impaled it on his blade.
No, he thought, they could not understand. In his youth, he had been Teclis the weakling, Teclis the cripple, Teclis the pitied. That had been before he had learned to strengthen himself with spells and potions. Now his breath came as easily as any other elf’s, and the only sign of his former weakness was a slight limp in his left leg that left him barely less swift and graceful than any other elf. Once these creatures could have overwhelmed him. Once his brother had been needed to protect him from them. No more, he thought, pulling his blade out in a burst of green blood, and then lunging at full extension to skewer another. Now I can look after myself, and enjoy combat as it was meant to be.
His laughter became louder, and the humans looked away. Only Siobhain fought beside him, and even her face showed fear. Thoughts flickered like lightning flashes through his mind. He seemed to be moving so swiftly that he had time to contemplate eternity between blows. It was strange, the only elf he had ever met who seemed to take no pleasure out of this wild battle joy was his brother, quite possibly the deadliest elf who ever lived. Why should that be, Teclis wondered?
‘Why should that be?’ he asked the goblin that spewed its last meal over itself as the blade took it in the belly. It did not understand elvish, of course, and looked at him as if he were mad. There was something so irresistibly comic in the thought that he simply laughed all the more. He was still laughing as a huge bolt of magical power tore out of the night, and drowned him in a sea of pain.
Felix heard the cruel hideous laughter ringing out through the mist. What could it be, some orc laughing at the death agonies of its foe, a daemon summoned by one of their shamans? No. There was something familiar about it.
‘It’s the elf, manling,’ said Gotrek from beside him. The dwarf chopped back-handed at a charging orc and cut it in two. Felix threw up his arm to avoid being blinded by the spray of blood and found himself engaged with another huge orc. The force of the creature’s strokes numbed his arm. He backed away, parrying as he went, cursing the dim light that made it twice as difficult to concentrate on his foe’s flashing blade. He felt something squelch under his heel. He had trodden on a corpse. He fought to keep his balance and had to match the orc blow for blow to avoid being driven back and tripping on the uncertain footing. He heard the dwarf’s battle cries recede into the gloom.
It was a mistake. Felix was a strong man but the orc was stronger. Its blows almost sent the blade flying from his hand. He knew that he could not long hold his own in this sort of combat. He needed to take a chance and end this quickly. He ducked, letting the orc’s blade pass over his head and then thrust forward with his sword, piercing the orc’s belly. The thing roared deafeningly and swiped at him with its massive fist. The force of the impact made stars dance before Felix’s eyes. The pain was sickening. He reeled away in one direction, and the orc reeled away in the other to be swallowed by the mist. From all around came the sounds of battle and that hideous piercing laughter.
Concentrate, Felix told himself, fighting to hold down his food, and not simply collapse on the blood-slick ground. It took a massive effort of will to hold himself upright. From all around he heard the sound of scuttling. Small greenish shapes garbed in hooded leather jerkins surrounded him. They cackled and capered as they closed.
This was not looking good, he thought. There was a flash of greenish light and the hideous elvish laughter stopped.
Teclis fought to remain conscious. He knew he was lucky. His magical defences had absorbed most of the impact but still pain surged along every nerve end as he fought to contain and dispel the deadly energy pulsing through him.
Fool, he told himself, his thoughts cold and clear. This is what you get for giving way to the murder lust. You were taken by surprise by a wielder of the power. A crafty one, too. He had shielded himself and husbanded his power until close enough to deliver what should have been a killing stroke. And he had almost succeeded too. Still, almost was not quite good enough.
Now that he had uncloaked himself, the orc shaman was as visible as a beacon burning on a hilltop on a clear night to Teclis’s mage sight. He smiled, seeing the greenish-yellow glow of greenskin energy surrounding his foe. It was the familiar magical signature of the shaman. They tapped their energies in some unusual way. The aura brightened as the shaman unleashed another blast. This time Teclis was prepared and his own counter-spell unwove the mesh of alien energy before it had covered half the distance between them. Teclis countered with a bolt of power but the orc’s counter-spell was swift and strong. He had the advantage of being fresh and his senses were clear. Teclis still had to deal with the consequences of the
shaman’s first blast. He hoped that would not prove fatal.
Worse still, his divination web told him that more greenskins were closing on either side; three of them at least and more coming. Where was the girl, he wondered? Lost somewhere in this damned mist, unfortunately. With his attention focused on the shaman he was vulnerable. He could try and defend himself physically and most likely be struck down by the shaman. He could deal with the shaman and take a sword blow for his pains. He could split his attention and fight at less than full effectiveness on two fronts. None of the choices were particularly attractive. Still, he needed to make one and soon. Death stalked ever closer.
Felix forced himself upright, determined to die on his feet at least. Seeing that their prey was about to put up a fight, the goblins slowed.
‘Not too brave, eh?’ he said, brandishing his sword menacingly. The goblins in front of him retreated, but others took advantage of his distraction to rush in from left and right. Only the scrape of booted feet on rocks warned him. He swung his blade left and right, driving them back, whirled in case any were coming from behind and then whirled again to face his original attackers who had regained their courage and were closing again.
This was getting him nowhere, he thought. If he stayed here he would die. Acting instantly he threw himself forward slashing with his blade, crashing into the packed mass of greenskins, bowling them over with superior weight and ferocity. He struck left and right furiously, and was rewarded by the jarring of blade on bone, and the agonised squeals of his foes. A moment later and he was clear, back in the main swirl of the battle. He found himself face to face with Murdo and Culum and the men of Crannog Mere.
‘I am glad to see you,’ he said, joining their ranks as they prepared to face another rush of orcs and goblins.
Teclis hurled himself upwards, invoking the spell of levitation. He strode into the sky at the end of his leap, hoping that it would confuse his foes and get him clear of their blades. There were grunts of dismay from below as the greenskins realised that their prey had eluded them. As he had intended, the mist had covered his movements.
He had not eluded the shaman, though. The nightmarish green glow erupted upwards, a volcanic rush of power that took him all his skill to parry. The deadly sting of the previous blast had gone now and he was free to concentrate on the task at hand. He contained his opponent’s spell in an orb of energy and then sent an arc of power crashing down on him. Briefly the shaman’s counterspells held out, then one by one they collapsed. Talismans burst in coruscating showers of sparks as they overloaded. The shaman’s figure became a statue of molten bronze light in the shape of a monstrously obese orc, then the flesh was stripped from his body, the skeleton vanished and he was gone from the world forever.
Teclis rose above the battle and for a moment stood above the clouds of mist. It was a god-like sensation. He could hear the sounds of battle below, but for the moment he was not part of it. He was free to consider his options.
Not wanting to be taken off guard again, Teclis sent divinatory probes outwards, tendrils of magic designed to alert him to the presence of any enemy mage or spell. It was not flawless, he doubted that such a wide-scale scan could detect the presence of someone under a spell of concealment, but he hoped that he might sense something amiss. It was difficult here in Albion with the flows of magic so disturbed by the presence of the stone rings.
Nothing. That was good. Now he would unleash some power and see what he could do about this attack. Just at that moment something hurtled out of the gloom towards him. He moved to one side and it rocketed by him. The wind of its passage rippled his robes. For a moment, he caught a brief unbelievable glance of what looked like a goblin wearing a pointed helm, and flapping massive leather wings. He shook his head almost unable to believe his eyes. The thing must have been fired from a catapult, that was the only explanation. He could hear its mad giggles as it disappeared out of sight into the clouds and then into the abyss below.
Teclis scanned all around him. From a clump of rocks above he saw more of the goblins and some strange engines that they used to launch themselves into the air. Was it possible, he wondered, that these suicidal creatures had been raining down on the fight all this time, and he had been unaware of it? It certainly looked that way. Even as he watched, several more of them hurtled into the air and vanished into the clouds of mist. Moments later came the sound of screaming.
Now what looked like some kind of leader was directing them to look at him. He could see some of the engines were being realigned in his direction. He lashed out with a storm of light, clearing the ridgetops with blast after blast of pure magical energy. Engines and flyers alike caught light. Once he was sure he had taken care of the visible foes, he asked himself what he was going to do next.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Felix stood shoulder to shoulder with Murdo and Culum and they began to fight their way through the mass of orcs and goblins. The rock underfoot was slick with condensation and gore. The way it sloped was no help to balance either. The uncertain edge of the path was a cause for constant concern, and in the mist, there was no way to know who was winning.
Felix’s arms ached from hacking at orcs. His breath came in gasps. He wondered what had become of the Slayer and the elf. If anything had happened to either of them, his position here was very precarious indeed. He was a stranger in a land of which he knew very little.
The battle became merely a matter of parry, hack or stab whenever a foe came near him. He watched his comrades’ backs and they watched his. In the maelstrom of battle, personality and animosities were forgotten. More than once he parried a blow aimed at Culum’s back. On several occasions the big hammer-man erupted from the mist to smash the head of an orc attacking Felix to pulp.
Strangest of all were the bat-winged goblins that seemed to descend from the sky, spearing men on their pointed helmets, carrying them off over the edge of the cliffs. The greenskins appeared to have no notion of self-preservation. Froth billowed from their mouths and their wide eyes spoke of some sort of drug abuse. Felix had seen their sort before, in the mountains of the World’s Edge back on the boundary of the Empire. It seemed strange to encounter something even vaguely and repulsively familiar so far from home.
Somewhere in the mist, thunder rumbled and golden light flickered. Felix felt vaguely reassured, confident that the elf wizard was still in the fray. More than once he thought he heard Gotrek’s bellowed war-cry.
Eventually, after what seemed liked an eternity in hell, the clamour of battle dimmed. The bellows of the orcs grew less and took on a fearful note as they receded into the mist. The shrieks and giggles and wild yips of the goblins faded into the distance. Gradually the voices of men became dominant, and war-cries were replaced by shouts of concern and queries as to the health of brothers and comrades and kin.
Felix found himself looking over at Murdo and wondering if he looked half as bad as the old man. Blood dripped from the Truthsayer’s face and arms, the red of men and the green of orc. He had taken a few wounds. A patch of skin on his forehead had been shaved away to reveal pink and bleeding meat beneath. Murdo reached up and muttered an incantation and the wound closed, leaving only a fresh pink scar. Felix noticed that he himself carried a few cuts on his arms and chest but his mail shirt appeared to have preserved him from worse harm.
As if an evil spell had lifted, the mist parted to reveal a scene of awesome carnage. The pathway was covered in the corpses of men and orcs and goblins and even some huge and shapeless monsters of a type that Felix could not name. The men of Carn Mallog had fought bravely but over half of them were down. Only about five of the original war-party from Crannog Mere was left. In the air above them, circled with an aura of power, the elf hovered. Felix could smell burning and saw the flames where strange wooden war engines blazed on the cliffs above.
Gotrek stomped through the shambles like a gore spattered daemon of war. He looked grimly pleased with himself and he booted the severed head of an o
rc chieftain ahead of him like a child playing kickball.
‘I see you still live,’ said Felix.
‘Aye, manling, I do. These were weak creatures and it would have been an unworthy doom to fall to them.’
Felix looked at the piles of dead men and wondered if they would agree with the Slayer’s assessment of their foes. Somehow it seemed unlikely. ‘Maybe we’ll find something more deadly on our quest,’ he said sourly.
Gotrek shrugged and glared up at the elf as if annoyed to see that he still lived. Either that or he was considering whether the wizard would make a worthy enough opponent to put him out of his misery. Felix sincerely hoped not. Then he noticed that the elf was gesturing at something.
‘I suppose we’d better see what he has found,’ Felix said.
Below them, they could see a vast valley, ringed around with mountains. In the middle of the valley, surrounded by boiling black clouds, illuminated by lightning bolts, they could see an enormous structure.
‘The Temple of the Old Ones,’ said Felix.
‘Indeed,’ said Teclis. ‘The Temple of the Old Ones.’
Felix studied the buildings. To be visible from this height, they must be huge. Each was built as a ziggurat, a stepped pyramid with seven huge levels. Each level was marked with runes, and was reached by a ramp from the level below. Strange ramps and tunnels linked the ziggurats running through the trees that seemed to have swallowed the rest of the city. Glowing lights inside indicated that the place was either occupied, haunted or home to some unspeakable sorcery, perhaps all three.
Gotrek was shaking his head in a puzzled manner.
‘What is it?’ Felix asked.
‘I am reminded of something, that is all.’
‘What?’
‘The ziggurats of the chaos dwarfs.’
‘You think there might be some connection?’ asked Teclis.
