Gotrek & Felix- the Third Omnibus - William King & Nathan Long

by Warhammer

  Teclis desperately scanned the great rune map, looking for something, anything that would aid him. He knew his task was all but hopeless, but he refused to give up. In heartbeats he scanned the outer limits of the paths, and found nothing useful, so he returned his attention closer to home, to the pyramid itself. It was the centre of all this. Surely there must be something here. The ghosts of the Isle of the Dead would not have sent him here otherwise.

  Another memory flickered through his mind: the pillars containing the skeletons of long-dead slann. He did not know why that thought came to him at the moment, except perhaps the idea of ghosts was in his mind. Perhaps the trapped sorcerers had sent the idea to him. It did not matter. He sought the glyph that simulated the mystical structure of the great ziggurat and let his attention flow to the hall of the pillars. Yes, he thought, there was something there. Something faint, but still present. He reached out with a faint tendril of magical essence and activated the pillars.

  At once, he sensed another presence reaching out to touch him, through the intricate network of energy. At first he was wary, wondering if this was some sort of trap, whether a daemon was making its presence felt through the disintegrating Chaos-contaminated system. He shielded his mind but the presence was persistent and it did not have the feel of Chaos. There was something slow and alien and cold about it. A sense of power and baffled intelligence, of some great cold-blooded creature awakening from a long sleep.

  Who are you? The thought was not in Elvish and he could not quite grasp its full range of meaning, but the gist was clear. Why have you wakened us?

  ‘I am Teclis of the elves, and I seek your aid in averting disaster.’ He pictured what was going on in his mind and projected it outwards.

  Ah, you are one of the young races, the ones we helped teach back in the days of life. Your race has changed a great deal in a very short time.

  Teclis smiled ironically. That was not what the elves thought. They thought themselves conservative and unchanging with a civilisation that had lasted ages.

  An eyeblink in the time of the Old Ones, the Great Ones.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Teclis.

  We are the wardens charged by the Old Ones to oversee the great design. We gave our lives so that our spirits might remain and watch over the work but something went wrong and we had to close the paths to avoid catastrophe. We have slept and our power has been leeched away and now catastrophe looms. Others have interfered with the pattern, moulding it to their own designs, and they have caused great harm.

  Images flickered into the elf’s mind. He saw his own people building their watchstones and siphoning off power. He saw the ancestors of the men of Albion, tall and proud and far more advanced than the men of today, build their great stone circles. He saw how, well-intentioned though they might have been, they had distorted things. More images flickered though his mind and he saw further back in time, to the opening of the great warp gate and the havoc that wrought on the pattern magic of the Old Ones.

  Ah, there is the cause. Alas, even had we our full strength, undoing that would be beyond us. Undoing that would be beyond the power of gods.

  ‘Then there is nothing to be done?’ queried Teclis. ‘The work of the Old Ones will be unravelled and my homeland will be destroyed.’

  No, young one, if you are willing, there is a way. You have great power and with it we can perhaps close the paths and seal them, at least temporarily.

  ‘Any respite would be good, but how long?’

  Heartbeats of the Great Watcher. Ten cycles of the world around the eye of heaven. Perhaps twenty.

  Teclis considered this. ‘Not long.’

  Not long, and there is a price.

  ‘Name it,’ stated Teclis.

  One of the pillars was shattered. One of our souls was lost. We need a replacement to make our pattern complete once more.

  ‘You are talking about death, a living sacrifice. Myself.’

  Yes.

  Teclis took no time to reach his decision. ‘I accept. What must I do?’

  That will not be necessary, elf, said another voice. Teclis recognised it as belonging to Murdo. He knew the old man was standing at the altar now, hand on his shoulder, linked to him by contact, at once there and in this netherspace.

  I know more of this than you do, continued Murdo. My people have studied the mysteries of the patterns. My ancestors were taught by these cold-blooded ones. I have a better chance. Also I am old and must pass from this world soon. You have centuries yet.

  ‘Only if we succeed,’ replied Teclis.

  We must succeed.

  ‘Very well. Let us proceed.’

  Felix felt as if his head was going to explode. Something had gone very wrong. Thousands of images coruscated through his mind. He saw visions of many things, of places and worlds and bubbles within the paths. The moment seemed to stretch forever. He sensed hungry things coming for him and knew the daemons were once more on his trail. He felt like he was tumbling endlessly down the corridors of infinity at fantastic speed. Somewhere far off he sensed power pulsing through the Paths of the Old Ones, as if something long dormant had woken. The hungry things came ever closer, and there was a terrifying sense that it was him and him alone they were after, that somehow they sensed his presence, and wanted to feast on his soul.

  Suddenly up ahead was another vortex. He wondered whether he could possibly reach it in time.

  Guided by the spirits of the ancient guardians, Teclis went to work. Knowledge flowed into him. He began to understand the huge complex of energies that flowed through the paths. He saw how every part was designed like a finely constructed machine. Now the machine was broken, and the fact that it still partially functioned was leading it to disaster, like a chariot still being dragged along an open road even though its axle was broken. What he needed was to close the portals so that they would not draw on those ravening runaway energies.

  He opened his eyes and looked around the main chamber. Murdo lay now atop the altar. Teclis considered what he was going to do and was repelled by it. His whole life had been spent thinking that the sacrifice of sentient beings was a barbarous act. That they performed such things was what separated the dark elves from his own people.

  He told himself that Murdo had volunteered for this, that he was giving up his life willingly and for the greater good, just as the ancient slann masters had done millennia ago. Doubts assailed him. Murdo was not a slann, perhaps the ritual would not even work, how could he hope to join with those ancient ghosts of an alien species? Teclis knew he could perform the sacrifice and it might all still be in vain. There was a very good chance of it. And even if they succeeded the solution would only be temporary. Decades at the most. The old open wound at the northern gate would still be there. The paths would be forced open once more. To an elf like himself, a decade was not a huge amount of time. What was the point?

  He tried to shrug off his despair. The point was that they would buy more time. In a decade he could learn more, muster greater forces, return here with greater knowledge and more power. It was worth taking the chance, worth buying the time. If they succeeded.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked Murdo. The old man nodded. He clearly wanted to speak but could not. Despite his bravado, there was fear in his eyes. Teclis considered his own doubts and found them small compared to those that must assail the Truthsayer. He lay spreadeagled on the altar in the position they had been directed to by the slann, with his head and feet aligned with the ancient mystical poles of power.

  Teclis spoke the words that he had been taught, his throat twisting as he struggled to spit out the alien syllables. Only centuries of practice in the arcane tongues allowed him to do it. As he spoke the words, he found his inner vision twisting, comprehension and power flowed through him. He had no sacred knife, as the old mage priests had, but his sword would do in its place. As he reached the climax of the ritual with the temple shuddering around him like a frightened beast, and the smell of warpstone and decay in hi
s nostrils, he plunged the blade home, ripping open Murdo’s chest and pulling out his heart, spraying the altar with blood. He winced at the pain in the old man’s eyes. Yet part of him, hidden and dark, half felt only by himself, felt a secret satisfaction. The gap between even the highest of high elves and the darkest of dark was not so great after all, he thought, with a thrill at the sickness of his satisfaction. Blood flowed outwards, emptying itself over the altar, flowing through the ancient runic channels.

  Teclis waited for a sign. Nothing happened. After all that, nothing. Murdo had given up his life in vain, and Teclis had violated the laws of his people for nothing. He stifled a curse, and controlled the urge to unleash a powerful bolt of energy at the altar. He studied it with his eyes and his mage sight and still saw no difference. Blood continued to gush, the light passed from the old man’s eyes. Still nothing.

  Wait. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the runes begin to glow in a new configuration. He felt a tug of power, through the spell that linked him with the altar, and fed it more. The blood-drenched runes began to glow. He saw Murdo’s spirit drawn from his body, and dragged downward into the altar. While his lips chanted, and his own heart still beat, he freed his own spirit to pursue it. Once more his vision was drawn into the infinite maze of energy. He saw the old man’s spirit, young-looking now and bathed in light, draw towards twelve others. They looked like great upright toads, but there was a suggestion of intelligence about them, and nobility and power that impressed even Teclis. He joined with them, filling a gap in their ranks, and at once began to work their great spell. Teclis joined in, feeding them his own power, performing the role that in ancient times living mage priests would have performed, providing a link between the world of the living and them.

  There will be pain, the voice in his head told him. It did not lie. As he became one with them, he realised that they were one with the great pattern of the paths, and they could feel the corruption within them as purest agony. The polar warpgate was indeed a wound to them and one that gave them great pain. Worse, it was one they could do nothing about. Teclis could understand now why they had closed the paths and retreated into dormancy. Enduring ages of such pain would surely have driven them mad.

  Instead they concentrated on the rune markers of the paths, the things that drew power from the realm of Chaos. Closing the way was not going to be easy here. The raw primal power of the daemonic realm was forcing its way through the gaps the runes provided, like lava erupting through the crust of the earth.

  He felt agony increase as they exerted themselves to shut the paths down. It was a pressure well nigh unbearable. He forced himself to concentrate, draw on the deepest reserves of his being and focus on the spell. Somewhere very far off, his body still chanted. He wanted to retreat into it, make the pain stop, just for an instant, but he knew that would be fatal – if he left the circle now before the spell was complete, all would fail.

  Teclis kept chanting as one by one the runes were sealed. The pain mounted. He wondered if it would ever stop or if he would die of his agony and his spirit would be trapped here forever.

  A small still part of his mind prayed that the others had gotten clear. It would not be a good thing to be trapped within the Paths of the Old Ones when the way was finally sealed. Pain mounted in his mind, searing at him. Blackness hovered at the edge of his mind. Desperately he tried to hold onto consciousness, as they made one final effort.

  Felix felt an enormous wave of pressure pass over him. He was not sure what was happening, but his speed seemed to be falling. At the same time, the sense of evil presence increased, as if the things stalking him were closing the distance. He willed himself to move faster but nothing happened. In the back of his mind, he thought he heard daemonic howls of triumph. He knew he was doomed if he fell into their clutches. Teclis could not save him now, and Gotrek was nowhere to be seen.

  Feeling claws reaching for him, he stretched out, reaching for the vortex. It was close now, but perhaps not close enough, he thought he felt phantom fingers on his cloak. He reached further, stretched himself to the utmost. Almost there. He was certain something touched him now. Gossamer fingers that grew stronger and scalier. The howls of triumph were loud in his mind. An eternity of torture loomed.

  Then something changed. Some power shifted within the strange extra-dimensional labyrinth. The vortex up ahead seemed to swirl slower, its energy draining away. The howls of triumph turned to shrieks of fear. Something had scared his pursuers. He sensed them retreat, moving off into the distance as if desperate to reach sanctuary before some dreadful event occurred. Perhaps the elf had succeeded. Perhaps he had closed the Paths of the Old Ones to Chaos.

  Another thought struck Felix. Perhaps he had closed the paths to everyone else too. If that was the case he would be trapped in here. Along with the daemons, if they did not make good their escape. Desperately he twisted, throwing himself towards the vortex. It was smaller now, weaker, closing rapidly. He aimed himself like a diver and prayed to Sigmar to preserve him. For a long moment, nothing happened, then somehow he was through, falling back once more into the world he knew.

  He landed sprawling on his face on hard stone. He lay there gasping. When he looked up, the Slayer was standing over him. Over the dwarf’s shoulder he could see the human survivors and a slice of blue sky. The air smelled of salt and sea water.

  ‘What kept you, manling?’ Gotrek asked.

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Where’s Murdo?’

  ‘He won’t be joining us, and neither will Teclis is my guess.’

  ‘No great loss there.’

  ‘Do you think they succeeded?’

  ‘Well, so far there’s no sign of the world ending, but maybe we had better wait a few days to be sure.’

  Felix rose to his feet and limped towards the light. They had emerged halfway up a chalk cliff, looking out to a misty sea. Gulls called, and watery sunlight filtered down through the thick cloud. Siobhain and Culum glared at him but he would not let their hostility get to him, at least not right now. He felt like a man granted a new lease of life, and he intended to enjoy it.

  Even as the thought occurred to him, it began to rain.

  Teclis felt as if he had been beaten very thoroughly with a large wooden club. His bones ached, his muscles ached, his head throbbed as if a goblin were using it for a drum. The air was foetid and smelled of warpstone and death. Near the altar the dead giant’s corpse stunk worse than a cesspit. He was thousands of leagues from home with no means of transportation in the tumbled-down remains of an ancient haunted temple, most likely surrounded by orcs and beastmen.

  He let none of this bother him. He was still alive and the Paths of the Old Ones were closed. The threat of continent-shattering doom was temporarily withdrawn. They had succeeded. He looked down at the corpse of Murdo and gently closed the wide-staring eyes. He wondered where the old man’s spirit was now. Trapped in the stones along with the slann? Without his own pillar it would inevitably decay, and with it, the spell they had woven.

  Teclis knew that he would need to return here and see what he could do about that, probably with an army and a host of mages, but right now, he was tired and a long way from home, and he needed a place to sleep. Leave tomorrow’s problems for tomorrow, he told himself as he limped off in search of a safe spot to recover his powers and begin the long journey home to Ulthuan.

  REDHAND’S DAUGHTER

  William King

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE STORM

  The Dwarf steamship Storm Hammer crashed through the waves, trailing clouds of smoke and seagulls behind it. Its paddles thrashed the ocean, driving it into the wind with a speed that would have been inconceivable for a sailing ship in these rough seas. In the distance, great thunderheads threatened.

  Felix Jaeger leaned against the rail and watched the sea break against the prow. Riding the bow wave a pod of dolphins easily paced the ship, leaping from the water, turning on their backs in
mid air to show their bellies before splashing back into the water. Such was their speed that they gave the impression more of flying under water than swimming. Just looking at them made Felix happy, for no reason he could put his finger on. Perhaps it was their faces – something about the shape of their mouths made them seem to smile. It went well with the exuberance of their motion and contrasted directly with the sour expressions of the dwarfs around him.

  Felix had never seen a more miserable-looking group, and he had plenty of experience of a race that specialised in gloom. Most of these dwarfs had a slightly greenish tinge. Many had just returned from throwing up over the side. From where Felix stood he could see a line of them hanging over the guardrail, heaving the contents of their stomachs into the sea. Was this why the gulls followed the ship, Felix wondered, doing his best to ignore the retching sounds? To find food?

  He understood the dwarfs’ misery. During the first few hours out of harbour, when the Storm Hammer had hit the rolling swells of the Gulf of Araby, he had felt something of their discomfort himself. He had spent several hours sitting on the cannon turret trying to keep the contents of his stomach firmly in place. The sickness had been as bad as the hangover after a three-day drinking session. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it passed. He did not exactly feel fine, but he had adjusted. The dwarfs were taking longer about it. It seemed that as a race, they were peculiarly prone to seasickness.

  Felix recalled reading somewhere that dwarfs, being bound to the elemental affinity of the earth, were unwelcome to the sea gods. That was one theory; another was that the same sensitivity of the inner ear that allowed dwarfs to tell depth and distance so unerringly while underground, made them vulnerable to the rocking motion of ships. Whatever the reason, he was in a position to confirm it was true.

  He looked around for Gotrek but the Slayer was nowhere in sight. Doubtless he was down below inspecting the massive engines, or perhaps he had broached a cask of ale and was working his way through it. According to dwarfs, ale was a cure for all ills, particularly seasickness.