Tales of the Old World (76 page)

“I glanced down to check the mechanism but then, with a hiss of frying air,
the skaven’s weapon blossomed into hideous life. A great ball of writhing flame
belched out of the machine and rolled towards me, towards us all. But it never
arrived. Instead there was a metallic shriek and the fire was sucked back into
the very contraption that had given birth to it. By the gods, you should have
heard the ratvolk squeal when they saw what was happening. Some of them turned
to run but got jammed in the passageway, others tried to swat out the flame with
their paws and when they caught light… well, lets just say it was a glorious
moment.”

Van Delft smiled at the priest. He seemed not to notice that the old man
wasn’t smiling back.

“It only lasted for a moment, though,” he continued. “As the enemy’s fire
turned upon itself, the cavern erupted into a flash of light and darkness. I can
still see it now, when I close my eyes. The thousands of fangs bared in terror,
the thousands of widening eyes gleaming as bright as stars, men melting like
wax. Then the very earth shifted uneasily, as if disturbed by the foul beasts
that crawled within its depths and I heard the first rumble of falling stone.
And then… and then nothing.”

Van Delft ground to a halt. The priest studied his haggard features, the
pallor of his skin. The two high red blotches on the sharp angles of his
cheekbones had little to do with the jug of potcheen they’d drunk. The mercenary
looked exhausted, stretched to his limits. But for all that, the madness that
had gleamed in his eyes when he’d arrived seemed to have passed. Perhaps the
telling of his tale had been the cure he’d needed.

The priest had seen it happen before. Sometimes words could drain the poison
from a man’s soul, just as leeches could sometimes drain infection from a wound.

The old man poured the last of the potcheen into his guest’s pot and sat
back. He noticed that the first grey fingers of dawn were creeping between the
timbers of his door.

“That was two days ago, maybe more, maybe less,” van Delft shrugged. “As far
as I know, I alone survived the holocaust. And now I am finished. My reputation
is in tatters. My dreams died with the corpses I left behind me. There’s not a
man in this land who’ll give me a command after Magdeburg.”

“What will you do?” the priest asked softly.

“I will finish my contract. I still have gold for black powder, snares and
nets. I’ll go to Magdeburg, eat and sleep for a final few days. Then return to
the deeps. Amongst such rivers of warpstone the enemy will never be far from
reach.”

“Ah. Now I understand your errand, I think. But you can’t be shriven now. I
can only offer Morr’s blessing to those who near his realm, and you aren’t, not
really. I can’t.”

“No. Not me. Them,” van Delft said, gesturing to the bed where the priest had
thrown the maps. “Them.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, duty warring with caution, as he
considered what a grisly treasure hunt that would be. “Anyway, I thought that
you said the bodies were buried beneath.”

The squeak of the opening door distracted the priest from his dilemma and he
looked up to see that van Delft had let himself out. Gathering his robe about
him, the old man followed him out into the chill grey light of the dawn.

“Where are you going? Stay here and rest, eat.”

Van Delft, who’d already reached the liche gate, stopped and turned back. He
looked suddenly younger. Perhaps it was no more than a trick of the morning
light.

“No. I have work to do. As do you. But Priest?”

“Aye?”

“Thank you.”

And with that he was gone.

The older man watched him disappear into the mist. Then, with a shiver, he
returned to the warmth of his cell.

He threw another log into the stove, straightened the chair and rolled his
blankets up. Then he picked up the maps van Delft had left him. The columns and
lines that tattooed the soft leather remained clear and untouched by the hell
their owner had been through, the leather still supple and well oiled. The
priest picked up one at random, smoothing it out on the flat of his thigh.
Although the square of its shape was slightly misshapen the texture was smooth,
finer than any leather he’d worn before. The priest held it up to the light that
spilled in through the doorway, tilting it this way and that against the shadows
that still haunted the room.

The detail really was incredible. But now that he looked, there was one flaw.
It was a single, strawberry shaped smudge on the corner of one of them. The
priest picked up the next one and found another imperfection. This one consisted
of an arc of little curled hairs, golden blonde in the gathering sunlight.

The next one was marred by a little indentation in the centre. An inverted
button of leather, perhaps as big as his fingertips, the skin within had been
compacted into swirls.

The priest ran his thumb over it, wondering what it reminded him off.

A rose, perhaps.

No. No, that wasn’t it. It was something less fragile. Ah yes, of course. It
was just like a belly button. Just like a…

The potcheen soured in his stomach. His hands began to shake. Reluctantly the
old man looked back at the unusual leather of these maps.

Looked at the belly button that marked one. The birthmark that blemished
another. The eyebrows that furred one edge of a third.

And he realised that van Delft had brought him the remains of a body to be
shriven, after all.

Outside, the mist gave way to drizzle, which in turn gave way to the warmth
of the sun. It warmed the fields and the cemetery and the stones of the shrine.
It shone golden on the wet ivy and sent flights of sparrows wheeling up into the
sky, born aloft by the joy of their lives.

The priest, the rites of death completed, watched them. They scattered across
the blue vault of the sky, tiny little sparks of happiness born up the warm,
southerly wind that whispered gently through the greens of the forest below. He
took a deep breath of clean air, only slightly scented now with the smoke of the
funeral pyre and smiled as the first of the sparrows descended, drawn by the
sight of the bread in his hand.

“Yes, little friend,” he told it as it hopped forwards. “This world is a
beautiful place.”

He pursed his lips as it flew away. Then softly, as if he didn’t want the
bird to hear him, the priest added the single word: “Sometimes.”

Mormacar was drowning in a sea of agony. Although he longed to surrender to
the undertow and let the pain consume him, he continued to struggle towards
consciousness. Far off he could hear voices but he couldn’t understand what they
were saying. He strove to listen, to somehow bring the voices nearer. After a
torturous struggle, the sea calmed, the voices became clear and Mormacar opened
his eyes.

“He’s awake,” a gruff voice said, “bring him some water.”

Suddenly a cup was at his lips and water coursed down his throat. Although it
was warm and stale, the water tasted sweet beyond words. He looked up into the
scarred face of an old elf with tangled hair and only one ear, and asked in a
cracked voice, “Where am I?”

The old warrior looked down on him, pity on his face, and whispered, “I’m
sorry, son, but you’re in Hag Graef.”

Mormacar groaned and grabbed his throbbing head. He had thought it couldn’t
get any worse. How wrong he was. Hag Graef was the most notorious of the dark
elf slave cities, a city of doom and death where untold prisoners were worked to
death and from which no one had ever escaped. He began to wish he had simply
been slain in battle, along with the rest of his Shadow Warrior band. The
Forsworn, however, missed no opportunity for cruelty, especially against their
hated foes from Ulthuan.

Sitting up, Mormacar looked about him. He was in a dark cell of crude stone,
its floor covered with rank straw. He shared the cramped room with a dozen other
prisoners, many elves like himself, but also some humans and dwarfs. All of his
fellow prisoners looked dirty and weary and many bore bruises and welts, plainly
gifts from their dark elf tormentors. A stout door closed them in and one
sputtering torch added the smell of smoke to the stink of the windowless cell.

“Rest now,” the old elf said. “You won’t get another chance.”

“Thank you, brother,” the Shadow Warrior replied. “May the Everqueen bless
you. I am Mormacar of the Night Stalkers. May I ask your name?”

“Galaher,” the man said tersely.

“Galaher?” Mormacar cried. “Surely not Galaher Swiftblade?”

“Some used to call me that,” the scowling elf hissed. “Now I am just Galaher,
a slave like you. Leave me be.”

Mormacar was momentarily stunned and could not speak. Galaher Swiftblade
alive! The Shadow Warriors had produced few greater heroes and he was long
thought dead. Mastering himself, Mormacar reached out and grabbed Galaher’s arm.
“Please forgive me if I offended you, Galaher, but everyone on Ulthuan thought
you perished on Eltharion’s raid on Naggarond. With you alive, our escape is
assured.”

Galaher knocked Mormacar’s hand from his arm. “There is no escape from Hag
Graef save death,” the old fighter replied, his voice hollow, “and only fools
seek death.”

Mormacar could hardly believe this was the same Galaher from the stories. His
shock must have been plain, for Galaher’s face softened a little.

“Be strong. Endure,” the elf continued. “And hope that Tyrion brings an army
here and razes this place to the ground.” Galaher looked away, as if he searched
his own soul for the dying embers of a long-held dream. “Any other course is
pure foolishness.”

Mormacar stared incredulously at the old elf. “I can’t believe you, of all
people, are telling me to submit to the lackeys of the Witch King. Never! I will
try to escape from Hag Graef, with or without your help!”

“Then you’ll die,” Galaher said simply. Without a further word, the scarred
warrior turned his back on Mormacar and crossed the cell.

The young Shadow Warrior lay back, a storm of emotions coursing through him.
It pained him to see one of the great heroes of his people dead of spirit, but
he could not take Galaher’s advice. It was the duty of every elf to escape if
captured by their ancient foes. Why couldn’t Galaher see that?

Mormacar was so wrapped in thought that he didn’t notice another presence
until a deep voice jarred him back to his senses. “The old elf’s fire died out
long ago. Don’t waste your breath on him, elfling.”

Mormacar slowly got to his feet, grimacing in pain as he drew himself up to
his full height. “Who dares to insult Lord Galaher Swiftblade?” he said icily.

Facing him was heavily-muscled human, who stood a head above the defiant elf
and whose dirty face was framed by thick braids. “I am Einar Volundson of
Jaederland,” the giant boomed, his Norse accent thick, “and I insult every
member of your gutless race!”

Before Mormacar could reply, one of the other prisoners near the door hissed,
“Be silent, they are coming!”

Everyone in the cell quieted. The Shadow Warrior and the Norseman stared at
each other, their antagonism wordless yet potent. Outside, the thump of heavy
boots echoed in the hallway. When the pounding advance stopped, the air was rent
with the screech of grinding metal as a distant door opened. Then the screaming
started.

The Shadow Warrior looked at his cellmates, seeing the terror etched on their
faces. He would die, he resolved, before he would live in fear of the dark
elves. The heavy footsteps continued, at last stopping in front of their door of
the cell. The prisoners looked at each other as keys clattered outside, but if
they sought solace than they found none.

The fear in the cramped room was palpable as the heavy portal swung open
slowly to reveal three cruel-eyed dark elves. Their leader, a tall woman clad
head to toe in black leather, feigned demureness as one of her henchman mopped
fresh blood from the front of her leather vest. She could have been beautiful,
but her raven hair and striking features were mined by the twisted sneer on her
pale face. Her gloved hands lovingly cradled a long whip, which seemed to writhe
with a life of its own under her expert caress.

Her henchmen, two lithe, heavily mailed guardsmen armed with ornate maces and
wicked blades, barked in unison, “On your knees for the Lady Bela, scum!”

The witch elf watched with pleasure as the prisoners fell to their knees.
Mormacar hesitated for a moment, but complied when he saw even the cursed
Norseman obey.

Lady Bela walked slowly around the small cell, her boots clicking on the
rough stone. She stopped in front of Mormacar, who met her stare with one of his
own. “What have we here?” she purred as she stroked Mormacar’s face with a
slender hand. “This one is still defiant.”

“One of the new batch, mistress,” offered one of the guards. “We’ll break him
soon enough.”

Lady Bela stared at Mormacar, drinking up the hatred in his eyes. His skin
crawled as her hand continued to caress his cheek. “Oh yes, I like this one.
He’s got spirit.” Entwining her whip around his head, she tugged him closer.
“Tell me, slave, what is your name?”

“You’ll get nothing from me, you murdering bitch!” Mormacar shouted and spat
in her face.

The dark elf guards rushed forward, maces raised, but Lady Bela waved them
away. Still holding the high elf with her whip, she pulled a long pin out of her
hair and jabbed Mormacar lightly in the side of his neck. The Shadow Warrior
jerked as his body was swept by a burning sensation. Then all feeling went dead
and he could not move a muscle. Lady Bela smiled lasciviously and pulled a small
blade from her belt. Seeing the blade, Mormacar strove to move, to knock it from
her hand, but his body let him down and he remained as still as a statue.