Tales of the Old World (78 page)

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. Only 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.”

“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.

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.