Tales of the Old World (79 page)

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. With 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.