Tales of the Old World (80 page)

Hundreds upon hundreds of warriors swarmed across the camp, united in their
hatred of their high elf kin. The executioners of Har Ganeth, fearsome in the
billowing black cloaks, strode amongst the crowd, their brutal axes sharpened
and ready. Savage witch elves danced lewdly around a great cauldron of blood.
Black armoured knights whipped their reptilian steeds into readiness for the
battle ahead and engineers worked feverishly to build more of their dreaded
repeating bolt-throwers. It was as if the Witch King himself had vomited forth a
black stain onto the green lands below.

“Einar,” Mormacar whispered, “they mean to attack Arnhaim!” His heart sank
when he thought of his kin in the unsuspecting city.

“Aye, elfling, the words of Lady Bela now ring true.” Einar looked into his
companion’s eyes and, seeing the fire that burned there, knew their ordeal
wasn’t yet finished.

“We must reach Arnhaim first and warn my people,” the Shadow Warrior said,
his voice strained. “The Forsworn must be stopped.”

“You know I have no love for your folk, Mormacar,” the Norseman replied, “but
to thwart the dark elf scum I will gladly help you and your kin.”

Mormacar gripped Einar’s hand. They had fought and bled together, their fates
bound inextricably together. The Shadow Warrior stood, then turned to make his
way down the hill. His keen eyes quickly picked out the skulking forms of two
dark elf scouts who were silently making their way up towards them.

“Einar!” he yelled, unloading a bolt at the nearest scout.

The Norseman turned about as a speeding dark elf bolt pierced his left leg.
Mormacar’s missile also found its mark, burying itself in the scout’s chest.
Norseman and dark elf both fell to the ground, as the two remaining combatants
closed. Mormacar drew his sword but kept the repeating crossbow hanging loosely
in his left hand. The scout smiled wickedly, unsheathed his own blade, and
charged up the hill. Mormacar parried a brutal overhead blow, brought up his
crossbow, and fired it point blank into his enemy’s stomach. The scout fell back
with a grunt and rolled down the hill. The Shadow Warrior ran to finish off his
foe, but could not plunged his sword home before the wounded scout had screamed
long and loudly.

“Einar, let’s get out of here!” the elf shouted, his eyes picking out the
shadows of more enemy scouts.

“I’m not going anywhere on this leg,” the Norseman said gravely. “Leave me
and go warn your people.”

Only now did Mormacar see the Norseman’s wound. Einar had tugged the bolt
free and tied off the bleeding, but he could hardly walk. “Einar, I can’t just
leave you here! Not after what we’ve been though.”

“Yes, you can, because you must. Together, we’ll never make it, but alone you
just might.” The Norseman smiled grimly. “Perhaps now I can make an end for
myself worthy of a saga. I’ll hold them here as long as I can. Now, go!”

Mormacar embraced the big Norseman. “Einar Volundson, I swear this oath
before all the gods: the skalds will sing of your bravery this day.”

With a leaden heart, Mormacar turned and ran down the hill. He wanted to turn
back, to stay until the bitter end, but he knew that he couldn’t desert the
people of Arnhaim. Even now, he could see dark elf soldiers rushing towards
Einar. The Shadow Warrior doubled his speed, determined to make his friend’s
sacrifice meaningful. Einar stood alone on the hill, a sword in either hand and
death in his eyes. His life would not be sold cheaply.

The Shadow Warrior made it to the forest, and already he was breathing
heavily. Diving behind a fallen tree trunk, he stopped to scan for pursuers.
There were none yet. The dark elves’ attention was fixed on Einar, who lay about
him with mighty strokes and sent his foes reeling down the hill. Mormacar tore
his eyes from Einar and, moving quickly, plunged into the forest and headed
east. He needed to skirt the enemy camp if he was going to make it to the plains
beyond. As he ran, he could hear the bloodthirsty howls of the frenzied
Norseman. The Father of Battles was surely proud that day.

Mormacar had been reared in the wild expanses of the Shadowlands, and spent
his life waging a merciless war on the Forsworn. Now he used every iota of his
instinct and his training to slip through the woods unnoticed. He could hear the
pounding of hooves and the shouts of the search parties, but he was a ghost in
the shadows. Striving to keep his pace steady, Mormacar darted from tree to
tree, his passing silent and leaving no sign. It took him nearly two hours to
circle the dark elf army and he could now see the plains beyond. He was close,
and the hated enemy was almost behind him.

Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by the thunderous approach of a Forsworn
war party. Heart pounding, Mormacar threw himself flat and crawled into a
tangled bush. The sharp branches cut his face and hands but he uttered no sound.
Sitting perfectly still, he waited as the dark elves approached. The horses had
slowed their pace as they entered the forest, and now Mormacar could only hear
the gentle clip-clop of hooves and the jangling of harnesses. The sounds got
louder as the Witch King’s minions approached, and Mormacar gripped his crossbow
tightly with his sweaty palms.

The dark elves broke out of cover, and the Shadow Warrior could see the wiry
forms of three dark riders atop their midnight steeds. They circled the area
slowly, scanning the ground for some sign of their quarry. When the riders found
nothing, they regrouped and began to ride deeper into the forest.

But a chance glance from the last of the retreating horsemen aroused his
suspicion. This rider broke off from his companions and cantered toward the
concealed elf. Mormacar noticed too late that a piece of his cloak had torn off
and was now clearly visible, hanging in the branches of the bush. Cursing
himself for his carelessness, Mormacar readied himself as the dark elf
approached.

The remaining horsemen now turned their steeds and galloped towards the
hidden high elf, skilfully guiding their horses around the intervening trees.
The foremost rider, spear extended, moved ever closer.

Mormacar launched himself out of the bushes with a yell. The evil steed
reared in surprise, its rider dropping his spear while seeking desperately to
calm his snorting mount. Mormacar stepped to the side of the stomping beast, and
levelled his crossbow at the other two dark riders. With cold precision, he
fired the crossbow twice in quick succession at the approaching horsemen, the
infernal mechanism of the Forsworn weapon now turned against its masters. Both
bolts found their mark, and the stunned dark elves fell from their saddles,
wounded or slain. The last of the dark elves had regained enough control of his
mount to leap from the saddle and tackle the weary Shadow Warrior. Both elves
fell to the ground and the Forsworn smiled cruelly as he felt Mormacar’s bones
crunch beneath his weight.

Mormacar felt the breath knocked out of his body, and could only struggle as
the dark elf rained blows down on him. The dark rider pulled a gleaming dagger
from his belt, his other hand at Mormacar’s throat. The Shadow Warrior thrashed
desperately, trying with all his might to wrench the blade free. As the two
mortal foes struggled, Mormacar’s empty hand closed around a rock. Smiling
grimly, the Shadow Warrior shifted his weight, and smashed the jagged rock into
the skull of his foe, caving it in with one great blow.

The dark elf crumpled to the ground and Mormacar struggled to his feet. He
grabbed the reins of the dark elf’s mount and swung himself into the saddle.
Nothing would stop him from reaching Arnhaim. Nothing!

Leaving the dead and dying behind, Mormacar raced out onto the plains and
kept on riding. He could almost feel the hot breath of Lady Bela on his neck,
and whipped the horse furiously to coax every ounce of speed out of the swift
beast. Even though he rode at a full gallop, he would turn to look for dark
riders every few minutes, but the crucial first hours saw no pursuit. All too
aware of the power of dark magic, however, the Shadow Warrior rode on as if
Khaine himself was in pursuit.

For the better part of a day, Mormacar stayed in the saddle and drove the
horse on. Finally, the dark steed could take no more: it threw the Shadow
Warrior from the saddle and collapsed. The huge steed rolled in the tall grass,
whinnying in pain.

Mormacar lay in the grass, agony shooting through his shoulder. For minutes,
or maybe it was hours, he drifted in and out of consciousness. He could tell
that his arm was broken and his body seemed to be one big bruise. Gods, but he
was wrecked. Perhaps he should surrender to the screaming pleas of his body and
rest? But what of Arnhaim?

He could still hear the horse screaming in pain. It thrashed in the grass,
surely dying. And its howls took him back to the altar of the Khaine. Once again
he was in dark temple at Hag Graef, prisoner of the Lady Bela, forced to watch
his kinsmen fall under her knife. And he could not decide if the screams of the
dying horse reminded him more of the victims of Lady Bela, or of her bestial
witch elf minions. But he did know that he would gladly give his life to spare
his brethren in Arnhaim such a fate. There was no more time to waste. He had to
push on.

So steeling himself, Mormacar rose, every joint and bone straining with the
pressure. But he staggered forward… east, always east towards Arnhaim. As he
crossed icy streams and tore his way through obstructing brambles, he lost track
of time completely. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the
other, to ignore the pain in his shoulder and cover those final miles. When his
body threatened to fail him, he thought of those who had already fallen in the
struggle. The faces of his dead friends seemed to hang before him, urging him
on. He saw his Shadow Warrior brethren, slain in foul ambush. He saw the
prisoners of Hag Graef and Galaher Swiftblade, ruthlessly sacrificed by the Lady
Bela. And he saw Einar Volundson, now surely dead. For all of them, and his kin
yet living in Arnhaim, he forced himself on.

So Mormacar passed the night, stumbling in the dark in a desperate bid to
bring salvation to the last high elf bastion outside of Ulthuan. As the morning
haze evaporated under the burning sun, he saw it. In the distance, rising above
the well-ordered fields of the outlying farms, a shining tower of pure white,
surrounded by stout battlements and sharp elven steel. Arnhaim! Arnhaim at last!

He stopped, overcome with emotion, all his pain forgotten for that one
instant. He had done it. He had escaped from Hag Graef and come in time to warn
his kin of the impending attack. He looked forward to watching Lady Bela wither
under a crushing defeat, and hoped he could face in her the battle to come. Only
when his blade clove her in twain would justice be served.

Eyes closed, Mormacar smiled then, thinking of his sweet revenge, and failed
to notice the tell-tale hiss of a speeding missile. His head jerked up as it
struck his throat and pain shot through him like fire. He fell to his knees,
blood oozing from the terrible wound. He reached out to the horizon, reached for
the tower of Arnhaim but his hand grasped at nothing. His life ebbing away,
Mormacar tried to cry out, to warn his brethren in Arnhaim that doom approached.
But no sound emerged from his ruined throat, and he fell forward in a heap.

“Forgive me,” Mormacar thought, his head full of visions of Einar, Galaher,
and his kin, “I have failed you all.” Then he surrendered to the pain, and it
consumed him utterly.

“He’s down!” an icy voice shouted. “Let’s take a look.” Three figures rose
from the tall grass and walked over to the body of the fallen elf. They looked
him over silently, poking the body to make sure the arrow had done its work.
Seeing his haggard form, bloody and dressed in a ragged dark elf uniform, their
faces filled with disdain.

“Look at this Forsworn scum, he’s filthier than a pig,” a disgusted voice
said.

“What was a lone dark elf doing so close to Arnhaim?” said a second.

“You can tell by the state of him,” the icy voice said, “he’s clearly a
fugitive. We get these strays now and again. Throw him in that ditch and let’s
continue our patrol.”

“But sir, shouldn’t we alert the garrison, just in case.”

“There’s no need to rush, brother. We’ll report in at the end of the day, as
usual. What could happen by sunset anyway?”

In the dank, subterranean depths of the Marienburg Grand Sewer network, more
than effluent was being carried along the crumbling, cavernous conduits. The
stark glare of the flaming torches held aloft by four sinister, robed figures
projected dancing shadows upon the tortured frame of a man dragged along the
waste channel between them.

The captive was clad in fine, black leather britches and riding boots. Above
the waist he had been stripped, revealing a gaudy patchwork of lurid bruises and
angry red weals where a lash had bitten him, and most disturbing of all a mass
of blisters and scabs which traced an unearthly, sinuous pattern where he had
recently been branded on his breast. The cluster of sores formed a circular hub,
from which a broad point projected from the bottom left quadrant, and a lithe
tail twisted away from the top right to form a design as strangely fluid as the
flames which had imprinted it onto the victim’s flesh. A sack of purple velvet
covered the man’s head and was securely knotted around his throat, so that he
was forced to stumble along, being shoved, kicked and whipped in the correct
direction.

Passing beyond the grand arches of the main channel, they entered a
little-used part of the system, where the walls once more narrowed about them
like the jaws of a great serpent. It was here that they came upon a bizarre
little iron bound door and the journey came to its end as the cultist bearing
the lash unlocked the portal and the group passed into the dim glow beyond.