by Nick Horth
Howle stepped out in front of the statue. He had a loaded hand crossbow aimed at her in one hand, and carried his saw-bladed cleaver in the other. His injured shoulder was bound with dirty bandages.
‘No sneakin’ away this time, girl,’ he said, shaking his head.
She lowered one hand to her belt.
‘Ah, ah, ah,’ he said, brandishing the alley-piece, barbed bolt nestled in the groove.
She sighed, and raised her hands.
He came closer, within a few feet. With a smile, he slowly lowered the hand bow, and spun his blade in one hand.
‘I’m going to enjoy this,’ he hissed, raising the blade.
Shev stepped forward and blew a handful of gleaming powder into his face.
Howle cursed and screeched, swinging the knife blindly with one hand, clawing at his eyes with the other. Shev let the blade whistle past her neck, then stepped in close and brought her knee up between Howle’s legs. He groaned, then slumped to the floor, twitching, with drool spilling from his mouth.
Shev grabbed the hand bow from his belt, and pressed it to the back of Howle’s head, into his greasy mop of grey-black hair.
‘I should put a bolt in your head, but I’d hate to rob you of the nightmare you’re about to experience over the next few days,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘That’s pure brachitor poison burning its way into your eyeballs right now.’
Howle groaned in horror, and began to claw and rub at his eyes in panic.
‘Don’t worry, it’s actually not lethal, but you’ll wish it was. It causes an intense fever and incredibly lifelike hallucinations. It’s going to bring all your greatest terrors to life, Howle. Consider this a parting gift.’
With that, she was off, sprinting towards the statue, Howle’s gibbering screams echoing in her ears. She clambered up onto the marble creature’s wings, hauled herself up and onto its leonine skull. The window was there, barely large enough for her to squeeze through. She hesitated.
Trust me, Miss Arclis! Go now!
She heard shouts behind her, and more bolts skipped and whickered around her. Not much choice but to heed the man’s words.
Ignoring the agony in her foot, she stood, ran along the length of the statue’s head and hurled herself like an arrow towards the stained glass aperture, hands covering her head. She felt the glass give way, and then she was falling into empty space, tucking her body tight as the ground rushed up to strike her. She hit mossy earth and rolled, crashing through a thicket of thorns that scratched and tore at her skin. Toppling out of control, she bounced painfully down a muddy slope and prayed to all the gods that there wasn’t a cliff waiting at the foot of her descent. The world was a multi-coloured blur, then she was falling free again, and with a bone-jarring thud she finally came to a halt. She spent a blissful few moments just lying there, panting and trying to catch her breath as her head spun. Then she felt a hand grasp her arm and pull her to her feet. Through her pirouetting vision, she glimpsed a face staring into her own. A man’s face. He appeared to be shouting at her.
She snapped her head forwards into his nose.
Chapter Seven
Armand Callis was helping the aelf to her feet when she head-butted him.
His nose exploded with pain, and he staggered backwards, tripped over a clump of vines and landed on his backside. His assailant was already running, stumbling like she was half-drunk, clearly still dazed from falling down what amounted to a small cliff, which was understandable.
Another figure stepped out of the undergrowth, slender and tall, dressed in a long leather greatcoat. The aelf woman swung a punch at the newcomer, who simply swayed lazily to the side, caught her arm in a firm grip and twisted, neatly flipping the aelf onto her back. Captain Arika Zenthe placed a foot in between the stricken aelf’s shoulder blades, and shot Callis a grin.
‘You really do have a way with the ladies, don’t you, Callis?’ she said.
Callis sighed and hauled himself to his feet. Blood seeped down his face, trickling into his beard. He tenderly prodded his aching nose. Broken, of course. Perfect.
‘Usually they leave it a little longer before resorting to physical violence, Zenthe,’ he replied.
He leaned over the prone woman, who was struggling and kicking to no avail beneath Zenthe’s sharkskin boot. The captive twisted her head to the side, and peered up at him. Her face was thin and angular in the way of aelf-kind, but not so sharply defined as Zenthe’s. Her skin was fair, darkened by the sun, and her hair a vibrant russet. One side of her face was webbed by burn marks, reaching from her chin to just below her striking green eyes.
‘We have to move,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, now.’
‘Apology accepted,’ he replied, nursing his injury. ‘Now, what exactly are you doing here?’
‘There’s no time!’ the captive hissed.
Behind him, twigs crunched underfoot, and Callis turned to see Hanniver Toll emerging from the trees, accompanied by several of Zenthe’s retinue. The aelven corsairs had already drawn steel, a variety of rapiers, daggers and heavy-bladed cutlasses. Toll was wielding his four-barrelled pistol. The man’s eyes were bright with eagerness. It had been a long hunt, and the witch hunter was sensing the kill. He knelt beside the prone aelf and removed his wide-brimmed hat, running a hand through thinning hair.
‘Your name?’ Toll said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she grunted. ‘They’re coming for me.’
‘Good,’ said the witch hunter. ‘Because the man you came here with is a killer and a heretic, and I am here to see him dead. My name is Hanniver Toll, of the most holy Order of Azyr, and you are my prisoner until such time your own complicity in the traitor’s crimes can be determined.’
It was then that they heard the sound of bellowing voices. Deep and guttural, accompanied by the beating of drums and the stamping of feet.
Callis caught Toll’s eye.
‘Orruks,’ he spat. He would recognise that brutish tongue anywhere.
A gunshot cracked out across the darkening sky, and flocks of startled creatures fled into the air, hooting in panicked indignation.
Toll nodded to Zenthe, who hauled the prisoner to her feet.
‘Quickly,’ he growled, and began to climb the steep slope towards the ruined city.
Callis darted after him, drawing his own blade. He still carried his Freeguild steel, a span and a half of tempered metal with a basket handle. He drew his pistol, a duardin wheel-lock piece, heavy and reassuring in his grasp. The aelves of Zenthe’s crew filtered after their captain, bounding up the steep ascent with graceful ease, eager for the killing to start. Even after months of sailing with these rogues Callis still felt uneasy in their presence. Like a brayhorn amidst a pack of wolves.
Zenthe had handed her prisoner over to one of her crew and was now bounding ahead of the others, her long hair whipping in the breeze, twin blades held low at her side.
Ahead, the ragged slope levelled off and Callis could see lit torches and the glimmer of blades. There was a band of perhaps twenty humans, holding a set of stairs against a mob of onrushing greenskins. The steps were slick with blood, and Callis could see broken bodies piled about, forming a barrier over which the whooping orruks clambered eagerly. The night was split by a flash of light and a loud crack as one of the men fired a scattergun into the midst of the advancing mob. Several toppled back in an explosion of pink mist.
Behind the struggling warriors, in the doorway of the shattered building, stood a golden-masked figure, wrapped in black robes and carrying a staff. As they broke from cover, running towards the melee, the figure turned its head to them.
Callis glanced across and saw Toll staring at the figure, his mouth set in a grim line, his fingers bone-white where they gripped his gun.
‘Vermyre!’ he shouted, and even over the din of battle his voice rang clear.
Suddenly, they were close enough to see the creatures’ bloodshot eyes, to smell their rancid sweat. Captain Zenthe ducked the clumsy swing of a broadaxe and spun, whipping her blade through the neck of her assailant. The orruk dropped to its knees and she reversed her grip on the blade and brought it stabbing down through the thing’s neck. It gurgled and fell to the ground and she twisted her sword and pulled it free. Another greenskin barrelled across Callis’ vision and bore an aelf to the ground, smashing the unfortunate soul’s face into a bloody ruin with a succession of heavy punches. Callis stepped up behind the orruk and fired a bullet into its skull, and it slumped over its victim, twitching. He turned to see another aelf cut down. Hot blood splattered across his face, and he stumbled backwards, cursing.
More gunshots, and a piercing, haunted scream above the carnage. He blinked gore from his eyes and sought his bearings. Bodies writhed and killed and staggered in the near-darkness. Toll was several paces ahead of him, hacking and weaving through the melee, fighting with a desperate frenzy quite at odds with his typical, measured swordplay. A trail of bodies lay scattered behind the witch hunter, wisps of smoke rising from gaping bullet holes. But more and more orruks were splitting off to race towards him, and Toll could not carve his way through so many.
‘Hanniver!’ shouted Callis. ‘Fall back, you madman. You’ll get yourself killed!’
If Toll heard him, he showed no sign of it.
Toll ducked back from the clumsy swing of an orruk’s stone adze and thrust his blade forward, through the beast’s ribcage and into its chest. The creature coughed foul-smelling blood which splattered across his face, and without even thinking, he raised his pistol and fired point-blank into its head. He twisted his blade free and continued forward. His chest was heaving, and his breath ragged. It had been a long time since he had put his body through such punishment, but his quarry was here, and this might be his only chance to serve Sigmar’s justice. To see his butchered corpse strung about the city gates of Excelsis, a warning to anyone who sought to conspire against their own.
Ortam Vermyre. The Golden Lord. Betrayer of Excelsis, and butcher of the innocent.
Once, Toll had counted him a friend. Vermyre had used that misplaced trust and his own lofty position as High Arbiter of the city of Excelsis to condemn thousands to death in the name of the Dark Gods. The judgment for that crime had been too long in coming.
Another howling face loomed out of the darkness, and he swept his sabre across to carve a red line across its eyes, never slowing his momentum. Ahead, the orruks were hacking their way through Vermyre’s men, overwhelming them with sheer strength and numbers. Still the masked figure watched Toll advance, seemingly oblivious to the death and bloodshed all around him. The witch hunter was close now, perhaps a hundred paces from the melee. He had no idea where the others were, but it did not matter. This was his task alone, and if he died here to end Vermyre’s stain on the realms, he would do so content. Time seemed to slow. He lifted his pistol, put the traitor’s head in the sight.
Something struck him in the side, a dead weight that smashed him off his feet just as he pulled the trigger. His gun bucked in his hand, firing high and wide. He hit the ground hard alongside his assailant, where they rolled in a tangle of thrashing limbs. He punched out with the butt of his pistol, unable to free his sword hand for a killing strike, and felt it connect. There was a pained groan, and the grip on his waist loosened. He snarled and rolled his dazed opponent over, grabbed his blade and raised it high, ready to drive it through the traitor’s heart.
A beam of flickering torchlight washed across the face of Armand Callis, his eyes bulging and his face bloody. Toll’s hand was around the man’s throat, and he was gasping for breath.
‘Toll,’ Callis gurgled. ‘It’s me!’
There was a flare of blue-green light, and Toll loosened his grip on the man’s throat and staggered to his feet. The golden-masked Vermyre rose over the mob of orruks as they tore and hacked his band apart. He was borne aloft on a disc of gleaming metal, which rippled with azure flames. Arrows whickered up at him, some missing entirely while others skipped off the floating shield, disappearing into the night. There were screams of outrage from Vermyre’s remaining henchmen, as they realised they were being abandoned to their fate.
‘Not today, old friend,’ shouted Vermyre. There wasn’t even any gloating in his words. He simply sounded old, and tired. Toll even imagined he heard a hint of regret. Then the man was drifting away, rising off towards the clustered rocks of the crater rim, out and away from the ruined city.
‘No!’ shouted Toll. Rage and frustration welled up in him like bile, and he raised his gun once more and fired. Nothing but a dry click. Empty. He cursed, fumbling at his belt for a fresh cartridge, but it was too late. Vermyre was gone. Callis was coughing and spluttering, climbing to his knees. Toll turned and grabbed the man by his leather jerkin, slammed him against the nearest wall.
‘I had him!’ he snarled. ‘I was about to put a bullet through that bastard’s skull!’
‘You were about to get your guts ripped out by an orruk axe,’ spat Callis. ‘And you’re welcome, by the way. Next time I’ll not waste my effort. Now get your hands off me.’
‘Fools, if you’re not too busy throttling each other we need to disappear,’ came a voice from behind. It was Zenthe. Both her curved swords and her clothes were splattered with orruk blood. Her crew were falling back, loosing bolts as they retreated. Behind Zenthe was their prisoner.
‘I can get us out of here,’ said the aelf girl. ‘I know a path out of this crater.’
‘Your quarry’s gone, Toll,’ said Zenthe. ‘Now let’s move, before the orruks tire of hacking his hired fools into chum and come for us.’
She turned and sprinted after the retreating aelves. The smoke was thick around them now. Callis turned to follow Zenthe, shooting Toll a dark look as he went. With one last glance towards the skies, the witch hunter followed.
Chapter Eight
Shev ran, slipping and sliding across moss-slick rocks and through dense tangles of barbed vines. She could hear bestial howls as the orruks gave chase. Arrows skipped around them. Ahead, a burbling channel of clear water trickled down a rise of shattered columns.
Ahead, said the voice in her mind, startling her so badly that she almost tripped and fell flat on her face. Climb. We are close.
‘Here,’ she shouted to the others, and leapt up to the first cluster of stones.
‘They’re closing on us,’ shouted the man called Callis. He turned, standing ankle-deep in the running water and raised his pistol. He fired, and a green-skinned figure in the distance crumpled, then lay still. Callis stowed his gun, and Shev stretched out a hand to help him clamber up beside them. The corsair aelves skipped over the rough ground with impressive ease, barely slowing. Ahead was the portico of a great hall, slanted and broken, looming out of the gloom. It was built from blue-white marble, turned a dirty grey by layers of dust.
There, declared Occlesius, triumphantly. Your escape route.
It would be a hard climb, but not an impossible one. Zenthe and her corsairs were already sprinting across the cracked flagstones of the plaza towards the tower of clustering creeper-vines.
How did he know about this place, she wondered? You would have thought that being bound to a coffin for several hundred years would limit one’s knowledge of the surrounding area.
Oh, I was not bound to anything, sa
id Occlesius. She was sure she could hear an element of smug satisfaction in the echo that rippled through her mind. You recall that gem you plucked from my tomb with such quick-fingered grace? That wondrous little device is called a thoughtstone, or a soulstone, and it was fashioned in the arcane forges of Shadespire, greatest city of Shyish. It is crafted from shadeglass.
‘Shadeglass?’ Shev muttered. She had come across that word before, somewhere in her father’s notebooks.
It captures one’s soul upon death. It allowed my consciousness to live on beyond the time of my passing, to drift and travel amidst the walls of this city to certain similar artefacts, to converse with my fellow academicians. There was so much to do, you understand? So much to contemplate. Of course, I had not anticipated sharing the last several hundred years of my existence with only witless orruks for company. Dreadful conversationalists, those creatures. Not to mention their questionable hygiene. They used my herb gardens as a latrine, can you even imagine?
‘Could you do me a personal favour?’ Shev growled, as she grasped a length of thick, mossy vine and began to climb. ‘Shut up!’
She realised Callis was hauling himself alongside her, and she tried to ignore the look of bafflement upon his face. More arrows slammed and whickered around them as they climbed. An aelf to her left gurgled, spat blood, and tumbled away, three shafts protruding from her back. Shev glanced down. A score of orruks knelt at the base of the columns, loosing from crude bone and hide shortbows. Dozens more were leaping onto the vines, climbing with jagged blackstone knives clamped between oversized fangs. Toll paused his climb, reached into his jacket and produced a small, bronze sphere. He pressed a shallow depression on the device with one thumb, and then tossed it down amongst the gathering throng of orruks. It exploded with a snap-hiss, gushing foul-smelling black smoke. She could hear the beasts retching and hacking, bellowing in outrage. Soon the orruks were enveloped in the stinking cloud, and the arrows they launched were hopelessly inaccurate.