Blacktalon: First Mark

by Andy Clark

  Neave gave vent to inarticulate sounds of revulsion and anger as the foul slime congealed on her skin, heat washing from it into her flesh until it felt like lines of burning acid. She tried to writhe, to scream, but she could no longer even move or breathe. She thought of her comrades, of how they might have saved her from whatever appalling horror this was, and of Katalya, abandoned beneath the earth with these terrible monsters.

  ‘Do not fuss so,’ said Wytha in a singsong voice that jarred terribly with the horror that Neave felt. ‘You are not dying, child. You are seeing…’

  With a final daubed mark, Wytha tapped her talons oh-so-gently against Neave’s bulging eyes, and suddenly, Neave saw.

  Disembodied. Floating. Nothing but a zephyr of wind, a mote of light, a presence of nothingness that rides the essence of others.

  Trees rush past. She dances like dust in the wake of lithe figures that flow through the forest with natural grace. The canopy is breaking ahead. The trees thin. Screams can be heard, wailing cries and cruel bellows. With senses she should not possess, she scents smoke and blood and corruption upon the air.

  The treeline parts. Smoke rises in a thunderhead over a ruined settlement, flies hurtling through it like hailstones. Half-visible over the writhing wall and the burning buildings is a promontory, upon which squats a draconic beast she recognises only too well. Its rider seems to stare right at her, right through her, and she quails. Yet she is nothing here, an observer only, and she is borne in the wake of those she watches.

  Out from the wilting safety of the forest’s rotting eaves. Through the wall of vines that flows aside at their coming. Into blood-slicked horror and blazing sorrow.

  She watches as sharp talons rip through bloated flesh and spray rancid pus across the grass. Huge axes bite deep and send forest spirits toppling. A wailing infant is snatched from the ground in an alien embrace.

  Hissing voices.

  Despair.

  Defeat.

  The figures turn away from this terrible place and flee, pausing only to pluck the glowing lamentiri – the soul seeds – from the fallen bodies of their kin before they retreat. She is still puzzling over her knowledge of that last strange detail as she is borne back towards the woodlands, and the vision fades…

  Neave came back to herself for a moment, straining her muscles against the sorcerous paralysis that gripped her. It was as though her head broke water for the barest of moments before she was sucked back down with a snarl of frustration.

  She is no longer disembodied. She is herself, but a simpler, earlier self. One she had forgotten. One scoured from her memories by that which came after.

  She is younger than Katalya, clad in animal furs and daubed in clay that she knows deadens her scent and hides her pale flesh. She holds a jagged shard of stone in one fist, a knapped blade ready for the kill.

  The forest is hers to prowl. The swamps, too, not so foul now as they shall become. She roams, feral, and lives as a beast.

  Neave treads slowly, silently through tangled thorns and close-knit trunks. Her eyes are fixed upon the flank of an undokh, a sizeable grazing beast, whose tusks and bone-spurred hide make it dangerous quarry.

  Somehow, she knows that her silent guardians are watching from somewhere close by. She knows also that they will come to her aid only in the most extreme need, perhaps not even then. Neave must hunt on her own merits if she wishes to live, and to be worthy of the forest spirits’ regard. She has never known any other purpose.

  Hunt.

  Live.

  Prevail.

  Turning her stone blade in her fist, Neave darts through a tangle of withervine and lunges, sinking her blade deep. Blood sprays, and she feels the simple exhilaration of the hunt surge through her. She gives an exultant cry that fades into echoes as the vision dissipates…

  Neave came back to herself again, grimacing in pain as she felt the cold stone floor of the throne room against her cheek. She felt another vision welling behind her eyes and tried to fight it, but she was power­less to resist.

  She kneels amidst the standing stones of the worship-circle. Neave offers prayers to the goddess Alarielle as vines twine overhead and the stars shine down. She offers the gesture of the two-tailed comet to the heavens in the manner of the local tribes, for she is human still and the God-King demands her worship also. She knows a deep and abiding love for the nature goddess. The feeling turns to cold stone and pain…

  The taste of blood dragged her back to the present. Her chest hitched as she struggled to breathe through agonies every bit the equal of Reforging. Unable to remain grounded, Neave gave a strangled groan of anger as the visions took her again.

  She walks the tunnels and caverns of the Dreadwood Enclave. This is the stronghold of Clan Thyrghael. She knows this now as sure as she knows her own name. The name they gave her.

  Neave is older now, taller, stronger. Her limbs are all lithe muscle and taut sinew. Her flesh bears dozens of scars, worn proudly as badges of survival hard-earned. Her hair is knife-hacked short to her scalp, and her furs and skin alike are pierced through with thorned creepers, worn in honour of the spirits she serves. Neave is their creature, their huntress, their weapon. She bears their sigils in tattooed whorls upon her chest and neck, and their protective charms dangling from a cord about her neck.

  Neave is a killer, single-minded and solely devoted to the spirits that have raised her and forged her into this thing. And now, at their summons, she walks their halls at last. It is an honour she has long coveted, and to have it bestowed fills her with fierce pride.

  Whatever the sylvaneth want of her, Neave will do. They have told her she is special, fate-touched. Chosen. She owes them a life debt. She owes the goddess Alarielle her absolute allegiance.

  She gives it gladly.

  Neave strides into the heartroot hall, head held high and pulse thudding steadily. Before her looms the crystal throne of Wytha, mistress of Clan Thyrghael. Upon it, the Branchwych herself, blue eyes glowing like soul fires in the gloom. Neave ignores the lowering glares of the Treelord attendants, the spiteful stare of Ithary who crouches, a mere cutting of a thing, beside her lady’s throne. Dreadwood dryads and Tree-Revenants crowd the misty shadows of the chamber, hissing amongst themselves as they watch her take the long walk alone to stand before Wytha’s throne.

  She flings her knapped daggers to the ground at the throne’s foot. She drops to her knees before Wytha, who watches unmoving as Neave grabs handfuls of the furs upon her right shoulder and tears them open with a dry ripping sound. She tilts her head, baring her neck and collarbone. It is a predator’s mark of submission, one that requires no words.

  Not that she has ever learned to utter such sounds.

  Wytha rises slowly and steps down from her throne. Bending at the waist, she grasps Neave’s shoulders with her taloned hands and raises her to her feet. Her angular features twist into a smile as alarming as it is maternal.

  ‘You are ready, girl,’ she says in her creaking voice. ‘You will receive the deeper mark of the Dreadwood, and it will make you strong. I need you strong, Neave. You have much to do.’

  Wytha hisses strange words that make Neave’s head spin and cause a fire to light in her flesh. She looks down in shock to see the tattoos on her skin glowing with a blue light. Her head snaps back up as Wytha plunges one talon into her chest, punching through flesh and bone to pierce her heart. Neave’s eyes lock with Wytha’s and as darkness takes her, she sees those two fires burning in the gloom ‘til everything else fades and she is back in her present self again.

  She lay still as stone, eyes wide and breath crawling in and out. Shock spread through her, interwoven with understanding. How long had she feared the taint of Xerkanos’ magics, when all along it had been the mark of the Dreadwood, the memories of a past life, that had curdled within her mind. This time, when the tides of the past swelled over her head again,
she plunged willingly into the vision. Neave had to know it all.

  …Neave is fighting. Incredible vitality surges through her body, lending strength and speed to her limbs that she has never known before. Sylvaneth fight at her side, whip-taloned dryads and insane Spite-Revenants lunging between rotten tree-trunks to slash at their foes.

  Yet what foes they are. The enemy are huge, hulking, deformed by muscle and rotting flab. Their rusted armour is thick with spikes and tri-lobed runes. Bells toll dull notes where they clang and dangle from the ends of huge axes that are swung with ferocious force into forest spirit bodies. Flies boil through the air like a storm, and rancid filth squelches underfoot.

  Ahead, through the ragged treeline, Neave can see something huge rising dark against a sky the colour of jaundiced flesh. It is a fortress, a bloated monster of a structure that seems half-alive and half-rotted through all at once. Her target lies within, that much she knows, and her hatred for him is absolute. He is Lord Ungholghott, the fleshcrafter, the swamp king, the befouler of the forests, and she alone has been ordained as his executioner. If not for the sake of her beloved spirits, then for the life he stole from her in a time before she had memories of her own. They have raised her as a weapon, an arrow loosed from a bow that will pierce his rancid heart and lay him low. Only Neave can do this, Wytha has told her. It has been decreed, though Neave knows not why or by whom. She has not asked.

  Yet even now, the enemy surge again in numbers greater than any had anticipated, and Neave realises with a sick horror that she cannot do this. Her foes are too many, their axes too sharp, their rotted flesh too tough.

  Still she fights, as the sylvaneth fall one by one, as her flesh is hacked and her bones splintered and her body riddled with plagues that even the magic of the sylvaneth cannot burn away. At last Neave stands alone, limping step by step towards the fortress, hate driving her forward where all others have fallen. Lumpen bodies sprawl in her wake, dozens upon dozens of the Plague God’s champions that have fallen to her wrath.

  It is not enough.

  More come against her.

  At last the daggers fall from her bloodied grip, and even then she tears the throat from another befouled champion, gagging on the vile fluids that flood her mouth as she does so. Neave will not fail. She cannot. She has not even seen her quarry, for he lurks still in his fortress, never deigning even to face her himself.

  An axe slams into her spine and she can feel nothing but cold, distant pain. The strength leaves her limbs at last and she slides to her knees, surrounded by lumbering Chaos-worshippers with their axes raised high.

  Light blooms above her, and she believes that it must be the end. With a final effort Neave tilts her head back to welcome oblivion. Her eyes widen as she sees instead a coruscating bolt of lightning ripping its way down through the canopy to slam into her mangled form. White fire erupts through the forest. Tree-trunks and Rotbringers alike are blasted to ash and blown away upon a screaming gale as the energies of the heavens pour down upon Neave. She feels her soul leave the shattered remains of her body and then she is a mote once more, spiralling up, up, away from the blood and horror of her mortal ending.

  Up to the realm of Azyr, and the kingdom of Sigmar.

  Up, to her first Reforging.

  Neave came back to herself, curled in a foetal position on her side upon the cold stone of the cavern she now knew to be Heartroot Hall. She blinked, marvelling at the utter absence of pain. Her mind felt clear as the crystal waters of an upland spring. Her sight was as perfect as it had ever been. Her body felt hollow with exhaustion, but untainted by the soul-sickness that had bedevilled her now for weeks.

  With an effort, Neave pushed herself to her knees. She rose, swaying slightly but feeling the strength return to her limbs. Everything sounded and smelt and looked like it was forged from cut glass. She could practically see the air as it moved through the chamber. She could hear Katalya’s frightened heartbeat, distant but distinct, the only other human pulse in this stronghold aside from her own.

  ‘Have my senses been so hampered?’ she asked herself, raising one battered gauntlet and wondering at its clarity.

  ‘You were close to madness, child. Perhaps death.’ Wytha’s creaking voice was tender. Neave looked the Branchwych in the eye and breathed out slowly.

  ‘Because of the mark you left on my soul. Because of what you groomed me to be.’

  Wytha’s eyes widened and she recoiled as though slapped. It was a strangely human gesture, yet now her clarity had returned, Neave could see it was learned, affected.

  ‘Child, the peril came not from my magics. It was the heavy-handed soul sorcery of Sigmar that put you at risk. His heavenspells conflicted with our own, natural gifts. He stole you from us, and he very nearly tore you in half. I have saved you.’

  ‘Not once now, but twice, it seems,’ said Neave. She flexed her muscles and stretched out her limbs, feeling the full possession of her own body and mind returning to her. ‘But not for my own good, isn’t that right, Wytha? You want something from me. You still want me to kill Lord Ungholghott for you, don’t you?’

  Wytha drew herself up, her slender form towering a good foot over Neave’s not inconsiderable height. She looked imperiously down upon Neave, eyes narrowed into slits of blue fire.

  ‘A debt is owed, child. Just because Sigmar stole you from us, I knew that his Reforging magics could not cloud your mind forever. I have waited long to hear your soul-notes within the song again, no matter how faint. Our mark still resides within your heart, Neave Blacktalon. Our kindness still goes unpaid for. The debt is due, girl, and you have answered my summons. It is time to do your duty to Alarielle, that you failed to do before. You must kill Lord Ungholghott.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’ asked Neave. ‘I am Sigmar’s creature, not yours, and no matter what agenda moved sylvaneth of the Dreadwood to snatch up an infant human girl, I don’t believe it was altruism. You brainwashed me into servitude, transformed me into a weapon, hurled me at your enemy like a dart. What debt do I owe to you, that giving my life didn’t settle?’

  ‘But you didn’t give your life, did you?’ asked Wytha, jabbing one long talon into Neave’s chest. ‘You were saved from death, stolen by another god and wielded in other wars. It does not change what you are, who you were meant to be. Greater beings than I saw your importance from afar, and commanded that I fashion you into the weapon that I did. That you have become so superlative a huntress is down to the artifice of those infinitely greater than yourself. Everything you are you owe to the intervention of others. Yet this is your first hunt, Neave. Your first quarry, and as much an enemy of your people as mine. Here is a chance to become something upon your own merits at last. If you aid us in this, I believe we still stand a chance of laying low a mighty champion of Nurgle before he destroys our lands and leads his foul crusade on into territories that your own peoples hold dear.’

  ‘You took your time preparing that speech for my benefit, did you not?’ asked Neave.

  Wytha’s only reply was an angry hiss.

  ‘How is it you still endure at all?’ asked Neave. ‘It’s been many years since Sigmar claimed me.’

  ‘Many long, bitter years of the Withering War,’ replied Wytha, and the exhaustion in her voice was real enough. ‘We have fought, girl. Fought and died, generation upon generation, and always fewer lamentiri recovered from the bodies of our fallen, always fewer sylvaneth souls returned to the soulpod groves. For our part, we have used every trick of guerrilla warfare and subterfuge we know.’

  ‘That can’t have been all,’ said Neave. ‘What little I’ve seen of this Ungholghott’s hordes, what I remember from before, suggests his legions are vast. Surely he could have rotted the woods and crushed you all long ago.’

  Wytha’s face set into an impassive mask.

  ‘We have avoided him, wherever possible, and he has been content to leave us trapp
ed within our slowly wasting woodlands. Ungholghott’s first fascination lies with living flesh, with the tribes and beasts of this region, and the ways in which he can corrupt and meld them to his own ends.’

  ‘And you left him to it,’ said Neave.

  ‘While he slew others, he did not slay us. Though still his warbands have encroached ever further into our territories, and with each passing season his strength has waxed. Ungholghott was not fool enough to involve himself in the greater wars of these passing seasons. He has massed his forces and perfected his foul arts, and has become a greater threat than you can imagine. You know of the fleshling abominations he has fashioned. You saw them in your visions, and your winged comrade saw them atop the cratered mountain. You have seen the skaven that scurry beneath his banners, their numbers growing by the day. Ungholghott must be stopped, and I tell you that you alone can do this.’

  ‘If I believe your words about greater beings and higher powers, at least,’ said Neave, pressing on before Wytha could wax lyrical again. ‘Even supposing I do, I’m a deserter. I may face censure for answering your summons, no matter how pure my motives were. Now that I know I’m not going to carry some dire spiritual contagion back to Sigmaron, my duty is to submit myself to my Warrior Chamber for judgement.’

  ‘That would be foolish and wasteful,’ said Wytha sharply.

  ‘But my duty nonetheless, no matter how much I may want to hunt down my first mark. However, if I submit myself now, I can plead your case and attempt to acquire Stormcast aid for your cause. Our two peoples are allies in this war. Ungholghott is a clear danger, a worthy target for annihilation, and with our armies marching as one we could lay him low.’