by Andy Clark
‘You always did, child, but why would you know this? You have always had a fresh mark from Sigmar, always had your own talents overwhelmed by those he forced upon you. Is it not so?’
Neave shook her head. She had no answer to give. Sigmar had taken her up to the heavens and had made her mighty beyond mortal imaginings. Every hunt, every battle, every sacrifice since that time had been made in his name. To hear the gifts of the God-King dismissed out of hand, as though they had not enhanced but in fact had hobbled her, left Neave strangely shaken.
‘If we find the sorcerer, we invoke the weapon there and then,’ said Wytha. ‘Otherwise, we forge a path to the heart of his fortress and unleash its power there. So shall we bring down all his works.’
‘As you say then,’ said Neave. ‘We’ve come this far. If we want to cross the divide to the wall before the sun’s light finds us, we’d best move now.’
‘Give us a moment to work our spell. When it is safe to cross, I will tell you.’
Neave took the chance to return to Katalya, who still sat astride Ketto’s saddle. There was a difficult conversation to be had.
‘Are you ready for this?’ she asked.
‘We will fight at your side,’ said Katalya. ‘The swamp king’s fortress is… greater than I had imagined. I am glad we did not come here alone.’
‘As am I, Kat,’ said Neave. ‘But listen to me now. You promised you’d follow my commands as though I were your chieftain, yes?’
‘I swore it,’ said Katalya warily.
‘You need to leave Ketto here. We don’t know what lies within that place, but you can bet we will have to pass through tight passages and confined spaces. He could get stuck, or give away our presence.’
‘I understand,’ said Katalya, swinging down from the saddle.
‘You won’t try to fight me on this?’
‘I swore,’ said Katalya. ‘And I don’t want Ketto to be in danger. More danger than he will be out here, at any rate.’
She turned to her steed and cradled his mandibles in her hands. Katalya leant her forehead against the smooth chitin of Ketto’s muzzle and whispered words to him that Neave carefully tuned out. Whatever was said was private, between close friends. Ketto’s antennae gently brushed against Katalya’s head, drifting over the nape of her neck. The tattakan rattled softly and shifted his legs.
Katalya stepped back, sniffed hard and slapped Ketto companionably on the muzzle.
‘Go on then, dulu, get gone. You know how to find me when it’s done.’
Ketto rattled again, swiped one last time at Kat’s hair with his antennae, then turned and trampled back into the undergrowth.
‘He will stay safe until we have killed the swamp king,’ said Katalya.
‘And you will stay by my side until the deed is done,’ said Neave. ‘No matter what happens. Understand? I still do not know what it is Wytha plans to unleash in there, what this weapon of hers does. I want you close in case we have to react quickly.’
Katalya nodded, a serious frown on her face, and clashed one vambrace against the other.
‘I swear it, Neave.’
‘It is time,’ announced Wytha.
The Branchwych turned towards the rest of her clan where they lurked, large and small, jagged and flowing, amidst the trees. Ithary and her fellow Branchwraiths stepped forward, six of them in total. Each bowed in a stylised fashion to their mistress, before beginning a keening chant, its notes barely audible even to Neave’s remarkable senses. As they chanted, they danced, weaving strange shapes and patterns with their limbs and footsteps. Gradually blue motes gathered in the gloom beneath the canopy, whirling together in a way that Neave found uncomfortably familiar. Stepping forward, Wytha swept her sickle-stave through the swirling motes and hooked them as though she had somehow caught a mass of cloth upon her blade. Turning on her heel, she cast the mass of magical sparks into the air above the clan, where it flickered briefly, then vanished.
At once, Neave felt the glamour settle about them. She could see no physical change, but she sensed the sylvaneth magics at work.
‘Now,’ hissed Wytha, before stepping out into the shin-deep sludge of the swamp. Neave gestured to Katalya and followed.
One warband at a time, Clan Thyrghael broke from the cover of the forest and waded out across the swamp as quickly as they could go. Neave forged along near their head, Katalya striving gamely at her heels. Neave felt the burning sense of watchfulness from above, the awful sensation of exposure. She glanced up at the ramparts, scanning them with a huntress’ eye, noting every sentry and watchtower and marking their positions. Surely, at any moment, a cry would rise from the walls, or the clangour of skaven bells would be heard.
Yet there was no sound. Even as the clan neared the foot of the wall, and seething masses of skaven became visible scurrying to and fro amidst their burrows, still the sylvaneth went unnoticed. Neave was impressed, and more than a little unsettled. Perhaps it was for the best that the Dreadwood clan were Sigmar’s allies, even if their methods and outlook seemed a touch too malevolent for her tastes. She wouldn’t want to face enemies that could veil themselves so.
Wytha gestured to a spot near the outlying structures of the skaven burrows. Neave saw where the rat-men had incautiously driven iron girders directly into the wall in order to support one of their numerous towers. The resultant damage had caused a split in the flabby matter of the wall, a gangrenous rent ten feet across and perhaps the same high that dripped pus and blood, and looked uncomfortably like a diseased wound. It vanished back into darkness, foul vapours drifting from it, slime dripping from its inner walls.
Neave glanced back and saw the dismay on Katalya’s face at the thought of entering such a noisome tunnel. She caught the girl’s eye. Neave flashed her tribe’s warding at her. Katalya returned it, seeming to steel herself.
The sylvaneth were clustering before the walls, massing in a way Neave could not believe was entirely wise. Someone needed to take the initiative, yet Wytha still stood, staring up at the fortress, flanked by her Treelord guards. The Branchwych looked at Neave, then swept her taloned hand towards the rent in a gesture that said after you. Neave took a slow, deep breath and unsheathed her axes. Then, without another backwards glance, she plunged into the fortress of Lord Ungholghott.
Chapter Thirteen
The interior of the fortress stank. It was rare that Neave regretted the full clarity of her Sigmar-given senses, but as the waves of sweat-stench and faecal reek threatened to choke her, she had to admit that she resented Sigmar’s gifts.
From a distance, Neave had assumed – or at least, hoped – that the strangely biological look to Ungholghott’s fortress was an affectation, or some artefact of chaotic mutation. Now she saw the truth was far worse. Slipping between flesh-wet walls studded with seeping stonework and spars of interwoven iron and bone, Neave sensed not only the bountiful excess of life that flowed through this edifice, but also its madness, misery and pain.
‘I feel like I’m crawling through something’s guts,’ she murmured.
‘Perhaps we are,’ whispered Katalya.
Wytha had sent the surviving Kurnoth Hunters in behind Neave, and their leader gave a low rumble of agreement.
‘Foul magics are at work here,’ he said. ‘They have been for decades. They saturate this place. It makes my bark itch.’
Neave’s keen vision pierced the rank mists and revealed a wider space ahead.
‘There’s a corridor,’ she whispered, craning her head to project her voice back down the tunnel. ‘Hold here, Wytha.’
Dimly she saw the Branchwych raise her sickle-stave in acknowledegment. The sylvaneth halted, jagged forms and cold blue eyes massed together in the close confines. The sinister aspect of her allies struck Neave forcibly, but she dismissed the thought. Even she couldn’t conquer an entire fortress single-handedly, and in such circumstance
s even such grim allies as these were better than none. Still, she could not suppress a stab of longing for Tarion, and for all the Shadowhammers.
She had dared hope that her comrades might have followed her trail and caught up to her by now. Neave would gladly have faced whatever consequences her desertion brought, if it had meant launching this attack side-by-side with the Hammers of Sigmar.
‘Drink ditch water in a drought though, eh?’ she muttered to herself, and continued along the passageway.
Neave stepped through the far end of the rent and over a spill of crumbled stone and rancid meat. She found herself in a wider corridor, fashioned from stone and boasting stalactites of what looked revoltingly like body fat dangling from its ceiling. They quivered and dripped, drooping to well below head height. Crimson-tinged light spilled from membranous growths that pushed through the stones of the ceiling, making the entire corridor look like it was daubed in gore.
Neave swept her gaze left and right, feeling for moving air, vibrations in the stonework, or the slightest sight or sound of the foe. There was nothing, but her keen vision revealed to her that the corridor terminated in an organic-looking cave-in several hundred yards through the gloom.
‘Nothing,’ she said, but she didn’t trust it for a moment. Their entrance felt too convenient, too easy by far. Neave’s instincts were snarling at the sense of a trap closing around her.
‘The foe are yet far afield then?’ asked the lead hunter.
‘Seems that way,’ said Neave.
‘Suspicious that they would neither seal this opening, nor guard it,’ rumbled the hunter.
‘Stupid,’ said Katalya fiercely. ‘But then, they worship the Dark Gods, so they’re crazy.’
‘It’s a vast fortress, and I get the sense the layout probably changes as it grows over time,’ said Neave. ‘These stalactites haven’t formed quickly, and if anyone used this passageway on a regular basis they’d have been disturbed.’ She pulled a face.
‘You make a fair point,’ said the hunter.
‘But so do you… What’s your name?’
‘Ghyrthael,’ he replied.
‘So do you, Ghyrthael,’ said Neave. ‘I understand all that Wytha’s said, and I hope that she’s right about our enemy’s complacency. But I’m a huntress first and foremost, and I trust two things above all else. My instincts, and my senses.’
‘And what do they tell you, Neave Blacktalon?’ asked Ghyrthael.
‘That this is too easy,’ said Neave. ‘That there’s something here we’re not seeing, because we just snuck several hundred sylvaneth warriors through the wall of our enemy’s fortress, and haven’t even met a lone sentry who tried to stop us. My senses tell me there’re no enemies in the vicinity at all, which strikes me ill with the skaven so close and Ungholghott’s hordes supposedly so vast. I wasn’t sure until we made it this far unchallenged, but now? It’s got to be a trap.’
‘If you are correct, then Ungholghott must know we are coming,’ said Ghyrthael. ‘Should we turn back, think you?’
Neave shook her head slowly, eyes roving the corridor.
‘If we retreat now, we tip the enemy off. If our head’s already in the beast’s maw, its jaws are like to snap shut. No, we press on, but we do so in readiness. The moment something looks awry, we strike fast and slay them before they slay us.’
‘I will advise Wytha,’ said Ghyrthael.
‘Tell her we’re pressing on,’ said Neave. ‘I feel Ungholghott’s presence more keenly now. This way.’
Neave stalked along the corridor with Katalya and the Kurnoth Hunter close behind. The sensation of Ungholghott’s presence was similar to the siren song she had always sensed at the nearness of a mark, but subtly different. It was as though a current of energy ran through her body, making the hairs rise on her arms. It was all she could do not to skin her teeth back from her lips like a snarling wolf.
She sensed the rest of the sylvaneth following. She could hear the Treelords complaining at the tight confines and exclaiming in disgust as they disturbed the stalactites, and she muttered to Ghyrthael, asking him to quiet them lest they alert the foe to their presence. The route led where it led, and all her attention was turned towards watching for the trap she suspected lay ahead.
Neave passed through a bone archway and into a huge chamber with a high, ribbed ceiling. Iron vats lined its walls, the sounds of bubbling fluids carrying from within. Noxious fumes filled the air, and flies droned lazily through the murk. A heavy iron catwalk circled the entire chamber near ceiling height.
Neave glanced back to see Katalya ripping the hem from her furs and binding it around her mouth and nose. The tribesgirl’s eyes watered, but her expression was determined.
Two exits led out of this chamber, one in the north wall and one in the east. Neave stopped, balancing on the balls of her feet, listening intently and stretching her senses to their limits. She heard heartbeats from somewhere ahead, the sound of carefully stifled breathing, the creak of movement as hidden foes tried and failed to remain truly silent.
Neave whispered her findings to the Kurnoth. The message was passed back down the line, shuddering inaudibly through the spirit song. A response came back, relayed from Wytha herself.
‘She says press forward,’ said Ghyrthael quietly. ‘Let the trap’s jaws close upon poisoned bait.’
Neave nodded to herself, then paced forward, motioning for the others to follow. At her back, the sylvaneth began to filter into the huge chamber, staring with distaste at the gurgling pipes that crawled along the walls, and the strange instruments and dials that studded the vats’ flanks.
Neave shut out the sounds of the sylvaneth at her back and the grotesque biological rumble of the fortress. She filtered out her heartbeat, the slow rise and fall of her breath, the creak and clink of her armour as she moved. She listened intently for sounds that no other would hear, patterns hidden amidst the jumble of background noise. There she found a slow ticking, a clicking similar to that of clockwork cogs. The sly sound was hidden within the walls, furtive but purposeful as it ground towards some nefarious end. Neave tensed, eyes darting about the chamber, identifying and categorising potential dangers within the space of a single heartbeat.
Something was coming. The trap was poised to spring, but Neave would not play the role of unwitting prey. She had reached the chamber’s heart, the majority of the sylvaneth clan strung out behind her, when she heard the grinding of cogs and gears within the walls suddenly accelerate.
She knew what came next. She was ready for it.
Neave launched herself across the chamber and slid on her back into the northern doorway. She was in time to catch a heavy iron portcullis as it rattled down from within the archway. The metal gave a resounding clang as it met the sigmarite of her gauntlets, and Neave screamed with the effort of halting the portcullis’ fall.
‘This is it,’ she yelled. ‘Help me get this open, now!’
Katalya and the hunters dashed towards Neave. Further back, Wytha shrilled commands at her sylvaneth to do likewise.
Overhead, the walkway shuddered with a tumult of footfalls. From her position prone upon the floor, Neave could only guess at what foes were dashing in to take up position above the killing ground.
Her muscles strained and her bones creaked as the huge weight of the portcullis threatened to crush her into the flagstones. She pushed up, gaining a little purchase, then cursed between her teeth as gears ground and the metal barrier pressed relentlessly down upon her. Any second, she knew, her arms would simply break beneath the phenomenal pressure and the portcullis would crush her as it slammed into place.
Then strong talons gripped the iron latticework, and the strength of the Kurnoth Hunters was added to her own. Katalya grabbed the portcullis directly above where Neave lay, green fire shimmering along her vambraces as she strained with all her might. Neave heard gears groaning, me
tal grinding and then shearing. There came a sudden clang and the weight lifted as they forced the portcullis up again.
Neave shot a grateful glance up at the sylvaneth who had aided her, only to be splattered with bloodsap as a barbed javelin exploded through the face of the hunter closest to her. The Kurnoth staggered, pawing weakly at the speartip jutting from his eye socket, then slumped sideways with a groan.
‘Above!’ screeched Wytha.
From the gantry came a rain of javelins and noxious projectiles, rotting heads stoppered with stitches and wax. The heads burst where they struck home, splattering bubbling filth across stonework and sylvaneth barkflesh alike. Where the forest spirits were splashed they sizzled and melted, and their cries of pain and fury rang out.
‘They are throwing death’s heads!’ cried one of the Branchwraiths. ‘Beware their filthsome spray!’
Ithary and the other Branchwraiths fought back as best they could. They chanted and writhed, conjuring blasts of jade energy and coiling masses of thorned creepers that lashed upwards to tear at the gantry. Neave heard cries of pain from above, and saw figures fall to smash into the stone floor. They were cultists of some sort, human but swathed in dirty rags and aprons, their faces hidden by leather hoods and heavy goggles.
Neave pulled her knees in tight and flipped herself onto her feet as she heard the clatter of fresh mechanisms at work. The eastern door had been sealed tight as its own portcullis slammed into place; the north doorway was their only way out.
‘To tarry is to die,’ she bellowed. ‘They’re going to vent the vats! Wytha, get them moving! Follow me!’
Grabbing Katalya by the arm, Neave lunged through the archway into the corridor beyond. She found herself dashing up a steep flight of bone steps, skull-carved lanterns flashing past on either side. Behind her, she heard a terrible groaning of metal hinges, then the thunderous roar of gallons upon gallons of fluids being released. Neave’s blood ran cold as she heard fresh sylvaneth cries rise shrill with agony.