Warhammer Anthology 07

by Way of the Dead

  Whatever their motive, the orcs and goblins seemed to be making a concerted effort to widen the cracks, in order that some of them could pass through. Memet Ashraf was glad to observe that his earlier calculation had been correct - there were two orcs and four goblins, and each had a mount appropriate to its kind. Ashraf was pleased to note that if four contrived to get inside, only two would remain without.

  Given that he had all the time in the world to pick his spot, the Arabian was confident that he could put arrows into two orcs before either had a chance to reach cover. Within minutes, however, his plan was upset by the fact that one goblin had scrambled down the slope, mounted his wolf and rode off in the direction of the well.

  Ashraf was not unduly worried. Reinforcements would not arrive for some time, even if they came in a hurry, and the cracks were almost wide enough now to allow the remaining goblins to squeeze through. Well, he thought, I hope you step straight into a nest of horny asps, or spitting cobras.

  He moved swiftly to his selected position. He wasted no time once he was there, bending his bow to secure the string before taking an arrow from his quiver.

  As he had anticipated, one goblin slipped through the gap into the temple - though not without difficulty - followed by another. The two orcs hardly paused before renewing their assault on the ancient cement that had bedded down the roof of the huge stone building.

  Memet Ashraf took careful aim, and let fly.

  The shot was perfect: the arrowhead ploughed into the target’s back, tearing through the orc’s tunic and scaly skin.

  The greenskin fell backwards and rolled down the slope.

  Had the other orc turned round to see what had become of its companion it too might have slipped back, but at that very moment it scored a success in his own task. An entire roof-block fell away, its supporting structure having been fatally weakened. It must have caught the makeshift digging-tool that the orc was using, and the greenskin was pulled through the hole it left behind, into the building.

  What does it matter? Ashraf was quick to reassure himself. It’ll be dead anyway.

  But he could not be sure of that until he looked.

  Before climbing the slope, Ashraf cautiously approached the place the orcs and goblins had tethered their mounts. The wolves snarled at him and the boars watched him malevolently, but he had Quintal’s blade in his hand now, and they did not attack. When he released their tethers and menaced them, they were quick enough to run away, scattering in three different directions.

  Fortunately, the goblins had unloaded their packs, and their water bottles were still full. Ashraf took a long draught from one of them, then attached the fullest to his own belt. His waist was rather crowded now, but not inconveniently so.

  When he looked closely at the slope, Ashraf saw that his earlier surmise had been correct. It had, indeed, been contrived by several sets of human hands - or humanoid hands, at any rate. It seemed, if his analytical eye could be trusted, that this had once been a solid and carefully constructed barrier - stone blocks positioned to barricade the doorway of the edifice. More recently, the ancient debris had been disturbed; apparently hastily rearranged, and piled up to form a steep ramp. Had Elisio Azevedo and his companions been partly responsible for that work? Perhaps - but if so, those companions had not survived to tell the tale.

  Ashraf regretted leaving the rope with the two horses, because it seemed now that it would have been useful to have once he reached the top of the slope. He wondered, briefly, whether he ought to return to the horses anyway, and redirect his violent attentions towards the guardians of the well. If more than half of them came back here with the goblin who had gone to summon help, he might win the supplies he needed to make good his escape.

  After considering the matter briefly, he decided that he must at least take a look at the interior of the temple. Sheathing Quintal’s sabre and making sure that his bow was secure, Memet Ashraf began to climb. He went warily, keeping the gap in view at all times in case one of the goblins should have been called back by the sound of the orc’s fall.

  The slope was harder to negotiate than it looked, but even a seaman can climb a face that a clumsy orc can negotiate, and Ashraf reached the top soon enough. There was no goblin there, but when he looked down into the gloomy interior he could see no fallen orc either.

  He paused for a moment to take advantage of his lofty viewpoint, and looked out over the sand-drowned ruins. From here it was much easier to make out the contours of the dead city. He could see other octagonal shapes sketched out in the sand and he could trace the remains of vast colonnades. He saw now that the structures which protruded furthest from the dunes were stepped pyramids and the stubs of broken statues.

  Beyond the city was a further expanse of barren plain that stretched as far as the eye could see. That plain extended into the Land of the Dead, where armies of bleached skeletons, animated by liche priests, were said to march under the command of Tomb Kings, accompanied by giants and chimerical monsters. Ashraf knew of no one who had ever fought such an army and lived to tell the tale, but the stories were persistent and had grown more urgent of late. He wondered whether the empire ruled by the Tomb Kings had ever extended as far as this - and, if so, whether the city that he looked down on was an outpost of the Land of the Dead. But more urgent matters demanded his attention, and he turned to peer into the temple’s interior again.

  A huge tree had directed the strongest and leafiest part of its crown towards the crack, and some of its branches had provided a safety net for the falling orc. The lumpen creature must have crashed through, but his fall had been slowed and the branches had offered abundant handholds.

  Instead of falling to its death, it seemed the orc had made a slightly more measured descent.

  But where was it now?

  It was difficult to see through the clustered foliage, but there seemed to be statues set between the columns supporting the roof, and one unusually large one set against the far wall of the building. It was impossible for Ashraf to discern the shape of the idol from his vantage point, but one hand was clearly visible. It held a sceptre whose gem-studded head was fiery red - not because it was reflecting a fugitive shaft of sunlight - but because it was glowing.

  It was, Memet Ashraf thought, almost as if it were advertising its presence to anyone who might peep through this particular aperture.

  LUIS QUINTAL MOVED into the dark corridor anxiously, knowing that he was likely to be at a disadvantage when his enemies came after him. The greenskins - who would outnumber him - were well-armed, and he had nothing with which to defend himself but his sore hands. They would also have the means to strike a light. When they followed him into the darkness, as they undoubtedly would, they would be able to see where they were going. He could not.

  He went anyway, knowing that he had to find his way back to the pool from which he had emerged on the previous evening, to have a drink.

  It’s not so bad, he told himself. If they can light their way, then I shall see them coming before they see me. If these corridors are labyrinthine, they may split up - and who knows what might have been stored behind the door that I was the first to go through in a thousand years? There might be weapons.

  He did not remind himself that there might be other things that Elisio had mentioned, such as poisonous snakes and monstrous crocodiles. Had he not already navigated the underground river and the pool in perfect safety, despite being unable to see? He groped his way along the wall, wincing at the friction on his cuts and grazes. He turned without hesitation whenever he came to a junction, but by the time he had made five such turns he knew he could not be retracing his steps.

  He paused and took stock of his position, listening quietly and trying to detect a draught in the air. He could hear sounds, presumably from the temple, where the goblins had now made their descent along the tree-branches. But he could also feel a cool current in the air, which must surely be coming from the vaults below.

  Quintal turned to fa
ce the airflow, and every time he reached a junction after that he paused to consider the possibilities carefully. Within a quarter of an hour he had found the door again, and had not yet seen a flicker of light behind him.

  After that, it was easy enough to find the first flight of steps, and then the second.

  He picked his way down very carefully, until his feet were in the water, and then he knelt to drink.

  At that moment, nothing else mattered.

  After he had drunk his fill, Quintal could hear loud sounds, which echoed strangely in the subterranean corridors. It appeared that his pursuers were arguing over something. He heard the clink of metal on stone, and guessed that the blades in question were being plied in earnest - perhaps against scorpions, or snakes, that he had been unable to see.

  His eyes were straining for the first hint of torchlight - but that was not the kind of light he eventually saw.

  It was a red spot, bright and by no means diffuse; a spot like a cyclopean eye burning with its own inner light. He had no doubt that it was looking at him, perhaps to taunt him.

  He might have cried out but for the certainty of attracting goblins. As things were, he had no alternative but to hold himself very still and silent, waiting to throw himself into the water as soon as he felt a touch of any kind.

  What would I give to have my sabre now, he thought? I’d give all the gems in that sceptre!

  ‘The price is higher than that,’ a voice whispered in his ear, making him start violently, ‘but the reward is greater.’

  Quintal raised his arm and passed it back and forth in an arc. It met nothing but empty air, even though the whisperer could not have been more than a hand’s-breadth away from him.

  Luckily, he had the presence of mind not to make a sound as he asked: Can you hear my thoughts?

  ‘The first gift is sight,’ the voice went on. ‘The second… Well, you’ll see what the second is when you have the first. But the fee you have so far paid is but a tiny drop of water in a large and thirsty throat. You must offer the rest freely… and you have no more than half a minute to decide before your pursuers appear. Be aware that you will not easily pass through the ranks of the ushabti for a second time.’

  Fee? Quintal thought. What fee? And what in the world is a ushabti? But the first question was rhetorical, because he already had an inkling as to what the voice meant by ”fee”, and because he knew that he had no time to strike a better bargain.

  He did not have to frame his consent in words, even inaudibly. Before he had completely reached his decision, the red glow moved, dividing in two as it rushed upon his eyes, entering both his dilated pupils simultaneously.

  Then the whole place was lit by an eerie red light, unlike any ordinary illumination and Quintal did not doubt for an instant that it was his and his alone to use, for the purpose of seeing.

  What he saw by the power of this uncanny vision chilled him to the bone, more than freezing water could have done.

  His eyes were level with the top step, and the floor-space beyond, which was some twenty paces wide at the stairhead. He had walked across that space twice, keeping near to the wall on each occasion, but it seemed impossible that he could have done so, for the space was littered with what appeared to be crocodiles - eighteen of them, every one half as long again as a man was tall. When he looked at them more closely, though, he saw that they were chimerical creatures, with as much human in them as crocodile. Although there was skin covering their skeletons there seemed to be precious little flesh between scale and bone.

  Now I know what a ushabti is, he thought. They looked as if they had been dead for centuries, but they also looked as if they might be remarkably resilient if ever they were reanimated - and he had a horrid suspicion that might be at any moment. Obviously, he had stepped between them, and occasionally over them. They had not stirred, but they were not asleep: their eyes were open, glinting red. While he looked down at them, their heads began to move. They moved slowly, as if long unaccustomed to movement. Perhaps, Quintal thought, they had not been animate a few moments ago, but they were certainly awake and animate now.

  Mercifully, the heads were not turning towards him. They were facing the opening of the corridor where a light was now beginning to show. The light seemed bright and sulphurous to Quintal’s unnatural sight.

  He saw the flame before he saw the first goblin. If the goblin saw him, it didn’t matter, because its improvised torch was directed at the ushabti.

  Quintal had always accepted the common rumour that goblins are cowards - cunning cowards, but cowards nevertheless. Perhaps this one was an exception, or perhaps his cunning was sufficient to outweigh his cowardice for a few vital seconds. The goblin howled in anguish, as any creature would have done, and did not linger, but it had the presence of mind to lower the torch before it fled. It placed the torch very carefully across the entrance, so that the flames swiftly spread along the whole length of the bundle, forming a barrier that no ordinary crocodile would ever have dared to cross.

  But these were not ordinary crocodiles.

  Irritated by the flame, the lean monsters reared up, standing on their hind legs. Their hides were black instead of green, to be sure, and their snouts were much longer than any orc’s, and what their teeth lacked in mass they made up in profusion. There was definite malice in their eyes, which seemed to Luis Quintal to be entirely orclike.

  None of the ushabti turned towards Quintal; instead, they moved as one toward the corridor where the goblins were fleeing. Their leader stamped on the burning twigs, extinguishing the flames with the hard pads of its hind feet.

  All eighteen monsters moved after the three goblins, unhurriedly but with every appearance of steadfast purpose.

  Quintal knew that he ought to feel relieved, and even thankful - but he could not. All he could do, for the moment, was wonder exactly what price he had offered for the privileges he now had, and how long it would take him, in what kind of occupation, to clear his debt.

  ONCE MEMET ASHRAF’S eyes had adapted to the dim light inside the temple he was able to make out the form of the limping orc, forcing its way through the tangled branches towards the idol behind the altar. It was almost as if the creature were drawn towards the glowing sceptre, although Ashraf thought it unlikely that any magic would be required to make that happen.

  Ashraf touched his bow, but he did not have a clear shot from where he was. He knew that he would have to descend to the temple floor to find a better place from which to aim, but he hesitated when he saw the orc climb up on to the altar.

  Although the greenskin was tall, with considerably long arms, the sceptre was still frustratingly out of reach. Even a goblin would have had difficulty climbing on to the statue’s arm, so the orc had to formulate another plan. It unsheathed a heavy iron sword, with a blade just long enough to make solid contact with the sceptre.

  Even an orc would realise that hacking at a solid object with a sword would ruin the blade irreparably, but greed could be a powerful motivator in those who were slaves to their baser appetites.

  Why not let it dislodge the sceptre’s head, if it can, Ashraf thought? He had been a pirate long enough to know that it was best to let others do the heavy, dangerous and tiring work, so that he could conserve his own strength and weaponry for the final moves in the game. So he leaned back on his heels and watched the orc swipe at the sceptre, trying to crack its shaft with a series of sharp blows.

  The blows had no apparent effect. Ashraf even felt slightly frustrated, although he took some pleasure from the knowledge that the orc had ruined his blade for no obvious reward.

  Then things began to go awry.

  Ashraf realised that his patience had turned against him. He heard a cry from behind and looked back to see the other four orcs and their two goblin companions approaching as rapidly as their mounts could carry them. He had already been seen, and knew even as he slipped through the opening into the crown of the tree that it would not be long before he was follow
ed. He cursed his carelessness.

  While he moved from the gap in the eaves into the foliage he was mindful not to disturb any more masonry - for he had noted that the edges of the hole made by the orc were ragged, and that cracks were spreading from it. The roof of the temple had resisted collapse for a very long time, in spite of the external erosions of windblown sand and the internal corrosions of the patient trees, but now that the roof had been rudely breached it was distinctly precarious.

  The orc on the altar was not yet aware of Ashraf’s presence, but the possibility of getting to a position to put an arrow into the greenskin’s back became remote when three goblins emerged from a dark doorway to the right of the altar, in a state of high panic.

  Ashraf moved more swiftly then, knowing that he had to hide himself before the goblins discovered him. He had to find somewhere in the crowded temple where he could put as many of his enemies down before they combined forces to rush and overwhelm him.

  The Arabian knew that his prospects of long-term survival were relatively poor, and they did not seem to have improved when the situation became still more complicated. The goblins were being followed by a scaly and skeletal monster - half-crocodile and half-human - walking on its hind legs.

  The monster was unarmed, but when it was greeted by an arrow and a javelin in its lightly-armoured breast, it continued to waddle forwards regardless of its wounds. And it was not alone! A second came after it, then a third. Ashraf knew that the goblins would not be so panic-stricken if they had merely been surprised by the unnatural sight of a thin crocodile walking erect. There had to be a great many of the creatures, and they had to be uniquely terrible. He continued to scramble along a branch towards the heart of the largest tree.

  Ashraf knew that there would be no point in trying to deploy his bow until he was securely positioned. But now he could not decide which sort of creature he ought to aim at. He lost count of the marching monsters long before they stopped emerging from the doorway. It made sense to put one or two of them down so that the orcs and goblins would stand a better chance of further reducing their number.