“Master,” thought Morvane, trying to calm his breathing. “What happened?”
The mage looked back at him with agony written across his gaunt face, but gave no reply. He smoothed down his blue and silver robes and stood as erect as his ruined body would allow. Then he closed his eyes and gripped his crescent-tipped staff firmly in both hands.
Despite the shock, Morvane’s mind was still entwined with that of his master’s and as the mage began to mouth words, a torrent of images flooded his mind. He saw foul, hump-backed ratmen, plotting deep below the earth; then he saw one of his own kind, a Sapherian mage, crying out with guilt as an ancient, pitiless statue looked on.
“My brother,” said the mage, speaking aloud for the first time Morvane could ever remember. “They will not survive without your help.” As Morvane looked on in wonder, the mage lifted his staff through the window and levelled it at the clear blue skies. White fire leapt from the crescent, jolting the mage’s arm back with its power. The noise of the flames drowned out his words, but Morvane felt them quite clearly in his head. “You must fly, brother,” said the mage. “Let me give you wings.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Flame of Asuryan cut cleanly through the waves, its graceful lines and fluttering pennants dwarfed by the brutal coastline ahead. Despite the gloom that lay over the island, traces of a distant dawn still glimmered on the ship’s golden hull and flashed along its spars and beams. Rows of slender-helmed elves watched patiently from the deck as the ship’s captain navigated the final stages of the treacherous approach. Most were indifferent to the gloomy landscape unfurling before them, looking instead at a tawny shape gliding overhead, leading the way towards the coast. It was a vast, winged monster, with huge outspread wings, powerful feline claws and the noble-looking head of a great eagle. Sitting proudly on its back, carrying a long, glittering lance, was their prince.
As the ship dropped anchor, the crew leapt confidently into the foaming waves. They were the legendary Sea Guard of Lothern, inured to the hardships of life at sea by centuries of experience. They raised their bows and spears above their heads as they jogged towards the beach, and as their feet crunched onto the shale, they took in their surroundings with silent dispassion. Even for such hardened soldiers, however, the sight that greeted them was something of a surprise. The ugly, misshapen rocks that lay jumbled across the coast were unlike anything they had ever seen before. There was a pallid, fleshy quality to them that seemed somehow obscene. Thick veins of dark liquid pulsed beneath their surface and as the elves approached, some of them shifted forwards slightly, as though sensing the elves’ presence.
“Keep away from the stones,” called a voice from the waves.
The elves turned to see the young mage, Caladris, struggling through the crashing surf with his staff held above his head. Since collapsing on deck the day before, his face had remained knotted and pale with anguish, and he lacked the easy grace of his comrades as he fought through the choppy water. As they helped him up onto the beach, the mage nodded at the quivering stones. “This whole island is cursed,” he snapped.
The elves seemed a little unwilling to take their orders from the young mage, but they backed away from the rocks nonetheless and formed a neat phalanx in the centre of the beach, eyeing their surroundings with cool disdain.
Caladris drained the seawater from his sodden robes and peered up through the thick fog. A broad, winged shadow was circling overhead and as he watched, it let out a long screeching caw. The elves all looked up as the griffon called for their attention. The figure on its back could barely be seen through the spray and fog and the prince’s voice was snatched away by the breeze, but his signal was clear enough; as the griffon was buffeted back and forth beneath him, the noble pointed his lance south along the beach.
Caladris frowned up at the sky. “No,” he cried, cupping his hand around his mouth in an attempt to be heard over the wind. He pointed at the steep bluff that led up from the beach. “We must head inland.”
The captain of the sea guard, a stern-faced veteran named Althin, broke ranks and strode towards the shivering mage. “We must follow Prince Stormrider’s order,” he said, clearly shocked by the mage’s impertinence. His words were calm and unhurried but Caladris was under no illusions as to the captain’s opinion of him. The decision to bring such an inexperienced mage on the expedition had been the prince’s alone. The crew’s disapproval had been obvious even before he fainted on deck and dragged them completely off course.
“We must head inland,” repeated Caladris, straightening his back and giving the captain an imperious glare.
The captain raised his eyebrows. “Do you doubt the prince’s judgement?”
The mage narrowed his eyes. “Of course not. But he is not in possession of all the facts.”
There was an exasperated cry from above as the prince steered his mount down towards the beach, landing just a few feet away from the ranks of elves. The huge creature landed with surprising grace and the prince immediately leapt from its back, unfastening his tall winged helmet as he strode towards them. “What is the delay?” he snapped. “There’s no time to spare. We must find this Phoenix Stone.” He pointed down the beach and turned to Caladris. “The peninsula that holds the temple is just along the coast. We must announce ourselves to the garrison immediately.”
Caladris shook his head. “My lord, Kortharion is not at the temple—I saw him quite clearly in my vision. He was lying beneath one of the Ulthane and he looked tormented—I can only believe he was in mortal danger. We must find him quickly. Or I fear it will be too late.”
The prince’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You try my patience, Caladris. If this Phoenix Stone is so important, we must be sure that it’s safe.” He closed his eyes for a second to think. “Very well,” he said, pointing out a few of the soldiers. “I’ll take some of the guard with me and see if I can find your former master. We can travel light and fast. We should find him quick enough. You said that these Ulthane are scattered around the coast?”
Caladris nodded.
“Well then, it should be no great feat for me to fly ahead and check each of them. The guard can follow behind me on foot.” He gave a wry smile, “Just in case the natives prove too powerful for a prince of the Asur.”
Several of the sea guard began to laugh.
“The rest of you,” continued the prince, glaring at Caladris, “will make your way down the beach to the temple and wait there for the rest of the fleet to arrive.”
“Surely we should all travel together?” replied Caladris.
The prince shook his head with an air of finality, making it clear that the conversation was over. “No. You, the captain and the others will head for the temple and alert the garrison to my arrival. I will not abandon all sense of protocol. Anyway, their need may be even greater than Kortharion’s.” He put his tall helmet back on and strode back towards the griffon. “The eagles will have carried my orders to the rest of the fleet by now and the instructions were to head straight to the temple as soon as they land. They should arrive soon.” He nodded at the young mage as he climbed up onto his mount. “I’ll meet you at the temple. Hopefully, I’ll have Kortharion with me and we can leave this wretched place.”
The prince leant back in his saddle and shook his head in awe. From his vantage point in the clouds, he could see the full extent of the island’s corruption. He saw glades of bloated, carnivorous trees devouring each other in an endless, brutal cycle of gluttony; he saw fleshy grubs the size of dogs; and worst of all, he saw the earth itself, rolling and swelling as though great beasts were preparing to rise from beneath the surface and devour the whole cursed mess. “By the Phoenix King,” he muttered. “No wonder my father never mentioned this place.”
Beneath him, the sea guard were making slower progress along the rugged terrain than he had hoped. They had found a coastal path to follow, but it seemed almost completely overgrown. He noted with pride though, how calmly they accepted the gr
otesque sights that assailed them, marching in neat, orderly ranks past the spectral shapes and leering rocks, and raising their spears to salute him in perfect unison. He nodded back and directed onwards with a wave of his lance, gesturing to a distant statue that he knew they could not yet see. It was the fourth such statue they had encountered and, so far, they had discovered nothing. The statues themselves were beautiful—a wonderful testament to the skill of their long dead sculptors—but otherwise unremarkable.
The prince’s earlier doubts over the island’s importance returned. Now that he had stood beneath one of the crumbling giants, he found it hard to believe they could have ever strode into the sea, smiting foes with their greatswords and blazing with crimson light. Could young Caladris have been misled, he wondered? Not for the first time, he questioned his decision to bring the youth. His knowledge of magical lore was unquestionable—and had previously saved the prince’s life—but the boy seemed barely in control of his own emotions. As the prince looked down over the strange landscape below, he wondered if the tales of the Ulthane were no more than legends. If that were so, then maybe the same could be said of the Phoenix Stone? He shook his head and steered the griffon down towards the next statue.
As the griffon landed, the prince dropped lightly from the saddle and peered through the gloom. He could see immediately that there was something different about this statue. Dark, smouldering shapes lay scattered over its plinth and its marble shins had been scorched by recent fire. He trod carefully, keeping his eyes on the surrounding trees as he crept closer. His nostrils flared with distaste at the smell of burnt fur and flesh. The scorched remains of ratmen were scattered across the whole clearing, piled in great heaps at the statue’s feet and tainting the beautiful stone with their dark, clotted blood.
The prince paused, looking back over his shoulder at the griffon waiting patiently at the edge of the clearing. He sensed disapproval in the gold-flecked irises of its huge, hooded eyes. The prince slowed his pace even more and quietly drew his sword. He prodded at a few of the corpses, shaking his head in disgust at their sinewy, hunched bodies and cruel, bloody snouts. Then, just as he was about to climb back down from the steps, he paused. Amongst the greasy, matted fur and broken, burnished steel, he saw a flash of blue; a fragment of silk, just visible beneath the pile of twisted limbs.
Prince Stormrider frowned and looked around the clearing again. He peered into the trees for any sign of life, either his own guards, or something more sinister, but all seemed to be quiet, so he stepped cautiously towards the blue silk. As he approached, the prince groaned and dropped to his knees, clearing aside mounds of bloody flesh to reveal a charred, crumbling skeleton. “Gods, is this him?” he groaned as he saw the Sapherian needlework that adorned the blue and white robes. “Kortharion?” he hissed, placing a hand under the blackened head and lifting it from the stone. “What did you do?” The bones collapsed into ash at his touch and the prince shook his head. “Oh, Caladris,” he said, remembering how fondly the young mage had spoken of his former master. “We’re too late.”
A branch snapped at the edge of the clearing and the prince levelled his sword at the trees. “Sharpclaw?” he called out, looking over at the griffon.
The creature’s head was resting on its forelegs and it gazed back at him with a look of regal disdain.
There was another sound, this time from the other side of the clearing, and the prince whirled around. “Who’s there?” he cried, placing a protective hand over the remains and crouching even lower.
“My lord,” cried one of the sea guard as he emerged from the trees. “I think we’ve discovered something.”
The prince sighed with relief and lowered his sword. “Aye, me too,” he replied. “I’m afraid our young friend’s vision was too late to be of use.”
The soldier looked at the crumpled blue robes with obvious grief. “Kortharion?”
The prince nodded sadly. “I think he fell by his own hand,” he said, stepping away from the scorched bones. He waved at the flakes of ash, drifting like snow over the clearing. “This explosion was not the work of any skaven.” He shook his head. “I think Kortharion must have sacrificed himself.”
As the rest of elves filed into the clearing they lowered their heads respectfully. Several of them climbed up onto the steps and placed their hands on the blue robes, muttering prayers as they considered the awful tragedy of losing a member of their ancient, dwindling race.
“What have you learnt?” asked the prince, turning to the elf who had first entered the clearing.
The elf raised his chin and replied in calm, even tones. “These bodies are just a fraction of the skaven army,” he said, waving at the smoking remains on the steps. “We’ve found a trail of blood, weapons and pawprints.” He looked at the prince. “There seems to be a great many of them. And they’re heading south; straight towards the temple.”
Something flashed in the prince’s eyes and he gripped his sword a little tighter. “How recent are the tracks?”
“Less than an hour old, my lord.”
The prince rose to his feet and looked over at his mount, still waiting patiently at the edge of the clearing. “This murder will not go unpunished,” he said, jogging down the steps and pointing his sword south. “Follow me as fast as you can, if you want to help avenge Kortharion.” He gave them a stern nod as he climbed up onto the back of the huge beast. “My judgement will be swift.”
CHAPTER NINE
Ratchitt took a small copper box from one of the many pouches that covered his armour. His paws were awkward and clumsy with fear, but finally he managed to pull back the clasp. He gave the box a firm tap and the front panel fell away, allowing a series of jointed tubes to rattle down towards the floor, making a long tube that ended in a large, bulbous lens. The warlock engineer crept a little closer to the edge of the precipice he was perched on, raised the tube to his eye and peered at the horizon. “There it is,” he hissed. He was so excited by what he saw that he began to scamper about on the rock. His frenetic movements dislodged a few of the stones and he jumped backwards with a yelp of fear, slamming into the large figure waiting behind him.
“What?” snapped Warlord Verminkin, grabbing the engineer by the scruff of the neck and lifting him up before his snarling face. “There is what? Another flesh-melting forest? Or an impassable lake of acid? What else can this stinking island throw at us?” He crushed his snout against Ratchitt’s and glared at him. “I’m beginning to have serious doubts about the whole expedition.” He let go of Ratchitt, and the engineer slammed down onto the hillside with a clatter of metal and glass. Verminkin waved his meat cleaver at the columns of rock that surrounded them. Dozens of pale finger-like grubs had begun trailing from the crevasses and writhing towards them across the ground. “This place is alive!” he cried. “I can smell it! And it wants us dead!”
“Yes-yes!” gasped Ratchitt, leaping up from the floor and pawing at the warlord’s armour. “You’re right, as always, master. The island is even more cursed than I could have ever imagined.” His eyes widened with excitement. “Which proves everything I thought.” He waved his looking glass at the undulating rock. “What kind of magic could cause this amount of strangeness? Chaos magic! Warp-magic! The stone of the elf-things must be even more powerful than we thought!”
The warlord threw back his head and roared with frustration. Then he slammed the engineer against one of the columns, straight into a nest of squirming grubs.
Ratchitt screamed in terror as the pale digits fanned out over his face and gripped him firmly against the stone. “Ach!” he shrieked. “They’re eating me!”
The warlord held him firm and let out a guttural laugh. “Well,” he cried. “Why not?” He waved his cleaver at the horde that was struggling up the hill behind him. Every single one of the skaven was wrestling with some kind of bizarre assailant and all of them were injured in some way. Every inch of the island pulsed with malicious life and mindless hunger. “Everyone else is be
ing eaten,” snapped Verminkin. “Why should you go free?”
Ratchitt struggled desperately as the fingers slid beneath his armour and began spreading across his chest and neck.
“Tell me,” snarled the warlord, crouching next to the struggling engineer. “Why shouldn’t I turn back while I still can and leave you to rot on your precious island?”
“Look!” wailed Ratchitt, shoving his looking glass across the ground. “On the other side of the hill!”
The warlord looked at the copper tube with a doubtful grunt.
“Quick!” gasped Ratchitt as he felt the grubs bursting through his skin and easing themselves into his flesh.
Verminkin stamped on the tube. “I’ve had enough of your pointless gadgets,” he muttered, grinding it beneath his heel.
Ratchitt groaned in horror as the lens shattered beneath Verminkin’s clawed, leathery foot.
The warlord shook his head as he watched the engineer’s desperate attempts to free himself. “What was I thinking?” he muttered.
Ratchitt screamed again as he felt the moist digits writhing beneath his skin and burrowing inwards towards his pounding heart.
The warlord sniffed and looked up through the fog as a shadow passed overhead. “What now?” he growled.
Prince Stormrider’s griffon slammed down onto the hillside with such force that it triggered a small landslide.
Verminkin loosed his hold on Ratchitt to shield his face from the shower of rocks that flew down towards him.
Ratchitt gasped in pain and relief as he wrenched himself free from the worm-infested rock and collapsed to the ground. As the engineer rolled away from the column of rock he felt himself teetering on the edge of unconsciousness: blood was rushing from countless holes that covered his torso and his head lolled weakly on his shoulders as he scrambled away from the griffon.
The griffon let out a deafening screech as the prince steered it at the warlord.
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