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Wind of Change - C L Werner

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WIND OF CHANGE

C L Werner

Eyes dark and cold stared upon the mountainous terrain, at the craggy piles of rock, the towering expanses of pine trees, at a world shrouded in white and clothed in the deathly embrace of winter. Such eyes had regarded this land for countless centuries, watching the seasons fade from short cool summers into long chill winters. They had seen mighty mountains rise from the plains as vast, primordial powers willed them into being. They had marked the same mountains become ravaged by wind and rain, by snow and glacier, until they at last crumbled into ugly mounds of broken rock. Trees had risen into gigantic towers of bark and pine needle from a single seed, only to topple into ruin as time and wind gnawed away at their strength. Over the ages, such eyes had discovered a great truth, that all that is mighty, all that is powerful and strong, all that stands proud and tall will one day be brought low. Only the wind and the cold were eternal.

A small cluster of shapes moved across the snowy wilderness, carefully following a seldom used path. Their way took them through the piles of rock and stone, beneath the boughs of the pine trees. Such intruders in this wilderness were seldom seen, but their kind was not unknown to those eyes that gazed upon them. It had been a long time, as men might reckon such things, since such wanderers had entered these lands. It would be a long time before their kind would be seen again in these lands.

The leading figure was tall and lithe, his long limbs and slender body clothed in a suit of darkened leather studded with steel, thick ruffs of fur spilling out from the sleeves and neck of the garments. A long fang of steel was sheathed at his waist, and a heavy crossbow was gripped in his gloved hands. The features of the pathfinder’s face were lean, a sharp hawkish nose and narrow eyes mixing with an array of grey web-like scars. One of these scars extended upwards through his scalp, forming a permanent part in the man’s long black hair.

Nithrind scanned the snow-covered trees with his keen gaze, watching for any sign of life. As he did so, the heavy collar of black steel shifted, its chill surface momentarily touching his bare flesh. The elf casually placed a hand to his neck, tucking the fur trimming of his tunic beneath the collar once more. It was an automatic motion, one that the slave had become accustomed to long ago. It had been centuries since his neck had been bare, since he had wandered the craggy canyons of the Blackspine Mountains, far away in the south as a freeborn. It was an existence Nithrind could recall only dimly now, a dream that had been banished by the dawning sun. He could no longer remember what transgression, what failure he had been guilty of that had caused him to fall. If he had ever known, that knowledge had been burned out of his mind long ago by the torture lords of Karond Kar. Now, he was only a servant, a tool of his mistress. And serving his mistress well was the only joy left in Nithrind’s thankless life.

The dark elf glanced back at the rest of the small hunting party. Nithrind was an old and experienced scout, the torture masters had left that knowledge in him. He had been in many wild and forlorn places. He’d helped fight the hated sons of Ulthuan, tracking their murderous shadow warriors through passes in the Viper Mountains. He’d hunted escaped slaves across the bleak expanse of the Red Desert. Once, he was almost certain, he’d led the party of a powerful highborn through the Witch Gate and into the caverns beneath Naggaroth to root out the nests of the reptilian cold ones. But never had he been so ill at ease before, so plagued by a sense of nagging dread. He had been in places every bit as desolate, every bit as bleak. This place felt different.

Their mistress had led them too far into the frigid north. The last of the watch towers that marked the border of Naggaroth was three days behind them now. They were drawing ever closer to the Chaos lands. As the thought came to Nithrind, he cast a dubious look at the snow beneath his feet, trying to tell himself that the seemingly pristine powder did not sparkle unnaturally in the sunlight whenever he observed it from the corner of his eye. The scout shook his head. Even if it did, it would not be of any consequence. It was not his decision to turn back. His life was simply to obey.

The hunting party trudged onward through the snow, following the slight trail left behind by the nimble-footed Nithrind. Unlike the scout, the other elves did not take any pains to leave the snow undisturbed. The effort to conceal their tracks would have been tedious with the beasts numbered amongst their company and cost them far more time than they were willing to lose. And, perhaps, they too felt the dread of this lonely place sinking into their bones. Perhaps it was reassuring to them to leave some sign of their passing on the land, some way of striking back at their forbidding surroundings.

The leader of the hunting party strode at the fore of the group. She was tall and slender, her body straining at the tight leather garments into which it had been poured. A heavy skirt of dark scales hung from her waist over the leather breeches, a garment torn from the hide of a war hydra grown too old to be of any further use to the masters of Naggaroth. Thorny flesh hooks of black steel were embedded in several of the scales, causing a tinny music like the tinkling of tiny bells every time the woman took a step. A long, cruel sword was sheathed against her right leg while a heavy whip with metal thorns was coiled upon her left hip. From above a sculpted, armoured breastplate, the severe, harsh features of Belithi considered the snow-covered pines with an arrogant disdain. Belithi was a highborn, one of the beastmasters of Karond Kar, daughter of one of the noble houses of the powerful elf city and as such, she alone of her small group harboured no trepidation with regard to their long march into the north. Her family trained new beastmasters, and Belithi was the greatest of Karond Kar’s instructors, said to be exceeded in her skills only by the Beastlord Rakarth himself. Her pupils were the best Karond Kar would produce for the armies of the Witch King and the households of the nobles. There was nothing in the wilds that was their equal.

After Belithi came her current pupils, both dressed in the black leather armour of apprentice beastmasters. Their bodies were exposed more fully to the elements, their arms and legs tinged blue with the cold of their surroundings. A part of their training was to become inured to all manner of hostile situations, to survive extremes of heat and cold and deprivation. They had almost completed their training; this current excursion was the final leg in their journey to becoming beastmasters. But they were still bound to Belithi and both of her students struggled to prevent their teeth from chattering, each of them recalling the swiftness and brutality with which their mistress would punish them for such weakness.

The older of the two apprentices was Tylath, son of one of the greatest of Karond Kar’s highborn families. Everything had been made available to Tylath by his wealthy family, no expense had been spared in his education. It was only natural that he should have become the pupil of Belithi, the most highly regarded of the city’s instructors. Though many clamoured to become Belithi’s student, the wealth and influence of Tylath’s family had ensured that he would rise to the fore. The elf wore an arrogant expression that was every bit as condescending and superior as that of Belithi herself. Only one thing spoiled the comparison. There was a look of unease, of uncertainty in Tylath’s eyes that was utterly absent in the face of his mistress.

The other apprentice was Malador. His was not so fine a family as that of Tylath, and he had been forced to rely upon his own skills to make his way. Malador’s was a weathered and cruel face, a face that spoke of years of bowing before creatures unworthy of his respect. Indeed, there was no love lost between Malador and his fellow pupil. Yet the two were linked by the unbreakable bonds of tradition. Beastmasters were trained as teams, they succeeded or failed as a team. In trying to ensure the success of Tylath, the very best possible partner had been selected for him. Malador owed the prestigious opportunity to learn from Belithi to Tylath’s influence more than anything else, a fact that only deepened his loathing of the highborn.

Heavy chains were gripped in the hands of each of the student beastmasters, the chains leading to a massive collar of enchanted steel. The creature that wore the collar was every bit as tied to the success and failure of Tylath and Malador as the two elves were to each other. It was a monstrous brute, standing almost five feet tall at the shoulder, capable of rearing back on its hind legs and towering over twelve feet above the ground. Its scarred hide was covered in a thin pelt of crimson fur, a thick black mane surrounding its hateful head. Huge wings of wrinkled leather were folded against the sides of the monster’s body, shrouding its wasted ribs and hungry belly. The limbs of the beast were thickly muscled, tipped with crescent shaped claws. The monster’s long tail was tipped with a long spike of bone, a thin trickle of venom dripping from its hollow point. The beast’s face swung from side to side, its broad nostrils flaring as it inhaled the scents of the frozen north. The creature’s face was that of a lion, though there was a twisted suggestion of humanity in the set of its fang-ridden jaw, in the placement of its yellow, hate-filled eyes. It was a manticore, a creature of Chaos and dark sorcery captured by the beastmasters, its violent will broken by their whips and spells.

The last member of the hunting party followed a good distance behind the two students and their manticore, his dark-gloved hands wrapped within the tentacles of a number of studded leashes. Three huge hounds loped ahead of him, heavy brutes with broad shoulders and massive paws. The black dogs cast frequent, adoring looks at the elf holding their leashes. For his part, Uneldir ignored the beasts, his cold eyes favouring only the distant figure of Nithrind. Like the other elf, Uneldir was a slave who had been sold when he was very young by his family, traded along with a hundred other children of the Shadow Brotherhood to Belithi’s house in exchange for a war hydra. Uneldir spat into the snow as he gazed at the distant figure of the scout, waving the hunting party forward. He should have been the one to lead the expedition, he was every bit the pathfinder and scout that Nithrind was. He was better, Uneldir was certain, if his cruel mistress would only give him the chance to show his value. He had told her as much. The slave lifted a gloved hand to the cruel scar running along his cheek where his mistress had struck him after he had dared to voice his thoughts to her. Someday, he would show Belithi just how skilled he was, that he was more than a kennel boy. He would carve Nithrind’s heart from the scout’s broken body and present it to Belithi before he did the same to her.

Nithrind waited for the rest of the hunting band at the crest of an icy rise overlooking a small valley. The elf scout kept his keen eyes roving across the forested expanse, studying the pine trees and shrouded clumps of snowy bushes, but time and again his eyes were drawn to the structure squatting just at the base of the rise. It was a small building, its walls built of heavy timbers, its roof heavily slanted so that the snow would slide down it to gather in great drifts to either side of the structure. For all of its crudity, the building was unmistakably elven in design, its sharp angles suggesting a precision and grace no other people could effect in their constructions.

Belithi and the others joined Nithrind on the rise. The beastmistress stared down at the lonely building, a slight smile flitting across her face. ‘We will establish our camp here,’ she informed the others.

‘But what is this place, mistress?’ asked Nithrind, his tone slightly uneasy. Belithi favoured her slave with a cruel smile, then struck him. The scout recoiled from the blow, his hand clutching at the bleeding scratches left behind by the steel studs covering the back of Belithi’s glove.

‘This is a hunting lodge,’ Belithi informed her companions. ‘Built by my grandfather many years ago. None of my family has used it in over two centuries.’ Her face took on a look of confidence and pride. ‘But I will use it. Let the others pick amidst the sickly creatures that slink past the watch towers. I shall do my hunting here, where true monsters prowl!’

Malador and Tylath looked at one another, for once both of the apprentices sharing the same thoughts. That they should be the lucky ones to accompany Belithi on this excursion into a place no dark elf had set eyes upon in centuries, that they should be the ones chosen to bolster Belithi’s pride by capturing some beast to impress even the most arrogant in Karond Kar. Both of the students silently considered the recklessness of their instructor, both sullenly reflected upon how she continued to drag out this final aspect of their training. It should have been such a simple thing, use the manticore that had been given to them to subdue and capture some equally fearsome creature to replace it in Belithi’s menagerie. Instead, Belithi had made the simple task into a long and arduous quest, a journey into lands uncertain and unknown.

‘Mistress,’ Uneldir said, stepping forward and averting his eyes from those of Belithi in the ritual sign of subservience and respect. ‘It appears that the lodge is not uninhabited.’ Uneldir pointed a gloved hand at the structure, denoting a pile of freshly chopped firewood lying beneath one of the slanting awnings that fringed the sloping roof.

‘My grandfather left a caretaker here,’ Belithi mused. ‘Perhaps he is still alive.’ The woman turned, gesturing with her slender hand for the group to advance. ‘Whoever is living here, the lodge is mine.’ The cruel smile spread her pale lips. ‘I rather hope that whoever they are they try to contest that point. I haven’t heard anything scream in days.’

A dry, musty smell billowed out from the darkness as Nithrind quietly opened the heavy timber door of the lodge. The scout slipped into the darkness, a long dagger gripped in his gloved hand. Some distance away, Belithi and her party watched impassively as the slave inspected the building. The other slave-scout, Uneldir, cast sullen, furtive glances at his mistress, bristling under this latest insult to his own skills. Belithi noticed Uneldir’s angry stare. She smiled.

Nithrind appeared a few minutes later, his fingers making a complex series of motions, scout signals that indicated he had found nothing but that they should proceed with caution. Belithi waved her followers forward, arrogantly striding down the slope towards the squat structure. Let the scout advise caution all he liked, there was nothing in this blighted place that she had to fear. Whatever thought to confront Belithi of Karond Kar would live only long enough to regret its stupidity.

Up close, more details of the lodge became evident, the jagged rune-script of Naggaroth etched and carved into many of the timbers, the small dangling strings of beads and feathers, the animal skulls that had been nailed into place along the edge of the roof. It was a primitive, savage looking structure, and Tylath wrinkled his nose in distaste as he strode towards it, inwardly sighing as he considered this new indignity he would have to endure. At least he would soon be free from all of it. From Belithi and her cruel whims, from the lowly Malador to whom his fate had been shackled, most of all from the ill-tempered, foul smelling brute that lumbered behind the chain he held. Soon it would all be over, Tylath would be a beastmaster and then he could put his family’s influence to some new pursuit. Perhaps he would tithe a generous amount to the Temple of Khaine and pay Belithi and Malador back for all the indignities he had suffered. That thought warmed the dark corridors of Tylath’s heart.

Malador brought Tylath out of his thoughts, placing a cold hand on his fellow apprentice’s shoulder. Tylath looked down his knife-like nose at the other elf as Malador handed Tylath his length of chain, placing both of the heavy steel leashes attached to the manticore’s collar in the highborn apprentice’s hands. The manticore itself growled as it saw the exchange, rearing its head backward as if to test its leash. Tylath spat a curse at the monster and the motion instantly ceased, the manticore lowering its head in an almost frightened gesture of submission.

Malador unslung the heavy steel device that he carried on his back. It was a great circle of black metal, cruel teeth jutting along its inner surface. The dark elf set the heavy contraption down upon the frozen ground, removing two massive steel spikes from his belt along with a small hammer. Malador drove one spike through a loop on either end of the circular trap, making it fast to the ground. Then the elf stepped away. He looked up at the manticore, snarling a word of command to the huge leonine creature and stabbing a finger at the round trap. The manticore did not hesitate but obediently stepped forward, placing one of its scarred feet into the centre of the device. As it did so, the steel jaws sprung shut, the metal teeth digging into the beast’s flesh. The manticore groaned in pain, a deep and piteous sound that pleased its masters greatly. That their creature should willingly and without hesitation put its paw into the cruel trap was one of the primary tests of a beastmaster, that their creature should fear the pain its masters could visit upon it more than the pain it knew would result from doing as it was told.

Tylath arrogantly tossed Malador’s length of chain back to him. Both elves then set about driving spikes into the ends of the chain, pinning the links to the ground on either side of the manticore, forcing its head into a low, uncomfortable position as they eliminated the slack. Satisfied that their beast had been made secure, the two apprentices turned back toward the lodge. Belithi stood before the door, hands poised on her hips.

‘You should have been able to fetter your animal in half the time,’ the beastmistress said. ‘Perhaps I should reconsider my evaluation of your fitness.’ Belithi turned her back to her two apprentices and waited while Nithrind opened the lodge door for her. Tylath and Malador cast contemptuous looks at their instructor’s back. They knew that they would never hear a word of praise from their teacher, and her threats that she would label them as failures had ceased to have the same effect on them months ago. They also knew that Belithi would very soon have no further hold on them. A few days at most, and they would be free from the woman’s high-handed scorn. The pupils of Belithi were the very best, and both of her apprentices knew that their skills would be in great demand, however much their teacher chose to taunt and insult them.

The interior of the lodge was as black as the souls of those who had built it. Belithi snarled at Uneldir as the beastmistress stepped into the structure. The slave reached into a small pouch set on his belt and withdrew a small copper rod and a colourless crystal. Uneldir handed the two objects to Belithi. The dark elf did not even glance at her slave but set about fastening the crystal to the copper rod. As the translucent mineral slipped into place at the tip of the rune-encrusted rod, a dim grey light began to emanate from the crystal, banishing the darkness and revealing the details of the room.

It was small, perhaps only four or five hundred square feet. Heavy wooden planks had been laid down as a floor over which were strewn a wide variety of animal skin rugs. The walls were similarly adorned, sporting skins stretched and nailed and a wide number of slowly rotting animal heads, the preservative spells and techniques employed upon the old forgotten trophies beginning to fade after so many centuries of neglect. One wall, however, was barren of such trophies, given over entirely to the large upright wooden pole that stood before it. A large fire pit dominated the centre of the room, smooth round stones surrounding the blackened depression in the floor. A few wooden couches were clustered about in a half-circle near the fire pit, their surfaces covered by shaggy pelts and the crude quilts of the primitive human tribes that had once been numerous in the land of Naggaroth. Other furnishings were few, limited to a few chairs and tables, a large weapons rack set between two preserved bison heads against one wall, and a pair of once elegant cabinets, their gilded panels now dull and tarnished by age.

‘Not so very much to look at, is it?’ observed Tylath as he followed Belithi into the room. Malador followed after his fellow student. Behind them came Uneldir, leading the suddenly apprehensive dogs into the cave-like chamber. ‘If someone has been living here, they must not be able to smell,’ Tylath added.

‘Could perhaps be humans,’ Nithrind offered, stepping away from a mouldering cougar skin he had been inspecting. ‘Some of their tribes consume herbs that will deaden their sense, make them better warriors. More immune to pain.’

‘If I want to hear you speak, slave, I will tell you what I want to hear,’ Belithi chastened the scout, her voice chill and threatening. Nithrind dutifully bowed his head in the token gesture of apology and shame. The beastmistress stabbed a finger at the fire pit. ‘Uneldir, make a fire. The gloom here stifles my spirits.’ Uneldir stared at Belithi for a moment, wondering at her strange words. Was it possible that even she was aware of the menacing air that hung about this place? Once again, the scout considered the dogs and their unease. The three brutes had slunk towards one of the couches, and were lying beneath it in a wide-eyed line, their ears perked for any trace of sound.

The scout did not delay long, and quickly made his way to the fire pit. He was somewhat surprised to see a small pile of wood already laid out within the stone circle, but then recalled Nithrind’s assertion that the lodge had been at least until recently inhabited. Uneldir reached into another of the pouches on his belt, producing a flint knife and a small length of granite. Freeborn dark elves might have a firegem, a faceted stone that would produce flame simply by being placed against a piece of kindling for a few moments. But a slave was fortunate indeed to be allowed to carry even the crudest means of making fire, and terrible was his punishment if he employed them without being told.

As the flames quickly rose, the lingering shadows in the lodgeroom dissipated, dancing off into the dark corners where the light would not reach. Belithi separated the two components of her wand, causing the eerie grey light to vanish. Uneldir kept his eyes on the fire, ensuring himself that it would not die. As he looked up, however, the scout scrambled back, his knife seeming to leap into his hand. The other dark elves instantly noted Uneldir’s alarm and their own weapons were drawn in the blinking of an eye. From underneath the couch, the dogs gave half-hearted growls.

The firelight revealed a figure seated in one of the chairs facing the fire. So still had he been, so perfectly merged with his high-backed seat, that he had been completely invisible in the near perfect dark, even the keen vision of Nithrind had passed over him without taking notice. He was a scraggly apparition, his lean frame garbed in the dull tan of buckskins, his long white hair adorned with beads and a single feather, a feather that seemed to dance and pulse with colour as the firelight washed it. His pale hands were folded upon his lap, the eyes in his snow-white face were closed. Belithi and her followers experience a brief moment of uncertainty, trying to decide what to make of the strange ghostly figure. And in that brief moment, the apparition spoke.

‘For what do you hunt, my lords of earth and sea?’ The apparition’s voice was musical and harsh, soft yet abrasive. It was the voice of a child of Naggaroth. The eyes of the ancient elf opened and he stared at his visitors. As he did so, his hair fell away from his throat, revealing for an instant the heavy metal collar fastened about his neck. Belithi and her students visibly relaxed as they saw the familiar and comforting appearance of the slave collar. Clearly this was the caretaker Belithi’s grandfather had left behind.

‘Is it a slave’s place to ask questions of his masters?’ Belithi spat. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten that your only purpose is to please your owner?’ Belithi shot a cruel, withering look at Nithrind. The shade would pay dearly for having overlooked the presence of the caretaker when he had scouted the lodge.

‘I have not forgotten,’ the elf said. ‘I have had little else to occupy my mind since my master left me here so long ago. It is strange that I find comfort to know that I was not forgotten in Karond Kar.’ The elf leaned forward, allowing the firelight to shine fully upon his face, revealing the old grey scars that lined his checks, the savage bite-mark that puckered his chin. ‘I would serve my masters, as once I did. And I can serve best by telling you to seek your prey elsewhere. You will not find great trophies here, only death.’

‘We look for death, white-hair,’ Tylath boasted. ‘For we are better than death and will take it back to Karond Kar in chains.’

The caretaker chuckled softly, sinking back into his chair. ‘When you leave this place, I hope that you can recall such words of pride and foolishness. Because death will find you if you linger here.’

‘You have already earned yourself a flogging for your insolence,’ Belithi warned the ancient elf. ‘I may forgive it as a result of your long isolation. Provided you do not displease me.’ The beastmistress took several steps toward the seated caretaker, her whip coiled about her fist. ‘What is this danger of which you speak?’ she demanded.

The ancient elf extended his lean hands, gesturing all around him. Belithi followed his gesture, keeping one eye fixed on the caretaker as she did so. ‘It is everything,’ he told her. ‘The danger is in everything here, it is too vast to escape, too big to find. Go back, go back to Karond Kar. Go back before it finds you.’

‘He speaks in riddles,’ stated Malador, stepping toward the fire pit.

‘His mind is rotten,’ scoffed Tylath. ‘Slit the bastard’s throat so we can forget this nonsense!’

Belithi looked down into the caretaker’s scarred face. ‘Are you mad?’ she asked, her voice rippling with menace.

‘Oh yes,’ the caretaker replied, betraying no apprehension in his tone. ‘With what I have seen, with what I have heard, there is no one who would not go mad. But even the mad can still speak wisdom.’

‘What wisdom, old one?’ asked Malador. ‘What is this death of which you speak, this danger that cannot be fought?’

‘What I speak of is simply Death,’ the ancient elf said, his voice dropping into a silky whisper, ‘for those who knew of it dared not give it a name. There is power in names, power that is invoked every time a name is spoken. And some things can eat that power, snatch it from the sky as if it was a tiny bird. This thing is such a thing, and so they called it Death when they had need to speak of it.’

‘Who? Who spoke of such foolishness, slave?’ Tylath sneered.

‘Those who walked these lands long before the Sundering, before they denied our king his rightful crown,’ replied the caretaker. ‘Many were their names: Redfoot and Tapach and Wontimok. They came here long ago in their tribes and their nations, journeying to these lands on their spirit walks. They understood that there was power here, power that could be taped by their shamans, but they also understood that such power would consume them if they linger. So they would journey here in the summer and honour the cold lords of the north, but they were always careful to be gone before the first snows. Before the hungry gods would grow restless.’

‘Do you have any idea what this idiot is babbling about?’ Belithi asked, staring across at Nithrind. The elf scout was examining the massive log pole at the far end of the lodge. The slave looked back at his mistress, rising from his examination.

‘The Redfoot and Tapach were skraelings, human barbarians that once dwelled in the Black Forests and Granite Hills before they were subdued by our armies,’ the scout replied. ‘Clearly, some of them made their way this far. This,’ he gestured at the carved pole beside him, ‘is their handiwork, one of their sacred totems. Perhaps the old fool isn’t quite as alone as we imagined.’

Belithi turned over her slave’s observations. If it was true, if there really were remnants of the long vanquished peoples here, this place might prove a very profitable region. The older dark elves were forever seeking ways to recapture the past. Slaves from races they thought long extinguished would certainly appeal to their twisted nostalgia.

‘Yes, it was from the skraelings that I learned of the Walker,’ the ancient elf nodded his head. ‘I was visited by their spirits and they told me of the power and how I could protect myself by honouring it. I carved that totem, just as they taught me and I was spared. But it is too late in the year now, the snow has fallen and the Death has become the Walker.’

‘And just what is this Walker?’ Belithi snarled. The ancient elf’s veiled suggestions and mad warnings were becoming unnerving even to her and for one who regularly stared down hydras, fear was as unconscionable as it was uncommon. ‘What is this thing you would have us run from?’

The caretaker stood, his face falling into the flickering shadows. ‘It is everything and nothing,’ he said, his voice filled with awe. ‘It is the grey in the leaf and the black in the snow. It is the colour of wind and the sound of dark. It does not see in the places we see, it does not walk the paths our feet can find. Only when it is hungry, only when the snow has fallen and the world is dead does it stir, does it descend into the places we know. Even then, it is too terrible for our minds to contain. It is bigger than the horizon, taller than the sky. It can break down the mountain with its roar and freeze the sea with its shadow. It is all around us, even now. I have seen it many times, in many shapes.’ The caretaker looked up at Belithi, fixing her with his strange, tired eyes. ‘How will you see it, I wonder? Will you see it before the Walker reaches down to devour you? I carved what I saw upon the totem, that is how I honoured the Death. How will it allow you to show it honour?’

Belithi did not hesitate but brought her palm smashing into the caretaker’s face, stabbing his nose upward into his brain. There was a spurt of blood and the sound of crunching cartilage. The elf fell without a sound, his body crumpling to the floor. Belithi spat on the corpse. ‘Die knowing that you are trash, an insult to the blood of the Druchii!’ The beastmistress kicked the corpse, then turned toward Uneldir. ‘Carve that animal. We will use it as bait on the morrow!’ She turned her imperious gaze on the other elves.

‘Forget what the old fool said!’ she told them. ‘He was driven mad by all the years alone, so that he imagined some spirit in the air around him, something to relieve him of his solitude. Give his lies no further thought. On the morrow we will hunt and you will complete your training.’

Belithi said nothing more, but set about making a bed for herself on the most spacious of the couches. Tylath and Malador selected their own beds once their instructor was settled. Though there were plenty of couches, the two slave scouts would sleep on the floor, as befitted their lowly station. Uneldir made himself a place beside his dogs, using the warmth of the animals to fight off the chill of the floor.

Nithrind found himself a place near the wall, facing the tall totem. He had heard everything the old caretaker had said. He had heard that the ancient elf had carved the totem himself, had placed upon it the many shapes he had seen his mysterious entity wear when he had seen it. Nithrind saw many shapes in the totem, massively fanged ogre-like faces, the snouted visages of bears, the curved beak of some mighty bird. There were dozens of vastly different forms represented on the totem, each apparently carved after it had been seen. What disturbed the shade most was the fact that the totem was completely carved; there was no more room for the old caretaker to have placed a new image. The last image was what made that fact so unsettling to Nithrind, for it was a perfect representation of an elven face. It was the face of the old caretaker.

Malador awoke, gasping for breath. The dark elf lifted his hand to his forehead, finding it damp with sweat. His eyes ranged across the darkness of the room, his ears strained for the slightest hint of sound. He could see his fellow elves, Belithi and Tylath asleep on their couches, Nithrind lying with his back against the wall, Uneldir beneath one of the vacant couches, his dogs lying all around him. The animals twitched in their sleep, legs sometimes kicking out, soft whimpers rising from them.

Malador tried not to think of what might be disturbing the animals’ dreams, tried not to consider that which had disturbed his own. He had imagined a shape, a figure, vast and huge, looming down out of the night sky, leaning over the lodge. Malador felt helpless and small, the pride and arrogance in his veins withering. Even now, awake, he could sense that imposing presence, sense it looming down upon him. Malador trembled, fear welling up within him. It was an emotion no Druchii would display openly, for fear was weakness and to show weakness to another was to invite doom. Yet such was the terror that had come upon him, that even an entire life spent controlling and hiding fear was not enough to fight down the staggering horror that crawled through Malador’s veins.

The elf pulled the heavy fur covers a bit tighter about his body, trying to hide the shaking in his limbs. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering if more than the stars and moons stared back. Outside, the only sound was the groaning of the wind. Listening to the low moan of the night, Malador eventually drifted back into slumber.

‘Where in the name of all the hells is it?’ roared Tylath, his breath icy with the morning frost.

‘I certainly hope that you can find an answer to that question,’ purred Belithi from the doorway of the lodge. There was no mistaking the cruel pleasure on her face. ‘Because if you do not find an answer, then you will have proven yourself unfit to bear the title of beastmaster, or any other rank of worth.’

Malador kneeled beside the bloody path of snow, staring down at the heavy steel-jawed trap and the gory object held firmly within it. They had used the trap to restrain their manticore countless times throughout their training. Not once had the beast shown the strength or drive to escape. Now, so close to their final test, the monster had done the impossible. He looked over to where the twisted spikes that had fixed the manticore’s leashes to the earth had been ripped from the ground.

‘He must have gnawed through his own foot,’ Malador commented, his hand reaching out toward the bloody paw still fixed to the trap. ‘What could have frightened a manticore so much that it would do such a thing?’

‘Does it matter?’ snarled Belithi. ‘A beastmaster’s creatures must fear nothing more than its master, not even death, not even Khaine!’ The woman gestured at the paw. ‘That tells me you have failed. Now you should pray that you can find your escaped creature and try to regain some dignity.’

The elf scout Nithrind was walking in a wide circle around the area, looking for any sign of the manticore’s trail. It was doubtful that there would be much to find, the beast most likely chose to fly rather than walk after leaving one of its paws in the trap.

‘There is no blood,’ stated the slave, his face bearing a perplexed expression. ‘This area should be covered in blood. But there isn’t any.’ The other elves turned their gaze once more to the trap. So fixated had they been upon the fact of the manticore’s escape and the gruesome extremity left behind that none had noticed the snow. It was soft and white, unmarked and virgin.

‘It must have snowed during the night,’ observed Tylath. ‘After the beast made its escape.’

Nithrind shook his head. ‘If that is so, then why is there no snow on the trap, or on the paw?’ He pointed at the paw, drawing attention to the jagged tear. ‘This was not bitten off. It was ripped apart.’

‘Are you saying that the caretaker’s Walker reached down and picked the animal up?’ scoffed Belithi, her voice incredulous. Before Nithrind could answer, Uneldir emerged from the lodge.

‘The body,’ the scout said. ‘It is gone!’

Belithi spun about, her hand raking Uneldir’s face. The slave fell back, diverting his eyes downward in a gesture of apology. ‘What do you mean, the caretaker’s body is gone?’

‘I went to chop it into bait, mistress, but it was not there!’ Uneldir repeated. Belithi considered his words for a moment, then laughed.

‘There, we have the answer to your mystery Nithrind,’ she said. ‘The old madman wasn’t alone after all. There must be skraelings about, I am certain of it now. They must have freed the manticore and taken away the old fool’s body while we slept.’

‘They must be skilled indeed to not have awoken any of us,’ stated Nithrind, not convinced for a moment by Belithi’s logic.

‘We know for certain that they are here now,’ Belithi said, glaring at the scout. ‘They won’t surprise us a second time. We’ll remind them of their place soon enough. But first we should see if we can’t recover the beast and let these two young idiots try to redeem themselves.’

The beastmistress pointed her slender hand at the darkened doorway of the lodge. ‘Prepare the bait. There can’t be too much game about, so we will see if we can’t coax the beast back with some fresh meat.’

Uneldir smiled, starting to move toward the door, but Belithi snapped her fingers, directing him to remain. ‘I think it best that someone else attends to things. You’ve failed me enough for one morning.’ Nithrind dutifully drew his knife and disappeared into the lodge. Belithi noted Uneldir’s angry glare as the other slave walked past, smiling as she saw the desired reaction manifest itself.

The sun was still low in the sky as the dark elves made their way into the forest. Nithrind led the way, looking for any sign in the soft snow. Belithi and her two apprentices followed after him. Belithi held a long spear in her hands while both of her apprentices carried repeating crossbows favoured by their race. Last of all came Uneldir, struggling under the weight of the butchered dog meat slung over his back.

Malador found his gaze drifting upwards every time his thoughts strayed. Whatever his subconscious mind thought to find in the sky, all he could see were the snow-covered branches of the pine trees, gently swaying as the cold wind crawled past them.

Suddenly, Nithrind stopped, lifting his hand. He gestured for the other hunters to draw forward. He pointed at the pug marks he had found. There were only three tracks, each massive. The fore-print was deeper than the two rear prints.

‘Looks like our wayward beast did not go so very far,’ commented Tylath smugly.

‘Which is quite fortunate for you,’ Belithi spoke in a menacing hiss. ‘It looks as though the tracks lead off in that direction,’ she pointed towards a distant snow drift. As she did so, a large shape leaped atop the icy obstruction.

It was at least ten feet from snout to haunch, with another four feet of bristly tail swaying behind it. The pelt was grey and marked with deep black stripes. The leonine head was fixed to a short, bull-like neck framed by powerful shoulders. Huge eight-inch fangs hung from the animal’s upper jaw. The ice-tiger, more commonly called the sabre-tooth, one of the most rare of all the creatures of the north. Even the jaded tastes of the Druchii considered such a creature a valuable prize, its flesh was an exotic delicacy relished by the highest of the nobility, its pelt and fangs just as valuable. Suddenly, the escaped manticore vanished from Tylath’s thoughts.

Tylath lifted his crossbow and fired five shots in rapid succession. The tiger fell from the snow drift, disappearing behind the mound. Tylath kept his weapon at the ready and began to stalk toward the drift. ‘Still think I am unfit?’ he sneered as he advanced.

‘My hunt, my kill,’ declared Belithi. ‘No matter who kills it, the kill belongs to me.’

Tylath swiped his hand through the air, as if waving aside his instructor’s words. ‘My mother may have something to say about that when we get back to Karond Kar,’ he said, his voice swelling with arrogance. Let the beastmistress just try to take his kill away from him. She would quickly learn her place.

The elves rounded the drift. Tylath stared in open-mouthed shock at what he saw.

‘But I hit it!’ he shouted. ‘At least four times! It fell!’ He ran his hand through the unblemished snow, then pounded his fist against the icy ground.

‘A poor beastmaster, an even poorer shot with a crossbow,’ Belithi said, her voice a mocking hiss. ‘Your mother must truly be proud of you.’ Tylath spun on his instructor, his hand dropping to the hilt of his dagger. Malador tensed as he saw the murderous intent burning in the highborn’s eyes, knowing that his own fate was tied with that of Tylath. If he was killed, any chance for Malador’s success would vanish. If he killed Belithi, matters would be even worse, for they would both be held responsible, both marked for death in the torture theatres of Karond Kar.

Belithi simply smiled at her apprentice, utterly unconcerned. ‘If you truly think you are better with that knife than you are with your aim, draw it. I care not whose whelp you are, I’ll add your scalp and your spleen to my trophy wall.’ Tylath glared at the arrogant beastmistress, his face twisting into a snarl. ‘Do it, or don’t, but at least have the stomach to make a choice.’

Tylath balled his fist, letting his hand fall away from the dagger and stalked off. Malador breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the other apprentice leave. He might be completely disgraced, but at least he was alive. And as long as he was, there was still a chance, however small, that Malador might succeed and survive.

‘Mistress!’ called the slave scout Nithrind after the situation with Tylath had resolved itself. The scout pointed to several objects lying in the snow. They were crossbow bolts, each one standing upright, forming a perfect line. Belithi crouched beside the missiles, staring at the strange, unnatural formation. ‘There is also this,’ the slave said, gesturing toward the top of the snow bank. The snow was smooth and unmarked.

‘But we all saw the tiger,’ Malador protested, as though by stating the fact the pug marks of the huge cat would suddenly appear.

‘Native magic,’ cursed Belithi as she rose from the ground. ‘Obviously these skraelings have one of their filthy shamans with them, trying to deceive us with their magic tricks.’ Her hand whitened as it closed tighter about the length of her spear. ‘But we won’t let them. We’ll show them the folly of toying with the Druchii.’

Such was the venom in her voice, that Malador was almost reassured by Belithi’s words. Then Tylath’s scream echoed through the forest.

There was blood on the snow, and bones, and brains. Bits of flesh scattered about like a gory litter, strewn about for yards. Even in the pits of Karond Kar, Belithi had never seen such carnage visited upon a body. Some of the pieces were all the more horrible for their readily identifiable nature, a scrap of skull with a slender ear, a finger. Other pieces looked as though they had been turned inside out by some impossible means. Nithrind shook his head in amazement, at a loss to even consider what sort of creature could have worked such horror upon Tylath in so short a space of time.

Uneldir watched as the others strode toward the refuse that had once been Tylath. He was not concerned with the apprentice’s death, unless he could somehow turn it to his advantage. If he could perhaps find out what had done this to the elf, track it down and kill it, he might at last outshine Nithrind, at last force Belithi to acknowledge his skill and ability.

As these thoughts turned over in Uneldir’s mind, he looked away from the carnage. As he did so, he caught sight of a figure standing amidst the trees. It was a scraggly looking form, its skin dark and crimson, its clothing made of fur and buckskin. The scout at once dropped the heavy burden of dog meat and drew his blade. The skraeling had lingered too long at the scene of the crime. Now Uneldir would see to it that the human paid the price for his foolishness.

Malador’s mind reeled as he stared down at a piece of Tylath’s face. He was doomed now; there was no chance of succeeding with his partner dead. He would be marked as a failure and a quick death back in Karond Kar would be the most merciful fate he could expect. It seemed so cruel, to be damned because of another’s misfortune. Perhaps that was why the tradition had been established so long ago. Briefly, Malador wondered if he might not simply escape, flee into exile. He shook his head. He had seen what isolation had done to the caretaker, how it had rotted his mind and sanity. He would not let himself sink to such depths, it was better to die with some measure of courage and honour, to show some defiance to those who consigned him to his fate.

The excited shout of Uneldir brought Malador from his thoughts. The student spun around, watching as the slave sprinted toward the trees. What was he doing? Was the slave thinking to escape from Belithi? Then Malador stared into the trees. The elf gasped in horror, taking several steps backward, his limbs once again trembling. There had been something in the trees, something huge and hairy and monstrous.

‘Where is that idiot going?’ Belithi swore. Malador looked over at his teacher. She hadn’t seen the figure among the trees. Malador looked back, but there was nothing to be seen, only Uneldir disappearing among the pines. The beastmistress called out for her slave to return, but from Uneldir there was no answer.

Uneldir could hear Belithi calling to him, but he paid her no heed. Let the hag try to send Nithrind now! It would be Uneldir not the shade who would find the skraeling. It would be Uneldir’s knife, not Nithrind’s that opened the animal’s belly. Even Belithi would have no choice but to acknowledge that fact.

The scout raced through the trees, his long strides carrying him far quicker and more nimbly than even the fastest human. Yet, despite his great speed and agility, as he raced through the maze of trees, he seemed unable to close the gap between himself and his prey. He would catch only fleeting glimpses of the skraeling as the buckskin-clad man would round a tree or disappear behind a bush. It was an unsettling feeling, as if the scout was pursuing a shadow, not something of flesh and blood. Yet every time he hesitated, every time doubt entered his mind, he would once more see his quarry up ahead and redouble his efforts to overtake him.

After what seemed like hours of racing through the labyrinth of pine trees, Uneldir emerged into a small clearing. The elf hesitated, suddenly overwhelmed by some nameless dread. There was something wrong here. Uneldir turned around, staring back the way he had come, not liking the darkness that lingered beneath the snow-laden trees. As he turned once more to regard the clearing, he was stunned to find that it had changed. Mouldering old stones had appeared, covered by a growth of brightly flowered vines. Uneldir cringed away from the stones, horrified by the unnatural way in which the delicate vines were flourishing amidst the ice and snow. As he watched, the stones themselves began to writhe and change. Faces seemed to be floating within the rock, straining to push themselves through the stone, the faces of animals and humans and elves, all screaming in agony and torment. Uneldir turned to flee the hideous vision, but as he did so, he found that the forest itself had disappeared.

A vast mound of rocks had replaced the trees, hoary old stones pitted by wind and rain. Crouched atop the stones was a monstrous shape, its multi-faceted eyes staring coldly down at the terrified elf. Uneldir gave voice to a scream that welled up from the bottom of his blackened soul, turning to flee from this new horror. As he did so, he found his path blocked by a new figure, that of a small skraeling child, her dark hair tied behind her head, her buckskin tunic adorned with bright beads.

The girl smiled up at the terrified elf, and as she did so, her face melted off her skull. The death’s head continued to smile.

‘This is how you die,’ it told Uneldir.

‘Did you see it?’ gasped Malador in a subdued voice. Belithi cast a look of scorn at her pupil.

‘I saw that fool rush off into the woods, nothing more,’ she told him, her voice filled with contempt.

‘There was something in the woods, something beckoning to me,’ explained Malador. He was no longer frightened of Belithi, he had discovered something that held more terror for him than his cruel instructor.

‘Do you know what this idiot is speaking of?’ snapped Belithi, directing her imperious gaze at Nithrind. The scout was examining the ground. He rose and shook his head.

‘The only tracks here are Uneldir’s,’ Nithrind stated.

The ominous silence was suddenly broken by a loud wail, a terrible high-pitched scream that slowly dropped into a low, bestial grunt. It was a sound of menace and challenge, a sound of warning and threat. It was a sound that promised death and things worse than death. All of the elves stared at the forest around them with new eyes, eyes that were wide with open apprehension as all the fears that had been brooding within each of them rose to the surface and escaped their control. Suddenly, none of them was able to deny the dread that had been stalking them for so many days, the aura of malignant oppression that had been preying upon their minds.

Belithi was the first to compose herself. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides until the nails drew blood from her palms. She was Druchii, her kin were the rightful masters of the world. There was nothing that was beyond the ability of her people to overcome and destroy at their leisure. Certainly she would not run from filthy primitive humans, creatures who were born only to feel the studded lash of the dark elves upon their backs. Whatever crude sorceries these savages had accidentally stumbled upon, they would not prevail. She was Belithi of Karond Kar. She was Druchii and no beast born beneath the sun would better her, would send her back to her city in failure and shame.

The beastmistress faced her fear-struck followers. The elf withdrew the heavy lash coiled at her waist, gesturing with it meaningfully at Nithrind.

‘I will not allow this skraeling vermin to steal my property,’ she declared in a voice of chill iron. ‘We will track down Uneldir and then reward these animals for their effrontery.’ The scout’s face was somewhat dubious as he considered his mistress’s calm statement, but he seemed to be emboldened by it just the same. Malador continued to gaze at the trees, his eyes darting from every shadow and branch. Belithi strode towards him.

‘I said that we are going to find my slave,’ she hissed in a low voice.

‘There is death out there,’ Malador said fearfully.

‘There is death right here,’ Belithi snarled, pushing Malador’s chin upward with the sharp, cruel point of her spear. ‘I’ll allow you the choice of where you find death.’ Malador swallowed the breath caught in his throat, gesturing his submission to the beastmistress with his hands.

As Belithi stepped away from her subdued student, the wail echoed through the trees once more. Each of the elves heard its sinister, menacing vibrations as they crawled amidst the boles, as they faded into the deep-throated bellowing grunt. The elves noted the direction of the sound and sprinted toward it, determined to seek out the source of this dread that had shadowed them, this horror that had stalked them through the wilds.

With their fleet-footed stride, the elves were soon deep within the trees, chasing after the lingering echoes of the strange and terrible cry. Each was certain of the path he took.

None of them noticed that each of his fellows had raced off in an entirely different direction.

Nithrind paused, not from fatigue, but to take in his surroundings. He stared at the snow-covered rocks and the twisted pines that surrounded him, his keen mind at once selecting peculiarities in each then committing them to his trap-like memory. This was how the Shadow Brotherhood taught its shades to navigate in the wilds, developing a map within their minds, a map far more extensive and intimate than any drawn upon parchment. The scout swiftly noted a boulder that resembled a sleeping cold one, a tree whose trunk seemed to have a crude resemblance to one of the spindly towers of Karond Kar and another that had a long branch jutting out low from its trunk, presented like the lance of a knight. His landmarks selected, the scout raced on.

There was no real anticipation of any victory in Nithrind’s mind as he sprinted between the trees. He did not know what manner of foe it was that they faced, nor did he possess his mistress’s prideful arrogance in the supremacy of their kind. He’d seen things long ago, he was almost certain. Fleeting images from his old life, leading serpent-cloaked corsairs through the steaming green hell of the south only to fall prey to the awesome magics of the bloated priest-lords of the scaly beings that claimed such realms as their own. No, not every creature in the world had been created as the playthings of the Druchii. There were older and fouler things in the lost corners of the world than most dark elves would accept as actually existing, but exist they did. The dread Witch King Malekith had not erected the watch towers simply to mark the northern boundary of his domain.

There was only one reason Nithrind continued, one reason why he did as his mistress commanded. He was a hunter and this might be his final and greatest hunt. Shade against shadow, mortal against the old caretaker’s mythical Walker. That was why he continued to stalk through the trees, to prove the level of his skill, even if only to himself.

Nithrind suddenly paused. Did he see a rock in the shape of a cold one? He looked again. There could be no question, it was indeed the stone he had seen before. Somehow, without knowing it, he had doubled back upon his own tracks. He turned to retrace his path and find where he had crossed his own tracks. As he did so, however, he again froze. The tree with the lance-like branch was standing behind him. But before it had been standing beside the cold one rock.

With a deep sense of unease, Nithrind turned once more, looking for the other tree. It was nowhere near the boulder, but was dozens of yards away. Somehow, impossibly, the objects seemed to have rearranged themselves, as though some giant had plucked them from where they had been and then haphazardly set them down again. The scout’s mind rejected the idea with something approaching stark terror. He turned and fled back the way he had come.

Nithrind emerged in a clearing, finding himself faced once again with his landmarks. This time, the cold one stone sat in front of the spear tree while the tower tree was looming on the opposite side of the path, exactly the opposite position in which he had seen it the first time. The scout’s breath was hammering through his lungs, billowing from his nose in a cloud of frost as he turned once more, fleeing back down the path. Wherever he turned, however, he found the same landmarks, each time their relative positions inverted and jumbled from how he had last seen them.

The scout’s limbs trembled with fright and weakness, his stomach churned in sickness. Something the elf had never experienced in his long centuries of life had fallen upon him like a cloak of cobwebs. He was lost. And as his mind crumbled before this impossible sensation, a new horror manifested itself.

The wind began to pick up, wailing through the trees, casting snow from the branches of the pines. Nithrind found himself glancing toward the direction from which this sudden gust had manifested itself. The dark elf retreated back as he saw something moaning through the trees. He had seen dust devils long ago in the wastes of the Red Desert, billowing pillars of wind and dirt. This was a kindred thing, only it was snow that was carried about within the spiral of wind. But the scout could feel that this was no caprice of nature, but something more, something with malevolent purpose about it.

Nithrind ran as the ice spiral crawled between the trees, ran as he had never run in all his long life. His feet barely lighted upon the ground before he sprang forward with his next step. Yet, for all his speed, whenever he glanced back, he could see that his intangible pursuer was closing upon him. Nithrind redoubled his efforts, running until he could feel his heart banging against his ribs, threatening to punch a hole through his chest. His lungs were on fire, his sides felt as if hot knives had been thrust through them. His legs were becoming heavy weights, defying his every effort to lift them. Yet still he ran.

At last, just as Nithrind felt that the unnatural debilitating fatigue wracking his form must overcome him, the scout looked one last time over his shoulder. He almost laughed when he saw that the wind devil was no more, that the spiral of ice and snow no longer dogged his steps.

Then Nithrind felt the brutal stabbing pain rip through his belly. The elf stared in numb disbelief at the tall tree that he had run into. It was one that he had noted earlier, along with another tree that looked like a tower and a stone that looked like a cold one.

Nithrind’s body sagged backwards upon the long lance-like branch upon which he had impaled himself. Bloody froth bubbled from the elf’s mouth as he bent over backwards, his dead weight pulling him toward the ground. Then he tried to scream, but succeeded only in gurgling upon the blood filling his throat.

Spilling out of the trees, crawling across the snow in a slow, deliberate motion, was a spiral of ice and wind. Nithrind understood that death was coming for him, and in his last moments he understood that it would be colder and more cruel than any imagined by his black-hearted race.

Malador paused in his tracks. Had he heard a scream just then? The echoes of that terrible howl sounded within his mind. The elf’s knuckles whitened about the grip of his blade as fear slithered through his blackened soul. Once more he could see that shape, that form standing silent amidst the trees, like some ghastly apparition. Uneldir had not seen it, nor any of the others, but Malador was certain that what his eyes had beheld was no illusion. It was out there, stalking him even now. Huge, like a tree itself, covered in lank black hair, its limbs long and thick as poles, muscles wound about them like anchor chain. That leering, bestial visage, its broad splayed nose, heavy brow and fanged, slavering mouth. The evil yellow eyes, gleaming with a malign intelligence, a mocking savagery. Malador found himself shuddering once more. He had seen it, he had seen the caretaker’s Walker, the nameless Death of the skraelings.

The apprentice beastmaster had no sooner reached this conclusion than he became aware that he was no longer alone. It was not a sound, not a smell, not something he could see. Yet he could sense it all the same, like a filth clutching at his spirit. Malador turned around slowly, forcing his body to face what he was certain now watched him from the labyrinthine expanse of the forest.

The trees were as they had been, silent, their branches weighted down by the winter snow, swaying slightly in the chill wind. The shadows hung heavy beneath them, yet not so greatly as to conceal that which Malador feared. The elf gasped a sigh of relief, wiping his hand at the cold sheen of terror that dotted his brow.

Then the trees began to moan, the branches began to part and the ground began to tremble. Malador’s eyes widened as he saw the upper branches of the pines bend as though pushed aside by some mammoth shape, snapping back with great violence as the intruder passed them. He could see the snow explode as immense feet smashed into the frozen earth. A foul, animal stink reached out to his nose, filling him with its clinging stench. Yet there was nothing, no shape smashing its way through the trees. The last vestiges of control deserted Malador and the elf gave voice to a scream of mortal terror as he fled before the invisible titan.

Malador could feel the heavy, relentless tread of the monster as it pursued him, could feel its footfalls smashing into the ground, causing the earth itself to tremble. He could hear the branches as they were pushed aside and then snapped back into place. The animal stink filled his lungs, the hot breath of the thing wafted across his neck. Malador cringed as he imagined curved bestial fangs sinking into his neck, ripping away his life, leaving him to bleed out in the snow like an animal. He imagined what Tylath had endured in those moments before he died. It was enough to horrify even one born into the cruel culture of Naggaroth.

The elf had no thought for direction, no care for keeping his bearings. There was only one thought in his mind, a desperate need to escape, to gain enough distance on his enemy that he might slit his own belly and cheat it of its victory. It was the only act of defiance and denial that Malador could think of, the only hope that could find a stronghold in his hammering, pulsating heart.

Then, abruptly, the sounds stopped. So sudden and complete was the silence that even the sure-footed elf stumbled and fell, his senses stunned. Malador swiftly picked himself up, daring to look back at the invisible thing that pursued him.

‘You disgrace your blood,’ a voice filled with contempt snarled at him. Malador looked over his shoulder, feeling an intense relief as he saw Belithi standing beside a tree, her spear gripped in one hand, her whip in the other.

‘It chased me through the woods,’ Malador said as he caught his breath, trying desperately to subdue the fear in his tones.

‘What chased you?’ the beastmistress demanded. ‘I see nothing!’

‘It could not be seen, but it was there!’ protested her student. ‘It was enormous! I was certain that it was going to kill me!’

‘You may wish your phantom had killed you if I hear another word of this nonsense!’ spat Belithi. ‘Are you so weak willed that these little tricks of sorcery can so unman you? And you had the presumption to study under me?’ The elf shook her head, the sleek black locks whipping about her.

‘Come, I’ve found where they are,’ Belithi said, gesturing with the length of her spear. ‘It is time we ended this.’

‘You found the skraelings?’ Malador asked, unable to contain his shocked disbelief. Had it really been skraelings all along? Had all the things he had seen been frightened visions conjured up by some primitive human shaman?

‘Come along,’ Belithi told him. She cast an imperious look at him. ‘They were so certain of themselves, but I have shown them how wrong they were.’

Belithi led Malador through the trees, past stands of warped, twisted pines, their trunks blackened by lightning and flame, past old standing stones, their surfaces pitted with the faintest traces of ancient runes. Black caves yawned from the side of a massive mountain, watching the two progress with their empty eyes.

At last, they stood within a clearing. Malador gazed at the snow-heavy trees surrounding the open space, at once likening them to the bars of a cage. The clutch of fear was heavy on him now, his soul felt as if it was drowning in the clinging aura of timeless evil that hung in the air all about him.

Then he saw it, the body of Nithrind, impaled upon the branch of a tree, his flesh blasted from his bones, only his intact vestment betraying his identity. Then he saw Uneldir, sitting upon the snow, almost as though he was resting. Except for the fact that there was nothing above his neck except a grinning skull. The bloody litter of Tylath, Malador now saw, had been transported here and was strewn all about the clearing. Even the manticore was here, its body seemingly turned inside out.

The final corpse was smashed deep into the ground, looking for all the world like an insect crushed beneath a boot. The slender limbs dangled brokenly from the jagged crater that held the pulpy mess of the body. Belithi’s face stared into the cloudy sky, the look upon it neither so proud nor so arrogant as it had been in life.

‘Existence is like a stream in motion,’ the figure standing behind Malador said in a voice that was as soft as thunder and as harsh as silk. ‘It ripples and twists and bubbles and babbles. It is everything and it is nothing. Within that stream, there are hunters and there is prey. Can any mind ever truly know which role it is called upon to play in any given moment? Only foolish mortals are so certain that they know their place in the confusion that is everything and nothing.’ The voice was at once both amused and perplexed by what it considered the paradox of ignorance. ‘It is the foolish who think they understand. It is the wise who know that they never will.’

Malador turned toward the source of the terrible voice, the voice that was at once sweet and bestial. The shape was no longer so very much like Belithi now, for it had swelled to something of mammoth size, its face had twisted into a sharp beak of bone. Thousands of eyes had opened all about its form, of every shape and colour, as were the feathers that covered its wings. The entire shape seemed to glow with an every changing inner illumination.

‘There is only one constant, even within Chaos,’ the monster declared. It extended its hand, stabbing its finger at Malador. The elf did not have time to scream as his bones twisted, as his flesh swelled. New limbs grew and collapsed, extra mouths opened and screamed before bursting apart as they transformed into wet gleaming organs. The elf’s body was gripped by a fit of uncontrolled metamorphosis and trans-formation, ripping itself apart even as it shifted between an idiot legion of forms and shapes.

‘The only constant,’ the daemon laughed as its body faded into the wind, ‘is Change.’  J

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

C L Werner’s Black Library credits include the Space Marine Battles novel The Siege of Castellax, Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter, Runefang, the Brunner the Bounty Hunter trilogy, the Thanquol and Boneripper series and Time of Legends: The Black Plague. Currently living in the American south-west, he continues to write stories of mayhem and madness set in the worlds of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000. He claims that he was a diseased servant of the Horned Rat long before his first story was ever published.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Originally published in issue 39 of Inferno! in 2003. This version published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

© Games Workshop Limited 2013. All rights reserved.

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A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-78251-060-4

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eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 You attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.