The Hour Of Shadows Part 1

A WARHAMMER NOVEL.

THE HOUR.

OF SHADOWS.

Storm of Magic - 03.

C.L. Werner.

This is a dark age, a b.l.o.o.d.y age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world's ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World's Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another a.s.sault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark G.o.ds. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

CHAPTER ONE.

2250 Imperial Calendar.

Smoke curled upwards into the darkening night. From the pyres, the last embers slowly lost their fiery glow. A cold wind blew across the field, setting the long gra.s.s swaying.

Slowly, the men surrounding the mounds of ash and charred wood turned away. Starlight gleamed from the plates of steel that encased thema"where the polish was not lost beneath the blood and grime of battle.

The knights marched away in dour silence, their spirits haunted by the malignity of their vanquished foes. Bold warriors who would have happily boasted of felling giants and slaying dragons, men who existed solely to test their valour, still they felt the deathly chill of their enemies lingering all around them. Even in the green country of Bretonnia, even in the hearts of that land's n.o.ble defenders, there were some things too unholy to contemplate.

The knights did not celebrate their victory. As they climbed into the saddles of their destriers, they did not look back to the scene of the day's battle. None of them wanted to be reminded of the horrors they had seen. In ghostly silence, the men rode away, moving across the fields, hurrying to the promise of hearth and home.

Among the knights, one rider lingered, casting a cold gaze across the smouldering mounds of ash. Normally, the burning of the dead would have been peasant work, but there had been no time to levy soldiers from the villages. The importance of consigning the enemy bodies to flame had been too great to wait for gangs of peasants to be brought to the field. That base duty had fallen to the knights themselves to perform.

The lone knight smoothed the torn tabard he wore over his armour, his fingers lingering against the golden grail embroidered across the breast. His hand fell away from the grail, reaching instead to his belt. From a small pouch, he withdrew a small piece of ivory carved into the semblance of a great eagle. He stared at it for a moment, then shifted about in his saddle, fixing his grim gaze upon the growing darkness.

There was no one to meet his gaze, but he knew there was something out there in the darkness. The same something that had rallied to his knights during the battle. Volleys of arrows had struck the enemy's flanks without any sign of the archers. Strange lightning and eerie fires had played about the enemy's ranks. Weird witch-lights had darted about the knights, guarding them from the blades and magic of their foes.

A power older than men, perhaps older than the G.o.ds themselves, had a.s.sisted the Bretonnians and helped them to victory. But it was a power that had first summoned the knights to the field of battle, sending strange visions to Duc Sarlat d'Armen, dreams which had compelled him to a.s.semble his warriors and ride to battle upon the Field of Razac.

Only once before had Duc Sarlat encountered the mysterious fey-folk, during his Grail Quest. The fey had demanded a boon from him, a favour which they would claim at a later time. The ivory eagle had been the token of that debt.

Now the debt was closed. The knight had no doubt as to the nature of his mysterious allies, nor to the force which had summoned him. The fey-folk had ventured from their haunted forest to help the Bretonnians, but Duc Sarlat knew it was only because the knights, in turn, had helped the fey.

"I honour my promise," Duc Sarlat called out to the night. He glanced down at the ivory eagle. He felt exploited and deceived. Men had died because they had followed him into battle, died fighting for the fey. Angrily his fingers tightened about the carving. "You have your boon!" the knight snarled, hurling the carving into the darkness. He did not hear it strike the ground.

"Do not call upon me again," Duc Sarlat snarled. Savagely, he drove his spurs into the flanks of his steed, moving off through the tall gra.s.s. He did not see the pale hand which caught the ivory token, or the limpid blue eyes that studied his retreat from the battlefield.

Ywain watched the duc ride away, accepting his scorn with stoic indifference. The human had been useful, but he had achieved his purposea"the purpose she had foreseen long ago. Ywain had guided the knight down the path of life, carefully cultivating his every step, steering him towards this day and the Battle of Razac Field. The crude brutality of the knights had been necessary to achieve victory here, so far from Athel Loren. She had foreseen that as well. The strength of the asrai was tied to their woodland home. So far from that strength, it had been necessary to employ the barbaric humans.

She might have done without the humans, but Ywain knew that to do so would mean allowing the enemy to enter Athel Loren. That was a risk she was unwilling to take. Not now, not when the Hour of Shadows was so near. If a thing such as Nahak of Khemri were allowed to set foot upon the Golden Poola Ywain shivered as her thoughts strayed to the Golden Pool and the power it contained. No evil thing must ever be allowed near it.

Such power must never be allowed near an evil mind. The vision of what would happen was one that caused the elf maiden's skin to crawl. There were some obscenities that even a spellweaver could not countenance.

Ywain composed herself before turning back towards the archers who had accompanied her and lent their marksmanship to the battle against Nahak and his undead horde. The elves stood scattered about the field, their bows slung over their shoulders, their lean bodies displaying an att.i.tude of ease and indifference. Ywain knew the display was deceptive. The kinband of Thalos Stormsword was as wary as a wolf-pack and could strike as swiftly as a viper. It was one of the reasons she had chosen them to accompany her and aid her in her cause.

Her blue eyes settled on the rakish figure of the kinband's leader. The beginning of a smile teased at Ywain's face. As Mistress of the Golden Pool, her course had been chosen for her long ago and it did not include dalliances with handsome, green-eyed highborn elf lords. Still, she could not reason away the feeling which had buried itself somewhere deep within her heart.

Thalos noticed the spellweaver's attention. Wrapping his emerald mantle about his shoulders, the highborn marched to her side, bowing before her and pressing fingers to lips in the traditional gesture of honour before addressing one of Athel Loren's mystic stewardesses.

"Lady Ywain," Thalos said. "The last of the humans have departed. The bones of the grave-sp.a.w.n have been destroyed upon the pyres."

Ywain stared at the elf lord, trying to read his sharp features for any trace of emotion, hoping against reason to see her own affection mirrored there. All she could find were the cold lights of duty and loyalty.

"You wish to know if our task is done here? You wish for us to return to the forest?"

"Forgive my impertinence," Thalos said. "I did not mean to question the vision of a spellweaver."

Ywain frowned at his choice of words. They echoed the doubt that continued to nag at her. Portents and omens were not so easily interpreted as letters upon a page. They were like ripples upon a pond, scattering before the eye could follow them, one rushing into another and creating a third from the ensuing confusion. By leading Duc Sarlat's knights into battle against the horde of Nahak, Ywain had prevented the liche from marching on Athel Loren. But had the menace to the Golden Pool been ended?

To know that, she would need to understand the ripples rushing away from the events she had set into motion.

The moons of Mannslieb and Morrslieb were high in the night sky by the time the elves quit the Razac Field. No eye witnessed their pa.s.sing, for the folk of Athel Loren were accomplished masters in the art of stealth and any sign of their presence that might be beyond their natural skill to conceal, the magic of Ywain wiped away.

Their withdrawal was noted just the same. Not by sound or sight or smell, but it was noticed by the creatures lurking in the darkness. They had a sense for magic, after a fashion, and felt the presence of the elves as though icy fingers raked through their fur. Only when that sensation of unease and disquiet left them did the lurkers emerge from their burrows and steal through the long gra.s.s.

The elves had hidden their scent, but they had neglected to blot out the tell-tale stink of battle. Far had the scent of blood and bone carried, scattered by the wind, drawn into the noses of hungry scavengers. Crawling from their holes, the vermin had come to steal whatever provender the battlefield might offer.

Man-like in posture, yet with the furry bodies of rodents and the fanged muzzles of rats, the creatures scurried through the gra.s.s. As they crept across the field, their heads were in constant motion, darting from side to side, nervously watching for any sign of danger. Creatures of the underworld, born in subterranean burrows and reared in darkness, the skaven were uncomfortable out in the open. The naked sky above them filled them with instinctive horror, their fears populating the panorama above them with soaring hawks and monstrous owls just waiting to swoop down upon them with sharp claws and tearing beaks.

Hunger was the only force powerful enough to bring the skaven to the surface, and all the scrawny ratmen were firmly in the clutches of starvation. There were no easy pickings for the skaven who made their lairs in Bretonnia. The knights of that land were far too vigilant to allow the ratkin to prosper. Unlike other lands, their n.o.bility was too virtuous to be corrupted, too bold to be threatened. So it was that the skaven of the Gnawbone clan a.s.sumed a starveling existence, scavenging only those sc.r.a.ps that the knights left unguarded, terrified lest more energetic depredations lead to their extermination.

Neek Stumblepaw scratched at his mangy, flea-infested fur, sniffing dejectedly at the air. The tantalising smell of blood was there, but not the savoury stench of rotting meat. He ground his fangs together in fury. Just like the vile steel-things to take away their dead. They would rather lock away all that meat in stone vaults than leave anything to feed either vulture or worm. Spiteful, cruel-minded tyrants. Some day the Horned Rat would bring them low, cast down their castles and stone meat-vaults. Then the skaven would be revenged upon the arrogant steel-things. It would be the steel-things who would grovel in the dirt trying to find whatever sc.r.a.ps the skaven discarded.

Neek lashed his tail in frustration. The knights had left no heaps of carrion behind, but perhaps they had overlooked a few things. A severed arm, perhaps. The ratman's mouth watered at the idea of such a morsel. Despite the risk, he rose up from the gra.s.s and took a long sniff, desperately trying to find any hint of decaying flesh in the air. No, there was nothing. Only the bitter smell of ashes and charcoal.

The ratman's ears perked up as his brain a.n.a.lyzed that bit of information. The steel-things would take away their own dead, but they would often burn the bodies of the dirty man-thing slaves who served them. And, of course, they always burned the corpses of their enemies.

Neek's belly grumbled as a new image supplanted that of a juicy severed arm. The fires would have burned away all of the meat, but they might not have burned hot enough to destroy the bones. A nice goblin femur or even the broad ribs of a beastkin gor would make a veritable feast for the hungry skaven. Neek's tongue slid along his fangs, already tasting the sweet repast.

Other skaven had already reached the same conclusion as Neek. He could smell their excitement as they scuttled across the field, converging upon the bitter-smelling patches of scorched ground where the steel-things had raised their bonfires. Neek cursed his own laxity. He had a foolish habit of thinking when he should be acting. It was a habit which had never served him well, always causing him to lag behind, forced to pick from whatever his fellows overlooked. It was a flaw of character which had earned him the t.i.tle "Stumblepaw".

Hurrying through the gra.s.s, Neek rushed past the nearest piles of ash. Already there were mobs of squabbling skaven rooting about, pulling charred bones from the debris. Snarls of anger and squeaks of pain sounded as the larger skaven s.n.a.t.c.hed the bones from their smaller kin. Noisily they cracked the bones open with their fangs and began sucking out the marrow.

Neek shunned the closer ash-rings and their knots of squabbling skaven. He focused instead on the more distant pyres where there would be fewer skaven and less chance of being forced to fight for his supper. Scurrying across the field, he pa.s.sed first one, then another pyre, rejecting each in turn as he found verminous shapes already scratching at the ashes. Neek had always been something of a runt and his sketchy diet had rendered him even less fit for a sc.r.a.p with another skaven. As the scavengers lifted their muzzles from the piles of ash and bared their fangs at him, he bowed his head and hurried on.

Finally, Neek found himself driven to the last pyre. Even here there were skaven sc.r.a.ping through the debris. They turned towards him, displaying their sharp fangs. Instinctively, Neek recoiled, retreating from the threat. He had only taken a few steps, however, before his belly clenched, sending a flash of pain through his body. There was nowhere else to go. This was the last pyre. If he was going to find anything to eat, it would be here.

Desperation drove Neek back towards the pile of ashes. His hand closed about the rusty sword thrust through the ratgut belt he wore. Fear pounding through his veins, terror gripping his glands, he rushed at his fellow skaven.

They must have smelled the change in Neek's scent, for they once again looked up from their scavenging. One of their number, a black furred killer named Tisknik, whipped out his own sword. One of Clan Gnawbone's fiercest warriors, Tisknik was also one of its craftiest. That was why he had chosen a distant pyre, knowing the compet.i.tion would be less, leaving the closer pyres to those skaven who let their bellies rule their brains.

Neek faltered before Tisknik's blade, his desperate courage flickering as he saw the gleam of murder shining in the black skaven's beady red eyes. His foe was quick to exploit Neek's timidity. Like a flash, the black skaven's sword licked out, slicing across Neek's fingers.

The rusty sword fell from Neek's paw as he squealed in pain. The runt cringed away, hugging his injured limb to his chest. Tisknik's nostrils flared as the smell of fresh blood excited his senses. He continued to close upon Neek, but it was no longer anger that burned in the black skaven's eyes, but hunger.

Only one thing preserved Neek from the cannibalistic attentions of the larger ratman. Tisknik's feet disturbed the piled ash, disclosing a jumble of blackened bones. The other skaven rummaging among the ashes spotted the bones and pounced towards them, squeaking excitedly. Tisknik was soon too busy trying to defend his find from the other scavengers to bother about Neek.

Dejectedly, Neek watched the clanrats squabble. Even if Tisknik's sword killed a few of them, there was little real chance that enough of them would die to give Neek an opportunity to dart in and get some food. The victors would be even more zealous about protecting the meat from a dead ratman than they were about a bunch of old bones.

As Neek watched the confused melee, he saw something roll out from the ashes, kicked away by one of the fighters. The runt scurried to the object, noting its bony smell. True, it was very old, but there might be some marrow left in it. Without bothering to look at it, Neek grabbed the thing with both paws and hugged it close to his body. Not daring to linger, he scurried off into the gra.s.s before anyone could come after him.

When he felt he was at a safe distance, Neek looked down and inspected his find. His belly clenched tight as he discovered that his prize was nothing but an old man-thing skull. No marrow there, nothing to produce even the slightest morsel. The only bit of nutrition about the thing was the splotch of blood which stained ita"blood from his own injured paw.

Gnashing his teeth in outrage, Neek drew his arm back, intending to throw away the mocking, inedible skull.

Then a voice seemed to speak to him, a thin whisper that echoed inside his brain.

Do you throw power away so easily?

Neek paused, his hackles rising. He glanced about, warily trying to spot whoever was speaking to him. He had a horrible idea where the voice had come from. It took a long time before he dared to look at the skull. When he did, he found that there was a faint flicker of light glowing deep down inside the eye sockets. His glands clenched at this display of sorcery. Again, he moved to cast the grisly thing from him.

I can give you power. More power than you have ever dreamed of. You will never go hungry again. You will be a king among your kind.

The ratman's eyes narrowed as he stared at the skull. He still felt the horror of the thing he held in his hand, but the ghostly voice had impressed that part of his mind not ruled by instinct. Old ambitions flared up within Neek's mind. Position! Power! Access to the breeders! A cloak of cat-skin and a suit of armour such as Warlord Graknit wore!

Such petty ambitions. I offer you true power. The power of life and death. The power beyond death.

Suspicion flared up inside Neek's breast. This was a thing of the dead-things, unholy kindred of the Skull-Devil! It would not offer him anything without some trick. It wanted something from hima"something Neek was certain he couldn't afford to give.

I need flesh. I need limbs. The horse-lords have left me broken, my body torn asunder. I cannot work my magic without hands to weave the aethyr and a voice to speak the spells.

That was it! The foul thing wanted Neek's body! The skaven squeaked in fright, dropping the skull to the ground. The faint glow in the sockets faded as Neek backed away from it. Dimly, he imagined he could hear the dead-thing's voice scratching at his brain.

No! It would not have his flesh! Better to die and be eaten by his fellow skaven!

Neek turned to run, but as he did so, he saw a black shape prowling through the gra.s.s. The shape's scent was that of Tisknik and as the black skaven's form became more distinct, Neek saw that there was still a hungry gleam in the beady red eyes. Tisknik moved with a limp, his leg bloodied and torn. Clearly he had fared poorly in the melee. Driven off by the other scavengers, he had followed Neek's scent, hoping to find easier prey.

Even weakened, Neek knew that Tisknik was still more than a match for him. There was death in the black skaven's eyes. Neek would spill his life on Tisknik's sword and his flesh would make his enemy strong again. The thought was more repugnant to Neek than it had been a moment ago. Every bullying indignity he had suffered at Tisknik's paws flashed through his mind. No, the arrogant brute would not feast upon Neek's bones!

Subduing his instinctive horror, Neek scrambled back to the discarded skull, cradling it in his hands.

"Yes-yes!" Neek squeaked. "Give-bring power! Share-take Neek's body-flesh!"

Tisknik hesitated, glaring at the smaller ratman. "The Horned One does not listen-hear runt-squeaks," he growled.

The scornful contempt in Tisknik's voice sent a sliver of pure hate coursing through Neek's heart. The runt's vision grew dark, his body turned cold. No, it wasn't hate rushing through his body. It was something else. Something that wasn't a part of him.

The darkness became bright, like a great grey mist which surrounded him. He could see Tisknik now as a strange shadow-figure of pulsing veins and pounding heart. His foe's face and sword, these were mere echoes of substance to Neek's new sight, but the black skaven's veins and heart, racing with blood, these shone more brightly than the most brilliant warp-lantern.

Now there were words forming in Neek's mind. As quickly as they formed, the runt's lips spoke them, his tongue curling about the strange sounds as though they were more familiar to him than his own scent. He shifted the skull to his right hand and made a curious gesture with his left paw.

Instantly, Tisknik stopped advancing. The black skaven cried out, his squeak carrying within it a note of terror mixed with unspeakable agony. The blazing glow of Tisknik's veins faded, collapsing in upon itself, turning blacker than the shadow body which housed them. In a moment, the completely dark body wilted to the ground. The smell of death raced through Neek's nose.

The ratman's belly growled once more. Baring his fangs, he prepared to leap upon the darkened carca.s.s that had been Tisknik. He would fill his belly with the meat of his vanquished enemy!

No. He will be of more use to us whole and undamaged.

The ghostly voice restrained Neek. More words flashed through his brain, and with them were more gestures which he must make. This time, he would need both hands. Carefully, he set the skull down upon the ground once more. As it touched the cold earth, Neek observed the light slowly fade once more from the eye sockets.

It did not matter, the spell was already housed within Neek's brain. He did not need the skull to instruct him further. Standing over the withered body of Tisknik, the runt made the gestures and spoke the words. The carca.s.s began to twitch.

For an instant, Neek thought the skull had betrayed him, that the spell had poured life back into Tisknik. But, no, there was no return of the fiery vibrancy of life to the dead skaven's veins. The blackened heart did not beat, the cold blood did not flow. Tisknik was dead, but his body had been restored to the simulacrum of life, transformed into a soulless puppet.

"Raise-lift your arm," Neek snarled at the dead thing. Slowly, awkwardly, Tisknik lifted his arm. An excited squeak hissed past Neek's fangs at this display of the power he had been given. This was a power greater than Warlord Graknit possessed, for the minions he commanded had minds of their own and might turn on him. Tisknik no longer had any mind, no will except that of Neek. There could never be any treachery from such an underling, only unquestioned obedience.

Neek cast a sly look at the skull lying upon the ground. The foolish dead-thing had given him the secret of a great power, practically handed it to him without a fight. The ratman closed his eyes, concentrating his mind. Yes, the secret of the first spell was there too, the knowledge to wither flesh and drive the life-force from an enemy's body.

He laughed maliciously. He could leave the skull where it was. It had already given him more power than he had ever dreamed of possessing. He could leave it behind, forget all about it. He was no longer Neek Stumblepaw, but Neek Spellscratcher. Warlord Graknit would reward him well for his services.

Neek grinned savagely. But why should he serve anyone? If the skull had given him such secrets so easily, what knowledge might it still possess? He would be foolish to cast it aside so recklessly when there was more magic it could teach him.

The skaven turned to his zombie slave. It was almost on his tongue to order Tisknik to pick up the skull and carry it for him. The instinctive suspicion of all skaven prevented Neek from making such a blunder. The skull needed a body to make its magic. Working through Neek, it had been forced to share its power with his mind. But the zombie had no mind of its own. The skull would be able to dominate Tisknik completely. It would have no further use for Neek then.

That wouldn't help Neek in the slightest, because he had big plans for the skull and the secrets it would tell him.

Ordering the zombie back, Neek retrieved the skull from the ground. He chittered maliciously as he sensed disappointment and frustration emanating from the undead spirit. He had seen through the dead-thing's trick. Now it would be forced to deal with him like an equal.

But first, Neek required sustenance. He thought of the skaven pawing through the ashes. Any one of them would make a fine supper. And with Tisknik enslaved to his every thought, there was no reason for Neek to risk himself getting that suppera.

CHAPTER TWO.

2450 Imperial Calendar.

A cool breeze rustled through the forest, causing branches to dance and leaves to tremble. The songs of birds echoed from the treetops. Through the undergrowth, a thousand tiny creatures crept and crawled, pushing their way through the long gra.s.s in their unending search for forage and fodder. Squirrels raced about, scampering down the trunks of mighty oaks. Black-feathered starlings probed the ground in search of worms. A lithe deer, its brown coat mottled with white, grazed upon the lichen clinging to the trunk of an old ash tree.

Through the restful serenity of the forest, the slender figure of Ywain the spellweaver glided, moving with a natural grace which the animals of the forest might envy. The cool breeze set her dark locks swaying about her bare shoulders, the gauzy folds of her gown fluttering about her lean limbs.