The Hour Of Shadows Part 3

Evil calls out to evil.

The rock valley squirmed its way between the towering cliffs of the Grey Mountains. Silence brooded heavily above the desolate landscape, reigning in undisturbed tyranny until a bark of caustic laughter echoed from the forbidding stone walls.

Huskk Gnawbone chittered with amus.e.m.e.nt as he watched Grey Seer Nashrik make a wide circle around the necromancer's retinue of the walking dead. The fool. He had more to fear from his living troops than he did from Huskk's dead ones. The undead felt no jealousy or malice. They would not turn on their master out of petty ambition or unreasoning suspicion. The only way they would pose a threat to Nashrik was if Huskk ordered them to.

And it wasn't time for that.

"You warned your followers to keep out of the valley?" Huskk asked the grey seer as he approached.

"They have been warned," Nashrik confirmed.

"How many spies do you think Vermitt will send?"

Nashrik twitched his whiskers. "At least six, certainly not more than a score."

The necromancer rubbed his paws together and hissed his satisfaction. "Good," he said. "A few of them should survive. Your army will be much easier to control if they understand the power at our command."

The two skaven were concealed at the bottom of a gulley, broken branches arrayed above them to act as camouflage. Huskk's macabre grave rats were scattered along the floor of the gulley, as silent and still as when Nashrik had first seen them in the necromancer's lair.

Before the gulley yawned the mouth of a little valley, its rocky slopes covered in gorse and shrub, great grey fingers of rock projecting far from the sides of the mountain. Except for a few vultures wheeling overhead, drawn by the carrion stink of Huskk's zombies, there was only one sign of life in the valley.

Nashrik stroked his whiskers as he considered the miserable little traitor. Standing at the mouth of the valley, his limbs tied to a wooden frame, an iron bit stuffed between his jaws, the wretch could neither move nor cry out. He was helpless and vulnerable, just the sort of prey that would draw a hungry predator.

When they had made their alliance, Huskk had demanded a sacrifice from among Nashrik's underlings, something to seal their compact in blood. The Black Seer had suggested using this opportunity to get rid of whatever spy Seerlord Kritislik had planted among Nashrik's followers. Of course there was one, Nashrik could see that, but the problem of who was likely to be the seerlord's agent was vexing. His first instinct was that it must be the insufferable Fangmaster Vermitt, but the warlord's arrogance and obvious scheming were hardly the marks of a competent spy, certainly not any spy a skaven in Kritislik's position would have cause to employ.

Nashrik had finally decided the spy must be his own apprentice, Adept Weekil. The young sorcerer was far too dependable and helpful to be trustworthy. The only regret he had denouncing Weekil to Huskk was that Weekil would probably have waited until their return to Skavenblight before causing any trouble. Until that time, the adept might have been useful.

Once the choice had been made, however, Huskk was quick to act. Weekil had been seized by the necromancer's wraiths in the dead of night and dragged down into the Black Seer's grisly laboratory. Nashrik felt his gorge rise as he recalled the things that had been done to his screaming apprentice. The adept had been shaved, then strange symbols had been carved into every inch of his skin, arcane runes Huskk copied from a musty old scroll. Finally, the half-dead adept had been dunked into a cauldron of foul-smelling muck and left to soak for the rest of the night. Huskk wanted the scent to seep into Weekil's flesh. It was very important that the adept have just the right smell about him.

Now the poor Weekil was trussed and gagged, bait for the monster that Huskk was trying to lure down from the mountain.

The monster was to play an important role in Huskk's plans. He had explained only a little of his scheme to Nashrik, just enough to excite the grey seer's interest. Nashrik had, of course, displayed utter horror at the idea of invading the elf forest. Athel Loren was a dark legend among the skaven, a place where only death waited for their kind. When Huskk had been merely Neek Stumblepaw and a part of the starveling Gnawbone clan, even the worst famine could not move the ratmen to intrude upon the forest. But now he would strike to the very heart of the forest if need be, not to fill his belly but to glut his mind, to saturate his spirit with the sorcerous power bound to the Golden Pool.

All the power he could ever want was there. He had learned that much from the skull of Nahak. Unlimited, unstoppable power! He only needed to reach the Golden Pool and draw it out. Nahak had prepared dozens of canopic jars for that purpose, eldritch vessels that would contain the magic of the pool. The originals had been smashed by the knights in the Battle of Razac Field, but Huskk had scoured Bretonnia to secure the materials to build new ones.

Nashrik had urged him to delay his attack, insisting that they could succeed only in winter, when the spirits of the forest would be at their weakest. Huskk had sneered at such a suggestion. He had learned much about Athel Loren from the ghosts bound to his collection of skulls. He had learned the tricks and traps the forest would use against an intruder. He had learned of the many weapons the elves and fey would bring against any who violated the borders of Athel Loren. More importantly, he had learned of the secret signs and spells which could allow him to defy the illusions of the forest. He had learned of the shadow fey, dread spirits of the forest who despised the elves as a pestilence, an infestation. By appealing to them, by exploiting their hatred of the elves, he would be able to escape the worst of the forest's illusions.

Nashrik thought their only chance for victory was to tarry until winter. Such a belief only betrayed the grey seer's ignorance. Only during the Hour of Shadows could the power within the Golden Pool be released. Only during the Hour of Shadows would the dark power of Dharr be stronger than the faerie magic of the elves and their forest. No, to delay would bring disaster. Only by striking now could there be any hope of triumph!

A squeal of terror echoed down from the cliffs. Huskk reached to his belt and removed a pair of strangely-tinted lenses, setting them across his eyes. When they were in place, the Black Seer peered out over the lip of the gulley. Turning his gaze upwards, he saw a mangled body tumbling down into the valley. A second, then a third followed, though these fell with a speed and violence more appropriate to a rockslide than anything of flesh and bone.

Training his gaze still higher, Huskk could see a monstrous shape flying about the cliff, flapping its leathery pinions as it scratched at the rocks with its enormous talons. Clearly a few of Vermitt's spies had squirmed into a crevice where the monster's claws couldn't reach them. Huskk hoped they had the good sense to keep their eyes closed.

"ls-is that the kill-beast?" Nashrik asked, blinking behind his own set of tinted lenses.

"That is it," Huskk hissed. "The vermin of Clan Grubrr call-name it *Deathwatcher'. Man-things say-speak of it as the c.o.c.katrice."

The flying monster suddenly uttered a shrill, ghastly cackle, wheeling away from the side of the cliff. Either it had tired of trying to reach the skaven lodged in the crack or it had satisfied itself that they were all dead. Whatever its motivation, the c.o.c.katrice began to soar across the valley, its head snapping from side to side in jerky movements as it watched the earth below.

Perhaps it was looking for the skaven who had fallen. Perhaps the c.o.c.katrice was merely seeking prey. If there was a motive behind its flight, the monster soon forgot whatever it was. An updraft must have brought Weekil's scent to it, for the bird-beast abruptly swung around, another shrill cackle rising from its throat. The c.o.c.katrice stared down at the bound adept, then folded its mighty wings close against its sides. Warbling its weird shriek, the monster dove straight towards Weekil.

Weekil thrashed against his bonds, frantically trying to tear himself free. His m.u.f.fled scream sounded from behind the iron bit in his mouth.

The c.o.c.katrice landed a few yards from the bait. It presented a fearsome aspect, an enormous bird with dun-coloured feathers dappled with black whorls, mottles and slashes. A ruff of bright red surrounded its throat, the neck above naked and wrinkled, the skin an ugly pinkish hue. A crest of black feathers sprouted from the top of the creature's head, leading down into a sharp, vulturine beak and ma.s.sive, owlish eyes. The monster folded its leathery, batlike wings against its sides and marched towards the bound ratman, the ma.s.sive talons on its feet clawing the rocky ground with each prancing kick of its powerful legs.

"Try not to look straight into its eyes," Huskk warned Nashrik. "The gla.s.ses are not strong enough to protect-guard from a direct look." The grey seer shuddered beside him, slapping a paw against his left eye, as though by blocking half his vision, the intensity of the c.o.c.katrice's gaze would likewise be halved.

The c.o.c.katrice continued to approach the bait. It c.o.c.ked its head to one side, then another, staring in perplexity at the bound skaven. The monster wasn't stupid, but it was confused, unable to decide which sense to trust. Its eyes told it there was only a miserable little prey creature here, but its nose told it there was another c.o.c.katrice. The muck that had soaked into Weekil's shaved skin had excited its instincts, mimicking the scent of one of its own kind, an intruder into its territory.

The c.o.c.katrice decided to trust its keen sense of smell. The spiky feathers around its throat fanned out, bristling with malice. The taloned feet scratched at the ground. The leathery wings flapped angrily against the beast's sides.

The threat display continued for several minutes, a low hiss rumbling from the monster's wrinkled throat. Sometimes the c.o.c.katrice would pause, tilting its head in confusion, waiting for Weekil to react in some way. When the bound ratman failed to either retreat or attack, the c.o.c.katrice began its menacing exhibition once more.

Finally, the creature's patience wore thin. Uttering a loud cackle, the c.o.c.katrice lunged at Weekil, slashing at him with its talons. Black skaven blood bubbled up from Weekil's torn hide. The ratman shrieked in pain, the sound fighting its way past the iron bit in his mouth.

The c.o.c.katrice did not relent in its attack, buffeting Weekil with its wings, smashing the wooden frame to the ground. The adept writhed among the wreckage, his bones breaking along with the poles to which he was tied.

The monster loomed above the mangled skaven, at last deciding that Weekil wasn't another c.o.c.katrice. Its owlish eyes glared balefully down at the torn ratman for a moment. Then the beast's beak snapped down, ripping into Weekil's body, tearing a great sliver of flesh from his broken bones. The c.o.c.katrice threw its head back, choking down the gory meat at a single swallow. Then it bent down to feed some more.

Huskk chittered malignantly as he watched the c.o.c.katrice become ensnared in his trap. The beast was eating more than just Weekil's body, it was consuming the spell carved into the ratman's skin. Careful planning had been needed to ensure the spell was not destroyed by the monster's petrifying gaze, but since a c.o.c.katrice was immune to its own power Huskk had reasoned that it would not waste its energies trying to turn another c.o.c.katrice into stone. Nor would it use its power once it realized its mistake, for by that time, Weekil would no longer be any possible kind of threat, only a pile of fresh meat lying at the monster's feet.

"Did plan-plot work?" Nashrik asked, still peering at the c.o.c.katrice through one eye.

"We will see-learn," Huskk said. The necromancer snapped his claws. In response, the decayed shape of Tisknik stumbled up from the floor of the gulley. The zombie skaven stared blindly at its master, its eyes sewn shut as a precaution against the gaze of the c.o.c.katrice. Huskk had a certain affection for Tisknik, it had, after all, been the first undead his magic had created. There was a certain connection between the necromancer and the zombie, a sympathy which made Tisknik more capable than the other zombies. Tisknik could carry out complex orders and even display rare instances of initiative. Both qualities were useful to the necromancer, making him almost loath to put Tisknik at risk. Of course, if things didn't work out, he could always try to resurrect whatever the c.o.c.katrice left.

Huskk pointed his claw at the c.o.c.katrice. Tisknik bobbed its head and crawled over the lip of the gulley. From their concealment, Huskk and Nashrik watched the zombie approach the feeding monster. The undead creature didn't need its eyes to sense the monster, its decayed nose still capable of guiding it to the bird-beast's scent.

The c.o.c.katrice rose from its meal, its beak dripping with blood, ribbons of flesh dangling from its serrated jaw. The owlish eyes fixed upon the approaching zombie. The watching skaven held their breath. If the petrifying membranes slid down over the monster's eyes, they would know that the spell had failed, that the c.o.c.katrice was still a wild beast.

Tisknik continued to shuffle towards the c.o.c.katrice. The zombie's paws awkwardly removed the burden tied across it back. Its rotting fingers fumbled with the ratgut straps, eventually unfolding a bag-like ma.s.s of leather.

The c.o.c.katrice continued to stare at the zombie, but made no motion to attack. The beast acted as though it were mesmerised by Tisknik's slow, stumbling approach. Even when the zombie stood only a few feet from it and set the heavy leather hood over its head, the monster remained docile. Tisknik pulled at the drawstring dangling from the bottom of the hood, tightening it about the c.o.c.katrice's head and locking its cruel beak and lethal eyes behind a shapeless mask of leather.

Only when the c.o.c.katrice was successfully restrained did Huskk and Nashrik emerge from the gulley. The grey seer tugged at his whiskers, cackling over the ease with which the monster had fallen into their trap. The binding spell which Huskk had carved into Weekil's skin had smothered the monster's spirit, forcing it to submit to the will of its new master.

Huskk paid little attention to Nashrik's gloating, and even less to the now servile c.o.c.katrice, dismissing it from his thoughts the moment he was certain it was in his power. His paw closed about the skull of Nahak. He turned and stared at the landscape below. From the mountain valley he could see the green expanse of Athel Loren and the blue ribbon of the Grismerie River.

Within that forbidding wilderness was the Golden Pool and the almost limitless power which had drawn Nahak from the desert wastes of Nehekhara to his destruction at Razac Field. Now that power was again within reach. This time, the forest would not defy the darkness.

"Bring-take Deathwatcher," Huskk snarled at the rest of the grave rats lurking in the gulley. The zombies and skeletons crawled out from beneath the camouflage, converging on the c.o.c.katrice, looping leashes of rope about its neck. Obediently, the monster followed the zombies as they led it away, its ferocity shackled under the blinding hood.

"Good-good," Nashrik chittered. "Now no elf-things can stand against us!" The grey seer cast a sly look at Huskk. The necromancer didn't need to read Nashrik's mind to know what scheme was percolating in his twisted mind. He was thinking that, given enough time, he might wrest control of the c.o.c.katrice from his ally and use it against the renegade. Then he could forget about attacking the elves and all the dangers that would entail.

"Fetch-bring Fangmaster Vermitt," Huskk growled, annoyed by the transparency of Nashrik's plotting. There was an easy way to foil the grey seer's plans. He would simply advance the timetable. Instead of attacking in the dead of night, they would strike at twilight.

He could already feel his powers waxing as the Hour of Shadows approached. His magic would only grow stronger as day faded into night. True, an earlier attack would increase the casualties among Huskk's forces, but that was inconsequential beside the power he would wrest from the Golden Pool.

Huskk petted the pate of Nahak's skull as he watched Nashrik scurry off to summon Vermitt. The grey seer, unfortunately, was going to be one of those casualties.

Ywain hurried through the overgrown copse, sprinting across the fallen logs, leaping across the narrow streams, gliding past the shadow-choked hollows. Spiders watched her from their grey webs, ravens croaked from the fire-blackened limbs of scarred old oaks and withered ash. A wolf prowled among the weeds, sniffing about in search of prey. Twice her steps lighted upon mouldering bones, the fanged skulls of orcs and the wizened skeletons of goblins.

This part of the forest had fallen prey to marauding orcs only a few dozen winters past. It had taken great effort and great sacrifice to exterminate the greenskins. Despite the magic of the spellweavers and treesingers, it would take many decades for the scars to heal.

Few things dwelt in this part of the forest. Only the wildest of the fey haunted places such as this, the most malicious of spites and the most ferocious of dryads, spirits that were a danger to any asrai they caught alone. Were it not for the special protection serving the Warden of the Wood conveyed upon her, Ywain would never have dared enter this place alone. But even the most feral of the forest spirits, those who most despised the elves and would see them removed from Athel Loren, even these deferred to the power of the Warden.

The ground here was truly barren. The orcs in their brutal belligerence had descended upon the forest with no thought in their savage brains beyond wanton destruction. Unlike men who came to make homes or dwarfs who came to cut fuel for their cruel machines, the orcs wanted to deliberately destroy the forest. As they burned and ravaged, the greenskins had strewn the cinders with salt, tainting the ground and making it impossible for anything to grow. Only the orcs' lack of thoroughness had kept the destruction from being complete, leaving isolated patches among the desolation where life might thrive.

Ywain approached one of those refuges of life, an island of green amidst a blighted sea. Fresh young saplings grew among the charred husks of dead trees, their leaves standing stark against the background of destruction. Ferns and moss carpeted the loamy ground, thriving in the cool shadows.

Towering above all the new growth was an immense maple tree. Only a few of its branches still bore leaves, the rest scratching at the sky like claws. Its bole was scarred and blackened, marked by torch and axe. The rusty hilt of an immense sword jutted from the trunk, a great crack spreading from the old wound.

Ywain knelt before the old maple tree, the soft murmur of a spell rising from her lips. Light flickered about her as she drew upon the magic of the forest, a pale glow that seemed to rise from her own body. Ywain's voice lifted into a crooning song, rippling through the little stand of saplings.

A low groan sounded from among the trees, a dull pulsation that made the saplings shiver. By degrees, the sound was repeated, gradually taking up the cadence of Ywain's spell. After a time, the spellweaver observed a change come over the old maple tree. Hollows had opened in its trunk, forming into the semblance of glowering eyes and a great gash-like mouth with jagged fangs of wood.

"Daithru, awaken," Ywain cried out. "There are enemies in the forest and Athel Loren needs your strength."

The great maple tree stretched its upper branches, the limbs closing upon one another to form two mighty arms with claw-like talons. The hollows in the trunk opened and closed with a rapid flutter, as though blinking away the haze of sleep.

"Ywain of the Golden Pool calls Daithru from his slumber," a rumbling voice boomed from deep within the tree.

"The Warden of the Wood sent me to call you," Ywain explained, frightened that the ancient spirit might take offence at her summons. The treemen were the oldest and most powerful of the forest spirits and their wrath was a thing no elf courted.

Daithru's mouth snapped wide, as though the treeman were yawning. It stretched its wooden arms, listening to the creak and groan of its branches. "You call me to my doom, little one. I march to my last battle."

Guilt filled Ywain. The Warden had told her to seek out Daithru only after she had refused to leave Thalos to fight alone. The thought that she might cause this ancient being's death was one she could not reconcile with what she knew was her selfish desire.

"Forgive me for disturbing your slumber," the spellweaver said. "I did not know what I was asking. I will find some other to aid me." She rose to leave, but the ground suddenly trembled beneath her feet. She looked up to find Daithru lurching forwards, the lower part of its trunk splitting into two pillar-like legs.

"You cannot cast aside a fate which is not your own," the treeman said. Its wooden arms reached down, caressing the spindly branches of the saplings. "When the burners came with their axes, I tried to stop them. Many I crushed beneath my roots and struck down with my branches, but there were too many. I saw my friends cut down, uprooted without any purpose except destruction. It is a heavy burden to bear." A low sigh shuddered through the enormous maple. "There will be a new copse here, one day, but it will not be the same. It will not be the one I knew and nurtured."

Daithru stared down at Ywain. "The asrai saved what they could. Your people avenged the destruction of my trees. They are the protectors of the forest now. It is only right that I should help them."

"But you know you will die," Ywain objected.

"My death is a small thing," Daithru told her. "From my death, a great good will grow. Do not mourn my pa.s.sing. Athel Loren will endure." The treeman took a lumbering step, making his way into the desolation. "Now I must leave you, for there is much I should do while there is time."

Ywain stood in silence as she watched the treeman stride through the burned remains of his copse, lingering beside each charred husk, kneeling over each fallen timber. Spites flittered about Daithru as he made his way through the ruined landscape, settling in his branches and crouching upon his shoulders. The spellweaver felt shame as she watched the n.o.ble treeman walking through his forest, paying his final farewells to the trees he had watched over for so long.

"Your sacrifice will not be forgotten," Ywain swore.

As darkness stole across the land and the sun began to sink into the horizon, the skaven army emerged from their burrows in the foothills and began their march upon Athel Loren. Thousands of chittering, squealing ratmen formed into packs of vermin bristling with spears and swords. Small teams of specialists, weaponeers from Clan Skryre, scuttled about the flanks of the formations, their ghastly instruments of death held at the ready.

At the head of the army strode a horde of Huskk's deathless warriors, skeletons summoned from the catacombs of the Black Seer's lair. The fleshless horrors tromped their way into the forest in silence, only the rattle of rusty armour against bleached bone sounding from their ranks. Each of the skeleton warriors clenched a corroded blade in its claws and in their empty eye sockets shone a weird green glow, growing more intense the deeper they progressed into the trees.

Having Huskk's undead leading the way eased some of the dread gnawing at the hearts of his living minions, though he could tell from the stink of fear-musk rising from them that they would still have preferred to abandon this dangerous expedition entirely. The necromancer had foreseen such cowardice and prepared for it. A second, even larger horde of undead warriors marched behind the living skaven, cutting off any hope of retreat. Certainly, the ratmen could try to escape, but the zombies and skeletons at their rear would show them no mercy. It would be troublesome to expend the magic needed to animate those his undead were forced to kill, but living or dead, Vermitt's warriors would serve Huskk's cause.

The Black Seer positioned himself at the centre of the army, surrounded by his macabre bodyguard of grave rats, the hooded c.o.c.katrice being led on its leash by Tisknik. Huskk wanted to be close to the fighting when the elves inevitably challenged the invasion of their forest, but not so close that he would be caught up in the fighting himself. His role was to guide the army and use his magic to support the frontline fighters, not dodge elf arrows.

Grey Seer Nashrik and Fangmaster Vermitt seemed to have adopted the same strategy. Both skaven had surrounded themselves with a pack of armoured stormvermin and were keeping well away from the vanguard and the flanks. They were not keen to be the first ratmen challenged by the elves. If it came to a pitched battle, they would wait to see which side had the upper hand before committing themselves. None of the ratmen would think twice about abandoning his comrades, though the threat of Huskk's undead might force them to do a bit more fighting than they had planned to do.

Huskk Gnawbone bruxed his fangs as he considered the short-sighted cowardice of his fellow ratmen. The fools did not understand the power which would soon be his! Power that would make him greater than the grey seers and the Lords of Decay! If they understood, they would fear the Black Seer's wrath far more than any elf!

The necromancer laid his paw upon the skull of Nahak, feeling the malignant spirit of the liche wrapping itself about his mind, feeding its own terrible energies into his body. The Hour of Shadows would magnify all dark magic and increase the strength of all those who wielded it. Huskk's strength would be greater still, drawing from the enhanced malignity of Nahak as well as his own sorcery. Would it be enough to offset the magic of the forest? A vicious grin spread on the ratman's face. It would be enough to get him to the Golden Pool. After that, even the faerie queen herself wouldn't be able to stop him!

Squeals of terror announced the first attack. Nashrik had insisted upon scattering living scouts amongst Huskk's vanguard of walking skeletons, arguing that thinking minds could alert the army to danger far more quickly than one of the necromancer's mindless automatons. The grey seer's advice proved sound. By dying so noisily, the skaven scouts spread the alarm to their comrades.

The vanguard had pressed forward into a winding path bordered on every side by towering pines, the ground overgrown with briars. The undead had tromped heedlessly through the briars, their fleshless bones immune to the stabbing thorns. The scouts, however, had hesitated, trying to cut away the briars, thinking to earn some regard from their masters by clearing away the obstructions.

Seemingly from nowhere, arrows shot down, transfixing the scouts as they chopped at the briars. Elf sentinels, their lean bodies concealed beneath cloaks woven from leaves and vines, were concealed in the branches high overhead. From the moment the skaven had set foot in Athel Loren, their presence had been known. The elven archers had antic.i.p.ated the line of march, hiding themselves in the trees, training their bows upon pre-selected spots, waiting for their enemies to reach the killing zone.

Huskk cursed the discipline of the camouflaged waywatchers. Given the choice between loosing their arrows into unfeeling bone or living flesh, they had chosen to strike those enemies who would cry out, whose screams might sow fear and discord among the other skaven. The necromancer could smell the increased fear among his allies, a rancid odour that made his stomach boil.

"Control your rabble," the Black Seer snarled at Nashrik. He raised a claw, evoking just enough magic to cast an eerie glow about his fingers. "Control them, or I will!" he threatened, leaving no mistake about his meaning.

Nashrik trembled visibly, then pushed his way towards the faltering blocks of clanrat warriors. "The Horned One protect-guard all-all brave-bold skaven!" the grey seer shouted. "No-not fear-tremble! Elf-things no-not hurt-harm!" The sorcerer-priest's speech ended in a yelp of panic as an arrow shivered through the night and skewered one of the ratmen standing beside him.

Huskk glared up into the trees, his eyes glowing as he drew upon his magic. Stretching forth his hand, the necromancer snarled a spell that was ancient when the streets of Skavenblight still swarmed with humans. A ghostly wisp of dark energy shot from his paw, moaning through the air as it unerringly sought its prey. The waywatcher realised his peril, leaping from branch to branch as he tried to escape Huskk's magic. The effort was futile, the death-wisp correcting its trajectory instantly each time the elf moved. At last it circled around the bole of an ash tree, catching the waywatcher before he could scramble to a new location. The elf shrieked, once, then his withered body hurtled down to the forest floor, shattering into a jumble of blackened bones as it struck the ground.

The death of the waywatcher did little to improve the morale of the skaven, who could now hear the sounds of battle rising from the forest ahead. They cowered a bit closer to one another and cast longing looks at the path behind them.

Huskk closed his eyes, projecting his awareness into the skeleton warriors of the vanguard. Through their spectral senses, he saw the situation clearly. The waywatchers had been only the picket line of the elf defences. Barbaric, half-naked elves had been concealed in spider-holes along the path. At a signal from their war chief, the painted elves had sprung their ambush, leaping through the ranks of skeletons in a dazzling blur of swords and spears. The sluggish undead were cut down before they could even turn to face their enemies, the elves dancing away to find new victims before the broken skeletons even touched the ground.

From the fringes of the forest, other foes began to manifest, rising from among the trees with bodies of gnarled wood. Ghastly dryads, their wizened faces howling hatred of the invaders, their branch-like arms tipped in long talons. The enraged forest spirits struck down Huskk's undead warriors, tearing them asunder with each sweep of their brutal claws.

The necromancer had seen enough. Huskk's eyes closed, tendrils of darkness coiling about his body as he drew the fell energies of blackest sorcery into his body. Stretching forth his withered claw, he sent ghostly streamers of power coursing through his skeleton warriors. The invigorated undead began to react more quickly to their attackers, matching the a.s.sault of the wardancers and resisting the carnage wrought by the dryads. Huskk knew that even with their bodies quickened and strengthened by dark magic his skeletons could do nothing more than delay the wood elves. But delay would be enough.

"Attack!" the Black Seer roared, his awareness leaping back into his own body. Instantly he was compelled to expend a fragment of his magic to ward away an arrow as it came whistling at his head. A moaning death-wisp soon settled the unseen bowman. "Attack!" Huskk repeated, his eyes blazing with magic-fire. "Kill-slay all elf-things!" To emphasize his words, he sent a third death-wisp straight into the ma.s.sed clanrats, transforming one of them into a pile of black bones. If the skaven thought the only thing they had to fear was the elves, then they needed to be reminded of their error.

Squeaking a half-hearted war-cry, the skaven surged forwards, racing among the trees. The ratmen were very swift when speed was needed and when the proper motivation was applied. Their charge through the trees was so rapid that only twenty or thirty of them fell prey to the lurking waywatchers. The ratmen came upon the wardancers and dryads while they were still engaged with the undead. Attacked from both sides, grossly outnumbered by the packs of snarling skaven, the elves were dragged down and butchered. The dryads persisted until a skaven weapon team trained a warpfire thrower upon one of their number, igniting the creature's wooden body and transforming it into a walking torch.

The attentions of the hidden waywatchers turned in full upon the main body of the skaven warhost. Arrows flashed down from the trees, striking down dozens of ratmen. Fangmaster Vermitt crumpled in a b.l.o.o.d.y heap, no less than a dozen arrows protruding from the gaps in his armour. Grey Seer Nashrik was luckier, suffering only a single arrow through his forearm.

Huskk swatted aside every missile that was aimed at him, disintegrating the arrows in mid-air with a burst of dark magic. He did not bother to send death-wisps moaning after the hidden archers. Instead, he snarled a command to Tisknik. In response, the zombie pulled the hood from the c.o.c.katrice's head and unhooked its leash.

The bird-beast fluttered its wings, then uttered its shrill cackle. Dozens of arrows shot down at it from the trees, but not one struck their target, glancing away as though striking an invisible wall. The protective talisman chained to the c.o.c.katrice's foot guarded the beast against such concerns as arrows and spells. Huskk had been reluctant to part with such a potent artefact, a relic plundered from the barrow of an ancient Bretonni horse lord, but he knew that if he would reach the Golden Pool he must keep the c.o.c.katrice safe. It represented his most potent weapon against the elves and their forest.

The c.o.c.katrice took to the sky, arrows still bouncing from its protective sh.e.l.l. Cackling its rage, the monster soared above the trees, fixing its beady eyes upon the forest below. Black membranes slid across its eyes, filtering the creature's malignant gaze into a deadly emanation.

One after another, the waywatchers fell from their perches, their paralysed bodies slamming into the earth. There was a fascinating quality about the gaze of the c.o.c.katrice, compelling those targeted by it to look into its eyes. Once that gaze was met, a terrible transformation took place. Skin hardened, calcifying until it became rigid and immobile, paralysing the victim. Should the c.o.c.katrice maintain its malignant attentions, the flesh of its victim would likewise begin to harden. Given enough time, the body of a c.o.c.katrice's prey could be transformed into solid stone.

Huskk chittered maliciously as he saw the c.o.c.katrice descend, fluttering above the branches of a few dryads who had unwisely decided to linger upon the battlefield. It took longer for the tree spirits to submit to the monster's gaze, but at length they began to grow sluggish, their trunks taking on a greyish-black colouring. A moment more and the dryads became frozen in place, their clawlike hands still reaching into the air, vainly trying to s.n.a.t.c.h the c.o.c.katrice from the sky. Vengefully, the monster slapped its scaly tail against one of the dryads. The tree-creature slammed into the ground with a heavy thud. The gaze of the c.o.c.katrice had petrified it.

"Elf-things run-flee," Nashrik reported. The grey seer had removed the arrow from his arm and used his magic to heal the wound. It seemed to be the only contribution he had made to the battle. "Now is our chance to scurry-hurry! We can flee-leave scary-trees! Stay-hide in safe-good burrows!"

Huskk glared at the grey seer, lips pulling back to expose his sharp fangs. A malignant light glowed in the sockets of Nahak's skull. "We go on," the necromancer hissed. "We do not leave until we take-find the Golden Pool."