The Hour Of Shadows Part 4

CHAPTER FOUR.

"The kindreds of Nymraif and Caidath failed to hold the intruders. They were barely able to delay them."

Thalos Stormwind glowered as he heard the scout's report. It had taken time to muster his kinband, to draw out his allies from the trees. He had been depending upon them to hold the skaven at the edge of the forest until he could bring his full army there. Ywain had impressed upon him the threat to the forest if anything evil should come into contact with the Golden Pool, particularly during the Hour of Shadows, when the strength of all dark magic was in flux. He glanced over at Ywain, noting the flicker of worry that disturbed her composure. The spellweaver had warned that Huskk's magic would be strengthened during this dark time, but Thalos had been unwilling to accept the magnitude of the ratman's power.

Thalos pressed his palm against the wooden hilt of the Dawnblade, rea.s.sured by the feel of the sword. He turned his head and regarded the n.o.bles gathered around him in the clearing. They watched him with expectant eyes, waiting to follow his lead. Looming above them all was the treeman Daithru, the ancient's gnarled face imperturbable as it observed the elves' war council.

"We will send riders to warn the other kinbands," Thalos decided, his voice grave. The entire forest would already be aware of the skaven intrusion. There was no need to warn anyone about this. The message Thalos would send was more shameful. He would have to warn the other lords of the forest that the skaven intrusion was something his own warriors might be unable to repulse. It was the duty of any highborn to protect the lands under his charge. To fail in that obligation was among the worst dishonours a highborn could bring upon himself.

Saith shook his head in disbelief, colour rising into his cheeks. "You cannot mean to do such a thing!" he objected. "The other lords will demand another n.o.ble a.s.sume leadership of your domain!"

Thalos smiled at his friend's loyalty. "Thank you for your confidence, but I cannot allow my own fate to endanger Athel Loren."

"It is only a filthy ratkin!" Saith cursed. "Such creatures have menaced us before and always they have been exterminated!"

"Do not underestimate this one," Ywain cautioned. "The kindreds of Nymraif and Caidath already made that mistake."

"The root-chewer has great magic." Daithru's groaning voice thundered across the clearing. "It is never wise to take a wizard lightly." The treeman's body shook in a great sigh. "And this one has bound a strange creature to its will, a monster whose kind has never before threatened these lands."

Ywain shuddered as she listened to the treeman's voice, her insides twisting into a knot of guilt. If she thought her words would do any good, she would have implored Daithru to leave the fighting to the elves. But a treeman's mind, once decided, was as immovable as the Oak of Ages.

Thalos paced among his n.o.bles, picturing the line of march the ratmen would take. Ywain had tried to persuade the fey to intercede, to conceal the paths and lead the skaven astray, but such tactics had failed. There was no way to deceive Huskk as to the location of the Golden Pool. The necromancer could smell such a source of sorcery from hundreds of miles away. Trying to block the trails and impede the speed of the invaders had likewise been frustratingly impossible. There were many forest spirits that resented the presence of the elves. These had taken it upon themselves to render aid to the necromancer, acting in subtle ways to help Huskk's progress.

The highborn considered the speed of Huskk's advance. There were only a few places where an army could close upon the skaven. The usual tactic of whittling down the invaders through the use of scouts and waywatchers had proven too costlya"Huskk's infernal monster was able to annihilate every ambush the elves set. True, the c.o.c.katrice wouldn't attack until after the elves had started their a.s.sault, but trading one elf for three or even four skaven was an exchange Thalos found unacceptable, even more so when he learned that the necromancer was using his sorcery to resurrect the fallen ratkin as zombies.

No, they would have to meet the invaders en ma.s.se, try to destroy the enemy so quickly that Huskk's magic couldn't undo their losses. More importantly, they had to do something about Huskk's d.a.m.nable monster! The c.o.c.katrice had proven immune to bowfire. It would have to be met head-on, a prospect which could only result in hideous losses.

"There are only two places where we can intercept the invaders," Thalos decided, "the Glade of Sorrows and Hawk Heath." An idea came to the highborn as he spoke. The Glade of Sorrows was farther away, a battle there would keep Huskk away from the Golden Pool. Hawk Heath was nearer, but offered a possibility for destroying the c.o.c.katrice.

Thalos turned to Saith. "Do you think Scraaw would consent to aid us?" he asked the n.o.ble.

Saith followed his lord's line of thinking, a grim smile appearing on his face. "The hawks will fight for their eyries," he said. "I am certain they would fight with us."

Thalos closed his fingers about the grip of the Dawnblade, feeling the sword's power flowing through him. The Warden of the Wood had given the weapon to him for a reason. Perhaps this was it. "Request Scraaw's help. We will fight the invaders at Hawk Heath. Ask Scraaw if one of his flock will consent to carry me into battle."

Ywain gasped. "You are no hawkrider," she reminded him. "Saith has flown with the warhawks before. Allow him to fly with them."

Thalos shook his head. "It is my place to lead the battle. The Warden has entrusted me with that duty. I must go where the Dawnblade is needed." He turned away from her before she could make further protest.

"Gather your kindreds," Thalos told his n.o.bles. "We meet the enemy at Hawk Heath."

The enemy emerged from the cover of the trees and into the open field of the heath. The front ranks of skeletons and zombies paid no heed to the change of environment, but the skaven who followed behind them squealed in fright. After hours tramping along narrow forest paths, trees pressing upon them on every side, the air close and heavy, the ratmen gazed up at the starswept sky with a feeling of utter horror. A breed of agoraphobics who spent much of their lives crawling about subterranean tunnels, the skaven preferred even the haunted forest to the terrifying open sky.

Concealed among the trees bordering the heath, the elves watched their enemies creep out into the benighted field. Ywain frowned as she saw the ma.s.ses of undead marching before and after the skaven. It was a testament to her adversary's powers that he had been able to stir so many from their graves. Or perhaps it was a sign of how vast the necromancer's powers had grown under the baleful influence of the Hour of Shadows. The spellweaver could sense her own weakness, the drain on her own powers. She could only imagine what the reverse experience must feel like, the sorcerous strength that must be flooding through Huskk's body.

Ywain could see the loathsome necromancer striding alongside his terrible c.o.c.katrice, surrounded by a guard of walking corpses. If she could loose a spell against that vile abomination, the battle would be won. The death of Huskk would end the threat to the Golden Pool and break the will of the invading army.

The spellweaver shook her head, bitterness and frustration filling her. If her powers were at their full, she might risk such a spell, but she knew it would tax her strength to attempt it in her present condition. Worse, with his own powers so greatly increased, Huskk would be able to break her magic with a counter-spell, rendering her effort worthless.

As much as she hated the danger to Thalos, Ywain understood that his plan was the best chance they had. Force of arms would have to prevail against Huskk and his army. They had to pick away at the necromancer's forces, destroy it piecemeal so that its vast numbers couldn't be brought to bear and overwhelm them. But to do that, they had to be free to strike and fade. Whatever the danger, the c.o.c.katrice had to be destroyed before they could stand any chance of attacking Huskk himself.

The invaders' march brought them very near the middle of the heath. It was here that Thalos planned the destruction of the enemy. Concealed in the gra.s.s, hidden in spider holes, a dozen waywatchers suddenly erupted from the earth, loosing a vicious volley into the oncoming skaven. Squeals of pain echoed into the night as ratmen fell to the vengeful arrows.

Following the plan, the waywatchers did not linger after their first volley, but immediately turned and started to retreat across the field. The skaven chatted and snarled at them as they fled, but none of the ratmen gave chase. They had become accustomed to the tactics of their new warlord and were antic.i.p.ating the unique spectacle which they would soon witness.

Huskk snapped a command to the zombie ratman beside him. The creature removed the leather hood covering the c.o.c.katrice's head. Warbling a ghastly cry, the loathsome monster took wing, rising up into the sky. Cackling savagely, the monster dove towards the fleeing elves.

As it neared the elves, there was suddenly a burst of motion from the treetops. Immense hawks, the smallest with a wingspan of fifteen feet, rose up from the forest. Shrieking their deafening hunting calls, the giant birds streaked across the night sky.

Screams of utter panic sounded from the skaven ranks, many of the ratmen casting down their weapons and fleeing into the trees. Here was one of the primordial terrors of their race, one of the nightmares ingrained upon the soul of every skaven. Mighty birds of prey soaring through the vast sky, ready to swoop down and seize the exposed ratkin in their talons and bear them off to their rocky eyries! Even Huskk Gnawbone was seized with horror, cringing against the ground and covering his head with his paws.

But the warhawks had no interest in the ratmen cowering below them. Their interest lay with the intruder flying above their hunting grounds.

The c.o.c.katrice was too absorbed in its own hunt to notice the warhawks until one of the raptors dove down upon it, slashing its side with steely talons. Ywain watched as the monster faltered in midair, falling a dozen feet before it corrected itself and rose once more into the sky. Whatever magic guarded the beast, it wasn't proof against the attentions of an enraged warhawk.

A second warhawk dove down upon the c.o.c.katrice, slashing its wing. The monster hissed angrily as its attacker darted away, then was forced to wheel away as a third warhawk attacked it. Confronting the c.o.c.katrice from all sides, the warhawks were preventing it from concentrating on any one of them and fixing them with its petrifying stare.

Ywain fought back a feeling of fear as she watched a fourth warhawk dive upon the c.o.c.katrice. The brown bird with white markings was Scraaw himself and upon his back rode Thalos. The warhawk shunned attacking its enemy with its talons, instead twisting about in midair so that the elf might slash at the beast with his sword. The Dawnblade flashed at the monstrous creature, but the amber blade failed to strike its target. Thalos did not have Saith's experience when it came to fighting from the back of a warhawk.

The c.o.c.katrice twisted about, trying to find its latest tormentor. Before it could pursue Thalos, however, another hawkrider swooped down upon it. Saith had better luck than Thalos, stabbing his spear into the monster's side.

Then the hawkrider's luck ran out. A bolt of green lightning leapt up from the ground. The malefic energy crackled across Saith and his warhawk, burning them both from the sky. Ywain could see a second skaven sorcerer, a horned creature in a grey robe drawing power into itself. The creature lacked the magnitude of power she had sensed surrounding Huskk, but the grey skaven still seemed to be benefiting from the magical flux to some degree.

Ywain knew there was nothing her magic could do to stop Huskk Gnawbone, but against this second sorcerer, she might stand some chance. Even if she didn't, she couldn't stand by and watch the vile creature use its magic to burn the warhawks out of the sky. Closing her eyes, the spellweaver opened herself to the eldritch forces of the forest, absorbing the magic of Athel Loren, channelling it into the form she desired.

The grey skaven was raising its staff, sending another bolt of green lightning into the night when the ground about its feet suddenly exploded in a tangle of th.o.r.n.y roots. The sorcerer's staff fell from his paw as the roots swept upwards, winding about his body. In the blink of an eye, the ratman was trapped in a coil of crushing vegetation.

Ywain concentrated upon the coil of roots, causing it to tighten. Her intention was to crush the evil ratman, but before she could bring the coil tight enough to achieve her purpose, a pulse of dark magic repulsed her spell. The roots shrivelled and died, falling from the grey skaven's body in a clump of desiccated splinters. The sorcerer leapt away from the debris, scrambling for his staff before retreating to the side of his rescuer.

Huskk Gnawbone had recovered from his fright, unleashing his deathly magic to free his confederate from Ywain's spell. The necromancer glared maliciously at his companion, then turned to direct his energies to the battle raging in the sky overhead. Ywain saw the Black Seer raise his paws, the skull of Nahak blazing with aethyric power as the necromancer invoked another spell.

One of the warhawks attacking the c.o.c.katrice was suddenly hurled back, swatted from the sky as though the fist of an invisible giant had slammed into it. A second warhawk was similarly repulsed. The thwarted attacks gave the c.o.c.katrice the respite it needed. Wheeling about, it brought its terrible gaze to bear upon one of the warhawks. The enormous bird cried out in pain as its body stiffened and its feathers turned to stone. It plummeted from the sky, shattering as it struck the heath.

Most of the warhawks turned about, retreating before the malignant c.o.c.katrice. Only one of the great birds remained. Scraaw, with Thalos upon his back, dove straight down upon the c.o.c.katrice. The monster fixed its gaze upon the mighty warhawk, the bird slowly petrifying as it hurtled towards the c.o.c.katrice. The beast's attention, however, was not fixed upon the elf sitting on Scraaw's back. As the paralyzed warhawk hurtled past, the Dawnblade slashed out, ripping through the monster's leathery wing.

Scraaw crashed to the earth, his impact digging a deep furrow in the field, ploughing through the ma.s.sed skaven and undead. The c.o.c.katrice smashed down beside the warhawk, its torn wing unable to keep it in the air. The monster flopped and flailed in agony, shrieking in pain. The sound roused Thalos. The highborn had been thrown to the ground when his mount crashed. Now he glared vengefully at the grotesque monster that had killed so many of the asrai and their allies. Tightening his grip on the Dawnblade, he charged towards the c.o.c.katrice.

Ywain wasn't the only one who saw the fight. Huskk Gnawbone's eyes stared malevolently at the highborn who had wounded his monster and now thought to finish the beast. The spellweaver sensed him conjuring a murderous spell. The magic might not strike down Thalos before the elf killed the c.o.c.katrice, but there was no doubt in Ywain's mind that her lover would not have long to savour his victory.

Desperately, Ywain threw all of her flagging energy into a single conjuration. She opened a tear in the corporeal world, pushing Thalos through the tear and across the hidden path between reality and dream. The highborn vanished as he was translocated to another part of the forest. With such a hasty spell, Ywain had been unable to send him very far, but at least it was far enough to escape Huskk's spell.

For the moment, that was enough.

With the c.o.c.katrice incapacitated, the elves hidden among the trees began to loose arrows into the confusion of skaven and undead filling the heath. Skeletons shattered beneath the withering volleys, ratkin were skewered upon the avenging missiles. Hundreds of the invaders were shot down, skaven blood staining the heath.

All at once, a fell wind exploded across the heath, knocking arrows from the air, toppling saplings and dislodging archers from their perches in the trees. Ywain could sense the cold, clammy taint of sorcery. She could see Huskk's body fairly burning with magical energy, blazing like a live coal against the darkness. Bolts of aethyric energy crashed all around the necromancer as the spellsingers allied to Thalos' kinband turned their magic against the ratman. Huskk slapped aside their best efforts with a wave of his claw, evoking a counter-spell as easily as drawing a breath.

Ywain felt a wave of despair grip her. What could she, what could anyone do against such power? The Hour of Shadows had magnified Huskk's magic to a state where the mightiest of her own spells would be little more than a minor annoyance to him. There was nothing the weakened faerie magic of Athel Loren could muster to stop the malignant necromancer.

Unless she drew upon a power that was not of Athel Loren! The thought came to Ywain with such suddenness that for a moment she was shocked. The more she considered the idea, however, the less crazy it sounded. The Golden Pool was a reservoir of magical energy, with the potential to wreak great destruction if it were used to work evil. But if the power was forced to serve the cause of good, used to oppose evila Ywain continued to feel horror at the idea. It was still repugnant to her. She remembered all the subtle ways the Pool had used to try and draw her to it.

Still, if she did nothing, then the Golden Pool would surely fall to Huskk and Nahak. She knew the kind of evil that event would unleash.

Silencing her lingering doubts, Ywain turned her back upon the battlefield. She hoped the glade guard and spellsingers would be able to hold Huskk's army long enough for her to reach the Golden Pool.

Huskk Gnawbone slashed his paw through the air, batting aside the puny spells being directed at him. It barely taxed his enhanced abilities to protect himself from the weak forest magic, but it did require some slight concentration on his part. The persistent efforts of the elves, however ineffective they might be, were a distraction. At the moment, the Black Seer couldn't afford any distractions. He would much rather provide one for his enemies.

The necromancer cast a sly look at his erstwhile ally, Grey Seer Nashrik. It was time for the dolt to serve the purpose for which Huskk had spared the prophet's life. He glared down at the grey seer, feeling his guts seethe with loathing for the craven maggot. Nashrik was crouched down, close beside Huskk's feet, trying to ensure that the necromancer's counter-spells would protect himself as well as the Black Seer.

The crippling of the c.o.c.katrice had initiated a second phase to the battle. The elves began loosing volleys of arrows from every quarter, striking down fleeing ratmen on every side. The warpfire crew made the mistake of training their weapon against the treeline, a burst of green fire engulfing the foliage and turning a wide swathe into a crackling pyre. It was impossible to say how many elves were caught in the conflagration, but there was no question about how the others responded. The mercenaries from Clan Skryre crashed into the dirt, their bodies so riddled with arrows that looked as though they might have been sired by hedgehogs.

Huskk's undead formed into solid blocks of infantry, employing the shield-wall tactics Nahak had taught its own skeletal legions. The formation provided some defence against the arrows, but none at all from the warhawks which now ruled the sky overhead. The enormous birds dove down among the skeletons, shattering them three and four at a time with their talons before rising back into the sky, well beyond the reach of spear and sword.

The undead were too slow to prevail in such a battle. Huskk could expend his energies, revitalize decayed muscle and bleached bone, but doing so would take time and effort. Both of these were things the necromancer did not have to spare for his undead horde. What he needed was a menace that would awe his enemies, gripping them in shocked fascination.

Nashrik would provide that spectacle. At Huskk's gesture, Tisknik reached down with its rotten paws and seized the grey seer, dragging him to his feet.

"Mercy-pity!" Nashrik whined. "Must-must run-flee!"

Huskk bared his fangs. "No-not run-flee," he hissed. The Black Seer reached into his robes, removing a chunk of warpstone the size of his fist. Nashrik's eyes went wide with wonder, his nose twitching. Fear was forgotten as the grey seer gazed upon the finest, purest piece of warpstone he had ever encountered. The warpstone had been cut and polished, each facet marked by a mystical scratch Huskk had no doubt stolen from the other grey seers who had challenged him. The arcane scratches acted to restrain the poisonous qualities of the warpstone while enhancing its magical potential. Such tokens were common among the order of grey seers, but never had Nashrik heard of someone creating something on such a scale.

"Elf-things fast-quick," Huskk hissed, waving angrily with his paw as another magical barrage tried to strike him down. "Dead-meat not fast-quick," he added, pointing at the slow march of his zombies towards the trees. "Must have live-quick to catch-kill elf-meat."

Nashrik stared stupidly at Huskk, his mind unable to make the connection between the problem and why the necromancer was explaining it to him.

The Black Seer tapped his claws against the skull of Nahak, annoyed and impatient. "The Thirteenth Ritual," he snapped.

Understanding finally dawned in Nashrik's eyes. Fear spurted from his glands. His head twitched as he stared at the horde of undead scattered about the heath. The magnitude of what was being asked of him made his heart quiver. The drain on his magical abilities would leave him a burnt-out drooling madrata"if he survived at all. Rather than confess his fear, Nashrik tried to refuse on grounds that employing such a holy rite upon undead ratmen was sacrilegious.

"Use-take," Huskk growled, shoving the warpstone into Nashrik's paws. "Use warpstone to make magic!"

Nashrik grinned as he took hold of the warpstone. The renegade was right! He could use the warpstone to power the spell. He could use its energies while keeping his own in reserve!

Another barrage of faerie fire and elven arrows convinced the grey seer that he had nothing to lose by attempting the dreaded spell. Closing his eyes, wrapping his paws carefully around the warpstone, Nashrik opened himself to the divine energies of the Horned Rat. He drew the power back into himself, then sent it slithering out through the facets of the warpstone, all the while squeaking the forbidden words in a scratchy whisper.

The grey seer couldn't see the subjects of his spell, but he could sense the magic coiling itself about them. A strange metamorphosis was gripping each of the walking carca.s.ses. Each of them suddenly became rigid and unmoving as the magic of the Horned Rat flooded through their bodies. Decayed flesh sloughed away to be replaced by fresh new pelts of verminous fur. Bleached bones bubbled as rodent flesh rapidly grew around them.

In less than a minute, the undead horde was transmogrified into a cluttering ma.s.s of full-grown, living skaven. Nashrik had done more than simply restore life to the dead husks animated by the Black Seer's magic. The Thirteenth Ritual had erased those decayed creatures, using their bodies as a foundation from which the magic crafted entirely new skaven, creatures which owed no allegiance to Huskk Gnawbone. Creatures which owed their very existence to Grey Seer Nashrik.

As Nashrik opened his eyes, blinking away the last fragments of dark power clinging to him after working such a mighty spell, he was impressed by the living horde that had replaced Huskk's dead one. The change-scent skaven squeaked and snarled, both confused and exuberant in their new existence. Nashrik noted that no arrows whistled out from the trees to strike his new-made ratmen. Even the elves were awed by this display of sorcery!

"Kill-kill!" Nashrik roared, adopting his most stiff-backed, imperious posture. He pointed his claw at the trees. The change-scent skaven regarded their grey-clad creator then, with a chorus of squeaks and howls, charged into the forest. Where the march of the undead had been slow and regular, the advance of the skaven was a rapid confusion of slavering fangs and rusty blades. The elves, rousing from their confusion and shock, were barely able to fell a dozen of the monsters before the first ranks were among the trees and taking the battle to the foe.

Nashrik watched his warriors, the thrill of power and the promise of victory swelling his spleen. These were his soldiers! They would obey him! The usefulness of Huskk Gnawbone was at an end! Nashrik could steal the power of this Golden Pool, claim the necromancer's h.o.a.rded warpstone and still bring the pelt of the Black Seer back to Skavenblight!

A flicker of disquiet crept through Nashrik's exultant mood. Huskk would certainly appreciate the mistake he had made. It would be best to attend to the necromancer before he could cause any trouble. It had been considerate of the fool to provide Nashrik with the means to ensure his own destruction.

Already invoking a terrible spell of ruin, magnifying its energies through the warpstone, Nashrik spun around. His clawed paw reached forward, prepared to send a crackling blast of warp-lightning sizzling through Huskk's withered hide.

The grey seer blinked in confusion. Huskk wasn't there! The craven Black Seer had fled, taking his bodyguard of grave rats and his crippled c.o.c.katrice with him!

Nashrik's lip curled in contempt. So the worm had realised his mistake. Well, let him try to hide. There would be no escape from the claws of the Horned Rat!

A blast of crackling faerie fire seared past Nashrik's shoulder, blackening one of his horns. The grey seer dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding a spear of emerald light that streaked above his prostrate form.

The grey seer would have bigger problems to attend to than finding Huskk. Now Nashrik appreciated the full extent of his faithless ally's perfidy! The necromancer had abandoned him to the wrath of the elves! After the mammoth spectacle of the Thirteenth Ritual, every elf in the forest knew of Nashrik's power.

Knew of it, and were determined that the grey seer would never get the chance to use it again!

Ywain pa.s.sed through the fence of gnarled trees and thorns which surrounded the Golden Pool. The foliage seemed reluctant to part, responding with a lethargic truculence that she had never encountered before. It was almost as if the guardian trees were frightened to allow her entry.

The spellweaver stood upon the edge of the black earth, staring out at the circle of amber at the centre of the clearing. Ywain could almost see the dark energies rippling about the pool, the untapped power emanating in response to the Hour of Shadows. It was similar to the awful strength she had sensed swirling about Huskk Gnawbone, but magnified a thousandfold. This was the raw, primordial energy of a volcano, of a typhoon, all locked within the pool. All waiting to be used, shaped by any mage brave enough to claim its might.

Evil calls outa The words of the Warden flashed through Ywain's mind. Almost as soon as she heard them, they were smothered by a panoply of frightening images. The skaven and the undead running amok through the forest, burning and killing with savage abandon. Thalos, his body broken and bloodied, strewn before Huskk's feet only to rise again, a lifeless puppet enslaved to the necromancer's fell will.

Ywain could not allow such visions to be fulfilled, not while there was any hope they could be stopped. She knew the power locked within the pool was evil, but her convictions were pure. Her purity would allow her to reshape the pool's magic, force it to a good and n.o.ble purpose. The evil locked away for so very long would be compelled to protect the forest. She would save Thalos.

The spellweaver strode across the barren ground, each step more difficult than the last. Intangible spiderwebs seemed to drag at her, trying to draw her away. Fear and doubt struggled to overwhelm her, to force her to turn back. Always the vision of Thalos lying dead at the feet of Huskk gave her the strength to prevail.

After what seemed an eternity, Ywain stood at the edge of the amber pit. Here, this close to the Golden Pool, she could feel the eerie emanations rising from it as a slimy coldness that pawed at her flesh and groped at her soul.

Steeling her resolve, Ywain placed her foot upon the surface of the pool, opening herself to the power rising from the amber pit. Instantly a shock pa.s.sed through her body. She felt as though she were on fire, burning from within. Aethyric energies blazed through her flesh and spirit, howling and raging like the winds of a tempest. It took every ounce of her willpower to force the crazed malevolence to relent, to subside into currents she could see and understand.

The Golden Pool beneath her feet was in turmoil, shivering and bucking, shuddering as its essence became amorphous and watery. Like a geyser, the core of the pool exploded upwards, rising high above the clearing in a writhing column of molten amber, dancing and swaying in the starlight, pulsating with a weird melody at once tragic and lascivious.

The surface of the pool remained solid beneath the spellweaver, borne aloft by the turmoil beneath it. Ywain stared down from the swaying, twisting summit of the sorcerous geyser, seeing the forest spread out below her. How small and inconsequential it looked. How unworthy of the power now flowing through her body, thundering through her soul.

Ywain railed against the prideful madness. She knew it for the evil force of the pool, and recognizing it for what it was, she bent her will to silencing its temptation. She would use the power of the fulcrum to protect others, not to aggrandize herself.

At the spellweaver's thought, the entire column shifted, facing about that she might gaze in the direction of Hawk Heath and the battle she knew was still raging there. Closing her eyes, Ywain drew upon the power of the Golden Pool, focusing it upon the battlefield, directing its energies against the invaders. The skaven had thought to plant a crop of evil in Athel Loren. Now the monsters would reap what they had sown!

As she worked her magic, Ywain was oblivious to the changes stealing upon the clearing below, of the gnarled trees and thorn bushes that were slowly, inexorably and reluctantly crawling away from the fence, making their way across the forbidden ring of barren ground.

She had sent the Golden Pool's magic into the forest. Now the forest was coming to the Golden Pool.

Grey Seer Nashrik chittered with insane glee as he burned another warhawk from the sky with a bolt of warp-lightning. He had overcome his momentary and uncharacteristic fright, dismissing the feeble efforts of the wood elves and their allies to oppose his mighty powers. Using the warpstone Huskk had so foolishly given him, Nashrik had become a dynamo of destruction and carnage. What were the crude weapons of Clan Skryre beside the magic of a grey seer? Entire stretches of the forest had wilted beneath Nashrik's magic, withered from branch to root. The grey seer had taken a special delight exterminating the greenery, exposing the elves in their hiding places. He had unleashed the dread transformation of the Thirteenth Ritual upon the elves, twisting their bodies into verminous shapes, obliterating their ident.i.ties under the mentality of a change-scent skaven.

The spellsingers still made their puny efforts to stop him, sending swarms of spites and beasts of the forest to end Nashrik's sorcery. One and all they had perished before his magic. He was unstoppable! A living engine of destruction! A walking pestilence! The glory of the Horned Rat made flesh!

Nashrik tugged at his whiskers as he felt a change steal upon the battlefield. He glanced hurriedly at the skaven warriors rampaging across the heath. They sensed it too, their ears folding back close against the sides of their skulls, their tails lashing in agitation. The hint of fear-musk was on the wind now, where before there had been only the smell of victory.

Before the grey seer's stunned gaze, shapes began to materialize, emerging from nothingness to stand between his army and the elves yet opposing him. Nashrik's hackles rose as he saw those lithe forms dance across the borderland between worlds, springing across the heath in ecstatic gyrations. Supple and sensuous were the figures which now capered among the ratmen, curvaceous bodies of pale, furless flesh with a husky scent of wanton desire. Many of the ratmen forgot their fear, squeaking happily as they rushed forwards to embrace the prancing figures. The strange laughter of the breeder-things tinkled across the field as they returned the amorous charge of their admirers with a crimson flash of slashing claws and tearing pincers.