Warriors Of The Freeguilds, page 19
‘We have to move,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, now.’
‘Apology accepted,’ he replied, nursing his injury. ‘Now, what exactly are you doing here?’
‘There’s no time!’ the captive hissed.
Behind him, twigs crunched underfoot, and Callis turned to see Hanniver Toll emerging from the trees, accompanied by several of Zenthe’s retinue. The aelven corsairs had already drawn steel, a variety of rapiers, daggers and heavy-bladed cutlasses. Toll was wielding his four-barrelled pistol. The man’s eyes were bright with eagerness. It had been a long hunt, and the witch hunter was sensing the kill. He knelt beside the prone aelf and removed his wide-brimmed hat, running a hand through thinning hair.
‘Your name?’ Toll said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she grunted. ‘They’re coming for me.’
‘Good,’ said the witch hunter. ‘Because the man you came here with is a killer and a heretic, and I am here to see him dead. My name is Hanniver Toll, of the most holy Order of Azyr, and you are my prisoner until such time your own complicity in the traitor’s crimes can be determined.’
It was then that they heard the sound of bellowing voices. Deep and guttural, accompanied by the beating of drums and the stamping of feet.
Callis caught Toll’s eye.
‘Orruks,’ he spat. He would recognise that brutish tongue anywhere.
A gunshot cracked out across the darkening sky, and flocks of startled creatures fled into the air, hooting in panicked indignation.
Toll nodded to Zenthe, who hauled the prisoner to her feet.
‘Quickly,’ he growled, and began to climb the steep slope towards the ruined city.
Callis darted after him, drawing his own blade. He still carried his Freeguild steel, a span and a half of tempered metal with a basket handle. He drew his pistol, a duardin wheel-lock piece, heavy and reassuring in his grasp. The aelves of Zenthe’s crew filtered after their captain, bounding up the steep ascent with graceful ease, eager for the killing to start. Even after months of sailing with these rogues Callis still felt uneasy in their presence. Like a brayhorn amidst a pack of wolves.
Zenthe had handed her prisoner over to one of her crew and was now bounding ahead of the others, her long hair whipping in the breeze, twin blades held low at her side.
Ahead, the ragged slope levelled off and Callis could see lit torches and the glimmer of blades. There was a band of perhaps twenty humans, holding a set of stairs against a mob of onrushing greenskins. The steps were slick with blood, and Callis could see broken bodies piled about, forming a barrier over which the whooping orruks clambered eagerly. The night was split by a flash of light and a loud crack as one of the men fired a scattergun into the midst of the advancing mob. Several toppled back in an explosion of pink mist.
Behind the struggling warriors, in the doorway of the shattered building, stood a golden-masked figure, wrapped in black robes and carrying a staff. As they broke from cover, running towards the melee, the figure turned its head to them.
Callis glanced across and saw Toll staring at the figure, his mouth set in a grim line, his fingers bone-white where they gripped his gun.
‘Vermyre!’ he shouted, and even over the din of battle his voice rang clear.
Then the witch hunter was running again, levelling his pistol. More orruks bounded from the ruins to their left, their voices raised in a single, bestial howl of battle-lust. Without even stopping, Toll aimed his gun to the side and fired. One of the onrushing creatures slumped bonelessly, a bloody hole in its skull. Callis aimed at a second figure and fired, but his shot failed to put the beast down. He had fought these brutes before, and knew well how difficult it was to kill the damned things.
Suddenly, they were close enough to see the creatures’ bloodshot eyes, to smell their rancid sweat. Captain Zenthe ducked the clumsy swing of a broadaxe and spun, whipping her blade through the neck of her assailant. The orruk dropped to its knees and she reversed her grip on the blade and brought it stabbing down through the thing’s neck. It gurgled and fell to the ground and she twisted her sword and pulled it free. Another greenskin barrelled across Callis’ vision and bore an aelf to the ground, smashing the unfortunate soul’s face into a bloody ruin with a succession of heavy punches. Callis stepped up behind the orruk and fired a bullet into its skull, and it slumped over its victim, twitching. He turned to see another aelf cut down. Hot blood splattered across his face, and he stumbled backwards, cursing.
More gunshots, and a piercing, haunted scream above the carnage. He blinked gore from his eyes and sought his bearings. Bodies writhed and killed and staggered in the near-darkness. Toll was several paces ahead of him, hacking and weaving through the melee, fighting with a desperate frenzy quite at odds with his typical, measured swordplay. A trail of bodies lay scattered behind the witch hunter, wisps of smoke rising from gaping bullet holes. But more and more orruks were splitting off to race towards him, and Toll could not carve his way through so many.
‘Hanniver!’ shouted Callis. ‘Fall back, you madman. You’ll get yourself killed!’
If Toll heard him, he showed no sign of it.
Toll ducked back from the clumsy swing of an orruk’s stone adze and thrust his blade forward, through the beast’s ribcage and into its chest. The creature coughed foul-smelling blood which splattered across his face, and without even thinking, he raised his pistol and fired point-blank into its head. He twisted his blade free and continued forward. His chest was heaving, and his breath ragged. It had been a long time since he had put his body through such punishment, but his quarry was here, and this might be his only chance to serve Sigmar’s justice. To see his butchered corpse strung about the city gates of Excelsis, a warning to anyone who sought to conspire against their own.
Ortam Vermyre. The Golden Lord. Betrayer of Excelsis, and butcher of the innocent.
Once, Toll had counted him a friend. Vermyre had used that misplaced trust and his own lofty position as High Arbiter of the city of Excelsis to condemn thousands to death in the name of the Dark Gods. The judgment for that crime had been too long in coming.
Another howling face loomed out of the darkness, and he swept his sabre across to carve a red line across its eyes, never slowing his momentum. Ahead, the orruks were hacking their way through Vermyre’s men, overwhelming them with sheer strength and numbers. Still the masked figure watched Toll advance, seemingly oblivious to the death and bloodshed all around him. The witch hunter was close now, perhaps a hundred paces from the melee. He had no idea where the others were, but it did not matter. This was his task alone, and if he died here to end Vermyre’s stain on the realms, he would do so content. Time seemed to slow. He lifted his pistol, put the traitor’s head in the sight.
Something struck him in the side, a dead weight that smashed him off his feet just as he pulled the trigger. His gun bucked in his hand, firing high and wide. He hit the ground hard alongside his assailant, where they rolled in a tangle of thrashing limbs. He punched out with the butt of his pistol, unable to free his sword hand for a killing strike, and felt it connect. There was a pained groan, and the grip on his waist loosened. He snarled and rolled his dazed opponent over, grabbed his blade and raised it high, ready to drive it through the traitor’s heart.
A beam of flickering torchlight washed across the face of Armand Callis, his eyes bulging and his face bloody. Toll’s hand was around the man’s throat, and he was gasping for breath.
‘Toll,’ Callis gurgled. ‘It’s me!’
There was a flare of blue-green light, and Toll loosened his grip on the man’s throat and staggered to his feet. The golden-masked Vermyre rose over the mob of orruks as they tore and hacked his band apart. He was borne aloft on a disc of gleaming metal, which rippled with azure flames. Arrows whickered up at him, some missing entirely while others skipped off the floating shield, disappearing into the night. There were screams of outrage from Vermyre’s remaining henchmen, as they realised they were being abandoned to their fate.
‘Not today, old friend,’ shouted Vermyre. There wasn’t even any gloating in his words. He simply sounded old, and tired. Toll even imagined he heard a hint of regret. Then the man was drifting away, rising off towards the clustered rocks of the crater rim, out and away from the ruined city.
‘No!’ shouted Toll. Rage and frustration welled up in him like bile, and he raised his gun once more and fired. Nothing but a dry click. Empty. He cursed, fumbling at his belt for a fresh cartridge, but it was too late. Vermyre was gone. Callis was coughing and spluttering, climbing to his knees. Toll turned and grabbed the man by his leather jerkin, slammed him against the nearest wall.
‘I had him!’ he snarled. ‘I was about to put a bullet through that bastard’s skull!’
‘You were about to get your guts ripped out by an orruk axe,’ spat Callis. ‘And you’re welcome, by the way. Next time I’ll not waste my effort. Now get your hands off me.’
‘Fools, if you’re not too busy throttling each other we need to disappear,’ came a voice from behind. It was Zenthe. Both her curved swords and her clothes were splattered with orruk blood. Her crew were falling back, loosing bolts as they retreated. Behind Zenthe was their prisoner.
‘I can get us out of here,’ said the aelf girl. ‘I know a path out of this crater.’
‘Your quarry’s gone, Toll,’ said Zenthe. ‘Now let’s move, before the orruks tire of hacking his hired fools into chum and come for us.’
She turned and sprinted after the retreating aelves. The smoke was thick around them now. Callis turned to follow Zenthe, shooting Toll a dark look as he went. With one last glance towards the skies, the witch hunter followed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Shev ran, slipping and sliding across moss-slick rocks and through dense tangles of barbed vines. She could hear bestial howls as the orruks gave chase. Arrows skipped around them. Ahead, a burbling channel of clear water trickled down a rise of shattered columns.
Ahead, said the voice in her mind, startling her so badly that she almost tripped and fell flat on her face. Climb. We are close.
‘Here,’ she shouted to the others, and leapt up to the first cluster of stones.
‘They’re closing on us,’ shouted the man called Callis. He turned, standing ankle-deep in the running water and raised his pistol. He fired, and a green-skinned figure in the distance crumpled, then lay still. Callis stowed his gun, and Shev stretched out a hand to help him clamber up beside them. The corsair aelves skipped over the rough ground with impressive ease, barely slowing. Ahead was the portico of a great hall, slanted and broken, looming out of the gloom. It was built from blue-white marble, turned a dirty grey by layers of dust.
There, declared Occlesius, triumphantly. Your escape route.
It would be a hard climb, but not an impossible one. Zenthe and her corsairs were already sprinting across the cracked flagstones of the plaza towards the tower of clustering creeper-vines.
How did he know about this place, she wondered? You would have thought that being bound to a coffin for several hundred years would limit one’s knowledge of the surrounding area.
Oh, I was not bound to anything, said Occlesius. She was sure she could hear an element of smug satisfaction in the echo that rippled through her mind. You recall that gem you plucked from my tomb with such quick-fingered grace? That wondrous little device is called a thoughtstone, or a soulstone, and it was fashioned in the arcane forges of Shadespire, greatest city of Shyish. It is crafted from shadeglass.
‘Shadeglass?’ Shev muttered. She had come across that word before, somewhere in her father’s notebooks.
It captures one’s soul upon death. It allowed my consciousness to live on beyond the time of my passing, to drift and travel amidst the walls of this city to certain similar artefacts, to converse with my fellow academicians. There was so much to do, you understand? So much to contemplate. Of course, I had not anticipated sharing the last several hundred years of my existence with only witless orruks for company. Dreadful conversationalists, those creatures. Not to mention their questionable hygiene. They used my herb gardens as a latrine, can you even imagine?
‘Could you do me a personal favour?’ Shev growled, as she grasped a length of thick, mossy vine and began to climb. ‘Shut up!’
She realised Callis was hauling himself alongside her, and she tried to ignore the look of bafflement upon his face. More arrows slammed and whickered around them as they climbed. An aelf to her left gurgled, spat blood, and tumbled away, three shafts protruding from her back. Shev glanced down. A score of orruks knelt at the base of the columns, loosing from crude bone and hide shortbows. Dozens more were leaping onto the vines, climbing with jagged blackstone knives clamped between oversized fangs. Toll paused his climb, reached into his jacket and produced a small, bronze sphere. He pressed a shallow depression on the device with one thumb, and then tossed it down amongst the gathering throng of orruks. It exploded with a snap-hiss, gushing foul-smelling black smoke. She could hear the beasts retching and hacking, bellowing in outrage. Soon the orruks were enveloped in the stinking cloud, and the arrows they launched were hopelessly inaccurate.
They were close now. She risked a glance back down. The orruks were gaining on them with terrifying speed, their thick forelimbs dragging them closer and closer, their small, cruel eyes ablaze with killing rage. Another aelf fell, dragged down by grasping hands. He coughed, then screamed as the creatures fell upon him with stabbing blades. Shev’s arms were aching terribly, but fear gave her motion. One grip after another, inch by exhausting inch, she hauled herself higher. The rim of the crater was so close now. Zenthe reached it first, leapt free and caught hold of the opening with both hands, dragging her body over the edge. More aelves made the opening. One turned to pull a fellow corsair out into the moonlight, but three thick shafts of black wood slammed into his chest. He swayed, collapsed to his knees and tumbled back into the rising smoke, forcing Shev to duck to the side to avoid the corpse. Then she was close, and an arm grabbed her firmly by the shoulder and dragged her into fresh air.
They had emerged onto a steep hillside. All around them was the swaying sea of the jungle canopy, bathed in turquoise starlight. Below, the ground sloped away sharply for several hundred paces, leading to a tangle of thorny bushes and blessed solid ground.
Callis ran forward and began pouring a flask of clear liquid over the web of vines that protruded from the hole.
‘Someone get me a torch,’ he yelled, throwing the empty container aside. A dark-skinned aelf woman ran forward, clutching a blazing limb of dried wood. She hurled it down into the darkness and lunged aside as a gout of flame exploded out of the gap. Shev heard deep, guttural bellows of agony, and smoke scoured her eyes. A hulking form hauled itself out of the earth, swinging wildly, wreathed in flames. Toll stepped forward, ducked under the beast’s swipe, and smashed the pommel of his sword into its snout. It toppled backwards, screaming, and disappeared into the rising flames.
‘The fires won’t stop them for long,’ said Toll. ‘Let’s go.’
They finally stopped running when the thump of orruk war drums had faded away. They had entered a patch of sparse ground, by the shore of a pool of murky water that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Clouds of luminescent moths fluttered across the surface, the glow from their wings bathing the ground in a faint green light. Callis leaned against the curve of a tree, panting and coughing, holding the stitch in his side. The aelves took up position around the clearing, aiming their repeater bows out into the encroaching darkness.
‘We’ve lost them,’ said Toll, stowing his pistol. He marched over to the aelf girl.
‘You will tell us everything you know,’ he said, in that low, measured voice that he liked to use for scaring the wits out of people. Callis recognised it well, for it had not been long ago that Toll had turned it upon him. ‘From the moment you met Vermyre, to the moment you ran. Leave nothing out. If you lie, I will know.’
The aelf sighed.
‘We met in Sayron, perhaps seven months past. At the time, I was cataloguing treasures for some thick-headed noble named Razzicelli, a would-be collector of exotic artefacts with more coin than sense. The pay was good, but the work was dull. Razzicelli had no eye for history or quality. He’d buy anything that sparkled, and hang the price. Still, he had a vault filled with tomes and maps that was larger than the house I grew up in, a library’s worth of priceless documents that he was content to let rot away while he chased worthless baubles.’
Zenthe snorted with amusement. ‘Sounds like half the nobles in Excelsis.’
‘The man you call Vermyre introduced himself as a trader of rare goods,’ the aelf went on. ‘I guessed he was from old Azyrite stock, because he had plenty of coin. He wasn’t interested in Razzicelli’s goods, though. Only his library. He was looking for a map to Quatzhymos, and he found it. With my help.’
‘Did he tell you what drove him to find this place?’ asked Toll.
‘It was the resting place of Occlesius the Realms-Walker.’
‘A traveller and explorer from many hundreds of years ago,’ said Toll, answering Callis’ confused expression. ‘Before the fall. His writings survive in the great libraries of Azyrheim, but the location of his tomb has long been a mystery.’
‘No longer,’ said the aelf. ‘I had been searching the Taloncoast for a sign of its location for over a decade. I’d found a few clues within Razzicelli’s archives. Historical accounts of a city of scholars and learned souls, a place where the high-minded could study and converse in solitude. But it was only when the Golden… when Vermyre and I shared our findings that we finally discovered the location of Quatzhymos. He hired the sellswords, and I was the guide.’
