Part 3 (1/2)

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, slas.h.i.+ng 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, smas.h.i.+ng 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.