Blacktalon: First Mark Read online

  ‘Sigmar damn your recklessness,’ cursed Tarion, and followed, an arrow nocked to his bowstring, his wings crackling with energy. Krien spiralled around him, eyes wide for danger.

  As they neared the mountaintop, Tarion saw there was something at the base of the crater. It was dark and indistinct, buried under drifts of snow. He swept his gaze across the rest of the crater, judging it to be perhaps five hundred feet in diameter and largely swathed in cold shadows.

  Thindrael swept his skycutter in and landed on the snowy ground, near to the dark humps. Leaving Hasha in his traces, the aelf sprang over the side of his chariot and drew his sword before the vehicle had even come to a stop.

  Tarion swept down beside him, landing with a thump and a shower of snow. He panned his bow across the crater, arrow singing with barely suppressed energy as it pleaded to be released in anger.

  ‘Slow down, Thindrael, we don’t know what threat might lurk up here with us,’ he said. The aelf pulled up short at the booming note of command in his voice. Thus far, Tarion had spoken as a friend and comrade. Now he spoke as a Stormcast Eternal, and distant thunder rumbled behind his words as he uttered them.

  ‘I just wanted to see.’ Thindrael shook his head as though clearing it, raised his blade at guard and looked to Tarion. ‘I’m sorry. You take the lead, my lord,’ he said.

  Whistling a command to Krien to circle above them and keep watch, Tarion prowled forward. The deep snow came up to his knees, and he picked up his steps with exaggerated care, conscious of the weight of his armour. Thindrael followed, his feet sinking only an inch or so, his passage making no sound whatsoever.

  The wind howled over the crater’s edge, but down here in its depths everything was gloomy, cold and very still. Thus, Tarion heard clearly the strangled moan that escaped Thindrael’s lips as they neared the first dark mound. It took a moment for Tarion to make out what he was seeing, before he realised that what jutted from the snow had once been a stone wall with a door set into it. Stonework and wood both had blackened, twisted and somehow melted together. Strangest of all was the texture of the mass; Tarion drew close and prodded at it with a foot, recoiling slightly in distaste as he found that what had once been solid stone was now spongy and fibrous, almost fungal in nature. He saw Thindrael reaching out a hand towards one such spongy mass and warned him back with a gesture.

  ‘What in Sigmar’s name happened here?’ he asked. Thindrael shook his head, face pale and eyes huge.

  The two of them pressed on, treading carefully past the first twisted mass and into the crater’s heart. There were lots of them, Tarion saw, some a dozen feet tall or more, some small and forlorn, mostly buried beneath the snows. He recognised items of furniture fused with crumpled stonework, what looked like a rack of swords mashed formlessly into a stairway and part of a table. He scowled and pretended not to hear Thindrael’s moans of horror as he saw what looked like an aelven head and torso melded hideously into a doorframe. All of it, whether it had originally been stone, wood, metal or living matter, had the same black, spongy texture.

  ‘Surely this is some foul artifice of the Chaos Gods,’ said Tarion, lowering his bow as they stood aghast amidst the ruins. ‘A terrible curse has been unleashed here, one that you were fortunate to escape.’

  ‘I… I cannot…’ said Thindrael. The aelf gathered himself, tried again. ‘Lord, I do not know what happened here or what did this to my kin, to my watchtower. I see no sign of the one I came in hopes of finding and laying to rest, but now that I see this, I am glad not to. This ghastly place gives me no chance at vengeance, it only fills me with horror. Please tell me that you, at least, see the answers you seek?’

  Tarion shook his head, frowning.

  ‘If there are answers here, I am too much a fool to see them. I do not understand why Lord Martoris would have sent me to this place. Whatever practitioners of the dark arts laid Highcrater Watch to waste, they are surely long gone now, and if there are answers amidst this ruin I cannot see them.’

  ‘Then what–’ Thindrael’s words cut off as Krien gave a piercing shriek of warning.

  Tarion looked up to see dark shapes spilling over the crater’s edge between two of the looming stone shards. A dozen lumpen figures ploughed through the snow down the crater’s slope, their debase forms all too familiar.

  ‘Rotbringers, Blightkings of Nurgle,’ he spat. The Blightkings were as tall as a Stormcast and even broader, massively muscular and ­carrying huge maces, axes and hammers. Yet where Tarion and his ilk were magnificent, shining warriors, these tainted creatures were rotten and bloated with Nurgle’s gifts. Their flesh was split with open sores through which rancid blubber spilled. Buboes and pustules carpeted skin both leathery and necrotic, and a revolting stench billowed from their unwashed bodies and glistening, exposed innards. The Blightkings lumbered along in rusted helms and clanking, verdigrised armour, much of their skin exposed even at these extreme heights. If the cold and their obvious frostbite caused them pain, however, they didn’t show it.

  Pounding through the snow at the rear of the group came something more horrible still, a creature that even Tarion did not recognise.

  ‘What is that abomination?’ he shouted. ‘Thindrael, have you seen its like here before? Is this what laid the watchtower low?’

  ‘I didn’t see our attackers at all,’ said the aelf. ‘Perhaps… but no, my lord, I have neither name nor words for that… thing.’

  The beast was enormous, easily twenty feet in height and just as wide. It was a stitched and bloated amalgam of decaying flesh, fangs and splintered claws. Tarion thought he recognised elements of beasts he had seen before, perhaps hints of a Thundertusk or an Orruk Mawcrusha, but they were suggestions only. From its curling horns the size of battering rams to its six muscular yet misshapen limbs, its lashing tail that ended in a mace of rotted bone and its bulging, split belly, the thing was an inexplicable and nauseating horror.

  ‘Whether they attacked the watchtower or no, they’re bearing down upon your chariot,’ said Tarion.

  ‘Ah, gods of old,’ cursed Thindrael. ‘Khae thelymar,’ he shouted. Hasha responded instantly, giving a shrieking cry and beginning to beat his wings. Snow billowed as the skycutter swept across the ground and lifted away. Yet even as Hasha gained height, the unknown abomination opened its stinking maw. Bile gushed over too many fangs, and a huge, toad-like tongue lashed out. Thindrael cried out in horror as it slammed into his skycutter like a ballista bolt and smashed it to wreckage. Hasha screeched, flapping madly as the sudden impact tangled him with the splintered wreck. The greathawk plunged amidst a shower of splintered wood and metal, slamming sickeningly into the crater wall and sliding to a stop.

  ‘Hasha!’ screamed Thindrael, and Tarion winced at the loss he heard in the aelf’s voice.

  ‘Steady,’ he barked, lining up his first shot. Any moment now, the Rotbringers would come into ideal range, and he would need to make every shot count.

  ‘There are too many of them,’ said the aelf, his voice hollow. ‘How can we win this?’

  ‘We are servants of Sigmar himself,’ replied Tarion. ‘We cannot lose.’ Still, for all his bravado, the Knight-Venator was unsure. Even as he drew back his bowstring and let fly his first crackling arrow, Tarion knew that his quest must come first. Whatever blind alley the Cognis Celestis had led him down, it had wasted enough of his time already. If he was forced to, Tarion would abandon Thindrael to his fate and make amends to his lost soul later.

  ‘Why did we come here?’ cursed the aelf, holding his blade ready in shaking hands. ‘What is there for us but death and waste?’

  ‘Have faith, be silent, and fight,’ said Tarion, loosing his arrow.

  The projectile shot across the snow, a streaking bolt of light, and thumped into the chest of the leading Rotbringer. The mouldering warrior staggered at the impact, black gore spurting from the wound in his chest. He fell to one
knee, only for his fellows to grab him by his bloated arms and haul him back to his feet.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that!’ bellowed the wounded Blightking, his voice a clotted and gurgling horror.

  ‘Gladly,’ said Tarion, loosing another three arrows in lightning-fast succession. They streaked after the first, slamming into the Rotbringer’s heart, his throat, and finally his horned helm. The triple impact was thunderous, hurling the Nurgle-worshipper from his feet and leaving him spreadeagled and twitching in the snow.

  His fellows faltered, looked down at their dead comrade, then back up at Tarion. They bellowed in anger and broke into a ponderous charge.

  ‘Stay behind me, away from that damned monster,’ said Tarion, before launching himself skywards and loosing another volley. His lightning-imbued arrows rained down upon the charging foe, thudding into flesh and blasting black craters in rusted armour. Several staggered and another fell, but it was not nearly enough.

  ‘They’re so damned resilient,’ he cursed. ‘Sigmar, lend me strength.’

  The Blightkings were in amongst the fungal structures now, and baying for blood. Their leader, a hulking brute with a huge bell-shaped mace and an eyeless brass helm, shouted orders at his followers.

  ‘Spread out, my beauties,’ he snarled. ‘Surround the aelf. Bring the lightning-whelp down however you can. I want some rot-damned answers. Indeed I do!’

  Tarion soared over the Blightkings and continued to rain arrows upon them. As each shaft was launched from his bow, another crackled into being in his quiver, Sigmar’s blessings providing him with an endless supply of ammunition. He placed a shot beautifully, straight down through one Rotbringer’s collarbone and into his foul heart. The Chaos worshipper staggered another two steps then toppled onto his face.

  Another volley and Tarion sent a fourth Blightking crashing into the snow, peppered with shafts. The next instant he was forced to bank madly to avoid a billowing cloud of plague flies, belched from the sack-like throat of one of his attackers. The buzzing storm of insects swept after him, dropping from the air in clumps as the cold killed them quickly. Yet they still stung and bit him again and again, and Tarion felt himself growing sluggish and dizzy as his body fought to stave off the diseases they transmitted.

  ‘Tarion!’ He heard Thindrael’s shout over the thrumming roar of the swarm, and he dived to get below them. Tarion saw that the aelf had tried to retreat between the fungal mounds, only to find himself hemmed in by them on both sides with Rotbringers before and behind him.

  Thindrael lunged, stabbing his blade at the nearest Chaos worshipper. The Rotbringer didn’t even try to parry the blow, allowing the aelf’s sword to sheathe itself to the hilt in his rotting flesh. Even as Tarion watched in horror, a gaping maw split open in the Blight­king’s belly and bit down on Thindrael’s hands where they still gripped the sword’s hilt. Blood sprayed and the aelf fell back with a scream, flailing the ragged stumps of his wrists.

  Tarion swore and unleashed a storm of shots that showered the chortling Blightking. His laughter cut off as lightning-wreathed arrows punched deep into his body and sent him crashing to his knees.

  The drone of the swarm sounded in Tarion’s ears again, but this time it was pierced by Krien’s shriek. The star eagle dived through the diminished mass of insects, his body blazing like a newborn star. Flies dropped, crisped and blackened, to carpet the snow below, and Tarion flashed his companion a grin of thanks.

  His face fell as he saw Thindrael topple onto his back, his blood pumping across the snow. The aelf had a ghastly smile on his face, Tarion saw, his eyes far away and his mouth moving. Tarion dropped from on high to stand protectively over his fallen comrade, shooting a storm of arrows into his enemies that drove them back. As he did, he heard the aelf whispering a delirious greeting.

  ‘Yllith… my love… no, no, don’t be sorry… at last…’

  Tarion didn’t move.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Thindrael,’ he said, finally. ‘They won’t lay another filthy hand upon you, I swear it.’

  ‘Make not promises that Grandfather won’t let you keep, Stormcast,’ bellowed the Blightkings’ leader, emerging from behind the nearest fungal mound. ‘I want to know where your eight-damned allies have hidden. I’ve a score to settle, and you’re going to tell me how I gnaw down to the bone of things!’

  The Blightking shrugged off first one arrow then another, swinging his bell-mace up and over in a meteoric arc. Tarion leapt frantically aside, and his attacker’s weapon crashed down on Thindrael’s dying body in an explosion of blood and bone. The bell tolled as he struck, a hollow note that rolled around the crater.

  Tarion snarled and shot more arrows into the Blightking from point-blank range. The first pierced his eyeless helm and stuck there like a weird horn. The second sank deep into his chest, blackening his leathery flesh. Still the warrior did not fall.

  ‘I seethe with the Grandfather’s blessings, Stormcast,’ he roared, swinging his weapon with surprising speed. This time, Tarion was a split-second too slow, and the bell caught him a glancing blow to the chest. Its reverberations rolled across the crater, seeming to fill Tarion’s head as he was flung bonelessly into the snow.

  He drew breath, hissing in pain as he felt bone grind together in his chest. Still, Tarion forced himself back to his feet, nocking another arrow as his wounded enemy staggered closer.

  ‘You’ll fall before you finish me, rotling,’ spat Tarion.

  ‘Maybe, but you’ve forgotten my gruesome pet,’ said the Blight­king with a gurgling laugh. ‘Lord Ungholghott breeds them hungry.’

  Tarion heard the thudding footfalls of something huge behind him, saw the snow jump and dance at its coming. He launched himself straight up, flakes billowing in his wake, and the abomination’s whickering tongue shot beneath him, smashing apart one of the fungal mounds.

  Tarion pirouetted in the air, launched three arrows in quick succession that sank into the abomination’s face. One shot punctured a cluster of eyes that clung above its snout, causing the monster to howl. It reared up, huge nostrils flaring, and spat its tongue at him again. Tarion wheeled away, narrowly avoiding the attack, only to feel something slam into him with tremendous force. Armour buckled and bone splintered, the sounds drowned out by the hollow peal of a huge bell, and Tarion fell from the skies like a stone. He slammed into the snowy ground and rolled to a stop, gasping for breath.

  Looking up, Tarion saw the Blightkings’ leader pick up his bell-mace from where it had landed after his remarkable throw. He chuckled deep in his chest as he trudged towards Tarion, who tried and failed to get up. Several of his bones were broken, he could tell, and crawling skeins of lightning played across his dented armour and torn flesh. Tarion was hurt badly, and his desperation grew as he faced the threat of being slain again. By the time he had been reforged, and recalled as much as he could of what he was, he would surely be too late to aid Neave.

  The remaining Blightkings closed around him in a circle, their abomination looming behind them. Tarion spat blood and angrily cursed the false and pointless trail that had brought him to this place. Krien flapped down and landed on Tarion’s shoulder, shrieking angrily and raising cruel laughter from the Chaos-worshippers.

  It was then that he saw the ghost of movement amongst the snows, lithe figures, half seen and strange. Their movements were unnatural, their limbs flowing and inhuman. He saw their eyes glinting blue and iridescent black against the snowfield. It was as though they flowed up from the ground itself, sprouting like dark and menacing trees behind the Blightkings.

  The Chaos-worshippers had not yet seen the danger, and Tarion managed a pained laugh as their leader loomed over him.

  ‘Bravado won’t get you far now, storm whelp,’ growled the hulking warrior. ‘You’re mired too deep. Best to rip the leech’s maw off quick and earn yourself a gifted death lest the blights take you slow. Where are
the damned tree people?’

  ‘Closer than you’d like,’ said Tarion. With a shrill hiss that rose like a gale through a thicket of trees, the sylvaneth attacked. Dozens of dryads fell upon the Blightkings from behind, lashing with willowy talons and hissing their warsongs with glee. Taller, stouter tree-beings waded into the fight, swinging huge amber scythes that split and tore the Blightkings’ flesh with ease. The abomination turned and lashed out with talons and tongue, but even it was overrun as shrilling tree-creatures tore at it with deranged strength. Tarion watched the carnage with wide eyes, noting with alarm the dark and twisted aspect of his saviours, the shadowy wisps that clung to them and the cruel savagery with which they fought.

  ‘Dreadwood,’ he murmured to Krien. ‘We may not be safe yet.’

  At last, the butchery was done. Nothing remained of the Blight­kings but torn and mangled heaps of flesh whose rancid juices were already seeping away into the snows. Tarion pulled himself to his feet, leaning on his bow as a willowy creature approached him. It was humanoid and vaguely female in shape, its long limbs and flowing body thick with thorns and jutting twigs. Black leaves and delicate creepers grew from its scalp and flowed down its back, a strange approximation of hair. Its eyes were large and almond-shaped, and glinted like polished jet.

  The creature, a Branchwraith by his reckoning, stopped before Tarion and performed an elaborate, fluid gesture that he guessed was its approximation of a bow. Tarion returned it as best he could, gritting his teeth through the pain of his injuries.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I owe you my life, and my lord Sigmar owes you a debt of gratitude.’

  ‘No debt be owed from thundersome skies,’ said the being, its voice a musical croon that creaked and sawed like branches in a night wind. ‘The foule and the abyrr we slaye gladsome.’