"Before the Hour of Shadows," Ywain said.

Thalos fought to put a smile back onto his face. "Good," he said, tightening his embrace and kissing Ywain's soft lips. "That leaves us some time for ourselves."

Huskk Gnawbone's burrow was a winding maze of chambers and tunnels chewed from the foot of the mountain. There was a distinct regularity about the main pa.s.sageways that was uncharacteristic of skaven work and there was an unsettling smell of rot and old bones hanging in the air. The earthen walls were marked with strange pictoglyphs, crude and barbaric things that possessed a disturbing sense of ancientness about them. Nashrik realized they were the work of some long-vanished breed, perhaps a primitive clan of man-things or the very first dwarf-things.

Whatever the nature of the builders, it was easy for Nashrik to guess the purpose of the tunnels. They were ancient catacombs, burial vaults used to store the dead. It was a foolish and debased custom among the lesser races to entomb their dead, leaving the meat to decay in the darkness without providing sustenance to anything but maggots and worms.

As he followed the messenger through the dreary tunnels, Nashrik caught glimpses of connecting galleries and saw that Huskk had adopted the barbaric custom. Chamber after chamber was packed with the decayed corpses of untold mult.i.tudes of skaven, many of them reduced to nothing more than fleshless skeletons. If Nashrik had entertained any idea of keeping any agreement he made with Huskk, this evidence of the Black Seer's insanity erased the notion.

The smell of death and decay intensified. Nashrik gripped the shoulder of his guide, forcing him to stop while the grey seer sniffed at the air. There was a cold, clammy feel to it now, the stink of bone-magic and sorcery. Nashrik's fur crawled with disquiet as warnings flashed through his senses. Whatever else he might be, the Black Seer did have some measure of genuine power. How much power, Nashrik couldn't be sure. He turned his horned head and glanced back down the tunnel. It didn't seem such a clever idea now to brave the heretic's lair alone. Those cowards Vermitt and Weekil should never have allowed him to put himself at such risk.

"Follow-follow," the messenger wheezed, pulling away from Nashrik's grip. "Not far now."

The grey seer hesitated. There was still no sign of treachery. The catacombs were devoid of activity, giving no sign of hidden guards waiting to spring a trap. Either Huskk had concealed them so well as to defy belief, or the renegade's talk of surrender and tribute were genuine. To be on the safe side, however, Nashrik put a piece of warpstone in his mouth, pus.h.i.+ng the pebble of magical rock into one of his cheekpouches. If he had to draw upon its power to evoke a hasty spell of escape, he didn't want to suffer the delay of pulling it from the pocket of his robe.

The scrawny guide continued to lead Nashrik through the deathly darkness, until at last the tunnel opened out into a larger chamber. This, at least, had the signs of skaven construction, though any comfort the grey seer might have derived from such familiarity was immediately crushed by the macabre furnis.h.i.+ngs.

One wall was pitted with little niches, each one holding the yellowing skull of some creature. Nashrik noted the heavy bone structure of dwarf-things, the tusked heaviness of orcs, the grinning death heads of humans, even several fanged skaven skulls. By far the most common, however, were the slender, thin skulls of elf-things. Nashrik had seldom seen the bones of elves, but there was no mistaking their scent. Even in death, there was a lingering hint of magic about them.

An even more disquieting collection stood in a broad formation across the centre of the chamber, a collection of more complete bodies. Each of these had been a skaven when it was alive, but now they had been reduced to morbid trophies, preserved through some crude taxidermy. Nashrik saw the crouching shape of a Clan Es.h.i.+n a.s.sa.s.sin, daggers gripped in paws and tail, silken vestment slowly rotting away into shadowy tatters. He saw the weedy figure of a Clan Skryre sharpshooter, one of its eyes replaced by a monstrous telescopic lens, its paws leaning against the rusting wreck of a wide-barrelled jezzail. He saw the twisted frame of a Clan Moulder beastmaster, a spike-jawed skaven-s.n.a.t.c.her held before it as though even in death it were ready to catch an enemy between the snapping steel claw.

There were a dozen and more of the shrivelled corpses in varying states of decay, each posed in some att.i.tude that seemed drawn from life. By far the most horrifying was a ghastly a.s.semblage crafted from the bodies of three black-furred ratmen. The grisly thing stood upon six legs and six arms jutted from its shoulders, a crooked sword gripped in each skeletal paw. Three heads, piled one atop the other, leered menacingly at the grey seer. Nashrik's glands clenched at the sight of the hideous figure and he wondered what diseased imagination had conceived such an abomination.

"If you make-take one wrong move-twitch, Three-to-one will cut-kill."

The voice was a dry rattle, like wind rasping through a ribcage. Nashrik leapt back, his body tense, his every nerve enflamed with fear. The grey seer raised his staff, summoning a sliver of magic to evoke a greenish glow from the iron icon fitted to its tip.

By the eerie warp-light, Nashrik watched as a cadaverous figure shuffled out from among the carrion-trophies. It was the desiccated sh.e.l.l of a skaven, its furless skin pale and stretched tight across the bone structure, its body wrapped in gruesome robes crafted from the flayed skins of other skaven. A hood framed the lean, almost skeletal face, a hood adorned with great curling horns. Gleaming eyes, h.o.a.ry with ancient wickedness and evil, stared from the pits of the thing's face. A human skull hung suspended from a chain fitted about the creature's neck, the glow emanating from its eye sockets mirroring that s.h.i.+ning in the ratman's eyes.

Nashrik had been unaware of the creature, hidden as it was among the carrion-trophies. Now he felt a crawling fear settle over him, his sorcerous sight picking out the haze of dark magic emanating from the thing's body. It looked as dead and lifeless as everything else in the room. Certainly there was no smell of anything living rising from the creature's leprous skin. That it was capable of moving, of mustering even the crudest semblance of life, was a horror in itself. But the horror was compounded for Grey Seer Nashrik. He knew what this creature was. He knew that he gazed upon Huskk Gnawbone, the Black Seer.

A malicious cackle wheezed through the heretic's fangs. One of Huskk's leathery claws caressed the skull dangling against his chest while the other tightened about the k.n.o.bby staff he carried. The gleam in his eyes grew more intense, more threatening.

Nashrik backed away, his tail tucked between his legs. Tricked! He had been tricked, goaded into this mad recklessness by the avaricious obsessions of Fangmaster Vermitt and Adept Weekil. Their mad hunger for glory and wealth had brought Nashrik into terrible peril. The Black Seer was no mouse-livered petty conjurer, but a fearsome sorcerer of awful potency. His display of weakness had been nothing more than a clever deception.

"It is sometimes advisable to feign infirmity and hide strength," Huskk stated, seeming to read Nashrik's thoughts. "We have conquered a dozen clans by such ruses. The living rarely comprehend the power of the dead." Huskk gestured with his staff. "These have learned, these killers who have sought us out thinking to win favour with the Lords of Decay through our death. Instead, it is they who have embraced death."

Nashrik felt his glands clench. His eyes again darted across the collection of corpses, appreciating their nature a bit more. a.s.sa.s.sins, hunters, poisoners, snipers, bombers, warriors, even the putrid carca.s.ses of Clan Pestilens plague monks were all on display. Only one thing kept his mounting terror from becoming complete. There were no grey seers among Huskk's collection. The heretic hadn't descended so far down the path of blasphemy that he would pit himself against a prophet of the Horned Rat.

The observation put steel into Nashrik's spine. The grey seer straightened his posture, glowering down at the absurd little carca.s.s of a sorcerer. Why, his body looked brittle enough to break in two with the merest exertion of magical energy! And this ridiculous thing thought it could defy the Council!

"I have come here to squeak-speak of tribute and surrender," Nashrik said. "Not listen to a heretic scare-boast!"

Huskk nodded his head, a disgustingly human gesture. "We will listen to your offer."

Nashrik lashed his tail in annoyance. The maggot thought he could haggle! "All-all warpstone and all-all slaves," he told Huskk. "If there is much-much, I may tell Seerlord Kritislik I could not sniff out your scent."

The dry crackle of Huskk's laughter crawled through the chamber. "You make-take mistake," he said. "We do not discuss our surrender. We speak of yours."

The grey seer's fangs pulled back in a savage snarl. The impudence of the filthy little grave robber! "I am a grey seer, not some slinking murderer dispatched by one of the lesser clans! I have an entire army encamped on your threshold! My magic could crush out your miserable life like a flea!"

Huskk's chittering laughter sounded once more. "We have dealt with grey seers before," he hissed. "They usually invoke the Horned One when they make their threat-speak. In the past, we have found it good-wise to kill them out of hand. Some things serve us better when they are dead."

As he spoke, the Black Seer's eyes began to glow with a ghoulish light. The chamber grew chill, turning Nashrik's breath into frost. The grey seer's fur crawled as he sensed a presence behind him. Springing to the side, he nudged the warpstone sliver with his tongue, preparing to grind it between his fangs and use its energies to power an escape spell. What he saw made Nashrik vent his glands and spit out the chunk of warpstone in his mouth as a sensation of pure terror wracked his body.

There were figures standing between himself and the entrance to the chamber, shadows that had not been there before. There was a spectral glow about the things, illuminating their fleshless skulls and skeletal limbs. Dark robes fluttered in tatters about the ghostly figures, swaying in a phantom wind. Nashrik could not decide what was the most hideous thing about them, whether it was the fact that he could see right through their translucent bodies or the impression that each of the horned wraiths had been a grey seer when they had been alive.

"Seerlord Kurzch came to kill-slay with an army four times as big as yours," Huskk cackled, gesturing at one of the wraiths. "Grey Seer Fugrat and Grey Seer Ma.s.slitch were sent together in hopes that their combined magic would be enough to overwhelm us. Grey Seer Prazhakk led a horde of ravening rat-beasts bred in the deepest reaches of h.e.l.l Pit."

Nashrik had lost all of his surety now. The grey seer winced at Huskk's every word, his eyes darting to the floor in search of the sliver of warpstone he had spat out. It was proving unspeakably difficult to spot.

"They were all sent by Seerlord Kritislik to destroy us," Huskk growled. "We should think he would have learned enough not to send an expedition weaker than those which came before." A chitter of amus.e.m.e.nt slithered past Huskk's fangs. "Unless, of course, he want-like Nashrik to fail."

The grey seer looked up from his frantic inspection of the floor. Huskk's words stabbed into him like the edge of a dagger. The heretic vermin was right! It didn't make sense that Kritislik would send a force weaker than the others! The seerlord had intended that he should fail, had planned for Huskk to annihilate Nashrik!

Nashrik gnashed his teeth. The paranoid Seerlord Kritislik must have learned of Nashrik's meetings with Seerlord Tisqueek and his part in helping Tisqueek's ambitions of becoming the seerlord and master of the order of Grey Seers! The scheming Kritislik had his spies everywhere, sniffing about for any hint of disloyalty, even among his most faithful servants. So, this was Kritislik's way of getting rid of him, sending him off to be killed by a half-insane necromancer!

"You were sent here to die-fail," Huskk stated, "but that does not-not need to be your fate-doom. We will accept your surrender-service if you offer tribute-gift."

The grey seer glared at the cadaverous Huskk. So that was what his messenger's words meant. The Black Seer wasn't offering surrender or tribute. He was demanding them! The arrogance of the heretical renegade! Who did he think he was to toy with a grey seer?

Nashrik looked over his shoulder, shuddering as he saw the spectral shapes of the other grey seers who had challenged Huskk. Ending up as one of the necromancer's pet wraiths didn't appeal to him.

"How may this most humble-loyal grey seer serve the great and mighty Huskk Gnawbone?" Nashrik whined, somehow managing not to choke on the words.

Huskk's eyes narrowed, his gaze boring into Nashrik's. "First we must decide-know if you are useful to us." The necromancer took a shuffling step closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell-say, have you learned the forbidden thirteenth ritual?"

Nashrik s.h.i.+vered when he heard the question. Among the grey seers, there were few who were allowed knowledge of the Horned Rat's most sacred magic. Many of the seerlords didn't even know the workings of the dreaded spell. Knowing the spell and its secrets was enough to earn a grey seer a slow and malingering death if he had not been instructed in its use by Seerlord Kritislik himself. Nashrik had stolen the spell from the grimoire of another grey seer named Sleekit. He had prided himself on the craft of such a theft because his victim wasn't supposed to know the spell either and so would never make mention of the crime.

Instinctively, Nashrik began to deny knowledge of the spell, but a tiny note of warning in the back of his mind made him bite his tongue. Clearly Huskk had need of such magic, a magic far different from his own morbid necromancy. That need would make Nashrik valuable to him, valuable enough, perhaps, to make the grey seer's a.s.sistance quite expensive. Besides, Nashrik had a feeling that if he told Huskk he didn't know the spell, he'd soon find himself among the necromancer's wraiths.

"I am versed in all the great rituals," Nashrik announced, his posture straightening as self-importance swelled his frame. "But my magic does not come cheap. I will need much-much warpstone. Ten slave-weight," Nashrik added, voicing the first large figure that popped into his head.

"We will gift-give a hundred slave-weight," Huskk said. His crackly laughter scratched across the chamber when he noticed the grey seer's eyes boggle. "We have much-much warpstone," Huskk told him. His claw dropped from the skull dangling about his neck and reached into a pouch tied to his belt. Nonchalantly, the necromancer withdrew a nugget of black warpstone as big as Nashrik's fist. "We do not need-want warpstone."

Nashrik shook himself, tearing his bulging eyes away from the warpstone in Huskk's hand. "Not want-take warpstone?" the grey seer muttered in disbelief. If the necromancer didn't want warpstone, then what did the creature want?

Again, Nashrik had the disturbing feeling that Huskk could read his mind. "We want-find greater power. Power that is lost-hid in the forest. You will help us find-take that power."

Nashrik's eyes strayed back to the nugget of warpstone. "Yes-yes," he agreed eagerly.

"Good-good," Huskk hissed. The Black Seer replaced the chunk of warpstone into its pouch. The necromancer's claw snapped and one of his zombie slaves shuffled forward. The loathsome creature held a large flask in its decayed hands. The Black Seer favoured Nashrik with a sly smile.

"Did your army eat much-much?" Huskk asked, a tone of withering mockery in his voice. "Capture-take food from our slaves?" The necromancer gestured and the zombie shambled forwards, offering the flask to Nashrik. "Drink," Huskk ordered. "This is antidote to our poison. We poison food of slave-meat, then they are sure to stay so they get antidote."

Nashrik's eyes went wide. He scrambled for the flask, eagerly draining its contents. It didn't occur to him until after he'd consumed half of the ruddy-hued liquid that the necromancer might have lied and what he was drinking was in fact the poison, not the antidote.

Huskk snapped his claws again and several more zombie skaven stepped from the darkness, their shoulders hunched beneath the weight of several large casks. Nashrik could tell from their scent that the casks held the same substance he had just drunk.

"More antidote for your army," Huskk said. "If you hurry-scurry, you might give it to them in time." The necromancer effected a disarmingly human-like shrug. "Live or die, they will still serve Huskk Gnawbone."

Grey Seer Nashrik shuddered as he heard the necromancer's words. For the first time he appreciated the evil of the creature he had formed an alliance with.

CHAPTER THREE.

Thalos felt every hair on his body standing on edge as Ywain led him through the forbidding fence of thorn bushes and malignant trees. There was an impression of brooding menace about the place, of hidden strength and terrible power. It became even more p.r.o.nounced when the spellweaver brought him into the blighted clearing. The rich yet barren soil was a thing the highborn had never seen before in all his travels through Athel Loren. The uncanny sight only increased his sense of dread.

Ywain watched her lover with a keen eye, waiting for the trickery of the pool to reach out to him. She was more on guard against its deceptions now than ever before, knowing that its power would grow once the Hour of Shadows fell upon Athel Loren. She worried that Thalos, unused to the pool's lure, would succ.u.mb to its pull. At the first sign of falling under the pool's spell, she would draw upon the forest's magic to break its hold upon him.

"So that is the Golden Pool," Thalos commented, forcing more humour into his voice than he felt. "It looks quite beautiful," he observed. "But I can't help thinking the forest would be better without such a thing nestled within its bosom."

It seemed strange to Ywain that Thalos should express such disquiet when every time she entered the clearing, her own first impression was one of serenity and desire. It took an effort to remind herself that the power contained within the pool was destructive and evil. How could Thalos be so unmoved by the pool's call, unless, perhaps, he was somehow immune to its lure?

Doubt crept into Ywain's heart. Was that why he was here? Was that why the Warden wanted him? For some reason Thalos was resistant to the pool's magic, but why was that important to the Warden? The threat to the forest was from without, not within. Huskk Gnawbone and Nahak, and the army they had gathered, were the danger. If they could be kept away from the poola Why did she love Thalos? As a spellweaver, as mistress of the Golden Pool, she knew that there could be only tragedy in such an affair. She could never make a true wife for Thalos, be his companion through all his days. The forest demanded her powers, exacted duty from her in exchange for her magic. She could not deny her obligation to Athel Loren, nor forsake her role as protector of the Golden Pool and servant of the Warden of the Wood. Only heartache and loneliness could come from loving anyone, much less an asrai highborn. She had accepted that, but what she had not been prepared to accept was the fact that Thalos would share in her pain.

She knew that the right thing was to set him free, to deny the longing of her heart. In time, Thalos would forget her. He would find someone else, someone who would make him a proper wife, bear him fine children and ensure the prosperity of the Stormwind kinband. Ywain knew that was the right thing to do, but she could not bring herself to do it. Whatever pain her love caused her, she was too weak to let it go. Even if clinging onto it would hurt Thalos.

"When do you think the Warden will show himself?" Thalos suddenly asked, snapping Ywain from her reverie.

"He won't," she told him. "The Warden never shows himself, even to me. I don't think any elf has ever seen him and if any of the fey have, they will not speak of what they saw."

"Yet you talk with him," objected Thalos. "Surely you have seen him."

Ywain shook her head. "I haven't even heard his voice." She pressed her hand against her temple. "He speaks to me here, projects thoughts into my mind."

Thalos stared at her in confusion. "If you have never seen the Warden or even heard his voice, why do you serve him?"

The spellweaver closed her eyes, considering his question. It was one she had asked herself many times. a.s.suming the role of mistress of the Golden Pool, communing with the Warden, these were things that had set her apart from her fellow spellweavers and spellsingers, made her almost an outcast among her own people.

"He is old and wise," she answered. "Older and wiser than elves or treemen or dryads. He was here before the Oak of Ages, he was here when there was no forest and the Grey Mountains looked out across a great sea. His time was before anything we know, before anything we could understand."

"The last survivor of a forgotten age," Thalos whispered in awe. "Lingering in the shadows until his time is over."

"Or perhaps waiting for his time to come again," Ywain said.

A glimmer of light caught her notice, s.h.i.+ning from the edge of the clearing. Thalos noticed it too, striding over the black soil towards the far side of the clearing. He motioned for Ywain to keep back, but the spellweaver could not be restrained. There was a haunting familiarity about the way whatever it was had sparkled in the sunlight.

"A sword!" Thalos exclaimed, staring down at the source of the s.h.i.+ne. It was a long, slender blade, crafted in the style of the asrai. Just looking at it, Thalos could appreciate the delicate balance of the curved hilt and the leaf-shaped blade. This was the work of a master swordsmith, beyond anything he had ever seen, even in the halls of the mightiest elf lords. The hilt had been fas.h.i.+oned from heartwood, smoothed and polished to a mirror-like sheen. The grip was studded with tiny nodules of wood to provide a tight hold in the swordsman's hand.

The blade itself was the strangest thing. It wasn't forged from any metal Thalos had ever seen. Instead, it seemed composed of gemstone, a gla.s.slike substance possessed of an orange-brown-yellow colouring. The blade was somewhat translucent, the roots supporting the sword visible behind the leaf-shaped edge.

Ywain gasped when she saw the sword. She knew where that blade had come from, the only place such a blade could have come from. It was amber, drawn from the Golden Pool!

Thalos reached down to remove the blade from the strange knot of roots which held it above the ground. A feeling of unexplainable fear flashed through Ywain. She started to call out to her lover, but reason stilled her tongue. There was only one being who could have made such a sword, certainly only one being who would have left it for them to find near the Golden Pool. The meaning was clear. The Warden wanted Thalos to have this sword.

"Dawnblade," Thalos said, reading the inscription carved across the guard in graceful Eltharin script. He tested the balance of the sword, finding it far lighter than he had expected. It didn't feel like a sword at all. The highborn smiled. It felt more like a piece of himself, something that should always have been in his hand. "The way my fingers wrap about the hilt, you would think it had been made just for me."

"It was," Ywain told him.

Thalos turned around, laughing at her. "That is ridiculous! It would take years to make such a sword!"

"Take a closer look at the inscription," Ywain advised him.

"The letters are freshly carved," Thalos said. "There is even a bead of sap inside one of them."

"This is why the Warden wanted you to come," Ywain told him. "He made this sword for you. He wants you to aid me in destroying the enemies of the forest."

Thalos scowled, staring distastefully at the Dawnblade. "Does the Warden think I am such a churl that it needs gifts to remind me of my obligation to Athel Loren?"

"No," Ywain said, thinking back to the Warden's words. "But he said you would need this weapon to overcome the corruption which threatens the forest." She could still see wounded pride on the highborn's face. "No warrior is stronger than the blade he wields."

Thalos nodded his head. Testing the balance of the Dawnblade once more, he thrust the sword beneath his belt. "Warden of the Wood!" he called out. "If you can hear me, know that I thank you for this gift! You may depend upon me, depend upon my kinband to defend Athel Loren to our last breath!" He studied the imposing wall of trees and thorns which guarded the clearing, waiting for any kind of response.

At last there came a flurry of motion. Bushes uprooted themselves and shuffled closer to the trees, opening a path through the fence. Thalos waited, expecting to see the Warden itself come striding down the path, to acknowledge the elf's grat.i.tude.

Long minutes pa.s.sed, but nothing stirred upon the path. Thalos spun about in surprise when Ywain's cool hand pressed against his cheek.

"It is time for you to go," she told him. "You must gather your kinband and prepare them for battle. The enemy will soon be upon us."

Thalos closed his hand around Ywain's fingers. "What of you?" he asked. "Where will you go?"

Ywain laughed, touched by this display of concern. "I won't try to face Huskk Gnawbone alone," she a.s.sured him. "But I must commune with the Warden again, learn if he can tell me anything more about the enemy's plans. I think he will speak to me when you have gone."

"Then I make my departure," Thalos said. "Isha watch over you, mistress of the Golden Pool."

The spellweaver watched the highborn stride down the path, watched as the bushes closed ranks behind him. She watched until long after even the sound of his footsteps was lost to her. Leave the fighting to others.

"I knew you were here," Ywain said. "Watching from behind your thorns and brambles."

He will die, but he will save the forest.

Ywain's hands tightened into fists. "He will not die," she hissed. "I won't let him. I will be at his side when the fighting begins."

Evil calls out to evil.

Tears rolled down the spellweaver's cheeks. "I can't abandon him, whatever doom you have foreseen." Ywain stared at the fence, imploring the thing hidden beyond it to help her. Perhaps it couldn't feel the same emotions she did, but maybe it could understand them. Maybe it could pity her plight.

Seek out Daithru. Stir him from his sleep. Tell him it is the Hour of Shadows.

"Thank you," Ywain said. "I will find him at once!"

Thank Daithru, for it is he who will suffer.