Chapter 80
My right hand gripped the hilt of a long Norscan backsword, which a Dwarf slave had sharpened to an unprecedented keenness.
"Leave the Minotaur to me," said a cold, rough voice, in which the last sparks of femininity were nevertheless still discernible. "I do not care about the rest, but I must take the Minotaur's head."
"Akhar, father of axes on the Brass Throne..." sounded from the other side of me in Norscan.
"O Khaine, just open the gates already! The stench of the savages has started to make me nauseous," a Druchii aristocrat complained somewhere to the right.
"Think of the scent of near prey, brother," replied a handmaiden of Anath Raema, armed with a jagged spear and a short but powerful bow.
"Every life is sacred, but these creatures should be exterminated..." mumbled Findil of Loren under his breath.
The junkie elf looked better than at our last meeting, but his extremely dilated pupils were very striking.
Finally, the familiar metallic rustling of well-greased chains rang out. The doors of the arena's gargantuan gates began to open before us. In the circle of blood-soaked sand, a herd of Beastmen awaited our small detachment. Almost seventy petty Ungors, about twenty Bestigors, and a one-horned Minotaur with barely healed scars on its muzzle. It seemed the Beastmaster Scourgerunners had not stood on ceremony with it when it was delivered here. The beasts had no armor. Not even helmets. The horned ones had been brought here for slaughter, and the spectators wanted to see maximum bloodshed.
The enemies were, however, provided with weapons. They consisted of a hodgepodge from the melee arsenals of various nations. Norscan axes, Orc choppas, Skaven shivs, Goblin spears, and clubs of not entirely clear origin. Everything was dirty and partially broken. Yet even so, the beasts were dangerous. There were many of them, and they had nothing to lose.
Our small detachment stepped through the gates onto the arena. A Sister of Slaughter—a representative of one of the most famous Druchii gladiator guilds; an impoverished warrior-aristocrat in search of glory; a handmaiden of Anath Raema; a junkie elf from distant Loren; and two Norscans. Not at all the company an honest citizen of Sigmar's Empire would want to meet late at night on the street.
(Typical combat gear of the Sisters of Slaughter)
"Blood for the Blood God!" the Norscan yelled and rushed into the attack ahead of the others, brandishing two axes. "Skulls for the Skull Throne!"
"A loathsome creature," Loom-Pia commented on his behavior.
The detachment followed the Chaosite, stretching across the front at the same time. There was no point in moving in a tight formation. There were too many enemies, and we had too little armor and shields. However, we surpassed the beasts in individual skill. It was precisely because of this that there was every chance of victory.
"Raaaaaaa!" the Norscan literally hacked into the herd of Beastmen.
With one axe, he parried a spear aimed at him, and with the other, he nearly severed an Ungor's scrawny little arm. He was immediately attacked by other Beastmen. The berserker tried to dodge while simultaneously working his axes. However, there were too many Beastmen. The Norscan would have been sent to Khorne right then and there, but several accurately fired arrows thinned out the horned ones. This was the work of the junkie elf.
By that time, I had reached the other edge of the herd. Having deflected a small spear thrown at me with my spiked shield, I immediately did not regret coming onto the arena with a backsword. Although the sword did not possess the striking power of Hargan's axe, it was noticeably lighter, and the length of the blade allowed me to reach opponents at a decent distance. The very first strike landed on the bend of a Bestigor's massive paw. Blood splattered in all directions. The wounded Beastman roared, trying to clout me with a club in its left hand. I shifted just a couple of centimeters to the right, letting the blow pass by.
"Hey-ah!"
And along with this cry, a crack rang out. A whip with a sharp, hooked blade at the end tore a piece out of the Bestigor's neck. This was the Sister of Slaughter in action. She was loitering somewhere nearby. I, meanwhile, switched to the next representative of the large-horned cattle. I gifted another Bestigor with a slashing blow to the muzzle. This, of course, was not enough. Unlike Hargan's axe, the backsword could not easily crush bones. I had to finish it off with several more strikes.
No matter. The Murderous Prowess bar will fill up now, and then the process will get moving!
Roars, screams, and moans merged into a single hum. The ugly muzzles and faces of Ungors flickered before me. Humanoid, but twisted by Chaos. Narrow, deformed foreheads, tiny or, conversely, bulging little eyes, and skin covered in patches of fur. I hacked them without any pity. Every new strike became stronger, charged with bloody rage. And when they ceased resisting, I continued the carnage anyway. I did not even count the corpses. I simply minced and shredded as long as a single living piece of Chaosite goat-flesh remained nearby.
It was, one might say, a meditative process.
After who the hell knows how many seconds and strikes, the herd of Beastmen began to scatter. A pathetic end for pathetic creatures.
Only the Minotaur did not fall into a panic. The one-horned monster was too vicious and stupid for that.
The sound of a whip, and then the screams of the spectators from the stands. The Sister of Slaughter began to turn the Minotaur into a beef steak. The spiked whip tore chunks of flesh from the monster's carcass, but the elf could not kill the big guy quickly. There was too much meat and bone surrounding the monster's vital organs.
However, the bull was doomed. Its clumsy, sweeping blows with a great axe—likely once belonging to an Orc Warboss—only kicked up dust from the arena's floor. The Sister of Slaughter easily eluded them, shifting to the side and punishing her victim again with a dose of new pain.
I cast aside the spiked shield. Pulling the Dawi Zharr dagger from my belt, I commanded:
"Go!"
The Ash Whip lashed around the Minotaur's neck and jerked it toward me. This spell easily lifted small opponents into the air, and it dragged the big bull-creature toward me as if on a leash. The Dawi Zharr magic also strangled the one-horned Beastman.
"Scum!" the elf's voice rang out, full of malice. "He is mine!"
The Sister of Slaughter tried to coil her spiked whip around the Minotaur's neck, but the magic of the Ash Whip acted as a barrier. I jerked the dagger toward myself. The whip pulled the Minotaur sharply. The wounded bull, whose eyes turned bloodshot from lack of oxygen, stumbled and fell before me. Hurling the Dawi Zharr dagger into its back, I gripped the backsword with both hands and...
The strike turned out to be a nine out of ten. I hacked at the spine just below the neck. The Minotaur's backbone did not withstand my strength and the blade's fine edge.
"Noooooo!" a scream full of malice and rage erupted from the Sister of Slaughter.
It felt as if something more than a desire to kill each other connected her and the Minotaur. But I will not overthink it.
I managed to take the Dawi Zharr dagger from the dying Minotaur before the rage-filled elf jumped toward me. Two entirely black eyes glittered with hatred behind the mask.
However, I also looked threatening. The Murderous Prowess was full, and a scarlet-crimson shimmer surrounded me. My reactions were at their peak now. I could even dance with a Sister of Slaughter.
She stood opposite me, covered in the blood of Beastmen. In one hand was a spiked whip, in the other a small shield with hooks on the edge.
"Be! You! Cursed!" she wailed and, turning sharply, rushed away.
A moment later, her whip coiled around the neck of the Khornite Norscan, who was just trying to saw off the head of a dead Bestigor. He didn't make it. The elf jerked the whip toward herself with her whole body. The spikes tore the flesh from the Norscan's neck. Blood gushed impressively. The Northman staggered and fell under the cries of the crowd, while the elf hurried to depart in frustrated feelings.
I do not think she was afraid of me. It was about the Iron Edict. I am also written into it. Going against the will of a Drachau is fraught with danger even for a powerful gladiator guild like the Sisters of Slaughter.
"A maximally favorable result for such foolish entertainments," Loom-Pia delivered his verdict. "All creatures of Chaos and that enslaved human are destroyed. This is good. If the elven creatures always acted in such a manner, their existence would be partially justified."
"Glorious hunt! Glorious hunt!" chanted the handmaiden of Anath Raema, sending arrow after arrow into the last of the scattering Ungors.
I was too lazy to chase after these small fry and, having absorbed the Murderous Prowess charges, I headed back into the arena's dungeons. There, the familiar company of pointy-ears already awaited me.
"Good work, Jurg," Khemor said condescendingly, stroking a black-and-red snake with his left hand as it coiled in rings around his right. "Few believed that you would manage to snatch the main trophy from the hands of an arena star. The bets will bring us thousands of gold."
"And we want to receive our share as soon as possible," noted Liandra, who stood surrounded by several Druchii Spearmen—her new guard.
The Drachau had provided us with the Iron Edict, but not gold coins. Therefore, it was possible to earn a little before the expedition. In addition to the Edict, Venil had provided Liandra with a squad of bodyguards led by a trusted knight. Unfortunately (or fortunately), these guys would only guard us in Clar Karond and on the way out of here. They will not go underground with us. We will have to rely on our own strength. It was these future forces that Liandra and I discussed after leaving the arena.
"We have three shades, a Skink, and a Kroxigor," I listed. "Is that enough? It is difficult for me to estimate what forces will be required for the march in the absence of exact information about our goals."
We spoke in Norscan, but the guards walking behind us could theoretically know the language of the Northmen. The most important questions would need to be discussed in private.
"Any march to the Underworld Sea is a great risk. We will head toward Karag Karaz. There we will buy maps and enlist the support of one of the local Corsairs. By water, we can reach the necessary tunnel system. The Corsairs are unlikely to follow us. Further on, we will have to rely on our own strength."
"And that strength needs to be bolstered."
The elf nodded and then said:
"This evening we will go to the Temple of Khaine. To where the Cult of Witch Elves runs things."
"Seriously?" I chuckled. "Has your back healed, and you want to give them a chance for a rematch?"
"Of course not. I am counting on their help."
"After you broke the spine of one of them?"
"Witch Elves are evil, cruel, and vengeful, but they have a sense of pride. I passed the trial. I did it publicly. They have a choice—to still consider us enemies but restrain their rage because of the Iron Edict, or to recognize that Khaine favors us. I believe they have chosen the latter. This morning I received an invitation from them."
Oh, these Druchii customs. From love to hate is one step, and it works the other way too. Just the day before yesterday, we were hunted outcasts, and now we are guests in the palace of a local lord.
Liandra went to count the profit earned on the bets, while the table was already being set for me. The local guard did not allow Bone-Gnawer to leave the special quarters for pets, but Tezal was permitted to serve me right in the palace.
"Good ingredients," the Skink said, munching on seafood on the opposite side of the table. "But too much processing by fire and no insects at all. This is disappointing."
But the absence of insects did not disappoint me one bit.
"Did you do what I asked you?"
"Of course, Commander Jurg. The slaves in the citadel of the elven creatures are numerous. They have their own quarters. Separate corridors for delivering food or taking out trash. I walked there. I looked. I did not notice other kin. Only warm-bloods. I do not understand the language, but the slaves are very frightened. They speak very little."
Tezal, on the other hand, spoke a great deal. His generally logical but very jumpy story, leaping from theme to theme, was an excellent podcast for lunch. The Skink concluded his speech with a question:
"Will we soon leave the lair of the elven creatures and set off to fulfill the will of the Old Ones, Commander Jurg?"
"We will leave this lair soon, and then we will see based on the situation."
The Underworld Sea...
A huge network of caves that stretches from here to the most forgotten corners of the world. Perhaps this place will be the ideal opportunity to say goodbye to Liandra. She will get her artifact, and I will clear out as far away as possible. The elf will not like this idea, of course, but I can create conditions in which she will have no other choice. If, say, we reach a Dwarf Karak...
Though more likely we will come across Goblin caves or Skaven burrows. However, if I manage to track down Dwarfs and explain to them that I am not a Chaosite, then there are chances of getting back to the lands of men again.
Bold plans, but a great deal will depend on the preparation and what we encounter underground.
After lunch, I managed to talk briefly with Liandra practically tête-à-tête. We talked on one of the tower's wide balconies, while the guard watched us from a distance of several dozen meters. The wind carried our words away. If we spoke quietly, it would be difficult for the guards to make out the speech, even considering the sharp hearing of elves.
"They follow on my heels almost everywhere," Liandra commented. "At night, two knights stand duty at my doors, and when I want to bathe, Venil sends his trusted women to 'help'."
"He seems to seriously fear that someone will kill a representative of the Black Guard on his territory."
"Yes. My blood is now like a most dangerous poison. Great troubles threaten the house where it is spilled."
On the one hand, this is good. On the other, I myself would not mind standing guard at Liandra's bedroom, and even better, inside. However, now she is always under the supervision of several guards.
"Our main goal is a certain artifact," I spoke again of the expedition. "What is it and what guards it?"
"A metal cylinder. Likely a case for a scroll. I saw it but could not approach. It lies in the ruins of an ancient temple that somehow went underground. The entity that attacked us had no physical incarnation. Darkness, whispers, illusions. Warriors went mad and turned against each other. That is precisely why the expedition suffered defeat. Not the blades of enemies, but our own steel destroyed us."
"Only magic? No manifested Daemons or rising Undead?"
Liandra nodded.
"You will manage, Gil. Neither the sorcery of Chaos nor the charms of the Khainites managed to overcome you. You will simply walk in and take the object."
Simply walk in and take it? Well, how else? A twenty-minute adventure. In and out.
"For an underground journey, we will need the help of some of the Dwarfs," I said.
"That could be problematic, Gil. You saw them, didn't you? A stubborn, narrow-minded race. It is difficult to get obedience from them, and Dwarfs born in captivity are very expensive."
"How fortunate that we earned so much at the arena," I smiled. "We need a specialist in mining. Without one, we may simply not reach the sought artifact."
"We will look for someone at the market tomorrow," the elf agreed reluctantly. "But today we should visit the Witch Elves."
"Fine. I hope this time we can manage without bloodshed."
"We won't," Liandra countered with a smile. "Blood always flows on the altars of Khaine."
We headed to the Temple of Khaine toward evening. This large building with a giant dome was located near the Drachau's tower. A heavily thinned crowd of pointy-ears was just leaving the temple. There were many elves here, but despite the lack of space, they tried to keep at some distance from each other. They fear getting a dagger strike in the crush.
We had to wait for the elves to disperse before approaching the temple's gloomy gates. Jagged blades covered the black metal. Likely, during particularly "joyful" holidays, they hang tortured victims or their collected heads right here.
"Mordrim, how pleasant to see that you have accepted our invitation," Evil-Lyn herself stood on the threshold of the temple.
Applause for Druchii medicine. They quickly put her on her feet—she who not long ago could barely move.
"And it is pleasant for me to see you, Mistress Evil-Lyn," Liandra replied with a slight bow. "I hope our disagreements are in the past."
"Disagreements?" the white-haired witch chuckled. "There were no disagreements between us, girl. I am an instrument of our beloved Khaela Mensha Khaine. He was testing you with my hands. You stood firm."
Yeah. Stood firm and laid you out, witch. Pointy-ears, of course, know how to put a good face on a bad game. However, Liandra seemed to be not against making peace with the Cult of Khaine.
"You are right, Mistress Evil-Lyn. I passed this trial only by his will and am now seeking the help of Khaela Mensha Khaine."
"You shall have it," the witch replied authoritatively. "You both shall have it. Welcome to the house of bloodshed."