Warhammer - The Cold Hand of Betrayal Read online

  THIS IS A DARK age, a bloody age, an age of daemons

  and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the

  world's ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury

  it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds

  and great courage.

  AT THE HEART of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the

  largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for

  its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is

  a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests

  and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns

  the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the

  founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder

  of his magical warhammer.

  BUT THESE ARE far from civilised times. Across the length

  and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces

  of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come

  rumblings of war. In the towering World's Edge Mountains,

  the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and

  renegades harry the wild southern lands of

  the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the

  skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the

  land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the

  ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen

  corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

  As the time of battle draws ever

  near, the Empire needs heroes

  like never before.

  Contents

  Kinstrife by Graham McNeill

  Small Mercy by Richard Ford

  Perfect Assassin by Nick Kyme

  Sickhouse by CL Werner

  In the Service of Sigmar by Adam Troke

  Blood and Sand by Matt Ralphs

  Son of the Empire by Robert Allan

  The Deamon's Gift by Robert Baumg

  Death's Cold Kiss by Steven Savile

  KINSTRIFE

  by Graham McNeill

  I

  NAGGAROTH

  THE SLEEK, EAGLE-PROWED vessel travelled along the river without a sound, slicing the dark water as the high elf crew rowed with smooth, rhythmic sweeps of their oars. The silver hull barely reflected on the slate-coloured water and an acrid sulphurous stench was carried on the yellow fog that hugged its black surface.

  The vessels sails were folded away and the mast lowered to avoid the dark, clawing branches of the trees that pressed in on either side of the river, and even though the orb of the sun had yet to reach its zenith, the weak light it cast over the Land of Chill barely penetrated the thick, jagged canopy.

  Standing at the prow of the vessel, a tall, long-limbed elf with silver-gold hair bound by a bronze circlet watched the route ahead as the river turned in a lazy bend. In one hand he carried a long, gracefully curved bow inlaid with gold and looped with silver wire, while his other gripped the hilt of a slender, leaf-bladed sword. He wore a sky blue tunic embroidered with a golden horse, beneath which was a glimmering shirt of ithilmar mail. His features were smooth and his face oval, his eyes dark and hooded - almost without whites.

  The elf leaned over the side of the boat, trying to see the riverbed through the swirling black water, but he quickly gave up.

  'What depth do we have?' he asked, without turning.

  'Perhaps three fathoms, Lord Eldain, maybe less.' replied one of the vessel's crew, who knelt a respectful distance behind the tall elf, a weighted sounding line playing out into the water. 'I do not believe we will reach much further up the river than this. I would humbly suggest that we tie up at the bank soon.'

  Eldain nodded, turning and marching back down the deck of the shallow-bottomed ship, before nodding to the steersman at the stern to make for the shore. He heard the rush of water as the ship altered course and stared into the ghostly, dark trees that loomed over the river, wondering what catastrophe had befallen this realm to transform it into this bleak, dead landscape.

  The ship drew near the bank, and Eldain switched his gaze from the haunted forest to the obsidian surface of the water and the rippling wake that spread in a V from the ships stern. A dozen more vessels, high prowed and graceful as swans, with hulls of silver and white followed his own, arcing gracefully towards the northern riverbank. Riding high on the prow of the following boat was the imposing figure of Caelir, clad in an exquisitely tailored tunic of scarlet and vermillion, the subtleties of the different colours almost indistinguishable. Trust his brother to wear something best suited to the court of Lothern while hundreds of miles from home on a desperately dangerous raid into the realm of the druchii.

  Sensing his brother's scrutiny, Caelir drew his sword and held it above his head, but Eldain did not return the gesture, instead turning to face the approaching bank. Thick bracken and tangled roots reached into the water, and as the ship drew near he leapt gracefully onto the black soil of Naggaroth.

  Even through his fine, hand-made boots, Eldain could feel the icy cold of this land, a chill that was not simply of the climate, but of the soul. The evil that had been plotted on this dark land arose from the earth, as though the land sought to expel it... or spread its taint yet further.

  Eldain shivered and nocked an arrow to his bow as his vessel's crew swiftly began disembarking and tying up the ship. He scanned the darkened undergrowth and the dead forest for enemies, but there was nothing, no shred of movement nor breath of life.

  Dank mist coiled at the base of wretched, black trees that crowded his vision in all directions, and the ashen ground was strewn with jagged rocks and thorny brush that gathered in vile clumps across this blasted forest landscape. Truly this place was a vision of utter desolation. To an elf of Ellyrion, one of the Inner Kingdoms of Ulthuan blessed with bountiful forests brimming with life and magical fecundity, this dismal place was anathema.

  Elven shadow warriors, grey-clad scouts who moved like ghosts, slipped past him, fanning out into the black forest with swords or bows at the ready. He relaxed his own bowstring and slipped the arrow back in his quiver, satisfied that nothing could now approach their landing place without the scouts knowing about it.

  'It is a grand adventure we are on, is it not, brother?' asked a young and energised voice behind him, and he turned to face Caelir. His younger brother was roguishly handsome, with boyish good looks and a mischievous, infectious grin that had seen him out of more scrapes than his considerable skill with a blade.

  'The land of the druchii is not one of adventure, brother.' cautioned Eldain, though he knew it would do nothing to dampen Caelir's spirits. 'Not since Eltharion have high elves raided Naggaroth and returned alive. It is a land of death, torment and suffering.'

  Caelir smiled and said, 'It is that, but soon it will be so for our enemies, yes?'

  'If all goes to plan and we don't end up like Eltharion; tortured, blinded and driven to madness in the dungeons of the Witch King.'

  'Ah, but it isyour plan, brother.' laughed Caelir, 'and I have faith in you. You were always better at planning things than I.'

  Eldain bit back an angry retort and moved further down the riverbank where the ships' masters were efficiently and, more importantly, quietly disembarking their passengers. High elf Ellyrion reavers, resplendent in light mail shirts and cream tunics, swiftly formed a perimeter around the ships as the crews led their magnificent elven steeds onto dry land. The steeds could also sense the darkness in this place, and their high whinnies spoke to him of their unease at being here.

  He felt his brother join him,
and his irritation rose as Caelir ran forward to vault onto the back of Aedaris, a grey mare he had raised from a foal. The steed reared and kicked the air, glad to have its companion upon its back after the long sea journey from Ulthuan.

  Despite himself, Eldain smiled as he saw an elven crewman lead Lotharin down the carved gangplank, patting the black stallion's muscled flanks as the animal tossed its mane in displeasure.

  'I know, I know.' whispered Eldain. 'I too wish nothing more than to be away from this dark place, but we are here and we have a mission to fulfil.'

  Like Caelir, Eldain had nurtured his steed from a newborn and raised it as his faithful companion. Where the barbarous humans would beat a horse and break its spirit in order to ride it, the elves of the kingdom of Ellyrion devoted their lives to building a bond of trust between rider and steed. To do any less was unthinkable.

  Of all the Inner Kingdoms of Ulthuan, Ellyrion was the most beautiful. Of course Eldain knew that an elf from Caledor or Avelorn would say the same thing, but they had not lived their lives in balmy eternal summers, nor ridden a fine Ellyrion steed the length and breadth of the land with the cool wind in their hair. They had not climbed the high, marble peaks of the Annulii, nor galloped along the spine of mountains while chasing a shining storm of raw magic.

  The smile faded from Eldain's lips as he glanced over at his brother - who laughed and joked with the other warriors - and tried to recall the last time he had done such things. He pushed the thought from his mind as he checked his steed for any signs of ill effects from the journey, but the ship's crew had taken great care to ensure that the horses arrived in Naggaroth able to do all that would be asked of them.

  Eldain swung onto the back of Lotharin, relishing being on horseback after so long at sea. To ride a creature such as this was an honour, and though black steeds were often seen as beasts of ill-omen amongst the high elves, Eldain would sooner cut off his own arm than choose another mount.

  Caelir rode alongside him as the remainder of their force mounted up, a hundred warriors in all, lightly armoured for speed, and armed with bows and light throwing spears.

  'Well, brother are we ready?' asked Caelir, and Eldain could hear the anticipation in his brother's voice.

  'We will know soon enough.' said Eldain as one of the shadow warriors slid from the mists enveloping the dark trunks of the black forest.

  Eldain considered himself an agile figure, having attended some of the most elaborate masquerades and balls Tor Elyr and Lothern had to offer, performing graceful dances beyond the ability of elves a century younger than he, but this warrior moved as though his feet did not so much touch the ground as float above it. His grey cloak was the colour of woven mist, its fabric shimmering in the pale light and the hood drawn up over his face to shroud his features in darkness.

  'The way ahead is clear, Lord Eldain.' said the scout.

  'Good.' nodded Eldain. 'Three of your warriors will guide us towards Clar Karond while the rest will remain here to guard our ships.'

  'Very good, my lord.'

  'The warriors who will accompany us.' said Eldain, 'can they keep up with us on foot or will they require mounts?'

  The scout nodded slowly and said, 'they can keep up with you on foot, my lord.' Eldain thought he detected a hint of amusement in the scout's tone. The warrior turned away, and at some unseen signal, the remainder of the scouts emerged soundlessly from the cover of the trees.

  'It has been too long since you rode to battle, brother.' said Caelir, leaning close and whispering so that none but Eldain could hear his words.

  'What do you mean?' asked Eldain.

  'The shadow warriors.' said Caelir. 'I'd wager they could reach Clar Karond and be back at our ships before we were even halfway there.'

  'Yes, you are probably right.' agreed Eldain, thinking how foolish a question it had been. 'Still it does no harm to check these things. One must never assume anything, especially in war, doubly so when the battle is against the druchii.'

  'You forget, brother, you and father are not the only warriors of our family to have fought the druchii.' said Caelir, holding up his burned hand. 'I too have spilled their blood, remember?'

  Eldain remembered all too well. The memory, and the sight of Rhianna's silver pledge ring on Caelir's scarred finger, brought a sour taste to his throat.

  II

  ULTHUAN - One year ago

  'SIT HIGH IN the saddle,' said Caelir. 'Let her enjoy the ride too. You're not trying to master her, you're trying to share the experience with her.'

  'I'm trying, but she wants to run too fast,' said Rhianna. 'I am afraid I'll fall.'

  Caelir smiled as Aedaris cantered in a circle around him, knowing the horse was just playing with the elf-maid who rode upon her back.

  'She would never allow you to fall,' said Caelir as Aedaris picked up the pace, and Rhianna let out a squeal of delicious fear and excitement. The mare ran with her head held proudly, and Caelir knew she was showing off to Rhianna's own steed, a fine, silver gelding from Saphery, named Orsien. The gelding's dappled flanks glittered and he had a haughty gleam of intelligence in his pale green eyes, but Aedaris was easily the more powerful animal.

  'Are you sure?' asked Rhianna, and Caelir laughed as he saw her relax into the horse's motion, moving in time with her rhythm and getting the measure of her temperament.

  'Very sure,' nodded Caelir. 'She likes you, I can tell.'

  'Then I truly know I am welcome in the kingdom of Ellyrion if their horses accept me.'

  Caelir smiled, but said nothing, content to watch Rhianna circling him on the back of Aedaris and enjoying the sight of two beautiful creatures revelling in the bright afternoon sunshine. Rhianna's long golden hair fanned out behind her as she rode, a stream of honey in the air, and her white gown rippled like the tall banners of the silver helms.

  Her features were delicate, but had great strength in them, her almond shaped eyes like dark pools with a hint of gold. She was beautiful, and Caelir longed to touch her, to feel the softness of her hair and the marble smoothness of her skin against his own. He kept such thoughts to himself, for Rhianna was not his woman to have such desires about.

  The households of Caelir and Rhianna had been close allies for centuries, and both their fathers had fought alongside the Phoenix King in his wars with the druchii, the dark kin of the elves. Rhianna's father was a mage of great power who lived in a floating citadel in Saphery, a wondrous palace bedecked in luscious flora from all across the Old World. Caelir's own sire was one of the mightiest horselords of Ellyrion, riders and warriors without compare, but a year ago, a druchii assassin's envenomed blade had put paid to his lordship's rule over his domain, leaving him paralysed and in constant pain. While the poison ravaged him, Caelir's brother, Eldain, had taken up the mantle of protecting their lands.

  Rhianna laughed as the steed slowed its gallop and began to thread a nimble-footed path through the rocks, once more showing off its skill. Caelir walked towards them, enjoying the sound of her laugher. It had been too long since the halls of his family's villa in Tor Elyr had echoed to such a sound. The summer sunshine did not fill the wide, terrazzo halls for the discomfort it would cause his father, and the happy sound of song and dance no longer drew revellers from nearby villas for feasts and merrymaking.

  'Is something wrong?' asked Rhianna.

  'No.' said Caelir. 'Why do you ask?'

  'A shadow passed across your face.'

  Caelir shook his head and let Aedaris nuzzle him. Reaching up to rub behind the horse's ears, he whispered, 'You are a princess amongst steeds, my friend, but you don't need to show off for my benefit.'

  The steed whinnied and tossed her mane, pleased to have made her friend proud, and Rhianna dismounted and ran her hands through her golden hair. Caelir patted his horse's neck, watching as the magnificent steed cantered towards Rhianna's gelding. Truly it was a good day to be alive, thought Caelir, tilting his head back and letting the morning sunshine bathe him in warmth.
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  The heat reflected from the white rocks of the Annulii Mountains, powdered fragments of quartz glittering and making the high peaks shine with a dazzling light. Whipping vortices of magical light were tantalisingly visible through the passes, and this high in the mountains, Caelir could feel the power of that magic as a pounding heat in his veins.

  Rhianna reached up and placed her palm against his cheek, and he blushed at the feelings it stirred within him.

  'Are you sure nothing troubles you?' she asked.

  'Yes.' nodded Caelir, turning away. 'I'm fine. Don't worry.'

  'You looked very serious there.' said Rhianna, 'like your brother.'

  Caelir felt his jaw clench, uncomfortable with the mention of Eldain. Though his brother had made no betrothal pledge to Rhianna, and her father had offered no dowry, it was widely accepted by the nobles of Ulthuan that Eldain would wed her within the decade.

  In an attempt to change the subject, he said, 'I was just thinking of my father and the revenge I will take on the druchii.'

  'I see.' said Rhianna. 'He is no better? I had hoped my father's magic would have helped clear his veins of the venom.'

  'No, and he grows weaker every day. The assassins of the dark ones brew potent poisons.' said Caelir, moving away from her to sit on the edge of the rocks and stare out over the expanse of Ulthuan laid before him.

  From this vantage point, high in the mountains, the rolling grasslands of Ellyrion were a vast, unbroken sward of green far below, and the sight of his homeland calmed Caelir's volatile spirits, as always. Home to the horselords of Ulthuan, great herds of elven steeds roamed the sweeping plains of Ellyrion, and the silver ribbon of the River Elyr snaked across the landscape towards the beautiful city of Tor Elyr before emptying into the bay of the Sea of Dusk.

  Built atop a series of verdant islands and sculpted from the living rock, Tor Elyr was a magnificent sight. There were a multitude of sweeping thoroughfares, and the villas and palaces were capped with tall towers of silver and gold. Colourful banners snapped in the breeze, and streamers of magic sparkled and foamed from the garrets of the city's wizards.