Tales of the Old World (77 page)

“That’s much better, isn’t it?” she asked, wiping the saliva off her face. “I
must say I do have a weakness for the lively ones.” Her blade flashed out and
slashed Mormacar’s chest. “They provide much better sport than these others,
don’t you think, Rorga?” Again the blade swept down, this time cutting
Mormacar’s ear. Her grin widened as she tightened the whip around his neck and
pulled him closer still.

“Yes, my lady, great sport indeed,” said one of the dark elf guards, staring
meaningfully at the other prisoners. “Will he be the one then?”

“A fair question, Rorga,” Lady Bela replied, pausing as if in contemplation
before turning once again to her motionless prey. “What do you think, slave?”
she asked Mormacar, with a cruel smile. The Shadow Warrior tried to speak, tried
to scream out his defiance, but the witch elf’s poison was too potent and he
could only gurgle in response. Lady Bela laughed. “Oh yes, slave, I agree
completely.”

The cruel witch elf knelt to inspect her handiwork. As the blood welled in
the wound on Mormacar’s chest, she closed her mouth over it and drank greedily.
Then she stood, smacking her lips contentedly. “It is always refreshing to drink
blood that isn’t tainted by fear. A rare treat, Rorga, especially here at Hag
Graef. I think I’ll keep this one awhile.” Lady Bela regarded Mormacar afresh
and her eyes lit up with excitement. “In fact, dear Rorga, I think this noble
elf is perfect for my plans. Victory must be assured, after all, and I fear I
can’t count on Galaher anymore.”

“As you wish, mistress. Who’s it to be then?”

Lady Bela turned her attention away from the paralysed Shadow Warrior and
looked over the rest of the prisoners, tapping her chin with a finger. She
stared long at old Galaher. “You’d like to die now, wouldn’t you, sweet
Galaher?” The old elf stared vacantly, and remained silent. “But no. While it is
a tempting thought, one cannot be too careful where the gods are concerned.” She
turned around. Elf, man, and dwarf shrank under her gaze, all trying to avoid
catching her attention. Finally, her eyes settled on a swarthy human whose
numerous tattoos bespoke years of piracy. “That one will do. Take him to
Khaine’s altar.”

The guards moved forward and seized the frightened prisoner. He began to
scream and struggle but a few blows from the dark elves quietened him and he was
dragged unconscious from the cell. Lady Bela once again regarded Mormacar, at
last unlashing her whip from his unmoving form. Stroking his face as if he were
a beloved pet, she purred, “I’ll be seeing you again.” Then she turned and
strode from the cell.

The other prisoners stared at Mormacar as if he were already dead.

Mormacar worked in the mines, as he had every day for the past two weeks. As
a pair of overseers looked on, the wretched slaves toiled in the near-dark,
scrabbling out ore in the humid tunnels for the anvils of Hag Graef. Those
prisoners who dropped from exhaustion and refused to rise had their throats slit
by the dark elves. The lesson was not lost on the other prisoners. Nor could
they help but notice that the prisoners’ ranks grew thinner each day, as more
and more of their number were dragged off by the Lady Bela’s minions. Death hung
like a pall over the squalid prisoners of Hag Graef, and most had become
resigned to their fate.

Mormacar refused to give in. His muscles quivered with hatred as he swung his
pick into the hard rock, imagining that the unyielding stone was the soft flesh
of the Lady Bela. Every day another prisoner was taken to Khaine’s altar. At
night he saw their faces and heard their screams, but even in his dreams he was
powerless to help them.

But now his grim endurance was to prove its worth. While the Lady Bela had
been engaged in her deadly work, Mormacar had slowly cut away at one of the
support beams at his end of the long tunnel. This passage had been dug in haste,
and the supports groaned under the weight of the rock overhead. Now one good
blow would smash the weakened support beam and hopefully cause a cave-in.

Mormacar swung his pick into the rock again, but scarcely paid attention to
what he was doing. His attention was fixed on the hated overseers, who even now
were striding down the tunnel to inspect the work. Out of the corner of his eye
he saw the cursed Norseman working across the way and resolved to watch him
closely. Humans were never to be trusted. Galaher, despite what he had said back
in the cell, Mormacar knew he could trust. The old elf would come through in the
end. He could feel it.

When the overseers were scant feet away, Mormacar hefted his pick and smashed
it into the weakened support beam. The beam shuddered from the blow and dust
fell from the ceiling. Mormacar’s heart leapt, but his elation was short lived.
The beam held.

The overseers whipped their swords free of their scabbards. One of them spat,
“That was your last mistake, slave,” and strode forward, blade at the ready.
Mormacar hefted his pick, determined at least to die a warrior’s death.

The other overseer followed his compatriot, but hissed, “Remember the Lady
Bela’s orders!”

“Damn that witch!” snapped the first dark elf, his voice hot with bloodlust.
“This wretch is mine!”

The tunnel was eerily quiet. All of the other prisoners had stopped their
work, watching the unfolding drama with dumb fascination. Mormacar looked down
the tunnel, hoping to see Galaher coming to stand at his side. But the old elf
just stood and stared, his pick dangling from his weathered hands. Suddenly the
silence was pierced by a echoing crack. Glancing to his right, Mormacar saw that
the Norseman had smashed the weakened support beam on the other side of the
tunnel. The beam shuddered and fell, loosing a rain of falling rocks.

Mormacar instinctively leapt out of the way, but the dark elves, surprised by
the falling debris, were knocked to the ground. Before they could rise, the
Norseman and the Shadow Warrior were upon them. Mormacar smashed in the head of
one of the dark elves, while Einar swung at the other, pinning him to the floor.
The Norseman hurriedly stripped the dying elf of his sword and dagger.

Above them the ceiling groaned menacingly. As uncounted tons of rock shifted
and slid, dust and debris fell in streams. Mormacar turned to the stunned
prisoners, most of whom still stood at their work stations. “Get out of here!”
he yelled furiously.

That was enough for most of them, who dropped their tools and ran up the
tunnel. Mormacar and Einar followed them, grabbing torches from their wall
brackets along the way. They ran desperately, hearts pounding, until at last
they came to an intersection, where the ramshackle band halted to rest. A dull
roar echoed up the tunnel, as more of the ceiling caved in behind them.

The two warriors exchanged looks of grim satisfaction, pleased with their
handiwork. Looking around at the other fugitives, the Norseman asked, “What now,
elfling? Is this as far as your plan goes?”

The Shadow Warrior answered without hesitation, “Now we follow the tunnels
down and look for a way out.”

“What do you mean ‘down’?” Galaher spoke up. “There’s naught down there but
cold ones and endless tunnels. The best you can hope for is to starve to death.
We must go up and try to find an escape route there.”

“I know it sounds crazy,” Mormacar said, looking around at the desperate
throng, “but I’ve thought this through. You yourself said there was no way out,
Galaher. Now we’ve all seen dark elf war parties in the tunnels, haven’t we?
Well where do they go? I think the Forsworn have an underground way through the
mountains and I mean to find it.” His compatriots looked dubious, and shifted
uncomfortably in the gloom. “Above are countless soldiers, thick walls and stout
gates,” Mormacar continued, speaking quickly, as if he could feel the crowd
slipping from him. “If you go up, you’ll surely die. My way we have a chance.”

Chaos erupted as all of the fugitives began to talk at once. Mormacar tried
to break in, tried to calm their fears and make them see sense, but had little
chance as the panic-stricken fugitives babbled about what to do.

Eventually, the Norseman lost his temper. “Shut up, all of you!” he bellowed,
his angry words bringing immediate silence. “You’re acting like children. There
are only two choices, up or down.” Einar pointed to Mormacar. “The elf and I go
down. Who will join us?”

Mormacar looked at the others, sure that they would see sense. If the oafish
Norseman was convinced, surely his elven brethren would join him. He was shocked
when not one voice rose up in support.

“I’m sorry, lad,” said Galaher gravely, “we know what we must do.” The others
nodded in agreement and clustered around the old elf.

The Shadow Warrior could scarcely believe his ears. It seemed the former
slaves were prisoners still, if only in their minds. He started to speak but
Einar cut him off.

“Don’t waste your breath, Mormacar,” spat the Norseman in disgust. “Let’s
go.” Spinning on his heels, the furious giant stomped down the tunnel.

Mormacar hesitated, hoping even now that someone would join them. None
stepped forward. With sadness in his heart, he approached Galaher and pressed a
sword into his hand. “You’ll need this, brother,” the Shadow Warrior said
quietly. Then he turned away and followed Einar down the passage.

Many hours later, the two warriors stood in a large cavern which was dimly
illuminated by glowing fungi. Peering intently down the three passages that
descended further into darkness, Einar, for once sounding hesitant, asked,
“Well, which way now?”

Mormacar considered each of the tunnels carefully before answering. “I think
we must follow the right-hand path.” He indicated barely discernible marks. “See
all the bootprints there? It is clearly frequently used.”

“Which makes it that much more likely we’ll run into some of the dark elf
scum,” Einar said, grinning as he ran his fingers up and down his blade.

“True, but remember that we are trying to escape, not to settle the score,”
Mormacar said levelly, “That can wait for another day. Agreed?”

“Cease your prattle, elfling,” Einar scoffed. “The blood of berserkers runs
in my veins. I do what I must.”

“Fine,” the elf said curtly, suppressing an urge to comment on the apparent
foolishness of all Norsemen. “Let’s go.”

By Mormacar’s estimate, the two warriors were already several leagues
underground. After leaving the other prisoners behind, they had hurried down a
cavernous tunnel that shot through the bowels of the earth, turning neither
right or left. The sounds of the other fugitives had soon been lost as the two
warriors continued their descent. Wary of both pursuers and whatever unknown
dangers might lie ahead, they had nonetheless set a quick pace. Eventually they
had come to this large cavern. Now, as they made their way down the right-hand
passage, they were quickly confronted with more choices, as passages split,
caverns multiplied, and tracks became ever harder to identify.

Shadow Warrior and Norseman pressed on urgently, stopping only to drink from
the few streams and stagnant pools they happened across in their wanderings.
Eventually, after what must have been many hours, sheer exhaustion dictated that
they stop and rest, and the two collapsed next to a evil smelling pool. They sat
in silence, breathing heavily and occasionally drinking the scum-covered water
at their side. The weeks of overwork and under-nourishment at the hands of the
dark elves were taking their toll. And now that they were deep under the earth,
the icy chill made a mockery of their ragged clothing.

“Perhaps the others were right after all,” Mormacar ventured, shivering as he
choked back some of the vile water. Suppressing the urge to retch, he sprawled
on the ground, his muscles aching with every movement.

The Norseman snorted. “The others are surely dead already,” he replied. “At
least we are still alive.”

Mormacar accepted this assessment without comment; he knew Einar was right.
Sighing, he added, “I never expected to end my days like this, wandering under
the Land of Chill. Curse the day those hellspawn captured me!”

“The day I was caught was a dark one as well,” Einar said softly, his face
betraying shame and despair. His voice trailed off. Abruptly, he shook his head
as if to clear it, and stared at Mormacar. “Tell me, how did you come to be in
hellish mines of Hag Graef?”

A black look crossed over Mormacar’s face as he remembered his last day of
true freedom. By his own estimate, it was probably no more than two months since
his capture, but it seemed so long ago. “I was travelling with a band of my
brethren, the Night Stalkers of the Shadow Warriors. We’ve been fighting the
thrice-damned dark elves for centuries on Ulthuan and it’s a war that never
ends.” As Mormacar talked, he held his head high and his exhausted slump became
a proud pose. “While other of my kin live in shining cities and try to forget
the Witch King’s bloody hordes, my folk scour the Shadowlands for invaders and
bring red death to the Forsworn defilers.”

Thoughts of what the dark elves had done to his homeland filled his mind, and
Mormacar strove to push down the hatred that welled-up in his heart. Consumed by
his own emotions, he failed to notice the grin of approval break out on the
Norseman’s face. “In any case,” he continued, “my brethren and I set an ambush
for a raiding party. We thought to trap them, but fell into a trap ourselves.”
His voice grew quieter. “While we rained death on the Forsworn below, another
group of them surprised us from behind. Before I could even unsheathe my sword,
one of the cowards struck me from behind.” He spat in disgust. “The next thing I
knew, I awoke in Hag Graef.”

Einar nodded, having heard many similar tales in the slave pits. “Those evil
scum do not fight with honour,” he noted. “Poison, foul magic and tricks are not
the weapons of true warriors.”