Trespassers in the Land of Mist

The column of risen dead wound its way along the vast length of the obsidian canyon. Glowing torches were held aloft by lumbering skeletal giants, their slow strides keeping pace with Deathrattle spearmen marching in tight lines. The corpse-lights cast an amethyst haze through the thick fog, which curled about the marching ranks like the coils of a hunting snake. At the centre of the macabre procession was a monstrous creation of bone and sinew, a pentagonal platform held aloft by scores of rotting cadavers.

The palanquin was stitched together from corpses, enclosed by curtains of stitched hides. Two thrones shaped from twisted ogor ribcages stood in the centre of the construct, and upon each reclined a black-cloaked figure. Both wore masks of silver, and carried skull-tipped staffs.

‘We are close, brother,’ said the rightmost figure, his voice a rattling whisper. He was the smaller of the two; so slight he seemed almost childlike. ‘Do you sense it, Lhusim?’

‘I do, Rhedgar,’ said the other, his skeletally gaunt frame swallowed by his long robes. ‘These mountains reek of illusion and deceitful sorcery. The Mortarch of Sacrament was correct. That which we seek is surely near at hand.’

The Necromancer sought solace in the thought. Their venture through the mists of Ulgu had stretched on far too long, with no sign of progress. He had come to despise this land, with its treacherous shadow-mires, invidious predators and constant pall of darkness. Soon, Lhusim hoped, he would return to the comfort of the Sanctus Mortem, where he could once more lose himself in his experiments and studies.

‘What glory the Lord Arkhan will lavish upon us when our task is done,’ said Rhedgar. ‘What profane secrets he might reveal. You and I, Lhusim, first amongst his Black Disciples, as is only right and proper.’

The diminutive man giggled. His laughter soon turned into a hacking cough.

Lhusim held up a hand, and his brother fell silent. Ahead, the front ranks of their vanguard had halted, forming a wall of shields along the width of the mountain pass. The Necromancer peered into the gloom, trying to ascertain the reason for the delay.

Slowly, the mists began to abate, revealing a rising shelf of obsidian stone, slick with rainwater. Spiralling high into the mountainside was a carved stairway, upon which stood a single figure. A statuesque aelven woman, her raven-black hair whipping in the breeze. Gleaming, metallic wings curved back from her shoulders, and she wore a sweeping headdress of burnished gold. In her hands she carried a wicked spear that glimmered in the umbral pall. There was a regal indifference to her poise, even stood alone before this army of the dead.

‘None but Khaine’s faithful may walk within the Umbral Veil,’ the woman said. She did not raise her voice, but her words echoed out across the valley with thundering force. ‘I offer this one chance to tell me why you trespass here. Before the truth is flayed from your wretched bodies.’

The brothers exchanged an incredulous glance. Lhusim stood, leaning upon his staff.

‘These lands are claimed in the name of supreme Nagash, he who is the master of death,’ he shouted. ‘It is known that the so-called Shadow Queen resides within. He Who Sees All Things names her soul-thief. Betrayer and deceiver. Tell us where Morathi cowers, and you alone shall be spared.’

‘You address her, dullard,’ answered the woman. She raised her spear high. ‘I am she, the High Oracle of Khaine and loyal servant of his iron will. You have chosen the path of agony. I cannot say that I am disappointed.’

She let the spear fall.

Shrill cries filled the air. The darkness surrounding the undead column twisted and reformed. Where before impassable cliffs had surrounded the Necromancers’ procession, now they were stood in a labyrinth of jagged stone, tunnels stretching away into the shadows. Pale figures boiled out of this maze, screeching blood-curdling oaths. Brandishing wicked blades, they hurled themselves into the ranks of the skeletal army. Dust and shattered bones filled the air as they whirled and leapt in a deadly dance. The Deathrattle vanguard closed ranks, bringing their shields to bear. Spears thrust out with murderous precision, and many aelves were spitted upon their rust-tipped points. Yet the enemy had breached the undead line, and robbed of their cohesion the undead warriors were being taken apart.

‘No!’ shrieked Rhedgar, appalled at the destruction of his favoured pets. He thrust out his skull staff, which spat a bolt of amethyst fire. The flames enveloped a trio of aelves, who thrashed and danced as their flesh crumbled to ash.

Lithe forms slithered into view on the crest of the ridge, half-serpent archers with arrows nocked and ready. Their missiles rained down upon the column of pallid flesh and bone with uncanny precision, each smashing a skeletal warrior apart or piercing the skull of an oblivious Deadwalker. Shadows flitted through the skies above. Winged she-aelves dived down with breakneck speed to spear and slash at the Necromancers’ undead servants, then wheeled away with peals of mocking laughter. Lhusim turned, thinking to order more of his thralls into the fray, but saw only a rippling wall of shadow magic, swiftly encircling the palanquin. Half-glimpsed shapes moved beyond that impenetrable curtain, not no relief came marching through.

The creature Morathi descended the winding stair. On all sides a fierce battle raged, but her expression of contemptuous boredom did not change. The High Oracle extended a graceful hand and tendrils of night-black smoke lashed at those skeletal warriors in her path, smashing them into a thousand splinters.

She met Lhusim’s eyes, and her smile showed a row of perfect white teeth.

‘I have studied at the hand of the Mortarch himself, witch,’ the Black Disciple snarled. ‘Your paltry magics are nothing before the power of Shyish.’

He recited an incantation of terrible provenance, words that would have damned his black soul if he had not already sacrificed it many years past. A scythe of spectral light swept towards the matriarch of Khaine. She raised a gauntleted hand to protect herself, but it was too late. The blade of soul-stuff struck home, and the High Oracle staggered backwards. Her body convulsed, spilling ink-black clouds of shadow that enveloped her entirely. There was a piercing scream of rage and pain, and Rhedgar gave a cackle of delight.

‘Oh, we must raise her to join our ranks, brother,’ he crowed.

Lhusim’s blood froze. There was something gigantic moving, shifting in the darkness. Rippling coils of shadow lashed the air, and in the heart of the eldritch mists blazed a pair of hate-filled eyes. Bat-like wings unfurled with an awful tearing sound.

Morathi the Shadow Queen rose into the sky, unveiled in her full and horrifying glory.

Her half-serpentine form towered above the Necromancers’ palanquin, her formerly lustrous hair now a hissing bed of snakes. Her massive tail lashed out and snatched Rhedgar into the air. The Black Disciple screamed as he was enveloped in shimmering scales.

‘Brother!’ screamed Lhusim, but it was too late. The coils constricted violently, and Rhedgar’s skull burst in a shower of crimson. Morathi hurled his crushed form aside, and rushed forward at the palanquin with a deafening screech of fury.

She struck with terrible force. The entire structure rocked, slamming into the far wall of the canyon and grinding its undead bearers into dust. Lhusim tumbled, floundering across the surface of polished bone. He felt himself flying free, the world spinning and whirling around him, and then he struck hard stone with shattering force and knew no more.

When Lhusim finally woke, he found himself adrift in an ocean of agony. Every inch of his body burned. He lay at the foot of the canyon wall, amidst a wasteland of broken bone and piled carcasses. He could not move. Breathing sent wracking spears of torment stabbing through his flesh.

Shadows loomed over him. Lithe figures, clad in skirts of metal and wearing leering war masks. His eyes flicked to their blades, slathered with unclean blood.

Their ranks parted. Another figure gazed down upon him contemptuously, her scarlet-black lips curled into a sneer.

‘Pitiful,’ Morathi said. Her monstrous visage had disappeared, replaced once again by an image of stately beauty. Yet her eyes were the same, thought Lhusim. They spoke of ancient cunning and limitless malice.

The Shadow Queen nodded, and one of her warriors stepped forward to wrench Lhusim’s silver mask free. He felt himself being dragged to his feet by strong hands.

Morathi leaned close. She smelled of bitter spices and freshly spilled blood.

‘You angered me, human,’ she whispered. ‘That was unwise. In return, I shall make your death an exquisite spectacle. But first, I would hear more of your masters, and the reason for your presence here.’

The Necromancer choked out a bitter laugh.

‘You think that Great Nagash does not sense every soul pilfered from his domain?’ he spat. ‘You think your crimes will go unanswered? No, no, no. He has found out your little game, queen of lies, and he is coming for you.’

‘Many have sought to invade Khaine’s domain,’ said Morathi. ‘All have failed. We have filled lakes and oceans with their blood.’

‘You will see,’ the Necromancer growled. The words were agony, but he choked them out with hateful relish. ‘Oh yes, you will see. The barrow-kingdoms are emptied, and unquiet spirits rise in every corner of the underworlds. The skies above the Black Citadel blaze with amethyst fire, and the great work approaches completion. An end is coming, witch-kin. Death will have its due.’

Morathi lowered the tip of her spear to rest upon Lhusim’s chest.

‘Mend this one’s flesh and have him brought to my chambers,’ she said. ‘We have much to discuss, before I tear out his beating heart.’

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