AT THE SIGN OF THE BRAZEN CLAW


 	Guy Haley


 	Guy Haley needs little introduction. A Black Library fan favourite, Guy’s engaging and varied style has allowed him to quest far and wide throughout his impressive writing career. 

 	The first part of this new serial draws on classic story-within-a-story narratives, as a group of stranded travellers each relate a different account of the Mortal Realms. This instalment explores the mysteries of the Brazen Claw, a gigantic peak in the shape of a clawed hand, and a fire that must never be allowed to go out.

 
 
 	 



 	Near the Amethyst Heights of Shyish there was a lonely pinnacle of rock – not so tall as the mountains six miles distant, but in form remarkable. They called it the Brazen Claw, for it resembled a great limb stretching up from the earth, as if a giant entombed alive had broken the surface of its grave only to perish upon the cusp of freedom.
 	Nestling in the stone hand was a many-roomed inn. The cupped palm of the claw was the inn’s courtyard. A wide road of boards curled around and away down the Brazen Claw’s arm to the plains a dizzying distance below. The inn was large by the standards of such buildings, and it needed to be, for it played host to travellers heading out from Shyish through the Argent Gate. 
 	The inn adorned the spire of the middle finger like a ring, circling it completely. Stables and outbuildings clustered around the bottoms of the other fingers, and filled up the spaces between. There was space for a hundred guests and all their trappings, but the scale of the claw made the inn seem small.
 	On brighter days, the sun turned the claw into a gauntlet of brass. No finer view could be found thereabouts, or so it was held. Not that evening. Clouds hid the sun. A storm shrieked from the heart of Shyish towards the realm’s deathly hinterlands, scourging all before it with whips of rain. Wind hooted through the fingers. The claw grasped hail, its lust for the clouds forever denied. 
 	Atop the middle finger a sky dock shook miserably in the storms, its hawsers thrumming, bolts squeaking in timber. A lesser construction would have shaken free, but this was duardin made, and no storm could fell it. Nevertheless, no one waited for passage atop the platform, and the inn was almost empty.
 	This is the setting for our tale. A claw of stone, black in the rain, a merry inn groaning in the lash of a gathering tempest, and all around the darkness of midnight come early at the edges of the lands of death.
 	There were five of them in the inn at the beginning. Horrin would remember them until he died. When more immediate memories faded into the haze of years, that night remained forever clear. 
 	Two of the five were Ninian and the stable boy, Barnabas. He knew them better than any other person, Ninian being his wife, while Barnabas, though a foundling, was as good as a son to him.
 	Of the travellers who made up the rest of the company he knew nothing to begin with other than their names. They sat at tables in front of the bar, both near the fire, but alone.
 	There first was a venerable duardin with hair and beard so white they shone like silver in the lamplight. The name he signed in the lodging book was Idenkor Stonbrak. An alderman, he said, from a coastal town up Melket way in Ghyran. He said little after giving his name. He spent the evening staring into the fire with his heavy feet upon a stool, while exhausting and refilling his long-stemmed pipe over and over until his head was shrouded in fogs of fragrant smoke.
 	The second guest was a nervous man of unknown lands, pale as an inhabitant of Shyish yet not a native of that realm, though every living thing became so eventually. Pludu Quasque, he was called. His robes were dirty with hard use, but had once been rich, and the dagger and sword he carried were those of a wealthy man. He muttered spare words over a bowl of soup while casting suspicious glances as readily as wayward boys cast stones.
 	Horrin peered closely at his ledger, leaning his stout belly against the bar to better fill in the columns. A canopy of rare, Azyrite emberwood gleamed over the counter. The inn being in Shyish where the dead roamed free, expensive charms hung from the canopy, but they rested quietly despite the roaring wind, reassuring Horrin the storm was solely a natural phenomenon. For all the inn’s precarious situation, it was well built, so he ignored its shakings and shudderings, and the insistent drumbeat of hail rapping on the shingles, and the squeak of doors in empty rooms yearning to burst open and leap from their hinges. Draughts teased candle flames into stuttering outrage. Water dribbled down the stone finger rising up through the inn. The smell of rain blew under the door, but inside it was safe, and warm. The fire burned high in the fireplace carved into the rock. The protective sigils around it danced with orange shadows. He glanced at the blaze. Reassured that it burned brightly and had plenty of fuel, he went back to his ledger. The numbers satisfied him. Business was good.
 	The wind outside built to a throaty roar. The timbers of the inn creaked. An unsecured shutter in one of the upper rooms banged loudly, startling Quasque so hard his hand twitched and upset his bowl. 
 	Ninian rushed over, cloth in hand.
 	‘Let me get that for you, master,’ she said.
 	Quasque responded poorly, and flapped his hands. ‘Away, away! Oh, my robe is ruined!’ he said, although the ruination was long done, and the stain hardly worsened it.
 	Thunder rolled away over the Amethyst Heights in reply to Quasque’s complaints. By Horrin’s reckoning the storm’s full violence would be upon them soon.
 	‘A hard night,’ said Stonbrak, and puffed some more on his pipe. ‘Fell things are abroad, mark my words.’ His eyes glittered like gems embedded in stone.
 	As soon as the words were said, the wind battered harder at the inn, rattling the walls with hailstones. The fire died down.
 	‘Steady, steady, keep burning!’ Horrin muttered to himself.
 	His heart resumed its normal rhythm as the flames climbed high, then leapt again as the door flexed in its frame.
 	Barnabas let out a frightened noise and ran around the back of the bar counter. 
 	‘Nobody there,’ said Horrin with forced cheer. He took a nonchalant step along the counter towards his pistol’s ­hiding place. ‘It’s just the wind.’
 	Three powerful knocks belied his statement.
 	‘Wind doesn’t knock!’ said Quasque. He got to his feet, his eyes wide with fear. Horrin’s hand rested on the polished butt of his gun.
 	‘A traveller then,’ said Horrin.
 	‘Who’d dare the trip from the plain?’ said Quasque. ‘To walk the stairs in this weather would be to make an open pact with death!’
 	The door slammed back into the wall with a resounding crack. Quasque fumbled through his robes to find the hilt of his sword, his other straying into his shirt to fetch out an amulet. The duardin narrowed his eyes and worked his mouth around his pipe. He continued staring into the fire, but his hand moved casually to the throat of the jewelled axe hanging from his belt.
 	A tall figure stood in the doorway. Water streamed from his cloak. The spreading horns upon his head were lit by a flash of lightning. Horrin swallowed.
 	‘Gods save us!’ whispered Quasque.
 	The figure stepped into the light of the common room, and threw back his hood. The duardin’s throaty chuckle ground away the thick silence.
 	‘’Tis but an aelf, skinny and dripping wet!’ He laughed plumes of smoke into the breeze stealing around the traveller. ‘Probably weighs twice as much as usual.’
 	The traveller closed the door, shutting out the storm and transforming himself from sinister interloper to one of the company.
 	The aelf carried three bags: two small sacks and one larger pack, which he placed carefully upon the floor. Now he was inside, his horns were revealed as antlers mounted on an ornate helm. He grasped them and lifted the helm from his head. Water ran from blued steel and pattered onto the wooden boards as he set the helmet on a table. A sword of peculiar design sat at his hip. Upon his back in a case was a beautiful unstringed bow. Each of the inn’s occupants were granted the touch of his immortal gaze, and all felt themselves judged.
 	When he spoke, his voice was one of such mellifluous beauty that tears pricked Horrin’s eyes. 
 	‘My pardon for shocking you, for I can see that I did,’ he said. ‘I merely seek shelter until the sky ship comes. My name is Maesa, of the nomad clans.’ He had fine bearing. As he divested himself of his sopping outerwear, his presence grew. From his gear and his manner, it was obvious he was of high birth.
 	Stonbrak grunted. He removed his hand from his axe, folded his arms and went back to his endless contemplation of the flame’s unobtainable jewels.
 	Quasque sat down slowly, eyes wide and mouth working around silent words.
 	‘It is we who should apologise!’ said Horrin, recovering his wits. ‘We have few of your kind cross our door, and it is such a poor evening we were all amazed to hear your knock.’
 	‘My mount is sure-footed,’ said the aelf. ‘I had nothing to fear.’ He paused. ‘Am I not welcome?’
 	Horrin dismissed the aelf’s concerns with a gesture. ‘No, no! All are welcome at the Brazen Claw! Provided they have the means to pay and a disinclination to trouble, of course,’ he said with a smile.
 	‘But of course,’ said the aelf.
 	Horrin’s hand moved from the butt of the gun hung below the bar and rested on the countertop. ‘I assume you’re here for the midnight sailing?’
 	The aelf nodded.
 	‘I’m afraid it’s been and gone,’ said Horrin regretfully. ‘Master Grindleson ran before the storm and left in double quick time to save his engines. There are no more ships scheduled for tonight.’
 	‘That is unfortunate,’ said the aelf. He picked up his bags and came further into the inn, stepping down the curved steps from the entrance into the wide pit of the common room.
 	‘Ah, it happens,’ said Horrin. ‘There’ll be another ship along before evening tomorrow. I never did know a storm here last longer than a day and night, and you know the duardin – they keep to their word whether it’s a blood debt or a timetable. They’ll be here.’
 	The aelf’s stare flustered him. He fought back the awe his guest engendered in him.
 	‘What might I get for you, master aelf?’ Horrin asked. ‘It is a vile night to be abroad. I suggest something warm. I have soup, freshly made?’
 	The aelf shook his head. The gesture was such a simple motion, but possessed grace a human could never match. He took up his bags, but left his helm upon the table near the door, where it watched the company with hollow eyes.
 	‘I will take warmed wine, with cinnaberry and sweet honey, if you have it.’
 	Horrin gave a modest smile. ‘We are on the major sky routes to the Argent Gate, my lord, we have victuals to suit every palate here.’
 	The duardin grunted and shifted in his seat. ‘Aelf diets.’
 	Maesa glanced at him before walking by Quasque and taking a seat away from the others, yet also within the warm circle of the fire. He rested his pack against the outer wall, took off his bow and placed his two smaller bags near to him: one by his side on the bench, the other on the table by his left hand. It seemed to move in the dancing candle flame.
 	Maesa’s words snatched Horrin’s attention from the sack. ’Do you have a thimble, made of silver or copper long out of the ground? No iron, nothing of the recent earth, certainly no pottery?’
 	Horrin glanced questioningly at his wife.
 	‘I have my grandmother’s old thimble,’ Ninian said. ‘That is of pewter, I think. I do not use it – it is too small for my thumb.’
 	‘That will suffice,’ said the aelf.
 	‘For what purpose, my lord?’ asked Horrin.
 	‘You shall see,’ said Maesa. 
 	Horrin bowed. ‘Then my wife shall fetch it.’
 	Ninian bustled off, her skirts a rustle.
 	‘Clean it with pure spirit,’ the aelf called after her. ‘Bring it upon a wooden board. Fill it with the same drink you shall serve me. Do not touch it with anything of iron!’
 	‘Are there any other stipulations, my lord?’ said Horrin.
 	‘None. Only to make sure my glass is clean,’ said the aelf. He took a leather pouch from his side and laid it on the table. Coins jingled. ‘My mount requires stabling. He is outside.’
 	Horrin looked over to the wide-eyed Barnabas and jerked his head. The boy got to his feet and came forward a few faltering steps.
 	‘Your stable boy?’ asked the aelf.
 	Horrin nodded. ‘Barnabas, that’s his name.’
 	‘Not your son, though,’ said Maesa, looking between the man and the boy.
 	‘Not by blood, but son he is to me nonetheless,’ insisted Horrin.
 	Maesa turned to Barnabas and spoke in kindly tones. ‘Do not be afraid, Barnabas. The storm is strong, but Aelphis will shelter you, and if any evil comes, you can be sure he will lay down his noble life to protect you. You need only show him where he must sleep and remove his saddle. He will do the rest.’
 	‘A horse?’ said the boy.
 	‘A great stag!’ said the aelf, kindling a sense of wonder in them all.
 	The aelf’s words soothed the boy. Maesa’s amber eyes did not blink. Horrin half suspected magic to be at work, though he could sense none, and the charms set around the bar remained still. Barnabas nodded hesitantly and trotted to the door. He pulled his oilskin from its hook and went outside. The fury of the storm snarled into the room, and he was chased out of the common room with the bang of wood on wood.
 	‘Masters Stonbrak and Quasque,’ said Horrin, introducing the others as he came to Maesa’s table with a lit taper. ‘They share your situation. They too came for the scheduled flight but missed it on account of its earliness.’ He leaned in and touched the taper to the candle in the clay lamp in front of the aelf.
 	‘Move that to one side, if you please – my companion dislikes bright lights,’ said Maesa.
 	‘Companion?’ questioned Horrin.
 	The aelf held Horrin’s eyes with his own, reached for the bag and undid its drawstring.
 	Ninian arrived at the table and set the aelf’s drinks down in time to see a tiny, wizened green hand reach out from the bag, grasp the lip and pull it back.
 	‘Cold. Wet,’ said a whining, petulant voice. ‘Shattercap likes not this bag. Shattercap is not a round of cheese, or a block of bread to be kept in such a pouch.’
 	A homunculus stalked onto the table. Its skin was the pale green of young leaves, its back hunched. The arms were a little too long for its body, the flat face and the head it adorned a little too small, but otherwise it looked like a tiny man shrunk down so he might be kept in the aelf’s bag.
 	Horrin leaned away, then back in. He reached out tentatively. The creature hissed at him, and Horrin snatched his fingers back. Ninian’s hand flew up to her mouth and she gasped.
 	‘Now, now, Shattercap,’ said the aelf. ‘Do not frighten our hosts.’
 	‘Is it safe?’ said Horrin. He glanced from imp to aelf and back to imp.
 	‘While he remains under my command, yes,’ said the aelf. ‘And he will do so as long as his geas are respected.’
 	‘Aha, that explains the thimble,’ said Horrin.
 	‘The thimble is for his size, but the materials are important, yes,’ said Maesa.
 	‘Shattercap thirsts, my prince,’ said the creature. It looked up at the aelf with wide eyes. Every part of them was green. The irises were the dark of forest moss, the pupils the near black of water pooled in tree boles, the scleras pale and luminous as insect lights.
 	‘Go ahead, take your fill,’ said Maesa. He gestured to the thimble. 
 	Shattercap scuttled towards it, making Ninian take a step back. Horrin leaned in nearer, fascinated, so his face was only a few inches from the creature as it suckled at the thimble’s edge.
 	‘What is he?’ asked Horrin.
 	‘I’ll tell you what it is.’ Stonbrak thumped over the room. His stumpy frame rolled around an uneven gait, sending his brawny arms swinging out to knock furniture aside. He halted at the table where the aelf sat. ‘This is an aelven princeling, a wanderer of the least trustworthy and most fickle of all his treacherous breed.’ He jabbed the stem of his pipe at Shattercap accusingly. ‘And that is a spite, a malevolent spirit of the forest. It has no place in the realms of civilised folk.’
 	‘Lands of wights and ghouls not so civilised, says Shattercap,’ said the spite slyly.
 	Stonbrak’s moustache bristled.
 	The prince gave the duardin a mild look. ‘I have done you no wrong. Nor has my companion.’
 	‘You deny it is dangerous?’ asked Stonbrak.
 	‘A sword is dangerous, but it is safe, so long as it remains in the sheath,’ said the prince.
 	‘Pah!’ said Stonbrak. ‘Most swords have no mind of their own. This blade here can prick you at will.’
 	‘I beg you, Master Stonbrak, please do not insult our guest – this is no night for disagreements!’ Horrin made light of the situation, though the spite unnerved him.
 	‘I should insult him,’ said Stonbrak, ‘for bringing that in here. These aelves cannot be trusted, Master Horrin!’
 	‘Please,’ said Horrin. ‘Ninian, get our guests a drink, the house will pay! We have a long night ahead.’
 	Stonbrak jerked out a chair from under the table. Shatter­cap flinched from the duardin and cradled his thimble of wine protectively. The atmosphere thickened with more than the duardin’s pipe smoke. Shattercap whimpered and crept closer to the aelf. 
 	The bang of the door as Barnabas returned broke the tension. Rain pattered off the stable boy’s oilskin as he hurriedly shut out the storm.
 	Stonbrak curled his lip.
 	‘Very well. My apologies,’ said Stonbrak. ‘This storm has frayed my temper.’
 	‘I accept your apology,’ said Maesa graciously. He extended his hand and indicated the chair Stonbrak had pulled out. ‘Please, you were about to sit.’
 	Stonbrak nodded and sat himself down. ‘I was. To keep an eye on your pet.’
 	‘Shattercap no one’s pet!’ said the spite.
 	‘I tell you what,’ said Horrin, clapping his hands. ‘We’re all strangers here. The storm outside is blowing hard. We can do nothing but wait. Why don’t we pass the time by telling each other a tale or two? Come! Let us sit together – it is more convivial that way.’
 	Stonbrak would not take his gimlet eyes from the spite, but gave a sour shrug that might have been agreement. Quasque blinked uncertainly, but then came forward and sat at the table with the duardin and the aelf. Horrin stepped back, arms held wide.
 	‘Barnabas, come listen.’
 	The stable boy joined the travellers, then Ninian who brought a tray laden with ale and wine. She sat also, and all were close by one another.
 	‘I’ll start, shall I?’ Horrin was an old hand at this game, having used it many a time to calm nerves in similar storms. It was a fine way of getting his customers to drink more too, and if truth be told he enjoyed the entertainment for its own sake.
 	‘I’ll tell you the story of how I came to make this place. That’s right,’ he said. ‘I built the inn of the Brazen Claw, but it wasn’t so simple as dragging timber up to the top of this eyrie, and even that wasn’t simple at all…’
 	Horrin took up a wooden mug of beer, coughed politely into his hand, and began.
 	‘When I was a young man,’ he said, ‘I decided to run away from home. My father was a tomb warden from Pandanjan. If you don’t know it, it’s a necropolis out to the west, where the living and the dead live side by side, as in so many places in this realm. My father wished for me to follow him into the world of ancient ledgers and endless columns of numbers enumerating the dead. But though I’m Shyish born and bred, and my father’s roots go back to the time of myth, my mother was a landsteer from Ghur. Her people trekked the lands of that realm in giant wagons pulled by beasts we know here only from their bones. I’ve no idea how she came to Shyish, nor why she committed herself in marriage to so dry and dusty a man as my father, yet they knew happiness in their own fashion. She lightened his life with her joy, and passed a little of her wildness into me on the way.
 	‘Alas, no story truly has a happy ending. My mother died when I was but a boy, and my father, always cold, became colder. A cruelty crept into him that was absent before her death. The afterlife of my mother’s people was far away from the lands where we dwelled, and difficult to enter. He resolved to go there anyway to see her again. I was to remain behind to learn his trade. I disagreed.’ Horrin laughed softly. ‘The day I was to be apprenticed to the tomb wardens, I took leave of my father, Pandanjan and my entire life.
 	‘I do not know where I intended to go. I was not my father. I did not wish to disturb my mother’s shade, but to drink deep of the well of life. I thought perhaps to go to my ­mother’s land, and wandered far to find a realmgate that would take me to the right part of Ghur. The Argent Gate I heard might take me where I needed to go, so I set out to find it.
 	‘At length I came here to the claw. No one lived in these parts then. Sigmar’s light had yet to drive out the darker things that haunt the brown woods of the hills and plain, and so I was alone, and afraid. I headed here for no reason other than I could see the claw over the trees. You can imagine my delight upon glimpsing a small stone hut built at the base, with a garden and animals. I was amazed, for the forest was a dreary place and I had witnessed no living things for several days, so long that I had begun to fear I had strayed too far into unliving countries.
 	‘An old woman dwelt in the hut. She was as pleased to see me as I was to see her, and came out with a great beam of a smile as soon as I was within hailing distance of her home. She fed me, and I asked her the way to the Argent Gate. Remember then, the duardin of the sky had yet to come to this land. This is what she told me.
 	‘“Young man,” she said. “The Argent Gate is four days walk from here, out of the forest and over the Plains of Teeth, where howling, hungering things roam.”
 	‘“Is there a safe way?” I asked.
 	‘She shrugged, and her ancient bones popped. “I do not know. I have never ventured far from this place. There is a well, and a little life here, and what little I have are counted riches in this country.”
 	‘She laughed then, as did I,’ Horrin said. ‘Of course I did not know then that the Argent Gate is in the sky, and cannot be reached from the Plain of Teeth, and I don’t think she did either. “Stay the night before you go,” she said. “You will need your strength to see you through.”
 	‘I offered her the few coins I had, but she reached out a warm hand and closed my fingers around my money. “Hospitality to strangers is its own reward, young man,” she said. A principle I have kept to my whole life since.
 	‘Nights here are long and cold. Bruised aurorae writhe over the stars, making the trees dance without a breeze. I suffered a restless night haunted by dreams of the things that hunt upon the Plains of Teeth. But I did sleep, and was awoken to a breakfast of fresh eggs, which I devoured gratefully.
 	‘“I have a favour to ask,” she said to me as I prepared to leave. “If you would please take this basket of food and these two faggots of wood to my husband, who works upon the summit of this rock, I would be grateful.” She pointed upward, to the top of the claw. I was surprised, because she had made no mention of her husband before, and I wondered on the nature of his labours. “I make the journey every day, and though I am still able, I would welcome a rest for one single morning. I am old, and my joints pain me.”’ Horrin smiled ruefully. 
 	‘Foolish,’ whispered Shattercap. ‘You tell stories. Do you never listen to them? Silly fat man.’
 	‘Hush,’ said Maesa.
 	‘Well, I was not fat in those days, I assure you,’ said Horrin, taking the interruption in his stride. ‘But besides having the physique of youth, I had its naivety.’ He took a sip of his ale, before continuing. 
 	‘“Of course!” I said to her, happy to repay the woman’s kindness. I took the basket, placed the wood upon my shoulders, and ran up the winding stairs that led to this place for the first time. Back then the spiral road was narrow, more of a spoked ladder, and poorly maintained. The wood was old and grey, and many stairs were missing from the sockets carved into the stony flesh of the arm. My eager bounding became slower and slower the higher I went, and my caution became fear, until I reached the summit and threw myself into the palm of the claw.
 	‘I stood, amazed. Such a sight! It still stirs me, as if I were cupped in the hand of a god, and that may not be too far from the truth.
 	‘There was no inn here, of course, only piles of wood like the bundles I carried, and the fireplace.’ He pointed to the fireplace set into the finger incorporated into the inn. ‘It was very old, and already carved with the strange symbols you see there. All of it, lintel, grate and chimney, was hewn into the rock of the claw itself.’
 	Unlike the meticulous craftsmanship of the inn, everything about the fireplace was out of true, as if the maker had heard what a fireplace was, but had never seen one.
 	‘The old woman’s husband was as ancient and poverty-struck as his wife. He was astounded as I emerged, panting, into the palm, but his wide-eyed surprise turned to a grin of delight as I approached. He was so pleased to see me I could not help but feel a touch uneasy.’
 	‘Told you,’ said Shattercap.
 	Horrin gave him an admonishing look. Shattercap pulled a face.
 	‘“My my!” The old man said. “A visitor, a boy!”
 	‘“I have for you this basket of food, and this bundle of sticks,” I said. I dropped the wood and held out the basket. He took it from me, peered within, then set it down. In his other hand he held a poker of plain iron, which he worked in the fire, sending out showers of orange sparks from the chimney slot some hundred feet over our heads.
 	‘“What do you do here?” I asked him.
 	‘“Ah, a strange story,” he said. “I tend this fire for I must. It cannot go out. It must be an eternal flame!” he said. “It warms the hand of this giant so he will not wake. The rest of him is safe down below, under the earth, but his upthrust claw here is exposed, and chill. If it gets cold, he will wake.” He winked at me. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
 	‘I looked at the vastness of the claw. “I suppose not,” I said, and shivered.
 	‘“Tell me, boy,” he said. “You have done my wife a great service. Do you suppose you could do one for me also?”
 	‘“Name it, sir,” I said. “Your wife has been very kind.”
 	‘“The fire cannot be left untended,” he said to me. “But I have not been down to my hut for three long years. I have hunched down over this fire for so long I forget what it is to stand tall. I desire to stretch my back, my legs and maybe,” he laughed and nodded at an alcove in the finger not far from the fire, where a dirty blanket languished, “sleep an hour or so in my bed, maybe within the embraces of my good wife?” He winked again, in a most repulsive and lascivious manner.
 	‘By then my sense of unease had grown,’ said Horrin. ‘But I felt I owed a debt to these strange people, and what harm could it do, to tend his fire for a few hours? I felt sorry for him. That was my mistake. Remember, I thought myself a man, but I was but a boy, with a callow gullibility.
 	‘“By all means!” I said. His eyes lit up. He proffered to me his poker.
 	‘“Then take this fire iron. Make sure the flames die no further than this point here.” He indicated a mark on the rock. “I shall return soon.”’
 	Horrin smiled sadly. ‘Naturally, he did not return. Ever. I sat all night and then all day tending to the fire, hoping that he would come back, but knowing that he would not. At the dawning of the second morning I went down the stairs here, racing to outpace the fire’s consumption of its fuel. The hut was empty, the couple and their possessions gone, the animals abandoned, though my few things were neatly left for me. In disbelieving terror I ran back up. The fire was burning low. I paid it no heed. I had decided to run. Down the stairs I went, the crack of the dying fire loud in my ears. 
 	‘Upon the third turn of the stair, the ground began to shake. A terrible, low moan issued from the ground. I threw myself to the side. Slipping, I almost fell, but caught the stairs to prevent my fall. The animals at the hut were driven wild with terror – such a cacophony they made for so few! A great crack raced across the ground, then a second, deep and black. I looked to the forest, yearning for its freedom, then I looked above. The arm is huge, I thought. What monster must it belong to? What would it do should it awaken?
 	‘I realised then what I must do. I would like to say that heroism motivated me, but it was fear – fear that the monster would slay me. I crawled up the stairs. The arm began to shudder. Another moan came from the ground. I reached the palm. The fire was smoking out. The last ember close to dying.
 	‘The arm swayed. An awful cry, louder than the first, issued from the ground. This was my only chance. I took up a fistful of dried moss, and cast it on the fire, piling kindling upon it. In my panic, I nearly extinguished the last few sparks, and thrust my hands into the warm ash to shift the fuel about, dropping it with singed fingers onto that last, glowing ember, hoping against hope it would catch.
 	‘Stone ground on stone. I looked up. The fingers were closing! They were straighter when I arrived than they are now. Perhaps the monster had been asleep too long, for as they began to close the little finger broke, and fell away. Blind now with terror, I blew through my snot and my blubbering onto the fire. The shaking grew and grew, the fingers ground and popped. I thought I would die.
 	‘The fire burst into life anew.
 	‘The shaking stopped.
 	‘For a year I was alone, building up the fire, then racing to the ground to collect what wood I could and what food I could find, heaping the fire at night and banking it with turfs so I might sleep a few hours. 
 	‘When the first wanderer came, I had it in mind to do to him what the old man had done to me. But then I thought on my misery, and realised it was only my own foolishness that had condemned me, and that I had no right to make another suffer in my stead. I shared the food I had and explained my situation. The traveller tarried a few days, bringing me food and wood, while I steadfastly refused his offer to tend the fire. “Hospitality to strangers is its own reward, young man,” the old lady had said. I think she meant it. I like to believe they were not bad people. I imagined they had been entrapped in some way and had languished here for years. What could they do? Now it was my turn to tend the fire.’
 	‘I would have killed them. Eaten their eyes,’ said Shattercap.
 	‘Does he mean it?’ asked Barnabas.
 	Maesa nodded.
 	‘Then you would have been doomed,’ said Horrin. ‘Kindness saved me.
 	‘The first traveller left. When the second wanderer passed by, I gained a jewel for my kindness. I could not trade it, but its beauty made my life more bearable. The third stayed a month, and helped me build a warm house, which is now a store on the far side of the yard. So with the third, it was with the fourth and the fifth. As each stranger was treated with kindness I too was shown kindness, until one day the duardin of the sky came with an offer. They wished to build a platform for their packet ships here, and use this place as a way station. I agreed, and the inn was my reward. Now people come here every day. I am good to them, so fate is good to me. Always, I have adhered to the rules of hospitality, and because of that I am a rich man, with a fine wife, a good home and servants to help me tend the fire, although I can never leave, and the fire must never, ever go out.’
 	The fire popped in the grate. A tumble of embers and ash spilled onto the hearth.
 	‘So you eat much here, that is why you are fat now,’ said Shattercap. ‘That is the point of this story.’
 	‘That is not the point of the story, small evil,’ said the prince. The spite cringed at his disapproval.
 	‘Life has been good, these are the wages of kindness,’ said Horrin, lifting up his hand extravagantly. ‘That is the point.’
 	‘If I am good, will I too grow fat?’ asked Shattercap of Maesa.
 	‘If you choose to be,’ said Maesa.
 	‘But I can choose nothing,’ said the spite. ‘You are my master.’
 	‘Because you have not yet learned your lesson.’
 	Ninian looked questioningly at Prince Maesa.
 	‘I am teaching him how not to be wicked,’ said the aelf, and sipped at his wine.
 	‘You could leave, Master Horrin,’ said Quasque suddenly. He blinked, surprised that he had spoken. ‘Someone else could take on your curse.’
 	‘I could,’ said Horrin. ‘They could.’
 	‘Then why are you here?’ hissed Shattercap. ‘Sitting on this horrid rock in all the soaking rain. It makes no sense to Shattercap.’
 	‘Because I always am here!’ Horrin said with great cheer. ‘And I would be no other place.’ Ninian kissed his cheek fondly, and he placed his arm around her. He raised his beer in salute. ‘I was a foolish boy, but no longer. Brewer, carpenter, farrier – I have learned to be them all. Hundreds of people come here. Tales from every land I hear. Burning a few logs every day is no great price to pay. I am glad for my fate.’
 	‘Kindness is its own reward,’ said Stonbrak sarcastically. ‘What a fine moral for aelves and weaklings.’
 	‘You do not believe it to be true, master duardin?’
 	Stonbrak snorted by way of reply.
 	‘I’ve got a story for you,’ said Stonbrak. ‘I’ll tell it now.’ He tapped out his pipe on the sole of his massive boot, and scratched a horny fingernail around the bowl, sending flakes of char showering onto the table. Shattercap sneezed and retreated to his master’s side. The prince petted him absent-mindedly, his calm, amber eyes fixed on the duardin’s glowering face.
 	The duardin pulled out a stained leather pouch of tobacco from his tunic and refilled his pipe. ‘It is a tale of vile, aelven treachery in return for such kindness as you describe. You are wrong, innkeeper, and you will soon hear why.’

AT THE SIGN OF THE BRAZEN CLAW: PART TWO


 	Guy Haley


 	Continuing with his take on the classic frame narrative, Black Library stalwart Guy Haley picks up where he left off in Inferno! Volume 1. 

 	At the Sign of the Brazen Claw, a storm still traps a group of weary travellers within the shrivelled, exanimated heart of Shyish. This time, it is the turn of the duardin merchant Stonbrak to recite a tale to while away the hours. Eager ears listen as he tells of broken oaths and a venomous deceit in the shadowy depths of Ulgu. 

 
 
 	 


 	Prince Maesa and Shattercap have come to the hinterlands of Shyish in order to catch a Kharadron packet ship through the Argent Gate to Ghur. Delayed by stormy weather, they sit out the night at the inn of the Sign of the Brazen Claw. As they wait, the travellers swap their stories. The first to speak was the innkeeper, Horrin, who told of how he came into his career.

 	We rejoin the party as the duardin Idenkor Stonbrak begins his story.

 
 
 	The Merchant’s Story


 	The wind was full of mischief. It ran about the inn at the Sign of the Brazen Claw, banging shutters and shouting down chimneys. The rain, following shyly, pattered then drummed, then thought better of its racket and softly stroked the tiles. Draughts from the wind teased candle flames. They batted at the inn’s fires. Cold gusts puffed under doors and raced away, hooting at the fun. The rain was less showy, but as determined to get in. Through gaps in the flashing on the inn’s conical roof, it insinuated itself into the fabric of the building, dripping in fat drops to a spot on the floor, and darkening the giant digit the inn was built around. Once within, the water stayed. It was persistent where the wind was flighty.
 	A night of tempest in Shyish. Idenkor Stonbrak ignored the trembling of the building. The unpredictable forays of cold that snuck up under his collar could not discomfit him. He was duardin, enduring as rock. It would take millennia for any storm to wear away one so solid.
 	He lit his pipe, pulled deeply upon the ivory mouthpiece and appraised the group around the table with a merchant’s eye. Horrin the innkeeper, his wife Ninian, who was handing out another round of drinks, and their stable boy Barnabus, he judged worthy, and he did not linger on them long. When he looked to Quasque his eyes narrowed until they glinted like coal seams at the back of a mine gallery. Stonbrak took in Quasque’s spoiled finery and hunted face, and saw a disquieting story behind them. But his gaze remained the longest on the aelven wanderer Maesa and his spite, Shattercap, who knelt, grey-green and spiky as a bush, on the table boards before the prince. On the verge of saying something he might regret, Stonbrak clamped his lips shut, puffed smoke like an engine and shook his head, as if he could not quite credit what he was seeing.
 	‘My turn then,’ he said eventually. ‘This is my story. A sad tale of broken contracts.’ He cleared his throat, and took on a storyteller’s airs. ‘You might guess I am not of this realm, and you would be correct. I hail from Barak Gorn, a mighty port upon the shores of the Whispering Sea, in Ulgu up Melket way, if you’ve ever heard of that. Now, Barak Gorn was built in ages past by the ancestors of my ancestors, and though once it was a fine and marvellous place, it lay in ruin until the Age of Sigmar came, and drove back a little of Chaos’ darkness. 
 	‘When the time came to return, my people were among the first to leave Azyr and reclaim Barak Gorn from obscurity.’ Stonbrak smiled at the memory. ‘I was a beardling. It was a long time ago now, but I remember well the sorrows of what we found, and the joys of restoring former glories to the halls and the quays.’ His eyes lost their focus behind the smoke wreathing his face. He was quiet for so long, ­Shattercap spoke up.
 	‘Is that all?’ the spite asked Prince Maesa in confusion. ‘So short a tale. Not worth the listening.’ He folded his spindly limbs about himself in such an awkward way he resembled a dead spider, until he shrugged and twitched, so that he was suddenly sitting cross-legged, sharp elbows out, hands clasped around his thimbleful of wine.
 	Stonbrak snorted. ‘All? All! I’m only getting started, you impertinent imp!’ He took his pipe from his mouth and jabbed the stem at the spite. The fine leaves on Shattercap’s shoulders quivered. ‘A pause for thought was all that was. Now, where was I?’
 	‘Forgive the spite,’ said the prince softly. ‘He has no manners. You were speaking of your home, worthy friend.’
 	Stonbrak nodded gratefully. ‘I was.’
 	‘I have heard stories of Ulgu!’ said Horrin. He lifted his drink. His cheeks were flushed. He enjoyed his ale and his stories. ‘Though of course I cannot go there.’ He waved a hand at the fire by way of explanation. ‘It is a realm of mists, where nothing is as it seems.’
 	‘That it is, master innkeeper,’ said Stonbrak. ‘All thirteen lands of it, a confounding place of intrigue and shadows, where it is never either truly dark or truly light.’ He moved his pipe around his mouth. ‘A strange place to find the likes of we, you might say, but duardin are not so affected by Ulgu’s inconstancy, for we are as steadfast as stone. Mist does not bother rock. Rock is impervious to illusion. Even so, my sort are considered secretive among our race, and our numbers in the shadow lands are small.’ He sucked his pipe. The bowl grew bright, glinting from his eyes in such a way it was easy to imagine tiny foundries hidden in his skull. ‘However, there are many aelves in Ulgu, of strange kindreds. The princeling’s kind are prone to plays of light and shadow, and not always for the best, as you shall see.’
 	He took a drink from his beer mug, wiped the suds from his beard and recommenced both his smoking and his tale.
 	‘Barak Gorn has neighbours,’ he said. ‘A race of aelves whose halls also overlook the misty sea. These aelves dwell in the mountain, in a manner similar to some of my kind. Once the two cities were one, but when we were forced from our port, they hid themselves away in their deepest halls and remained there throughout the ages of Chaos – an act some of my people saw as a betrayal, but the more level-headed of us know to be pragmatism. In the dark years they withdrew into themselves, became stranger still through their isolation. We call them the skuru elgi, or the grey aelves, because of the colours they wear to blend into the mists, and the magic they weave about themselves to hide. They are tricky creatures – never get a straight answer out of them!’ The thought evidently irritated him, for his bushy eyebrows arched and his cheeks coloured, and he gesticulated with his pipe forcefully. ‘They are apt to disappear in the middle of conversation, and they never smile. They are, not to labour the pick in the stone too much, a miserable bunch.’ He calmed, and shrugged. ‘But business is business. My kind and theirs did much dealing before the dark times, and do so again now, for they marvel at our jewels, and their nobles ever have bright sea gold to pay for them, though the hurts of the old times are slow to heal. That brings us to the heart of this tale.
 	‘In my clan there was a worker of gems so fine his renown spread far and wide.’ A wistful sigh escaped the duardin, and he looked to the ceiling, where the rain hammered in a thousand watery nails. ‘He could capture the very essence of beauty. His works of gold carried the warmth of flesh. With cunning cutting, he trapped light inside gemstones. You can imagine how valued such stones are in shady Ulgu. His skill was unsurpassed.’ 
 	Stonbrak’s voice grew thick. He coughed to hide emotion, blustering through an inner pain he could not quite obscure, and abruptly changed the subject.
 	‘Let me tell you a little of our city. Barak Gorn is contained within a great cave, open to the front to the water, that combines the best of underground hall and harbour in one. Naturally, so great was the craftsman’s wealth that his shop had a fine spot overlooking the sea. On the few days there is no mist, you can see all the way to the horizon from its window, and when the fog draws in and chill water runs down the glass, which is practically every day, there was the comfort of Barak Gorn’s lid of stone pressing down above, and reaching its arms around the wharfs and jetties. It is a tonic to a duardin soul, the permanence of the stone, the indomitability of earth. Shadow mists are nothing compared to those things.’
 	He coughed, tapped out his pipe and refilled it unnecessarily, using the action to keep from looking at his audience. Maesa saw his sorrow clearly enough, caught the reddening of the duardin’s eyes, and noted well Stonbrak’s reluctance to name the jeweller.
 	‘My cousin Bertgilda worked with the craftsman in his shop,’ Stonbrak said, striking a match upon his boot. He put the flame to the bowl and sucked until its tiny coals glowed, and the foundries in his eyes flared. ‘It is from her I have the detail of this tale.
 	‘One day, one of the grey aelves came into the shop. The doorbell did not ring, nor did the craftsman hear the door close. My cousin noticed him only by the dampening of the air. Thinking that a heavy fog had come into the harbour, Bertgilda looked up from her work and found that the mist was thin, and the sun as bright as it can be in our realm, but that the shop was cold. Grey vapours withdrew under the door, and in front of the counter stood an aelf of high birth, not unlike your guest here, master innkeeper.’ Stonbrak gestured at Maesa. ‘His grey cloak was beaded with moisture. I tell you, I meet these aelves and wonder, have they never heard of fire, that they be perpetually damp?’ He shook his head again. ‘A sharp elbow from Bertgilda alerted the craftsman to this silent customer, and he raised his eyes from the gem mount he was cutting. He was methodical, not prone to rushing. He pushed back his loops from his face, folded the paper he worked upon, and from it poured tiny curls of gold into an envelope. Frugal, he was. Very frugal,’ said Stonbrak approvingly. ‘Only then did he speak with the aelf.
 	‘“How may I help you, sir aelf?” the craftsman asked. He was a stout-hearted soul, not given to shock, and had had many dealings with our aelven neighbours. They often did that kind of thing. Shifty beggars. The aelf looked upon him with grey eyes as cold and treacherous as the winter sea.
 	‘“I am to be married to a princess of a foreign nation,” he said. His voice was peculiar, Bertgilda told me, like gravel churning in a mountain stream. Musical, as the voices of aelves tend to be, but with a rasping edge they rarely have.’
 	The inhabitants of the inn glanced at Prince Maesa. The prince gave them no comment on the peculiarities of aelven voices, but sipped his wine, his attention given fully to the duardin. Stonbrak continued.
 	‘“It is a great union of peoples,” the aelf said, “a bringing together of kindreds that will bless all this country and bring new trade and wealth to your city as well as mine.”
 	‘“I see,” said the craftsman. He was careful, and waited for the aelf to outline his needs. Some duardin might rush in to negotiation, scenting a lot of gold at the end of a bargain involving princesses, but the duardin of Barak Gorn are of Ulgu, and alive to the dangers of hasty contracts.
 	‘“These aelves covet watergems above other jewels,” continued the aelf.
 	‘“Do they?” said our jeweller. This did pique his interest. Watergem is a rare diamond. It is named for the movement in its heart.’ Stonbrak held up his thumb and forefinger as if he had such a gem, and peered into the space. ‘Look into a middling example, and you will see the dance of sunbeams piercing the waves on turquoise seas. They say if you look into a perfect stone – only the very most perfect, you understand – the deeps of faraway oceans might be glimpsed.
 	‘“I require a necklace to be made of such diamonds, to these measurements.” The aelf placed a roll of paper on the countertop. He had no interest in the marvels displayed under the glass, understandably, considering what he was carrying, as our craftsman shortly discovered. The aelf pulled a velvet pouch from his side, and upended it, scattering the contents on the countertop. They spun across the polished glass, and when they ceased their movement and clinked against the frame, the pounding of waves on distant shores filled the shop.
 	‘Bertgilda gasped. Upon the counter were eight of the most exquisite watergems the craftsman had ever seen. From each one shone the light of a different sun on a different sea. It takes a lot to surprise a longbeard such as he, but the craftsman was dumbstruck. This was a king’s fortune, his ransom, his estates, fortress, armies and more.
 	‘“Where did you get these?” he asked.
 	‘“My beloved gave them me, and swore she would not be wed until they had a setting fit for their beauty,” said the aelf. “I wish them placed into a necklace of purest moonsilver. It is my bride price for the match, so I am willing to pay well for your efforts. How much for your best work?”
 	‘Ordinarily this question would have offended, for a duardin always does his best work, but the craftsman was so shocked that he blurted out a price rather than the threat of grudge-making. He had not taken leave of his wits completely, and the price was high.
 	‘“Do this for me within the week, and I shall double it,” said the aelf.
 	‘“Half now,” said the craftsman, who was no fool.
 	‘“I carry no coin. You shall have all when complete,” said the aelf.
 	‘It goes against every instinct of a duardin to take work without pay, but these gems were of such high quality that surely the aelf had the money. No one less than a king could possess such wonders. Mayhap that should have given the craftsman pause, but greed ever was the curse of our kind. Gold is our greatest weakness.
 	‘“Very well,” he said. “Double. In a week.”
 	‘The aelf nodded.
 	‘“Before you leave,” said the craftsman, “what is your name, for my ledger of works?”
 	‘The aelf paused before speaking. “You do not require my name. My entrusting to you of the gemstones is my bond. I will return in a week.”
 	‘The aelf said no more, and departed. This time,’ said Stonbrak, ‘he used the door.’
 	‘The craftsman laboured long hours over that necklace, my cousin as his helper. Bertgilda told me that twice he made the mounts for the gems, twice he melted down the moonsilver and began again. The cost of the materials alone was enough to beggar him, and he sought the money from the lenders of the Granite Brotherhood. A foolish move for anyone who is not absolutely certain of riches to pay them back, but our craftsman was sure.’
 	Stonbrak paused for a drink. The wind probed the shutters, whistled three times and withdrew, disappointed it could find no way in.
 	‘Weary from many days’ sleepless toil, the craftsman removed the lenses from his eyes and sighed with satisfaction,’ said Stonbrak. ‘Truly, this was his greatest work. The necklace was the finest he had ever made. Those who saw it compared it favourably with the greatest works of the Age of Myth, and that was only if they could speak through their tears of joy. When I asked Bertgilda to describe it, she could not, but cried and told me it was too beautiful to put into words.
 	‘The week passed. Then another. The craftsman’s delight turned to fretting. The aelf showed no sign of returning for his goods. He sent messengers up to the Skuru elg mountain, but without a name he was at a loss to find the commissioner of the piece. His descriptions did not help. You aelves look much the same to us,’ he said. ‘The craftsman was perhaps too coy about what he had made. If he had revealed he had the stones, things might very well have turned out differently, but he did not, keeping to his trader’s oath of confidentiality instead.
 	‘A reckoner of the Granite Brotherhood paid the craftsman a visit, insisting that he repay the money he had borrowed. When he saw the necklace, he softened his tone, and urged the craftsman to sell it, whereupon he would be able to repay the debt and be enriched in the process.
 	‘“It is not mine to sell,” the craftsman said.
 	‘“The aelf is in breach of contract,” said the reckoner. “You are free to do with it as you will.” The craftsman said no. The Granite Brotherhood’s representative insisted, several times, but the craftsman was an honourable sort, and steadfastly refused.
 	‘The Granite Brotherhood gave him a week more to find the money. “After which time has passed,” their reckoner informed him, “we shall seize your goods, as we are legally entitled to, and you will be poor.”
 	‘The craftsman hid his worries from the reckoner, but they were growing, until, four nights after the Granite Brotherhood came, he received a message, delivered by an unseen hand to the side of his bed, and written upon paper damp with the mist.
 	‘“My apologies for the delay,” it began. “Owing to unforeseen circumstances I have been unable to collect the item you fashioned for me. However, I need but to see it, and I will be able to pay you the sum in full. I have absolute trust that the piece will be exquisite. I cannot come into the city, and require delivery. Bring the necklace with you to Eskbirgen’s Cove tonight, at moonrise, where I shall meet you. Come alone! There you shall receive your reward. 
 	‘“Once again, my heartiest apologies.” 
 	‘It was signed with an X,’ said Stonbrak. He gave each of his listeners a serious look. The storm hooted outside. Somewhere in the inn a shutter banged. ‘Naturally, our craftsman was outraged. This aelf had broken his bond to him. Being a duardin of the shadow realm, he had expected the course of events to run crooked, but now he was facing betrayal, ambush or worse! He had no choice but to comply. The sum involved was great.
 	‘The cove was a league outside of Barak Gorn and well known to him. It is a beautiful spot, if you like the outdoors kind of thing and not the solidity of a good ceiling of bedrock over your head,’ said Stonbrak, in a way that suggested a preference for the open sky was madness. ‘But it had something of an ill reputation, owing to the use it was put during the dark times of the Age of Chaos. Of course, the craftsman went, but before he left for the cove he took his pistols from the workshop strongbox. He loaded one for himself and gave the other to Bertgilda, and asked her to follow him, and secrete herself in the rocks at the edge of the beach so she might keep watch.
 	‘“In this way,” he said to her, “we may foil any aelven trickery.”
 	‘The craftsman set out first, Bertgilda a half-hour behind, in case the shop was being watched. The craftsman took the Long Stair out of the city, up through the overhang and onto the clifftops. All trade goes to and from Barak Gorn via the ocean and the Realmgate in the deepest hall. Currently there are no roads to the port. The Long Stair’s exit is carefully hidden. Were you to pass it by, you would not see it, not even you, wayfarer.’ Stonbrak directed this at Maesa. Maesa raised a hand and waved it equivocally, prompting a harrumph from the duardin.
 	‘A thin trail, no wider than that made by goats,’ Stonbrak said, his voice becoming gruffer, ‘winds across the cliffs. If you look down from the top, there is no sign the city is there. Well it is so, for Ulgu is a tormented realm even now.
 	‘To the north of Barak Gorn the bulk of the aelves’ mountain is grey in the mist. In the late afternoon, when our craftsman departed, the light of Hysh spreads itself through the vapours, giving a harsh but indistinct illumination. Under those conditions the mountain often appears like a steel cut-out laid upon brass. The entrance to their kingdom was almost as well hidden as the one to ours, but the craftsman knew the way. That the aelf had not asked for the item to be delivered to the aelven kingdom gave him no end of concerns, but if he wished to be paid, he had no choice but to follow the aelf’s wishes. More or less.’ Stonbrak grinned. ‘He was carrying his gun, you will remember.
 	‘Bertgilda followed him later. The fogs thickened, and though the cliffs are free of trees or other such vegetation, and the close turf smooth and without rocky eminences, she only caught sight of her master once or twice ahead, and then only by the bobbing of his lantern. The gloom was full of the whisperings of misbegotten things, but a duardin maid is as brave as any warrior, and she made her way to the cove without mishap. Through drifts of mist she saw that the craftsman was already waiting upon the beach. The sea heaved with slow waves, none cresting, but all rolling up and down. The water was as dull as tarnished pewter, and thick as oil. It slopped upon the shingle beach. In the misty twilight it raised not so much as a clack of stone on stone, or the faintest hint of the rushing hiss one should expect of sea on shore. It was silent, almost deader than Shyish. No offence,’ said Stonbrak.
 	‘None taken, I assure you,’ said Horrin, though Ninian scowled.
 	Stonbrak leaned forward, his massive head shadowed by candle and firelight, making chasms of his wrinkles and caves of his eyes and mouth. His voice lowered, as if evoking the watchful quiet of the Realm of Mist. The storm, too, lessened in ferocity, rapt as the listeners. 
 	‘No one else was about,’ said Stonbrak. ‘Bertgilda found a spot close by where she could observe, primed the pistol loaned to her by the craftsman and hid herself. She did it well. She had a little rune craft to her, did Bertgilda. A scratch here and there, and the application of certain metallic salts, and she was hidden as well as could be. Not even her master saw her, though he was only two dozen paces away.’ He grinned sadly. ‘She had skill that girl. When the aelf came down to the shore from the clifftop path, he passed her right by without so much as a glance in her direction. His boots scuffed the stone not four handspans from her nose, and she was not seen. She held her breath until the aelf was past, pressed against the rock and soil. When she heard the aelf hail the craftsman – “Master goldsmith!” he said – she poked up her head to watch.
 	‘The pair met upon the shore. He was arrogant, like most aelves.’ Another hard look was spared for the prince. ‘But this one, he had an air of desperation, and though he tried his best to stand tall and haughty over our craftsman, his head kept drifting sideways, as if he expected his worst fears to emerge from the sea, and pull him under.
 	‘The craftsman stood with legs apart, his thick fingers hooked into his belt. He was the very picture of duardin indomitability. He looked confident, Bertgilda said, he looked stubborn.
 	‘“Do you have the necklace?” said the aelf.
 	‘“Do you have my money?” the craftsman said. He patted the butt of his gun.
 	‘“You shall have it, I promise,” said the aelf, and appeared sufficiently apologetic that our craftsman lost a little of his anger. “Please,” the aelf pleaded. “Let me see the necklace.” He looked nervously over the water again. “She will be here soon. She is my love, but we must not anger her.”
 	‘The craftsman thought nothing of this. Duardin women are notoriously fiery of temper too, and with a people as mercurial as the aelves… Well.’ His eyebrows bristled. ‘Let’s just say I am glad my wife is no aelfish female.’
 	‘His isn’t either!’ hissed Shattercap, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘You be nice, beard bearer. Make bad thoughts about the poor prince. His wife is–’
 	‘Silence, Shattercap,’ said Prince Maesa, so firmly the spite cringed. ‘Pray continue,’ he said to Stonbrak’s questioning expression. He left no doubt that he would not speak further on the matter.
 	‘The necklace was presented,’ Stonbrak continued. ‘The light of eight seas shone into the grey aelf’s face. His unfriendly demeanour was banished for a moment as he gazed in wonder upon the work.
 	‘“Truly you are a master of your craft!” he said. The craftsman bowed.
 	‘“I am,” said our craftsman, and took the necklace back. The aelf’s yearning gaze followed it all the way into the pouch. “Now. My payment,” said the duardin.
 	‘The aelf shrank in on himself, for he was rightfully ashamed, and gave the craftsman a desperate look. “You must give me the necklace and go.”
 	‘“Are you mad?” said the craftsman. “You will pay me!”
 	‘“I will, I will,” said the aelf. “Payment will be left here. You must leave the beach, turn your back on the sea. Do not look to the water, or it will go badly for you. My lover has the gold, and I swear I shall leave it here for you.”
 	‘“Lies!” boomed our craftsman. His voice rolled out over the lazy slap of the water. His talented hands drew his ­pistol and he pointed it at the aelf’s head, so fast a movement in that listless, leaden bay.
 	‘“I am sorry!” wailed the aelf. He clasped his hands together. “I did not wish to trick you, but this is the only way.” He blinked. “I told you a little mistruth. I have no money.”
 	‘“Then I shall blow your lying aelven head off!” roared the craftsman, who by now had more than had his fill of aelfish nonsense.
 	‘“Wait, wait! I mean for you to be paid! She has riches beyond compare. She is beauty incarnate. I must have her as my own. I am sorry to have deceived you. She will give you what you seek, I swear, but please, you must leave. Get away from the water.”
 	‘“I,” said the craftsman through his anger, “am an honourable being. I have endured questioning, and innuendo, and threats because of the money I borrowed to make your necklace. I refused to listen. Our contract is binding, but you have invalidated it. I am going, and I will sell this necklace of the eight seas to recoup my loss.”
 	‘“You mustn’t!” said the aelf. Ignoring the gun held at his head, he ran to the shoreline and back again. His feet whispered over the stones. The click of the hammer drawn back halted him.
 	‘“Goodbye, master aelf,” said the craftsman. He began to back away.
 	‘The aelf remained staring out to sea. “Oh no! She comes!”
 	‘A haunting note echoed from the cliffs, penetrating the mists, and travelled far out to sea.
 	‘“Too late!” the aelf said with anguish. “Leave!”
 	‘The craftsman paused. “Then she can pay me herself,” he said, his pistol not wavering one hair’s breadth from the aelf’s head.
 	‘Bertgilda watched with mounting horror. She wished to shout that the craftsman flee, but he was her elder, and she had no right to tell him what to do. The scene took on the feeling of a dream. The sea boiled not far from the shore, and from the waves a pale-skinned aelf maid rose. Although she left the water, it did not appear to leave her. Her hair and clothes moved with the slow dances of the drowned. Fish darted through the air beside her. If she swam herself or flew towards the shore, Bertgilda could not tell. Her account was confused. Her recollection of events was slipping from her when I heard the tale, and the second time I spoke with her on this matter, she had forgotten most of it, all in the space of a day! Aelfish witchcraft.
 	‘The aelf maid floated to the beach, her feet not once touching the floor.
 	‘“You have the necklace?” she said. Her voice was quiet as wind-stirred water, as soft as the movement of weeds in a pool, and yet Bertgilda heard it, and it filled her brave maiden’s soul with fear.
 	‘“Give it to her!” The grey aelf hissed. “If you value your life, please! If she is satisfied you may depart with your soul and your money.”
 	‘Still holding up the gun, the craftsman pulled out the necklace and raised it for the aelf maid to see.
 	‘She gasped with pleasure and drifted nearer, not once touching the jewel, but caressing it with her gaze. As she peered into each watergem and saw the worlds entrapped therein, she laughed, and said in delight, “A fine gift you have brought me, my dryshod love. A worthy price for my affection.”
 	‘A look of pure avarice gripped her. The look she gave my kinsman was far, far worse.
 	‘“You have another item for me, I see.”
 	‘The aelf looked at the craftsman. “Run!”
 	‘Too late did our honest jeweller see the peril he was in, and even though he knew now what danger there was in the exchange, a duardin does not run! Never! He fired his gun. The report of the shot banged off every stone and out into the mist. But the violence of the noise was all the shot availed him. The bullet slowed, as if caught by water, and drifted down, scaring apart a shoal of fish swimming in that uncanny ocean surrounding the foreign princess. The maid descended upon him, hands outstretched. His gun fell to the shingle.
 	‘What act of sorcery the aelf performed I cannot say. Bertgilda was gripped by an awful, unnatural terror, and could not watch. The last she heard was the craftsman’s strangled groan, the awful scream of the male aelf and a mighty splash. She lost her senses for a while. When she regained them the aelves were gone. The craftsman, by a miracle of the ancestors, lay upon the shingle, eyes wide, still breathing. At first she laughed through her tears, until she found her attempts to rouse him failed, and she realised his body lived devoid utterly of mind.
 	‘Upon his chest was a bag of weed-wrapped net, full of coins dragged from cursed wrecks. The promised payment for his work.’
 	Stonbrak pulled hard on his pipe, his exhalations filling the space around the table with a cloud of fragrant smoke. The fire was burning low, lighting the room through the pipe’s exhaust much as Stonbrak had described Ulgu – a glowing mist, never bright, never truly dark.
 	‘Bertgilda returned to the city half out of her wits,’ he said. ‘Days later, our clan heard a rumour of an aelf of low birth who had taken the most precious treasure owned by the mountain king and used it to buy the hand of the daughter of a foreign lord whom he loved most dearly. The treasure, of course, was eight, perfect watergems.
 	‘For some time, the grey aelves argued with us about the fate of the craftsman. Eventually, the alder council declared the craftsman at fault on account of reckless brokering, and the aelves admitted their share of the blame. The Granite Brotherhood creditors called in their loan. By that time the interest accrued was so large the sea gold covered only part of the debt, and his family were cast into penury.
 	‘I learned all this when I returned home. The craftsman’s deathless state persisted for some days before he expired, and he never once spoke again. By the time I saw Bertgilda, she was ill of mind, though I managed to piece together events from what she said. She lived, I’m glad to say, though it took her a long time to recover.
 	‘Every day for ten years I walked from the city to hammer on the mountain gates of the grey aelves. Their guards and their functionaries spoke with me, but their high lords would not see me, until, annoyed by my persistence, they paid blood money for the craftsman’s death and told me that was to be the end of it. Unwilling to risk relations with our neighbours, the alder council ordered that I drop the matter. I did. Though they assured me I did so honourably, it stung me.’
 	Stonbrak grumbled into his pint pot. ‘From this tale I learned three things. Generosity is a weakness. Always take payment up front.’ He jabbed his pipe stem at the prince. ‘And never trust an aelf!’
 	Maesa sipped his wine glass empty and he gestured for more. Horrin hurried off to oblige. ‘Surely the message of your tale is that greed is a weakness?’ said Maesa. ‘Pride, a desire to maintain honour, and greed were his downfall. Can you not see?’
 	‘And you imply these are flaws?’ Stonbrak slammed his pot down on the table. ‘Not at all. Pride drives a being to do his best. Honour to maintain it. Greed is good, so long as it does not overrule sense,’ said the duardin. He clamped his pipe in his teeth with an audible click.
 	‘Yet all three led to his downfall.’
 	‘Life,’ said Stonbrak coolly, ‘can be cruel.’
 	‘Who was this craftsman to you?’ said Maesa. ‘I guess he was close from your sorrow.’
 	‘What of it?’ snapped Stonbrak. ‘He was my clansman, his dishonour tarnishes the reputation of all his family. There is need of no more cause than that.’
 	‘He was more than a cousin or an uncle, I think,’ said Maesa.
 	Horrin returned with a jug of wine. ‘I’m sure his highness here meant no offence,’ he said cheerily, keen to head off disagreement between his guests. Before either could reply, a strong gust buffeted the inn, and he looked up momentarily as the structure shifted. Dust sifted down from the rafters. The building settled. 
 	‘I did not mean offence,’ said Maesa. ‘I seek merely to understand.’
 	‘Not much to understand,’ grumbled Stonbrak.
 	Horrin poured.
 	‘Then tell us,’ said Maesa. ‘Who was he?’
 	Stonbrak removed his pipe, grasped it hard in both hands and stared at it.
 	‘His name was Jurven. He was my brother. I loved him dearly,’ Stonbrak said shortly, embarrassment clamping his jaw so he bit off the words, then he softened with the sentimentality his kind hide so well, but not always. ‘When we were young, people assumed I would be envious of his ability, but it was not so,’ he said. ‘His works were a marvel. I lacked his perfect skill, but I never had any feeling for him other than pride at his ability. As I could not compete, I became a merchant, travelling the realms beyond Ulgu, and many a pretty coin I made from his crafts. It was while I was gone that tragedy befell him.’
 	Shattercap reached up his cup to the innkeeper. ‘More, more!’ he said.
 	Horrin looked to Maesa. The aelf nodded.
 	‘Just a little more,’ he said.
 	Horrin obliged, tipping a few drops into Shattercap’s thimble.
 	‘I tell you what else I learned,’ said Stonbrak. He patted his axe. ‘I don’t use firearms after what I heard. I trust to my axe.’ Runes glimmered on the shaft and head, fading only reluctantly away when his hand left the metal. Barnabus crept up to Ninian, and snuggled into her. Warmth enveloped the company.
 	‘Now,’ Stonbrak barked. ‘You have had your story from me. I nominate this aelfish princeling go next.’ The wind was dropping, but the rain picked up, its nervous fingers rattling on the wood. Thunder cracked.
 	‘The weather is improving, perhaps,’ murmured Quasque. ‘The storm breaks. Perhaps the ship will come tomorrow?’
 	‘I am afraid not,’ said Horrin. ‘The eye of the storm is closing in on us. There will be a drumbeat of thunder, a dazzlement of lightning!’ He had consumed all his second drink and much of his third while listening to Stonbrak, and was thoroughly set in the storytelling mood. He was eager for more. ‘The eye will drift over, and linger awhile. When it goes on its way, we’ll have more wind, more rain. So there is plenty of time for more tales,’ he said. ‘Will you, could you, tell us a story, Prince Maesa?’
 	‘I could.’
 	‘I will choose which one he shall tell!’ said Stonbrak. ‘An aelf like him will have lifetimes of tales, but there is one in particular I would like to hear.’
 	‘Is there?’ said Maesa.
 	‘There is,’ said Stonbrak. ‘Tell me how you came into the company of this little monster here.’
 	Shattercap hissed.
 	Maesa set his glass down. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall.’

AT THE SIGN OF THE BRAZEN CLAW: PART 3


 	Guy Haley


 	Forging ahead with the saga of Prince Maesa, the intrepid Guy Haley pens the third instalment of his quest narrative.

 	A Black Library veteran, Guy’s vast portfolio ranges from the depths of the Mirrored City to the 41st millennium. Focused on how the enigmatic Prince Maesa and the spite Shattercap met among the deadly forests of Ghyran, Guy’s mastery of the intricacies of the aelven mind produces a nuanced story that is a joy to read.

 
 
 	 


 	Prince Maesa and Shattercap have come to the hinterlands of Shyish in order to catch a Kharadron packet ship through the Argent Gate to Ghur. Delayed by stormy weather, they sit out the night at the inn of the Sign of the Brazen Claw. As they wait, the travellers swap their stories. The first to speak was the innkeeper, Horrin, who told how he came into his career. Then Stonbrak, the duardin, told how his brother lost his life because of a hasty contract. As the night wears on, Prince Maesa takes his turn to tell a story…
 
 
 	The Prince’s Tale


 	 
 


 	‘Our duardin friend Stonbrak wishes to know how I came to be associated with the spite, so I shall tell you,’ said Prince Maesa.
 	Shattercap grinned slyly.
 	‘This is the best story!’ the spite crowed.
 	‘That it may be,’ said Pludu Quasque. He was the quietest in the company – the raging storm frightened him to an unusual degree – but the promise of Prince Maesa’s tale woke a little of his curiosity, and he peered at the spite. ‘I have some experience with arcane creatures.’
 	‘My name is Shattercap!’ said Shattercap indignantly. ‘Not creature!’
 	‘It is a forest daemon,’ said Stonbrak. ‘No good can come from having it around.’
 	‘Then why do you wish to know where he comes from?’ asked Horrin.
 	‘For protection’s sake,’ said the duardin sternly. ‘Stories have a power of their own. Useful magic, when dealing with things like that.’
 	Quasque spoke up. ‘He is not a daemon, sir duardin.’
 	‘He is not,’ agreed Maesa. ‘You are familiar with the breed?’
 	‘Book learning only,’ said Quasque bashfully.
 	The wind was dropping outside as the eye of the storm circled around the Brazen Claw. Each dying roar drew out a shudder from Quasque, but his fear was lessening as the wind dropped, and his spine uncurled a little, so that he looked less hunted.
 	‘I would be…’ Quasque said. Thunder clashed. He cringed. ‘I–’ His voice rose, as if he were stifling a shriek. He swallowed and composed himself. ‘I would be grateful for any information you could provide. I am, ah…’ He licked his lips. His eyes darted to his fellow travellers. ‘A minor student of the esoteric arts.’
 	More thunder. Silence fell.
 	Maesa motioned for his glass to be refilled. Horrin leaned over to pour from the bottle.
 	‘While you’re at it,’ said Stonbrak loudly, ‘you can get me another drink.’
 	‘Of course, Master Stonbrak,’ said Horrin, and bustled off.
 	‘And bring the whole cask this time!’ Stonbrak shouted. He set his pint pot down hard and grumbled at it like its emptiness was responsible for the majority of the world’s ills. ‘Manling measures,’ he complained.
 	‘The spites are creatures of magic and spirit,’ Maesa ventured, again.
 	‘So a daemon,’ said Stonbrak. He peered into his pot in case any beer had escaped his attention.
 	‘Though inclined to mischief, spites are not things of Chaos. They are free of will, or else how would I be able to teach Shattercap here how to be good?’ said Maesa, refusing the duardin’s attempts to irritate him.
 	Shattercap burped and grinned from ear to ear.
 	Maesa stroked the tiny spite’s back. ‘To change, one must have the power of self-determination. A daemon is a product of its monstrous patron, and can make no choice that would lead it away from its master’s essential character. Spites are born of the woods and trees. They are the will of moss mani­fest. They are the dreams of branches. They are the thoughts of ferns, and the musings of grass.’
 	‘A plant daemon then,’ said Stonbrak. He refilled his pipe. Quasque produced a small brass pipe of his own from an inner pocket, held it forth, and gave the duardin a hopeful look. Stonbrak rolled his eyes. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But this is duardin smokeweed. I warrant it’ll choke a strip of crackling like you dead.’ He tossed his tobacco pouch over the table. Quasque took it up gratefully, and filled his pipe bowl to the very brim, to Stonbrak’s scowling annoyance.
 	‘Like all things of free will,’ continued Maesa, ‘a spite may make the wrong choice. They can be enslaved, or dominated by those of greater will. They can be evil of their own accord. So although he is most assuredly not a daemon, Idenkor Stonbrak, he is dangerous, as you have asserted.’
 	Horrin came back with a small keg under one arm and the other hand supporting a tray crammed with drinks balanced in that almost magical way common to barkeeps everywhere. He set the keg down before the duardin with a thump. Stonbrak licked his lips greedily.
 	‘That is more like it!’ Stonbrak declared.
 	Horrin passed out drinks to the others, explaining that he thought it better to make sure everyone was well supplied, then Stonbrak said he was hungry, and Quasque enquired after the location of the privy. Barnabus was falling asleep in his foster mother’s arms, and she nudged him towards his spot by the fire. He came awake and loudly refused to go. Their argument over his bedtime started a flurry of activity. The travellers toileted, Horrin fetched food. Barnabus won a reprieve from his bed. For a brief while the inn was all a clatter, evoking a sense of busier nights, and battling back the dying noises of the wind, so that a sense of safe conviviality outdid the unease the storm brought.
 	Finally, relieved, refreshed and with plates of bread and cheese in front of them, they were ready to continue. Horrin was the last to sit. Before he did, he ostentatiously noted down the fare consumed upon a slate, peering at each traveller and counting the provisions they had consumed not quite aloud but in such a way the travellers saw, in case any of them assumed Horrin had greater generosity than he actually possessed, and attempted to duck the bill.
 	Throughout all this, Maesa watched, his slanted, amber eyes staring off into far places, his fingers idly massaging Shattercap, who trilled and purred under the attention.
 	‘I think we’re all ready,’ said Horrin.
 	‘Then I shall begin,’ said Prince Maesa.
 	The Prince’s Tale
 	‘I am a wanderer among wanderers,’ Maesa began. ‘It is many long years since I fell in love with a human woman against the customs of my kind, and so my people and I parted on bitter terms, but the sorrow I felt for the sundering could never compete with the happiness Ellamar brought me, and we lived decades in bliss. They were gone too quickly. I am an aelf – a human life is brief as a spring afternoon to us. A moment’s joy, then centuries of sadness.’ Maesa’s perfect face transformed into a vision of sorrow so exquisite the others dabbed their eyes. Even Stonbrak tugged his beard and coughed uncomfortably.
 	‘So sad,’ said Shattercap, and patted the prince’s hand.
 	Maesa smiled. ‘I would not have had it any other way. So it was I found myself alone. I left our home to fall into the embrace of forest thorns, and set out to journey. I knew not where I was going, but following whatever path I found my feet upon, I passed through many realms. Weighed down by grief, I shunned company, that of other aelves especially. I turned aside from the secret ways of my folk, but walked the realms like any mortal man, passing through the throngs of humanity where they still persisted. At other times, I wandered the wastes made by the Dark Gods, or wildlands protected by the profound magics of the elder ages. While my body walked, my soul traversed endless cold voids of grief.
 	‘After a time, I passed far from all the throngs of people, good or evil. For years I did not speak a single word of the languages of man, aelf or duardin, immersing myself in the silent speech of far deserts and deep green places beyond the touch of Chaos and civilisation both. Repeatedly, death tried to claim me, from thirst, or exposure, or broken-heartedness. I welcomed it, encouraged it, but every time death came near, something in me awoke, and pushed me towards life, forcing me to drink, or to eat when my pulse faded, or to fight when I was threatened. These years went on for so long I cannot remember them all, nor all the places that I went, nor how many times I called to death then shunned it.
 	‘Nothing lasts, not nations or stars or even grief. Eventually my isolation came to an end, although as the day dawned I had no inkling of its significance.
 	‘I had returned to Ghyran, scarcely aware that I was once more in the realm of my birth. I recall the morning. A veil was lifting from my eyes, and I saw more than I had for some time. I walked a road much overgrown by blind oak and goldenbough. Old roots had heaved up the surface in the slow ploughing ways of trees. Once it had been a thoroughfare, and although there was little of Chaos in the land thereabouts, the populace was long gone. Patterns in the trees hinted at lost fields, and undergrowth tangled on levelled settlements, made verdant by the ash of ancient conquest.’
 	‘So poetic, is my master,’ said Shattercap wistfully. ‘Such beauty in his words!’
 	‘A little overly ornate for my tastes,’ harrumphed Stonbrak.
 	‘Please now, master duardin,’ said Ninian, who was quite entranced with the prince in a way that made Horrin frown.
 	Maesa sipped his wine. The wind had dropped to a few silent, furtive draughts that dared the gaps in the walls, but their potency was diminished, and the candles barely flickered. The rain too had lost its fury, the war drums of the downpour drawn down to an insistent pattering that was almost soothing.
 	‘Presently I came to a high wall surrounding the ruins of a great city,’ said Maesa. ‘Breaches from the city’s sack put out mossy ramps of tumbled stone. Trees grew from cracks in the facings, wrecking the masonry more thoroughly than any war engine could. The marble had greened, and the statues were broken and thrown down from the parapet. Nevertheless, the wall remained impressive, and in its artfulness I saw the works of men, duardin and aelf combined. This was a city of the Age of Myth. Looking upon it, I was saddened by the thought of higher eras when peace was the norm. Remarkably, it was the first time I had considered anything other than my own pain since Ellamar died, although the significance was lost on me at the time, so brief the thought was.’
 	‘I have been to this place,’ said Shattercap quietly. ‘Sad, and silent.’
 	‘The road led through a gateway whose arch had collapsed, mounding the cobbles with ivy-gripped stones,’ said Maesa. ‘Within the walls was much as outside, a verdancy grown thick on the wreck of lives, trees’ high canopies raised over shattered houses and public buildings. So much of what I saw was covered over by green that it was hard to gain an impression of who had dwelled there, but in open parts I saw fragments of statuary that had miraculously escaped time’s ravages, and they suggested a sophisticated people. Perhaps I might have explored under other circumstances, but I had the urge to leave the place. Its desolation reminded me of my own sorrow, and I quickened my pace.
 	‘The city was vast, mile after mile of broken streets. I became wary. There are many strange places in the realms, and it is easy to become trapped within them. The calls of daytime creatures gave way to the impatient cries of hunters awaiting the dark. I realised I could not cross the city before nightfall and searched for somewhere to sleep. No roofs remained upon the buildings – all were fallen into deep forest mulch. Besides the hollow ruins, nothing remained to testify that people had existed there at all, until I found the track.
 	‘A simple road overlaid one of higher artistry, cartwheel ruts carved through centuries of leaf mould down to the stone beneath and, alongside, a footpath compacted to smooth hardness. I was amazed – people lived there yet. I touched the ground, feeling the warmth of passers-by who I judged not ten minutes gone. I could have turned away – ordinarily I would – but discovering signs of life in the green tomb of the city, and feeling loneliness more keenly than grief for the first time in ages, I found myself following the track.
 	‘Shortly after I saw three people. Humans, of unremarkable appearance – two men with wary eyes and a girl nearing womanhood. I followed them. They were canny in their woodcraft, but they did not see me. They could not. A wanderer is invisible among the trees if he chooses to be.’
 	‘’Tis hard even for I to see him,’ said Shattercap, nodding enthusiastically.
 	‘Soon I heard noises ahead, and spied a wooden wall,’ Maesa continued, indulgent of his companion’s interruptions. ‘A village was built within an open space in the city. A dozen families, no more, their simple homes of wood and scavenged brick built upon the broken accomplishments of their forebears. In those times it was rare to see people living free, and I marvelled. I wished for a closer look, so sprang noiselessly up a tree, running across the branches, leaping from one bough to the next, until I was at the edge of the clearing, and close enough to the palisade to see within.
 	‘The fortifications were disguised by carpets of ferns encouraged to grow upon them. So strong was life’s magic there that the planks of wood sprouted, giving the wall a screen of leaves. It was not enough to hide their home from my eyes, but others might pass it by without notice. The houses within were similarly camouflaged, but in spots bright yellows and blues flashed boldly, and fine wooden carvings guarded the beam ends. The village bore few signs of war or suffering. The people were well fed, free of disease and other signs of poverty. And yet they were quiet and watchful.
 	‘It was no more than a hamlet, but to I, who had dwelled in wild silences for so long, their quiet work seemed monstrously loud. Affected by misgiving, I retreated into the leaves. Watchful people can be unkind to strangers. I decided to sleep where I was, close by their dwellings, and be away early in the morning. I had nothing to fear. I would not be seen if I did not wish to be, so fell into my sleep easily.
 	‘I was woken from dreams of Ellamar by weeping coming from the village. The night calls of insects and the screeches of owls could not mask it. The misery of the crying stirred sympathy in me, for the sound was the sound of my own grief, and I yearned to go near it, and see sorrow outside of myself the better to cope with my own. Foolishly, perhaps, I dropped from the tree, clambered over the wall and silently crossed the village.
 	‘Some way inside the walls was a small shrine. A woman knelt there before a pile of children’s things – clothes, toys and tools made for immature hands. I could guess the reason for her anguish well enough. Soundlessly I approached. None saw me. I watched awhile. I could have left without her noticing me at all, or struck her down. I did neither, but to my own surprise, I spoke.
 	‘“You have lost a child,” I said. The words sounded strange. I had not heard my own voice for such a long time.
 	‘She was on her feet in an instant. To her credit, she did not scream, but stared at me, her eyes luminous in the dark.
 	‘“Do not be afraid,” I said. “I am a friend. I mean you no harm.”
 	‘“An… an aelf…” she said, in quiet wonder. Quickly she wiped the tears from her face.
 	‘“That I am,” I replied. “Do not cry out. I heard your weeping, and could not keep away. Your sorrow called out to mine.” 
 	‘“Who are you?” she said.
 	‘“I am a traveller who has lost the one he loved,” I replied.
 	‘“Are you a warrior?” she asked.
 	‘“When the time demands, I am,” I told her. “In this moment, I am a fellow griever.”
 	‘She looked back to the pile of belongings, little more than rags and wooden dross, but each fragment infused with pain.
 	‘“Why do you weep?” I asked.
 	‘“My sister’s child is gone, along with others,” she said.
 	‘“Where?” I asked.
 	‘“The forest takes them,” she replied.’
 	Barnabus shuddered. Ninian pulled him close. Stonbrak took a long pull on his beer, and respectively set the mug down to avoid breaking the atmosphere.
 	Maesa sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘I expected she meant beastmen, or other fell beings who taint the forests with their presence. It was not so.
 	‘“It is the trees,” she ventured. “The trees take them.” She took a step closer towards me. “You are a creature of the woods,” she said. “Perhaps… perhaps you can help us.” Her eyes sparked with fresh notions, and before I could stop her, she called out.
 	‘They were quick, I freely admit. I was surrounded in moments by a circle of spears. My hand flew to the hilt of my sword. I could have killed every last one of them, but I did not wish to.
 	‘“We will take you to Gurd,” she said. “Our leader.” She was calm. The others were suspicious. I could feel their urge to slay me.
 	‘“What if it’s a trick? What if he’s shifted shape?” one of the men asked. “What if he is an agent of darkness come to trick us and worsen our misery?”
 	‘“Are you a shapeshifter in the guise of an aelf?” the woman asked me.
 	‘“I am a wanderer, as you see,” I replied. “Nothing more.”
 	‘“If that is so, you will not be harmed,” she said.
 	‘“Then I will not harm you either,” I said.
 	‘“You could try,” said the man.
 	‘“I would succeed,” I said to him.
 	‘I allowed them to take me to their chief. The woman was as good as her word. The men were nervous. Their spears shook with their fear and the desire to kill, but not one attempted to hurt me.
 	‘“An aelf,” said their aged leader, the one called Gurd, once he had been roused from his bed. I smelled the death waiting for him, a few brief years away. His mouth was caved in with a lack of teeth, his cheeks crumpled as dropped cloth, yet his eyes were sharp. “Well,” he said. He sat heavily on a rough stool, and poured out mead from a jug into a horned cup. “Sit,” he said. “Will you drink with me?”
 	‘“I will,” I said. He poured a second cup for me, and pushed it across the boards. It was sweet-smelling, not refined as aelfish wines, but not without savour. I drank it gladly.
 	‘“I am Gurd,” he said.
 	‘“This woman told me,” I said. She had come into the chieftain’s house, a hut no bigger than any of the others. The men waited outside. “She did not introduce herself.”
 	‘The old man snorted. “Kelloway,” he said. “That’s her name. She’s sly, probably worried about enchantment, giving up her name to you.”
 	‘“I am no mage.”
 	‘“A pity,” he said, and I could see he meant it. “A mage would be useful.” He shrugged. “I have not seen an aelf for decades. They are long gone from these parts, as are most men. We are the few that remain, untouched by Chaos’ evil.”
 	‘“I am as surprised to find you as you are me,” I said. I spoke honestly. I sensed no wickedness in this Gurd.
 	‘He looked at me with calculation. “You are of high birth, though, I can see that.”
 	‘I did not deny it, for no prince should hide his lineage.’ Gurd drained his cup and slammed it onto the table.
 	‘“For generations this forest has sheltered us from the Dark Gods,” he said. “We honoured the spirits that linger here. They protected us, we protected them. But of late, they grow greedy, vengeful. They take things they have no right to.”
 	‘“Your children,” I said. 
 	‘The old man nodded. “Seven now, over the course of a year. We keep the windows and doors barred, and the young ones under watch at all times, but somehow they steal into our homes and take them – it’s always the youngest, the suckling babes. A birth is a cause for mourning now.” He became grave. “We cannot leave this city of our ancestors. Beyond the boundaries of the forest, the hordes of Lord Fangmaw hold sway. We do not know what to do. Perhaps if we had a better understanding of why the spirits turned against us, we could placate them, and reforge our alliance.” He looked at me. “Your kin has an ancient association with the sylvaneth. Could I convince you to go to them, and speak with them as our ambassador?”
 	‘“You have sent an embassy before, I assume?” I asked.
 	‘“Of course,” Gurd said. He pulled a sour face. “That is how we know who is responsible. We found our wise woman’s bones tangled in vines thirty-three days after she departed, along with her guardians, not far from the walls. In the past it was our enemies left out this way for us to see – now we find we are the victims.” He leaned forward, and spoke urgently. “Kelloway’s niece went missing only a day ago. There might still be time for her, if you hurry.”’
 	‘Babies are so tasty,’ said Shattercap. ‘But eating them is bad!’ he added hurriedly, clapping his hands over his mouth. 
 	Stonbrak curled his lip and shook his head.
 	‘I sipped at my mead as I sip this wine now,’ Maesa went on. ‘I had no real desire to venture into the deep forest and seek out the children of Alarielle, for they can be vicious, and the ancient compact between my kind and theirs is void. But I thought of the sorrow of the woman Kelloway for her missing niece, and how it had touched my own. Something in me had awoken after a long slumber. A change like that does not occur by chance. This was meant to be.
 	‘“Where is the child’s mother?” I asked.
 	‘“Where do you think?” said Gurd. “Beside herself with grief.”
 	‘That made little difference to me, for I had not tasted her pain. It was an abstract, but I realised I wanted to go. I was recovering from my loss. Later, after the adventure was done with, I looked back and felt a new pain, for I realised my grief was fading, and that meant I was letting my beloved Ellamar go. 
 	‘“Very well,” I said. “I shall visit the forest born, and return the child, if I can.”
 	‘And so it was agreed. I set out at dawn.’
 	‘Gurd’s people directed me edgeward where, according to their tradition, the creatures of the forest dwelled. They met rarely, and none had seen a dryad for some time. I detected none of their presence, even as the woods got thicker. Giant trees stretched limbs towards the sky, their leaves casting shadows that flooded the forest floor with an inky gloom few plants could survive. Soon I was in near darkness, interrupted by scattered coins of sunlight, rare wealth indeed. The air was unmoving.
 	‘I have known all manner of forest, yet none daunted me so much as that stifling place. A wood watched over by the sylvaneth is a place of fecundity, but this land was dying. The trees were sinister and their hearts black with spite.’
 	Maesa set his wine glass down. Like everything else he did, the move was accomplished gracefully, and without sound.
 	‘Shortly after, I found the sylvaneth. I entered a burnt patch of the forest, where blackened earth showed through leaves turned to white ash. The trees were charred some way up their trunks, weeping amber tears of sap from their deepest burns, and their spirits cried out in silent pain. In the middle of the devastation was a tangle of charcoaled branches that could be mistaken for tree limbs, but were, sadly, the fire-slain bodies of dryads.
 	‘I skirted the burnt ground, not willing to defile it with my tread. The bodies were much reduced, and so it was hard to see how many lay there. Were the sylvaneth dead, supplanted by wicked powers? I saw no beast sign, or the works of corrupted men. Disquieted, I passed further on.
 	‘The land rose, slowly at first, then quickly. The trees thinned, allowing a wind to refresh me. Green showed upon the forest floor once more. I smelled the icy breath of a mountain ahead. Broad-leaved giants dwindled, replaced by smaller, hardier breeds with knuckled roots that gripped rock into splintered submission, then they too failed, and straight-bodied pines who aimed themselves at the sky like arrows took their place. When I turned back, I could see for league after league across that part of Ghyran. The forest stretched on towards the realm’s centre. Hysh-ward, the way I had come, I saw the ancient kingdom hidden beneath its cloak – the lines of roads and the blocks of cities, the stumps of towers and citadels, reservoirs choked with reeds. Hysh-away was another story. There the forest abruptly ended in a black plain riven by chasms of molten rock. Hundreds of thousands of dead trees formed the border of the two landscapes, all scorched as spent matches. The might of Chaos drew near, and I wondered why this forest had held so long, with its frightened, remnant folk, and why it was only now beginning to fail.
 	‘Ahead the mountain soared to touch the sky. Great beasts wheeled around its snowy peak, and the light of glorious Hysh burned most brightly over it. Up there, I was sure, I would find my answers.’
 	‘Beautiful, beautiful,’ said Shattercap mournfully. ‘I wish one day to go home.’
 	‘Perhaps you will,’ said Maesa, before continuing his tale. ‘Sure enough, as the trees dwindled to isolated shrubs, and meadow took their place, I found tracks in the earth. Small tracks, less than a day old, and less evident than the signs of the burden they dragged up the slope.’
 	‘Spites?’ asked Barnabus, quietly.
 	‘Spites!’ shouted Shattercap.
 	Maesa nodded. ‘A dozen of them, or so I judged. With no more trees to scamper through, they had been forced to go upon the ground. Now I had their trail, I made swift time. As the meadows gave way to slopes of scree, I found a dell scooped from the mountain’s side, and there, set back in permanent gloom, was a castle of living trees and huge boulders bound fast by roots.’
 	Barnabus’ eyes widened. ‘Alive?’ he said. His face dropped. ‘I have never seen anything like that, and I suppose I never will.’
 	‘You are of the realm of Shyish,’ said Maesa. ‘What is mundane to you would be wondrous to someone of Ghyran, to whom a living fortress is the most ordinary of castles.’ He leaned in a little closer to the boy. ‘Look around you with new eyes, young human. You dwell in an inn cupped in the palm of a slumbering demigod. Is that not marvellous enough?’
 	Ninian ruffled Barnabus’ hair. The boy frowned thoughtfully.
 	‘Not knowing what welcome I would find in the fort, I strung my bow before scaling the walls. There was no one within. The walls were dying, the roots were dry and losing bark, while soft mountain winds rattled withered leaves on the tower trees. A beast cried in the sky – otherwise there was naught but silence. Stealthily, I headed deeper into the castle.’
 	All the company were enraptured now, even Stonbrak, whose dark glances towards the spite had all but ceased.
 	‘Beyond the walls was a grotto burrowed into the mountainside by roots as thick as a man, and gated with a screen of vines. They were also dead, and falling apart. I wondered if I would find anything alive in there at all, then I heard voices – high, whispery, restless twigs scratching one another, but voices nonetheless. I nocked an arrow to my string, and stepped through the crumbling vines into a cave a thousand strides across and filled by a lake.
 	‘A giant black trunk climbed from an island at the centre. The tree was immense, and its branches braced the cave roof. Light fell through holes in the rock and shone upon the tree, and reflected from the water. Like the wall trees, it too was dying.
 	‘I finally spied my quarry. The spites struggled down a path to the lake shore, dragging a bundle behind them that was most burdensome to their feeble strength, though it was but a swaddled human baby deep in enchanted sleep. For all the effort it took them, the spites moved quickly, rolling the slumbering child into a small boat made of a single curved leaf. Their leader leaned over the side and with huge, webbed hands paddled the boat, spites, baby and all, across the water to the island. Following the boat along the shore, the source of all this misery became apparent to me.
 	‘A seat was grown into the wood of the mighty tree, and in it a great tree lord enthroned. Tree lords are mighty creatures, wise, powerful and quick to wrathfulness against the enemies of order, but this one was injured grievously.
 	‘Fire had consumed his left side. His bark skin was peeled back to the fleshy wood, which was pale with illness, and wept a foul reeking sap. His face was likewise blackened, one eye burned out, his crown of leaves scorched away. He sat crooked, leaning away from his wounds. His mouth worked with pain. The whorls in his skin, which should shine true with the light of jade magic, pulsed an angry redness. In desperation, he had sought a terrible cure. All around his throne were heaped the remains of hundreds of creatures. I saw the bones of orruks and humans mingled with those of simple beasts of the wood. All of them were deathly white, drained of life completely, awaiting but a single touch to knock them into dust. What flesh was upon them was desiccated to powder. The tree lord’s feet were rooted firmly in the depths of this horror – from the dead he drew new life. Around his neck he wore a necklace of lambent seeds, and by this adornment especially I knew the tree lord had lost his senses, and descended into madness. A terrible fate awaited the child.
 	‘The leaf-boat reached the far shore. The spites sang high-pitched work songs as they struggled to move the sleeping babe from the boat and towards the pile of bones. I could have walked away, and left the child of men to its fate. Many aelves would have done so. I could not. I looked at the baby and thought only of the child my darling Ellamar desired, but which we could never have. I drew my bow. The creak of it roused the tree lord from his pain. He opened his one remaining eye and looked at me.
 	‘“An aelf, and a wanderer at that,” he said in the language of creaking boughs. His voice was the grinding of roots breaking bedrock, slow and deep and powerful. At his speaking, the cracks of the great tree’s bark around his throne shone with a hundred eyes, and more spites crawled out – the court of this wounded king.
 	‘“As life made me so, I am Maesa, exile prince,” I said, using the formal words that were part of our people’s common bond long, long ago. They could not be denied, and the tree lord was forced to respond in kind.
 	‘“And as life made me, I am Svarkelbud, whom some call the Black,” he said, naming his own evil. He did not wish to give his name, and he spat the words unwillingly. “I do not care for aelves. I have not seen your kind since you betrayed Alarielle, and left Ghyran to its fate.”
 	‘“That was long ago,” said I. “Long before I was born.”
 	‘“You cannot escape blame. The guilt is yours,” said the tree lord firmly. He clenched his good hand into a thicket fist. “You have no right to be here, nor to call upon our ancient alliance. Begone, you are not welcome.”
 	‘“I will gladly go, with the child,” I said.
 	‘The tree lord laughed. “Now we come to it. An aelf at the beck and call of savages. How noble. That is impossible. I must heal. The forest must persist. The child’s soul is ripe with life’s potential. By consuming it shall I grow strong, and the slaves of the dark gods will feel my wrath again!” His cry turned into a pained, splintering cough. He clutched his wounds. Sap ran through his fingers. “I will not allow you to take it,” he said, his voice hazed with pain. “I require its essence.”
 	‘“Where are your dryads?” I asked. “I will speak with them. Perhaps we can come to another arrangement that will bring you back to health.”
 	‘Once more he laughed. “Traitors! They are dead. After I was wounded by the slaves of the blood god, they entreated me to leave this place and head to the jade wellsprings where I could be remade. The journey is too far, the process too long. I would have been rooted there for many generations, and my forest at risk all the while. They did not approve of my alternative.” He laboured to speak through the pain of his wounds. Time was running short. The spites had the sleeping child upon the shore, and were moving it to the pile of bones at the tree lord’s feet.
 	‘“By fire I was wounded, by fire they perished. By my hand!” roared the tree lord. “They opposed me, so they died, and became acquainted with my agony.” His voice lost a little power. He hunched over himself.
 	‘“You wear their soulpods,” I said.
 	‘“They were unfaithful!” he said, as if this blasphemy were normal.
 	‘“Now you hunt the people who are your allies.”
 	‘“Where were they when Lord Fangmaw burned me with alchemical flames? Hiding in their hovels! For too long they have intruded upon my realm,” insisted Svarkelbud. “They have earned their fate.”
 	‘“Their city is swallowed by your trees. I would say you intrude upon their realm,” I said. “You go against the teachings of the goddess of life. Let me help you. End this madness.”
 	‘“Alarielle is gone! Driven away. What loyalty do I owe her? I am king in this domain!”
 	‘The spites chittered and screeched at me from the trunk of the underworld tree, more mischief in the gathering than in a troop of apes. Their cohorts raised the child above their heads and bore it to the mound of bones. I had my arrow aimed at the tree lord through the conversation, but switched it now, sending it at the foremost spite bearing the child – a sinuous thing wearing the form of a glowing, four-armed snake – and striking it dead. Already I was moving forward, pulling a second arrow from my quiver and letting it fly. It buried itself, fletch-deep, in the chest of a waddling thing fat as a barrel. I made the shore of the lake, slaying more of the spites before my feet were wetted. Cold, subterranean waters beckoned, who knows how deep, but though I am no battle wizard, I have my magic. Murmuring certain words, I sprang onto the water, and sprinted across the surface, loosing arrows all the while.
 	‘Their numbers diminished, the spites struggled with their load, half dropping the slumbering infant; so jolted it awoke, and began to cry.
 	‘“Cease your meddling!” roared Svarkelbud. He heaved himself to his feet, sheets of hardened resin cracking from his wounds and letting flow the sap-blood they staunched. Screaming with pain and rage, he thrust his roots deeper into the ground. They burrowed through stone quick as my arrows, and erupted in a spray of water from the lake. Tips of iron-hard wood speared upward, but I was gone. Swift as the wind am I, too fast for the sylvaneth. He called to his court of mischiefs. Spites crawled headfirst down the tree, carpeting the shore, brandishing thorns of wood and splinters of bone. The babe was but fifty paces from me. Perchance I was already too late.’
 	Maesa paused and looked at Shattercap. ‘A spite of medium size, grey-green of skin with leaves quivering on his shoulders, stood upon the squalling infant’s chest. In his hand he held a sharp dagger of bone raised to puncture the child’s throat, and steal its life away.’
 	‘Me!’ exclaimed Shattercap. He clapped his hands.
 	‘You,’ said Maesa. ‘In desperation I called out, “Do not harm the child!” Although he most certainly had harmed others, the spite looked at me, and for the briefest instant, his face lost its ferocity, and he looked upon the child with something approaching tenderness. It was enough for me to spare his life. I drew my sword.’ He patted the hilt of his strange blade. ‘Not the one I bear now or my task would have been considerably easier. When I reached the child, I struck with the flat of my weapon, knocking this creature, this Shattercap, unconscious. I severed the life threads of a dozen more spites to clear myself a little more space. I needed but an instant, for my kind is swift-limbed, and I am reckoned among the very fastest. That day, I moved as quickly as I ever have. I nocked my final arrow, whispered fires upon its tip, and sent it winging towards Svarkelbud. The tree lord saw the shot, but could not prevent its striking. It was the last thing he saw in this life.
 	‘The arrow plunged into his remaining eye and burst into flames. His roaring was so terrible that his other spites ­scattered, leaving me free to snatch up the puling babe.’
 	Again, Maesa paused and looked upon his companion.
 	‘On a whim, I took the spite also, stuffing him into one of my pouches and tying him fast within. Svarkelbud lashed out in every direction with his good arm and roots. His hand swept down, and I leapt upon it, and jumped again, swinging my sword to cut free the string of soulpods about his neck. I caught it as it fell, and landed upon the dry, dry bones. Then I was away, down the shore, over the lake, as his roots and wrath burst stone, water and bone all around us.
 	‘Soon enough I was clear. Svarkelbud’s head was ablaze. Sylvaneth fear the flames. They fear the smell, and the heat, for in their hearts they remember the screams of trees consumed by forest blazes, and they dread the same death for themselves. It was worse for Svarkelbud the twice-burned. In his madness and his panic, he forgot the water all around him, but blundered about, beating at his burning head with his hand and wailing, “Treachery! Treachery!” He banged into the underworld tree, and fire leapt from his head into its dry, dying leaves, setting them alight. At that moment I fled.
 	‘From a safe distance we watched the castle burn. The reign of Svarkelbud was done. For a single aelf to slay a tree lord is a deed of legend, yet nevertheless I am ashamed of it.’
 	‘The forest,’ said Horrin, his drink forgotten and mouth dry.
 	‘I do not know what happened to it,’ said Maesa. ‘I hope it remained until Sigmar’s storm swept down from high Azyr, and grows there still. I did what I could to ensure that. I found a grove, by a spring, and there I planted the soulpods of the dryads slain by their own king. Given time, they would sprout and take up the guardianship of the forest, and the hidden tribe of men who sheltered within. I hope that is what occurred.’
 	‘What happened to the baby?’ asked Ninian, who was clutching her foster son tightly.
 	‘Returned to the mother in the dead of night. I did not speak with the villagers again, but left a token so they would know it was I who had brought the child back, and that she was not some changeling. Then I left the woods, and headed into the wastes beyond, my eyes shedding the scales of grief. After so long, I had something of a purpose – the rehabilitation of my new companion.’
 	‘Why did you not kill him?’ said Stonbrak in tones of outrage. ‘You said yourself these things are dangerous, and witnessed them at their worst.’
 	‘Nasty duardin, full of meanness and beard,’ said Shattercap. ‘I’ll be dangerous to you if you not be nicer.’
 	Stonbrak rolled his eyes. ‘You could attempt it, plant daemon. My axe splits wood as well as flesh.’
 	Shattercap cringed and hid behind the prince’s arm.
 	Maesa smiled sadly. ‘Spites are things of magic. Those in the castle were enthralled to Svarkelbud. But Shattercap shied from murder despite that. There is a seed of goodness in his heart, and I have been carefully nurturing it.’
 	Prince Maesa sat back in his chair. Shattercap grinned a horrible smile of teeth, pointed and hooked for the catching of frogs, slithering things and children’s fingers.
 	‘If I cannot see good in him, what chance is there for myself?’ Prince Maesa asked. ‘I have done many terrible deeds, and am fated to do more.’
 	The company fell silent. Soft rain drummed on the roof. Wind caressed the eaves. Thunder rumbled a long way away.
 	‘We are now in the eye of the storm,’ whispered Horrin.
 	Unexpectedly, Pludu Quasque blundered to his feet, knocking over his goblet. Stonbrak swore and flicked wine from his hand. The rest dripped to the floor, slow and thick as blood.
 	‘I’ll go next!’ said Quasque with wild eyes. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I’ll get it out of the way, while I still have the time…’