 |
|
|
|
Welcome to the Round Table of Bretonnia!
 his is the meetingplace for all Bretonnian Generals in the Warhammer World. Come, and sit among peers at the Round Table, join the discussions, browse the growing library of articles or take a look at the masterpieces in the gallery!
Join now to take part in our community and the Heralds will know your name and Heraldry, it takes just a moment and all details you want can be filled in later.
You have no idea what this is all about? Then be sure to read the article "About this Homepage".
|
|
Written by MutantMaggot
|
|
Sunday, 22 June 2008 |
|
Page 4 of 9
Imagine a Sabretusk, and then make it twenty times larger. Lengthen its fangs. Give it wings, and a cunning intelligence. Add in a stir of the joy of slaughter, and you're halfway there. Harden the skin, making it a dark red, and give it a mane of black hair. Oh, and then add bronze armour, and an axe (possibly other weapons to taste, depending on how much tomato sauce you like ... well, certainly red. Sauce may describe it quite well, actually, but "tomato" could be stretching it a little.).
What you will arrive at is fairly close to a Bloodthirster. Fairly close: nothing can quite contain the sheer majesty of such a beast, blended with the horrific level of destruction it can deal out to its environment: in fact, the Bloodthirster is the poker player with six spare aces ready to deal out if necessary. (Never trust that innocent looking person next to you ... mages, poker players, they're all the same. All daemons inside.)
It took a few seconds for the Bloodthirster to actually appear, though it seemed like hours to the waiting elves: showers of blood are a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, meaning for some reason they always seem longer than they really are. Not many people will be able to tell you why, but it's probably because of the well-known principles of the Plot Hole. It takes a few seconds to describe an everyday occurrence, but hours to describe a Bloodthirster tearing its way into reality. It's probably because of quantum reality, or at least a theory some scientist has created to explain why he can't explain about something (it's not the how. It's the why. Science is a lot easier when you stick to that principle. After all, it generally boils down to "I don't know", which is fairly easy to write about).
But, philosophy aside, the moment took aeons, the daemon growing in size until it reached the size of a dragon (monstrous buggers. Ask any hero ... that's how they get to be heroes, you see. Don't believe me, eh? Find a hero that didn't kill a dragon, then). And that was when the slaughter began.
+++++
It is strange how much a daemon can unite two warring factions. The High and Dark elves worked together, each force attempting attacks on the Bloodthirster ...
But to no avail. The daemon was as high as ten men, and with each sweep of its axe dozens of elves flew threw the air, landing with sickening crunches on the stone floor. The daemon roared in horrific ecstasy as blood flew through the air, and lashed its whip out, catching a few elves and knocking them to the floor. It was clear this was no mad beast, though: the way the Bloodthirster acted, it seemed more like a dragon than a mere beast, fighting using tactics, as opposed to striking at whatever that moved.
The howl was like the roar of a great tiger magnified thousands of times, and it sent fear into the hearts of the elves. But that fear was their salvation: for while they saw their hated kindred stand strong, they would do the same. But it was also their downfall ... if one regiment broke, they all broke.
The great beast roared again, bounding forwards and knocking evil and good elf alike to the side. Elves screamed in agony as the axe crushed their bodies and sent blood splattering onto the axe head, where it slowly faded, leaving just dull metal.
The sorceresses tried in vain to banish the daemon, but nothing could stop it: the onslaught did not even pause as magical bolts lashed against its magic-strengthened armour. The few blows from mortal weapons failed to even pierce the thick hide.
It was clear this was a battle elfkind could not win.
+++++
Jacques stared out into the dark passage, longing to be outside. The Herald had broken his freedom and will momentarily, but it hadn't lasted. He would prove his strength where his master had failed.
Arda lay slumped in the corner, still shuddering slightly. Every now and then he gave a small scream, or a twitch: nightmares of what happened every waking hour.
D'Eperon understood his plight, yet he had no time to empathize ... his primary concern was escape, even if Lucius did not share his dreams of freedom. The vampire's pessimistic mind had caved in after just the first few days.
A black shadow blocked the flickering torches, and Jacques moved back into the shadow. Surely the Herald had not come again?
He had not. Jacques, looking closely, could just make out the glint of armour, old armour ... Mallobaude's armour. It was a dark silver colour, barely reflecting the light as the vampire strode swiftly down the corridor, black cloak shrouding him from the watchful eyes of the undead guards. His thin face was mostly shadowed, but to Jacquess he looked troubled. What was the vampire lord doing here?
Another glint of metal. Keys. The vampire lord bent down, drawing his cloak closer around him, and carefully opened the ancient door. The creak was too faint to be heard from upstairs.
Mallobaude gestured for Arda and Jacques to leave. "Quick," he hissed. "Don't question my actions ... this is vital. I will tell you more later."
Jacques hesitated only a second before leaving the cell. The vampire lord had never lied to him yet, or even threatened him. Arda, however, remained in his cell. Mallobaude frowned, and gestured for Lucius to follow him.
Arda did nothing, his eyes darting around like a cornered animal's. Then he opened his mouth wide, and began to phrase the words "guards".
He never even started speaking. The vampire lord drew his sword and beheaded the vampire in a fluid motion. Fascinated, Jacques watched his former master crumble to a fine dust. He couldn't help but feel a faint regret, but he realized it was worth it. His freedom was worth more than his master's life.
"Hurry!" Mallobaude hissed. "We must leave quickly, or else that damnable Herald will find us here."
+++++
Arkhor's eyes snapped open, and light filled with vision: a thin light, but light and colour nonetheless. What had happened? Arda had killed him ... the bastard. Wait ... how could he be dead? He could see ... something was wrong: clearly he hadn't been quite dead enough.
He mused for a moment on why he wasn't a pile of dust, but realizing it was a fruitless musing, turned his eyes to watch his surroundings. He was exactly where he last remembered Arda spitting on him after he pulled his sword out of him. He slowly reached down, and felt a gaping hole in his armour and stomach: not his heart. Lucius had missed his heart. So that was why ...
Around him lay a mound of the dead, but as he watched, limbs twitched and undead raised themselves from the dust. Was that why he was back? He had been in the void, but necromancy returned him to his previous unlife ... no, that wasn't right. It couldn't be! Slowly, the former vampire reached up and felt no fangs. No hunger for blood. His eyes widened. He was a wight.
What had Arda done, and why? Was this Luc's doing, or of his own unwitting devising? Arkhor frowned, wondering if his half-brother or the Herald had called him back. He hoped not. He wouldn't be a slave again ... he had a new life, and with it a chance to live again.
The corpse beneath him began moving, and he hastily leapt off, feeling a faint regret at his lack of vampiric strength. It had benefits, though. Tradition had never dictated what wights did, so now technically, he was free.
He stared into the distance, watching the sandy plain with interest, and noticed a solitary man standing, hands raised in some sort of primitive ritual.
A necromancer.
+++++
Balathir could see he was going to have to intervene: it was that or suffer the sight of his guards being torn apart by a daemon. He knew it would probably be his last spell, but if it worked ... he could save the lives of hundreds of elves and men.
Watching from the tower, he raised his hands as he had been taught: not a necessary motion, but helpful. As he did so, he began to form an image in his mind, of drawing power from a great ball of white light: but no normal ball of light, no sphere of the mind. No ... this was the pure light, the light that can be seen sometimes in the mornings, when a cold sun lances down upon a cold landscape.
It took a lot of his mental and physical strength away as he formed winds around him, creating a great channel of magic into the sky, but it was worth it. A single ray of light, increased in magnitude, descended through the clouds. Balathir's eyes glowed as he stared into the maelstrom of energy, the great typhoon of the air.
But the Bloodthirster had seen him too. He had to hurry ... even now, at the corner of his mind; he could sense the unholy being leaping into the air, vast wings unfolding as it carried itself into the air, leaving the elves behind to wonder about its ascent to the tower.
The light grew brighter, and the elves beneath turned away, at the risk of being blinded, but Balathir stared on into the maelstrom. Now the light blazed brighter than a thousand suns, forming a glowing halo around the mage. Light streamed from the mage's eyes as the marble floor grew unbvearably hot, a channelling inferno that filled the sky.
The Bloodthirster flew higher. Every beat of his great pinions sent him nearer to the mage, nearer to its victory over elfkind.
The light went out suddenly, and everything appeared to go dark for a moment, but for a faint halo surrounding the mage. The sun retreated, and the magical energies slowly returned to their former patterns.
Then, in a blast of pure white light, the mage struck. This time it was not a controlled beam, but a great lashing storm of clean light, purging all evil.
It lashed at the Bloodthirster like the whip the great daemon held in its hand, and Balathir exerted his full mental strength, determined to end the great creature's life. The light intensity greatened, and a great stream of light struck like lightning against the seemingly resistant beast. With a great roar, the Bloodthirster began to fall, wings collapsing as white fire erupted around it.
Balathir stopped the magical flow. There was no point ... any more and he would die himself. His last sight before he fell to the warm floor, unconscious, was of the daemon meeting its end on the flagstones below, slitting many of the great sheets of stone as its daemonic life was ended.
As his eyes flickered, the arch-mage finally allowed himself to smile. He had victory.
Bardanas watched the High elves mill around in confusion as they saw the aftermath of the great daemon's onslaught. But his own elves were not so disorganized: already they were making battle formations. The commodore smiled, seeing how much of a target the High elves were. "Corsairs, attack!"
+++++
Jean watched his column of wights as they marched towards Mousillon. It was a fairly small host, yet an army capable of reclaiming the city, anyway. Wights were powerful warriors, and he had two hundred.
Their steady marching shook the ground, heavy armour clanging, but Jean was aware it may not be enough: in fact, there was no way it could be enough. If an army had been able to destroy Coreaux's guards, it would be able to launch a reasonable defence.
He steered his steed back to the front, the mortal creature by now used to his undead state: the rider controlled their minds, but they were still mortal.
If Jean's expression had been readable, however, it would have shown his fear and anticipation: why had his master called him to return to Mousillon?
+++++
|
|
Last Updated ( Wednesday, 25 June 2008 )
|
|
|
 |
|  |
|
| |
