MORMACAR'S LAMENT
By Chris Pramas


MORMACAR WAS DROWNING in a sea of agony. Although he longed to surrender to the undertow and let the pain consume him, he continued to struggle towards consciousness. Far off he could hear voices but he couldn't understand what they were saying. He strove to listen, to somehow bring the voices nearer. After a torturous struggle, the sea calmed, the voices became clear and Mormacar opened his eyes.
'He's awake,' a gruff voice said, 'bring him some water.'
Suddenly a cup was at his lips and water coursed down his throat. Although it was warm and stale, the water tasted sweet beyond words. He looked up into the scarred face of an old elf with tangled hair and only one ear, and asked in a cracked voice, 'Where am I?'
The old warrior looked down on him, pity on his face, and whispered, 'I'm sorry, son, but you're in Hag Graef.'
Mormacar groaned and grabbed his throbbing head. He had thought it couldn't get any worse. How wrong he was. Hag Graef was the most notorious of the dark elf slave cities, a city of doom and death where untold prisoners were worked to death and from which no one had ever escaped. He began to wish he had simply been slain in battle, along with the rest of his Shadow Warrior band. The Forsworn, however, missed no opportunity for cruelty, especially against their hated foes from Ulthuan.
Sitting up, Mormacar looked about him. He was in a dark cell of crude stone, its floor covered with rank straw. He shared the cramped room with a dozen other prisoners, many elves like himself, but also some humans and dwarfs. All of his fellow prisoners looked dirty and weary and many bore bruises and welts, plainly gifts from their dark elf tormentors. A stout door closed them in and one sputtering torch added the smell of smoke to the stink of the windowless cell.
'Rest now,' the old elf said. 'You won't get another chance.'
'Thank you, brother,' the Shadow Warrior replied. 'May the Everqueen bless you. I am Mormacar of the Night Stalkers. May I ask your name?'
'Galaher,' the man said tersely.
'Galaher?' Mormacar cried. 'Surely not Galaher Swiftblade?'
'Some used to call me that,' the scowling elf hissed. 'Now I am just Galaher, a slave like you. Leave me be.'
Mormacar was momentarily stunned and could not speak. Galaher Swiftblade alive! The Shadow Warriors had produced few greater heroes and he was long thought dead. Mastering himself, Mormacar reached out and grabbed Galaher's arm. 'Please forgive me if I offended you, Galaher, but everyone on Ulthuan thought you perished on Eltharion's raid on Naggarond. With you alive, our escape is assured.'
Galaher knocked Mormacar's hand from his arm. 'There is no escape from Hag Graef save death,' the old fighter replied, his voice hollow, 'and only fools seek death.'
Mormacar could hardly believe this was the same Galaher from the stories. His shock must have been plain, for Galaher's face softened a little.
'Be strong. Endure,' the elf continued. 'And hope that Tyrion brings an army here and razes this place to the ground.' Galaher looked away, as if he searched his own soul for the dying embers of a long-held dream. 'Any other course is pure foolishness.'
Mormacar stared incredulously at the old elf. 'I can't believe you, of all people, are telling me to submit to the lackeys of the Witch King. Never! I will try to escape from Hag Graef, with or without your help!'
'Then you'll die,' Galaher said simply. Without a further word, the scarred warrior turned his back on Mormacar and crossed the cell.
The young Shadow Warrior lay back, a storm of emotions coursing through him. It pained him to see one of the great heroes of his people dead of spirit, but he could not take Galaher's advice. It was the duty of every elf to escape if captured by their ancient foes. Why couldn't Galaher see that?
Mormacar was so wrapped in thought that he didn't notice another presence until a deep voice jarred him back to his senses. 'The old elf's fire died out long ago. Don't waste your breath on him, elfling.'
Mormacar slowly got to his feet, grimacing in pain as he drew himself up to his full height. 'Who dares to insult Lord Galaher Swiftblade?' he said icily.
Facing him was heavily-muscled human, who stood a head above the defiant elf and whose dirty face was framed by thick braids. 'I am Einar Volundson of Jaederland,' the giant boomed, his Norse accent thick, 'and I insult every member of your gutless race!'
Before Mormacar could reply, one of the other prisoners near the door hissed, 'Be silent, they are coming!'
Everyone in the cell quieted. The Shadow Warrior and the Norseman stared at each other, their antagonism wordless yet potent. Outside, the thump of heavy boots echoed in the hallway. When the pounding advance stopped, the air was rent with the screech of grinding metal as a distant door opened. Then the screaming started.
The Shadow Warrior looked at his cellmates, seeing the terror etched on their faces. He would die, he resolved, before he would live in fear of the dark elves. The heavy footsteps continued, at last stopping in front of their door of the cell. The prisoners looked at each other as keys clattered outside, but if they sought solace than they found none.
The fear in the cramped room was palpable as the heavy portal swung open slowly to reveal three cruel-eyed dark elves. Their leader, a tall woman clad head to toe in black leather, feigned demureness as one of her henchman mopped fresh blood from the front of her leather vest. She could have been beautiful, but her raven hair and striking features were mined by the twisted sneer on her pale face. Her gloved hands lovingly cradled a long whip, which seemed to writhe with a life of its own under her expert caress.
Her henchmen, two lithe, heavily mailed guardsmen armed with ornate maces and wicked blades, barked in unison, 'On your knees for the Lady Bela, scum!'
The witch elf watched with pleasure as the prisoners fell to their knees. Mormacar hesitated for a moment, but complied when he saw even the cursed Norseman obey.
Lady Bela walked slowly around the small cell, her boots clicking on the rough stone. She stopped in front of Mormacar, who met her stare with one of his own. 'What have we here?' she purred as she stroked Mormacar's face with a slender hand. 'This one is still defiant.'
'One of the new batch, mistress,' offered one of the guards. 'We'll break him soon enough.'
Lady Bela stared at Mormacar, drinking up the hatred in his eyes. His skin crawled as her hand continued to caress his cheek. 'Oh yes, I like this one. He's got spirit.' Entwining her whip around his head, she tugged him closer. 'Tell me, slave, what is your name?'
'You'll get nothing from me, you murdering bitch!' Mormacar shouted and spat in her face.
The dark elf guards rushed forward, maces raised, but Lady Bela waved them away. Still holding the high elf with her whip, she pulled a long pin out of her hair and jabbed Mormacar lightly in the side of his neck. The Shadow Warrior jerked as his body was swept by a burning sensation. Then all feeling went dead and he could not move a muscle. Lady Bela smiled lasciviously and pulled a small blade from her belt. Seeing the blade, Mormacar strove to move, to knock it from her hand, but his body let him down and he remained as still as a statue.
'That's much better, isn't it?' she asked, wiping the saliva off her face. 'I must say I do have a weakness for the lively ones.' Her blade flashed out and slashed Mormacar's chest. 'They provide much better sport than these others, don't you think, Rorga?' Again the blade swept down, this time cutting Mormacar's ear. Her grin widened as she tightened the whip around his neck and pulled him closer still.
'Yes, my lady, great sport indeed,' said one of the dark elf guards, staring meaningfully at the other prisoners. 'Will he be the one then?'
'A fair question, Rorga,' Lady Bela replied, pausing as if in contemplation before turning once again to her motionless prey. 'What do you think, slave?' she asked Mormacar, with a cruel smile. The Shadow Warrior tried to speak, tried to scream out his defiance, but the witch elfs poison was too potent and he could only gurgle in response. Lady Bela laughed. 'Oh yes, slave, I agree completely.'
The cruel witch elf knelt to inspect her handiwork. As the blood welled in the wound on Mormacar's chest, she closed her mouth over it and drank greedily. Then she stood, smacking her lips contentedly. 'It is always refreshing to drink blood that isn't tainted by fear. A rare treat, Rorga, especially here at Hag Graef. I think I'll keep this one awhile.' Lady Bela regarded Mormacar afresh and her eyes lit up with excitement. 'In fact, dear Rorga, I think this noble elf is perfect for my plans. Victory must be assured, after all, and I fear I can't count on Galaher anymore.'
'As you wish, mistress. Who's it to be then?'
Lady Bela turned her attention away from the paralysed Shadow Warrior and looked over the rest of the prisoners, tapping her chin with a finger. She stared long at old Galaher. 'You'd like to die now, wouldn't you, sweet Galaher?' The old elf stared vacantly, and remained silent. 'But no. While it is a tempting thought, one cannot be too careful where the gods are concerned.' She turned around. Elf, man, and dwarf shrank under her gaze, all trying to avoid catching her attention. Finally, her eyes settled on a swarthy human whose numerous tattoos bespoke years of piracy. 'That one will do. Take him to Khaine's altar.'
The guards moved forward and seized the frightened prisoner. He began to scream and struggle but a few blows from the dark elves quietened him and he was dragged unconscious from the cell. Lady Bela once again regarded Mormacar, at last unlashing her whip from his unmoving form. Stroking his face as if he were a beloved pet, she purred, 'I'll be seeing you again.' Then she turned and strode from the cell.
The other prisoners stared at Mormacar as if he were already dead.

MORMACAR WORKED IN the mines, as he had every day for the past two weeks. As a pair of overseers looked on, the wretched slaves toiled in the near-dark, scrabbling out ore in the humid tunnels for the anvils of Hag Graef. Those prisoners who dropped from exhaustion and refused to rise had their throats slit by the dark elves. The lesson was not lost on the other prisoners. Nor could they help but notice that the prisoners' ranks grew thinner each day, as more and more of their number were dragged off by the Lady Bela's minions. Death hung like a pall over the squalid prisoners of Hag Graef, and most had become resigned to their fate.
Mormacar refused to give in. His muscles quivered with hatred as he swung his pick into the hard rock, imagining that the unyielding stone was the soft flesh of the Lady Bela. Every day another prisoner was taken to Khaine's altar. At night he saw their faces and heard their screams, but even in his dreams he was powerless to help them.
But now his grim endurance was to prove its worth. While the Lady Bela had been engaged in her deadly work, Mormacar had slowly cut away at one of the support beams at his end of the long tunnel. This passage had been dug in haste, and the supports groaned under the weight of the rock overhead. Now one good blow would smash the weakened support beam and hopefully cause a cave-in.
Mormacar swung his pick into the rock again, but scarcely paid attention to what he was doing. His attention was fixed on the hated overseers, who even now were striding down the tunnel to inspect the work. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cursed Norseman working across the way and resolved to watch him closely. Humans were never to be trusted. Galaher, despite what he had said back in the cell, Mormacar knew he could trust. The old elf would come through in the end. He could feel it.
When the overseers were scant feet away, Mormacar hefted his pick and smashed it into the weakened support beam. The beam shuddered from the blow and dust fell from the ceiling. Mormacar's heart leapt, but his elation was short lived. The beam held.
The overseers whipped their swords free of their scabbards. One of them spat, 'That was your last mistake, slave,' and strode forward, blade at the ready. Mormacar hefted his pick, determined at least to die a warrior's death.
The other overseer followed his compatriot, but hissed, 'Remember the Lady Bela's orders!'
'Damn that witch!' snapped the first dark elf, his voice hot with bloodlust. 'This wretch is mine!'
The tunnel was eerily quiet. All of the other prisoners had stopped their work, watching the unfolding drama with dumb fascination. Mormacar looked down the tunnel, hoping to see Galaher coming to stand at his side. But the old elf just stood and stared, his pick dangling from his weathered hands. Suddenly the silence was pierced by a echoing crack. Glancing to his right, Mormacar saw that the Norseman had smashed the weakened support beam on the other side of the tunnel. The beam shuddered and fell, loosing a rain of falling rocks.
Mormacar instinctively leapt out of the way, but the dark elves, surprised by the falling debris, were knocked to the ground. Before they could rise, the Norseman and the Shadow Warrior were upon them. Mormacar smashed in the head of one of the dark elves, while Einar swung at the other, pinning him to the floor. The Norseman hurriedly stripped the dying elf of his sword and dagger.
Above them the ceiling groaned menacingly. As uncounted tons of rock shifted and slid, dust and debris fell in streams. Mormacar turned to the stunned prisoners, most of whom still stood at their work stations. 'Get out of here!' he yelled furiously.
That was enough for most of them, who dropped their tools and ran up the tunnel. Mormacar and Einar followed them, grabbing torches from their wall brackets along the way. They ran desperately, hearts pounding, until at last they came to an intersection, where the ramshackle band halted to rest. A dull roar echoed up the tunnel, as more of the ceiling caved in behind them.
The two warriors exchanged looks of grim satisfaction, pleased with their handiwork. Looking around at the other fugitives, the Norseman asked, 'What now, elfling? Is this as far as your plan goes?'
The Shadow Warrior answered without hesitation, 'Now we follow the tunnels down and look for a way out.'
'What do you mean ''down''?' Galaher spoke up. 'There's naught down there but cold ones and endless tunnels. The best you can hope for is to starve to death. We must go up and try to find an escape route there.'
'I know it sounds crazy,' Mormacar said, looking around at the desperate throng, 'but I've thought this through. You yourself said there was no way out, Galaher. Now we've all seen dark elf war parties in the tunnels, haven't we? Well where do they go? I think the Forsworn have an underground way through the mountains and I mean to find it.' His compatriots looked dubious, and shifted uncomfortably in the gloom. 'Above are countless soldiers, thick walls and stout gates,' Mormacar continued, speaking quickly, as if he could feel the crowd slipping from him. 'If you go up, you'll surely die. My way we have a chance.'
Chaos erupted as all of the fugitives began to talk at once. Mormacar tried to break in, tried to calm their fears and make them see sense, but had little chance as the panic-stricken fugitives babbled about what to do.
Eventually, the Norseman lost his temper. 'Shut up, all of you!' he bellowed, his angry words bringing immediate silence. 'You're acting like children. There are only two choices, up or down.' Einar pointed to Mormacar. 'The elf and I go down. Who will join us?'
Mormacar looked at the others, sure that they would see sense. If the oafish Norseman was convinced, surely his elven brethren would join him. He was shocked when not one voice rose up in support.
'I'm sorry, lad,' said Galaher gravely, 'we know what we must do.' The others nodded in agreement and clustered around the old elf.
The Shadow Warrior could scarcely believe his ears. It seemed the former slaves were prisoners still, if only in their minds. He started to speak but Einar cut him off.
'Don't waste your breath, Mormacar,' spat the Norseman in disgust. 'Let's go.' Spinning on his heels, the furious giant stomped down the tunnel.
Mormacar hesitated, hoping even now that someone would join them. None stepped forward. With sadness in his heart, he approached Galaher and pressed a sword into his hand. 'You'll need this, brother,' the Shadow Warrior said quietly. Then he turned away and followed Einar down the passage.

MANY HOURS LATER, the two warriors stood in a large cavern which was dimly illuminated by glowing fungi. Peering intently down the three passages that descended further into darkness, Einar, for once sounding hesitant, asked, 'Well, which way now?'
Mormacar considered each of the tunnels carefully before answering. 'I think we must follow the right-hand path.' He indicated barely discernible marks. 'See all the bootprints there? It is clearly frequently used.'
'Which makes it that much more likely we'll run into some of the dark elf scum,' Einar said, grinning as he ran his fingers up and down his blade.
'True, but remember that we are trying to escape, not to settle the score,' Mormacar said levelly, 'That can wait for another day. Agreed?'
'Cease your prattle, elfling,' Einar scoffed. 'The blood of berserkers runs in my veins. I do what I must.'
'Fine,' the elf said curtly, suppressing an urge to comment on the apparent foolishness of all Norsemen. 'Let's go.'
By Mormacar's estimate, the two warriors were already several leagues underground. After leaving the other prisoners behind, they had hurried down a cavernous tunnel that shot through the bowels of the earth, turning neither right or left. The sounds of the other fugitives had soon been lost as the two warriors continued their descent. Wary of both pursuers and whatever unknown dangers might lie ahead, they had nonetheless set a quick pace. Eventually they had come to this large cavern. Now, as they made their way down the right-hand passage, they were quickly confronted with more choices, as passages split, caverns multiplied, and tracks became ever harder to identify.
Shadow Warrior and Norseman pressed on urgently, stopping only to drink from the few streams and stagnant pools they happened across in their wanderings. Eventually, after what must have been many hours, sheer exhaustion dictated that they stop and rest, and the two collapsed next to a evil smelling pool. They sat in silence, breathing heavily and occasionally drinking the scum-covered water at their side. The weeks of overwork and under-nourishment at the hands of the dark elves were taking their toll. And now that they were deep under the earth, the icy chill made a mockery of their ragged clothing.
'Perhaps the others were right after all,' Mormacar ventured, shivering as he choked back some of the vile water. Suppressing the urge to retch, he sprawled on the ground, his muscles aching with every movement.
The Norseman snorted. 'The others are surely dead already,' he replied. 'At least we are still alive.'
Mormacar accepted this assessment without comment; he knew Einar was right. Sighing, he added, 'I never expected to end my days like this, wandering under the Land of Chill. Curse the day those hellspawn captured me!'
'The day I was caught was a dark one as well,' Einar said softly, his face betraying shame and despair. His voice trailed off. Abruptly, he shook his head as if to clear it, and stared at Mormacar. 'Tell me, how did you come to be in hellish mines of Hag Graef?'
A black look crossed over Mormacar's face as he remembered his last day of true freedom. By his own estimate, it was probably no more than two months since his capture, but it seemed so long ago. 'I was travelling with a band of my brethren, the Night Stalkers of the Shadow Warriors. We've been fighting the thrice-damned dark elves for centuries on Ulthuan and it's a war that never ends.' As Mormacar talked, he held his head high and his exhausted slump became a proud pose. 'While other of my kin live in shining cities and try to forget the Witch King's bloody hordes, my folk scour the Shadowlands for invaders and bring red death to the Forsworn defilers.'
Thoughts of what the dark elves had done to his homeland filled his mind, and Mormacar strove to push down the hatred that welled-up in his heart. Consumed by his own emotions, he failed to notice the grin of approval break out on the Norseman's face. 'In any case,' he continued, 'my brethren and I set an ambush for a raiding party. We thought to trap them, but fell into a trap ourselves.' His voice grew quieter. 'While we rained death on the Forsworn below, another group of them surprised us from behind. Before I could even unsheathe my sword, one of the cowards struck me from behind.' He spat in disgust. 'The next thing I knew, I awoke in Hag Graef.'
Einar nodded, having heard many similar tales in the slave pits. 'Those evil scum do not fight with honour,' he noted. 'Poison, foul magic and tricks are not the weapons of true warriors.'
Mormacar could not but agree. Strangely curious about this barbaric human, the Shadow Warrior asked, 'What of you? How did you come to be so far from frozen Norsca?'
'That is a tale worthy of the skalds, elfling,' the Norseman replied, 'although I doubt any lived to take the story back to Norsca.' He shook his head as he continued, 'Ah, a black day it was indeed. I was sailing with Grimnir Ogre-kin, as fierce a reaver as ever prowled the Sea of Claws.' Einar settled back, as if the two of them were drinking mead in front of the hearth. 'We'd just raided an Empire merchant fleet and our holds were heavy with booty. Then a great storm blew out of the east, like the breath of the gods themselves.' Mormacar cracked a smile. Storytelling came easily to the Norseman. 'My ship was separated from Grimnir's and we tossed on the seas for three days. When the storm finally blew its last, we were adrift and mastless.' Einar shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ground. 'It was then that the dark elves found us. It was a fearsome sight, a castle that floats on the sea, filled with sea serpents and worse. Truly an abomination sent by Mistress of the Damned herself. The Norseman crossed his arms in front of him, making an ancient ward against evil. 'Seeing its towering walls and countless warriors, I knew that we would soon be dead.'
'It was a black ark that you beheld,' Mormacar said. 'None can stand against them.'
Einar nodded but he was talking quickly now, his blood racing as he was caught up in remembrance. 'I swore a vow to the Father of Battle to die before surrendering. Soon the murderers boarded my ship and we fought like berserkers that day.' Suddenly, Einar was on his feet, braids flying wildly as he shook his head back and forth. 'I wish the skalds could sing of the deeds of Halfdan Wolfclaw, Skragg the Grim and Canute Shieldbreaker, for few have equalled their skill at arms. One by one, though, all were slain, pierced by bolts, hacked down by swords or felled by black magic.' He stood there, shaking his fist at unseen foes while Mormacar looked on, wondering if the Norseman had lost his mind. 'My heart cried out for vengeance as more and more of the dragon-cloaked corsairs boarded my ship. At last, only I was left alive.'
Mormacar could see that guilt stained the Norseman, guilt at not dying with his shipmates like a good captain should.
'I lay about me with my axe, slicing and cleaving, but I could not kill them all. When the bodies were piled up high around me, one of their foul wizards ensorcelled me.' Einar slammed his fist into cavern wall and howled in frustration. 'Instead of letting me die with my crew, the captain of that evil vessel took me to Hag Graef in chains. When we escape, I will hunt him down and feed him his own heart. Only then will my comrades be avenged.' Story finished, Einar slumped to the floor in despair. His hand, now bloody and torn, was still clenched tight as he continued to relive that fateful day.
Mormacar stared at the Norseman, impressed despite himself. 'I think you may have missed your calling, Einar. You should have been a storyteller yourself.'
Einar chuckled a little at this and Mormacar joined him. For a short while, they forgot the mistrust between elf and man and enjoyed the laughter together. But the moment ended quickly, as the harsh reality of their situation intruded upon them once more. An uncomfortable silence descended on the two fugitives and Mormacar feared that Volundson would sink back into his guilty despair. But then Einar forced another laugh to break the silence. 'If you liked that tale,' the Norseman said, 'let me tell you of the battle at Brienne. Grimnir's wrath was something to behold that day-'
'Einar, shut up,' whispered Mormacar, squinting in obvious concentration. The Norseman bristled, but Mormacar's insistent gesture silenced him. 'Do you hear that?' asked the elf.
'Hear what?'
'Listen closely, I heard something.' The Shadow Warrior stood up silently and crept over to one of the passages. Volundson followed, listening intently.
After a minute, the Norseman said, 'I don't hear anything, elfling. Have your wits left you?'
'Follow me, you oaf,' Mormacar hissed, yanking his dagger free from his belt. 'And be quiet.'

THE ELF PADDED silently through the dank and gloomy passages, followed clumsily by the big Norseman. At each intersection, the Shadow Warrior would stop, listen, and then pick a new direction. After a few minutes, even Einar could hear the clash of metal and the shouts of combat.
'What now?' Einar asked. 'Who knows what lurks this far under the earth?'
'Whoever it is,' the elf whispered, 'let's hope they know a way out of here. This way, and try harder to be quiet.'
A gruff belch was all he got by way of a reply. The two fugitives set off again, easily able to follow the echoing cacophony. The minutes passed slowly, as each warrior wondered what lay ahead. They were concentrating so much on the noises that they all but tripped over the body of a dark elf lying in the passage. His head had been ripped from his shoulders and was nowhere in sight. Mormacar stuck his dagger in his belt and took the dead elf's sword. Slowly, silently, the two warriors inched ahead.
Finally, they came to a large cavern, whose circular shape and smooth walls made it seem man-made. Peering inside, they beheld a furious conflict. Battle cries, howls of pain and triumph, and the sound of clashing steel filled the air. Around a dozen dark elves were locked in combat with savage lizard creatures. These green and black scaled monsters walked on two legs and wielded crude spears and clubs with considerable skill, although Mormacar and Einar did not fail to notice that they used their razor-sharp teeth at every opportunity. The cavern was already littered with corpses, both elf and lizardman, and the fight had clearly become a grim battle of attrition. Most of the smaller lizard creatures were dead already, but their larger cousins were putting up quite a fight.
Two in particular towered above the battle, their huge spears smashing in elf skulls with unmatched strength. As the fugitives watched, one of these gargantuan lizardmen was felled by a savage attack from a frenzied witch elf. Her twin blades danced over the slow-moving reptile, slicing scales and driving deep into the monster's vitals. With a bellowing death scream, the creature fell backward, crushing a dark elf warrior beneath its ponderous bulk, lumping onto the monster's carcass, the witch elf beheaded the monster with one blow and a rapturous howl of ''Blood for Khaine!''
Mormacar, utterly transfixed by this titanic clash, suddenly realised that he looked into the twisted face of Lady Bela. The Shadow Warrior's blood turned cold, and he was so full of loathing at the sight of her that he almost didn't notice that the battle was coming to him. One of the Forsworn had broken and was running right towards the hidden fugitives. A small, crested lizardman and the other hulking giant chased the fleeing warrior. Einar and Mormacar fell back down the passage and waited in a small alcove. Mormacar could feel the cold, hard, rock against his back but the sword felt good in his hands. Presently the terrified dark elf ran around the corner. Before he even realised that he faced a new foe, the Forsworn found Mormacar's cold steel in his belly. Face to face with his enemy, Mormacar watched the life drain from his victim's eyes. Stepping back, he let the body slide off his sword and fall to the ground.
Overcome by all-consuming hatred, he hadn't even noticed that Einar had split the crested lizardman nearly in two. There was no time to celebrate, however, as the crash of clawed feet and an ominous bellowing reminded both of them of the other imminent threat.
The huge lizardman, a mighty spear grasped in its clawed hands, stalked around the corner, roaring fiercely. Einar and Mormacar looked at each other, then jumped forward to attack. Although slow to react, the beast had scales as tough as hardened steel and the two warriors found that their blows were all but ineffectual. The raging beast hissed angrily and smashed Einar to the ground with the butt of his spear. In the same movement, its heavy tail snaked out and slammed down on the Norseman's chest, knocking the wind of him.
While the beast was momentarily fixated on Einar, Mormacar seized his chance. Balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, he took his dagger in his right hand, steadied himself, and then threw the wicked blade at the scaly monstrosity. The beast reared back in agony as Mormacar's dagger flew straight and true into its eye. The Shadow Warrior grasped his sword in both hands and drove it into the creature's exposed throat. Black blood gushed from the wound, showering the elf and causing him to lose his grip on the blade. The lizard creature, two blades buried in its flesh, stood there stupefied for a few moments, then fell forward with a ground-jarring crash.
Einar sat up, looked at the Shadow Warrior, and marvelled, 'Truly a feat for the sagas. The Father of Battle has blessed you today.'
Mormacar motioned him to be silent. The elf quietly recovered his weapons and did his best to clean the blood off their hilts. No new foes ventured down their passage and eventually the sounds of battle began to fade. Soon all was quiet.

AS THE TWO warriors crouched in the passage, wondering who had won the brutal battle, animalistic howls of ''Khaine'' grimly answered their question. Then they heard the Lady Bela, her usually icy voice hot with the joy of bloodletting. 'We leave in ten minutes,' she said simply. 'Be ready.'
'But lady,' one of her warriors objected, 'what of the wounded and the missing?'
Even from where they sat, the two fugitives could hear the ferocious slap Lady Bela delivered to her soldier. 'You insubordinate wretch, if you ever question me again your entire family will go to the altar of Khaine! Anyone too wounded to travel is to be killed, as are all these lizardmen who yet offend me with their breathing. Now, move! It's a long way to Arnhaim and we wouldn't want to disappoint our high elf brothers.'
The remaining dark elves did their work quickly and soon the whole band marched off in the darkness.
'Faster,' the Lady Bela urged, her voice now distant, 'we've got a prediction of victory to deliver.'
When their footsteps could no longer be heard, Einar boomed, 'That was refreshing. It's been too long since my last battle. I would have preferred dark elves to lizardmen, but a fight's a fight.'
'You are familiar with those things?' Mormacar asked, gazing down at the corpses at his feet.
'Only by reputation,' the Norseman replied. 'I've heard stories of these creatures but I never believed they truly existed.' They walked carefully into the cavern but found nothing but the slain. 'Leaving aside the question of what these lizardmen were doing under Naggaroth, what are we going to do now?'
The Shadow Warrior considered the question and decided quickly. 'I think we should try to follow the dark elves.'
'I see,' the Norseman sneered, 'you miss your girlfriend already.'
Mormacar glared back at him. 'No, you brainless oaf, but if anyone knows the ways out of these caverns, it's the Lady Bela. Did you not hear her say they were heading to Arnhaim?'
'Aye, I did,' Volundson said, 'but I've never heard of it.'
'It's a high elf bastion south of Naggaroth - but it must be a thousand miles away. I don't know what Lady Bela's plans are, but she must be stopped.'
'Speculate later, elfling. If we're going to follow them, we should do so quickly.' Looking about the cavern, Einar's eyes lit up. 'But not before availing ourselves of the opportunity for booty.'
'How can think of treasure at a time like this,' Mormacar asked incredulously.
Einar, already sifting through the backpack of a dead elf, pulled out a parcel. 'If you're not interested in treasure, I suppose I'll have to eat all this food by myself.'
Mormacar nodded approvingly. 'Perhaps you are not such a fool after all, Einar Volundson.'
After gathering up all the food, clothing and weapons they could carry, the two warriors set out after Lady Bela. If they looked ridiculous in the ill-fitting clothing of their former tormentors, they did not care. They were warm, they had food in their bellies for the first time in days, and they were still free. And they intended to stay that way.

THE FOLLOWING WEEK was a hellish one for the two fugitives as they trailed their former tormentors through the labyrinth of caves far beneath Hag Graef. They had to stay near enough to Lady Bela's band to follow their tracks but far enough away to avoid detection. They ensured that one of them was always awake, keeping watch and wak-fire, lest they draw unwanted attention to themselves, so they continued to navigate by the eerie light of the fungi.
The Lady Bela travelled at a terrific pace and rarely sent out scouts. Indeed all her attention seemed fixated on some distant goal, although neither of the two fugitives could say what that might be. Despite their fatigue and the darkness, man and elf would not be left behind. The followed the Forsworn with a manic single-mindedness, so desperate were they to see the light of day again. As the days passed, uncharted by sun or moon, Mormacar and Einar dropped into a monotonous, numbing routine. Conversation had died out after only a few days. It was all they could do to keep going.
When the dark elves finally did stop, the two fugitives, tired and dazed, nearly stumbled into the large cavern occupied by their foes. But the Norseman saw the glint of steel in the gloom and pulled his companion back down the tunnel in silence until they found a small cavern full of dripping stalactites. Despite the slimy floor, Mormacar flung himself down and immediately fell asleep.
The elf awoke to the sound of drums, and at first thought he was back in fair Ulthuan. But a quick look at Einar, who looked nearly dead as he sat on watch, brought his dreaming mind crashing back to reality. 'Einar,' he whispered, 'what's going on?' The Norseman slid back a few paces, but kept his eye on the passage ahead. 'It sounds like a foul ritual of some sort,' replied Einar, his voice full of loathing. 'You slept through the chanting, but it's been going for at least an hour by my reckoning.'
Mormacar nodded, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Gathering up his few possessions, he asked, 'Shall we pay a visit to the Lady Bela?'
The Norseman grinned. 'I was hoping you'd say that, elfling. If I sit here any longer, I may well turn to stone.'
The two warriors crept forward. Mormacar still cringed at what the Norseman considered to be ''moving quietly'', but the drumming and chanting drowned out even his blundering. After a few minutes they approached an enormous cavern lit up brilliantly with dozens of flaming torches. The bright illumination was almost too much to bear, so used were they to the dim light of the caves. A few minutes of blinking and quiet cursing and their eyes had adjusted enough to see into the chamber beyond. They crept closer still, and it was then that Mormacar spotted a jagged column of black rock that thrust up from the floor. Signalling Einar with his eyes, Mormacar dashed the few yards to the column, followed quickly, if not gracefully, by Einar. Safely obscured, they crouched behind the rock and peered inside.
At the far end of the cavern was a tall altar of glassy black stone carved with evil runes and darkly stained. A hooded figure lay chained to this hideous slab, his frantic straining useless against the strong steel of the manacles. Surrounding the altar were four mighty stalagmites, and upon each of these was chained another hooded form. Below the altar, dark elf warriors beat wildly on a dozen drums while half-clad witch elves danced around the cavern singing the praises of Khaine, god of murder. Presiding over this scene, her face glowing with ecstasy in the torch light, was the Lady Bela.
'This is truly a place of evil,' whispered Einar, his gaze transfixed on the spectacle before him.
Mormacar nodded in response. This is what Ulthuan would be like without the constant vigilance of the Shadow Warriors, he thought grimly. But even his brethren were but a breaker against the dark tide of Naggaroth.
The wailing of the witch Elves reached a fevered pitch, and Lady Bela began to dance around the altar, lashing about with her whip in a fit of rapture. As she passed each of the stalagmites, she tore the mask from the face of the bound victim. Mormacar's heart caught in his throat as he recognised all four as prisoners from his cell who had gone upward with Galaher to try to escape. Seeing the terror on their faces, there was no comfort in knowing that he had chosen the right path.
Now all the assembled dark elves began to chant, 'Khaine! Khaine! Khaine!'
Lady Bela pulled a jagged blade from her belt, threw her head back, and howled like an animal. 'Lord Khaine,' she intoned, her voice hot with passion, 'accept this sacrifice!' With that, her blade swept down and plunged into the chest of a screaming victim. Mormacar could watch no more and he turned away, his heart heavy. He could hear the laughter of Lady Bela, and the scuffling of her minions as they fought over the crimson prize he knew she had thrown them.
But realising this was no ordinary ritual, Mormacar steeled himself and turned his head back to watch. And as the last heart was torn from the last victim, a dark mist began to rise around the altar. It seemed that Lord Khaine was listening.
Einar dropped down behind the rock they were hiding behind, and pulled Mormacar down with him. 'Haven't you seen enough?' he said, his voice full of disgust. 'Or are you waiting for Khaine himself to appear?'
Mormacar knocked the Norseman's hand away. 'This ritual is important, Einar, and we must find out why. If it's too much for you cover your eyes!'
The Norseman bristled, and anger flashed in his eyes. Standing slowly, he spat, 'I've seen more blood than any gutless elf. Pray you never know how much!' Then he turned his gaze away from the Shadow Warrior, and once again looked down on the Lady Bela.
Mormacar, cursing fate for throwing him together with this lout of a Norseman, did the same.
During their heated exchange, the black mist had surrounded the altar and now Lady Bela seemed to be adrift in clouds of inky darkness. She swayed back and forth above the altar, running the flat of her blade over the still-hooded form bound there. 'Lord Khaine,' she shouted, 'I ask for your favour in exchange for one final gift!' She grasped the hood and tore it free. 'See!' she growled. 'Galaher Swiftblade!'
Mormacar froze in horror as the hood came free. There was poor Galaher, beneath the knife of the murderous Lady Bela. Instinctively, he pulled his blade free and made to leap over the rock, but strong hands restrained him.
'Don't do it, elfling!' Einar hissed urgently. 'You'll get us both killed!'
'Let me go, Volundson! It's Galaher down there!' Mormacar strained against Einar's arms but couldn't break free.
'Remember your own words,' the Norseman whispered in his ear, as he struggled to hold back to writhing elf. 'We will have our vengeance later. Now, we must escape.'
Mormacar struggled half-heartedly but his body slowly relaxed. As much as he hated it, he knew the Norseman was right. But Galaher! What of Galaher?
As if in answer to his unspoken question, Lady Bela's voice echoed through the chamber. 'Lord Khaine, even now our armies are on the march. Accept the blood of this elf Lord as a sacrifice fitting your dark majesty!'
Once again the chants rose high, and the Lady Bela's knife plunged down. If she had hoped for a howl of fear, she was disappointed. Galaher had long ago become resigned to his fate, and the sharp blade brought him the eternal rest he craved.
Mormacar wept silently as Lady Bela sacrificed Galaher Swiftblade to her dark god. Einar held him but there was no need; Mormacar knew what he had to do.
Lady Bela dropped her knife, so she could hold the elfs heart in both hands. 'Lord Khaine, this heart is yours!' she intoned. 'In return, I ask only one question. Will it burn with the fire of victory, or shrivel with the decay of defeat? Hear your humble servant and know that victory will bring hundreds more to your bloody altars!' Gripping the heart tightly, she tore it free from Galaher's body. Holding it high, she shouted, 'For you, Lord Khaine, and victory!'
'For Khaine and victory!' howled the assembled witch Elves. Every eye in the cavern was fixed on the pulsing heart. No one moved, no one breathed - and then the heart exploded in black flame that licked up and down Lady Bela's arms. She embraced the flame like a sister, and shouted one word with indescribable joy: 'Victory!'
The dark elves screamed with delight. Lady Bela lowered the heart and looked with pride on her savage minions. Smiling her cruel smile, she tossed the flaming heart into the boiling mist below the altar. The black flame ignited the unnatural mist, and the heart exploded to form a vortex of swirling energy.
Lady Bela mounted the altar and with a shout of, ''To Arnhaim and victory!'' she dove into the vortex and disappeared. One by one, her minions followed her lead.
Soon, Mormacar and Einar were alone in the great chamber with the bodies of the slain. As the two dumbfounded warriors looked on, the vortex began to shimmer and shrink. Mormacar quickly regained his senses and shouted, 'Quickly, Einar, we must follow them!'
The Norseman, eyes wild, said, 'Are you insane?'
'If you want to live, follow me!' Mormacar yelled. With that, he vaulted the rock and ran towards the shrinking vortex. Einar hesitated for a moment and then barrelled after him. Without a word, Mormacar dove into the endless blackness that hung over the floor.
Einar shouted, 'The gods love a fool!' and flung himself after the elf as the vortex winked out of existence.

MORMACAR LANDED HARD on cold stone. A few seconds later, Einar appeared from nowhere and nearly fell on top of him. From the expression on the Norseman's face, he seemed entirely surprised to be alive. Warding himself against evil, the superstitious Norseman asked, 'In the name of all the gods, what was that?'
Mormacar stood up and listened intently. Mindful of the chanting and howling of the dark elves, which could still be heard from a nearby tunnel, he whispered, 'That was the darkest of magics.' Mormacar could feel the taint on him, and he brushed furiously on his ragged clothing in a vain attempt to wipe himself clean. 'It must have been some kind of gate. We could be anywhere now.'
'Then we have little choice,' Einar replied, at last rising from the cold floor. 'We must follow Lady Bela before her trail is lost.' Mormacar nodded in agreement. Their path was clear.
So the two warriors wearily resumed their previous routine. They followed Lady Bela and her minions, keeping their distance as best they could. Her pace had once again accelerated, and they pushed themselves hard to keep up. Two days later, the tunnels took a definite upward turn. This small victory gave the two fugitives a renewed burst of energy.
Early the following day, Mormacar stopped without warning, and Einar crashed into him, sending them both to the ground. 'Mind yourself, elfling,' the angry Norseman whispered. 'I've killed men for less.'
'Forget bloodletting for a single moment and smell,' Mormacar said insistently.
'Smell? I think you've eaten too many strange mushrooms these past few days.'
Mormacar grabbed the Norseman and shook him. 'Use your senses! Can't you smell the fresh air?'
Einar drew his hand back to strike the agitated elf, but paused and then broke into a toothy grin. 'Aye, I can smell it. Fresh air, elfling! It can't be far now.'
The two pressed on through the day, noting excitedly the widening of the tunnel. Then, without warning, they simply emerged above ground. It was night, so they had not seen light ahead, but there was no mistaking the stars above. The two warriors looked at each other and could not speak. What words could describe their feelings after such an ordeal? They simply clasped hands and laughed. They laughed at their fate, laughed at their luck, and laughed at the stars. And the laughter was real because it was theirs and they were free.
Looking about, they saw that they had emerged in the shadows of a imposing chain of mountains. Jagged spires reached for the heavens, towering above the exhausted fugitives. Below them stretched a valley, perhaps once fertile but now full of withered trees and blasted earth. Still, Einar and Mormacar could not help but find the sight full of beauty. Compared to the mines of Hag Graef and the terror of the underworld, this place was paradise.
Warily now, lest a wrong step end their journey in tragedy, elf and man crept down into the valley spread out below them. They searched amongst the withered trees for a sign of their foes, but found none. When they were sure it was safe, the fugitives made camp and then slept.
They awoke the next day refreshed, but their eyes burned in the dawning sunlight. It suddenly seemed so bright, so used had they become to the darkness below. Walking under the barren trees of the forest, Mormacar and Einar slowly regained their eyesight.
That night, Mormacar consulted the stars and tried to figure out where they were. 'I don't know how the Lady Bela did it, Einar, but we are only about two hundred miles from Arnhaim. We could make it there in nine days if we push ourselves, twelve if we don't.'
The Norseman chuckled, scratching at his ragged beard. 'Something tells me, elfling, that you want us to push on ahead.'
'You are no fool,' Mormacar said. 'I don't know what Lady Bela has planned, but we must stop her.'
'So be it. We can rest behind the walls of your bastion.'
Without further discussion, the two warriors continued their great trek through the wilderness, leaving the vast Black Spine Mountains behind. Of Lady Bela and her dark elves, they saw no sign. It was as if the witch elf and her minions had been swallowed alive by the ancient forest.
Einar and Mormacar spent the days travelling and the evenings swapping tales. They were pleased to find that the further east they travelled, the greener the land became. They soon left the blasted forest behind and entered a region of wild grass broken up with copses of trees. The crossbows they had looted from the dark elves allowed them to hunt some game. The Norseman turned out to be a fine trapper, which more than made up for his lack of aim. And thanks to Mormacar's ability to build a nearly smokeless fire, they were able to enjoy their first hot meals in memory. By the week's end they had shaken the worst effects of their imprisonment in Hag Graef.
At the end of the seventh day's march, Mormacar spotted a wispy plume of smoke to the east, where a series of low hills rose above a forest of pine. Cautiously, the two warriors headed towards it, hoping to find a friendly settlement of some kind. Coming to a gentle hill, Einar and Mormacar quickly climbed it. Dropping to the ground, they crawled the last few feet to the top and then peered below. Bile came to Mormacar's throat as he realised what they had stumbled upon.
Beneath them lay an entire dark elf army. Mormacar looked in horror at the spectacle before him. The plains below were covered with the tents of the Forsworn, and the once-green grassland had been turned brown and lifeless beneath thousands of boots. It seemed all of Naggaroth was going to war, and the elaborate tents flew the shrieking banners of the dread cities of the dark elves.
Hundreds upon hundreds of warriors swarmed across the camp, united in their hatred of their high elf kin. The executioners of Har Ganeth, fearsome in the billowing black cloaks, strode amongst the crowd, their brutal axes sharpened and ready. Savage witch elves danced lewdly around a great cauldron of blood. Black armoured knights whipped their reptilian steeds into readiness for the battle ahead and engineers worked feverishly to build more of their dreaded repeating bolt-throwers. It was as if the Witch King himself had vomited forth a black stain onto the green lands below.
'Einar,' Mormacar whispered, 'they mean to attack Arnhaim!' His heart sank when he thought of his kin in the unsuspecting city.
'Aye, elfling, the words of Lady Bela now ring true.' Einar looked into his companion's eyes and, seeing the fire that burned there, knew their ordeal wasn't yet finished.
'We must reach Arnhaim first and warn my people,' the Shadow Warrior said, his voice strained. 'The Forsworn must be stopped.'
'You know I have no love for your folk, Mormacar,' the Norseman replied, 'but to thwart the dark elf scum I will gladly help you and your kin.'
Mormacar gripped Einar's hand. They had fought and bled together, their fates bound inextricably together. The Shadow Warrior stood, then turned to make his way down the hill. His keen eyes quickly picked out the skulking forms of two dark elf scouts who were silently making their way up towards them.
'Einar!' he yelled, unloading a bolt at the nearest scout.
The Norseman turned about as a speeding dark elf bolt pierced his left leg. Mormacar's missile also found its mark, burying itself in the scout's chest. Norseman and dark elf both fell to the ground, as the two remaining combatants closed. Mormacar drew his sword but kept the repeating crossbow hanging loosely in his left hand. The scout smiled wickedly, unsheathed his own blade, and charged up the hill. Mormacar parried a brutal overhead blow, brought up his crossbow, and fired it point blank into his enemy's stomach. The scout fell back with a grunt and rolled down the hill. The Shadow Warrior ran to finish off his foe, but could not plunged his sword home before the wounded scout had screamed long and loudly.
'Einar, let's get out of here!' the elf shouted, his eyes picking out the shadows of more enemy scouts.
'I'm not going anywhere on this leg,' the Norseman said gravely. 'Leave me and go warn your people.'
Only now did Mormacar see the Norseman's wound. Einar had tugged the bolt free and tied off the bleeding, but he could hardly walk. 'Einar, I can't just leave you here! Not after what we've been though.'
'Yes, you can, because you must. Together, we'll never make it, but alone you just might.' The Norseman smiled grimly. 'Perhaps now I can make an end for myself worthy of a saga. I'll hold them here as long as I can. Now, go!'
Mormacar embraced the big Norseman. 'Einar Volundson, I swear this oath before all the gods: the skalds will sing of your bravery this day.'

WITH A LEADEN heart, Mormacar turned and ran down the hill. He wanted to turn back, to stay until the bitter end, but he knew that he couldn't desert the people of Arnhaim. Even now, he could see dark elf soldiers rushing towards Einar. The Shadow Warrior doubled his speed, determined to make his friend's sacrifice meaningful. Einar stood alone on the hill, a sword in either hand and death in his eyes. His life would not be sold cheaply.
The Shadow Warrior made it to the forest, and already he was breathing heavily. Diving behind a fallen tree trunk, he stopped to scan for pursuers. There were none yet. The dark elves' attention was fixed on Einar, who lay about him with mighty strokes and sent his foes reeling down the hill. Mormacar tore his eyes from Einar and, moving quickly, plunged into the forest and headed east. He needed to skirt the enemy camp if he was going to make it to the plains beyond. As he ran, he could hear the bloodthirsty howls of the frenzied Norseman. The Father of Battles was surely proud that day.
Mormacar had been reared in the wild expanses of the Shadowlands, and spent his life waging a merciless war on the Forsworn. Now he used every iota of his instinct and his training to slip through the woods unnoticed. He could hear the pounding of hooves and the shouts of the search parties, but he was a ghost in the shadows. Striving to keep his pace steady, Mormacar darted from tree to tree, his passing silent and leaving no sign. It took him nearly two hours to circle the dark elf army and he could now see the plains beyond. He was close, and the hated enemy was almost behind him.
Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by the thunderous approach of a Forsworn war party. Heart pounding, Mormacar threw himself flat and crawled into a tangled bush. The sharp branches cut his face and hands but he uttered no sound. Sitting perfectly still, he waited as the dark elves approached. The horses had slowed their pace as they entered the forest, and now Mormacar could only hear the gentle clip-clop of hooves and the jangling of harnesses. The sounds got louder as the Witch King's minions approached, and Mormacar gripped his crossbow tightly with his sweaty palms.
The dark elves broke out of cover, and the Shadow Warrior could see the wiry forms of three dark riders atop their midnight steeds. They circled the area slowly, scanning the ground for some sign of their quarry. When the riders found nothing, they regrouped and began to ride deeper into the forest.
But a chance glance from the last of the retreating horsemen aroused his suspicion. This rider broke off from his companions and cantered toward the concealed elf. Mormacar noticed too late that a piece of his cloak had torn off and was now clearly visible, hanging in the branches of the bush. Cursing himself for his carelessness, Mormacar readied himself as the dark elf approached.
The remaining horsemen now turned their steeds and galloped towards the hidden high elf, skilfully guiding their horses around the intervening trees. The foremost rider, spear extended, moved ever closer.
Mormacar launched himself out of the bushes with a yell. The evil steed reared in surprise, its rider dropping his spear while seeking desperately to calm his snorting mount. Mormacar stepped to the side of the stomping beast, and levelled his crossbow at the other two dark riders. With cold precision, he fired the crossbow twice in quick succession at the approaching horsemen, the infernal mechanism of the Forsworn weapon now turned against its masters. Both bolts found their mark, and the stunned dark elves fell from their saddles, wounded or slain. The last of the dark elves had regained enough control of his mount to leap from the saddle and tackle the weary Shadow Warrior. Both elves fell to the ground and the Forsworn smiled cruelly as he felt Mormacar's bones crunch beneath his weight.
Mormacar felt the breath knocked out of his body, and could only struggle as the dark elf rained blows down on him. The dark rider pulled a gleaming dagger from his belt, his other hand at Mormacar's throat. The Shadow Warrior thrashed desperately, trying with all his might to wrench the blade free. As the two mortal foes struggled, Mormacar's empty hand closed around a rock. Smiling grimly, the Shadow Warrior shifted his weight, and smashed the jagged rock into the skull of his foe, caving it in with one great blow.
The dark elf crumpled to the ground and Mormacar struggled to his feet. He grabbed the reins of the dark elf's mount and swung himself into the saddle. Nothing would stop him from reaching Arnhaim. Nothing!
Leaving the dead and dying behind, Mormacar raced out onto the plains and kept on riding. He could almost feel the hot breath of Lady Bela on his neck, and whipped the horse furiously to coax every ounce of speed out of the swift beast. Even though he rode at a full gallop, he would turn to look for dark riders every few minutes, but the crucial first hours saw no pursuit. All too aware of the power of dark magic, however, the Shadow Warrior rode on as if Khaine himself was in pursuit.
For the better part of a day, Mormacar stayed in the saddle and drove the horse on. Finally, the dark steed could take no more: it threw the Shadow Warrior from the saddle and collapsed. The huge steed rolled in the tall grass, whinnying in pain.
Mormacar lay in the grass, agony shooting through his shoulder. For minutes, or maybe it was hours, he drifted in and out of consciousness. He could tell that his arm was broken and his body seemed to be one big bruise. Gods, but he was wrecked. Perhaps he should surrender to the screaming pleas of his body and rest? But what of Arnhaim?
He could still hear the horse screaming in pain. It thrashed in the grass, surely dying. And its howls took him back to the altar of the Khaine. Once again he was in dark temple at Hag Graef, prisoner of the Lady Bela, forced to watch his kinsmen fall under her knife. And he could not decide if the screams of the dying horse reminded him more of the victims of Lady Bela, or of her bestial witch elf minions. But he did know that he would gladly give his life to spare his brethren in Arnhaim such a fate. There was no more time to waste. He had to push on.
So steeling himself, Mormacar rose, every joint and bone straining with the pressure. But he staggered forward... east, always east towards Arnhaim. As he crossed icy streams and tore his way through obstructing brambles, he lost track of time completely. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other, to ignore the pain in his shoulder and cover those final miles. When his body threatened to fail him, he thought of those who had already fallen in the struggle. The faces of his dead friends seemed to hang before him, urging him on. He saw his Shadow Warrior brethren, slain in foul ambush. He saw the prisoners of Hag Graef and Galaher Swiftblade, ruthlessly sacrificed by the Lady Bela. And he saw Einar Volundson, now surely dead. For all of them, and his kin yet living in Arnhaim, he forced himself on.
So Mormacar passed the night, stumbling in the dark in a desperate bid to bring salvation to the last high elf bastion outside of Ulthuan. As the morning haze evaporated under the burning sun, he saw it. In the distance, rising above the well-ordered fields of the outlying farms, a shining tower of pure white, surrounded by stout battlements and sharp elven steel. Arnhaim! Arnhaim at last!
He stopped, overcome with emotion, all his pain forgotten for that one instant. He had done it. He had escaped from Hag Graef and come in time to warn his kin of the impending attack. He looked forward to watching Lady Bela wither under a crushing defeat, and hoped he could face in her the battle to come. Only when his blade clove her in twain would justice be served.
Eyes closed, Mormacar smiled then, thinking of his sweet revenge, and failed to notice the tell-tale hiss of a speeding missile. His head jerked up as it struck his throat and pain shot through him like fire. He fell to his knees, blood oozing from the terrible wound. He reached out to the horizon, reached for the tower of Arnhaim but his hand grasped at nothing. His life ebbing away, Mormacar tried to cry out, to warn his brethren in Arnhaim that doom approached. But no sound emerged from his ruined throat, and he fell forward in a heap.
'Forgive me,' Mormacar thought, his head full of visions of Einar, Galaher, and his kin, 'I have failed you all.' Then he surrendered to the pain, and it consumed him utterly.

'HE'S DOWN!' AN icy voice shouted. 'Let's take a look.' Three figures rose from the tall grass and walked over to the body of the fallen elf. They looked him over silently, poking the body to make sure the arrow had done its work. Seeing his haggard form, bloody and dressed in a ragged dark elf uniform, their faces filled with disdain.
'Look at this Forsworn scum, he's filthier than a pig,' a disgusted voice said.
'What was a lone dark elf doing so close to Arnhaim?' said a second.
'You can tell by the state of him,' the icy voice said, 'he's clearly a fugitive. We get these strays now and again. Throw him in that ditch and let's continue our patrol.'
'But sir, shouldn't we alert the garrison, just in case.'
'There's no need to rush, brother. We'll report in at the end of the day, as usual. What could happen by sunset anyway?'