Chapter 18
The elf stared at me without blinking. She made absolutely no micro-movements and seemed not to be breathing. I again felt uneasy with the realization of how alien a creature she was. Still, we must have something in common.
I was also slightly concerned that the two previous attempts to negotiate with her had ended rather sadly for the enthusiasts. However, they were worshipers of Chaos. I hoped the reason for their diplomatic failure was precisely that.
I smiled, trying to inject a month's quota of friendliness into the expression on my face. I had to start somewhere. Should I give her a compliment? But what?
The dried blood really suits you, madam, and that elbow blow to my teeth was excellent too?
No. Let's start differently.
— I finished off the sorcerer. He did manage to tear my clothes to shreds, — I pointed to a scorched hole in my gambeson, through which my left shoulder peeked out. — Do you speak our language? Do you understand me?
I could, of course, use any language, but I was speaking Reikspiel to her now. To switch to Eltharin, I needed to hear at least a few phrases from her. Then I could switch. However, the elf maintained a grim silence. A tough case. Would I really have to touch on riskier topics to get her to talk?
Should I ask why she was thinking of jumping off the cliff? No. Maybe she was just admiring the sunset. I needed something less provocative. A neutral topic. I had to get her talking without provoking aggression.
Loam-Pia came to my aid:
"Address her with these words, warm-blood: Ic'sha'hansh, drosho'sa'hansh - boc'n'ash."
Addressing her in another language was a good idea. Especially in one as specific as the Lizardmen's. She would immediately understand that I was an unusual human. And the phrase seemed appropriate. As far as I understood, it meant something like "Elven creature, this human is a weapon against Chaos." Except that...
— Can you say it again. Slowly. Syllable by syllable, — I addressed the ghostly hypnosis-toad.
The Slann repeated it. I followed him out loud. If this aroused any interest in the elf, she showed absolutely none outwardly. Ugh... Alright. There was still one argument left.
— Do you want some water?
I held out a half-empty wineskin to her. One of the ones we had acquired in the Skaven mine and refilled with water on the surface.
Another few seconds of silence. I was about to pull my hand back when the keen-ear took a step towards me and took the wineskin. Then, turning away, she drained it in a few gulps, and then tossed it off the cliff. Well, I'll be... what a rotten woman. We don't have that much water storage. However, the elf finally spoke. Without turning, she hissed through her teeth:
— Rotten filth.
Finally! The phrase was spoken in Eltharin, and I could now switch to the Elven tongue.
— I don't like the taste myself, but now is no time for fastidiousness. The path is difficult, and the enemies are numerous. We have to endure hardship despite our sense of beauty.
I was deliberately so verbose and used complex sentences. I wanted to show how well I commanded her people's language. I tried to surprise and intrigue her. The trick worked. It seemed I managed to slightly interest the taciturn woman. She turned to me. Now her eyes seemed dull and weary.
— Who taught you? — she asked, addressing me in Reikspiel.
She knew the language of men perfectly well. Before this, she was simply ignoring us.
— I wasn't taught. It is a gift. You are the first elf fate has brought me to.
She did not reply, either pondering or losing interest again. So I continued myself, again showing her the rips in my clothing.
— My other gift is protection from magic. That sorcerer unleashed his full power on me, and here are the results. My clothes are in tatters, but my body is whole. I want to talk to you. My name is Jurgen. As it happens, I am burdened with a special mission and secret knowledge. I tell you all this because you are clearly a skilled warrior and among the best of your people. I don't know what misfortunes fate has struck you with before, but a catastrophe is coming that could destroy the whole world. The End Times. Hordes of Chaos will march from the poles. They will roll like a wave over the lands of all peoples. The greatest will fall. Cities and kingdoms will collapse. If you are guided by duty to your people, help me. If you are driven by ambition and honor, here is a chance for immense glory. You are the first to whom I openly say all this.
Whew...
I really hoped I just rolled a ten on persuasion. I think I mentioned everything important.
And again, the elf analyzed what she heard for a few seconds. Then her gaze literally bored into me. Weariness was replaced by feverish interest. I expected her to ask about the End Times and other coming calamities. Or perhaps my origin would interest her. Where I learned such details and what I really was. However, the keen-ear asked only one question:
— Are you protected from magic?
— Yes. The Winds can barely penetrate my essence and are incapable of seriously harming me.
— Then your presence must destroy enchantments, — the keen-ear continued.
— Possibly. Probably so. Although I don't know the nuances.
— Give me your hand, — she suddenly demanded imperiously.
I held out my palm and felt cold, strong fingers close around it. The elf, for some reason, brought my hand to her own face, touching the corner of her left eye with the tip of my index finger. The girl squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, then pushed me away.
I nearly fell backwards onto the stones.
— You lied to me! You lied! — she screamed, mixing Elven with the human language. — Damned ylvathoi! I...
The girl's eyes flashed with the deepest hatred. She suddenly darted up to me, almost pressed against me, looming over me. I could smell the blood radiating from her.
"Prepare for battle," Loam-Pia advised me.
Geez. Thanks. I would have...
Suddenly, everything fell silent. The elf froze in place, as if struck by an electric shock. A tear ran down her pale, scratched cheek from her left eye. The girl touched the bitter moisture, looking at her wet finger with clear surprise. Then she recoiled. Another tear rolled down the same cheek, blurring the drops of dried blood.
— What happened? — I asked.
— Tears are a disgrace to a warrior, — she replied, looking away. — It is weakness. I asked a sorceress to place a charm on my eyes so I would never cry again. You destroyed that spell. A mere touch was enough. You spoke the truth to me. Now leave. I... I need to compose myself.
The elf suddenly bolted from the spot, starting to pace the small rocky clearing by the cliff edge. She seemed bursting with nervous energy. Even in the deepening twilight, I could see how all the keen-ear's muscles tensed. Her physique could be called aesthetically perfect. Not over-muscled, but lean and harmoniously developed musculature.
— Then if I can manage to convince him and again... — she began muttering to herself in Eltharin, but immediately clamped her hand over her mouth, as if afraid of giving away some terrible secret.
Then the girl addressed me again.
— Go away! I need to... gather myself.
— Alright, — I nodded. — I'll go back to the others. You come too when you're ready.
Carefully picking my way through the twilight, I descended the narrow path. Did the conversation with the elf go well? Well, I'm still alive. That can be called partial success. The elf is certainly not on the side of Chaos, but do we have a chance to become allies? A difficult question. Judging by her behavior, the cockroaches in her head are the size of pitbulls and just as bitey.
The trip back to the camp was uneventful. The few surviving enemies had probably fled as far as possible ahead of their own shrieks.
In the twilight, I could see a couple of bonfires that the former slaves had lit right in the center of the rocky road. The corpses of the mutants and cultists were piled up on the roadside. Our fallen comrades lay on the opposite side, covered with blankets. Marcus stood over them, surrounded by several other Sigmarites. He was praying, raising his hands to the heavens and lowering them only to cross himself with the sign of the Hammer.
The rest of the survivors were mostly sleeping, making beds right on the road. Huddled in small groups under rags, the people lay close together to avoid the night chill.
Magg was still asleep, and Eric nestled beside him. The ogre's booming snore was comforting. I was already used to that sound.
Adora came out to meet me, now armed with a boar spear and a crossbow. The girl had exchanged her torn sackcloth for a loose blue shirt. Her head was crowned with a beret and a red feather. She had acquired some trophies.
— Alive, — she said with a cold smirk. — So you couldn't find the keen-ear.
— I did, — I countered. — We talked. She speaks Reikspiel.
— A strange miracle. Come on. Let's talk about business, hero.
For the next half hour, Adora told me about the situation in our small detachment. What had already been done and what was still to be done.
Seventy-one former slaves survived the fight. Nine of them were recovering from injuries of varying severity.
Despite the losses, our overall combat effectiveness had even increased. As trophies, we acquired seven crossbows, two arquebuses, decent spears, four swords, including mine, axes, knives, daggers, some shoes, and clothing.
Plus, these weren't all the potential trophies yet. I told Adora about the cultist bodies that had died far from the main battle site. We needed to loot their weapons.
The girl suggested that I pick out new clothes tomorrow. She had set aside some trophies from the civilian cultists for me. That would be very timely, given the state of my current outfit.
— Marcus is talking again about you being Sigmar's Chosen, — the girl said when we had moved further away from the fires into the darkness.
Now there was no mockery or irony in her voice.
— Marcus is a good man, — I replied. — But I'm not sure he knows Sigmar's plans.
Adora responded by grabbing my magic-torn rags and, yanking them hard, tore off a whole piece of charred fabric.
— You don't have a scratch on you again, Jurgen.
— Believe me, there are scratches, — I smirked. — Minor burns, calluses, bruises.
Things I acquired after absorbing the rage.
— Don't make me laugh, — the girl snorted. — And don't take me for a fool. That sorcerer broke a lot of people's bones with a mere flick of his hand.
— I'm not a Chaos worshiper, Adora.
— But you're not just an ordinary man either. So who are you? Sigmar's Chosen?
— I don't know, — I shook my head. — Maybe. I realize myself that I survive where an ordinary man should perish. But why? I don't understand.
— If you get a chance to exchange a few kind words with the Hammer-Wielder, tell him he's an ass.
I barely suppressed a laugh, and the girl continued.
— He could take better care of his Empire.
— What if he wanted to, but just couldn't handle it? — I replied. — Marcus and his ilk declare their beloved gods all-powerful, but what's the reality? We don't know.
— Not only a hero, but a theologian. But we both better hold our tongues with such talk.
I completely agreed with her there.
The night passed quickly. Only a couple of times did some creatures approach our camp, probably attracted by the smell of carrion. I don't know if they were wolves, mutants, or something worse. I saw pairs of eyes gleaming in the dark and heard the vicious growling of the uninvited guests. However, the creatures were afraid to engage us. A few stones thrown into the darkness, and the unknowns retreated.
In the morning, a dozen and a half former slaves went to collect the weapons of the cultists killed by the elf. The keen-ear herself never appeared. A pity. Perhaps my eloquence didn't work after all.
I stood for the morning prayer in the company of Marcus and the other Sigmarites. Then I took care of the trophies. At the same time, many people were gathering firewood to burn the bodies of our fallen comrades.
— We'll take the heads of the werewolf and the sorcerer as trophies, — Adora suggested. — There might be a reward for them. And even if not, it will be a good indicator of our combat readiness.
— Excellent idea, fräulein, — Eric replied to her. — We'll need to rub them with salt so they don't rot too quickly.
Magg had recovered from the Slaaneshi wine but couldn't stop hiccuping. He did it frequently and suddenly, making the nervous former slaves jump.
— Come here, Jurgen, — Marcus called me. — Everything is ready.
I can't say the funeral pyre was impressive. However, the people managed to chop down a few dry trees in the nearest forest. Among the trophies of the past battle were a couple of working axes. I very much hoped we could light a hot enough fire to turn the remains of Javier and the others into ashes. Souls here are very real. The afterlife exists. The burial of bodies should be treated with utmost seriousness. I wouldn't want some necromancer disturbing the post-mortem peace of these people by raising their corpses.
— Javier Esteban de Sousa, — Marcus croaked hoarsely. — You glorified Myrmidia, aided the cause of Sigmar, but now Morr will take care of you. Fire will protect our fallen brothers from the beasts better than graves. Burn brightly, in the name of Sigmar.
Thus, to the crackling of wood, a man rescued from a Skaven mine, only to die under the sun, set off on his last journey. However, we had no time or strength for grief. We needed to continue our journey.
We started packing up. With the new trophies, our detachment numbered nine crossbows and a hundred bolts for them, two arquebuses, and a couple dozen spears of varying quality. Only Eric knew how to handle the firearms. Therefore, one of the arquebuses went to him. Especially since his wounded leg prevented him from fighting properly in close combat for now.
The other arquebus was long disputed by Marcus and Adora. Each wanted to secure the weapon for one of their supporters. Eventually, they found a relatively neutral woman whom Eric promised to train.
Through the efforts of Adora and a couple of other women, respectable spare clothes were prepared for me: green trousers, a shirt of the same color, a quilted doublet, a hood, and a gray felt hat decorated with a green ribbon. All relatively clean. The blood was rubbed off with sand, the rips were sewn up. I even looked like a decent person. Normal clothes, boots with thick soles. Only the helmet was a shame. It hadn't survived the magical attack. It was cracked in several places. However, my round shield was salvageable. I could still fight with it.
Besides the trophy clothing and weapons, the people had acquired some money. Marcus carefully inspected the trophies for dangerous Chaos junk. However, they were mostly ordinary Imperial coins and jewelry. Probably a significant portion of them had been looted by the cultists.
— Actually, they should have a camp nearby, — Eric reasoned. — Blankets, supplies, household items. All that would be very useful to us, but it's better not to tempt fate and reach the mountain pass as soon as possible.
No one wanted to argue with him. We moved on. The healthy walked, the wounded limped or rode on the cart. We also had trouble with transport. Some of the gear and supplies were carried by the people themselves.
We covered about a kilometer and a half without problems. The road climbed higher and higher. It became harder to walk. The wind already carried the cold breath of the mountain peaks to us.
Then we reached a crossroads where the road split in two, and there...
— Halt! — Adora announced loudly. — Load your crossbows.
A tall stranger in a gray-green hooded cloak stood frozen at the crossroads like a statue. A travel bag was slung over his left shoulder. In his right hand, he held a long hand-and-a-half sword in its scabbard. The unknown wore high boots, probably intended for riding a horse. However, no horse was nearby.
Another Chaos cultist or just a traveler? We slowly approached, but were on guard.
— It's... — Eric suddenly smiled.
The stranger threw back the hood and turned out to be the elf we were somewhat familiar with. However, she looked completely different now. Not a trace remained of the cornered, blood-stained beast. Washed hair, a clean face. The keen-ear's eyes expressed detached calm. She slowly walked up to us and handed me my old sword, which I barely recognized. Clean, shiny, sharpened.
— No longer needed, — the elf announced, taking the blade with two long fingers and holding it out to me by the h hilt.
It was clear it was no longer needed. She now had the hand-and-a-half sword, plus I noticed a one-handed sword and several daggers on her belt. Where did she acquire all this? She must have found that cultist camp after all, or perhaps killed some other local inhabitants.
Handing me the sword, the elf added:
— I behaved inappropriately yesterday. There were reasons for it, but now I have managed to regain control and... — she turned to Eric, adding specifically for him. — Thank you for your care in a moment of weakness.
— Not at all! — the halfling exclaimed, beaming. — If you want more...
But the elf was no longer listening to him. She turned and walked ahead. I thought this was goodbye and we wouldn't see her again, but about thirty meters later, she announced loudly:
— I will scout the road and return.
It seems I did manage to land the persuasion roll after all. I don't know how sincere her thanks to Eric were. Perhaps it was just a mask of friendliness, concealing the same terrifying emptiness. However, the main thing was that we had gained a valuable ally. An ally, it seemed...
I'll need to have a serious talk with her many times yet, but the first steps have been taken. We are safe, and the territory of the Empire is closer than ever.
END OF INTRODUCTORY SECTION
Interlude. Nuln.
Christopher Liebknecht's entire life was a succession of wrong decisions and foolish gambles that formed a chain of events dragging the unfortunate man to the bottom. Stealing since childhood, then fights and card debts, which required him to get involved in shady ventures to pay off. Christopher married while drunk, cheated on his wife with mistresses, and on his mistresses with prostitutes. He inhaled black lotus and chewed witch-root. He tried to shortchange a Dwarf who bought stolen goods, and the Dwarf broke his knee.
However, the final straw that broke the camel's back was the green powder Christopher carried along secret smuggler trails for the city's alchemists. That cursed powder...
He was paid well for it, but Christopher slept worse and worse, constantly itched, and began hearing ringing in his ears. His hair fell out, his palms were covered in scabs. Even his thoughts were jumbled. Sometimes the man couldn't remember what he had done yesterday or even forgot an entire week. This forced Christopher to drink and smoke more than before. Then the contracts ended. The powder suppliers were apprehended by the guard.
Christopher was left alone—sick, unwanted, a beggar. Now he lived off handouts and wandered from temple to temple, praying to the gods for deliverance from suffering. However, Christopher only got worse day by day. His dreams turned into a series of horrific visions. It became increasingly difficult to distinguish them from reality. Wrapped in rags, the beggar screamed every night, writhing on a bed of foul-smelling straw.
One morning, Christopher finally broke. He could no longer keep everything inside. He needed to speak out. To tell people about the horrors that had appeared to him in his dreams.
And stepping onto one of the squares of the glorious city of Nuln, the mad beggar wailed, hacking up green slime:
— Fear! The storm is coming! The battle is coming! A horde of thousands upon thousands is coming toward us! From an ancient city, from the oath of the father, HE has arisen! Heretics, warriors of evil, beasts, giants, monsters... All have submitted to him! With him come pestilence, plague, and sore! Fear, oh wretched ones! Your faith is hollow! We have forgotten the covenants! We are steeped in lies and vice! Retribution is coming! Yes! He is coming! He...
Two sturdy men, dressed in witch hunter hats and cloaks, seized the madman. Christopher received a powerful blow to the stomach. But even as the troublemaker was dragged through the streets for interrogation, the lunatic continued to gasp:
— HE is coming! Coming! Tamurkhan! The Lord of Plagues!