Direchasm, p.28
Direchasm, page 28
As the Rotguard hurried back to her, Fecula pointed to the roof of the tunnel. ‘Bring this down,’ she commanded and jabbed her staff against the ceiling. Little streamers of corruption spread from the rotwood to turn the earth a sickly grey colour. Sepsimus and Ghulgoch stabbed their weapons into the afflicted area. After a few blows they jumped back. The roof collapsed in a shower of dirt and rock, sealing off the corridor.
‘That should keep those critters from dogging our tracks,’ Fecula said, nodding approvingly at the cave-in. She looked down when she felt her retchling nip at her heel. ‘Yes, my sweetest, I know you feel cheated, but we can’t always do what we want to do.’ She lifted her gaze and looked at her bodyguards. ‘The same goes for you, dearies. We’ve an obligation to the Grandfather to fulfil. Only then can we rid the mountain of Alarielle’s annoying creatures.’
Fecula turned and waddled away from the sealed passage. ‘Come,’ she commanded. ‘The vision Nurgle bestowed on me would have us follow this path. At its end we’ll find the cause of the shard-curse.’
The Wurmspat descended through the menacing reaches of Beastgrave. Fecula was pleased that no further enemies harassed them as they progressed, but soon it became impossible to deny that there was a touch of the uncanny in their isolation. This part of the mountain was being deliberately avoided by both beasts and invaders. Her senses, more attuned to the presence of magic than her companions, noted that there was a nebulous change to their surroundings. The very character of the mountain was subtly altered here, and as they moved ever deeper that change was becoming less and less subtle. There was an undercurrent here of the blackest sorcery, the magic of necromancy and the monstrous Lord of Undeath, Nagash.
A swamp of molten amber was the last landmark Fecula recalled from her reading of the entrails. Her step became more eager as they navigated the porous slabs of rock that floated in the boiling mire and acted as a crude bridge across the deadly morass. Beyond this final obstacle they would reach the objective they’d been seeking. The source of the un-plague that threatened Nurgle’s spread across Ghur.
A great cavern loomed at the far side of the swamp. Fecula could see a weird light emanating from it, a grim miasma that pulsated with strange energies. She tried to pause and study the effect from afar, but when she stopped her weight began to sink the slab on which she stood. The threat of being drawn down into the boiling mire was enough to keep the Wurmspat moving. Only when they stood upon firm ground again was the sorceress able to truly see the cavern before them.
The place was vast, with many tunnels branching away from it. At the centre of the chamber, a colossal root thirty feet in diameter stretched down from the ceiling and plunged through the stone floor. All about the walls and roof, thin rootlets spread away like scrawny yellow fingers. Fibrous stalks spilled away from the main root, hanging off it like strands of sinuous hair.
It wasn’t from the great root that the eerie miasma emanated, however. While most of the cavern was ringed by solid rock, the wall at its farther end was something different. Fecula stared at it with a mixture of fascination and horror. From floor to ceiling the wall had been replaced by a multi-faceted surface of smoky glass. Dimly she could perceive shapes behind that glass, strange buildings with sharp outlines and morbid ornaments, broad streets littered with shattered debris and broken columns. An entire city, desolate and horrible, lay beyond that wall of glass.
‘Mistress Flyblown, what is it?’ Ghulgoch asked, his voice uneasy.
Fecula wrested her attention away from the strange wall and looked more closely at the cavern around it. She could see that portions of the ceiling and floor were coated in shards of that same glass. It seemed to her a foul mockery of the moulds and fungi of Nurgle’s Plague Gardens, a creeping contamination that was consuming its surroundings. She noticed that the rootlets which came into contact with the material had also turned to glass, assuming a skeletal appearance. Via the rootlets, the same infection was carried back to the main root, rendering parts of it translucent and withered.
‘This is the menace we’ve come to Beastgrave to end,’ Fecula told her companions. ‘An intrusion from dead Shyish come to steal the vivacity of Ghur.’
‘Blasphemy,’ Sepsimus snarled. He tightened his grip on his spear and started towards the smoky wall.
Fecula held him back. ‘Don’t be so eager, dearie. We must be thorough when we remove this blight. Give me some time to think and make preparations to clear away this foulness.’ She ambled forwards and studied the crawling corruption.
‘Behind the glass,’ Ghulgoch called out. He waved one of his cleavers at the wall. ‘I saw something moving there.’
The sorceress turned away from the great root and peered more closely at the wall. It was as the Rotguard said. She could see shapes moving within the city. Wispy, aethereal shapes that glided along the ruined streets with tattered shrouds streaming behind them.
‘Damned spirits drawn from their graves by the malice of Nagash,’ Fecula declared. The apparitions were drifting closer and she wondered if they might not be able to cross through that barrier of glass and pass through into the cavern.
‘Watch them,’ Fecula ordered her bodyguards. She left them to their vigil and turned back to her study of the infected root. If she could clear away the necromantic blight, she might be able to break the arcane sympathy that allowed a part of Shyish to bleed across into the Realm of Ghur. That would close any door that had been opened and seal everything within the desolate city in its own reality.
Fecula’s scrutiny of the root ended abruptly. Echoing from the mouth of the cavern came the wild cry of a hunting horn. She spun around and gawked in disbelief.
‘Impossible!’ she exclaimed. ‘I killed you!’ She shook her fist at the Kurnothi wizard standing perched atop a boulder, sounding his horn. Around him, backlit by the light of the amber swamp and invigorated by the clamorous note, were the rest of the bestial hunters. The Kurnothi charged across the cavern, their eyes agleam with savage fury.
The sorceress swiftly conjured an arcane barrier as the aelf-like archer sent a flurry of arrows flying at her. Two went skirting away into the gloom, deflected by the ward. A third slammed into Fecula’s shoulder, ripping through her putrid flesh until it glanced off the bone. The impact knocked her backwards and only her rotwood staff kept her from pitching to the ground. Pain rippled through her diseased bulk and her mind swooned with the agony shivering through her veins.
The other hunters galloped towards Fecula. They appeared to have learned from the previous fray that she was the gravest threat among the Wurmspat. In the midst of her pain, she cursed the slowness of her bodyguards to react to their nimble enemy. The Rotguard were still near the glass wall when the horned, horse-like champion jabbed at her with his spear, the sharp blade slicing across her chest and spattering the floor with her rancid blood. The leonine cat lunged at her and raked its claws across her flank, peeling away layers of skin. The swordsman sprang at her, his blade licking at her neck. Before he could land his blow, the retchling jumped on him and turned his leap into a sideways sprawl.
‘Protect me!’ Fecula screeched at her guards as she strove to defend herself. Her rotwood staff cracked against the champion’s golden helm, staggering the Kurnothi leader. A swift evocation singed the cat’s fur with a stream of burning spittle.
‘Ho! If you want a fight I’ll oblige you!’ Ghulgoch shouted as he barrelled into the hunters. He caught the cat a blow with the flat of one blade, the force behind his strike sending it tumbling through the air. The animal landed on its feet and charged back at him, launching itself from the ground and landing on his chest. The sharp claws dug deep into his torso, anchoring the feline as it snapped at his throat with its fangs.
‘Vile cur! You dare strike the blessed of Nurgle?’ Sepsimus threw himself against the horse-like champion. The huntmaster blocked the Rotguard’s spear with a wicker shield, pushing it aside and stabbing at the warrior with his own weapon. The golden lance punched into Sepsimus’ armour, spraying flakes of rust into the air. A kick of the creature’s hooves threw Sepsimus back, his chestplate dented by the powerful impact.
Unchallenged by the Rotguard, the swordsman dashed the retchling against the floor and charged back at Fecula. She could see the arcane force that invigorated the hunter and knew the horn-bearing wizard was empowering his comrades.
‘I have magic of my own, beastie,’ Fecula cooed as the Kurnothi slashed at her with his sword. She belched a cloud of diseased vapour full into her enemy’s face. The next moment the sword fell from his fingers as his entire body shook and feverish sweat streamed down his brow.
Fecula smashed the weakened hunter with her staff. The Kurnothi was knocked back, blood spraying from his mouth and onto the side of the colossal root. Before Fecula could move against her ague-wracked foe, she was rushed from behind. The impact of powerful hooves pitched her to the floor and she found herself staring up into the featureless mask of the huntmaster’s helm.
‘The Grandfather isn’t bested so easily,’ Fecula hissed at her enemy. As the golden spear came stabbing down at her, she intercepted it with her rotwood staff, pushing it aside with a display of strength that clearly surprised the huntmaster. She took advantage of his shock by hacking a blob of steaming phlegm at his face. The burning spittle steamed against the gold mask and caused the champion to rear backwards.
Before Fecula could capitalise further on the huntmaster’s distress, she was stricken by fright. The atmosphere within the cavern had changed. The menace that had set her arcane attunement on edge now took on a more aggressive and threatening quality. She heard the Kurnothi horn call out once more, but this time there was alarm in its tone.
‘The shard-curse.’ Fecula hissed the words through her blackened teeth. She forgot the huntmaster and glanced over at the wall of glass. The dim shapes they’d seen earlier were pressed up against the barrier, clawing at it with bony fingers, trying to force their way through. She could almost hear their spectral wails as the skulls beneath their shrouds moaned in frustration.
The banshees behind the wall, however, were of lesser concern to the sorceress than the gigantic root that rose through the cavern. Infected by the necromantic emanations seeping into the chamber, a dreadful malice had been aroused in the growth when it was stained with Kurnothi blood.
From the side of the root, a whip-like appendage emerged. Fecula thought it resembled nothing so much as a string of vertebrae made of smoky glass. The gruesome tendril flashed through the air and darted towards the Kurnothi swordsman. The hunter tried to fend it off with his blade, but the grisly rootlet slithered past his guard and started wrapping itself around him. Soon the Kurnothi was trapped in its coils.
The huntmaster turned away from Fecula and galloped towards the root. He stabbed at the glassy coil with his spear, trying to cut his companion free. The archer sent arrows streaking across the chamber to pierce the tendril while the wizard unleashed a blur of jade light that struck the main body of the root and crackled up and down across its length.
Fecula rose to her feet and called to Sepsimus when he would have rushed the Kurnothi from behind. ‘Forget the forest-fiends,’ she shouted. ‘It is the root that spreads this un-plague across the mountain!’
Sepsimus turned at the sound of her shout and charged the corrupted root. Before he could close upon the necrotic growth, a second deathly tendril lashed out at him. He slashed at it with his spear, fending off its initial strike. Repulsed, the root retaliated by sending half a dozen more writhing coils to strike at the warrior. Sepsimus darted back and whipped his spear before him, whirling its blade in a deadly arc that severed the tips of the tendrils. The fragments shattered against the floor, exploding into shards of glass.
‘By the sevenfold glories of the Crow God,’ Fecula intoned, invoking the nurturing protection of Nurgle, and pointed at Sepsimus. The coils were rushing past his guard now, hungrily seeking to wind themselves around his body. She could see his armour crumpling under the intense pressure as the rootlets began to pull him apart.
Then her magic engulfed him. The tendrils steamed as an aura of plague surrounded the Rotguard. Green smoke boiled off his attackers as the toxic enchantment consumed them. Sepsimus broke free of their weakened grip and hacked away at the writhing rootlets.
‘The main stalk!’ Fecula cried. ‘That’s where the shard-curse is strongest!’ When another bundle of skeletal rootlets shot out at Sepsimus, she tried to fend them off with a spew of diseased magic. The caustic putrescence only bubbled against the tendrils, unable to overcome the necromantic energies flowing within them.
The Kurnothi succeeded in prying away the hunter from the coils that gripped him. The archer rushed forwards to drag the injured swordsman away. Their wizard continued to focus his magic against the root, searing it with orbs of fey light. Nearer to Fecula, however, the cat continued to claw Ghulgoch and strive to sink its fangs into his throat. Finally the Rotguard raked one of his cleavers across the animal’s back, all but cutting it in half. He ripped the beast free, ribbons of his own flesh dangling from its claws, and flung it across the chamber.
An angry howl rose from the Kurnothi huntmaster. The equine champion turned away from the gigantic root and focused upon Ghulgoch. He shifted his grip on his spear. Before Fecula could conjure one of her spells or shout a warning, the champion cast the golden javelin at Ghulgoch. The shaft slammed into him, piercing his chest and erupting from his back. Such was the force and fury of the throw that the spear passed entirely through the Rotguard’s body.
‘That wasn’t fair,’ Ghulgoch complained, pressing one hand to the ghastly wound. He took one lurching step towards the huntmaster, then pitched face first to the floor.
‘You dare! You dare strike down the chosen of Nurgle!’ Fecula raged. She directed a bolt of withering power against the huntmaster. The strange creature screamed as the cancerous energies wracked his body. He stumbled and crashed down on his side. His hoofed feet kicked at the air in agony as the spell ravaged his bestial frame.
The sorceress started towards the fallen huntmaster, but she caught a blur of motion from the corner of her eye. The root was sending out more skeletal tendrils now. She saw them snaking around Ghulgoch’s body and creeping towards the butchered cat; others slithered for the Kurnothi champion. Saturated with the dark energies of Shyish, the root was seeking to feed on the aura of death. Not the natural death that brought with it the nourishing processes of rot and decay in which the gifts of Nurgle flourished, but the obscene death that fed the black art of necromancy. Death without change, that offered no foothold for growth.
‘Grandfather, this profanity will be destroyed,’ Fecula reaffirmed her vow. She swung around and faced the mass of rootlets crawling across the floor. Rancid emanations exuded from her pores as she strode forwards and approached the skeletal coils. As the tendrils came within her sorcerous aura, their glassy surface cracked and then came apart in jagged flakes. Away from her, she could see Sepsimus whipping his spear in deadly circles that fractured more of the rootlets.
‘These are but a distraction,’ Fecula grumbled. ‘It is the main trunk that must be battled.’ She fixed her eyes on the gigantic root and sent a bolt of corrosive magic searing into it. Like the jade orbs cast by the wizard, it had little effect upon the colossal growth. If she were to overcome the necromancy that infected the root, she would need stronger measures.
‘Nurgle smile upon my devotion,’ the sorceress cried, calling upon the Plague God’s favour. Mustering her strength, she charged at the root. The smaller tendrils lashed at her, slashing her flesh with their skeletal whips. By the time she reached the gigantic trunk she was bleeding from dozens of wounds.
Curling her fingers around the amberbone knife, Fecula raked it across her own belly. A spray of blood and digestive juices pelted the root. She ignored the pain that pulsed through her body and fixated instead upon her invocation. Her fluids would be the catalyst for her magic, a concentration of Nurgle’s fecund power that would overwhelm the infected root.
As Fecula focused her will into her spell, the blood spurting onto the root became acid. It steamed against the root, consuming its midsection. Pulp slopped away from those parts of the root that remained organic while the glassy infection fell away in sharp slivers. The sorceress felt her vitality slipping away with each heartbeat, but at the same time she knew her sacrifice was breaking the shard-curse. She was burning the infection out of the mountain.
The colossal root frayed away. Continuing to corrode, the rootlets lining the ceiling and walls lost their strength. Great chunks of earth and rock began to crash down into the cavern. Yawning rifts cracked the ground. Dimly, Fecula was aware of the Kurnothi scrambling free from the collapse, the aelf-like creatures retreating back into the amber swamp. Sepsimus wasn’t so agile. A crevasse opened beneath the Rotguard and sucked him down. So too was the body of Ghulgoch drawn away, toppling into a crack in the floor.
Fecula strove to remain standing, and grasped the sides of the root even as her ensorcelled blood continued to dissolve it. It was a small matter to her that she was dying. In death she would know triumph, for she would break the un-plague that had seeped into Ghur.
The floor under Fecula’s feet crumbled away. For a moment she hung suspended over the pit, her hands grasping the sides of the root. Then her fingers lost their hold and she was sent plunging down into the black abyss.
Fecula awoke in darkness. Dimly she could hear a voice calling to her. It took several moments before she recognised the speaker as Sepsimus or understood what he was saying.
‘Mistress Flyblown,’ the Rotguard said. She felt his armoured hand prodding her side. ‘Praise be to the Grandfather, you live!’
