Black Library Weekender 2012 Volume 2 by Various

Author:Various
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-07-09T15:39:19+00:00

Bloodwalker

C L Werner

Ice cracked beneath the heavy, loping tread of the nauglir as it stalked through the snowdrifts. The cold one’s breath turned to mist with each shuddering exhalation, its horned head undulating from side to side with almost mechanical monotony. The brute’s ribs stood stark against its scaly hide, the steel barding lashed about its body sliding back and forth with each step. Oily froth trickled from the corners of its fanged mouth, freezing as it dangled from its jaws.

The armoured rider in the nauglir’s saddle ran a gloved hand along the beast’s neck. Leaning forwards, he spoke reassuring words to his weary stead.

‘Not much farther, Spite,’ he said, his voice crackling with exhaustion. ‘A few more days. Only a few more days and we will be home.’

Spite gave no sign that it heard its master’s voice, merely maintaining the steady league-eating trot the cold one had maintained for so many days. The lack of response troubled the nauglir’s master more than any surly snarl or angry hiss could have. It was a sign that Spite was reaching the limits of its formidable endurance. The cold ones were beasts of the reptilian orders, capable of surviving the harsh cold of Naggaroth only by gorging themselves frequently, their metabolisms using the food to maintain their body heat. Without a steady supply of fresh meat, a nauglir would become steadily more lethargic until, finally, it dropped in its tracks.

It had been days since Spite had last fed. The nauglir’s scaly hide felt like ice beneath its master’s hand. The reptile couldn’t go on for much longer. Once his steed fell, its rider’s chances of survival wouldn’t be worth an asur’s life in Har Ganeth.

There was one thing that gave Malus Darkblade some hope. For all its seeming mindlessness, Spite was moving with purpose and direction. Once before, the nauglir had made this bold, lonely journey. Even more than its master, the reptile’s brain bore the impression of the long trail that would lead it to Hag Graef. The long trail that would again put the cursed Temple of Tz’arkan behind them.

A hot rush of anger warmed the elf’s cold flesh as he thought of the scheming daemon that has used him, used him to unleash itself upon the mortal world after millennia trapped within its own temple. For a year, Tz’arkan had coerced and manipulated him, lurking inside his own body, spreading its corruption through his flesh. And when it was through with him, when it had no further use for him, the daemon had betrayed him. It had sought his life, but it had taken only his soul.

The eyes of the highborn were frozen windows of hate as he thought of what Tz’arkan has stolen from him. His hand closed about the hilt of his sword, not for the first time wondering if he might not have fared better with a lesser weapon in his final confrontation with the daemon. A mortal blade wouldn’t have forced Tz’arkan to abandon its attack.

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