Storm of Magic 3 - The Hour of Shadows by Warhammer

Author:Warhammer [Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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to his collection of skulls. He had learned the tricks and traps the forest would use

against an intruder. He had learned of the many weapons the elves and fey would

bring against any who violated the borders of Athel Loren. More importantly, he had

learned of the secret signs and spells which could allow him to defy the illusions of

the forest. He had learned of the shadow fey, dread spirits of the forest who despised

the elves as a pestilence, an infestation. By appealing to them, by exploiting their

hatred of the elves, he would be able to escape the worst of the forest’s illusions.

Nashrik thought their only chance for victory was to tarry until winter. Such a

belief only betrayed the grey seer’s ignorance. Only during the Hour of Shadows

could the power within the Golden Pool be released. Only during the Hour of

Shadows would the dark power of Dharr be stronger than the faerie magic of the

elves and their forest. No, to delay would bring disaster. Only by striking now could

there be any hope of triumph!

A squeal of terror echoed down from the cliffs. Huskk reached to his belt and

removed a pair of strangely-tinted lenses, setting them across his eyes. When they

were in place, the Black Seer peered out over the lip of the gulley. Turning his gaze

upwards, he saw a mangled body tumbling down into the valley. A second, then a

third followed, though these fell with a speed and violence more appropriate to a

rockslide than anything of flesh and bone.

Training his gaze still higher, Huskk could see a monstrous shape flying about the

cliff, flapping its leathery pinions as it scratched at the rocks with its enormous

talons. Clearly a few of Vermitt’s spies had squirmed into a crevice where the

monster’s claws couldn’t reach them. Huskk hoped they had the good sense to keep

their eyes closed.

“ls-is that the kill-beast?” Nashrik asked, blinking behind his own set of tinted

lenses.

“That is it,” Huskk hissed. “The vermin of Clan Grubrr call-name it

‘Deathwatcher’. Man-things say-speak of it as the cockatrice.”

The flying monster suddenly uttered a shrill, ghastly cackle, wheeling away from

the side of the cliff. Either it had tired of trying to reach the skaven lodged in the

crack or it had satisfied itself that they were all dead. Whatever its motivation, the

cockatrice began to soar across the valley, its head snapping from side to side in jerky

movements as it watched the earth below.

Perhaps it was looking for the skaven who had fallen. Perhaps the cockatrice was

merely seeking prey. If there was a motive behind its flight, the monster soon forgot

whatever it was. An updraft must have brought Weekil’s scent to it, for the bird-beast

abruptly swung around, another shrill cackle rising from its throat. The cockatrice

stared down at the bound adept, then folded its mighty wings close against its sides.

Warbling its weird shriek, the monster dove straight towards Weekil.

Weekil thrashed against his bonds, frantically trying to tear himself free. His

muffled scream sounded from behind the iron bit in his mouth.

The cockatrice landed a few yards from the bait. It presented

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