CHAPTER 1: Hatred Alone

A Story in the Age of Reckoning by Mike Lee

They came for Rathann in the hour of the wolf, when the twin moons were low on the horizon and his small tower room was plunged into deep shadow. He had been asleep for barely an hour, sunk in exhausted slumber, when the sound of splintering wood split the silence in the small antechamber beyond.

The attackers were swift and highly skilled. Rathann’s only slave, a scarred human male that slept on the floor just beyond the doorway, slowed them for barely a moment. A startled shout echoed from the darkness, cut short by the thudding of heavy blows and the brittle crunch of bone, and then Rathann heard the soft whisper of footsteps racing through the darkness towards his bedchamber.

There was no time to think, no time to wonder at the reasons for the attack. Rathann’s body moved without conscious volition, as it had been trained to do by the Black Guard’s brutal weapon masters. His hand closed on the hilt of the long knife hidden beneath his pillow as he bolted from the narrow bed. The curving wall of the tower room was to his right, close enough to touch. A tall, narrow window pierced the stonework a few feet farther along the wall, looking out onto the profusion of slender, sharp-edged towers that lay at the heart of the black ark known as the Fortress of Malice. The faint gleam of starlight leaking through the soot-stained glass barely served to paint the outlines of the wooden clothes chest at the foot of the bed and the wooden stand across the room where his arms and armor were kept. Rathann could just make out the battered harness of plate-and-mail and the ebon shaft of his halberd less than half-a-dozen paces away, but they might as well have been at the bottom of the sea for all the good they did him. By the time his bare feet hit the cold, wooden floor his attackers were upon him, their hooded forms flitting through the shadows like silent, vengeful ghosts.

Rathann counted at least six attackers in the uncertain light; they fanned out as they charged, but with his back to the wall there was no way they could get behind him. Two circled around the foot of the bed to get at him, while two more leapt onto the bed itself, leaving the remaining two out of room and forced to hang back. Rathann noted the details with cold detachment. He did not weigh the odds against him, nor feel the faintest glimmer of fear. His aches and fatigue faded away, drowned in an icy surge of rage.

With a fierce war cry he lunged towards the bed, snatching a corner of the thin blanket and yanking it out from under the leaping assailants. Both stumbled, their limbs tangling as they crashed into one another, but Rathann was already turning away from them, snapping the blanket like a net over the head and shoulders of the third attacker to his front. The assailant instinctively flung up his arm to ward off the entangling cloth, giving Rathann the opening he needed. He leapt forward, stabbing through the blanket again and again as he crashed into the onrushing attacker. The druchii’s knife struck home, but the point skidded from the curved surface of a steel breastplate beneath the attacker’s robes. Cursing, he drew back his blade and slashed at the attacker’s hooded face. This time he was rewarded with the thin hiss of steel slicing flesh, but if his opponent felt the cut he gave no sign.

Snarling, Rathann drew back his knife to strike again. A wooden club struck his wrist, knocking the weapon from his numbed fingers. Another blow smashed into the side of his knee, causing him to stumble, and a third clipped him just below the temple. The dark room dissolved in a white burst of pain. He fell back, cursing in fury and lashing out with his fists, but powerful hands seized his arms and trapped them with practiced skill. Rathann blinked the white haze from his vision and lashed out at the attacker on his right with a savage kick to the knee, but his bare heel connected with a steel knee-cop and skidded harmlessly away. He roared with fury, twisting savagely in his assailants’ grip, until the warrior whose face he slashed stepped in and brought his club down on Rathann’s forehead.

The next thing he knew he was being half-carried, half-dragged across slimy cobblestones, and a cold sea wind was blowing across his face. Rathann tried to force his eyes open, only to find the left one crusted shut with dried blood. He raised his head just enough to see that he was being borne across a long, narrow bridge, high in the air amid the towers of the ark. He heard the faint sigh of waves and smelled the acrid tang of the war-forges far below. Somewhere off in the darkness a faint voice pleaded for mercy before dissolving into wordless shrieks of pain. The sweet sound cleared Rathann’s throbbing head and helped focus his thoughts.

He recognized the octagonal tower rising ominously at the far end of the bridge. Unlike most of the spires crowding the center of the ark, this one had a broad, flat top, ringed about by statues of onyx dragons with eyes made from orbs of green witchlight. The tower was known as the Witch King’s Spear, and a spire like it stood in every city and black ark of Naggaroth as a pointed reminder of Malekith’s brooding presence. They were the strongholds of the Witch King’s elite Black Guard, fanatical highborn warriors conditioned from childhood to know nothing but loyalty to Malekith and unending hatred of his foes.

Rathann knew the tower well. For the past year he had trained there under the merciless tutelage of the Witch King’s war-masters.

His assailants dragged him roughly through a narrow, arched doorway at the far end of the bridge, then up a winding stair dimly lit by faintly glowing witchlights. Rathann paid little heed to his surroundings; instead, he focused his attention on testing the strength of his limbs and looking for an opportunity to turn the tables on his captors. It was one of the central tenets of the Black Guard. So long as you breathe, you live. So long as you live, you fight. So long as you fight, you triumph. Yet no such opportunity presented itself. His captors were experts, holding him just far enough off the ground and moving just fast enough that he couldn’t get his feet underneath him.

Higher and higher they climbed, into a part of the tower that Rathann had never been permitted before. After many long minutes his assailants stopped at a narrow landing and then passed through another narrow door into darkness. Rathann felt his toes drag across cold, polished marble, and heard the footsteps of his captors echo faintly in a large, vaulted space. Finally, he heard the sound of a halberd shaft striking the floor ahead of him, then a groan of iron hinges as a pair of heavy doors swung open and spilled a flood of witchlight across the polished floor. Rathann watched tiles of black marble flecked with gold pass beneath him as he was dragged into an even larger chamber and dropped unceremoniously onto the floor.

The battered druchii was up in an instant, rising swiftly to a kneeling position with his palms pressed flat to the floor. With an effort Rathann forced his scabbed left eye to open and quickly took in his surroundings.

He was surprised to find himself in a vaulted audience chamber, perhaps a hundred paces long and twenty across. Tall, marble columns were spaced evenly down the long walls of the chamber, each one carved in the shape of a rearing dragon. Unbound witchlight burned in the dragons’ open mouths, filling the chamber with flickering green light and silhouetting the ranks of silent warriors that formed two lines down the length of the chamber. Witchlight gleamed on the razor-keen edges of their long halberds and the barbed flanges of their heavy armor. Their faces were hidden behind tall, conical helms, but he could feel the weight of their stares like a brand pressed against his skin.

At the far end of the chamber was a small dais with two great witchlight braziers set at the corners. Standing between the silent, roiling flames was a lone figure, clad in lacquered black armor edged with gold. The skirts of his robe were a rich blue, worked with the black sigil of a dragon – the insignia of Malekith’s Black Guard. His elaborately-worked helm was tucked beneath his left arm, while his right hand clutched the haft of a fearsome, saw-edged halberd that glowed with sorcerous power. Rathann knew him at once: Halghast, Master of the Witch King’s Spear and Captain of the Black Guard at the Fortress of Malice.

Yet what surprised Rathann most of all wasn’t Halghast, but the arming stand that had been placed at the foot of the dais. Carefully arranged on the polished wooden stand was a supple leather gambeson, or kheitan, made of fine human hide. Layered atop the kheitan was a knee-length hauberk of gleaming mail, and atop that were black-lacquered plates of flanged steel armor engraved with the dragon sigil of the Black Guard. Set beside the armor was an ebon-shafted halberd, more than seven feet in length from the tip of its serrated point to the polished steel cap at its end. The sight of the wargear quickened his blood, cutting through his rage like a knife and filling him with questions. What was going on? Why have I been brought here?

Yet he said none of these things. Instead, his hands clenched into fists. Knuckles pressed to the cold marble, he fell to one knee and bowed his head to Halghast, as a lifetime of training had conditioned him to do.

For several long moments the only sound he heard was the breathy hissing of flames. Then Halghast spoke in a sibilant hiss, like a knife drawn over a whetstone.

“Rathann Darkmoon,” he hissed, “son of the house of Bruthir. The Witch King chose you from the cradle and raised you to be an instrument of his will. He forged your skills in the black fires of your own hate and honed your lust for battle to a razor’s edge. There is no greater honor in all of Naggoroth,” the captain declared, his voice rising to a harsh rasp.

“You were sent here from Naggarond to complete your training, and for a year I have gauged your worth as we have pursued our war here in Ulthuan,” he said. “I have watched you in battle against our degenerate cousins – yes, even as you raided deep into Chrace my eye was upon you, for the sorceries of the Witch King’s servants reach far and wide.”

Halghast paused, letting the words sink in. When he spoke again, his voice was full of contempt. “I have judged you, Rathann Darkmoon, and I find you wanting.”

The words went through Rathann like a bolt of lightning. His head came up, eyes widening in shock and anger. Only by the greatest effort of will did he hold his tongue.

“You are worthless!” Halghast spat. “I would sooner admit an effete son of Avelorn into our ranks than a worm such as you! Your tutors at Naggarond should have fed you to the cold ones while you were still a child and spared us from wasting so much time on you. If you are the best that your household could offer to the Witch King it’s no wonder that your family has all but died out!”

Each word struck him like a blow, hammering not at his flesh, but at his pride. Yet his sense of discipline held against the onslaught; he ground his teeth together, biting back one savage retort after another as Halghast continued.

“When you were chosen by Malekith you renounced your hereditary rank and privileges forever; I suppose we should be grateful for that, because our people are better off without you.” The captain descended from the dais; his expression full of disgust. “I should kill you now, but that would not settle the accounts between us. No, you owe us for the years of training we lavished on your worthless self, so you will spend the rest of your life in the slave pits instead.”

Rathann recoiled at the words. He would not have reacted more had the captain struck him with his halberd. The druchii were the chosen people, the masters of the world. Slavery was the fate of lesser races, like humans or the vile, green-skinned orks. It was the worst insult any druchii could imagine, and delivered by one such as Halghast, whom he’d trained all his life to serve, it sank like a blade into Rathann’s heart.

Halghast raised his halberd and pointed to the suit of arms on the stand beside him. His thin lips curved in a cruel smile. “I could have had you dragged from your chamber and thrown into the pits without any explanation, but first I wanted you to see what you have lost. That would have been your armor, Rathann Darkmoon, had you proven yourself worthy. Let the sight of it haunt you for the rest of your short, miserable existence.”

The captain lowered his halberd and, in a final gesture of contempt, turned his back on Rathann. “Take this trash away,” he said over his shoulder.

Rathann heard the rustle of cloth behind him as his captors moved to obey the captain. His mind reeled, unable to come to grips with what had happened. Hands seized his arms, hauling him to his feet, but his eyes remained fixed on the wargear at the far end of the hall. Halghast’s words echoed in his mind. That would have been your armor, had you proved yourself worthy.

Incredulity gave way to pain. Pain gave way to pure, unfettered rage.

With a bestial snarl Rathann twisted in the grip of his captors and threw a kick at the druchii on his left. He connected with the side of the warrior’s head, causing him to let go of Rathann’s arm and sending him reeling backwards. The moment his left hand was free, Rathann twisted back to the right and snatched at the club hanging from the other druchii’s belt. He tore the cudgel loose and drove its tip into his captor’s groin, then smashed his forehead into the druchii’s nose. Rathann heard the crunch of cartilage and the warrior released his grip with a strangled curse. Another blow from the heavy club caught the druchii in the side of the head and knocked him to the floor.

The druchii that he’d kicked was already lunging forward again, armed now with a long, saw-bladed dagger, and his four remaining companions were charging forward as well. They were all armed with a combination of knives and clubs, and Rathann knew they wore armor under their robes, but he had one thing they did not: his hate. And the first thing he had been taught by the masters of the Black Guard was the druchii’s oldest proverb:With hate, all things are possible.

Rathann swung his club at the warrior lunging in from his side; the druchii ducked the blow easily, but that had been only a feint. He spun on his heel and lashed out again with his foot, hitting the warrior squarely in the face. As the druchii fell, Rathan recovered his balance and snatched up the warrior’s fallen dagger.

There was a searing pain as a knife sliced across his back, then a brutal blow as a club struck his upper left arm. Rathann channeled his rage into his limbs, forcing them to work as the leapt forward into the midst of his attackers. The move caught his foes off-guard for just a moment, but the hesitation cost them. Rathann brought his club up under one druchii’s chin and slashed the wrist of another with his knife. Both staggered backwards out of the fight.

A knife sank into Rathann’s left thigh; he twisted on his heel before the blade could dig too deep and smashed his club down on his assailant’s knife-hand. The druchii retreated with a curse, leaving his knife in Rathann’s leg.

The last attacker pulled up short, suddenly aware that the tables had turned. With a contemptuous snarl Rathann flung his knife at the druchii, then reached down and plucked the second dagger from his leg. The thrown knife took the druchii in the chest, hurled with such force its tip penetrated his robes and the armor beneath. He staggered, cursing, and tried to pull the dagger free, but Rathann never gave him the chance. He threw his club point-blank and struck the warrior in the face.

Rathann whirled before the druchii’s body had hit the marble floor and sprinted to the end of the hall. The fight had lasted only a few seconds, and so far neither Halghast nor the rest of the Black Guard had reacted, but that was certain to change. He had only a moment or two left to react.

He felt a surge of triumph as he reached the arming stand and closed his hand around the ebon haft of the halberd – his halberd. Rathann tore it free and whirled it over his head with a bloodthirsty howl; it was light and swift, far better than the ponderous iron weapons he’d been forced to train with.

The halberd’s razor edge hissed through the air as he leveled it at Halghast’s face. Rathann felt no fear. He could dimly sense his blood soaking through the light cotton robe he wore, but he felt no pain. His rage sustained him, filling his veins with fire.

“Hear me, captain!” he cried. “If you would deny me my right to wield this blade, then come and take it from me! I, who was raised in the iron towers of Naggarond and taught to kill by the Witch King’s greatest champions! I have been tested all of my life, and I have never been found wanting!” He gripped the halberd tightly. “I have earned this wargear with blood and broken bones. It is mine, and only Malekith himself can take it from me.”

Silence fell across the hall. Halghast turned, slowly, and lowered the point of his halberd. Rathann crouched, ready and willing to split the captain’s skull, even if it meant suffering a fatal wound himself. They could kill him, he resolved, but they would never defeat him.

Halghast’s smile widened. “Indeed,” he said. “I would expect no less from a warrior of the Black Guard.” He inclined his head to Rathann. “You have passed the final test, triumphing in the face of reason by virtue of your hate alone.” He raised his halberd. “We salute you, Rathann Darkmoon, and welcome you into our ranks.”

For a moment, Rathann was unsure what to think. Was this another trick? But then the ranks of Black Guard raised their halberds and let out a chilling war cry.

“Cast aside those blood-stained robes and don your wargear,” Halghast declared. “The time has come for you to join the fight against our hated kin.” His eyes glittered like a serpent’s. “The Witch King himself has a special task in mind for you.”

CHAPTER 2: No Mercy. No Surrender.

A Story in the Age of Reckoning by Mike Lee

First came the layers of heavy, indigo-hued woolen robes and steel-toed leather boots, then a reinforced kheitan made of quilted fabric and tanned human hide. Over the kheitan went a hauberk of blackened steel mail, with long sleeves and a broad skirt that hung down to mid-calf. The weight of the steel rings rested heavily on Rathann’s strong shoulders, aggravating the pain of the many bruises and shallow cuts that marked his arms and torso. The druchii scarcely noticed. He’d suffered worse on a daily basis during his years of training.

The audience hall was silent once more as Rathann laced up the front of the chain hauberk and reached for the gleaming black breastplate hanging from the wooden arming stand. The long ranks of Black Guards lining the chamber were silent and still once more, watching the Dark Elf’s every move. Buckling on the complicated layers of armor was normally a task for one or more trained slaves, but the Black Guard were trained to do without such luxuries. Rathann’s bloodstained fingers worked swiftly and surely, cinching the straps, and setting the hooks with deft, practiced movements.

He slid on the steel-reinforced leather gauntlets, then buckled a set of barbed vambraces over his forearms using a combination of fingers and teeth. Within minutes his transformation was complete. The torn and bloodstained sleeping robe at his feet was all that remained of the druchii’s former life.

Beyond the now-empty arming stand rose the steps o f a stone dais, where Halghast, the captain of the Black Guard aboard the Fortress of Malice, watched Rathann with cold, pitiless eyes.

When the druchii had finished arming himself, Halghast nodded and descended the polished steps. In a single, smooth motion the captain lowered his halberd and placed its razor-sharp tip in the hollow of Rathann’s throat.

“Kneel,” the captain commanded.

Rathann sank carefully to his knees, his throat bared and his head upright, as custom demanded. Then, in a rolling, ominous voice, Halghast intoned the Dragon Oath, the ritual that would bind Rathann into Malekith’s service forevermore. It began with a recitation of his lineage, back to the ancient houses of lost Nagarythe, then formally separated Rathann from all hereditary ties to his family and the Dark Elf people as a whole. From this moment forward, he would be bound by no law, nor bow his head to any lord save Malekith himself.

“You have been forged as a weapon for the Witch King himself,” Halghast declared. “An instrument of his will and the murderous touch of his wrath.”

The halberd’s point sank a fraction of an inch into Rathann’s throat. A trickle of dark blood ran down its curved edge.

“Do you accept this oath, Rathann Darkmoon,” Halghast said, “until the moment of your death?”

Rathann bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Without mercy and without fail, until the moment of death,” he answered. “This I swear, in Khaine’s holy name.”

The halberd was drawn away. “Then rise, kinsman,” Halghast growled, “and never kneel again, save in the Witch King’s presence.”

Once again, the assembled Black Guard raised their voices in a fierce shout, the sound echoing sharply from the walls. Halghast lowered the point of his polearm and nodded curtly to the warriors, who turned sharply about and filed swiftly from the hall. The captain waited until the last of the Black Guard had gone before turning once more to Rathann.

“You’ll be leaving for the Shadowlands at once,” Halghast said without preamble.

“A wyvern will carry you to the coast within the hour. You’ll find a pack and provisions waiting for you at the top of the tower.”

The urgency of the mission surprised Rathann, but he was careful not to let it show to the captain. “What is my task?” he said curtly.

“You are bound for the Mournwood,” Halghast replied, “to the ruins of a citadel called Tor Agral. No doubt you have heard of it.”

Rathann stiffened. With a conscious effort he kept his hands from curling into fists. “I know the name, but nothing more,” he answered.

Halghast gave Rathann a long, searching look, clearly dubious of the young Dark Elf’s claim, but chose not to press the issue further. “Our master believes the Ring of Athan is hidden somewhere in the ruins,” he said after a moment.

“The Ring of Athan was lost during the Sundering,” Rathann said, a little too quickly.

“So the legends claim,” the captain agreed. “But legends are often just artful lies, are they not?” Halghast paused, waiting for Rathann’s reaction, but the young druchii merely watched and waited, his expression carefully neutral. When the captain saw that Rathann wasn’t going to rise to the bait, he waved his hand dismissively. “In any case, the truth of what happened isn’t important. The Witch King has reason to think that the ring was hidden in the tower on the eve of the Sundering. You’re going to find it, and quickly, before the enemy does.”

Rathann frowned. He was beginning to see why Malekith had chosen him specifically for this task. “The sons of Aenarion are searching for the ring? Why?”

Halghast shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve never been able to understand how those degenerates think,” he growled. “What we do know is that a large enemy force has moved into the Mournwood recently, and their efforts are focused around Tor Agral. If the ring is anywhere in those ruins, they’re sure to find it sooner or later – and that must not happen. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Rathann said. “If the ring lies in Tor Agral, I’ll find it. Nothing shall stand in my way.”

“The Witch King expects no less,” Halghast replied coldly. “When you reach the Shadowlands, make for the Mournwood with all haste. You’ll find Lord Sathras, one of Ulthorin’s sons, camped with his warband to the southwest.” The captain’s thin lips curled in distaste. “They’ve been trying to drive the enemy out of the region for some time now. A breakthrough there will open the way to Tor Agral, but all they’ve managed so far is a bloody stalemate.”

Rathann knelt and picked up his halberd, inspecting its curved edge. The weapon was clean and unscarred, fresh from the black ark’s forge. A predatory smile spread across his face as he imagined the cruel blade shearing through steel, flesh and bone. The agonized screams of dying Elves echoed in his mind.

“Then I shall have to carve a path to my goal,” Rathann said, his hands tightening on the haft of the weapon.

Rathann came upon the war camp late in the afternoon, set atop a bare, rocky hill just a half-mile west of the mountainous western border of the Mournwood. He could see the narrow purple banners of Lord Ulthorin’s household silhouetted against the bleak, iron-gray sky, rising above the curved arms of bolt-throwers set to protect the two narrow approaches to the camp. There were no patrols he could see, nor could he hear much in the way of activity as he loped through the skeletal ruins of a small forest just northwest of the hill. Even at a distance, Rathann could feel the pall of defeat hanging over the encampment.

The Black Guard circled around to the western side of the hill, his boots kicking up feathery plumes of ash with each step. A dry, crackling wind, smelling of burnt metal and magic, shifted aimlessly amid the scorched trees. The air was tense and unsettled, prickling his skin and setting his hair on end. No matter where he went in the Shadowlands, the atmosphere of the place was always the same, as though the devastation of the Sundering had occurred only moments before. Sometimes Rathann swore that he could still hear the death screams of his ancestors echoing in the lunatic wind.

He approached the camp without challenge, passing a pair of exhausted sentries guarding the bolt throwers at the western entrance. The warriors stiffened to attention as he went by, their helmeted heads snapping up with a fearful jerk as they recognized the black armor that he wore. Rathann ignored them, heading deeper into the camp in search of Lord Sathras.

There were scores of weary Dark Elf warriors sitting on the rocky ground about the camp, their armor and weapons freshly-stained with blood and grime. A few of them tried to straighten as he passed, but most simply stared at him with sullen, predatory eyes. It was clear to Rathann that they had spent the day trying to break the enemy positions at the edge of the Mournwood, only to be driven back once again.

The leader of the warband was not to be found at his tent in the center of the camp; his slaves said only that he had ridden off to command the attack shortly before dawn. Biting back his irritation, Rathann continued eastward, to the far side of the camp, where the moans of the wounded rose from the chirurgeon’s tents.

By now word of his arrival had spread through the encampment, and Rathann found the lanes of the camp increasingly crowded as the warriors gathered to catch a glimpse of one of Malekith’s chosen. Many of them trailed along in his wake as he passed by, no doubt curious as to his sudden arrival.

Ulthorin’s son was not to be found among the wounded, either. Instead, Rathann found him just outside the eastern entrance to the camp, scourging his subordinates for their most recent failure. Four of his lieutenants had been stripped to the waist and lashed to poles in full view of the Dark Elf warriors still marching wearily back from the battlefield further east. Three of the lieutenants were unconscious, the flesh of their backs torn to ribbons by the scourge’s steel-tipped lashes. The young highborn was mercilessly savaging the fourth warrior while a tall, lithe Witch Elf looked on. She was standing close enough to the scourging to catch the red spray from the lash on her white skin as the highborn drew back his arm for another blow.

The Dark Elf warriors marching back to camp drew up short as Rathann appeared. The Witch Elf noticed the disturbance and glanced back over her shoulder. When she saw the Black Guard her almond-shaped eyes narrowed thoughtfully. As Sathras raised his arm for another stroke of the lash she reached out with a slim hand and grasped the noble’s wrist.

Snarling, the blood-spattered highborn rounded on the witch. When he caught sight of Rathann’s armored form, the Black Guard saw a brief flash of pure, unalloyed terror in the noble’s eyes.

A stir of anticipation went through the assembled Dark Elves. They sensed the highborn’s fear as well, and guessed at the reason. The Witch King had no patience for failure, and the Black Guard were the cruel implements he used to demonstrate his displeasure. Rathann could not help but notice the vindictive gleam in the warriors’ eyes.

Silence fell, broken only by the hissing wind and the tortured gasps of the flayed Dark Elf. The Witch Elf stepped languidly away from Lord Ulthorin’s son, pointedly distancing herself from him as she reached for a goblet of wine from a waiting slave.

Lord Sathras was thin even for a druchii, with sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes. He was younger than Rathann, barely old enough to lead warriors in battle, and his armor was richly ornamented with gold and precious stones. His twin swords – the highborn badge of rank – were decorated with dark rubies, and the hilts had been polished until the metal glowed in the wan sunlight. His pale face was flecked with blood and tiny bits of flesh, but there wasn’t a single mark of battle on him.

Rathann gave the callow noble a forbidding stare. “How fares the battle, Lord Sathras?” he hissed.

With an effort, the young highborn tamped down his fear and tried to adopt a lordly mien. He tossed the bloody scourge onto the ground. “Who in the Dark Mother’s name are you?” he demanded.

“A servant of the Witch King,” Rathann answered coldly. “Keep that fact firmly in your mind as I repeat my question: how fares the battle?”

A trace of fear crept back into the highborn’s eyes. “It…well, the damned Asur hold the high ground at the mouth of the pass,” he stammered. “Their position is well-defended, and they outnumber us at least five to one.” He pointed a trembling finger at the Dark Elf hanging from the poles. “We might have broken through today, had these fools followed my orders! The fighting was at the foot of the enemy barricades and Lady Beltyr was about to unleash her sorceries when the wretches lost their nerve and retreated!” Sathras realized his voice was growing shrill with anger and stopped abruptly. When he regained his composure, he continued. “We’ll attack again tomorrow, once we’ve regained our strength and tended our injuries.”

“Giving the enemy ample opportunity to do the same,” Rathann snapped. He turned away from Sathras and scanned the area around the bloodstained poles. “How many are there?”

Sathras frowned. “How many High Elves? Why, a hundred at least, commanded by one of their princes. Their position is very strong…” the highborn paused, his expression bemused. “What are you doing?”

Rathann had knelt by the bundled robes and weapon belts of the flayed druchii. Searching through them quickly, he pulled half-a-dozen daggers from the pile and slipped them into his belt. “I’m heading for Tor Agral,” he said simply, then rose to his feet and headed down the hill, past the long line of druchii warriors.

Sathras didn’t reply at first. Rathann was halfway down the ashen slope when the highborn’s angry voice called after him. “Did you not hear a damned word I said?” the noble shouted. “I’ve lost half my warband trying to breach their lines! What can you possibly hope to achieve besides a quick death?”

But Rathann’s steps only quickened as he reached the base of the hill. He could just see the white and silver banners of the enemy war party, flying from the rocky foothills to the east. The prospect of battle sang through his veins.

“With hate, all things are possible,” he said with a savage grin, and the warriors within earshot howled in salute as the Black Guard broke into a run.

The High Elf position lay across a rocky ridge that covered the entrance to a narrow pass running between the crags bordering the western edge of the Mournwood. The slope had been cleared of dead trees to provide clear fields of fire for the war party’s bolt throwers and their contingent of archers. Dozens of Dark Elf bodies piled at the base of the incline attested to the lethality of their aim.

When Rathann arrived at the base of the ridge the High Elves were tossing still more bodies down the incline, clearing their barricade and removing their own wounded now that the day’s fighting was over. After a week of regular attacks they, like the Dark Elves, had fallen into a kind of routine, and so the High Elves didn’t react at first when they saw a lone enemy warrior charging up the stony track towards them. Their bewilderment bought Rathann a few precious seconds as he closed the distance between him and the barricade.

He was halfway up the slope when he heard a shout along the ridge line and the first white-shafted arrows went hissing past. The High Elven warriors at the barricade were galvanized by the warning cry, snatching up their spears and shields and hastily forming up behind the waist-high wall of charred tree stumps.

An arrow struck Rathann in the chest and glanced from his breastplate. Another hit his mail skirt, just above the knee, and stuck there, its arrowhead wedged into the steel rings. A third shaft tore a furrow across the back of his neck and sped on. The pain ignited the rage seething in his veins, and he let out a shriek of bestial fury as he raced up the last few yards to the foot of the barricade.

A hasty command was called out at the far end of the barricade, and as one the warriors lowered their silver-tipped spears, presenting a lethal thicket of bloodstained points to receive the Black Guard’s charge. It was the same deadly formation that had thrown back countless Dark Elf attacks, but Rathann’s headlong pace never faltered. When he was close enough to see the widening eyes of the Elves directly opposite him, the Black Guard plucked a needle-pointed dagger from his belt and hurled it in a single, fluid motion. The weapon buried itself to the hilt in a High Elf visor, and the warrior collapsed with a gurgling shriek, dropping his weapon and clawing at his face. For the briefest instant, a gap opened in the thicket of spears and Rathann leapt inside it, swinging his halberd in a wide, whistling cut. The keen edge chopped deeply into an enemy’s helm and slipped free, dropping another warrior to the stony ground.

Rathann drove himself ruthlessly onward, leaping lightly onto the top of the barricade and over the side. The enemy warriors to either side of him tried to draw back and make room to attack him with their spears. He howled a vicious war cry and brought his halberd down full-force onto the shield of an elf in his path, splitting the reinforced wood and slicing through the arm beneath.

A spear point thrust at him from the right and he dodged beneath it, sweeping his halberd in a tight arc and slicing through the warrior’s knee. Another silver point smashed into his back, its tip puncturing the black steel and sinking a few inches into Rathann’s back. He twisted around with a snarl and smashed the butt of his polearm into the Elf’s helm, then slashed down diagonally to sever the warrior’s spear haft and the right hand that gripped it.

Rathann didn’t pause to consider his options; he let his rage guide him, driving inexorably forward into the Elf camp. He could hear horns blowing ahead of him, and a chorus of shouted orders. A small cluster of archers stood a few yards distant with arrows nocked and ready, but they were hesitant of firing into the melee raging around him.

The Elves at the barricade had recovered from their initial shock and were pressing in from all sides now. Spears jabbed at him like striking snakes; one tore through his mail skirt and bit into his left leg, while another gouged a shallow wound along his right arm. He channeled the pain into his blows, slashing and thrusting in a wide arc around him. One Elf pressed too closely and had his throat torn out; another had his spear deflected and his right arm severed at the elbow. Screams of agony and shouts of fear shook the air and Rathann howled in reply, tasting the copper tang of blood on his tongue.

More horns sounded near the center of the enemy camp, and Rathann caught sight of a large force of High Elves charging towards the barricade. They were led by a resplendent warrior clad in gleaming silver mail and wielding an elegant rune-marked sword. The Black Guard stoked the fires of his rage as the reinforcements rushed closer and renewed his attack with increased fervor. His sweeping cuts severed spear-hafts and split helms, shattered shields and sliced through limbs. He was bleeding from a dozen minor wounds, but each one only managed to increase his ferocity.

Just when the Elven prince was only a few short yards away, Rathan heard the keening wail of druchii war-horns blowing at his back. Howling like fiends, warriors from Sathras’s warband surged over the enemy barricade and fell upon their foes, stabbing with sword and spear. The enemy warriors to either side of Rathann recoiled at the sudden attack. The Black Guard took advantage of the turn of events to behead the enemy warrior in front of him and then charge directly for the oncoming prince.

The enemy leader saw Rathann coming and yelled something to his bodyguard. The warriors gave the Black Guard a wide berth, running past to try and push the Dark Elves back from the barricade. Rathann paid them no mind, for at the same moment the prince was upon him.

He felt the point of his halberd swept aside by the prince’s shield, and it was all he could do to draw the weapon back and block the enemy’s sword-stroke with the halberd’s ebon haft. The Elf’s sword flickered like lightning; no sooner had be blocked the first blow than the sword drew back and struck again, hammering at his breastplate. Snarling, Rathann launched a counterattack at the prince’s head, but the stroke was easily stopped by the enemy’s shield.

Pain erupted at the Black Guard’s waist as the point of the prince’s sword slipped beneath the edge of his breastplate and stabbed through the mail links into his abdomen. Rathann howled in fury, knocking the sword aside with his halberd and then chopping deep into the edge of the enemy’s shield. The shield’s metal rim stopped the blade, but for a moment both it and the halberd were trapped. Rathann heard a muffled curse as the prince tried to chop through the ebon haft with his sword; as he did so, the Black Guard drew another dagger from his belt and hurled it point-blank into the prince’s neck. The needle-point sank through the High Elf’s leather gorget; he staggered, blood erupting from his mouth, while Rathann put his boot against the surface of the prince’s shield and yanked his halberd free. With a bubbling groan, the High Elf tried to raise his sword to block Rathann’s attack, but the Black Guard easily knocked the blade aside and decapitated the mortally-wounded prince.

A wail of shock and despair went up from the High Elves as their prince toppled to the ground, and the Dark Elves fell upon them with renewed ferocity. The enemy force held for a few moments longer, then one by one they turned and fled for the dubious safety of the Mournwood. Within seconds the defenders were in full retreat, pursued by the howling, vengeful druchii. Those High Elves whom they caught were quickly surrounded and captured, destined for the slave masters aboard the black arks.

Rathann paused long enough to wipe the blade of his halberd clean on the prince’s blue surcoat, then he reached down and picked up his foe’s head by its blood-soaked hair. He was hanging the trophy on a barbed hook at his belt when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

He turned to see Lord Sathras clambering over the barricade, his thin face pale with fury. The saw-edged sword he carried trembled in his hands. Beside him, Lady Beltyr leapt lightly over the piled tree trunks and paused for a moment, savoring the carnage. With scarcely a glance at Sathras, she glided over to Rathann and inclined her head appreciatively.

“Well done, kinsman,” she said, a faint note of amusement in her husky voice. “Though you might have waited a moment or two more before putting the enemy to flight; I have yet to offer up a worthy sacrifice to Khaine.”

Rathann shrugged. “That’s not my concern, maiden. If you want blood, it lies ahead of you, on the road to Tor Agral, but you’ll have to run if you want to catch it.”

To his surprise, Beltyr laughed and drew closer to him. “I think I shall stick close to you instead,” she replied softly, tracing a sharp fingernail through the blood spattered across his breastplate. “I have the feeling that you’ll provide me all the entertainment I could ask for. Provided you live to reach the ruins, of course.”

Rathann hefted his halberd. “Let the enemy try. So far they don’t impress me.”

Beltyr glanced down at the corpses scattered around Rathann and sniffed disdainfully. “I’m not concerned about them,” she said. As she spoke, Lord Sathras stalked past, his face a mask of hate. She watched him hurry off after his warriors.

“He’s the one you’ll have to watch,” she said, her full lips parting in a cruel smile. “You’ve accomplished in ten minutes what he couldn’t do in a week. From this point forward he will be looking for the first opportunity to stick a knife in your back.”

CHAPTER 3: Unto the Moment of Death

A Story in the Age of Reckoning by Mike Lee

“Our hated foes seek the Ring of Athan amid the ruins of Tor Agral. Find the relic and return here with it; slay any Elf who stands in your way. So commands the Witch King.”

The parting words of Halghast, captain of the Black Guard at the Fortress of Malice still echoed in Rathann Darkmoon’s head as he loped like a wolf through the blasted landscape of the Mournwood. His lacquered black-and-gold armor was scarred by sword-strokes and spattered with streaks of gore, and a long, bloodstained halberd was held loosely in his gauntleted hands. The warriors of Lord Sathras’ warband raced along in his wake like a flock of black storm-crows, flitting silently among the broken and shriveled trees. The severed heads of High Elves bobbed from the dark iron trophy hooks hanging from their belts.

It was growing darker within the Mournwood; twilight was approaching, if such a thing could be said to exist in the Shadowlands. Stars shone above the jagged treetops, but their cold light could not penetrate the deep gloom of the forest floor. They’d lost sight of their foes some time ago; the last survivors of the High Elf war party they’d defeated earlier in the day had led them a fine chase through the wood before finally escaping to the north-east. Many of the Dark Elves had howled in frustration and thwarted bloodlust, but Rathann only bared his teeth in anticipation. He knew where they were headed, and their footfalls, however light, had still left telltale marks through the layers of ash resting on the forest floor. They would lead him unerringly to Tor Agral and the culmination of his quest.

Beltyr, the Witch Elf, seemed to realize this as well. She kept pace with him easily, graceful and silent as a snow leopard. When he glanced her way she would smile hungrily, her dark eyes glinting with malice. She had forsaken Sathras the moment the battle had been won, a clear sign to the warriors that she had little faith in his ability to spill the blood of their foes.

Sathras himself was nowhere to be seen. No doubt he was somewhere behind Rathann, keeping pace at the rear of the warband and plotting his next move. Sathras had fought the High Elves at the edge of the Mournwood for weeks, wasting time and lives to achieve nothing more than a bloody stalemate. Rathann had smashed through the enemy defenses in a brief, savage battle, humiliating Sathras and usurping the loyalties of his warband in the bargain. It was a mortal insult, one that the highborn had to respond to quickly while there was still a chance of reclaiming his warriors’ loyalty. The question was, when would Sathras make his move, and what form would it take?

Suddenly, Beltyr drew close to the Black Guard. She pointed into the distance. “There! Among the treetops to the north-west!” she hissed. “The ruined tower of Tor Agral!”

Rathann came to a skidding halt, his eyes searching the darkening skyline. At first he couldn’t see what the Witch Elf was pointing at, but then he saw it: a dark, knife-like shape, almost lost among the thicket of blackened tree trunks. It was hard to tell in the fading light, but the citadel looked to be more than a mile away.

“It would appear that the citadel has weathered the centuries better than most,” Beltyr said, her silky voice so low that only Rathann was likely to hear. She was near enough to almost whisper directly in his ear; her breath was cold and sharp, smelling of blood or burnt copper. Gooseflesh prickled down the back of the Black Guard’s neck.

“It’s just a pile of stones,” Rathann grunted, though his hands tightened fractionally on the haft of his weapon.

The Witch Elf’s laugh was low and throaty, with an edge like a dagger drawn across a whetstone. “A pile of stones that belonged to your household for thousands of years,” she said. “Tor Agral was your family’s ancestral domain, Rathann Darkmoon. Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

Rathann looked uneasily about. The rest of the warband had come to a halt as well, and Darl Elf warriors were making their way towards him from every direction. “I don’t care what you know,” he growled. “It makes no difference to me or my mission.”

Beltyr stepped slowly around the Black Guard. The long, sharp fingernails of her left hand traced lightly along the curves of his blood-spattered armor. Her full lips were quirked in a sly grin, but her dark eyes were cold and appraising.

“Our master’s cruelty is boundless, is it not?” she whispered. “Do you imagine it was a coincidence that you were chosen for this quest? The Ring of Athan was your household’s most precious possession in the days before the Sundering, and was the source of much of their power and prestige. Your ancestors spent a great deal of blood and treasure – too much, perhaps – to try and reclaim it.” Beltyr reached up and laid a fingertip lightly against the point of Rathann’s chin. “And now it lies within your grasp.”

Rathann felt a surge of anger. “What are you getting at, witch?”

Beltyr shrugged, but her eyes never left his. “Only that the Ring of Athan is yours by right, as is the citadel. The relic would restore your household’s power and prestige – and a great deal more, besides.” She nodded to the distant tower. “Think of it: Tor Agral returned to its former glory, like a knife pointed at the heart of Ulthuan. Ambitious highborn would flock to your banner. In short order your influence would rival Uthorin’s, or even Lady Arkaneth’s.” Her eyes glittered hungrily. “And that would be just the beginning.”

The Black Guard found his gaze drifting to the stark outline of Tor Agral, and could not help but feel tempted by what the Witch Elf had said. What druchii wouldn’t? It was only with the greatest effort that he banished such thoughts from his mind.

“I’m bound by oath to the Witch King,” Rathann said coldly, “What I want or don’t want is immaterial. Malekith desires the Ring of Athan, and he shall have it.”

The other Dark Elves were nearly within earshot now. Beltyr studied Rathann for a moment more, then took her hand away and nodded slowly. “The Witch King chose wisely when he selected you for the Black Guard,” she said coolly. “Your loyalty burns as brightly as your hate.”

Rathann acknowledged the compliment with a nod of his own, but the conversation left him puzzled. Was this yet another of the Black Guard’s many tests? The thought only served to stoke his anger all the more.

Struggling to keep his face cold and impassive, he turned away from Beltyr and regarded the approaching warriors. He reckoned there were almost fifty of them left, and there was no way of knowing how many Elves awaited them at the tower. As Rathann considered his prospects, he saw Lord Sathras emerge from the shadows at the rear of the warband. The young highborn’s face was haggard with exertion, but his eyes were pools of pure venom as he glared at the Black Guard.

Rathann pointedly ignored the highborn’s murderous stare, instead meeting the eager gaze of the assembled warriors. “The tower lies yonder,” he said simply, gesturing to the north-west with the point of his halberd. “No doubt the cowards we’ve been chasing have reached it by now and raised the alarm. We must strike quickly, before they’ve had time to organize a proper defense of the ruins.”

The warband responded with nods and hissed agreement. One of the warriors closest to Rathann gave a wolfish smile “What is the plan of attack, my lord?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rathann saw Lord Sathras stiffen angrily. For a moment, he wondered if the highborn would challenge him there and then. But either Sathras was an even bigger coward than he suspected, or simply had a more devious scheme in mind, for Lord Uthorin’s son held his tongue.

“Plan? I don’t have a plan,” the Black Guard declared, gripping his weapon in both hands. “I’m going to Tor Agral, and I’m going to kill every single High Elf I find there. You can follow me or not,” he said, turning away and breaking into a trot. “Just don’t get in my way.”

Mirthless laughter echoed through the broken trees as the warband fell in behind him, just as Rathann knew they would.

A mile later, Rathann came upon the vestiges of an old road that ran north-south and seemed to march right up to the foot of the tower. The Black Guard turned onto the road without a moment’s consideration, picking up speed as he ran across the old, weathered stones. His attention was elsewhere, plotting the best way to murder Lord Sathras.

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the highborn would not act until the battle at the ruins was joined, or immediately thereafter. The loyalty of Sathras’ warband – such as it was – extended only as far as Rathann’s ability to sate their lust for bloodshed and plunder. Once Tor Agral was taken, the warriors would realize that they owed much more to Sathras than to the Black Guard, and then they would belong to the highborn once more. He couldn’t be certain which way Beltyr would go at that point; earlier he’d thought that he could count on her for no other reason than her oath to Khaine, but after their recent conversation he didn’t know what to think.

No doubt Sathras would strike in the midst of battle, when Rathann would be most preoccupied and the murder easily covered up by the chaos of close combat. If he were clever, though, he could turn the tables on the highborn just as easily.

A number of possibilities suggested themselves to Rathann as he ran down the old road, and a plan started to take shape. By the time he heard Beltyr’s warning shout the ambush had already been sprung.

White-garbed archers sheathed in gleaming mail rose from cover along the roadway and let fly a furious hail of white-fletched arrows into the warriors’ midst. The volley scythed through the Dark Elf ranks, piercing their light armor with fearsome ease. Warriors toppled to the ground, clutching at the white shafts jutting from their chests.

Rathann had spun at the sound of Beltyr’s cry, and the unexpected motion saved his life. Twoarrows glanced from the curved front of his breastplate, while another struck a barbed flange on his right pauldron and ricocheted away instead of burying itself in his throat. A heartbeat later a fourth arrow struck his mail skirt, punching through the steel rings and the thick robes beneath before burying itself in his right thigh. He roared in pain and anger, and his cries were answered by fierce shouts from the road ahead as a large force of High Elves raced from the forest and charged at the stunned Dark Elves.

He had underestimated his foes, Rathann thought furiously. Instead of cowering amid the ruins of his ancestral home, the sons of Aenarion had chosen to take the battle to their foes and strike at a time and place of their choosing. A quick look behind him told the Black Guard that nearly a third of the warband was dead, and the rest were stunned by the lethality of the attack. Only Beltyr seemed unfazed by the rain of arrows. The Witch Elf drew a pair of wicked-looking fighting knives from her girdle of brass skulls and charged at the archers with a blood-curdling shriek.

With a savage cry of his own, Rathann reached down and tore the arrow free from his leg. He snapped the white shaft with a convulsive clench of his right hand and tossed the broken wood aside. The pain was intense; he let it rage through him like a fire and hurled himself at the onrushing Elves, his halberd whistling through the air in an interweaving pattern of deadly arcs.

The Elves saw Rathann coming and hefted their long spears. When they were less than twenty paces apart the attackers hurled their missiles and then reached for the swords sheathed at their sides. The Black Guard knocked two of the spears aside with a sweep of his halberd; the rest flashed by overhead and fell among the Dark Elf warriors behind him. Rathann heard more screams, which only served to stoke his rage even more.

The Black Guard and his enemies came together in a crash of wood, steel and flesh. With a furious battle cry Rathann splintered an Elf’s shield with a fearsome blow, then followed up with a swift, underhanded blow that sliced the warrior from groin to breastbone. He pulled his weapon free from the foe’s collapsing body, planted his right foot and then ducked, swinging the halberd in a brutal arc just below knee height. The keen blade severed legs and smashed knees like an axe chopping through kindling. The stink of spilled blood hung heavy in the cold air.

A High Elf warrior crashed into Rathann, smashing the Black Guard’s face with the curved surface of his shield. The blow stunned him; Rathann felt blood pour from his nose and mouth, but he didn’t yield a single inch. Instead, he shoved back with the haft of his halberd, catching the High Elf off balance. As the warrior staggered backwards he chopped his sword down at Rathann’s neck, but the Black Guard brought his halberd around and severed the foe’s sword hand at the wrist.

Another sword blow struck Rathann on the left thigh; the keen edge failed to cut through the metal rings, but the impact was enough to spin him half around and send a hot spike of pain lancing up his leg. The High Elves were rushing past him on either side, eager to come to grips with the demoralized warriors farther down the road. The arrows had stopped hissing into their ranks from the right side of the road thanks to Beltyr’s attack, but if the stunned Dark Elves did not recover swiftly the ambush could well break their nerve. A retreat at this juncture would be a fatal mistake.

With a wild yell Rathann recovered his stance and made another wide sweep with his halberd, causing the High Elves near him to pull up short. He advanced on his would-be attackers, slashing and stabbing at every one he could reach. One High Elf tried to lunge at him as he pressed forward, but overextended his guard and had his throat slashed open instead. The rest gave way as the Black Guard moved forward, retreating down the road a step at a time to stay out of reach of the lethal pole arm. The sudden change in direction spoiled the charge of the High Elves in the rear ranks, causing them to momentarily pile up on the road. Rathann knew he could not hold all of them off for very long, but every second that passed gave his warband time to recover and fight back against their hated foes.

Rathann hacked and slashed at the shields raised before him, chopping through steel rims and sending splinters flying with each blow. Each stroke was stronger and more deadly than the one before, fueled as they were by his mounting hate. The High Elves tried to parry his blows or launch attacks of their own, but the halberd gave him the advantage of a longer reach and greater power, which momentarily confounded the enemy warriors. Behind him, he heard a savage druchii war cry, then another, followed by the clash of swords as the warband began to rally. Another few seconds, and the tide might begin to turn.

With a wild yell one of the High Elves leapt forward, catching Rathann’s halberd against his shield and aiming a vicious cut at the Black Guard’s left knee. He blocked the attack with the butt of his pole arm just in time, but found himself driven back a step by the sudden assault. A second High Elf saw his opening and rushed in as well; his sword stroke rang off Rathann’s right pauldon and struck a glancing blow off his wrist that left his whole right hand numb. Snarling, he thrust at the second attacker, driving the point of his halberd under the High Elf’s chin and spearing him through the throat. Yet no sooner had he fallen than a third warrior took his place, stabbing furiously at Rathann’s midsection.

Roaring in anger, the Black Guard leapt backwards. The High Elves let up a triumphant shout, but the move was intended merely to give Rathann enough room to swing his halberd in a fierce, decapitating swing. Two High Elven heads leapt from their shoulders in a fountain of blood, while a third was dashed to the ground with half his helm crushed in. The press of attackers reeled back once more, shocked by the ferocity of Rathann’s counterattack – and then Beltyr came shrieking out of the woods on their left flank, her eyes wild and her muscular figure gleaming with fresh blood. She stabbed a surprised High Elf through the left eye with one of her poisoned blades, sending him writhing and screaming to the ground, and the rest of the ambushers turned and fled down the ancient road.

Rathann howled like one of the damned and set off after the fleeing High Elves with Beltyr and the rest of the Dark Elves right on his heels. The Witch Elf raced past him, her dripping blades held high and the name of Khaine on her lips, and caught up with the closest High Elf. Screaming in savage joy, she plunged her blades into the fleeing warrior’s back. The foe collapsed with a shriek. As Rathann caught up with Beltyr she was still stabbing the fallen High Elf, lost in a frenzy of slaughter.

The High Elves fled straight down the road, towards the ruined citadel. Rathann forced himself onward, oblivious to the searing pain in his leg. The tall tower loomed up from the trees ahead, silhouetted in a flash of distant lightning.

The enemy left the road abruptly, cutting right through the charred wood. Within moments the Black Guard found himself racing past worn, tumbled stones that might once have been part of the citadel’s wall. Then up ahead Rathann saw the retreating warriors pull up short beside an enormous ruin of collapsed stone and broken statues. In the center was a tall, pointed archway, still intact amid the surrounding destruction. There, in the shadow of the tower’s former gateway the High Elves made a final stand.

Rathann saw the High Elves form ranks before a tall, commanding figure clad in gleaming silver armor. A silver helm decorated with upswept eagle’s wings rested upon his noble brow; an elegant, rune-etched blade was clenched in his gauntleted fist, and a silver-edged shield marked with a rearing dragon was held close to his chest. The High Elven prince was a mighty figure, a fierce, defiant hero, but none of that mattered to the Black Guard.

What mattered to him was the thin, gold chain about the prince’s neck, and the glinting ring that hung from it.

The prince was surrounded by a retinue of archers, all of whom drew back their bowstrings at a command from their leader. Rathann let out a wild yell and broke into a full run, closing the distance as fast as he could.

His rage propelled him forward into a storm of hissing arrows. One hit his breastplate, just above the heart, and snapped in two; another flashed past his head close enough to tear a furrow along his left ear – then the third punched into his left pauldron, piercing the steel plate and driving deep into his shoulder. Rathann staggered for half a step, roaring at the sudden flash of pain, but he gritted his teeth and continued his charge. His vision narrowed to a red tunnel, centered on the prince and the relic about his neck. Seconds later he reached the wall of High Elven shields and struck them like a thunderbolt.

Halberd raised high, Rathann took a single step and leapt at the wide-eyed warriors. His boot struck the top edge of the shield held by the High Elf in front of him and drove it backwards against the warrior’s chest. His weapon flashed down, chopping through the helm of the High Elf to the Black Guard’s right, then a swift return stroke smashed the butt of the halberd into the face of the warrior in front of him. Blood spurted from the High Elf’s broken nose; he staggered backwards with a choked curse that turned into a scream as Rathann’s halberd bit deep into his neck.

The Black Guard jerked the weapon free in a welter of blood and kicked the dying High Elf onto his back. A sword slashed at him from the left, hammering his pauldron hard enough to snap the shaft of the arrow still embedded there. For a moment the world disappeared in a blaze of white-hot pain, but his anger still sustained him, keeping him from slipping into unconsciousness. He lurched forward, away from the sword-blow and towards the Elven prince, while behind him the pursuing Dark Elves fell upon the enemy with shrieks of pure bloodlust.

Growling like a wounded animal, Rathann forced his vision to clear just as he reached his foe. High Elf archers retreated in every direction, dropping their bows and reaching for the short swords at their belts, but the prince merely raised his shield and prepared to receive the Black Guard’s charge. Snarling, Rathann swung the halberd in a devastating overhand cut, but the prince’s sword flashed in a quicksilver blur, sweeping the blade of the weapon aside and lashing out in a blow that nearly took off the top of the Dark Elf’s head. Heedless of the narrow escape, Rathann pressed his attack, feinting at the prince’s sword wrist with the butt of his weapon and then slashing at his foe’s face. But the prince’s shield was light as a serpent’s scale, effortlessly stopping the halberd’s crushing blow.

The High Elf prince’s darting blade flashed once again, ringing against Rathann’s breastplate and then sweeping low to carve through the Dark Elf’s mail skirt. The enchanted blade tore through the steel rings like rotted cloth, but managed only a shallow cut just above the Black Guard’s knee. Rathann took a quick step back and brought his halberd down in a devastating overhand blow, but once again his enemy’s shield turned aside the blow with ease. Rathann saw the counter-blow at nearly the last moment; he hurled himself backwards just in time, causing the enchanted blade to smash into the front of his helmet instead of taking off the top of his head. The magical steel carved through the metal and wood with ease, destroying the helm and cutting across his forehead down to the bone. Hot blood poured down onto Rathann’s face, blinding his left eye. Shaking his head fiercely, the Black Guard thrust at the prince’s face, but once again, the rim of his magical shield turned the weapon aside. This time, however, Rathann noticed something: the enemy hero was swift and skilled, but when he blocked any attacks directed at his head he let the edge of his shield rise past his eyes. For that fleeting instant, the prince couldn’t see him.

The ring around the prince’s neck called to him; the ancient relic of his house taunted him, fanning the fires of his rage. With a shout, he lunged forward, leaving his neck exposed. The prince took the bait, and very nearly killed him; Rathann got the haft of his weapon in the way just barely in time before the sword sliced off his head. He lunged, driving the point of the halberd at the prince’s eyes, but once again the rim of the shield rose like an impenetrable wall and knocked the blade skywards. At that instant, with the prince blinded by his own shield, Rathann swept his halberd down in a curving arc and severed the High Elf’s left foot.

The prince toppled with a scream, blood pumping from the terrible wound. He landed on his shield, and Rathann swept forward, stabbing downward and transfixing the High Elf’s throat. The Black Guard pressed his full weight against the weapon’s haft, forcing the prince’s body backwards until the point of the halberd bit into the ashen ground and pinned the dying warrior in place. Rathann leaned against the weapon, gasping for breath, until the prince’s body went limp.

He was dimly aware that the fighting around him had dwindled, but he paid it little heed. Blinking blood from his eyes, Rathann bent slowly and reached for the chain about the dead High Elf prince’s neck. It came free with a single, sharp tug, and the druchii straightened, raising the Ring of Athan to his eyes. The relic was an intricately engraved silver band, etched with strange, flowing runes that confounded the eye. He could feel the ring’s power through his gauntlet like a chip of glacial ice, and at that moment Beltyr’s seductive whispers made terrible, dreadful sense. He was still staring at the ring’s gleaming surface when he heard the Witch Elf’s voice in his ear.

“Guard your back, Rathann! Sathras is here!”

Suddenly alert, the Black Guard whirled to find the highborn and a pair of wounded Dark Elves approaching. Beltyr, her white hair stained with red and her face covered in gore, stood close by his side, her knives held ready. The ground leading back to the archway was carpeted in bodies. No quarter had been asked and none given; the High Elves had been wiped out, and nearly all of the Dark Elf warband as well.

Rathann gave the highborn a wolfish smile. Sathras had miscalculated. And then the Witch Elf’s poisoned knives sank into his back.

There was no pain – just an icy flood that poured into his body and stole away his strength. Grunting in shock, Rathann gripped his halberd and tore the weapon free from the prince’s corpse, but his legs buckled beneath him. He sank to his knees, the halberd nearly twisting from his grasp.

Beltyr pulled her blades from Rathann’s back and walked up beside him. A slender hand reached down and plucked the ring from his grasp. The Witch Elf walked over to Sathras with her prize. She glanced back over her shoulder at him, favoring the Black Guard with a cruel smile. “A pity you would not listen,” she said with a high, maddened laugh. “Oh, the things you and I might have accomplished! The elders of Khaine’s temple have foreseen it: the Ring of Athan will plunge the Shadowlands into a storm of blood and fire, all to the glory of our god! But Malekith would hide the ring away in the fastness of Naggarond, and that cannot be allowed.”

The coldness was rising through Rathann’s body, reaching for his heart. His legs and lower body felt like lead, and his arms were growing weak. He fought back against it with all his will, summoning up all the hatred he could muster. He could not fail like this! He would not! He had given his oath to the Witch King, and he would not be denied!

Beltyr handed the ring to Lord Sathras, who accepted it with an expression of naked avarice. He failed to see the Witch Elf’s disdainful look as she stepped past him. “You had your chance, Rathann,” she said with a sigh. “If you will not take advantage of the ring’s power, Lord Sathras most assuredly will. It’s a pity you won’t be around to witness all the wondrous and terrible things that the future holds for our people.”

Sathras tucked the ring into a pouch at his side and drew a long, saw-toothed dagger from his belt. “Don’t listen to her,” he hissed. “I want you to linger for as long as you can, Rathann. I want what’s about to happen to last for a very, very long time.”

The sight of the ring passing into the callow highborn’s hand was too much to endure. Rathann closed his eyes and felt the rage burning in his chest. Slowly, deliberately, he forced his right arm to move, and the halberd straightened.

Sathras paused, his expression faltering. “I thought you said he’d be paralyzed!” he snapped.

Beltyr gave the highborn a look of pure contempt. “He has enough poison in him to incapacitate three druchii, much less one.”

Sathras turned pale. “Then why is he moving?”

Using his halberd for support, Rathann drew himself to his feet. His blood was boiling, sending waves of agony rippling through his body – but the Witch Elf’s venom was burning away as well. With every passing moment he felt his strength returning – and Sathras could see it as well. The highborn turned to his two surviving warriors.

“Kill him!” he cried, and the two warriors rushed forwards, drawing their blades.

Rathann let them approach, biding his time and summoning up his hate. At the last moment, just as they committed themselves to the attack, he brought up his halberd in a blurring, underhand arc. One of the Dark Elves doubled over with a scream, clutching at his spilled entrails. The second came to an abrupt halt, his courage having fled, but before he could retreat the Black Guard spun and drove the point of his halberd into the warrior’s chest. He pulled the blade free of the dying Dark Elf in one swift motion and advanced on the wide-eyed Sathras.

“Stay away from me, you damned fiend!” the highborn cried, fumbling for the sword at his hip. “I’m the son of Lord Uthorin! If you strike me down, your life is forfeit!”

Sathras had managed to draw his sword half-way out of its sheath when Rathann’s halberd chopped down, biting into the juncture of the highborn’s neck and collarbone. The heavy blade sheared through the bones of his ribcage and buried itself in the noble’s heart.

“You forget, I’m a servant of the Witch King,” Rathann said through clenched teeth. “I have no life to give. And I am but following the orders of my master, whose word is law. He told me to find the Ring of Athan and slay any Elf that stood in my way, and this I have done.”

He sank down beside the highborn’s corpse, realizing after a moment that Beltyr had disappeared into the darkness. No doubt she would seek her revenge against him, but that would be a battle for another time.

The Black Guard reached down and pulled the relic free. Once more he held it up to his eyes, then stood and glanced up and the dark ruins that surrounded him. He looked upon the ancestral seat of his household and was surprised to find that now he felt nothing at all.

What need had he of wealth or power? He had his hate, and that was enough.

Disclaimer: I did not create or nor do I own the rights to the story written here. It was originally created for the now-defunct MMORPG “Warhammer Online: Age of Reckoning” and I am merely presenting it here as an alternative to having to access the also defunct “Warhammer Online: Age of Reckoning” website through sites such as the Internet Archive in order to read the story. All rights belong to their original respective owners.