Hadrilkar - Warhammer Fantasy Fan-Fiction - Part 2

He leaned against a wall, as the memory  washed over him like cool, tingling waves. Till now, it was the most wonderful memory of his whole life, and he didn’t allow himself to savour it often, to not let its intensity fade with use.

Makareth’ regiment was not at all successful – indeed, the Captain, who was Makareth’ grandfather, was slain, and his cousins and uncles and whoever else they were took their feet in their hands and ran. It was understandable, too – grandfather’s head was bit off by a freaking nauglir. And fighting against a nauglir close range, if you are on foot, is a really bad idea. Makareth didn’t flee. He had tried to hit the guy who was sitting on the reptile with his spear, but the movement of those in front of him simply dragged him along and toppled him over.

Everything went black for a moment, and when he woke up, he saw the clawed, colossal paw of the Cold One digging into the bloody mud next to him and heard a sound of the beast’s jaws crushing bones that he feared, for a moment, could be his own. The helmet had rolled from his head when he fell, and the sound and the smell of the battlefield, metal and leather and sweat and torn intestine, eerie shrieking of the Battle Witches, roaring war cries of the commanders, dying screams of everybody, was at once much closer, louder, more intense. He realized that he was still whole, his legs and arms feeling strangely full of vigour. His spear was lying just three or four steps away. He curled himself into a ball, pushed his feet into the dirt, shot like a spring from under the nauglir’s belly and grabbed the weapon. A strange, pleasant shiver went through his body, a sensual feeling, like he was alive for the first time, newborn, and with a triumphant laugh he plunged the metal blade of his spear into the first of the many warriors from Naggor that were surrounding him now.

He would have died, and that was what he had thought at that moment, and what he had wanted. A life in the commoner quarters of Hag Graef, closer to the foundries, poisoned by their waste, was not something he had dreamed about. Being killed in a faceless regiment of relatives whom he hated, because even they looked down on him and his father was not an option, neither. But going berserk alone in a sea of enemies, slaying his way through them, and finally dying from an expecially deadly hit that he couldn’t dodge… That was what he considered an appropriate death.

Killing and dodging, that was what he was really, really good in.

He punched the spear into the abdomen of the crossbow-wielding dark elf in front of him, pushing him onto the men behind him, let go of the spear and drew his sword. A bolt flew past his left ear, but he didn’t hesitate. With a launch forward, he brought his sword down on the arms holding the repeater crossbow that had just shot that bolt. The opponent was quick. He jumped back, let the crossbow fall, reaching for his own sword, but Makareth was already closer, his sword flying back up and slicing into the neck of the unlucky marksman. A blood shower painted his shoulder red as he used the dying elf as a shield against the next rain of bolts and then tossed him aside. The captain of the crossbow regiment attacked him from the side. Makareth parried the blow with the sword, metal against metal singing a cacophony, forcing the captain to change his position to keep the stable stance and with this move the shield aside enough to reveal a view of chainmail and embroidered khaitan, and kicked the enemy in the stomach, sending him to the floor.

He had cut himself through about five or six opponents when suddenly they retreated, an empty circle around him, panic on their faces. He turned around, drunkenly, his blood singing a song of self-praise in his temples, and looked into the sharp-fanged, ugly snout of the Cold One that was, just moments ago, munching on his grandfather.

But the nauglir stood still. Probably already full with meat from the battlefield, it obeyed its rider, and just moved its huge head up and down, threatening the opponent in its animal body language, breathing foul air in Makareth’ face.

He had looked up and saw into the face of the Cold One Knight, an enemy, and something happened. He never understood if he was too surprised by the other’s behavior to react or if it was some spell he was under, but at that moment the stench of the battlefield was replaced by an indescribable scent that somehow reminded him of his only visit to the Flesh Houses with his older Cousin, and yet was different. The noises had subsided, and his sight was suddenly narrowed, the Knight being the only thing he could still see, nauseating heat rising in the back of his head. His sword trembled in his hand.

The enemy Knight – no, an enemy Champion, Makareth understood, this was no usual warrior! - looked at him. A pale face, high cheekbones and thin, dark lips, skin already covered in deep creases of age but stretched around the skull like that of a dried corpse, with burning green eyes and a smile full of teeth filed to sharp points - the Naggorite was both repulsive and strangely beautiful, in a way a shark, a wolf or a sea dragon could be beautiful. His armor was covered with blood, but under the red mist, there was purple and black lacquered metal, full of spikes and adorned with golden ornaments, and it reflected the deadly dance of the warriors all around, shadows and lights moving along the surface in a hypnotizing flicker. The enemy wore no helmet, and his long hair, black and greying strands, was held together by a golden comb that had the form of a thin, horizontal, crescent moon, and the same pattern was crowning the hilt of the long sword in the Naggorite lord’s hand. Around the blade, which seemed to radiate heat, the air was scintillating with fiery sparks, and the blood of those the Champion killed rose from the hot metal as red vapour.

This sword didn’t move to chop off the head of the young Druchii standing in front of the Knight’s mount. Instead, the Knight bellowed something that sounded completely gibberish to the stunned Makareth, to the regiment, and the Naggorites left, retreated, fled, even. The nauglir jumped forwards, so that the young dark elf had to throw himself into the dirt once more to survive, and then the enemy Champion was gone, and the spell was broken.