Chapter 29
The shaman's bear form completely faded. On the ground near the dead Chaos Dwarf lay a woman of about thirty. A long grey streak could be seen in her tangled chestnut hair. Her clothing was a mixture of animal hides and coarse cloth, richly decorated with predator fangs.
However, I had no time to examine the sorceress. My right wrist was throbbing hellishly. The Dwarf was dead, but his armored fingers still clung to me with a grip of steel. I had to quickly free myself from the dead man's handshake and absorb the frenzy to heal my wounds.
At the same time, I was very worried about Liandra. The Dawi-Zharr had hit her in the abdomen or perhaps the solar plexus area. I sincerely hoped the warrior would make it to the camp, where she could receive qualified assistance. The Elf had saved me several times. Even setting emotions aside, she could become a reliable ally on my difficult path, and I did not want to lose her.
I tried to pry the Dwarf's fingers open with my own. Useless. It was like trying to bend back metal bars. I then used my free left hand to pull the bloody dagger out of the Dawi-Zharr's eye socket, attempting to use it to hook or cut the stubborn dead man's fingers. That also proved difficult. The Dawi-Zharr wore plate gauntlets, the joints of which were reinforced with some very dense leather.
The smell of smoke hit my nose. It seemed the houses had caught fire from the fire projectiles the Dawi-Zharr had used against the Huntsmen.
I yanked my right hand out of the Dwarf's grip. The broken bones immediately advised me not to do that again.
— Must find her... — the Shaman muttered, her gaze wandering aimlessly. — Cub. Must find...
— Frau Martha! — a loud male voice rang out nearby.
The surviving locals were hurrying toward us. This was very opportune.
— Help me and her! — I called out, or rather demanded, pointing to Liandra, and then added. — And somebody look for the wounded Huntsmen! They might have survived.
A short, pockmarked man and a plump woman came to my aid.
"Hurry, warmblood," advised Loom-Pia. "The bloody chalice will start to empty soon. You need to free your hand before healing so the bones set correctly."
With the help of the locals, Sigmar, and a lot of swearing, I managed to free my hand. As soon as I absorbed the frenzy, I felt the pain subside. I immediately looked toward Liandra. The Elf was extremely pale but conscious. Two frightened women were trying to give her first aid, pressing on the wound in the left side of her abdomen. It was noticeable that the pointy-ear was breathing shallowly and rapidly.
I rushed over to the Shaman, whom the locals had helped to her feet. Three men supported her, preventing the sorceress from collapsing.
— Do you know how to heal wounds? My friend needs help!
— Cub. Must find... — the Shaman repeated, seemingly disoriented.
She was also pale, and blood was visible at the corners of her eyes. A red trickle also ran from her nose. We had all taken a serious beating in this fight.
— Cub... — the Shaman pointed toward the Temple of Sigmar, which the Dawi-Zharr had exited. — Save the cub...
Who was she so worried about? Her pet?
— Fine, — I said with irritation. — I will look for your cub now, but you must heal my friend.
I hurried into the temple, first picking up one of the Hobgoblin sabres. The cursed Dwarf had literally gnawed my faithful blade. The tip was bitten off, and freshly melted metal had solidified in uneven drops around the break.
The unfamiliar sabre felt uncomfortable, even foreign, in my hand. Clenching the hilt tighter, I stepped into the gloom of the desecrated temple. It smelled of blood, burning, and iron. Rows of benches where worshippers once sat had been chopped up for firewood, piled in a corner with numerous sharp splinters sticking out. The Altar of Sigmar was split. Its fragments had been arranged into a semblance of a huge forge, inside which coals pulsed with a crimson glow. On the wall behind this structure, the outline of a bull's head was drawn in blood. It seemed the Dawi-Zharr intended to make a sacrifice to his dark deity. If I recalled correctly, the Chaos Dwarfs worship Hashut, not the Great Four. A bull-headed God who embodies progress without compassion, greedy consumption, and endless avarice.
Next to the forge, I found the intended victims for the slaughter. Three strongly bound, terrified teenagers and a young woman slightly older than them, who was in a trance-like state. She was sitting, leaning against the wall. Her hands were tied behind her back, her eyes rolled up so that her pupils were barely visible. A sickly flush, like a fever, was on her tanned cheeks.
The girl's clothing was different from what the locals wore. Coarse cloth, animal hides, and many amulets. A copper circlet, adorned with large drops of amber, fastened her light brown hair. The cub? So she wasn't talking about an animal. This was the Shaman's daughter or her apprentice.
— Everything is fine, — I addressed the teenagers, who were desperately mooing through their gags. — The evil dwarf is dead. Your parents will come soon, and I am here for her.
Dropping the unused sabre on the floor, I lifted the girl into my arms. The bones in my right wrist had set, but they still ached unpleasantly under strain. The girl trembled slightly in my arms. I didn't know what the Dawi-Zharr had drugged her with or what spells he had used. It looked like he intended to ritually kill her in some tricky way. Perhaps, for sacrificing a magically gifted human, Hashut would have given him bonus villainy points and sent a coupon for cool new horns.
I carried the girl out of the desecrated temple. The senior Shaman, barely standing, reached for her. The woman's face and even her neck were covered in blood by this point. It flowed from her eyes, nose, and ears, even seeming to seep through her skin.
I feared that Olger Hawk's quest to deliver the letter to the Shaman would soon be automatically cancelled due to the addressee's absence in the world of the living.
The Amber Wizard, with trembling hands, took a small flask adorned with a pattern of complex symbols from her belt. The Shaman approached the apprentice, whom I held in my arms, and poured a few drops of the potion into the girl's slightly open mouth, muttering something at the same time. Damn. I better not interfere. I might block the Shaman's magic with my presence.
I quickly laid the girl on the ground. The Shaman bent over her. Drops of blood from the woman's face fell onto the forehead and cheeks of her protégé.
— Helena… — she whispered tenderly. — Hel. My lost cub. Wake up. You must wake up.
The girl shuddered, and her eyes slowly cleared. Her green eyes looked first at the sky, then at me, and then turned to the Shaman's terrible, bleeding face.
— M-mistress… — the girl stammered.
Her eyes widened in horror and filled with tears. She quickly started to rise, saying:
— I will help you now! Don't say anything! Save your strength, please.
The girl raised her hands above her mistress, beginning to whisper something. Golden sparks danced between her fingers. However, the Shaman smiled gruesomely, pulled away with a jerky movement of her hand, and said:
— It is too late, Hel. I have borrowed too much from nature. Now Ghur will demand payment from me. I have already died several times in the form of the bear. My human life cannot be saved. Help the others. Live, my cub. One day you will be better than me. I know. I have seen it…
The Shaman coughed up blood, gasped, and began to choke. Her face was covered with a black network of distended veins. Liver spots appeared on her skin, as if the woman had been dead for a very long time.
The crying apprentice tried to do something more. She created and wove figures from the golden sparks.
"Stop her," the Slaan commanded me. "The mistress's life cannot be saved. She drew more power from the Winds than this human vessel can withstand. By pouring magic into the dying shell, the young one may perish herself or turn the mistress's body into a mindless monster, vulnerable to the influence of the Ruinous Powers."
Understood. I just needed to prevent the weeping girl from trying to save her mistress. Oh, I had a feeling this wouldn't be easy.
I approached the girl, took her by the wrist, and said:
— She cannot be helped anymore. Save those who can survive. That is what your teacher wanted.
At my touch, the golden sparks between the girl's fingers extinguished. The Shaman's apprentice reacted to my intervention with furious anger.
— Get away! — she exclaimed, pulling her hand out of mine. — I will save her and only then the others!
Tears streamed down the girl's face. How old was she? 18, 17?
"A foolish creature," Loom-Pia judged.
"I fully agree, but we need her help now."
A crowd of surviving peasants gathered around us. Men, women, crying children. Everyone watched the unfolding drama intently.
I grabbed the girl by the shoulders and turned her to face me:
— Helena, right? Hel, you must help us. My friend is wounded. She might die if you don't use magic. We came here with your teacher. We came to save you.
— I didn't ask for help! Let go! — the young sorceress continued to act hysterically.
Well then... It was time to bullshit again, Master Gilliman.
— You didn't ask, — I agreed, and then pointed to the dead body of the Shaman. — She asked. She convinced us to go and save you. I am an envoy of Margrave Olger Hawk. I was supposed to find the sorceress of the Amber Order and enlist her in the provincial army. But your mistress said we must help you first. That you are very talented. She promised you would help us. So help! Many of my comrades have already died saving you. Do you hear me! Don't let the wounded die.
I was lying, but I was lying logically and very much to the point. I expected her to believe me. However, I underestimated the depth of the young prodigy's hysteria.
— An envoy of the Margrave!? — she asked again, trying to break free. — Some boy!? Let go of me! If my mistress dies because of you, I will rip out your throat!
And this was the person we saved at the cost of human casualties? I didn't care about the girl, but I had to force her to help Liandra.
— I am the captain of a detachment in the Margrave's service! — I tried to make my voice as harsh as possible, imitating Max's commanding tone. — Touch me, and I will break your arm. Now, heal those who shed blood for you. Quickly!
I dragged her toward Liandra, and the girl tried to fight back. I had much more strength. All those times absorbing frenzy were not in vain. However, the little one was completely unhinged. She bit my palm and tried to scratch my face. Amazing. It was much easier to negotiate with the Skaven Seer, and he was a giant Chaosite rat high on magical drugs.
Despite her resistance, I dragged the girl, who was thrashing in convulsions, to Liandra, who was lying with her eyes slightly closed.
— Let go! Let me go, you fool! I will not obey you!
Releasing Hel, I pointed at Liandra. The girl looked at me with eyes full of tears and burning with rage. She wanted to say something else, but the surrounding peasants intervened in the row:
— Help her, Madam Helena, — the plump woman pleaded. — She fought for us and our children.
— Heal her, — other people supported.
A respectable-looking old man in torn, but once expensive, clothes knelt before the capricious sorceress.
— By Taal and Rhya, I beg you, madam. Do not deny help to the wounded.
Such a barrage of pleas finally made the girl stop her hysteria. She sniffled a couple more times and, calming her sobs, bent over Liandra. Finally!
I moved away so as not to interfere with the spellcasting. Golden sparks enveloped the Elf's body. They fluttered like tiny fireflies, gathering in large numbers around the injury site.
Liandra slowly opened her eyes. Her breathing evened out. Phew, I hoped we were in the clear.
Meanwhile, the locals dragged two wounded Huntsmen to the young Shaman. A third, almost unharmed, walked over himself. He shook his head, looking at the disaster unfolding around us. Part of the town was already engulfed in flames. Black smoke rose to the sky, mixing with the haze from the fires in the fields near the settlement.
The surviving Huntsman sighed, took the bizarre pipe from the dead Hobgoblin leader's belt, and began filling it with his own tobacco.
While the Shaman tended to the wounded, I approached the corpse of the Dawi-Zharr. The Chaosite's blood had already clotted and dried. His mouth was open, revealing sharp teeth. The dead Dwarf resembled a gruesome statue. I knelt down, searching for valuable items. I wanted to get some compensation from the monster that had frayed my nerves so much.
The massive battle axe could hardly be used by a human or an Elf. But perhaps an Ogre... I could take this thing for Magg.
Next, my gaze fell on the pistol and the enchanted dagger.
"What do you say, Loom-Pia? Can we use enchanted items?"
"Take it, warmblood."
I picked up the curved, heavy knife, covered in runic script. Heat radiated from the blade. Could I put it in a bag or pocket? I absolutely did not want to wear it on my belt. I was afraid Witch Hunters wouldn't appreciate my new acquisition.
"Take it," the Slaan commanded. "We will study this thing later."
I took the knife, the pistol, and what the Dawi-Zharr had on his belt, including a heavy purse. I tried to do it all as quickly as possible. Then, picking up another Hobgoblin sabre, I started hacking at the formidable Dwarf's head. I wanted to bring it back to the camp, partly as proof of my exploit, and partly so that Olger Hawk could assess the level of the threat.
The process was difficult. The Dwarf's flesh was indeed noticeably tougher than ordinary meat. I didn't know if this was a characteristic of their entire race or a unique gift of Chaos granted to this sorcerer. However, as the saying goes, patience and effort will overcome everything. Or chop everything down, in my case.
Eventually, I wrapped the magical knife in cloth. If it started to smoulder, I would devise some other way to carry it with me.
After finishing my collection of trophies, I approached the old man who was the most richly dressed.
— Are you the leader of this settlement? — I asked.
— Rather, of these ruins, young man, — the elderly man replied bitterly.
The fire in the town was gaining momentum, spreading from house to house.
— A settlement is first and foremost its people. If you save them, you can rebuild the rest.
— It sounds plausible. Are you... a nobleman?
— A mercenary. You need to leave here. This is only a small detachment of a huge horde. This one... — I pointed to the Dwarf's corpse. — Was a sorcerer.
— We noticed, young man.
— I mean that he was an important figure. They will seek revenge for him.
Dwarfs are generally a resentful people. It was unlikely their dark version was any less vindictive. This sorcerer, probably not the strongest, must have had a patron.
— Frau Helena, — the old man turned to the young Shaman, who was finishing the Huntsmen's treatment. — Will you help us pass through the forest?
The girl looked at him with eyes red from tears and nodded silently.
— Good. Take all the necessities, plus I need a couple of people to carry this axe and a few Hobgoblin corpses.
None of the villagers disputed my authority. They quickly began preparing for evacuation.
I approached Liandra, offering her my hand.
— How are you?
— Better, — she replied calmly, rising with the support of my palm.
Her hand was cold and slightly damp. Weakness from blood loss. However, the pointy-ear was already walking quite briskly and didn't complain about anything.
Soon, a mournful procession of refugees, carrying their few belongings, emerged from the burning town. The wounded walked, leaning on the shoulders of the healthy. The most severely injured were carried on primitive stretchers made of cloth.
Over these months, recurring themes were practically emerging in my life: freeing a village from greenskins, traveling with a detachment of ragamuffins, a battle against a sorcerer. However, this time, the familiar pattern had a new element—an extremely unpleasant sorceress. Usually, those rescued express some degree of gratitude or at least perceive me as a useful asset, like Adora did. Hel, on the other hand… Well.
Before we entered the forest, I handed her the letter from the Margrave that I was supposed to deliver to her teacher. The girl scorched me with a look full of savage malice and almost hissed:
— Don't come near me... Never touch me again.
— I'd be delighted, — I replied. — I'll even try to look in your direction as rarely as possible.
I sincerely hoped this hysterical girl wouldn't cause problems in the future. Not the most pleasant girl, but it was good that we managed to save her. I didn't bring back a full Shaman, but at least I acquired an apprentice for the Margrave's army.
— Don't hold it against her, young man.
The town leader himself interrupted my thoughts.
— I don't. She just caused problems.
— She saved us when the enemies came. She came out of the forest and attacked them. If not for the sorcerer, she would have managed to protect the village.
So that's how it was. The young sorceress, yielding to emotion, risked her life to save the common folk. Noble. However, this forced her mistress to sacrifice herself. And if it hadn't been for us, her sacrifice would have been in vain.
"Do not worry, warmblood. You are performing acceptably," the spectral Hypno-Toad unexpectedly praised me. "The servant of the Ruinous Powers you struck down had only just begun his path of mastering the Winds. In a few years, he would have been far more dangerous. His developmental potential was great."
So that's how it was. Then perhaps it was all worth it. Another flutter of a butterfly's wing that could potentially change the fate of this unfortunate world.