He sincerely hoped the Slayers were in a better way. Right now he desperately wished he had gone off with the Kislevites. Now was not the time to be caught in the Sylvanian woods by a sudden blizzard. They needed to find shelter soon, or they were doomed.

 

CHAPTER TWO



“I want to kill Gotrek Gurnisson myself,” said Grume of Night Fang. He loomed out of the shadows like a small mountain of metal and armour. The intricate net of potent enchantments on his armour was almost dazzling to Kelmain’s mage sight. The warlord had been like a man demented ever since the defeated scouts had returned out of the blizzard, bearing word of the dwarf’s presence. Kelmain wished he had never mentioned it now, but he had been at Praag and knew from the descriptions of their adversaries that only Gotrek Gurnisson and his associates matched the scouts’ descriptions.
“Why?” asked the Chaos wizard, just to be contrary. Kelmain looked around the stone walls of the ancient antechamber, trying to gather his patience. The runes fascinated him and so did those bizarre carvings, but the smell was so distracting. He c o v e r e d his mouth and his nose with one clawed hand. Grume stank of sweat and the old blood and congealed brains that covered his armour. Normally Kelmain did not consider himself fastidious, it was not something anyone in his line of work could afford to be, but this was the limit.
“Because his axe killed Arek Daemonclaw and I want it for my own. Such a weapon would be worthy of me. All considered Arek’s armour unbreachable,” Grume’s deep voice bellowed.
Outside, the wind and snow whirled past, deflected by the spells Kelmain had woven around them.
Kelmain gazed into the hovering crystal and saw his identical twin, Lhoigor, reflected within. He might as well have been standing in the room, not a thousand leagues away within that dreary temple on the island of Albion. Tall, thin, vulpine of features, pale of skin. The difference was that Lhoigor was clad in gold instead of black, and had a runestaff of gold as opposed to his own staff of ebony and silver. Lhoigor flapped a hand beneath his nose and then raised a hand to his mouth. Kelmain knew what he meant. Why, of all the Chaos warlords gathered, did it have to be Grume who accompanied him on this reconnaissance, he wondered? Why could it not be Kestranor the Castrator? At least the musky scent of the Slaanesh worshipper was pleasant. Even Tchulaz Khan, the festering follower of Nurgle, was almost preferable to this. It was a pity he had drawn the short straw and been forced to accompany this scouting mission. He would even have preferred the miserable wet weather of that pestilential island to this. Still, he told himself, someone had to do it. Their acolytes were all busy shepherding forces through the paths, and if truth be told, the idea of using the ancient web of extra-dimensional roadways had excited him.
“That is a very dangerous weapon,” said Kelmain, and immediately wished he had not opened his mouth. The stench almost made him gag. Perhaps there was something sorcerous to it. He was not normally so squeamish. Or perhaps it had something to do with that hideous weapon the Khorne worshipper carried.