Gascoigne Marc - The Cold Hand of Betrayal

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons

and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the

world's ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury

it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds

and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the

largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for

its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is

a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests

and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns

the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the

founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder

of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length

and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces

of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come

rumblings of war. In the towering World's Edge Mountains,

the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and

renegades harry the wild southern lands of

the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the

skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the

land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the

ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen

corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

As the time of battle draws ever

near, the Empire needs heroes

like never before.

Contents

Kinstrife by Graham McNeill

Small Mercy by Richard Ford

Perfect Assassin by Nick Kyme

Sickhouse by CL Werner

In the Service of Sigmar by Adam Troke

Blood and Sand by Matt Ralphs

Son of the Empire by Robert Allan

The Deamon's Gift by Robert Baumg

Death's Cold Kiss by Steven Savile

KINSTRIFE

by Graham McNeill

I

NAGGAROTH

The sleek, eagle-prowed vessel travelled along the river without a sound, slicing the dark water as the high elf crew rowed with smooth, rhythmic sweeps of their oars. The silver hull barely reflected on the slate-coloured water and an acrid sulphurous stench was carried on the yellow fog that hugged its black surface.

The vessels sails were folded away and the mast lowered to avoid the dark, clawing branches of the trees that pressed in on either side of the river, and even though the orb of the sun had yet to reach its zenith, the weak light it cast over the Land of Chill barely penetrated the thick, jagged canopy.

Standing at the prow of the vessel, a tall, long-limbed elf with silver-gold hair bound by a bronze circlet watched the route ahead as the river turned in a lazy bend. In one hand he carried a long, gracefully curved bow inlaid with gold and looped with silver wire, while his other gripped the hilt of a slender, leaf-bladed sword. He wore a sky blue tunic embroidered with a golden horse, beneath which was a glimmering shirt of ithilmar mail. His features were smooth and his face oval, his eyes dark and hooded - almost without whites.

The elf leaned over the side of the boat, trying to see the riverbed through the swirling black water, but he quickly gave up.

'What depth do we have?' he asked, without turning.

'Perhaps three fathoms, Lord Eldain, maybe less.' replied one of the vessel's crew, who knelt a respectful distance behind the tall elf, a weighted sounding line playing out into the water. 'I do not believe we will reach much further up the river than this. I would humbly suggest that we tie up at the bank soon.'

Eldain nodded, turning and marching back down the deck of the shallow-bottomed ship, before nodding to the steersman at the stern to make for the shore. He heard the rush of water as the ship altered course and stared into the ghostly, dark trees that loomed over the river, wondering what catastrophe had befallen this realm to transform it into this bleak, dead landscape.

The ship drew near the bank, and Eldain switched his gaze from the haunted forest to the obsidian surface of the water and the rippling wake that spread in a V from the ships stern. A dozen more vessels, high prowed and graceful as swans, with hulls of silver and white followed his own, arcing gracefully towards the northern riverbank. Riding high on the prow of the following boat was the imposing figure of Caelir, clad in an exquisitely tailored tunic of scarlet and vermillion, the subtleties of the different colours almost indistinguishable. Trust his brother to wear something best suited to the court of Lothern while hundreds of miles from home on a desperately dangerous raid into the realm of the druchii.

Sensing his brother's scrutiny, Caelir drew his sword and held it above his head, but Eldain did not return the gesture, instead turning to face the approaching bank. Thick bracken and tangled roots reached into the water, and as the ship drew near he leapt gracefully onto the black soil of Naggaroth.

Even through his fine, hand-made boots, Eldain could feel the icy cold of this land, a chill that was not simply of the climate, but of the soul. The evil that had been plotted on this dark land arose from the earth, as though the land sought to expel it... or spread its taint yet further.

Eldain shivered and nocked an arrow to his bow as his vessel's crew swiftly began disembarking and tying up the ship. He scanned the darkened undergrowth and the dead forest for enemies, but there was nothing, no shred of movement nor breath of life.

Dank mist coiled at the base of wretched, black trees that crowded his vision in all directions, and the ashen ground was strewn with jagged rocks and thorny brush that gathered in vile clumps across this blasted forest landscape. Truly this place was a vision of utter desolation. To an elf of Ellyrion, one of the Inner Kingdoms of Ulthuan blessed with bountiful forests brimming with life and magical fecundity, this dismal place was anathema.

Elven shadow warriors, grey-clad scouts who moved like ghosts, slipped past him, fanning out into the black forest with swords or bows at the ready. He relaxed his own bowstring and slipped the arrow back in his quiver, satisfied that nothing could now approach their landing place without the scouts knowing about it.

'It is a grand adventure we are on, is it not, brother?' asked a young and energised voice behind him, and he turned to face Caelir. His younger brother was roguishly handsome, with boyish good looks and a mischievous, infectious grin that had seen him out of more scrapes than his considerable skill with a blade.

'The land of the druchii is not one of adventure, brother.' cautioned Eldain, though he knew it would do nothing to dampen Caelir's spirits. 'Not since Eltharion have high elves raided Naggaroth and returned alive. It is a land of death, torment and suffering.'

Caelir smiled and said, 'It is that, but soon it will be so for our enemies, yes?'

'If all goes to plan and we don't end up like Eltharion; tortured, blinded and driven to madness in the dungeons of the Witch King.'

'Ah, but it is your plan, brother.' laughed Caelir, 'and I have faith in you. You were always better at planning things than I.'

Eldain bit back an angry retort and moved further down the riverbank where the ships' masters were efficiently and, more importantly, quietly disembarking their passengers. High elf Ellyrion reavers, resplendent in light mail shirts and cream tunics, swiftly formed a perimeter around the ships as the crews led their magnificent elven steeds onto dry land. The steeds could also sense the darkness in this place, and their high whinnies spoke to him of their unease at being here.