Améline was surrounded by corpses, knee-deep in them. Blood and the gory refuse of butchery smothered her nostrils, making even her hardened constitution want to gag. Some were rent apart into bloody bits, others were more pristine, their deaths marked by efficient strokes, or innocuous cuts that seeped poison. More than a few bodies were scorched, as if struck by lightning. All around her, Améline was surrounded by the stillness of death. That unique feeling of morbid quiet where once there had been heartbeats.
Save one. In her arms, she cradled the last of her mortal companions. He had just been a simple Freeguild guard. Not quite a fresh-faced youngster, but she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he wasn’t far off that. He didn’t weigh much to her, as if being so close to death had lightened his body. His face was distantly familiar to her; either he reminded Améline of someone she’d once known, or perhaps she had known him, many Reforgings ago. She sheltered him as best she could with her body, as if trying to keep this last flickering ember alive against a raging hurricane.
She couldn’t remember his name. Perhaps he’d never given it to Améline. Now, with his throat a torn, bloody mess that pulsed life-blood with every attempt at a ragged gasp he made, he’d never be able to tell her. Her body had long since become a distant, aching mass of pain that she didn’t even fully register, but that knowledge pierced her right down to her soul.
Eventually, the young man in her arms let out one last gasp-rattle. His expression softened, and terror deserted his eyes. Améline knew that it was just Shyish taking his soul, but in the last few heartbeats of his life, she hoped that his sudden peace was a harbinger of whatever fate the Realm of Death had for him.
And then, she was alone.
Améline gently let his body fall out of her arms to join the hundreds strewn around her, and released a quiet, strained, pained sigh. Then, and only then, did she force herself to stand on weak legs, and look at her foe.
The swarm of Witch Aelves stared back at her in complete silence. Some had their blades stained with blood, but most of them were fresh, as yet unbloodied. Behind them stood Darkshards and Dreadspears, escorting a Darkling Sorceress who stared at Améline with unbridled hatred. Aside from her, the rest of the army arrayed before Améline stared at her with a strange kind of fascination. Améline wasn’t sure if they were anticipating killing her, or dreading the attempt.
She found that she couldn’t care less what they thought.
Améline reached out to her left towards her greatsword. Every movement was sapping, her soul willing but her flesh straining. But she managed to wrap her fingers around the grip of her blade, and wrench it out of both the stone cobbles, and the Witch Aelf she had run through with it. She slid into a guard that allowed for both defence and offence, entirely on instinct; if the Witch Alves would not charge her, then she would take the fight to them.
Around her the battle for Anvilgard raged on. Her part in it would soon be over, but she’d be damned if she didn’t use every last ounce of life she has left protecting this city.
Before Améline could charge into the horde, to her surprise she heard clapping, languid and sardonic. The origin of the sound soon revealed itself as a Hag Priestess stepped out from the Witch Aelf ranks, smiling cruelly at Améline, though oddly appreciative. None of the other Daughters of Khaine or the Darklings seemed to register her presence.
“Well done, Stormcast.” she called out to Améline. “Well done! I thought this might break you, but instead you’ve surpassed my expectations!”
Her clapping finally ceased, filling the street with silence. For the longest moment, Améline simply stared at the Aelf as if she’d descended from the Bad Moon and claimed it was made of eggshell.
“What… What expectations? What are you talking about?” Améline’s deathly whisper of a voice spoke, as if it had dragged itself out of a grave with cold iron will.
The Hag Priestess simply smirked, and flicked two fingers. With that simple gesture, the Witch Aelves and Darklings disappeared. Améline’s heart thudded quickly for a moment as she watched the corpses fade, fearing that they were being spirited away from her, but then surprise overtook her as the cobblestones started to melt too. Even the Stormcast’s wounds closed up, the aches of battle left her body, and her armour subtly shifted to a style she didn’t fully recognise. In an instant, Améline found herself in a simple training arena, not unlike those that the keep had…
The keep, she wondered. What keep…?
And then the memories come back to her, the joining of this Soulbound to fight Kragnos, the wandering of the Realms fighting the forces of tyranny, her love of Aengellania…
The fall of Anvilgard…
“What did you do to me?” she asked of the Hag Priestess, her voice a low, threatening growl that is no less terrifying for how it lost its deathly quality.
“Just a small amount of Ulguan magic. Bringing back, shall we say, old memories of your greatest challenge.” the Hag Priestess replied, still smiling.
More memories filter in, filling in the blanks the Daughter of Khaine was irritatingly refusing to banish herself. Améline remembered now the Witch Aelves approaching the Binding, offering their aid in fighting the Desraki, but first asking for a demonstration of battle skill to impress them. Améline had been one of those who had volunteered, albeit begrudgingly.
Améline’s hand tightened around the grip of her sword. Were the others being subjected to similar torments?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a single peal of cold-humoured laughter from the Khainite.
“If anything, what I did to you was nothing that you hadn’t already experienced, so can you really blame me for it?” she continued coyly. “I sensed that your own mind regularly subjects you to this.”
Her eyes alighted with sadistic excitement, and she added in a gloating whisper;
“And worse.”
“Are you done now?” Améline snarled, trying her best to fight down her rising anger at this Hag Priestess.
The Khainite’s smile dimmed and she gave Améline a cold look that bordered on petulant, as if the Stormcast had recited the wrong lines from a script.
“I’ve gathered enough information to bring back to my superiors.” she replied curtly. “And rest assured, I will tell them that you performed admirably, and you will be a worthy ally to fight alongside.”
She raised up a hand as Améline made to leave, halting the Stormcast’s departure.
“I have one last question. Purely for my curiosity.”
“Spit it out.” Améline snarled. Her heart beat quickly and she had difficulty mastering her breath; Améline still felt like she was in the middle of battle, pressed on all sides by claustrophobic death and with a knife pressed to her throat. Améline’s instincts wanted her to leave and find a safe place to recover, or failing that hit the Hag Priestess in the head and knock the smugness out of her.
The Khainite smirked at Améline, hinting that she knew exactly what the Stormcast was going through and was enjoying it, before glancing down.
“Your sword.”
She pointed at the weapon, still drawn in Améline’s hand, shining unblemished. Améline knew that she should sheathe it, but somehow the weight felt comforting in her hand, the shining blade a sliver of sanity to hold on to after her ordeal.
“Where did you get it?”
“It’s the same one I fought with at Anvilgard.” Améline replied, and that drew a raised eyebrow from the Hag Priestess.
“You cut apart Witch Aelves and Darklings with your greatsword at Anvilgard. You certainly did it with great force and skill, but I don’t recall your sword throwing back your foes as if they’d been struck by a thunderbolt.”
“It’s the same sword.” Améline insisted, though something nagged at her about the way the Hag Priestess had just spoken. “What do you mean, you don’t recall?”
To Améline’s surprise, the Khainite’s expression became shocked for a moment. Then, slowly, a grin began to manifest on her, drawn out of malice and terrible joy.
“You don’t remember me?” She cooed softly. “You don’t remember my poisoned knife in your back?”
Then she began to laugh, a sound that haunted Améline long after she’d left the Hag Priestess’ presence.
