Information Gathering

The library was dark and dusty, but that came with housing knowledge not everyone could handle. Human wizards wrinkled faster than paper, and gathered dirt faster than any feather duster. But she supposed that came with such a short life span, cramming information rather than taking care of themselves. But Mandragora knew she was hardly any better.

She spent most of her Aqua Ghyranis to get in here rather than buying clothing and food. Her stomach gurgled at her in annoyance at her poor choices, but that had to wait. She could get some bread later. It was bread or a room to sleep. Neither option would allow her a comfortable night. Khaine, damn it all.

She needed to focus; she was not here for luxury and pleasure. This was to find a book on the practice of banishment. She didn’t even need it to be on how to cast a banishment spell, but the practice and who would be skilled enough to use it. 

Mandragora ran a calloused finger across one shelf line as her eyes darted up and down each book's spine. The various sizes and colors were staggering; Mandragora was taught the knowledge of man for most of her life, and duardin were lackluster in the best of their cities. She had learned better after finding that just one wizard had hoarded more books than she had ever seen. But the Library of Kilnerngard? It was an art how much knowledge was packed in this one building. 

Before she knew it, she had made it through another bookshelf, another place where her search was fruitless. She had been in here for over an hour, and less than a tenth of the bookshelves had been searched. She would have to come again tomorrow. If the building required another payment? That would have to be seen tomorrow. But right now, she had to operate under the idea that she had one shot, with about-

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small pocket watch. Flicking open the Kharadron trinket, she searched for the Amethyst circle, representing the time of Shyish. 4 hours until the end of the day, she had time, but… probably not enough. 

She gave a silent curse to Khaine. Why must the realms continue their march through time, dooming her to hardship? Then again, that only made her wonder why there was so much hardship in the first place. Not Just the great betrayal of the Khanite creed but also Chaos, the necroquake, and of course, the Stormcast, who were machines of death and vengeance.

She had once fought one of those demigods who followed the Storm God’s orders. His abilities in combat were near perfect, better than any of the sisters of slaughter or the Hag Queens. She only survived his hammer blows with dumb luck and numbers; her sisters had restrained him, cutting just enough of him not to kill but to subdue. 

Why did they exist, why did Morathi despise them, and would they know her as her former religion does? Will one mistake made by blind zealotry and a life of lives dictate her fate once again? But then, why now, of all times, would she ask such a question? 

A crunch, a wet chew, and then silence. 

Mandragora flicked the pocket watch shut and grabbed at one of her blades. The leather-wrapped handle rested in her hand as she scanned her surroundings. It didn’t take long to find the source. 

In a circular clearing from the shelves was a group of 3 tables, each with silver candelabras alight with brilliant orange light. But what was most important was an armored behemoth of a woman. Armor as black as pitch highlights along her pauldrons of brilliant gold. On the one hand, she held a single opened book; on the other, she had a massive vegetable. It was purple on the outside, with the contents being a strange orange which made Mandragora think of vomit. Beside the woman, resting against a shelf, was a sword as long as a Duardin was tall, sheathed in a typical ornate sheath of a Stormcast. 

Mandragora tensed; what horrible luck was this? She wondered if they would know of her, and this was the test. Shutting her eyes, Mandragora whispered, “Khaine…why?” 

“It’s not often a worshiper of Khaine comes to a sigmarite Library.” A voice of command sounded throughout the library. The Khanite’s eyes opened slowly; the book had been closed, the vegetable placed down, and eyes were trained right on her. 

The hand clamped down on the knife harder. Swallowing a globule of spit to try and ease rising nerves. It did not help. “So? I go where, please.” Mandragora tried to play it off, turning back to the shelf, and don’t give the storm worshiper any time. Just leave and figure something else out before she tries to take her head. 

As she reached for a book labeled “Zologe’s Guide to Ghyranian Fauna, 2nd print,” the sound of a chair screeching across the tiled floor broke the silence.

Mandragora froze; loud clumps and clanks of heavy armor drew near her. Her knuckles were white on the knife handle she refused to let go of. The Khanite turned her head to the Stormcast, putting on a face of indifference. The Stormcast’s eyes glanced at the book Mandragora was reaching for.

“A long way from Ghyran, not to mention a realm gate leading there.”  

“Curious, find something new.”

“You don’t seem like a Shyish resident.”

“Why say?”

“You're a Khanite; your kind doesn’t come here often. Last time I spoke to one, they complained over a lack of things to kill.”

“I am on quest; this is rest.” 

“Is that so, Mandragora?” 

Thump Thump. The Stormcast knew her. Thump Thump. Choices, decisions, and perils. Thump Thump. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. The chemical, a gift from the shattered war god, blocked out reason and any sense of peace being an option. 

“What you want?”

The Stormcast snorted. “I am on a quest, same as you, Khanite.” Her amethyst eyes pierced Mandragora’s hazel eyes like spears. “Do you know what I would be called?” The tone was clear; it was to make fun of her rather than ask a genuine question. 

Mandragora snarled back at the woman; if there was one thing her home temple did well, it was to inform the sisters of their targets. “Questor, Sigmar’s Agents. May go now?” 

“Hm, I did not know a simple sister in Morathi’s endless waves of zealots would know anything about the saviors of the realms.”

Thump Thump, Thump…Thump…Thump “I am not zealot, of Morathi. I follow Khaine. To say otherwise, is a lie. Now go away. I am studying.”

The Stormcast hardly even made a noise as the hand was balled into a fist. The blow reminded Mandragora of every kick she had suffered in the arena for years. The feeling of being flung into a bookshelf was new, however. Many heavy books fell down on her shoulders. 

When the Storm God’s Warrior began to slowly make her way to Mandragora, the Aelf panicked. She was alone; she needed to draw her weapon, and most of all, she faced a demi-god now. Not an Orruk a little larger than others, a Necromancer who had just raised some grave guard; she would have preferred to fight a vampire now. Not…this woman.

Mandragoras took a deep breath. She unlatched the bladed buckler from her back, slowly reaching her feet. She just needed to get some more distance.

Another blow, this one perfectly blocked by the buckler. But the blow was still from a demi-god. Mandragora was sent tumbling. Using this momentum, she pushed herself up into a battle crouch. No knife would be a good enough weapon.

Mandragora’s right hand grabbed the weapon's hilt strapped to her back. A deep breath and the hissing of her Great Sword releasing itself from its leather constraint. The blade was slightly curved, with the end of the blade having a part that juts out to catch weapons and hook around armor. But the most terrifying part of this weapon was the runes that ran up along the blade. Mandragora did not understand the language but knew what it meant, for the blade was connected to her. “Slaughter, Kill, and Bleed. Those who stand opposed to you will not last. For this is Khaine’s will.” Mandragora murmured this prayer as she dropped her buckler.

“Getting talkative now? I thought you hated speaking.” 

Another mocking question, Mandragora had to force herself not to fall into such a trap. The Stormcast were prideful, like Khanites; giving into blind rage would just prove them right. Placing the blade flat against her forehead, she murmured the prayer again. “Slaughter, Kill, and Bleed. Those who stand opposed to you will not last. For this is Khaine’s will.”

She heard the stomping charge before she saw the Stormcast. It did not matter; this was now a dance, the prayers had been said, the stage set and the enemy was reckless. 

Her hands tightened, the runes now blazed orange and red. Mandragora brought down the blade into the first step of the third dance she had made. At a diagonal stance, pointing the tip to the ground, her stance was a trap to begin the dance. One the Stormcast charged right into. 

The blade was brought up across her enemy’s chest with a flash of steel and glowing magic. The Stormcast recoiled in shock, her armor was sundered, but she had not taken a wound. The strike had been perfect. 

Before the Questor could try and regain her Momentum, Mandragora made her next assault. Her upward strike’s momentum was redirected into a powerful stab aiming straight for the sundered armor. The Stormcast was quick; however, she had also seen the trap, and a demi-god was not one to who let themselves simply die from a single attack. A gauntleted hand slammed into the side of Mandragora’s sword. The tip scraped the chestplate and struck a pauldron’s connector, sending the shoulder guard flying. 

It was the Stormcast’s turn to curse and retreat; turning her back, she bolted from Mandragora. The Khanite did not smirk or make a sny remark like her enemy had. Now was not the time to be cocky; it was a time for a calm head.

—-------------------------------------

Enregi had thought that a single Khanite with a sword as long as a questor blade would have been easier than an Ossiarch bone reaper. An easier kill than a vampire, at the very least. So she was cocky, went in with no helmet, her sword not in her hands. So she suffered the consequences, part of her armors sundered, and a pauldron that would not be reattached until she arrived back at a Stormkeep. 

That is, if she would ever make it there in the first place. She had heard stories of Khanites being able to stop reforging by stealing their souls. But that was likely just hearsay spread by the treacherous Aelves. Then again, that blade exuded the desire to kill and consume. So foul magics were at play with that weapon. But with the Khanite? No, she was different from her sisters. 

When Enregi reached her blade, it was out within a second, perfectly timed to block and parry the oncoming attack from behind. Spinning around, the defense was a fumbling one. Leaving herself on the back foot as another swing from Mandragora came slicing through the air straight for the opening in Enregi’s chestplate once more. 

Once again, her defense fumbled, clumsily blocking the attack. But this one felt heavier than before, like the Aelf had put her entire weight into the strike. That's when the Questor learned that Mandragora had the advantage since that first strike against her. Her blade had been hooked and flung to the ground while Mandragora used the momentum to perform her next attack.

A foot crashed straight into Enregi’s nose, the cartilage crunching underneath the force of the Khanite’s kick. Enregi’s back and head slammed into the bookshelf behind her. 

Her head spun, and the shelves around her tripled in number. The world bobbing up and around. But one thing was apparent, Mandragora had beaten her soundly. Enregi, one of Sigmar’s chosen warriors against undeath, had lost to a singular Khanite chosen by no one. This was embarrassment incarnate.

Enregi placed her right hand on the ground, pushing herself up. But something sharp poked the bottom of her jaw. “Stay down.”

Enregi growled, “I do not fear death, for I am Stormcast; you are a mortal.”

“It hurts, reforging.” The voice sounded like a mix of pity and compassion, as much as this blunt woman could have. “Stay down; I have no hate. Stormcast have, same enemy as me.”

“Chaos is the enemy of al-"

“No, Chaos is grand enemy, but MY enemy, is Morathi-Khaine, the deceiver, shadow queen, the true heretic, and the false goddess.”

Enregi was silent for a moment. What little she had seen in her visions of Mandragora was true. “So you are not of her creed? Then what do you follow? Khaine is dead.”

“I Know; Khaine is shattered and scattered. But I follow him; he is all I have, he guided me through my life, his lessons let me thrive.”

“Then why let me live? Do you not pray for slaughter?”

“Yes, I do. But I am…not like sisters. Khaine wishes the weak killed, but the weakest, are the ones who do wrong. Lying, corrupting, those who waste kills. I do not kill to kill; I kill to prove Khaine triumphs even in death, for his servants kill the weak champions, the false worshipers.”

“Once again, you speak more than expected, but…I do understand your words. Or your interpretation of Khaine.”

“Ok, then you will stay, let me go; I take food.”

“What?”

“I need Aqua Ghyranis, for room, need food too.”

—----------------------------------

The conference hall of High Azyr was massive, and Enregi was in awe of it. The Sacrosanct chambers of Sigmar’s keep were also a glory to behold. Armor which rippled with the electricity of Sigmar’s gifts and vigilance, matched only by the Dracothians who watch the gates to High Azyr.

What was most impressive was what she was doing; she would meet Sigmar in his flesh. Not a dream where he guided her hand, visions which sent her to meet Mandragora, or seeing his likeness in art and pained window. No, she would Sigmar himself. SPEEK to Sigmar.

Now she stood in front of the massive twin doors. The gold sigil of the twin-tailed comet was emblazoned across it. Sigmar’s lighting crackled here as well; potential energy just waiting to be used. Then Enregi placed her hand upon the door.

Lightning shot through up her arm and through her body. It was excruciating for a split second but then invigorating. The electricity spiraled around her body and then back into the door. As it arced back into the door, it began to open slowly, noiseless, and with perfect symmetry.

Enregi’s confidence soared with Sigmars blessing, having just shot through her body. Pushing herself forward, the blinding light of her god hardly phased her as she entered his throne room. 

“My daughter, did you do as I had asked?”

Enregi went down to one knee, head bowed, arm placed on one armored knee. “Yes, God-King. I did so happily and with dedication.”

“What do you think of her? If Grungni believes even a sliver of his time is worth witnessing the Khanite with one of his pieces, she is worth something.”

“I- I do not understand your question. Or even- the grand smith has witnessed her before?”

“A part of him, yes, but what I care about is what you both did?”

“Well, we did battle within the Library; I was cocky and fought without my blade…I lost handily. I am sorry for disgracing you, my lord.”

“There is no disgrace in failure, my daughter; there is a failure in not learning. So I ask again, what do you think of her? Is she better than the secretive backstabbers she comes from?”

“I think she is a- she is a zealot, my lord. Khaine seemed to be the only thing she cared for, avenging his bastardization from Morathi’s schemes.”

“If this is all she cares about, why did you not reforge if a zealot defeated you?”

“I- I do not know, my lord.”

The blinding being of Sigmar stood from his throne. The God of war, man, and storms descended the glowing stairs. His form shifted to that of a young man, only a head shorter than her. Brilliant brown hair kept back with a golden band crown. A beard that could not hide a smile of satisfaction gracing the god’s features. His golden armor put her own pitch-black armor to shame. He reached out both hands as if asking for an embrace. 

Enregi stayed on her knee, but her eyes were open. “My lord?”

“I am proud of your work, Enregi Hagflayer, you have done my work as I requested, and I could wish nothing more from you. You have earned- a promotion, I suppose. Now rise, not as a Questor or Liberator, but as a Lord-Imperator. You shall lead a small group of those willing not to go to battle but to find those who deserve my attention.”

—----------------------

Mandragora had long left Kilnernguard; her journey had only started after all. The Stormcast was nice enough to provide her a vial of the valuable water, Aqua Ghyranis. It allowed her to eat and sleep for the night.

Now that she had the book, she did not need to stay where there were now rumors of a Khanite and a Stormcast did battle but left as friends. Only the first half of that rumor was true. Mandragora did not know how to feel about that woman still. 

It didn’t matter to her in the end. She was alive, and a grudge seemed not to have been formed, which meant one less enemy, one more night of comfort, and one more book that led her in the right direction. 

Now she made her way to Ghyran, a Soulblight army possessing a Khanite relic, one she needed. One she will obtain.