Gilead's Blood

by Dan Abnett

  Then the battle began in earnest as the degenerate court of Talthos Elios fought back.

  Fithvael used their weight of numbers against them. Battling on two fronts, he managed to slip out of the fight and turn on a third assailant, as the first two killed each other in their frenzy.

  Gilead threw a table over, tipping its contents into the laps of the beasts. They struggled to rise, but Gilead was too fast, attacking them as they lay on their backs in the debris, or were trapped by the heavy dishes that rained down on them. The once-elf things were not prepared for attack and those who wore no weapons fought with their hands, losing their limbs to Gilead’s long sword.

  Gilead was standing atop the great tables, swinging his great blade and thrusting his dagger into any and all chaos flesh he could find. He fought his way nearer the doorway, taking down half a dozen barrow-spawn with his flailing weapons. The elf-echoes tore at each other in their rage to reach him.

  Fithvael ploughed on, slower, but just as efficient. Following the swing of his long sword with a lunge from his dagger, he tore the throat out of one barrow-thing, the eyes out of the next. Here he severed a leg, bursting a great artery and filling his nostrils with the stink of the oozing ichor. He had both strength and purpose and he used them to good effect.

  He could not see Gilead, but he could see his work as more foul things fell near to him, their mortal wounds releasing more of the putrid reek of Chaos.

  With each blow, each death, the room grew darker, filthier, older and more decayed. The piles of rotten food quickly became puddles of black liquid and then disappeared. The bodies of the foe wept their gory contents, decayed quickly to ugly skeletal forms and then to grey dust.

  The elves fought on as the remnants of the foul horde weakened and succumbed. Soon, Gilead and Fithvael stood together at one end of what had been the great elf hall, then a terrifying Chaos gathering. Now it was a ruin.

  ‘Our work is done here,’ said Fithvael, sheathing his dagger and leaning on his sword.

  Gilead bowed his head. The two looked at each other, then once more at the room, before turning to leave.

  As he turned, Gilead saw movement. His sword and dagger were drawn and he spun back into the room, swinging his sword in a wide arc as he spun high off his feet. As he landed he plunged his dagger into the monster that had risen up in front of him.

  Fithvael turned as he heard a loud thump. It was Gadrol’s head hitting the floor. The lord of Elios’s body followed its decapitated head, taking down with it the body of the wraith that had been Niobe. The hilt of Gilead’s dagger could be seen sticking straight out from the second barrow-thing’s ichor-pulsing throat.

  Fithvael stared down at the last two bodies as Gadrol and Niobe twitched in their final death throes. Then they, too, began to decay before the elves’ eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gilead,’ said Fithvael. He could think of nothing else to say.

  ‘Niobe…’ his companion said softly.

  ‘It was not her… she is still lost, taken by Lord Ire. These fiends played upon your dreams, your hopes.’

  Gilead looked across at the veteran elf, then down at himself. He was suddenly deathly tired. He had not been washed, nor his bruises tended. He was shabby and dishevelled and the bruises he had received on the battlefield had not yet faded. He raised his hand to his face and was startled to feel the soft stubble that had grown there.

  ‘Time was corrupted too, I’m still bruised and dirty. I dreamed it all, didn’t I? How did they do this to me?’ There was an odd mix of bitterness and sharp sadness in his eyes. ‘I’m in your debt for… waking me.’

  OUTSIDE, THE EVENING was slate grey along the pass. Crows rasped from the steep scarps. Two comrades moved out from nightmare into encroaching night.

  Their torches lit the walls of the tower with flickering shapes. Fire began to twist and flurry around the desecrated tower. The Tower of Talthos Elios burned, its nobility and its curse sooting away into the night.

  ‘Now the barrow,’ said Gilead, ferocity burning in his tired eyes.

  Fithvael followed him. There was work to be done.

  6

  GILEAD’S SWORDS

  War tends to limit the length of friendships.

  MY EYES MAY be old and clouded, but still I see doubt in your face. As if all I have told you this long winter night was nothing more than a tale-spinner’s fancy. Well, if you ask me, it is the curse of some souls to be born at the wrong time.

  Consider this: had Gilead Lothain come to this world a thousand years earlier, in a better age, most likely his life and deeds would have been dutifully recorded and celebrated in the chronicles of his fair people, and earned him fame as a hero even you would have heard of.

  But he did not. When he first drew sharp breath at the midwife’s slap, in the cold midnight of a bitter winter, his noble and ancient race was already waning. Their civilisation, which once had held the whole world itself as its domain, had become nothing but a shadow on the fringes of life. The elves were beings of the edge places, relics of a brighter time. Their blood was running slower and cooling, their traces vanishing from the land, supplanted by the coarse young tribe of man. The legacy of Ulthuan had been eroded by history, worn away by fate. Even the great elven chronicles were, by then, patchy and incomplete, those that were still maintained.

  So Gilead Lothain, last lord of Tor Anrok, was never a celebrated hero. He never became the subject of popular story-songs, or verse cycles declaimed by courtly poets. His deeds were never bound in buckskin to take pride of place in a palace library. His name has never become proverbial, never alluded to in the great poems and sagas of our day. It is his curse to be nothing more than a story. A fireside tale told by old folk to the young. A memory, or the memory of a memory. All that the world has of him now is myth - at worst, ill-remembered nonsense; at best, half-truths swollen by imaginative retellings. The rest is blank, a ghostly trace, like a faint handprint in dust. A life imperfectly and fleetingly glimpsed every now and then in the dim forests of rumour.

  Except here, at this hearth. There is truth here, what truth I know. A few fragments of his long, sad life that you can trust to be truer than myths. I have told you most of them.

  The last is Maltane, or more properly the Battle of Maltane, also called the Tale of the Thirteen Swords. Or Twelve, or Fourteen, depending on which account you follow. Whatever.

  So, if the steward brings me more wine, and my lamp’s wick and failing voice last, we’ll have that one, and it shall assuredly be my last. The land is full of myths, but few are truer or more worthy than this.

  Winter had thawed to spring, and spring had ripened to summer. Gilead and Fithvael, riding as shadows at the edges of the estate of man, had roamed ever southwards, aimlessly, since the murderous deceit of Talthos Elios. Now summer itself, plump and golden on the bow, was about to turn and wither and fall beneath the frosty touch of autumn.

  What triumphs and defeats they had braved and shared since the horror of Talthos Elios, it is not possible to say. But there, at harvest time, chance, that most fickle and petty of all divine blessings, led their wanderings to Vinsbrugge, during their festival.

  The harvest had been good and the grain towers, beehive-shaped giants of white stone grouped at the lip of the town, were full. The winding streets of Vinsbrugge were decked with corn garlands, linen streamers and crop-gods woven from golden straw. The priests of Sigmar had arranged processions and services in the town basilica, and the guild masters had paid for black powder rockets and flares to light up the night. There was to be a week of thanksgiving, an excuse for revelry and disorder. A merry time to mark the turn of a hard year.

  The hostelries and inns of Vinsbrugge were packed with strangers. Many were grain merchants, arriving early for the annual produce markets. Others were travellers and wanderers drawn in by the exuberance of the festival.

  Two were not of mankind.

  The rockets fizzing and flashing in the late summer evening and the
sound of singing had drawn them to Vinsbrugge from a lonely road to the south-west. Fithvael had remarked that the sounds reminded him of victory feasts at Tor Anrok, lifetimes ago. If Gilead agreed, it was not clear. But he did not resist as his old comrade turned their path towards the happy lights of the small town.

  They had found lodging, stables for their steeds, and anonymity in the bustling crowds, just two more hooded travellers in saddle-soiled robes. They ate in roast-houses along the main square, drank the night away in taverns at the north end and slept the days out. Fithvael’s aching, tired limbs began to ease for the first time in months. Years, he did not doubt.

  He hoped, indeed he silently prayed to the smoky, fading gods of Ulthuan, that simply mixing in these hospitable, joyous surroundings would thaw the misery and fatigue in his old friend.

  Gilead said little, and Fithvael knew the scars of Talthos Elios were deep in his soul, forming calluses over the ravages of an already unkind life. Fithvael heard him murmur Niobe’s name in his sleep more than once, through the hemp-cloth drape that partitioned their rented bedchamber.

  Yet Gilead did seem to mellow. He watched the nightly fireworks with alert eyes, and laughed sometimes at the capering harvest fools in the street processions. They were white-faced fools in shirts of woven corn: some on stilts, some tumbling, some chasing into the crowds and beating laughing womenfolk with fertility staves.

  Fithvael was simply glad to see a tinge of colour in Gilead’s face, some meat back on his wasted limbs, a light in his eyes. It would do for now.

  ON THE FIFTH night of the Festival, they found themselves in a crowded inn on Purse Lane, sharing a flask of wine at a corner table. A conjuror had come in off the street and was entertaining the crowd at the bar with sleight of hand. There was laughter and much amazement.

  Fithvael was asking Gilead if he had thought where they might go once they were done with Vinsbrugge and the festival. He realised the warrior wasn’t listening.

  ‘What is it?’ the veteran said.

  Gilead looked down at his cup. ‘We’re being watched.’

  ‘Where?’ Fithvael also covered his gaze, pouring more wine for them both, but his eyes darted.

  ‘At the bar, the far end. Ho! Not so obvious or he’ll know we’ve seen him. Drinking alone, clad in a black cloak.’

  Fithvael adjusted his boot, taking in the figure as he did so. Tall, slender, with his dark cloak swathed around him and its cowl drawn up to hide the face. The unmistakable shape of a longsword bulged under the folds of the cape.

  ‘I agree. He is indeed observing us.’

  ‘I seem to know the set of him,’ Gilead murmured. He shook his head. ‘Drink up and we shall go. I’m in no mood for trouble.’

  They drained their cups and got up, pushing through the crowds to the door.

  Purse Lane was cool and dark. Romping music issued from a nearby drinking parlour and most of the passers-by were laughing and loose on their feet.

  They headed down to the north end, near the grain towers, where the air smelled of husks and was heavy with chaff.

  ‘He’s following,’ Gilead whispered. Fithvael knew it without looking.

  At an unspoken signal, they parted company, leaving the cobbled street in opposite directions. Fithvael slid into an alleyway, skirting round a whipmaker’s shop to turn back on himself. He drew his sword.

  Gilead melted into the shadows, sliding his own sword from its scabbard without a sound. Its weight felt good in his palm. It had been a while, he realised.

  The hooded figure passed them. Fithvael stepped back into the street behind it, ready to—

  They were gone.

  The veteran swordmaster felt suddenly exposed and ridiculous, in the middle of the lane, sword drawn.

  ‘You weren’t really thinking of using that on me?’ a mellifluous voice breathed in his ear.

  Fithvael turned, flash-fast, and brought the point of his blade up to the throat of the hooded figure that stood behind him. Calmly, the figure hooked something over the end of the blade, something that slid down the keen length and stopped at the hilt. A necklace, silver, tied on a leather thong. It was the herald mark of Tor Anrok.

  Fithvael gasped. The figure laughed softly and threw back his hood.

  ‘Fithvael te tuin Anrok. I knew you from your gait in an instant. It has been such a very long time.’

  ‘By Ulthuan! Nithrom?’

  ‘One and the same,’ said the smiling elf warrior in the black cloak. His long, fair hair was tied back, and under the cloak he wore form-fitting armour of dark green leather. He was still smiling as he whipped around and brought up his long silver blade to block Gilead’s longsword. Sparks sprang from the chime of metal.

  ‘Gilead! Put up your blade! It is Nithrom! Nithrom, you hear me? Don’t you know him?’ Fithvael flung himself forward to get between them, but Gilead pushed him aside with his free hand.

  ‘Something that has his shape, perhaps,’ the slender elf growled. ‘Something that uses an old face as a mask to deceive us.’

  Gilead spun around, circling his long, blue-steel sword in a blur, but again the black-cloaked figure blocked him.

  ‘Ever the cautious one, son of Lothain. That is good. In these friendless days especially.’

  Gilead and the stranger shadow-danced around each other. Gilead flexed his grip on the hilt of his longsword.

  ‘Even the voice… you play him well. But the Nithrom I knew is long dead.’

  ‘Am I?’ chuckled the other. ‘How did I die? I am curious to know.’

  ‘You left…’ Gilead corrected himself: ‘He left Tor Anrok twenty-five winters past. Never seen again. No word, no message, no trace of his passing.’

  ‘There is a large world outside the tower, Gilead, son of Lothain. To be lost in it does not make you dead. Given that you and old Fithvael are here in this gutter-town, skulking like wanted bandits, I would have thought you would have learned that by now.’

  Gilead threw himself at the stranger. Their blades clashed six times in quick succession. Every impact was a parry of Gilead’s strokes. The stranger made no effort to press an attack.

  ‘Gilead!’ Fithvael hissed at his old comrade. ‘I love you as a brother, but you are acting like a fool! This is Nithrom, I would swear it! You were but a youth when he left! I knew him well, hunted in the chase with him, sparred with him, fought alongside him now and then.’

  ‘And taught me all I know of woodcraft and bowmanship,’ said Nithrom. ‘You were the backbone of the warriors, Fithvael te tuin. What sorry turn of fate finds you following this hot-blood to the ends of the world?’

  Fithvael sighed. He sometimes wondered that himself. He said, ‘I don’t follow… we travel together, as comrades.’ It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  ‘And how fares Tor Anrok? Your brave brother, Galeth? My old sire, hallowed be his wisdom, Lord Lothain?’

  There was a silence broken only by the drunken singing from an inn in the next lane. The crescent harvest moon menaced the hot, dark sky like a goblin’s curved blade. The smile on Nithrom’s face faded.

  ‘Gilead?’

  ‘My father is dead. My brother is dead. Tor Anrok is but a heap of stones in a weed-choked glade.’ Gilead lowered his sword. ‘As you would have known, if you had ever come back.’

  Fithvael could not see Nithrom’s face because he suddenly looked down and the street shadows filled it. There was a dull clang as the silver sword fell from Nithrom’s hand. It made Fithvael jump. A warrior such as Nithrom only dropped his sword when death stole him. Otherwise it was brandished or sheathed.

  Nithrom walked away from them both, his head bowed. Fithvael stepped forward, picked up the silver blade gently and glanced round at the glowering Gilead with angry eyes.

  ‘Will you put up your sword now, fool?’ he snarled.

  Gilead slowly sheathed his long blue-steel blade in its leather scabbard. His lost brother’s sword whispered softly as it slid inside, like silk against
silk.

  At the corner of Purse Lane, where it joined the main market street, there was a crumbling pile of worn and fractured millstones discarded by the granaries. They found Nithrom sitting on them, gazing at the moon. Fithvael sat down next to him. Gilead hung back, alone, watching.

  ‘All gone?’ whispered Nithrom at last.

  ‘All gone.’

  ‘All of it? All perished?’

  Fithvael nodded.

  ‘It is the way of this world that we will all fade and be forgotten,’ said Nithrom. ‘Our time is passed. I… I always hoped, trusted, that Tor Anrok would stand the menace of time. Away, abroad, following the path Fate dealt me, I cherished the notion that the tower still stood, as I had always known it. Waiting for me even if I never returned.’

  Fithvael saw how lined and worn Nithrom’s lean face had become. Weariness and care had etched their marks on his once-handsome features. They were about the same age, Fithvael perhaps a few seasons older. Nithrom was of noble blood, the son of Lothain’s great uncle. He had been born into the warrior tradition, raised as a woodsman, and had eventually chosen the ranger’s path to the outer world, to quest and journey alone.

  Fithvael was of lower blood, the eldest of six sons born to the tower court’s master-at-arms. But they had been friends, growing up together in the dark staircases and draughty halls of Tor Anrok. A soldier’s boy and the son of a noble. Bound to his service in his lord’s troop, Fithvael had been destined to stay and serve at Tor Anrok for life, and deeply missed his privileged friend when he left. Missed him and, at the time, envied his freedom. Now he had tasted that freedom himself, following Gilead, and he did not like it much. There was nothing left to envy. He had left Tor Anrok as a dutiful member of Gilead’s warband, and now he was the only one left. And seeing the age in Nithrom’s face, he recognised his own. He felt spent, worn out. Regardless of the long-lived nature of his ancient race, Fithvael felt old.

  He handed the graceful silver sword back to Nithrom, hilt first. Nithrom took it and set it across his knees.

  ‘When I sighted you and the lord’s son in the tavern, I felt joy. It seemed this day would be the happiest of many. But now I find it is the saddest.’