Armed with a sabre and swaggering self-assurance, Savrian and his allies undertake a daring heist on the Bastion of Red Dust in the hope of rescuing Savrian’s long-lost son. But as a mortal descendent of Sarn the Everliving, Savrian should know that while blood may be thicker than water, the ties of family often mean naught to those who serve the Dark Gods.
The clouds shrouded the moon, and a thin knife of a ship slid over blood-tinged waters through a canyon of sandstone. Her oars sliced the water silently, her black sails lashed down. Out on the deck, Savrian, mortal descendant of Sarn the Everliving, pressed a scented silk cloth to his face to blot out the growing reek of blood.
Then the source of the dread stench hove into view. The Bastion of Red Dust, a mountain of basalt that loomed in the shattered canyon as if it had been hurled there from on high. Over time, the Sea of the Unwanted had filled the surrounding chasms and pooled at its feet, thick with the red dust that flowed off the fortress’ flanks. Axe-wielding idols crusted its towers and watched over the blood-soaked arenas. Only those who bore Khorne’s symbols could enter its singular gaping maw high above, to fight and die in the Blood God’s name.
Savrian leaned against the rail, black plate creaking. Behind him, his slaves carried a tray of elixirs and powders, breathlessly waiting in case he had a need. They attached his sabre, Malisette, to his belt and wiped his black armour down with scented oils. Malisette had been impregnated with the narcotic tears of Blessed Ones at its forging, and caused a dreamy exhaustion in its victims, draining away their fighting spirit so they could be taken alive.
His second in command, Issaya, waited nearby, her dark-skinned face impassive, cutting her forearm with a small razor.
‘Beloved, what is on your mind?’
Savrian started. He had not heard his wife, Cirine, approach. Suddenly he was aware of it all, the numbed skin, the near colourless vision, the aching joints, the muddled hearing. Beyond the damage from a lifetime of ecstatic devotion to Slaanesh, a near lethal poisoning by a rival seeking his crown had rendered him both decrepit and sterile. Fortunately his god-gifted beauty was untouched, his pale form still lean and graceful, his chiselled face still porcelain smooth, his hair still ink-black and lustrous. Yet, it was nothing more than a youthful shell over a worn and decaying carcass.
‘Just regrets,’ he said, though loath to admit it. ‘I know I shouldn’t. Regret implies fault.’ He sighed. ‘I should have realised Verigon was alive, that Chagorath took him. That Khornate wretch, he’s had my son for years. I should have taken Verigon with me that day. He is the only other true-born alive.’
He looked at Cirine, his dark purple eyes gleaming. The eyes of Sarn, the eyes of the immortal. It was no trinket or title that marked his line, but rather Sarn’s physical blessing that separated them from the masses.
‘We will retrieve Verigon before dawn,’ Cirine said, leaning against his shoulder. ‘Your plan is perfect. A scalpel instead of a hammer. Your son is as good as saved.’
She touched his arm, her thin black claws teasing his skin. Beautiful and obscene, Cirine was everything he wanted in a mate. Clad in filmy silk that hid nothing from the eye, she oozed with a sensuality that she frequently denied him. She was cruel but never boring.
‘You say that,’ he said. ‘But I do not have your confidence.’
He should. The plan was simple: infiltrate the fortress, retrieve Verigon, return the same way and then escape over the sea back to Sarn’s Rest, their ancestral home. They knew their route and their enemy. It was no more complicated than sneaking into a forbidden harem.
A small bottle was pressed into his hand and he swallowed the bitter mouthful that lay inside. A warmth diffused through him. His breathing quickened. Colours enriched, sound sharpened. The aches and pains faded. Yet, this was no youth in a bottle. Before the poisoning, such a dosage would have left him in a fugue state lasting for days. Now it barely returned him to normality.
Cirine leaned forward and licked his lips, tasting the bitter concoction.
‘What do you think of it, my love?’ she whispered.
‘I need something stronger,’ he said. ‘But it will do.’
The ship struck the craggy beach at the base of the fortress. Savrian leapt off the ship and offered Cirine his hand, which she grudgingly took as she stepped onto the beach. Issaya followed them, wary of threats.
Yeneya, his chief spy, joined them, a small slim woman still brushing at the red dust that marked her clothing. Of all the spies he had sent, only she had returned alive. ‘Sire, there is the way in,’ she said, pointing up.
High above them, small against the fortress’ vast black bulk, was a crack, a wound that glowed orange in the darkness. It was like a gateway into a different world.
Once they had disembarked, the ship slipped away into the shadows of the canyon, all but invisible in the dark.
Then the four of them bounded up the cliff face, the challenge no match for their superior agility.
When Savrian reached the crack, the torchlight from within half blinded him. He listened for a long moment but no one seemed nearby. With a deep breath, he slithered through and dropped down a few feet. Landing lightly, his boots sank into fine red sand. He stood in an empty hallway, torches burning greasily. Skulls grinned at him from every surface. A scream echoed, plucking at his nerves.
‘Yeneya, where are we?’ Savrian said.
‘Just underneath where Chagorath’s reavers live,’ Yeneya said as she slipped through.
‘Live?’ Savrian said. ‘That’s an exaggeration of prodigious proportions. For such savage souls, they repress themselves too much to call it living.’
Boots tramping through dust interrupted them. Savrian readied himself, his blood singing. It had been too long since he had been in battle.
A group of reavers rounded the corner down the hall. Clearly of common stock, the men wore blood-soaked rags, their bare torsos scarred, their faces bruised and noses crushed. Confusion flickered over their brute expressions for a moment, and then they barged forward.
Savrian charged in, whipping Malisette free from its sheath. Lightning quick, he cut open the closest reaver’s throat, brilliant arterial splatter arcing through the air. With a graceful spin, Savrian turned and skewered another through the eye.
Savrian’s companions fell on the rest with abandon, pulling their foes apart with sadistic glee. A shriek of pain burst out as Issaya slammed a blade through a man’s chest. As the body fell into the dust, the echo rippled away from them, like a spirit seeking its master.
They froze, listening. Someone must have heard that scream. Long seconds passed, their senses straining. Water dripped, torches crackled, a rat skittered. Seconds turned into minutes and no one came.
They breathed out a sigh of relief.
Issaya’s face flickered with disappointment. Her idea of perfection was very different from Savrian’s. Martial prowess was the only worthy pursuit and she obsessed with frightening tenacity.
Savrian nudged a corpse with his foot, trying to imagine living with such ugly creatures. His son had been among such brutes for years. A stale, futile anger surfaced but he quashed it. In this place, his anger was dangerous, even blasphemous.
‘We should move,’ Issaya said, her voice toneless. ‘Where to?’
‘That way,’ Yeneya said, nodding towards where the reavers had come from.
Yeneya led them through a maze of hallways and basalt stairs. Occasionally doors boomed open, men screamed and chains rattled. Each floor was seemingly a clone of its predecessors, just endless halls filled with red dust and ominous noises. At first, they were on edge, cautious and watchful. Then the itch of boredom grew, the sheer monotony of the place unsettling them.
The only relief was the occasional patrol of reavers, which they ambushed and dispatched with urgent speed. The need to take more time with their victims ate at them. Sa
vrian’s mind sank into the abyss of wanton desire, an urge that screamed for bodies to use and souls to bless, for ecstatic screams and quivering flesh. Not this dull, inartistic murdering.
He had not seen any treasures or shrines, not a spot of gold in the entire place. Just this peculiar fiction of vigilance, with its warriors watching over nothing with ferocious jealousy.
Abruptly, Yeneya stopped, holding up a hand.
Ahead of them, a glowing firepit illuminated an unremarkable chamber. A man stood, turning a hunk of meat over the fire, while another lay snoring on the dirt floor. Barred oak doors lined the walls, jagged gashes etched into their planks. There was another entrance opposite where Savrian waited, a solid stone gate decorated with aged brass and leering skulls. Iron bars as thick as Savrian’s wrist served as a ceiling, revealing the level above.
‘The reavers are each kept in separate cells, I think so they don’t kill each other,’ Yeneya whispered.
‘Did you hear something?’ the reaver at the firepit said, clutching a large brass bell. The other curled up tighter, grumbling.
Savrian swore. This guard was annoyingly watchful.
The guard drew a crude short sword and looked cautiously around, sniffing the air.
Cirine stepped by Savrian and winked, her scent suddenly sweet and intoxicating. Issaya followed, her dark eyes flat as she tapped a long knife against her thigh. Pleasure coiled in his gut and Savrian retreated into the dark with Yeneya. This would be amusing.
The reaver gasped as Cirine stepped into the light, his eyes widening at her near nude form. The bell’s clapper tapped the metal. Putting a finger to her lips, she closed on him, an intoxicating haze drifting in the air. The bell went still as she pulled it from his limp grasp. He took in more of her scent with every breath.
Utterly absorbed, the reaver touched her slim shoulder. Savrian repressed the urge to lop the filthy limb off.
Cirine ran a hand up his chest and her fingertips stopped at the hollow of his throat. Then she curled a finger, hooking a black talon into his flesh.
A thin rasp escaped the reaver as his muscles clenched tight. He choked, his veins puckering and blackening under his skin. Sweat beading, eyes bulging, he toppled into the dust. In a few quivering moments, the agonising bliss killed him.
Issaya crept up to the sleeper as he turned over, slapped a hand over his mouth and slashed open his throat. Gurgling, he sprawled in the dust, fumbling for his axe. Eyes widening in fascination, Issaya watched his life drain out.
Savrian smiled as he stepped by the reaver’s contorted corpse. Cirine’s venomous claws brought such ecstasy, a clash of pain and pleasure that Savrian knew well. It was a pity the poor thing died so quickly; he had enjoyed what Slaanesh offered for such a short time.
Cirine licked her fingertips.
‘You let him touch you,’ he said, with more spite than he intended.
She snickered. ‘You’re so beautiful when you’re jealous.’
He reached for her but she swayed out of his reach. Savrian fumed. She might as well have slapped his hand away.
‘Your son is in one of these cells,’ Yeneya said. ‘I don’t know which one. And those aren’t the only guards – stronger ones make the rounds up above.’
Cirine’s games forgotten, Savrian looked around the identical doors. He scanned each, looking for some sign. Then he saw a crude symbol carved into the heavy bar across one of the doors. His son’s name, barely legible.
‘There you are,’ he said.
‘Hide!’ Yeneya hissed.
They bolted into the shadows as two red-armoured warriors appeared on the level above them. Massive brutes with leathery skin and broken teeth, they gazed down with feral eyes.
‘Sloppy like the others,’ one growled.
‘We must find them now,’ the other said without enthusiasm. ‘We can’t have the rabble thinking ambushes outside the pits will be tolerated.’
They strode out of sight, hefting their bloody cleavers.
Now the Khornates were searching. How long did they have before those animals found them?
Savrian lifted the heavy bar free and jerked open the door to reveal Verigon’s austere cell. Then he recoiled. It reeked of excrement, sweat and blood. Straw covered the dirt floor and the stone walls glistened with condensation. A man was sitting in a crude cot that was too small for him, groggily blinking away his sleep.
This was not the little boy Savrian remembered. He had gone from a scrawny, timid child to a powerful, scarred youth. His golden skin was tanned and his black hair stringy with old sweat. Yet, he had the deep purple eyes that marked Sarn’s purest bloodline.
Savrian leapt back as Verigon lunged to his feet, snatching a broad-headed axe from a hanger on the wall. An expression of absolute rage twisted Verigon’s face as he stalked forward, brandishing the weapon. Savrian stepped back, raising his empty hands. Verigon had to know who he was, didn’t he? Would Savrian have to fight his own son?
‘Verigon, stop,’ Savrian said.
Verigon halted, his purple eyes narrowing.
‘I am your father,’ Savrian said, not a little relieved.
Verigon cocked his head and a peculiar expression flickered over his face.
‘I have not heard that accent in a long time,’ he replied. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m rescuing you,’ Savrian said. ‘Come, we need to go.’
‘No.’ Verigon tightened his grip on the axe.
Savrian froze. ‘What?’
‘I am a warrior of Khorne,’ Verigon said. ‘I will not leave.’
Savrian’s heart stuttered. Of all the things he could have heard, that was the worst. Verigon had completely forgotten where he had come from.
‘You are my son, the son of a king, a scion of Slaanesh,’ Savrian said. ‘This is no place for you. I keep my pack drevars in better accommodations.’
‘Physical comfort is for the weak,’ Verigon said. ‘And to struggle is glorious.’
What kind of puritanical drivel was this? Savrian took a deep breath.
‘Only Slaanesh knows true glory,’ Savrian said.
‘He does not see you,’ Verigon said, though without malice. ‘Who witnesses your deeds? Who is there to impress? My god can see me, yours cannot.’
Savrian clamped his jaw shut. What a bitter stroke it was. And it was true, that was the cruellest part about it. Every one of Slaanesh’s followers knew the ache, the deep-down need that was worse than a widow’s loneliness or a child’s desire. Mortal tribes, daemon kindreds and sorcerous cabals scoured the realms in search of a glittering bauble, one shimmering hair or even just the echo of her divine voice. Deep in his soul, Savrian felt it too.
‘It is true,’ Savrian said, relaxing with false ease. ‘She hides her face from us. I won’t lie. It is a misery. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. However, we are family under her and nothing is going to change that. Her being gone doesn’t change that.’ Somewhere beyond the cell a door opened. Savrian looked around, his ears perking up. ‘You come from a dynasty that has stood for thousands of years. Daemons will bow to you on your name alone. Thousands of mortals owe you their allegiance. Whereas this path will reduce you to a common murderer, whether you kill dozens or thousands. You are worth more than that, especially to blessed Slaanesh. And to me. Please, my son, come with me.’
Some of it was truth, some of it was lies. However, once Verigon came back to Slaanesh, his family and his people, he would forgive Savrian for vastly exaggerating. He would understand that it was for his own good.
Verigon looked at him, then he lowered the axe, wracked with indecision.
‘Highness, they’re coming,’ Issaya hissed, hovering around the exit with the others.
Savrian winced as the tramp of boots reached his ears. Now was the time for expediency. Cirine’s venom would have to do the pe
rsuading. As Savrian gestured towards her, the central doors slammed open and the two brutes stepped into the chamber, with more behind. The first pair charged forward, their grotesquely muscular bodies rippling, hefting massive cleavers.
‘Slaaneshi scum!’ one roared, ferocity boiling off him in a red haze.
With a screaming roar, the first swung his cleaver at Savrian’s head. Savrian ducked and slashed open his belly, guts falling free in a rush. Crouching under the blow aimed at his neck by the other, Savrian drove his sabre into the second’s exposed armpit. The blade sheared through muscle and lung, and the brute dropped with a gurgle. Savrian planted his foot on the beast’s shoulder and ripped out the blade.
He looked up, quivering with adrenaline.
A wall of red and brass hedged them in, blades gleaming. Yeneya, Issaya and Cirine were herded together as the warriors edged forward, preparing to charge.
‘Wait,’ a voice said, ugly and hard as slate.
A man the size of an ogor walked through the bristling wall, a bulwark of muscle and armour that dwarfed the room and everyone in it. An axe made from gore-soaked stone hung in his twitching hand. His head was bare, his face a featureless mask of scar tissue, teeth sharpened to points clacking together rhythmically, yellow eyes squinting with rage.
Chagorath: only he could command the wrath of such creatures.
Savrian’s stale anger roared with new life. He never thought he would meet the man. Every sense heightened. Hate sharpened to a razor edge.
Aside from the creak of armour, no one made a sound.
‘I remember the scent of you,’ Chagorath said, pointing his axe at Yeneya.
He lunged forward and cleaved Yeneya’s head with one swing of that brutal axe. A sound like a bird skull being crushed popped through the air. She was dead before she hit the ground.
‘Spies,’ Chagorath rasped. ‘Tools of the weak.’
Then his gaze fell onto Verigon and dread coiled in Savrian’s stomach.
‘Verigon, why did you not kill this man?’ Chagorath said. ‘He is from your meaningless past.’
Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley Page 23
