Wary, Verigon dropped to a defensive crouch, gripping his axe with two hands.
Chagorath’s teeth clicked, the jaw working.
‘Do not touch him,’ Savrian snarled, pointing his bloody sabre at the hulking lord. He would not allow this animal to deny his desires and brutalise his betters. Chagorath gestured at him and dozens of grasping hands took Savrian down like a tentacled leviathan, pressing him to his knees.
Chagorath ignored him. With a sniff, he stalked forward, struck the axe out of Verigon’s hands, snatched him by the throat and slammed him into a pillar. It was casually done, as if Chagorath were chastising a chattel slave. Verigon’s feet kicked as he choked.
‘Never let Slaaneshi talk,’ Chagorath said.
Verigon punched Chagorath in the head but the massive man barely seemed to notice; he might as well have been punching a stone.
Chagorath looked back at Savrian and he grunted in comprehension.
‘I see,’ Chagorath said. ‘Such sentimentality has no place under Khorne’s gaze.’ He dropped him and Verigon crumpled at his feet, gasping. ‘Release the tribes into the highest arena. Let them see how strong Verigon is.’
His captors pinned Savrian and gagged him with a rag. A hundred doors boomed open and a great roar went up. Then they hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the chamber through a sea of red warriors. Somewhere Cirine screamed, but he could not see her.
They entered a dark, close tunnel that reeked of urine and fear. The air was humid, the roar of a berserk crowd deafening. A maw-like portcullis clanked open in front of them, the teeth of it resembling Chagorath’s snarl. Someone pressed Malisette into Savrian’s hand and kicked him forward through the opening.
The ground squelched under his boots as he stumbled forward. He ripped the gag from his mouth, shuddering with disgust. Then he looked down and retched.
There was no earth under his feet, just a congealing soup of blood, bones and meat. A bloody fog hung in the air, moist like the inside of a heart. The eight-sided arena was cramped, built to force combatants into close proximity with each other. Above him, a barbarous audience roared in derision under furious stars. At the end of the arena, a crude idol loomed over them, more beast than man, an axe in each hand. Of all the places Savrian had imagined dying, this was not one.
Issaya and Cirine joined him, the latter revolted, the former impassive.
Savrian forced himself to breathe the disgusting air and gathered his dignity. As a civilised man, he would show them how to comport themselves. He swaggered into the centre, a smirk on his face, his arrogance armouring him as much as the steel that encased his body.
Chagorath appeared under the stone idol on a terrace and the crowd stilled.
Opposite them, a portcullis opened and Verigon stepped out, alone.
‘Verigon, you have something to prove,’ Chagorath growled, his voice carrying. ‘Kill that man before the others do in equal combat. He is a degenerate, the feeble aesthete of a cowardly god. Prove that he is meaningless to you.’
The threat of death did not need to be spoken aloud.
Verigon looked up at Chagorath, then at the ground, hefting his axe. There was none of the feral instinct or the ferocity from before. Instead, he milled, his face working, his mind racing.
Then a flood of half-naked reavers leapt into the arena. Savrian lifted his sabre, disappointed in the calibre of his opposition. With a sigh, he leapt forward into the fray. They were no match for him, these squalling little murderers. He hewed off limbs and heads without effort. They rushed him in threes and fours, but it mattered not. His blade was a flickering wall. Elusive as smoke, he danced through them, and where he went, they died.
Those who tried their hand at Cirine and Issaya suffered similar fates. Cirine flitted about, her silks flowing, transfixing her enemies. When they reached for her, she sank her claws into their flesh, bringing them a spasmodic, depthless ecstasy they cursed and hated. Issaya killed painfully, cutting hamstrings, peeling away sheets of skin, crippling limbs with broken nerves. She left screaming bloody victims in her wake that died slowly.
Soon, only his son remained and Savrian approached him warily.
‘Tell me, Verigon,’ Savrian said, gesturing at the corpses, ‘do you even remember their names?’
Verigon looked around him, his face revolted as if a sudden revelation had opened his eyes.
‘It’s nothing more than a cage, Verigon,’ Savrian said. ‘There are whole worlds beyond these walls. Do you really want to stay here?’
Verigon looked at him, his eyes steady. Then he seemed to make a decision.
‘You cannot get us out,’ Verigon said. ‘Not from him.’
That was really why he stayed. Not anger but fear. Savrian looked at Chagorath. He was the key to the whole bloody wreck.
‘I will not let him touch you ever again,’ Savrian said. ‘I swear it on Slaanesh’s sacred eye. You are my son, the most precious thing to me in this dull world.’
Verigon took a deep breath. The axe drooped and his posture relaxed. His face softened, and Savrian recognised his child in that face. The sweet, curious child he had always known. These monsters had not managed to kill him.
Chagorath quivered and gasped with rage, his fist clenched on his axe. His feral eyes flicked back and forth between Verigon and Savrian. Savrian knew it was not intelligence or restraint that stayed the berserker. Rather he simply could not decide who to kill first.
Did Khorne watch his flailing vassal? Oh, if that blinkered god did and Savrian cast him down… Savrian’s mind skittered to a halt. It was too perfect. If Chagorath died, his followers would fight for his position. Thousands of the wretched beasts would die in the mad fight for control while they escaped. And then Savrian and his kingdom would come in, mop up the weakened remains and turn the fortress towards a better, loftier purpose. He would succeed where his ancestors had failed so often in breaking this place.
Savrian pressed his fingers to his lips, a shuddering thrill rolling through his body. He threw back his head and laughed, the manic cackle spiralling through the still air. He knew he looked mad but this perfection of opportunity was too beautiful.
The only trick would be persuading Chagorath to cooperate in his own savage way.
‘You know, I figured out what you are doing,’ Savrian said. ‘Collecting and offering all these skulls. Tell me, Chagorath, does Khorne know you’re trying to buy his favour like a courtesan?’
Chagorath screamed, a wordless slavering howl. The brute leapt down into the arena, sweeping his axe from his belt and hefting it overhead. Savrian leapt away as the Khornate lord crashed in like a meteor, his mighty overhead blow splintering the stone beneath him, blood and gore flying.
Chagorath whirled around and charged, closing on him with shocking speed. Dropping into a crouch as Chagorath’s axe whooshed overhead, Savrian grinned. Finally, someone worthy of his blade.
Springing aside as the brute’s axe cleaved the air where he had just been standing, Savrian lashed out, whip-fast. Sparks flew from the warrior’s red armour as Malisette bit deep. Chagorath bellowed, whirled around and swung his axe at Savrian’s legs. Savrian vaulted over the whistling blade, spinning gracefully in the air.
Around them, more reavers and blood warriors rushed into the arena to try to kill the others. But Savrian could not protect them. He had his hands full.
Chagorath rushed after him, his strikes precise, while Savrian danced around him, every movement flowing like liquid, turning the duel into art. Chagorath’s aggression curdled into frustration with every unrewarding swipe.
Gasping for the blood of his opponent, any at all, Chagorath reached a little farther, a little harder. Then Chagorath’s form broke, his arm outstretched, and the gap between his breastplate and pauldron spread open to reveal pale, almost translucent, flesh.
Savrian sidestepp
ed and whipped his blade into the gap. Blood flew. Chagorath’s body hitched as soothing narcotics ran through his veins. Roaring, Chagorath spun around, his axe leading the movement. The blow whistled passed Savrian’s face as he retreated.
The Khornate lord pursued him across the arena, slashing and howling, and Savrian was pushed back. With a boneless agility, he dodged around Chagorath’s relentless attacks. He struck back where he could, his sabre lashing Chagorath’s exposed flesh, but it was like trying to take down a rabid rhinox with a shaving razor. The brute bled from a dozen cuts but he never slowed, each wound another goad for his endless rage.
Savrian dropped into a low crouch, prowling around his bigger opponent like a frost sabre, Malisette held tight at his shoulder, the point following Chagorath. Indignation and ego boiled in him; Savrian hated being on the defensive. Yet, Chagorath was the bigger and taller man with reach and weight to match.
Maybe Savrian could use that. Yes. He could use that.
Savrian waited, watching for the shift in the brute’s shoulder, in his hips, a twist in the torso. The muscles in his left thigh clenched as Chagorath shifted his weight. Another charge.
Chagorath barged in and Savrian spun away, allowing the axe to come close but not quite bite repeatedly. Allowing the stupid beast to feel like he was in control. Savrian watched his opponent’s grunting, impatient face, waiting for just the right moment.
Then pain shot through Savrian’s knee and he stumbled. Horrifyingly, the elixir was wearing off. The axe swooped in, the serrated edge ripping through Savrian’s breastplate and slicing across his ribs. Pain seared through him, enlivening his dulling senses. He shuddered in ecstasy, staggering on weak legs.
‘Cut me again,’ Savrian breathed, steadying himself.
Stepping back, his scarred face etched with revulsion, Chagorath tightened his guard.
‘Why not?’ Savrian shouted, grinning manically.
He flicked his blade at Chagorath’s face, a quick feint. Reflexively, not wanting to be touched, the beast snapped his axe up. Savrian sliced his blade down through Chagorath’s weapon hand, sending fingers and axe spinning away. Roaring, Chagorath backhanded him with a meaty fist, catching Savrian full across the head.
Savrian crashed to the ground, Malisette disappearing into the ooze. The world wobbled and spun in a ruddy blur, his breathing too loud in his ears.
Chagorath crashed onto him and grabbed him by the throat with both hands, bloody nubs digging in.
‘Die, you disgusting wretch,’ Chagorath hissed.
Savrian flailed, scrabbling at the red bulk on top of him. The cartilage of his throat cracked. His lungs burned, his veins throbbed. Spots flickered over his vision, his skull straining as if it was going to burst. He tore at Chagorath’s iron grip but it was like rock.
With a last gasp, Savrian rammed his thumb into Chagorath’s glaring right eye. Jelly burst and the man howled, rearing back. His deadly grip loosened and Savrian sucked in the coppery air, made sweet by suffocation.
He slammed the heel of his hand into Chagorath’s jaw, snapping his head back. Blood spurted as the beast bit through his tongue. A flicker caught Savrian’s eye: Malisette. The Khornate lord toppled sideways like a felled tree and Savrian lunged towards his weapon. Chagorath grabbed his ankle, jerking him back bodily. Snarling, Savrian kicked him in the face, crushing his nose.
Chagorath released him. Weaving on his knees like a drunk, he struggled to rise.
Coughing painfully through a battered throat, Savrian staggered to his feet, his sabre in hand.
Loathing boiled in Savrian as he turned towards his weakened foe. This was the man who had ruined his life. A man who had slaughtered his first wife and all her court. The man who had stolen his son, brutalised him, told him his heritage was nothing. The man who had saddled Savrian with a mountain of regrets.
‘You fought well,’ Chagorath slurred.
‘You did not,’ Savrian said, his lip curling. ‘Go to Slaanesh and feed her appetites as best you can.’
With a two-handed swing, Savrian cut up through Chagorath’s skull, the ancient blade shearing through teeth and then bone. No skull for the skull throne. The god of commoners would receive nothing. The corpse crashed into the muck.
Savrian looked up at the silent crowd. Now was the moment of truth. Who did they hate more?
The Khornates did not look at him; instead they glowered sidelong at their neighbours. Fingers caressed hammers and axes. Lips curled into snarls. Soft growls rumbled in cracked throats. Armour clanked as barbarians shifted.
Someone screamed, a ragged, desperate cry. A man turned and slammed his axe into the guts of his neighbour. Blood flew. A towering brute with a flaming hammer smashed a man out of his way only to be beheaded in turn. The cry of ‘Blood for the Blood God!’ boomed.
With a great roar, the cultists ripped into each other with stunning ferocity, Savrian and his cohort forgotten. Savrian grinned in triumph: he had bet true.
Yet, out of the corner of his eye, Savrian thought he saw the great idol of Khorne smile.
‘Verigon!’ Savrian said, looking across the arena for his son.
The battle surged across the arena, a sea of blood-soaked bodies thrashing through the gore. Savrian glimpsed Verigon before his son hurled himself into the melee with a roar. Cursing, Savrian slashed his way through the crowd, but it was like swimming against a tide. A painful hitch lodged itself in his right shoulder. He was losing his edge, but he could not leave.
A mass of armoured brutes coalesced around him and a throwing axe came whistling in.
Then Issaya bolted out of the crowd and slapped the throwing axe to the ground. She charged, her knives flickering. Agonised screams followed her as she crippled her foes. However, her thirst for pain led her deeper into the crowd and when Savrian ordered her to fall back, she ignored him. Savrian could only watch as axes hacked her down. Grinding his teeth in frustration, Savrian fought on. While they took his best followers, it seemed their numbers were endless.
‘Husband, we should go,’ Cirine said, flitting to him. Covered in gore, her gown in tatters, Cirine’s eyes were wide with fear.
‘I cannot find Verigon,’ he said, barely glancing at her.
‘But–’ she said.
‘My love, this will all be for nothing if we don’t find him,’ he said.
She pressed her lips together, as if possessed by some sudden doubt.
‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice hard with suspicion.
She opened her mouth to speak but at that moment, Savrian caught sight of Verigon.
‘Verigon!’ Savrian shouted, his sabre singing as he cut through the crowd.
The young man whirled about, his face snarling. He caught himself in mid-swing, pulling back the blow aimed at Savrian’s head. Shuddering with adrenaline, his eyes hard as gems, Verigon glared at him.
‘I was fine,’ he growled.
‘Of course you were,’ Savrian said. ‘It is time to leave.’
Verigon’s eyes narrowed, as if making some calculation. Then he nodded.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We should go.’
They fled from the arena, down into the guts of the complex. The battle thinned into isolated murderous brawlers and flocks of tattered slaves who scattered at the sight of them. All around, the cells were empty, the roar of battle echoing down to them through stone halls. Retracing the path back was easy and the three of them reached the open crack, where fresh air bled through and twilight broke out.
‘Go on,’ Savrian said. ‘See that small beach?’ Verigon nodded. ‘That is where we are headed.’
Verigon slipped through and began the laborious climb down, his movements confident if lacking a certain grace. As Savrian prepared to go through himself, Cirine caught his arm.
‘My love, I do not trust him,’ she said.
&n
bsp; Savrian paused, looking at her hand on his arm.
‘He is my son,’ Savrian said. ‘He listens to me, he remembers me. I know he is not that promising now. But give me time. I can teach him.’
‘He listens but does not hear,’ she replied. ‘He remembers but does not care. He does not want to be saved, my love. He is manipulating you and has been from the beginning.’
Cirine was a clever woman and deeply perceptive. Yet, what she suggested was preposterous, even paranoid. Then he recognised her true motive. It was jealousy, a scenario that had played out many times. While he had tolerated her possessiveness in the past because it amused him, this had to be ended now.
‘Your desires do not trump mine,’ Savrian growled, grabbing a fistful of her hair. ‘My whims are absolute. I recommend that you get used to his presence. I desire that he returns to us, so he shall.’
‘All I am saying is to be careful,’ Cirine whispered.
‘My sweet, I recommend you take your own advice,’ Savrian hissed.
She looked away from him and Savrian knew he had won. He released her and then slipped out of the Bastion into the clean air. The climb down was much worse than the climb up. Savrian’s joints ground together. His skin felt like that of a corpse, stretched dry over his bones. Colour faded, sound muddled. Once he reached the beach, bone-deep exhaustion dragged him down onto his knees. All the dreadful years fell back upon his shoulders.
‘Father?’ Verigon said, sounding concerned. He walked towards Savrian and then suddenly stopped, wary.
‘It’s nothing,’ Savrian said, breathing hard. ‘It will pass. We will go home, and I will teach you the joys of Slaanesh. Things I should have taught you years ago.’
Savrian took out a small silver flute on a chain around his neck. When he blew on it, there was no sound. However, the captain of his ship would hear it and come for them.
Savrian turned inward, drowning in his misery. Cirine crept over to him and hovered, her gaze fixed on Verigon.
Suddenly, sand churned and Cirine screamed. Savrian staggered, struggling to rise. An axe was stuck deep in Cirine’s flesh. Some Khornate had found them, some brute lingered out here. Savrian froze.
Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley Page 24
