Bride of Khaine

by Graeme Lyon

  BRIDE OF KHAINE

  Graeme Lyon

  Season of Blood, Year 223 of the Age of Vengeance

  I am the broken queen of a broken city.

  I sit in my iron throne, in the drab stone chamber at the pinnacle of my tower, and I gaze down through cloudy eyes at the fire and death in the streets below.

  ‘How dare they?’ I whisper through cracked and broken lips, not for the first time. The nerve of the humans, coming into my city and killing my people. Every druchii in Har Ganeth is mine to kill, in Khaine’s name, not theirs.

  I should be down there amongst them, killing the barbarian worshippers of the so-called Blood God and any of my people foolish enough to get between me and them. But I am trapped here. Tonight is Death Night, Khaine’s night, when all across Naggaroth my daughters revel in the worship of the Bloody Handed One, falling upon the unwary and sating their appetites for murder and bloodletting. It is the night upon which I regain my youth and vigour.

  For months now, I have been frail, my skin like parchment and my bones brittle. I am swathed in furs, like many of the savage northmen below, to stave off the cold that chills me to my core. My hair is dry and greying, my vision clouded, my joints arthritic. That is why I am not down there killing. But in just a few hours, the moons will rise and I will bathe in the Cauldron of Blood. I will be strong again, and I will seek revenge upon all that stand in my way.

  I focus on the scrying mirror before me, trying to ignore the hideous reflection that lurks behind the images of carnage. The scene shifts, following my thoughts and seeking a single figure. Seeking my champion.

  ‘My champion…’

  The words were as a whisper on the breeze, but they burned through Tullaris Dreadbringer’s mind with the force of a hurricane. He swung the First Draich, carving through the tattooed torso of a northern savage, and murmured a prayer in reply to the deity who spoke to him. Khaine’s words proved that the god was pleased with the night’s bloodletting – as he had been every day of these past few weeks. Since the Bloodied Horde had fallen upon Har Ganeth, many souls had had been given unto the God of Murder’s embrace.

  Tullaris turned, driving his draich into the throat of a heavily armoured human warrior and tearing it out with a spray of blood. As the daemon-worshipper fell, a pair of goat-headed beastmen, grotesquely furred and clutching crude, broad-bladed axes, took his place. One leapt at the Herald of Khaine, its axe held high. With a quick chop, Tullaris broke the wooden haft of the axe and sliced through the beastman’s wrists with the return stroke. The creature fell back, bleating in agony, while its fellow struck from behind the Executioner, aiming a blow at his neck.

  Tullaris ducked beneath the clumsy attack and lashed out, but the creature evaded the attack, moving faster than the Executioner would have deemed possible for such a hulking brute.

  ‘Impressive, for a savage beast,’ he breathed, swinging out an armoured elbow and catching the Chaos-tainted creature in its throat, crushing its windpipe. It dropped its axe and clutched at its ruined neck. Tullaris turned slowly, driving the point of his draich into the blood-soaked ground and pulling his dagger from its sheath on his belt. As the beastman choked and gasped, the Executioner carved the rune of Khaine into its chest, each stroke slow and precise. It looked up at him, and he marvelled that such barely sentient creatures could be a threat to the lands of men. The weak lesser races were truly pathetic.

  ‘You wonder why I do this, beast,’ he said. He knew it would be unable to understand him, but standards had to be maintained. ‘Were you an elf, I would use the First Draich to do this. But you are not worthy of that blade, the first to be blessed by Khaine himself when my order was founded.’

  Finishing the last stroke, he watched the beastman’s blood well up in the shape of the sacred sigil. He wiped his dagger on the creature’s filthy fur, replaced it in its sheath, and bent close to the asphyxiating warrior.

  ‘No, you are not worthy, scum, but it amuses me to deny your soul, such as it is, to your dark masters. By this mark are you branded as Khaine’s. And when you die, you will belong to him, not to whatever Ruinous Power that drives you. Understand what an honour has been given to you, and how little you deserve it.’

  The beastman clawed frantically at Tullaris’s breastplate. He let it. There was nothing it could do to him. He watched it until the light went out of its eyes.

  ‘Lord Khaine,’ he whispered, ‘I send you this meagre offering, the first of many, on your night, Death Night. Let this be a sign of the compact between us, and lend your strength to me. Let the murders I commit this night be in your name and for your glory.’

  Of course Tullaris is at the heart of the fighting. I would be proud, were it a sort of emotional attachment and not a weakness. I am closer to him than I am to any other living being, but I feel nothing for him. He is useful, a weapon, and nothing more. And yet… It is only at times like this, when I am at my most vulnerable, that I might allow myself to admit that I need him. He is the only druchii I come close to trusting to truly protect me. I know that he is as devoted to Khaine. He hears our lord’s voice, acts with his intent. I wish that I could say the same. I act only for myself, when it comes to it. What I do brings glory to the Bloody Handed One, because murder is his sacrament, but I do it because I enjoy it. Cutting into flesh, hearing the agony in a voice, watching life depart from a mortal shell: these are all that truly bring me pleasure. Death is my life, and the same is true of Tullaris.

  Tullaris stood, pulled the First Draich from the ground and looked around for his next target. Around him, humans and beastmen rampaged through the streets, lit by flickering fires and met by knots of druchii.

  What had begun as a full-scale battle had quickly broken up into innumerable skirmishes, with warbands of marauders and half-men going to ground amongst the rubble and flames. The witch elves of the Khainite cult had proven their worth a thousand times over in the weeks since, the self-sufficiency and savage bloodlust of their creed making such small-scale encounters the natural habitat of the warrior-maidens.

  Tullaris’s own Executioners were no less adept at murder, but had found it a challenge to adapt to this method of war. If any druchii could be truly comfortable with others at their shoulders, it was an Executioner. Over millennia, Tullaris had forged them into a unit, drilled to fight in ranks and rely on the deadly skill of their brethren as much as their own. It had taken them time to become used to the guerrilla war that the situation required.

  The Herald himself had been the exception. He was ever alone, never willing to trust any other – his exalted position in the cult would not allow it. He didn’t even fully trust her.

  Hellebron. He had served her for as long as he could remember, ever since that first Death Night, when Khaine had first spoken to him and he had taken his first life. She had been his life, his mistress, his lover, his queen. It galled him that now, when she was most needed, when her city was aflame and beset by foes, she was not on the streets, not shedding blood in Khaine’s name. He looked up at the peak of her tower, the tallest point in the city, visible from anywhere to emphasise that every elf in Har Ganeth was within her gaze, and her grasp. Was she watching him, Tullaris wondered? Was she revelling in the glory he brought to the cult and the god?

  He is eternally young and strong, my champion. It is further proof, if any were needed, of his connection to our lord. Khaine’s might flows through his veins. I know. I have tasted it. When I am freshly bathed in the Cauldron of Blood and I am strong, we are a formidable pair. None can stand before us, and I revel in the carnage we wreak. But when I am as I am now, I sometimes see something in his eyes, something I do not understand. I have studied it, and I think it is pity. That is an alien emotion to me, but I know he feels it. A w
eakness, for I could exploit it, had I a mind to. That is why I refuse to feel anything for him.

  Tullaris stalked around a corner into a broad, rubble-lined avenue. Khaine’s whispered guidance had led him here through streets lined by tall houses, their doors broken open, brutalised corpses lying where elves had fallen defending their homes. Tullaris had no sympathy. They were weak. The city was stronger without them.

  In the street before him, corpses had been piled up and were aflame, the great pyres casting flickering light over a circle of heavily armoured humans who surrounded a massive figure. The figure stood head and shoulders above any of them, his crimson and gold armour glittering in the glow of the fires. He held a helmet in one hand, skull-faced and adorned with a crest that mimicked the angular rune of his god. His face, savage and bruised, also bore the sigil, in what looked like dried blood. Clearly, this was some mighty northern champion. Tullaris smiled beneath his own skull-faced helmet. The Murder God had led him to a great sacrifice indeed.

  ‘In Khaine’s name, face me, daemon-fondler,’ he shouted. The champion turned, and a grin split his battered and bloodied face. He motioned his warriors aside and, throwing off his helm, lifted a great double-bladed axe from the ground beside him. He strode forward, shouting in his barbaric tongue. The runes on the axe blades writhed in the firelight, as if in anticipation of the battle to come.

  ‘I don’t understand you, scum,’ said Tullaris, ‘but I’ll take that as a yes.’

  The Chaos champion roared and sprang forward, axe raised. Tullaris stood his ground, the First Draich gripped lightly in one hand. As the axe came down, he stepped calmly to the side and swung his weapon in a lazy arc. It sliced into the blood-hued armour of the champion. It was like cutting into flesh, and it sucked at the weapon. Tullaris tried to pull it out, but it was stuck fast.

  The champion barked out a laugh and pulled himself backwards, toppling Tullaris to the muddy ground. The elf rolled as the axe came down again, and kicked out. His foot impacted on an armoured shin and pain ran up his leg.

  ‘Asuryan’s oath,’ he swore and scrambled to his feet. He ducked beneath a wild swipe, grabbed the haft of his draich and heaved. It stayed where it was. He threw himself away from the champion again as the great axe swung at his neck. Desperately, the Herald of Khaine looked around for a weapon. The only ones he could see were in the grip of the eight Chaos warriors who had now surrounded the two combatants. For now, they seemed happy to watch, but if he made a grab for one of their axes or swords, they would no doubt join the fight and the odds would be against him.

  His kind of fight.

  I dismiss the scrying lens. Watching Tullaris fight the daemon-worshippers pleases me, insofar as he is bringing glory to the Bloody Handed One, but I have other matters to attend to. The sun is setting, and I must prepare for the ritual ahead.

  I pull my furs tighter about me and rise from my throne. Pain runs down my back and I stumble. I catch myself on the throne’s arm and wait for a second while a wave of dizziness passes. It is a long walk through the twisting corridors of my palace to the shrine where the Cauldron awaits me. There, my handmaidens will be reciting the ritual prayers and sacrificing worthy druchii. That is how my people should meet their ends, not beneath the crude axes of the humans.

  My heart speeds, thumping hollowly in my chest as I move towards the door. My legs ache, my bones creak and all of me hurts. I need to be strong again. This physical weakness is intolerable. My boots are loud against the stone floor, and the sound draws the attention of the guards, who turn towards me.

  ‘You wish to proceed to the shrine, mistress?’ asks one. I do not know who he is. I have never deigned to learn the names of Tullaris’s Executioners.

  ‘I wish you to find Lord Tullaris,’ I tell him, my voice a dry whisper, like paper crackling in a fire. The two guards exchange a look.

  ‘That… may take some time, my lady,’ says the other. ‘And our lord would be most displeased if we left you unprotected.’

  Anger flares through me, and for a moment it burns away the pain and weakness. ‘You think me too frail and decrepit to defend myself?’ I ask, and the Executioner recoils as if physically struck. Even in this state, they fear my wrath. I am the Bride of Khaine, and I am not to be crossed. I would think nothing of flaying these men alive and using their skins as bedding.

  ‘No, my lady, I–’

  ‘It would displease Lord Tullaris more to find that you were disloyal to the cult, to Khaine,’ I say pointedly. ‘And never forget, your master is my champion. He answers to me.’

  The point is well taken. He would not be the first of Tullaris’s warriors to lose his head to the First Draich on my word. He nods quickly and follows his comrade from the chamber. Slowly and painfully, I leave the chamber in their wake. It takes me a long time – I know not how long – but I pass through chambers and along corridors, and descend a long and spiralling staircase, as the shadows lengthen and darken.

  In a smooth motion, Tullaris drew his dagger and threw it into the throat of one of the watching warriors. He was running before it thudded into the human’s corrupted flesh, and even as the Chaos warrior slumped to the ground, the elf was pulling a thick sword from a fur scabbard. Turning, he lifted it and deflected a blow from the champion’s axe. With a return stroke, he drove the sword’s serrated edge into the haft of the axe, which broke in two. The champion staggered back and Tullaris pressed his attack further. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to parry a blow from a warrior with a third eye in his forehead. With a roar of bloodthirsty joy, he stabbed the blade into the human’s throat and ripped it out of the side of the neck.

  The warrior stood for a moment, blood gouting from the wound, then fell silently, landing face-first in the mud. Tullaris threw his sword aside and scooped up the fallen man’s halberd. He ducked out of the way of a stroke from another warrior’s sword and leapt, raising the halberd over his head.

  ‘For Khaine!’ shouted the Herald as he brought the halberd down on the Chaos champion, splitting his skull in twain. As the champion fell, his armour rotted and shrivelled and the First Draich slid loose into the mud. Tullaris retrieved it, turning to face the first of the six remaining Chaos warriors. The human charged at him, a mace in each hand. The barbarian’s fellows were behind him, weapons and shields raised high.

  This was proving an amusing diversion.

  I enter the concourse that will take me to the Shrine of Khaine, which sits at the very heart of my palace. It exists on a site of great significance, the first place that blood was shed in Naggaroth. That is why it was built there, and why Har Ganeth grew around it. My city, dedicated to murder in every sense.

  I trip, and put out my left arm to arrest my fall. It is a mistake. I feel something snap in my wrist and curse my stupidity. Pain surges through me, along with adrenaline, and I draw the arm close to my chest, cradling it. Pathetic, but I cannot help it.

  It is only then that I see through cloudy eyes what I tripped over. It is one of my handmaidens. Her name is Iulianeth and she has served me for over three hundred years. She has seen me at my best and my worst. She has been privy to my fury and my desires. She has shared my bed more nights than he has not. Now she is dead, and etched upon her features is pain. Terrible, torturous pain of the sort I have seen in countless victims of my displeasure.

  I feel anger, fury at Iulianeth for her weakness. Letting herself be killed is unforgivable. When this is over, I will have her family rounded up and tortured for her failure to serve me.

  Around me, the shadows close in.

  The warriors had fallen after a hard-fought battle. Tullaris had emerged mostly unscathed, though his armour would need repairing where the mace-wielding warrior had dented the breastplate. Tullaris had moved on, continuing to hunt worthy sacrifices, but had found only empty streets and growing shadows. Night was approaching.

  The Herald glanced up at Hellebron’s tower once again. Up there, she would be preparing for th
e Death Night ritual that would return her youth and vigour. He should be there with her, as he had been every year for uncounted centuries. He had not returned to her side for weeks, since the Bloodied Horde had entered the city.

  Her rage had been magnificent, but also strangely pathetic, as her infirmity had made her cough and splutter and fall to her knees even as she was declaring vengeance on all the gods of the Ruinous pantheon. Seeing the Hag Queen like always reminded Tullaris that he was in thrall to someone he could end with a single strong hand, that leadership of the cult could be his if he only reached out and took it. And yet he never did, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.

  Lost in his thoughts, the Herald of Khaine almost missed the movement in the shadows. He spun, the First Draich held in a defensive posture, but there was nothing there. Again, a flicker in his periphery. Another turn, and he saw a movement within the darkness, streamers of umbral matter coalescing into a figure.

  A pair of legs formed first, lithe and muscular. They flowed upwards into a slender torso, which sprouted long arms and a head crowned with a mane of glossy hair. It was a woman, beautiful and cruel looking. In one hand, she carried a long staff topped with three vicious blades. She waved lazily with her other hand and Tullaris’s weapon fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. Another gesture and the Executioner was forced to his knees as she moved towards him.

  She was young, and breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin was as pale as marble, flecked with veins of delicate blue. Her almond eyes fixed on Tullaris’s and he was flooded with memories of nights with Hellebron, but twisted to feature this stranger instead. With an effort, he broke eye contact and the visions vanished like mist in the wind. He looked away from her face and saw a rune tattooed on her stomach. The angular marks represented Ghrond. He knew who this elf was, and he knew who had sent her.

  ‘Morathi,’ Tullaris growled.

  ‘No, my lord Dreadbringer,’ she purred. ‘I am not Morathi, but then that wasn’t really what you were saying, was it?’