by Warhammer
‘It’s… more complicated than you think.’
Through the roof openings the hall was lit by a sudden gleam from the sliver of the red moon – the Blood Orb, it was often called in the vale. Kexas flinched and looked up, as if suddenly under scrutiny. He shook his head, deciding against voicing whatever thoughts were plaguing him.
‘We’ll help each other,’ said Threx. He didn’t know what was happening, but he did understand that Kexas hadn’t immediately raised the alarm. ‘I want to help my father too, to let him see through the fog my mother’s casting upon him.’
Kexas sagged, relenting to whatever troubles filled his mind.
‘It’s worse than you can know,’ the Keeper of the Pyre confessed. ‘It is not a curse from your mother that hexes the Ashen King, but the knowledge of impending disaster.’
‘What disaster?’
‘The Pyre does not burn.’
Threx took a heartbeat to absorb this, and then shook his head.
‘Just the other day it was hot. You told me the bodies of the herd guards had been offered to the flames.’
‘And they were. But the flames are a trick.’ Kexas trembled and the admission came flooding from him in an urgent whisper. ‘Not for years has the Pyre burned true. When he discovered this, your father, mother and I came up with a solution. It was meant to be temporary, while we rectified our deficiencies with the flame. There is a room sealed off below the hall, filled with pure oils from Aspirian. Its breath burns hot like the Pyre. When I make the incantations, I operate the mechanism that lets out the breath of the oils, and it is these that ignite.’
‘A trick?’ Threx’s breath came short as the implications raced through his brain. ‘Then you’ve been lying to us for years! Our offerings… We are broken from the Asha Vale! Abandoned!’
‘Keep your voice–’
‘I hear you, Threx.’ The voice of the Ashen King drifted along the dim hall, heavy with weariness. ‘You are not wrong.’
Days passed. The painter did not count them but was aware of their coming and going by the continuing expansion of his work across the walls of the cave.
He was exhausted. His eyes were agony as he climbed out into the light, and his shoulders were knots of solid pain. The passion still burned inside but an even older instinct, the need to live, drove him out into the world of air and light. He had subsisted, a mouthful of water when needed, the most meagre intake of food. It was not enough. His strength was failing and the work was not complete.
It would serve nobody if he died before the task was done.
Staggering into the light, peering through fingers calloused by long work, the painter took a deep breath free from woodsmoke.
He looked around, absorbing the scene that surrounded him, taking a moment of peace from the reconnection with the sky and forest. Flies buzzed over the corpse-pile down the slope. The swish of the wind in the trees tugged at his tired thoughts. Overhead, perched on the rocks above, a red crow let forth its cawing cry.
A shiver ran through the painter. At first, he thought it simply a reaction to the breeze after the stifling confinement of the cavern.
Realisation brought another cold, creeping sensation.
When he had awakened the mound with the gor-man’s blood it had cast a pall of dread upon the area. Not since then had bird or beast or gor-folk dared approach the blood-veined rocks at the summit.
He turned and looked at the red crow, perched uncaring on a jag of dark stone.
Overhead the rest of the flock whirled, unafraid.
Even the flies on the corpses…
If these small creatures dared the aura of the ancient stones, what of the gor-folk? Did they sense the same change as the lesser beasts?
His eyes snapped back to the treeline in expectation of seeing shadows there, a gathering warherd intent on revenge.
What had gone wrong? Why had the power of the bloodstones waned?
He hurried up the hillside, thoughts of water and food driven away in the need of the moment. Glancing back over his shoulder as if he might see the first of the gor-folk venturing from the woods, he scrambled over rough dirt and clawed past thorny vines that hooked at his skin.
Throat tight, heart thudding against his ribs, the painter reached the summit and all but threw himself between the gatepost rocks into the basin within.
The light of the skull rune had faded away. He could see the slender channels where the blood had run, but they were bereft of immortal gleam. Panicked, he dashed back to the opening to look down the mound once more, convinced the gor-folk would be upon him at any time.
He started to pace, following the outside of the rocky depression, eyes scanning back and forth across the ground for a sign of what to do.
Blood.
Blood had awakened the ancient rocks. Blood was needed to sustain it.
He did not like the idea of trying to lure one of the gor-folk back to the summit, nor did he rate his chances at besting such a creature even if he was able to bring it to the place of sacrifice.
Another idea emerged through the froth of his thoughts, but it would mean going back to the woods. Closer to the gor-folk.
For a short while fear warred with desperation. Perhaps the gor-folk would not notice the rock had lost that aura of malice? Brutish and superstitious, they would still be cowed by the event that had sent them fleeing.
A fool’s hope.
He started towards the ring of stone, reasoning that if he was going to be killed by the gor-folk it might as well happen in the woods as on the mound. Bolstered by this false bravery he hurried back down the slope, turning to the right away from the cave so that he came to the woods on the other side of the immense hill.
He found the old game trails easily enough and followed the first until he came upon an old trap. It was empty, though a smear of fur and blood on the surrounding dried leaves testified to its previous state.
If it had been the gor-folk that had found the trapped animal they would doubtless have found the others and his quest would be in vein.
He wanted to scurry back to the cavern, to return to the dark existence beneath the world. He had survived before, he would survive again… A feeling of failure nagged at him. Sustaining the bloodstones was more than a matter of personal protection. There was a purpose in everything, a reason why he and the gor-folk had been led to that place and the blood had been spilt.
It was part of the unfolding events that he was meant to herald.
Swallowing back his fear, he crept through the woods. The next three traps were also empty, another showing signs of being plundered by an animal or gor-folk.
The fourth held a furred corpse, a tree rat a little bigger than his fist. He carefully opened the snare, eyes darting first one way and then another as he did so. Pulling the dead creature free, he broke into a run, heading straight back up the hillside.
His leg muscles burned by the time he reached the top, the day’s activities the most he had moved in many days. Cramp gnawed at his left calf but he pushed on, hissing breaths through gritted teeth, the dead rat clutched like a trophy in his blistered paint-stained fingers.
He reached the top and circled the stones until he came upon the entranceway. Rat gripped tight, he advanced into the bowl, expecting to find the gor-folk within, lying in wait.
It was empty, the wind sighing over the rocks, but no other sound.
Striding to the centre of the carved rune, he realised that he had not brought his spear, nor the small flint blade he used to scrape pigment into his pots. He had no way of slashing open the rat to let the vital fluid free.
Without hesitation, he bit the neck of the small beast, blackened teeth tearing at skin and flesh. It took two more attempts to rip open the throat.
A thin dribble of cold liquid rewarded his efforts, falling in a few drops upon the stone ground.
He watched, alert for any sign of acceptance.
Nothing happened.
He waited a little longe
r. It was not a lot of blood, after all.
Still nothing happened.
Falling to his knees, he squeezed the rat between his fists like a slave wringing dirty water from a cloth. He smeared the blob of gristle and matted fur back and forth across the rune, breaking bones inside its fragile body.
Not even a glimmer of response.
Scraping the drying blood from his fingers on the ground, he muttered and begged, issuing wordless entreaties to something he did not understand.
Slumping forward, head against the blood-spattered rune, he groaned and moaned, tortured by the utter failure. He was not sure what power he had failed, but he knew that without the bloodstones awake all of his labours would be no more than the daubings of a madman in a dark cave.
Blood!
He sprang to his feet and hobbled back to the cave mouth, limbs tense and protesting. He barely glanced at the trees now, almost wishing for the gor-folk to come, to end his misery.
He came to the cave and the concealed crack where he stored his weapons. He reached first for the knife – small and practical. He stopped short of closing his fingers around the handle. The same instinct that guided his hand when he painted stopped him short of picking up the blade. He remembered that he was part of the painting, in a way he did not quite understand. The ritual and image was as important as the act.
He wondered what the painting of this moment would look like and his hand moved away from the knife.
Taking his spear from its hiding spot, he used it as a walking staff to make the journey to the summit one more time. The sun was heading towards the trees when he reached the bloodstones and with a pang of hunger he understood that most of the day had already passed. He was convinced that when darkness came the gor-folk would venture onto the mound to wreak vengeance against the one that had humiliated them.
Regaining the summit once more, the painter dragged his weary body to the centre of the stone circle. His foray to the surface had been instigated by the need to find sustenance but now it required all the will he could muster to remain standing. The dread-inspired surge of energy that had sustained him had evaporated like tears in the midday scorch.
Hands shaking from weariness and apprehension, he held the spear in one hand, the nocked head held over a crack of the skull rune. Licking dried lips, he held the point to his chest and took a breath. He knew better than to draw the uneven blade across wrist or hand – too deep and he would die, or sever the tendons that he needed to paint. It was blood he offered, not his life or the meaning of his existence.
He felt the bite of iron on flesh and gritted his teeth as he pulled the tip down, scoring a shallow cut the length of his pectoral. Blood oozed from the wound and he recalled how little he had drunk over the last days.
Under his desperate glare crimson drops slid along the edge of the blade and then dripped to the ground, pattering like rain in the desert upon the barren glyph carved into the rock. He mouthed a silent invocation to the power that had created this place, unsure to whom the entreaty was addressed, nor of the words that were meant to be used to draw its attention.
The blood soaked into the narrow channel.
And nothing happened.
Frustration and despair ripped free as a howl that clawed at his dry throat. Spent in body and mind, the painter let the spear fall from his fingers and collapsed, wracked with sobs.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Slowing just as he came upon the queen’s pavilion, so that he might catch his breath, Athol noticed that there were more guards present than usual. Many more. The words of Khibal Anuk came back to him, warning of intrigues within the court. Athol flexed his shoulders and loosened his grip on the spear, ready for any trouble. He encountered nothing more than passive glances as he passed into the side entrance of the grand pavilion. Rosati was again waiting for him, and silently held out a hand to stop him proceeding through the drapery to the main chamber. He ducked back through the curtains and a few moments later Orhatka appeared, dressed in his full regalia of white robe and black leather apron.
He held a finger to his lips to quell the question Athol was about to ask, gesturing for the warrior to accompany him back out of the tent.
‘Williarch had friends. Allies, I mean. Powerful ones in Bataar.’
‘How could news of what’s occurred reached Bataar?’ A thought occurred to Athol. ‘Was this emissary despatched before the trial? Accompanying Williarch’s caravan?’
‘Mystical allies,’ Orhatka clarified. ‘One of these sorcerers has come to the queen to demand explanation of what has happened.’
Athol stepped back, wary of the conversation’s direction.
‘Where is Williarch? And why do you need me?’
‘His sentence has not yet been carried out. He remains imprisoned in the royal city.’ Orhatka glanced back, a nervous mood that Athol had never seen in him before. ‘The emissary has demanded to see you, the one that fought Williarch’s champion.’
‘And the queen simply agreed? What does the emissary want?’
A sudden fear gripped Athol, thinking of Serleon who he had guided back to his camp. The outlander had seemed like a good man, and had been entertaining company. What if that had been a ruse? Had he invited a terrible enemy into the midst of his people?
Brought them to his family?
‘We acted within the law,’ said Orhatka, though it seemed his words were intended as much for himself as Athol. ‘Williarch stole the whitehorns, justice will be served.’
The lawsmith turned back towards the pavilion but Athol grabbed his arm.
‘I’ve never seen you scared,’ said the Khul chieftain. ‘Is the queen all right? What are you afraid of?’
‘Sorcerers,’ replied Orhatka, pulling his arm free. The word sent a shiver of apprehension through Athol. Magic was a fact of life, but the Khul did not trust those that delved too deeply into its secrets. Raw sorcery was innately deceptive and somehow underhand.
‘That’s a start,’ continued the lawsmith. ‘And possible war with Bataar.’
‘Why would anyone in Bataar care what happens to Williarch?’ said Athol, shrugging, mastering his unease with affected nonchalance. ‘One rotten merchant? If he was so rich and important, he’d not be stealing whitehorns.’
‘Enough powerful people are taking an interest, and the longer that… messenger is here, the worse it will be, I’m sure of it.’
Orhatka strode away, leaving Athol irritated and apprehensive in equal measure. Not only the lawsmith’s tone alarmed him; his whole demeanour was askew from what Athol knew of the man. And his awkwardness when he mentioned the emissary. What did that mean?
Athol drew in a long breath through his nose, closing his eyes for several heartbeats. I am Khul, he reminded himself.
Spear in hand, he followed the lawsmith, and pushed through the drapes directly into the audience chamber.
As always, his eye went first to the queen, sat in calm repose upon her low stool, arranged and garbed as for all engagements. She turned at his entrance, itself enough of a disruption to the normal routine to cause him concern. It took him a moment to realise that she was not wearing her veil.
Her brown eyes regarded him directly, the first time he had ever looked upon them. It was jarring, to see such human features. In a way, he had always considered Humekhta as the Prophet-Queen, something more than just a normal person. To look upon her eyes seemed to rob her of that power. He saw a moment of relief, swiftly followed by sadness, stirring his own mood to a simmering anger. Humekhta was being deliberately humiliated, and he would see that the perpetrator would pay for the crime.
‘No weapon will be borne in my presence.’ The voice that spoke was high-pitched and harsh, as though a crow had been given speech. It was impossible to tell if the speaker was man or woman, or neither. There was a trace of an accent, impossible to place, but the words were perfectly spoken. Their meaning made Athol realise what else was wrong with the scene.
The queen was unarme
d. The Jagged Blade of Aridian was not at her side as was tradition. Looking around the room, he saw that there were no guards within – they had all been sent outside.
The source of the voice was a tall, gaunt figure standing almost directly opposite Athol. The messenger wore robes that reached the ground, three layers of bright purple, sky blue and a darker night blue, embroidered with small flames in golden thread around the hem, and cuffs. The hood was drawn up but a narrow chin, thin lips and hollow cheeks were visible. The skin was sallow, deeply lined with age.
‘I am the nakar-hau, spear-carrier of Queen Humekhta the Third.’ Athol knelt and presented the weapon to her. ‘I and the spear are one.’
‘Do as the emissary says.’ Orhatka stood beside the queen, hands behind his back.
‘I cannot,’ said Athol, standing up. ‘I vowed to protect the queen’s honour at all times. Without the spear I renounce the role of nakar-hau. As lawsmith you should know that.’
‘We’ll waive the technicalities, for the moment,’ insisted Orhatka, frown deepening.
‘I will not be disarmed.’
‘This is the one that fought Williarch’s champion?’ The emissary stepped forward. Fingers more like bird claws slid out of the robe sleeves, the talons painted with bright yellow, the skin as withered as the face. ‘Truly he has the Realm of Fire in his blood.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. But I defeated Serleon. Williarch was caught stealing the whitehorns on Aridian lands. His punishment is just.’
‘He is Bataari, not Aridian. He will return to face punishment by his own people.’
‘That seems a reasonable–’ began Orhatka, but Athol cut him off.
‘These are Aridian lands, and Aridian law guards them. The same law that protects you now, messenger.’
There was movement behind the queen, and Khibal Anuk came forward from the crowd of courtiers that had been standing in cowed silence towards the back of the chamber.
‘Athol, there are matters which you are not privy to,’ said the Sigmar-tongue. ‘This is not a trial, of our guest or you.’
‘Untrue,’ said the strange ambassador. ‘Your tame warrior has threatened me, and as I understand it he threatened the life of my ward, Williarch. Threats of violence are uncivilised.’
