by Warhammer
‘Williarch chose trial by arms, as the law allows,’ said Athol. Tame, the messenger had called him. The Bataari knew nothing of Athol, but the insult was clear. ‘You seem confused, visitor. I am Khul, not Aridian, and I am not afraid of you. Forget Williarch, go back to Bataar and prosper.’
‘The spear-carrier does not speak for us,’ Orhatka said quickly, earning himself a look of contempt from the queen. ‘Does not speak for Queen Humekhta.’
Khibal Anuk held up his hands, trying to temper the sour mood.
‘Everything is as arranged,’ said the priest of the Hammer-God. ‘You have spoken with Williarch and seen Athol Khul. There is no need for further interference.’
‘Interference?’ The emissary turned slowly, a gleam of blue from beneath the shadowy cowl. Just one, on the left, Athol noted. ‘I stop a swarm of savages from staking out Williarch to die in the wilds, and you accuse me of interference. What right have you to order the death of my ally?’
Khibal Anuk stood his ground, though he swallowed hard and his gaze wavered from the unnatural pinprick of light beneath the hood.
‘Athol is correct, the laws of Aridian hold in this chamber.’
There was another disturbance as the main drapes parted and two armoured Aridians entered, escorting Williarch between them.
‘Why is he here?’ Athol demanded.
‘I ordered it,’ said the herald, beckoning to the criminal merchant. Williarch moved up to the emissary, standing slightly behind the tall figure, shielding himself behind his superior.
‘I did not command this.’ Humekhta stood up, fists clenched, an angry glare for Orhatka. ‘I will not be disrespected in my own court.’
‘Sit down,’ hissed the herald. Williarch grinned from behind the strange figure, the same expression he had worn before the trial when he had thought Serleon could not lose.
Athol was eager to disappoint him a second time
‘I will not repeat myself,’ the messenger said, flicking a finger towards Humekhta. Athol gritted his teeth while the queen reluctantly lowered back to the stool, her jaw clenched, lip curled.
‘You understand, now?’ Williarch crowed. ‘My whitehorns were for the Tithe.’
A ripple of gasps and Humekhta’s horrified expression confirmed that the Aspirians knew what Williarch was talking about, though Athol did not.
‘You did not say as such,’ Khibal Anuk said, one hand reaching to his hammer medallion. ‘There was no reason to take what would have been freely given.’
A sly smile crossed Williarch’s lips but he said nothing.
‘Your collector said nothing of his patrons,’ protested Orhatka, looking at the messenger.
‘You have withheld due payment.’ The emissary moved forward as though gliding across the floor, heading towards the queen.
Athol took a step but no Aridians moved.
‘I do not understand what is happening here, but if you mean any harm, I will kill you.’
The messenger spun slowly on the spot, rubbing a finger and thumb together. The entrance drapes had not closed properly after Williarch’s arrival and a shaft of light illuminated the interior of the hood for an instant.
The face was little more than skin hanging on a skull, a curl of greasy black hair across the wrinkled forehead. Athol saw two eyes, one a normal bloodshot orb with dark pupil and green iris. The other was empty, impossibly deep, a light within like a star in a barren sky. The light glimmered purple and green and every other colour, entrancing and frightening.
The Khul stood his ground, lowering the point of his spear a fraction towards the stranger. He felt an odd heat from its haft, making his palm sweat, and resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his tunic.
‘Your threats are misplaced and pointless,’ the emissary told him. The stranger returned attention to Humekhta. ‘You have failed to pay the Tithe.’
There were groans and protests from others, but Humekhta did not waver, matching the messenger’s stare with her own. Only a tremor of her hands in her lap betrayed her suppressed emotion.
‘Failure to pay will bring a punitive cost.’ The messenger directed its next words to Williarch. ‘Twice as many whitehorns.’
‘Yes, Tithemaster,’ the Bataari said with a nod of the head.
‘That’s too much,’ declared Khibal Anuk. ‘We’ll not have enough milk or meat if you take half our herd.’
‘Your protest is unwelcome,’ creaked the Tithemaster. ‘As well as the whitehorns, you shall deliver up thirty of your people for service in the Glittering Pinnacle.’
‘None older than ten sun-seasons,’ added Williarch with a sadistic gleam in his eye. ‘Better to train when young.’
‘No.’ Athol couldn’t believe that no one else had confronted the Tithemaster. The demands were inhuman, as he expected the messenger was. ‘You take nothing.’
‘It is already decided,’ said the Tithemaster without turning around. A fingernail cut a strange shape in the air, a glittering trail left in its wake. The sigil faded and in its place the Tithemaster held a slate as black as midnight, runes of fire carved upon it.
‘And he,’ declared Williarch, thrusting a finger at Athol. ‘This one new champion for I.’
‘No.’
‘Chains and whips make powerful argument,’ said the Bataari. ‘Change mind soon.’
‘He is my spear-carrier,’ announced Humekhta. ‘He is of the Khul, not Aridian. He cannot be part of the payment.’
‘Whitehorns not Aridians,’ argued Williarch. ‘Still part of Tithe.’
‘Agreed,’ intoned the Tithemaster. Its fingernail scratched three fresh runes upon the slate, which then lifted from its palm and arced across the chamber towards Humekhta. Orhatka intercepted it, grasping it in a shaking hand.
Humekhta looked at Athol, her eyes moist, lips pursed in regret. She seemed helpless and it was this more than anything that caused his anger to boil over.
‘No!’
Two bounding steps brought him within striking distance of the Tithemaster. Yet even as he drew back his hands for the blow, the messenger moved, seeming to melt aside.
The spear gleamed as though fresh from the Last Forge as its tip struck Williarch in the chest. The trader’s expression was one of smugness turning to shock, which quickly slackened as the tip of Athol’s spear erupted from his back.
Blood racing through his veins, every sense screaming at him, the spear-carrier pulled his weapon free and turned in one motion, ignoring Williarch’s corpse as it fell to the ground pumping a fountain of blood from the remains of its heart.
The emissary raised a hand, flickers of purple fire dancing between the curved talons. The flames left afterglow scurrying across Athol’s vision, almost blinding him. The lips within the hood, thin bloodless things, twisted into a sneer while the hand thrust forward. The sparks of fire expanded, becoming one, melding together in a heartbeat before roaring towards Athol.
The Khul reacted without thought. The spear tip swung to meet it, its blade slashing the fireball in two. The separated flames guttered to nothing and disappeared before they reached Athol. The spearpoint was bright now, the runes in the metal pulsing with energy while the blood of Williarch congealed around them.
The emissary let out a screech and raked claws at Athol’s face, forcing him to duck. He dodged left and right, eluding each following blow. The gaunt figure lunged again and again, forcing Athol back a step at a time, angling his retreat to place himself between the sorcerer and Humekhta. The eye within the hood swirled with power, mesmerising and terrifying.
Athol raised the spear again, just in time to ward away another burst of magical fire.
‘Where did you get that weapon?’ snarled the Tithemaster, seeking to snatch the spear from Athol’s grasp.
He made no reply, but slashed upwards with the tip, aiming for his foe’s throat. An arm blocked the blade, which cut the robes but stopped with a jarring impact as though striking armour. Serpent-quick, the Tithemaster lashed out talo
ns once more, almost taking Athol’s eye. Reeling back, he fended off two more strikes, spear tip and claws showering multicoloured sparks to the ground.
Everyone else had been rooted to the spot, silenced by dread, but Khibal Anuk surged forward, his Hammer-God talisman clutched in his fist, the chain wrapped around the knuckles. The blow struck the Tithemaster in the side of the head with an explosion of light, hurling both emissary and Sigmar-tongue away from each other. Khibal Anuk fell heavily, face twisted in pain. The Tithemaster rolled and skidded, a flap of robe revealing strangely avian feet before it stood up.
Fresh sorcerous fire burned across the creature’s fingers. Athol was aware that if he dodged the next blast Humekhta was behind him.
Athol had been taught since his earliest memories never to discard a weapon, but in desperation he took a pace and hurled his spear at the emissary. It seemed to leave a black tear in its wake, arrowing for the chest of the emissary.
At the last instant the Tithemaster slapped the spear away with the flat of a hand. Black flame burst from the weapon’s head as it clattered to the ground. For an instant Athol’s foe recoiled, sparks dribbling from its palm like blood. Hissing, the emissary bounded forward again, talons glinting with iridescent sparks. Athol leapt sideways, guarding Khibal Anuk as he rolled groaning on the floor. It mattered not; the Tithemaster was intent on the spear-carrier, the golden-spiral of its eye fixed upon him.
Talons slashed down.
At the last possible moment Athol twisted, trusting to his breastplate to weather the blow. Claws raked furrows through the bronze, their tips lacerating the flesh beneath. Snarling, Athol pulled free Marolin’s half-sword from where it still hung on his belt. The blade leapt up to carve a line across the wrinkled throat of the emissary.
Both staggered back from each other. Athol’s blood spilled through his armour. The Tithemaster clasped a hand to its wound. Black blood gushed between its fingers.
Bursting forward with a yell, ignoring the surge of pain in his chest, Athol threw himself at the emissary, driving his blade deep into its ribs. They fell together, Athol on top, and he felt it crumple beneath him. The mystical eye stared at him from within the hood, the claws of one hand scratching at his helm, trying to find his flesh.
All of a sudden, the robes emptied, pitching Athol to the floor while a shadowy smoke billowed from the cowl. The smog glinted with motes of purple and blue, speeding without wind towards the entrance flaps.
‘Stop it!’ commanded Humekhta, pointing, but the guards were slow and the magical cloud vanished into the open air before they reacted.
The warriors followed through the drapes, but one returned a few heartbeats later, her expression sour.
‘Gone,’ she reported. ‘Heading west.’
A stunned silence ensued while everyone took in what had happened. Athol retrieved his spear. It felt hot in his grip but even lighter than before. The tip continued to throb with ruddy power. He moved to help Khibal Anuk.
‘I think I broke a rib,’ groaned the Hammer-blessed.
‘Thank you for your help,’ said Athol.
‘What have you done?’ Orhatka stalked forward, eyes narrowed. He raised the tablet the emissary had created. ‘You’ve doomed us all, you bloodthirsty savage!’
‘I just saved you,’ Athol retorted between gritted teeth.
‘You have angered the Tithemasters,’ the lawsmith continued. He pointed at Williarch’s corpse. ‘Killed one of their own. Assaulted an emissary.’
‘What of it?’ Athol was in considerable pain and had no more patience for the ingrates of Humekhta’s court. ‘I protected your queen when you cowards did nothing.’
‘Without your threats she would not have been in danger,’ someone called from behind the throne, answered by a murmur of agreement from the other courtly guests.
‘The Tithemasters have visited us for generations,’ Orhatka said, eyes moving between Athol and Humekhta. ‘They are a terrible foe. You saw what the emissary was capable of! An army of sorcerous warriors, hailing from a floating citadel known as the Glittering Pinnacle.’
‘You’ve incurred their wrath, all for a few hundred whitehorns,’ ventured another noble. She looked terrified, face pale, hands wringing at the belt of her robe.
‘And your children,’ Athol reminded them.
‘Only after your provocation,’ spat Orhatka. ‘It’ll be Aridian lives they will take as payment now. None resist the Tithemasters and survive.’
‘The Khul will fight them with you,’ Athol announced. He glanced at Khibal Anuk. ‘The Khul are not afraid.’
‘He’s right,’ said the Sigmar-tongue. ‘This was not the Tithemaster of our predecessors’ times. Williarch was determined to provoke confrontation.’
‘And you gave him exactly what he wanted,’ said Orhatka.
Athol glanced at the cooling body of the Bataari.
‘I don’t think he’s gloating now, do you?’
The lawsmith turned his attention to Humekhta.
‘There is only one way to redeem ourselves,’ he said, eyes fixed upon her. ‘We must give them what they demand, including Athol Khul.’
‘We should fight,’ said Khibal Anuk. He approached his sister, hand held to his injured side. ‘I don’t think they are interested in payment. That Tithemaster will want vengeance.’
‘How? How do we fight a fortress that rains fire from above?’ demanded Orhatka. ‘How do we defeat an army armoured in magic, that can heal mortal wounds, whose blades cut through the heaviest plate?’
‘With steel, and faith, and with the help of others,’ replied the hammer-blessed. ‘The Khul will aid us, and so will more.’
Orhatka stepped closer, voice dropping.
‘Give them the Khul. It was Athol that started this war, his people should pay this price.’
Athol took a pace, growling, but Khibal Anuk intervened, putting a hand on his arm to restrain him. The spear-carrier looked at the queen he had served without fail.
‘Together we can defeat these filthy Tithemasters.’
Humekhta looked at him and then Orhatka, visibly strained.
‘Save your words,’ snapped Athol when her decision was not immediate. ‘If you have to think about it, then the choice is made against the Khul.’
‘Athol…’ started Khibal Anuk, but the spear-carrier turned without acknowledging the Sigmar-tongue.
He raised his spear in case any tried to bar his path. Orhatka shouted to the guards but they answered only to the orders of their queen and stepped back to allow Athol past. He heard the lawsmith’s protests growing stronger as he ducked beneath the drapes.
He was surprised to find it light outside. It was mid-afternoon, but he felt that events should have taken place in darkness. He signalled to one of the guards.
‘Fetch me a mount,’ he called.
‘I thought the Khul did not ride,’ the man answered.
‘Today, I will,’ replied Athol.
He would ride, and ride as swift as his inexperience would allow. There was one other servant of the Tithemasters still alive, and he was in the camp of the Khul.
When he awoke, the painter felt the coolness of shadows. Opening an eye, he saw that the sun had almost set, plunging the basin into near-dark.
The cut on his chest throbbed and the reminder of his failure stabbed him with equal pain. Rolling to his back, he looked up at the dark blue sky. He watched the wandering moons for a short while, listening to the distant wind on the treetops, feeling the slow beat of his heart like the pulse of the universe.
It was not long before the memories of his visions emerged again, pushing aside any hope of peace or reflection. Half-heard screams and the blurred spray of blood played out through his thoughts. The beat of his heart was now the thunder of war drums, the tramp of millions of feet, the crash of falling walls.
Among the remembered tumult he heard a scraping noise, like stone on stone. And panting.
He sat up, pulse quickening, just as
the first of the gor-folk arrived through the gate stones of the circle. It was as tall as him, skin a mottled white and black, its features more lupine than human. It was the gor’s long claws on the rocks that had alerted him.
A few others emerged, smaller, skittish creatures with short spears and stone knives.
Then the gor-leader strode through the gap, its canine features twisted in a semblance of a vicious smile. A pale scar marked its brow where the stone had split skin. Straightening to its full height, nearly half as tall again as the painter, the wolfish beastman flexed its long, clawed fingers. There was intelligence in the yellow eyes, savouring the painter’s fear.
He scrambled to his feet and leapt for the spear, but the gor-man did not move, allowing him to take up the weapon without interference. The yellow gaze became calculating, taunting the painter. Here was a creature that knew he was no threat, armed or otherwise. A long tongue slid across sharp teeth, a drool of anticipation dribbling from black lips.
The painter stood his ground, the spear held in both hands. He was tired, his body wasted, his thoughts reeling, but he had once been a warrior. Years of training and warring had left their mark, honing instincts that his body remembered even when his mind could not. He started to move, just a gentle sway to the left and then the right, shifting his weight slightly from hip to hip to keep his opponent guessing his intent.
That intent was uncertain. He certainly was not going to attack. Better to goad the dog-man into lunging and hope to meet its charge with the spear tip.
The gor-chief cocked its head to one side, eyes moving in time to the painter’s rhythmic movements. The yellow stare never wavered. Broad shoulders twisted in an unconscious mirror of the painter, matching him with counter-movements.
He was going to die.
It was not so much a realisation as an acceptance of a truth that had existed from the moment he had laid eyes on the first gor to enter the basin. The dread that had propelled him through the day had come to pass. The gor-folk had seen the power of the stones diminished and now they saw he was no sorcerer, laid no claim to any great power. The supplication they had laid before him had been false, the respect unearned.
