by Warhammer
Hand moving with deliberate slowness, the gor-chief slipped its knife from the broad belt around its waist. The painter noticed the edge gleamed, all hint of corrosion removed by whetstone, perhaps in preparation for this exact moment. An act of dedication.
He wondered briefly why the creature bothered with a knife; its claws were as long and sharp as stilettos. Was it an attempt to assert the human side of its hybrid origins? A token of an intelligence that was slowly lost to its monstrous side?
Now that his fear had come to pass the painter found himself calm in the face of his attacker. Perhaps it was simply the mundanity of the threat that failed to live up to his wild imagining of the day just passed. A man-thing with a knife was going to kill him.
Quickly, the painter hoped, but he wondered if there was cruelty in the dog-man that would see him humiliated first. That was a far less pleasant prospect and his hands started to tremble. Torture, his end screaming and ignoble, was something he had not considered. Better to avoid such a fate, he thought, as he edged backwards, moving towards the chasm that split the mound’s summit.
The gor-chief circled left, moving quickly to intercept his course with a shake of the head. The painter faced a moment of decision: sprint and leap into the unknown depths now or surrender the opportunity.
His hesitation made the choice for him, allowing the gor-man to slip between him and the jagged crack. Now he had his back to the other gor-folk but he did not risk a glance towards them. He believed that the leader wanted to make an example, and that others would not interfere by pouncing on his back. This was not a hunt, it was a duel, and even gor-folk accepted the form and traditions of such combat.
The painter’s thoughts resolved slowly, as though he waded through marshland, sinking ever deeper with every few steps. His fear was palpable now, sweat on his skin, hands greasy, throat closed. His breaths came raggedly and he forced himself to inhale deeply through his nose, taking in a draught of gor-folk stench.
The gor-man was in no hurry to start the fighting, relishing every heartbeat that shivered in the painter’s chest, its own nostrils flaring as they caught the scent of his escalating dread.
Of course!
His eye flickered back to the slash of white in the dark skin, above the eye. He had wounded the creature before; perhaps all he needed to do was repeat the feat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Athol was as breathless as his mount by the time he rode into view of the Khul encampment. He had accepted a few lessons from the Aridians, as a courtesy to his position, but had never spent long in the saddle. The noila was panting ferociously, its short hair slicked with a froth of sweat. He clung to the saddle horn with one hand, reins gripped tight in the other, legs clamped to the beast’s barrel torso as he’d been shown. His backside was sore, the wound in his chest flared every time his buttocks contacted the saddle, and his thoughts were awash with dire imaginings of what deeds Serleon might perpetrate in his absence.
He cursed himself over and over for lowering his guard. It was a mistake to think everyone acted with the same honour as he did, and certainly he should have heeded Khibal Anuk’s warning more closely.
He realised his thoughts had drifted from Serleon to Orhatka. Reliving the lawsmith’s betrayal, Athol clenched his teeth, wishing he had struck the man down before he had left. He imagined him now, whispering in the ear of Humekhta. He did not doubt that his own loyalty to her was reciprocated, but the lawsmith and the will of the other court members would wear upon her resolve.
Was it Orhatka that Khibal Anuk had tried to warn him about? This recent affair had the lawsmith at the heart of it, from the arrest of Williarch to the arrival of the Tithemaster. Fear was a motivator for many, and if the Tithemasters were half as powerful as the lawsmith had claimed there was much to be feared. But in every other dealing Athol had seen Orhatka’s strong convictions, and he was certainly not one to back down from attack, either intellectual or physical.
Could he have been so wrong about a man he had considered an ally, if not a friend?
It was better if he had misjudged Orhatka. If not, then darker motives leapt to mind. Was the lawsmith in league with the Tithemasters? If so, what did he hope to gain? Removal of Humekhta? Perhaps to become one of them?
Paranoia gripped Athol. He was as unfamiliar with the current situation as he was the steed to which he awkwardly clung and was racing headlong into the unknown in similar fashion.
Serleon.
He focused on the Aquitan, trying to remember any hint of the man’s hidden agenda.
There was nothing. He seemed a shallow man; his honour only extended as far as it did not inconvenience him. That he would fight for Williarch – and by extension the Tithemasters – spoke to a lack of morals. How exactly had he paid for his estates in Bataar?
The thought of the traitor among his people, within sword’s blow of his wife and son, made the spear-carrier’s gut knot with fear. Marolin was as deft with a blade as any, but if she did not expect attack… and Eruil was just a boy.
From a distance all seemed as usual within the camp. Fires were being banked up ready for the evening meal, the light was just starting to fade but he could see groups of people heading back from fetching water at the spring.
How far did the conspiracy stretch? Had Orhatka been seeding doubts about Athol within the Khul? Gushol and Korlik’s outbursts, and the others, might have been fuelled by something more than tedium and alcohol. His position undermined, Athol would find little support from that quarter when Orhatka called for his removal.
War they had wanted, and war Athol had given them. Let them die, he told himself, but even as the words crystallised in his thoughts he dismissed them. His decisions did not condemn the Khul, and no more did Orhatka’s faithlessness cast judgement on all of the Aridians.
Several foe-watchers came forward as he raced for the outskirts of the encampment, drawn by the approach of a noila rider in the absence of their leader. He lifted his spear as a badge of identity and they stopped, waving him on with shouts and concerned looks.
He all but fell out of the saddle as he reached the first row of shelters. He was no expert in animal husbandry and simply left the beast where it was, trusting it would either stay close at hand or would find food for itself.
Above the hammer of his heart he could hear the sounds of combat – shouts and the clash of blades. Most seemed familiar, for the Khul trained often, and before the evening meal it was customary for one parent to spar with the children while the other worked in the groups that were cooking. However, as he entered the encampment he found it oddly quiet, the sounds of metal on metal from further in, the tents nearby empty of occupants.
He broke into a run, gasping as his chest wounds opened up again. Arms and legs pumping, he sped along the rows of shelters, heading towards his own part of the encampment. Among the familiar sounds of crashing bronze, he detected a slightly different tone, a noise he remembered from his duel with Serleon: the sound of blades on his thick armour.
He darted into the open ground close to the house-wagon, slowing as he readied his spear for attack.
A crowd was gathered about, obscuring his view, but he heard the accent-tainted shouts of Serleon among the sound of melee.
‘I’m here!’ Athol bellowed, racing forward.
Those at the back of the crowd parted, turning in surprise at the sudden arrival of their champion. Others were intent upon what was to their front, until their companions pulled at shoulders and arms to make way for Athol.
He burst into the rough circle of people, the house-wagon to his left, a wider space to the right.
He saw Eruil, a short sword in hand, warding away overhand chops from Serleon. But even as the warning shout gathered in his throat, Athol was relaxing. He had fought Serleon and saw instantly that his blows were slower and clumsier. Deliberately so, he reckoned as he slowed to a halt, face reddening with embarrassment though he was the only one present who knew where his dark though
ts had led.
‘Athol!’ Marolin’s delight became concern as her eyes dropped from his face to Athol’s chest. ‘What happened?’
Disquiet rippled through the crowd, so that even Serleon and Eruil noticed the arrival in their midst.
‘Dad!’ Eruil grinned broadly, too distant to see the dirt, sweat and blood that marred his father’s armour. He lifted up his blade, showing Athol its unusual design. ‘Serleon says I can keep it! An Aquita short sword!’
‘What is it?’ Marolin hurried over. Her blade was in her hand where she had been practising, but she sheathed it to embrace him. He returned the hug as best he could, chest sore, spear in hand.
‘Trouble,’ he told her. His eyes flicked to the watching crowd. ‘Not here. Not with these ears listening.’
They parted and Athol raised a hand in greeting to Serleon, who had broken away from Eruil and stood watching, a hand shading his eyes within his visor. His breastplate showed no sign of the damage done by Athol’s spear.
‘How’s he been?’ Athol asked, meaning Serleon.
‘Excited, as children are by new things. Can’t stop talking about Bataar,’ she replied.
Athol did not correct her as his eyes scanned the crowd until they alighted on Anitt.
‘Have your sister look after Eruil during mealtime,’ he said, then raised his voice to Serleon. ‘Thank you for the gift, of the sword and the practice.’
‘It not a thing,’ the warrior from Aquita replied, extending a hand in greeting. Athol shook it. ‘I see visit with queen not happy.’
Marolin called for Eruil and then took him towards Anitt.
‘We must talk,’ Athol said, keeping his expression light-hearted, meeting the other man’s gaze meaningfully.
‘Ah, yes,’ he replied. He pointed with his sword towards the house-wagon. ‘You welcome to drink more Aquita red.’
‘My wife as well,’ said Athol, looking past the armoured warrior.
Marolin was talking quickly with Anitt. Eruil seemed to be protesting but a sharp look from his mother silenced him. Soon she turned back towards them and they headed for the house-wagon.
‘Let’s go,’ said Athol when she had reached him. ‘I need to know some things before I talk to the elders’ council.’
‘What you want?’ asked Serleon.
As they walked, Athol saw Korlik, Gushol and others among the crowd watching him closely. Could he trust them? Could he afford not to? Something bigger than him was grinding into motion. He wasn’t sure of its nature, nor his part, but what happened next would decide whether the Khul would survive or be destroyed.
While Serleon poured generous measures of wine, Athol said nothing, watching the Aquitan carefully. It didn’t matter that he seemed no threat at the moment; it was a fact that Serleon had served Williarch, and Williarch had been part of or associated with these Tithemasters. Before getting into the depth of the situation it would be useful to know a little more about Serleon’s relationship with his former employer.
‘Williarch died today,’ Athol said.
Serleon stopped midway between the table and a cupboard, head tilted to one side.
‘That so?’ he asked, not turning around. ‘Stake him in wilds, did they?’
‘It was what he deserved,’ Athol continued.
‘Probably.’ Serleon turned around, a frown on his face. ‘He not a good person.’
‘You took his money,’ said Marolin. ‘Money from thievery.’
‘I did.’ Serleon shrugged, and turned back to the cupboard, from which he brought forth bread and a jar of something which he set on the table. He noticed Athol’s questioning look. ‘It honey.’
He watched Athol closely, eyes narrowing as he guessed that something was amiss, though Athol was so agitated he knew it did not require much deduction. Sitting down opposite the two Khul, Serleon clasped his hands together, resting them on the stained table.
‘This messenger you see, not good news?’ he asked, voice dropping in volume. ‘How Williarch die?’
‘A Tithemaster visited the Aridians,’ said Athol. Serleon grimaced, sitting back against the bench. ‘The emissary wanted Williarch.’
‘They protect him?’ Serleon’s eyebrows rose in surprise. They dropped again as he fell into thought for a few heartbeats. ‘They protect own, I think.’
‘Was Williarch a Tithemaster?’ asked Athol.
‘Who are the Tithemasters?’ demanded Marolin, looking at her husband. ‘What’s happened, Athol?’
‘Serleon can tell us both.’
The Bataari champion met his gaze for a moment and then glanced away. He scratched his chin and sighed, before laying his hands on the table, leaning forward with an earnest expression.
‘Tithemasters are bad. Bad people. Bataari… Um, renegade? Is word?’
‘Renegades?’ said Athol, slightly relieved. ‘So they have no power in Bataari?’
‘Have much power, in Bataari and other places. Strong magic, see? Castle that move like cloud. No land but take what they want.’
‘Bandits?’ scoffed Marolin. ‘You’re both worried about a gang of bandits?’
‘The Tithemaster I saw today was no ordinary robber. He wielded fire like a blade, his skin was not of human flesh.’
Serleon’s eyes widened and he shrank back.
‘He have claws of bird?’ The warrior licked his lips and swallowed hard. ‘Hooded, with one eye of magic light?’
Athol nodded and Serleon recoiled even further, shaking his head.
‘Is not any Tithemaster. Is one of high power. Rosika, he name.’ Serleon downed the content of his goblet with trembling hand. He stood up, moving back to the bottle on the cupboard top behind him. ‘He came for Williarch?’
‘He did not get him,’ Athol said grimly. ‘They wanted more whitehorn. And children. There was a fight.’
Somehow Serleon looked even more shocked, steadying himself with a hand on the countertop over the cupboards. He stared at Athol in disbelief.
‘How? How you here?’
Athol took in a deep breath, glanced at his wife, and then began. He related what had occurred at the queen’s pavilion as best he could remember it, trying not to invest the tale too much with his own suspicions of Orhatka. Serleon listened in silence while Marolin occasionally asked questions.
‘That’s when this creature, Rosika, fled. Turned to smoke and flew away like a cloud with a mind.’
‘You kill Williarch. You attack Rosika.’ Serleon gestured towards their half-empty goblets. ‘Drink. Quick. Then go.’
He started to busy himself around the house-wagon, putting away the food and plates. Athol swallowed his wine, stood up and handed him the cup.
‘What is wrong? Rosika learnt a lesson, I think.’ He pointed to his spear, which was leaning against the wall near the door. ‘The Khul are not afraid of the Tithemasters.’
‘Then Khul idiots!’ snapped Serleon. He snatched Marolin’s goblet from the table, spilling wine on the carpeted floor. He stowed the dirty crockery in a cupboard, which he secured with a knotted rope.
‘Wait,’ said Marolin, putting a hand to his shoulder. Serleon shrugged her off with a noise that was half-snarl, half-whimper. He pushed past and out of the door, the two Khul trailing after as he headed towards the makeshift paddock where his horses were held.
‘Wait,’ Marolin said again, running past him. He stopped as she stood in his path, his shoulders sagging. ‘We need your help.’
‘I not fight Tithemasters. No one fight Tithemasters and live.’
Athol joined his wife in front of the Bataari.
‘We have to warn our people, if the Tithemasters are going to come after us. We need to know what to expect.’
‘Death,’ Serleon said despondently. ‘Expect death.’
Marolin crossed her arms and stood her ground as Serleon took a step forward.
‘My husband spared your life. We took you as a guest. You don’t have to carry a blade for us, but you can tell our council
what you know.’
Serleon looked from her to Athol, but there was no relent in either of them. He gazed past to his horses and then back at the pair. He sagged for a moment and then straightened, some resolve entering his expression.
‘Yes. Words. Just words. Promise no blades.’
‘Thank you,’ said Athol.
‘We have to call the council,’ said Marolin.
‘You do that. I’ll speak with some of the others, those that were speaking against me the other night.’ Athol’s statement drew a look of questioning from his wife. ‘They need the chance to speak, or they will not listen. This involves the whole tribe. We can’t be divided on this.’
‘That’s…’ Marolin smiled. ‘That’s a wise move, Athol.’
He nodded his gratitude for the compliment and she stepped away, heading back past their shelter. The crowd had dispersed, the coals of the meal fires were burning hot, and chatter filled the air along with the smell of roasting meat. Athol turned back to Serleon.
‘Bring some of your Aquita red,’ he told the other warrior. ‘You’re going to have to make some more friends, very quickly.’
By the light of fire and star the elders gathered to listen to Athol, while beyond the circle many hundreds of the tribe watched the proceedings. Athol had passed word that his latest trip to the royal city had been important, though there was yet no talk of impending war with an unknown and devastating power.
Serleon was officially presented to the Khul, vouched for by Athol and Marolin. The former spear-carrier spoke of how Williarch had been taken by the Aridians, and Serleon’s role in the trial that had followed. He praised the Bataari’s skill at arms, a testament that was echoed by several other tribesfolk who had sparred with him that day. The elders duly accepted him as an ally of the Khul and he was invited into the circle. He presented half a dozen bottles of wine, which were opened and shared amongst the elders, the gesture much appreciated on their part.
