by Warhammer
The levity soon ended as Athol spoke of the most recent events at Humekhta’s court. He left nothing out, including the warning from Khibal Anuk of movements against the Khul from within the Aridian highborn. This threatened to spark off an entire debate in itself, until Athol cut off the arguments with a declaration that the tribe was under threat. The elders thus silenced, he continued his story, speaking of the late-night messenger, his arrival at the queen’s pavilion and what awaited him.
Deathly silence greeted his words, broken only by his voice and the crackle of wood that had been banked up on the council fire. He walked around the blaze, speaking to the elders and those beyond, sometimes recreating the scene with gestures, emulating the fight with the Tithemaster in performance.
‘Serleon of Aquita knows of these Tithemasters,’ he concluded, ‘and has agreed to speak with us about the coming war.’
‘Why should there be war?’ asked Houdas, the most senior of the elders. Her white hair hung in braids over her armour, beaded with gold and silver. Her craggy face was alive in the flicker of firelight, the glint of it reflecting in her dark eyes.
‘We cannot offer them Athol,’ argued Seraok, sitting a few paces away to Houdas’ right. He stood up, back slightly bent, but chin jutting proudly. ‘We do not barter our people.’
‘Nonsense,’ growled Jofou Red-Palm. ‘We gave ourselves to the Aridians to stop a war that would have seen our ancestors slain.’
‘We do not owe them our future sons and daughters,’ replied Seraok. He looked at Athol, expression stern. ‘Would you say that Humekhta has broken the pact between our people?’
He did not reply immediately, unsure of his answer, his thoughts conflicted. When he spoke, he did so slowly, thinking through his answer as the words came to him.
‘Humekhta has always treated us with honour and respect. She spoke against the plan to let the Tithemasters take me. But even as we discuss our fate, she will be speaking with Orhatka and others, and there will be those who argue that the Khul are not more important than the Aridians.’
‘You believe she will break the pact?’ said Jofou Red-Palm.
‘I think she will have to, to appease the powerful voices speaking against us,’ he said with a sigh.
‘We cannot be sure of that,’ said Friku, staring into the flames with her cataract-clouded eyes. ‘If we break the bond first, what does that say of our honour?’
They stopped talking as Serleon stepped forward, hands on the pommels of his twin swords.
‘It matter not. Aridians run. You run. Maybe Tithemasters not find you.’
There was an outburst of indignant shouts and grumbles from beyond the circle but the elders reacted with more decorum.
‘That would be the cowards’ way, Serleon,’ said Jofou Red-Palm.
‘Coward might live,’ the Aquitan replied with a shrug. ‘If fight, then die.’
‘Not if we can stand with the Aridians,’ said Athol. ‘I’m willing to return to the royal city and speak with Humekhta. She might listen to me over Orhatka. Khibal Anuk will speak for us as well. He wanted to fight.’
‘Not listen!’ Serleon shook his head and stomped around the ring of elders. ‘Bataari army crush Flamescar tribe. Tribes fight brave but stupid. One fight one. Bataari army a machine. Tithemasters are Bataari and worse. Have shield against magic? Stand against guns?’
‘What is a gun?’ asked Marolin, eliciting a horrified expression from Serleon.
‘Is weapon. Tube that burn fire, throw bullet harder than arrow.’ His arms flailed as he struggled to not only find the words in the tongue of the plateau but also to convey a concept that was utterly outside the experience of the Khul. ‘And cannon that breathe fire. Duardin-make. Magic staff that hurl lightning. Shield of air that eat blades.’
‘These all sound like the weapons of a people not gifted with bladecraft,’ snorted Friku. ‘We’ve fought tribes with bows and slings–’
‘Not tribe,’ insisted Serleon. ‘Army. One fist. One mind. Kill all Aridians. Kill all Khul.’
‘Their settlement floats upon the air like a cloud,’ added Athol. ‘A fortress in the skies that drops fire like rain.’
‘And worse,’ said Serleon with a sour expression. ‘Many, many stories in Bataar. Many hate them, fear them.’
A voice called from the shadows, asking permission to enter the circle. The elders gave their assent, and Gushol stepped forward. His one eye regarded Athol for a short while, and then Serleon.
‘We owe the Aridians nothing,’ said Gushol, wiping hands on his tunic as though cleaning them of dirt. ‘The Bataari outlander is right. We can’t stay and fight this enemy. There’s no reason to. We can head towards the dusk, to the forests or mountains, and make a new life. The Tithemasters will have their fill from the Aridians, they won’t care about the Khul.’
‘The one that come, Rosika, he care,’ said Serleon. He pointed to Athol. ‘He want this one. He not like to lose. Athol kill Williarch, bad enough. Cannot let wound of defeat stay.’
‘And we will not give them Athol,’ Seraok declared again, fists tight and held up as though ready to fight anyone that disagreed. ‘One Khul is all Khul.’
‘Why not run and fight?’ said Marolin. ‘We can move from here before the Aridians betray us. Find somewhere else but be ready to defend it.’
‘We will not win,’ said Athol. ‘The Aridians will die and then we will die after. Together, and perhaps with others, we might have a chance.’
‘What others?’ said Gushol.
‘The Tithemasters cannot prey only on the Aridians,’ said Athol. ‘There must be other tribes nearby that would like to see them destroyed, and a way to gather a force against them. Khibal Anuk reminded me recently of the Red Feast. Why chase after allies when we can summon them together?’
‘We cannot call the Red Feast,’ sighed Seraok. ‘We are feared but the Khul have little standing among the Flamescar tribes. No other chieftains would answer.’
‘Could Humekhta do it?’ asked Marolin. ‘She is the Prophet-Queen.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Athol. ‘The Aridians have tried to break from those old ways, following the path of Sigmar’s peace. As spear-carrier I act as her champion. At a Red Feast I would fight for the will of the Aridians, not the Khul.’
‘Why would you be willing to die for the Aridians?’ demanded Houdas. ‘They are not our people.’
Athol glared at her, fingers flexing.
‘But they are still people.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The gor-folk believed him robbed of his power, the dormant bloodstones a testimony to his impotency. Yet he had awakened them with the blood of this creature, and he could do so again. All day he had tried weak substitutions – the blood of dead prey, his own meagre life fluid – when perhaps what they craved was more of the blood that had first fed them.
He did not need to kill his foe, simply wound it where blood would spill upon the skull rune. The reawakening of the bloodstones would put the gor-folk to flight once more and, hopefully, this time it would be a permanent warning.
Slightly emboldened by this plan, the painter took a step forward. The gor-man tensed, confused by the sudden aggression. The painter broke into a run, a hoarse shout ringing from the surrounding stones as he jabbed the spear towards the gor-man’s midriff.
His foe slapped the spear aside, smashing it from the painter’s weak grasp to clatter against the rocks. Snarling, the gor-man slashed with the knife, just missing the painter’s shoulder. Weaponless and numb, the painter stepped back, bare feet sliding across the ridges of the skull rune. The dog-man followed, swiping with dagger-claws. They connected, leaving a ragged cut across his right cheek.
Almost stumbling, the painter ducked another knife blow. He staggered to his right, looking to retrieve his weapon, but the gor-man anticipated his intent and bounded sideways, claws flashing out to leave two ragged furrows across the outside of the painter’s thigh. Gasping, he twisted sideways,
one hand clamped to the wound as blood bubbled between his fingers.
He almost fell to his back, feet slipping on the pool of his own life fluid. Putting out his blood-soaked hand, he caught himself and rolled sideways, expecting another slashing attack to turn his back to ribbons.
Instead he came to his feet, left leg and hand slick with fresh red.
The gor-man was backing away, yapping quickly. Around the painter a familiar gleam spread across the ground, running like liquid fire through the channels of the rune. The glow quickly strengthened as more of his blood fell from the wound, becoming a flickering aura that suffused the whole of the stone ring, reflected from the ruddy veins in the rocks.
He felt the power flowing into him again, coursing up the trail of blood into his body, burning through arteries, lungs and heart to grant renewed vigour. He heard the scraping of claws and panicked noises of the other gor-folk fleeing behind him. Every sense was keen, picking up the slightest draught of wind on his skin, hearing the thunder of the gor-man’s suddenly rapid heartbeat, the warmth that flowed underfoot. He saw his adversary’s pupils widening, ears twitching, veins standing out on forearm and neck with a sudden surge of blood. It was as though the painter’s body swelled alongside the growth of his senses, his limbs filling with strength, his mind clearing of all distraction, leaving him intent upon one thing: the gor-man stood between him and the crevasse.
The creature feinted to the left and then darted to the painter’s right, hoping to get past him.
He leapt, smashing a bony fist into the creature’s head, knocking it sideways. It spun, snapping teeth just short of the painter’s throat. A swipe of the dagger opened a wound across his ribs on the left side but he barely felt the blade passing through skin and flesh. Propelled by burgeoning rage, he drove his shoulder into the creature, lifting and twisting to slam it bodily against the rocks.
He needed no weapon; his body and his surroundings were lethal enough. Mania made him strong beyond reason, and with an iron grip he seized the gor-man’s throat. Teeth gritted, the painter dashed its head against the floor, stunning the beast. Lifting it up, he slammed it down again, finding an edge of rock to break the side of the skull. Thrice more he battered the creature into the grey stone, and then again, four more times, until there was little but blood, shattered bone and brain matter.
The skull rune blazed like a pyre. His blood and that of his foe mingled together, flames of red and black dancing along the lines of the huge glyph, taller than the painter. He looked up to where they stretched flaming fingers to the skies. There he saw Khrosa, the largest of the wandering moons, just a sliver, its dimpled surface caught in a sheen of red.
Panting, he dragged the body of the gor-man to the centre of the rune and, using his foe’s knife, he slashed open its throat and gut, cutting the arms and the inside of the thigh so that every drop of blood would leak forth.
He understood now what the rocks demanded of him. It was not blood alone that would feed the power of the stones. It was the predatory act, bloodshed in battle, that carried the energy.
His sacrifice deposited, the painter felt his manic strength waning quickly. The fatigue of days rushed to consume him once more but he managed to shamble to the chasm and look down, drawn by the fire within. He squinted against the light that shone from the impossible depths and thought he saw something shadowed against the distant flames. He could not tell what it was, but it seemed to be getting larger, growing.
No, he realised, not growing.
Rising. Buoyed up by the fire and blood, brought to the surface by the sacrifice of battle.
The council continued until the fire was mere embers, with little conclusion to be drawn. Athol’s position won through by simple fact of inertia – the inability of the council to decide on a course of action meant that, for the time being, the Khul would remain where they were. Under further questioning, Serleon had been more forthcoming, and reckoned that it would take at least until the end of the High Sun season until the Glittering Pinnacle could come to the Flamescar Plateau, and in all likelihood into the Long Winds. Relieved that attack was not imminent, from the Tithemasters at least, the council were happy to delay a final decision until Athol had tried one more attempt to mend the alliance with the Aridians.
He was restless as he and Marolin returned to their bivouac. Eruil had stayed with Anitt, so the shelter was dark and empty when they arrived. Marolin tried to speak to him, to offer comfort, but he was too agitated by events and his task for the next day. Making his apologies, he left her in the bedroll and stood in the darkness for a while, looking up at the stars, seeking peace from the whirling colours and light-arcs that filled the night sky.
Physical weariness overtook him. The wound in his chest continued to throb dully and he sat down a little way from the shelter. He closed his eyes and with only brief resistance slipped into a fitful sleep.
He dreamed vividly that night, confronted by the leering, golden-eyed, decrepit face of Rosika. The phantasm was banished by a burning spearpoint, which glowed with a rune Athol had never seen before. He found himself stumbling through a twisted woodland, branches and roots grabbing at his arms and legs. Braying and howling echoed from behind, though whether they were pursuers or followers he could not tell.
He staggered into a clearing and found himself standing before an unimaginably high mountain. Its flanks were off-white, with snow, he thought at first. As the vision cleared he saw that the mount was not of rock but bone – a towering monument of skulls heaped upon each other. At the top he saw a glimmer of firelight, a dark red flame against the stars. It called to him, keening his name on the wind.
Khul…
Athol lifted a hand towards the fire and saw that it was stained red. The red swelled and bubbled, becoming a flow of blood from his hand, streaming down his uplifted arm, rivulets coursing over his bared flesh. It flowed from him like a river, its babbling over stones becoming a wailing of anguish, the trickle becoming rapids that roared with rage, echoing with a crash of weapons.
He started to climb, knowing that the fire at the summit would be the answer he needed.
The precipitous slope was difficult, the skulls constantly shifting underfoot, threatening to bear him down and bury him in an ivory avalanche. The sky was blood red above, the clouds a dark smear against it, like the smoke of funeral pyres. Athol climbed and climbed, his bloodied grip slipping on the smooth skulls, the iron taste of it bitter in his mouth.
Eventually he attained the summit and stood before a flaming spear, its head carved with the rune that had started the dream. Looking back down, he saw a sea of warriors crashing like waves around the foundations of the skull mound. As they broke upon its flanks they exploded, becoming a froth of blood, their skulls added to the pile, pushing him higher and higher. There was no end to the tide of death; every tree in the forest, every blade of grass of the plains, every rock in the mountains and grain of sand in the desert, had become an army.
He reached out, fingers spread to grasp the spear. Its heat smoked in the air, charring his palm as his closed his fist.
Yet before skin touched metal, the mound collapsed under him. A scream was torn from his lips as he fell, plummeting impossibly far in a rain of skulls and fire, swallowed by the tumult of the dead.
Sweat-slicked, he opened his eyes, finding Marolin crouched beside him, her hand on his shoulder to wake him.
‘An ill dream,’ she said softly. ‘I heard your moans even from our bed.’
‘Blood and death,’ whispered Athol, sitting up. ‘Fears given form, that’s all.’
She held him to her, his head on her shoulder, an arm around her back. Her presence stilled the thrashing of his heart, pushing back the last images of being swallowed by the skull-fall. She was reality, a tangible connection that brought him back from the nightmarish whirl of his dreams.
‘Just a dream,’ he muttered.
The palm of his right hand itched and he lifted it from her back. It was hard
to see by starlight alone, but there was paleness splashed across the skin. Marolin felt his movement and pulled away, turning to look.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
In the better light his hand was plain to see. There, without pain, was a scar across his palm, as though at some time in the past he had gripped a hot metal bar.
‘Come to me now, my son.’
To be called son after recent events set Threx’s thoughts curving away from their original track. The gap between him and his father had been widened greatly of late, but it was the culmination of a slow divide since Threx’s coming of age eight years earlier.
‘I am here,’ he said, hurrying before the throne. ‘How can I help?’
The Ashen King looked exhausted, his eyes a dull brown in the torchlight. There was no hint of the eternal flame that usually burned in them. Threx’s lip curled as he met that weak gaze, betraying his disappointment as he remembered Kexas’ confession about the Pyre.
‘My eyes?’ The Ashen King sighed. ‘Another trick. A simple spell learnt from a Bataari mage.’
‘And Soreas knows about the Pyre… That’s why she’s so dismissive?’
‘She thinks we should reveal the truth, embrace the Hammer-God wholly.’ Kexas appeared beside the throne, his face twisting from sorrow to anger.
‘She may be right,’ the Ashen King said, looking down at the Keeper of the Pyre. ‘Bataar and Aspirian, even the lower Vanxian tribes, have grown in power since embracing the coming of Sigmar. Ours has always been an uneasy truce with the Hammer-God. Perhaps our reluctance is what holds us back. Others strengthen while we weaken.’
‘You have it the wrong way around,’ Threx said hastily, stepping closer.
It had been several years since he had been within reach of his father and he held out a hand, laying it upon the Ashen King’s grey-stained arm. His father looked down at Threx’s touch but did not try to move his arm away.
‘We’re besieged by these Sigmarites, father. We have faltered in the face of their advance. The Pyre and the flames have not abandoned us – we abandoned them.’
