by Warhammer
There was an uneasy muttering from some of the Hall Guards, silenced by a growled threat from Atraxas. More accusations flew from the lips of Yourag’s sanctimonious allies.
‘Violator!’
‘Unholy beast!’
‘Blood-drinker!’
Threx laughed, long and loud, drinking in their hatred like sweet mead.
‘Enough of your posturing, you frauds,’ he bellowed, striding up to the ashes of the Pyre. ‘I shall show you the truth of my power.’
At his will the embers leapt into fresh flame, flutters of orange and green that danced up from the iron casket. He passed his axe to Nerxes and stood behind the chest. Eyes fixed on Yourag, he thrust his hands into the fire. Flame licked up his arms, charring the skin, seeping through flesh into bone, but he did not feel it. He was the spirit of the Asha Vale. He was the sacred fire.
Lifting up his arms, he showed them to his foes, fists blazing like brands. At his gesture Kexas returned his axe and the flames licked along the weapon and engulfed the head, trickling like burning oil along the edges of the blade.
‘I have only one question for you,’ Threx declared, gaze moving along the line of stunned chieftains. ‘Am I going to fight you all together, or one at a time?’
‘It’s… incredible.’
From the steep flanks of Clavis Volk, which itself spread so far that it took two days for a person to walk across, Threx could look out across the Wandering Straits and see the other Clavis Isles, and as far as the coast of the mainland. To his left, beyond the horizon of sun-stroked horizon broken by the summits of the lesser isles, the waters ran to the Vitriol Sea. To his right, they stretched an equal distance to Ocean of Tears. Places he had only heard of, never visited, like the Clavis Isles until a few days ago. Names from memory, in tales of seafaring tribes that never saw land or preyed on the coastal towns, and great beasts of the deeps that could swallow a ship whole or drag a Capiliaria merchantman to the depths with a flurry of mast-thick tentacles.
The islands were clustered with new-sprung camps, most of canvas and metal, others of hewn timber brought over the waves or taken from the woods of the island. In many places the ships that had brought the tribes and their champions had been beached and turned into shelters, their hulls split to make cabins, their bright sails sewn into awnings against the blistering sea sun.
The water itself was still dotted with arriving vessels, sails full with the constant wind that blew up from the Vitriol Sea. Those closer to the islands yawed and rolled violently as their crews fought against the terrible currents that raged around the islands. Volcanic activity beneath the waves created death-pools and makeshift islands almost overnight, yet other undersea activity could see islands older than a person’s lifetime crumble into themselves and disappear in the passage of a moon’s cycle. Only the Clavis Isles stood relatively immobile, their bedrock formed in the oldest times, before the tumult of the seas had begun.
On the distant shoreline a darkness seemed to stain the ground, where the supporters of the champions and entourages sent to the islands waited. They would have their own banquets and contests, though of far lesser import than those that took place on Clavis Volk.
Having called the Red Feast, the Skullbrands had been first to cross to the island, staking their claim to the prime position on the side of the central mount. They were sheltered from the constant hot wind, yet enjoyed daybreak and sunset in full view, and of course they were the closest to the summit, where the Table of Okhon awaited the victorious champions.
‘I created this.’
‘I suppose,’ conceded Nerxes, surveying the mass of humanity from beside the Ashen King. ‘The tradition still holds a great attraction. More than nine hundred champions have arrived and others are still coming. One of the largest gatherings these islands have seen in five lifetimes, like the greatest Red Feasts of our ancestors.’
‘Yes.’ Threx cracked his knuckles. He could still feel the tug of the Pyre, though the ashes were some distance away in the hall being raised in his honour. ‘Others feel what I have felt. The lands are ready for great change. The Pyre showed us the future, of a war that will shadow all that came before it. A battle of the ages that will become legend. The Sigmar-tongues know that it comes and are afraid. The Flamescar is alive with its power. That is why so many champions heed my call. I speak with the voice of glory-to-be.’
‘And yet not one has seen fit to offer alliance with you against your challengers,’ said Nerxes.
‘Yourag is a coward for not giving me time to issue challenge to him.’
‘He’ll be a living coward, it seems.’
‘You don’t rate my chances?’ said Threx, turning to look at his cousin. Nerxes opened his mouth and then closed it, fearful of what to say. Threx laughed, slapping Nerxes hard on the shoulder. ‘If I could see that look on Yourag I’d die a content man! Of course I can’t defeat fourteen foes… But it says something that they thought they would need that many, just to be sure. And their faces when I brandished the power of the Pyre! Worth the long trek by itself, that was.’
Nerxes was silent, not sharing Threx’s good humour. He fidgeted with his belt, gaze set upon the sea of tribesfolk on the hills around them.
‘It was a grand idea,’ said Threx. ‘If it weren’t for the Red Feast we’d already be dead, and the Asha Vale taken by Yourag or one of those other gutless dogs. You gave us time.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Maybe we’ve just delayed the inevitable.’
‘Of course I’m right. I’m the Ashen King, my word is law, my word is the will of the Pyre.’ He looked up at the sky, where Khrosa, the Blood Moon, was almost full. ‘Besides, life is always about delaying the inevitable. If we didn’t we’d be dead as soon as we were born. There’s two more days until the fighting starts. Anything could happen between now and then.’
‘Unwillingness to admit defeat?’
‘We’re not beaten until we’re dead.’
They stood in silence for some time, watching the last of the ships daring the coastal currents. A few were baulked by the riptides and swirling waves, several reached the shoreline relatively intact. Others stopped short, knowing that the intensity of the currents was growing too strong as the Blood Moon swelled greater and greater in the sky.
‘That’ll be the last of them,’ said Threx, hooking a thumb in his belt, axe over his shoulder. He turned back to the cliff path that led down to their encampment.
‘By the Pyre…’ Nerxes’ exclamation and pointing finger drew Threx’s attention back to the sea, where a small raft entered the currents. It was immediately almost capsized, and Threx could see two figures clinging to the mast ropes as the sail half tore away from its yardarm. Like an enraged steed the raft continued to buck and sway across the white-foamed waves, yet each time it seemed to disappear under the waves the raft would break from the foam a moment later, as though carried up by a giant hand.
Against expectation they continued to make headway, passing by a longship that was abandoning the attempt to land. Ropes were thrown down but the two men on the raft ignored the attempts at aid, using the lee of the larger vessel to gain some headway on the wind. They appeared past the bow of the ship heading almost directly to the shore, though considerable whirls and half-hidden rocks lay in wait for them.
‘Someone really wants to get here,’ said Threx, mouth hanging open in astonishment.
‘Desperate, I’d say,’ said Nerxes. A sly grin curved his lip. ‘We should go and help them.’
Threx regarded his cousin for a moment before understanding his intent. He turned and started towards the path at a run, shouting for Atraxas.
Lungs bursting, Korghos thrashed out of a wave, one hand still gripping the remnants of the raft. Across the spume-flecked water he saw Lashkar struggling through the foaming crests, a billow of torn sail as a float under his arm. Gasping, the spear-carrier of the Khul kicked his legs, fighting against the current pushing him away from the shore as well as the
weight of his armour trying to drag him down to his death.
He was only fifty paces from the shore but his strength was failing fast. His thighs burned with the effort, his heart a smith’s hammer against his ribs. Spitting salt water, he tried to take in a fresh draught of air but spray filled his mouth, almost choking him.
There were figures on the rocky shoreline, standing and pointing. Korghos didn’t have the breath to call for help, nor did he think any would be forthcoming. To cross to the Clavis Isles was part of the Red Feast’s test. Only those strong and clever enough to do so were permitted to take part.
He floundered again, sucked down by a sudden pull at his legs. The sky disappeared, replaced by bubbles and darkness.
It was a ridiculous way to die. Anger flooded through him but all the rage in the world could not make bronze chainmail float. His chest burned, the tips of his fingers numb where he had desperately wedged them into the loop of rope around the log raft. Now the vessel was broken, the pieces scattered over the waves, this last vestige of the craft above him, keeping him under the water. He couldn’t free his hand any more than he could slip out of the drowning weight of the armour.
He should have stripped down but arriving unarmed and naked on the shore of Clavis Volk would have been no more useful than not arriving at all.
In a swirl of bubbles, he thought he saw Eruil’s face.
Darkness was drawing on the edges of his vision and his pulse was a thunderous beat in his ears. He gave up kicking, left dangling from the wreckage of the raft, the sun flitting though the gaps in the undulating logs.
He saw the face again.
But it was not Eruil’s.
High cheekbones and a broad forehead pushed through the sandy murk. Moments later a strong grip closed around his wrist, pulling him. There were other shapes in the water around him, pushing the raft aside, heaving him bodily up through the surf.
Light and air and warmth greeted him as the strangers lifted and pulled him back onto the remnants of the raft. A desperate gasp and cough ejected the water from his throat, splashing over the crudely cut timbers.
He tried to speak, but only a croak issued from his mouth. Flailing a hand, he tried to point towards Lashkar.
‘We’ve got your friend,’ said the man who had saved him, squatting awkwardly on the rising and falling logs. ‘He’ll live too.’
Falling to his back, his closed his eyes, taking in another painful draught of clean air. He coughed again, but did not rise, feeling the other man’s hand on his to steady him as the raft tilted on a strong wave.
‘My cousin says you must be an idiot or a madman to dare the wrathwaters on this pile of logs.’
‘Not mad. Maybe an idiot,’ he managed to reply. With effort, he sat up, every muscle in his back and neck protesting. ‘I need to get to the Red Feast.’
His rescuer leaned back, showing him that they were almost on the shore. A glance around him revealed three more men kicking hard through the surf, propelling the raft towards the shelf of stone that formed the shoreline.
‘Well, you’ve got here,’ said the man. He rubbed a hand over a shaven scalp, looking back towards the island. ‘Probably the last to make the crossing.’
‘Thank you.’ It seemed bad manners to ask, but he could not keep back the question that nagged him. ‘Why? Why risk yourselves for us?’
‘My cousin’s a clever man, you see,’ said the other. ‘We all have reasons for being here. I’ve a lot of enemies, it turns out. But very few friends. Nerxes, my cousin, he wonders what it is that would drive you to almost kill yourselves getting here. We figure you need friends, perhaps. The sort of friends you can only get at the Red Feast.’
‘You’re right. Your cousin is a clever man. My people, my allies, are facing a threat we cannot defeat alone.’
The stranger offered him a hand and pulled him up, just as the waves washed them onto the shore proper, the raft scraping on the dark rock. They splashed into the ankle-deep water and walked the rest of the way ashore. Lashkar was already sat on the pebbles a short distance away, a cup of something in his hands.
‘I think we have a lot to talk about,’ said the stranger. ‘I am Threx, Ashen King of the Skullbrands.’
‘I’ve heard that name. You called the Red Feast.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I am glad to meet you.’ He extended his hand and Threx took it, squeezing hard. ‘I am… Korghos Khul.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As the heavens burned, so it seemed did the world. The eerie glow of the Blood Moon lit the sky with flickering trails and fronds of red, while the ruddy light of a score of immense fires swathed the flanks of Clavis Volk. The whole island shook to the pounding of drums and voices raised in laughter and song. Wines, beers and spirits from across the Flamescar Plateau flowed free, with much exchanging and sampling of different brews between the tribes. It was not only alcohol that fuelled the festivities. Other narcotics were smoked, ingested and inhaled, relaxing or stimulating, hallucinogenic or soporific.
This was celebration in its rawest form, an elemental force of life given shape before the bloodshed of the coming days. The quiet-arms was in effect, so that any angered word or belligerence was quickly shouted down or quashed, the offenders ejected from the firesides to sleep off their aggression in the dark.
Apart from the bulk of the celebrations, a smaller group of champions held a dedication ritual. As host of the Red Feast, Threx presided over this event, attended by sixteen of the most respected chieftains from the plains.
Space had been made for the gathering at the edge of the Skullbrands’ encampment, where a pit had been dug and benches cut from timbers taken from the surrounding woodlands. In place of a traditional fire, the coals of the Pyre had been used to fill the pit – an idea of Nerxes’ that Threx had adopted. By the light of the magical flames, fifteen lauded warriors sat down on the benches, platters of food and jugs of drink supplied by a procession of Skullbrand thralls. Each of them had brought one other as a companion, be they family member, standard bearer, Sigmar-tongue or courtly advisor.
Threx watched over the others from a throne hewn out of a single log, its back simply but effectively carved with the horned skull device that was his symbol. He wore only his kilt and boots, his skin covered with ash as was custom for such an important occasion.
The Ashen King raised a goblet to Korghos Khul, who sat to the left with Lashkar beside him. Though the assembly was meant to be of the most influential chieftains, its complement was at the discretion of the host. He had spent some time with Khul since dragging him from the sea, and the two had found much common ground.
On the other side, to Threx’s right, sat Yourag, with Soreas as his guest. Threx wrinkled a lip as he looked at the two of them, deep in conversation with their neighbour, Skolor Helfir, highest chieftain of the Direbrands. He stroked his long moustaches, nodding thoughtfully at whatever it was that Yourag said.
‘I still don’t understand why we included them,’ Threx said to his chosen attendant, Nerxes. ‘We give the Korchians too much credit.’
‘Yourag has the backing of nearly two dozen other tribes,’ his cousin replied. He plucked a grape from a bunch held in his lap but did not eat it. ‘If it looks like you’re breaking with the traditions of the Red Feast you will lose all respect and the coalition against us will grow even stronger.’
Threx sighed, silently admitting the wisdom of Nerxes’ advice.
‘It still doesn’t look too good,’ his cousin muttered, glancing between Yourag talking to the Direbrands and Korghos sat silently watching the others. ‘We’ve recruited one man. Yourag is making alliance with the largest tribe on the plateau.’
‘Did you speak to any of the others? Who else has heard of the Khul?’
‘A few of the northern tribes. Seems they’re something to do with the Aridians. Very good fighters, and loyal. What have you learnt from the man himself?’
‘He needs the same as us – an army.
’ Threx leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘There’s a floating citadel full of Bataari sorcerers that wants him dead, and to enslave his people.’
‘We came for alliances, not more unwinnable wars to fight.’ Nerxes popped the grape in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Maybe we could… No, that wouldn’t work.’
‘What? What is your idea, cousin? Seems to me that the more ridiculous your suggestions, the more likely they are to succeed.’
‘We might have gone about this the wrong way. With the Khul, I mean.’ Nerxes scratched his chin, once more looking between Korghos and Yourag. ‘We should introduce Korghos to Skolor Helfir. It might be that the Direbrands would prefer to fight these terrible sorcerers than get involved in a squabble between family members.’
‘And if not? What if Korghos joins the alliance against us?’
‘I…’ Nerxes fell silent as Kexas entered the wavering circle of light cast by the Pyre-pit.
‘It is time,’ intoned the Keeper of the Pyre, lifting his hands towards the night sky. ‘The Blood Moon gazes full upon our gathering, and beneath its immortal eye the Red Feast will commence.’
He turned and looked at Threx, who also stood, axe in hand. Around the semicircle, the champions rose in turn, each bearing a sword, axe, spear or other armament. Threx lifted his weapon to salute the Blood Moon, as did the others, a half-ring of glinting metal pointed to the heavens.
‘We are the children of the Flamescar,’ said Kexas. ‘Many things divide us. Gold. Love. Hate. Lands. Traditions. But we are united under the Blood Moon. Those that sit at this place still believe in honour. They still believe that a strong leader is at the front of battle. They still believe that they live with the land and its beasts, beneath the air and its birds. They believe that the gift of fire is sacred, the source of warmth and food, the light in the dark. This is what it is to be of the Flamescar peoples. To sit beneath the Blood Moon, to breathe the free air, and to treat with each other as equal men and women. No walls between us. No roofs above us. Family of the Flamescar.’
