by Warhammer
Kexas stepped back, allowing Threx to approach the Pyre. He passed his axe to the Keeper and stood in front of the flames, hands outstretched as though warming them. Feeling their energy, he let his blood respond, tingling in his hands and arms until the flames moved. Wiggling his fingers as though plucking the strings of an instrument, he made the flames dance.
There were delighted laughs from some, disquieted murmurs from others.
‘Do not let this mockery deceive you!’ shouted Soreas, pushing past Yourag to point at Threx. ‘The Pyre is a forbidden power that true sons and daughters of Sigmar should rightfully shun. It is old magic, once fed on the blood of foes, now sustained by the sacrifice of innocents.’
‘The mockery was yours,’ snarled Kexas. ‘When you conspired to fake the powers of the Pyre you brought shame on our people.’
Voices welled up in accusation of the Skullbrands, others calling Soreas’ interruption of the Red Feast’s rites an insult to them all. Threx suppressed a smile, glad that his mother’s indignant outburst had turned some of those present against her,
‘Enough!’ The single word was uttered by Skolor Helfir, cutting through the babble. All eyes turned to the leader of the Direbrands, who sheathed his sword and held out his hands, a gesture for peace. ‘This is not the place to bring argument. Save your ire for the trials to come.’
Threx was taken aback and couldn’t help but feel that Skolor was trying to usurp his position as host. This was his Red Feast; it should be his word that commanded such respect. He stalked back to his throne, catching a warning look shot in his direction by Nerxes. Swallowing his irritation, Threx took up a goblet and raised it in toast to the leader of the Direbrands.
‘My thanks, Skolor. Words of wisdom you might have stolen from my tongue.’ He took a mouthful of the mead, using the moment to quell the emotions raised by Soreas’ outburst.
‘I have something to say.’
Threx turned at the quiet intervention, about to remonstrate with the person that had spoken, but held his tongue when he saw that it was Korghos Khul who had stepped forward.
‘If you wish it,’ the Khul added with a nod of the head to Threx.
The Ashen King glanced at Nerxes but received no guidance more than a bewildered shrug. Threx sat down and waved for the champion to continue, trusting that his efforts to save the man would ensure the words he spoke were in support of the Skullbrands.
‘The Red Feast is a time for settling old grudges and making new alliances,’ said Korghos. He paced forward as smoothly as a hunting cat. Threx had lived his life around warriors but had never seen a man or woman that moved with such easy grace yet with the strength of such bulk. He carried himself with a confidence that made others watch him as he circled around the Pyre to approach Threx. ‘I know that many are here because of their anger at the Skullbrands. I have seen nothing of this conflict, and I care nothing for it.’
Threx eased himself forward, sensing betrayal, but Korghos came up to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
‘All I know is that this man threw himself into the raging seas to help me and my companion. That is the courage and unity we will all need to show in the coming seasons.’ The Khul gave him a sincere nod and then turned to the others. ‘Whatever grievances you want to settle, whatever raids and blood feuds, insults to be avenged and hunting disputes you have between you, they are nothing. A threat such as the people of the Flamescar have never seen is coming. Ask your flame-scryers and Sigmar-tongues. War. Not the tribal bloodshed that marks our daily struggle but a conflict that will end a generation.’
There were some shouts of derision, and it was Yourag that raised his voice among the others.
‘A convenient distraction, but you won’t turn us aside from retribution against Threx Skullbrand.’
‘Do you think we crossed the Shifting Straits on a log raft to help this one?’ Korghos threw a hand out towards Threx. ‘He is a man marked for greatness, I see it in him, but until his hand held mine in the waves his name was unknown to me.’
‘What war?’ Skolor hunched forward, elbow on his knee, chin on fist, brow furrowed.
‘There must be some amongst this gathering that have heard of the Tithemasters.’
There were some nods. Gho-lod of the Windscour tribe stood up, her face a mask of concern.
‘Be careful of your next words, Korghos Khul. We’ve seen you, walking the isle, and we’ve heard your questions. Who has seen the Tithemasters? Who has paid the Tithe? If it is a rebellion you are starting, you can fight it on your own.’
‘Rebellion?’ Khul’s words dripped with scorn. ‘A slave rebels. The Khul are a free people, but perhaps the Windscour have learned to crave the yoke of others.’
Gho-lod snarled something that Threx did not quite hear and reached for the mace beside her chair.
‘The fighting does not start until tomorrow,’ Threx reminded them, standing up. A tense silence followed. ‘Let’s take a drink.’
While goblets and tankards were refilled, Korghos watched the other champions that had been brought to the host’s fire. They were of a similar age to him; some older, few younger. Each was battle-clad as was the custom, sporting weapons and armour from across their different cultures. He saw iron and steel among the bronze, from the Direbrands and those that traded with them or the nations further west.
‘They’re soft,’ muttered Lashkar. ‘They are princes among their people but you are the Bloodking.’
‘I was just thinking the same.’
Korghos’ gaze settled on Skolor. He was the oldest present, hair more grey than brown, but there was little but muscle on him, weathered in battle and at the anvil. Even so, there was a stiffness to his movement. He would be experienced, canny and disciplined, but not as fast as he once was. The one he spoke to, Yourag, looked clumsy. He kept adjusting the broad blade at his waist, as though not used to the weight of it.
The others each had their own weaknesses, revealed to Korghos by simple observation. Threx was impatient; his headstrong nature would bring him to the attack even when defence was the best tactic. Moror of the Sandarak was a heavily-set warrior clad almost head-to-toe in armour. There would be weak points. There were always weak points.
It reminded him of Serleon and he briefly wondered how the Aquitan fared. Thoughts of Serleon then led him back to the Khul, and Eruil and Marolin in particular. He could not let himself be distracted by them. It was for their future that he was here.
‘I have a proposal,’ he said, pitching his voice above the conversation and crackle of the strange fire. The talking quietened and all present turned their attention to Korghos. ‘I need an army to fight the Tithemasters, but it seems none of you but the Skullbrands are brave enough to stand beside me.’
Growled and grumbled protests greeted this announcement. Threx’s advisor, the one called Nerxes, opened his mouth to say something, but was silenced by a gesture from his king.
‘I am not leaving here without an army,’ Korghos continued. ‘You will join me or I will die on this island.’
‘You almost died getting here!’ laughed the Vargassian, Nirr the White Claw. ‘Perhaps you’d like to go back for another swim.’
Korghos levelled a stare upon the man, causing his laughter to falter and then cease.
‘Nobody cares about you, or the Tithemasters,’ said Nirr.
‘That’s not true,’ said the Windscour chieftain, Gho-lod. ‘I care. I care that you don’t provoke the Tithemasters into a war with the Flamescar. If the Khul must die, then so be it.’
In the corner of his eye Korghos saw Threx leaning towards Nerxes, listening to the advisor.
‘And the Aridians?’ said Threx. ‘They are a considerable power. Greater than some of those at this fire. If the Tithemasters destroy them, what’s to stop them turning their eye on any of us?’
‘I have a challenge to any that will meet it,’ said Korghos. ‘My people will be dead or enslaved if I fail here. So, they are the prize. I sw
ear before this gathering, by the binding power of the Red Feast, that the man or woman that slays me can take the title Korghos and be ruler of the Khul.’
This declaration was greeted by several outbursts and a ripple of shocked muttering.
‘But…’ Korghos told them, gaze moving steadily from one rival to the next. ‘If you should fall to me, then your tribe will join the battle against the Tithemasters.’
A clamour of voices erupted at this claim, some of them mocking, others’ accusations that Korghos was trying to use the traditions of the Red Feast to trick them. A couple called on Threx to eject Khul from the gathering but were met with a fearsome scowl from the Ashen King.
‘Idiocy!’ barked Yourag. ‘We’re not here to barter our people.’
‘I am here to save my people,’ growled Korghos. ‘What are you here for, Yourag of the Korchians? To settle a debt? Or to grab the territory of a man that shamed you? Petty conflicts.’
‘I issue the same challenge!’ shouted Threx, raising his axe in the firelight. He stared directly at Yourag, a lopsided smile on his lips. ‘Defeat me and you will have the Skullbrands and the Asha Vale. If not, the Korchians will be united under the reign of the Ashen King.’
‘This has no place here,’ snarled Soreas. She stepped forward, thrusting a finger at Korghos. ‘You are every bit an abomination against the Hammer-God as the Skullbrands. Do not think we cannot smell the darkness on you.’
Other Sigmar-tongues raised their voices in denouncing him. Korghos felt the scrutiny of the others intensify but he did not back down from the stares directed at him.
‘Would Sigmar Almighty not fight against a foe that sought to take everything from him?’ He directed his words at Skolor. All he needed to do was beat the high chieftain of the Direbrands and with the aid of the Aridians nearly a third of the Flamescar people would fight with him.
‘You’ve made a big mistake, boy,’ said Yourag, advancing on Threx, hand on the pommel of his tulwar. ‘You would give up your people in a slight against me?’
‘I will kill you, and brand your skull,’ Threx said with a broad grin. ‘But your people will be better off under my rule.’
Yourag glanced back at Soreas, who shook her head, jaw clenched. Even so, Yourag drew his blade and thrust it into the ground in front of Threx.
‘It is decided. I will fight you, and when I win, the Asha Vale will become mine.’
‘See you at dawn’s first light.’
Another uproar of shock and delight spilled across the gathering, until Skolor raised a hand. When all had fallen silent he strode up to Korghos. The Khul chieftain held his gaze, though inside his nerves jangled with a mix of apprehension and excitement. This was the salvation of his people approaching.
‘No.’ Skolor Helfir shook his head. ‘The Direbrands withdraw from the Red Feast. There is nothing here that respects the will of Sigmar.’
The Direbrands’ leader turned his back and left, taking his Sigmar-tongue with him. Korghos did not shout, though his frustration burned into a rage at Skolor’s easy dismissal. How dare he condemn the Khul to slavery and annihilation without a second thought?
It was not the hunch of the shoulders nor the clenched fists that drew Lashkar towards Korghos. There was an energy about him that told of the shrine on the mountaintop, an aura of heat that washed from his body. It was not just in the Khul champion either. The Skullbrand, Threx, was alive with the same power, which flowed like steam from the blessed coals that had been brought to the island.
Gifted the sight of the Blood God, Lashkar could see the touch of Khorne as it graced the world. The blood spirit had entered into him and Korghos through the shrine, and into Threx by means of the embers of ancient wars. Approaching, Lashkar closed his eyes and allowed the essence of the fires to fill him, bringing with it images from an ancient time.
He smiled as he saw a city toppled in ruins, its great cathedral set aflame with a thousand priests and priestesses inside. The temple became an inferno, and the curses of the holy people were given shape, the last vengeance of their dying god enshrined into the tumbling, fire-wreathed remains.
And for countless generations they had continued to burn, the trapped souls of a thousand predicants.
There were other such artefacts across the Great Parch, the remnants of the time of greatness from the World Before Time. Some dormant, others awakening. Khorne was a restless, feverish entity and though an age had passed in the realms, His hunger for war could never be sated. The time was fast approaching when the Blood God’s rule would return again.
Another person might have offered support to his companion, perhaps murmured condolences or offered some platitude about trying a new plan. Not Lashkar. He was the Bloodspeaker and it was not his role to pour sand on the fire, but to fan the flames of anger for Khorne.
‘These are not your allies,’ he growled to Korghos. ‘Your power comes from Khorne now. Only those that accept his rule will pass through the fires that will come.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘What did you say?’ Korghos tore his eyes from the retreating form of Skolor to look at Lashkar.
‘Khorne demands blood. Will you be strong, or will you be weak?’
The goad behind Lashkar’s words was obvious. Its taunt was no harsher than many directed at him by opponents over the years and as easily ignored. The Khul champion remembered the booming voice of his ancestral god, the promise of reward for victory, punishment for failure. His fingers again found the sheathed half-sword on his belt, the touch of it bringing back memory and meaning. This meant more than just a pact with Khorne; it was the future of his people. Skolor’s indifference would doom the Khul.
‘Remember the shrine.’ Lashkar had Korghos’ spear in hand. ‘Remember what you need to do.’
Korghos’ fingers curled around the haft of the weapon, feeling its inner warmth as it nestled against the dream-scar in his palm. His chest burned with similar heat, the mark upon his flesh pulsing beneath his breastplate.
Threx was staring at the chieftain of the Direbrands as well, teeth bared. It was a grave insult to withdraw from the host’s fire, and news of Skolor Helfir’s actions would soon spread across the island. Such was his stature that it would shame the entire Red Feast.
‘You cannot let him leave,’ Korghos said to Threx, advancing across the space between them. ‘There will be no army if Skolor Helfir walks away from here.’
Threx turned his head, following the course of the Direbrands’ chieftain. He had almost disappeared among the rocks. The Skullbrand looked back at the flames, which burned dark from their magical coals.
‘Go!’ growled Threx. ‘Do what must be done.’
Korghos stepped past and continued across the fire-space, Threx following a few steps behind. Ahead of him, Yourag looked up from conversation with his Sigmar-tongue as she raised a hand towards the Khul. It was she that had denounced him to the others, goading Skolor into leaving. Reading intent upon Korghos’ face, Yourag’s expression changed from antipathy to surprise. He seemed to move slowly, reaching for the blade at his waist as Korghos came almost level.
Korghos heard the sound of a blade cutting air before the Korchian’s sword was out of its scabbard.
A moment later an axe buried deep into Yourag’s skull, splitting his brow. Threx stepped past, yanking the weapon free to lash out again, slamming the double-headed axe into the midriff of the Korchian.
Shouts exploded around them. Korghos ignored them, striding past the falling corpse of Yourag, intent upon the figure further along the rock-flanked trail ahead. Hearing the tumult, Skolor turned. Eyes widened with shock as he saw what was happening.
To his credit, the Direbrand did not hesitate. His hammer was in his hand a heartbeat later as he strode back up the path, eyes locked on Korghos.
‘I’ll end you this night,’ snarled the chieftain. ‘You are an abomin–’
Korghos did not waste his breath with words and struck before the chieftain was
finished. This was not a duel, it was an execution. An offering. Straight and fast, the tip of his spear punched into the older man’s throat. Blood sprayed over both of them as Skolor staggered back, his hammer falling from numb fingers, legs wobbling.
The Direbrand champion raised a hand to the wound, trying to stem the flow of his life, but there was nothing to be done. Beyond him, his Sigmar-tongue raced back up the hill, an angry shout preceding him.
Korghos vaulted Helfir as he fell, driving the spear forward again. The Sigmar-tongue tried to deflect the blow, hand raised too late. The spear tip scored along his cheek and cut off an ear, along with a blood-stained curl of blond hair.
The priest’s hammer swung towards Korghos, its head crackling with sparks of blue energy. Korghos stepped forward, into the blow, and seized his arm in the crook of his own, pulling upwards to snap the Sigmar-tongue’s elbow. The Khul drove his head into the man’s nose, flattening it, more blood coating his mail as the Sigmar-tongue reeled back.
There was no mercy in Korghos. A rage propelled him forward, faster and deadlier than ever he’d been in the bladespace. Fire was in his veins now, not ice. He was here to kill, not defeat. For so many years he had held back his true nature but now it had been revealed to him by Lord Khorne.
He swiped the spear sideways, splitting his foe’s robes, the gleaming tip slashing through the vest of mail beneath. Blood-flecked rings scattered about his feet as the Sigmar-tongue staggered back again, flailing wildly with his hammer. He tripped and fell backwards, landing hard on the mountainside. Korghos loomed over him, spear aimed at his enemy’s chest.
‘Blood for the Blood God!’ he spat.
Staring down at the axe-chewed flesh of Yourag, Threx could scarce believe what he had done. A dizzying elation filled him as he drove the blade once more into the flesh of his hated enemy, severing a leg. All around him were screams and curses but he had eyes only for the blood-flecked face of the Korchian champion.
