The Red Feast - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer

  ‘Others will come, wondering what’s become of their leaders.’ His uncle turned and raised his voice so that it carried to Korghos and Lashkar. ‘You can’t hide what’s happened here. The Direbrands will miss Skolor. Yourag’s absence will be noted, too, and the others. You’ve slain a few here but how many other champions are waiting for us?’

  ‘All will submit to Khorne’s will or be slain,’ replied Lashkar. ‘The Blood God demands it.’

  ‘We’ll all die, right here next to the Pyre,’ Atraxas said to Threx. ‘There will be more against us than with us. We called the Red Feast to get allies, not enemies.’

  ‘We have the greatest ally there can be! We have the blessings of the Skull Lord to strengthen our blade arms and guide our weapons.’

  Korghos approached and the group fell silent, realising their words might not be well taken.

  ‘Atraxas is right.’ The Khul looked at the Hall Guard commander. ‘It does not serve Khorne’s purpose to spill out our guts on this earth.’

  ‘Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows,’ called out Lashkar, raising a finger in admonishment. ‘Only that it flows.’

  ‘Khorne did not bid me to die here, but to spread the gift of slaughter.’ The Bloodking thought for a moment, thumb rubbing the blood-stained haft of his spear. A smile crept across his features. ‘You’re right though, Lashkar Khul. Khorne cares not. It is only the fight that pleases him, and we’ve near a thousand champions here hungering to fight already. They need no convincing. The Red Feast will continue. Champion will fight champion. We will let my challenge be known. Leadership of the Khul for any brave and skilled enough to seize it. For each we slay, take their skull and offer it to Khorne.’

  A commotion on the far side of the Pyre betrayed the arrival of returning champions, some of them with entourages in tow.

  ‘I shall make the declaration,’ said Threx. ‘As host it is my right. The Blood Moon has waxed full and the trials have commenced. Glory to those that have already fallen, but the greatest glories await those that still stand.’

  Lashkar crossed quickly towards them, face lit by the light of the Pyre. He looked inhuman in the flickering light, eyes sunken, the rune upon his brow burning with its own energy.

  ‘The cup of blood, where is it?’ the Bloodspeaker demanded. ‘The one that was passed from tribe to tribe, gathering the blood of the champions.’

  Threx pointed back to the Skullbrand camp down the mountainside. ‘It stands in place of honour before my hall.’

  ‘You will issue a further prize,’ said Lashkar. He pointed at Atraxas. ‘Take the cup to the summit and place it upon the ancient table there. Whoever drinks from the cup shall be named the lord of the Flamescar.’

  ‘For what purpose?’ asked Atraxas.

  ‘To ensure that everyone will fight,’ growled Lashkar. ‘Khorne will fill the hearts of everyone with the lust for battle, but the offer of such a prize will truly set them against each other.’

  ‘I like it,’ said Threx with a grin.

  ‘I shall claim the cup,’ said Korghos.

  ‘If Khorne wills it,’ replied the Bloodspeaker.

  Threx faced his tribes-kin, axe planted in the ground before him.

  ‘Do as he says. Pass the word to all on the island. The trials of the Red Feast have begun!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  As he stepped out from the shadows, Korghos let out the breath that had gathered tight in his chest. In front of him stood Orasda Vex, Bladeprince of the Steelwater tribe. His foe was garbed in stiff leather armour studded with rivets, his hands bound with thongs of the same, gripped about the hilt of a bastard sword half as tall as he was. White ink marked his dark skin, his flat features painted except for around the eyes and nose, rendering his face a skull. His tightly curled hair was bound up in an elaborate topknot and then spilled down his back in black waves.

  But it was not these features that Korghos looked at. Instead he saw the twist of the right foot, splayed slightly outwards. The kink of the left elbow where it should be straight, which led to a slight hunching of the shoulder. His opponent was right-handed and would be slower striking to that side, his grip dominating the possible strokes from any given position.

  Korghos felt calm, but not as the icy pool he had once been. Now he was the banked kindling waiting for the spark. As he eyed his opponent he let the fire gather strength, feeling the blood of Khorne’s blessing pumping through him, heart quickening, senses growing keener with each breath. He felt the trickle of sweat run down his face along the cheek guard of his helm. He saw the glisten of perspiration on the skin of his opponent and could smell his scent on the steady breeze.

  His ears caught the sound of clashing weapons and fierce shouts. All across the slopes of Clavis Volk a hundred duels and more were taking place. The sun was not yet up, but the Blood Moon provided its own ruddy twilight, more than enough illumination for bladework.

  He saw Orasda Vex glance up, past Korghos to the summit of the mountain. There was no hiding the man’s ambition; he desired to be the one that would ascend and claim dominion over all the champions of the Red Feast.

  ‘The prize will be mine,’ said Korghos. The brag was intended to goad his opponent, but it felt good to speak his mind, to let his thoughts free rather than shackle them with pointless diplomacy. In the trials of the Aridians he had always remained calm, his emotions locked within like the coals inside a furnace. Now Khorne’s breath fanned those emotions into a burning flame that would not be contained. ‘I’m going to kill you, cut off your head and take your people.’

  ‘I’ll send you to the Grey Realm first!’ snarled Orasda Vex, striding forward.

  Korghos saw the anger in the man’s eyes and smiled, knowing that he did Khorne’s work. In denying his rage he had spurned the gift of the Blood God. Now he could be himself, as Lashkar had shown him.

  With a shout he leapt forward, ducking beneath the powerful but slow swing of his opponent’s long blade. Korghos’ spear jabbed once, twice, and then he sidestepped left, dodging the awkward return blow.

  Orasda Vex staggered, stepping backwards a pace as blood poured from his armpit. His grip wet, he lost his grasp on his sword and it slipped from his slicked fingers. His expression was more one of shock than pain as he looked at Korghos, followed by confusion, and then dread. He tried to lift an arm towards Korghos but the limb flopped back even as he slumped forward a step, almost losing his footing.

  ‘Not like this…’ the man whispered, pleading in his eyes. His gaze moved towards the sword, numb fingers scrabbling for the hilt.

  Korghos strode to Orasda Vex and picked up the sword, pressing it into the man’s other hand, curling the fingers around the hilt. He used his own grip to keep his opponent’s tight as he drew back his arm.

  ‘Khorne will welcome you. I grant you a warrior’s death.’

  The spear tip pierced throat and brain in one swift blow, ending the champion’s pain and fear. Korghos stood up, planted his spear in the earth and took up Orasda Vex’s sword. For the first time since the two had met in challenge, Korghos looked at the entourage of his slain foe. There were about two dozen of them, men and women, some glaring at him, others fearful. Three of them caught his attention – the ones that were smiling and nodding, grateful for the ending he had granted their warrior.

  ‘You are my people now,’ he told them, hefting the captured blade. ‘You may leave and hope our paths never cross again, for if they do my army will destroy you. Or you can accept the truth, that there is a power greater than you to serve. Through me you can rise to greatness too.’

  Some looked away, others came closer. Korghos turned and waved a hand towards Lashkar, who stood a short distance away with blades bared.

  ‘Sigmar will curse you for this!’ shouted one of the Steelwater men, shaking a fist. ‘The hammer will fall upon you, Korghos Khul!’

  ‘You are wrong.’ Korghos swept the blade down, chopping off Orasda Vex’s head with one blow. He
tossed the dead man’s sword aside and swept up the severed head by its extravagant hair, swinging it over his shoulder like a bag. With his other hand he pointed to the Blood Moon. ‘Sigmar has abandoned you. Khorne watches over the Flamescar now.’

  Some fled then, tears streaming down their cheeks, their shrieks fading with distance. Six remained, each of them clad as a warrior, their eyes drawn to the Blood Moon above.

  ‘What must be done?’ one of them asked.

  ‘What prayers must we raise to this new Lord of the Steel?’ said another.

  ‘To slay is to pray,’ said Lashkar, approaching with long strides. ‘Anoint your blades in blood for him.’

  ‘Find a foe. Slay them. Dedicate their death to the Blood God.’ Korghos lifted up Orasda Vex’s head. ‘Skulls for the Skull Throne of Khorne!’

  The corpse-fire now filled almost the whole space that had been cleared for the host’s feast. Flame-cleansed bones filled the shallow depression, a carpet of ash, bone and skulls, from which towering red flames reached towards the skies. The Blood Moon wavered in the wash of heat, seeming to burn with its own fire as Khorne looked down upon his followers.

  Threx hurled another body into the flames, raising a cheer from the warriors gathered on the rocks above. While Korghos was busy challenging his rival champions in single combat, Threx had taken a different course. He turned to the cabal of warriors behind him, his former Hall Guards, Atraxas at their head. Their grey cloaks were now a deep red, soaked in the blood of those they had slain for Khorne. Each had carved the skull rune of their new lord upon their breastplate, and some had even fashioned crude brands, burning the symbol into cheek and arm and brow.

  ‘The skull bounty grows!’ roared Threx, pumping his fist in the air. ‘But the Pyre hungers for more. Not easily sated is the Blood God’s thirst.’

  He bounded up the rocks, filled with a vigour he had never dreamed of. He could see the same in the eyes of his companions, Foraza and Vourza flanking Atraxas with horn and banner. Nerxes waited a little further away, ready to lead them to their next target. As he reached the ridgeline Threx saw another fire on the far side, smaller than the Pyre. Figures capered around in the light of blue, flickering flames. By the erratic light he could see stakes had been placed over the fire, bodies spitted upon them. The revellers hacked at the charring corpses, taking hands and limbs, slicing flesh from cheek and buttock.

  ‘The Darkbones have returned to their old ways, I see,’ said Vourza as Threx and his companions joined Nerxes.

  ‘There is a spark of Khorne in all of the tribes,’ said Nerxes. ‘Sigmar tried to bury it deep but it is still there. Some of us remember. Others will need reminding, or will deny their bloody pasts.’

  ‘And long will be the labour in Khorne’s name,’ said Threx, waving them to continue down the hillside.

  ‘Indeed.’ Nerxes pointed to the right, leading them to a fork in the trail that headed back towards the coast. Drums sounded from the steep cliffs ahead and the shore was lit by several campfires. ‘The Ashragans.’

  ‘Never heard of them,’ said Threx.

  ‘Allies of the Direbrands,’ Nerxes explained. ‘A cousin-kin offshoot half a dozen generations old.’

  ‘If they’re Direbrands, they’ll be Sigmar-bound,’ said Atraxas. ‘No allies there.’

  ‘Yes, and they are preparing their ships,’ said Nerxes. ‘We can’t have word of what’s happening get to the mainland.’

  ‘The offer will stand,’ said Threx as the advance party came upon the clifftop path. It wound back and forth down the grey wall, its bottom lost in shadows. ‘Khorne needs warriors as well as sacrifices. What happens here is just the start of our conquest.’

  They fell silent as they picked their way down the treacherously steep trail, their passage lit only by the Blood Moon. The first smudge of the coming dawn lit the sea horizon but the Eye of Khorne would not truly set for three more days, such was its strange procession across the heavens at that time of year.

  The slap of scabbards and jingle of mail was impossible to mute completely and when they were a few dozen paces from the pebbled shore they heard the crunching of steps below them.

  ‘Who is there?’ a sentry demanded from the shadows at the base of the cliff. ‘Declare yourselves!’

  ‘It is Nerxes, the emissary of the host.’ As he spoke, Threx’s cousin moved ahead, stepping out into the moonlight. ‘The Red Feast has begun and declarations are to be made.’

  The guard hesitated, glancing back towards the dim figures moving in the light of the fires, loading their belongings onto two beached longships.

  ‘Why so many?’

  ‘The host himself comes,’ said Nerxes. He stepped closer but the sentry backed away, hand on the horn that hung on a strap over his shoulder.

  A hiss cut the air and a moment later a throwing axe thudded into the man’s chest, sending him sprawling. Nerxes leapt on him as a choked cry escaped his lips, sword piercing his throat.

  The force hurried past, Threx at their head, their feet raising a noise from the shifting pebbles underfoot.

  ‘What’s their chieftain called?’ asked Threx as they came into the firelight.

  ‘Surrodia, I think,’ replied Nerxes.

  ‘The host of the Red Feast has come!’ bellowed Foraza at a nod from his lord. ‘Give audience to Threx Skullbrand!’

  The Ashragans responded quickly, dropping their loads, drawing weapons as the Skullbrands continued to advance past the closest fire.

  ‘I would speak with Surrodia,’ announced Threx, raising a hand to stop his company. The red cloaks spread out around him, while Foraza planted the new banner in the beach, its shadow a distorted version of the Khornate rune made of blades and body parts.

  ‘I am here,’ a woman called from the prow of the closest ship. ‘I have no words for a kinslayer and false-tongue.’

  ‘I think we have your answer,’ said Atraxas. Threx ignored his uncle and paced forward, slipping his axe from its loop.

  ‘As host I have placed the cup of Okhon upon his feasting table,’ said Threx, pointing towards the summit with his weapon. ‘The champion that drinks from it will be made king.’

  ‘I have no interest in your blood game, Threx. Go, or my warriors will send you to the darkness.’

  ‘I have another offer,’ said Threx, still walking. A knot of Ashragans gathered in front of him. Others were running from the far end of the cove. ‘Khorne demands you give something to him.’

  ‘Rot in the Abyss, Skullbrands,’ shouted Surrodia. ‘I will give you nothing.’

  ‘I speak to you all,’ said Threx, moving his gaze to the fighters gathering in front of him. ‘Only two offerings will Khorne accept. Your weapons pledged, or your skulls reaped.’

  ‘Death to the Skullbrands!’ roared Surrodia, leaping down to the ground, a golden blade in her hand. Her warriors surged forward and Threx heard the crash of feet on pebbles behind him as his bloody cohort counter-charged.

  Finally, Threx could live as he wanted, slay as he desired, without remorse or judgement.

  ‘Skulls it is,’ he said with a grin, leaping to the attack, his axe carving a shining arc in the ruddy moonlight.

  Though he had not slept, or eaten, or drunk for three days, and had fought a hundred duels and more in that time, Korghos felt as energised as when he had started the killing. His existence had become one of continual battle, cutting down foe after foe beneath the ruddy gaze of Khorne. Clavis Volk seemed a place apart, the sun barely touching the volcanic rock, the bloody haze of the looming moon cast upon everything.

  He no longer issued challenge nor made offers to the companions of the slain. All that he saw was an enemy to be overcome. The higher he climbed the mountain, the more determined his foes became. He was cut in a score of places but the pain was secondary to the need to be victorious.

  His goal was in sight. Striding up the winding path that led to the bare summit of the island, he could see the stones that lined the way were marked w
ith ancient runes. The markers themselves were of red stone, unlike anything else on the black-and-grey isle, brought from somewhere else.

  As he had been, he realised.

  ‘I am the spear tip,’ he said, his words not directed at anyone in particular, but answered by Lashkar anyway.

  ‘You are. With you, Khorne will pierce the shield of Sigmar and the Great Parch will know its true lord again. These lands, these people, are descended from the warriors of the true Gods! My paintings showed it all. The one that rose among them to destroy the cities of the civilised damned. Aelves and duardin and humans had to bend all their might to stop him. Fractured, the people were split, but the Great Parch remembered them, gathered them to itself like a child brought to the embrace of a loving parent.’

  ‘The past does not concern me,’ declared Korghos as his booted foot stepped upon the level stone that topped the mount. In one hand he grasped the half-sword of his wife. Still sheathed, for its value was not as a weapon but a link to something far more important. ‘The future awaits. I shall have an army with which to destroy the Tithemasters.’

  He stopped, hearing the sounds of battle as they continued to ring in the gorges and woods that flanked the high peak. He could feel the spirit of Khorne moving through the island, a tremble beneath his feet as the Blood God readied to enter the realm from which he had been warded for so long.

  ‘The cup shall be mine,’ said Korghos, taking another step. The table was a few dozen paces away, the blood-filled bowl set upon it as instructed.

  The ground shook harder, causing red liquid to spill onto the table. It ran along scores in the surface much like the carving of the peak-top shrine where he had met Lashkar.

  ‘The pact is almost sealed,’ said the Bloodspeaker, hurrying ahead of him.

  Korghos thought the Bloodspeaker was going for the cup himself and dashed after Lashkar with a shout, spear readied. Another earth tremor sent him reeling into the table, banging a thigh hard against its edge. He saw that the blood-channels described the rune of Khorne, as he had suspected, but it was set into a grander design, that of a bestial, roaring face that was mastiff and bear, bull and snarling cat all together.