“This is poisoned,” said Alaric. “Believe me, you’ll need it, and leave it in the wound to make sure it stays dead.”
Kelhedros didn’t answer. He glanced around, gauging the movements of the multitude of scaephylyd eyes. With a grace that no human could match, the eldar picked his monument and vaulted over the side of the ship. None of the scaephylyds saw him go. The eldar had chosen the precise moment when their primary eyes were elsewhere. Whatever they taught the eldar on the path of the Scorpion, they told them how to go unseen. Alaric didn’t hear Kelhedros hit the blood below. As far as Alaric knew, the eldar had become completely silent and invisible.
Alaric went with the flow of the slaves as they were forced through the dark passages below the arena. The sound of the crowd grew louder. They were chanting, striking up hymns to Khorne or bellowing insults at opposing factions, cheering in salute to their planet’s lords and keening their bloodlust impatiently. Alaric gripped the haft of the broadsword he had chosen to fight with. He didn’t know what was waiting for him on the arena floor, but he knew that if any of the slaves were to get off Drakaasi, he would have to survive it.
There was light ahead. After the darkness of the Hecatomb it seemed impossibly bright. Slaves ahead were stumbling, blinking, onto the arena floor.
Alaric followed them. He heard the voices rise as he emerged into the light of Vel’Skan’s arena.
The crowd cheered insanely. This was what they had been waiting for. They had come to see Alaric the Betrayed, and now, at last, they could watch him die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lord Ebondrake’s palace was connected directly to the arena by a magnificent gallery of marble and frozen blood. Enormous chandeliers, hung with skulls, cast their light on statues and portraits of Drakaasi’s past champions. General Sarcathoth glowered down, a slab of muscle and hatred, who had once ruled half of Drakaasi, rendered in marble, inlaid with red and black. A huge portrait of Lady Malice, the master torturess who had served the planet’s lords for centuries, was barely large enough to contain her merciless beauty and the gallery of torture implements hanging behind her. Kerberian the Three-Headed, the Daemon Rajah of Aelazadne, and Morken Kruul, Khorne’s own herald, all of them were a reminder of what any lord of Drakaasi had to live up to. There was a plinth ready for Lord Ebondrake’s statue, and when his crusade hit the wounded Imperium he would finally have earned the right to place his own image there.
“I believe,” said Ebondrake as he padded regally along the gallery, “in keeping you close.”
“It is an honour,” said Venalitor, walking beside him. For once there were no Ophidian Guard or scaephylyds around.
“It also makes it easier for me to recognise betrayal,” continued Ebondrake, “and to eat you at the first sign of it.”
“Eat me? I had heard you had consumed your enemies in the past, but I did not know if the stories were true.”
“Oh yes, I have eaten many enemies. It hardly does to possess a form like this and not indulge its appetites. Spies and enemies, and a few sycophants, go straight down this royal gullet. The inconsequential, I chew before I swallow. Those who truly anger me I force down in one go. I can feel them wriggle as they dissolve, most pleasing.”
“As threats go, Lord Ebondrake, that was one of the more civilly delivered.”
“And necessary. You have potential, Venalitor. Nothing more, but a great deal of it. You are ambitious. No doubt it would suit you to see me dead in my crusade, and then divide my world up with a few other conspirators.” Ebondrake looked up at the portraits and statues marching by. “All of these rose to power during such a period of stasis, and each of them ended his reign in the same way. It is the way of Chaos, and the way of Drakaasi. It is my duty to ensure that I stave that fate off for as long as possible. Perhaps the Charnel Lord has approached you, or Scathach, proposing an alliance during the crusade to see me fall and take my world. I would urge you not to listen, Duke Venalitor. I did not reach my position without foiling conspirators more cunning and powerful than you.” .
Venalitor thought about this for a moment. “It has crossed my mind, my lord. I covet your power, certainly, no sane follower of Khorne would not, but I go where the power is, which means I am by your side. I am more likely to take your place with your blessing than with your opposition. I am young, and there are ways I can outlive you. I am ambitious, yes, but I can be patient.”
Ebondrake smiled his most dangerous smile. “Exactly what I wanted to hear. You could go far, Venalitor.”
Ebondrake and Venalitor continued along the gallery. At the far end it opened into the great crimson hung balcony reserved for the greatest of the planet’s lords.
“I hear,” said Ebondrake, his tone suddenly hardening, “that Arguthrax’s ambassador to the warp was murdered, and his body used to defile the altar at Ghaal. I trust you would know nothing more of this?”
“I know only what you know,” replied Venalitor.
“This war of yours is over, Venalitor. That is what I decreed.”
“There is no war, my lord,” replied Venalitor smoothly. “Arguthrax and I despise one another, but we will not waste more blood on it.”
Like much of what Venalitor had found himself saying in the run-up to the Vel’Skan games, this was a lie. Venalitor had chosen the most vicious of the scaephylyd nation’s hunters, and had set them hunting the emissaries and heralds who formed Arguthrax’s link to his court in the warp. Arguthrax might even be forced to retreat there or be cut off from his fellow daemons, and then Venalitor could claim victory.
“Should I discover otherwise, my duke, it may cause me to become suddenly hungry.”
“I do not think that Arguthrax will taste very pleasant, my lord.”
“Then I will save you to cleanse my palate afterwards,” replied Ebondrake. “Enough of this! This is not the time for politics. See, the arena awaits!”
Ebondrake and Venalitor emerged onto a balcony formed from the jagged steel jaw of a formidable grimacing war mask set into the wall of the arena. The Ophidian Guard who waited there saluted as Ebondrake appeared at the fanged battlements to the ecstatic roar of the crowd. Venalitor roared in reply, and breathed a plume of black fire into the air to acknowledge them. Venalitor raised a sword in salute, too, but there was no doubt that the people of Vel’Skan adored their ruler, and that these games could not begin without him.
Vel’Skan’s arena was held up from the mass of weapons and armour by dozens of gauntlets, supporting the arena’s bowl like a great chalice. The bowl was formed by the hilt of an enormous rapier embedded point-down in the rock beneath the city, and the hilt’s complex guard spiralled above the arena in a magnificent steel swirl.
Inside, the arena was lavish, and death met opulence everywhere. The audience cheered from galleries carved from marble and obsidian. Blades of gold and brass reached over from the edge of the arena bowl, hung with the corpses of those more recently killed, and, from time to time, chunks of rotting meat would fall from the swinging bodies to be fought over by the spectators below.
Daemons were as welcome as mortals in Vel’Skan’s arena. One segment of the arena was given over to them, the galleries replaced by terraced, blood-filled pools, where the city’s daemons could bathe in the gore of the opening sacrifices. Every shape of daemon was there: bloodletters, snarling fleshhounds, blood-drinking skinless things, and stranger beasts that gibbered and feuded in the gore. Arguthrax was there, too, surrounded by a guard of slaves, ceremonially possessed for the occasion, along with other daemonic lords of Drakaasi: the hulking shrouded form of the Charnel Lord, the enormous dog-like monster Harrowfoul the Magnificent, the red shadow of the Crimson Mist coalesced into a writhing mass with three glowing eyes.
The rest of the audience had come out in all their finery. Many were priests, resplendent in the vestments of Khorne’s various priesthoods. Others were soldiers, proud in armour or uniforms. More were simply wealthy or powerful and wore that influence in the lavis
hness of their dress and their coteries of slaves.
Among them were Drakaasi’s mortal lords, from Ebondrake on his perch in the palace pavilion, to Scathach down by the arena edge, a wizened old scribe sitting beside him to note down all the subtleties of strike and parry that he would witness. The Vermilion Knight stood in enormous crimson armour surrounded by silver-masked warriors, and Golgur the Packmaster threw scraps of disobedient slaves to the mutated hounds fighting around his feet. Even Tiresia the Huntress was there, soaring over the arena on the back of a sky whale.
Every lord of Drakaasi was in attendance, some of whom had barely been glimpsed for decades. All of them wished to pay fealty to Lord Ebondrake and to the Blood God, as well as bask in the bloodshed created for their pleasure.
The arena floor was covered in black sand, shining with the blood of that morning’s sacrifices. In the centre, where the sword’s grip had originally joined the hilt, rose a marble stepped pyramid that dominated the arena. Each level of the structure was its own duelling ground, stained with generations of blood, and scored with hundreds of errant sword strokes.
A few chunks of bone were still embedded in the marble from particularly brutal executions. At the pinnacle of the pyramid was a plinth with a massive brass chalice. The gladiator who drank the blood of his final opponent from that chalice would be crowned the champion of Drakaasi. Many of the planet’s lords had heard the ecstasy of the crowds as they drank from that chalice, and had been set upon the path towards earning the mantle of Champion of Chaos. Other past champions still fought, devolved into subhuman monsters by the endless brutality.
“Many would dearly love to see your Grey Knight on that pyramid,” said Ebondrake, his low growl carrying over the increasing sound of the crowd. “More than half of those have wagered many skulls on him to die. It would be the perfect blessing to have this spectacle sanctified by his blood.”
“He has learned much since he came to Drakaasi,” said Venalitor. “I cannot guarantee he will die on cue. Believe me, whatever he meets up there, he will put up a hell of a fight.”
“Again,” said Ebondrake, “just what I want to hear.”
The gates leading to the prison complex opened. The crowd roared their approval as slaves streamed out into the arena, blinking and confused. The crowd loved their fear, loved their innocence, for even the most sinful of them did not know what was about to happen to them. Greenskins among the slaves roared back at the crowd, daring them to throw the worst they had into the arena. One-ear the Brute was a particular favourite, and eagerly howled orkish insults up at the revellers, who leaned over the barrier to curse him. Another cheer met the enormous man who stepped past the threshold behind the crowd. Alaric the Betrayed, the hunter of daemons, turned into a plaything for the Blood God. Many had seen him fight recently, and rejoiced that he had lost his mind to Khorne’s rage, but he was calmer now, his jaw set, waiting for bloodshed instead or charging across the floor to seek it out.
They started to chant his name. He did not acknowledge them.
Other doors were opening. Many lords had supplied their very best to these games. Even the finest gladiators had to earn their place on the first step of the pyramid, though, because the best were accompanied by many others, hungry and desperate, who knew that only by fighting their own way into contention could they get out of Vel’Skan alive.
Lord Ebondrake reared up over the battlements. He held out a claw to gain the attention of the crowd. He clenched it into a scaly fist and banged it down on the battlements in front of him.
Slave masters lashed down at the slaves beneath them, driving them away from the doors. The greatest gladiators saluted the crowd, gripped their swords and charged. The others spat a few syllables of prayer, and followed.
“Just survive,” said Alaric as Venalitor’s slaves gathered on the arena floor, craning their necks as they tried to take in the sheer size and spectacle of the arena.
“They’ll kill us if we don’t wade in,” said Gearth. “That’s all there is to it.” The prisoner had covered himself in war paint, and he looked like he had more in common with One-ear’s orks than with the rest of the human prisoners.
“No they won’t,” said Alaric. “All eyes will be on me. That’ll buy you some time. Concentrate on not dying. By the time they’re done with me the Hathrans will be here.”
“They’d better be,” said Erkhar. The other doors were opening and the slaves of the other lords were emerging. Among the brutalised humans and mutants were a few who looked as dangerous as Alaric. “This will not be an easy place to survive for long.”
“Trust me,” said Alaric, “and trust the Hathrans.” He glanced at Erkhar. “You and Gearth will be leading the slaves.”
“You won’t be with us?”
“I’ll be up there,” said Alaric, indicating the pyramid towering over them. “That’s what they want. The slavers will ignore you, as long as I can give them a show.”
The other slaves were running across the arena floor towards the pyramid. Some of them were making for Venalitor’s slaves, eager to kill off as many of the opposition as possible in the battle’s early stages.
Someone grabbed Alaric’s arm just as he was about to sprint for the pyramid. Alaric looked down at Haggard’s face.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” said Haggard.
“Then you know why I have to do it.”
“Stay with us. Don’t die for this.”
“Stick close to Erkhar if I fall,” said Alaric. “You all know the plan. Stick with him and help lead them.”
Alaric left Haggard behind and ran for the pyramid. A few swift mutants galloped to intercept him, but the greatsword he had chosen as his weapon was surprisingly quick, and he cut one in two before driving the point through the throat of the other, ripping it free without breaking stride.
Killers were swarming all over the lower steps of the pyramid. Men and daemons were dying there already. Alaric was aware of someone running beside him. It was Gearth, his painted face grinning. He loved it. There was nowhere else he would rather be.
“I’m not missing out, golden boy!” he yelled.
Alaric didn’t reply. He vaulted onto the top step of the pyramid. The marble was head-height for a normal man, but Alaric jumped onto it in one motion.
The crowd cheered. Alaric the Betrayed would die, and a lot of bets would be won. Alaric prepared to disappoint them.
Kelhedros slipped through the wall of blades into the main spur of the prison block. The prison was maddeningly complex, the torture device from which it was built a truly fiendish piece of work, with blades fine and numerous enough to tease out every nerve ending on a victim. There was something admirable about the purity of its purpose. It had been born of a love of pain, some ancient torturer of titans pouring every drop of genius into it.
Kelhedros risked a glance down the cell block. Cells were suspended from blades protruding from the high walls, a web of cranes and catwalks above making the place look like a machine for processing its occupants, which, of course, it was.
The eldar stole across the steel canyon of the cell block, writhing through the spidery shadows that hung across everything. The prison guards were easy to spot; their eyes burned in their ruined faces, for they were just hollow shells of bones and meat to house the daemons controlling them.
Kelhedros ignored them. Killing them would also use up time he didn’t have. He passed right under one of them, who was keeping watch from an upper walkway. Neither the daemon, nor the human trapped somewhere inside, had any idea that Kelhedros was there. It was as if the eldar could just opt out of reality and ghost past the perception of anyone he didn’t want to see him.
Beyond the cell block were the torture chambers. The smell was the worst thing about them. The air seemed to get thicker with their stink. Then there were the implements themselves, complicated machines mounted on the walls, all blades and restraints in an echo of the prison structure. Thumbscrews and hot pokers we
re far too crude for Khorne’s torturers. Lords from across Drakaasi sent captives to be strapped in down here where the precision machines would peel spiral strips from their skin until they broke. A person could be almost completely dissected, and still remain alive and conscious. Some of the arena’s own slaves, the troublemakers and would-be escapees, had suffered just that fate.
A slab stood in the middle of the room, hung with leather restraining straps. In front of the slab, with his back to Kelhedros as he entered, was Kruulskan. The human whose body he had taken had been huge, his massive chest supporting barrel biceps and a neck like a battering ram of muscle. His bald head was scorched with the flames that spat from his eyes sockets, silhouetting his bulk as Kelhedros approached from behind. He was cleaning a selection of blades, pliers and other strange implements laid out on the slab before him.
“What are you?” asked Kruulskan in his slavering grind of a voice.
Kelhedros froze and melted further into the darkness, willing the shadows to congeal around him.
“To delve so deep and reach the heart of this place, you must be skilled. A daemon? No, you don’t smell right. An assassin! Ha! I lived an aeon in the warp and a century in flesh. You’re not the first to come to kill me.”
Kruulskan turned towards Kelhedros. The balls of flame set into his piggy face roved across the room, but they couldn’t focus on Kelhedros. The darkness helped. The waves of pain and misery helped even more. The torture chamber had such a history of suffering that it was like a shroud in which Kelhedros could wrap himself.
Kruulskan picked up a military pick from his side. He stalked slowly towards the centre of the room.
“I can see things no human can see,” growled Kruulskan. “You can’t hide from me. There’s a daemon in this head! Hungry and mean, and he wants blood! He ain’t had it for so long, just lickings from a slave vintage. You’re different. You’ll taste good. Aliens always do. Yes, I can smell the void on you. You’re very far from home, little bug-eyes.”
[Grey Knights 03] - Hammer of Daemons Page 21
