What in Sigmar’s name had happened, Martmann wondered, as he blinked tears from his eyes and squinted into the gloom. What was that stink? It was like nothing Martmann had ever smelled before, or ever wanted to smell again. It was as sharp as rotting fish, and as cloying as sewage. It was worse than either of those things, though, and, as Martmann thought about it, his gorge rose, and he leaned forward to vomit, his body convulsing until there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up.
“Oh Sigmar,” he whined miserably, tears rolling down his cheeks. He had just seen the shapes of the things that waited in the gloom around him.
They were pale things, like ghosts in the darkness, although there was a horrible, translucent reality to the black oil of their eyes and the slavering gleam of their fangs. Martmann whimpered as they edged towards him, slowly and half-seen. If it hadn’t been for the occasional turn of detritus beneath their feet, or the occasional hiss of breath, he would have tried to believe that they were just figments of his imagination, of delirium tremens perhaps. Unfortunately, his vision had cleared enough for him to make out their forms, their horrible, twisted forms.
Another man might have thought about trying to find a weapon amongst the ruin around him, but not Martmann. He drew his knees up to his chest like a frightened child, and told himself that, yes, of course, this must be delirium tremens. He had seen it take other men after too much drinking. Now, it had taken him. He clung to the idea as desperately as a man holding on to the edge of an abyss.
“Sergeant?” he called out, his voice a dried-out husk.
As if in answer, something moved in the darkness beyond the shaft of sunlight, something big. Rubble shifted beneath its feet as it approached, and Martmann looked up over his knees. Whatever the thing was, it had paused at the edge of the circle of light.
“Sergeant?” Martmann whispered.
Then, as if in answer, the horror stepped out of the darkness, and into the pool of daylight. Martmann started screaming, as mindlessly and involuntarily as a rabbit caught in a snare.
The thing that approached was like a figment of a lunatic’s nightmare. Although it was stooped and malformed, it was ten feet tall, perhaps even twelve. Its shoulders were as wide as the spreading horns of an Estalian bull, and the barrel of its chest looked as strong as a bull’s. Slabs of muscle and knuckles of bone bulged in odd places beneath the filthy translucent skin of its hide, so that it had the lumpen, misshapen look of a clay model, made by a child.
It wasn’t, however, the twisted power of its ruined form that had shattered the last of Martmann’s sanity, it was the razor-sharp nightmare of its splintered teeth, pink in the sunlight, and the rabid glitter in its eyes. Blood squirmed across the thing’s pupils so that, within the dark caverns of its orbs, they looked like twin suns of liquid flame.
Then, in the places where the sunlight hit it, the thing’s mottled skin started to steam, and then to burn.
The conflagration started at the tops of its shoulders, and spread along the ridges of muscle and bone that were also bathed with sunlight. Tiny tongues of silver flame erupted from the weird translucence of its hide to flicker over the its grotesque form, like marsh gas over a swamp.
Still the beast stood there, and, even as the translucence of its skin began to blossom with even more of the tiny, devouring flames, it reached its arms out, held its palms up to the sunlight so that they burned like phosphorous, and screamed.
It was a cry of such agony and such ecstasy that it seemed to suck the breath out of Martmann’s lungs. He, alone, was silent as, all around him, the things that waited in the shadows started baying with sympathy for their master.
It stood in the daylight that streamed down over it like a pillar of fire for a moment longer, bathing in the flames that writhed around its form like devouring stars. Then, when it could take it no more, it lurched back into the gloom of the ruined hall.
For a few seconds, sparks of light still danced across its form. Then, the fire that had bathed it was gone. The skin that remained had lost some of its translucence, and its stoop seemed to have gone, as though the fused vertebrae of its hunchback had somehow untangled beneath the agony of the sunlight.
Martmann realised that he wasn’t breathing. He sucked in a long, shuddering gulp of breath as the creature loomed over him, and, as he gazed into the furnaces of its eyes, a miracle happened. He found that he was no longer terrified. He was no longer even afraid. For the first time since last night, he felt at peace.
It was wonderful.
He watched, as if he were a disinterested bystander at somebody else’s execution, as a handful of gnarled talons reached out for him. It wasn’t until they closed around the carved wood in his belt and drew it out that Martmann felt the beginnings of his fear returning, the emotion vague, but as insistent as the sound of distant drumming.
“You’re one of the Striganies’ daemons,” he heard himself say, as the creature sniffed at the carving, and then turned it to study the workmanship. “I didn’t mean to hurt them. It was just that the baron said that any Strigany entering our lands were fair game.”
The creature ignored him. It was intent on the carving, the shattered angles of its malformed features twisting into something that might have been concentration.
“I never had anything against Strigany, Sigmar knows,” Martmann babbled on. “Fine folk. Brighten the place up with their caravans and funny clothing and all. It’s just that I’m a soldier, and, well, if your master tells you to do something then what can you do, except obey? I was only following orders. There has to be orders, if not, the whole thing would collapse.”
A talon as sharp as an eagle’s claw flicked out, the movement a blur, and Martmann felt his chin being lifted so that he was looking into the creature’s eyes. Beneath the gleam of stolen blood, they were as ancient and as knowing as sin.
Tell me what this is, a voice said in Martmann’s head.
“It’s a carving I made,” Martmann replied, shuddering with revulsion at this violation of his consciousness. “Just some little thing I carved to pass the time. It’s the story of Sigmar Heldenhammer. See, that’s him meeting the dwarfs.”
A work of art, the voice said again, the words deafening in the silence of his mind.
“Yes. That is, not a very good one.”
It has been so long since I commissioned such things.
Martmann squirmed, and his left eye started to twitch. Even when words weren’t forming inside his head, the alien presence of the creature’s thoughts remained there, squirming through his consciousness like a maggot in a wound. Although he didn’t know it, Martmann was weeping.
I think that it is time to commission a work of art, the voice decided. I will tell you what to carve, and you will carve it. I can promise you that it will be a nobler tale than that of some barbarian chieftain, and it will be on a fitting canvas.
The creature turned to the darkness. There was a brief scuffle, a shriek of pain, and, out of the darkness, a stream of grovelling creatures appeared. Martmann noticed that they were pale imitations of their master: weak, sickly things with blackened claws and lifeless eyes, and, as he watched, they started to pile bones onto the table: a skull, the gnaw marks still fresh on the pink of its cranium; a ribcage, picked clean; bones from arms and legs.
When the pile was complete, the last of the snivelling things approached, and, with a nervous look at its master, it placed Martmann’s carving tool on the table beside him.
Now I will tell you the story of Mourkain. The words appeared in Martmann’s head. And you will illustrate it. Start with the toes.
For a moment, Martmann didn’t understand. Then he looked again at the bones on the table, and realised that this was no random assortment of remains, but the entire skeleton of one of his comrades. It was impossible to tell who that had been, although, only hours before, the man had been feasting at the very table upon which his gnawed bones now rested.
A whimper escaped from the tightness of
Martmann’s throat, and he tried not to think about that as, fingers trembling, he sorted through the bones, and laid out the remains of whoever it had been. Then, he picked up his carving tool, and, as the images started to blossom within the ruins of his mind, he started to carve them into the bone.
Day turned to night, and then to day again, as Martmann worked. He neither rested nor drank, and soon his eyes were as pink as his new master’s with dehydration and exhaustion.
It had little effect on the quality of his work, though. The fabulous cities he carved were exquisite in their detail, and perfect in the way that they conformed to the new geography of fibula, patella and femur. The fine lords who stalked hungrily amongst the palaces seemed to be almost alive, and the joy with which the fattened populace was honoured with their master’s embrace was obvious.
It wasn’t until the carving reached the skeleton’s pelvis that the glories of Mourkain began to be overshadowed by other, more troubling events. Whereas, before, the fevered genius of Martmann’s workmanship had described nothing but scenes of terrible beauty, now they began to reveal the vile forms of the orc and the goblin. They danced among scenes of wanton destruction, each of the vertebrae, the carving now climbed, a separate tableau of violence, until, on the broader canvas of the sternum, the final battle between the wyvern-mounted orc and the Great Lord of Mourkain was revealed.
Incredibly, the orc won. The horror and disbelief of the onlookers remained on their faces, as, along each of the skeleton’s ribs, scenes of massacre and of flight were revealed. The city was razed to the ground, and the people of Mourkain were driven into the wilderness.
Martmann’s fingers were bleeding freely, and his whole body had begun to shake. There was no mistake in his portrayal of Mourkain’s lords, though. As they struggled through the wilderness, they were set upon by beings almost as beautiful as they were. Soon, only a few remained to crouch and slink through the abandoned places of the world. Their forms, bent beneath the weight of their loss, and twisted by the offal they scrounged on, loped down both of the skeleton’s arms, their forms degenerating from scapula to humerus, and from humerus to wrist.
The other refugees fared better. There was no mistaking that the wagons they built were those of the Strigany They were identical to the ones that Martmann had burned only a few short weeks ago.
They travelled up the last few vertebrae from the ruins of their city, and around the back of the skeleton’s skull. It was only at the front of its cranium that the wagons stopped, giving way to three verses written in a language that Martmann had never seen, until now, as he carved the letters into the skeleton’s cranium.
Only then was he allowed to drop his bloodied chisel, and stagger away from his work. He hardly realised what a masterpiece he had created among the chippings of bone. Me hardly cared. All he cared about was the sudden, savage oblivion that was all the reward his patron could offer.
As far as the shattered thing that had been Martmann was concerned, that oblivion was reward enough.
He sat in the ruins of the fortress, and stared at his pink-boned work of art. His eyes glowed with the reflection of the battles and wonders that had been etched into the skeleton, but he was also seeing other, more distant scenes.
For the first time in an aeon, he had dared to remember, and the remembering was hard: the lost glories of his court, the silks, the graces, and the sunshine, always the sunshine. How it had sparkled and glowed on his lands and on his city. How it had made the river glitter and the corn fields glow like oceans of gold.
Maybe it had been the rare taste of fresh blood that had driven him to feel the sunlight on his skin today. The pain had been excruciating, but worth it. It had done something to him, the cleansing fire washing away the most horrific of his deformities, even as it had awakened something that had for so long lain dormant within the lightless depths of his withered soul.
How fair he had once been. Even amongst the most handsome of his race, he had been the cleanest-limbed, the clearest-eyed, as strong as a god and as wise as a prophet. His name had been carved onto every heart of an entire people. Now, he couldn’t even remember it.
Tears of blood trickled down his ravaged features, tears of loss, and of frustration and rage: most of all, tears of rage. The ghouls who followed him, sensing their master’s mood, whined and bickered, and slunk away into the darkest corners of the hall. He watched them, hatred in his eyes. Once he had had legions of servants, chosen from among the ripest of humanity: artists, courtesans, musicians, poets, athletes.
Now all he had were these vermin.
The tears stopped as his rage found an outlet. He stood, straighter than he had in a thousand years, and turned to study his ruined followers, as they gibbered and clutched at each other. A sudden revulsion lent an edge to his rage, and he flexed his claws. He wouldn’t besmirch his pallet with the taste of these things’ vile blood.
As he fell upon them, some of the ghouls tried to flee. Most, though, lacked the will. They cowered, skinny arms raised uselessly, as their master slaughtered them, snuffing out their worthless lives. The hall echoed with their shrieks of bewilderment and terror as their master snapped necks, slashed out throats, and tore bodies in half.
When the final ghoul lay twitching out the last of its life on the floor, he returned to the blade of sunlight that cut down like a guillotine into the blood-soaked darkness of the hall. As he prepared to step forward, he remembered his name, and, with the joy of it twisting his face into a snarl of joy, he stepped, once more, into the light.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“It is not the strength of our leaders that gives us unity, it is the strength of our enemies.”
—Strigany saying
Even as Blyseden continued with his briefing, the Strigany were beginning their own deliberations.
The crudely built amphitheatre where they were being held had been set up in the centre of their encampment, built by the Striganies’ carpenters from dozens of spare wagons and carts. The timber had been stripped from the vehicles, and hammered and lashed into two tiers of seats that went around a reed matted central clearing. Since night had fallen, a ring of pitch torches lit all within. The sputtering light they cast, and the shape of the enclosed amphitheatre, made it look like an Estalian bull ring.
Although there was none of the chanting or the stamping of feet that accompanied the Estalians’ favourite blood sport, the air was just as thick with tension. This was the first time that the domnus of all the caravans had been gathered together, and, even though there was space for three hundred people in the amphitheatre, the seats were packed, the grey bearded and grizzled domnus squeezed together in the stalls like children in the back of a wagon.
Only the petrus had space to stretch out. They occupied the eastern side of the arena, which was the most sheltered from the elements. Their black robes and glittering eyes made them look like a flock of ravens, who were waiting for something to die, which, tonight, they were.
The oldest of the petrus waited until they were assembled, before emerging from the shadows. The hubbub of raised voices quietened, as the elder glided towards the centre of the amphitheatre. He carried a staff, but, despite his age, he held it more like a bandit with a weapon than an old man with a crutch.
“My family,” he called to them, his voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the amphitheatre, “welcome!”
“Welcome,” three hundred voices boomed, and the elder smiled in approval.
“It has done my heart good,” he told them, “to have seen so many of our people gathered together. To see the youth of the children, and the skill of their parents, and, of course, the wisdom of their elders.”
His eyes twinkled, and there was cautious laughter.
“Although it is nice to see you here, my family, it is a hard season that has brought us together.”
The faces of the crowd grew solemn. Many of them had lost friends and loved ones on the trek, and all of them had suffered.
There was a rumble of conversation, quickly suppressed as the elder raised his staff for silence.
“Are there any here who will not accept the leadership of the Kazarkhan we will choose tonight?”
There was some shuffling and some sideways glances but nothing more.
“So be it,” the elder said. Then he paused, looked down, and gathered his breath. When he spoke again, his voice boomed so deeply that it barely seemed possible from such a frail old chest.
“Who among us would be Kazarkhan?”
As soon as the question had been asked, a chorus of voices started from different parts of the amphitheatre, all of them calling Brock’s name. He waited for a moment, before responding to his supporters’ encouragement, rising to his feet and walking down towards the elder.
Brock was dressed in a purple tunic, which reached to his knees, and a wide, leather belt. His beard had been oiled, so that it gleamed in the lamplight, his hair twisted back into a rope that resembled a bull’s tail, and the socket of his ruined eye covered by a silk patch.
Even if he had stepped into the ring naked, Petru Engel decided as he watched his domnu step down onto the matting, there would be no doubting his power. It was in every movement, every step, and gesture, and expression.
[Warhammer] - Ancient Blood Page 19
