As Laila returned to the familiar rhythm of her old life, she remembered the bargain with ever greater unease. She was missing something. But what? Cesse was sinister certainly, but had given her word in front of her god. While that god was no Alarielle, he was still a deity that had rules that were binding. So why did it feel like something had gone horribly wrong?
The days turned into a week and then two, autumn cooled and the rains started in earnest. Fear of famine set in; their stores were lean as much of the harvest had rotted in the fields. Stefen and Ano’s funeral came and went, bleak and routine like all the others before it. Normalcy never returned. The cut in her hand would not heal; instead it constantly broke open and bled, the skin ashen and dry. Likewise, the vivid nightmares also continued, an unending torment.
Her neighbours treated her differently, either greeting her with cool politeness or pointedly avoiding her, making holy signs as they did so. Rumours that she was cursed began to circulate. Never had she felt as alone as she did now, surrounded by familiar faces, none of whom trusted her as they had.
Then late one night, a high musical tone sounded through Laila’s dreams, reverberating through her bones. Dazed, she opened her eyes as another call went out, louder than the last. Laila clamped her hands over her ears as the sound pierced her skull like a butcher’s pick. The horn-blower was real; worse, it was out in the fields. The fiends were outside the walls.
The cut began to itch, then to throb. She clutched her hand tight and felt warm blood. She stripped off the soaked bandage and searched for another. As she looked, another horn call went out, different than the first. Brassy and eerie, it shivered up the spine and set the heart racing. Then there was a high, keening howl.
The Fair Ones had come.
She wrapped her hand and glanced at her bolthole. Disgust at her fears and nightmares rose. She had to see the creatures die. Maybe then she would be free from the monsters that stalked her dreams and the memories of her husband’s death. The Fair Ones had promised to kill them all, why not see them fulfil that promise?
She paused. The sounds from the battle filtered through to her, high ululating screams, roars of elation and the metallic bang of weapons meeting. It was almost musical in its own way, rising and falling by some rhythm that she could not discern.
Even as the pain crept up her arm like venom, she stepped outside and looked up at the cloudy sky. No, not clouds. Shadows. They weaved through the sky as though they were living things, tinting the Cinder Disc into a colour like heart’s blood.
She climbed the wall to where Hadlen and a couple of warriors stood and looked out with them.
The scene was grim.
Out amongst the rotten grain, a great jewelled chariot lay crumpled like a dead beetle. Clustered about the wreck was a group of heavily armoured men, if one could call them such, bunched up with weapons turned outwards. At the centre was a tall, lithe creature with an elaborate helm, shouting in a silvery voice. All about them, shadowy women probed at the raiders’ defence, thin spears piercing through hardened armour, others tearing at shields with hooked blades. A final, bloody last stand.
Something flew out of the trees on the wings of a drake and circled above the battle. Then it dived down into the heart of the raiders like a hawk. The defensive knot broke apart, revealing a flickering dance between the Chaos leader and a monstrous winged aelf. Blows lashed between them and for a moment, it looked as though they were equal. Then the aelf skewered the leader through his jewelled breastplate, ending the beast’s life.
The winged woman was not the only monster. Other aelves with the bodies of serpents weaved among strange crystalline statues that glittered in the half-light, frozen in mid-flight. Still other warrior women flickered after their fleeing enemies, snaring them with barbed whips or lopping off limbs with long daggers. The crack of breaking bones, the chanting of women and the screams of dying things drifted out from beyond the trees. A strange fire burned out there, throwing up dense, ruddy mist. The stench of blood was so thick on the wind that it gummed in the eyes and throat.
Never had Laila imagined that their defence would be so ugly. Yet did those creatures not deserve it? Did evil deserve evil? Yes, they did. Maybe now, Jonas would no longer haunt her dreams with his screams and pleading.
As they looked on, a shadow walked down the road. It was Cesse. Below them, she stood, strong and cold. A bloody sickle gleamed in one of the aelf’s hands, while in the other was that magnificent crested helm. No, not a helm, a head in a helm. She lifted up the gruesome trophy, blood dripping from the severed neck.
‘We thank you for this glorious slaughter, which we have carried out in your name,’ Cesse said, her voice quivering with a cruel elation. ‘This creature will trouble you no more. Now, whose blood shall it be?’
‘What? I gave you what you wanted,’ Laila said. ‘I gave you my blood.’
Cesse blinked and dropped the head into the dirt. All the other aelves stopped and looked towards the village as one. The shadows paused in the sky as if frozen and then seeped downwards like black snow. Out in the forest, something rumbled and that dread altar rolled forwards of its own volition out of the trees, the cauldron the source of that terrible smoke. Around it slithered some terrible thing, a vast serpent.
‘It pains me that your kind are so forgetful,’ Cesse said, a hint of amusement in her voice as if she were revealing the punchline of a joke. ‘You spoke for all, therefore you are all. Your blood stands for your village’s obligation to us. Do not worry. We will not take the strong from among you, only the weakest from each household. The ones that you will not miss. Given the state of your harvest, you would not be able to feed them anyway. In time, you will be grateful for the lack of useless mouths. Just as it was before.’
‘She cannot be serious,’ Hadlen said. ‘Laila, you could not have agreed to this.’
‘I didn’t,’ Laila stammered. ‘That was not what we agreed to.’ She leaned over the wall. ‘I gave you blood.’
‘No, you sealed the agreement with your blood,’ Cesse said. ‘A few drops is not enough. Did you really think it was?’
Laila frantically searched her memory for some misstep, some loophole, something. Then a single moment leaped out at her.
For blood yet spilled.
It had been right there in front of her face. She had thought that the phrase referred to the enemy. But no, it had been her own people. That could not be right. She looked at the others, who glared at her with the frightened anger of those dragged into a situation not of their making. She had to fix this.
‘The whole point of this was so that the defenceless would live,’ Laila said. ‘If we could have done it ourselves, we would not have needed you.’
Cesse cocked her head, her sharp brows furrowing. ‘I do not understand your motive. We have laws. We do not move our forces on behalf of the weak without payment in blood. The weak must be culled from the strong so that the strong may continue unburdened. If you do not give, we will take what we are owed, no more, no less.’
Cesse did not – no, she could not – understand. She wasn’t human. It was inevitable now. Dozens were going to die because of Laila’s naïveté, her idiocy. There was now nothing that she could do. There never had been. Someone was always going to kill them; she had merely chosen a different foe.
‘You are like the fiends, like a reflection of the Lamp in a lake,’ Laila said.
Cesse’s face twisted into a depthless fury that no human could know. All the self-loathing and hurt turned outwards. She leaped into the air with a shriek, her cloak falling away, wings like those of a great dragon snapping free. The monstrous aelf crashed into Laila, slamming her off the wall. Laila experienced a long moment of weightlessness before she hit the ground, the breath blasting from her body. Breathless and throbbing with pain, she lay there.
Shadows flitted past her, the gate groaned open and the
aelves shrieked in. They bolted right for the hall and the villagers scattered like startled birds from a nest, fleeing in terror. It mattered not, they died all the same: the infirm, the aged, the injured and the unlucky.
Cesse crouched nearby, a fleshy tail flicking, her wings loose over her back, watching the slaughter.
‘Please understand, this is not purposeless or merciless,’ Cesse said, calm as if the screams mattered to her not at all. ‘We build a better world. One that is strong enough to stand against not only the destruction of the flesh but also the entropy of the soul. Illusions like justice and fairness allow weakness to fester. Killing the weak is merciful to the strong.’
Laila pressed herself onto an elbow, still trying to suck in a breath. Pain flared in her palm and then was gone as if it had never been. She looked down. A thin scar was all that remained of the wound.
‘The bargain is complete,’ Cesse said, straightening up. ‘Now you are strong and will survive.’
Cesse leaped into the sky, her wings hitting the air. In the space of a breath, she was gone. They were all gone as if they had never been. Light washed over Varna as the shadows lifted, revealing a village of sorrow and corpses, of wailing and death, of curses and recrimination.
And Laila wept.
About the Author
Jamie Crisalli writes gritty melodrama and bloody combat. Fascinated with skulls, rivets and general gloominess, when she was introduced to the Warhammer universes, it was a natural fit. Her work for Black Library includes the short stories ‘Ties of Blood’ and ‘The Serpent’s Bargain’, and the forthcoming Age of Sigmar novella The Measure of Iron. She has accumulated a frightful amount of monsters, ordnance and tiny soldiery over the years, not to mention books and role-playing games. Currently, she lives with her husband in a land of endless grey drizzle.
An extract from Warcry.
It was the same set of memories that came most often, and most forcefully. Memories of blood, of triumph and of purpose. Memories whose strength she needed.
Memories from before the Bloodwind Spoil. From before her ascension to the blessed state of Blissful One too, though her transformation and the journey she was called to were deeply entwined.
Memories of Shyish, and of the island of Tzlid. The island of loss and grief, and the island blessed by the Gods with the gift of pain.
The memories began with a hunt. Gravskein was still an Awakened One. She had sliced off her face, but she still had all of her limbs. She knew, though, that more change was coming, and soon. Her waking dreams were filled with whirling motion, a dance of murder and blades. The visions faded to shards when she returned to full awareness. They left her with impressions of herself suspended above the ground, filled with the light of agony and drenched in the blood of butchered enemies. And there was more. Looming over the hints of transformation, a lodestone at the centre of all her visions, calling to her, shackling her soul, was the tower.
Bulsurrus was leading the hunting party. He moved swiftly, leaping over obstacles with such grace that he seemed on the verge of taking flight. He and Gravskein had undergone their ritual flaying the same night, but he had rushed more swiftly towards transcendence. He was a Joyous One. Razor-edged chains hung from his shoulders, swaying viciously with every step. His arms were swords. He ran with them spread wide, eager to meet the world with his slashing embrace.
He took the patrol through the White Forest. The trees in this region of Tzlid were their own form of undeath. They were skeletons, the bark having long ago fallen away to reveal bones. The trunks were massive femurs, the largest looking as if they had come from the corpse of a dragon. The branches were strange clusters of arms, dozens of articulations sprouting smaller limbs until they ended in grey claws instead of leaves. They were dead, yet they grew ever larger. In the wind, they rattled like chattering teeth. Their claws drew blood from whatever brushed against them. The Unmade felt kinship with the trees, and Bulsurrus did not hesitate to burst through drooping tangles of branches, shredding his face with new wounds. The others followed his example. Blood flowed freely down Gravskein’s forehead and her arms, cooling quickly in the cold keening of the wind.
She kept up with Bulsurrus easily. They were drawing close to a Realmgate on the island’s southern shore, and her excitement was growing. A glow of presentiment spread like fire through her veins.
Bulsurrus must have seen the shine in her eyes. ‘You saw something during the night,’ he guessed.
Gravskein smiled, her fleshless remains of lips drawing back over her teeth.
‘What are we going to find?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Perhaps the quest has at last been fulfilled.’
‘No.’ Of this, she was sure. They would not find their comrades returning in triumph from the Eightpoints.
‘How do you know?’
‘They have not found the tower.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because their faith was not strong enough.’ It could not have been. If the latest band sent to find the Tower of Revels had been successful, the visions would not still be calling to her.
‘You still think you will be the one to find it,’ said Bulsurrus.
‘I know I will be.’
The Tower of Revels loomed large in the tales the Unmade told each other of the Flayed King. He who had once been King Vourneste had been changed along with his warriors in the realm beyond the gateway in the woods. He had returned with the gift of pain, and had transformed his people. He was long gone, though the hope that he would return one day and prove he had not been killed by Neferata lived on. And the stories of his deeds beyond the gateway were legion. They had grown in importance since the Unmade had learned of the Everchosen. The Flayed King had not returned, but there was another ruler out there, blessed by the Gods to command all the loyal subjects of Ruin.
It fell to the Unmade to prove their worth to the Everchosen. A sign that they must do so had come with the dreams of the Tower of Revels. In the tales, the Flayed King had found the tower in the realm beyond the gateway. The precise nature of the tower was vague. What was told was that it was a site of power, power so great and so attuned to the nature of the Unmade that the Gods could only have intended it for them. The Flayed King was going to lead his people back to the tower, so they might receive it as their gift from the Gods. But he had fallen before he could do so. Gravskein believed that it was treachery that had taken the Flayed King from the Unmade on that battlefield. She did not believe he could have failed. But he was gone, and so the Tower of Revels had become another chapter in the tragedy of her people. It was another kind of loss, another among so many. The Unmade embraced what they had become, yet what they had been lingered at the edges of their thoughts, transmuted into a remembrance of grief as ill-defined as it was sharp. The tower called to the Unmade through visions and lore with the force of that rarest of things – a promise. It was a gift that must be found, and its discovery was not an end in itself. It would be a proof of worthiness.
Gravskein would find it. She could accept no other purpose to her visions. It called, and she would answer. She would not die trying, as so many had before her. She would come to the tower. No other destiny was possible.
‘Have your visions told you what we will find today?’ Bulsurrus asked. They had fought side by side for years, and were held close by bonds of shared combat and shared pain. He did not experience visions, though. He treated Gravskein’s glimpses of fate with a mix of jealousy and scepticism.
Gravskein shook her head, refusing to be baited. She did not believe Bulsurrus was foolish enough to think the Gods spoke to her so directly, or about matters so beneath them. If the Unmade could not defend the gate without the intervention of the Gods, then they did not deserve ever to find the tower.
Gravskein heard the enemy force before she saw it. She heard the beat of horses’ hooves, and the tread of marc
hing feet. Bulsurrus forged straight ahead, silent now, his flayed features set into a predatory snarl. Soon, the hunting party arrived at a vantage point overlooking the Realmgate. The terrain was hilly, and the gate stood at the foot of a slope, facing the end of a broken road that led out of the White Forest towards the western shore of Tzlid, and the channel that separated the island from the Screaming Wastes. Finger bones grew between the cracked, disintegrating paving stones. Most of the road had vanished beneath the soil, another fading memory of a dead civilisation. The path was still quite wide, and marked a clear way through the forest for mounted troops.
At the head of the foe, a vampire in resplendent crimson armour rode an obsidian stallion. Long, golden hair streamed from his head. His flesh was more pale than the trees. His features seemed carved from alabaster, their perfect symmetry and sharp lines making him, in Gravskein’s eyes, a living incarnation of pride.
Beside her, crouching behind the trunk of an undead tree, Skarask said, ‘He has never known enlightenment.’ Spittle dripped between his teeth. He was as eager as the rest of the band to visit revelation upon the blood knight’s face.
Behind the vampire marched an infantry composed of skeletons and corpses. Whether they had been summoned by this vampire or dispatched by a more powerful lord, Gravskein did not know. What was clear was their unthinking obedience. All were armoured, and though their plate was not as resplendent as the knight’s, it looked rich to Gravskein. Their shields and cuirasses were all engraved with the same insignia as the knight’s, depicting a fanged skull radiating rays of light.
The Serpent's Bargain Page 3
