‘Lukas,’ Galerunner said.
‘Yes,’ Grimblood said.
‘I warned you. But you had to prove that you could take his throat in your jaws.’
Grimblood closed his eyes. ‘I didn’t ask you here so that you could deliver recriminations.’ He ran a hand over his scalp, displacing motes of ash and burnt skin. ‘I have sent my vaerangii to look for him.’
‘They will not find him. He has been sighted in at least five different places.’
‘Bad enough that he ruined the hunt with his pranks,’ Grimblood snarled. ‘He filched the scent-glands from a dead kraken and marked Hafrek’s armour. Besides the stink, it lured more of the beasts right to us, drawing them up out of the ice by the dozen!’
‘A potentially lethal prank,’ Galerunner said.
‘That wasn’t even the worst of it.’ Grimblood shook his head. ‘Then he and those half-witted pups mimicked the cries of a wounded drake. They led Redmaw and his warriors into an unstable cavern and trapped them there with an ice shelf rigged to collapse. It took us hours to dig them out.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’
Grimblood smiled slightly. ‘Only Redmaw’s pride, I admit.’ The smile vanished. ‘They also dropped nests of bloodlice down onto Krakendoom and his huscarls, and pushed Goresson into a troll lair.’
‘Pity the poor troll,’ Galerunner said.
Grimblood didn’t laugh. Galerunner understood. The hunt had sputtered to an ignominious halt. The deep caverns were unstable thanks to the increasing tectonic pressures. The hunters had been driven back up into the mountain, where they steadily pickled themselves in mjod. Or worse, got into brawls. The Wolf Priests were hard pressed to keep things on an even keel. There were too many warriors in too confined a space.
‘He has only got worse since. He has started at least three brawls and instigated at least one honour-duel. Every jest he makes, every prank he pulls, reverberates outwards, its effects cascading through the Aett.’ Grimblood sighed and scrubbed at his scalp. ‘The other Wolf Lords have demanded that I do something – anything – to rein him in.’
Galerunner said nothing. Grimblood knew he was to blame, and the Rune Priest felt a flicker of sympathy. The jarl looked at him. ‘Krakendoom wants me to break his limbs. Goresson wants him imprisoned until the Helwinter is done. Redmaw had a different suggestion.’ He gestured to the alcove before him. ‘Do you know this armour, Galerunner?’
Galerunner looked up. The battle-plate was a dull charcoal grey. It lacked the savage ornamentation so common to the power armour worn by the warriors of the Rout. It was utilitarian. Functional. The only symbols it bore were a blocky company designation on the chest-piece and a Terran Raptor insignia. ‘Yes. It is the battle-plate of a Consul-Opsequiari. A battlefield overseer.’
Grimblood nodded. ‘For a time, before Russ taught us our place, those who wore this armour held our leash. They were granted the power of life and death over their brothers, and many a warrior was made to lie down on red snow by their will.’
‘They are gone now,’ Galerunner said.
‘The last of them died millennia ago.’ Grimblood stared at the armour. ‘We cast off old ways, and were taught new, better rites. No more would the kill-urge be silenced with a bolt round. Instead, it was shaped and forged into something useful. Something better.’ He looked at Galerunner. ‘But still, that urge is in us. The beast is at bay. Stronger in some than others.’ He was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Redmaw wants him dead. I think the others agree, though they have not admitted it. I thought I had him in hand, but clearly I was wrong.’
‘We are not as we were, jarl. We do not kill our own.’
Grimblood shook his head. ‘Why do we put up with him? He is insubordinate, foolish, arrogant and harmful. He throws packs into discord and flouts all laws and rites. Again and again, he has done things deserving of death, and again and again, his life is spared.’
‘Is he not punished?’
‘Not enough. Never enough.’
‘He is a lord of misrule,’ Galerunner said. ‘A clown. The fool in the court of Russ, speaking truth where it is neither wanted nor acceptable.’
‘Then why let him do so?’
‘Because it must be done. There must be one voice, at least, that howls against tradition, else we grow complacent.’ The Rune Priest leaned heavily on his staff. ‘Lukas’ wyrd is to move out of step with the Rout. That is the thread of his fate, spun so long ago when first he was dragged off the ice. Even then, there were those who thought it best that he die.’
‘Maybe it would have been better if he had.’
Galerunner looked at him. ‘Unworthy words.’
Grimblood frowned. ‘Aye, but there is truth in them. And yet you speak as if he is a stone against which we sharpen our blades.’
‘Morkai haunts us,’ Galerunner said after a moment. ‘He has dogged our trail for time out of mind, and draws closer with every century. We grow old, and our claws and fangs grow dull from overuse. Even our lair crumbles around us.’
‘Nothing is forever. Not on Fenris.’
Galerunner smiled. ‘No. Nor should it be. It is the first and last lesson our world teaches its sons. But between these lessons, we forget. We lull ourselves with tradition and forget that things cannot remain as they are, that change is the only constant on this world, or in this galaxy. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, but always changing.’
His smile faded. ‘With every Great Year that passes, more packs return from their hunts diminished,’ he said. ‘Death was once a glorious thing for us. Now it is a tedium.’ Grimblood nodded with obvious reluctance.
‘Once there were as many packs as there are stars in the sky. But as the stars gutter in the firmament, so too have we dwindled and ebbed. Fewer Blood Claws survive their wild years.’ Galerunner studied the armour. ‘Weaned on legend, they seek to rip sagas from the flesh of war, to match their predecessors’ deeds. Few understand that those deeds, mighty as they are, have but grown in the telling. And thus, pups die for pride. Unless someone teaches them otherwise.’
Grimblood snorted. ‘And that’s the Trickster, then?’
‘He shows them a different path. Not all of them will follow him. But some will.’
‘To what end?’
‘Old wolves have one thing in common,’ Galerunner said. ‘Cunning. Strength and valour earn a glorious death. But cunning earns a long life.’ The Rune Priest gestured to the armour before them. ‘Once, this was a tradition. A solid fact of our existence. Now it has been discarded. We learned new ways. Different ways.’
‘He is a fool.’
‘Yes. And sneaky. Unprincipled. An inveterate liar and a thief. But brave and loyal to the Rout.’ Galerunner sighed. ‘He will not be our salvation, Grimblood. But he might ensure that some of us are there to see the Wolftime when it rolls around at last.’
Grimblood sighed and looked away. ‘He cannot go unpunished. They cannot go unpunished. It is not our way.’
‘So punish them.’ Galerunner tapped the jarl in the chest with the end of his staff. ‘But be cunning about it. Do not confine them. Let them go. When they come back, perhaps they will be wiser.’
‘Or wilder.’
‘Either way, we get a bit of peace.’
Grimblood laughed.
Part Two
HUNTERS
Chapter Seven
POISON GIFTS
641.M41
Lady Aurelia Malys, mistress of the Poisoned Tongue Kabal, fluttered her bladed fan before her face. There was poison in everything here, and coating every surface. It was in the wine, dripping from the pores of the slaves and wafting like pollen on the musky air. Not unexpected, and somewhat invigorating. Already the weak of constitution had fallen supine to twitch and froth, much to the amusement of their peers. They would survive, probably. Still, what was
a party without a few fatalities?
The tesseract pleasure gardens of Duke Traevelliath Sliscus had been the talk of the Dark City for some time. He had stolen the tesseract realm right out from under the nose of one of Vect’s favourites and left an entire district of Low Commorragh in flames in the process. Traevelliath had always known how to make an exit.
Malys turned slowly, studying the gardens with the detached air of one who had seen more than her share of social disasters. Her calm demeanour was more for the benefit of anyone who might be observing her than a true measure of her state of mind. In fact, she was excited. Traevelliath was nothing if not entertaining, and many of the great and powerful of Commorragh had come slinking through their webway gates, looking to be entertained.
She stood at the heart of a wide plaza of dark stone connected to the tiers above and below by deceptively fragile-looking sets of curving steps. They had been crafted from living bone, grown and carved into shape by cunning hands. Nodules of calcification encrusted the wide curve of the edifice, forming eye-catching patterns. The whole structure rustled eerily as slaves ascended and descended in a continuous line bearing great trays of food – cooked meats and floral delicacies from a thousand lesser cultures. Their host had spared no expense in displaying the extent of his palate.
The slaves slipped swiftly through the crowd. As one drew close, Malys saw that it wore a delicately engraved golden mask wired into the flesh of its head. The mask bore bejewelled sensors that acted as the slave’s eyes and ears. Its body was covered in a fine latticework of scars that proved to be line upon line of poetic verse. The other slaves were similarly decorated, each of them bearing a unique work of undeniable artistry upon their flesh. Among his other vices, Traevelliath had always fancied himself something of a poet.
She took a cup from a tray as it passed by and sniffed the carmine liquid within. A good vintage, likely stolen. That made it all the sweeter. She sipped from it, grimacing only slightly at the bitter edge of whatever toxin had been added.
She scanned the crowd, noting the odd familiar face here and there. Representatives from many a Low Commorragh kabal were in evidence. The rabble always had the most to gain from events like this. But they weren’t alone. There were some rather more influential faces in attendance, unsurprisingly.
S’aronai Ariensis, archon of the spacebound kabal known as the Severed, nodded bleakly to her. She ignored the overture, as was only appropriate. Ariensis had botched a coup that had cost him his position, his stronghold and most of his left hand. Malys had no interest in such a creature, whatever he had made of himself in the interim.
Of more interest, though not by much, was Lord Xerathis. The archon of the Kabal of the Broken Sigil stood giggling in a corner, lost in a haze of intoxicants as some witless flesh-artist described her newest work. Likely the talentless fool was seeking a new patron. Malys wished her well. As long as it was suitably shocking or stomach-churning, Xerathis would fund it. Anything to cause a bit of discord.
Malys stopped her circuit of the plaza as someone gestured and caught her attention. An apparition of venomous alabaster, Archon Thyndrak raised her cup in greeting to Malys. Sable hair spilled down from her narrow skull, its dark length shot through with threads of deepest crimson. She was clad in a suit of close-fitting armour, its contoured plates delicately inked with intricate and fashionably revolting designs. Malys joined her at the edge of the tier. ‘Thyndrak. You’re looking well, my dear.’
Thyndrak smiled, displaying teeth sheathed in black crystal. ‘As are you, my Lady Malys. Though I am surprised to see you here.’
‘Really?’ she said silkily. ‘Traevelliath and I are old friends.’
Thyndrak arched an eyebrow. ‘He has many friends.’ She gestured with her cup. Malys made a show of looking around. She had already taken stock of her fellow guests and found them wanting. Like Thyndrak, they were mostly the mad, the bad and the dangerous to know. Or so they fancied themselves, at least. Malys knew most of them for dilettantes and braggarts. Though several evoked something like curiosity in her.
No minor archons, these, but wyches and haemonculi from various cults and covens. She saw a strutting succubus clad in the turquoise and gold of the Cursed Blade, as well as a thin, malformed-looking creature she knew to be Khaeghris Xhact of the Hex – or one of the artfully crafted doubles he was reported to employ.
There was even a troupe of Harlequins present. The warrior-troubadours in their gaudy colours danced, sang and juggled for their appreciative – if somewhat unsettled – audience. Though the clowns were undeniably eldar, they owed no allegiance to any kabal or craftworld. They were a common enough sight in Commorragh, but were not of it.
These were clad in onyx and viridian and bore the rune of the inverse enigma. It was one she was familiar with. She’d had some dealings with this particular troupe before. She watched them mingle, and smiled. The presence of the Harlequins spoke to their host’s influence.
While there was something to be said for Vect’s cunning, Sliscus might well prove his equal in manipulation. He was able to wound an opponent with nothing more than a smile and gain allies with an appropriately timed laugh. It was a lucky thing for them all that Sliscus had no interest in being in charge of anything more than his own destiny. Nevertheless, he was still a danger.
That was why she had come, in the end. Things were coming to a head in Commorragh. She could feel it in her bones and hear it in the whispered reports of her spies. Vect might have declared this an age of plenty, but she saw through his boasting. He was worried. And if the Tyrant was worried, so too was she. But worried or not, she saw no reason not to take advantage of the situation. And that meant gathering allies and identifying potential enemies. She hadn’t determined which of those categories Traevelliath fell into just yet, but she would. And once she had, she would deal with him appropriately.
Malys felt a presence at her elbow and turned. One of the Harlequins was standing unsettlingly close. She wore a mirrored cowl, and Malys was careful not to seek her reflection in its subtle facets. She had met Shadowseers before and knew the dangers all too well. ‘And what do you want, clown?’ she asked, ignoring Thyndrak’s look of amused curiosity. Let the other archon think what she liked.
‘We ask only an introduction, oh Lady of the Poisoned Tongue.’ The Harlequin bowed low, almost mockingly so. ‘A heart in the chest is worth a word in the ear, no?’
Malys touched her chest, feeling the dull pulse of the thing inside her. ‘An introduction?’ The crystal heart beat with its own strange rhythm, ever-changing and unpredictable. She had won it at great cost to herself, through means she still didn’t entirely understand. That time was like a dream to her, with one memory bleeding into the next until it was nothing more than a riot of colour and sound. A whirling, disordered dance of fragmented recollections that she could only just comprehend. Of late, she had begun to doubt that she had won anything at all.
‘To our host, most gentle lady,’ the Harlequin clarified.
Malys smiled. They often came to her with some request or other. It seemed only prudent to acquiesce, and on the rare occasions that she refused they accepted with great equanimity. As if it had been foreseen, or not unexpected. In some way, she was a part of their great dance. It frustrated her to no end, though admittedly it made an often otherwise interminable existence somewhat entertaining.
‘And what would a troupe of vagabonds such as yourselves want with him?’ she asked slyly. ‘What corkscrew scheme twists away behind that pretty face?’ She gestured to the Shadowseer’s featureless mask with her fan.
‘Do you truly wish to know the answer, oh Bearer of the Blade?’
Malys’ eyes darted down to the sword sheathed on her hip. It was the same one she had used to dig out her own heart so that she might replace it with the crystal one now throbbing in its place. Like the crystal heart, it had a mind of its own at times. She dro
pped a hand to the grinning face that acted as its pommel and frowned. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do,’ she said slowly. ‘Though it had best not interfere with my own plans, clown.’
‘The gods forfend, sweet lady,’ the Shadowseer said obsequiously. ‘It is all part of the same great dance, though the steps are separate.’ As if to emphasise the point, the clown did a little jig, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Malys frowned, then nodded. ‘I will introduce you.’ She flipped open her fan and waved it briskly. ‘If only to see what happens next. Traevelliath is quite volatile. He may well take offence to you and confine your troupe to his garden.’
The Harlequin hesitated, and Malys smiled. She folded her fan and tapped the clown on the chest. ‘He does so like his little jokes, our Serpent.’ A sharp whistle brought the Harlequin around. The rest of its troupe had gathered nearby, and slaves were quickly clearing a space for them.
The Harlequin bowed to her. ‘I hope you will enjoy the performance, mistress. It is an old one, but of great meaning in these fraught times.’
‘I’m sure I will. Be off with you.’ Malys gestured dismissively. The Shadowseer spun away, not quite dancing back towards her fellows. One of the more off-putting habits of the Laughing God’s servants was their seeming inability to remain still for very long. It was as if they were moving to a beat only they could hear.
The Shadowseer rose to her full height, surrounded by her troupe as they knelt about her in a wide circle. Thyndrak leaned towards Malys, and she hid a start. She had almost forgotten that the other archon was there. ‘It has been some time since I last saw a troupe of Harlequins perform. Sliscus truly spared no expense.’
‘If I thought he had invited them here, rather than them just showing up of their own volition, I might agree with you.’ Malys waved her fan at the other archon. ‘Shush now. The dance is beginning.’
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