by Warhammer
‘Yield,’ replied Serleon.
‘No!’ wailed Williarch. ‘Is fight! Is death fight!’
‘The champion of the accused has yielded,’ announced Orhatka. ‘The accused stands guilty of the crimes for which he is brought here.’
‘Is coward!’ Williarch burst forward, snatching up one of the discarded swords. He swung towards Serleon’s back, but Athol’s spear met the blade and knocked it from the trader’s weak grasp. A swift, controlled jab with the spear’s butt sent Williarch to his backside.
Anger bubbled through Athol, and it erupted as a snarl.
‘This was your plan?’ he spat at Williarch. ‘This was why you were so confident? A man in armour? I thought you had tamed an orruk, maybe, or paid an ogor to fight for you. But you thought a man with armour and swords would beat me?’
Athol stalked away and then rounded on the merchant, his disgust welling up even further.
‘Have you not heard of me in Bataar? I am Athol Khul!’ His eyes moved from the cowering taskmaster to the rest of the onlookers. ‘I have never been defeated. In this court and at the Red Feast, forty-two foes have stepped into the bladespace against me, but none have prevailed. And I have been the Prophet-Queen’s mercy. Not one of those challengers died by my hand.’
He glared at the courtiers, teeth bared.
‘I am of the Khul. Who are the Khul?’
This last question was demanded of Khibal Anuk.
‘Who are the Khul, you ask?’ the Hammerpriest replied. ‘They are the Hired Death, the Blade that Strikes, the Children of Bronze. They are the most exquisite brutality given life.’
‘We are that, and more,’ Athol replied.
Athol remembered to bow briefly to Humekhta before he turned and stalked from the rope ring, shoulders bunched, hands tight on his spear.
He reached the sanctuary of the shaded space behind the drape and stopped, drawing in a long breath. The curtain moved behind him as someone followed.
‘Not now, Orhatka,’ said Athol, knowing his outburst had been unruly and not suited to the court of the Prophet-Queen.
‘It not him,’ said a deep voice, ringing from metal.
Athol turned to find Serleon just inside the drape, his blades returned to their scabbards.
‘What do you want?’ growled the spear-carrier.
‘A drink,’ rumbled the Bataari. ‘With me?’
Athol tossed two copper triangles onto the trestle, each stamped with the mark of Prophet-Queen Humekhta III. The woman at the store, one of a handful of traders allowed inside the royal city, looked at the coins and then shook her head. She turned away and descended a few steps into a shadowed trench to fill two clay cups with unspiced skisk which she put on the table in front of Athol, pointedly ignoring his attempt at payment. The spear-carrier swept them back into a pouch at his belt and picked up the drinks, offering one to Serleon.
Williarch’s champion had taken off his helm to reveal a lined face, easily ten seasons older than Athol. His hair was shaved at the sides, a short crop of greying blond left running like a crest down the centre of his scalp. Several scars marked cheeks, brow and chin, the most prominent being a cut that went from the right-hand corner of his mouth down towards his throat.
‘Good to champion, yes?’ said the Bataari warrior.
‘What? Yes, as champion for Humekhta I am by extension a member of the royal circle and nobody will take payment from me.’
There were low stools nearby, which Athol moved towards until he saw Serleon eyeing them suspiciously. Athol realised that the warrior was unsure they would bear the weight of his armour, or perhaps was unable to bend his knees sufficiently to use one of them.
‘Standing is fine,’ the Khul chief assured his drinking companion. He dipped a finger in the liquid and flicked some fluid over his right shoulder. ‘Always a drop for Sigmar after a victory.’
Serleon shrugged, a clanking gesture in his armoured suit. He handed Athol his drink and divested himself of the armoured gauntlets before retrieving the skisk to copy the gesture.
‘For Sigmar,’ the foreigner slowly intoned. ‘Can’t hurt when lose, no?’
Athol took two deep gulps from his cup, glad of the refreshing coolness. The fight against Serleon had not been frantic but it had warmed him up.
‘You fought well,’ he told the man.
‘I fight battle for war, not trial,’ admitted Serleon. He slapped a hand to his breastplate, pieces of mail jingling as he did so. ‘In battle you run from I.’
‘In battle five of my blade-kin would surround you and cut you down in a heartbeat,’ Khul replied.
‘No, you not,’ Serleon assured him with a lopsided smile. ‘I see plainslanders fight. You not see Bataari line of war. Steel wall. Waiting blades. No gaps.’
‘Let’s hope I never have to see it,’ said Athol. He took another long draught of the skisk, the slightly acidic taste lingering in his mouth.
Serleon smiled and raised the cup of skisk to his lips. He took a small mouthful, eyes narrowing. He swallowed hard and set the cup down on the table.
‘Not thirsty?’
‘Is… fine.’ Serleon struggled to find the words. ‘Is not Aquita red, for sure.’
‘What’s Aquita red?’ Athol asked.
Serleon grinned broadly.
‘You finish milk-beer and come with I.’
The deep red liquid slipped down Athol’s throat like molten fruit, leaving a tang and a sweetness in its wake. He looked at the contents of the gilded goblet, swirling it in the shaft of light that pressed through the small window of Serleon’s carriage-house. The large wagon was built of slender planks, painted blue and green, though the wear of travel and time had sanded down the colours to bare wood in many places. Its roof sloped down to the back, giving it a front-heavy look and the wheels were taller than Athol, held on tree trunk-like axles. Not far away were picketed a dozen horses, each a heavy black-and-white brute, their tails and manes cropped short.
Inside it was lightly furnished, a set of shelves with cords across them to hold in place a handful of books – a rarity among the Aridians and the Khul – as well as a few ornaments of no particular value Athol could determine. A bed with drawers beneath dominated one wall and a table with fold-down benches filled the rest of the space. The wood was heavily lacquered, the light coming through half a dozen narrow windows and a port in the roof propped open with a long pole.
‘Better, yes?’ laughed the warrior from where he stood at the far end of the main chamber divesting himself of his armour, by means of cunningly wrought clasps and strategically located laces.
‘A lot better,’ agreed Athol as he took another sip. ‘I have heard of this. I thought it was called wine.’
‘Wine? Wine be many things, from cleaner of boots to finest taste. This is Aquita red, not best and not worst.’
Serleon carefully placed each piece on a padded mannequin, though he lifted the breastplate to show Athol, the rent across its moulded pectorals quite visible even in the dim wagon-house.
‘You not kill? Very close to kill, I think.’
‘If I’d wanted to kill you I would have thrust,’ replied Athol. ‘You were moving backwards, the worst that could have happened was that I’d miss.’
‘So sure of your blade? No mistakes?’
‘Undefeated. Still alive. That speaks for itself.’
Serleon shrugged and continued to disarm himself, hanging the swords on the wall in their sheaths. He wore a thick jerkin and leggings beneath, both soaked with sweat.
Serleon walked past Athol, stood at the open door, the reek of sweat wafting after him. Athol followed the Bataari to where a pipe jutted from a barrel upon the back of the housewagon. The warrior stripped off his remaining clothes, his hair slicked to his scarred body. Grabbing a lever, Serleon pumped a few times and then opened a device much like the tap on a skisk barrel. Water shot out of a pierced metal funnel and sprayed the man with some force.
‘You think I’m im
pressed by these luxuries?’ said Athol. ‘The royal family have similar, filled by servants to wash them of the dust after travelling.’
‘Is not special,’ replied the Bataari. He pulled his fingers through his crest, spraying fine mist from the stiff hair. ‘Is normal for Bataari soldiers to stay clean.’
‘What’s the point when you can wash in a river just as easily?’
‘Need river, enemy find you by river. Take river with you, enemy not know where you be.’ Serleon returned to the door of the house-wagon and retrieved his goblet of wine from inside before stretching out on the flattened grass in the sunshine.
‘I’m glad you surrendered the trial,’ said Athol, sitting cross-legged beside him. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky, feeling the afternoon sun on his skin. ‘Some folk would fight to the death rather than face the shame of it.’
‘You think shame?’
‘Not dying for Williarch? No. It’s just good sense.’
‘Why you not kill?’ Serleon took another drink. ‘I think you kill me easy if wanted.’
‘I’ve never killed a man or woman in trial,’ explained Athol. ‘I don’t need to kill to win, and I don’t see why anyone should give their life for the crimes of another.’
‘You risk life for queen.’
‘No, not for her. She is a good ruler, like her father and grandmother, and I would give my life to protect her. But I am not nakar-hau for the Prophet-Queen.’ Athol opened his eyes and looked at Serleon. ‘I fight for my people. For the Khul. My service, the risks I take, are the price of our peace. My blood, the blood of the Khul, to protect the blood of Humekhta, the blood of Aridians.’
‘And pay well, yes?’ said Serleon with a wink. ‘You not pay for beer-milk. Many whitehorns, I think, for your people. And gold and steel, yes?’
‘We take what we need, nothing more.’
‘What?’ Serleon seemed offended by the concept. ‘I Peerless Blade, loved by many. Williarch pay me much for sword. You even better! All Khul as tough as you?’
‘Most,’ admitted Athol. ‘But that is because we do not covet luxury. We will not be softened by this land and its people.’
‘Softened? Live well not soft. Is reward.’ The Bataari downed the contents of his goblet and lay back, the empty cup on his chest, one hand behind his head. ‘I send money to sister. Soon I return Aquita. I live as prince!’
Athol stood up, aware that it had been some time since the end of the trial.
‘You unhappy? What me say?’ said Serleon.
‘I should head back to my camp. My wife will wonder where I am if I am too long away.’
‘Yes.’ Serleon pushed to his feet and rolled his shoulders. ‘Think about what I said. Bataar not soft. Fight many wars. Khul earn well. Honour and coin.’
The Bataari stepped back inside the wagon-house and emerged a short time later wearing a fresh woollen tunic, carrying another carafe of Aquita red.
‘For wife, say sorry for keep her husband,’ the warrior said with a smile.
‘Thank you,’ said Athol, taking the wine. ‘I wish I had something to give you.’
‘I alive. Is very good gift,’ Serleon replied sombrely. ‘Perhaps Peerless Blade stop fights and enjoy life.’
Athol was going to leave but a sudden thought stopped him. It was not often that he could speak to someone from outside of the Flamescar Plateau. Most traders went to the royal city, those that happened upon the wanderings of the Aridians. Everything he knew about Bataar, Aspirian and other far-flung places was either through Aridians or the old rivalries and tales of the other tribes.
‘As Williarch’s champion you are protected, but I don’t think Humekhta and Orhatka would want you to stay in the royal city for much longer.’ Athol retrieved his spear from beside the wagon door and turned back to the Bataari. ‘You’re welcome to come with me, see how the Khul live. We don’t have fine wine but the hunting is good and the water fresh.’
Serleon looked as though he would decline but then shrugged expansively.
‘Why not? Maybe me learn some things, yes?’
‘And I’m sure I’ll learn something too.’
There was nothing left but to keep moving, step after step, heaving in one precious lungful of air at a time. His legs continued to push him onwards as though possessed of their own spirit, long after any conscious will had given up. A fleeting recollection flashed through the crackle of mad thoughts firing through his brain, of the relentless pounding of pistons driving the airscrew of a duardin skyship he had once seen as a child.
But the pounding was not of an engine but his heart.
No. It was not even that. It was the thunder of feet following him through the woods, accompanied by the hollers of the gor-herd.
The cave was not far but he had accepted it offered no sanctuary to him. There would be no way to slip inside unseen, not with the gor-folk a few dozen paces behind. They would come in after him and no number of tricks would distract or stop them.
Even so, he kept running.
He ran without any plan, without any hope. Every stride of his trembling legs, every pump of arms that burned with fatigue, was a moment longer of life.
It was the raw determination to survive that kept him running. The painter could not accept that he was going to die this day, as the sun dipped below the dark rocks that tipped the mound at the centre of the forest. He was too close to finishing the picture, too near to completing the work that had seen him sentenced to lingering death. The same refusal to accept his mortality had saved him then and it continued to sustain him now.
In the days following his exile he had not had to outpace his slayer. The killer-to-be was part of him, carried into the wilderness. Hundreds of cuts ready to fester, each wound opening and bleeding again as he walked, his life slowly draining from him one drop at a time.
His strength had leaked from him with each bead of sweat. Every stride took him further from those that hated him and yet took him closer to his demise.
The people of his tribe knew the woods were deadly. The Sootstain Hills had an ill reputation many generations old. To go there was considered the quick death, the coward’s end to the torment and slow death his punishment was intended to inflict.
His blood felt like acid in his veins, eating away at him from the inside. Every intake of breath raked jagged claws down his throat.
The slope was steepening even further, punishing his scrawny thighs, wrenching at the cramped muscles in his back.
But the beasts felt it too, he knew. Their roars and barks had grown fewer and weaker as the chase had continued. Now maybe a score remained. More than enough to tear him limb from limb, to savage the last breath from him with claws and fangs.
But he carried on running all the same. He would not make it easy for them.
The grass gave way to thinner soil, the plants here low and hardy, their spine-like leaves snagging at his legs as he ploughed through them.
Ahead, at the pinnacle of the mound, the rocks were dark grey, veined with crimson. The painter had paid them little attention since he had first found the cave but now his whole being was focused on the towering stones that topped the summit like a jagged crown.
Small stones slithered underfoot and cascaded from his hurried tread as the slope steepened, the rocks to either side forming a small gorge ahead. Plunging into the shade felt like slipping from fire into ice.
He risked a glance back, climbing now more than running, bloodied hands seeking holds among the stones, almost dragging his wearied legs after him. The gor-folk were faltering also. Several had stopped, shouting and barking in their crude tongue. A handful of others followed still, led by a large half-beast with dark, shaggy fur and canine snout.
He made it to the summit and staggered from the rocks, almost falling into a precipice that cut across the mound like a wound. The painter stumbled to a stop and fell to one knee, letting out a hoarse shout at this last obstacle. It was not wide, by normal measure, but there
was no strength left in him for the jump.
Crawling to the edge, he looked in. The sun was low now, the summit of the mound almost in darkness, and he could see nothing of the crack’s interior. There had to be ledges and footholds, and the notion of climbing in entered his thoughts.
A grunt behind him drew him to his feet as he turned.
The dog-man pushed its bulk between the last two rocks, claws scraping gashes across the lichen that matted them. Its shoulders were hunched, the limbs rangy but muscled.
The painter was aware of the gulf at his back. One step in retreat would see him plummet into the unknown depths. His survival instinct almost caused him to throw himself in, trusting to the universe to save him once more, but he fought the urge.
He locked gazes with the beast, seeing feral desire in the gor-man’s yellow eyes. He met their predatory stare with one of defiance, teeth gritted.
Spreading his feet for better balance, his toes knocked against the stones scattered across the floor of the bowl-like space. A glance down confirmed that there were several chinks of rock within reach, some rounded, others with sharp edges and corners.
He stooped and snatched up a stone even as the gor-man charged, a rusting knife in its fist. The stone arced through the dusk-tinted air and met the brow of the dog warrior.
It twisted as it staggered, a yowl of pain echoing from the stones. Shaking its head, the gor-man straightened, a trickle of blood from the wound splashing to the dark ground.
The gor-man took a step, muscles bunching to pounce, while the painter crouched for another projectile.
It seemed as though the stone quivered at his touch, but a second tremor set the entire hilltop shaking for several heartbeats.
The gor-man looked around, a few of its warpack arriving at the gap in the rocks just as third spasm convulsed the hill, even more violent than before.
A strange light drew the painter’s eyes to the overgrown rock where the gor-man’s blood had fallen. An odd arrhythmic pulsing seemed to spread from beneath the beast’s feet, following what had seemed to be natural cracks in the stone.