The Red Feast - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer

The light followed these channels, casting a ruddy glow about them as the rocks quivered for a fourth time. Glancing over his shoulder, the painter saw the chasm was brightening with a red gleam from within.

  The gor-folk at the edge of the rock basin fled, their terrified howls fading with distance. Their leader fought for balance as the ground bucked, the red cracks broadening to becoming fissures as thick as a finger. They made a pattern but the light was too faint to make it our clearly.

  A murderous anger swelled up inside the painter, as the dread of his long pursuit turned into rage at the beast before him. He took up another stone and hurled it with a wordless shout, the missile crashing into the chin of the gor-man, sending it staggering backwards with a spray of blood and broken teeth.

  He seized up a larger rock in both hands and took two steps before hurling it at the stunned creature, all fatigue forgotten, the erosion of many years cleansed from his limbs.

  The rock hit the gor-man full in the chest, sending it toppling backwards, curled horns crashing heavily on the stone. More blood sprayed and the rocky crucible shuddered again.

  Whining, the gor-man scrambled to its feet and ran, the painter lunging after, pelting it with stones and shouts.

  It almost threw itself back between the rocks and tumbled out of sight. The painter hurried to the rim, a stone in each hand to continue the assault, but the gor-man was not retreating to attack again. It fled down the hillside after the others, plaintive brays echoing back and forth.

  Looking back into the ring of tall stones the painter saw that the plants were withering, revealing more of the red-veined stone. The blood-light had spread from one edge to the other and now gleamed from the crevasse.

  It was hard to see exactly what the intersecting lines described, but the painter knew there was a shape there. He felt the energy of the mound beneath him, awakened but trapped. A final shudder shook free the pebbles and last tendrils of vegetation, revealing the full extent of the blood-symbol.

  The painter pulled himself further up the rocky boundary so that he looked down into the basin. The symbol that had been carved into the floor resonated with the images of his dreams, the smell of blood and the ruddy light taking him back to those prophetic sleep-wanderings.

  The shape of the symbol revealed itself to him and he cried out with joy, all the hurt and exhaustion catching up even as he knew the ecstasy of revelation.

  It was abstract, a giant rune he had never seen before. Even so, the shape the lines made was unmistakable.

  A skull.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The evening passed quickly. Athol observed the traditions involved in introducing Serleon to the Khul, which included sending word to each of the fifteen family heads of the elder council. Provision was made for the Bataari’s house-wagon and the team of horses that drew it – something of a spectacle for the younger tribe members. They loitered around the makeshift corral pulling up handfuls of grass to feed the beasts until they were shooed away by the adults.

  Word spread more informally too, so that more than a usual number of folk seemed to make late-evening trips to the well or down to the river, their paths just happening to take them close to Athol’s shelter and the space cleared for his visitor. This was of some remark too, for the carriage-house was bigger than a Khul bivouac and the clear ground needed for the horses required four others to be pitched elsewhere.

  Serleon had offered to leave the wagon on the edge of the camp but Athol would not hear of it.

  ‘That wouldn’t be a good idea,’ he told the Bataari. ‘Our children are curious and, given we have little in the way of possessions, you might think them light-fingered with some of your property. Better to stay close, and sleep in your own comfort.’

  After promising to introduce Serleon properly the following day, Athol bid the foreigner a good night and returned to his family. Eruil was fast asleep, one leg hanging out from under the thin blanket. Athol tucked it back under and kissed the boy on the head, eyes closed for a moment.

  ‘Why did you bring the Bataari here?’ asked Marolin, never subtle in her approach to any topic. She sat on a low stool close to the firepit a short distance from the canvas awning, whetstone moving gently back and forth along her knife. ‘You are like a child with a stick at an ant’s nest.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Athol as he ducked out of the bivouac and crossed the flattened grass to sit beside her.

  ‘You’re trying to provoke something, I can tell.’

  ‘I’m really not, daughter-of-Khul. I thought it would be good to talk to someone with more experience beyond these dusty plains. Serleon’s a good man, I think.’

  ‘He fought for a corrupt trader’s gold. Is he really that good?’

  ‘He fought well.’

  ‘For money, Athol.’

  He considered this, looking at the white embers in the pit.

  ‘Do you think of me the same way? Am I just a gold-sword?’

  ‘The arrangement with the Aridians is different,’ she replied, setting the whetstone aside. She turned the long knife back and forth, its edge catching the dying glow of the fire. Satisfied, she slid it into its sheath and set it beside the whetstone on the ground. ‘For now, anyway. We risk our lives with them, not instead of them. Humekhta can fight as well as I can. Whether you meant it or not, that group of concerned folk from the other night will choose to interpret it badly.’

  ‘Let them,’ said Athol. ‘The elders will welcome Serleon tomorrow and those discontents can suck their teeth and moan all they like.’

  ‘Some of them will be elders one day,’ Marolin said. She smoothed her hide skirt and lay her hands neatly in her lap. ‘Some of them quite soon, given the health of a few of the eldest councillors.’

  ‘What am I to do?’ snapped Athol. ‘Worry about what every man, woman and child in this camp has to say? I am the spear-carrier, the blade of our people, but it is the elders that guide us.’

  ‘They listen to you, Athol. It was our family that forged the bond with the Aridians, and it is you that is our champion, and not just with the blade. If the voices raised against you grow louder, the elders will maybe turn an ear to them and not you.’

  ‘I…’ Athol fell silent as someone approached through the darkening camp.

  It was Anitt, fully armed and armoured for sentry duty.

  ‘Athol, sister, forgive the interruption but a messenger has just arrived from the royal city.’

  ‘Sent by who?’ asked Marolin.

  ‘He had this,’ replied Anitt, holding out a rolled piece of papyrus. ‘For you, Athol.’

  He took the message and glanced at his wife.

  ‘Stoke the fire for me, please,’ he said, breaking the clay tube seal around the missive. ‘I can’t see the writing.’

  Marolin tossed a few sticks into the pit and poked the ashes into some semblance of life while Athol unrolled the papyrus, squinting at the marks on it. He turned and knelt, holding the message close to the fire so he could read in the gleam of the growing flames. He felt the heat prickling on his arms but paid it no heed.

  ‘It’s from Orhatka. An emissary has arrived and he wants me to travel to the royal city in case there is a dispute.’

  ‘What sort of emissary?’ asked Anitt. ‘Who sent them?’

  ‘I’m not sure where they are from. I don’t really understand the word Orhatka has used. I’ve not seen or heard it before.’ Athol ran his finger down the line of runes again, trying to sound it out in his head but the name of the emissary’s people was no clearer. ‘I’ll just have to find out tomorrow, I suppose.’

  ‘What has this to do with the Khul?’ Marolin asked sharply. ‘You’re not Orhatka’s errand boy.’

  ‘But I am Humekhta’s champion, Marolin,’ Athol replied with a matching tone. ‘What if the herald brings news of a dispute or a demand that requires a trial to settle?’

  ‘Then Humekhta can send for you when she needs you.’

  ‘I think the messenger is waitin
g for you to go back with her,’ said Anitt.

  Athol darted a glance at his wife and saw her frown deepening. Maybe she had a point. He was not some court servant to be dragged from his bed on a whim. Orhatka needed reminding of that as much as anyone.

  ‘Tell her I will travel to the royal city in the morning.’ Marolin’s expression softened slightly and Athol continued. ‘I will arrive before noon.’

  ‘All right, if that’s your decision,’ said Anitt. She vanished into the darkness.

  ‘Let’s hope nothing happens tonight while I’m not there,’ grumbled Athol.

  ‘You’ve just got back, are you so eager to leave again?’ said Marolin.

  Athol recognised the loaded question and smiled.

  ‘I’m sure the Aridians will survive without me for one night. Obviously, you can’t.’

  Marolin punched him on the arm and he retaliated by wrestling her to the ground, fingers tickling under her ribs. She squealed and squirmed for a moment and then they both froze, hearing a murmur of inquiry from the direction of Eruil’s bedding. Falling silent, Athol stood and helped his wife to her feet, sharing a look mixed of guilt and disappointment.

  ‘I’ll have Anitt watch him tomorrow, when you get back,’ said Marolin. ‘We’ll take some food down to the river and have an evening with just each other’s company.’

  Athol glanced over his shoulder towards the large silhouette of Serleon’s house-wagon.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, guessing his thoughts. ‘I’m sure there will be more than enough people to entertain your guest, once they have tried some of that wine he has brought.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what bothers me,’ said Athol. ‘Perhaps it was a bad idea to bring him here. Some folk will listen to his tales of battles and riches and think it sounds good.’

  He forced himself to brighten up. ‘Some time alone sounds like a good idea. Just the two of us, when I get back tomorrow.’

  But even as he kissed her on the cheek and turned towards the bivouac, he was nagged by doubt. Tomorrow might not pass as simply as he hoped. Never before had Orhatka sent word in the middle of the night, and that he had done so now did not bode well.

  Athol was woken early by an insistent nudging at his side. He opened his eyes to see Eruil hovering over him like a hungry dungfly in a whitehorn pen.

  ‘Sun’s up,’ his son gaily informed him, edging towards the dawnlight beyond the shelter.

  ‘What’s this?’ groaned Athol as he rolled himself from under the blanket onto flattened grass and packed dirt.

  ‘I heard some of what you said last night, about going back to the royal city,’ confessed Eruil. ‘You’re not going yet, are you?’

  ‘No.’ Athol stood up, stretching out muscles tightened from the fight the day before. ‘I won’t be leaving for a while.’

  ‘Let’s get ready then,’ Eruil told him, grabbing his hand. He held firm and the boy’s feet skidded on the spot as he pitted his strength against his father’s immovable body. Eventually Eruil let go and turned with a plaintive look. ‘Why are we wasting time?’

  ‘There’ll be time enough for training,’ Athol assured him, his mind still fuzzy with sleep. Still in bed, Marolin growled something and rolled.

  ‘Not training, dad.’ Athol followed his son out of the shelter, towards the looming house-wagon. ‘I want to talk to the stranger. Will he show me his metal skin, do you think? What’s his name again?’

  ‘Serleon,’ said Athol. ‘And I’d wager he doesn’t want to be woken this early.’

  ‘Already wake,’ a voice floated from beyond the wagon. Athol heard the spatter of liquid on hard ground followed by a sigh of relief. Serleon emerged from behind the large wheel of his home, tying the waistband of a pair of woollen leggings. ‘Army fighting long time. Soldier wake, yes?’

  ‘He talks funny,’ said Eruil.

  ‘You smell funny!’ laughed Serleon, jabbing a finger towards the boy.

  ‘How do you say, “you smell” in Bataar?’

  ‘Shtenkat dou ak,’ Serleon replied. ‘But in Aquita say, “Ourdon de bovout an tur.” You smell as the whitehorn.’

  Eruil found this immensely funny and started repeating it over and over, Serleon adding a few corrections with the pronunciation.

  ‘I thought Aquita was in Bataar,’ said Athol once Serleon had sent the youngster away with some grain to feed the horses.

  ‘Is Bataari… Not sure word. We say “provan”. Piece of? Bataar large place. Big as Flamescar.’ Serleon sat on the step board at the back of the house-wagon and leaned back against the peeling green paint. ‘Coin buy lands. Sword take lands. Empire is word?’

  Athol had not really thought of Bataar in those terms, nor other places such as Golvarian, Aspirian and Vitrolia. He had looked at maps but the drawings had been rough, the areas beyond his immediate surrounds only vaguely hinted at. He had thought the Bataari more like the Aridians or the Capiliaria, or the Demesnus, Skullbrands and Flamefists.

  ‘So you are not Bataari?’

  ‘Me Bataari, and Aquita. Am both, yes? You Khul and Aridian?’

  ‘Just Khul,’ Athol replied, a little more harshly and quickly than he had intended, judging by Serleon’s sharp look. ‘Khul and Aridian are allies, not the same people.’

  Serleon smirked.

  ‘Yes, Aquita say same, many generations ago. You tell self different. Me see Khul in Aridian, not Aridian in Khul.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ mumbled Athol. He raised his voice and called for Eruil to come back.

  ‘Boy is good, no worry,’ Serleon assured him.

  ‘I know. It’s time to train though. After that he will probably pester you all day. He wants to see your armour.’

  ‘Is good, Athol Khul,’ Serleon assured him. ‘You have Sigmarkin?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You spear yesterday. Me need to fix breastplate.’

  ‘A smith. Yes. We have the Last Forge. Join my family for breakfast and then I’ll show you.’

  Eruil came sauntering around the wagon, wiping horse saliva on his jerkin.

  ‘Me horse get fat now,’ Serleon said with a smile. ‘Maybe teach you ride later to give them exercise, yes?’

  ‘That would be–’

  ‘If your mother agrees,’ cut in Athol. ‘We have to train and you have jobs to do.’

  Eruil set off at speed back towards Athol’s home, calling for his mother before he was even halfway back. Athol saw Serleon watching the boy carefully, and then nod to himself.

  ‘What is it?’ Athol asked.

  ‘Boy run well. Be strong like you.’

  ‘All of our children are fast and strong.’

  ‘Yes, me see. Are they clever?’ Serleon tapped the side of his head. ‘Read? Write? Speak more tongues?’

  Athol didn’t answer straight away. These were concepts relatively new to the Khul, but slowly they were being learnt.

  ‘They will,’ Athol assured the Bataari. ‘That is one of the things the Aridians give us, as well as milk and meat.’

  ‘Good.’ Serleon pushed himself up and approached Athol, laying a hand upon his shoulder. ‘Sword kill. Sword destroy. Words build. Remember that.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The walk through the streets of Ashabarq was the hardest Threx had known. The derision in the eyes of those that looked at him was a scourge to his pride. They did not need to know his transgression –though surely news of what had occurred quickly spread on return of his army – they had only to look upon the grey mark upon his face to know his honour was forfeit.

  Many turned away in disgust, a few youngsters laughed and teased. Some hurled insults or called on him to remember the names of the dead children.

  Most hurtful were the looks from those that on that morning had returned with him in glorious victory. Was it guilt they felt, for being away when the Fireborn had come? Or did they think he had misled them somehow?

  He had not lied to them. Threx had been clear about his inte
nt to humble Yourag.

  To think that he was being blamed for what had happened made him grind his teeth, face flushing.

  Threx almost shouted at the woman that glared at him from the door of her house, but bit back the words at the last moment.

  ‘Keep walking,’ she told him, meeting his angry glare with contempt. ‘Vowbreaker.’

  He trudged on, heading towards the river at the further end of the island.

  It was close to noon when he reached the ferry docks. He turned left along the river front, towards the boats that crossed to the high pasture slopes.

  Vourza, Nerxes and Foraza were all waiting close to one of the ferries. Their expressions conveyed their feelings about the situation, but they added words all the same.

  ‘You swine-brained idiot!’ Vourza yelled, scooping up a handful of dirt and throwing it at Threx. ‘How could you be so stupid?’

  ‘I thought you had spoken to your father about what you were going to do,’ Nerxes said, eyes narrowed.

  ‘I said no such thing,’ Threx replied.

  ‘I’m not the quickest, but even I wouldn’t take the Ashen King’s warriors without asking,’ grumbled Foraza.

  ‘They’re calling me vowbreaker,’ said Threx. ‘But I made no promises.’

  ‘You vowed to protect the Skullbrand tribe,’ said Nerxes. ‘We weren’t here to do that. We should have known better.’

  ‘How? How would we know the Fireborn were watching? They wouldn’t have dared attack us under my grandmother’s rule! I was defending the honour of our people, and that’s just as important. We have to be seen to be strong or the Fireborn and the others will think us weak!’

  ‘We were weak.’ Vourza lifted a hand to signal the ferryman to lower the boarding gate of his boat. ‘Divided.’

  The others started down the bricked slope towards the jetty, leaving Threx silently fuming.

  ‘By the burn of the Pyre, this is killing me!’ Threx stooped, picked up a stone and hurled it towards a nearby cluster of bushes. A pair of startled fanwings exploded from the leaves, shrieking madly at the interruption. ‘How long does my father expect us to suffer this humiliation?’