by Warhammer
‘Then it is too late, as Soreas tells me,’ said the Ashen King. ‘Why chase after a half-hope rather than take the hand offered to us?’
‘Sigmar will not keep us strong against the Fireborn and the Searing Ones. Sigmar didn’t bring the Skullbrands to the Asha Vale. We are the people of the Pyre.’
‘An act of dedication may reverse our fortunes,’ suggested Kexas. ‘Threx is right. It was our will that wavered first, not the power of the flame.’
‘It has waned for generations.’ The Ashen King wiped a hand down his face, leaving sweat-streaks through the coating of grey. He looked at the wet ash clumped in his palm, as though he saw it for the first time. ‘It is all a sham.’
‘And that’s why it has failed in your time,’ snapped the Keeper of the Pyre, fists clenching. He looked at Threx, and then back to the Ashen King. ‘It is your reign that has been weak. You betrayed our people.’
‘You echo my son’s treacherous accusations?’ The Ashen King’s tone went from angered to bleak. ‘There is none but Soreas that will stand by me.’
Threx’s eyes met Kexas’ and an unspoken agreement flashed between them.
‘You are not fit for the throne,’ said the Keeper of the Pyre. ‘For the sake of the Skullbrands, stand down from the kingship.’
‘Relinquish it to him?’ said the Ashen King, darting an incredulous look at Threx. ‘He’d have us all dead at the walls of Wendhome within days, or our bodies scattered for the vultures outside the caverns of the Fireborn.’
‘Better to die in glory than live in shame,’ Threx declared. He realised that it had been fear of his father that had held him back, fear of the power of the Pyre wielded by the Ashen King. The embarrassment of being tricked for so long transformed into a sudden rush of anger. ‘You’d hand me an empty throne! Not sacred ashes but the dust of lies coats your skin!’
‘Still your tongue,’ the Ashen King growled. ‘I am still your ruler.’
Any warning from Nerxes fled as blood coursed through Threx, flushing his face, filling his limbs with trembling strength. He could feel the heat building within him, born of frustration and defiance.
‘You are not my king,’ he snarled.
His hand curled about his father’s wrist as he yanked him from the throne. Threx heaved his powerful arms, swinging his father onto his shoulders. The Ashen King rained down blows upon his head but Threx ignored them, no more than the flit of gnats as his eyes fixed on the dark pit of the Pyre ahead. His head buzzed within, sound washed away by the roaring of his pulse.
‘What are you–’
The Ashen King’s protest fell quiet as Threx tossed him overhead. He landed with a clattering of bones and plume of ash.
Threx snarled and flames sprang up in the trench, burning dark red. His father’s scream sounded around the hall, drawn out and agonised, becoming one with the growing rage of the flames. Threx saw a figure flailing in the midst of the strengthening fire, imploring with hands outstretched, before the Ashen King fell sideways, disappearing into the tide of skeletal remains and glowing embers.
Threx staggered back, gasping, chest thundering. He saw Kexas in the corner of his eye and turned. The Keeper of the Pyre was wide-eyed, entranced by the flames that stretched almost to the roof.
A semblance of clarity returned, leaving Threx panting but coherent. He looked at the flames and then back to Kexas.
‘We’ve done it,’ Threx declared. A laugh, almost manic, burst from him. He felt like the hawk released from the wrist of the hunter, soaring free after so long confined. His buoyant mood faltered as he considered what he had done. There would be consequences. He grabbed Kexas’ arms, words spilling in a rush as the import of what had happened pushed into his thoughts. ‘We will say that he was called to the Pyre. A clever move, activating the mechanism when I threw him in.’
Kexas’ mouthed something wordlessly, eyes straying back to Threx. He shook his head, brow furrowed.
‘But I did nothing.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Athol waited nervously in a small copse of trees just within sight of the royal city, one of several scattered along one of the old river courses that cut through the dry grasslands of the Flamescar Plateau. He kept his eyes fixed upon the colourful pavilions, looking for any sign of mounted warriors moving out of the settlement – Aridians on foot would not trouble him; he knew he could outpace them.
The girl he had sent to Khibal Anuk had been foraging in the trees and seemed trustworthy enough. She was certainly pleased with the small fruit knife he had given her in payment, enamoured by the opal fixed into its pommel. Even so, it was not wholly within her power to reach the Sigmar-tongue, and there was no guarantee that Khibal Anuk would agree to meet Athol.
Time dragged on and he began to wonder if a party had been sent out from the other side of the royal city, to circle behind him out of sight. Though the plateau seemed flat it was coursed with broad, shallow undulations that at a distance could conceal a sizeable band of warriors.
He moved position, looking for any telltale haze of dust to the left and right.
Athol saw nothing, but it did little to calm his taut nerves.
He did not relax even when a small wagon drawn by a single whitehorn emerged along the main pathway. He recognised it as Khibal Anuk’s cart, the Sigmar-tongue himself squatted upon its back as it juddered of the rutted road that led from the city of pavilions.
Its course took it past the copse for another hundred paces or so, before Khibal Anuk changed direction with a deft flick of a long switch. With the trees between him and any watcher in the settlement, the Sigmar-tongue turned back towards the cluster of trees and was met by Athol at the edge of the sparse undergrowth.
‘You picked a good one,’ declared the Sigmar-tongue, dismounting nimbly for a man of his size. ‘Prika is a very honest child and has a soft spot for any kind of gem.’
‘Someone will ask where she got the knife, we don’t have long,’ said Athol.
‘A while yet. I asked her to watch the shrine in my absence. She’ll get bored, but I left her some soapwood to carve.’ Khibal Anuk moved so that he was in the shade of a tree, tugging at the reins of the whitehorn so that it plodded after. ‘I’m glad you came, but surprised too.’
‘I don’t think you can trust Orhatka.’ Athol almost blurted out the words, seeking to be relieved of the burden of his suspicions.
‘That depends on what you mean by trust,’ said a woman’s voice from within the drapes that covered the cart’s main body. ‘I don’t think he’d do anything to endanger my people.’
Athol bit back his surprise as a slender hand parted the curtains and Queen Humekhta revealed herself. She was clad in scarves of white, wrapped around her like wisps of cloud. She wore no veil, her sharp eyes regarding Athol with interest.
‘But mine…?’ he said, recovering quickly.
Khibal Anuk’s expression turned sour but Humekhta smiled.
‘Orhatka wants to trade the Khul for peace with the Tithemasters,’ confessed the queen. ‘I do not wish our people to fight yours.’
‘It would go poorly for you,’ said Athol.
‘And your people too,’ said Khibal Anuk. ‘There can’t be a winner in such a fight, and the survivors would be swept up and enslaved by the Tithemasters without them breaking a sweat.’
‘Williarch threatened as much – not to slay me but to see me in servitude until he died.’ The thought of such a fate for his people hardened his resolve further. ‘The Khul will die before any of us are taken.’
‘You cannot let Orhatka win the argument,’ Khibal Anuk said to his half-sister. He fidgeted with his talisman as he spoke, stroking the small hammer with his thumb. ‘You must stand firm.’
‘It will be easier if I know that the Khul are prepared to stand with the Aridians.’
‘That is… to be decided.’ Athol hated to admit the indecision amongst the elders but if he could not trust Khibal Anuk and Humekhta, there was no point continu
ing. ‘Reassurances from both sides will help settle the matter for now. I have a man in the camp, Williarch’s champion, who says we can expect at least a season to prepare for the Tithemasters. I plan to find others that will ally with the Khul against them.’
‘Really? And how do you expect to win them over?’ said Humekhta.
‘I don’t know yet. As much as the other tribes won’t want a war with these Bataari sorcerers, I think I’ll make them see that it’s only a matter of time before the Tithemasters will come for them. Williarch, and maybe with the help of Orhatka, wanted this to become a fight. There’s no other reason he stole rather than demanded the Tithe.’
‘Perhaps I will seek allies,’ said the queen.
Athol did not like the sound of that, though there was no reason for him to believe Humekhta meant anything more than what she said. He had considered the idea of calling a Red Feast but now he realised that the ritual gathering would only grant more power to the Aridians and leave them needing the Khul less. Only if their fate was bound as one would the alliance continue.
‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about the timing,’ said Khibal Anuk. ‘I suppose even the Tithemasters have their rules to follow, otherwise they would just be marauders, and maybe we’ve been tricked into conflict with them.’
‘The one that came is called Rosika, one of their leaders,’ Athol told them. ‘It might be that he doesn’t have the full support he needs. If we fight hard or threaten to be more trouble than the war is worth, we could turn them against him.’
‘Lots of “ifs” there, Athol,’ sighed Khibal Anuk. He plucked an orange leaf from the tree and let it drift away on the faint breeze. ‘But we haven’t anything else, I suppose.’
‘Then we are agreed?’ Athol looked at the queen. ‘Will you stand by the pact between our peoples?’
‘I have one other matter first, before I seal the promise.’ She stood up, ducking beneath the awning. Khibal Anuk moved to help her down from the cart but she waved him away, jumping lightly to the ground. In her hand she held a crystal, irregular of shape, a deep red in colour.
‘Your scrying stone…’ said Athol, recognising the artefact.
‘A flame gem, dug from the deep of the world, and ensorcelled by my ancestors. It is the power of this gem that grants me the title of Prophet-Queen, Athol. It is a fickle thing, a well that cannot be relied upon.’
‘Its energy will drain?’
‘No, my mind will.’ Humekhta lifted the jewel so that it caught the sunlight, the prismed juts of its top flashing across Athol’s vision. ‘To look into the future is to see an ever-changing vista. It requires intense will to focus the images, and many times they are different. To see all possible futures would drive even the greatest mind insane.’
‘And you would look into my future?’
‘Is this necessary?’ asked Khibal Anuk, stepping closer. His shadow fell across the gem, cutting off its glinting gaze.
‘Are you afraid she will see something you don’t like?’ said Athol.
‘It is an uncertain practice, at best. A poor tool to make decisions with. I would rather pray to Sigmar for the celestial signs than trust the visions of the scrying stone.’
‘Then your memory is short,’ snapped Humekhta. ‘This gem has guided me for years, and my predecessors for generations, since before even Sigmar visited our lands. With our tribes’ future at stake it would be folly to ignore any boon we might use.’
She waved Khibal Anuk back and repositioned the gem so that its light fell upon Athol once more. He stared into the depths, mesmerised by the shifting colours. It was as if he were gazing into the heart of a flame. Through the red crystal he saw Humekhta looking back at him.
‘I see an army in the distance, so large it raises a cloud that makes noon as dusk. I see no details but at its head stands a warrior clad in red.’ She gasped and closed her eyes, stepping back. ‘Blood! Blood and fire!’
As though wounded Humekhta turned away, clutching a hand to her gut. The jewel fell from her open palm and Athol fought the instinct to catch it – he had no desire to touch the mystic gem. Khibal Anuk picked it up and dashed to his half-sister’s side as she slumped against the cart, a hand held up to her face.
‘What is it?’ asked Athol.
‘I saw the Glittering Pinnacle above the royal pavilion,’ croaked Humekhta. ‘And I saw your face, covered in blood, your hands coated with the gore of your enemies. A world awash with crimson.’
‘Then take heart,’ said Athol. ‘If I fight in sight of the Tithemasters, it will be against them.’
Humekhta recovered, retrieving the stone from where it had fallen. The colour had drained from her face and her hand trembled, but she met Athol with a defiant stare.
‘If you will fight, we will fight.’
Khibal Anuk offered his hand and Athol shook it. Humekhta mounted with his help, and swiftly hid behind the curtains once more.
Athol watched the cart rattle towards the pavilion and turned back through the trees to head across the plains. One disaster had been averted, but the alliance was more precarious than ever. He needed to find others willing to stand against the Tithemasters, and soon, if the fragile relationship was to survive much longer.
Threx sat gingerly in the throne, as if it would reject him for what he had done. He was alone. For the time being. Still dumbfounded, Kexas had departed to fetch Nerxes and the others.
The hall seemed vast, and he was at the centre of it. He had never appreciated how every beam and slat, the Pyre itself, and the hang of the banners focused all attention on the point where he sat. The seat was slightly padded, squashed almost flat by generations of his ancestors. He rested his hands on the arms as he had seen his father do, the heel of the palm on the ends. It was an unnatural posture, his shoulders brought forward. Threx felt as if he were hunching.
A door slammed open to his right and Atraxas burst into the hall, barefoot and dressed only in a long tunic. He was followed by a trio of Hall Guards in full armour, their short swords drawn.
He stopped a few strides later as his eyes were drawn to the Pyre in full flame. Threx’s uncle stood transfixed, his warriors likewise, staring open-mouthed at the renewed energy of their sacred fire. Eventually, Atraxas dragged his eyes away and his gaze fell upon the throne, and Threx sat upon it.
‘You should not be here,’ snarled his uncle. ‘Get out! Where is the Ashen King?’
Threx locked a stare upon him and Atraxas staggered back a step, hand flying to his mouth in shock, eyes wide. The three Hall Guards fell to their knees.
Confused, Threx lifted his hand, using the polished bronze bracelet around his wrist as a mirror. His features were distorted in the curve of metal, but he caught an unmistakeable flicker of orange and yellow. His hand started shaking but he steadied himself, turning his head and wrist so that his eyes came into focus.
Two flickers of flame looked back at him where his pupils had once been.
‘How…?’ Atraxas looked back at the flames and then to Threx once more. Suspicion entered his gaze.
‘Fetch Soreas,’ ordered Threx. Atraxas hesitated. Threx leaned forward – something he had seen his father do on many occasions. His next words brought a rush of pleasure to utter, but he did not raise his voice. ‘The Ashen King commands it.’
Cowed, Atraxas nodded and left with several glances over his shoulder, at both Threx and the Pyre.
‘Rouse your company,’ Threx told the remaining Hall Guards. ‘It’s going to be a busy day.’
Two of them left, and the one that remained moved to the main doors of the hall and took up a sentry position.
It was not long before Kexas returned with Nerxes, Vourza and Foraza. Threx’s three friends hurried along the hall, amazed at what they saw when they came around to the front of the throne.
‘Kexas says you have been…’ Vourza trailed off as she caught the fiery glint in Threx’s eye. ‘By the Pyre, it’s true!’
‘What happened?’ asked Nerx
es, approaching cautiously.
Threx looked at Kexas and recalled their brief conversation before the Keeper of the Pyre had departed to find the others.
‘When my mother is here, it will be explained,’ Threx said, trying to achieve a tone of calm authority. In truth he had no idea whether anyone would believe the story he and Kexas had concocted quickly after the death of his father. He glanced again at his reflection in his bracelet. It didn’t matter what they believed, he realised. He was the Ashen King now.
The sense of power was intoxicating. The secrets and the hiding would end, despite what he had agreed with Kexas. As Ashen King, his authority would be absolute.
Even as he thought this, doubts crept in. He was a ruler, not an immortal. A blade in the gut, from Atraxas, or Kexas, or another, would still end him. He needed allies, and the tempering words of Nerxes returned to him. Better not to pour oil on a fire when he was yet to establish his rule.
It took some time until Atraxas returned with Soreas, and a handful of lesser cousins, Joraxi among them. Threx’s mother gasped when she saw him on the throne and darted a look at her brother-by-marriage. About two dozen Hall Guards came with them, spreading out around the hall. Threx understood then that he should not have sent Atraxas. Obviously, he and Soreas had already discussed what had happened and started conspiring to control Threx as they had manipulated his father.
Threx crooked a finger, beckoning to Kexas. The Keeper of the Pyre hurried over and Threx had to lean to whisper to the short man.
‘Did Atraxas know about the Pyre? The false flame, I mean.’
‘I don’t know,’ Kexas replied. He stepped back and casually looked at the approaching family. ‘I don’t think your father told him, but I can’t say whether Soreas shared the secret. If not before, then possibly she has told him tonight…’
In fact, the questioning gazes of both Threx’s uncle and mother were more often drawn to Kexas, perhaps hoping for some sign from the Keeper of the Pyre. As they had agreed, Threx said nothing, but sat passively while the party of his relatives approached. They stopped on his right-hand side, while his friends gathered in a small group to his left. He looked at them both, affecting what he believed would be a regal air, and then nodded to Kexas.