The Red Feast - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer

  ‘Tonight is a night of mixed blessing,’ said the Keeper of the Flame. As he spoke, Threx watched his audience, trying to judge their thoughts. ‘Our people have been troubled of late and the Ashen King could not sleep, his woes a burden on his thoughts. He asked me to stay with him as he held vigil with the Pyre, seeking some guidance from the spirit of the Asha Vale.’

  Threx knew the part that would come next and turned to look at his companions.

  ‘I do not know what he saw in the flames, but he was granted a vision,’ Kexas continued. ‘He bid me to summon his only child, his son Threx.’

  Threx looked at Nerxes and the others, his warning gaze hidden from his family by the angle of his head. They held their tongues, even Foraza, who nodded slowly to indicate his understanding.

  ‘Though the Ashen King had not voiced his thoughts to me, I wondered if he might be of a mood to pardon his son and companions for their recent transgression, so I had Threx bring them all to the Hall of the Pyre.’

  Kexas paced in front of the throne, back to Atraxas and the family, his eyes boring into Threx’s friends like daggers.

  ‘Threx arrived with his friends but the Ashen King wanted to speak to his son alone, so I conducted them from the hall.’ Kexas turned back, his full attention returned to the royal family. Threx’s relations listened to the tale with a mix of suspicious and pensive expressions. ‘The Ashen King’s words were brief but are now etched into my memory. He stepped down from his throne and stood before the Pyre, bidding me and his son to come closer. He spoke in a whisper, his thoughts elsewhere, his sight upon a vista we cannot see.’

  Everyone was listening intently, eyes fixed on the Keeper of the Pyre. Only Soreas’ expression was dubious, eyes narrowed in calculation as she weighed the truth of Kexas’ words.

  ‘The Ashen King said to me, “I have failed my people and I have dishonoured the Asha Vale. Let my life be the price to return the glory of the Skullbrands.” Then he stepped back, and let himself fall onto the Pyre, which burst into the flames that you still see burning now.’

  Threx’s gaze was fixed on Soreas. His mother’s jaw moved but she did not speak. He could only guess at her thoughts, but imagined she was balancing the benefits and penalties of revealing that the Pyre had been a hoax. Reaching a decision, she stepped forward, one hand clasping her hammer talisman for comfort.

  ‘Not only has my husband died in the flames this night, but also the truth,’ the Sigmar-tongue declared.

  ‘Be careful of your next words,’ said Threx, standing up.

  He lifted a hand towards the Pyre, fingers splayed. Threx felt their heat, not on his skin but within his veins. He was the flame, the messenger of the Asha Vale’s eternal fire. Eyes fixed upon Soreas, he closed his fingers, forming a fist, and pictured the flames being quenched between his fingers. Coolness seeped through him and the Pyre guttered for a few heartbeats and then died, leaving gleaming ash.

  Soreas sneered and was about to decry this trickery when her gaze wandered to Kexas. He stood about halfway between her and the Pyre – nowhere near the mechanism that had been concealed within the flagstones next to the Ashen King’s throne. Atraxas was also looking at the Pyre with some intent, confirming that he had been told of the earlier fakery. Still suspecting subterfuge, Soreas looked around the hall, perhaps seeking a sign of some other servant or conspirator operating the mechanism. Her manic gaze returned to Threx.

  ‘I have been chosen by the Pyre,’ he told them, smiling broadly. He opened his fist, and the flames roared into life. ‘Praise to the Ashen King.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m the king’s banner bearer.’ It was the fifth or sixth time Foraza had made this declaration, each time with greater disbelief. He stood at Threx’s shoulder, standard in one hand, the pole resting on the freshly covered floor of the Hall of the Pyre. He had braided his beard especially for the grand occasion of his king’s investiture, weaving golden thread in with the complex knots hanging from cheeks and chin.

  Threx resisted the urge to glance back at his friends. Instead he met the gaze of Kexas, finding reassurance in the Keeper of the Pyre’s dark eyes.

  There was no such support in the flint-hard stare of his mother. Despite assurances from Kexas she still believed something was amiss, and even a private demonstration of Threx’s command of the flames had only lessened her suspicion, not extinguished it. She stood among the other royal family, queen no more, her hammer pendant held in her fist like a weapon.

  Atraxas had been more accommodating and had eventually accepted the tale of how Threx’s father had passed into the flames. He was not with the other relations, but stood at the head of the Hall Guard, ready to give their new oaths of service to Threx.

  Finally, Threx succumbed to his mood and turned, one elbow on the arm of the throne. He smiled at Foraza.

  ‘It’s what you deserve,’ he told him before acknowledging Nerxes and Vourza with a glance. They were also in their finest clothes, robes of Bataari velvet over freshly oiled mail. Vourza had even cropped and dyed her hair, styling it orange and red like the flames of the Pyre.

  It had been a hectic six days since Threx had killed his father, but his friends had been bastions of strength for him. They accepted almost without word their part in the lie that had been created – though they knew only what Threx and Kexas had told them of what had passed in the hall. As far as they were concerned, the only falsehood was in the reason why they had been in the Hall of the Pyre at all.

  They’d fended off most enquiries, for which Threx was grateful. He recalled how others had frequently spoken for his father and understood how difficult it was being the subject of so many questions, so much scrutiny. Those not dissuaded by the subtle and not-so-subtle interventions of Foraza and company had mostly been directed to Kexas. The Keeper of the Pyre gave them short shrift, and they all left with accusations of impropriety ringing in their ears.

  Threx looked again at Soreas. He had spoken to his mother, of course. It had not gone well, they had argued – though not about the manner of his father’s death – and she had fled in tears. Today was the first time in five days Threx had seen her.

  Threx looked up at the ceiling-windows. It had been another revelation to learn that the openings, when viewed from the throne, tracked the course of the sun at different times of the year. It was a clock and calendar in one, arranged for his personal use.

  It was almost noon.

  ‘Shouldn’t they be here by now?’ Threx called to Atraxas.

  ‘The scouts have returned. No visiting parties have been sighted on either the woods road, the river or across the Burned Heath.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  It was Soreas who answered, her tone sharp.

  ‘None of the other tribal kings are coming, Threx. They refuse to recognise you.’

  His mother appeared to take some relish in this conclusion. Threx scowled.

  ‘And can you offer a reason?’

  ‘I have prayed to the Hammer-King for his judgement,’ the priestess said solemnly, emerging from the crowd of family members. Her gaze lingered on the gathering of other notable members of the Skullbrands that waited on the far side of the dormant Pyre, her words directed to them. ‘The skies align at night, a shield of warning blazoned with the celestial flare of anger.’

  Threx watched the nobles, seeing a few muttering at this announcement, some whispering to companions, others regarding him with interest. Atraxas had told him that a few coveted the throne of the Ashen King for themselves, but fear of the Pyre’s power had held them back. It was the reason why the subterfuge with the fuel had been needed – the slightest hint that the king did not wield the power of the Asha Vale would have been a seized upon by at least half a dozen other families.

  Threx had not possessed the smallest idea that politics within the Skullbrands had become so fraught. Perhaps he had just been ignorant, but he had a notion that his father had deliberately shielded him from these rumours and doubts.
Threx had a deeper respect for his father and the situation in which he had found himself. The loss of the Pyre had been the cause of his weakness, not the symptom.

  Threx realised his mother had continued talking but he had drifted away from her words. She had been reciting a long list of portents that she claimed boded ill for not only the Skullbrands and the Asha Vale, but for all of the Flamescar Plateau, maybe the entirety of the Parched Lands.

  ‘What was that?’ Threx asked, a memory of what she had just said insistent. ‘Did you say a curtain of blood will fall upon us?’

  ‘The blood of infants and the old will flow alongside the blade-aged,’ replied Soreas. There was a strange fervour in her eyes, something Threx had only seen once before, on the day she had been summoned to the Hammer-King’s service. ‘The red ruin shall be a storm that burns across the plains. The cities of the God-King will tremble and the ground will shake beneath the tread of a numberless horde of beasts.’

  As she spoke she swayed, eyes losing focus. If this was an act, it was very convincing. Threx glanced at Kexas, trying to conceal his worry. The Keeper of the Pyre was transfixed by the performance, finger toying with his bottom lip, the other hand fidgeting with the belt of his robe.

  ‘But what does that have to do with the other chieftains?’ Nerxes demanded. ‘Why have they refused to pay their respects to the new Ashen King?’

  ‘It’s an insult,’ growled Atraxas.

  ‘They are scared,’ announced Soreas. She turned on Threx and flung out a beringed finger, spittle flying from her lips. ‘The will of the Hammer-God has been challenged. The voice of Sigmar rings in the ears of his God-speakers, as it has boomed in my dreams. All that follow the Ashen King shall be damned!’

  She fell to her knees and started to sob wildly, before screaming, ‘Damned! Damned!’

  Atraxas signalled to Joraxi and he moved to comfort her. Soreas thrust him away and staggered to her feet. Her audience stared at her with a mixture of horror and displeasure, many of them casting nervous glances at Threx.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ Soreas shrieked as two other cousins moved to help her. She pushed between them and approached Threx, regaining a semblance of dignity.

  ‘Heed my warning, my son,’ she said, her voice filled with a tenderness he had not heard for years. Tears brimmed in her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper, filled with emotion. ‘Step back from this path. Renounce the kingship and confess your murderous ways. It is not too late for us.’

  He looked at her, the hall seeming still except for the beating of his heart. He saw the pulse in the veins on her neck, steady and sure. Her eyes showed nothing but love, no sign of the contempt she had held him in since his return from Wendhome.

  He stood and she backed away, allowing him to pass. With a gesture he roused the flames of the Pyre, the sudden surge of red and orange filling the hall with their smokeless heat.

  Threx stepped up to the edge of the pit, skin almost burning, but he did not feel pain. Staring into the depths, he recalled the words of his mother.

  His mind filled with the images of her prophecy. He saw a world burning, bloodthirsty armies marching across a plain of bones, the air above them alight with their rage.

  At their head strode a dark figure, bearing aloft a great relic standard of bones and brass. Threx saw himself, anointed champion of the Pyre, lord of a hundred tribes.

  He quelled the flames, letting coldness flow from his veins, revealing a skeleton laid upon the embers and bones of the pit. Metal glinted in the ash around the forearms, the remnants of rivets that once held together a pair of vambraces.

  Threx lowered to one knee and reached out. The ash was hot in his hand but he bit back a shout of pain. He was the master of the flame, the spirit of the Asha Vale given body. More than that. His destiny, a fate that had shadowed him his whole life, had been revealed.

  He stood up, the ash of his father in his fist. There were no doubts, there was no hesitation. Threx knew what he desired was now his.

  Threx drew his hand down across his face, painting himself in the remains of his predecessor, as Ashen Kings had done for a dozen generations.

  He barely heard his mother’s cry of woe.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two days after he had spoken to Khibal Anuk and Humekhta, Athol found himself with the elders playing host to the Sigmar-tongue of the Aridians. They met in the shade of a great awning erected near the river, where the cooler air seeped down the shallow valley. Nearby, children splashed in the current, the older ones tending the younger while fathers and mothers were further afield with fishing and hunting.

  ‘It has been many seasons since the chosen messenger of the Hammer-God came to the Khul,’ said Houdas.

  ‘And the reason for my coming is not merry,’ replied the Sigmar-tongue.

  Khibal Anuk came with many questions, some for the elders, others for Serleon, who was brought forth as the closest thing they had to an expert on all things related to the Tithemasters. In halting words, he tried his best to detail their strengths, their soldiers and tactics, but much of it was simply hearsay or outright legend. Though he had been employed by Williarch he had seen nothing of the Tithemasters themselves during his time with the Bataari robber. Even so, what he had to share was disheartening.

  ‘We shall simply have to train and hope, and offer our prayers to Sigmar,’ Khibal Anuk said, when he’d concluded his interrogation of the Peerless Blade. His sombre expression darkened and he turned to Athol, who was sat cross-legged to one side, having offered only small contributions to the discussion. ‘This next matter is perhaps even more depressing. Distasteful.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Friku. ‘You look like a whitehorn dropped its dung on you.’

  ‘The queen, with the urging of our lawsmith, has asked for assurances from the Khul.’

  ‘She has our word, nothing is stronger,’ said Athol, rising to his feet.

  ‘What will satisfy your lawsmith?’ asked Houdas. ‘For three generations our pact has held on the word of its people – what more can we offer?’

  ‘There is to be an exchange,’ said Khibal Anuk. His voice dropped to a shamed whisper and he looked away. ‘Hostages.’

  ‘I do not understand this word,’ said Friku.

  ‘Prisoners,’ said Athol. ‘Prisoners under threat of death should there be fighting.’

  ‘Hostages.’ Houdas tried out the word with a frown. She stood up and started to pace, eyes on Khibal Anuk all the while. ‘You take one of us, we take one of you?’

  ‘I have been chosen,’ said the Sigmar-tongue. ‘I am the hammer-blessed of Aridian. The queen’s brother. I will stay with you to ensure that Humekhta keeps her side of the pact.’

  ‘You put yourself forward, didn’t you?’ said Athol, approaching the Sigmar-tongue. ‘I know you, Khibal Anuk. Orhatka demanded a hostage from us, didn’t he? I bet he’s trying to disrupt our alliance.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said the Sigmar-tongue. ‘But you’re right about me. I argued that the exchange had to be fair. I volunteered to be hostage for the Khul.’

  The Sigmar-tongue hesitated and his gaze fell to the parched ground.

  ‘What is it?’ Athol asked.

  ‘They want Eruil and Marolin in return.’

  Athol opened his mouth to speak but found he had nothing to say.

  ‘That is stupid,’ declared Friku. ‘If one is to go, it will be an elder. You are an Aridian elder, one of us will go in your place.’

  ‘No, I will go,’ said Athol firmly. He placed a hand on Khibal Anuk’s shoulder. ‘I will be the hostage.’

  The Sigmar-tongue shook his head.

  ‘You have to find other tribes to join the alliance against the Tithemasters, Athol. Humekhta… No, it is not my sister’s desire. Orhatka wants your wife and son to ensure that you do not get ideas about creating an army against Aridian.’

  ‘We do not agree,’ Jofou Red-Palm announced.

  ‘We have to,’ Houdas said slowly. �
�We are agreed that alliance with the Aridians must continue. If this is their demand…’

  ‘We should not become their slaves,’ said the other elder, head shaking.

  Athol fought the need to move, to find vent for his emotions in activity. He would not betray the conflict of emotions that raged at the Aridians’ demand. He wanted to curse the Sigmar-tongue back to his people and declare the truce with Humekhta broken.

  He would do that and more for his family.

  And yet he said nothing. To break bond with the Aridians would be to face the terror of the Tithemasters alone, a fate even worse for his wife and son. Just as when he stepped into the bladespace, he could not allow rash anger to cloud his thoughts.

  ‘Houdas is right,’ Athol said quietly. ‘I will not be here. When I leave, I will miss them all the same, whether they stay here or go to the royal city. I trust Humekhta. She will take care of my family as her own.’

  ‘You have made the right choice,’ said Khibal Anuk.

  ‘No,’ said Athol. ‘The final choice is not here, but with Marolin. If she agrees, it will be so. But only if she agrees.’

  ‘And who tell her, eh?’ said Serleon, who had been following the conversation with furrowed brow.

  There was comfort to be had, staring into the flames of the Pyre, transported to a place away from the mundane troubles of the world. Despite numerous attempts over the last few days, Threx had not seen a repeat of the vision that had come to him when he had become the Ashen King. He had barely left the Hall of the Pyre, only twice retiring to his rooms to gain some respite from the constant attention rather than to rest. Communing with the power of the Pyre, becoming one with the spirit of the Asha Vale, had filled him with a restless, unending energy.

  He found himself prone to prowling; he would pace around the Pyre, dimming it to embers and then letting his rage flow, stoking it to an inferno. It was not hard to find anger. It took only a moment to consider the subterfuge his father had used, covering his abandonment of the Skullbrands’ traditions with trickery. Every time Threx had spoken out he had earned himself scorn. Now that scorn was returned posthumously. Whenever Threx’s thoughts turned to his father the flames grew tall and dark, licking at the rafters above.