by Warhammer
Like the Pyre, an offering to the Flamescar, to appease the spirits of fire and sun.
Before Sigmar. Before such rites had been declared inhuman and immoral.
The word meant little to Threx. As far as he could tell, morality was simply rules the people of the cities invented to make themselves feel superior to the plateau tribesfolk. The people of Bataar and Aspirian were enslaved by coins, not chains, but had no more freedom from their masters than one of the Zazuli war-beasts.
The largest contingent came from Wendhome, their drakon icons now decorated with red streamers. Threx didn’t know the significance of this embellishment but red was the colour of fire and blood among all the peoples of the plateau. It was a war colour.
He did not wear red, for he was the Ashen King, covered in the grey of death. His soul was gone now, replaced by the spirit of the Asha Vale. As such, he could not die, but would become one with the land again when his mortal body was slain.
The same was true of the Mortas, who shared ancestors with the Skullbrands. Their warriors, a thousand or so Threx judged, wore armour made of wooden scales, black-lacquered to present five lines of darkness against the orange-brown slope. The lies of Soreas had turned them against their distant blood-kin.
There were some that he did not know, from places further afield. One such tribe marched beneath bronze sun-faces that reminded him of the totems worshipped by the orruks of the coast. Another wore robes, though he assumed they had some form of armour beneath heavy cloth. He realised that they were from the mountains, where the colder climate allowed such clothing – on the plains a person would sweat to death in such heavy fabric. They bore barbed spears and shields of woven wooden slats painted with a hammer device.
He had never seen such a coalition, though his father had told him that such forces had not been uncommon in the time before. The necessities of food and shelter had splintered the people of the Flamescar, each tribe developing its own traditions and history, save for a fortunate few like the Direbrands that had maintained a common link across their far-flung people.
Thoughts of the Direbrands brought a pang of jealousy. The favoured of the Hammer-God, some called them. Though they had not built cities like the Bataari and Aspirians, they were no less a nation. It could have been the Skullbrands that dominated the seaward Flamescar Plateau, but for the whim of Sigmar.
He glanced down at the force assembled behind the gate in case something went wrong. Atraxas and the Hall Guard stood at the head of five hundred warriors standing ready to sally forth if anything happened to Nerxes and Foraza.
By rights the truce of the parley should be observed, but with Soreas in a vengeful mood, and no doubt Yourag looking to humiliate Threx, it was possible the arms-quiet would be ignored.
It was quite a body of men and women that moved down the slope to meet Threx’s herald and banner: chieftains, bodyguards and Sigmar-tongues all converged on the Skullbrand pair. Blades were still sheathed, but Threx held his breath all the same.
When they were a few dozen paces apart, Foraza planted the standard and the two of them waited. Threx smiled. It was probably Nerxes’ idea to do that. This was the Asha Vale, the land of the Skullbrands. The chieftains and holy folk would come to them.
Threx saw Nerxes raise a hand to the approaching parties, fingers held out as though offering to help them forward. It seemed a strange thing to do, something he had learnt from one of his Bataari writings, perhaps.
The Ashen King brought Nerxes’ seeing glass up to his eye and the view slid dizzyingly for a few moments until he found the location of the parley.
Nerxes was gesturing, first to Soreas who was beside Yourag, and then back to Ashabarq. Threx flinched as the gathered people turned towards him, their faces slightly distorted by the curve of the lens, forgetting that he was but a distant, indistinct figure to their eyes.
Yourag was animated, and another leader stepped forward, her skin pale but decorated with red tattoos, arms and legs bound with laces that held iron discs of armour, her body protected within a long coat of the same.
Soreas shook her head vehemently, jabbing a finger in the direction of Threx. He could hear nothing but imagined the curses and protests being voiced against him.
A third chieftain stepped up, accompanied by a Sigmar-tongue in leather armour, her hammer-topped staff glinting in the afternoon sun. They stood between Nerxes and Yourag, while the holy woman made placating gestures.
Finally, more than twenty people gathered around Threx’s banner, Foraza almost lost in their midst. Threx tensed as the sun flashed on metal.
It was Nerxes that had produced the knife, pricking his thumb with its tip to offer up the gift of blood. A bowl was brought forth and others contributed their lifeblood to the sealing of the pact.
Threx relaxed. The bowl would be taken far and wide, inviting champions across the Flamescar to add their blood and come to the ancient meeting place on the Clavis Isles.
‘What’s happening?’ Atraxas demanded from below. ‘Are we fighting or not?’
Threx saw the gathering disperse, the leaders and hammer-folk returning to their tribes. Yourag, Soreas and a couple of others remained. Nerxes turned back and raised a hand, fingers beckoning.
‘We’re not fighting,’ Threx told his uncle. ‘But don’t go anywhere yet.’
The circumstances were very different to when Threx had approached Yourag before the battle at Wendhome. He was Ashen King now, and the woman whose honour he had fought to protect was now an ally of his enemy. Even so, the leader of the Korchians regarded him with the same contemptuous look.
‘I’ll cut off your face and hang it in my hall if you look at me like that again,’ snarled Threx as he stopped a few paces away.
‘Cousin…’ Nerxes’ tone was a warning, and he stepped to the side, between Threx and his mother. ‘You’ve called the Red Feast. The arms-quiet must be observed.’
Threx ground his teeth, infuriated by the challenge in Yourag’s eyes, the impudence in his stance as he casually stuck the thumb of his sword hand in his belt; it was a gesture of confidence, that he would not need to draw his blade. In any other situation it would be a challenge to Threx’s honour, a statement that he was too afraid to attack.
‘You know that she destroyed my father, don’t you?’ Threx said suddenly, eyes fixed on the Korchian chieftain. ‘Listen to her whispering and you’ll be dragged down too.’
‘Your power is naught but lies,’ Yourag said, waving his hand dismissively. He glanced at Soreas. ‘That’s why you have to pull this trick with the Red Feast.’
‘My power is real, and the Red Feast is no trick.’ Threx stepped closer still, within reach of Yourag. He realised the Korchian was shorter than he remembered. He laced his fingers together, thumbs protruding, and held his hands to his chest. ‘I beat you before, and at the Red Feast I will beat you again.’
‘Your friends saved you,’ snapped Yourag, eyes flicking to Foraza. ‘At Clavis Volk there will be no interference.’
Threx leaned closer still, eyes fixed upon his adversary. His mother said something but he did not hear it clearly, his attention focused on Yourag. When their noses were but a finger’s breadth apart, Threx let his anger grow, stoking his rage with memories of how these people had wronged him, and still wanted to dishonour and slay him and his people.
His rage did not come as words. He channelled it, drawing on the Pyre, feeling its power through the ground even though he was some distance from the hall.
Yourag flinched and stepped back, and Threx knew that the flames of the Pyre were visible in his eyes. The Korchian tried to pull himself straight, but dignity had fled and he was left huffing impotently as Threx stood tall and crossed his arms over his ash-clad chest.
‘I’ll see you at the Red Feast.’
Threx turned his back on them both, gesturing to his companions to follow.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He wasn’t quite sure where he’d gone wrong. Somewhere in
the forest he’d lost sight of the mountain. A sea of orange-red leaves blotted out the sky, bathing everything in a ruddy arboreal twilight. The dead leaves and twigs cracked and crunched underfoot, so that every step seemed to echo through the close-packed trunks.
Athol stopped, checking behind for a moment.
He saw nothing, but that didn’t mean the beastmen weren’t there. He’d killed three and escaped, but he had a feeling that they had caught his scent now. Tracking him. Hunting.
How many? How big? What weapons?
The trio he had killed had been scrawny curs, none taller than his chest, though wickedly fast with their flint knives. Still, not a match for a full-grown Khul warrior bearing a spear that had been wrought in the Last Forge.
He looked at the weapon, its head a source of dim light in the gloom. Like his dreams it had become his guide, a slow pulsing of recognition when it was pointed towards the mountain Athol had seen.
It had taken sixteen days before he had woken one morning and seen the peak bathed in the fiery light of dawn. He had known immediately that he had found his goal. Another eight days of walking had brought him to the edge of the forest. Now it seemed, as far as he could reckon it, that another eight days had passed since he ventured into the shadowy woods.
Turning slowly, he felt the spear pulse faintly in his grasp. Back and forth he moved, homing in on the source of the power. He tried to locate a landmark ahead, something to head towards, and saw what seemed to be a lighter patch, a clearing lit by the sunlight.
Heartened by the thought of gazing up at the sky for the first time in three days, he set off quickly.
The long days of walking had firmed up muscles that had grown lax despite his regular treks to the royal city. He felt leaner and fitter than he had for a long time, even though he’d trained every day, as was Khul law.
It was not just the exercise. He felt a purpose, something that he’d thought he’d possessed as spear-carrier. Events had proven that to be a shallow calling, a bandage that had concealed a deeper wound. The Tithemasters had brought the tension to the fore, but on his journey to the mountain he had realised that it was simply the spark that started the fire. The kindling had been prepared a long time ago. Something would have brought the tensions between the Khul and Aridian to the surface.
As he cut between two trees growing close together, a low branch caught on something at his waist. He looked down and freed the half-sword snagged on the upthrust tree limb.
A pang of guilt caught him as he realised it had been a couple of days since he had thought of Eruil and Marolin. He had believed it would be a torment to be parted from them for so long, when he had spent no more than two days before without their company. At first, he had dwelled on imagining what terrible things might happen, but such fears had quickly dwindled. At night he had dedicated his thoughts to them before settling down to sleep, but each time his dreams had been filled with visions of the skull mountain, no sign of wife or child.
He neared the edge of the clearing but stopped before entering. A faint breeze stirred the leaves and the temptation to step out into the lighter air was almost overwhelming.
He held back, aware of the silence save for the rustle of the trees.
No birds. No creatures in the undergrowth. A few flies buzzed across the long yellow grass that had sprung up in the broad, open space. He could see where two trees had fallen, immense giants that had toppled recently, opening up the forest floor to the sun and moon.
Movement on the opposite side of the clearing drew his attention. At first he thought it was some type of deer, but as the antlered head turned he spied a fanged maw and dark, predatory eyes.
There were other dark shapes among the shadows. Waiting for him.
Barely breathing, he pivoted at the waist, trying not to shift his feet in case he broke a twig or turned his ankle in a hole.
Behind him, thirty paces away, eyes regarded him from behind the trees and thorny bushes.
They appeared content to wait and watch for the time being, positioned to cut off escape rather than to launch attack.
Athol’s gaze returned to the clearing and, as he shifted his weight forward, he saw a glimpse of something beyond the trees on the far side.
A mountaintop.
It was not aflame as it had been in his dream, and the flanks were of pale, chalky stone rather than skulls, but the flash of the sun on some glittering deposit seemed to burn like fire for an instant.
Whatever he was being led to, whatever answers he would find, lay on the other side of the clearing.
He used the space to his advantage, never keeping still, his spear moving constantly to thrust and parry as he ducked and leapt, sometimes rolling beneath a maul or rusted blade to escape being trapped.
The beastmen hooted and whooped as they attacked, the small ones quick and agile, the larger ones possessing terrible strength – both lacking any skill beyond raw savagery.
Four lay bleeding in the long grass already, guts and throats opened up. Another staggered for the safety of the tree nursing a long wound down the thigh that was slowly leaking its life away in a red stream.
But there were at least twenty more, half of them as big as Athol, with curling goat horns or antlers, their claws as vicious as their scavenged blades. Dog-faced foes snarled and snapped, trying to bite at his wrists or face, fended away with clubbing blows with the spear’s haft as he dashed for open space again.
His foot caught a clump of grass and he turned the stumble into a roll, coming to his feet with the spear tip flashing out. It pierced the eye of a pursuing cur, penetrating the brain within. A twist and pull withdrew the weapon, but not before a rusted tulwar clanged from his helm, the sound ringing in his ears.
Staggered, he pulled his knife free, wielding the spear one-handed to force his attackers back, the dagger lashing out at those that leapt within reach.
A tall, bovine creature strode into the clearing. It lowed, growled and snarled, waving a brutal axe to the left and right. The beast-folk parted, falling back and circling around Athol. They held back, awaiting the command.
This was how he was going to die.
He felt stupid. He was so far from his people, from his family. He’d made no allies – had gone out of his way to avoid the tribes whose lands he’d crossed on his self-imposed quest. He would die here, alone and unremarked. The Tithemasters would come for their vengeance and the Khul and Aridians would die. Perhaps they’d take Humekhta and Marolin and Eruil into slavery. Or make an example of their deaths as a warning to others.
Because he’d dreamt of a mountain.
He braced his legs apart, weapons at the ready, and met the animal stare of the beast-folk’s leader. With his knife, he beckoned the creature on, taunting it.
The bull-warrior took a step, brutal blade raised.
A sudden flurry of cries sounded out from the right, panicked barks and almost-human shouts of alarm.
The beastmen scattered like rodents in a grain house discovered by a cat. The bull-man snarled, baring long fangs, and then bolted, ears flat against its head as it ran for the opposite edge of the clearing from where the commotion had erupted.
Athol turned, still alert, and watched a sway of bushes as something made its way closer. He flexed his fingers around the haft of his spear, wondering what fearsome beast had set his attackers to flight.
A man stepped into view. He was a wasted, skeletal thing, skin burned and blistered from long exposure, hair lank and hanging to his ankles. His body was smeared with colour, mostly red, his hands a vivid crimson.
The stranger held a short, crooked spear in one hand, but he used it more like a staff than a weapon.
Athol did not relax, for there was something about the man that reminded him of the Tithemaster, Rosika. There was an aura of ancient power about him, despite his decrepitude.
The stench of the man carried on the wind, of sweat and worse. He looked half-dead, but the beastmen had fled from him and Athol d
id not let his guard down.
The stranger stopped a few paces away and with his free hand swept the hair back out of his face, revealing eyes that were bright and agile, taking in every detail of Athol. A few grunts and other wordless noises issued from the man’s mouth. He stopped, face screwed up in concentration, and formed words with slow, deliberate care.
‘Your… coming… was… seen.’
Athol was shocked, not because of the content of the words, but because he understood them. They were spoken not in the adopted tongue of Aridian, but the old language of the Khul.
He had known it, the moment the last stroke of paint had started to dry upon the walls. He had looked at the scene, the russet forest clearing and the images of the gor-folk surrounding the stranger. The painter had felt the burden ease, the weight of so many years dreaming and painting and fearing failure had lessened.
But it had not gone, and as he’d looked at the pictures he had realised that they did not tell of what would come to pass. This was not prophecy granted to him, but remembrance.
All but the last few images.
It had not made sense at first; the story had seemed to stop suddenly and then begin again but go nowhere. Realisation had set his heart juddering in his chest – this was not the story of a man, but a people and the spirit that led them. It was the bloodline that he recalled, distilled into the greatest of their kind.
And the carrier of that ancestral legacy was in danger.
Now that he looked at the man he saw everything as it was in the final dreams. Not the body of lean muscle, nor the fierce countenance. The soul, the fire within, burned as the soul of the first child in the paintings. It was not the waning light that lit him with its aura; there was a burning spirit about the man.
‘How do know that ancient tongue?’ the man asked, head cocked to one side. ‘What is your name?’
‘Name?’ The painter cackled, trying to find the meaning of the sentence amongst the jumbled ruins that were left of his mind.