Warriors Of The Freeguilds, page 84
Horses circled him. More arrows came, but fewer now. Warriors slid from their saddles, whooping in eagerness. Some had brightly painted shields decorated with furs and feathers, while others carried long spears with thin, fang-like blades. Those with shields smacked them with the flat of their weapons, chanting eerily, as the rest converged. The worm continued on its way, unaware of the drama playing out in its shadow.
Ahazian turned, trying to keep all of his enemies in sight. Thirty, at least. Despite their numbers, he smiled. A good fight, this. Not his best, but… adequate. Nearby, his steed continued to feast on its screaming prey and he smiled in amusement. Such a beautiful beast. He hoped he would not have to kill it.
The noise of weapons hammering shields began to annoy him. What were they waiting for? An invitation? He raised his weapons and spread his arms, waiting. A warrior stepped forwards out of the crowd.
‘Zig-mah-HAI!’ the warrior bellowed as he slammed his axe against the surface of his shield. For the first time, Ahazian noticed the azure zigzags that marked their arms and armour. Crudely rendered lightning bolts. Sigmarites, then. No wonder they had pursued him so fiercely. The others took up the chant, stamping their feet and whistling.
His own people had worshipped Sigmar, before the coming of Khorne. The Skull-Splitter. The Hammer of Witches. They had cast captives and slaves into the fire by the hundreds, all in his name, but the storm-god had never so much as spoken to them. He preferred his people to be sheep, not wolves. And the Ekran, for all their faults, had most certainly been wolves.
Ahazian stretched, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders, loosening them. ‘Come on then. Let us give the Skull-Splitter a show.’
The warrior sprang towards him, axe raised. Ahazian met him. His axe sheared through his opponent’s, even as his hammer crushed the man’s shield. The warrior staggered, a look of anger on his face. No fear there, only frustration. Ahazian kicked him in the chest, pulverising his ribs. He pursued the wounded man and casually pulped his knee. The warrior fell, and Ahazian took his head. He reached down and hooked the head with the tip of his axe, holding it up. He flung it at the feet of the closest nomad. ‘Next.’
One by one they came to die in the shadow of the worm. He could not fault their determination, or their courage. Axes and blades scarred his war-plate and his flesh, but he never slowed or stopped. He had held his own against hundreds. Thirty was nothing; a drop of blood in the ocean he’d already spilled. And would yet spill, once the Spear of Shadows was his. The thought drove him on, faster and fiercer.
To hold such a weapon was to be one with war itself. To dance on the black rim of destruction, surrounded on all sides by a wine-dark sea. That was the dream of a Kel, the only dream worth seeing to fruition. An eternity of death and slaughter, spent among the funeral pyres of a thousand kingdoms. He laughed at the thought of it, and how close it was.
Khorne was no conqueror, no king. He was no lord, to be paid fealty to. Khorne was a tempest, a raw force, to be followed and filled with. Khorne was the war-wind, the blood-dimmed tide, sweeping over all things and subsuming them. Only in giving in to war could a warrior truly know victory. Only in fighting without purpose could one find the true beauty in battle. There was no purpose worth fighting for. Only the fight itself.
‘And when war is all, what will you do, Ahazian Kel?’
Ahazian spun, skullhammer snapping out. It passed through the speaker’s head, as if the skull in question were no more substantial than smoke. Volundr stared at him, red eyes gleaming within his monstrous helm, thick arms crossed over his chest. He’d wrought his sending from the steam rising from the cooling bodies of the dead. The warrior-smith glanced around. ‘I had thought you smarter than this, hero of Ekran.’
Ahazian looked. The Vurm-tai were dead; thirty men, butchered like lambs. They had stood their ground and died to a warrior. He felt a flicker of remorse. Had he been wiser, he would have let one live, to pass his bravery down to further generations. It was the only way to ensure worthy opponents in the eternity to come.
‘They attacked me,’ he said, turning back to Volundr. ‘Perhaps they were tired of life. It is a hard one, in these lands. Maybe a glorious death seemed preferable.’
‘Or maybe you provoked them.’
Ahazian shrugged. ‘And so? I emerge victorious.’
‘Time is not our ally, boy.’
Ahazian frowned. ‘Do not call me boy, warrior-smith. I left childhood behind long ago.’
‘Then why don’t you act like it?’ Volundr pointed. ‘The fragment sings – listen to it, and do not tarry! You are alone in a sea of enemies, and not even your vaunted strength will be enough to carry you through. Use your wits as well as your weapons, or you will fail.’
Ahazian bristled. ‘I am a Kel of the Ekran. I do not fail.’ He thrust his axe through his belt and reached up to grab the sliver of Gung on its rawhide thong. Volundr was right – it was singing, though he’d been deaf to it during the bloodletting.
Images passed through his mind, shadowy and undefined. Landmarks. A place – where? He blinked, trying to understand what he was seeing. He heard muffled sounds, smelled a verminous odour. Felt a wash of unnatural heat.
‘You see it, don’t you?’
Volundr’s voice snapped him back to reality. ‘You see where the spear is hidden,’ the warrior-smith continued. His eyes blazed and his hands clenched. ‘Find it – now. Or die in the attempt.’
‘You have my oath,’ Ahazian said.
‘Aye, so I do. But oaths are fragile things. Better men than you have foresworn theirs. The former owner of that axe, for instance.’ Volundr gestured to the axe in Ahazian’s belt. ‘Anhur made an oath to the Blood God, and to me, and reneged on it. He was prideful and foolish. Do not follow his example.’
Ahazian touched the axe instinctively. The axe was old and savage, imbued with a hunger that was almost equal to his own. Volundr had gifted it to him, as a sign of respect, he’d thought. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He knew well the name of Anhur, the Scarlet Lord. Anhur of the Black Axe, who’d almost ripped open the belly of the realm, and who’d left a trail of destruction across the very face of Aqshy.
‘And what happened to him?’
‘Khorne took him.’
‘To punish him, or reward him?’
Volundr was silent for long moments. His misty form thickened and thinned as the wind tugged at it. Finally he said, ‘I do not know. But if I were you, I would be in no hurry to find out.’
‘Consider me warned,’ Ahazian said. Almost casually, he lashed out with his hammer and dissipated the sending. He laughed softly. The skullgrinder was an intimidating being. But a kel could not be intimidated. Not even by the gods.
Something croaked overhead. He looked up and saw several ravens circling the battlefield, their black eyes fixed on the dead. Or perhaps on him. He lifted his hammer in salute before turning to retrieve his now well-fed steed.
They had leagues to go yet, and as Volundr had reminded him, not much time to do it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GORCH
‘Are you sure about this?’ Volker asked. He stepped aside as a burly Kharadron, pulling a cart loaded with aethergear, bustled past him. The aerial docklands were busy. Trade winds were always blowing, and the Kharadron sought to follow them wherever they blew. Across the wide, flat platform, high above the streets of Shu’gohl, traders haggled with captains, seeking the best price for passage or delivery of their goods. Aether-vessels drifted to and fro above the great worm, crowding the heights.
Nyoka nodded. ‘It will be better this way, I think. I have challenged Calva’s authority once too often. Some time away will be good.’ She wore her armour, but carried a travel satchel and a bedroll slung across her chest. In her hands was a heavy warhammer, its haft carved in the shape of a worm.
‘For you, or for him?’
Nyoka smiled. ‘Both.’ She sighed. ‘Once, the entire order might have accompanied you on this quest. Artefacts such as the one you – we – seek are too dangerous to be left unguarded. Even Calva would agree with that.’
‘Did you tell him about what we were after?’
While the Freeguild warriors had escorted Volker and the others back to the aether-dock, Nyoka had conferred with the rest of her order, including Lector Calva. Her request to accompany Volker and the others had been agreed to with surprisingly little argument from anyone.
‘No. And he did not enquire. I did not think it wise to volunteer the information, though I have no doubt he will find out soon enough.’ She shook her head. ‘He is not a bad man, but he has made his oaths, as we have made ours.’
‘Let’s hope we never have to see which is the stronger.’ Volker turned as Lugash stumped towards them. ‘Found him yet?’
‘Just listen for the bellowing.’ Lugash hiked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s not happy, the cheating wazzock. Refuses to let us on board. Roggen sent me to get you.’
Volker sighed. He’d been afraid of this. Zana had insisted that Captain Brondt would be open to transporting them where they had to go. But given that they’d only just arrived, Volker had doubted that Brondt would be as amenable to the idea as Zana believed. Shouldering his rifle, he followed Lugash, Nyoka trailing after.
Adhema sat on a stack of crates, watching the confrontation. ‘You’re just in time,’ she called out. ‘I think they’re going to shoot her.’
Volker shook his head. Zana stood at the foot of the Zank’s boarding ramp, staring up at its captain in obvious consternation. Brondt, for his part, seemed serene. ‘I just got here. I haven’t even got my cargo offloaded.’ Brondt chomped on his cheroot as he spoke. Several of his crew stood below him, between Zana and the aethercraft. ‘Haven’t even taken on new supplies, for that matter.’
‘Half a favour, Brondt,’ Zana said.
‘Flying off without my cargo is worth two, at least.’ Brondt shook his head. ‘I brought you here as an act of goodwill, Mathos. But that’s as far as it goes. Find your own way off this ambulatory rock.’
Roggen strode towards Volker, Harrow plodding along behind him. ‘He will not let us on the boat,’ he said loudly. Brondt grimaced.
‘It’s not a boat, it’s a ship,’ he roared, jabbing his cheroot at the knight.
Zana snapped her fingers at him. ‘Forget about the Ghyranite. Get back to telling me how you decided you weren’t going to fulfil your oath.’
Brondt flushed. ‘Woman, I am very close to using you as megalofin bait.’
‘At least that way I’d get on the boat,’ Zana shot back.
‘It’s not a boat!’
‘I don’t care what it is, I’m coming aboard,’ Lugash rumbled. ‘We need transportation, cloud-creeper, and you’re the one who’s going to take us where we want to go.’ Lugash lifted his axe, and Brondt’s crew tensed, glancing at one another nervously. They fingered their weapons, ready to draw them at their captain’s command.
‘And where might you be wanting to go, hot-blood?’ Brondt sneered.
Lugash spat. ‘Gorch,’ he said.
Brondt stared at him. ‘Gorch. The forest?’
‘No. Gorch, the seaside village.’ Lugash frowned. ‘Of course the forest.’
Brondt’s crew began to murmur amongst themselves. One of them gestured curiously, and Brondt snapped, ‘Belay that, Tagak. I’ll not have one of my crewmen indulging in that superstitious nonsense. And you, hot-blood, if you think I’m going to Gorch of all places…’
‘Afraid, Brondt?’ Zana shook her head. ‘And here I thought I was bargaining with the man who once stabbed a harkraken in the brain from the inside of its gullet.’
‘Gorch is a forest, woman. Nowhere to land. Nowhere safe, anyway.’ Brondt blew a smoke ring towards her. ‘I wouldn’t risk it, even if you were paying me. Which you aren’t.’
‘But I can,’ Nyoka said.
Everyone looked at her.
‘You can what?’ Brondt said, suspiciously.
‘Fifty comets, per person,’ Nyoka said. ‘Seventy-five for the demigryph.’
Brondt goggled at her. ‘What?’ Even Volker was taken aback. That was a small fortune by Azyrite standards.
‘Three hundred and seventy-five meteors. A fair price, I believe.’ The priestess smiled benevolently. ‘More than enough to cover passage to Gorch, captain.’
‘Where would you get that kind of money?’
‘My Order has deep coffers, captain, as you are likely aware. We are also always on the lookout for further investments. Like, say, a share in a prosperous cargo concern.’ Nyoka’s expression was serene. ‘Do we have an accord?’
Brondt stared at her. He shook himself, took a breath and nodded. ‘We’ll leave as soon as we finish unloading. You – ah – you have the money on you?’
‘Half,’ Nyoka said. ‘The other half will be provided upon our safe return.’ She reached into her satchel and produced a small sack. It clinked as she dropped it into Brondt’s hand. ‘Is that acceptable?’
Brondt weighed the sack in his hand. ‘Acceptable.’ He glanced past her, at Adhema. ‘Are you sure you want to bring that one? Can’t trust the dead, you know. Especially that kind.’ He gestured to his mouth. ‘They’re biters.’
‘As if I’d ever bite you,’ Adhema said, from the foot of the ramp. She’d moved so swiftly that no one had noticed. Brondt twitched, his hand falling to his sword. His crew drew their weapons amid a bevy of curses. Adhema grinned. ‘Can’t squeeze blood from a stone, after all,’ she continued.
‘She’s with us,’ Volker said firmly. He ignored the looks from Zana and Lugash. Brondt shrugged.
‘Fine. You know your business. I’ll let you know when you can board.’
The next few hours passed slowly. Volker sat on the aether-docks and contented himself with stripping down and oiling his weapons. The others occupied themselves as they saw best. He left them to it. He wasn’t in charge, and they weren’t friends, really. Companions at best, allies of convenience at worst. But then, that wasn’t anything new. Azyrites knew all about allies of convenience.
As he worked, Volker considered his situation, and calculated the angles. There were currents here that he could not perceive; he’d sensed that the moment he’d answered Grungni’s summons. How long had the god been searching for the Eight Lamentations? And what would he do with them, once he’d found them?
To serve the god in this seemed the most natural thing in the world. The lessons of the Maker, as filtered through Oken, had been one of the central pillars of his life. But even so, he couldn’t help but question why he’d been chosen. Why had any of them been chosen? Perhaps Oken would know.
‘You’re frowning an awful lot, Azyrite,’ Zana said, startling him. He nearly dropped the shot-cylinder he’d been cleaning.
‘Not frowning. Concentrating.’
‘Looks like frowning to me.’ She sat down beside him on the cargo crates he’d made his seat. She watched the Kharadron work and whistled tunelessly. Volker glanced at her.
‘Don’t you have something you could be doing?’
‘I am doing it.’ She took one of his rags, spat on the side of her helmet and began to polish it. Up close, Volker could see the numerous dents and scratches. The helmet had seen heavy use. He supposed it wasn’t surprising. Mercenaries weren’t rare, by any means. Whole tribes of them could be had for a few coins, if you were of a mind. But lone sellswords were another matter. It took skill to survive alone.
As she worked, the coins attached to her gauntlet clinked. Volker indicated one. ‘That’s not a meteor, is it? Not ur-gold, either.’
‘Torope-chaw,’ Zana said, absently. At Volker’s look of incomprehension, she sighed and held up her hand so he could see the coin more clearly. ‘Torope gold. From the Black Marsh Barony, down south. They dig it out of the excrement of the giant turtles they live on.’ She looked around. ‘A lot like Shu’gohl, really. Fewer libraries, though. And the turtles aren’t so big – about the size of a small castle.’ She gestured. ‘Tiny, comparatively.’
‘Turtles?’ Volker asked.
Zana nodded. ‘They brew good beer there. And there’s this fish-head stew…’ She licked her lips. ‘Delicious.’
‘I thought you were from Chamon,’ Volker said. ‘What were you doing in a barony in Ghur?’ For a moment he thought he’d asked one question too many. Zana stared at the coins on her vambrace, picking through them.
‘A change of scenery,’ she said, finally.
‘Is that why you came to Excelsis? Was it at Grungni’s behest, or…?’
She looked at him. ‘No. I was heading there anyway. Business.’ A grin flashed, almost too swiftly for him to see. ‘And none of yours.’
‘You’re the one who sat down to talk.’
‘Talk, not spill my guts. What about you, Azyrite? Why were you in Excelsis?’
Volker looked down at his uniform. Zana snorted. ‘Not that reason. The real one.’
Volker sat back. ‘Azyrheim – ever been there?’
‘No.’
‘You’d like it. Plenty of work for a sellsword.’
‘That surprises me.’ Zana held up her helmet, checking for any spots she’d missed. ‘I’d heard it was one of the greatest cities in all the realms. The City of Alabaster Towers. Azyrheim the Eternal. Last and First.’
Volker snorted. ‘I’m told the walls are alabaster, but I never saw them. The city’s too big, you see. The walls stretch from sunup to sundown, moonrise to moonfall. You can go your entire life without seeing either edge. A lot of people do. They never leave their district.’
