You’re enjoying this too much, Witchblade. Focus!
Maleneth ignored the cold voice. The dance moved on, another slash, this one to the shoulder, hers alone to make. She knew even as she spun away that the knife of another of the dancers would be coming for her, a low, precise cut that grazed across the clothing on her hip. Another touched her own shoulder at the exact moment that she cut more of the silk cladding the troupe mistress, the blades making a slitting noise as they slashed air and cloth, just audible over the rising frenzy of the drums and the raucous awe of the crowd.
Then came the pain. She’d become so absorbed that she almost didn’t notice it at first. The sudden jab in her side was lost in the web of movement, no room in her mind for anything beyond the dance. Then it registered and she stumbled, unable to correct herself this time.
To be cut in the Seventeen Blades was not uncommon. She had seen aelves of the temple far more experienced than her slashed in half a dozen places, white flesh streaked red. Such injuries showed the favour of Khaine, for it was by his will that sharpened steel had first pierced mortal flesh.
It had been so long since Maleneth had last performed, however, that the sensation of actually being cut interrupted her rhythm. It also saved her life. Had she carried on then the next step, a downward lunge angling towards her right, would have carried a misplaced knife into her bare throat. It came at her anyway, and she was forced to change her footing to avoid the jab.
The blade hadn’t been misplaced at all.
More lunges, from left and right, Shaldeen and her three dancers breaking step to stab and slash in perfect synchronisation. A human would have been dead in only a few seconds, heart and throat pierced. But for all the speed and suddenness of the attack, Maleneth was quicker.
She danced out of reach. The drums had stopped, and from the shouts and screams behind her it seemed as though the crowd were unsure whether they were still watching a staged production or a murder attempt. Maleneth ignored them all – her blood still sang with the rhythm of the Seventeen Blades, and the tempo of her movements continued to accelerate. There was no time to think about what the Alharabi were doing or why – Khaine demanded the dance go on.
Kill them all, Witchblade.
They were fast, there was no denying it. Shaldeen came at her head on, and steel rang against steel as Maleneth flicked each knife stroke aside. It was only a distraction, however. The other two dancers, along with the pair who had stepped aside and both of the drummers, came leaping at her from either side, a blur of stabbing blades. Maleneth gave ground with desperate, focused speed, moving towards the edge of the stage, knowing that if even one of them managed to slip behind her the dance would be finished. She ducked, twisted one way then another, too busy parrying and weaving to even consider going on the attack.
And through it all, they were still smiling.
Behind her the black top had descended into pandemonium. Some in the crowd were pushing and shoving to get out; others were trying to reach the stage, the whole mob overcome with hysteria. Insomuch as Maleneth was aware of any of it, a single thought broke the tempo of her thoughts.
Gotrek.
Move right.
Maleneth had never questioned her mistress’ advice, and she wasn’t about to start. She twisted right, almost throwing herself into the two Alharabi assassins coming at her from that direction. For a moment, her back was completely exposed. She felt the boards of the stage shuddering, and flinched away from the killing blow she expected between her shoulder blades, even as she turned aside the weapons of those in front of her.
A roar broke the moment to pieces, accompanied by a sickening crunch of bone. Gotrek had leapt onto the stage, Master Rune blazing, and now came thundering to Maleneth’s aid. His greataxe was ignited, the fyreforge brazier between the twin heads blazing with a light almost as hot and furious as the one that burned in the Slayer’s single eye. He slammed into the two assassins trying to slip in behind to Maleneth’s left, his shoulder-charge sending both flying across the stage. Bones cracked and split, but they belonged to the lucky ones. A third was caught as she attempted to sidestep the raging duardin. Gotrek moved with a speed that belied his muscled bulk, the axe inscribing a white-hot line as it cleaved into the Alharabi’s midriff and cut her effortlessly in half, blood and viscera bursting from the horrific killing blow.
‘If anyone’s killing the aelf, it’s me,’ the Slayer snarled.
As blood pattered down onto the stage and smeared beneath Maleneth’s feet, Shaldeen and her three remaining dancers broke off, darting back out of reach of both the Slayer and the aelf. Neither of the two pitched over by Gotrek’s charge were moving. The duardin was snorting like an enraged beast, the Master Rune glowing with a deep lustrous power.
‘Get on my left side, dark aelf,’ he snapped. He nodded his head to his left shoulder, guarded by his lion-headed pauldron. ‘If we’re going to do this together, I’m more used to having someone on my left.’
Maleneth didn’t question him, but moved around behind him just as the Alharabi came at them again.
She met them equally this time, blade-for-blade. She felt her hatred surge. They’d been lured here, tricked into exposing themselves. Exactly why, she did not know, though in the months she had spent with Gotrek she’d rapidly grown accustomed to attempts on their lives. The list of those who coveted the Master Rune was long, and grew by the day as rumours of the strange Fyreslayer spread through the Mortal Realms.
Whoever the Alharabi really were, or whoever they worked for, they were not going to be the ones to take either the duardin or the rune, not while Maleneth drew breath. She knocked aside a knife and lunged into the woman’s guard, too fast even for the well-trained human to counter. In a single rapid heartbeat Maleneth’s knife was in her throat, and the aelf felt the Alharabi’s arms clutch around her impotently as she tried to pull herself off the cold steel. The death grip trembled against the tall aelf before Maleneth ripped her blade free in a gout of blood.
‘Hold still, damned thaggaz,’ she heard Gotrek bellowing.
He had met Shaldeen. Fast as the duardin was, the dancer swept past his guard, blades darting across his scarred flesh. Maleneth realised that the expressions of the Alharabi had finally changed – gone were the smiles, replaced now with looks of pure, concentrated hatred. The realisation brought a strange relief. They were not as preternatural as they first appeared. During the dance and in the desperate seconds when it had turned to combat, Maleneth had found herself doubting the teachings of the Temple of Khaine, even the abilities of her own race. Now, however, as steel rang against steel and sliced through flesh, certainty returned once more.
No one hated, and no one killed, quite like a servant of Khaine.
She moved right as Gotrek was forced to turn after the troupe mistress, covering his back. The other Alharabi had seen the opening created by their leader, but Maleneth stopped them from exploiting it, despite their numbers. In a few seconds she’d taken half a dozen furious blows, but her armour, light though it was, ensured they only grazed her. She heard Gotrek grunt behind her, and could feel the burning heat of his axe as it swept and spun, keeping Shaldeen at bay.