The warrior stood for a moment, blood gouting from the wound, then fell silently, landing face-first in the mud. Tullaris threw his sword aside and scooped up the fallen man’s halberd. He ducked out of the way of a stroke from another warrior’s sword and leapt, raising the halberd over his head.
‘For Khaine!’ shouted the Herald as he brought the halberd down on the Chaos champion, splitting his skull in twain. As the champion fell, his armour rotted and shrivelled and the First Draich slid loose into the mud. Tullaris retrieved it, turning to face the first of the six remaining Chaos warriors. The human charged at him, a mace in each hand. The barbarian’s fellows were behind him, weapons and shields raised high.
This was proving an amusing diversion.
I enter the concourse that will take me to the Shrine of Khaine, which sits at the very heart of my palace. It exists on a site of great significance, the first place that blood was shed in Naggaroth. That is why it was built there, and why Har Ganeth grew around it. My city, dedicated to murder in every sense.
I trip, and put out my left arm to arrest my fall. It is a mistake. I feel something snap in my wrist and curse my stupidity. Pain surges through me, along with adrenaline, and I draw the arm close to my chest, cradling it. Pathetic, but I cannot help it.
It is only then that I see through cloudy eyes what I tripped over. It is one of my handmaidens. Her name is Iulianeth and she has served me for over three hundred years. She has seen me at my best and my worst. She has been privy to my fury and my desires. She has shared my bed more nights than he has not. Now she is dead, and etched upon her features is pain. Terrible, torturous pain of the sort I have seen in countless victims of my displeasure.
I feel anger, fury at Iulianeth for her weakness. Letting herself be killed is unforgivable. When this is over, I will have her family rounded up and tortured for her failure to serve me.
Around me, the shadows close in.
The warriors had fallen after a hard-fought battle. Tullaris had emerged mostly unscathed, though his armour would need repairing where the mace-wielding warrior had dented the breastplate. Tullaris had moved on, continuing to hunt worthy sacrifices, but had found only empty streets and growing shadows. Night was approaching.
The Herald glanced up at Hellebron’s tower once again. Up there, she would be preparing for the Death Night ritual that would return her youth and vigour. He should be there with her, as he had been every year for uncounted centuries. He had not returned to her side for weeks, since the Bloodied Horde had entered the city.
Her rage had been magnificent, but also strangely pathetic, as her infirmity had made her cough and splutter and fall to her knees even as she was declaring vengeance on all the gods of the Ruinous pantheon. Seeing the Hag Queen like always reminded Tullaris that he was in thrall to someone he could end with a single strong hand, that leadership of the cult could be his if he only reached out and took it. And yet he never did, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.
Lost in his thoughts, the Herald of Khaine almost missed the movement in the shadows. He spun, the First Draich held in a defensive posture, but there was nothing there. Again, a flicker in his periphery. Another turn, and he saw a movement within the darkness, streamers of umbral matter coalescing into a figure.
A pair of legs formed first, lithe and muscular. They flowed upwards into a slender torso, which sprouted long arms and a head crowned with a mane of glossy hair. It was a woman, beautiful and cruel looking. In one hand, she carried a long staff topped with three vicious blades. She waved lazily with her other hand and Tullaris’s weapon fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. Another gesture and the Executioner was forced to his knees as she moved towards him.
She was young, and breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin was as pale as marble, flecked with veins of delicate blue. Her almond eyes fixed on Tullaris’s and he was flooded with memories of nights with Hellebron, but twisted to feature this stranger instead. With an effort, he broke eye contact and the visions vanished like mist in the wind. He looked away from her face and saw a rune tattooed on her stomach. The angular marks represented Ghrond. He knew who this elf was, and he knew who had sent her.
‘Morathi,’ Tullaris growled.
‘No, my lord Dreadbringer,’ she purred. ‘I am not Morathi, but then that wasn’t really what you were saying, was it?’
The sorceress’s voice was playful, and she circled the Herald as she spoke. He was still gripped by the spell that had pulled him to his knees, so he could not watch her as she passed behind him. He focused his mind and drew in a deep breath, trying to fight the magic that kept him helpless.
‘No, but you are one of her playthings,’ he said.
‘You have a way with words.’ The sorceress smiled lasciviously. ‘Yes, I am Morathi’s, I suppose, in the same way that you are Hellebron’s.’
‘I belong to Khaine, as does my queen,’ replied Tullaris evenly. ‘I serve her in her role as the head of the cult.’
‘And that is all?’ teased the sorceress. ‘Interesting. And perhaps that will make the offer I bear all the more… powerful.’
‘There is nothing your mistress can offer that would interest me. Leave now, witch, unless you want to feel the kiss of the First Draich.’
‘Oh, how intimidating,’ she mocked. She moved closer and cupped his chin with her free hand, studying him as a slave buyer studies a potential purchase. ‘I’m sure that you would enjoy sheathing your weapon in me, Executioner. But you really must hear what I offer. Lady Morathi, Queen of Ghrond and the mortal reincarnation of holy Hekarti, wishes to forge an alliance with the Cult of Khaine.’
I pull myself to my feet, ignoring the pain that runs up my arm from the broken wrist. Whoever – or whatever – killed Iulianeth is here. I hear breathing. I try to run, but my wretched body betrays me once again, pain and stiffness forcing me to stumble along, my good hand clutching at an unnaturally cold wall for support. I must reach the Cauldron. I must be strong.
I decide to take the most direct route, dangerous as it takes me out of my private palace complex and into the main concourse that runs through the greater palace to the public throne room. It is the culmination of a great road that runs from the outer gates of the city. Those who wish an audience with me must walk from there to here, at Har Ganeth’s heart. The symbolism is obvious, but no less powerful for that.
I know that the area has been the site of skirmishes between my forces and the invaders, but I must take the risk of being attacked. It has become a certainty that something is stalking me anyway. I can feel it. I wonder why they don’t strike when I am alone and vulnerable. Is it to make me feel fear? To try and stop my weakened heart through sheer terror? If so, it is foolish. For seven millennia, I have served Khaine, and ruled Har Ganeth for six. Fear has been burned from me. I am simply furious.
‘Face me,’ I whisper. Even if my voice could rise above that, I would not let it, not when I am trying to escape a pursuer. ‘Or do you fear me, even though I am but a wizened crone?’
My taunt brings a response. Around me, the shadows laugh.