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Auction of Blood – Josh Reynolds

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A Black Library Publication

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Auction of Blood

Josh Reynolds

At the stroke of seven on the arranged evening, Palem Bok found himself wandering the miasma-choked back alleys of Greywater Fastness. A bookseller and a spy, Bok was the epitome of neither. Tall and nondescript, he was all sharp angles and conservative colours. A grey man in a grey world. Despite the dull hues of his garments, however, they were of an expensive cut, tailored to his lean form. Bok was a man with standards, if nothing else.

As the evening wore on, he traversed the tangled rookery with no sign of fear, despite the hostile eyes he felt watching him from darkened doorways and the cracks in boarded-over windows. Greywater Fastness was a hard city, and its people unforgiving of weakness. Bok was not weak. There was death in his heart, and there was nothing stronger than death.

Even so, his pale gaze flickered warily from side to side, watching the shadows for some sign of the person he’d come to meet. His hand rested close to the edges of his frock coat and the slim, multi-chambered flintlock pistol holstered beneath his arm. The pistol was of duardin manufacture, and thus guaranteed to perform its function without incident. Much like Bok, it was a most dependable weapon. He smiled as the thought occurred to him. There were worse things to be than a weapon. And worse masters by far than the one who wielded him. Or, rather, mistresses.

It had its annoyances. For instance, his intent for the evening had been to meet with a certain contact. He wished to arrange the purchase of a rare duardin bead-book, purloined at no small expense from the libraries of the Runemaster of the Hermdar lodge. There were any number of his usual clients who would dearly love to own such a rare volume on the art of fyresteel blending. Instead, he was now wandering this crooked labyrinth of back alleys, waiting for his mistress’ servant to reveal themselves.

Laughter echoed from a side street, where a crowd tossed rotting food into a massive cage. Inside it, a serpentine cockatrice shrieked and slammed against the bars. Its avian skull was hooded in order to protect gawkers from its deadly gaze. The hulking beast’s owner kept up a steady patter, trying to attract punters to come and see it up close. Bok felt a thrill of revulsion at the sight. He felt no sympathy for the creature. It was a foul thing, corrupt and twisted by sour magics into an abomination. He just hoped the cage was sturdy.

Loose metal rattled, somewhere out of sight. Bok paused, a fingerbreadth from drawing his pistol. Head cocked, he listened to the sounds of the city. Greywater Fastness was never silent. Its ironclad walls reverberated with the sounds of industry. The great furnaces roared day and night, and the sound of hammers ringing on metal filled the streets. A thick pall of soot and grime covered everything, blackening the walls of the buildings and obscuring the street. It was at its worst after a rain, and it was almost constantly raining.

Overhead, glowing spores drifted as they always did after a downpour, making strange patterns in the sooty air. Where they touched something solid, they took root and sprouted into shimmering fronds of iridescent greenery. Bok hurried into a covered alleyway, brushing some from his coat before they had a chance to blossom.

He heard muffled voices, echoing strangely through the cramped street. In the dim light of a sputtering oil lantern hanging above a nearby doorway, he caught a glimpse of shambling figures – beggars, seeking shelter, as he was. Night soil wagons creaked somewhere close to hand. The bells on Cathedral Hill tolled the hour, and a flock of crows hurtled skywards from the slum rooftops, croaking raucously, their feathers gleaming with spores.

Out of the smog lurched a beggar woman. She was small and hunched, wizened by hard living. She gazed at him through a veil of ratty hair, and her eyes lit up. She shuffled towards him across the filthy cobbles. ‘Sir, good sir, alms, sir,’ she wheezed. He could see bone gleaming through the pallid fuzz. Patches of leper-moss crawled across her skinny arms and marred her cheeks.

Bok’s nose wrinkled at the stench of her. ‘I have no alms, woman. No comets, no motes, no flinders for such as you.’ He made a show of fumbling at his pockets. Despite his obvious disgust, she did not turn aside.

‘Alms, sir. Alms for the poor.’

‘Leave me in peace, wretch. I said I have no money.’ Bok took a step back, as her stink enveloped him. His skin crawled at the thought of her touch. She caught the edge of his coat. Annoyed, he lowered a hand, and a thin blade slid from a concealed sheath into his waiting palm. One more body on the night soil carts would not be noticed.

‘But you have red hands, brother, and they have performed black deeds,’ the woman mumbled through rotting teeth. Arthritic fingers contorted themselves in a sign known only to a few. Bok relaxed somewhat, sliding the blade back into its sheath before making a similar gesture. This, then, was the person he’d come to this squalid alley to meet.

‘The valley low, and the shadows long,’ he said, completing the code-phrase. ‘Hail and well met, sister. You bring some message from our lady of air and darkness?’ He tried to keep the suspicion he felt out of his tone.

It wasn’t unknown for agents of the Queen of Mysteries to practise their arts upon one another, in an attempt to rise in their mistress’ esteem. Silent, swift wars occasionally broke out, between rival agents and their followers. Bok had taken part in his share of these altercations, though never without good cause. For her part, his mistress seemed unconcerned, even amused, by such internecine conflict.

‘I do, I do, brother. Our queen is much impressed by your handling of that matter with the playwright, some months ago. You rise swiftly in her regard, bookseller. Continue to do so, and there is no limit to what a man of your calibre might achieve.’

‘You may thank the great lady for me, but I am content with my lot. The life of a humble dealer in rare volumes suits me, I find. But I will serve her to the best of my meagre abilities, even so.’ It was a practised speech. At once self-effacing and boastful. The beggar woman grinned, as if in shared jest.

‘Just so, bookseller. What profits it a man to forget his station, eh?’ She coughed phlegmily and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘We all have our parts to play in the black game.’

Growing impatient, Bok leaned forwards. ‘Get to it. What does she want of me?’

‘What she always wants, bookseller… You are to procure her something. Tonight.’

‘I have other business tonight.’

The beggar woman hissed, rheumy eyes narrowed in almost queenly disdain. She pulled herself erect. ‘You have no business save that which our lady allows you, bookseller. And you would do well to remember that. The charnel grounds are full of those who forgot that her desires superseded their own petty yearnings.’

Bok smiled mirthlessly. ‘I remember. What is it then? Another rare grimoire? A treatise on the architectural styling of Lantean Empire? A book of poetry, perhaps, or the journal of some forgotten explorer?’

‘It is not a book at all, brother. It is something greater by far.’ The beggar woman clutched at his coat. She leaned close, and he gagged at the smell of her. ‘There is a certain house, near the Old Fen Gate, its shutters marked with the sign of the magpie…’

‘I know it.’ Everyone knew it. Everyone who was anyone, at least. The Magpie’s Nest had played host to illicit dealings of all sorts, since the city’s founding.

‘An auction is to be held there, this very evening, for a select few. You will go and procure for our lady that which she desires.’

‘Am I to guess, then, what that might be?’

The beggar woman licked her chapped and blistered lips. ‘You will know it when you see it, bookseller. It is quite unlike anything else.’ She fingered the buttons of his coat. ‘Do not fail her, brother. Now give me an alm, sir. Give me an alm, lest someone mistake us for acquaintances.’ She glanced around furtively. ‘Hurry, brother.’

Grudgingly, he fumbled a coin from his coat and pressed it into her filthy hand. ‘Here. Now be off with you, wretch.’ He shoved her, for good measure. She scrambled away into the murk with a shriek he thought not a little overdone. He’d often heard it said that there was a frustrated thespian in every spy.

Bok sighed. An auction. He hated auctions, though he attended them often. At least this one was in the city, and close to hand. But he’d had no time to prepare. Then, that was likely the point. Neferata, Lady of Sorrow, was as cunning as she was powerful. The Queen of Mysteries gave her servants little warning of tasks they might resent, so as to ensure they did not waste time attempting to avoid them. Few tried to do so twice, in any event.

He turned his feet towards the Old Fen Gate. It seemed he would have to procure the bead-book another time. Such was the price one paid to serve the Mortarch of Blood. It was said by some that to serve Neferata was to serve death, and there was no master greater than death.

Bok had lived in death’s shadow since his childhood. He had hunted rats in the alleys of Hammerhal, one more feral orphan among the teeming multitudes. His parents had been soldiers of the Freeguild, he thought, though he did not remember them with any true clarity. It had been another life, and in another realm besides.

From rats, he had graduated to men. Even in the most orderly of cities, there were criminals. And criminals, or at least those of a certain station, often required the assistance of a man of Bok’s skills. He could balance a ledger and slit a throat with equal ease. Since he was a boy, he’d had a gift for sums and words, as well as blades. He had taught himself to read and write in his leaky lean-to, among the rubbish and vermin.

Now, he lived in a modest room above his little shop at the end of a cul-de-sac. Even in a city like Greywater Fastness, there were those who appreciated books. Especially old books, with cracked bindings and yellowing pages, which enterprising booksellers could charge handsomely for.

He still wasn’t certain how he had come to Neferata’s attentions, or why she had chosen to take him into her service. He suspected that it had something to do with his previous life. He had sent many souls shrieking to the lands of the dead. It was not inconceivable that Neferata had heard of him from one of his victims, and saw in him some potential. She had many pawns, some human, some not. Ageless and deathless, Neferata regarded the mortal realms as a game board – and men like Bok were her pawns.

All he knew for sure was that he owed much of who he now was to her patronage. She paid well – better than his old criminal masters – and often. And all she asked in return were regular missives, reporting on the activities of certain individuals native to the city, or the acquisition of rare texts and items of minor interest. Sometimes those acquisitions turned bloody, it was true. But such was a bookseller’s lot, and Palem Bok was a very good bookseller. Though there were days when he considered hiring an assistant. Someone to run errands, or commit the odd murder.

Upon leaving the tangled alleys of the rookery, he caught a rattletrap. The steel-rimmed carriage was an uncomfortable-looking vehicle, pulled by a steam-powered automaton wrought crudely in the shape of a horse. As he clambered into the battered conveyance, he held up a coin to the driver. ‘There’s an extra comet in it for you if you get me to the Old Fen Gate before the next tolling of the bells.’ The driver, a retired Freeguild soldier by his look, saluted lazily with the hook that replaced his left hand and gave a gap-toothed grin. He wrenched on the levers that rose up around his bench, and an excess of steam flooded the artificial innards of the mechanical horse. It gave a creaking whinny and clattered forwards, the rattletrap swaying in its wake.

The streets of Greywater Fastness were narrow rivulets of stone and metal, lit by oil lanterns or lightning jars. The latter dangled from iron chains, their flickering radiance washing over buildings, and making the shadows dance. The rattletrap passed through these striations of crackling light, carrying Bok to the city’s southern edge. Stone gave way to baked mud and thatch. The streets became wider, broken up by brick canals and wooden bridges. Turgid waters flowed slowly through these slimy corridors, diverted from the freshwater marshes beyond the walls.

Occasionally, marsh troggoths would haul themselves out of the canals, their flabby, scaly flesh encrusted with barnacles of ossified filth. The lumbering beasts would rampage through the slums, attacking anyone foolish enough not to seek shelter. They were almost always driven back by the soldiers of the Freeguild, and their bodies added to the great furnaces as fuel.

The marshes were smaller now than they had been when Bok first came to the city, and the walls farther out. Every season, the city grew and the wilderness shrank. Industry was ever the shield of civilisation, as an engineer of Bok’s acquaintance put it. He gave little thought to such things himself, and rarely left the inner city if he could help it. Bok was a man of soot and solid streets. The wilds of Ghyran held little to interest him.

‘Here we are then, sir,’ the driver grunted. There was a harsh burr to his voice, marking him as an Azyrite. Bok had no issue with Azyrites, though he knew those who did. What realm a man was born in mattered less to Bok than whether he had coin to spend. Bok paid him, and climbed awkwardly to the street.

The Old Fen Gate rose tall and solid over one of the largest and oldest of the canals. It had been the first gate, when the city was new and the marshes wild. The walls of the city had bypassed the towering structure, leaving it to become the de facto centre of a neighbourhood. There were shops now, instead of barracks, and the sides of the canal were thick with clustered clapboard buildings.

The Magpie’s Nest was one of those that crouched on the edge of the water. It bent over at an unsightly angle, faded bird-shapes daubed on its broken shutters. It looked as if one tremor would send all three stories sliding full into the canal. But looks could be deceiving. The building was sturdier than most, its foundations deep and its walls cleverly designed to fool the eyes of the uninvited.

He felt eyes on him as he made his way to the rear entrance, as was the tradition. The front door was for the Freeguild, or agents of the city’s rulers. The door overlooking the canal was for those who’d come to conduct business. Entrance was normally by invitation only, though occasionally there were open auctions, for the less notable.

He had attended one of these open auctions before, but had left empty-handed. His resources, while substantial, were not infinite, and the bidding had been fierce. Then, given that it had been a rare copy of Kelaf’s banned symphony, The Mirror of Onyx, perhaps not surprising. He wasn’t sure what was required of one to receive an invitation. He hoped it wouldn’t be an issue.

He knocked on the door, once and politely. It was always best to be polite, in these circumstances. It cut down on bloodshed. He heard the heavy rattle of a bar being withdrawn, and a moment later the door swung inwards. A slim figure was waiting for him. An aelf, he realised, taking in fine-boned features too perfect to belong to a human. Eyes like chips of obsidian met his own. She – and it was a she, though it was often hard to tell – was clad in loose robes of violet and a hauberk of black, jagged mail. A thick mane of white hair was swept back from her narrow face by a tiara of dark iron, and she had a curved falchion sheathed at her waist.

The aelf looked him up and down, an unpleasant smile crawling across her pale features. ‘Invitation?’ she purred, her fingers rubbing slowly against the pommel of her blade.

‘I don’t have one, I’m afraid.’

‘That is a shame. But the canal is close, and it will be quick.’ Her fingers tightened about the hilt and she made to draw her blade. Bok stepped back, ready to produce the blade hidden in his sleeve, though he disliked his chances. He’d fought aelves before. The experience had been unpleasant.

‘Surely that I am here speaks to my character.’

‘Not favourably,’ she said, taking a quick step towards him.

Bok hesitated. Instinct said flee. But she hadn’t drawn her blade yet. Maybe she was curious. Or bored. It must be dull, guarding a door. ‘I’ve come for the auction.’

‘No invitation, no auction.’ She spoke serenely.

‘How much to garner an invitation, then?’

‘That depends entirely on who you represent, my friend.’ The voice was a man’s. The aelf turned, bowed and stepped back, though her eyes never left Bok. The newcomer took her place at the door. He was a small man. Fussy looking, but bedraggled. Like a scribe gone ever so slightly to seed. True to that image, he held an armful of scrolls, and his hands and the cuffs of his robes were stained with ink. ‘Well?’ he pressed, adjusting the battered pince-nez he wore. ‘On whose behalf do you darken our doorway, sir?’

‘A lady of some substance.’

‘There are many ladies in Greywater Fastness. Shayl here, for instance.’ The little man gestured to the aelf. ‘I require a name.’ The way he said it made Bok pause. It was as if the little man were trying to impart something.

‘There we must part ways, sir. Her name is not mine to reveal.’

The little man shrugged and glanced at the aelf. She smiled and reached again for her blade. Bok, thinking quickly, said, ‘Shadows and dust, sir.’ Attempting the code phrase was a gamble, but he had little to lose.

The little man looked at him. He adjusted his pince-nez. ‘Just and unjust alike,’ he said, after a moment. ‘You are one of hers, then.’

‘I have that honour.’ Bok relaxed slightly. He had guessed right. Neferata’s influence stretched wide through the low places. All those who served her, even in the most minor capacity, recognised the code phrases of her agents. It was obvious to him now that she would have someone in the house, to alert her to the presence of certain items.

‘That is a word for it, certainly. Very well. Shayl, he may enter.’

The aelf frowned, but made no attempt to argue. She ignored Bok as he stepped past her and entered the house. The entryway was a small, rounded chamber. A single corridor, out of sight of the door, extended deeper into the house. ‘The auction is soon to begin. Come this way, Master…?’

‘Bok. Palem Bok.’ Bok followed the little man down the hall. Doorways lined its length, each draped with a thick, black curtain. Each curtain had sigils of warding and other, less recognisable magical symbols, woven into its folds. There would be illicit dealings going on in each of the rooms. Thieves laying plans, murderers plotting… The Magpie’s Nest was a house of rogues.

The little man glanced at him. ‘The bookseller?’

‘You know me?’

‘Of you. I am Pell. You are welcome here, sir. I trust you have come better prepared than your last visit. You were quite upset to lose that Kelaf symphony, I recall.’

‘I am here on another’s behalf, this time.’ In truth, Bok had no idea how much Neferata expected him to pay for whatever it was she desired, or whether she was even planning to compensate him. Such were the perils of a whimsical mistress. Perhaps she expected him to simply steal whatever it was.

‘Yes, I presumed so.’

‘Last time I was here, you had someone friendlier on guard duty.’

‘Shayl has her talents. Friendliness is not one of them.’ Pell smiled. ‘She serves well enough to keep things civil, among our patrons.’

Bok grunted noncommittally. Pell stopped before one of the doorways. ‘You will notice that you have not been disarmed. We expect all patrons to show a certain level of decorum in repayment for our hospitality.’

‘I remember.’

‘Good. Through here, please.’ Pell twitched the curtain aside, and Bok duly entered. The room beyond was not large. It was illuminated by half a dozen lanterns, scattered about and hanging from iron stanchions. The room itself was a plain square of wood and stone, barren save for several rows of hard benches, and a flat stage set at one end.

On the stage was a long table, and upon it were various objects of interest: a loose pile of thin volumes, obviously a set of some sort; a gruesome, bull-shaped icon that bore all the hallmarks of duardin craftsmanship; a bell jar, containing a night-blooming flower with amethyst petals; a small casket with brass hinges and a bear stamped on the lock; and a gilded skull with silver teeth.

But the most interesting of the lot was a curious whip-like weapon, consisting of eight jagged metal bars, joined together by thin rings, so as to form a chain of sorts. It had a handle made from a carved femur at one end, and a barbed dart at the other. The chain was coiled loosely, and rested in a circle of what appeared to be dust or salt. Protective sigils had been chalked into the surface of the table around it, and the air above them shimmered with an oily quality.

Something about the weapon unsettled him. There was a malign potency to it. It reminded him of a bog-viper, readying itself to strike. And even as the thought occurred to him, he knew that it was what he had been sent here to acquire. Neferata wanted it, whatever it was. And that meant he had little choice but to acquire it.

Bok took a seat, ignoring the glares of the other attendees. The benches were crowded. He surreptitiously studied the competition. Many of them were like him – intermediaries, acting on behalf of those too fearful or too well known to attend the auction in person. Others were more interesting.

One, sitting towards the front, was clearly a representative of the Collegiate Arcane, to judge by his ornate robes of white and gold, and the supercilious expression on his overfed features. He murmured softly to a small, dragon-like homunculus perched on his shoulder.

Another of the attendees was shrouded in all-concealing robes and a hood, with a strange, segmented mask hiding their face. The facets of the mask were marked with what might have been duardin runes, though not ones Bok recognised. The runes glowed dimly, and faint contrails of what might have been smoke or steam rose from them.

A woman dressed in crimson-dyed furs and leathers sat towards the back, her scarified features twisted in a frown. Her head had been shaved, save for a single braid, bound with brass wire. A savage, from the wilds of Ghur, perhaps, given the ritualistic nature of her scarring. She caught his glance and smiled widely, as if in invitation. Her teeth were filed. Bok looked hurriedly away.

Any further study of the crowd was interrupted by the arrival of the auctioneer. A thin man, fox-lean and ginger-haired. Pell was with him, and took a seat near the stage. The scribe opened a heavy ledger on his lap and produced a writing quill from somewhere about his person. He dabbed it into a cup of ink hanging from around his neck, and began to write. The auctioneer took his place on stage, hands clasped behind his back.

‘Greetings, gentles all. Welcome, and be at ease. My name is Ranaldsson, and I will be master of these ceremonies. Our first lot is the collected Revelations of Necoho, or the Light of Doubt, a fundamental text for an obscure sect of antitheists. Opening bid is one hundred comets, or the equivalent.’

Once begun, the auction progressed swiftly. One by one, the items were secured by eager bidders, and the losers were left to grumble and scowl. The stranger in the segmented mask claimed the grotesque, bull-shaped icon with a sizeable bid of two thousand comets. The gilded skull, revealed to be something called the Gelt Aurical, was decisively won by the Collegiate Arcanum representative, and a fat merchant from Hammerhal walked away with the amethyst blossom, after a winning bid of a hundred shards of shadeglass.

A pair of duardin almost came to blows over the casket, which proved to contain a single bottle of wine of ancient vintage. From the cut of their clothes and their harsh accents, Bok thought they might have been guilders, fresh from the Kharadron sky-ports.

Finally, the item he’d been waiting for came up for bid. Ranaldsson seemed hesitant as he turned to the weapon. ‘And our last item. A weapon of curious design, it has proven to be… unique, as were the circumstances of its… ah… its acquisition.’ The auctioneer hurriedly looked away from the weapon. ‘Through the diligent efforts of Master Pell and others of this house’s staff, we have confirmed that this is, in fact, quite possibly Charu, the Soul-Lash – one of the infamous Eight Lamentations.’

A stunned murmur swept through the crowd. Bok stiffened. Neferata’s desire for the weapon made sense, now. He’d heard the stories. Everyone in his profession had. Eight weapons, forged by the servants of the Blood God, Khorne, in the age before the storm of Chaos had washed over the mortal realms. The Eight Lamentations had been scattered and lost, appearing occasionally to wreak havoc before vanishing once more. Rumour had it that they had begun to resurface of late, and Neferata had directed her agents to keep their eyes and ears open for any hint of the weapons.

Bok had never thought to find one here, practically in his lap. From behind him, he heard the woman in red murmur, ‘From fire, came heat. From heat, shape. And shape split into eight. And the eight became as death.’

Ranaldsson gestured for quiet, as the crowd’s murmuring threatened to boil over. ‘Please, gentles, please. Rest assured, we are certain of the item’s provenance. All effort has been made to keep it contained safely. Though I hasten to add that we are not responsible for anything that may occur once it leaves these premises.’ He gave a brittle smile. ‘Opening bid is three thousand comets, or the equivalent.’

Bok grunted in consternation. A hefty sum, and one he couldn’t go far beyond without emptying his coffers. It would be worth it, though, considering the rewards Neferata might bestow upon him for delivering such a prize to her.

But before he could make a bid, the woman in red called out, ‘There will be no bids. The item is not for sale.’ She stood, and a hostile muttering swept the benches. At her gesture, several other members of the crowd stood as well.

They all wore shades of red, Bok saw, though the garments of some were of a more expensive cut than others. Their faces were similarly scarred, some in less noticeable ways. But for all the barbarity of her appearance, it was clear the woman was in charge. She stepped into the aisle between the benches and strode towards the stage.

Ranaldsson cleared his throat. ‘I beg your pardon, milady, but–’

‘I am Kesh, and I do not give it. This weapon is not yours to sell, little man. It belongs to a god, and we have come to take it back, in the name of he who strides the red skies, wolf-fanged and mighty.’ She swept back her furs, revealing a brass-banded belt, and a pair of crude hand axes hanging from it. The others threw off their cloaks or tore open coats to reveal similar axes, of varying craftsmanship.

‘You will give it to us,’ Kesh continued, ‘or I will take your skull.’ She unhooked an axe and pointed it at him. ‘Khorne demands it, and you will not gainsay him.’

Ranaldsson spluttered. Bok had no doubt that the man had been threatened before, but perhaps never so bluntly. Others might have tried to win the bidding first, before threatening murder. But the servants of the Blood God were not known for their subtlety.

Pell chose that moment to lunge for a bell-pull hanging beside the doorway, but a thrown axe dashed his brains across the wall. As the scribe crumpled, Bok drew his pistol and fired. One of the cultists was punched off his feet, a red hole between his bulging eyes. With the echoes of the shot hanging on the air, the room exploded into violence. He saw the stranger in the segmented mask snatch a blood-cultist from his feet, and hurl him across the room in a display of inhuman strength.

A hurled axe sank deep into the bench behind Bok, narrowly missing him. He spun, but held his fire. Instead he cracked the blood-cultist across the skull, dropping her to the floor. The duardin pistol only had five shots. Bok was determined to waste none of them.

People were shoving and screaming, trying to escape the room. The blood-mad killers hacked and hewed at the crowd with furious intensity. Some among the patrons resisted, in their own fashion. The two Kharadron had drawn their cutlasses and fought back-to-back, their earlier argument forgotten. The Collegiate Arcane representative spoke a word of power, and turned a cultist into a living torch. The warrior screamed and fell across the benches, setting them alight. Somewhere, an alarm bell had begun to ring.

In the confusion, Kesh had reached the stage. Bok tried to take aim at the woman, but a cultist rose up before him, chanting the eighty-eight names of the Blood God as he chopped wildly at the panicking crowd. Bok shot him, but the cultist didn’t fall. His axe slashed down, nearly taking Bok’s arm off. A second shot punched his head back and dropped him to the floor. Desperate now, Bok forced his way through the crowd, determined to prevent Kesh from claiming the weapon.

As he reached the stage, he saw Ranaldsson leap to the floor with a panicked yell, clutching a bloody arm. He fled, screaming for help. Kesh laughed and reached for the chain-whip, a dripping axe clutched in her other hand. ‘I think not,’ Bok said. Kesh turned, teeth bared, axe raised. He fired his pistol as the axe left her hand.

She clapped a hand to her leg and shrieked. The axe pinned his coat sleeve to the table, and knocked him off balance. The pistol clattered from his hand. He tore himself loose from the table as Kesh caught up her prize.

There was a crack, like stone splitting, as her fingers wrapped about the bone haft of the weapon. The links of the chain clattered, as if in welcome, and a shudder ran through it, and her. Her eyes flashed with red lightning, and as she turned, he saw that every scar on her face had opened anew and was bleeding.

‘The Soul-Lash is mine, weakling,’ she snarled, whirling the chain-whip about her. Bok threw himself aside, as the barbed tip snapped out with a silky hiss. It tore through the throat of an unfortunate man near the stage. There was a sound like tearing cloth, and a shimmer of greenish energy erupted from the dying man. It spun around the barb, and was almost instantly drawn into the weapon.

Kesh hissed in pleasure and leapt to the floor, whirling the chain-whip up and about her in a growing frenzy. It tore through the crowd and her followers alike. More surges of light were torn away from falling bodies – green, red, ochre, blue – and drawn into the links of the weapon. ‘Yes, it is as the blood-seers claimed – Charu drinks the spirits of the fallen. I feel their strength within me.’ She laughed wildly. ‘Blood and skulls for my lord Khorne!’

The room was rapidly filling with smoke. The lanterns had been knocked over in the chaos, spilling burning oil everywhere, and the sorcerous fire started by the wizard leapt from bench to bench. There was a scrum at the doorway, as people tried to force their way out. Those left inside were either trying to stay out of Kesh’s way, or brawling with her followers.

Kesh’s form was limned with a sickly radiance. The chain-whip moved like a thing alive, rather than a weapon. Perhaps it was hungry, after its captivity. Bok pushed the unsettling thought aside as he found his pistol and scooped it up. He tried to line up a shot while she was distracted, but too late.

The chain-whip bent about her of its own volition and darted towards him. The barb tore flinders from the stage and forced him back a step. Kesh turned before he could recover, and the whip arrowed towards him again. He twisted aside, but not quickly enough. One of the metal bars caught him in the ribs and smashed him from the edge of the stage.

Pain flared through him as he hit the floor, and he felt as if something in him had torn loose. But luckily, the barb had missed him and his soul remained his own. He heard the crackle of magics and saw the Collegiate Arcane representative fling ethereal lightning towards Kesh. She snarled and cracked the whip. The spell tore in two, and ragged motes of light danced across the air. Unhindered, the barbed tip caught the wizard in the chest and tore his soul screaming from him. The backlash of sundered magics howled through the chamber, overturning benches and smashing bodies against walls.

Bok lay still, eyes closed against the glare. When he opened them, the crowd was gone. Most had fled, but the rest had not managed to escape. And Kesh was nowhere in sight, though he could hear the clash of weapons somewhere out in the corridor. For a moment, he considered letting that be the end of it. He could slip out, with no one the wiser. But Neferata would know. And that thought was more frightening than any mystical soul-eater.

Wearily, he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled out into the hall, after retrieving his pistol. Smoke filled the space. The fire had spread. The corridor was littered with bodies. Some had been trampled, others bore bloody wounds. The unseen alarm bells were still ringing, and he heard the thump of running feet somewhere above him. He staggered down the hall, clutching his side.

Kesh had carved herself a path to the street. The marks of the chain-whip were evident on the walls and floor, as well as on many of the bodies. When he reached the entry hall, he saw that the heavy door had been smashed off its hinges. There was no sign of the aelf. From outside, he could hear the rattle of steel and the stamp of feet.

He reached the door and stopped. Outside, the aelf, Shayl, and Kesh spun and fought with a speed that defied description. The aelf moved with all the quicksilver grace of her kind, but Kesh matched her speed, driven to inhuman extremes by the power of the Soul-Lash. Shayl’s blade deflected the chain-whip as it curled around her, sending the barb spinning away. Kesh parried the aelf’s counter-stroke with her remaining axe. The two women stamped and whirled back and forth along the edge of the canal. The ragged remnants of stolen souls clung to Kesh like a smoky shroud, and her laughter boomed out over the waters as she fought.

Bok leaned against the doorframe, wheezing. His side ached where the chain had crunched against his ribs. Kesh’s three surviving followers hadn’t noticed him yet, enraptured as they were by the duel. He extended his pistol. One shot left. He would need to make it count. Time stretched unbearably. Smoke from the fire billowed past him, filling the street.

Then, it happened – Shayl lunged, but Kesh smashed her blow aside throwing her off balance. The barb of the chain-whip hissed down, smashing her sword from her hand and throwing her to the ground. Kesh gave a shout and swung the Soul-Lash up, ready to add the aelf’s soul to her collection.

Bok fired.

Kesh stiffened. The side of her head was a red ruin. She turned, wobbling on her feet, her remaining eye fixed on Bok as her warriors turned. Kesh took an unsteady step towards him. The Soul-Lash snapped and twisted like an angry viper. Her mouth worked, but no words came out. She made as if to raise the chain-whip, but instead pitched forwards with a disgruntled sigh and lay still.

Bok swung his pistol towards the remaining cultists. ‘Stay back, or I’ll fire.’ The blood-cultists snarled as one and started towards him, axes raised. He tossed the empty pistol into the face of the closest, and drove a kick into the midsection of another. An axe bit the air dangerously close to his head, and he turned, punching its wielder. The haft of a weapon caught him in the side of the face and he staggered, the street spinning.

A second blow knocked him from his feet. He covered his head and rolled away. He heard a scream and glanced up. Shayl stood behind one of the cultists, her sword embedded in his back. She ripped it free and twisted, opening the jugular of a second. The third roared and leapt at her, axe raised. Bok snatched up a fallen axe and surged to his feet, catching the cultist in the abdomen. The man folded over with a gurgle and Bok released the axe, letting the dying man slump. Shayl looked at him, eyebrow raised. ‘I had him,’ she said.

Bok shrugged. ‘You’re welcome to the credit.’

She frowned and studied him. ‘You fight well. For a human. I am sorry we did not get to match blades earlier.’

‘I’m not,’ he said. She laughed.

‘No. It would have been a shame to kill you.’

Iron grated against the street. An ugly moan filled the air. Shayl turned, and past her, Bok saw Kesh struggling to her feet. Blood and brain matter dripped down the side of her face as her good eye fixed on them. Bok stared. ‘A bullet to the head usually does the trick.’

Before Shayl could reply, the barbed head of the Soul-Lash rose up over Kesh’s back like a scorpion’s stinger. The links clicked like laughter as the woman took a step towards them, and he realised suddenly that Kesh was no longer in charge.

Whatever fell power lurked within the weapon, it had obviously decided that it wasn’t finished with them yet. With an inhuman screech, Kesh jerked forwards, slashing at them with the chain-whip. Bok lurched aside and felt the air part before his face as the chain slashed down. Shayl attacked, driving her blade into Kesh’s side. The woman ignored the blow and shoved the aelf aside.

‘She’s already dead,’ Bok shouted.

‘Then how do we kill her?’ the aelf demanded, ducking beneath the arc of the chain-whip. She scrambled backwards.

Bok frowned, at a loss. Kesh laughed – there was nothing human in the sound. Broken spirits swirled about her, bound to the monstrous weapon. They moaned in what might have been pain, and the killing sigils hammered into the iron bars of the chain flared with unnatural heat. Kesh’s wrist bulged oddly as she slashed the Soul-Lash out again, carving divots from the street.

‘Her hand,’ Bok snarled. Shayl looked at him, eyes narrowed. Bok flung his arm to the side. A twist of the wrist and the weight of his concealed blade slid into his waiting hand. A moment later, the blade was flying through the air. It sank into Kesh’s remaining eye with a wet, hollow sound. She staggered, blind. ‘Now,’ he cried.

Thankfully, the aelf was quick on the uptake. Her blade chopped through Kesh’s wrist. The Soul-Lash, and Kesh’s hand, clattered to the ground with a petulant rasp of iron links. As soon as the weapon hit the ground, Kesh toppled backwards with a sigh.

Bok released a shaky breath. He approached the body carefully. But she seemed to have surrendered to the inevitable at last. He pried his blade free and wiped it clean on her ragged furs, before tearing them from her body. He nudged the chain-whip into the furs with his foot and wrapped it up. He could hear its links rasping in frustration.

‘What an awful thing you are,’ he said, as he tied the edges of the furs together. ‘The Queen of Mysteries is welcome to you, and good riddance.’

‘Is she dead?’ the aelf asked, as he lifted the bundle and slung it over his shoulder. She held a hand pressed to her gashed arm, but was otherwise unharmed.

‘For the moment.’ He looked up. The Magpie’s Nest was completely aflame now. It had burned before, and he had no doubt it would be rebuilt, in time. He looked at Shayl. ‘You appear to be out of a job.’

She shrugged. ‘It was boring.’

Bok hesitated. Then, he smiled.

‘Have you ever considered a career in the book trade?’

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novels Fabius Bile: Primogenitor and Deathstorm, and the novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt. In the Warhammer World, he has written the End Times novels The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, the Gotrek & Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen. He has also written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden, Nagash: The Undying King, Fury of Gork, Black Rift and Skaven Pestilens. He lives and works in Sheffield.

The duardin god Grungni assembles a group of brave adventurers to retrieve dangerous Chaos-forged weapons from across the Mortal Realms. The quest begins!

A Black Library Publication

Published in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Original Neferata illustration by Paul Dainton.
Original City illustration by Bayard Wu.

Auction of Blood © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Auction of Blood, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-78572-815-0

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