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Ties of Blood – Jamie Crisalli

About the Author

An Extract from ‘The Red Feast’

A Black Library Publication

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Ties of Blood

Jamie Crisalli

The clouds shrouded the moon, and a thin knife of a ship slid over blood-tinged waters through a canyon of sandstone. Her oars sliced the water silently, her black sails lashed down. Out on the deck, Savrian, mortal descendant of Sarn the Everliving, pressed a scented silk cloth to his face to blot out the growing reek of blood.

Then the source of the dread stench hove into view. The Bastion of Red Dust, a mountain of basalt that loomed in the shattered canyon as if it had been hurled there from on high. Over time, the Sea of the Unwanted had filled the surrounding chasms and pooled at its feet, thick with the red dust that flowed off the fortress’ flanks. Axe-wielding idols crusted its towers and watched over the blood-soaked arenas. Only those who bore Khorne’s symbols could enter its singular gaping maw high above, to fight and die in the Blood God’s name.

Savrian leaned against the rail, black plate creaking. Behind him, his slaves carried a tray of elixirs and powders, breathlessly waiting in case he had a need. They attached his sabre, Malisette, to his belt and wiped his black armour down with scented oils. Malisette had been impregnated with the narcotic tears of Blessed Ones at its forging, and caused a dreamy exhaustion in its victims, draining away their fighting spirit so they could be taken alive.

His second in command, Issaya, waited nearby, her dark-skinned face impassive, cutting her forearm with a small razor.

‘Beloved, what is on your mind?’

Savrian started. He had not heard his wife, Cirine, approach. Suddenly he was aware of it all, the numbed skin, the near colourless vision, the aching joints, the muddled hearing. Beyond the damage from a lifetime of ecstatic devotion to Slaanesh, a near lethal poisoning by a rival seeking his crown had rendered him both decrepit and sterile. Fortunately his god-gifted beauty was untouched, his pale form still lean and graceful, his chiselled face still porcelain smooth, his hair still ink-black and lustrous. Yet, it was nothing more than a youthful shell over a worn and decaying carcass.

‘Just regrets,’ he said, though loath to admit it. ‘I know I shouldn’t. Regret implies fault.’ He sighed. ‘I should have realised Verigon was alive, that Chagorath took him. That Khornate wretch, he’s had my son for years. I should have taken Verigon with me that day. He is the only other true-born alive.’

He looked at Cirine, his dark purple eyes gleaming. The eyes of Sarn, the eyes of the immortal. It was no trinket or title that marked his line, but rather Sarn’s physical blessing that separated them from the masses.

‘We will retrieve Verigon before dawn,’ Cirine said, leaning against his shoulder. ‘Your plan is perfect. A scalpel instead of a hammer. Your son is as good as saved.’

She touched his arm, her thin black claws teasing his skin. Beautiful and obscene, Cirine was everything he wanted in a mate. Clad in filmy silk that hid nothing from the eye, she oozed with a sensuality that she frequently denied him. She was cruel but never boring.

‘You say that,’ he said. ‘But I do not have your confidence.’

He should. The plan was simple: infiltrate the fortress, retrieve Verigon, return the same way and then escape over the sea back to Sarn’s Rest, their ancestral home. They knew their route and their enemy. It was no more complicated than sneaking into a forbidden harem.

A small bottle was pressed into his hand and he swallowed the bitter mouthful that lay inside. A warmth diffused through him. His breathing quickened. Colours enriched, sound sharpened. The aches and pains faded. Yet, this was no youth in a bottle. Before the poisoning, such a dosage would have left him in a fugue state lasting for days. Now it barely returned him to normality.

Cirine leaned forward and licked his lips, tasting the bitter concoction.

‘What do you think of it, my love?’ she whispered.

‘I need something stronger,’ he said. ‘But it will do.’

The ship struck the craggy beach at the base of the fortress. Savrian leapt off the ship and offered Cirine his hand, which she grudgingly took as she stepped onto the beach. Issaya followed them, wary of threats.

Yeneya, his chief spy, joined them, a small slim woman still brushing at the red dust that marked her clothing. Of all the spies he had sent, only she had returned alive. ‘Sire, there is the way in,’ she said, pointing up.

High above them, small against the fortress’ vast black bulk, was a crack, a wound that glowed orange in the darkness. It was like a gateway into a different world.

Once they had disembarked, the ship slipped away into the shadows of the canyon, all but invisible in the dark.

Then the four of them bounded up the cliff face, the challenge no match for their superior agility.

When Savrian reached the crack, the torchlight from within half blinded him. He listened for a long moment but no one seemed nearby. With a deep breath, he slithered through and dropped down a few feet. Landing lightly, his boots sank into fine red sand. He stood in an empty hallway, torches burning greasily. Skulls grinned at him from every surface. A scream echoed, plucking at his nerves.

‘Yeneya, where are we?’ Savrian said.

‘Just underneath where Chagorath’s reavers live,’ Yeneya said as she slipped through.

‘Live?’ Savrian said. ‘That’s an exaggeration of prodigious proportions. For such savage souls, they repress themselves too much to call it living.’

Boots tramping through dust interrupted them. Savrian readied himself, his blood singing. It had been too long since he had been in battle.

A group of reavers rounded the corner down the hall. Clearly of common stock, the men wore blood-soaked rags, their bare torsos scarred, their faces bruised and noses crushed. Confusion flickered over their brute expressions for a moment, and then they barged forward.

Savrian charged in, whipping Malisette free from its sheath. Lightning quick, he cut open the closest reaver’s throat, brilliant arterial splatter arcing through the air. With a graceful spin, Savrian turned and skewered another through the eye.

Savrian’s companions fell on the rest with abandon, pulling their foes apart with sadistic glee. A shriek of pain burst out as Issaya slammed a blade through a man’s chest. As the body fell into the dust, the echo rippled away from them, like a spirit seeking its master.

They froze, listening. Someone must have heard that scream. Long seconds passed, their senses straining. Water dripped, torches crackled, a rat skittered. Seconds turned into minutes and no one came.

They breathed out a sigh of relief.

Issaya’s face flickered with disappointment. Her idea of perfection was very different from Savrian’s. Martial prowess was the only worthy pursuit and she obsessed with frightening tenacity.

Savrian nudged a corpse with his foot, trying to imagine living with such ugly creatures. His son had been among such brutes for years. A stale, futile anger surfaced but he quashed it. In this place, his anger was dangerous, even blasphemous.

‘We should move,’ Issaya said, her voice toneless. ‘Where to?’

‘That way,’ Yeneya said, nodding towards where the reavers had come from.

Yeneya led them through a maze of hallways and basalt stairs. Occasionally doors boomed open, men screamed and chains rattled. Each floor was seemingly a clone of its predecessors, just endless halls filled with red dust and ominous noises. At first, they were on edge, cautious and watchful. Then the itch of boredom grew, the sheer monotony of the place unsettling them.

The only relief was the occasional patrol of reavers, which they ambushed and dispatched with urgent speed. The need to take more time with their victims ate at them. Savrian’s mind sank into the abyss of wanton desire, an urge that screamed for bodies to use and souls to bless, for ecstatic screams and quivering flesh. Not this dull, inartistic murdering.

He had not seen any treasures or shrines, not a spot of gold in the entire place. Just this peculiar fiction of vigilance, with its warriors watching over nothing with ferocious jealousy.

Abruptly, Yeneya stopped, holding up a hand.

Ahead of them, a glowing firepit illuminated an unremarkable chamber. A man stood, turning a hunk of meat over the fire, while another lay snoring on the dirt floor. Barred oak doors lined the walls, jagged gashes etched into their planks. There was another entrance opposite where Savrian waited, a solid stone gate decorated with aged brass and leering skulls. Iron bars as thick as Savrian’s wrist served as a ceiling, revealing the level above.

‘The reavers are each kept in separate cells, I think so they don’t kill each other,’ Yeneya whispered.

‘Did you hear something?’ the reaver at the firepit said, clutching a large brass bell. The other curled up tighter, grumbling.

Savrian swore. This guard was annoyingly watchful.

The guard drew a crude short sword and looked cautiously around, sniffing the air.

Cirine stepped by Savrian and winked, her scent suddenly sweet and intoxicating. Issaya followed, her dark eyes flat as she tapped a long knife against her thigh. Pleasure coiled in his gut and Savrian retreated into the dark with Yeneya. This would be amusing.

The reaver gasped as Cirine stepped into the light, his eyes widening at her near nude form. The bell’s clapper tapped the metal. Putting a finger to her lips, she closed on him, an intoxicating haze drifting in the air. The bell went still as she pulled it from his limp grasp. He took in more of her scent with every breath.

Utterly absorbed, the reaver touched her slim shoulder. Savrian repressed the urge to lop the filthy limb off.

Cirine ran a hand up his chest and her fingertips stopped at the hollow of his throat. Then she curled a finger, hooking a black talon into his flesh.

A thin rasp escaped the reaver as his muscles clenched tight. He choked, his veins puckering and blackening under his skin. Sweat beading, eyes bulging, he toppled into the dust. In a few quivering moments, the agonising bliss killed him.

Issaya crept up to the sleeper as he turned over, slapped a hand over his mouth and slashed open his throat. Gurgling, he sprawled in the dust, fumbling for his axe. Eyes widening in fascination, Issaya watched his life drain out.

Savrian smiled as he stepped by the reaver’s contorted corpse. Cirine’s venomous claws brought such ecstasy, a clash of pain and pleasure that Savrian knew well. It was a pity the poor thing died so quickly; he had enjoyed what Slaanesh offered for such a short time.

Cirine licked her fingertips.

‘You let him touch you,’ he said, with more spite than he intended.

She snickered. ‘You’re so beautiful when you’re jealous.’

He reached for her but she swayed out of his reach. Savrian fumed. She might as well have slapped his hand away.

‘Your son is in one of these cells,’ Yeneya said. ‘I don’t know which one. And those aren’t the only guards – stronger ones make the rounds up above.’

Cirine’s games forgotten, Savrian looked around the identical doors. He scanned each, looking for some sign. Then he saw a crude symbol carved into the heavy bar across one of the doors. His son’s name, barely legible.

‘There you are,’ he said.

‘Hide!’ Yeneya hissed.

They bolted into the shadows as two red-armoured warriors appeared on the level above them. Massive brutes with leathery skin and broken teeth, they gazed down with feral eyes.

‘Sloppy like the others,’ one growled.

‘We must find them now,’ the other said without enthusiasm. ‘We can’t have the rabble thinking ambushes outside the pits will be tolerated.’

They strode out of sight, hefting their bloody cleavers.

Now the Khornates were searching. How long did they have before those animals found them?

Savrian lifted the heavy bar free and jerked open the door to reveal Verigon’s austere cell. Then he recoiled. It reeked of excrement, sweat and blood. Straw covered the dirt floor and the stone walls glistened with condensation. A man was sitting in a crude cot that was too small for him, groggily blinking away his sleep.

This was not the little boy Savrian remembered. He had gone from a scrawny, timid child to a powerful, scarred youth. His golden skin was tanned and his black hair stringy with old sweat. Yet, he had the deep purple eyes that marked Sarn’s purest bloodline.

Savrian leapt back as Verigon lunged to his feet, snatching a broad-headed axe from a hanger on the wall. An expression of absolute rage twisted Verigon’s face as he stalked forward, brandishing the weapon. Savrian stepped back, raising his empty hands. Verigon had to know who he was, didn’t he? Would Savrian have to fight his own son?

‘Verigon, stop,’ Savrian said.

Verigon halted, his purple eyes narrowing.

‘I am your father,’ Savrian said, not a little relieved.

Verigon cocked his head and a peculiar expression flickered over his face.

‘I have not heard that accent in a long time,’ he replied. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m rescuing you,’ Savrian said. ‘Come, we need to go.’

‘No.’ Verigon tightened his grip on the axe.

Savrian froze. ‘What?’

‘I am a warrior of Khorne,’ Verigon said. ‘I will not leave.’

Savrian’s heart stuttered. Of all the things he could have heard, that was the worst. Verigon had completely forgotten where he had come from.

‘You are my son, the son of a king, a scion of Slaanesh,’ Savrian said. ‘This is no place for you. I keep my pack drevars in better accommodations.’

‘Physical comfort is for the weak,’ Verigon said. ‘And to struggle is glorious.’

What kind of puritanical drivel was this? Savrian took a deep breath.

‘Only Slaanesh knows true glory,’ Savrian said.

‘He does not see you,’ Verigon said, though without malice. ‘Who witnesses your deeds? Who is there to impress? My god can see me, yours cannot.’

Savrian clamped his jaw shut. What a bitter stroke it was. And it was true, that was the cruellest part about it. Every one of Slaanesh’s followers knew the ache, the deep-down need that was worse than a widow’s loneliness or a child’s desire. Mortal tribes, daemon kindreds and sorcerous cabals scoured the realms in search of a glittering bauble, one shimmering hair or even just the echo of her divine voice. Deep in his soul, Savrian felt it too.

‘It is true,’ Savrian said, relaxing with false ease. ‘She hides her face from us. I won’t lie. It is a misery. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. However, we are family under her and nothing is going to change that. Her being gone doesn’t change that.’ Somewhere beyond the cell a door opened. Savrian looked around, his ears perking up. ‘You come from a dynasty that has stood for thousands of years. Daemons will bow to you on your name alone. Thousands of mortals owe you their allegiance. Whereas this path will reduce you to a common murderer, whether you kill dozens or thousands. You are worth more than that, especially to blessed Slaanesh. And to me. Please, my son, come with me.’

Some of it was truth, some of it was lies. However, once Verigon came back to Slaanesh, his family and his people, he would forgive Savrian for vastly exaggerating. He would understand that it was for his own good.

Verigon looked at him, then he lowered the axe, wracked with indecision.

‘Highness, they’re coming,’ Issaya hissed, hovering around the exit with the others.

Savrian winced as the tramp of boots reached his ears. Now was the time for expediency. Cirine’s venom would have to do the persuading. As Savrian gestured towards her, the central doors slammed open and the two brutes stepped into the chamber, with more behind. The first pair charged forward, their grotesquely muscular bodies rippling, hefting massive cleavers.

‘Slaaneshi scum!’ one roared, ferocity boiling off him in a red haze.

With a screaming roar, the first swung his cleaver at Savrian’s head. Savrian ducked and slashed open his belly, guts falling free in a rush. Crouching under the blow aimed at his neck by the other, Savrian drove his sabre into the second’s exposed armpit. The blade sheared through muscle and lung, and the brute dropped with a gurgle. Savrian planted his foot on the beast’s shoulder and ripped out the blade.

He looked up, quivering with adrenaline.

A wall of red and brass hedged them in, blades gleaming. Yeneya, Issaya and Cirine were herded together as the warriors edged forward, preparing to charge.

‘Wait,’ a voice said, ugly and hard as slate.

A man the size of an ogor walked through the bristling wall, a bulwark of muscle and armour that dwarfed the room and everyone in it. An axe made from gore-soaked stone hung in his twitching hand. His head was bare, his face a featureless mask of scar tissue, teeth sharpened to points clacking together rhythmically, yellow eyes squinting with rage.

Chagorath: only he could command the wrath of such creatures.

Savrian’s stale anger roared with new life. He never thought he would meet the man. Every sense heightened. Hate sharpened to a razor edge.

Aside from the creak of armour, no one made a sound.

‘I remember the scent of you,’ Chagorath said, pointing his axe at Yeneya.

He lunged forward and cleaved Yeneya’s head with one swing of that brutal axe. A sound like a bird skull being crushed popped through the air. She was dead before she hit the ground.

‘Spies,’ Chagorath rasped. ‘Tools of the weak.’

Then his gaze fell onto Verigon and dread coiled in Savrian’s stomach.

‘Verigon, why did you not kill this man?’ Chagorath said. ‘He is from your meaningless past.’

Wary, Verigon dropped to a defensive crouch, gripping his axe with two hands.

Chagorath’s teeth clicked, the jaw working.

‘Do not touch him,’ Savrian snarled, pointing his bloody sabre at the hulking lord. He would not allow this animal to deny his desires and brutalise his betters. Chagorath gestured at him and dozens of grasping hands took Savrian down like a tentacled leviathan, pressing him to his knees.

Chagorath ignored him. With a sniff, he stalked forward, struck the axe out of Verigon’s hands, snatched him by the throat and slammed him into a pillar. It was casually done, as if Chagorath were chastising a chattel slave. Verigon’s feet kicked as he choked.

‘Never let Slaaneshi talk,’ Chagorath said.

Verigon punched Chagorath in the head but the massive man barely seemed to notice; he might as well have been punching a stone.

Chagorath looked back at Savrian and he grunted in comprehension.

‘I see,’ Chagorath said. ‘Such sentimentality has no place under Khorne’s gaze.’ He dropped him and Verigon crumpled at his feet, gasping. ‘Release the tribes into the highest arena. Let them see how strong Verigon is.’

His captors pinned Savrian and gagged him with a rag. A hundred doors boomed open and a great roar went up. Then they hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the chamber through a sea of red warriors. Somewhere Cirine screamed, but he could not see her.

They entered a dark, close tunnel that reeked of urine and fear. The air was humid, the roar of a berserk crowd deafening. A maw-like portcullis clanked open in front of them, the teeth of it resembling Chagorath’s snarl. Someone pressed Malisette into Savrian’s hand and kicked him forward through the opening.

The ground squelched under his boots as he stumbled forward. He ripped the gag from his mouth, shuddering with disgust. Then he looked down and retched.

There was no earth under his feet, just a congealing soup of blood, bones and meat. A bloody fog hung in the air, moist like the inside of a heart. The eight-sided arena was cramped, built to force combatants into close proximity with each other. Above him, a barbarous audience roared in derision under furious stars. At the end of the arena, a crude idol loomed over them, more beast than man, an axe in each hand. Of all the places Savrian had imagined dying, this was not one.

Issaya and Cirine joined him, the latter revolted, the former impassive.

Savrian forced himself to breathe the disgusting air and gathered his dignity. As a civilised man, he would show them how to comport themselves. He swaggered into the centre, a smirk on his face, his arrogance armouring him as much as the steel that encased his body.

Chagorath appeared under the stone idol on a terrace and the crowd stilled.

Opposite them, a portcullis opened and Verigon stepped out, alone.

‘Verigon, you have something to prove,’ Chagorath growled, his voice carrying. ‘Kill that man before the others do in equal combat. He is a degenerate, the feeble aesthete of a cowardly god. Prove that he is meaningless to you.’

The threat of death did not need to be spoken aloud.

Verigon looked up at Chagorath, then at the ground, hefting his axe. There was none of the feral instinct or the ferocity from before. Instead, he milled, his face working, his mind racing.

Then a flood of half-naked reavers leapt into the arena. Savrian lifted his sabre, disappointed in the calibre of his opposition. With a sigh, he leapt forward into the fray. They were no match for him, these squalling little murderers. He hewed off limbs and heads without effort. They rushed him in threes and fours, but it mattered not. His blade was a flickering wall. Elusive as smoke, he danced through them, and where he went, they died.

Those who tried their hand at Cirine and Issaya suffered similar fates. Cirine flitted about, her silks flowing, transfixing her enemies. When they reached for her, she sank her claws into their flesh, bringing them a spasmodic, depthless ecstasy they cursed and hated. Issaya killed painfully, cutting hamstrings, peeling away sheets of skin, crippling limbs with broken nerves. She left screaming bloody victims in her wake that died slowly.

Soon, only his son remained and Savrian approached him warily.

‘Tell me, Verigon,’ Savrian said, gesturing at the corpses, ‘do you even remember their names?’

Verigon looked around him, his face revolted as if a sudden revelation had opened his eyes.

‘It’s nothing more than a cage, Verigon,’ Savrian said. ‘There are whole worlds beyond these walls. Do you really want to stay here?’

Verigon looked at him, his eyes steady. Then he seemed to make a decision.

‘You cannot get us out,’ Verigon said. ‘Not from him.’

That was really why he stayed. Not anger but fear. Savrian looked at Chagorath. He was the key to the whole bloody wreck.

‘I will not let him touch you ever again,’ Savrian said. ‘I swear it on Slaanesh’s sacred eye. You are my son, the most precious thing to me in this dull world.’

Verigon took a deep breath. The axe drooped and his posture relaxed. His face softened, and Savrian recognised his child in that face. The sweet, curious child he had always known. These monsters had not managed to kill him.

Chagorath quivered and gasped with rage, his fist clenched on his axe. His feral eyes flicked back and forth between Verigon and Savrian. Savrian knew it was not intelligence or restraint that stayed the berserker. Rather he simply could not decide who to kill first.

Did Khorne watch his flailing vassal? Oh, if that blinkered god did and Savrian cast him down… Savrian’s mind skittered to a halt. It was too perfect. If Chagorath died, his followers would fight for his position. Thousands of the wretched beasts would die in the mad fight for control while they escaped. And then Savrian and his kingdom would come in, mop up the weakened remains and turn the fortress towards a better, loftier purpose. He would succeed where his ancestors had failed so often in breaking this place.

Savrian pressed his fingers to his lips, a shuddering thrill rolling through his body. He threw back his head and laughed, the manic cackle spiralling through the still air. He knew he looked mad but this perfection of opportunity was too beautiful.

The only trick would be persuading Chagorath to cooperate in his own savage way.

‘You know, I figured out what you are doing,’ Savrian said. ‘Collecting and offering all these skulls. Tell me, Chagorath, does Khorne know you’re trying to buy his favour like a courtesan?’

Chagorath screamed, a wordless slavering howl. The brute leapt down into the arena, sweeping his axe from his belt and hefting it overhead. Savrian leapt away as the Khornate lord crashed in like a meteor, his mighty overhead blow splintering the stone beneath him, blood and gore flying.

Chagorath whirled around and charged, closing on him with shocking speed. Dropping into a crouch as Chagorath’s axe whooshed overhead, Savrian grinned. Finally, someone worthy of his blade.

Springing aside as the brute’s axe cleaved the air where he had just been standing, Savrian lashed out, whip-fast. Sparks flew from the warrior’s red armour as Malisette bit deep. Chagorath bellowed, whirled around and swung his axe at Savrian’s legs. Savrian vaulted over the whistling blade, spinning gracefully in the air.

Around them, more reavers and blood warriors rushed into the arena to try to kill the others. But Savrian could not protect them. He had his hands full.

Chagorath rushed after him, his strikes precise, while Savrian danced around him, every movement flowing like liquid, turning the duel into art. Chagorath’s aggression curdled into frustration with every unrewarding swipe.

Gasping for the blood of his opponent, any at all, Chagorath reached a little farther, a little harder. Then Chagorath’s form broke, his arm outstretched, and the gap between his breastplate and pauldron spread open to reveal pale, almost translucent, flesh.

Savrian sidestepped and whipped his blade into the gap. Blood flew. Chagorath’s body hitched as soothing narcotics ran through his veins. Roaring, Chagorath spun around, his axe leading the movement. The blow whistled passed Savrian’s face as he retreated.

The Khornate lord pursued him across the arena, slashing and howling, and Savrian was pushed back. With a boneless agility, he dodged around Chagorath’s relentless attacks. He struck back where he could, his sabre lashing Chagorath’s exposed flesh, but it was like trying to take down a rabid rhinox with a shaving razor. The brute bled from a dozen cuts but he never slowed, each wound another goad for his endless rage.

Savrian dropped into a low crouch, prowling around his bigger opponent like a frost sabre, Malisette held tight at his shoulder, the point following Chagorath. Indignation and ego boiled in him; Savrian hated being on the defensive. Yet, Chagorath was the bigger and taller man with reach and weight to match.

Maybe Savrian could use that. Yes. He could use that.

Savrian waited, watching for the shift in the brute’s shoulder, in his hips, a twist in the torso. The muscles in his left thigh clenched as Chagorath shifted his weight. Another charge.

Chagorath barged in and Savrian spun away, allowing the axe to come close but not quite bite repeatedly. Allowing the stupid beast to feel like he was in control. Savrian watched his opponent’s grunting, impatient face, waiting for just the right moment.

Then pain shot through Savrian’s knee and he stumbled. Horrifyingly, the elixir was wearing off. The axe swooped in, the serrated edge ripping through Savrian’s breastplate and slicing across his ribs. Pain seared through him, enlivening his dulling senses. He shuddered in ecstasy, staggering on weak legs.

‘Cut me again,’ Savrian breathed, steadying himself.

Stepping back, his scarred face etched with revulsion, Chagorath tightened his guard.

‘Why not?’ Savrian shouted, grinning manically.

He flicked his blade at Chagorath’s face, a quick feint. Reflexively, not wanting to be touched, the beast snapped his axe up. Savrian sliced his blade down through Chagorath’s weapon hand, sending fingers and axe spinning away. Roaring, Chagorath backhanded him with a meaty fist, catching Savrian full across the head.

Savrian crashed to the ground, Malisette disappearing into the ooze. The world wobbled and spun in a ruddy blur, his breathing too loud in his ears.

Chagorath crashed onto him and grabbed him by the throat with both hands, bloody nubs digging in.

‘Die, you disgusting wretch,’ Chagorath hissed.

Savrian flailed, scrabbling at the red bulk on top of him. The cartilage of his throat cracked. His lungs burned, his veins throbbed. Spots flickered over his vision, his skull straining as if it was going to burst. He tore at Chagorath’s iron grip but it was like rock.

With a last gasp, Savrian rammed his thumb into Chagorath’s glaring right eye. Jelly burst and the man howled, rearing back. His deadly grip loosened and Savrian sucked in the coppery air, made sweet by suffocation.

He slammed the heel of his hand into Chagorath’s jaw, snapping his head back. Blood spurted as the beast bit through his tongue. A flicker caught Savrian’s eye: Malisette. The Khornate lord toppled sideways like a felled tree and Savrian lunged towards his weapon. Chagorath grabbed his ankle, jerking him back bodily. Snarling, Savrian kicked him in the face, crushing his nose.

Chagorath released him. Weaving on his knees like a drunk, he struggled to rise.

Coughing painfully through a battered throat, Savrian staggered to his feet, his sabre in hand.

Loathing boiled in Savrian as he turned towards his weakened foe. This was the man who had ruined his life. A man who had slaughtered his first wife and all her court. The man who had stolen his son, brutalised him, told him his heritage was nothing. The man who had saddled Savrian with a mountain of regrets.

‘You fought well,’ Chagorath slurred.

‘You did not,’ Savrian said, his lip curling. ‘Go to Slaanesh and feed her appetites as best you can.’

With a two-handed swing, Savrian cut up through Chagorath’s skull, the ancient blade shearing through teeth and then bone. No skull for the skull throne. The god of commoners would receive nothing. The corpse crashed into the muck.

Savrian looked up at the silent crowd. Now was the moment of truth. Who did they hate more?

The Khornates did not look at him; instead they glowered sidelong at their neighbours. Fingers caressed hammers and axes. Lips curled into snarls. Soft growls rumbled in cracked throats. Armour clanked as barbarians shifted.

Someone screamed, a ragged, desperate cry. A man turned and slammed his axe into the guts of his neighbour. Blood flew. A towering brute with a flaming hammer smashed a man out of his way only to be beheaded in turn. The cry of ‘Blood for the Blood God!’ boomed.

With a great roar, the cultists ripped into each other with stunning ferocity, Savrian and his cohort forgotten. Savrian grinned in triumph: he had bet true.

Yet, out of the corner of his eye, Savrian thought he saw the great idol of Khorne smile.

‘Verigon!’ Savrian said, looking across the arena for his son.

The battle surged across the arena, a sea of blood-soaked bodies thrashing through the gore. Savrian glimpsed Verigon before his son hurled himself into the melee with a roar. Cursing, Savrian slashed his way through the crowd, but it was like swimming against a tide. A painful hitch lodged itself in his right shoulder. He was losing his edge, but he could not leave.

A mass of armoured brutes coalesced around him and a throwing axe came whistling in.

Then Issaya bolted out of the crowd and slapped the throwing axe to the ground. She charged, her knives flickering. Agonised screams followed her as she crippled her foes. However, her thirst for pain led her deeper into the crowd and when Savrian ordered her to fall back, she ignored him. Savrian could only watch as axes hacked her down. Grinding his teeth in frustration, Savrian fought on. While they took his best followers, it seemed their numbers were endless.

‘Husband, we should go,’ Cirine said, flitting to him. Covered in gore, her gown in tatters, Cirine’s eyes were wide with fear.

‘I cannot find Verigon,’ he said, barely glancing at her.

‘But–’ she said.

‘My love, this will all be for nothing if we don’t find him,’ he said.

She pressed her lips together, as if possessed by some sudden doubt.

‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice hard with suspicion.

She opened her mouth to speak but at that moment, Savrian caught sight of Verigon.

‘Verigon!’ Savrian shouted, his sabre singing as he cut through the crowd.

The young man whirled about, his face snarling. He caught himself in mid-swing, pulling back the blow aimed at Savrian’s head. Shuddering with adrenaline, his eyes hard as gems, Verigon glared at him.

‘I was fine,’ he growled.

‘Of course you were,’ Savrian said. ‘It is time to leave.’

Verigon’s eyes narrowed, as if making some calculation. Then he nodded.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We should go.’

They fled from the arena, down into the guts of the complex. The battle thinned into isolated murderous brawlers and flocks of tattered slaves who scattered at the sight of them. All around, the cells were empty, the roar of battle echoing down to them through stone halls. Retracing the path back was easy and the three of them reached the open crack, where fresh air bled through and twilight broke out.

‘Go on,’ Savrian said. ‘See that small beach?’ Verigon nodded. ‘That is where we are headed.’

Verigon slipped through and began the laborious climb down, his movements confident if lacking a certain grace. As Savrian prepared to go through himself, Cirine caught his arm.

‘My love, I do not trust him,’ she said.

Savrian paused, looking at her hand on his arm.

‘He is my son,’ Savrian said. ‘He listens to me, he remembers me. I know he is not that promising now. But give me time. I can teach him.’

‘He listens but does not hear,’ she replied. ‘He remembers but does not care. He does not want to be saved, my love. He is manipulating you and has been from the beginning.’

Cirine was a clever woman and deeply perceptive. Yet, what she suggested was preposterous, even paranoid. Then he recognised her true motive. It was jealousy, a scenario that had played out many times. While he had tolerated her possessiveness in the past because it amused him, this had to be ended now.

‘Your desires do not trump mine,’ Savrian growled, grabbing a fistful of her hair. ‘My whims are absolute. I recommend that you get used to his presence. I desire that he returns to us, so he shall.’

‘All I am saying is to be careful,’ Cirine whispered.

‘My sweet, I recommend you take your own advice,’ Savrian hissed.

She looked away from him and Savrian knew he had won. He released her and then slipped out of the Bastion into the clean air. The climb down was much worse than the climb up. Savrian’s joints ground together. His skin felt like that of a corpse, stretched dry over his bones. Colour faded, sound muddled. Once he reached the beach, bone-deep exhaustion dragged him down onto his knees. All the dreadful years fell back upon his shoulders.

‘Father?’ Verigon said, sounding concerned. He walked towards Savrian and then suddenly stopped, wary.

‘It’s nothing,’ Savrian said, breathing hard. ‘It will pass. We will go home, and I will teach you the joys of Slaanesh. Things I should have taught you years ago.’

Savrian took out a small silver flute on a chain around his neck. When he blew on it, there was no sound. However, the captain of his ship would hear it and come for them.

Savrian turned inward, drowning in his misery. Cirine crept over to him and hovered, her gaze fixed on Verigon.

Suddenly, sand churned and Cirine screamed. Savrian staggered, struggling to rise. An axe was stuck deep in Cirine’s flesh. Some Khornate had found them, some brute lingered out here. Savrian froze.

Cirine fell, Verigon’s axe buried deep in her chest. Verigon tore it free, a feral gleam in his purple eyes. With an adrenal shiver, he stepped over her corpse.

No. His son could not be doing this. He could not.

Savrian pushed the truth away even as his mind lurched for it. Verigon charged, teeth clenched, bloody axe swinging low. Sluggish, Savrian lunged back, his legs wobbling. The axe cleaved through the gash in his armour into vital organs.

The pain crushed him, obliterating every other sensation. The withdrawal blasted the sensation to unendurable highs. He rolled into the sand, unable to breathe, unable to think. A chill, cold as glacier-melt, filled his flesh. As he inhaled, the pain twisted his guts like a fist. Warmth bathed Savrian’s side, and his hand came away red with blood.

Verigon looked down at him, muscles twitching in his face.

‘I serve Khorne. Not Slaanesh. Never Slaanesh,’ Verigon snarled.

‘No one can reject her allure… She will not allow it,’ Savrian gasped, struggling to his knees. ‘You cannot be my son. Not the boy I raised. You are some fake. Some soul-dead counterfeit.’

‘I am your son,’ Verigon said, his voice quivering. ‘I remember the towers and bathing pools, and the endless feasting and the vulgar rituals. I remember my mother. Her charms and venom did not save me. And you didn’t either. You were off searching for a vanished god while we died. I’ve hated you ever since then.’

‘I should have seen you for what you were – a wretched animal,’ Savrian hissed, then he coughed and the pain flared.

‘You did, and you ignored it,’ Verigon said, circling around him. ‘Because you are soft, like your useless, effete master.’

‘Do not blame her for my decisions,’ Savrian said. ‘It’s my fault you were taken. Slaanesh is perfect and cannot be blamed.’

‘Perfect?’ Verigon said, his voice full of venom. ‘It was Khorne who kept me alive in the pits, who taught me to fight and set me free. You were right, the Bastion is a cage and Chagorath was a brainless fool for staying there. There are so many other ways I can please Khorne. Like turning the Kingdom of Sarn to a god that is actually worthy and not just a hole in the heart.’

Spite and hate and fury rose up in Savrian, desperate and clawing. It pushed him to his feet and helped him drag his sabre free of its sheath. Yet, he didn’t have the strength to strike; the blood loss was too much.

‘They will know your allegiance,’ Savrian snarled. ‘They will reject you.’

Verigon continued to stalk him, prowling just out of reach of Malisette.

‘No, they won’t,’ Verigon said, smirking. ‘They will see the purple eyes of Sarn’s bloodline and love me as they were conditioned to. And they will follow me to Khorne’s side like children.’

The horror of it crashed in. Savrian’s dynasty was ending, the empire toppling, the work of a thousand ancestors burning away. His people’s devotion to his bloodline would be the undoing of his house. And it was his fault.

‘Slaanesh give me the strength to kill you,’ Savrian whispered. ‘I swear I’ll have you dead. My ancestors will break your soul after they break your body. They’ll–’

‘You will see them before I do,’ Verigon said. ‘And if they’re going to break anyone, it is you. If you desire vengeance, you should pray to Khorne.’

Verigon hefted the axe, encroaching on him.

Savrian recoiled, clutching his side. Malisette gleamed, outstretched in his other hand, but then his legs crumpled and he collapsed once more.

‘No, I will not run from my goddess,’ Savrian choked out. ‘My devotion is true. Do not insult me, you heartless beast.’

Verigon stopped and stepped back then, his face dark with pity.

‘You are pathetic,’ Verigon said. ‘You are so blinded by your sentimentality that you don’t realise Slaanesh never cared about you. At least Khorne does not pretend to. I’ll leave you to him, though I wonder if you even deserve that. Goodbye, father.’

Savrian tensed but the axe did not come. Verigon walked away, nothing more than an outline against the rising sun. Then he disappeared down the beach and Savrian was alone.

Darkness ate at Savrian’s vision, his flesh clammy and cold. He could not feel anything. This was suffering, this long degeneration into the oubliette of one’s own dying body. His thoughts slurred together, his memory turning to soup.

‘Slaanesh, no, please,’ Savrian said. ‘Come to me, please. Beloved. Please. You cannot let him. Please, let me fix it. Let me…’ Savrian’s breath ran out as his life blood leaked from the mortal wound. His heart fluttered in his chest like a trapped bird. Savrian forced himself to inhale against the agony, but each breath became shallower and shallower as the abyss inside him grew.

He felt for some comfort, some presence as his soul loosened in its moorings. Just a hint of her. He would endure any soul-breaking torture just to see her. She could punish him in ways that would make a daemon wilt. All of that would be nothing if he could just see her. Just a glance. Just once.

‘Beloved, where have you gone?’ Savrian whispered.

He sank into a cold and endless abyss, his countless regrets whispering in the dark.

About the Author

Jamie Crisalli writes gritty melodrama and bloody combat. Fascinated with skulls, rivets and general gloominess, when she was introduced to the Warhammer universes, it was a natural fit. Her work for Black Library includes the short stories ‘Ties of Blood’ and ‘The Serpent’s Bargain’, and the Age of Sigmar novella The Measure of Iron. She has accumulated a frightful amount of monsters, ordnance and tiny soldiery over the years, not to mention books and role-playing games. Currently, she lives with her husband in a land of endless grey drizzle.

An extract from The Red Feast.

As he stepped from the shadows of the caravan-court’s drapery, Athol let out the breath that had gathered tight in his chest. His anticipation was not matched by the others who lined the rope-bounded oval that denoted the taer-huma, the bladespace. Where before he had seen eyes wide with excitement, lips quivering with bated breath, now his quick glance observed disinterest from the courtiers of Prophet-Queen Humekhta III, fourteenth Aridian Empress. A few yawned in the late afternoon heat that pushed through the canopy above, others fiddled with sceptres and jewellery. In seasons past his muscular body and pale skin had brought remarks and admiring glances, but the novelty of his outlandish appearance had faded, particularly following his marriage to Marolin and even more with the arrival of his child seven summers earlier.

A couple of the youngest courtiers, Humekhta’s nieces Aless and Joira – twelve summers and eight respectively – smiled as their war-trainer made his appearance. A desultory ripple of applause moved around him, barely louder than the flap of porch canvas in the strengthening wind.

Athol raised the spear he held loosely in his right hand, always careful never to point the tip at the Prophet-Queen. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, following the line of his helm’s chinstrap.

‘I am the Spear-carrier, champion of Humekhta the Third,’ he declared, his other hand curling into a fist that touched lightly upon the gilded bronze of his breastplate, the knuckles barely touching the sculpted pectorals. ‘Trial has been called and I offer my spear in defence of the Prophet-Queen’s honour.’

Humekhta sat cross-legged upon a cushioned throne-step. She seemed to float upon a cloud of dawn-light, her legs lost in a billow of silken layers, each a subtly different shade of purple, orange and yellow. Her scarlet regal attire was bound tight to stomach and chest, covering her to the neck but leaving her arms bare. Serpentine tattoos covered her upper arms and ruby-crusted gilded bangles circled her forearms, matched by the rings on her fingers and the half a dozen hoops that hung from each ear. A veil of delicate black cloth obscured her face, hanging from an opal-studded headband, her scalp above it a fuzz of close-cropped hair dyed a stark violet.

At her side a great double-handed sword stood against a wooden frame, its pommel higher than her head, fixed with a fist-sized shard of amber that contained a preserved scorpion. Its scabbard was made from greenish drakona hide, bound with thread of thick bronze and gilded rivets. Though it looked unwieldy, the Jagged Blade of Aridian was wrought from a feather-light metal; not just the heirloom and symbol of the Prophet-Monarchs for fourteen generations, but a weapon of war that Humekhta herself had carried into battle just as her predecessors had done.

But this was a matter of law, and that meant a trial by combat, a deed beneath the sacred blade and its owner. Thus, Athol had been called from his encampment downwind of the royal city.

From behind her stepped Orhatka, the lawsmith. He had a round, soft face which masked the quick, ruthless mind that had seen him rise to the position of lawsmith before his fortieth summer. He moved with the casual grace of a swordsman, a firm believer in keeping the body fit so that the mind also remained sharp. He had never raised a weapon in trial against Athol, but several opponents, beaten in logic and law-knowledge, had resorted to desperate injunctions and fallen beneath his blade. Athol was glad not to have tested himself against Orhatka, not because of any fear or failure, but because such a dispute would mean division between Humekhta’s two closest allies.

‘Accused is Williarch of Bataar, for theft from the Holy Prophetess, namely six hundred head of whitehorn kept in the Delnoas Plain. Accused also for the illicit profiteering in his encampments by means of crooked gambling and withholding wage. Sundry lesser charges also apply.’ Orhatka gestured towards the fur-clad trader, who scowled at the lawsmith from beneath a domed felt hat, the spearpoints of Humekhta’s court guards at his back. ‘You have chosen to defend yourself by trial of arms, as is your right.’

‘I have,’ growled the merchant, the two words thick with his western accent.

‘Do you wish a weapon brought forth?’

‘I wish word sent to the train, for champion to come.’ His grimace eased into smugness. ‘Me champion will fight.’

‘You did not make a nomination of your champion when first accused,’ grumbled Orhatka.

‘I not know Aridian law so well,’ Williarch replied with a smirk.

‘Prophetess, what is your guidance?’ asked Orhatka, turning to his monarch. ‘By rights he should fight his own trial…’

Humekhta turned her steady gaze upon the accused man, whose self-satisfaction wilted under her stare. Athol watched his tongue flick along thick lips, his fingers fidgeting with the furred hem of his coat. Williarch’s face was a mask of sweat.

‘What do you say, champion of mine?’ Humekhta asked, not turning her gaze towards Athol. ‘Do you wish to face this man or his champion?’

‘I would not have any man or woman denied justice on a technicality, Mother of the Plains. Let him have his champion.’

Williarch’s lips twisted into a sly smile almost immediately.

‘But I would like Orhatka to remind the accused of his punishment should his case be proved false,’ Athol continued, eyes fixing the stranger as though spitting him on the point of his spear.

‘The crimes of which he is accused carry the penalty of abandonment,’ the lawsmith announced with some relish. Williarch’s confidence faded as Orhatka continued. ‘If proven guilty, he shall be taken forth from the camp for five days into the heart of the Long Dust and there left without food or water. He shall be cut upon the arms and legs, ’til the blood runs freely. If Sigmar looks kindly upon him he shall survive long enough to find a spring or companions. If not, he shall die of thirst or by the claws and fangs of the great hunter-beasts that prowl the Long Dust.’

‘Send for his champion,’ declared Humekhta, rising. ‘We shall convene this court again in two days’ time.’

She swept from the tent-room followed by a coterie of retainers, her nieces included, though Orhatka remained behind. With a flick of the hand he commanded the guards to escort Williarch back to his cage.

‘He is desperate,’ said Athol as the lawsmith approached.

‘He made no attempt to bargain for leniency – he declared for trial by arms the moment he was brought to me.’

‘Is he guilty?’

Orhatka shrugged. ‘Surely that is the point of the trial?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes, he is as guilty as the plains are hot. Five hundred of the queen’s whitehorns were still in his camp when Makhred’s scouts found them. The others he had already sent on to Bataar. He was brazen about it. He had three dozen of the Oldfire tribe working the herd and they complained he had been robbing them.’

‘Strange. The Oldfire are not meek. Why would they not simply take back what was theirs?’

‘I don’t know, and that concerns me. Williarch is from Bataar, a cunning serpent like all that breed, and he is altogether too confident. I think he intends to make a mockery of us. To take our livestock and whistle in our faces as he does so.’

‘I will beat his champion and he will die alone and frightened in the wilderness. You have my word on it.’

‘There’s always a first time to fail, Athol.’ Orhatka stepped closer, dark eyes fixed on the champion. ‘Don’t let this be that time. These Bataari will be all over us like flies on dung if they see profit in it.’

‘That won’t be my concern.’ Athol turned away and strode back towards the side entrance of the royal tent. ‘If I fail, it’ll be because I’m dead.’

Dawn was still some way off when the jingle of mail and slap of leather broke the stillness in the woods that overlooked Wendhome. The town sat across a narrow, fast river that glittered in the starlight, a stockade with a red stone base and wooden palisade encircling nearly three thousand tile-roofed houses. A few wisps of smoke still drifted from chimneys, the cook fires long extinguished. Here and there a dog yapped, and cats screeched in argument with each other.

Moving from the shadows of the trees, a line of warriors formed, curving in places around the scattered bushes and outcrops of rock that broke the slopes of the broad hill. More emerged after them, until nearly a thousand men and women crouched in the dry grass.

At their fore knelt a man broad of shoulder, his vest of chainmail distorted by heavy muscle underneath. In his hand he carried a long-handled axe, its head tapering to a point as was common among the Vancian tribes. He wiped a hand over his shaven head, staring down at the sleeping settlement. Rising, he lifted the weapon and his warriors stood also, the last rays of starlight glinting from the bared blades of swords and axes.

Threx turned to the man at his side, showing his teeth in a broad grin.

‘Just as I hoped. Only the dogs are awake.’

‘Lazy,’ replied Foraza. In one hand he held a pole that split at head height, a triangular banner hanging from the twin gold-sheathed tips. The pale cloth of Threx’s personal standard was stitched with red thread, a rendition of a horned skull at the centre of a chain-link ring.

‘They’ll not sleep as soundly after today, that’s for sure.’

Threx turned and started along the line to his right, his voice raised but calm.

‘You all know why we’re here. We’re being laughed at by those rat-eating Korchians down there. They think so little of us they don’t even set watch for our coming.’

He was answered by grumbles and snarls, and as he continued his anger grew, fuelled by his own words. ‘Their disdain is a mockery of us! They think the Skullbrands will do nothing in retaliation. Well, we’re going to do something all right, and the Korchians won’t forget it for a long time.’

Threx returned to his position at the centre of the line and took a few paces forward, his warriors moving with him. Once more he lifted his axe high, its head gleaming with the first hint of sunlight coming from across the river valley.

‘Let’s wake the dog-bastards up!’

Dying embers barely lit the cave but the heat from the near-dead fire still prickled sweat from the creased skin of the old man crouched beside the cave’s walls. His fingers moved rhythmically, dancing from one of the various pots to the hand-smoothed stone, a flick and smudge, and change of finger into another clay vessel loaded with a different colour. He squinted in the bad light, almost unable to see what he painted, though the image he tried to recreate was burned into his waking thoughts by dreams every night.

Finally, it was too dark to see, and he straightened with a groan, old bones protesting, wiry muscles trying their best to move his withered frame. He wiped the paint on his bare belly and glanced towards the hollow where he kept his wood pile, already knowing it was empty but hoping all the same that he misremembered.

He hadn’t. There was no more wood.

That meant he would have to leave the cave.

The painter’s gaze moved to the sliver of light that shone down from a crack in the ceiling. He hadn’t realised it was daytime. That was good, for though it meant he had missed another night’s sleep and prophetic dreams, at least the outside would be safer. Many of the creatures that prowled the wooded hills beneath which he dwelt were cowed by the daytime.

Many, but not all.

The artist found a rag of cloth – a remnant of a cloak he had discovered discarded by the trail to the south-east – and wiped the paint properly from his fingers and torso. He gave his latest work a last look. He could see almost nothing of its form now, lost in the shadow he cast.

Moving to the stretch of cave beneath the opening, he tugged a thin rope free from a peg in the wall. He pulled at the frayed cord, hauling an old rope ladder up to the opening as if he were hoisting a sail.

He stopped briefly at the recollection. He hadn’t thought of the sea for many years now. Dredging his memories, he recalled a vast expanse of blue flecked with white. Everything seemed to be just colours these days, punctuated by swirls of light or darkness.

Everything except his dreams.

The thought of them nagged him out of his reverie. The painter secured the rope so that the ladder hung in place, and ascended with practised skill, though his knees felt the pain more than usual, punishment for spending too much of the night crouched at his work. He reached the top and pushed with his hand, moving a piece of woven reed matting that helped obscure the hole. Climbing the last few rungs, he pulled himself through the opening, bringing him to the upper chamber. This cave was natural, rough and uneven, unlike the chamber below that he had gradually smoothed, patch by patch, over the preceding years.

Years?

Longer?

It was part of his cursed memory that he recalled little of what had happened in his long life, yet his mind was full to breaking with images of what he was sure would come to pass.

More than sure. His entire existence revolved around the fact. He had been set upon the world to make it so. He was the recorder of the future but also its catalyst. He knew this because he was always in his dreams. If somebody else had been marked to usher in the next age, they would have been dreaming those dreams instead.

He replaced the matting camouflage and squeezed through to the opening of the cave. Beneath a rock, in an alcove he had fashioned himself, his weapons and armour waited for him. They were scraps pieced together from corpses the beasts had left. He could smell the dried blood on them, a scent that seemed so much stronger in his nostrils of late.

There was so little of his wasted body left that the vambraces were barely more than studded tubes of leather on him. He could not find a breastplate that sat on his sunken chest and so instead he pulled on a thick harness with a small plate of iron nestled over his heart. He did not need extra weight to slow him – speed and wits served him better in his task – so he left the coif and simple round helm in their hiding place.

He looked at the spear, snug in the crack beside the main cave opening, but again decided it would be more of a hindrance. Instead he removed a dagger as long as his forearm from beneath the helm and mail, tying its belt around a waist pot-bellied in comparison to his spindly limbs.

Thus prepared, he stole to the mouth of the cave, checked the clearing outside and stepped out into the light of day.

Click here to buy The Red Feast.

A Black Library Publication

First published Inferno! Volume 2 in Great Britain in 2019.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.

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