More great stories from the Age of Sigmar

SACROSANCT AND OTHER STORIES
Various authors

SOUL WARS
Josh Reynolds

THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 1
Various authors
Contains the novels The Gates of Azyr, War Storm, Ghal Maraz, Hammers of Sigmar, Wardens of the Everqueen and Black Rift

THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 2
Various authors
Contains the novels Call of Archaon, Warbeast, Fury of Gork, Bladestorm, Mortarch of Night and Lord of Undeath

GODS AND MORTALS
Various authors

SCOURGE OF FATE
Robbie MacNiven

• HALLOWED KNIGHTS •
Josh Reynolds
Book 1: PLAGUE GARDEN
Book 2: BLACK PYRAMID

HAMILCAR: CHAMPION OF THE GODS
David Guymer

BLACKTALON: FIRST MARK
Andy Clark

THE RED FEAST
Gav Thorpe

SHADESPIRE: THE MIRRORED CITY
Josh Reynolds

CALLIS & TOLL: THE SILVER SHARD
Nick Horth

THE TAINTED HEART
C L Werner

NEFERATA: MORTARCH OF BLOOD
David Annandale

OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON
C L Werner

EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS
An Age of Sigmar novel

NAGASH: THE UNDYING KING
Josh Reynolds

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This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it isa land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forestsand vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reignsthe Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of thefounder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands ofthe Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

In the two hundred and fifty-fifth year of the reign of Phoenix King Bel Shanaar, the citizens of Athel Toralien became elves of Nagarythe. Abandoned by their princes and left to the depredations of an orc siege, the city and its people were delivered from death by Prince Malekith and the grateful populace swore fresh oaths of loyalty to their Naggarothi saviour.

Under the command of Prince Malekith, Athel Toralien grew; in size, in population, in riches, in esteem and in power. From the western coast of Elthin Arvan, the armies of the Naggarothi marched eastwards and behind their shields and spears the elves of the city built towns and farms, laid roads and bridges, raised up castles and citadels; taming the wilderness of the colonies and fashioning the land into a likeness of their ancestral homes back on the isle of Ulthuan.

For more than thirteen hundred years, Athel Toralien prospered under the guidance of Malekith. When the prince declared that he was to leave the colonies and seek his destiny in the harsh wastes of the North there were many that feared for the future fortunes of the city.

In the docks and wine houses, forest mansions and farms, there was much speculation; elves are naturally disposed to rumour and politics and such a momentous event was a topic even the most introverted spirit felt required comment. In a high tower upon the wall above the harbour, the gossip was no less animated, though there was one amongst the small group of elven maidens who was full of confidence.

‘My father is every part the city ruler,’ declared Hellebron.

Her maid, Liannin, murmured assent as she brushed her mistress’s long hair. Hellebron’s father, Alandrian, had been newly named a Prince of Nagarythe and she was enjoying the sudden but deserved elevation in status. ‘Princess Hellebron’ had a fine sound to it.

‘He has run Athel Toralien in all but name for fifty years, while Malekith has busied himself with his battles and adventures,’ the young princess continued. She straightened the gold chain around her pale throat, centring its large ruby pendant. The sunlight cast a glow from the gem, dappling Hellebron’s slight face with scarlet. ‘You will see that this can only be a change for the better.’

‘For you, perhaps,’ said Ariendil, a dark-haired elf maiden ten years Hellebron’s senior. Hellebron’s two other friends, Mithalindin and Druithana, kept their expressions neutral, though their eyes flicked between Ariendil and Hellebron, watching carefully. ‘No doubt the sun of your house continues to rise. I hope that you do not leave the rest of us in darkness.’

Hellebron giggled. ‘How poetic!’

The princess stood up and shooed away her maid, smoothing the creases in her silk dress. ‘I am sure my father’s patronage for your families will continue. You are still my friends, after all. Perhaps we can all be princesses in the future.’

As Liannin was leaving, the door to the chamber flew open, crashing against the white wall. The maid stumbled back as Lirieth strode into the room. Though twenty years younger, Hellebron’s sister was so like her that the pair might have been mistaken for twins. Her dark gaze roved around the room, taking in each of the elves in turn before settling on Hellebron.

‘Ah, sister, there you are!’ Lirieth’s voice was mellow, even in her excitement. ‘Do you never spare a glance out of the window?’

‘What is it?’ asked Druithana.

‘Have a look,’ said Lirieth.

Hellebron said nothing. She pushed Ariendil gently aside and stepped up to the high window overlooking the harbour.

It was a sunny spring day and the calm waters of the bay glittered in the afternoon light. Dozens of ships bobbed at anchor in the middle of the port. A line of black sails approached the harbour wall. There were ten ships, nine unremarkable but for the fact that they flew silver-and-black pennants of Nagarythe at their mastheads. The tenth was the cause of so much interest.

It glided across the waves without effort, four huge lateen sails filled with the breeze, surf crashing around the gold-plated ram at its prow. Hellebron had seen many great ships pass in and out of Athel Toralien, but none matched the majesty of this vessel. In size it was as large as a castle keep, spread over three hulls – one central structure flanked by two outrigger hulls that were each the size of a warship. Upon its deck stood high towers of dark-stained wood banded and trimmed with shining gold. Hellebron caught her breath and knew at once that such a ship must bear the most noble of passengers. She wondered if the Phoenix King had returned, but it seemed unlikely that such an event would go without announcements and preparation.

Like the most graceful maiden at a dance, the ship glided through the rest of the fleet before trimly tacking across the wind towards the longest pier. The sound of clarions rang out across the waves from the other nine ships, heralding the arrival of their leader.

‘Who are they?’ Ariendil asked, peering over Hellebron’s shoulder.

‘They bear flags of Nagarythe,’ said Druithana, standing on tiptoe to see past the much taller princess.

‘We will not find out by staying here,’ said Hellebron. She spun away from the window, forcing her companions to step back, and turned to her maid. ‘Go and fetch our cloaks and outdoor shoes.’

‘Yes, mistress.’ Liannin hesitated, an unspoken hope lingering on half-parted lips.

‘Yes, you can come with us,’ said Hellebron. ‘You would only pester me with questions if you did not.’

‘Thank you, mistress.’ Liannin smiled, bobbed a curtsey and hurried out of the room.

‘We’ll have to be quick,’ said Ariendil, back at the window. ‘It looks like every person in the city is coming out for a look.’

Refraining from unseemly haste, Hellebron readied herself for when Liannin returned, sweeping a crimson cloak about her shoulders and fastening it with a silver clasp in the shape of a dragon’s head. She pulled on black calfskin boots, picking off a few stray threads clinging to the brushed hide. Liannin proffered a mirror and helped Hellebron pin up her hair so that it fell in a cascade down her right side.

‘Let us see what this fuss is about,’ Hellebron announced when she was presentable. She looked at the others, who were watching her expectantly. ‘Come on, no time for dithering.’

Liannin did her best to forge a path through the thickening crowds, but further progress became impossible a few streets from the docks. Hellebron and Lirieth gave a commentary on what was happening, the sisters a head taller than their friends and able to see further over the sea of elves.

‘The large ship is just coming alongside the quay now,’ said Hellebron.

‘Look!’ The pitch of Lirieth’s voice rose sharply as she levered herself onto tiptoe, one hand on Hellebron’s shoulder. ‘It’s Prince Malekith!’

Hellebron saw him too; dressed in a fine robe of black, his purple cloak trailing, scabbard slapping his leg as he strode purposefully towards the wharf. Soon he was also having difficulty with the press of elves.

‘Is your father there?’ asked Liannin.

Hellebron scanned the crowd but caught no sight of Alandrian.

‘Yeasir is with the prince; no sign of father,’ said Lirieth.

At that moment, a ball of blue fire screamed into the air, rising above the crowds.

‘What was that?’ asked Druithana.

‘Prince Malekith sent up a bolt from Avanuir to clear a path,’ laughed Hellebron. ‘You should see them all scurrying out of the way, it’s delicious!’

There was nothing more to report, though Hellebron and Lirieth kept their friends occupied with observations on the appearance and fashions of several other noble ladies, most of it uncomplimentary.

Hellebron was distracted from her dissection of the jewellery of an elf called Larissia by the arrival of the ship at the quayside. ‘They are lowering a ramp now,’ she told the rest. A guard captain with a particularly tall crest on his helm moved across her view. Hellebron hissed in irritation and glared at Lirieth. ‘What is happening? I cannot see!’

‘There is someone coming off the ship, but I cannot see her clearly. She is embracing the prince. Oh, by the gods!’

Lirieth followed this exclamation by covering her mouth in surprise, eyes wide. The group shrieked over each other, demanding to know what was going on. The guard captain moved slightly. Hellebron could see Prince Malekith and his companion moving back from the quay. The elf with him was tall, with white skin and raven-black hair. Even at this distance, she radiated beauty and power, and the way she walked with Malekith could only mean one thing.

‘It’s Morathi!’ Hellebron nearly squealed the queen’s name in her excitement. ‘By all the gods, Morathi has come to Athel Toralien!’

Hellebron was engulfed by a barrage of questions from her friends; they wanted to know what she looked like, what she was wearing, was she carrying her famous staff? Hellebron ignored them and gazed longingly at Malekith’s mother, feeling the grace and poise that flowed from every movement. More than that, Hellebron could feel her excitement merging with the rest of the crowd. The adoration for the wife of Aenarion, the first Phoenix King, was palpable.

Hellebron’s heart stirred with conflicted feelings. She experienced the elation of the others, and at the same time she became keenly aware of a sudden jealousy. It was not directed at Morathi in person, but was envy for the reaction the queen elicited. Her mere arrival, as grand and elegant as it had been, had brought the city to a halt. Hellebron wondered what it would be like to hold such attention, to have such power and authority.

‘I have to meet her,’ Hellebron said to Lirieth. ‘Can you imagine it? We have to speak with father! He will be able to arrange it.’

‘Imagine what, dearest sister?’ said Lirieth.

‘Imagine anything, of course,’ said Hellebron, shaking her head at her sister’s ignorance. ‘We could travel to Anlec; be proper princesses in the court of Morathi. Athel Toralien is nice enough, but it is not Anlec. The latest fashions, brave princes to court us, poets writing verses about our beauty. Oh, sister, it will be wonderful!’

The white-and-black tiles of the hallway echoed with the tap of Hellebron’s boot as she waited for the call to enter Morathi’s chambers. The princess clasped her hands tightly, to prevent nervous fidgeting. She wished there was a mirror in the hallway, so that she could see her hair and the hang of her dress one last time. Liannin had gone, and there was nobody else around to check. Convinced that the complex braids and small spearwall of pins holding her hair in place had come apart without her noticing, she stared at her faint reflection in the window at the end of the hall.

A gentle cough attracted her attention. Hellebron spun back towards the door to see a shaven-headed attendant looking at her in amusement. The handmaiden had a tattoo of a blood drop on each pale cheek, and her dark dress was embroidered with silver runes, many of which Hellebron did not recognise.

‘Queen Morathi is happy to see you now.’

Still sure that her hair resembled an unseemly bird’s nest, Hellebron lifted her chin and smiled. With purposeful steps, she entered Morathi’s chamber. The attendant closed the door behind her, and suddenly Hellebron realised that she was alone with the queen.

Morathi reclined on a low couch beneath an open window, the breeze causing the locks of her hair to dance like black flames. Beyond stretched the city, and past the wall the fields and forests of Elthin Arvan. Hellebron had eyes only for Morathi, who wore a shimmering gown of gold and purple, her lips blood-red, her skin white as snow.

For all the queen’s relaxed pose, Hellebron was instantly intimidated by her presence. Morathi’s eyes were fixed upon Hellebron, sizing her up as a mountain lion might regard its next potential meal. Hellebron’s feel for magic, an unconscious sense that all elves possessed, detected amazing power. The elf maiden’s skin prickled at the sensation even as she felt a slight sickness in her gut.

Hellebron dismissed the brief nausea as nerves. She swallowed hard and realised that she had been blankly staring at Morathi for several heartbeats. The queen’s expression was expectant and Hellebron realised she was meant to say something.

She stooped into a curtsey, sweeping her long dress backwards, dipping her eyes from Morathi’s.

‘I am more honoured than I could possibly say, Your Majesty,’ Hellebron said as she straightened, eyes still downcast. Even as the words passed her lips, Hellebron recoiled from them, realising she was gushing. She took a steadying breath and forced herself to meet the queen’s unmoving gaze. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

Morathi’s reply was to wave a hand heavy with silver rings towards a straight-backed chair at the foot of the couch. Hellebron sat stiffly, hands in her lap, while Morathi regarded her with half-closed eyes, looking like a contented cat.

The queen said nothing and Hellebron wondered if she was meant to say more. She realised Morathi was toying with her, enjoying her discomfort. Hellebron stopped a frown just before it creased her forehead and forced a smile instead.

‘I hope that you have found our little city to your liking, Your Majesty,’ she said.

Morathi nodded and swung her legs off the couch to sit straighter, one arm trailing languidly along the seat’s back.

‘Athel Toralien is a fine city, and its people have been a delight.’ Morathi leaned towards Hellebron. She stroked her chin with a slender finger while her dark eyes fixed upon the princess from under thick lashes. ‘What is it that you wish from me, child?’

Hellebron was about to ask what the queen meant by the question, but Morathi’s hand snapped up, silencing her.

‘Do not feign innocence or ignorance, girl. While there are those that simply luxuriate in my presence, I see that you want something. Tell me what it is, and spare me any flattery.’

Hellebron met the queen’s bluntness with her own.

‘I wish to enjoy your favour; to travel back to Anlec with you and be a part of your circle.’

Morathi’s laughter was barbed, cutting at Hellebron’s hopes.

‘You? You wish me to associate myself with you?’ said the queen. ‘Many desire such a thing, but few are chosen. What would you offer me by way of return for this favour?’

‘My father is th–’

‘Your father serves my son. I do not need you to ensure his obedience.’ Morathi sat back and her expression softened. ‘Tell me, child, what skills do you possess? What do you know of magic?’

‘Very little, Your Majesty,’ Hellebron replied. ‘Perhaps under your tutelage I coul–’

‘No, you could not. Any talent above the ordinary that you might possess would be clear for all to see by now.’

‘There are few spellweavers in the colonies, Your Majesty,’ said Hellebron, trying to keep calm, her protest muted. ‘There is little opportunity for mystical study here.’

‘Yet if magic were your calling, you would have found a way. I have no time for those who allow their ambitions to be so easily thwarted. Perhaps you sing well?’

‘Only tolerably so, Your Majesty.’

‘A gift for poetry?’

‘No more than children’s rhymes, I must admit.’

‘At least tell me that you can dance.’

Hellebron sighed.

‘I fear such dances as we have here are old-fashioned by the standards of Ulthuan. I have friends who are more graceful.’

Morathi pouted with disappointment, a delicate frown knitting her brow.

‘Your honesty is rare, child.’

‘I would rather be honest now, than caught as a liar later, Your Majesty. Any false claim I might make would easily be proven so, given time. I have nothing more or less to offer than my dedication.’

Morathi gently shook her head.

‘Then you have nothing to offer at all. All of Nagarythe is dedicated to me, and sycophantic captains and nobles are in easy supply. What need do I have for another fawning hanger-on?’

‘None, Your Majesty.’

Hellebron held back tears, determined that the queen would not see any weakness in her.

‘A noble attempt, child,’ said the queen. ‘But your lips quiver and I see in your eyes that you are already broken with shame. Do not think that pity will sway me either. You are weak and spoiled, like so many of your generation. I am disappointed your father has not raised you better; I expected more from Alandrian’s daughter. Perhaps your mother is to blame.’

The dam broke and Hellebron broke into sobs, burying her face in her hands. She felt Morathi stand. The queen laid an arm across Hellebron’s heaving shoulders and whispered in her ear.

‘Remember this shame, my pretty child,’ said the queen. ‘Remember this moment of frailty, and realise that the future of Nagarythe is in the hands of those far stronger than you. Come to me again when you have something to give to our people.’

Hellebron felt a tight grip on her arm and wiped a hand across her face as Morathi pulled her up.

‘I am sorry,’ Hellebron said.

‘Sorry for me, or sorry for yourself, child?’

Turning imploringly to the queen, Hellebron saw there was no sympathy in those dark eyes, as black and hard as granite. The queen guided her to the door and almost shoved Hellebron back into the hallway, where the bald attendant looked at the dishevelled princess with a sly smile.

‘Morai Heg is cruel, and she has laid upon you an unremarkable destiny, Hellebron,’ Morathi said. ‘Tomorrow I will not even remember your name.’

The handmaiden entered and the door shut, the sound of
its closing like an axeblade to Hellebron’s dreams.

As soon as she was alone, the princess straightened, wiped the tears from her cheeks and darted a dagger-stare back towards the door. She cursed herself for resorting to tears – tears that had worked for so many years on her father and mother – and cursed again for not trying harder to impress the queen.

It did not matter. Hellebron knew the queen would see through whatever guile she could muster. Morathi had been wrong though; Hellebron was not weak. There were those who thought she was fey and feckless, but it was just an act. It was far easier to get others to do things for you if they thought you could not do them yourself. Morathi was immune, it seemed.

Her pride smarting from the encounter, Hellebron strode along the hall, determined that she would prove Morathi wrong. She was a princess and she deserved better. Though she did not know how, Hellebron would make Morathi see how foolish she had been to discard her with such contempt. She could not learn magic, and no amount of tutoring would make her a fine dancer or singer, but somehow Hellebron would find a way to gain that which she believed should be hers. She would go to Anlec as a rightful princess of Nagarythe.

Yes, Hellebron thought, one day Morathi will remember my name, and she will see me for what I am.

Though Hellebron gave only a vague account of her encounter with Morathi – and assumed an outlook of indifference, if not antipathy, to the court of Anlec despite her earlier enthusiasm – it was clear amongst the society of Athel Toralien that she had been snubbed by the queen. Nothing was mentioned directly to Hellebron, but she noticed the hidden smirk in the eyes of others, and in casual asides that subtly demeaned her credentials as a true princess.

Never one to back down from confrontation, Hellebron did not hide away from the whispered accusations. She attended every gala and masque, hosted parties in her father’s chambers and held her head high whenever she was in public.

In private was another matter. When alone, disappointment flooded her spirit. For all her determined thoughts after seeing Morathi, Hellebron could see no means by which she could advance her status. She suffered twofold already: by her location in the colonies and by her birth to an administrator who was a prince in name but not blood.

It did not matter in Nagarythe that Athel Toralien was one of the greatest cities of the colonies, and that it held the key to the future of the Naggarothi people. There was ever a doubt about the city in the hearts of Nagarythe-born elves, for it had been saved by the prince, and was a conquered territory in the eyes of Naggarothi law. The princes and commanders of Nagarythe were happy to wear the gems and gold that came through the port, but in their eyes Athel Toralien was only marginally Naggarothi, putting it slightly above the other kingdoms of Ulthuan, but not by much of a margin.

So Hellebron suffered in secret, bearing the veiled insults and the backhanded compliments with a smile whilst every night tears wet her pillows and anguish kept sleep at bay.

Following Morathi’s grand visit, Athel Toralien changed. The queen had brought with her many priests and priestesses from Nagarythe. Although they were made less than welcome by Prince Malekith, who had little time for the foibles of gods and goddesses, they flourished after his departure into the wastes of the North.

The various sects became part of the social fabric of the city and Hellebron participated like all the other high-born elves. The popularity of one deity over another waxed and waned like fashions of jewellery and styles of poems; for a season the elite of the city would attend the sombre remembrances of the dead watched over by the priests of Ereth Khial; for half a year the licentious dancing and erotic displays in the temple of Atharti; and during the summers bands of nobles rode forth on long hunts and sacrificed their kills to Anath Raema.

The ceremonies of the sects became a regular part of the social calendar, and Hellebron did her best to attend the most favoured events and lavish her attention on the highly regarded holy leaders. Despite her dedication, she was always at the periphery; never chosen to speak at a sacrifice, never mentioned as a benefactor, never offered the chance to be drawn into the greater secrets of the cults despite her enthusiasm to learn more.

For five years Hellebron politicked and patronised, but her standing never benefitted. Despair threatened again with the realisation that religion did not promise the answers to her ambitions. The cult leaders were narrow-minded, the priests and priestesses vying with each other for greatest acceptance and acclaim. Divided, no single sect would attract the sort of power needed to impress Morathi, not here in the hinterlands.

One hot summer evening Hellebron sat staring out of the window. She looked at the huge expanse of the Great Ocean and bitterly imagined the great towers of Anlec on Ulthuan far to the west. As the sun set on the golden waves, she felt that Nagarythe might as well be on another world for all her chances of reaching it. For sure, her father would pay for a ship and send her to Anlec, but Hellebron would not go there with nothing to offer; even if her father’s riches were greater than those of many ancient royal families, to turn up at the wharfs of Galthyr with no reputation would put Hellebron in the same category as the daughter of a farmer or merchant.

A knock on the door broke her contemplation. She swept back a few rebellious locks of hair, affected a wistful pose and called for the visitor to enter.

‘Evening greetings to you, sister,’ said Lirieth as she stepped inside, shadowed by a tall captain wearing bright armour chased with sapphires on the breastplate.

‘Greetings, sister,’ said Hellebron, standing. She inclined her head politely towards the officer. ‘This must be Maenredil.’

‘It is my pleasure and honour to meet you, princess,’ said Maenredil. His hair was jet-black, swept back over his shoulders with a band of gold. His eyes were animated, gauging Hellebron swiftly before roaming about the chamber, taking in every detail. ‘You are as beautiful as your sister.’

Hellebron still felt a shiver of pleasure at being called a princess, and she could see amusement in the eyes of the army captain. Her sister had chosen her paramour wisely; Hellebron had sworn she would never marry less than a prince.

‘I have something I want you to see,’ said Lirieth. ‘Maenredil has somewhere to take us, something you have not seen before.’

‘That is a vague invitation, sister.’ Hellebron’s gaze slid over to Maenredil. ‘If this is some form of Athartist orgy, I must decline. Though there are many pleasures of the flesh to be enjoyed, I cannot bring myself to do so in the company of my own sister.’

To his credit, Maenredil looked away, embarrassed. Lirieth did not seem to notice.

‘No, it is nothing like that, sister. It is a warrior’s ceremony.’

‘I have no desire to watch soldiers marching back and forth,’ said Hellebron.

‘It is so very different from that,’ said Lirieth with a giggle. ‘I do not want to spoil the surprise, but please, come with us. What else would you do tonight? Sit here, grudging the stars their prettiness and the waves their melodious voices?’

Hellebron looked at the two of them, standing arm-in-arm just inside the door. Maenredil’s playful look had returned.

‘I think you will find this evening enlightening and entertaining,’ said the captain. ‘There have been very few ladies allowed to attend this gathering, but those who have speak nothing but praise of it.’

‘Very well,’ Hellebron said, pretending an air of vague interest. In truth, she was intrigued. She had not seen her sister so enamoured of another elf since she had been a child, and if nothing else it would be wise to spend some time with Maenredil in order to gain a better understanding of a potential brother-in-law.

When Hellebron enquired what attire would be required for this event, she was told they would be leaving the city. With the aid of Liannin, she quickly picked out some riding clothes, braided her hair tight and pulled on a pair of long boots. They were already riding along the east road when the sun finally disappeared behind Athel Toralien. Maenredil brought out a riding lamp and they followed its glow as he led them from the main road, turning south towards the forests.

They rode on until the only light was Maenredil’s lamp and the swathe of stars above. As the track wound beneath the eaves of the forest, Hellebron could see glimmers of orange ahead: torchlight. Soon they caught up with other elves, riding and walking to the south. Most wore armour; a few were dressed in more courtly robes.

They came upon a wide clearing, lit by a single fire as high as the branches. In the ruddy glare Hellebron could see hundreds of elves. Smoke drifted between the trees and lingered under the branches like a red mist. Hellebron could smell more than burning wood; a scent both acrid and sweet that she could not place.

‘A dedication to Anath Raema?’ Hellebron sighed. ‘I have attended more hunting sacrifices than I care to remember. Really, this is quite disappointing, sister.’

Lirieth’s reply was a smile and a nod towards the pyre. Maenredil helped Lirieth from her mount and did likewise for Hellebron. He hooked arms with both of the sisters and led them to the edge of the clearing. Closer to the fire, Hellebron thought she could recognise the strange odour in the smoke: roasting boar. She looked for a carcass on the flames but could see nothing. Squinting, she saw some bones amongst the burning logs and now that she was in the clearing, she could see the ground was dark, made of packed ash from many previous ceremonies.

They waited in silence for some time, until Hellebron was thoroughly bored. A study of the other attendees provided little distraction; almost all were soldiers of various ranks. Clad in their armour with swords on their hips, they waited patiently, saying nothing.

‘When is something going to happen?’ whispered Hellebron. ‘I am going to stink of smoke for the whole night.’

‘Hush,’ said Maenredil. His tone was mollifying rather than curt, but Hellebron smarted nonetheless. She was a princess and should not be addressed in such a way, especially by a simple captain.

Her protest died on her lips as the crowd parted to her right. An elf of senior years – seven hundred, at least – paced slowly from the treeline. He was naked except for a cloth of red wrapped about his waist. The fabric looked strangely stiff until Hellebron realised that it was matted with dried blood. The elf’s exposed chest was criss-crossed with a tracery of fine scars, as were his arms. His white hair was wound into wild braids, which splayed from his head like a hydra. In one hand he held a long knife with a serrated edge, in the other a large, golden-rimmed clay goblet.

Behind him came two lines of attendants, ten of them, wearing nothing but red cloaks. Two were maidens, the rest were male. All of them were painted with crimson runes; more blood, Hellebron guessed. Each of them held a different implement: variously shaped blades, hooks, platters and cups.

The high priest stopped just before the flames and turned to face the gathered elves. Silhouetted against the fire, he raised his arms and tilted his head back. Hellebron stepped back in shock as an otherworldly screech emanated from the priest’s throat, unlike anything she had heard before; part the wail of an injured animal, part the roar of a savage predator.

The attendants added their voices to the long cry, each shrieking at a different pitch, their screeching spreading out through the forest. Several dozen elves in the crowd shouted also, wordless howls that made Hellebron think of pain and hunger.

The priest’s hands dropped. He crossed his arms over his chest, silencing the gathering.

‘Praise Khaine!’ His voice was as dry as tinder, but carried across the clearing. ‘Let us give our thanks for victories past, and seek His divine hand in our future conquests. Praise the Lord of Blood, the Prince of Death, for delivering our enemies to our blades.

‘Many of you march forth to the south and east, where a horde of the troublesome beast-creatures has gathered in the dark woods. Give your praise tonight and bring Khaine’s curse on your foes tomorrow. Let them know the red wrath of His attention and with His name upon your lips strike down those who would despoil our lands. Let Khaine drink deep of the offerings that we give Him this night, as we promise to sate His hunger for flesh and slake His thirst for blood upon the field of battle.’

The priest’s head turned left and right as he studied the crowd. Hellebron felt his eyes upon her and stepped to one side, unconsciously shielding herself behind Maenredil. The priest’s gaze moved on and she breathed a sigh of relief. She shuddered, though could find no reason for the momentary fear that had gripped her.

‘It is good to see new faces amongst the familiar,’ continued the priest. ‘Our Lord Aenarion, founder of Nagarythe, King of Ulthuan, would be proud to see those that follow in his footsteps. Did not the Lord of Murder place his blessing upon the troubled brow of Aenarion and deliver us from the daemons? Did not Aenarion take up the holy blade of Khaine to smite our enemies? Now, as then, Khaine looks upon the bloody deeds wrought in his name and is pleased.’

Hellebron felt light-headed. Through the fog of her thoughts, she realised that there was something besides wood and flesh burning on the pyre; a narcotic of some kind. She was no stranger to some of the more exotic leaf and root available from the colonies even further to the east, but she had only occasionally indulged, and always in the company of those she knew well. Deep down she objected to being drugged without her consent, but any protest she might have made stayed deep inside, held in check by the soporific effect of the vapours she was breathing.

She looked at Lirieth and saw that her sister was wide-eyed, hanging on the priest’s every word. Maenredil’s face was flushed, his breathing coming in short pants. Struggling to focus, Hellebron saw others in the crowd were similarly affected, baring their teeth, hands clenched into tight fists. She swayed as she turned back to the priest, who had continued to speak.

His words lost meaning, and the heat of the flames was like the burning of ice on Hellebron’s skin. It was a pleasant sensation, relaxing and invigorating at the same time, like a languid dance with a handsome suitor that promised more vigorous activity later. Hellebron felt the weight of her cloak on her shoulder pressing into her flesh and flung it to the ground, glad to be free of its cloying grip.

At the touch of her hand on her skin, she trembled with excitement. She ran her long fingernails down her throat, delighting at the experience. Every sense was heightened: the chanting of the priest and his disciples; the smoke; the crackle of flames; the touch of the breeze; the softness of the ground underfoot.

Hellebron longed to heighten and sustain the feeling. She ripped off her boots and cast them aside, revelling in the touch of the bare earth on the soles of her feet. Her clothes were too tight, constricting, a barrier between her and the world. She gripped the collar of her loose shirt and was about to pull herself free from its woven prison when she felt Maenredil’s hand upon her shoulder.

The sudden intervention startled Hellebron out of her trance. Still intoxicated, she felt no embarrassment or regret at her actions, but became suddenly aware that she was not alone.

Something snarled and growled in the darkness beyond the firelight. For a moment Hellebron was afraid; some creature stalked the woods, perhaps the bloodthirsty spirit of Khaine Himself. She shrank closer to Maenredil for protection; saw that Lirieth held his other arm tightly, eyes wide with excitement, a thin trail of blood leaking down her chin where she had bitten her lip.

Something stumbled through the undergrowth.

The firelight reflected from two eyes in the darkness, coming closer. The elves were hushed, all attention on the approaching creature. In the silence, a harsh panting reverberated around the clearing.

The beast of the forests emerged. It was roughly the height of an elf, far broader in shoulder and chest. Its head was like that of a goat, with six curling horns; hair covered its arms and legs, and though upright, it walked on hooves rather than feet.

Hellebron shuddered, but nobody else seemed the least bit concerned. It was only after her initial shock that Hellebron noticed the beastman’s arms were bound behind its back. A short way behind, several Naggarothi soldiers followed, their spears at the ready.

The beastman glared with red eyes, scowling and grunting at the assembled elves, angry and confused. With a snarl that exposed rows of pointed teeth, it lunged towards the audience. The closest guard reacted instantly, swinging the butt of her spear against the back of the creature’s legs, sending it sprawling into the packed ash underfoot. The soldier followed up, rapping her spear against the creature’s jaw, stunning it.

Hauled to its feet, the beastman staggered as it was thrust towards the high priest. The attendants swarmed around the sacrifice, forcing it to its knees, grabbing hair and horns to pull back its head, exposing its huge chest and vein-corded throat. The high priest gently drew the tip of his dagger across his own chest, cutting a thin line through the skin. A single drop of blood seeped from the wound. The high priest allowed the blood to drip into the goblet he held.

He turned towards the fire, raising the cup in toast.

‘I offer up myself, for all blood runs swift in your name, mighty Khaine.’ The high priest swung back towards his congregation. ‘In time, we all pray to give up ourselves in Your name, upon the field of bloodshed.’

‘Praise Khaine,’ whispered the crowd.

Hellebron’s eyes were fixed on the beastman as the high priest loomed over it, swathing the creature in shadow. The knife flashed in the firelight and a line of red appeared across the dark skin of the beast’s chest. Again and again the knife swept down, lightly touching, razor-sharp. Soon blood was streaming from two dozen wounds across the beastman’s body and arms. The cuts were so fine Hellebron thought they looked like bright red spiders’ webs. Blood oozed across the beast’s rough skin, matting its body hair, collecting in folds of flesh.

The attendants hauled the beast upright and blood surged from its injuries, spattering onto the dark ground.

‘Let this be the first of many lives You will taste in the days to come!’ yelled the high priest. ‘Praise Khaine!’

He plunged his dagger into the creature’s gut.

‘Praise Khaine!’ chanted the crowd.

Braying wildly, the beastman thrashed, but was thrown to the ground. Four of the attendants leapt upon the creature, driving long nails through its wrists and ankles, pinning it down. The others set to work with their blades and hooks, cutting through skin, fat and muscle, exposing bone and organs. Piece by piece, the beastman was opened up and laid out for all to see.

Hellebron was fascinated. She was rapt by the intricacy of the work. Every stroke of dagger was lovingly applied, a deadly caress of a gesture. The blood was hypnotising, the essence of life gradually leaking from the creature it sustained. Slippery tubes and strangely coloured organs were pulled free, while an attendant applied sharp cutters to the creature’s ribs, splaying them open one at a time until the heart and lungs were exposed. All the while, the priest filled his cup with gushing crimson.

‘Praise Khaine!’ shrieked the high priest.

‘Praise Khaine!’ roared the crowd.

The high priest finished the work, handing the goblet of blood to an assistant so that he could cut free the wildly beating heart. It spasmed in his hand for a moment, pumping blood across his exposed flesh.

‘Praise Khaine!’ The cry echoed through the woods. Hellebron realised her voice was amongst those raised in adoration.

The high priest cast the bloodied heart into the flames of the fire, face turned to the sky. Hellebron looked up and it seemed that the stars burned red for a moment. She could feel the energy swirling around the clearing; in the air, in the ground, in the elves around her.

This was power. This was power she could touch, control, shape to her design.

The goblet of blood was being passed around the worshippers, who each took a sip. Hellebron fidgeted as it made its way around the clearing, anxious to partake of the beastman’s strength, desperate to feel the blessing of Khaine.

Lirieth drank first, wetting her lips, a brief wrinkle of distaste on her brow. Maenredil took a mouthful, swallowing with relish. He grinned at Hellebron, exposing his blood-flecked teeth and crimson gums.

Hellebron almost snatched the goblet from his hands. She was the last. She downed the contents in one draught, tasting iron and forest and hunger. The thick fluid rolled down her throat and filled her with warmth – not the warmth of the blood, but something else. She wiped fingers around the rim of the goblet and licked the last sticky patches from her fingertips.

Hellebron was suddenly aware that all eyes were turned to her. Murmurs of disquiet rippled through the crowd. She turned an enquiring look at Maenredil.

‘The last of the blood is for Khaine, to be poured on the flames,’ the captain said quietly.

Horrified, Hellebron swung around to the high priest.

‘I meant no disrespect!’ she declared. ‘I did not know.’

The high priest said nothing as one of his attendants snatched the goblet from Hellebron’s grasp.

‘Wait!’ snarled Hellebron. She grabbed the goblet back and shoved the protesting attendant to one side. She stalked across the clearing and stopped just in front of the high priest, thrusting the goblet back towards him.

‘Take it,’ she said.

The Khainite priest took hold of the cup, but Hellebron did not let go, pulling it to her stomach. With her other hand, she seized the high priest’s wrist, pulling forwards the hand that held the sacrificial dagger.

‘I offer my blood as apology to mighty Khaine.’

Hellebron forced the high priest’s hand down, cutting her chest with his blade. Blood welled from the wound and dribbled into the goblet. The sensation was almost overwhelming, a white heat that burned through to her heart.

‘Praise Khaine!’ she shrieked, pushing the high priest away.

The Khainite looked at Hellebron in confusion. Frustrated, she snatched the goblet from him and strode to the fire. Upending the vessel, she threw her own blood into the flames.

‘Accept this offering, Lord of Death, Prince of Murder!’ Hellebron raised the cup above her head and turned to the others. ‘Bless me with Your divine anger. Gift to me the rage eternal.’

She fell to her knees, tears of joy streaming down her face. The elves stood in shock for a moment.

‘Praise Khaine!’ the cry came, started by Maenredil. The rest of the congregation took up the call, and Hellebron fell to her belly, writhing in pleasure, screaming prayers to the Lord of Slaughter.

She did not know how long it lasted. Eventually the red haze that had clouded her vision subsided. The others were leaving; Lirieth and Maenredil stood to one side, waiting for Hellebron. She became aware of the stinging pain above her breast. Dried blood caked her shirt. After-images fluttered in her mind; of the dying beastman, the rising flames, her blood upon the dagger. She could not believe it was over so soon.

Hellebron stood, dusted the ash from her clothes and turned to the high priest.

‘I beseech you, prophet of Khaine, to teach me more,’ she said. She grabbed his dagger-hand again and held the knife’s point to her chest, just above her heart. ‘Let me serve Khaine with my life, or else I must offer Him my death.’

The Khainite smiled and cupped a blood-caked hand to Hellebron’s cheek. Hellebron looked deep into his eyes and for a moment thought he would plunge in the dagger.

The Khainite’s murderous look passed. He pulled back the knife.

‘You have been touched by Him in a way that is rare, my child,’ said the priest. ‘I will come to you tomorrow, and we shall see if you wish to stay true to this path.’

‘I am of a single mind,’ said Hellebron. ‘I shall be Khaine’s mistress, devoted to him in every way.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said the Khainite. ‘When the sun is up and your flesh has cooled, we will see if you still feel the same way. That is my last word for the moment.’

Hellebron stepped back and nodded. Turning away, her step was light as she crossed back to Maenredil and Lirieth. Her eyes had been opened. She could feel Khaine’s touch upon her spirit, always there but now awakened. She knew what she must do.

Hellebron had found the purpose she had been seeking. As a priestess of Khaine, she would travel to Anlec, accorded all the respect and awe due to her position. None save Aenarion would be a greater servant to Khaine.

Hellebron was not even sure which gristly organ was the heart. She rummaged around inside the goblin’s chest, looking for something that might be a main artery. Her knife slashed here and there until a fountain of acrid blood splashed across her face.

‘Found it!’ she declared gleefully, ripping free the organ.

Lethruis, the high priest, smiled patiently. Hellebron squeezed the last of the dark blood into the chalice and then dropped the heart onto a brazier, where it hissed and spat. Shadows danced on the walls and ceiling of the small stone chamber. She looked doubtfully at the ooze in the cup.

‘Do I have to drink this?’ she asked.

‘If the sacrifice is not good enough for you, what will Khaine think of it?’ said Lethruis.

Hellebron conceded the point with a sigh and raised the cup to her trembling lips. She stopped and stooped to take a breath of the narcotic smoke coming from the brazier. The burning dreamroot filled her lungs and her body relaxed.

‘This may help,’ said Lethruis. He sprinkled a ground substance into the goblin blood. ‘Bladesbane makes the blood taste sweeter and the effect of the dreamroot will be enhanced.’

Believing it was better to get the whole thing over with, Hellebron took a mouthful and swallowed quickly, gulping down the goblin’s essence before she could taste it. It was unpleasant, having none of the vitality of the beastman blood she had tasted at the first ceremony.

‘Praise Khaine,’ she said, emptying the remaining contents of the goblet into the brazier. The flames almost died, but not quite. They burned low and blue for a moment before growing in strength and returning to their normal colour.

Lethruis nodded with satisfaction. ‘You are an able student,’ said the priest. ‘You are attentive, dedicated and willing to learn.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hellebron, taking a cloth proffered by Lethruis to wipe her lips.

‘For more than a hundred days you have come to me to learn the ways of Khaine,’ said Lethruis. ‘If you wish to truly master the arts of the Lord of Murder, we must spend more time together. Coming here every few days is not enough. If you truly wish to be a disciple of Khaine, you must renounce your life and spend all of your time in His service. Unless you are willing to do this, there is no point in continuing.’

‘But you will be leaving Athel Toralien,’ said Hellebron. ‘You want me to travel with the army? Leave the city?’

Lethruis shrugged. ‘If you are not willing to put yourself wholly within Khaine’s bloody embrace, I will teach you no more.’

‘My father would disapprove.’

‘Not all sacrifice is made with knife and blood, Hellebron,’ said Lethruis. ‘You face a choice. Do not rush your decision. Come to me in two days’ time, the night before we leave for the new campaign.’

Hellebron nodded, gave a quick bow of respect and left the shrine room. She walked slowly up the steps from the underground chamber, still light-headed from the dreamroot and bladesbane. The short stairwell took her to an open dome, the roof and columns carved from black granite, engraved with runes of Khaine.

The army mustering field stretched around her, an expanse of black and purple pavilions, corrals, storehouses, armouries and kitchens. The Naggarothi were preparing to march far to the east and south, claiming fresh lands for Prince Malekith and Ulthuan.

Walking across the packed dirt, Hellebron’s head throbbed as the effects of the narcotics wore off. She felt another pain too: the pain of indecision. Lethruis was forcing her to make a simple choice, but the choice was not so simple. Did she really want to give up her inheritance as the daughter of Athel Toralien’s ruler? Could she go without the comforts she had been raised to enjoy, to live in some dark shrine and traipse back and forth across the world following the armies?

This gave her pause. She remembered what it was that had drawn her to Khaine, aside from the monumental sensation of potency and energy derived from the sacrifice: power. High priests were influential, and the role of Khaine within Nagarythe’s army and the ties to Aenarion were powerful tools. All of that power was for nothing, if Hellebron could not take it with her when she finally travelled to Ulthuan.

She came to a well, drew up some water and washed the blood from her hands and face. A nearby red-walled tent was set aside for the priest and acolytes. Hellebron ducked inside, stripped off her bloodstained robes and pulled on a dark red dress, fixing it with a thick black belt.

All about the tent were the accoutrements of Khaine; the chalices and knives, pendants and engraved saws. A circlet of black-enamelled iron sat upon a small altar stone. Hellebron had never seen Lethruis wear the Crown of Sacrifice, and wondered what it signified. She knew only its name, and resolved to ask the high priest when she returned.

The brief distraction settled her thoughts. Throwing in her lot with Lethruis would not aid Hellebron’s cause one bit. It would mean nothing to Morathi; Hellebron would just be one of many priests and priestesses of Khaine that served with the armies of Nagarythe. Hellebron had to do more. Just as Morathi had brought the worship of Ereth Khial, Morai Heg, Anath Raema and other gods and goddesses, Hellebron would bring the power of Khaine to the people of Athel Toralien.

Lethruis was too much of a traditionalist, but he was a true priest. For the moment he was a useful fount of knowledge. For the moment only. When she had learned all she could learn from the high priest, Hellebron would chart her own course. She had spent days in her father’s library, researching the history of Nagarythe, reading over and over of the founding of the kingdom by Aenarion. The tales of Aenarion’s wars bearing the Sword of Khaine, the Widowmaker, thrilled her. She learnt how the God of Murder had laid his blessing upon the Naggarothi so that they might banish the daemons that had beset Ulthuan.

Many had forgotten that legacy. While the pleasure-seekers lost themselves in drug-addled orgies, and the morbid poets sang the praises of Ereth Khial, the heart of Nagarythe had been left by the wayside. Hellebron was a princess now, her father a proud soldier and one of the most powerful elves in the colonies. It was her duty to remind the people of their great history, and ensure that the realms of Nagarythe remained strong, pure to the traditions of Aenarion.

She would bring Khaine to the people of Athel Toralien and create a second Anlec in Elthin Arvan. As a prophetess of Khaine, she would eclipse the mundane achievements of the other priests.

Hellebron rode back to the city, mind full of this vision, of an army of followers sworn to Khaine, ready to do her every bidding. She remembered Morathi’s spectacular reception in Athel Toralien, and dreamed of the day she too would be welcomed by a cheering throng and her name would be sung by poets for generations.

Prince Alandrian took the news better than Hellebron had expected.

‘It will be good for you to learn something of our people beyond these walls, and of a world not confined by tapestries and cushions,’ said her father. He leaned forwards in his chair and rested his arms on his scroll-littered desk. ‘Lirieth should go with you too.’

Hellebron hesitated. The conversation was going too well and she expected some kind of caveat was forthcoming.

‘Once you are out of sight of the city, you are beyond my power,’ said Alandrian. ‘You will be afforded no special treatment, by the priests or the commanders of the army. It is good that you desire to grow stronger, but you will have to do so by your own means.’

‘I understand, father,’ said Hellebron. She looked at his sincere face and realised that this was not simply a talk to rouse her spirits; he meant every word he was saying. He was not going to disown her, but he was not going to use his influence on her behalf either. ‘When Lirieth and I return, we will be a credit to the family.’

‘You and your sister must look after each other,’ he said. ‘I know that the two of you are close, but you will need each other more than you think.’

‘What if Lirieth does not want to come?’ asked Hellebron.

‘She will,’ said her father, smiling fondly. ‘She adores you, and if you ask her to follow, she will.’

Hellebron considered this. It was a responsibility she had not foreseen. It was one matter to tie her fate to the cult of Khaine, another to make the same choice for her sister. But had it not been Lirieth who had first introduced Hellebron to the Khainites? And Lirieth would be happy to accompany Maenredil on his campaigns.

‘I will not pressure her, father, but if she chooses to come with me, we will grow stronger together.’

Alandrian nodded. ‘One other thing, daughter,’ he said. ‘If you are to learn the way of Khaine, as I and many others did, you must seek not only the ceremony and sacrifice; you must embrace all of Khaine’s gifts and learn to wage war. It is this that is Aenarion’s legacy to the Naggarothi; do not forget it.’

It was Hellebron’s turn to nod. ‘I will study the many bloody ways, in the shrine and upon the battlefield. We will show those in Nagarythe that the true spirit of the Naggarothi still flows in Athel Toralien.’

Prince Alandrian walked around the table and embraced Hellebron, stroking her long hair.

‘You will make me very proud, I am sure,’ he said. The two parted, the prince leaving his hand on his daughter’s arm for a moment. ‘All of Athel Toralien will be proud.’

And Morathi, thought Hellebron? Would the queen be impressed? Hellebron’s star would shine so bright in the colonies, Morathi would be forced to recognise her achievements.

Hellebron and Lirieth bade a sincere farewell to their father and quit the city of Athel Toralien. The lives of elves are not measured in days or seasons, or even years. The sisters saw their first battle in the foothills of the mountains to the south of Athel Toralien. While she chanted the praises of Khaine and invoked the blessings of the Lord of Murder, Hellebron watched the Naggarothi cut down an army of Chaos-twisted beasts. She admired the cruel efficiency of Nagarythe’s host, striking with sure and deadly precision like the knife of Lethruis.

A score of wounded foes were brought back to the camp that night and the pyre of Khaine burned high. Hellebron and Lirieth took their places with the other acolytes, bearing the sacred implements of Khaine while Lethruis despatched the sacrifices. Those Naggarothi warriors who had performed exceptionally during the battle were anointed with the blood of their fallen enemies, receiving the praise of Lethruis and the blessing of Khaine for their violent endeavours.

By day the sisters drilled with the soldiers, learning to fight as one part of the whole, two spears amongst several thousands. By night they listened to Lethruis’s tales of Aenarion and his war against the daemons.

With each story, Hellebron’s ambition grew and she knew she had picked the right path. In Khaine’s service was the glory of myth, and amongst the Naggarothi there was no greater glory.

Hellebron showed greater patience than in any other endeavour she had embarked upon. She suffered the long marches, the weary dawns and the harrowing confrontations with orcs and beastmen without complaint. She revelled in the sacrifices to Khaine, and gathered a small following of her own amongst the warriors, who cheered her flourishes with the dagger and her eloquent praises to the Lord of Murder.

For two decades the sisters followed the armies of the Naggarothi; fighting in the spear line, and performing the rituals of Khaine upon the eve of battle and the many nights of victory. Under the tutelage of the captains and the stern eye of Lethruis, Hellebron learnt the secrets of spear and sword, dagger and chant.

Lirieth was no less accomplished. The pair fought and offered praise beside each other, and so grew inseparable. Swept up in her dedication to Khaine, Lirieth spurned Maenredil’s advances until the captain grew bored and the two ended their tryst. The sisters fought for each other, for their brothers-in-arms, and for Khaine. Lethruis often referred to them as the Daughters of Murder, an epithet Hellebron quickly adopted.

Across the wild mountains, dark forests and windswept grasslands of Elthin Arvan, the Naggarothi swept all before them. At times they fought alone, and at others they were joined by the small armies from the other colony-cities. Such alliances were fraught with tension; the Naggarothi felt that other elves were hanging on the tails of Nagarythe, and for their part the soldiers of other kingdoms were suspicious of the Naggarothi ceremonies and their apparent love of killing.

Lethruis forbade his acolytes from speaking to the elves of other kingdoms, but when she had the opportunity, Hellebron ignored the proscription and would pass on the secrets of Khaine to those few who were willing to listen. With each passing year, she became more convinced that Lethruis was small-minded and jealous of her popularity. The high priest was content to preach his bloody sermons to his own, but Hellebron sought to spread the word of Khaine beyond the Naggarothi.

Three times over the following twenty years, the army returned to Athel Toralien. Hellebron weighted down her expectations on that first triumphant parade, and took the praises and cheers of the city’s people as one amongst many. On the second visit, she entered the city as a priestess of Khaine, but it was Lethruis who addressed the crowds and extolled the virtues of Khaine. Hellebron smarted at this glory-stealing but said nothing. Instead she listened to the advice of Lirieth, who spoke of patience and dedication.

On the third visit, Hellebron was dismayed. The folk of Athel Toralien were easily bored and while the Daughters of Murder had been the subject of tales and gossip for a few years, interest in their exploits soon waned. The success of the Naggarothi armies was taken as fact, and each victory was celebrated with less enthusiasm than the last. The beastmen of the North were all but exterminated, and the orcs of the East had been driven out by the dwarfs. The lands of Elthin Arvan were almost as safe as a pasture in Cothique, but the Naggarothi were a forceful people and would not quit their wars.

Hellebron chafed at being one amongst many; both in battle and in the cult of Khaine. She and Lirieth sought out the greatest swordmasters and the most accomplished captains in order to learn new skills, of blade and command. Some were willing teachers, happy to pass on their skills. Others were vain elves, many hundreds of years old. These the sisters ensnared with favours of the flesh, seducing them with their beauty, manipulating them to pass on all that they knew before discarding them.

Word of these exploits reached Lethruis, and the high priest punished the sisters harshly, forbidding them from attending the Khainite ceremonies. Hellebron longed to challenge Lethruis for control, but the old priest was too canny to be tricked, and too unimaginative to share her grander vision for the cult of Khaine.

Robbed of a stage, Hellebron and Lirieth’s popularity within the army dwindled. In defiance of Lethruis, they held their own dedications to Khaine in secret, performing their bloody acts before a select audience of the most influential captains and warriors. Compared to the dogmatic, time-worn displays of Lethruis, these sacrifices were energetic and fresh. Hellebron allowed others to plunge the dagger into the orcs and goblins and beastmen that had been captured, sharing in Khaine’s glory, while Lethruis stubbornly maintained himself as the conduit between the elves and their bloodthirsty god.

Crossing the lands belonging to the colonies of other kingdoms, the Naggarothi marched almost to the deserts of the south. Here the orcs had gathered, far from the cities of the dwarfs and elves, and it was here the army of Athel Toralien would test itself again.

An orcish settlement had been located by the outriders and the next day would bring fresh bloodshed. Lethruis had demanded that Lirieth and Hellebron attend him for the pre-battle rites, yet gave them no part to play in the ceremony. Hellebron silently fumed as she watched Lethruis despatch the sacrifices without fuss, cutting out their hearts while he droned out the same tired platitudes to Khaine he had spoken for hundreds of years.

She watched the small crowd – barely a third of the army had bothered to attend – and knew that even here, amidst Nagarythe’s most fervent warriors, the worship of Khaine was slipping away. The soldiers chanted ‘Praise Khaine’ with hollow eyes and lifeless voices, and the sight of it tore at Hellebron’s heart.

Twenty years of hardship she had spent trying to create a myth for herself, and even the small glories she had achieved were ebbing away with every monotonous chant. The battle of the next day would likely be the last for many years to come, and Hellebron’s future would drift away into a life of grey obscurity.

When the last heart was tossed into the flames, Hellebron wanted to seize Lethruis and throw him in after it. It was not only her ambition that the tired priest was destroying; more fervently than ever she wanted the praise of Khaine to be shouted from the lips of every elf, and though he spoke the sacred words and told the tales, Lethruis was destroying Aenarion’s legacy with every lacklustre ceremony and insipid dedication. Khaine, who through Aenarion had saved the elves, would fade into obscurity, leaving Hellebron’s people weak and vulnerable.

When the crowd had wandered away, Hellebron and Lirieth returned to their tent. Hellebron was silent for some time as the two sisters sat sharpening their weapons.

‘Nobody will care!’ said Hellebron, no longer able to hold in her frustration. ‘Tomorrow will be seen as just another battle against the barbaric greenskin tribes. Hunting hawks are held in higher regard than we are.’

‘We are still doing Khaine’s work, sister,’ said Lirieth, sweeping her stone along the edge of her curved sword. ‘Blood will still be spilt.’

‘It is not enough!’ snapped Hellebron, tossing her blade to the rug-covered ground in exasperation. ‘How many have fallen to us, my sister? A thousand spirits sent to Khaine on the battlefield and in the fires, but it stirs not a word from those who should be praising our names.’

‘Then we must give the storytellers something to tell,’ said Lirieth. She held up her blade and inspected the edge. Satisfied, she sheathed the sword, placed it to one side and drew out a serrated dagger. ‘A tale can only be told so many times, sister. If it is glory that you seek, you must give the people something new. They are fickle, so we must capture their imagination.’

‘Or perhaps we have simply been away too long and our faces and names go unremembered,’ said Hellebron. She picked up her sword, whispered an apology to Khaine for disrespecting
her weapon, and drew her stone along it with a keening shriek.

‘I think you would be disappointed, sister,’ said Lirieth. ‘If you hope to return now and receive the adulation that was poured upon Morathi, you will not receive it.’

Hellebron snarled. ‘Ingrates and sycophants, all of them,’ she said. ‘What is it that Morathi possesses that we do not?’

‘A legacy,’ said Lirieth. ‘She was Aenarion’s queen, and for that she will be forever revered. Unless you plan to marry a Phoenix King, you will need something else to excite the people.’

‘Prince Malekith has never taken a wife…’

‘I was jesting, sister. If Malekith has not married yet, it is unlikely he ever will; and if he chose a bride, there are other Naggarothi princesses far higher up the list than you or I. Whatever renown we seek, we must earn it. Was not that the point, when we set out? If you merely want to marry into reputation, you could do so at any time.’

Hellebron tested the edge of her sword, effortlessly slicing a piece of cloth. Satisfied, she used the rag to wipe a smear from the silver-inlaid blade. She saw the reflection of her face and paused, admiring herself for a moment. She knew she was beautiful, but beauty was not unique. She stared hard at herself, her ruby-red lips, the darker paint around her eyes, the whiteness of her dyed hair and pale skin.

‘Fear,’ she said.

‘What do you mean, sister?’

‘The people fear Morathi as much as they respect her. She is a sorceress without equal. Her entourage intimidates people with their strange customs and mysterious powers. Alone she is forbidding, but as a leader she embodies something far greater. We must get some followers of our own, sister.’

‘Father once said that the nature of power is twofold,’ said Lirieth. ‘On the one hand, those with power promise reward to those that serve them well; on the other, they offer punishment to those that fail to serve. What have we to offer on either count?’

‘On the second, we have all the power we need,’ said Hellebron. She held up her blade, touching its tip to Lirieth’s dagger. ‘Death. Perhaps it is time that Khaine feasted on better fare than degenerate beasts and the gristle of orcs?’

‘Why sweeten every meal with our own blood, when the whole banquet could be as succulent?’ Lirieth said with a smile, picking up her sister’s intent.

‘Tomorrow, during the battle,’ said Hellebron. ‘We will show the true desires of Khaine. We will give the army a sacrifice it shall never forget!’

The following morning heralded an inauspicious start. The sky was filled with grey, and light rain dampened the mood of the Naggarothi camp. The ground underfoot was boggy, broken by glistening rocks and deeper patches of marshland. In the haze, nothing could be seen of the mountains to the east and the wilderness was swathed in a melancholy gloom.

Scouts had returned during the night, confirming a large orc encampment to the south-east, made of rough hide tents and little else. It was hard to estimate enemy numbers, but the scouts agreed it was between ten and fifteen thousand – perhaps half a dozen tribes or more forced together by the advances of the elves and dwarfs. There was little hope that the battle would be anything of remark; a small, dispirited enemy army and the mediocre weather would provide little sport or spectacle for the battle-hungry Naggarothi.

Their calls dulled by the rain, the clarions of the Naggarothi summoned the host to arms. In lines of silver, black and purple, the elves mustered. Spear companies formed up, flanked by regiments of bowmen, and warriors armed with repeating crossbows fashioned by the dwarfs. Bolt-thrower crews dismantled their machines where they had been set to guard the camp, and trudged into place behind the main lines. Prince Malriad, commander of the army, mounted his silver-mailed charger and took his position at the head of the knights of Athel Toralien, their pennants hanging limply from their lances.

The sun broke briefly through the grey, glistening from moisture-dappled mail and the tips of spears and arrows. The dazzling effect was fleeting as the clouds thickened and the rain grew in strength. The braziers around the camp hissed, the canvas of the tents flapped and cracked; the warriors of Nagarythe stood in miserable quiet, all eagerness quelled by the filthy weather.

Riders were sent south, to spy upon the orcs and goblins. In the wake of the scouts, Malriad signalled the advance and the trumpets sounded the order to form a column. Hellebron and Lirieth took their place, flanking the standard of their company, long shields upon their left arms, leaf-headed spears in their right hands, swords and knives at their hips. They gave each other a knowing glance from beneath the brows of their silver helms.

‘It will be as we decided?’ said Lirieth.

‘It will,’ replied Hellebron.

‘What are you two whispering?’ asked Nhalek, the standard-bearer.

‘Khaine’s business,’ hissed Hellebron. ‘Mind your own.’

The company set off at a steady march, third in the column; the knights formed the vanguard, with a regiment of crossbows behind. Another four thousand Naggarothi followed, a winding snake with a spine of banners and silver spearpoints. There were no roads and the Naggarothi tramped through the long grass; the hems of their robes were soon soaking wet, boots slicked with mud.

Hellebron ignored the slapping of wet material against her legs and gripped her spearshaft tightly, hiding her excitement. If any day needed the spark of bloody spectacle, it was today.

It was mid-morning, as grey and lifeless as dawn, when the scouts returned with news that the orcs were leaving their encampment and moving westwards towards the coast. Bands of wolf-riding goblins prowled the wilderness, but they were incompetent pickets and the scouts had returned unseen. The greenskins were unaware of the army bearing down upon them.

The army was heartened by the news as it rippled through the ranks. Prince Malriad gave the order to increase the pace of the advance. The Naggarothi broke into a swift jog, the elves covering the ground with loping, easy strides, effortlessly negotiating the knots of bushes and undulations scattered across their path. The harnesses of the knights’ steeds jingled along with the knee-length mail coats of the infantry.

The rain stopped just before midday, though the sky was still overcast. The wind picked up the closer the host came to the coast, a westerly wind finally catching the flags and pennons, snapping them from their shafts while it tousled crests of blue and red and purple and black from the helmets of the elves.

The air was tinged with salt. Hellebron licked her lips, remembering the taste of blood. The ground was firmer underfoot, the mire of the wastelands giving way to rockier terrain. She saw the scouts galloping back from the south-west and it was not long before the clarions were ringing with the signal to break column and form the line for attack.

As the Naggarothi host spread to the north and south, Hellebron caught her first glimpse of the greenskin horde. The ground rose ahead and a sea of orcs and goblins thronged the slope. They clustered beneath crude standards made of skulls and bones. The largest orcs bustled through the horde, shouting and punching to establish their dominance.

Small goblins mounted on the backs of grey-furred wolves waited at the edge of the army, peering at the approaching elves from beneath fur-brimmed helms, their small fists nervously gripping the bent shafts of stone-tipped spears. More of the smallest greenskins were bullied into position at the front of the greenskin army, a ragtag mob wielding daggers, short swords, wooden clubs and round shields.

A change in the breeze brought the stench of the greenskins wafting over the elves. It was a wet mixture of dung, rotting offal and mulch, like the smell of an animal’s body left to the worms beneath a thick forest canopy. Hellebron barely reacted; she had drunk the blood of a dozen orcs and goblins and was all but immune to the disgusting taste. Around her, others were not so lucky; there were murmurs of distaste and snarled insults were spat at the filthy enemy.

At the heart of the opposing army several dozen burly orcs sat on the backs of immense boars. Their mounts were clad in scraps of spiked armour, jutting tusks sheathed with metal. The orcs wore crude jerkins of untanned hide, their green skin pocked with scars and marked with tattoos and warpaint. Angry red eyes glared at the elves; crude swords and brutal cleavers waved in defiance.

‘Look, trolls!’ Nhalek pointed to the south.

More than a dozen of the huge creatures ambled down the slope behind a mob of goblins. Each troll was thrice the height of an elf – five times that of a goblin – with a pot belly, short legs and gangling arms. Their skin was a deep greenish-blue, heads flat, ears long and tattered like a ragged parody of the elves’. The trolls wore scraps of cloth and random pieces of toughened leather, but their skin was harder than any armour the orcs could make. Clawed hands held up splintered tree-limbs and clubs made of bone studded with rivets.

At the rear of the orc army, a train of goblins was hauling a war machine into position. It was a laughably crude attempt at duplicating the catapults of the dwarfs. A ramshackle construction of red-daubed wood and splitting ropes, the stone-thrower looked as likely to fall to pieces as hurl a boulder. Under the lash of an orc overseer, the goblins hammered spikes into the ground to secure the engine, while others slowly winched down the throwing arm and yet more gathered together what rocks they could find for ammunition.

Hellebron caught a whisper travelling along the elf line from the south. A ripple of discontent swept through the ranks until it reached Hellebron’s company. The rumour was that the scouts had spotted a wyvern the night before, but today the huge creature was nowhere to be seen. Hellebron looked up and scoured the clouds for a sign of the half-dragon but saw nothing. Others were looking skywards too, uncomfortable at the thought of a wyvern dropping upon them unseen.

Not for the first time, Hellebron noticed how calm the army was before battle. While the orcs bustled and massed in anarchic fashion, the quiet ranks of elves waited patiently for the orders of their commander. Speartips made straight lines of silver, and shields created an unbreakable wall of black and red. The musicians sounded the commands, short blasts that readjusted the line as the orc army took shape, the regiments marching without haste into their new positions.

It was the calm before the storm, the cold hearth before the fire is lit.

For a moment Hellebron wondered what the greenskins were thinking, looking down the hill at the silent lines of warriors. She dismissed the thought; orcs and goblins were stupid creatures, incapable of acknowledging the majesty of the vision before them. They were equally incapable of knowing when they stared defeat in the face. Time and again the Naggarothi hosts had slain their armies and burned their barbaric villages, but still the greenskins tried to fight.

Violence was the only language they understood. They had to be made to understand: these lands belonged to the elves.

Drums rumbled through the orc and goblin horde. At first the beat was scattered, a noise without rhythm or purpose. Slowly the drums came together, banging out a slow beat which was picked up by the orcs with weapons on shields and stamping feet. Crude horns took up the call, brash and tuneless. The orcs added their voices, defying the elves with deep bellows while the screeches of the goblins cut across the bass chanting.

The beat gradually sped up, the chanting grew louder, the clamour washing down the hill in a vain attempt to intimidate the Naggarothi.

Prince Malriad broke from his knights, followed by the bearer of his personal standard. The two riders galloped along the line and took up a position facing the elf army. Malriad drew his sword, his black steed stamping and swaying.

‘We can do better than that!’ cried the prince.

‘For Aenarion!’ the elves called out in a single voice, bringing up spears and lances with a crash that momentarily eclipsed the banging and ranting of the greenskins.

‘For Prince Malekith!’

The thousands of warriors took a step, presenting their shields and spearpoints towards the orcs, the thud of feet shaking the ground.

‘For Nagarythe!’

This last was a deafening roar, a challenge cried from the throat of every Naggarothi.

Not to be outdone, the orcs increased their clamour, howling and shouting in their guttural language, no doubt hurling insults and making empty boasts. Their leaders, huge creatures taller and broader than the elves, stomped up and down in front of their subordinates, baring their long fangs and snarling.

Perhaps overcome by fear or excitement, the crew of the stone-thrower unleashed their war engine. Its arm snapped forwards. A cloud of fist-sized rocks arced into the air. Thousands of eyes from both armies followed their path.

With an explosion of mud, the stones fell to the ground at least a hundred paces short of the elven line. The wind carried Naggarothi laughter up to the orcs, infuriating them even more. The most unruly mobs headed down the slope, lumbering towards the elven line. Fearing to be left behind, other warbands hurried after until the whole greenskin army was on the move, pouring haphazardly down the slope.

With a flourish of his blade, Malriad rode back to his knights. The slap of ropes announced the firing of the bolt-throwers. Spears sped across the narrowing gap as dark blurs. Where they hit, orcs were flung back into the ranks following, spitted by the barbed shafts.

Hellebron caught Lirieth’s eye and the two sisters nodded to each other. The battle was about to begin in earnest and their opportunity would soon be lost.

The two sisters broke from the front rank of the company and walked purposefully towards the onrushing greenskins. Lirieth brought out a phial of deep red liquid and took a mouthful before passing it to Hellebron. She swallowed the rest of the drug-laced blood and tossed aside the crystal bottle. The ireleaf and venomblossom worked immediately, sending a thrill of energy through her. Her pulse raced and her breath came in gasps as the narcotic potion coursed through her system.

The Daughters of Murder cast aside their shields and spears as an astounded whispering gripped the Naggarothi army. They shed their mail coats and tossed away their helmets. Buckling their weapon belts around their semi-naked bodies, the sisters drew their swords and daggers and turned to face their comrades.

‘We need no altar to make sacrifice to Khaine,’ Lirieth called out. ‘This battlefield shall be our temple. Our war cries shall be our litany. To slay is to pray!’

‘You call us the Daughters of Murder,’ shouted Hellebron. ‘Today we offer our blood and spirit to Khaine and dedicate ourselves to the Lord of Death alone. We shall be the Brides of Khaine.’

There were laughs and a few disparaging remarks from the incredulous Naggarothi. Hellebron glared at the army, bared her teeth and snarled.

‘Let there be no doubt that we are Khaine’s chosen,’ said Lirieth. ‘We will not shelter behind shields or clad ourselves in armour, for if Khaine desires our blood, He is free to take it! Our blades shall be our defence, as Khaine teaches us. Kill and not be killed, that is the truth of Khaine.’

A lone figure broke from the lines and hurried towards the pair. It was Lethruis, swathed in a bloodstained robe. His face was twisted with rage as he bore down on the two sisters.

‘This is a disgrace!’ he snarled. ‘Cease this disrespect immediately.’

‘It is you who are the disgrace!’ shouted Hellebron.

Lirieth sheathed her weapons and seized Lethruis. The priest struggled but Lirieth’s grip was like iron as she forced him to his knees in the mud. Hellebron sprang forwards, her knife stopping a hair’s breadth from Lethruis’s throat. The priest fell still, terrified eyes fixed on Hellebron. The other acolytes ran from the army, crying out in dismay.

‘Come no closer!’ warned Hellebron.

‘Who here would risk the displeasure of Khaine?’ Lirieth cried out. ‘Who amongst the Naggarothi would turn their back on He who blessed Aenarion and has laid the gift of death into our hands?’

‘What are you doing?’ The demand came from Prince Malriad. The commander rode up to the group and swung down from his horse, one hand moving to the hilt of his sword. ‘It is you who dare Khaine’s wrath by laying hands on His priest.’

‘He is no true adept of Khaine.’ Hellebron poured all her scorn into every word. She raised her voice so that the closest warriors could hear. ‘In every battle, we lay our lives upon the edge of Khaine’s blade while Lethruis and his cronies look on.’

‘It is time that changed,’ said Lirieth. ‘Khaine demands sacrifice and all we offer Him is the sour blood of goblins and the filth of beastmen.’

‘This is madness,’ said Lethruis. ‘The enemy are almost upon us.’

‘There is no victory without Khaine’s blessing,’ said Hellebron. ‘Did not Aenarion lay himself before the judgement of Khaine when he took up the Widowmaker?’

‘We offer you a choice, priest,’ said Lirieth. ‘Your promises to Khaine must be fulfilled. Did you not say that we all pray to give up ourselves in Khaine’s name, upon the field of bloodshed? Take up a blade now and fight for the glory of Khaine and Nagarythe, or we shall offer up your blood to him this moment!’

‘You are insane, both of you,’ wailed Lethruis. ‘I cannot fight!’

‘No, you cannot,’ said Malriad. ‘You demand our obedience and offer up prayers to Khaine on our behalf. The Brides of Khaine are right; we have no need for you. The blood on our blades is offering enough.’

Hellebron looked up in surprise. Though the drugs fogged her brain, she sensed opportunity, greater than any she had hoped to create. She had thought that Lethruis would either fight – and die, for he had no skill at arms – or she would kill him herself. Here was an even better solution.

‘You are our commander, the wielder of this army, the weapon of Khaine,’ said Hellebron, thrusting her knife into her belt to place a hand on the prince’s breastplate. She could hear the orcs pounding closer. Arrows cut the air from both armies and the shouts of the wounded joined the bellows of the greenskins.

‘Quickly, now, our brave prince!’ Lirieth snapped, guessing her sister’s intent. ‘Renew your pledges to Khaine with the blood of this coward and lead your army to victory.’

‘Or believe his lies and bow your knee before a priest that can only slay the weak and defenceless,’ added Hellebron.

Malriad drew his sword and stepped over the cowering Lethruis. Hellebron’s breath caught in her throat as Lirieth let go of the priest and stepped away.

‘For Khaine,’ Hellebron hissed.

The prince plunged his sword into Lethruis’s throat. The priest fell back, blood spraying from the wound. Hellebron and Lirieth sprang to the body, allowing the arterial fountain to soak their clothes, daubing the fresh blood on their faces and naked arms.

The heady thrill of the moment almost caused Hellebron to faint. The blood dripping down her skin, the scent of it in her nostrils and the taste on her lips was exquisite. She glanced at Malriad and saw concern, even regret, in his eyes. The deal with Khaine was not yet fully sealed.

Dipping her fingers into the wound upon the priest’s neck, she turned to face the prince. With slow purpose, she drew the rune of Khaine upon his cheek, the blood glistening on Malriad’s pale skin.

‘Khaine blesses you, Prince, and hungers for the praise of your blade,’ she said.

The other acolytes approached uncertainly. They eyed the two blood-drenched sisters and the army commander, and looked with a mixture of horror and contempt at Lethruis’s lifeless body.

‘Do not fear, brothers and sisters,’ said Lirieth. ‘You were victims of Lethruis’s lies. Khaine has spoken through us and we will lead you on the true path of worship. Take him away.’

‘Wait,’ said Hellebron as the cortège lifted up the limp body. She worked quickly with her dagger, cutting open the dead elf’s chest. With swift incisions, she freed the heart and pulled it out, lifting the organ over her head for all to see. ‘There is no life without death; no heart beats without Khaine’s blessing!’

As the dead priest was carried away, Malriad mounted his horse and rode back to his knights, bellowing a stream of orders to his subordinates. Hellebron looked at the orcs for the first time. They were perhaps a hundred paces away. Crook-shafted arrows fell into the grass nearby and another boulder sailed overhead. She looked back to her company and saw them as strangers. They looked so different from here, a faceless wall of metal and cloth. She turned her eye upon Lirieth, knowing she shared her sister’s appearance. She was a fearsome sight, her face a mask of blood around bright eyes, her hair slicked with dark red.

The two of them stood side-by-side, weapons bared, as the orcs closed in. Hellebron felt no fear, though a sea of foes descended upon her. The ireleaf pulsed through her body, fuelling her righteous rage; the venomblossom filled her limbs with strength and set her heart thundering. The taste of Lethruis’s blood was fresh on her lips, sweeter than any wine of Cothique. She could hear Lirieth’s sharp breaths and feel the warmth of her sister’s body next to her.

‘For Khaine, my sister,’ said Lirieth. ‘Let the red flood begin.’

‘For Khaine,’ Hellebron replied.

The orcs were a mass of metal and green flesh bearing down upon Hellebron. Bestial grunts filled her ears; glaring red eyes and snarling, fang-filled mouths filled her vision. Her sword and knife felt as light as air in her hands. She would not stand idle, to be swept away by the onrushing tide.

Hellebron sprang to meet the orcs head-on, Lirieth just a pace behind her. The blood caked on Hellebron’s skin felt more solid than any armour and the power of Khaine buzzed along every nerve.

Her first blow slit open the throat of an orc, almost taking off its head. Hellebron laughed, exulting in the freedom. With spear and shield she had been one of many, disciplined and orderly. Now her spirit was let loose, unencumbered by drill or command.

The onrushing orcs swept around her. She dived and dodged between their brutish bodies, blades licking out to cut deep wounds upon faces and limbs. Even in the tight press of bodies, she was ever-moving, fending off crude blows while her weapons wove a bloody, mesmerising pattern.

It was utterly reckless, but Hellebron did not care. She laughed again as she slipped aside from a shield swiping towards her; shrieked with delight as she ducked beneath a swinging cleaver.

A crash of metal engulfed her. She turned, pulling the edge of her sword across the back of an orc’s neck, and saw that the Naggarothi had countercharged. A line of spears drove into the orcs, punching through leather jerkins, piercing eye sockets, slashing and stabbing.

Cutting down another greenskin, Hellebron came face-to-face with Lirieth. Her sister’s eyes were wide with excitement, just as they had been during Hellebron’s first Khainite sacrifice. They shared a glance and wheeled away. Spinning on her heel, Hellebron drove her dagger into the open mouth of an orc, forcing the point up into its tiny brain. She whipped her hand back as its jaws instinctively snapped shut. She heard the ring of metal on metal and glanced over her shoulder to see Lirieth’s sword, less than a hand’s span from her back, an orcish blade spinning to the ground.

‘It is not only Khaine who watches over me, sister,’ said Hellebron, ducking beneath Lirieth’s extended arm to drive her sword into the gut of an orc raising a club to strike down her sister.

Lirieth swept low, her blade cutting through the leg of the orc. Hellebron ripped her sword free from its stomach as it fell, swaying to her right to avoid the edge of a shield thrust towards her. She kicked the shield to one side and pounced, driving her knife into the side of the orc’s neck.

The orcs fell back from the sisters and the spears, turning to run. Hellebron heard the call of a clarion signalling to hold the line, but it was drowned out by the rushing of blood, the beat of her heart.

‘Let none escape!’ she shrieked, turning on the Naggarothi. The warriors halted, torn between their desire to run down the orcs and the command ringing from the musician. ‘Khaine demands their deaths!’

Lirieth and Hellebron leapt after the fleeing greenskins. Caught up by their display, the Naggarothi surged after them, ignoring the shouts of their captains. Like a blood-tipped spearhead, the company fell upon the routed greenskins, plunging deep, cutting the orcs down as they tried to flee.

Hellebron dashed after the enemy, hacking at their exposed backs, slicing through hamstrings and spines.

‘Sister!’

Lirieth’s cry halted Hellebron instantly. She slid to a stop amidst the mud and gore, suddenly aware that the ground was shaking. Turning to the right, Hellebron saw the orc boar-riders thundering down the hill towards her. The spearmen hurriedly re-formed their ranks, drawn out of formation by their hasty pursuit of the greenskins.

The orcish cavalry was almost upon Hellebron. She could smell the stench of the boars, feel the ground trembling, see the clods of dirt kicked up by the creatures’ metal-shod trotters. The orcs hunched over their mounts, gripping thick ruffs of hair as reins, iron-tipped spears lowered for the charge. She could feel the angry excitement of the greenskins as they swept down upon their seemingly doomed prey.

A glance back showed Hellebron that she was too far from the safety of the swiftly assembling phalanx; to run now was to invite a spear in the back.

Hellebron picked out the largest rider, a dark-skinned beast almost twice as big as an elf. The orc wore plates of stiffened hide, dyed black and strengthened with spiked rivets; links of mail hung from its armour, no doubt looted from dead dwarfs. Its helm was a simple metal bowl, with leather flaps hanging to either side of the creature’s howling face.

With a flick of her wrists, Hellebron brought up her sword and dagger. She met the orc’s stare with her own fury, her lips curling back from blood-flecked teeth even as the orc opened its huge mouth to bellow at her.

Hellebron waited, snarling and hissing, as the orc rushed closer and closer. She could feel the steaming breath of the boar and its rider, smelled the stench of dung. The orc’s battered speartip was coming straight towards her, aimed at her chest. Hellebron’s eyes narrowed as she watched the spearhead cutting through the wet air, droplets of water splashing from the iron.

At the last moment, Hellebron brought up her knife, knocking the spear away by just enough. As it passed her right shoulder, she jumped forwards, planting her foot between the eyes of the boar. As the creature’s momentum carried it forwards, Hellebron sprang into the air, her sword chopping down into the shoulder of the rider as she somersaulted.

Landing in the mud, she dived to her right to avoid the next boar, rolling to her feet in front of another. Hellebron caught the spearshaft of the rider under her arm and cut through the orc’s wrist. Unbalanced, the orc toppled from the boar with a crash. A moment later, she drove the captured spear through its cheek, pinning the greenskin to the ground.

More orcs rode past, too slow-witted to react to Hellebron. She slammed her sword into the chest of one as it desperately tried to haul its boar into her. The shock of the impact almost threw her off her feet; only by an acrobatic twist did she not end up face-first in the mire.

And then the orcs were gone, thundering on into the spear company.

Hellebron spun round to see what had become of Lirieth. The boar-riders smashed into the front rank of the Naggarothi, hurling back the elves, stabbing and trampling everything in their path. Rocked but not broken, the surviving Naggarothi parted before the charge and then fell upon the flanks of the orcish mob, quickly surrounding them.

In the chaos of shields, spears and swords, Hellebron caught a glimpse of a pale figure dragging an orc from its mount, dagger punching repeatedly into the creature’s chest; Lirieth was alive and still fighting with the fury of Khaine.

Hellebron’s arms and legs moved heavily now, and her head began to thump. She gasped for air and felt a pain in her ribs. Looking down, she saw a spreading bruise through her slashed clothes. There was also a cut on her shoulder she had not felt, and her muscles trembled with fatigue.

She felt the same as she did after a sacrifice; the venomblossom was beginning to wear off. The ground underfoot was uneven, ripped up by the charging boars. Hellebron stumbled on a tussock of grass, her legs like lead. Scrunching her eyes against the pain, she slowly turned to see what was happening along the rest of the line.

To the north Prince Malriad and his knights were scattering hundreds of goblins, riding down the small greenskins, hacking with swords and axes. Beyond them Hellebron saw the green-scaled body of the wyvern, dark bolts protruding from its flesh, ragged holes torn in its limply flapping wings. Another salvo from the bolt-throwers thudded into the monster, hammering into its exposed belly. Of its rider there was no sign.

All around, the Naggarothi were advancing victoriously. Riders darted to and fro, carrying the orders of the commander as the remnants of the greenskin horde fled back to the west. Closer at hand, the boar-riders were falling to the spears of the elves.

The Naggarothi had not avoided death either. Wounded elves dragged themselves through the muck or were borne away on stretchers by their comrades. Weapons and shields lay scattered along the line next to the mail-clad bodies of the dead. A few banners flapped from broken poles, dropped into the mud. Orcish icons had also been discarded, their rusted iron faces and skull totems looking forlornly at the destruction.

Grunts and snorts from wounded orcs attracted Hellebron’s attention. Some hobbled away clutching gaping wounds and nursing broken limbs. Others lay beneath the carcasses of their boars, bones crushed. A few continued to snarl viciously, staggering and crawling around with their blades and mauls, wounds ripped across their faces, missing arms or legs.

Thrusting her dagger into her belt, Hellebron pulled open a pouch and took a pinch of crushed purple petals. She chewed quickly, ignoring the bitter taste; venomblossom was much more palatable mixed with blood.

It took a moment for the narcotic to have its effect. As quickly as it had failed, her energy returned. The pain disappeared, leaving her feeling as fresh as if she had woken from a full night’s sleep.

She saw the spearmen moving across the field, slaying the wounded enemy.

‘Do not kill them!’ Hellebron cried out, striding back to the Naggarothi. ‘Take them alive. For the blessings He has given us this day, Khaine’s hunger will be great tonight!’

Led by Hellebron and Lirieth, the celebrations of the Naggarothi were raucous and lasted for several days. Espousing her philosophy that all could worship Khaine equally, Hellebron organised rituals that allowed the warriors and camp-followers to participate in the gory festivities. Nearly two hundred greenskins of varying size and condition had been taken prisoner and each night for three nights they were brought out to be offered up to the Lord of Murder.

Prince Malriad officiated over the greatest rite on the first night, carving apart the remains of Lethruis, denouncing the dead priest as a traitor to Khaine, Nagarythe and Prince Malekith. As Lethruis charred in the flames, Hellebron announced that a new age of the Naggarothi was dawning. With the prince by her side, she exhorted the army to be proud of their deeds, to remember the debt they owed to Khaine when they returned to their homes.

Lirieth opened up the stores of the cult, giving out venomblossom, dreamleaf and shadowdust to those that were most demonstrative in their praise of Khaine. Every company had their own pyre and their own sacrifice; some despatched the greenskins quickly, with solemn ceremony; others followed Hellebron’s lead, inflicting horrendous wounds upon the resilient orcs before finally slashing out their organs and hurling them onto the fires; some even offered up their own blood, cutting themselves with their weapons to sprinkle their crimson offerings on the fires or drink each other’s life fluid.

The smoke of the fires blotted out the sky. A great charnel pile grew downwind of the camp, where the cracked and burned bones of the greenskins were heaped upon the ashes of the pyres. Given release from their tiresome duties by Hellebron, the former acolytes of Lethruis were savage, screeching and screaming as more and more blood was spilt, urging on the meekest observers to come forwards and take up the sacrificial daggers in Khaine’s name.

On the third and final night, as the last of the captives was thrown alive into the flames, the orc’s howls of agony dying away to silence, Hellebron and Lirieth strode out before the crowd, clothed only in dried blood, their hair twisted and matted with the gore of their victims.

‘We are free!’ Lirieth declared. ‘Khaine has set us free!’

‘The spirit of Khaine fills each of us tonight,’ said Hellebron. ‘Tomorrow, the fires will die, and we shall wash the blood from our blades. Yet Khaine will hunger still. He has gorged on the bounty of our might as we have known victory by the strength of His blessings. By the blood of elves was Ulthuan saved; by the blood of great Aenarion himself were we delivered from disaster. By our bloody work have we wrested these lands from savagery, and for the moment we might be fooled into thinking that peace will prevail.

‘This world of ours will never know peace, for Khaine will never be sated. It may be a year, ten years or a hundred, until we are called upon to shed our blood again. Yet in those quiet hours, in those days of false repose, never forget that there still live the things of darkness that seek to destroy our lives, steal our spirits and enslave us to their accursed whims.

‘We can never afford to let Khaine slumber. Without His gift, without His bloody will to guide us, we will grow lax, we will grow weak. Our enemies will return and we shall be destroyed. Keep Khaine in your hearts, hold Him there for the strength He gives us.’

‘For Khaine!’ Lirieth led the cry, holding up her bloodied knife.

‘For Khaine!’ the army cried in return, brandishing their weapons.

Hellebron looked out at the sea of faces, the flicker of the flames causing their eyes to dance with cruel glee. She saw the bloodstained swords and daggers and spears, and finally felt the adoration she so long had feared might never come. As the Naggarothi called out Khaine’s name again, Hellebron basked in the moment, sweeter still than anything she might have imagined.

This was glory. This was power.

Tomorrow they would march to Athel Toralien. Not this time the ignominy, the quiet reception. This time her name would spread, her deeds on the lips of every elf of the city.

Khaine had shown her the way, and she would repay him.

Letters and messengers were sent ahead of the army to announce the homecoming of Malekith’s faithful warriors. Hellebron and Lirieth wrote a letter to their father, insisting that he organise suitable celebrations for their triumphant return. Though they did not tell him of what had happened, they proudly informed Alandrian that their names were being lauded throughout the army, and that he should demonstrate his pride by granting the army the grandest honours and celebrations he could devise.

Hellebron added her own private message, showering her father with praise and thanks for his support. She told him that things would change in Athel Toralien when she returned, and that soon there would be no elf who doubted his rule of the city. He would emerge from Malekith’s shadow, a great prince in his own right, and his name would be forever marked upon the chronicles of the Naggarothi.

When the heralds returned, they brought word from Alandrian. Hellebron read with glee that there was much excitement in the city, stirred up by Prince Malriad and the other nobles. Alandrian promised that there would be a gala reception for his daughters and that no expense would be spared in celebrating the success of the army.

So it was with considerable anticipation that Hellebron woke on the morning the army was due to enter the city. While Lirieth still slumbered, Hellebron stepped from their tent. The air was chill, the sun not yet above the horizon. Torches and braziers illuminated the long rows of pavilions, the stillness only broken by the clinking of armour as the guard patrols walked their rounds.

To the north, less than half a day’s march away, Athel Toralien waited for her. Hellebron walked to the edge of the camp, her cloak wrapped about her, bare feet stepping lightly on the dwarf-built road along which the army was camped.

A stream glittered ahead, lit by silver lanterns lining a wide bridge. Hellebron walked to the edge of the water and looked down into the slow-running rill. She could see little of her face, her reflection distorted. Her hair fell in long braids, her face narrow, pale, nicked here and there by slender scars from tiny wounds she had inflicted upon herself in the deepest throes of the Khainite rituals.

She threw off her cloak and stripped away her short dress. Sliding into the water, she gave a girlish giggle as the cold enveloped her, prickling her skin. Closing her eyes, she ducked beneath the water, immersing herself completely, the mud of the bottom pushing up between her toes as the gentle current caressed her flesh.

She turned onto her back, still submerged, and looked up through the water. The light of the lamps swayed and flowed above her, so that it felt like she was swimming in starlight. She held up her hands, reaching towards the shimmering light; hands that had shed so much blood. Her slender fingers had delved into the innards of sacrifices beyond counting, each now a blur in her mind, her memory fogged by repetition and intoxication.

Hellebron drifted, rising to the surface. With gentle motions, she steered herself back towards the bank, enjoying the utter calm. She knew that the moment she set foot back in Athel Toralien, her true grasp for power would begin. There would be many who would see her as a threat, and just as she had sacrificed Lethruis for her goals, there would, in time, be those amongst her followers who would see Hellebron as the opposition.

Many times over the years of subservience and frustration, Hellebron had questioned her ambition and the hardships it would entail. Such doubts had always been short-lived, dismissed with the start of the next day.

Floating serenely in the river, she asked herself a subtly different question: was this what she really wanted? There would be more pain to come, more sacrifice, of that she was sure. If her commitment to this life was not total, she would falter.

There was Lirieth to consider as well. She was part of the growing legend, and Hellebron knew that her sister would do anything for her. Where Hellebron led, she would follow, out of love and duty. Lirieth had embraced Hellebron’s hunger, taken it as her own, given up her own life so that Hellebron would thrive. Hellebron could not abandon her sister now; could not ask her to step aside to give Hellebron centre stage. Was it her right to make this decision for her sister, to embroil Lirieth in this destiny without offering her a chance to forge a different path?

The sun was creeping into the sky, lighting the broken cloud with red and purple. Sounds came from the stirring camp as more of the army awoke.

Soon Hellebron would be the centre of the storm, caught in the work of the preparations for the march, the turmoil of the army’s homecoming, and whatever lay beyond. This was her last chance, her very last chance, to think clearly about what she wanted.

Immediately Hellebron’s thoughts went back to Morathi, the sneer on the queen’s face, the scorn in her voice. The calm seeped away through the water, leaving Hellebron boiling with indignation; as enraged and offended as when she had stepped out of Morathi’s chambers.

She did not want to please Morathi, nor did she want to impress Morathi. Hellebron realised that it was not recognition or approval that she sought; this life she had chosen went far beyond that. Hellebron wanted Morathi to know the hurt she had heaped – probably knowingly – upon her. Morathi would rue her arrogance and be forced to concede Hellebron’s greatness.

All other thoughts vanished with this conclusion. Nothing else mattered. Khaine would be her key to power, her means to rise up and stare Morathi in the eye without shame. Anything less would be an abject failure; an admittance that Morathi had been right to dismiss her so contemptuously. Never again would Hellebron feel so small, so insignificant.

Hellebron exploded out of the water, full of vigour. Throwing on her clothes, she stalked back to the camp, mind brimming over with plans. Doubt was for the weak. She would rise to the heights of power or she would die trying; anything less would be a betrayal of herself, her sister and Khaine.

Despite the assertions in Prince Alandrian’s letter, the people of Athel Toralien were less than enthusiastic about the return of Malriad and his army. The garrison of the city was turned out to give full honours, lining the walls and gate towers with banners and clarions to mark the return of the Naggarothi, but there were no elves lining the road to the city, no festivals of dancing and song to welcome the army home.

Flanking Malriad, Hellebron and Lirieth passed through the shadow of the main gatehouse into the square beyond. There were several hundred elves dressed in their fineries waiting, holding flowers and gifts; most of them the families of the returning warriors. Children dashed from the crowd to greet their fathers, while wives, mothers and fathers looked on with stern pride.

When all had marched into the city, formed up in their companies, Alandrian appeared. A wooden stage had been built at the eastern edge of the square, hung with bright garlands and silver chains. The early afternoon sun blazing down, the ruler of Athel Toralien strode to the middle of the podium, wearing his finest armour, a cloak of pure black trailing from his shoulders.

It was with a strange shock that Hellebron remembered her father had not always been a civic ruler; he had fought to save this city from the orcs and had marched with Malekith to scour the lands of evil. Alandrian had been present the first time the Naggarothi had met the dwarfs. She had heard the stories growing up, but it had never seemed important to her. Now he was there, wearing the silver-and-gold mail he had worn during those days of adventure and glory. For a moment she forgot her annoyance at the lacklustre reception and revelled in a moment’s pride for her father.

‘By the grace of the gods, our noble warriors are returned to us,’ declared Alandrian. ‘You are the embodiment of what is great about the Naggarothi and are the embodiment of Nagarythe’s finest traditions. The day we forget the travails that our brave soldiers face, the day we discard our duty to the brave and the fierce, is the day we give up the right to call ourselves Naggarothi.’

A few other local dignitaries trooped onto the stage and declaimed a few vague welcomes and platitudes. Though the rigid ranks of warriors listened attentively, Hellebron could sense their disappointment, and knew that it reflected badly upon her. To keep her followers intrigued on the long march home, Hellebron had regaled them with promises of the fanfares and celebrations that awaited them. Now her promises had proved to be empty and Hellebron fumed; partly at herself for her naiveté, mostly at her father for his empty assurances.

Eventually the dreary welcoming ceremony concluded. As soon as the trumpets sounded the dismissal, the companies broke ranks and flooded into the rest of the city, gathering up such family and friends as awaited them.

Hellebron took a step towards the stage but stopped, feeling a hand on her arm. Lirieth pulled Hellebron close, darting glances towards the nobles assembled on the stage.

‘Do nothing rash, my sister,’ warned Lirieth.

‘It is an insult,’ said Hellebron. ‘Of all people, father should have known how much this meant to us. It is simply unacceptable.’

Hellebron moved to walk away but Lirieth’s grip tightened, holding her back.

‘We are back in civilised lands, sister,’ she said. ‘Tread carefully. All is not lost. Do not let your anger compound this sorry situation.’

Lirieth delved a hand into a small pouch at her belt and pulled out a few grey leaves.

‘Dreamwood,’ she said. ‘Chew a few, it will help you to calm down.’

Hellebron eyed the sedating herb for a moment, uncertain. She liked her anger, it gave her purpose, gave her strength. Seeing the imploring look in her sister’s eyes, knowing despite her frustration that Lirieth was right, Hellebron snatched up the leaves and put them into her mouth. She crushed them relentlessly between her teeth, until their soothing effect spread through her body. Her limbs lightened and her breathing slowed. The afternoon light grew dimmer, the white of Athel Toralien’s buildings softer.

The mellowing effect took the edge off Hellebron’s anger, but she could not dismiss her annoyance entirely. Linking arms with Lirieth, she forced herself to pace serenely to where her father was standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the stage. Already retainers were taking down the garlands and banners and carpenters were dismantling the podium.

Alandrian’s first look was full of apology; aided by the dreamwood, Hellebron felt her ire ebb away a little further. She took her father’s offered hand, kissed the palm and then stepped up to give him a fulsome embrace. Lirieth did the same.

‘Circumstance has thwarted us,’ said Alandrian, reaching his arms across the shoulders of his daughters, pulling them close. ‘The harvest is coming in and a trade convoy to Galthyr is setting off tomorrow. I am afraid that the purses of the people have more influence than I do at such times.’

Alandrian steered them towards the road leading to the north of the city, where the family palace sat on the highest hill above the harbour. Hellebron could see the red-tiled roof of the central tower above the manses and villas of the noble quarter.

‘All is not in vain, though,’ the prince continued, his tone lighter. ‘Tonight you will be hostesses of the most glittering gala Athel Toralien has seen in many years. All the great and the rich will be coming, many of them old friends of yours.’

Hellebron bit back a retort; this was not some birthday to be celebrated with wine and song, but a decisive moment in the history of the city. The heralds should be crying the news from every street corner, the poets singing verses of the glories to come.

She felt Lirieth’s hand clasp hers behind Alandrian’s back and was reassured by the touch. Twenty years they had worked towards that moment; they could afford to wait a little longer.

‘That sounds wonderful, father,’ said Hellebron. ‘I am sure we will make a lasting impression.’

The festivities took place in the warm autumnal evening, spread throughout the gardens and courtyards surrounding the villa and towers of Prince Alandrian. Several dozen of the most influential citizens of Athel Toralien were there, in all their finery and jewels. Red-robed servants moved through the mingling elves with platters of exquisitely prepared food from across Elthin Arvan, and wine from the vineyards around the city. Late-flowering plants wreathed the arches and gateways linking the patios, terraces and lawns, filling the air with a heady melange of scents.

The prince wore a short-sleeved, black robe woven from local wool, and a golden necklace of dwarf design, on which hung a ruby mined from the mountains to the south. The food was served upon lacquered platters of wood from the surrounding forests, the wine drunk from porcelain goblets fashioned in the crafts quarter of the city. Not a grain, grape or blossom had come from Ulthuan.

It was a finely balanced display by Alandrian; not only a display of his personal wealth and influence, but a reminder of the strength of the colonies, and Athel Toralien in particular. Its message was one of shared fate and it was not lost on the attending dignitaries. The gossip was of the colonies, Ulthuan barely mentioned except in passing remark. Many of the elves had never been to their home isle; first- and second-generation colonists who thought themselves equally Naggarothi and Toralii.

Hellebron entered the social fray with Lirieth by her side. The sisters were identically clad, wearing long dresses of crimson silk, cut to expose arms, legs and chests, bordering on the improper. Their hair was outlandishly styled, dyed to match their clothes, outrageously braided and spiked, held in place with skull-headed pins. Their lips were coloured deep red, their eyes shadowed with black, their pale flesh whitened further to create a mask-like appearance. Each wore a rune of Khaine fashioned in a silver pendant, and heavy armbands inscribed with dedications to the Lord of Murder.

As if this were not cause enough for comment, Hellebron and Lirieth were armed. While a few of the princes present wore sheathed swords, the twin curved daggers in the belts of the sisters were highly unorthodox.

The chatter died away as the two of them strolled arm-in-arm down the steps into the courtyard outside their chambers. Stillness reigned for a moment, the quiet broken only by the wind rustling the leaves of the ivy on the walls and scattered, astonished gasps. Hellebron kept her expression placid even as her heart leapt with the thrill of so much attention. Not even Morathi would have drawn away the eyes of the onlookers.

In a carefully orchestrated display, Liannin emerged from the knot of servants and approached the sisters with a tray carrying two crystal goblets filled with what looked to be a dark red wine. Hellebron took one and handed it to Lirieth before raising the other to her lips.

The sisters drank in unison, staining their lips darker still. They emptied the goblets and placed them back on the tray, the remains of their contents sticking thickly to the crystal. Hellebron delicately wiped a droplet from the corner of her mouth and smiled at the staring guests.

All were staring with horror and distaste as they realised that the goblets contained not wine, but blood. Hellebron noted with particular pleasure the consternation on the faces of many of the city’s high priests and priestesses. No doubt rumour of the sisters’ exploits had spread through the city as the soldiers of the army had returned to their homes. The leaders of Athel Toralien’s many sects were gathered together, whispering fiercely to one another.

It was Alairiath, high priestess of Anath Raema that stepped forward as spokesperson. Her hair was a carefully managed mane of wild blonde, woven through with the small bones of animals. She wore many necklaces of fangs and claws from a variety of beasts, hung upon threads of sinew. Her robe was stitched together from dozens of pelts, her cloak a single shaggy mass of bear fur. She carried a small ornamental spear, and the golden buckle of her broad belt was moulded in the likeness of a snarling wolf in profile.

The priestess’s eyes flitted around the crowd, numbers growing as more guests were drawn in from the other gardens. She glanced back once at her peers, seeking encouragement, and stopped a few steps from the sisters.

‘Where is Lethruis, the anointed of Khaine?’ Alairiath tried to speak boldly, but Hellebron detected a tremor of apprehension and noticed that the priestess dedicated to the Merciless Huntress refused to meet her gaze.

‘We killed the traitor,’ said Lirieth. A shocked ripple spread through the crowd.

‘He failed Khaine, and for that he was punished,’ said Hellebron.

‘His heart was cut out and his body consigned to the ashes of infamy,’ Lirieth continued with the lilt of a laugh in her voice.

Alairiath opened her mouth twice without saying anything.

‘We are the Brides of Khaine,’ said Hellebron. ‘The Prince of Slaughter speaks through us, and has made His displeasure known. Khaine will no longer be the outcast, shunned by those who owe their lives to His continued indulgences.’

‘You murdered Lethruis? This is unacceptable.’ This came from Melthis, leader of the sect dedicated to Nethu, the warden of the city’s mausoleums and tombs. He wrung his layers of white robes and looked at Hellebron and Lirieth with pleading eyes. ‘You should not have destroyed his body!’

Hellebron grinned, showing the flecks of blood staining her bright teeth.

‘Lethruis lived by the power of Khaine, why should he not die by the same?’ she said. ‘He was Khaine’s own, spirit and body, and to Khaine we sent both.’

‘We do not come here with threats,’ said Lirieth, addressing all of the gathered elves. ‘We seek only parity, and the freedom to practise our worship with the same understanding that the rest of you enjoy. Long have we treated Khaine poorly, the patron of Aenarion, founder of Nagarythe, greatest of all elves.’

‘No longer,’ continued Hellebron. ‘Tomorrow we shall divine a suitable aspect for a new shrine to the Bloody-Handed One and in time all will be able to pay their respects to the god who delivered us from disaster.’

‘This will not be tolerated,’ snapped Khelthion, high priest of Ereth Khial.

As leader of the Cult of the Dead, paying homage to the bleak goddess that held the power of life and death, Khelthion was the unspoken leader of all the cults. Many believed he could call upon his patron to unleash the Rephallim, bodiless spirits that could bring nightmares and even tear an elf’s life from a sleeping victim. The rich paid the sect handsomely to pass and receive messages from the deceased, and to maintain the expensive sarcophagi in the Halls of the Eternal Sleep where their ancestors lay.

‘Who are you to speak of intolerance?’ All eyes turned to Prince Alandrian, who stepped up beside Lirieth, a scowl creasing his face. ‘Do not forget the lean times that existed under the rule of Prince Malekith. Was it not I that welcomed you to our city, so that our people might be at peace with their gods, that Athel Toralien would know prosperity, and so that you could spread your messages of worship and placation? I have been a patron to you all, and I will treat the dedication of my daughters with no less respect. Or would you have it that I withdraw my support, cast you all from the city to peddle your prayers and ceremonies in the farms and wild lands?’

‘It is not wise to offend the cytharai,’ said Khelthion, striding up to Alandrian. ‘Their ways are subtle and their displeasure brings doom to mortals.’

As quick as a flash, Hellebron was next to the high priest, her curved dagger under his chin, the point pricking at his throat.

‘Khaine is not subtle in His displeasure,’ she purred. ‘Yet He is the most easily vexed of the gods and is not slow to anger. If you laud Ereth Khial so highly, perhaps you would not be averse to meeting Her soon?’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ Khelthion’s assurance was absolute as he stared sideways into Hellebron’s eyes. His arrogance reminded her of Morathi.

‘Do not test me,’ said Hellebron.

‘It is one thing to murder Lethruis amidst an army of warriors, it is another to kill a priest in cold blood in full view of so many witnesses, in the heart of our city.’

‘It is,’ said Hellebron, drawing the dagger across the high priest’s throat. ‘This is sweeter still.’

Blood spilled onto the white paving, splashing Hellebron’s bare feet. She pushed Khelthion towards Lirieth, who deftly caught the dying elf. Lirieth glanced at her sister, received a nod of approval and plunged one of her daggers into Khelthion’s chest. Alandrian took a step towards his daughters but was halted by a quick glance from Hellebron. He turned his attention to the other elves and saw what she saw: utter horror and deep fear. Yet here and there amongst the crowd of faces were those that looked on with appreciation, perhaps glad to be rid of Khelthion’s domination.

‘Do something!’ Hellebron did not see who made the demand, but there were scattered whispers of assent.

‘Do what?’ said Alandrian. ‘You think that no elf has ever died by the hand of another? Khaine will take what is His. This is a religious matter; it is no concern of mine.’

Ashen-faced servants arrived to take away Khelthion’s corpse but Hellebron stopped them.

‘He has been taken by Khaine,’ she said. ‘Not for poor Khelthion the unending twilight of Mirai. It is his privilege to join King Aenarion and the other sons of Ulthuan who have laid down their lives in blood.’

Lirieth took up the line.

‘The fires will send his spirit into the next world,’ she said. ‘This very night, you are all invited to witness this miracle of transformation. At midnight the flames will be lit and you shall see the splendour and majesty of Khaine’s work.’

Hellebron was taken aback by the number of elves that attended the sacrificial cremation of Khelthion’s remains. Many were elves involved with the other sects, who glared with disapproval behind their leaders. There were several hundred soldiers and a handful of captains who had fought alongside Hellebron and Lirieth; notably Prince Malriad came along with many of his household.

And there were the ordinary people of Athel Toralien, morbidly intrigued by this sudden turn of events. While the ruling princes, chief merchants, fleet-owners and sect leaders were focussed upon the future of Athel Toralien, the rest of its citizens still listened intently for news from Ulthuan; such news left even the most insular elf aware that Nagarythe was in the throes of a religious renaissance under the rule of Morathi. There had been a small but noticeable influx of new colonists in the past few years, with whispered tales of conflicts with cults and persecution by zealots of all persuasions.

It was with a mixed air of expectancy and apprehension that Athel Toralien witnessed the renewed energy of Khaine’s followers. Hellebron kept the ritual brief, speaking of the blood of birth, and of the rebirth of Khaine’s power. Though ignorant of developments in Ulthuan, she spoke of a time when the elves would again need to look to their blades; the Chaos Daemons were caged but not defeated and who could say what threat the barbaric humans might present in the future?

Khelthion’s body was cut apart with all the gory spectacle Hellebron could muster. She saw in the crowd those elves who were feeling for the first time the same sense of fascination she had experienced. This was not a dirge-laden ceremony of mourning presided over by the adepts of Ereth Khial; it was a vital, invigorating celebration of life and death, of the thin bladestroke that separates the two; a testament to the frailty of the mortal form.

Though many of the audience departed as the ceremony reached its climax, and no few that remained were aghast at what they saw, Hellebron and Lirieth kept the crowd rapt with theatrics and masterful oration. Throughout was the promise that Khaine would give the elves the strength to protect themselves; and the threat that Khaine would also find those who failed to give Him due homage.

The power of the crowd was a phenomenon that had always amazed Hellebron. As the chants to Khaine echoed along the streets from the mouths of soldiers and mariners, captains and traders, princes and scholars, Hellebron marvelled at the sway that popularity and vogue had upon her fellow elves. In the thick of battle, it had been the weight of the many that prevailed, and this was no less true of the ongoing tussles for power that existed in Naggarothi society.

When the flames were dying and the last of the crowd had returned to their homes – sated or terrified, it did not matter – Hellebron remained with Lirieth and her father.

‘It is a dangerous thing that you seek to wield,’ said Alandrian, as Lirieth and Hellebron washed themselves of the stains of sacrifice. ‘You are my daughters and I will do all in my power to further your cause. Be warned, there are some things I cannot protect you against: jealousy, fear and ambition will create many enemies for you.’

‘Rest easy, father,’ said Hellebron. ‘Tonight is but a beginning, a first step. The people will learn that Khaine’s way is the straight path, and its rewards come swiftly.’

‘I saw it tonight, in the eyes of many that watched,’ said Lirieth. ‘There were those who did not see the body of Khelthion, but instead the dismembered corpse of another; a rival, a lover who spurned them, a spoiled sibling. We will have enemies, but Khaine will provide the cure for many ills that others seek to expunge from their lives and that will bring even more allies.’

Alandrian said nothing for a moment. He looked at his two daughters and down at the puddle of blood-tinged water spreading across the cobbles.

‘You cannot let loose this beast,’ he said quietly. ‘You must keep it on a tight rein, or it will turn and devour all of us.’

‘Our hands, and yours, will be firm upon the leash, father,’ said Hellebron. ‘The other sects are weak, their leaders apathetic. They have practised their rites and yet the people of Athel Toralien still have their share of woes and disappointments. The time is nigh for a new wind to sweep the city clean, and the people will see the truth for what it is.’

Hellebron’s confident predictions were borne out over the following days. Alone or in small groups, the elves of the city visited the sisters at their new shrine. They left gifts of gems and gold and silver, and promises of support for Khaine and his burgeoning cult. Some came to Hellebron and Lirieth with their complaints, accusing rivals in business, society and love of being enemies of Khaine and traitors to Nagarythe.

Within a few days, Hellebron already had a sound idea of who were her greatest opponents. Chief amongst them were the other sect leaders and their most dedicated acolytes. There was gossip of a backlash, of the other cults combining forces to show the upstarts their real place in society. Hellebron scorned such threats and assured her new followers that Khaine gave his blessings to those who took power for themselves. She reminded her growing number of disciples that it had been Aenarion who had chosen to take up the Sword of Khaine and it was through action, not words, that the Naggarothi would grow to even greater heights of power and wealth. Hers were the words of the future, not the past.

Of greater concern was the news of one particular critic, who had been an outspoken opponent to the rise of all the sects and who had now turned her ire on Hellebron and Lirieth.

Her name was Mirieth, and she was their mother.

She had been estranged from the family for many years, and the sisters’ decision to leave Athel Toralien had been the final divide between them and their mother. For more than twenty years they had not spoken, to each other or about each other. Mirieth was now speaking against the cult of Khaine and sending letters to all the nobles of Athel Toralien. There was even rumour that Mirieth would despatch messages to the other cities of Elthin Arvan, to enlist the aid of princes from other kingdoms.

‘Let her write her indignant letters,’ Hellebron said in reply to Lirieth’s concerns. Always the younger of the two had reserved some fondness for their mother, though Mirieth had been dead in Hellebron’s heart for many years. ‘Her pleas will fall on deaf ears.’

‘But her family is powerful in Nagarythe, sister,’ said Lirieth. ‘Her brother is one of Morathi’s favourites and her uncle a powerful prince. Father’s split from mother has made him unpopular in many circles and this may be the excuse his enemies need to crush him. This is what he meant when he warned against the course we are taking.’

Hellebron stared at her sister with annoyance.

‘Do you have doubts?’ she said. ‘Do you wish to go back on our oaths to Khaine, on the promises we made to ourselves?’

‘Not at all, sister,’ said Lirieth. ‘The hand of mother’s family may be strong, but its reach cannot cross the ocean so easily. I am warning against overreaction. Athel Toralien is unpopular yet desirable, and it would take but a small incitement for many powerful folk of Nagarythe to take a keener interest in our affairs.’

‘What is it that you think I would do?’ said Hellebron. ‘I am not so ungrateful that I would murder the elf that gave me life! Let Mirieth rant and write for all she is worth; for that matter, let them all rave against us; their opposition only strengthens our cause.’

‘The will of the people will be known, and in the end they will force us to act,’ said Lirieth. ‘When the mob is baying for the blood of our rivals, that is the moment we will strike.’

Hellebron considered this. There was a certain appeal to letting her opponents create their own downfall, but for this to be guaranteed they would need a nudge in the right direction.

‘We cannot allow the others to be too meek,’ she said. ‘If we overstep the mark, it will be too easy for them to accuse us of being power-hungry and selfish; yet we must weigh against that the peril of being too meek ourselves. We enjoy the seduction of novelty for the moment, and we must make some steps towards securing our position while the favour is with us.’

‘You have something in mind? Something that is not too obvious?’

‘I do, sister. The arrogance of Khelthion was opportune, but the other cult leaders will not repeat his mistake. And it is the appeal of the sacrifice that will draw followers to our cause. We must find another candidate for Khaine’s cruel intentions, one who is an important supporter of our rivals but not directly part of a sect.’

The two of them spent some time looking over Hellebron’s copious notes, examining the names provided to them by those elves hoping to settle a personal score. Many were petty matters, of interest only to a few; many others were too important for Hellebron to act against, knowing that their allies would no doubt reciprocate.

Sifting through the spite of the Naggarothi took some time. Liannin entered with two gleaming lanterns and placed them upon the hooks on the chamber walls. Hellebron barely noticed her, but looked up as the maid hesitated by the door. Liannin bowed her head in deference, but there was clearly something on her mind.

‘Speak,’ said Hellebron. She stood up and raised Liannin’s chin with a finger. ‘Do I not consider you almost a second sister? What troubles you?’

‘I am afraid,’ said Liannin.

‘Has someone said something to you?’ asked Lirieth, setting aside the scroll she was reading. ‘Has someone made a threat?’

‘Not against me, and not in any direct way,’ said Liannin. She grasped Hellebron’s arm and looked at the two sisters with concern. ‘It is you that I fear for. There is rumour that Anellion, Khelthion’s successor, will denounce you to the city and is bringing a powerful person from Ulthuan to do the same. A friend of my cousin works at the docks and says that Anellion despatched a messenger aboard a fast ship yesterday.’

‘To whom was this message sent?’ Hellebron guided Liannin to a chair and eased her into it. ‘Did you get a name?’

‘Khorlandir,’ said Liannin.

The name was familiar but Hellebron could not place it. She looked at Lirieth to see if her sister remembered. Her sister’s brow was furrowed with consternation.

‘I know that name,’ said Lirieth. ‘I heard it from the lips of Lethruis.’

The mention of Lethruis sparked recollection in Hellebron’s mind.

‘Was it not from Khorlandir that Lethruis learnt the secrets of Khaine?’

‘It is so, sister. He must be powerful indeed, perhaps even a high priest in Anlec. It would not go well for us if he were to come to Athel Toralien.’

‘No it would not,’ said Hellebron. She noticed Liannin listening closely to the conversation. She stood behind the maid and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Do not be afraid. You have done well to warn us of this. It would be a great use to us if you could find out anything more that Anellion intends. Can you do this for us?’

Liannin looked up with grateful eyes.

‘Of course, I will keep my eyes open and my ears ready,’ said the maid. Again there was a moment of hesitation and Hellebron waved Liannin to continue. ‘If it is not too much to ask, I would like to attend one of your ceremonies. I was not able to see you the other night.’

Hellebron and Lirieth smiled at each other.

‘That would not be a problem at all, dear Liannin,’ said Lirieth. ‘It was remiss of us not to invite you.’

‘Not only will we ensure that you can attend our next dedication, we will make you our guest of honour,’ added Hellebron.

With a grateful smile Liannin stood up, squeezed Hellebron’s hand affectionately and hurried towards the door.

‘Thank you,’ said Liannin. ‘If it would be all right, I would like to bring some other friends; servants of other great families.’

‘Bring whomsoever you would like,’ said Hellebron. ‘The more, the merrier!’

Liannin proved a useful spy and the following day returned with news that the priest, Anellion, had an illicit lover, a silversmith who lived in the crafts quarter near the waterfront. Anellion often spent much time with her, ostensibly to procure jewellery and other accoutrements for his followers, but the two were more than trader and customer.

This information coincided nicely with a planned ritual the following night. After the display with Khelthion’s body, the sisters’ new adherents would be expecting something equally spectacular.

As the moons slipped out of sight, the pair ghosted through the empty streets of Athel Toralien. They were clad in robes of dark grey, swathed in black cloaks, shadows in the darkness. They found the silversmith’s store without incident and entered unseen. Slipper-covered feet padding soundlessly on the polished wooden floor, they made their way through the shop and upstairs to the living quarters.

Through the archway they spied a couple, ageing in years, asleep upon a great bed. They carried on, checking the other rooms, until they found the dark-haired lover of Anellion lying curled up beneath a woollen blanket, her pretty face bathed in the golden light of a lamp hanging from a roof beam outside.

Lirieth pulled something from her waistband; a long pin with a short wooden handle. She pushed its tip through the wax seal of a small phial and pulled it free, a single droplet of liquid hanging from its end. Leaning over the silversmith, Lirieth pricked the side of the maiden’s neck, drawing blood.

The girl awoke with a start, hand reaching to the pain in her neck. Hellebron clamped a gloved hand over the silversmith’s mouth as she was about to scream. The girl struggled for a moment and then suddenly fell limp as the dreamvine toxin spread to her brain. The silversmith stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, her mouth slack.

‘Listen to us very carefully,’ said Hellebron, stooping to whisper into the maiden’s ear. ‘When you awake in the morning, you will remember nothing of this save the instructions we are about to give you. You will follow these commands without hesitation. Do you understand?’

The girl nodded vaguely.

‘Good,’ said Lirieth. She drew a dagger from her belt and curled the silversmith’s limp fingers around its handle. ‘Listen well.’

The lanterns had all been extinguished, leaving the flames of the pyre as the only light in the plaza. The walls of the houses and businesses around the square danced with shadows and the gathered elves were bathed in an orange glow.

Hellebron was pleased to see an even larger crowd, almost a thousand elves. As before there was a mixed mood, and she could clearly see groups from the other cults clustered about their priests, ready to make trouble; as word of the Khainites had spread through the city, the other sects had rallied their followers too. There was a mood of confrontation but Hellebron knew that the event of the night would precipitate something far stronger than some glares and heckling.

Lirieth began with the usual preamble, praising the strength of Khaine, conjuring visions of the great war with the daemons, and the elves’ deliverance by Aenarion and the Sword of Khaine.

Hellebron took up the tale, renewing her warnings that the elves would never know peace and reminding the crowd that the Naggarothi were ever at the forefront of battle and needed Khaine’s blessing more than any other kingdom.

‘Let the spirit of Khaine fill our hearts and make our blood rush!’ said Lirieth. ‘Who else feels the spirit of Khaine?’

Hellebron and Lirieth stalked back and forth in front of the audience, naked blades in their hands, eyes scanning the crowds.

‘Who would open themselves up to the Prince of Blood?’ cried Hellebron.

There were some shouts from the elves; those who had worshipped under Lethruis now followers of the Brides of Khaine.

‘Praise Khaine!’ a voice shouted from the mass. The call was taken up and repeated, growing in ferocity.

A piercing shriek split the chanting and an elf maiden broke from the throng, a curved dagger in her hand. It was the silversmith, her eyes wild, her clothes ragged as she tore at her dress.

‘I feel the spirit of Khaine!’ she screeched. She fell to her knees in front of Hellebron, head back, an agonised cry coming from deep within. It was a primal noise, of fury and pain. ‘It burns! My spirit is on fire!’

Another figure emerged, shouldering through the press of elves. It was Anellion, in all his priestly accoutrements.

‘Maineth, what madness is this?’ he said, grabbing hold of the silversmith’s arm to drag her to her feet.

Maineth ripped herself from his grip and staggered towards the pyre. Her whole body trembled, the dagger wavering in her hand. She looked at Anellion with glazed eyes before turning that mad stare upon the rest of the elves. Maineth seemed to be struggling with something, the knife weaving a random pattern in front of her.

Hellebron and Lirieth watched intently, silently offering up their prayers to Khaine that the dreamvine would work.

‘I cannot do it!’ screamed Maineth. Hellebron took a step to intervene, but Maineth stumbled away from her outstretched hand. ‘I cannot give you the one I love, take me instead!’

Maineth plunged the dagger into her exposed chest. Blood spilled onto the cobbles as she fell backwards, crimson frothing at her lips. The crowd exploded into uproar. The rival priests and their followers hurled accusations while Hellebron’s faithful cried out to Khaine. The undecided amongst the crowd screamed in horror, or broke down weeping.

Anellion ran to Maineth and knelt down, lifting her head to his lap. He pulled the dagger free and flung it away, blood coating his hands and arms, staining the gold-and-white thread of his robe. He ran his fingers through her hair, staining her locks with crimson, smearing more blood on her face.

The high priest looked up at Hellebron with a hate-filled gaze. Gently lowering Maineth to the ground, Anellion stood up, shaking with rage.

‘Khaine takes His own,’ said Lirieth, stepping up beside her sister, knife held ready.

Hellebron was still shocked by the silversmith’s actions; she had been instructed to attack Anellion, but this was even better. Gathering her wits, she faced off against Anellion.

‘That anger you feel, that rage that courses through you, that is Khaine’s gift,’ said Hellebron. ‘You cannot blame the priests for the actions of their god. Khaine chose you for His sacrifice for this night; be thankful that your lover chose to give herself in your place.’

‘This is an attack upon me, on the sect of Ereth Khial,’ said Anellion. ‘Do not think that such a thing will go unpunished.’

‘And who will deliver your vengeance?’ said Lirieth. ‘Ereth Khial? Anath Raema? Atharti? No, it is the power of Khaine that you desire. It is Khaine that you must turn to when you wish to strike down in hate and fear. Khaine has made His choice and found you unworthy.’

Hellebron noticed a disturbance in the crowd; Anellion’s followers and their allies were scuffling with the Khainites. It was too soon for such open confrontation.

‘Cease your petty struggling!’ she shouted, pointing her dagger at the brawling elves. ‘Tonight a sacred act has taken place. Do not despoil the sacrifice of this beautiful moment with your mortal prejudices. Maineth has given her spirit to Khaine and we must consecrate her flesh to Him.’

Lirieth stooped over Maineth’s corpse, her blade above the wound in her chest.

‘No!’ Anellion launched himself at Lirieth. The Bride of Khaine stepped easily aside and swung the back of her fist into his jaw, sending the priest tumbling to the ground.

‘Do not anger Khaine further with this interference,’ snarled Hellebron, standing between Anellion and his lover’s body. ‘He has claimed one of us tonight, do not draw His eye upon yourself.’

Tears streamed down Anellion’s face as Lirieth crouched over Maineth and cut out her heart. She lifted it reverentially to the crowd, who were now subdued, finally realising what had happened.

‘Praise Khaine,’ Lirieth said softly. ‘Take this sacrifice and stay Your bloody hand from our lives. Be sated with this offering of blood and flesh.’

She threw the heart into the flames and fell to her knees. Hellebron did the same, bowing down to the fire. Behind them, other elves followed their lead, bowing their heads and kneeling down in worship.

‘Praise Khaine.’ It was not a victorious shout but a frightened whisper from hundreds of elves.

Unseen, Hellebron smiled.

The effect of Maineth’s self-sacrifice was felt all across Athel Toralien. Hellebron and Lirieth were inundated with callers seeking protection from Khaine’s wrath. Many came simply to give praise, but there were a good number who wished to learn all the ways of Khaine; not just the prayers and rituals, but also to fight in Khaine’s name.

Lirieth and Hellebron welcomed these new acolytes. With their father’s money and influence they took over one of the villas that looked out onto the sacrifice square. Craftsmen were brought in to convert the house into a temple. Over many days, a black granite statue depicting Khaine was raised at the gate, and iron braziers erected along the walls, burning with magical flame. The Brides of Khaine gathered their most promising followers and began to school them in the arts of war, introducing them to the various drugs that allowed them to fight without fear or fatigue.

For their part, the other sects conceded temporary defeat. Fearful of what happened to Maineth, the other priests and priestesses restricted their protests to their own gatherings. Hellebron was content not to push the matter; her focus was on securing her hold on those that came flooding to the new shrine.

Many of these new Khainites were desperate, haunted by the tale of Khaine possessing Maineth and forcing her to commit suicide. They regularly cut themselves and offered up their blood to Khaine, hoping that such smaller sacrifices would keep the Prince of Blood at bay. Hellebron and Lirieth presided over these bloodletting ceremonies, ensuring that their followers did not inflict any wound too grievous, giving assurance that Khaine’s thirst could be slaked if the blood was offered with suitable humility.

Autumn turned to winter, winter to spring and a new rhythm of life settled in Athel Toralien. Hellebron’s sect numbered several thousand, larger even than the following of Ereth Khial. As she consolidated her power, Hellebron’s thoughts turned to wider matters. It was not enough to be the strongest cult in Athel Toralien; to dominate entirely the Khainites would need to extend their power beyond the city.

The Brides of Khaine despatched their most trusted and able followers to several other cities around the colonies. Their task was simple: to recruit elves from other kingdoms into Khaine’s fold. This was a risky mission, for though the Naggarothi had no qualms about the Prince of Blood, worship of Khaine was not welcomed by other kingdoms. These heralds would work in secret, subtly extending their influence, attracting those who were willing.

Over the next year, Hellebron’s confidence grew further. With a strong but as yet incomplete hold on the city, the shrine’s coffers swelling with donations, she wrote a letter to Khorlandir, high priest of Khaine in Anlec. In that letter, she extolled the virtues of the Khainites and told Khorlandir of what she had created in Athel Toralien. It was her hope that word of what she had done would begin to circulate in Anlec, paving the way for her eventual arrival. Perhaps, she thought, even Morathi might hear the name Hellebron again.

As another winter turned to spring, Hellebron received word back from Khorlandir. He praised her work in Khaine’s name and reassured Hellebron that such dedication would not go unrewarded.

The letter also contained a warning. The rise of Khaine in Athel Toralien was part of a greater movement, and in Nagarythe the other sects were becoming more desperate to halt the popularity of the Khainites. Khorlandir told Hellebron to be wary of any move by the other priests in the city, concerned that rival cults would choose to direct their jealousy against the Khainites isolated in Athel Toralien.

Though Hellebron was disposed to dismiss such concerns, Lirieth was quick to guard against overconfidence. From Liannin, who had proved herself an enthusiastic and popular, and exceptionally useful, member of the sect, the sisters learned that there were whispers of discontent; almost two years had passed since Maineth’s dramatic self-sacrifice and many followers were becoming disenchanted with the Brides of Khaine. Lirieth suspected agitators from the rival sects were stirring up trouble, but even Liannin was unable to point out any of the ringleaders driving the quiet rebellion.

Before Hellebron could devise a plan of action, more worrying news filtered up from the mass of followers. Several elves were missing, and the finger of blame was directed at the priests of Ereth Khial. It was claimed that cultists following the Goddess of the Dead had stolen into the homes of the Khainites and snatched them away, though no witnesses could be found to swear this as fact.

‘There are no feathers without a hawk,’ Lirieth said to Hellebron one afternoon, as the two of them sat in a small antechamber next to the main temple hall mixing the secret potions and salves used by the Khainites. ‘It is as Khorlandir warned: the other sects are building to some larger move against us.’

‘They seek to sow division within our company,’ said Hellebron. She took a pinch of powder from a flask and used a pestle and mortar to mix it with crushed venomblossom. ‘If we fail to respond, our leadership will be questioned and unrest will spread.’

‘We need another living sacrifice,’ said Lirieth. ‘The blooding does not engage as many of our followers as it once did.’

At that moment the curtain of the chamber parted and Liannin entered carrying a steaming pan of water. She set it down next to the sisters and was about to leave when Lirieth caught her by the arm.

‘What is the feeling amongst our brothers and sisters?’ Lirieth asked.

‘They are angry more than afraid,’ replied Liannin. She looked very different from the maid she had been, her skin whitened with dye, her hair and lips black. Tiny scars of many cuts covered her arms and shoulders, and she had branded a small rune of Khaine onto her left cheek. ‘They see these kidnappings as a challenge to Khaine.’

‘We must strike back, and hard enough that there will be no retaliation,’ said Hellebron. She looked at Liannin. ‘Send out the word to our followers that tonight we shall hold a special ceremony. Lirieth, gather our best fighters and bring them here before dusk. It is time that we sent a message that cannot be ignored.’

Hellebron and Lirieth stalked through the streets at the head of fifty of their most zealous followers. All of the Khainites were armed with swords and daggers, and they carried burning torches with them. As they passed across the city to the temple district, the slamming of doors and rattle of window shutters greeted them. Even those elves with no interest in religion could not be ignorant of recent developments, and the grim sight of the Khainites sent many elves to flight, fearful for their lives.

Rather than confront the supporters of Anellion directly, Hellebron led her followers to the shrine of Atharti. The pleasure-seekers were an easy target, mostly the young and disaffected who indulged in casual liaison and gross intoxication. The temple of the pleasure goddess was a high, narrow hall with column-lined steps leading up to the main entrance. Above the threshold was a frieze, an indecent image of entwined bodies, with a flowing inscription beneath: ‘There is no life without pleasure’.

Hellebron broke into a run, her followers dashing up the steps behind her. There was no door to bar their path and they flowed through the high arch quickly. Inside the temple, the soporific incense of the Athartists lingered on the air, a few dim lanterns shining purple through the haze.

The worshippers lay in scattered groups upon the carpeted floor, in various states of undress. A few looked up with drug-addled eyes as the Khainites spread across the chamber, weapons in hand. Lying naked upon her altar, the high priestess Ilintalia turned languidly towards the newcomers, a half-smile upon her lips.

Hellebron grabbed the priestess by her curled white hair and wrenched her from the altar. Ilintalia squealed with pain but was unable to offer any firmer resistance as Hellebron dragged her back towards the street. Others were roused by her cry, but so intoxicated were they that the Khainites had no problem hauling them to their feet; there was not even need for any bindings.

Surrounded by the bared blades of the Khainites, the Athartists stumbled and slouched towards the street, mumbling in confused fear. A few were regaining their senses, shock washing away the effects of their indulgence. Their protests were swiftly silenced by punches and kicks.

Back across the city marched the Khainites, their hostages huddled in the midst of the mob. There were questions and accusations hurled from doorways and windows as the cultists passed, but Hellebron said nothing and her followers were under strict instructions to harm nobody but their rivals.

Liannin had done her part of the task well and the congregation of Khainites was so large that it spilled out of the temple and into the square where those first ceremonies had been held. Liannin herself stood by the doorway, dagger in hand, as the Khainites laughed and jeered at the feeble Athartists.

Ilintalia was rousing from her fugue and began to wriggle desperately. Hellebron and Lirieth seized the priestess and heaved her into the air, carrying her into the temple upon their shoulders, impervious to her struggles. A great cheer greeted them from within, where the Khainites were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, leaving only a small space in front of the fire pit. They parted to let the Brides of Khaine reach the bloodstained stone altar set before the pyre, hurling insults at Ilintalia.

The sisters dropped the Atharti priestess onto the slab, dazing her. While Lirieth brought forth manacles to chain Ilintalia, Hellebron darted into the antechamber and emerged a moment later with a golden chalice; its contents a potent mix of narcotics.

Without a word being said, Hellebron brought out her knife, slicing its blade across the wrist of their captive. Blood poured from the long wound, to be caught by Hellebron in the wide-brimmed cup. She used her knife to stir the contents and then took a long draught.

Already excited by the taking of the sacrifices, Hellebron’s whole body burned as the concoction of blood and drugs took effect. She passed the chalice to Lirieth, who drank swiftly and then gave the goblet over to Liannin to share with those close at hand.

Hellebron stood over Ilintalia, dagger raised. The crackle of the flames and the panting of the congregation added to the noise in her head. The smoke from the fire was no thicker than the fog of her thoughts as she searched for some incantation or prayer to accompany the sacrifice.

She stared out at the expectant faces of her followers, more of them trying to cram in through the door than would ever fit. They didn’t care for words, they wanted only one thing: blood!

Hellebron drove the dagger into Ilintalia’s breast, again and again, stabbing and slashing in a frenzy of bloodlust. She ripped out her sacrifice’s heart and raised it to her lips, tearing a chunk from the organ with her teeth. Crimson spilling down her chin and chest, she presented the trophy to the crowd.

‘Praise Khaine!’

The shrine shook with wild shrieks and roars. Hellebron cast the heart into the flames. She felt like she was floating, buoyed up by excitement and adulation. The Khainites bayed for more and another of the Athartists was roughly deposited onto the altar as Ilintalia’s corpse was taken away and cut to pieces by Khainites who sought to take their own souvenirs of this glorious night.

This time Lirieth took her turn, more sedate in her actions, carefully cutting open her sacrifice, the young elf’s weeping and cries of agony a chorus of praise to the Prince of Murder. Not until she plunged her dagger under his exposed ribs did he die, a plaintive wail ripped from his lips.

Outside, frustrated Khainites fell upon the other prisoners in a storm of shredding blades and ripping hands. Bones and blood littered the cobbled square as the cultists tore apart their sacrifices, chanting praises to Khaine, tossing garlands of entrails to each other like obscene playthings.

Long into night the murder continued, charnel smoke billowing from the temple to swathe the stars, hundreds of voices echoing through the streets of Athel Toralien while the common citizens cowered in their homes.

The great sacrifice of the Athartists did not go without retaliation. The following night, Khainites were set upon by mobs from the other temples and dragged to the altars of other gods. Flames flickered above the city as the homes of Khainites were set on fire. No opponent dared approach the shrine itself, nor strike against Hellebron or Lirieth.

When dawn came and the dead were counted, more than a hundred Khainites had been slain, and half that number of other cultists. Hellebron spoke to her followers and promised them that Khaine would not let these crimes go unpunished. Knowing that many in the city were not aligned to any particular sect, Hellebron was determined that the Khainites would be held in highest dread; she could not allow any other cult to oppose her.

The following night, the Khainites were let loose and running fights broke out through the streets around the temple district. None could match the savagery of the blood cultists and hundreds died, slain on the road or dragged screaming to the altar.

Dawn brought no peace as the battles continued. The sun rose upon a city stained with bloodshed, the streets littered with corpses. Hellebron stood at the door of the temple with Lirieth by her side and exhorted her weary followers to continue.

The clatter of hooves on pavement echoed across the square and a troop of knights rode into view. More than a hundred riders filed into the plaza, lances lowered and swords unsheathed. Behind them came rank upon rank of soldiers with bows and spears, spreading into the streets around the temple of Khaine.

The knights’ captain steered his mount towards the shrine and stopped a short distance from the Brides of Khaine. Hellebron did not recognise him.

‘By order of Prince Alandrian, all religious cults and sects are to cease this disorder immediately.’ The captain glared at Hellebron. ‘That includes you. Your father is very unhappy.’

‘We are fighting to defend ourselves,’ said Lirieth. Hellebron was too furious for words; how dare her father interfere now, at the moment of her triumph?

‘There will be no more fighting,’ said the captain. ‘All temples are to be closed and there will be a curfew from dusk to dawn. Any found continuing this sectarian insolence will be arrested and tried as traitors.’

‘I demand to see my father!’ shrieked Hellebron.

‘We have friends within the army,’ said Lirieth.

The captain laughed.

‘Any soldier of Nagarythe who disobeys the commands of Prince Alandrian will be executed without trial or appeal. As for your father, he sent me here to bring you to him.’ The captain’s humour faded.

‘You are both under arrest.’

In the distance, the horizon was smudged by the dark green of the forests, broken by the glittering snake of a river. To the north, Hellebron could just about see the ploughed fields of the farmlands, while closer at hand the land rippled with heather-covered hills. Directly beneath the narrow window the tower’s gardens exploded with colour, filled with the full bloom of spring. White pebble paths led between the flower beds to an immaculate lawn where servants were clipping the grass, moving on their knees in a row.

It was a very picturesque prison.

The gardens were bordered by a high hedge, and Hellebron could see the glint of the soldiers as they patrolled the road beyond. If she leaned out, she would look down on the helmets of the warriors guarding the tower door.

The first year had been the most difficult. Hellebron had ranted and raved, broken the furniture a dozen times, smashed the gilded mirrors, set fire to the expensive rugs, but her father had not relented in his decision.

The second year Hellebron had spent in deep thought, fantasising a hundred ways by which she might escape. She had skill enough with a sword to break free, but she was half a day from the city. No horses were kept in the stables and she would be caught before she ever sighted Athel Toralien; even if by some chance she reached the city, there was little hope of entering without being seen. The alternative was to head east, but a life of exile would be as bad as imprisonment, with none of the comforts.

The third year Hellebron had spent writing letters to her sister, who languished in similar confinement far to the north. Lirieth’s replies told of the great cliffs on which her gaol stood, and the waves that crashed day and night.

Hellebron had no doubt that her letters were opened and read, and that anything of suspicion would be reported to her father. That had not stopped her from communicating her plans and desires; the two sisters thought so alike, they were able to discern the subtlest meaning in the seemingly bland correspondence. Lirieth wrote always of patience; Hellebron urged her sister to remain strong.

Prince Alandrian visited frequently. At first, Hellebron had refused to see him, going as far as to throw missiles at him out of the window. When he stopped coming, she had written to him, apologising for her behaviour, hoping that perhaps she could reason with him, or maybe even tug on his emotions enough to secure her release.

Her father had offered a simple choice: renounce her dedication to Khaine or remain imprisoned. Hellebron had given no answer, and spent much time considering her response. She would not be able to renounce Khaine in name only; there would be many elves only too willing to spy on her to ensure she stayed true to her word. To give up her position as a Bride of Khaine would be to admit defeat and cast aside all the ambition that she harboured.

This Hellebron could not do, and with reluctance told her father that she would not renounce her love of Khaine. He had nodded, perhaps even with a hint of pride, and told her that the offer would always be open to her.

Three and a half years was not a considerable time in the reckoning of the elves, but to Hellebron it was a slow torture. Day by day she knew her dreams were slipping away. Her father had allowed Liannin to remain as maid, and through secret messages she sneaked out of the tower, Hellebron continued to send words of encouragement to her followers and in return received news of what passed in Athel Toralien and the other cities.

After a ban lasting a year, Alandrian had capitulated to the continuing demands of the cults, and the temples had been reopened, even the shrine to Khaine. Without Hellebron and Lirieth, the Khainites were a much lesser force, returned to the status of military indulgence rather than a true sect. Now and then a beastman or greenskin, even the occasional human marauder from the North, would be brought to the city to appease the Bloody-Handed God. It seemed that Lethruis had won from beyond the grave.

A knock on the door broke Hellebron’s thoughts.

‘Enter.’

Liannin opened the door, consternation showing in her face.

‘Prince Alandrian is here to see you,’ said the maid.

‘He was here only three days ago,’ said Hellebron. ‘Why has he returned so soon?’

‘He has not said anything to me,’ said Liannin. ‘He is waiting for you in the South Hall.’

Hellebron nodded and stood.

‘Tell him I will join him as soon as I am presentable.’

Liannin departed, closing the door softly, leaving Hellebron alone with a sudden rush of thoughts and questions. Only something of immediate and high importance would have brought her father back. Hellebron sat in front of the mirror and brushed her hair, calming herself, pushing aside the flood of speculation that sprang to mind. She changed into a short-sleeved evening dress, tied back her hair with a golden clasp, and took a deep breath.

It was always important to remember she was a princess.

‘There is civil war in Nagarythe.’

Hellebron stared open-mouthed at her father at this announcement. She shook her head, thinking she had misheard. Alandrian was sitting at the head of the long dining-table, a fire burning in the grate behind him. He stood and looked into the flames as he continued.

‘Prince Malekith has returned to Ulthuan from his travels in the North and Morathi attempted to keep the throne from him.’ Alandrian talked stiffly as if reciting from a letter. ‘I learned this only yesterday, and the news itself is many days old. The ship’s captain who brought it to me says that Malekith has entered Anlec, and Morathi is to be taken to the Phoenix King’s court and charged with treason.’

Hellebron laughed, long and hard; so long that tears rolled down her cheeks and she had to hold on to the edge of the table to keep herself upright. All the while, Alandrian looked at his daughter with confusion. Eventually Hellebron regained some modicum of control.

‘Morathi is to be tried by Bel Shanaar and the other princes?’ Hellebron laughed again, imagining the queen’s humiliation. ‘This is wondrous news, wondrous news indeed!’

Her father did not see any humour in the situation.

‘Nagarythe is tearing itself apart,’ said the prince. ‘There are factions still loyal to Morathi fighting against the followers of Malekith.’

Hellebron settled again, mind suddenly alive with possibilities.

‘These troubles will spread to Athel Toralien,’ she said. ‘You were Prince Malekith’s lieutenant. It was the prince who handed control of the city to you. The cults owe their allegiance to the lapdogs of Morathi, puppets of masters in Anlec these past years. Your enemies will see this as an opportunity to remove you.’

‘This has occurred to me,’ Alandrian said, sitting down again. He waved Hellebron to sit next to him and laid a gauntleted hand on the table in front of her, an imploring gesture. ‘I have a new proposal for you.’

‘Ask anything, father.’ Hellebron smiled sweetly, hope rising in her heart. ‘Anything at all.’

Hellebron had to wait for two more years while her father manoeuvred and politicked in Athel Toralien, slowly replacing or moving officials known to be adherents to the other cults, promoting army officers loyal to him alone, currying favour with the other princes of the city and making secret pacts with the most powerful merchants.

When all was ready, a mounted guard of honour came to collect Hellebron. Lirieth was with them and the sisters shared an emotional reunion, with many tears of joy and embraces. After so much time, now that she was so close to achieving the dominion she craved, the ride to Athel Toralien seemed an eternity to Hellebron. Her father was about to hand her the city like a sweetmeat on a platter, and still Hellebron’s thoughts were full of grander designs. Control of Athel Toralien was not the summit of her ambition; that lay across the ocean in Anlec, and with Morathi imprisoned by the Phoenix King in Tor Anroc, there would never be a better time.

In the late summer afternoon, the city was bathed in sunlight, and Hellebron was filled with energy at the sight. Light sparkled from golden towers and silver roofs, bright against the clear sky. She looked at the high walls to the city that had been denied her for so long, and imagined the people of Athel Toralien going about their lives without an inkling of what was about to befall them.

Her thoughts turned to her rivals, the priests and priestesses of the other sects, who had no doubt laughed at her incarceration and joked with each other about the ill fate of the Brides of Khaine. Soon they would learn how dire was the price for denying Khaine, as would any that opposed His return to glory.

As they entered the city, Hellebron was immediately aware of a subdued atmosphere. Everywhere she looked there were soldiers; no doubt the citizens of Athel Toralien had noticed their increasing numbers over the preceding days.

Several princes were waiting inside the gate, their royal guards drawn up around them. Hellebron recognised Malriad and a couple more; the other three were unknown to her, princes from Nagarythe who had fled Ulthuan during the last years of Morathi’s reign.

Maenredil was there too, wearing the crest of a commander. Lirieth waved at her former lover, who smiled in return and called his companies to attention. They lowered their spears in salute as Hellebron and Lirieth rode past, much to the sisters’ amusement.

Alandrian waited for them at the centre of the square inside the gate. He was dressed in his finest armour, long cloak trailing over the rump of his horse, a golden shield on his arm. He looked every part the prince he was, and it was with a surge of pride that Hellebron bowed her head to her father and reined in her steed beside him.

‘This will not go without some effort,’ said Alandrian. ‘Our preparations have not gone entirely unnoticed. Your mother suspects something is amiss and has called a rally of the people in the market. At the last count there were more than a thousand listening to her endless speeches.’

‘What of Anellion and the other cult leaders?’ asked Lirieth.

‘They have been gathering their followers to the temples, suspicious of the activity. They cannot truly suspect what we have planned.’

Hellebron looked around at the assembled soldiers and then at her father.

‘When do we start?’ she asked.

Flames lit the city, pushing back the night. The whole temple quarter was burning, and the screams of those trapped in the temples echoed with the crackling of the blaze. The crash of fighting had died down from its earlier climax, as bands of Khainites and soldiers hunted down the last of the other cultists.

Hellebron and Lirieth had led the attacks, bursting into the temples with spear and blade to cut down all opposition. Many of the meeker cultists had surrendered and were now being led in long lines to the square outside the temple of Khaine. This time Hellebron would not make the mistake of despatching all her sacrifices in a single night; there were enough prisoners to last for a good while if she was able to temper her followers’ enthusiasm.

The Brides of Khaine were outside the temple of Anath Raema watching the adepts of the Vengeful Huntress being dragged from their shrine. Lirieth laughed as one of the older priests stumbled and fell flat on his face. The soldiers heaved him up and hauled him along the street, his feet dragging on the paving.

The clatter of hooves announced the arrival of Maenredil. The commander looked aggrieved as he dismounted.

‘Is there something amiss?’ asked Hellebron.

‘That is one way of saying it,’ said Maenredil. He cast about uncomfortably for a moment before he fixed on Lirieth. ‘It is your mother. She has led a march on your father’s villa and is demanding that the purge be ended.’

‘So?’ said Hellebron. ‘Ignore her.’

Maenredil switched his gaze to her, resignation written across his face.

‘It is not so simple. She has several thousand people with her. Her defiance is a challenge to your father; open opposition to his rulership. She is demanding that he surrender his reign to her.’

‘Then our father should deal with her,’ said Lirieth. ‘Why is it our concern?’

‘You have been away a long time,’ said Maenredil. ‘The situation in the cult of Khaine has… changed.’

‘What do you mean?’

Maenredil flinched at the harshness of Hellebron’s question. The commander took a breath.

‘With both of you out of the city, Prince Malriad took it upon himself to become our leader. There are many that are still loyal to you, including him, but if you wish to come back as our leaders, there are opponents within the cult who must be swayed. Your mother’s open insolence gives weight to their arguments that you are not strong enough to lead. For the moment Malriad has them under control, but if nothing is done, you will be abandoned as being too weak. They say that your father will not be ruler forever, and that without him you will be unable to protect them.’

Lirieth sighed while Hellebron snarled a curse.

‘We will deal with this,’ said Hellebron. ‘Find us horses and we will ride with you to see this mob.’

Mirieth’s influence had grown considerably during her daughters’ absence. A staunch critic of the cults for many years, she had seized upon her husband’s ban to gain wide support for her movement. Many were tired of the cults and their leaders, and thousands had left their homes to join Mirieth in this protest.

As Hellebron and the others rode into the square, Mirieth was standing in front of a line of spearmen stretching across the gate to Alandrian’s palace. Alandrian waited on a balcony beyond the wall, surrounded by his supporters. There were several sporting the accoutrements of Khainite priests – faces that Hellebron didn’t recognise. They were usurpers, their power built upon the endeavours of Hellebron and Lirieth.

The followers of Mirieth stood in silent protest; people from all walks of life and all parts of the city. A short distance away Hellebron’s followers glowered at the protesters, blades in hand, as they stood over the cultists taken prisoner. These Khainites gave a cheer as the sisters appeared. Hellebron looked up at the dignitaries with Alandrian and noted their scowls of displeasure. It was obvious that this minor insurrection within the cult was not to their liking.

Mirieth turned as the Brides of Khaine dismounted. For a moment, Hellebron could not decipher the look on her mother’s face. Then realisation slowly dawned: it was pity. Pity born out of love, no doubt, but a stinging insult to Hellebron’s pride. Pity was for the weak. It had not been pity that had sent Aenarion to the Blighted Isle to take up the Sword of Khaine. It had not been pity that had driven Malekith to save this city from the orcs. Pity was an affectation of the lesser kingdoms and it had no place in the heart of a Naggarothi.

The two sisters approached Mirieth slowly, wary of some trap. The mood of the crowd changed, their sullenness becoming anger as the architects of the purge came closer. Hellebron and Lirieth stared them down, matching the crowd’s anger with their own. The quiet, simmering rage of the Toralii that the sisters had once used for themselves was now turned on the Brides of Khaine.

‘I know that you have no love for me, but listen to what I have to say,’ said Mirieth. Hellebron stopped a pace from her mother and glared. Mirieth met that hate-filled gaze without fear, her pale blue eyes unwavering as she studied her daughter’s face. Mirieth’s eyes glistened, hinting at tears held in check. ‘It is time for this madness to stop.’

‘And you think you have the power to stop it?’ said Lirieth.

Mirieth turned to the crowd and raised her arms, silence following swiftly.

‘Our homeland is divided,’ she said to them, but the words were directed at her daughters, and their father watching from above. ‘Nagarythe teeters on the brink of destruction, not by the machinations of others, but brought about by our own selfishness. We have forgotten the lessons left to us by Aenarion. Before he took up the Widowmaker, Aenarion offered himself to the other gods and they rejected him. Only when he sacrificed his life in the Flames of Asuryan did the gods listen.’

Now Mirieth turned back to Hellebron and Lirieth, but her voice was still pitched to carry across the square.

‘Aenarion did not sacrifice himself for the glory of Khaine. Aenarion sacrificed himself for the survival of our people. It was to banish death and misery that he laid down his life. It was out of love for all elves, Naggarothi and others, that Aenarion took up the Blade of the Blood Prince, knowing the doom he brought upon himself. It was to banish anarchy, dispel disharmony, that Aenarion turned to Khaine, at the last choice. It was in anger and grief that he became the Bloody-Handed King.’

Mirieth extended two imploring hands towards her daughters. She fell to her knees while tears streamed down her face.

‘It is with love, not hate, that I tell you this. Do not let Khaine claim your spirits. He will devour you, and through you devour us all. You still have a choice, to change direction and tread upon a path of light rather than walk the dark roads of death. Your ambitions are fleeting, for all mortals must die eventually, no matter how grand their status or how vast their army.

‘And when you are dead, how shall you be remembered? As heralds of strife? As kinslayers and murderers? Even Aenarion, in the fiercest grip of Khaine, never raised his sword against another elf. Nagarythe is in turmoil; let Athel Toralien become a beacon of peace and hope, a new Anlec. Let your legacy be one of harmony, of understanding, of love.’

Hellebron stood over her mother and laid a hand on her shoulder. She looked over to her followers, who waited like beasts about to pounce. Her gaze passed over Mirieth’s followers, many of them in tears, fear written on the faces of others.

Last, she looked up to her father’s palace. Alandrian stared down with arms crossed, his face an expressionless mask. Around him the chief Khainites sneered and glared, contemptuous of Hellebron and her sister.

Hellebron knelt in front of Mirieth. She raised her mother’s face and placed a kiss on each of her cheeks. Leaning close, she whispered in Mirieth’s ear.

‘It is too late for peace,’ said Hellebron. ‘If I do not do this, another will. Better to rule with Khaine’s blessing, than serve without it.’

Hellebron surged upright, dragging Mirieth with her. Her dagger flashed. Blood spilled from her mother’s throat. Letting Mirieth’s body fall to the ground, Hellebron held aloft the bloodied knife and stalked towards the wailing crowd, Lirieth at her heel. Some turned to run, others defiantly held their ground but cowered back when Hellebron was a few steps from them.

‘Khaine has come to Athel Toralien,’ she snarled. ‘You have a choice. Accept Khaine as your patron and give your life to Him, or deny Him and give your deaths instead!’

Hellebron whirled around and pointed her dagger at the senior Khainites and her father.

‘I have just killed my mother for the glory of Khaine. I did it swiftly and with love. Any other elf that stands in my path will not be so fortunate!’

The followers of the Brides of Khaine fell upon the protesters like a hungry pack. Screams echoed around the square as the elves fled from the Khainites. On the balcony above, Alandrian had withdrawn, leaving the Khainite priests looking down nervously at the carnage below.

Lirieth and Hellebron lifted up their blades and cried out in unison, knowing the city was theirs.

‘Praise Khaine!’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gav Thorpe is the New York Times bestselling author of ‘The Lion’, a novella in the collection The Primarchs. He has written many other Black Library books, including the Horus Heresy novel Deliverance Lost and audio drama Raven’s Flight as well as fan-favourite Warhammer 40,000 novel Angels of Darkness and the epic Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering. He is currently working on a new Dark Angels series, The Legacy of Caliban. Gav hails from Nottingham, where he shares his hideout with the evil genius that is Dennis, the mechanical hamster.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in 2010. This edition published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

© Games Workshop Limited 2010, 2013. All rights reserved.

Cover and internal illustrations by Tiernen Trevallion.

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A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-78251-068-0

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