Conquest unbound, p.7
Conquest Unbound, page 7
Wheeling Ishcetus into another charge, he flipped the grip on his trident, holding it over his shoulder as his deepmare propelled him above the beast. Pontumahár gleamed like a falling star as he thrust it down, sinking its prongs deep into the primary head.
Ishcetus’ momentum, and Cycladaean’s iron grip on his weapon, wrenched it free in a gout of black blood, which misted through the roiling ethersea around the kharibdyss. It slumped, staggering back. Cycladaean felt a surge of satisfaction pump through him as the beast shuddered. It was dying. He had struck the killing blow. It reared, and slid into one of the brine-flooded tunnels, its last thrashes throwing up a cloudy murk into the ethersea around them.
And then, after a few moments of silence, it lurched deeper into the inky darkness, unleashing another ear-splitting howl from its remaining head.
‘Blood of Mathlann,’ Cycladaean cursed, wheeling Ishcetus around to survey the scene. ‘Will you not just die?!’
Blood, brine, debris and mutilated pieces of flesh swirled about the cavern in the beast’s wake. Only five morrsarr guard and a lone allopex remained, outside of himself and Akhamar. As the king recovered, pulling his wounded deepmare out of the bryozoans, Cycladaean narrowed his eyes. Akhamar had pulled away from the carnage, and clutched his side. Both he and his mount were wounded. The other hunters would be too far away to help.
Cycladaean tightened his grip on his trident. He glanced around. The hunters were few. But they were still too many. He would need help to even the odds.
‘Not yet,’ he whispered to himself, and loosened his grip. He turned to the hunters. ‘We must ride the beast down, while it is wounded!’
They formed up, with Akhamar and his wounded deepmare drifting to the centre of the formation as they moved into the tunnel. This time, Cycladaean would lead, even if it meant showing his back to his enemies.
With the ethersea unable to provide its benefit in the briny tunnel the kharibdyss fled through, he would need to find an alternative route. Glancing around, he settled on another side passage. ‘This way,’ he called.
Miraculously, the others followed. The morrsarr guard surrounded their wounded king, while the allopex kept pace right behind Cycladaean. He assumed his fellows would be more than content to let him lead the way, and trigger any ambush that was coming. But this time, Cycladaean would be ready. The kharibdyss was quick, but now it was wounded. He whispered a silent prayer to Teclis that Ishcetus would be quicker.
Descending, he kept close to the floor of the passage, skimming over the brine-flooded tunnels and glistening clumps of matted lichens.
This time, he would be the bait.
Passing through another, smaller chamber, he glanced behind him to see the remnants of the hunting party keeping pace. Akhamar’s deepmare trailed blood, and listed to the side.
Cycladaean led them through a further twisting tunnel to reach a wide, flattened chamber, his eyes panning about for any sign of their quarry. The ceiling was low, and the entire section was overgrown with lichens and a criss-cross of bryozoan branches. The passage doubled back, and intersected with several of the briny, lower tunnels. His pursuit had been slow, thanks to the king’s wounded mount. The beast would have had ample time to conceal itself once more.
And then he saw it. A disturbed trail of debris leading from the mouth of a tunnel into another, larger brine pool.
‘There you are,’ he hissed as he guided Ishcetus low. He allowed the deepmare’s trailing tentacles to skim the pool. ‘Now, come out, it’s feasting time!’ he roared, pulling the deepmare up at the last possible moment as the kharibdyss, unable to resist its predatory instincts, erupted from the pool directly in front of the allopex.
The riders managed a scream, but stood no chance as the monster’s three functional heads tore into them with savage fury, ripping them and their mount to pieces in moments. Wheeling Ishcetus around, Cycladaean pulled his deepmare into a roll just in time to dodge a savage swipe of the beast’s spiked tail.
The three morrsarr guard riding ahead of their king had only barely managed to halt their momentum when Cycladaean saw the beast rear, its writhing mass half obscured in the halo of debris and blood. It emitted its abyssal howl just as Cycladaean pulled Ishcetus back, his deepmare able to halt and redirect its momentum with ease, thus allowing it to escape what the fangmora riders could not.
Staggered for a single, fatal moment, the three morrsarr guard met the same fate as their allopex vanguard as the beast descended, shredding them with mandible and lamprey maw.
Cycladaean shook his head, disgust flooding through him. He felt a moment of doubt. He had led these akhelian to their doom. He had deliberately triggered the kharibdyss’ ambush, knowing full well that other idoneth would die because of it.
It was a most unpleasant sensation, being the traitor.
But Cycladaean quashed the unwanted emotion, casting it into the thoughtless void where all such misgivings went to die. They would have inevitably betrayed him had he not done so first. If a few idoneth had to perish for him to accomplish his goals, then so be it. The scope of his plans was greater than the petty lives of a few regressive akhelian who would have never seen the light anyway. The Dhom-hain had to rejoin the fold, for the good of all idoneth. These akhelian were but a small, unfortunate sacrifice to pay.
He returned his attention to the carnage. The debris grew denser in the narrow tunnel as the beast thrashed forward, dragging itself across the bony substrate towards Akhamar and the pair of morrsarr guard that flanked him. They were the only ones left. Cycladaean’s lips curled into a grim smile as he caught Akhamar’s gaze a moment before the king was obscured by the cloud. The king’s eyes glared at him, the revelation at Cycladaean’s treachery evident in the murderous malice shining within them. The king’s lips mouthed the word ‘traitor’, even if Cycladaean’s ringing ears could not hear it.
He didn’t see what happened next, but the flashes of biovoltaic energy in the debris cloud told him enough. The fangmoras had charged in to protect their king, and had scored hits. Cycladaean wished them due fortune in their endeavour, hoping they would inflict as much damage as they could before they undoubtedly perished.
But then Akhamar and his deepmare burst through the thrashing carnage, barrelling directly towards Cycladaean. The king had charged through the beast to get at him.
Cycladaean lowered his trident to receive the charge, gritting his teeth in anticipation at finally having the chance to silence the rival that had vexed him so, even if he knew the final confrontation would be disappointing. Even had Akhamar and his beast not been wounded, Cycladaean doubted the fight would have been a fair one.
But the king’s last charge never even reached Cycladaean.
The kharibdyss’ spiked tail lashed up, impaling Akhamar’s deepmare through the underside. One spine pierced up through its jaw, deep into its skull. It died instantly, and Akhamar sailed off, tumbling through the ethersea to crash through several bryozoans and splash into a brine pool only a few strokes in front of Ishcetus.
Cycladaean shook his head. Both of his enemies were in one neat path. It would be an efficient set of kills. Perhaps his finest, had his foes not already been so grievously wounded.
He spurred Ishcetus into a charge.
As Akhamar recovered, standing, he scrambled for his glaive, only to be rammed by the bladed horns of Ishcetus’ skull-plate, mid-charge. His armour buckled and cracked as he was tossed aside with bone-shattering force.
As the kharibdyss wheeled around, rearing up to emit its howl, Cycladaean hurled Pontumahár directly at the central maw jutting from its misshapen torso. The prongs glinted with soul-searing radiance, and embedded themselves deep into the monster’s rubbery flesh.
It did howl, but the noise was weak. A sputtering fire on a beach, drowned by a rogue wave. Cycladaean pulled his deepmare up as it thrashed wildly, its heads flailing about madly as it clawed its way forward. It ground its bulk across the rocks, forcing the trident further into its chest.
And then it collapsed, and all was silent. Nothing moved.
Cycladaean breathed a sigh of relief, his heart thundering in his ringing ears. He drifted down cautiously, patting Ishcetus on the neck. ‘The light blesses,’ he murmured. After a moment, when he was certain the beast wasn’t going to jolt to life once more, he let out a laugh, the euphoria of victory flooding through his veins.
As he circled his kill amidst the halo of wreckage, he saw his glowing trident, embedded deep, but visible. He’d worried for a moment about how the beast had collapsed, and whether he’d ever dig his weapon free from its carcass, but it seemed then that luck had favoured him. He dismounted, and reclaimed Pontumahár, shaking it free of the sticky black ichor.
Ishcetus growled, causing him to turn.
Akhamar was still alive. He was crawling towards where his glaive had sunk into another briny pool. Cycladaean drifted over, skipping across the ribbed bone below to land right behind the king, his trident angled down.
The king turned and gasped something. He’d have many broken ribs, and might well be crippled for life. There was a chance he’d recover, though, and Cycladaean firmly believed that a turned rival could make for the strongest and most faithful ally.
He thrust Pontumahár into Akhamar’s throat.
The king gurgled as golden light blossomed in his eyes, a moment before they smouldered, scorched black by his immolating soul.
Cycladaean wrenched his trident free. Some enemies could not be turned. And Akhamar was certainly among them. He grimaced, and shook his head. Skewering his broken rival had not been his finest moment, but the kill was necessary. Akhamar’s fate had been written the moment he’d revealed his intent to let Cycladaean die.
Gripping Ishcetus’ reins, he remounted, and began the laborious trek out of the scaphodon carcass, back into the open sea.
He found Saranyss waiting atop her hulking leviadon. Her features displayed surprise, a most uncharacteristic expression to an idoneth, though Cycladaean could understand it fully. He had returned alone.
‘The beast,’ he said, taking a deep breath, ‘is dead.’
The tidecaster blinked, and then nodded. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘And the others?’
Cycladaean’s mouth curled into a disappointed grimace. ‘Dead as well, I’m afraid. King Akhamar fought bravely, as did his hunters. They almost succeeded in felling their prey, but their quarry proved too fearsome for them.’
Saranyss gave a slow nod. It was enough to indicate that she understood his meaning. ‘Then you killed the beast alone?’ she asked.
Cycladaean managed a half-smile, and held Pontumahár aloft. Its light burned brighter than ever. ‘By the grace of the Light, I did. Your people can rest easy now.’
Saranyss bowed her head. ‘By the grace of the Light indeed. I’m sure the high queen will offer a great reward for your service.’
Cycladaean nodded, spurring Ishcetus away from the scaphodon husk, and back the way they’d come. The leviadon turned, and kept pace. After a few moments, he spoke again.
‘Then I shall ask the high queen what I’ve asked of every other enclave I have visited.’
The tidecaster looked at him expectantly.
‘I will urge her to send envoys to the assembrals in Príom. The time for seclusion and fear is coming to an end. It is time to unite our people once more.’
Saranyss tilted her head. ‘I’m not sure much of the court will approve of that. And I doubt she’ll find many envoys willing to volunteer for such a journey.’
‘If she honours my boon, the court will do as she says, will they not? She is the high queen.’
The tidecaster nodded.
Cycladaean gave Saranyss a sidelong glance. ‘And I can think of at least one particularly open-minded isharann within your court that might be willing to make such a journey.’
She nodded again, a half-smile on her lips.
Cycladaean bowed his head. ‘Then I believe this hunt was a success. A rather pyrrhic victory, no doubt, but a victory nonetheless. A predator slain… and a door opened. I believe it will soon be time for the Dhom-hain to return to the fold.’
The tidecaster sighed. ‘Oh, I doubt that will happen anytime soon. But perhaps your boon will be the first step.’
‘The first step? No. The first steps have already been taken. But another… another step towards unity,’ Cycladaean whispered, lowering his voice so that only he could hear. His next words were a promise. Not to himself, but to all of his people.
‘Another step towards shedding our fear and returning to the Light that made us.’
THE PERFECT ASSASSIN
Gary Kloster
‘Murder.’
Maleneth Witchblade slid the whetstone along her dagger, making a point of not looking up. She’d noticed the woman enter the tavern, wrapped in fine clothes and gaudy jewellery, with five guards surrounding her like wolfhounds. This woman wanted to be seen, and heard. She’d stopped in front of Maleneth and waited for every other soul in the Broken Beam to fall silent, watching, before she dropped that one word.
It was a lovely, dramatic opening, spoiled only by the resounding belch that came from the other side of the room, where Gotrek Gurnisson had just finished another beer. Maleneth finally raised her eyes in time to see the lady’s mouth tighten at the sound, and wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or throw her knife at her crude companion. Instead, she did what she usually did, and ignored him.
‘Is that a personal request?’ Maleneth spoke softly, but in the tavern’s hush the words carried. The guards slapped their hands to the hilts of their swords. Maleneth spun her dagger through her fingers, the dim lights of the tavern dancing along the steel’s razor edge. Would any one of them even notice her blade tearing through their throat before they were all bleeding out on the tavern’s filthy floor? Trapped too long in this place, she itched to find out.
‘Two Lords of Losten,’ the woman said, ignoring her guards and the dancing blade in Maleneth’s hand. ‘Cut down in the last two nights. How long have you been in our city?’
The woman paused to look Maleneth up and down, taking in her dark leather armour, the hilts of the dozen daggers strapped to her.
‘Assassin?’
‘Long enough.’ The dagger stopped in Maleneth’s hand. She’d no idea who this woman was, or who these dead lords were. Barely recognised Losten as the name of this rude collection of broken buildings that could hardly be called a city. But she didn’t care. Maleneth was bored and frustrated, and if she picked this fight… maybe they’d get kicked out of this damned place.
‘It wasn’t her.’ The deep voice rolled across the room.
The woman shifted to stare across the tavern to the duardin who spoke. He was a hideous lump of tattoos and scar tissue, a mass of muscle and malice and hair. There was a metal rune embedded in his chest, shining, and Gotrek’s eyes caught that light and burned like coals.
‘She’s been here. With me.’
The cool poise of Maleneth’s disdain cracked, and she glared at Gotrek. When did he ever try to stop a fight? But he met her eyes, his lips twisting into a self-satisfied smirk, and she wanted to add to the collection of scars that marked his thick hide. The Slayer had a low cunning which kept catching Maleneth by surprise. He knew she was hoping to get them run out of here, and was thwarting it.
Because there was beer.
Maleneth looked away from him, and the woman did the same. Gotrek’s elemental brutality obviously discomforted her, and she clearly preferred the polished, deadly grace of Maleneth’s menace. Without exchanging a word, they both decided to pretend Gotrek didn’t exist.
‘I’ve killed no lords. Lately.’ Maleneth slipped her dagger back into its sheath. ‘And if I’d done so here, you would have never found me, which I think you know.’
‘What I know is that someone is stalking the lords of this city. If that’s not you…’ The lady frowned. ‘Someone else is playing a vicious and foolish game.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘Not to die.’ The lady pulled back the heavy cape she wore, ward against the chill fog that hung over this place. A heavy necklace hung beneath, a gold chain holding a gleaming green stone. ‘I am Talm, a Lord of Losten, and I am being hunted in my own city – I suspect by someone who refuses to leave the past properly dead and buried. Keep his blade away from me and I’ll see you well rewarded.’
‘Protection is not what I’m trained for.’
‘Then kill him before he kills me!’ Talm snapped, and in her anger Maleneth could hear her fear. ‘I’ll pay you even more for this false Shadow Lord’s life!’
Maleneth stared at her, considering. The tavern was still quiet, everyone else listening in, until Gotrek bellowed, ‘Another beer! Another!’ Everyone except Maleneth jumped. She just heaved a silent sigh.
‘I’ll consider it,’ she said, after the echoes of Gotrek’s shout had faded.
Shadow Lord. Maleneth had no idea what Talm meant by that, but finding out sounded more interesting than staying here.
Losten was dark – not that any place in Ulgu was ever really light. But this city held its shadows close beneath a blanket of dark fog and was somewhat hidden from the forces of Chaos and death that ravaged the realms.
Maleneth stood outside the tavern, quiet in the gloom that was broken only by the lanterns hanging beside the Broken Beam’s door. Around her the crumbling, grey-stoned buildings answered with their own silence. Losten may have been sheltered by fog and darkness, but the city was still dying slowly, choking on its own shadows.
