The sundering, p.40
The Sundering, page 40
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.
