The sundering, p.41
The Sundering, page 41
‘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
