03 - God King (9 page)

He rode onto the crest of the hill, its summit enclosed by a ring of
rune-carved stones like spikes on an ancient ruler’s crown. The priests of Morr
were waiting, a dozen men in black robes tied with silver cords and each
carrying a thin book bound in soft kidskin. The black coach rambled onto the
hilltop, and the Bloodspears moved to the centre of the hill, where the only
priest of Morr with his hood drawn back stood ready to fulfil his duty to the
dead.

“Who comes with a lost soul to be ushered into the realm of Morr?” intoned
the priest.

Markus and his champion dismounted, walking alongside the Bloodspears towards
the centre of the hilltop tomb. Wenian planted the banner before the priest as
Markus answered.

“I do, Markus Gothii, King of the Menogoths.”

Markus used his old title, for this was an ancient rite of his tribe, one in
which his new title of count had no part.

“Morr would know this soul’s name, King Markus of the Menogoths.”

“I bring my son, Vartan Gothii, slain by greenskin warriors while defending
his people.”

“Slain in service of a higher calling,” said the priest. “Then he will find
rest in the realms beyond this world of flesh.”

Markus clenched his jaw. He was the master of the Menogoths, a warrior of
superlative skill. He rubbed a hand across his shaven scalp, tensing his lean,
wolfish physique as the grief threatened to unman him before the priests who
would see his son to the realms of the dead.

The priest saw his battle and opened the book he carried as the Bloodspears
gently lowered Vartan Gothii to the ground. The acolytes of the head priest came
forward and knelt in a circle around the body. Markus looked at the unmoving
features of his son, so pale and serene that they might have been carved from
marble.

“Keep it simple, priest,” ordered Markus. “Vartan hated ceremony.”

“As you wish, King Markus,” said the priest, flipping to a shorter passage.

Markus’ wife and daughter came alongside him and he took their hands as the
priest began his recitation of the benediction to the dead. The priest’s voice
was clear and strong as he read, and Markus took comfort in the words he heard.

“Great Morr, master of the dead and dreams, you have made death itself the
gateway to eternal life. Look with love on our fallen brother, and make him one
with your realm that he may come before you free from pain. Lord Morr, the death
of Vartan Gothii recalls our human condition and the brevity of our lives in
this world. For those who believe, death is not the end, nor does it destroy the
bonds forged in our lives. We share the faith of all men and the hope of the
life beyond this frail realm of all flesh. Bring the light of your wisdom to
this time of testing and pain as we pray for Vartan Gothii and for those who
loved him.”

The priest closed his book and bowed his head. The hillside was silent, even
the black horses and the torches seeming to understand that it would be unseemly
to intrude on a king’s mourning.

A slow clapping came from the far side of the hill, and a figure armoured in
gleaming silver and gold emerged from behind one of the great menhirs. A mantle
of white silk spilled from his shoulders, contrasting sharply with the soft
caramel colour of his skin and the oiled darkness of his lustrous hair.

“Very poetic,” said the warrior, his accent soft, rounded and obviously
cultured, though it was of no tribe Markus had ever encountered. “You mortals do
so enjoy indulging in the luxury of woe.”

“Begone,” declared the priest of Morr, brandishing his prayer book like a
weapon. “This is a sacred moment you are defiling.”

The warrior snatched the book from the priest and hurled it into the
darkness. “This? Utter nonsense! Don’t believe a word of it, but what can you
expect from a man who has not passed over to see the other side for himself?”

The Bloodspears lifted their weapons and the swordsmen tensed as the warrior
walked slowly towards the mourners at the centre of the Morrdunn. His movements
were unhurried and casual, yet Markus’ expert eye caught the telltale signs of
a man perfectly in balance with his body. This man was a killer, no doubt about
that. He seemed utterly unafraid, which marked him either as a madman or a man
who knew something Markus did not.

“Who are you?” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “I am burying my
son, and you are being disrespectful. That can get a man killed in these lands.”

“So can being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said the warrior. “But
in answer to your question, I am Khaled al-Muntasir, though I am sure that will
mean nothing to you.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” said Markus. “Now begone before I have you
slain.”

Khaled al-Muntasir laughed, a rich sound full of dark amusement. He smiled
and swept back his cloak to reveal a slender-bladed scabbard of pale wood inlaid
with mother-of-pearl and jade. The warrior placed his hand on the sword and
drummed his fingers on the pommel of jet.

“If you are looking for a fight, then you are a fool,” said Markus.

“I am many things, Count Markus: a man of culture, an artist, a writer of
sorts and a dilettante in all things mystical. I have some knowledge of the
celestial mechanics wheeling above us and am a passable tailor, weapon-smith and
crafter of fine jewellery and ornaments. But one thing I am not, is a fool.”

“Let me gut him, my lord,” hissed Wenian, drawing his sword with a hiss of
metal on leather.

Markus hesitated, knowing full well how skilful Wenian was, but fearing that
any duel fought here would be an unequal match.

“Yes, let him,” said Khaled al-Muntasir, drawing his own weapon. The blade
reflected Mannslieb’s glow such that it shone like a sliver of moonlight itself.
“I have been cooped up too long in Athel Tamera, and it will be good to wet my
blade in mortal flesh again.”

“You talk big, fancy man, but you’ll bleed just the same,” said Wenian,
spinning his sword to loosen his shoulders.

“Actually, I think you’ll find that—”

Wenian didn’t give him a chance to finish, launching himself at the
finery-clad warrior. Khaled al-Muntasir’s blade swept up in a blur of white
gold, flickering like sunlight on ice. Wenian’s charge carried him past the
warrior, but before he turned, he sank to his knees and toppled to the side. His
head fell from his shoulders, rolling to a halt before one of the great menhirs.

Markus was horrified. Wenian was one of the greatest swordsmen he knew, more
skilful than any
droyaska
of the Ostagoths, and twice as fast as any
Cherusen Wildman. Yet this effete warrior had beheaded him without so much as
batting an eyelid.

Khaled al-Muntasir knelt beside Wenian’s corpse and wiped his sword blade
clean of blood. He looked up at Markus with a predatory gleam in his eyes. They
were dark and liquid, like the oil that burned in sunken pools deep in the
reeking canyons of the Grey Mountains, and he found it hard to look away. Markus
had seen that kind of look before, in the eyes of a wolf with its prey firmly
locked in its grip.

“What are you?” he said.

Khaled al-Muntasir stood and smiled. “I am your worst nightmare. Or at least
one of them.”

“Kill him,” ordered Markus, and the Bloodspears moved to surround this lone
warrior. No one, no matter how skilful could survive against such numbers. Fifty
spearmen advanced towards the warrior, the iron blades of their weapons aimed at
the swordsman’s heart.

“Really?” said Khaled al-Muntasir, as though disappointed. “You are a king,
are you not? This is the best you can do? I’m insulted you think I would fight
like some common brawler. Luckily, Krell here excels at this sort of fight.”

A terrifying roar swept over the summit of Morrdunn, the echoes bouncing from
the menhirs and filling every heart that heard it with the naked fear common to
all prey creatures. Something moved in the shadows and a hulking red shape flew
through the air to land with a crash of metal and stone in the centre of the
ring of spearmen.

It was a warrior, but a warrior unlike any other.

A full head and shoulders above his tallest rival, Krell was clad in brazen
plates of ancient iron so stained with blood that their original colour was
impossible to gauge. A great skull rune was stamped or branded into his chest,
and Markus’ courage deserted him at the sight of it. Great horns of bone
extended from the monstrous warrior’s helm and Markus saw Krell’s face was a
skeletal horror of yellowed bone and leathery flesh. A hideous emerald glow
burned in his empty eye sockets, and any warrior brave enough to meet his gaze
saw the manner of his death there.

A vast axe with a blade of utter darkness swung out and a dozen men died,
their bodies hurled through the air like corn stalks at threshing time. The
red-armoured warrior bludgeoned its way through the Bloodspears, hacking them
down with insane ferocity and without mercy. Khaled al-Muntasir watched the
slaughter impassively, as though bored by such violence.

In seconds, every warrior of the Bloodspears was dead, chopped into ragged
hunks of gory meat. It was impossible to tell one warrior’s remains from
another, such was the scale of butchery. Markus ran to his wife and daughter,
gathering them to him and shielding them from the whirlwind of destruction that
killed his warriors.

The sword bands fared no better; cut down in a frenzy of bloodletting that
left Markus horrified and disbelieving. The summit of the Morrdunn was soaked in
blood, the ground sodden with the vital fluid of a hundred men, slain in less
time that it would take to count them. The slaughterman returned to Khaled
al-Muntasir’s side, a constant stream of blood pouring from the black blade of
his axe.

Only now did the swordsman look interested in the slaughter. A thin network
of veins pulsed beneath the skin of his temples, his jaw clenched and his
nostrils flared at the bitter reek of blood on the air.

“Ulric preserve us,” whispered Markus, backing away from the two warriors.

“The wolf god?” smiled Khaled al-Muntasir. “He won’t hear you. And if he
does, he won’t care. Isn’t that what his priests teach, that his followers
should be self-reliant?”

“You are daemons,” said Markus, drawing his sword and standing before his
family. “Fight me if you must, but let my wife and daughter live. They are
innocents and do not deserve this.”

“Innocent?” hissed Khaled al-Muntasir, as though enjoying the taste of the
word. “There is no such thing in this world, just by being born mankind corrupts
this world. Every step a mortal takes, he destroys a little piece of it. No, do
not think to appeal to me with thoughts of compassion. I forgot that emotion
before your tribe even crossed the eastern mountains.”

“What are you?” demanded Markus.

Khaled al-Muntasir stepped closer, and Markus saw that the pale hue of his
complexion had nothing to do with the moonlight. Khaled al-Muntasir smiled,
revealing two elongated fangs descending from his upper jaw.

“You are a blood drinker!” hissed Markus. “A creature of the dead.”

“I cannot deny the truth,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “And your daughter’s
terror is such a tantalising sweetmeat that I think I shall leave her until
last. As much as it would give me great pleasure to make you watch them die, I
will savour her terror all the more as she watches her parents bled dry before
her young eyes.”

“Why are you doing this?” said Markus, fighting to control his terror of this
beast of the night. His blood was sluggish in his veins, and it was all he could
do to keep hold of his sword.

“It is not I,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “I am but a humble servant in this
drama.”

A vast shadow moved in the darkness behind the warrior, a slice of the
deepest, darkest night given form and motion. As Krell towered over Khaled
al-Muntasir, so too did this giant figure loom over them all. It stepped into
the flickering circle of light cast by the fallen torches, yet no hint of
illumination touched its blackened form.

A mighty figure cloaked in night and armour from the darkest forges of the
damned, its eyes burned with the same green light as shimmered in Krell’s vacant
skull. One arm clutched a forked staff in the form of an elongated snake while
the other had a sickly metallic sheen to it, like iron with a rainbow scum of
oil slithering across its surface.

Grotesque and twisted with vile animation, the grim visage was that of death
itself, a horror cast from the nightmares of men and women since the dawn of
time. Markus’ wife fainted dead away with horror, and he felt his own fragile
grip on sanity slipping in the face of such irrevocable knowledge of his own
death. His sword fell to the ground and tears spilled from his eyes as he turned
his daughter’s face away from the monster.

She sobbed uncontrollably, and Markus knew it would be a mercy to cut her
throat rather than have her face what was to come. Until this moment, Markus had
not feared death, knowing his courage in battle would surely earn him a place in
Ulric’s Hall. One look into the lambent pits of this horror’s eyes told him
there would be no journey to the next life to hunt in the forests of eternal
winter. Even the horror of the grave, with cold earth embracing his rotting
flesh and the worms growing fat on his meat was to be denied him. Compared to
the fate this creature was soon to visit upon them, such an end would be a
mercy.

Markus dropped to his knees before this dreadful apparition as it closed on
him.

“It is fitting that you give homage to the new lord of these lands,” said
Khaled al-Muntasir.

Markus fumbled for his dagger, thinking to end his and his family’s life, but
before his hand even closed on the hilt, the blood drinker was at his side and
holding him in an unbreakable grip, the cold flesh of his face inches from his
own.