‘Surrender your arms!’ cried Galan as he stopped his horse near the shattered gates. ‘I am no tyrant. Handle yourselves with dignity and you can live. The battle is over. The Hounds of Dinann are not savages. There need be no slaughter.’
There was no reply. He could see figures rushing through the darkness up on the walls of the keep, readying their weapons and war machines for a final, desperate defence. He had expected no more, but he had fought the whole campaign with dignity and pride. He was no fool. He was old. He had not expected this last chance for glory, but now that it had been given to him he would show his men how a king should lead.
‘Very well,’ he called. ‘We have given them a chance to kneel and they have refused. They have turned their back on the Great Wolf.’
He raised his spear and pointed it at the keep. ‘Hounds of Dinann! Advance!’
There was an oceanic roar. His army surged past him, howling war cries and rattling spears on shields as they rushed forwards.
His men moved with such speed that they seemed to swarm up the walls with barely any need for ladders or hooks, washing over the battlements and pouring into the reeling defenders.
Howls and screams filled the night as King Galan rode towards the gates of the keep. He did not have to wait long before the doors flew open, revealing the victorious faces of his men as they drove the traitors back, washing the courtyard with blood and setting fire to the buildings inside the walls.
He strode over to one of the fallen defenders. The man was still alive, and as Galan offered him a helping hand he started to scream desperately, trying to drag his broken body away.
‘What are you?’ howled the man.
Galan frowned. It was a strange thing to say, even for a dying man. And it was not the first time he had been asked this question. ‘What am I?’ He laughed. ‘I am your king.’
The man would not stop screaming, and eventually, the sound started to infuriate Galan. This had happened several times during the campaign. Every time he offered his hand, giving the wounded a last chance to surrender, they panicked and shrieked at him. He stooped down and pressed his hand over the man’s mouth, trying to stifle his cries.
‘There’s no need for this,’ he said. ‘Lay down your weapons. Rejoin the Hounds.’
The man thrashed beneath him, blood flying everywhere.
Too much blood, realised Galan. He had a broken leg, but there were no cuts on him. Why was he bleeding?
The more Galan tried to calm him, the more the air filled with blood.
‘What are you?’ cried the man again, but Galan found it hard to concentrate and the voice grew distant.
The air turned crimson and Galan backed away, shaking his head, confused. As he stumbled away from the man, he realised how hungry he was. In fact, his craving seemed to have confused him. He’d imagined he was still on the battlefield, but hunger and exhaustion were playing tricks on him, throwing him back into the past. He laughed, realising he was already at the victory feast. He leant back in his chair and grabbed some meat from a platter on the table. It was so rare it was almost raw. Blood rushed down his chin as he ate, delighting in his well-earned appetite.
Chapter Ten
Remembrance
Gotrek grimaced as he drank the wine Lhosia had found, but Maleneth noticed that he had managed to empty another skin. A few hours had passed since the storm had begun, and there was now quite a pile of them lying around him on the platform, all empty. It looked like he had been fighting overgrown bats and was now sprawled on their carcasses. He nodded to a row of shields that covered the walls. ‘What do they say?’
They were sitting in a circle, just inside the archway, silhouetted by the flashing rain. The torrent of bones bathed the group in ripples of light, making it look like they were under water. The temperature had dropped so they had lit a fire, with Lhosia seated to one side of the Slayer and Maleneth to the other. Trachos was opposite Gotrek, his head bowed as he muttered to the flames, his face still hidden behind his helmet.
‘The shield poems?’ Lhosia’s words were slurred. Despite her earlier protestations, she had eventually agreed to drink some of the wine. She claimed never to have drunk before, but grief had clearly given her a thirst. ‘They record the deeds of the Unburied. When an ancestor dies, we carve the story of their life into their shield and place it near the Separating Chamber. Then all who come seeking their wisdom will know how they lived and how they died.’
Gotrek bared his teeth in a grim smile. ‘Death poems. We had such things where I come from.’ He grabbed another wineskin, tore it open and drank, staring morosely at the fire.
‘Where do you come from?’ asked Lhosia. Maleneth had noticed that she kept steering the conversation away from herself and her loss, as though unwilling to share her grief with strangers.
Gotrek ignored her, hypnotised by the flames.
Lhosia looked at Maleneth.
‘His world is gone,’ she said. ‘He says it was destroyed. Somewhere beyond the Mortal Realms. Although he won’t say much else on the subject.’ She sneered. ‘He talks about his ancestors almost as much as you do.’
‘You could never understand,’ grunted Gotrek. ‘You faithless aelves have no concept of history or tradition.’ He waved at the shield poems. ‘You have no regard for your elders, never mind your ancestors. All you care about is yourself.’
Maleneth shrugged. ‘Someone has to.’
‘My people respected the past and remembered their ancestors,’ said Gotrek, giving Lhosia a sympathetic look. ‘Much as you do. We recorded deeds on oath stones and…’ His words trailed off and he shook his head, looking suddenly annoyed. ‘What does it matter? They’re all gone. All butchered. And, thanks to the treachery of the gods, I did nothing to help them.’
Lhosia was still holding the cocoon. There was no sign of the light or the figure inside. It looked like a rock, swaddled in dust and pale, fine-woven cloth. Maleneth noticed that she was counting again, mouthing the numbers in silence. Then she frowned and looked up at Gotrek. ‘Why didn’t you help your people?’
‘Grimnir told me I was his heir. He tricked me into the Realm of Chaos, promising me that I would finally meet my doom. The mightiest doom ever achieved by a Slayer, he said. Lies, all of it.’
Gotrek lurched to his feet, staggering dangerously close to the archway. The bone shards were cutting into the ground just inches from where he stood, talking to the darkness. ‘And while I languished in those wretched hells, forgotten, everything and everyone I knew was blown apart.’ His voice grew hoarse. ‘If I had remained to fight, I would have found a way to save them. But the gods tricked me. Everyone was killed and I was left alive. Sworn to die, and I outlived everyone! What could be crueller?’
It was the most Maleneth had heard Gotrek say about his journey to the Mortal Realms. The most she had heard him say on any subject, for that matter. Usually he just cursed, muttered or laughed. The wine had affected him differently to the ale he usually drank. He was still morose and bitter, but more willing to talk.