As an aside, I can report that this entire stretch of coastline is in a state of momentous uproar. The dominion of the Ruinous Powers is no longer secure, which is both good and bad news for the local populace. The underworlds are in a state of revolt. Spirits and revenants have reclaimed huge tracts of land in Nagash’s name, while bands of brigands have started raiding from the north. The Realm of Death is in as much turmoil as anywhere else. Anyone who comes here expecting a peaceful afterlife will be sorely disappointed. Our journey from the coast took us past several Chaos dreadholds, and they were all ruined. And there was no sign of a counter-attack. This does not appear to be the work of Stormhosts, so I can only assume Nagash is responsible. The Klemp locals are preparing to flee, and the whole region is gripped by a kind of shared madness. Every crone and conjurer claims to have received visions concerning a terrible plague of undeath. They claim that Nagash has performed a great rite or conjuration that has given him absolute dominion over Shyish. There is much talk of levitating black pyramids and fleshless legions and the like, and it’s hard to know how much – if any – of it is true, but there is definitely something afoot. It would seem the arch-necromancer has found a way to regain many of the territories he lost to Chaos.
As a second aside, I should mention that during the fight at the Neverspike, the Slayer and I gained an eccentric new travelling companion by the name of Trachos. He claims to belong to our order, and perhaps he once did, but the man is clearly insane. If he attempts any form of communication, disregard it. He does not know his own mind and he is not to be trusted. I shall make sure the rune does not fall into his hands and will leave him behind at the first opportunity.
Your most loyal and faithful votary,
Maleneth Witchblade
Chapter One
The Muffled Drum
Gotrek was snoring, attacking the night with brutal barks. Even asleep he was savage, hammering Maleneth’s skull with every snort. The sound rattled through the Slayer’s chest and shook the chain linking his ear to his nose. The brazier in his rune-axe was still smouldering, but the light had faded from his filthy muscles. He shifted, as though about to speak, let out a ripe belch and then lay still again. He had drunk for hours, downing ale like water, before finally collapsing next to an outhouse, surrounded by the corpses of brigands who had had the ill-conceived idea of trying to rob him. There was no dawn in this particular corner of Shyish, but even the endless gloom could not hide the rune buried in Gotrek’s chest. A great slab of burnished power. The tie that bound her to him. The face of a god, glaring from his ribs, demanding that she hold her nerve.
She stepped gracefully through the dead, as though gliding through a ballroom, scattering flies and gore, a dagger held lightly in each hand. The Stormcast Eternal had gone, scouring Klemp for news of his own kind, and she was alone with the Slayer.
The heart-shaped silver amulet at her throat flickered, revealing the vial of blood at its core. Now. This is your chance.
Maleneth ignored the voice, creeping closer to the Slayer, wincing at his stench. He was grotesque. A graceless lump of scarred muscle, bristling with porcine hair and covered in knotted tattoos. Even by the low standards of the duardin race he was primitive – like a hog that had learned to stand and carry an axe. He was shorter than the brigands he had carved his bed from, but twice their width and built like a barn. The stale, sweet smell of beer shrouded the bodies, mixing with Gotrek’s belches and stinging Maleneth’s eyes. She could see the dregs glistening in his matted beard as she leant closer, keeping her eyes fixed on the rune. The rune stared back.
Despite her loathing she hesitated, knives trembling, inches from his body.
The amulet around her neck flickered again. Coward.
That was enough to spur her on. Her dead mistress was right. Klemp would soon be rubble, just like all the other towns they had passed through. The whole region was in uproar. And when the fighting started, who knew where the Slayer would end up? Once he was in one of his rages there was no way of predicting what he would do next. It was a miracle she had stayed with him this far. This might be her last chance. The Slayer’s skin was like iron, though. She would need to punch the blade home with all her strength to get the poison into his bloodstream. She tightened her grip and leant back to strike.
‘Maleneth.’ The voice echoed down the alley, heavy with warning.
She whirled around, blades lowered.
Trachos’ armour glimmered as he limped through the darkness, sparks flickering from his ruined leg plate. He was wearing his expressionless helmet, but she could tell by the way he moved, careful and slow, that he understood what she was planning. His head kicked to one side and light crackled from his mouth grille. He gripped the metal, holding it still, but the damage went deeper than the mask. All that god-wrought armour had done nothing to protect his mind.
He stopped near the corpses, staring at her, lights flickering behind his faceplate.
He remained silent, but the way he raised his warhammers spoke clearly enough. That rune is mine.
They stood like that for a long moment, glaring at each other across Gotrek’s snorting bulk.
Trachos came closer, his metal boots crunching through broken weapons and shattered armour. The sky had grown paler, outlining him, and she saw how confidently he gripped the warhammers. Damaged or not, he was still a Stormcast Eternal. A scion of the thunder god. He was several feet taller than a normal man and, even broken, his plate armour made a fearsome sight.
Maleneth stepped through the pile of bodies, readying herself. She had always known this moment would come. They could not both claim the rune. There was a rent in Trachos’ leg armour from his left knee to his left boot. It had been there when he first approached Maleneth months ago, wandering out of the hills like a deranged prophet. He was in desperate need of medicine, or repairs, or whatever help Stormcast Eternals received when they returned to the Celestial Realm. Every step he took was difficult, and his Azyrite armour sparked whenever he moved. She smiled. Usually, such a warrior would be a test for even her skills, but in this state he should be easy prey. There would be blood for Khaine this night.
Maleneth dragged one of her blades across a vial at her belt. The crystal broke in silence, but she could smell the venom as it spilled across the metal.
Trachos dropped into a crouch, hammers raised.
The two warriors tensed, preparing to strike.
‘Grungni’s arse beard!’ cried Gotrek, lurching to his feet and grabbing his rune-axe. ‘Don’t you people know when you’re beaten?’