Hammer Of Daemons Part 21

Ebondrake smiled his most dangerous smile. 'Exactly what I wanted to hear. You could go far, Venalitor.'

Ebondrake and Venalitor continued along the gallery. At the far end it opened into the great crimson hung balcony reserved for the greatest of the planet's lords.

'I hear,' said Ebondrake, his tone suddenly hardening, 'that Arguthrax's amba.s.sador to the warp was murdered, and his body used to defile the altar at Ghaal. I trust you would know nothing more of this?'

'I know only what you know,' replied Venalitor.

This war of yours is over, Venalitor. That is what I decreed.'

There is no war, my lord,' replied Venalitor smoothly. 'Arguthrax and I despise one another, but we will not waste more blood on it.'

Like much of what Venalitor had found himself saying in the run-up to the Vel'Skan games, this was a lie. Venalitor had chosen the most vicious of the scaephylyd nation's hunters, and had set them hunting the emissaries and heralds who formed Arguthrax's link to his court in the warp. Arguthrax might even be forced to retreat there or be cut off from his fellow daemons, and then Venalitor could claim victory.

'Should I discover otherwise, my duke, it may cause me to become suddenly hungry.'

'I do not think that Arguthrax will taste very pleasant, my lord.'

Then I will save you to cleanse my palate afterwards,' replied Ebondrake. 'Enough of this! This is not the time for politics. See, the arena awaits!'

Ebondrake and Venalitor emerged onto a balcony formed from the jagged steel jaw of a formidable grimacing war mask set into the wall of the arena. The Ophidian Guard who waited there saluted as Ebondrake appeared at the fanged battlements to the ecstatic roar of the crowd. Venalitor roared in reply, and breathed a plume of black fire into the air to acknowledge them. Venalitor raised a sword in salute, too, but there was no doubt that the people of Vel'Skan adored their ruler, and that these games could not begin without him.

Vel'Skan's arena was held up from the ma.s.s of weapons and armour by dozens of gauntlets, supporting the arena's bowl like a great chalice. The bowl was formed by the hilt of an enormous rapier embedded point-down in the rock beneath the city, and the hilt's complex guard spiralled above the arena in a magnificent steel swirl.

Inside, the arena was lavish, and death met opulence everywhere.

The audience cheered from galleries carved from marble and obsidian. Blades of gold and bra.s.s reached over from the edge of the arena bowl, hung with the corpses of those more recently killed, and, from time to time, chunks of rotting meat would fall from the swinging bodies to be fought over by the spectators below.

Daemons were as welcome as mortals in Vel'Skan's arena. One segment of the arena was given over to them, the galleries replaced by terraced, blood-filled pools, where the city's daemons could bathe in the gore of the opening sacrifices. Every shape of daemon was there: bloodletters, snarling fleshhounds, blood-drinking skinless things, and stranger beasts that gibbered and feuded in the gore. Arguthrax was there, too, surrounded by a guard of slaves, ceremonially possessed for the occasion, along with other daemonic lords of Drakaasi: the hulking shrouded form of the Charnel Lord, the enormous dog-like monster Harrowfoul the Magnificent, the red shadow of the Crimson Mist coalesced into a writhing ma.s.s with three glowing eyes.

The rest of the audience had come out in all their finery. Many were priests, resplendent in the vestments of Khorne's various priesthoods. Others were soldiers, proud in armour or uniforms.

More were simply wealthy or powerful and wore that influence in the lavishness of their dress and their coteries of slaves.

Among them were Drakaasi's mortal lords, from Ebondrake on his perch in the palace pavilion, to Scathach down by the arena edge, a wizened old scribe sitting beside him to note down all the subtleties of strike and parry that he would witness. The Vermilion Knight stood in enormous crimson armour surrounded by silver-masked warriors, and Golgur the Packmaster threw sc.r.a.ps of disobedient slaves to the mutated hounds fighting around his feet. Even Tiresia the Huntress was there, soaring over the arena on the back of a sky whale.

Every lord of Drakaasi was in attendance, some of whom had barely been glimpsed for decades. All of them wished to pay fealty to Lord Ebondrake and to the Blood G.o.d, as well as bask in the bloodshed created for their pleasure.

The arena floor was covered in black sand, shining with the blood of that morning's sacrifices. In the centre, where the sword's grip had originally joined the hilt, rose a marble stepped pyramid that dominated the arena. Each level of the structure was its own duelling ground, stained with generations of blood, and scored with hundreds of errant sword strokes.

A few chunks of bone were still embedded in the marble from particularly brutal executions. At the pinnacle of the pyramid was a plinth with a ma.s.sive bra.s.s chalice. The gladiator who drank the blood of his final opponent from that chalice would be crowned the champion of Drakaasi. Many of the planet's lords had heard the ecstasy of the crowds as they drank from that chalice, and had been set upon the path towards earning the mande of Champion of Chaos. Other past champions still fought, devolved into subhuman monsters by the endless brutality.

'Many would dearly love to see your Grey Knight on that pyramid,' said Ebondrake, his low growl carrying over the increasing sound of the crowd. 'More than half of those have wagered many skulls on him to die. It would be the perfect blessing to have this spectacle sanctified by his blood.'

'He has learned much since he came to Drakaasi,' said Venalitor. 'I cannot guarantee he will die on cue. Believe me, whatever he meets up there, he will put up a h.e.l.l of a fight.'

'Again,' said Ebondrake, 'just what I want to hear.'

The gates leading to the prison complex opened. The crowd roared their approval as slaves stteamed out into the arena, blinking and confused. The crowd loved their fear, loved their innocence, for even the most sinful of them did not know what was about to happen to them. Greenskins among the slaves roared back at the crowd, daring them to throw the worst they had into the arena.

One-ear the Brute was a particular favourite, and eagerly howled orkish insults up at the revellers, who leaned over the barrier to curse him. Another cheer met the enormous man who stepped past the threshold behind the crowd. Alaric the Betrayed, the hunter of daemons, turned into a plaything for the Blood G.o.d. Many had seen him fight recendy, and rejoiced that he had lost his mind to Khorne's rage, but he was calmer now, his jaw set, waiting for bloodshed instead or charging across the floor to seek it out.

They started to chant his name. He did not acknowledge them.

Other doors were opening. Many lords had supplied their very best to these games. Even the finest gladiators had to earn their place on the first step of the pyramid, though, because the best were accompanied by many others, hungry and desperate, who knew that only by fighting their own way into contention could they get out of Vel'Skan alive.

Lord Ebondrake reared up over the battlements. He held out a claw to gain the attention of the crowd. He clenched it into a scaly fist and banged it down on the battlements in front of him.

Slave masters lashed down at the slaves beneath them, driving them away from the doors. The greatest gladiators saluted the crowd, gripped their swords and charged. The others spat a few syllables of prayer, and followed.

'JUST SURVIVE,' SAID Alaric as Venalitor's slaves gathered on the arena floor, craning their necks as they tried to take in the sheer size and spectacle of the arena.

'They'll kill us if we don't wade in,' said Gearth. That's all there is to it.' The prisoner had covered himself in war paint, and he looked like he had more in common with One-ear's orks than with the rest of the human prisoners.

'No they won't,' said Alaric. 'All eyes will be on me. That'll buy you some time. Concentrate on not dying. By the time they're done with me the Hathrans will be here.'

'They'd better be,' said Erkhar. The other doors were opening and the slaves of the other lords were emerging. Among the brutalised humans and mutants were a few who looked as dangerous as Alaric. This will not be an easy place to survive for long.'

'Trust me,' said Alaric, 'and trust the Hathrans.' He glanced at Erkhar. 'You and Gearth will be leading the slaves.'

'You won't be with us?'

'I'll be up there,' said Alaric, indicating die pyramid towering over them. That's what they want. The slavers will ignore you, as long as I can give them a show.'

The other slaves were running across the arena floor towards the pyramid. Some of them were making for Venalitor's slaves, eager to kill off as many of the opposition as possible in the battle's early stages.

Someone grabbed Alaric's arm just as he was about to sprint for the pyramid. Alaric looked down at Haggard's face.

'I know what you're trying to do,' said Haggard.

Then you know why I have to do it.'

'Stay with us. Don't die for this.'

'Stick close to Erkhar if I fall,' said Alaric. 'You all know the plan.

Stick with him and help lead them.'

Alaric left Haggard behind and ran for the pyramid. A few swift mutants galloped to intercept him, but the greatsword he had chosen as his weapon was surprisingly quick, and he cut one in two before driving the point through the throat of the other, ripping it free without breaking stride.

Killers were swarming all over the lower steps of the pyramid.

Men and daemons were dying there already. Alaric was aware of someone running beside him. It was Gearth, his painted face grinning. He loved it. There was nowhere else he would rather be.

'I'm not missing out, golden boy!' he yelled.

Alaric didn't reply He vaulted onto the top step of the pyramid.

The marble was head-height for a normal man, but Alaric jumped onto it in one motion.

The crowd cheered. Alaric the Betrayed would die, and a lot of bets would be won. Alaric prepared to disappoint them.

KELHEDROS SLIPPED THROUGH the wall of blades into the main spur of the prison block. The prison was maddeningly complex, the torture device from which it was built a truly fiendish piece of work, with blades fine and numerous enough to tease out every nerve ending on a victim. There was something admirable about the purity of its purpose. It had been born of a love of pain, some ancient torturer of t.i.tans pouring every drop of genius into it.

Kelhedros risked a glance down the cell block. Cells were suspended from blades protruding from the high walls, a web of cranes and catwalks above making the place look like a machine for processing its occupants, which, of course, it was.

The eldar stole across the steel canyon of the cell block, writhing through the spidery shadows that hung across everything. The prison guards were easy to spot; their eyes burned in their ruined faces, for they were just hollow sh.e.l.ls of bones and meat to house the daemons controlling them.

Kelhedros ignored them. Killing them would also use up time he didn't have. He pa.s.sed right under one of them, who was keeping watch from an upper walkway. Neither the daemon, nor the human trapped somewhere inside, had any idea that Kelhedros was there.

It was as if the eldar could just opt out of reality and ghost past the perception of anyone he didn't want to see him.

Beyond the cell block were the torture chambers. The smell was the worst thing about them. The air seemed to get thicker with their stink. Then there were the implements themselves, complicated machines mounted on the walls, all blades and resuaints in an echo of the prison structure. Thumbscrews and hot pokers were far too crude for Khorne's torturers. Lords from across Drakaasi sent captives to be strapped in down here where the precision machines would peel spiral strips from their skin until they broke. A person could be almost completely dissected, and still remain alive and conscious. Some of the arena's own slaves, the troublemakers and would-be escapees, had suffered just that fate.

A slab stood in the middle of the room, hung with leather restraining straps. In front of the slab, with his back to Kelhedros as he entered, was Kruulskan. The human whose body he had taken had been huge, his ma.s.sive chest supporting barrel biceps and a neck like a battering ram of muscle. His bald head was scorched with the flames that spat from his eyes sockets, silhouetting his bulk as Kelhedros approached from behind. He was cleaning a selection of blades, pliers and other strange implements laid out on die slab before him.

"What are you?' asked Kruulskan in his slavering grind of a voice.

Kelhedros froze and melted further into the darkness, willing the shadows to congeal around him.

To delve so deep and reach the heart of this place, you must be skilled. A daemon? No, you don't smell right. An a.s.sa.s.sin! Ha! I lived an aeon in the warp and a century in flesh. You're not the first to come to kill me.'

Kruulskan turned towards Kelhedros. The b.a.l.l.s of flame set into his piggy face roved across the room, but they couldn't focus on Kelhedros. The darkness helped. The waves of pain and misery helped even more. The torture chamber had such a history of suffering that it was like a shroud in which Kelhedros could wrap himself.

Kruulskan picked up a military pick from his side. He stalked slowly towards the centre of the room.

'I can see things no human can see,' growled Kruulskan. You can't hide from me. There's a daemon in this head! Hungry and mean, and he wants blood! He ain't had it for so long, just lickings from a slave vintage. You're different. You'll taste good. Aliens always do.

Yes, I can smell the void on you. You're very far from home, little bug-eyes.'

Kelhedros slid silently across the chamber, weaving his way between the shadows of the room and the flickering light of Kruulskan's eyes.

'I know,' said Kruulskan, 'you're made of shadow.'

Kelhedros slipped out of the darkness and leapt up onto the slab, behind Kruulskan. Kruulskan whirled around, pick held high ready to bring it down through Kelhedros's skull.

Kelhedros s.n.a.t.c.hed up a blade from the slab, a wickedly curved thing, like a miniature sickle, and threw it at Kruulskan. The blade ripped through Kruulskan's eye and flame sprayed like blood from an artery. Kruulskan stumbled back, roaring.

Kelhedros grabbed a steel spike and threw it after the sickle, and it buried itself in the meat of Kruulskan's shoulder. Another speared the possessed creature's wrist, and sheared through the nerves controlling his hand, forcing him to drop the pick. A fourth got him in the throat.

With his free hand, Kruulskan pulled the blade from his eye. Half of what remained of his face was gone, consumed by the burst of flame, and inside the charred hollow of his skull, Kelhedros could just see the unholy features of the daemon in the fire.

Kruulskan charged, head down, to bowl Kelhedros to the floor and crush him to death. Kelhedros jumped, flipping over Kruulskan with such ease that it was as if he was taking flight. Kruulskan slammed into the slab, spilling torture implements everywhere, and Kelhedros landed behind him. Kruulskan turned around, took a deep breath and vomited flaming bile at Kelhedros. The eldar leapt again, this time flipping up onto one of the torture frames mounted on the wall. He balanced carefully between the machine's blades and spines as liquid fire washed across the floor below him.

Kruulskan grabbed the slab with his remaining good hand and ripped it from its moorings. He spun once, like a hammer thrower, and hurled the slab at Kelhedros. Kelhedros dived out of the way as the metal slab crashed into the wall, crunching through the torture device. The flame was still covering the floor, and Kelhedros angled himself upwards. His hand caught the corroded metal of the ceiling, and his many-jointed fingers wormed their way into a handhold.

Kruulskan stumbled forwards under his own momentum, directly under where Kelhedros was clinging to the ceiling.

Kelhedros's free hand drew the black dagger from its scabbard. He was glad that Alaric had given it to him. Clearly, an old-fashioned length of steel wouldn't be enough to kill the possessed Kruulskan, but the venom just might.

Kelhedros dropped from the ceiling and landed on Kruulskan's back. He punched the dagger between Kruulskan's ribs. He felt the blade pierce the tough flesh of the heart. Kruulskan roared and swung around, trying to throw the alien off him. Instead, Kelhedros pivoted and dropped down in front of Kruulskan, planting a foot on the possessed monster's prodigious gut as he drove the blade into his chest.

Kruulskan's heart was pierced from both sides. Green flame drooled from his tusked mouth and spurted from the wound around the dagger blade. Kelhedros twisted it for good measure, and more fire spurted out. The eldar flipped away as Kruulskan's human body began to come apart at the seams. The dagger stayed in Kruulskan's flesh, fire fountaining around it.

'I'll find you!' hissed Kruulskan, his words almost lost in the torrent of flame. 'I'll come back from the warp, shadow-skin, and I will find you!'

Kelhedros paused for long enough to rip the heavy bra.s.s key from around Kruulskan's neck. Then he fled from the room just before the possessed gaoler's earthly body exploded.

REGIMAIAH THE IRON-HEARTED killed the twin swordswomen known together as the Blood Serenade. Aethalian Swifthammer, a cudgel held in each of his three hands, cracked open the skull of the disgraced Commander Thaall, once a member of Scathach's army, now cursed and thrown down to fight in the arenas. His curse was lifted at last as his brains spilled down over the lowest step of the pyramid.

Beside him died Sokramanthios the Scholar, the fire-breathing witch mutant, slain by an unlikely and very temporary alliance between Thurgull's champion Murkrellos the Venomous and the skeletal Skin Haunter. Xian'thal, in his intricate segmented armour, wielding a pair of blades connected by a chain, found himself surrounded by clamouring mutants trying to drag him down and butcher him. He killed six of them in a few seconds, but was himself killed when the mutant warlord Crukellen impaled him on spines of bone.

Gearth killed Furanka die Red Dog by stabbing the b.e.s.t.i.a.l mutant in the back with his pair of short swords. The crowd didn't know his name, but they loved the savage joy on his face.

Alaric killed a scrawny human slave, who scrabbled towards him with a dagger in his hand. Alaric kicked him off the first step hard enough to shatter the side of his skull, and he was dead before he hit the ground. Alaric hesitated, staring down at the body while the other champions eagerly killed one another. Some watching thought that Alaric the Betrayed was gone, his spirit broken, but then Leth-los son of Khouros leapt on him, and Alaric rammed the beastman's head into the marble, until Lethlos went limp and three of its eyes popped out of their sockets.

Dozens of feuds were setded and arena careers begun and ended in the first couple of minutes. Some died with a flourish, others had bad deaths laid low by a mistake or a sucker punch. Some killed with raw power and others with a moment of skill, or just with pure luck.

The lesser slaves fought around the pyramid for the right to follow the real killers onto its first step. Venalitor's slaves were surrounded and besieged by half-naked tribal warriors with the brand of a six-fingered hand on their chests. Erkhar and One-ear led Venalitor's slaves in a bizarre alliance. They were fighting for time, and their struggle formed a curious sideshow to the main event.

The crowd was only just finding its true voice, and ancient hymns roared around the arena. Already there had been enough stories and enough blood to satisfy the altars of Khorne. The bloodshed today would be good.

TWENTY-TWO.

'You AGAIN,' SAID Dorvas.

The door banged open to reveal Kelhedros coalescing from the shadows, Kruulskan's key in his hand. 'Of course.'

The prison beneath the arena was a dark and foul place. Its cells were each home to two or three Hathrans, with the possessed gaolers patrolling constantly.

'You killed pig-face?'

'It is dead.'

Dorvas banged a fist into his hand. The other Hathrans in the cell behind him hissed their delight. Kruulskan was dead. They had often dreamed of hearing those words.

'Move fast,' said Dorvas.

Kelhedros headed down the cells, opening them one by one. The corpse of a possessed guard still smouldered on the walkway outside the cell where Kelhedros had killed it. Dorvas and the Hathrans rummaged through die body, grabbing whatever they could use as a weapon. More freed Hathrans gathered outside the cells. The feeling of elation was mixed with fear, and the men crouched in the darkness, knowing that they would be found out soon enough.