Blackheart: Chapters 16 & 17

[Kinslayer]

Blackheart
Chapters 16 and 17

I have once again begun writing the novel, sorry I had to take such a long break. Here is what I have done since I begun, I am now halfway through C18 so expect to see the ending up soon. This is just to keep you going...

16 - Pestilence

Khaina had been on the road for almost a day since the incident at the Cave of Skulls, Silvar at his side. The retainer was hauling a sack he had made from Arleths cloaks over his shoulder, the material doing well not to split under the weight in carried in gold. Khaina chuckled slightly to himself as he watched the elf try to keep up with him despite the load on his shoulder. He rubbed his hand along the hilt of the Bloodspiller, a ritual he found he could not stop himself from performing now that the blade was his. It was almost as if he had to reassure himself that the sword was still there, though he knew he would be dead if he had lost it. He was getting bored of the silence, so he decided to break it with a small jibe at Silvar.
"You know if we encounter anything hostile you'll have to drop that sack and draw a sword?"
"Aye, true enough, but I shall crawl around picking up every last jewel once the fighting is done."
"And if I do not wait up?"
"I shall catch up."

Khaina laughed, he had grown fond of Silvar on this journey north, that was for sure. He knew inside he was glad his retainer had sworn the oath outside the cave rather than force him to kill him. The company on the way back south would be welcome, for one thing, but it was more than just that. Silvar was becoming his friend.
They continued to walk down the side of the mountain together, trying to stick to clearer areas where the beasts of the wild would not surprise them. The journey down would be tough, but fortunately he felt it was easier than the journey up had been. He had a feeling they would be back at the base of the mountain within the day.

The smell had hit them as soon as they were once again crossing flat terrain. Khaina had ripped a section of cloth from his left sleeve to use as a makeshift face scarf, in the hope it would block out the stench. It helped, but not near enough. Silvar seemed to detest the foul smell as much as he did, and minutes later he began to moan, just as Khaina had predicted.
“What is that god-awful stench?” Silvar muttered half to himself.
“I do not know, but I have a feeling it could be something to do with my new sword.”
“Huh?”
“You remember the wanderer back on the plains? You recall his mumblings?”
“Slightly, I guess, what does it have to do with your sword and this smell?”
“Well, he spoke of a daemonsword and a plaguefather. He claimed that the bearer of that sword would slay the plaguefather and then in turn slay him. I think Tz’yatr is that daemonsword, and that this stench is the Nurgle worshipper and his camp. He must be near to here, that’s for sure.”
“So, my lord, we are to seek him out? Two of us against a camp of Nurglites, that’s suicide!”
“Three of us,” replied Khaina, tapping the hilt of Tz’yatr and smiling at his retainer.
“You’re mad, you know that, Khaina” came the reply.
Khaina laughed aloud and pointed in the direction of the smell, “Let’s go.”

* * *

A few hours later Khaina found himself crouching low to the ground, his retainer at his side, on the peak of a sand dune. He was not sure when the terrain had shifted once more, but he now found himself surrounded by a rolling desert. Anyone simple minded may have thought they had stumbled out of the wastes and into the great desert of Khemri, but he knew different. They were still in the wastes to the north of Naggaroth, for he had mapped his journey in his mind. In fact, he felt they had walked through this exact location on the way North, which begged the question of why the plaguefathers camp had not been present before. The large camp was there now, that was for sure, looking completely out of place amongst the rolling sand dunes.
Shacks and watch towers of rotting wood spilled out in seemingly random formations amongst the sands, makeshift tents were propped up to fill all the spaces in between. The buildings were laid out in a strange formation which resulted in long streets being left in the sand between them, all running in the same direction. Khaina guessed these streets would lead to the middle of the camp, and that is where he would find this plaguefather. Getting there was the trouble, but Khaina had thought of everything.

“Come on, mad as I may seem I know what I am doing…” he said as he stood up.
“What-” Silvar started to oppose, “Damn it, Khaina. You’re going to get us killed.”
They walked forward towards the camp and it was only a matter of seconds before a human in the closest watchtower noticed them. The brute called out to them in his northern tongue. He was speaking words Khaina did not understand, but the message was clear; they were to remain still or be killed. No doubt there were archers waiting in the watchtower ready to fire upon them if they moved. The man in the watchtower shouted out to his companions at the camp and started to descend from the tower, other humans starting to mill about in the camp and come towards them with weapons drawn.
“What exactly are you doing?” asked Silvar, looking nervously as close to a hundred marauders came to face them. Each of the enemies was clearly a warrior of the plague god, they bore his symbol on their armour and skin and a large banner hung from one of the nearby towers.
“Don’t worry, as long as one of these dumb brutes speaks out language I have a plan”
“And if they don’t?”
“I’ll think of that if it comes to it.”

The marauders who had grouped in front of them were waving their crude axes and swords in the air and shouting out what could only be insults and threats. Khaina was waiting for their leader to appear, for he would no doubt come to see what all the commotion was about. Right on cue, a large brute shouldered his way past the front line to confront them. The man was huge, easily as tall as an elf but thrice as wide, his muscular arms hefting two large axes. The mans head sprouted a large horn on one side, and his chest was covered in patches of green skin, clearly mutations gifted to him by the god Nurgle. The man came forward and shouted something at them in his tongue. When there was no answer, he shouted it again. The elves did not reply again and the man came forward, brandishing his axes menacingly, he shouted a third time.
“Do something” Silvar said anxiously, “…Khaina…”
Khaina addressed the champion of Nurgle, “I don’t understand a word your blabbering on about!”

The marauder champion gave Khaina a strange look for a moment, then turned and blurted out an order to one of his marauders. The man ran off into the camp and left an awkward silence in his wake. Whatever his order had been, both Khaina and the Nurglites were waiting on him. He returned a few moments later with another human at his side. This old looking man wore a large wolfskin cape and walked against a staff of twisted wood. Khaina knew instantly that he was a mage or shaman of some kind. He turned and muttered to Silvar,
“I hope he is here for translations and not to cast some kind of spell on us.”
“You and me both” was the reply.

The marauder shaman stepped up to the marauder champion, who muttered something to him quietly. The shaman turned to relay the message to them.
“My lord, Makir Plaguefather, bids you welcome to his camp. Speak of your business or die.”
“Tell your lord I am here to make a deal with him, there is great reward in it for your warband.”
The translated reply came through the shaman once again, “What kind of a deal?”
“Silvar, if you wouldn’t mind, I need to borrow that sack of gold” said Khaina, holding out his hand.
“I better get this back” the retainer mumbled as he handed it over.
Khaina walked forward, close enough that Makir and his shaman would be able to see the contents of the sack. He opened the sack and showed them the jewels within, then closed it again and answered the Plaguefathers’ question.
“A simple deal. Makir the Plaguefather is to fight me, Khaina Blackheart. The spoils of the fight are to be as follows; if I win, me and my companion are allowed to travel through your camp unharmed, if Makir wins, your camp keeps this sack of gold.”

Khaina waited as the message was passed on to the plaguefather, who seemed to turn the options over in his mind before giving his reply to the shaman, who passed it on.
“And what is to stop my lord from just killing you now and taking the gold?”
Khaina had known that was coming and spoke his well thought reply, “Nothing, actually.”
“Khaina-” started Silvar, a hint of worry in his tone.
“But,” continued Khaina to the shaman, “That wouldn’t look very good to your warband, would it? Their lord turning down a one on one fight because he is scared of the outcome, how great that would be for their morale.”

The shaman passed on Khainas’ reply to his master, who looked angered by the bluntness of the insult. Still, Khaina could tell at once that the message had done its’ part. The plaguefather would no doubt fight him one on one to try and prove himself to his warband, mainly to avoid anyone else in the camp trying to take his position. Still, Khaina had purposefully not mentioned that he carried Tz’yatr the Bloodspiller, so he rejoiced when the plaguefathers reply was relayed back to him.
“We shall fight.”

* * *

Khaina was standing at one end of a large duelling arena, crowds of marauders standing in a circle around it shouting insults at him. Silvar was there, looking out of place as the only elf in the crowd, clinging onto his sack of gold. Makir Plaguefather stood across the pit from him, his bare chest rippling with muscle as he took a few practice swings with his twin axes. Khainas’ hand rested on the hilt of Tz’yatr, but he dare not draw the blade until the last moment in case the Nurglite recognised it. The shaman stood between the two warriors, and walked over to the edge of the pit to get out of their way. He looked to the plaguefather and said something, the champion roaring in reply. The shaman looked his way,
“Ready?”
Khaina nodded. The fight began.

Makir ran at him with his axes raised, roaring out a bestial challenge as he came. Khaina simply stood there, watching and waiting. The plaguefather crossed the distance of the arena in a few seconds and Khaina waited until the last second to react. Just as Makir reached him, Khaina drew Tz’yatr from his scabbard and held the blade up to parry his opponents axes. The weapons came crashing down with force enough to split a man in two, and yet the daemonsword stopped them. Khaina felt the force of the blow ricochet up his arm and he snarled out in anger, kicking Makir in the chest as the marauder stared in disbelief at the sword.
“This is Tz’yatr, the Bloodspiller, the Daemonsword, Your Death!” he shouted at the plaguefather.
“Tz’yatr?” he replied fearfully, “Tz’yatr?” he mumbled and stepped back, lowering his axes.
“I knew you would know this blade, for it is destined to end you. Meet your death!”

Khaina lunged forward, Makir trying to move away from the blade as it sped towards him. Tz’yatr bit home, slicing open a large wound in the plaguefathers stomach. Makir stood motionless for a moment, then dropped his axes and fell to his knees, foul smelling entrails pouring from his wound. As the plaguefathers rotting guts piled at his knees, he simply looked up at Khaina with fear in his eyes, waiting for the final strike. Khaina didn’t keep him waiting.



17 - Dreams of Death

They had been travelling several days since the fight at the Nurgle camp, having departed with the sack of gold as soon as he had slain the plaguefather. Nobody in the camp had dared to stop them, for Khaina had kept his mighty sword drawn until they were well on their way. He sheathed the blade once the camp was lost from sight, its’ hunger having been sated by the blood of Makir. Since then they had simply been walking south, moving out from the sandy dunes and into plains of cracked dry earth. They had seen no other signs of life in days, though a strange cry like that of an eagle had called to them more than once. Khaina had chosen to ignore it after trying to trace the sound in the sky the first few times. The time between hearing the shrieking call had been growing with every cry, so Khaina guessed that whatever made it was moving away.

“Not much further I take it, my lord?” said Silvar after hours of silence.
“I guess not, we will no doubt sight Naggaroth soon enough. Let us hope getting back into our lands will be as easy as getting out was, how terrible it would be to have come all this way only to be executed on our return. No, I will see that we make it to the City of Executioners yet, for that is where my siblings will be found. Oh, how I intend to make them both pay…”
“Yes, master, vengeance shall be yours.”
“Indeed it shall, Silvar, and you shall help me to achieve it.”

A sudden blur of motion to their left startled Khaina and he broke off his train of thought with Silvar to look for it. There was nothing there, just the still emptiness of the horizon. Still, Khaina was sure he had seen something dark moving there.
“Did you see that? On the horizon, something moving?”
“I saw nothing, I haven’t seen anything in days.”
“It was there, I am sure of it. Something moved and then vanished before I could see it.”
“I’m sure it was nothing” replied Silvar.

His retainer suddenly jumped as something moved on their right. Khaina looked around in time to see a figure a few hundred yards away disappear in a cloud of black smoke. He recognised the man at once, his crippled old form unmistakable.
“It’s the wanderer!” called Silvar, “That walking corpse has come wandering back to us.”
“I doubt he comes here of his own free will, the Changer must be leading him to us. His prophecy spoke of the plaguefathers slayer killing him with the daemonsword, and I have now proven that being to be myself. The man wanders to his death, it is my destiny to kill him, he said so himself.”

Suddenly the wanderer was there, appearing only a few paces away in front of them, coming straight towards them. His hood was up and he did not seem to know they were there as he shuffled forwards.
“Halt, wanderer of the wastes!” cried Silvar before Khaina could speak.
Khaina shot him a warning glance, “I will deal with him.”
The old man paused and looked up, drawing his hood down to reveal the same plague ridden features as before. He looked at the pair of them for a moment as if confused, then spat a greeting.
“Hail the bearer of the daemonsword! He knows me by name!”
“We have met before, do you not remember?” said Khaina, warily placing a hand on Tz’yatr.
“The wanderer does not meet the slayer until the end, that is what the sorcerer said, and that is how it is. You are the one, you have drawn the daemonsword and killed the plaguefather. The great Changer would have you kill me now, the great Changer would have it no other way.”
The wanderer bent low before him, exposing his neck for an execution strike. Khaina stared at the man in disbelief for a long moment, then turned to Silvar who shrugged. Despite himself, Khaina could not seem to bring himself to kill this willing victim. He was frozen there in his reverie when Silvar spoke.

“Hold on, my lord, think about what you are doing. How do we know what this wanderer says is the truth? How do we know he is not some twisted sorcerer who wants you to strike him with your new sword to complete some daemon pact or other strange act? Who would throw themselves upon your sword so willingly?”
“A madman, that’s who” replied Khaina, looking down on the wanderer still.
“Do it!” cried the man, suddenly bursting forward with unexpected speed to grab Khainas sword arm and pull Tz’yatr from its’ scabbard.
Khaina did well to keep hold of the sword, but could not stop it in time as the last of its length was pulled from the scabbard at his side. Khaina cursed as he pushed the wanderer aside, remembering well what the sword had told him; once it had been drawn blood had to be spilled. He looked down on the wanderer with equal parts hate, disgust and pity, and then struck the mans head from his shoulders with one clean sweep of his sword. He sheathed the blade at once, the red blood still running down its’ edge.

“Remember this Silvar, that once I draw my blade I must take blood with it. When we reach my sisters’ house I shall draw my sword. Her blood will saturate the steel of this sword, as will my brothers in time. You will share in my glory, my friend, and oh what glory there shall be.”
”You dare to speak of me to another…” came a voice inside his head, and a sharp sting shot up his sword arm.
Khaina talked quietly to the daemon inside his sword, “I did not tell him of you, daemon.”
”Indeed, for that would have been a grave mistake” was the reply.
“Tell who what?” said Silvar, clearly catching on to part of what Khaina had said.
“Nothing,” he replied, “Damn these cursed wastes and their occupants. The sooner we are back on Naggaroth soil the sooner I can feel myself again, I fear this place is driving me crazy.”
“I fear that too” said Silvar, laughing to himself. Khaina joined in, it was going to be a long walk home.

* * *

Khaina approached his sister Tsyrin, slowly walking towards her in his gown of fine silk. His arms were outstretched before him bearing a gift for his sister, a long sword sheathed in a red scabbard. He approached her slowly and then dropped to one knee, holding the blade out to her. She stood over him, power radiating from her beautiful form, and he realised at once the mistake he had made. He could not allow her to have the sword, he must not give it to her! And yet he could not move, he simply stared up as she stood over him like a powerful spirit. She leaned down and kissed him on the brow, then took the sword from his outstretched hands. As soon as she lifted the weight from him he was able to move again, and he tried to snatch it back, screaming for her to return it to him. Instead she laughed madly at him, pulling the blade from the scabbard and glaring down at him. Raw power burst from her eyes like golden light, forcing him back to his knees in front of her, and the daemonsword burst into flames in her hand. As the sword burned a twisted daemonic face appeared on its blade and taunted him.
”You were never to give the blade up, and for that you must die!” mocked Tz’yatr.
Tsyrin lifted the blade high above her head and laughed away as she brought the blade down at him.

Khaina sat up and screamed, torn away from his dream and back into reality. He was laying on the dry earth of the northern wastes as the sun was rising over the horizon to the east. Silvar was already awake and looking at him strangely. He felt for his scabbard, making sure the sword was still there. As always, it was.
“Same dream?” asked Silvar curiously, “You sure screamed the same.”
“No, not this time. Worse.”
“Worse than your sister pulling that damned sword from your grasp and radiating evil?”
“Yes, this time she killed me with it.”
“Oh,” said Silvar, a little taken back, “Nice…”
“Not really. It seems the closer we get to Ghrond the worse these cursed dreams get. Tsyrin must know I have the sword, these dreams are her doing. Curse her and her sorcery thrice over, must she force herself to be a third name on my list of siblings to kill!”
“At least it means we are getting close to home.”
“Aye, it means that, but it also means my older sister wants my new sword for herself. That can’t be good, not for any of us. Still, we will bypass Ghrond by taking the valley under the Spiteful Peaks again. From there we will ignore Naggarond and head straight for Har Ganeth, spending your new gold can wait a week or so more. I have a score to settle with Kaeril and Ulthar, and I want to start putting some distance back between me and Tsyrin as soon as possible.”

* * *

Khaina managed to last the next few days without any sleep as they passed Ghrond, not daring to tempt his sister so close. The dreams she had inflicted upon him thus far were severe enough, and he managed to stay awake until they reached the major crossroad outside the Naggaroth capital. Risking a night in Naggarond now was tempting but Khaina knew the better of it, so instead he had ordered Silvar to carry on walking towards home. He had only lasted a few more hours, eventually stopping on the side of the road and falling into a deep sleep, Silvar watching over him.

Khaina stepped up to Tsyrin and knelt before her beautiful power, holding out his gift to her. She stood above him like a goddess and he kept his head bowed to her. He knew he could not let her take the sword from him, but he could not move to stop her. He was fixed there, bowed before her like a slave to a king. He felt her take the sword from his hands and the weight that transfixed him was gone. He rose to his feet but instead of looking up to his sister he found himself staring at a fiery daemon. The beast was twice the height of an elf and built heavier than anything he had ever seen. Its skin was jet black but shone slightly red as if wet with blood, its clawed hands were aflame and its head was crested by two huge black horns. The beast laughed at him, the sound like that of a great god above him. It reached out with one fiery hand and grabbed his head in a deadly embrace. Khaina felt blood run down his head as the daemons claws drew deep gouges from his flesh, and he screamed in agony as the flames seared the skin from his skull.
The daemon lifted him kicking and screaming into the air by his head and then threw him aside as if its fun was over. The pain, however, was not. Khaina fell through the darkness that surrounded the daemon for what seemed like an eternity, his skull feeling as if it were still aflame. He could still feel the daemons claws crushing his head and feel the blood running down from his eyes and mouth. He continued to scream as he fell down into the darkness below him, unable to stop himself from screaming out that one single name. Tz’yatr.

Khaina was still screaming when he sat bolt upright, dripping with sweat and breathing heavily. He was outside, on the edge of a gravel road and surrounded by long grass. Silvar was there, looking down on him with a concerned expression on his face.
“My lord, I fear that if you scream like that again someone will hear us and come to investigate.”
Khaina took in another gulp of air and then addressed his retainer, “How long was I out?”
“An hour or so, my lord. What happened this time?”
“You don’t want to know” was Khaina’s reply, “Help me up.”
Silvar hauled him to his feet and they made their way back onto the road, heading towards Har Ganeth once more. Khaina found his hand was once again on the hilt of the Bloodspiller and he let a dark smile pass across his lips. Soon the time for retribution and vengeance would come, thought Khaina, and his grip on the sword tightened.

[Khel]

Woohoo! I've been hanging around here for this story alone! Excellent work as always mate. The only thing which didn't go well for me however was the death of Makir. I would of thought the fight between Khaina and Makir to last a little longer.

Avidly awaiting the next story.

[Kinslayer]

Chapter 18 is now finished... not long to go now until the book is complete