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Contents

Cover

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

Shade of Khaine

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

About the Author

An Extract from ‘The Hollow King’

Backlist

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

The Mortal Realms have been despoiled. Ravaged by the followers of the Chaos Gods, they stand on the brink of utter destruction.

The fortress-cities of Sigmar are islands of light in a sea of darkness. Constantly besieged, their walls are assailed by maniacal hordes and monstrous beasts. The bones of good men are littered thick outside the gates. These bulwarks of Order are embattled within as well as without, for the lure of Chaos beguiles the citizens with promises of power.

Still the champions of Order fight on. At the break of dawn, the Crusader’s Bell rings and a new expedition departs. Storm-forged knights march shoulder to shoulder with resolute militia, stoic duardin and slender aelves. Bedecked in the splendour of war, the Dawnbringer Crusades venture out to found civilisations anew. These grim pioneers take with them the fires of hope. Yet they go forth into a hellish wasteland.

Out in the wilds, hardy trailblazers restore order to a crumbling world. Haunted eyes scan the horizon for tyrannical reavers as they build upon the bones of ancient empires, eking out a meagre existence from cursed soil and ice-cold seas. By their valour, the fate of the Mortal Realms will be decided.

The ravening terrors that prey upon these settlers take a thousand forms. Cannibal barbarians and deranged murderers crawl from hidden lairs. Martial hosts clad in black steel march from skull-strewn castles. The savage hordes of Destruction batter the frontier towns until no stone stands atop another. In the dead of night come howling throngs of the undead, hungry to feast upon the living.

Against such foes, courage is the truest defence and the most effective weapon. It is something that Sigmar’s chosen do not lack. But they are not always strong enough to prevail, and even in victory, each new battle saps their souls a little more.

This is the time of turmoil. This is the era of war.

This is the Age of Sigmar.

Prologue

This time, Maleneth Witchblade was as good as dead. Xarissa, the Pale Viper, crept through the murder temple’s Killing Field, careful to keep to the shadow-girded walls. Guttering torches cast the maze-like passages in shades of bloody crimson, shedding just enough smoke to mask the scent of leather and blade oil. Despite her seemingly languid gait, Xarissa’s whole body was tense, ready to respond at the slightest notice: the scrape of boots on stone, the subtle flash of steel, the barest shift in the air.

Not that Maleneth would give her any warning.

They were both Khailebron, trained in the subtle art of assassination. Although perhaps less fierce than the other Khainite sects, the Khailebron were no less deadly. Xarissa had lost count of the number of victims she had offered to Khaine. Poisoned, stabbed, garrotted, even broken by her hands alone, their death throes formed a litany of worship – a gasping, twitching chorus of devotion for the Bloody-Handed God. Xarissa ached to add to her tally, but her mistress had summoned the coven back to the murder temple; even the semi-nomadic Khailebron assassins had been gathered to enact some great and secret plan.

As much as Xarissa longed to feel the quiet exaltation of blade piercing flesh, she was not about to question her mistress’ will. It was not only loyalty to the leader of her coven – Mistress Sybelline had lifted Xarissa from the Faded Quarter and instructed her in the ways of holy murder. She had been more a mother to Xarissa than whatever mist-addled wretch had birthed her. If not for Sybelline, Xarissa would be naught but dust, broken by Nightcliff’s fighting pits or suffering in the bowels of some Black Ark. Although her mistress’ tutelage had been harsh, the Pale Viper had mastered every lesson, surmounted every obstacle, defeated every opponent.

All but one.

Something brushed against Xarissa’s shin. Thin as spider silk, the cord was almost invisible in the gloom. Although she was no stranger to the Killing Field’s dangers, it seemed the coven’s stewards had been hard at work outfitting the labyrinthine tunnels with some of Stromund Goldless’ more ingenious traps.

Carefully, she stepped over the silken strand, marking its position in case it might come of use against Maleneth. Of course, there was another trap line beyond – this one at waist height. The next few were staggered, strung at wild angles that forced Xarissa to contort her body to slip past.

She was ready for the pressure plate beyond, although not for the envenomed darts that shot from a hole in the stones just past it. The floor tiles were bare of any triggers, but as Xarissa passed by the nearest torch, her body obscured the light. This shadowed the lens on the far wall, which sent a spray of darts winging in her direction.

Without thought, Xarissa twisted, snatching two of the darts soundlessly from the air. The others lodged in the light but strong material of her cloak. She landed in a wide crouch, idly sweeping a fistful of darts from the fabric. Not a dangerous trap, but certainly an irritating one. Stromund had improved. She would have to compliment the Kharadron trapsmith. That, or feed him one of his accursed darts.

There had been no sound other than the soft puff of air as the weapon discharged, but it was enough.

Xarissa was already moving when Maleneth’s wickedly curved short sword came arcing down. The older assassin must have crept along the ceiling, clinging to the ancient stone like a spirit leech. A dangerous gamble, as the stewards liked to hide poisoned needles in the gaps between the slabs. It would be too much to hope she would trigger such a rudimentary snare, but arrogance bred contempt, and Maleneth Witchblade did not lack for either.

Xarissa whipped her handful of darts at her sister.

Maleneth swept them aside with ease, but the move bought Xarissa a heartbeat of space. Her blade licked out, quick as a heron’s beak. Maleneth was already gone, of course, but Xarissa’s target had not been the senior assassin, but the cords strung across the hall behind.

Flame gouted from the floor, bright as Hysh’s brilliance in the close confines of the tunnel. Xarissa squeezed her eyes shut against the glare, tracking her opponent by feel.

She raised her blade, only to have it knocked aside. A quick kick spoiled Maleneth’s second slash, and the two assassins broke apart, flitting back like wind-carried silk. In the fading glow of the flames, Xarissa spotted an opening high on the near wall. Unlike the flat, uninspired mazes favoured by humans, the murder temple’s Killing Field was meant to prepare the coven’s assassins for every aspect of their holy duty. One never knew when they might have to climb, or jump, or crawl to reach their victim.

Xarissa leapt. Catching the lip of the opening with her free hand, she dragged herself inside. The tunnel was only waist-high, forcing her to scuttle forward in a low crouch.

Her lead foot encountered a patch of questionable stone. A quick glance showed the walls were studded with concealed pressure plates, and Xarissa was forced to brace herself awkwardly between the tunnel’s sides, carefully testing each stone before putting her weight upon it.

At least the tunnel behind appeared clear. She moved on, keeping herself off the floor through sheer strength. After perhaps ten paces, the hall ended in a barred grate, a heavy lock on the far side.

Muttering under her breath, Xarissa pressed her back against the rough stone, bracing her feet against the far wall. She slipped a few bits of thin steel from her bracer and set to work on the lock. It was a simple mechanism, although the keyhole concealed a small vial of incendiary vapour that would have set Xarissa coughing for a week. She avoided the trap, manipulating the tumblers so that the lock popped open without a sound.

Jaw tight, she pushed the grate open. Someone had oiled the hinges – an oversight. Victims were seldom so thoughtful. Xarissa made a note to have the steward responsible whipped. The Killing Field was meant to weed out those lacking the skill and tenacity to carry out Khaine’s holy will, not coddle them with easily avoided obstacles.

The chamber beyond was lit by lamps set high upon the vaulted ceiling. There was no floor, at least none Xarissa could see. Although she doubted the pit was truly bottomless, the bottom was most likely full of spikes or venomous spiders, perhaps both. There was enough light to make out a dozen logs bridging the empty space. Set at varied angles, they were the width of a mature tree, enough for Xarissa to easily balance upon, although she misliked the blades jutting from the wood. A glance was enough to realise the beams were secured to the chamber walls with metal moorings. From the gears inset into the fixtures, Xarissa suspected the bridges would spin at the slightest pressure.

Three circular exits opened along the far wall, each tall enough for Xarissa to easily step through. The sallow lamplight from high above made the openings yawn like hungry mouths.

Grimly, Xarissa lowered herself onto the nearest log, congratulating herself as the beam rotated slightly beneath her feet. Balancing, she negotiated the makeshift bridge, careful to avoid the razored blades poking from the wood. She had crossed perhaps half the length when a dagger spun from the centre opening.

Xarissa ducked, spreading her weight to keep the log from rolling beneath her. The dagger clattered from the wall behind her, loud as cannon shot in the stone chamber.

Maleneth stepped from the shadowed opening, an arrogant curl to her lips.

‘Surrender.’ She idly tapped one curved short sword upon the chamber wall. ‘I have you.’

With a snarl, Xarissa launched herself at the senior assassin, dashing down the log, her sword angled for a thrust. The blades were blunted, but they could still leave a nasty welt. Although Maleneth might emerge victorious, Xarissa vowed she would not escape unscathed.

Rather than deflect Xarissa’s lunge, Maleneth merely extended one booted foot and gave the log a solid kick.

It spun with a clatter of cogs. Xarissa was forced to check her headlong charge lest she be sliced open by one of the embedded blades.

‘Surrender,’ Maleneth repeated, the hawkish planes of her face steeped in haughty satisfaction.

Xarissa felt her insides clench. Not again.

With Maleneth able to rotate the bridge at will, there was no way to reach her. Gripped by helpless fury, Xarissa cast a desperate gaze about the chamber. Apart from the openings, the walls were smooth stone, the other bridges not quite close enough for a leap – not unless Xarissa wished to impale herself.

‘Don’t be foolish, little sister,’ Maleneth called. ‘You did well.’

‘Not well enough,’ Xarissa responded through gritted teeth, glaring at the senior assassin. It was not enough that Maleneth had been raised among the nobility, trained in violence almost from birth while Xarissa scrabbled to survive in Nightcliff’s Faded Quarter. It was not enough that she was Mistress Sybelline’s favourite, coddled and rewarded with the finest victims. The thing that lodged in Xarissa’s chest like a shard of unmelting ice was that no matter how she trained, no matter how many lives she offered Khaine, Maleneth would always be better.

Howling like a Witch Aelf, Xarissa leapt for one of the higher bridges. But rather than attempt to clamber onto its spinning length, she grasped one of the dangling blades.

The razored steel carved deep into her palm. Blood squeezed between her clenched fingers as Xarissa swung towards Maleneth, blade extended like the talons of a diving hawk.

The senior assassin backpedalled. For one exultant moment, surprise broke through Maleneth’s mask of cool competence. Although she batted aside Xarissa’s thrust, there was a hastiness about her parry – a sense that, for once, Xarissa had managed to outwit the coven’s best killer.

Then, Maleneth spun, one booted foot arcing up to strike Xarissa’s temple.

She hit the ground awkwardly and tucked into a roll, blade trailing so as not to accidentally impale herself. Cold steel kissed her throat. She tried to knock it away, only for Maleneth to deflect the blow with her other short sword.

‘I almost had you.’ Xarissa grinned wide enough to hurt her cheeks.

‘Almost,’ Maleneth said. With a nod, she withdrew her blades, gaze flicking to Xarissa’s off hand. ‘You are bleeding.’

Xarissa looked to her ruined palm. ‘A fair trade.’

‘Hardly.’ Maleneth gestured for the stewards to raise the lights. ‘The Killing Field is meant to hone our skills, not render us unfit for our holy duty.’

Xarissa clutched the fist to her chest, the glow of near victory fading. ‘It is nothing.’

Maleneth raised an eyebrow.

‘It is nothing.’

Maleneth looked unconvinced. ‘Have the healers see to it. Then we shall review your mistakes in the Field.’

‘Honoured murderesses.’ A steward appeared down the hall, hands folded in his dark robes, expression sombre. ‘The Mistress Sybelline requests your presence immediately.’

‘It appears my wound shall have to wait,’ Xarissa said.

The steward looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I am afraid this summons is for Mistress Witchblade alone.’

Face burning, Xarissa looked away. It was always so, favour heaped upon those already blessed by circumstance while everyone else was left to fight over the scraps. Other Khainite sects spoke of a single temple where all Khailebron were trained, a secret even to High Oracle Morathi herself. Although the truth was far more complex, it served the assassins to allow their sisters to believe the rumour. Since they had been taken by the Khailebron, Xarissa had received the same instruction as Maleneth, her every waking moment dedicated to the more subtle arts of murder. She was just as strong as the senior assassin, just as fast, just as skilled, just as determined. And yet, somehow, Maleneth always won.

‘See to your wound.’ At least the senior assassin had the courtesy not to gloat. If anything, she appeared apprehensive.

As much as Xarissa wished it were not so, Maleneth remained her superior – for the moment.

‘As you command, sister.’

Xarissa watched as the steward led Maleneth away, feeling as though there were a stone in her stomach. Several other stewards appeared as if conjured by sorcery. They fussed over Xarissa’s injured hand until she sent them scurrying away with an irritated wave. She knew the way to the healers well enough.

Normally, the murder temple was a cavernous, echoing place, the halls and arenas empty save for a small staff of servants and stewards. Apart from a handful of acolytes sharpening their skills, there were usually no more than a dozen assassins in residence. Khaine’s holy mission took the Khailebron far afield for months, even years, at a time. Mistress Sybelline had broken precedent by summoning the entire coven – something usually done only in times of war. But the lands surrounding Nightcliff had been relatively calm as of late, inasmuch as anything could be reckoned tranquil within Ulgu’s murky realm.

Now, the temple positively crawled with killers. Assassins and Shadowstalkers rubbed elbows with spies, infiltrators, and poisoners of all stripes, resulting in no small amount of tension between those accustomed to solitary work. Xarissa had been forced to intercede on several occasions, lest sharp words be followed by sharper blades. Although Mistress Sybelline had not seen fit to reveal the reasons behind her unprecedented summoning of the entire coven, Xarissa foresaw important events on the horizon, events her mistress had chosen not to reveal to any, save Maleneth Witchblade.

The unfairness of it seemed to harden something within Xarissa, her anger like jagged steel – sharp and liable to cut.

A gaggle of acolytes filled the modest infirmary, receiving instruction in the best ways to counteract common poisons. Of course, the temple’s healers were also exceptionally skilled in administering said poisons. Normally, she would not have interrupted such a valuable lesson, but thoughts of Maleneth had whetted her temper to razor-sharpness. She waited impatiently as a pinch-faced healer examined her wound, muttering incantations under his breath as he cleaned, stitched, and bound the cut. Xarissa waved away the offer of numbing tinctures, the pain in her hand nothing compared to the angry tumult of her thoughts.

Maleneth had been six months gone – out slitting high-born throats while Xarissa remained behind serving their mistress. She had acted as bodyguard, enforcer, and occasional spy, but not confidante. Never confidante. It rankled. Although Mistress Sybelline had never spoken of her time before the temple, her manner and accent spoke of an aristocratic upbringing. Of course she felt more comfortable sharing her thoughts with a fellow noble.

‘Mistress, please remain still.’ Only when the healer spoke did Xarissa realise her hands had balled into fists.

She forced her body to relax. There was nothing for it. Unless Xarissa wished to dispose of Maleneth, or Sybelline herself, their mistress’ word was law.

Perhaps Xarissa had been too loyal. If Maleneth was any indication, it was clear their mistress preferred more independent thinkers. Xarissa had lost count of the number of times the senior assassin had questioned Sybelline or pushed back against her authority.

This was a test. It had to be.

Xarissa was the Pale Viper, bold and venomous, feared throughout the cities of the Penumbral Coast. She should act like it.

Xarissa stood, sending the healer tumbling back with an undignified squawk. A glare silenced his objections. She was already striding from the infirmary before he regained his feet.

The mistress’ inner shrine was hidden behind layers of duardin-designed traps thick enough to foil even the most dedicated assailant. Unless, of course, they happened to possess the key. None challenged Xarissa as she strode through the outer wards. As the second-highest-ranked sister in the coven, she was often summoned to Sybelline’s sanctum. A pair of serpentine Melusai coiled just outside the shrine entrance. Although the coven largely relied on traps and secrecy to protect itself, the Melusai were a gift from Morathi herself. They could have turned Xarissa to crystal with the merest touch – that is if their wickedly curved halberds did not cut her to ribbons.

They barely stirred as Xarissa slipped past.

Perhaps loyalty did have its advantages.

Beyond, a marble-columned nave led into the shrine proper, its elegantly tiled floor stained by the blood of countless sacrifices. A broad stair climbed the front of the ziggurat, leading to a sacrificial altar below which the temple’s cauldron should have rested.

But the altar stood empty.

Xarissa frowned, confused. The cauldron was not removed save in times of war. Even had Mistress Sybelline sought to keep such information secret, Xarissa would have heard of any coming conflict from one of Nightcliff’s war covens. The Sisters of Slaughter were truly terrifying opponents, but they were not subtle. High Gladiatrix Velara herself was a frequent guest of Mistress Sybelline, the two engaging in all manner of blood rituals together.

A curved shadow drew Xarissa’s attention to the far side of the ziggurat. Drawing her blade, she cautiously rounded the stone edifice. The ziggurat blocked the light of several burning braziers, those on this side having been extinguished.

Xarissa trod on something wet. She had participated in enough blood rituals to recognise it immediately. Realisation sent a cold prickle between her shoulders.

The cauldron had been overturned, its holy contents emptied upon the stone.

Senses pricked, Xarissa padded up to the nearest brazier and triggered the flint striker. It roared to life, bathing the bloody scene in firelight.

Beside the holy relic lay Mistress Sybelline. Her throat had been cut almost to the spine, the skin flensed from her sides, ribs ritualistically spread to reveal the bloody organs within. Xarissa had seen such precise brutality many times, although always at the hand of her mistress.

Her first impulse was to look for Maleneth. Although it had been some time since Sybelline had slain a victim that was not tied down, Maleneth would have been far more difficult to overcome. But the senior assassin was nowhere to be found.

Scanning the surrounds for potential ambushers, Xarissa glided forward, kneeling to dip two fingers in her mistress’ blood.

Still warm.

Realisation was like a heavy cowl suddenly lifted from Xarissa’s head. The reason her elder sister was not here was that it had been Maleneth who had killed their mistress. It seemed impossible to believe, especially given how much Sybelline had favoured her, and yet Maleneth came from nobility. In Xarissa’s experience, power was like fire. The greater it grew, the more it needed to be fed.

Fury uncoiled within Xarissa, spreading like serpent’s venom. She stood, sword gripped so tightly she could feel every contour of the drakehide-wrapped hilt. Moving with singular purpose, she bounded up the nearby stairs, gaze flitting across the chamber like a hunting hawk.

There was a fleck of blood upon one of the shrine’s small stained-glass windows. Maleneth must have fled in a hurry, which meant she had not prepared for the murder. Perhaps Mistress Sybelline had learned of the betrayal and confronted the senior apprentice.

Maleneth had sacrificed their mistress, defiled the shrine, then fled. But to what end? If power was her goal, she should have remained to solidify her grip on the coven. Amidst the razored web of Khainite politics such murderous power grabs were not unheard of.

Leaping to catch a protruding carving, Xarissa began to scale the temple wall, a whispered prayer on her lips.

‘Lord Khaine, grant me vengeance. Let me bathe in Witchblade’s traitorous blood.’

She had clambered up onto the windowsill when the first alarm sounded. A shrill whistle, almost at the edge of hearing, followed by four more.

The temple was under attack.

Like a ship emerging from the mists, Maleneth’s plan became clear. The traitor did not act alone. She had betrayed their coven to outsiders, cast their sisterhood into the fires of her own ambition.

Xarissa hesitated, torn between the desire to rush to the temple’s defence and the need to follow Maleneth’s cooling trail. Already, she could hear sounds of fighting, distant cries and the clash of blades from the outer halls. Trembling, she glanced from the window to the chamber door. Whoever attacked would have to contend not only with a panoply of deadly traps, but also some of the best killers in the Mortal Realms.

The temple could defend itself. Only Xarissa was in a position to track down the traitor in their ranks.

Decision made, she drove the pommel of her blade into the window, diving from the temple heights in a shower of crimson glass. She caught one of the many bladed spires jutting from the outer wall, swinging down onto the back of a cloaked statue. A few droplets of blood glittered like hateful stars in Xarissa’s vision before disappearing farther down the wall.

As she descended, Xarissa’s smile dripped with cruel promise. This was what she had trained for.

Run. Hide. Fight. It mattered not.

Khaine would deliver Witchblade to her eventually.

Chapter One

The killers were good, or perhaps Maleneth had lost a step. They came with the Crawling Caravan, three hard-bitten warriors lost amidst the small army of mercenaries employed to protect the massive convoy on its slow journey across the Mortal Realms.

Harran was not a town of note, little more than a way station along a half-buried Lantic highway that cut across the rusty deserts of Chamon. There were few shaded corners, and even the jumble of baked brick homes and warehouses offered little but stifling shadows. The town gave the impression of something abandoned, a trinket dropped by a passing caravan and deemed too worthless to retrieve. If not for the tepid spring that bubbled from the ancient bronze fountain, Harran would have been abandoned long ago.

Which was exactly why Maleneth had chosen the place to hide while she tried to make sense of her scattered recollections. It had been months since she had washed ashore on that coppery Chamonic beach, her memory ravaged by Idoneth sorceries, aware of little more than her name, profession, and the fact she had betrayed her former employers in the Order of Azyr.

And the Slayer, of course.

Maleneth still dreamt of Gotrek Gurnisson. The Slayer hung like a stone around her neck, dragging her into a sea of shouting violence, rune glittering, his axe bloody as any Khainite altar. He cleaved her memory like a blade. There was a time before she had met Gotrek, a time when Maleneth had been a killer, a dagger forged by the Khailebron and whetted by the Order of Azyr. She had been sure of her purpose, her duty, herself. Then, she had been set upon that damnable Slayer and everything had stopped making sense.

Although her memories had begun to return, it only left Maleneth with more questions. The Slayer must have done something to her. Not consciously – she remembered enough of Gotrek to recall his brutal whims, careening across the Mortal Realms like a cannonball. Maleneth’s masters in the Order of Azyr had tasked her with retrieving the master rune in Gotrek’s chest, an artefact of near godlike power. Whatever the Slayer had been, wherever he had come from, the rune had changed him.

Perhaps it had changed Maleneth, too. One did not tread close to such unbelievable power and come away unburnt. It was the only way she could make sense of her choices: to betray the Order, to turn her back on her calling, to join the Slayer on his mad escapades. The Idoneth enchantments may have robbed her of the final moments of her time with Gotrek, but she knew she had sacrificed herself, offered her life to the Slayer rather than Khaine.

And Gotrek had abandoned her.

It was not that the Slayer had fled the Dromlech enclave, not that he had allowed Maleneth to sacrifice herself on his behalf, but rather that he had not even tried to find her, let alone avenge her. After a lifetime obsessed with vengeance for his friends, his people, his world, Gotrek had simply walked away from Maleneth.

The realisation had left her cold and confused. Although she had washed ashore with her blades, the worn hilts felt awkward in her grip; the killing strikes that had once come easily as breathing now seemed rough and graceless. Her every move was an insult to the Bloody-Handed God.

So Maleneth had come to Harran, not because she feared the Order’s hunters, but because she feared herself. Feared that conflict would reveal her for a dulled and broken blade, useless in the service to her god.

Deep in her fugue of self-recrimination, Maleneth had overlooked the Order assassins, failing to note the careful way they carried their weapons – how they laughed too hard at tavern jokes, drinking deep from mugs that never seemed to need refilling. She had missed the way their gazes occasionally flicked across the smoky hall, as if to pierce the stifling dark and winnow Maleneth from the corner where she had brooded all these long, hateful days.

It was the noise that saved her. On any normal day, the Bared Blade would have boasted few patrons – mostly locals, scattered with the occasional nomad band or Freeguild long patrol from the Shatterpeak garrison. Now, the mud-brick hall strained at the seams with boisterous energy, a horde of drunken mercenaries clambering to throw away their pay on flat beer and rigged games.

Maleneth did her best to ignore the commotion. A day, perhaps two, and the interlopers would be gone. Then she could get back to trying to stitch herself into some semblance of who she had once been – a blade in service to Khaine, in service to herself.

The third brawl of the night upended a table, a spreading sea of spilled drink lapping at the toes of Maleneth’s boots. A duardin crashed into the wall next to her, rebounded and spun. His booze-addled gaze settled on Maleneth, a fist already arcing towards her head.

She could have killed him, cut his throat as easily as she plucked fruit from a low-hanging branch. But it would have been a poor death. As she ducked the duardin’s drunken swing, Maleneth told herself she did not want her first sacrifice to Khaine to be this sweaty, snorting hog. When she killed again, and she would kill again, it would be someone worthy of the Lord of Murder, not some drunken duardin who shared Gotrek’s nose.

Disgusted by the tenor of her thoughts, Maleneth dodged past the duardin’s milling fists, slipping through the scuffle like a tepid breeze, too wrapped up in recriminations to mark the three shadows who followed her out onto the street.

It was cooler outside. The baking heat of the day was surrendering to a chill that settled into Maleneth’s bones and made her draw her cloak tighter. She had rooms at one of Harran’s better hostels, one of the few with doors that actually locked. Maleneth had left a few surprises of her own for any who thought to avail themselves of her meagre possessions, but thus far none had been foolish enough to try.

She considered heading for her room, but all that waited there were jagged memories, sharp as the shards of rusty iron whipped along by the Chamonic wind. Besides, the street was too loud for her to get any sleep. Every local with a fleck of sense had set out a table and stools to cater to the Crawling Caravan, and the streets echoed with shouts and slurred songs.

So Maleneth made for the edge of town, beyond the circle of dozing sledge beetles, out to where stone gave way to iron sand, and the wind came sharp as broken glass. She stood for a time, letting the cold seep into her flesh. As if she stood not at the foot of a rusty dune, but the door of her own tomb. It would be easy to disappear into the desert, swallowed by the shifting sands like a spear cast into a night-dark sea. What use was an assassin who could not kill? A dagger that could never be drawn?

It was a testament to Maleneth’s bitterness that she did not hear the scrape of boot on stone, the soft hiss of blades drawn from oiled scabbards.

Only when she felt the bite of steel did Maleneth realise she was surrounded. Old reflexes sent her twisting away at the first spark of pain. Although her leathers took the worst of the blow, the blade must have been coated in steelspite, because it lit a fire in Maleneth’s ribs.

Jaw tight, she dived into a forward roll in the hopes of putting some distance between herself and the trio of killers. They followed close as shadows, gliding up the dune after her.

Rising to one knee, Maleneth sent a dagger spinning towards the nearest pursuer. He ducked the throw, only to receive a spray of sand in the eyes as Maleneth kicked a glittering arc downslope.

To the man’s dubious credit, he did not flinch. Blades bared, eyes squeezed shut, he leapt at her.

Maleneth spun away, back arched to avoid the slashing daggers. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another assassin raise a throwing knife, outline backlit by the jaundiced light of the Alchemist’s moon. She pivoted to put the dagger wielder in front of the throw, and sent him reeling with an open-palmed slap to one ear.

Now, she drew her own blades. Long as her forearm and sharp as a Khainite oath, the twin single-edged short swords were gently curved for slashing, swelling slightly along the belly before tapering to a truly wicked point. Inscribed with murderous sigils, they had been bathed in the blood of countless victims, growing only hungrier with each kill.

Maleneth put the razored edges to good use as she threaded one blade through the stumbling assassin’s guard. Blinded, ears ringing, there was little he could do as the tip of Maleneth’s sword slipped into the hollow of his throat.

Rather than back away, she stepped into the dying killer. Dropping a shoulder into his stomach, Maleneth hooked the spine of one blade around the back of his neck and pivoted to send him careening into the second assassin, who had slipped around behind her.

She was rewarded with a startled curse. It was the first sound any of the assassins had made – a mark of experience. Far too many hired killers made the mistake of taunting their targets, but Maleneth had always found talk to be a distraction.

The realisation left her strangely pleased. At least the Order of Azyr respected Maleneth enough to send professionals.

While the second assassin extricated himself from the corpse of his comrade, Maleneth swapped her short swords for throwing knives, hoping to down the third killer before she could strike; but the woman came bounding down the dune with the surety of a desert oryx.

The assassin’s scimitar arced overhead, bright as a crescent moon. There was no time to parry, so Maleneth threw herself flat upon the sand, skidding down the slope in a shower of rust. Feeling hard stone beneath her boots, she turned her fall into a tight roll that set her back on her feet. Without turning, she sent one blade spinning back the way she had come, guided only by the sound of shifting sand.

The assassin knocked it aside with contemptuous ease, only to grunt as Maleneth flicked a dagger into her ribs. She followed the throw up with another, and another. The assassin’s scimitar was a blur, cutting blades from the air, but Maleneth had not been trying to wound her, only to herd her back onto the dune where the footing was more treacherous.

Maleneth sent a knife tumbling towards the assassin’s face. When the woman moved to parry the blade, Maleneth darted forward. Dropping to one knee, her face level with the assassin’s knee, she reached out, delicately drawing her blade across the back of the woman’s leg. Tendons cut, the assassin toppled forward. And Maleneth was there to greet her.

She dispatched the killer only to realise she had lost track of the one that remained.

There was an old Khailebron saying, half jest, half warning: When you fail to see your foe, they are behind you.

Maleneth spun, blade at the ready.

The last Order assassin was too close for her to do more than twist away from the thrust. His blade traced a line of cold fire up her arm. She tried to drive a knee into the man’s stomach, but he shifted to avoid the strike.

Fast as a wire asp, his hand shot out to seize the wrist of her blade hand. She sought to slip a dagger from her sash, but the man’s knife was already driving for her gut. Maleneth twisted in his grip. Unable to avoid the knife-thrust, she shifted to catch the strike on one of her sheathed daggers. It glanced from the blade, carving deep into the leather bandolier.

With a snarl, the assassin bore down on Maleneth, knife coming up. She caught the man’s wrist, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. Maleneth’s arm trembled, muscles burning as the knifepoint descended slowly towards her eye. The assassin’s smile flashed in the moonlight, teeth bright as sharpened steel.

Maleneth matched his grin.

She savoured the confusion in the assassin’s eyes. The hunter might be Order-trained, talents whetted to razor-sharpness by the Azyrite masters, but in the end, he was but a hired killer. Murder was a task for him – a job, not an evocation.

Not worship.

Still grinning, Maleneth bit down on her false tooth. Poison filled her mouth. A stinging, caustic mix of fyrepowder and hagfish venom, it felt as if Maleneth’s mouth were crawling with hornets. It was all she could do not to gag as she spat the vile concoction into the assassin’s face.

This time, he was not silent.

Shrieking like a damned shade, the man reeled back, releasing his hold on Maleneth to claw at his eyes. There was no hope, of course; the venom would leave him blind for the rest of his life.

Fortunately, only a few moments remained.

Maleneth drew a thin line across his throat, whispering prayers to Khaine even as the final assassin’s cries turned to wet gurgles.

She stood, panting, the mix of sweat and blood coating her gone icy as meltwater in the evening chill. But Maleneth was not cold. Joy filled her. Bonfire bright, it crackled within Maleneth’s chest, her every muscle humming with murderous energy. She swallowed against a throat gone suddenly tight, blinking back grateful tears. To think she had almost turned away from this glorious path, cast herself into rootless oblivion and abandoned her divine calling.

Slowly, reverently, Maleneth dropped to one knee. Dipping fingers in the spreading pool of blood, she raised them to the sky. Her lips moved in silent prayer, gratitude and exaltation in equal measure. Maleneth had sought for answers within herself, hoping to parse the wild tangle of her time with Gotrek. She had wallowed in introspection, and nearly drowned. But all this time, Khaine had waited. Patient as age, he had set these hunters upon their path, knowing their lives – their deaths – would place Maleneth back upon the true path.

Still smiling, she retrieved her blades from the dead assassins, then dragged their cooling bodies up onto the dune and heaped sand atop them. Already the desert wind was smoothing the signs of their struggle. An hour, perhaps two, and it would be as if they never existed.

But Maleneth would remember.

Nodding her thanks to the corpses, she turned back to Harran.

The streets still swarmed with mercenaries – the tiny, hardscrabble town struggling to contain so much life. Once, the noise had grated on Maleneth, but now she paid it no mind. She would not be in Harran much longer.

Lord Khaine had called, and Maleneth would answer.

She made her way back to her rented rooms, careful to remain in shadow lest any of the revellers notice the blood spattering her leathers. Around the back of the building, a set of creaking metal stairs led to her door. After disarming the envenomed needle in the handle, Maleneth fitted her key into the lock and pushed inside. Stepping gingerly over the tripwire, she ducked beneath the low-hanging strands of slaughtersilk and threaded the caltrops concealed beneath the room’s threadbare rug. A small cauldron hung above a coal brazier, metal stained by the toxins she had been able to concoct from the stands of burnwillow and wiry wraithspine bushes that fringed Harran’s dusty outskirts. She would have given much for ten minutes alone in the Order of Azyr’s thanacopeia, but as with many things in her new life, Maleneth had to work with what she had.

Her meagre possessions were contained in a scarred chest of drawers, but she ignored them, moving instead to the low cot at the rear of the room. Concealed within a hollow carved into one of the cot’s uneven legs was a small, lacquered box.

Maleneth thumbed open the latch, emptying the contents into her cupped palm: a ruby amulet on a silver chain. Although the gem was small, it flickered with an inner light, seeming alive in the dingy shadows of the room.

Maleneth regarded the piece of jewellery – a part of her past, hidden away just as she had hidden herself away in this sun-scoured ruin of a town.

No longer.

Drawing a slow breath, Maleneth slipped the chain around her neck, the locket warm against her skin. There was a pulse of liquid warmth as the blood trapped inside the gem sparked to life, the spirit within stirring.

Her smile sharp as a sacrificial dagger, Maleneth gripped the locket in one tight fist.

‘Greetings, mistress.’

Chapter Two

The master of the Crawling Caravan was a sallow, pock-faced duardin who called himself Yngvar of the Broad Embrace. Although his arms were wide, Yngvar’s grip upon his purse strings proved tight as any back-alley trader. Truthfully, Maleneth cared nothing for salary, but it would appear odd for her not to haggle, so she made a show of sitting upon the stacked pillows in Yngvar’s opulent tent as the duardin plied her with sickeningly sweet ices and tales of his mercantile prowess.

‘Little did he know I had an aelf-obsessed Azyrite noble waiting for me in Hammerhal.’ Yngvar tapped his nose, winking. ‘So we took the fool of a Lumineth for eighteen bolts of Syari shimmersilk at two drops above cost, then unloaded it for a full dram of Ghyranis a week later.’

You would have thought the duardin a rare wit for the laughter his pronouncement drew from the assembled merchants. Fortunately, Maleneth’s scowl did not seem to offend the caravan master, because he launched into a long-winded account concerning Aqshyan grain fortunes. She kept her hands upon her knees, grip tight lest she draw a dagger out of sheer boredom. At least the duardin trader did not resemble Gotrek, thin where the Slayer was bullish, pale skin swathed in dark flowing robes. Yngvar’s hair was oiled and combed, his dark beard wound in tight ringlets where Gotrek’s had been wild as a bramble bush and oft spattered with the remains of the Slayer’s last meal.

She had considered going after him. Gotrek would not be hard to find. Maleneth only need look for the most worthless cause, and she would no doubt find the Slayer stumbling about like a sunstruck gargant. He thought her dead, no doubt. In truth, Maleneth was not completely sure why the Idoneth had spared her, only that their Isharann sorcerers had seen to it she did not remember. Possibly they thought to use her in some long-reaching gambit, perhaps even to strike at the Slayer.

If so, her distant kin would be disappointed. Maleneth had no intention of running back to Gotrek. There was little point. She had no interest in recovering the rune in his chest, and even if she did manage to overcome the Slayer, Maleneth’s erstwhile superiors in the Order of Azyr were as like to cut her throat as welcome her back. Besides, she was finished following the whims of self-righteous Sigmarites.

Maleneth served but one god, and his demands were a joy to fulfil.

And yet, as much as she wished it were not so, other, more mundane considerations weighed upon Maleneth’s thoughts.

She could not remain in Harran, that much was clear. Even with her newfound purpose, Maleneth was not so foolish as to risk travelling Chamon alone. Other convoys passed through, but none so large and well protected as the Crawling Caravan. At the moment, their score of sledge beetles were loaded down with barrels of oil and quicksilver, fine metal ingots, flux, and assorted alchemical ingredients. Such goods were ubiquitous in the Hanging Valleys of Chamon, which meant the caravan was bound for some other realm.

It was an opportunity Maleneth could not pass up, especially once she discovered they were bound for Ulgu.

Also, she happened to know three of the caravan’s guards had not reported in this morning.

So it was that Maleneth found herself in the pavilion of Yngvar of the Broad Embrace, listening to yet another duardin ramble on about nothing. For Gotrek, it had been oaths and vengeance; for Yngvar it was negotiations and profit. Maleneth could not think of two more different individuals, and yet they were each alike in their capacity to bore her to tears.

Still, tedious tales were better than Order knives.

Maleneth may have left the Order of Azyr, but if the events of last night were any indication, they had not forgotten about her. Slinking back to Gotrek would as much as guarantee a flood of Azyrite killers, and while Maleneth did not mind offering up a few would-be assassins to Khaine, she much preferred to select her own victims.

Yngvar’s monologue had bled into the topic of inter-realm commodity trading. While the pompous duardin held forth on the cost-to-weight ratios of realmstone, Maleneth let her gaze wander over the small assembly. Most were traders like Yngvar, a thin veneer of silk and perfume plastered over a core of ruthless mercantilism. Despite their adopted airs, Maleneth was not fooled by their jewel-handled blades and filigreed pistols. The Crawling Caravan was large and well defended, but it trod dangerous paths. Any merchant who could not protect their wares would soon lose them, and most likely their life as well.

If the traders looked competent, their guards were doubly so. The six arrayed around the pavilion had the look of ex-Freeguild, their equipment worn but obviously well cared for. There was little attempt at uniformity beyond a dyed armband bearing the spread-legged beetle of the Crawling Caravan. All were human save a grizzled ogor in a slouch hat, trousers, and patchwork leather vest. He had the look of driftwood given life, patchy grey beard barely covering a pale webwork of scars, one notch-fingered hand resting on the hilt of a cutlass as broad as Maleneth’s thigh.

Thinking back, Maleneth realised she had never seen an elderly ogor before. Truth be told, it had never crossed her mind that they could grow old.

Stay alert, fool. The sharp voice cut through Maleneth’s idling thoughts. The one with the gold chain is glaring daggers at you.

As it always did, the admonition from her mistress’ spirit sent a prickle of irritation along the nape of Maleneth’s neck. She often regretted the cruel impulse that had made her bind Sybelline’s soul to the fleck of blood concealed within the ruby amulet. And yet, more than once, her mistress’ advice had been all that stood between Maleneth and death.

Although she pretended to ignore the spirit, Maleneth let her gaze drift to the guard with the gold chain. He stood near Yngvar, muscles rigid beneath his breastplate and light chain. He was armed as a duellist, long and short sword on either hip, a brace of drakefire pistols hanging from a leather sash. Although his cheeks and nose were marred with the burst capillaries of a man given to drink, his current affect was sober as a Sigmarite deacon, dark eyes boring into Maleneth as if he could scowl the life from her.

Her mistress was correct. The man clearly wanted her dead.

Maleneth pretended she had not noticed him. Another Order killer?

If so, why not strike with the others? Her mistress’ question came cold and curt.

Biding his time, or perhaps hoping to get a message to their superior, Maleneth guessed. She could not help but recall her own time as an Order agent and the myriad missives she had dispatched to the Proctor-General.

No doubt it had been his signature upon her death warrant.

She swallowed the unwelcome memories, considering. Or perhaps he is simply an arrogant mercenary captain hoping to cow a new recruit.

Either way, the best solution is a slit throat, Sybelline replied.

Maleneth thought of slipping a knife into the mercenary’s eye. Quietly, carefully, when he was sleeping off a drinking binge. She could hide the body alongside the road. The caravan would be miles away before the fool’s absence was even noted.

‘Ah, so at last I’ve stumbled upon something that tickles our aelf friend’s fancy.’ Yngvar’s hollow baritone snapped Maleneth from her deadly deliberations. Only belatedly did she realise she had been smiling.

‘Yes, very clever negotiation tactic, master merchant.’ Maleneth hazarded a stab at the topic at hand. From Yngvar’s broad smile, it seemed she had guessed correctly.

He fluttered his stubby fingers as if to brush the compliment away. ‘Well, mistress aelf, I have established my caravan’s credentials. If you wish to join us on our journey to Ulgu, it might be time for you to favour us with a few of your own.’

Maleneth drew in a slow breath. ‘I am sharp-eyed and skilled with a blade.’

Yngvar chuckled. ‘A good start. But how skilled is the question. Would I know any of your former employers?’

‘Unlikely.’

‘Perhaps something simpler.’ He looked around as if for inspiration. ‘How did you learn to fight?’

Maleneth shrugged. ‘By fighting.’

Although that drew a snort from the grey-bearded ogor, the others seemed less pleased.

‘You would not be the first among my august company who would prefer not to speak of their past.’ Yngvar’s smile did not waver. ‘But alas, how can I know your worth if you provide no means to measure it?’

‘Pick one of your guards. Any one. We fight to first blood.’ Maleneth crossed her arms. ‘If I can best them, you give me the job. If not, I shall depart without a word.’

‘Fine entertainment.’ Delight glittered deep within the duardin’s eyes. ‘But you can’t expect me to weigh the danger to one of my warriors against your word alone. Fights, even to first blood, can be messy. Do you have anything to sweeten the deal?’

Maleneth tried to hide her irritation. Yngvar was a merchant, it was in his nature to haggle.

Offer him a knife to the ribs, Sybelline said.

‘My blades.’ Sighing, Maleneth drew her short swords, displaying them to the assembled merchants. Apart from her locket, leathers, and cloak, they were all that remained of her former life. Still, if she was beaten by some wind-scarred caravan guard Maleneth would not be worthy of them.

‘Very fine lines, excellent balance.’ Yngvar studied the short swords. ‘Coven-forged, am I right?’

‘I took them from the last fool who questioned my skill,’ Maleneth lied. She had already revealed far too much – especially if the scowling guard was with the Order.

‘No insult intended, friend.’ Yngvar held up a placating hand. ‘The deal is struck.’

The duardin turned to his guards, but before Yngvar had even drawn breath, the mercenary with the gold chain stepped forward.

‘I will duel the aelf.’

Not a clever ploy if he hopes to live to inform on you, her mistress said.

Perhaps he means to finish what his companions failed to do, Maleneth suggested.

Then do not let him. Sybelline’s tone was curt. I will not be war spoils, passed about like some common trinket.

Even diminished, the former Hag Queen’s arrogance shone bright as a beacon fire, and several months tucked away in a box had only whetted her temper.

Standing, Maleneth pushed the cold voice from her thoughts. If the mercenary intended this to be more than a fight to first blood, she could ill-afford distractions.

‘Captain Haltz?’ Yngvar looked between the two of them, grinning. ‘An interesting match indeed.’

Haltz did not share his employer’s humour. ‘If I am to command this aelf, I would know her quality.’

Maleneth offered no reply, which seemed only to infuriate the captain further. Good. Let the fool seethe. Anger was a blunt weapon – strong, but lacking in finesse. Something Maleneth could exploit.

‘So be it.’ Yngvar clapped his hands. ‘Have a circle drawn outside, and pass the word.’

It was bright outside the pavilion, the dunes catching Hysh’s brilliance like breakers on a steel sea. Maleneth stood, arms crossed, breath measured, as a pair of beetle drivers marked off a rough circle on the windswept stone. Already, a small crowd had gathered. Although Maleneth paid them little mind, from the scrawled slips being exchanged, it seemed betting was fierce.

For his part, Haltz stripped off his breastplate, pistols, and chain. The jerkin below bore a faded Freeguild crest upon the right breast. Although Maleneth did not recognise the regimental sigil, she did mark the officer’s stripe, as well as the silver wreath that indicated noble blood among some Azyrite guilds. There was a story there, but Maleneth cared little for what sad series of events had brought Captain Haltz to the Crawling Caravan, only how well he could fight.

Fortunately, the fool showed her that as well.

Drawing steel, he gave an extended flourish before falling into a duellist’s stance – body angled to present the smallest profile, long blade extended, short held close for parrying. Cheers erupted from the growing crowd, only to taper off as Maleneth did not react. She had never understood why some warriors felt the need to display their skills before a battle. If Haltz hoped to intimidate her with his prowess, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, he had given Maleneth a primer on his skill and style, revealing much while she gave him nothing.

Unless he is purposely baiting you, Sybelline said.

An uncomfortable possibility, but one Maleneth could do little about.

‘I want a clean fight.’ Yngvar stepped between them, shouting to be heard over the crowd. ‘First blood ends it. Are we clear?’

‘As an Azyrite dawn,’ Haltz said, saluting Yngvar with his longsword.

Maleneth nodded, hands creeping down to her daggers.

‘On my mark.’ Yngvar retreated, seeming to savour the attention. ‘Begin!’

Although Maleneth never had cause to enter the duelling field, it did not mean she was unfamiliar with the techniques. During her time with the Order, she had occasionally attended the bouts that occurred in various sword schools scattered about Azyrheim. Although there was little in the complicated steps and flashy bladework Maleneth found compelling, she had always made a point to familiarise herself with other styles – if only to determine how they might be dismantled.

That knowledge served her well.

Haltz’s assault might as well have been torn from the pages of a fighting manual. The captain was fast for a human, his strikes precise as a water clock. Such high-born techniques might overcome opponents accustomed to the brutal hack-and-slash of mercenary combat, but Maleneth had taken his measure before the first pass ended.

She swayed away from his harassing cuts, knowing them to be feints. When Haltz lunged with the short sword, she slapped his arm aside barehanded, much to the chagrin of the captain.

Slipping under a sweeping cut, Maleneth gave ground, circling to Haltz’s right to cross up the captain’s blades. He responded with a quick pivot, just as she expected.

At last, Maleneth drew her weapons – not the twin short swords, but a handful of throwing daggers.

Haltz parried the first blade, sweeping it aside with contemptuous ease. Two more followed behind, quick as the rattle of a regimental drumbeat. He was able to duck the first, if just barely, but the hilt of the second rebounded from the captain’s forehead.

He straightened, grinning, thinking Maleneth had botched the throw.

Another knife hit him in the mouth, again hilt-first.

As Haltz stumbled back, Maleneth’s knives carved the space between them, striking the captain on the hand, the elbow, the stomach, the chest. But they did not pierce flesh.

Only when she heard the crack of ribs did Maleneth allow herself the smallest of smiles.

One arm pressed to his side, Haltz tried a lunge, only to drop his blade with a pained hiss as Maleneth sidestepped to hammer the hilt of her knife into the back of his fist. She followed with a knee to Haltz’s stomach that dropped the captain like a sack of drakeshot.

Maleneth stood over the gasping man, hands on her hips. Although Haltz was battered, bruised, concussed, Maleneth had taken care not to shed a single drop of his blood.

Perhaps he is not with the Order after all, her mistress conceded.

‘You have won, friend aelf.’ Yngvar moved forward, tone placating.

Maleneth held up a finger. ‘First blood ends it.’

The duardin took a step back, concern bunching the skin between his thick brows. The crowd had gone silent. Maleneth basked in their apprehension. It was good they fear her, if only to silence any attempts at camaraderie.

She could feel Sybelline’s vicious delight. Finish this wretch.

Maleneth knelt next to Haltz. Eyes widening, he tried to crawl away, only to fall back with a groan.

Calmly, she drew her short sword and flicked the tip across the captain’s cheek.

‘Well fought!’ Yngvar’s relief was almost palpable, which was more than Maleneth could say for her former mistress.

Mercy is weakness, Sybelline said. All that soul-searching has made you soft.

And being trapped in a locket has left you blind, Maleneth replied. Haltz is clearly not an Order spy, cutting his throat would make enemies of the entire caravan. She stood, flicking the bead of blood from the end of her blade. Besides, there was enough wraithspine on the edge of this blade to ensure the captain suffers a lingering end. A month, perhaps two – it will appear as if Haltz drank himself to death.

Her mistress’ laugh came cold and cruel. You are truly my finest disciple.

Call me that again, and I will cast you into the first latrine pit I come across. Maleneth pressed down a flush of anger. There is nothing between us. You saw to that.

Then why keep me bound?

Because it amuses me. Maleneth cut their conversation before her mistress could reply. There was a time when she had not possessed such control over the amulet, but time and practice had given her the means to silence Sybelline’s tirades.

Sheathing her blade, Maleneth turned to Yngvar.

‘You will pay me whatever you pay him.’ She thrust her chin at Haltz.

‘Gladly!’ The duardin gave a nervous chuckle. ‘If you guard as well as you pitch daggers, I will consider it a bargain.’

Maleneth crossed her arms.

‘Ah yes, accommodations.’ Yngvar turned to the ogor. ‘Splendid will see to it you are properly situated.’

Maleneth studied the grizzled ogor, whose grin revealed several missing teeth.

‘Right this way.’ The ogor gave an exaggerated wave towards a sledge beetle with what looked to be a small village scaffolded upon its back.

Maleneth followed without a word.

‘Didn’t make many friends back there,’ Splendid said as they crossed the sandy stone.

‘Good.’

He paused, glancing back. ‘You always this sharp?’

Maleneth fixed him with a level glare.

‘Fair enough.’

He gave a rumbling chuckle, leading her up the gangplank and into the warren of ropes and scaffolding. The whole structure was arranged like a transport ship, but instead of floating upon the waves, it was lashed to the carapace of one of the largest beetles Maleneth had ever seen.

‘You bunk here.’ Splendid nodded towards a closet, empty save for a hammock and small chest. ‘Settle in for now. I’ll see about setting us up with some decent nosh.’

‘When do we move out?’ Maleneth asked.

‘When Yngvar decides it.’

‘And my duties?’

The ogor scratched at his beard. ‘Don’t rightly know. Haltz usually sets the roster, but I doubt the captain will be in any shape for duty after the drubbing you gave him.’

Maleneth let the slightest smile creep across her lips.

‘Oh, you’re a funny one, aren’t you?’ Splendid gave his belly a resounding slap. ‘I think we’re going to get along famously.’

Maleneth’s grin faded to confusion. ‘You’re not angry about Haltz?’

‘You didn’t make many friends back there. That doesn’t mean you didn’t make any.’ The ogor gave her a friendly cuff on the shoulder. ‘Now come along, let’s get you set up with a proper meal. Put some meat on those hollow aelven bones!’

Chapter Three

Maleneth had begun to regret signing on with the Crawling Caravan. Although her modest bunk offered more comfort and safety than travelling alone, it also meant she needed to move at the speed of a sledge beetle. They scrabbled along not much faster than a team of oxen, stopping frequently during the hottest portions of the day. Apart from Splendid, the other guards, drivers, and merchants gave Maleneth a wide berth, which suited her fine. Apparently, Captain Haltz was well liked among the mercenaries, and while none was brave enough to challenge her, they made their displeasure known in a thousand ways. The desert gear they provided was always of the poorest quality, and when she was given one of the splay-legged ibbuq lizards to ride, it was lame or old, harness frayed and saddle canted.

Then there was Haltz himself. The captain seemed to derive singular pleasure from scheduling Maleneth on the worst duty shifts, either late at night when all warmth had leached from the sands or during the merciless midday heat. Often, she was sent on long patrol, riding miles from the caravan to scout for raiders. Maleneth would have enjoyed the solitude, but Haltz always made a point of sending Splendid with her.

The ogor kept up a near-unbroken stream of chatter, blathering about old comrades and fine meals, often with little distinction between the two. Splendid could spend hours describing the various intricacies of consumption, from sourcing, to preparation, to nuances of taste, texture, and toothsomeness. Maleneth had always known ogors to be ravenous, but the old mercenary took eating to truly obsessive heights. More than once, she had considered slipping something deadly into Splendid’s thrice-hourly snack, but her supply of toxins was near depleted, and ogors were famously resistant to poison. So she simply weathered Splendid’s conversational barrage, enduring it like a sandstorm or bout of stomach cramps.

‘Now, duardin require more’n a bit of finesse. Some say a long boil is best.’ The ogor scratched at his shaggy beard. ‘For me, it’s slow roast or nothing. Not that everyone has the time for that. You can do a lot with the right marinade, and the meat’s more portable.’ He smacked his lips. ‘But nothing brings out the flavour of Fyreslayer like fire. Why, I fought this one Vulkite Berzerker, Rugni Bellowbreaker–’

Splendid trailed off as Maleneth gave a low hiss, her gaze flicking to a nearby dune.

‘Movement, on the crest,’ she said, letting her mount amble along as if she had not noticed. ‘Keep talking.’

‘Could be nomads.’ To his credit, Splendid did not look. The ogor made as if to straighten his sword belt, and left his hand upon the hilt. ‘Or a pack of steelcats. With our luck, it’ll be marauders. There are quite a few tribes of Chaos-addled cannibals who prey on passing caravans.’

‘Aren’t you a cannibal?’ Maleneth asked.

‘I don’t eat other ogors, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Splendid sniffed. ‘Too rich. More’n a few bites and you’re begging for gout. I stick to leaner stock – humans, duardin, even grots in a pinch.’ He glanced her way. ‘Never had aelf, though.’

Maleneth narrowed her eyes. ‘I think you would find me difficult to stomach.’

Splendid laughed. ‘I don’t eat friends.’

The crest was empty, little more than windswept rust and the occasional fleck of jagged metal hidden beneath the surface. Maleneth had taken to collecting the razor-edged bits of iron, kept in a thick leather pouch and spiked with burnwillow sap. There were many situations where a double-handful of envenomed caltrops would come in handy.

Unfortunately, now was not one of them.

She turned her mount, gradually circling the dune, but whoever had been watching them was gone.

‘Nothing.’ Splendid eyed the sand. ‘It’ll be nomads or marauders, then. Steelcats don’t cover their tracks.’

Maleneth glanced at the ogor, surprised. ‘You believe me?’

‘Blades aren’t the only sharp thing about you.’ He shrugged. ‘You say you saw something, then you saw something. Probably just scouts like us. We’d best report back.’

Maleneth nodded, turning her lizard towards the road.

‘Now, where was I?’ Splendid followed, long strides easily keeping pace with Maleneth’s splay-legged mount. ‘Ah, yes, Rugni. Now he was a meal. Nothing works up an appetite like a solid scrap, and the Fyreslayers certainly gave us one…’

Maleneth let the ogor’s rambling fade to background noise, constant as the desert wind. Although she let her attention drift over the dunes, whoever had been tracking them was gone. Most likely reporting their position.

Jumping at shadows. Her mistress’ voice cut through the ogor’s monologue. Only the fiercest or most desperate of these savages would dare assault the Crawling Caravan.

That is my concern, Maleneth replied tersely. If you have nothing of value to add, make yourself useful by watching the dunes.

I have much to add. If you had but the wit to listen.

Maleneth sighed. Watch the dunes or I’ll stow you in my saddlebags.

Her mistress lapsed into sullen quiet, which was fine by Maleneth. If only she could bully Splendid into silence as well. But alas, ogors were not known for keeping their mouths shut.

Despite being only a few miles distant, it was a long ride back to the Lantic road. They marked the Crawling Caravan by the oxidised plume its passage raised. With Hysh high in the sky, even the stifling shade of the beetle-back pavilions was a relief. After dipping some gritty, metallic-tasting water from one of the barrels, Maleneth and Splendid went looking for Captain Haltz.

They found him lounging in the shade of a leather awning, propped up on pillows like some overfed courtier. Several mercenaries stood as Maleneth approached. They made a wall of their bodies, eyes hard, hands close to their weapons.

‘What do you want, aelf?’ The captain’s thin voice rose from behind the bristling guards.

Hearing the tremor gave Maleneth a flush of cold satisfaction. One of her few joys had been watching Haltz deteriorate. Although the cut on his cheek had long healed, the wraithspine had settled into the captain’s blood. A particularly vicious venom when properly distilled, it had no known antidote, and even the best remedies could only forestall the effects. Better yet, the condition was slow and terrible. To all the world, it looked as if a lifetime of heavy drinking had finally caught up with Haltz.

Just as Maleneth had intended.

‘Spotted some folk up on the dunes.’ It was Splendid who answered. ‘Thought you should know, captain.’

‘Let them pass.’

The guards parted, making a half-circle behind Maleneth and Splendid as they stepped into the pool of shade.

Haltz was pale and sweaty, the splotches on his florid face darkening to the ugly purple of an old bruise. He regarded them through red-rimmed eyes, hatred barely concealed.

Arms crossed, Maleneth returned his glare. Although Maleneth had yet to find the root of Haltz’s animosity towards her, she was not in any hurry to dig it up. The feelings of a dying man concerned her little. Besides, she was confident Haltz would tell her soon enough.

Fools like him always did.

‘What kind of folk?’ he asked.

‘I cannot say,’ Maleneth replied. ‘They did not show themselves long enough.’

‘Marauders, most like,’ Splendid added.

Haltz’s gaze crawled between the two of them. ‘You see them too? Or just her?’

Splendid winced. ‘Can’t say I did, captain.’

‘Then all we have is the word of a heat-addled aelf.’ Haltz hawked and spat. ‘Double-duty for a week for the false report, and another day on top for wasting my time.’

Maleneth bristled, but held her tongue. From the way Haltz leaned forward, she could tell the captain was intentionally baiting her. So it had been these last, long weeks as Haltz sought some reason to have Maleneth driven from the caravan. She would not give him the pleasure. Maleneth had suffered far worse than the bullying of some fallen noble.

It brought her no small amount of pleasure to see Haltz sit back, seething but unable to call her out.

Maleneth turned to go, only to face a pair of broad-shouldered mercenaries.

‘I did not dismiss you.’ Haltz’s words came venomous as a Khainite blade.

‘You’ve heard our report, captain.’ Although Splendid’s tone was light, there was an undertone of threat beneath. ‘Unless there is anything else, I believe our aelven comrade has another duty shift.’

Haltz bared yellowed teeth. For a moment, Maleneth thought the captain would order his guards to restrain them. Truthfully, she would welcome the opportunity to send a few more souls to Khaine, but if there were marauders in the dunes, the caravan would need every blade in the days to come.

She turned back, smiling a bit too sweetly. ‘Do I have leave to depart, lord?’

Haltz pushed to his feet, blade half-drawn. ‘I’ll not suffer mockery from a Khainite murder–’

His diatribe dissolved into a fit of coughing. Several of the mercenaries stepped in to support the captain’s arms, but Haltz waved them away.

‘Off with you, aelf.’ He bared teeth speckled with blood. ‘The next time you stagger in here raving about heat mirages I’ll have you whipped.’

Maleneth almost killed him right there. But that was far too quick a death for a wretch like Haltz. Instead, she forced herself to nod.

‘As you wish.’

She waited until they were out of earshot before rounding on Splendid. ‘I did not ask for your help.’

‘Didn’t need to.’ He frowned, brows furrowed. ‘We’re mates, you and I.’

‘No, we’re mercenaries, chained to the same arrogant fool of a captain.’ Maleneth stepped in, glaring up at the ogor. ‘That does not make us comrades, and it does not mean I need some blustering lout jumping to my defence every time Haltz spits venom. Do me a favour and stuff something in that flapping jaw of yours, because the next time you open it near me, I’ll feed you a dagger.’

Splendid took a step back, seemingly surprised by the outburst. Then, a slow, infuriating smile spread across the ogor’s craggy face.

‘You’re welcome.’

Maleneth threw up her hands, stalking away before she gave into the impulse to slip a dagger into Splendid’s prodigious gut.

‘I’ll be in the mess if you need me,’ he called after her.

Maleneth only shook her head, unsure why Khaine had yet again inflicted an unwelcome comrade upon her. Gotrek had been bad enough, but at least the Slayer had blessed her with the occasional stretch of surly silence.

She took out her anger on her extra duties, circling the camp like some desert predator, checking animals, scaffolds, bindings, and straps. After a long day of scouting, even fury could not long hold back the exhaustion that settled upon her like a heavy weight, and Maleneth was bone tired when she finally dragged herself to the evening campfire for a meal and another of Yngvar’s tales.

The duardin would often make his way to the fire to regale the assembled traders with accounts of his mercantile prowess. Maleneth would have found the whole affair intolerably tedious if not for the flecks of information buried within Yngvar’s overblown stories. The Crawling Caravan crossed many realms, stopping at cities and trade posts Maleneth had never heard of – and quite a few she had. Although Khaine had set her upon this bloody path, the Lord of Murder had provided little guidance.

Maleneth had hoped the lingering sacrifice of Captain Haltz might at last impel her master to reveal his wishes, but her nightly devotions went unanswered. Even her former mistress’ advice offered no hints, scathing rather than useful.

But it was not given to Maleneth to fathom the whims of gods. Khaine would act when and as he desired; she was merely his tool. Even so, Maleneth could not hide her surprise when the Lord of Murder chose Yngvar of the Broad Embrace as his mouthpiece.

‘Nightcliff.’

The name snapped Maleneth’s head around like a thrown rock. Fortunately, all eyes were fixed upon Yngvar.

‘The City of Echoes, Nightcliff crouches atop cliffs of smoky obsidian, shrouded by the mists of Ulgu.’ The duardin fluttered his fingers, voice deepening as he settled into his tale. ‘Not one city, but a score – districts overlain like shadows cast by shifting torches. Above it all rises a great spire. Half temple, half arena, it pierces the centre of Nightcliff like a hurled spear, unchanging even as the districts around it drift slowly in and out of substance.’

Maleneth’s hands were numb, her throat tight as a drawn bow. Unquiet memories seeped through the cracks in her composure, blossoming cold and sharp. It had been years since she had thought of her home, and then only as a distant, unwelcome place, somewhere best forgotten. But she had been with the Order of Azyr then, her purpose clear. Now, she was adrift, rootless.

‘If that were all, Nightcliff would be a perilous place, but there is so much more.’ Yngvar took a drink from his jewelled mug, warming to the attention. ‘The city is home to many Khainite covens, its twisting shadows sharp with bared blades as they play their bloody games in service to the Lord of Murder. From their temple-arenas the Daughters of Khaine wreak bloody sacrifice, dark stone glistening crimson – every death a prayer.’ He shook his head, gold charms clicking. ‘Outsiders do not linger long in Nightcliff, lest they find themselves upon the altar, or pressed into one of many deadly games to delight the covens. And yet, many fortunes have been made in the shadow of the Bladed Spire, and many more lives lost.’

Yngvar chuckled. ‘But fear not, friends. Although I have never braved those shadowed cliffs before, even assassins must eat, and the Hag Queens cannot survive on murder alone. They require fabric for their fine robes, metal for their blades, fine food and wine to enjoy while they partake in their varied blood sports. The Daughters of Khaine may deal in death, but they are not so blinded by blood not to recognise a fine bargain. The Crawling Caravan has been promised safety by the Mistress of the Spire herself, and so it is to Ulgu we now turn.’ Yngvar spread his arms. ‘Join me, friends, and I shall make you richer than kings.’

The caravan master’s pronouncement was met with great excitement. Mugs were slammed together, backs slapped, laughter punctuated by talk of fortunes to be made and frittered away. But Maleneth had no interest in any of it.

Although she drew her cloak tighter, it could not ward against the growing chill within her. She had hoped never to see Nightcliff again, but Khaine cared nothing for her wishes. Maleneth had prayed for guidance, and Khaine had answered. All she could do was obey.

It will be good to see home, again, don’t you think? Her mistress’ tone was mocking. No doubt there are many who will be excited to see you as well. Why, I can think of several of your former sisters who–

Maleneth closed a fist over the locket, pushing down the voice in her thoughts. She could not question the will of Khaine, but she did not need to endure her mistress’ scorn.

The excitement had died down, talk of future riches replaced by speculation on the Khainite covens, and the dangers they might entail. As Maleneth had feared, the others began to look to her. It began as the occasional sideways glance, mutters of aelves and blood sacrifice. Not long now, and one of the fools would work up the nerve to actually approach her. That Maleneth could not stomach.

She stood, startling several of the nearer mercenaries. Without a word of acknowledgement she strode into the cold dark. Someone shouted after her, a question lost amidst the general chatter. Maleneth did not care. She could outdistance their curiosity.

Unfortunately, her memory was far more persistent.

Men like Haltz thought all covens deceitful and murderous. To an outside observer, perhaps it appeared that way, but Khainite society functioned on shared beliefs. Even among the most vicious covens, there were lines that could not be crossed. They had been tasked by the main temple to establish themselves in Nightcliff to provide training, support, and a measure of safe respite for their Khailebron brethren. In the end, Sybelline had offered none of those things.

Maleneth had rid her sisters of a paranoid and brutal mistress, one who cared nothing for loyalty or sisterhood. The coven was better off without such a matriarch. Unfortunately, she doubted her former sisters saw it that way.

And yet, many years had passed between then and now. Perhaps her sisters finally understood why Maleneth had acted as she did. That, or they would hound her like starving ghouls the moment she set foot in the city. Either way, Maleneth’s path was clear. It could not be mere happenstance that the Crawling Caravan was bound for Nightcliff. Khaine meant Maleneth to return home.

All that remained was to discover why.

She wandered to the edge of camp, slipping beyond the firelight, the hiss of pack lizards and shouts of excited traders, even the deep, chitinous rumble of dozing sledge beetles. Even wrapped in dark speculation, Maleneth quickly realised she was being followed.

Had Maleneth been blind and deaf, she might have missed the scuff of boots upon stone, the soft creak of leather harnesses. They had come from the direction of camp, so Maleneth doubted they were marauders.

It seemed Haltz had finally decided to take his revenge.

From the shifting of sand, Maleneth counted nine mercenaries behind her, and another twenty or so on the other side of the dune.

A mistake. Unless Haltz’s guards had trained specifically for this, more blades only meant more chances to get in each other’s way. Clearly, they were hoping to drive Maleneth into the ambush beyond the dune and dispose of her quietly, beyond the sight of camp. A simple plan, simply enough undone. All Maleneth needed to do was break through the nine cowards following her, perhaps even bring one back to reveal Haltz’s murderous plan to Yngvar and the others. The duardin was already displeased with the captain’s degrading abilities; it would not take much more for him to choose finances over friendship.

Feigning ignorance, Maleneth continued to meander. At the base of a nearby dune, she passed a coppery pool of reflected moonlight. Slipping on a thick glove, she thumbed open a belt pouch, then set about discreetly seeding the sand with shards of envenomed iron. It would not do much to stop those on the other side, but the dune was large enough that Maleneth could deal with the smaller group first and let her would-be ambushers climb the unstable sand. After the moonlit stretch was suitably dangerous, she continued up into the shadow of the dune.

It was not long before Maleneth was rewarded with a pained curse.

One of her pursuers rolled on the ground. Shouts dissolved into breathless shrieks as the burnwillow took hold. Another two mercenaries crouched nearby in an attempt to calm their injured comrade. Maleneth could have told them not to bother. It would be hours before the man could do anything but flail and moan. The remainder made a loose semicircle on the sand below her, seemingly unsure.

‘Haltz.’ Maleneth spoke the name slowly, savouring the confused looks of mercenaries who thought her easy prey.

The captain did not disappoint.

‘I know you.’ Haltz stepped into a pool of moonlight. Another mistake.

‘Do you?’ Maleneth cocked her head, measuring the distance between them, the direction of the breeze, the angle of the slope.

‘Murderess. Traitor. Khailebron,’ the captain spat back at her. The epithets took Maleneth momentarily aback – perhaps Haltz was with the Order of Azyr?

Then he continued to speak. ‘The realms are better off without your vile kind. It was Khainites who murdered my mother, my father, my sisters. Assassins in the employ of our rivals, they struck without warning, without honour – little more than hired blades.’

Maleneth clucked her tongue. ‘And here, I thought this vendetta was more personal.’

‘Oh, it is.’ Haltz pointed his sword at her, arm trembling with fury. ‘I may not be able to avenge myself on the cowards who took my family, but I can–’

Maleneth’s dagger took the captain in the throat. A shame to finish him so quickly, but Haltz had been so generous limning himself in moonlight that it seemed a pity to waste the opportunity.

Haltz clapped a hand to his neck, dark blood welling between his fingers. He looked up at Maleneth, eyes wide, mouth working, then did a slow, awkward turn before falling face-first upon the sand.

Everyone started shouting. A few mercenaries charged Maleneth. The lucky ones got sharpened steel in their boots; the unlucky ones soon joined their captain upon the ground. Fortunately, most hung back. Although their blades were bared, their postures spoke of warriors near panic.

‘Gather your wounded and go.’ Maleneth flicked a spray of blood in the direction of camp. ‘The dead belong to Khaine.’

Sheepishly, the mercenaries began to collect their groaning colleagues.

Maleneth waved a blade at the dune. ‘And tell your friends on the other side this is over, unless they wish to join in the sacrifice.’

One of the nearer mercenaries paused, confusion evident on her soot-blackened face. ‘There weren’t no one but the eight of us and Captain Haltz.’

Maleneth half turned, realisation blossoming a moment before the first hunched shadow crested the dune. There was a moment of expectant silence, pressed like a preserved moth between panes of glass – dark and delicate.

Then, the night came alive with screams.

Chapter Four

The marauders had once been human, that much was clear, but any resemblance faded as they charged down the dune, hunched like wild beasts.

Moonlight flickered on gold and bronze filigree. It threaded their wiry muscles like corrupted veins, branching across chests and scarred foreheads to form symbols of the Ruinous Powers. Their eyes were liquid silver, their mouths bristling with rusty fangs. At first, Maleneth thought the marauders were lightly armoured: gauntlets, boots, and the occasional bit of plate. But as they tore towards her, she realised the armour was part of them, ragged lines marking where steel met flesh. Some bore clubs and crude axes, but most were unarmed save for gauntlet-like hands, fingers ending in jagged talons.

Backpedalling, she sent a pair of knives spinning towards the nearest marauder. The first glanced off the creature’s shoulder, but the second slipped between the bronze webwork upon its chest. It fell in a spray of sand, several of the others stumbling over their snarling companion.

Maleneth turned and ran, circling wide around the patch she had seeded with caltrops before she glanced back. The marauders were closing quickly.

Any hope Maleneth had of the marauders being slowed by the caltrops died as they swarmed across the moonlit stretch without missing a step. Fortunately, Haltz’s corpse proved of more interest. They descended on the captain like carrion crows, ripping and tearing.

Maleneth was uncomfortably reminded of the ghouls she and Gotrek had faced in the Shyishan underworld of Morbium. The battle there had been a brutal rout, Morbium’s deathly defenders overwhelmed and besieged on all fronts. Maleneth whispered a quick prayer to Khaine that tonight would not see history repeat.

‘Leave the wounded or join them!’ She sprinted past the mercenaries. Some hesitated, but any guilt Maleneth may have felt at abandoning the injured guards was eclipsed by the fact they had been trying to kill her a few moments ago. Shrieks rose through the marauders’ gnashing clatter as a few mercenaries hesitated. Fortunately, most chose to follow Maleneth’s advice.

The marauders charged into the tents. They tore at flesh and fabric, bloodied fangs sparking like fresh kindling. Short swords in hand, Maleneth dodged through the chaos. Two marauders were hunched over a downed drover. There was no hope for the man, but Maleneth paused to slit the marauders’ throats, commending their souls to Khaine with a whispered exaltation.

Something leapt from the shadows of a half-fallen tent. Maleneth spun just in time to turn the tackle into a roll, kicking out to propel her attacker several feet into the air. It landed in a crouch, pupilless eyes like polished coins. The marauder sprang, but Maleneth was already moving.

She ducked beneath the killing claws, dropping to one knee as she drove a short sword up into the marauder’s belly. It was like stabbing chainmail, the network of ruinous filigree resisting her strike. But Maleneth’s blade was no mere sword. Forged by the finest murder-smiths in the Bladed Spire, quenched in the blood of worthy sacrifices, it was dedicated to Khaine, its perfect killing edge proof against all but the most powerful enchantments.

Hot blood splashed down Maleneth’s arm as the marauder passed over her. Using her blade as a makeshift handle, she let the creature’s momentum carry her with it, twisting to land on top as they hit the ground. The marauder bucked, claws slashing for Maleneth’s face. She stabbed her other blade into its side, tip carefully angled to slip between the crisscrossed filigree.

This time, there was no resistance.

She twisted the blade. The marauder gave one last wrenching contortion, then went limp.

Maleneth was up in an eyeblink, already running again before the cruel light faded from her victim’s eyes. Ducking between two canvas pavilions, she slipped a hand to her throat to flick out the locket.

Watch my back, she told Sybelline.

I am not some wayward spite for you to summon at whim. Maleneth could hear the scorn in her mistress’ voice.

True, she replied. You are less.

The amulet pulsed with helpless indignation. Maleneth savoured her mistress’ rage for a moment, before tapping the locket with one blade.

Watch my back, or end up around the neck of some rot-brained cannibal.

There was a moment of seething silence, then her mistress spoke again, words clipped. Two on the right. Coming fast. They have not yet marked your presence.

Maleneth saw to it they never did. Crouching low, she skirted the pavilion to intercept the two marauders. The first died with a dagger in its silvery eye, the second twitched a staccato beat upon the stone as its lifeblood leaked from severed arteries.

Clear. For the moment, her mistress admitted grudgingly.

From all around came the clash of combat. Pistol fire crackled on Maleneth’s left, echoed by Yngvar’s bellowed commands to hold the line. From the sound of it, they had taken refuge upon one of the sledge beetles. For all their fury, the marauders would have a hard time piercing the insect’s heavy chitin, and the scaffolded pavilions were layered to provide defensible buttresses and firing positions.

Maleneth had taken two steps towards safety, when an aggrieved bellow boomed from the direction of the mess tent.

You are not seriously considering going after that lout? Sybelline was not shy in expressing her contempt.

Maleneth spun on her heel, unsure if she was moved by a desire to help Splendid, or simply to spite her erstwhile mistress. Either way, she was making for the mess before Sybelline could harass her further.

The tent was aflame, canvas bright, ropes twisting like burning serpents. Splendid had hacked free of the wreckage, a massive stew pot in one hand, his cutlass in the other. Perhaps a dozen marauders had surrounded the ogor, kept at bay only by Splendid’s wild swings. As Maleneth approached, several charged the ogor, only to reel back as they were showered with boiling stew.

With the marauders’ attention fixed upon Splendid, Maleneth was able to slip through the shadows beyond the burning mess tent. Although her cloak would reek of smoke for weeks, she moved through the billowing clouds rising from the fiery wreckage, eyes squeezed shut, not breathing as she tracked the fight through sound alone.

Fortunately, her foes were more than loud enough.

She darted from the pall of smoke, dropping low to slash the hamstrings of a pair of marauders. As she had hoped, their flailing caught the notice of several nearby. They glanced down, exposing the backs of their necks to Maleneth’s blades.

Exultant prayers spilled silently from her lips as the thrill of glorious murder echoed through Maleneth’s soul. She spun among the marauders, blades transcribing sigil-marked flesh. For one magnificent moment Maleneth became an oracle of blood, prophesying death for all who crossed her path.

Splendid was quick to seize the advantage. Cackling like a war-drunk orruk, the old ogor laid about with his cutlass and cauldron, strength, size and sheer mass achieving similar results to Maleneth’s enchanted blades.

The marauders broke like windswept surf. More than half their number dead, the survivors scuttled away in search of easier prey. Maleneth was about to follow, when Splendid called after her.

‘Might be best to make for the beetles.’ The ogor’s voice came muffled.

Maleneth turned to see Splendid had dropped the cauldron to shove a fistful of something into his mouth. The ogor chewed thoughtfully for a moment. With an almost offended expression, he shook his shaggy head.

‘No good.’ Splendid pulled a length of copper wire from between his teeth. ‘Worse’n Freeguild canister shot. Least you can pick out the metal bits.’

The sheer absurdity of the ogor’s pronouncement pierced the murderous haze that gripped Maleneth.

‘You came for me,’ he continued, looking down at her, one hand on his hip, blood dribbling into his beard. ‘Thought we weren’t mates.’

‘We’re not.’ She turned to hide her irritation.

‘But you came to rescue me.’ Maleneth could hear the grin in Splendid’s voice.

‘I came because Yngvar could use your blade,’ she said. ‘Don’t make me regret it.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ The ogor’s shadow fell across her as he hurried to catch up.

They made for the circle of sledge beetles and the crackle of drakefire.

Easily a hundred blood-mad savages beyond the pavilion. Her mistress’ words came as if through gritted teeth. You could slip by them without this oaf. By Khaine, he breathes like a steam boiler.

Maleneth ignored the jibe, stopping with a quiet hiss. When Splendid glanced her way, she nodded towards a ruined pavilion.

The ogor cocked his head. Although the wreckage hid the marauders from view, Maleneth could hear an exchange of their rough shouts, words punctuated by the tapering sound of gunfire, and the screams of beleaguered defenders.

‘Those fiends will tear us apart,’ Maleneth said.

‘We’re mercenaries.’ Splendid shrugged. ‘Death is part of the job.’

‘I’ve no problem with death,’ she replied. ‘So long as it isn’t mine.’

‘You can scamper if you like,’ Splendid said. ‘Wouldn’t hold it against you, especially after how Haltz treated you.’

‘Haltz is dead,’ Maleneth said.

Splendid cracked his knobby knuckles. ‘So you’re telling me Yngvar is in the market for a new captain?’

Maleneth could only shake her head, not quite believing she was about to follow a grizzled, half-senile ogor into a bloodbath. Still, Khaine had brought her to the Crawling Caravan for a reason. And even Maleneth had to admit she felt better now than she had in months.

‘Come on.’ She nodded towards the clatter of combat. ‘Let us be about it.’

‘Splendid.’ The ogor shouldered his cutlass, striding forward.

Her mistress gave a derisive cough. By the Bloodwrack, you have saddled yourself with another Gotrek.

With a rueful shake of her head, Maleneth followed. As much as she was loath to admit it, her mistress might be correct. Splendid was an ogor, brutal and blunt – just like the Slayer. One did not battle alongside Gotrek so much as around him. Maleneth had grown used to darting around the edges of the Slayer’s wake like a bladed shadow, taking what lives she could while avoiding the axe of her supposed comrade.

She had just begun to steel herself, when the ogor held out a hand, fingers flat, palm perpendicular to the ground.

‘Hide here.’ He nodded towards a loose pile of canvas and rope.

Maleneth’s lip curled. ‘I can fight.’

‘I know you can.’ He flashed her a gap-toothed grin. ‘Counting on it, in fact.’

With a roar, he rounded the ruined pavilion. Although she could not see the marauders, Maleneth heard them react to the ogor’s wild charge. Splendid’s head and shoulders were visible over the wreckage, cutlass flashing.

Escape now, her mistress said. Before that bellowing brute brings the whole horde down on us.

Against her better judgement, Maleneth crouched behind the piled canvas.

Oh to be saddled with such a worthless disciple. Where did I go wrong?

Maleneth could think of many, many examples, but now was not the time to revisit old grievances. Beyond the pavilion, Splendid blundered about like a dying magmadroth, cutlass cleaving wide circles as battle-mad marauders hurled themselves at him. Now, Maleneth could see axes and jagged swords, and soon enough, the fiends who wielded them.

Splendid stumbled past Maleneth’s hiding place, a terrified expression on his bearded face. A dozen marauders followed, baying like hounds as they cut and slashed at the retreating ogor.

Khaine preserve me from such fools, her mistress said. Quickly, flee while their backs are–

Splendid stopped. In a blink, the fearful expression was gone. He glanced towards Maleneth, and winked.

Grin sharp as her knives, Maleneth rose behind the unsuspecting marauders. Gone was the brutish ogor, Splendid’s coarse affect shed casually as a carnival mask. His wild slashes turned suddenly canny, the measured strikes of a veteran duellist. Maleneth would have been taken aback if she had not been so busy killing marauders.

Within moments, they had dispatched the fiends. Panting, Maleneth pulled up short to give the ogor an appraising glance.

Splendid grinned. ‘Not bad for a “blustering lout”, eh?’

Maleneth nodded, discomfited by the realisation that perhaps she had failed to recognise the old ogor’s canniness.

Her mistress gave a contemptuous grunt. A glimmer of low cunning, and you’re ready to name this brute Malerion’s heir.

Hardly. Maleneth slipped the locket beneath her leathers. Looking up at Splendid, she nodded towards the battle. ‘Let us not keep them waiting.’

Together, they rounded the ruined pavilion.

Yngvar and the surviving crew had made a rough circle of the sledge beetles, their armoured shells better protection than a stockade. Maleneth could see scars where marauders had hacked at the chitin. Blood dripped from the savaged scaffolding, spear- and fusil-armed defenders stabbing down at the mass of shrieking fiends. The defenders had placed themselves between the raiders and the barrels of oil lashed to the sledge beetles’ carapaces. A dangerous position, although a necessary one. If the marauders set the oil alight, the explosion would consume most of the caravan.

Maleneth and Splendid’s ambush may have thinned the raiders’ numbers, but it had done little to dull their thirst for blood. She watched a bronze-armed marauder chieftain scramble up the scaffolding, laughing as fusil-shot sparked from her armoured hide. Arms blurring, she tore the throat from a guard, then pitched the dying man over the side, to the delight of her comrades. More marauders swarmed into the breach.

Splendid hit the rear ranks like a battering ram. The ogor’s momentum sent two marauders flying, his cutlass cleaving another from collar to hip.

Letting the horde focus on the ogor, Maleneth slipped around the conflict, sticking to the firelit shadows. It would have been easy to hamstring a double-fistful of marauders, but she left them to Splendid.

A dozen quick strides brought Maleneth to the nearest sledge beetle, and she leapt to catch the scaffolding. A far cry from the small barracks and crew quarters more or less permanently affixed to the smaller sledge beetles, the larger ones were stacked with scores of rectangular frames, metal-floored but with open sides for ease of loading and unloading, they and their contents secured by miles of chain and heavy rope. Although the metal was slick with blood, it was blessedly clear of attackers, allowing Maleneth to ascend unmolested.

She made for the fighting, climbing not for the conflict itself but the steel frame above it. Below, Yngvar and half a dozen guards were holding back the assault, if just barely.

The bronze-armed marauder chieftain seemed a force of nature. Proof against blade and fusil, wherever she struck, a mercenary died. From the corrupt runes sparking on her metallic flesh, Maleneth doubted even her short swords would pierce the woman’s hide. But true assassins counted more weapons than blades. Although the chieftain seemed unencumbered by the weight, all that metal must have been heavy – evidenced by the creak of harness and scaffolding beneath her every step.

Maleneth slipped among the ropes, loosening some, cutting others. She did not weaken the platform upon which Yngvar and the others fought, but the empty one behind the marauders. It hung perhaps twenty feet from the hard stone, used for loading and unloading cargo from the massive beetle.

Once she had weakened the supports to her liking, Maleneth dropped lightly upon the empty platform. Although it shifted beneath her weight, the ropes held.

Drawing in a slow breath, she steadied herself. It was unlikely her daggers could do more than enrage the bronze-armoured chieftain. Fortunately, that was all Maleneth needed.

A dagger glanced from the woman’s scalp, snapping her head around. Another rattled from her cheek. She raised a bronze arm as if to swipe away a bothersome insect, furnace-bright gaze settling on Maleneth.

Smiling her most infuriating smile, Maleneth crooked a finger at the marauder chieftain.

With a brassy roar, she careened across the distance like a runaway wagon. Maleneth waited until the woman was but a few steps away before stepping back off the edge of the platform. Catching a taut rope, she severed it with a quick slash of her blade.

The platform gave way, sending the chieftain and several of her followers plummeting towards the stone below in an avalanche of wreckage.

Maleneth swung over empty space. The momentum of her leap brought her in a wide arc, to alight deftly upon the platform where Yngvar and his guards stared, open-mouthed, eyes wide.

‘Can you spare any of those oil barrels?’ Maleneth nodded at the cargo behind them. ‘I doubt that fall did more than stun those fiends.’

As if to punctuate her words, there came a shriek of tearing metal from below, echoed by the enraged roar of the marauder chief.

Without a word, Yngvar and his guards set to rolling several of the large barrels over the edge of the platform. They hit the piled wreckage with a very satisfying crash, only eclipsed by the whomp of igniting flames as Maleneth snatched up a nearby torch and dropped it over the side.

Fury turned to agonised shrieks. Maleneth could see the chieftain below, her bronzed skin glowing amidst the inferno as she sought to struggle free of the wreckage.

‘Another barrel, if you please,’ Maleneth called over her shoulder.

For once, Yngvar was happy to part with his wares.

Rivulets of molten bronze cut gleaming tracks down the chieftain’s body, the unholy runes etched into her flesh sparking green amidst the fire. Impossibly, she rose from the wreckage, a forge-bright revenant wreathed in hateful flame. The chieftain raised one dripping hand, fingers spread as if to claw her way through the empty air back towards Maleneth. Then, at last, she collapsed, infernal flesh finally giving way to the hungry inferno. Seeing their champion reduced to a puddle of slag, the surviving marauders scuttled back into the darkness, leaving Splendid alone amidst the carnage.

The ogor looked up at Maleneth upon her high perch, and raised his cutlass in a rough salute.

She returned a courtly bow, smiling despite herself.

It took the better part of the night to take stock of the destruction. Although the marauders had been more interested in slaughter than theft, their savage assault had ruined several storage pavilions and a not insignificant portion of the caravan’s cargo. Once Yngvar had posted pickets to ensure they were not taken unawares if the marauders chose to return, he gathered the survivors in the centre of the circle of sledge beetles.

‘How could this happen?’ the duardin raged, pacing back and forth, cheeks red beneath his beard. ‘We post two layers of watch. Two! And these beasts slip into camp without a whisper?’ He aimed a kick at a marauder’s corpse. ‘Where is Captain Haltz?’

Maleneth remained silent as the surviving mercenaries exchanged sheepish glances. Several had been among Haltz’s attempted ambush – no doubt the reason why the night watch had been particularly lax. This increased Maleneth’s estimation of the marauders. They must have been watching the caravan for days, waiting for the right moment to strike.

And Haltz’s petty thirst for vengeance had handed it to them.

After a moment, a woman stepped forward from the knot of guards, head low.

‘Captain Haltz is dead, sir.’

Maleneth waited for her to elaborate, but the woman held her tongue. A wise choice.

‘Good.’ Yngvar shook his head. ‘By Grimnir, if he wasn’t I would wring his neck myself. This loss will set us back years!’ The duardin drew in several long breaths, seeming to collect himself. ‘Half the guards and drivers means double shifts for everyone until we reach Nightcliff.’

The pronouncement was met with bitter acceptance by the remaining crews. It was either that or risk another assault, and they all knew it.

Maleneth cleared her throat. ‘And who will take Haltz’s place?’

‘I saw how you did for their chieftain.’ The duardin fixed her with a level stare. ‘I could use a captain like that.’

‘Actually,’ Maleneth replied, ‘it was Splendid’s idea.’

The ogor did an excellent job of hiding his surprise.

‘That Splendid.’ Yngvar looked in the ogor’s direction.

‘One and the same.’ Hooking both thumbs in his broad leather belt, Splendid beamed down at the duardin.

Yngvar glanced between them as if waiting for someone to clue him in on the joke. When no one spoke he ran a hand through his soot-streaked hair.

‘So be it. Even an ogor couldn’t do a worse job than Haltz.’

Splendid swept off his slouch hat in an exaggerated flourish. ‘I humbly accept, Master Yngvar.’

‘You can humbly get to dividing watch shifts between the survivors.’ Yngvar turned away. ‘I have an investment to save.’

As the duardin stomped away, Splendid ambled over to Maleneth, a bemused expression on his face.

‘You took my side against Haltz.’ She spoke without making eye contact. ‘Now we are even.’

‘Oh, we’re far from even. I won’t forget this…’ The ogor paused, scratched his beard, then frowned. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t think you ever told me your name.’

In fact, Maleneth had not let any member of the Crawling Caravan know her name. At first because she suspected more Order killers lurked among their ranks, and later because Haltz and his cronies had not deserved the knowledge, but now, the situation was different.

‘Call me Maleneth.’ She searched Splendid’s face for any sign of recognition, and was relieved to find none.

With a grin that seemed to involve every tooth in his mouth, the ogor held out a meaty hand.

‘Splendid.’

Chapter Five

They passed through the Shatterpeak Realmgate in a loose column. Although the Crawling Caravan may have recovered physically from their encounter with the desert marauders, several weeks of long nights and double watches had left them looking more like refugees than prosperous merchants – a fact Yngvar had ruthlessly exploited as he bartered with the captain of the Bleaksword regiment tasked with warding the realmgate. One might have thought the duardin was being forced to part with ancestral heirlooms rather than a few drams of Aqua Ghyranis, but eventually the captain allowed them to pass at a reduced tithe – if only to be free of Yngvar’s sharp tongue.

Although the journey had left Maleneth exhausted body and soul, she could not help but feel a flutter of anticipation as they stepped through the realmgate. There was a moment of disorientation, a feeling of displacement deep in the pit of her stomach as if she had fallen from a great height. Then, they were in Ulgu.

Maleneth would have recognised the Realm of Shadow by feel alone. Gone was the arid heat of the desert, replaced by a cool humidity that seemed to slip across Maleneth’s cheeks like a soft caress. They had come out in moorland, the road winding down between low hillocks fringed with sedge and whispergrass. A light fog ghosted the heights, thickening as the path descended deeper into the valley. Shadows roiled within the mist. As if possessed of a life all their own, they twisted and coiled, seeming to beckon observers to come closer, look deeper.

Maleneth paid them no mind. Such phantoms were one of the near-infinite manifestations of the Realm of Shadow. Save for those foolish enough to wander into the mists, the shades had no power to harm.

The breeze shifted, bringing with it the slightest hint of brine. It conjured unwelcome recollections of her time with the Idoneth Deepkin. Flashes of memory, more sense than scene: pale, eyeless shadows; the bite of razored steel; then a deep and crushing darkness, as if Maleneth were trapped beneath the surface of some midnight sea.

Scowling, she pushed aside the tattered memories, insubstantial as the shades that curled within the mist. They held no answers, no understanding, only more confusion. Although it galled Maleneth not to know how or why her distant aelven cousins had deposited her upon that windswept Chamonic shore, she knew there was little point in digging deeper. Some questions were simply not worth pursuing.

Not yet at least.

For the moment, the Deepkin were a distant concern. Khaine had led Maleneth back to Nightcliff. She would seek answers there.

‘So this is Ulgu,’ Splendid said, regarding the mist-shrouded hills with a dubious expression. ‘Bit dreary, isn’t it?’

Maleneth glanced at the ogor. ‘You would prefer more sand?’

‘Brought plenty with me.’ He reached down to tug off one heavy leather boot, then turned it over to empty out a rusty trickle.

Maleneth wrinkled her nose at the display, but said nothing. Splendid’s first few weeks of captaincy had been an experience she would not wish even upon her enemies. Although driven back, the surviving marauders had trailed the Crawling Caravan, picking off lone sentries and setting fires when they could. Once they had doubled the guard, the raids had proven more frustrating than deadly, but they made for many sleepless nights, especially for Captain Splendid.

Although the ogor’s girth remained prodigious, he had taken on a haggard, threadbare look – cheeks hollow, bruised circles beneath his eyes. There was a weariness to his good humour, as if it were a weight to be borne.

‘Captain Splendid!’ Yngvar called from somewhere among the sledge beetles. ‘Gather the guards and dispatch outriders, I want to be beneath the walls of Nightcliff by moonrise.’

The ogor slipped his boot back on with a heavy sigh. ‘Seems a captain’s work is never done.’

Maleneth favoured him with a sly grin. ‘Why do you think I turned the job down?’

Muttering, Splendid ambled off.

After a few minutes of shouting and jostling, the Crawling Caravan trundled down into the valley. This close to Nightcliff the road would be patrolled by Dark Riders, so Maleneth was less concerned about assault. Still, the promise of safety was but another of Ulgu’s illusions. The mists held many perils, and even Khainite wardens could turn deadly if the right opportunity presented itself.

Fortunately, despite its tattered state, it seemed the Crawling Caravan remained too well defended for any nearby raiders to test their luck. Hills gave way to stone and outcrops of jagged slate as they drew closer to the Penumbral Sea. Maleneth began to see crabs and murk scuttlers amidst the rocks, the occasional dark-winged form of a crakegull circling overhead.

It was early evening when they reached the city. As always, the Bladed Spire was the first thing that came into view. Like a barbed lance thrust into the crest of a breaking wave, it seemed to pin the shifting, fog-choked districts. The cliff itself curled up from the pitted basalt like a great obsidian wave threatening to crash down upon the bay below. Darker than the surrounding coast, the foundation was not stone but shade-touched glass, a glittering swell of onyx amidst Ulgu’s ever-present gloom.

Spread down the rear slope of the wavelike cliff, Nightcliff glimmered with pale lights like stars flickering in a clouded sky. Amidst the shadows, Maleneth traced twisting streets. Although the city’s layout was ever-changing, she nonetheless drew strange comfort from the sharp, familiar lines of Khainite architecture.

Here and there she could see the glow of arenas. Although only marginally brighter than the surrounding houses and markets, they glittered like bonfires in the darkness. Beneath the overhang of the great wave, massive stone quays extended into the sea, spread like clutching talons as if to grasp the water itself. Scores of trade ships, merchantmen, and even the occasional corsair reaver bobbed in the dark current, dwarfed by docks large enough to accommodate a Black Ark.

Maleneth drew in a deep breath, feeling as if something had loosened within her chest. After years roaming the Mortal Realms, she was finally in a land she knew, and one that knew her.

Whatever awaited her in Nightcliff, Maleneth was home.

Although the long years had changed them both, Maleneth had no doubt Nightcliff would remember her, although perhaps not fondly. One did not simply stroll away from the murder of a high matriarch. Her sisters, perhaps even the other covens, might still seek revenge. No good could come from Maleneth being recognised. As they approached Nightcliff’s obsidian walls, she took care to find a place deep within the scaffolded shadows atop a sledge beetle, hood drawn, cloak wrapped tight about her. The Witch Aelves warding the city’s main gate did not seem overly concerned by the secrecy. Such concealments were common among Nightcliff’s citizenry. So long as the gate tax was paid and the proper forms respected, Maleneth knew they would not pry into her identity.

Seemingly unsettled by the guards’ sharp smiles and sharper blades, Yngvar paid the requisite fees without his usual fuss, and their procession was directed towards one of the more stable avenues that twisted up towards Nightcliff’s merchant districts.

Apart from the Bladed Spire, the city had a habit of shifting about, strange mists rising from the not-quite-stone to shuffle buildings and occasionally swallow entire neighbourhoods. Although imbued with incredible geomantic power, the great dark wave on which the city was built was not quite solid. Slowly, it seeped through foundation stones, eventually inundating even the most well-constructed buildings. Occupation provided some defence against the constant ebb and flow, but even that was not perfect. Like a windswept dune, Nightcliff was ever in flux, swallowing buildings even as it disgorged others – some centuries, even ages, old.

Although Maleneth had told no one that the city had been her home for many years, it was not long before she was summoned from beetle-back to weather a storm of inquiry, her sharply pointed ears apparently sufficient to convince Yngvar and company that Maleneth was an expert on Nightcliff. She was, of course, but it was irritating for the others to assume familiarity simply because she was a Daughter of Khaine. Still, Maleneth swallowed her temper. There was no need to burn bridges. Depending on how her homecoming played out, Maleneth might very well find herself in need of a dependable means of escape.

The city had changed since Maleneth departed, but she retained more than a passing familiarity with the more stable landmarks – arenas, temples, and sacrificial ziggurats like islands in a windswept sea. Some had shifted a bit, moving up or down the slope, but the constant flow of interest and attention meant they were seldom lost.

‘When the city… changes, what happens to those who disappear?’ Yngvar asked.

‘It never happens suddenly,’ Maleneth replied. ‘The mists are gradual, lapping away at bits of Nightcliff even as they recede from others. Occasionally, folk will remain, either too stupid or stubborn to relocate. Most are lost, but some come back.’

‘Do they speak of their time in the fog?’

‘They do, but the story is never the same. And neither are they.’ Maleneth winced, anticipating the duardin’s next question. ‘We used to question them, but their answers brought only suffering and madness. Now, they are sacrificed to Khaine.’

Yngvar scowled, apparently unsettled by the idea of Nightcliff’s unstable geometries.

‘By the Maw, look at all these aelves.’ Splendid let out a low whistle. ‘A fellow could find quite a meal in this city.’

Maleneth fixed him with a cold stare. Indeed, there were many less-than-reputable establishments within Nightcliff’s walls who could cater to the ogor’s unsavoury tastes, but that did not mean she wished to lead him by the hand.

‘And all here are Khainites?’ Seemingly unconcerned by Splendid’s appetites, Yngvar continued his barrage of questions.

‘They are members of a coven, yes, but that does not mean they are Daughters of Khaine. Most of Nightcliff’s citizens are leathanam – servants, artisans, guards, menials.’ She nodded towards a group of labourers stacking stones under the sharp gaze of a tall Witch Aelf. ‘The Daughters of Khaine do not accept males into our ranks, and not every female is fit for our rituals, but that does not mean we have no place for them.’

‘As slaves.’ Yngvar did not bother to hide his disdain.

‘You speak as if all duardin society were equal.’ Maleneth’s response came quick and sharp. ‘Is the lot of our leathanam any worse than a clanless miner? Or some Kharadron factory drudge?’

Yngvar stiffened. ‘You know nothing of my people.’

‘And you know nothing of mine,’ she replied. ‘So it might be best to keep such judgements to yourself, especially if you expect to do business in a Khainite city.’

Maleneth expected anger. In her experience, duardin tended to be a prickly bunch. But, ever the consummate merchant, Yngvar only laughed.

‘Remind me never to spar with you.’ He turned away, tugging on one of the gilded ringlets of his beard. ‘With blades or words.’

Maleneth did her best to remain unobtrusive while Yngvar went ahead to begin organising the caravan’s place in the wide Crescent Market that girded the city’s Spire District. Even had she known the dispensation of her former sisters, Maleneth would be on her guard. There was something about the city she misliked. Although the architecture was familiar, and it had been some time since Maleneth had seen so many aelven faces, she could not help but feel uneasy.

There was a sharpness to the exchanges, a hungriness in the eyes of passers-by. When someone laughed it always seemed to go on a little too long, faces strained as if humour bled into madness. And yet, Maleneth could not quite dispel the suspicion it was not Nightcliff that had changed, but herself.

Once the beetles had settled down and the pavilions were raised, Maleneth sought out Yngvar for her severance. Although seemingly not surprised by Maleneth’s desire to leave, the duardin appeared regretful as he measured out her pay.

‘This is more than we agreed upon,’ Maleneth said once he had handed over the glimmering vial of Aqua Ghyranis.

‘I added a few extra drops,’ Yngvar said casually. ‘I’ll double it if you would consider staying on.’

‘I am where I need to be,’ Maleneth replied.

The duardin sucked his teeth, fists clenching and unclenching as if he were in physical pain. ‘Fine. Triple.’

She met his eyes. ‘The fact you are willing to offer so much only means you cheated me on our initial contract.’

Yngvar smiled. ‘I did not know your quality, then.’

‘You still don’t.’ Maleneth turned on her heel, striding away before the duardin could embarrass himself further.

She was heading for one of the many branching market alleys when a large shadow fell across her path.

‘When were you planning on telling me?’ Splendid asked.

‘Honestly, I wasn’t.’ Maleneth half turned, working to keep her voice cool, dismissive. ‘I knew you would make things difficult.’

The ogor smiled his most exasperating smile. ‘Because we’re friends?’

‘Because you’re an idiot.’

That got a belly laugh from him.

Drawing her hood tighter, Maleneth glanced around to see if they were being watched. They were, although the onlookers seemed largely bemused by the sight of a gap-toothed, grey-bearded ogor wiping amused tears from his eyes.

‘Now I finally understand your plan.’ He shook his head.

‘What plan?’ she asked, genuinely perplexed.

‘I’ve heard Khainites are treacherous, but you elevate deceit to a fine art.’ He doffed his slouch hat and sketched a ragged bow. ‘Get poor old Splendid promoted to captain of this cursed caravan, then slip off and leave me stranded without even a by-your-leave.’

Maleneth gave an exasperated snort. ‘Do not blame me for your bad decisions.’

‘What about blaming you for my good ones? You did save my life back in Chamon.’ He peered over her shoulder as if trying to parse the shadows beyond. ‘What do you hope to find out there?’

That gave Maleneth pause. Truthfully, she had no idea.

‘Whatever your goal, I hope it gives you more pleasure than this damnable captaincy.’ He shook his head, then paused, regarding her with an expression that seemed almost hopeful.

For a moment, Maleneth considered asking Splendid to come with her. He was a fearsome fighter, and far more clever than his coarse demeanour would indicate. But Maleneth had not rid herself of one brute only to chain herself to another. Although Splendid had proven a far more palatable companion than Gotrek, it did not mean she needed, or even wanted, the old ogor stomping along behind her.

‘Don’t you have duties to attend to?’ She cast a meaningful look back at the caravan.

Splendid’s grin slipped. ‘Suppose I do.’

‘Best be about them,’ she said. ‘Before Yngvar docks your pay.’

‘Can’t be having that, can we?’ The ogor turned away. He took three steps before stopping, half-turned, his hand raised as if he had just recalled something. ‘Maleneth, I…’

Splendid trailed off. The street was empty, Maleneth having used the momentary lull in the ogor’s attention to slip back amongst the alley shadows. Although she knew he would not be able to pick her from the gloom, Maleneth’s neck still tingled as Splendid squinted into the murk.

At last, with a sad shake of his head, he turned back to the caravan. Maleneth watched the ogor go, surprised by the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was not in the habit of enjoying the company of others, but any flicker of regret she felt was quickly doused by knowledge of the perils that lay ahead of her.

It was better this way.

For both of them.

Chapter Six

Maleneth spent the better part of the night adrift. She had considered making for the murder temple that had housed her old coven, but was unsure of the welcome she might receive or even where it was located. Better to get the lie of the land first.

Although she had not told Yngvar the whole truth about Nightcliff’s infamous fogs, she was not concerned about wandering through the haze. So long as Maleneth kept to the more populated areas and did not linger in the mist-choked lower reaches of the city, she had nothing to fear.

One of the dubious advantages of having a citizenry composed largely of Khainites was that Nightcliff became more lively after dark. Maleneth was not the only cloaked figure slipping through the alleys. Most were servants and runners, bearing messages between covens. Those on deadlier missions would not be seen at all. Nightcliff’s political landscape balanced upon a knife’s edge: various covens and noble houses kept one another in check through a system of alliances, rivalries and assassination.

The wider streets buzzed with activity. Workers flowed up from the lower districts to partake of the city’s arenas, taverns, and gambling houses. Maleneth passed several groups, already reeling from a surfeit of wine and blood sports. Snatches of song drifted through the air. Warped by the strange acoustics of the mists, the music would grow overwhelming one moment, only to fade the next.

Where once the temple-arenas had been dominated by great effigies of Khaine, now they boasted statues of Morathi. Maleneth’s inquiries about the change were met with scowls and questioning stares. After a few such encounters she was able to piece together the truth. Although Morathi had long held the title of High Oracle of the Daughters of Khaine, news had crossed the Penumbral Sea that she had declared herself Khaine reborn, an intriguing revelation for all who worshipped the Bloody-Handed God. Although many covens had sworn fealty to Morathi-Khaine, the fractious nature of Khainite politics meant there were always those who doubted the High Oracle.

For her part, Maleneth was unsure. Morathi had long interpreted Khaine’s will, but it was a true leap from high priestess to god. Either way, it was best not to ask too many questions lest Maleneth reveal her ignorance. She had been away from Ulgu far too long to embroil herself in the affairs of divinity; best to focus on more pressing matters, at least for the moment.

In her time with the coven, Maleneth had seldom ventured into the entertainment districts. The place was far livelier than she remembered. Crowds of raucous leathanam roamed the streets, up from the lower districts to spend their meagre pay on the rougher amusements on offer. Here and there, Maleneth marked the occasional Daughter of Khaine, amulets glittering in the perpetual half-light. Even those who travelled without an entourage were given a wide berth by leathanam. Those too drunk or headstrong to defer to the whims of their betters were quickly reminded of their subservience at bladepoint. The lucky ones died quickly.

The reason for the excitement was easy enough to discover. High Gladiatrix Velara had announced an Ascension.

One of Nightcliff’s most hallowed rituals, the Ascension had been practised since the Daughters of Khaine first claimed the city as their own. Held perhaps once a generation, it was part gladiatorial event, part blood sacrifice, and took place in the Bladed Spire itself. A horde of prisoners and aspiring champions flooded the tower in hopes of battling their way past a deadly gauntlet of traps, sorceries, gladiators and beasts. Those few who climbed to the Spire’s apex would face High Gladiatrix Velara herself, winning either wealth and fame, or a glorious death dedicated to Khaine.

Blood sports had never held much interest for Maleneth. While she could not fault the skill or devotion of the gladiatrixes who oversaw Nightcliff’s various arenas, the combats had always seemed a rather crass form of worship. It was a magnificent thing to offer a worthy murder to Khaine. But for all their talk of sport and spectacle, the Sisters of Slaughter reminded Maleneth of Azyrite nobles who spent their days in Hammerhal, only to ride off to manicured country estates and play at being hunters. She had always considered arena killings a bit like hunting captive deer, although she would never tell the gladiatrixes that.

Even so, an Ascension was something she had never witnessed.

Maleneth slipped back into the flow of civilisation, stopping by a market stall to avail herself of a skewer of roasted serpent dusted with savoury spices. The meat was tough, but flavourful. A far more subtle meal than the over-seasoned fare favoured by humans and duardin.

She fell in with a crowd of leathanam dock workers. Throwing an arm around the most inebriated of the bunch, she smoothed over any questions with a round of rough spirits. It was easy enough to match their loose gait and seaside drawl, easier still to join in their griping about long shifts, poor pay, and uncaring overseers.

After an interminable time spent sipping low-grade ebonspyke, they made for one of the larger fighting pits – a close, sweaty affair with a smell somewhere between a sty and an abattoir. Leathanam lined the rough benches, stomping and cheering for the half-starved wretches bleeding on the filthy sand below. There was no artistry, no worship in these deaths – just an endless procession of desperate fools willing to die for a meagre purse and fleeting acclaim. Maleneth was almost ashamed to watch. Still, the crowd called for more, more, more – uncaring that the slaughter below was more mockery than sacrifice.

No wonder Khaine had called her home. If this was what passed for worship in Nightcliff, the city had fallen further than Maleneth had imagined.

In the lull after a particularly brutal dismemberment, Maleneth asked about the Khailebron, only to receive questioning looks from her new companions.

‘Been years since they took an interest in the pits,’ said a one-eyed corsair, his teeth flecked with bits of obsidian from indulging in too much poorly distilled ebonspyke.

‘Khainites are too busy knifing each other in the alleys!’ added an aelf with the scars of a palanquin bearer.

A porter with serpent tattoos twining up his neck raised a sloshing mug of ’spyke. ‘I say let the witches eat their own. Leaves more for the rest of us!’

This set the others into rounds of braying laughter. Maleneth joined them, grinning like a fool even as cold sweat trickled between her shoulder blades.

Blood on the streets? Her mistress’ voice echoed through Maleneth’s churning thoughts. These dock-born fools know nothing of what they speak.

And yet, look. Maleneth turned towards the shameful combat below. This is little more than butchery, better fit for an orruk war chief than the Bloody-Handed God. Were our sisters still in control, do you think they would allow such an insult to stand?

No wonder Velara declared an Ascension, her mistress replied. With the covens at each other’s throats, the promise of a grand sacrifice will keep this low-class filth from running riot.

Maleneth kept her posture loose and her smile languid, even as her thoughts whirled. The relationship between Nightcliff’s Khainites and its leathanam underclass had always been tense. That even lowly dock workers felt emboldened to speak against the covens was a matter of concern.

Obviously, the city foundered without my guidance, her mistress said.

You flatter yourself, crone, Maleneth snapped back, irritated at having to divide her attention. There were several among my sisters who could have easily shouldered the mantle.

Still kissing Xarissa’s boots after all these years? Her mistress’ voice dripped with contempt.

She would have made a better matriarch than you.

Her mistress gave a scornful laugh. Obviously, she did not.

‘What’s the matter, lass? You’re red as a night pyre.’ The one-eyed corsair thumped Maleneth on the back. ‘Spyked the wrong pipe?’

Maleneth feigned a cough, raising her still-full mug of ebonspyke to hide the angry blush in her cheeks. She should not have allowed Sybelline to goad her. With a jagged grin, she closed a fist over the locket, banishing the spirit from her thoughts.

More loose talk followed, punctuated by wild cheers. Her companions’ eyes seemed to shine in the firelight. They leaned forward, fists clenched, lips skinned back from dark-stained teeth as they drank in the brutal displays below. Maleneth was just about to slip off in search of a more worthwhile group, when the serpent-marked porter muttered something about carrying a load past a foreboding murder temple near the Tombs.

Maleneth hid her excitement as he described the familiar parapets and spires of her former coven. She wanted to press the old corsair for more information, but had to wait for another disgraceful fight to conclude. By the time the clip-winged manticore had finished mauling a dozen scrawny outcasts, the one-eyed fool had nearly tipped back over his bench. Head lolling, an inky trail of ebonspyke dribbling down the front of his tunic, he would have nothing more to say this night if he woke up at all. Maleneth would need to visit the Tombs herself.

With a disgusted grimace, Maleneth pushed through the shouting, sweating crowd and back into the relative coolness of the evening air. The streets glimmered with lanterns and banked braziers, scores of seductively clad callers working to funnel passing crowds into their establishments. The entertainments along the main roads were largely tame, meant for outsiders and low-caste menials with light pockets and little taste. There would be more rarefied diversions deeper into the back alleys and mist-wreathed plazas, dangers and delights for those with surplus wealth and a lack of common sense. The mists were not the only way one could disappear in Nightcliff. More than one would-be pleasure seeker had wandered into the snickleways only to awaken in the hold of a Black Ark or upon a sacrificial altar.

The crowds thinned as she moved into less substantial districts. Fog twisted around the tenements and ramshackle towers, a webwork of tiny rivulets flowing into the narrow streets. The ankle-deep mist and uneven cobbles made for treacherous footing. Hands on her blades, she kept to the centre of the twisting roads, wary of the occasional passing shadow. Most would be outcasts or labourers taking advantage of the non-existent rents that came with the mist-shrouded districts.

The dissipation was slow, fog building up like wind-driven sand. It could be weeks, even months before a neighbourhood was fully consumed, and more than one lucky squatter had awoken to find the mists had dispersed, revealing an entirely new swathe of buildings, empty and ownerless. Law and custom granted such boons to the first to stake their claim, but clever owners were quick to sell such windfalls to those with the strength to hold them.

Maleneth kept her distance from the other passers-by, and they from her. The mists held many dangers. She lost sight of the Bladed Spire for a moment, its razored outline hidden by a stretch of terraced houses. Vulture-like, they seemed to hunch over the street, windows dark, open doors yawning like hungry mouths.

Something called her name, its voice garbled but strangely familiar, an echo distorted by time and distance. Maleneth knew better than to answer.

It was never wise to run, but she found her steps quickening nonetheless as she threaded the fog-choked alleys that led down into Nightcliff’s less tangible regions.

The Tombs were not a burial place, not exactly. The majority of Nightcliff’s dead were laid out for the mists, either with great ceremony or stacked like cordwood upon fading streets. It was a clean and efficient method of disposal, although not always permanent. The Tombs drew their name not from the dead, but the jumble of architectural detritus that filled the slope. Broad, sloping domes competed with jagged minarets and stacks of teetering mud-bricks. Buildings cast from a dozen ages awaited in the hazy darkness like flotsam piled high by misty tides.

What paths remained were wild, uneven things, requiring Maleneth to climb as often as she walked. The Tombs were a perilous place, to be sure, but they also offered privacy to those with the wit and courage to navigate the foggy shoals. Several of the more secretive covens made their homes here, murder temples hidden among the ancient buildings.

Using the corsair’s rambling description, Maleneth was able to find the line of arcing obsidian pillars that girded a long, slate-tiled plaza. The stones rose like the talons of some long-dead leviathan, tapered points crooked as if, at any moment, they might close upon Maleneth, dragging her down into the callous stone.

She kept near the jagged pillars. Like pilings driven into the ocean floor, they seemed to provide stability amidst the fog. Passing through the plaza, Maleneth came face to face with a looming statue. She would have recognised it even without the coven sigil upon its cloak, the deadly grace of its stance. The blades in the statue’s stony grip were the same Maleneth now bore. It had been some time since she had seen this face, but the cruel lines had been etched into her memory.

I see they have not forgotten me. Her mistress paused as if considering. Strange, I do not see any statues of you.

Jaw tight, Maleneth swept by the monument. Beyond, the temple gate lay open, heavy iron doors torn from their hinges as if by the hand of some petulant god. The courtyard was empty save for the mist, the galleries above dark and silent.

Sorcerous energies had blackened the stone around the inner gates, the marks of wayward blades scarring columns and beams. Piles of refuse littered the floor. Someone had taken a pick to the frescoes that had once adorned the wide entrance hall, prising rubies and sacrificial bronze from the wall murals.

Amidst the destruction, Maleneth found her sisters. Scattered about the hall like driftwood after a storm, their bones had turned dull grey, their blades and armour weathered as if an age had passed rather than a few scant years.

Kneeling, she retrieved a skull, staring into the empty hollows of its eyes as if they could convey the reason for this slaughter. It seemed unthinkable. Maleneth had left a coven at the height of its power, one that should have risen from the death of its cruel and self-serving mistress to become one of the rulers of Nightcliff. But this was no temple, no sacred hall of murder.

Maleneth had come to the Tombs in search of answers, and found only the dead.

Chapter Seven

Maleneth drifted through the ruins of her former home, feeling half a ghost herself. The temple had been well defended – not only by her sisters, but a deadly gauntlet of duardin-built traps. And yet, as Maleneth traced the flow of battle, it was clear whoever assaulted the temple had either bypassed the defences or been intimately familiar with their deployment.

The Tombs’ ravenous topography had gnawed at the outer cloisters. The initiates’ dormitories were riven with sharp-edged obelisks, thrust up through chambers and halls like the teeth of some deep-sea predator. Nightcliff’s obsidian fundament had bled through the stone. It seeped up through the cracks and joints, clutching at the walls with ebon claws. Eventually, inevitably, the temple would be broken up, sections entombed like flies in amber and dragged down into the churning well of aeons. Already, portions of other buildings were beginning to infiltrate the exterior halls like broken warships forced together by a storm.

Her sisters lay scattered across the cracked tile, evidence of a desperate, running fight towards the temple’s central altar. They had been spared the attentions of both scavengers and rot, left to slowly desiccate upon the cold stone like ancient warrior queens in a forgotten cairn. Although the blood had long since faded, Maleneth could still make out the strikes that had felled her sisters. Limbs had been hacked off, torsos pierced and cut. The wounds were not meant to kill but to inflict suffering, as if they had been slaughtered for sport.

Although the mists had rendered many of the galleries impassable, Maleneth was able to find other paths, memories of the place like a hand upon her back pressing relentlessly forward.

Maleneth threaded the Garden of Knives, where she had spent many long hours training with Xarissa and the other assassins. Now, the walls were cracked, ropes frayed, the spinning blades dull and rusty. Wooden practice dummies were cast about like casualties of war. Maleneth had slain them a thousand, thousand times, and yet somehow this death felt all the more final.

There were dormitories to either side, little more than mist-choked hollows. Beyond were the twisting halls and barriers where Maleneth and the others had perfected stealthy movements – climbing, crawling, sprinting, and standing under the callous eye of the coven’s crones. A profusion of bells and dangling wires glittered in the half-light. Almost all of the snares had been broken, chimes ripped from their moorings to lie upon the dusty stone. Even so, Maleneth found herself threading the obstacles, listening for the telltale ring that would bring the trainers down upon her. There would have been no sound even had the halls been in working order.

Now, the passage was almost laughably easy. Feeling as if her chest had been filled with lead, Maleneth scaled the walls and passed beneath empty murder holes, each decrepit trap a painful reminder of how far her temple had fallen.

Gold and redglass steps circled to either side of a massive statue of Khaine that warded the inner cloisters. It heartened Maleneth to see the Bloody-Handed God still ruled here rather than Morathi. Executioner’s blade in hand, Khaine presided over the temple entrance, no hint of regret or mercy upon his stone features.

Within the temple, shadows reigned. The sconces were bare, the braziers cold. Dim light filtered through the ruby-stained windows high overhead, casting the halls in faded hues, like a painting left too long in the sun. Here, too, she came across the dead. Unlike the initiates and temple stewards, the Khailebron looked to have dealt as much death as they received. Signs of combat were everywhere. Walls scarred by errant blades and shadowed strikes, the muddy brown of old bloodstains splattered across the stone as if by the brush of a mad painter.

Maleneth knelt next to the shrivelled bodies, jaw tight. As with the initiates, they looked to have been slain by blades rather than fang or talon. From the wounds it was clear the attackers had been Khainites, or at least wielded the weapons common to Maleneth’s people. This proved little help, as she had already suspected the slaughter was the work of another coven.

Turning her attentions to the temple itself, Maleneth realised that not only had none of the traps been sprung, but all means of escape had been sealed. As with most Khainite architecture, the murder temple boasted numerous concealed passages. Her sisters would have been well versed in the various tunnels and bolt-holes. From the positions of the bodies, Maleneth could tell many had fallen attempting to open the unmoving doors.

She tried a few herself, and found the cold stone portals equally indifferent.

It seems you were not the only traitor in our ranks. Sybelline’s laughter held no mirth. And to think, all this time, you thought me paranoid.

As I recall, you wished to murder all of our temple’s senior sisters, Maleneth replied.

Sybelline made an irritated noise. I could not be sure who was loyal.

And yet, there they lie. Maleneth nodded towards several brutalised bodies splayed across a nearby temple stair. Faithful to the last.

More than I could say for some. Her mistress gave no ground. How it must burn to know you caused such ruin.

None of this was my doing, Maleneth said coldly.

My apologies. Her mistress gave a soft hum. It must have been someone else who cut down this coven’s matriarch and enslaved her soul in wretched bondage.

Maleneth shook her head. Even now, your capacity for self-deception is astounding. If anything, I saved this coven.

Her mistress snorted. So this is what salvation looks like? Interesting.

Do you not recall the last time we were here? Anger coiled within Maleneth’s words. You bade me kill Xarissa and the others so you could bathe in their blood.

I remember events differently.

Do you? Maleneth did not try to hide her fury. You were raving! When I refused, you named me a traitor and tried to sacrifice me to Khaine. You broke centuries of precedent to summon us to slaughter. It may not have been your hand that wielded the blades that cut my sisters down, but it was your command that brought us here. The Khailebron’s strengths are secrecy and freedom of movement. You robbed us of both.

Her mistress was quiet for a long moment. Normally, such silence would have merely presaged another verbal assault, but when she spoke again in Maleneth’s mind, her voice was soft, uncertain.

Why would I do something so foolish?

Maleneth paused, genuinely surprised. Although the spirit trapped within her locket was a mere shadow, it always seemed to embody her former mistress. They had revisited that horrible night many times, Sybelline unwavering in her belief Maleneth was the traitor. Now it seemed returning to their old temple had at last shaken her convictions. That, or prolonged imprisonment had finally driven her mistress mad.

Perhaps there were answers deeper within the temple. The most skilled Khailebron would have made for the Killing Field, hoping to protect the inner sanctum. But before Maleneth could delve further, a soft scrape drew her attention to a hall up ahead. She ducked into an alcove, blades at the ready. The noise came again, louder. Laboured footfalls – three, perhaps four people carrying something heavy between them.

What emerged into the crimson light had once been men. Now, there was little save bones and the bruised glimmer of necromancy. Pale witchlight glimmered in hollow sockets, every scrap of flesh flensed from bones so white they seemed to gleam in the murk.

The skeletons were attired in breastplates and chain, round shields slung across their backs, blades sheathed at their hips. Strangely, all the equipment looked to be in good repair, a far cry from the mouldering leathers and rust-spotted armour Maleneth had come to expect from the risen dead.

All curiosity fled as she realised they were carrying one of the grand plaques that had once adorned the temple concourse. Although the mists had treated the bronze no more kindly than the bodies of Maleneth’s dead sisters, she could still make out carved reliefs amidst the scabbed verdigris – a scene of glorious murder, Shadowstalkers descending upon a Khornate warlord while the brute battled on, unaware of his imminent demise.

The desecration drew a hissed breath from Maleneth, dark fury flooding her thoughts. She could do nothing to change the doom that had befallen her sisters, but she could prevent their tomb from being violated.

Destroy these miserable vultures.

For once, Maleneth and her mistress were of one mind.

She charged from the alcove like an avenging shade. Four quick steps took her to the edge of the dais, and Maleneth leaped, twisting in the air to land lightly behind the nearest thief. So quick was her strike that the skeleton did not even release its hold upon the bronze. It simply toppled, headless, necromantic energies bleeding back into the ether.

The plaque clattered to the stone as the other scavengers drew their blades. But Maleneth was already among them.

Stepping into the swing of the first skeleton, she lashed out, blade neatly severing the thing’s sword arm just below the elbow. Such a wound would have sent any mortal opponent reeling, but the skeleton simply reached for her with its free hand, seeking to grab Maleneth while its companions brought their blades to bear.

She dodged the undead warrior’s slash and ducked behind it. A swift kick sent the skeleton stumbling into its nearest comrade. Following, Maleneth put all her anger into a stab that pierced the mail below the nearest skeleton’s missing arm. Her second sword split the other warrior’s rictus grin.

Even as their bones rattled to the floor, Maleneth was ducking the third skeleton’s blade. It cut the air above her, close enough to stir her hair. A quick twist put her face to face with the last foe. It had unlimbered its shield, sword held in a low, defensive guard. She slipped to the side, threading her blades around the thing’s shield to quench the witchlight in its hollow eyes.

Boots thudded on stone. Maleneth wheeled to see more undead warriors pour into the hall, shields locked, weapons at the ready.

‘You think this temple some mist-drowned ruin? A corpse for you to pick clean?’ Maleneth clashed her blades together. ‘Not while I draw breath.’

The skeletal phalanx halted.

‘Witchblade?’ A small, thin woman elbowed her way past the skeletal guards.

She was dressed in white, a single line of brass buttons the only thing marring the snowy expanse of her long alchemist’s coat. A face severe as any Sigmarite matron’s regarded Maleneth from above the high-starched collar, her greying hair braided in tight rows and pulled back along the nape of her neck. What little of her skin that showed matched the ebon shadows of the temple, with undertones cold as the woman’s profession. Black boots glimmered in defiance of the temple grime, her gloves showing not a speck of dust.

Isn’t that your old poisoner? Her mistress snorted. Picking through our dead like a grave worm. I thought Gotrek was a mistake, but it seems you have always been a poor judge of character.

Maleneth ignored the jibe.

‘Qholar Qat.’ She crossed her arms, blades resting against her forearms. ‘Of all the people I expected to find in the Tombs, you were among the last.’

‘I am a necromancer.’ Qholar inclined her head towards the motionless skeletons. ‘Tombs are exactly where you should expect to find me.’

‘Reduced to scavenging?’ Maleneth asked. ‘I thought you had standards.’

‘I am afraid those fell along with your temple.’ The necromancer raised a thin eyebrow. ‘They said you were dead. Not that such distinctions matter to one of my profession.’

‘I was… away.’ Maleneth was unsure how much to reveal to Qholar. During her time with the coven, the fastidious little necromancer had been an invaluable source for toxins, tinctures, and assorted alchemical concoctions. Although Maleneth had come to rely on Qholar, by design, their relationship had never grown beyond transactional.

‘What happened here?’ She waved a blade at the wreckage.

‘You should know.’ Qholar regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘You were the one who gave them the temple’s secrets.’

Maleneth’s obvious surprise must have given the necromancer pause, because she leaned forward, studying her face.

‘You knew nothing of this?’

‘No.’ Maleneth shook her head.

‘So you did not murder your mistress?’

‘That, I did,’ Maleneth replied. ‘Although not for the reasons you suspect.’

‘The motives of the living are of no concern to me.’ Qholar waved a gloved hand, dark eyes suddenly canny. ‘Still, I believe you.’

‘You do?’

‘Why lie? Apart from you, I never had many dealings with this coven. I care nothing for its fate.’ The necromancer took a few steps forward, her expression pained as she knelt next to the jumble of armour and broken bones. ‘If anything, the destruction has been a boon to my craft.’

‘You’re the one who has been pillaging my sisters’ bones.’ Maleneth spoke through gritted teeth.

‘Obviously.’ Qholar ran a gloved finger along a broken jawbone. ‘Ruined.’

That was too much for Maleneth. Quick as a swooping hawk, she stepped behind the necromancer, laying a blade across her throat.

The skeletal ranks moved in silent lockstep, fanning out to surround the two with military precision. Before they could strike, Qholar held up a hand, and the undead warriors stilled once more. Now, Maleneth could see the clean lines of aelven bone among the skeletons, narrower jawlines, thinner shoulders, limbs more delicate, but far more deadly.

She bared her teeth. ‘I should kill you for this.’

‘For what?’ Qholar spoke as if her remaining life was not measured in moments. ‘I am not some crypt-robbing wastrel, dragging corpses from the ground to build a worthless, shambling horde. My Deathrattle are carefully cleaned and assembled, their bodies steeped in alchemical unguents for strength, every bone painstakingly etched with necromantic sigils.’

Maleneth increased the pressure on the blade. ‘You defiled my sister’s bodies.’

‘I furnished them with the opportunity to kill again,’ Qholar said, her tone almost reverential. ‘What better gift to those who worship the God of Murder?’

Maleneth frowned. A strange argument, to be sure, but Qholar Qat had always been odd, even among practitioners of her unsavoury craft. Still, it was not the necromancer’s words that swayed Maleneth, but the fact she seemed to genuinely believe them. The Cult of Khaine cared little for corpses; it was the act of killing that truly mattered. Qholar repurposing Maleneth’s slain sisters into her personal guard might be distasteful, but it was not sacrilegious.

Especially if it helped Maleneth avenge them.

‘What else do you know of my coven’s fate?’

‘Little, I am afraid.’ The necromancer attempted a shrug.

‘Even without our defences, it would have taken a small army to overwhelm the coven,’ Maleneth said, considering. Few of the other covens had such strength, perhaps an alliance of several? But if so, why had no one claimed responsibility? Such glorious slaughter would exalt them in Khaine’s eyes.

She turned back to Qholar. ‘You still have not given me a good reason not to kill you.’

‘My guards would cut you down.’

‘Or they might fall to bones the moment I slit your worthless throat.’ Maleneth regarded the circle of skeletal warriors. ‘Either way, you die.’

‘You said you went away for a time.’ At last, anxiety threaded the necromancer’s words. ‘I would be willing to bet whatever amateurs mixed your toxins could not equal my prowess.’ She swallowed, a trickle of blood creeping down Maleneth’s blade. ‘I always kept you well supplied, did I not, Witchblade? My laboratory is nearby. I would be happy to provide you with whatever you desire at a steep discoun–’

The necromancer gave a hiss as Maleneth adjusted her grip.

‘Completely free of charge.’

Maleneth ran her tongue around her mouth, suddenly conscious of the gap where her poisoned tooth had been. Qholar’s concoctions had saved her life on more than one occasion. Whatever lay ahead, it would be better faced with a belt full of poisons.

‘Deal.’ Maleneth withdrew her blade.

‘Such a mess,’ Qholar mumbled. Standing, she brought a finger to the shallow cut on her throat, then scowled down at the crimson splotches dappling her coat. ‘This is why I despise assassins.’

Maleneth ignored her, gesturing towards the assembled undead with her blade. ‘We will discuss this later. Now, take me to your laboratory.’

‘Ruined. Just ruined.’ The necromancer nervously smoothed the wrinkles in her coat, pinching the creases back to razor-sharpness.

‘Qholar.’

Maleneth’s call seemed to break the necromancer from her fugue.

‘Yes, yes, of course, the laboratory.’ Arms outstretched as if afraid of contamination, the necromancer hurried away, skeletons moving from her path.

Although Qholar had never shown a hint of vindictiveness, Maleneth took no chances, following close behind the necromancer, blades ready in case of betrayal.

They left the inner cloister behind, weaving back towards one of the temple’s ancillary armouries.

The necromancer and her thralls had been hard at work. By cannibalising other parts of the temple, Qholar had constructed quite an impressive laboratory. Metal tables brimmed with all manner of bubbling glassware. Several large cauldrons containing alchemical concoctions sat near the wall, a construction of bronze pipes funnelling away the acrid haze. The centre was dominated by a great glass tube with gold fittings top and bottom, its interior filled with bones suspended in a liquid the yellow-green of dying grass.

Two of Qholar’s skeletons stepped into Maleneth’s path. She fell into a fighting crouch, but the necromancer waved a dismissive hand.

‘You are contaminated.’ She threaded the beakers and alembics with practised ease, careful not to touch any. ‘And I need new clothes.’

‘We had a deal,’ Maleneth said.

‘Kill me if you must.’ The necromancer ducked behind a screen made from several bronze plaques. ‘But I will die clean.’

Maleneth waited impatiently as the necromancer made disgusted noises behind the screen, eventually emerging in an outfit identical to the one she had worn before.

‘Better.’ Qholar sighed, flexing gloved fingers as she turned to regard Maleneth. ‘Now, let us get you situated.’

Chapter Eight

Maleneth felt better than she had in years. It was not just the stretch of uninterrupted sleep she had managed to steal, nor the bland – if filling – breakfast of stale bread and dried fruit Qholar had grudgingly provided, nor even the double-fistful of powders, poisons, potions, and assorted alchemical vials concealed about her person. No, Maleneth’s good humour was largely due to the fact that, finally, she knew the reason why Khaine had led her back to Nightcliff.

Vengeance.

She ran her tongue around her now complete teeth, enjoying the feel of hidden death. Maleneth had left the temple in Qholar’s dubious care, departing with a promise of painful death should the necromancer continue to pillage the coven. The Tombs held ruins enough to keep Qholar’s thralls busy for an age.

Maleneth had more pressing matters to attend to, like discovering whoever had destroyed her coven and sacrificing them to Khaine. Unfortunately, it seemed all of Nightcliff believed Maleneth responsible, which complicated matters. The covens did not take betrayal lightly. If Maleneth were discovered, all she could expect was a very painful and very public execution.

A scarf and hood would be sufficient to thwart casual observers. As added protection, Maleneth borrowed some kohl from Qholar’s alchemical stash, using it to darken her eyes and deepen the hollows of her cheeks. It would not fool anyone who knew her well, but most of them were dead.

Hysh’s glow filtered through the morning fog, the Realm of Light’s eye-watering brilliance rendered pale and insipid by the heavy clouds overhead. Even so, it was enough to boil off the worst of the mists, and Maleneth was able to make her way out of the Tombs without issue. She set about searching for information on her coven – a difficult proposition, given her current wanted status. It seemed the covens had lost their grip on the city, Hag Priestesses and high nobility descending into bloody skirmishes, leaving High Gladiatrix Velara to placate the citizenry with sacrifices and blood sports.

Despite spending the majority of her mercenary pay on discreet bribes, Maleneth discovered very little. It had been a quick, overwhelming strike, the temple’s defences bypassed before her sisters could mount a credible defence. Various rumour-mongers laid the slaughter at the feet of other covens, rampaging daemons, the Order of Azyr, even a chamber of rogue Stormcasts. All agreed that it could not have been accomplished so cleanly without a traitor on the inside.

The only one Maleneth would suspect of treachery was imprisoned within her locket. As far as she knew, none of her sisters escaped the slaughter, so it was unlikely they had a hand in the attack. Even so, someone had undermined the coven’s defences. Although she did not yet know who, Maleneth had a good idea where to start looking.

Stromund Goldless had come up in the world. Where once the outcast Kharadron endrineer had peddled his cogwork contraptions from the edge of the Tombs, now he operated a respectable storefront in the Spire District, far from the hungry mists. The streets nearer the Bladed Spire were well patrolled, forcing Maleneth to take a more circuitous route. Still, she arrived at the steps of Stromund’s Panopticon reasonably sure no one had recognised her.

Maleneth ignored the ‘closed’ sign prominently displayed upon the iron-bound entry door. A few moments of delicate work was enough to defeat the impressive lock, longer to ensure the portal was not trapped.

Unbelievably, it was not.

Clearly, Stromund thought himself safe. Smiling, Maleneth vowed to disabuse him of that notion.

Although far larger than his Tombside workshop, the Panopticon was crammed with all manner of mechanical devices. A partially constructed cogwork golem slouched near the entrance, head and chest plate removed, its innards spread across the tile. A maze of tables and shelves filled the shop, every available surface bursting with a profusion of springs, gears, blades, wires, and softly humming bars of aether-gold. That last was a damning indictment of the endrineer. One did not come into such wealth without a patron of means.

‘Tell your mistress the trap mechanisms won’t be ready until tomorrow at the earliest.’ Stromund rounded an overflowing shelf.

The duardin looked much like the last time she had seen him. Good living had filled out the endrineer’s cheeks and put a bit of strain on the leather apron belted about his middle, but his dark hair still looked as if it had never seen a comb, his patchy beard spilling out over an oil-stained work shirt. A pair of green-lensed goggles hung loose around the duardin’s thick neck, seemingly forgotten.

‘Trying to intimidate me into working faster?’ He looked up and down, then gave an irritated wave of his spanner. ‘You can’t rush quality!’

Maleneth lowered her hood. ‘Hello, Stromund.’

The exiled endrineer went pale.

‘I have a few questions I was hoping you could answer.’ With a cold smile, Maleneth stepped forward.

Stromund threw his spanner at her.

Maleneth ducked the spinning hunk of steel, only to leap back as the duardin tipped the shelf towards her. It fell with a clattering crash, sending cogs and springs rolling across the floor.

‘Must you always be so tiresome?’ Maleneth asked. Calmly, she crossed the fallen shelf, but Stromund was already running. Dodging between tables and hanging chains, he dived for a counter at the rear of the workshop. Maleneth was too canny to believe she had cornered the wily endrineer, so it was no surprise when he pulled a lever and disappeared down a concealed trapdoor.

Never could understand why you put your faith in this wretch, Maleneth’s mistress said as she vaulted over the counter to peer down the hole.

Stromund may be a nattering fool, but he knows his craft, Maleneth replied, cautiously reaching down to trigger the obvious spear trap, before descending herself.

Apparently not well enough, came the cold reply. His contraptions failed to protect our coven.

I am not so sure they failed. Maleneth contorted herself to crawl through a nest of envenomed razor wire, careful of the pressure plates that would have sent tons of rock crashing down on her. Beyond a corridor of scything blades, she found Stromund standing behind a thick wall of tempered glass, a grin on his oil-streaked face.

The chamber was made of dressed stone blocks fitted so tightly together that Maleneth could discern neither joint nor mortar. A series of wide-mouthed bronze pipes jutted from the ceiling, no doubt primed to flood the room with something distasteful.

‘Not surprised to see me alive?’ Maleneth tapped the glass with the tip of one sword. ‘Interesting.’

Rather than reply, the duardin pulled a thick rope. With a clatter of gears and hiss of pistons a great slab of bronze sealed off the only other entrance to the chamber, which began to fill with murky water.

Maleneth sighed. ‘Must we do this?’

‘You’re the one chasing me.’

Maleneth shrugged. ‘You ran.’

The grin bled from Stromund’s face as she squelched across the room. Leaping to grab the lip of the bronze slab blocking the door, she swung up among the pipes.

‘What are you doing?’ Stromund’s face left smudges on the glass as he attempted to peer up into the shadows. ‘Witchblade!’

The pipes were heavy enough for her purposes, doubly so as they were filled with water.

Maleneth levered herself up near the ceiling, deploying one of her less-precious daggers to work at the screws that anchored the pipe to the ceiling. Once they were loose, she braced herself against the pipe and pushed. Slowly, the bronze tube creaked sideways, spraying the glass barrier with filthy water.

‘It’s totally sealed, aelf! Not a drop will get through.’ The quaver in Stromund’s voice belied his bravado.

Ignoring him, Maleneth carefully climbed to the end of the pipe and stuffed her wadded cloak into the mouth. Although the process left her filthy and soaked to the skin, eventually she managed to staunch the flow.

Letting go, she dropped into the knee-deep water.

Behind the glass, Stromund frowned. ‘Blocking one pipe will not…’

He trailed off as the bronze gave a threatening creak. Water leaked around the base where Maleneth had loosened the fittings, the spray growing in strength as the pressure built up. Casually, Maleneth waded to the rear of the chamber, well away from the blocked pipe.

Understanding dawned on Stromund’s face. With a cry, the duardin spun to paw at the hanging ropes that doubtless controlled the flow of water.

Too late. A series of sharp pings marked the bolts giving way, as, with a torturous groan, the built-up water pressure sent the heavy bronze pipe rocketing across the chamber. It hit the glass barrier like cannon shot, sending a web of jagged cracks across the surface.

The hip-deep water did the rest. Unable to hold back the flood, the glass gave way, and the water rushed in.

Careful of the floating bits of glass, Maleneth retrieved her much-abused cloak from the mouth of the broken pipe. Throwing it over her shoulders, she stepped over the remains of the wall to fish a sputtering Stromund from the water. He started flailing, so she slammed the duardin against the wall hard enough to rattle even his thick skull.

‘Now, where were we?’

‘Water.’ Stromund made a half-hearted wave at the dangling rope. ‘We’ll drown.’

Careful to keep an eye on the slumped duardin, Maleneth gave the rope an experimental tug. Although the water stopped flowing, the level in the room remained roughly hip-deep.

‘Thought I’d have plenty of time to drain it.’ Stromund gave a wet cough. ‘Care to continue somewhere drier?’

‘Depends on how well you answer my questions.’

‘Then I shall endeavour to be thorough,’ the duardin said, pressing a hand to the spreading bruise on his forehead.

‘You seem to be doing quite well for yourself.’ Maleneth looked meaningfully at the elaborate trap.

Stromund snorted. ‘All this trouble, just to pay me a compliment?’

‘A fine shop in Spireside,’ she said, giving him a mocking frown. ‘What of all that talk about “rejecting material wealth and ripping the corrupt mercantilist system up by its roots”?’

‘Revolution is not cheap.’

‘So the incorruptible anarchist has finally surrendered to the lure of wealth.’

‘And now we’re on to insults.’ Stromund’s lip curled. ‘Come now, Maleneth. You’re better than that.’

She raised a blade, point resting delicately below Stromund’s left eye.

‘You have no idea what I am.’

‘I may be able to hazard a guess.’ The duardin raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Just as I can imagine why you have sought me out.’

‘Well then…’ Maleneth’s sword traced a careful line from one of Stromund’s eyes to the other. ‘Best start talking.’

‘I don’t know who destroyed your coven.’ He swallowed, adding hastily, ‘But I have some theories.’

‘I am not interested in theories,’ Maleneth replied. ‘They say I betrayed my coven.’

‘Did you?’

Maleneth’s disgusted expression must have been answer enough, because Stromund seemed to relax, not an easy feat given Maleneth was still holding a knife to his face.

‘That is a relief,’ he said. ‘Not good for business to have former employers turning coat.’

Amused despite herself, Maleneth removed her dagger. ‘So the wayward rebel has found himself a noble patron?’

Stromund grimaced, then sighed. ‘I suppose I deserve that.’

‘Who is it?’

He sniffed. ‘High Gladiatrix Velara, if you must know.’

Maleneth could not hide her surprise. She had expected some other noble house, desperate for an edge over its rivals.

‘With the covens waging their shadow war, Velara has become Mistress of the Spire,’ Stromund said with a shrug. ‘A year or so ago, she tasked me with preparing obstacles for the Ascension. I have been hard at work ever since.’

‘Am I to assume the High Gladiatrix plucked you from the Tombs out of the goodness of her heart?’

Stromund huffed. ‘Velara recognises quality work when she sees it.’

‘At last, the root of the issue.’ Maleneth fixed him with a stare sharp enough to cut. ‘If your work is so good, why did it fail to protect my temple?’

‘If the attackers were half as relentless as you, I imagine my traps were the least of their concerns.’ He gave a regretful shake of his head. ‘Be reasonable, Maleneth. The Codewrights took everything when they cast me from Barak-Urbaz. When you found me, I was working out of a half-swallowed warehouse, stitching together scrap iron with wire and rusty bolts. You cannot expect masterworks.’

‘I expect not to return to find my coven destroyed, my sisters slaughtered, my temple defiled.’

‘More than fair.’ Stromund sighed. ‘I suppose this is where you cut my throat?’

There was a time when Maleneth would have done just that. Even if he was not a traitor, the wily anarchist had failed her. Worse, he had failed her coven – a slit throat was far too merciful a death. Qholar Qat had furnished her with half a dozen poisons that would turn the duardin into a shrieking ruin. Maleneth could burn out Stromund’s insides, savage his flesh, stretch his every remaining moment into an eternity of agony.

And yet, something stayed her hand.

Perhaps it was a lingering vestige of her time with the Slayer, a flicker of half-remembered principle deep within the recesses of her darkened thoughts. Perhaps Maleneth had changed, become more than a blade to be wielded – first by her coven, then by the Order of Azyr. Perhaps her understanding had broadened in her time away from Nightcliff. Perhaps she had grown.

Or perhaps she still had uses for the exiled Kharadron trapsmith.

‘You said you had theories concerning who destroyed my coven?’

‘Yes, of course!’ Stromund’s relief was visible. ‘My prime suspects would be a coalition between the Blademothers and Melusai’s Brood, as they were your prime rivals. That being said, even the smaller war covens and noble houses would benefit from uprooting the established order.’ He shrugged. ‘Chaos breeds opportunity.’

‘The only thing chaos breeds is more chaos.’ Maleneth’s reply cut the flow of words spilling from the duardin’s lips.

‘Too true.’ He bobbed his head, eager to please now that death was potentially off the table.

‘What about High Gladiatrix Velara?’ Maleneth asked.

‘She has the strength, and was quick to name herself Mistress of the Spire.’ Stromund frowned, considering. ‘But no motive. Aren’t High Gladiatrixes outside the Khainite hierarchy?’

Maleneth gave a slow nod. Gladiatrixes were accorded supreme respect among the Daughters of Khaine, but they held no formal position. Even if Velara slaughtered every matriarch in the city, she could never rule Nightcliff. The covens would not allow it, not to mention the other Khainite cities.

‘Also, the Sisters of Slaughter are not known for subtlety,’ Stromund added.

A fair point. Given the clumsy blood sports Maleneth had witnessed thus far, a carefully orchestrated assault seemed out of character for the High Gladiatrix.

Do not underestimate Velara. Her mistress spoke softly, as if concerned Stromund might overhear. She is a brutal force in the arena, to be sure, but one does not rise to such exalted heights without cunning.

Maleneth nodded. Although there were far more likely suspects, it would not do to turn her back on anyone – former allies included.

Apparently mistaking her nod for agreement, Stromund gave a weak grin. ‘Since we’ve established you’re not going to kill me right away, do you mind if we move this conversation somewhere more comfortable?’

Maleneth stared down at the waterlogged duardin. Stromund might have rejected the Kharadron’s obsession with wealth, but that did not mean he had forgotten how to haggle. Still, he looked in no condition to put up a fight.

Also, she despised wet boots.

‘Go on then.’ She released Stromund, confident he had designed some manner of escape hatch.

Stromund did not disappoint. Moving slowly, he pressed a series of stones, and with a grinding groan, part of the rear wall shifted to reveal a narrow staircase.

‘After you.’ He sketched a low bow.

Maleneth fixed Stromund with her coldest glare.

‘Fair enough,’ he said, and began to ascend, hands in the air.

Maleneth palmed one of Qholar’s more lethal concoctions. If the duardin even twitched wrong, he would be dead in a heartbeat.

The staircase led to another concealed door, which opened into a less cluttered portion of Stromund’s main workshop. Chairs and benches were scattered about, a wide cot in the corner, complete with rumpled sheets and several days’ worth of work shirts balled nearby.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘I was not expecting company.’ The duardin kicked the dirty laundry under the cot, then gestured towards one of the overstuffed chairs. At Maleneth’s dubious glance, he offered a tentative smile. ‘Mind if I sit? That knock against the wall may have shaken something loose.’

Maleneth inspected the cot, which appeared to be unexceptional. ‘As you wish.’

‘If only…’ With a wistful sigh, Stromund settled unto the creaking cot. ‘So.’ He looked up at her. ‘How can I convince you to spare my life?’

Maleneth removed one of her boots. Emptying out the water, she slipped it back on, then repeated the same act with her other boot, letting Stromund sweat a bit.

‘When did the assault occur?’ she asked finally.

‘I can’t pinpoint an exact time.’ He chewed his lip. ‘But based on the damage to the defences, and the weathering on the traps, I would say it happened quite soon after the… removal of your former mistress.’

He speaks as if I were some scrap of unwanted furniture, Sybelline said. Promise me you will cut this fool’s throat when we are done with him.

Quiet. I cannot think with you muttering in my thoughts. Maleneth gave an irritated hiss. Thinking himself the target of her ire, Stromund flinched back, shoulders high as if he were expecting a blow.

Maleneth changed tack. ‘Velara is your mistress now?’

‘I’m under contract with the High Gladiatrix,’ he replied. ‘Not in her direct employ. A small, but vital distinction.’

It was all Maleneth could do not to roll her eyes. Only a Kharadron would obsess over such meaningless distinctions.

‘You build traps for Velara’s games?’

‘I do.’

‘And what would happen if you tried to break this contract?’

The duardin gave his beard a thoughtful tug. ‘She would have me killed, I imagine.’

‘Then Velara is your mistress.’

Although the revelation seemed to pain Stromund, the duardin raised no objection.

‘If the High Gladiatrix is currently Mistress of the Spire, she will have access to information that could lead me to whoever murdered my sisters.’

Stromund squeezed his eyes shut, face tight. ‘And I suppose you would like me to retrieve said information.’

‘I would.’

‘And if I cannot?’

Maleneth walked a dagger over her knuckles. ‘Then you are of no more use to me.’

The duardin ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘So my choices are between a knife in the eye and being tossed into the arena to be ripped apart by beasts?’

‘Not quite.’ Maleneth leaned against the wall, the very picture of deadly nonchalance. ‘Velara may catch you, whereas I will definitely stick a knife in your eye.’

Stromund snorted. ‘And they say Khainites don’t know how to negotiate.’

Maleneth was about to press the duardin further, when a crash drew her attention to the front of the shop. With a crack of splintering wood, the door to the street flew open.

She glanced to Stromund. ‘Expecting visitors?’

Before the duardin could even draw breath to reply, a crossbow bolt hissed through the air a finger’s breadth from Maleneth’s face. She pushed off the wall, body low, one short sword held in a reverse grip as she slipped behind the nearest shelf.

A glance revealed a dozen city guard, crossbows raised as they picked their way across the cluttered workshop.

Maleneth looked to Stromund.

By way of reply, the duardin kicked one of the cot’s support posts. With a rattle of invisible chains the bed fell through yet another hidden trapdoor, taking Stromund along with it.

That trapmaker took you for a fool, her mistress said scornfully. He must have called the guards the moment we arrived. All the rest was simply playing for time.

Jaw tight with mounting anger, Maleneth took a step towards the hole where Stromund had vanished, only to find the trapdoor closed. Just to be sure, she gave the leg an experimental kick, but the wily Kharadron endrineer had sealed the hatch shut behind him. No matter. She had found Stromund once, she could find him again.

Next time, Maleneth would let her blades do the talking.

More bolts thudded into the shelves behind her. She cast about for another means of escape, but Stromund’s workshop was windowless. The only visible door was the one the city guard were currently pouring through.

‘Stand down, traitor!’ came the shouted call, voice sharp with authority.

Maleneth sent a dagger winging towards the fool, and was rewarded with a pained grunt. The fall of their captain sent the other guards scurrying for cover.

Maleneth marked their hiding places, her gaze flicking over the assembled detritus – counting steps, marking clear paths. A squad of city guard was little cause for concern. Unlike their Khainite masters, the leathanam soldiers were poorly trained and equipped, lest they come to question their subservient role. A necessary evil, they were employed for duties too mundane to hold the attention of a Daughter of Khaine. Maleneth had no doubt she could dispose of them. She was less confident about the pack of Witch Aelves who would no doubt be drawn by the commotion. Time was not her ally.

Grinning, Maleneth dropped into a low crouch.

She would have to make this quick.

Chapter Nine

The guards fell with barely a sound, guided to the stone by the careful application of Maleneth’s blades. She helped herself to the smaller one’s helmet, less for protection than to confuse her attackers. Fortunately, it was a light steel affair, open-faced with cut-outs for the ears.

She stalked along a row of half-constructed ballistae, wishing Stromund had had the wherewithal to finish one of them. A well-placed repeater bolt could rattle even the most hardened soldiers.

Four leathanam guards crouched amidst a circle of shield-sized cogs. Two of the cleverer ones had discarded their crossbows to draw blades – one, a long sabre that would be next to useless in the tight confines, the other a pair of daggers.

Maleneth killed the one with daggers first.

A thrown handful of Qholar’s special gravedust sent the guard to his knees, blood spattering the tiles beneath him as the caustic poison dissolved his lungs. One of the crossbow-wielders turned, his weapon coming up.

Maleneth slashed him across the face. Pivoting to flick a spray of blood into the eyes of the guard with the sabre, she delivered an open-palmed slap to the crossbow, causing it to discharge into the chest of his partner. Wheezing, the aelf dropped his own crossbow to clutch at the bolt.

Maleneth dropped into a forward roll. Scooping up the weapon before it hit the ground, she came up into a crouch and twisted to fire it at the sabre-wielding guard before he could finish wiping his companion’s blood from his eyes. It was a bad shot, sinking deep into the aelf’s stomach rather than his heart. Sloppy. With a sour expression, Maleneth threw the crossbow at him and followed it up with a quick lunge. She had better luck with her short sword, and the last guard slipped to the ground with an almost regretful sigh.

Maleneth could hear the others descending on her position. Although they were taking pains to be silent, their breathing was loud as an ogor’s in the tight confines of the workshop. Glancing around, Maleneth spotted a hanging rope, and leapt to catch it, swinging herself atop one of the nearby shelves.

The first to stumble upon the slaughter made the error of hesitating. An envenomed dagger ensured it was the last mistake she would ever make. Two more crossed just below the shelf on which Maleneth crouched. Drawing a coil of wire from her belt, she looped it around the neck of the closest, then dropped off the rear of the shelf, still holding the wire. The sudden jerk combined with Maleneth’s weight was enough to snap the poor fool’s neck.

She released the wire, and dropped a shoulder into the already off-balance shelf. It teetered for a moment, before toppling onto the other guard. Maleneth would have finished him off, except that another fool chose exactly that moment to leap at her, scimitar sweeping down. There was no point in trying to deflect the blade, so Maleneth simply swayed from its path, drawing a neat line across the guard’s wrist with the edge of her short sword. Tendons cut, he gave a furious growl, tossing the scimitar aside to lunge at her.

If the poor fool had hoped to tackle Maleneth to the ground, he was sorely disappointed. Pivoting, she thrust out her hip and caught hold of the guard’s good arm. It was not a perfect toss, but still sufficient to send him crashing into the piled gears. After taking a moment to nip over and stick a knife in the one still struggling beneath the shelf, she returned to offer up the scimitar-wielder to Khaine.

Going completely still, Maleneth listened for movement. The remaining guards were still rattling around in the shop. Their quick, panicked movements stood as testament to Maleneth’s devotion to murder. Stalking through the workshop shadows, she exalted in their terror. Thoughts of their impending demise lightened her step, as if Khaine himself urged her onward.

The way out is clear. Her mistress’ voice dragged her from the warmth of bloody dreams.

I am not finished, Maleneth snarled back.

A handful of city guard? The question came swift as an envenomed blade. Is this all you have to offer our master? Might as well carve your way through the gutters and wine-sinks. Khaine cares nothing for this dross. Nor should we. Not when our true quarry remains at large.

Maleneth could weather her mistress’ worst barbs with little concern. What she truly despised was when Sybelline was right.

With an irritated grunt, Maleneth turned from her prey.

No need to sulk, her mistress said as they slipped soundlessly from Stromund’s workshop. There are six more outside.

Maleneth burst onto the street expecting a barrage of repeater crossbow bolts. She feinted left to throw off their aim, then switched into a back handspring that took her well clear of the open door. A quick roll behind a row of crates left her in a pool of suitably deep shadow. And yet no bolts skittered from the stone, the street beyond empty.

Maleneth could almost hear her mistress scowl. They were here a moment ago–

A flicker of steel in the corner of her eye was Maleneth’s only warning as the dagger slashed down. She twisted to avoid the strike, only to find another blade arcing towards her. Although Maleneth’s temple-honed reflexes allowed her to slap the strike aside with her short swords, her attackers recovered quickly.

The pair were almost invisible in the gloom. Their heavy cloaks seemed to bleed shadow, obscuring their strikes until the last moment. Each wielded a pair of long knives, wickedly barbed, their edges glistening with some undoubtedly vile concoction.

Behind you. A note of genuine concern threaded her mistress’ voice.

Instinctively, Maleneth ducked and pivoted. Several repeater bolts hissed over her head, striking the stone of Stromund’s workshop with a sizzling crack. Where the guards’ missiles had been razored steel, these were vicious things – shafts incised with curses, their fletching crackling with vile energies.

Shadowstalkers. The name made an icy fist of Maleneth’s stomach. Elite assassins, they were temple-trained, just as she was. But where Maleneth preferred to rely on skill, speed, sharp blades and the occasional vial of poison, Shadowstalkers had gone a step beyond, subjecting themselves to powerful blood rites that rendered their bodies wraithlike, allowing them to leap from shadow to shadow with deadly grace. It was common knowledge that to be targeted by even a single Shadowstalker was a death sentence.

And someone had sent six after Maleneth.

It was too much to hope the bolts had struck the pair of dagger-wielding assassins, but they had faded back into the gloom.

Maleneth’s reprieve was short-lived. A barbed lash snaked from a nearby patch of shadows, seeking to entangle her legs. Even as she leapt, another crossbow bolt flickered through the air, forcing her to land awkwardly to avoid being pinioned.

A fifth assassin dropped on her from above.

With her balance unsteady, it was all Maleneth could do to throw herself awkwardly from the path of her thin-bladed sabre. The Shadowstalker landed like a cat, charging before Maleneth could even ready herself. Desperately, Maleneth raised one of her blades, and the slash merely cut her cheek rather than her jugular. It was a small wound, barely a graze, but the entire side of Maleneth’s face went immediately numb.

Lips buzzing, she spun away, only to find the pair of dagger-wielders waiting for her. The assassins attacked in perfect synchronicity. One slashed high, aiming for her eyes, while the other darted low around her side. A wide, looping cut drove them back a pace. Maleneth had just enough time to catch her balance before they came darting back in, joined by the assassin with the sabre.

Ducking another crossbow bolt from one of the Shadowstalkers she had yet to even mark, Maleneth lashed out, feinting and parrying the three assassins’ blades. Again, the barbed whip snaked from a nearby shadow, and Maleneth was forced to skip back to avoid becoming entangled. The three blade-wielders were quick to take advantage of the lull in her defences, pressing her with the brutal efficiency of wolves harrying a cornered lion.

But Maleneth was far from cornered.

She lunged forward, twisting like wind-caught silk as she dived between the sweeping blades. A tight roll and Maleneth was up, moving at a dead sprint, cloak flapping behind her. Normally it would be madness to turn her back upon such foes, but she could not hope to outfight a pack of Shadowstalkers. Fortunately, swords were far from Maleneth’s only weapons.

Still running, she swept her blades across the straps securing several of the vials to her sash. For all her eccentricities, Qholar was meticulous in her craft. Constructed of tempered glass, the vials were padded with leather wrappings to prevent unexpected breakage. Such protections also meant they hit the stones without shattering, their falls concealed by a flourish of Maleneth’s cloak.

The assassins were quick to follow, as Maleneth hoped they would be. Qholar’s glass might have been strong enough to resist an accidental drop, but it shattered easily under the heel of the closest assailant.

Its contents exposed to the air, the vial exploded in a haze of red-tinged mist. The detonation sent the sabre-wielder reeling back. A single surprised breath was enough to scour her lungs. She dropped, choking on blood.

Maleneth allowed herself a small grin. Whether powdered or atomised into the air, Qholar Qat’s gravedust was a relentless toxin. The dagger-wielding assassins sprang back, tumbling away from the expanding cloud as they sought clearer air.

There. By the downspout, her mistress called.

Maleneth spun to see the assassin with the whip emerge from the pooled shadows, arcing the weapon back for another strike. Rather than retreat, she darted towards the Shadowstalker, avoiding the lash. Robbed of the protection of her companions’ blades, the assassin fell back, desperately trying to bring her longer weapon to bear.

Maleneth did not give her the chance.

Dropping low, she hooked a blade around the back of the Shadowstalker’s knee. Tendon cut, the whip-wielder tried to hobble back into the protection of the surrounding shadows, but Maleneth kept moving, allowing the momentum of her charge to carry her behind the falling Shadowstalker. This close, even the assassin’s dark sorceries could do nothing to save her from Maleneth’s blades.

Where are they? Maleneth asked her mistress.

Two coming quick, and the one with the pair of repeater crossbows is atop Stromund’s workshop.

Maleneth frowned. She had thought there were two assassins with bows. What of the last?

She is… watching.

Maleneth cursed. Although she had slain two assassins, she was under no illusions concerning her ability to defeat four more. Already, the pair wielding daggers had skirted the dispersing cloud of mist, spreading out as they sprinted across the intervening distance. As if to accompany their charge, another pair of crossbow bolts came within inches of piercing her lungs. In the end, there was no real choice.

She ran.

Although it had been years since Maleneth had traversed the Spire District, at least she could trust the geography was relatively static. While the rest of Nightcliff tended to shift with the hazy tides, the Bladed Spire remained a vicious constant – preserved by sacrifice and ritual, or merely the grace of Khaine.

Stromund’s workshop was situated near the convergence of several alleys. Maleneth made for the intersection, sheathing one blade to draw another vial of gravedust from her belt. A heartbeat ahead of her pursuers, she threw it to the stone in hopes the caustic cloud would frustrate pursuit. Rather than take one of the alleys, Maleneth leapt to catch a downspout and quickly clambered up onto the roof above. It was sharply canted, the dark-glazed tile making for treacherous footing. Silently, Maleneth slipped over the peak. Sliding down the other side, she sprang from the lip of the roof, landing atop a warehouse across the narrow street. It was too much to hope she had escaped her pursuers, so Maleneth continued on, taking Nightcliff’s upper storeys at a near sprint.

The Spire District was old and compact, which made for a wide variety of building heights and styles. In typical Khainite fashion, most had sharply sloped roofs fitted with spires, bladed outcrops, and even the occasional foreboding statue. Maleneth took advantage of the architectural panoply, dodging around the forest of sharp edges with a skill born from long practice. Although she heard no hint of the Shadowstalkers, Maleneth made sure to change direction and elevation frequently. If a building was occupied, she kept to the roof, otherwise she would slip in through a locked window or squeeze through a rusty vent, doubling back multiple times.

Finally, Maleneth collapsed atop the wide overlook of a crenellated tower. Even exhausted, she made no sound – only sat still as stone, heart racing, legs trembling from exertion.

The Shadowstalkers were waiting for her.

Starlight glimmered on wickedly barbed blades as they fanned out to corner her against the tower roof’s low wall. Maleneth considered leaping over the side, but these were no amateurs. If the assassins had decided to reveal themselves, it meant she was cornered.

It was an effort to draw her blades, even harder to grip them with fingers near-numb from clinging to gutters. Still, she forced herself to her feet, a rictus grin stretching her lips as she slipped into a fighting crouch. Although they had run her to ground, Maleneth Witchblade would not be an easy kill.

But the Shadowstalkers did not advance.

Instead, they simply waited, expressions guarded, weapons ready. Maleneth considered deploying another of Qholar’s more inventive poisons, but knew her slightest move would be met with lethal force. If the Shadowstalkers wished to delay, Maleneth was happy to let them. Every moment wasted allowed her time to catch her breath.

As if by unspoken command, the assassins parted.

The aelf who stepped from the shadows wore tight-fitting leathers, almost indistinguishable from Maleneth’s own. Her long cloak coiled serpent-like around legs and arms tattooed with sorcerous runes, blurring her outline even as it blended seamlessly with the dark fall of her hair. She was masked, a featureless expanse of umbral steel showing only a hint of the face behind it. Although almost double the length, the blade in her hand was an echo of Maleneth’s paired short swords, its length incised with the same hexes, its hilt stamped with the same maker’s mark.

Reaching up, the aelf calmly unhooked her mask, revealing features steeped in bitterness. Despite the new scars, the sunken eyes, the sharp, angry lines around her mouth, the face was as familiar to Maleneth as her own.

‘Xarissa,’ Maleneth breathed. The name seemed pulled from deep within her. ‘How?’

A noose slipped around her neck, drawing tight even as the other Shadowstalkers rushed forward to pin her limbs. Exhausted, surrounded, overmatched, Maleneth realised struggling would gain her nothing. So she simply waited as Xarissa stepped forward, gently resting the tip of her sword against the hollow of Maleneth’s throat.

‘Mistress Velara believed you too much of a coward to show your face in Nightcliff again.’ Xarissa drew in an exultant breath, eyes shining with a mix of delight and pure, unvarnished hate. ‘But I knew Khaine would deliver you back to me.’

Chapter Ten

Even bound and hobbled, with a silk bag drawn tight over her head, Maleneth knew where she was being taken. Situated on top of a confluence of Ulguan realm lines, the Bladed Spire simply felt different than the rest of Nightcliff. She could sense it before they had come within a hundred paces of the ancient tower – a strange, thin feeling, as if Maleneth were a hand spread before a bright flame, translucent flesh revealing the shadow of bones within.

The Spire was the most substantial building in Nightcliff, a towering, razor-edged reminder of Khainite dominance. Countless victims had been sacrificed within its stacked arenas, every stone sanctified by years of blood and blessed murder. So much death gave weight to the Spire. Like ballast in the deepest holds of a Black Ark, it kept the city from sinking into the ever-changing morass that was the Realm of Shadow. And yet, this self-same weight turned the Spire into a metaphysical gyre, as if the tower’s ageless immensity rendered all around it somehow less solid.

They dragged her down to the warren of passages below the Spire. Situated beneath the grand arena that occupied the structure’s lowest floor, the tunnels connected scores of underground chambers, housing everything from gladiator quarters, to cogwork lifts, to cages for captured beasts, to dungeons for the many, many victims that fed Nightcliff’s unending thirst for murder.

It was to these Maleneth was borne, the sack over her head whipped off to reveal a small holding cell. The ropes on her arms and legs were replaced with manacles chained to the lichen-spotted stone, a heavy iron collar locked tight around her throat, forcing her to remain upright.

The Shadowstalkers had already relieved Maleneth of her weapons. Now, under Xarissa’s tight-lipped glare, the jailers removed her belt and sash, the concealed blades in the heels of her boots and the envenomed needles woven into Maleneth’s hair. One particularly odious wretch even rooted around in her mouth with a pair of pliers to extract her false tooth.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, they did not concern themselves with Maleneth’s locket beyond checking it contained no hidden barbs. Her mistress had remained notably silent since Xarissa had revealed herself, no doubt as unsettled as Maleneth at the revelation that one of their coven had survived.

Through it all, Xarissa watched, silent as an executioner. She had replaced her mask, its featureless face seeming to swallow the trickle of lamplight that filled the tiny cell. Once Maleneth had been searched and secured, the Shadowstalkers slipped back into the darkness of the hall, leaving Maleneth alone with Xarissa.

‘Why am I still alive?’ She began with the obvious question.

‘Because I want your end to be very painful, and very public, so that all Nightcliff sees the fate of traitors.’ Xarissa’s mask rendered her voice hollow and ethereal.

Maleneth shifted with a rattle of chains. ‘I knew nothing of our coven’s fate.’

Although Xarissa’s mask hid her expression, her entire posture radiated scorn. ‘So the murder of our mistress was an unfortunate coincidence?’

Maleneth had no easy answer for that. The timing of the assault was damning.

‘I hunted you from Ulgu to Azyr and beyond. Even when you went skulking to those Sigmarite witch hunters I was but a step behind.’ Xarissa’s hands clenched and unclenched. ‘Then, you were simply gone.’

Despite her surprise, Maleneth kept her face a studious blank. Although she often had cause to resent Gotrek’s rambling progress across the Mortal Realms, it had apparently saved her from a knife in the back.

‘Oh, I searched,’ Xarissa continued. ‘For months, years. It drove me to the brink of madness, until I realised I was going about it all wrong. I did not need to seek you out – Nightcliff would call to you, just as it called to me. Khaine would give me vengeance. All I needed to do was wait, prepare, and trust in the Bloody-Handed God.’

Maleneth drew in a slow breath. ‘If you would just let me explain–’

Xarissa hammered a gauntleted fist against the wall, cutting the throat of Maleneth’s justifications. Her former sister regarded her for a long moment.

‘Even after the betrayal, I still held some respect for you. To murder so cleanly, so finally, and then to simply disappear. That, at least, was worthy of admiration.’ Xarissa leaned in, voice brimming with a mixture of hatred and revulsion. ‘But now I see your acts were rooted in cowardice. You would lie to me as if I were some mist-addled drudge?’

‘I speak the truth,’ Maleneth said, hating the plaintive note in her voice. ‘You know me, Xarissa. I am many things, but I am not a coward, and I would never lie to my sister.’

‘All my sisters are dead.’ Xarissa stepped back into the darkness of the hall.

The sound of approaching footfalls gave Maleneth pause. The heavy door at the end of the hall rattled as the bolts were thrown, creaking open to reveal two Spire Guards, halberds braced against their shoulders as they fell in on either side of the corridor, still as ancestor statues.

Servants scuttled forward, lanterns in hand, lighting the way for the half a dozen gladiators who followed. Although they were less disciplined than the Spire Guard, Maleneth had only to glance in their direction to realise the fighters were more dangerous. They wore a mismatched panoply of spiked leather, chain, hides, and garishly lacquered plate. The two humans in front appeared to be twins. Tall and broad-shouldered, with muscles that would put an orruk war chief to shame, they carried heavy spiked mauls.

Behind came two aelven gladiatrixes. The first bore a barbed spear, its point so fine that it seemed almost to part the darkness. Her arms jangled with razored chakrams, gold filigree accenting the warm umber of her skin. Maleneth did not need a second glance to know that those beautiful adornments could turn deadly in the blink of an eye. The second gladiatrix wore armour of overlapping scales and a grinning serpent mask. Although she carried no visible weapons, Maleneth noted the opalescent glimmer at the edges of her armour, each envenomed scale sharp enough to strip flesh with ease.

Maleneth recognised the fifth immediately. High Gladiatrix Velara’s armour had little of the flash of her bodyguards’, an overlapping kit of dull steel and dark leather unembellished save for the High Gladiatrix’s obsidian badge of rank. A barbed whip was coiled at Velara’s side, a panoply of wickedly sharp blades dangling from her battle harness. Scars crisscrossed every bit of exposed skin, her stark features a roadmap of blood and victory. Velara’s pale hair was upswept, the length braided with tiny barbs and strangling wires. She moved with the easy grace of a deep-sea predator, every motion freighted with deadly purpose.

It was not surprising the High Gladiatrix had come to greet her newest guest. Velara and Maleneth’s mistress had been close, once. Two bloody-minded harpies, they had oft marched to war together – the brutality of Velara’s Sisters of Slaughter complemented by Sybelline’s assassins. More than one foe had thought to face Velara in open battle, only to feel the cold bite of an envenomed blade in their exposed back.

What did surprise Maleneth was the final gladiator in Velara’s coterie of professional killers.

Splendid had to duck beneath the stone lintel, turning sideways as he squeezed through the aelf-sized doorway. The ogor had traded his vest for a set of spiked leathers, his broad belly hidden behind a hammered bronze gut plate etched with a leering enamelled face. Someone had made a heroic, if unsuccessful, attempt at plaiting his beard. Perhaps most astonishing, judging by the lack of grime on his face and stains upon his clothes, the ogor appeared to have bathed recently.

He straightened with a grunt, one fist pressed to the small of his back as he stretched and winced before following Velara. They were perhaps halfway down the hall when Splendid seemed to notice Maleneth. If the ogor was shocked by her current predicament, he hid it well. Only a momentary glimmer of concern in his grey eyes gave any hint of recognition. To an outside observer it would seem the two of them were strangers.

Excellent. Maleneth could turn that to her advantage.

Xarissa waited for the High Gladiatrix silently, fists clenched at her side as she bowed to her new mistress.

‘So this is Maleneth Witchblade.’ Velara frowned down at her. ‘I am told you killed two of my Shadowstalkers.’

‘Would have been more.’ Maleneth grinned. ‘But I didn’t want to seem greedy.’

Velara hit her.

It was a quick blow, straight as a sword thrust. There was no forewarning, only sudden and shocking violence. Maleneth’s head rebounded from the stone, lips buzzing, her mouth suddenly full of blood. It took a moment for her eyes to refocus. The human and Khainite gladiators leaned in, eyes sharp, leering in anticipation of more violence. To his credit, Splendid looked distinctly uncomfortable.

For her part, Velara was still once more. She stood, arms crossed, regarding Maleneth as if she had just crawled from one of the sewer grates.

‘If you cannot keep a respectful tongue in your head, I shall remove it,’ the High Gladiatrix said.

‘Might as well have it out now.’ Blood leaked from Maleneth’s split lip, turning her smile into a gore-streaked rictus. ‘Because I have no intention of being respectful.’

The faintest curl of amusement nestled at the corner of Velara’s lips. She glanced to Xarissa. ‘You did not exaggerate this one’s insolence.’

‘If anything, I understated it,’ Xarissa replied coldly. ‘Then again, our old mistress always coddled Maleneth. It left her with an exaggerated idea of her own importance.’

Maleneth shook her head with mock sadness. ‘Now that is just hurtful.’

Xarissa took an angry step forward, a hooked blade appearing in her fist. ‘Oh, I have not even begun to hurt you.’

‘Stop this foolishness.’ Velara held up a hand.

Xarissa slipped her blade back into its sheath, trembling with barely restrained fury.

‘Go on, heel to your mistress’ commands,’ Maleneth said. ‘You always were a good little lapdog.’

She expected to feel the bite of her former sister’s blade, but when Xarissa leaned close, her words came flat as a frozen pond.

‘I will not let you goad me into giving you an easy death.’

Maleneth sniffed. ‘Am I that transparent?’

‘Enough,’ Velara snapped. ‘Step away from my prisoner.’

‘Mistress?’ Xarissa’s confusion was clear. ‘You promised I would–’

‘That was before you lost two of my best killers.’ The High Gladiatrix spoke as if discussing the price of daggers. ‘It was my duardin trapsmith who told us of Maleneth’s return, my guards who kept her busy long enough for you to arrive, and my Shadowstalkers who delivered her here.’

‘I could have brought Witchblade in on my own.’ There was no deference in Xarissa’s bearing as she took a step towards the High Gladiatrix.

Velara did not flinch. ‘But you did not, did you?’

The High Gladiatrix’s guards fanned out across the hall, grinning like jackals. Even Splendid rested a hand on the hilt of his cutlass. Xarissa looked between Velara and her killers, fingers drifting towards her blades. For a moment, Maleneth thought violence would erupt, but, with difficulty, Xarissa seemed to master her anger.

‘No, I did not.’ She bowed her head, the very model of seething subservience. ‘Forgive the outburst, mistress.’

‘Of course.’ At Velara’s nod, her guards broke off, their expressions those of hunting hawks who have seen their prey slip away at the last moment.

‘What will you do with Witchblade, mistress?’ Xarissa asked.

‘Maleneth will join the Ascension.’ The High Gladiatrix smiled for the first time, her dark eyes glittering with cruel pleasure. ‘It will be a coup. Noble and commoner alike will clamour to see such an infamous killer participate in the great games.’

‘You would give this traitor a chance to win her freedom?’ Incredulity bled through Xarissa’s question.

‘Do you think so little of my abilities?’ Velara replied. ‘Witchblade’s death will be a thing of delicious beauty, a perfect offering.’

Hope had briefly kindled in Maleneth’s chest when the High Gladiatrix offered her up to the Ascension. It was rare, but not unknown for a victim to win free. But those hopes were short-lived at the realisation that the High Gladiatrix clearly intended to ensure Maleneth was in no condition to compete. Oh, she would look fine enough, perhaps even ascend to the second or third arena, but it would be a farce, a bit of blood and spectacle to whip the crowds into a frenzy.

Despite the inevitability of Maleneth’s demise, Xarissa did not appear pleased. Although she was too good a follower to question the High Gladiatrix, Maleneth could read displeasure in her former sister’s every movement.

‘My personal guard will ensure Maleneth is properly prepared for the ritual,’ Velara continued, either not noticing Xarissa’s discontent or uncaring of it. ‘I shall see to it you receive a good view of the sacrifice.’ She turned away. ‘Now go. Ascension draws close, and there remains much to do.’

‘As you command, mistress.’ Although Xarissa’s posture was deferential, her tone was anything but. With a stiff bow, she slipped back into the shadows of the hall and was gone.

‘Khailebron.’ Velara shook her head, glancing to Maleneth. ‘Are you all this much trouble?’

‘No,’ Maleneth replied. ‘Most are worse.’

‘Not for long.’ Velara’s smile did not reach her eyes. She clapped her hands, as if something had just sprung to mind. ‘But where are my manners?’ She thrust her chin towards the brawny human twins. ‘See to it our guest receives a proper Spire welcome.’

‘With pleasure.’ They spoke almost in unison.

Velara spun on her heel and strode away. Her guards followed, all but for the two humans, who cracked their knuckles and sneered in a way they probably thought was menacing, but just made them look ridiculous.

Last through the door, Splendid paused to favour Maleneth with a look of apology. She might have mouthed something in reply, but one of the twins chose that exact moment to drive a fist into her gut. After that, Maleneth’s attention was wholly consumed with ensuring the brutes did not break anything vital.

Chapter Eleven

Maleneth hung limp in the chains, wincing as she flexed bruised arms and checked battered ribs for cracks. The pain had faded to a dull ache, all-encompassing, but blessedly free of the sharp agony of broken bones. Although it was far from the worst beating she had ever received, it was certainly one of the more enthusiastic.

The twins had worked her over with the passion of lifelong sadists, seeming to derive almost visceral pleasure from every strike. If not for Velara’s clear desire to toss Maleneth into the games, she was sure the burly twins would have happily shattered every bone in her body. As it was, they confined themselves to a thorough bludgeoning.

Eventually, they reached the limits of their meagre skills, and departed with a laughing promise to deliver another beating later.

Maleneth set about testing her bonds. Although the manacles were bolted rather than locked, there was a bit of play in the chains. The collar made movement difficult, and the chains were not long enough to bring her hands together, but Maleneth was able to shift her limbs enough to begin checking the links for weaknesses.

While it was unlikely she could snap any of the rusty links, she might be able to slip a hand free of the heavy manacles. Then it was just a matter of breaking free of the other bonds. The Shadowstalkers may have robbed Maleneth of weapons and poisons, but her armour contained many reinforcing strips that could be used as a makeshift lever. While it would be a shame to disassemble her fighting leathers, they would be of little use against whatever shameful end Velara had planned.

The High Gladiatrix looks… well. At last, her mistress deigned to speak.

I am so glad the two of you could reconnect, Maleneth snapped back, picking at the seams of her leathers.

You don’t understand, her mistress replied. When I heard of the destruction of our coven, I was worried they had struck our allies as well. It is good to see Velara survived. We rose together, she and I. Just as you and Xarissa did.

Mention of Maleneth’s former sister did little to improve her mood. A lot of good it did me. If not for Velara’s desire to see me savaged in the arena, I would have been under Xarissa’s knives hours ago.

At least one of my disciples still understands loyalty. Her mistress sounded almost wistful. I always knew Xarissa would go far.

Maleneth worked to slip a hand free, jaw tight against the pain. Is that why you ordered me to kill her?

Did I? Genuine confusion tinged her mistress’ words. The seeking rituals revealed doom at the hands of one of my own. I had to strike first. Had to rip up every threat before they put down roots. It was Lord Khaine’s divine will. There was no choice. No other path forward. You see that, do you not? He showed me the tangled, twisting ambitions of my brood. Only blood could wash away such treachery, only slaughter could return us to his perfect design.

Maleneth could only shake her head as the diatribe descended into vague mutterings. It seemed long imprisonment had at last driven Sybelline’s shade mad – that is, if she had not begun that way. With effort, Maleneth wrenched her hand free, flicking a line of crimson across the far wall of the cell. Unfortunately, the other manacle was far more secure. Still, with a hand loose she could begin working at the chains.

She had begun removing one of the steel ribs that strengthened her leathers when the scrape of a heavy boot drew her attention to the hall. Someone was coming, someone large enough they had to stoop to make their way down the stone tunnel. Maleneth’s eyes stung, unaccustomed to even the light of the small lantern held delicately between the approaching figure’s forefinger and thumb.

Maleneth worked the steel rib free, then palmed it. Although unsharpened, properly applied it could gouge an eye or crush a windpipe. Bracing against the wall, Maleneth prepared to give her visitor an unwelcome surprise.

‘How are you holding up?’ Splendid’s craggy face loomed into the tepid circle of lamplight. ‘The beast-minders said they saw Velara’s killers drag someone down into the underpit. Not that that raised my suspicions, mind you. Then they went on about how you were dressed, and I got to thinking, “Now, Splendid, doesn’t that sound a lot like our old friend, Maleneth?”’ The ogor’s grin displayed numerous missing teeth. ‘But it couldn’t be her, could it? No one keen as Maleneth Witchblade would get run down by that lot of cloaked tumblers. Still, can’t say I wasn’t surprised to see you hanging here all trussed up like a Cometsday ham.’

‘The feeling is mutual,’ Maleneth said, glaring at him. ‘How did you get here?’

‘Turns out I wasn’t meant for ordering folk around.’ The old ogor thrust out his chin, then chuckled. ‘And the guard schedules made my eyes go crosswise. Then there was Yngvar. Damned duardin acted as if I were his personal manservant. So I grabbed my back pay and left for more appetising employment, if you know what I mean.’ He favoured Maleneth with an unsubtle wink.

She shook her head, unbelieving. ‘But how did you get here?’

‘Ogors are rare around these parts,’ Splendid replied. ‘Fought a bout in one of the lower arenas, and I guess it turned some important heads. Next thing I know, one of the High Gladiatrix’s people is offering me a snifter of Aqua Ghyranis to knock some heads in the Ascension. How could I refuse?’ The ogor slapped his gut plate. ‘Especially after they promised me a fresh aelf or two before the games. Even offered to let me prepare ’em any way I like. Now isn’t that a sweet deal?’

‘A captivating tale.’ Maleneth rattled her chains. ‘Now get me out of here.’

Splendid’s smile faded. ‘Sorry, can’t do that.’

‘Of course you can.’ Maleneth worked to keep the irritation from her voice. ‘These chains will not stop you. With your help, I can slip out of the Spire before Xarissa and the others know I am gone.’

Splendid nodded. ‘Y’see, there’s the problem.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You can slip out of the Spire.’ Splendid hooked a thumb at his chest. ‘What about me?’

Maleneth wrinkled her nose. Although Splendid had proven himself relatively stealthy for an ogor, he would be no match for the Spire Guard, let alone Xarissa and her hunters. Even if all he did was rip out a chain or two, they would know Splendid had helped her. Stay or flee, it would not go well for the ogor.

Still, she could not help but try.

‘Never knew you were one to abandon a comrade,’ Maleneth said. She had planned her words to wound, but they only seemed to amuse the old ogor.

‘Oh, I’ve abandoned plenty of friends.’ He shook his head, laughing. ‘As have you. Unless I’m reading the situation wrong.’

‘It is more complicated than that.’

‘Complicated or not, Xarissa looked like she wanted to stick a knife in you.’ Splendid shivered. ‘Wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of that one.’

‘Did you just come down here to mock me?’

‘Actually, I’m supposed to be throttling you,’ Splendid replied. ‘Balak and Feth found the wine a bit too much to their liking. I volunteered to give you a clubbing while they slept it off.’ Splendid raised one heavy fist. ‘If we’re done talking, I can always–’

‘No.’ Maleneth gave a wan smile. ‘You know me. Always happy to chat.’

‘Splendid.’ With a groan, the ogor lowered himself to the stones outside Maleneth’s cell. ‘Now why don’t we start at the beginning?’

There was no point in equivocating. Xarissa might not be willing to hear the truth, but it coiled like a serpent in Maleneth’s stomach, fighting to get out. So she told Splendid of Xarissa, of their mistress’ jagged descent into suspicion and deadly paranoia. She spoke of the command that led to Sybelline’s murder, and Maleneth’s self-imposed exile. Anger threaded her words as she recounted the slaughter of her coven and of her responsibility to avenge her fallen sisters.

It felt good to tell her story, even to an ogor. When Maleneth had finished, Splendid blew out a long breath.

‘That’s quite a tale, friend.’ He rocked back, expression thoughtful. ‘If you want my opinion, it seems like this Khaine fellow is playing all sides.’

‘The Lord of Murder does not pick favourites,’ Maleneth replied. ‘He demands only the holy sacrament of blood.’

‘To each their own, I suppose.’ Splendid pushed to his feet, glancing down the hall.

‘What of your god?’ Maleneth asked, irritated by the old ogor’s calm. She had laid bare her vicious, bloody history and all Splendid had to share were vague platitudes.

‘My god?’ He scratched at his patchy beard. ‘Never had much love for that one, even when I ran with Brungus the Butcher’s lads. “Great Beast that Devours the World”? Doesn’t seem like a winning philosophy to me, especially when the world is where I happen to be standing.’ He gave an amused rumble. ‘That, and the fact he’s not keen on sharing. All the choicest bits tossed into the Mawpit, nothing but gristle for old Splendid. Quality over quantity, that’s what I’ve always said. Anyways, Brungus didn’t take kindly to my bellyaching, so I lit out before they tossed me into the pit with the sacrifices.’

Maleneth fought to keep her lip from curling with irritation. She had not asked for the ogor’s life story, but like Splendid’s stomach, his capacity for idle chatter seemed endless. And Maleneth was, unfortunately, a captive audience.

‘Can’t say I miss it, though.’ He blew out a long breath. ‘Life of a Maneater has its appeal. Get to travel the realms, see the sights, eat all manner of interesting folk. Did I ever tell you about the time I ate Stormcast? You’ve got to crack ’em open like a crab, and then there’s the lightning of course. Can’t just dig in or your whole meal is gone in a flash. But if you’re quick about it, you can manage a bite or two. Oh, what a heroic mouthful.’ He rocked back, eyes closed in delight. ‘Piquant and heady, with just the slightest hint of–’

‘The guards will be back soon.’ Perhaps it was her bruises, or the ringing in her ears, but as much as Maleneth needed the ogor’s aid, she could not endure another of his rambling stories.

‘Where did the time go?’ Splendid gave his gut plate a regretful slap. ‘Can’t have them find us chatting like old friends, now can we?’

‘Best scamper back to your new mistress, ogor.’ Maleneth inclined her head towards the heavy door. ‘Leave me to my work.’

‘Now don’t be like that,’ Splendid said. ‘If there was any way to help without ending up gutted, you know I would. But some bones are just too big to swallow.’

‘Wouldn’t want you choking, would we?’ Maleneth rejoined, and went back to working at the manacles. ‘Go on, then. Before someone sees you consorting with traitors.’

‘Best of luck, Witchblade.’ Splendid thumbed the brim of his slouch hat. ‘May Gorkamorka devour your foes.’

Maleneth did not look up. ‘And rob me of the pleasure of killing them myself?’

That got a laugh from him, followed by a nervous glance at the door. ‘I’ll tell the others I gave you a truly legendary drubbing. That should keep them away for a bit.’

‘Go,’ Maleneth repeated.

After only the smallest of hesitations, Splendid trudged off. He might have glanced back, but Maleneth was not watching. Just because she understood the old ogor’s reasoning did not mean she liked it. Anger curled up through her chest, bitter as pyre smoke.

She did not need Splendid. She did not need anyone.

Khaine would provide.

Still, the path ahead seemed daunting. With Xarissa convinced Maleneth was a traitor, and High Gladiatrix Velara hungry for her blood, there were few places to turn. Clearly, it would take more than words to convince her former sister Maleneth was not responsible for the destruction of their coven. What Maleneth needed was evidence, which she could not find chained to a wall in the Bladed Spire’s deepest, dingiest pit.

Slowly, painstakingly, she worked the steel rib into the chain, testing each link. She would have given one of her teeth for a vial of narúna oil, but the metal-corroding concoction was notoriously hard to come by. The only person she knew in Nightcliff who possessed a steady supply was the same traitorous Kharadron who had handed her to Xarissa. Thoughts of Stromund brought an ugly smile to Maleneth’s face. The next time they met, there would be no talk of business, only blood and screams.

She did not know how long she worked at the chain. Hours, certainly. Days, perhaps. There was no way to measure time in the cell. The work was slowed by the Spire Guards, who periodically marched down the hall to ensure Maleneth had not slipped free of her bonds. It was easy to give the appearance of a hopeless prisoner. Even the leathanam sneered at her, gloating that they had seen the great and terrible Maleneth Witchblade brought low. She weathered their jibes, head low, body hanging limp as, quietly, she considered the most interesting ways to kill her jailers.

Maleneth almost cried out as, finally, one of the rustier links gave way with a soft ping. With both hands free, it would be far easier to prise open the heavy iron collar pinning her to the wall, then it was just a matter of removing the ankle chains. Although their halberds were unwieldy, the guards would have other, more suitable blades. No doubt Xarissa had claimed Maleneth’s short swords. Good. Better her than one of Velara’s rabid dogs. Maleneth would have them back soon enough, once she convinced her former sister of the truth.

Now who is deceiving herself? her mistress asked.

‘Silence, crone,’ Maleneth muttered under her breath, teeth gritted as she worked at the collar’s lock. ‘Unless you have something worthwhile to say.’

Someone approaches.

Maleneth palmed her makeshift crowbar, well practised at arranging her bonds so they still appeared functional. Not a moment too soon, it turned out. The sharp bang of the bolt being shot was followed by a creak as the prison door ground open. Maleneth squinted into the sudden brightness. Blinking back stinging tears, she made out the jagged outlines of two Spire Guards.

They were laughing, voices low and harsh like the croak of ravens tussling over an old kill. They were blind to the movement in the darkness behind the door, but through narrowed eyes, Maleneth noted the subtle interplay of light and shadow. Even so, it was a surprise when the first guard’s head rolled from her shoulders, body crumpling like a rotten scaffold.

The second guard whirled, glaive in hand. Maleneth could have told her it was a waste of time. Whoever killed her companion would no longer be there.

She was behind her, of course.

The guard managed a heavy, overhand swipe, blade passing through empty air. As if conjured by her assault, a sword sprouted from her chest in a welter of blood. Her glaive clattered to the stone. A moment later, her corpse followed.

Makeshift blade held in a reverse grip, Maleneth carefully wrapped the length of broken chain around her other hand. This mysterious assailant would find her far more difficult to dispose of than the two Spire Guards.

The flickering lantern light illuminated a cloaked figure. Maleneth raised her head as the killer strode down the hall. Although her cloak and cowl revealed nothing of the individual wearing them, there was only one person it could be.

Grinning, Maleneth spread her arms in a gesture of welcome. ‘Please, do come in, sister.’

Chapter Twelve

Maleneth tightened her grip on the chain, ready to parry Xarissa’s thrust. When her former sister did not enter the cell, Maleneth gave a dismissive toss of her head.

‘I was expecting you sooner.’

‘And I was expecting you to be farther along.’ Her former sister waved her blade at the partially deconstructed chains.

‘The beatings hampered my efforts somewhat.’ Maleneth bared blood-speckled teeth. ‘If you would be so kind as to return in an hour or two, I’ll prepare a warmer welcome.’

By way of reply, Xarissa swept her blade across the chains binding Maleneth’s legs. Maleneth wasted no time wedging the steel rib into the collar lock. With her whole weight behind the makeshift crowbar, it was only moments before the lock popped free with an aggrieved squeal.

‘You surprise me, sister.’ Gaze never leaving Xarissa, Maleneth stepped from the wall, massaging her bruised throat. ‘Disobeying your mistress’ orders.’

‘You murdered my mistress.’ Xarissa’s reply came sharp as a bared blade.

‘She wanted to bathe in your blood,’ Maleneth said. ‘When I refused, she settled for mine.’

‘Spare me your lies.’ Xarissa turned. ‘All that matters now is vengeance for our slaughtered sisters.’

‘On that, we agree.’ Maleneth stepped tentatively from the cell, expecting Xarissa to strike her down. When her former sister started down the corridor, Maleneth followed, pausing to check the Spire Guards’ belt sheaths.

‘Don’t bother.’ Xarissa paused, tossing Maleneth’s short swords over her shoulder.

Maleneth plucked them from the air with a flourish, surprised by how comforted she was by their lethal weight. ‘Why free me?’ She shook her head. ‘And why arm me?’

‘Because you are mine to kill.’ Xarissa’s reply came as a hate-filled hiss. ‘I do not need Velara’s Shadowstalkers, and I will not sit idly by while you win your freedom in her bloody games.’

Maleneth gave a sly grin. ‘So you do respect my skills.’

Although Xarissa’s cowl still hid her face, Maleneth had the distinct impression her former sister had narrowed her eyes.

‘It is I who will offer you to Khaine, no one else.’ Xarissa almost spat the words. ‘But I cannot do that until you escape.’ She gestured towards the door, impatient. ‘So come and meet your end with more dignity than you showed in life.’

‘What’s to stop me from slipping away?’ Maleneth asked. ‘Or slipping a knife into your back?’

‘The guards change in half an hour.’ Xarissa ducked through the open door. ‘Ten minutes after that, all of Nightcliff will be baying for your blood. If Velara’s killers do not run you to ground, the other covens will – if only to curry favour with the Mistress of the Spire. I am your only chance of escape.’

‘But why risk freeing me?’ Maleneth nodded towards the dead guards. ‘A half-hour is more than enough time to cut me to ribbons.’

Xarissa spun on her heel, striding up to glare at Maleneth. ‘Because when I strip those knives from your traitorous hands, I intend to take my time. Every insult, every agony our sisters felt will be visited on you a hundredfold.’

Oh, how delicious. Maleneth could hear the smile in her former mistress’ voice. If you had only obeyed my orders, none of this would have happened.

Maleneth ignored her taunts, considering her situation. If she ran, Xarissa would raise the alarm, and despite her bravado, Maleneth was not confident she could dispose of her former sister without causing enough commotion to bring the guards running. While she had always been the better fighter, Xarissa had undergone the Shadowstalker ritual. Maleneth had witnessed first-hand the lethal abilities of Velara’s assassins; she could only imagine the powers her former sister now possessed.

As much as Maleneth disliked it, Xarissa was right. When the alternative was several more rounds of beatings and an Ascension ritual that was heavily stacked against her, Maleneth had little choice but to take her chances in the false escape.

Her mistress’ throaty cackle filled Maleneth’s thoughts. I will enjoy watching her take you apart.

More than you would enjoy the two of us wreaking bloody vengeance on the fiends who murdered our coven? Maleneth retorted.

That quieted the crone. For the moment, at least.

Maleneth drew in a slow breath, gaze fixed upon her former sister. ‘Lead on.’

They slipped through the dungeon shadows, silent as shades in the clinging gloom. Due to the roughness of her entrance, Maleneth had not been given the opportunity to examine the vast network of corridors that extended below the Bladed Spire’s lowest arena. Now that she did, she reflected that perhaps the sack over her head had been a kindness.

Maleneth was no stranger to suffering. Life in the murder temple was steeped in blood, but there had been a dark elegance to their craft. Every death had represented a holy act – to treat their victims as cattle was to undermine the sacrifice itself. Maleneth had been prepared for more brutal offerings from Velara and her sisters, but what she saw went beyond the realm of mere butchery. Prisoners had been torn to bits, branded and flensed, their broken bodies arranged in a sickening tableau. Here and there, Sisters of Slaughter lounged, eyes glassy, slack smiles on their lips as they went about their gruesome business. The air rang with screams and low moans, punctuated by the sound of all manner of cruel instruments.

‘What has happened here?’ Maleneth whispered as she and Xarissa crouched in one of the darker alcoves, waiting for a patrol to pass.

‘The High Gladiatrix’s tastes are somewhat less refined than we are accustomed to,’ Xarissa said.

‘There is crude, and there is… this.’ Maleneth pointed at a man chained to a baroque constellation of gears that was slowly grinding him to paste.

‘It does not fall to traitors to judge the devotions of their betters.’ Despite the harshness of her reply, Xarissa at least had the courtesy to look discomfited by the tortures.

Velara always had a taste for carnage. It was what I liked most about her. Sybelline spoke softly, as if afraid she might be overheard. But this is senseless. Pain inflicted for its own sake.

Perhaps your old friend sought to follow in your footsteps, Maleneth said.

I was never this bad. Her mistress paused. Was I?

Maleneth let the question hang. Before her mistress could press further, Xarissa jerked her head towards one of the side passages, and they were off again.

Her former sister navigated the warren of tunnels as if she had been born to them. Although Maleneth considered her sense of direction better than most, the labyrinth of cells, barriers and nested corridors seemed specifically designed to confuse and disorientate. A rather useful feature if one did not wish their prisoners wandering free.

They passed the beast pits, where shrieks and roars were echoed by the crack of whips. The smell was strong enough to make Maleneth’s eyes water. Following Xarissa’s lead she drew her scarf over her nose and mouth, which lessened the stench to merely excruciating.

Beyond were the gladiator quarters. Maleneth could hear the clink of glasses, music drowned by bursts of echoing laughter. The air was hazed with smoke, all manner of intoxicants swirling into a heady mélange that set Maleneth’s fingers tingling. She had witnessed similar revels among those who lived and died by the blade. Clearly, Velara had spared no expense and no scruples. Her fighters celebrated with the reckless abandon of those who might not see another night.

The clamour was such that it was easy for Xarissa and Maleneth to slip up a hidden staircase and into the Spire proper. Vast arenas filled the lower levels, each resting upon the one below like a stack of bloody coins. Great pillars rose from the floor. Buttressed with cants of strength and stability, they supported not only the levels above, but rings of seating large enough to house a significant portion of Nightcliff’s population. The lower stands were fitted with stone benches fit only for leathanam and other caste menials. Broad galleries above boasted more opulent seating to house Nightcliff’s less affluent covens, with the private boxes and viewing balconies reserved for the highest in their bloody-minded society.

Even fleeing for her life, the sight conjured a sense of awe and pride in Maleneth’s chest. It was here that the greatest sacrifices were made, the blood of thousands shed in praise to the God of Murder. But where once the arena had been dominated by Khaine’s severe visage, now graven images of Morathi gazed haughtily down from the walls and pillars.

The change made Maleneth uncomfortable.

She and Xarissa skirted the stands, careful to avoid the attentions of the flocks of Khinerai harpies roosting in the eyries above. The Spire was well patrolled: the guards were low-caste warriors, little better than the leathanam servants they bullied and bled, but what they lacked in ability they made up for in numbers, and even infiltrators as skilled as Maleneth and Xarissa could not hope to escape the arena unremarked.

Four leathanam guards blocked the corridor leading to one of the Spire’s supply entrances. Although their crossbows were uncocked, their swords sheathed, if any managed to shout a warning, it would bring the others swarming like ants from a kicked hive. Maleneth wondered if Xarissa would attempt to talk her way past, but her former sister dispensed with conversation, face tight as she flicked a shard of jagged shadow at the nearest guard.

He died not even knowing what had killed him. The others hesitated, eyes wide and confused as their comrade slumped to the polished tile. Xarissa slipped from the shadow of a sputtering brazier. Her umbral blade seemed to swallow blood as well as light, the strikes precise as a calligrapher’s brushstrokes as she dispatched the remaining three guards.

Her bladework has improved. Sybelline spoke with an eagerness bordering on glee.

Maleneth did not bother with a reply, but merely brushed her mistress’ spirit aside like a bothersome insect. Xarissa would turn her blade upon Maleneth soon enough; she could do without Sybelline’s mockery.

They slipped silently from the loading dock, moving quickly before any could notice the slain guards.

Outside, the Spire District blazed with wild life. Packs of Witch Aelves roamed the streets, their laughter cruel as they partook of the many vicious delights the arenas had to offer. Small knots of lesser nobility filled the air with smoke and raucous shouts. Those who could afford it were accompanied by hard-eyed guards in plate and chain, their lesser kin forced to travel in small bands for protection. Such dissolution had once been confined solely to the city’s pleasure districts, but had now grown to suffuse the whole of Nightcliff, cultivated by High Gladiatrix Velara’s desire for blood and circuses.

Maleneth considered running. It would have been easy to lose herself among the crowds – and even easier for Xarissa to raise the alarm. The wild mobs that filled the Spire District seemed balanced upon a vicious edge, one small push enough to tip them from depravity into wanton violence. Better for Maleneth to take her chances later, when they were farther from any who might aid her former sister. The closer they came to the outer walls, the more of a head start Maleneth would have over her pursuers.

And then what? Her mistress’ question came sharp. I thought you intended to avenge our coven.

In time, Maleneth replied, following Xarissa down a narrow alley, the ragged tumult receding behind them. But I must rest, restock, and rethink my plans.

What of Xarissa? Sybelline asked. You will not win free, save by stepping over her cooling corpse.

A distressing point. Maleneth had hoped to wrest some measure of trust from her former sister, but Xarissa’s heart had turned cold as an executioner’s.

‘Come along, traitor.’ Xarissa stepped from a nearby shadow, blade idly tapping Maleneth’s arm. ‘I am eager to begin.’

Maleneth allowed herself to be led from the Spire and down through the shifting morass of Nightcliff’s lower districts. The dull grey of day had bled into evening gloom, a misty gyre of shadows and fog turning the city into a maze of alleys and looming buildings. Although not as unsettled as the Tombs, even the most substantial of Nightcliff’s other neighbourhoods could turn treacherous when the mist seeped from the ground. Wise citizens kept inside on nights like this, doors locked and windows warded by whatever charms they could secure.

If the peril concerned Xarissa, she gave no sign, threading the winding alleys with an urgency born of impatience. Despite her single-mindedness, she was quick to act whenever Maleneth hesitated or paused, umbral blade ready for the slightest threat from her would-be victim.

At last, they found themselves in a wide, columned plaza. Glimmerlamps cast strange bluish shadows upon the basalt, wind and mist conspiring to scatter the light and render the whole in shifting tones, as if the two of them were deep underwater.

Maleneth suppressed an involuntary shudder, unhappy to be reminded of the sea. Nothing good had happened beneath the waves. Just as nothing good was about to happen now.

‘Prepare yourself,’ Xarissa said. She took a few quick steps and turned, throwing back her cowl.

Maleneth flexed her shoulders, falling into a fighting crouch even as she raised her short swords.

‘We do not have to do this.’

‘Oh, we very much do, sister.’ Xarissa spat the last word like a curse. Her smile stretched like an open wound, sharp and painful. ‘Now, shall we see who the better killer is?’

Chapter Thirteen

Xarissa came at Maleneth like a waking nightmare. Blurring in and out of shadow, she struck not from one direction, but several. Only Maleneth’s temple-trained reflexes saved her from being cut to ribbons.

She parried a looping overhand, and responded with an answering slash. Maleneth’s blade found only empty air as Xarissa slipped back into the shifting shadows.

Warned by a prickle on her neck, Maleneth twisted away as Xarissa appeared with a thrust to her back. Dropping low, Maleneth executed a quick pirouette, slashing at Xarissa’s legs, but the Pale Viper was already gone, indistinguishable from the watery darkness that blanketed the plaza.

You need to close the distance, fool, her mistress said, as if that was not exactly what Maleneth had been trying to do. With her mobility and longer blade, she will pick you apart.

Maleneth recognised the wide sweep towards her stomach as a feint, and bent almost double to prevent the backswing from taking off her face. Rather than follow the dodge with an attack, she fell into a forward roll, hoping to reach Xarissa before she could slip away.

Maleneth might as well have tried to catch the mist.

A dagger spun from the pool of gloom behind one of the broad stone columns. Sputtering with vicious hexes, the blade shed ugly purple sparks as Maleneth swayed from its path. Before the first dagger had even clattered to the ground, another tumbled towards her from the other side of the plaza, then another from perhaps twenty paces away.

‘Face me!’ Maleneth shouted, slapping them from the air with contemptuous parries.

‘Now why would I do something as foolish as that?’ Xarissa’s voice seemed to come from all around.

Maleneth bared her teeth, blades cutting the air in helpless rage. She would have traded her prized cloak for a few vials of Qholar’s gravedust. See how well the Pale Viper stalked the shadows while choking on caustic gas.

Behind you.

Her mistress’ warning was all that saved Maleneth from being run through. She spun, blades coming around in a tight arc. This time, they met steel. The glimmer of satisfaction Maleneth felt at finally slapping aside her former sister’s blade was quickly doused as Xarissa aimed a hard kick at her midsection. Maleneth was forced to throw herself back, narrowly parrying the two quick slashes that followed.

Laughing, Xarissa fell back into the embrace of a passing shadow. Maleneth knew better than to follow. She was beginning to understand why the Pale Viper had chosen this particular spot. The shifting, watery glow of the lanterns above painted the plaza with a complex interplay of light and darkness. No sooner had one shadow faded, than another formed elsewhere. Maleneth could no more anticipate their movements than she could mark the waves on a storm-tossed sea.

On your left.

Maleneth was halfway through an intricate series of tumbling dodges when she realised the implication of her mistress’ words.

You can see her?

Not exactly, Sybelline replied. I feel an… energy where she is about to emerge, a sudden lack of absence. She gave a jagged laugh. Perhaps there is some advantage to being a formless spirit.

Ducking another hurled dagger, Maleneth tried putting her back against one of the columns, only to dive away as Xarissa dropped from a patch of shadow farther up the pillar and nearly cut her in half.

Why warn me? I thought you wanted vengeance, Maleneth said as she sprinted across the plaza, angling for a gap between the columns in the hope of slipping free of her former sister’s killing field.

Force of habit? Her mistress gave a thoughtful hum. Or perhaps I see some value in reuniting my two most beloved disciples.

Maleneth snorted. Even bruised, battered, and running for her life she was not so foolish as to believe Sybelline possessed even the barest scrap of affection for her former followers.

Ahead, behind the pillar on the right.

Maleneth veered away a moment before Xarissa lunged from the twisting darkness. She was rewarded with a flash of irritation on her former sister’s face before she dived back into the gloom.

‘Am I not the easy prey you expected?’ Maleneth slipped around a nearby pillar, only to double back as her mistress hissed another warning.

‘How are you doing this?’ Xarissa’s reply came tight with anger.

Maleneth gave the stone pillar a mocking tap with her blade. ‘I may have learned a few things on my journeys.’

‘I should have expected as much from a traitor,’ Xarissa said from somewhere across the plaza. Her next words seemed to come from almost beside Maleneth. ‘How else could you have bypassed our coven’s defences?’

‘I was already fleeing when our sisters were attacked.’ Maleneth leapt above the sweep of her sister’s blade, responding with a pair of stabs that would have gutted Xarissa had she been merely flesh. ‘You should know. Were you not pursuing me?’

‘A ruse to lure me away,’ Xarissa spat back, punctuating her anger with a hurled blade. ‘If you were not among the killers, it was your hand that guided their strike. There can be no other possibility.’

Maleneth skipped back and the dagger flashed harmlessly by. In a heartbeat, Xarissa stepped from the shadow behind her. Catching the thrown blade, she came at Maleneth sword and dagger, each strike echoed by a hiss of mounting frustration. The leaps came quicker – left, right, even a spinning dive from the pooled shadows atop one of the columns. With the help of her mistress, Maleneth was ready for them all.

She allowed herself the slightest of smiles. Less satisfying was the realisation that even should she manage to defeat Xarissa, nothing Maleneth could say would change her sister’s mind.

The thought gave her pause.

Nothing Maleneth could say.

Even with her mistress calling the direction of Xarissa’s attacks, Maleneth could not land any strikes of her own, not without risking a sword in her gut. Exhaustion was already taking its toll. Coupled with the recent beating she had endured at the hands of Velara’s jackals, Maleneth was not sure how much longer she could endure. Her legs burned, her arms trembled, each short sword seeming heavy as an Executioner’s draich. It was only a matter of time until Xarissa’s umbral blade slipped by her guard.

Did you mean what you said about reuniting Xarissa and I? Maleneth seized upon a heartbeat of respite to address her mistress.

Yes, came the curt reply. Although I seem to recall someone calling me a lying crone without a shred of loyalty.

Now is no time for petulance. Maleneth barely avoided the sweep of her former sister’s sword, almost losing an eye to the dagger strike that followed.

Maleneth had never been a gambler – no good assassin was. Luck could not be counted upon, unlike skill, or blades, or a good escape plan. Now, though, she found herself considering trusting the word of someone she had murdered, and who had almost murdered her in turn. True, their hatred had cooled over the years, hardening into something akin to grudging respect, and her mistress seemed to have changed since returning to Nightcliff, becoming someone more like the person Maleneth remembered from her early days at the murder temple – a wise, yet harsh mentor rather than the paranoid crone who had tried to drown her own coven in blood.

But had her mistress truly changed? Or was this yet another ploy?

A spinning handspring put some distance between Maleneth and Xarissa’s hungry blade, but the plaza tiles were slick from the mist and she landed badly, coming down hard on her left leg. Rather than let her much-abused knee take the brunt of the fall, Maleneth tucked into a roll, turning her back to Xarissa for one, terrible moment.

Time seemed to slow. It was as if Maleneth were watching an approaching storm, dark clouds heavy with cruel purpose. Without even a glance, she knew Xarissa’s sword was already darting towards her exposed back. It would not be a killing stroke, but it would mark Maleneth’s death all the same.

She was out of options. Despite Maleneth’s misgivings, she had little choice but to put her life in the hands of the very person who had tried to end it.

Usually, throwing your weapons was tantamount to suicide. While it might surprise an amateur, any foe worth their steel would see the attack coming before the blade left your hand. Although sharp as a courtier’s tongue, Maleneth’s short swords were not balanced for throwing. Even an apprentice assassin would have been able to parry the blades. And Xarissa was far from an apprentice.

Spinning to face her former sister, Maleneth hurled her swords.

Xarissa flicked them from the air without even breaking stride. Her only concession to Maleneth’s foolish gamble was the briefest flicker of surprise that bunched the skin between her brows. The umbral blade came slashing down, but Maleneth was already moving. Quick as they were, Xarissa’s parries of the thrown swords had moved her own blade out of position. The gap was little more than a flicker of sunlight through heavy clouds, but it was enough.

Like a warrior diving beneath a closing portcullis, Maleneth hurled herself at her former sister. The umbral blade skated along her arm, carving leather and flesh with equal ease. There was no pain, not yet, only a tingling chill that spread from fingertip to shoulder.

She slammed into Xarissa, hard enough for the bladed embellishments on her former sister’s armour to draw blood. Even as they fell, the Pale Viper drove a knee into Maleneth’s stomach.

Jaw tight against the pain twisting in her gut, Maleneth slipped the amulet over her head. Xarissa’s dagger glinted from the lacquered ribs that warded her side.

Working numb fingers into her former sister’s hair, she dragged Xarissa’s head forward and looped the amulet chain around it.

Xarissa butted her in the face.

Maleneth reeled back, vision blurred by tears, her nose and lips buzzing. Xarissa kicked her in the knee, then again in her injured shoulder – two punishing blows, heavy as hammer strikes. She sprawled across the blood-slicked stone in a tangle of limbs. Even now, Maleneth fought to regain her balance, but her legs felt weak as old wood. The interlocking curses etched into Xarissa’s umbral blade had spread through Maleneth’s entire side, her joints loose and liquid.

A shadow fell as Xarissa stood over her, pale and panting. Although she had suffered no injury, it was clear that slipping in and out of shadow exacted a brutal toll upon Maleneth’s former sister. Even knowing her death was but heartbeats away, Maleneth could not help but mark the weakness.

Xarissa gripped her umbral blade in two hands. Hexes glimmered evilly as she raised it above her head.

And paused.

Like a hawk sighting new prey, Xarissa cocked her head. The hate bled from her expression, replaced by a mixture of surprise and confusion. She took a halting step back, sword drifting down into a reflexive guard.

‘M-mistress?’

Chapter Fourteen

It was the perfect time to strike. Maleneth’s gaze flicked to one of her short swords, lying but a pace away. With Xarissa distracted, she could snatch up the blade and have it deep in her former sister’s heart before she could react.

And yet, she lay still. Maleneth had killed without conscience or care, murdered man, beast, and everything in between as easily as drawing breath.

This was different.

It mattered not that, until a heartbeat ago, Xarissa’s only goal had been to murder Maleneth as slowly and painfully as possible. The years did not matter. Neither did their old rivalry, or the litany of real and imagined grievances that piled between them like so many rusty blades.

All that mattered was that Xarissa had been Maleneth’s sister. Like it or not, she still was. If that cost Maleneth her life, so be it. As much as Maleneth hated to admit it, she had learned something from her time with Gotrek Gurnisson. Even a long and brutal death was preferable to betraying the trust of one of the few people left that mattered to her.

Xarissa blinked, blade coming up to point at Maleneth. Like a sleeper waking from a doze, her eyes widened, gaze slipping into sharp focus.

‘Is it truly her?’

‘Ask the old crone anything you care to.’ Maleneth’s magnanimous wave was spoiled by a hiss of pain.

Xarissa’s gaze went cloudy again, a smile ghosting across her scarred lips. No doubt their former mistress was expressing exactly what she thought of Maleneth’s invectives.

‘It certainly sounds like her.’ Despite her words, Xarissa’s whole posture spoke of wariness.

‘Seems like the two of you have much to discuss. I shall leave you to it.’ Maleneth levered herself onto her good elbow, only to freeze as Xarissa’s blade twitched towards her face.

‘Stay where you are.’

‘If I lie here any longer, I will not get up.’ Maleneth tried, and failed, to raise her wounded arm. Although the cut was not deep, the curse marks on Xarissa’s umbral blade had already infected her flesh. Like an oily toxin, they stained the veins of Maleneth’s arm an angry purple. With every moment that passed, the shuddering chill spread farther through her body.

With a sour expression, Xarissa muttered a few harsh phrases. Maleneth could not help the sigh of relief that slipped through her lips as the hexes began to unweave. Although it did nothing to salve her myriad cuts and bruises, it was nonetheless pleasant not to be actively dying.

Xarissa’s stern expression did not waver. Neither did her blade. ‘Do not even think of escape,’ she warned.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ With only the slightest of groans, Maleneth settled back onto the cold paving stones, careful not to jostle her shoulder or knee. If past experience was any guide, it would be some time before their mistress finished speaking.

Although she did not know what passed between them, Maleneth could read the tenor of the silent conversation by the emotions that played across her former sister’s face: bitterness, anger, always. But where Xarissa’s former fury had been cold and venomous as a pit viper, now it was tinged with sorrow at the dawning awareness that she had spent the last years of her life blaming the slaughter of her coven on the wrong person.

At least Maleneth hoped that was what Xarissa had realised.

Just as Maleneth’s legs had begun to prickle with discomfort, her former sister drew in a slow breath.

‘It is our mistress.’

‘Well?’ Maleneth asked.

‘Well what?’

‘Do you believe her?’

‘I believe you murdered her, yes,’ Xarissa replied, sword edging closer.

‘Did our beloved mistress happen to explain why I felt it necessary to take her life?’

The tip of Xarissa’s blade hovered before Maleneth’s eyes. She could see the hex marks glistening along its razored edge, enough nested curses to send her screaming into the release of death. Except there would be no relief. Xarissa had promised to make Maleneth suffer. And if her former sister’s ability for torture had improved as much as her bladework, Maleneth would linger for a very, very long time.

A cold bead of sweat trickled between her shoulder blades.

One corner of Xarissa’s mouth quirked. So strange was the expression that, at first, Maleneth was unsure if her former sister was grinning or scowling.

Then, Xarissa laughed.

‘Come on.’ Slipping her sword back into its sheath, she knelt in one smooth motion, hand extended. ‘Can’t very well have you bleeding out before I get the full story.’

‘You heartless hag.’ Maleneth took the proffered hand, shaking her head as Xarissa helped her to her feet. ‘Letting me flounder on the stones like a sacrificial victim.’

Xarissa’s smile was positively feral. ‘At last, my vengeance is complete.’

Maleneth took an unsteady step, unsure if her injured leg would bear her weight. Blessedly, it did. Although Xarissa had added another bruise to Maleneth’s growing collection, it seemed the joint was sound – a relief, given the current state of the rest of her body.

‘What now?’ she asked Xarissa.

Her sister frowned. ‘If Velara learns I aided your escape she will have us both flayed. And you are in no condition to flee.’

Maleneth bristled at the suggestion. ‘Nor would I, even if I were healthy and whole.’

Xarissa arched an eyebrow. ‘She said you had changed.’

‘Not so much I do not hunger to shed the blood of those who have wronged us.’ Anger threaded Maleneth’s reply. ‘I will not abandon you.’

‘Again.’

Maleneth cocked her head, confused.

‘You will not abandon me again.’

Maleneth sniffed. ‘I seem to recall not having much choice in the matter.’

Xarissa’s expression turned strange. Rather than reply, she stooped to pick up one of Maleneth’s short swords, then the other.

‘Whatever happens, you will need these.’ Reversing the blades, she proffered them to her, hilt-first.

Maleneth took them gratefully, comforted by the familiar weight.

‘Come,’ Xarissa said, turning away. She was already half-submerged in shadow before Maleneth could reply.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere safe.’ Glancing over her shoulder, Xarissa looked Maleneth up and down. ‘You need your wounds seen to. And I need answers.’

Maleneth was only happy to oblige.

The Pale Viper’s idea of safe was a dilapidated storeroom buried amidst the wild sprawl of the Gloomwharves. Situated along the inner curve of Nightcliff’s great harbour, the Gloomwharves lingered in perpetual shadow, Hysh’s tepid light blocked by the great overhang of the cliff above. Although this place was just as subject to the  mists as any of the other lower districts, its close proximity to the Penumbral Sea resulted in a strange interplay between hazy shadows and oceanic mirage. Most were harmless – schools of tenebrous fish darting through the alleys, phantom lights, air that rippled like waves. But there were also tales of taverns that shifted with the tides. Entire warehouses emptied overnight, only to fill again the next day with bizarre goods. Phantom sailors wandering the wharves, desperately searching for ships a thousand years lost.

Wealthier captains preferred the Obsidian Crescent to the north and south, which was shielded from Ulgu’s worst eccentricities by a series of geomantic tide breaks. Either by oversight or design, the innermost curve of Nightcliff’s ragged coastline had no such protections. Cheap docking and negligible oversight made it the perfect haven for smugglers, corsairs, thieves, and anyone else who wished to conduct business beyond the sight of Nightcliff’s dubious authorities. Not that much was illegal in the city. There were simply those who would rather risk the dangers of the Gloomwharves than pay the bribes necessary to secure safer and more substantial berths.

The demands of her calling had meant Maleneth seldom ventured down into the salt-rimed shadows, namely because there were few people worth murdering. While her temple did, on occasion, dispatch assassins to deal with corrupt merchants and corsair captains, Maleneth’s talents had marked her for a more rarefied class of victim – too powerful, rich, or well protected to be caught slumming in a district like this.

Still, apart from the Tombs, Nightcliff’s Gloomwharves remained one of the best places to travel anonymously – with the added benefit of not having to worry your safe house might vanish with you inside it.

Xarissa led Maleneth deep into the tangle of creaking walkways. Although the path was far from deserted, those they passed also went about cloaked, skulking through the shadows in seemingly great haste.

At the bottom of a rickety ladder, they found a small rowing boat bobbing below the dock. Quietly, Xarissa took up the oars and rowed them deeper into the darkness beneath the wharf. Wood and stone mingled with barnacle-encrusted stanchions, the remains of a Black Ark that had sunk offshore centuries before Maleneth’s birth. Generations of salvage gangs had made an unenviable living picking over the wreckage. Although it had been decades since any returned with real treasures, the promise of hidden wealth remained tantalising enough to see the wreck claim a double-fistful of fools every year.

A small pier lay nestled far back amidst the scaffolded shadows, nearly invisible in the gloom. It led to a set of uneven stairs, slick with algae. From the waterlogged state of the place, Maleneth assumed the dock was only accessible during low tide. Hopefully, it was not the only means of entrance or escape.

The door was made of pitch-stained oak, fitted tightly into a jamb so as to keep out the damp. Although there was no handle or lock, Xarissa proceeded to touch the door in several places, which set it swinging open with a creak that was only slightly ominous.

‘It is not much, but no one will find us here.’

They were the first words she had spoken since leaving the plaza. Throughout their journey, Xarissa had worn that far-eyed look that meant she was speaking with their erstwhile mistress. Although Maleneth could not help but wonder what was said, she felt it better to remain silent lest she put too much strain on her sister’s newfound trust.

Inside was a small but dry suite of rooms. Stocked with barrels, rope, tarpaulins, and crates of oilskin-wrapped food, it had the look of a provisioning storehouse.

After rummaging around for a bit, Xarissa produced a needle, thread, and a jar of thick, greasy sludge that was either meant for torture or packing poultices.

‘Let me see to your cuts,’ she said.

‘I can manage.’ Maleneth reached for the dressings only to have Xarissa scowl.

‘My hand has always been steadier.’

Maleneth wrinkled her nose. ‘Debatable.’

‘I possess enchantments that can mend flesh… or rend it.’ Xarissa fixed her with a level stare. ‘Your choice.’

With a weary sigh, Maleneth extended her injured arm.

As much as she hated to admit it, Xarissa’s surgery had improved dramatically since their time in the temple. It may have been the tight stitches or the arcane chants her former sister whispered under her breath, or even the foul-smelling muck she slathered across Maleneth’s bruises. But to her surprise, when Xarissa at last sat back, Maleneth found little to take issue with.

In fact, she felt better than she had since coming to Nightcliff.

‘Do not strain yourself.’ Xarissa laid a hand on Maleneth’s uninjured shoulder and gently pressed her back to the pile of blankets. ‘The enchantments work quickly, but they are not instantaneous. You will still need to rest.’

‘How can I lie about while those who murdered our sisters walk free?’ Maleneth said. ‘Their every breath humiliates us.’

‘Do not speak to me of shame.’ Anger threaded Xarissa’s reply. ‘I have borne its weight far longer than you, dear sister.’

Maleneth could muster no argument. Even in the few days since she had learned of the destruction of their coven, anger and indignation had carved a brutal hollow in her thoughts. She could only begin to imagine what it had been like for Xarissa to be alone with all that hate for so long.

‘You must be hungry.’ Xarissa stood to retrieve several packages of oil-packed saltfish and a crust of leathery bread. It was a meal hardly fit for a galley slave, but Maleneth accepted it eagerly.

Xarissa ate more sparingly, her gaze drifting to the middle distance as she silently conversed with their former mistress.

‘Anything worth sharing?’ Maleneth asked around a mouthful of fish. The fact that Xarissa had healed and fed her did not mean her sister completely believed Maleneth. It was uncomfortable to place her fate in the hands of someone she had murdered, but Xarissa had always trusted Sybelline more than was wise.

Xarissa glanced first at her food, then flushed, one hand moving to cover the amulet.

‘Mistress tells me you speak the truth.’ Her lips twisted in a jagged half-smile. ‘She also says to kill you anyway.’

Maleneth shifted to bring her hands closer to the hilts of her blades. ‘And are you still Sybelline’s loyal little disciple?’

A flush crept up Xarissa’s neck. ‘If I kill you, it will be because I wish to, not because some decrepit shade orders your death.’

‘Well?’ Maleneth leaned forward, muscles tense despite her casual demeanour. ‘Do you wish it?’

‘For years I have wanted vengeance against those who destroyed our coven.’ Xarissa fixed her with a level stare, voice flat. ‘Nothing has changed.’

‘So I am to be spared the Pale Viper’s famous blade?’ Maleneth leaned back, grinning at the amulet. ‘Our former mistress must be displeased.’

‘Positively livid.’ With a soft chuckle, Xarissa slipped the amulet over her head and held it out. ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’

Maleneth took it, surprised by the twinge of apprehension that rippled through her. Although her mistress had undoubtedly changed since their return to Nightcliff, it had still been pleasant for Maleneth to have her thoughts to herself, if even for a little while.

Swallowing, she donned the amulet once more, expecting a deluge of invectives. Instead, her mistress was uncharacteristically concise, her voice clipped.

You two have much to discuss.

Maleneth looked to Xarissa. ‘What did she tell you?’

‘A bit about your time with the Order of Azyr, and your travels with the duardin.’

‘Dwarf.’

Xarissa frowned. ‘What?’

‘Anyone who made the mistake of calling Gotrek “duardin” was like as not to receive a broken jaw for their presumption.’ A smile ghosted across Maleneth’s lips. ‘Honestly, I never really understood the difference.’

‘What was he like, this Slayer?’ Xarissa asked.

‘Like a drunken avalanche – fierce, unstoppable, unwavering even in the darkest times.’ Maleneth sniffed. ‘But what does that matter? Gotrek went his way, I went mine. And we are both better off for it.’

‘Mistress spoke of battles with beasts, and mordants, and gitz, not to mention a terrible struggle with our underwater kin. How is it they gave you your freedom?’

‘I cannot say, but I do know my freedom was not a gift. My memories have mostly returned, but those near the end remain unreliable. All I know is that I should have died in the Dromlech enclave.’ Maleneth suppressed a shudder, suddenly aware of the cold waves lapping at the dock below the storehouse door. ‘Perhaps I did.’

Silence stretched between them, vast as the gulf of years since their last encounter. Maleneth winced, eager to change the subject.

‘Enough of my travels.’ She shook her head. ‘I expected to find Nightcliff changed, but it feels different, strange. Even the temples are not the same.’

Xarissa looked away, expression guarded. ‘I do not involve myself in the affairs of divinity.’

‘And yet they affect us all,’ Maleneth said. ‘I have been away a long time, but not that long. There are new statues, new rituals, new creeds, a new god. Surely you must have some opinion?’

Xarissa’s tone remained flat. ‘Mistress Velara supports Morathi-Khaine.’

Maleneth stood. ‘Damn Velara, what do you think, sister?’

Frowning, Xarissa crossed her arms across her chest. ‘I do not know what to think. All I know is that Morathi-Khaine has been rooting out all opposition among the covens.’

‘Hardly the act of someone secure in her godhood,’ Maleneth said.

‘And what does that matter to the likes of us? Khaine or not, Morathi is not the one who destroyed our coven.’ Xarissa turned on her, voice suddenly sharp. ‘Unless you are privy to information I am not.’

Maleneth worked her tongue across her teeth. She could well understand Xarissa’s frustration. Their sisters lay dead. Now was not the time to delve into the finer distinctions of Khainite theology. The question of Morathi’s divine ascension would have to wait.

Maleneth took a moment to bury her curiosity. ‘I do not know the architect of our coven’s demise, but I may know where to start looking.’

‘Truly?’ Xarissa asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ Maleneth allowed herself a cold laugh. ‘There is a certain Kharadron trapsmith who has much to answer for.’

‘First, you must regain your strength,’ Xarissa said. ‘You are no use to me bloody and exhausted.’

‘Our quarry knows I am here. He may scuttle away.’

‘However much Stromund fears you, I can assure you he fears the High Gladiatrix more. He will continue his work for the Ascension.’ Xarissa thrust her chin at the door. ‘Besides, the tide is in. We must remain until tomorrow morning.’

‘You vindictive witch.’ Maleneth’s grin took the sharpness from her words. ‘You planned to trap me here all along.’

‘I knew you would not rest.’ Xarissa sniffed. ‘So I forced the issue.’

Maleneth leaned back, defeated at last. ‘Tomorrow, then.’

Xarissa stood, little more than a shadow in the gloom. Maleneth expected her to move to her own piled blankets, but the Pale Viper only remained still, the cant of her shoulders almost regretful.

‘All these years.’ She shook her head. ‘So much time wasted hating you.’

‘Not wasted. Never wasted,’ Maleneth said, smiling. ‘It has sharpened you into a true instrument of Khaine’s will.’

The Pale Viper looked to the shadowy hex marks twining across the backs of her hands, and drew in a slow breath, her smile echoing the cruel promise of Maleneth’s own.

‘Yes. I suppose it has.’

Chapter Fifteen

They found Stromund in a makeshift workshop downslope of the Ebon Market. Nightcliff was large and prosperous enough that duardin were not unheard of, but its harsh Khainite punishments and dark reputation made the ancient cliff city less than ideal for the types of tradecraft favoured by Fyreslayers, Kharadron and Dispossessed.

Populated largely by artisans, shipwrights and local traders, the neighbourhood was neither poor enough to be subject to the worst of Nightcliff’s shifting topography, nor so rich that it drew the attention of those in power. One of a hundred such small, innocuous streets skirting the larger and more vibrant districts, it was an island of calm amidst the riotous, blood-spattered alleyways where hardly anyone ever got murdered, and even the most violent covens avoided it out of an unspoken understanding that without actual workers, the city would grind to a halt.

In short, the perfect place for a hideout.

It would have been nearly impossible to locate Stromund, had he not sought to avail himself of his mistress’ protection. The workshop was well hidden. Few in the district had even noted the Kharadron anarchist’s comings or goings. However, the half a dozen Sisters of Slaughter High Gladiatrix Velara had detailed to guard the hideout were somewhat less circumspect. Even so, they might have passed the tiny storefront by had not Maleneth recognised two of the gladiatrixes from Velara’s personal coterie.

They lounged out front, almost completely hidden beneath bulky cloaks, indistinguishable from any of the mercenary guards employed by groups of locals to prevent robbery. Only when one of the aelves shifted did Maleneth note the slight clatter of razored jewellery, a flash of sharpened steel, dusky skin, and glittering scales visible beneath the parted material.

Maleneth’s low hiss brought Xarissa from a nearby shadow. The Pale Viper said nothing, only hunkered down atop the flat-gabled rooftop to join Maleneth in watching the shop below.

‘Not good.’ Xarissa gave a low whistle. ‘The one in scaled armour is called Breaker. Although she carries no weapons, I have seen her crush the life from a blood-mad orruk.’

‘So I should kill her from afar,’ Maleneth said.

‘A difficult proposition.’ Xarissa gave a quick nod to the aelf on the left. ‘That is Keslynn Kingfisher. Used to be a judicial champion, fighting duels on behalf of her matriarch, but she grew too fond of killing high nobles. Too many fights to first blood ended with her opponent a cooling corpse.’

‘Can’t say I blame her,’ Maleneth said. ‘It is very satisfying to watch nobility die.’

‘Not for other nobles,’ Xarissa replied. ‘Nightcliff’s matriarchs must have issued a score of kill orders against Keslynn before Velara stepped in. It didn’t stop the assassins, though.’

Maleneth frowned. ‘What did?’

‘Not what, who,’ Xarissa said with a sharp smile.

Maleneth nodded out of respect for her sister’s skills. Xarissa glanced away, the slightest flush colouring the skin beneath the hex marks that curled up her neck.

‘I see the chakrams.’ Maleneth changed the subject. ‘But Keslynn also had a spear, last time.’

‘Oh, it will be around somewhere, I am sure.’

‘How skilled is this Kingfisher?’ Maleneth asked.

‘Depends.’

She glanced at Xarissa. ‘On what?’

‘On whether or not you’re a noble.’ Xarissa’s smile did not reach her eyes.

Now, it was Maleneth’s turn to flush. Although she had spent most of her adult life in the murder temple, Maleneth had grown up as part of the Khainite aristocracy, trained from birth in the ways of the Witch Aelves. She had been on the cusp of joining her family’s coven, dancing the Seventeen Blades with her four younger sisters.

Then the Khailebron had come for her.

Xarissa had never spoken of her time before the temple, but a lower-caste upbringing had been evident in everything from her speech to the way her gaze flicked down whenever anyone of rank spoke. Even now, it hung between them. An old injury not of their making, yet painful nonetheless.

‘There are six of them,’ Xarissa continued as if she had not just buried a metaphorical dagger in Maleneth’s side. ‘Four Sisters, Keslynn, and Breaker.’

‘Do not discount Stromund,’ Maleneth replied. ‘I made that mistake, and paid for it.’

‘Worry not, sister. When we are done with that duardin wretch, that account shall be more than balanced.’ Xarissa shifted, regarding the storefront below. Despite the surety of her words, Maleneth could sense the hesitation in her sister’s bearing. It was one thing to dispose of a few low-caste guards – such leathanam dross were easily replaced, their deaths hardly remarked upon. Far different to openly murder fellow Khainites, let alone Velara’s prized gladiatrixes.

‘If I draw the guards’ attention, you can use your shadow magic to slip inside and retrieve Stromund.’ Maleneth spoke to spare her sister the discomfort of having to make a decision. ‘Velara cannot execute me twice.’

‘You might be surprised.’ Xarissa frowned, considering. ‘Can you face the six of them alone?’

‘Not for long.’ Maleneth nudged her sister’s shoulder. ‘But then again, I won’t have to. You’ll be back with the duardin before the first whip cracks.’

Xarissa looked dubious. ‘Your time away must have made you soft.’

‘Let us say it gave me perspective,’ Maleneth said. ‘Can you do it?’

Xarissa’s gaze flicked to the storefront, then back. ‘I can try.’

‘Then why are we still talking?’ Maleneth backed away from the edge, crawling across the canted roof to the spiked downspout on the rear of the building. Before lowering herself to the alley below, she glanced back, and was gratified to see Xarissa gone.

By the Mother Cauldron, it was good to work again with someone who could follow orders. Gotrek would have already been stomping across the street, attracting all manner of unwanted attention.

Putting the Slayer from her mind, Maleneth crept around the building. She needed to be stealthy, yet not too stealthy. The guards would be wary of attempts to draw them away from their ward. Maleneth’s only advantage was that they did not know she was working with Xarissa, and she intended to keep it that way.

The storefront was part of a score of buildings lining the street. Built side by side, they formed a ramshackle wall, each sporting a single door at street level. Had she been alone, Maleneth would have scaled one of the attached structures, then lowered herself down to one of the small, cloudy windows set into the stone facades. With the proper equipment, it would have been difficult but not impossible to remove the leaded glass without alerting either gladiatrix below. Then, Maleneth could have slipped inside, quietly disposed of the four Sisters of Slaughter, and dosed Stromund with enough chillblood venom to leave him paralysed for hours. Without the proper equipment, she was likely to receive a spear in the nethers before she levered out the first pane.

Maleneth did it anyway.

As expected, the two gladiatrixes were quick to note the furtive scratching above their heads. Maleneth was ready for the fistful of chakrams that ricocheted from the stone where she had hung a moment before. What she was very much not ready for was the long, softly humming spear that materialised in Keslynn’s hands.

Having already pushed off the wall to avoid the gladiatrix’s initial barrage, there was little Maleneth could do to dodge Keslynn’s spear. Rather than attempt to twist away from the thrust, Maleneth cut the rope securing her to the storehouse roof. Better to take her chances with an unexpected fall onto hard cobbles than a foot of hungry steel pinioning her to the wall.

She hit the ground awkwardly, tucking her chin and letting her legs go limp so that she landed on her side. Although it spread out the impact, the stone was hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs.

Gasping like a throat-slit orruk, she rolled to her feet just in time to spring clear of the sweep of Keslynn’s spear. Despite the weapon’s length, the gladiatrix wielded it like duelling steel, strikes quick as the beak of a hunting crane. There was little use in parrying at this range, and Maleneth was wary of closing the distance as Breaker threw off her cloak, arms spread to welcome her into a killing embrace.

Feigning a stumble, Maleneth lured Keslynn into a heavy thrust, only to twist away and grab the haft of the spear. The gladiatrix tried to pull her weapon from Maleneth’s grip, but rather than resist, she went with the motion, allowing Keslynn to draw her closer.

The gladiatrix backpedalled, only to find herself up against the wall of the storehouse, Maleneth a mere pace away. Smile tight, she stabbed at Keslynn, even as her opponent discarded her spear in favour of two circular-bladed chakrams. The gladiatrix caught Maleneth’s blade in the loop of one chakram, then twisted her wrist in an attempt to strip the short sword from her grip.

Rather than lose the blade, Maleneth withdrew, though not before carving a bloody line down Keslynn’s arm with her other sword.

If anything, the wound seemed to excite the gladiatrix.

There was little point in attempting to avoid Breaker’s lunge. Even as the strong arms closed about her waist, Maleneth was already palming a vial of shardsilt. Like a Ghurish python, Breaker tightened her grip, the razor-edged scales of her armour carving deep gashes in Maleneth’s leathers. Her ribs creaked. Breath leaked past her clenched jaw. Although Breaker had pinned her arms, Maleneth’s hands still retained enough movement for her to slip the vial into the gladiatrix’s scaled hauberk.

A sharp crunch marked the shattering glass, followed a moment later by Breaker’s scream as her armour filled with a mix of burnwillow sap and finely ground sand from Chamon’s Iron Desert. She released her grip on Maleneth, but too late, as every move only ground the burnwillow-spiked flechettes deeper into her flesh.

Seemingly unconcerned by the fate of her fellow gladiatrix, Keslynn Kingfisher snatched up her spear and advanced on Maleneth.

‘Witchblade is here!’ Eyes glazed, mouth stretched in a wide, excited grin, she keened like a blood-mad crone. The call brought her sisters boiling from the storefront. Like a pack of mist jackals they spread out across the street, cackling and baying.

It had seemed a good plan when Maleneth first thought of it. Now, alone, unsupported, and surrounded by some of the most vicious killers in Nightcliff, she was not so sure. Fortunately, she only needed to distract them long enough for Xarissa to collect Stromund.

Any hope Maleneth had of the gladiatrixes fouling each other’s strikes guttered and died with the first assault. In general, whips – especially barbed whips – were not an ideal weapon for close-quarters melee combat. Maleneth had expected to dive and twist through the cracking maelstrom, her attackers’ whips tangling into a thorny knot.

The Sisters of Slaughter’s weapons moved like living things. One wrapped around her leg. Maleneth was grateful for the armour on her joints – without the hardened leather she might have been hobbled.

She swept a short sword down, braided strands parting like gossamer before the enchanted edge. The Sister whose weapon she had severed gave a furious yelp, but Maleneth had no time for satisfaction. Throwing herself into a forward roll to avoid two lashes, she came up next to the whip-shorn Sister – who had already discarded her broken weapon for a pair of punch daggers.

Shrieking, she hurled herself at Maleneth. Instead of parrying the Sister’s vicious stabs, Maleneth swayed back, letting her body curve around the whip strike she knew was coming from behind.

It wrapped around the attacking Sister’s forearm. There was no pain in her frenzied scream, only the brutal delight of one moved beyond bodily concerns. Even as the whip tore a bloody hunk of flesh from her arm, the Sister of Slaughter’s dagger-toothed grin only grew wider.

Maleneth would have driven a dagger into it, had not Keslynn’s spear flashed in from her right. She ducked just in time, pushing off into a back handspring to move clear of a whip strike.

Lungs burning, she pinwheeled by another Sister, slashing at the back of one unprotected knee. Although the gladiatrix dropped, she was up again in a moment, hobbling on a leg that would never bear her full weight again.

Panting, Maleneth glanced towards the house where Stromund was being kept, hoping to see Xarissa emerge with the duardin in tow. But there was no sign of her sister. With a frustrated grunt, Maleneth spun back to her opponents.

Although she had fought alongside several war covens, Maleneth’s Khailebron calling meant she was often peripheral to the actual battle, quietly removing commanders rather than hacking at the rank and file. Now, she wished she had taken time to attend more gladiatorial matches – if only to realise how foolish it was to challenge several skilled gladiatrixes in open combat.

They stalked her like hunting demigryphs, spreading to cut off escape even as they kept Maleneth pinned with whip and spear strikes. There was no communication, no shared glances, only the perfect synchronicity of warriors who had trained together for years.

‘I expected more.’ Keslynn launched a wild, looping thrust that threaded the arc of several slashing whips. ‘The great Maleneth Witchblade – little better than arena dross.’

Maleneth was unable to respond for a long moment, concerned primarily with not losing any of her flesh to the Sisters’ barbed whips. ‘Almost had you, Kingfisher,’ she finally replied between panting breaths. ‘Too bad you had to call for aid from this pack of harpies.’

It was too much to hope the insult would spur the gladiatrix to single combat, but from the fire in Keslynn’s eyes Maleneth knew she had wounded her pride. The next spear thrust came fast, striking flecks from the stone wall behind Maleneth. Putting her full weight behind her blades, she hacked down. The first strike sank deep into the shaft just behind the spear’s long blade. The second cut the head free. It hit the stones with a very satisfying clatter.

Keslynn gave an aggrieved howl.

‘Lady Velara wanted you alive.’ The gladiatrix tossed her now useless weapon aside, slipping two sharp-edged chakrams from around her arms. ‘I shall be sorry to disappoint her.’

Spurred by their leader’s fury, the Sisters gave a keening wail, their expressions brimming with murderous exaltation.

Backed against a nearby building, Maleneth desperately looked to the safe house, but Xarissa remained frustratingly elusive. She still had time to slip free of the closing circle of gladiatrixes, but it would be useless to escape if they did not have Stromund.

‘Your screams will form a holy refrain.’ Keslynn’s words brimmed with spiteful promise. ‘Every writhing agony a dark offering to our master.’

The gladiatrix raised a chakram, poised to unleash a tempest of slashing whips. Instead of signalling the assault, she paused, head cocked, a bemused expression on her cruel face as she reached one finger to gently caress the dagger that had suddenly sprouted from her neck.

As if waiting for Keslynn’s touch, a welter of blood burst around the blade. The gladiatrix made a slow, shocked pirouette, her fading gaze tracking the dagger’s path up to the roof of a nearby building.

‘Xarissa?’ Although Keslynn’s mouth formed the name, there was no sound, only a torrent of dark blood.

There was a breath of stunned silence. It hung between them, sharp as a dagger. Then Keslynn slipped to her knees, disbelief bleeding to the slack-faced pallor of death.

‘Run.’ Although little more than a whisper, Xarissa’s voice cut the air between them. Maleneth was glad to oblige. She pushed off the wall, dodging between two of the gladiatrixes and towards the welcoming shadows of the nearest alley. Keslynn’s Sisters went mad, all thought of coordination banished by the murder of their mistress. Screeching like a doomed shade, one sprinted after Xarissa, whip lashing at downspouts and stonework as she sought to scale the storehouse’s facade.

The other two pursued Maleneth, eyes alight with murderous rage. Realising they would overtake her before she could disappear into the alley, Maleneth spun to face the shrieking gladiatrixes.

The first had coiled her whip around her hands. Uncaring of the blood that dribbled from her clenched fists, she sought to garotte her prey. Maleneth twisted aside, and the whip looped around one shoulder rather than her throat, earning her a momentary reprieve as the gladiatrix sawed the barbs across her leathers.

The other came low, a punch dagger in each hand. With relief, Maleneth noted the Sister’s knife-slashed knee. Twisting to drag the whip-wielding gladiatrix into her sister’s path, she aimed a heavy kick at her opponent’s leg.

Although she was far beyond pain, the blow was enough to send the Sister of Slaughter sprawling. Dropping a hip into the aelf sawing at her leathers, Maleneth flipped her over one shoulder and onto her companion.

Before they could untangle themselves, Maleneth hurled herself atop the two Sisters of Slaughter, using her weight to drive a short sword deep into each of their ribs.

The two gladiatrixes bucked like maddened demidroths, blades slashing for Maleneth’s unprotected face. Tucking her head, she let her much-abused shoulder armour take the worst of the cuts. By Khaine’s grace, it held. With a twist, she worked her short swords deeper into the dying gladiatrixes’ chests. After what seemed like half an age they finally went still.

Drawing in a ragged breath, Maleneth rolled to her knees, then climbed awkwardly to her feet.

Xarissa watched her from across the street, arms crossed, a dubious expression on her tattooed face.

‘That could have been cleaner.’ She nodded towards the gladiatrixes splayed around her, daggers jutting from their eyes.

‘Next time.’ Maleneth pressed a hand against her lower back, wincing. ‘Where is Stromund?’

‘Up there,’ Xarissa said, gesturing at a nearby roof. ‘Trussed up like a piglet fresh from market.’

‘Then we had best depart.’ Maleneth glanced down the street. Although there were no signs of alarm, the city guard would be quick to respond to any commotion. This was a quiet neighbourhood, after all.

With a nod, Xarissa ducked into the shadow of a nearby alley, emerging a moment later atop the roof.

‘Need a hand up, sister?’

Blowing out an irritated sigh, Maleneth set to scaling the wall. ‘Now you’re just showing off.’

Chapter Sixteen

‘Ah, Witchblade!’ Stromund did his best to smile through the patchwork of bruises. ‘How pleased I am to see you free of Lady Velara’s dungeon.’

‘Fine words from the one who put me there.’ Maleneth walked behind the chair to which the Kharadron was tied.

‘What choice did I have?’ Ropes creaked as he tried to shift to look at her. ‘You saw what the High Gladiatrix is capable of.’

‘You should be more concerned with what I am capable of.’ Maleneth put a foot on the chair and shoved him face-first onto the tile floor.

He spat out a bloody tooth. ‘Oh, I am.’

Maleneth stood, arms crossed, as Stromund rolled awkwardly onto his side, leaving a small puddle of blood on the cracked tile. She and Xarissa had dragged the duardin to a dilapidated arena down in the lower districts. Although most of the stands had crumbled inward, and the foundations were undermined by mist, they had found a serviceable enough cell beneath the ruin. Black sand trickled down through fractures in the arena floor above, collecting in piles upon the broken tile. The whole place looked ready to collapse, but it had the advantage of privacy. Not even Tombs squatters would be foolish enough to risk their lives in such a tumbledown ruin.

‘What prison can hold the famed Maleneth Witchblade?’ Stromund tried again. ‘Of course, I knew you would escape – and with the Pale Viper, no less!’ He glanced to where Xarissa leaned against the cracked basalt wall, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on her severe face. She had yet to say a word to the duardin. No doubt, the cold scrutiny was meant to unnerve Stromund. If so, it appeared to be working.

‘If anything, you should thank me for reuniting the two of you.’ The Kharadron anarchist was babbling.

‘Do you hear that, sister?’ Maleneth grinned at Xarissa. ‘Not only should I forgive the duardin, I owe him for selling me out at the first opportunity.’ Maleneth knelt next to the prone Kharadron, relishing the fear in his eyes as she idly tossed her short sword from hand to hand. ‘Shall I give him a little token of our gratitude?’

‘No need!’ Stromund struggled against the bonds, trying to slide the chair away from Maleneth’s blade. ‘Just a favour between friends.’

‘Is that what we are?’ Maleneth said, cocking her head. ‘Friends?’

‘Colleagues, at least.’ Stromund’s nervous smile was spoiled by the bloody gap between his front teeth. ‘Consider it a professional courtesy, then.’

Maleneth let her grin turn sharp. ‘You do remember what my profession is, Stromund.’

He gave a defeated sigh. ‘I have a bad feeling you’re about to remind me.’

‘That depends.’ She grasped the back of the chair and set him upright.

‘On what?’ Hope kindled in Stromund’s deep-set eyes. Maleneth let it linger, savouring the moment.

‘On whether or not Xarissa kills you first.’

Stromund’s gaze flicked between the two of them. ‘I-I don’t understand,’ he said.

Maleneth walked around the chair, idly tracing her blade across the duardin’s shoulders. ‘Do you want to tell her, or shall I?’

‘Tell her what?’ The duardin twisted in his bonds, snorting and wheezing.

Maleneth let her blade rest on the duardin’s throat. ‘That you are responsible for the slaughter of our coven.’

Xarissa gave a low hiss, eyes narrowed. ‘Explain.’

‘Please, you have to believe me.’ Stromund was near panic. ‘I don’t know what she’s–’

Maleneth hit him. It was a quick blow, short and sharp, right to the bridge of the nose. Stromund gasped, eyes watering, blood sheeting down the front of his smock. From experience, Maleneth knew it would take a moment for the duardin to regain his bearings, so she started talking.

‘I didn’t put it together, not at first. Stromund was just a hireling, not associated with the coven. And yet, he knew enough of our temple’s defences to provide the attackers with the means to disable many of them.’ She cuffed him on the side of the head. ‘Didn’t you?’

He let out a moan, low and terrified.

‘Our sisters were murdered in one overwhelming assault. They attacked without warning, and without triggering a single trap or alarm,’ Maleneth continued. ‘At first, I suspected a traitor. It was too convenient, our mistress’ paranoia causing her to gather the whole coven in one place – a near-unprecedented occurrence. I thought someone must have given our secrets away. And yet, no one seemed to benefit from the destruction. No one but you.’ Maleneth bent to look Stromund in one swelling eye. ‘And High Gladiatrix Velara, of course.’

‘That makes no sense.’ Xarissa shook her head. ‘Velara was our ally. She stood to gain nothing from our coven’s destruction. It was not as if the High Gladiatrix could command the matriarchs, let alone rule Nightcliff. More, she took me in after the slaughter, gave me purpose again.’

‘What fool would turn away such a talented killer?’ Maleneth asked. ‘You and I were far from the slaughter, and you believed me responsible. It was an elegant solution. Even if I were to somehow return, Velara had named me traitor. All that misplaced vengeance meant you were more likely to cut my throat than hear me out.’

Xarissa frowned, apparently unconvinced. ‘Our coven worked hand in hand with Velara’s for years. Why destroy an ally who is no threat to you?’

‘That, I cannot say.’ Maleneth considered the hole in her theory. Velara’s gladiatrixes had been the bladed fist to the Khailebron’s subtle knife. Together, they had defeated many formidable foes. Destroying Maleneth’s coven had destabilised Nightcliff’s political geography, allowing Velara to assume control of the city – but it was not as if they would have stood in her way. Even at her worst, Sybelline had harboured no designs on Nightcliff itself. The Khailebron always worked best from the shadows, shaping political discourse without actively engaging in it.

She regarded the terrified duardin. ‘There will be time to flense a motive from the High Gladiatrix. For the moment, my concern is how Velara orchestrated the deaths of our sisters.’ Maleneth laid a gentle hand on Stromund’s shoulder. He flinched at her touch.

Good.

‘In the end, you will tell us everything.’ She tightened her grip, digging her fingers into the pressure points deep within the joint. ‘All that remains to decide is the unpleasantness of the route.’

‘I did it,’ Stromund sobbed. ‘I disabled the defences so Velara’s coven could storm the temple.’

Maleneth gave a disappointed sigh. ‘So much for famed duardin resilience. I was hoping to get a bit of bladework in before you broke.’

‘She promised revenge upon the admirals who exiled me.’ The confession poured from Stromund. ‘Wealth and support to return to Barak-Urbaz and free my people from their gilded chains. No longer would we grovel and scrape for the guilds’ leavings, fingers bleeding, bodies broken, seduced by the glittering lie of aether-gold. With Velara’s aid, I could have remade Kharadron society – public ownership and labour societies dedicated to uplifting the common worker rather than fattening the purses of those few vultures squatting at the top.’

‘And how did that work out for you?’ Maleneth asked.

‘As you see.’ Stromund hung his head. ‘First it was conflict with the other covens, then the need to settle Nightcliff politics, then the Ascension Games. Velara always had a reason why she could not yet deliver on her promise.’ The duardin spat a bloody gobbet onto the tile. ‘Ancestors curse her.’

‘And yet you were quick enough to run to the High Gladiatrix when I returned,’ Maleneth said. ‘Or were Keslynn and Breaker merely admirers of your work?’

‘You think I wanted them?’ Stromund asked. ‘They were there to watch me. I was as much a prisoner as you, Witchblade.’

‘Your workshop was a far cry from the Spire dungeons.’ Maleneth let a note of warning creep into her voice.

‘Yes, well, perhaps not quite as much a prisoner,’ Stromund conceded. ‘But we all know Velara would have torn out my heart if I hadn’t told her of your return.’

‘So he is a coward as well as a traitor.’ Xarissa took a step towards the bound duardin, blade appearing in her hand. ‘Let us dispense with these useless questions and begin our vengeance.’

‘I can still aid you!’ Stromund recoiled from Xarissa’s approach, speaking quickly.

‘And why should we trust the aid of a traitorous wretch whose own people cast him out?’ Xarissa ran her blade along Stromund’s cheek, carving a thin runnel down his jawline. Blood seeped into his dark beard.

Maleneth would have dearly loved to join her. It had been too long since she had been given the opportunity to make someone truly suffer. Stromund certainly deserved their knives. Maleneth and Xarissa could draw out his death for days, perhaps even weeks. It would be satisfying.

Satisfying perhaps, but ultimately unfulfilling.

If Stromund spoke true, he had been little more than a tool. One did not blame the blade for the hand that wielded it. Her imprisonment at the hands of High Gladiatrix Velara left Maleneth wanting to believe Stromund’s confession, but the duardin had deceived her before. He would say anything to save his miserable life, that much was clear. If only there was a way to determine the truth of his words.

I can, her former mistress said.

As if I trust you any more than that lying Kharadron, Maleneth said.

You do not need to trust me, Sybelline replied. Only your own eyes.

Stromund gave a low moan as Xarissa began to whisper her plans to the duardin, lingering on the many, many agonies she intended to visit upon him. Even though Stromund had betrayed them – twice – Maleneth found she could not enjoy the much-deserved retribution when there was a chance for true vengeance.

She turned away. How?

The murder temple, Sybelline said. There lies the truth.

Maleneth pushed down a burst of irritation. We have already been to the temple and found nothing.

You found nothing, but that does not mean there was nothing to find. Her former mistress gave a low chuckle. Did you think you knew everything, child?

Even now, you dare keep things from me? Anger threaded Maleneth’s reply.

Forgive an old Hag Queen her secrets, Sybelline replied. I have so few remaining.

Shoulders tight, Maleneth turned back to the torture. Xarissa’s blades had not even broken skin, and already the duardin was blubbering like a drunken bard. Maleneth could not hold back the slightest of smiles. Loath as she was to stop her sister’s fun, she could not simply ignore Sybelline.

‘Stop,’ she called with a sigh.

‘Wait your turn,’ Xarissa said without looking up. ‘I’ve barely started.’

Stepping forward, Maleneth touched the flat of Xarissa’s blade, gently guiding it away from Stromund.

Her sister straightened, surprise and irritation bunching the skin between her brows. ‘You would steal this vengeance from me?’

‘I would postpone it, yes,’ Maleneth said, ignoring Stromund’s grateful sobs.

‘You cannot truly believe this creature’s lies?’ Xarissa flicked her blade towards the duardin’s face, causing him to flinch. ‘It is his word against that of the High Gladiatrix. Unless you have some heretofore hidden proof of Velara’s betrayal?’

‘I have not.’ Maleneth tapped her amulet. ‘But she may.’

Xarissa’s eyes widened, anger warring with old loyalties. Her gaze flicked to the weeping duardin, then back to Maleneth’s locket. With a frustrated growl, she sheathed her blade.

‘Speak.’

‘Sister,’ Maleneth began, ‘I believe it is time we returned home.’

Chapter Seventeen

‘I have not been back. Not since…’ Xarissa regarded the shadow-scarred exterior of the murder temple, her voice small.

‘The High Gladiatrix was thorough. I’ll give her that,’ Maleneth said, assessing the shattered statues with a narrow-eyed glare, pointedly avoiding looking at the bones scattered across the dusty tile of the outer nave.

‘If it was Velara. All we have to support that theory is the word of this traitorous runt.’ Xarissa slapped the back of Stromund’s head. Although the duardin’s fists clenched in response, fortunately he was clever enough not to further antagonise the Pale Viper.

Maleneth conceded her sister’s point with a tight-lipped nod. Despite having herself come to the tentative conclusion that Velara was responsible, Maleneth knew Stromund would implicate anyone if it allowed him to draw one more miserable breath. And while the High Gladiatrix certainly had possessed the strength to destroy their coven, Maleneth could not envision what would motivate Velara to turn upon her allies in such a brutal fashion. She did not trust Stromund, but strangely Maleneth found she did trust Sybelline. It was a fragile conviction though, rooted in the forlorn hope their temple held answers as well as corpses.

The ruins had degraded even since the last time Maleneth had visited. Twists of obsidian darkness bled through the cracks in the stone, threads of shadow webbing the walls like spreading mould. The fallen statue of their mistress was half submerged in glassy darkness. Nightcliff was ever greedy for the abandoned and forgotten. Maleneth avoided the shadowstuff. Although it was not dangerous to anything capable of movement, she had never liked the feel of it – warm and oily, like a freshly tarred boat.

Xarissa followed close behind, giving a rough tug on the rope that bound Stromund.

The whole temple was canted. Tilted like a foundering ship, it would slowly sink into Nightcliff’s glassy darkness, joining the countless edifices within the great dark wave upon which the city rested. One day, some shift of tectonic gloom might cause the temple to rise again, no doubt to the delight of whatever squatter or antiquarian had staked out this particular stretch of the Tombs. Or perhaps there would be no Khainites remaining to see it, the city’s current rulers having been scoured from the wave like so many before them.

It happened that way, sometimes. The dark gyre occasionally unearthed ancient structures: cyclopean tombs of heavy basalt, impossibly large and seemingly completely solid; gilded stairs sized for an unnatural gait; strange spindle-towers, thin and delicate as glass flutes, their interiors honeycombed with oddly shaped chambers lacking doors or windows. Not even the most learned crones could place their origin, lost in the Age of Myth, older perhaps than even the gods themselves. If the temple were submerged, it might very well be that the next eyes who gazed upon it would be as alien to Maleneth as those Mythic builders were to her.

Good. Let this wretched place disappear, all that matters is vengeance. Although Sybelline’s words were curt, they held a brittle undercurrent.

Maleneth could well understand her former mistress’ anger. It might have been Velara who organised the assault, but it had been Sybelline’s viciousness and paranoia that had trussed up their coven like a sacrificial victim.

Lies! Sybelline almost shouted the word. I gave my life to our coven, helped build it from a minor cult to the greatest in Nightcliff.

And our rise did not benefit you? Maleneth replied coolly. It was not Khaine’s will that guided you, but ambition.

Is there a difference? Sybelline asked.

Khaine guides our blades to the throats of blessed victims. Maleneth gave a thin smile. He does not bid us devour our own like some orruk savage.

I was mistress of this coven, not you! Sybelline shrieked. Khaine’s holy vessel. His will was mine to determine!

Look around you, crone. Maleneth cast her gaze about the devastated temple. Do you believe it was the Bloody-Handed God’s desire to see his shrine cast down, his worshippers slaughtered?

Sybelline hesitated, as if unsure. If I had been allowed to finish the ritual–

You mean if you had been allowed to sacrifice Xarissa and a score of our most devoted sisters?

That is not how I remember it. Maleneth’s former mistress’ denial came as if by reflex.

Maleneth cocked her head. And how do you remember it, oh wise and powerful mistress?

Strange. The anger bled from Sybelline’s voice, replaced by confusion. I cannot seem to recall that night.

How excellent for you, Maleneth replied. I cannot forget it.

Before her time with Gotrek, Maleneth would have enjoyed picking at the old crone’s weaknesses. Now, the prospect felt empty as the ruined nave. It was not that she cared for her former mistress’ feelings, nor even that she had lost her taste for cruelty; Sybelline’s recollections seemed foggy as a Nightcliff alley. Perhaps it was an effect of being bound for so long, or perhaps she had finally begun her long descent into senility. Either way, it was clear the hag was no longer the same person who had led their coven to slaughter.

‘What is it?’

Xarissa’s question severed the dark thread of Maleneth’s thoughts. Only then did she realise she had paused, fists at her side and shoulders tight as if she were arguing with some high-born despot.

Which, of course, she had been.

‘Nothing.’ With a shake of her head, Maleneth continued into the temple halls. Avoiding the empty armoury and acolyte quarters, Sybelline directed her through the maze-like outer galleries towards the Killing Field and the inner sanctum beyond. Fortunately, Qholar Qat and her minions were nowhere to be seen. Maleneth did not relish explaining to Xarissa why she had allowed a necromancer to squat in their former temple.

Xarissa’s hiss brought her up short, expecting danger, but it was merely the sight of the devastation that had given her sister pause. Maleneth’s first response was irritation, until she reminded herself of her feelings upon first returning to find their temple in its current state of decay.

Silently, they climbed down from the ruined galleries and onto the Killing Field, Stromund muttering behind as he attempted to lower himself, only to fall half a dozen feet onto hard stone. Maleneth and Xarissa shared a smile as the duardin rolled to his knees, a new bruise joining the yellowing blotches that webbed his bearded face.

Xarissa hooked the rope binding Stromund’s hands and jerked him to his feet with a snarl.

At first, Maleneth thought the duardin’s pained curse was the result of the rough treatment; then she noticed Stromund’s gaze. Although one eye was swollen almost shut, the Kharadron anarchist’s gaze roved over the ruined traps and obstacles, an almost wistful expression on his craggy face.

When he noticed Maleneth’s scrutiny, Stromund gave a tired shrug. ‘Velara said she would leave my inventions alone. Now I know why she never let me come back to retrieve them.’ He sighed. ‘Another broken promise.’

‘I would worry more about broken bones if I were you,’ Maleneth told him. She aimed a lazy kick at his ribs, forcing the duardin to scamper back. Even so, Stromund’s words had kindled questions within her. As much as Maleneth wished to forget this sinking ruin, the pain of loss only added fuel to her curiosity.

‘What was it like?’ She turned to Xarissa. ‘After.’

‘Bloody.’ Her sister slipped by, dragging the duardin with her.

‘I am sorry you had to bear that burden alone,’ Maleneth said. She saw Xarissa’s shoulders tense, then her sister gave a toss of her head.

‘It is good that I was.’ Xarissa spoke without turning. ‘If you had returned, I would have killed you.’

‘Well, you would have tried, at least.’ Maleneth let a hint of mockery creep into her voice.

Xarissa glanced back, scowling, at least until she saw Maleneth’s smile. ‘Always had too high an opinion of your talents, Witchblade.’ She clucked her tongue. ‘I might surprise you.’

Maleneth shifted, tone turning serious. ‘You already have, sister.’

A strange series of expressions ghosted across Xarissa’s face, none lingering long enough for Maleneth to place. She looked away, obviously discomfited by the praise. Fortunately, Stromund chose that moment to let out a low moan, sparing them the prospect of another awkward exchange.

Beyond a crumbling wall, much of the hall had fallen away to reveal a series of pit traps, the spikes at the bottom scarred with rust. Although several of the pressure plates on the walls still functioned, the bellows that propelled the spray of envenomed darts had rotted away.

‘Do you remember the last time we were here, you and I?’ Xarissa asked.

Maleneth frowned. She and her sister had often tested one another on the Killing Field. As the two senior-most assassins in the coven, there were few who could match their skill. They delighted in challenging configurations, stalking one another through a myriad of murderous mazes designed by the most maliciously inventive trapmaker ever to drop from a Kharadron sky-barge.

When Maleneth did not immediately answer, Xarissa paused, not looking back. ‘It was just before the end. We were in the Chamber of Revolving Bridges. You caught me halfway across one of the logs, told me to surrender.’

‘You should have.’ Maleneth grinned as the memory came drifting back. ‘As I recall, that fool stunt almost cost you a hand.’

‘It almost cost you a victory.’ Xarissa made a fist, slowly uncurling her left hand to reveal a pale scar bisecting the palm.

‘What is the point of winning if it robs you of everything?’ Maleneth asked. ‘That was something you never understood, little sister. Our vocation demands patience, calculation, even cowardice at times. You were always too focused on the kill.’

‘Lucky for you I wasn’t too focused.’ Xarissa’s smile held no warmth. ‘Otherwise you would have never escaped Velara’s dungeon.’

Maleneth conceded the point with a nod, turning to regard the dead end before them. A stretch of pockmarked wall led up to the inner temple. Although she could easily scale it, the stone looked unstable, even without the dark tendrils of shadow threading its structure.

She looked to Xarissa. ‘Should we search for another path?’

Her sister chuckled. Shouldering Stromund’s rope, she approached the obstruction, eyes narrowed as she inspected the crumbling stone. Apparently satisfied, Xarissa gave a quick nod, then dived into the wall.

No. Not the wall. The wall’s shadow.

It took a moment for Maleneth to grasp the nuance of Xarissa’s idea – long enough for her sister to toss the rope from the gallery above.

‘Hurry up,’ she called down, voice tinged with mockery. ‘Before I die of old age and my bones join our sisters’.’

Stromund held out his hands. ‘I could climb faster if you unbound me.’

‘You’ll manage.’ Without a glance back, Maleneth leapt to catch the rope, easily scaling the braided length. The duardin attempted the same, although with quite a bit more grunting and cursing. As he climbed, Maleneth and Xarissa leaned out over the gallery, grinning like two apprentices who had snuck into their first arena fight.

Maleneth was pleased to realise her travels with Gotrek had not left her soft. If anything, it had given her a better appreciation for the suffering of duardin.

At last, Stromund dragged himself over the lip of the gallery to collapse upon the broken tiles, wheezing like a knife-stuck grot.

‘Up, wretch,’ Xarissa said, leaning over the panting Kharadron, hands on hips.

‘A moment, please.’ Stromund rolled onto his back. ‘I’m a trapmaker, not an acrobat.’

Maleneth snorted. ‘You’ll be a corpse if you don’t find your feet.’

The duardin pulled a face. ‘You’re many things, Witchblade, but wasteful isn’t one of them. If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it already.’

‘You have no idea what I am, Goldless.’ Maleneth lingered on the duardin’s surname, knowing it to be an insult inflicted when the ruling guilds tossed him out of Barak-Urbaz for fomenting anarchy.

‘I know you have a plan.’ He sat up, arms crossed like a petulant fishmonger. ‘And I know you need me to make it work.’

Maleneth might have agreed had Xarissa not been watching the exchange with obvious interest. It had been some time since Maleneth had felt the need to prove herself. Her superiors in the Order of Azyr had given her broad discretion, and Gotrek could not be bothered to pay attention to her even when he was not blackout drunk or stomping off on yet another doomed quest.

But this was different. Even though Maleneth was no longer Xarissa’s superior, she still felt the weight of expectation. Like that thrice-damned Slayer, Maleneth and Xarissa’s rivalry had survived the destruction of everything that had given it meaning.

Thoughts of Gotrek sent an irritated blush of heat to Maleneth’s cheeks. Still, she could have laughed off the duardin’s defiance, but Stromund had never known when to stop.

‘So why don’t you two skulk off into the shadows and give me a moment to catch my breath,’ he continued, ‘or I won’t be any use when you actually need me.’

‘See, there’s your mistake.’ Maleneth hunkered down next to the duardin, her tone conversational even as she palmed a dagger. ‘Thinking we need you.’

‘Then why drag me all the way down to this ancestor-blighted tomb, when you could have just–’

Still wearing the same bored expression, she drove her blade into Stromund’s shoulder. Barely a scratch, but enough to stop the duardin’s flapping tongue. How many times had Maleneth dreamed of doing something similar to the Slayer? Not that Gotrek would even notice. The one-eyed beast was more scar than flesh; it was a wonder he could feel anything.

Even so, it was gratifying to watch Stromund wilt.

‘You are alive because I allow it. Do not mistake tolerance for mercy.’ Maleneth withdrew the blade, casually wiping it clean on the duardin’s beard. ‘Now get up.’

Stromund clapped a hand to his newest wound. Pale-faced, he lurched to his feet.

‘Lead on, mistresses.’

Although Maleneth knew better than to glance at Xarissa, she could feel her former sister’s approval. As if Maleneth had somehow proven herself worthy of their old and complicated enmity. Truthfully, she had forgotten how exhausting it could be living up to others’ expectations.

Shoulders tight, she turned towards the temple’s inner sanctum, Xarissa falling in behind as if by half-remembered habit – close enough to watch Maleneth’s back, or stick a knife in it. Stromund stumbled after them, every step accompanied by a pained grunt.

The bodies of two Melusai lay splayed before the shattered doors, war-masks battered to near shapelessness, their serpentine lower bodies intertwined as if the pair had died back to back. Maleneth crunched through the carpet of broken glass that was all that remained of the Melusai’s victims – transformed into crystal statues by their scáith touch. Some scavenger had made off with their armour and heartshard glaives. Another insult to heap atop the already overflowing pile.

The heavy doors remained just as Maleneth remembered, as did the inner temple itself. Qholar Qat had apparently taken Maleneth’s threats to heart and ceased her pillaging of the temple relics. But as they roamed amidst the dusty columns, Maleneth began to suspect she had perhaps done too good a job scaring off the fastidious necromancer. It would be far more difficult to deal with Velara without Qholar’s poisons.

The central ziggurat was untouched; the coven’s sacred cauldron still lay near the base, the tile around crusted with old blood.

‘Why leave such a powerful relic behind?’ Xarissa asked.

Maleneth approached the massive vessel. ‘Possession of the cauldron would have been a clear sign of Velara’s betrayal.’

Xarissa looked unconvinced. ‘Quite a surprising amount of forethought for one more used to public spectacle.’

A good point, as much as Maleneth was loath to admit it. The High Gladiatrix had managed the betrayal with the skill of a master Khailebron. And there remained the matter of motive.

Velara was our strongest ally. A bit of the old smugness had crept back into Sybelline’s voice. She and I were cutting throats while you were still in swaddling.

Such is the blindness of the deceived, Maleneth replied. Without trust, there is nothing to betray.

Her former mistress sniffed. You would know, I suppose.

The barb must have caused Maleneth to stiffen, because Xarissa glanced over.

‘Something wrong?’

‘No.’ Maleneth answered a bit too quickly, and turned away to conceal her discomfort. ‘This place is filled with unquiet spirits. Memories better left buried.’

So that is what I am, now? Her mistress gave a derisive laugh. Come, daughter, let me haunt you a while more, and I shall show you what Velara and I had planned.

Maleneth straightened. You worked with the High Gladiatrix.

Of course.

And you are just telling me this now?

It must have slipped my mind. Her former mistress’ words brimmed with mock indifference. Memories better left buried and all that.

‘Out with it, crone.’ Maleneth ground the words through gritted teeth.

Both Xarissa and Stromund turned, surprised by her sudden outburst. By way of explanation, Maleneth spread her hands.

‘Sybelline and Velara were apparently planning something.’ When Xarissa raised an eyebrow, Maleneth tapped the amulet. ‘She wishes to show us.’

Xarissa gave a knowing nod. Although Stromund looked between them, obviously confused, the duardin was wise enough not to open his fool mouth.

It was to be a great ritual. Sybelline guided Maleneth towards the base of the ziggurat. Fuelled by blood and sacrifice, a grand offering to Khaine that would have shaken the very foundations of Nightcliff.

Is that why you ordered the entire coven home? Maleneth asked.

It must have been. Although I cannot seem to recall. Her former mistress paused as if unsure. Come, my unfaithful daughter, and all will be made clear.

To the both of us, it seems. Although wary of her mistress’ foggy recollections, Maleneth consented to allow herself to be directed up the ziggurat stairs, Xarissa and Stromund trailing behind.

They were halfway to the sacrificial altar when Sybelline bid Maleneth stop and kneel. There was a lever nestled between the ziggurat’s heavy stone tiers. Even with Sybelline directing her efforts, it took some time for Maleneth to locate the hidden switch, but when she pulled it a large section of the ziggurat ground sideways, revealing another set of stairs that descended into the bowels of the structure.

Triggered by the opening of the secret door, several lanterns lit with purple flames, bathing the stairs in unnatural shadow.

Stromund peered into the stairwell. ‘Is it safe?’

‘Safer than pestering me with foolish questions,’ Maleneth replied. Still, both she and Xarissa drew their blades before descending the hidden stair.

There were carvings along the wall, bas-reliefs of blood sacrifice mingled with scenes of debauchery and slaughter, all presided over by priestesses in elaborate masks. Although they looked to be aelven, the worshippers’ dress was strange, as was the sinuous iconography inlaid in gold and silver. Maleneth ran a hand over the reliefs, surprised to feel the tiniest spark of arcane energy. Whatever sorcerous working Velara and her mistress had undertaken, this place still resonated with its echoes.

Nightcliff was an ancient and potent geomantic locus. Maleneth’s former mistress must have discovered a way to harness a measure of Ulgu’s power. As they descended and the carvings grew ever more lurid, Maleneth was not sure she wished to discover the reason.

This is not how I remember it, her mistress muttered. Someone must have altered the carvings.

Maleneth paused to regard a scene of orgiastic slaughter: masked revellers dancing before a tableau of bound victims, their wide-eyed, open-mouthed expressions somewhere between terror and wild pleasure.

An uncomfortable suspicion took root in the back of Maleneth’s thoughts. She had but to share a glance with Xarissa to know her former sister felt the same trepidation.

At last, the stairs opened into a circular chamber, its walls adorned with chains, manacles, and a truly unsettling collection of torture implements. Several low altars lay submerged in shadow, glassy darkness oozing between cracks in the stone to spread inky fingers across the carved faces. Apparently, opening the hidden door had undone whatever enchantments warded the shrine from Nightcliff’s ravenous darkness. As if to make up for the lost time, the void moved with singular purpose. Already, gloom had begun to gather in the corners and depressions like a cracked bowl slowly filling with oil.

Even the encroaching night could not conceal the chamber’s power. Silver filigree webbed the floor, tracing constellations of nested symbols that seemed to tug at the eye. The air smelled strange. No odour Maleneth could recognise, but rather the heavy haze of blended incense. It filled her nose and made her thoughts run sluggish.

Hairs prickled along her arms and neck, the energy in the chamber resonating within her bones like the boom of distant thunder. It was as if Maleneth had stepped into a river. Languid but insistent, it pressed her forward, inescapable as the tides.

With effort, she stopped, grasping the collar of Stromund’s shirt so the duardin did not blunder into the ritual space and accidentally disturb the energies within. Without looking, she knew Xarissa had paused as well, her sister a comforting presence at Maleneth’s side.

This is not right.

Sybelline’s denial cut through the fog of Maleneth’s thoughts. Although the horror and self-loathing in her former mistress’ voice sent a cool prickle of satisfaction up the back of Maleneth’s neck, it was quickly swallowed by disquiet. Whether Sybelline had been tricked or an active participant, evidence of the rot at the heart of their coven was inescapable.

Maleneth blinked against the invisible miasma, the whole chamber seeming to ripple like a heat mirage. Even half swallowed by shadow, the silver inlay writhed and re-formed into nested patterns, each more intricate than the last. Gradually, the whole came into focus, light and shadow bent by the chamber’s cruel geometries. It was as if Maleneth were watching a vast murmuration of birds, a thousand, thousand tiny things shifting and whirling as if possessed by a single mind. Within it, she glimpsed something vast and dreadful, a half-remembered nightmare lodged deep within her soul.

‘There was ritual here.’ Maleneth spoke softly, afraid her very words might draw unwanted attention. ‘But it was not meant for Khaine.’

Stromund gave a low groan, a trickle of blood leaking from one wide nostril. Maleneth could feel the duardin tense, every muscle coiled tight as a winch spring. Xarissa sagged, leaning upon Maleneth as gradually, lovingly, terribly, the chamber revealed its secrets.

Chapter Eighteen

Slaanesh. Maleneth’s former mistress spoke the name like the curse it was.

‘I trusted you.’ Xarissa’s words came threaded with disbelieving horror. At first, Maleneth thought her sister’s narrow-eyed glare was meant for her, only to realise the Pale Viper was staring daggers at the amulet around her neck.

Please, daughter. I had no knowledge of this. Sybelline’s panic seemed unfeigned. When Velara and I found this place of power, we planned a ritual to exalt Khaine, not the Dark Prince. Someone must have come afterwards, must have changed the–

‘Give the crone to me!’ Xarissa demanded, making a snatch for the amulet. ‘I would hear the truth from her traitorous lips!’

Maleneth skipped back up the stair, hand drifting protectively to her throat. She could well understand her sister’s anger. Sybelline’s murderous intentions had been bad enough when Maleneth thought them rooted in mere lust for power. Now, it seemed her former mistress may have intended to offer their souls not to Khaine, but Slaanesh.

No. I would never.

‘What lies is that dead witch spinning now?’ Xarissa followed her, eyes alight with cold fury. She waved her blade at the corrupt shrine. ‘How can you believe anything she says when this abomination stands right before us?’

‘Silence. I need to think.’ Maleneth chopped a hand through the air, her exclamation meant for both Sybelline and Xarissa.

Although the Pale Viper’s furious expression did not relax, neither did Maleneth’s sister approach further. In the chamber behind, silvery threads wove blasphemous sigils in the half-light. Fortunately, it appeared that time and encroaching shadow had obscured much of the shrine’s dark power. Unfortunately, it also hid the corrupt chamber’s full purpose.

What do you remember about that day? Maleneth asked her former mistress.

Very little. Sybelline sounded pained, as if frustrated by the gaps in her memory. I remember exultation. Our plan was nearing completion. We would have purged the coven of disloyalty, bathed in traitors’ blood, and achieved new heights of sacred power.

Maleneth glanced at the shrine, suppressing a shudder. There is nothing sacred here.

It is not as it was, Sybelline replied. Velara and I dedicated this place to Khaine.

Did you? Maleneth frowned, considering. Either her former mistress had planned an unforgiveable betrayal, or she had been deceived as well. Among his other terrible aspects, Slaanesh was a master of deception, luring mortal souls down ruinous paths with twin promises of perfection and depravity.

Even now, thought of the Dark Prince sent a prickle of animal terror up Maleneth’s neck. Unlike their sad and twisted cousins the Idoneth, Morathi’s Mother Cauldron had purged Khaine’s daughters’ souls of much of the lingering corruption they suffered during the long millennia subject to Slaanesh’s cruel mercies. And yet, some buried, atavistic part of Maleneth still resonated with faint echoes of decadent agony.

‘Many have been seduced by the Dark Prince’s lies.’ She held up a hand to forestall both Sybelline’s and Xarissa’s response. ‘Even more act out his will, not even aware they are ruled by his corrupt whims.’

‘And you truly believe Sybelline to have been one such puppet?’ Doubt darkened Xarissa’s words.

‘I cannot say.’ Maleneth sighed. ‘All I know is the mistress I killed was much changed from the one who trained us. There was always harshness, ambition, but the Sybelline I remember would have never believed you a traitor, nor would she have fed her daughters to this evil.’

‘Until a few moments ago, I would have said the same.’ Xarissa waved her blade at the chamber without looking back. ‘But I cannot overlook this blasphemy.’

‘Nor can I, sister,’ Maleneth said. ‘It is… unforgiveable. Still, I have spent years with Sybelline’s spirit. She is petty, vindictive, arrogant, but I have never sensed even a flicker of corruption. Many times, her warnings have been all that saved me from death.’

Xarissa raised a trembling hand to massage her temples, expression pained.

‘On that day, Sybelline asked me to kill you.’ Maleneth spoke softly but urgently. ‘When I refused, she went mad with suspicion, accusing me of trying to usurp her position.’

‘And were you?’

‘Eventually.’ Maleneth shrugged. ‘Although I would never have been so brash as to murder our mistress atop the temple ziggurat with the entire coven in residence.’

‘And me?’ Xarissa’s question was barely a whisper, and yet it seemed to echo loud in the tight confines of the stairwell.

In truth, Maleneth had not decided what to do with the Pale Viper. Xarissa’s loyalty to Sybelline would have made the transition problematic. Most likely, Maleneth would have disposed of her as well.

But Xarissa did not need to know that.

‘Mistress Sybelline was blind to your strength,’ Maleneth said. ‘I am not.’

Do you honestly expect Xarissa to believe–

Quiet, crone, Maleneth replied. I am trying to save what remains of your miserable existence.

She stepped down to lay a hand on Xarissa’s sigil-inscribed arm. ‘You would have been my right hand – my sharpest, most treasured blade.’

Maleneth realised it was the wrong thing to say as she felt her former sister tense.

‘So I was to remain a tool.’ Xarissa shrugged free of her grip ‘A servant of my betters, cursed by blood and accident of birth.’

Maleneth thought quickly. She had always known her sister resented her, but had thought it rooted in jealousy rather than upbringing. Now, she saw the razored heart of Xarissa’s enmity, whetted by status and privilege. It hardly mattered that Maleneth’s so-called nobility only meant she was subject to a different form of brutality; all Xarissa could see was the divide between them. It was buried within her like a shard from a broken blade, jagged and festering. Any justification of Maleneth’s would only reopen the wound.

‘Mistresses, a thousand apologies for the interruption.’ Stromund’s voice came tight and terrified. ‘But might I suggest we continue this conversation at greater distance from the blasphemous shrine?’

Maleneth glanced over Xarissa’s shoulder to see the temple half-devoured by shadow. Silver and purple sparks limned the edges of encroaching darkness, as if Nightcliff itself sought to swallow and entomb the corrupt energies of the place. Although sorcery had never been her evocation, even Maleneth could hazard that the corrupt temple would not remain intact much longer.

As much of a relief as this was, Maleneth suspected they very much did not want to be around when it happened. Already, she could feel the pressure building behind her eyes, as if she were descending rapidly from a great height.

And yet, from the bitter look on Xarissa’s face, Maleneth could tell her sister was unlikely to react well to any attempt to postpone their reckoning. Unless she wanted to bury a dagger in the Pale Viper’s eye, pride meant Maleneth was unlikely to find an easy way to extricate herself from the situation.

The irony of it was that she had never cared about ruling the coven. Not really. Her plans to remove Sybelline had been idle, half-formed things, more speculation than actionable schemes. In truth, she had only considered the prospect because it seemed like what was expected of her. Among the Daughters of Khaine, those who grew complacent in their roles quickly found themselves stepped over or stepped upon. Arrogance and ambition killed as surely as envenomed blades, and Maleneth was not about to allow herself to fall to such tawdry conceits.

So she had plotted like all the rest.

It seemed foolish, now. Maleneth’s travels with Gotrek had shown her the folly of pride, just as her work for the Order of Azyr had cured her of any lingering ambition. There was no safety in status, no protection in power.

Like that, the answer came to her. So simple, and yet the Maleneth of years ago would never have even thought to look for it.

‘What should we do, mistress?’

Xarissa cocked her head, suspicious. ‘What are you playing at?’

‘Sybelline is dead, I am an outcast. You are the highest-ranking member of our former coven.’ She favoured Xarissa with a sad smile. ‘Such as it is.’

‘Truly?’ Xarissa seemed to swallow against a thickness in her throat.

‘I have always served best as a blade,’ Maleneth replied.

‘And will you serve me? Follow my commands?’ Her questions were tentative.

Despite an ominous rumble from the stone around them, Maleneth could not hold back the slightest of smiles.

‘Would you be comfortable with my blade at your back?’

‘No.’ Xarissa sniffed. ‘I do not think I would.’

‘But that doesn’t mean I cannot aid you,’ Maleneth continued. ‘Once Velara is dealt with, there will be much work to do. The covens, the city will need a new Mistress of the Spire, and I have neither the interest nor the stomach for politics.’

The Pale Viper regarded her through narrowed eyes, searching Maleneth’s face for any hint of betrayal. To her surprise, Maleneth realised she was telling the unvarnished truth.

‘Ladies.’ Stromund shifted from foot to foot, voice near panic.

‘Let us wreak Khaine’s holy vengeance.’ Xarissa extended a hand, and Maleneth took it. With her skills and Shadowstalker sorceries, the Pale Viper was not someone to be taken lightly. If a bit of deference was what it took to secure her aid, Maleneth was more than happy to swallow her pride.

She only hoped it was not a poisoned draught.

‘What now?’ she asked.

With a look to the sinking temple, Xarissa nodded towards the entrance. ‘We have what we came for – a motive. Whether or not Sybelline was corrupted by the Dark Prince, it is clear the High Gladiatrix remains in his service.’

Maleneth was happy to follow her former sister up the stairs, Stromund close at her heels.

Although they heard the sizzle of pent-up energies behind, fortunately Nightcliff’s geomantic ire seemed largely confined to the blasphemous temple. Stone cracked, massive blocks grinding into one another as the ziggurat began to collapse in on itself.

With a curse, Stromund stumbled against Maleneth’s back. Teeth gritted, she snatched at his arm, dragging him free of the rapidly dwindling tunnel. They hurried down the cracking stairs, forced to leap the last half a dozen feet as a section of jagged stone sheared from the front of the ziggurat.

Columns shuddered and shifted. It was as if some halfwit marshal had called down an artillery barrage. Dust filled the air, thick and choking. Maleneth blinked against stinging eyes, one arm pressed across her mouth and nose as she sought to navigate the confusion. At her side, Stromund spluttered like a drowning man. Xarissa was little more than a shadow up ahead, footing sure even amidst the destruction.

Another score of stumbling steps brought them to the sanctum gate. Maleneth would have cried out with relief if not for the choking fog. They dived through the portal just as a massive boom echoed through the inner sanctum. A great plume burst from the gate, showering them all with dust and debris. Then, the temple went silent.

Maleneth lay in the wreckage, checking her body for injuries and finding little more than scrapes and bruises. Khaine be praised.

Stromund let out a low moan. ‘I’m bleeding again.’

‘Put pressure on it.’ Maleneth rolled to her feet, scrubbing a hand across her dirt-covered eyes. ‘I thought duardin were made of sterner stuff.’

‘I was,’ Stromund replied. ‘Then someone stuck a knife in me.’

Maleneth shot the trapmaker a sour glare, but Stromund only huffed and started tearing another strip of cloth from his sleeve. She checked her blades, and found all comfortably in their sheaths.

Maleneth spied Xarissa amidst the settling dust. The Pale Viper stood still as stone, back straight, sword held in a low guard. The wary apprehension in Xarissa’s stance was warning enough. Maleneth was quick to draw her own short swords. Reversing the blades, she slipped to her sister’s side, gaze searching the clearing clouds for potential dangers.

A dozen armoured figures stood silhouetted in the dust. Arrayed in a loose semicircle, they held their shields close, warding one another’s flanks with the skill of veteran warriors.

Xarissa gave a low, warning hiss. ‘Who are you? And why have you dared enter this holy temple?’

The armoured entourage seemed unimpressed by Xarissa’s question. As one, they took a step forward, weapons coming up.

Xarissa matched the aggression, swirls of shadow twisting from the sigils on her arms. ‘Come and die, fools.’

Maleneth worked her tongue around her mouth, reasonably sure she knew the identities of their would-be assailants, but unsure of how Xarissa would react. Still, the Pale Viper was no fool; even long-held bitterness would bow before common sense. At least, Maleneth hoped it would.

Drawing in a slow breath, she sheathed her swords.

‘If I may, sister.’ Hands spread in what she hoped was a calming gesture, Maleneth stepped into the ring of blades. ‘Perhaps we might try a more diplomatic approach?’

Chapter Nineteen

Qholar Qat regarded them from across the debris-covered gallery, a thin-lipped scowl upon her severe features, her dark eyes sharp as knapped obsidian. Despite the swirls of dust still filling the air, the necromancer’s coat remained clean as a jeweller’s case. The same could not be said for her bodyguards, who looked as if they had recently crawled from their tombs.

‘I hoped I’d seen the last of you, Witchblade,’ the woman said.

‘I am an assassin,’ Maleneth replied. ‘Everyone hopes that.’

‘You know this sorcerer, sister?’ Xarissa whispered, blades still at the ready.

‘We have crossed paths.’

Qholar glowered at her. ‘Crossed paths?’

Maleneth winced. ‘She may have sold me the occasional lethal compound.’

‘Lethal compound? Am I some dockside venom-monger?’ Qholar’s upper lip curled. ‘My toxins and alchemical distillates are far beyond anything your myopic Khainite poisoners have even dreamed of.’

Now it was Xarissa’s turn to glare. ‘I knew you had an outside supplier.’

‘And you didn’t?’ Maleneth asked.

The Pale Viper looked away, a faint blush creeping up her neck. ‘Mistress Sybelline forbade it.’

‘Sybelline wanted to keep us dependent upon her poisoners,’ Maleneth replied.

Can you blame me? her former mistress said. The first of my flock to step outside the coven ended up lopping off my head.

Maleneth did not respond to Sybelline’s jibe; now was not the time to unearth old bones. She looked from Qholar to Xarissa, seeing mirrored indignation. Both seemed perched upon the precipice of violence.

‘Allow me to introduce Qholar Qat.’ Maleneth made shields of her palms, fingers spread. ‘The finest alchemist and necromancer in Nightcliff. I believe you have both already met Stromund Goldless.’

The Kharadron trapsmith gave a tired nod, then went back to binding his wounds.

‘And this is Xarissa,’ Maleneth continued. ‘More widely known as the Pale Viper, now mistress of my former coven.’

‘I am aware of her,’ Qholar said. ‘Although last I heard, she was with the High Gladiatrix… As were you, Witchblade.’

Maleneth chuckled. ‘Did you really think the Spire dungeons could hold me?’

‘Actually, I did.’ Qholar shrugged. ‘You have always had far too high an opinion of yourself.’

That drew a chuckle from Xarissa. ‘I think I like this one.’

Maleneth ignored her sister’s amusement. ‘Be that as it may, we three now find ourselves opposed to the High Gladiatrix, and very much in need of your services.’

‘Three?’ Stromund pushed to his feet with a huff. ‘Don’t include me in your fool plans.’

‘Oh, you’re coming, traitor.’ Maleneth gave her most threatening smile. ‘Whole or in pieces.’

Stromund wilted beneath her grinning regard. ‘Whole, if it pleases you.’

‘Very good.’ Maleneth turned back to Qholar. ‘Now, shall we discuss business?’

The necromancer crossed her arms. ‘Business? I haven’t yet decided whether or not to add the lot of you to my personal guar–’

Xarissa dived into the shadow of a canted column, emerging on the gallery a heartbeat later, her blade at Qholar’s throat.

‘And I have not yet heard a good reason as to why you and your shambling minions are in my murder temple.’

‘I can answer that,’ Maleneth called. ‘They were robbing the place.’

Qholar’s eyes widened. The necromancer’s guards turned like cogwork, only to pause as Xarissa increased the pressure on her blade.

Still smiling, Maleneth strolled towards the gallery, pointedly ignoring the heavily armoured wights.

‘Business?’ she asked again.

‘Business,’ came the necromancer’s rasped reply.

For a moment, Maleneth did not think Xarissa would remove her blade from Qholar’s throat, but as Maleneth vaulted up onto the gallery, her sister withdrew with a scowl.

Qholar stood, arms stiff at her side, head back, as if she could distance herself from the bead of blood that ran from the shallow nick on her throat.

‘About those toxins…’ Maleneth cleared her throat. ‘Also, I am going to need another new tooth.’

‘This way.’ Qholar turned on her heel and stalked off, heels clicking on the broken tile.

As the wights made to follow their mistress, Xarissa gave Maleneth a questioning look. She could well understand her sister’s concerns. It was one thing to catch a necromancer by surprise out in the field, a far different thing to deal with her in her lair.

‘She has never betrayed me.’ Maleneth glanced to Stromund. ‘Which is more than I could say for some.’

‘You act as if I had a choice.’ Glowering, the duardin scrambled up onto the low gallery.

‘You do,’ Xarissa answered sweetly. ‘How quickly would you like to die?’

‘Leave off with the threats, aelf.’ Stromund straightened to glare up at her. ‘I saw what was down in that temple. I hate you both, make no mistake, but I despise the Dark Gods.’ Despite his wounds, the duardin practically vibrated with self-righteous indignation. ‘They gnaw at the foundations of society, corrupting the virtue of the proletariat. There can be no freedom while the Dark Prince seeks to shackle us with high-born decadence. If workers are to strike free the chains of feudal obsolescence, we must first face the daemons that dwell within our own desires, lest we succumb to the same excesses that poisoned the aristocratic vultures who perch atop that mound of exploitative misery they dare to name “civilisation”!’

The duardin was almost shouting, eyes wide, bloody spittle flying from his lips. At last, Stromund seemed to run out of steam, and his diatribe trailed into furious panting.

Maleneth thought Xarissa was going to run the duardin through. Instead, she glanced her way, brows furrowed.

‘Does he actually believe all that nonsense?’

‘For as long as I’ve known him,’ Maleneth replied with a shrug.

‘I don’t ask you to trust me,’ Stromund continued in a calmer tone. ‘Only to believe that I desire to avenge myself upon Velara as much as you. She lied to me, used me, kept me prisoner for years. There may not have been bars upon the windows of my workshop, but never doubt that it was a cage.’

Maleneth regarded the truculent little exile. Although she doubted Stromund’s courage, his commitment, even his constitution, he was still duardin. Although Maleneth might curse Gotrek for a stubborn fool, he had taught her that being duardin meant something.

‘Do I have your oath?’ she asked.

‘Until that vile witch is dead.’ He rolled his shoulder, wincing. ‘Or one of you stabs me again.’

‘I think we can refrain,’ Maleneth said. ‘So long as you keep a civil tongue in your head.’

Stromund gave a wheezing laugh. ‘There, I make no promises.’

Although Xarissa looked less than convinced, she did not raise any objection. In Maleneth’s experience, desperation made almost anything palatable.

‘Coming?’ Qholar called from down the corridor. ‘Or are you waiting for the rest of this ruin to fall on your heads?’

Maleneth and the others hurried after the necromancer, although they still kept clear of her rattling guard.

Qholar led them deep into the maze of tunnels that filled the outer temple. Although Maleneth had been quite familiar with the layout, gradual erosion by Nightcliff’s gloom had shifted the corridors and rearranged the chambers. Halls that had once led to the acolyte dormitories now looped back upon themselves, spiralling up to half-fallen staircases that led nowhere. Several training rooms had been stacked atop one another, the remains of a temple column driven down through the centre like a great obsidian spear.

Worse, the less-travelled chambers contained echoes of other buildings: a mausoleum etched with weeping faces; a truncated fighting pit; even a series of odd, tiered stables meant for mounts whose anatomy Maleneth could hardly guess at.

There, behind a door of hammered bronze, lay the necromancer’s laboratory.

‘Into the baths with you.’ Qholar waved her bodyguards towards a series of bubbling copper cauldrons. ‘And do not forget to remove your armour, this time.’

Dutifully, the wights trudged off.

Seemingly unconcerned by her lack of guards, Qholar glanced around the lab, which appeared to have suffered aftershocks from the destruction of the inner sanctum.

‘Just look at this mess.’ She crunched through the ruined glassware, shaking her head. ‘It will take weeks to set everything right. Why, the alembics alone are worth a king’s ransom.’

‘Subtract the cost from what you pillaged from our temple,’ Maleneth replied curtly.

Although Qholar returned her comment with a withering look, she wisely did not reply.

‘Your stocks seemed to have survived intact.’ Maleneth hopped over a broken table to study the shelves lining the far walls. ‘Narúna oil, splinteroot, hag’s teeth, shardsilt.’ She ran her finger over the carefully labelled bottles. ‘And is that distilled gravedust?’

‘Twice as powerful as what I gave you before.’ Qholar nodded. ‘And then there is this…’

Gingerly she removed a small bone token from the wall. About the size of a large coin, it was carved with a grinning skull, its thick edge inscribed with incantations.

Maleneth regarded it dubiously. ‘I do not employ necromancy.’

‘Have no fear, assassin. This is barely a spark.’ With an irritated toss of her head, Qholar retrieved a polished skull from a nearby table, then slipped the token into its mouth.

Maleneth took a step back.

With a tight smile, Qholar spoke a brief phrase. Almost immediately, the skull began to chatter, teeth clacking. A few moments, and it was over. A thin runnel of dust leaked from the empty jaw as the token disintegrated.

‘The token imparts dead flesh with a flicker of unlife.’ Qholar held the skull up for Maleneth to inspect. ‘Muscles contract, tendons tighten, bones move once again. There is no controlling force, no hint of soul or intention. The animation is merely mechanical, and yet…’

The necromancer trailed off, letting the implications blossom in Maleneth’s thoughts. Although she neither liked nor practised any form of sorcery, she could think of many uses for Qholar’s tokens.

‘How many can you spare?’ Maleneth asked.

‘I only made half a dozen.’ Qholar held out a small pouch. ‘Although you must promise to report on their effectiveness.’

‘You have my word.’ With a grin, Maleneth tucked it into her belt, already imagining the confusion it would sow among her foes when the bodies of their seemingly dead companions flickered back to life, even briefly.

‘A fine collection.’ Drawn by the display, Xarissa drifted over with an appraising nod. ‘It is like being back in the coven’s thanacopeia.’

‘Better.’ Maleneth tapped the amulet. ‘There is no one to hold us back.’

It was for your own good, Sybelline grumbled. The merest taste of power, and look at what became of you.

Maleneth clenched her jaw. You would prefer we became meek little fanatics, ready to be sacrificed to the Ruinous Powers?

Her former mistress lapsed into troubled silence. Good. Sybelline had not considered her actions in life, let them haunt her in death.

Ignoring Qholar’s tight-lipped glare, Maleneth and Xarissa helped themselves to a wide selection of the necromancer’s poisons, powders, and alchemical unguents. It felt good to fill her various harnesses and concealed pouches. Truthfully, Maleneth had not realised how much she missed the comforting weight of an assortment of lethal concoctions. From the nasty grin on Xarissa’s face, Maleneth suspected her sister felt much the same.

But the upswell of relief hid currents of apprehension. Even Qholar’s deadliest toxins would be of little use if Maleneth could not reach her target. Even alone, the High Gladiatrix was a formidable fighter, but perched atop the Bladed Spire, surrounded by a legion of guards, wards, and Shadowstalkers of her own, Velara was nigh untouchable. At least they had a way past the Spire’s many traps – if Stromund did not betray them the moment they set foot in the Spire.

Maleneth glanced at the duardin. Under the pretext of assisting Qholar tidy the wreckage of her lab, Stromund was busily helping himself to all manner of easily pocketed equipment. For her part, the necromancer seemed too flustered to notice the theft. Pale-faced, she drifted amidst the brass tubing and broken glass like a defeated general taking stock of a slaughter. The necromancer would suffer far worse should the High Gladiatrix learn she had aided Maleneth. All the more reason to strike before the necromancer could change her mind.

First, Maleneth needed to secure Stromund’s loyalty. She could not trust the exiled Kharadron anarchist, that much was clear, but there were other ways to ensure he did not turn on them the moment it was convenient.

Palming a vial from Qholar’s stock, Maleneth approached the duardin, discreetly applying the contents of the vial to one of her sharper knives.

‘Ah, Witchblade.’ He straightened, hurriedly stuffing a small length of tubing into the front of his apron. ‘I trust you are well equipped once more.’

By way of response, Maleneth flicked the edge of her blade across the back of one of the duardin’s hairy forearms.

He drew it back with a yelp, reddening. ‘You stabbed me!’

‘Hardly.’ Maleneth looked down at the cut, tone dismissive. ‘Barely a scratch.’

Stromund’s brows knitted, his voice an angry growl. ‘I gave you my oath, aelf.’

‘You also said I didn’t have to trust you.’ Maleneth twirled the knife, letting the duardin see the oily, opalescent sheen along the edge of the blade. ‘Consider this insurance.’

His face went bloodless. ‘What is that?’

‘Better you not know,’ Maleneth said with a sly wink.

Xarissa drifted over, a companionable smile on her face. ‘Can’t have you bothering Qholar for the antidote, now can we?’

Stromund brought the cut to his mouth and started sucking.

‘I wouldn’t do that.’ Maleneth did a very bad job hiding her delight. ‘It is even deadlier when ingested.’

The duardin blanched, arm dropping to his side. ‘How long do I have?’

Maleneth shrugged. ‘Long enough.’

‘Long enough for what?’

Truthfully, Maleneth was not sure. She glanced to Xarissa. ‘You know the High Gladiatrix. What would be the best place to strike?’

Xarissa’s smile faded. ‘Velara has not left the Spire in months, and even before only in secret, under heavy guard. We will not reach her, not before Ascension, at least.’

It was Maleneth’s turn to blanch. The Ascension was a powerful ritual, one meant to harness the full measure of Nightcliff’s geomantic energies. Ulgu’s mists would temporarily part, shadows and deceptions boiled away before the High Gladiatrix’s might. Even Maleneth would not be able to elude her for long.

From her pained expression, Maleneth could tell Xarissa was thinking much the same.

‘You have both served her,’ Maleneth said. ‘Perhaps one of you could slip close enough.’

‘Being in Velara’s employ does not mean we share her confidence,’ Xarissa said. ‘It is likely she knows I have joined you.’ She glanced at Stromund. ‘The duardin as well.’

‘Under duress.’ Stromund glowered. ‘For all that matters to you bloody-minded aelves.’

‘And what of me?’ Qholar seemed to shake free of the malaise that had gripped her. Absently, she checked none of her braids had come lose from their tie, running a gloved finger down one dark-skinned cheek as if to gauge the severity of her expression. ‘Am I to expect a visit from Velara’s Witch Aelves?’

‘Not if we succeed.’ Maleneth tried to imbue her words with more confidence than she felt.

Qholar stiffened, expression turning waspish. ‘Or I hand the lot of you over to her.’

‘And you think Velara will be grateful to a tomb-robbing necromancer?’ Maleneth tossed her head. ‘She is more likely to flense you right along with us.’

Qholar’s thin lips writhed. ‘What are you playing at?’

‘Velara was the one who slaughtered our coven,’ Xarissa said, voice tight. ‘She planned a great sacrifice to Slaanesh, but my sister prevented it, if mostly by accident.’

Maleneth could have done without the latter confession, but there was little point in complicating matters.

Qholar pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut. ‘I always knew you would be the death of me, Witchblade.’

‘You’re a necromancer,’ Maleneth said. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’

‘I want a new laboratory,’ Qholar said without looking up. ‘Near the Spire, built to my specifications, fully stocked and warded, and as many corpses as I desire, whenever I desire.’

Maleneth frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’re going to kill Velara, correct?’ Qholar opened her eyes, her expression suddenly canny as a dockside merchant’s. ‘I assume that means you intend to take her place.’

Maleneth could not conceal her surprise.

‘Agreed.’ It was Xarissa who broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘I swear upon the Bloody-Handed God, you shall have all you request.’

Maleneth arched an eyebrow, fascinated to witness her sister assume authority.

‘Someone will need to pick up the pieces,’ Xarissa continued, fixing Qholar with a level gaze, as if daring her to argue. ‘I am the Pale Viper, known and respected throughout Nightcliff. The others will follow me, especially once they learn I am rebuilding our coven.’

Maleneth pressed a fist to her heart, head bowed, offering her sister her support. ‘You will make a fine Mistress of the Spire.’

That show of solidarity seemed to be enough to satisfy Qholar, though in truth Maleneth had little care for the position herself.

‘We must strike during the Ascension,’ Maleneth said. ‘Even if the High Gladiatrix knows of our presence, she will be bound by the Ascension ritual. Once we reach the top she must face us in combat.’

‘First, we need to actually gain access to the Spire,’ Xarissa said.

Stromund grunted. ‘I may be able to assist with that.’

Xarissa gave a dubious frown, but Maleneth gestured for the duardin to go on.

‘Deliveries.’ He grinned. ‘As part of my work on the Ascension Games, I set up a number of supply contracts – parts, generative motors, equipment, golems, provisions, that sort of thing. I know the pickup times and locations. It will be easy to swap out a few crates.’

Maleneth gave an approving nod, only to pause. ‘What about the Spire’s arcane defences?’

Stromund winced. ‘Can’t help you there.’

Xarissa paced a small, angry circle. ‘Even if we trust this duardin’s word, there is still the matter of the ritual itself. We cannot merely stumble around the lower arenas with the other sacrifices. Velara’s creatures would cut us down in a moment.’

‘What of the other Shadowstalkers?’ Maleneth asked. ‘Would they aid us?’

‘Velara may not command the Nightcliff covens, but all are eager to curry her favour.’ Xarissa gave a disgusted shake of her head. ‘Especially with Ascension underway.’

Maleneth drew in a slow breath, considering. Even with Stromund’s knowledge of the various mechanical traps and obstacles, they would need someone capable of accessing the higher arenas lest they lose the element of surprise. But everyone in the Spire was loyal to Velara.

She swallowed, eyes widening as a wild idea surfaced amidst the churning fog of her thoughts.

Not everyone.

‘I know someone who can aid us,’ Maleneth said with more conviction than she felt.

‘Who?’ Xarissa asked.

‘Splendid.’

‘The ogor?’ Her sister sniffed. ‘Even if you could get a message to the ravenous brute, he is hardly an ally to inspire much trust.’

‘Splendid has earned a place among Velara’s gladiators.’ Maleneth nodded. ‘He could easily help us bypass the lower arenas.’

‘Is this ogor a sorcerer as well?’ Qholar Qat asked. ‘You are not the first assassins to attempt to slip into the Spire. The wards are powerful enough to detect even the smallest spark of life.’

Maleneth grinned. ‘Fortunately, we happen to have the services of an exceptionally skilled necromancer.’

Qholar’s answering glare could have withered fresh grass.

‘Looks like you have a plan.’ Stromund brought his hands together. ‘Now, once I draw up a map of the traps, you two should be able to–’

‘Why would we need a map?’ Maleneth cocked her head.

‘I’ve been bludgeoned, bloodied, and poisoned.’ Stromund brandished his bandaged arms. ‘I’m not fit to climb a set of stairs, let alone the Bladed Spire.’

‘You’re coming, Kharadron,’ Xarissa said.

Stromund did not flinch. ‘Perhaps you and your sister should have considered that before you started cutting me to bits.’

‘Qholar can patch him up.’ Maleneth nodded at the necromancer.

‘Not unless you want me to slit his throat first,’ Qholar replied curtly. ‘I work with the dead. Living flesh is far too…’ She shuddered. ‘Wet.’

‘I can see to the duardin’s wounds.’ Xarissa spoke like someone contemplating a late-night jaunt through the sewers. ‘He won’t be hale and hearty, but I can keep him together for a short time.’

Maleneth smiled. ‘A short time is all we require.’

Stromund reddened to the roots of his beard. ‘And do I get a say in what happens to me?’

‘Trust me, duardin,’ Maleneth said, brandishing her poisoned dagger, ‘the Spire offers a far cleaner death.’

‘No need to remind me.’ Stromund gripped his injured arm, lapsing into sullen silence.

Xarissa chewed her lip, expression uncertain. ‘You were the one who told me patience is the most important quality in an assassin.’

‘It is our only chance,’ Maleneth said. ‘Either we strike during Ascension, or we turn our backs on Nightcliff and run as far and fast as we can.’

Xarissa sniffed. ‘Never was much of a runner.’

‘Then it is settled,’ Maleneth said.

‘Not quite,’ Xarissa interjected. ‘You still haven’t explained how you plan to smuggle the three of us to your ogor friend without alerting the High Gladiatrix.’

Maleneth favoured her sister with a truly vicious grin, then turned to Stromund.

‘These deliveries, you mentioned something about provisions?’

Chapter Twenty

Maleneth awoke to the sound of gnashing teeth. Rising from the dead was not like returning from sleep. Her senses returned slowly – a sensation of torchlit warmth as her crate was pried open. Stromund had packed them in salt, a necessary discomfort if they were to pass for gladiatorial provisions, but one that made Maleneth’s skin itch. She tried to raise a hand to wipe the brackish detritus from her face, but whatever vile necromantic concoction Qholar had given them seemed yet to have fully released its grip upon her body.

Maleneth spied a thick-fingered hand silhouetted against the lantern light. It grabbed Xarissa’s arm and her sister was roughly pulled from the crate.

‘Oh, aren’t you a tasty-looking morsel.’ A familiar voice pierced the buzz in Maleneth’s ears. She tried to speak, to move, anything, but her body may as well have been a corpse.

‘A bit stringy, and they could’ve at least stripped off the tatty bits.’ After turning her this way and that, the ogor tossed Xarissa onto a nearby table. ‘Just have to tenderise you a bit, won’t we?’

Maleneth lay there, limbs frozen, face half-buried in salt as Splendid took his time choosing from among a rather elaborate selection of toothed mallets, many of which looked to be repurposed instruments of torture. A truly massive stove occupied most of the far wall, its surface packed with oil-filled pans and bubbling pots. Drawing forth a long flensing knife, Splendid began to sing happily to himself:

‘Said the Tyrant to his gnoblars,

“Come, fetch your king a snack.

Lunch is long forgotten,

And my belly’s met my back.”’

Maleneth fought to speak, but all that emerged from her salt-blistered lips was the softest of moans, lost against the rumble of the ogor’s song. Stromund was nowhere to be seen, still buried in the crate – that is, if the bearded coward had not figured out some way to slip free. Maleneth willed Splendid to glance her way, but the ogor seemed lost in dinner preparations.

‘His grots they came a-runnin’,

With rats and snakes, fresh got.

It still weren’t enough for Kingy,

So he tossed ’em in the pot!’

Salt trickled through Maleneth’s twitching fingers. Stromund and Qholar had promised to pack their gear as well; if she could but find a percussive oil or smoke flask, she might tip it onto the chamber floor and alert Splendid that he was about to eat her sister.

‘Khaine, grant me strength.’ Barely a whisper, the prayer slipped from a mouth gone dry as the rusty Chamonic desert where she and the ogor had first crossed paths.

Her questing fingers brushed across glass, clumsily closing around the neck of a vial.

‘“My loyal Tribe!” he shouted.

“Your Tyrant must be fed!”

But even Butchers’ meats weren’t filling,

So he ate ’em all, instead.’

The ogor was singing loudly now, smacking his lips between each verse. Slowly, agonisingly, Maleneth dragged her arm through the packed salt, hoping she had managed to grab something that could rise above Splendid’s cannibalistic caterwaul.

‘“I’m famished!” came his wretched cry,

At suppertime, bereft.

An’ though he licked the mountains clean,

There weren’t no one left.’

With a groan of effort, Maleneth’s hand broke through the crusted surface of the salt. If not for her parched throat, she would have cried out with joy to see the small ampoule of lamprey powder clutched in her salt-rimed fingers. Although meant to be applied to blades, on its own, the powder would produce an irritating miasma if mixed with saltwater. Carefully, Maleneth thumbed the stopper free and upended the vial.

Splendid laid out his knives upon the table, then began to gingerly remove Xarissa’s boots. Unlike Maleneth, her sister still seemed completely under the effects of Qholar’s sorcerous potion – indistinguishable from a corpse.

Indistinguishable from a meal, if you were an ogor.

Jaw tight with effort, Maleneth worked her swollen tongue around her mouth. When she had worked up the barest hint of saliva, she turned her head and spat upon the salt and lamprey powder, then squeezed her eyes shut, breath held against the yellowish mist that threaded from the mixture.

Not enough, not nearly.

She dared not breathe. Maleneth’s eyes stung, salt and acrid mist wringing furious tears from behind closed eyes. They cut hot tracks down her cheek to fall upon the softly hissing concoction.

‘So did he roam, and stuff his maw,

With duardin, man, and aelf.

And when he’d swallowed everyone,

Of course, he ate himsel–’

Splendid’s ballad ground to a halt. Sniffing, the ogor turned and thumped over to the crate.

‘Maw’s Teeth, I think this one’s gone off.’ Holding his nose, he drew Maleneth from the crate, forearm pinched between thumb and forefinger as if she were a particularly odious bit of fish. The ogor waved a hand before his nose. ‘Need to have a word with the woman upstairs. Velara promised me fresh–’

He gave a surprised cough.

‘Witchblade? Is that you?’

Maleneth managed a lopsided grin, twitching her free arm in a rough approximation of a wave.

‘They said you’d gutted half a dozen witches and run off.’ He regarded her, shaggy brows high with surprise. ‘What’re you doing back?’

‘Water.’

‘Ah, right. Time for questions later.’ Splendid propped her on a rough chair. A few moments later a bowl of tepid water was tipped to Maleneth’s lips. She drank, slowly at first, then more greedily as the liquid invigorated her. It was difficult not to down the entire bowl, but she knew the water would only come back up if she did not pace herself.

‘My sister.’ She nodded towards where Xarissa lay.

Splendid frowned. ‘Looks nothing like you.’

‘Not by blood, idiot.’

‘Sure enough.’ He shrugged, then wet a rag to dribble water onto Xarissa’s lips.

They both flinched as Stromund burst from the other crate in a spray of salt. His whooping breath shattered into a series of wracking coughs.

Splendid raised one shaggy eyebrow. ‘How many of you are in there?’

‘Just the three of us,’ Maleneth said between measured sips.

Shaking his head, Splendid guided the still coughing duardin to a stool and pressed a large flagon into his trembling hands. After a few failed attempts, Stromund managed to raise it to his blue-tinged lips. Drinking deep, he settled back with a sigh, seeming, at last, to take stock of his surroundings.

‘I take it you’re Splendid.’ He regarded the ogor. ‘Stromund Goldless, at your service.’

‘At my service.’ The ogor’s grin seemed to display every crooked tooth in his mouth. ‘Oh, I think I’d like that very much.’

The duardin suddenly seemed to discover something very interesting at the bottom of his flagon. Despite her discomfort, Maleneth managed a tired smile, surprised to discover she had actually missed Splendid’s blathering.

Water was followed by hot broth. Although Maleneth did not want to consider what it might contain, the savoury soup banished the lingering chill of Qholar’s necromancy. Splendid busied himself with Xarissa, nattering over the Pale Viper like some backwoods healer. Even so, it was some time before Maleneth felt as if her legs would support her.

Xarissa awakened with a start, the sigils on her arms flaring with shadow light as she jabbed a finger towards Splendid’s eye. Fortunately, her aim was off, and the sharpened nail only gouged a rough path across the ogor’s cheek. He reeled back and Xarissa lurched to her feet, only to collapse again, arms twitching.

Splendid was quick to put a heavy, booted foot on her back, pressing the Pale Viper down even as she struggled and spat.

‘Peace, sister,’ Maleneth said. ‘This is Splendid.’

‘We have met.’ The fact Xarissa had her face mashed against the stone floor did nothing to lessen the disdain in her voice. ‘Now, let me up, brute.’

‘You’re the ones who snuck into my larder,’ the ogor replied, hands on hips. ‘Before I move a hair, I’ll either have an explanation or dinner. Your choice.’

Maleneth steepled her hands. ‘It’s a long story.’

The ogor grinned mirthlessly. ‘Got somewhere else to be?’

‘Actually, yes.’ Sighing, Maleneth told him of her travels since they parted ways. Although she was tempted to hold back, there was an impatience in the old ogor’s bearing that demanded the whole truth. Ignoring Xarissa’s warning hiss, Maleneth spoke of Velara’s betrayal, the ruins of their temple, and of what they found beneath the inner sanctum.

When it was done, the ogor stood back with a low whistle. Xarissa surged to her feet, glaring daggers at Splendid. For his part, the ogor seemed unconcerned. ‘Is that why I found the three of you packed up like sides of salt pork?’

‘The Spire wards would have detected us if we tried to slip inside,’ Maleneth replied. ‘So I had Qholar render us dead long enough to make a delivery.’

‘And how did you know they would bring you to me?’ Splendid asked.

Maleneth gave a thin smile. ‘Anyone else down here looking to dine on aelf?’

‘Fair point.’ The ogor gave an approving nod. ‘Although it does rob me of a meal.’

‘If we succeed, I suspect there will be plenty to go around,’ Stromund said.

‘We?’ the ogor asked.

‘We need your help,’ Maleneth told him. ‘As a gladiator, you can deliver us to the upper arenas.’

‘And just why would I do that?’ He crossed his meaty arms. ‘I’ve found a good job here. Plenty to eat, to drink, to fight. Far worse ways to retire, if you ask me.’

Pushing to her feet, Maleneth met his sceptical gaze. ‘Because we are friends.’

Wide nostrils flared as the ogor regarded her for a long moment. Maleneth saw Xarissa edge towards the crate that held their weapons. Well did she understand her sister’s thinking. If Splendid was not with them, then he was a liability.

Fortunately, before Xarissa could avail herself of her blades, the ogor gave a loud snort.

‘Friends? I suppose we are.’ Shaking his head, he clapped Maleneth on the shoulder. ‘Now, tell me just how we’re supposed to cut our way up this cursed tower.’

The muted rumble of conversation filtered down from the stands overhead, the Spire’s lower arenas thrumming with the press of folk eager to witness the Ascension. Although the best seats on the higher arenas were reserved for nobles, priestesses, wealthy merchants and visiting dignitaries, even the initial challenges would provide plenty of vicious sport for Nightcliff’s bloodthirsty citizenry.

Even several floors below, Maleneth could feel the crowd’s growing hunger, a raucous, debauched yearning that seemed almost savage in its desire. Velara’s servants had rolled out thousands of barrels of assorted intoxicants, and from the shrieks and shouts that rose from the murky babble, Maleneth guessed some of the mob had grown impatient and decided to begin the blood sports early. Deaths were always common, although she could not help but detect a note of depraved delight in the screams.

If the High Gladiatrix has corrupted the Ascension ritual, it could endanger all of Nightcliff. Mistress Sybelline spoke slowly but urgently. It seemed facing her previous failures had changed something within Maleneth’s former mistress. Whether for better or worse remained to be seen.

It matters not if Velara has fallen to the Dark Prince, Maleneth replied. Either way, she dies tonight.

I merely raise concerns, daughter. Sybelline’s reply held none of her usual venom. It may be you face more than guards and gladiatrixes.

A good point, one Maleneth had not really wanted to consider. If Velara had corrupted the ritual, it could mean all manner of dark things might await them within the upper arenas. Forewarned was forearmed, but how did one plan for daemons and dark sorcery?

‘Down this hall.’ Stromund gestured at a branching corridor to their right.

Splendid thrust his chin towards the gloom ahead. ‘Stairs are that way.’

‘I’ve got an auxiliary workshop.’ Stromund looked not to the ogor, but Maleneth. ‘It’s not much – a few rigs, some assorted sidearms and rifles, and a handful of aether-gold. Mostly for repairs and installation, mind you, but I may be able to cobble together some things to ease our journey.’

‘Do we trust him with weapons?’ Xarissa asked.

‘Question is, do you trust me without them?’ Stromund spread his hands, palms up. ‘You’ve set course for one of the worst firefights I’ve ever seen. I can navigate us through the obstacles, but what’s to stop one of Velara’s harpies from nipping off my head? Not to mention whatever other surprises the High Gladiatrix has in store, any one of which is most likely sufficient to tear apart an unarmed duardin.’

‘Don’t fret, coward.’ Xarissa laughed. ‘We’ll keep you safe.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m worried about.’ Stromund’s fingers brushed the puckered scars along his arms.

Splendid snorted. ‘I think the tinker has a point.’

Maleneth shared a glance with Xarissa. Although her sister’s posture was thorny as a gladiatrix’s whip, resignation threaded her narrow-lipped scowl. A moment, and Xarissa relented, her nod so slight as to be imperceptible to anyone who did not know her well.

Maleneth ran a hand through her hair. ‘How long?’

‘A few minutes.’ Although the duardin’s smile did not inspire much confidence, his steps were sure as he led them down a series of narrow corridors to an iron-bound door bristling with heavy-toothed gears. Deftly thumbing several of the cogs into position, Stromund cranked the assembly, and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

Based on the trapsmith’s description, Maleneth was expecting a cramped space, crammed with all manner of aetheric eccentricities. Instead, she found herself in a well-appointed chamber, tools hanging from every wall, a series of tables and workbenches spread with neat stacks of spare parts. Several small aether-endrins glowed in their padded harnesses. Stromund helped himself to a few of the softly humming power sources before busying himself with a rather complex harness hanging nearby.

Discreetly, Maleneth eased one of her blades from its sheath, ready for any treachery. As if reading her thoughts, Xarissa drifted towards the far side of the room, positioning herself so that Stromund could not catch the both of them in one blast.

For the moment at least, it appeared Stromund was true to his word. A few minutes saw the Kharadron trapmaker outfitted in a suit of dull steel and brass, an assortment of tubes, harnesses, straps and interlocking plates making the duardin appear like nothing so much as a miniature golem. Although he wore no helm, Stromund’s eyes were concealed behind heavy goggles, the lenses tinted so as not to catch the lamplight. He snatched up a large leather satchel, and began to fill it with mechanical odds and ends.

Noticing Maleneth’s scrutiny, he made a show of holding up each item before tossing it in the pack. ‘Auto-spanner, cog tightener, self-sealing mesh, pneumatic jack for prising open stubborn doors, focal lenses, a handful of stembolts, cog wedges, and a few filtration masks in case we run into bad air.’

Maleneth narrowed her eyes. With little but the duardin’s word to go on, she suspected some of the things in Stromund’s satchel might have more uses than he let on.

‘If I wanted you dead, I could just raise the alarm,’ he said, gesturing at a small lever on the nearby wall. ‘One pull and we’d be drowning in Spire Guard.’ He shook his sack. ‘Yes, some of these bits could harm, even kill, but if you’re looking for real weapons…’

With a whine of powered gears, Stromund strode across the chamber, every step propelled by the suit’s motors. A flick of one gauntleted hand threw open the lid of a heavy chest, revealing a miniature armoury. Stromund bent over the small arsenal, only to pause with a soft hiss as the tip of Xarissa’s blade came to rest gently against the back of his neck.

‘Hold a moment.’ Xarissa looked over her shoulder at Maleneth. ‘Which of these should we allow him?’

Maleneth looked over the contents, surprised to recognise some of the weapons from the time she and Gotrek had spent among the Kharadron of Barak-Urbaz. Although much of those events remained a blur of bearded faces, spore-filled caverns, and cackling gitz, it seemed the Idoneth had left her with some knowledge. Even so, most of Stromund’s weapons might as well have been arcane implements, their forms fitted with all manner of gems and brass tubing. Maleneth could not easily divine their working, let alone what manner of ordnance they might unleash.

Ignoring Stromund’s disappointed mutter, Maleneth went for the weapons she understood, selecting a pair of curved aethermatic saws, and a heavy volley gun. All were eminently deadly, although not so much that Maleneth feared Stromund might successfully use them against her.

While the duardin sullenly attached the various armaments to his harness, Maleneth plucked a small, silver-and-steel dodecahedron from the padded cradle.

Stromund gave a disapproving grunt. ‘That’s not a toy, aelf.’

‘Aetheric grenade.’ Maleneth tossed the explosive and caught it, grinning. ‘Ten-second fuse and a blast radius of about twenty paces. It will sear through stone, flesh, steel, even arcane wards.’

Stromund’s mouth fell open.

Maleneth checked the priming and safety levers, then slipped the grenade into her pouch. ‘I spent some time among your people.’

His thick brows shadowed angry eyes. ‘We are not in the habit of sharing secrets with outsiders.’

‘Who said I was an outsider?’ Maleneth said, voice light. ‘Guild Friend, I believe they named me.’

Stromund shook his head in disbelief. ‘Standards must have fallen since I left.’

Maleneth turned away. Laughing, Xarissa sheathed her blade, following close behind.

‘When this is all over, you shall have to tell me of your travels,’ she said softly.

‘Of course, sister.’ The smile bled from Maleneth’s lips as she prodded the holes in her tattered memory. Although the enchantments the Idoneth had laid upon her left the broad strokes of her time with the Order of Azyr, much of the detail was gone, as if the foundations of her memory had been rendered a shifting desert stirred by the winds of recollection.

Maleneth could sense Xarissa’s concern, but there was no time to explain – not that she would have. Some secrets were not worth the telling, and Maleneth was not about to be undone by trust, especially before she settled accounts with her undersea cousins.

Now that Stromund was properly outfitted, Maleneth had to admit they made better time – although the duardin’s harness left much to be desired with regard to stealth. Fortunately, the Ascension ritual began as they were climbing the stairs, and the sound of intoxicated, blood-maddened crowds easily drowned the hissing whine of Stromund’s harness. So loud was the cheer that Maleneth could barely make out the screams of the dying. Even the roars of the assorted beasts in the corridors below the lower arena seemed a hollow, distant thing compared to the depraved cacophony of the mob above. If Maleneth had not known better, she might have mistaken the proceedings for a riot.

Whatever Velara’s ritual sought to harness, it appeared to have little to do with Khaine. Upswelling disgust combined with Maleneth’s desire for vengeance to whet her resolve to razor-sharpness. It took only a shared glance with Xarissa to see her sister felt the same.

They skirted the crowd, seeking one of the arcane lifts that threaded the Spire’s outer walls. Although undoubtedly well guarded, they were the only way to ascend without climbing through the grand spiral of the lower arena stair to the more rarefied threats above.

A wide corridor led to the lifts. Two Witch Aelf guards stood at stiff attention outside the heavy iron door, jewellery and armour backlit by the sorcerous sigils inscribed upon the metal. They made no move as Splendid approached, thumbs hooked into his belt, a wide grin upon his grizzled features. Maleneth and Xarissa waited in the shadows of the hall, Stromund far enough behind so as not to give them away.

‘I’m needed on the upper levels,’ Splendid announced, halting a few steps before the guards.

‘All lifts are closed,’ the one on the right said.

Splendid’s smile did not flicker. ‘My orders come from Velara herself.’

‘As do ours,’ came the unflinching reply.

‘Well.’ Splendid sighed. ‘Then it seems we’re at an impasse.’

Maleneth had forgotten how quickly the old ogor could move, his amiable lethargy shed easily as a tattered cloak.

She was already running by the time Splendid’s cutlass cleared its scabbard. The right guard had barely raised her weapon when the blade came arcing down. Propelled by the ogor’s prodigious weight, the notched steel edge sheared through flesh and bone with equal ease.

As her companion dropped to the tile, cut almost in half, the second guard drew her blades and leapt at Splendid. Maleneth darted to the side, her blade angled to slip into the joint where the guard’s neck met her shoulder. Regrettably well trained, the Witch Aelf turned, checked her rush at the last moment, and pivoted to parry Maleneth’s thrust. The guard swiped at her with her curved sword, but Maleneth was too close for more than a glancing blow. Rather than follow up with another cut, she slipped her blades back into their sheaths, then threaded her arms through the struggling guard’s, drawing her into a tight embrace.

Although the Witch Aelf was undoubtedly stronger, Maleneth had both leverage and technique. Perhaps not enough to overpower one of the Spire’s elite guards, but certainly enough to keep her struggling long enough for Xarissa to run her sword across her throat.

Maleneth spun away to avoid the spray of arterial blood. Drawing her blades, she raised one to acknowledge Xarissa’s kill. Her sister returned the gesture with a satisfied flourish.

Stromund chose just that moment to burst around the corner, volley gun braced against his hip, its barrel sparking with aetheric energy. He halted, gaze flicking between the dead guards.

‘Try to keep up, duardin,’ Maleneth called, failing to conceal her amusement.

Muttering to himself, Stromund joined them at the lift door.

‘Stand back.’ Xarissa laid a palm upon the inscribed iron, the sigils on her bare forearm twining with shadow. The runes flared bruise-purple, and the lift door slid aside to reveal a circular hollow perhaps five paces in diameter.

Following Xarissa inside, Maleneth peered up into the darkness above. Although she discerned no obstructions in the hollow shaft, she did not relax her guard.

Once more, the Pale Viper placed a hand upon the controls of the lift, but the circular stone slab failed to rise. Teeth gritted, she increased the pressure, darkly inked symbols writhing like captured serpents upon her pale flesh. Wisps of shadow curled from the stone around her like steam rising on a chill day.

And still the lift did not ascend.

‘She has done something.’ Xarissa’s expression twisted in concentration. ‘The motive enchantments are snarled. Let me see if I can–’

A flare of angry red brilliance sent bright spots dancing across Maleneth’s vision. Xarissa’s scream cut the air, the smell of scorched flesh filling the shaft. Maleneth raised a hand to shield her eyes, but could make out little amidst the searing light. It seemed to come from all around, dazzlingly bright in the tight confines of the lift.

Groaning, Splendid stumbled into Maleneth, almost knocking her flat. She slipped around the ogor’s bulk, navigating the close space through feel alone. It was clear her sister had tripped some defensive enchantment meant to burn unwelcome visitors to cinders.

Maleneth hurled herself at the space where Xarissa had been standing, hoping to break whatever arcane connection bound her sister to the coruscating sigils. They fell in a tumble of limbs, too close to break their fall. Maleneth’s shoulder rebounded from hard stone, pain sharp amidst the glow.

For a moment, she thought the deadly light remained, but it was only bright afterimages flickering across her vision. Blinking, she disentangled herself from Xarissa, who rolled to her knees with a soft moan. Gradually, her vision returned.

‘I thought you were a sorceress.’ Splendid ground the heels of his palms into watering eyes.

‘Sorceress, indeed.’ Stromund rubbed at his face. ‘The famed Pale Viper trips the first arcane snare Velara lays for us.’

‘That was no trap,’ Xarissa answered through panting gasps. ‘She has fouled the entire lift network. There is no way up or down.’

‘No way but the arena stair,’ Maleneth said, stomach tightening with disquiet.

As if signalled by her dire pronouncement, the lift door slid open.

The corridor beyond echoed with the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd.

Chapter Twenty-One

They had flooded the lowest arena. A series of wooden platforms of varying widths were suspended over water stained crimson by the half-devoured corpses bobbing on its surface. Sleek shadows moved beneath: razorfins, venomaws, and striped allopexes culled from the murky depths of the Penumbral Sea. Like a tribe of ravenous ogors, they glutted upon those unlucky enough to fall from the unsteady footing above. The platforms were secured by heavy chains descending from the arena’s high ceiling, and connected by several dozen rope suspension bridges, their wooden slats already slick with blood.

Hundreds fought upon the makeshift islands. A mix of poorly armed prisoners, gladiators, and noble-backed challengers seeking fame and fortune, they sought to reach the wide central stair that led to the next arena. Upon each platform stood a cadre of grinning Witch Aelves. They pranced and cavorted as if upon a theatre stage, making vicious sport of any victims who managed to cross.

Adding to the danger, Velara had apparently distributed crossbows to the audience nearest to the arena. Slaves moved among the stands, ensuring a steady supply of ebonspyke, gloomwine, and barbed bolts. Intoxicating smoke rose from braziers at the end of each row, the crowd of labourers, foreigners, sailors, and off-duty soldiers baying like a horde of blood-mad orruks. Although the vast majority of their shots splashed harmlessly to the water below, the mob made up in enthusiasm what it lacked in accuracy.

Every time one of the victims was pinioned, a great roar went up from the crowd, the sound so overwhelming it seemed to press upon Maleneth like a physical weight. She found herself unconsciously shrinking back into the wide entryway, as if the shadows might mute the vulgar cacophony.

‘I don’t suppose you know a way around this?’ Maleneth had to shout to be heard over the thunder of the crowd.

‘Don’t insult me.’ The duardin gave her a sour look. ‘I’m no cheap tinker. My work would be wasted here.’

Xarissa leaned in. ‘Surely you glanced at the plans.’

‘Of course I did,’ Stromund snapped back. ‘The platforms are stable. The bridges less so. None are rigged to collapse, but that doesn’t mean some clever witch won’t think to cut the ropes.’

Maleneth eyed the blood-drenched scene. ‘Any other surprises?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Strictly low entertainment for the rougher crowds.’

Splendid gave a rumbling chuckle. ‘Seems to be working.’

‘Of course it is,’ Stromund said. ‘Blood sports are the opiate of the masses. A means for entrenched aristocratic interests to paper over societal inequalities with brutal spectacle while simultaneously demonstrating their monopoly on violence.’

Splendid cocked his head at Maleneth. ‘What’s he on about?’

‘Nothing important,’ Maleneth said. ‘If he knows what is good for him.’

‘The struggle matters to us all.’ The duardin glowered back at her. ‘And besides, I wasn’t the one who was supposed to get us past this mess.’ He waved his gun at the slaughter. ‘We should already be on our way to the upper arenas.’

‘How was I to know Velara would disable the lifts?’ Xarissa said angrily.

Stromund grunted. ‘Seems like something two master assassins might anticipate.’

The Pale Viper took an angry step forward. ‘Listen, duardin–’

Maleneth laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder. ‘Do not forget we need him.’ She fixed Stromund with a warning glance. ‘And do not forget what awaits you should we fail.’

The duardin rubbed his arm, scowling.

Maleneth glanced towards the arena, a mix of apprehension and excitement twisting in her gut. Like the other arenas, the lowest was accessible only by entry stairs opening from the east, with others on the western side leading up to the next higher arena, which, in turn, needed to be crossed to reach the ascending stairs on the east. Up and up, they would need to battle through all three of the Bladed Spire’s stacked arenas before they could ascend to the temple at its pinnacle, where High Gladiatrix Velara waited.

Despite the enormity of their task, it would feel good to kill again.

‘So what would you have us do, Witchblade?’ Stromund asked.

Maleneth drew her blades. ‘We work Khaine’s will.’

Without waiting, Maleneth stepped onto the bridge. Although she was prepared to continue alone if need be, she could not ignore the small swell of relief that tickled up her spine as the bridge creaked and flexed under her companions’ weight.

They crossed in a loose line, Maleneth and Xarissa in the lead, then Stromund, with Splendid at the rear. Although the bridge swayed beneath them, it seemed sturdy enough, despite the occasional crossbow bolt sticking from its knotted ropes. A missile flicked across her vision, several more close behind. Snatching one from the air, Maleneth snapped the shaft with an irritated twist of her hand. An aggrieved howl rose from the nearer stands, followed by a veritable hail of bolts.

Only a fool taunts a frenzied manticore, her mistress chided.

Fortunately, I’m not taunting only one. As Maleneth had hoped, fury and intoxication combined to send shots careening wildly through the air. Several fights broke out amongst the crowd. Blades flashed, and the flood of missiles slowed to a mere trickle.

Well done. I’ve always enjoyed a massacre, Sybelline conceded with a chuckle. Maleneth was surprised to feel a flush of satisfaction at her former mistress’ praise. Keeping low to make a smaller target, she hurried towards the closest platform, her companions close behind.

Perhaps a dozen paces across, it was covered with blood and bodies, the gladiatrixes having been overwhelmed by the sheer press of desperate victims. Several wounded prisoners cowered near the centre, watching Maleneth with terrified eyes. She ignored them. Murdering such detritus would be an insult to Khaine.

Maleneth scanned the nearby platforms, searching for a path. Predictably, the most direct paths were also the best defended.

Velara is no mere gladiatrix, Sybelline cautioned. Conserve your strength.

It was good advice. Maleneth did not know what dangers the upper arenas might hold. And yet, now that they had lost the element of surprise, speed was their only ally.

Squaring her shoulders, she pointed a blade towards the direct route: a pair of larger platforms. The first was packed with prisoners and Sisters of Slaughter, a bloody press of struggling bodies. Although the second was adjacent to the arena stair, it held almost a score of fresh defenders, eager for blood.

‘Stromund, clear us some space,’ Maleneth called as they approached the combat on the first platform.

‘With pleasure.’ Shouldering his volley gun, the duardin unleashed an indiscriminate barrage upon the nearest combatants.

Maleneth and Xarissa charged into the confusion of blood and screams, Splendid roaring behind. A shrieking gladiatrix reared from the press, daggers in both hands as she leapt at Maleneth. Rather than meet the headlong charge, Maleneth pivoted upon the bloody boards, letting her would-be assailant sail past and out into the empty air.

The gladiatrix’s scream was lost amidst the din as she plummeted towards the deadly water below. Maleneth paid her no mind, slipping among the combatants like a hunting allopex, her progress marked by pained shrieks and wet gasps.

Following Maleneth’s lead, Xarissa and Splendid targeted the Sisters of Slaughter. Within a few frenzied moments the platform was clear of defenders. Too stupid or bloodthirsty to realise the threat, some of the prisoners threw themselves at her. Maleneth killed those who wished to die, and soon the others fled her blades, gathering in a tight knot on the far side of the platform like a herd of terrified sheep.

Maleneth turned away with a contemptuous snarl, glaring at the last platform that stood between them and the central stair.

Although a score of Sisters awaited them, the platform was nearer the centre of the arena, and thus largely out of range of the crowd. Armed with long, barbed poles, the gladiatrixes made sport of knocking prisoners into the water, cackling as their victims disappeared in a welter of fins and snapping jaws.

A salvo of aethershot from Stromund’s volley gun got the witches’ attention quickly enough. Maleneth and Xarissa separated, skirting the edges of the platform while Splendid beat back the razored poles with wide sweeps of his cutlass.

One of the defenders swiped at Maleneth, but she was already too close. The gladiatrix did not even have time to register surprise before Maleneth’s sword pierced her heart.

The brightness of the arena made for few shadows, but Xarissa darted among them like an icy wind, every slash edged in arterial crimson. It was not a contest, and yet, Maleneth found herself working to outdo her sister, cutting throats and tendons with equal ease.

She was surprised to feel a flush of disappointment when they reached the foot of the wide, circular stair that spiralled up to the next arena.

‘Should we let some of them up first?’ Splendid asked, waving his cutlass at the small mob of prisoners trailing behind Maleneth and her companions like gulls behind a Black Ark.

‘Their deaths could warn of awaiting traps.’ Stromund wiped a gauntleted fist across his sweat-streaked forehead.

‘Or slow us down,’ Xarissa said. ‘The last thing we need is to cut through a mob of panicked victims.’

‘My sister is right.’ Maleneth nodded. ‘I do not fear the lower arenas, and every moment we wait gives Velara more time to prepare.’

Although the duardin’s lips twisted into an exasperated scowl, he did not argue as Maleneth began up the stairs.

They were trapped, of course. Maleneth and Xarissa easily marked the tripwires and pressure plates, the occasional loose stair, scything blade, and bucket of acid clearly visible to a trained eye.

‘Shoddy workmanship,’ Stromund scoffed as they bypassed a false step that would have sent an avalanche of spiked boulders careening down the staircase. ‘Amateurs didn’t even bother to match the stone colour. A child could avoid this.’

As if to contradict the duardin’s disdain, an agonised scream echoed up the stairwell, followed by the meaty thud of blades carving flesh.

Xarissa favoured Stromund with a thin smile. ‘Still think we should send the prisoners ahead?’

The duardin gave a sour nod. ‘Lead on, wise mistress.’

They continued up the stair, smears of blood and the occasional mangled body marking those competitors too eager or unlucky to bypass the traps.

‘The weak have been culled,’ Maleneth warned. ‘Only the worthy survive.’

‘Don’t know of anyone worthier than us,’ Splendid said with a smile and shake of his shaggy head. ‘Let’s just hope we stay that way.’

‘Khaine willing,’ Xarissa agreed.

As they approached the next arena, Maleneth held up a fist. Gesturing for Splendid and Stromund to hang back, she nodded to Xarissa. Her sister understood clearly enough. Silently, they rounded the final curve, and stepped into a nightmare.

The arena was filled with cages and iron scaffolding. They had constructed a fortress upon the sands, although one without walls or gates. Like the skeleton of a beached leviathan, the framework filled the arena, ladders, chains and climbing bars dangling from the various levels. Once, it had held locked cages, although the majority were now open, their bestial occupants roaming the open-air halls and chambers. Although somewhat more sedate than those of the lowest arena, the crowds still watched the proceedings with an air of hungry fascination, cruel laughter rising from the stands whenever someone ran afoul of one of the scaffolded fortress’ monstrous defenders.

Maleneth peered through the web of iron. It was a mirror of the lower arena, the stairs emerging near the western side, with those ascending to the next level on the east. The entrance to the stairs was sealed with warded stone. The only way out looked to be a handful of bridges on the top level of the fortress that led to several stone balconies carved into the arena ceiling to the east. Clearly, they were meant to climb the wretched scaffolding and access the stairs by the bridges. Although the precarious spans were currently empty, Maleneth had no doubt they were unlikely to remain that way.

As their immediate surroundings seemed empty of all but savaged corpses, Maleneth waved Stromund and Splendid forward.

Upon taking in the sight, the ogor let out a low whistle. ‘I’ve seen slaughterhouses less bloody.’

‘It’s constructed like a ziggurat.’ Stromund adjusted his goggles, peering up through the bars and mesh. ‘Every level smaller than the one below. There are a few trapped ladders and floors rigged to collapse, nothing particularly inventive. The true threats are the creatures.’ His voice took on an anxious tone. ‘Velara’s beast-catchers have been scouring Ulgu for months, as if there weren’t enough monsters in the Spire already.’

As if to echo the duardin’s words, a winged shadow flitted around the scaffold. It was followed by another, and another.

‘Khinerai.’ Maleneth regarded the winged aelves through narrowed eyes, watching as they dived and wheeled in deadly murmurations. Faces concealed behind gilded war-masks, their bodies were those of aelves, save for the long whiplike tail and a pair of clawed bat wings that rose from their backs. In addition to their sickle-like heartpiercer shields, they carried barbed javelins.

Maleneth watched as one of the Khinerai dived towards a climbing victim. Pulling up at the last moment, she flung her javelin with enough force to pierce the heavy steel shield strapped to the climber’s back, the serrated tip bursting from the front of his chest in a spray of blood and bone. With a joyful shriek, the winged aelf flapped back to one of the high stone balconies, emerging a moment later with another javelin.

Xarissa shook her head in uneasy wonder. ‘How does Velara expect anyone to reach the third arena?’

‘I don’t think she does,’ Maleneth replied.

Stromund gave a low groan. ‘We’re doomed.’

He glanced to the others, as if expecting argument, but even Maleneth could not find it in her to disagree. Even should they battle through the beasts, the high bridges were in full view of the Khinerai.

Maleneth considered abandoning her slower companions. With her stealth and Xarissa’s shadow sorceries, they might be able to scale the outer scaffolding and be across the bridges before any of the Khinerai noticed. But even should they succeed, it would mean facing the upper arena without the duardin’s knowledge and the ogor’s strength.

Any assassin worth their poisons would have turned their back on this kill. The Ascension was deadly by design, but never so deadly that most of the victims were slain in the lower arenas. Those above wished sport as well, a more rarefied form of entertainment with only the best contenders, but with the lower exits barred and the air swarming with Khinerai, Maleneth doubted even the most tenacious would climb farther.

There was no sanctity here, no holy sacrifice, only depraved slaughter. If Maleneth had questioned Velara’s corruption before, this was proof the High Gladiatrix served a darker master.

Maleneth glanced to the blocked exits, jaw tight against the curses that threatened to slip between her clenched teeth. If only there were a way through, but even Stromund’s volley gun could not pierce warded stone.

Fortunately, Maleneth had something that could.

‘We’ll never reach those bridges,’ Stromund said.

‘We won’t have to.’ Maleneth made for the nearest blocked exit. ‘Try not to fall behind.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

A roar split the air, loud enough Maleneth could feel it in her chest as she sprinted down the scaffolded hall, her companions close behind.

The thing that pursued them seemed plucked from a waking nightmare. Roughly the size of an auroch, it might have possessed claws, or tentacles, or rending talons – Maleneth did not know.

What she did know was not to look directly at it.

The beast appeared like nothing more than a tangle of glistening obsidian thread, its outline blurred by eddies of shadow. Those few glances Maleneth had stolen were like staring into the sun, only one made of snarled void. It stung Maleneth’s eyes and left dark blotches upon her vision. She hoped the beastmaster who had managed to capture this particular quarry was well paid, for she could not imagine a creature better suited to the shifting gloom of Ulgu.

Beside her, Xarissa spun, flicking out a hand as if to hurl a dagger. What emerged was a runnel of shadow swirling with motes of razored obsidian.

She might as well have cast a handful of sand at the beast.

Maleneth attempted a throw of her own, only to see her dagger disappear into the swirling gyre of night. If the blade inconvenienced the creature, it gave no sign.

As she turned, Maleneth saw it would be on Stromund in a moment. The duardin puffed along, head down, stocky legs pumping like a cogwork engine, but his strides were simply not long enough.

With a curse, Maleneth slowed. The corridor down which they ran was a hall in only the loosest sense. On the bottom floor of the metal ziggurat, it was more the outline of a passage framed in iron bars; it was open on the sides and top, allowing her to see along most of the lowest level. It had seemed empty. Even the Khinerai seemed uninterested in dodging through the steel framework.

Then the creature had found them.

Perhaps it was too large to climb, or perhaps it did not care to. Either way, it had bled from the scaffolded shadows like spilled ink.

‘Keep running!’ Maleneth propelled Stromund forward with a slap to his shoulder, dodging around one of the heavy iron columns that formed the internal framework of the hollow ziggurat.

The beast shifted to mirror her, if a bit awkwardly as it tried to manoeuvre its shadowed bulk through the narrow gap.

So it did have substance. Maleneth had not been sure. A promising sign. Anything with a body could be harmed. Now all that remained was for her to figure out how.

It swiped at her with what could only loosely be described as a paw, the attack leaving wisps of ebon shadow as Maleneth threw herself back. She cut at it, gratified as she felt her blade bite scaled flesh.

Quick as a thunderclap, the beast struck again. Had Maleneth been able to see even the barest outline, she might have anticipated the spring, but the darkness concealed the beast’s movements.

Even surprised, she was able to turn with the strike. Claws raked across her leathers, the force of the blow sending Maleneth tumbling back. Instinctively, she tucked into a tight roll, trading broken bones for mere bruises.

Maleneth rolled to her feet just in time for the beast to pounce. Off balance, her head still ringing, there was little Maleneth could do to avoid the lunge. She glimpsed snapping jaws, a wide crocodilian snout, rows of jagged obsidian fangs offset like those of a shark. Then the beast went tumbling away.

It took a moment for Maleneth to make sense of what had happened. Only when she recognised Splendid’s craggy features did she understand. The ogor had circled left and slipped into a parallel hall while Maleneth held the beast’s attention. When it pounced, so had he, rushing in from the side, shoulder lowered like a charging gargant.

Despite her surprise, Maleneth was quick to assist. Splendid had his arms wrapped around something in the dark, a pained expression on his scarred face as he struggled to hold whatever the shadows contained. The beast thrashed and yowled, raking the ogor with invisible claws.

Even now, Maleneth’s gaze seemed to slide from the thing. But she did not need to see to strike. No matter the creature’s true form, Splendid was clinging to something. And that was enough.

Springing forward, she drove her blades into the centre of the twisting shadows, and was rewarded by a chattering howl. The beast writhed like a pinioned serpent, but Maleneth twisted her short swords, working them deeper into the creature. Grimly, Splendid bore down, arms locked, the whole of his not-insubstantial bulk upon the thing. Maleneth stabbed it again and again – hard, unlovely blows like she was trying to pierce duardin-wrought chain.

At last, the gloom parted, bleeding away like blood dispersing through water. What remained was an ugly thing, scaled and catlike, with four clawed limbs and a long muzzle. A ruff of sharp spines surrounded its thick neck, continuing on down the creature’s spine to its short, stubby tail. If anything, it reminded her of one of the flesh hounds that occasionally accompanied Khornate champions, although far larger than any of the doglike daemons her former colleagues in the Order of Azyr described.

‘Are you injured?’ she asked Splendid.

‘I’ve had worse.’ The ogor released his grip. Pushing back with a sigh he drew a short carving knife from his belt and eyed the beast thoughtfully.

Maleneth could not hold back her disgust. ‘You can’t mean to–’

‘Why not?’ Splendid began to busily saw at one of the dead creature’s legs. ‘It’s not as if I’ll get the chance again to taste’ – he wrinkled his nose – ‘whatever this is.’

Maleneth pushed down the upswell of irritation. Those who came between an ogor and his meal were likely to be added to the feast.

‘Just be quick about it.’ Shaking her head, Maleneth turned away.

Xarissa and Stromund waited near the edge of the frame. Although the exterior of the fortress was open, the layers of scaffolding above provided some protection from the wheeling flock of Khinerai. The same could not be said for the twenty paces of sand that stood between them and the sealed exit.

‘The beast?’ Xarissa asked.

‘Dead,’ Maleneth replied. ‘As far as I can tell.’

Her sister frowned. ‘I have read of such things. Endless spells – enchantments that have broken free of their caster, they can take the form of great bloody vipers and bladed winds, even towers of living flame, but never before have I heard of such a shadowed monstrosity.’

‘Let us hope you never do again,’ Maleneth said.

If Maleneth had expected even a glimmer of gratitude from Stromund, she would have been disappointed. Rather than thank her for saving his life, the Kharadron anarchist regarded her dubiously.

‘Don’t suppose your plan involves a way to shield us from those harpies overhead?’ he asked.

‘I expect you and Xarissa can manage that well enough,’ Maleneth said, giving the duardin’s volley gun a meaningful glance.

‘And just what will you be doing?’

Maleneth grinned. ‘I’ll be making us a way out.’

Splendid joined them, his arms bloody up to the elbow, a thoughtful expression on his scarred features as his heavy jaw worked.

Xarissa looked to Maleneth. ‘Is he–’

She held up a hand. ‘Better not to know.’

Ignoring the ogor’s loud chewing, Maleneth waved a blade towards the blocked exit. ‘I will cross first. It will be harder for the Khinerai to notice a single person.’

‘It would be better for me to go,’ Xarissa said. ‘My powers will shield me from detection.’

‘Can you also cut through warded stone?’ The question came sharper than Maleneth intended. Taking a breath, she softened her tone. ‘I possess little that can strike Khinerai in the air. I need you to keep watch. Your sorcery may be all that spares me a javelin in the back.’

Apparently mollified, Xarissa studied the intervening distance. ‘Keep to the shadow of the scaffold, it will block their view – at least until you reach the wall.’

Maleneth accepted her sister’s advice with a grateful nod.

Quietly, she padded onto the open sand, hoping the harpies’ attentions were fixed upon other victims. Even the shadows would not protect her if one of the Khinerai passed directly overhead. She glanced up, measuring the speed and trajectory of the various winged aelves. Although they could change direction quickly in mid-air, it was much harder to pull out of a dive.

Crouching low, Maleneth waited until some unfortunate wretch attempted to climb the scaffold. The three nearest Khinerai dived, javelins poised to throw.

Maleneth sprinted for the blocked stair. Plucking Stromund’s aetheric grenade from her pouch, she thumbed off the safety. Her timing had been perfect. No javelins flashed past her, nor did a single one of the winged aelves call a warning.

Unfortunately, Maleneth had forgotten about the crowd.

She had barely taken three steps when the onlookers started shouting. Jeers and taunts rained upon Maleneth from above, along with a hail of half-empty goblets.

Ignoring the derision, Maleneth wedged the grenade into a gap in the warded stone, and was about to prime it when the boom of Stromund’s volley gun caused her to glance back.

Although the duardin’s shot was far off the mark, it was warning enough for Maleneth to throw herself to the sand, the hurled javelin striking sparks from the stone behind where she had stood but a breath ago.

The Khinerai’s keening wails cut through the excited baying of the crowd. Maleneth lunged for the grenade, only to dart back as a winged shadow swooped overhead and a javelin buried itself in the sand at her feet.

More followed, too fast and too many for Maleneth to dodge.

Fortunately, Xarissa was ready. Shadows flickered across her vision, the air gone suddenly chill as meltwater. At first, Maleneth thought one of the javelins had pierced her spine, until she saw her sister step out onto the sand, flecks of shadow swirling about her like windblown leaves. The Pale Viper extended a hand, and the ebon storm grew to fill the air above them.

Maleneth wasted no time, diving for the grenade even as the Khinerai’s calls turned first confused, then furious. No matter Xarissa’s power, her summoning would not frustrate them for long.

Maleneth found the grenade’s primer. A quick twist, and she was sprinting back across the sand towards the dubious safety of the scaffold.

With a crackle like lightning, the grenade detonated. Maleneth raised her arms to shield herself from the burst of blue-green light. Flecks of stone cut across her forearms, a fist-sized piece glancing from the reinforced leather warding her shoulder. It was difficult to breathe, as if the explosion had sucked the air from her lungs.

Someone caught Maleneth’s arm, and she almost lashed out before she recognised Xarissa’s outline amidst the settling dust.

Coughing, Maleneth allowed herself to be dragged towards the ragged opening. Even through the ringing in her ears, she could hear the screech of angry Khinerai. A few stumbling steps and they were through into the darkness of the stairwell. There was a moment of utter darkness as Splendid squeezed through the ragged opening. Stromund hammered a fist against one of the plates on his suit, which began to emit a soft glow. Then they were all staggering up the spiral stair as fast as their legs would take them.

Only when Stromund collapsed did Maleneth call for a halt, one hand pressed to the wall as she struggled to catch her breath. If any Khinerai had managed to pursue, they would have found Maleneth and her companions easy prey. And yet, as her vision cleared and the blood stopped pounding in her ears, Maleneth was pleased to find the stairs behind them empty.

They remained there for a while, panting in the gloom.

Slowly, Stromund pushed to his feet. Turning to regard the stairs before and behind them, he let out an appreciative grunt.

‘No traps.’

Xarissa gave a tired chuckle. ‘Velara must not have anticipated anyone would blast their way into the stairwell.’

Maleneth pushed from the wall, expression grim. ‘Let us hope this is not the last surprise we have in store for the High Gladiatrix.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

A quartet of spinning blades sliced through the air, propelled by a set of cog-mounted springs in the chamber’s far wall. Without thought, Maleneth leapt. Twisting her body to avoid the saw-toothed missiles, she landed quietly, careful to step only where Stromund had indicated. Apparently, there was a mathematical sequence one could use to predict which of the tiles unleashed gouts of flame. Fortunately, the presence of the trap’s creator saved Maleneth from any abstruse calculations.

‘The leftmost panel hides the activation cogs,’ Stromund called from where he crouched in the adjoining passageway, safely protected by Splendid’s armoured bulk.

‘Why couldn’t you put the controls near the entrance?’ Maleneth spoke through gritted teeth, slipping to one side as another trio of blades ricocheted from the wall in a spray of angry sparks.

‘Wouldn’t be much of a trap if you could disarm it straightaway.’ The duardin’s terse reply made Maleneth want to poison him all over again.

Instead, she came in low, darting forward before any of the distant onlookers could unleash the fall of jagged rocks concealed above the chamber’s high ceiling. Taking a page from the lower arenas, Velara had given her more aristocratic patrons control of a number of Stromund’s traps. Unlike those below, Maleneth could not see her antagonists. Safe in private booths built into the Spire walls, they watched through windows of enchanted glass, allowing them to witness the brutal contests from whatever vantage they chose.

Maleneth had considered destroying the lenses built into each chamber, but it would simply take too long to shatter them all, and so she was forced to avoid the occasional spray of acid, spiked pit, or murderous golem.

Before the last rock had tumbled to the floor Maleneth had pried the panel from the wall and slipped one of Stromund’s wedges into the chattering gears. She waved a hand in front of the nearest murder hole, gratified when no more blades spun from the wall slits.

‘Ten seconds.’ Xarissa skipped over the piled rocks to land lightly next to Maleneth. ‘I could have done it in five.’

‘You’re welcome to the next one.’ Maleneth waved a blade at the chamber’s bronze-faced door.

Stromund and Splendid picked their way along the hall with less grace. The duardin skittered down the rock pile and would have tumbled face-first onto one of the trapped tiles had Maleneth not caught him by his suit’s thick leather collar. Setting the duardin on his feet, she made a show of brushing some dust from his shoulders. This earned a chuckle from Splendid, and a glower from Stromund.

The duardin shrugged free of Maleneth’s grip and went to work on the door.

‘What can we expect next?’ Maleneth asked over the high whine of Stromund’s aethermatic saw.

‘Can’t say for sure,’ he replied without looking up. ‘Chambers are arrayed on a series of structural axles. The whole setup can rotate and realign based on responses from the audience. My idea, of course.’

Maleneth glanced at the nearest lens, not pleased to learn her fate was in the hands of a gaggle of blood-hungry Khainites.

‘That should do it.’ With a satisfied grunt, Stromund stepped back.

Maleneth nodded to Splendid, who applied his not inconsiderable strength to the door. There was a moment of resistance, then a series of soft pings as the remaining bolts sheared. Maleneth braced herself as the chamber floor shuddered beneath them, giant invisible gears rumbling as the arena shifted into some new and deadly configuration. As the door ground open, Maleneth could not help but tilt her head to peer into the next chamber.

She almost received a bolt in the eye for her curiosity.

There was no time to deflect the missile, so she simply dropped, the bolt hissing over her head to rattle from the gut plate of Splendid’s armour.

‘Now look at what they’ve gone and done!’ Scowling, he thumbed the gouge the bolt had carved into the snapping maw.

Maleneth ignored the ogor’s grumbling, already scanning the new chamber for other threats. It was roughly rectangular, perhaps forty paces long and half as wide, sand-floored, with walls of warded stone. A number of metal barriers had been arranged across the floor. Ranging from waist-high to almost reaching the ceiling, they concealed half a dozen gladiatrixes armed with all manner of vicious projectile weapons.

The one who had fired at Maleneth was already ducking back behind the nearest barrier, her comrades unleashing a torrent of barbed bolts, whirling blades, and spiked balls at Maleneth and her comrades.

Maleneth rolled from the open door, gathering her legs to spring into the room the moment the fire slackened, but Splendid was already moving.

With a bellow, he charged into the hail of fire, missiles pinging from armour and thudding into leather and flesh. Rather than duck behind the iron barrier, he simply ripped it from the ground, revealing a very startled gladiatrix. As she sought to scramble away, the ogor slammed the heavy barrier down in a welter of blood and snapping bones.

‘Foolish brute,’ Xarissa hissed. ‘They’ll cut him to pieces.’

There was a time Maleneth would have agreed with her sister. Now, she was wise to the old ogor’s tricks.

‘Hurry, while he draws their attention.’ Maleneth dodged into the chamber. Despite her surprise, Xarissa was quick to follow. Maleneth caught a flicker of shadow out of the corner of her eye, and a bow-armed gladiatrix reeled back, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from her severed wrist.

Maleneth vaulted over a hip-high barrier, pivoting as she landed to kick a spray of sand towards two gladiatrixes working to reload their weapons. She aimed a looping blow at the rightmost, not hoping to even wound. As expected, the gladiatrix discarded her crossbow to pluck a pair of heavy hatchets from her belt. Quick as the move was, it bought Maleneth a heartbeat to focus solely on the other.

She was armed with some manner of sling, twined leather straps studded with barbed hooks. She swung it at Maleneth’s face. A distraction. Maleneth was ready for the concealed punch dagger in the gladiatrix’s other hand. Just as she was ready for the aelf to attempt to drive her spiked knee pad into Maleneth’s gut.

The gladiatrix was a skilled combatant. But she had been trained for blood sports – every move a spectacle, every strike aimed to excite. Gladiatrixes needed not only to kill but to look good doing so. Maleneth’s techniques were less ostentatious, and far more deadly.

Aware of the opponent advancing on her back, she launched a wide cut at the sling-armed gladiatrix – just the type of attack that would draw the crowd’s attention. As expected, the aelf sought to snare Maleneth’s arm.

Maleneth let her.

Trusting in her bracers to ward against the sling’s barbs, Maleneth released her blade. She let her face twist in mock pain, slashing at her opponent with her remaining short sword. The gladiatrix deflected the blow with her punch dagger, but in doing so was forced to pivot. Maleneth went with the move, which put the gladiatrix between her and her comrade.

The aelf pulled at Maleneth, seeking to drag her ensnared arm down and trap it against her body. Again, Maleneth mirrored her opponent, but this time she had positioned a foot behind the gladiatrix. As the warrior stumbled, Maleneth slipped her arm around her neck, then wrenched it back with a sharp tug, dragging the barbed sling across the gladiatrix’s throat.

Untangling her arm, Maleneth kicked the gagging aelf at her companion. Rather than dodge or give ground, the hatchet-armed gladiatrix simply cut her sister down. Surprisingly efficient for one of Velara’s brood.

Maleneth was almost sorry to kill her.

There was no time to retrieve her dropped blade, so she simply slashed with the other. The gladiatrix was quick to parry, and Maleneth barely avoided the return strike. Hatchets quick as flickering flame, the gladiatrix pressed her advantage.

Maleneth swept her own sword around as if to clear some space between them. Grinning, the gladiatrix hooked her blade aside. Using the moment of distraction, Maleneth palmed a vial from her harness and launched a looping overhead cut with her off hand.

Reflexively, the gladiatrix parried the blow. Instead of the clash of steel, Maleneth was treated to the pleasing sound of breaking glass. Propelled by the force of her swing, the vial’s contents continued on into the gladiatrix’s unprotected face.

Surprised by the sudden spray of toxins, the Witch Aelf drew in a startled breath, and immediately went rigid. One of Qholar Qat’s more malicious concoctions, the mix of manticore bile, tomb moth powder, and ground allopex fang paralysed its victim even as it seared their insides.

Truly, it was a mercy when Maleneth’s remaining blade ended the gladiatrix’s shrieks. Spinning away to avoid the spray of arterial blood, Maleneth snatched her discarded sword from the sand.

In the moments it had taken her to deal with the two gladiatrixes, Xarissa had cut down another. Even Stromund managed to assist in the killing, pinning the last behind her barrier with a steady stream of fire so Splendid could slip around the side. Swung two-handed, the ogor’s cutlass sheared through both the barrier and the gladiatrix behind it.

With their final foe dispatched, the ogor sat down heavily, groaning as he plucked several lucky shots from his shoulder and thighs.

‘Remind me again what I get out of this.’

‘Velara promised you two dead aelves.’ Maleneth ticked off the corpses with her blade. ‘By my count, we’ve more than tripled her offer already.’

‘Fair enough.’ The ogor snorted. Pushing heavily to his feet, he began to fill his satchel with the choicest bits of gladiatrix. ‘Let us hope I survive long enough to partake of this feast.’

‘You’re a mercenary.’ Maleneth grinned. ‘Death is part of the job.’

While Xarissa saw to the ogor’s wounds, Stromund went to work disarming any traps on the door. It would have gone quicker had the duardin not felt the need to crow about every concealed blade and envenomed needle. Although Maleneth found Stromund’s chatter grating, she suspected nothing short of removing his tongue would quiet the Kharadron trapmaker.

With her luck, he would probably just invent a better one.

Eventually, Stromund pronounced the door clear, its opening echoed by the rumble of distant gears.

Xarissa stepped up next to Maleneth. ‘This one is mine.’

Maleneth extended a hand. ‘After you, sister.’

The Pale Viper took a step into the room, and laughed. ‘It’s all right. Come along.’

Maleneth was quick to follow. When she saw the chamber’s contents, the cause of her sister’s mirth became evident.

A wide, circular pit yawned before them, spanned only by a number of crisscrossing cylindrical bridges studded with bits of razored steel. Several exits were arranged along the far wall, seemingly at random.

Splendid loomed behind them. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘It is the same as our coven’s Killing Field.’ Maleneth shook her head, giving Stromund a sideways glance.

‘I was being held hostage. Can’t expect my best work,’ the duardin protested, throwing up his hands. ‘In my defence, I thought everyone who had ever seen this was dead. Excepting Xarissa, of course, and I hardly expected Velara to toss her into the arena.’

‘For once, your laziness is to our benefit.’ With a thin smile, Xarissa regarded the network of spiked, rotating bridges with a practised eye. ‘Which exit leads from the chamber?’

‘None of them,’ Stromund replied. ‘And all of them.’

‘Spare us the theatrics,’ Maleneth said.

‘The exits are trapped.’ Stromund waved at the far opening. ‘If you try to open any single one, the doors will move forward, driving you back into the pit. Only two people working in tandem can bypass the doors.’

Maleneth shared a glance with her sister. ‘Accomplished easily enough.’

‘That’s not all,’ Stromund added with a wince. ‘Once you pass the doors, it drops you into an arena with an exit only one can open.’

‘You devilish little duardin.’ Maleneth could not hide her smile. ‘Force your victims to work together, then pit them against each other.’

He sniffed. ‘I prefer the term “challengers”, but yes, that was the general idea.’

‘Is there any way to bypass the final door?’ Xarissa asked.

‘Not unless your dear sister can conjure another aetheric grenade.’ Stromund gave his beard a thoughtful tug. ‘I could disable the locking mechanisms, but…’

‘Let me guess,’ Maleneth said. ‘They are all behind the door.’

The duardin’s grimace was answer enough.

The solution is easy. Sybelline’s sharp voice cut through Maleneth’s thoughts. Pick which companion you value the least, and be rid of them. Personally, I would rather face the duardin, but I know you’ve always savoured a challenge.

‘I still require them both.’ Maleneth did not realise she had spoken aloud until Stromund cleared his throat.

‘Something you care to share with the rest of us?’ Splendid asked warily.

‘It was nothing,’ she replied. ‘Just some bad advice.’

Ungrateful child. If I were not–

Sybelline’s aggrieved mutter cut off as Maleneth slipped the amulet into her leathers. Even so, her former mistress’ callous plan had stirred something in Maleneth’s thoughts.

‘Stromund.’ She cocked her head in his direction. ‘How does the door know when only one challenger remains?’

‘The detection mechanisms aren’t too complex.’ Blowing out a slow breath, the duardin pointed at one of the lenses. ‘I largely relied on the crowd. The locks won’t disengage until they are convinced one of you is dead.’

Maleneth nodded, unperturbed. She had expected as much. Normally, her work required secrecy and discretion. It was disconcerting to know her every movement was being scrutinised and enjoyed by a mob of Nightcliff’s most powerful individuals. Perhaps her mistress was correct. Splendid was a fierce fighter, but he seemed to trust Maleneth. It would be easy to take the ogor by surprise, even easier to dispose of Stromund.

Maleneth pushed the idea away with a flicker of disgust. Now she was thinking like Velara. Only a fool threw away a perfectly fine dagger because of momentary inconvenience. For all their eccentricities, Stromund and Splendid had been useful, and Maleneth was not about to turn on her sister.

And just like that, the solution came to her.

She turned to Stromund. ‘Once the last door is open, can you explain to Xarissa how to disable the locking mechanisms?’

He stroked his beard, considering. ‘Should be easy enough, so long as she can tell a mizzen gear from a cogshaft.’

Xarissa crossed her arms. ‘And just how are we to actually get the door open?’

‘Simple,’ Maleneth replied. ‘You’re going to kill me.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

Maleneth and Xarissa smiled as they crossed the spiked bridges, balance steady as the logs turned and twisted beneath their feet. Forewarned by Stromund, she knew which bridges would spin, which would break, and which were riddled with swarms of spite beetles. It even felt a bit like the old days as they dodged the scything pendulums and threaded the plumes of sorcerous flame that gouted from near-invisible sigil traps on the chamber walls.

For once, Maleneth actually hoped Velara was watching.

There were clues etched upon the steel door, riddles that hinted it could not be passed by single hand alone. Maleneth ignored them, waiting for Xarissa’s call before she pushed.

The door swung open, revealing a narrow stair empty of traps. Steadying the sack tied to her belt, Maleneth descended to the chamber – a circular ring of terraced stone meant to mimic the arenas of lesser cities.

Xarissa entered from the opposite side, umbral blade already in hand.

With a tight nod, Maleneth drew her own swords. Let the jackals have their spectacle. In the end, it would be Maleneth laughing.

She opened with a generous handful of shardsilt. It filled the air between them, halting Xarissa’s lunge. The Pale Viper veered away from the glittering cloud, two quick steps from the torchlit shadows. As the darkness swallowed her sister, Maleneth spun to hurl a vial of Qholar’s gravedust into the gloom at her back. She was rewarded with an outraged cough as the reddish cloud bloomed along the arena’s back wall, rendering the shadows impassable unless Xarissa cared to risk a face full of caustic mist.

The Pale Viper slunk from the shadow of the far hall. A mix of surprise and irritation whetted her already severe expression to razor-sharpness. It seemed she had thought Maleneth was going to make this easy.

With a grin as wicked as her blades, Maleneth saluted her sister again.

Xarissa came on like an ebon storm, motes of darkest obsidian sparking from the sigils on her forearms as she launched a blistering series of slashes. Even with two blades, Maleneth was hard-pressed to deflect the fury of the Pale Viper’s onslaught. It would have been easier to match her sister’s speed if not for the oilskin sack thudding against her thigh.

Xarissa still favours her left. Sybelline’s advice threaded the parries and cuts. Maleneth did not dare warn her sister with a glance, but out of the corner of her eye she noted a rough pattern in Xarissa’s movements – thrust, back cut, then a looping slash. She varied directions, but the last strike always came from the left. Unfortunately, Maleneth could not discern whether the repetition was deliberate or accidental.

Does it matter? Sybelline said. You have been springing traps all day. Either way gives us more information.

A fair point. Maleneth batted aside Xarissa’s thrust. Twisting away from the back cut, she braced herself for a slash on the right. When it came, she pivoted around the cut, darting around the Pale Viper’s momentarily exposed side.

Xarissa reacted with blinding speed, strike reversing direction so quickly it was as if her weapon had rebounded from an invisible wall. Maleneth put both her blades in the path of the strike, and the blow still knocked her back a step, the sack tugging at her side like an insistent child.

Face tight, Xarissa kept up the pressure, but this time, Maleneth was ready. She made a cross of her blades and pinned Xarissa’s longer sword to her body. The umbral blade spat icy sparks on Maleneth’s face and hands, the weapon seeming almost as furious as its wielder.

They stood for a moment, straining, teeth bared in silent snarls, their old rivalry boiling just below the surface. It was as if they had come to some sort of silent agreement – neither could offer anything less than their best. Maleneth only hoped Xarissa remembered the plan before the final stroke.

Maleneth attempted to drive an elbow into her sister’s ribs, but Xarissa twisted to interpose her sword’s edge, forcing Maleneth to abandon the strike. A swift kick to the knee won a grunt of pain from the Pale Viper, but it compromised Maleneth’s balance enough that she had to break her hold lest Xarissa manage to drag her into a hip toss.

They spun apart in a welter of swords. Maleneth aimed a quick cut at her sister’s face, but the blade found only empty air as Xarissa vanished into a pool of torchlit shadow.

To your left, Sybelline called, and Maleneth turned to meet the sudden charge. They traded a few quick blows before Xarissa darted back into the darkness.

Left again.

This time it was a pair of conjured daggers, wisps of chill darkness rising from their ebon blades as they tumbled towards Maleneth. Even knowing it was a ruse, she could not help but parry the enchanted knives. The daggers shattered into a swirl of obsidian shards.

Above.

Maleneth sprang away before the storm could cut her to ribbons, Sybelline’s warning a moment too late as Xarissa dropped upon her from the shadows overhead.

It was a perfect dive, elegant as a glimmer hawk. Sword extended, Xarissa brought the darkness with her, obsidian wings enfolding Maleneth even as her sister’s blade snaked towards her heart.

Night fell upon them both. It was as if Maleneth had been suddenly thrust into a starless sky. From memory alone, she swept her swords up, relieved to feel them skate across enchanted steel.

Xarissa landed in a crouch. Spinning along the edge of the shadow, her blade transcribed a tight, deadly arc.

Hidden by darkness, Maleneth dropped her swords and snatched the sack from her belt. It was cold and wet inside, her hands tacky with blood as she drew forth the bag’s grisly contents.

Xarissa’s blade cut close enough for Maleneth to feel the chill wind of its passing. With a prayer to Khaine, she tossed the severed head to the ground.

Maleneth heard it bounce wetly – once, twice – before rolling to a stop outside the circle of Xarissa’s shadow. Sweeping her cloak over her face, Maleneth collapsed, careful to let her limbs go boneless so that she fell like a fresh kill.

Although Maleneth could not see Xarissa’s darkness disperse, her sister’s triumphant shout rang like a temple bell. The best performances always held at least a sliver of truth. Then the chamber was silent but for the soft drip of blood from the gladiatrix’s severed head.

The moment stretched long enough for Maleneth to worry that the crowd had seen through their deception. Perhaps her cloak was not thick enough to conceal her still-very-much-attached head. Perhaps they recognised the decapitated gladiatrix. Perhaps Xarissa’s conjured darkness had not been deep enough to hide Maleneth’s ruse.

Then, the arena door slid open.

Maleneth lay still, trying her best to imitate a recently decapitated assassin as the steel-on-steel whine of Stromund’s aethermatic saw echoed from the walls. Maleneth was grateful for the thick cloak wrapped around her head and shoulders, which muffled the teeth-gritting sound. As they had discussed, Xarissa moved from the locks to the trap mechanisms themselves, destroying the spindles, axles, and cogs that made the circular bridges spin and twist. Once they were locked in place, Xarissa called to Splendid and Stromund, who crossed the bladed spans with only a modicum of cursing.

‘Shall we?’ Xarissa asked once the duardin and ogor had safely reached the arena.

‘Not quite yet,’ Stromund replied.

The stuttering boom of the duardin’s volley gun rebounded from the terraced stone of the arena. Maleneth almost leapt to her feet, convinced Stromund had finally decided to turn on them, but Splendid’s creaky laughter gave her pause.

‘Well done, tinker!’ The ogor gave his gut plate an appreciative slap. ‘I think it’s safe to wake our favourite murderer.’

Maleneth flung her cloak aside, springing to her feet to find her three companions grinning ear to ear. It took a moment for her to realise what Stromund had done, then she noted the shattered obsidian covering the arena floor, the smoking holes in the walls and ceiling where the lenses had once reported their every move.

‘As far as Velara knows, Maleneth Witchblade is dead.’ Stromund’s deep-set eyes twinkled with wicked mirth. ‘I see no reason to disabuse her of the notion.’

Maleneth nodded to the duardin appreciatively. Maybe she would not kill him – not yet at least.

‘Hang back, sister.’ Xarissa started up the arena stairs. ‘You are our hidden blade, and we do not know what the next chamber holds.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Stromund tapped the side of his nose with one soot-covered finger. ‘I believe it may be best if myself and our ogor friend handle things.’

Xarissa glanced at Maleneth, who shrugged. ‘If you’re confident.’

‘Very.’ Stromund climbed the stairs, careful to give Xarissa a wide berth. ‘Splendid, if you would be so kind.’

Although the ogor’s rugged features betrayed no small amount of scepticism, he followed the duardin up the arena stairs.

‘It is the pit, you see.’ Stromund reached into the exposed panel, shoulder-deep as he rooted around in the ruined machinery. ‘The chambers are situated on interlocking wheels, allowing the whole to move and reconfigure, but I still had to build within the constraints of the arena.’

He gave a sharp pull, face crimson above his beard as he tugged at a heavy steel bar amidst the broken gears.

‘Splendid, a bit of help if you please.’

The ogor bent to grip the bar, and together they dragged it from the wall.

‘Solid Kharadron spring steel, imported from the forges of Barak-Urbaz.’ The duardin gave the axle an appreciative pat. ‘You could hang a gargant from this and it would still return to true.’

Maleneth regarded the long steel rod dubiously. ‘Are we going to hang a gargant?’

‘Not here, fortunately,’ Stromund said, gesturing to Splendid. ‘If you could remove these warding panels.’

‘With pleasure.’ The ogor went to work with gusto, jabbing and prising at the steel plates. Stromund turned back to Xarissa and Maleneth.

‘As I was saying – the pit in the previous chamber necessitated a bit more depth than was readily available on the motive cogs, so I situated it outside of the larger gear apparatus.’

‘Yes, yes, we all know you are very clever,’ Xarissa snapped. ‘But what does that mean?’

Maleneth gave an appreciative nod. ‘This chamber does not move.’

‘Indeed,’ Stromund said, nodding.

‘Which means you know where we are.’

‘Exactly!’ He clasped his hands together. ‘We are directly adjacent to the westernmost viewing chambers.’

‘It has been years since I have visited the Bladed Spire’s upper reaches.’ Maleneth glanced at the broken wall and did some quick mental calculation. ‘But if memory serves, there is an access corridor on the lower floor.’

Xarissa’s eyes widened as realisation gripped her. ‘And stairs to the upper levels.’

Stromund grinned, the very image of self-congratulatory conceit. ‘Why battle our way to Velara’s lair when we can simply stroll to the top.’

‘Surely there will be guards and wards?’ Xarissa said.

‘It cannot be worse than this.’ Maleneth waved at the bloodied arena.

Xarissa conceded the point with a tilt of her head.

‘If you are all done chatting.’ Splendid’s voice came heavy with strain as he threw his weight behind the crowbar. ‘I could use a bit of help.’

Maleneth and the others were quick to hurry up the stairs. Although their strength was insubstantial compared to the ogor’s, they were able to clear away a number of the smaller gears and reach places Splendid’s thicker arms could not. Protective runes blazed to crackling life. Fortunately, none were equal to Xarissa’s sorceries, and Maleneth and the others were able to escape with only a light scorching. The work was neither easy nor clean, but they attacked the wall with purpose, like a pack of gloomwolves tearing into a fresh kill.

At last, they stood back, covered in sweat and mortar dust, but satisfied with the ragged hole they had bored through the assorted cogwork. Maleneth had expected the noise of their excavation to bring the Spire Guard running. She braced herself for a salvo of bolts, but all that emerged from the hole was a coil of violet smoke.

Fog rolled into the chamber, so thick Maleneth thought at first that Velara had discovered a means to open a portal to the shrouded wilds beyond Nightcliff’s outer wall. But this did not appear like normal Ulguan mist. Its depths were the deep purple of sunset, interspersed with eddies of blue and night black that flowed in and around one another in complex patterns. Flecks of silver floated amidst the fog, glimmering like coins tossed into murky water. It smelled of rare woods and rich incense, a thick and heady odour that put Maleneth in mind of a high-class smoking den. Even dispersed, the aroma made her head swim.

‘Stromund.’ She took a few cautious steps back. ‘Still have those filtration masks?’

The duardin unshouldered his pack and began to rummage around. Maleneth watched the mist ebb and flow with barely concealed unease.

‘It is some form of soporific enchantment.’ Xarissa studied the fog, brows furrowed. ‘Although not any sorcery I am familiar with.’

‘Could it be something conjured from… elsewhere?’ Maleneth asked.

‘Very likely,’ Xarissa replied. ‘If Velara has corrupted the Ascension ritual, it would release daemonic energy.’

‘Can you stop it?’ Splendid asked.

Xarissa frowned. ‘I can ward us against the sorcerous effects, but the fog may have other intoxicating qualities.’

‘I believe I can help with that.’ Stromund brandished a fistful of the filtration masks. Although they were made for the broader features of a duardin, Maleneth was able to cinch the straps tightly enough to cover her mouth and nose, wrapping her scarf around to hold the mask firmly in place.

‘What of Splendid?’ she asked.

‘I’ve swallowed worse than this glittering pipe smoke.’ He took an exaggerated breath, blowing out the haze through the gaps in his teeth. ‘Nothing like a bit of poison to get the blood pumping.’

Maleneth spared him a dubious glance, but the old ogor’s constitution seemed equal to the soporific mist. Maleneth did not want to think about what he must have consumed to build such a prodigious tolerance.

Voice muffled by the filter, Xarissa began a sibilant chant, fingers sketching arcane sigils in the air as she paced a slow circle around the group. With a murmured incantation, she touched Maleneth lightly on the forehead.

It was as if she had ducked beneath a fall of snowmelt. A cold darkness gripped her, seeming to slip beneath her flesh to dust Maleneth’s bones with hoarfrost. There was a feeling of disorientation, an aimless, rootless dread as if she were drowning in an icy sea, no land in sight.

A moment, and the discomfort faded to a lingering chill, as if Maleneth were recovering from a light cold. Xarissa administered her shadow ward to Stromund and Splendid, who responded with muttered curses.

‘Let us hope it is enough,’ Maleneth said. Blades at the ready, she waded into the soporific cloud. She was surprised to find it possessed of the same disconcerting warmth as Nightcliff’s obsidian slopes. Seeming to sink into her clothes and armour, the mist clung to Maleneth’s skin like spilled oil. Glittering motes swirled in her vision, variegated vortices curling about arms and legs as if the fog were drawing her closer.

As it lapped over her head Maleneth realised she was holding her breath. Although Stromund’s mask was uncomfortable, she was relieved to smell nothing but leather and gear oil. Xarissa’s wards seemed equally resilient to whatever corrupt enchantments the mist contained. Even so, Maleneth took several breaths before stepping from the fog to wave her companions forward.

The corridor was narrow, with a low ceiling of smooth stone empty of carving or embellishment. Used primarily by servants and runners, it was meant to allow the entourages of the Spire’s various noble patrons to respond quickly to their masters’ whims. In practice, it meant that only Stromund could move with any degree of comfort. Both Maleneth and Xarissa had to duck, and Splendid needed to bend almost double to fit into the hall.

‘I almost prefer the arena,’ the ogor grumbled.

‘We’ll be out soon enough,’ Maleneth said, hoping she spoke true.

They moved cautiously, Maleneth once more taking the lead, Xarissa several paces behind. Although the mist obscured everything beyond a few feet, the tight stone tunnel would magnify sound enough that Maleneth was confident nothing could creep up on them.

Nothing natural, that was.

They passed several doors, all well warded and barred from the inside. Nightfall’s nobility might not be able to live without their delights, but no one survived long who disregarded safety in favour of pleasure. The hallway was quiet save for the soft tromp of Stromund’s boots and the occasional mutter from Splendid. The silence was not cause for concern. Those noble houses and covens powerful enough to warrant seating in the Spire’s upper reaches did not like their experience spoiled by unwanted noise, sights, or assassination attempts.

The hall coiled up around the outside of the Spire, the close confines made even more claustrophobic by the clinging mists. Although Maleneth knew the corridor would be clear of obstructions, the fog made it feel close and stuffy.

So intent was Maleneth on listening for the whisper of cloth or subtle scrape of boots on stone that she almost tripped over the corpse.

By the amount of blood spattering the walls and the wounds upon his arms and torso, it almost looked as if the guard had been tortured to death. But his face bore a slack idiot’s grin, eyes wide and glassy even in death.

‘Look at these cuts.’ Maleneth knelt to lift the guard’s bloodied doublet with the tip of one blade. ‘Whatever made them carved through steel and chain. This man’s armour might as well have been gossamer.’

Xarissa’s eyes narrowed, her frown concealed by the breathing mask. ‘Such precision speaks to something strong, sharp–’

‘And unnatural,’ Maleneth finished her sister’s thought.

‘You said nothing of daemons.’ Splendid edged closer, back scraping against the ceiling. ‘There are some things even an ogor won’t touch.’

‘I’m not asking you to eat them,’ Maleneth said, straightening.

Splendid gave a low, disapproving rumble, but raised no more objections.

Maleneth stood, glad the mask hid her expression of unease. Many were the Order of Azyr’s members who had seen their minds unravel, their wills corrupted by even the briefest contact with a daemon. It was standard practice to execute such miserable individuals, usually by burning or decapitation. A mercy, really. If Velara’s corrupt ritual had unleashed some of the Dark Prince’s servants, Maleneth dearly hoped their attentions were occupied elsewhere.

They came across more guards, each bearing wounds similar to the first. Some were pinned to the walls, others splayed across the stone, skin and muscle delicately peeled back to reveal bones and organs beneath.

Although she did not consider herself a professional, Maleneth’s work had afforded her ample opportunities for torture. Generally, she found it a worthwhile, even enjoyable, pastime – although seldom for the victims. After all, that would defeat the point of the endeavour. From the state of their bodies, it was clear the guards’ deaths had been both slow and painful. What unsettled Maleneth was that, despite the condition of their corpses, each guard’s blood-spattered face wore a look of bliss so pure and unfiltered it verged on religious ecstasy.

As they continued along the narrow hall, Maleneth found herself reflexively checking the seals on her mask. Although she had no desire to join the mutilated guards, she had to admit that if one were being vivisected, a lungful of soporific mist might be welcome.

The next door they passed stood open. The metal panelling was flecked with blood, but the lock was intact, bar removed and set aside, warding runes still twinkling merrily in the gloom. In fact, it looked as if those inside the chamber had simply opened the heavy iron door and invited their murderers inside for a drink.

The chamber was large and well appointed – at least, it had been. Now the divans were stained a uniform ruddy brown by drying blood. Wall hangings that had once borne the crest and colours of one of Nightcliff’s less-prominent noble houses had been shredded almost to unrecognisability. The food, drink, and assorted intoxicants that had previously covered the room’s several broad tables were now spread across the bloody carpet.

A dozen bodies lay about the chamber, although it might have been more; Maleneth would not be able to get a proper count without taking time to match various savaged torsos with the assorted arms, legs, and heads scattered around the rest of the room.

‘Quite a party.’ Splendid raised a grizzled eyebrow. ‘Always wondered what you Daughters of Khaine got up to behind closed doors.’

‘We should continue down the hall,’ Xarissa said. ‘Before whatever did this comes back.’

‘Who’s to say we won’t be strolling right towards them?’ Stromund asked.

The Pale Viper’s reply was cut off by a warning hiss from Maleneth.

‘They are not in front of us.’ She took a slow step into the chamber, cautious as if she were stalking wild game.

‘And just how do you know that?’ Stromund asked.

Maleneth raised a blade to point at one of the larger couches, its varnished legs dripping with elegant scrollwork. As if her short sword had tripped some manner of invisible signal, the divan moved.

What rose from behind the couch was the most beautiful abomination Maleneth had ever seen.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The daemon was a head taller than Maleneth, hairless and roughly aelf-shaped save that instead of hands, its arms ended in large, crablike claws. Although they looked strong enough to sever limbs, from the wounds on the corpses Maleneth guessed the daemon could also deploy its claws with unnatural precision. Its body was lithe and well muscled, movements betraying the limber, sinuous strength of a ritual dancer.

The daemon stalked towards her, its sharp, androgynous features twisted in a look of anticipation. Its full lips parted to reveal a long, dark tongue, and although the daemon did not speak, the air was suddenly filled with whispers. They slipped into Maleneth’s ears like silken threads, smooth yet strong as they bound her thoughts tight. She tried to raise her blade, to take a step back, to call out – only to discover she did not want to do any of those things. All Maleneth wanted to do was watch the daemon take her apart, piece by lovely piece. She glanced to Xarissa and Stromund, both equally transfixed, mouths open, eyes wide and hungry.

A shudder tickled up Maleneth’s spine. Oh, what a delightful death it would be.

‘I think we’ve had quite enough of that.’ A large hand gripped Maleneth’s shoulder, dragging her back into the hall. Splendid slammed the door shut, twisting the bolt so the lock clicked back into place.

A shriek echoed from behind the door, high and aggrieved, like a child who has just had her favourite toy snatched away. The door shuddered on its hinges as the daemon’s claws screamed across the heavy iron. Wards crackled to brilliant light, only to gutter and fade as if the creature’s profane presence was enough to render the enchantments toothless.

Xarissa gave the door an appraising glance. ‘We should go.’

Maleneth was happy to oblige.

‘What was that?’ Stromund asked as they hurried down the hall.

‘Daemonette,’ Xarissa replied. ‘One of the Dark Prince’s servants. Either Velara summoned the creature, or her ritual has weakened the barriers between Ulgu and the Realm of Chaos.’

‘Back there, I could not move.’ Maleneth gave an angry toss of her head. ‘That thing’s enchantments captivated all of us.’ She frowned at Splendid. ‘Why were you unaffected?’

The old ogor gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Not my cut of meat, I suppose.’

Behind them, the door finally gave way with a tortured screech. The daemonette’s delighted cry sent an uncomfortable prickle along the back of Maleneth’s neck.

‘Is there any way to avoid the daemon’s enchantments?’ she asked Xarissa.

Her sister nodded. ‘It affects the unwary most strongly. Now we are prepared, it will be easier to resist the aura.’

Stromund grunted. ‘Prepared, are we?’

‘As much as we can be,’ Xarissa said.

‘Good.’ The duardin stopped short, hefting his volley gun. ‘Because there’s more in front of us.’

Maleneth’s gaze tracked the invisible line indicated by the muzzle of Stromund’s gun, and she felt her heart twist in her chest. Lithe shadows slipped among the curls of fog, beautiful and deadly. Their movements were languid, almost inviting, as if the daemons were beckoning Maleneth closer.

The whispers returned, just at the edge of hearing, urging Maleneth to pause and listen in an attempt to sift delicious truths from the murky babble. They had so many secrets to share, promises of agonising pleasures and pleasurable agonies that seemed to grip something deep within her.

Whatever she was now, Maleneth’s soul had once belonged to Slaanesh. All aelves had. Devoured, embraced, treasured – they had roiled within the Dark Prince’s embrace. They had been his, once, and in that moment, Maleneth knew with cold certainty they would be again.

Teeth bared, she pushed aside the dire thoughts. Let Slaanesh play his cruel games. Her soul was sworn to Khaine and Khaine alone.

Maleneth blinked. While she and her companions had struggled in the grip of their enchantments, the daemonettes had almost closed the distance between them. Maleneth could make out every sensual curve, every gnarled hook of chitin.

The foremost daemon lifted a heavy claw as if to stroke Maleneth’s cheek.

She cut at its raised arm, aiming for the place where chitin met pale skin. It was not like carving mortal flesh. Despite the delicacy of the daemon’s musculature Maleneth felt as if she had drawn her blade across well-seasoned wood. Had she wielded weapons of mere steel Maleneth suspected their edges would not have bitten. Fortunately, the enchantments etched into her swords seemed sufficient to overcome the daemon’s unearthly resistance.

It snatched its claw back with a surprised hiss, perfect features twisting into an expression of delight. Ichor leaked from the cut on the daemon’s arm. Thicker than blood, it spread, wine-dark upon alabaster skin. Still grinning, the daemon brought the wound to its face, smearing blood across its lips and cheeks.

As if this had been a signal, the other daemonettes charged. Gone was the leisurely tempo of their approach, replaced by the hissing, shrieking hunger of beggars descending on a feast.

Stromund’s volley gun thundered in the close confines of the corridor. The foremost daemons reeled back, shuddering with pleasure even as their bodies unspooled into mist. With a bellow, Splendid stepped forward to snatch up one of the flailing daemons and batter it against the heavy stone wall.

Maleneth buried her blade in the chest of the daemonette before her. Its other claw rose. Although the move was languid, almost careless, the strike came fast and strong enough to remove Maleneth’s leg.

She barely avoided the blow, the claw’s jagged edge carving a bloody gash along her thigh. The pain came woven with tendrils of delight, as if Maleneth had slipped into a pool of warm water, the violent tension in her muscles bleeding away. Only the memory of the grinning guards kept Maleneth’s focus from slipping.

She drove her blades into the daemon’s chest. Its claws were too unwieldy to reach her, so the creature merely caught her in a wild embrace, its grip so tight Maleneth could feel her ribs creak. Its perfect face hovered a hand’s breadth from hers, close enough for her to count the fangs behind the elegant curve of its lips.

Maleneth sawed at the thing. Muscles tight as a tripwire, she threw her entire weight behind her blades, twisting and bucking as she worked them up into whatever passed for the creature’s innards.

The daemonette’s mouth formed a perfect circle, a moan of delighted agony followed by a torrent of ichor. Maleneth dragged in a whooping breath as the creature lost its grip, falling back with an almost grateful sigh. The daemon did not strike the stone, but rather became insubstantial, as if it sank into water rather than mist. A moment, and the creature was little more than a flicker of silvery motes, its essence slipping back to whatever foul realm was home to such terrible things.

The daemonette they had trapped in the viewing chamber came sprinting up behind. Without sufficient room to swing his cutlass, Splendid simply planted a heavy boot in the creature’s stomach. It rebounded from the stone wall, lithe as a cat as it sprang back at the ogor. Hands clasped, Splendid brought his fists down upon the abomination’s back, then proceeded to stomp it to glittering sparks.

Not spying Xarissa, Maleneth cast about, only to find her sister still transfixed. Two daemonettes had slipped to either side of the Pale Viper. Had they simply struck, Maleneth would have never crossed the distance in time, but fortunately, the servants of Slaanesh desired a slower, more gratifying kill.

Rather than assault the daemons, Maleneth threw herself at Xarissa. The two of them tumbled away. Fortunately, the shock seemed enough to snap her sister from the daemonettes’ hold, and Xarissa tucked into a tight roll, coming up next to Maleneth, blade in hand.

Xarissa’s scowl was equal parts anger and self-recrimination. ‘Perhaps I was not as prepared as I thought.’

‘No harm done,’ Maleneth said, returning a thin smile. ‘Not to us, at least.’

‘Let us hope it remains that way.’ Xarissa nodded towards the daemonettes.

Together, they charged the screeching abominations. Xarissa flung out a hand, bolts of dark energy flicking from her outstretched fingers. They stippled the torso of the nearest daemonette, spoiling the creature’s lunge.

Maleneth was quick to capitalise on her sister’s attack. Before the daemon could bring its claws to bear, she leapt at it, one knee extended like a spear. Although the creature seemed to possess no bones capable of breaking, the momentum of Maleneth’s leap was enough to bear it to the ground. Maleneth followed it, trusting weight and leverage to add force to her blows as she brought her blades arcing down.

A blur of movement flickered in the corner of her vision. She turned, too slow, as the other daemon thrust its snapping claw at her.

Xarissa’s umbral blade removed it at the elbow. Never one to relinquish a kill, the Pale Viper spun, sword whipping around to sever the daemon’s head.

The creature below Maleneth bucked, almost throwing her off as it thrashed like a dying snake. She swayed clear of the snapping claws and set to work disembowelling the daemon. Although there was nothing inside the thing she could easily name, the daemonette bled readily enough. Soon, ichor spattered the front of Maleneth’s arms, face and leathers. If not for Stromund’s mask, it would have no doubt been in her mouth as well.

At last, the daemon swirled into nothing. Unfortunately, its blood remained. Maleneth scrubbed a hand across her ichor-streaked face, grinning at Xarissa’s look of revulsion.

‘Now is no time to be squeamish, sister.’

‘I fear no gore, mortal or otherwise,’ Xarissa replied. She eyed Maleneth’s spattered leathers with a dubious expression. ‘But that doesn’t mean I wish to bathe in it.’

‘No blood?’ Maleneth sniffed. ‘What manner of Daughter of Khaine are you?’

‘A clean one.’ Xarissa flicked her sword, arcing a line of dark blood across the stone.

‘We should move,’ Maleneth said with a nod towards the distant stairs. ‘I doubt those were the only daemons Velara’s ritual has loosed in the Spire.’

Maleneth pushed to her feet, only to stagger with a surprised hiss as the pain of her wounds came sharply to the fore. Whatever tranquilising effect the daemonette’s claw had worked upon her seemed undone by the creature’s destruction. She could feel the slash across her thigh, the blood soaking her leathers and trickling down into her boot.

‘Let me see to you.’ Xarissa stepped up to lay a hand upon her shoulder.

‘No time.’ Maleneth spoke through gritted teeth. ‘We need to reach Velara.’

‘And just how will you manage that with your leg cut to ribbons?’ Xarissa touched the wound to punctuate her point, causing Maleneth to flinch. ‘I won’t be able to close it entirely, but at least I can keep you from bleeding out.’

Maleneth’s first instinct was to pull away, but that impulse was rooted in habit rather than practicality. In the time since she had fled Nightcliff, she had fought alongside many companions; some she had even come to respect, if not exactly trust.

But it had been many years since she had called any sister.

‘Just be quick about it. And…’ Maleneth caught herself, forcing the anger from her voice. ‘And thank you.’

Xarissa’s fingers were cold upon Maleneth’s skin, her chant spreading icy tendrils across the wound. When she stepped back, Maleneth’s entire leg felt numb – a marked improvement over searing pain.

‘That should hold if you don’t exert yourself too much.’

Maleneth favoured her sister with a wry glance. ‘I’ll tell Velara to go easy on us.’

‘Easy on you, perhaps.’ Xarissa chuckled. ‘I have managed to get this far without being cut up.’

Stromund grunted. ‘Must be nice.’

They continued down the hall at a brisk pace, although not so brisk as to risk running headlong into another pack of daemonettes. Open doors yawned on the right side of the hall. Some appeared to have been forced, but the majority were simply unlocked from within. Having experienced the daemonettes’ bewitching aura first-hand, Maleneth could well understand the impulse to offer oneself to the fiends. She could only imagine how powerful the compulsion would become for those who had breathed the soporific mist that filled the halls.

Although Maleneth had no wish for another daemonic encounter, she could not resist peering into some of the viewing chambers. They were uniformly luxurious, although style and structure varied widely between individual covens. Some had the look of miniature dungeons, complete with various implements of torture; others were filled with the trappings of nobility, the furniture richly upholstered and the walls inset with gold and gems.

Where once most had held shrines to Khaine, the god’s old aspect had been replaced with gilded statues of Morathi, her feet heaped with offerings. Although they represented the former High Oracle in a prideful, fearsome aspect, Maleneth could not ignore the subtle flicker of unease that dwelt at the back of her thoughts. Perhaps it was simply that Maleneth had been removed from Khainite society for so long, but Morathi’s sudden apotheosis simply felt wrong.

With a scowl, she pushed aside her doubts. There would be time to interrogate her concerns later; for now, Maleneth needed to focus on the kill.

They moved into the chambers of more affluent covens. There were small, heated pools, richly tiled with arabesques and intricate frescoes; curtains of silk and gossamer; entire performance stages so the wealthy might be entertained between bouts. One of the larger viewing chambers even boasted a replica of the Spire itself, complete with tiny, enchanted gladiators.

Nightcliff was a rich city, occupying a prime position on the eastern coast of Va-Leth, where the Penumbral Sea flowed into the Umbral Veil surrounding the Khainite capital of Hagg Nar. Its more affluent citizens could easily afford such luxury. There had long been an unstated competition among the nobility concerning who could secure the most elaborate ornaments, the most exotic delicacies and entertainments. Having grown up surrounded by such luxuries, Maleneth was not surprised by the viewing chambers’ contents. What surprised her was the fact that many of their occupants were still alive.

Some chambers had been painted with blood, their carpets and divans scattered with lovingly dismembered bodies. But the majority were untouched. Nobles and matriarchs lay in various states of repose. Others wandered languidly about, drinking, laughing, and generally cavorting with one another. Vacant, glassy eyes, slack smiles, slurred conversations – their movements had the loose imprecision of sleepwalkers.

‘What has Velara done to them?’ Xarissa asked.

‘A better question might be, what have they done to themselves?’ Maleneth said. It saddened her to think that Nightcliff’s aristocracy might have succumbed to such base pleasures.

They threaded a succession of increasingly opulent chambers, avoiding the stumbling nobles and their entourages. Guards and servants availed themselves of the assorted delights with equal fervour to their erstwhile mistresses.

Grimly, Maleneth parted a fall of gossamer curtains to reveal a wide, elegantly carved stair leading to the Spire’s upper galleries. It would not take them directly to Velara’s killing floor but to the viewing stands above it. A small blessing – one Maleneth hoped to take full advantage of.

‘Stromund,’ she called softly, as if a raised voice might break the spell that ensnared the nobles around her. ‘Can you cut your way back into the arena?’

The duardin scoffed. ‘Now why would I go and do a damn fool thing like that?’

‘Velara will be expecting you and the others,’ Maleneth replied. ‘But she believes me dead.’

Splendid gave a rueful chuckle. ‘So you mean to feed us into a meat grinder in the hope of distracting the High Gladiatrix?’

‘That’s about the shape of it, yes.’ Maleneth shrugged. ‘Unless you have a better plan?’

The ogor sucked air through his teeth, then blew it out. ‘No, can’t say I do.’

‘Do you have any idea what awaits us?’ Maleneth asked Stromund.

The duardin shook his head. ‘Velara never let me work above the third arena.’

‘I wonder why?’ Xarissa asked, tapping her chin thoughtfully. ‘Especially with your proven record of loyalty.’

‘Might be because she was a secret servant of the Dark Prince preparing a profane ritual,’ Stromund said, giving his beard an angry tug. ‘A fact, might I add, that even her best assassin failed to notice.’

Xarissa’s smile held nothing but threat. ‘So you are saying your usefulness is at an end?’

‘Hardly.’ Scowling, Stromund slapped the heavy stones of the chamber wall. ‘This runs parallel to one of the entry stairs.’

‘Am I going to have to bash our way in again?’ Splendid asked, massaging the bicep of one massive arm. ‘I’ll be sore for days.’

‘Not quite.’ Stromund perked up, eager as always to expound upon all things mechanical. ‘You see, when I built the traps in the third arena, I also needed to install a means for the nobles to trigger them. Obviously I couldn’t use mechanical connectors, or some enterprising contestant might climb through one of the access ports. So I settled on a series of linked aetheric connections slaved to a one-way conduit with enough power to immolate anyone attempting to access it from the outer end, and a kill-switch to prevent any overly enthusiastic nobles from burning themselves alive.’

The duardin paused, noticing the scowls on his companions’ faces. He gave a put-upon sigh. ‘It’s a series of tubes.’ He glanced at the ogor. ‘Big tubes. We shut down the power, then crawl into the top of the arena.’

Splendid slapped him on the shoulder. ‘There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’

‘How long will it take?’ Maleneth asked.

Stromund chewed his lower lip. ‘Twenty minutes. Less if Splendid helps me rip out the larger cables.’

‘I think I can manage that,’ the ogor said.

‘Then I should get in position,’ Maleneth said with a nod to Xarissa. ‘I would expect heavy resistance.’

‘I always do.’ Her sister gave a thin smile.

‘I trust your sorceries will be up to the task.’ Maleneth tried to imbue her words with confidence, but Xarissa only narrowed her eyes.

‘Don’t patronise me, sister.’ Her voice came rough with anger. ‘Just bring me Velara’s head.’

‘Gladly.’ Raising a blade in salute, Maleneth made for the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-Six

At long last, Maleneth Witchblade was in her element. She enjoyed a bit of bladework as much as the next Khainite, but it was in stealth where Khailebron truly excelled.

Although the stair seemed empty, Maleneth took her time ascending the elegant marble steps. She would not put it beyond the High Gladiatrix to have installed a few particularly gruesome traps to prevent any confused nobility from stumbling up to the ritual chamber.

The walls were covered with bas-reliefs of Ascensions past, a succession of High Gladiatrixes wreaking holy slaughter upon those skilled or lucky enough to reach the Spire’s apex. Maleneth was unsurprised to note the tableau contained no reference to the few times one of the supposed victims had managed to overcome their executioner.

No one likes to be reminded of their failures, Sybelline said sharply. Especially the high-born.

And yet, you remain, Maleneth replied.

Pettiness does not become you, daughter.

Maleneth felt her upper lip curl. Why not? I learned from the best.

The stands encircled the ritual chamber. Situated perhaps twenty feet above the floor, the highest tiers were roughly level with the centre of the sacrificial altar in the middle of the room. Normally, they would be packed with all manner of nobles, matriarchs, bodyguards, and assorted hangers-on. But the wide stone benches stood empty, save for a dozen grey-cloaked cultists, heavy repeater crossbows cradled in their steady hands. Their collective aim was trained upon the entrance from the lower arena, right where Xarissa and the others would emerge.

It seemed High Gladiatrix Velara did not intend to leave anything to chance.

Despite the threat of the dark-cloaked killers, Maleneth found her gaze drawn inexorably to the central altar. Crafted to resemble Nightcliff in miniature, it took the form of a great obsidian wave rising from the gold-flecked tiles. Easily thirty feet tall, its top was level with the highest seats. It dominated the centre of the arena, seemingly poised to crash down and obliterate all below. A broad stair ran up the back of the crest, leading to a wide dais at the top, absent rails or walls. The altar itself was a wide obsidian plinth, carved with a complex series of channels so the blood of sacrificial victims would spill down into the great cauldron below on the arena floor.

Although somewhat less imposing than the Grand Máthcoir in Hagg Nar, the Razor Cauldron of Nightcliff was no less arresting. Crafted from the dark fundaments of Nightcliff itself, the cauldron was large enough Maleneth could have stood inside and not been able to touch the sides with arms fully extended.

Not that she would have wished to.

Every surface of the sacrificial cauldron was covered with obsidian barbs. Drawn from shadowstuff itself and inscribed with the most vicious sigils Nightcliff’s sorcerous covens could command, they would pierce even warded steel. Far worse, the spines were paper-thin, and would break off in the body of any they impaled, cruel sorceries causing them to worm their way through the victim’s innards, carving them up from the inside.

As usual, the Razor Cauldron bubbled and steamed, but what filled it was not blood.

Thick purple mist flowed over the rim. Cascading down the obsidian wave like a torrent of corruption, it pooled knee-deep in the arena below, seeping through vents and blood channels to infiltrate the Spire’s lower levels. Bright sparks leapt from the cauldron. As if rising from a great daemonic forge, they filled the air with opalescent brilliance, a thousand scintillating colours that seemed to tug at the eye.

A dozen gladiatrixes ringed the arena, flesh carved with profane symbols, bodies trembling, their heads thrown back in paroxysms of cruel ecstasy. More lay scattered atop the altar itself, bodies torn, ribs splayed open as if something had burst from within. With a reflexive shudder, Maleneth realised she knew exactly what had clawed their way from the sacrifices’ chests.

A low hum resonated within Maleneth’s bones. Her skin prickled and itched as if a swarm of invisible insects were crawling beneath her leathers. As she listened, the sound deepened, high, musical notes emerging from the drone, a languid melody both slow and beautiful.

With a shake to clear her head, Maleneth sought to refocus her attentions. Velara may have turned the Ascension ritual towards Slaanesh’s dark designs, but it seemed there were still forms to follow.

The High Gladiatrix stood in the centre of the arena, arms raised and gaze distant as she mouthed dire incantations. Even with her weapons sheathed, Velara cut an imposing figure, scarred limbs silhouetted by the waterfall of fog tumbling from the corrupt altar above. Although her back was turned to Maleneth, Velara’s chant held an exultant note, her whole body leaned forward in anticipation of what was to come.

Maleneth glanced at the stairs to the lower arena, muttering a silent prayer that Khaine might lend speed to her companions’ steps. In an even fight with Velara, Maleneth would have about as much chance as a sacrificial victim.

Fortunately, she did not plan to face the High Gladiatrix on even terms.

Although she dared not attempt a strike at the ritual celebrants, there was much Maleneth could do to prepare for her comrades’ arrival. Quiet as a bit of windswept silk, she stalked down the stepped amphitheatre ringing the ritual arena.

The first four archers died before they could even register Maleneth had crept up behind them. A quick stab just under the shoulder, blade angled to slide through ribs and pierce heart and lungs together. Even as each stiffened, her free arm slipped around their chest. She drew them close, careful not to let their death throes alert the other watchers.

Maleneth took her time with the others, not because she wished to savour their deaths – although the murders were sweet – but because she wanted to arrange them just so. She left them leaning on the rail, crossbows aimed not at the entrance stair, but the circle of ritualists below. It was probably too much to hope that the necromantic tokens Maleneth had slipped into their mouths would guide the corpses’ aim, but the brief, jittery reanimation would certainly be enough to send spasms through their stiffening trigger fingers.

Even a random hail of crossbow bolts was better than none.

Preparations accomplished, Maleneth began to plan angles of attack. The most direct would be to leap from the balcony onto the arena floor itself, but that would put her in the centre of the ritual circle. Maleneth had no doubt she could reach the High Gladiatrix before the gladiatrixes shook off their ritualistic fervour, but she was far less certain about being able to best Velara herself. Even without the Dark Prince’s power, Velara was one of the quickest fighters Maleneth had ever witnessed.

The altar, Sybelline said.

It is empty of all but corpses and dark magic. Maleneth could not hide the irritation in her voice.

No, you lightless fool, her mistress responded sharply. Look how it arcs over the arena floor. If you climb the stairs without being spied, you would be directly above Velara.

Maleneth eyed the drop dubiously. I would be above the cauldron as well.

Don’t tell me your legs have grown so weak you cannot clear a minor obstacle, Sybelline said.

I would hardly call the Razor Cauldron ‘minor’. Maleneth wrinkled her nose. What of the sparks, the mist?

What of it? Sybelline replied. Even if you charge in like a ravenous ogor, you will still be wading through mist to reach Velara.

It was not a great plan. It was not even a good plan. But Maleneth was pained to admit her mistress’ argument made uncomfortable sense.

Time was usually an assassin’s friend. Even the most well-protected target could not be permanently on watch. Everyone slipped up, even gods. Maleneth would have much rather taken time to study the approaches, waiting for the ideal moment to strike. Unfortunately, she was not sure there would be an ideal moment. More, she knew neither when Velara’s profane ritual would finish nor when her companions would make their entrance.

I knew you would see reason, daughter. Satisfaction threaded Sybelline’s voice as Maleneth rounded the stands to the rear of the altar. Shielded from the view of the ritual itself, Velara had stationed a pair of gladiatrixes at the base of the altar stair. Unlike their sisters in the arena beyond, these two stood with the watchful grace of predators about to pounce, seemingly unaffected by the mist. With nearly a score of paces of open stone between them, and the air alive with scintillating light, Maleneth doubted that even she could cross the distance unnoticed.

Not without a bit of help.

Carefully, Maleneth slipped off her bandolier. Removing several of Qholar’s flashier concoctions, she coiled the leather strap into a tight ball, the remaining vials tucked safely within. Through narrowed eyes, she measured the distance between herself and the gladiatrixes, taking care to account for the height difference – an easy throw if she were sending daggers their way, far harder to time the impact.

Tongue pressed firmly in the corner of her mouth, Maleneth lobbed the wrapped bundle high into the air, trusting to the swirling motes to conceal its deadly trajectory. Soundlessly, she vaulted over the rail and dropped down to the arena below. Maleneth hit the stone and tucked into a tight roll. Two spins and she was on her feet, sprinting across the intervening distance, blades held in a reverse grip.

It was a narrow thing. Too soon and she risked being caught in the swirling cloud of alchemical agony, too late and it would give the gladiatrixes a chance to leap clear. So thick were the eddies of gemlike flecks that Maleneth almost did not mark the bandolier’s descent. She had almost checked her rush, only to see a tiny shadow tumble from among the clouds.

The gladiatrixes were quick to respond, drawing in twin breaths to shout a warning even as they moved to intercept Maleneth. No doubt trained to fight together, they had already begun to spread out when the bundle of potions struck the ground between them.

It was a far from perfect throw, but it did not need to be.

The soft crunch of breaking glass was lost amidst the resonant thrum of the ritual, just as the spreading cloud of alchemical ailments did not stand out against the clotted mist that rolled from the altar.

The nearest gladiatrix reeled back, gagging on noxious fumes even as swarms of boils erupted on her bare skin. The other had moved far enough to be caught only by the edge of the cloud. Even so, it was enough to send her darting away, more concerned by the spreading mist than Maleneth’s blades.

It was a mistake she did not live long enough to regret.

The corrupt sigils inscribed in the gladiatrix’s flesh writhed like bird-caught worms as Maleneth drove her blades into her opponent’s neck and side.

Even as she fell, battle-honed reflexes sent the aelf’s saw-toothed blade arcing towards Maleneth’s face. It would have been easy to leap back, only that would have placed her squarely in the expanding cloud of mist. As well made as Stromund’s filtration mask was, she doubted it would ward her exposed skin against the flesh-devouring fog. So Maleneth was forced to twist awkwardly to the side, leaving her off balance when the other gladiatrix’s jagged glaive came arcing in from the side.

Only Sybelline’s sudden cry of warning saved Maleneth from being cut shoulder-to-stomach by the descending blade. There was too much force behind the blow for her to parry, so she brought her short swords around to strike the glaive’s metal shaft, which turned the slash from deadly to merely inconvenient. The blade skated along Maleneth’s shoulder, carving a long curl of leather from the reinforced guard and tracing a line of cold fire across her upper arm.

There was no time to register the shock of the blow. Only the lungful of choking mist had kept the guard from crying out thus far, and the gladiatrix looked to be quickly shrugging off the effects.

With her blades out of position, Maleneth had no choice but to dart inside the sweep of the gladiatrix’s deadly glaive. The aelf reacted without hesitation, mirroring Maleneth’s movements to keep distance between them. Her mouth worked, as if she were trying to spit out a mouthful of tar. Fortunately, nothing emerged but a rasping mutter.

Expecting another assault, Maleneth raised her blades, only to see the gladiatrix turn and sprint up the altar stairs.

After her! Sybelline’s call seemed to echo in Maleneth’s skull. If she reaches the top, Velara and the other cultists will see.

Maleneth hurried after the fleeing gladiatrix but stumbled as her leg buckled. She recovered her balance quickly, but a glance down was enough to see the dark thread of Xarissa’s enchantments unweaving, blood already welling from the gash on her thigh.

She cast a desperate glance up to the altar, and felt a prickle of apprehension to see the gladiatrix halfway up the stairs. If she reached the top, even with her voice ruined by the smoke, she would be able to signal to Velara and the others.

Without time to draw a dagger, Maleneth sent one of her curved short swords spinning through the air. The blades were not balanced to throw, but that did not mean Maleneth had not practised throwing them.

It struck the gladiatrix in the lower back, piercing deep. She did not collapse, her flesh seemingly inured to pain by the litany of blasphemous glyphs etched into her skin. Even so, the impact was enough to break her stride. The gladiatrix’s foot caught on a leading step, and she fell heavily.

Maleneth staggered up the stairs, jaw tight against the sharp stab of pain every time she put weight upon her wounded leg. Also of concern was the cut upon her right arm. Although it had begun to burn like a fresh brand, Maleneth was relieved to feel none of the numbness or loss of motion that came from deeper cuts.

She was a few steps away when the gladiatrix pushed to her hands and knees. There was no time for finesse, so Maleneth simply tackled her opponent, stabbing down with her remaining blade as her free hand sought the one sticking from the gladiatrix’s back.

An elbow caught Maleneth in the side of the head. Although her vision dissolved into sparking brilliance, she gritted her teeth, thrusting both blades deeper into her victim.

The gladiatrix hit her again, and again. Each blow was weaker than the one before, but still enough to set Maleneth’s head ringing like a temple gong. Still, she hung on, mouth filling with blood even as she bore down upon the blades.

With one final shudder, the gladiatrix fell still. Maleneth waited for several long moments for her vision to clear, breath hot and close in the stifling confines of Stromund’s mask. Gradually, her heartbeat returned to normal and the throbbing whine faded from her ears.

Maleneth slowly raised her head. The stairs above stood empty and the melodic drone of the ritual continued, seemingly uninterrupted.

That was sloppily done, Sybelline chided. You almost gave everything away with your brawling. I should have tossed you into the fighting pits all those years ago.

Regret suits you well, crone. Maleneth pushed shakily to her feet. A good thing, because it’s all you have left.

Stop wasting time. Her mistress’ angry mutter was enough to buoy Maleneth’s spirits as she climbed the stairs. Although she dearly wished to take a moment to catch her scattered breath, Maleneth had already spent too long getting into position. Any moment now, Xarissa and the others would come barrelling up the arena stairs.

When they did, Maleneth would be ready.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Even Maleneth had to admit it was a good plan. She would have done the same, and suffered for it just as her comrades did.

One of the geomantic nodes near the base of the altar exploded, no doubt overloaded by a burst of Xarissa’s sorcery carefully directed by Stromund’s knowledge of the tower’s arcane frameworks.

It was a distraction, of course. The main assault would come from the stairs.

Sensing her companions’ intent, Maleneth whispered the command word that would trigger the necromantic tokens she had secreted about the cultists’ corpses on the viewing gallery. A score of crossbow bolts juddered from the upper benches.

Despite their detached demeanour, the corrupt gladiatrixes reacted as if they had been waiting for the assault, spinning away from the haphazard barrage with the casual elegance of knife dancers. It was too much to hope any would be killed, but Maleneth was delighted to see a few of Velara’s minions come away sporting bloody fletchings sticking from their flesh. As satisfying as it was to see her enemies suffer, the hail of bolts had also forced the cultists out of position. Maleneth only hoped her companions could capitalise on the distraction.

Smoke billowed from the arena entrance, harmless but obscuring. From the thick cloud came a burst of volley gun fire. It would have been impossible for Stromund to aim, but the point was not to kill or wound, but rather to sow more chaos.

Splendid charged from the fog like an avenging avatar. He had found himself a makeshift shield. Fashioned from a heavy sheet of tempered bronze and backed by hastily soldered straps of reinforced leather, it turned the old ogor into a juggernaut.

The corrupt gladiatrixes spun away from the burst of gunfire. Limbs blurring, expressions dripping with dark delight, they seemed to move as if underwater, almost weightless in the misty gloom. Like a school of snapjaws they darted from the ogor’s path, slipping around the sides of his heavy shield, ready to cut and flense.

Ever the canny combatant, Splendid pivoted with surprising speed. The sweep of his cutlass caught one of the gladiatrixes mid-pirouette, carving through arms and ribs. Unshaken by their sister’s bloody demise, the others descended upon the ogor’s exposed flank. A barbed whip tore bloody hunks from his forearm. A jagged glaive skated across his gut plate. One of the gladiatrixes leapt into the air to aim a scything cut at the ogor’s broad face. He hefted his shield just in time to prevent the loss of an eye. But lifting it exposed Splendid’s lower legs, and the gladiatrixes were quick to dive in, saw-toothed blades aiming for tendons and exposed joints.

They would have hamstrung the ogor if not for Stromund. The duardin stomped from the dispersing cloud of smoke, goggles flashing in the sorcerous glow as he raised his volley gun and sent half a dozen shots whistling towards the pack of corrupt aelves.

None struck home, but they were enough to spare the ogor a debilitating cut. The gladiatrixes skittered back, laughing as they circled Splendid. Maleneth itched to join the fight, but held back. The gladiatrixes were nothing, little more than pleasure-maddened cultists.

Something is wrong, Sybelline said.

Velara has corrupted the Ascension ritual, drugged the matriarchs, loosed a small army of daemons, and stands poised to unleash the Dark Prince’s hordes upon Nightcliff itself, Maleneth replied. Of course something is wrong.

No, something else. Sybelline paused as if unsure. Look at Velara.

The High Gladiatrix had yet to engage. In fact, Velara had yet to do anything. If the rattle of gunfire and Splendid’s bellows disturbed her concentration, she gave no sign at all. She merely stood, arms raised, the slightest of grins on her hard-edged face.

Maleneth considered descending upon Velara. Although the High Gladiatrix was too far to reach in a single leap, if Maleneth tucked into a forward roll, she could stick a sword in the aelf’s back before she could blink.

And yet, Maleneth held back. It was not only her former mistress’ warning; Maleneth felt it, too. Something was not right. If this had been any other assassination, she would have crept away to bide her time until another opportunity arose. But there were no other opportunities. Already she could feel the gathering power of the ritual, as if she were on a Kharadron airship, descending from a great height.

And yet, a hidden blade was no use if the enemy was aware of it. Maleneth would gain nothing by hurling herself into the melee, especially when Velara had yet to spring her final trap. Maleneth would rely on Xarissa to compel the High Gladiatrix to action.

Through it all, the Pale Viper was nowhere to be seen. Maleneth had expected her to leap from one of the hazy shadows while the others were distracted by Splendid’s headlong rush. But the ogor fought alone, unsupported save by Stromund’s volleys – increasingly sporadic now that several gladiatrixes had descended upon the Kharadron anarchist.

Even Maleneth was surprised when the ogor raised his shield perpendicular to the arena floor. The move opened his entire body to assault. It also interposed the heavy sheet of bronze between the arcane lanterns set into the arena’s high ceiling.

Xarissa charged from the fleeting pool of shadow, closing on the High Gladiatrix in two quick steps. Her umbral blade flicked out, fast as a serpent’s tongue.

Velara parted like clouds before the shadowed edge, her form insubstantial as the opalescent mist billowing from the Razor Cauldron.

Ever the professional, the Pale Viper indulged in only the barest flicker of doubt. Skipping back, she cut a quick figure of eight in case Velara had somehow become invisible, but the umbral blade found nothing but empty air. Her surprise attack foiled, Xarissa spun away, dodging into the shadow of the sacrificial altar. A moment, and she had emerged behind the grinning gladiatrixes menacing Stromund. Her blade put a swift end to their amusement.

Freed from harassment, the duardin hefted his volley gun once more.

‘Shield!’ Stromund’s shout sounded strange and distant, as if Maleneth were listening through water. Even so, Splendid seemed to understand the message clear enough. The ogor bulled through the closing circle of gladiatrixes, weathering several cuts to his back as he performed a quick pivot and hunkered down behind his shield.

Maleneth could not restrain a grin as Stromund opened fire.

Volley gun rounds ricocheted from the ogor’s shield, leaving divots in the bronze. Maleneth could hear Splendid’s strained grunts as each impact drove the heavy plate of metal back. No doubt, his shoulder would be tender for days to come.

The same could not be said about the gladiatrixes.

They were some of the best combatants Nightcliff had ever seen. Trained in Velara’s war coven, they had fought their way through the ranks, facing warriors and beasts culled from across the Mortal Realms. Each had mastered a dozen weapons and was skilled with scores more. They could clear ten paces in a single leap, cross the arena at a dead sprint and leave corpses behind with every step.

None of which aided them against a hail of bullets.

Without cover, the gladiatrixes might as well have been victims led to slaughter. Some tried to bring their weapons to bear, others to tumble away, but Stromund’s volley gun was relentless. The air came alive as he raked the arena, aether rounds burning like a swarm of deadly fireflies. The closest gladiatrixes fell like unstringed puppets. Those farther away managed a leap or flourish before they were cut down as well. Only one managed to slip past the arc of fire, and that by throwing herself flat in the mist.

Stromund’s volley gun gave an aggrieved rattle, its spinning barrels red hot as they chattered to a stop. Dark smoke curled from the body of the weapon. Stromund gave a yelp, releasing his grip, the palms of his gloves charred. Drawing a saw, he cut the gun straps in one quick motion, stepping away.

The last gladiatrix pushed to her feet. Murder sharp in her eyes, she raised her twin blades.

Splendid’s cutlass caught her just above the waist, ending her charge before it began.

The echoes of gunfire faded, the arena silent but for the laboured breaths of Maleneth’s companions and the hissing bubble of the Razored Cauldron.

‘Well, that wasn’t so bad.’ The wariness in Stromund’s tone echoed Maleneth’s own misgivings.

‘Speak for yourself.’ Wheezing, Splendid leaned upon his shield. He pressed a hand to one of the larger bloodstains on his legs, then withdrew it with a regretful wince. ‘That’ll need stitches for sure.’

‘Quiet, both of you,’ Xarissa said, head cocked, jaw tight.

Maleneth mirrored her sister, gaze roving the arena as she searched for the trap she knew was coming. From her vantage atop the sacrificial altar, Maleneth had full view of the entire space, but the floor remained empty of all but mist and corpses. Even so, she could still feel the ritual energy thrumming through the chamber. Pressure built behind her ears and eyes, the air stretched tight as a drumhead, as if some great and terrible presence pressed against the bonds of reality.

‘It is not over until we kill the High Gladiatrix,’ Xarissa said.

‘Didn’t you just…’ Splendid waved his blade through the air. ‘Disperse her?’

‘That was not Velara,’ Xarissa replied without turning.

Stromund drew his other saw. ‘Well then, where is she?’

‘The ritual is bleeding too much energy,’ Xarissa said with an angry shake of her head. ‘I cannot sift anything from this mess.’

‘If the ritual is the problem, why don’t we do something about it?’ With a grunt, Splendid discarded his shield and began to limp towards the Razor Cauldron, cutlass at the ready. As if drawn along in the ogor’s wake, Xarissa and Stromund drifted closer to the altar.

From above, Maleneth watched them approach. She was not sure that spilling the Razor Cauldron would stop Velara’s ritual, but it was better than doing nothing.

Worse than the sense of terrible imminence was the clenched fist of worry in Maleneth’s stomach. Her companions had slain the last of the High Gladiatrix’s coven, and still Velara had yet to appear in the flesh. Maleneth rose to a low crouch, every muscle tense as she scanned the chamber, senses pricked for the slightest hint of danger.

Only when Maleneth felt the cold prick of steel at her throat did she realise her mistake. In her desire to winnow out the High Gladiatrix, she had forgotten the oldest rule.

When you fail to see your foe, they are behind you.

A familiar voice spoke just behind her ear.

‘You are late, Witchblade.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Maleneth stiffened with a low hiss as the pressure on the blade increased. It was either stand or let Velara cut her throat. Maleneth chose to stand.

The blade at her neck did not waver. Strong fingers gripped Maleneth’s wrists, dragging her arms to the side even as they roughly stripped the short swords from her hands and the breathing mask from her face. Fortunately, they were well above the heavy, soporific mist pouring from the cauldron.

A quick glance was enough to confirm her suspicions and send a sharp spike of anger through her chest as she recognised the brawny human twins who had brutalised her in the Spire dungeons. They grinned like manticores closing on cornered prey, all teeth and cruel hunger. Maleneth twisted in the twins’ grip, seeking to pull one or the other off balance, but they were skilled wrestlers. Maleneth might as well have been trying to shift a temple column. She was not sure how she could have missed Velara and her pets. No doubt, there was dark sorcery involved.

‘Drop your weapons,’ Velara called down to Maleneth’s companions. ‘Or watch Witchblade die.’

Splendid’s cutlass clattered to the tile. Neither Stromund nor Xarissa moved.

‘Go ahead,’ Stromund said with a shrug. ‘It’ll be nice to see her bleed for a change.’

Splendid fixed the others with an accusatory glare, only to have Xarissa give it right back.

‘It is not as if Velara is going to release Maleneth once we are unarmed.’ The Pale Viper’s lips curled into a cutting sneer. ‘Pick up your blade, idiot.’

‘Ah, when you put it like that.’ Sheepishly, Splendid bent to retrieve his cutlass.

Velara chuckled. ‘Fine company you keep, Witchblade.’

‘At least mine are still alive.’ Careful not to cut her own throat, Maleneth tilted her head at the gladiatrixes splayed across the arena floor.

‘You think my sisters are dead?’ Scorn dripped from Velara’s words. ‘Oh no, they are finally free.’

The High Gladiatrix’s next words seemed to slide across the edge of Maleneth’s hearing. Loose and liquid, they squirmed into the cracks in her thoughts. Although undoubtedly corrupt, there was also a strange sense of refinement, leaving Maleneth feeling like she had just crawled through the sewers below some high-class pleasure den.

With a sizzling hiss, the Razored Cauldron belched thick billows of shimmering fog into the air. But Maleneth’s gaze was not drawn to the ancient artefact, but rather the dead gladiatrixes.

Booted feet drummed upon the tile, arms flailing even as the corpses convulsed with abominable power. Maleneth tensed in anticipation that the dead would be flooded with new, corrupt life. She should have steeled herself for something far worse.

A wet cracking filled the chamber – blood, bone, and flesh rent asunder as the gladiatrixes’ corpses burst apart to reveal the gore-drenched horror within. A score of daemonettes rose from the ruined bodies. Claws clacking, eyes bright, they spread out across the arena floor to ring Maleneth’s comrades, who quickly moved back to back.

Seemingly unconcerned, the daemonettes licked at the crimson flecks upon their arms and claws, cleaning themselves like monstrous cats as they awaited their dark mistress’ command.

‘Turn her,’ Velara said. ‘I would have Witchblade see what she has wrought.’

Maleneth was roughly spun around. One of the twins grabbed her hair, wrenching her head back so she was forced to stare up at the High Gladiatrix.

Velara stood atop the sacrificial altar, arms crossed, her expression flat as tempered glass as she looked Maleneth up and down.

‘Frankly, I expected more.’

Maleneth bared her teeth. ‘Tell your creatures to release me and see what I am capable of.’

‘Oh, I think not.’ Velara hopped lightly from the altar. ‘You have already caused enough trouble.’

‘There will be more before the night is out.’ Maleneth spoke through gritted teeth. ‘We have carved our way up the Bladed Spire, defeated everything you could summon.’

‘You really think you almost won?’ Velara rocked back on her heels, a curl of amusement nesting at the corner of her lips. ‘The only reason you and your motley collection of traitors were able to reach this chamber was because I allowed it.’

The High Gladiatrix crossed the distance between them in two quick steps. Squatting, she grasped Maleneth’s chin, dragging her close so they were almost face to face.

‘You ruined everything. You and that halfwit crone you called a mistress.’ Velara’s mask of impassivity fell away to reveal a dark and terrible rage. The High Gladiatrix’s face twisted, her voice rough with long-buried anger. ‘Do you have any idea how long I had to stoke Sybelline’s paranoia? How many enchantments it took to cloud her mind? To blind her to the ritual’s true purpose? It was to be you and your sisters upon that altar, fool, a great offering to Khaine.’ Velara clicked her teeth together a finger’s breadth from Maleneth’s nose. ‘Or at least the thing your fool of a mistress believed to be Khaine. It would have been perfect.’ Velara’s eyes glittered with chill anger. ‘Sybelline bloated with my master’s power, confused, disoriented, a succulent morsel ready to be plucked. We would have swept in and devoured it all.’ She gave Maleneth’s jaw a painful squeeze. ‘But no, you had to cut her down before the ritual was complete.’

Velara drew in a shaky breath, and let it out through her nose. Seeming to master her temper, she released Maleneth’s face and stood, tone calm once more.

‘But that all ends now. At long last, I have you.’ She leaned in to grasp the amulet dangling from Maleneth’s neck. ‘Both of you.’

With a self-satisfied smile, Velara snapped the chain.

For the first time in a very long time, Maleneth was truly alone with her thoughts. There had been a time when she did not yet know how to shut Sybelline out, when her mistress’ fury had lashed Maleneth like a winter storm. Only stubborn pride had kept her from tossing the amulet into a midden heap. Gradually Maleneth had learned to suppress Sybelline’s voice, and had even removed the amulet when she had grown weary of her former mistress’ admonitions. But that had always been Maleneth’s choice.

She swallowed against the upswell of unfamiliar emotions. There was anger, yes; there was always anger. No one stole from Maleneth Witchblade and lived. But there was also a strange hollow feeling, as if Velara had reached into Maleneth’s chest to pluck some small, but vital organ. It may have been the lingering effects of the holes the Idoneth enchantments had worn in her memories, but Maleneth had come to rely upon the spirit of her former mistress more than she cared to admit. It was an unsettling realisation, but one she could do little to rectify.

Not yet at least.

As Velara admired the amulet, Maleneth glanced to her companions below, seeking Xarissa’s gaze.

Her sister’s eyes widened in unspoken question.

Now?

It made sense to strike while Velara was distracted, but the time did not feel right.

Maleneth gave the barest shake of her head. She was not going to fall into another of the High Gladiatrix’s traps. Instead, she let a soft groan slip through her lips, gaze crawling back to the ruby that held her mistress’ soul.

‘Oh, this is sweet.’ Velara gave the amulet a little swing, as if she were some back-alley hypnotist. ‘You actually care about her.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Maleneth gave her voice a slight tremble. ‘You have ruled Nightcliff for years. Why not simply perform another ritual?’

‘I could not,’ Velara snapped. ‘Without the deaths of you and your traitorous mistress, the first ritual remained incomplete. Attempting another would cause an arcane backlash that would destroy Nightcliff and half the bay along with it.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘You may think me a monster, Witchblade, but I do this for all of us.’

Maleneth wrinkled her nose. ‘I hardly see how summoning a horde of daemons benefits our people.’

‘You think this is a summoning?’ Velara spread her arms like a proud architect displaying some masterpiece of stone and steel. ‘The daemons are but moths to a flame. We seek not to manifest Chaos in Ulgu, but to release that which is already here. Chained by the petulant machinations of lesser gods, trapped between light and shadow for aeons.’

Maleneth scowled to hide her confusion. Nightcliff was a place of power, strange and ancient, but there had never been any indication of corruption hidden within its obsidian depths. She glared up at the High Gladiatrix.

‘Even if you slay me, Morathi-Khaine will stop you.’

‘That two-faced crone?’ Velara’s laugh was the croak of a startled crow. ‘Come now, Witchblade, do you really believe Morathi is Khaine reborn?’ She squatted to look Maleneth in the eye, voice low and conspiratorial. ‘You kill in his name, but the Lord of Murder was slain long ago. Morathi may play at divinity, clutching at what tattered scraps of Khaine’s power remain, but she is merely a pretender – unlike my master.’

‘You lie.’ Maleneth shook her head. Jaw tight against the unsettling doubt that had lodged like a splinter in her mind the moment she had discovered the High Oracle had declared herself Khaine reborn.

‘You are far more clever than the rest of those blood-mad fanatics,’ Velara replied. ‘Surely you must harbour some misgivings about our dear Morathi’s sudden rise to power.’

‘It is not our place to question Khaine’s will.’ Although Maleneth spoke with conviction, her thoughts roiled with dire implications. If Morathi had usurped Khaine’s mantle, then she had committed the most vile sacrilege. But how could one blaspheme against a god aeons dead?

‘You disappoint me, Witchblade.’ Velara pushed to her feet with a weary sigh. ‘No matter. Soon you will feel my master’s loving embrace, and you will understand. Khaine is but a flight of bloody fancy, an aspect of true desire whetted to razor-sharpness by the misplaced longing in our hearts. Deep down you know it, Maleneth. Just as she knows it.’ Velara delicately placed the amulet on the sacrificial altar. ‘We have always been his.’

The High Gladiatrix raised her blade, pommel poised to come crashing down and shatter the ruby that held the last vestiges of Sybelline’s soul.

Maleneth was out of time.

Once more, she sought Xarissa’s gaze, and nodded.

The Pale Viper ducked into Splendid’s shadow. With a hoarse cry, the ogor charged through the ring of daemonettes, Stromund close behind as they bolted for the base of the altar stair, where it would be more difficult for the daemons to surround them.

Maleneth did not wait to see where Xarissa would appear. Biting down on her false tooth, she twisted to exhale a cloud of fyrepowder into the face of the twin on her left.

Although the gladiator was too well trained to release his grip, Maleneth seized upon the break in his attention, tugging hard. As expected, he pulled back. Twisting her arm to break the twin’s grip, Maleneth butted him in the face. Senses scoured by the fyrepowder, the fool could not anticipate the blow. Nose spread across his face, he stumbled back and over the edge of the sacrificial platform.

Not trusting her wounded leg to fully support her weight, Maleneth half stumbled, half fell onto the twin holding her other arm. Although the gladiator reacted quickly, he could not retain his grip and ward against the barrage of punches Maleneth rained down upon his undefended head. Shoulders hunched against the barehanded assault, the gladiator dragged Maleneth into a close hold. She clapped an open palm against his ear, but though she heard the gladiator groan, the man bore down, bending Maleneth back until she felt her spine might snap.

Desperately, she worked her free hand towards one of the daggers dangling from the gladiator’s belt. Her fingers had just brushed the hilt when he drove a fist into the wound on her arm. Agony unfurled along the limb, bright spots flicking across her vision. The gladiator seized on her distraction to drive a knee into Maleneth’s gut. She sought to drag in a breath, but her lungs would not respond.

The man kneed her again, higher, no doubt hoping to break Maleneth’s ribs. What he did not count on was the sash of vials strapped to her chest.

Maleneth felt glass break, and closed her eyes and mouth as the resulting cloud of alchemical vapour engulfed the two of them.

From the sudden slackening in his grip, Maleneth knew her attacker had breathed in a lungful of the terrible mist. She wasted no time in plucking a dagger from his belt. Although the twin deserved a far more painful death, only fools put vengeance before practicality. Two quick stabs left the brute bleeding out on the stone.

Maleneth staggered from the haze on unsteady legs, left arm clasped to her side. Eyes stinging, lungs burning, she drew in a grateful gasp of air. Through tears, she saw the glittering blur of Velara’s blade too late to twist away.

Something hammered into Maleneth’s side, driving her from the path of the killing stroke. Catching her balance, she heard the hollow ring of Velara’s sword meeting umbral steel, and turned to see Xarissa blade to blade with the High Gladiatrix.

The Pale Viper darted through the shadows like a hunting hawk, every leap punctuated by a slash or stab. The High Gladiatrix deflected each blow, her parries unconcerned, almost casual, as if she were instructing a group of initiates in proper sword form. Through it all, she did not even bother to glance at Xarissa. Instead, her gaze remained focused firmly on Maleneth.

Ignoring the High Gladiatrix’s mocking stare, Maleneth cast about for her blades. By Khaine’s provenance alone, they had not been flung from the plinth. Maleneth hurried to the base where the gladiators had casually tossed them.

Below, the Razor Cauldon boiled, every hiss and pop laden with daemonic menace. Although Maleneth could not see the arena through the opalescent fog, she could hear the high whine of Stromund’s saws, accompanied by a tapestry of curses from Splendid. Maleneth hoped her companions could hold against the pack of daemonettes, but there was little she could do to aid them.

Maleneth snatched up her blades, the move sending another ripple of pain down her wounded arm. Although her left hand still possessed strength enough to grip one well-worn hilt, the tremor in her fingers made Maleneth wary of attempting all but the lightest strikes with that arm.

She had half turned when a ruby glitter caught her eye. Upon the dark stone of the altar lay Sybelline’s medallion, its gem unbroken. As much as Maleneth misliked the swell of relief that prickled up her spine, she nonetheless snatched up the amulet. With the chain broken, she could not slip it over her head, so she simply wrapped it tight around her right fist.

You are wasting time, fool. Aid your sister before that witch feeds our souls to Slaanesh. Sybelline’s familiar voice slipped through Maleneth’s thoughts.

She could not help but smile. Only her mistress would repay rescue with reproach.

Maleneth’s grin bled away as she turned back to the fight, and found Velara still watching.

Like a duellist acknowledging an opponent, the High Gladiatrix gave a mocking tilt of her head before turning her full attention to Xarissa.

Had Maleneth possessed two working legs, she might have reached the combat in time. But with the daemonette’s savaging of her thigh, all she could manage was a limping jog. Even as she shambled across the platform, Maleneth knew it was too late.

Xarissa thrust at Velara’s face. But the lunge proved to be merely a feint, as she skipped into a nearby shadow only to emerge behind her opponent. It was a beautiful ruse; Velara’s blade was out of position, her back to the Pale Viper. Too close to dodge or twist away, there was nothing the High Gladiatrix could do as Xarissa’s blade drove towards her chest.

Half turning, Velara caught the sword between thumb and fore-finger.

From the strain on Xarissa’s face, Maleneth could tell her sister had put a great deal of force behind the blow, but she might as well have been trying to carve through warded steel.

The High Gladiatrix’s gaze flicked to the blade, her expression thoughtful, as if she were studying the sigils etched upon the umbral steel. Then, with a lazy twist of her wrist, she stripped the sword from Xarissa’s grip and sent it skittering into the mist.

Maleneth was barely two paces away when Velara drove her jagged sword into Xarissa’s stomach.

Sybelline’s howl echoed Maleneth’s own as the High Gladiatrix kicked their sister from her blade.

‘At last, just the two of us.’ Velara spun to face Maleneth, a delighted grin on her face. ‘Oh, I so hoped it would come to this.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It took only a heartbeat for Maleneth to realise she was hopelessly outmatched. Although she was no stranger to the cut-and-thrust of close combat, Maleneth’s skills were better suited to more subtle forms of murder. Even without her wounds, well rested and well armed, she would have been hard-pressed to defeat the High Gladiatrix. With Velara’s strength and reflexes enhanced by the power of the ritual, it was no contest at all.

Maleneth made the mistake of blocking one of the High Gladiatrix’s swift cuts. Although she used her good arm, the force of the blow almost dislocated her shoulder. Jaw tight against the pain, Maleneth hopped back, desperate to put a bit of distance between herself and Velara.

The High Gladiatrix raised her free hand as if to beckon Maleneth closer.

Down! Sybelline’s shout sent Maleneth into an awkward dive, just in time to avoid the lash of scintillating energy that crackled from Velara’s palm. It blistered the air over Maleneth’s head, curling back as the High Gladiatrix drew back her arm.

Maleneth rolled behind the altar even as Velara’s next strike sizzled across the ancient stone.

Strike! Sybelline called again. You must defeat her quickly!

Maleneth almost cast the amulet away in disgust. As if it was not enough she faced one of the greatest gladiatrixes in Nightcliff’s long and bloody history, Velara was a dark sorceress as well.

Silence, crone. Maleneth gritted her teeth. Unless you have something useful to add.

You do not understand, her former mistress replied. When Velara held me, I could hear her thoughts – just as I hear yours. The purpose of this ritual is far darker than we imagined. She does not seek to free something from Nightcliff, but to weaken the chains that bind the Prince of Pleasure.

Impossible. Maleneth shook her head as if to deny the dire news. No mere blood sacrifice can undo the work of the gods.

What is eternal cannot be locked away, over aeons even the tightest bonds fray, Sybelline said. This is but one facet of their plan. Across the Mortal Realms Slaanesh’s servants work to hasten his return. Other cults, other sorcerers, other rituals, all focused on freeing their dark master.

‘Come out, little sister,’ Velara called from the other side of the altar. ‘Face your end like a true Daughter of Khaine.’

Maleneth drew in a shuddering breath. I cannot defeat her. Not like this.

Sybelline made a small, irritated noise. Then think of a different way, fool.

I might, if you would cease your wretched squawking for a single breath, Maleneth said angrily. From the shouts and titters coming from the base of the altar stair, Stromund and Splendid were barely holding back the flood of daemons.

Maleneth gave vent to a few choice curses. It was just her luck: having finally rid herself of that grunting, one-eyed hog of a Slayer, she now found herself about to be cast into the maw of a dark god, her only company the mistress she had murdered. It might have even been worth it if she could have watched Sybelline be devoured first, if only to quiet her infernal screeching.

That was it. Something unwound in Maleneth’s chest, her eyes widening as she realised how to defeat Velara.

You have something, daughter? Sybelline asked.

Maleneth rolled her neck, cold surety settling upon her. We are going to give Velara exactly what she wants.

Maleneth tossed a pinch of flash powder to one side of the altar. A distraction, one Velara would never fall for. Which is why Maleneth shrugged from her cloak, spinning it around the other side of the altar.

Velara’s coruscating whip snaked through the cloak. Dark material lit like dry kindling, its burning punctuated by the flashes and pops of the various hidden poisons and alchemical admixtures sewn into the lining. Maleneth was sad to see it go. The cloak had served her well, but it was a necessary sacrifice, an added layer of deception that would buy her time.

The air full of strange venoms, Maleneth did the one thing Velara did not expect. Tumbling over the altar, she hurled herself directly at the High Gladiatrix.

Not trusting her legs, Maleneth’s lunge was more of a barely controlled fall. Even so, it closed the distance well enough. She ducked beneath the searing sweep of Velara’s whip, almost impaling herself on the High Gladiatrix’s sword. Crossing her blades, Maleneth drove them down to knock Velara’s thrust aside. Then she was inside the High Gladiatrix’s guard, too close for her whip – or so Maleneth thought, until the vile thing snaked around her calf.

The pain was like nothing she had ever experienced. A blistering, intoxicating ache, it curled up Maleneth’s leg to blossom along every nerve in her body. She cut at Velara’s face, not out of any hope of landing a strike, but rather to force the High Gladiatrix back long enough to draw in a shuddering breath.

Twisting almost double, Maleneth swept her other blade across the crackling thread of energy, letting out a relieved sigh as the enchanted steel parted Velara’s conjured whip. It burned like a short fuse, dissolving into threads of sweet-smelling smoke.

‘Now, that is more like it.’ Velara spun away, her grin a glittering curve in the half-light. ‘Come, Witchblade. The night is deep and beautiful. Let us dance together, you and I.’

‘Gladly,’ Maleneth snarled.

She came at the High Gladiatrix in a maelstrom of blades, each strike building on the last. The pain of her wounds seemed to recede. A gift from Khaine. Or perhaps simply a combination of nerves and necessity. It hardly mattered that Maleneth might lose the use of her leg, her arm; all that mattered was the kill. All that ever mattered was the kill.

Familiar patterns broke apart and recombined into new assaults as Maleneth incorporated techniques she had learned across the Mortal Realms: a twisting back cut taken from the duelling rings of Azyrheim; a quick elbow borrowed from the Fyreslayers of the Grymmpeaks; a feinting lunge half-remembered from when she and Gotrek had faced the Undying King deep within the long-hidden underworld of Morbium; even a heavy, overhand chop the Idoneth had allowed her to recall. They threaded her techniques like venomous smoke, ephemeral and deadly.

Maleneth fought better than she ever had, and even that was not enough.

Velara’s blade seemed an unnatural thing. Quicker than thought, it flowed like oil spilled across water, an opalescent blur that frustrated even Maleneth’s most complex techniques. Through it all, the High Gladiatrix’s smile only grew wider, her eyes bright with something akin to admiration.

‘Magnificent.’ Her voice betrayed no hint of strain, even as she ducked one of Maleneth’s cuts. ‘Oh, what a killer I could have made of you. Pity that insipid crone snatched you up first.’ She cocked her head. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider switching sides?’

‘Why don’t you drop your blade and we’ll discuss it?’ Maleneth changed direction mid-slash, blades arcing towards Velara’s wrist. The High Gladiatrix deflected the cut with a flick of her sword.

Brow furrowed with concentration, Maleneth twisted from a series of high slashes to a spinning kick. Velara skipped back. It would have been easy for Maleneth to use the kick to add momentum to her sword strikes, but murderous fervour could only take her so far. Sooner or later, her leg would give out, leaving her at the High Gladiatrix’s feet like a sacrificial offering.

Maleneth dropped her weight, turning the kick into a sudden stomp towards Velara’s forward foot and coming down hard upon her instep.

The High Gladiatrix gave a surprised grunt. It was too much to hope that she had broken any bones; even so, Maleneth felt a quick thrill of satisfaction as the High Gladiatrix’s footwork faltered for the briefest moment.

Maleneth’s delight was tempered by the realisation of just who had taught her that particular move. For the first time since crossing blades with the High Gladiatrix, Maleneth had landed a strike, and she had Gotrek to thank for it.

The thick-necked Slayer was always punctuating the vicious sweep of his axe with elbows, knees, headbutts and stomps. It was a style as ugly as Gotrek himself, little better than a back-alley brawler. But even Maleneth could not deny its brutal effectiveness.

She was quick to press her advantage, blades darting like diving sparrows. The High Gladiatrix was forced back towards the altar, on the defensive for the first time.

Maleneth shambled after her like a starving ghoul, hungry for blood. She drove Velara around the altar, towards the front edge of the platform and the Razor Cauldron below.

Her breaths came bellows-quick, every gasp accompanied by the caged-bird flutter of her heart. Maleneth had no tainted vigour, no daemonic master to lend unnatural strength and speed to her blows. She had sprinted from dungeon to tomb, then back again – fought her way up the Bladed Spire only to face daemons and dark sorceries. Her limbs ached, she could barely feel her fingers. Perspiration dotted Maleneth’s forehead, her teeth bared in an exhausted snarl as her vision narrowed to a single long tunnel, focused solely on the High Gladiatrix’s sneering face.

‘Your strength is gone, Witchblade. Just like your Bloody-Handed God.’ Velara gave a regretful sigh. ‘Let us end this.’

Her hand shot out, serpent-quick, to close upon Maleneth’s throat. Reflexively, she tried to stab Velara’s exposed arm, only for the High Gladiatrix to speak a word of such cruel power that it seemed to snatch the heart from Maleneth’s breast. Her swords clattered to the stone, arms buzzing as if her tendons had suddenly come unstrung. She stumbled on legs gone too weak to support her, and would have fallen if not for Velara’s grip on her throat.

The High Gladiatrix regarded her for a long moment.

‘Do not fear, sister. When my master returns, I will ask him to give you to me.’ She drew Maleneth close, her voice low, almost tender. ‘Oh, what sights we shall see.’

All Maleneth could manage was a low moan, her traitor tongue slaved to Velara’s enervating enchantment. She focused on her arm, willing it to move. It was like pushing through thick sand, but slowly, painfully, her hand rose.

Velara’s gaze flicked to Maleneth’s arm, and the amulet dangling from her clenched fist.

‘What are you–’

The High Gladiatrix’s question ended in a stuttering cough as Maleneth pressed the amulet to Velara’s forehead. The corrupted aelf’s grip slackened, her sword joining Maleneth’s own as the High Gladiatrix ground the heel of her hand into one temple, eyes squeezed shut against the unearthly shriek that resonated within her skull.

Well did Maleneth remember the howling fury of those first few weeks after she had bound her mistress’ soul to the amulet. Sybelline had lashed her with verbal abuse, her screams unbound by physical concerns such as a tongue or throat. They had threatened to drown Maleneth’s very thoughts. But that was before she had learned to control the amulet, to push her former mistress’ voice into the dark corners of her mind, there to rage in furious silence.

Maleneth had long grown used to Sybelline’s voice.

High Gladiatrix Velara had no such protection.

Her spell unravelled, Maleneth’s limbs were hers once again. Blowing on the last embers of her strength, she gathered her legs, and pushed.

Velara stumbled towards the edge of the altar platform, dragging Maleneth with her.

Hand still pressing the amulet to the High Gladiatrix’s forehead, Maleneth snatched a heavy dagger from her belt and hacked into Velara’s wrist, once, twice. The High Gladiatrix’s hand came free of her arm, and Maleneth peeled it from her neck.

Freed of the choking grip, Maleneth clutched the amulet to her chest, drawing in a jagged breath.

The High Gladiatrix opened her eyes, thoughts no longer tangled by Sybelline’s unearthly rage. Velara sought to check her backward momentum, arms outflung as she teetered on the edge of the altar.

‘I dedicate this sacrifice to Khaine.’ Although Maleneth’s voice was unsteady, her movements were not as she calmly stepped forward and booted the High Gladiatrix in the chest.

Unaccustomed surprise twisted Velara’s scarred features as she stumbled back into empty air. Maleneth half expected daemonic wings to sprout from the High Gladiatrix’s back, but Slaanesh seemed to have turned his back upon her.

A heartbeat, and the High Gladiatrix was gone.

Maleneth staggered forward to peer over the edge of the altar.

Velara had struck the edge of the Razor Cauldron, and half of her body flailed in the bubbling brew even as her flesh was pierced by hundreds of obsidian daggers. The struggles only served to snap the cauldron’s spines. Maleneth saw them worm deeper into Velara’s flesh, dark slivers limned by welling blood.

Whatever corrupt vigour had possessed the High Gladiatrix seemed to bleed away. Slaanesh had withdrawn his blessing – a spoiled child tossing away a broken toy. Velara opened her mouth to scream, but all that emerged was a welter of glittering liquid, the cauldron’s contents boiling up through her like an eruption of magma.

Her head turned, eyes pleading as she stretched her remaining hand towards Maleneth. It was not only pain that animated her scarred features, but the dawning knowledge of exactly where her soul was bound. Whatever agonies the Razor Cauldron inflicted on Velara, Slaanesh would do far worse.

Maleneth considered the High Gladiatrix’s fate for a moment, then kicked her blade in after her. When Velara had ceased thrashing and the cauldron stopped bubbling, Maleneth staggered across the platform to where Xarissa lay in a pool of spreading blood.

The Pale Viper had fallen on her side, cloak draped across her body like a dark wing, her face pallid as her namesake.

Throat tight, Maleneth knelt to press trembling fingers to her sister’s neck. Faint as a distant drumbeat, Xarissa’s pulse fluttered beneath Maleneth’s touch.

She heaved a wracking sigh and unsteadily pushed to her feet. Xarissa might live for the moment, but she would not long survive if any of Velara’s daemonic servants reached the top of the altar.

It was eight steps to the stairs, each an agony. Still, she needed to see.

Splendid sprawled halfway down the stairs, face down. There was so much blood that at first Maleneth thought the ogor had fallen, but then Splendid gave a low groan and rolled over to reveal Stromund, curled like a child in the crook of one heavy arm.

‘You survived,’ Maleneth said.

‘No thanks to you.’ Panting, the ogor opened one bloodshot eye to look up at her. ‘Xarissa?’

‘Alive, for the moment,’ Maleneth replied. ‘What of the daemons?’

‘Vanished.’ The ogor gave a tired flutter of his fingers. ‘Guess the air isn’t rich enough for them any more.’

Maleneth heaved a relieved sigh, sinking to her knees. She was in no condition to face a starving grot, let alone a score of daemons. Dimly, she realised she was still holding the High Gladiatrix’s severed hand.

Splendid gave a low grunt, his gaze slipping to the bloody digits.

‘You going to finish that?’

It hurt to laugh.

Chapter Thirty

Matriarch Zalecia died laughing. It was a point of pride that Maleneth had crept up to the Khainite noble mid-cackle, the tip of her dagger threading one of the gaps in the back of Zalecia’s throne of scrimshawed leviadon ivory to slip ever so gently into the base of the matriarch’s skull.

So efficient was the kill that Zalecia’s torturers did not even look up from their work as the jovial matriarch slumped back in her throne, a mouthful of gloomwine dribbling down the front of her ceremonial robes. In their defence, the unfortunate victim spread upon the sacrificial altar below was particularly lively, but the half a dozen heavily armed guards arrayed around the throne room had no such excuse.

Sloppy. But then again, Maleneth had not expected much. She took a moment to arrange the corpse in a position of repose, then drew a vial from her leathers and gave it a good shake before placing it gently upon the matriarch’s lap. With a quick nod to Zalecia’s cooling corpse, Maleneth slipped back down the stairs towards the rear of the chamber.

The killing was not personal. In truth, Maleneth had always liked Zalecia. The matriarch’s coven had never been among Nightcliff’s elites. Which made it all the more surprising when she had spoken out when Xarissa named herself Mistress of the Spire. No doubt, Zalecia had thought Velara’s death left the Pale Viper alone and unsupported. Although most of Nightcliff’s nobility were still recovering from the lingering effects of the corrupt Ascension ritual, there would always be those who sought to take advantage of any perceived weakness. And so Zalecia had added her voice to the haphazard coalition of war covens that opposed Xarissa’s sudden rise to prominence.

Maleneth had been happy to help her sister quash this little rebellion. After the last long months of fighting for her life, a bit of straightforward knifework was almost relaxing. As she crept back towards the escape tunnel cleverly concealed by one of the throne room’s pillars, Maleneth found herself wishing more of Nightcliff’s covens had taken issue with the Pale Viper’s rule. With six rebel matriarchs dead by mysterious circumstances in as many days, it was likely the remaining members of the abortive conspiracy would be quick to bend the knee to Maleneth’s sister.

Finally you can cease this self-indulgent slaughter and focus on the true threat, Sybelline said.

Maleneth suppressed a scowl. Always acerbic, her former mistress had become truly insufferable since peering into Velara’s twisted mind. Although she had glimpsed but a shadow of the greater plan, it was enough to send the crone into screeching paroxysms of doom. As much as Maleneth wanted to call Sybelline a fool, she could not deny the dagger of anxiety that pinioned her own concerns. Velara might have been lying about Morathi – she might have even exaggerated the reach of Slaanesh’s cults in the Mortal Realms – but Sybelline had seen the High Gladiatrix’s very thoughts, and that was enough to give even Maleneth pause.

I will. She wrinkled her nose. Soon.

You have been saying that for weeks. Sybelline was not mollified. First you needed to recover. Then to help Xarissa hunt down the remainder of Velara’s cult. Now, you’re skulking through the streets like some back-alley blade, cutting the throats of inconsequential nobles.

My sister needs me.

Despite possessing neither mouth nor nose, Sybelline gave a surprisingly good approximation of a snort.

Please. Xarissa has a score of killers capable of sweeping up trash like Zalecia. Lie to yourself if you wish, daughter, but you cannot lie to me. So what is it? Are you too lazy or too cowardly to do what we both know must be done?

Maleneth swallowed against the uncomfortable flutter in her gut. Fortunately, Zalecia’s goblet chose exactly that moment to slip from the matriarch’s nerveless grasp and clatter down the stone stairs. It rolled to a stop between two guards, who glanced down, then up.

Cries filled the chamber, surprise turning to anger as the matriarch’s corpse was discovered, then turning abruptly pained as the vial of drakefire-imbued shardsilt detonated, filling the chamber with a cloud of caustic fog. An unpleasant death for those guards closest to the throne, but no worse than they deserved.

The secret tunnel had been meant to provide the matriarch with a quick means of escape. Unfortunately for Zalecia, she had engaged Stromund Goldless to construct the door mechanisms. Quite clever, the door was invisible until activated, pivoting open with only the barest sigh of well-oiled pistons. Maleneth slipped inside and shut the door behind her before any of the shardsilt mist could coil down the narrow staircase. A quick jaunt down the tunnel and she was ducking out into the cluttered gloom of one of Nightcliff’s back-alley mazes. Although the exit door had not been designed to be opened from the outside, Stromund had needed only a few minutes to bypass the supposedly impenetrable mechanisms that warded the secret passage.

The duardin was waiting for her outside, arms crossed, an impatient expression on his face. He was paler than before, eyes threaded with crimson blooms, his dark beard lank and oily. Sweat beaded on his heavy brow and stained the sleeves of his work shirt.

‘Took you long enough.’ He tilted his head to regard the dark opening behind Maleneth. ‘Anyone follow you?’

‘No.’ She stepped aside, gesturing towards the secret door. ‘Seal it up.’

Grumbling, Stromund set to disassembling the opening mechanisms. Zalecia’s guards might be able to break through the heavy stone door, but not quickly enough to catch Maleneth.

When he had finished, Stromund pushed to his feet with a soft groan. He fixed Maleneth with a frowning glare.

‘That the last of ’em?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, voice light as she strolled down the alley. ‘You should get some rest. You look like an anchorite coming off a month-long fast.’

Stromund stomped after her. ‘It’s not rest I need, as you well know.’

‘Food, then?’ Maleneth enjoyed baiting the duardin. ‘I’m sure Splendid could–’

‘If you’re going to kill me, do it.’ Stromund chopped a hand through the air. ‘After all this, I think I’m owed a clean death, at least.’

Maleneth spun, affect shifting from casual to threatening in a heartbeat. ‘You wish to discuss what you’re owed?’

The duardin took a quick step back, sputtering. ‘I saved your life, Witchblade. Back at the Spire, you and Xarissa both would have been on Velara’s altar if not for me.’

‘Two lives.’ Maleneth gave a sombre nod. ‘Shall we subtract them from the scores of my sisters you helped murder?’

Stromund seemed to deflate. ‘Ancestors’ mercy, I’m begging you, Maleneth. I can barely stand.’ He drew in a shaky breath, spreading his hands. ‘I’m no use to anyone like this.’

‘Fair point.’ Maleneth drew a vial from her leathers and tossed it to the duardin.

Stromund was so surprised he almost dropped the glass. He held it with trembling hands, gaze flicking from the vial to Maleneth.

‘Is this… the antidote?’

‘That, or something far worse.’ Maleneth cocked her head, voice casual. ‘Either way, it will end your suffering.’

She relished the mix of apprehension and forlorn hope that played across Stromund’s face as he glanced from Maleneth to the vial, then back again.

With a groan, he unstoppered the vial and tipped it back over his mouth, gagging on the bitter liquid. When it was empty, he let the vial drop and stood, eyes closed, fists balled at his side as if to brace himself against an agonising death.

When nothing happened, Stromund opened one eye. ‘Is that it? Am I healed?’

‘Of the poison, at least.’ Maleneth chuckled. ‘I have yet to find a cure for fools.’

Stromund swallowed, hands slowly unclenching as he regarded her, eyes wide. ‘What now?’

‘I release you.’ Maleneth shrugged. ‘Go back to your traps. Seek vengeance on the guilds. Start a revolution. Throw yourself into the sea. I hardly care.’ She leaned in, close enough to smell Stromund’s sour breath. ‘But if I were you, I would do it quickly. Lone duardin do not long endure in Nightcliff.’

She spun on her heel, strolling casually down the alley.

So you are just going to let the traitor run free? Sybelline asked.

Hardly. Where can the wretch go? Maleneth allowed herself the smallest of smiles. Even his own people despise him.

Sybelline gave an approving hum. A shame you lack the stomach for politics. You would have made a very entertaining matriarch.

Maleneth decided to take the compliment, however backhanded.

But since you are not a matriarch, Sybelline continued, relentless as age, when do you plan to hunt down these scattered cults? Or am I to believe you wish for the Prince of Pleasure’s return?

The self-satisfied smirk bled from Maleneth’s lips, the momentary flicker of delight doused by cold uncertainty. There was a place for her here – respect, excitement, even some small measure of safety. Maleneth understood Nightcliff.

And yet, she could feel it in her chest, a wild, nervous energy that radiated through every limb. It felt as if she had been sitting far too long. Every muscle hummed with the desire to slip back into the streets and run until her legs gave out.

The decision to leave came quickly. It always did.

If Maleneth remained, she would either be reduced to Xarissa’s blade or she would kill her sister. Neither choice seemed appealing, especially not when Khaine had shown her her path so clearly.

That was, if the God of Murder was not dead himself.

Maleneth considered travelling to Hagg Nar to see for herself if Morathi truly was the Bloody-Handed God reborn. She discarded the idea with a sniff. As if that would change anything.

Dead or alive, Khaine lived on in Maleneth.

She turned towards the Bladed Spire, aware of Stromund’s shuffling steps behind. She let the duardin follow for a dozen paces before turning to fix him with an irritated glare.

‘Shouldn’t you be scuttling off to torment someone else?’

He shuffled, gaze nervous as he licked chapped lips. ‘Figured I would accompany you back to the Spire – lone duardin in Nightcliff.’

‘What then?’ Maleneth crossed her arms. ‘Surely you cannot believe Mistress Xarissa would trust you again.’

‘I do believe I’m done slaving away for the covens.’ He met her level gaze. ‘No gods, no masters and all that.’

Maleneth arched an eyebrow, genuinely amused by the trapmaker’s pluck. ‘So what is to keep some Khainite you’ve betrayed from sticking a knife in that thick little neck of yours?’

He spread his fingers, grinning. ‘My talents, of course.’

‘I thought you said you were done working for us,’ she replied.

‘Working for you, yes.’ He tilted his head. ‘Working with you, however.’

Maleneth’s waning patience must have been plain, for Stromund continued quickly.

‘The Spire’s traps will need to be disarmed and new ones installed. Not to mention any other improvements its new mistress intends to make. I could be very useful in that regard. If someone were to put in a good word for me, of course.’

Maleneth shot the duardin a dubious look.

‘Revolutions require funds, soldiers, allies.’ He nodded. ‘Can I rely upon Xarissa?’

‘You can rely upon her to keep her promises,’ Maleneth said. ‘Truthfully, you can hardly do worse than your former mistress. But that does not mean I will recommend a traitorous little worm like you to my only surviving sister.’

‘Yes you will.’

Maleneth took a step forward, blades leaping to her hands.

‘I’ll owe you a great debt.’ Stromund flinched back, one arm raised to shield his face. ‘On my ancestors’ honour.’

Maleneth’s lip curled. ‘If your ancestors’ honour was anything like yours, you might want to consider a new oath.’

Stromund flushed to the roots of his beard. For a moment, Maleneth thought he might take a swing at her, but the duardin seemed to master his temper.

‘Trust me or not, you have always known my worth.’ He let out a slow breath, his smile brittle as old iron. ‘Are you so keen to cast away a willing ally?’

Maleneth regarded the duardin, anger warring with practicality. Stromund was a liar, a coward, and a traitor – but he was useful. As Maleneth considered the long and bloody road ahead of her, she could not deny the value of owning a favour from the most skilled trapsmith she had ever met.

After all, she could always kill him later.

‘Come along, Kharadron,’ she said. ‘Let’s not keep Mistress Xarissa waiting.’ Maleneth turned. After a moment’s pause, she heard Stromund’s shuffling steps behind her once more. They made their way back to the Bladed Spire, taking care to keep to the back alleys and side streets. Although most of Nightcliff paid lip service to Xarissa’s rule, many among the city’s covens sought to exploit the disorder to advance their ambitions and settle old debts. It was simply the way of things. Nightcliff would quieten down eventually. In the meantime, Maleneth intended not to make an easy target of herself.

The Spire rose above them, its jagged silhouette seeming proof against the upheavals raging through the streets below.

She glanced to Stromund. ‘Try to stay alive. I plan to collect on that favour when I return.’

‘You are leaving Nightcliff?’ he asked, genuinely surprised. ‘I thought you served Xarissa?’

‘I serve no one but Khaine,’ Maleneth replied coolly. ‘And it is clear he desires Slaanesh to remain imprisoned.’

Stromund snorted. ‘Quite the noble endeavour for a Khailebron assassin.’

Maleneth narrowed her eyes. ‘So eager to meet your ancestors, duardin?’

‘Apologies.’ He sketched a mocking bow.

‘Go back to your workshop – eat, rest. And for Khaine’s sake, clean yourself up.’ Maleneth wrinkled her nose. ‘You reek like an ogor’s midden.’

Maleneth left Stromund to contemplate his future, steps light as she made her way into the Bladed Spire. Smiling her own secret smile, Maleneth passed by the arena without a glance. There was nothing to hold her to the Spire, to Nightcliff. Nothing but Xarissa, that was.

Before she sought out the new Mistress of the Spire, Maleneth had a few things to collect. Depending on how her sister reacted, Maleneth might need to depart Nightcliff quickly.

Chapter Thirty-One

It was a circuitous walk to Qholar Qat’s new workshop. Although Xarissa could not openly admit that she had a necromancer in her employ, the vast labyrinth of halls and chambers below the Bladed Spire held many remote chambers where an awkward associate could perform all manner of experiments unobserved and unremarked upon.

Two skeletons were cleaning the necromancer’s door. Bucket and rags in hand, they applied themselves to the task with unmatched diligence, not even turning as Maleneth stepped into Qholar’s expansive workshop.

All of the necromancer’s equipment had been transported from the Tombs. That was to say, all of her equipment that had survived the collapse of the murder temple. Amidst the bubbling vats, brass tubing and assorted body parts, a flock of bleached skeletons were busy dousing the stones with enough lye to make Maleneth’s eyes water.

Holding a cloth to her mouth, she cast about for Qholar and found the necromancer bent over one of the smaller alembics, a distracted frown on her pinched features as she studied the distillation, pausing only to make hurried notes in the notebook on the table.

‘I am leaving Nightcliff,’ Maleneth said.

‘Best be about it, then,’ the necromancer said without looking up, voice tight. ‘Some of us have work to do.’

‘Recent events have left my stores somewhat depleted.’ Maleneth worked her tongue around her mouth. ‘I thought I might restock.’

Qholar waved absently at several half-full racks. ‘As if I could stop you.’

‘Is the new laboratory not to your liking?’ Maleneth asked as she picked through the assorted potions, poisons and powders.

‘Once it has been properly sanitised, yes,’ Qholar replied.

It took several minutes for Maleneth to refill her various sashes, straps, and secret pouches. Qholar had once again replaced her false tooth, and recent assassinations had not called for such extreme measures. Through it all, the necromancer continued her work as if Maleneth was not rifling through her stores.

When it was done, Maleneth considered bidding Qholar farewell, but the necromancer seemed irritable enough as it was, so she simply made for the exit.

‘Skitterstone.’

Maleneth paused. ‘What?’

‘Skitterstone,’ Qholar said, pushing up from her workbench with an exasperated sigh. After straightening both her braids and coat, she filled a small pouch with jagged pebbles from a nearby table and walked over to Maleneth.

‘One of my more recent creations.’ Qholar held the pouch out stiffly. Looking down, Maleneth realised that what she had thought were pebbles were actually tiny dead insects.

‘Animated spider carapaces laced with obsidian razors and manticore venom.’ Qholar looked over Maleneth’s shoulder, voice flat as if she were reciting from a scroll. ‘Once activated they will swarm the nearest living thing. Do not let that be you.’

Maleneth took the pouch, careful not to touch Qholar’s gloved hand. Even so, the necromancer tensed, seemingly discomfited by their closeness.

‘Thank you,’ Maleneth said.

‘I will expect a full report on their performance.’ Qholar gave a brief nod. ‘When you return to Nightcliff, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Maleneth offered the necromancer a quick, if heartfelt bow. ‘Fortune favour your research.’

Qholar made a face. ‘Am I some wine-besotted gambler? To rely on something as fickle as luck?’

‘My apologies.’ Maleneth shook her head. ‘I did not mean to imply that you–’

But Qholar had already moved away, attention drawn inevitably back to her experiments. Maleneth watched her for a long moment. Then, with a smile, she turned back to the door, stepping over the skeletons who were industriously attacking the mildewed mortar with a long-handled scrub brush.

I will never understand your fondness for that necromancer, Sybelline said.

I have always found Qholar Qat refreshingly direct. Maleneth shrugged. Not every conversation needs to be freighted with ambition and veiled threats.

Cloak comfortably weighted with all manner of deadly accoutrements, she made her way through the tunnels and towards the arenas.

Splendid stood just outside the arena entrance, arms crossed over his broad chest, a sour expression on his craggy face as he watched Maleneth come.

There was no point in denying it, so Maleneth simply walked right up to him.

‘How did you know?’

He gave a low rumble. ‘You’re not as stealthy as you think, Witchblade.’

‘Yes, I am.’ She matched his glare.

Although the ogor sought to maintain his menacing scowl, the answer was writ plain upon his face.

‘Stromund told you.’

‘Stromund told me.’ Splendid blew out a sheepish breath. ‘Were you going to slip off again without even a word?’

‘That was the plan,’ Maleneth replied.

To her surprise the ogor looked genuinely pained.

‘You have a good thing here.’ She gestured towards the Spire. ‘Fighting, feasting, a fine retirement – you said it yourself.’

Splendid stuck out his jaw. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t change my mind.’

‘Nor does it mean I am taking you with me.’ Maleneth crossed her own arms. ‘You are too old, too slow, too loud.’

He tapped his foot. ‘That’s a far different song than you sang when you wanted me to climb Velara’s bloody tower.’

‘I needed you then,’ Maleneth said. ‘I don’t any longer.’

He studied her face like a veteran surveying an enemy formation. Maleneth did not know what he found in her expression, but the ogor’s scowl melted into a sardonic grin.

‘You’re a terrible liar.’

‘I am an excellent liar,’ Maleneth replied. ‘You are simply too stupid to realise trusting me was a mistake.’

‘Was it?’ Raising a bushy eyebrow, the old ogor spread his arms. ‘It got me a prime position in the Mistress of the Spire’s entourage, a fine kitchen, and all the aelf I care to eat.’

Maleneth scoffed. ‘That you are willing to walk away from it only proves my point.’

‘Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing,’ Splendid said.

Maleneth narrowed her eyes. ‘And what, exactly, is that?’ she said, voice threatening.

‘You’re trying to protect me.’ The ogor hooked a thumb into his belt, positively beaming. ‘Because we are friends.’

Maleneth seriously considered sticking a knife in the grizzled brute. Instead, she threw up her hands.

‘Fine. If that is what it takes to keep a half-senile ogor from snorting and stomping after me while I hunt the Dark Prince’s servants, then yes – we are friends.’

The old ogor slapped his gut plate, grin showing the gaps between his yellowed teeth.

‘Splendid.’

Chapter Thirty-Two

There was no need to seek Xarissa out. As Mistress of the Spire, her sister had laid claim to the tower’s defences, both arcane and mundane. The wards would have informed the Pale Viper of Maleneth’s return the moment she stepped through the gates. No doubt word of her decision to leave had also reached Xarissa. Maleneth only hoped that her sister did not view it as another betrayal, otherwise her response might be delivered with blades rather than words.

Maleneth headed for the far too opulent suite of rooms Xarissa had set aside for her at the base of the Spire. Although Maleneth carried most of her belongings, there were a few assorted daggers and pouches she wished to retrieve.

Also, there was her new cloak.

As a show of gratitude, Xarissa had commissioned Nightcliff’s finest tailors, leatherworkers, and shadow-weavers to craft a near-perfect replica of the cloak Maleneth had sacrificed atop the Bladed Spire. Light as mist, strong as braided steel, its outer edges inscribed with obfuscating runes, its lining sewn with dozens of secret pockets, the cloak would shield Maleneth from the elements, prying eyes, and enemy blades alike.

And yet, it didn’t seem to fall right.

Maleneth knew the cloak would grow accustomed to her body, its folds and creases set by constant movement, and yet she could not help but feel the unwelcome newness, unconsciously tugging and readjusting even as she draped it over her shoulders. The fabric felt too light without the comforting weight of a few score vials of toxin.

‘It suits you.’ Xarissa spoke from the shadows of the enormous four-poster bed Maleneth had not yet been able to bring herself to sleep in.

‘Is that why I am stuck amidst all this finery?’ She turned with a relieved smile. ‘So there would be ample places for you to hide?’

Xarissa did not do Maleneth the disservice of inquiring about Zalecia. If her sister had returned, it meant the rogue matriarchs were dead. Instead, she hopped from the bed, regarding herself in one of the gilt floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

‘There are Order of Azyr agents in Nightcliff.’ Xarissa frowned, then readjusted her cloak. ‘I let it be known that if any sought to pursue their masters’ vendetta against you, it would anger the Khailebron.’

Maleneth gave a low whistle. Even the most fanatical hunters would think twice before risking retribution from some of the most feared assassins in the Mortal Realms. By even invoking the name Khailebron, Xarissa had shielded Maleneth from open reprisal. If the Order wished her dead, they would have to employ far more circumspect methods.

Maleneth welcomed the challenge.

In the mirror, Xarissa’s gaze moved to her, unreadable. ‘You are leaving, again.’

‘Would you trust me to stay?’ Maleneth turned away, discomfited by the implication in Xarissa’s words. Although her sister made no sound, Maleneth felt her approach, shoulder blades tickling with Xarissa’s closeness. For a moment, she half expected the new Mistress of the Spire to plant a knife in her back. It was the smart move, the safe move.

Instead, Xarissa laid a hand on her shoulder, voice soft. ‘I would.’

It took a moment for Maleneth to reply, strange emotions seeming to tangle her tongue.

‘Velara was but one of many of the Dark Prince’s servants. Khaine has set my path.’ She pulled free of Xarissa’s grip. ‘Yours as well, sister.’

The truth of it hung between them, broad and insurmountable. Xarissa held her gaze for a long moment, then gave a quick nod.

‘Will you be taking Stromund?’

‘Keep him.’ She nodded as if to convince herself. ‘Stromund will be of use outfitting the Spire with new traps.’

‘You trust the duardin?’

Maleneth snorted. ‘I trust you will kill him before he has the chance to betray us again.’

‘And Splendid?’ Xarissa asked.

‘As insufferable as he is, the old ogor knows his way around a blade,’ Maleneth replied. ‘And the time may come when you need allies unconnected to the covens.’

Xarissa cocked her head. ‘If you are sure.’

‘I am.’ Maleneth squared her shoulders. ‘Give the old brute his pick of the arena corpses.’

‘As you say, sister.’ Although she looked unconvinced, Xarissa did not belabour the point. Instead, she fingered the hem of Maleneth’s cloak. ‘It doesn’t fall right. I’ll have my weavers make another.’

‘No need.’ Maleneth grinned. ‘I’ve grown accustomed to change.’

With nothing more to say, Xarissa spun on her heel, stride measured as she made for the chamber door. Maleneth set about gathering up her few remaining possessions, only to look up as Xarissa paused at the threshold. Although the Pale Viper did not look back, her voice sounded strangely rough.

‘Khaine guide your blade.’

Maleneth inclined her head. ‘And yours, sister.’

Xarissa vanished into the shadows of the hall, quiet as a ghost.

And just like that, Maleneth was free once more, of her past, if not her future.

About the Author

Evan Dicken’s first story for Black Library was ‘The Path to Glory’, and he has since penned several more tales set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Children of Teclis and Shade of Khaine, the novella The Red Hours, and short fiction for the anthologies Gods & Mortals and Myths & Revenants. He has been an avid reader of Black Library novels since he found dog-eared copies of Trollslayer, Xenos and First and Only nestled in the ‘Used Fantasy/Sci-fi’ rack of his local gaming store. He still considers himself an avid hobbyist, although the unpainted Chaos warband languishing in his basement would beg to differ. By day, he studies old Japanese maps and crunches data at The Ohio State University.

An extract from The Hollow King.

The girl ran through the wood under the grin of a skull moon. Breath panted from her lungs. The roots tangled the ground under her feet. A branch caught in her hair, and her head snapped back. She pulled at the branch. The thorns tangled deeper. She yanked, panting, tears running through the blood smearing her face.

A howl came from the direction of the road.

‘Please…’ she cried, the words dissolving into a gasping ball of panic. She wanted her mother, her father, her elder sister. She wanted to be back in the rocking dark of the wagon as it jolted along the road in the twilight. She wanted the world to be a shape she understood, to hear a voice say that everything would be all right. She wanted someone to reach down and pick her up.

The thorns sliced into her fingers. The branches of the trees thrashed. She saw crimson eyes, pinpricks of ember red in the dark, behind her, coming closer.

Branches whipped Cado as he ran. The moon poured silver down on him. He could smell blood. Could taste it. Death was howling through the forest. The quarry was out there, running, flooded by fear, bleeding. It was fast too. He reached a thicket of trees. His eyes had become red flames in their sockets. The skin of his face pulled back from his teeth. The world was silver and red. It had taken too long to catch the caravan. Too long running along the lich-marked paths, hunger growing inside, as the prey sent a fraying thread pulling him on. Now the wagons of the caravan lay behind him on the road, tipped over, spattered with blood, dying horses thrashing in the harnesses. Now there was just this chase and a world redrawn by hunger.

His senses were singing. The reek of blood was a crimson haze. Magic spiralled through the bare branches. The gasp of breath. Bones rattling. Close. An abyss of hunger open and waiting to swallow him. He reached a rock, bounded onto its top and launched up into the branches of the trees. Birds took flight, cawing, their song splitting the air.

She had been asleep in the wagon, and then there had been shouting. She had come awake blinking, thinking for a second that the shouts were echoes of her dreams.

‘Stay here,’ her father had said, and she had clutched at the cold-iron hammer amulet and pulled the furs close. The rock and sway of the wagon had slowed, and then the vehicle had kicked, and she had heard voices shouting to ride fast. Her heart jolted. The grave-coins, bone amulets and dried roses hanging from the wagon’s roof swung on their cords. She hoped they would keep them safe again. There were things in the forests. For as much as her parents and the other adults tried to hide it, she knew this land wanted them dead.

Two nights ago, she had heard muttering and the click of cocking crossbows as she lay awake. She had sneaked up and opened the hatch at the back of the wagon. Peeking out she had seen something drifting through the trees. At first it looked like nothing, just a smudge of pale light. It was no more than two hundred paces away. It glowed, fizzed. Dead leaves rattled on tree branches above. The more she looked, the more she thought it had a shape – like an old person bent under a cloak, long arms and thin fingers trailing. She had wanted to duck back into the wagon but stayed, watching as the shape crackled past. Once it turned, and for a held breath she was certain she could see a head, the curve of a hood hiding a face and eyes. It had looked at her while the breath she was holding burned in her lungs. Her fingers had gripped the little iron hammer. She whispered what she could remember of the names her mother had spoken while hanging the charms inside the wagon: Sigmar, Morrda, and others that were just sounds.

Please let all the cruel things of this realm pass… Please protect us… Please let us reach a safe place… Please.

The blurred figure had drifted away through the trees. The guards settled again as she went back inside the wagon and watched the amulets turn on their cords as the wheels rolled on.

Tonight, as she heard the guards shout, she had begun to plead to the names and amulets again. Not whispering. Calling. The wagon had started to shake, wheels bucking over earth and stone. They were going fast, trying to outrun something coming after them. Then the world had tipped over. The wagon rolled and skidded, and the amulets clanged against each other. Toppling bundles of clothes half buried her. She heard the horses cry, and her father shout, and then another sound. A sound that froze her in place. A howl that passed through the wagon’s walls like they weren’t there. More shouts and then a loud, wet crunching. She had lain still, hardly daring to breathe.

Then she had heard claws on the outside of the wagon. She had looked around at the hatch-door, now on its side and level with the ground. Its bolt had broken, and it lolled on its hinges. The scrape of claws came closer. Her eyes stayed fixed on the hatch, waiting for a shadow to blot out the sliver of moonlight falling between it and the frame. Then there was a shout from somewhere nearby and the scraping of claws paused. She had not waited. She was up and through the hatch and running before her heart beat again.

There had been an instant when she had seen the shadow, looming close, ragged under the moonlight, eyes red. She had run into the trees. She saw a figure ahead of her, running too. She had followed. So had the red eyes of the ragged shadow.

She yanked her hair free from the thorns. Ran, gasping. Small bare feet over dark loam and tangled roots, fear numbing the cuts of sticks and stones. A tall, twisting tree stood in the middle of a clearing ahead. Its bare branches reached up to the rictus face of the moon. Birds crouched upon them. Hundreds of birds. Hunched forms of white and black feathers.

She could see someone running ahead of her. It was one of the caravan guards. Morinar, the kind one with the gut that did not fit under his armour; who always gave her one of the dried fruits from his pack when she asked; who was never scared of the sounds that came from the night, and always smiling.

‘Help!’ she cried. He turned, armour plates and chainmail jangling. He had a sword in his hand. His face was pale, eyes wide with terror, air gasping from his mouth. ‘Help! Please!’ she called again. Her foot caught on a root.

She fell. Her knee hit the edge of a stone. Blood… Blood beading her skin, black under the moon’s glare. She twisted to look back.

Red. Spots of red in between the trees. And jaws. She froze. A rattling sound of breath through long teeth came from behind her. The tears had stopped now. The birds shifted on their perches, beaks and feathers rustling. A rattling sound of something that could not breathe growling through a rotten throat. She was shaking. Her eyes clamped shut.

‘Mama…’ she whimpered, ‘Papa…’ It was the only thing she could think to say, the prayer of a child in the face of the unimaginable. It was right there, on the other side of her eyelids. She needed to be brave. Be brave and things would be all right. She turned, shaking, and opened her eyes. Glowing eyes looked back at her. Rotting skin and fur hanging from a long, yellow skull. Bits of red and pink hung from its teeth. It cocked its head. The ember light in its eyes flared. Two others padded from its shadow. Death-light and blood drooled from their mouths. Dead muscle tensed under flesh. Jaws hinged wide. She could see strands of hair and bits of cloth caught in the fangs. Be brave…

A sound like a scythe passing through wheat. Black, rotten blood splattering.

The nearest dead wolf twisted. The two halves of its split skull thrashed from side to side. A bubbling howl came from its throat. A shadow landed. It looked human. Almost human. It crouched on the ground between her and the wolves. A tattered cloak covered its back. It had a sword in its hand, bright under the grin of the moon. Two dragons coiled either side of the cross guard. She noticed rings on the thin fingers, black iron on pale skin. The wolves gave a growl. Their heads lowered. The figure in the tattered cloak looked back at her over its shoulder. Red eyes. Skin pulled taut around a mouth of knife-point teeth.

‘Run,’ it said.

The wolves howled.

The birds in the tree above took flight.

She ran.

Cado rose, looking at the other wolves. Ghost-light crackled silver in his sight. The fat caravan guard had his back against the tree. The man raised his sword, undecided whether to run, climb or fight.

‘This one is not yours,’ said Cado. The wolves tensed. Dead muscles bunched. The hunger trapped in their rotting shells would not turn away now – any more than Cado would. He felt the weight of the sword in his hand. The silver runes in its steel breathed cold into the lengthening second.

The wolves pounced. The sword came up. The first wolf’s jaws were wide. Cado rammed the tip of the blade through the top of its mouth. Force jolted down his arm. Another wolf landed on him, jaws fastening on his shoulder. Fangs shattered as they met the armour under his cloak. He pivoted, ripping the sword out of the skull of the first wolf and throwing the second onto the ground. It hit with a crack of shattering bone. Pale light fizzed in its mouth and eyes. Cado stamped down. The creature’s skull shattered. He whirled. The rest of the pack were already past him. The wolves flowed towards him, blurred shadows, howling. Cado leapt, sword tracing a silver-sickle path through the moonlight. Bones parted. He landed amongst the mess of rotten flesh and guttering magic. The substance of the wolves was already turning to black froth as the sorcery animating them dissolved into the wind.

Cado turned to the fat guard. The hunched birds in the branches were quiet and still.

‘They could smell the reek of your god on you,’ said Cado, nudging a crumbling wolf skull with his foot. ‘You brought them to the caravan. Did you think the innocent could mask you, or were they just a shield to be spent?’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ gasped the guard.

‘You almost outran me, but this hunt is over.’

‘I… Don’t… Please don’t. We just wanted to reach safety, please…’ The man had started to move away from the tree, ready to run. Cado levelled his sword.

‘You worship lies. You should know when one has run its course.’

He looked up at the fat man’s eyes. They were suddenly steady, unblinking. There was no fear there now.

The man opened his mouth, paused, and then smiled.

Cado lunged.

The guard spat a word into the air.

Moonlight shattered into rainbow. The birds exploded from the tree branches. Cawing cries filled the canopy. The guard’s shape unravelled. Fat and skin and armour and smile spun into blue fire. The sword in his hand melted. Sculpted muscle unfolded under translucent skin. A grinning mask of bronze now covered his face. He had a knife in his hand. The blade flickered like a flame.

The blow was fast, but Cado’s sword turned the blade, and sliced the hand holding it. The man in the bronze mask flinched back. Cado rammed the pommel of his sword into the mask. Its bronze grin crumpled. The man staggered, and Cado was on him before he could recover, hammering blows into the face and chest. The masked man lashed out. Cado grabbed the fist and twisted. Force snapped up the man’s arm. Bones shattered from wrist to shoulder. Then Cado slammed him onto the floor. He lay, gurgling, blood and breath forming pink bubbles in the mask’s mouth slit.

Cado tied the man’s limbs, broken and whole alike, then hooked his fingers under his chin and began to drag him back through the forest towards the caravan. Above him the birds were wheeling.

The caravan was still intact, but there was almost no one left alive. Almost. One guard, gasping last breaths, legs worried to ribbons, lay where he had collapsed, trying to crawl away. He looked too old and thin for the scraps of armour he wore. Most of his blood was now soaking the ground he lay on. Cado paused above him, looking at the worn dagger still clutched in the bloody hand. Others must have survived, he reasoned: travelling chests and bundles had been opened, possessions taken. Two of the five wagons were gone. He could read the hoof and foot marks where someone had harnessed the surviving horses to them. He wondered if the girl had been amongst them. Maybe. None of them had seen the dying guard. Or perhaps they had; perhaps they had heard his gasping pleas for help. Either way, they had not stopped to give succour. He was not surprised; the underworlds were not kind places for the living. Everything dissolved into agony and loss. Only revenge and justice remained true in such an age.

The beliefs of mortals had made the underworlds. Across existence the living had told stories and dreamed of what would follow death, and with time those beliefs had become real. Places of punishment, plenty, reward, reincarnation and eternity – conjured into being with all the variety of imagination, hope and fear that life could create. There had been mountains and forests crossed by rivers, the waters of which carried the souls of the dead; great networks of caves where grey shades moved between stone tables to set them with two cups and talk again to every person they had met in life; orchards that never seemed to end, where the trees always bore fruit and the dead lay in warm shadows under green boughs and winter would touch neither leaf nor air.

That had been the beginning of the Realm of Death: an archipelago of kingdoms made by the beliefs of the living, in which only the dead dwelt. But in time the living had come. Colonies of mortals had made the underworlds their homes. Cultures had grown. The ways of the newcomers had intertwined with those of the dead. It had been the first invasion of the afterlife, and from it the Realm of Death had become a Mortal Realm. Then Chaos had descended. The followers of the Dark Gods had stepped from the shadows. Realms and underworlds had burned. Blood had soaked the ground as daemons feasted on the souls of the dead. The past had become fire and ashes. The lives of mortals became ones of cruelty and suffering. Long ages of pain, with no light of hope or rest from the hunger of the Ruinous Powers.

Finally, a change. There had been a war, a new invasion to add its layer of blood to those that had come before. This one wrapped itself in promises of hope and help. It echoed, to Cado’s ears, the hubris of the past, spoken in a new voice. Faith, alliances, light, order and majesty… all of it so crushingly familiar. All of it empty of anything except inevitable failure. The Realm of Death was a broken dream still sliding into darkness. Chaos had breathed its taint into everything, and the unquiet dead took what little kindness remained.

In the great cities of the underworlds, the living clung either to the protection of the servants of the Lightning God of Heavens, or the tyranny of the undead and the shadow of Nagash. Both were a lie. Sigmar, Lightning Born, could not undo the poison poured by the Dark Gods into the Realm of Death. It ran too deep. Nagash and his legions tried to make empires of bone and shuffling corpses, as immune to corruption as they were to time: another bargain, made with a lesser torment.

The people who had led the caravan through the forests had been humans. Either their forebears had survived under the hand of Chaos, or they had come to resettle this land. Regardless, they were fleeing whatever life they had made. They were trying to find safety, Cado guessed: a city guarded by the forces of Sigmar, a way out, other mortals to join up with. All lies told like stories to soothe frightened children. Now all that remained of their credulity and hope was an old man in battered armour gasping his last in shallow, bloody breaths. Cado paused and knelt beside him. The guard did not react. Pain and the nearness of death had stolen his sight. Cado could feel the tug of hunger rise to the reek of the man’s blood. Slowly, carefully, he reached out. The guard flinched at the touch of Cado’s hand on his neck. Cado flexed his fingers and felt vertebrae crack in the man’s neck. Then he stood and picked up his captive again.

He dragged his prisoner to one of the remaining wagons. It had slewed off the road and pitched onto its side when its wheels caught a rut. A tree bore its weight now, branches bunched against its side. The tree was in bloom, Cado noticed. Purple blossom covered its twigs and branches in thick clumps, petals open to the moonlight. He fastened the prisoner to a wheel with an iron chain and pitch-dipped rope. The man’s head lolled forward, unconscious. The bronze mask still hid his face, blood dripping from under its edge. Cado watched the thick scarlet droplets slide down the man’s chest. The heart inside that chest was still beating… Warm… soft… the rhythm of redness.

He had gone very still. The smell of the drying blood and torn flesh all around him was suddenly a haze threading his senses. Hollowness opened wider inside him, screaming with silent hunger.

He stepped back, closed his eyes. The world was red threaded with black. A high, dry shriek filled his head. The blackness was roaring up from inside.

Hunt now, run through the night and find the living. Rip, tear and feast…

Red warmth. Emptiness filled with crimson. The comfort of iron and copper on the tongue.

He held himself motionless. Slowly the shriek faded to a dry chuckle. He could still hear a remembered echo of that false laugh when he opened his eyes.

The face of the moon was looking down on him from a break in the trees above the road.

He shivered then raised his hands in front of him. Nine rings sat on the fingers. Each was iron. He looked at them for a second, forcing himself to read the names etched on the metal. His eyes closed briefly again. He touched his right thumb to the ring on the index finger.

A cold shiver just behind his shoulder, and then her voice breathing into his skull.

~You are troubled.~ Solia’s voice was the same as it had been when she had been his tutor. He opened his eyes. The blurred haze of her shade was just behind him and on the edge of his sight. If he turned and tried to look, her presence would shift too, so that she was always just out of view.

‘I am…’ He paused. ‘Weary.’

~The dead can’t become tired, my boy. It’s a privilege left to the living.~ He almost smiled at that, but it faded as she spoke again. ~The weight you bear, I can see it is growing heavier.~

Yes, he wanted to say. Heavier by the day and by the year, each one added to the others. Links on a chain dragged behind him through time. Every prey brought down, every new road trodden… heavier with each step.

~It shall end, one day, my prince,~ said Solia.

My prince… She had called him that even when he had become a king. He could still remember her standing on the balcony on the high wing of the palace. Straight-backed, black hair fading to grey where it fell down her blue-and-ivory robes.

‘Scholastis Solia,’ his father had said, and she had turned and knelt to him.

‘Your majesty,’ she had replied. His father had said something and then turned and left. Cado had blinked, looked down, and begun wrapping his fingers over each other, then remembered his mother and nurse’s scolds about fidgeting. He put his hands behind his back. He wanted to look where his father had gone, but that was not what you did. Solia, still kneeling so that she was on a level with him, had smiled.

‘Do you know why I am here?’ she had asked.

‘To teach me,’ he said. ‘You are my…’ He tried to form the word that his mother had said. ‘My tutor.’

She smiled more broadly. There were flecks of amber in the deep blue of her eyes. He smiled back.

‘That’s right, my prince,’ she said.

~You have not fed,~ said Solia’s shade.

He shook his head. He had not fed since before he had crossed the boundary into this underworld. Even then it had only been the congealing remains of a single vial. Warm blood, rich with fading life, and the beat of a panicked heart… he had not tasted that since he had left the City of Rivers. The rictus face of the moon had twisted through darkness and crescent once since then.

‘I have the prey we were tracking,’ he said and nodded at where the man in the bronze mask lay against the wagon wheel.

~So you have,~ she said, and he could imagine her frowning, eyes taking in details as she listed them. ~It is one of the Hidden Ones, an acolyte of Change. No marks of the higher mysteries. Alive too, or for a while at least. Two limbs broken. Bleeding inside. You won’t have long to get answers if you get any at all.~

Cado nodded. He could hear the man’s soul struggling to hold on to body and flesh. There was an edge of cooling iron in the smell of blood dripping from the chin of the mask onto the man’s chest. Life dimming drop by drop. Cado crouched next to him.

~What do you wish of me in this, my prince?~ asked Solia from behind him. He could hear the hesitancy in her voice, the plea. She was a shade, an echo of who she had been in life, bound to the iron of the ring. Like all the dead, she was beyond the concerns of flesh, but the weave of her soul remained. ~Is this going to be distasteful?~

He did not answer. Another thick drop of blood formed on the hooked nose of the man’s mask. Cado raised his hand; ice breathed from between his teeth. Pale light grew from his fingers. He placed his hand on the man’s chest. The light flared and then sank into the skin. The masked head jerked up, and snapped around. Muscles bunched against the ropes and chains. The man’s heart was a thunder roll of panic. Then his eyes found Cado, and he became still. Cado could not see a mouth, but he was certain there was a grin behind the mask. The man drew a breath. It sounded wet, rattling. When he spoke, it was in the sing-song rhythm of verse.

‘By what twists of fate, mere knaves and beggars do find themselves in cruel hands, made cold by death’s grave smile,’ said the man. ‘From the Call of Trisanda, Vagabond’s chorus, second act. Do you know it?’

Cado nodded once. Long ago… players moving between trees, laughter in a lost kingdom. He knew the words and knew that they had been written in an age that only the immortal and the dead remembered. Through the mouth of this man, the Dark Gods were laughing at him.

‘I know it,’ he said.

The bound man laughed, blood spattering from the mouth of his mask.

‘And I know you, Hollow King.’

Click here to buy The Hollow King.

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