The Bone Desert

Chapter Three

The black top was a tented pavilion sited on the banks of the great oasis, beneath the shade of spreading palms and poplar trees. The oasis itself was unlike any Maleneth had seen in the Bone Desert – its water was not bound by the dry earth, but floated gently in a thousand liquid spheres ranging from a few feet or so off the ground to nearly a hundred yards overhead, far above the tops of the surrounding trees. Occasionally one of the slowly swirling globes would break apart and come pattering down in a shower of water, drenching the moist oasis bed, while others would slowly come together amidst a fresh spray.

The black top’s flanks were glistening from such collisions. The great tent was removed from much of the rest of Khaled-Tush, and Maleneth felt her senses becoming increasingly on edge as Gotrek’s route led them away from the braziers and torches and ceaseless activity of the caravan market and into the darkness. The night was still, the lapping of the oasis spheres against one another and the rustle of the trees overhead providing a disconcerting change to the bustle they had left behind.

As Maleneth drew closer to the pavilion the sounds of the night faded, overtaken once more by the hubbub of activity. Her attuned hearing picked out voices, laughter, shouts and, underlying it all, the thumping rhythm of drumbeats. Light glimmered from the entrance of the pavilion ahead, silhouetting two veiled guards. She saw Gotrek entering, the flames flickering across the surface of the Master Rune and the greataxe slung across his back. She quickened her pace, one hand on the blade of her dagger. The two men watching the entrance looked at her, but neither moved to intercept the aelf. She passed between them and in through the entrance flap.

The pavilion was packed. Candle stands illuminated hundreds of figures pressed in beneath the black canvas arching high overhead, their attention fixed on a wooden stage that had been erected across from the main entrance. They looked for the most part like merchants, tribal leaders and better-off travellers, clad in the white or deep red robes, silks, headscarves and veils of the Triumvirate Cities’ wealthy guilds. They applauded the stage or chattered and laughed amongst themselves, creating a clamour that made Maleneth grimace.

Be on your guard, child, murmured her mistress’ voice in her head. She clutched her pendant in one hand, the blood vial a cold reassurance.

Gotrek was just ahead, pushing his way unceremoniously through the crowd towards the stage. The complaints died rapidly when those he forced aside saw the scarred duardin’s dour expression, or the broad blades of his axe.

Maleneth darted after him. The air in the pavilion was ­stifling, heavy with the stink of sweat and the sickly sweet cloy of perfume. The whole place vibrated to the primal drumbeats coming from the stage. It was making her feel light-headed. She caught Gotrek just as he forced his way to the front of the audience.

‘Changed your mind, I see,’ he said over the noise of the crowd.

‘You should try it some time,’ she snapped back.

‘I would, if I wasn’t always right.’

Maleneth’s response died in her throat as she saw clearly what was happening on the stage for the first time.

Four female dancers were spinning around one another, their darting motions dictated by the rhythm of a pair of hide drums being palm-beaten by two more women sat with legs crossed behind them. The performers were scantily clad in the same pearls and pink-and-purple silks worn by the messenger that had first invited Maleneth and Gotrek to the pavilion. Their black hair was unbound, and it whipped about as they wove and pivoted. Their dark, toned flesh was glistening with sweat.

You have seen this before.

‘I have,’ Maleneth murmured, her eyes not leaving the performance.

Each dancer carried a knife in both hands, and as they spun close to one another the wicked blades would kiss the clothing of the others with immaculate precision, slicing silk and turning the garments into long, flowing strands that further accentuated their fluid movements. With every slashing sound the crowd would let out a gasp or a cheer of appreciation, the whole mass swaying in time with the beat.

It was not the presence of the dancers themselves that had made Maleneth pause, nor even the knives in their hands. It was their motions. It was the Seventeen Blades. She had performed the dance a hundred times, had long ago memorised every step and pivot, every duck and flick and twist. It was the dance she herself had watched on the night that her life had changed forever, when her father had ripped her from the aelf she was to marry and had cast her into the temple’s bloodthirsty sisterhood.

She had never seen the dance performed by humans before, and she could never have imagined that they would do so with such precision. They could not match the speed or grace of an aelf, but every step and motion was assured and practised, and every knife-kiss precisely made. Though together, the four women represented a hail of razor blows and bared flesh, not a single one had been cut by the sharp steel.

She closed her eyes, willing away the memories the scene had brought on. Her four younger sisters, dancing the Seventeen Blades, their faces lit with joy. Jakari’s hand in her own, her half-smile – always so wicked – as she teased her about which noble house they were going to be married off to. The slam of doors, the rush of feet, the screams. The pain of cold, spiked gauntlets gripping her arms. The greater pain of Jakari’s hand being ripped from her own. The utter indifference in her father’s eyes.

The dance had stopped. Raucous applause dragged her back to the present. Despite the tent’s stifling heat, she felt cold.

Gotrek was still watching the stage, arms crossed over his broad chest, seemingly unimpressed. Those behind him were roaring for an encore, a cry that was quickly taken up by the rest of the crowd. The four dancers, their garments in tatters, offered a bow before parting with fluid grace, admitting a fifth woman to the centre of the stage. A rapid tattoo of drumbeats announced her arrival.

She was older than the dancers, and more formally attired, her hair bound up in a patterned tribal headscarf. Maleneth realised she was probably the troupe’s mistress, the one the dancer in the market had called Shaldeen. She raised her arms, a knowing smile on her lips. The drums came to an abrupt stop, and a hush settled over the crowd.

‘Shemali, sellah, friends and companions,’ Shaldeen said. ‘I hope our performances this night have brought pleasure and delight to one and all!’

A cheer greeted her words, and applause spread like a ­ripple. She held her hands up once more until silence returned.

‘It pleases me to say that our performance is not yet quite done. You have just borne witness to the Seventeen Blades, that famous old aelf dance, the signature of the dreaded and murderous temples of Khaine!’

The words were delivered with dramatic relish, and the audience responded with gasps and hisses.

‘We Alharabi have performed it to the best of our abilities, and we pray to that dreaded god that we have done his dance justice. I do not deny, however, that the best of our efforts would surely pale in comparison to the mastery of the aelves themselves.’

The crowd let out cries of denial, but the mistress waved them away, her smile fixed.

‘But we are blessed this night, friends and companies,’ she continued. ‘Blessed perhaps by that terrible power whom this dance venerates. For we have a servant of Khaine here among us, this very moment!’

A shocked silence fell over the spectators. Maleneth froze. The troupe mistress looked directly at her and extended one hand, the smile never wavering.

‘You honour us with your own presence, child of the Bloody-Handed. Now, will you help us honour your god as well, one more time?’

The whole tent had gone deathly silent, and those in the crowd closest to Maleneth had edged away from her. She glanced at Gotrek. The Slayer’s expression was stoic, but he nodded, once. Her own mistress remained silent.

Maleneth tensed, and leapt, clearing the edge of the stage easily. The lithe motion caused the crowd to gasp and exclaim in their native tongues. She landed lightly on both feet. A part of her, buried deep inside, quailed at the realisation that she was standing being watched by hundreds. She was an assassin, not an entertainer. A fire-lit stage was the last place she wanted to be.

But the memories had come on, too strong, too overpowering to be denied. She unclasped her cloak, letting it fall to more gasps. Her leathers were a far cry from the light silks of the Alharabi, and what little of her body that was bared – only her forearms – was a pale contrast to their dark complexions. Her raven hair and eyes, however, matched those of the dancers perfectly.

Two of the previous performers had backed off to the rear of the stage, leaving their two other dancing partners alongside Shaldeen and Maleneth. The shocked quiet was replaced by cheering and applause as the drums began to beat out a rhythm once more, slower this time. She mirrored the bow offered to the audience by the dancers. They were all still smiling. Heartbeat rising, Maleneth slipped her fyresteel knives free.

Remember the steps, child.

The dance began. Maleneth forced herself to stop thinking, to stop worrying, and obey the rhythm being set by the drums. The pavilion faded into the background as she let the motions sweep over and through her, the memories resurging stronger than ever. Jakari was opposite her once again, dancing the same dance, laughing freely, hair unbound and the slender blades in her hands glittering. Maleneth’s heart surged, and she almost misstepped. She recovered with a speed and precision no human could have matched, and drew another gasp from the crowd.

It was not Jakari opposite her. It was the troupe mistress, Shaldeen. Her mastery of the dance’s complex weave of steps and motions was as complete as Maleneth had ever seen. She moved with a fluid, controlled passion, channelling an energy that didn’t concern itself with anything beyond the next step, and the next, and the next. Maleneth slid past and around her, their bodies inches apart, the Alharabi silk flowing. The cloying perfume was thick in her nostrils.

The blades glinted in the firelight. A razor kiss, accentuated by another acceleration in the drumming. Gasps from the crowd intruded on the flow of Maleneth’s thoughts as she slid one of her blades up and along the troupe mistress’ spine, the tip just missing her perfect, dark skin, feathering open a section of her silken garment. She felt the same connection along her own back, sliding down her leathers. It failed to penetrate, and there was no cloth to cut open, but that was not the point – the garments were merely accessories. The power of the dance lay in the caress of death, the aching closeness of being an inch away from Khaine’s red touch. The sensation of her own knife darting along someone’s back, and another at her own, almost made the breath catch in Maleneth’s throat.

You’re enjoying this too much, Witchblade. Focus!

Maleneth ignored the cold voice. The dance moved on, another slash, this one to the shoulder, hers alone to make. She knew even as she spun away that the knife of another of the dancers would be coming for her, a low, precise cut that grazed across the clothing on her hip. Another touched her own shoulder at the exact moment that she cut more of the silk cladding the troupe mistress, the blades making a slitting noise as they slashed air and cloth, just audible over the ­rising frenzy of the drums and the raucous awe of the crowd.

Then came the pain. She’d become so absorbed that she almost didn’t notice it at first. The sudden jab in her side was lost in the web of movement, no room in her mind for anything beyond the dance. Then it registered and she stumbled, unable to correct herself this time.

To be cut in the Seventeen Blades was not uncommon. She had seen aelves of the temple far more experienced than her slashed in half a dozen places, white flesh streaked red. Such injuries showed the favour of Khaine, for it was by his will that sharpened steel had first pierced mortal flesh.

It had been so long since Maleneth had last performed, however, that the sensation of actually being cut interrupted her rhythm. It also saved her life. Had she carried on then the next step, a downward lunge angling towards her right, would have carried a misplaced knife into her bare throat. It came at her anyway, and she was forced to change her footing to avoid the jab.

The blade hadn’t been misplaced at all.

More lunges, from left and right, Shaldeen and her three dancers breaking step to stab and slash in perfect synchronisation. A human would have been dead in only a few seconds, heart and throat pierced. But for all the speed and suddenness of the attack, Maleneth was quicker.

She danced out of reach. The drums had stopped, and from the shouts and screams behind her it seemed as though the crowd were unsure whether they were still watching a staged production or a murder attempt. Maleneth ignored them all – her blood still sang with the rhythm of the Seventeen Blades, and the tempo of her movements continued to accelerate. There was no time to think about what the Alharabi were doing or why – Khaine demanded the dance go on.

Kill them all, Witchblade.

They were fast, there was no denying it. Shaldeen came at her head on, and steel rang against steel as Maleneth flicked each knife stroke aside. It was only a distraction, however. The other two dancers, along with the pair who had stepped aside and both of the drummers, came leaping at her from either side, a blur of stabbing blades. Maleneth gave ground with desperate, focused speed, moving towards the edge of the stage, knowing that if even one of them managed to slip behind her the dance would be finished. She ducked, twisted one way then another, too busy parrying and weaving to even consider going on the attack.

And through it all, they were still smiling.

Behind her the black top had descended into pandemonium. Some in the crowd were pushing and shoving to get out; others were trying to reach the stage, the whole mob overcome with hysteria. Insomuch as Maleneth was aware of any of it, a single thought broke the tempo of her thoughts.

Gotrek.

Move right.

Maleneth had never questioned her mistress’ advice, and she wasn’t about to start. She twisted right, almost throwing herself into the two Alharabi assassins coming at her from that direction. For a moment, her back was completely exposed. She felt the boards of the stage shuddering, and flinched away from the killing blow she expected between her shoulder blades, even as she turned aside the weapons of those in front of her.

A roar broke the moment to pieces, accompanied by a sickening crunch of bone. Gotrek had leapt onto the stage, Master Rune blazing, and now came thundering to Maleneth’s aid. His greataxe was ignited, the fyreforge brazier between the twin heads blazing with a light almost as hot and furious as the one that burned in the Slayer’s single eye. He slammed into the two assassins trying to slip in behind to Maleneth’s left, his shoulder-charge sending both flying across the stage. Bones cracked and split, but they belonged to the lucky ones. A third was caught as she attempted to sidestep the raging duardin. Gotrek moved with a speed that belied his muscled bulk, the axe inscribing a white-hot line as it cleaved into the Alharabi’s midriff and cut her effortlessly in half, blood and viscera bursting from the horrific killing blow.

‘If anyone’s killing the aelf, it’s me,’ the Slayer snarled.

As blood pattered down onto the stage and smeared beneath Maleneth’s feet, Shaldeen and her three remaining dancers broke off, darting back out of reach of both the Slayer and the aelf. Neither of the two pitched over by Gotrek’s charge were moving. The duardin was snorting like an enraged beast, the Master Rune glowing with a deep lustrous power.

‘Get on my left side, dark aelf,’ he snapped. He nodded his head to his left shoulder, guarded by his lion-headed pauldron. ‘If we’re going to do this together, I’m more used to having someone on my left.’

Maleneth didn’t question him, but moved around behind him just as the Alharabi came at them again.

She met them equally this time, blade-for-blade. She felt her hatred surge. They’d been lured here, tricked into exposing themselves. Exactly why, she did not know, though in the months she had spent with Gotrek she’d rapidly grown accustomed to attempts on their lives. The list of those who coveted the Master Rune was long, and grew by the day as rumours of the strange Fyreslayer spread through the Mortal Realms.

Whoever the Alharabi really were, or whoever they worked for, they were not going to be the ones to take either the duardin or the rune, not while Maleneth drew breath. She knocked aside a knife and lunged into the woman’s guard, too fast even for the well-trained human to counter. In a single rapid heartbeat Maleneth’s knife was in her throat, and the aelf felt the Alharabi’s arms clutch around her impotently as she tried to pull herself off the cold steel. The death grip trembled against the tall aelf before Maleneth ripped her blade free in a gout of blood.

‘Hold still, damned thaggaz,’ she heard Gotrek bellowing.

He had met Shaldeen. Fast as the duardin was, the dancer swept past his guard, blades darting across his scarred flesh. Maleneth realised that the expressions of the Alharabi had finally changed – gone were the smiles, replaced now with looks of pure, concentrated hatred. The realisation brought a strange relief. They were not as preternatural as they first appeared. During the dance and in the desperate seconds when it had turned to combat, Maleneth had found herself doubting the teachings of the Temple of Khaine, even the abilities of her own race. Now, however, as steel rang against steel and sliced through flesh, certainty returned once more.

No one hated, and no one killed, quite like a servant of Khaine.

She moved right as Gotrek was forced to turn after the troupe mistress, covering his back. The other Alharabi had seen the opening created by their leader, but Maleneth stopped them from exploiting it, despite their numbers. In a few seconds she’d taken half a dozen furious blows, but her armour, light though it was, ensured they only grazed her. She heard Gotrek grunt behind her, and could feel the burning heat of his axe as it swept and spun, keeping Shaldeen at bay.

They could only sustain this defence for so long. They were still outnumbered, and no one in Khaled-Tush was going to come to the aid of a duardin and an aelf in a knife fight with the Alharabi. For all Maleneth’s own abilities, there was only so much she could do while pinned defending another’s back. She’d already taken two shallow cuts across her right arm, and the first stab she’d received in her side was still throbbing. She could feel blood running down her thigh.

The tempo of the dancers’ blows picked up as they sensed their victim’s uncertainty. She heard Gotrek snarl with frustration, a sure sign that he was still unable to lay a blow on the troupe mistress. Another knife blade struck and twisted into Maleneth’s hip, making her hiss and slash her own steel over the attacker’s arm.

To die here will bring eternal dishonour to the temple.

‘Be silent, mistress!’ Maleneth snapped, her back now physically pressed up against Gotrek’s, as one of the veiled dancers made a series of jabs towards her face and eyes, forcing her to give ground.

A tremor shuddered through the stage. It was not a pounding tattoo like Gotrek’s initial charge, but something altogether deeper. The Alharabi sensed it too. Their attacks faltered.

Maleneth didn’t get a chance to attack. A blast wave hit the black top. The screaming of the crowd intensified as the black canvas ripped, and the whole structure buckled. Maleneth saw a jagged line torn across the ceiling directly above her, a section of the pavilion plucked away to reveal the night beyond.

It was riven with fire.

Another explosion shuddered through the air, intensifying the screaming of the spectators. They had begun to stampede, some for the pavilion’s entrance, others for the hole ripped in its flanks. Maleneth realised that fire had caught and was kindling on a section of the canvas near the ground to her right, whether from the flames spreading outside or from the overturned candle stands it was impossible to tell.

The black top was about to become a furnace.

Get out.

‘We must flee,’ Maleneth said to Gotrek, still at her back.

‘Tell that to your treacherous dance partners,’ the duardin snarled. ‘Dwarfs don’t flee, especially not Gotrek Gurnisson!’

Despite the conflagration taking hold around them, the Alharabi came at them once more, more furious than ever. Maleneth met them in a low fighting crouch, blades held tip-down to either side, one wet with the blood running down her wounded arm.

Their attackers’ blows never landed. Flames burst from the rear of the stage, searing heat blazing over Maleneth and making her flinch and choke. The clothing of one of the assassins ignited, and she shrieked as the fire took her.

Maleneth felt the stage begin to tilt under her. More flames were licking at the support beams, and there was a crack as one blackened length of timber gave way. The dancers maintained their balance, but the distraction was enough. Maleneth gritted her teeth and thrust herself back against Gotrek with all her strength. She felt the Slayer going over, carried by the movement of the collapsing stage past the troupe master and the platform’s edge.

Maleneth’s stomach lurched as she tumbled into freefall. Her foot connected with the side of one of the collapsing beams, and she was able to use the brief buttress to turn herself round in mid-air. She landed next to Gotrek on all fours, knives thumping into the pavilion floor either side of her. A second later there was a splitting crash as the rest of the stage behind them gave way, the flames leaping up to gorge on the splitting timbers.

The crowd at the front of the stage had long since fled, packing into the mass now struggling to fight their way through the ripping canvas walls. The flames were still spreading, their heat overwhelming. Some onlookers had caught fire, their horrific screaming only adding to the panic and confusion. Black smoke was starting to fill the claustrophobic space. Maleneth knew they had seconds before the greater part of the pavilion’s roof gave way and descended on them all in a smothering blanket of burning cloth.

‘Rise,’ she snapped at Gotrek, retrieving her two blades as she did so. The Slayer grunted and picked up his axe. Its fires had gone out, an irony given the flames that were now engulfing everything else.

‘Damned piece of dross,’ the Slayer snarled at the weapon. ‘Why is everything in this new reality so worthless?’

Maleneth heard a shriek just as she found her feet. She spun in time to see Shaldeen leaping at them through the flames consuming the stage. Her silken clothing was alight, and she looked like a daemonic fury as she flung herself at the aelf and the duardin, her face a terrible rictus of pain and rage.

Down.

Maleneth dropped into a crouch as the troupe mistress flew at her, screaming. She felt something heavy pass overhead, and realised that she’d reflexively screwed her eyes shut. There was a sickening thump, and the scream was cut off abruptly. Something hot and wet splattered her. She opened her eyes to find herself covered in blood. The two halves of the troupe mistress lay either side of her, bisected by Gotrek’s overhead swing, the flames quickly eating up the gory remains.

‘Dance around that,’ Gotrek said.

‘We’ve got to get out,’ Maleneth repeated. She pointed towards the nearest opening in the pavilion’s flank. Fire had seared it away, its edges licked by flames. The heat was keeping people at bay. Maleneth reached down, sheathed her knives and snatched a heavily embroidered desert trader’s cape from the ground.

‘Stay behind and stay close,’ she ordered Gotrek.

‘Don’t worry,’ Gotrek panted. ‘If you go first, I’ll get to see you burn to death before I do. Maybe I’ll even get out, and then I can find the inscription in peace. Go ahead, aelfling.’

Maleneth charged the gap. The smoke was making her eyes sting and choking her throat, and the heat had slicked her with sweat. She stumbled but kept going, the cape held up before her like a shield. She could hear the heavy thumping of Gotrek’s footfalls at her back.

She flung herself against the fire-eaten hole in the canvas, feeling the intense, blistering heat wash over her. Something scorched her hands, and she dropped the cape reflexively. Initially, she could neither breathe nor see, her eyes forced shut by the smoke, the ash making her gag and retch. Then she was through – the heat was gone, a memory at her back, and she could breathe again. She stumbled, but turned the fall into a roll, finally coming to a stop on her back amidst rough oasis grass, staring up at the sky, panting.

Gotrek had come to a halt beside her, hands on his knees as he gulped down air untainted by the pavilion’s fiery demise. He muttered something, but Maleneth wasn’t listening. Her eyes were still on the sky. It was almost wholly engulfed by smoke billowing from the burning caravans, the market and the black top, but she had caught something amidst the swirling ash and red embers. It took her a moment to recognise its outline.

She was watching a duardin skyship, an arkanaut frigate most commonly used by the piratical Kharadron Overlords. Its bulk resembled the iron hull of a seagoing vessel, but instead of watery waves it traversed the clouds of the aether thanks to the arcane power of three spherical endrins suspended by cables and copper wiring above the ship’s structure.

Maleneth thought at first that the ship had been moored somewhere amidst the caravans of Khaled-Tush, and was making its escape as the fires leapt and spread throughout the outpost. As she watched though, she realised that its course must have brought it in over the oasis, and that it was holding station rather than pulling away.

Something dropped from the airship’s flank. She followed it as it plummeted through the smoke and ash, a black sphere, seemingly innocuous amidst the devastation surrounding it. She lost it as it disappeared among the remains of the burning marketplace. Fire flared, silhouetting the intervening wagons, and the thunderclap of another detonation rolled out across the desert, bringing realisation with it.

The arkanaut frigate was attacking Khaled-Tush. They were dropping incendiary grudge-bombs over the side, onto the helpless caravans below. It was their fire that had first ignited the black top, and toppled the stage. Now the entire outpost was ablaze.

Maleneth’s view of the Kharadron skyship was obscured by a shadow. She blinked, and realised that Gotrek was standing over her. It took her a moment to realise that he was offering her his hand. She took it, her slender fingers encased by the duardin’s scarred, stone-hard fist. She allowed herself to be drawn up onto her feet, and glanced back at the pavilion. It had almost wholly collapsed into the flames consuming it, and the space around it was a heaving mass of people, trying to push and shove their way out of the reach of the fires as they spread to the nearby trees and the undergrowth that carpeted the banks of the oasis. It was chaos, and amidst it all no one seemed to have noticed the skyship. It was turning, banking around through the smoke and heading back in their direction.

‘Dwarfs?’ Gotrek said, following Maleneth’s gaze.

‘Not as you know them.’

‘Apparently not,’ Gotrek growled. ‘The only dawi that take to the sky are brain-addled. Just like everything else in this place.’

The skyship was losing altitude. Some of those on the edge of the crowd, stricken with fear and confusion, had started to flock towards it, not realising that it was responsible for the devastation reigning around them.

She pulled her knives from her belt once more.

‘I pray the idea of kinslaying does not disturb you, duardin,’ she said darkly.

Gotrek’s expression, usually stony, hardened further in the flickering firelight.

‘Not any more, aelf. Not for a long time.’