red thirst Page 2

  And here he was, in chains, bound for some convict settlement in the mountains. He knew they'd put him to work in some hell-hole of a mine or a quarry and that he'd probably be dead within five years. He cursed all Guardians of Morality, and rattled his chains.

  For once, he had a stroke of luck. His left manacle was bent out of shape, its rivets popped. He slipped his hand free.

  Now, when the wagon stopped, he would have a chance.

  Once they were out of the city, Dien Ch'ing felt free to pull off his black steeple-hood. This far to the west, the people of Cathay were uncommon enough to attract attention, and so the Order's face-covering headgear was a convenient way of walking about unquestioned. The round-eyed, big-nosed, abnormally-bearded natives of this barbarous region were superstitious savages, ignorant enough to suppose that his oriental features were marks of Chaos and toss him into the nearest bonfire. Of course, in his case, they wouldn't have been entirely unjustified. All who ascended the Pagoda of Tsien-Tsin, Lord of the Fifteen Devils, Master of the Five Elements, had more than a trace of the warpstone in their blood.

  A few too many clashes with the Monkey-King's warrior monks had forced him to leave the land of his birth, and now he was a wanderer across the face of the world, a servant of Tsien-Tsin, an unaltered Acolyte of Chaos, a Master of the Mystic Martial Arts. He had been shepherded through the Dark Lands by the Goblin Lords, and conveyed across the Worlds' Edge mountains to the shores of the Blackwater. There was an Invisible Empire in the Known World, an empire that superseded the petty earthly dominions of the Monkey-King, the Tsar of Kislev or the Emperor Luitpold. This was the empire of the Chaos Powers, of Khorne and Nurgle in the west and north, and of Great Gojira and the Catshit Daemons in the east. Tsien-Tsin, the Dark Lord to whom he pledged his service, was known here as Tzeentch. The proscribed cults of Chaos flourished, and the warp-altered horde grew in strength with each cycle of the moons. The kingdoms of men squabbled, and the Invisible Empire grew ever more powerful.

  They made slow progress up into the mountains. Ch'ing sat on his padded seat beside the driver of the second wagon. He was impatient to get this coffle to the slave-pits, and be back about his business in Zhufbar. He had made this run many times, and it was becoming boring. Once they reached the secret caves where the goblins waited, the convicts would be seperated into three groups. The young men would be taken off to work in the warpstone mines of the Dark Lands, the young women sold to the slave markets of Araby, and the remainder slaughtered for food. It was a simple business, and it served the Powers of Chaos well. Always, he allowed the goblins to pick out a woman or two, or perhaps a comely youth, and watched them at their sport. Claes Glinka would be shocked at the ultimate fate of those whose sins he abhorred. Ch'ing laughed musically. It was most amusing.

  But this was not the time for amusements. There was important business to be transacted at the Festival of Ulric. There were many high-ranking Servants of Chaos in the city, and they too were plotting strategy. When Ch'ing had been visited in the Dark Lands by Yefimovich, the Kislevite High Priest of Tzeentch, he had been told that the dread one wished him to take a position within the Moral Crusade and do his best to turn Glinka's followers into an army for the advancement of Chaos. Thus far, his subtle strategies had worked well. The Crusade hoods could conceal more than slanted eyes, and Ch'ing knew that many an iron-carrying Acolyte bore the marks of the warpstone under his mask. Glinka was a blind fanatic, and easily duped. Sometimes, Ch'ing wondered whether the Guardian of Morality had not made his own dark bargain with the Invisible Empire. No one could put aside so many pleasures without a good reason. However, Glinka was just as likely sincere in his passions. All western barbarians were mad to some extent. Ch'ing wondered what it must be like to fear one's own appetites so much that one sought to suppress the pleasures of all the world. To him, thirsts existed to be slaked, lusts to be satiated, desires to be fulfilled.

  The sun was full in the sky now. The coffle had been on the road all night. Most of the convicts would still be asleep, or nursing their hangovers. There were three wagons in all, and although the drivers were used to the mountain roads, progress was still frustratingly snail-like. Just now, they were on a narrow ledge cut into a steep, thickly forested incline. Tall evergreens rose beside the path, their lowest branches continually striking the sides of the wagons. There were bandits in the mountains, and worse things, altered monstrosities, renegade dwarf bands, Black Orcs, Skaven, amphisbaenae, mountain bears. But he took comfort; there was unlikely to be anything worse out there than himself. His position on the Pagoda gave him the power to summon and bind daemons, to tumble through the air in combat, and to fight for a day and a night without breaking a sweat.

  The first wagon halted, and Ch'ing nudged the driver beside him to rein in the horses. The animals settled. Ch'ing waved to the third wagon, which also creaked to a stop.

  "Tree down ahead, master," shouted the Acolyte on the first wagon. Ch'ing sighed with irritation. He could use a simple spell to remove the obstacle, but that would drain him, and he knew the Blessings of Tsien-Tsin would be required soon for other purposes. There was nothing for it but to use the available tools.

  Holding his robes about him, he stepped down to the road.

  He had to be careful of his footing. It would be easy to take a fall, and wind up bent around a tree hundreds of feet below. The mightiest of warrior magicians always met their deaths through such small missteps. It was the gods' way of keeping their servants humble.

  He walked round to the back of the wagon, and unlocked the door. The foul stench of the prisoners wafted out, and he held his nose. Westerners always smelled vile, but this crew were worse than usual.

  The convicts cringed away from the light. He knew some of them would be startled by his Celestial face. So be it. They were in no position to be offended.

  "Attention," he said. "Those of you who do not assist us in the removal of the tree that blocks our path will have their ears severed. Volunteers?"

  The driver yanked at the chain threaded around the central bar of the wagon, and took out the keys. Guards with whips and swords clustered around the wagon. Ch'ing stood back. The central bar was raised, and the convicts were hauled out, their ankle-shackles pulling off the bar like beads from a string. Their feet were free, but they would still be chained wrist to wrist.

  First out was the fragile girl he had been warned against. She didn't like the strong sunlight, and covered her eyes. After her was a sturdy young man with more than a few battle scars. Vukotich, he knew. One of the mercenaries. Then, there was a pause, as the half-naked Pavel Alexei hesitated on the lip of the wagon.

  Something was wrong.

  The whore and the mercenary were shackled together, and the man held his arm up awkwardly, as if chained to the degenerate. But the Kislevite was pressing his hand to his forehead, an empty manacle dangling from his wrist.

  Two of the prisoners were loose from the chain.

  The mercenary looked him in the eyes, and Ch'ing saw defiance and hatred reflected at him.

  He had his hand on his scimitar-handle, but the mercenary was fast.

  Vukotich embraced the girl, lifting her up into his arms, and threw himself off the road. The two of them became a ball, and bounced into the woods. Their cries of pain sounded out as they vanished between the trees.

  Pavel Alexei, bewildered, tried to follow them, but he was still chained to the next prisoner, and he slipped, dangling from the wagon by his manacled left wrist. Ch'ing sliced with his scimitar, and the Kislevite fell at his feet, leaving his neatly-severed hand in its iron cuff at the end of the chain.

  "Anyone else?" he asked mildly. "No? Good."

  The cries had stopped. The whore and the mercenary were probably dead down there, but Ch'ing could take no risks.

  "You, you, and you," he indicated three guards. "Find them and bring them back."

  They stepped off the road, and began to edge their way downwards.

  "And
take off those hoods," Ch'ing added, "you'll only slip and break your necks."

  The guards pulled their hoods back, and followed the path of broken bushes and scraped trees that marked the escapees' route down the mountain. Soon, they were gone.

  The Kislevite was whimpering, pressing fingers over his leaking stump.

  "Perhaps next time you won't be so keen to share the bed of another man's wife, Pavel Alexei," Ch'ing said.

  The Kislevite spat at his shoes.

  Ch'ing shrugged, and the driver killed Pavel Alexei with his iron bar. The goblins expected a certain wastage along the road.

  Ch'ing pulled out his clay pipe and tamped in some opium from his pouch. He would travel to the Pagoda for a few moments, in search of further enlightenment.

  Then, when the guards brought back the whore and the mercenary, he would make sure they were dead, and then the coffle could be on its way again.

  Thank the gods, he had not broken any bones in the tumble down the mountainside. But his clothes were ragged, and great patches of skin were scraped from his back and shins. The girl didn't seem greatly hurt either. Too bad. It would have been easier if she were dead. Her silks were torn, her long hair was loose, and she had a few bruises, but she wasn't bleeding.

  He hauled her to her feet, pulling on the chain between them, and dragged her through the trees, away from the flattened bush that had broken their roll. It was important to get away from any trail that could be followed. They had gained some time on the guards by their dangerous, headlong descent, but there would be Acolytes after them. A brief exchange of glances with the Celestial in charge of the coffle had convinced Vukotich this was not a man to expect much from in the way of mercy.

  "Keep quiet," he told the girl, "do what I say. You understand?"

  She didn't look as panicked as he had expected. She simply nodded her head. He thought she was even smiling slightly. She was probably a weirdroot-chewer. A lot of whores were. They sold you their body, but kept their dreams for themselves. It was much the same with swords-for-hire, he supposed.

  He picked their way through the trees, taking care with his footing. It was hard to keep a balance with their wrists chained together. The girl was agile and unfussy, and kept up with him easily. She had a lot of control. She was probably very good at what she did. He wondered whether she were more than a street harlot. More than one great assassin had found a career as a courtesan an efficient way to get close to their targets.

  They would be expected to keep going down, so Vukotich took them up, hoping to strike the roadledge a few miles behind the wagons. The Celestial was unlikely to send men back after them, and it would be impossible to turn the coffle round. They should be able to get away if they made it too much trouble to bring them in. Somewhere, there were slave-pits waiting for the convicts, and the Moral Guardians wouldn't want to have three wagonloads of prisoners stranded half-way up a mountain just to bring in a couple of minor carousers. Of course, you could never tell with fanatics...

  The girl grabbed his wrist. Their chain rattled. She tugged.

  "That way," she said. "There are three men coming."

  She was sharp. At first he couldn't hear anything, but then her words were confirmed by clumping feet and huffing breaths.

  "They've split up," she said. "One will be here soon."

  She looked around.

  "Can you climb that tree?" she asked, indicating a thick trunk.

  Vukotich snorted. "Of course."

  He must be staring at her.

  "Now," she said. "Quickly."

  He snapped to and obeyed her as if she were a sergeant-at-arms. It was awkward, but there was a stout branch within reach, and he was able to chin himself one-handed. She dangled from the chain, and swung herself up like an acrobat, then hauled him onto the branch. They were both securely perched. He was breathing hard, but she kept her wind.

  "Don't be amazed," she said, "I've done this sort of thing before. Lots of times."

  He had been staring at her again. She pulled a branch, and they were hidden behind the thick leaves.

  "Now," she said. "Be quiet."

  They could hear the Acolyte now, blundering around below. He wasn't tracking them properly, just looking at random. They must have found the bush where their tumble ended, and split up in three directions. These bullies were city boys, unused to following people through trails of broken twigs and trampled grass.

  Vukotich and the girl both had their hands against the trunk, steadying themselves. He saw the chain hanging between their wrists, and noticed something odd about their shackles. His manacle was plain iron, flecked with odd lumps of some other stuff that sparkled. Hers was different, a padded ring of leather sewn around the metal. He had never seen that before. It looked as if their captors wanted to spare her the discomfort of a chafed wrist, but he couldn't believe Glinka would wish to treat a whore so lightly. More likely, the cuff was designed to prevent her slipping free by dislocating her thumb and pulling her slender hand out of the metal grip.

  He guessed her age at sixteen or seventeen. She was slim, but not delicate. She was perfectly balanced on the branch, with an almost catlike ease. In the sunlight, her harlot's paint made her look like a child's doll: white face, red lips, blue-shadowed eyes. She had spoken Old Worlder with a slight accent. Bretonnian, he thought. Like him, she was far from home.

  It was a shame, but he would have to get rid of her at the first opportunity. No matter how competent she seemed, chained to him as she was she was as useful to him as an anvil.

  The unhooded Acolyte was directly below them now, robes swishing as he looked about. He had a wicked curved sword in one hand, and his bar in the other. He didn't seem to be guarding anyone's purity. He let loose a very un-moral stream of blasphemous oaths. Vukotich could have sworn that the lumps on the Acolyte's forehead were the buds of daemon horns.

  Not for the first time, Vukotich wondered if there was something extremely sinister behind Glinka's Crusade.

  The girl laid her hand over his, and nodded sharply. He was a beat behind her thinking, but caught up.

  Together, they leaped from the branch, and onto the Acolyte. He cried out, but she got her free right hand over his mouth and stifled him. Vukotich looped their chain around his throat, and they both pulled. The Acolyte struggled, but he had dropped his weapons. His hand groped for Vukotich's face, but he pushed it away. All three fell to the sloping ground, and the Acolyte was pressed beneath them into the mulchy soil.

  Vukotich's wrist hurt, but he kept up the pressure. The girl was pulling equally hard. The chain bit into the Acolyte's neck, and his face was red with blood. Noises gargled in his throat. The whore took her hand away from the man's mouth, and Vukotich saw the teeth-bruises in the heel of her palm. She made a fist, and punched the guard's face.

  The Acolyte's tongue had expanded to fill his mouth. Blood gushed from his nose. His eyes rolled upwards and showed only white.

  The girl drew her forefinger across her throat. Vukotich nodded. The Acolyte was dead.

  They disentangled their chain from his throat, and stood up. Vukotich gave a silent prayer to his family totem. Let the blood I have spilled be not innocent. He looked around, and picked up the curved sword. It felt natural in his hand. He had been naked without a weapon.

  As he admired the blade, he felt the tug of the manacle, and stuck out his arm, directed by the girl. The swordpoint sank into the chest of the Acolyte who was rushing at them. His was the force behind the killing stroke, but she had provided the aim. He should not have been distracted in the first place. He should have been ready himself to react.

  Their hands were entwined around the swordhilt now. They withdrew it from the dying Acolyte, and stood over the bodies. The first had latent horns, the second wolfish teeth. Under the hoods, things were not so pure.

  "One more," she said. "No. He's sensed what's happened, and is running away, back up to the road. He'll get help."

  Vukotich had to agree with her
.

  "Downwards," she said. "If there's no pass in the crotch of this valley, there must be a stream. We can follow it."

  Vukotich had another priority. He took the sword into his left hand, and looked around. There was a fallen tree. That would do for a chopping block.

  He dragged her over, and laid the chain on the wood.

  "That's useless," she said. "The chain is tempered iron. You'll just blunt the sword."

  Nevertheless, he chopped down. The blade turned aside, kinked where it had met the iron links. The chain showed a scratch of clean metal, but wasn't broken.

  It was a shame, but...

  He pulled her hand, and slipped her sleeve away from her wrist. He looked her in her face.

  "I'm a swordsman, and you're a whore," he said. "You can practice your trade without your left hand, but I need my right..."

  Red rage sparked in her eyes.

  "That won't..."

  He struck the blow, and felt a shock that jarred his arm from wrist to elbow. The sword bounced, and scraped against her padded manacle.

  "...work."

  Incredulous, he looked at her wrist. There was a purple bruise where he had struck, but the skin wasn't even broken. He should have sheared her hand clean off.