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A Point of Pride – Extract

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A Point of Pride

Evan Dicken

The night reeked of impending murder. Deathmiser Khrut’s whiskers twitched in anticipation of the coming bloodshed, his nose alight with the subtle bouquet of hunger and excitement rising from his Night Runners. Culled from among the best Clan Eshin had to offer, each was a sovereign of stealth, a prodigy of poisons, a master of the murderous arts, although still far inferior to Khrut, who had been cutting throats before these wet-eared wretches had crawled from the brood pits.

Khrut flexed his arms, unable to restrain a flush of delighted musk. His fur might be grizzled, his step slower, his vision not as sharp as his blades, but he was still Deathmiser. None might die save by his command – his whim was murder made manifest.

And tonight was a very good night to kill.

‘Creep-climb.’ Khrut’s whispered command was enough to send his Runners swarming up the high promontory overlooking Cape Tenebrax. Although the cliff’s salt-rimed stones were dark as the sky, there was no paw out of place, not even the barest scritch to betray their ascent to those in the Numinarium above. The wretched Sigmarite observatory-citadel lay like a milk-fattened grub, unaware of the butcher’s knife.

Ulgu was delightfully dark. Only the Liar’s Moon was out, a deeper void stalking amidst the heavy clouds, its course erratic as a dying plague rat and notoriously hard to chart. Khrut had traded one of his better poisons to a Skryre warlock for a lunar auspice. That the milky-eyed seer’s predictions had been right hardly mattered when Khrut stuck a dagger in his neck. Any sorcerer who could be bought so cheaply would not hesitate to betray Khrut to his rivals. One did not stay Deathmiser by leaving loose ends.

Allowing himself a self-congratulatory smirk, Khrut chose a more leisurely ascent. In Ulgu, night stretched longer than a packmaster’s whip. There was no need to tire himself. Those above would sense nothing. The Liar’s Moon would ensure their filthy watchwards and scryballs were as clouded as their sight.

‘Two no-furs on the wall. Armour, sword-blades, lanterns,’ said Rolk, one of the senior Runners.

‘Fool!’ Khrut cuffed the assassin for his presumption. ‘You think me blind as a broodling?’

Although Rolk cringed at the admonition, Khrut marked the brief twitch of anger that stiffened the younger assassin’s whiskers. A shame. Rolk had been one of his more dependable killers, but familiarity bred insolence. And that was something Khrut could not abide.

‘Softpaws, up-up.’ Khrut gestured to Rolk and Thretch, a burly skaven whose broad shoulders would have marked him for Stormvermin training if Khrut had not snatched him up first. Rolk’s chest puffed out as he basked anew in his Deathmiser’s favour.

The gift of murder was something to be treasured, doled out like warptokens from a Grey Seer’s hoard. However, like most gifts, Khrut was not above using it to give a false sense of security to those he intended to destroy. If Rolk thought himself high in his Deathmiser’s favour, he would be less apt to watch for hidden blades.

The two senior killers clambered up the wall. Although the stones were well fitted, age and sea storms had webbed them with fine cracks. More than enough purchase for a skilled Night Runner.

‘Watch-study. Much to learn from Rolk,’ Khrut whispered to the pack’s other members, delighted to see their fur bristle with murderous jealousy. If all went as planned, and it always did, Rolk would be disposed of without Khrut even needing to draw his blade.

Despite their fine armour and weapons, the guards were only human, their pitiful lanterns weak as their eyes. Only the great beacon atop the citadel’s central tower could pierce the murk, but it was meant for warning ships at sea, not illuminating foes. Even a scent-blind tunnel skulker could avoid its slow, regular sweep.

The wind changed, salt-rimed breeze carrying hints of sweat and lamp oil from above. Khrut could even smell the fish on the guards’ breath.

They died without a sound, throats cut from behind by Rolk’s and Thretch’s climbing claws. Rolk followed the initial slice with a stab beneath the armpit, stilling the guard’s heart. Thretch simply wrapped his arms around his dying victim, tight as a chokesnake, until the man stopped struggling.

The Numinarium’s garrison was small, relying on the wretched prognostications of its sorcerous master to warn of impending danger. On less murky days, with the proper equipment, one might even spy the distant lights of Misthåvn. The Sigmarite warren was close enough to send aid should the observatory come under assault, but only if those in the Numinarium lived long enough to call for help.

A wave from Khrut sent the other Runners up the wall. They spread out as they climbed, seeking vantages downwind so as to scent any unexpected guards. A fine team spoke to fine training, and fine training spoke to a fine teacher. The pack might suffer without Rolk, but it would find its footing soon enough. Eshin never lacked for killers, and Khrut had a knack for smelling out the best.

Three more guards hunkered in the gatehouse below, blankets wrapped around their shoulders in a vain attempt to block out the sharp sea wind. Another was rounding the battlement, one more on the far wall, hidden from sight by the Numinarium’s central tower.

Khrut wrinkled his snout, chuffing softly with pleasure. It seemed the Diviner had ordered the guard doubled. Fool. All his caution had done was deliver more fodder to the assassins’ blades.

‘Deathmiser, favour me with your kill-blessing,’ said Qhriq Sightless, his long tongue flicking out to test the air. That and his broad snout and batlike ears were the result of warpstone infusions, Qhriq’s eyes removed in some brutal fleshcraft ritual. As much as the killer unsettled Khrut, Qhriq’s uncanny senses had proven themselves many times over.

Khrut nodded towards the approaching no-fur, rewarding Qhriq’s deference. He set the Snatchcrest twins upon the far guard. Runts of their litter, the pair made up in viciousness what they lacked in size, flitting down the battlement like a killing wind.

Rubbing his paws together, Khrut unleashed Rolk and Thretch upon the unsuspecting no-furs in the guardhouse. Two died to envenomed shuriken, twitching like blowflies in a spider’s web. The captain was seized before his companions had even slumped from their stools. Bundled and gagged with silken rope, he was thrown over Thretch’s muscular shoulders. Khrut did not see the other two on the walls die, but he did not need to. The sharp scent of blood on the breeze was proof enough.

Through it all the Deathmiser watched and waited. He had studied the Numinarium for weeks, memorising watch rotations, schedules, even the habits of the handful of acolytes who catered to the Diviner’s strange whims. It was an old fortress, long predating the Sigmarites who now squatted within its ragged battlements. The sharp-edged crenellations spoke of Khaine’s brood, but the witches were long gone, dead as their bloody-handed god.

Soon, all within the Numinarium would join them.

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