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Auction of Blood – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Auction of Blood

Josh Reynolds

At the stroke of seven on the arranged evening, Palem Bok found himself wandering the miasma-choked back alleys of Greywater Fastness. A bookseller and a spy, Bok was the epitome of neither. Tall and nondescript, he was all sharp angles and conservative colours. A grey man in a grey world. Despite the dull hues of his garments, however, they were of an expensive cut, tailored to his lean form. Bok was a man with standards, if nothing else.

As the evening wore on, he traversed the tangled rookery with no sign of fear, despite the hostile eyes he felt watching him from darkened doorways and the cracks in boarded-over windows. Greywater Fastness was a hard city, and its people unforgiving of weakness. Bok was not weak. There was death in his heart, and there was nothing stronger than death.

Even so, his pale gaze flickered warily from side to side, watching the shadows for some sign of the person he’d come to meet. His hand rested close to the edges of his frock coat and the slim, multi-chambered flintlock pistol holstered beneath his arm. The pistol was of duardin manufacture, and thus guaranteed to perform its function without incident. Much like Bok, it was a most dependable weapon. He smiled as the thought occurred to him. There were worse things to be than a weapon. And worse masters by far than the one who wielded him. Or, rather, mistresses.

It had its annoyances. For instance, his intent for the evening had been to meet with a certain contact. He wished to arrange the purchase of a rare duardin bead-book, purloined at no small expense from the libraries of the Runemaster of the Hermdar lodge. There were any number of his usual clients who would dearly love to own such a rare volume on the art of fyresteel blending. Instead, he was now wandering this crooked labyrinth of back alleys, waiting for his mistress’ servant to reveal themselves.

Laughter echoed from a side street, where a crowd tossed rotting food into a massive cage. Inside it, a serpentine cockatrice shrieked and slammed against the bars. Its avian skull was hooded in order to protect gawkers from its deadly gaze. The hulking beast’s owner kept up a steady patter, trying to attract punters to come and see it up close. Bok felt a thrill of revulsion at the sight. He felt no sympathy for the creature. It was a foul thing, corrupt and twisted by sour magics into an abomination. He just hoped the cage was sturdy.

Loose metal rattled, somewhere out of sight. Bok paused, a fingerbreadth from drawing his pistol. Head cocked, he listened to the sounds of the city. Greywater Fastness was never silent. Its ironclad walls reverberated with the sounds of industry. The great furnaces roared day and night, and the sound of hammers ringing on metal filled the streets. A thick pall of soot and grime covered everything, blackening the walls of the buildings and obscuring the street. It was at its worst after a rain, and it was almost constantly raining.

Overhead, glowing spores drifted as they always did after a downpour, making strange patterns in the sooty air. Where they touched something solid, they took root and sprouted into shimmering fronds of iridescent greenery. Bok hurried into a covered alleyway, brushing some from his coat before they had a chance to blossom.

He heard muffled voices, echoing strangely through the cramped street. In the dim light of a sputtering oil lantern hanging above a nearby doorway, he caught a glimpse of shambling figures – beggars, seeking shelter, as he was. Night soil wagons creaked somewhere close to hand. The bells on Cathedral Hill tolled the hour, and a flock of crows hurtled skywards from the slum rooftops, croaking raucously, their feathers gleaming with spores.

Out of the smog lurched a beggar woman. She was small and hunched, wizened by hard living. She gazed at him through a veil of ratty hair, and her eyes lit up. She shuffled towards him across the filthy cobbles. ‘Sir, good sir, alms, sir,’ she wheezed. He could see bone gleaming through the pallid fuzz. Patches of leper-moss crawled across her skinny arms and marred her cheeks.

Bok’s nose wrinkled at the stench of her. ‘I have no alms, woman. No comets, no motes, no flinders for such as you.’ He made a show of fumbling at his pockets. Despite his obvious disgust, she did not turn aside.

‘Alms, sir. Alms for the poor.’

‘Leave me in peace, wretch. I said I have no money.’ Bok took a step back, as her stink enveloped him. His skin crawled at the thought of her touch. She caught the edge of his coat. Annoyed, he lowered a hand, and a thin blade slid from a concealed sheath into his waiting palm. One more body on the night soil carts would not be noticed.

‘But you have red hands, brother, and they have performed black deeds,’ the woman mumbled through rotting teeth. Arthritic fingers contorted themselves in a sign known only to a few. Bok relaxed somewhat, sliding the blade back into its sheath before making a similar gesture. This, then, was the person he’d come to this squalid alley to meet.

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A Black Library Publication

Published in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Original Neferata illustration by Paul Dainton.
Original City illustration by Bayard Wu.

Auction of Blood © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Auction of Blood, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-815-0

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