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Shade of Khaine – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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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.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2025.
This eBook edition published in 2025 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Cover illustration by Christopher Cant.

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