For the Daughters of Khaine, loyalty is rewarded while treachery is punished – it’s just not always easy to tell the difference between a reward and a punishment, as one unlucky priestess finds out in this short story…
Test of Loyalty
Hag Queen Krithé bowed before her goddess, crossing her twin sciansá blades in a smart salute.
‘The enemy approaches, Bloody-Handed One,’ she said. ‘They pursued us through the Liar’s Pass, just as you predicted. Within minutes, they shall be in sight.’
‘Almost disappointing,’ said Morathi-Khaine, running a graceful hand through her raven-black hair. ‘I did not think the Hashutites would prove quite so predictable. As bull-headed as their ugly little god.’
Krithé peered up from her kneeling position, gazing upon the Murder God reborn. The very image of divinity: one foot planted atop a jutting stone, her hair whipping in the wind and her gleaming golden wings framing that noble, cruel frame.
And yet the Deniers tell us it is all a lie. A monstrous fiction, built upon a pyramid of lesser falsehoods. Even the Crone Heralds named Morathi-Khaine usurper, though their voice has quietened of late, since the goddess and that strange creature Krethusa found accord.
Krithé had always thought herself a zealous soul. A true believer in the iron creed. Her love for Khaine was a fierce and burning thing, and it had saved her life on too many battlefields for her to count. Now she found herself contemplating heresy – the blasphemous conceit that the Murder God’s greatest servant, the very mother of the Khainite cult, could have ensnared the entire sisterhood in a grand deception, the scale of which defied comprehension.
At first, the idea had been ludicrous. It had infuriated her, and she had watched the first Deniers burn or scream upon the bladed racks with a sense of righteous satisfaction. But then the statues began to change. The stern and wrathful visage of Almighty Khaine was replaced by the former High Oracle’s austere beauty. Khainite dogma that had remained unaltered for centuries was amended, subtly at first but with increasing brazenness these last few years.
Doubt has infected me. I look upon her now, this majestic being, and I wonder if I am but a dustwing trapped in her web, aware only too late of the strands of shadowsilk that bind me.
Morathi-Khaine caught her gaze and raised an eyebrow. The goddess’s expression was unreadable. Only the faintest glimpse of a smile creased her lip.
‘Krithé, is it?’
‘Yes, mistress,’ said Krithé, flinching ever so slightly as she bowed her head.
Does she see it in my eyes? Even a Hag Queen can fall swiftly when the glare of suspicion falls over her. I must be cautious.
‘You have served Hagg Nar well this day,’ said Morathi-Khaine. ‘Now comes the slaughter. Drench the soil of Ulgu with the miserable blood of these bull worshippers, and I promise I will bestow upon you all that you deserve.’
For all the Khainites’ careful preparation and advantage on their native Ulguan terrain, their enemies were professional killers and not to be underestimated. Daemon-powered artillery rained down upon the sisterhood as they charged, turning many into screaming torches of green flame and obliterating others entirely. Khainite war cries echoed through the canyons.
‘Mirith-alach Hagg Nar! Krúthal aich khelt!’
At the prospect of violence, the great weight on Krithé’s soul eased.
Here, in Khaine’s holy crucible, I feel his presence and do not question it. Here, everything makes sense.
The Hag Queen ran at the head of her sistren, eager to wash away her doubt in a river of blood. By the blessings of the Murder God, she avoided every blossoming explosion as she darted up the shallow shale slope towards the clustered enemy.
She was met by a dully glinting wall of spears held by sallow duardin, their expressions twisted with hate. The infernal creatures thrust out their polearms with impressive synchronicity, and Krithé heard the wet sound of impact as some of her sisters were impaled on those wicked spearheads.
Krithé was too fast for that. She turned one questing pike away with her sciansá, used another as a stepping stone and leapt into a full somersault, sailing over the heads of the duardin. Her blade whipped out as she landed, cleaving through one soldier’s neck. Rising, she tucked in her ribs to let a jabbing spear pass harmlessly by, then she lashed out to carve a bloody gash across her attacker’s eyes.
‘Blood for almighty Khaine!’ she cried, holding up her chalice to catch a crimson downpour.
The Hashutites spat and cursed, knitting their ugly brows and grimacing to show yellow tusk-like teeth as they tried to fend off the Witch Aelves piercing their beleaguered formation. These were formidable soldiers; they punched and hacked and thrust without tiring, shrugging off their foes’ agile cuts and giving hell in return.
As Krithé watched, a squadron of anvil-helmed duardin lumbered forwards, carrying oversized bronze tubes that glowed an ominous viridian. Krithé’s instincts saw her tumble aside, using a pile of corpses for cover as sheets of liquid fire swept overhead. She held her breath, feeling her skin blister beneath the onslaught, hearing the dying wails of burning Khainites. Then there was a pause and she was up and charging, sliding in the brackish mud to slit the tendons of the nearest fire-hurler and send him staggering into his fellows. More Witch Aelves piled in, leaping over the smouldering corpses of their kin and falling amongst the duardin with sciansá spinning and not a hint of mercy in their eyes.
Krithé laughed and urged them on, exulting in the thunderous beat of her heart and the sacred intensity of the ichor that drenched her from head to toe.
Perhaps all my suspicion and doubt is for naught. Perhaps I have merely allowed the whispers of malcontents and heretics to pollute my thoughts. I hear Khaine’s true voice.
The blow caught her in the lower spine, lifting her up and spinning her in a half-helix. She landed hard on cold stone and felt the dull crunch of her collarbone snapping. The length of her body from neck to tailbone screamed in agony. Dimly, through the blood-haze, she saw the centauroid monster that had struck her, now carving through her fellow Khainites with wide sweeps of a twin-pronged glaive. It bellowed, spittle flying from beneath its mask, each snort misting the air with sulphurous vapours.
Somehow, she got to her knees. Two ribs cracked, at least, to go with her aching neck. Her damaged bones ground together as she moved, but the fire of her anger burned away the pain, letting her raise her own blade in defiance.
‘Khael-machái Khaine!’ she cried. ‘Come to me, abomination!’
Mad with bloodlust, the duardin-centaur lowered its head and charged. She was vaguely aware that she could not stop it, reeling as she was. This was the contract between a Hag Queen and her merciless god: her life for Khaine. She would pay the due willingly and try to score a grievous wound with what little strength remained in her.
It was ten feet away now, snorting hot, foul breath. Five feet away, hooves churning the ground to black paste. She raised her sword in a reverse grip, the blade flat and cold against her forearm.
Shadows boiled. Tentacles of misty darkness snatched up the centaur-thing, like a kraken’s limbs enveloping a ship’s hull. Krithé gasped and fell back, a fresh wave of pain threatening to batter her into unconsciousness, and looked up into a radiant visage.
Morathi-Khaine stood there, untouched by blood or grime, as darkly perfect as an obsidian statue. Her expression was serene. Almost bored. She made claws of her fingers and squeezed. The coiling shadow tendrils contracted, twisting the duardin-centaur’s spine and dragging the flailing corpse away into the darkness. As the Hashutites faltered, the serpent-shapes of Melusai came sweeping forward – the Vyperic Guard of Hagg Nar, loosing crystal arrows or driving glaive blades deep into duardin flesh.
‘My goddess,’ Krithé gasped as she prostrated herself, truly awed by her mistress’s power. Her broken bones sent another wracking bolt through her, but she gritted her teeth and ignored the sensation.
I was mad to doubt my goddess.
‘Hag Queen Krithé,’ Morathi-Khaine purred. ‘How fortuitous that we meet again. Get up.’
Krithé did so, unsteadily.
‘It is good that we find ourselves alone together,’ the goddess continued. It was hard to concentrate on the words, for Morathi’s voice was the most harmonic sound that Krithé had ever heard.
‘You have done all that I asked of you and more.’ The smile vanished from her face. ‘Much more, if my Scáthborn agents are correct.’
She knows.
Morathi-Khaine’s eyes turned glassy and black like those of a shark. All that was left in that gaze was an ancient, depthless cold, an utter indifference that was somehow worse than outright fury. Krithé stumbled backwards and struck something unyielding.
Before she could even gasp, she was seized in a grip as strong as iron. Coils of crimson-and-black scales engulfed her, lifting her bodily from the ground. Dancing before her eyes was a bulbous shape: a vicious barbed sting as big as her head, its venom-dripping tip mere inches from her face. Something twisted her about, and she found herself staring into the hideous visage of another Morathi – a monstrous mirror of the true goddess. The thing known as the Shadow Queen hissed, its eyes bright with hatred beneath a crown of lashing serpents.
This thing would peel the skin from my body inch by inch without a second thought. And it would relish every second of it.
‘Someone is spreading the vilest rumours regarding activities in the temple that you oversee, oh-so-loyal Krithé,’ the true Morathi purred. ‘They tell of clandestine meetings, hidden cliques and heretical thoughts. Tell me, what is your response to such whispers?’
‘I… have only ever served you loyally, goddess,’ Krithé managed to gasp, fighting off the urge to scream as two of her broken ribs scraped against one another.
‘Incompetence before heresy, then? A bold defence for someone in your position.’
‘No! I merely… wait for the blasphemers to reveal themselves. Then… they are to be made an example of.’
Morathi’s eyes did not change, but she cocked her head thoughtfully. The intense pressure on Krithé’s flesh lessened, just a little. She could breathe again.
‘So I have misjudged you?’ the goddess mused, tapping her lips with one elegant finger. The pain in Krithé’s ribs was so intense that she could only gasp and nod shakily.
‘Perhaps I have,’ Morathi mused. ‘Perhaps you have always served your mistress faithfully, as you did this day against the Hashutites. Perhaps you have earned not censure but instead a reward befitting faithful service. You have heard, I take it, of the Slith-onóir?’
The ritual of remaking. The transfusion of holy blood.
‘I have, Bloody-Handed One,’ Krithé managed to gasp. ‘A… great honour.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it. Usually I would arrange a ceremony to celebrate the occasion, but frankly, it has been a long and tedious day already. So I think we shall skip the pageantry.’
The goddess snapped her fingers, and Krithé was lifted high into the air, until the nightmarish visage of the Shadow Queen was mere inches from her face. The corona of snakes swayed before her, their lambent eyes radiating hunger and contempt. Krithé could not look away. The sounds of nearby battle receded to a hushed echo.
‘Not all who are honoured with the Slith-onóir survive,’ came the goddess’s melodic voice from somewhere distant. ‘A risk I am willing to take.’
The serpents struck as one. A dozen sets of fangs sank into Krithé’s flesh, and boiling ichor spewed into her bloodstream, setting her nerves ablaze. Blinding, all-encompassing torment enveloped her. Krithé screamed and screamed, until her vocal cords tore and she could no longer give voice to her anguish.
Let me die. Let me die. Let it end!
The ritual of Slith-onóir proceeded for another twelve hours. Not for a moment did the pain relent.
They met in the gloom of the lower transept of the Traíchan Shrine, wearing masks and cloaks to conceal their identities from prying eyes. All were high-ranking figures in the Khainite creed, but with the Scáthborn lurking in every dark corner, often wearing the guise of humble acolytes, only a fool would eschew careful precautions.
One did not rise to the rank of Hag Queen by being a fool.
‘Krithé does not join us?’ said Mairichh, her violet eyes scanning the doors and high, stained-glass windows.
‘Nothing has been seen of her for days,’ said Xhist. ‘She was summoned to defend the Misted Isles by decree of Hagg Nar. I see nothing unusual in that. She was not the only priestess recalled by the High Oracle.’
It was an act of blasphemy to even use that old title; according to the new doctrine of the creed, it implied that Morathi-Khaine remained little more than Khaine’s mouthpiece, rather than his second coming.
‘Krithé has her doubts,’ said Ygwinne, the most senior of this secretive coven. ‘But that should not fool us into believing she is reliable. Not yet. The Croneseer urged caution, and she was right to do so. We play a most dangerous game of zyu’raich here.’
Xhist nodded. ‘Caution is paramount. Remember Agghaya.’
They all went silent for a moment. The foolish Hag Queen Agghaya, bold enough to question Morathi-Khaine to her face and subsequently torn limb from limb by her own sacred statues of the Murder God.
There was a soft, slithering sound in the darkness of the main nave. In a flash, all three Hag Queens had drawn their blades and dropped into a fighting stance.
‘Who dares intrude upon the business of their superiors?’ called out Ygwinne in an imperious voice. ‘Show yourself or die screaming.’
A pale face loomed out of the pitch darkness, barely illuminated by a sliver of light from the chamber’s high windows. It hovered in the air as if belonging to some disembodied spirit, eyes closed in a sorrowful repose.
‘Krithé?’ Ygwinne said, the merest note of doubt creeping into her tone as she took a step towards the apparition.
There was something awful about that ghostly visage. It was like the sight of a pallid corpse bobbing beneath the surface of an icy lake, hair swaying and drifting in the current.
No. Not hair at all.
Ygwinne gasped and tried to retreat. Too late. The Krithé-thing’s eyes snapped open, bright as jewels and burning with hatred, fixed upon the Hag Queen. Serpents danced around those pitiless orbs, and Ygwinne began to convulse and shriek, rivulets of black writhing like worms beneath her skin. Gore sprayed in glistening arcs from her mouth and nose, and she collapsed to the marble floor with a wet thud.
Bewitched by this horrifying spectacle, Mairichh and Xhist were too slow to even raise their blades as the half-snake form of Krithé fell upon them with an ear-splitting screech.
Thus did the former Hag Queen at last prove her loyalty beyond all doubt.
The new Daughters of Khaine battletome is available for pre-order on Saturday, along with Blood Hags, the Shrine of Dark Tribute, and more. In the meantime, learn more about the Croneseer and the followers of Morai-Heg in the free short story ‘Shadows and Lies’.
