03 - God King by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

warrior
walked slowly towards the mourners at the centre of the Morrdunn. His movements
were unhurried and casual, yet Markus’ expert eye caught the telltale signs of
a man perfectly in balance with his body. This man was a killer, no doubt about
that. He seemed utterly unafraid, which marked him either as a madman or a man
who knew something Markus did not.
    “Who are you?” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “I am burying my
son, and you are being disrespectful. That can get a man killed in these lands.”
    “So can being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said the warrior. “But
in answer to your question, I am Khaled al-Muntasir, though I am sure that will
mean nothing to you.”
    “You’re right, it doesn’t,” said Markus. “Now begone before I have you
slain.”
    Khaled al-Muntasir laughed, a rich sound full of dark amusement. He smiled
and swept back his cloak to reveal a slender-bladed scabbard of pale wood inlaid
with mother-of-pearl and jade. The warrior placed his hand on the sword and
drummed his fingers on the pommel of jet.
    “If you are looking for a fight, then you are a fool,” said Markus.
    “I am many things, Count Markus: a man of culture, an artist, a writer of
sorts and a dilettante in all things mystical. I have some knowledge of the
celestial mechanics wheeling above us and am a passable tailor, weapon-smith and
crafter of fine jewellery and ornaments. But one thing I am not, is a fool.”
    “Let me gut him, my lord,” hissed Wenian, drawing his sword with a hiss of
metal on leather.
    Markus hesitated, knowing full well how skilful Wenian was, but fearing that
any duel fought here would be an unequal match.
    “Yes, let him,” said Khaled al-Muntasir, drawing his own weapon. The blade
reflected Mannslieb’s glow such that it shone like a sliver of moonlight itself.
“I have been cooped up too long in Athel Tamera, and it will be good to wet my
blade in mortal flesh again.”
    “You talk big, fancy man, but you’ll bleed just the same,” said Wenian,
spinning his sword to loosen his shoulders.
    “Actually, I think you’ll find that—”
    Wenian didn’t give him a chance to finish, launching himself at the
finery-clad warrior. Khaled al-Muntasir’s blade swept up in a blur of white
gold, flickering like sunlight on ice. Wenian’s charge carried him past the
warrior, but before he turned, he sank to his knees and toppled to the side. His
head fell from his shoulders, rolling to a halt before one of the great menhirs.
    Markus was horrified. Wenian was one of the greatest swordsmen he knew, more
skilful than any droyaska of the Ostagoths, and twice as fast as any
Cherusen Wildman. Yet this effete warrior had beheaded him without so much as
batting an eyelid.
    Khaled al-Muntasir knelt beside Wenian’s corpse and wiped his sword blade
clean of blood. He looked up at Markus with a predatory gleam in his eyes. They
were dark and liquid, like the oil that burned in sunken pools deep in the
reeking canyons of the Grey Mountains, and he found it hard to look away. Markus
had seen that kind of look before, in the eyes of a wolf with its prey firmly
locked in its grip.
    “What are you?” he said.
    Khaled al-Muntasir stood and smiled. “I am your worst nightmare. Or at least
one of them.”
    “Kill him,” ordered Markus, and the Bloodspears moved to surround this lone
warrior. No one, no matter how skilful could survive against such numbers. Fifty
spearmen advanced towards the warrior, the iron blades of their weapons aimed at
the swordsman’s heart.
    “Really?” said Khaled al-Muntasir, as though disappointed. “You are a king,
are you not? This is the best you can do? I’m insulted you think I would fight
like some common brawler. Luckily, Krell here excels at this sort of fight.”
    A terrifying roar swept over the summit of Morrdunn, the echoes bouncing from
the menhirs and filling every heart that heard it with the naked fear common to