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

all prey creatures. Something moved in the shadows and a hulking red shape flew
through the air to land with a crash of metal and stone in the centre of the
ring of spearmen.
    It was a warrior, but a warrior unlike any other.
    A full head and shoulders above his tallest rival, Krell was clad in brazen
plates of ancient iron so stained with blood that their original colour was
impossible to gauge. A great skull rune was stamped or branded into his chest,
and Markus’ courage deserted him at the sight of it. Great horns of bone
extended from the monstrous warrior’s helm and Markus saw Krell’s face was a
skeletal horror of yellowed bone and leathery flesh. A hideous emerald glow
burned in his empty eye sockets, and any warrior brave enough to meet his gaze
saw the manner of his death there.
    A vast axe with a blade of utter darkness swung out and a dozen men died,
their bodies hurled through the air like corn stalks at threshing time. The
red-armoured warrior bludgeoned its way through the Bloodspears, hacking them
down with insane ferocity and without mercy. Khaled al-Muntasir watched the
slaughter impassively, as though bored by such violence.
    In seconds, every warrior of the Bloodspears was dead, chopped into ragged
hunks of gory meat. It was impossible to tell one warrior’s remains from
another, such was the scale of butchery. Markus ran to his wife and daughter,
gathering them to him and shielding them from the whirlwind of destruction that
killed his warriors.
    The sword bands fared no better; cut down in a frenzy of bloodletting that
left Markus horrified and disbelieving. The summit of the Morrdunn was soaked in
blood, the ground sodden with the vital fluid of a hundred men, slain in less
time that it would take to count them. The slaughterman returned to Khaled
al-Muntasir’s side, a constant stream of blood pouring from the black blade of
his axe.
    Only now did the swordsman look interested in the slaughter. A thin network
of veins pulsed beneath the skin of his temples, his jaw clenched and his
nostrils flared at the bitter reek of blood on the air.
    “Ulric preserve us,” whispered Markus, backing away from the two warriors.
    “The wolf god?” smiled Khaled al-Muntasir. “He won’t hear you. And if he
does, he won’t care. Isn’t that what his priests teach, that his followers
should be self-reliant?”
    “You are daemons,” said Markus, drawing his sword and standing before his
family. “Fight me if you must, but let my wife and daughter live. They are
innocents and do not deserve this.”
    “Innocent?” hissed Khaled al-Muntasir, as though enjoying the taste of the
word. “There is no such thing in this world, just by being born mankind corrupts
this world. Every step a mortal takes, he destroys a little piece of it. No, do
not think to appeal to me with thoughts of compassion. I forgot that emotion
before your tribe even crossed the eastern mountains.”
    “What are you?” demanded Markus.
    Khaled al-Muntasir stepped closer, and Markus saw that the pale hue of his
complexion had nothing to do with the moonlight. Khaled al-Muntasir smiled,
revealing two elongated fangs descending from his upper jaw.
    “You are a blood drinker!” hissed Markus. “A creature of the dead.”
    “I cannot deny the truth,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “And your daughter’s
terror is such a tantalising sweetmeat that I think I shall leave her until
last. As much as it would give me great pleasure to make you watch them die, I
will savour her terror all the more as she watches her parents bled dry before
her young eyes.”
    “Why are you doing this?” said Markus, fighting to control his terror of this
beast of the night. His blood was sluggish in his veins, and it was all he could
do to keep hold of his sword.
    “It is not I,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “I am but a humble servant in this
drama.”
    A vast shadow moved in the darkness behind the warrior, a slice of the