The human disguised as a Dasati Deathknight stood quivering with rage, his eyes wide and his sword poised as he sought out another enemy to kill. Martuch, Valko and half a dozen other members of the White stood in a semi-circle behind Ralan Bek, each of them also awash in gore. The Deathknights, who secretly served the enemies of the Dark One, had been swept up in the Great Culling as had every other Dasati with a sword, but no one, not even the most seasoned warrior had seen anything like what they had just witnessed.
A company of perhaps thirty-five young Deathknights had ridden down a boulevard and happened upon an enclave of Lessers who had gone to ground and risked coming out at sundown too early. As the cityscape was bathed in the orange glow of sunset, the broad street became a scene of carnage.
Before Martuch could order his group to circle away from the conflict, Bek had urged his varnin forward, riding as if he had been in the saddle all his life. Before the young Deathknights had known he was upon them, six were dead. He moved like a being possessed, killing eight before the others could join in.
‘They’re all dead,’ said Martuch.
Bek’s eyes burned with an inner light that frightened even this battle-hardened Dasati. ‘Let’s find more!’
‘No,’ said Valko. ‘The Culling is over.’ He looked at the fifteen bodies that littered the street. ‘These… shouldn’t have died.’ He looked torn between his Dasati heritage which relished the slaughter and his newfound respect for life which counted it a waste of potential. ‘The Culling was over before this began.’
Martuch looked towards the others. ‘Loot the bodies. Not to do so would draw unwelcome attention to us. Better to be thought brigands than heretics.’
Valko’s group quickly stripped the bodies of trophies, leaving the corpses in the street for the Lessers to dispose of. As they were securing their trophies behind the saddles of their varnin, a band of riders rounded a corner a long city block away and approached. Valko’s company took up position without being ordered, for while the Culling might officially be over, Bek would hardly be the only warrior caught up in the bloodletting and ready to continue killing.
As the group approached, Martuch said, ‘Lower your weapons.’
The riders approaching were half a dozen temple Deathknights wearing the TeKarana’s palace colours. They were escorting a pair of Hierophants, those priests given the responsibility of ensuring that everyone in the realm came to worship the Dark One. In antiquity they might have been spreaders of the word, but since His Darkness’s rise to pre-eminence, no evangelical mission was required, and now they primarily served to ferret out heresy and act as spies for the TeKarana.
‘Praise to His Darkness!’ said the leader.
All bowed their heads for a moment and repeated the invocation. The other priest quickly took stock of the corpses on the ground. ‘How many of your company lies here?’
Martuch spoke calmly. ‘None.’
‘Indeed?’ questioned the first priest. ‘I count thirty-five dead warriors and half-again as many Lessers, yet only nine of you sent them all to His Darkness?’
Valko said, ‘We had the advantage of surprise.’
Without a hint of boastfulness, Bek calmly said, ‘I killed six before they knew we were upon them. When they turned to face me, two more died and then my companions were upon them from another quarter. Confusion served us—’
‘And these were young, barely blooded warriors,’ added Hirea. ‘I am Master Hirea of the Scourge, and I have taught everyone here, including Lord Valko, of the Camareen. These are my most exceptional students, and these… things,’ he said with contempt of the dead, ‘were barely better than Lessers themselves. It was an easy killing. Little glory, really’
‘You are of the Scourge, yet you ride with the Lord of the Camareen, who is of the Sadharin if I am correct. Is this right?’ asked the first priest.
‘I was staying with Lord Valko when the call for the Culling came. It seemed prudent to remain with his company rather than risk returning to my own enclave.’
Looking directly at the young ruler of the Camareen, the second priest said, ‘And you let him live?’
‘He was my teacher,’ said Valko. ‘The Scourge and the Sadharin have ridden together for many years; we have not crossed swords since my grandfather’s times. We have many ties.’ His tone said he was finished with the topic and his defiant glare challenged the two priests to continue this line of questioning at their peril.
The politics of the societies were traditionally ignored by the Dark One’s priests, but overlong alliances were often viewed with suspicion, for the art of ruling such a murderous population was in keeping factions from growing too powerful. The two priests knew as well as anyone who the potential threats to order were, and while the Scourge and the Sadharin were both venerable societies, they were not especially powerful or influential, especially on Omadrabar. They might be a power to contend with on Kosridi, but here on the capital world of the Dasati Empire, they were just another pair of provincial battle societies.
The second priest studied Bek. ‘Are you Scourge or Sadharin?’