The first part of Zyth Deathsong is done. Please check it out and give me your comments (and criticism, good or bad). You may re-publish this anywhere you like as long as you don't change anything or take credit for it. Enjoy.
Zyth Deathsong
Part I: First Blood Foreword: about the Druchii and Naggaroth, The Land Of Chill
“Out of the frozen mist of the western seas, far to the west of the known world lies a land consumed in the worst nightmares of humanity. Slavery, treachery and murder are but the gentlest words that are whispered from the few who come back alive. It is the land of Chill, home to the most mysterious and dangerous race of the Warhammer World: the Druchii. They are exiles, driven from their home by their own brothers and the first and bravest son of the Phoenix has been denied his rightful throne. They were few and beaten to the seas. Of their land, only their fortresses remained: Black Arks that spelled doom to any mortal who gazed upon them. How they managed to survive where all would have lost hope is a saga of heroic deeds. Following their hearts, they evolved into a society that would drive mere mortals into delirium. A life driven by burning hatred and cruel bravery passed on from generation to generation. All this with one goal in mind: to reclaim their homeland and the crown for their rightful King of old. Unified under the banner of Malekith, the time approaches where they will walk on the lands of their fathers once more, where the fate of all people shall unfold...”Zythayna lay on her back and kept her eyes shut, realizing that these could be final moments of her short life. She pushed the thought away and focused on keeping her breath slow and steady, even though her heart was pounding in her chest like a hammer. Pretending to sleep on a night such as this proved to be trying task all on its own. The wind howled like a starving wolf beyond the massive stone walls of the the small room she shared with three other girls. One of countless others housed inside one of the many buildings upon the temple grounds, that in the holy city of Har Ganeth, were quite expansive. They were all roughly her age, still mere children. The winters of Naggaroth were harsh and unforgiving, especially at night, claiming countless lives each year. The thought of going out into the autumn cold set Zythayna's teeth on edge, as she went over the plan of action in her mind one more time.
The only light in the room came from the weak grey shaft of moonlight emanating from the slit of a window, stabbing into the small room like a silver dagger. The walls were white, as was common in the city of Har Ganeth – City of Executioners – stronghold of the Cult Of Khaine and home to the greatest temple to the Lord Of Murder. Zythayna had been here as far back as she could remember, living within an area of the the vast temple compound with other Druchii children – all taken from their homes during Death Night, a holy day celebrated throughout Naggaroth. During Death Night the Brides of Khaine, warrior-priestesses of the temple – an order of insanely aggressive and brutal devotees of the dark god, would be set loose to pray on slave and Druchii alike in every city of the kingdom. Those unfortunate enough to be found by the Maibd would be dragged off to the temple and sacrificed to Khaine in the most violent way imaginable, their lifeblood spilled into the great cauldron of blood. The Witch Elves would also, during the night, break into families homes, taking a number of children to the temple. The females to become future Brides, the males tossed into the cauldron of blood (although those boys that did survive were deemed to be chosen by Khaine and made assassins of the temple). This was the fate of Zythayna, knowing only the temple as her home. Taken at too young an age to even remember where she came from.
The pale of light from Mannslieb reached a certain point on the floor, and Zythayna knew it was the hour of the wolf, time to act, she thought feverishly. She opened her eyes fully and, unmoving, studied the dark room around her her. No one stirred. She listened. All was silent, save for the soft breath of the other children. Kayss, the girl who's bed was closest to Zythayna's, was louder than the others, as usual. She rose slowly in her simple bed and delicately pushed her worn blanket away. Her raven black hair spilled over her shoulders as she surveyed the the simple chamber. The room was cold as the tomb and her breath misted wildly about the sharp features of her determined face. As she set her feet on the cold wooden floor stark fear and anticipation gripped the pit of her stomach, spreading a chill through her very bones. Through sheer force of will she pushed the fear aside, it had to be done, she tried to convince herself. It's either this or being clobbered to death by Eilie and her lapdogs. Of course, she might die as a result of what she was about to do, but that was slightly less likely she had decided.
The life of an aspiring Bride Of Khaine consisted chiefly of two things; combat training and religious indoctrination. Both were harsh in the extreme and designed to cull the weak of mind or body quickly. The cause of Zythayna's current precarious circumstances began during combat practise two days passed, spiralling her situation wholly out of control – and shortening her life expectancy considerably.
As the early morning sun rose, painting the white city blood red, the aspiring Brides had been paired up for combat practise on the training grounds outside the two-story building that served as their quarters. From that location they could see the great temple looming over them, dwarfing the small structure the aspirants lived in, as an angry master towers over a cowering slave. Its massive white walls, stained with rivers of blood - some of it freshly spilled, some dating back to the slaughter that earned the city it's name - were set alight by the cold morning sun.
Zythayna's opponent on this morning was the very skilled, and utterly ruthless, Eilie, her elder by a few years. As it was decided they would be facing each other a smug smile spread on Eilie's face. She was a calculating and skilled combatant, able to strike at just the right moment and in just the right place, easily the better of the two with the dagger or the sword – and they both knew it. Zythayna on the other hand was wild and unpredictable – even to her self. She had earned herself more than her share of bruises under the cruel tutelage of weapon master Karth.
Karth was a veteran of many wars and raids, as was apparent from the numerous scars he bore, not all of them to the front, the latter being the result of typical Druchii politics. None new exactly, but it was said he had seen a thousand winters, it was said that he'd been to Ulthuan, to the Old World and beyond. It was said that he'd even had a personal audience with Malekith, The Witch King himself, once, a rare honour indeed. His white hair was always set in a tight braid and his twin swords never left his hips. He always bore his Khaitan made from dark nauglir hide, decorated with strange symbols and crests of sinister design – a testament to his exploits is battle.
Zythayna and Eilie both knew that she would not likely win their confrontation, and trainees that lost to often had an tendency to “disappear”. Zythayna had no intention of being one of them. So she decided to tip the scales in her favour with a fist-sized rock in her pocket!
The result of her desperate gambit was that Eilie got her skull cracked and Zythayna ended up at the receiving end of weapon master Karth's gloved and studded backhand - several times - before being sent to the isolation cell for a full day. He would never allow insubordinance of any kind, but something told her that has was silently holding her in higher regard for her creativity and sheer brutality, it was the kind of thing a man like him knew to appreciate. However, there was one problem; Eilie had survived, and as sure as Khaine was the lord of murder, she would be back for revenge as soon as she could even speak. Zythayna had no illusions about what that would entail.
Silently as a praying fox Zythayna crouched low beside her simple bed, the even colder air making her frail jaws clinch up. She groped blindly in the pitch darkness under the bed until her hand found what she was looking for. With a silent sigh of relief she pulled at the loose plank there, hastily and nervously she tried make the stubborn thing come loose. Patience was never one of her virtues. Eventually the plank dislodged but not without a protesting squeal akin to that of rodent. It seemed impossibly loud to her and Zythayna froze as stark fear of being discovered abruptly set in anew. She even stopped breathing. Kayss, the girl who's bed was closest to hers, had ceased her customary loud breathing when she was in deep sleep. Her sudden silence was the most terrifying sound Zythayna had ever heard. The irony that she was longing to hear that raspy breath again, one that had annoyed her so for years, was not lost on her however. Zythayna's mind raced at the possibility of Kayss waking. She'd have to silence her. She grabbed a piece of cloth she'd had on one of her bruises, and like a feline beast, crept closer to Kayss' bed. Her knuckles went white as she stretched the dirty piece of rough cloth almost to its bursting point, and prepared to apply it to Kayss' exposed throat. But just as she was about to commit to it, Kayss resumed her annoying, dry, breathing, slowly building in volume. Once again Zythayna let out another silent sigh of relief, only now realizing that she'd forgotten to breathe for several moments.
As hastily as the demand for silence allowed, she resumed her previous task; retrieving the oiled leather satchel from under the bed. It was dirty and worn, but she removed it with the reverence appropriate of personal gift from Hag Queen Vandess herself. Rummaging through it's contents she retrieved a pair of black and violet fine human hide boots with fur trimming, befitting a young highborn rather than someone of her low station. It's sides decorated with intricate silver thread embroidery depicting the symbol of house Hanash'ka'han. Stolen, of course, not more than hours ago, during one of the regular sacrificial offerings the prominent noble house was required to make at the grand temple - to ensure the blessing of Khaine, as well as the continued support of the temple's influential leaders. Politics and religion were often intertwined in Duchii societey.
Sitting on the cold wooden floor she slipped the boots on, they were too large, but still warm and lined with fine silk. She returned her attention to the leather satchel and removed a simple, oversized, worn and filthy brown leather coat from it. She stood up and wrapped it around her slender body, closing it as tightly as possible with the few leather straps that remained. It smelled of fish, but it was warm, and that's all that mattered. Stopping but for a moment to gather her thoughts and her courage, she started moving towards the wooden door. Placing her small alabaster hand on it, she gently pulled the handle inward. As it was, for once, it did not make any noise, and she took it for a good omen.
Stepping into the dimly lit hall outside she glanced left, then right, making sure she was not spotted by anyone. The hall was similarly white with dark wooden beams set at regular intervals, lit only by two small braziers of pale witchfire that were fitted into the walls themselves. They shifted between bleak green and blue flame, spilling their restless ghostly light onto the walls, illuminating them in an ethereal shimmer.
Only one thing remained, and for that she had to get to the kitchen on the floor below. She closed the door slowly behind her and proceeded with caution to the steps on her left. They would lead her to the ground floor. The stairs were narrow and turned to the right twice before terminating at the large assembly hall. She'd spent many mornings standing below it's high and domed wooden ceiling. It was some fifty feet long and about half of that in width. Terminating at the far end with a large wooden gate, reinforced with heavy black iron. It was similarly lit with dimmed witchfire, casting long shifting shadows from the two wooden pillars that supported the dome above. The kitchen was situated beyond a small doorway on her immediate left and Zythayna wasted no time rushing into it. As she hurriedly passed through the short curved passage that led to the kitchen itself she realized that it was slightly lit from within, something that it was not supposed to be at this hour!
Unable to stop herself in time, she tripped on her oversized and cumbersome boots, and fell abruptly and ungracefully into the large kitchen and upon it's cold tiled floor. If one of the masters or guards was here it was quite possible she wasn't leaving the kitchen alive. Again she stopped breathing. There was no way her clumsy and loud entry could have been missed by anyone in the room.
But nothing happened.
All was silent still.
Wordlessly thanking the Dark Mother for her luck, she slowly rose from the floor, ascending above the heavy wooden table obscuring her vision of the dimly lit room. The source of light first came into view, a simple white candle fastened to a crude clay plate, standing on one of the low cupboards at the far end of the room. With a shock she focused her eyes instead on the person standing next to it. It was a human! She recognized the woman as an aged temple slave, her warn and thin body covered in dirty grey rags, her ravaged face drawn out in a mask of absolute terror and disbelief as she watched the bruised Druchii child rise from the floor. Stuffed in her mouth was a large piece of bread, no doubt recently acquired from the baskets of leftovers from today's supper, standing at her feet.
There was no time to think, only to act. And without really knowing what she was doing Zythayna covered the distance between them in the time it took to take single breath. The slave woman was still frozen in disbelief to react in time. And then Zythayna was on top of her, slamming her back upon the low cupboard behind her as she crashed into her stomach. Groaning from the pain she old woman was shocked into action, still with half a loaf of bread stubbornly stuck in her mouth, the she groped haphazardly behind her back, eventually producing a crude knife just as slender ebony fingers closed about her wiry throat, like a spider around its pray. Zythayna's eyes went wide with surprise as the blade came down towards her face. Instinct took over and she was forced to let go of the woman's throat, she caught the stab to the shoulder rather than the head. Thankfully the malnourished slave's blow was weak and the leather coat thick. Still she felt the blade piece her skin and bury itself into her flesh by and inch. She could not help letting out a pained yelp. Rivulets of dark blood instantly ran down her arm and the pain was so powerful she felt her conciousness falter. She instinctively took two quick steps back. She'd been trained to take the pain, even at such a tender age, and managed to stay up. Her left arm however, felt instantly weak and useless.
The human had managed to compose herself and now held the bloodied knife in front of her, her fear replaced with a look of murderous determination. The kind that was ready to do anything to survive, a cornered animal ready to kill. Zythayna quickly scanned her scantly lit surroundings, looking for a weapon of her own, but saw none. Her enemy approached steadily, intently... with the piece of bread still stuck in her mouth!
An idea born of panic suddenly materialized Zythayna's racing mind. She did not have time to consider if was a sound one or not before she was already rushing at the slave woman again. She ducked low as she got close, narrowly avoiding a vicious swing of the knife, then jumped up on the human again, putting herself between the arm that held the knife and the face of the stunned slave. She pulled back her arm and tightened her good hand into a fist. With all the force she could muster she slammed the fist into the woman's mouth, forcing the bread lodged there into her throat, and held it there. The struggle brought them both crashing down on the hard tiled floor. Zythayna put all of her weight on the woman's knife-wielding arm as she continued to push the bread down her throat. Panic caught the old slave as she realized she could no longer breathe. She frantically tried to stab the frenzied Druchii child in the back, in an attempt to free herself, but Zythayna held on to her like a thing possessed, making sure she couldn't extend her arm far enough for any significant blow.
The slave's eyes darted wildly from left to right as she was rapidly suffocated by the bread now lodged firmly in her throat. Her frantic movements became slower as she was deprived of air and Zythayna could feel the arm beneath her slacken. Her wide eyes never left the woman's face as she watched the life drain out of her, the slow release of her essence almost like a palpable thing, passing through Zythayna as a profound sensation she could not yet place. At last the woman's ayes rolled back into her head and she lay still.
And just like that Zythayna had killed for the first time. It was not what she thought it would be like. Not at all.
She lay there, upon the the woman's inanimate chest, for what seemed like an eternity. Her small fist still shoved into the slave's mouth. Trying to accept that it was over and that she was still alive, and that her most inconvenient witness was not. Trying to understand what she had just experienced. As her pounding heart started to slow down she became aware of the sharp pain in her left shoulder. She felt weak and groggy as she tried to stand up, stumbling clumsily up on shaking legs she held on to the edge of the cupboard to hold herself steady. Her mind still reeling at the events of the past few moments. The entire struggle had lasted half a minute, but to her if felt as if a whole hour had passed. Her left arm was wet with blood and she could feel it dripping from her hand onto the cold tiled floor beside the dead slave.
At that moment Zythayna fancied she could hear something, something at the very edge of her awareness, but it was still there. A sound unlike anything she had ever heard before, but somehow strangely familiar, as if it struck a chord with something within the very core of her soul. It was rhythmical and soft, with long eerie notes, as if heard from a vast hall. Having never heard music before, Zythayna's mind didn't know how to identify the sensation and she just stood there trying to grasp what is was, for a moment all the pain in her arm forgotten. The sound seemed to beckon to her, hinting at some hidden and profound meaning, something just beyond the reach of her understanding.
Her revere was abruptly broken as the sounds of commotion from the main hall beyond the doorway brutally invaded her senses. A score of heavy footfalls loudly approaching the kitchen at fast pace, accompanied by angry shouts of alarm. The temple guard. It must be. Zythayna had no illusions about what her fate would be if they found her; not in her bed where she was supposed to be, and with dead livestock at her feet. The pain in her shoulder came rushing back, along with the dizziness and the shaking of her limbs. As the clamour of armour, heavy boots and naked blades filled the kitchen she felt her conciousness falter.
