Where am I? he asked himself, knowing that he had no means of answering.
He looked back down the slope. Ahead of him, a few hundred yards away, the scrub began to thicken into the tight foliage of Elthin Arvan’s forest country. The further he went, he knew, the thicker it would get. Elthin Arvan was covered in forest, a cloak of wizened and grasping branches.
Such landscape was all he knew of forests – few trees grew in Naggaroth, and he was too young to have witnessed the blessed glades of Avelorn. When Drutheira had scorned the ugliness of the east, Sevekai had seldom understood her; next to the icy wastes of home, Elthin Arvan was teeming with life. Something about the smell of it appealed to him – the mulchy, sedimentary tang that never left the air.
He curled his fingers into the earth, watching the black soil part between them.
I can barely remember Naggaroth. And if I could… He smiled grimly, making his swollen gums ache. Would I want to go back?
A sudden noise ripped him from his thoughts. He instantly adopted a defensive crouch, ignoring the protests from his tortured limbs. For a few moments, he couldn’t see what had made it.
He screwed his eyes tight, scanning the scrubland before him. His left hand reached down for the throwing dagger strapped to his boot. He hadn’t heard the sound of a single living thing since waking. The sensation was strangely unnerving. His heart raced; his hand trembled slightly.
Then it came again, from ahead of him and to the left, a hundred yards away, lodged amid the jumble of bushes and boulders – like a hoarse cough, but far lower and richer than a druchii’s voice.
Slowly, Sevekai crept towards the sound, keeping low, staring hard at the thicket of branches ahead. The lessons of his long training returned to him. His heart-rate slowed; his hands stilled.
Then he saw it: a stag, standing still amid a thicket of briars. It was young, its limbs slender and its flanks glossy. It looked directly at him, antlers half-lowered in challenge, nostrils flaring.
Sevekai froze. He could smell its musk and the scent made him salivate – it must have been weeks since he’d eaten more than berries. He clutched the hilt of his dagger tightly, preparing his muscles to throw.
Something nagged at him. Something was wrong. The stag just stood there, watching him. It should have bounded away, darting back into the cover of the trees.
Sevekai reached down gingerly and pulled a second dagger from his belt. A blade in each hand, he slunk a little closer, keeping as low and silent as possible.
He needn’t have bothered. The stag stayed where it was, perfectly aware of his presence. Two black, deeply liquid eyes regarded him steadily. Its ribcage shivered as it breathed.
What are you waiting for?
Sevekai paused. Everything felt disconnected, as if he was in a dream. He sniffed. He picked up no taint of Dhar, but then he hardly had Drutheira’s facility for sensing it.
A few more steps and he was into throwing range. He hesitated for a moment longer, perturbed by the creature’s lack of movement.
Something is wrong.
Then, sharp as a snake-strike, he threw. The first dagger went cartwheeling through the air before thunking heavily into the beast’s shoulder. The stag buckled, baying, and at last kicked free of the briars.
By then Sevekai was already moving. One hand loosed the second dagger, the other reached for a third. Every throw was perfectly aimed: one after the other, the long steel blades bit deep, carving through the beast’s hide.
The stag managed to stagger on for a few more yards before tripping over its buckling legs and collapsing heavily to the ground. Sevekai caught up with it, grabbing it by its shaggy nape and using the last of his blades to slit its throat. He pulled the knife across its flesh viciously and a jet of hot, wine-dark blood gushed out, drenching his clothes.
The smell of it intoxicated him. He grew dizzy, both from the exertion and from the thick, viscous musk enveloping him. He reeled, falling down against the animal’s heaving shoulders.
Blood splashed against his chin. Almost unconsciously, he sucked greedily on it. As soon as the hot liquor passed his lips he felt a sudden swell of energy. He plunged forwards, cupping his hands under the torrent and gulping more blood down.
The thick, earthy taste of it made his vision swim, but he kept going – it felt as if life were flowing into his limbs again, heating him, strengthening him. He drank and drank, tearing at the wound’s edge with his teeth, gnawing at the raw flesh in his famishment.
He did not stop until the flow had slowed to a dribble and the stag’s eyes had gone glassy. Then he pulled free, his hands shaking again, chin sticky with residue.
He felt nauseous. He sank down on his haunches and stared about him. The empty land gazed back, still scoured by the wind, still as broken and grey-edged as it had been. In the distance loomed the Arluii, a wall of solid darkness against the low sky. Behind him, the land fell away into the bosom of the gathering woodland.
It took a long time for his breathing to return to normal. Practical thoughts began to enter his head – to make a fire, to butcher the carcass, to preserve more for later, to clean the blades.
He did none of those things. He just sat, his face and hands as bloody as Khaine’s. Something like vitality had returned, though it was bitter and hard to absorb.
The blood of the land.
He didn’t know where those words came from. They entered his head unbidden, just as so much had entered his head unbidden since the fall.
Now you have drunk the blood of
