Skull Throne Read online

  Something moves in the water alongside me. A huge black eel glides past – clouds of white sand billow as it twists its body to turn and face me, almost as long as I am tall. It darts forward in the water; small, sharp teeth sink into the meat of my arm, drawing blood, and I drop the head that I have been carrying. And then the eel retreats, slipping away from me, back to join the others. I follow it, joining the writhing mass. I am surrounded by life and it is invigorating. The eels nip at me but they don’t persist and I let them have their fun. My blood tastes too bitter for them, I expect, full of poisonous mhurghast root. They coil around me, I am welcome among them, I am one of them. I smile. I make a decision. Decisions are coming easily to me now.

  I slip out of the water, I crawl on my belly among the carcasses. I am coated with white silt and streaming with watery blood from dozens of tiny bites. I still have my mother’s spear and the pack containing the mhurghast root, enough to kill me a hundred times over. The men in the camp are fighting among themselves: violent games and duels. I think of the man in the cellar of my house, how his jaw was ruined. I think of his violent life and I think, well, my life has not been without violence. I had thought to offer it as a trade, but it doesn’t matter now. I throw the poisonous herbs into the cooking pot. Three handfuls. It floats for a moment in the scum on the surface of the stinking, rust-coloured stew, then sinks. I lie among the body parts.

  The men grunt and brawl late into the night, their voices muffled by the mist; they pause only to eat their cannibal feast. I close my eyes. Bone grinds on bone as the skull throne looms but I remain unseen here among the dead. ‘To live peacefully,’ I whisper. I feel something warm inside my chest; it is a new and fragile and alien thing and I realise after a while that it is an ember that could in time become something good, and I nurture it within me as I lie among the bodies, warmed by the glow of the cooking fire as it slowly burns down to ash. In time, the warriors sleep. I am so tired now. I fade away. In the morning I am the only one to wake.

  The new day brings with it a change of atmosphere and I almost do not recognise where I am. A cloud of choking sand has gathered to suffocate this evil place. The red light of the throbbing, heatless sun turns the air to deep rust. I walk through the haze, among the black bones of the camp. I tread carefully, barefoot among the men that lie here and there, and I leave no trace. Some of them are alive; their chests rise and fall, their eyes are open, but they cannot move and so they watch me as I pass. Most are dead. I tiptoe so as not to disturb the bodies. I hum the song that the bearded man once sang as he dragged me by my hair. I can’t get it to sound quite the same – it is confused somehow, distorted. To my ears, my variation sounds better.

  In the heart of the camp, one of the invaders sits slouched in a chair crudely formed from black, glassy stone. A great axe – covered in cruel hooks and barbs – lies at his feet. His eyes follow my movements, his pupils pinprick vortexes in the bloodshot whites of his eyeballs. His fingers twitch; the muscles in his neck are bunched, the cords so prominent they look like they might snap. His jaw works slowly from side to side, like cattle chewing cud. My father once had cattle, back when I was little more than a babe. He is trying to talk. I wait patiently.

  ‘What vision is this?’ His speech is slurred. ‘What strange vision? Are you a daemon? Come to me, born in blood. Your kind are welcome here.’

  I look down at myself. The white mud that coats me is dry and cracked and stained with blood.

  I laugh and the sound startles me – it is so loud!

  ‘Am I a daemon? No, no. I am just a girl.’

  There is silence for a while. His fingers continue to contract and stretch as he wills his body back to life, fighting against the paralysis. His eyes are so full of hatred and rage; it must be wonderful to feel so intensely, to conjure such emotions out of nothing. Around us the red haze closes in until we are the only two beings in existence; all else is obscured by a miasma of sand the colour of dried blood.

  ‘Just a girl,’ he rasps. ‘What are you doing here, girl? Do you come to die?’

  I think on this; it is not an easy question to answer.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ I ask. ‘You took my skull. You cut off my head with your ugly axe. I am here to take it back.’

  Even as I say it I know the words are not true; they are confused, and out of shape, like the half-remembered melody.

  No. I sigh. No, this is not right.

  I sit cross-legged in the sand, my head in my hands.

  Not my skull, I correct myself. My sister. My twin.

  We were born on the same day, moments apart. Our mother said we shared a single soul. Only moments older, but how much she must have learned in those few fleeting heartbeats before I joined her. How wise she was. How I looked up to her. At times it was as if we shared a single body, that we looked on the world with a single set of eyes.

  ‘You cut off her head,’ I say. ‘And I could only watch.’

  I hear the grinding of bone on bone; it echoes around this place. I feel it in the nape of my neck and behind my eyes. I can taste violence in the air. Violence poisoned this hidden corner of the realm when I was just a child. Violence bled into our lives from some other place, carried by invaders. My father did not survive it. My mother kept us hidden for a time. But my sister… my sister was my guide when I could not have survived on my own, when I struggled to understand and to make decisions. She was the guiding force and I merely a passenger. She was so brave to carry this burden and I… I was such a weight around her neck, and worse: a liability. Because I could taste this violence in the air – even as a child, I could taste it. And because I did not hate the taste.

  He starts to speak again but I am not listening. I stand slowly and take the axe and drag it behind me to the first of the bodies, the first of the men that litter the camp. The axe is so heavy I struggle to lift it above my head and when I let it drop it is with weight enough to cut bone. It is hard work; one cut is not enough. Some of the men are not yet dead, but it is all they can do to watch me as I approach. Their eyes are full of hatred and something that might be fear. Would my sister have stayed my hand? I wonder. My sister was full of kindness and compassion but I have never truly understood those things.

  It takes me most of the day but I gather their heads. The heads of all that came here, invaders in the realm of the dead. I have to pause frequently to rest. It is hard work but it must be done. I take their heads and bring them to the centre of the camp.

  ‘You make of these an offering,’ the seated man growls. ‘This is as it should be.’

  His voice is no longer slurred. He has watched me as I have worked, his head turning to follow my movements even as I cut the heads from the men that he commands.

  ‘An offering,’ I say. ‘I offer these in exchange for my sister’s skull.’

  ‘You should be on your knees…’ His voice is so full of hatred and contempt. There are flecks of bloody saliva at the edges of his mouth. He begins to stand. ‘I will consider your request if you beg.’

  ‘It is not meant for you,’ I say. Before he can rise I push the tip of my mother’s spear into the soft flesh between his ribs and I laugh at his shock as the blade pierces his heart. He does not stop hating even as he dies, as he first slumps forward on his seat then topples to the blood-soaked sand. The grinding of skulls consumes me, overwhelms me.

  ‘God of violence,’ I call out. I have to shout to make myself heard above the crushing waves of terrible noise. ‘God of violence, I offer these to you. Your men, your Champion. All in your name.’

  High above, in dark heavens, the blood-red sun is now a burning eye that holds me in hateful regard. I do not shy from its attention. And I know that this is still not enough.

  ‘God of violence! I have so little left that I can offer you.’

  I push the hilt of my mother’s spear deep into the fine white sand until it hits bed
rock. I angle it towards my own throat. It is still so sharp. The tip draws a bead of blood and I know that I am not dreaming. Decisions come so easily to me now. My parents would be so proud of what I have become.

  ‘Goodbye, mother! Goodbye, father! I’m sorry I troubled you… and I’m sorry I didn’t visit you, down there in the dark. My sister, my soul, I will see you soon.’

  I am crying. It is a rare and beautiful gift to feel such emotion.

  ‘All I ask is that we may gaze upon each other!’

  And the dark heavens shrug in acquiescence.

  I hold the shaft of the spear tight in trembling hands. And I push myself forward with all my strength and I push and I push and I pu–

  There is a noise like that I feel in the base of my skull, that I hear in the bone behind my eyes. It sounds like a boulder dragged across gravel or broken glass, repeated ten thousand times. The skulls of the skull throne grind against each other, unceasing, forever.

  And we are together again.

  About the Author

  Jake Ozga is a lifelong Warhammer fan and horror fanatic with a particular interest in exploring the dark corners of the Mortal Realms. He lives in Leamington Spa with his partner, Abi; his dog, Freya; and his cat Horobi. His first story for Black Library, ‘Supplication’, featured in the Warhammer Horror anthology Invocations.

  An extract from Castle of Blood.

  Magda brought the slim, rakish blade whipping around. The sword slashed across its target, ripping deep into the bloated paunch. Innards spilled out and streamed across the copper-sheeted floor. A smirk of satisfaction teased at the young woman’s lips. She quickly tried to correct herself and adopt a more sombre pose, but she already knew it was too late. She had exposed herself and would now suffer the price.

  ‘A lack of focus will get you killed.’ The scolding words rang across the room.

  Magda turned around and sheathed her sword. She set her hands on her hips and threw back her head in an effort to look defiant. Inside, though, she felt as if a bunch of mice were running around her guts. However hard she worked, however independent she thought herself, the displeasure of her father made her feel like a guilty little girl caught swiping fruit from the larder.

  Ottokar Hausler stamped his way across his shop, each step a little heavier than the last. He used his left hand to brush away the belts and scabbards that hung from the beams. The right did not so much as sway as he walked, locked in place at his side. A dark glove covered the right hand, and the sleeve of his doublet covered almost all of the rest. There was only a little patch behind the wrist that was uncovered, revealing a flash of silver.

  ‘You have to concentrate,’ Ottokar said. His face was full, just on the verge of becoming flabby. The sharp nose was tinged red and the cheeks were flushed. There was still a keenness in his eyes, but it was dulled by the sheen of liquor. The sound of swordplay could still rouse him from his cups.

  Magda swept a stray lock of night-black hair from her face and matched her father’s judgemental stare. She pointed to the stuffed target dummy she had disembowelled, sand still running from it onto the floor. Unlike her father’s, the glove she wore was to better her grip on a sword, not hide an infirmity. ‘My technique improves every day,’ she proclaimed. ‘I’m faster and more accurate–’

  Ottokar waved aside her boast. ‘Skill is not enough,’ he said. ‘Discipline! Discipline is the key. You can be fast as lightning, precise as a viper, but still be an amateur with the sword.’ He came a few steps closer and then stamped his foot down on the pedal that controlled the target dummy.

  Magda whipped around, and the blade leapt from its scabbard and ripped across the throat of the sackcloth dummy. More sand rained down on the floor. She started to turn back to her father. Only then did she realise he had stamped on the pedal a second time. The dummy was swinging around, a wooden sword in each of its eight arms. There was no time for her to dart in and strike, and no chance to parry all of the enemy swords. She jumped back and crashed to the floor.

  ‘Never let down your guard,’ Ottokar warned.

  ‘My blade crossed its throat,’ Magda countered. ‘If it had been a man, he would be dead.’ She rose to her feet and started brushing dust from her breeches.

  Ottokar shook his head. ‘Some men take more killing than others, and the dead do not stay as dead as they should be.’ He sighed and gave her a studious look. ‘I would think that your paramour would have told you something about those kinds of things.’

  It was one barb too many for Magda. Perhaps he was justified in criticising her ability with the sword, but he had no authority to speak about anything else she did. Ottokar had forfeited that right a long time ago.

  ‘You surprise me, father. You condescended to take an interest in me.’ Magda recovered her sword from the floor and swept it through the empty air. ‘Aside from what I can do with this.’

  The sharp words caused Ottokar to look away. He glanced across his workshop, at the swords hanging on the walls and resting in barrels. The forge and the anvil, the ingots of bronze and iron and steel that he would shape into weapons. In one corner, each perched on its own stand, were elegant blades crafted in another time, weapons Ottokar would not allow anyone to buy. They had to be earned, bestowed on those the swordsmith felt were worthy of them. Guilt gnawed at Magda when she reflected that she was one of the few to have been given one of those swords.

  ‘This is my world,’ Ottokar said. ‘This is the only place where I am any good to anyone.’ He reached over with his left hand and gripped the lifeless hulk that had replaced his right. The motion caused anger to swell within his daughter.

  ‘Spare me the melancholy,’ Magda snapped. ‘You lost your arm in a duel, not your life.’

  Ottokar looked at her, his eyes glittering with emotion. ‘Were they not the same thing?’

  ‘Only for someone who cares only about swords,’ Magda retorted.

  ‘You were too young to remember…’

  ‘Yes, I was too young to know who you were before you lost your arm. That’s an excuse I have heard many times, father. I weary of hearing it.’ Magda slammed the sword back into its sheath and marched towards the shop’s exit. ‘Do one thing for me,’ she said as she passed Ottokar. ‘Wait until I’ve left before you crawl back into the bottle.’

  Magda could hear her father stamping his way across the workshop while she climbed the stairs that led up to the family’s home above the business. Briefly she thought about going back and apologising for her harsh words. She discarded the idea. She didn’t have anything to apologise for.

  She brushed aside the strings of polished tin that curtained off the entranceway and stepped into the little courtyard beyond. Water bubbled from the bronze fountain that loomed over the little pool in the middle of the area. Imitation trees with fronds of painted electrum cast shade over the courtyard. Stone benches were scattered about in the shadows. A few marble-coloured birds flittered about, tweeting at each other with shrill cries. They scattered as Magda walked towards the curtained doorways at the far end of the courtyard.

  A strong smell of boiling stew struck her nose as she stepped into a long common room. Magda looked towards the doorway leading into the kitchen. She could hear the sound of plates and bowls being moved around. A moment later her mother emerged from behind the curtain of tin strings.

  Inge Hausler was not quite twenty years older than Magda, but age had touched her so softly that they might pass for sisters. She was not quite as trim and fit as her daughter, her long legs lacking the corded muscles of her child’s, her arms devoid of the strength that characterised the swordswoman. But her face had that same classic loveliness – big blue eyes and high cheek bones, a soft snip of a nose and lush full lips. Inge kept her raven tresses loose and wild, a dark cascade that spilled down her shoulders and across her breast. Magda preferred to keep her own hair tied back so that it would no
t be in the way, but her mother seemed to delight in the disordered abandon of her own. She was often trying to get Magda to follow her example.

  Inge smiled. ‘Sounds like practice is over for today.’ She wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her jade-coloured dress. She arched an eyebrow when she noted Magda’s demeanour. ‘I take it you two had words again. The miserable sot should know better when to keep his tongue in a bottle.’

  As angry as she was, Magda took offence at the disparagement of her father. Even if her mother was voicing her own thoughts of only a moment before. ‘He means well,’ she said. ‘It’s hard on him. A swordsmith with only one arm. He has to leave most of the work to his apprentice and put his stamp on blades he feels are beneath his quality. That can’t be easy for him.’

  ‘Ottokar never chose anything that was easy,’ Inge said acidly. ‘Always had to keep proving himself. Never knew when something was good enough. Could never be satisfied to leave things as they were.’ She shook her head and gave Magda an excited look. ‘You’ll never guess what happened today. A messenger came from Count Wulfsige von Koeterberg!’

  Magda gave her mother a puzzled stare. ‘The count? What could he want with us?’

  Inge bristled at the incredulous tone. She puffed herself out, taking on the arrogant air she always adopted whenever someone questioned her status. ‘I’ll have you know that we’ve been invited to dinner at Mhurghast Castle. All of us are to be Count Wulfsige’s guests.’ She tossed her head back, the long raven tresses sweeping around her like the waves of some black ocean. ‘There was a time when I was courted by the count’s son. If things had turned out differently, you might have been a nobleman’s daughter instead of a drunkard’s.’

  ‘But why does the count wish to entertain us?’ Magda pressed. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Inge frowned and stepped back into the kitchen. A moment later she came out with a thin sheet of copper, upon which had been etched the invitation. Affixed to the bottom of the metal page was the wax seal of von Koeterberg, a castle flanked by lightning bolts. ‘Here, since you seem to think I am making things up.’