Obsidian - David Annandale Read online

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  Obsidian – David Annandale

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘Rulers of the Dead’

  A Black Library Publication

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  Obsidian

  David Annandale

  It would not be the first wedding in Nulahmia to be preceded by a murder, Karya Treveign thought. She stood beside Evered Halorecht in the nave of the Grand Chapel of Night’s Hunger, looking back towards the main entrance. The two were alone in this cavernous space. But there was room within for thousands. Here, Nulahmian society would congregate to make obeisance to Nagash, and to the consuming, predatory need that was the cost of existence after death.

  The Grand Chapel was constructed around the fossilised ribcage of an ancient leviathan slain by Nagash at the dawn of the Age of Myth. The chapel walls therefore curved outwards, then back in, and formed the building’s dome. Monolithic slabs of obsidian filled the spaces between the ribs. Adjacent to the dome stood the high tower, carved from the monster’s legs, and from the tower’s roof a single claw jutted, a spire raking at the sky. The trace of the predator’s hunger.

  From the centre of the dome hung two fangs, each more than fifty feet long. Between them was a latticework of smaller bones holding hundreds of tallow candles, encased in glass stained with red and fragments of blue and green. The flames filled the ribcage with this softly blended, crimson hue. In the glow, the blackness of the petrified bones was rendered even more profound.

  If Karya was honest with herself, she would have to admit that it would not be the first wedding precipitated by a murder, either. And being honest was, for Karya, a matter of principle. Honesty in Nulahmia was a precious metal, rarer than gold. Even so, she had been forced to engage in some degree of subterfuge when it came to her relationship with Evered. She had had to do more than omit to reveal the truth of their love to her father. On three separate occasions, Karya had lied about where she had been. The memory of each of those instances was a festering wound upon her heart, an injury that struck all the deeper because her father, Lord Vorst Treveign, had believed her. And he believed her because he trusted, absolutely, in her honesty.

  You are, he had once told her, that which I have never had the strength to be. The path you have chosen is a hard one. It runs against the grain of everything our queen has forged. I fear for you. But you give me hope, and for that I will be eternally grateful and proud. Your mother would be, too.

  ‘Do you think she’ll agree?’ Evered whispered, pulling Karya from memories and guilt.

  ‘We can but hope,’ said Karya. She looked at him and entwined her fingers with his.

  ‘Hope,’ Evered repeated. He smiled. ‘I can do that. You have taught me how. You have shown me that there is such a thing, and that it is strong.’

  Their sibilant echoes seemed too loud for their hushed voices, and so they gently kissed, each wrapping themselves in the other’s protective silence.

  Hope. The one Karya held now was that the Mortarch of Blood would agree to her and Evered’s request. There was no guarantee, though, that they would even have the chance to speak with her, let alone receive her blessing. There were many reasons why Neferata would refuse to permit the union of the Houses of Treveign and Halorecht. Karya was not naïve. Trying to follow strict principles of honesty had forced upon her a hard awareness of political realities. No, this was not the first wedding preceded by murder, nor the first precipitated by murder. But this murder leading to this union would, she knew, be the talk of Nulahmia, and perhaps all of Neferatia, if the dread queen allowed it to come to pass.

  Karya and Evered had come here to force the issue.

  In one of the circular crypts that clung like petrified tumours to the sides of the main chamber lay the body of Therul, high counsellor to House Treveign. When Karya had heard that Neferata planned to pay her respects to the assassinated vampire lord, she had determined to face the Mortarch and know her fate. No one knew when Neferata intended to come to the Grand Chapel, so Karya had performed her own visitation to the corpse, shortly after her father’s, and then, joined by Evered, she had waited.

  They had been here, in the centre of the nave, motionless and expectant, for five hours. No one else had passed through. Karya felt trapped, pinned by a dagger of expectation to a limbo as huge and unforgiving as the structure of bone and obsidian that enclosed her.

  ‘Will she believe in us?’ Evered wondered aloud.

  ‘Yes,’ Karya said. ‘I am sure she will. She will understand.’ If, that is, Karya could prove she understood the political realities, was not blind to them, and knew how to overcome them.

  The huge iron doors of the entrance opened. The deep, reverberating groan of their hinges climbed the walls of the Grand Chapel, becoming the echo of the great beast’s death rattle. Neferata advanced down the aisle, accompanied by the Lady Mereneth. The Mortarch and her high courtier wore long, black dresses. Neferata’s was accented by threads of silver that picked up the dim light of the candelabra, flashing in and out of sight with the movements of the dress like a glint of steel or, as Karya chose to interpret it, the return of light that always waited within darkness. Mereneth’s robes were trimmed in a deep crimson that counterpointed and emphasised the brilliance and deep shadow of her mistress’ garb.

  Queen and noble regarded Karya and Evered as they approached. Mereneth’s gaze was cold, flat, unreadable. Neferata bore a smile as slight as it was powerful. Her eyes were narrowed in amusement. Karya’s determination wavered. The closer Neferata came, the more Karya felt herself shrink before the aura of majesty that surrounded the queen. Neferata’s presence filled the Grand Chapel until it seemed as though the monolithic building struggled to contain her. She was more ancient than the fossil, and more powerful than the beast had ever been in life. Karya was beneath the notice of so great a being, though she had dared to call attention to herself by standing in the path of the queen.

  She realised that she would be fortunate not to be turned to ash. To ask for more would be foolishly presumptuous. Yet she gathered her failing courage to do just that. Beside her, Evered was rigid with barely suppressed trembling.

  At a slight nod from Neferata, Mereneth turned from the couple and swept past, heading off towards the crypt where Therul lay. Neferata stopped before Karya and Evered. Her smile grew almost imperceptibly broader. Her lips were the red of arterial blood, her face the white of perfect, glacial death.

  ‘Treveign and Halorecht, side by side,’ said Neferata. ‘I doubt I will see a greater wonder today. Explain it to me. What is the nature of this wonder?’

  Karya had no doubt that Neferata already knew the answer to her question. She had felt the queen’s gaze scour her being of all secrets. Yet she was called upon to speak, and so she did, honestly, and proud.

  ‘We are pledged to one another,’ Karya said. ‘We seek your blessing for this union.’

  Neferata laughed. Her mirth was as silvery as bells, filling Karya’s heart with love and the urgent need to please her ruler. The laughter’s echo resounded with the iron slam of a coffin lid, and Karya quailed in fear.

  ‘And thus it comes to pass,’ said Neferata. ‘After centuries of enmity, the two great houses are joined through the love of their heirs. How very star-crossed of you. How worthy of verse you both are. Tell me more. Delight me further. Why now? How can it be, Karya Treveign, that the murder of your father’s right hand leads not to greater bloodshed but to reconciliation?’

  ‘It is because the death of Counsellor Therul could make things worse that we must act now, my queen,’ said Eve
red.

  Neferata regarded Evered for a brief moment, then turned her attention back to Karya. ‘Did Therul approve of this union?’

  ‘He did not know about it,’ Karya said, glancing at Evered. ‘He would certainly have advised my father against it. Without his opposition, I believe that my father will be easier to convince. Should we have your blessing, I know he would be.’

  Neferata laughed again. ‘An easy prediction,’ she said. ‘Its truth is too certain to have any worth as flattery. What interest would I have in granting this blessing?’

  Karya had not been trying to flatter. Everything she said was the truth as she saw it.

  ‘Acting as one, Treveign and Halorecht could serve your majesty with tremendous strength and loyalty. Our every act would be an expression of gratitude. This I swear.’

  ‘And what can you offer as guarantee of your word? Your father rules House Treveign and your betrothed is just as powerless – or has Nagra Halorecht relinquished control to her son and I am ignorant of it?’

  Karya bowed her head, as did Evered beside her.

  There was silence for a long moment. Then, for a third time, Neferata laughed. ‘Your answers only increase the wonder of this union,’ she said. ‘You delight me, and so you shall have my blessing. Have you given any thought to where you will celebrate your union?’

  ‘Here,’ said Karya, looking up. ‘Both our families have long attended the Grand Chapel.’

  ‘I approve. Go, then. Make your preparations. Surprise Vorst Treveign and Nagra Halorecht. Surprise Nulahmia. For I will do more than bless your union. I will attend its ceremony.’

  ‘Treveign and Halorecht together are more than twice as dangerous as each is separately,’ Mereneth said when Neferata joined her in the crypt. The spymistress did not sound happy.

  ‘Of course they are,’ said Neferata. ‘The way to neutralise this threat, though, is not by simply opposing it.’

  The crypt was circular. The only light was the gloomy red that filtered in through the arched doorway. The walls bulged outwards in imitation of the great chamber’s gargantuan ribcage. Neferata walked around the dais upon which Therul lay. There was a gap of a few inches between his head and his body. His entire neck was missing. Whoever had killed him had taken care to create a wound so massive, it could not be interpreted.

  ‘Did Therul ever mention the romance?’ Neferata asked. As long as the two families had been at war, she had not had to devote much attention to them. Vorst Treveign’s high counsellor had been her spy. With him in place, she had been content to let things simmer, ready to interfere only if the violence between the families rose to a level that inconvenienced her. Peace had never been a possibility. But the situation had changed, and her attention was required.

  ‘I don’t think he knew of the courtship,’ said Mereneth. ‘Not directly, at least. He reported that Vorst had some concerns about what his daughter might be doing, but it does not appear to have crossed his mind that she might be falling in love with Evered Halorecht.’

  ‘And they are both sole heirs,’ said Neferata.

  Like many of the vampire nobility, the Treveigns and Halorechts had, through the ages, ensured there were enough mortals in the family to sustain the bloodline through direct descent. The firstborn of each generation were given the soulblight curse of vampiric immortality. Both Nagra Halorecht and Vorst Treveign had lost their consorts shortly after the births of Evered and Karya, and neither had thus far acted to produce any further offspring. Vorst was strong, and it might be a millennium before Karya took control of her house. Nagra, though, seemed weak. Therul suspected the Treveigns had found the means to erode her immortality with poison, though the assassin had silenced him before he could find proof.

  ‘Therul’s death is convenient for the union,’ Neferata went on. ‘Karya admits this freely. Do we know where she was at the time of the assassination?’

  ‘At a masked ball hosted by House Falkreach,’ said Mereneth. ‘Do you think she arranged the killing?’

  Neferata thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘She is too young… and sincere. Had she wished Therul dead, I believe she would have killed him herself and then confessed. No, this union must benefit someone else.’

  ‘So the question is whether Therul was a target because he would have opposed the union, or because he was our spy,’ said Mereneth.

  ‘We will act on the presumption that both are true. Belief in coincidence is the prologue to defeat. The stage has been set for us. Let us take measures. Then we will let the performance proceed, and the players reveal themselves.’

  Twenty feet up from the floor of the Grand Chapel, a gallery ran the entire circumference of the walls. On the night of the marriage ceremony, Neferata walked the gallery alone. As she passed from archway to archway, she appeared and disappeared to the sight of the gathered multitude, but the crowd was always open to her gaze.

  The Grand Chapel was filled with hunger. The full houses of Treveign and Halorecht were there, as were their allies. There were hundreds on both sides, two armies present to witness a contentious peace treaty. The curious were more numerous still, here in their thousands. The hunger for power and the hunger for knowledge were so thick, the air roiled with tension.

  The walls were hung with the colours of the two houses. Treveign’s banners were obsidian streaked with gold. Halorecht’s were scarlet, trimmed with black. They seemed to hang together, rather than in opposition, and Neferata wondered if the two lovers saw a good omen in the complementarity of the colours. For herself, the serendipity was irrelevant. As the ceremony progressed, what Neferata saw was a ritual that was the result of a much greater, longer, hidden orchestration.

  In the centre of the nave, surrounded by their families, Karya and Evered stood facing each other, attending the words of the ancient necromancer, Alvaras. The few wisps of hair on Alvaras’ yellow-grey scalp floated in the still air of the chapel, a serpentine halo. Ceremonial attendants flanked the betrothed, each holding the golden chain of a collared, subdued mortal from each household. As Alvaras approached the conclusion of the ceremony, Neferata scrutinised the leaders of the houses. Even the slightest change in their expressions was clearly visible to Neferata’s witchsight. Nagra looked even more fragile than when Neferata had last seen her. The Halorecht matriarch was stooped, her face withered as crumbling leather. Her features were pinched into a frown, but her eyes were rheumy, as if she had trouble concentrating on the event unfolding before her. Vorst Treveign, on the other hand, looked far more sanguine. His expression was neutral, but Neferata could see no flicker of concern as his sole heir pledged herself to the son of his enemies. The other members of the family seemed much more uneasy than Vorst. Their expressions mirrored Nagra’s and those of the other Halorechts. There seemed to be very few parties present who saw the union as anything other than harmful to their interests.

  ‘Where two rivers of blood have flowed, let there now be one,’ Alvaras intoned. He gestured to the attendants, who pulled the imprisoned mortals forward. They opened the collars, but retained their grips on their charges’ shoulders. Alvaras bowed to Karya, to Evered, and then, in a single motion rose and turned, right arm outstretched. His talon of a nail on his middle finger sliced open the jugular veins of the mortals. Every move of the ritual was known and rehearsed by the participants, and the couple fastened their mouths on the throat of the other family’s mortal before a first jet of blood had splashed to the ground. Treveign drank deeply of Halorecht blood, and Halorecht drank Treveign. They drained the bodies, then quickly twisted off the heads, completing the sacrifice, leaving bloodless husks that would not rise again.

  The lovers stepped away from the bodies, joined hands and stood before Alvaras again. He touched their foreheads with his crimson-stained finger. ‘And so two are one,’ he said, his voice like the rasp of sand over bone. ‘The work of this solemn day is complete.’

/>   No, Neferata thought. I believe it has just begun.

  The taste of the Halorecht mortal’s blood still on her tongue, Karya looked up at the conclusion of the ritual to see Neferata gazing down at her. She had been circling the ceremony since its start, only fitfully visible, a shadow in flowing crimson robes. Now that she had paused, Karya saw that her arms were clad in what looked like dark armour. It seemed to Karya that the queen was clad for the celebration and for war. Karya felt reassured. Neferata’s dress revealed the risks attendant on this union. Karya would have donned more protective clothing too, if there had been a way of doing so. But the robes she and Evered wore would not have concealed any armour underneath, and the result would have been a provocation to violence. So she and Evered were armed only with hope. She trusted that would be enough.

  There was a flurry of movement to Karya’s left. She turned in time to see a silver blade stab through Nagra Halorecht’s throat. Evered’s mother opened her mouth in a soundless gasp of agony. Night-dark blood burst from her lips, and her skin crumbled like parchment. The figure behind her was hooded and robed, a shape of darkness so featureless it was as if the sword moved of its own volition. While Karya was still in the first moments of shock, the blade withdrew from Nagra’s throat, rose to one side, then slashed into the side of her neck. Her head tumbled off her body and rolled to her son’s feet.

  In the same moment, another figure leapt out of the crowd from Karya’s right. It was shrouded like the first, though to Karya’s horrified eyes the clothing seemed subtly different in style, wrapped around the limbs more tightly. That was enough for her to understand. Though her limbs were frozen in horror and surprise, it came to her that the attackers were not of the same faction. They were not working together. The second was responding to the actions of the first.

  The assassin raised his sword, pointing it at Karya’s heart. She took a step back. Evered threw himself at the killer, and the blade plunged forwards.

  ‘Evered!’ Karya screamed as the assassin stabbed him through the chest. Evered’s hands fluttered at the hilt in weak protest, and then stilled as his body went limp.