[center][h2][b][u]Empire of Lynn-Naraksh[/u][/b][/h2] [b]The Risen Host, Demesne of Urvetschin[/b][/center] They always said the ash in the south smelled worse than elsewhere. There was a shade of iron in it that made inhaling it akin to breathing in the fumes of a battlefield or charnel-house - as though blood were seeping from the air itself. Grey blood. It was said that it was indeed the ichor of a fallen Divine that had coalesced into the many metal veins that lay beneath the mountains, and permeated the earth and skies above. None could say if this were true, and indeed many doubted whether the blood of an old god would have tasted and smelled the same as that of men, but now Relin was inclined to believe it. He had never breathed the southern air without at least a rag to cleanse it, and for decades now had enjoyed the privilege of helm padding and good ash-masks. The poor defense afforded against the grisly stench by his loose-knit convict's hood stung almost as much the rope that bound his wrists and the manacles on his feet. He could only imagine the others felt the same. There were seven of them lined up on the scaffold, all shrouded in the grey of those condemned. He was last, standing behind them all, yet he could see well into the distance if he craned his neck and brought his eye-holes over the shoulders before him. Close by, to the fore of the platform, was a headsman's chopping-block. t its side the immobile form of a Deathless Guard, clad in the colours of the Narakshi flag and inhuman in its gridded faceguard, leaned on an axe with a disproportionally large blade. The Emperor had been merciful - grievous though their lapse might have been, albeit Relin himself could not in good conscience come to blame himself for it, they had been spared the savagery of the High Executioner and the jeering of the Throne's denizens. The blow would at least be quick, and the spectators silent. While this was a relief, he could not but feel he was much more unnerved by the still presence of the etched ranks, as heavy as any of the monolithic soldiers, than he would have been by the scorn of a living throng. This was the first time he saw the army with his own eyes, and the macabre circumstances of the occasion did little to ease the oppressive sensation of grim majesty that radiated from it. Even from the height of the scaffold, he could not glimpse an end to the black files, and though he was too far to properly discern any fine details, the mere obvious fact that these could not be crude approximations was unsettling. The priests had said that this could not be the work of the Old Ones, and who could know why better than him? - yet the thought of an unknown force being capable of so much was of no reassurance. A part of him was almost glad that he would not have to dread it for much longer. The voice of a herald standing off to the other side of the row, where he could not seen him, had meanwhile finished calling out their names. "...Tebarras, Darovk Oglobni, Relin Sumnieme. Armigers of the Imperial Throne, first select maniple, adjoined to the Sanctum Guards. For the faults of mortal negligence, inadequacy in fulfilling the most vital of duties, and inability to maintain justification of the trust placed in you by the one power that holds the world, His Imperial Sanctity of Lynn-Naraksh, it is decreed that you be put to death, with the honours due to your rank. That your condemnation may be an example to those who would be content with the possibility of failure, and you thus may render service in death for your failings in life. That weakness may be excised from the Inheritors of the Old Gods, for it may not be forgiven. Begin." The first of the manacled figures shuffled forward, with only the slightest stagger. The interrogators had not been harsh on them, seeing clearly enough that they knew no more of the intrusion into the Emperor's chambers than anyone else and having no reason to ply their trade on them any further. Unenviable though his lot might have been, Relin knew well enough that it was immeasurably better than that of so many other wretches. All things considered, he had lived well. Not one thing, it seemed to him, he would have done otherwise. Forces beyond the ken of the Blood Lords themselves had toyed with him, that was all. Everything came and went, sooner or later, and this might even have spared him the afflictions and pains of age. He would go out of life having quaffed of it strongly, before the taste was soured by the dregs. It was- [i]Crack.[/i] The Deathless's axe had fallen, digging into the wood of the block as though the victim's neck had not even been there. And, indeed, it [i]was[/i] not there, as Relin saw with amazement. There was no blood, nor even a limp headless body. Where it should have been lay only a heap of dust, spread beneath the now empty grey cloak. He thought he saw a red glimmer somewhere among the stone warriors. Before he knew it, the next in line had stepped forward. [i]Crack.[/i] [i]Crack.[/i] [i]Crack.[/i] [i]Crack.[/i] [i]Crack.[/i] It was unreally fast. Although each of them had to walk further to reach the block, it seemed as though the distance decreased whenever one stepped forward. He did not even notice when the view before him became clear with Darovk's back gone. The sea of dark shapes had always been before his eyes since he had walked up to the scaffold. Something prodded him in the back, and he dragged himself forward. He did not feel the manacles, but his feet were heavy, as in a dream where he himself had become of stone. The Deathless waited, impassive and motionless. He had crossed the scaffold before he knew it, and his body knelt on its own. His arms twisted in one last struggle, if he could but slip one hand free it would not happen, he would be- Not with that horned shadow over him. Not with the eyeless ranks waiting below, as hungry as any crowd on an execution day. It did not matter. It was nothing, after all. A few more moments, and it would be done, he would stand up and go. Like in the temple, when as a child he wanted to stand up and go, but the shadows would not let him. They always did in the end, though, and they would now. "Emperor lives." he managed to whisper hoarsely. The iron head without a face nodded slightly. "He accepts all in death." it replied, in a voice that was not human. Relin closed his eyes and smelled the blood of the earth. It was the first time he did. [i]In the blood is the power.[/i] [i]Crack.[/i] [center][h2]***[/h2] [b]Nergerad[/b][/center] It was not clear why an inn in such a small, forlorn town as Nergerad had such a large cellar. It had been almost entirely empty when the Order had seized it, with only dust, some rotten, empty barrels crumbling in a corner, and cobwebs inhabited by prodigiously large vermin to occupy it. There had not even been anywhere to hang a torch on the wall. Presumably, if anyone ever needed to descend there, which ought to have been no more often than once a century, they had done so by lantern-light. It was owing only to the dryness of the ash-lands that the earthen floor was not crawling with worms and worse foulness, and that foetid lichens did not flourish about it. Since then, little had changed, yet the cellar was unrecognisable. Where had once been musty darkness there crackled the fire of braziers; where had been bare soil there stood racks and blazed coals to warm blades and pincers; where had been silence there resounded the groans and creaking of cunning devices, the cracking of bone and the low, almost spectral sounds of torment. At the very middle of the chamber stood a great contraption of wood and iron. It was shaped as a rack of supplice, yet far longer and broader than customary for such an instrument. Such was its size that several prisoners could have lain upon it at once, and, indeed, an entire row of bodies was chained upon it. The tormentors seemed to have taken care in their choice, for none was by far taller or shorter than the others. Had even any been, however, a skilfully built mechanism was in place to lengthen the chains as required. Two hulking Vurogg stood at the ends of the device, ready to turn its twin handles in unison at a sign from the masked figures that paced before the rack, now and then sweeping a whip over this or that painfully stretched breathing carcass. A robed cleric stood before one of the captives, leaning forth and gazing into darkened eye-sockets with the red sparks in the depths of its hood. A shrouded hand held a ritual kris under its victim's chin, scratching it with its point. "Who are you?!" snarled an altered voice from beneath the mask. There was no impatience or curiosity in it; its vicious tone was itself perfunctory, almost bored. The prisoner's scarred lips twitched - they could speak, but only a faint moan came from between them. "What is your name?!" The lips opened and grasped futilely at something, as those of a fish pulled out of water. "Who are you?!" A feeble gurgling rose at last from the throat, marked with a light, seemingly clumsy firebrand. "I... a... I..." The cleric waited, slowly sliding its weapon towards the captive's neck. Yet no more came from the latter than broken, incoherent sounds. The hood dipped in a satisfied nod, and the undulant blade abruptly plunged between the prisoner's ribs. A moment, and the body was gone. The priest shook the ash from its arm, then stepped aside, nearing the next victim of the rack like a bird of prey. "Who are you?!"