FFM 08: Bloodbound

‘Slave,’ Kerberys calls as I enter.  I am surprised to find him wearing his armour, though I cannot be sure if he is preparing for battle, or just returned from one.  I am ignorant of matters in the wider world.  Since my lord Ruakh’s death no one has bothered to keep me informed.
    ‘Yes, lord?’  I swallow, wondering if he has had some forewarning of my purpose.  The weight in the inner pocket of my robe is like a heavy stone; though the rubric is small its import is huge.
    ‘Take this to my brother Qir’tal,’ he points with an armour-claw to a tightly scrolled parchment on the desk.
    I gather it up carefully and tuck it into my fist.  ‘Qir’tal, lord?’  Qir’tal is more dangerous even than Leth, however, ‘It is my understanding, lord, that the Bloodbound is still incapacitated.’  The berserker has been comatose for weeks, laid low by his wounds.
    ‘He wakes.’
    ‘Lord, there is a matter of some urgency I must discuss with you.’
    ‘Deliver this,’ Kerberys insists, donning his fierce helm.  ‘We will speak later.’  Preparing for battle then.
    ‘Your will, lord.’ I bow my way out again.

    The Serpent’s Hall is nearly empty, but there is a constant ripple of activity among the attendants who remain.  They too are preparing for combat, or more accurately, its aftermath.  Lord Hessal presides over all.  Alert to every nuance of his domain, he immediately notices my entrance.
    ‘What is it, slave?  I am busy.’
    ‘Lord, a message for the Bloodbound.’
    Hessal snorts, already turning away.  ‘Waste my time.  Qir’tal is no longer here.’
    ‘Apologies, lord, where-’
    ‘His private chapel,’ Lord Hessal barks as he strides the length of the hall.  ‘Begone.’
    ‘Your will, lord.’

    The thralls are reluctant to let me near their master, but, much as I want to, I will not entrust this message to any of them.  I hate this place.  I understand why they brought the Bloodbound here – at first I thought he must have wakened and come of his own will, but now I see the truth.  But I hate it.
    The chapel is dark and cold as a crypt, and as full of bones.  Qir’tal lies on the iron tiles of the floor, his head toward the dark altar.  Though he has been insensate for weeks he still wears his armour.  And he still bleeds.  But he always bleeds.
    I do not wish to enter, even before I feel the rubric twitch in my pocket.  But Kerberys has charged me, and if I want his aid, I must obey.
    ‘Lord Qir’tal,’ I call from the entry.  The berserker remains as still as the bleached bones which surround him.  Perhaps Kerberys is mistaken and the Bloodbound has finally succumbed.
    I want to leave this place!  I must be certain.  I must carry out Kerberys’ assignment.
    I take a step forward and the rubric shivers again.  Hateful sensation; the aproximation of life where none should exist.  A malign intelligence dwells within this chapel, and I feel it watching me, as though a thousand eyes stared down from the bone-paneled dome.
    Qir’tal is spread-eagle on the tiles, and his blood has run into the chinks between them and filled the little reservoirs of the fine letters cut into them.  I know too much about such things to risk disturbing a blood ritual like this.  I find a clean path and gather up my robe to prevent it dragging.  The rubric’s stirring is like a small animal rustling in my pocket.
    I crouch by Qir’tal’s head.  His helmet is wrought in the snarling visage of a daemon beast.  I reach out past the dark frozen jaws to tuck the message scroll into the webbing of his armour.
    Qir’tal’s mighty fist closes over my throat an instant later.  He sucks breath noisily through his daemon mask.  The blood traces on the floor bubble softly and steam.  The scent would make me choke, but Qir’tal’s iron grip prevents it.
    The rubric fairly dances in my pocket.
    ‘Embrys,’ Qir’tal hisses.  ‘That is your name, isn’t it?’
    I can’t answer.  The Bloodbound seems to realize, and unclenches his hand from my neck.  He sits up while I cough and massage my bruised throat.
    ‘My apologies, Embrys.’  His voice is amazingly deep and rich.
    That he should apologise to me is unthinkable.  I shake my head in denial, ‘Not at all, lord,’ I choke, ‘I disturbed you, I am sorry.’
    He takes his helmet off and I look away.  I hold out the scroll.  ‘A message from Lord Kerberys.’
    ‘His timing is impeccable.’  He spits; something thick and wet spatters on the tiles and sizzles there.  ‘Thank you, Embrys.’  Qir’tal plucks the parchment from my fingers with pecular delicacy and unrolls it on the spiked armour plating of his thigh.  What he reads there is not for my eyes.
    ‘The thing in your pocket, Embrys.’
    A stab of mortal fear shoots through me.  ‘Lord?’  So great is my shock, I almost look at him.
    ‘No.’  Instantly he stops the motion, his massive hand gripping my skull, but gently this time.  ‘Someday I will give you that release, but not yet.’
    I bow my head and he lets go of me.  ‘You know of… of the rubric, lord?’ I whisper.
    ‘Kerberys informs me.’  He indicates the scroll.  ‘He charges me with your protection.’
    ‘Mine?  Lord, I will give it to you.  I meant to give it to Lord Kerberys.’
    I sense rather than see Qir’tal’s nod.  ‘You want to.  But you can’t.’
    ‘Can't?  I don’t understand.’  I put my hand over the rubric in my pocket and feel it quiver at the touch.
    ‘You are bound to it, Embrys.  You have given it your blood.’
    ‘Given …?’  Confusion gives way in an instant to terrible realization.  I wiped my bleeding nose on a scarf, which now shares a pocket with the rubric.  I feel sick.  The thing in my pocket throbs faintly.
    ‘Keep it safe,’ Qir’tal charges, his basso achieving startling new depths and resonance.  ‘Above all, keep it secret.’