Free 03 - God King by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead) Page B

crest of the hill, its summit enclosed by a ring of
rune-carved stones like spikes on an ancient ruler’s crown. The priests of Morr
were waiting, a dozen men in black robes tied with silver cords and each
carrying a thin book bound in soft kidskin. The black coach rambled onto the
hilltop, and the Bloodspears moved to the centre of the hill, where the only
priest of Morr with his hood drawn back stood ready to fulfil his duty to the
dead.
    “Who comes with a lost soul to be ushered into the realm of Morr?” intoned
the priest.
    Markus and his champion dismounted, walking alongside the Bloodspears towards
the centre of the hilltop tomb. Wenian planted the banner before the priest as
Markus answered.
    “I do, Markus Gothii, King of the Menogoths.”
    Markus used his old title, for this was an ancient rite of his tribe, one in
which his new title of count had no part.
    “Morr would know this soul’s name, King Markus of the Menogoths.”
    “I bring my son, Vartan Gothii, slain by greenskin warriors while defending
his people.”
    “Slain in service of a higher calling,” said the priest. “Then he will find
rest in the realms beyond this world of flesh.”
    Markus clenched his jaw. He was the master of the Menogoths, a warrior of
superlative skill. He rubbed a hand across his shaven scalp, tensing his lean,
wolfish physique as the grief threatened to unman him before the priests who
would see his son to the realms of the dead.
    The priest saw his battle and opened the book he carried as the Bloodspears
gently lowered Vartan Gothii to the ground. The acolytes of the head priest came
forward and knelt in a circle around the body. Markus looked at the unmoving
features of his son, so pale and serene that they might have been carved from
marble.
    “Keep it simple, priest,” ordered Markus. “Vartan hated ceremony.”
    “As you wish, King Markus,” said the priest, flipping to a shorter passage.
    Markus’ wife and daughter came alongside him and he took their hands as the
priest began his recitation of the benediction to the dead. The priest’s voice
was clear and strong as he read, and Markus took comfort in the words he heard.
    “Great Morr, master of the dead and dreams, you have made death itself the
gateway to eternal life. Look with love on our fallen brother, and make him one
with your realm that he may come before you free from pain. Lord Morr, the death
of Vartan Gothii recalls our human condition and the brevity of our lives in
this world. For those who believe, death is not the end, nor does it destroy the
bonds forged in our lives. We share the faith of all men and the hope of the
life beyond this frail realm of all flesh. Bring the light of your wisdom to
this time of testing and pain as we pray for Vartan Gothii and for those who
loved him.”
    The priest closed his book and bowed his head. The hillside was silent, even
the black horses and the torches seeming to understand that it would be unseemly
to intrude on a king’s mourning.
    A slow clapping came from the far side of the hill, and a figure armoured in
gleaming silver and gold emerged from behind one of the great menhirs. A mantle
of white silk spilled from his shoulders, contrasting sharply with the soft
caramel colour of his skin and the oiled darkness of his lustrous hair.
    “Very poetic,” said the warrior, his accent soft, rounded and obviously
cultured, though it was of no tribe Markus had ever encountered. “You mortals do
so enjoy indulging in the luxury of woe.”
    “Begone,” declared the priest of Morr, brandishing his prayer book like a
weapon. “This is a sacred moment you are defiling.”
    The warrior snatched the book from the priest and hurled it into the
darkness. “This? Utter nonsense! Don’t believe a word of it, but what can you
expect from a man who has not passed over to see the other side for himself?”
     
    The Bloodspears lifted their weapons and the swordsmen tensed as the