Blood of Asaheim by Chris Wraight

Author:Chris Wraight
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2013-03-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The great sun sank towards the western horizon like a smouldering ingot of gold, turning the sky bronze and setting the world’s edge alive with fire. Shadows streaked across the rust-red of the plains, rippling over runnels of sand and merging in their broken lees. The air lost its heaviness; it remained hot, but the searing, beating oppressiveness of it lightened just a little.

In happier times, dusk was magical on Ras Shakeh, a time to light candles under the lintels of the doorways and file towards one of the city’s one hundred and twenty-nine chapels to perform rites of devotion. Scents of cinnamon and gahl-oil would rise from braziers and thuribles, intermingling with the murmur and hum of voices lost in prayer and wonder.

Now, though, the coming of night was far from magical. Hjec Aleja burned with unholy fires now, punctured across its expanse by the immolation of plague-addled saboteurs. Pyres constructed before the chapel doors now smoked from the charred bodies of the damned. The roast-pork stench of smouldering human flesh hung like a cloud over the narrow roofs and winding streets.

Burning the infected was the only way to limit the damage. Keeping the flesh intact created foul cradles for the blowflies and maggots that spread the sickness. The Sisters worked methodically through the city’s many districts, dragging those with signs of infection from their habs and administering the Emperor’s Mercy. Civilians looked on sullenly, only partially aware of the dangers posed by the plague-carriers in their midst, resentful of the savage measures taken to keep the healthy intact. Rumours filtered up to the Halicon of riots in the poorer quarters, of families sheltering mutants in cellars and under floors, and fighting to keep them hidden from the burn-teams.

They were only rumours, but this was just the beginning. All knew it would get worse.

Olgeir stood on the ramparts of the Ighala Gate, just under the shadow of one of its many defence towers, and gazed out over the cityscape below. Unlike his brothers he had taken no part in the hunt. His energies had been devoted to the city’s defensive preparations: shoring up wall sections, excavating fire trenches, demolishing paths through the tangle of buildings to allow the passage of arms. He’d worked tirelessly throughout the day, hauling and lifting alongside the mechanised transports, roaring at the mortal labourers and exhorting them to greater feats of sacrifice. Many of the men were already exhausted, thrown into construction work straight from active tours on the battle-fronts to the south and west.

Olgeir felt pity for them. He recognised their sacrifice, he could see the pain in their faces, he knew what some of them had already faced.

He gave them no quarter. Time was short, and the storm front was closing. With the Sisters preoccupied with containing the infection, much of the task of improving the defences had fallen to him. He’d embraced it, throwing himself into the heavy, draining labour as if he alone could somehow refashion the entire city in the few days that remained.

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