Chapter Fifty-Six
Trenloe the Strong
Wildlands, South Forthyn
The hills of the far north were gray and cold, older and bitterer than those of southern Kell and the Barrowdales, bald-headed and freckled with white snow. Trenloe shivered, the thick muscles of his neck aching from hunching so deeply, and for so long, and drew his shawl of Uthuk rags and old coats in close. Winter was setting in hard. His impromptu shelter was a bit of drystone that must have been a thousand years old. Nobody had built in that forsaken corner of Terrinoth since the heyday of the Elder Kings. Trast had never felt so far away. Hunkering further out of the wind, he poked his fire with a spear. It was burning on splintered shields and scraps of cloth, gusting about in the east wind, hissing and snarling as snowflakes ran in to their deaths.
The woman laid out in the most sheltered corner of the wall moaned and stirred.
Trenloe ladled some broth that was cooking in the pot helmet he had set above the fire and poured some into a mug. He was no great cook, but at least it was hot. He turned towards the woman.
The man crouching over her growled protectively. His hand went straight to the hilt of his sword. There was a dead rune at its base and the metal had been scorched black. The jeweled cross hilt remained relatively unscathed however and bore a crest that Trenloe did not recognize but which was clearly noble. Tufts of beard sprang up like weeds between pale, glossy islands of burnt skin and his eyes roved wildly.
“Easy, said Trenloe, raising a hand, hoping the knight still understood the gesture for peace, and showed him the steaming mug. He gestured towards the injured woman.
The knight seemed to understand.
“Runehand.”
His voice was a shiver, coming out on a huff of cloud. He was dressed in fine rags and a knight’s armor, but would accept nothing to allay the obvious cold. The woman, the Runehand, seemed to be his only concern.
The knight shifted out of the way, hand hovering warily over his sword as Trenloe edged past him.
Propping the woman’s head in the crook of one massive arm, he brought the wooden mug up to her lips. Most of the broth turned to steam or went down her chin, but the heat seemed to scald her more fully awake and the last half mouthful went down her throat.
She opened her eyes.
They were so startlingly blue that Trenloe almost flinched back and dropped her, afraid of what they might see in him. The blood witch Ne’Krul had dredged fears and desires out of him that even he had not consciously known were buried there. The thought of these eyes seeing the same or worse appalled him in a way he could not explain.
“It’s all right if you’re confused,” he murmured as she continued to stare. “You were badly hurt when I found you. I thought there was some life still in you, but… I’ve never seen anyone heal themselves so fast without help. And I’m no healer.”
“Then what are you, exactly?” she said, her voice as hard as her eyes, and as warm as the wind outside their little V-shape of wall.
“My name’s Trenloe. In some parts they call me Trenloe the–”
“The Strong,” she said. “I have heard of you.”
He smiled grimly, almost laughing.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” said Trenloe. “It’s not especially funny now I think about it. I suppose you had to be there.”
“Be there…” the woman murmured. “Yes, I imagine that you did. I should not be so surprised that I was not the only one that destiny called.”
“Since you know my name now, what would you say to sharing yours?”
“Andira. Andira Runehand.”
Trenloe glanced towards the knight. His sword had been relaxed and he was now gazing contentedly into the fire, watching the snowflakes burn. “I’m afraid I’ve not heard of you.”
“I have been longer out of Terrinoth than I have been in it. And I have never courted fame.” The last sounded almost like a rebuke, and with a creak of filthy, gore-clagged armor, the woman sat herself up straight. Trenloe eased his arm out from behind her, half expecting her to fall back and yet not in the least surprised when she did not. “I suppose I have you to thank for saving my life.”
Trenloe nodded to their company’s third member. “And him.”
Andira turned, regarding the knight with a searching look.
“Who is he?” Trenloe asked.
“I do not know yet. I think that he still has to find that out for himself.”
Trenloe was too tired, cold and hungry to work too hard thinking about that. “I’m sure you’re owed some thanks for my part too.”
“You are modest for a man of renown.”
“I’m not the one who killed the demon.”
Andira looked down and frowned. “Baelziffar and those like him cannot be wholly destroyed. He will be raging now, plotting vengeance against me, you, him,” a nod towards the brooding knight, “and those of his former allies who failed him so terribly. The war is not over. It is certainly not won. But the triumph will be sweet while it lasts.”
Trenloe was silent a while, watching the fire dance. He drew himself some broth and slurped it straight from the ladle. It was utterly flavorless. But as he noted earlier, it was hot. “I saw the blood witch, Ne’Krul, slip out across the Gate at the same time as the demon king stepped in through it.” He clenched his fist and looked at it. It was bigger than the head of a mace. He had never confronted a challenge that his strength had been unequal to. Until Baelziffar. He… did not know yet exactly how that made him feel. “I owe her. What, exactly, I don’t know. But I owe her.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“What?”
“Why are you not hunting for her even now?”
“She stepped through the rift. Or however it works. I wouldn’t know where to start. And then…” He waved his hand around him. “I couldn’t just leave you in the crater at the Gate. You two were the only survivors as far as I could tell, and devoted as he seems to be, he’s in no good state to a wounded warrior. As quick as you’ve healed here with my fire, you’d have died in that valley if I hadn’t found you first.”
Andira looked down, searching.
Trenloe grinned. He did not know why. “Then I’m glad it was you that took the demon and not me. Never turn from one who’s in need, that’s what my father always told me.”
“And what if there are two, both of them equally in need? What if there are three? A million? How do you begin to help them all without failing most?”
She sounded sincere in her question, as though she genuinely wished for an answer.
Trenloe shrugged. He had learned a thing or two about failure.
“The real failure would be if I didn’t try.”
Andira smiled, and she was just a human woman again while it lasted. “I will go with you, Trenloe the Strong. We both will,’ she said, indicating her silent companion. “I have need of a new purpose, and perhaps yours will serve. With my help you can find this Ne’Krul, and perhaps, together, we can frustrate Baelziffar once more.”
Trenloe frowned as he considered. He was used to being the hero, the first amongst many, the one whose name was sung, and twice now he’d seen those who’d tried to follow him slain to the last. Perhaps it was about time he tried travelling with an equal. Assuming Andira Runehand was merely an equal.
What might they accomplish together?
But then, he wasn’t entirely certain she had been asking his permission.
He offered out his hand. She took it.
His hand swallowed hers. The warm outline of the rune lightly burned his palm. But there was something else in her grip, something deeper than metal that said that one hand would come out worst from a contest of strength between them and it would not be hers.
Trenloe did not squeeze too tightly.
“Wh
ere do we start?”
About the Author
DAVID GUYMER is a scientist and writer from England. His work includes many novels in the New York Times-bestselling Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 universes, notably Headtaker and Gotrek & Felix: Slayer, and the bestselling audio drama Realmslayer. He has also contributed to fantastical worlds in video games, tabletop RPGs, and board games.
bobinwood.wixsite.com/thirteenthbell
twitter.com/warlordguymer
By the Same Author
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City of the Damned
Kinslayer
Slayer
Slayer of the End Times
The Horus Heresy Primarchs
Ferrus Manus: The Gorgon of Medusa
Lion El’Jonson: Lord of the First
Warhammer 40,000
Echoes of the Long War
The Last Son of Dorn
The Eye of Medusa
The Voice of Mars
Warhammer Age of Sigmar
Realmslayer
Hamilcar: Champion of the Gods
The Court of the Blind King
Table of Contents
Cover
Descent: Journeys in the Dark
The Shield of Daqan
Copyright
Part One Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part Three Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Part Four Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Epilogue Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
About the Author
Bibliography
Explore Descent: Journeys in the Dark
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