The Fear of a Dreadlord
“A true Druchii never shows fear”.
Iago repeated the words to himself as he walked the slow rise toward the arena of Karond Kar. Fear saps the will, he knew, it slows reactions and paralyses the mind when it is needed most. The roar of the crowds rung around him, like the laughter of a mad god. Enough to strike terror into the soul. He was full-armed, his black battle-plate edged with purple detailing and chased with silver, and his heart trembled in his breast at the sound.
The proud Dreadlord of House Sathar, master of its fleets and commander of its armies, was walking into a trap.
That he knew it was a trap made little difference. The duel was a trap, intended to kill him, and each step along the pillared avenue carried him closer to it. It would be an assassin’s dart a moment before he emerged, before the eyes of the gathered nobles could see.
He had done all he might to prepare, anything more was beyond his control now, and irrelevant. All that remained was the simple fact that he must win.
The Vaulkhar of Karond Kar was a bloated and sadistic madman whose convoluted court was a hive of intrigue and politicking between Druchii houses of far greater lineage or standing than House Sathar. Yet for all that, he was bound by the laws of the Druchii, and faced with a challenge to refuse it would be an unforgiveable sign of weakness.
But as befitted a lord of his stature he could refuse to meet an upstart challenger, and appoint a champion instead. That had been Iago’s great gamble. And it had succeeded. Vaulkhar Karond had chosen a champion to fight for him.
Iago had simply to defeat that champion to wrest what he wished from the Vaulkhar. And if he failed the House would be torn asunder.
This was the last place an assassin might strike before the arena. He wrapped his hand around the hilt of the Kraken Blade, the greatest heirloom of House Sathar. His hope of victory. A sudden pain flashed at his throat, an insect-sting, almost irrelevant. He wiped his had across the burn as his vision swam for a moment, clawing the dart to his lips, tasting it.
It was Iceburn. A poison much-beloved by the Vaulkhar, for it slowed and stupefied and inflicted great pain on its victims. It was quite deadly.
It also had a little-known prophylactic.
As the Iceburn cleared, he snatched the blade from its scabbard and leapt the last few steps up into the arena with a fierce laugh. His first gamble had succeeded, and Khaine favoured none so much as the bold. Now he would bring down the Vaulkhar’s champion and make his second succeed also.
He did not fear failure.
