"Do you want to tell me why we're out here, master?" D'Arden asked as they sat by the fire.
Khaine paused to fish a small leather case from beneath his shirt. "Before we left Kalleda, I heard rumors that a small-time monarch was setting up some kind of puppet court, except that instead of paid sycophants, he was using corpses. I didn't take much stock in the story at first, until I kept hearing it at every stop we made. Some were saying that this king actually keeps the dead bodies of all of his family and friends propped up in chairs to hold audience. Others maintained that the corpses were actually still alive in some way, and that he was ruling over a kingdom of the dead."
"I'm not sure which is more unsettling," D'Arden mused, retrieving his own leather case from its lined, hidden pocket on the inside breast of his tunic. He opened the top with gentle fingers, revealing a tiny, needle-like blade made of perfectly clear crystal. The heartblade glimmered with a pale light, pulsing to an unfathomable rhythm.
Khaine's manna-blue eyes twinkled. "Oh, the living corpses are far more unsettling. If it was just some crazy kook with dead bodies propped up everywhere, there'd be no reason for us to be here at all. As it is, there's no telling what we might be up against."
D'Arden nodded, turning his attention to the artifact in his hands. He handled the fragile blade with the utmost reverence, gazing at its lambent glory with something approaching love. Carefully transferring it to one hand, he pulled aside his tunic – and with a single, swift motion, plunged it into his breast.
The exquisitely fine crystal shard pierced through flesh and muscle with the greatest of ease. As the hilt touched his skin, the tip grazed his heart, sending a flash of energy deep within him. There was a warm glow that emanated from the depths of his chest, and he felt his whirring mind begin to ease. Power coursed through him, and he felt renewed.
He withdrew the heartblade from his chest. A prickling sensation began in the thin canal left behind as the manna flowed through him, its fire cleansing and closing the wound. With equal reverence, he slowly returned the blade to its sheath, took a deep breath, and looked once more at Khaine.
"I didn't sense any corruption in that room," D'Arden said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the mercifully-closed door behind them. "How could that old man still have been alive like that?"
"Your senses aren't fully sharpened yet, young one," Khaine said. He stared for a long moment at the closed leather case in his hands, his gaze distant, before returning it unopened to the pocket next to his heart. "The corruption was there, but it's not centered here. It was just a tendril, keeping that old man alive indefinitely, waiting for travelers like us to come along so that it could feed. It was faint, but it was there."
D'Arden nodded, picking up a piece of bread. Khaine was incredibly sensitive to the changes in the flow of manna – he chalked it up to being an Arbiter for so long. D'Arden was still refining those skills, and they did not come easily. He was not envious of his master's abilities, exactly – more wishful that he could develop them more rapidly.
"All in good time, D'Arden," Khaine said, spotting the faraway look in his eye. "Come, eat. You must be famished. The rain is letting up outside, and I believe the castle isn't far at all. We should be able to make it there before sunrise."
D'Arden looked down at the bread in his hands. Though he had been hungry moments before, the sight of the damp white lump turned his stomach. "Do we want to make it there before sunrise?"
"Of course we do," Khaine grinned. "What fun would it be otherwise?"