by Dan Abnett
Malus tore into the enemy with a savage howl, the warpsword carving through the tight-packed ranks like a scythe. Weapons snapped and armour melted at the blade’s touch; arms and legs tumbled across the cobblestones and heads were shorn away. The highborn grew stronger with every blow, and the movements of his enemies seemed to slow, until they appeared to be standing still. He slipped past their feeble blows and slaughtered them by the score, until finally the enemy could take no more and melted away in every direction. Those who tried to run through the square itself were cut apart by the angry slashes of lightning that raged within.
Covered in steaming gore, Malus staggered drunkenly to the edge of the open space. In the centre of the square shone a hemisphere of green light more than sixty paces across. Lightning flared and rebounded from this sorcerous shield, maintained by Nagaira’s shamans, who sat in their customary circle and chanted arcane phrases skyward. Within the circle, Nagaira floated a few feet off the ground. Once again she was no more that the black shadow-shape that he’d seen in the tent, surrounded by curling tendrils of black smoke that wove about her like a net of serpents.
Beyond, Malus could see fighting atop the inner wall. Malekith’s counterattack had pushed the besiegers almost to the inner gate itself. Very soon the Witch King would reach the square and fall into Nagaira’s clutches. Malus was running out of time.
Brandishing the burning blade, Malus charged at the shamans’ glowing sphere. Lightning seemed to drip lazily from the air, splashing against the ward and playing about the square. He struck the glowing ward with the warpsword, and a web of red cracks spread across its surface. Instantly the beastmen were aware of him, shouting magical chants and pointing fetishes of bone at the damage to the sphere. The cracks faded as he drew back his blade, but he struck the surface again and again. Slowly but surely, the damage spread.
More lightning arced down, as though Morathi sensed the change in the nature of the ward and had redoubled her efforts. The green glow began to dim as its energies were strained to the utmost. Across the square, Malus saw huge figures approaching the ward at a dead run—they were Nagaira’s minotaur bodyguard.
Undaunted, the highborn continued his punishing assault.
Within the hemisphere, Nagaira slowly turned to face him. Her night-haunted face was devoid of expression, but he could feel the cold pressure of her furious stare.
Another barrage of lightning bolts hammered at the ward. Malus timed his strokes with the thunderclaps, adding to Morathi’s assault. Then, without warning, the shield collapsed, shattering like glass beneath a hammer blow. There was a flare of light, and several of the beastmen collapsed, blood streaming from their ears. Several more were immolated in bolts of green lightning, leaving charred husks sprawled across the paving stones. A bolt of lightning even struck Nagaira herself, momentarily staggering her.
With the shield broken, the minotaurs charged across the intervening space at Malus, axes held ready The highborn rushed at them with a ferocious cry, and the burning blade sang through the air. One of the huge warriors swung wide and was cut in half as the highborn raced past. Another lunged at the highborn with a sweeping cut and had both hands sliced away.
An axe crashed into Malus’ pauldron; the highborn spun and drove his sword through the minotaur’s abdomen, boiling its guts. Another axe struck him full in the breastplate. Laughing, Malus tore his sword free and cut the legs out from under the enemy champion.
Lightning raged among the howling minotaurs, blasting warriors to the ground. A bolt struck Malus and flung him skyward, dropping him in a heap several yards away. Still smoking, he lunged back onto his feet and returned to the fray. Only three of the huge champions were left, stunned and shaken by the blast. Malus cut them down.
Then a strange buzzing filled the air, like a swarm of angry hornets, and Nagaira struck him with a bolt of pure darkness.
It passed through his armour as though it wasn’t there, and he felt his organs melt at its touch. A spear of pure agony lanced through Malus’ chest, and he spat sizzling ichor onto the stones. His sister loomed above him almost a dozen yards away, wreathed in tendrils of darkness. Pure rage emanated from her in palpable waves.
“You disappoint me,” Nagaira thundered. A bolt of lightning lashed at her, but his sister paid it little heed. “I had thought you were wiser than this.” Suddenly she lunged at him, crossing the space between them in an eye blink. Her fist crashed into Malus and flung him across the square like a toy. He crashed into the wall of a warehouse fifteen yards away, striking the stone hard enough to crack it before rebounding back onto the pavement.
“A wise man would have waited in the darkness for his doom to find him,” Nagaira said. “But you? You seek it out.”
She swept down on him again. This time Malus brought the warpsword up in a hissing arc and sliced through the witch’s midsection. Nagaira staggered with a scream of countless tortured souls, but she recovered almost immediately. Her fist closed about his throat and she flung him headlong through the air.
This time he crashed against the burnt hulk of one of the Chaos catapults. Oaken timbers shattered under the impact, and he landed hard at the siege engine’s base.
Nagaira stalked after him. Lightning lashed at her smoky figure again and again, slowing her flight. Still she pressed on, undeterred.
“I could swat you down like a fly, dear brother,” she seethed. “By all the gods I should! But Tz’arkan must be freed, and so I must content myself with merely crippling you.” She swept down and slapped the highborn’s chest with the flat of her hand, cracking his ribs like eggshells.
Malus screamed in agony and buried his sword in Nagaira’s chest. The blade burst from the witch’s back, drawing a scream of rage. Black ichor smoked from the tip of the blade. She drew back her hand to strike him again—and another bolt of sorcerous lightning struck her, blowing the two druchii apart.
Malus landed hard on his back, biting back a wave of intense pain. Nagaira landed in a heap some yards away. Her body had a grey cast now, and the tendrils of smoke that enshrouded her were all but gone. With a furious oath, she spoke an incantation that rent the air around her and her form regained a portion of its power.
Then a shadow swept over her from above. Nagaira looked up just as Seraphon bathed her in a pillar of dragon fire.
Malus could see her black form wreathed in angry fire. She screamed, spreading her arms wide within the flame, and magical power pulsed from her body. The dragon banked away, but Nagaira’s ruined form turned to track it. She pointed a smoking finger at the sky, and a chorus of daemonic howls filled the air. Tendrils of smoke leapt like whipcords from her body, reaching for the armoured form riding atop the swooping dragon.
Summoning his rage, Malus staggered to his feet and charged across the square. At the last moment she saw him, and with a word sent another bolt of black fire through him. He staggered, feeling his guts turn to mush, but the blade sustained him, driving him on. Malus raised the burning blade and chopped it deep into Nagaira’s chest.
She howled and writhed around the blade, her unearthly form hissing and sizzling under the weapon’s touch. Still she drove the tendrils skyward, reaching for the Witch King. “You cannot slay me!” she cried. The Dark Gods themselves fill me with their power!”
Malus spat a mouthful of ichor into his sister’s face. “And they do not countenance failure,” he said, twisting the blade in her body.
Nagaira screamed again—and the smoking tendrils faltered, just short of their goal. Her body turned grey, once more. Gibbering with rage, she hissed a litany of curses, calling upon the gods for more power. But she had already drawn far too much, and the patience of the fickle Chaos gods was at an end.
Like snakes, the tendrils turned, seeking easier prey. They plunged like arrows, burying themselves in Nagaira’s skull.
Malus hurled himself clear of his sister, drawing the burning blade after him. As he watched, daemonic faces took shape all over her body, the
mouths working hungrily as they devoured his sister from within. Still screaming, she shrank in the air before him.
The last things to go were her eyes. Nagaira glared at Malus with a look of purest hate. Then she was gone in a clap of terrible thunder.
“Enjoy the favour of the gods, dear sister,” Malus said darkly. And then, like a black wind, Lhunara was upon him.
He never heard her approach. Only the warpsword saved him; it seemed to turn in his hand, reaching skyward just as her bloodstained blades came slicing for his throat. His body moved without conscious thought, striking the twin swords aside in a shower of sparks.
There was no time for fear, or curses, or clever stratagems. She fell upon him like a storm, and it was all Malus could do just to survive.
Her glowing eye gleamed balefully from the depths of her helmet as she drove Malus across the square. The warpsword was a blur, meeting her every stroke with a ringing block that just barely kept death at bay. Already ichor was seeping from a score of shallow cuts on his face and neck.
After several long moments, Malus regained his wits in the face of Lhunara’s maddened assault. She said not a word, slashing and thrusting at him with an urgency born of desperation and madness. Where Nagaira emanated rage and power, his former retainer was driven by nothing more than bitter pain and despair. Now he sensed that she knew her chance for vengeance was slipping away.
Her urgency made her sloppy. Lhunara swung for Malus’ neck and he ducked beneath the blow, slicing the warpsword through her midsection. The blade parted her armour like paper, the edges turning molten from the sword’s heat. Ichor poured from the wound and she groaned… but still she fought on.
The sight stunned Malus. I can’t kill her, he thought. Not even the warpsword could slay her!
Lhunara leapt at the highborn and he planted his feet, blocking her twin swords and stopping her rush until she stood nearly nose-to-nose with him. He smelt her foul breath and saw burn scars etched in pale lines along her throat. Within the depths of her helmet Malus could see the deformed cheekbone that had broken beneath Nagaira’s blow.
Suddenly he understood. No blade could kill the bearer of the Amulet of Vaurog.
He knew what he had to do. Gritting his teeth, he let go of the burning blade.
At once, Tz’arkan’s power tore through his body, filling him with strength and wracking his body with pain. Roaring in agony, he clapped his hands against the side of Lhunara’s helmet and squeezed. Face to face, he heard her scream as the steel deformed and bent inwards. She tried to pull away, but there was no room to land a blow, and the daemon’s strength was irresistible. He felt Tz’arkan’s power growing and wondered how long he had before the daemon regained control of him once more.
Lhunara moaned. Her body spasmed, and bone cracked. Black ichor sprayed across his face.
She drew a wracking breath. “I… loved you,” she hissed. The words came out like a curse.
“I know,” Malus said, and crushed the helmet flat.
Lhunara’s headless body collapsed to the ground. Lightning flickered on the red-gold surface of the Amulet of Vaurog as it rolled free of her body.
Stooping quickly, Malus snatched up the warpsword. For a moment he feared that the daemon would resist him; his fingers trembled, but with an effort of will he seized the hilt and felt the sword’s fire hold the raging daemon at bay. Then he grasped the amulet and placed the torc around his neck.
Malus turned his face to the sky, seeking the Witch King. Seraphon was swooping low over the battlements of the inner wall, plucking beastmen from the parapet and flinging them to their deaths. More were racing down siege ladders, seeking to escape the death trap within the inner compound. Already, fleeing figures were running headlong through the darkness to either side of the square. The siege had been broken at last.
Malus wanted to roar his triumph to the heavens, but then he caught sight of a lone figure limping onto the square. The warpsword twitched in his fingers, but then he recognized who it was. Cursing under his breath, he loped across the corpse-choked space just as Hauclir collapsed onto the stones.
His short sword and trusty cudgel were gone, and his mail was soaked in blood. Lhunara had stabbed Hauclir through the chest not once, but twice. His skin was pale, and his breath was coming in shallow gasps. He blinked dully as Malus stood above him. “I… I think we failed, my lord,” he said.
“No,” Malus replied bitterly. “You did well, you damned rogue.”
“We held her as long as we could,” Hauclir said. “Damn, but she was fast. She got Cutter first, then Ten-thumbs. Then she got me. I don’t know what happened to Pockets. When I came to, she and that bitch were gone.”
“I’m sure she got away,” Malus said, not believing a word. “Just rest easy. The troops will be here any minute, and we’ll get you to the healers.”
Hauclir looked up at Malus. “That’s about the worst lie you’ve ever told,” he said. “You’re going to leave me. I can see it in your eyes.”
Malus bit back his anger. “I have to go, Hauclir,” he said softly. “I’m out of time.”
Suddenly Hauclir’s face turned solemn. “I know,” he said. “So am I.” Then he turned his face away, and closed his eyes.
Malus looked down at his former retainer for a long moment, then slowly turned away. Bitterness burned like a coal in his gut. There was nothing he could do.
The dire warning of the daemon still rang in his mind. He’ll have to ride that mount of his to death to make it to the temple in time. It might already be too late to reclaim his soul, he realised.
And now I’m throwing away the last of my honour as well, he thought.
A dozen paces away he ground to a halt. Slowly he returned the warpsword to its scabbard. As its heat ebbed, he felt the daemon’s strength slowly return.
“Damn me to hell,” Malus muttered, then turned and ran back to Hauclir. Gritting his teeth, he knelt by his former retainer’s side and unbuckled his sword belt. Quickly he set the sword aside, and the power of the daemon surged.
Malus looked down at his ichor-stained palms and pressed them to Hauclir's wounds. “Get up, damn you,” the highborn growled. “Did you hear me, you damned rogue? Get up! You’ve vexed me for most of a year, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to die on me now!” Dread filled the highborn, but he focused his will and summoned Tz’arkan’s power, trying to force it into Hauclir's wounds.
Hauclir gave a convulsive heave and began to cough. Malus recoiled from the druchii’s body, seeing the wounds scabbing over with a dull, black crust.
Malus managed a nervous smile. “There’s your reward. You can thank me later,” he said, and lunged for the safety of the warpsword.
He fell just six inches short. In mid-leap the daemon gripped him in an invisible fist, halting his flight. He landed hard, his fingers outstretched, but salvation was just out of reach.
Agony coursed through him as Tz’arkan swelled into his brain. The pain went on and on, cutting into the depths of his heart and mind.
Pray your precious honour gives you succour on the long ride to come, the daemon hissed triumphantly. And the world dissolved in a haze of madness and pain.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE END OF TIME
The Chaos Wastes, first week of winter
The dust of ancient warlords slipped from Malus Dark-blade’s hands, laying out the last segments of the arcane circle that surrounded the daemon’s massive crystal prison. Nearly an hour had passed since he’d begun; his skull throbbed with the daemon’s blasphemous knowledge and his limbs ached with strain. He’d measured his steps with exacting care, shaping the sorcerous symbols as precisely as he could. Now the great urn was empty, and the complicated ward nearly complete.
As the powdered bone ran through his fingers he felt the final moments of his life slipping away along with it. It slid from his grasp on a tide of inevitability, driven by the daemon’s implacable will. As the sorcerous circle took shape around
him, Malus glimpsed the vast skein of intrigues and bloody deeds wrought by the daemon down through the millennia, all leading up to these final moments. Empires had come and gone, sorcerers and kings risen to glory and trampled into the dirt and thousands, perhaps millions of lives destroyed, all so that he would find himself in this chamber, at this hour, pouring the bones of conquerors upon the stone floor.
He saw what the future held. Tz’arkan had shown him hints of the world to come in the fires of Hag Graef, in the blood-soaked streets of Har Ganeth and the horrific siege of the Black Tower. An age of darkness and ruin was at hand. The daemon would walk among the druchii in the guise of the Scourge and reshape them into a weapon that would drown the world in blood.
Malus looked down at the last threads of fine powder trickling from his hand. We are all nothing but dust in the eyes of the gods, he thought, surprised to feel no sense of rage at the realization. All the heat had gone out of him. His heart was cold and heavy as stone.
Time had run out. All of his schemes had, in the end, come to naught. Tz’arkan had millennia to lay his webs, testing their strands and pulling them taut. Now there was nothing left for him but to take the last few steps left to him.
It was time for Tz’arkan to rise from his ancient prison, and time for Malus Darkblade to die.
The last of the dust trickled through his fingers, landing in precisely the right spot to close the vast and intricate circle. The highborn felt a tremor in the air, as though the final piece of a terrible, cosmic puzzle had finally slipped into place.
That’s it, the daemon hissed. It pressed against Malus’ bones like a beast pushing at the bars of its cell. Now the tablet. Read the incantation inscribed upon it. Hurry!
Stepping carefully, Malus stepped outside the circle and took his place at the foot of the mighty ward. The temple servants rose as one and moved to the five relics waiting nearby. Their ancient bodies creaking and crackling under the strain, the revenants picked up the artefacts and arranged them around the circle, then knelt beside them. The last artefact laid in place was the warpsword itself. The ancient servant placed the long blade nearly at Malus’ feet.
