by Dan Abnett
The next thing he knew, the servant with the stone tablet was kneeling beside him, hands raised in supplication. As though in a dream, Malus reached out and plucked the tablet from the revenant’s hands. He turned to the nearby pedestal and rested the tablet upon its surface. Writing older than Naggaroth, perhaps older than the very world itself, burned their angular lines into his brain. The blasphemous incantation meant nothing to the highborn, but their strange consonants came easily to his lips, thanks to the daemon’s brutal tutelage.
The words burned his lips and scarred his throat, but the more he spoke, the faster they burst free. Crackling energies filled the vast treasure vault. A hot wind swirled about the gleaming crystal, pulling at Malus’ hair and plucking at the servants’ ancient clothes. Agony tore through Malus’ chest, but the highborn had no breath to spare for tortured screams. Instead, he spoke the words before him, unravelling the ancient bindings laid upon Tz’arkan thousands of years past.
The wind grew, howling like a tormented ghost in the echoing space. He could feel the nest of snakes uncoil themselves from around his heart and begin forcing their way up his throat. Smoke seeped from Malus’ mouth and nose, drawn into the cyclone like oil poured upon the surface of a turbulent sea. It spread like a black stain in the air, hovering before the crystal as the incantation reached its inevitable climax.
As the last lines of the ritual were spoken, the wind grew to a thunderous cyclone. The foul wind buffeted the undead servants, ripping at their rotten clothes and flaying their desiccated skin as it forced them to their knees. The inky smoke writhed and pulsed, lit from within by arcs of pellucid flame as it contracted into an amorphous mass before the highborn’s eyes.
Then the last word burst from Malus’ throat with a spray of black ichor, and it felt as though his body was being torn apart. The stone tablet shattered into razor-sharp fragments as the daemon broke its bonds at last.
With a rushing sound like an indrawn breath, the cloud of Abyssal smoke contracted further, assuming a terrible, towering form that loomed over Malus’ hunched body. The daemon’s body was shaped like a druchii’s, only broader and far more muscular; it was beautiful, so far beyond the apex of perfection that it was maddening to look upon. Only its broad, malformed head and burning eyes betrayed its birth in the storms of Chaos. Taloned hands reached skyward, and Tz’arkan opened long, misshapen jaws and roared like a newborn god.
FREE! The daemon thundered. Not from the stone, but from Malus himself. The realization did not surprise him. Indeed, a part of him had suspected it all along.
The icy touch of the daemon’s power disappeared from the highborn’s body in an instant, leaving behind nothing but terrible pain. Malus doubled over in agony, knocking the slim pedestal onto its side.
He knew what had to happen next, and a strange calm settled over him. “I’ve done what you asked,” the highborn croaked. “Now you must fulfil your bargain, daemon. Give me back my soul.”
Tz’arkan, Drinker of Worlds, looked down upon the highborn’s pitiful form and showed triple rows of needle-like fangs. “You shall have all you deserve,” the daemon said with a hateful laugh. “But first, I must feed!”
Too fast for the eye to follow the daemon lunged forward, pressing its massive palm against Malus’ breastplate. Deep inside his chest, Malus felt something give way, like a thread breaking, and he felt his heart stop at last. Pain ebbed like a swift tide, leaving only a cold emptiness in its wake.
The daemon drew back, pulling a stream of dark substance through the surface of the highborn’s ensorcelled armour. Malus watched Tz’arkan pull his soul from his body and draw it to its gaping mouth. Dying, he sank slowly towards the floor.
Dying, but not yet entirely dead. The ancient sorceries of the temple wards slowed the passage of time in the great chamber. In this one place, a druchii’s last breath could take a thousand years to escape.
Lost in its triumph, Tz’arkan began to feed upon the highborn’s withered soul. The Drinker of Worlds failed to see Malus’ hand reaching for the dark hilt of the warpsword just a few feet away.
His fingers touched the hilt of the burning blade, and felt its warmth kindle the embers of hate in Malus’ dead heart. His stained lips pulled back in a bestial snarl.
With hate, all things are possible, he thought, in death as in life. The Warpsword of Khaine seemed to leap into his hands of its own accord, and he swung it in a hissing arc at Tz’arkan’s towering frame.
The warpsword tore across the daemon’s midsection, igniting its sorcerous shape. A howl of pain and fury tore through the treasure vault, buffeting Malus like a storm wind. It was answered by thin shrieks and wails of terror as Tz’arkan’s undead servants cowered before their master’s rage.
It was a gamble, perhaps the greatest wager he’d ever made. His calculations pitted the will of Khaine against the hunger of the daemon. The black blade and the sigil in the treasure vault had given him the idea; would the warpsword surrender his soul to Tz’arkan so easily? He believed it wouldn’t, not if there was even the slightest hope that he could triumph against the daemon before him.
And if he was wrong, so be it, he thought, drawing back the smoking blade for another blow. He wasn’t going into the Outer Darkness without putting up a fight.
The highborn’s body felt light and swift as he lunged for the daemon, riding a wave of battle-hunger bequeathed by Khaine’s fearsome blade. But before he could strike Malus saw the daemon’s blazing eyes fix upon him, and Tz’arkan’s thunderous voice spoke words of power that seared the air between them. The daemon’s taloned fist clenched around Malus’ night-dark soul, trapping it in a cage of crooked lightnings -then it thrust its other hand, palm out, right at the highborn’s chest.
Malus felt the air between him and the daemon crackle with invisible power, and he hurled himself to the side a split-second before the bolt of power erupted from Tz’arkan’s hand. The black bolt parted the air with a sound like tearing cloth and left a congealed mist of blood and bile in its wake. It licked like a dragon’s tongue little more than a hair’s width past the highborn’s arm, and his skin recoiled from its passage, even within the confines of his enchanted armour. The bolt lashed through the wailing crowd of servants, dissolving their rotted forms with its merest touch. Gold coins melted and ran like tallow. Diamonds and rubies darkened and shattered at the energy’s entropic touch. The ravening black fire burned across the length of the treasure vault and scored the thick wall with a crackle of splintering stone.
Tz’arkan still burned as well, the edges of the wound across its midsection curling and blackening like parchment as flickering yellow flames guttered and spat within its unnatural, perfect flesh. The daemon cackled insanely, its voice trembling in pitch between amusement and murderous rage as it pivoted to face Malus once more. Black vapour curled from its outstretched hand. It reached for him as though offering a benediction.
The ebon fire leapt out at Malus again. On instinct, he threw himself flat, his armoured form crashing to the polished stone floor, and once again he barely escaped the spell’s all-consuming touch. It withered the pedestal where the stone tablet had rested, then scored a deep furrow along the floor as it tracked through still more of the hapless servants. Their thin screams bubbled and hissed as their bodies collapsed into steaming ash.
But the daemon wasn’t finished yet. Tz’arkan continued to turn, lashing the arc of sorcerous fire at Malus like a whip. Pillars exploded at its passing touch, showering the vault with pulverized dust and whizzing fragments. Clay urns burst with sharp bangs as their contents boiled in the blink of an eye. Stands of ensorcelled armour crumpled like foil. Then the ravening fire played back across the floor, blackening the gleaming curves of the huge containment wards and then arcing against the squat, iron tripod that held the daemon’s crystal prison. The dark metal sagged like hot wax, and the huge, faceted stone tipped and fell ponderously forward. Tz’arkan’s entropic lash struck the gleaming crystal, and for a heart-s
topping moment the facets sent tendrils of destructive power in all directions, slashing through the huge room like a storm of irresistible knives. A moment later the crystal blackened from within, a canker growing in its core with frightening speed that swelled until it reached the edges of the stone and burst it apart with an earth-shaking explosion. Malus was hurled forward by the blast, his armoured body pummelled by shards of crystal the size of a druchii’s fist.
I can’t keep this up, he realised. I can’t get close to Tz’arkan now, and any moment my luck is going to run out. For half a moment he contemplated bargaining with the daemon—Tz’arkan needed his body to dwell in so it could return to Naggaroth, didn’t it? But even as he considered it, he knew that the time for intrigues were long past. He had to think of something else, and fast.
Ears ringing, Malus cast about for somewhere to take cover from the daemon’s ebon fire—and then his eyes caught a glint of brass just a few yards away, resting at the edge of the summoning circle. Of course, he thought! Gathering his legs beneath him he scrambled desperately towards the nearby relic, even as the air behind him crackled with building power.
The highborn’s questing fingers closed about the brass octagon even as the daemon’s sorcerous power leapt at him. Malus spun, raising the Octagon of Praan before him, and the bolt of ebon fire exploded against its surface. Jagged streaks of energy ricocheted from the amulet, deflected by its power and burying themselves like thunderbolts in the ceiling, walls and floor. Malus felt waves of heat radiate from the relic, and to his horror, he saw sizzling teardrops of molten brass running from the surface of the artefact. The daemon’s full power was more fearsome than he’d imagined.
It was clear the amulet wouldn’t survive another bolt. Malus tossed the damaged relic aside and sought out the next artefact along the rim of the great circle. The highborn’s face turned grim. He was only going to get one more chance, and he had to make it count.
Malus lunged across the smoking floor, reaching for the relic. On the other side of the summoning circle, Tz’arkan’s laughter faded. The flames licking at the tear in his chest guttered and went out.
“You insignificant little worm,” the daemon hissed. “I’ve torn the life out of you, and still you wriggle. Everything you ever were, everything you ever dreamt of, I have taken all away. And yet still you refuse to accept your wretched fate! It is over, Malus Darkblade. You have been a troublesome servant indeed; at times I despaired that we would ever reach this glorious moment. But no matter how hard you fought against me, in the end you still did my bidding, whether you knew it or not.” The daemon uttered a poisonous chuckle. “Once I have consumed your soul I will take your disgusting shape and return to Naggaroth, and the reign of the Scourge will begin,” the daemon said. Arcs of dark power crackled along its taloned fingers. “And I could not have done it without you, Darkblade, weak as you were. And now you shall reap your reward.”
Malus closed his hand about the relic. “Here’s a token of my esteem as well,” he growled, rolling onto his back and hurling the Dagger of Torxus left-handed at the daemon.
The dagger was a dark blur, spinning end-for-end across the battered circle and burying itself in Tz’arkan’s chest. There was a thunderous crackling of thwarted energies as the power the daemon was about to unleash was disrupted by the force of the relic itself. Fierce arcs of ebon fire lashed at the jutting hilt of the terrible dagger, carving gruesome wounds across the daemon’s own unnatural flesh. The Dagger of Torxus began to blacken as well, its pommel and hilt vaporizing under the sorcerous chain reaction. “No!” Tz’arkan roared, clawing desperately at the dagger’s hilt. Tz’arkan’s body began to unravel under the onslaught, skin dissolving and flesh turning to liquid beneath. The daemon’s howl of fury grew wilder by the moment. “You cannot stop me, wretch! This world is mine, now! Hear the words of Tz’arkan and despair! The time of ruin is come! And in time you will —”
The rest was lost in a rising crescendo of concussive blasts, as the daemon’s power and the energies of the Dagger of Torxus tore one another apart. With a final effort, Tz’arkan ripped the smoking weapon from its chest—and then daemon and dagger both vanished in a flare of white light and a clap of deafening thunder.
A groan brought Malus back to his senses. He had somehow risen to his knees, the burning blade still clutched in his right hand. Tendrils of smoke rose from his battered armour, and clouds of pulverized stone and metal hung heavy in the dimly lit vault.
Tz’arkan was gone. Destroyed or banished back to its goddess-forsaken realm, the highborn neither knew nor cared. Malus took a deep breath, heedless of the reek of burnt metal and scorched flesh that thickened the air. He felt light, almost weightless within his armour. He’d never realised how much of a burden the daemon’s presence really was.
A soft chuckle escaped his torn lips. I won, he thought. I won.
His gaze fell to the gauntlet covering his right hand. Setting the warpsword across his thighs, Malus pulled the armoured glove away to reveal the ruby cabochon ring that had mocked him for so many months. With trembling fingers he gripped the ring and pulled. It slid easily from his finger, tumbling from his grasp and ringing faintly as it bounced along the floor. The highborn smiled in triumph. Another weary chuckle turned to a wild laugh of joy. “I won!” he cried.
Something tugged at the side of his face. Absently, Malus reached up with his free hand to pluck it free. His cheek was cold to the touch.
Frowning, the highborn’s fingers closed around a small, jagged shape buried in his skin. There was a dull twinge of pain as he tugged it free and held it out before him.
It was a piece of crystal the size of a gold piece, its edges sharper than any knife. He hadn’t even felt it bite into his skin.
Worse, there was no blood on it. There wasn’t even a dark stain of ichor. Malus’ throat went dry.
He reached up once again and gingerly pressed against the side of his throat. Try as he might, he could feel no pulsing of blood in his veins. “Oh, no,” he breathed. “Oh, you damned, infernal bastard. You took it. You took my thrice-damned soul!”
The highborn’s cry of rage was drowned out by another ominous groan. There was a crackle of breaking stone, then a thunderous crash as part of the treasure vault’s ceiling collapsed. The heavy slabs of obsidian struck the already weakened floor and broke through, pouring a rain of ruined treasure and tons of debris into the level beneath.
Suddenly the air above Malus echoed with ominous groans and sharp cracks as well. “Mother of Night,” Malus growled. The daemon might yet succeed in bringing the entire damned temple down around his ears.
The highborn eyed the open doorway. What would happen once he passed beyond the reach of the containment wards? Would death claim him at last?
There was sharp report just above Malus, and a chunk of obsidian the size of his torso crashed to the floor just a few feet to his left. That decided the highborn. If he stayed where he was he was as good as dead anyway. He gathered up his gauntlet and the warpsword and ran for his life.
He hadn’t taken more than a dozen paces when the rest of the ceiling gave way in a long, grinding roar. Gusts of pulverized stone washed past him, swallowing the highborn for an instant in a smothering, black fog. Gritting his teeth, Malus ran on, aiming for the spot where he knew the doorway to lie. The floor shook beneath him as tons of rubble poured down from the temple ceiling.
Suddenly the floor seemed to fall away from him and he was stumbling headlong through empty space. He fell for a long, dizzying instant, then crashed face-first on a canted stone floor. Again the pain felt like a strange echo of true sensation; he knew he was hurt, but he wasn’t certain how badly. Malus felt himself skid half a dozen feet before fetching up against a stretch of level floor. He tried to clear his head with a savage shake, belatedly realizing that he’d stumbled down the long ramp leading into the living quarters on the level below the vault.
The air was still thick with dust and smoke. Malus stag
gered back to his feet, coughing as he struggled to breathe in the grey-brown murk. The floor continued to tremble beneath his feet, and the sounds of collapsing stone had mingled together into one long, muffled roar. Holding the warpsword out before him he ran on into the haze, navigating by memory as he sought the top of the curving stairs.
Stone fell all around him as he went; he smashed against piles of debris scattered across his path, but each time he picked himself up and drove on. The minutes stretched interminably, until he thought he’d got turned around in the murk and was hopelessly lost. Just as he began to lose heart, however, a gust of air smote his face, and he stumbled into a cleared space kept open by a furnace-like updraft of air. The spiral staircase lay before him, its curving wall lit by an ominous orange glow. “Mother of Night,” he cursed, hesitating at the top step. Malus shook his head helplessly. “No way out but down,” he said at last. “If this doesn’t warm my bones, nothing will.”
Taking a deep breath, he rushed down the twisting stair. The heat pressed against his flesh like a wall, but he only felt the dimmest echo of warmth. The air rippled and shimmered like a desert mirage as he descended ever lower towards the lake of fire.
He emerged upon a threshold of melting stone, at the mouth of a seething dragon’s maw. Magma raged a hundred feet below; as Malus watched, chunks of rock from the cavern’s ceiling plunged into the churning sea, raising plumes of molten stone dozens of feet high. The wings of the daemon at the edge of the plaza glowed white-orange along its bottom edges, dripping streams of melting rock into the lake below.
Malus sheathed the warpsword and pulled on his right-hand gauntlet, then hurried quickly down the stairs. As he stepped on the first of the floating boulders, however, the stairway shifted wildly beneath him. The multi-ton boulder wobbled—and began to sink, picking up speed.
