Warhammer - Darkblade 04 - Warpsword

by Dan Abnett

  The line of swordsmen was disintegrating. Without orders, some men advanced into the crowd and others gave ground, splitting the force into isolated knots of struggling warriors. The cobblestones were black with pools of blood, men slipping and stumbling over fallen bodies or spilled entrails. As Malus watched, an executioner overbalanced and fell to the ground, only to be set upon by a trio of druchii who pounded his head and back with pieces of stone torn from the square itself.

  A muffled shout drew his attention to the east where Malus caught sight of an executioner in ornate armour brandishing a rune inscribed draich and shouting orders to the block of swordsmen covering the eastern road. Once they entered the fight the battle would be over in moments. The highborn spun in place, looking everywhere for signs of Arleth Vann and the temple elder.

  There! Malus saw a pair of dark-cloaked figures herding another druchii with a crimson cloak towards the lane on the south side of the square. No one was paying any attention in the chaos of the battle. This was the only chance he was going to get.

  Drawing one of his throwing knives, Malus cut back through the seething mob, staying low and skirting struggling opponents as he closed the distance with the fleeing trio. A bloodstained man grabbed at Malus’ arm, bleeding from a head wound and babbling incoherently. Malus stabbed him in the leg with an angry snarl and shoved the man away.

  They were nearly at the mouth of the street. Malus picked up his pace, running up to the edge of the mob. It would be a long shot, he realised with a grimace. The highborn took a deep breath, drew back his arm and hurled the knife as hard as he could at the elder’s retreating form.

  The knife was just a dark blur against the grey mist as it arced towards its target. It struck the red-cloaked figure just beneath the left shoulder blade. Malus watched as his victim staggered under the force of the blow, and then took two more stumbling steps before falling face-first onto the cobblestones. Malus watched Arleth Vann turn at the sound. The two cloaked figures paused only a moment, staring at the fallen body. Then they turned and made good their escape.

  A tremendous shout echoed from the other side of the square as the reserve block of executioners charged into the fray. Malus couldn’t see what had become of the remaining zealots. Perhaps they had already broken free, or maybe they lay among the dead littering the cobblestones. Either way, they were no longer his problem.

  Malus headed south, pushing aside other fleeing city folk as he fled the oncoming executioners. As he approached his fallen victim, however, he was gripped by overpowering curiosity. Was it Rhulan? Had he made the right choice? On impulse, he skidded to a stop beside the body and pulled his knife free, before rolling the corpse over to peer inside the depths of the hood.

  His heart clenched. “Mother of Night,” he cursed, looking into Sariya’s lifeless eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  REVELATIONS

  Blood flowed in the streets of Har Ganeth, and the sounds of battle rang out all across the city as the warriors of the temple vented their fury on any druchii unlucky enough to be caught in their path. Men were chased down and hacked apart, their entrails spread for the ravens and their heads set aside as offerings to the Bloody-Handed God. Slaves were hunted and torn apart like wild animals. Market squares turned to charnel houses as the servants of the temple sought to drown their rage in rivers of blood.

  An elder of the temple had been taken, so the rumours said, seized within the holy grounds of a city shrine while his bodyguards were slaughtered by a howling mob. Never in the history of the temple had such a crime been committed. It was an insult too great to be borne. Trumpets sounded from the temple walls all through the afternoon, and a flood of black-robed druchii streamed into the city streets with bared blades held in their hands, half-mad with anger and grief. The witch elves joined them late in the day, their muscular bodies painted with sweat and blood, and their eyes wild with murderous ecstasy. They sniffed the air and howled like wolves, their faces twisted in masks of bestial hunger, and when they could not find any more victims to kill on the city streets the brides of Khaine drove the temple servants to break down the doors of the lowborns’ homes and flesh houses.

  That was when the fighting began in earnest. For hundreds of years the people of the city had prospered under the terrible rule of the temple and bled for the Lord of Murder when necessary. The daylight was given over to the mundane needs of the city, but at night the streets were a place of holy communion, where sacrifices could be made to the Lord of Murder without fear of feud or reprisal. Highborn families would offer up clutches of slaves in hopes of a good flesh harvest or to call down a curse upon their enemies. Lowborn families, hungry for wealth and power, were forced to turn out their own kin in hopes of winning the Blood God’s favour. One and all, they were prey to the armed bands that roamed the streets from dusk to dawn in search of victims to sate the eternal hunger of the temple.

  The streets were given over to the Lord of Murder so that the houses of the citizens would remain inviolate by the unspoken rule that had allowed the city to survive for centuries. So when the servants of the temple tore down the doors of the lowborns’ houses they did not find fearful victims waiting for the executioner’s blade, but were welcomed with axes and spears like any other invader.

  Malus Darkblade, the architect of the day’s bloodshed, wandered the streets of Har Ganeth all through the afternoon, his face a mask of hate and his blade wet with blood. He staggered like a drunk and killed every living thing that crossed his path, furious with himself and with the city of madmen he found himself in.

  Arleth Vann had anticipated him, forcing the elder to exchange his cloak with Sariya. Had it been a trap all along, designed to force his hand and show his true intentions to Tyran? Malus couldn’t be sure, and wasn’t certain it even mattered anymore. The elder was doubtless safe at the house of Sethra Veyl, telling the zealot leader everything he knew. If Rhulan had told the elders of Malus’ deal then he was certain to be exposed.

  All this had gone through Malus’ head as he’d crouched over Sariya’s body. Then the fleeing mob surged around him, filling his ears with cries of anger and pain, and he let himself be caught up in it.

  When he came back to his senses he was sitting in an alley surrounded by corpses. The sounds of battle raged in a small square just a few yards away Malus listened to the clash of steel and the screams of the dying like another man would listen to the patter of rain or the whisper of wind in the trees. His robes were stiff with blood and his sword felt glued to his hand with layers of crusted filth. The stench of the battlefield filled his nostrils. His stomach rumbled and he recalled that he hadn’t eaten all day.

  A shadow passed over Malus’ face, and he felt the beat of wings against his cheeks. The raven settled on the head of a man doubled over on the alley floor next to Malus. The bird studied him with one yellow eye and let out a croaking laugh. “Blood and souls! Blood and souls!” the dreadful bird cried.

  Malus took a half-hearted swipe at the damned raven, sending it squawking into the air. Exhausted, he slumped onto the bloodstained ground, rolling onto his back and staring up at a thin bar of cloudy sky between the alley’s close-set buildings. He felt the daemon move within him, slithering against his ribs like a contented cat. The sensation repelled him.

  His rage spent, the highborn wearily considered his options. There was a very real risk that his dealings with the temple had been exposed. Certainly Arleth Vann suspected him, but the former retainer might well have done that on nothing more than general principles.

  The zealots were the key to the Sanctum of the Sword. He had to deliver Tyran and the other true believers into the hands of the temple, and that meant returning to the house of Sethra Veyl. Perhaps there were other ways to reach the warpsword, but they would take time to unearth, and time was one commodity he had in short supply.

  I’ve got to go back, he thought grimly. I have to know what they’re planning. Let Arleth Vann make his accusations. I’ve tal
ked my way out of worse situations before.

  Another shadow fell across Malus’ vision. For a moment he thought the raven had returned, but then a bloodstained face and a pair of shoulders loomed into the highborn’s view. A grimy hand reached for his hair, and a gore stained hatchet glinted in the fading light.

  Malus rolled onto his side with a snarl and stabbed the man in the chest. The druchii, wearing the stained robes of a tradesman, groaned weakly and toppled onto his side. The man had a clutch of severed heads tied to his belt and a leather bag bulging with looted coin, gold earrings and silver bracelets. Malus had to admire the man’s opportunism in the midst of chaos. The highborn helped himself to the bag and struck off the man’s head for good measure.

  A croaking laugh echoed down the alley. The raven looked up from its meal and eyed him knowingly “Gore-crow! Gore-crow!” the bird called mockingly.

  Malus hit the bird squarely with the tradesman’s head, sending it croaking angrily skyward in an explosion of greasy feathers. The damned skulls were good for something after all, he thought to himself.

  The highborn district was relatively quiet after the bedlam of the lower quarters. Even in the depths of their anger the temple followers evidently knew better than to menace the city’s well-armed nobility. Still, the tall houses were dark and tightly shuttered and the streets were largely deserted as Malus found his way to the house of Sethra Veyl.

  There were no zealots standing guard outside the white door when the highborn arrived. Malus pounded on the door with the pommel of his blade, but got no reply. “Open up, damn your eyes!” he roared over the wall, his previous anger returning. “Since when do true believers cower behind stone walls?”

  Within moments there was a rattle of bolts and the door opened. A white-robed zealot stood in the doorway, clutching his sword in a white-knuckled grip as he glared at Malus. “No one enters tonight, holy one,” the man said, “not even you. Tyran’s orders.”

  “If Tyran wishes to keep me out he can tell me himself!” Malus snarled, advancing on the man. The zealot raised his blade, but the highborn slapped it aside with his own and then shoved the man rudely in the chest. The true believer fell backwards onto the cobblestones and the men with him gave ground, stunned at Malus’ bloody visage. To them he was the very image of the divine, anointed in the red wine of battle.

  Malus raised his blade and levelled it at the astonished guards. “Those of you who are ready to offer up your heads to Khaine need only stand in my path and I will give you gladly to the god.”

  But the man Malus had struck wasn’t so easily cowed. He sprang gracefully to his feet, a fierce expression on his face. “Let us see who has the greater devotion, then,” he said, edging forwards with his sword held ready. “I’ll go to the Lord of Murder laughing with joy, knowing you’ll soon be following me.”

  “Enough!” cried a husky, female voice from across the small courtyard. “Put aside your blades and let the man from Naggor pass. I can see the spirits of the dead that surround him. He has offered up a great bounty to our god this day, and punished the ranks of the blasphemers.”

  The zealots reluctantly parted to allow Malus to pass. A woman waited on the steps leading up to the house, her pale face gleaming from the depths of a wide, black hood. The blood-witch studied Malus with a frank, predatory stare.

  Malus made his way slowly across the courtyard, noticing for the first time that it was conspicuously empty. The zealots that had camped in the open space had all vanished, taking their meagre possessions with them. The highborn frowned up at the woman. “Where is Tyran?” he asked.

  “Elsewhere,” the blood-witch replied. “When word of the elder’s disappearance reached the temple the remaining leaders could not contain the fury of their servants. Once night has fallen and their bloodlust has been spent they will return to the fortress and the elders will send them against the houses of the true believers no matter where they lie.”

  “And the elder who has joined us?”

  The blood-witch smiled, showing her leonine fangs. “He has proven worthy, holy one, and eager to witness the Time of Blood. Our Haru’ann is complete, while the temple remains in disarray.”

  Malus paused, trying to puzzle out the full import of the blood-witch’s words. If she knew so much and yet allowed him into the house then clearly the zealots still trusted him. Or perhaps they simply had no time to deal with him because something much more important was afoot. What was this damned Haru’ann everyone kept talking about?

  “What would Tyran have of me?” he asked.

  The blood-witch shrugged. “When you did not return with the others it was assumed that you found a glorious death in the riots,” she said. “Those of us who have no role in what is to come will take to the streets tonight and offer up tokens of devotion to the Bloody-Handed God.” She smiled again, her feline eyes glowing in the fading sunlight. “I will dance with many men tonight, take many mates and bathe in their fluids. You may dance with me, if you wish.”

  “That… that’s quite an honour,” Malus managed to say, quite taken aback by the woman’s feral gaze, “but I am not worthy of your attentions. For one thing, I’m filthy.”

  The blood-witch threw back her head and laughed. The sound both aroused and frightened Malus at the same time. “Go then, as the Lord of Murder wishes,” she said. The blood-witch descended the steps, reaching up to gently trace a curved talon along the line of his jaw. “Another night perhaps,” she said softly. “Remember me, holy one. I might not recognise your freshly scrubbed face when we meet again.”

  Malus strode swiftly down the deserted hall, his mind racing. Tyran was making his move tonight, of that he was certain, but what was his plan?

  He reached the sparsely furnished cell that had been set aside for him and dashed inside, not bothering to shut the door behind him as he started gathering up his possessions. There was no way he was going to find the zealot leader before he set his plan in motion. The best he could do was to bluff his way into the temple and tell Rhulan what little he knew. Malus figured he could improvise the rest as the situation developed. It was not as if he had any other choice.

  The highborn went to roll up his bedroll and realised that after everything that had happened he was still holding on to his sword. Malus stared at the long blade in irritation. Put the damned thing away, he thought. You wouldn’t have made it this far if the zealots wanted to kill you.

  Then a chill went down his spine as a dark shape moved through the light at his back. Malus whirled just as Arleth Vann struck.

  The assassin was nearly invisible in the dimly lit room. The only warning Malus had was a glint of witchlight on metal as one of Arleth Vann’s blades caught the light streaming in from the corridor beyond. The highborn raised his blade and narrowly parried a stroke that would have sliced open his throat. Pure, desperate instinct caused him to sweep his blade downwards and parry the assassin’s second sword as it stabbed for his stomach.

  Malus gave ground quickly, trying to circle around to the cell’s doorway so he would be backlit by the corridor lights, but Arleth Vann anticipated this and darted swiftly to the side, aiming a flurry of blows at his former master’s head and neck. The highborn parried stroke for stroke, but was forced inexorably backwards as he warded off the assassin’s attacks. Malus fumbled for one of his throwing knives as the assassin shifted position again and melded back into the darkness.

  The highborn pulled the dagger free as quietly as he could, reversing his grip on the blade with a flick of his wrist. He crouched low, sliding warily to the left. “I continue to underestimate you, Arleth Vann,” he hissed. “I never expected your little surprise in the Valley of Shadows, and here you nearly pulled the same trick on me again. Surely you realise that there’s no honour left to reclaim by killing me. As far as the world knows, I died with the army outside Hag Graef.”

  For a moment there was only silence. Malus waited, his ears straining for the slightest sound. Then there was a faint
hint of movement and Arleth Vann spoke in a sepulchral whisper, like wind soughing through the cracks in a tomb. “Would that I thought so as well,” he said, “but in the absence of honour, the need for vengeance remains.”

  Malus fixed on the source of the voice and hurled the dagger with all his strength, before bolting for the open doorway. He heard the discordant ring of steel behind him as Arleth Vann knocked the dagger aside and bit back a savage curse. He reached the shaft of light thrown by the hall lights and dashed for the relative safety of the corridor, only to be hauled roughly off his feet as Arleth Vann seized his bloodstained cloak.

  The highborn crashed to the floor, swinging his sword wildly over his head. He felt the blade bite home, and Arleth Vann hissed a sibilant curse. Reaching up with his free hand, Malus undid the clasps of his cloak and rolled quickly to the side just as a curved sword thudded into the wooden floor where he’d been.

  “What vengeance?” Malus spat, scrabbling backwards across the floor. “I could understand such feelings from Silar or perhaps Dolthaic, even that rogue Hauclir, but you? I gave you a new life when you fled the temple. You owe me everything. It was you who was false. You swore fealty to me, when in secret your first loyalty was to these fanatics!”

  There was a whirring in the air. A spinning shape passed through the weak light, and Malus caught sight of the hurled sword a moment too late. He moved to block the weapon but misjudged its trajectory. The back of the curved sword smashed into his right forearm. The highborn felt the bones break and cried out in pain. Then another blow knocked the broad sword from his nerveless fingers. Arleth Vann’s hand closed around Malus’ throat. His second sword hung poised above his head.