Warhammer - Darkblade 04 - Warpsword

by Dan Abnett

  Another rearguard, Malus thought angrily. The crowd of temple elders and their retainers had swept up the short flight of stairs and swarmed around the fight just before the doorway. He couldn’t see much of what was happening thanks to the haze of boiling blood rising from the cauldron, but he could clearly hear the clash of steel and the screams of the dying.

  The air hummed with power. Malus felt pains shoot through his insides and a hot tear trace its way down his cheek. The drop broke over his lip and he tasted blood. Almost there, he thought. Just a little closer!

  Malus pushed his way through stragglers on the near side of the dais and clambered onto it. He found himself looking down into the seething surface of the cauldron, where small skulls and delicate bones rolled in the dark, boiling liquid. He caught Arleth Vann climbing up beside him and shook his head. “Go around the side,” he ordered in a rough voice. “I’ll draw the attention of the rearguard. You come in and attack them from the rear.”

  The assassin nodded and dropped back off the dais. Malus turned back to the cauldron, took a deep breath, and leapt into the pall of steaming gore. Sword held ready, the highborn cleared the gaping maw of the sorcerous vessel and landed in a crouch on the other side.

  He found himself looking over the heads of shouting elders as they tried to force their way up the narrow staircase and join in the fight. Figures pushed and stumbled over the bodies of the dead, and pale hands dragged bloody corpses away from the battle, leaving them to fetch up against the foot of the dais.

  Malus stood, peering intently at the swirling fight near the top of the stairway. A single figure spun and stabbed within a raging circle of temple elders. He caught sight of a long, tight braid of glossy black hair, and slim, alabaster arms moving in a swift, steady rhythm of slaughter.

  Then the crowd recoiled under a fierce onslaught, and it seemed that the entire front rank of the elders simply collapsed like threshed wheat. A pale, blood spattered face appeared, and Malus found himself staring into Yasmir’s violet eyes.

  She wore the ritual garb of a temple witch: a long crimson loincloth of silk held by a girdle of golden skulls that wrapped around her slender hips. Her torso was bare, decorated with streaks and loops of sticky blood, as were her long arms and her long, delicate fingers. A tore of golden skulls surrounded her slender throat and bands of gold and rubies gleamed at each wrist. Beneath the angular headdress of a temple witch her oval face was serene and achingly beautiful, like a flawless sculpture animated by the breath of the Blood God himself. Two long, needle-like daggers flickered in her dripping hands, licking through the air like adders’ tongues to turn aside stabbing blades and pierce deep into yielding flesh.

  When her eyes met his he felt a cold shock transfix him. It was like looking into the eyes of death itself, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to sink into her embrace.

  The crowd of elders surged back up the stairs, only to lose three more men to Yasmir’s flickering blades. As they fell she extended a small foot and took a single step forwards. Her eyes never left his.

  “She is coming for you, Malus,” Tz’arkan whispered. “Accept my power, or she will kill you!”

  If she reached him he would die. Her eyes told him that. He could feel her desire like a cold breath against his skin. Malus’ hand tightened on his sword, but it felt no better than a bar of lead.

  Three more elders leapt at Yasmir, striking at her almost simultaneously. They died before the blows were halfway to their target, stabbed through throat, eye and heart. She took another small step as the dead fell at her feet.

  Malus couldn’t take his eyes off her. Another few steps and she would be almost close enough to touch. Yet he could not move, transfixed by her violet gaze like a bird before the gliding serpent.

  “Hear me, Darkblade, this is the moment of truth! The Bride of Ruin approaches, and without me you cannot prevail. Take what I offer you! Take it!”

  A terrified cry went up from the elders, and they fell back before the onslaught of the living saint. One man realised he could not escape and simply sank to his knees before Yasmir, accepting a dagger point in his eye with a prayer upon his lips. Others at the base of the stairs turned and ran.

  Less than ten feet separated them. Suddenly the very air resounded as if struck by the hammer of a god, and Malus sensed that the Rite of the Swordbearer had been completed. Somewhere beyond the red-lit doorway he knew that Urial was reaching for the Warpsword of Khaine, and the thought of being thwarted so close to his goal kindled a spark of bitter hate in his breast.

  Death approached, bearing her dark knives, and damnation lay coiled in his breast. What could he do?

  With a cry of despair three elders fell and poured out their blood on the marble steps, and Yasmir leapt like a deer onto the edge of the dais. Malus drew a shaky breath, gazing into her face. “Hello sister,” he said.

  That was when Arleth Vann appeared, crying out the name of the Blood God as he leapt at Yasmir’s back. Quicker than lightning his short blades jabbed at her throat and arms, but she whirled with uncanny speed, flowing like water around his strokes and stabbing the assassin once, twice, thrice. Her long braid uncoiled like a whip, brushing Malus’ cheek.

  Without thinking he seized that thick rope of hair, and the spell was broken. His hate blazed like a furnace and he pulled with all his might, twisting into the motion and dropping to one knee. Yasmir was pulled from her feet, crashing into and over Malus and falling headfirst into the seething fluids of Khaine’s cauldron.

  Tz’arkan writhed and screamed in rage, raking along the inside of Malus’ ribs, drawing an involuntary shout of pain from the highborn even as he bared his teeth in triumph. Arleth Vann sank against the side of the dais, one arm pressed tight against his chest. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. “The will of Khaine be done,” the assassin gasped.

  The way to the sanctum was clear, and Malus knew that speed meant everything now. Tyran and his ritual mates would be nearly spent from the exertions of the rite. He would deal with Urial now, and claim the warpsword for his own.

  With a howl of bloodlust he leapt over Arleth Vann and charged up the stairs, his sword held ready.

  A shadow loomed in the doorway just as he reached it. He felt an icy shock transfix him as his half-brother Urial stepped through the portal, clad in gleaming black armour. His brass-coloured eyes gleamed with triumph and his thin lips were drawn back in a savage smile.

  Malus tried to raise his sword, but his body refused to obey. He staggered slightly, still off-balance, but something held him upright.

  The highborn looked down at the length of dark, gleaming steel that pierced his chest. A thin line of blood ran down the surface of the warpsword, filling the runes etched along its surface.

  “Looking for this?” Urial asked, and plunged the blade deeper into Malus’ chest.

  Chapter Twelve

  FROM THE CAULDRON BORN

  Malus felt his heart clench in agony as the long blade slid between his ribs. His chest spasmed and he gasped, coughing up blood. Urial’s sepulchral laugh rang in his ears.

  “Glory to Khaine, greatest of gods!” Malus’ half-brother shouted, his pale face alight with triumph. “Truly it is a gift to find you here at the moment of my exaltation.” The former acolyte stepped closer, his twisted left foot dragging slightly across the polished marble. His withered right hand was tucked against his breastplate, its deformity hidden within a shell of dark steel armour. Urial’s gaunt, hawk-like face was lit with a savage grin and his thick, white hair spilled unbound around his shoulders. He looked like a sorcerer prince out of the ancient legends, radiating icy cruelty and implacable power.

  “It is fitting that you be the first to die,” Urial said, his voice almost a whisper. “After all you and that whore Eldire have done to me, this will be sweet indeed.” He smiled, flexing his good hand on the warpsword’s hilt. “I’m going to split you from crotch to chin and let you bleed out on these steps. The
n I’ll command the blood-witches to call you back, and I’ll look you in the eye as I feast upon your liver.” His grin hardened into a sneer. “Once I’ve eaten of your spirit Darkblade you will be no more. I will take your strength — such as it is — and what is left will be lost to the Abyss forever.”

  With a single, fluid motion, Urial jerked the warpsword free from Malus’ torso. A wave of pain spread like ice through the highborn’s body, so great it took his breath away. Blood leaked from his gaping mouth as he swayed on his feet. Then his knees buckled and Malus fell backwards, landing on his back and sliding limply down the marble steps. His sword, clutched in a death grip, rasped and rang as it was dragged along in his wake.

  Malus fetched up at the base of the dais, his labouring heart sending cold waves of pain rippling through his chest. Tz’arkan stirred, and for a brief moment the agony subsided. “I’m here, Malus,” the daemon whispered. “Ask, and I shall heal you. The wound is deep, and you will die unless I intervene.”

  It was hard to think and harder still to breathe. “Not… possible,” Malus rasped, bloody froth collecting at the corners of his mouth. “The prophecy…”

  Urial looked out over the temple elders and raised the bloodstained sword, savouring their cries of dismay. Behind him came a slow procession of white-robed zealots, stiff and exhausted from their labours. Tyran led the way, his draich unsheathed by his side. He looked down at the crowd of elders and gave them the serene smile of an executioner. “The Time of Blood is at hand!” the zealot leader proclaimed. “Weep for the end of your world, you faithless curs! Khaine’s truth gleams from the edge of the Scourge’s blade Prostrate yourselves at his feet and beg for his forgiveness!”

  “Yes. Plead for a clean death to wash away your sins,” Urial hissed at the stricken throng. He brandished the warpsword at the crowd like a burning brand. “When the cauldron spared me you knew that I was blessed by the Lord of Murder. You knew the prophecies of old, and yet you refused to believe the signs that were before your very eyes, because I was a cripple,” he spat, “a bent and twisted man, unfit to wield a dagger, much less this sacred blade!” Urial took another slow step down the stairs. His face was taut with murderous rage and his eyes gleamed with savage glee.

  “I say to you that these withered limbs were a warning, revealing your blindness and lack of faith! You chose the pleasing lie over the grim truth of Khaine’s will, and you will reap the bitter fruit of your faithlessness!” The Swordbearer gave a bloodthirsty laugh. “I have claimed the sword, and soon I shall take my magnificent bride. Then the world will burn — oh, how it will burn!—and we shall rise on a tide of blood as high as the stars themselves.” Urial levelled the warpsword at the temple elders. “But these glories are not for the likes of you. The blood-witches will call you back and we will feed your guts to the ravens!”

  “Be silent, heretic!” thundered the Grand Carnifex.

  The crowd of elders fell away to either side from the fearsome master of the temple as he strode into the chapel and climbed onto the dais beside the bubbling cauldron. The Carnifex’s face was a mask of fearsome, righteous rage, and fresh blood dripped from the long blade of his rune carved axe. The severed heads of the zealots slain outside the temple were clenched in his left fist, and his gold covered kheitan was smeared with dark splashes of gore. He was the image of an avenging hero, anointed in sacred blood, and the ferocious glare he laid upon Urial stopped the Swordbearer in his tracks.

  “You are an abomination, Urial of Hag Graef,” the master of the temple proclaimed. “You claim that the cauldron gave you back as a gift from Khaine, but I say the Lord of Murder spared you to test our beliefs, not fulfil them!” The Grand Carnifex surveyed the assembled elders, fixing each one with a stern glare. “The will of the Bloody-Handed God is clear to the faithful: Malekith is his chosen Scourge, who will lead the faithful to glory!” He cast the severed heads into the cauldron and raised his axe to Urial. “You are a deceiver and a false prophet,” he declared. “You have defiled the holy sanctum and laid hands on the sacred blade of the Scourge.” The master of the temple stepped from the dais onto the steps, taking his axe in a two-handed grip. “I condemn you and repudiate you, and it is my joyous duty to slay you in the Blood God’s name!”

  To Malus’ surprise, Urial smiled and shook his head. “The first man that dies by this blade is my half-brother. You aren’t fit to bleed on my boots, you fraud.”

  “Slay the blasphemer!” Tyran cried, and two zealots answered with a lusty roar, charging down the steps past Urial and brandishing their deadly blades. The Grand Carnifex met them with a howl of righteous fury, his axe whirling in deadly patterns as he advanced on Urial.

  The charging zealots reached the Carnifex first, their blades flickering like lightning. The master of the temple gauged their advance, and with skill born of countless battles he shifted his stance and sidestepped to the left, meeting the leftmost attacker blade to blade. The zealot’s sword snapped as it met the temple master’s ensorcelled axe, and the Carnifex responded with a lightning return stroke that split the man’s torso crosswise, just beneath the ribs. His sudden dodge threw off the rightmost attacker’s stroke just enough to spoil the man’s killing blow, but not enough to fully escape the reach of the long blade Malus felt the hot droplets of the old druchii’s blood as the zealot’s sword tore a deep cut through the Carnifex’s side.

  A torrent of blood and spilled organs tumbled down the steps around the temple master’s feet as the two halves of the slain zealot emptied their contents onto the stairway. “Blood and souls for Khaine!” the Grand Carnifex shouted, pivoting smoothly to meet the remaining zealot’s charge. The old druchii parried a deft swing at his upper thigh and struck back with a reverse stroke at the zealot’s head, but the robed warrior ducked nimbly beneath the blow. The zealot stepped into the temple master’s guard with a blurring backspin, aiming an eviscerating cut at the Carnifex’s midsection, but the old druchii gave ground and parried the blow against the long haft of his axe. The swordsman skidded slightly in the thick blood coating the stone steps, but with preternatural agility he checked his motion and leapt backwards, getting swinging room for his two-handed blade and chopping downwards into the Carnifex’s right leg. The long sword bit deep into the meat of the temple master’s thigh, but like an old, grizzled boar the Carnifex bellowed in rage and pressed the attack. Twisting slightly to trap the sword in the wound, the old druchii lashed out one-handed with his axe and hacked off the zealot’s right arm just above the elbow.

  The zealot let out a sharp hiss of pain, blood pumping from the severed limb, but his left hand tore the draich free from the temple master’s leg and the swordsman got the long weapon into a defensive stance as the Carnifex lurched forwards. Drops of hot blood scattered like rain as the old druchii unleashed a barrage of blows against the zealot’s faltering guard. On the third, ringing stroke the rune-carved axe snapped the draich just above the hilt and the curved blade buried itself in the zealot’s face. Drunk on pain and slaughter the Grand Carnifex pulled the axe free and rounded on Urial. Laughing like a madman he ran his tongue along the edge of the gore-stained blade. “The blood of slain warriors is sweet,” he proclaimed, “but cowardice is bitter! I can smell your blood curdling to vinegar, Urial. The true Scourge of Khaine would not cower and leave others to fight on his behalf.”

  The elders of the temple shouted their approval and the zealots responded with a maddened cry as the two sides threw themselves at one another. Robed figures poured around the dais like a black wave, surging up the stairs alongside their master as white-robed zealots rent the air with bloodthirsty howls and rushed to meet them. Blades flashed and rang and more blood poured down the black stairs as the battle was joined in earnest.

  Amid the mayhem Malus felt strong hands grab his shoulders and try to pull him upright. Crying out in pain and coughing up more blood, the highborn tried to twist in the unseen grip and came round to find himself staring up into Arleth Vann’s bloo
dstained face. “Let go of me!” he croaked. “Let go! You have to get to the Grand Carnifex. When Urial falls, you must claim the sword and bring it to me.”

  The former assassin shook his head. “It’s hopeless,” he said in a dull voice. “Urial has the warpsword. Not even the master of the temple can prevail against him.”

  “But you can,” Tz’arkan whispered in Malus’ head, “with my help. Take it, Malus! Quickly, before it’s too late!”

  The highborn shook his head angrily. “I don’t need your damned help!” he gasped. His knees weakened and he slumped against Arleth Vann, who struggled to hold him upright. The ache in his guts belied his defiance. His lungs felt heavy, as if a great weight was pressing down on them, and a numbing coldness was spreading across his chest. Hissing in frustration, he tried to push himself back upright and catch a glimpse of Urial among the swirling melee raging on the stairway.

  Urial and the Grand Carnifex raged at one another like demigods less than fifteen feet away, their sorcerous weapons striking showers of angry sparks as they clashed again and again in a flurry of artless, brutal blows. The master of the temple lashed at Urial relentlessly, but the former acolyte wielded the warpsword one-handed and blocked the Carnifex’s two-handed blows with ease. Still, the Swordbearer was giving ground, falling back towards the sanctum one slow step at a time. Malus would have taken this as a good sign were it not for the vicious smile on Urial’s gaunt face.

  The master of the temple was weakening. Bleeding from deep wounds, any of which would have been enough to kill a lesser man, the old druchii was slowing a little with each murderous stroke. Whatever strength the Grand Carnifex had stolen from his foes was nearly spent, and Malus realised that with every step he took towards Urial he became more isolated from his fellow elders. He was already a solitary black figure in a surging sea of white.