by Dan Abnett
With a bloodthirsty howl the old druchii feinted at Urial’s waist, and then checked his swing and made a vicious, backhanded blow at the Swordbearer’s knees. Again, Urial blocked the heavy blow with frightening speed, as if he was swinging nothing more than a willow-switch. The Grand Carnifex stumbled slightly, and Urial flicked his blade across the temple master’s face, scattering a thin spray of blood. The old druchii barely flinched from the blow, redoubling his attack with a swipe at Urial’s sword arm. Laughing, the former acolyte swayed back, letting the axe blade whistle through empty air. Then he straightened and slashed open the temple master’s left arm from wrist to elbow.
Urial was toying with him, Malus realised, his heart sinking. He fumbled at his belt for his remaining throwing knife, but the hilt of the blade was slick with his own blood and slipped from his fingers. His bitter curse was lost amid the cacophony of screams and clashing blades echoing in the steamy air.
The Grand Carnifex reeled as Urial raked his blade across the old druchii’s forehead. Another stroke sliced off the temple master’s left ear. The wounded elder swayed on his feet, his chest heaving. Blood had soaked through his robes, making them gleam dully in the reddish light. Malus saw Urial say something to the Carnifex, but the words were lost in the tumult. The temple master responded with an angry shout and aimed a powerful stroke right at the centre of the Swordbearer’s chest.
Urial blocked the blow easily, a smug expression on his face; one that turned to a look of horror as the canny old druchii hooked the blade of the sword with the beard of his axe and pulled the former acolyte off his feet. The Swordbearer crashed against the Grand Carnifex, his mouth gaping like a gaffed fish as the old druchii closed a powerful hand on Urial’s narrow throat. The axe rose heavenward, trembling in the temple master’s hand, and then plunged downwards into the former acolyte’s left shoulder. Urial screamed in pain and fear as the sorcerous blade pierced his black armour and bit into flesh and bone.
For a moment, Malus thought Urial had dropped the sword. He saw the bloodstained blade dip, but then it flashed upwards, piercing the temple master’s midsection and rising underneath the ribs until the point erupted from the elder’s right collarbone. Both men froze for several long moments, and then the old druchii sagged, sinking to his knees.
A cry of horror went up from the temple elders as they saw their master fall, turning to wails of terror as Urial gritted his teeth and levered his blade upwards, splitting the old druchii’s chest open like a slaughtered steer. The bloodstained axe fell from the temple master’s lifeless hands, his ruptured body toppling onto its side.
“Blessed Mother of Night,” Malus hissed, as the zealots redoubled their attack and the temple elders recoiled in horror. He saw Urial searching the melee intently, and knew who his half-brother was looking for. The highborn looked to Arleth Vann. “This is about to become a rout,” he snarled. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
The former assassin nodded and without warning heaved Malus back onto the dais. Groaning in pain, the highborn pushed himself across the black marble, close enough to brush the lip of the brass cauldron in passing. He heard an exultant shout over the din: had Urial seen him? Fighting against waves of crushing pain he forced himself to crawl across the dais and into the crowd on the other side.
Shouts of panic and the frenzied cries of the zealots rang out behind Malus, and he felt the crowd around him surge backwards, like a black tide receding towards the far doorway. He let himself be borne along in the press, until he realised that the shouts of the dying were spreading around the sides of the dais like fire through tinder. Tyran and his men were closing in like a pack of wolves. Snarling angrily and spitting streams of dark blood, the highborn threw himself forwards, using the blade of his sword to batter his way through the panicked elders. He stumbled and kicked his way through piles of weathered skulls. “Stand fast!” he managed to shout. “Avenge your master and slay the unbelievers!”
If his words had any effect on the panicked elders and their men he could not say, but the men and women in front of him gave way rather than feel the bite of his sword. Arleth Vann appeared at his side, swords bared and facing back the way they’d come in case the zealots pressed too close.
They had forced their way through the far doorway within moments. Malus paused at the threshold and risked a backwards glance just as a great wail of despair went up from the servants of the temple. He saw that the zealots had swept past the dais and were wreaking a terrible slaughter among the panicked and demoralised elders. On top of the marble platform, shrouded in crimson steam, Urial the Forsaken stood before the great cauldron where he’d been sacrificed as a crippled babe, only to be reborn as one of Khaine’s chosen. He held the Grand Carnifex’s severed head over the mouth of the great vessel, letting streams of dark blood fall into its hissing brew. The Swordbearer’s eyes were fever bright with divine madness, and his hateful gaze was fixed hungrily on Malus.
Then the contents of the cauldron erupted, showering Urial and the zealots with a rain of steaming fluids as Yasmir burst from the cauldron’s depths. Heat shimmered from her naked form, and blood ran like quicksilver from her alabaster skin. Her raven hair had gone snowy white, and when her eyes opened Malus saw they were luminous and golden. They transfixed him, sinking like hooks into his labouring heart.
Yasmir smiled, revealing curved, leonine fangs. Long, black talons gleamed in the ruddy light as she gripped the edge of the cauldron and climbed gracefully onto the dais. The newborn blood-witch extended her sleek arm and beckoned to Malus, summoning him to her side.
Malus was already fleeing, stumbling like a child into the lesser sanctum with his own eyes screwed fearfully shut. He could still feel her stare upon him, like hot metal searing his skin.
He felt someone grab his arm as he stumbled on the broad stairway. After a dozen steps he dared open his eyes again and saw it was Arleth Vann at his side. Rhulan eyed him fearfully from the centre of the room. The Arch Hierophant stood next to a slender female elder with a shaven head, her scalp tattooed in myriad intricate patterns that seemed to shift restlessly in the firelight. He had a fleeting memory of her in the Citadel of Bone, sitting in a throne almost directly across from the seat of the Grand Carnifex. She had to be the fifth member of the temple’s Haru’ann. Malus suddenly realised that with the death of the Carnifex she and Rhulan were the only senior temple leaders still alive. They were surrounded by a thin cordon of temple retainers under the watchful eye of the young priestess that Malus had seen earlier.
“What has happened?” Rhulan asked, although from the look on his face it was clear that the elder already suspected the worst.
“We’ve failed,” Malus said bitterly. “The Grand Carnifex is dead, and we’re next if we don’t get out of here.”
The tattooed woman gave Malus a look of contempt. “You expect us to surrender the temple to a gang of heretics and thieves?” she snapped, her voice thick with a rustic northern accent.
“That’s not a matter of debate,” the highborn shot back. “You’ve already lost the temple. Your only choice is to stay here and throw your lives away or retreat and find another way to strike back.” He looked to Rhulan. “We need real troops, and quickly. Are there any warriors left here at the fortress?”
Rhulan shook his head. “We sent every swordsman and witch into the streets, hoping to overwhelm the zealots. If we sound the recall, the troops in the highborn district could be here within the hour.”
“By then it will be too late,” Malus snarled. He turned to ask something of Arleth Vann, but the question died on his lips. The highborn glanced back at Rhulan. “What about the temple assassins?” he asked.
The Arch-Hierophant frowned. “They have withdrawn into their tower to select a new master,” he said. “After that they will swear vengeance upon the man who killed their former master and will not rest until he has been slain.”
Malus grinned. “Is that so?” he asked. “Well, then, I’ve got a pr
oposition for them. If they want their vengeance they’ll have to stop Urial from getting his first. Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirteen
AMONG THE DEAD
At that moment a chorus of terrified wails erupted from the inner sanctum as the temple elders’ courage finally gave out. The stream of wounded and demoralised temple servants pouring into the outer sanctum suddenly became a raging flood as scores of panicked druchii fled before Urial and his fearsome bride.
“Go!” Malus shouted at Rhulan. “Gather your retainers and make for the temple doors.” Then he turned to face the tide of retreating temple servants and raised his bloodstained sword.
“Stand fast!” he roared, his face a mask of implacable rage. The shout was almost lost in the surf-like roar of the rout, but the leading rank of fleeing druchii saw the highborn’s furious expression and pulled up short. He took a step towards the fearful elders. “Turn and face the enemy! Defend your elders and the sanctity of the temple, for Khaine is watching!”
Each word was like a dagger, digging into Malus’ chest. His lungs felt thick and swollen, and they couldn’t seem to hold enough air. The daemon was right, Urial had wounded him badly. His chest heaved and he turned his head to spit a gobbet of blood onto the marble floor, but instead of fear, Malus felt only a black, boiling rage.
He stepped fearlessly into the press, forcing frightened men to either side. “Skulls for the Blood God!” he cried, bloody foam flecking his thin lips. The front rank of temple servants turned with him, raising their weapons as Malus forced his way through the crowd towards the narrow door.
He knew that if he could reach the door they could hold it almost indefinitely. The battered temple retainers could form a tight ring around the portal and slay the zealots one at a time if they tried to fight their way through. The doorway was less than twenty feet away, but the path was crammed with thrashing, black-robed figures that contested each and every upward step. Malus snarled like a trapped wolf, laying about the men before him with the flat of his sword and eyeing the doorway with mounting dread. If the zealots could reach it before he did then all would be lost.
“Stand fast!” Malus shouted again, and succeeded in rallying the men closest to him. “Drive for the door!” he ordered, and the men around him tried to force their way upwards, against the tide. The fleeing druchii pushed back, yelling and cursing. A temple retainer in front of Malus stabbed wildly at the highborn, and Malus split his skull without a moment’s hesitation. He stepped into the gap the fallen man left behind and continued to press forwards. “Hold them at the door!” he repeated. “We’ll stop them here!”
Had they been soldiers, accustomed to following orders amid the chaos of battle, the plan might have worked, but these were elders and temple acolytes, many of whom had not spilled another’s blood except in temple rituals. The death of the Grand Carnifex and the slaughter visited upon them by the vengeful zealots had ground their courage to dust. Malus was halfway to the door when a chorus of thin cries rose to challenge his shouted commands.
“The Swordbearer is come! All hail Urial, the Scourge of Khaine!”
Men screamed as their fellow temple brethren turned on them, crying out Urial’s name and stabbing their kin in hopes of saving themselves. The throng pressed with renewed vigour against Malus and his handful of rallied troops, but this time it was with knifepoints and axe-blades as well as elbows and fists.
The highborn heard the brittle snap of bones as the man in front of him was struck in the back by a retainer’s axe. He fell with a gurgling scream, and his assailant pulled his weapon free with both hands and set upon Malus with a fevered gleam in his dark eyes. Malus blocked the frenzied axe-stroke with his upraised blade and then smashed the man in the face with the round pommel of his sword. The retainer staggered, fetching up against the men behind him, and Malus chopped his sword deep into the turncoat’s neck.
A dagger lashed out from Malus’ left, scoring a narrow track along his left bicep. He coughed and spat more blood, his breath coming in wet, rattling gasps. A short sword chopped at him from the right and Malus blocked the clumsy strokes without conscious thought. The crowd at the top of the stairs surged forwards. A man fell towards Malus, and he stabbed the druchii in the chest, unable to tell whether he was friend or foe. Then he saw it: a white sleeve spattered with red, holding up a bloodstained draich in front of the doorway to the inner sanctum. The zealots had seized the doorway to the sanctum, and there was no holding them back.
Another dagger reached for Malus. Unable to discern who held it in the tangle of bodies he took a swipe at the man’s hand and severed a pair of fingers. Something sharp jabbed at his lower leg, causing him to shout in surprise. He stole quick glances left and right and saw the men beside him putting up a fight, but the weight of numbers had shifted against them. If they stayed where they were they would be overcome within minutes.
Malus gathered in as much breath as he could. “Warriors of the temple!” he cried. “One step back!”
The elders and their men eyed Malus with bewilderment, but their ragged line fell back a step. Several of the oncoming druchii overbalanced and fell at the feet of the retreating temple loyalists, and Malus was heartened to see his men despatch the turncoats with swift, merciless blows. The highborn risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Arleth Vann right behind him, his swords held low and to either side of his body. Malus noticed the rivulets of blood running from beneath both of the assassin’s sleeves and dripping from his clenched fists, but the highborn had no doubt that his retainer could still fight and kill on command. “We’re retreating to the door!” he shouted. “Watch our backs and keep the bastards from flanking us once we’re off the stairs!”
Arleth Vann nodded grimly and turned his back on Malus, surveying the chapel floor.
“Warriors of the temple! One step back!” Malus commanded, and the retreat began in earnest.
The eighty paces back to the doorway were the longest steps of Malus’ short life. Every loyal temple servant between Malus and the doorway was dead within moments and there was nothing in front of him but a bloodthirsty mob howling for his head. A man charged headlong at him, brandishing an axe, and the highborn dropped to one knee and stabbed the turncoat in the groin. Another rushed in and slashed for his face with a short sword. Malus pulled his sword from the axe man and blocked the sword stroke, forcing his assailant backwards with a jab to his face. He regained his feet and stepped backwards, taunting the men in front of him to try their luck against his blade.
And so it went: step, parry, kill and step again. As the temple loyalists came off the steps the mob spilled onto the chapel floor and lapped around the ends of the ragged line, slowly forcing the retreating fighters into a tight knot of weary men. The piled skulls on the chapel floor were a boon to the loyalists, breaking up the turncoat attacks so that they couldn’t press the defenders from all sides. True to his word, Arleth Vann kept the line of retreat open, slaying every turncoat who crossed his path.
When they were slightly more than halfway to the doors, Malus was panting like a dog. Red spots swirled at the corners of his vision as he struggled for breath. He’d picked up a dagger from a fallen turncoat and fought on two-handed, blocking with the heavy northern sword and stabbing foes with the knife. He’d lost track of the number of men he’d killed. The rest paced in his wake like wolves, sensing that he was weakening and waiting for the right moment to strike. The highborn gasped like a landed fish, hardly daring to glance away from his opponents to see how well the rest of the loyalists were faring.
With each, halting breath he felt the daemon shift inside him, saying nothing but reminding him of its presence. Malus caught himself with the daemon’s name on his lips, more than once, knowing that a single word could fill his lungs with fresh air and turn his blood to deadly ice. Each time he pushed temptation away with a snarl, although whether from fear or sheer, bloody-minded spite he could not say.
It was only when the turnc
oats redoubled their attacks that Malus knew they were nearly to the door. He heard the tempo of fighting increase to either side of him, and the three men who had been testing his defences for the last few minutes decided to rush him all at once. Two men held short, stabbing swords, while the druchii on the far right hefted a large, single bladed axe.
The axe man nearly got him, rushing forwards just as Malus tried to blink a swarm of bright spots from his eyes. He sensed more than saw the looming shape of his assailant and on instinct alone he leapt forwards and to the right, placing himself within the arc of the axe man’s swing. Malus’ attacker tried to adjust his aim by pivoting further to his right, but the move was a second too slow and his aim was poor, and the weapon struck one of the swordsmen in the back of the head instead. Before the axe man could recover Malus stabbed him twice in the chest and neck. Then he threw himself at the last swordsman, who was stepping over his fallen mate and thrusting his weapon at the highborn’s throat. The turncoat’s shorter blade meant he had to overextend himself in order to reach his target and the highborn made his foe pay dearly for it, sidestepping the thrust and chopping his sword deep into the side of the man’s neck.
Malus risked a quick look backwards and saw the doorway only a few paces distant. Someone — probably one of Rhulan’s men — had pulled the doors partly shut, so only one or two men could slip through at a time. Already there were only a bare handful of loyalists led by Arleth Vann remaining on the interior side of the door, barely keeping the escape route open. The highborn would have laughed out loud if he’d had the wind for it. Instead he turned back to the bloodthirsty turncoats, and found himself face to face with one of Tyran’s zealots. The swordsman held his gore-crusted draich at the ready, a rapt smile on his face.
I can’t beat him, damn it. I can barely breathe, he thought. Still, he leapt at the man with a rasping shout, holding his dagger close and feinting at the zealot’s face to gauge his prowess. The swordsman was clearly spent from his exertions performing the Swordbearer’s rite, because his killing stroke was just barely slow enough for Malus to block the blow with the flat of his dagger. Malus retreated from the swordsman, chest heaving, and the zealot glided after him, his expression hungry and intent.
