Warhammer - Darkblade 04 - Warpsword

by Dan Abnett

  Malus angled his course to head for the doorway, hoping his memory and blurred eyesight hadn’t deceived him. He threw another short jab at the zealot’s eyes, and pulled back just in time to avoid having his sword arm taken off at the elbow.

  The zealot laughed. “You disgrace yourself, blasphemer,” he said. “I had hoped you would be a worthy foe, but you puff and stumble like a drunkard. Why don’t you throw down your swords and accept Khaine’s cold mercy?”

  A ghostly grin came and went from Malus’ bloody lips. “Because I know something you don’t.”

  The zealot frowned. “Such as?”

  “Such as my retainer is about to stab you in the side of the neck.”

  The swordsman whirled, raising his blade in a blurring defensive move. Malus leapt at the same time, catching the zealot’s left arm at the crook of his elbow and shearing straight through it. The zealot staggered, but before he could regain his senses the highborn finished him off with a thrust to his neck.

  Arleth Vann finished off the turncoat in front of him and took a step back, reaching Malus’ side. He gave his master an accusatory look. “I heard what you said,”

  he declared sternly, “suggesting I would interfere in a sacred duel!”

  “I’m a bit surprised he fell for it myself,” Malus replied. He grabbed the assassin by a blood soaked sleeve and pulled him back through the doorway Wide-eyed druchii stood to either side of the threshold, their hands gripping the edges of the tall, oak doors.

  “Shut them! Hurry!” Malus ordered. “They’re almost upon us!”

  The retainers leapt to obey, pulling hard on the heavy panels. Frantic, bloodstained faces appeared in the narrowing gap and hands pounded fearfully on the closing doors. A pale hand shot through the gap, reaching desperately for Malus. With a curse the highborn stepped to the side and brought his sword down on the offending limb, severing it in a spray of blood. The loyalist’s agonised shriek was lost in the heavy thud of the doors slamming shut.

  Malus turned and sought out Rhulan, who stood ashen faced at the foot of the temple steps. “Can you seal it?”

  The temple elder started at Malus’ voice, as if lost in a reverie. “Seal?” he asked, blinking owlishly.

  “The door, damn you!” the highborn snapped, his voice so sharp that Rhulan and his retainers flinched at the sound. “Do you know some sorcery to lock the doors?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” Rhulan strode forwards, raising his right hand. “Step away from the doors,” he said.

  Malus and Arleth Vann cleared the steps, and the rest of the temple servants scattered to either side. The heavy doors began to swing open almost immediately, giving vent to a chorus of fierce cries and pounding fists. A severed head rolled through the widening gap, bouncing wetly down the wide steps to stop at Malus’ feet.

  Then Rhulan straightened to his full height and spoke a single word of power that crackled in the air like the lash of a whip. He made a fist with his upraised hand and the twin doors slammed shut with a thunderous boom.

  Malus nodded in weary satisfaction, revising his opinion of the frail looking Rhulan somewhat. He quickly took stock of the motley band of loyalists who’d escaped the debacle within the temple. Rhulan had six men and women standing in a loose circle around him, and Malus saw the tattooed elder standing a short distance away, surrounded by her own coterie of retainers and hangers-on, including the axe-wielding priestess he’d seen fighting earlier. Four more loyalists stood near Malus at the foot of the steps. They were all that remained of the meagre force he’d led out of the building.

  Out of the hundred druchii who’d followed the Grand Carnifex from the Citadel of Bone, less than twenty remained. Malus shook his head bitterly and tried to curse, but all he could manage was a wet, wracking cough that sent spasms of pain through his chest. He swayed on his feet, but Arleth Vann steadied him with a bloodstained grip.

  “Are you well?” Rhulan asked, his face paling further.

  With an effort, Malus bit back a sharp-tongued reply. He spat another mouthful of blood onto the ground and took a strangled breath. “Well enough,” he managed to say.

  “We haven’t long,” the elder said, his voice hollow. “What do we do?”

  The daemon stirred. “Listen to him,” Tz’arkan whispered. “Time is running out for you, little druchii. You must choose.”

  A sharp spike of pain lanced through Malus’ chest, almost doubling him over with its intensity. Again, Arleth Vann’s grip steadied him, but Malus jerked his arm away. With nothing but bitter rage to sustain him, he forced himself upright.

  “We go talk to these assassins of yours,” he said through clenched teeth, “and then we put an end to these fanatics once and for all.”

  After the ivory eminence of the Citadel of Bone and the dwarf-wrought glory of the temple, Malus had no idea what to expect from the sanctum of the temple’s holy assassins. A razor-edged keep wrought entirely of steel? A palace of ruby and garnet? Many fanciful visions passed through his mind as Arleth Vann shepherded him across the temple grounds.

  It turned out to be a hole in the ground.

  More accurately, it was accessed by a long, spiralling path, almost a hundred and twenty paces across, that wound its way deep into the earth. Large witchfire globes surrounded the perimeter of the wide spiral, throwing shifting patterns of light across the narrow pathways. The path was wide enough for only one traveller at a time, and it was formed of dark, crimson glass that glimmered like fresh blood in the sorcerous light.

  Rhulan took the lead. The temple retainers — even the fearsome priestess with her bloodstained axe — looked to one another apprehensively as they fell into line behind their masters. Even Arleth Vann seemed hesitant to begin the descent, although Malus suspected that he had very practical reasons for avoiding his former comrades. He didn’t expect that the silent knives of Khaine nurtured any compassion for those who broke their oaths and deserted the order.

  The descent seemed to go on forever. It was fully five minutes of slow, methodical pacing before they’d completed the first circuit and began to sink below the earth. Malus gritted his teeth, one hand pressed against the wound in his chest, and expected to hear the sounds of pursuit at any moment. He couldn’t imagine that Urial would be delayed overmuch by Rhulan’s ward, nor would he waste a single moment in setting the hounds on his trail.

  It was almost another five minutes before they were fully below ground. What in the Dark Mother’s name was taking so long, he wondered? Were there traps for the unwary? Poison needles or voracious spirits? Everyone ahead of him seemed to be studying the path at their feet with intense interest. Concentrating on keeping his breathing even, Malus followed suit, watching the gleaming red stones for telltale pressure plates or tripwires.

  On and on they went. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils, and when they had passed beyond the light of the braziers their path was lit with the faint effulgence of grave mould, glowing from niches on the glistening stone walls.

  He soon lost track of time. One step led to the next, their pace neither speeding up nor slowing down. A tight band of pain began to constrict around his chest, and from time to time a drop of blood would slip past his lips and fall heavily to the pathway. His breath bubbled in his throat, as if he was caught in the grip of a terrible ague He heard the daemon whispering in his ears, but the sound was strangely faint, like the murmur of the tides, and he paid it little heed.

  After a time Malus began to sense that their curving path was shrinking, drawing tighter and tighter with each revolution. He took heart, realising that they must be close to their destination, but he was careful not to get complacent and take his gaze from the perilous floor.

  Not long afterwards he watched his steps glide across a narrow threshold, and looked up to see that they had reached a small, circular chamber carved from dark stone. Globes of witchlight gleamed from the walls, worked into carvings of dragons and leering daemons. Double doors stood on the opposite side of
the circle. Rhulan gave the party a single backwards glance, his expression clearly indicating that they should wait here, and then went to stand before the doors. He spoke not a word, nor rapped upon the wooden panels, but nevertheless one door swung silently open, allowing him to slip inside.

  After Rhulan was gone many of the loyalists sank wearily to the stone floor. Some checked their injuries, while others slumped into an exhausted stupor. The tattooed elder drew apart from the rest and sat with her back to one of the curving walls, closing her eyes as if to meditate or pray. The axe-wielding priestess sat, and then stood, and finally began to pace like a caged lion, her expression distant and vengeful.

  Malus declined to sit as well, not so much out of nervousness, but because he wasn’t certain he could get up again if he did. It was bad enough that Arleth Vann had to see him in such a weakened state; he would be damned if anyone had to carry him. The assassin leaned against the wall beside the entryway, resting his head against the carved stone. His gaunt features were scabbed with dried blood, and the front of his sleeves and kheitan were stiff and dark with gore.

  The highborn glanced back the way they’d come. “All that caution, and not a single trap or alarm,” he said. “It appears that the assassins are less fearsome than their reputation suggests.”

  Arleth Vann looked up at him, a bemused expression on his face. “What are you talking about?”

  Malus pointed back at the curving path. “All that checking for traps,” he said, “totally unnecessary.”

  “Traps?” the retainer said. “That was a labyrinth, my lord. A journey of meditation. Who lays traps in a labyrinth?”

  The highborn blinked. “Oh, well, no one, I suppose.” He frowned. “What assassins’ order forces you to walk a labyrinth to reach them?”

  Arleth Vann studied his master for several moments, uncertain whether or not he was being mocked. “We are not mere cutthroats, my lord,” he said at last. “The Shayar Nuan are a holy order, much like the executioners or the temple witches.”

  Malus raised an eyebrow at the name. “The Blessed Dead? Is that what they call themselves?”

  “That is the name we call ourselves,” the assassin said. He gave Malus one of his ghostly smiles. “Now that you’ve heard it I have to kill you, of course.”

  The highborn glowered at his servant. “You speak as if you are still one of them.”

  Arleth Vann shrugged. His brass-coloured eyes were haunted. “We are Shayar Nuan when we emerge from the cauldron, my lord. Nothing can take that away.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought the cauldron was reserved only for sacrifices.”

  The assassin sighed, trying to find a way to explain. “Yes and no, my lord. The witches of the temple bathe in the cauldron. It is the source of their terrible allure and ageless vigour,” he said. “That power is indeed born from sacrifice: prisoners, criminals, the weak and the crippled, as well as every neophyte assassin. It is the final rite of passage. We die, yet live on in service to Khaine.”

  Malus peered closely at the assassin. “You don’t mean to say you’re actually dead?”

  “It’s a metaphor, my lord. You’re familiar with the term?”

  “Don’t get flippant with me,” Malus snarled weakly. “In case you’ve forgotten, I was stabbed with a sword not too long ago, and I’m not in the mood.”

  “Your pardon, my lord,” the retainer replied.

  “Besides, with everything else I’ve seen in this damned city, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Arleth Vann replied. “All right, consider this: how do you kill a man who is already dead?”

  Malus considered the question. “Cut off his head and limbs and burn the bits. It’s the only way to be certain.”

  The assassin’s brow furrowed. “I begin to see why your father never considered sending you to the temple,” he said. “Let me be blunt: the greatest power a man can have is the ability to take the life of another. That is the central tenet of the executioners. If a man is already dead, however, not even the blessed swords of Khaine can touch him. He is a ghost, fearing nothing of this world or the next.”

  Malus grunted, touching off a spasm of coughing. “Interesting” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If I recall, you said that the order was a recent invention, not originally part of the Lord of Murder’s cult.”

  Arleth Vann eyed the other Khaineites warily. “That is so,” he admitted softly. “The Witch King needed a way to eliminate threats to the state without risking open war with the noble houses, and the temple needed a new reason to justify its authority after the last of the warlocks had been killed.” He shrugged. “In the past, those who survived the depths of the cauldron were taken by the witches and trained in the ways of the cult. Many became priests, and others lived as exalted oracles or scholars. The temple elders gave them a new calling: the art of stealth and silent murder, a combination of the witch’s magic and the executioner’s skill.”

  “And Urial was trained in these arts?”

  The assassin shook his head. “No, according to all reports, he was a voracious scholar and a potent sorcerer, but that was all. His deformities precluded him from mastering the arts of combat. As far as I know, he was never considered for inclusion into the order, nor could he truly be considered a priest, for even elders like Rhulan must be ready and able to march to war. Honestly, I don’t think anyone quite knew what to do with your brother.”

  “It’s a pity they never asked me. I could have offered a number of pointed suggestions.” Malus studied the closed doors. “Do you think they will help us, now that Urial has the sword?”

  Arleth Vann shrugged. “Truly, it’s hard to say. Like the blood-witches of old, the order professes to take no interest in the affairs of the temple. Indeed, much of the witches’ prestige and authority has been ceded to the assassins over the centuries. They may see Urial as usurping Malekith’s role as the Scourge, or they may not care who wields the warpsword so long as Khaine’s will is done.”

  Another sharp jolt of pain stabbed through Malus. His breath was coming in shallow draughts, and shadows crowded at the edges of his vision. He knew that time was running out. Where was Rhulan? What was taking so long?

  “It appears they need some persuading,” he said grimly, and lurched towards the doors.

  Arleth Vann let out a startled shout, but Malus was at the doorway before anyone could react. He placed his hands against the cold, damp oak and pushed.

  The doors opened easily, giving way to cave-like darkness. Without hesitation, Malus plunged through. He walked blindly forwards, expecting any moment to smash into a wall or plunge off the edge of a pit. He dimly heard Arleth Vann shouting his name, but he paid no mind.

  After only a few moments he saw a dim light up ahead. A few steps later he could make out three figures, two standing and one kneeling before them. Malus guessed that the kneeling figure had to be Rhulan, and a dozen strides later, his suspicions were confirmed.

  The Arch-Hierophant knelt in a circle of faint luminescence that seemed to emanate from the very air itself. Two robed figures stood before him, their faces hidden within deep hoods.

  Rhulan glanced back fearfully at Malus’ approach. His eyes widened as he recognised who it was. “Blessed Murderer! What are you doing here? You were supposed to wait!”

  “Time is more precious than gold at the moment,” Malus seethed, “and we are growing poorer by the second.” He faced the hooded men. “Are you among the elders of the order?”

  One of the figures stepped forwards. “The elders are in conclave,” a young man’s voice replied. He reached up and drew back his hood, revealing the boyish features and dark eyes of an initiate.

  Malus pointed at Rhulan. “Do you not know who he is, boy?”

  “Of course,” the initiate replied, “but he has brought no blood tithe and nor have you. Not even the Grand Carnifex may speak to the elders without a suitable offering. The commandments of the
order are clear—”

  The highborn’s hurled dagger struck the initiate in the forehead with a meaty thunk. The boy’s body quivered for a moment, his mouth frozen in mid-sentence, and then the corpse collapsed to the floor.

  Malus turned to the second hooded figure. “All right,” he said coldly. “There is my blood tithe. Take me to the elders.”

  Rhulan let out a strangled gasp. The hooded figure considered the dead acolyte for a moment, and then faced Malus. “Your tithe is… acceptable,” he said, “but the elders are choosing a new master. They will speak to no one until their sacred duty is complete.”

  “Do you not realise that a usurper has stolen the Warpsword of Khaine and killed the Grand Carnifex? If we do not move against him quickly he will seize the temple and then the city beyond!”

  The figure said nothing.

  Furious, Malus tried another tack. “Are you not bound to avenge the death of your fallen master?”

  “Yes,” the figure replied.

  “Well it was I who slew him!” the highborn declared. “I beat the fat oafs brains out with a hunk of broken marble. If your damned elders don’t get off their arses and do something about Urial, he’ll kill me and rob them of their revenge.”

  Someone shouted angrily. Malus couldn’t be certain who it was. The room started to spin. A fierce jolt of pain shot through him, but with a shout of rage he fought to stay upright. The highborn groped for his sword, but powerful hands seized his arms and pulled him from his feet.

  Malus never felt himself hit the ground.

  *

  He was floating through darkness. A hot wind hissed across his face and strange sounds echoed in his ears.