by Dan Abnett
“I hadn’t realised there were any followers of the true faith living at the Black Ark,” the temple maiden said.
The true faith? What did that mean, Malus thought? “I hadn’t known of any in Karond Kar either,” he answered. “I suppose that makes us even.” Eager to change the subject, he nodded his head eastward. “We’ll be in Har Ganeth by midday tomorrow.”
The other travellers from the Karond Kar murmured in approval. “We should have listened to you after all, holy one,” the second woman said to the temple maiden. “If we’d continued on we would have reached the holy city by midnight.”
“Let’s go then,” one of the men declared. “We have a sacred duty, do we not? The heretic and his minions could be battling with the faithful even now—”
The temple maiden cut the man off with a curt wave of her hand. Her gaze never left Malus. “You look as if you’ve been wandering in the mountains for weeks,” she said to the highborn.
Malus affected a shrug, his mind churning. The heretic? That had to mean Urial. Who else had recently come to Har Ganeth shouting about the end of the world?
“I… well,” Malus stammered, looking away, “I confess that I’ve tarried a while on the road, holy one.” He reached over and hefted the bloodstained sack. There are meagre pickings on the Spear Road
this time of year, and I didn’t want to reach Har Ganeth with a poor offering for the god.”
Several of the faithful nodded their heads approvingly. He’d taken a wild guess about the contents of the bag, and the gamble had paid off. The temple maiden considered him for a moment more, and then leaned back against a fallen log and resumed her meal.
The man from Clar Karond eyed Malus. “Have you seen many other faithful on the road, brother?”
“Oh, yes,” Malus nodded. They’ve come from all over. I’d wager there are thousands in the holy city, ready to fight the heretic.”
At the news, the man’s eyes glinted with a savage light. “At last! The day of reckoning is at hand. We’ve suffered the heretic’s lies long enough!”
“I couldn’t agree more, brother,” Malus said with feeling. The man from Hag Graef passed the bottle back to him and he took a hearty swallow. This was going to work. If he kept his wits about him he could slip into the city with the rest of the faithful and no one—least of all Urial—would be the wiser.
Grinning broadly, the man from Clar Karond reached for the wine. “With so many of the true faith returning to the city the streets must be busy indeed,” he said. “We have a place prepared for us at the home of Sethra Veyl. Where will you be staying?”
“With my cousin,” Malus replied. “He is a chandler, with a shop close to the temple fortress.”
The man from Clar Karond froze, his hand still reaching for the bottle. His grin faded. Suddenly Malus noticed that everyone else had fallen silent.
The temple maiden rose to her feet, a curved dagger in her hand. “Seize the heretic,” she hissed.
Chapter Two
EYES OF BRASS
Malus bit back a curse. So much for blending in with the herd, he thought bitterly. Thinking quickly, he grabbed his bag of offerings and rose slowly to his feet.
“Where I choose to stay inside the city is my business,” he said sharply, fixing the temple maiden with a steely glare. “Just because I’m careful doesn’t make me one of the enemy. Obviously you’re as concerned about infiltrators in our ranks as I am, or you wouldn’t be asking all these questions.”
Malus saw the two men from Hag Graef hesitate, their weapons half-drawn. They looked to the temple maiden for guidance.
She paused, the muscles in her jaw clenching as she wrestled with her bloodlust. The maiden opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she meant to say was lost as her female companion shrieked like a scalded slave and threw herself at Malus.
The woman’s serrated dagger whistled through the air as she slashed at Malus’ throat. He blocked the stroke with the stained bag of offerings, and the razor-edged blade split the damp cloth like wet paper. Withered, rotting body parts flew across the campsite, some landing in the fire with a sizzle and a flare of sparks. Malus planted his back foot and snapped the empty bag at the woman’s eyes, checking her advance. Then he reversed his grip on the wine bottle and smashed it against the side of her head. She fell with a howl of rage and her companions took up the cry, rushing across the damp earth towards Malus with weapons held before them.
Malus back-pedalled, cursing fiercely as he dragged his broad sword from its scabbard. The zealots rushed at him from both sides, swinging wildly with swords and knives. The highborn blocked a knife stroke with his half drawn sword and then twisted wildly to the left to dodge a downward slash of a sword that struck sparks from his shirt of blackened mail. With a roar he freed his blade and drove the zealots back a step with a fierce swipe at their eyes, but less than a second later they were back on the attack, hemming Malus in with a net of glinting steel.
What the zealots lacked in martial skill they made up for in utter fearlessness, apparently unafraid of losing their lives in the process of bringing Malus down. They kept up their relentless advance, forcing Malus to remain on the defensive against the flashing points of sword and knife. He could tell that the zealots were gauging his reflexes, and the attacks were falling into a deadly rhythm. The two men from Hag Graef pressed him from the right, while the temple maiden and the man from Clar Karond circled to his left. One of the men from Hag Graef reached in with a long thrust to Malus’ neck. As he swept the blade aside with a quick shift of his sword, the temple maiden’s dagger flickered in at the same moment and dug into his side. Mail rings popped and the dagger point carved a furrow through his leather kheitan, but the armour stopped the worst of the blow. Snarling, Malus aimed a savage blow at the maiden’s neck, but she nimbly leapt back out of the highborn’s long reach. As she did, the second man from Hag Graef stepped in and sank his dagger into Malus’ right thigh.
The blow was overextended and weak and the point of the blade sank only a few inches into the muscle of Malus’ leg, but the fiery explosion of pain made the highborn stumble. The man from Hag Graef showed his red-tinged blade to his fellows and cackled with glee, showing crudely filed teeth.
Malus met the man’s frenzied stare and let out a furious bellow, swinging at the hand holding the bloodstained blade. The man leapt back, just as the temple maiden had done, but the move was wasted, because the highborn’s attack was only a feint. Checking his blow at the last moment, Malus reversed his swing, just as the man from Clar Karond rushed in on his left. The man was at full extension, slashing low with his knife, and Malus’ heavy sword buried itself in the side of his head. The druchii staggered beneath the blow, a choking, bloody rasp hissing past his shattered jaw. Then he let go of his knife and gripped Malus’ sword in his bare hands, trapping it in a death grip.
The zealot fell, blood pouring from his ravaged face and hands, and pulled Malus along with him. Without thinking Malus put his boot in the man’s face and took hold of his sword hilt with both hands, but he was not fast enough to pull his weapon free. The dagger-man from Hag Graef tackled him around the waist, knocking the highborn off his feet.
Malus hit the ground with a roar, feeling the sword wrenched from his grip. The zealot’s dagger was trapped beneath the highborn for the moment. Malus pounded and clawed at the druchii’s head, but the zealot tucked in his chin and closed his eyes tight against the highborn’s stabbing fingers.
The highborn changed tack, fumbling for his dagger, but the temple maiden and the remaining zealots swept down on him, weapons ready. “Hold his arms,” she ordered. The maiden ran a pink tongue over gleaming white teeth. “I want him to watch while I sip from his living heart.”
Malus thrashed and kicked, but the men from Hag Graef seized his wrists and pulled his arms back over his head. The maiden knelt and with one hand hiked up Malus’ mail shirt until the leather kheitan was exposed. Her saw-edged blade would make quick work of
the tough leather. She set the point of the knife just beneath Malus’ ribs and flashed the highborn a lustful smile. “Servant of the false Swordbearer,” she hissed, “you were a fool to think you could face us alone. You placed your faith in a false prophet and now you will pay the price.”
The highborn tried to wrench free one last time, drawing muffled curses from the zealots, but their grip was like iron. Finally he subsided, shaking his head. “Alone? I think not,” Malus said coldly. “Let me show you where I place my faith, temple whore.” The highborn drew a lungful of air and bellowed. “Spite!”
There was a shrieking hiss, like water poured on a hot forge, and a huge, dark shape burst from the deep shadows beneath the trees. The nauglir was small for its breed, no more than twenty-four feet long from blunt snout to tapered tail, but its gaping jaws held fangs as long as daggers and its taloned forepaws were as broad as a man’s chest. It propelled itself forwards on two powerful hind legs, shaking the earth with its tread. Lean, cable-like muscle rolled fluidly beneath its armoured green hide as it charged like a lion at the stunned zealots. The woman from Clar Karond was rising to her feet, blood streaming from the side of her face as the cold one reached her. Her scream was cut off with a thick, wet crunch as Spite’s jaws closed on her torso and bit her in half. The war beast never broke stride, throwing the lower half of the druchii’s body high in the air with a sharp toss of his head and a thunderous roar.
The temple maiden met Spite’s hunting bellow with a shriek of her own, but it was like a war scream in the face of a howling storm. She leapt to her feet, dagger ready, but the dagger-man from Hag Graef let out a terrified scream and ran for his life.
Spite was on them in moments, clawed feet crashing down to either side of Malus and the zealots holding him. Gobbets of flesh and poisonous slime dripped from the cold one’s jaws as it snapped at the man still holding Malus’ arm. The highborn cursed and screamed along with his foes, rolling on his side and pulling at his trapped arm for all he was worth. The cold one would just as easily bite off Malus’ arm in the heat of the moment and never know the difference.
The man from Hag Graef refused to let go of Malus, yelling his own curses at the scaly war beast and the temple maiden alike. Spite lunged at the man, snapping his drooling jaws, but the zealot ducked at the last moment and narrowly avoided losing his head.
Still screaming in fury, the temple maiden tried to drive her knife into the cold one’s neck, but she didn’t reckon on the thickness of the nauglir’s leathery hide. The serrated blade sank barely a couple of inches into the dark green scales and was caught fast. Spite snarled and rounded on the maiden, but the woman anticipated the move and leapt backwards, out of reach of the war beast’s jaws. Or so she’d hoped.
Just as she made her move Malus caught her ankle with his free hand and checked her flight. The maiden stumbled, but Spite caught her before she hit the ground. Her scream of rage turned into a rising shriek of pain as the nauglir shook her like a rat in a terrier’s jaws and then flung her at the man still holding Malus’ arm. Both zealots went tumbling across the ground, the impact nearly wrenching the highborn’s arm out of its socket before the druchii’s grip was broken.
Spite leapt after his stunned prey, bloodstained jaws gaping, and Malus fumbled his dagger free as the man pinning his legs saw his chance to escape and tried to get clear. The zealot rolled to his feet, eyes bright with hate, and Malus threw his dagger left-handed, burying it in the man’s throat.
By the time Malus staggered to his feet the only sound in the clearing was the crackle of the fire and the brittle crunch of bones. Spite stood over the remains of the temple maiden and the man from Hag Graef, devouring clothes, flesh and bone in quick, snapping bites. The highborn gave the cold one a wide berth while it fed, looking for the man who’d fled towards the Slavers’ Road. After a moment he caught a glimpse of a pale face, several hundred yards along the road to the north-east. He could not see any details, but Malus could imagine the man running as hard as his legs would take him, casting terrified glances over his shoulder every few yards for fear that the terrible nauglir had given chase.
“Spite!” Malus called. The cold one looked up from its meal, steam rising from the hot blood coating its snout. It snapped its jaws once, scattering streams of gory slime, and then loped heavily towards the highborn like a faithful hound.
Malus pointed down the road. “There, beast of the deep earth,” he said coldly. “Smell his fear? Hunt, Spite. Hunt!”
The nauglir raised its snout, nostrils flaring, let out a rumbling growl and started off at a ground-eating trot. It wouldn’t be long before the zealot cast a glance over his shoulder and saw nothing but red eyes and dagger-like teeth.
Malus turned back to the corpses of the faithful and bit back a snarl of dismay. “Damnation,” he said wearily, reclaiming first his dagger and then his heavy sword. “One day I’ll have a plan that works to perfection. The shock of it will likely kill me.”
“You were a fool to think they would be deceived, little druchii,” Tz’arkan sneered. “All cults are born of secrets and deception, the better to identify outsiders. One wrong word, one wrong look, and your skull will be sitting atop a pile on a Har Ganeth street
corner.”
“And what would you have me do?” Malus shot back. “March into Har Ganeth and ask them politely for the sword?”
The daemon’s presence slithered against his ribs like silk. Malus had come to think of the sensation as Tz’arkan’s version of a smile. “Why not? It was meant for you, after all.”
Malus let out an involuntary snarl and began searching through the zealots’ bags. One of them was bound to have a bottle of wine. “I’m not interested in your riddles,” he growled. “I am not bound by fate or prophecy—least of all yours.”
Back in ancient times, when the druchii still ruled lost Nagarythe, the cult of Khaine was outlawed for its violent excesses and refusal to acknowledge the authority of cursed Aenarion, king of the elves. In those days, the faithful who worshipped the Bloody-Handed God clung to a prophecy that one day the Lord of Murder would send his chosen servant to lead the druchii to eternal glory in a time of blood and fire.
Urial thought he was that man, chosen by Khaine for his purity and devotion in spite of his physical deformities. He certainly fit the criteria set forth in the prophecy. But then, so did Malus.
The Scourge was destined to take up the Warpsword of Khaine. If Urial was indeed the figure of prophecy, he was going to be very surprised indeed when Malus pried the blade out of his half-brother’s cold, dead hands. He had to have that blade, and to the Outer Darkness with the rest.
“Your mother has filled your head with lies,” Tz’arkan hissed.
“You sound jealous,” Malus replied absently, tossing aside the last of the bags. No wonder the zealots were such miserable wretches. Not a drop of wine among them. It was unnatural.
“I have never lied to you,” the daemon said querulously. “I have shared my power with you when you needed it, even when it caused me great pain to do so.”
“And you’ve destroyed me into the bargain,” Malus snapped. “No wealth, no rank, no prospects—I’ve lost it all thanks to you.”
“Trinkets,” the daemon sneered. “Cheap gewgaws unfit for one such as you.” Tz’arkan slithered gently beneath Malus’ skin, setting the highborn’s teeth on edge. “Have you ever considered that perhaps this quest is but a test?”
“A test?” Malus spat. “Of what?”
Again, came the silky, scaly rustle of the daemon’s smile. “Malus, dear Malus. Think for a moment. I am not born of flesh. I am Tz’arkan, Drinker of Worlds. I am eternal. Do you honestly think I suffer in my crystal prison to the north?”
The answer seemed evident. “Of course.”
“Foolish druchii. To you, a millennium of entrapment is a horror beyond imagining, but to me? It is an eye blink. If I remain bound to that crystal until the sun goes dark in the heavens it would be about a
s onerous as wiling away a long afternoon.”
The highborn paused. “So you do not truly care if you are freed?”
Tz’arkan laughed. “I will be free, Malus. That is beyond doubt. The question is whether you will be able to free me.”
Malus frowned. “Now you’re speaking in riddles.”
“No, you’re being obtuse. Must I spell it out for you? I care nothing for pitiful little worlds, or the nations of pale grubs that writhe upon them. I am like unto a god, Malus. You could be, too. If you are worthy.”
The highborn laughed, shaking his head in amazement. “And you expect me to believe that? You’d make me a god, just like that?”
He expected the daemon to sneer at him. Instead, Tz’arkan’s reply was strangely sombre. “How else do you think gods are born?”
The thought brought Malus up short.
He’s lying, the highborn thought. He must be. He’s trying to get the upper hand again now that Eldire has allied herself with me. And yet… it all made a terrible kind of sense.
Malus thought it over. “All right,” he said slowly. “Give me my soul back.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” the highborn said. “If this isn’t about your freedom, there’s no need to hold my soul to compel my cooperation. Give it back, and I’ll get your relics for you.”
The daemon writhed within Malus’ chest. “Impertinent druchii! I offer you power undreamt of, and you insult me!”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Malus said, pleased at the thought of discomfiting the daemon. Slowly but surely, he was learning how the game was played.
Tz’arkan roiled like a storm inside his chest, but Malus gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the matter at hand. He had thought that with a bag of bones and a quick wit he could pretend to be a pilgrim and bluff his way into the city, but he’d underestimated the tensions running within the cult. It sounded as if the temple was on the verge of civil war.
