by Dan Abnett
Malus bent to wipe his sword clean on the dead druchii’s hair. “Well, I confess I had a question to ask you—”
Had the zealot not been half-dead from blood loss his first stroke would have split Malus from crown to navel. As it was, the highborn heard the faint scrape of the man’s boot and battlefield instincts threw him to the side. The axe came whistling down and split the dead druchii in two, but the zealot scarcely skipped a beat. He pulled his weapon free and leapt after Malus, his expression a rictus of madness and hate.
There was no time for confusion or shouted commands; the axe was a crimson blur, reaching for Malus’ head, neck and chest. The zealot’s skill was incredible, and it was all Malus could do to parry the rain of razor-edged blows. The street rang from the clash of axe and sword, like the tolling of a madman’s bell.
Malus gave ground, his anger rising with every step. The axe blade sang past the highborn’s sword and sliced through the sleeve of his upper left arm. He felt warm blood soaking into the fabric of his robes. “What kind of gratitude is this?” he snarled.
But the man only redoubled his attacks, howling in fury. The zealot leapt forwards, feinting at Malus’ neck and then sweeping upwards to smash his skull. It was all the highborn could do to throw himself back out of the weapon’s reach. He felt the edge of the blade nick his chin in passing.
“He can still answer questions without his arms,” the daemon suggested in its silky voice.
“True enough,” Malus gasped. Just then the man aimed a vicious backhanded cut at the highborn’s head. Malus dropped to his knees and the swing of the heavy axe pulled the man off balance. Before he could recover the highborn hacked off the man’s foot just above the ankle.
The zealot screamed and fell, still swinging at Malus. The axe scored a glancing blow to his right arm, popping mail rings in a long, ragged cut. Furious, the highborn rounded on the bleeding man and chopped off his right hand. Steel rang on the cobblestones as the axe cartwheeled across the street.
“Kill me!” the zealot moaned, trembling with shock and despair. “Give me back my honour, holy one! I’ve done nothing to offend you.”
No, you just tried to turn me into sausage, Malus thought furiously. He leaned over the man. “I care nothing for your honour, you fool,” he hissed. “I just wanted to ask you a question. You brought this on yourself.”
“I did this? How? If you hadn’t come along those men would have killed me. We’d been fighting for nearly an hour!”
The man was obviously delirious. Malus was frankly surprised the zealot had any blood left to lose. “Just tell me: where is the house of Sethra Veyl? That’s all I want to know. Tell me…” Malus paused, trying to think of a suitable threat. Tell me… or I’ll let you live.”
“No!” the man wailed, his eyes widening in horror.
“I can tie off your stumps; find a torch and cauterize the wounds. I could see to it you lived a long time.” He couldn’t believe what he was saying.
The man looked at Malus as if he was a monster. “All right, all right! His house is in the highborn quarter, near the city armoury. A house with a white door.”
“A white door, you say?” Malus snapped. That should be easy to spot in this blood-soaked place.” He rested the point of his sword against the man’s neck. “If you’re lying…” The highborn paused. “I’ll… Oh, never mind.” He finished the man off. The zealot died with a grateful look in his eyes.
Shaking his head in wonder, Malus turned and called for Spite. “In Har Ganeth you spare your foes and kill your friends,” he muttered. “What do I do when I meet Sethra Veyl? Offer to burn his house down?”
By sheer luck—good or bad, Malus could no longer say—the next uphill street he found took him straight to the highborn quarter. The streets were starting to come to life; servants were emerging from the forbidding homes on errands for their masters, heading to the market or perhaps to restock the house’s supply of slave flesh after a night’s revelry. The servants moved with purpose, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, never meeting another’s eye or tarrying on the street for more than a moment. They wove gracefully among the piled skulls and the fresh bodies, and gave the fat, presumptuous ravens a respectful berth.
It took another hour of searching to find the city armoury, where the spears and armour of the city’s militia were stored in anticipation of war. Using that as a point of reference Malus began exploring each nearby street, until at last he found a house with a spotless white door.
Malus dismounted, going over his story one last time in his head as he pounded his fist on the oak door.
Several minutes passed. Finally Malus heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and the door’s spy-hole opened. A dark eye regarded him dispassionately.
“Greetings brother,” Malus said. “I’ve come a long way to answer the call of the faithful. I was told there would be a place for me here.”
The eye regarded him a moment more, and then the spy-hole snapped shut. Larger bolts rattled in their housings and the door swung open. A young woman in startlingly white robes stood in the doorway A long, fresh cut traced a red line down the side of her pale face, still seeping a thin line of blood. Her expression was eerily serene. “Welcome, holy one,” she said in a measured voice.
Malus paused. Do I step inside or draw my sword, he thought?
He decided on the former. Stepping just inside the doorway, he found himself in a small, walled courtyard full of armed druchii. They all wore white robes, like the woman’s, and little or no armour, but every one of the zealots had a bared blade in hand. They studied Malus with barely concealed belligerence.
Malus studiously avoided the stares of the assembled druchii, focusing on the wounded woman instead. “I will need a place for my nauglir,” he said. It occurred to him that nearly every zealot he’d seen on the road had been travelling on foot.
“It will be seen to,” the woman said. There are nauglir pits in the quarter, with people we can trust.” She motioned to one of the armed men, who bowed and ran across the courtyard to a flight of steps that led into the house proper. “Your arrival is propitious,” she told him. The heretics have learned how many of the faithful have slipped into the city over the last few weeks and they have decided to move against us.”
Malus nodded. “I saw a bloody battle on the way here. The heretic’s servants cornered five of our men and slew them not far from here. Where is Sethra Veyl?”
The woman’s serene expression darkened. “Dead, holy one. The heretics sent assassins in the night and slew Veyl while he slept. Tyran the Unscarred is the new elder, and he vows that the atrocity will not go unavenged.” A thought struck her. “I should take you to him, holy one. You may be of great use to his plans.”
“Of course,” Malus said smoothly, considering the possibilities. Anything he could do to gain the zealots’ confidence would make his position that much more secure. “We will have to act quickly,” he said. “Take me to the elder. If the heretics are on the move, then Urial must be close to claiming the sword.”
“Indeed,” the woman said with a fierce smile. The elders cannot deny him much longer. Soon he will take up the holy blade and we will sweep the heretics away on a tide of blood. If Tyran’s plan succeeds, you will open the way for the Rite of the Sword to begin. Think of the rewards you will reap when the true faith is reborn and the Swordbearer takes his place at the head of the temple!”
Chapter Four
KEEPERS OF THE DEAD
The woman ushered him into a large, empty chamber on the top floor of the house, and left him to wait as she announced his arrival to Tyran the Unscarred. A variety of swords, axes and knives hung from three of the room’s walls, and the floor had been dusted with talc. The room was clearly meant for practice and perhaps meditation, although it was strange to find it at the top floor with the master’s quarters. There was no fireplace to warm the open space, and the woman had made no attempt to offer Malus food or drink. Cold, hungry and deeply
confused, he walked to the tall windows that dominated the north wall of the room and glared down at the city streets below. Suddenly he was envious of all the damned ravens and their sleek, black wings. At that moment he wanted to fly from Har Ganeth as fast as he could.
“This place is a madhouse,” he muttered darkly. “Urial is the hero of the faithful and the temple elders are the heretics? Is everything turned backwards in this cursed city?”
“Heresy is mostly a matter of perspective,” Tz’arkan replied, clearly amused. The true faith is the one ruthless enough to wipe out all its rivals.”
“Or the one that has the support of the State,” Malus said. The heretics in the temple fortress have the support of Malekith, and Urial has sided with the opposition. How interesting.” The highborn tapped his lower lip thoughtfully. “I wonder how long this has been going on for.”
“How long has he believed himself to be the Sword-bearer?”
Malus nodded. “A good point. Urial survived Khaine’s cauldron and was marked by the Lord of Murder, but perhaps the temple elders balked at the idea of a cripple emerging as the heir to their precious prophecy.”
“As well they might, for we know who the true Sword-bearer is.”
The highborn grimaced. “I’ll take up that cursed sword because I must, and the prophecy be damned.”
Tz’arkan chuckled. “A prophecy cares not what you think of it, Malus. It is like a map, showing the road ahead. You can curse it all you want, but the road remains unchanged.”
“Indeed?” Malus replied. “Eldire thinks differently.”
“The witch knows nothing,” the daemon spat. “She intends to shape you to her will, little druchii. You are her pawn, and she will cast you aside the moment you are no longer useful.”
Malus laughed scornfully. “Next you will tell me that the sun is warm and the night is dark. You will have to do better than that, daemon,” the highborn sneered. “At the moment she makes a far better ally than you. For one thing, she doesn’t hold my soul in her clutches.”
“No,” Tz’arkan replied, “but she sent you to me. Think on that.”
The highborn’s smug grin faded. Before he could reply, the door to the practice room swung open. The druchii woman beckoned to him from the doorway. “Tyran wishes to speak with you.”
Malus nodded curtly and joined her. She eyed him curiously. “Are you troubled, holy one?” she asked.
“No more than usual,” he muttered. “Life is never at a loss for ways to vex me, it seems.”
She led him to a tapestry a short way down the corridor and without preamble pulled it aside, revealing a narrow opening and another stairway climbing into darkness. The zealot bowed slightly, gesturing for him to precede her. Frowning warily, he stepped across the threshold and peered upwards. Pale light shone steadily from under another door at the top of a short flight of stairs.
Malus climbed the wooden steps carefully, feeling them creak beneath his boots. A breath of sorcerous power brushed across his face, setting his black hair on end and causing his cheeks to tingle. Tz’arkan tightened painfully around his heart, and cold threads of daemonic energy withdrew from Malus’ extremities, receding like a tide back into his chest. The sudden absence made his entire body ache. When had he gotten to the point that he only felt Tz’arkan’s power by virtue of its absence? What will be left once I drive the daemon out, he mused?
He paused at the top of the stair, his throbbing fingers brushing the door’s cold, iron latch. Another wave of power brushed against him, invisible as the wind. He was reminded of his mother’s sorcery at the top of the witch’s convent at Hag Graef. Tz’arkan isn’t the only power in the world, he reminded himself, and where the soul is lacking there is always hate to sustain me. With hate, all things are possible.
Malus thumbed the latch and pushed open the door, letting in a blaze of cold, biting sunlight.
The door opened onto the tower’s flat roof, providing a panoramic view of the eastern highborn quarter and the white-capped sea off to the south. The dark bulwark of the temple fortress rose to the west, a permanent stain against the summer sky. A sea breeze whistled fretfully over the battlements and across the flat expanse of the roof, carrying to Malus hints of pungent incense and snatches of whispered chants from the ceremony unfolding only a few score paces away.
A block of polished black basalt sat at the exact centre of the roof, its head and foot oriented to face east and west respectively. The body of a man lay on the block, his pale face stained with dark blood and his hands wrapped around the hilt of a gleaming draich. His body was attired in the clothes in which he had died: simple white robes, similar to the other zealots, but his were soaked in red from a gaping wound that ran from his shoulder to his hip.
Three women danced slowly around the corpse, their thick, white hair billowing like banners in the wind. Each wore a witch’s black headdress, and their naked bodies were sleek and voluptuous. Sweat glistened on their powerful arms and gleamed coldly from white throats and heavy breasts as the witches swayed to a rhythm only they could hear. Their eyes were like shadowed pools, depthless and dark, and their full lips moved, whispering words of power that he could feel pulsing against his skin. With a start, he saw that their slender fingers were tipped with long black talons, and their white teeth were sharp and fanged like a lion’s. All at once Malus was reminded of the dreadful statues lining the road to the Houses of the Dead.
“Are they not magnificent? They are true blood-witches,” his guide whispered in his ear. Malus hadn’t even heard her approach. “Heshyr na Tuan, the Keepers of the Dead. No one, not even Sethra Veyl, knew any still existed.” The zealot’s voice was tinged with awe. This rite hasn’t been performed in thousands of years. It is a great honour just to witness it.”
And in full view of the temple fortress, Malus thought, looking up at the watchtowers looming at regular intervals from the black walls. Honour or not, he suspected that Tyran wanted to send the temple elders a message. More than a half-dozen zealots stood in a tight bunch just to the left of the doorway, dividing their attention between the fortress walls and the hypnotic movements of the ritual. They were taut and alert, as if expecting a flight of arrows to rise from the fortress battlements at any moment.
One man stood apart from the rest, about halfway between the ongoing rite and the doorway where Malus stood. His back was to Malus and he was bare to the waist, revealing broad, powerful shoulders and strong arms that could have been sculpted from pale marble. The man’s black hair had been pulled back from his face and bound with a rough leather cord. A long, curved draich rested in one hand, its polished edge gleaming like ice in the sunlight. For all that he stood with the ready poise of a skilled and experienced swordsman, his bare skin bore not a single scar.
“That would be Tyran, I presume,” Malus said softly.
“Yes,” the guide replied. “We will wait here for a few moments. The rite is almost complete.”
Malus wasn’t certain how the woman could tell. The blood-witches continued their slow dance around the corpse of Sethra Veyl, staring at the body with their hooded eyes and whispering supplications to the Lord of Murder. As he watched, however, the trio suddenly stopped. One stood to either side of Veyl’s body and the third stood just behind the man’s head. The blood-witches reached towards the corpse, stretching their long, taloned fingers, and the woman at Veyl’s head bent with a bestial grin and pressed her lips to his.
The corpse convulsed, arms and legs spasming as if in the throes of death. The blood-witches withdrew, throwing back their heads and letting out an ululating howl that set Malus’ teeth on edge. Then with a furious roar Sethra Veyl sat bolt upright, his bloody face twisted in an expression of hatred.
Several of the druchii witnesses drew back with startled shouts. Tyran, however, spread his strong arms as if welcoming a lost brother, and let out a joyful laugh.
“Arise Sethra Veyl!” Tyran shouted. “Shake off the black veil of death and heed your
vow to Khaine!”
The risen corpse glared at Tyran. Veyl’s face worked spasmodically, as if wishing to hurl curses at the laughing druchii but unable to make its mouth form the words. Nothing but a choked rattle escaped Veyl’s bloodstained lips as he slid from the stone and raised his two-handed blade.
After a moment the corpse gave up trying to speak. Veyl’s dark eyes glittered with bitter humour. Malus suddenly wondered if the dead elder wasn’t trying to curse Tyran, but to impart some dark wisdom from Khaine’s blood-soaked realm. The realisation barely had time to sink in before Veyl rushed soundlessly at Tyran, his sword flashing in a complex pattern of deadly blows.
The speed of the attack shocked Malus. Whatever else could be said of the zealots, their dedication to the arts of war was astonishing. Tyran was motionless, and the highborn wondered if he too was stunned by the ferocity of the corpse’s assault. If so, there would soon be another corpse for the blood-witches to dance for.
But just as the corpse’s long blade sliced for Tyran’s throat the bare-chested zealot exploded into action. One moment his sword was hanging calmly from his hand, and the next he was past Veyl’s onrushing form, his draich held high. Malus barely registered the ringing sound of steel against flesh.
Veyl staggered to a stop, still frozen in mid-swing as if confused. Then Malus heard a wet, slithering sound, and the upper quarter of the corpse’s torso slid off at an angle and fell to the floor with a spray of clotted blood. Incredibly, the rest of Veyl’s body remained upright for a moment more before toppling forwards and spilling steaming organs across the slate tiles.
With an ecstatic shriek the witches fell upon Veyl’s bisected form, pulling away robes and tearing into the shorn flesh with fang and claw. Tyran turned gracefully on his heel, lowering his sword slowly to his side, and Malus was struck by the eerie, serene look on his handsome face.
