[Darkblade 04] - Warpsword

by Dan Abnett

  “I could say the same, Rhulan,” Malus replied, setting his cup aside. He searched for his second blade amid the bodies, and then held the weapon in his hand as he considered the two dead elders. “Do not look at this as an adversarial arrangement, Arch-Hierophant. We both stand to benefit from this. When we’re done the zealots will have been dealt a crippling blow, the temple will be cleansed of heretics and Urial will no longer be a problem.”

  “And what of you? What do you stand to gain out of this?”

  Malus smiled as he walked over to the body of the female elder. “One thing at a time, Rhulan,” he said. “Let’s focus on you for the time being.” He grabbed the woman by the hair and pulled the head upright. The short blade flashed downward, biting into the corpse’s neck, but it was too light for such butcher’s work. Malus had to hack his way through the flesh and vertebrae, grimacing at the artlessness of the decapitation.

  “What in the name of Khaine are you doing?” Rhulan gasped.

  “I can’t return to the zealots empty-handed,” Malus explained. Holding the grisly trophy by his side, he made for the fox-faced elder. “For your part, I want you to stay here and help yourself to some more wine while I make my way back into the city. Wait half an hour before sounding the alarm, and then tell whomever you must that you arrived late to the meeting and found things as they are now.”

  “Very well,” Rhulan said, uttering a sharp sigh as he reached for the wine bottle. “How will we communicate? Will I find you skulking in my chambers tomorrow night?”

  Malus chuckled. “Nothing so dramatic. I still have some more enquiries to pursue among the zealots. When I have news worth sharing I will pass you a message through the shrine in the highborn quarter. Pick a trusted servant and have them check the offerings at the shrine each night.”

  “And what will he look for?”

  The highborn grunted in pain as he went to work again with his sword. “Tell him to look for a head that’s missing the tips of both ears,” he said, holding up the fox-faced elder’s skull. “I expect I’ll have plenty of candidates to choose from in the coming days.”

  Screams and the clash of steel lingered in the air over Har Ganeth, echoing like the cries of ghosts beneath the gleaming moons.

  It was less than a mile from the assassin’s door to the house of the late Sethra Veyl, but Malus spent more than three hours getting there. Armed bands were prowling the streets with swords and axes in hand, looking for offerings to the Blood God. Armed and armoured highborn with retinues of well-armed retainers passed gangs of commoners wielding meat cleavers and knotted cudgels, each gauging the strength of the other like packs of hungry wolves. The night was still young but many of the roaming bands already sported one or two bloody trophies. From what Malus could tell, there seemed to be an unspoken rule to prey on solitary travellers rather than engage in big street battles. It was certainly safer for the killers that way.

  He moved with care, using his dark robes to melt into the shadows whenever he heard a group of druchii approach. There was no way to be certain if the marauders would spare even a temple assassin once their blood was up. Once, the highborn stepped into a shadowed alley and found himself face-to-face with a white-robed zealot. The true believer was splattered with gore, and half a dozen trophies hung from his broad leather belt. The zealot had glided silently towards Malus, raising his stained blades, but at the last moment he recognised the highborn’s face and bowed deeply, stepping past Malus and resuming his own hunt along the city streets.

  Malus didn’t begrudge the delay. It gave him time to think. Now that he had a way into the temple, he had to make good his part of the bargain and deliver the zealots into Rhulan’s hands. Once that was done, he could bend his efforts to penetrating the confines of the Sanctum of the Sword and locating the damned warpsword. As he crept through the confines of the highborn quarter he considered his options. There was still much he did not know, but for the first time Malus saw a clear path to his goal. For the moment at least he had the upper hand, and he intended to make good use of it.

  It was near to midnight by the time he turned onto the narrow street outside Veyl’s white door. A pile of torn and headless bodies lay in a heap in the middle of the lane and a single bloodstained zealot stood guard outside the door, his dripping blades crossed over his chest. He bowed to Malus as the highborn approached, and stood aside as Malus pushed the door open and disappeared into the courtyard beyond.

  The small square was all but empty; clearly the zealots had been turned out into the night to reap offerings in the name of Khaine. To Malus’ surprise, he found Tyran standing near the steps of the house, speaking to a small group of new arrivals. When the zealot leader caught sight of the highborn his eyes lit up with interest. “Well met, holy one,” he said gravely. “You return alone.”

  Malus nodded, pulling back his hood. “My companions died in glorious battle,” he replied. It seemed like the proper thing to say.

  “And you did not,” Tyran observed, the unspoken question clear in the tone of his voice.

  The highborn pulled aside his cloak. Moonlight glimmered on pallid flesh and dark, dried blood as Malus pulled his trophies from his belt and held them up to Tyran. “Someone had to return with the good news,” he said.

  Tyran took a step forwards, peering closely at the three bloodstained faces. “I see Aniya the Harrower,” he said, pointing at the head of the female elder, “and this is Maghost,” he said, glancing at the fox-faced man. He frowned at the pulped mess of the third trophy. “And this?”

  “The master of assassins, as you commanded,” Malus replied. “He wasn’t as accommodating as the other two.”

  A slow smile spread across Tyran’s face, his suspicions forgotten as he considered the news. “The temple Haru’ann is broken, while ours is nearly complete,” he said. “This is a great victory for the faithful.” He beamed at Malus. “Truly you are blessed, holy one! You have hastened the day when the Swordbearer shall walk among us.”

  “Such is my fervent hope,” Malus said with convincing sincerity. “What is our next move?”

  Tyran took the heads from Malus, smiling proudly into their vacant eyes. “Now we can contest with the temple for the hearts of the people,” he said. The surviving elders will be in disarray, and the assassins will be paralysed until they choose a new master.” The zealot leader indicated the new arrivals with his free hand. “More and more true believers arrive each day,” he said. “We are strong enough to make our case openly in the city streets.” The zealot leader beckoned for the waiting druchii to join them. “We can even count another blessed soul such as yourself in our ranks.”

  Malus was scarcely listening. “Good news indeed,” he said absently, pondering what the Haru’ann might be, and how that figured into Tyran’s scheme.

  Tyran bowed to one of the hooded figures. “Holy one, this is Hauclir, a true believer from Naggor,” he said, indicating Malus. Truly, it is a powerful omen that two blessed souls from feuding cities should be brought together in the common cause for the glory of Khaine.”

  The zealot reached up with a pale hand, drawing back his hood. His long, white hair glowed like a ghostly shroud in the moonlight, and his brass eyes shone like hot coins as he fixed Malus with an enigmatic stare.

  “Truly the ways of the Lord of Murder are mysterious indeed,” Arleth Vann said, staring into his former master’s eyes.

  “Prepare yourselves, oh servants of Khaine! The Time of Blood approaches!”

  The zealot stood on a block of dirty white stone, his twin swords glittering in the sunlight as he held them up to the afternoon sky. Twin pyramids of stained skulls rose to either side of the true believer, offering a welcome meal to a murder of nodding ravens that listened with cursory interest to the zealot’s fiery speech.

  Barely a handful of druchii paused to listen to what the true believer had to say, thinking at first that he was a novitiate of the temple preaching to the citizens outside the marble-columned s
hrine of the highborn quarter. A steady stream of men and women were passing through the small square in front of the low building, bearing offerings to be deposited before the altar at the far end of the shrine. A pair of true novitiates stood at the entrance to the dimly-lit building, fingering the ceremonial sickles hanging from their belts and glaring at the zealot across the square with naked contempt.

  Malus had positioned himself at the mouth of a narrow street leading into the square, allowing him a clear view of both the shrine and the zealot’s energetic sermon. The man had been at it for an hour. Not long after he’d begun, Malus caught sight of a messenger dashing down the steps of the shrine and heading north, towards the temple fortress. The highborn figured they wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

  For the past three days the zealots had sent men and women into the city, declaiming their beliefs to the people of Har Ganeth. Prior to today, the zealots had stayed on the move, wandering the city streets and spreading the word but not providing the temple with a stationary target to vent their displeasure upon. Today, Tyran had decided to give them their wish, sending a man to preach the true faith outside every shrine in the city.

  “The Bride of Ruin awaits in the Sanctum of the Sword!” the zealot declared to his sparse audience. “She waits for her mate, but the temple elders deny her. They defy the will of the Bloody-Handed God, and soon they will suffer his wrath!”

  Malus surveyed the square, trying to spot the other zealots lying in wait for the temple’s response. Dressed in typical robes and unadorned kheitans, they were invisible among the steady stream of servants and retainers traversing the square on their masters’ business.

  Malus knew that Arleth Vann was out there somewhere, and the thought made his blood run cold.

  He’d nearly given himself away when the assassin had shown himself that night. For a moment Malus had panicked, thinking he’d walked into a devilish trap. Surprisingly, it was the daemon that had stayed his hand, banishing the cold terror with a voice of iron and bone. “Look in his eyes, Dark-blade,” Tz’arkan had commanded. “Look! He is as shocked as you are.”

  And it was true. For a fleeting instant they had eyed each other warily, but then Tyran invited the new arrivals to join him inside, and Arleth Vann had simply turned away, falling into step with the zealot leader and not giving Malus a single backwards glance. His mind reeling, Malus had staggered to the spare, unfurnished cell set aside for him in Veyl’s house and sat with his back against the stout wooden door, his straight northern sword naked in his lap. He’d sat in the darkness for hours, sleep dragging at his exhausted mind as he tried to decide what was going to happen. Were they waiting for more of the zealots to return before they confronted him? His instincts had told him to run while he could, slipping into the city before Arleth Vann could betray his identity to Tyran. Except that the zealots were his bargaining chip with Rhulan. If he broke his agreement with the Arch-Hierophant he doubted he could get anywhere near the Sanctum of the Sword. He was entangled thoroughly in a web of his own making. So, he’d waited in the darkness, wondering how and when Arleth Vann would try to take his revenge. The next thing he’d known he was blinking at the first rays of daybreak, his eyes gummy from sleep, his charade still intact.

  He’d seen little of his former retainer since then. Tyran spent the next few days sending the zealots into the city, sniffing for news of the death of the elders. Malus caught glimpses of the former assassin at dawn and dusk, coming and going from the house like one of the city’s ubiquitous ravens. The highborn did not know where Arleth Vann slept, or even if he slept at all, but it was clear that when he was at the house he spent much of his time in Tyran’s company. It was a situation that troubled Malus no end, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do about it, not when the former assassin could betray him whenever he chose. So the highborn had kept his distance, passing cursory messages to Rhulan that did little more than state the obvious: the zealots were agitating the people of the city to force a confrontation with the temple.

  It took two days before Malus realised he wasn’t in immediate danger. No one had moved against him, indeed, Tyran treated him no differently than before. Belatedly, Malus realised that Arleth Vann might be just as wary of him. After all, he was a renegade himself, an assassin who’d broken his oaths and abandoned the temple in years past. The cult’s treatment of prodigals was legendary. They never forgave nor forgot those druchii who betrayed their trust. They would spare no effort to capture or kill Arleth Vann if they knew he was in the city. A few judicious words spoken in one of the city shrines would be enough. It was a tenuous stalemate.

  But why was he here, Malus wondered? Had he been a zealot all along, nursing his heretical beliefs in secret, or did he track me here, seeking to finish the job he’d begun in the Valley of Shadow? The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t wait for Arleth Vann to show his hand. He had to find a way to kill the man without betraying himself into the bargain.

  Movement at the edge of the square caught Malus’ attention. A trio of black-robed men were making their way towards the ranting zealot, sunlight glinting on the edges of their long, curved draichs. Malus straightened, reaching for his sword. The temple had heard Tyran’s message and here was the answer the zealots had expected.

  The three warriors were not merely swordsmen: they were Draichnyr na Khaine, peerless slayers of men renowned for killing foes with a single, perfect stroke of their huge swords. He had seen men like them at work when Urial had led the warriors of the temple into battle against their sister Nagaira. Their reputation was richly deserved. The highborn set off after the men, sliding his long sword from its scabbard and concealing it beneath his cloak. He noticed two other cloaked figures on the move as well, stalking after the temple executioners like lean, hungry wolves.

  “Even now the cowards in the temple fortress set their dogs upon me!” the zealot cried from his pedestal, pointing at the approaching swordsmen. “Why? Because they do not wish their lies to be known! They have deceived you, brothers and sisters! They have tricked you, and stolen from you, and twisted the words of the Blood God to feed their own greed! The Bride of Ruin has come! The Time of Blood is nigh, sons and daughters of lost Nagarythe! Will you stand tall before the Scourge or be swept aside?”

  “Heretic!” the lead executioner thundered, causing the zealot’s small audience to scatter. “You blaspheme in Khaine’s holy city and impugn the honour of his devoted servants.” He raised his sword. “Even the Lord of Blood repudiates you. Your skull is not fit to lie at Khaine’s feet. After we’ve split you like a steer you’ll be thrown into the sea for the fish to eat.”

  Malus was less than ten steps from the rearmost of the executioners. He reached up to his cloak clasp, unfastening it and letting it fall to the cobblestones. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed his compatriots readying themselves as well. The highborn’s hand tightened on the hilt of his blade as he drew in a deep breath and shouted in a voice fit for a battlefield.

  “The Swordbearer has come! Blood and souls for the Swordbearer!”

  To their credit, the executioners reacted to the surprise assault with speed and deadly skill. The man in front of Malus whirled at his shout, his draich making a fan of reflected light as it spun in a defensive circle around the swordsman. To his left, Malus heard the sharp ring of tempered steel and then the sound of a man’s death rattle. A body hit the cobbles with a muted thud, but the highborn didn’t dare look away from the warrior facing him. One wrong move and the executioner would strike his head from his shoulders.

  Shrieking a terrible war scream, Malus rushed at the warrior. The executioner’s curved blade paused in its circling movements, and for a split second Malus was reminded of Tyran, standing frozen in the face of Sethra Veyl’s furious assault. He means to let me commit myself, and then strike the killing blow, Malus thought. He held his blow as he rushed ever closer, dropping the point of his sword as he went. If the executioner didn’t react quickl
y he would be run through.

  At the last possible moment, the executioner exploded into a blur of motion, sidestepping the highborn’s thrust and aiming a blow at Malus’ neck. But as the warrior committed himself to the motion Malus checked his advance, planting his leading foot and pivoting into a short, vicious cut across the warrior’s midsection. The heavy sword bit into the executioner’s thick kheitan and the hard muscle beneath, spinning the druchii half around with the force of the blow and throwing off his attack. Before the warrior could recover Malus pulled his blade free and drove its point into the side of the man’s throat. Bright blood jetted from the wound and the executioner staggered, choking on his own fluids. Eyes bright with hate, the warrior swept his long blade around in an off-balance strike to Malus’ head, but the highborn tore his sword free and blocked the blow easily, before lashing out with a backhanded stroke that decapitated the mortally wounded man.

  Malus stepped out of the way as the headless body toppled over, quickly taking stock of the situation. A second executioner lay dead, his torso split by a terrible wound that ran from his collarbone down to his waist. The headless body of the zealot who attacked him lay several steps away. The leader of the executioners and another zealot circled one another warily, each searching for a weak spot in the other’s guard. Malus took a step towards them, thinking to strike the man down while his back was turned, but then remembered the true believers’ strange sensibilities. Far be it from me to deny the man an opportunity to die, Malus thought sourly, and left the zealot to his fate.

  The highborn turned back to the man he’d slain, snatching up his bloodstained head. Moving swiftly, he sheathed his sword and pulled out a short knife as he walked over to one of the trophy pyramids by the preacher’s stone block. With his back to the rest of the square, he reached up and sliced off the tips of the executioner’s ears, before putting away the knife and pulling a folded strip of oilcloth from his belt. The cloth note went between the executioner’s teeth in a single, deft move, and then Malus ostentatiously set the skull atop the pile.