by Dan Abnett
Just then the highborn heard the sound of a blade striking home, and turned to see the executioner staggering away from his foe, clutching at a terrible wound in his chest. His long draich fell from nerveless fingers as he stumbled towards the shrine. The novitiates at the top of the stairs looked on in horror as the warrior fell onto his face and died.
“The Time of Blood is at hand!” Malus said again, repeating the words that Tyran had told him to say. He eyed the city dwellers still standing in the square, his face alight with righteous wrath. “Shake the temple doors and command them to hearken to the Sword-bearer! The Scourge is here, and he will strip the souls from the unworthy and fling them into the outer darkness!”
The people of Har Ganeth looked into Malus’ dark eyes, and he saw that they believed him.
Chapter Seven
THE EXECUTIONER’S BLADE
They came for him that night.
It was well past midnight when the door to Malus’ cell creaked open. His mind registered the noise, but it took precious seconds for him to force his exhausted body to awaken. By the time his eyes snapped open there was pale green light seeping into the room from the open doorway and he could see the shapes of men and women outlined in the corridor beyond. His hand closed on the hilt of his sword, but he knew instinctively that he was far, far too late. He was also so deeply exhausted that it was difficult to give much of a damn.
Malus lay there on his travel-worn bedroll, blinking stupidly in the witchlight for several long seconds. No one moved. “If you’ve come to kill me, get on with it,” he growled. “Otherwise let me sleep.”
Someone chuckled. “Tyran sent us,” a woman’s voice said. “He wants to talk to you.”
Gods below, Malus thought, sitting stiffly upright. Did the bastard ever sleep? “All right, all right,” he growled. “Let me find my boots.”
He could feel them studying him as he collected his gear. Every inch of him ached, and his muscles refused to work as they should. He could sense their amusement as he fumbled clumsily with belt and sword. The zealots showed not the slightest sign of discomfort or fatigue.
For people who thought of themselves as the true worshippers of Khaine, the zealots had a strange notion of piety. Unlike the practices of the temple, with its devotionals and its catechisms, the only display of righteousness the zealots respected was the perfection of the killing arts. When they weren’t out in the city ambushing temple warriors by day or collecting skulls on the blood-spattered streets each night the true believers were in the courtyard or the practice rooms of Veyl’s house fighting with one another. Hour after hour, sparring with heavy wooden weapons or even live steel, the zealots devoted themselves body and soul to the craft of ending life as swiftly and irrevocably as possible. The temple’s fearsome executioners were layabouts by comparison.
The more the zealots suffered the deprivations of hunger and exhaustion the more serene they became. They thrived on suffering, mortifying their flesh through exertion rather than by scourge or blade. Malus had thought himself a hard man before being thrust into the world of the zealots. Now he felt like an old, tired man trying to keep pace with a pack of lions. Give me the tender mercies of Slaanesh any night, he thought grimly. At least she expected her worshippers to sleep off their devotions.
Malus fell into line with the waiting zealots and followed them upstairs. The master’s chambers were dark and silent. The highborn’s tired mind registered fitful glimpses of dark hallways and turgid shadows cast by banked braziers. Before he knew it, he was climbing a familiar, narrow stairway and emerging onto the roof. A brisk wind off the sea blew salt mist into his face and banished the last vestiges of sleep. He took a deep breath of the briny air, looking out over the polished pewter surface of the Sea of Chill, and then to the west, where the moons peered bright and curious over the far mountains.
The zealots drew back their dark hoods and moved silently across the roof, settling down into a rough circle facing Tyran the Unscarred. The zealot leader’s head was uncovered, his hair glistening with tiny drops of sea-spray. His draich lay across his folded knees, and he studied Malus thoughtfully. “Come and join us holy one,” he said, “we have much to discuss.”
Malus considered Tyran’s words for signs of danger. It was possible the zealot leader was toying with him. If so, Malus thought, he would be made to regret it. “A strange place for a meeting,” he mused, approaching the seated zealots.
Tyran shrugged. “For a city dweller, perhaps. I’ve spent most of my life living under the open sky, moving from one city to the next or following armies on the march. This is as natural to me as a temple cell is to you,” he said. “Besides, only a faithless heart hides itself behind walls of stone. We have nothing to fear from man nor beast, for the Lord of Murder is with us.”
The highborn bowed deeply. “Well said.” He sat heavily on the slick roof tiles, wincing at the flare of pain from his stiff joints. Several of the zealots chuckled quietly, their faces hidden in shadow. Now fully awake, Malus surveyed his companions more carefully. There were six of them besides Tyran. He recognised nearly all of them, including the lone hunter he’d encountered on the streets on the way back from the temple fortress and the woman who’d first welcomed him into the house nearly a week ago. She returned his gaze with a frank, playful stare.
At the far end of the circle Malus found himself staring into a pair of brass-coloured eyes. Arleth Vann studied him with the expressionless interest of a rock adder. With an effort, Malus looked past the former assassin and focused on Tyran.
“Each day brings us closer to Khaine’s triumph, brothers and sisters,” the zealot leader said with a fierce smile. “Word of the Swordbearer and his bride spreads through the city, and the temple elders remain in disarray. Their assassins have gone into conclave, debating the choice of a new master, and the Haru’ann remains broken. The apostates have never suffered such setbacks before, and they are paralysed with fear: fear that the Time of Blood is indeed at hand and their lies are about to be exposed.”
Murmurs of approval rose from the assembled zealots. Tyran regained their attention with a raised hand. “Their fear is so great that our allies within the temple fortress report that some of the apostates are considering recanting their decadent ways and joining with us for the greater glory of Khaine. One of them is a temple elder.”
The zealots glanced at one another, their eyes widening in surprise. One of the men snorted in disgust. “They think to erase a lifetime of apostasy now that the hounds of Khaine are baying at their door? Let them offer their necks to the axe if they are so repentant.”
“Indeed,” Malus said. They knew all along what lies they were spreading. It’s the fear of discovery that motivates them, not true faith.”
Several of the zealots nodded, muttering in agreement. In fact, it was fear of discovery that motivated Malus. Who was this elder? Was it Rhulan? What if the elder hoped to buy his survival by exposing the highborn’s scheme?
“The ways of the Lord of Murder are mysterious and terrible,” Tyran replied, shaking his head. “Like you, I have no mercy for those who turn aside from the holy path of slaughter, but there is a great opportunity here if we are bold enough to seize it.” The zealot leader folded his arms. “So, after careful thought and prayer, I have decided to help this elder escape the clutches of the apostates.” He stared at each of the assembled druchii in turn, “And I have chosen you to perform the rescue.”
Malus frowned. “Entering the temple fortress so soon after our last effort will be very difficult,” he said. They will be watching for infiltrators at every door and gate.”
Tyran nodded. “Of course. That is why the elder is going to come to us.” He met the zealots’ confused expressions with a crafty smile. The confrontations across the city today have created an opportunity for us to exploit,” he said. Tomorrow, the temple elders will enter the city and appear at certain shrines to reassure the people and demonstrate their divine authority. The elder who
wishes to join us has arranged to appear at the shrine here in the highborn district at noon.” Tyran smiled. “Naturally, he will be under heavy guard, which itself provides us with another chance to demonstrate our righteous wrath. Your task is simple: slay the elder’s bodyguards and escort him here, where we will test his devotion and plan our next move.”
Startled gasps rose from the zealots. Several prostrated themselves before their leader. “This is a great honour,” the female druchii said, her eyes alight at the prospect of such a battle.
“If you succeed the rewards will be greater than you know,” Tyran said portentously. “I believe Khaine has handed us this opportunity for a reason. If we prevail tomorrow, it will be a sign that our final victory is close at hand.” The zealot leader turned to Malus. “Hauclir, I want you to lead this holy mission. Arleth Vann will be your lieutenant. You are both blessed by the Lord of Murder; together I know that you will prevail against the apostates.”
Malus felt his heart clench. He could feel Arleth Vann’s reptilian gaze resting on him like the point of a knife. “It… it’s an honour to serve,” he managed to say.
The zealot leader nodded. “After your exploits in the temple fortress, I have no doubt you will succeed,” he said, and then rose fluidly to his feet. “You have ten hours, brothers and sisters. Prepare yourselves as your hearts dictate. Tomorrow the eyes of the Blood God will be upon you.”
As one, the zealots stood and took their leave of Tyran. Malus remained seated, lost in thought. Tyran was right in one sense; tomorrow would indeed present a golden opportunity, one that Malus could ill afford to ignore.
The question was, if he only had one chance to strike would it be better to kill Arleth Vann or the turncoat elder?
Rain blew in thin sheets across the small square outside the shrine, causing the passers by to huddle inside their oiled cloaks and making life thoroughly miserable for the crowd waiting for the elder’s arrival. Word had gone out just after dawn, when well-escorted town criers had walked the city streets, announcing that the elders of the temple would come before the people to denounce the words of the heretics that blasphemed against Khaine’s holy cult. The announcement made things somewhat easier for Malus and the zealots, giving them much-needed concealment as they waited for the elder to arrive.
The highborn glanced up at the weeping grey sky and frowned. “He’s late,” the highborn muttered.
“He’s probably offering sacrifices to Khaine to stop the rain,” the female zealot replied quietly. Her name, Malus had learned that morning, was Sariya. She was very young, the daughter of a highborn family in Karond Kar. The Lord of Murder forefend that his chosen servants get their feet wet walking down the street.”
Malus grinned at the girl’s acid tongue. The zealots all stood together at the edge of the crowd, waiting for the highborn’s instructions. He’d told them that he wouldn’t know what they would do until nearly the last minute. There were simply too many unknowns: how large would the elder’s escort be? Would he stop to speak to the crowd, or march straight into the temple? How closely would his guards hem him in? Until he saw firsthand what he was dealing with, he had no idea how to respond.
Malus fingered the hilts of a pair of heavy throwing knives beneath his sodden cloak. Shortly before dawn he’d finally decided on their target.
“More likely he’s being hampered by his escort,” the highborn muttered darkly. “A large contingent would have a hard time getting organised and moving quickly down these cramped streets.” He slowly scanned the assembled druchii, looking for anything untoward. That, or they are waiting to hear back from their informants to see if the square is safe to travel through.”
Sariya gave Malus a sidelong glance. “My, holy one, you’re a font of cheery news.”
“The true faith is not an easy one,” the highborn replied with a wry smile, “but it is realistic.”
He turned to Arleth Vann and caught himself just before he asked if the former assassin had seen anything. The druchii was looking away at the time and didn’t catch Malus’ startled expression. Sariya’s banter had almost caused him to forget himself. He’s no retainer of mine, the highborn thought angrily, quickly looking away.
The tramp of armoured feet carried across the rain swept square from the east. Heads turned. Malus stood on his toes to peer above the throng and caught sight of a rank of four executioners, their lacquered armour gleaming wetly in the weak light. They marched with their draichs unsheathed and raised before them like a hedge of razor-edged steel. Their faces were grim and their dark eyes fixed on the crowd as if viewing them from across a battlefield. Malus paid no attention to the executioners, instead straining his ears to gauge the weight of the marching feet echoing across the cobblestones. He bit back a snarl. It sounded like a full company of swordsmen, possibly as much as two hundred men. The temple wanted to send a very clear message to the people of the city.
“Damnation,” Malus muttered, considering his options. There weren’t many to choose from. From where he stood, it looked as if the swordsmen were marching directly at the assembled crowd, evidently intending to create a cordon for the elder between the audience and the shrine. After a moment he thought he understood what the temple contingent was planning.
“All right,” the highborn said, turning his back on the crowd and addressing the zealots in low, urgent tones. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” Malus took a deep breath. “Arleth Vann, take Sariya and get inside the shrine as quickly as you can. The rest of us will work to the front of the crowd and attack the executioners once the elder shows himself. When the fighting starts, he’ll retreat inside the shrine, where you’ll be waiting for him. Kill his escorts and take him straightaway to Tyran. We’ll keep the executioners distracted until you get away.”
Malus looked first to Sariya, and then at Arleth Vann, making certain they understood their instructions. He met the former assassin’s gaze and the druchii nodded curtly, acknowledging the order as he’d done countless times in the past. “Go,” Malus said, and the two zealots headed swiftly away, circling around the edge of the crowd to get past the oncoming line of executioners.
The highborn turned back to his remaining men. “Spread out and work your way up to the front of the crowd,” he said. “No one acts until I give the order.” With that, he turned on his heel and started easing his way through the muttering throng.
Within moments Malus found himself fighting his way upstream against a press of people being pushed in the opposite direction. The executioners were using their blades to force the crowd to give ground, eliciting angry murmurs from the spectators. A long double line of armoured warriors was extending itself for twenty yards across the square in front of the shrine. A large block of troops was assembled near the mouth of the street the escort had emerged from, securing their line of retreat.
The tramp of feet fell silent, followed by the rattle of harnesses as the swordsmen adjusted their line. Malus stopped short behind the foremost line of spectators, first eyeing the warriors and their brandished blades and then trying to catch a glimpse of the steps to the shrine. He just caught sight of two hooded figures slipping inside the entrance to the building, and knew that Arleth Vann and Sariya were in position.
Movement near the mouth of the eastern lane caught the highborn’s attention. All he could see over the line of troops was the tip of a gold-topped staff and a voluminous crimson hood. Was it Rhulan, he thought? There was no damned way to tell.
He watched the figure move along behind the line of executioners as he eased his sword from its scabbard beneath his cloak. Malus shifted slightly, taking up position almost directly behind a tall, scowling man who was glaring irritably at the temple soldiers.
Malus watched the elder begin to climb the temple steps, just as he’d anticipated—the man would need the extra height to address the crowd over the soldiers. The highborn took a deep breath and lowered his right shoulder. “Blood and souls for the Swordbearer!” he roared, an
d shoved the unsuspecting man at the executioners as hard as he could. Taken by surprise, the spectator flew at the swordsmen with a startled shout, his arms flinging wide for balance, and the surprised executioner in front of him reacted out of instinct. A draich carved a flickering arc through the rain and the spectator screamed, blood rising in a fountain as the sword split him nearly in half.
The highborn struck at just that instant, while the executioner’s blade was still deep in his victim’s body. “They mean to kill us all!” he shouted, stabbing his sword into the executioner’s exposed throat. The swordsman reeled backwards, blood pouring down the front of his armour. More shouts and the clash of steel echoed up and down the line, adding to the pandemonium.
Malus leapt into the gap opened in the executioners’ line, hacking left and right with his heavy blade. He struck the man to his left a heavy blow on the side of his helmet and then cut open the hamstring of the man on his right. The executioner collapsed with a scream, clutching at his leg, and the rest of the swordsmen lost their self-control and attacked the shouting crowd.
A draich swept down at Malus, but the swing had little real power and the highborn swept it aside with ease. The tight ranks of the executioners made for an imposing wall of men and steel, but it left the warriors with little room to use their long blades properly. He hacked at the man in front of him, feinting at his head and then altering the course of the blow to smash his heavy sword into the executioner’s fingers. Two severed digits tumbled from the man’s right gauntlet. Malus half-knocked the draich from the man’s grip with a savage swipe and then smashed his sword into the executioner’s face.
In the space of an instant the square had become a raging battlefield. The executioners lashed out at anything that moved, and spectators in the crowd were fighting back in an effort to save themselves. Screams and the stink of spilled blood filled the air. The executioner Malus had struck fell to his knees, his helmet crumpled by the highborn’s savage blow. He stepped in and slit the man’s throat with his sword, laughing like a madman in the ringing tumult. Malus felt the daemon respond to the terror and pain around it, writhing and squirming around the highborn’s hammering heart. For a fleeting instant he was tempted to ask the daemon to share its power, just for the sheer joy of spilling blood. This was his element. He’d known it since the day he’d rescued the army of the black ark from the ambush at Blackwater Ford.
