[Darkblade 04] - Warpsword

by Dan Abnett

  There was a whirring in the air. A spinning shape passed through the weak light, and Malus caught sight of the hurled sword a moment too late. He moved to block the weapon but misjudged its trajectory. The back of the curved sword smashed into his right forearm. The highborn felt the bones break and cried out in pain. Then another blow knocked the broad sword from his nerveless fingers. Arleth Vann’s hand closed around Malus’ throat. His second sword hung poised above his head.

  “My loyalty to you and to the temple was one and the same!” Arleth Vann snapped. “I sought you out, across the length and breadth of Naggaroth. I served you for years, watching and waiting in secret because I was certain that you were the one. When the autarii foiled our attack in the Valley of Shadow I thought that it was Khaine’s will, and I rejoiced.” The assassin bent lower, until Malus could see the anger and despair gleaming in his brass-coloured eyes. Then I returned to Har Ganeth to find your brother Urial in the Sanctum of the Sword, and I was forced to admit my mistake. I’d found the right house, but chosen the wrong son.”

  Malus wrestled with Arleth Vann’s choking grip, but the assassin’s fingers were locked around his throat like a vice. Slowly, remorselessly, Malus’ former retainer lowered his sword and placed its point above his master’s racing heart. “I do not know how you gained Khaine’s blessing since I last saw you,” Arleth Vann said, “but whatever piety you may have found here, I know you for the deceiver you truly are. You destroy everything you touch, Malus Darkblade For the sake of the faith, and for the sake of blessed vengeance, your life ends here.”

  Sparks swam in Malus’ vision. Desperate, he switched his grip to Arleth Vann’s sword wrist, but the blade sank inexorably lower, driven by a ruthless engine of hate. The assassin’s words rebounded in the highborn’s brain. I served you for years, watching and waiting in secret because I was certain that you were the one.

  Arleth Vann’s blade pierced his skin. Icy clarity focused the highborn’s mind. You know what to do. Act now or die!

  “Tz’arkan!” Malus growled under his breath. “I have need of your strength!”

  His body spasmed as his veins burned with a torrent of black ice, driving Malus deeper onto Arleth Vann’s blade. A wave of crystalline agony tore a strangled scream from Malus’ lips as the bones in his right arm re-knit. The darkness receded as the daemon’s energies kindled his vision, and the highborn saw the look of fear and wonder spread across Arleth Vann’s face.

  Malus put his right hand on Arleth Vann’s chest and with a single shove the druchii flew across the small room. The highborn flew upright as if weightless, his limbs burning with foul energies. It tasted like wine on his lips. How had he gone for so many months without the daemon’s touch? The power was intoxicating. Malus heard laughter ringing in his ears, and thought it was his own.

  He advanced on his former retainer, gliding like smoke across the floor. His eyes were molten, gleaming in the faint light. Malus channelled the daemon’s seething power into his voice as he spoke.

  “It is you who were deceived Arleth Vann. Your faith deserted you in your time of trial and you doubted the Blood God’s will. I am the Scourge, the anointed son of Khaine, and the Time of Blood is nigh.”

  Arleth Vann looked up at Malus and cried out in awe. “My lord!” he said, abasing himself at the highborn’s feet. “Truly I have failed you. My life is forfeit. Strike me down for my weakness and cast my soul into the Outer Darkness.” He drew a dagger from his belt with a trembling hand and offered it up to the highborn.

  The gesture stunned Malus, rendering him speechless. What sort of madness was this religion that it drove men to offer up their lives like lambs? “Put away your blade,” he snapped. “I have no use for martyrs, Arleth Vann. If you would redeem yourself, then serve me as you once did, body and soul.”

  Arleth Vann straightened, looking up at his master. Tears gleamed like gold in the reflected glow of Malus’ blazing eyes. “I swear it,” he said, “body and soul, until death’s release.” He bowed from the waist, pressing his forehead against the wooden floor.

  Malus’ eyes narrowed in triumph. Only then did he become aware of the laughter, still echoing within his mind.

  “Now you accept your fate, Malus,” Tz’arkan said. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”

  “Tell me of the battle,” Malus said, peering out through the narrow window at the twin moons rising on the eastern horizon. “What happened to you after the attack on my tent?”

  Arleth Vann shrugged, the motion eliciting a grimace of pain as he dabbed at the cut oozing blood down the side of his left leg. “There is not much to tell. The autarii nearly killed me. Had one of those bolts struck a finger’s width more to the right it would have pierced my heart,” he said. “I lost consciousness as I was being dragged from the camp. I awoke later, in a flesh house near the Slavers’ Quarter. Silar had arranged for a chirurgeon to tend me, but it was many weeks before I was fully recovered.”

  “What became of Silar and the rest?”

  “Scattered like ravens, my lord,” Arleth Vann replied. They lost nearly everything when word came that you’d slain your father. All that treasure Silar had worked so hard to ferry from Karond Kar fell into Isilvar’s hands when he seized your property. The new Vaulkhar was going to have us slain on the next Hanil Khar, but then he learned that you were heading for the city with an army from Naggor at your back. So we were given the chance to regain our honour if we returned to the Hag with your head.”

  Malus nodded to himself, tasting bile in the back of his throat. “I would have done the same, of course. It was by luck alone I survived.”

  “We returned empty-handed, but Isilvar grudgingly credited us with causing enough of a diversion that the main attack was carried home successfully,” Arleth Vann said, wrapping a makeshift bandage around his leg. “So we were given our freedom, such as it was. I think he wanted to seem magnanimous to the court, because he was still trying to win over many of the city’s highborn. At any rate, Silar and Dolthaic left for Clar Karond, hoping to sign on with a corsair. Hauclir vanished. For all I know, he’s still out there hunting for you.”

  The highborn frowned. “Did Isilvar not think me dead?”

  “He said as much, but I doubt he truly believed it. We knew better. Scouts had turned up the body of Bale’s only son, but you were nowhere to be found.”

  “So how did you find my trail?”

  Arleth Vann turned to face Malus, a bemused expression on his face. “Your trail? I didn’t come here looking for you, my lord. Word had spread among the true believers that Urial had appeared in Har Ganeth with the Bride of Ruin. The faithful were commanded to return to the Holy City and stand by his side as he petitioned the temple to perform the Swordbearer’s Rite.”

  Malus turned and approached the kneeling assassin, considering his words carefully. “Arleth Vann, you have known me for many years.” He spread his hands and smiled sheepishly. “You know I was never a worshipper at the temple. It was no accident that Khaine led you to me. I have need of a guide to illuminate the path I’m on.” He knelt beside his retainer. What is the Rite of the Swordbearer, and why would the temple be loath to perform it for Urial?”

  “The Warpsword of Khaine is bound within ancient, powerful sorceries, wards that can only be undone by a special rite, and only in the presence of the prophesied one,” Arleth Vann said. “Only the Haru’ann can perform the rite itself, which is why the temple—”

  “Wait,” Malus said, raising his hand. “What is the Haru’ann?”

  Arleth Vann looked shocked. “The Haru’ann is the council of elders that serves the Grand Carnifex,” he said. “There are five members of the council, each bearing a sacred duty to the temple.”

  Malus remembered the blood-witch’s words outside the house. Our Haru’ann is complete, while the temple remains in disarray. Suddenly he knew what Tyran was planning.

  While the temple turned out its warriors for an assault on the houses of the faithful,
the zealots were going to sneak into the temple and perform the Swordbearer’s Rite themselves, delivering the sword into Urial’s hands.

  Chapter Nine

  CITADEL OF BONE

  The pieces all fell into place. Malus realised that Tyran had manipulated the elders of the temple masterfully. The zealot leader would call on his agents in the temple fortress to admit him and his zealot council while the warriors of Khaine fought the bulk of the true believers in the city streets. There would be nothing to prevent them from reaching the Sanctum of the Sword and performing the Rite of the Swordbearer for Urial.

  Malus rose and began to pace the room, considering his next move. “Where are Tyran and the elders now?” he asked.

  Arleth Vann shrugged. “I don’t know, my lord. I brought the elder here and found Tyran waiting for me in the courtyard with a cadre of warriors. They took charge of the elder and left immediately.”

  The highborn bared his teeth. “Likely he’s gone to ground somewhere close to the temple, waiting for the right time to make his move, or he could be inside the temple even now, having slipped inside with the returning warriors.” Malus took a deep breath. There was only one viable course of action to take. “I have to speak to Arch-Hierophant Rhulan,” he said. “Can you get us inside the temple?”

  Arleth Vann cinched the bandage tightly around his leg and eyed Malus with a frown. “You wish to speak to the blasphemers? Why?”

  Malus steeled himself, wondering if what he was about to say would spark off another fight. “Because we must sound the alarm and stop Tyran and his men before they reach the sanctum.”

  The retainer stared at Malus for a long time, his expression unreadable. “Why would we want to do that?” he asked at last.

  “Because Tyran has thrown his lot in with Urial,” Malus replied, “and my half-brother will stop at nothing to get his hands on the warpsword.”

  The assassin shook his head. “He isn’t the chosen one. The rite will not work for him.”

  “Do you think that will sway him?” Malus asked. “He thinks that he stands upon the brink of everlasting glory. He believes Yasmir is his for the taking. When the rite fails he won’t fault himself, but Tyran and his council. He believes that he is the prophesied one, and he will stop at nothing to fulfil his ambitions, even if that means destroying the cult in the process.”

  Tz’arkan wrapped tightly around his heart, his voice rasping softly in the highborn’s ear. “Speak for yourself,” the daemon hissed.

  Arleth Vann considered the highborn’s words at length, his expression troubled. Finally, he nodded. “There is a way,” he said. “It’s known to few people even within the temple, so we should be able to reach Rhulan’s chambers unobserved. The path is long, however, and it will take time.”

  “Then let’s go,” Malus said, eyeing his half-packed possessions and deciding to leave them behind. His truly valuable items—namely the Octagon of Praan, the Idol of Kolkuth and the Dagger of Torxus—were buried in a saddlebag strapped to Spite’s back. He could get another bedroll and water bottle later, if need be. Right now, every minute counted.

  If they moved quickly they could catch the zealots’ leaders all in one place, far from any hope of assistance, and he could hand the temple elders a great victory. In the back of his mind, however, Malus harboured an even more ambitious plan. If he could reach the sanctum as the zealots were performing the rite, his presence would allow it to conclude successfully. Then he could make his own play for the relic, perhaps with the daemon’s help.

  The highborn smiled grimly as he worked. It would be worth it just to see the look on Urial’s face.

  Arleth Vann led Malus out into the darkened streets, heading south and east away from the fortress. Malus kept pace with his retainer, sword in hand and scanning the streets and alleys with care. The sounds of fighting still echoed in the lower parts of the city, and he could see the flickering glow of fires on the horizon near the warehouse district. Based on what he’d witnessed over the course of the afternoon, when the temple warriors were unleashed on the zealot strongholds around the city, things would spiral rapidly out of control.

  The assassin led Malus out of the highborn district, following a zigzag course through twisting lanes that led inexorably down the long hillside. Along the way the pair slipped past armed bands of city dwellers, spattered with dried gore and drunk on bloodlust, in search of more heads to hang from their belts. Each time Arleth Vann slipped silently from one pool of shadow to the next, moving like a ghost past the exhausted druchii.

  They moved quickly through the city’s entertainment district. The flesh houses were tightly shuttered and many of the ale rooms had been looted over the course of the day. Many of the looted buildings sported piles of fresh, severed heads outside their broken doorways and windows. Malus imagined the proprietors letting the looters drink their fill and then descending on the drunken thieves with clubs and meat cleavers, determined to recoup their loss in flesh if not in coin.

  After almost an hour Malus found himself in the lowborn district, near the city’s great warehouses and tanneries. The acrid stink of the tanners mixed with the smoke of burning buildings, causing his eyes to water. Malus thought he heard the call of a single trumpet from high up the hill, and imagined the great gates of the temple fortress gaping like a dragon’s maw, ready to unleash the temple’s wrath upon the city.

  He was so focused on the distant sound that he almost walked right into Arleth Vann. The assassin had stopped in a pool of deep shadow a few feet back from the mouth of a narrow alley and was studying a dark, shuttered house across the street. Malus crouched beside the retainer, eyeing the building. To his eyes, it looked very old and decrepit. The witch-lamps over the door had long since expired, and at some point in the past one of the three iron balconies had given way, leaving only deep gouges in the stonework where the iron railings had once been. The door, Malus noted, was dark oak, and its iron hinges were thick and free of rust. “What is this place?” he whispered.

  Arleth Vann gave him a sidelong glance. “This house is the reason why the temple chose Har Ganeth for their own.” He edged forwards and peered carefully up and down the street. “I see no guards. Perhaps they were caught up in the fighting, or maybe the temple has grown lax over the years.” The assassin shrugged. “Follow me.”

  Moving quickly and quietly, the two druchii slipped across the moonlit street. At the door, Arleth Vann laid his hand on the dark wood and pushed. It slid open noiselessly, revealing abyssal darkness beyond.

  Malus shot Arleth Vann a worried look. “No guards and no locks?”

  “No obvious ones,” the assassin replied, “but the house is tightly warded, my lord. Be assured of that.”

  The retainer stepped cautiously into the blackness. Malus followed, apprehension tickling his guts. As he crossed the threshold he felt a prickling sensation along his neck and scalp. Tz’arkan stirred. “Old magic,” the daemon whispered. “It tastes of rot and the grave. Be wary, Darkblade.”

  Darkness, cold and dank, enveloped Malus. He stopped and waited for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust. The entry hall of the old house was high ceilinged, like most druchii homes, and three narrow windows allowed only a trickle of moonlight past their grimy panes. Everything appeared to Malus in different shades of night. The ghostly arch of a stairway rose on his right, a fainter shade of black than the ebony surface of the floor. High overhead the perfect vault of shadow was smudged by a grey blob that Malus took to be an ancient witchlamp holder.

  Arleth Vann turned back to Malus, his alabaster face hovering in the darkness like a disembodied spirit. “There is a door at the base of the staircase. We’ll follow it into the cellars,” he said, and disappeared into the gloom.

  Malus lost sight of the assassin almost at once. Cursing to himself, he focused on the half-seen staircase, crossing the stone floor with care. After a few moments he reached the base of the stairs and worked his way along the wall until he almost bumped int
o Arleth Vann’s nearly invisible form. Malus heard the creak of a door, and felt a gust of colder, wetter air against his cheek. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of damp earth and old rot. The doorway itself was a pool of darker shadow against the iron-grey of the wall. He sensed rather than saw Arleth Vann slip inside, and moved quickly in his wake.

  Without warning, Malus’ eyes were dazzled by an explosion of pale green light. He hissed a curse, trying to shield his eyes from the small globe of witchlight that burned in the palm of Arleth Vann’s upraised hand.

  “I never knew you were a sorcerer!” Malus exclaimed, blinking in surprise.

  Arleth Vann shrugged. “The temple teaches its assassins a few simple cantrips: how to make light, how to silence rusty hinges, things of that nature. Nothing like the knowledge possessed by someone such as Urial.”

  They were in a narrow, enclosed stairway that led down to another ironbound door. Arleth Vann descended slowly, testing each of the stone steps with a tentative boot before proceeding. “One of these steps activates a poison trap,” he muttered, “so follow my moves exactly.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about this place,” Malus said, attempting to follow in the assassin’s footsteps.

  Arleth Vann shrugged. “This was how I escaped the temple, many years ago.” He paused at the third step from the bottom, testing the riser carefully with the point of his boot. This is the one,” he said, stepping carefully over the trap and continuing to the door. There was a grating of metal as he turned the iron ring and pushed it open, letting in a blast of frigid air that sank right into Malus’ bones.

  The doorway opened onto a stone landing lit by a flickering green glow. The assassin doused his witch-light and stepped through the doorway Malus followed close behind Arleth Vann, watching his breath turn to vapour in the chill air. His boots skidded on the dark stones, which were rimed with glittering frost. Arleth Vann caught his arm at once, helping his master steady himself. “Careful, my lord,” he said quietly. “You wouldn’t want to take a fall right here.”