by Dan Abnett
Malus never felt himself hit the ground.
* * * * *
He was floating through darkness. A hot wind hissed across his face and strange sounds echoed in his ears.
Visions came and went in brief, red flashes. He saw stone walls and robed men, twisting passages and narrow stairs. After a time he realised he was being carried, but he could not guess where or why.
Sometimes the sounds resolved themselves into voices, echoing in close, dark spaces. Sometimes they whispered, sometimes they shouted. He tried to answer them, but no words would come.
The next thing he knew, he was cold. No, he was laying on something cold. He tasted blood. There was another red flash, and Malus flinched, blinking in the sudden glare. Arleth Vann loomed over him, his pale face mere inches from Malus’ own. Brass-coloured eyes peered deep into his.
Malus tried to speak. The sounds that came in response to his efforts were barely recognisable. “Where… are… we?”
The assassin’s face receded. The torchlight painted a wall of rock to Malus’ right, revealing deep niches set at regular intervals from floor to ceiling. Skulls and piles of bones shone dully in the flickering light.
“Among the dead,” Arleth Vann replied. Then darkness closed in once more.
Chapter Fourteen
CONTEMPLATING THE ABYSS
A hot wind blew over Malus, tangling his unbound hair and blowing fine, rasping sand across his face. Flat plains stretched for miles, lifeless and inimical.
He lay on his chest, facing north, staring at the broken line of iron dark mountains that reared up from the edge of the burning world. Malus knew that one of the mountains had a cleft in it, as if it had been split by the axe-stroke of a god. At the foot of that mountain, in a dead and withered wood, there was a road of dark stones that led to an ancient temple.
He’d tried to do his part. He had tried to gather up all five of the lost relics, but in the end he’d failed. It was too much: too much for any one man to do.
Now the sands were running out. They were stolen from him by the desert wind, streaming away into the pale white sky.
He tried to rise to his knees, but his body refused to obey. A hot pain burned like a coal beneath his skin, stealing his breath away. He’d crawled for miles upon miles, trying to reach the temple and beg the daemon to release his tainted soul. Terror gripped him as the hour drew near, when Tz’arkan would claim his soul for all time.
A hand, cool and strong, gripped his shoulder. Sharp, writhing pain made him cry out as he was turned onto his back. Harsh, white light burned through his clenched eyelids. Then a shadow covered him, blotting out the merciless sun.
He felt a caress along the line of his blistered cheek. The skin was rough, calloused at fingertip and palm.
“Do you suffer, my lord?” her voice, throaty and deep, reminded him of the slave cruise, and the time before the daemon’s curse.
“I have to get to the temple,” he croaked, his breath coming in bubbling gasps. His clumsy fingers pawed at the ragged tear in his robes. “I’m hurt,” he said, bitter tears carving tracks through the grime caking his face. There is a daemon inside me—”
“Hush, my lord,” she said, “the corruption has made you mad. I shall not let the daemon have you. Do not fear.”
Gentle fingertips probed at the tear. Malus opened his eyes and looked up into Lhunara’s face. She smiled, causing the blood-filled orb that had been her right eye to bulge from its ruined socket. Blood and vile fluids seeped from the terrible wound in her skull and maggots writhed in the rotting brain matter, disturbed by the terrible heat.
Her fingers wriggled into the tear and then the open wound beneath. He felt the cold digits grasp the inside of his ribs and he screamed as she flexed her arms and pulled his ribcage apart. Flesh and bone parted with a rotten, tearing sound.
She lowered her face to the gaping hole and started to feed, tearing at his organs like a wolf, and it was all he could do to open his mouth and scream.
Hands shook him, gently at first, and then insistently. “Wake up, my lord. For the Murderer’s sake, wake up!”
Malus awoke, his rising scream silenced by a spasm of wracking coughs. His body was cold and damp, and his joints ached from lying on unyielding stone. He rolled onto his side, spitting clots of blood and phlegm from his mouth and struggling for a decent breath.
He lay on a mortuary slab in a small, rectangular cell. Its previous occupant, some withered temple elder from centuries past, had been dumped unceremoniously on the rough-hewn floor. Long niches lined the walls, filled with the tattered skeletons of favoured retainers and allies. A small oil lamp guttered from one of the higher niches, shedding a dim yellow light onto the ancient crypt. The air was dank and thick with dust, coating the back of his aching throat.
Strong hands gripped his shoulders, touching off a thrill of terror as he relived the last moments of his nightmare. He tried to fight back, but a fist of agony clenched around his left lung, leaving him near senseless with pain. Arleth Vann pulled his master back down onto the slab, studying him with concern.
“You had a nightmare, my lord,” he said quietly. “It must have been a terrible one. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you scream before.”
Malus wiped his face with a trembling hand. “That’s just because you haven’t spent much time with me lately” he replied, attempting a half-hearted smile. “I’ve had occasion to hone my vocal skills over the last several months.” He pushed aside the retainer’s hands and tried to sit up. “Where in the Dark Mother’s name are we?”
“Deep in the tombs,” the assassin replied. “By the time we’d emerged from the assassin’s sanctum Urial had already broken through the temple door and was well on his way to seizing the entire temple fortress. The great gates had been opened and a large force of zealots had slipped inside, reinforcing Urial’s small band. They were killing every slave they could find and rounding up all the remaining acolytes. It was all we could do to sneak past their hunting parties and lose ourselves in the catacombs.”
Malus winced as another stabbing pain shot through his chest, but he refused to lie back down again. “How long have I been out?”
“You’ve been in and out for most of a day” the assassin said. He nodded to the narrow doorway over his shoulder. “Rhulan and the rest are in the antechamber beyond. They haven’t stopped bickering since we got here.”
The highborn muttered a curse. “An entire day,” he said bitterly. “Urial grows stronger with every minute. Do we know what is happening on the hill?”
Arleth Vann shrugged. “I made a trip to the surface a few hours ago, hoping to get some food and water from the kitchens and maybe some hushalta,” he said. “Urial is in complete control of the temple, and he’s closed the fortress gates to the temple warriors still out in the city. Much of Har Ganeth continues to burn, and I could hear sounds of fighting in the highborn district.”
Malus nodded thoughtfully. “A damned brilliant plan,” he admitted. “Urial holds all the advantages.” He tried to slide his legs off the slab, grimacing in pain. “If we don’t do something very soon, all will be lost.”
Arleth Vann reached for the highborn. “My lord, I’m not sure you should be moving,” he said. “Your wound…” He paused, his face troubled.
Malus stopped. “What about my wound?”
The retainer considered his words carefully. “The warpsword pierced between your ribs and punctured your left lung,” he said. There was bloody froth on your lips, and you were gasping for air. Most men die from such a wound, even with the aid of a chirurgeon. Indeed, there were times during the morning when I was certain that you were about to take your last breath.”
“But?” the highborn enquired.
Arleth Vann started to reply, but words failed him. Helplessly, he pointed to the cut in Malus’ robe.
Malus looked down, realising for the first time that his kheitan had been stripped off and his robe loosened. He felt a twinge of dread
as he reached up with tentative fingers and pulled the dark cloth aside.
Arleth Vann had evidently used some of his plundered water to clean Malus’ wound as best he could. The skin on the left side of his chest was mottled with dark, indigo-coloured bruises from his breastbone all the way to his navel. The puncture was a neat line almost as long as his finger, running between his fifth and sixth ribs. The ache in his back told him that a similar wound was present there as well.
The skin around the puncture was almost solid black. The injury itself was sealed shut, bound by a rope of thick, black tissue that wept a pale, foul smelling liquid.
Mother of Night, Malus thought, his blood running cold. What has Tz’arkan done to me?
Arleth Vann pointed hesitantly at the highborn’s wound. “I… I’ve never seen anything like that, my lord,” he said. “What is it?”
Corruption, he thought, remembering Lhunara’s words. The daemon’s grip on his body was far worse than he’d imagined possible. Suddenly he remembered the stab wound he’d received in the battle on the Slavers’ Road. He ran a hand over his thigh, finding not so much as a scab or scar. It was all he could do not to cry out in fear.
I’m teetering on the abyss, he thought. One more step, and I’m lost!
Belatedly, Malus realised that Arleth Vann was watching him, his expression growing more disturbed with each passing moment. He groped about for an explanation. “It’s… it’s the blessing of Khaine,” he said. “Am I not his Scourge?”
A cruel chuckle echoed in Malus’ head. It was all he could do not to clench his fists and try to beat that sound out of his skull. “What of you?” Malus asked, eager to think about something else. He studied his retainer’s filthy, tattered robes and bloodstained skin. “I saw what Yasmir did to you with her knives.”
The retainer averted his eyes, apparently willing to accept Malus’ explanation, although his expression remained troubled. “The wounds in my arms will heal,” he said simply. “The witches teach us techniques to speed the healing process and knit torn flesh. As for the rest…” He reached up and pulled back a flap of his own robe. The faint light gleamed off polished rings of fine, close-set mail stitched to the inside of the assassin’s clothes. “They weren’t as bad as they looked.”
Malus hazarded a weak chuckle. “I thought you and your kin had no fear of death.”
The assassin shrugged. “I don’t fear death, my lord, but that’s no reason to make things easy for my foes.”
Suddenly a heated exchange of words echoed from the antechamber beyond the tiny crypt. “Speaking of making things easier on our foes,” Malus said. He drew as deep a breath as he could manage, and was both surprised and frightened to discover that he was breathing much easier than before. Then slowly, painfully, he pushed himself off the stone slab. His legs threatened to give way beneath him. Arleth Vann leaned forwards, reaching for him, but Malus waved him away. Another deep breath, and a measure of strength returned. The highborn adjusted his robes, cinching them tight, and then headed for the doorway.
Two more oil lamps threw fitful light on a rectangular chamber some thirty paces long. More crypt entrances, many still sealed by thin wooden doors, lined both of the long walls of the room, while larger entryways opened onto subterranean darkness at either of the short ends of the chamber. Alcoves had been carved into every free space on all of the room’s walls and piled with skulls and cloth-wrapped bones. Ancient statuary lay in broken, moss covered piles in each of the four corners, their original appearance long lost to the mists of time.
Rhulan stood in the centre of the room, glaring hotly at the young priestess who’d fought so well in the battle at the temple. Her hands were open in supplication, but Malus could see a steely glint in her eyes. There was a hint of anger and desperation in her voice. “We deserve answers, Arch-Hierophant,” she said. “If Urial is not the Swordbearer, how could this have happened?”
All eyes were on Rhulan. Every one of the temple loyalists sat on the bare stone floor, watching the exchange with hope and dread in equal measures. Even the tattooed elder had taken keen interest in the argument, sitting with her back to one of the piled sculptures, a pair of broad bladed knives lying naked in her lap.
“Does the writ of the temple not teach us that Malekith, lord and Witch King, is Khaine’s chosen Scourge?” the priestess continued. “Was the blade not bound by chains of sorcery, warding it so that only the Swordbearer could draw it forth?”
Malus saw a glimmer of fear in Rhulan’s eyes. His lip trembled as he struggled for an answer. It looks as if he’s living his worst nightmare, the highborn thought.
“No ward is perfect,” Malus interjected, causing everyone to jump. Startled faces turned to regard the highborn as if he’d risen from the dead.
“Urial is a potent sorcerer in his own right,” Malus continued, leaning against the doorframe for support, “and has he not spent years studying the temple’s lore? He’s had plenty of time to uncover a means to circumvent the magic protecting the sword.”
“But the sword is meant for the Scourge alone.”
Malus studied Rhulan carefully. The elder was clearly very nervous. He knows that the sword has passed through many hands over the centuries, the highborn thought. Have they told the faithful it was passed directly from Khaine to the hands of the temple? “The sword may be meant for the Scourge, but cannot others bear it? Wield it, even? After all, how long had the elders kept it before they came to Har Ganeth?”
The priestess glanced at Malus, her brow wrinkling in thought. “Are we certain he is not the Scourge?”
“I am,” Malus said with utter conviction. He eyed Rhulan. “I’m not so certain about the Arch-Hierophant, though.”
“Malekith is the chosen one,” Rhulan said weakly, “so it is written.”
“Then you had best get the blade out of Urial’s hands before the Witch King learns of this,” Malus said.
“Why is that?” the tattooed elder asked, fixing Malus with a penetrating stare. “This is a matter for the temple to resolve.”
Malus shook his head. “Not if word of this coup makes it to the other cities,” he said. “Malekith cannot see it as anything less than a challenge to his authority. He will have to take the sword from Urial, if only to prove that it is his by right. If other members of the temple decide that Urial is the true Scourge, the resulting feud could tear Naggaroth apart.”
“Blessed Murderer!” Rhulan said, placing a trembling hand over his mouth. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to fight them,” Malus said grimly. “You should have been out in the city hours ago, rallying the faithful behind your banner. In a battle like this, the side that seizes the initiative will triumph, and I guarantee that Urial has already started moving against you.”
The priestess frowned. “Urial can’t possibly stop us,” she said. “He has his zealots, but we have a small army at our command.”
“Urial has more than just his true believers,” Malus said. “He has an entire city to call upon. Everything the zealots have done up to this point is to turn the citizens of Har Ganeth against the warriors of the temple. They goaded the temple into a campaign of fire and slaughter, and then they locked them out of their safe refuge, leaving them at the mercy of the people they savaged. Once Urial shows the people that he has taken up the sword and condemns the warriors of the church for their crimes, the streets will run red once more.” He pointed to the two elders. You must escape the fortress and rally the faithful. Denounce Urial and blame yesterday’s bloodshed on the zealots, and then hunt down the heretics remaining in the city and turn your attention to retaking the fortress.”
The elder gave Malus a stricken look. “We can’t fight Urial,” he said.
“Why not?”
“The bearer of the warpsword cannot be defeated in battle,” the elder replied. “So it is written.”
Malus started to argue, but then he understood. You think Urial really is the chosen one, he thought.
You know the truth about the prophecy, and you’re trapped between the Witch King and the man you believe is the true Scourge.
“Leave Urial to me,” the highborn said. “I will remain behind with a handful of volunteers and strike the usurper directly while your forces hold his attention at the fortress gates.”
Rhulan said nothing for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing as he considered Malus’ plan. Finally, he nodded. “So be it.” He turned to the assembled loyalists. “Mereia and I must join our brothers and sisters in the city. Who will remain behind and take the battle to the usurper?”
“I want no more than a dozen,” Malus said. We will have to strike hard and fast. Even then, there is little chance that many of us will survive.”
The priestess turned to the highborn, raising her chin haughtily. “I will stay,” she said. Other druchii rose to their feet, singly or in small groups. Malus counted only ten, but he wasn’t going to press the issue.
Rhulan surveyed the volunteers and nodded. “The blessings of the Lord of Murder be upon you, brothers and sisters,” he proclaimed. “Khaine’s will be done.”
“Khaine’s will be done,” the faithful answered.
Mereia, the tattooed elder, rose smoothly to her feet. “How will we escape from the fortress?”
Malus looked to Arleth Vann.
“Take the winding staircase and follow the ancient road to Thel’s house,” the assassin said. “Even if there are guards watching the passage, you could still slip past them in the darkness. You could even call the maelithii down on them if you could fight your way to within sight of their iron anchors.”
Rhulan nodded. “Then let us go. Every moment is precious.” As Mereia and their escorts gathered up their weapons, the Arch-Hierophant stepped close to the highborn.
“Are you certain you are capable of this?” he asked, studying Malus’ face intently. “Your wounds are grave.”
