[Darkblade 04] - Warpsword

by Dan Abnett

  “You dream of the day when all of Naggaroth bows before you.”

  Malus continued on in silence, stalking angrily past the dwarf tombs.

  “Did you think that mere treachery and cunning would be enough to supplant one such as the Witch King? You will need power beyond that of the greatest druchii heroes. That is what I offer you, yet you reject it at every turn.”

  “I don’t feel stronger, daemon. I feel… hollowed out” Malus said. “I feel twisted and diseased. You’re corrupting me.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To enslave me! What else?”

  The daemon laughed. “Stupid, stupid Darkblade! Why would I do such a thing? I know your fate I laid its foundations millennia ago. In that sense, you were a slave to my wishes from the moment you were born. For the sake of argument, let’s assume you are right. Let’s say that I am subverting your will with each touch of my power. Tell me then: how is it you continue to resist me, even as your body weakens and your foes gain in strength? Have you lost one whit of your obstinate personality since you entered my temple in the north?”

  Malus held his tongue. Part of him hungered for the daemon’s power, like a drunkard ached for the taste of wine. If Tz’arkan didn’t know it, he wasn’t about to volunteer the information.

  “Nothing to say? I thought not,” the daemon replied smugly.

  The highborn crossed the dimly lit burial chamber and entered the next. Things were different here. More lamps burned along the curving chamber, outlining a meagre camp of bedrolls and cloth bags lying haphazardly in a dense cluster in the centre of the room. The priestess and a druchii novitiate lay wrapped in their cloaks, sleeping soundly on the stone floor. It struck Malus that after all this time he still didn’t know the young priestess’ name.

  “So what will you do, Malus?” Tz’arkan asked. “Will you continue to suffer needlessly, or will you allow me to renew your strength?”

  Moving silently, the highborn picked his way among the snoring loyalists and sought out the far end of the room. Another set of defensive barricades had been placed there, but Malus also saw that a large stone door sealed this portal. Runes had been carved into the door’s surface and inlaid with molten silver. Powerful charms and spirit wards radiated from the barrier, tingling across the highborn’s skin.

  Malus climbed over the barricades and carefully pushed the door open.

  There were no oil lamps within. He pushed the stone door wide, letting the illumination at his back flow into the small room before him. It was similar to the burial niches he’d passed along the way, fashioned like an artificial cavern and containing a single tomb. Unlike the rest, the stone coffin was still sealed, and its surface was covered in a profusion of layered sigils and spells. Gothar Grimmson, the inscription read, Ironmaster.

  Malus stepped inside the prime chamber and, after a moment, pushed the door closed. Darkness and silence swallowed him whole.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  The daemon chuckled. “Lies are for the weak and the stupid, Darkblade. I have little need of them. I have said this before, and I will say it again: I have never lied to you, ever.”

  “You haven’t told me the entire truth, either.”

  “That, Malus, is a very different thing,” Tz’arkan replied archly. “I’ve told you everything you needed to know at the time.”

  “So what aren’t you telling me now?”

  The daemon paused. “Nothing of import, I assure you.”

  Malus smiled coldly. “Then you’ll understand if I look for answers elsewhere.”

  “What does that mean?” the daemon hissed.

  Wrapped in concealing darkness, Malus raised his hand and felt for the cold silver band that circled the finger of his left hand. The sentry had told him it was night outside, and as near as he could reckon the moon would be waxing bright.

  Of course, Eldire hadn’t bothered to explain to him how the damned ring actually worked. Lacking any other ideas, he clenched his fist and focused his will into a single word.

  Mother.

  Malus felt a ghostly breeze touch his face. He smelled the faint scent of ashes. Suddenly the daemon wrapped tightly around his heart, making him wince.

  “Malus, what are you doing?” Tz’arkan asked sharply. “What foolishness is this?”

  The daemon’s grip was relaxing and its voice fading. A strange, silvery glow, like faint moonlight, began to fill the small chamber. Malus felt his aches diminish, yet at the same time his body turned leaden and cold.

  The light intensified, pushing back the shadows and drawing the sharp outline of a figure standing next to the ancient tomb. From one moment to the next the figure took on more and more solidity, swelling from little more than a silhouette to a tall, square-shouldered woman wearing the black robes of a seer. Long white hair hung in a thick braid to below her waist, bound at the tip with a band of gold. She was statuesque and regal, with a face that was both beautiful and coldly forbidding. Wreathed in pearlescent light, she studied her surroundings with detached interest, entirely unfazed by his sorcerous summons.

  “Eldire,” Malus said, inclining his head respectfully.

  She turned at the sound of his voice. “Hello, my son,” she replied. Her voice sounded clearly in the room, although it had a curious echo to it, as if she was speaking from the bottom of a well. Eldire’s body remained somewhat ethereal, like a ghost’s, and he could see the faint outline of the dwarf tomb through her vaporous form.

  “It has been some time, Malus,” Eldire continued. “I had begun to fear the worst.”

  The thought made Malus chuckle. “As if a seer of your power would have any need to worry.”

  “Nothing is ever certain, child, especially where divination is concerned,” she said coolly. “We deal in possibilities. Where you are concerned, the threads of fate are more tangled than most.”

  The highborn frowned. “That doesn’t sound encouraging.”

  “On the contrary, it means you are finally attempting to create your own fate instead of having one shaped for you,” she said. “Of course, this necessarily means that things are less certain than they were before.”

  “So you’re saying I’m flirting with disaster.”

  “More so than usual, yes,” Eldire said. Her lips quirked into the briefest of smiles.

  “I’ll try to take heart from that.”

  “Good,” she said, turning to regard the tomb beside her. “Now perhaps you can explain what you are doing in a dwarf crypt when you should be at Har Ganeth looking for the warpsword.”

  And so he explained as best he could, describing how he’d finally gained entrance to the City of Executioners and then found himself caught up in the holy war waged between the temple loyalists and Tyran’s zealots. He told her of the debacle in the sanctum and their retreat into the catacombs.

  Then he spoke of the wound he’d been given, and the power of Tz’arkan’s hold over him.

  “He claims to be strengthening me,” Malus said bitterly. “It makes some sense, come to think of it, but is it the truth? What other reason can there be, if not to enslave me completely?”

  Eldire considered all that Malus had said. “The daemon speaks the truth, as far as it goes,” she said carefully. “It is true that Tz’arkan has stolen your soul, and that corrupting your body would not gain it any more influence over you than it already has, but I do not think it seeks to control you at this point. It intends to become you.”

  A chill coursed down the highborn’s spine. “What do you mean?”

  “Tz’arkan is transforming you, slowly and surely, to become a daemonhost,” the seer replied. “Normally such a process takes a great deal of time, but your case is hardly normal, is it?”

  “So the daemon seeks to… what? Wear me, like a glove?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. Your soul will be destroyed, and Tz’arkan will take its place.”

  Malus looked down at his chest. “If the daemo
n’s energies can heal me like this, how far gone am I?”

  Eldire glided silently forwards and reached a ghostly hand towards the wound. Her expression darkened. “You walk a knife’s edge, my son,” she said. “Chaos energies seethe within your flesh, but you have not yet been wholly consumed. Your will remains strong, and while it does you can keep the daemon at bay a little longer.”

  Malus nodded, even though he felt anything but strong. Did he dare tell her how his limbs trembled at the thought of the daemon’s power? He craved the icy rush of Tz’arkan’s gifts, and he feared, deep in his bones, that he could not beat his half-brother without them.

  “The battle ahead will be difficult,” he said. “How will I be able to confront Urial alone and defeat him when he wields the warpsword?”

  “How should I know?” Eldire asked irritably. “I’m hundreds of leagues away. I’ve never set foot in Har Ganeth, much less examined the sword. You will simply have to find a way.”

  Malus sighed, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “Why couldn’t you simply turn up and solve everything with a bit of arcane insight, like the sorcerers in all the legends?”

  She leaned close. “If we could truly do that, my son, we wouldn’t have need of people like you,” the seer replied. “Find a way. Your soul depends on it.”

  “With hate, all things are possible,” he said, wishing the saying still had the power to reassure him.

  Eldire smiled, brushing an insubstantial hand against his cheek, and then stepped away. She studied the tomb once more. “Why so much effort for dwarfs?” she asked.

  “It was a reward for building the temple,” Malus said sourly. “A hundred and twenty prime dwarf slaves. Such a waste of very expensive flesh.”

  The seer extended a long finger, tracing the sigils inscribed into the tomb. “Dead, but their spirits remain,” she said. These are powerful wards of binding. A great deal of sorcery was invested in these tombs.”

  “Who can fathom the wisdom of priests?” Malus asked with a shrug.

  “Indeed,” Eldire admitted with a sigh.

  “Has word reached the Hag about Urial?”

  “No, not yet,” she said. “If the priestesses at the temple know it, they are keeping the news to themselves. You are right of course, once Malekith learns that Urial has the sword, he will march on Har Ganeth. A fast rider could reach the Hateful Road from Har Ganeth in less than a week.”

  Malus imagined Rhulan galloping down the Slavers’ Road for all he was worth. “And Isilvar?”

  Eldire looked back at Malus. The Drachau has proclaimed him a hero for saving the city,” she said. “His power grows by the day.”

  “As powerful as Lurhan?”

  “No, but powerful enough, in time,” she said. “Forget him and Hag Graef, my son. Your future lies elsewhere.”

  “My future is mine to decide, mother,” Malus said. You told me that. When the time is right, I will return to the Hag. I have unfinished business there.”

  Eldire opened her mouth to respond, but thought better of it. She shrugged. “As you wish, child. First, however, you must deal with Urial. That, I fear, will be challenge enough.”

  With that, she was gone. There was no gesture of farewell—Eldire simply faded like a ghost, taking the penumbral light with her.

  Malus was swallowed in darkness and doubt.

  Chapter Seventeen

  SECRETS OF THE SWORD

  When Arleth Vann returned to the lodge he found Malus sitting on the tomb of Gothar Grimmson, picking at a few scraps of stale bread and a piece of stringy meat spread out on a greasy cloth in his lap. An oil lamp sputtered on the top of the stone coffin, near the dwarfs feet.

  The highborn glanced up as the assassin slipped quietly into the small crypt. “Where did you find this awful stuff?” he asked, grimacing in distaste. He pulled a thread of the dark, stringy meat from the cloth and reluctantly put it in his mouth. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you robbed the temple kennels.”

  “Nothing so fancy,” Arleth Vann replied.

  Malus paused in mid-chew. “Do I want to know?”

  “Almost certainly not.”

  The highborn eyed the rest of the food with dismay. “Damnation,” he muttered wearily, and forced himself to continue eating.

  “How are your injuries, my lord?”

  “Better,” the highborn answered, hoping he sounded sincere. “Or well enough for me to get out of this damned mausoleum, at any rate. What have you learned?”

  The assassin glanced back into the chamber beyond, checking to see if anyone might be listening. Apparently satisfied, he sank to his haunches and steepled his fingers under his chin while he collected his thoughts.

  “It’s getting harder to move around the temple grounds,” he began. The zealots have killed most of the temple novitiates and slaves, and converted the rest. Those that remain have been given a brand in the centre of their foreheads in the shape of a sword. I think Tyran has done this to make infiltrators easier to spot.”

  Malus considered the news. “Are there still zealots in the fortress grounds?”

  “Yes. I’m not certain how many, but most of them know one another on sight at this point.”

  “I see,” the highborn replied. He pulled out his dagger and began sawing at the stale bread. “Any news of the temple assassins?”

  Arleth Vann shook his head. Incredibly, they remain in conclave I suppose Urial’s move has complicated their decision somewhat.”

  That doesn’t sound good. If they were solidly for Rhulan and the loyalists they would have made up their minds by now.”

  The retainer shrugged. He drew his own stained cloth parcel from the folds of his robe and unwrapped it across his knees. There was a piece of flatbread inside and a handful of small, dried fish. “That’s true, but at least they aren’t actively opposed to us yet.”

  “True enough,” Malus said. He stopped sawing at the bread and inspected his work, surprised that he’d barely made an impression on the stale lump. Frowning, he set the bread on the top of the tomb and hammered at it with the pommel of his knife. The blows made no mark at all. He held the lump up to the lamplight. “If I could put a strap on this I’d use it as a shield,” he muttered darkly.

  Arleth Vann pulled a small bottle of water from his belt and set it by his knee. Then he reached into the voluminous folds of his left sleeve and produced a small, clay jar. The assassin broke the wax seal around the lid of the jar and pulled off the lid, sniffing experimentally. Satisfied, he dipped one of the fish in the jar and popped it into his mouth, chewing contentedly.

  “What have you learned about Urial and Yasmir?”

  The assassin frowned, switching back to business. “Nothing good, I’m afraid. It appears that your half-brother has taken his bride-to-be and retreated back into the Sanctum of the Sword. Only Tyran and a few other zealots are allowed inside to confer with him, and the temple is heavily guarded.”

  Malus leaned back against the foot of the coffin. “How heavily guarded?”

  “I can only guess based on what I was able to overhear, but I would say at least a dozen zealots stand guard at the entrance to the sanctum, and twice that number on the stairs leading from the chapel on the ground floor.” The assassin shook his head. “We can’t fight our way through all that without raising an alarm.”

  The highborn stared at the stone floor. He knew that there was a way. With the daemon’s help he could carve through the true believers like a whirlwind, but Eldire’s words dogged him. You walk upon a knife’s edge.

  “Surely there are secret passageways leading into the sanctum? Every other building on the hilltop seems riddled with them.”

  Arleth Vann shook his head. The sanctum was created specifically to safeguard the sword and serve as the site for the temple’s holiest rites. There is only one way in and out.”

  Frustration gnawed at Malus, setting his teeth on edge. He leaned his head back and knocked it lightly against the tomb. “There h
as to be another way in. Think, damn you!”

  “Not unless you know a way to dig through dwarf-crafted stone,” the assassin replied grimly.

  Malus froze. “What did you say?”

  The assassin frowned. “I wasn’t trying to be impertinent I just said that unless you know a way to dig through dwarf-crafted stone—”

  “That’s it!” Malus said leaning forwards intently, “Dwarf-crafted stone.” The highborn tapped his lower lip thoughtfully. Slowly, he turned and looked back at the tomb. “Blessed Mother of Night,” he whispered in wonder.

  Arleth Vann eyed his master warily. Surreptitiously, he picked up the jar of yellow sauce and sniffed it suspiciously, before setting it down again. “Is everything all right, my lord?”

  Malus stared thoughtfully at the foot of the coffin. “Why is this room called the prime chamber?” he asked.

  The assassin shrugged. “That’s not its real name. Dwarf burial rites are very secret affairs. Bodies are prepared in the antechamber yonder, away from the prying eyes of all but their kinsmen, and then laid to rest in their crypts.” He looked around the small room. “I called this the prime chamber because there’s just one tomb in here, unlike the others.”

  “So this slave was someone important?”

  “Most likely. A master of his craft, perhaps.”

  Malus nodded, feeling his heart quicken. “And the sanctum is made of stone? All of it?”

  Arleth Vann could not help but give his master a condescending stare. “Of course, my lord. Dwarfs don’t build with wood. Every bit is cut stone, cunningly fitted together. What are you driving at?”

  Once again, Eldire’s words echoed in Malus’ ears. Why so much effort for dwarfs?

  The highborn reached up and touched the inscription on the tomb. “Tell me,” he said, looking back at his retainer with a dawning smile, “if the temple was built entirely of stone, what did the elders need with an ironmaster?”

  Arleth Vann’s eyes narrowed warily. “I don’t understand.”

  “Gothar Grimmson here is an ironmaster, not a stone carver,” Malus said. His mind raced as he began putting the pieces together. He rose to his feet and began to pace the small room. “What if the sword Urial took from the sanctum isn’t the actual Warpsword of Khaine?”