by Dan Abnett
The assassin was too stunned to speak for a moment. “That’s absurd,” he sputtered.
“Is it?” Malus asked. “You said that the sanctum was built to safeguard the sword, but from what? The relic had been in the possession of the elders for centuries. Why the sudden need to enshrine it under layers of sorcerous wards?”
“I…” The retainer’s voice faded as he wrestled with the notion. “I don’t know. Perhaps the elders feared the schism leaders would try to steal the sword at some point.”
“Or perhaps they already had!” the highborn exclaimed. “You said that the five zealots who volunteered to kill the temple leaders were never heard from again. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? If they had been caught or killed, wouldn’t the elders have wanted to make a public spectacle of their deaths?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then it’s reasonable to assume they weren’t caught. So what happened to them?” Malus spun on his heel, his stride quickening along with his thoughts. “What if they realised that their assassination attempt was doomed to fail, and decided on another course of action? Perhaps they couldn’t kill the elders, but they could deprive them of the cult’s most prized relic! So they took the sword and vanished.” The highborn nodded to himself. That’s why the elders sent their warriors rampaging through the city afterwards. They weren’t looking for the zealot leaders so much as they were looking for the warpsword itself!”
“But we know the assassins never returned from the fortress,” the retainer said. “So where did they go?”
“Where else? Through the Vermillion Gate.”
Arleth Vann froze, a rebuttal dying on his lips. “Blessed Murderer,” he swore softly. “Of course.”
“One can imagine how frantic the elders were when they learned the sword had been taken,” Malus said. “How could they claim to be the true servants of Khaine without the blade in their possession? What would become of their alliance with the Witch King? The elders may have survived the assassination attempt, but the zealots had dealt them a mortal blow all the same.
“Then a very strange thing happened. Days turned to weeks, and weeks into months, and nothing more was heard about the sword. If the zealots had it, they would have used it to discredit the temple publicly. So the elders realised they’d been given a sort of reprieve. For the moment, no one in Naggaroth knew of the warpsword’s fate, so they hatched a desperate plan to save themselves.”
“They made a copy of the blade,” Arleth Vann said, his voice tinged with wonder.
“Exactly,” the highborn said. He patted the foot of the tomb. They had Gothar here make a perfect copy of the relic, and then made a grand show of installing it in the temple. The sanctum wasn’t built to safeguard the sword at all, but to protect the temple’s darkest secret.”
“That’s why they killed the dwarf slaves,” the assassin said. They had to silence Gothar so he couldn’t betray them, and murdered the rest to camouflage the act.”
“The elders even went so far as to bind their spirits into these tombs so that no sorcerer could question them later,” Malus said with admiration. “That’s why the elders kept Urial at arm’s length all this time. Even if he had been the true Scourge, they couldn’t give him what they didn’t have.”
“So Rhulan and the other elders knew the truth?”
“Yes. That’s why he told us we couldn’t fight Urial directly—because the legend says the bearer of the warpsword can’t be defeated in battle. If we put the lie to that claim, the rest of the deception would have begun to unravel.”
The assassin nodded thoughtfully. “It all makes sense,” he said. Although from the sound of his voice he was loathe to believe it. Suddenly he straightened. “Do you think Urial knows he doesn’t have the real sword?”
“Honestly? I don’t think so,” Malus said. “Not yet, at least. Until the blade is put to the test he has no reason to think it is a replacement.”
“That’s why Rhulan hasn’t rallied the temple warriors. He doesn’t dare spur a real confrontation with the zealots, despite the fact that he knows he has a good chance of defeating them.” The assassin shook his head ruefully. “What madness!”
“Indeed,” Malus said. He continued to pace, tapping his chin furiously. “Mother of Night,” he swore. The sword could be anywhere in the world. How are we going to find out where the assassins took it?” The rush of triumph he’d felt as all the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place turned to bitter frustration. For a moment he thought he’d found a way to cheat the daemon and claim the sword without having to confront Urial or Yasmir at all. He struggled with a flood of hopeless fury, so preoccupied that at first he didn’t notice Arleth Vann had spoken. Malus caught the questioning look in the assassin’s gaze and paused in mid-stride. “What?” he asked.
“I said that I think I know a way,” Arleth Vann replied.
The assassin’s right hand shot up and the small party froze in place. Malus and three of the surviving six loyalists settled onto their haunches, hands tightening on their weapons. Darkness flowed towards them as Arleth Vann closed his left hand, muffling the small globe of witchfire he’d conjured.
For several long moments Malus heard nothing but the sound of his own heart labouring in his ears. Then he heard a faint, keening wail, skirling out of the blackness somewhere up ahead of them. Two of the druchii behind Malus shifted nervously at the ominous howl. One let out a fearful moan.
“Hsst!” Malus whispered threateningly. “Not a sound!”
No one moved. Malus caught himself holding his breath, straining to hear the telltale signs of discovery. A minute passed, and then another.
Finally Arleth Vann relaxed, opening his hand and filling the narrow tunnel with cold light. He turned his body slightly so he could glance back at Malus. “The Chaos beasts are hunting somewhere up ahead, but they don’t seem to be in our path,” he whispered to the highborn.
Malus nodded. He hadn’t the faintest idea how the assassin could tell, but he knew better than to argue with the druchii’s keen senses. “How far to the citadel?” he asked.
“Another few minutes, if all goes well.”
“Let’s go, then.”
The retainer rose silently to his feet. Malus followed suit. Behind him, the axe-wielding priestess—whose name he’d finally learned was Niryal—and two more loyalists made ready to move. They had been working their way through the tunnels beneath the hill for more than an hour, climbing from the deepest levels where the dwarf lodge was located and taking a circuitous route to the subterranean chambers of the Citadel of Bone. They had been forced to crouch in the darkness and hold their breath many times, while Urial’s hunters prowled nearby, but so far the assassin had succeeded in leading them away from the horrific beasts. Arleth Vann’s assessment had been correct; the monsters were fearsome killers but very poor trackers. Had the zealots turned a pack of nauglir loose in the tunnels the loyalists would have been in serious trouble.
Not for the first time, Malus wondered how Spite was faring in the war-torn city. Was he still being fed and boarded in the highborn district’s nauglir pens, or had hunger or misadventure driven the cold one into the streets? He had no real fear for the nauglir’s safety—the warbeast was more than a match for any but the most heavily armed war bands prowling Har Ganeth’s streets. It was the safety of the relics in the cold one’s saddlebags that gave the highborn cause for concern.
He was haunted by visions of the cold one clawing its way through the doors of its pen and tearing its saddlebags off in the process, or having them ripped open in a fight and spilling their contents onto the street.
One thing he was coming to realise about sorcerous relics was that finding them was only half the challenge. Keeping them for any length of time was just as hard, if not harder.
If the zealots had stolen the sword and escaped through the Vermillion Gate hundreds of years ago, Malus hadn’t the faintest idea how to track them, but Arleth Vann knew of a library in the Citadel
of Bone that might contain some useful clues. All they had to do was slip past Urial’s hunters and zealot patrols and infiltrate one of the most important buildings in the temple fortress undetected. As ever, the assassin volunteered to make the attempt alone, but Malus had insisted on sending a small party instead. There was simply too much at stake to risk sending a single man, even one as skilled as Arleth Vann. If anything went awry and Urial guessed their interest in the library, the would-be Scourge could place it under such heavy guard that they wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near it—or worse, lay a sorcerous ambush to catch them unawares the next time they tried to reach it.
Holding the globe of witchlight over his head, Arleth Vann set off down the narrow, bone-strewn corridor. Many of the crypt passages had been thrown into disarray by the passage of the Chaos beasts. Skeletons had been scattered from their shelves and crushed to powder beneath the hunters’ leonine paws.
Some of the fresher ones even had the skulls and long bones split open in a vain search for meat. The assassin picked his way carefully among the drifts of bone and rotted cloth, leaving Malus and the loyalists to follow in his footsteps and watch every dark niche and side passage with a growing feeling of unease. No one spoke, but everyone shared the same sense of dread. The longer they spent in the tunnels, the greater the chance that the hunters would catch their scent. Sooner or later their luck would run out.
Arleth Vann moved unerringly through the maze of tunnels, pausing only occasionally to check his bearings at corridor junctions or antechambers. From what Malus could tell Niryal and the other temple servants were just as disorientated as he was. All he knew for certain was that they were close to the surface. The corridors showed signs of frequent traffic and were largely free of cobwebs and layers of dust. The highborn was surprised at how eager he was to get above ground, even for a short time. It had been almost six days since he’d been out in the open air, and the claustrophobic weight of the catacombs was beginning to tell on his nerves.
Long minutes passed, and Malus’ impatience grew. One passageway led to another and every sound set the highborn’s teeth on edge. They heard no more hunting howls echoing in the blackness. Did that mean the beasts had moved further away, or were they creeping stealthily closer, waiting until the very last moment before rushing at their prey in a cacophony of terrible, whistling shrieks?
Finally, Malus could take no more. He quickened his steps slightly, enough to catch up to Arleth Vann and pluck at a corner of his robe. The assassin stopped.
“You said just a few more minutes,” Malus whispered.
“We’re nearly there,” the retainer replied. He pointed into the darkness ahead. There is a chamber just a few more yards that way. Beyond it will be a ramp leading up into the citadel’s lower rooms.”
Malus took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. “All right,” he said, “lead on.”
The assassin slipped quietly along the corridor, and within a few minutes more Malus saw the glow of the witchlight expand to fill a broad chamber just ahead. It was a rectangular room almost twenty paces across on its long sides, and its walls and corners were piled with skeletons and crumbling skulls. Passageways led off to the left and right, and a long, sloping ramp led upwards from the opposite side of the chamber. Arleth Vann stepped to one side as he entered the room, and Malus rushed past with the loyalists hot on his heels.
“Wait, my lord!” the assassin hissed in warning. “Something’s not right—”
Frowning, the highborn turned to ask what he was talking about, but his question went unasked as a chorus of high-pitched screams shattered the dank air.
Chapter Eighteen
INTERROGATING THE DEAD
For the briefest instant, Malus froze in horror as the high-pitched shrieks reverberated across the dimly lit chamber. The attackers charged from the shadowy passageways, but instead of the rapacious Chaos beasts they expected, their foes were in the shape of men. They wore grey robes and kheitans beneath long shirts of blackened mail, and their skin and hair were smeared with a thick layer of soot or ash. Each man carried a short, cruelly hooked spear or a short, stabbing sword with a serrated edge, and their expressions were contorted in snarls of feral bloodlust.
Malus knew that these were not sorcerous monsters that shrugged off the touch of sharpened steel, and the knowledge filled him with murderous vigour. The highborn raised his sword and met the enemies’ charge with a bloodthirsty laugh. “Blood and souls for Khaine!” he cried, and rushed at the oncoming men.
The first man he reached lunged at Malus with his spear, his eyes widening in surprise at the highborn’s reckless charge. Malus slapped the spearhead aside with the flat of his blade and then smashed the heavy sword into his attacker’s face with a backhanded strike. Bone crunched as the keen edge struck the man just beneath his nose and split his skull in half. The corpse lurched on past the highborn for several more steps before collapsing to the floor.
The clangour of battle filled the air as the loyalists threw themselves at their foes. An ashen-faced attacker screamed as Niryal ducked beneath his spear thrust and hacked off his right leg just below the knee. Arleth Vann drew one of his blades and danced through the onrushing foes sweeping in from the left, toppling two men in a spray of bright crimson.
Two druchii rushed at Malus, holding their saw bladed knives in an underhand grip. Still laughing furiously, he charged the first man, driving him back with a swipe at his face. The second man saw an opportunity and lunged in from the right, bringing up his blade in a disembowelling thrust, only to find he’d fallen into the highborn’s trap. At the last moment Malus pivoted away from the thrust and severed the man’s knife-hand with a short, powerful stroke. Hot blood sprayed across Malus’ face as the maimed warrior reeled backwards, but the highborn had already turned his attention back to the second knife wielder. The druchii slashed at Malus’ throat, but the highborn blocked the knife stroke easily, deflecting the smaller weapon away with his heavier blade. Before the druchii could recover Malus planted his left foot and lunged, driving his double-edged sword into the man’s throat. The point of the blade grated against the druchii’s spine and the mortally wounded man dropped lifelessly to the floor.
Suddenly Malus felt something curved and sharp circle his left ankle. He glanced left just in time to see one of the druchii leering triumphantly at him before hauling back on his spear. The weapon’s curved billhook pulled Malus off his feet. Instinct and battle-hardened reflexes made him rotate in midair, letting him take the fall on his back instead of his sword arm, but the spearman was a quick and cunning fighter, stepping in swiftly and smashing his billhook against Malus’ sword-hand. The highborn roared in pain and rage as his sword was sent spinning end over end across the room.
The spear swept around again, this time angling for Malus’ neck, but the highborn caught the haft with both hands and pulled the druchii towards him. As the man stumbled forwards, Malus kicked the druchii hard in the groin and then smashed a heel against his attacker’s left knee. The man fell hard, his face locked in a grimace of pain, and Malus pulled the spear from his hands. The highborn reversed his grip on the weapon and buried the spear’s point in his foe’s temple, and then crawled clear of the twitching body and scrambled for his lost blade.
Men were running past him. The ashen-faced attackers were in full retreat, demoralised by the ferocity of their foes’ counterattack. There was a whirring of steel through the air and then a meaty thunk, and one of the fleeing druchii let out a strangled gasp and fell to the floor with Arleth Vann’s sword buried in his back. Malus reached his sword and lurched to his feet, but by then the rest of the attackers had vanished, their footfalls receding swiftly into the darkness.
Arleth Vann dashed to his victim and pulled his sword free with a muttered curse. Malus took stock of his party and found that none of the loyalists had been injured in the brief fight. He turned to his retainer. “Who in the name of the Outer Dark were they?”
“Beas
tmasters,” the assassin replied. The temple employs them to provide animals for festival games and to train its warriors.” He glanced down the left passageway, concern on his face. “We must have surprised them as much as they did us, but they’ll be calling the hunting beasts to them at any moment. We need to get inside the citadel, now!”
“Lead on,” Malus said, and Arleth Vann darted up the ramp without another word.
The ramp ran up through a series of large storerooms, switching back upon itself with each new level. They passed dusty crates and cracked clay urns that had once held expensive ink, bales of rotting cloth and sheaves of incense sticks that thickened the air with cloying, spicy scents. They saw no one as they raced for the upper levels of the tower, although in places Malus noticed a line of fresh boot prints running ahead of them through the layers of dust.
After several long minutes they reached the chamber and the top of the ramp, their noses clogged with dust and strange scents. A pair of broad, iron-banded doors stood at the other end of the room, and one of the heavy panels was slightly ajar. Arleth Vann rushed down an aisle of crates and pulled the door wider, as if he feared it might slam shut at any moment. Malus glimpsed a large, dimly lit room, beyond, piled high with more supplies. Stairs rose along the high, stone walls into the tower proper.
The assassin breathed a sigh of relief and doused his sorcerous light. “We’re in luck. The fools didn’t think to bar the door. Quickly now!”
Malus and the loyalists filed through the doorway and Arleth Vann pulled the heavy door shut behind him. A broad, wooden wheel was mounted on a spindle set into the stone wall next to the doorway. The assassin grabbed the wheel’s spokes and leaned against it, pushing with all his strength. Bemused, the highborn joined him on the wheel’s opposite side and pulled, grimacing at the flare of pain in his chest. At first the wheel refused to budge. Then, inch-by-inch, it began to turn. There was a building screech of rusted iron, and then the doors trembled with a muted thud.
