by Dan Abnett
There were only two attackers left on Malus’ right. On the left Arleth Vann duelled with the armoured highborn, blocking the noble’s clumsy, frenzied attacks and darting in to strike at unprotected joints or exposed gaps in his plate harness. Leaving the assassin to finish the highborn, Malus edged in beside the wounded loyalist and took the battle to the zealots.
A man rushed at Malus with a bloody woodsman’s axe held high. The highborn pivoted on his left foot as the blow fell, allowing the blade to pass harmlessly by, and stabbed the onrushing zealot through the heart. Sneering in disdain, Malus pulled his sword free and rounded on the second man, who was raining blows on the uninjured loyalist with a knotted club in one hand and a short sword in the other. The zealot was so intent on his victim that he never saw Malus step up beside him and split his skull from back to front, spraying the loyalist fighting him with bits of blood and bone.
On the other side of the table the armoured highborn slumped against the flat surface with a groan, succumbing to blood loss and a score of deep wounds. Arleth Vann stepped close, slicing his swords across the noble’s neck in a scissoring motion, and the man’s head went bouncing across the floor.
Malus himself leaned back against the other side of the table, panting like a hound and trying to ignore the dull pain throbbing in the side of his chest. Bodies were heaped everywhere, bleeding out onto the floor. The fight had lasted less than half a minute.
The loyalist who’d been struck by the cleaver was bleeding badly, the shoulder and sleeve of his robe already soaked and dripping. The other man appeared unhurt, as did Arleth Vann. All things considered, it could have gone much worse, the highborn thought.
Malus pushed himself away from the table and walked over to the body of the Chaos beast. The creature’s neck was ripped open, revealing strange, yellowish muscles and a backbone that looked as if it belonged in a shark rather than a lion. Stepping carefully through the spreading pool of gluey ichor, the highborn raised his sword and began hacking at the flesh, working from the inside out. It was tough going, but within a few minutes the large, octopus-like head rolled free. He bent and picked the thing up by its tentacles, and walked to the shattered doorway. Grunting with effort, he took two quick steps and hurled the trophy through the doorway.
“We’ll let them think on that for a bit,” the highborn said grimly. He turned to Arleth Vann. “You check that one’s arm. I’ll look over Spite.”
They worked quickly, unsure what awaited them outside the lodge. A cursory check showed that Spite had dozens upon dozens of shallow cuts from the beast’s tentacle hooks, but nothing that the nauglir’s legendary constitution could not handle. Malus had moved on to check the state of his saddlebags when Arleth Vann joined him. “The man’s wound is deep,” he said quietly, “and I’ve no means to close it. He’ll die in a few minutes, maybe less.”
“Then we’d best get this over with quickly,” the highborn said. “Let’s take a look outside.”
The two druchii crept up to the doorway and peered into the tunnel beyond. Globes of witchlight filled the wide passage with ghostly luminescence, forcing Malus to squint into the cold glare. What he saw made his heart sink.
There were scores of white-robed zealots filling the tunnel, their robes and blades stained with smudges of soot and streaks of old blood. They stood in a packed group behind two more of the terrible Chaos beasts, which lashed at the air with their tentacles as if angered by the sight of their mate’s severed head. A handful of beastmasters circled the creatures, holding their short spears and prods ready. They threw black looks at the broken doorway of the lodge, as if anticipating their own measure of revenge for their slain kin.
“Mother of Night,” Malus cursed softly, “they must have pulled every zealot from the city back into the fortress.”
“With the temple warriors gone, why not?” the assassin replied, his face grim. They sent in those city folk just to take our measure and keep us occupied.”
“Well, what are they waiting for?”
As Malus said the words, a ripple of motion passed through the packed ranks of the zealots. Men stepped aside, bowing their heads as Urial moved through the crowd. A trio of blood-witches attended the usurper, and Urial carried the copy of the warpsword in his hand. The mere sight of the weapon seemed to leach the strength from Malus’ limbs, reminding him of the wound he’d been dealt and of the daemon’s poisonous touch.
The would-be Scourge of Khaine reached the front rank of the men and stopped. Urial eyed the head of the dead Chaos beast and laughed.
Malus fought a black tide of despair. He looked upon the assembled zealots, and the merciless arithmetic of the battlefield showed him the future as clearly as any seer could. There was no way they could prevail against such numbers, to say nothing of the sorcery of Urial and the blood-witches.
“We’ll have to fall back,” he said. “We can’t possibly hold them here. We’ll use the fortifications at each burial chamber to slow them down, bleed them—”
“No,” Arleth Vann said quietly.
“What?” Malus demanded, his expression incredulous.
“Don’t be a fool, my lord,” the assassin said. “You know better than that. We could fight them all the way back to the prime chamber, trade ten lives for each one of ours—twenty if you count Spite—and they would still have men left over. That’s without counting your half-brother, much less the blood-witches.”
“Have you any better ideas?” Malus snarled.
The assassin nodded. “When they attack, you mount Spite and ride straight through them. We’ll cover your back as long as we can.”
“You can’t be serious,” Malus said.
“Of course I am!” Arleth Vann said hotly. “You have to escape and find the sword, for Khaine’s sake! Otherwise the temple—even Naggaroth itself—could well tear itself apart.”
“Why would you do such a thing?” the highborn asked, torn between revulsion and awe. The temple owes you nothing.”
Arleth Vann turned away, eyeing the crowd of zealots and the leonine blood-witches. “Do you remember what I said about seeking redemption, about a good death outweighing a bad life? What better chance than this to cleanse the taint from my honour?” He looked back at his lord. There’s no glory in living as an outlaw, my lord, no matter what the bards say.”
Malus was surprised at how much the comment stung. “You’ve been a highborn retainer for the last five years,” he growled.
“That didn’t change who I was,” the assassin replied, “but this will.”
The highborn bit back his anger. Fleeing the battle felt like cowardice, but the assassin’s logic was unassailable. He could either stay and die—or worse, fall into Urial’s clutches—or he could fight his way free and locate the sword. “Damnation,” Malus snarled, and then turned and made his way to Spite.
Nearby, the two loyalists watched Malus intently. The wounded man was pale and shaky, using his left hand awkwardly to press a soaked bundle of cloth against his wounded shoulder. Their expressions were bleak.
“We’re breaking out,” Malus told the men as he grabbed Spite’s reins. “I’m going to provoke the zealots into charging us, and then I’ll counter charge with my nauglir and open a hole in their ranks. Stay close behind and keep our flanks clear, and we’ll fight our way through. Understand?”
Both men nodded. The look in their eyes said they understood completely.
Malus nodded, and then headed Spite towards the doorway. The zealots hadn’t moved. Urial appeared to be speaking to the assembled force, but Malus couldn’t hear what his half-brother was saying. He’s probably ordering his men to take me alive, he thought. I expect he and the blood-witches have something special planned.
The highborn turned to Arleth Vann. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“I suppose I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” the assassin said calmly. “Farewell, my lord. When the Time of Blood comes, perhaps you and I will meet again.”
&n
bsp; Malus didn’t know what to say. He shook his head fiercely. “If you see the Lord of Murder before I do, you march up to his throne and tell him I’m coming. Tell him that when I get there I’m going to kick his brass teeth straight down his throat.”
Before the assassin could reply, the highborn drew a deep breath and shouted into the tunnel. “What are you waiting for, brother? More men, perhaps? I think these dead bakers and butchers had more courage between them than you and all your ilk!”
Malus heard Urial laugh. “Is that you, brother?” the usurper asked. “I was certain you’d died. The last time I saw you, that man of yours was dragging your limp body away from me as fast as he could.”
“What can I say, brother? He’s a very pious man, and was afraid I’d hurt Khaine’s Scourge.” Malus said, his voice dripping with contempt. “Fear not, I set him straight. I told him all about the night on the Harrier, and what that damned skull of yours told me. Say, did the skull ever speak to you alone, or did you just forget to mention that to the temple elders? That was part of the prophecy, correct?”
“Shut your blasphemous mouth!” Urial snapped, the heat in his voice so strong that Tyran and the closest zealots gave the usurper questioning looks.
“How are things with your new bride? Is she still spurning you? I expect so,” Malus said, smiling despite himself. The Bride of Ruin is not meant for the likes of you, brother. She will never think of you as anything but a withered, pitiable man.”
The highborn’s taunts were drowned by Urial’s wordless shriek of rage.
Arleth Vann chuckled, readying his blades. “You always did have a way with words, my lord.”
Malus swung into the saddle. “Perhaps I’d have made a decent priest after all.”
The assassin smiled ruefully. “I don’t know if I’d go that far—”
A roar shook the tunnel as the zealots charged. Blades glinting, they flowed in a furious tide past the Chaos beasts, charging for the dwarf lodge at the command of their lord.
“Now?” Malus said, looking to Arleth Vann.
The assassin shook his head, peering into the tunnel. “Not yet.”
Shouts of bloodlust echoed in the antechamber. The sounds of pounding feet filled Malus’ ears.
“Now?”
“Not yet.”
Malus could make out individual voices in the thunder of the war shouts. He could hear the slap of boot heels on stone.
“We did decide to fight them in the tunnel, correct?” the highborn said pointedly.
The assassin looked at Malus and nodded solemnly. “Go, my lord, and Khaine be with you.”
“Not if he knows what’s good for him,” Malus growled. He put his boots to Spite’s flanks. “Charge!”
The warbeast leapt forwards with a bone jarring roar, its shoulder striking the edge of the right door and smashing the heavy panel from its hinges. Malus ducked at the last moment as they crossed the threshold, feeling the top of the doorframe scrape along his backplate.
When he looked up again he saw that they were rushing at the front rank of zealots, less than ten yards away. The charge of the white-robed druchii faltered as the nauglir bore down on them, its blunt jaws clashing together as it smelt the blood on the zealots’ robes. Malus howled like a wolf as they plunged into the press, his blade falling left and right as he lashed out indiscriminately at the bodies flashing past.
Zealots screamed, flung like bloody dolls into the air by the nauglir’s jaws or smashed aside by the beast’s armoured shoulders. A blade struck Malus on the left thigh and glanced from the steel plate. On his right, the highborn slashed down at an upturned face, splitting the druchii’s skull like a melon. He twisted his waist and cut to his left, knocking aside a bloodstained draich and slicing open another man’s forehead.
The cold one plunged on, leaving torn and broken bodies in its wake. Zealots struck at the nauglir from all sides, opening deep wounds in the beast’s muscular flanks, but the pain only enraged the cold one further. A zealot leapt for the nauglir’s face, aiming a lightning thrust at Spite’s left eye, but the cold one’s training took over and the beast snapped at the flickering motion. The huge jaws bit off the swordsman’s right arm at the elbow and spat his twisted sword onto the tunnel floor.
Malus looked over his shoulder to see how Arleth Vann and the others were keeping up. The wounded loyalist was already dead. His headless body lay only a few yards from the lodge’s broken doors. The assassin and the last remaining warrior fought side-by-side close to the cold one’s lashing tail.
Roars of rage turned to screams of anger, pain and fear. Men fell back to either side of the thundering cold one, stunned by the ferocity of the sudden attack. A tight semicircle of zealots formed between the nauglir and Urial. Malus smiled fiercely and aimed Spite directly for them.
The swordsmen held their ground, ready to die to protect their lord. Malus did everything in his power to give them their wish.
Spite let out a bloodthirsty roar and lunged at the man to his right, catching the swordsman’s right arm and torso and biting them in half. The zealot to the cold one’s left saw his opportunity and slashed with all his might at the nauglir’s bent neck, but Malus anticipated the move and blocked the stroke with his sword. Hearing the sound, Spite jerked his huge head and smashed the zealot to the ground, where the beast crushed the screaming man beneath a clawed foot.
Malus caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye and instinctively dodged to his left. The movement saved his life, a draich glancing from his right pauldron as a zealot leapt onto Spite’s flank and grabbed hold of Malus’ saddle. Snarling, the highborn elbowed the man in the face, and then slashed open his throat as he reeled from the blow.
More zealots were closing in on both sides as the attackers recovered from the surprise charge Urial stood just five yards away, surrounded by the fierce blood-witches. Letting out a battle scream, the highborn kicked Spite’s flanks and charged.
Zealots were thrown left and right by the lunging warbeast, and Malus raised his sword for a decapitating stroke as he bore down on Urial. The blood-witches scattered, hissing curses, but the usurper stood his ground. With less than two yards between them, Malus saw his half-brother smile.
Suddenly Urial raised the sword in his left hand and shouted a word that smote Malus like a physical blow. Spite stopped dead in his tracks, roaring in pain and confusion. It took all of Malus’ skill as a rider not to be thrown from the saddle by the force of the sudden stop.
“Forwards, Spite! Forwards!” the highborn roared, but the warbeast could only shake its head and bellow in pain, as if pressed against a wall of fire.
Urial laughed. “He won’t move, not if his life depends on it,” he said. “Did you think me a fool, knowing you had your damned cold one with you?”
Malus shouted in impotent rage. Men were closing in from behind the nauglir and to either side, like wolves closing in for the kill.
Then there was a flash of movement and Urial ducked, catching Arleth Vann’s hurled knife on the side of his head rather than in his throat. The knife scored a bloody line through the usurper’s scalp, and in an eye blink, the spell was broken.
“Go, my lord!” Arleth Vann shouted, racing up beside Malus with the last surviving loyalist close behind. The assassin charged at Urial, blades reaching for the man’s throat.
Zealots roared their bloodlust as they closed in on Spite. Malus gritted his teeth and once again spurred the nauglir forwards. “Run, Spite, run!” he yelled, knowing that Urial could renew the spell at any moment.
Arleth Vann was determined not to give the usurper a chance. His short swords wove a pattern of death before him, stabbing at Urial’s face and neck. Urial parried the attacks with unnatural agility, wielding his large sword as if it was a willow wand. Though no warpsword, it was clear that the dwarf ironsmith had imbued the weapon with considerable power.
Swallowing bitter bile, Malus spurred his mount past Urial. A lone voice cried “Blood an
d souls!” as the last temple warrior charged at the witches. His sword sliced at one blood-witch’s head, but she dodged the blow with unnatural speed, and her two compatriots fell upon the man from either side. His fierce shouts turned to a gurgling scream as their talons slashed open his throat. The witches bore the struggling man to the ground, and like lionesses, began to feed.
The last Malus saw of Arleth Vann, he was trading blows with his half-brother, circling and stabbing, leaping and slashing within a closing ring of zealots. Cursing venomously, he turned away and tried to guide his mount past the waiting Chaos beasts.
Unlike the zealots, the beastmasters knew very well how dangerous a charging cold one could be. They scattered like quail at the thundering nauglir’s approach, shouting commands to the hunters in a strange, savage tongue. The air filled with the hunters’ obscene, gibbering cries as they were unleashed upon Malus and Spite.
There was no point trying to fight. Malus knew all too well how useless his sword was against the monsters’ hide. He bent low in the saddle and cried, “Race like fire, beast of the deeps! Show these slugs how you can run!”
Rumbling like a cauldron, Spite obediently lowered his head and stretched his legs into a full, earthshaking gallop.
Malus angled their flight to pass the beasts on their right. The closest hunter flared its tentacles and screeched at the nauglir, but the cold one lunged at the Chaos beast and struck the creature a powerful blow with its shoulder. The hunter was knocked sideways, tentacles lashing, and the highborn was slapped on the side of his head by the back of one of the beast’s fleshy whips. The blow nearly took his head off, throwing him hard to the left and almost pitching him from the saddle. Another tentacle brushed against his leg, the barbs scraping against his armour.
Suddenly, Spite lurched and bellowed in pain. The cold one’s body slewed to the left, struck on its rear flank. Blinking tears of pain from his eyes, Malus glanced back and saw another of the hunters sinking its claws into Spite’s powerful rear leg, much as a lion would pull down a gazelle. The highborn looked into the creature’s right eye and heard the whirring of its tentacles as it reached up to pluck him from the saddle.
