[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  Malus frowned at the archaic title. “The Bride of Ruin?”

  Urial nodded. “Even so.” He took a halting step towards her, a look of rapture on his face. “When I completed my training at the temple, the elders returned me to Lurhan’s household to await the coming of my bride. When I first saw Yasmir at the Court of Thorns I knew she was the one. The years passed and still she remained unmarried, despite the attentions of the finest druchii princes in the city. When she took Bruglir as her lover I was angry at first, but now I see that it was all part of Khaine’s great plan. Without Bruglir’s betrayal she never would have learned of her true self.” He turned to Malus. “And without you his treachery never would have come to light. You have served the Lord of Murder well, Malus and I’ll see to it that you are rewarded for everything you’ve done.”

  The highborn found himself shaking his head. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. Could what Urial was saying be true?

  “More true than you know,” Tz’arkan said with a gruesome chuckle. What are men, after all, but the playthings of the gods?”

  Malus glanced at Yasmir, his breath catching in his throat. “And what destiny does your precious Lord of Murder intend for the two of you? Will you bring an end to the world?”

  The white-haired druchii merely smiled. “Nothing so petty,” he said with a smile. He held up the yellowed skull. “This is one of the most ancient relics of the temple, brother. By rights your life is forfeit just for looking upon it. It is older than even lost Nagarythe and our lore proclaims it to be the skull of Aurun Var, the first of our kind to swear himself to the Lord of Murder. It was he who first heard the prophecy from the lips of Khaine himself and the legend says his shade will speak to the chosen one and set him on the path to his destiny when the time is right.”

  Malus eyed his brother warily. A mirthless smile spread across his angular face. “But the skull hasn’t spoken to you yet, has it?”

  For a fleeting moment, Urial’s self-assurance faltered. “The prophecy is clear. The skull will speak when the time is right and not before.”

  The highborn nodded. “Yes. Of course. But in the meantime, you still need my help.”

  “You’ve done all that the Lord of Murder requires of you, Malus Darkblade. We need no more from the likes of you.”

  Malus bared his teeth at the old insult. “Do you think Lurhan will simply let you shut his daughter up in one of your temples? He’s the most powerful warlord in Naggaroth, brother. You’ll need my influence to help convince him that she will be better off among the priestesses.” He spread his hands in conciliation. “I only ask a small favour in return.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Malus walked close to Urial. “I wish to make use of your arcane knowledge, brother,” he said quietly. “I’m searching for a number of artefacts—ancient relics that have been lost for hundreds of years. One of them is a magical weapon called the Dagger of Torxus.” The highborn shrugged. “The reasons for my search are unimportant, but—”

  “You seek to release the daemon Tz’arkan from his prison,” Urial said coldly.

  Malus staggered back as though struck. His mind reeled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you take me for a fool, brother?” Urial sneered. “I guessed at your plan before we ever left Naggaroth. I suspected it when you broke into my tower with that witch Nagaira and stole the Skull of Ehrenlish. She sent you to the north in search of his prison, didn’t she?” He snorted in disgust. “When you told me that she was a priestess in the Cult of Slaanesh I knew I was right. You went to the island to claim the Idol of Kolkuth and now you’re after the Dagger of Torxus. What else remains? The Octagon of Praan? The Amulet of Vaurog?” Contempt flashed in his brass-coloured eyes. “I came with you this far for Yasmir’s sake. You’ll get no more help from me.”

  “But Lurhan—”

  “Lurhan wanted you dead before we left Naggaroth,” Urial snapped impatiently. “Were it not for the Writ of Iron you extorted from the drachau he would have found a way to kill you sooner or later. How do you think he will react when he learns you caused the death of his beloved son and heir?” He shook his head. “No, Malus. You’re finished. You have no value to me.”

  “I see,” Malus said. Then with two swift strides he crossed the space between them and snatched the skull from Urial’s hand.

  The pale-haired druchii’s eyes went wide with shock and rage. Malus started to speak—but his body jerked with a galvanic shock as sorcerous power split the air in the room with an angry snarl and a voice smote him like a fist.

  GO YE TO THE HOUSES OF THE DEAD, O WANDERER, AND SPILL THE BLOOD OF THE FATHER OF CHAINS.

  Malus and Urial alike staggered at the force of the words. The air stank of burnt copper as tendrils of smoke rose from the blood laid in the sigils around the cabin. The highborn looked this way and that, seeking the source of the terrible voice.

  THE DAGGER LIES BENEATH THE HORNED MOON. YOUR PATH WAITS IN THE DARKNESS OF THE GRAVE.

  It was Yasmir. Her raiment of living organs had fallen away as she stood, revealing her naked, luminous form. Streaks of bright blood gleamed against her neck, shoulders and breasts. Her mouth was wide, her full lips trembling and her eyes were discs of burning brass.

  The voice faded as swiftly as it arrived, receding in a thunderous silence. Malus staggered, struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

  He met Yasmir’s eyes and saw in them nothing but death. Her knives glimmered in her hands.

  “Blasphemer!” Urial screamed, his voice twisted with anguish. The white-haired druchii lurched forward, snatching the skull away from Malus. “Daemon’s pawn!” He raised the relic over his head and arcs of crimson fire raced along its surface. “Mine is the birthright! Mine will be the sword and mine will be the Bride of Ruin! The prophecy will be fulfilled!”

  Malus stumbled backwards, away from Urial and Yasmir. She watched him with the soulless gaze of a predator and he had no illusions about what would happen if she reached for him with her slender blades.

  Words of power crackled from Urial’s lips. An invisible hand grabbed Malus and flung him through the air. He flew through the narrow doorway, striking his shoulder painfully against the frame and crashed into the far wall of the passageway beyond.

  When he regained his senses a moment later, all Malus could see beyond the doorframe was a maelstrom of reddish light. A hot wind blew from the doorway like the breath of a dragon, carrying the faint cry of Urial the Forsaken.

  “Let the Vermilion Gate swing wide! Rise up, O devoted of Khaine and wash the path of the Ruinous Bride with the blood of sacrifice!”

  A groan reverberated through the deck beneath Malus, as though the hull of the wounded ship was bending under an impossible weight. Then he heard the faint sound of screams and the clash of steel from the main deck just above. Cursing bitterly, the highborn rose to his feet and ran to the sounds of battle.

  Urial’s words came back to Malus as he burst onto the main deck, sword in hand: I had wondered when you would come. A few moments more and you would have been too late.

  A pitched battle raged across the deck, the struggling silhouettes thrown into momentary relief as they were forced into the gleam of the witchlights. Daggers shone in the greenish light as the men of the night watch struggled hand-to-hand with shrivelled forms that once were fellow shipmates.

  The hanged men had returned to life.

  Malus watched a sailor grapple with a grey-skinned monstrosity, driving a dagger again and again into the creature’s chest. The monster seized the man’s shoulder and held him in a vice-like grip, oblivious to the sailor’s blows and closed a hand over the man’s face. Slowly, inexorably, the fiend bent the sailor’s head back until the druchii’s screams were silenced with a splintering crack of bone. The mummified sailor dropped the corpse to the deck and staggered towards the citadel, where two guardsmen stood with spears ready to defend the ship’s helm.

  “Mother of Night,” M
alus cursed, gauging the course of the battle. The men on watch were on the verge of being overwhelmed and the rest of the crew was below deck, unaware of the danger. They were all to be sacrificed at Yasmir’s feet.

  The highborn looked around at the struggling forms, unable to tell one man from another in the blackness. The crew was at a severe disadvantage, armed only with their knives instead of the curved swords they normally carried at their sides. “Hauclir!” Malus cried, as he moved to intercept the walking corpse approaching the citadel stairs.

  “Here, my lord!” came a cry from the darkness, somewhere near the main mast.

  “Get below and rouse the rest of the crew, then unlock the armoury! Quickly!”

  The retainer shouted a reply, but Malus paid it no mind, focusing on the shambling figure ahead. The corpse was still heading for the stairs, reaching for the rails with torn, shrivelled hands. Maggots writhed in the dead man’s empty eye sockets and tendrils of wrinkled entrails hung from the gaping cavity in his ripped belly. Malus leapt at the monstrosity with a war scream and aimed a powerful blow at the corpse’s neck. Flesh parted beneath the sword’s master-worked edge—then the blade struck the creature’s spine and rebounded with a clang that sent a spike of pain racing up Malus’ arm. The creature’s head turned and seemed to notice him for the first time. The flayed man brushed the sword from his neck just like he would a fly, then grabbed for the highborn with surprising speed.

  Malus dodged away from the reaching hand and slashed at it with his blade. Once again, the edge clove through the rancid flesh with ease, only to glance away from the bone with a harsh, metallic sound. The sword deflected from the creature’s wrist, carving a length of leathery meat from the corpse’s forearm and the highborn caught a bright gleam the colour of burnished copper. The sorcery that animated the flayed men had turned their bones to solid brass.

  Once again, the corpse reacted with surprising speed, grabbing the highborn’s blade in an iron grip. Razor-edged steel grated against metal bones as the monster dragged the sword out of the way and seized Malus by the throat.

  Malus let out a choked cry, drawing in a single gulp of air before the fingers closed like a vice. He writhed in the monster’s grip, pulling vainly at the sword trapped in the creature’s hand, but the hand around his throat continued to tighten.

  Tzarkan stirred, uncoiling slowly in Malus’ chest. “You are outmatched, Darkblade,” the daemon hissed spitefully. “Urial spent an entire month creating his executioners, but you were too stupid, too deep in your cups to see the peril until it was too late.”

  The highborn’s mouth worked, but no sound escaped past the corpse’s crushing grip. A roaring began in his ears and darkness crept like a rising tide at the edge of his sight.

  Tzarkan’s voice hissed like an adder in Malus’ ear. “Shall I make you regret your foolishness, little druchii?” Shall I let this puppet of meat and brass crush the life from you? Or shall I lend you my strength?” The daemon’s chuckle seeped into his brain like poison. “What shall I do? Tell me, Darkblade. Tell me what to do.”

  Malus grabbed the monster’s forearm with his free hand and braced his feet against the corpse’s hips, pushing for all he was worth. He could feel his limbs weakening and blackness threatened to overwhelm him. Terror, pure and absolute, coursed like lightning down his spine.

  Suddenly, the creature staggered backwards. Malus lost his footing on the corpse’s abdomen and slumped to the deck and without warning the monster staggered backwards yet again. The highborn fought to regain his feet and as he did so he noticed the shaft of polished black oak jutting from the creature’s right collarbone. The guard at the top of the citadel stair had driven his spear into the corpse’s shoulder and lodged it against unyielding bone. Now the corsair threw his weight against the spear shaft, threatening to topple the clumsy monster to the deck. Seeing this, Malus threw his weight against the creature as well and that was enough to overbalance it. The mummified body fell backwards, landing heavily against the deck and for the briefest instant the vice-grip slipped.

  Malus drew in a thin wisp of air, his eyes blazing with hate and rasped: “Lend me your strength, daemon. Now!”

  Tz’arkan’s power suffused Malus like a torrent of foul, icy water. His body went taut; black veins bulged along his neck and hands and crept like strangling vines up the left side of his face. His eyes became pools of deepest night and icy mist curled from his lips. The very air seemed to curdle around him, tainted by the daemon’s touch. As the power coursed through his limbs he could feel it eating away at his insides, like water carving a path through the soft rock of a mountain. One day it would be his demise, but for now it felt glorious.

  Malus’ free hand tightened on the monster’s wrist. Dead flesh pulped and putrid fluids trickled between his fingers. Brass wrist bones creaked, bent, then shattered. The highborn staggered backwards, pulling the limp, severed hand from his swollen throat. He dragged the blade from the corpse’s grip, sending five brass-cored fingers rolling on the deck. Still the monster tried to rise, mouth gaping hungrily. Malus lashed out with his blade and sheared through the corpse’s neck bones with one fell stroke. The body collapsed, lifeless, as the head bounced across the deck. It fetched up by the port rail, the jaws still working relentlessly. The highborn reached it in two swift strides and kicked it into the heaving sea.

  The battle was over within a few minutes once Hauclir and fifty sailors roared onto the main deck and overwhelmed the flayed men. By then more than a third of the crew was dead.

  Malus stood in the middle of his half-sister’s empty cabin. Visions swam before his eyes. One moment he saw the cabin as it was, with scorch marks on the walls and congealing blood dripping from the sigils carved into the ceiling. The next moment the walls blurred and he saw a cavern lit with ruddy light. A throng of figures in black robes and skull-faced porcelain masks bowed in obeisance beneath the outstretched arms of an alabaster-skinned goddess. She and Urial stood with their backs to a free-standing arch worked from reddish stone; he stood beneath the arch itself, feeling as though he watched the scene from the other side of an invisible door.

  “You cannot hide from me, brother,” Malus hissed. “Wherever you run to, I will find you. I swear it.”

  “Did you say something, my lord?” Hauclir asked wearily from his place at the doorway.

  The vision faded. Malus shook his head, exhausted. The daemon’s gifts were potent, but in their wake he felt utterly spent. “lust making a promise to myself,” he replied.

  Hauclir studied his master’s face for a moment, long enough to make Malus uncomfortable. For all of the retainer’s rough spots and foibles, he could also be disconcertingly perceptive when he wished. But the former guard captain merely said, “Where do you think they went?”

  “I do not know and for the moment I do not care,” he replied. Malus looked around the cabin, trying to remember the words Yasmir—or the voice speaking through Yasmir—had said. Had it been the skull, telling him where he must go? Was such a thing possible?

  The dagger lies beneath the horned moon. Your path lies within the darkness of the grave.

  “The helmsman says we’ll be at the mouth of the Slavers’ Straits in a few hours,” the retainer continued. “He wants to know where we’ll make port.”

  Malus glanced back to the centre of the room, where he’d seen the ghostly image of his brother. Urial had escaped with his would-be bride, but when he’d looked back at Malus, the highborn had seen something new in the man’s brass-coloured eyes.

  Fear.

  “Set course for Karond Kar,” Malus ordered, nodding thoughtfully to himself. “I must pay a visit to the houses of the dead.”

  Chapter Three

  THE TOWER OF SLAVES

  The Harrier rode easily in the choppy waters of the Sea of Chill, her black hull gliding through the pewter-coloured waves with something approaching her former grace. Sunlight glinted fiercely on the grey sea, etching the whitecaps with a silver
sheen that was painful to look at after the weeks of darkness and gloom to the north. The Slavers’ Straits were hours behind them and nearly all of the ship’s crew was on deck, making repairs and speaking to one another in low, sibilant voices.

  The men up in the rigging were singing some ancient sailing saga dating back to lost Nagarythe. Their husky voices shifted with the wind, like a chorus of mournful ghosts. The battered corsair was working her way along the sea’s ragged northern coast, passing tall chalk cliffs and forested inlets five miles to starboard. From time to time the dark shape of a wyvern would straighten languidly from the top of a high cliff and spread broad, leathery wings before launching into the cold, clear air. They circled high over the water, their keen eyes hunting for sea pike to sate their voracious appetites.

  Karond Kar was a sharp-edged splinter of dark grey stone, nearly invisible against the overcast sky, still some leagues north and west on their present heading. Barely a third of its impressive height was visible above a rocky spur of coastline, but like all druchii citadels it carried an air of menace and authority even at so great a distance.

  Malus stood at the ship’s bow as the crew went about their business, his gaze dark and brooding as he studied the distant tower and wondered how much of what Urial had said was true. He wasn’t the sort to put stock in prophecies and the machinations of fate; few druchii did, because it implied a degree of helplessness that was anathema to them. Slavery was a sign of weakness, even on a cosmic scale. The fact that the Temple of Khaine nurtured such notions, even in secret, was disturbing enough. Worse still was the idea that he was somehow tied up in it.

  One thing he knew for certain was that his expedition into the Chaos Wastes had not been the bold, unexpected plan he’d thought it to be. Facing debtors and a possible blood feud after a disastrous slave raid the previous summer, he’d been manipulated by his sister Nagaira into thinking that there was a source of great power hidden in the north that was his for the taking. That power had turned out to be the daemon, Tz’arkan and later he had discovered that she, along with his brother Isilvar, belonged to the outlawed Cult of Slaanesh, which worshipped Tz’arkan as one of Slaanesh’s great princes. They had sought to use his ties to the daemon for their own purposes, but he’d turned the tables on them in the end, betraying them to Urial and the warriors of the temple.