[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  A shadow loomed on his left side. Malus lunged at it with a feral snarl, his bloody sword raised. At the last minute he recognised the bald-headed guide, who fell back from him with a frightened cry.

  “We did it!” the druchii said, holding up his dripping knife. “They’re running for their lives!”

  Malus stood on unsteady feet and tried to focus past the pain. He could hear panicked cries over the clashing of Spite’s bony jaws—the nauglir was sating his hunger on one of the dead shades—and after a moment the highborn discerned that the autarii were retreating in the direction of the stone garden. He frowned, shaking his head. That made no sense.

  Then he heard the sounds of battle within the garden itself and realised what had happened.

  “The damned shades laid a trap of their own,” he growled. “They saw where we were going and sent most of their men down the main road to head us off.” There hadn’t been time to check during the fight, but he could see that neither of the twin shades were among the dead littering the street.

  The bald guide’s face went from triumphant to fearful in the space of a heartbeat. “What now?” he asked, his voice tinged with despair.

  “First, grab hold of this bolt and pull the cursed thing out,” Malus grated, leaning back against the wall.

  The guide gingerly grabbed the bolt’s bloody shaft. “All right,” he said, steeling himself. “On the count of three—”

  “Just pull, damn your eyes!” Malus roared and the guide tore the bolt free.

  The world seemed to spin. Deep inside his chest, Malus could feel the daemon writhing in ecstasy, floating on a sea of delicious pain.

  “Spite!” Malus cried and the nauglir trotted obediently to the highborn’s side. Dark ichor flowed freely from four crossbow bolts jutting from the cold one’s side, but the warbeast’s strength and speed appeared unaffected. Malus stumbled against his mount and quickly pulled the bolts free, then pulled himself painfully into the saddle. Already the sounds of battle in the garden had fallen silent. They were running out of time.

  The highborn kicked the cold one into a trot, heading back onto the first side road. “Hurry!” he said to the guide and turned right, heading away from the main avenue.

  They passed more ancient, empty buildings in varying states of disrepair. Malus studied each one in turn, looking for something two men could easily defend. For several grim moments it looked as though Malus’ luck had run out—but then, at the end of the lane, he spied a square, windowless building, its four sides carved with elaborate bas reliefs showing a procession of dancing druchii nobles. A single, narrow doorway stood out starkly amid the splendour. Malus kicked Spite into a gallop just as a chorus of howls echoed down the lane behind them. The highborn turned and spied a large band of autarii, possibly as many as thirty or more, standing in a loose pack around two distinctive figures. The twin shades had pulled back their hoods and howled at the weeping sky like a pair of wolves. Even at so great a distance, it seemed to Malus as though their tattoos glowed with a ghostly light.

  Spite reached the end of the lane in moments and the last surviving guide was right behind the nauglir as Malus dropped from the saddle and led his mount into the imposing building. Inside, the chamber was a single open space, with a ceiling that soared fifteen feet overhead. Shafts of weak light and streams of rainwater cascaded down in places where the ancient ceiling had given way over the centuries, giving barely enough light to see by. There was a dais at the far end of the chamber and what looked like a weathered altar of dark green stone. Malus led Spite across the rubbish-strewn space and found that there was a ramp behind the dais that descended into cave-like darkness.

  Malus ordered Spite to stand, then reached back and pulled his covered crossbow and quiver from his saddle. He tossed them to the guide. “Get up on the dais and shoot any man that gets past me,” he said.

  The man caught the bundles with a confused look on his face. “What are you going to do?”

  Malus dropped to the ground and drew his second sword. “I’m going to kill every goddess-cursed shade that comes through that door,” he said grimly and walked back the way he’d come.

  To the bald man’s credit, he didn’t waste his breath arguing the matter; Malus heard the reassuring click of the crossbow’s cocking lever being worked as he headed to the door. He avoided the shafts of rain and light, sticking solely to the deep shadows. Once he thought he’d gone far enough he whispered to Tz’arkan. “All right, daemon. I know you’ve been waiting for this. Lend me your strength.”

  “Of course,” the daemon purred. “For your sake, I hope it will be enough.”

  The words sent a thrill of fear coursing down the highborn’s spine. “What does that mean?” he asked, but the question was drowned beneath the cold weight of Tz’arkan’s power. Blood turned to ice; flesh and skin knitted together, leaving a black, star-shaped scar on Malus’ shoulder. He was whole once more. In fact, for the first time in days he felt truly alive.

  Shadows played across the doorway. With a joyous smile Malus went to greet them.

  The autarii came in a black wave, filling the air with ululating howls. To Malus, they moved as slowly and ponderously as cattle to the slaughter. His twin swords wove a tapestry of death just beyond the door, severing limbs, spilling guts and slashing throats with every sweep of his blades. He laughed like a madman at the red harvest he wrought; many of the shades were dead before they hit the floor, struck down too swiftly to even cry out in terror or pain.

  Malus stopped counting how many men lay piled in the doorway. In fact, after the tenth man was struck down the killing became almost mechanical. His laughter faded. He started to become bored.

  That was when one of the twin shades nearly killed him.

  Dead men were falling lazily to the ground, their wounds just beginning to bleed, when the boy leapt at Malus with a pair of bloody swords in his hands. He struck like an adder, stabbing for the highborn’s face and throat and it was only by purest luck that Malus turned his head at the last moment and had his cheek slashed open instead of his neck. The highborn stumbled backwards, parrying wildly and the autarii slapped aside his swords as he launched another whirlwind attack. Twin blades pummelled his breastplate and pauldrons; joints creaked and pins snapped under the blows. A moment before he’d been a god of death; now Malus found himself fighting for his life.

  The shades, it appeared, were not without sorcery of their own.

  Up close, Malus could see the dragon tattoo glowing and writhing across the autarii boy’s face. His face was serene, his violet eyes soulless and blank as he hurled a constant stream of blows at Malus. The highborn recovered quickly, parrying each stroke with skill and speed, but the boy was relentless, slipping past Malus’ guard again and again to strike ringing blows against his armour.

  Malus gave ground, falling back deeper into the room as he tried to find some weakness in the boy’s defence. He wielded a pair of short blades like the other autarii, but his raw strength and speed more than made up for their short length. Each time Malus pressed forward with an attack, the boy responded with a counterstroke that nearly killed him. Even with the daemon’s power, he was almost outmatched.

  The highborn leapt farther backward, gaining a short breathing space. There was the thump of a crossbow over his shoulder and Malus watched the boy swat the bolt aside with one of his swords. In the space of a dozen moments the shade had backed him all the way across the large chamber.

  Malus edged to the right. The shade shifted to the left. They circled one another slowly, looking for an opportunity to strike. Malus noted that the autarii wasn’t even breathing hard. “Even now you’re playing with me,” the highborn growled. The boy smiled faintly in reply.

  The highborn’s back was to the distant doorway. Malus rocked back, then leapt at the autarii. Swords clashed and Malus continued to drive forward, but the boy stood his ground and the two locked swords. The highborn ground to a halt, his face just inches from the boy�
��s own. “You can’t win,” Malus said through clenched teeth. “Where does your power come from? Tell me and I’ll let you live.”

  The boy laughed. “Empty words, highborn,” he said. “Your swords are no match for mine.”

  Malus struggled, but the boy moved not an inch. “True,” he admitted grudgingly. “That’s why I decided to turn this into a battle of wits.”

  The boy frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Malus put his boot in the autarii’s chest and shoved. Fuelled by the daemon’s strength, the boy flew backwards through the air—and straight into Spite’s snapping jaws. The shade’s startled cry was cut short by a meaty crunch.

  “I know,” Malus answered, swaying on his feet. “Fools like you never do until it’s too late.”

  “Dread lord!” the guide shouted. “The ceiling!”

  Malus looked up. The shafts of sunlight were flickering as shapes flitted about their edges. Once again, he’d been outmanoeuvred. The assault at the doorway had just been a diversion while the rest of the shades scaled the walls and reached the roof.

  The highborn looked back towards the doorway. More shadows were mustering there as well. “Down the ramp!” he cried. “Hurry!”

  Malus grabbed Spite’s reins, pulling the beast away from what was left of the dead twin. The guide scrambled off the dais and disappeared down the ramp and Malus was not far behind.

  The guide got no farther than the base of the ramp and stopped in his tracks, his one free hand reaching blindly ahead of him as he edged into the darkness. Malus brushed the man aside, trusting that the nauglir’s subterranean-bred senses would alert him to any danger.

  He walked perhaps a dozen feet into the abyssal blackness when Spite brushed against something tall and made from stone. There was an ominous crack, Malus smelled dust in the air. The ceiling overhead let out a long, rumbling groan.

  Malus froze. It appeared that the real danger had nothing to do with pitfalls or hidden wells. One wrong move and Spite could bring the entire building down on top of them.

  The highborn took a deep breath, tasting dank, still air. In the room above, he heard the dead shade’s twin sister let out a cry of mourning that quickly transformed into a bestial shriek of rage.

  “That… that boy,” the guide said, his voice thick with fear. “What was he? What are you?”

  “Shut up,” Malus hissed. “I’m trying to think of a way out of here.”

  “There is one,” the daemon said, the voice seeming to reverberate out of the blackness. “It’s right under your nose, but I doubt you have the wit to see it.”

  “This is no time for your damned riddles!” Malus shot back. “Unless you can spirit me out of this hole, I don’t want to hear from you!”

  “I can’t… but you can,” the daemon said. “All you lack is the will.”

  “The will?” Malus snapped. “The will to do what?”

  “The will to use all the tools at your disposal, fool.”

  “What in the Dark Mother’s name are you talking about?” Malus looked helplessly around him in the darkness. Glancing back over his shoulder, there was just enough light coming from the room above to see Spite’s hindquarters and beyond that the guide staring fearfully up the ramp. “He’s of no use,” Malus said quietly, “and Spite can’t run fast enough to get me past a score of shades. And I’d have as much luck wielding the Idol of Kolkuth as I would of finding my way through this pit of a room—”

  Malus stopped, his mouth hanging open. The idol.

  He sheathed his swords and reached back to his saddle bags, fumbling through them in the dim light. After a moment his hand closed on a small, cold shape, wrapped in silk. He drew it out and uncovered it. The brass figure gleamed dully.

  Legends said the Idol of Kolkuth had the power to bend space and time. He’d seen its power first hand back on the Isle of Morhaut. But how did it work? What did he know of sorcery?

  Something his mother, herself a potent witch, once said echoed in his mind. Power is shaped by the wielder. It is made to serve, as a slave is bent to the master’s will. And what was sorcery, if not power made manifest?

  Malus took a deep breath. The daemon’s power had left him and his body felt weak. His will remained undimmed however. It still burned bright, fed with hatred and desire.

  He climbed into the saddle. The idol was a cold weight in his right hand. This was madness, he thought. He was no sorcerer! But if he didn’t do something he was going to die, down here in a dank, empty tomb. He would give what was left of his soul to cheat death just a bit longer.

  The guide turned. “Mother of Night, I see them! That autarii girl and her kin! They’re coming!”

  “Let them,” Malus said. With a cry he tugged at Spite’s reins, whipping the cold one in a tight circle. His thick tail struck the column nearby, smashing it apart with a tremendous crash.

  There was another long groan that didn’t fade, but instead grew in strength. Drifts of dust fell from above. Malus held up the idol and envisioned the lane outside the building. He bent all his will into a single, furious command. Take me there!

  Malus put his boots to Spite’s flanks, then there was a tremendous, rending crash and the world turned inside out.

  Chapter Eight

  THE REAPER OF SOULS

  There was the sound of wind rushing in his ears and for a sickening moment Malus felt himself suspended over an endless void. He heard himself cry out in terror, but it was too late to turn back. He had stepped from the precipice and realising that, he began to fall.

  Destination, he heard a voice murmur in his head. You must walk a path, or be lost to the void forever. Choose!

  Malus closed his eyes and mustered his will. He could feel nothing. Was the Idol of Kolkuth still clutched in his hand? He tried to forget the terror of his plunge and focus on the street outside the ancient building. This is my path, he thought. This is where I choose to go. Do as I command!

  An invisible fist closed about his guts, squeezing them with merciless strength. Terrible, agonising cold radiated out from his bones and he was grateful for the sensation. Then came a crushing impact and he knew no more.

  Malus awoke to the tickling of raindrops on his cheek. He opened his eyes and found himself face down on black cobblestones, his head resting in a pool of brackish water and bile.

  With a groan he rolled onto his back, snarling savagely as a wave of painful convulsions wracked his body. For the first time in days the damnable rain felt like a blessing, their tiny impacts outlining the planes and edges of his face. His limbs were weak, his insides hollow and cold. This is what it feels like to lie among the dead, he thought suddenly. I have become a walking corpse.

  The sensation of scales sliding against the inside of his ribs disturbed the highborn’s thoughts. “You just had your first taste of sorcery, Malus Darkblade. Was it to your liking?”

  “It was terrible,” the highborn said wearily. “But I should have expected no less. Damned sorcery,” he said with a grunt, trying to force himself upright. His limbs trembled and his guts churned at the strain, but after a moment he managed to lever himself onto his elbows. It was then that he noticed the idol still clutched in his right hand. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel much of anything.

  He found that he was lying in the narrow lane some ten yards from the windowless temple where he’d made his stand. Two or three torn bodies lay outside the doorway and smears of blood made streaks on the lintel and the grey wall. Long, deep cracks ran along the walls of the building and many of the bas reliefs had broken into pieces, littering the street with debris. A thick pall of dust hung in the air over the structure, slowly sinking to the earth under the weight of the falling rain. From what he could see, not one of the shades had escaped.

  “I would do it again, though,” he said with cold certainty. “I will do whatever I must to be rid of you.”

  “Of course you will,” the daemon chuckled knowingly. “You will do a great many terrible things
before you and I are done, Malus Darkblade. It is your fate.”

  “Fate!” Malus spat. “I make my fate, daemon.” Slowly, one finger at a time, he released the idol from his grasp and let it clatter to the cobblestones. “For good or ill, the path I choose in this world is mine and mine alone.”

  “Believe what you will,” Tz’arkan said. “In the end, the result is the same.”

  “Spare me your games,” the highborn growled. He looked around for Spite and saw the nauglir a few yards behind him. The cold one was lying on its side. That was a very bad sign. Summoning his strength, Malus climbed shakily to his feet.

  There are forces swirling around you, Malus. Even now they exert their pressures on you, shaping the trajectory of your fleeting existence. Blinding yourself to them will not make them go away.”

  Angered, Malus drew a knife from his belt and placed the needle-sharp point at his throat. “I could kill myself right now,” he said. There is no one to prevent it. If I can do that, what does it say about the illusion of fate?”

  “An excellent question,” the daemon said. The infernal being sounded genuinely amused. “Let’s test your theory. Kill yourself.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, highborn. Drive the dagger into your throat.”

  “I…” Malus hesitated. “I have no wish to die, daemon. That’s not the point.”

  “Yes it is,” Tz’arkan said. “It is precisely the point. Nothing in the world could make you kill yourself, because it’s not your fate to do so.”

  “No, now you’re twisting my argument,” Malus shot back. “I don’t want to kill myself because I wish to make my family suffer for the indignities they have done to me. I wish to claim the title of vaulkhar and more besides. I have ambitions, daemon, worldly ambitions.” He paused to catch his breath and managed a fleeting laugh. “Dying now would be… inconvenient.”