[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  At the end of the gallery was an imposing iron door. One of the slaves pulled a ring of keys from his belt, unlocked the door and pushed the heavy thing open. Beyond the doorway lay another passageway this time flanked by the iron bars of a number of large cages. Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed Malus as the slaves dragged him down the passage towards a small room at the far end. The highborn’s heart began to race as he smelled burning coals and the stink of hot iron.

  Inside the room a heavily scarred druchii sat at a small table poring over ledgers and scribbling notes on a sheet of thick parchment. Whips and cudgels hung from pegs on the walls of the room and a small brazier with a single iron stood in one corner. The man scowled at Malus as the slaves hauled him over to the desk. “What’s this?” he asked scornfully.

  “New runt, master,” one of the slaves mumbled. “Master Lohar wants him branded.”

  The druchii’s ravaged face twisted in an expression of disbelief. “He paid coin for this? Noros will have his hide,” he said. The man pushed away from the table and limped over to the brazier. “Stretch him over the table,” the man said absently, “just be careful of the ledgers.”

  Before Malus knew it the men bent both of his arms behind his back and pushed him face-down across the desk. One of the slaves laid a broad hand between Malus’ shoulders and pinned him in place, while the other grabbed a handful of the highborn’s hair and turned his head so his left cheek was exposed. He felt dry parchment against his face and smelled the bitter tang of fresh ink. A small knife, used for trimming quills, rested inches from Malus’ face, though it might have been on the other side of the Sea of Ice for all the good it did him.

  Malus tensed, trying to push away from the table, but he couldn’t move an inch. For a fleeting moment, Malus thought of calling to Tz’arkan for help, but he angrily pushed the thought aside. If the cursed daemon hadn’t helped him when he was near to dying on the Spear Road

  , why would he share his strength now?

  There was a hiss as the druchii pulled the iron free from the coals. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the glowing symbol of a crescent moon—evidently the mark of the House of Noros. The druchii studied the brand carefully, then nodded to himself. “Now don’t let him flinch like the last one,” the man admonished, limping over to the table. “If his eyeball bursts it’ll ruin my papers.”

  The brand descended towards Malus’ face, the orange glow beating against his skin like an angry sun. At the last moment Malus closed his eyes and cried out—then picked up his left foot and smashed his heel into the knee of the slave next to him. The human let out a shout of surprise and pain as his leg gave way beneath him and pitched him forward into the path of the brand. The red-hot metal struck his shoulder and the slave’s cry turned to a scream of agony as his woollen robes caught fire. Roaring in pain, the man panicked, letting go of Malus and beating at the fire with his hands. The highborn snatched the quill-knife from the desk and rolled onto his side, stabbing backwards and burying the blade to the hilt in the side of the other slave’s throat. Bright blood sprayed across Malus and the startled druchii slaver as the wounded man collapsed.

  Malus pushed away from the table and reversed his grip on the bloody knife. The blade was less than four inches long—hardly a fearsome weapon in the best of circumstances. The slaver recovered from his shock and advanced on the highborn, holding the branding iron ahead of him like a sword. The metal was still glowing a dull cherry-red, more than hot enough to char flesh with a touch.

  The slaver crept closer, jabbing at Malus’ face and chest with the hot iron. The highborn retreated, feinting left and right, but every time he tried to get past the man the searing brand was there, reaching for his face. The slaver gave him a lopsided sneer—and Malus flipped his knife end-over-end, caught the tip between two fingers and threw the weapon at the man’s face. The man ducked the thrown knife easily, but it gave Malus time to turn and dash for the nearest wall. With a startled shout the slaver was right on his heels—but not fast enough to prevent Malus from snatching a heavy oak cudgel from its peg. He spun on one heel and lashed out with a vicious swing, connecting solidly with the slaver’s temple. There was a crunch of bone and the scarred man groaned, toppling to the floor.

  By this time bedlam reigned among the cages outside the room. Slaves of every race crowded at the bars and shouted for blood. They shook the doors of their cages and caused a thunderous racket. That’s certain to attract unwelcome attention, Malus thought. Sure enough, the highborn glanced down the passage and saw a group of overseers racing towards him, brandishing their cudgels.

  Thinking quickly, Malus checked the belt of the dead slaver and found a ring of thick iron keys. He went to the still-twitching slave he’d stabbed and grabbed the second key ring, then tossed them through the bars of the two nearest cages. “Open the doors and pass the keys to the next cages in line!” he bellowed in a commanding voice. “Then arm yourselves as best you can. Now is your chance for revenge!”

  The slaves answered Malus with a feral roar that brought a merciless grin to his face. He turned to the overseers, still several yards away and saw at once that they’d seen what he’d done. The highborn took a step towards them, brandishing his cudgel and they turned and ran. Howling like a wolf he set off after them. Behind him the first of the cage doors slammed open and the passageway resounded with the thunder of pent-up feet.

  The overseers reached the iron door and left it gaping wide in their hurry to escape. Malus gained on the fleeing men rapidly, listening to their cries of alarm. As the highborn swept down the gallery the druchii instructor who’d been crippling runts minutes before clambered into the hallway ahead of Malus with a confused look on his face. Malus slashed downwards with the cudgel, shattering the man’s knee in passing and left him writhing on the floor for the other slaves to find.

  In the display room beyond, Malus found Lohar the slaver standing next to Tennucyr’s retainer. The slaver was shouting frantic commands at the panicked overseers, trying to get them to explain what had happened. When Lohar saw Malus dash into the room with his bloodstained cudgel his face went deathly white. Tennucyr’s man let out a startled shout, as if he’d seen a ghost. Malus bared his teeth hungrily. “Care to make another wager, little man?”

  Lohar let out a yell and rushed at Malus, uncoiling his scourge with a swift, fluid motion and aiming a flesh-tearing stroke at the highborn’s face. A slave would have quailed from such a blow, but not a battle-hardened warrior. Malus ducked the blow and rushed at Lohar, swinging the cudgel in a two-handed grip and striking the man in the groin. The slaver doubled over with a choked scream that ended when Malus struck the back of the man’s head with a backhanded blow that dropped him to the floor.

  Malus spun to face Tennucyr’s man—and caught a glimpse of the retainer’s back as he dashed through the compound’s open door.

  The retainer was running for his mount as fast as he could, not bothering to look back. Malus stepped outside, took careful aim and flung the cudgel at the man as hard as he could. The heavy club spun end-over-end and struck the retainer in the head, sending him tumbling to the ground.

  Screams and the sounds of fighting echoed from Master Noros’ house as Malus reached Tennucyr’s retainer and rolled him onto his back. The man was just regaining consciousness as the highborn plucked the man’s dagger from his belt.

  Malus knelt on the druchii’s armoured chest and rested the tip of the blade beneath the man’s chin.

  “A bad time to wake up,” Malus said coldly. “But I must say your luck has finally turned here at the end.”

  The retainer blinked. “My luck? What do you mean?”

  The highborn bent close, peering into the man’s eyes. “Because I can’t afford to get any blood on your armour or it will ruin the disguise,” he said and drove the dagger upwards into the man’s brain.

  Chapter Thirteen

  DARK ALLIANCE

  Malus put his heels to Spite’s flanks and thundered do
wn the narrow road through the Slavers’ Quarter. Fire and ruin followed in his wake.

  The retainer’s armour fitted Malus poorly, shifting and rattling across his chest and shoulders with every one of the nauglir’s heavy steps. The vambraces and greaves felt dangerously loose, threatening to slide from his limbs—there had been little time to tighten all the straps and ensure every buckle was set while a mob of angry slaves rampaged through Master Noros’ house. By the time he’d put the dead man’s hadrilkar and armour on the compound was burning fiercely and armed slaves were spilling into the street, eager to spill more slavers’ blood.

  Druchii slavers and their men were stepping into the street at the far end of the lane, listening to the distant commotion and eyeing the rising column of smoke from Noros’ compound with increasing alarm. “Noros’ slaves have escaped!” Malus roared at the men in his path. “They’re burning everything they can reach. Barricade your doors and arm your men!”

  The slavers scattered out of the highborn’s way and began shouting orders to their men. Malus galloped on, trusting that none of the druchii would think to question the business of one of Lord Tennucyr’s men.

  Within minutes Malus reached the curving passage that connected the many levels of the black ark. The guardsmen collecting tolls from passing druchii frowned at the onrushing highborn, but Malus only spurred his mount harder, scattering soldiers and citizens alike out of his way as he turned right and headed for the highest levels of the ice-locked fortress. “Sound the alarm!” he cried to everyone he passed. “The Slavers’ Quarter is on fire!”

  Figures appeared and then receded in the gloom as Malus ascended the long ramp, their pale faces marked by anger or fear. The highborn thought he could smell smoke and imagined the consequences of a major fire in the enclosed vaults of the ark. Just then Malus felt the sensation of dry scales brushing against the insides of his ribs and Tzarkan murmured in his head. “You are going the wrong way, little druchii,” the daemon said coldly. “As ever, you rush headlong into your enemies’ arms.”

  Malus shook his head sharply, gritting his teeth at the sudden return of the hated daemon’s presence. When he’d first put on the dead retainer’s armour and collar he’d considered simply riding Spite down the long ramp and barrelling out into the icy wastes. But just as quickly he realised that escaping the ark brought only the illusion of safety. Beyond the walls of the ark he would be a hunted man, dogged by warriors from the Hag and assassins. His only hope was to throw in his lot with Balneth Bale and trust that the Witch Lord’s enmity with Hag Graef—and mysterious detente with Malekith—would be enough to stymie his foes long enough that he could at least free himself from Tz’arkan’s damnable grip. “Such timely concern,” the highborn sneered. “Especially after so much silence when I was being hunted like a wolf after the fight at Vaelgor Keep.”

  “Fool,” the daemon spat. “I kept you alive after you blundered into Lurhan’s men and got yourself riddled with bolts. Were it not for me that infection would have taken your leg at the very least, if not killed you after days of pain and delirium. I am your staunchest ally, Dark-blade, but you are too stupid to see it.”

  Malus was incredulous. “Ally? You did not tell me it was Lurhan who took the dagger, did you? No, you mocked me with riddles. For all I know this is another one of your cursed games.”

  “Have I ever lied to you, Malus?” the daemon hissed. “No. Not once.”

  “But when have you ever told me the complete truth?” Malus shot back. “Answer that if you can. I know Bale is my enemy. Everyone in Naggaroth is my foe, you damned spirit. Tell me something useful for once and explain to me why I shouldn’t throw in my lot with him.”

  “He will use you against Hag Graef,” Tz’arkan replied. “You will be a weapon that he will aim at the city’s heart.”

  The warning was so absurd the highborn could not help but laugh. “Are you so simple as that, daemon? Of course he would do such a thing—did you honestly imagine this wouldn’t have occurred to me? The sword cuts both ways, daemon. He will seek to bend me to his purposes and I will do the same to him. That is how the game is played.” Malus grinned savagely. “No country lord will get the better of a druchii of Hag Graef!”

  Spite rounded another corner in the long climb just as a deep, resonant boom resounded through the very stone of the ark itself. The sound rolled like thunder, reverberating through the highborn’s bones and no sooner had its echoes faded than a second beat followed in its wake. It was the beat of a great and terrible drum, spreading a portentous alarm through the tunnels and caverns of the enormous fortress. The sound sharpened Malus’ calculating grin. Chaos and panic were his real allies at the moment; the longer the alarm was raised, the greater his chances of reaching Bale’s fortress and gaining an audience with the Witch Lord himself. Part of his mind was already hard at work formulating a proposal to Bale that he hoped the Witch Lord would be unable to refuse.

  The drum was still tolling its alarm when Malus reached the next level above the Slavers’ Quarter. One moment he was speeding through the gloom of the curving passage and the next he was galloping past a group of startled toll-guards and up the side of an enormous cavern. Vast, dank space stretched away to Malus’ right and for a moment the highborn felt a wave of dizziness at the sudden change of surroundings. The chamber was so huge that the far side was lost in the diffuse haze of witchlights, their glow limning the gleaming sides of scores of marble pillars rising almost a hundred feet to the arched ceiling overhead. Among the pillars Malus glimpsed small buildings and more narrow lanes bustling with armed, purposeful druchii. Then the ramp reached the top of the great chamber and the narrow walls of a subterranean passage closed about Malus once more.

  Minutes later the highborn smelled fresh, cold air and sensed he was nearing the top of the ark. Then around the corner came the measured tramp of marching feet and the highborn led Spite up against the inner wall of the passageway just in time to avoid the rushing mass of a regiment of Naggorite spearmen marching double-quick to reach the fighting below. Lamplight gleamed on the curved surfaces of their breastplates and glittered like frost on their fine skirts of heavy mail and their faces were lit with anticipation as they rushed past Malus with nary a curious glance. A small detachment of crossbowmen followed in the spearmen’s wake, then a large troop of knights mounted on cold ones, their lances tipped with pennons of black and red. It was a swift and fearsome response, the highborn noted with some admiration. Not even the warriors of Hag Graef could have reacted so swiftly.

  Once the troops were past the highborn spurred his mount to extra speed, conscious of the fact that the uprising wouldn’t last for long once the ark’s warriors arrived. He was so intent on speed that he didn’t recognise that the passageway was gradually levelling out and the air was becoming fresher until he rounded a final corner and found himself rushing headlong at a tall gate of iron bars wrought with sharpened, thorn-like spikes.

  “Whoa!” Malus cried, dragging at the reins, his eyes widening as Spite slowly recognised the command and started to back-pedal, his broad feet skidding along the smooth stone ramp as they hurtled towards the thicket of sharp iron. Closer and closer the spikes came, until the highborn fought the urge to hurl himself from the saddle. At the last minute the nauglir’s claws found purchase, scoring deep grooves in the stone as the one-ton warbeast skidded to a halt. The gate loomed like a wall to Malus’ right, close enough to touch. A spike glinted less than five inches from his exposed neck; another poked threateningly against his right greave.

  A contingent of spearmen stood watchfully on the other side of the gate, their dark eyes wide with shock at the highborn’s sudden and perilous arrival. Malus quickly singled out the leader of the detachment and fixed him with a hard stare. “Open the gate, damn your eyes!” he snapped. The slaves are in full revolt and I have an urgent message for the Witch Lord!”

  The sharp tone of command in Malus’ voice sent the guards scrambling for the winch that c
ontrolled the gate. Within moments a sally port creaked open and the highborn guided his cold one through the narrow gap. The guard captain shouted something at Malus, but the highborn ignored him and kicked Spite back into a gallop.

  Beyond the gate a broad, arched tunnel ran for almost ten yards. Pale sunlight shone on dark grey walls at the far end. “Almost there,” Malus said to himself and within moments he burst from the tunnel into a wide city square bordered by the citadels of the city elite.

  The highborn expected to find market stalls and citizens going about their daily business, instead he rode into the midst of an armed camp. Companies of spearmen stood in black-armoured ranks, arrayed by regiment in huge formations to either side of the tunnel. Across the square light cavalry waited nervously, the warhorses skittish in the presence of a large company of cold one knights in full panoply some distance away. Malus felt a thousand pairs of eyes turn his way as he barrelled from the darkness of the tunnel and he fought to keep his expression neutral as he realised he had no idea where he was going.

  Thinking quickly, he scanned the towers looming all around him and picked out the one that rose above all the rest, standing out against a forest of weathered masts off to the northeast. Without slowing, Malus crossed the square in that direction and plunged down the first street he found. To the highborn’s relief, there were no shouts of alarm or sounds of pursuit. He was just one more knight among scores of others, hard about his master’s business.

  The streets of the upper city were deserted, the doors of the citadels shut tight at the sound of the tolling drum. Malus made his way through the maze of streets as quickly as he could, keeping one eye on the tall tower at all times. Slowly but surely his haphazard path drew him closer and closer to his goal, until without warning he found himself riding across another large square that stretched at the foot of Bale’s citadel. This open area was also packed with formations of alert troops, many wearing newly polished armour and weapons untouched by the grit and grime of the battlefield. Again, hundreds of eyes followed Malus as he entered the square and on instinct he checked his furious pace, slowing Spite to a brisk lope. These weren’t citizen militia called to action by the riot in the Slavers’ Quarter, Malus realised. They were regular troops, many of them freshly equipped from the Witch Lord’s arsenals. Bale was in the process of raising an army. The black ark was marching to war.