by Dan Abnett
The highborn bit back a curse, trying to force his exhausted mind to function. He wished he had enough men to risk a patrol, but their numbers were so few now that risking one or two druchii was tantamount to risking the whole party. “Let’s go,” he said, collecting Spite’s reins. “Like Lhunara said, at least we can get out of the dust for a while.”
It took nearly half an hour to cross the dusty plain and reach the broken walls of the city — as ever, distance and time in the Wastes were deceiving. As they drew near, Malus and the druchii saw that the piles of stone — a dark, veined marble all at odds with the barren nature of the plain — were deeply weathered.
Statues that might have stood for thousands of years had been eroded down to vague man-shapes, and only faint shadows remained of the carvings over the high, vaulted gate. Drifts of sand piled in small dunes along the empty streets, and many of the buildings they could see were little more than piles of rubble.
Malus’ hackles rose as they rode down the short passage between the inner and outer gates, but the narrow murder holes overhead were long choked shut with sand and dust. Beyond, they emerged into a refuse-strewn courtyard. Weak light gleamed along the cobblestones — they were a dark green, polished to a kind of translucence that gave them the look of ornamental glass.
The highborn pointed towards a cluster of spires near the centre of the city. “That must be the citadel,” he said. “That will be the most likely place to find a well or cistern.”
Spite growled, his broad nostrils flaring as he tasted the air. Malus studied the shadowy alleys between the buildings and the gaping doorways, but he could discern no imminent threat. Too long out on those cursed open plains, he thought. The narrow city streets make me feel like I’m threading a needle.
The small column worked its way through the ruins. The warband was tense; they’d seen enough unexpected danger to become wary of everything they encountered. But their only companion in the city seemed to be the relentless wind, stirring up a pall of choking dust wherever they went.
Navigating the city proved surprisingly difficult. They had gone barely a hundred yards down one narrow street when they found their way blocked by a channel almost thirty feet deep and more than fifty feet wide that ran from left to right as far as the eye could see in either direction.
The sides of the channel were smooth and vertical, and the road they were travelling on met a cross street that paralleled the rim of the channel. Some kind of defensive construction, perhaps, Malus thought? A ditch to delay the progress of invaders? He frowned, unable to see the sense of it. He turned the column to the right and began searching for a way across the gap. After another hundred yards, the druchii found a narrow bridge spanning the gap, though as far as Malus could tell the span would be a poor spot to defend in the middle of an attack.
He led the column over the decaying structure, and his roving eye caught sight of carvings along both sides of the bridge. The marble was carved with the sinuous image of sea dragons, their graceful arcs lending the appearance that they were leaping from one end of the ditch to the other.
Not a ditch, Malus suddenly realised. A canal.
The column encountered two more such canals as it worked its way deeper into the city. In the last dried-up watercourse they found the remains of a ship, leaning drunkenly to port with its splintered masts hanging over the far side of the canal. How long ago had this city sat at the edge of a great sea? Malus shook his head in wonder.
Farther into the centre of the city the buildings were in better condition. The streets were narrow and winding reminding Malus somewhat of distant Clar Karond, and the sheer bulk of the structures seemed to lend them more resilience against the constant wind. There were statues of leaping sea dragons and mosaics of coloured stone depicting underwater scenes — or so the highborn supposed, given all the depictions of fish and eels. One mosaic in particular held his eye: it showed a city beneath the water, its broad streets travelled by fish and serpents and other creatures the highborn couldn’t easily identify. The image disturbed him, but he couldn’t explain why.
The buildings themselves were expertly constructed, of the same dark, veined marble they’d seen around the city gate. The sheer expense of the construction was staggering to say nothing of the effort that must have been required to quarry so much high-quality stone and carry it to the site. The structures were made almost exclusively of stone — Malus saw very little wood of any kind, which hinted at a degree of craftsmanship that rivalled that of the dwarfs. Yet no dwarf had lent a hand to the construction of this place — the buildings lacked the broad, squat solidity of their structures. Of course, Hag Graef was built by dwarf slaves to druchii specifications, the highborn mused.
Could not the same thing have happened here? Logically, it was possible, but some instinct told Malus that it wasn’t the case. Someone else had built this city by the sea. Perhaps it had been the craftsmen of old Aenarion, but if so, the secrets of their trade had died with them many millennia ago.
It took almost three hours before the column found its way to a large square that lay in the shadow of the city’s central fortress. Like the city gates, the entrance to the citadel lay wide open, its defenders long since departed. The castle, with its tall, narrow spires, reminded Malus somewhat of the Hag. Or of a forest of coral rising from the seabed, the highborn realised, somewhat uncomfortably.
The citadel as a whole was in better condition than the rest of the city. The riders emerged into another sand-choked courtyard, but the high walls mitigated the wind somewhat, and Malus recognised an intact barracks and forge set against the inside of one of the outer walls. “Stand,” Malus commanded, and slid gratefully from the saddle. Spite remained tense, his powerful shoulders hunched and his nostrils flaring with each breath. “Vanhir,” Malus said as the rest of the warband reined in. “Take a man and stand watch over the mounts. The rest of us will see if we can find some water.”
They draped water skins over their shoulders and combed the courtyard for more than an hour, searching the barracks and forge and discovering kitchens, stables and storehouses, but no sign of a well.
The silence of the place began to weigh on Malus. Every so often he would catch himself staring up at the narrow windows of the citadel’s central keep. The hackles rose on the back of his neck and he was certain that he was being watched. Their steps echoed in the empty buildings; not even rats stirred at their approach.
Finally there was no place left to search but the keep itself. They returned to the cold ones and gathered three lanterns then the five druchii made their way inside.
Past the open doorway the drifts of sand rapidly gave way to a floor of slate tile that echoed with every step. Malus led the way, lantern held high. They walked through a succession of great halls filled with piles of dust and broken statuary. Mounds of old bones lay in some corners, hinting that the citadel had been home to some predator in the past. Pale witchlight from the lanterns picked out mosaics of more underwater scenes lining many of the walls in the great rooms. Once again, Malus saw depictions of undersea cities, this time peopled with vague figures that bore the heads and arms of men but the bodies of fish or serpents. Several mosaics featured rakish sailing ships battling what appeared to be huge kraken. Shining figures in pale green armour hurled lances of fire into the monsters’ eyes, even as the kraken wrapped their thorny tentacles around mast and hull.
Every now and then the highborn thought he heard furtive sounds among their echoing footsteps — the shuffle of feet or tentative steps from the deep shadows of a side passage or a branching chamber. Beyond their globe of lantern light, the search party moved through an echoing abyss, its boundaries only dimly and infrequently glimpsed. Lhunara seemed to sense it, too -she walked at the rear of the party with a naked blade in hand, her face a mask of concentration.
Finally they crossed another great hall that might have once been an audience chamber — no throne remained on the dais at the end, if ever there had b
een one. Beyond they found a series of empty rooms and a flight of stone steps leading down into deeper darkness.
Malus stood at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath, holding his lantern high. Among the heavy pall of dust and mildew the air had a cool, damp feel to it. He turned to pass the news to the rest of the party, but the words died in his throat. They were deep in the citadel, surrounded by stone and echoing blackness, and a part of him feared to speak. He didn’t know what else might hear and come looking for the source.
The highborn led the way downwards, sword in hand. The stairs descended into a cavern-like cellar, with columns of veined marble supporting vaulted stone arches. Carvings of sea dragons spiralled sinuously up the columns, and the close-set flagstones were more pieces of dark, polished glass. In the flickering witchlight the floor gleamed like a seascape in the moonlight. Try as he might, Malus couldn’t catch sight of any walls — the chamber stretched off in every direction — but he could smell the water now. The moisture hung in the air of the chamber. “Spread out,” the highborn said quietly. “And watch where you put your feet.”
Within minutes, there was the sound of shifting stone, then Lhunara whispered, “Here! I’ve found it!”
Malus and the other druchii converged on the retainer, who stood by a broad, circular opening in the rock floor. She had pulled aside a stone cover carved with a sea shell design to reveal the water’s still surface, only a few inches below the lip. Another of the retainers was taking a tentative sip under Lhunara’s insistent eye as Malus approached. The druchii warrior nodded tentatively to Lhunara, who in turn addressed her lord. “It appears to be safe to drink.”
“Good,” Malus replied tersely, shrugging his water skins off his shoulder. “Let us fill the skins and be gone. I don’t like the feel of this place.”
The water party bent to the task. Malus fought the urge to turn in slow circles and peer warily into the gloom. It wouldn’t achieve anything except to make the others nervous, so he forced himself to be still and wait.
As tense as he was, the highborn still didn’t hear Dalvar slip silently up beside him. “My lord?” Dalvar murmured. “I found something that I think you need to see.”
“What?” Malus asked, but by the time he’d turned around the retainer was already slipping away into the darkness, heading deeper into the chamber. Frowning, the highborn hurried after him, lantern held high.
He followed Dalvar for the space of several heartbeats, drawing farther and farther away from the cistern. Then, abruptly, the retainer came to a halt. “Watch your step my lord,” Dalvar said quietly. “The footing is uncertain here.”
Malus stepped to the edge of what appeared to be a large sinkhole. At some point, possibly hundreds of years in the past, a large section of the floor had collapsed into a cavern beneath it. Peering down, the highborn could see piles of glassy rubble and tall stalagmites pushing up from the cavern floor nearly fifteen feet below.
The highborn studied the area with wary eyes. “I don’t see what’s so important,” he said.
“That’s not what I wanted to show you, my lord,” Dalvar said, nearly whispering in Malus’ ear. “This is.”
The point of the dagger slipped effortlessly into the skin beneath the highborn’s right ear. It was an assassin’s blade, razor sharp — Malus barely felt the tiny pinprick, but the message it sent was clear: Don’t move. It won’t do you any good.
“It is said that in the city of Har Ganeth, assassination can be seen as a gesture of respect — even admiration,” Dalvar whispered. “It’s also an expression of art. The act itself is not as important as the manner in which it is executed. Of course, such art can only be appreciated by a single spectator, and if the execution is successful, it is the very last experience the spectator ever has. It is sublime, you see?”
Malus said nothing. His sword was in his hand, but Dalvar stood very close, effectively trapping the blade.
“Consider the tableau set before you, my lord. A single twitch of my arm, and the dagger will penetrate into your brain. Death will be instantaneous — and almost painless, if that matters to you. Best of all, the heart will stop, so there will be little or no blood from the wound; a smudge of dirt from my thumb would render it invisible. You then collapse onto the rocks below, and I tell the others you were tired and careless and fell over the edge.”
“Lhunara will kill you,” Malus said.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. She is loyal, but pragmatic. Each warrior who dies is one less sword to help fight our way back home. Either way, that’s my risk to take, not yours. You will be past caring.” The dagger pressed fractionally deeper into the highborn’s neck. “Now, do you appreciate how precarious your life is at this moment?”
“Oh, yes,” Malus replied. He was surprised at how calm he felt.
“Excellent,” Dalvar replied — and the dagger was suddenly gone. “Now you will hopefully appreciate the fact that I have no interest in taking advantage of this opportunity.”
Malus turned slowly to face Dalvar. The sword trembled in his grip. “You have an interesting — and possibly fatal — way of making a point,” he said.
The retainer shrugged. “I could think of no better way to allay your suspicions, my lord. If I had any interest in killing you, I could have done so just then with minimal risk.”
Malus gritted his teeth. It was an infuriating notion, but also an accurate one. “All right. What is your interest then?”
“Survival,” Dalvar said simply. “Not to put too fine a point on it, my lord, but I believe you have been deceived. And Nagaira has sacrificed me and my men to lend that deception extra weight.”
The highborn’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How do you know this?”
Dalvar shrugged. “I don’t know for certain. But several assurances my mistress made to you — and me, incidentally — haven’t proven true, have they? The skull isn’t leading us anywhere, and Urial had those riders on our trail almost as soon as we’d left the Hag.”
“So what does she gain from all this?”
“She hurts both you and Urial in one stroke. You’ve taken one of Urial’s most prized possessions and carried it far beyond his reach on a dubious expedition into the Chaos Wastes. Even if you survive, your half-brother will bend all his energies towards destroying you, and you have no allies within or without the Hag who will aid you. This, incidentally, also keeps Urial too busy to continue harassing Nagaira. She was very angry with you for sneaking away on your raiding cruise this summer and abandoning her to his attentions.”
“Urial has to know she helped me invade his tower.”
Dalvar shrugged. “Perhaps. But you have the skull, and she doesn’t. Also, he lusts after her.”
“And she would sacrifice her closest lieutenant and five retainers just for the sake of a deception?”
“As I said, she was very angry.”
Malus took a deep breath and composed himself. “All right, what do you want?”
“Want? I don’t want anything. I’m offering you my service.”
The highborn blinked. “What would I want with a rogue like you?”
Dalvar’s mocking grin reappeared. “Come now, my lord. Your chief lieutenant is a woman, you’ve got a knight in your service you won on a bet, and if the rumours are true you’re sheltering a former assassin who fled Khaine’s temple. You’ve as much use of rogues as the next highborn — and you’re not so careless with their lives.”
Malus considered this. “All right. What can you tell me about Vanhir, then? What treachery is he planning?”
“Treachery? None, my lord.”
“You expect me to believe that, Dalvar?” Malus snapped.
“Of course,” the retainer replied. “I think you’ve misjudged that man, my lord.”
“Really? How so?”
“He’s not about to betray you, my lord. Vanhir is a proud and honourable man — hasty and impetuous, perhaps, but proud and honourable nevertheless. He’s not the sort to sl
ip a knife in your back or slit your throat when you sleep. No, he’ll fulfil his oath and return to the Hag, and then dedicate the rest of his life to destroying you, one small cut at a time. And he’ll make certain you know he’s the one that’s doing it the whole time. In that, I suspect the two of you are much alike.”
Malus thought it over carefully, and was pained to admit that the rogue had a point. “What about your men?”
Dalvar spread his hands. “They belong to me now, not her. They’ll do as I say.”
The highborn nodded. “Very well. But remember this: as you so cleverly pointed out, I have the skull, and I mean to claim the power behind it, no matter how many of you have to die in the process. I’ll walk out of the Wastes alone if that’s what it takes. Do you understand me?”
Dalvar bowed deeply. “I live and die at your command, my lord.”
“My lord?” Lhunara’s voice echoed across the cavernous space, tinged with mild concern. “We’ve filled the water skins. Is everything all right?”
“All is well,” Malus answered, meeting Dalvar’s eye. “We’ve got everything we need. Let’s head back up.”
Malus led the way back up the stairs, alternately seething and calmly considering his next move. His suspicions about his sister seemed to have been confirmed, and the thought galled him to the core. But she’d overplayed her hand. Her retainers belonged to him now, and soon, so would the power in the temple.
His footsteps quickened through the dark and empty halls and he grinned savagely in the blackness. If anything, his position was even stronger than before.
The party was just short of the citadel door when the ambushers struck.
Chapter Fifteen
KUL HADAR
The citadel’s large feasting chamber was separated from the keep’s entry hall by a long passageway that essentially took one huge room and separated a third of its length into a separate space opposite the keep’s tall double doors. As Malus and the water party cut across this passage, the highborn could see grey sunshine slanting through the open doorway and painting a faint square of light on the sand-strewn floor. The dead light of the Wastes had never looked so welcoming before.
