by Dan Abnett
But the highborn was surprised when the shaman bared his teeth and barked a guttural laugh. “All that needs saying has been said, druchii,” Hadar replied. “The herd belongs to me once more, and the moment I have waited decades for is at hand. We will not linger a moment longer, lord Malus. No, the time is now. We will go into the sacred grove and attain the key to the Gate of Infinity.”
Chapter Eighteen
TREACHERY
Malus forced his mind to concentrate despite the fatigue and the waves of pain that dogged him with every halting step. The climb up the steep mountain slope was torturous, even using Machuk’s sword as a makeshift cane. The highborn had recovered the skull from his saddlebag and carried it tucked beneath his left arm. Lhunara and Dalvar had tried to patch his wounds as best they could, but there was little they could do as long as he was buckled into his armour.
Now he and Hadar walked alone, striding purposefully toward the great cleft that split the mountainside. Yaghan and four of his champions walked a respectful distance behind the pair, laughing and boasting of their exploits in their guttural tongue.
He hadn’t expected Hadar to move so quickly in the wake of the battle. Was it a matter of greed, or was he intent on catching Malus off-balance? Likely both, the druchii reasoned. He seeks to regain the initiative while I’m tired and injured. A sensible enough tactic, he thought, but it won’t avail him much. When Malus had recovered the skull, he’d asked Vanhir for a strip of courva from his dwindling store. He’d chewed the piece of root mechanically, his eyes narrowing at the shockingly bitter taste. His mind was clearing though, moment by moment, growing ever sharper as the stimulant took hold. He forced himself to look around and take in his surroundings, anything to stimulate his numbed mind.
They were high enough up the slope that he had a panoramic view of the forest stretching off to the left and right around the base of the mountain. Malus could also see another, smaller mountain rising farther to the right, and in between a heavily wooded valley, still wreathed in mist. He nodded towards the valley. “Is that—”
“Yes. The Temple of Tz’arkan lies there,” Hadar said. “A road of skulls winds through the valley, and at the end lies the Gate of Infinity. Beyond the gate, in a space not entirely our own, lies the great temple.”
Malus stifled a groan. Damn sorcerers and their mind-twisting creations! “When was the temple built?”
“Millennia ago,” Hadar grunted. “During the days when your people fought the children of the Ruinous Powers, or possibly even before. Five great sorcerers, mighty servants of the Dark Gods, conspired to bind a great power into their service. They plotted and schemed for more than a hundred years, so the story goes, and in the end they bound the power behind the walls of the great temple and bent it to their will. With it, they became conquerors, cutting a great swathe across the war-torn world.”
Malus grinned hungrily, his heart quickening with anticipation. Soon, that great power would be his. And to think I merely sought this place to slake my thirst for revenge, he thought. What else could I achieve with this power in my grasp? He saw himself sitting in the Court of Thorns, encased in the drachau’s armour and wearing the Claw of Night, steam rising behind the boiling red glow of his eyes as all the highborn of the city bent their knee and submitted themselves to his tortures.
The highborn saw a great army on the march with him at its head, crossing the waves to blighted Ulthuan and dashing their great cities into ruin. He saw himself in dark Naggarond, fortress of the Witch King, seated on a throne of dragon bone…
“Over time, however, fortune deserted each sorcerer in turn. They were betrayed by their companions, or their own lieutenants, or grew overconfident and were bested on the battlefield. One by one they were destroyed, but the power in the temple remained. When the last sorcerer fell, the Temple of Tz’arkan was forgotten, its secrets guarded by the most terrible of magical wards.” Hadar glanced at Malus, and once again offered him a cruel, fanged smile. “Until now.”
They had reached the mouth of the great cleft. Up close, it was much broader than Malus expected, and widened even further as it went. Soil had settled into the crevice over the aeons and given life to dark green grass and tall, glossy-leaved trees. There was a deep humming in the air, much as Malus had felt in the exile camp, only much stronger and more intense.
The trees rustled quietly at their approach, though the highborn noted that there wasn’t so much as a breath of wind.
Hadar paused at the entrance to the cleft and planted his staff. “This is our sacred grove,” the shaman said in a reverent voice. “Here lies the source of all our power. Walk softly here, druchii. Until this day no living thing not of our race has entered here and survived.” The shaman bowed his horned head and rumbled something that sounded like a prayer, and then he pressed on.
There was a faint path of sorts that wound among the trees. Hadar followed it with the ease of long familiarity, and Malus was left to limp painfully in his wake. As they climbed up the cleft, Malus noticed that the great trees were covered in black, shiny vines that sprouted hundreds of needle-like thorns. Clusters of bones lay at the foot of each tree, some weathered by the elements and others fresh and glistening with bits of fat and gristle. Malus eyed the wood with much greater respect than before.
They walked along the path for several long minutes until Malus spied the first of the glowing crystals. The greenish rock sprouted from the ground just like the one in Hadar’s cave, and Malus sensed that the formations were the source of the powerful vibrations he felt along his bones. “What gives these stones such power, great Hadar?”
“They are gifts from the Dark Gods,” Hadar said proudly. “The herds can hear their powerful song for leagues across the earth, and we seek them out for the power they give us. The stones make us very strong; when we feel their song in our bones we can work great magics, far more potent than your pitiful sorceries. When we stretch forth our hand, the earth and sky bend to our will!”
The shaman swept his hand in a broad arc, taking in the whole of the mountain cleft. “A tribe is considered mighty indeed if its grove boasts three of the great stones. Here, on the mountain blessed by the God of the Axe, we have nearly a dozen. When I first led my herd here they celebrated for a fortnight, chanting my name to the dark sky. They believed I was favoured of the gods, to have led us to such power.” Hadar chuckled deep in his throat. “The conquests, the slaughter, the terrible destruction I could have wrought. I could have bent the other herds to my will and ruled as no other of my kind had ruled for thousands of years. But I did not.” The shaman turned his horned head and fixed Malus with one dark eye. “I did not, because I knew I stood at the threshold of a greater power still.”
The farther they went, the more crystals Malus saw, their luminescence increasing until he could feel it against his bare skin like the warm glow of the sun. The highborn also began to notice crude stone obelisks carved with spiky runes and sigils arranged around the crystal formations, and long poles hung with the rotting figures of beastman sacrifices. Old bones rattled in a nonexistent wind, and the smell of leather and rot hung in the air.
A few minutes later they reached a circle of standing stones, leaning precariously together on the steep slope. Outside the circle was a great bronze gong with a striker leaning beside it. Within the circle lay a stone floor made from slate tiles, its centre stained from years of spilled blood. Long lines of runes ran the length of each of the stones, laid atop the faint lines of carvings that were far older still. Malus sensed that Hadar’s herd was not the first to claim this cleft and its power for their own.
Hadar stepped to the gong and picked up the striker. He struck the metal disk three times, slowly and purposefully, then he inclined his head to a point above the standing stones. Malus followed his gaze and saw that the far end of the cleft was surprisingly near, narrowing to a dark opening that appeared to be the mouth of a cave. The echoes bounced along the walls of the cleft and then faded to s
ilence. The dark trees rustled, then fell still.
Moments later Malus caught a glimpse of movement within the cleft. A line of robed and cowled beastmen emerged from the darkness, bearing ceremonial staves and censers of beaten brass, jars of powders and tall coloured bottles of strange liquids. They descended without a sound, seeming to glide effortlessly down the steep slope toward the standing stones. Hadar bowed his head reverently at their approach.
Malus leaned heavily on Machuk’s sword, suddenly uneasy. What good were powders and potions when the knowledge they sought was bound up in an ancient skull? “What do we do now?” he asked.
Kul Hadar glanced sidelong at him, a flash of annoyance in his dark eyes. “Now we call upon the shade of Ehrenlish, you fool.”
The highborn’s brows narrowed in consternation. “His shade?”
The shaman turned, his lips pulling back in a sneer. “How did you come so far, knowing so little?” The shaman pointed gravely at the skull in Malus’ hands. “That is the skull of Ehrenlish, the greatest of the five sorcerers who mastered the power of the temple. He, last of his cabal, sensed that soon he would suffer the same fate as his fellows, and sought to cheat death by sorcerously binding his soul to his very bones.”
The shaman chuckled. “But in the end the fool had crafted himself a most horrible prison. His head was struck from his neck by a rival and his body ground to dust. The great sorcerer then became a trophy to be passed from one hand to another for hundreds of years, his dreams of glory long forgotten.” Hadar took a step forward. “But the secret to unlocking the gate remains bound within those old bones, and we will make Ehrenlish tell it to us.”
The highborn’s mind raced, struggling with the implications. “How then will you draw out the ghost and make him speak?” he asked numbly.
Kul Hadar smiled, his outstretched hand clenching into a gnarled fist. “Why, we will give him your mouth to speak with, druchii.”
Bolts of green fire leapt from the shaman’s hand. Malus instinctively threw himself to one side the hair on his neck standing on end as the magical energies sizzled through the space where he’d been standing. Terror and rage seethed through his veins, banishing pain and weariness, and Malus scrambled back down the slope lurching from one crystal formation to the next. Another volley of magical bolts slammed into the ground in his wake, burning dark holes into the grassy soil. Sorcerous thunder boomed and rattled down the cleft.
Malus ducked close to a crystal outcropping. A green bolt struck it in a shower of sparks, and shouting erupted among Hadar and the robed priests. Think, Malus, think! The highborn’s brain worked furiously, trying to think of a way out. He felt a warm lump beneath the edge of his breastplate. Nagaira’s talisman. Perhaps that’s been throwing off Hadar’s aim.
He paused for a moment to catch his breath, listening to the robed priests rushing down the slope after him. Malus considered his options, and none of them were good. The bastard has been planning this all along he thought ruefully. No wonder he accepted my change of plans so easily. He knew it wouldn’t matter once he’d got me up here.
The highborn planted Machuk’s great sword in the ground. He pulled out his trusty boot knife with one hand, while the other fished out his sister’s talisman. A plan fell into place. Good thing Lhunara isn’t here to see this, he thought wildly. She’d tell me this was suicide — as though that weren’t perfectly obvious.
Malus leapt from behind the crystal, drawing back his knife hand. He sought out Kul Hadar and hurled the dagger just as the shaman unleashed another storm of magical bolts. The sizzling energies struck the knife and knocked it aside with a bright spark and a clap of thunder. Well, so much for that, the highborn thought.
The priests rushed at him from left and right, their hands reaching for his arms. Malus ducked beneath the first one’s clutches and rammed his fist into the beast’s gut. The robed beastman doubled over, tumbling into the path of his compatriot, and the two went down in a tangle of limbs. Thank the Dark Mother they aren’t all like Machuk, Malus thought. He turned back and snatched up the great sword, swinging it in a vicious arc that kept the remaining priests at bay as he backed swiftly down the slope.
Then the air turned bright green and sizzling energies struck Malus’ chest. He went rigid as the sorcerous fire coursed along his limbs. The highborn’s lips drew back in a silent scream of agony. The talisman hanging from his neck turned a bright red as it tried to hold off Kul Hadar’s power, until the crystal orb shattered in a bright flash of light and a sharp crack.
Malus was hurled off his feet, tumbling a long way down the steep slope before sliding to a stop. The great sword was still in his bloodied hand as he rolled painfully to his feet. Thanks for the boost, the highborn thought wildly, and broke into a lurching run.
He rounded the first turn in the path and almost ran into Yaghan and his champions running the other way. Yaghan saw Malus and roared out a command, and the other warriors immediately moved to surround the highborn. Snarling, Malus leapt at Yaghan, swinging the heavy blade at the beastman’s chest, but the champion blocked the blow easily with the broad head of his axe. Another beastman lunged in and clouted Malus on the side of the head with the pommel of his own great sword, and the highborn swayed on his feet, blinking at the stars crowding his vision.
The beastman to the right, emboldened by his friends, rushed at the stunned druchii, but Malus wasn’t as disoriented as he had let on. When the champion got close, he drove the point of his sword into the arch of the beastman’s foot. When the champion’s rush faltered in a bellow of pain, the highborn pulled the sword free and brought it up into the beastman’s chin. Blood and teeth flew and the beast-man fell backwards with a scream, lashing out wildly with his sword.
Malus ducked the blow easily and slashed at the champion with his heavy sword, tearing open the beastman’s abdomen and spilling his steaming entrails onto the ground. The champion collapsed to the grass, clutching vainly at his intestines as Malus broke from the circle, edging around Yaghan so he could reach the downhill path.
He’d taken two steps when something powerful crashed into the centre of his back and knocked him headlong. The point of the great sword lodged in the ground and was wrenched from his grip as he hit the path face first. Pain bloomed from his nose and chin and blood spilled down over his lips, but Malus was already trying to get his legs underneath him and spring back upright.
Another massive blow smashed into his side, flipping him easily onto his back. One of Yaghan’s champions stood over him, bellowing a throaty laugh as it wielded a massive club as though it were nothing more than a willow switch. The beastman brought the gnarled length of wood crashing down on the highborn’s chest and the armour flexed beneath the blow. Malus felt his ribs bend, and all the air rushed from his lungs.
Leering fiercely, the champion planted a chipped hoof squarely in the centre of the highborn’s breastplate and set the knotty end of his club on Malus’ forehead. The beastman leaned forward, putting all his weight on the dub, and Malus gritted his teeth against the slowly spreading bloom of pain. Drawing back his right leg almost to his chest, the highborn lashed out as hard as he could, driving the heel of his boot into the beastman’s groin twice in rapid succession. The champion howled and its knees buckled, and Malus rolled swiftly to the side as the beastman crashed to the ground.
Malus scrambled to his feet and turned back just long enough to kick the downed champion in the face before dashing once more for the path. The moment of spite cost him, however. A broad hand closed on the back of the highborn’s neck, and suddenly he found himself being propelled at a dead run towards the black-boled trees on the opposite side of the path. His arms flailed wildly, vainly seeking a target, until his foot struck a half-buried stone and he stumbled forwards, fetching up against the bole of a vine-covered tree. Instantly the dark tendrils slithered like snakes, writhing down the glossy bark to wrap themselves around his throat. The needle-like thorns sank deep into his flesh, and immediat
ely his skin burned with the touch of some insidious toxin. His throat swelled from within even as the vine tightened around him, closing off the passage of both air and blood.
The highborn fumbled for a knife to cut himself free, but already his vision was narrowing. There was a buzzing in his ears. His fingers closed on the pommel of his belt knife and he gripped at it spasmodically, but the weapon refused to come free of its sheath.
There were dark figures floating towards him, hands outstretched. Beyond them he could see a huge, horned figure, green fire playing between his hands, and the coarse, braying laughter of Yaghan and his champions. Malus felt the priests’ hands on him, and the vine tightened even more possessively, refusing to give up its meal. With one last burst of strength, the highborn tugged his dagger free, but he could no longer see where to cut.
Malus thrust the knife into the belly of one of the priests just as darkness rose up to embrace him.
Chapter Nineteen
THE GATE OF INFINITY
When Malus awoke he hung within the circle of stones, bound aloft by hissing loops of sorcerous fire.
The energies held him immobile and suffused his body with dull agony. His every muscle was tensed, as if unconsciously fighting the forces working on it. His throat was no longer swollen. He’d been arranged so that the Skull of Ehrenlish rested in the palms of his hands, clasped together at his waist. His head was forced slightly back, giving him a glimpse of the sky — from what he could tell, very little time had passed since he’d succumbed to the terrible vines. He could sense the priests forming a circle around him, murmuring a chant in low, guttural tones. The Dark Mother grant there’s one less of them than there was before, he thought fiercely.
Then he felt a shadow fall over him, and Malus saw the towering form of Kul Hadar, taking his place at the head of the priests’ ritual circle. The shaman had set aside his great staff, raising both hands to the sky. A low growl began deep in the beastman’s throat, swelling to a powerful rumble that took the shape of guttural words. Power crackled from the shaman’s lips, and Malus could make out the name Ehrenlish.
