[Darkblade 01] - The Daemon's Curse

by Dan Abnett

  “Not only will I set you free, you have my oath that I will never try to enslave you again. And just to show you that I have your best interests at heart, I will reveal to you that one of the talismans, the Octagon of Praan, is very close by. I can sense it, even in my confined state.”

  “Where is this trinket, then?”

  “Upon the mountainside,” the daemon replied. “The beastmen venerate it. At night I can hear their braying chants, calling out to the talisman for protection. Stupid creatures. Ironic that you may have to kill them all to pry their talisman of protection from their grubby little paws.” The daemon sounded inordinately pleased at the prospect.

  Slowly and deliberately, Malus picked up his dagger and slid it back into its sheath. The highborn rose to his feet. “I’ll do whatever I must,” he said coldly, his willpower once again reasserting itself. “In a year’s time I’ll return here, and we will finish what we’ve begun.”

  “Indeed we will, Malus Darkblade. Indeed we will.”

  “Do not call me that!” Malus seethed.

  “Why not? Am I mistaken somehow? Darkblades are flawed things, are they not? Step before the crystal, Malus. There is something you must see.”

  The highborn frowned in consternation, but after a moment he relented and stepped before the crystal.

  “Good. Now look closely.”

  The blue glow faded, revealing a crystal facet that gleamed like polished silver. It was like looking into a mirror—

  And Malus saw what he had become.

  His skin had turned pale as chalk. Distended black veins ran along the back of the hand that bore the ruby ring disappearing beneath the wrist of his vambrace. They seemed to pulse with a steady flow of corruption. His eyes were orbs of purest jet.

  “Gaze upon what you have become — a man with no soul, bound in service to a daemon. And you say you are not a flawed thing, Malus Darkblade?”

  The daemon’s laughter pealed like thunder as Malus fled from its prison.

  Malus fled through the precincts of the temple, slipping in the dust of the dissolved mummies as he plunged down the ramp to the apartments of the doomed sorcerers. The bodies of the acolytes mocked him with their slack jaws and wide, staring eye sockets. They seemed to reach out to him as he passed, offering their knives or their hanging ropes. They offered him the charity of the damned.

  His boots rang along the stone. He flew down the spiral staircase, feeling the heat of the magma on his face and fighting the urge to fling himself into the flames. When he came upon the mummified corpse lying on the steps he kicked the body into the lake of fire in his place, envying it its fiery plunge.

  The stepping stones were waiting for him when he reached the bottom of the stairs, levitated into position at the will of the daemon upstairs. What a fool he’d been to believe that he had called them from the depths with the strength of his will! He crossed from one stone to the next with as little regard as he would have paid to the stepping stones of a river.

  Beyond the plaza and the lake of fire, the statues of the gods seemed to laugh at his anguish, leering at his foolishness in assailing the lair of the daemon. This is what you get for spurning us, the abominable faces seemed to say. You and your Dark Mother. Did she hear your prayer in the stone halls above? Did she grant you victory over your foes?

  He threw himself at the statues, howling like a fiend, but he had not the strength to throw those huge edifices down. If anything, the idols only seemed to mock him all the more.

  Malus flung himself from the presence of the four gods, staggering through the ranks of the eternal servants. He dashed their obedient bodies into dust, screaming curses at their craven poses.

  Distantly he could hear the sound of screams and the ringing clash of steel. Beastmen and druchii alike cried out in rage and pain. Malus drew his sword and ran towards the promise of battle.

  Can I ever spill enough blood to drown the memory of my reflection?

  Malus stumbled into the cold light of day and beheld the carnage at the temple gate. The beastmen had made a hole with their heavy, two-handed hammers, and dozens of corpses lay in mounds just beyond the breach. Two of the four nauglir lay dead, their bodies pierced and rent by the blows of sword and axe. A third trembled and bled from mortal blows that were slowly stealing away its life. Only Spite survived. Leaner and quicker than his fellows, he nevertheless bore a score of wounds across his armoured hide.

  Malus’ three retainers stalked amid the battlefield like carrion crows, their black armour splashed and streaked with the blood of their foes. They had cast aside their empty crossbows long ago, and held red, dripping blades in their hands. They worked with the dispassionate skill of butchers, peering among the corpses and dispatching any wounded that they found. There was no telling how many assaults they had already fought off, biding their time between each wave in the same fashion. They were so intent on their business that they didn’t notice Malus until he was almost upon them.

  It was Lhunara who saw him first. She was covered in gore, her hair matted and her face painted crimson like one of Khaine’s murderous brides. There were scores of dents and creases in her armour, and she held a battered sword in each hand. Her expression was a mask of fatigue.

  “You’ve come none too soon, my lord,” she began. “They’ve tried to rush us three times now, and only just retreated. Between us and the cold ones we’ve killed close to eighty of them, but—”

  The words died in her throat as Lhunara registered the change in her lord’s face. Her eyes met his and they widened in horror. “My lord, what—”

  Malus howled like a wounded beast and buried his sword in Lhunara’s skull.

  Dalvar and Vanhir saw the blow fall and cried out in horror and dismay. The highborn leapt at them even as Lhunara’s body was falling to the ground.

  Nagaira’s man moved to the left, his hand drawing back and snapping forward in a blur of motion. Without thinking, Malus swept his blade around and knocked the thrown dagger aside. He rushed at the rogue, snapping a blow at his head that Dalvar blocked with the long knife in his left hand. The rogue’s right hand drew another long fighting knife and lunged in, stabbing for one of the joints in the highborn’s articulated breastplate.

  Malus caught Dalvar’s wrist in his left hand and punched the retainer across the face with the pommel of his sword. Stunned, Dalvar stabbed for his throat but the thrust went a little wide, scoring a jagged cut along the line of Malus’ jaw. The highborn snarled and thrust the point of his sword into the rogue’s left armpit, where the armour afforded no protection. The point caught on the joint of the arm. Dalvar stiffened, his face going white with pain, and Malus leaned against the blade, grating against gristle and bone and sinking slowly deeper into the druchii’s chest.

  Dalvar shrieked and spasmed violently, trying to pull away, but Malus still held his other wrist in a death grip, keeping him in place. The rogue stabbed wildly at him with his dagger, but Malus’ outstretched sword arm was in the way; the point of the retainer’s dagger gouged him deeply at cheek, temple, ear and throat, but none could dig deep enough to kill. With every blow, every blossom of pain, Malus only pushed harder on his own blade. The point grated free of the joint, pushed past the ribs and sliced through muscle, lung and heart. Dalvar let out a strangled gasp, retched a torrent of blood and fell to the earth.

  When Malus spun to face Vanhir, he found the retainer waiting for him several yards away.

  “I want to look you in the eye when I kill you,” the knight said, showing his pointed teeth. “I had much grander plans for your destruction, Darkblade — wondrous creations that would have taken years to end your miserable life. If I am to be denied those glories, I at least want to see the life flee from your pitiful eyes.”

  Malus hurled himself at the highborn knight, raining a flurry of blows at his head, shoulders and neck. Vanhir moved like a viper, blocking each blow with the skill of an expert duellist. The dagger in his left hand rapped a staccato drumbeat again
st Malus’ breastplate, vambrace and thigh, probing for weak spots in the armour. When the highborn drew back for another combination of blows, Vanhir’s sword flicked out and laid a long cut across Malus’ neck, narrowly missing the artery. The highborn was a skilled swordsman, but Vanhir was a master, an artist of the blade.

  Now Vanhir pressed his advantage, alternating attacks with sword and dagger. Malus blocked the first sword but took a shallow knife wound through a gap in his right vambrace. He swept aside a lightning thrust — and then he flung himself onto the knight, sinking his white teeth into Vanhir’s throat.

  Vanhir screamed and writhed, smashing the pommel of his sword into the side of Malus’ head, but the highborn would not be shaken off so easily. He bit deep, tasting a rush of coppery blood, then wrenched his head to one side and tore out the side of the knight’s throat. Vanhir fell back, clapping his hands to the torrent of blood spilling from his ravaged neck, but it was a futile gesture for a mortal wound. Within moments the life faded from Vanhir’s eyes, his gaze freezing in an eternal glare of unremitting hate.

  Malus Darkblade threw back his head and howled like a maddened wolf. It was a cry so savage and unhinged that even the herd of battle-hardened beastmen, now advancing slowly down the road for their fourth assault on the gate, paused in fear and wonder at the sound.

  The vision of Lhunara’s face still hung before his mind’s eye, tormenting him. The look of horror on her face when she’d realised his failure had been more than he could bear.

  Malus staggered to his feet, wiping Vanhir’s blood from his mouth with the back of his black-veined hand.

  They had all served him faithfully and well, friend and foe alike, he thought. Better they die than witness his awful shame.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  BLOOD ON THE WIND

  Spite growled at Malus’ approach. The cold one’s eyes were glazed with pain and its flanks heaved with exertion. The nauglir dimly sensed something amiss with his master, yet could not understand what.

  “Easy there, terrible one,” Malus said calmly, watching Spite’s eyes carefully. If the pupils widened suddenly and his inner eyelids closed, Malus would be fighting for his life a heartbeat later.

  “It’s just me, Malus. We’ve done what we came here to do. There’s blood on the wind and it’s time to ride.”

  For a heart-stopping moment it looked as though Spite had forsaken him. The nauglir growled again and his pupils widened, but then the beastmen advancing on the gate let out a ragged shout, distracting the great beast, and Malus took advantage of the moment to leap into the saddle. Spite grumbled and tossed his head, but Malus dug in his spurs and the cold one leapt forward obediently.

  The highborn drove Spite right for the gate, kicking the nauglir into a run just as he reached the hole the beastmen had made. Malus leaned against Spite’s neck and he still endured a fearfully close call as the cold one shouldered through the hole and scattered broken bits of stone in a wide swathe before him. Once they were through, Malus straightened in his saddle and spurred his mount into a charge, right into the face of the advancing beastmen.

  In other circumstances the sight of a lone rider wouldn’t have been enough to sway the mob of warriors. But they had been fighting a vicious, close-quarter battle at the temple gate and had seen three separate assaults hurled back by the crushing jaws and cruel talons of Spite and his kin. The sight of the onrushing nauglir caused them to waver, and the moment’s hesitation was enough. Malus and Spite ploughed into them, hurling broken bodies left and right. The highborn slashed at upturned faces and throats, screaming like a banshee, and the beastmen fell back from the frenzied attack.

  All but a familiar knot of huge beastman champions hefting large, two-handed weapons. Yaghan and his chosen warriors howled their war-cries and tried to rush at Malus, but the press of the retreating mob held the champions at bay for a few crucial seconds. The highborn hauled on the reins, whipping Spite’s tail through the press of beastmen, then spurred the cold one into a run, breaking free of the disordered mob and racing headlong down the road of skulls. It took only moments for Yaghan to rally the beastmen with howled curses and oaths, but by the time the weary mob took up the pursuit, Malus was already around the bend in the road and well out of sight.

  The highborn’s mind raced, trying to force the horrors of the last hour from his mind in order to formulate a plan. Somehow, he had to sneak back into the beastmen camp and find where the Octagon of Praan was kept. He was sure that the only person who knew for certain where to find the relic was Kul Hadar himself. Slipping into the camp in broad daylight would be next to impossible. He would have to find a place to lie low for the night, and slip into the shaman’s tent when the opportunity presented itself.

  But first there was the matter of the howling mob on his trail.

  Malus looked back over his shoulder. None of the beastmen had reached the bend yet, and there was another turn in the road just ahead. As the nauglir raced around the second turn, Malus hauled back on the reins. “Stand,” he said, and leapt from the saddle. Then he unclipped Spite’s reins and stowed them in his saddlebag. “Run, Spite,” he said, looking the cold one in the eye. “Hunt. Wait for my call.”

  Nauglir were not bright creatures; some would even go so far as to call them stupid, but with enough patience and repetition, they could be trained to respond to simple commands. Spite knew these orders well; when Malus struck him on the shoulder the cold one trotted off, heading for the trees by the side of the road. He would make his way into the forest, looking for food and likely find a spot to lie down and lick his wounds. If things went well Malus could call for him later that night. If things didn’t go well, it was better that Spite was free and able to hunt on his own.

  As the cold one loped away, Malus sheathed his sword and dived into the underbrush on the side of the road closest to the herd camp. He stayed low and moved as quickly and stealthily as he could. Sure enough, within moments he heard howls nearby, and then the thunder of more than a hundred bare feet as the beastman mob ran past him along the road of skulls. If he was lucky they would run on for quite some distance before realising they’d lost track of their quarry. By then he hoped to be deep in the middle of the forest.

  He was just beginning to congratulate himself on his tactics when he raced around an upthrust spur of rock and ran headlong into a beastman coming the other way.

  Druchii and beastman went down in a tangle of limbs. Malus didn’t know if the warrior was part of the mob that had been chasing him or not. He tore his dagger from its sheath and buried the blade in the beastman’s chest. The warrior let out a bubbling moan and tried to hit the highborn with his club. Malus took the blow on his armoured shoulder and drove the knife again and again into the beastman’s chest and neck. Within moments the warrior went limp, but already Malus could hear shouts coming from the direction of the road.

  He gathered his feet underneath him and ran, holding his arm up in front of his face to ward off the worst of the brambles. He heard cries and howls behind him, and once again he was amazed at how easily the beastmen could move through the dense undergrowth. Malus ran on for another fifty yards and then slowed almost to a crawl, crouching low and looking for a fallen log or a depression in the ground he could hide in. After a few moments he found a dip in the ground that was partially covered by thick, green ground creepers, and he lay prone beneath them, struggling to control his breathing.

  Within minutes there were sounds of pursuit all around him. Beastmen ran past on either side, grunting and growling to one another as they searched the woods for him. Malus lay as motionless as he could, still clutching the bloody dagger to his chest. The sounds of pursuit raced away to the north-west — and then Malus heard another beastman heading his way at a trot, moving directly in line with his hiding place.

  There was no point moving. The searcher would either stumble onto him or pass on by. Malus lay on his back and listened.

  Closer… closer. The warrior h
ad to have seen the creepers by now — would he turn aside? Closer still. He wasn’t turning away. Furred legs thrashed through the thick bed of vines. A hoof sank into the loam a scant two inches from Malus’ thigh. In a burst of movement, the highborn sat up, grabbed the beast-man by one of his curving horns and pulled him down onto the tip of his knife. The blade pierced the warrior’s throat, plunging through and severing his spine. The beastman fell hard on Malus, spasmed once, and died without a sound.

  The highborn lay there with the beastman atop him, warm blood flowing over his chest and pooling in the hollow of his throat. As far as Malus could tell, the larger beastman completely covered the parts of him that weren’t already hidden by the creepers. Once his breathing settled, Malus rested his head against the cold ground and waited for night to fall. Within moments he was asleep.

  Malus awoke with a start, his breath misting in the cold night air. The body of the beastman had grown stiff; dried blood crackled faintly as the highborn moved. He slowly, carefully rolled the warrior’s body off him and sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his limbs. The highborn looked around at the forest growth and for a moment his exhausted mind did not know where he was or how he’d gotten there. But then the throbbing pain of his wounds penetrated his consciousness, and he felt the sense of emptiness in his chest, and remembered.

  He rose wearily to his feet and tried to take his bearings. In the distance he could hear the sounds of the herd and the crackle of bonfires. It sounded like a solemn gathering indeed, Malus thought with a merciless grin. Enjoy the bitter fruits of your victory, Kul Hadar. You should have never tried to match wills with me.

  There was no way to tell for certain, but it sounded like at least half the herd’s survivors had returned to camp. If Hadar followed the same ritual as Machuk had, he would be by the fire, drinking and eating with the rest of the herd until almost dawn. Malus would have to sneak to the edge of the woods and see if he could spy the imposing form of the shaman among the rest of the beastmen around the bonfires.