by Dan Abnett
He looked at her and smiled. Part of him wanted to reach for her, but his body refused to move. “No,” he said at last. “I still hunger.”
A ripple of reverent approval ran through the supplicants. Another of the masked druchii, male by the sound of his voice, said “Truly you are blessed above all others, great prince. All have marvelled at your hunger, the sublime rapaciousness of your fleshly desires. Truly you are marked by the Drinker of Worlds and we are blessed by your presence.”
A third supplicant, a man covered in scores of bleeding cuts, opened his crimson-stained hands in a gesture of deprecation. “We regret that our offering is so meagre, great prince,” he said. There are even fewer initiates in the city than elsewhere in the land. Well, enough to say that there are few of us here, but those of us who do honour the ancient beliefs are powerful indeed.”
Malus considered the man thoughtfully. They all spoke with highborn accents and though the masks muffled their voices somewhat, he fancied that some of their voices were familiar to him. He had no doubt that many of the supplicants were scions of the highest-ranking households in the city. Nagaira received a generous allowance from Lurhan, himself the second most powerful man in Hag Graef, but not even she could have afforded the enormous expense this revel would have demanded. “Only the most ancient and proudest households in the city would dare uphold the ways of lost Nagarythe,” he said carefully. “It is an honour to have been a guest among such exalted company.”
The bleeding druchii bowed his head politely. “You must not think of yourself as a guest, great prince. Your journey north has transformed you. We have all seen with our own eyes how you have been marked by the Drinker of Worlds. Indeed, you would hold a place of great prominence among us—if you were to assume a role in our meagre cult.”
“It is no small thing to set oneself against the laws of the Witch King,” Malus replied. To the highborn’s surprise, the man nodded readily.
“The power of Malekith is great and terrible,” the supplicant agreed. “And his will is the law of our land. But we serve a power far greater, do we not? Does Malekith not defer to the priests of the Temple of Khaine?”
Yes, Malus thought, but they serve his interests. This cult is a threat. “Of course you are correct,” he answered smoothly. “But that does not lessen the risk.”
The female druchii knelt at his feet. “We have worshipped the Prince of Pleasure in secret for centuries,” she said proudly. “While we are few in number, we protect our own.”
“Indeed,” the male supplicant agreed. “And we take care of our fellow believers. All are one in the crucible of desire. It would be a great sin if we were to let a true believer’s appetites go unfulfilled.”
The implication in the highborn’s words stirred the ambition in Malus’ heart. “Be careful, brother,” he said companionably. “You’ve seen for yourself that my appetites are considerable indeed.”
That drew a respectful chuckle from the supplicants. “True enough, but we also expect that you could give us much in return.”
Ah, but what is it you want from me, Malus thought? What is Tz’arkan to you and how do you know about him? More to the point, what else do you know about the daemon that I don’t?
For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps Nagaira’s efforts were infinitely more cunning than he’d given her credit for. What were the odds that the hidden temple in the north just happened to hold a daemon held in high regard by her cult? Was it possible that everything that had happened to him since returning from his slave raid had been an elaborate plot to make contact with a patron of the cult?
Ah, sister, I continue to underestimate you, he thought. You are far more dangerous than I realised.
Yes, it did indeed make sense. The question was, how could he turn it to his advantage?
Chapter Six
LEGENDS AND LIES
Malus considered the supplicants thoughtfully. “How may a humble son of the Vaulkhar serve the Prince of Pleasure?” The bloody druchii held out one crimson-stained hand. That is not for me to say, great prince. Such matters are for you and the Hierophant to discuss—and he awaits the pleasure of your company.”
Reluctantly, Malus took the man’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. His limbs trembled from the exertions of the night until he stilled them with an effort of will and then gestured for the supplicants to precede him with a wave of his hand.
They crossed back through a ruin of spent bodies—some living, others dead. Scores of slaves littered the cavern floor in twisted heaps, as gruesome as any battlefield Malus had ever seen. His bare feet padded through cooling puddles of congealing blood and sticky wine. The revel had run its course and now Nagaira’s household slaves worked their way through the detritus left behind, inspecting the bodies and dispatching those who physically survived but whose spirit had been shattered by the rapacious supplicants. As Malus watched, one slave rolled a catatonic victim onto his back and began strangling him with a silken cord. The slave made no attempt to resist.
Once past the towering spiral staircase the group crossed to the opposite end of the chamber and passed through an oval archway into an adjoining space. The walls were raw stone and rough-hewn, more like a cave than a finished room and Malus suddenly realised that they were most likely in a sealed-off part of the Burrows, the twisting maze of tunnels and caverns hollowed out of the rock beneath Hag Graef. He wondered idly if Nagaira’s slaves would bother hauling the bodies up to the surface, or simply open a concealed passage that connected the chamber with the rest of the tunnels and let the wild predators that roamed there come and eat their fill.
The space was small in comparison to the revel chamber, perhaps fifteen paces across at its widest point. The bodies of a dozen slaves hung from chains around the perimeter of the chamber, their vital fluids mingling on the rough stone floor. In the centre of the space sat the druchii wearing the ram’s skull who had anointed him at the base of the curving stair. The Hierophant reclined on a throne formed of living bodies—naked slaves were contorted and clasped together to form the seat, sides and backrest to support the reclining druchii. The slaves had been paralysed with some kind of poison to lock their limbs together and a palpable sense of agony hung over the Hierophant’s throne. Acrid, pale green smoke rose to the low ceiling from two small braziers set to either side of the living chair, sending a burning tingle through Malus’ nostrils.
The Hierophant’s sharp, lacquered nails sliced thin tracks along the pale skin of his armrests. His eyes were bright and hard within the dark oculars of the ram’s skull, glaring a challenge at Malus as he approached. Nagaira stood to one side of the throne, her expression inscrutable.
“Your appetites are prodigious, great prince,” grated the voice within the skull. The bone made strange echoes, distorting the Hierophant’s words. Still, Malus fought to keep his expression neutral. He knew that voice from somewhere…
“When a man is given food, he eats.” Malus bowed deeply before the leader of the cult. “With such a great and wondrous feast set before me, how could I not revel in it?”
The supplicants looked to one another and nodded in approval, but the Hierophant seemed unmoved. He leaned forward in his seat, his long fingers twining restlessly together. “It is said you are but recently returned from the north.”
“Indeed, Hierophant.”
“I have also been told that you discovered something there of great interest to us. Is that so?”
Of interest to whom, Malus wondered, and why? He could think of several reasons why a Slaanesh cult would take interest in a bound daemon—favours and patronage alone would lend them great power—but the highborn sensed that there was more at work here. The Hierophant is cautious, distrustful, Malus reasoned. But if Nagaira had steered him into the Wastes for the express purpose of finding Tz’arkan, did that mean she had acted without the Hierophant’s knowledge? Was she making a play for power within the cult?
Malus kept his expr
ession carefully neutral. “I found a great temple in the Wastes, hidden in a valley at the foot of a cleft mountain.”
“We know of this place,” the Hierophant said curtly. The Tome of Ak’zhaal speaks of it and the sacred power bound within. But the temple is warded by the most powerful of barriers, by the very warp itself—”
“It was,” Malus answered.
The supplicants bent their heads and murmured excitedly to one another. The Hierophant silenced them with an upraised finger. “What of the priests within?”
“Long dead, Hierophant.”
“And you took the boat across the poison sea to reach the daemon’s sanctum?”
“No, I climbed a stair of floating rocks over a sea of fire,” Malus said, allowing his irritation to show. “Surely your tome speaks of this as well.”
The Hierophant leaned back, tapping a bloodstained nail against the bony ram’s snout. “Indeed. So you stood before the great crystal and beheld the power within?”
Malus nodded. “In time, yes,” he answered slowly.
“And the Drinker of Worlds spared you. Why?”
The highborn smiled. “You will have to go ask him yourself. I could draw you a map if you like.”
Malus sensed the supplicants stiffen in shock. For a moment, the Hierophant was utterly still—even his taloned hands were frozen in mid-gesture, a flourish of blood-stained points. A brief smile played across Nagaira’s lips.
Is this what you were hoping for, Malus thought? Did you draw me into this web merely to cross swords with this high priest?
“It had been reported to me that you required our help, great prince,” the Hierophant replied acidly. “You are seeking certain relics on the daemon’s behalf, arcane objects lost to the mists of time. A great scholar with access to an exceptional library might be able to locate references to these lost artefacts, given time. You do not strike me as much of a page-turner, however.”
Malus glanced sidelong at Nagaira. “Forgive me, Hierophant. You are better informed than I realised. I wasn’t aware that you were offering me your help. What I heard moments ago sounded more like an interrogation than a meeting of allies.”
The highborn could hear the cold smile in the Hierophant’s voice. “That is because we are not allies, great prince. At least, not yet. The anointed of Slaanesh are all one and we act to protect one another against the persecutions of the unbelievers. But you surely understand the precariousness of our situation. We can only extend our aid to those who are truly worthy.”
“I have been touched by the Drinker of Worlds. Is that not enough?”
“No. We only have your word that such a thing occurred. Your knowledge of the temple is correct in every particular, but you could have read the Tome as easily as myself—or had the facts related to you by… a third party.”
Malus noticed Nagaira stiffen slightly at the thinly-veiled implication.
“On the other hand, we cannot dismiss an opportunity to spread the glory of the Prince of Pleasure, no matter how… unlikely… such an opportunity appears. So I shall offer you a proposition.”
“Tell me.”
“I will place all the power of our cult at your disposal—our riches, our influence, even our strength of arms if we must—but only on the condition that you consign your soul in service to Slaanesh with a holy initiation. As I said, we take care of our own. Join us and all that we have will be yours as well.”
Malus considered the Hierophant’s words, his mind working furiously. “I will think on it,” he said.
The Hierophant visibly recoiled, his nails sinking deep into the armrests. Runnels of blood streaked the pale flesh and pattered on the floor. “What? What is there to consider? You have no chance of completing your quest without our help.”
“I serve at the whim of the Drinker of Worlds, great Hierophant,” Malus said coldly. “And while you are especially well-informed as to my intentions, there is still much you do not know. I must now decide whether it is in the interests of my daemonic patron—” Malus couldn’t bring himself to say master— “to enmesh myself in the petty agendas of your cult and place myself under your authority, or to continue my quest alone.”
Now the Hierophant glared angrily, first at Nagaira and then at Malus. “Such insolence! Have we not lavished you with gifts of flesh and wine? Have we not honoured you with a grand revel the likes of which Hag Graef has never before seen?”
“Indeed, indeed, Hierophant—and I thank you for your lavish entertainments. But the great daemons do not want gifts. They want only to be obeyed. Think on that, if you still crave the Drinker of Worlds as your patron. Meanwhile, I shall consider your proposition with great care.”
The Hierophant rose abruptly from the chair, his hands bright with fresh blood. “Consider it well, great prince, but keep this in mind as well. The night of the new moon approaches, when the Prince of Pleasure accepts initiates into his service. You have until then to decide.”
And then what, Malus thought? Will you kill me to keep your secret cult safe? One look in the Hierophant’s eyes stifled his sarcastic reply, however.
Ah. I see. That’s exactly what you mean.
Malus bowed once more. “Then may the Prince of Pleasure speed my thoughts, Hierophant, and I hope you will excuse me so that I may rest and begin my deliberations.”
The Hierophant made no reply, but it was clear the interview was over. Nagaira bowed deeply and led Malus from the room.
Nagaira took Malus by the arm as they crossed the carnage of the revelry floor, pointedly oblivious to the tension hardening every muscle of the highborn’s body. “What a wonderful night,” she whispered, stealing a glance back the way they’d come. “I knew you’d find a way to liven up the festivities.”
Hours later, the highborn lay awake in his bedchamber, listening carefully as the bustling of the servants gradually dwindled away. Moving slowly and carefully, the highborn eased from his bed. From the darkness beyond the narrow windows, Malus estimated it was only a few hours before dawn. He slipped on his silk robes and belted a dagger around his waist, then crept from his apartment into the corridor beyond.
The halls were as silent as a tomb. Days of frenzied preparations, followed by the monumental task of cleaning up the remains of the great revel had taxed the capacity of Nagaira’s household to the utmost. Malus expected that nearly all of the house servants were occupied with tasks or taking what opportunity they had to rest before their mistress summoned them again. He was certain that the same could be said for the guards—after days at a heightened state of readiness it was only natural that they would relax as soon as the revel was concluded.
It was perhaps the only opportunity he would get to work his way out of the snare his sister had laid for him.
The meeting with the Hierophant had not only confirmed his fears about Nagaira but expanded their dimensions in troubling ways. Not only did she know much more about Tz’arkan and the nature of his imprisonment, she had shared the knowledge of his predicament with the members of the cult. The witch was using him to usurp the role of the Hierophant and using the power of the cult to gain greater influence over him. No matter which way he turned, she was always one step ahead of him, drawing him deeper into her web.
His only alternative was to take matters into his own hands and quickly, before she left him with no room to manoeuvre.
Malus reached the tower’s main stair and turned right, heading down. The next landing ended in a door; he pushed it open quickly and quietly, paying no heed to the guard standing watch on the other side. The guards were well used to his presence and he had the run of the tower except for Nagaira’s topmost sanctum. Malus continued down the stairs without a backward glance and the guard made no attempt to challenge him before he disappeared around the curve of the staircase.
The next landing ended in yet another door, which Malus opened much more slowly and carefully. Beyond was a small room, lined with racks of long spears and heavy crossbows. A circular table occ
upied the centre of the guardroom and two of Nagaira’s men were slumped in their seats, snoring softly. The highborn shut the door behind him as carefully as possible, then crept the rest of the way down the staircase past the room. To Malus’ left a short corridor led to a heavy, iron-banded door. A single globe of witchlight cast long shadows from its sconce at the midpoint of the hall. Malus plucked the globe from its iron holder and moved quietly to a thin arrow-slit just to the right of the door.
Malus could see another black, needle-like tower rising against the night sky—his tower, one of several granted by the Drachau for Lurhan and his family. A narrow bridge connected Nagaira’s tower with his own; it was a treacherous walk in high winds, but had Malus wished he could have been within the relative safety of his own quarters in moments.
To do so however would have also meant braving the intricate band of runes surrounding the tall, arched bridge door. Malus had no idea how Nagaira’s sorcerous defences worked, but he reckoned that at the very least she would be instantly alerted if he tried to cross one of the tower’s warded thresholds.
The highborn raised the witchlight globe to eye level, counted three heartbeats and then lowered it once more. After three more heartbeats he repeated the process and then paused, his eyes straining to pierce the predawn darkness.
One moment stretched into the next, until Malus felt his patience starting to fray. Then his eyes caught sight of faint movement on the narrow span. A swift shape was flowing like dark water across the bridge, keeping low so as to avoid silhouetting itself against the faint starlight.
Malus watched as the figure reached the near end of the bridge and straightened its hooded head to peer at the arrow-slit. He did not need to see the druchii’s face to know it was Arleth Vann. The assassin’s whisper carried easily despite the wind keening across the bridge. “I have the parcel, my lord. All is in readiness.”
