[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm

by Dan Abnett

  Malus swallowed. Think quickly brother, he prayed. He couldn’t say a word to prod Bruglir, or else the daemon would know he was being fed a lie.

  To Malus’ great relief, the captain barely skipped a beat. “Why revenge, of course,” he said. “My father is dead and my brother Isilvar has betrayed me. He has taken my home and slaughtered or enslaved every member of my household. I am an exile, hunted by the best assassins my brother can buy. Where else can I find sanctuary? Where else can I ally myself with a force powerful enough to make my brother—and all Hag Graef—pay for the way they betrayed me?”

  The daemon studied Bruglir in silence, folding his clawed hands over one another like a fearsome mantis. “Tell me. What form would this vengeance take?”

  “With your leave, I would command a raiding fleet that would sack the slave tower of Karond Kar, then cross the inner seas and strike Hag Graef itself. There are hidden tunnels that lead into the city—we could strike swiftly, in the dead of night and put half the city to the torch before anyone realised their peril! Think of it—we could return with holds full of every kind of flesh to fill your great cauldron and entertain you for years. We would return with enough wealth to make you the undisputed lord of the northern seas for a very long time to come.”

  The daemon leaned towards Bruglir. “And what do you stand to gain from all this?”

  Bruglir shrugged. “The best is reserved for me, of course. I see my enemies broken and driven before me. I burn everything they hold dear and paint them with the ashes. I hear their cries of anguish as I feed them into your stew pot one by one. And I get to continue terrorising them for decades, taking what I will and destroying that which does not please me. What man could wish for more?”

  “Indeed.” There was a wet, slithering sound as the chieftain rubbed his greasy hands together. “And how will you lead my fleet down the deadly straits and assault the tower of Karond Kar?”

  To Malus’ surprise, Bruglir rose to his full height and drew a deep breath, evidently ready to launch into a long-winded plan that the captain must have been rehearsing for several days. He’d planned for everything, Malus saw with a touch of admiration. I’d thought to kill you last of all, the highborn thought ruefully. Now, you may have to be the first, brother. My congratulations.

  Just as the captain began to speak however there was a commotion on the stairs. Malus turned to see the Norscan warrior advancing across the chamber at the head of a large band of Skinriders wielding swords and spears.

  The alarm has sounded at last, Malus thought, reaching slowly for his sword.

  “What is the meaning of this?” said the daemon, anger bubbling in his voice.

  “A runner has arrived bearing news,” the Norscan said.

  “And it is worthy enough to trouble me?”

  “It is,” said a voice from within the mass of Skinriders. There is a druchii fleet approaching, aiming to catch your ships at anchor and burn them, then sack your tower and stake you out to die in the sun.”

  A shock ran through Malus’ body. Bruglir and Urial turned at the sound of the voice, their eyes widening in recognition.

  “What of the great chain protecting the cove?”

  “They meant for it to fall,” said the voice. The raiders parted as the speaker worked her way towards Malus and the rest. “While you wasted your time talking to these liars, a landing party was to slip into one of the sea wall towers and lower the barrier.

  “I should know,” Tanithra said with a cold smile. “It was a task they entrusted to me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  BLOODSTORM

  Tanithra stepped from the crowd of Skinriders, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword and the other dragging a naked figure by her long, raven-black hair. Yasmir was still gagged, bound at the wrists and hobbled by ropes around her ankles. Her lithe body was scraped and bruised from head to toe, but her violet eyes blazed fever-bright, tinged with fury—and a kind of fearlessness—that made Malus wonder how much of her sanity still remained. The female corsair was flanked by almost a dozen members of the captured ship’s crew, their faces and arms stained with spatters of blood. Hauclir, Malus noted, was nowhere to be seen. Had he escaped the bloody mutiny or died with the rest of the crew?

  “The Dragons Below take you, damned mutineers!” Bruglir took a step towards Tanithra, his sword glittering in his hand. The big Norscan and six Skinriders moved to meet the captain, ringing him in a half-circle just beyond sword reach. Malus turned slowly in place, sizing up the situation as the rest of the Skinriders fanned out around the rest of the druchii with swords and axes held ready. He bit back a curse, thinking furiously. The sea chain was still in place and time was rapidly running out.

  Bruglir barely took notice of the huge Norscan and the Skinriders. His face was an alabaster mask of rage. “I gave you a place on my ships and a life on the red tides! And this is how you repay your oaths to me?”

  You speak to me of betrayals?” Tanithra shrieked, her face contorting into a mask of near-bestial hate. “I kept my oaths to you for years, commanding the crew of the Harrier better than any of your other captains. I tolerated your dalliances with this pampered witch—” she hauled Yasmir nearly upright with a savage jerk of her hair, “and I waited for you to make me a captain, as was my right. That ship down at the pier was mine by right of blood, but you took it from me. You convinced me then and there that you weren’t going to keep your oaths to me, o great and mighty captain. So it is you who are forsworn, not I.” She looked to the daemon towering from the charnel pit and nodded in salute. “So I will seek a ship of my own with another great leader and buy it with your blood.”

  Bruglir snarled like a wounded wolf and took another step towards his sea mistress, his sword trembling in his hand. The Skinriders growled in response and Bruglir’s retainers took their place beside their captain with naked steel in their hands.

  Malus hissed in frustration, casting about for some way to salvage the situation before everything spun out of control. He looked to Urial, but he had forgotten everyone else save for the pale figure in Tanithra’s grip. Urial clutched his axe, his face stricken with fear and rage. His six retainers held their greatswords in their hands, waiting on their master’s command. One wrong move, one hasty word and a storm of bloodshed would erupt. The highborn turned to the Skinrider chieftain. “She lies, great one,” Malus said hastily. “We’ve long suspected she might be an agent for the Witch King and now she reveals herself in an attempt to protect Naggaroth from your fleet.”

  Tanithra threw back her head and laughed with bitter fury. “You are slick as an eel, Malus Darkblade!” she cried. You’ve poured your poison in our ears all along, twisting our minds with your lies! But I was not the fool you took me to be.” Once more she tightened her fist in Yasmir’s hair and gave her a rough shake. “Did you really think I wouldn’t see through your scheme to kidnap this wretch from her cabin? You thought to provoke Bruglir to kill Yasmir and me while you lurked like a rat in the shadows!”

  Malus felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as both Bruglir and Urial rounded on him. “Viper!” Bruglir hissed. “Would that you’d died in that winter squall. You’ve brought me nothing but ruin since you stepped aboard my ship!” He levelled his blade at Malus’ throat. The Darkness take your damned writ! After I’ve killed every last one of these mutineers I’ll hold your beating heart in my hands!”

  “Silence!” the chieftain thundered and Malus once again felt the daemon’s will settle on him like a heavy cloak. Bruglir groaned, swaying on his feet and his sword fell slowly to his side.

  Slowly, ponderously, the chieftain stepped from the pit, his raiment of soft, living skin trailing behind him like a noble’s gown. He towered head and shoulders above every other person in the room, even the huge, axe-wielding Norscan. “I see the truth of things now,” the daemon said. He pointed to Tanithra with a taloned finger. “And I accept your service. Already you have served me well, druchii and soon you wil
l enjoy the blessings of the Great Father. Name your reward.”

  Tanithra smiled in triumph. “There are seven ships and more than three hundred souls sailing into your clutches, great chieftain. Leave me just one of those ships—just one—and I will be content.”

  The daemon hissed in pleasure. “And you will accept the benedictions of the Great Father Nurgle?”

  “Oh, yes,” the corsair said. “Melt this scarred hide from my body, great chieftain.” She pulled Yasmir to her feet, glaring into the highborn’s violet eyes. “I’ll wear this one’s perfumed skin instead.”

  “No!” Bruglir cried, his eyes wide with desperation. “Spare me, great chieftain! Slay the rest—take all the ships and the men. I ask nothing from you and I can still deliver Naggaroth into your hands!” With an effort he turned his head to indicate Yasmir. “She will be a sweet sacrifice indeed, great chieftain! A highborn woman, worshipped like a saint by my crew! Take her into your embrace!”

  The daemon moved in a blur, lashing out at the druchii captain with a backhanded blow that flayed the skin from the right side of his face. Bruglir fell with a shriek of terror and pain and his retainers cried out in frustration and despair.

  “Fear not, druchii. You will indeed deliver Naggaroth to me. You will sing to me its secrets as you melt within my grasp.” The daemon stepped past the stricken captain, its eyes focused on Yasmir. “But you are right. I can smell the musk of divinity rising from her tender skin. I will save her for last and let you watch as she submits to my will.”

  It was all spinning out of control. Malus watched Bruglir roll to his feet, skin hanging in wet, grey strips from his cheek and the bone beneath already rotting from the daemon’s touch. His retainers struggled to draw their blades, their faces contorted with hatred even as the Skinriders standing nearby moved to strike them down. The highborn started to speak, thinking to seduce the great chieftain with promises of hidden treasure in the tower of Eradorius. But his voice was lost in beneath a wild roar as Urial the Forsaken hurled himself at the Skin-rider chieftain and the killing storm broke in all its fury.

  Urial slashed one-handed at the chieftain, but the axe blade had tasted little in the way of blood or magic so the attack was awkward and weak. The chieftain recoiled from the gleaming blade nonetheless and the Skinriders responded with shouts of rage. They rushed at Urial in a shambling tide, only to be met by the whirling draichs of his silver-masked retainers. The daemon hissed and spat words of fell power, causing Urial’s axe to blaze like a brand and Malus felt the chieftain’s oppressive will vanish in the battle.

  Malus drew his sword with an ululating war scream and spun on his heel, slashing at the pair of Skinriders who were charging at his back. He caught the first man across the eyes, dropping him to his knees and knocked aside the downward-sweeping blade of the second raider. Knocked off-balance, the man stumbled forward and Malus’ backhanded return stroke sent the Skinrider’s bulbous head bouncing across the cavern floor. The highborn stepped past the toppling, headless body and thrust his sword through the blinded raider’s throat. The keen edge parted the spine and burst through the back of the man’s neck, pushing him over backwards.

  As Malus put his boot on the raider’s chest and made ready to tear his trapped blade free a powerful sense of vertigo washed over him. His knees trembled and the walls seemed to blur. He heard footsteps behind him and the sound of steel slicing flesh and watched the ghostly image of his own head tumbling through the air.

  Without hesitation the highborn ducked—and the world snapped back into focus as Bruglir’s sword hissed through the air where his neck had been a heartbeat before.

  Malus aimed a savage cut at the captain’s knees, but Bruglir deftly parried the stroke and responded with a lightning-fast cut at the highborn’s head. Malus blocked the stroke, just barely and threw himself into a powerful thrust at Bruglir’s eyes. The captain batted the sword aside but gave ground, allowing Malus to rise to his feet and press his attack, aiming a vicious series of cuts at Bruglir’s head and neck.

  The captain’s face was a creeping horror; as Malus fought he could see black rot blooming across the muscle and bone of Bruglir’s flayed cheek. Already the captain’s right eye was turning milky-white and the veins of his neck blackening with corruption. He responded with a feint to Bruglir’s throat and a sudden chopping stroke at the captain’s right knee, but the bent joint brought the blow up short and a sudden stab of pain from his wounded leg caused him to stumble. The blow glanced from Bruglir’s armour and Malus was left unbalanced and off-guard, his neck exposed to the captain’s sword. A chill raced down his spine as Malus waited for the blow to fall, but a thunderous clash of steel caused the highborn to look up just as the Norscan’s heavy axe crashed into the back of the druchii captain’s shoulder. The blow spun Bruglir half around, tearing through the straps of his left pauldron and causing the armour plate to flap loose like a broken hinge.

  Bruglir roared in pain—a cry tinged with madness and fear and aimed a backhanded stroke for the Norscan’s neck. The warrior caught the blade on the haft of his axe and pressed downwards, forcing the blade to the floor. His left hand shot out and closed around Bruglir’s throat, the muscles on the back of his skinless hand standing out like steel cords as he squeezed the life from the wounded captain. One of Bruglir’s retainers leapt at the Skinrider, stabbing into his shirt of heavy mail, but the huge warrior slashed upwards with his axe and smashed the blade into the retainer’s face. Blood and bone splattered in all directions and the druchii fell with a strangled cry.

  Malus lunged forward with a shout, swinging his sword in a short arc that severed the Norscan’s hand at the wrist. Dark blood sprayed over Bruglir and Malus both and the Skinrider reeled backwards with an anguished roar. The Norscan swung his axe one-handed at Malus, forcing him to dodge backwards, then the highborn twisted to parry a thrust from Bruglir that narrowly missed his throat. Malus stabbed once again at Bruglir’s ruined face and was surprised when the point scored muscle and bone just beneath the captain’s milky eye. The captain screamed in shock and pain and fell back and the highborn slashed wildly at the Norscan, raking his blade across the warrior’s mail shirt.

  Despite his terrible injuries, Bruglir’s ferocity and skill were barely diminished. He pivoted slightly until he could see Malus with his left eye and aimed a series of punishing blows at the highborn, battering aside his guard and making a ragged cut across Malus’ neck. Before Malus could respond the Norscan lunged at him from the right with an overhead blow that the highborn barely knocked aside.

  Thinking quickly, Malus feinted with a thrust to the Norscan’s eyes, then lunged between the two attackers and towards Bruglir, aiming a blow at the captain’s left side. Bruglir pivoted to keep his good eye on Malus, his breath coming now in wheezing gasps—and the Norscan’s axe blow, aimed at Malus, struck the captain in the back of the head instead. Bruglir stiffened, his head haloed for a single moment in a corona of bright red, then collapsed to the ground.

  The Skinrider cursed, trying to pull the axe free one-handed and Malus turned and swung his sword down in a single motion, cutting off the warrior’s axe arm at the elbow. The Norscan roared in fear and pain—until the highborn's next stroke split his skull from crown to chin. Malus pulled the pus-streaked sword free as the body crashed to the ground and swayed on unsteady feet, trying to look in every direction at once. Only a dozen feet away Bruglir’s last retainer fought a desperate battle against two Skinriders; a rusty spear jutted from the man’s shoulder and his left arm dripped long streamers of blood, but he fought the pair of raiders with berserk ferocity.

  Urial and the daemon still fought, the former acolyte’s axe leaving trails of molten light in its wake as it slashed at the chieftain. For all Urial’s fury, however, the daemon’s speed was fearsome—though its robe of flesh was tattered and rent, the deadly axe had yet to bite into the chieftain’s rotting body. Urial’s retainers had leapt into battle with the Skinriders and reaped a terri
ble harvest of ruptured bodies and severed heads. Now they fought a two-way battle between the surviving raiders and Tanithra and her mutineers. Two of the silver-masked warriors were already dead, pierced and hacked into torn mounds of flesh.

  As Malus watched, Tanithra traded blows with one of Urial’s retainers, her heavy sword almost a match for the fearsome draich the retainer wielded. The warrior stepped forward, bringing his blade down in a diagonal slash that meant to split the corsair in two. At the last moment however, she ducked and leapt inside the blow, letting it pass harmlessly to her right, then brought her sword up in a disembowelling cut. The retainer collapsed, clutching vainly at his spilled guts and Tanithra charged headlong at Urial, leaving Yasmir bound like a sacrificial goat on the cavern floor.

  Malus bared his teeth in a predatory snarl and swung wide of the daemon and Urial, circling around to where Yasmir lay. He watched Tanithra descend on Urial like a hawk, but before the highborn could shout a warning Urial seemed to sense the corsair’s presence and he turned with surprising speed, knocking her blade aside but then finding himself forced back on the defensive as Tanithra pressed her advantage, hammering at him with a non-stop rain of punishing blows. One of the silver-masked retainers abandoned the melee and ran to his master’s aid—only to be seized by the possessed chieftain. The daemon’s hand closed about the retainer’s sword wrist and Malus watched with horror as the limb melted like a candle held to the flame.

  The highborn fell to his knees beside Yasmir, gently rolling his half-sister onto her side. “I’m going to set you free, sister,” he hissed into her ear as he worked at the knot securing her gag. In a moment the greasy rag was pulled free and Malus drew his knife, turning to the ropes binding her ankles. He could feel her eyes upon him, though she said not a word. There was a serene, passionless cast to her face amid the chaos and slaughter that Malus found both seductive and deeply disturbing. “Tanithra’s lies have doomed us all,” he continued, sawing carefully at the ropes. “Bruglir is dead at the enemy’s hands and the daemon rages unchecked.”