[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin, Page 3

  For the moment, the hapless prisoners had been granted a short reprieve. The servants of the temple had far sweeter offerings to occupy their attentions.

  Two druchii swayed atop the stone pile, held upright in the iron grips of the executioners. They had been stripped to the waist, but Malus noted the filthy white robes and torn sleeves that were bunched around their hips. Their muscular chests and arms were severely bruised and blackened; looking at them the highborn could well believe they’d been hauled from the rubble of one of the buildings nearby. Tellingly, neither man bore the mark of sword nor axe on their bodies, despite the days of hard fighting that had raged across the city.

  They were zealots, members of the renegade splinter cult that worshipped Khaine’s true faith. Killers without peer, they wore no armour in battle and clothed themselves in white to better show the red favours of their god. Hundreds of them had flocked to Har Ganeth at Urial’s call and had taken a fearful toll of the temple warriors during the uprising. Once it had become clear that the uprising had failed, most of the survivors had scattered back into the countryside—which made zealot prisoners all the more enticing to the vengeful blood witches. These two would suffer for weeks under the witches’ expert hands before their remains were given to the Cauldron of Blood. It was the worst fate possible for the true believers, who prayed to Khaine daily for a glorious death in battle.

  Malus eyed the doomed men coldly and thanked the Dark Mother for the distraction. Better you than me, he thought, then frowned irritably as Spite slowed to a near stop as it caught the scent of fresh blood. The highborn glared at his scaly mount and made to spur the beast back into a canter when suddenly an anguished cry rang out from the rock pile.

  “Deliver us, holy one!” the zealot cried to Malus. “Draw your sword and slay us, in the Blessed Murderer’s name!”

  Heads turned. Malus felt the predatory stares of the blood witches against his skin and felt his hair stand on end. All at once the air seemed charged with pent-up tension, crackling with furious energies like the moments before a summer storm. Spite sensed the change, too, and rumbled threateningly at the crowd.

  Of all the damnable luck, the highborn cursed. He didn’t recognize either of the zealots’ pleading faces. Malus had fallen in with the true believers by accident when he’d first made his way into the city, looking for his own secret path into the temple fortress. He had even taken a hand in stirring up the early riots, hoping to distract the temple elders further, and had wound up with far more trouble than he’d bargained for.

  The mob eyed Malus like a pack of feral dogs. In his worn robes and scarred plate armour, he had the look of a landless knight or an exiled noble rather than a wild-eyed heretic. The highborn’s face was gaunt, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. Eyes the colour of brass shone from sunken eye sockets, marking him as one of Khaine’s chosen. More forbidding still was the grey pallor of his face, like a druchii in the grip of a terrible sickness.

  “No one is going to save you from your sins, heretic,” Malus spat, wrenching at Spite’s reins. “Khaine has no cold mercies for the likes of you.”

  The nauglir shook its massive head and sidestepped, unwilling to turn away from the mob. It clashed its massive jaws and growled menacingly, and the mob hissed in reply.

  One of the temple witches levelled her sword at Malus. Lines and loops of fresh blood glistened on her muscular arms and her long, bare legs. “You are not a temple priest,” she said in a throaty voice, like cold air rising up from a tomb.

  “I have never claimed to be,” Malus said tightly, trying to get the cold one under control. Spite circled and stamped, pacing away and then angling back towards the crowd like iron drawn to a lodestone. The tension in the air continued to build, setting the highborn’s teeth on edge. What in the name of the Dark Mother was going on?

  “Coward! Apostate!” the zealot screamed, surging against the grip of the executioners.

  “Seize him,” the witch said coldly.

  The mob erupted into lusty shouts, brandishing their weapons as they rushed at the highborn, and Spite lunged at them with an answering roar, nearly jerking Malus out of the saddle.

  He could feel the pent-up tension burst in a rush that crackled through the air and sizzled across his bare skin. It was like the seething flare of an open flame or a lash of summer lightning. Malus cried out in bewilderment and anger, struggling to stay upright as Spite tore into the mob. Bones crunched and blood sprayed in the air as the cold one caught a man by the shoulder and bit off his right arm. The druchii’s anguished scream set Malus’ nerves on fire.

  Spite roared and lunged at another man running past the cold one’s flank, catching the druchii by the hip and flinging him into the air. Malus cursed and pounded the beast’s flanks with his spurs, but the nauglir had gone berserk, tearing at its foes with reckless abandon.

  The mob surged hungrily around the snapping beast. A sword blade rang off Malus’ breastplate. Pale, blood-streaked faces glared up at him, their dark eyes burning with battle-lust. Bare hands seized his mail fauld and his right leg, trying to pull him out of the saddle. Snarling like a wolf, Malus pulled his leg free and planted his heel in a man’s upturned face, but more hands closed about his ankle and dragged him downwards.

  He felt himself sliding inexorably from his seat. Rage and desperation seethed through his veins. Without thinking, Malus reached for the warpsword. Its hilt was hot to the touch, and the long, eldritch blade seemed to leap from its scabbard with an ominous hiss.

  Roaring blasphemies, Malus raised the ebon blade to the stormy sky. Above the cacophonous shouts of the mob, the highborn heard a horrified shriek from one of the temple witches, then he swept the sword in a vicious arc through the arms and heads of the grasping crowd. Flesh blackened and withered as the sword drank deep of hot blood and mortal pain.

  Roars of bloodlust turned to screams of terror and despair. The mob reeled back from the smoking corpses of their brethren, crying out Khaine’s name. Malus leapt after them, his face set in a mask of berserk rage.

  Overhead, the croaking laughter of ravens echoed across the stormy sky.

  The blood witch’s face was oddly serene. Malus admired the alabaster perfection of her high cheekbones and the subtle curve of her elegant jaw. Her brass-coloured eyes were calm, her round lips slightly parted and vivid with the blush of youth. In another time she could have been a violet-eyed princess of lost Nagarythe, about to whisper her secrets into the ear of a lover.

  Close enough to kiss those perfect lips, Malus drew a shuddering breath and pulled the warpsword free. The ancient blade scraped against stone as it slid from the pile of rubble at the witch’s back, leaving her body to slip from the long blade and slump lifelessly to the ground.

  For a moment the highborn blinked drunkenly at the witch’s body, as though seeing it for the first time. His skin was hot, as though flushed with fever, and his nerves still sang with fading notes of bloodlust. His gaze drifted to the drooping tip of the warpsword. A faint curl of crimson vapour rose from its razor edge.

  With an effort of will Malus raised his head and beheld the trail of slaughter that stretched the length of the long, broad street.

  Ruptured bodies and severed limbs lay in a tangled carpet across the cobblestones. Many bore their wounds upon their back, cut down as they tried to escape. Broken weapons glinted in the weak sunlight, showing where others had tried to fight the hunger of a god. Every face Malus could see was twisted in a rictus of terror and pain—all but the two zealot prisoners. Their headless bodies still knelt upright on the cobblestones, their arms outstretched in a gesture of religious ecstasy.

  “Blessed Mother of Night,” Malus whispered in horrified awe. “What have I done?”

  You have slaked the thirst of the burning blade, Tz’arkan hissed. For now.

  Dozens of people, the highborn thought, unable to tear his eyes away from the carnage. Dozens of damned people. The last thing he remembered clearly was
drawing the sword. After that… only laughter and terrible screams. The thought of such a loss of control terrified him.

  Shouts echoed in the distance, back in the direction of the merchant’s quarter. The highborn looked for the temple executioners and found their bodies at the base of the rock pile just a few yards away, surrounding the corpse of the second blood witch. He tried to count the bodies of the lowborn, but gave up in disgust. There was no telling how many there were for certain, or if any might have escaped the slaughter and run for help.

  Malus forced his body to work, weaving his way quickly among the fallen bodies. He noted absently how little blood there was—just blackened flesh and shrivelled organs.

  Spite was not far from where Malus had dismounted, feeding warily on one of the dead men. The nauglir shied away at the highborn’s approach. Malus snarled irritably at the warbeast. “Stand, damn you!” he shouted—and caught his hand tightening slowly around the hilt of the warpsword.

  Malus froze. Eyeing the black blade warily, he slowly and deliberately slipped the sword back into its scabbard. Twice it seemed to get caught in the scabbard’s mouth, forcing him to draw it out slightly and try to sheathe it again. When the weapon finally slid home the highborn breathed a sigh of relief.

  Within moments the heat suffusing his muscles began to fade, like an iron plucked from the fire, leaving him feeling wretched and cold once more.

  Caught between the dragon and the deep sea, Malus thought, fighting a wave of black despair. Which was the worse fate?

  Chapter Three

  PORTENTS OF DARKNESS

  Moonlight gleamed along the gold fittings of the warpsword’s scabbard and kindled a dusky fire in the depths of the oblong ruby set at the juncture of hilt and blade. Malus admired the relic fearfully for a moment, holding the sheathed weapon carefully in both hands. He fancied he could feel its heat, pulsing softly like a sleeping heart. He licked his cold lips nervously, then with a deep breath he laid the weapon on the fabric spread across his knees and wrapped it tightly from end-to-end in layers of frayed and dirty sailcloth. With each turn of the cloth he felt a bit colder, a bit smaller and more withered than before. When he was done, Malus tied off the bundle with loops of rough twine and then carried the wrapped weapon over to Spite. The cold one was crouched beneath the trees on the opposite side of the small forest clearing, watching its master warily with its red-ember eyes.

  His face set in a mask of grim determination, Malus stowed the warpsword with his saddlebags, securing it tightly to his saddle beside the bag where the rest of the daemon’s relics were kept. Reluctantly, he took his hands from the blade and patted the nauglir’s flanks. “No hunting tonight,” he said quietly, eyeing the dark depths of the surrounding wood. There’s no telling what you might run into.”

  It was only a few hours past sundown, and they were almost ten miles from Har Ganeth, deep in the wooded hills north and west of the city. The clearing was one he’d used often in the two months he’d prowled the Slaver’s Road outside the City of Executioners. There was even a small lean-to built from pine boughs to provide some shelter from the elements and a store of firewood laid by. Lighting a fire was out of the question, however. The last thing he wanted to do was to advertise his presence, and he doubted the flame would warm his cursed bones anyway.

  He’d escaped the city without further incident, though by the time he’d reached the wide city gate he could hear the first cries of alarm from the scene of the massacre. Malus trusted that the citizens would blame the attack on a band of zealots but he had no intention of putting his theory to the test. The highborn had all but galloped through the open gateway, relieved to find the Slaver’s Road nearly empty of traffic. For the next few hours he’d worked his way westward along the road, keeping a wary eye out for plumes of dust rising on the horizon.

  Malus had a very good reason for wanting to get out of Har Ganeth as quickly as he could: there was every chance that Malekith was on the way to the city with an army at his back, alerted by news of the temple uprising.

  Though he’d personally ended Urial’s coup, the highborn doubted that the Witch King would show him any gratitude. Malus had been a fugitive since early summer after murdering his father at Vaelgor Keep, scarcely twenty miles to the northeast. He’d done it to gain possession of the Dagger of Torxus, another of the daemon’s damned relics, not that the motive made any difference according to the laws of the land. Malus’ father had been the Vaulkhar of Hag Graef, one of the Witch King’s lieutenants, and no one slew one of Malekith’s vassals without his leave. He hoped that the Witch King thought him dead, slain along with thousands of druchii in a confused night battle outside Hag Graef several months before, though it wasn’t something he was willing to bet his life on. His half-brother Isilvar, now Lurhan’s only heir and Hag Graef s Vaulkhar, almost certainly knew the truth. The question was what would he do with the knowledge? Isilvar had very good reasons to want him dead, the least of which was a nasty scar across his throat that Malus had given him in a battle beneath their sister Nagaira’s tower a few months ago.

  Frowning in thought, Malus combed through his saddlebags and pulled out an oil-stained cloth bag and a small bottle of wine. Then he drew the heavy battle-axe from a loop on the nauglir’s saddle and sank wearily to the ground beside the cold one’s armoured flank. As he leaned back against the nauglir’s side the great beast shifted, its blocky head swinging around to fix him with a beady glare. Malus gave the beast a haughty glare. “Settle down,” he warned, and tried to get comfortable once more. Again, the nauglir recoiled from his touch, rising to its feet and giving its master a warning hiss.

  “All right, all right!” Malus snapped, snatching up his axe and his store of food and stalking to the other side of the encampment. He sat down heavily with his back to a rotting log and fixed the warbeast with a murderous look. “See if I let you eat the next dead horse we come to.”

  After a few moments Spite lowered carefully back onto its haunches and rested its snout on the ground so that it could keep a wary eye on Malus. The nauglir had been acting very strangely ever since they’d returned from the City of the Ageless Kings, far north in the Chaos Wastes. He’d gone there in search of the real warpsword, only to fall into the clutches of the power-mad druchii zealots who’d stolen it. They had intended to kill him and feed upon his life essence, and so they’d crucified him in the broad plaza outside their temple.

  He’d had no choice but to call upon Tz’arkan’s power to escape. Events after that were somewhat hazy. The next thing he recalled clearly was standing on the bridge of stone outside the Sanctum of the Sword in the temple fortress in Har Ganeth and watching his half-sister Yasmir eating their brother Urial’s still-beating heart.

  The prophecy of the Scourge maintained that he was destined to many Yasmir, now considered a living saint of the Bloody-Handed God. After witnessing what she’d done to Urial the very idea of wedding her made his blood run cold. Perhaps if I’m lucky the warpsword will kill me before that becomes an issue, Malus thought bleakly.

  It was getting colder in the clearing as the moons climbed into the cloudy sky. Even in late summer the Land of Chill was true to its name. Malus unwrapped his meagre bundle of salted fish and yellow sauce and began to eat, chewing doggedly at the tough flesh and washing it down with swigs of vinegary wine. He took his time with the meal; as wretched as it tasted, it was still better than the hardtack that he would be eating come the morrow.

  By the time he was done the moons were shining almost directly overhead and his breath made a faint mist in the cold air. Malus doggedly finished off the terrible wine and summoned up his nerve. The other reason he’d chosen such an isolated campsite was because he was in sore need of information, and some conversations were best kept private.

  He also had a dreadful feeling that he wasn’t going to like what he was about to learn.

  Malus wiped his face and put away the cloth and empty flask, then sat cross-legged with his back to
the fallen log and his stolen axe within easy reach. The highborn pulled off the armoured gauntlet covering his left hand. A plain silver ring glinted on his finger like a band of purest ice. He held it up to the moonlight, noting with a grimace that the veins on the back of his hand were black with the daemon’s corruption.

  The highborn made a fist, focusing his remorseless will on a single thought.

  Eldire.

  A faint, familiar breeze ghosted across Malus’ face—and the daemon inside him writhed in anger. His muscles seized and his guts curdled; Malus toppled onto his side with a groan, doubling over with the sudden wave of nausea and pain. Pressure built within his head, as though the daemon had his brain in a vice, causing sparks to dance before his eyes. Malus rolled onto his stomach and vomited his meal onto the cold, hard ground, his breath coming in shallow gasps timed to the pounding in his skull.

  The highborn rolled back onto his side, fetching up against the side of the log. He caught the scent of ashes, and then suddenly the pain and sickness was receding like a black, oily tide. The pounding in his skull eased, and Malus thought that he heard the daemon’s angry voice receding into an infinite distance. When it was gone he was left trembling with a leaden cold that seemed to radiate from his very bones.

  “What have you done?” spoke a woman’s voice, hard and cold as carved marble. The words had a peculiar echo to them, as though spoken from deep within a well. “You fool! Malus, what have you done?”

  The highborn’s eyes flickered open. Above him loomed a glowing apparition wreathed in pale silver light. “Hello, mother,” he said, managing a bitter laugh. “How I’ve missed your loving voice.”

  She was statuesque and regal, clothed in the heavy, dark robes of the witches’ convent. Her pale hands were clasped before her and her braided white hair seemed wrought from moonlight, haloing the cruel angles of her face. Her form was insubstantial—the highborn could see through her as though she were made of fog, picking out Spite’s sloping form and red-ember eyes on the other side of the clearing. For all that, Malus felt the weight of Eldire’s stare like a dagger-point against his skin.