by Dan Abnett
“Impertinent wretch!” Eldire snapped. “Your body belongs wholly to the daemon now. Your veins pulse with foul energies. I can even see the daemon itself, sliding like a leviathan beneath your pallid skin!”
“Does it coil about my heart like a nest of serpents?” Malus sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Does it clutch my shrivelled brain in its dripping jaws? Your gifts are wasted in this case, mother. I’ve known this every minute of every day for nearly a year.”
Eldire’s ghostly face blazed with fury. “This is far worse than mere possession, child! You have taken the final step. I warned you of this, back in the dwarf tombs!”
“Do you imagine I did this by choice?” the highborn shot back. Grimacing against the pain in his guts, he pushed himself wearily upright and rested the back of his head against the moss-covered log. “The damned warpsword wasn’t in the temple after all. I had to go into the Chaos Wastes to claim it.” His gaze fell upon the back of his black-veined hand and his anger faded in a wave of disgust. “It was either this or death; there were no other choices open to me. For now, I live, and while I live, I can fight.” He met the seer’s forbidding gaze. “And now I have the sword.”
Eldire’s dark eyes widened a fraction of an inch. The fury ebbed from her alabaster face. “You drew the burning blade,” she said, her voice slightly more hollow than before.
“There were very compelling reasons at the time. I won’t bore you with the details,” Malus said darkly. “Tz’arkan was even less pleased than you. It makes me wonder if perhaps the warpsword’s power is strong enough to counteract the daemon’s influence.”
Eldire frowned at her son. “Perhaps,” she allowed, with a sigh like a wind seeping from a tomb. “Khaine’s hunger cares little for the schemes of other beings, even daemons as potent as Tz’arkan. In fact,” she said, her expression turning angry again, “the warpsword is likely the only reason you have any consciousness left. Looking at you, it’s a wonder that the daemon isn’t able to make you dance like a puppet.”
The idea sent a chill down Malus’ spine. His gaze drifted to the wrapped bundle of the warpsword. Could he afford to keep feeding its hunger? Could he afford not to? “The daemon may possess my body, but I assure you, my will remains intact,” he said. “I dance for no one, least of all that damnable fiend.” He paused, watching the black veins throb beneath his skin. “What I want to know is what will happen once the daemon is freed.”
The seer’s lips pursed in thought. “That is an interesting question,” she said. “By rights, your soul would be snuffed out like a candle flame as Tz’arkan claims your body as its host. Now, however…” After a moment Eldire made a faint shrug. “I cannot say. It is possible that the sword might counteract the daemon’s claim over you, but you may be certain that until the moment arrives Tz’arkan will take whatever steps it can to help decide the matter in its favour.”
Malus gave his mother a hard look. “So you’re saying all is not lost.”
“I’m saying that if you are very clever and very lucky you might manage to trade one doom for another,” the seer replied archly. “The warpsword will kill you sooner or later, Malus. Now that you’ve drawn it you can’t turn it loose.”
The highborn let out a weary sigh. “All of us die, mother,” he said, staring into the darkness. “So it’s not much of a price to pay, now is it?”
“Bold words for someone who has never spoken with the dead,” Eldire replied. “Nevertheless,” she said, raising a hand to pre-empt a retort from her son, “what’s done is done. You have the sword, and that is what is important. That leaves just one relic to reclaim.”
“The Amulet of Vaurog,” Malus said ruefully. “I’ve no idea where it is and precious little time to look for it. As near as I can tell I have two months left to return to the temple and set the daemon free, and the trip alone takes almost a month and a half.” He shot Eldire a sidelong glance. “So unless you’ve got the power to make me fly, I’ve only got two weeks left to find the last relic.”
Eldire hitched up the ghostly hem of her robe and bent close to Malus, so that mother and son were almost nose-to-nose. “Would you like a pair of wings, Malus?” she asked, her voice dangerously sweet.
Malus’ sarcastic reply turned to ice at the tone in his mother’s voice. “That’s… generous…” he said carefully. “But perhaps I should worry about finding the relic first and making the trip afterward.”
Eldire smiled a wolf’s smile. “A very wise decision,” she said, straightening once again. “My time grows short,” she announced. “Speaking to you in this way is very taxing, especially now that the daemon has grown so strong. Is there aught that you wish of me?”
“I was hoping you knew something about the amulet,” Malus said quickly, forcing himself to sit up straight. That was why I called you in the first place.”
“The amulet?” Eldire said. Already her form was losing its nebulous consistency, melting like morning fog. “It is a potent talisman, wrought from meteoric iron in ages past. No weapon can harm the warrior who wears it.”
“Never mind what it does!” Malus cried. “Do you know where it is?”
Eldire’s image began to blur, dissolving into formless mist. Her answer was little more than a sigh.
“The path to the fifth amulet leads to Naggarond,” the seer replied. “Seek the amulet in the lightless halls of the Fortress of Iron.”
By the time Malus had recovered his wits, Eldire was gone. He looked to Spite. The nauglir raised its massive head and let out an irritated snort.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” the highborn said darkly, folding his arms tightly across his chest. The Witch King’s own fortress. I should have known.”
One doom for another, he thought bitterly to himself, feeling the daemon’s corruption rise like a black tide from his bones and spread beneath his skin.
Malus awoke to aches and pains from head to toe. The clearing was bathed in the pearly light of false dawn, and wisps of fog curled along the ground. He was laying on his side, wrapped tightly in a heavy cloak sodden with morning dew. A few feet away Spite slept with its head tucked behind its long, whip-like tail, hissing like a boiling kettle.
Long fingers teased gently at his scalp, the tips warm against his clammy skin. His sleep-fogged mind savoured the sensation as the fingers brushed against his right ear, sending a trickle of warmth flowing along its curved outer edge.
Another rivulet of heat flowed across his cheek and over the top of his lips. It tasted of salt and iron.
The highborn’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were blotted out by a crushing wave of agony that radiated from his skull. Malus writhed within the tight confines of his cloak, but try as he might he could not pull himself free.
Blood ran in a freshet across his face and down his neck. It flowed into his right eye and he gasped at another, fiercer wave of pain.
Helpless, blinking away the drops of blood catching in his eyelashes, Malus turned his head and looked up to find an armoured figure crouching at his shoulder. More blood poured down the back of his head as though his skull were a broken jug of wine.
Bright blood painted Lhunara’s pale grey hands, pooling beneath torn black fingernails and running in jagged courses along her wrists. Her blue lips parted in a lunatic smile, and her one good eye shone with a fevered gleam. The other eye, swollen and black with rotting blood, rolled aimlessly in its socket.
“We are of one mind, my lord,” she said, her voice bubbling from liquefying lungs as she raised her hands to the awful wound on the right side of her skull. With a wet, slithering sound she pressed the grey matter in her palms deep into the maggot-infested cavity.
“One mind,” she said, then reached for his face. “One heart. One eye…”
Malus awoke screaming, thrashing about in slick, dewy loam.
His heart lurched in terror as he found that his arms and legs were wrapped tight. Still half-blind and
witless, he writhed and kicked, sputtering and howling like the damned. Then with a convulsive heave he tore one leg free and realised that he was tangled in his heavy cloak.
Panting furiously, Malus forced himself to close his eyes and rest his head against the damp earth. When the hammering in his heart had eased, he slowly and purposely untangled his limbs and spread the cloak open, heedless of the early-morning chill.
Finally, when his breathing had slowed, the highborn opened his eyes. It was well past dawn, and weak sunlight was streaming through the close-set branches of the tree over his head. A thick root bulged up from the ground under his back, pressing hard against his spine.
Frowning Malus raised his head. He was lying on an animal path between stands of tall oaks. Green, dripping ferns brushed against his cheeks, making him shudder.
He was nowhere near the clearing he’d camped in.
Cursing blearily, he clambered to his feet. The forest stretched away in every direction. Bits of foliage were caught between the plates of his armour, and the palms of his hands were caked with dirt. Blessed Mother of Night, he thought. How did I get here? Memories of the night before were fuzzy at best. He remembered sitting in the darkness, trying to envision a way into Naggarond of all places… and then things became vague. Did I get drunk on that damned vinegary wine, he thought?
He did a slow turn about, casting his gaze frantically about in an attempt to get his bearings. The game trail looked familiar and at least headed south towards the edge of the forest. Rubbing his face with a grimy palm he started walking down the trail, suddenly conscious of the fact that his battle-axe was nowhere to be seen.
Malus followed the trail for nearly a mile through the dense foliage, growing more confused and apprehensive by the moment. As he went he began to notice signs that he might have followed the path previously. From the shallow footprints and broken branches it looked as though he’d been reeling along like a drunkard in the darkness. It was a wonder he hadn’t impaled himself on a low branch or cracked open his skull against the side of a tree.
After walking a mile and a half he found himself fighting back a rising tide of panic. Then, off to the southwest, he heard a familiar steam-kettle hiss. With a sigh of relief the highborn left the path and made for the sound, thrashing impatiently through the undergrowth. After about a dozen yards the trees began to thin out, until finally he stumbled onto the edge of his campsite. Spite rose to its feet at his sudden appearance, wide nostrils flaring as it tasted his scent.
Malus stopped dead at the edge of the clearing, scanning the small space warily. His axe was still where he left it. Even the folded parcel of cloth that had contained his evening meal was still where he’d left it. Moving carefully, he crossed the campsite and approached the nauglir. “Easy, Spite,” he said, reaching for his saddlebags. The cold one snorted at him, one red eye regarding him balefully as the highborn searched through his gear.
The three remaining wine bottles hadn’t been touched. He checked each wax seal and found them perfectly intact.
Spite shifted on its broad, taloned feet and grumbled irritably. “All right, all right,” Malus said, securing the saddlebags and slapping the cold one on the flank. “Go. Hunt. I need to think.”
The highborn stepped away as the huge warbeast slipped with surprising stealth into the thick undergrowth. Then he turned and once more scanned the ground near where he’d sat. There was no sign of a disturbance. It was as though he’d simply stood up and walked off into the darkness.
Malus settled wearily against the log and tried to clean some of the dirt from his hands. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember much of the night after he’d spoken with Eldire. Could she have done something to him? If so, why? He shook his head irritably. The idea made no sense.
Then there was the nightmare. He’d heard of druchii who cried out, even got up and moved about in the grips of a powerful nightmare. Had there been more to the dream that he didn’t remember? Had the ghastly vision of Lhunara sent him fleeing into the depths of the forest? “I may have to start drinking myself to sleep again,” he muttered sourly. “Or hobbling myself at night like a horse.”
From off to the north came a sudden eruption of frenzied movement—something huge thrashed through the forest, snapping branches and slapping heavily against tree trunks. Malus grunted softly. Spite had already found a morning meal.
Then, as if in answer, came sounds of movement to the south, back in the direction of the road.
Without thinking, Malus snatched up his axe and rolled quietly into a crouch, peering warily over the top of the fallen log. Scarcely daring to breathe, he held perfectly still and strained his senses to the utmost. Moments later he heard a much fainter rustle in the undergrowth, perhaps twenty yards to the southeast. The highborn closed his eyes and tried to picture the surrounding terrain in his mind. Whatever it was, it sounded like it was working its way up the game trail he’d recently been following.
Then came another crackle of broken branches—this time directly to the south. The highborn bared his teeth.
It sounded like a hunting party. And it was coming his way.
Chapter Four
THE ENDLESS
After everything he’d been through in the last ten months, Malus no longer believed in luck. Whoever the hunters were, they hadn’t simply stumbled onto him by accident. He doubted they were city folk from Har Ganeth—the camp was too far away and too deep in the woods to catch the attention of a band of refugees. An autarii hunting party was a possibility. The Shades claimed the entire mountain range and hill country north of the Slaver’s Road, and it wasn’t unheard of for small raiding bands to find their way to the southern foothills to steal from westbound slave caravans. But no autarii worth his salt would be so clumsy as to give away his position, particularly in the deep woods.
That left only one possibility: they were men from Malekith’s army.
Malus’ hands tightened on the haft of his battle-axe and peered over the top of the log into the shadows beneath the thick trees. It was possible they were just a foraging party, hunting for deer or pheasant to feed the Witch King’s warband. It was also possible that they were hunters of a different kind, combing the woods in search of him. But how could they have found me? Malus thought. He reckoned he knew these woods better than any soldier from Naggarond, and he’d been careful to cover his trail the evening before.
Undergrowth rustled off to the highborn’s right, still some fifteen yards away. The hunters were moving cautiously and swinging a little further to the west. He turned his gaze to the east, hoping to catch some sign of movement from the second hunting party, but the dense foliage stymied him. Still, he thought, if I can’t yet see them, they can’t see me.
Then came the sharp sound of a branch snapping near the game trail. Ten yards away, he reckoned, and also a bit farther east. The two groups were swinging around the edge of the campsite. What was more, he suddenly realised that he’d heard no indications of movement from directly south. They know where the campsite is, he thought, feeling the hairs bristle on the back of his neck. They are trying to surround it, cutting me off from fleeing further northward.
He had to move now, before the noose closed around him. Fortunately Spite was somewhere north of him now, feeding on his morning meal. If he could reach the nauglir he was sure that he could outpace whoever was stalking him, fleeing northward into the foothills. Of course, that meant he’d be trespassing on autarii land, but first he had to survive to get there.
Still crouching low to the ground, Malus turned and scuttled across the campsite. As he did, the sounds of movement erupted from east and west. The hunters were making their move.
Malus ducked his head and followed the path that Spite had taken upon leaving camp. At least, he tried -not two feet beyond the edge of the clearing he crashed headlong into a briar thicket that the iron-skinned cold one had simply muscled its way through. Thorny branches lashed at the highborn’s face and neck, eliciting a s
trangled hiss of pain. Malus lashed at the hedge with his axe, hoping that a few good strokes would be enough to hew his way past, but the thin, green branches rebounded from the weapon and lashed back at him like whipcords. Worse, the attempt made considerable noise, causing him to feel dangerously exposed. Malus gave up after a handful of noisy strokes and rushed to the west, looking for a clearer path through the undergrowth.
He heard someone burst from cover and dash into the clearing only a half-dozen yards behind him. Not waiting to see who it was, Malus ducked and dodged past thin saplings and drooping ferns, reaching the end of the thicket and cutting back northward again. His tense gaze scanned left and right, hoping to catch some sign of the nauglir’s trail, but the cold one’s path was almost invisible to his unskilled eyes. The damn thing is almost thirty feet long and weighs a ton, he thought irritably, yet it can move like an autarii in the woods when it wants to. For a moment he contemplated whistling for Spite—easier to bring the cold one to him than the other way around—but he was certain the hunters would hear him as well. He had no idea what would happen then, and didn’t want to find out.
Malus strained his ears for the sound of pursuit and kept to the parts of the wood that offered the least amount of resistance, trading concealment for speed. The ground began to slope gently upward, starting the slow climb to the low foothills that were still more than a mile distant. Within a few minutes he came upon a small wooded hollow and on impulse he headed inside rather than skirt it.
The shadows beneath the close-set trees were deep, but at least it meant that there was less undergrowth to fight through. Almost immediately Malus found a narrow game trail winding through the centre of the hollow and followed it without hesitation. Seconds later he came upon a large pool of fresh blood splashed across the trail and found a pair of large, familiar footprints nearby.