by Dan Abnett
Malus glared hatefully at Nuarc, but his reply was directed at Malekith instead. “You cannot give her what she wants,” he snapped. “It won’t turn aside the horde. Nagaira will simply use me and the daemon to further her own plans of conquest.” He turned slowly to face the throne. “She means to supplant you, dread majesty. Why else would she have raised so large an army?” How she’d managed to raise such a horde was another question altogether, the highborn thought.
The seer pursed her thin lips thoughtfully. “Unless we could master the daemon ourselves,” she murmured. We could command it to slay the witch, then give Malus to her.”
“You can’t control the daemon without its name,” Malus said quickly, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.
Nuarc stepped forward and seized a handful of Malus’ hair. “Then I say we send the witch his head and show her that the daemon will forever be out of her reach!”
“Enough!” Malekith roared, his armour flaring like an open furnace. “No one makes demands of the druchii,” he rumbled, leaning forward on his barbed throne. His red gaze burned against Malus’ skin. “She will get nothing from us but wrack and ruin.” He stretched out an armoured hand and pointed imperiously at the highborn. “You will see to this. When you slew the great Lurhan you deprived me of my rightful property. Now you belong to me instead.”
Malus tried to tug his hair free, but Nuarc held him fast. “I live to serve, dread majesty,” he growled through clenched teeth. “What is your command?”
“Go to the Black Tower of Ghrond,” the Witch King said. “Lord Kuall is the Vaulkhar there. It is he who failed to turn aside the Chaos horde, and you will express to him my displeasure! Malekith’s armoured gauntlet clenched into a fist. “Your exploits against Hag Graef are well known, son of Lurhan. Take command of the forces at Ghrond and lead them against the invaders until I arrive with the army of Naggaroth. You will hold them at the Black Tower until I arrive. Do you understand?”
The highborn took a deep breath. He understood all too well. “Your will be done, dread majesty,” he said without hesitation. “I will serve you with all the vigour I possess.” As he considered the situation, his predatory mind saw a possible opportunity. “There is one matter to consider, however,” he said carefully. “The people of Naggaroth still consider me an outcast and a criminal. That will make it difficult to speak with any authority.”
Malekith glared implacably at the highborn. “You are a member of my retinue now, Darkblade,” he hissed. “You will ride to Ghrond with the Endless and bear a writ signed with my name.”
For the first time, Malus essayed a smile. “Then I may reclaim my rights and status as a highborn?”
The Witch King paused, considering Malus carefully. “In time, perhaps. Serve me well and you will be rewarded in kind.”
“Yes. Of course, dread majesty” Malus said, bowing deeply. “Then, with your permission, I will return to my chambers and prepare to depart.” The sooner he got away from the iron fortress the better, he thought.
The Witch King dismissed Malus with a wave of his gauntleted hand. The highborn turned on his heel and strode swiftly for the chamber doors, giving Nuarc a defiant glare as he swept past. Already his mind was racing, contemplating all that he had to do when he reached the Black Tower.
For a short while at least, he would command an army again. He never dreamed such a day would come again. And I have you to thank, dear sister, the highborn thought with a feral grin.
As he reached the iron doors Morathi called after him. “The daemon has sunk its roots deep into your flesh,” she said. “What do you think is going to happen once you set it free?”
The highborn laid his hand on the iron panel. “If I serve the daemon well it promises to reward me in kind,” he said, and then was gone.
Chapter Eight
THE BLACK TOWER
The pain built steadily as Malus stalked down the echoing corridors of the Witch King’s palace, pressing against the backs of his eyes like steam swelling in a kettle. Blood pounded in his temples like a funeral drum, reverberating across his narrow skull until he swore he could feel it in his teeth. The highborn’s thin lips pulled back in a feral grimace of pain, drawing uneasy glances from the nobles and state servants who stepped hurriedly out of his path as he swept by.
His limbs worked mechanically as his exhausted mind struggled to come to grips with his latest change of fortune. How had Nagaira managed to take command of an army? It had only been three months since he’d faced her in the tunnels beneath Hag Graef, when she’d attempted to destroy the city in an act of bloodthirsty vengeance. He had given her a terrible wound with the Dagger of Torxus, a magical weapon that severed the tie between body and spirit and pinned the soul to the spot where it was slain, to suffer as a tormented spirit for all time. Yet his half-sister had not died; like Malus, she had no soul for the dagger to steal. She had entered into a blasphemous pact with the Chaos Gods, receiving unimaginable powers in exchange for her service. Perhaps she had used her newfound might to subjugate some of the northern tribes, or perhaps they had been given to her as part of her arcane pact. The Ruinous Powers were free with their gifts, he’d learned bitterly, so long as their own interests were fulfilled as well.
And yet the sheer scope of Nagaira’s actions staggered Malus. What were her true motives? It had to be more than mere revenge, surely. Was it Tz’arkan she was after, as Morathi believed? Could the daemon alone be worth so much effort? Malus felt a chill course down his spine as he considered the possibility. No less than five Chaos champions, mighty warlords and sorcerers all, had combined their fearsome powers to summoning and entrapping the daemon in the temple far in the north. As potent as they were, the champions knew that the daemon would make them more powerful still, and as far as the highborn had been able to determine, Tz’arkan had done just that. For a time the champions had bestrode the earth like gods themselves, causing the world to tremble beneath their feet.
Nagaira would know the tales far better than he, Malus knew. His cold hands clenched into fists as he stalked the twisting corridors. She would understand the awesome potential of the being lurking beneath his skin, and would know how to bend it to her will.
Once I’m in her clutches she’ll bargain with the daemon through me, Malus realised. His expression turned bleak. She might even let the daemon take my soul as a token of good will, then use the five relics to bargain with Tz’arkan for even more power. She would have her revenge upon him and grow vastly more potent in the bargain—the very sweetest sort of revenge, as far as he was concerned. And then? Who knew? Perhaps she would march on Naggarond anyway, coming to grips with Malekith himself. With Tz’arkan bound to her, Nagaira might just overthrow the Witch King and claim the Land of Chill as her own.
The pain continued to worsen as he left the Court of Dragons behind. The pressure behind his eyes sharpened into needle-like points that pricked out white pinholes of light at the corners of his eyes. After ten minutes it hurt just to breathe. The air seemed to rasp like a file over his lips and teeth. He staggered, throwing out a hand to steady himself against the bare stone walls as he forced his legs to carry him onward.
He reached the door to his chambers without realizing it, fetching up against the oaken panels and fumbling for the iron ring in a blind haze of pain. How he’d found his way back from the court through the maze-like passageways of the fortress was a mystery that he hadn’t the wherewithal to consider. The door banged open and he staggered into the brightly lit room, startling a trio of slaves who were busy laying out new clothes and arranging a set of polished plate armour on an arming stand at the foot of the bed. His stolen axe had been cleaned and sharpened, and lay gleaming on a tabletop nearby.
“Out, all of you,” Malus snarled, waving angrily at the blurry shapes that bowed uncertainly on the other side of the room. He staggered to the table and closed his hands on the hilt of the axe. “I said out!” he roared, brandishing the terrible weapon, and the
slaves fled from the room in a silent rush, their hands thrown protectively over their heads. As the door thudded shut he let the axe tumble from his hands and lurched to the bed, burying his face in the sheets with a bestial groan.
And then he heard the voice, hissing in his ears like a serpent. You disappoint me little druchii, the daemon whispered hatefully, and then he felt the nest of vipers coiled about his heart suddenly contract.
The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before. All the air went out of him; Malus gasped like a landed fish, his eyes wide and his hands clawing futilely at his armoured chest. The highborn slumped to the floor, rolling onto his side in a clatter of steel as he struggled for breath.
What foolishness is this, bending the knee to that parody of a king and playing at war when you and I have unfinished business, Tz’arkan continued. Have you grown too accustomed to my presence these last few months ? Did you forget the bargain you and I made? I assure you Darkblade that I have not.
There was a roaring in his ears, and his vision was turning red, like a tide of blood rising from the edges of his vision. Trembling with effort, Malus drew in a thin gulp of air. “The relic…” he gasped. “My… mother…”
The grip on his heart drew sharply tighter; for half an instant Malus was certain that it would burst. All he could see was red; with a faint groan the highborn squeezed his eyes shut.
What does that witch have to do with this? the daemon growled. Malus could feel the cold touch of Tz’arkan’s anger in his bones. Is this another of her pathetic schemes?
“She said… she said the path to the relic lies here,” the highborn moaned. “Perhaps… it’s… in the Black Tower…”
Perhaps? The daemon seethed. You would hang your very soul from so slim a thread?
“For now it’s… all I have,” Malus gasped. There was a roaring in his ears, growing stronger by the moment. Darkness beckoned, and he sensed he lay closer to death than he’d ever been before. “Whatever she plans… I’m a part of it,” he whispered. “So… she would not lead me… astray. Not yet at least.”
The daemon didn’t reply. For a single, agonizing instant, Malus felt Tz’arkan’s grip continue to tighten -and then without warning it was simply gone. He sucked in air like a drowning man, rolling onto his stomach and biting his lip to keep from crying out. The daemon coiled and slithered within his chest, sliding black tendrils up the back of his neck and across his skull.
Pray that you are right, little druchii, Tz’arkan said. Whatever her motives, she is not the one you should be wary of. I grow stronger with every beat of your miserable heart. Soon I’ll be able to hurt you in ways you can’t even imagine. And I will be watching every move you make, Darkblade. Step carefully.
He could feel the daemon’s presence dwindle. The pressure in his head began to fade. It was several minutes before he could push himself upright and blink owlishly in the glow of the pale witchlights. Every muscle in his body ached. With a groan he slowly rose onto his knees. Heavy drops spattered on the stone beneath his head, and he realised that his upper lip was damp. Malus touched it with trembling fingertips, and they came away stained with a cold, black ichor.
There was a looking glass over by the now-empty bathtub. Malus staggered over to it, peering intently into the silvered pane. The face looking back at him was one he only barely recognized. His face was even more drawn and haggard than he remembered, the grey skin pulled tight over corded muscle and fine, white scars to create a fevered mask of cruelty and hate. Streams of ichor ran from his sharp nose, his pointed ears and the corners of his eyes.
His eyes! Malus realised with a start that they were no longer the colour of heated brass—instead the irises were orbs of polished jet, so large that almost no whites were visible. When had Tz’arkan’s disguise faded? The thought that the daemon could now alter or change his body at its whim frightened Malus to the core.
Behind him, he heard the chamber door creak open. Hurriedly, Malus snatched up a damp cloth hanging from the edge of the bathtub and pressed it to his face. “Take another step and I’ll split your skull,” he snarled at the intruder.
“You’re welcome to try,” came Nuarc’s familiar rasp. “But daemon or no, I think you’d regret it.”
The highborn masked his surprise by scrubbing fiercely at his cheeks. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said. “I thought you were one of those damned servants.” After checking to make sure he’d cleaned away the last of the ichor he quickly wadded up the stained cloth and tossed it into the tub. He turned to face the general, gesturing tiredly at the clothes and armour laid at the bed. “Give me a moment to change and I can leave the fortress at once.”
Nuarc gave Malus a penetrating stare, his expression doubtful. “You don’t look fit to pull off your boots, let alone manage another forced march,” he growled, but then grudgingly nodded. “Not that I expect you’d let such a thing stop you. You’re a hard-hearted, spiteful bastard, right enough.” The warlord pulled a metal plaque from his belt and walked over to the highborn. “Here is the Witch King’s writ,” he said, offering it to Malus as casually as though he were sharing a bottle of wine. “I’d caution you to use it wisely, but what’s the point? With that piece of paper in your hand you can do damn well whatever you please and no one will look sideways at you.”
Malus took the plaque from Nuarc’s hand. It was very like the Writ of Iron he’d once been granted by the drachau of Hag Graef. This one was a bit longer, perhaps eighteen inches long, and the protective metal was unpolished silver instead of steel. He opened the hinged plaque and studied the parchment within.
He had expected a lengthy statement detailing his rights and privileges in exacting detail. Instead there were just two simple sentences. The bearer of this writ, Malus of Hag Graef, belongs to me and acts solely in my name. Do as he bids, or risk my wrath.
Below the archaic line of druchast was pressed the dragon seal of Malekith, Witch King of Naggaroth.
Malus closed the plaque carefully, savouring the feel of the cool metal on his fingertips. This is what absolute power feels like, he thought. With that writ in hand there was very little he could not do within the borders of the kingdom. Only the highest nobles in the land were immune from his authority, and he answered to no one but the Witch King himself. A slow, hungry smile spread across his face.
“It’s a trap of course,” the warlord said, reading the look in Malus’ black eyes. “You realise that I’m sure.”
The highborn paused, his smile fading. “A trap?” he replied, setting the plaque carefully upon the bed.
Now it was Nuarc’s turn to smile. “Of course it is. Consider the situation,” he said, pacing slowly around the room. This sister of yours has attacked the kingdom at a time when we are at our most vulnerable. She knows this—her remarks about Hag Graef and the Black Ark tells us that she is well aware of how weakened we are. The only way to stop her is to keep her occupied long enough for Malekith to scour the cities for every warrior he can lay hands on and form a large enough army to match her.” The general pointed a long finger at Malus. “And you are the one thing guaranteed to hold Nagaira’s attention.”
Malus thought it over. “If so, why not simply send me to the Black Tower in chains? Nagaira would still tear the city apart trying to get at me, writ or no writ.”
Nuarc gave Malus a sidelong glance. “Put a druchii in chains and he’ll look for the first chance to escape. Put a druchii in power and he’ll fight like a daemon to stay there, regardless of the risk.” He crossed the chamber and picked up the writ. This piece of parchment is stronger than any chain ever forged,” he rasped. “You may think yourself clever, but Malekith can see right through you. You are just another pawn to him. He’ll use you as a stalking horse to draw Nagaira to the Black Tower, then once she has been beaten back you’ll be nothing but an outlaw once more.”
Malus reached up and took the plaque from Nuarc’s hand. “Then why tell me all this? Aren’t you betraying your master’s secret de
signs?”
The warlord let out a harsh, rasping laugh. “Better for the Witch King that you understand the position you are in, and to know that there is nothing you can do to change it! I’ve heard reports about your generalship in the latest fighting between the Black Ark and Hag Graef; you did passably well against Isilvar’s forces. You’re young and headstrong, but you’ve got a sharp mind underneath all that foolishness. What’s more, you can be damned unpredictable, and that’s the reason I’m here,” he said. “I want you to understand how tightly Malekith has boxed you in. Don’t try anything stupid; it won’t work, and it will likely leave us in an even less tenable position than we’re in now. The best chance you have of keeping your head on your neck is to follow orders and enjoy the power you’ve got while you’ve got it.”
“Until the danger is past,” Malus said coldly. “And then you’ll tie me to a pole at the crossroads.”
Nuarc met the highborn’s gaze unflinchingly. “Would you rather face your sister’s tender mercies instead?”
Malus sighed. “You’ve made your point, my lord,” he said, tossing the plaque back onto the mattress. He began working at the lacings of his armour. “I should be ready to ride within the hour.”
“Very good,” the general said with a curt nod, then turned to leave the room. “I’ll send the servants back in to help you change and bring in a good meal. It’ll likely be the only one you’ll get for the next few days.”
Nuarc stepped into the corridor outside Malus’ chamber, barking orders for the servants. Malus jerked the lacings of his breastplate free with sharp, angry movements, glaring hatefully at the Witch King’s writ as he worked.
The dark steeds of the Endless swept over the wooded ridge and thundered down the reverse slope, their lathered flanks heaving and their glossy hooves beating upon the packed cinders of the Spear Road