by Dan Abnett
Do you see, Darkblade? This is but a glimpse of the glories to come. The dead will rise to do my bidding even as the living give their souls to sate my glorious appetites. These are but the smallest tastes of the wonders that could have been yours had you simply chosen to serve me.
On he went, past the tormented ghosts and into another large hall containing the altars of the four gods of the north. Behind each altar rose a horrific idol dedicated to one of the Ruinous Powers; Tz’arkan led Malus to the idol of Slaanesh and forced the highborn to his knees before the abominable figure. His hands made twisting signs in the air and his lips formed debased words that no mortal was even meant to speak. Ichor bubbled from his throat and trickled down his pallid cheeks as the daemon forced him to participate in the horrid worship of the Great Devourer. On and on the ritual went, until he feared his teeth would splinter and his lips run like tallow, and his tortured mind screamed for release.
The next sound he recognized was the daemon’s laughter, cruel and cold, echoing in his brain. You are weak, Darkblade. So weak. This is the so-called hero of Ghrond? Your mind could not even fathom a simple acolyte’s benediction. And to think I once saw such potential in you.
Tz’arkan dragged Malus to his feet and forced him onward, into the great, cavernous space where the bridge of fire waited.
Blistering heat smote the highborn’s pallid face; the reek of sulphur stung his nose and caked his aching throat. The earth itself roared angrily in the vast open space, stirred to wrath by the unnatural being trapped in the chamber above. At the far end of the long plaza, some fifty yards away, stood the statue of a winged daemon, crouching on its talons and limned by the sullen, red glow of the lake of fire at its back. The sight of the muscular, human-shaped daemon with its snarling animal face seemed almost comical now after the horrors he had witnessed during the siege of the Black Tower.
With each step the heat beating against his skin increased, and with each step the fearful energies of the daemon seemed to grow as well. Tz’arkan’s power radiated from his body; he could feel it seeping from his pores like venom, soaking into the dark, stone walls and tainting them from within.
There was an angry crash, and a plume of molten stone burst from the great chasm that lay beyond the waiting daemon. Malus dimly recalled the last time he’d travelled the floating stair the river of burning stone had lain hundreds of feet below the level of the plaza. Now, it surged and roiled just a few dozen feet from the edge of the square. The heat was unbearable. Malus could feel his skin baking and his lungs ached fiercely with each shallow breath. He tried to close his eyes against the burning air, but the daemon held him in a merciless grip, forcing him onward towards the fire.
Before long he couldn’t breathe. Wisps of smoke rose from his tattered robes, and he feared his eyes would burst. He fought against the daemon’s control, his efforts growing more and more frantic as he was pressed ever closer to the inferno.
Tz’arkan hissed with delight. Your fear is sweet. There is nothing so delicious as a mortal’s death throes! But I will not permit you to die Malus, not yet.
There was a furious hiss and an eruption of steam from the edge of the precipice. Huge boulders rose in serried ranks from the boiling rock, their faceted surfaces glowing with incandescent heat and dripping streams of liquid fire onto the roiling sea below. They formed a floating stairway to a spur of rock that hung from the ceiling of the great cavern. Beyond, Malus knew, lay the chambers of the temple sorcerers and then, the tribute chamber and prison of the daemon itself.
His skin was burning. He could smell his hair singeing in the heat. His lungs clenched, aching for a taste of cool air, and his eyes felt as dry as leather. Yet he was helpless to resist the daemon’s iron control.
He seeks to break you, Malus thought. Here, at the very last, he wants to ensure his control over you. Even now he fears you may be able to circumvent his plans. Malus focused on that notion, taking hope from it even as his body was wracked with burning pain and forced to do the bidding of an inhuman will.
The highborn mounted the steps concealed in the daemon statue’s flanks, noting the molten glow of heat along the trailing edges of its stone wings. His mind reeled for lack of air, but his body worked like a wood puppet, leaping heavily from one floating stone to the next.
Beyond the rocks curved a stone staircase, intricately carved with dozens of naked figures writhing in eternal torment. He vaguely remembered a body that lay sprawled along the stairs, its forearms slit from wrist to elbow. How he wished he’d taken heed of the corpse’s silent warning!
Slowly and painfully the daemon drove him onward, up the stairs and into the charnel house of the sorcerers’ sanctums. Here the five Chaos champions had built chambers for themselves and their servants. Those same servants had turned upon one another in the end, their minds broken by the daemon’s manipulations as they waited in vain for the return of their masters until they slew one another in an orgy of cannibalism and murder.
Looking back, it amazed him how blind he’d been to the dire portents laid right before his eyes. He’d been such a fool—and what ruin had been borne from it!
The daemon drove him past the lifeless, blood-streaked apartments, strewn with crumbling debris from the brutal fights that had raged there. After a few minutes he frowned, his gaze sweeping the floors of the rooms he passed and peering along the dimly lit corridors. Where had all the bodies gone? Had they finally crumbled to dust once the daemon invoked its hideous curse?
Finally he came to the great ramp, worked with hundreds of runes and leering alabaster skulls, and the tall double doors made from solid gold. A nameless dread seized Malus’ throat at the sight of them, like a condemned man catching sight of the impaling stake. Beyond those doors lay the entrance to the daemon’s chamber and the end of his terrible quest.
And so it comes down to this, he thought bleakly. I’ve walked alone out of the Chaos Wastes, fought daemon cultists and Chaos-tainted pirates, commanded armies and fleets and fought grim battles for the fate of entire cities. Not long ago a whole kingdom rested in my hands. But this is how it ends, walking like a lamb to slaughter. It was enough to make the fiercest druchii weep tears of rage.
He had nothing left now. Desperately he wracked his brain for some trick, some stratagem to turn the tables on the daemon before it was too late. But how could he fight a creature when he couldn’t even master his own wretched body?
Up the ramp the daemon drove him. The golden doors, balanced on perfect hinges, swung open at the touch of invisible hands.
Beyond, Malus heard the skeletal rustle of ancient fabrics and the creak of dried skin. It was the bodies, he realised. The bodies of the dead scholars and servants.
See? The dead rise and serve the worthy.
Tz’arkan forced him across the threshold before a bowing assembly of mutilated corpses, worn and withered by time. Heads rose to behold their immortal master, their dried lips smeared against their faces in unctuous, lunatic grins. Skeletal fingers clenched into claws and hollow eye sockets gaped at infernal wonders beyond the ken of mortals.
Here are your servants, Darkblade, the daemon declared mockingly. They will aid you in what must be done, for there is little time left.
The undead servants scraped and rustled as the highborn moved stiffly among them. They shambled ahead on the stumps of ruined feet, driven by the same implacable will as he, across the gleaming marble floor and the curving lines of the sorcerous wards that had kept the daemon imprisoned for thousands of years. Their frail robes fluttered in the waves of invisible power that reverberated through the air. They paused before the great, basalt doors, flanked by massive statues of winged daemons, and waited for his approach. In the shadows to either side of the waiting slaves swirled figures of brown dust. They cringed and genuflected to Malus, and he remembered the hideous mummies who’d lain in a torturous half-life before those selfsame doors, unable to find release in death thanks to the powers of the binding spells laid lik
e a trap beneath them.
As Malus crossed the first of the arcing silver lines he felt a tremor pass through him. As cold as he’d been before, now he felt as though he were frozen in ice, his spirit wreathed in powers he could barely comprehend. He wondered if he would linger here, trapped within these terrible wards once the daemon feasted upon his soul.
Deep within the bleak despair gripping his brain, the tiny spark of an idea flickered to life. He scarcely dared consider it, half-afraid the daemon would read his thoughts. Malus frowned. Could it be possible? Did he dare?
Did he have any choice?
The undying servants pushed the black doors aside and ushered Malus into the cold radiance of the tribute chamber. The vast hall contained the wealth of dozens of plundered kingdoms now lost to time: coin and gems, plate and graven statues—more wealth than any man could spend in a thousand lifetimes. Even now, despite his dire straits, the sight of the treasure chamber kindled his avaricious heart.
But of all the wonders piled high in the tribute chamber, none could match the enormous crystal that dominated the centre of the room. It was roughly faceted and larger than a man, set in a low tripod of iron. The enormous stone glowed with a softly pulsing blue light, a strangely alluring colour considering the black evil that lay within.
His gaze drifted to the small, unassuming pedestal just a few yards inside the room. It had lain empty for a year now, he thought grimly Hands trembling, he pulled off his gauntlets and gazed bleakly at the red stone planted on his finger. If he’d had any real courage he would have tried sawing it off rather than leave this place wearing it!
The servants shuffled amid the gleaming splendour, searching for the tools that the daemon desired. Malus’ body spasmed as the daemon reasserted its fearsome control. The relics, little druchii, Tz’arkan commanded. Lay them out and prepare yourself for the ritual.
His heart sinking, Malus could only watch as his body obeyed the daemon’s commands like a dog. He laid his saddlebag carefully on the stone floor and drew out four of the relics, each one wrapped in dirty cloth. First the Octagon of Praan, then the Idol of Kolkuth and the Dagger of Torxus. Finally he pulled free the Amulet of Vaurog, and his heart went cold at the ordeal he’d gone through to get it. Of all he’d endured to gain Tz’arkan his relics, the price he’d paid for the damned amulet would haunt him for all time. Last of all, he reached for the warpsword at his belt.
No, the daemon commanded, forcefully enough to send ichor running from the highborn’s eyes and ears. The servants will see to the blade.
Two of the shambling corpses knelt beside Malus and slid the long, black sword from its scabbard. Wisps of smoke rose from their withered hands as they handled the burning blade.
Malus watched the servants lay the blade beside the other relics, while another pair of servants approached from deeper within the chamber. One carried an urn made from gold and etched with spirals of sorcerous runes. The other held a tablet of ancient, weathered stone, carved with dense lines of blasphemous script.
Take the urn, the daemon said. Remove the cover, and I will show you what must be done.
He tried to fight it, like the condemned man fights against the grip of his executioners. But for the first time his indomitable will failed him. Malus watched helplessly as his hands took the heavy um from the corpse’s hands and pulled free the lid. Inside was a grey powder that reeked of the crypt.
The highborn could feel the daemon’s joy as the urn was opened. The bones of my tormentors, it said. Gathered from the far corners of the world. All five of the champions who trapped me were ground up to fill that bowl. All but that scheming fool Ehrenlish—in the end I got all but his skull, but that will be enough.
Tz’arkan turned Malus bodily and marched him to the crystal. Use the dust to lay out the sigil precisely as I command, the daemon said. You must do this alone, Dark-blade. I cannot force you. Follow my instructions in every particular. Your soul depends on it.
All at once he felt the grip of the daemon loosen—the change was so sudden Malus swayed on his feet, stopping his fall only by effort of will. His gaze drifted to the black blade, lying on the stone just a few feet away.
Do not attempt it, the daemon said. I will stop you before you take a single step, then I will make you suffer in ways you never dreamt possible. Remember the chamber of the altars? That was a gentle kiss compared to what I could do if I were truly displeased. And in the end you would have even less time to save your eternal spirit. Now, begin.
The instructions flowed like icy filth into the highborn’s brain. He gasped at the hideous images flowing through his mind and reached into the urn for a handful of dust.
Chapter Fifteen
THE CORPSE-HANDLERS
The Black Tower of Ghrond, four weeks before
The crash of thunder smote the walls of the fortress like a hammer blow, causing many of the defenders on the wall to duck their heads and cry out in fear. The earth-shaking roar all but drowned out the high, skirling wail of the horns, crying their shrill warnings from the redoubts. Malus rose to his feet from the base of the battlements and peered out at the lightning-shot blackness. A savage, reeking wind roared in his face and tangled the loose strands of his sweat-streaked hair.
All was darkness upon the ashen plain. He counted the seconds, waiting for a flash of pale lightning. There! A bolt of fire burnt across the heavens, revealing a rushing tide of monstrosities charging for the walls.
“Sa’an’ishar!” he shouted to the spearmen crouching against the battlements beside him. “On your feet! Here they come!”
Now the roaring of the advancing army could be heard above the raging tempest, and the strobe and flicker of the lightning increased overhead, pushing back the clinging shadows and revealing the oncoming attackers less than twenty yards from the base of the wall. Already the ground there was carpeted with the bodies of marauders and beastmen, and as Malus watched, a black rain of crossbow bolts began to fall upon the screaming horde from the sloping redoubts to the left and right. Horned, half naked beastmen screamed and stumbled, pierced through by the deadly bolts. Some ran on, while others fell to the blood-soaked earth and died. Still the seething mob charged forward, undaunted by the deadly hail. Long ladders bobbed above lines of grim-faced barbarians; when one of the ladder-men was struck down another marauder ran to take his place. Some men kept going with two or three bolts jutting from their bodies, driven forward by unholy battle-lust and the blessings of their fearful northern gods.
Malus drew his swords and set his jaw in a grim line as the attackers drew closer. Already his armour was splashed with dried blood and stinking ichor, and his arms felt leaden from all the killing he’d done. He couldn’t recall if this was the third assault or the fourth. At this point he didn’t even know if it was day or night. The clouds that had rolled in before the advancing horde had tightened about the Black Tower like a shroud, blocking out the pale northern sunlight. Once the fighting began, time lost all meaning.
With groans and bitter curses the druchii company assigned to hold this stretch of wall clambered slowly to their feet. They were state troops from Clar Karond, evidenced by their blue robes and the short, lightweight kheitans favoured by druchii corsairs. When the first attack had begun the troops were in high spirits, but now their faces were tired and grim, stained with grime and other men’s blood. They looped their arms through battered shields and took up their weapons—one warrior in three hefted a repeater crossbow, while the rest drew their short, stabbing swords. They tested their footing amid the pools of drying blood that stained the paving stones and watched the oncoming mob to see where the ladders would likely land. A young druchii ran down the line, scattering sawdust from a wooden bucket. It would soak up some of the blood once the fighting started in earnest, but there was never quite enough.
Malus leaned back and peered down the length of the wall, checking to make sure all the troops were standing to. He saw a pair of legs still stretched out across the pa
ving stones and jogged down to take a look. “On your feet, spearman,” the highborn growled, kneeling before the warrior. The warrior was a young woman, called up to fight with the regiment in the wake of Malekith’s proclamation of war. There wasn’t a mark on her that Malus could see, but her face was white as chalk and her lips were blue. Most likely the blow of a hammer or club had ruptured something beneath the skin and she’d bled to death in her sleep. Taking hold of her mail shirt, Malus dragged her over to the inner side of the wall and rolled her over the edge. Already there were deep drifts of corpses piled on the flagstones forty feet below. Men were stripping the bodies of armour and weapons and dragging the corpses to the furnaces. Even in these cold climes, the dead could carry pestilence that could decimate the fortress city’s defenders.
The rest of the line looked ready, as far as he could see. Each of the eight sections of wall was held by a single regiment, stretching for more than two and a half miles between the hulking redoubts. The regimental commander anchored the far end, while Malus’ end had been anchored by the second-in-command. That fellow’s brains had been splashed against the side of the embrasure just a few yards to Malus’ right. He’d happened to be nearby when the officer died, and without thinking had stepped in to take his place. That had been during the second assault, and he’d remained ever since.
Malekith had given him no orders after declaring him champion. With no troops to command—not even a retinue to call his own—it was as though he’d been swept aside in the haste and confusion of the impending attack. He’d found his way to his chambers, found servants to fill a bath and bring him food, and watched as a pair of smiths from the fortress armoury affixed a set of three golden skulls to the breastplate of his armour. The skulls marked him as the Witch King’s champion: Athlan na Dyr, the Taker of Heads. As far as Malus was concerned, they made him a tempting target for every bull-head and barbarian that came over the walls.