[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin

by Dan Abnett

  The figure that loomed before them in the witchlight had once been a man. In some sense he still was, but now his body was swollen with corruption. Muscles as thick as a nauglir’s threatened to burst from the warrior’s taut skin, and his eyes shone like embers from behind a massive, horned helmet of dark iron. The Chaos warrior was clad in heavy armour from head to toe, adorned with jagged spikes and curling horns, heavy chains and cruel hooks festooned with shrivelled heads. His massive hands gripped a pair of hand axes that looked too large for a sane man to wield, and yet wield them the warrior did, tearing into the surprised druchii with a bloodcurdling roar.

  The mercenary to Malus’ left died without a sound, the front of his head shorn away by a flickering sweep of an axe. The druchii to Malus’ right leapt forward with a shout, thrusting at a gap in the warrior’s armour just above his thigh. But the blade missed the gap and skated harmlessly off polished iron, and the warrior punched the haft of his left-hand axe through the mercenary’s skull.

  Seeing an opening, the highborn lunged forward, chopping down on the warrior’s left wrist and half-severing it in a spray of blood. To Malus’ horror, the warrior laughed and smashed his right-hand axe into the highborn’s side. It was only the enchantments woven into his armour that saved the highborn from the fearful blow; as it was, the impact knocked him from his feet and smashed him against the side of the tunnel wall.

  Screaming a wild war cry, Pockets charged at the towering Chaos warrior, clutching a sword and dagger in her small hands. The warrior snarled contemptuously and swatted at her with his axe. But the nimble druchii ducked beneath the blurring sweep of the blade and then leapt onto the warrior’s massive chest. Before the surprised warrior could react she howled like a mountain cat and buried her dagger to the hilt in the warrior’s right eye.

  With a gurgling cry the warrior fell to his knees, and Pockets sprang clear barely an instant before a heavy axe crashed into the warrior’s neck and hacked away his head in a spray of hot gore. The warrior behind the headless corpse kicked the body over with a booming curse and leapt for the girl’s retreating form, his axes blurring and moaning in the reeking air.

  Druchii leapt at the monster from three sides, and were mown down like wheat. The charging mercenary to the warrior’s right was flung back against the wall in two pieces. Dead ahead a cutthroat rushed forward, trying to cover Pockets as she retreated, and got his head struck off for his trouble. Malus ducked beneath the warrior’s deadly swing and lunged in from the right. His right-hand sword crashed against the side of the warrior’s armoured knee and his left-hand blade snaked upwards, catching the warrior beneath the chin and driving upwards into his fevered brain.

  But the resolve of the cutthroats had collapsed before the onrushing Chosen, and a terrified flight began. Malus pulled his sword clear of the toppling warrior just as the witchlamps wobbled crazily and then abruptly dwindled as the retreating troops bore the two men back around the turn of the staircase.

  More Chaos warriors howled for blood in the sudden darkness. Swearing lustily, Malus raced for the staircase after his men. The climb upwards was a frantic pursuit of crazily swinging light; the lamp men always seemed just at the verge of the turn in the stair, so the highborn could only catch wild glimpses in the shifting glow before it vanished once more. He saw terrified faces and wide, dark eyes, fearful glimpses thrown past narrow shoulders and stumbling forms practically crawling up the stairs as fast as their hands and feet could carry them. Behind Malus the darkness echoed with wild, bestial shouts as the Chosen warriors gave chase.

  Then, without warning the close confines of the staircase opened up into the arched space of the cistern vaults, and the panicked retreat came to an abrupt halt. Witchlights bobbed and swung in the open space above, shedding narrow streams of pale light. All Malus could see were the backs of four or five struggling druchii trying to get off the stairs, but he clearly heard Hauclir’s voice, rolling over the mercenaries like thunder. “Any one of you takes another step forward I will split your skull myself!” he roared. “Stand your ground! The enemy will advance no further into the citadel! We have to hold at all costs until reinforcements arrive!”

  The reinforcements aren’t here yet, Malus thought? Blessed Mother of Night!

  He didn’t know whether to thank Hauclir or kill him. On the one hand, he’s stopped the rout in its tracks, but on the other hand the highborn was now trapped on the staircase at the tail end of the line with a howling Chaos horde heading his way!

  Vicious oaths and bloodthirsty cries echoed crazily up the staircase. Malus turned about, levelling his swords. “Turn and face the enemy!” he cried to the men behind him. They can only come at us one at a time on the stair. We can hold here for a long while if we keep our nerve!”

  Thankfully the men listened. He felt them shuffling about, and blades appeared above his head. He steeled himself and crouched low, waiting for the inevitable assault.

  He heard the onrushing warriors climbing the staircase, their shouts growing louder and louder. It was all but impossible to see more than a few feet down the staircase—the damned witchlamps kept swinging as though caught in a gale, creating wild patterns of light and shadow along the stairs.

  Then, just as it appeared that the warriors were almost at the next turn of the staircase, the howling stopped. Silence fell like a shroud. Malus heard mercenaries gasping for breath above him. Someone moaned fearfully. He bared his teeth and tightened his grip on his blades.

  There was the faint scratch of a boot heel on the stone stairs below Malus. A faint ring of harness. Then the shifting light picked out the gleaming tip of a rust-stained druchii sword. The highborn caught the scent of rot and wet earth, like a recently opened grave.

  Slowly, gracefully, the Chaos champion rose into the wavering light, his helmet upturned to Malus and the Amulet of Vaurog glinting at his neck.

  Chapter Twenty

  MIDNIGHT ALLIANCES

  The Chaos champion fixed Malus with a gaze like a viper, filling his veins with dread. The armoured warrior seemed to float up the stairs towards Malus, swords outstretched like a lover’s waiting arms.

  “Mother of Night,” Malus cursed desperately, raising his own twin blades. “Daemon!” he hissed. “Attend me! Lend me your strength!”

  The daemon stirred, shifting disconcertingly beneath the highborn’s skin—but the customary rush of icy power did not come. Malus had barely enough time to register Tz’arkan’s treachery before the champion struck.

  Silver steel blades darted and slashed at the highborn’s legs and abdomen, striking sparks where the keen blades slipped past Malus’ guard and glanced from his enchanted armour. He parried furiously, roaring with anger at the daemon’s betrayal, because he knew that, even without the terrible power of the Amulet at the champion’s disposal, he was no match for the warrior’s Chaos-fuelled abilities.

  He took a glancing blow to the side of his knee and barely parried a swift thrust at his groin. The champion was not only skilled but well versed in the art of sariya fencing. His technique matched Malus’ almost perfectly, and the realization only enraged the highborn further. Malus channelled all his hatred and fury into his blows, allowing certain attacks through his guard in order to strike back at his foe. Powerful blows rained down on his breastplate and fauld, turned aside time and again by the potent sorceries of the armourers of Naggarond. In return he struck at the champion’s arms and neck, hoping to sever a sword-hand, or better yet strike off the warrior’s helmeted head. But the champion’s speed was such that most often Malus’ blows cut through empty air or struck a glancing blow on the champion’s armour. It was as though the warrior could anticipate his every move.

  There was a furious commotion among the mercenaries behind Malus, but he couldn’t spare even a momentary glance over his shoulder to see what was going on. Then a dagger whirred past his head and struck the champion with such force that it penetrated his breastplate just beneath the collarbone. A normal warrio
r would have been staggered by the blow, but the champion scarcely noticed. It did cause the warrior to hesitate a fraction of an instant, giving Malus the chance to sweep aside the champion’s left-hand sword and stab his foe through the throat. Dark blood coursed down the flat of the highborn's blade, but the warrior pulled himself off the tip of the sword as a man recoils from the prick of a thorn, and then immediately renewed his attack.

  A figure brushed past Malus, charging down the staircase towards the champion. Hauclir caught the champion’s right-hand sword against the side of his scarred cudgel and hacked at the warrior’s wrist with his short, heavy sword, but the blade could not penetrate the champion’s iron armour. Quick as a snake, the champion pivoted and lunged at Hauclir with his left-hand blade, and it was all Malus could do to knock it off-track with a blow from his own sword.

  Moments later Cutter joined in the fight as well, throwing another dagger that rang off the champion’s armoured leg. The Chaos warrior responded with a lightning-quick cut at the assassin’s neck, but the druchii evaded the blow with astonishing speed. Seeing his opportunity, Hauclir lunged in and smashed his cudgel against the champion’s right arm. The blow would have broken the bones of a lesser man, but the champion simply staggered slightly and forced the former guardsman back with a lunge at his throat.

  Now, with three skilled opponents pressuring him from different angles, the Chaos champion was forced onto the defensive. Malus pressed his attack, raining blows on the warrior’s left arm and shoulder. Sparks flew and fragments of iron armour were hewn away by the force of the highborn’s blows, but the champion held his ground, countering each attacker in turn with swift parries and deadly feints. Malus was starting to think that they were gaining the upper hand—and then Hauclir stepped in on the champion’s left, smashing his cudgel against the warrior’s right knee and then reversing the blow to swing at the champion’s head. The Chaos champion appeared caught off guard, thrusting his blade at Cutter’s neck, but the attack was only a feint. Like a thunderbolt the champion’s sword plunged down, slicing through Hauclir's right thigh. The former guard captain fell with a curse, and Cutter lunged forward with a yell, thrusting for the champion’s eyes -only to have the Chaos warrior’s left-hand sword bury itself deep in his right shoulder.

  Seeing both druchii fall in the space of a single second filled Malus with terror and rage. Unleashing a terrible war-scream he put all of his strength and speed into a single cut that smashed into the champion’s temple. Sparks flew, and the force of the blow whipped the champion’s head around. Still shrieking his rage, the highborn followed up with a backhand blow that smashed into the warrior’s helm right at eye level. Iron snapped with a discordant clang, and the champion’s helmet burst asunder.

  The warrior’s head snapped back from the force of the blow. Black hair, matted with filth and old blood fell loosely to the champion’s shoulders. Pallid skin, gleaming with sickness and shot through with pulsing black veins, shone greenish-white in the witchlight. A single, black eye fixed Malus with a glare of implacable hate. The other eye was sightless and glowed with grave-mould. A terrible sword wound cleft the warrior’s skull above that ruined eye, its ragged edges black with corruption and squirming with parasitic life.

  Malus looked into Lhunara’s face and cried out in terror and anguish. “Gods… oh Gods Below!” he cried. “You can’t be…”

  Lhunara’s black lips pulled back in a lunatic grin. Unlike his dreams, her teeth were still perfect and white. Her muscular body trembled, and a terrible, bubbling sound rose from her throat. It was the foulest, most vile laughter Malus had ever heard.

  “With hate… all things are possible,” she croaked, drawing back her dripping blades. “With hate… and the Dark Gods’ blessing.”

  She took a step towards him, and Malus looked in her ruined eyes and knew he was about to die.

  He was saved by a thin, reedy voice that echoed from the top of the staircase. “Dragon’s breath!” Ten-thumbs shouted. “Stand clear!”

  Malus turned and saw the young thief standing less than ten yards away, holding a glowing green orb in his upraised hand. Hauclir shouted up at the boy through gritted teeth, “No, you fool! You’ll kill us all!”

  “Throw it, boy!” Malus shouted. “Do it now!”

  But Lhunara was already gone, dashing fleet as a deer down the staircase until she was lost in darkness. Malus cursed bitterly and slumped onto the stairs, the vision of her hateful face lingering like a ghost before his eyes.

  Mercenaries rushed down the stairs to grab Hauclir and Cutter and pull them clear. Hauclir glared up at Ten-thumbs. “Who in the Dark Mother’s name gave you that orb?” he snarled.

  Ten-thumbs grinned. “What? This?” he tossed the glowing ball above his head—to the horrified shouts of everyone nearby—and snatched it deftly out of the air. “I’ve had this for quite a while. It’s my little ace in the hole.” He tossed the orb from hand to hand.

  And missed.

  Ten-thumbs let out a horrified squawk and lunged for the glowing orb. The slick glass bounced through his fumbling fingers and plunged towards Malus, Hauclir and the horrified mercenaries. Dozens of hands grabbed for the orb, slapping the glowing ball this way and that, until finally it bounced free and smashed against the wall about four feet above Malus’ head.

  Cutthroats scrambled in every direction, screaming in terror.

  The small witchlamp burst with a sharp pop and a smell like a lightning storm. Small fragments of glass rained down on Malus’ head.

  “Oh, damn,” Ten-thumbs groaned. “My mother gave me that light. I’ve had it since I was a child.”

  Silence hung heavy in the air. The cutthroats, who moments before had been convinced they were about to burn alive, reeled like drunkards, overcome with relief. Hauclir leaned back against the outer wall of the staircase and glared up at the morose thief. “By the Dark Mother, I don’t know whether to kiss you or skin you alive.”

  Nervous chuckles broke out among the cutthroats, quickly turning into gales of loud, hysterical laughter as they came to grips with their unexpected salvation. A pair of mercenaries helped Hauclir and Cutter up the staircase. Hands reached for Malus, but he pushed them away. Slowly, awkwardly, he staggered upright. His limbs felt like cold lead, and his head was cased in bitter ice.

  He was the last to climb the curving stair into the cold shadows of the cistern vault. By the time he made it to the top the echoing space was full of angry warriors. Lord Isilvar stood at their head, his expression pale with fury. The cutthroats had drawn together in a tight knot around their wounded leader, glaring hatefully at the sneering faces of Hag Graef’s spearmen.

  “What is going on here?” Isilvar grated.

  “A battle, dear brother. What else?” Malus shot back. He hadn’t expected Ten-thumbs to be quite so successful at drumming up reinforcements. In the back of his mind he realised that they were sorely outnumbered and far from any reliable witnesses should Isilvar suddenly decide to murder the lot of them. The knowledge did nothing to blunt his impertinent tongue. “I realise you don’t see much of these, what with your duties as vaulkhar.” Before Isilvar could reply, Malus plunged onward. The Chaos forces have discovered the tunnel. We managed to hold them off until you arrived, but they could be massing for another assault even as we speak.” The highborn grinned mockingly. “I yield the honour of repelling the next wave to you, as is only fitting to your rank.”

  Muscles bunched furiously at the corners of Isilvar’s jaws. “We will have to fire the tunnel and collapse it,” he said. The Chaos horde has redoubled its assault on the walls, and every available man is needed at the parapet.”

  “Then if you will excuse me, brother, I must hasten to my duty,” Malus replied. Without waiting for Isilvar’s leave, he motioned to his men and made to depart. For a brief moment it looked as though the ranks of Hag Graef spearmen would refuse to let them pass, but Malus met the gaze of an older spearman who nodded curtly and stepped aside. The dru
chii behind the spearman followed suit, and suddenly there was a long, clear path through the spear company leading across the cistern vault. Helmeted heads, both veteran and conscript, nodded respectfully to Malus and his troops as they limped past.

  Hauclir, shored up by Pockets on one side and Cutter on the other, came up alongside the highborn. “That Chaos champion,” he began, “she looked as though she knew you. Who is she?”

  “A nightmare,” Malus said in a dead voice.

  * * * * *

  At first, all he could hear were voices. They were muffled and echoed strangely, as though heard from beneath the surface of a deep, dark lake.

  “My time runs short,” Nagaira said. The sound of her voice was powerful, vibrant and utterly wrong, full of discordant tones like shattered glass. “I have obligations to fulfil, mighty one. Obligations that will not be denied.”

  “Do not speak to me of time,” Tz’arkan hissed. “Mine runs short as well. But he knows the way, now. He knows what must be done.”

  “But will he act? That is the question.” There was the faint chime of finely hammered silver, and the sound of a knife cutting through meat.

  “Who can say?” the daemon growled. “Nothing you mortals do makes any sense to me.”

  The blackness began to fade. Shapes formed to either side of him. He was lying on his back, tangled in sheets. Cold air caressed his bare chest. Nagaira and the daemon spoke above his prone form like adults talking over a sleeping child.

  “I fail to see why all this is necessary” Nagaira said. “Your scheme is overly complicated to my mind.”

  “As complicated as your revenge at Hag Graef?” the daemon retorted.

  “Point taken,” she said with a sigh. There was another faint ringing of metal, and this time Malus watched the blurry form of his sister lift a goblet to her lips and drink. “Yet couldn’t you simply deliver Malus to me yourself?”