by Dan Abnett
Deep in thought, Malus walked over to the remains of the temple maiden. Spite hadn’t left much. Her head and part of one shoulder lay amid the pieces of the man she’d landed on. The maiden’s face was frozen in a rictus of hate, defiant until the end.
The highborn knelt, studying the face. What he needed was an extra layer to his disguise, something that would make the zealots think twice about suspecting him.
“All right, daemon,” he said thoughtfully. “Forget giving me the power of a god. Right now I’ll settle for a pair of brass-coloured eyes.”
*
Tz’arkan had obliged without hesitation. That was a bad sign.
The pain had been immense, and it seemed to last for hours. There was a point when Malus thought that the daemon had decided to take him literally and turn his eyes to molten metal. After a while longer he wasn’t thinking much of anything, hugging his arms tightly around his chest to keep from clawing his own eyes out.
The fog had reached the wood line and the fire had burned down to embers by the time the pain subsided. His face was flushed and each eye blink sent shivers of agony through his body.
Malus could hear Spite moving around the clearing, nibbling idly at the remains of the zealots. After some thought, the highborn rolled painfully onto his hands and knees and crawled towards the embers of the fire. Even the dull red light of the coals sent needles of pain into his eyes, but after some searching, he managed to find the maiden’s offering bag. Malus called the cold one over and fumbled his way into the saddle. Then he pointed Spite up the road towards Har Ganeth and gave the nauglir its head.
They rode through the night. Malus swayed in the saddle, holding his eyes tightly shut. Well past midnight, his parched throat felt so tight he could barely breathe, and he groped behind his saddle for a water skin. The highborn drank deep of the brackish liquid, and then on impulse he poured a little into each eye. The pain was so sudden and sharp he cried out, but afterwards his eyes felt much better.
False dawn was colouring the mountains to the east when they reached the City of Executioners. The sea breeze shifted, carrying with it the burnt copper tang of blood, and Malus slowly opened his eyes.
The city shimmered like a ghost in the pearlescent light.
Har Ganeth, the Fortress of Ice. Before the druchii built Karond Kar at the mouth of the Slavers’ Straits, Har Ganeth had been the northernmost city in the Land of Chill. Its walls and towers had been built from the purest white marble, quarried from the mountains near the Houses of the Dead. The Fortress of Ice was cold and cruel and everlasting, a symbol of the merciless druchii heart.
That had been before Malekith had given control of the city to the temple of Khaine, before the night of slaughter centuries past when the streets had turned to rivers of blood.
Walls of stone towered thirty feet above Malus, their sheer faces painted in layers of crimson from foot to crown. The bloodstained walls could be seen for miles, but up close, with the dawn light wakening the white marble beneath, Malus stared in wonder at hundreds upon hundreds of bloody hand prints, layered one on top of another to create subtle shades and murderous hues. The red sheen looked fresh. Malus was tempted despite himself to touch it, to add to it, deepening the mosaic of slaughter one thin layer more.
The city gate was unusually broad and low, wide enough for six mounted knights to ride comfortably abreast but not with their lances held high. An enormous gatehouse loomed overhead, its wide face pierced by arrow slits and murder holes. Oil gutters hung like arched tongues from the carved mouths of dragons and basilisks, ready to pour searing death on any invader. The gates of Har Ganeth were long gone, however, and its portcullis dismantled. The gateway yawned like the wide mouth of a leviathan, ever hungry for more prey.
There were no guards upon the battlements, no green light of witchfires burning behind the arrow slits. Beyond the gate Malus saw streets cloaked in eddies of pale fog.
Somewhere in the distance, a voice cried out in anger and pain. Malus put his heels to Spite’s flanks and entered the City of Executioners, seeking the house of Sethra Veyl.
Chapter Three
CITY OF RAVENS
Malus soon lost count of the dead.
They lay everywhere in Har Ganeth’s streets and gutters, contorted by pain and violence and left to cool in drying pools of gore. Some were piled in narrow alleys like old rubbish; others lay slumped against the red-tinged marble walls, having painted the stone with bright swathes of their own blood. Most were druchii like him, although more than once Malus caught sight of the corpse of a slave, stripped naked but for his collar of service. Every victim had been hacked to death. Many bore the gruesome wounds of axe or draich, the great two-handed swords favoured by the temple Executioners. There were men and women, young druchii and old. Some died fighting, with swords and daggers in hand and mortal wounds to head and neck. Others simply ran and took their wounds in the back. The end result was the same.
Many of the victims had been beheaded. Their skulls had been added to pyramids of similar trophies, some stacked as high as a mounted man along the sides of the roadway or next to the door of a business or home. Nearly all of the piles of skulls rested in thick layers of dirty grey dust. The sight puzzled Malus at first, until he noticed that there was a gruesome stratum to the pyramids. The heads nearest the top were the freshest, of course, still cased in tattered flesh and skin. Closer to the bottom vermin and the elements had stripped them clean, leaving a layer of bleached bone at the very base. In time, even those sturdy bones crumbled, pressed down by the weight of the bones above and ground into pale dust.
The city stank like a battlefield. In the open squares it was bad enough, but climbing the narrow, winding streets towards the upper districts was like walking through a dimly lit abattoir. Spite grumbled and sniffed at the heavy odour of rotting blood and spilled organs, and Malus fought the urge to cover his face with a fold of his cloak. Even in the brutal battles on the road to Hag Graef he’d never seen the like.
The City of Executioners had been built on commanding ground on the shore of the Sea of Chill. At first just a collection of forbidding spires rising into the sky from atop a broad, granite hill, over the centuries the city had spread like a mantle of white stone down the hill slopes and along the flat ground around the hill’s base. When Har Ganeth was given over to the temple by edict of the Witch King the temple in the lower city had been abandoned and the elders seized the districts surrounding the crown of the high hill. Many of the city’s richest citizens had been turned out of their homes, and the buildings demolished to create the massive temple fortress that surrounded the drachau’s stained white towers in a fist of dark stone. No matter where one stood in the lower city one felt the ominous shadow of the temple of Khaine.
Like all druchii cities, Har Ganeth was a warren of narrow, twisting streets and alleys, purposely designed to confound intruders. Tall, narrow buildings channelled would-be invaders into dead ends and cul-de-sacs where they would find themselves at the mercy of citizens waiting on wrought-iron balconies high overhead. But for a few main thoroughfares meant for commerce or war, no road was wide enough to admit more than two riders abreast, and in many cases the streets were narrower still. Sunlight rarely found its way into these claustrophobic lanes, and even in daylight every other house was lit by an intricately wrought, iron lamp hung outside the heavy oak door.
Upon entering Har Ganeth, Malus had found himself in the city’s merchant district. Eddies of pale fog swirled around Spite’s flanks as Malus led his mount past shuttered warehouses and through market commons littered with trash. Next came the slave quarter, with its broad squares and ironbound cages. The first of the city’s many shrines lay just off the quarter, and it was here that the highborn saw the first signs of slaughter. Malus couldn’t help but wonder how much flesh was bought at the markets and marched across the square just to bleed on the altar of the Lord of Murder.
The narrow streets of the artisans’ quarters lay
past Khaine’s shrine, and further still were the flesh houses and blood pits of the entertainment district. Every lodging-house and tavern was tightly shut; their stoops empty of the indigent or the drunk. There were no signs of exhausted revelry, only piles of leering, tattered heads. For weeks he’d fantasised about a bath, bottles of wine and a soft bed in such a lodging-house, but the eerie stillness of the district drove all temptations from his mind.
Beyond the neighbourhood of lodging-houses and taverns the road began to climb the wide hill. The tall, shabby houses of the lowborn rose around him, and the way ahead became difficult. Malus’ hair stood on end as he led Spite into the close-set streets. The narrow windows were shuttered and the overhanging balconies were empty, but he could not shake the sensation that he was being watched. The highborn drew his heavy sword and rested it in his lap, suddenly wishing he’d thought to put on the plate armour bound up in rolls of cloth and hung from the back of Spite’s saddle.
The more scenes of carnage he passed, the more his wariness grew. Some of the bodies still steamed in the chilly morning air, suggesting that the killers were close by. The thought of a running battle with a mob of fanatics — on their home ground — set the highborn’s teeth on edge.
He knew, from his conversations with travellers, that the highborn districts lay around the top of the hill, but he wasn’t certain how to get there. How long could he wander down the maze-like streets before he stumbled across an armed band looking for more trophies to stack outside their door? Would his appearance give the attackers pause? Malus had no way of knowing. Nothing he’d seen so far made any sense to him. For the first time since the long, harrowing trip back from the Chaos Wastes, Malus felt vulnerable and exposed.
It wasn’t as if he could go door-to-door and ask the way to the house of Sethra Veyl. Briefly he contemplated heading straight for the temple and simply presenting himself there — surely with a heresy simmering in the city the priestesses wouldn’t scrutinise any offer of help too closely. The solution was simple and direct, but it gave Malus pause. There had to be a reason why the faithful were being lodged in houses in the city proper. Perhaps the temple ranks had been infiltrated? If so, how could he be certain that the priestess he spoke with wasn’t a secret ally of Urial? With no other recourse open to him he nudged Spite onward, ears straining for the sounds of movement from the alleys or the balconies overhead.
As the dawn broke to the east Malus heard the first stirrings of life, high up in the shadows of the eaves along the street. Feathers rustled and bits of loose stone rattled down the stained facades of the houses. To Malus, far below, the shadowed ledges up near the slate roofs seemed to bob and writhe with invisible life. Then, with a querulous squawk and the beat of heavy wings, an enormous raven launched itself from the shadows and swooped low over Malus’ head before alighting at the peak of a pyramid of fresh trophies. The carrion bird glared impetuously at the passing highborn before cocking its sleek head and contemplating its resplendent red feast.
Within minutes the air was black with gore-crows, flapping and calling to one another as they soared down the city streets. They passed so close to Malus that he felt the wind of their wings against his face, and they showed no fear at all of Spite. Once the cold one stepped right over a sprawled body covered in hungry ravens, and the birds paid no attention whatever to the lumbering nauglir.
The constant chatter of the birds made Malus uneasy. Some of the ravens even croaked at Malus in passable druhir. “Sword and axe!” one bird called. “Skulls! Skulls!” cried another. “Blood and souls! Blood and souls!” croaked a third. Their eyes glittered cruelly as they jabbed at torn flesh with their daggerlike beaks.
He kicked Spite into a trot and rode on. Every house looked just like the next: stained walls and iron-banded doors of dark oak, without sign or symbol to identify who lived inside. At every turn Malus chose the uphill path, scattering ragged clouds of squawking birds before the nauglir’s one-ton tread.
When Malus heard the ringing clash of steel and the screams of wounded men he turned Spite in the direction of the sounds without hesitation, his previous fears eclipsed by the morbid celebration of the birds.
He headed up a long, straight lane, certain the fight was dead ahead. Moments later Malus reached a dogleg and found himself abruptly heading downhill.
Snarling, he pulled on the reins and turned Spite around in the cramped space to retrace his steps, and headed down another road that appeared to circle the hillside in the general direction of the battle.
That ended at a cul-de-sac piled with old bones and bare, white skulls. A lone, elderly druchii stood at the rail of an overhanging balcony, glaring down at Malus as he brought Spite about. The cold one knocked over piles of bones and crunched them underfoot, snapping irritably at the pall of fine dust kicked into the air. Snarling, the highborn kicked the nauglir into a canter, eager to be out from under the old man’s silent stare.
He nearly missed the knife-slit of an alley as they careened back along the street. Malus caught the path out of the corner of his eye and reined Spite in roughly, causing the war beast to growl angrily and back-pedal along the cobblestones. The alley seemed to point in the direction of the fight, and was barely wide enough for the cold one to wriggle through. The fit was so tight that Malus had to draw up his feet and rest them on the saddle’s cantle as the nauglir stalked down the narrow passage.
The alley intersected another street that seemed to climb the side of the hill at an angle. Malus reined in, cursing the damn labyrinth under his breath. Then he heard the unmistakeable ring of steel slicing flesh and a man’s agonised shout just ahead. “Slowly now, Spite,” Malus said quietly, prodding the cold one’s flanks with his spurs.
They turned up the cross street and followed only a few dozen yards to the first bend. Predictably, the road came to a dead end just ten yards farther on. It was there that the killers had cornered their prey.
Five men had been backed up against the sheer wall at the end of the lane; only one of them was still standing, and he bled from a score of deep wounds. There were six druchii arrayed against him, locals, Malus guessed, by the similarity of the dark robes they wore. Their pale faces were streaked with patterns of dried blood — the five-fingered sigil of the Bloody-Handed God — and they wielded a mix of axes, clubs and knives. Their intended victim wore a highborn’s kheitan and a breastplate of steel, and he fought with a knife in one hand and a long-hafted axe in the other. Despite his wounds, the man roared like a nauglir at his attackers, whirling his axe in a lethal pattern that drove the locals back. They had good reason to be wary of him; four others were already splayed out on the cobblestones, hacked open by the man’s ferocious axe work.
As Malus watched, the locals gave ground before the man, staying just far enough back to avoid the reach of the axe, but close enough to threaten him if they got a chance. All they had to do was wait, the highborn thought. The axe wielder was already white as Har Ganeth marble, his robes dark and heavy with his own blood. Soon enough he would slow, and falter, and then the knives would strike home.
The highborn was just about to turn away when he saw the pile of cloth bags set neatly side by side along the sheer wall behind the beleaguered axe man. He was one of the faithful.
Malus slid quietly from the saddle and stepped close to Spite’s head. He pointed to one of the locals. “That one,” he told the cold one. “Hunt!”
The cold one’s jaws gaped wide as the war beast crept with surprising stealth towards the unsuspecting man. The highborn picked out a victim of his own and stole quietly up behind him, his broad sword raised.
At the last moment Spite’s prey stiffened. Perhaps Khaine had sent him a premonition, or perhaps he’d simply caught a whiff of the nauglir’s carrion breath. He whirled, weapon ready, and barely had time to scream before the cold one’s jaws bit the man in half. Blood and entrails splattered across the cobblestones as the nauglir latched onto the druchii’s lower torso and began to feed.
Malus struck at the same moment, striking the man’s head from his shoulders with a single, sweeping blow. The headless body collapsed, bright arterial blood pumping from the severed neck, and the highborn leapt at the next man in line with a savage scream.
The surviving attackers recovered with surprising speed and two men turned on Malus, deeming him the greater threat. One of the locals, teeth bared in a bloodthirsty snarl, rushed at the highborn with a sweeping diagonal cut aimed at the point of his right shoulder. At the same moment the second attacker swept in wide from the left and swung his bloodstained club at Malus’ knee. Laughing hatefully, Malus gauged the speed of the axe and dodged backwards at the last second. Then he slapped the weapon aside with a hard stroke from his blade. It sent the man’s axe into the path of his companion, snapping his shin with a brittle crack. The club wielder fell face first with an anguished shriek, and Malus finished off the axe wielder with a backhanded stroke that opened his throat to the spine. The highborn turned back to the fallen man and took a moment to kick him in the side of the head. Then he turned back to the wounded zealot, but his foe was already down, blood pumping from a half dozen brutal wounds.
Smiling in satisfaction, Malus went back and finished off the druchii with the broken leg. He gave the axe man a comradely grin. “It’s well for you that I came along when I did, brother.”
The zealot was still standing over the body of his fallen foe. His head hung low and his shoulders trembled. Rivulets of bright blood shone against the pallid skin of his face and hands. He took a single, racking breath. “You… you saved me, holy one,” the man breathed.
Malus bent to wipe his sword clean on the dead druchii’s hair. “Well, I confess I had a question to ask you—”
Had the zealot not been half-dead from blood loss his first stroke would have split Malus from crown to navel. As it was, the highborn heard the faint scrape of the man’s boot and battlefield instincts threw him to the side. The axe came whistling down and split the dead druchii in two, but the zealot scarcely skipped a beat. He pulled his weapon free and leapt after Malus, his expression a rictus of madness and hate.