by Dan Abnett
“Then blood it will be!” Shebbolai roared. “Show us the way, holy one. We live and die at your command!”
The highborn looked down upon the chieftain and smiled an executioner’s smile. “Follow me, sons of the red sword. Death and glory await.”
Malus led the tribe out into the wasteland, returning to the place where the Vermillion Gate had left him. He had no idea if it would make any difference, but it gave him some time to think and take stock of the forces at his command.
The Chaos warriors did not march as an army of Naggaroth, in ordered lines and divisions. They swept over the plain in a ragged mob, perhaps two hundred strong, riding swift, lean horses that moved as if they shared a single mind with their masters. Hoarse shouts and lusty war cries echoed in the darkness as the warriors followed the Scourge from the city. The prospect of battle had quickened their blood, banishing doubt and fear.
The same could not be said for Malus. He rode ahead of the unruly mob with the warpsword riding in its scabbard against his hip. With the weapon sheathed he felt cold again, the heat of Khaine’s hunger leaching slowly from his muscles and leaving him wretched and weak. Every few moments his hand would stray to the weapon’s hilt, as if he was warming himself by the side of a small fire.
Tz’arkan stirred within Malus. Where before the daemon’s presence seemed to swell within the highborn’s chest, now it caused his whole body to tremble. “You grow overbold, little druchii,” the daemon sneered. “You trifle with forces beyond your understanding, and you think to lead this pitiful mob to war with your brother?”
Malus looked back at Shebbolai, riding just a few yards behind the highborn, and beyond to the shifting crowd of riders spread out across the plain. “I don’t expect them to triumph,” he said coldly. “I expect them to die, in as dramatic a fashion as possible. I will need a grand diversion if I’m to reach the Sanctum of the Sword and deal with Urial.”
It was a gamble, to be sure, and a desperate one. As fearsome as the warpsword was, Malus didn’t care to pit himself against Tyran and his entire band of zealots. If he could distract them with a sudden attack inside the walls of the fortress, it might buy him enough time to reach the temple and confront Urial directly. He hoped that with his half-brother dead the zealots would accept him as the new Scourge or else lose heart and scatter into the night. Then he could deal with Rhulan or whoever was commanding the forces of the temple.
“You think that you can defeat Urial by yourself?” the daemon sneered.
Malus’ hand strayed towards the hilt of the warpsword. “With this I can.”
“You are a fool, Darkblade!”
“No, daemon. You put this sword into my hands. If you didn’t think I’d take it up and use it to slay my enemies then you are the fool, not I.”
As he spoke, Malus caught sight of a trio of ragged shapes lying upon the lifeless ground and realised they’d reached the site of his battle with Shebbolai’s champions. He prodded Spite into a canter and rode halfway up the shallow rise so he that could turn and regard the tribesmen. As the nauglir heeled about the riders brought their mounts to a halt and waited expectantly.
Malus drew the warpsword, shuddering slightly as the rush of heat flooded his body. “Warriors of the red sword,” he cried, “the hour of your redemption is at hand! Follow me and cleanse your souls in the blood of the foe! Kill every man who stands in your way!”
Shebbolai drew a fearsome, curved sword and waved it in the air. “Blood for the Blood God!”
The night air erupted in a cacophony of bestial shouts to Khaine. Malus smiled, and focused his will upon the sword. Open the gate, he commanded. Return us to the temple, you damned Lord of Murder, and we’ll reap a red harvest in your name.
An angry rumble shook the air. Whether it was thunder or the growl of a bloodthirsty god Malus could not say, for at that moment the warriors of the tribe cried out in terror and the world turned inside out.
* * * * *
They appeared under clear skies, with a bright pair of moons overhead. The transition was so jarring that for a moment Malus was completely disorientated.
Horses screamed and men shouted in wonder and fear. The night shook with the stern cry of trumpets and Malus heard shouts of alarm echoing down the lanes of the temple fortress. Then the world snapped back into focus.
Malus and the warriors found themselves in the broad avenue between the Citadel of Bone and the dwarf-built temple. White-robed zealots were charging from every building and pathway, and the alarm trumpets continued to sound. It was as if their arrival had been expected somehow, the highborn thought. If so, his gambit had already failed.
The sounds of battle revivified the Chaos warriors, however, and already screams and clashes of steel echoed across the avenue. Malus stood in his saddle. “Warriors of Khaine, redeem yourselves in the blood of your foes!”
With a bloodthirsty roar the marauders spurred their horses and threw themselves headlong at the zealots, and in moments a fierce, swirling melee raged along the length of the avenue. More zealots were streaming in from every direction, but for the moment the horsemen had an edge in both numbers and mobility. The highborn knew the tide would turn soon enough.
Malus put his heels to Spite’s flanks and dashed for the temple.
White-robed warriors raced across his path from left and right, trying to cut him off. The highborn pulled on his reins and headed directly at the zealot on his right. To his credit, the zealot held his ground, readying his weapon to strike at Spite’s head, but at the last moment Malus changed direction again, veering left and swiping his sword at the warrior as he went past. The zealot’s draich bit into Spite’s shoulder just as Malus took off the top of the warrior’s skull.
Steel rang on Malus’ left side. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the second zealot’s headless body collapsing to the ground. Shebbolai and half a dozen marauders had fallen in behind Malus, using spears and swords to kill anyone who came too close. The marauder chieftain raised his sword to the heavens, laughing like a fiend. Malus grinned cruelly and put his boots to Spite’s flanks.
The doors to the temple were open as Malus reined in before the building’s broad steps. Fearing an ambush, he dismounted quickly and let Shebbolai and the marauders take the lead. The Chaos warriors raced across the threshold, and almost immediately Malus heard screams and the sounds of battle. As he charged through the doorway, he found the marauders slaughtering a group of temple servants who had been stacking a new set of trophies near the doors.
“This way!” Malus shouted as he dashed across the large chamber. Shebbolai and the men followed the highborn as he raced up the stairs to the chapel. He burst into the chamber expecting at least a handful of zealot guards, but the smaller chamber was empty.
Something’s wrong, Malus thought, feeling the first twinges of dread tickle at his heart. The Cauldron of Khaine seethed and bubbled on the ceremonial dais with no one to attend it. It felt like an ambush, but how could Urial have possibly expected this?
Gritting his teeth, Malus decided that it didn’t matter. He was committed, one way or the other, and would have to see things through to the bitter end. Taking a deep breath, he made his way to the sanctum stairs.
Shebbolai and the marauders gasped at the towering statue of Khaine as they worked their way around the dais and climbed to the red-lit doorway. Malus gripped the warpsword tightly, drawing strength from its heat as he approached the door. He remembered all too well what had happened the last time he’d stood at that narrow threshold.
Raw power seethed from the doorway, washing over Malus’ skin and making the warpsword vibrate in his hands. “Be ready for anything” the highborn warned the marauders, and stepped inside.
Malus was not prepared for what he found.
The very air howled and shimmered with pain.
Malus stood at the foot of a broad bridge fashioned from skulls that crossed a sea of seething red. Heat and light rose from its surface like the gl
ow of a furnace, searing his skin and filling his ears with the cries of the damned.
At the far end of the bridge stood another doorway leading into the sanctum, and at the bridge’s midpoint, naked and gleaming in the ruddy light, stood Yasmir.
Malus looked upon her and felt smaller and weaker than he’d ever known before. She was unearthly, radiant in her lethal beauty. Her dark eyes met his and she smiled, revealing her leonine fangs. Behind Malus, one of the marauders moaned like a frightened child.
“Who is she?” asked Shebbolai, his voice full of dread.
Malus didn’t know what to say. Finally he shrugged. “She is my bride,” he said grimly, and went to meet her.
She waited for his approach, spreading her arms slightly. Had it not been for the slim, needle-like knives in her hands she might have been offering herself to her lover.
The highborn clenched the warpsword tightly. One did not fight Yasmir; one offered oneself up to die. For an instant he thought of the daemon, but he pushed the idea away. The warpsword would have to be enough.
Her gaze was inscrutable. It was as if she stared through him, seeing some vista beyond the ken of mortals. When she was within reach of his longer sword he came to a halt. His fingers flexed on the sword’s leather wrapped hilt.
Yasmir made no move. She continued to stare through him as if he wasn’t even there. Malus frowned. “Hello, sister,” he said.
At the sound of his voice her expression changed. Her eyes shifted slightly, as if she was seeing him for the first time, and then she was flying at him, her daggers reaching for his throat.
Malus brought the warpsword up in the nick of time, barely deflecting the lethal strikes, but there was no time to recover, as the living saint switched targets and began a series of deadly thrusts at his face, chest and groin. She never stopped moving, flowing towards him like a dancer and making a lethal move with each and every step.
He had no time to be afraid. The warpsword seemed to move of its own accord, matching Yasmir blow for blow. Once again, he saw the fight unfold with a detached clarity, as if he was a spectator rather than a combatant. Her speed and grace were devastating. Even though he could read Yasmir’s next attack his body was hard-pressed to counter it.
She drove him back steadily, keeping him constantly on the defensive. A dagger thrust sank a quarter of an inch into his throat, but he scarcely felt it. Another blow stung him like an adder just below his eye.
The next one was going to hit his hip, right where the breastplate met his fauld. Malus waited until the last possible moment, and then pivoted on his left foot and let her thrust slide past. He continued the spin, turning it into a lightning quick backhanded cut aimed for her neck. The warpsword hissed through the air, but Yasmir was already gone, rolling forwards out of the sword’s path.
Malus rushed at her, but Yasmir recovered from the roll at once and whirled, knocking aside his stop thrust, and making a blurring stab for his neck. The highborn sensed the strike and faded back, deflecting the thrust with the flat of his blade.
Two marauders charged at Yasmir, their weapons aiming for her slender back. She reversed her daggers with a flourish and stabbed both warriors through the heart, before pushing their corpses off and tucking into a tight roll towards the highborn. When she came up out of the roll her blades were reaching for his throat and a terrible smile of joy lit her unearthly face.
Malus had anticipated her attack and ducked beneath the thrust. His sword swept up at her torso and her knives fell into a cross block, trapping his sword. Malus yanked his sword clear, feinted low and then thrust at her neck, just as she twisted her body, deflecting the attack with her right hand dagger and stabbing at Malus with her left.
The point of her dagger scratched the hollow of his throat and stopped. She could reach no further with her right hand blocking Malus’ sword. They were at a deadlock.
Yasmir looked into Malus’ eyes. She seemed to truly recognise him for the first time. “I cannot kill him,” she said breathily.
Malus gave her a bemused frown, and then realised that she wasn’t speaking to him.
From behind the highborn, back towards the doorway at the far end of the bridge, he heard Urial’s angry voice. “What is this foolishness?”
Malus thought quickly. “She cannot kill me because we are too evenly matched,” he said. Slowly, carefully, he stepped away from Yasmir and lowered his sword. She mirrored his moves exactly. “As befits a bride and a groom, don’t you think?”
Angry shouts from the other end of the bridge caught his attention. The marauders were retreating from a group of bloodstained zealots, and two fearsome grey figures that crawled like spiders down the stone walls above the doorway to the chapel. The Chaos beasts lashed their tentacles hungrily as they sank closer to their prey.
There was a meaty thump near Malus’ feet and something bounced heavily off his calf. He looked down and saw Arleth Vann’s bloodstained head roll to a stop at his feet.
“He told me everything,” Urial hissed. “An assassin’s body can resist torture, but his spirits are powerless to one such as I.”
Malus turned to face his half-brother, pure murder dancing in his eyes. “If he told you where I went,” he said raising the warpsword, “then you know what this is.”
Urial stood at the far end of the bridge, the copy of the warpsword clutched in his left hand. His face twisted with rage. “It is not yours, you misbegotten cur! It is meant for me! I was reborn in the cauldron while you were whelped by that Naggorite whore. If you are here it is because Khaine willed it so. You are here so that I may take the sword from your broken and bleeding body.”
Malus smiled. “Do you want it, brother? Come then, and take it.”
Urial screamed like one of the damned and charged at Malus, his sword held ready. Behind the highborn Shebbolai roared a challenge at the zealots, and suddenly the air rang with the clash of steel and the screams of the dying.
Malus charged at his half-brother, a war scream bursting from his throat. He read Urial’s every move, knowing his blade would come slashing down for his shoulder half a second before the blow fell. The warpsword swept up, knocking the blow aside. Then Malus reversed the stroke and sliced at Urial’s chest. Before the blow could connect, however, Urial’s form blurred, and the sword passed through the space where he had been.
Damned sorcery! Malus whirled just as Urial’s blade whipped at his face from an unexpected angle. Caught by surprise, the sword sliced neatly across his cheek. Hot blood poured down his face, and Urial laughed.
Malus stabbed at his half-brother, but again, the sorcerer’s form blurred and seemed to coalesce three feet to the left. Urial’s sword stabbed out, glancing from Malus’ armour, and the highborn spun and slashed down at the extended arm, but once again, it was like cutting at air. Urial blurred and then reformed again to Malus’ right. This time the highborn was expecting an attack and was ready when Urial lashed out at his neck. Malus parried the blow and stepped in for a thrust, but again, his half-brother turned to smoke and reappeared three feet to the highborn’s right. His half-brother’s sword flashed, and Malus felt a spike of pain lance through his right thigh.
The highborn roared in anger, and rushed at his half-brother just as a heavy weight landed on the bridge behind him. He heard the tentacles hissing through the air a fraction too late as the Chaos beast entwined his sword arm and waist and lifted him into the air.
Hissing, gobbling howls rang in Malus’ ears as the beast reared onto its hind legs and lashed at Malus with the rest of its tentacles. Barbed hooks grated across Malus’ armour as he was spun through the air.
He could hear Urial cursing the beast, but the hunter paid the sorcerer no mind, intent on drawing Malus towards its clashing beak.
Snarling, Malus shifted the warpsword to his free hand and slashed at the tentacles holding him. The warpsword parted the flesh whips in a spray of steaming ichor and he plunged face first to the bridge. He hit hard on his left shoulde
r and rolled away down the beast’s right flank. Malus rolled to his feet as the Chaos beast rounded on him, and he buried his sword in the creature’s neck just as two of its tentacles smashed against the side of his head. The blows knocked the highborn to the ground and he rolled clear, dragging his sword with him.
When his vision cleared Malus found himself facing back towards the chapel end of the bridge. The second Chaos beast had leapt from the wall and clung to the side of the stone span, snatching men in the midst of the melee and lifting them clear. As Malus watched, the hunter snatched one of the marauders from the battle and lifted the wriggling body high overhead, whereupon it began to pull the man limb from limb.
Tyran and Shebbolai faced one another, trading blows with their curved swords in a blur of razor edged motion. All around them zealots and marauders tore at one another with single-minded ferocity, although it was clear that with the Chaos beast on their side the zealots would soon gain the upper hand. Yasmir stood apart from the battle, watching the slaughter with dispassionate interest.
A shadow loomed over Malus. Urial’s sword whirred through the air and struck the bridge where the highborn had been, but Malus had rolled away and was clambering unsteadily to his feet.
Roaring with hate, Urial charged at his half-brother, launching a series of powerful blows that Malus blocked with steady, deft strokes. Malus didn’t attempt to strike back, knowing that it would only give Urial a chance to discorporate and strike him from an unexpected angle. Instead he gave ground, defending himself easily and trying to think of a way to turn the tables.
With every step Malus drew closer to the melee at the end of the bridge. On impulse he blocked Urial’s next attack, and turned and ran towards the battle. Behind him, Urial laughed in disdain and lurched after him, dragging his twisted foot across the smooth stone.
A zealot struck down one of the Chaos warriors and stepped in Malus’ path. The highborn cut the man in half and dashed past before the bloody halves hit the ground. He raced right for the last Chaos beast, which saw him coming and reached for him with eight thrashing tentacles. He seemed to race directly into the creature’s embrace, but at the last moment he threw himself to the ground and rolled beneath the creature’s head.