[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  This time he was lucid enough to know when he’d gone as far as he was able and managed to find a crude traveller’s shelter to huddle under out of the rain. He even took a chance on peeling away his breastplate and kheitan to get a good look at the wound Eleuril had given him. To his relief, the triangular puncture had squeezed shut, leaving behind an ugly, star-shaped scar. The daemon had managed to heal the ghastly wound, but it had evidently taken considerable time and effort. Even Tz’arkan’s power had its limits, Malus noted, which elated him almost as much as the scar did.

  As his strength gradually returned Malus increased his pace, riding on for hours after sunset until he was too weary to sit upright. He and Spite settled into a routine of sorts: when the highborn could go no further he would lead the nauglir into the tree line bordering the north side of the road and find a black oak or a pine to shelter beneath. With the last of his strength he would unsaddle Spite and turn him loose to hunt and by morning he would have a meal of fresh, bloody meat awaiting him. It was just enough to keep him going, drawing ever closer to the raiders and their plunder.

  By the end of the third day on the Slavers’ Road, Spite caught the scent of horses. The change in the cold one’s manner brought Malus from his weary reverie and he reined the warbeast in as he studied the course of the road ahead. In the far distance along the curve of the coast, Malus could see the square towers of Har Ganeth, the City of Executioners. Even leagues away, the sight sent a chill down the highborn’s spine. Much closer, perhaps only a few miles away on the other side of a series of rolling hills, Malus saw the very top of a single, narrow tower—Vaelgor Keep, one of the dozens of despatch-forts that lined the Slavers’ Road. Tendrils of smoke rose in twisting plumes around the spire—camp fires, the highborn reasoned, enough for a large band of druchii.

  Night was drawing on. The rain had stopped for the time being and even the heavy grey overcast had broken into scudding clouds, driven by a mild wind from the west. The slate-coloured hills were tinged with deep orange by the setting sun and the Sea of Malice was dark as raw iron. Weak and hollow as he felt, Malus’ heartbeat quickened at the thought that his prey was finally within reach. The highborn slid from the saddle and began to formulate his plan.

  A single full moon shone heavy and golden just above the eastern horizon, gleaming against a backdrop of tattered cloud. The wind continued to whisper out of the west, hissing over the sharp edges of the slate hills. Sounds from the encampment carried clearly to Malus from where he hid in the thick trees on the north side of the Slavers’ Road: men talked and cursed over games of dice, or hissed quiet laughter over cups of wine as they sat around one of the many watch-fires. Horses whickered nervously in the despatch-fort’s corral and hammers rang against steel as craftsmen at the fort went to work patching armour and weapons for the visiting warband.

  As near as Malus could tell, there were at least a hundred men camped outside the tower—low-ranking warriors and the staff of the fort itself, ejected from their tower to make room for their highborn guests. There were no standards flying within the camp, announcing the identity of the warband, an unusual practice, but not unheard of. Malus suspected that Isilvar had no desire to advertise his movements, possibly hoping to return to the Hag before anyone even suspected he was gone.

  The daemon chuckled coldly. “You stand upon the threshold, Malus. Will you take the fateful step?”

  Malus paused, his face twisting into a scowl. “What are you talking about, daemon?”

  For a moment Tz’arkan lay silent, then: “You were angered when I did not tell you of Eleuril and his prophecy. There is a prophecy at work here as well. Do you wish to hear it?”

  Malus’ fists clenched. “You know what will happen when I enter the tower?”

  “Oh, yes. The threads were woven centuries ago, Darkblade. Many, many twists and turns of fate have brought you to this point.” Malus could sense a slow revealing of pointed teeth as the daemon smiled, savouring his discomfort. “Shall I tell you?”

  “It matters not,” Malus snapped. “I will go into the tower regardless of what you say—if I don’t have the dagger, my soul is forfeit! So amuse me. What waits for me there?”

  The daemon’s reply was a whisper, like the intimate voice of a lover. “Ruin,” it said into his ear. “It is here that all your plans will be undone.”

  A chill raced along Malus’ spine. For a long moment he was too stunned to speak. “You’re lying,” he finally managed to say.

  “Why would I do that?” the daemon said. “Have I lied to you yet, Darkblade? I’m giving you a gift, warning you of the precipice ahead. You can turn aside and save yourself if you choose.”

  “You know I cannot!” the highborn raged, snarling under his breath. “If I wait any longer the tomb raiders will be under the protection of Har Ganeth and then later Naggorond itself! I must strike tonight!”

  “Then you must accept your fate—as it was foretold long ago,” the daemon said. “The stage is set, Darkblade. Go and play your role.”

  Tz’arkan’s laughter echoed in Malus’ head as he broke from the trees and crept through the shadows towards the tower. With every step it felt as though a noose was tightening around his throat, but still he continued, determined to succeed.

  At the edge of the encampment, just beyond the light of the watch-fires, Malus crouched on his heels and studied the route he would take through the camp to the doors of the tower. There were few druchii milling about; many were settled down eating, drinking or gambling after another long day’s march.

  Malus eyed the moon overhead. Its glow waxed and waned as streamers of cloud blew across its face. After a few moments another tattered shroud of grey fell over the shining orb and the camp was plunged into deep shadow. The highborn closed a hand on the hilt of his sword. It was time. Malus pulled his hood over his face and drew his dark cloak tight around his shoulders, then crept forward.

  He passed like a ghost through the camp, his steps so light that they were lost in the rustling of the wind. Most of the men in camp took no notice of him at all. A few caught a glimpse of a dark shape moving at the edge of their vision, but when they looked up from their meals or their dice they saw only darkness.

  Malus was across the camp in the space of a few minutes, nestled deep in the shadow of the tower itself. The keep was a tall, square-topped structure, dominated by a round, stained-glass window near the top. Clearly the fort was popular among warlords as a stopover during raids into the mountains to the north.

  Moving quietly and swiftly, Malus edged up to the keep’s thick black oak doors. Beyond, he could dimly hear the sounds of revelry. The highborn laid a grimy hand against the dark wood and pushed. It was clearly bolted against the night. Very well, he thought grimly, casting his eyes upwards once more.

  By the time he’d climbed the three storeys to reach the great window, his limbs were trembling with exertion. Summoning the last dregs of his bitter hate he drew his blades and pressed himself against the panes of red and cobalt glass. He could see the keep’s main hall below, dominated by the dim outline of the master’s table. There were figures seated there, eating or sipping wine. At the head of the table, a figure rose from his chair, holding an object aloft. The warlord’s voice filled the hall, rising blurrily to Malus’ ears.

  “The fabled Dagger of Torxus is ours! Our names will be inscribed in the roll of honour in Khaine’s own temple upon our return!”

  The cheers of the men filled Malus with a fiery rage and he threw himself against the window. The window panes shattered and the highborn leapt like a lion into the hall. “No, they will be inscribed on mortuary urns!” he declared as he landed in a shower of coloured glass.

  Shouts of alarm and the crashing of chairs filled the hall as half a dozen highborn retainers leapt to their feet. Swords hissed from their scabbards. Then the man at the head of the table turned to face Malus, his regal expression one of shock and anger entwined.

  The warlord met Malus’ eyes an
d the highborn felt the icy knife of recognition punch into his heart.

  The warlord fixed Malus with a furious glare. “Who dares intrude here?”

  “I do,” Malus heard himself say. The words came out in a tortured growl as the highborn choked back his dismay. He wanted nothing more than to flee the firelit hall, but it was too late for that now. The die was cast.

  The warlord’s eyes widened as he studied the sword-wielding figure before him. “You… you are druchii! One of us! What has happened to you?”

  Malus paused, his brow furrowing. Then he realised how he must look—a gaunt, haggard figure, covered in layers of dried blood and grime. “Who cares?” He pointed to the dagger in the warlord’s hand. “That is all I am interested in. The Dagger of Torxus—I spent weeks searching for it, only to find that your warband had already looted it.” Malus sheathed his sword and took a step forward, extending his hand. “Give it to me.”

  The warlord looked at the dagger, then considered Malus’ outstretched hand. His eyes widened as he saw the thick, black veins pulsing beneath the highborn’s skin, then a look of shock passed over his face as his gaze fell upon the ruby cabochon gleaming dully from Malus’ index finger.

  “Wait… I know you now,” he said suddenly. The warlord looked more closely at Malus’ face—and his expression dissolved into a look of blackest rage. “Malus. Malus!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

  It was all slipping from his hands. All his careful plans and secret ambitions; he could feel them tumbling from his grasp. Malus drew his second sword and rushed at the warlord with a howl of rage.

  The warlord’s face went pale. “Stop him! In the name of Khaine, stop him!” he commanded and his retainers leapt to obey.

  The warriors were flush with wine and overconfident in their numbers. They expected Malus to give ground at their approach, but he threw himself at them like a wounded wolf. The first man barely got his blade up in time to parry a savage cut to his face—Malus knocked the warrior’s blade aside and thrust his other sword into the retainer’s neck. Bright blood sprayed from the wound and the man fell, choking on his own fluids.

  Blows rained upon Malus from every direction. A sword crashed against his back and rebounded from his armour, another bit a notch from his left ear. The highborn blocked a thrust to his shoulder and brought his other blade down on the attacker’s wrist. The master-forged blade sheared through the jointed wrist and sent the retainer’s hand spinning across the chamber. Sensing an opening, another warrior leapt in from Malus’ left, stabbing for his arm. The blade struck between two armour plates and scored a deep wound across the highborn’s bicep. Without thinking, Malus slashed his blade across the man’s eyes with a backhanded stroke. “Aghhh! My face! My face!” the man screamed, reeling away from the fight.

  A sword crashed into Malus’ right shoulder, knocking him sideways—saving him from the second man’s blade, which tore a ragged gash in the highborn’s scalp instead of splitting his skull. Malus felt hot blood spill down the side of his face as he threw himself against the warrior to his right. The retainer tried to forestall the highborn with a cut to Malus’ neck, but the highborn blocked it with his left-hand blade and crashed headlong into the man, knocking him to the floor. Before the warrior could recover the highborn stomped on the retainer’s groin and then cut the man’s agonised scream short with a thrust through his right eye.

  Malus jerked his blade free and spun in time to meet the charge of the last warrior. The retainer aimed a flurry of blows at the highborn’s head and neck, driving him backwards across the hall. Malus blocked each stroke with swift slashes of his right-hand blade, holding back his left-hand sword like a viper poised to strike. The warrior steadily beat his way through the highborn’s guard, scoring a cut on Malus’ cheek—and then his foot came down on a spilled goblet and he stumbled. The highborn checked his retreat and thrust with his left-hand sword, taking the retainer in the throat. Two feet of red steel jutted from the back of the man’s neck, severing the spine, and the retainer collapsed lifelessly to the floor.

  The highborn’s sword rang on bone as he tore it free from the warrior’s neck. A sudden movement at the corner of his eye made Malus turn, raising his blade just in time as the warlord swung his broad blade at Malus’ chest. “May the inferno take you, you scum!” the warlord cried. The point of the warlord’s blade struck the highborn in the right arm and found an unprotected gap between vambrace and pauldron. Malus scarcely felt the blade slice through his flesh.

  The warlord redoubled his attack, slashing furiously at Malus’ chest. The highborn leapt backwards out of the sword’s reach. The sword flashed at Malus’ face and this time he was able to strike the flat of the heavy blade and knock it aside. As it was, he was being driven steadily backwards, towards the far end of the hall. The druchii hammered at Malus without pause, berserk with rage.

  The warlord let out an anguished roar and leapt at Malus, his sword held in a two-handed grip above his head. The movement drew the man’s breastplate up and away, opening a narrow gap in his overlapping armour. Without thinking, Malus dropped to one knee and thrust forward with all his strength. The point of the sword hit the mail covering the warlord’s abdomen and split the rings neatly apart. The weight of the druchii’s charge did the rest. He drove himself full onto Malus’ sword, sinking down its razor-edged length almost to the hilt. The warlord groaned, falling to his knees.

  Numb with despair, Malus put his boot against the warlord’s chest and pulled his sword free. Dark blood poured from the wound in a torrent. The druchii stared dumbly at the gore staining his palms, then looked up at the highborn.

  “Why, Malus, why?” he asked, his mind already succumbing to shock.

  The highborn’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “I do what I must,” he replied. “Goodbye, father,” he said bitterly, then struck the warlord’s head from his shoulders.

  Lurhan’s body toppled to the stone floor. Malus stared at the corpse and tasted ashes in his mouth. How many times had he longed for such a moment? In his dreams the scene had always played out as a triumph, not a tragedy.

  Malus bent down and pulled the dagger from Lurhan’s belt. He’d gained the relic, but at the cost of his own life. He was an outlaw now.

  The highborn felt the daemon stir within him. “Father?” Tz’arkan said, his voice thick with feigned shock. “Malus, did you just kill your own father?”

  “I got the relic you wanted, didn’t I?” he snarled, half-sick with rage and dismay.

  I had no choice, he thought fiercely. I had no choice!

  Chapter Ten

  THE WOUNDED WOLF

  Malus felt the floor beneath him tremble as a heavy weight crashed to the ground several floors below the main hall and faint cries of alarm began echoing up the keep’s central staircase. The highborn whirled, catching sight of a trail of bright crimson leading across the hall and down the tower stair. A quick count showed that one of the vaulkhar’s retainers was missing—the man whose hand Malus had severed early in the fight. The warrior had summoned his courage and staggered downstairs to throw open the doors and warn the camp that their lord had been killed.

  The highborn let out a feral snarl as reason warred with animal desperation. The only way out was back the way he’d come. He glanced back at the shattered window. “Daemon!” he cried. “Lend me your strength. Hurry!”

  “Vou are too greedy, little druchii!” Tz’arkan replied. “Your veins are already black with my touch and you would have still more?”

  “Enough of your mockery!” The highborn got a running start and leapt to the window sill. He barely reached it, his muscles weak from the bite of druchii swords. A cool wind blew against his face, its touch deceptively warm compared to the chill that emanated from his bones. Black night yawned beneath him. Three storeys below, figures with naked steel in their hands charged across the fort’s open square and disappeared into the keep. Malus leaned out into that perilous gulf, his weak fing
ers straining to keep purchase on the narrow window frame. “Will you give me what I desire, daemon, or shall I simply flap my wings and hope to fly?”

  “It matters not to me—” the daemon began.

  “Liar!” Malus snapped. “I hold three of the five relics in my hand, you damnable fiend! If I die here this mob will claim them and they will be scattered once again! This is not just my life you toy with, but your own freedom as well. So help me—or resign yourself to another millennium of captivity!”

  An enraged cry reverberated in Malus’ head—but at the same time a trickle of icy vigour spread painfully through his limbs. Strength returned and the world snapped back into crystalline focus. Just as the first of Lurhan’s men lumbered clumsily into the hall, Malus swung from the window frame and leapt lightly to a narrow ledge several feet away. Like a spider he descended down the walls of the keep as the retainers searched the hall above in a vain attempt to avenge their lord.

  Lurhan’s surviving retainers were all virtuous men—or perhaps they feared the consequences of returning to the Hag without the head of the vaulkhar’s killer. By the time Malus had made his way back to Spite, the air shivered with the cries of hunting horns as the warband set itself upon his trail.

  After running the three miles back to his mount, Malus was in no shape to be stealthy. He crashed through the underbrush, slapping aside branches and lumbering through vines as he raced for the nauglir’s hiding place. It was only the slow, rumbling hiss emanating from the small clearing up ahead that brought the highborn up short. In the darkness beneath the trees Malus could just see the shape of the cold one, its shoulders hunched and its head low to the ground. He’d startled the nauglir with his sudden approach, the highborn realised. Another step and he might have been bitten in half.