[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  The cackling figure stepped into the red-lit haze. Lank black hair hung loosely around a youthful face that was crisscrossed with a pattern of deep and poorly healed scars. Two silver earrings glinted from the chewed nub of his right ear and a patchy grey goatee was the only hair left on the man’s ravaged head.

  Malus knew the man at once.

  Fuerlan, Balneth Bale’s son and formerly the black ark’s hostage to Hag Graef, looked up at Malus with dark eyes devoid of mercy or reason. When he spoke his voice rasped like broken glass, shattered beneath the weight of hours of agonising screams.

  “And when we take that cursed city you will have the honour of placing the drachau’s crown upon my head,” Fuerlan whispered hatefully.

  Malus trembled in the sorcerous trap, helpless in the grip of his enemies. Tz’arkan was right, he thought. Mother of Night protect me, the fiend was right.

  Perhaps seeing the horror in Malus’ eyes, Fuerlan threw back his head and cackled like a madman. Then the figure at Fuerlan’s side withdrew her hand from the Naggorite’s arm and extended a pale finger at Malus’ forehead. As she did so, the light of the braziers reached inside the depths of her hood and Malus saw a familiar pair of dark, hateful eyes burning into his own.

  Nagaira! Malus thought—then the finger rested lightly against his forehead and the world dissolved in an explosion of white light.

  Chapter Fourteen

  COUNCILS OF WAR

  Malus awoke with sunlight on his face, lying on a wide bed beneath piles of heavy blankets and furs. He opened his eyes tentatively, squinting against the glare. His mouth felt as though it had been filled with paste and left to set overnight. With a groan he rolled onto his side—there was a faint sense of soreness in his left shoulder and arm and his limbs were weak, as if he’d lain in the grip of a powerful fever. A few feet across the bedchamber stood a small table and upon the table sat a pitcher and a polished metal goblet. Malus took a deep breath, summoning his strength and slid his bare legs out from beneath the blankets. The air in the room was cool and the stone floor was colder still as he shrugged off the covers and slowly rose to his feet. Naked, he padded quickly to the pitcher and poured himself a cup full of dark red wine. He gulped the first cup down greedily, then poured another and sipped it steadily as he surveyed his surroundings.

  It was a large room, fit for a well-to-do highborn. The bed, table and chairs were expertly carved from blooded oak and thick hangings covered the smooth stone walls to help keep out the chill. A tall chest of ebony wood stood against one wall. When he opened it, Malus found rich woollen robes and an indigo-dyed kheitan, along with a pair of fine black boots. Next to the chest stood an empty armour stand, which led him to wonder where his plate harness and weapons were.

  Stranger still was the fact that the question didn’t trouble him in the least. He felt entirely at ease, despite the fact that he didn’t recognise the room and hadn’t the faintest idea where he was.

  Malus finished off his second goblet of wine, savouring the warmth filling his belly and reluctantly set the cup back on the table. The only illumination in the room was the shaft of grey sunlight streaming through the tall window opposite the bed; thin curtains shifted restlessly in the breeze streaming in from outside. The highborn walked to the window and pulled back the curtains enough to peer outside. He looked out on a profusion of tall, slate-roofed towers—and a trio of worn, blackened masts rising more than a hundred and fifty feet into the air.

  He was at the Black Ark of Naggor, Malus realised with a start. Then he noticed that the hand holding back the curtains was covered in lines of fine, black script. Bemused, Malus inspected his scarred body and found it covered in line after line of arcane script.

  “Some of my best work, if I do say so myself,” said a voice from behind Malus. it took hours upon hours to get it right, but the end result was quite satisfactory.”

  The voice sent a chill down Malus’ spine. It was familiar, seductive—and yet alien, somehow. Something about the timbre of the voice, or the tone… he couldn’t quite say what, but it filled him with unease. He turned, clumsily and saw her sitting in a low chair in a dark corner of the room. She wore heavy, woollen robes dyed a deep red and a kheitan of blackened dwarf hide. Nagaira’s strong fingers were steepled contemplatively as she studied him. He could feel her eyes upon him like a blade against his skin, though her face was masked in deep shadow. “Tell me, dear brother, how do you feel?”

  A dozen intemperate responses tumbled through Malus’ mind. He struggled to maintain his composure. “Right now, I feel like having another drink,” he managed to say. “Would you care to join me, sister?”

  Nagaira smiled—Malus couldn’t see her expression, but he could feel her amusement—and she shook her head slightly. “I would have a care with this country wine if I were you,” she said. “It’s potent stuff and you’ve been ill for a long time.”

  Malus returned to the table and poured another drink while he tried to dredge his memory for clues to his situation. Everything was hazy and indistinct and the more he concentrated, the hazier his recollections became. “How long?” he asked.

  “Just over a week. The corruption in your wounds ran very deep—without my sorcery, I doubt you would have survived.”

  Malus frowned, taking another sip of wine. Already his head felt light, but he welcomed the feeling. He glanced down at his left shoulder and arm and saw a pink scar on his bicep. “Wounded, you say?”

  For a moment, Nagaira was silent. “How much do you remember, brother?”

  Malus took a deep breath, grasping mentally at wisps of fog. Fragmentary images came and went, tumbling through his grasp like bits of broken glass.

  Glass. An image of a hall in some far-off keep. Dead men lying in pools of blood and a head leaving a trail of steaming blood as it rolled across the stone floor.

  The highborn glanced at Nagaira. “Father is dead,” he said simply. “I killed him.”

  “Yes. Do you remember why?”

  “I needed a reason?” Malus asked with a half-hearted smile. Just as quickly his expression changed to a worried frown. “Honestly, I don’t know for certain. We were in a tower somewhere—”

  “Vaelgor Keep,” Nagaira said. “It’s a despatch-fort on the Slavers’ Road near Har Ganeth, or so I’m told. Lurhan had concluded some secret campaign up in the hills and was headed home when you appeared out of nowhere and confronted him.”

  “I? Confronted him about what?”

  Nagaira spread her hands. “Only you can answer that, brother. No one else survived to tell the tale. You slew Lurhan and his chief retainers single-handedly and fled into the night.”

  Malus nodded thoughtfully, reaching for more shards of memory. “There was a fight on the road…”

  “More than one, I should think. You’d been shot several times and the wounds were festering by the time you arrived here. You were raving like a madman by the time you encountered a Naggorite patrol. Fortunately for you, the lord in charge was one of the Witch Lord’s cousins and he must have recognised the family resemblance. They chased off Lurhan’s men and brought you here, where I’ve been trying to save you ever since.” She folded her arms and inclined her head thoughtfully. “Loss of memory is common after a long fever, though it should return over time.”

  Malus eyed Nagaira warily as he finished his wine. “I must say I’m surprised at your efforts on my behalf.”

  Nagaira chuckled. “I see there are some things you have no trouble recalling.”

  He could remember her hanging in the air above her ruined tower, surrounded by a swirling vortex of unearthly power. She had tried to lure him into the forbidden Cult of Slaanesh and he’d betrayed her to the Temple of Khaine because… Well, he couldn’t remember exactly why. “I was certain you’d died in that explosion, sister.”

  “That’s because you’re no sorcerer,” Nagaira said smugly. “It suited my purposes for Lurhan and the drachau to believe me dead, though.”

&n
bsp; “And so you came here.”

  “What better refuge for an outlawed witch? Balneth Bale was sympathetic to my plight for a number of reasons,” she said. “I daresay you thought much the same thing or you wouldn’t have come here yourself.”

  Malus shrugged, conceding the point. “You still haven’t explained why you went to such lengths to heal me.”

  “Instead of weaving a robe out of your living nerves, you mean?”

  The highborn suppressed a chill. “The thought had occurred, yes.”

  Nagaira sighed, like a cold wind whistling over broken stone. “I was tempted, of course,” she said, a hint of steel slipping into her tone. “You will never appreciate how much knowledge was lost when my library was destroyed. For that alone you deserved to be unwound from your bones an inch at a time. And it may happen yet, dear brother. Do keep that in mind. For now, though, Balneth Bale expects great things from you and I am of course obligated to aid my host in any way I can.”

  “Ah,” Malus replied. Things were becoming a bit clearer, even if his memories remained jumbled and vague. “And what exactly does the Witch Lord expect of me?”

  “You will have to ask him yourself,” she said. “He has summoned you to attend a war council with the rest of his banner lords.”

  “Banner lords?” Malus raised a questioning eyebrow. “I’ve sworn myself to his service?”

  “As I said, you were delirious for some time,” Nagaira replied. “When Lurhan’s men entered Bale’s territory to try and catch you they technically violated the terms of the truce between the black ark and Hag Graef. And now that our father is dead the Witch Lord sees an opportunity for a swift campaign against the Hag.”

  “A resumption of the feud? To what purpose? It was Lurhan who defeated Bale’s army in the field and conquered the ark all those years ago.”

  “That’s so,” Nagaira agreed, “but he did it upon the orders of the drachau, Uthlan Tyr, who got them in turn from the Witch King himself. If Lurhan had simply done as he was ordered and killed Eldire for her crimes Bale’s feud would have been with Malekith alone. Instead the vaulkhar took her as his concubine and the two cities have been fighting ever since. Now, I think Bale intends to seize Hag Graef and install Fuerlan as the drachau and by the laws of blood feud Malekith will have no choice but to sit by and watch.”

  Malus gave a snort of disgust. “Bale and his men defeat the army of the Flag? They don’t stand a chance.”

  “That, I expect, is where you come in, dear brother.” Nagaira rose smoothly to her feet. There was something in the motion that was vaguely unsettling, but Malus couldn’t put his finger on what. The council is underway even now, so best not to tarry,” she continued. “Although I would suggest putting some clothes on before we go.”

  Malus bit back an angry retort. He wasn’t some hound to be dragged about on a leash and paraded before some country lords! When had he agreed to serve Balneth Bale and why? What had he been thinking?

  Conversely, what other choice did he have? After killing Lurhan he obviously thought that Bale would offer him sanctuary—and he’d been right, though at a steep price. He had no stomach for waging war against a city he’d one day hoped to rule himself—but war had a way of creating opportunities for the ambitious, he told himself. Before he knew it he was standing before the chest of clothes and pulling on a robe and boots. “What of my armour and swords?” he asked.

  “The armour is being mended. I confess we don’t know what happened to your swords, which is a pity since they cost me a fortune,” Nagaira said.

  Malus turned to his sister, a jibe rising to his lips—and the words died in his throat. She had stepped from the shadows of the corner and was pouring herself a cup of wine—but her face was still hidden in deep shadow. It was as though darkness hung about her like a cloak, concealing her features behind a shifting veil of night. Her pale hands almost glowed against the backdrop of sorcerous shadow as she lifted the polished goblet to her lips. She took a drink and noticed Malus’ stare. Nagaira turned, setting the cup deliberately on the surface of the table. He could feel her eyes upon him again like a bared blade.

  “My apologies, brother,” she said coldly. Were you not finished with the wine?”

  Two guards in full armour stood with bared blades before the iron-bound door. When Nagaira approached they bowed their heads respectfully and stepped aside—a little too quickly, Malus noted as he followed in his sister’s wake. Not that he much blamed them. If the woman garbed herself in woven darkness, what else might she be capable of? But it was more than just the cloak of shadow—she had changed profoundly since that fateful night in the tower. A price had been paid for calling up the Chaos storm, he surmised, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask what that might have been. In truth, he wasn’t certain he would like the answer.

  The witch reached out and laid a fingertip against the entwined necks of the wyverns and the door swung silently open. A rush of sound flooded out into the anteroom: men arguing, bottles clinking against cups, raucous laughter and bitter curses. But for the surroundings, Malus could have sworn he was about to step into a brewhouse rather than a council of war.

  Nagaira glided like a ghost across the threshold and the clamour was snuffed like a candle. Malus heard his sister address Balneth Bale. “If it please you, my lord, Malus of Hag Graef has come in answer to your summons and stands ready to assist you in your council of war.”

  The highborn stifled a growl at Nagaira’s announcement. Who was she to speak for him so freely? Yet he held his tongue as he entered the presence of the Witch Lord and his lieutenants.

  Half a dozen armoured highborn sat in low chairs arranged in a rough circle before a tall chair of thorned ebony. Servants moved among the men, pouring wine or offering trays of food and retreating behind screens of heavy tapestries. A table sat in the centre of the circle, laid out with a large map of northern Naggaroth. On it, someone had drawn an arrow in red ink that ran from the black ark south and east along the Spear Road

  to Hag Graef.

  Balneth Bale sat straight as a banner-pole on his ornate chair, his hands clasped together thoughtfully. On his left sat the ark’s seer, who was peering into the glowing green depths of a crystal orb in her lap and whispering softly to herself.

  The Witch Lord nodded gravely as Malus entered the room. “Well met, slayer of Lurhan,” he said formally.

  “My lord,” Malus answered, bowing to Bale. The smells of food and wine assailed him, making him dizzy with hunger, but he summoned up his willpower and refused to show any sign of weakness. “How may I serve you?” he said carefully.

  The assembled lords eyed Malus with barely concealed disdain. They were all older men, scarred by the kiss of sharpened steel and weathered by years of campaigning. All but one—a young highborn sat at Bale’s right, wearing ornate, rune-marked plate armour. His bald head bore more scars than all the other men in the room combined.

  “You could start by throwing yourself on the first enemy lance you find,” Fuerlan muttered into his cup of wine and the rest of the lieutenants laughed along with the young prince.

  “Now that our new ally joined us, I will call the war council to order,” Bale said severely, as though Fuerlan hadn’t spoken. He turned to the servants waiting in the shadows. “Bring a chair for Lord Malus.”

  Malus smiled. Lord Malus, he thought. I like the sound of that. Two servants rushed from behind a tapestry bearing another low-backed wooden chair and the highborn took his seat in the circle opposite Bale. Nagaira glided soundlessly around the perimeter of the men and took a place just behind and to the left of Fuerlan. The scarred young prince watched her movements and smiled possessively at the witch as she settled into her chosen spot.

  What have we here, Malus wondered? Did Bale demand a marriage in return for giving Nagaira sanctuary? Or had she allied herself with Fuerlan as a way to set father and son against one another?

  Once Malus was seated, Bale leaned back in his chair and spoke.
“All of you here are well aware of the crime committed against us by the men of Hag Graef years ago.” Grizzled heads nodded and growls of assent rose from the assembled lords. “Many of you have lost sons and daughters to the feud and shed blood of your own to win back our lost honour. Time and again we have failed. The forces of Hag Graef were always too numerous and their damned general was a veritable daemon on the field of war. Yet we did not relent. We did not forgive and we did not forget.”

  More nods and seething murmurs. Hot glares were turned upon Malus and the highborn met the stares with a cold look of his own.

  “The ill winds of war have finally turned in our favour. Lurhan the vaulkhar lies dead at the hands of Eldire’s son and many of Hag Graef s most powerful lords are on campaign with their warbands or at sea harvesting flesh from the Old World.” The Witch Lord gave his lieutenants a smug grin. “Now you know why I’ve kept you all here at the ark this last month and commanded the marshalling of our allies, besides. Our foes are scattered and reeling from their loss, creating an opening for us to strike at their beating heart.”

  The restless murmurs subsided. Wood and leather creaked as men shifted in their chairs and set their goblets aside. Bale had the lords’ complete attention now. Malus studied the scene carefully, considering the implications. Vague memories of city squares full of armed men came and went before his mind’s eye. It was no small thing to call upon ancient agreements and summon one’s allies to war, Malus knew, nor was it wise to confine one’s lords at home at a time when they could be seeking fortune and glory abroad. Bale foresaw all this, Malus concluded and a strange tickle of memory teased at the back of his brain, Had he seen something else when he’d been brought to the ark? The more he concentrated on the thought, the harder it was to resolve.