[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  The highborn nodded, his suspicions confirmed. They were her protection. She raised the worms and her followers kept them from intruding upon her. He bared his teeth and descended the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. By the time he reached the cavern floor he was at a full run, charging for the nearest acolyte. The chanting druchii was almost lost in a trance, concentrating on maintaining his part of the complex chant. At the last moment his eyes widened as he realised his peril and his chanting voice turned to a momentary scream before Malus brought down his axe and split the man’s skull.

  The chanting stopped and Malus thought he felt their ward collapse, washing over his skin in jagged little sparks of power. Before the first man fell he was charging at the next, howling like one of the damned. The druchii screamed and drew a broad-bladed knife and Malus laughed at the man’s helplessness as he severed the acolyte’s knife hand with a sweep of his axe and then plunged his sword into the acolyte’s chest. He collapsed with a bubbling scream, pink froth gathering on his lips from a punctured lung.

  Then the world exploded in pain as an arc of green lightning lashed across Malus’ back. He staggered, half-turning to see an acolyte on the other side of the circle drawing back his hand and chanting furiously, preparing another bolt. With a roar the highborn hurled his axe and the acolyte’s fierce expression turned to one of shock as the weapon buried itself in his abdomen.

  Malus staggered as invisible hands closed about his chest and legs. He struggled out of reflex, as though he could wrestle free of the sorcerous bonds, but only succeeded in toppling to the stone floor. Then a lash of bright green fire ripped across his left hip and leg, tearing a scream of agony from his tortured throat. On the far end of the circle, the surviving acolytes approached him, their hands glowing with malevolent force.

  Through a haze of pain, Malus saw Nagaira notice what her acolytes were doing. She turned to see who they were focussing their energies upon. Surrounded by a corona of power, the tone of her chanting voice changed from anger to shock as she saw Malus lying within her protective circle.

  “Hello, sister,” he gasped, as the sound of thunder swelled in the chamber. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Nagaira’s voice grew thick with rage—then the wall five yards behind her dissolved in a wave of heat and caustic steam as one of the great worms burst into the chamber. The three remaining acolytes screamed in agony as their bodies burst into flame and Nagaira herself staggered backwards, raising her free hand as if to block the wave of blistering air that swept through the cavern.

  With the acolytes’ death, the lines of force enclosing Malus vanished. His throat burned at the touch of the poisonous vapour, but he forced his ravaged body to work, lurching to his feet and charging at Nagaira with the last of his strength. He tackled her and they fell together in the centre of the magical circle. She writhed like a snake in his grasp, turning beneath him and spitting words of power. In desperation he closed a hand around his sister’s throat, choking off her incantation, then ripped the knife from her clutches and plunged it into her chest.

  Nagaira’s body lurched and the witch screamed in agony—then she placed her hands against his chest and hurled him into the air with a thunderous blast of power.

  Malus landed in a smoking heap several yards away, pain shooting through his body from burns and bruised ribs. He still held the Dagger of Torxus in his hand—the fingers of which were stained with dark ichor instead of blood. The highborn looked to the centre of the magical circle and saw to his horror that Nagaira was climbing slowly to her feet. Black ooze bubbled and spilled from the triangular hole in her kheitan.

  The witch howled in rage and pain as she extended her hand and hurled a ghostly black dart at Malus’ head. Before it had crossed half the distance to its intended target the spell failed, dissolving into nothingness. Nagaira sank back to one knee and as the highborn watched, the shadows wreathing her face disappeared. He found himself looking into eyes that were orbs of unrelieved blackness. Her face, angular and fierce like her father’s, was now a pallid grey. A network of thick, pulsing black veins covered her cheek and throat. Malus’ heart went cold with fear. His sister was no longer a mere druchii. She had become a daemonhost!

  Nagaira attempted a laugh, a thin stream of ichor running down her chin. “The dagger cannot take what is no longer there,” she said, laughing mirthlessly. “I have you to thank, dear brother. Had you not driven me to take shelter in the storms of Chaos I would have never looked upon the Dark Ones in all their terrible glory. And they found me worthy, Malus,” she said, a terrible echo reverberating in her voice that hinted at the unnatural power singing in her veins. They have blessed me with power you cannot dream of and they have given me this world to burn in their names.”

  Malus stared at his half-sister, suppressing a shudder of dread. “You do not frighten me, witch,” he said, managing to sound scornful despite his fear. “For all your power, your scheme has failed. Eldire still lives and the city will be rebuilt. I’m no warlock, but even I know that the Ruinous Powers do not tolerate failure.”

  To Malus’ surprise, Nagaira laughed. “You little fool,” she said, her black eyes glittering with hate. “All goes according to plan, Malus. The only failure here is your own.” The daemon-ridden witch straightened, glaring haughtily at him. “You have earned yourself a small reprieve, brother. Hide in this pile of stones or flee to the far ends of the earth, if you wish. When the time comes I will find you. Tz’arkan will bow before me and the world will end.” Nagaira smiled, her teeth stained black with curdled blood. “It has been foreseen.”

  She placed an ichor-stained hand over her wound and spoke a single, terrible word. Shadows congealed from the air itself, enveloping Nagaira. When they faded, she was gone.

  He was one more battered, bloody figure making his painful way through the chaos of Hag Graef s rubble-strewn streets. Soldiers and citizens raced past Mains, struggling to put out the many fires burning across the city. No one paid any attention to him as Malus stumbled through the city’s northern gate and disappeared into the darkness. Tz’arkan’s relics lay like lumps of ice in a bag at Malus’ hip.

  Two hours later he reached the ruins of the Naggorite camp. The dead lay heaped in great piles and fires still burned where wagons had been tipped over and set alight. Somehow, the devastation amid the charred tents struck him more powerfully than all the broken buildings in Hag Graef. The city would be rebuilt in short order, but the proud army Malus had led from the black ark would never march again.

  Malus found Spite at the western outskirts of the camp, not too far from where his tent had stood. The nauglir was feasting on dead flesh, his thick hide marked with half a dozen minor wounds, but he rose from his haunches and trotted immediately over to the highborn when Malus called.

  They headed into the woods, retracing Nagaira’s steps from earlier in the night. The clearing with the stone outcropping seemed as good a place as any to make camp for a few hours’ rest.

  After another half an hour’s searching he managed to find enough dry wood for a fire. By the time he’d returned to the camp Spite had found more carrion to eat. Fuerlan’s body was gone from the waist down, the crumpled plates of his armour spat out into a neat pile nearby. While the nauglir ate, the highborn got the fire going, then sat down on the wet ground and stared into the flames.

  He never heard the autarii girl settle down on the other side of the fire. One moment he was alone and the next his gaze was following a dancing tongue of flame and he found himself looking into a pair of violet eyes.

  They stared at one another for several moments. A look of mutual recognition passed between them.

  The autarii girl leaned forward slightly, her hands on her knees. “I am Ahashra Rhiel, of the hill dragon clan,” she said gravely. “My brother was Nimheira.”

  Malus let out a sigh. “I know you well, Ahashra,” he said wearily. He affected a grin. “Will you share meat and salt with me?”

&
nbsp; “You know I will not,” she replied in her dead voice. There is a blood feud between us. My brother’s shade cries out for revenge.”

  “Yes. Of course,” Malus said. “It’s a pity. I would have enjoyed your company under other circumstances.”

  Ahashra watched him with cold, catlike eyes. “No. From this night forward you walk alone, Malus of Hag Graef. I see now how much has been taken from you. You have lost your name and your honour. Your dreams lie in the dust. There is nothing left for you in this life but loneliness, fear and pain.”

  Malus frowned. “So you will not kill me after all?”

  The shade studied him silently for several moments. “No,” she said at last. “You deserve no such mercy.” Then she rose to her feet and stepped back into the darkness, seeming to vanish before Malus’ eyes.

  He stared long and hard into the small fire for some time afterwards, lost in thought. Try as he might, he found it difficult to argue with the autarii’s logic.

  “Blessed Mother, I need a drink,” he croaked, shambling weakly to his feet. Spite had stopped eating and watched him incuriously as he walked over and began rummaging through his saddlebags until his hand closed on his half-empty flask. On his way back to the fire his foot struck a soft lump that bounced away across the rough ground. Fuerlan’s head rolled to a stop within the circle of firelight, the look of terror still plastered on his scarred face.

  Malus sat down by his cousin’s head. The black hair was starting to singe in the heat and he drew the grisly trophy towards him. Ahashra was right. Death meant an end to suffering, but also an end to ambition. He picked up the skull and stared into Fuerlan’s sightless eyes. “We’ve both lost everything,” Malus said. “But unlike you, I can build again.”

  First, he thought, there was Har Ganeth and the Warpsword of Khaine to consider. Once word spread of the disaster at Hag Graef, Urial might very well think him dead. He smiled. It was an advantage he would make good use of.

  Malus set Fuerlan’s head on the ground and drew his sword. A single, careful stroke clipped off the top of his cousin’s skull. Setting the sword aside, he scooped out what little he found within and tossed it into the flames, then sat back down on his haunches. Grasping the flask’s stopper in his teeth, he opened it with a quick pull and poured himself a good dollop into Fuerlan’s brain pan.

  “To fate,” Malus said, raising the skull in a toast to the darkness and drinking deep.

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