by Dan Abnett
A WARHAMMER NOVEL
THE DAEMON’S CURSE
Darkblade - 01
Dan Abnett & Mike Lee
(An Undead Scan v1.1)
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
Chapter One
BLOOD AND COIN
The Shadowblade rode the Sea of Malice with a winter gale at her back, her indigo-dyed sails of human hide stretched to their limit and the slate-grey sea hissing along her sharply-raked hull. Her druchii crew knew their trade well, gliding effortlessly along the pitching deck like hungry shades at the sibilant orders of their captain.
They wore heavy robes and thick leather kheitans to keep out the icy wind, and their dark eyes glittered like onyx between the folds of dark woollen scarves. They were racing before the storm with a full load of cargo chained below, but the craggy southern coastline and the mouth of the river leading to Clar Karond lay only a few miles off the bow. The wind howled hungrily in the black rigging, singing an eerie counterpoint to the muffled cries rising from the hold, and the sailors laughed in quiet, sepulchral tones, thinking back to the revels of the night before.
Malus Darkblade stood at the corsair’s prow, one gauntleted hand resting on the ship’s rail as he watched the sharp towers of the sea gate rise before him. A heavy cloak of nauglir hide hung from his narrow shoulders and wisps of black hair spilled from the confines of a voluminous hood to twist and dance in the wind. The cold clawed at his face and he bared his teeth at its touch. The highborn elf pulled a carefully folded token from his belt and held it to his lips, breathing in its heady perfume. It smelled of blood and brine, setting his senses on edge.
This is the smell of victory, he thought, his lips twisting into a mirthless smile.
The raiding cruise had been a gamble from the outset, and he’d pushed his luck every step of the way. With only one small ship, an equally small crew and a late start hindering his efforts, it wasn’t enough to merely succeed; nothing short of a rousing triumph would impress his reluctant allies back at Hag Graef. So they had lingered along Bretonnia’s western coast weeks after their peers had set course for home.
The captain had complained bitterly about the turning weather and the damnable Ulthuan Seaguard until Malus had put a knife to his throat and threatened to take command of the Shadowblade himself. When a gale blew up in the dead of night off the shores of Couronne all had seemed lost, and six sailors had vanished into the black waves while fighting to keep the wind and the sea from dashing the corsair against the rocks. But by dawn their luck had turned along with the wind; the Bretonnian coastal patrols had fared far worse than they, having been cast up on the rocks or blown down the long inlet towards the free city of Marienburg.
In swift succession, the raiders struck three villages along the coast and sacked the battered fort at Montblanc in four days of pillage and slaughter before escaping out to sea with a hold full of slaves and two chests brimming with gold and silver coin.
He would see to it that his backers were well paid for their efforts; to risk the ire of his family by borrowing the funds he needed for the voyage from other sources had been a risky gambit. After being stalemated for so long, it was tempting to let the money flow through his hands like spilled blood, hiring assassins, tormentors and vauvalka to revenge himself on his brothers and sisters. Part of him yearned for an orgy of revenge, of torture and death and agonies that lingered beyond death. The need was sharp, like steel on the tongue, and sent a shiver of anticipation along his spine.
The darkness awaits, brothers and sisters, he thought, his eyes alight with menace. You’ve kept me from it for far too long.
The darkly-stained deck creaked slightly and heeled to starboard as the corsair settled onto a course for the narrow river mouth leading to the City of Ships. Closer now, Malus could make out the tall, craggy towers of the sea gate rising on both banks of the narrow approach; a heavy iron chain stretched between them, just beneath the surface of the swift-running water. Cold mists, shifting and swirling in the wind, clung to the rocky shore and the flanks of the towers.
From high in the corsair’s rigging, a sailor blew a hunting horn, its long, eerie wail echoing across the surface of the water. There came no reply, but Malus’ skin prickled as he studied the thin arrow slits of the citadels, knowing that predatory eyes were studying him in turn.
The highborn’s ears caught a subtle change in the sound of the corsair’s hissing wake, as a faint hum like a chorus of mournful spirits rose from the water near the hull. He peered over the rail and his sharp eyes caught sleek, dark shapes darting swiftly just beneath the surface of the water. They passed in and out of view, vanishing into the icy depths as silently as ghosts, only to reappear again in the blink of an eye. As he watched, one of the figures rolled onto its back and regarded him with wide, almond-shaped eyes.
Malus caught a glimpse of pale, almost luminous skin, a smooth belly and small, round breasts. An eerily druchii-like face broke the surface with barely a ripple, water gleaming on high, sharp cheekbones and blue-tinged lips. Aaaahhh, it seemed to sigh, a thin, wavering sound, then back it sank into the depths, its lithe body surrounded by sinuous strands of indigo-coloured hair.
“Shall I catch a fish for you, my lord?”
The highborn turned to find four cloaked figures standing just beyond sword’s reach — proper hithuan for lieutenants and favoured retainers. The dual hilts of highborn swords rode high on their hips and fine silver steel mail glinted in the weak afternoon light over black, grey or indigo kheitans. All of the druchii had their hoods up against the punishing, icy wind, save one.
She was taller than her companions, her long, black hair woven in a multitude of long, thin braids and bound back into a corsair’s topknot. Fine, white scars crisscrossed her oval face, from her high cheekbones to her pointed chin, and the tip of her right ear had been sliced away in a battle long ago. Three livid red cuts, fresh from the night’s revels, ran in parallel lines down her long, pale neck, disappearing beneath the gleaming curve of a silver steel hadrilkar, etched with the nauglir sigil of Malus’ house. As ever, there was a glint of mockery in Lhunara Ithil’s appraising stare. “Will you have her for your plate, your rack or your bed?” she asked.
“Must I choose?”
The retainers laughed, a sound like bones rattling in a crypt. One of the hooded highborn, a druchii with sharp features and a shaven head save for a corsair topknot, arched a thin eyebrow. “Do my lord’s tastes run to beasts, now?” he hissed, drawing more cold chuckles from his
companions.
The druchii woman shot her companion a sarcastic look. “Listen to Dolthaic. He sounds jealous. Or hopeful.”
Dolthaic snarled, lashing out at the woman with the back of a mailed gauntlet that the tall raider batted easily aside.
Malus laughed along with the cruel mirth. The years of inaction had soured the spirits of his small warband to the point where he’d begun to wonder which of them would try to assassinate him first. A season of blood and pillage had changed all that, sating their appetites for a time and promising a chance for more. “Arleth Vann, how fares the cargo?” he asked.
“Well indeed, my lord,” spoke the third retainer, his sibilant whisper barely audible above the keening wind. The druchii’s head was bald as an egg and his face and neck were cadaver-thin, like a man rendered down to corded muscle and bone by a long and merciless fever. His eyes were a pale yellow-gold, like those of a wolf. “We had a small amount of spoilage on the return crossing, but no more than expected. Enough to keep the cook busy and give the survivors some meat in their stew to see them through the march to the Hag.”
The fourth retainer pulled back his hood and spat a thin stream of greenish juice over the rail. He was the very image of a druchii noble, with fine-boned features, a mane of lustrous black hair and a face that looked merciless even in repose. Like Malus, he wore a cloak made of nauglir hide, and his kheitan was expensive dwarf skin, tough but supple. The silver steel hadrilkar around his neck looked dull and tawdry against the fine craftsmanship of the noble’s attire.
“That’s still good coin lost needlessly,” Vanhir said, his rich and melodious voice at odds with his stern demeanor. “If we’d made port at Clar Karond your backers would already have their investments repaid, and us besides,” he said, showing white teeth filed to fashionable points. “The slave lords will not be pleased at the breach of custom.”
“The Hanil Khar is two days from now. I have no time to waste haggling with traders and flattering the whipmasters at the Tower of Slaves,” Malus hissed. “I intend to stand in the Court of Thorns at the Hag, in the presence of my father and my illustrious siblings,” he said, the words dripping with venom, “and present the drachau with a worthy tribute gift.” And show the court that I am a power to reckon with after all, he thought. “We march for Hag Graef as soon as the cargo is ready to travel.”
Dolthaic frowned. “But what of the gale? It will be a hard march to the Hag in the teeth of a winter storm—”
“We’ll march through snow, ice and the Outer Darkness if we must!” Malus snapped. “I will stand in the City of Shadow in two days’ time or every one of you will answer for it.”
The retainers growled an acknowledgment. Vanhir studied Malus with narrowed eyes. “And what then, after you’ve made your grand entrance and showered the drachau with gifts? Back to the blood pits and the gambling dens?”
Dolthaic grinned like a wolf. “After four months at sea I’ve got a thirst or two I wouldn’t mind quenching.”
“I shall indulge myself for a time,” Malus said carefully. “I have an image to maintain, after all. Then I shall begin putting my new fortune to good use. There’s much to be done.”
They were close enough to hear the booming of the waves against the shoreline. The citadels of the sea gate loomed high above the Shadowblade, barely a mile ahead and to either side of the corsair’s rakish bow. The gusting wind carried the sounds of a struggle aft. Malus looked back and saw three druchii warriors wrestling with a manacled human slave. As the highborn watched, the slave smashed his forehead into the face of one of his captors. There was a crunch of cartilage as blood sprayed from the warrior’s nose. The druchii staggered a half-step back with a bubbling snarl and raised a short-handled mace.
“No!” Malus cried, his sharp, commanding voice carrying easily over the wind. “Remember my oath!” The druchii warrior, blood streaming down his face and staining his bared teeth, caught the highborn’s eye and lowered his weapon. Malus beckoned to the struggling guards. “Bring him here.”
The slave wrenched his body violently, trying to tear free of his captors’ grip. The mace-wielding druchii gave the human a shove, pushing him off his feet, and the other two warriors lunged forward, dragging the man across the deck. Malus’ four retainers slid aside to let them pass, eyeing the slave with cold, predatory interest.
The warriors forced the slave to his knees; even then, he rose nearly to Malus’ shoulders. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and lean, muscular arms beneath a torn, stained gambeson. He wore dark woollen breeches over ragged boots, and his hands were crusted with scabs and blue with cold. The man was young, possibly a yeoman or a Bretonnian squire, and bore more than one battle-scar on his face. He fixed Malus with a hateful glare and began bleating something in his guttural tongue. The highborn gave the human a disgusted look and nodded to the two warriors. “Remove his chains,” he told them, then turned to Arleth Vann. “Shut the beast up.”
The retainer glided across the deck, swift as a snake, and grabbed the slave with a claw-like grip at the point where his neck met his right shoulder. A steel-clad thumb dug into the nerve juncture there, and the slave’s heated words vanished in a sharp hiss, his whole body going taut with agony. There was a soft rattle of metal, and the two druchii warriors retreated, holding a set of manacles between them.
Malus smiled. “Good. Now tell him what I have to say.” He stepped before the slave, staring down into his pain-filled eyes. “Are you the one called Mathieu?”
Arleth Vann translated, almost whispering the thickly-accented Bretonnian into the man’s ear. Grunting with pain, the slave nodded.
“Good. I have a rather amusing story to tell you, Mathieu. Yesterday, I stood at the entrance to the slaves’ hold and announced that, as a gesture of charity, I would release one of your number, unharmed, before we made port in Naggaroth. Do you remember?”
A tumult of emotions blazed behind the slave’s eyes: hope, fear and sadness, all tangled together. Again, he nodded.
“Excellent. I recall you all talked among yourselves, and in the end you chose a young girl. Slender and red-haired. Green eyes like eastern jade and sweet, pale skin. You know of whom I speak?”
Tears welled in the slave’s eyes. He struggled vainly to speak, despite Arleth Vann’s terrible grip.
“Of course you do.” Malus smiled. “She was your betrothed, after all. Yes, she told me this, Mathieu. She fell to her knees before me and begged for you to be set free in her place. Because she loved you.” He chuckled softly, thinking back to the scene. “I confess, I was astonished. She said I could do anything I wanted with her, so long as you went free. Anything.”
He leaned close to the slave, close enough to smell the fear-sweat staining his filthy clothes. “So I put her to the test.”
“Clar Karond was only a day away, and the crew deserved a reward for their labours, so I gave her to them. She entertained them for hours, even with their unsophisticated ways. Such screams… surely you heard them. They were exquisite.”
Malus paused for a moment as Arleth Vann struggled for the right translation, though by this point the slave’s eyes had glazed over, fixed on some distant point only he could see. His muscular body trembled.
“After the crew was spent, they returned her to me and I let my lieutenants take their turn.” Off to the side, Lhunara grinned and whispered something to Dolthaic, who smiled hungrily in return. “Again, she did not disappoint. Such pleasures, Mathieu. Such sweet skin. The blood sparkled across it like tiny rubies.” He held out the token in his cupped hand, unfolding it gently and reverently. “You were a very lucky man, Mathieu. She was a gift fit for a prince. Here. I saved you her face. Would you like one last kiss before you go?”
With a shriek of perfect anguish the slave surged to his feet, but Arleth Vann lashed out with his other hand and sank his fingertips into the nerve juncture beneath the thick muscle of the human’s upper right arm. The slave staggered, unmanned by blinding
pain. His eyes were wide, and Malus could see the darkness there, spreading into the human’s mind like a stain. The slave let out a despairing wail.
“Wait, Mathieu. Listen. You haven’t heard the really amusing part yet. By the time the crew was done with her she was begging, pleading to be set free instead of you. She cursed your name and renounced her love for you again and again. But of course, I had my oath to consider — I said I would let a slave go unharmed, you see, and that hardly applied to her anymore. So in the end her love won out, and oh, how she hated it!” Malus threw back his head and laughed. “Enjoy your freedom, Mathieu.”
All at once Arleth Vann changed his grip on the man, seizing him by the neck and the belt of his breeches, and with surprising strength the lithe druchii picked the large man off the deck and threw him over the side. He hit the water with a loud, flat slap and disappeared into the freezing depths. The druchii slid along the rail, watching intently. The wind whistled and howled. The sighing of the mere-witches had fallen silent.
When the man surfaced, gasping for air, he was no longer alone. Two of the sea creatures clung to him, wrapping their thin, pale arms around his chest. Ebon talons sank deep, drawing blooms of crimson across the white fabric of the man’s gambeson. Thick indigo strands — not rich hair, but ropy, saw-edged tentacles — wrapped around his wrist and throat, sloughing off long strips of skin as they wound tight around their victim. Mathieu choked out a single, gulping scream before one of the mere-witches covered his open mouth with her own. Then they sank beneath the surface and were lost in the Shadowblade’s wake.
A rattling, ringing sound filled the air ahead — the citadels were lowering the great chain barring entrance to the river. Tendrils of icy sea mist, drawn by the corsair’s passage, rolled in on either side of the river mouth, whirling and tangling in the ship’s wake.
High atop the tower to the left, Malus could see lithe figures in dark robes and billowing scarves appearing at a small cupola to observe the corsair’s progress. They offered no sign of greeting, no gesture of welcome, merely watched in stony silence. As the ship cleared the river chain, one of the figures raised a horn to his lips and blew a long, wailing note, warning the City of Ships of the bloody-handed reavers heading their way.