by Dan Abnett
“Unless?”
Malus pursed his lips, considering. “Fuerlan, much to my surprise, turned out to have quite a few interesting things to say. Some of it might even be true. And if so…” All at once, the vague notion of a plan began to take shape in his mind.
Do I dare? Then — there was an assassin from the temple in my quarters. What have I to lose at this point? To hesitate is to die!
The highborn drained the goblet in great, thirsty gulps and sprang from the chair. “Get me two guards,” he commanded, handing the cup back to Silar. “I’m going to see Nagaira.”
Silar’s eyes widened as Malus swept purposefully across the room, already belting his robe in place. “Don’t you wish to clean yourself up a bit first?” the retainer asked.
Malus laughed coldly. “Conspiracies thrive on spilt blood, Silar. It tends to focus one’s mind on the business at hand.”
The city of Hag Graef lay at the bottom of a narrow valley, like a nauglir crouched over its prey. Its broad streets, conducive for the heavy industry that was the city’s main source of wealth, radiated out from the huge Plaza of Conquest that lay at the foot of the drachau’s fortress. The fortress, a mighty collection of spires, courtyards and deadly cul-de-sacs bound by an inner and outer perimeter of high walls, contained not only the households of several high-ranking druchii lords and ladies, but also the city’s convent of witches and the cold one stables of the city guard.
The apartments of the Vaulkhar and his children occupied an entire set of spires on the eastern quarter of the huge castle, overlooking the three mountain entrances to the East Foundry and the broad avenue of crushed cinders leading north to the caverns of the Underworld.
Many of the towers belonging to Lurhan’s children were connected by narrow bridges, allowing the highborn to come and go without troubling themselves with a long descent to the public levels of the castle and then back up again. Such was the theory; in practice the children of the Vaulkhar saw the bridges as an invitation to murder and avoided them scrupulously.
Except for tonight. Malus moved swiftly along the delicate-looking stone bridge connecting his spire with Nagaira’s, his cloak billowing like a spread of ebon wings in the gusting wind. The auroras seeping from the Chaos Wastelands in the far north had subsided, leaving tattered clouds scudding fast across the face of a single moon. Arleth Vann moved several yards ahead of him, Lhunara several yards behind. Lhunara held a crossbow ready and scanned the nearest overlooking spires, while Arleth Vann tested his footing on the bridge with each heavy tread.
It took ten long minutes for the three druchii to work their way across the vaulting reach. At the far end there was a recessed door lit from above by a flickering globe of witchlight. Arleth Vann paused, and Malus was surprised to find a sentry waiting for them, sheltered in the doorway’s small niche. He was one of Nagaira’s pet rogues, and watched the trio with hooded eyes as he played at cleaning his fingernails with a wicked-looking stiletto.
“If you’ve murder in mind, red-hand, you’ll find no welcome here,” the rogue drawled with a sly grin. Yet there was nothing frivolous about the set of his shoulders, or the careful, precise movements of his knife.
“If I’d meant you murder, Dalvar, I’d have had Lhunara put your eye out from back at the other end of the span,” Malus hissed. “Now get that door open, you half-penny thug. I’ve a mind to speak to my beloved sister before I freeze to death.”
“Beloved half-sister,” Dalvar corrected, pointing with his knife for emphasis. “And it’s not within my power, bloody fingers or no. You’ll wait here on my mistress’ pleasure.”
“Suppose I have Arleth Vann cut you into pieces and we feed you to the night-hawks?”
“It won’t get the door open any faster.”
“No, but it will be a pleasant diversion in the meantime.”
“About as pleasant as a knife in the eye, I suspect.”
Both sides grudgingly conceded the other’s point and then settled down to wait.
Nagaira kept Malus out on the bridge long enough for the cold to have settled deep into his bones. It was an effort of will to keep his teeth from chattering or his limbs from shivering. Dalvar continued to work on his nails, seemingly oblivious to the conditions. Finally, there was a dull thud of bolts being drawn back, and the door opened a finger’s width. Dalvar leaned back and shared a few whispered words with whoever was on the other side, then bowed deeply to Malus. The stiletto had magically disappeared. “My mistress will see you now, dread lord,” he said with a grin. “Pray accompany me, but leave any thoughts of ill intent at the threshold…”
“Against Nagaira, or you?”
“…for there are spirits within these walls who would take such things amiss,” Dalvar finished, his eyes dancing with black mirth.
The retainer led the trio inside, past a bowing servant and down a short passage into a small guard chamber. Four guards in full armour sat at a small, circular table, eating a late meal of bread and pickled eels and eyeing Malus with casual menace. Globes of witchfire flickered from sconces on the walls and racks of spears and crossbows sat ready to repel an assault from the bridge or the levels below. A flight of stairs curved both upwards and downwards along the curving outer wall of the room, and a stout oak door stood in the wall opposite the passage.
Malus knew the way as well as, or better than, Dalvar. The highborn pushed past the retainer, who offered a token protest, then turned right and leapt lightly up the tower’s curving stair. Up and up he climbed, and with each step he felt the light touch of invisible forces caressing his face and lingering along his gore-stained hands. They flowed in and out of him on the tide of his breath, touching his heart with icy fingers. He’d made light of Dalvar’s warning, but he knew all too well that it was no idle boast. Nagaira did not suffer uninvited guests lightly.
The stairs finally ended at a small, dark landing. Icy wind whistled through a number of arrow-slits set into the thick stone walls. Two retainers in glittering mail and thick robes glistening with frost stood to either side of a pair of tall oak doors. They regarded him coldly from behind golden caedlin worked in the shape of snarling manticore faces. Their gauntleted hands rested easily on the pommels of unsheathed great swords, but they made no move to hinder Malus as he pushed the double doors wide and rushed into Nagaira’s sanctum like a rising wind.
It was the law of the Witch King that magic was forbidden to the druchii, save for a select group of women who dedicated their lives to him and spent their days in convents in the cities and citadels across Naggaroth. The Dark Brides of Malekith, or the hags as they were commonly known, served their local overlord as needed, but ultimately they answered to none other than the Witch King himself. Any other druchii — especially a male — who was caught pursuing the dark arts was bound in red-hot chains and delivered to the Witch King’s fortress at Naggarond and was never seen again.
Naturally, there were exceptions. Minor hedge-sorcerers, practitioners of curses and the secretive shade-casters, all of whom took the coin of the lowborn in exchange for their meagre services. The priestesses and blood-witches of the Temple of Khaine and the hierophants of the Temple of Slaanesh kept sorcerous traditions that were old when lost Nagarythe was young, rites that not even Malekith dared trifle with. And then there was Balneth Bale, the self-styled Witch King of Naggor, who had encouraged the studies of his sister, Eldire, and kept them secret in hopes of profiting from them himself. Instead he’d received a bloody rebuke by Malekith in the form of Vaulkhar Lurhan and the army of Hag Graef, who defeated Naggor’s army and made Bale and his people a vassal city to the Hag.
By the same token, it was an open secret that Nagaira, the second daughter of the fearsome Lurhan, was a scholar of the dark paths. Not necessarily a practitioner, but someone who studied the ancient ways and the arcane lore for her own personal ends. No one had ever seen her cast a spell or bind a spirit to her will, nor had anyone ever successfully claimed to have been a victim of her encha
ntments. Thus she kept herself poised on the razor’s edge, dabbling in forbidden knowledge that lent her power and influence without allowing it to be her undoing.
That said, Malus suspected that Nagaira’s sanctum contained the sorts of arcane tomes, debased scrolls, potions, idols and artefacts that any sorcerer would sell the remainder of his tattered soul to possess. It was also, the highborn noted, thankfully warm. A small circular hearth rose in the centre of the room, giving off hissing flames of green and blue that turned the curved walls into a swirling chiaroscuro of dancing, threatening shadows. A sinuous, scaly creature with tightly-furled leather wings darted into the shadows at his sudden entrance and hissed threateningly from behind an overflowing bookshelf.
As far as Malus knew, he was the only member of the family Nagaira had ever permitted to enter the room.
His half-sister looked up from a low divan set near the fire. A short table had been pulled up to the divan; sitting atop it was a huge, dust-covered book propped on a small lectern and a curious tripod of copper wire supporting half of a human head. The head had been sheared cleanly through just below the nose, and the grisly trophy rested in the tripod with the open brainpan pointing towards the ceiling.
Nagaira had pulled back the left sleeve of her woollen robe, exposing her sleek, pale forearm which was covered in an intricate tattoo of tightly woven loops and spirals, stretching from her fingertips to her elbow. As Malus watched, she took a fine, brass-handled brush and dipped it carefully in the gaping brainpan. She shot a glance at Malus. He wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the shifting light, but her eyes appeared to be a vivid, pale blue. Nagaira looked pointedly at her brother’s hands. “Are those your idea of tattoos?” she asked, using the brush to touch up one of the lines on her arm. “If so, I think my brushwork is much better than yours.”
“I grew cold waiting on the bridge outside, so I warmed my hands around Dalvar’s beating heart,” Malus snarled.
“Liar,” she said with a sly grin. “That man’s blood runs colder than the Sea of Chill. Why else would I take him into my household?” Finished, she licked the tip of the brush with a dainty pink tongue and set the instrument in a felt-lined box. She reclined gracefully on the divan, ostentatiously admiring her work. “I’m very displeased with you, Malus,” she said lightly. “Running off on your little raid without warning me. While you were gone that worm Urial tried to practise his charms on me, as though that would make Yasmir jealous. I had to fend off his disgusting advances for months on end.” At the mention of her brother’s name Nagaira’s face darkened. The lines on her arm seemed to sharpen, then shift, like coiling snakes. Malus found he couldn’t take his eyes off them, even though the sight set his heart to hammering and sent cold spasms through his guts.
“I… I’m certain you disappointed him at every turn,” he stammered, then grit his teeth against the show of weakness.
“I told him I was saving my heart for another,” she said, her voice smooth and cold as polished steel. “It made him very angry, I think. He seems to think he’s entitled to salve his frustrations with me, the twisted little creature.” Nagaira lowered her arm and glared at Malus. “You could at least have the decency to sound jealous.”
With an effort, Malus crossed the room and settled on the divan next to her. “I had to sneak away, dear sister. You and Bruglir and the rest left me no choice. Surely you didn’t expect me to sit in my tower and wait for some noble to put his knife in me?”
Nagaira sighed. “It’s the law of the wolves, Malus. The biggest wolf cub gets the most milk, and so on down the line. Bruglir gets the biggest share, and the rest of us have to fight for what’s left. I get barely enough wealth to survive on, and naturally I make sure Urial gets as little of the cut as possible.” She shrugged, but her cold eyes were intent. “Unfortunately, the temple takes care of their own, even the forsaken ones like him. If you are to blame anyone, blame him for taking your rightful share.”
Malus considered his sister for a moment, contemplating his next move. Beneath her diffident facade, he could sense an insatiable curiosity. What he didn’t know was how still and deep her malice towards him ran. If she were truly displeased about his absence, there was every possibility he wasn’t getting out of her sanctum alive. “As it happens,” he said, “I have more than just my pathetic allotment of gold to hold against dear, twisted Urial.”
“Oh?” Nagaira said, arching one slender eyebrow. Her eyes had darkened to a stormy grey. Faint lines and spirals coiled in their depths.
“Do you know Fuerlan? The hostage from Naggor? A craven little sack of skin with an exaggerated sense of his own worth?”
“I hear that’s a common failing in Naggorites, you know. A weakness in the blood, perhaps,” she said, her smile full of sweet poison.
Malus ignored the jibe. “Fuerlan and I had a long, energetic conversation this evening,” he said. “He’d been entertaining the delusion of making an alliance with me.”
“An alliance? Against whom?”
“Does it matter? He was most eager, though. He sent a letter by special messenger to meet me when I got off the boat at Clar Karond.”
Nagaira frowned. “Clar Karond? But how?”
“How did he know I hadn’t disembarked at the slave tower? How else? No rider could have made the journey from Karond Kar faster than my ship. So that leaves—”
“Sorcery,” she said.
“Just so,” Malus answered. “That same sorcerous knowledge enabled someone to arrange a cunning little ambush for me on the Slavers’ Road.” He leaned close to Nagaira, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. “And now I hear that my beloved sister has been using my name to spite the one magic-wielder in Hag Graef who isn’t locked up in the local convent.” His hand shot out, closing around Nagaira’s pale throat “So now I’m the one who is most displeased.”
Nagaira’s breath caught in her throat at the touch of his sticky, clammy grip — but then she smiled, and began to laugh. The sound was rich and smoky, mocking and seductive. “Clever, clever little brother,” she breathed. “But why would Urial the Forsaken entertain the likes of Fuerlan?”
“The little toad grovelled to get an audience, no doubt,” Malus said, “just as he’s grovelled before each of you, in turn. I’m sure Urial agreed to see him to find if he’d learned anything of interest about you or the others.” The highborn tightened his grip minutely, feeling the hot pulse of blood in his half-sister’s throat. “Fuerlan, it seems, was given to believe that Urial possessed a magical relic of some kind, supposedly a source of terrible power.”
“A relic? Where would Fuerlan hear such a thing?”
Malus pulled Nagaira close, his thin lips mere inches from her own. “Why, from you, sweet sister. I didn’t believe it myself at first, but Fuerlan went to great pains to convince me.”
For a moment, she was silent. Her breath was warm and fragrant against his skin. Then she smiled. “I confess. I hoped Urial would eat the little hostage’s heart, and then even the temple couldn’t protect him. The drachau would have had him unravelled one nerve at a time, and I would have savoured every moment.” She frowned. “Sadly, it appears that the Forsaken is repulsive, but not a fool.”
“Indeed.” Malus let his lips brush her cheek. Her breath caught in her throat, and for an instant his mind was full of worms, writhing, spiralling shapes of darkness that wove in and out of his brain, leaving long tunnels that filled with inky shadows in their wake. He shuddered and leaned back against the divan, his hand jerking back from her as though stung. Nagaira regarded him with depthless black eyes.
“Is it true, then?” Malus asked. “Does Urial have such a relic?”
Nagaira smiled. She, too, leaned back, increasing the distance between them. She tapped a tattooed finger thoughtfully against her lower lip. “So I have been led to believe,” she said. “My spies tell me that Urial has been seeking it for some time now, and acquired it recently at great expense after numerous failed expeditions. Why do
you ask?”
Malus took a deep breath. “Because I find myself wanting in power and surrounded by enemies. If the relic is useful to him, why not me?”
“Urial is a sorcerer, Malus, and you are not.”
“Great power finds a way to make itself felt, sister. Sorcerer or no, I can bend it to my will.”
Nagaira laughed, and it seemed the shadows on the walls danced in time to the sound. “You are a fool, Malus Darkblade,” she said at last. “But I confess that fools sometimes succeed where other mortals fail.”
“So what of this relic?”
“It is not, in fact, a source of power — at least, not in any sense you would understand. It is a key that, legend has it, will open an ancient temple hidden deep within the Chaos Wastes. The power you want for lies within that temple.”
“What is it?”
Nagaira shook her head. “No one knows for certain. It was locked away in the days when Malekith fought alongside foul Aenarion in the First War against Chaos,” she said, “many thousands upon thousands of years ago. It’s possible that the temple no longer even exists, or lies at the bottom of a boiling acid sea.”
Something in Malus quickened, like a spark on dry tinder. “But if the temple and its treasure were beyond reach, the magic of the key would be affected, would it not?”
The druchii woman smiled approvingly. “Indeed. You are more canny than I thought, brother dear.”
“So the temple and its treasure still lie within reach,” Malus said. “It could lie within my reach, if I had a way to steal the key from Urial and seek the place out myself.”
“You wish to pit yourself against the forsaken one in his lair? Your foolishness borders on the suicidal.”
“Urial doesn’t spend his every waking hour in his tower. In fact, the temple has rites of its own to observe in the wake of the Hanil Khar. He will be in the city every night for the next few nights, will he not?”