[Darkblade 01] - The Daemon's Curse

by Dan Abnett

  The passage ran for more than fifty yards in more or less a straight line. The farther Malus went, the more he began to notice old, discarded bones — many cracked for the marrow within — and smell the stench of rotting meat. A guardian, Malus thought sourly. But what sort of guardian, and where is it hiding? More importantly, does it sense my presence?

  Just ahead, the highborn could see more greenish light. The passage appeared to end in another small cave, lit this time by a glowing crystal that had been placed in an iron brazier instead of growing straight from the ground. In the pale glow Malus could see a broad shelf of natural stone along the far wall of the chamber. Resting on that shelf and gleaming in the greenish glow sat a large, octagonal medallion made from brass and affixed to a long chain. Runes covered the surface of the medallion, hinting at the power locked within.

  “Yes — that’s it! The Octagon of Praan! Seize it!” urged the daemon.

  But Malus was far more interested in the stench of rotted meat that hung in the air of the small chamber. He crept carefully and quietly to the threshold and slowly surveyed the room. The highborn heard no sounds nor saw any movement.

  That’s strange, he thought. What is causing the smell? And then he saw the body of the stag heaped in a broken lump on the floor near the Octagon itself. Its back and neck were broken, causing the body to bend in opposite angles from one another. One side of a magnificent rack of antlers had been snapped off, and rested on the floor near the body Both forelegs had been torn away at some point in the past, and the body rested in a black pool of rotting blood. Malus guessed it had sat in the cave for a week or more. Perhaps a sacrifice, he thought. Though those marrow-bones back there didn’t crack themselves.

  The highborn surveyed the room again. Nothing moved in the shadows. Maybe there was a guardian previously, and it was killed in one of the battles? The idea seemed plausible, especially since the chamber appeared quite empty. No time to waste, Malus thought decisively. I do know for a fact that Hadar will be here at any moment, and I don’t relish being trapped in a dead-end tunnel.

  Malus crossed the small cave, reaching for the talisman. When he was halfway across something huge and hairy landed on his back and knocked him flat onto the rocky floor. A knotted club smashed into the middle of his back, knocking the breath out of him. Another blow hit hard against his ribs and sent waves of fiery agony shooting across his chest.

  The highborn tried to rise, only to discover that his attacker was sitting on his lower back and pinning him in place to deliver his blows. The club smashed down on his right shoulder next, and the pain of that atop the cut he’d received there, nearly knocked him out.

  His attacker was in a perfect place to avoid the blows of the large sword in Malus’ hands. Thinking desperately, the highborn reversed his grip on the sword so he held it underhand, and stabbed backwards as hard as he could. The point of the sword bit into flesh and his attacker let loose a savage howl that set his hair on end. It leaped off him, and when it did Malus raced quickly across the floor towards the Octagon. Panting in pain, he turned to face his attacker and his eyes went wide with shock.

  If the massive guardian of the Octagon had once been a beastman, there was little resemblance left anymore. The creature was massive, with huge, broad shoulders and short, trunk-like legs. The powerfully muscled body was covered in irregular patches of fur, and the stunted, misshapen head looked as though it had been made of wax and left half-formed. One bloodshot eye watched him intently.

  Malus noted that the creature wasn’t carrying a club. The damage it had done was with fists alone.

  The guardian of the Octagon clapped a hand to the deep wound in its side and let out a howl that was part angry and part anguish. Without warning it turned and scrambled up the wall behind it, alighting on a rough ledge of rock that sat above the cave entrance.

  For a split second Malus thought that the creature was just going to sit there and lick its wound, but as soon as it reached the ledge it let out a snarl and leapt at him once more.

  With his back to the shelf there was no place to run. Had Malus been a beginner in the arts of combat he might have panicked. Instead he set the pommel of his great sword against the rock shelf behind him and pointed it directly at the creature’s chest.

  The guardian let out a wail and Malus struck the sword at a point just below its ribs. The broad blade drove itself up to the quillons in the creature’s chest, spilling blood and bile in a torrent onto Malus in the heartbeat before the monster’s bulk slammed against him. He hit the rock shelf hard and gasped at the pain that flared across his back. Then the creature let out a strangled cry and grasped the highborn’s head firmly in one enormous hand. The guardian’s other hand tightened on Malus’ shoulder, and then the monster started to twist.

  It was trying to twist his head off.

  Malus gritted his teeth and tensed his neck, battering the huge hands with his fists, but it was like the chicken fighting the hands of the farmwife. He grabbed at the hilt of the sword and tried to twist it in the wound — anything to force the creature to release him. But the monster only howled in pain and redoubled its efforts.

  Slowly, inexorably, Malus’ head turned. When it reached the limit his spine would allow, it started to bend further. Pain shot along his vertebrae, and his vision dissolved into a white haze. The highborn started to shout, a single long, painful note as he felt his bones continue to flex and wondered how close he was to the breaking point.

  Suddenly, the pressure eased, dropping off almost to nothing. Slowly — and equally painfully — Malus straightened his head, and the guardian’s body slumped to the side. Its melted face was ashen, and huge quantities of its blood lapped against the highborn’s boots.

  Uncaring, the highborn sat down in the sticky fluid and tried to get his breathing under control. He’d been stabbed, cut and beaten dozens of times, but he’d never had to suffer an attack like that before.

  “Get up,” the daemon urged. “Hurry. Kul Hadar could be here at any moment!”

  “Let him come,” Malus snarled. “He can’t twist my head off.”

  “No. He puts his faith in axes,” Tz’arkan answered sarcastically. “Now go.”

  Malus climbed painfully to his feet and reached for the Octagon. “Put it on,” the daemon said.

  “Why? What does it do?”

  “It absorbs magical energy. Spells directed against you will be consumed by the amulet, no matter how powerful. It is a most useful talisman.”

  Suspicion warred with desperation in Malus’ mind. What if the daemon were lying? Then again, could he afford not to take advantage of such a valuable talisman? In the end, the looped the chain over his neck with a barely repressed curse. The daemon might not be telling the truth, but neither would he put Malus in a position where he could no longer serve his interests.

  With a great deal of effort, Malus recovered his sword and made his way back down the passage. His worst fears of facing Hadar and his mob at the mouth of the shrine turned out to be unfounded. They waited before the ruins of the stone circle, evidently unwilling to defile the sacred cave with further violence.

  The highborn noticed with some surprise that Hadar had less than fifty of the herd with him. Is your support waning, Hadar, or has the herd gotten its fill of bloodshed for the time being?

  The ones that did come, however, were the true believers. When they saw he wore the Octagon, the beastmen let out howls of anger and outrage.

  “There are almost fifty of them,” the daemon said. “You have neither armour nor mount. You will need my help if you are to prevail.”

  “No,” Malus said angrily. “I’ve bartered enough of my flesh to you today. You’ll get no more.”

  “You’ll die!”

  “Perhaps… and perhaps not. Now shut up and observe.”

  Malus stepped from the cave. “It appears I won’t be serving your herd quite so well as you imagined, Hadar.”

  “Remove the Octagon from your unclean
neck at once!” Hadar roared, and the rest of the true believers howled their agreement.

  Malus pretended to hold up the medallion between thumb and forefinger and study it intently. “If this trinket is so sacred, and your faith so strong, why don’t we put it to the test?”

  For a moment Hadar didn’t answer. The rest of the faithful eyed him expectantly, and the shaman knew he’d been trapped. “What do you have in mind?”

  Malus spread his hands. “What else? I challenge you. If you win, your faith is clearly superior, and the medallion is yours. But if you lose…”

  Malus and Hadar locked eyes. Finally, the shaman said. “It is not worth considering, druchii. I will not lose.”

  The druchii grinned. “Then let us begin.”

  “No!” Tz’arkan raged. “You fool. You set no terms for the challenge!”

  “Terms? What terms do I need? While I wear the Octagon, his magic can’t affect me, and I fear that stick of his far less than Yaghran’s axe. The advantage is mine.” And besides, Malus thought grimly, I want to be certain that, whatever else may happen, Hadar dies by my hand. He owes me a debt of pain.

  Malus was already walking down the hill, sword held at the ready. Hadar shrugged out of his robe and hefted his heavy staff. His lips pulled back in a feral smile.

  That’s odd, the highborn thought to himself. What does he have to smile about?

  Then Hadar spoke a string of words and the air seemed to warp around the shaman. His already imposing frame swelled even further, appearing far more powerful than before. Hadar roared like an enraged bear — and then barked out another string of magical words. By the time he’d finished speaking he had crossed the ten or so yards between himself and Malus.

  The next thing Malus knew, the shaman’s staff smashed against his sword hand and the great sword went spinning off into the grass. Hadar followed up with a backhanded swing that crashed into the highborn’s chest and sent him flying in the opposite direction.

  He fetched up alarmingly close to the dark trees, his ribs throbbing as though he’d been kicked by a cold one. It took a moment before he could breathe again, and in that time Hadar was standing over him, striking down at his head with his terrible staff. Malus summoned all his strength and leapt away barely in time.

  “You lied to me!” Malus raged at the daemon as he ran headlong for his lost sword.

  “No, I told you exactly what Hadar’s limitations were. His magic can’t affect you directly. You were the fool who thought you knew better than I in matters of sorcery.”

  Suddenly a shadow fell over Malus, and instinct made him duck his head. Instead of killing him, the staff struck him across his shoulders and flung him face-first to the ground. His entire left arm was numb from the blow, and his right throbbed in agony. Worse, he was now several yards downslope from where his sword lay. Realising the danger in hesitating, Malus scrabbled to his feet and staggered forward, his right hand running through the grass before him as he tried to find something he could use as a weapon.

  The faithful laughed to see their foe capering like a fool in the grove he’d defamed. Hadar stalked after him, summoning his power once more. “You were stupid to challenge me in my place of power,” Hadar said. “Here I can work my magic with impunity, drawing strength from the land itself. What do you have that can compare?”

  “Let me help you,” the daemon whispered. “I can give you the strength and speed to surprise him. Just say the word.”

  “No,” Malus replied.

  The staff smashed down on him again, this time striking the highborn in the lower back. Malus cried out in pain and fell face-first. His one good hand fumbled frantically through the grass — and finally closed on something small and hard.

  Hadar rose above him, his staff poised to strike. “I had expected better of the warrior who bested Yaghan,” the shaman said. “But then, the earth is not your ally, is it?”

  Malus rolled onto his back and snapped his right hand forward, fingers pointing up at the bottom of Hadar’s jaw. The shaman had just enough time to register the motion before the small, charred boot knife punched through soft flesh and drove upwards into Kul Hadar’s brain.

  “Perhaps not, beastman,” Malus answered coldly. “But from time to time she supplies me with what I need.”

  The shaman swayed on his feet for the space of several heartbeats, then crashed to the ground.

  I thought that knife had landed somewhere over here, the highborn thought as he climbed to his feet. Malus went and reclaimed his sword, ignoring the shocked cries and the horrified looks of the true believers. Then he turned on them, brandishing the point of the sword in their faces.

  “Hear me, animals,” Malus growled. “Your shaman is dead. Your champions are dead. Your relic has been plundered — all by my hand alone. Your herd has been broken — leave now, or try your faith against mine and perish, as Kul Hadar did. Now choose.”

  The true believers stared at Malus for several heartbeats, clearly weighing their convictions. One beastman stepped forward, opening his mouth to speak, and Malus stabbed him through the throat. The rest fled, filling the grove with wails of despair.

  Malus watched them go. Once they were lost from sight, he let the great sword fall to the ground and walked over to Yaghan’s headless body. Bending down, he picked up the champion’s fallen axe. Then, studying the black-boled trees carefully, he went to gather some wood for a fire.

  The logs blazed hotly in the stone circle, the heat reflecting from the slab and keeping the chill of the night at bay. Malus carved off another piece of meat with his boot knife and slipped the morsel into his mouth. It was tough and chewy, but by no means the most stringy meat he’d ever had. A little gamy, but that was all right, too. He sat back on his haunches and watched the northern lights dance overhead.

  There had been much shouting and howls of despair in the herd camp throughout the afternoon, but as evening wore on the place fell silent. Malus wandered down from the grove — itself a great deal less demonstrative than before — and found the place deserted. He went through Hadar’s tent and found it expertly pillaged. Except for his belongings — they sat in a neat pile on the dirt floor where rugs and pillows had once lain. Malus had armed himself, and, feeling more relaxed at that point, went into the woods to find Spite.

  The nauglir now wandered near the bottom of the cleft, helping himself to Hadar’s fallen champions. He’d let Spite eat his fill, and then begin the long trek south, back to the Hag. The daemon’s words still echoed in his mind: Already the sands are running from the hourglass. Even as we speak your life is slipping from your grasp.

  He had the Octagon of Praan, but that still left four talismans to go, and he hadn’t any idea how to find them. And of the two people he knew who might have the information, one likely wanted him dead and the other had actively tried to kill him by sending him into the Wastes in the first place.

  “Your sister sought to teach you a lesson,” Tz’arkan said. “If she wanted you dead she would have kept you in the city where Urial could get to you.”

  Malus bit back a curse. It was going to be a long time before he grew accustomed to the daemon’s presence in the back of his mind. “You may have a point,” the highborn grudgingly agreed. “She may have expected me to turn back once the going became too dangerous.” He grinned. “It appears my sister does not know me as well as she thinks.”

  Then as he thought about the possibilities, his face grew cold. If that’s true, then Nagaira never meant to sacrifice Dalvar and her men at all.

  “Perhaps, but that assumption worked out in your favour, putting rest to a potential threat of betrayal. Simply tell her your warband was wiped out on the journey north. It is nothing but the truth.”

  Malus nodded, but his expression was troubled. He’d lost a great many valuable resources during the journey. Some, like Lhunara, would be almost impossible to replace.

  Yet the expedition hadn’t been a total loss. He would return with enough wealth f
rom the daemon’s treasure chamber to pay off his debts and begin forming the power base he’d always needed…

  “You are very free with my trinkets, Darkblade,” the daemon warned.

  “If I’m free with your gold, you’ll be free in turn,” Malus replied. “I can’t search for your relics if I wind up on the wrong end of an assassin’s blade.”

  Tz’arkan fell silent. Malus afforded himself a brief, smug grin. It was true that he’d left the Hag as a highborn and would return as a slave, but between now and then he would find a way to conceal the mark of the daemon’s bond. As bad as his situation was, it still lent him advantages that no one else realised he possessed. He planned on making use of those advantages where they would do the most good.

  He would overcome this setback. Eventually, he would be free again. He was capable of making sacrifices and suffering lasting torments if they brought him closer to his goals. That was the essence of who the druchii were — taking strength from darkness and making it their own.

  The highborn leaned back against the burnt stump of one of the standing stones. He would find a way to rebuild his ties to Urial or Nagaira. The highborn was willing to pay whatever price was required. He was nothing if not a reasonable man.

  Malus cut another slice of Kul Hadar’s heart and chewed it thoughtfully, contemplating the future.

  Glossary

  Ancri Dam

  Literally “Heart of the Stag”, an arcane talisman worn as a symbol of rule by one of the larger Autarii clans. Thought to possess potent magical powers.

  Autarii

  Translated either “Shades” or “Spectres”, it is the name adopted by the druchii mountain clans north of Hag Graef. Superlative woodsmen and hunters, the Autarii are considered cruel and pitiless even by druchii standards.

  Caedlin

  A mask, usually of silver or gold, worn by highborn citizens of Hag Graef to protect their faces from the fog that sweeps over the city each night. Sometimes called a night-mask.