by Dan Abnett
“Two dead and the rest put to flight in as much time as it takes to tell of it,” said a voice from the shadows of the city gate. “A most impressive display, dread lord. Your time in the wilderness has suited you well, if I may be so bold.”
Malus turned at the sound of the voice, his fist clenching around the hilt of his sword. A guard captain stepped into the light, clad in fine armour and wearing a silver-chased sword at his hip. There was a wry look in the captain’s dark eyes that Malus didn’t care for one bit. There was something familiar about the man.
“Bold words from a craven captain,” Malus hissed, “who hid behind stone walls while I fought alone. When the Vaulkhar hears of it you and your children’s lives will be forfeit.”
Malus expected the man to quail at the words, but instead the captain smiled faintly and his dark eyes shone with cruel mirth. The highborn fought the urge to bury his knife in the man’s mocking eyes—remembering who he was talking to. It was the same captain he’d bribed to escape the city months ago. His face had picked up a few new scars in the meantime, but judging by his new armour he’d clearly put Malus’ gift to good use.
The captain stepped from beneath the gate arch and approached the highborn. “You are of course free to make your complaint to your father the Vaulkhar,” he said calmly, “but I don’t think it would be a pleasant reunion, dread lord. In fact, it could be a fatal one.”
Malus studied the captain with narrowed eyes. “And how would you know such a thing?”
“Because there is a standing order for the city guard—issued by both your father and the Drachau himself—that Malus, son of Lurhan, is to be arrested on sight and delivered to the Vaulkhar’s tower.” The captain smiled. “Does your father always treat his children like criminals, dread lord?”
The captain’s audacity was breathtaking—but it was a carefully calculated ploy, Malus saw. The man was nothing if not ambitious.
Malus stepped closer to the captain. “So you kept the gates closed as a favour to me, then?”
“Of course, dread lord. If I’d sounded the alarm and opened the gates, the commander of the watch would have to be informed and that would have necessitated your arrest.” The captain glanced around at his men. “At the moment I’m just giving my men a break while I discuss business with a noble acquaintance.”
Malus grinned mirthlessly. “Indeed?”
The captain nodded. “Certainly. I know very well what your father and the Drachau are offering for your arrest. I’m curious to know what you’d offer to avoid that unfortunate fate.”
The highborn stared at the captain and began to laugh. It was a harsh, bloodless sound that drained the amusement from the captain’s face. “As I seem to recall I promised you a reward when I returned to Hag Graef,” Malus said. “Allow me into the city, captain and I shall double it.”
“Is that so?” The captain considered Malus carefully, weighing the risks. Malus could see the avarice in the man’s expression. “I’ll take the payment now if it please you, dread lord.”
“Are you certain that’s wise, with all these men around? They’ll want a cut, too and then where will you be?” The highborn took a step closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you know of a flesh house in the Corsairs’ Quarter called the House of Brass?”
“I know of it,” the captain said warily.
“Then I have a favour to ask of you. Carry a message to Silar Thornblood—he is one of my sworn men—and tell him to meet me there this evening. You will find him at my tower in the Hag. Accompany him tonight and I will see you amply rewarded for your efforts.”
The captain cocked his head suspiciously “My dread lord is a cruel and canny man,” he said. “So you understand if I have reason to believe this is some sort of deception.”
Malus grinned. It was hard not to admire such brazenness. “Do I dare deceive you captain? If I do, you report me to my father and I can’t have that.”
The captain thought it over for a moment, gauging the odds. “Very well,” he said evenly. “I will look forward to our rendezvous, then. What message shall I deliver?”
“Say that his lord is returned from the Wastes,” Malus said. “That will tell him all he needs to know.”
The House of Brass was a den of pleasures that catered to highborn druchii in a seedier district of the city. Malus knew the proprietor well, having spent entire nights in one of the private suites entertaining disreputable guests and would-be allies. It was one of the first places the Vaulkhar’s men would think to look if they knew he’d returned to the city, but he was certain that Mistress Nemeira knew him well enough that she’d never dare betray him. The House of Brass was a maze of chambers and narrow corridors—some hidden behind concealed doors and wall panels—that occupied half a city block at the border between the Corsairs’ Quarter and the Slavers’ Quarter. There were even secret escape routes from the building that supposedly led outside the city walls; Nemeira charged extra for their use.
Malus took another sip of wine and settled deeper into a mound of thick cushions. The room was decorated in the autarii style, with piles of thick rugs and pillows laid around braziers in a rough cloverleaf pattern around a circular hearth. His grimy, ragged clothes and kheitan had been taken away—to be burned immediately, Nemeira had said sternly—and his ravaged armour had been carried off to be mended by an armourer the proprietor knew well. After a long, scalding bath and vigorous scrubbing by two attendants, he’d changed into robes of rich silk and ordered the best wine the house could provide.
Weariness pulled at him with ever-strengthening fingers. Since the brigands had picked up his trail a few days before there had been precious few opportunities to sleep and no chance to forage for food. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him even as his mind roiled with suspicion.
There was a light scratching at the door. Malus set his wine aside, his right hand straying to the sword lying on the rug beside him. “Enter,” he said.
The door opened silently and a human slave entered, head bowed and eyes downcast. “Your guests have arrived and await your pleasure, dread lord,” she said softly. Will you see them?”
“Bring them in, then fetch wine and food from the kitchen,” Malus answered.
Now we’ll have some answers, he thought. And a bit of pleasant diversion afterwards. He’d had hours to contemplate the long list of excruciations he would inflict on that upstart captain. It would be a fine way to celebrate his return to Hag Graef.
In moments the door opened again to admit three druchii. Silar Thornblood entered first, his tall frame slightly stooped due to the chamber’s low ceiling. The young druchii wore full armour and his hand rested warily on the hilt of his sword. Behind him slipped a dark shadow wrapped in a heavy, hooded cloak. As the figure stepped into the light of the nearest brazier, Malus caught sight of Arleth Vann’s pale, cadaverous face. His eyes glinted golden in the firelight, as cold and merciless as the stare of a hungry wolf. The last to enter was the guard captain, who eyed the room’s luxurious furnishings with an equal mixture of suspicion and desire.
Silar caught sight of Malus and his expression changed from one of wariness to genuine surprise. “When the captain sought me out I was sure this had to be some trick,” the young druchii said.
Malus rose, accepting Silar’s formal bow. “Well met, Silar—and you, Arleth Vann,” the highborn said, nodding his head to the hooded druchii. “Though I’m curious why both of you elected to come.”
“I had to be certain we weren’t followed,” Silar replied, his expression turning grim. “Obviously you’ve heard about the warrant for your arrest. The Vaulkhar has his eye on us night and day, hoping we will lead him to you.”
Before Malus could reply, the guard captain took a step forward. “Forgive me, dread lord, but I have no wish to intrude on you further. If we could conclude our business now, I’ll be on my way.”
“Intrusion? There is no intrusion, captain,” Malus said easily. “You have done me a gr
eat favour and you are my guest this evening.” He gestured at the cushions. “Sit. We have much to discuss and I’ve been without stimulating company for quite some time.” He fixed the druchii with a hard stare. “I insist.”
Malus’ two retainers turned to regard the captain and the enterprising druchii’s face went pale as he realised the snare he’d stepped in. “I… yes…of course,” he said uneasily.
“Excellent,” the highborn said. “I regret that I can’t share the hospitality of my own apartments, captain, but I expect that my half-brother Urial has taken out his frustrations on them in my absence, eh, Silar?”
Silar turned to Malus, his brow furrowing in concern. “You mean you haven’t heard?”
Malus’ good humour faded. “Heard what?”
Without a word, Silar pointed to the hadrilkar around his neck. It was not the silver steel that Malus was familiar with, but pure silver, worked in the sigil of the Vaulkhar himself.
“Your tower has been confiscated by your father, along with all the property within,” Silar said, his voice grave. “He has claimed your retainers, your slaves—everything. You’ve been disowned, cast out of the Vaulkhar’s household.”
Chapter Two
THE FORSWORN
“Disowned?” Malus’ mind reeled at the thought. “Why would my father do such a thing?”
“It’s your own fault,” Silar replied flatly.
The guard captain’s eyes went wide at Silar’s thoughtless honestly and from his expression it was clear he expected Silar’s head to go bouncing across the carpets at any moment. “I told you that torturing the Naggorite hostage was reckless.”
“Fuerlan?” Malus spat. “What does that toad have to do with any of this? He laid hands on me—me—in the Court of Thorns and dared to presume my acquaintance. I was well within my rights to kill him for such an affront.” The highborn folded his arms and glared at Silar. “His excruciations were complex and intricate. They were a gift. If the fool had any sense of honour he would thank me for what I did.”
“Except that Fuerlan is a hostage. He’s the Drachau’s property and the Drachau is the one responsible for his punishment.” Silar spread his hands. “Can you not see the political implications? It is an affront to Naggor at the very least.”
Malus shot Silar a venomous glare. “So the Drachau reacted poorly to Fuerlan’s torture.”
“He ordered your father to kill you with his own hands,” Silar replied. “I expect it was the best way he could think of to avoid the threat of the Witch King’s wrath. Balneth Bale couldn’t very well demand justice if his most bitter foe had already taken steps to deal with the matter.”
Malus considered the problem. “So when the Vaulkhar couldn’t find me in the city, he confiscated my property?”
Silar smiled ruefully. “Remember the nobles who invested in your slave raid? The ones who lost a sizeable fortune when your stock were slaughtered outside Clar Karond? They all got together and called their debts due a few days after you left. And since you were gone, they were able to petition your father instead. He settled your debt and disowned you by claiming your property to cover his loss. Now do you see what one reckless act has caused?”
“I do, indeed,” Malus answered coldly, his patience at an end. “And I would do it again under the same circumstances. That’s my privilege as a highborn, Silar. Do not forget that.”
Silar bowed his head. “Of course, dread lord. I only wish to show you the depth of the problem you’ve returned to.”
The highborn laughed bitterly. “It is more tangled than you know, Silar Thornblood. At least now I don’t have to worry about assassins from the Temple of Khaine since my father has covered my debt.”
“Not so, my lord,” Arleth Vann spoke, the thin whisper rising from the shadows at the far end of the room. The former temple assassin sought out the shadows instinctively, like cleaving to like. The debt of blood still stands between you and the Lord of Murder.”
“But that makes no sense!” Malus shouted, his temper rising. “My former allies have been repaid—why would they continue to keep Khaine’s worshippers hounding my trail?”
“When our slave stock was wiped out several months ago, we assumed that your former backers hired the services of the temple to punish you for your failure,” Arleth Vann continued. “I think perhaps we were too hasty in making that assumption. The nobles you chose to back your slave raid were picked specifically because they had little influence but moderate fortunes and ambition. And you ensured that each of these nobles invested the vast majority of their influence and funds in your enterprise to guarantee their continued support.”
Malus felt the slither of invisible snakes across his heart. “What a tangled web you’ve woven, Darkblade,” the daemon chuckled. “I’ve never seen a spider ensnare itself so tightly. Perhaps I made a mistake when I chose you as my saviour.”
“If you doubt my abilities then leave me and let the Outer Darkness take you!” Malus hissed—then stiffened, realising he had spoken aloud. Silar bristled, his eyes shining with suppressed anger, while Arleth Vann’s face remained a pale, implacable mask. The highborn strode swiftly to where his wine cup sat and took a long swallow.
“So now you believe these nobles didn’t approach the temple after all?” Malus said sharply.
“No, my lord,” Arleth Vann replied. “I made a number of enquiries after you left for the Wastes and it appears that you chose your backers very well indeed—several of them invested more than they could truly afford and were on the verge of ruin when our enterprise failed. Even if they had combined whatever coin they had left, it would not have been enough to secure the temple’s assistance. Someone else is responsible for the blood debt—and continues to maintain it even now.”
Malus went to take another drink from his cup and discovered that he’d already drained it dry. With a supreme effort he controlled the urge to hurl the cup across the room. “So,” he said, setting the cup carefully on the floor, “after three months travelling to the Chaos Wastes and back, I’ve returned home to find that I’m an outcast, the city guard has orders to arrest me on sight and the Drachau, my father the Vaulkhar and the Temple of Khaine are all actively trying to kill me.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The guard captain glanced longingly at the door, suddenly very uncomfortable. Silar and Arleth Vann exchanged looks. “That… would be an accurate assessment,” Silar said hesitantly. “I trust the expedition to the Wastes went well?”
“Dead, my lord? All of them?” Silar regarded Malus with a look of shock and horror combined.
The house servants had come and gone, leaving plates of spiced foods and fresh bottles of wine. Malus was already on his third cup. The warmth of the wine seemed to fill the empty feeling in his chest and still the shifting coils of the daemon within. “We knew when we set out that the journey was not without risk,” the highborn said grimly, his mind filled with disquieting images of the fight outside the temple.
“What was in the temple, lord?” Arleth Vann inquired. He sat cross-legged to Malus’ left, his hands resting easily on his knees. The former acolyte had touched neither food nor wine. “Did you find the source of power you sought?”
Dimly, Malus could feel Tz’arkan stirring in his breast. The highborn leaned back, bringing the bottle to his lips. “Another piece of the puzzle,” he replied. There was power there, but I haven’t the means to unlock it yet. I lack the keys, which brings me back to Hag Graef.”
“The keys are here?” Silar said, frowning.
“It is possible they no longer exist at all,” Malus said darkly. “But then we thought the same thing about the temple itself. There are four arcane relics I must unearth before I can unlock the power in the temple and I have less than a year to find them.”
“Less than a year?” The guard captain asked, intrigued in spite of himself. He had appropriated a bottle of his own when the servants arrived, but had otherwise laboured to avoid catching anyone’s notice.<
br />
“Yes,” Malus answered, biting back a surge of irritation. “If I cannot unlock the wards in the temple within the space of a year, my… claim is forfeit.”
The highborn heard the daemon’s voice whisper mockingly, but the sound was too faint to hear over the buzzing in his head. Malus chuckled. “If this keeps up I may stay drunk for the next nine months!”
Silence fell over the druchii. Malus caught Silar and Arleth Vann’s worried glances and realised he’d thought aloud once more. “Think nothing of my mutterings,” the highborn said with a casual wave of his hand. “I spent one too many months alone in the Wastes with nothing but my own voice for company.”
Malus took another drink, then straightened and set the bottle carefully on the carpet. “Time is of the essence. I must gain access to an arcane library and begin searching for references to these relics, which means that I need to contact my sister Nagaira. This also means I will require trusted agents to be my hands and eyes in the Hag and elsewhere in the city.”
Silar nodded, looking at the floor. “We have not forgotten our oaths to you, my lord,” he answered. “But we must now answer to the Vaulkhar as well.”
“Not so,” the guard captain said.
Malus raised an eyebrow. “And how is that?”
The guard captain paused a moment, collecting his thoughts and drawing a little more courage from the bottle clasped in his hands. “Oaths of fealty are paramount,” he began. “Not even the Witch King himself can usurp a druchii’s oath of service to another. So long as you live and your retainers haven’t forsworn their oaths, the Vaulkhar can’t claim them as his own. He can claim to command them in your absence, since you owe fealty to him as father and Vaulkhar and aren’t here to contest ownership.”