[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm

by Dan Abnett

  The arena was one of the most luxurious in the city, catering solely to the wealthiest households in Hag Graef. The lavishly-appointed viewing boxes surrounding the arena could normally hold little more than two hundred druchii and their retinues, but today the riders performed for fewer than two dozen nobles, all dressed in gleaming armour and chains of silver and gold. Many of them raised jewelled goblets in salute to the red team’s point, while others picked at delicacies proffered on silver trays or argued with one another over the merits of the different riders. They were all young, rich men who wore their two swords with ostentatious pride and carried themselves with the reckless assurance of the all-powerful. Yet the highborn could not help but notice that each and every man, regardless of what they were doing, had positioned themselves so that they could watch every move by the statuesque woman who reclined in their midst.

  Malus stood at the top of a marble stairway leading down to the viewing boxes from the lesser galleries above. With a start of surprise he caught himself checking the state of his own attire, adjusting the position of the enamelled plate armour and the arrangement of the paired swords given to him by his sister. With the octagon in his possession it had been a relatively simple matter to bypass Nagaira’s wards and escape without raising an alarm. Silar and his men had been surprised at his sudden arrival in his refurbished tower, but a few sharp commands had set them scurrying to enquire about the location of the person he wished to meet.

  Silar and Arleth Vann had tried to insist on sending him with a proper retinue, but once again, Malus was forced to order them to remain behind. His instincts told him that their presence would have only complicated things further; the last thing he needed was for an overheated noble to misconstrue a word or gesture that would lead to bloodshed. He had enough feuds to contend with as it was.

  Malus took a deep breath, collecting his wits and started down the stairs. No less than three of the nobles leapt to bar his entrance to the viewing box, their hands straying to the hilts of their swords. So many young fools with so much to prove, he thought, careful to keep his disdain from showing on his face.

  For a fleeting instant Malus wasn’t sure how to address the men. It was a complicated tangle of etiquette: on the one hand each one of them clearly outranked him in terms of personal wealth and prestige, on the other hand they were also retainers and he had a blood-tie to the woman they served. There was also the fact that he’d likely killed more men in battle than all of the retainers combined and he wasn’t in a mood to kowtow to anyone. “Stand aside, hounds,” he said with an easy smile and a glitter of menace in his eyes. “I’m here to speak to my sister.”

  The leader of the trio, a sharp-featured man with finely-pointed teeth and a row of gold rings glinting in each ear, leaned forward and made to draw one of his elaborately ornamented swords. “This is a private party, Darkblade. If you want the pleasure of my lady’s company go make an appointment with her chamberlain, otherwise we’ll chuck you into the arena for the nauglir to chew on.”

  Malus met the highborn’s stare. “You’re too close,” he said calmly.

  “Am I?” The noble leaned in slightly closer, almost nose-to-nose with Malus. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

  Malus grabbed the elbow of the noble’s sword arm with his left hand and punched the druchii in the throat with his right. The retainer’s eyes bulged and he doubled over, gagging and gasping for breath. With a shove Malus sent the man crashing into one of his fellows, sending both sprawling in a heap.

  The third retainer’s eyes went wide. Before he could more than half-draw his own blade Malus darted in until they stood almost nose-to-nose. The noble back-pedalled, trying to get enough room to finish drawing his sword and Malus helped him along with a hard shove in the middle of his chest. The retainer let out a yelp and tumbled backwards, falling over a pair of seated retainers and losing his grip on his blade.

  Angry shouts filled the spectators’ box and a dozen blades rasped from their scabbards, but over the din of the rising scuffle and the thunder of the combat below a woman’s smooth voice cut through the tumult and stopped every man in his tracks.

  “Enough. Enough! If my brother wishes to speak to me so badly he’d risk his own precious skin then I’ll hear what he has to say.”

  The retainers stopped cold. Even the man Malus had struck in the throat somehow stifled his hacking gasps for air. Her presence filled the spectators’ box like a burst of cold winter sunlight and the nobles instantly subsided. They returned to what they’d been doing before the sudden interruption, making a path for Malus to approach the reclining form of his sister Yasmir.

  She was watching him with an expression of mild curiosity and in spite of himself Malus felt as though he were being drawn into her large, violet eyes. He realised at that moment that the magical allure Nagaira used on him at the revel had been nothing more than a feeble imitation of Yasmir’s personal glamour. She was every inch the ideal of druchii beauty: lithe and sensual, with perfect alabaster skin and a fine-boned face that seemed to glow against a backdrop of lustrous black hair. Not even Eldire’s fearsome presence could compare; she had built a persona based on magic, vast influence and guile. With Yasmir, her glamour was effortless, like sunlight gleaming on the surface of a glacier. There was great danger there, of that he was certain, but he was nevertheless blind to it.

  “Well met, sister,” he managed, struggling to regain his poise. It occurred to him that this was the first time in his life he had actually spoken to Yasmir; as the third oldest of Lurhan’s six children, she had been nearing adulthood by the time Malus was born. Aside from mandatory observances like the annual Hanil Khar, they never saw one another. “I… I had no idea you had an interest in sports.”

  Yasmir smiled, the expression disturbingly unaffected and genuine. “I would say it depends on the nature of the game,” she replied. Her voice was melodious and soft as sable fur. There was not a single rough edge to it and it made Malus wonder if she had ever had to raise her voice for anything in her entire life. Vaklyr and Lord Kurgal seek to prove whose fighting skills are superior, so they and their retainers are vying for heads in the arena. Lord Kurgal’s red team appears to have the lead and Vaklyr’s men are losing more than just the game.” There was an eerie gleam of mirth in her eyes. “What do you think of their riding ability, Malus? Rumour has it you’re quite the expert on cold ones.”

  Malus shrugged. “Lord Kurgal has served our father for many years as Master of Cavalry. He and his men are the true experts. I merely dabble in breeding nauglir when it amuses me.” He attempted to cover his unease by studying the movements of the riders in the arena. “Vaklyr is too eager. Too aggressive. He’s clearly trying to win more here than just a game.”

  It was obvious that he’d walked in on the latest spat between Yasmir’s ardent rivals. They were constantly vying with one another for her attentions and his sister always managed to give them just enough reason to hope to keep them coming back again and again. It was said that Yasmir had slain more of Hag Graef’s knights than any enemy army. He had never really stopped to think how much craft such manipulations required, but now he was being shown a taste of it. Lurhan should order you to choose a husband, Malus thought, or pack you off to the temple where you can do no more harm.

  Yasmir laughed, a clear, pure sound that sent shivers along Malus’ skin. “Vaklyr is an ardent one,” she agreed. “So passionate and unbridled. I fear he won’t ever amount to much, despite his family’s connections, but right now his artless desire is entertaining.” She regarded Malus almost languidly. “What is it that you desire, brother? I must say, this visit comes as a great surprise.”

  Again, Malus was taken aback by the sheer frankness of her question. Does she know nothing of guile, the highborn thought? And then it struck him: of course she did. She simply didn’t feel the need for it. Yasmir was relaxed, open and genuine as a show of strength. Adored as she was by many of the most powerful nobles in Hag Graef, she had li
ttle reason to fear anyone, save perhaps the Drachau himself.

  “I have come to enlist your aid, sister,” Malus said, summoning up a smile of his own. “There is a matter I wish to propose to our elder brother once he returns to Clar Karond with his ships.”

  To his surprise—and annoyance—Yasmir laughed again. “Seeking another backer for a slave raid, Malus? I don’t think you could win the support of a tavern full of drunken sailors, much less a corsair lord like my beloved brother.” At the mention of Bruglir, Lurhan’s eldest son, a real look of hunger came over Yasmir’s features. They saw one another for only a month or two at a time, just long enough to refit the raiding ships in Bruglir’s fleet before he set out to hunt the seas once more. When he was at Hag Graef the two were inseparable. It was the one deterrent that had served to keep the nobles at the Hag from pressing a case for Yasmir’s marriage. No one wished to cross the man who would be the next Vaulkhar—a man who was also reputed to be one of the finest swordsmen in Naggaroth and one of the most powerful corsairs in memory.

  Malus felt his smile falter a bit and felt a flash of annoyance. Once again, he fought to regain his balance. “Were I acting by myself, you would undoubtedly be correct, sister,” he said. “But that’s why I wish to enlist your help. Everyone knows that you alone have Bruglir’s utter confidence. If you were to speak on my behalf, even the great corsair lord would have to listen.”

  “Perhaps,” Yasmir said languidly. “You’re a bit better at flattery than I imagined, Malus. Have you been practising with Nagaira? You’re quite the couple these days.”

  “I… no,” he caught himself stammering. Once again, the irritation flared. He could hear the retainers chuckling quietly to themselves. “I didn’t think to win you over with mere flattery,” the highborn said. “I plan to pay well for your aid, dear sister.”

  For a moment, Yasmir was silent. Malus sensed a wave of tension ripple through the nobles. “And what, pray tell, can you offer me that these worthies cannot?”

  Malus turned back to Yasmir with a wolfish smile. “Our brother Urial’s head, of course.”

  Yasmir sat bolt upright, her careless demeanour wiped away. Now her eyes were brilliant and intense. “That’s a fearful offer to make, brother.”

  “I can think of no finer gift for you, dear sister,” Malus answered. He knew that was the one thing that she wanted nearly as much as Bruglir himself. Urial had made no secret of his infatuation for Yasmir, even though his twisted body and mind repulsed her. Yet he continued to pursue her affections and such were his ties to the temple and to the Drachau himself that no man dared raise a hand against him. “As well-informed as you are, you are clearly aware of the… difficulties between Urial and myself. We are already at swords’ points over other matters—I can either negotiate with him or end his threat to me in a more permanent fashion.”

  “If you kill Urial, it will cost you. The temple will neither forgive nor forget.”

  Malus shrugged. “I am already at war with them, sister. So far I find it most agreeable. Regardless, that would not be your concern, would it? Urial would haunt you no more and I would face the consequences in your stead.”

  Yasmir regarded him at length, her expression intent. “Before you left for the north I would have thought you incapable of such daring,” she said. “But now? I confess, it is a very tempting offer.” She leaned back against the divan and stretched out her hand. Instantly a young lord leapt to her side with a goblet of wine. Yasmir gave the man a brief, luminous smile and then turned her attention back to Malus. “What do you wish of me?”

  “Merely your support. I intend to speak to Bruglir in Clar Karond as soon as his fleet puts in. If you lend your aid and persuade him to join the expedition, then I will take care of Urial in turn.”

  Yasmir smiled enticingly. “Suppose I ask for payment in advance? A show of good faith?”

  Now it was Malus’ turn to laugh. “You are wondrously beguiling sister, but please.”

  “I was merely thinking of you, dear brother. Why, you could likely see to the problem right now. If you hurry, I expect you could catch him before he reaches the stables. I don’t expect he can walk very fast with that twisted leg of his.”

  Malus’ smile faltered and no amount of willpower could bring it back. “I beg your pardon, sister?”

  Yasmir regarded him with a look of innocent surprise, though the look in her eyes belied the gesture. “Why, he was just here, brother, pressing his nauseating case for my affections. When one of my men reported that you’d entered the arena he became very agitated and took his leave.”

  “Did he? How interesting,” Malus replied. “Perhaps he and I will have a conversation about you after all. Something to encourage him to seek his entertainment elsewhere.” The highborn’s mind raced. How many retainers had Urial brought with him? How many more could he call on at short notice? I have to get out of here.

  “Would you? That would please me very much,” Yasmir said.

  Malus bowed deeply. “Then may I count on your support with Bruglir?”

  “For your efforts with Urial? Of course.”

  “Excellent,” Malus answered. Then I will take my leave. I expect Urial and I will have much to discuss in the near future.” Just not right here and now, Malus hoped. He cursed himself for leaving his men at the tower.

  He gave no time to Yasmir to respond. The nobles glared hatefully at him as he passed, but he gave the hounds little heed.

  A roar went up from the arena floor as another man bled for Yasmir’s pleasure. Malus had the feeling that he wouldn’t be the last.

  Chapter Eight

  THE BLESSING OF STEEL

  Malus took the steps to the upper gallery two at a time, fighting the urge to draw his sword as he approached the dark portal leading to the spectator ramps beyond. Bad enough for Yasmir and her aides to see him run—he wasn’t about to start jabbing his blades into every deep shadow he passed.

  All was not entirely lost. He had no mount in the arena stables, having walked the short distance from the fortress. That worked to his advantage somewhat, it was likely that Urial would set up his ambush there. If he moved swiftly he could take a somewhat circuitous route down to the ground level, out through one of the arena’s many open gates and onto the crowded city streets. It was late in the afternoon, when much of the city’s business was conducted, so one more highborn walking the streets wouldn’t attract too much attention.

  His skin felt cold beneath the weight of his armour, black ice moved sluggishly through his veins. Malus thought about turning to Tz’arkan for aid. The daemon was strangely quiet, like a cat studying an unsuspecting mouse and the silence made the highborn uneasy. How deeply had Tz’arkan sunk his roots while Malus hung in the Vaulkhar’s tower? How close was he to surrendering himself entirely to the daemon? Malus could no longer say for certain. And death brought no salvation either; if he died Tz’arkan would claim his soul “til the end of time.

  So I’d best survive then, Malus thought grimly, with nothing but my swords and my blessed hate. Just like old times.

  The highborn plunged through the dark archway, his eyes momentarily blinded as he adjusted to the lack of light and that was the moment Urial’s men made their move.

  A sword struck his left pauldron, glancing off the curved metal and cutting a small notch in the highborn’s ear. Another blade whispered through the air from his right, but Malus ducked instinctively and the keen edge missed his skull by less than a finger length. The highborn hurled himself forward with a shouted oath, crashing into yet another swordsman, whose blade clanged ineffectually from Malus’ breastplate. The retainer, caught by surprise, tried to back-pedal out of the way, but Malus continued his rush, pushing the warrior off his feet.

  Malus’ sword flashed from its oiled scabbard as he fetched up against the far wall. His eyes were adjusting, the pain in his cut ear making his blood sing and lending a cold, clear focus to his surroundings. There were five men on the shadowy specta
tors’ ramp, all of them in black robes and kheitans. They wore close-fitting hoods and silver caedlin, even in the light of day; the delicate masks were worked in the shape of skulls, their dark oculars devoid of interest or pity. They all held large, curved swords, wielding the great blades two-handed and moved with the speed and grace of skilled swordsmen. Fortunately for Malus, none of the retainers wore heavy armour—only hauberks of black mail that covered their torso and part of their upper arms. It lent him a distinct advantage, Malus thought, but how much? Urial, the highborn noted, was nowhere to be seen and he wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

  The man Malus had knocked down was already back on his feet and the five men rushed silently at him, instinctively forming a semicircle that sought to pin his back to the arena’s outside wall. But Malus wasn’t about to give them the advantage; with a snarl he rushed at the nearest man, swinging viciously. The retainer’s blade was a blur of motion, flashing in the half-light. He blocked Malus’ stroke easily and turned the move into a cut aimed for the highborn’s skull, only realising too late that Malus’ stroke was only a well-timed feint that reversed itself and swept low, slicing through the retainer’s right leg. The sword had been forged by a master and its fearsome edge parted robes, skin and muscle with equal ease. Blood flowed in a torrent, splashing on the stone floor and the retainer collapsed with the faintest of groans. Malus had already leapt past the grievously wounded man and charged down the spectators’ ramp, heading for the street.