[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm

by Dan Abnett

  The following evening a procession of servants swept through the room, bearing clothes, food and libations to prepare him for the ceremony. The slaves stripped away his armour, kheitan and robes, clothing him in a robe of expensive white Tilean linen and a belt of pebbled hide unlike anything he’d seen before. A circlet set with six precious stones was placed on his brow and braziers were lit in his room to fill the air with pungent incense. Then he was left to wait in silence, breathing the spiced air and feeling his skin tingle as the herbs did their work on body and mind.

  Hours passed while Malus listened to the steady commotion of servants and guards outside as Nagaira made her preparations for the ritual. Then, as the hour drew close to midnight and the coals in the braziers had burned low, the door to the chamber swung wide and Nagaira swept in like a cold wind. Unlike the seductress of the previous revel she now carried herself as a priestess, clad in white robes and a breastplate of hammered gold worked with sorcerous runes. She wore another mask this time, a horned skull smaller but no less fearsome than the Hierophant’s and like him she bore a brimming goblet in her hands.

  “The hour is nigh, supplicant,” Nagaira said gravely. “Drink with me as we await the Prince’s pleasure.”

  Malus considered his options carefully. The wine was likely drugged, but he could think of no plausible way to refuse. He took the goblet from her carefully and drank without a word. The wine was thick and sweet, with a resinous aftertaste. More traders’ wine, he thought, suppressing a grimace. The highborn passed the wine back to the witch and was surprised to see her drink as well.

  “We are all one In the crucible of desire,” she said, reading the expression on his face. “After tonight we will be bound together more tightly than family, more intimate than lovers. As you dedicate yourself to the Prince, he shall dedicate himself to you and your devotion will be rewarded six-fold. Glory awaits, brother. Your every desire will be fulfilled.”

  “I pray so, sister,” he said with a wolfish smile. “With all my heart.”

  A robed supplicant entered amongst whispers and bowed to Nagaira. Malus was startled to see that the druchii wore no mask and recognised the man as one of the Drachau’s personal retainers. “The Prince awaits,” he said, favouring Malus with a conspiratorial smile.

  Nagaira stretched forth her hand. “Come, brother. It is time to join the revel.”

  Malus took her hand. As she turned to lead him from the room a quick pass of his free hand reassured him that the dagger within his robes was still securely in place.

  They descended once more to the base of the tower, walking in silence and passing through shadow. The witchlights had all been dimmed and after a time Malus felt as though he were being drawn along through a sea of darkness, pulled by a hand of gleaming alabaster. The wine, he thought, trying to focus. The more he concentrated the more his focus broke into fragments, as though he were grasping at quicksilver. Not even his anger could avail him, it glowed like a dead coal, sullen and without heat.

  Before he knew it they had reached the bottom of the long, curving stairs. The tall statue shed its own cold light in the darkened room, lit from within by its own sorcery. Its light shone dimly on helmets and breastplates, spear points and pauldrons. Rank after rank of Nagaira’s warriors bore witness to their descent, their pale faces limned with pellucid fire.

  They stepped slowly down the narrow, hidden stair. They sank downwards into air that was humid and sweet with the taste of incense and oiled flesh. A strange, piping music rose from the darkness. It was eerie and discordant, a song wrought for inhuman ears that set his teeth on edge and yet filled his heart with a terrible longing that was as alien as it was irresistible.

  As they turned the final corner it seemed as though they looked down on starlight. Hands held aloft tiny globes of witchlight, throwing strange shadows and shifting currents of light across the assembled supplicants. None wore masks save the terrible Hierophant, who stood at the far end of the chamber across a sea of slowly undulating bodies. Naked, writhing slaves covered the stone floor of the room, lulled by the incense and stoked by the strange refrain of the unearthly flutes.

  The moment the supplicants saw him they began to chant, filling the air with a husky litany in maddening counterpoint to the pipes. Malus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight as a strange kind of tension crackled through the air of the chamber. There was a kind of pressure he could feel on his neck and shoulders, as though the blasphemous song had summoned the attention of a being that moved in a realm beyond mortal comprehension. A feeling of dread began to steal into Malus’ heart. It swept away the lingering effects of the drugged wine, but left in its place an atavistic fear that threatened to rob his limbs of their strength.

  The supplicants parted to let him and Nagaira pass. She drew him onward, towards the waiting Hierophant, who stood in the company of two attendants. One attendant bore a scourge of leather whose tails were studded with silver barbs; the other held a golden basin and a curved dagger made of bone. The Hierophant stood with his hands clasped before him. His long pale fingers waved languidly, like the legs of a hunting spider. Malus felt a sudden shock of recognition. Could it be?

  Nagaira bowed before the Hierophant. “I come bearing gifts for the Prince Who Waits,” she intoned. “Will he come forth?”

  The chanting and the piping flute stopped. Silence descended, heavy and oppressive. Malus felt the awful presence in the chamber increase. His sight seemed to waver at the edges as something pressed against the fabric of reality and the highborn felt his heart grow cold.

  “The Prince will come forth!” intoned the Hierophant, raising his hands to the ceiling. The supplicants cried out in joy and terror combined and an awful groaning filled the darkness of the chamber. Then there came a tremendous crash of mortar and stone and the air shivered with rapturous war cries.

  “The call of blood is answered in sundered flesh!”

  The draichnyr na Khaine took the chamber by storm, pouring from breaches in the chamber walls with their curved draichs held high. The warriors were clad in heavy coats of mail reinforced with brass pauldrons, breastplate and helm. Their great swords flickered like willow wands, harvesting a bloody path through the scores of panicked slaves around the perimeter of the room.

  Malus snatched his hand from Nagaira’s and swung his fist at the side of her skull mask. The movement felt leaden and clumsy and the blow only glanced the goat skull’s bony snout, knocking it askew. Cursed drugs, Malus thought. Nagaira recoiled from the blow, cursing herself and temporarily blinded by the skewed mask. As her hands clawed at the goat skull Malus tore the dagger free from his robes.

  There was a great shout that ripped through the pandemonium, searing the air with is power. Malus turned to see the Hierophant brandishing a bottle of heavy, dark glass above his head. The highborn could feel the hatred from the high priest like a red-hot spear point pressed against his flesh. “Mother of Night, what’s he doing?”

  “Sating his lust for vengeance,” Tz’arkan replied coldly. “Did you expect the anointed of Slaanesh to be helpless?”

  Before Malus could answer the Hierophant shrieked an invocation that smote his ears like a thunderclap, then saw the high priest dash the bottle against the stone floor. A roiling, purplish fog boiled up from the broken glass, expanding and gathering strength as it grew.

  There were faces in the smoke—leering, obscene faces that made mockery of mortal senses. Malus snarled a bitter curse. The bottle had been a magic vessel containing the bound spirits of a horde of fearsome daemons.

  The cloud of chittering, shrieking spirits enveloped the room, howling through the air like a chorus of the damned. More arcane commands reverberated through the chamber and the daemons descended on the panicked slaves. Malus saw one nearby human fall to the ground, choking and writhing as one of the spirits forced its way into the slave’s nostrils and mouth. In moments the human began to change colour, the skin stretching as the muscles beneath swelled
. Grasping hands twisted and deformed, the flesh splitting and falling away to reveal blood-streaked pincers formed of melted bone. With a shout, Malus leapt upon the possessed slave, plunging his dagger again and again into the creature’s eyes and throat. One huge pincer smashed at the side of his head, sending him sprawling.

  Malus rolled onto his back, blinking stars from his eyes as the possessed slave reared to its feet. Purple ichor poured from its ruined eyes and a terrible wound in its neck, but the daemon guided the slave’s body unerringly as it advanced on the fallen highborn. The creature loomed over him, pincers snapping, then Malus caught a flash of brass above his head as an executioner swept past, swinging his bloody draich. The great sword sheared through the slave’s bulbous torso, snapping ribs like dry twigs and lodging deep in the creature’s spine. The possessed slave toppled, lashing out as it fell and catching the executioner’s helmeted head in one oversized pincer. The creature’s dying spasms ripped the executioner’s head from his shoulders in a fountain of gore and both bodies fell onto the stunned highborn.

  This is not going according to plan, Malus thought savagely, kicking himself free from the corpses. His robes were wet with gore and he’d lost track of his dagger. He kicked the body of the dead slave over onto its side and wrapped his hands around the hilt of the draich. With a curse and a heave the corpse’s spine parted and the long blade pulled free.

  The chamber echoed with the sounds of battle. Chaos reigned in the darkness as the executioners and possessed intermingled in a swirling, confused melee. Sorcerous bolts lashed at warriors and possessed slaves alike as the supplicants loosed their spells indiscriminately into the mass. There was no way to tell who had the upper hand, but Malus was certain that sheer numbers lay on the cultists’ side.

  A bolt of purple fire roared close by and in the flare of light Malus caught sight of the Hierophant, his hands working in a complicated series of gestures. The highborn couldn’t guess at what the high priest was doing, but he knew that he didn’t care to see its results.

  Time to see who is really under that skull, Malus thought with a savage grin, and charged at the Hierophant over the heaped bodies of the dead.

  The highborn stayed low, his great sword down and to one side to attract as little attention as possible. He expected one of the possessed slaves to leap upon his back at any moment, but their attention appeared entirely occupied by the remaining executioners. A fatal mistake, Malus thought, closing in for the kill.

  He approached the Hierophant from his right side, his hands tensing on the hilt of the draich. Two steps short of striking range a blur of motion from Malus’ left was all the warning he had as the Hierophant’s dagger-wielding attendant leapt for his throat.

  Instincts honed on a dozen battlefields caused Malus to plant his left foot and pivot, swinging his right leg around and reversing the stroke of his sword in a cut aimed for the attendant’s midsection. The cultist’s dagger flashed downwards, scoring a line across Malus’ forehead as the draich opened the supplicant’s belly. The attendant doubled up around the blade as he fell, nearly dragging Malus from his feet. The highborn planted a foot on the man’s shoulder and hauled at the blade—and cords of raw fire raked across the side of his face as the second attendant lashed at him with his scourge.

  Pain bloomed in Malus’ right eye and he fell to his knees with a savage curse. The scourge fell again, the silver barbs shredding his right sleeve and biting deep into his shoulder. Another blow to the side of his head knocked the highborn to the ground, the hilt of the draich twisting from his grasp. Malus fell onto the disembowelled supplicant, smelling the stink of blood and spilt entrails as the man shuddered in the throes of death.

  His left eye caught a gleam of metal on the floor and Malus threw himself upon it as the scourge clawed across his back. The highborn’s hand closed on the hilt of the supplicant’s sacrificial dagger and he rolled onto his back in time for the scourge-wielding cultist to aim another blow at his head.

  Malus threw up his left hand and caught a handful of the scourge tails against his palm. Roaring with pain he grabbed hold of the leather thongs and pulled, dragging the supplicant off his feet and onto the highborn's up-thrust dagger. The curved blade punched through the man’s breastbone and lodged against his spine, slicing his heart in two. Malus watched the hate fade from the druchii’s dark eyes and threw the corpse to one side.

  Not six feet away the Hierophant still performed his enigmatic ritual—too caught up in the intricacies of his spell to notice the life-and-death battle going on around him. Malus rubbed his right eye against the sleeve of his robe and was relieved to discover that he could still see through a thick film of blood. He grabbed the pommel of the draich and pulled the weapon free, then without a moment’s hesitation he swung the gore-stained sword at the Hierophant’s head.

  At the last moment Malus realised his error. Without thinking he’d aimed the blow for the front of the Hierophant’s neck instead of its unprotected rear. As it was, the blade bit into the ram’s skull mask the high priest wore, shattering it and turning the blade slightly on impact. Rather than a decapitating blow, the sword tore a long, ragged gash across the Hierophant’s throat and across his right shoulder, spinning him around in a spray of bright blood and fragments of yellowed bone.

  The Hierophant fell to one knee, blood spilling from the shattered snout of his mask. Malus stepped in, bringing his sword back for a second stroke, when the high priest flung out a scarred hand and shrieked a bubbling curse. Heat and thunder enveloped Malus and he felt himself thrown through the air. The impact knocked him senseless, sending the draich spinning from his hands.

  It felt like an eternity before Malus’ vision cleared. Much of his ceremonial robe had been burned away and the skin of his chest, arms and face stung from minor burns. Either he’d been hit with only a glancing blow or the high priest had failed to cast the spell properly. Malus sat up with a groan and saw the Hierophant staggering into the small chamber that had housed his throne of flesh not two nights past. Malus reclaimed his sword and lurched after the high priest, determined to finish what he’d begun.

  When the highborn reached the entrance of the room he was prepared for another sorcerous barrage, but instead he discovered the Hierophant stepping through a narrow archway on the opposite side of the room—an escape route formerly concealed by some kind of embedded spell. Runes glistened along the doorway as the high priest stepped through. At once, the runes flared painfully bright and Malus sensed the danger burning within. He turned and flung himself back into the main chamber as the doorway erupted in a flare of purple fire, collapsing the small room in a shower of rock and earth.

  A pall of dust and a thunderous concussion swept through the chamber, staggering the survivors still fighting around the curving stair. Malus regained his feet and saw that the cavern was lit again by young temple initiates bearing witchlight globes on slender poles. The slaves were collapsing, caught by the blades of the executioners or literally falling apart as the daemons possessing them lost strength and returned to their own blasted domain.

  The supplicants were dead or dying, their bodies steaming from acids that burned from the depths of their ghastly wounds. Pale, blood-spattered sylphs glided among the cultists, fresh gore steaming upon their envenomed blades. Their long hair was unbound and flowed around their naked bodies like a mane. Malus felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of the beautiful, unearthly women stalking silently among the carrion. The anwyr na Khaine were a rare sight outside the temple, called forth only in times of war or great need. Their poisoned blades and savage skill had clearly turned the tide and now they searched among the dead for more blood to shed in the name of the Lord of Murder.

  Malus caught sight of Urial, attended by a bodyguard of executioners as he surveyed the bodies of the supplicants from a respectful distance. When the witch elves walked among the slain it was never wise to come between them and their prey. The highborn hastened to his side, slipping
and sliding among the ruin of hacked and torn flesh littering the chamber floor.

  “Where is Nagaira?” Malus called to him.

  Urial shook his head, hefting a bloody axe with his one good hand. “Our sister is not among the slain.”

  Malus spat a savage curse. “She must have slipped up the stairs during the battle! Hurry!”

  The highborn raced for the stairs, darting among the witch elves and feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as their attention turned his way. Carefully averting his eyes he leapt up the steps two and three at a time, wondering how much of a lead Nagaira had on him and whether her guards were still waiting on the floor above.

  It was bad enough that the Hierophant had escaped, he thought. Now that she’d seen the depth of his treachery he didn’t dare let Nagaira slip through his clutches as well.

  He emerged from the illusory statue into the midst of a raging battle. Urial’s plan of attack had been savage and thorough: even as he and the executioners struck the initiation chamber via the twisting passageways of the Burrows, his own personal retainers had hacked their way through the ground floor entrance and attacked the guards stationed there. As close as the battle had been down below, the fight at the base of the tower still hung in the balance, with Nagaira’s rogues on their home ground and enjoying greater numbers than the invading druchii. The witch’s retainers had rallied and had pushed Urial’s men back towards the broken doorway, leaving a narrow path behind the defender’s ranks that led to the main staircase. Without hesitation Malus ran for the stairs. The climb seemed to last forever. Distantly he thought he heard the rumble of thunder, but he knew that a storm this time of year was impossible. A few moments later he passed a burning slave running the opposite way, his agonised screams echoing up and down the stairway long after he’d disappeared from sight.