[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin

  Lhunara rocked back on her heels from the force of the blow. Her one eye was bright with fury. -J searched his quarters and found nothing,” she hissed.

  For a moment, Malus dared to hope. Here was an opening he might exploit. But then his lips moved, and the daemon answered them. “He keeps the four relics on the back of his cold one,” Tz’arkan said. “He sent his retainers to fetch it from the nauglir pits near the citadel, but they never returned.”

  Lhunara’s cold fists clenched at the sound of the daemon’s voice. “Then we shall find these trinkets among the dead once we’ve completed the destruction of the Black Tower,” she said contemptuously.

  “Prepare yourself, then,” Nagaira replied coldly. “The Witch King is stirring in his tower, and the true battle for the city will soon begin. Do not fail again, revenant. The eyes of the Dark Gods are upon you.”

  If Nagaira meant to unnerve the revenant with her threats, they came to nothing. Lhunara bowed curtly, and with a possessive glance towards Malus, she turned on her heel and strode swiftly from the chamber.

  Nagaira watched her go with narrowed eyes. “You made a grave mistake when you betrayed that one,” she said to Malus. “She is as fierce and as implacable as a winter gale. Who knows how long she lay in the shadow of Tz’arkan’s temple with that terrible wound in her head? Yet she refused to die. She lay there and prayed to the darkness with every last shred of her will, until the Gods Who Wait finally answered as she drew her last breath. They would have given her anything she asked, but she wanted one thing, and one thing only. Not wealth, nor power, nor even a whole skin. No, she wanted nothing more than pure, bloody-minded revenge.” Nagaira smiled in grudging admiration. “By the time I found her she had already raised a sizeable army from the beastmen and the human dregs that surrounded the mountain. Once I realised how much she wanted you, it was easy enough to forge an alliance and place the Amulet of Vaurog around her neck.” She laughed coldly. “I think the fool must have loved you, brother. Is that not rich? What else could have birthed such terrible hate?” The witch smiled at her brother. “Sometimes, when she thinks she is alone, she whispers to herself all the terrible things she dreams of doing to you. So gloriously vicious and single-minded,” Nagaira said with a terrible sigh. “It makes her easy to control, much like you once were. Who knows? If she serves me well in the battle to come I might even give you to her as a reward. If we triumph here I can afford to be magnanimous.”

  “So you intend to betray Isilvar,” Tz’arkan said.

  The witch snorted derisively. “Betray? That implies we had an agreement in the first place,” she said. “He came crawling to me, looking for a way out of the trap he’d fallen into. I knew from the moment the siege began that he’d try something like this. All I had to do was apply pressure and wait.”

  “And the Witch King?”

  Nagaira shrugged. “Malekith grew more predictable as the siege wore on. He would never abandon the Black Tower without a fight, and once we were past the outer wall it made a counterattack inevitable. By now, Morathi’s colossal arrogance has led her to believe that I have exhausted my energies during that last attack, so now is the time to strike. Do you imagine I could pass up such an opportunity?”

  The daemon chuckled. “I imagine you have little choice. You have your own masters to serve, witch. Such power does not come without fearsome promises of repayment.”

  Nagaira’s expression froze. “There were… agreements… that were made,” she allowed. “Malekith and his mother will make fine gifts for the Gods Who Wait, and they have never been as vulnerable as they are now. I should think you would be pleased,” she said haughtily. “An ally upon the Iron Throne would make your plans much easier, I should think.”

  “Plans?” the daemon said.

  “You are the Scourge,” she said simply. “The prophecy was written by you in aeons past to pave the way for your rise to power. You mean to use the druchii as the agents of your ambition in this universe.”

  “And you?” the daemon asked.

  The witch smiled faintly and bowed. “I live to serve the Prince of Pleasure,” she said in her unearthly voice.

  Tz’arkan smiled. “You amuse me, witch,” it said. “But there is little time for battle. My time grows very short. Malus will have to ride that nauglir of his to death in order to reach the temple as it is.”

  “Ride? Great Tz’arkan, once I’ve offered the Witch King and Morathi to the Dark Gods and seized the Iron Throne, we will fly to your temple on dragon wings,” she said. “There is time enough for the vengeance I seek.” She cocked her head, as though listening to some faint sound. “I must take my leave of you, dread lord. Already the winds of magic are stirring. Morathi and her pitiful novices are readying themselves for the attack.” She made to leave, then paused, looking thoughtfully at Malus. The witch stared intently into his eyes, as though trying to find the highborn amid the darkness that was the daemon. “Are you so attached to this body?” she asked, touching Malus’ breastplate with a curved talon. “Once you are freed you may take any form you like.”

  “That is so,” the daemon allowed, “but the prophecy has attached itself to his name. I must continue to he Malus for a time, once I have been set free.” Inwardly, Malus could feel the daemon’s amusement. “Of course, if you could ensure that the real Darkblade were to vanish from sight…”

  Nagaira laughed. “Be assured, dread lord. That would be no trouble whatsoever.”

  “Then we will speak of this again at the temple in the north,” Tz’arkan replied. “Go and claim your vengeance, witch. I will wait here until you return, and savour your brother’s despair!

  Nagaira bowed again, and stepped from the circle. As one, the beastmen rose and followed her into the darkness.

  Outside, a warhorn wailed. Malus sensed movement about the Chaos encampment, as the last reserves of the horde were called to battle. Did Nagaira truly have the power to trap and destroy the Witch King himself? After what he’d seen, the highborn thought it possible.

  Still as a statue, the highborn was left to wonder as the kingdom of the druchii teetered on the edge of ruin. Despair threatened to overwhelm him.

  Curled like a serpent in the darkness, Tz’arkan drank deep from the well of Malus’ pain.

  Malus soon lost all track of time. Few sounds penetrated the chambers of Nagaira’s tent, and once she was gone there was no relief from the darkness. He might have lingered for mere minutes, or hours, or even days. Each moment was more agonizing than the next, as Nagaira’s stratagem inched towards completion.

  He didn’t notice the sounds at first. They slowly impinged on his awareness as a kind of faint scratching, like rats scampering in the walls.

  Malus focused his attentions on the noise. It came and went, but always from the same general direction, off to the highborn’s left.

  After a time, the scratching became faint, raspy sawing. Then he heard a harsh whisper.

  “How many damned compartments can one tent have?”

  “Shut up and keep sawing,” hissed a familiar voice. “We’ve got to be close to the centre now,” Hauclir said.

  “You said that the last two times,” the first voice shot back. Malus thought it sounded like Pockets.

  Within Malus, the daemon stirred. He felt Tz’arkan’s cold, cruel smile. The Dark Gods are generous, the daemon murmured. We shall have pleasant diversions to occupy us while we await your sister’s return.

  Tz’arkan turned Malus about and stalked across the inner chamber. His hands reached out and found the canvas wall. Moments later something sharp poked the fabric from the other side.

  Malus’ lips worked. “Hauclir?” the daemon whispered, using the highborn’s voice.

  “My lord?” the former retainer responded. “It’s good to hear your voice! Are you bound, or injured?”

  “No, I’m well,” the daemon replied. “But Nagaira’s sealed this chamber with some spell. I can’t get out.”

  “We’ll see t
o that, my lord,” Hauclir answered. The object poked hard against the canvas. After a moment the needle tip of a dagger poked through.

  “Gods Below,” Pockets hissed. “This is like cutting through stone.”

  “Keep at it,” Hauclir ordered. As Pockets continued to work her knife through the ensorcelled fabric, the former retainer whispered to Malus. “We’ll have you out in just a moment, my lord.”

  The daemon smiled. “What about the relics?”

  “We have them as well,” Hauclir replied. “Spite is close by.”

  “That’s excellent news,” Tz’arkan said. Malus could only watch in horror as his hand slid down to the dagger at his belt. Slowly, quietly, the daemon drew the weapon free.

  Pockets drove her knife through the canvas wall and began sawing downward. After a few moments she’d cut a slit large enough for a man to wriggle through. The daemon raised Malus’ dagger. “Come inside,” he said. There are statues of gold and silver in here. It’s time you got your reward.”

  Malus raged helplessly within the confines of his own body, trying to regain control of his own limbs, but the daemon’s grip was stronger than iron. He could see the slaughter that was about to unfold the moment Hauclir poked his head inside the chamber.

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day” the former retainer answered. “Give me your hand.”

  “Of course,” the daemon replied, shifting the knife to Malus’ left hand and extending the right one through the torn fragment. He reached for Hauclir blindly, groping about with Malus’ armoured fingers.

  Then all at once his hand found something and closed around it. Malus felt the smooth hilt of a sword—and a torrential rush of heat that poured through his hand and set his veins afire.

  The daemon let out a furious shout as the Warpsword of Khaine took Malus in its burning grip. Tz’arkan tried to let go of the blade, but the highborn’s fingers would no longer obey. Hungry fire seared Malus from head to foot, and he cried out in agony and triumph as the daemon’s hold was broken.

  After a moment Malus realised that Hauclir was hissing urgently at him. He forced himself to take a deep breath and answer. “What is it?”

  “I said, could you possibly scream a little louder? I’m pretty sure there are a few scattered tribes on the other side of the Chaos Wastes that didn’t hear you.”

  Malus laughed quietly, flexing his fingers around the hilt of the blade. “Step away, you damned rogue,” he said, and sliced carefully at the tent wall. The canvas peeled back with a hiss of burnt fabric.

  Hauclir, Pockets and Cutter rushed into the chamber, holding small witchlamps in their hands. The former retainer looked about the space and frowned. “I don’t see any gold or silver,” he said.

  “No,” Malus replied breathlessly, holding the sword aloft. That was an utter lie.”

  “I should have known,” Hauclir said with a sigh.

  The highborn looked at the cutthroats in wonder. “What in the Dark Mother’s name are you doing here?”

  Hauclir shrugged. “Blame it on your cold one, my lord,” he said. “It took us forever to fight our way to the nauglir pens. There were packs of those damned revenants lurking in every doorway, it seemed. Once we finally got there and let Spite loose, the damned thing sniffed at the air and just went loping off. We couldn’t stop it, so we decided to follow the beast and see where it was going,” he said. “It led us out through the south gate, then outside the city itself. We thought for sure someone would challenge us, but the camp is deserted. Nagaira’s called all her troops into the city. At any rate, after a bit we worked out that the nauglir was hunting for something, and we figured it might be you.”

  Malus nodded. “But this?” he asked, showing Hauclir the sword.

  “Oh. That was easy,” he replied. “It was obvious you were trying to get it from Spite back in the nauglir pits, and the daemon managed to stop you. I figured that if you were to be found out here then the daemon must have had a hand in it, so I thought that bringing the sword along was a wise move. Was I right?”

  “You have no idea,” Malus answered. “In fart, you may have saved Naggaroth.” He quickly told the cutthroats about Nagaira’s plans. “She believes she has the power to bring down Malekith and Morathi both,” he said at last.

  The cutthroats looked to one another fearfully. “Can she?” Hauclir asked.

  “After all I’ve seen… yes. I think she can.”

  “Then I think we need to get your mount and run for our lives,” Hauclir replied.

  But Malus shook his head. “No. Malekith may be vulnerable, but so is Nagaira. She might have enough strength to master the Witch King and Morathi, but not all three of us at once,” he said. “And she has to be destroyed.”

  “For the sake of the kingdom?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Malus snapped. “For my sake. The witch knows too much.”

  “Ah, of course. Your pardon, my lord,” Hauclir said dryly. “Well, then. What would you have of us?”

  Malus’ hand tightened on the burning blade. He could feel its hunger now, seething like coals in his gut. “Follow me,” he said to the cutthroats. “And when the killing starts, stay out of my way.”

  They were just emerging from the Chaos encampment when the Witch King launched his attack.

  War horns screamed from the tall tower, and Malus watched as a dark form raised its serpentine neck atop the citadel and roared a challenge at the sky. With a powerful sweep of leathery wings, Malekith’s dragon Seraphon launched into the dark sky. At the same moment, green lightnings smote the darkness, rending it and driving it back. In the searing flashes of light, the highborn spied an armoured figure on the dragon’s back, brandishing a glowing sword at the Chaos horde. The sword swept down and Seraphon dove with a thunderous roar, filling the inner compound with a hissing stream of dragon flame. Shouts and screams rose from the dying warriors, and the final battle was joined.

  Malus, Hauclir and the cutthroats came to a halt a quarter mile from the open city gates. Spite paced alongside the small band, sniffing the air warily. The former retainer turned to the highborn. “We’re going in there?” he said, pointing to the city. Pillars of fire and smoke were already wreathing the Black Tower, and the clash of swords and armour could be heard from where they stood.

  “Only so far as the square outside the inner gate,” Malus replied. “That’s where we’ll find Nagaira, I expect.”

  “And how do you plan on stopping her?”

  “Don’t worry,” Malus said. “I have a plan.”

  “Do I want to know what the plan is?” Hauclir asked.

  The highborn shook his head.

  “You’re probably right,” Hauclir agreed. “Lead on.”

  With Malus in the lead, the small band raced through the ruins of the outer city. Forks of green lightning lashed down from the boiling skies, plunging like knives again and again onto the square outside the inner gate. Seraphon continued to swoop low over the inner compound, scouring the area with ravening bursts of fire as the outnumbered druchii army fought their way from the citadel. Somewhere ahead, in the thick of the fight, Lhunara would be wreaking bloody havoc on the Witch King’s troops.

  Malus expected that the Chaos horde would fall back, drawing the druchii host out past the inner gate and up to the great square. That’s when Malekith would take the battle directly to Nagaira, and she would spring her trap.

  They got to within less than a hundred yards of the square before their path was blocked by a herd of waiting beastmen. For the moment their attention was focused solely on the sorcerous battle being waged nearby.

  Malus led the group into the shadow of a burnt-out barracks. “Here is where we part ways,” he said. “I must face Nagaira alone.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Hauclir said.

  The highborn looked his former retainer in the eye and drew a deep breath. “I want you to circle around the square and wait,” he replied. “When I attack Nagaira it’s only a matter
of time before Lhunara comes running. You will have to hold her off long enough for me to deal with my sister.”

  “Blessed Murderer,” Cutter said. “She nearly killed me the last time.”

  “And me as well,” Hauclir replied.

  Malus nodded. “How is your leg?” he asked.

  “Fine, oddly enough,” the former retainer said. He reached down and pulled his stained bandages aside. Only a dull, black scar showed where Lhunara’s blade pierced his leg. “I can’t explain it.”

  Malus noted the ichor stains darkening the bandages. It was the daemon’s energies, he thought. I bled onto your bandages, and it seeped into the wound. He set his jaw. “That’s fortunate,” he said. “Because you’ll need all the luck you can get. Just hold her off long enough for me to deal with Nagaira. That’s all I ask.”

  The cutthroats looked to one another. Hauclir shrugged. “We’ve come this far,” he said. “We’ll see this through.”

  Malus nodded, clapping Hauclir on the shoulder. “Go, then. I’ll see you all shortly” he said, hoping that it would be true.

  The cutthroats moved off to the east. Malus laid a hand on Spite’s snout. “Stand,” he said, rubbing the nauglir’s scales appreciatively. “Wait until I call, beast of the deep earth. You’ve done enough for me already.”

  Then, sword in hand, he stepped into the street and started to run.

  The herd of Chaos warriors filling the street outside the square was unaware of the danger bearing down on them until it was far too late. Distracted by the pillars of lightning and deafened by the thunderous explosions, they did not notice the dark blur racing down the debris-strewn avenue until he was upon them. Half a dozen beastmen fell dead, glowing wounds smoking in their chests, before the enemy could even react.