“Blessed Mother of Night!” Malus cried, his dark eyes widening in alarm. He took a running start and leapt for the next boulder in line, and it began its death-plunge as well. Scarcely daring to stop, the highborn increased his pace, leaping from one plunging rock to the next and drawing ever closer to the lake of magma below. Behind him the massive boulders struck the lake and exploded into fragments, hurling enormous pillars of molten stone into the air.
The last section of stairs was little more than ten feet above the lake of fire. When his boots touched it the boulder plunged beneath him, striking the magma almost at once. Jets of steam burst from fissures in the stone, and the boulder burst apart beneath the highborn’s feet. Screaming every oath he knew, Malus hurled himself forward and leapt the last few feet to the shimmering stones of the plaza. He landed hard on his knees and elbows, hearing the steel hiss against the burning stone.
The plaza began to tremble beneath Malus, and an ominous rumble started to build above his head.
Clambering to his feet, he charged across the broad plaza, and through the chamber of the Chaos Gods that lay beyond. The faces of the Ruinous Powers leered at him from their pedestals as he passed through their midst. Had he the time he would have gladly dragged each and every one across the plaza and fed them headfirst to the lake of fire.
The rumbling was increasing. Malus felt a wind growing in strength behind him as the temple’s collapse accelerated. By the time he reached the temple antechamber he was howling like a madman, expecting the roof to fall in on him at any moment. The ghosts, still trapped in the chamber by the force of their ancient vows, regarded him in silent horror as he abandoned them to their fate.
Malus burst into the snowy night air with a desperate howl, just as the temple completely caved in behind him. The ground shook as though it had been struck by the hammer of a god, throwing the highborn forward onto the frozen ground. The sounds of splintering stone and settling earth went on behind him for many long minutes. When it finally stopped, the silence that stretched though the surrounding forest was deafening.
Slowly, carefully, Malus rose to his feet. He turned, and saw that the temple of Tz’arkan was no more. The huge edifice had fallen in upon itself, settling into the ravenous lake of fire. All that was left were tumbled piles of obsidian stone, wreathed by noxious vapours from the raging magma beneath. He looked upon the devastation and was surprised that he felt no relief at having escaped. Indeed, he felt nothing at all.
Small sounds of movement by the temple gate brought Malus around. Groups of beastmen were approaching, their twisted faces rapt with awe as they viewed the destruction of the great temple. Their leader, the one-eyed shaman, sank to his knees before Malus. “What does this mean, great prince?” he croaked in his bestial tongue.
The highborn’s gaze took in the swelling mob, then came to rest upon the awestruck shaman. His rage was gone. His body felt empty, his bones as cold as stone. Victory, he mused, was not supposed to feel like this.
“What does this mean?” he echoed in a dead voice. The end of the world, of course. For you, I mean.”
He drew Khaine’s burning blade and showed it to the milling herd. Then he showed them what it could do.
Malus Darkblade squeezed the last drops of the blood from the beastman’s heart into the side of Spite’s fanged mouth, then tossed it onto the heap with the rest. Frowning thoughtfully, he pulled off his blood-soaked gauntlet and pressed his hand against the side of the cold one’s snout. He couldn’t tell if the nauglir’s body heat was improving or not. “Come on, damn you,” he whispered. “There’s enough meat here now to feed a squadron of cold ones. You just have to raise that scaly snout of yours and eat.”
The nauglir made no move to the pile of severed limbs Malus had stacked scant inches from its jaws. The war beast regarded him with one large, red eye. Shaking his head, the highborn rose to his feet. “I’ve done all I can for you, you great lump of scales. If you’re going to die on me now, get on with it. It’s up to you. But if you’re going to get me back for all the punishment I’ve inflicted on you in the last few weeks, you’re going to need to get your strength back.”
Sighing to himself, the highborn turned away and strode to the roaring fire he’d built from molten stone and piles of severed logs. The ground surrounding the bonfire and for scores of yards in either directions had been transformed to churned, red-tinged mud. Bodies and pieces of bodies littered the earth as far as Malus could see. He’d managed to keep enough self-control to spare the last few dozen beastmen and put them to work butchering their companions and gathering logs for the fire. He’d intended to cut them down as soon as they were done, but while he busied himself feeding Spite they’d slipped away into the darkness. He doubted he would see them again.
For the next hour he busied himself by gathering the bones of his fallen retainers and feeding them one by one to the raging fire. He owed them that much, he believed, though he felt nothing as he delivered them to the flames.
I’ve become dead inside, he thought, watching the bones blacken in the flame. Dead within, dead without, he thought. A lord of ruin in truth.
Tz’arkan had spoken truly. The daemon had taken everything from him, just when it seemed his deepest desires lay within his grasp. I could return home, he thought. I’m still the Witch King’s champion, and after the bitter victory at Ghrond he will have need of strong hands to help secure the kingdom. He could still have his reckoning with Isilvar. He could find Hauclir, if he still lived, and set about rebuilding once more.
And yet… and yet he felt nothing. No hunger. No sense of anticipation, even at the prospect of sweet revenge against his last surviving brother. No hatred for the last, treacherous blow the daemon had dealt him.
No hatred, he thought, shaking his head. This is no way for any druchii to live.
Malus stared into the flames for a long time, watching the molten stones char his retainers’ bones to dust. As the night waned, more flakes of snow began to fall. By the time that dawn was paling the sky, he’d decided what must be done.
He turned back to Spite to find the nauglir on its feet, nosing hungrily through the piles of beastman flesh laid before it. The sight brought a grim smile to the highborn’s face. While the war beast ate, the highborn checked Spite’s feet and tail for signs of sickness or strain. Spite watched its master at work and growled ominously between bites. Malus met the nauglir’s red gaze with a feigned scowl. “I was starting to think you’d given up,” he said. “Good to know I named you Spite with good reason.”
He let the nauglir rest until well past noon while he formulated his plan and gathered up pieces of meat for the journey ahead. He’d heard that the seer of the Black Ark of Naggor possessed a potent relic that would show the location of whatever the owner wished to find, no matter where—or in what realm—it lay. He would need such a tool if he was going to find where Tz’arkan had gone.
He was going to get his soul back. Malus had no idea how such a thing could be done, but he would do it, or die in the attempt. Wherever the daemon had fled to, even if it lay within the very storms of Chaos itself, Malus was going to find him and reclaim what was his. Naggaroth and Hag Graef could wait. What was the point of revenge, after all, if he had no means of savouring it?
By mid-afternoon, Spite was ready to travel. Malus checked his frayed bags and his fresh rations, and then swung heavily into the saddle. He led the nauglir to the square gate, past scores of snow-covered corpses, and reined in at the site of the long road dwindling into the distance.
“You’re out there somewhere, daemon,” Malus whispered into the icy wind. “And if you can hear me, you’d best prepare yourself. The Lord of Ruin is coming for you.”
Malus Darkblade rested a gloved palm against the side of Spite’s scaly neck. “On, beast of the deep earth,” he said. “To the Black Ark, to the daemon realms, to the Abyss itself if that is where the trail leads. Our journey is over. Now the hunt begins.”
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Dan Abnett, [Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin
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