Malus gave the elder a cold stare. “If you fear for your life, elder, then by all means run and cower beneath your overstuffed bed.” He met the Grand Carnifex’s dark gaze. This is a matter for warriors.”
“This is nothing of the sort!” snapped the young priestess. “If this is true, the zealots have handed us an opportunity! Let them try to complete their ritual. When it fails they will return to their followers and fall upon one another, looking for someone to blame. This crisis can solve itself in a single stroke.”
Malus watched the Grand Carnifex glance at the priestess, and for a brief moment he caught a flicker of uncertainty in the ancient druchii’s eyes. He is afraid, Malus thought with a start.
“I have heard enough,” the Grand Carnifex declared. “Summon the guards. We will march to the sanctum and offer prayers to the Lord of Murder for a bloody deliverance from the works of heretics.” He held out his hand and a retainer appeared from behind the tall throne to press a huge, rune carved axe into the Carnifex’s palm. “If there are trespassers within the sanctum we will offer them up as sacrifices to our lord.”
The Grand Carnifex rose to his feet. Ropy tendons stood out taut as steel wires beneath the skin of the elder’s neck and arms as he levelled the axe at Malus. “If not, I will strike off your head and pour your blood upon the sacred stone,” he declared. “As you said, stranger, this can only end in death.”
Chapter Eleven
WARPSWORD
The sky over Har Ganeth was the colour of blood as the doors to the Citadel of Bone yawned open and Malus followed the elders of the temple into the battle torn night. More buildings were burning in the city below, sending towering plumes of cinders into the sky, and the air reverberated with the distant clash of arms. Malus knew that the streets would be choked with corpses come the dawn, but the madness and slaughter in the city was nothing more than a mummer’s show. The true battle would be fought between a few score men and women within the towering structure barely thirty yards from the council chambers.
Witchlight globes swung from long, iron poles as a vanguard of temple executioners led the way, their bared blades glittering coldly as they fanned out into the deserted lane outside the gleaming citadel. Behind them came the temple elders, led by the Grand Carnifex in his grinning skull mask. The remaining officials and their retainers jockeyed for position behind their leader, brandishing broad knives and ornamented axes at the prospect of reaping fresh skulls for their hungry god.
All except for Rhulan. The narrow-faced elder had dutifully slipped on his skull mask, but let the mob sweep past him until he fell in among the guards escorting Malus and Arleth Vann. The executioner escort eyed Rhulan curiously as he paced along beside the highborn, but made no move to intervene.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” the elder hissed. Unlike the Carnifex, his voice was muffled beneath the weight of his mask.
“There was no time,” Malus replied. “The zealot leaders guarded their plans with care. No one was told until late this evening.”
Rhulan said nothing for a moment, staring into the night. Then the death’s head turned back to Malus. “If Tyran and his lieutenants die tonight, then their agents must be slain as well. We must sweep them all up in a single stroke. You understand?”
I understand that our arrangement is at an end, Malus thought grimly. “I suspected as much,” he said coldly. It was unavoidable. Tyran had forced his hand, just as he’d forced the elders’ hand.
If Tyran and Urial were stopped, Rhulan would force him to reveal what he knew about their network within the temple. Once they realised he was bluffing, he was finished.
Malus eyed the white stone of the temple rearing into the flame-shot sky like an upraised blade and thought he could sense the sorcery at work within. Somehow, in the midst of battle, he would have to make his move.
“Once you have the sword, what then?” the daemon whispered. “Will you cut your way through the elders of the temple and into the city beyond?”
“First things first,” muttered Malus. Rhulan shook his head, thinking the words were meant for him.
“Fear not,” the elder said. “However many agents this Tyran has, he could not have slipped into the temple undetected with more than a token force. There are nearly a hundred of us. We can bury the heretics in bodies if we have to. The zealot uprising ends tonight.”
“And Urial?” Malus asked. “Surely you knew he would attempt this, sooner or later. The temple thought he was marked by Khaine from the moment he emerged from the sacrificial cauldron.”
“We knew nothing of the sort,” the elder snapped. “Yes, clearly he was blessed by the Lord of Murder, but none of the witches could divine his destiny. Certainly no one believed that Khaine would anoint a cripple as his Scourge. His ambition has got the better of him.”
The highborn cocked his head at the quaver in Rhulan’s voice. He studied the elder with narrowed eyes. “You aren’t so sure.”
“Do not presume,” Rhulan said archly. “You heard me. He is a cripple. It’s inconceivable that he could be Khaine’s chosen one.”
“Then why do you sound so afraid?”
Just then a howl of challenge, fierce and joyous, rang out from the front of the great temple. “Weep, unbelievers, for the great reckoning is at hand! The faithful stand in the presence of the sword and the Time of Blood draws nigh! Your wickedness will soon be revealed for all the people to witness, but see the gift of Khaine’s mercy we bear in our hands. Come and redeem yourselves on our hungry blades!”
The procession of elders stumbled to a halt in a welter of angry shouts and bellowed curses. Seeing his chance, Malus nodded his head at Arleth Vann and quickened his pace, diving into the milling press of the elders and working his way towards the Grand Carnifex. Rhulan shouted something that Malus didn’t catch. Then there was a rush of pounding feet as the highborn’s escorts swept wide of the crowd and ran ahead to join the semicircle of warriors forming a cordon between the Carnifex and the five white-robed zealots that stood in his path.
They seemed like living shards of the shimmering, blade shaped tower that rose behind them. Moonlight shone on their unbound hair and glinted on the edges of their fearsome draichs. The zealots’ dark eyes were alight with holy purpose. They were ready to shed their blood in holy sacrifice to the Lord of Murder. Malus thought he’d never seen five more dangerous warriors in all his life.
The Grand Carnifex however was not impressed. He raised his enchanted axe skyward and his voice trembled with rage. “Be silent, unbeliever! Your every breath defiles this sacred place!” The elder spread his arms wide and commanded the executioners. “Split their bodies asunder and cleanse this holy earth in libations of blood!”
With a shout the temple guards raised their long swords and charged at the waiting zealots, who met them with triumphant shouts and an intricate dance of death.
Malus watched in horrified wonder as the five zealots wove their way among four times their number of foes. Their swords were a gleaming blur as they rushed, ducked and spun, seeming to glide past a flurry of fearsome sword strokes and bypass their opponents’ heavy armour with swift, precise blows. Executioners collapsed, clutching at the stumps of severed arms or hands, or doubled over from disembowelling strokes that slipped beneath the edge of their breastplates. Screams of anger and pain reverberated in the red tinged air, some cut short with a ringing note of steel.
The fight was over in moments. With a clatter of steel plates the last executioner stumbled away from the pile of fallen bodies, one hand outstretched towards the gleaming temple of Khaine. His draich tumbled from his fingers as he fell to his knees, and then toppled lifelessly to the ground.
One of the five zealots lay among a score of fallen temple guardsmen. The rest were streaked with splashes of gore, but their white robes made it plain that none of the blood belonged to them. Their leader raised his dripping blade to the Grand Carnifex and smiled.
“Your men are forgiven,” the zealot sa
id with a smile. He’d just killed four men in as many seconds and wasn’t even short of breath. “Why do you hesitate, Grand Carnifex? Do you fear that the Bloody-Handed God has no cold mercy in his heart for one such as you? I assure you that he does.”
To Malus’ surprise, the Grand Carnifex threw back his head and laughed. It was a terrible, bubbling sound, full of hatred and black fury. The Carnifex reached up and pulled away his ceremonial mask, revealing a ruin of broken bone and deep, twisted scars. The master of the temple was ancient, marked by hundreds of years of brutal war. The fearsome blow of a battle-axe had caved in the right side of his face, twisting his mouth into a feral, gap-toothed sneer. The tip of his nose was nothing more than a nub of ragged flesh, and his forehead was a patchwork of ancient scars, one on top of the other. The zealot leader met the Carnifex’s baleful gaze, and Malus saw the briefest flicker of fear.
The Grand Carnifex hefted his enchanted axe. “My god knows nothing of mercy, you moon eyed fool,” he hissed. “He does not forgive. He cares nothing for redemption. He simply hungers, and I live to see him fed.”
That was more like it, Malus thought. He drew his sword. “Blood and souls for Khaine!” he roared, and the elders took up the shout just as the Grand Carnifex charged the zealot leader.
Malus glanced at Arleth Vann. “Stick close,” he shouted, drawing one of his throwing knives.
The assassin shook his head. “You can’t possibly expect to fight these men, my lord. They are the best warriors Tyran has, and they have no fear of death. Their skill—”
“I’m not going to fight them, you fool. I’m going to kill them,” Malus snarled, and charged into the melee.
The zealots had resumed their deadly dance, reaping a red harvest among the elders and their retainers. They were constantly in motion, whirling and cutting with their long, curved swords as they wove among the howling mob. Their skill was transcendent and glorious in its purity and lethality. They were living works of the killer’s art. Anyone who stepped within reach of their whirling blades was dead in seconds.
Malus watched the nearest zealot decapitate a howling acolyte and then spin gracefully on his heel to eviscerate a charging priestess. When he did the highborn struck the swordsman dead from fifteen paces away, burying his throwing knife in the back of the zealot’s skull.
Shaking his head, the highborn peered through the melee for his next victim. Five yards away the Grand Carnifex fought the zealot leader in single combat. The master of the temple was already wounded in half a dozen places, but the speed and ferocity of his attacks was undiminished. Knowing better than to intercede, the highborn turned away and spotted a third zealot, hemmed in by a circle of wary elders. They pressed the swordsman from all sides, like wolves surrounding a mountain lion. When the zealot attacked they gave ground, providing him no opening to employ his deadly blade, but giving the druchii behind him a chance to strike at the swordsman’s back.
Malus timed his move just as the zealot made another fierce rush. The elders fell back as before, but the highborn came up behind them and caught one of the men by the scruff of the neck. The elder let out a cry as Malus shoved him onto the zealot’s blade. The razor edged sword sank deep into the man’s chest and Malus continued to push the dying elder forwards, trapping the draich beneath the man’s collapsing form. The zealot had just enough time to shout a bitter curse before the highborn split his skull like a melon.
A savage howl rang though the air. The highborn turned to see the priestess who had gainsayed him in the Citadel of Bone raise a bloody axe and a zealot’s severed head to the burning sky. A deep wound scored her left shoulder, but her face was lit with a savage grin.
That left the zealot leader. If he knew his companions were dead the fanatic gave no sign. The swordsman held his draich before him, its point aimed at the Carnifex’s throat. His body was taut, like a steel trap wound and ready to strike. The temple leader glared forbiddingly at the young warrior, flexing his two-handed grip on the haft of his great axe and shifting slightly from foot to foot. Blood flowed freely from deep wounds in his arms, chest and legs.
The two warriors faced each other for long moments, neither one presenting an opening to the other. No one moved. The temple elders observed the fight with reverent silence. Malus stole a glance at the temple and suppressed a snarl. His hand strayed to the other throwing dagger at his belt. “Get it over with, for the Dark Mother’s sake,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t have time for this.”
It was the zealot who lost the test of wills. Thinking his foe was weak from blood loss and perhaps coveting the glory he’d gain from slaying the master of the temple, the swordsman exploded in a blur of motion, aiming a fearsome blow at the Carnifex’s neck. The temple master was anything but weak, however, and as the long sword sang through the air he struck it with a backhanded blow from his axe. The enchanted steel broke the sword in three pieces. Then the Carnifex’s return stroke sliced the man’s head from his shoulders.
The temple master bent and plucked the zealot’s skull from the ground. “Take the heads of the others,” he ordered, tying the trophy to his belt. “When this is done we will pile them high on the temple altar.”
Malus surveyed the grisly remains of the battle. Nearly two score of their number lay dead or dying, and he knew the worst was yet to come.
“Let us be swift,” the highborn said. “We can catch Tyran and his heretic council as they attempt to perform the rite.”
“Blood and souls!” cried the axe wielding priestess, and the rest of the elders took up the shout. Their blood was up, and they rushed towards the temple in a ragged mob, eager to show their devotion to the Lord of Murder. The mob quickly left the Grand Carnifex behind as they swept up the white steps of the temple and through the tall, narrow doorway. Malus paced along behind them, checking to make sure that Arleth Vann was close by. He nodded to himself. This was going to work.
The temple was built from the same alabaster stone as the rest of the city, but there the similarities ended.
The work of dwarf slaves—scores, perhaps even hundreds of them—was evident in the intricate design. The building centred on a single, narrow spire that rose like a sword into the burning sky, built from a broad, octagonal base supported by a cunning network of graceful buttresses that soared more than thirty feet into the air. The white marble was fitted with joins so precise that the whole structure looked more like a sculpture than a building, carved from the summit of the hill by the hands of a god. The temple was a symbol of wealth and power that could humble a drachau, much less a man such as Malus. He stared up at the great spire and could not help but feel a surge of black-hearted avarice.
The highborn raced up the temple steps, listening to the cries of the elders echoing angrily in the cavernous space beyond. Doors of dark oak plated in brass had been swung wide, providing a glimpse of the red shot blackness beyond.
Malus crossed the threshold and tasted blood in the air. Sorcerous energies pressed against his skin, pulsing in time to a rhythm he could not hear. Tz’arkan writhed in his chest, reacting hungrily to the power reverberating through the temple.
The space beyond was cavernous, lit by dozens of braziers that painted the walls and ceiling with leaping crimson shapes and menacing shadows. Pyramids of skulls, hundreds of them, were arranged in complex patterns across the black marble floor. Overhead, a red-tinged haze of smoke spread the bloody glow of the fires. The air reeked of rot and the sweet smell of cooking flesh. Malus’ eyes burned and his throat ached, and for a moment it was as if he had been cast back in time, and was struggling through the red tinged realm of Urial’s tower in the Hag.
At the far end of the chamber Malus saw another broad staircase, rising to another narrow doorway. He turned to Arleth Vann. “Where do we go?” he asked.
The assassin nodded at the stairs. “The temple has three sanctums. This chamber is reserved for acolytes and visitors. Up the steps yonder we will come to a smaller chapel where the tem
ple priests and the elders make sacrifice and worship. Beyond that lies the Sanctum of the Sword.”
Malus nodded and started loping towards the stairs. “When we reach the sanctum, I’ll need a clear path to the sword. Do whatever you must.”
“I understand,” the assassin replied grimly “Khaine’s will be done.”
The air grew thicker as Malus neared the steps to the second chapel. He felt a buzzing in his ears, like the distant shouts of a multitude. Again, he found himself reminded of Urial’s tower, and steeled himself for what might lie ahead.
“You will need my power,” the daemon whispered. “Take it, or you will die.”
The highborn paused, halfway up the broad stairway. “No,” he hissed.
“Now is not the time for pride, Malus. You are weak. You know this. I can help. If you do not partake of my power you will be defeated. They are much too strong for you.”
A shudder wracked Malus’ body. All at once he felt shrunken and starved, his muscles shrivelled and his bones aching from fatigue. Unbidden, he thought of Urial and his sorcery, and of Tyran’s fearsome sword-play.
“I have my hate,” he whispered. “I have my wits. They will suffice, daemon. They always have.”
“You know that isn’t true. How many times would you have been lost had it not been for me?”
Malus bared his teeth, forcing doubt and fear from his mind by sheer, bloody minded will. The he heard the war screams and the shrieks of dying men coming from the chapel at the top of the stairs, and ran towards the sound.
The chapel was a smaller, oval-shaped chamber some eighty paces across, surrounded by roaring braziers that sent columns of scented smoke spiralling upwards to the peak of its arched ceiling. Between each brazier were deep, arched niches filled with stacks of gilded skulls, and a pile of similar, unadorned trophies lay in deep drifts around the raised dais at the far end of the room. A pall of shifting, reddish steam hung above the marble platform, rising from the brass mouth of an enormous cauldron sunk to knee height within the dais itself. Terrible power seethed from the vessel, its bubbling liquid hissing and spitting as if stirred to life by the desperate battle being fought nearby.