The doorway to each sanctum was carved with thick bands of magical runes, though the violence that marred the entire floor had made itself felt against these guardian wards as well. The bands of runes were broken by the blows of hammers and axes, though on two occasions Malus also found the blackened husks of the servants who’d tempted their masters’ arcane power. The rooms themselves were torn apart; ancient brown bloodstains marked the thick tapestries lining the walls and lay in pools across the marble floors. All of the rooms were piled with riches — urns full of gold and silver coin sat amid broken bookshelves and piles of ancient books. Malus could only imagine the sorcerous wisdom contained within those pages -what would Nagaira or Urial have given for one hour alone in these rooms? Suits of armour and fine weapons lay scattered along the floor, evidently ignored in the frenzy of slaughter that came upon the sorcerers’ servants.
At one point Malus stumbled into a servant’s room that had been turned into a slaughterhouse. A large, oaken table had been drawn into the centre of the sparsely furnished room and a wide assortment of cleavers and saws had been laid by its side. A mummified corpse still lay tied to the table, its right leg and arm sawn away. They ran out of food when Ehrenlish and his army failed to return, Malus thought. Why didn’t the stepping stones work for them? Surely they had better knowledge of the workings of this place than I?
The aura of power was much stronger here. It pulsed along the walls and hummed along his bones. Perhaps that is what eventually drove them mad, Malus thought. Trapped here, slowly starving to death, and that tremor constantly running through one’s body. It would be enough to drive me to murder.
Seeing the sanctums of the lost sorcerers finally brought home the realisation that whatever power the temple contained, it was not meant to travel. This wasn’t some magical sword or arcane relic like Ehrenlish’s skull. Perhaps a source of power tied to the land, like Hadar’s crystals? Clearly the cabal was able to draw upon its strength from a great distance, but if they had living quarters in the temple, it seemed they couldn’t be separated from it for very long.
The notion vexed Malus. I’ll have to find some way to make it work for me as well, he thought, but couldn’t imagine how. I may have to treat with that treacherous goat Hadar after all. Give him access to the temple and the power, and entrust him with its safekeeping. Putting so much trust in the beastman seemed the height of lunacy, but what else could he do?
I’ll taste of the power for just a short time, enough to deal with my family and become Vaulkhar, and that will be enough, Malus thought. It was a bitter drink to swallow, but the history of Ehrenlish and his cabal hinted that the power didn’t come without cost. Better a brief flirtation and escape rather than the kind of obsession that consumed one from the inside out.
There was a ramp at one end of the level, surrounded by the quarters of the five sorcerers, that led upwards to the third tier of the temple. The ramp itself was carved with skulls and worked with hundreds of runes, and the doors were formed of solid gold. Ten years’ worth of raiding wouldn’t purchase all that gold, Malus thought with avaricious wonder. I could pull those down, break them up and return to the Hag a wealthy man. But then, if those are merely the doors, what manner of glories lie beyond? The great doors were perfectly balanced, and swung open at the lightest touch.
Beyond lay a large chamber dominated by a tall pair of basalt doors, flanked by huge statues of fearsome, winged daemons. The floor was made of polished basalt slabs, blacker than night, and inlaid with an intricate series of interlocking magical wards, worked in gold, silver and crushed gems. The greatest of the wards was only a third of a much greater circle that evidently ran beneath the far wall and encompassed part of the chamber beyond the basalt doors.
At the foot of the great doors lay a heap of mummified bodies — one with its arm still outstretched against a basalt slab. Long brown streaks of dried blood made four perfect lines that stretched from the door’s golden handle to the mummy’s ragged fingertips.
The air here trembled with power. It tasted like copper and ash on Malus’ tongue. He set ripples of it in motion as he stepped across the threshold, like he was wading out into an ocean of invisible energy. It lapped around him, plucking at his hair and roiling with his breath. The feel of it left him giddy with greed, but a small part of him was also troubled. So much strength here. Why couldn’t these wretches bend it to their will?
He crossed the lines of the wards with great care, even though they had been worked in such a fashion that no mere man could harm them. When he stepped across the first of the rune-inlaid barriers he felt a new kind of power settle over him, like an iron fist closing around his chest. It was so potent that for a moment he thought he couldn’t breathe — and then he realised that his heart wasn’t beating, either.
Once, in his early years of flirtation with Nagaira, she had taken him into her sanctum and showed him some of her oldest magical tomes. One of them was about wards of stasis and binding, the magical arts of trapping spirits and objects in one place and holding them there until the spell expired.
He was standing in such a ward now — in layers of them, each one supplying energy to the others in a weave of incredible complexity and strength. Standing within the wards effectively stopped his body from one heartbeat to the next. He could stand here for thousands of years and not die.
With a creak of ancient, leathery skin, one of the mummies turned to stare at Malus with yellowed, rheumy eyes.
The highborn drew his sword, watching in horror as five bodies — not living, but certainly not dead — rose awkwardly to their feet. Two of the figures brandished knives, while the rest reached out to him with gnarled, wrinkled hands. They tried to speak, their desiccated mouths working, but only a thin whistle of air leaked from their ruined lungs. They staggered towards him, their faces contorted with a mixture of anger, fear — and greed.
The first mummy to reach him swung its dagger wildly at the highborn’s head — Malus rocked back on his heels, dodging the blow, then leaned back in and slashed at the creature’s knife arm. The limb tore away in a puff of dust, but the mummy simply dropped its shoulder and rushed at him, knocking Malus off his feet. His sword hand cracked against the basalt tile and the blade went skittering across the floor.
A rotted hand groped for Malus’ throat, and the mummy’s face was inches from his own, still uttering its thin, whistling cry. The other creatures were on him moments later, tearing at him with their hands. The highborn caught sight of the second knife-wielding mummy circling around to stab at his unarmoured head.
Paper-dry fingers closed around his neck. The other mummy’s knife flashed downwards, and Malus pulled the one-armed mummy into its path. The blade plunged into the back of the one-armed mummy’s skull with a sound like a cracking eggshell, showering the highborn with stinking dust and flecks of dry skin. Malus pulled his leg up underneath the one-armed mummy and kicked the withered corpse back over his head, crashing it into its knife-wielding companion. Both were knocked off balance and fell backwards — landing outside the boundaries of the wards. They hit the floor and exploded into dust as the stasis effect of the magical barriers deserted them.
The other mummies recoiled from Malus with wordless cries of despair as they saw the fate of their companions. The highborn rolled to his feet, recovered his sword, and remorselessly attacked the ancient figures. Within moments their limbless torsos were hurled across the barrier and dashed into dust.
What madness is this, Malus thought, wiping the brownish powder from his face. They lingered for centuries, trying to open those doors, and yet when I appeared to try the same, they attacked me. Was it out of greed, or fear? Or both?
Malus stepped towards the doors. He felt the power flow past him like a receding wave, retreating into the chamber beyond. There was a faint click, and the basalt doors swung silently open.
The room beyond looked like nothing so much as a vast treasure chamber. Piles of gold and silver, jewels and orna
te relics lay heaped everywhere, surrounding an enormous, faceted crystal set in the centre of the room. Unlike the green crystals that the beastmen held sacred, this stone was lit with a shifting, bluish glow, not unlike the ambience of the northern lights. The aura of power coalesced around the crystal, sending arcs of blue lightning flickering over its surface.
At last.
Malus approached the crystal, eyes gleaming with anticipation. You were so certain I would fail, sister. You had no idea with whom you were dealing!
The highborn laughed, gazing at the fabulous wealth that surrounded him. Gold enough to beggar Hag Graef, he thought. And it is only the beginning. His eyes alighted on a gold ring set with an oblong ruby almost as long as his finger. The flickering light of the crystal played across its surface, giving it the deep colour of fresh blood. Malus plucked the ring from the pile of treasure, savouring its weight and the rich colour of the gem. A ring of blood befitting a conqueror, he thought. The Dark Mother grant this is only the first of the glories that will be mine!
Malus slid the ring upon his finger. The instant it settled into place the power that surrounded the crystal struck the highborn full in the chest. Fire and ice and black corruption seared along his bones. It was a sensation greater than pain and terror and madness combined.
The power that flooded him was coldly, cruelly aware. It was as merciless as a winter storm, as relentless as an avalanche. The highborn’s will wasn’t merely broken; it was swept away as though it had never been.
Malus screamed in agony and soul-numbing terror as the terrible power hollowed out his soul in a single, awful instant. He fell to his knees, and only then became aware of the thunderous laughter echoing through his mind.
Darkness threatened to overwhelm him. Then a voice reverberated through his skull, whispering with all the intimacy of a lover.
“It is you who are the fool, Malus Darkblade. For want of a bauble you have become my willing slave!”
Chapter Twenty-one
GRIP OF THE DAEMON
Malus doubled over, smoke rising from his body as he fought against the presence that had forced its way into his body. It wasn’t the same as the experience with Ehrenlish — this was many, many times worse. The spirit that possessed him permeated flesh and bone, curling around his heart like a serpent and leaving nothing but emptiness where his soul had once been. He raged against the spirit’s icy touch, focusing all his will to force the presence from his body but making no impression whatsoever. Fell laughter echoed through his mind.
“Release me!” Malus groaned.
“Release you? But I’ve only just acquired you. Do you know how long I’ve waited for a servant like yourself?”
With a roar the highborn hurled himself at the crystal. He tore his sword from its scabbard and rained blows upon the gleaming surface. Steel and crystal rang like the clashing of bells, but when he staggered back, his strength spent, the faceted surface was unmarked.
“That’s a poor way to treat such a fine sword, Malus. If you keep that up you’ll ruin the edge.”
“What are you?” Malus cried, frantic with rage.
“I? Compared to you, I am as a god.” A callous chuckle reverberated through the room. “Your kind, with their rudimentary perceptions, would call me a daemon. You could not pronounce my name if you had a thousand years to make the attempt. For our purposes, you may call me Tz’arkan. That will suffice.”
“A daemon?” Malus staggered at the thought. A daemon? Inside me? No. I will not allow it! The highborn fell to his knees and dragged his dagger from its sheath. He pressed the broken tip to his throat. “I am a slave to no one, be they daemon or god!”
“If you drive that blade home, mortal, you will not only die a slave, but you will remain my slave for all eternity,” the daemon said, its voice cold and grim.
“You are lying.”
“Strike then, and find out.”
The highborn’s mind raged. Do it. He lies. Better to die than to live like this! But doubt nagged at him. What if he is telling the truth? What reason does he have to lie? With a bestial growl Malus let the dagger fall to the floor. “You said I might remain a slave.”
“That’s better,” the daemon said, approval in its stony voice. “Clever little druchii. Yes, I would make a bargain with you. A trade: your soul for my freedom. Set me free, and I will relinquish my hold on you. What could be more fair than that?”
Malus frowned. “I am no sorcerer, Tz’arkan. How may I free you?”
“Leave the sorcery to me, little druchii. You know the story of the temple, I presume? Of that worm Ehrenlish and his lickspittle cronies? You must know — it was Ehrenlish’s screams I heard when the great storm was dispelled. How I have longed to hear that sound, Malus! I knew that sooner or later that fool’s skull would turn up, but the way you used him to open the gate… it was glorious. For that, you have my gratitude.”
“Get on with it, daemon,” the highborn snarled. “Unlike you, I can die of old age — or boredom.”
“Not within these wards, little druchii — at least, not for a very, very long time. But I digress. Ehrenlish and his cronies — vile, craven little slugs that they were -succeeded, at great cost, in trapping me in this crystal, many thousands of years ago.”
“Trapped you how?”
“How they did it is not important, Malus. It is enough to say that they did. They bound me to this place and made me their slave. I’m certain you can appreciate how horrible that was.”
“All the more reason for you to release me,” Malus snarled.
“Do not make light of my tragic circumstances, little druchii,” the daemon replied coldly. “The five sorcerers drew upon my vast power to serve their own pitiful schemes. But they trifled with powers far beyond mortal ken, and that proved to be their undoing. One by one they met with terrible fates, until at last that fool Ehrenlish walled himself up inside his own skull and was lost to history for millennia. But the wards those fools laid upon me still remained. I curse their names for all eternity, but I will admit they did their work well when constructing this awful prison! As soon as Ehrenlish was gone I began clawing at the walls of my cell. I was able to amuse myself with the acolytes and slaves that the sorcerers left behind, but little else. Slowly, slowly, I was able to extend my reach a little further beyond my prison. Within the last hundred years I was able to extend the limits of my awareness to the walls of the temple itself. But I could go no further. The wards were too potent even for one such as myself.”
“So you admit you have your limits? Some god you are,” Malus sneered.
The daemon ignored him. “The wards can be unravelled, little druchii. The sorceries involved are beyond the pitiful skills of any mortal sorcerer living today, but I know the words and the rituals that must be performed. However, I need a token from each of the five lost sorcerers — five talismans that can be used to undo the spells they once wrought. Each are potent magical artefacts in their own right: The Octagon of Praan; The Idol of Kolkuth; The Dagger of Torxus; The Warpsword of Khaine; and the Amulet of Vaurog.”
“What do I know of talismans, daemon? I am a warrior and a slaver, not some sorcerer or thin-necked scholar. These men died millennia ago. How am I to find these things, if they even still exist?”
“For your sake, little druchii, you had best pray they may still be found. Already the sands are running from the hourglass. Even as we speak your life is slipping from your grasp.”
Malus straightened. “What! What are you talking about?”
“I have claimed your soul, Malus. Do you not remember? I hollowed you out like a gourd so I could fit the merest sliver of my essence into your frail little frame. That is how we are able to communicate right now, and how I am able to know your every thought. I am not one to let my servants go about unattended, you see.”
“Yet you are killing me? Is that it?”
“It is more fair to say that you killed yourself the moment you let your greed get the better of you
,” the daemon said smugly. “When I claimed your soul your body began to die. In fact, you would be dead right now if it weren’t for my power. But not even I can halt the inevitable. If your soul is not restored within a year, your body will perish, and your spirit will be mine forever.”
“A year?” Malus exclaimed. “I have only a year to find five long-lost relics? You ask the impossible!”
“Perhaps,” the daemon readily agreed. “But there is no way to know until you try. And if you fail, well, I’m certain there will be others who will seek out the temple, especially now that the Gate of Infinity is no more.”
Malus ground his teeth in frustration. “I could just stay here,” he said defiantly. “You said yourself that I could linger here a very, very long time.”
“Oh, clever, clever little druchii,” the daemon said. “You are right, of course. You could linger here for hundreds and hundreds of years, slowly shrivelling to a withered husk like those wretches you fought beyond my door. By all means, stay then. I will wait for another willing servant. Feel free to amuse yourself with the baubles Ehrenlish and his cronies heaped about me, though I must confess even this much gold loses its lustre after the first century or so.”
“Curse you daemon!” Malus snarled. “All right. I will find you your trinkets!”
“Excellent! I knew you would come around sooner or later.” The daemon sounded as though he’d just succeeded in teaching a pet a demanding new trick. “When you have found all the talismans you must return them here before the year is out, and I will take care of the rest.”
“And then you will free me?”