After fifteen years the maidens returned him to the Vaulkhar’s household without explanation, and since then he had occupied a tower all to himself, attended to by a handful of anonymous retainers. Half a dozen of them stood in a tight cluster behind their lord, wearing nightmasks of polished steel fashioned in the shape of skulls. Like their lord, they wore black robes over fine hauberks of blackened mail and carried great, curved swords in scabbards of leather and bone strapped across their backs. They were still as statues.
Malus noted that they made no sound when they moved. He couldn’t say for certain that they even breathed. Urial’s skin was so pale it was almost blue, his features too gaunt to be handsome, and his long hair was almost entirely white. It was well-known that the only thing that aroused the druchii’s passions, besides his studies and the ceremonies of the temple, was his sister Yasmir, but it was just as well known that she loathed the sight of him. For many years Malus had expected Yasmir to take her stories of Urial’s clumsy advances to Bruglir, who would tear his malformed brother apart in a jealous rage — it had happened to other misguided suitors before. Yet despite Bruglir’s famous temper, the eldest son of the Vaulkhar had never raised a hand to his youngest true brother.
Urial the Forsaken, Malus thought, cast aside by your father and vomited up from Khaine’s own cauldron. You make no raids, you hold no influence at court and your retainers are faceless and few. And yet the drachau favours you. What gifts do you place at his feet?
As if sensing his stare, Urial’s head turned slightly in his direction. Eyes the colour of molten brass, bright but devoid of feeling, locked with his own. A chill ran though Malus, and he was unnerved to discover he could not meet Urial’s stare. The man has dragon’s eyes, he cursed inwardly.
That left him. The bastard child born of a witch. Even Urial held more of his father’s favour, or at least a surfeit of fear. Malus was simply a burden Lurhan had to bear, or so the highborn had come to believe. It was the only explanation he could think of for why he hadn’t been strangled at birth. His half-brothers and sisters seemed to sense it as well; they were all much older than he and could have murdered him at any time. Instead, they were content to monopolise the household’s wealth and leave him to wither on the vine.
One of them had laid the trap at Clar Karond. Of that Malus was certain.
He’d been a fool to think that they would be too busy with other intrigues to take an interest in his sudden absence. But how did they know he would land at the City of Ships? The question had tormented him on the long journey home. Custom -and commerce — required every corsair to make port at the Slave Tower of Karond Kar and auction his cargo to the slave lords who resided there.
Avoiding the tower and sailing directly to Clar Karond had been another rash and unorthodox act, and yet his enemies had been waiting for him. There was even that damned letter, he thought with disgust.
Karond Kar was hundreds of leagues to the northeast, one of the most distant and isolated citadels in Naggaroth. Could a messenger have outrun the Shadowblade, riding horses to death along the coastal road as the corsair crossed first the Sea of Chill and then the Sea of Malice? Was such a thing possible?
If he did learn who was responsible, what could he do about it?
Whatever I must, he answered himself. He still had his swords and a handful of loyal highborn. It would be enough. Let the wolves come, he thought. I will prepare a feast for them.
“Malus, of the House of Lurhan the Vaulkhar!”
The voice ground through the air, reverberating in his bones. Shaped by the power of the drachau’s armour, the voice sank into him like a slow, dull knife, reaching for his heart. At the dais, the vassal lord collapsed from his ordeal, his feet slipping in the congealing blood staining the marble steps, and tumbled bonelessly to the audience chamber’s floor. His retainers moved quickly to drag him from the drachau’s presence, back to the outer court where the lesser ranks waited.
A poor showing, there at the end, Malus noted. That will go hard on him in the year to come. He straightened and shrugged out of his cloak, handing it to Dolthaic. Like Nagaira, he wore only a lightweight kheitan of human hide over black woollen robes. “Here I am, Terrible One,” he said, providing the ritual response. “Your servant awaits your bidding.”
“Come before me, and present me with your gifts.”
Eyes turned his way. He could feel their hungry scrutiny. Was he predator or prey? Malus squared his shoulders and approached the dais. Knots of highborn and their retainers stood aside to allow his passage. For a brief moment he found himself face-to-face with Lord Korthan, one of the cabal of ambitious lords he’d convinced to invest in his raid. The druchii fixed him with a glare of pure hate, and Malus returned the stare defiantly as he slipped past.
The pool of blood at the base of the dais was starting to dry, sticking to his heels as he walked through it and ascended the steps to stand before the drachau. The drachau held the power of life and death over every druchii in Hag Graef; one or more lost their head at the end of every Hanil Khar. Some died for crimes, others for insulting the drachau with paltry gifts. Some died simply because the drachau wished to demonstrate his power.
Three steps below the dais Malus stopped, placing his neck within easy reach of the huge, curved sword.
“Another year has passed in exile, another debt of blood for the usurpers in Ulthuan,” the drachau intoned.
“We do not forgive, and we do not forget,” Malus answered.
“We are the people of ice and darkness, sustained by our hate. We live for the Witch King, and to set the ancient wrongs aright.”
“Through fire, blood and ruin.”
The drachau loomed over him, his eyes hidden behind the red glare seething from his visor. “The loyal vassal offers tribute to his lord. What gifts do you lay at my feet, loyal one?” The drachau’s hand tightened fractionally on the hilt of his sword.
Malus met the drachau’s fiery stare with one of his own. A thought occurred to him: does he know of my failure? Will he seek to embarrass me before the court? He fought down a surge of murderous rage.
“Great and Terrible One, all that I have is yours: my sword, my household, my hatred. They are all that I possess.” And you would do well to fear them, his defiant stare implied.
For a moment, the armoured figure was silent. This close, Malus could hear the drachau’s breath, rumbling like a bellows through the breathing slits in his helmet. “Every year the answer is the same,” the drachau rumbled threateningly. “Other lords lay gold and flesh and wondrous relics at my feet. They serve the city and the Witch King and bring torment upon our foes. Naggaroth has no place for the weak or the craven, Malus Darkblade.”
A subtle tremor reverberated through the crowd. Malus stiffened at the age-old slight. “Then strike me down, Terrible One,” he snarled. “Water your silvered steel with my blood. But the severed hand cannot strike at the enemy or uphold the laws of the kingdom. It cannot serve the state.”
“Except as an example to others.”
“My lord and master does not lack for those, I think. But devotion is a precious thing, and the wise lord does not squander it. We druchii drink deep of the world. We stand at the edge of the outer darkness and revel in it as no one else will. We spill oceans of blood and harvest kingdoms of souls to suit our wishes, but we do not waste things that are of use to us.”
The drachau considered Malus in silence. For the first time in his life the highborn sensed he rode on a razor’s edge, teetering towards the abyss. Then, abruptly, the druchii overlord extended the great, taloned gauntlet. “I accept your pledge of fealty, Malus, son of Lurhan. But it is not enough to be loyal; the slave must also fear his master, and know to respect the touch of the lash. Since your gifts are meagre, your taste of suffering must be that much greater.”
Malus gritted his teeth. With an effort of will he forced himself to take another step towards the drachau. You’ve spared my life but named me prey before t
he entire court, he seethed inwardly. Well then, let’s show them what manner of beast I am.
“Do your will, Terrible One,” he said, going so far as to place his head into the drachau’s grip. “The darkness awaits.”
And I will learn from it, Malus thought, his mind boiling with hate. I will sup from it. I will fill my veins with blackest poison and sow my muscles with hate, and in time you will squirm and foul yourself and cry for mercy before me.
Consciousness flowed back like the tide, filling in the corners and crevices of his mind. He was walking, his stride numb and halting. His robes were soaked in sweat and piss and blood. The taste of blood was in his mouth, and his tongue was swollen where he had bitten into it. Crowds of people passed by on either side on him, their pale faces blurred and floating at the edges of his perception.
There were shadows in his mind, receding stealthily from his consciousness. Dark, cold, taloned things, ancient beyond understanding. They tantalised him and unnerved him. If he concentrated too much on the memories he felt his tenuous hold on his body start to fray.
Abruptly he stopped. He sensed figures very close by, surrounding him on three sides. They did not touch him, offering no hand to steady him. Malus took a deep breath, and the world drew back into focus. “Did I scream?” he whispered.
“You made not a sound,” Lhunara murmured in his ear, her breath close and warm. “Nor did you stumble.”
Malus straightened and faced the doors leading to the outer court. Distantly, he could hear Urial’s voice addressing the drachau in turn.
“How long?” Malus asked.
Lhunara paused. “The longest I’ve ever witnessed. I heard Isilvar tell one of his men that he thought you were going to die from it.”
The highborn managed a wolfish grin. “Then I am pleased to disappoint once again.”
His steps stronger and more purposeful, Malus strode toward the great doors of blackened oak, which opened before him without the slightest sound. Beyond, the multitudes of low-ranking nobles and their households waited. Their turn to face the drachau would come, but the touch of the gauntlet was not for them. Instead they inflicted their own forms of self-mortification, slicing and piercing their flesh to show their fealty.
The air was electric with the smell of so much blood. Among the lower ranks there was more of a festival atmosphere in the outer court, with servants carrying trays of food and wine or suffering at the whim of their masters. Laughter, sighs of pleasure and sharp cries of pain rose like grace notes over the general buzz of conversation.
A long processional, flanked by the city guard, was cleared through the crowds so the highborn could come and go without hindrance. Druchii nobles thronged along the aisle, watching the haunted faces of the departing highborn and whispering in one another’s ears. Malus surveyed the assembled faces with disdain, forcing his body to function as he walked the length of the processional.
At the end of the line another, smaller group of druchii waited. After a moment, Malus noticed that one of the three nobles in particular was eyeing him with considerable interest. He forced his brutalised mind to try and recognise the face, but no name came to mind.
The noble was of average height and somewhat scrawny, as if the gangly time of his youth had never fully given way once he finally reached adulthood. His head was shaved except for a corsair’s topknot, and rings of silver glittered from his pointed ears. His narrow chin was shadowed with a thin goatee, and his dark eyes were wide with excitement and glittering with hidden knowledge.
Who does this fool think he is? Malus frowned. The druchii’s robes and kheitan were of some quality, but had a rustic cut, the leather reaching nearly to the man’s knees. The dark red hide was worked with the sigil of a mountain peak. Malus stopped cold.
Fuerlan. Of course.
“Well met, my lord,” Fuerlan said unctuously, bowing low. Before Malus could respond, the Naggorite rushed up to him, ignoring any pretence of propriety.
His two men, evidently local knights with no other prospects, or possibly mercenaries, followed reluctantly in their master’s wake. Lhunara hissed threateningly, but Malus stayed her with a slight wave of the hand.
“Did my lord receive the letter?” Fuerlan asked quietly. “I went to no small expense to deliver it to Clar Karond ahead of your arrival.”
Malus studied the Naggorite hostage carefully. His presence at court was meant to ensure the peace between Hag Graef and Naggor, a recent development after decades of bitter and bloody feuds. As such, the fool enjoyed a degree of protection few others at court did. Caution warred with black rage in Malus’ heart. “Oh, yes. I received it,” he said coldly.
“Excellent!” Fuerlan leaned closer, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. “There is much for us to discuss, dread lord. As you know, I’ve been among the court and your kinfolk for some time, and—” he attempted a self-effacing smile— “I flatter myself that I have some skill at the art of intrigue. I have learned of some things, some very interesting things, that I think you would find of import.” Fuerlan laid a hand on the highborn’s arm. “There is much we could both profit from if we were to form an alliance of equals—urk!”
Malus’ left hand closed around Fuerlan’s throat in a blur of deadly motion. The Naggorite paled, his eyes bulging. One of his retainers rushed forward with a shout, reaching for Malus’ wrist, but Lhunara’s sword sang through the air, severing the knight’s head in a fountain of gore. Fuerlan’s second retainer staggered back, raising his hand in surrender and then fading quickly into the crowd.
“Oh, yes, Fuerlan, you and I have some things to discuss,” Malus hissed, tightening his grip. Fuerlan’s face was now turning a pale shade of red, his hands scrabbling futilely at the highborn’s iron grip.
“After I’ve flayed the skin from your scabby chest and flensed the muscles away with fine, sharp knives, after I’ve spread your ribs and shown you your shrivelled organs. After I’ve reshaped that pitiful face with my hooks and barbs and worn it before you like a mask, then you will tell me how you knew when and where I would return to Naggaroth. You will tell me who gave you that information and why. You will tell me everything. And then you will pray through ragged lips that I forbear showing you just how deep the darkness in me truly goes.”
No one knows, Malus thought savagely. But oh, I will show them.
Chapter Four
MIDNIGHT PACTS
Malus Darkblade reclined in a carved chair of black ashwood, a leg thrown over one of the chair’s curving arms, and studied the twitching, pulpy shape hanging from hooks in the centre of the small room. Each convulsion set the iron chains softly clinking, a soothing sound after the heated exertions of the previous hours. Sensing their master’s urges were spent, the half-dozen slaves slipped quietly from the shadows around the perimeter of the room and stood a respectful distance from their lord.
“Bathe him in unguents and stitch him shut, then feed him wine and hushalta and return him to his quarters,” Malus said, his voice hoarse from shouting. The weakness and fugue he’d felt after the drachau’s ordeal was gone, replaced by a dark, oily calm. In the past the horrors of the ordeal always faded swiftly, arising only later in nightmares or moments of great passion; this time had been different somehow. He had outdone himself with Fuerlan. Such an exquisite tapestry of pain, such horror, such darkness…he’d learned many things, gained many important insights that he’d never known before. And Fuerlan had, too. Malus could see it in his eyes. Whether the glimpse into the abyss had provided wisdom or madness only time would tell, but that mattered little to him.
He’d learned all he needed to know. That, and much more besides.
Footsteps echoed across the floor behind him. A tall druchii wearing a polished steel breastplate and greaves stepped to Malus’ side. He was a young man, handsome and unscarred, wearing the hadrilkar of Malus’ house. His eyes were troubled as he considered the artful ruin of Fuerlan’s body. “That was unwise,” he said, offering Malus a gob
let of steaming wine.
Malus accepted the goblet gratefully. His hands and arms were painted crimson up to the elbows, and streaks of gore glistened against the hard muscles of his bare chest. “I was careful, Silar. He’ll live, more or less.” He smiled darkly around a mouthful of wine. “Nothing in the treaty says I can’t be… entertained… by my guests from time to time.”
“He isn’t your guest, Malus. Fuerlan belongs to the drachau, who wants the feud with Naggor ended. Trifling with that is dangerous, especially now.”
Malus gave Silar a sharp look. Most retainers would never dare speak so frankly to their master -it was a good way to wind up hanging from a set of chains like Fuerlan, or worse. But Silar Thornblood was a druchii of considerable skills and bafflingly little ambition, and so Malus afforded him a little more latitude than most. “Why are you in your armour?”
“We caught an assassin in the tower while you were at court.”
The highborn’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”
“In your quarters.” Silar shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the floor. “We still don’t know how he got in. The… precautions… your half-sister placed on your bedchamber warned us of his presence, but he still managed to kill two men before we could corner him.”
“You took him alive?”
Now Silar looked even more uncomfortable. “No, my lord. He hurled himself into the bedchamber’s fireplace when we pressed him hard. Naturally, I take full responsibility.”
Malus waved his hand dismissively. “He’s dead, I’m not. It sounds as though he was exceptionally skilled.”
Silar caught his master’s eye, reading the implication in the highborn’s words. “He was from the temple. I’m certain of it.”
There were no deadlier assassins in Naggaroth than the acolytes of the Temple of Khaine. Malus took a thoughtful sip of wine. “My former backers have deeper connections — and purses — than I imagined. Unless…”