He reached the guardroom just below the sanctum without realising it at first, stumbling into a smoky chamber that reeked with the smell of burnt hair and charred flesh. Half a dozen bodies lay on the stone floor, tossed about like straw dolls by a sudden, violent explosion.
Armoured figures suddenly rushed at him through the smoke, bloodstained swords held ready. At the last moment the lead warrior checked his rush and raised his hand to the rest. “Stop!” Arleth Vann ordered to his men. “My lord! We nearly took you for one of the cultists.”
Malus paused, gasping for breath in the foetid air. “Nagaira? Where is she?”
Arleth Vann nodded towards the ceiling. “She tore through here like a storm, just as we were finishing off the last of the bridge guards,” he said. “Killed two of ours and four of hers with some kind of thunderbolt and kept on going.”
“How long ago?”
The retainer shrugged. “A few minutes, no more. Silar took the rest of the men after her.”
Malus nodded. He’d hoped his men would have been able to storm across the bridge and seize the sanctum during the chaos of the attack, but battle had a way of unravelling even the simplest of plans. “Well done. Now take your men back across the bridge. Urial and his acolytes will be here any moment.”
Another thunderclap shook the air above the tower, this time sending drifts of dust raining from the ceiling. Fighting a strong sense of foreboding, Malus charged up the stairs.
The antechamber to the sanctum was full of smoke and swirling lights. The double doors leading to Nagaira’s study were gone, leaving nothing but a jagged hole in the crumbling wall. Silar and his men lay on the floor, their armour smoking. Several were contorted in agony or lying motionless amid piles of jagged rubble.
A howling wind roared through the room, whistling through the ragged hole leading from the sanctum itself. A raging storm of multicoloured light blazed within.
“You are too late!” Tz’arkan cried. “Leave this place before the spell she’s cast consumes you!”
Yet Malus couldn’t bring himself to give up, not within sight of his quarry. Seeing the power at work in the room beyond, he was certain that he didn’t dare let his sister get away.
The highborn paused long enough to pull Silar upright and order the men out of the room, then he hurled himself through the jagged opening.
Within the confines of the sanctum the storm threatened to take his breath away. The light was blinding, a shifting pattern of sights and strange sounds that grew in strength with each passing moment.
The ceiling of the room was already gone, consumed by the ravening energies unleashed by the witch’s spell. Her robed form hung in midair, surrounded by the vortex, her skin glowing with unearthly patterns of light. Nagaira saw Malus and her face lit with a triumphant smile. At that moment he knew that for once the daemon had spoken wisely. He’d made a terrible mistake.
“There you are, little brother,” Nagaira said, her voice one with the howling storm. “I’ve been waiting for you. I have a gift to repay you for your treachery.”
The air curdled around the witch—and began to bleed. A nimbus of Chaotic energy took shape around her, split with jagged arcs of purple lightning.
Tz’arkan writhed inside Malus. “Get out of here, you fool! She’s calling down the storm of Chaos itself!”
Malus snarled, furious at the thought of retreat. As he turned to go, he caught sight of a leather-bound tome at the foot of a shattered divan. On impulse he leapt for it, just as a bolt of purple energy tore through the space where he’d stood. The arc of power played along the far wall, carving a path through the stone and leaving a wild pattern of flesh, scales and viscera etched in its wake.
The highborn’s hands closed around the Tome of Ak’zhaal as another burst of lightning turned the remains of the divan into a puddle of stinking slime. The vortex surrounding Nagaira was swelling, increasing in velocity. Malus rose to his knees and flung the draich at her one-handed. It shattered into droplets of boiling steel before he’d reached his feet and started for the antechamber.
More lightning reached for him as he ran and the witch’s voice rose in a shriek of thwarted anger. The air crackled and moaned around him. He felt his hair writhe and melt into the dried gore on his skin.
He did not stop upon reaching the antechamber; if anything, he spurred himself to greater speed, racing for the stairs. Nagaira’s shriek rose to an unearthly wail—and then went silent.
The explosion that followed turned the world inside out.
A wave of energy washed over him as he tumbled down the stairs and he felt the fabric of the world come undone. For a single, endless heartbeat he hung from a precipice of sorts, dangling at the edge of infinity. Entire universes stretched before him, each one greater and less sane than the one before.
Worse still he glimpsed the impossible beings that crouched in the emptiness between the universes—and for a moment, they glimpsed him.
Malus screamed in pure, mindless terror—then the wave collapsed back in on itself and the entire top of Nagaira’s tower exploded in a ball of unnatural light.
His head struck the edge of a stone step with a blinding flash of blessed pain, snapping his awareness back to the physical world. Malus rebounded off walls and staircases until he spilled out into the wrecked guard room below.
The pain was intense and sweet. It reminded him of his place in the world. For a long while, all he could do was clutch the great tome in his arms and laugh like a madman, grateful to be blinded once again to the awful expanse beyond the world of flesh.
Malus had no idea how much time had passed before he realised he wasn’t alone. When the laughter finally died and he focused his eyes on the smoky room around him, he saw Urial looming over him. There was a strange look in his brass-coloured eyes.
“She is gone,” was all Malus could say.
Urial nodded. “It is perhaps for the best. The question is: will she return?”
The thought chilled Malus to the bone. “Mother of Night, I pray not.”
Once more, Urial stared intently at Malus, then surprised the highborn by bending over him and extending his good hand. His grip was surprisingly strong and he pulled Malus effortlessly to his feet. “Best to save your prayers for later,” he said, his expression inscrutable. The Vaulkhar’s troops have entered the tower to restore order and they have been commanded to escort us to the Drachau’s tower. It would appear that we have some explaining to do.”
Chapter Ten
WRIT OF IRON
Nagaira’s tower continued to burn, its upper storeys wreathed in seething white flame that rose for more than a hundred feet into the night sky. The eerie glow of the burning tower shone like a white borealis through the crystal skylight set in the arched ceiling of the Drachau’s inner court. It threw elaborate patterns of light and shadow across the tiled floor, writhing knots of white light and inky shadow that drew Malus’ attention away from the undisputed lord of Hag Graef. Every time he bent himself to the task of focusing on the man presiding from the dais in the centre of the great chamber the shadows would twist and writhe at the edges of his vision. He caught the hint of patterns there, of meaning where none ought to be.
Malus and Urial had been brought into the Drachau’s presence, only to be made to wait while he received reports from his lieutenants and the arrival of the Vaulkhar. It was all Malus could do to remain on his feet, his body was battered and torn and the cut across his scalp had bled so much he was dizzy and weak. But the Drachau offered him no comforts, nor would it have ever occurred to him to ask for any. Weakness was not tolerated in the presence of the Drachau, only the strong were fit to stand in his shadow and await his pleasure.
The highborn could not say how long he stood in silence, fighting a desperate battle to remain upright and conscious. At some point he heard the great double doors swing wide and the warlord of Hag Graef swept in like a storm, clad in his red-enamelled armour and wearing the ancient blade Render at
his side. It was a testament to the majesty of the great court that Lurhan’s fierce presence did not fill it like a turbulent sea. As it was, Malus could feel an electric tension in the air as his father approached and knew that the infamous Vaulkhar seethed.
Uthlan Tyr, the Drachau of Hag Graef, also wore a suit of fine plate armour—not the great relic armour worn at ceremonies like the Hanil Khar or on the field of war, but a mundane harness that was suitable for everyday use and worth a highborn’s ransom. While the Vaulkhar carried his helmet tucked under one arm the Drachau disdained the great dragon helm of his station, his long, black hair pulled back from his face with a fine gold circlet and spilling down over his shoulders. He had a thin, almost boyish face despite being nearly eight hundred years of age and his small eyes glittered like chips of onyx beneath an imposing brow. He and Lurhan were distant cousins and both shared the sharp patrician nose of their ancestors and a defiant set to their pointed chins. Unlike the Vaulkhar, Tyr’s hand rested on the pommel of a naked blade, its chisel point grounded on the wooden floor of the dais. It was a draich, similar to the weapon Malus had used at the tower, but the slender, curving sword had the hallmarks of a master craftsman and its blade was etched with runes of power that parted steel as easily as skin. It was said among the highborn houses of Hag Graef that Lurhan had fought in more battles than he had hairs on his head, but Uthlan Tyr had killed far more men than he. For the Drachau, spilling blood was as natural—and necessary—as breathing. Malus had little doubt that his life—and possibly even that of Urial as well—was balanced precariously on the keen edge of that blade.
The Vaulkhar climbed the steps of the dais and knelt before his lord. “My men have secured the tower,” Lurhan said, his voice hoarse from shouting commands over the din of battle. “Nagaira’s retainers fought to the death rather than surrender. There were only a handful of slaves left alive in the tower and they have been taken by my men for questioning. The… chamber… beneath the tower is a charnel pit. It would appear that no less than two hundred slave stock were butchered there, many of them clearly twisted by the effects of powerful sorcery. Worse yet, there were three score highborn found below, slain by poisoned blades or the draichs of the temple executioners.” Lurhan turned to regard Urial coldly. “When we arrived the bodies were being mutilated by a band of temple brides.”
Urial met his father’s eyes with his own impassive stare. After a moment, the Vaulkhar glanced back to his lord.
“These were no mere highborn, dread one. They were the sons and daughters of some of your most powerful allies. When news reaches their kin the gutters will run with blood, mark my words.”
The Drachau’s eyes swept contemptuously over Malus and settled on Urial. “Explain yourself,” he commanded.
A lesser noble would have quailed beneath Tyr’s murderous glare, but Urial was undaunted. “I stand before you not as your vassal but as an agent of the Temple of Khaine,” he answered. “This is a temple matter: you trifle with it at your peril.”
Lurhan’s face went white with rage, but Malus was shocked to see the Vaulkhar hold his fury in check. The only sign of tension in the Drachau himself was a slight tightening of his hand on the pommel of his sword. His tone remained even as he said, “Go on.”
“The Temple of Khaine has excised a canker growing in the very heart of this city. The Cult of Slaanesh had spread its rot through the highest orders of Hag Graef’s nobility—including the Vaulkhar’s daughter, Nagaira.”
“Have a care, Urial! Now it is you who dance the razor’s edge,” Lurhan said, his voice full of quiet menace.
Does he fear that he will be implicated as well, Malus thought? Or does he know that the taint of the cult runs even deeper in his house and fears what the Drachau will say? He had been so focused on his own schemes that he’d failed to appreciate how politically damaging the events of the evening could be. A few carefully chosen words from Urial and the Vaulkhar could find himself kneeling before an executioner in the temple courtyard. The Drachau would have no choice but to order Lurhan’s death, if for no other reason than to avoid the same fate should word reach the Witch King.
The notion restored a bit of the fire in Malus’ veins. Lurhan and the Drachau had reason to be afraid and that gave Malus a small amount of power over them.
“These are grave accusations,” Tyr said carefully. “Where is your proof?”
Urial scowled at the Drachau? “Proof? We are the anointed of Khaine. We need provide no proof.” The former acolyte raised his hand to forestall the Drachau’s angry protest. “That said, I realise that these events have placed you in a precarious position, so I will provide you with some amount of detail.”
He indicated Malus with a nod of his head. “This all began with your order to torture my brother to death for his recent indiscretions. After the Vaulkhar had tormented Malus beyond the endurance of the strongest druchii it was determined that he had fulfilled your wishes to the best of his ability and Malus was released into the care of his sister.”
The Drachau shot the warlord a stern glance, then returned his attention to Urial. “This much I know,” Tyr said darkly.
Urial nodded absently, his expression vague as he focused on the chain of events laid out in his mind. “While Malus was being treated by Nagaira—treated with both drugs and outlawed sorcery, I might add—she took advantage of his weakened state in an attempt to seduce him into her debased cult.” Urial’s expression cleared and he eyed Malus coldly. “Malus and Nagaira have been companions—some would say more than companions—for some time. She has used her forbidden knowledge to support him on more than one occasion. I believe she has been intent upon subverting him for some time now.” Tyr gave a snort of disgust. “This libertine? What would be the point? He has nothing to offer!”
“So it would appear,” Urial said, his voice neutral. “And yet it is a fact that the cult held a revel in his honour shortly after his recovery and that he was brought before their Hierophant and invited to join their ranks.”
Urial turned towards Malus, his pronounced limp the only outward sign of the exhaustion the crippled druchii felt. “As soon as he was able, Malus came to me with this information, as was proper. He put forth a plan to use his proposed initiation as a trap to eliminate the heart of the cult here in the city.”
“By rights he should have come to me, first!” Lurhan growled. The honour of our house—”
“The honour of your house or any other comes second to the affairs of the temple,” Urial said flatly. “It is our duty to keep the souls of the druchii pure, free from the weakness of our traitorous kin in Ulthuan. This is not merely the commandment of Khaine, but the wish of Malekith himself. Do you care to dispute this?”
“You have made your point, Urial,” the Drachau interjected. “Continue.”
“Malus gave us the location of the initiation chamber, suggesting it was part of the tunnels burrowed beneath the city. I despatched scouts into the Burrows and located passages that had been walled off to isolate the chamber from the rest of the network.” Urial shrugged. “After that it was a matter of alerting the temple and rousing its holy warriors to do Khaine’s sacred work. We burst through the walls just before the culmination of the ceremony and attempted to capture the apostates’ The former acolyte gave a wintry smile. “Fortunately, they chose to resist.”
Suddenly the white glow in the night sky flickered and went out. The Drachau glanced at the skylight above with evident relief, then returned his attention to Malus. “What of this Hierophant Urial spoke of?”
“I fought the Hierophant in the initiation chamber,” Malus said hoarsely. Though I gravely wounded the high priest, he managed to escape. I believe that he would be easy to locate, however. Like his supplicants, he must be a high-ranking noble—someone close to the most powerful leaders in the city.”
Malus looked squarely at his father. “I would suggest a search of all the spires in the Hag, my lords. Find the noble with the ruined throat and you
will have your chief apostate. I expect you will not have to look very far.”
“What are you implying, you misbegotten churl?” Lurhan took a step towards Malus, his hand going to the long hilt of bone rising above his left hip. “Bad enough that first you and then your sister defile our honour—now you try to heap more disgrace upon us?”
“I imply nothing,” Malus shot back. “If you are so covetous of your house’s honour then send your troops to my brother Isilvar’s tower. Drag him here from his dens of flesh and ask him what he knows of this damnable cult. I warn you, though—he might not be fit to say much.”
“Be silent!” Lurhan roared, descending the steps like a thunderbolt as his hand tightened on the hilt of his blade.
“No further!” The Drachau leapt to his feet, pointing at Lurhan with the point of his own blade. “Restrain yourself, Vaulkhar. Methinks your children are right: you place the honour of your house above the security of the state and that is a grave mistake. This high priest must be rooted out and the sooner the better. We will search the Hag, as Malus has suggested, because it serves our interests. Now,” he commanded, “tell me of Nagaira.”
Malus made as if to reply, but Urial answered first. “She is no more,” he said.
The Drachau nodded. “And the fire?”
“Born of a Chaos storm, dread lord. Nagaira unleashed a powerful spell in an attempt to escape and to destroy evidence that might have led us to her patron.”
“Patron?” The Drachau frowned. “You mean the Hierophant?”