“How are we supposed to get back to the lodge?” Malus asked.
To his surprise, Arleth Vann gave him one of his ghostly smiles. “Honestly, I have no idea. I’m more or less making this up as I go.”
Malus winced. “Ah, well, that’s comforting.”
“Would it help if I told you that it may not be a problem?”
“And why is that?”
“There’s a good chance we’ll all die once we reach the library.”
The highborn stared balefully at his retainer. “I think you spent too much time with Hauclir back at the Hag. He’s been a bad influence.”
Arleth Vann straightened. “Really? That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
“He said the same thing about you.”
Malus frowned. “Impertinent wretch.”
“That’s funny. He said the same thing—”
“Enough!” the highborn growled. “Let’s go see this damned library!”
Arleth Vann gave Malus a sketchy bow and dashed off, heading for a staircase on the far side of the room.
They climbed two more floors before they emerged into a corridor lit with globes of witchfire. The air smelled fresh, and Malus drank it in like wine. They were finally above ground.
Muted shouts echoed from one end of the corridor. Malus turned to Arleth Vann. “What’s that?”
“Urial must have men guarding the citadel,” the assassin said. “The beastmen are raising the alarm.” He glanced down the opposite end of the passageway and seemed lost in thought for a moment. “We’ll take the servants’ stairs,” he said after a moment. “This way!”
Malus and the loyalists raced after the assassin, dashing through a maze of corridors before reaching a set of tightly curving stairs that led up into the higher levels of the tower. They climbed for a long while, their panting breaths echoing hollowly in the dark, cramped space. The highborn expected a wave of screaming zealots to sweep down on them from above at any moment, but many minutes later they left the staircase and emerged unchallenged into a brightly lit hallway. Arleth Vann raised his hand in warning, crept silently to the end of the passageway and peered into the space beyond. He motioned for the group to join him a moment later.
They crept from the passage into a large, open room not unlike a highborn’s entry hall. A sweeping staircase rose to a gallery overlooking the room, and a circular platform sat in the centre of the chamber, piled high with severed skulls. Incense hung heavy in the air, attempting to mask the stench of rot rising from the putrefying trophies. A pair of heavy, gilded doors stood shut in a shadowed alcove beneath the gallery, opposite an open archway that led to an antechamber on the far side of the tower. The marble floor was covered in scraps of cheap brown paper. Malus frowned and stirred a pile of papers with his toe. Each sheet was covered in fine, archaic script. “What’s all this?” he asked quietly.
“Petitioners’ writs,” Arleth Vann replied. “Members of the temple may petition the Haru’ann for access to the libraries, and if their request is granted they are given a scrap of paper marked with the elder’s signature and a verse or two from the Parables of Sundered Flesh. Then the petitioners are left here to wait and meditate upon the verses until the librarians call their names.” He gestured at the pile of grisly trophies. “Many petitioners bring offerings in hope that the librarians will expedite their access, but the keepers of the sacred texts are rarely impressed.” The assassin pointed to the double doors. “This level contains nothing more than histories and copies of sacred texts,” he said, indicating the gallery overhead. “What we want is up there.”
Arleth Vann crossed the chamber and climbed the staircase two steps at a time. Malus went after him, noting that Niryal and the other loyalists followed with considerable reluctance. Priestesses and mere novitiates were not welcome in this place.
The gallery was furnished with thick rugs and plush, high-backed chairs arrayed in twin ranks before a single door of blooded oak. Side tables set off in the far corners were set with silver goblets and bottles of wine, clearly meant for the pleasure of the temple elders. Arleth Vann turned to Niryal and the loyalists. “Wait here,” he said.
To Malus’ surprise, Niryal glared at the assassin. “We know our place,” she said. “It is you who overstep your bounds. This is not proper!”
“You are welcome to complain to the Grand Carnifex,” the assassin said coolly. He pushed the door open and stepped into the room beyond as if he belonged there. Malus followed close behind.
The upper library was huge, its curving walls lined with bookshelves that stretched as much as three storeys high. Long ladders of blooded oak ran on tracks of polished brass that circled the towering shelves, allowing apprentice librarians to scurry up and retrieve volumes for their patrons. Thick rugs were piled on the stone floor around ranks of wooden carrels, their working surfaces brightly lit by a cluster of large witchlight globes suspended on a chain from the centre of the vaulted ceiling. The air was thick with the smell of dust, old leather and ancient paper. It reminded Malus of his half-sister Nagaira’s former library back at the Hag. “These places are nothing but trouble,” he muttered darkly.
Arleth Vann moved quickly to the far side of the room. There, beyond the furthest rank of work carrels, the rugs abruptly stopped at an expanse of polished black marble. A large circle of arcane sigils was carved into the stone, and beyond that stood a series of tall, wooden cabinets arrayed in a rough semicircle. The assassin studied each cabinet in turn before settling on the fourth in line and pulling its wooden doors open.
There were dozens of polished skulls inside, resting on shelves lined with black velvet. They all looked very old, and many were bound together with intricate nets of gold and silver wire.
“What is all this?” the highborn asked.
Arleth Vann looked over his shoulder at his master and smiled faintly. “These are the real treasures of the library,” he said. “Sacred texts are well and good, but the temple has always placed its greatest faith in the wisdom and insight of its elders. These cabinets contain the skulls of more than four hundred of the greatest men and women of the temple, stretching back for more than four thousand years. Their spirits remain tied to their skulls with powerful spells, so that they can continue to serve the faithful long after their deaths.”
The assassin reached into the cabinet and reverently lifted one of the skulls from its resting place. Malus noted that several spots on the shelves were empty, and thought of the skull that Urial had showed him in his quarters on the Harrier. A thought occurred to him. “Why didn’t Urial forsake the temple like the other zealots? He had to have known that the temple elders didn’t dare acknowledge him even if he had been the true Scourge.”
Arleth Vann shrugged. “I suppose it was greed. You’ve seen the wealth and luxury that the temple elders enjoy here. I suspect that Urial kept the zealots at arm’s length for years, knowing he would need them when the time came to make his play for the sword, but looking to build his influence in the temple at the same time. Perhaps he seeks to reconcile the two in some fashion, letting him have the best of both worlds.”
Malus gave a cynical grunt. “So much for the purity of faith,” he said. “At least the Slaaneshi are honest about their appetites.”
The assassin shot the highborn a warning glare “Don’t blaspheme,” he said, “especially not in the presence of four hundred very pious, very savage ghosts.”
“Point taken,” Malus replied, watching his retainer carry the skull into the magic circle. “For an assassin you seem to know a very great deal about the temple and its history,” he said.
Arleth Vann paused, staring down at the skull. “I never wanted to be an assassin,” he said quietly. “This is where I wanted to be, among the books and the old bones.”
“You wanted to be a librarian?” Malus said, not bothering to hide his disdain.
The retainer shrugged. “I grew up here. My parents gave me to the temple when I was just a bab
e, like so many others. I grew up in the cells near the Assassin’s Door, and when I was five I was given to the librarians to carry books and run errands. I took to letters well and could write by the time I was seven.” He looked up at the shelves. “I was also good on the ladders, which the elderly librarians appreciated. I prided myself on getting up and down as quickly and quietly as possible.” His expression darkened, “and that was my undoing, in a way. The librarians assigned me to a temple witch who was working on an important project, and she thought my skills were going to waste fetching books and picking up rubbish. So she spoke to the master librarian and at ten years old I began my tutelage with the temple assassins.”
Arleth Vann knelt and gently laid the skull in the centre of the circle. “Once I entered the assassins’ order, I was forbidden to enter the library, of course So at night I would sneak into the crypts and slip back into the citadel, where I would spend hours poring through the old tomes. That’s how I learned about the schism, and the deception the elders have practised for millennia. The truth is here, scattered in vague references and small details spread through scores of unrelated books.” He stood and pointed to one of the carrels near the back of the room. “I was sitting right there the night I put all the pieces together. That was both the best and the worst night of my life. Nothing was the same after that.”
“So you threw in your lot with the zealots.”
The assassin gave Malus an indignant look. “We’re not talking about some petty highborn intrigue, where one’s allegiance shifts with the wind. I was a servant of Khaine, and I had been practising heresy from the moment I entered the temple. So what other choice did I have but to leave Har Ganeth and seek the wisdom of the zealots?”
“That’s why they sent you to Har Ganeth in search of the Scourge?”
“No,” the assassin replied, “for all that you have seen of Tyran and his schemes here in the city, the true cult is not as dogmatic and rigid as the temple. Masters wander the land, practising their devotions and perfecting the killing arts, and aspirants to the cult must seek them out for instruction. When the master deems the student worthy, he or she is sent out into the world alone to worship the Bloody-handed God and wait for the coming of the Scourge.” The assassin smiled faintly “Unlike most true believers, I wasn’t content to simply wait for the Time of Blood to announce itself. I began searching for signs of the Scourge in every city I came to.”
“Why?”
The assassin shrugged. “Redemption, I suppose, or revenge against the temple. At any rate,” he said with a sigh, “that was how I found myself in a seer’s hut outside Karond Kar several years ago, wagering my soul in a game of Dragon’s Teeth in exchange for a divination. The woman was utterly mad, but her visions were true. She told me that the Scourge would be born of a witch in the City of Shadow, and would dwell in the house of chains.” He shook his head ruefully. “The old wretch tried to serve me poisoned wine afterwards. The city folk had warned me she was a poor loser.”
Malus considered this and tried to hide his discomfort. He’d never inquired about Arleth Vann’s beliefs when the assassin had served him at the Hag and now he found all this talk about service and devotion more than a little disturbing. “I hope you aren’t expecting some kind of divine forgiveness from me,” he said, “because I don’t do that sort of thing.”
The assassin shook his head and chuckled softly. “Khaine forfend!” he said. “No, I simply serve, my lord. If the Lord of Murder wills it, I will find my own redemption. Speaking of which,” he said, drawing a deep breath, “we’re wasting time. Urial’s men could be searching the citadel as we speak, and I don’t know how long this summoning will take.”
“I thought you said that the assassins’ order only taught you minor sorceries,” Malus said.
Arleth Vann nodded. “That’s right, but I’ve observed similar rituals many times in the past.”
“Meaning you’ve never done this before.”
The assassin hesitated. “Strictly speaking yes.”
“Mother of Night,” Malus cursed. “What happens if the summoning goes wrong?”
“Well,” Arleth Vann said carefully, “there is a very small possibility that I could lose control of the magical forces and cause a minor explosion.”
“Ah,” the highborn said, “in that case, I’ll wait in the gallery.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Malus turned on his heel and strode swiftly from the room, pulling the oak door shut behind him. Niryal and the two loyalists stood at the gallery’s edge, peering over the rail at the space below. The priestess turned at his approach. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked.
“My man is still searching,” the highborn replied. “It shouldn’t be long.” He joined her at the rail. The two temple servants stepped away, retreating to the top of the stairs.
Niryal resumed her watch, her expression troubled. She was tall and lean, with weathered skin stretched taut over hard, cable-like muscles. Faint scars marked the backs of her hands and the side of her thin face and neck, and her small mouth was set in a hard, determined line. “How am I to address you?” she asked.
Malus gave her a sidelong look. “What?”
Her dark eyes met his. “You have a retainer — a man with the blessing of Khaine upon him and the swords of an assassin, no less — but for Rhulan, none of the other elders had any idea who you were. You know next to nothing about the temple, but you know things about the warpsword and about Urial that no one else does.” She looked him up and down. “You dress like a beggar but shout commands like a highborn, and somehow you spent several days in the company of Tyran and his zealots, and then arrived unannounced in the council chambers to deliver an anonymous warning to the Grand Carnifex.” She cocked her head inquisitively. “So, who… or what… are you?”
The highborn spread his hands and managed a smile to mask his concern. “As I said to the council, I’m a servant of Khaine. What else matters?”
Niryal arched a whip thin eyebrow. “I can think of a great many things, but let’s start with this: how can you be so certain that Urial is not the Swordbearer after all? The more I think about it, the more trouble I have believing that he found a way to circumvent Khaine’s will and claim the blade for himself.”
Malus hesitated. “Malekith is the Scourge of Khaine, so it is written.”
“Yes, but written by whom? All I know is that the Witch King is in his tower at Naggarond, and Urial is here with the warpsword in his hands. I saw it with my own eyes, just as I saw him slay the Grand Carnifex in single combat. The Grand Carnifex! How can that be possible if Urial isn’t Khaine’s chosen one?”
The highborn’s eyes narrowed warily. “Because Urial is a sorcerer of fearsome power, and he has coveted the warpsword for many years. The Arch-Hierophant realised this. Why can’t you?”
Niryal leaned close to Malus. “The Arch-Hierophant has fled the city,” she whispered. “I heard your retainer say so.”
Malus stiffened. “Rhulan is a coward,” he hissed.
“Or he has no faith in you, and if he does not, then why should I?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Malus saw the loyalist sentries watching from the stairs drop into a crouch.
He caught the warning movement a moment too late. Before he could react he heard shouts of alarm from the chamber below. The highborn gave a silent snarl as he saw a trio of temple beastmasters standing just inside the room. One of them locked eyes with Malus and levelled a short spear at his face.
“Damnation,” Malus cursed quietly, and the air shook with hoarse war screams as the beastmasters charged for the gallery stairs. Five of Tyran’s zealots followed hot on their heels, their gleaming draichs held high.
“Stop them on the stairs!” the highborn shouted to the loyalists. The stairway was just wide enough for two men to walk abreast. If they could keep their foes off the gallery floor the zealots would be at a disadvantage with their long blades. As he raced past Ni
ryal, Malus shot a nervous glance at the door to the upper library, but there was no hint as to what was happening on the other side. All he could do was hope Arleth Vann learned what he needed quickly. They couldn’t hold out for long.
The beastmasters flung themselves at the loyalists, jabbing fiercely with their spears in an effort to drive them back. One of the men started to give ground, but Malus reached the top of the stairs and grabbed a fistful of the retreating man’s robe, forcing him back. The highborn stood close, just above and behind the two loyalists, looking for an opportunity to strike.
One of the beastmasters blocked a spear thrust with his sword and then drew a ragged cut across his opponent’s weapon arm. Seeing an opportunity the second beastmaster feinted at the man in front of him and then threw a lightning quick thrust at the overextended swordsman, but Malus’ sword flashed down like a thunderbolt, biting deep into the beastmaster’s forearm. Bones snapped with a brittle crack and the beastmaster’s howl of pain turned to a choked gurgle as his opponent recovered from the feint and stabbed him in the throat.
The dying beastmaster sagged to his left and tumbled off the stairs. His companion stepped forwards into the gap, aiming a low blow at his foe’s legs. The loyalist tried to block the thrust, but the stroke was ill timed and the steel spearhead dug a deep gouge along his thigh. Screaming in pain, the temple servant slashed wildly at the beastmaster’s head, but the warrior ducked beneath the blow and drove his spear deep into the loyalist’s abdomen. Malus saw the sharp, steel point burst from the man’s back and the loyalist died with a terrible groan.
Growling like a wolf, Malus kicked the dead loyalist in the back, sending the corpse crashing into his killer. The beastmaster shouted angrily and pushed the corpse off the stairs, but as he tried to pull his spear free of the falling body Malus swept down the stairs and split the man’s skull. The beastmaster collapsed, blood spilling down his shattered face, and the highborn pivoted on the ball of his foot and drove his blade into the third beastmaster’s chest.