Malus considered his options as they rode on. As far as he knew, the sword was somewhere in the city, and it was entirely possible that whoever led those riders might know where it was. However, he doubted that anyone in this goddess-forsaken wasteland would have any interest in helping him. It was far more likely that they were herding him along like a prize cow for slaughter. That left fighting or running, and at the moment he couldn’t manage either, unless he called upon the daemon.
With Tz’arkan’s help he could wipe out the riders to the last man, with or without Spite, but at what cost?
Do I have a choice anymore? Malus thought.
Behind him, the riders blew a strange, skirling horn. Malus’ heart quickened, thinking the riders were about to charge, but when he looked back they were still keeping their distance a few hundred yards away.
They were only a few miles from the city. The highborn knew that he had to act soon. He had no intention of becoming a prisoner to these Chaos twisted savages. The more he thought about seeking the daemon’s help the more he felt his body ache for the taste of Tz’arkan’s power. How much more potent would it be here, with the energies of Chaos raging through the very skies? How like a god he could be!
Malus had the name of the daemon on his lips when they crested a gentle rise in the landscape and saw the riders waiting ahead of him.
There had been no warning of their approach, no horns or telltale dust clouds. They had mastered the terrain with devilish cunning, using its folds to manoeuvre directly into his path. Just like that, the trap closed shut around him. Horsemen from the trailing patrol had already reached the rise to either side of him, cutting him off from escape. The riders in front were less than a hundred yards away, waiting patiently.
He studied the men awaiting him as he guided Spite down the shallow slope. They were broad shouldered, powerful men, wearing animal furs and bits of ragged chainmail. Bracelets of silver or hammered brass adorned their arms, and steel helmets with mail skirts rested on their shaggy heads. Their skin was swarthy, almost like brown leather, and their bodies had been twisted by years of living beneath the boiling sky.
Malus saw ram’s horns sprouting from the forehead of one warrior, while another stared at the highborn with a single, catlike eye set in the centre of his forehead. Another man had two heads upon his neck, one broad and flat-nosed and the other shrivelled, scaly and bestial. Even their horses showed signs of terrible mutation, with cloven hooves and mangy bodies thick with cable-like muscles. Fangs protruded from their slack mouths, and their lolling tongues were long and forked like serpents’.
As he drew nearer, three of the riders kneed their mounts forwards upon some unspoken command. Each drew weapons that glinted in the bloody light. The man with one eye readied a long, curved sword and a steel buckler, while the two-headed man brandished a pair of long handled axes. A third man with piercing blue eyes and a ragged, drooling hole where his mouth should have been, uncoiled a long whip in his left hand and hefted a short, stubby mace in his right.
None of the other riders moved. Malus looked back at the men behind him, and saw them observing the scene from the rise many yards away. The highborn questioned whether this was some sort of challenge. He’d heard that some tribes of marauders favoured trials by combat, pitting their champions against those of their enemies. If that was their intent, he was happy to indulge them and see where it led. At worst, he could call the daemon’s name and fight his way free if he had to.
The three riders spread out, edging their mounts forwards. Spite, smelling horseflesh, quickened his pace and let out a hungry roar, but the mutated animals were unfazed by the nauglir’s hunting cry.
Malus realised that they were all going to attack him at once. He guessed that was supposed to be some sort of compliment. He drew his sword and decided to change the rules of the game.
Kicking his heels into Spite’s flanks, Malus turned the nauglir hard right and charged at the two-headed man. The cold one closed the distance in an eye blink, but the horseman reacted with amazing speed, kicking his mount into a gallop and dodging nimbly out of the nauglir’s path. Then he darted back at Malus, slashing at him with both deadly axes. Caught by surprise at the deft manoeuvre, it was all the highborn could do to get his sword up in time to block the flurry of strokes. Even so, the rider’s last blow rang hard against Malus’ pauldron, drawing a hiss of pain from his lips.
Malus reined Spite around, but already the two-headed man was darting away, his horse responding to his commands as if they were of one mind. The highborn started to lunge Spite after the horseman when a blur of motion to his right caught his eye. The one-eyed swordsman was charging at him from the flank, his sword gleaming redly. Malus cursed and twisted in the saddle, blocking the horseman’s blow, but the attack had tremendous power behind it, nearly knocking his sword from his hand.
The one-eyed rider swept past, and Malus felt something wrap around his sword arm and haul backwards, wrenching the limb painfully in its socket. The blue-eyed man was behind Spite, hauling on his own reins and trying to pull the highborn from his saddle.
Gritting his teeth with pain, Malus wrenched his reins and applied his left boot, and Spite lashed out with his powerful tail. The blue eyed man had just enough time to comprehend his mistake before the muscular appendage slammed into his horse’s side, splintering ribs and shattering the man’s leg. The horse collapsed with a strangely human scream, but the wounded warrior held onto his whip with both hands, still drawing Malus with him towards the ground.
Hot pain lanced from the highborn’s shoulder across his narrow chest as he heeled Spite around. He looked over his shoulder and saw the one-eyed swordsman sweeping in on his left flank, while the two-headed axe man was coming up fast just behind and to the right. He yanked at the whip wrapping his arm, but the braided rawhide bound him fast.
Facing the prone marauder, Malus kicked Spite into a trot. The blue-eyed warrior tried to roll aside, but the whip trapping the highborn worked against him as well. The marauder let out a terrible, gobbling cry as the nauglir crushed him underfoot.
Hooves thundered to Malus’ left as the one-eyed swordsman swept in, aiming a mighty stroke for the back of the highborn’s neck. Malus gauged the man’s approach, and at the last moment he kneed Spite hard and threw up his left arm. The nauglir sidled towards the onrushing horse, closing the distance faster than the swordsman expected and throwing off his aim. The flashing sword smashed into the back of Malus’ shoulder, hard enough for the highborn to hear the pauldron bending. Then Malus closed his hand around the marauder’s wrist and dropped his arm, trapping the sword against his chest.
The one-eyed swordsman let out a savage curse and tried to ride past, but he was far too close to the cold one to escape. The nauglir’s jaws closed on the horse’s head and crushed it like an egg. The animal collapsed, throwing its rider forwards, and Malus let the man go. He rolled admirably with the fall, tumbling to a stop more than a dozen feet away. Spite leapt at the man like a cat upon a mouse. The swordsman barely had time to scream before the nauglir’s bloody jaws clamped down and bit him in half.
Malus was just turning to look for the third rider when a pair of blows struck him from behind. One hit square between his shoulder blades, rocking him in the saddle, while the other struck a glancing blow against his head. Pain bloomed behind Malus’ eyes and his body went slack. The next thing he felt was the jarring shock of hitting the dusty ground.
Vague noises came and went as he slowly regained his senses. He heard the sound of hooves and the roar of the cold one, both noises reverberating oddly in his head. He opened his eyes and saw the two-headed man swinging wide of the cold one and angling back towards him.
He tried to sit up, shouting as a spike of pain lanced through his skull. He felt hot blood running down his cheek and the back of his neck. Malus saw a glint of metal on the ground nearby and dimly recognised it as his sword. He rolled over and crawled towards it as the two-headed man kicked hi
s horse into a gallop, bearing down on him. The ground shook as the horse drew closer, and Malus knew that there was no way he was going to reach the weapon in time.
As the thunder loomed over him Malus threw himself flat and rolled onto his back, looking up at the marauder leaning down out of his saddle to strike with his axe. The blade blurred through the air. Malus reached up and crossed his arms, forming an X, and the haft of the long blade crashed against them. The highborn grabbed the leather wrapped haft and held on for all he was worth. The marauder, already at the limit of his balance, came out of the saddle and hit the ground hard, close to Malus.
Malus yanked hard on the axe, pulling it from the marauder’s hands, and then rolled drunkenly to his feet. His opponent was on his back, still clutching his second weapon. Without hesitation the highborn charged at the man, bringing his axe down on the marauder’s head. The two-headed man brought up his axe and blocked the highborn’s blow, but Malus twisted his weapon and hooked the beard of the axe around his opponent’s haft, pulling it out of the way. He rushed in, hammered an armoured boot into the marauder’s groin, and then broke several of his ribs. Grabbing his axe with both hands, he twisted the weapon out of his stunned opponent’s grip and methodically cut away both of the warrior’s heads.
The highborn straightened, his chest heaving, and looked for someone else to kill. The knot of riders at the base of the depression had not moved during the fight. Now one of their number slid gracefully from the saddle and approached Malus. He was a huge, broad shouldered warrior, with dark tattoos spiralling across his powerful chest. His skin was the colour of polished mahogany, and one of his eyes glowed a nacreous green, like trapped witchlight. Two large broadswords hung from a wide leather belt at his hips, but the man made no move to draw them.
A trickle of blood ran down Malus’ cheek and touched his lips. He spat it into the dust. “If you don’t want to die empty-handed you’d best draw one of those blades,” he growled.
To his surprise, the warrior halted and addressed him in passable druhir. “You were magnificent, holy one. Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”
The highborn frowned. This was just about the last thing he expected.
“I am Malus, of Hag Graef, a warrior of the druchii.”
The man bowed deeply. “You bear the blessing of the Lord of Murder in your eyes.” He straightened and said gravely, “You have come for the sword.”
The frankness of the question stunned Malus. “Yes. Yes I have. How did you know?”
“It was foreseen,” the warrior said with a dreadful smile. His teeth were filed to jagged points. “You are the Scourge. We have been waiting for you for a very long time.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE AGELESS KINGS
The dark-skinned warrior turned to his companions and shouted something in a foul, debased tongue. The warband erupted in cheers and savage howls that were echoed by the riders at the crest of the rise.
Malus frowned thoughtfully, considering what he’d heard. “Who are you?” he asked.
The tattooed marauder bowed again, in a passable impersonation of a druchii retainer. “I am Shebbolai, the chieftain of the Tribe of the Red Sword. We serve the Ageless Kings in the City of Khaine, yonder.”
At first Malus wasn’t sure he’d heard the man correctly. The City of Khaine, he thought. “Who are these Ageless Kings?”
“Servants of the Bloody-handed God, who brought the great sword out of the hands of the blasphemers and kept it safe for many centuries, awaiting the day when Khaine’s Scourge would walk out of the wasteland to claim his due.” The chieftain gave Malus another sharp-toothed smile and beckoned to him. “Come, we must waste no time. The kings will want to see you at once.”
Malus was taken aback. Was it possible that the five assassins still lived after all this time, guarding the sword until the coming of the Time of Blood? It seemed incredible, but who knew what strange forces were at work here in the Wastes?
Slowly, painfully, the highborn recovered his sword. He looked at the bodies of the men he’d slain. “Who were these warriors?”
“The champions of the tribe,” Shebbolai said proudly “Not even I could have defeated them all at once.”
Malus didn’t think that spoke very highly of Shebbolai or the rest of his tribe, but the highborn judiciously held his tongue. On impulse he went to each of the men, struck off their heads, and carried the trophies over to Spite. The marauder chieftain watched, nodding in approval.
The highborn stuffed the heads into one of the empty sacks that had held his armour, and hung it from his belt like any zealot pilgrim. He took Spite by the reins and looked the cold one hard in the eye. “Hunt, Spite,” he said. “See what you can eat in this damned wasteland and wait for my call.” Then he slapped the nauglir on the neck and sent it loping off to the east. Whoever these Ageless Kings were, he wasn’t about to trust them completely, not with his cache of Tz’arkan’s relics at stake.
Malus turned back to Shebbolai. “I’ll take his mount,” he said, pointing to the two-headed man’s horse.
The warrior nodded. “He’s yours,” the chieftain said. “The horse and all three men’s wives. It is your right.”
“Just the horse will do,” the highborn said, fighting to suppress a look of pure horror.
Shebbolai led the party through a ruined gate at the southern edge of Khaine’s city, past towers of bleached skulls that rose more than thirty feet into the crimson sky. The city itself was huge, easily the size of Hag Graef, and looking at the sleek, black stone of its construction Malus couldn’t help but see the hands of elves in its making. Certainly the Ageless Kings hadn’t built it. The crumbling structures groaned under the weight of ages, perhaps going back as far as the Great War against Chaos or even earlier.
Malus and the marauders rode down deserted streets piled with broken stone. He found himself catching movement out of the corner of his eye more than once, but when he turned to look, he saw only a shadowy alley or an empty doorway. Piles of ancient skulls stood at every corner, reminding the highborn of Har Ganeth, hundreds of leagues distant.
“How did your tribe come to serve the Ageless Kings?” Malus asked.
Shebbolai chuckled, letting his horse find its own way along the avenue beside Malus. “By conquest, of course. Long, long ago my tribe wandered these plains like the other tribes, but the Ageless Kings came from the cold lands and slew our chieftain and nearly all of his warriors with the power of the red sword. Then they took the wives and children of the tribe and brought them here, to the City of Khaine. We have served them ever since.” The marauder twisted in his saddle and pointed back to the plains from whence they had come. “We rule all the land from east to west, and many tribes pay us tribute in flesh and treasure to cross our territory.” Shebbolai smiled proudly. “Other tribes must journey for many leagues in search of wealth and glory to heap at the feet of the Old Gods, but we need only stretch out our hands and the tribes bury their faces in the dirt and give us all they have. There is no tribe more powerful or more favoured by the gods than ours.”
“A tribe’s glory is wrought in battle, is it not?” Malus asked.
Shebbolai’s smile faded. “We fight from time to time, but few of the tribes dare to challenge the power of the sword. The Ageless Kings tell us to bide our time and wait for the coming of the Scourge, and then we will drown ourselves in hot blood!”
The highborn nodded thoughtfully. “The Ageless Kings are wise,” he said. “Tell me, how many of them are there?”
“The legends say there were five at first, but now only three remain,” the chieftain said. “Once they rode alongside the tribe, bearing the red sword before them, but for many hundreds of years they have kept to the god’s temple here in the city.” Shebbolai extended a hand. “There it is, yonder.”
Malus saw a squat, square tower rising from a pile of ruins just ahead. Perhaps it had always been a temple or a citadel for one of the city lords. Now its sloped
flanks were adorned with thousands upon thousands of skulls. The sheer scale of the offerings stunned the highborn. Not all of the temples in Naggaroth combined could equal it.
The closer they drew to the temple the more people Malus saw: hideous, twisted wretches, clothed in rags and bits of fur, who watched the passage of the chieftain and his retinue with hard, feral stares. Many of the buildings near the temple were inhabited, but few were in good repair. Whatever wealth the tribe had accumulated, it hadn’t gone towards providing the marauders with luxury or comfort. As they rode through the more populated streets Malus could sense an undercurrent of tension rising out of the squalor, and wondered how he might turn that to his advantage.
Before they reached the temple the riders passed through a broad plaza. Princes and generals in ages past might have reviewed their armies in such an expanse. Now, however, it was a forest of iron poles bearing the rotting, headless corpses of thousands of sacrificial victims. The stench of decay was immense. Malus gritted his teeth and tried to keep his expression neutral as they worked their way through a miasma of death.
Malus studied the bodies closest to the narrow path. “Many of these look quite fresh,” he observed. “It seems you’ve been fighting recently.”
Shebbolai’s expression darkened. “Just the killing of dogs,” he said gruffly, and spoke no more.
Beyond the plaza of corpses the riders reached a broad flight of stone steps leading up to the tower. As they reined in, a pair of towering doors at the top of the steps groaned open, and a mob of cowering, naked human slaves spilled out. Their bodies were thin and sallow, covered with scars and weeping sores, and they raced to the bottom of the steps to take the marauders’ horses and see to their needs. Malus slid gratefully from the saddle, happy to be rid of the mangy, stinking beast, and tossed its reins to one of the trembling humans before following Shebbolai up to the open doorway.