Spite’s broad feet were wading through drifts of old bones before long, crushing them and kicking them underfoot. They led unerringly upwards, many times branching off into twisting side paths, but Malus kept to the primary trail, knowing where it must eventually lead.
“Whoever lives here, daemon… has quite an appetite,” he said.
“Then let’s hope he’s sleeping, Malus,” Tz’arkan replied. The voice reverberated through his skull no differently than the highborn’s own, as if he and the daemon were simply two spirits bound to the same body. “Somewhere in these gullies lies the lost Warpsword of Khaine. We’re not leaving until you’ve found it.”
The tone in the daemon’s voice angered Malus, as if he was nothing more than a slave going about his master’s business. For the moment, he chose to hold his tongue. Tz’arkan’s power had subsided somewhat, but still flowed freely, infusing him with strength and power such as he hadn’t known for months.
Up ahead the gully widened, forming a broad V that pointed to the mouth of a large cave. The gully floor outside the cave was literally carpeted with bones and the detritus of the dead. After many long months, he’d reached his goal at last.
Malus reined in Spite and slid carefully from the saddle. The nauglir shied away from him at once, retreating further down the length of the gully. He shot the beast a warning glance. “I found you once, dragonlet. I can find you again,” he warned, and then turned his attention to the drifts of old bones that blanketed the rocky ground. It was a crude but effective alarm, providing the sword’s guardian had sharp ears.
Choosing his course very carefully, Malus began to pick his way through the multitude of fallen treasure seekers. He tried not to think about the fact that many of them had probably attempted the very same thing.
“Quietly now, Darkblade,” Tz’arkan said, “let’s not wake anyone.”
“Your concern is touching,” the highborn murmured, slowly drawing his sword.
Lightning flickered silently overhead, making the landscape of bones appear to shift and slide. Disorientated, Malus tried to step over a yellowed skull directly in his path, and came down directly on it instead. The aged bone collapsed with a hollow crunch that seemed to echo like thunder between the gully walls.
Malus froze, not even daring to breathe. A moment passed, and then another. Still he waited, straining his ears for any signs of movement.
Two minutes passed. Only then did Malus relax, cursing his foul luck.
That was when the night air shook with an ear-splitting roar and an enormous figure emerged from the depths of the cave.
The guardian of the sword was huge. Its lower body alone was larger than a cold one, covered in scales of indigo and dusky red. Large legs, like those of a dragon, propelled it in a thunderous charge down the slope towards Malus, kicking up clouds of powdered bone with every ponderous step. Above the set of clawed forelegs where a dragon’s neck and head would normally be there was instead a broad leather belt, decorated with scales of gold and a buckle shaped like a skull. Above the belt, towered the upper torso of a fearsome ogre, clad in crude armour that protected its midsection and capped its powerful shoulders. Tusks thick enough to disembowel a boar jutted from the shaggoth’s thick lips, and its ice blue eyes gleamed beneath a craggy brow and a round steel helmet. In its platter sized hand, the guardian held a sword that was longer than Malus was tall, and the creature raised it angrily as it bore down on the stunned highborn.
“Mother of Night!” the highborn cursed.
“Malus, under the circumstances I think I’ll let you run, now!”
The terrible sword whickered through the air. Galvanised by the daemon’s shout, Malus hurled himself to the left, just out of the weapon’s reach. The blade struck a pile of bones and sent shattered fragments spraying into the air. Still bellowing in rage, the dragon ogre charged past, quickly changing course to come around for another charge.
The creature was between Malus and his cold one. Frantically he cast around for other avenues of escape, but the walls of the gully were steep and sheer. “There’s nowhere to run!” he exclaimed.
The dragon ogre bore down on Malus again with a terrible crunching of bones. The highborn raised his sword warily. There was no way he could trade blows with something so massive. He would have to wear the monster down with lightning-fast strikes, much as he’d seen Arleth Vann kill the highborn in the crypt.
He crouched low as the beast charged into reach. Its sword swept down at an angle, aiming to cut the druchii in half from shoulder to hip. At the last second, Malus dodged to the left, cutting across the dragon ogre’s path and fouling his swing. The creature let out a furious cry and the highborn answered with a druchii war scream as he put all his strength into a powerful cut aimed just below the shaggoth’s belt.
The heavy northern sword, backed by the daemon’s terrible strength, struck the monster dead on, and the steel blade shattered with a discordant clang. Malus barely had time to register his shock before the dragon ogre lashed out with a clawed forelimb and struck him a backhanded blow that sent him flying head over heels into the air.
Had the limb struck his chin it would have taken his head clean off. As it was, the shaggoth’s paw had glanced off his chest and dented his thick breastplate. He felt as if he’d been kicked by a nauglir, and he gasped for breath as he hit a pile of old skulls near the side of the gully wall.
Malus rolled off the pile of bones, glaring helplessly at the monster. He tried to subdue it by force of will just as he’d done to the nauglir, but the dragon ogre was unfazed. Furious, he grabbed a skull and hurled it at the beast with all his strength. “Curse you, creature!” he roared. “Curse you back to hell!” The projectile struck the beast in the side of the head and shattered into pieces, leaving not a mark on the monster’s thick skull.
Terror and despair raged through Malus. The daemon’s gifts were useless. Had he surrendered the last vestiges of himself for nothing?
Bellowing like a bull, the dragon ogre came about, readying its massive sword.
Malus could feel Tz’arkan’s strength pulsing through him. He could hear the blood rushing in his veins and feel the fury of the storm raging overhead, but not a bit of it mattered. In the next few moments the shaggoth would cut him apart.
As the dragon ogre trotted towards him, Malus’ eyes turned to the dark mouth of the cave. I’ll be damned if I’m going to die empty-handed, he thought.
The highborn pushed himself to his feet and sprinted up the gully. The dragon ogre bellowed angrily, surprised by the sudden move. Tz’arkan was surprised as well.
“Malus, where are you going? You’re running towards the cave!”
“We still have a job to do, remember?” the highborn countered.
“You fool! It’s right behind us!” the daemon said. “You’ll trap us in there!”
“I need a weapon,” Malus snarled. “The warpsword is in there. That will do.”
Malus reached the entrance to the cave. A cacophony of pounding feet and crunching bone rose behind him as the shaggoth charged headlong up the gully.
“The Warpsword of Khaine is no pig stick to be used in brawling!” the daemon raged. “It is a talisman of glorious power—”
“It’s still a sword,” Malus said. “Shut up, daemon!”
Malus rushed into the cave. He expected a long, carrion choked passageway, leading back into darkness. Instead he found himself in a broad, high-ceilinged cavern. The space was piled with bones and rotting bodies nevertheless, save for a cleared area near the centre of the chamber where the dragon ogre evidently slept. A plain stone altar stood on the other side of the cleared area, and upon that altar rested a sword.
The Warpsword of Khaine was a double-edged blade nearly as long as a draich, slightly wider at the point than at the hilt to give the weapon extra power to cut with. Its blade was sheathed in a scabbard of black lacquered bone, chased with gold and ornamented with fiery rubies. The weapon’s hilt was long and slim,
built for two hands and wrapped with dark leather. A large cabochon ruby, like a dragon’s eye, gleamed at the point where hilt met blade. It glimmered with power, radiating from the entire blade in waves of invisible heat.
Malus looked upon the sword and saw the potential hidden within its depths. He saw red battlefields and toppled towers, looted cities and fallen kings. With such a blade a druchii could conquer the world.
“Malus, I forbid this!” the daemon snarled. Was there an edge of fear in Tz’arkan’s voice?
The highborn dashed across the chamber. The shaggoth burst into the cavern just behind him, shaking the dank air with its furious cries.
“Then we die here,” Malus replied. “The choice is yours.”
In truth it wasn’t. Nothing the daemon could say or do would keep Malus from placing his hand upon the warpsword’s hilt and drawing the weapon from its scabbard.
The hilt was hot to the touch, as if the ancient steel was still fresh from the forge. The warmth sank into his skin, suffusing his muscles with power. He drew the weapon in a single, smooth motion, marvelling at the blade’s black finish. Its edge shone like fire in the gloom.
With a stentorian bellow the dragon ogre charged. Malus felt no fear. When he turned to face the onrushing beast he was smiling like a wolf.
Malus stepped into the shaggoth’s charge, swinging the warpsword in a clean, perfect arc that was the virtual twin of the blow he’d struck before. The bright edges of the blade left an arc of ghostly light in the darkness as it sliced through the dragon ogre’s midsection. The beast screamed, hurled backwards by the force of the blow. It landed in a broken heap close to the mouth of the cave, its armour half melted and smoke rising from the fearsome wound in its abdomen. The beast was dead, almost as if the blade had reached into its huge body and snuffed out its life like a candle.
The highborn stared at the sword in wonder. Its warmth coursed through him, banishing Tz’arkan’s black ice. His heart hammered in his chest, and his mind was suffused with an emotion he hadn’t felt in many months: hope.
“Good sword,” Malus said in an awed whisper. “No wonder you wanted it for your collection.”
The daemon seemed to shrink inside Malus, dwindling in presence until it coiled like a serpent around the highborn’s black heart. “I despair of you Malus,” Tz’arkan said hatefully. “When the final task is done there will be such a reckoning.”
Malus stared into the depths of the blade. A faint smile tugged at his lean face. “I’m counting on it,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE SCOURGE OF KHAINE
Malus Darkblade rode into the city of the Ageless Kings with a gleaming sword in his hand and a Chaos storm raging at his back.
Lightning roiled the crimson skies, etching the broken walls and crumbled towers in stark relief. Thunder rolled, matched by the terrible growl of the nauglir as it stalked down the debris-choked lanes. Tribesmen rose from the furs they had been sleeping on, clutching axes or swords, and peered into the night, sensing something terrible was at hand.
Malus rode through the plaza of impaled men, passing the crossed timbers where he himself had hung mere hours before. The dark bulk of the temple reared before him, its skull adorned flanks silhouetted in flickering displays of brazen lightning. He reined in his cold one at the base of the towering steps and regarded the sealed doors coldly. Spite reared his head at the ancient building and roared, a raw sound of fury that echoed roughly from the temple’s thick walls.
The double doors swung open within moments and a troop of temple guards swarmed out, brandishing long, heavy pole arms and axes. Malus slid from the saddle and took the warpsword in a two-handed grip, savouring the heat radiating from the unearthly blade. It pulsed in time with his beating heart, quickening hungrily at the prospect of battle.
The temple guards spread out at a run and charged down the steps shouting the name of Khaine, blessed Lord of Murder.
A wolfish smile spread across Malus’ grim face. “Blood and souls,” he whispered, and ran to meet them.
He saw the battle unfold with dreadful, icy clarity, as if it was a ritual dance unfolding in slow motion. A guard rushed in from the highborn’s left, stabbing with his pole arm. Malus hacked off the spearhead with a desultory sweep of his blade and cut the man in half with a backhanded stroke. Without pause, Malus swept his sword to the right to block the sweep of another guardsman’s axe, before reversing the blade and cutting off both of the warrior’s legs just above the knee. Armour parted like rotted paper; flesh blackened and bone splintered at the sword’s ravening touch. Men’s screams wove a brutal threnody around Malus as he wove among his foes, scattering arcs of hot blood that sizzled and steamed in the air.
One guardsman swept low with his pole arm, aiming to knock Malus from his feet. Before the blow could land the highborn reached out and sank the point of the warpsword into the onrushing guard’s neck, and then spun on his heel and severed both arms and the helmeted head of the guard charging at Malus from behind. The highborn laughed like a drunkard, spinning and cutting with the seething blade and climbing ever higher towards the temple doors.
A guard screamed in fury and leapt for him, heedless of the long fall to the plaza below. The move caught Malus off-guard for a fraction of a second, but with the battle fever on him his foe seemed to hang languorously in the air, his muscular arms outstretched like a child’s. Fluid as a blade dancer, Malus half-spun and dropped to one knee, bringing the sword up in a glittering stroke that sliced the man open from groin to chin and propelled him in a bloody arc to the grey stones at the nauglir’s feet.
There was a droning sound humming lazily towards Malus. He turned and swatted the thrown axe aside, and then dashed up the last few steps to the sole remaining guard. The warrior had barely enough time to unsheath his dagger before Malus reached him.
Both men regarded one another. The armoured giant towered over the lithe highborn, his masked face looking down at the druchii as if in startled bemusement. Then the guard let out a bubbling sigh and bright blood erupted from the air holes in his visor as the highborn pulled the warpsword free from the man’s breastplate. Malus stepped gracefully to the side as the giant’s body crashed face first onto the stone steps and slid towards the bottom on a dark trail of gore.
A pale figure regarded the highborn from just outside the temple doorway. The blood-witch sank slowly to her knees, her marble-like eyes glittering fearfully as Malus approached her. Thin, wrinkled lips pulled back from yellowed fangs in a frightful grimace of dread.
“I knew you would return,” she groaned. “I tried to tell the others, but they would not believe what I had seen.” The ancient blood-witch spread her hands. “You are death and ruin given form, oh son of the house of chains, and the blessings of the Dark Gods go with you. Our time is finished. Let the Time of Blood begin.”
She raised her chin, and the warpsword seemed to leap in Malus’ hands. The black blade flickered through the air and the blood-witch stiffened in the wind of the sword’s passing.
Malus studied the witch coldly for a moment. A trickle of dark blood welled in a thin line across her narrow throat. The highborn stepped up to her and reached out, taking a handful of her white hair in his fist and lifting her severed head from her neck.
The highborn hung the witch’s head from his belt and stalked past her still upright body, heading into the darkness of the temple beyond.
When Malus emerged from the temple a short while later the tribe of the red sword was awaiting him.
They filled the plaza at the foot of the temple, standing like wraiths amid the forest of impaled men.
Lightning picked out steel helms and glittering mail, sharpened swords and bared fangs. Warped faces turned upwards as the highborn’s armoured figure strode to the top of the stairs, and every eye beheld the steaming sword and the trio of severed heads gripped in Malus’ hands.
Shebbolai stood at the head of his tribe, waiting at the foot of the broad
stairs with a look of grim joy on his face. Malus regarded him balefully, and then his gaze swept across the gathered warriors. Thunder rumbled from the north.
“The rule of the Ageless Kings is no more,” Malus said, his sharp voice ringing out across the plaza. “They forgot their duty to the Lord of Murder, and Khaine has meted out his wrath, but their taint has spread to you, warriors of the red sword. The sons of Khaine do not hide in cities of stone and turn their faces from the battlefield! The glory of the Bloody-handed God lies in death, not in slaves, nor gold, nor stone walls. The Ageless Kings chose to cling to life, and you joined in their depravity.”
A groan rose from the assembled warriors at the highborn’s harsh words. Malus cut them off with a shout.
“When Khaine sent his chosen Scourge to claim his birthright from the kings, they were sunk so far in their iniquity that they did not know him.” Malus raised the terrible blade. “Look upon the Warpsword of Khaine and know that his Scourge has arisen!”
The warriors replied with shouts of anger and despair. Men slashed their cheeks and their chests, offering up their bloodstained blades to the highborn.
Warriors turned on the weaker men of the tribe and hacked their bodies apart, throwing glistening bits of flesh and bone upon the steps of the temple.
“We live to serve!” Shebbolai cried out, his face a mask of shame and despair. “Forgive us, dreadful Scourge!”
“There is no forgiveness in the eyes of Khaine,” Malus snarled, “only death. Blood alone can wash away your sins.”
“Then blood it will be!” Shebbolai roared. “Show us the way, holy one. We live and die at your command!”
The highborn looked down upon the chieftain and smiled an executioner’s smile. “Follow me, sons of the red sword. Death and glory await.”