There was a scream to Malus’ left as the last zealot leapt at the two remaining marauders. Both Chaos warriors buried their blades in the druchii’s chest, but the zealot crashed heavily into the two men, bearing all three over the edge of the bridge and into the red sea beneath. Their screams ended as they sank beneath the heaving liquid and did not rise again.
Only Tyran and Shebbolai were left. Both men circled one another warily, bleeding from scores of deep wounds on their chests and arms. Shebbolai raised his sword and charged Tyran with a fierce roar, as Malus looked on. The zealot leader watched the man come and ducked the chieftain’s swing at the last second, thrusting with his draich and taking Shebbolai squarely in the chest. The onrushing warrior impaled himself on Tyran’s blade, the draich bursting from Shebbolai’s back. Before Tyran could pull his blade free, the chieftain grabbed the zealot leader’s wrist. Smiling madly, the chieftain pulled Tyran towards him, driving the man’s sword deeper into his chest. Tyran tried to pull away, but the Chaos warrior’s grip was like iron. Shebbolai’s sword flashed, and Tyran’s sword arm was hacked away at the shoulder. The zealot staggered back with a hideous scream and fell backwards off the bridge. Still smiling, Shebbolai sank to the ground and toppled over dead.
Urial charged Malus with a roar, thrusting at the highborn’s neck. Malus blocked the thrust and swung at Urial’s head, but again the sorcerer’s body blurred and reappeared three feet away. The usurper’s sudden counterattack nearly took Malus’ head off, but he saw the blow just in time and ducked out of the way.
Malus’ half-brother laughed. “You’re done for, Darkblade,” he taunted. “I can do this all night long if I must.”
“I know,” Malus snapped, swinging at Urial’s chest. The sorcerer’s form blurred — but the highborn continued the swing, aiming for a point three feet to the left.
Urial screamed, staring down at the black sword jutting from between his ribs. Blood poured down the length of the warpsword, turning to steam against its hot edge.
“It makes you predictable,” Malus said, and pulled his sword free.
Urial staggered backwards, his sword falling from his hands. Blood poured in a rush down the front of his armour. He fell back, and found himself enfolded in Yasmir’s slender arms.
She laid him gently on the ground, cradling his head in her hands. Urial stared up at her, a look of longing in his eyes. His mouth worked breathlessly.
Yasmir rose and walked around him, kneeling at his side. Smiling lovingly, she placed her hands at the join of his breastplate and pulled. Rivets popped and straps broke as she tore the armour away, revealing Urial’s misshapen chest. Then the living saint ran a delicate finger down the usurper’s uneven sternum until she found the spot she wanted, and dug in with both hands. Cartilage popped wetly as Yasmir ripped her brother’s chest open.
The last thing Urial saw was his beloved sister feeding on his still beating heart.
As it happened, the warriors of the red sword acquitted themselves far better than Malus had ever expected. After slaying all the zealots and temple servants they could find, they opened the gates of the fortress and rampaged out into the ravaged city. Several of their bodies were found as far away as the warehouse district when the warriors of the temple made their way back into Har Ganeth.
Malus sat back in the throne of the Grand Carnifex as Arch-Hierophant Rhulan entered the council arena, attended by a handful of priests and priestesses. When the elder saw Malus, his relieved expression turned to a look of abject horror.
“You!” he exclaimed. “What happened? Where’s Urial?”
The highborn eyed the elder contemptuously. “Why, Arch-Hierophant, don’t you remember the plan? I said I would find a way to strike at the usurper directly, and so I did. He will trouble the temple no more.” He leaned back in the throne, his right hand resting on the pommel of the unsheathed warpsword. “I would have resolved this more quickly, but the diversion I’d been led to expect never materialised.”
Rhulan gaped at Malus, his eyes widening in fear. “It… that is, we tried, but the citizens had gone mad. We couldn’t reach the temple—”
“Where is that other elder?” Malus interjected, “the striking one with the tattoos?”
“Mereia?” Rhulan stammered. “She… she died trying to reach one of the more isolated warbands.”
“Meaning she tried to fulfil your part of the plan and died fighting while you cowered in a basement somewhere,” Malus snarled.
“Do not presume to judge me,” Rhulan cried. “I did what I thought best.” He looked back at his attendants, and then fixed Malus with a conspiratorial stare. “You couldn’t have beaten Urial. He had the warpsword. He couldn’t be defeated in battle.”
Malus smiled coldly. “Ah, yes, the scriptures, so, let me understand this correctly: in the interests of doctrinal veracity, you betrayed me and left me to die. Is that right?”
Rhulan began to tremble. “No, no, it wasn’t like that. We had to wait for Malekith to arrive. He could have found a way to stop the usurper.”
“Fortunately for our people, he won’t have to.” Malus rose from the throne, holding the fake warpsword in his left hand. Stepping to the edge of the railing, he jumped off and landed on the arena floor. A flare of pain in his wounded leg made him wince, but he pushed the feeling aside. Actually, the discomfort was a good sign. It meant that the daemon’s power wasn’t healing him as well as it had been. The power of the sword was somehow counterbalancing it. He didn’t know how, but he wasn’t going to question it for the time being.
Malus straightened and stalked over to Rhulan. “This, I believe, belongs to the temple,” he said, dropping the fake blade with a clang at the Arch-Hierophant’s feet. “The Grand Carnifex can return it to the sanctum, and as far as the rest of Naggaroth is concerned, it never left its home.”
Rhulan frowned. “I don’t understand—”
“I know,” Malus said, and beheaded Rhulan with the warpsword.
Men and women screamed in horror as the Arch-Hierophant’s body collapsed to the floor. Malus silenced them with a cold glare. Then he levelled his sword at one of the priestesses. “You, come here.”
Niryal stepped from the crowd. She’d put aside her axe at some point, and changed into better clothes. Unlike Rhulan, she mastered her fear, keeping her chin up as she stepped closer to the bloodstained sword.
Malus gave the priestess a murderous look. “You weren’t taken by assassins. You slew the other sentry and then betrayed us to Urial.”
The priestess never flinched. “I was certain you were deceiving us, and, as it happened, you were.”
“Then, as soon as Urial was dead you switched sides again.”
“I serve the temple,” Niryal said.
Malus smiled. “I thought you would say as much. That’s why I’m making you the new Grand Carnifex. Of all the people in this damned fortress you’re the only one whose motives I can understand.”
The other attendants gasped. Even Niryal was stunned. “You can’t do that,” she said.
Malus raised the warpsword. “I am Khaine’s chosen, Niryal, I most certainly can.” He surveyed the other loyalists. “And they shall be your new Haru’ann. They seem a dim sort, but since they know the truth about the sword, we can either kill them or make use of them.”
Niryal struggled with her sudden change in fortunes for a moment more, and then managed to recover her composure. “What would you have us do, holy one?” she asked.
The highborn smiled. “That’s better. You will return the counterfeit sword to the sanctum. At this point, no one who saw Urial with the blade is still alive except for us.”
“What about the Witch King? He is probably marching up the Slavers’ Road even now.”
“When he arrives you’ll receive him with luxurious hospitality and inform him of Urial’s usurpation,” Malus said. “Tell him that Urial and a cabal of zealots used Chaos magic to sow discord among the citizens and slay the temple elders. Ther
e was fighting in the streets for almost a week, but in the end you sent a group of volunteers through the tunnels and they managed to assassinate the usurper and the ringleaders. The Witch King will probably want to publicly execute some citizens to vent his pique, but other than that he should be satisfied with the outcome.” He raised the sword in warning. “You will not tell him anything about me, or Yasmir. She is to remain in the sanctum until such time as the Witch King departs. After that, she may do as she will.”
Niryal thought everything over and finally nodded in satisfaction. “It shall be as you say, holy one, but what about you?”
“I am leaving,” Malus said. “Summer is almost done, and I have pressing business elsewhere.”
Malus reluctantly slid the warpsword into its scabbard. Spite waited in the fortress’ beast pen, packed and ready to ride. Somewhere out there was the Amulet of Vaurog, the final relic the daemon required. Time was growing short.
He pushed his way through the crowd of stunned attendants, walking briskly to the door, when Niryal called out. “I don’t understand. You’re the Scourge. The Warpsword of Khaine is yours. What about the Time of Blood? Are you not here to lead us into an age of death and fire?”
Malus paused. He looked back through the crowd at Niryal, his hand straying to the hilt of the burning blade.
“Perhaps,” he said with a ghostly smile, “but not today. The apocalypse will have to wait.”
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Dan Abnett, Warhammer - Darkblade 04 - Warpsword
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