Hidden behind the high walls of the temple fortress, the homes confiscated from the city’s highborn by the order of the Witch King had not been transformed into dour vaults of worship. If anything they had been made grander and more opulent than before. Long roofed porches had been built along the fronts of most of the homes, with pillars of veined marble carved in the shapes of manticores, dragons and hydras. Windows had been broadened, and balconies built from soft stone instead of hard, ruthless iron. Malus saw door facings fashioned from gold and silver, wrought in intricate styles that could only have come from the hands of expensive dwarf slaves. The air was cool and smelled of incense. Priests and priestesses strolled casually along the street, wrapped in thick, red robes and kheitans of fine elf hide set with gold, rubies and pearls. The raw display of wealth and power nearly stopped Malus in his tracks. He’d known, like all druchii, that the temple of Khaine was universally feared. What he hadn’t ever stopped to consider was that it was also very, very rich. Malekith’s support had benefited the cult enormously.
The guide led them swiftly along the broad street, his eyes carefully downcast as he passed the high officials of the temple. He led them to the third house on the left, climbing a broad set of marble steps to a pair of gold-ornamented doors that slid open silently at his approach. Human slaves held open the doors and bowed from the waist as the druchii filed inside. Beyond was a spacious entry hall filled with expensive statues, some bearing the refined but effete style of the craftsmen of Ulthuan. They’d probably been tithed to the temple some time in the past by a noble seeking the elders’ favour, Malus suspected.
They crossed the hall, the soles of their boots whispering across piled rugs, and climbed another flight of stairs. The druchii crossed another room lined with statues and hung with expensive tapestries, and were ushered into a small chamber set with a low table and half a dozen wooden chairs. A tray containing a plate of fruit and a bottle of wine sat on the table. The guide bowed to the men once more and left the room, closing the door behind him. Immediately the two zealots began a careful check of their weapons. Malus eyed the wine greedily, certain it would be a fine vintage and fighting the temptation to open it and find out.
He was still contemplating the bottle when the door swung open again and a small crowd of red-robed druchii bustled hurriedly into the room. The zealots immediately dropped to one knee, palms out, and Malus followed suit a moment later.
“Arch-Hierophant Rhulan will be along momentarily. In the meantime we shall hear your report,” a woman said in a harsh, businesslike voice. Malus looked up to see a tall, narrow-shouldered priestess striding purposefully towards him, walking with the aid of a slender, silver-chased staff. Her hair was white and bore the headdress of a witch elf, but she wore the heavy robes and ornamental kheitan of a temple dignitary. A short, broad man, also swathed in crimson robes came in behind her. A ring of gold glinted on each of his stubby fingers, and a pair of dark eyes glittered like chips of obsidian beneath a pair of jutting brows. A pair of temple novitiates bearing scribner’s easels, ink and quills and sheets of parchment attended him.
“It would not be proper to begin without Rhulan,” said the last man to enter the room. He was of middle height and whipcord-thin, with a long, pointed face that reminded Malus of a fox. His red robes were not as heavy as the others, and his kheitan was noticeably devoid of ornamentation. To Malus’ surprise, the man carried no obvious weapons, but he had no doubt that he was looking at the temple’s master of assassins.
“In the absence of the Arch-Hierophant I am the voice of the temple,” the woman snapped, “and I will hear what these men have to say” The two druchii exchanged heated stares, but after a tense moment the man deferred with a bow. “Now then,” the woman said, turning back to the assassins, “we watched the heathens dispose of Veyl this morning,” she said, “so we know your mission was a success. What I want to hear is why you are only now returning to the temple?”
Malus quickly took stock of the situation. The two temple elders and the servants were closer, but less dangerous than the man by the door. He would have to kill the master of assassins at once, and that would leave him in a position to cut off the others’ retreat. Then they could lie in wait for this Arch-Hierophant to arrive and deal with him at their leisure.
Suddenly an idea occurred to Malus. He considered his circumstances for a second time, and then smiled within the depths of his hood. Yes, there was an opportunity here.
The female elder leaned in close to Malus, near enough for him to feel her hot breath. “Answer me, hound! You were told to return at once. Why did you tarry, when there is still more of Khaine’s work to be done?”
Malus looked up, meeting the elder’s glare. He smiled a killer’s smile. “Please accept our apologies,” he said. “We would have been here sooner, but it took hours to get the blood out of these robes.”
The elder’s face twisted into a bemused frown. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words were lost in a torrent of blood. The elder staggered, dropping her staff and fumbling at the gaping cut in the side of her throat with one hand while clawing at Malus with the other. But the highborn was already on his feet, blood dripping from his sword, and he charged across the room at the man by the door.
For a split second, the temple elders and their servants were frozen in shock, just as the highborn hoped. The zealots leapt into action a fraction of a second behind Malus. There was a whickering sound, and one of the stocky elder’s novitiates let out a startled cry and collapsed with a thrown dagger jutting from his chest. Malus saw the remaining novitiate draw a pair of long daggers from his belt, but the highborn knew the man wouldn’t have them ready in time. He would be on the master of assassins in another three steps.
To Malus’ surprise, the fox-faced druchii still hadn’t reacted to the sudden attack. This is their master of assassins, he thought?
Then came the blow against the side of Malus’ neck, clipping him beneath the ear. His vision disappeared in a burst of white pain and the highborn fell face-first onto the piled rugs. Both swords tumbled from his nerveless fingers. He realised, too late, that he’d made a fatal mistake.
Malus rolled weakly onto his side as the stocky druchii stepped back from the highborn’s stunned body and met the rush of one of the black-robed zealots with his bare hands. The zealot’s daggers were a blur of motion, but the master of assassins slapped them aside with contemptuous ease and drove his stiffened fingertips into his attacker’s throat. Bone crunched and the zealot fell to the floor, writhing and choking for breath.
The surviving novitiate leapt at Malus, intending to finish the highborn off, but was intercepted in mid-stride by the last zealot. As the two druchii began a whirling dance of razor-edged steel, Malus tried to drive the numbing paralysis from his body by sheer force of will. He fumbled for his blades with leaden fingers, knowing that he had scant moments to spare before the druchii by the door regained his senses and raised the alarm.
His fingertips brushed the pommel of one of his swords, and the physical contact seemed to focus Malus’ energies. Groping, he drew the weapon quickly into his palm and rolled onto his knees. There was a grunt and a crack of bone and the surviving zealot tumbled across the rugs, his right arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Malus straightened and saw the fox-faced druchii with his hand on the door latch. The novitiate was sinking slowly to the floor, blood pouring from a wound over his heart, and the master of assassins was turning to face Malus once more, the rings on his fingers glittering coldly.
Malus’ thin lips compressed into a grim line as he reversed his grip on his short blade and hurled it at the fox-faced elder just as a pair of fearsome blows hammered into his chest. The next thing he knew he was bouncing off the far wall, his ribs afire with pain. Expensive statues crashed to the ground, snapping off delicate arms and sweeping dragon wings.
Move, move, Malus thought desperately, biting back a groan of pain as he lurched to his feet. The master of assassins
was advancing on him slowly and deliberately, reaching for Malus with his small, lethal hands. Desperate, the highborn glanced around for a weapon. He snatched up a stone arm and hurled it at the master’s head, and then followed it with a piece of broken wing and a length of barbed tail. The master of assassins batted them easily out of the air, closing inexorably on the highborn.
Malus dodged the first blow at the last moment, ducking behind the statue of a rearing griffon. The second blow shattered the statue into pieces, lashing the highborn’s face with chips of razor-edged stone. The highborn stumbled, landing hard on a scattering of stone limbs and wings.
The druchii master yanked back the highborn’s hood and seized Malus by the hair the moment he hit the floor. “Your technique is disgraceful,” the master of assassins hissed, his free hand poised to strike. “Your every breath is an insult to the glory of Khaine.”
“I’m… nattered… you noticed,” Malus grunted, his face contorted in a grimace of pain. “What I lack in… skill… I make up for… in… treachery.”
The highborn rolled to the side, lashing out with the stone limb he’d snagged during his fall. Bone snapped like kindling as he struck the master in the left ankle, bringing the master of assassins to his knees. Shouting in rage and pain Malus struck again, lashing out at the hand that held him and breaking the stunned druchii’s wrist. He tore himself free of the master’s grasp and swung a backhanded stroke that caught the druchii against the side of the head. There was a sickening crunch, and the master fell lifelessly to the floor.
Malus staggered to his feet, gasping for air. He struck the master twice more for good measure, and then tossed the bloodied stone arm aside The man might have been a master at killing victims through stealth and guile, but he wouldn’t have survived ten seconds on the battlefield.
Across the room the surviving zealot had struggled to his feet, his broken right arm clutched close to his side. Malus glared at the man. “You might have helped,” he hissed through clenched teeth. It felt as if at least one of his ribs was cracked.
The zealot’s eyes widened. “And deprive you of the honour of the kill?” he said, aghast.
“Ah,” Malus said. “That. Of course.”
The fox-faced elder still leaned against the door, pinned there by Malus’ sword. The highborn limped over and pulled the weapon free with a grunt of pain. Just as the elder’s body slid aside the door swung inward, and Malus found himself face to face with a druchii in rich, crimson robes, overlaid with a brass breastplate studded with rubies and pearls. Upon the elder’s brow was a circlet of gold inlaid with garnets in the shape of tiny, glittering skulls. Like the female elder Malus had killed, the man held a short staff, this one chased with red gold.
The elder’s face went pale with shock. There was a faint rustle of woollen robes behind Malus. He took a deep breath, switched his sword from his right hand to his left, and spun just as he heard the sound of the zealot’s approach and drove his short blade through the man’s chest. The zealot doubled over at the force of the blow, and his life left him in a single, gurgling gasp. The highborn pushed the corpse away and turned back to the stunned elder.
“Step inside, Arch-Hierophant,” Malus said, indicating the far table with a sweep of his blood-spattered hand. “Take some wine. You and I have much to discuss.”
Chapter Six
BALANCE OF TERROR
Arch-Hierophant Rhulan filled one of the brass goblets on the table to brim full with thick, plum-coloured wine and took a deep draught before turning back to face Malus. He had the face of an ascetic, with long, drawn features and a scrawny neck that bobbed furiously as he drank. The temple elder said nothing at first, surveying the room’s grisly contents.
The highborn studied the man’s reactions intently. Rhulan’s eyes lit first on the female elder, lying close by in a spreading pool of dark blood. His thin lips pursed in a fleeting smile, and Malus could not mistake a smug gleam of satisfaction in Rhulan’s brass-coloured eyes. The elder’s gaze passed over the dead scribes and the contorted shape of the dead zealot, seeking out the slumped form of the fox-faced elder and grimacing in evident dissatisfaction. Malus could see the gears turning in the elder’s mind as he took in the carnage, gauging new political equations within the temple. Judging by your reaction it would appear that I’ve handed you quite an opportunity, Rhulan, the highborn thought to himself.
It was only when the elder’s searching gaze fell upon the battered form of the master of assassins that Rhulan was truly taken aback. Wine sloshed from the rim of his cup as he shot Malus a worried glance. “You’re not of the temple,” he said. “Of that I’m certain. Who are you?”
“Who I am is not important,” Malus declared. “My identity will not alter the situation you’ve found yourself in.” Unable to resist any longer, Malus walked stiffly to the table and helped himself to some wine. His ribs were aching madly, sending shooting waves of pain across his chest.
“And what situation would that be?” Rhulan snapped. The shock of what he’d seen was wearing off, and the elder was beginning to recover some of his composure.
“Save your bluster, holy man,” Malus shot back. “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’d rather bargain with you than kill you. Your city — nay, your very religion — is under siege by a small army of fanatics who believe you’re denying Khaine’s holy will, and they must be at least half-right, because you seem powerless to act against them directly.”
It was a feint, meant to upset Rhulan and get him talking, but Malus was inwardly shocked when the elder gritted his teeth and accepted the insult in silence. The highborn studied Rhulan intently. You truly are desperate, he thought You suspect the zealots are right but you’re trying to silence them. Why?
“How is it you bear the blessing of Khaine, but side with these heretics?”
Malus chuckled coldly. “Rhulan, you shock me. How long have the zealots opposed the will of the temple? Did you honestly think that they could have survived as long as they have without the support of some among the priesthood? The temple fortress itself has been infiltrated, Arch-Hierophant. How else do you think I got in here?” It was another bluff, but judging by the look of terror that came over the elder’s face, it was an allegation with bite to it.
“Who?” Rhulan stammered, his hand tightening on his cup.
This is almost too easy, Malus thought. He smiled. “In due time Arch-Hierophant. Let us first consider the crux of your problem. How are you dealing with Urial?”
The elder bristled. “The man is deluded,” Rhulan snapped. “We should have arranged for his death long ago. I knew that sooner or later he would try something like this.”
“Why then is he still within the Sanctum of the Sword if his claim is not legitimate?”
The knobbly muscles in the elder’s jaw bunched tightly, like clenching fists. “There is the matter of his sister,” Rhulan conceded, “and his lineage. The situation is very complicated.”
Malus glanced at the thick liquid in his cup. He took a small taste and winced: too sweet by half. “You accept that she is a living saint. The zealots know this.”
Rhulan shifted uncomfortably. “Of that there can be no doubt,” he admitted. “No one like her has been seen among the druchii since Nagarythe was lost,” the elder said, his voice tinged with wonder. “There is much she could teach us once this… incident is resolved.”
“Is it your desire for Yasmir that keeps you from dismissing Urial’s claims, or is he truly what he pretends to be? You must realise that the longer this draws out the more you play into the zealots’ hands.”
Rhulan glared at Malus. It had been a long time since anyone had dared speak to him so brashly. “His claim is compelling enough to demand exhaustive study before a decision can be made.”
Malus cut the man off with a sweep of his hand. “The fact of the matter is that you think he might be right, but you don’t want to hand him the sword, and I suspect your reasons have nothing to do wit
h the will of Khaine.”
A tense silence filled the room. Rhulan had gone very still, his dark eyes narrowing warily as he studied Malus. The highborn took a sip of his wine contemplatively. I’ve hit a nerve, the highborn thought. What then was the temple’s agenda?
“The temple keeps its own counsel in matters of the faith,” Rhulan said carefully. “You said you had a bargain to make. I am listening.”
Malus fortified himself with a sip of the cloying wine and nodded curtly. “Your position is untenable, Arch-Hierophant,” he said. “Time is running out. You’ve been able to deny Urial so far, but his allies are preparing to take matters into their own hands.”
“How?”
The highborn shook his head. “First things first. I can deliver the zealot leaders into your hands, but in return you will agree to grant me sanctuary in the temple fortress. Once we’ve dealt with the heretics inside the city, I can begin ferreting out their sympathisers within the temple fortress, leaving you to focus your efforts on Urial and his sister.”
Rhulan didn’t reply immediately, contemplating the depths of his cup. “I would need to discuss this with the council of elders,” he said.
Malus startled the man with a bark of laughter. “Rhulan, ten minutes ago you were certain that the heretics couldn’t possibly have agents within the temple fortress. Are you absolutely certain you can trust the elder council? The fewer people who know of this arrangement the more likely you are to turn the tables on the zealots.” Malus took a step towards the man. “Choose, now.”
“All right!” Rhulan snapped. “I accept your bargain. Woe betide you if you play me false.”
“I could say the same, Rhulan,” Malus replied, setting his cup aside. He searched for his second blade amid the bodies, and then held the weapon in his hand as he considered the two dead elders. “Do not look at this as an adversarial arrangement, Arch-Hierophant. We both stand to benefit from this. When we’re done the zealots will have been dealt a crippling blow, the temple will be cleansed of heretics and Urial will no longer be a problem.”