Warhammer - Darkblade 04 - Warpsword Read online

  Malus freed his arm from his retainer’s grip and carefully approached the edge of the landing. Below, he saw a wide ribbon of dark, glossy stone, wide enough for four men to walk abreast, leading to a tall archway set into the side of the great hill. The archway was at least fifteen feet tall at its apex, and appeared to be formed from huge, polished bones the likes of which he’d never seen before. It looked as if arch and roadway had been excavated from the cold earth. The piles of rock and soil cleared from the path formed raised banks to either side of the road, packed down to rocklike hardness over the passage of centuries. Four iron spikes, each twelve feet long, had been driven into both banks alongside the road, making a rough octagon pattern with the roadway passing through its centre.

  Corpses were impaled on each of the iron spikes, their dark, shrivelled bodies stacked one on top of the other so that Malus couldn’t tell for certain where one body ended and the next began. They had all been bound hand and foot, their limbs twisted in the throes of long, agonising deaths. They had hung from the iron spikes for a very long time, and colonies of grave mould covered the corpses, emitting the pale light that filled the eerie space.

  Malus glanced in wonder at Arleth Vann. “What is this place?”

  “Hundreds of years ago, when the city was first founded, a druchii named Cyrvan Thel built this house,” the assassin said in a hushed voice. “Several years after the building was complete, Thel decided to add a lower level for a wine cellar, and the workers uncovered the roadway. The paving stones resisted every attempt to remove them, including sorcery, so Thel ordered the workmen to follow their course and see how far they went. That was how they came upon the archway. When the workers broke through into the tunnel beyond a breath of foul wind rushed out that killed them in an instant. Thel, being a devout man, took this as an omen. When the air had cleared enough for a slave to survive without ill effects, Thel and a handful of retainers entered the tunnel to see where it led.”

  “And what did they find?”

  “The Vermillion Gate,” the assassin replied. He pointed to the arch. “The passage leads deep into the heart of the hill, to a circular chamber that might sink all the way to the heart of the world itself. A flat-topped spire rises in the centre of that chamber, spanned by a bridge of ancient bone, and on top of that spire sits the dreadful gate. No one knows who built it or why, but it is old beyond all reckoning.” He turned to Malus, a fearful look in his eyes. “It leads to the very heart of the Lord of Murder’s realm.”

  The highborn was taken aback. “Khaine is a druchii god. How can that be, if the gate was made in a time before Nagarythe was lost?”

  Arleth Vann spread his hands. “Thel looked upon the gate and thought it had been set here in anticipation of our coming, a gift from the Blood God to his chosen people. He took word of his discovery to the elders of the cult, and they came from across Naggaroth to look upon the gate When they beheld it for the first time, they knew that from that moment forwards the hill and everything upon it must belong to the cult. Shortly after, the Witch King gave Har Ganeth to the temple of Khaine.”

  Malus stared at the archway of bone and a feeling of dread turned his guts to ice. “Urial spoke of the Vermillion Gate,” he said, “on the way back from the Isle of Morhaut. He used it to reach Har Ganeth.”

  The assassin nodded thoughtfully, as if the highborn had answered a worrying riddle. “Some of the texts in the temple library claim that a true disciple of Khaine can call upon the power of the gate no matter where in the world he may be. He can reach the cavern beneath the hill in a single stride, if he makes the proper offerings. Spirits guard the gate from the unworthy, and if they are not provided for they will exact a terrible price from those who cross the threshold.”

  “He rewarded them amply,” Malus growled, thinking of the slaughter on the main deck of the battered corsair, “and from what little I saw he timed his crossing so that there was a crowd of worshippers waiting on the other side.”

  The assassin shrugged. “Every new moon the temple elders gather at the gate to perform sacred ceremonies of veneration. If Urial had emerged from the gate — with Yasmir in tow, no less — it would have seemed most portentous indeed.” He turned and headed for the narrow staircase leading to the cavern floor.

  Malus followed warily, picking his way across the landing and then down the long flight of stairs. The risers glittered with frost. When he reached out a hand to steady himself along the wall he found that it was covered in a thin layer of ice.

  Malus felt a prickling along his skin as they made their slow descent. The chamber was thick with sorcerous energies.

  The highborn cleared his throat. “About Urial—” he began.

  Arleth Vann cut him off with an upraised hand. “Quiet,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “we are about to pass the guardians.”

  The stairway ended at the edge of the roadway. Up close, Malus saw that the stones of the dark path were like blocks of obsidian, polished to a mirror hue. It looked as if every stone had a flaw to it: a faint, pale smudge in each stone’s centre. When he bent a little closer, however, he saw that it wasn’t a blemish on the surface: there was something within each of the stones. The shapes were blurry, but there was just enough play of light and shadow for the objects to take on the quality of living faces.

  Puzzled, Malus started to bend even closer, but the daemon’s voice rasped in his ear. “If you value your sanity, mortal, look no further,” Tz’arkan said coldly. “There are some things no druchii — not even you — were meant to know.”

  The highborn straightened with a start. Arleth Vann was already some distance away, approaching the first of the iron poles with his head bowed and his hands tucked into his robes.

  Malus moved as quickly as he dared, hurriedly following suit just as the assassin reached the first set of poles. Suddenly a chorus of thin wails filled the air, rising piteously from the blackened mouths of the bound corpses.

  A thrill of terror coursed down Malus’ spine. He had heard that sound once before, in the depths of Urial’s tower.

  The highborn glanced fearfully at the pole to his right. Pale mist was leaking from the slack jaws and gaping eye sockets of the impaled figures. The tendrils danced and wove about in a spectral wind, taking the shape of pale, spindly figures with long fingers and emaciated faces. Their eyes were orbs of purest jet, soulless and cruel. “The maelithii!” Malus breathed.

  “Be not afraid,” Arleth Vann hissed. “Avert your eyes and walk the ancient path. They are bound to do no harm to those who bear the blessings of Khaine.”

  Malus averted his eyes, focusing on the black stones at his feet. They would not be fooled by his magically altered eyes. He imagined the maelithii swarming over him, sinking their black fangs into his flesh and feasting on his life force. When they were finished with him his skin would be the colour of a deep bruise, the blue-black of a corpse lost for months in the snow.

  The vengeful spirits whistled and howled above Malus’ head, drawing ever nearer. His legs began to tremble. There was no way to fight these spirits: swords passed straight through them and left the arm numb and frozen to boot. He fought the urge to turn and run for the staircase, wondering how much further he was from the archway.

  One of the maelithii let out a shrill cry and swooped close enough to Malus for him to feel veins of frost spreading through his black hair. Other maeliths began a cacophony of wailing in reply. They’ve found me out, he thought!

  Malus felt a needle of ice pierce his cheek, and just as swiftly he felt the daemon uncoil in his chest like a startled viper. Tz’arkan howled a challenge at the maelithii that set Malus’ teeth on edge and the baleful spirits withdrew, wailing plaintively.

  The highborn quickened his pace, not caring if he trampled Arleth Vann in the process. The sounds of the maelithii receded behind him with every step. Then without warning he was surrounded in a flare of witchlight. When Malus looked up he found himself standing beside his retainer, jus
t past the tall arch of polished bone.

  Arleth Vann was looking back the way they’d come, eyeing the eight maelithii circling above the centre of the octagon. “They seemed interested in you for some reason,” he told Malus, “and then they cried out in fear. I’ve never heard the like.”

  Malus looked back at the tormented spirits. “They tried to claim something that belongs to another,” he said grimly.

  The assassin frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Count yourself fortunate,” Malus replied. He gestured down the dark passage. “Let’s go.”

  The passage seemed to go on forever. Arleth Vann’s witchlight just barely reached the rounded walls to either side. To Malus’ eyes they appeared to be made of dark, grainy stone, like granite, but worked in loops and strands as if the tunnel had been woven out of the stone rather than carved. He couldn’t fathom how such a thing had been done, much less why. The strange patterns created many corners, niches and crevices among the coarse weave of the stonework, and over the centuries the worshippers of Khaine had filled those recesses with offerings to their god. Skulls by the thousand leered at the two druchii as they went deeper into the hill. Skeletal hands seemed to reach for them in the flickering aura of the witchlight. Malus saw leg bones and vertebrae, ribs and shoulder blades, all arranged to blend almost seamlessly with the fluid lines of the stonework. The dead pressed in on Malus from every side, setting his heart to race. He tried to focus on something else, and remembered the question he’d started to ask outside the archway.

  “Why doesn’t the temple want Urial to have the sword?”

  Arleth Vann paused, turning to look back at his master with a rueful grin. “Had you ever taken an interest in religion, my lord, you wouldn’t have to ask such a question,” he replied. “As far as the temple is concerned, they’ve already given the sword to another.”

  “Another!” Malus exclaimed. “Who?”

  The assassin shook his head. “Who else? Malekith, of course.”

  “They think Malekith is the Scourge? How can this be?”

  To Malus’ surprise, Arleth Vann threw back his head and laughed. “As clever a man as you are, my lord, I’m amazed you’d have to ask such a question. How do you think the temple of Khaine came to exist?”

  Malus frowned. He didn’t much care for the assassin’s patronising tone. “Malekith used the cult to consolidate his rule after Nagarythe was lost,” he snapped. “They had every reason to hate most of the old houses, who worshipped Slaanesh and had persecuted them for hundreds of years. Malekith raised them up, made them the state religion, and in return they helped him break the power of the warlocks and assassinate any rivals to his throne.”

  Arleth Vann nodded. “Just so, my lord, but you must understand that the cult in those days was not like the temple as it is now. When you think of the temple, you envision people like your half-brother Urial, but back then they were true believers like Tyran. They were utterly devout, dedicated to the pure teachings of the Lord of Murder and the heirs of centuries of persecution.”

  “They were fanatics,” Malus said, “and I suppose they cared little for Malekith or his power plays.”

  The retainer gave one of his rare smiles. “Now you begin to see. The elders of the cult saw much to gain in Malekith’s offer, however — power, legitimacy, wealth and influence — but they had to find a way to convince their followers that the alliance served the will of the Blood God.”

  “So they claimed Malekith was Khaine’s Scourge.”

  “Indeed. For almost as long as the druchii have lingered in Naggaroth the temple has taught its followers that Malekith is their unquestioned master because he is the chosen Scourge of Khaine. When the time is right he will come to Har Ganeth and wed the Bride of Ruin. Then he will take up the Warpsword of Khaine and usher in the Time of Blood. Anything else is heresy.”

  Chapter Ten

  FAITH AND MURDER

  Malus stared dumbfounded at his retainer. “You mean to tell me that all of this is built on a lie? The temple followers sold out their faith for the sake of political favour?” Arleth Vann nodded. “Does this trouble you?” The highborn cocked his head thoughtfully. “Actually, it’s rather reassuring. These motives at least make sense to me, but clearly not all of the faithful believed the elders’ pronouncement.”

  “No,” the retainer said. “The elders built a compelling case, of course, pointing to numerous obscure prophesies that seemed to support their claim. A devious mind can make the words of an oracle fit anything he wants if he tries hard enough, but it wasn’t enough. Several cult leaders and their disciples saw through the elders’ arguments and refused to take part in the alliance, regardless of the benefits. The debates raged for years, but the nascent temple continued to grow and gain legitimacy. Finally, the true believers saw that their power was waning fast. If they didn’t act soon, the elders and their blasphemy would be too deeply rooted to eliminate.”

  “So they fought.”

  The assassin nodded. “They fought. At the culmination of a weeklong holy festival — the Draich na Anlar — the schism leaders gathered their followers and attacked the elders in the midst of their consecrations. Somehow, the attempt failed. Some scholars suggest that the schism leaders were betrayed, while others point to divine intervention. At any rate, the five true believers that entered the temple to kill the blasphemous elders were never seen or heard from again. Other confrontations across the city degenerated into a chaotic riot that killed thousands. Fighting raged through the city streets all through the night, and by daybreak the White City was stained with rivers of blood. Afterwards the temple elders tore the city apart looking for the schism leaders and their allies, dragging those they found into the street and decapitating them on the spot. This is how Har Ganeth came to be known as the City of Executioners.”

  “And the survivors?”

  Arleth Vann shrugged. “They fled the city, spreading out all across Naggaroth and beyond to keep the true faith alive. They knew that one day the true Scourge would appear, and there would be another day of reckoning with the blasphemers.”

  “So the zealots returned to their roots, worshipping in secret as they’d been doing since time out of mind.”

  The assassin nodded, resuming his course down the long tunnel. “It was the proper way, regardless. Khaine is not meant to be worshipped in a temple, but on the battlefield or by the side of the road. We are exalted by testing our strength against others and taking their lives with skill and daring.”

  Malus fell into step behind his retainer, thinking back to the constant training and superlative skill of the zealots. “So Khaine is actually a god of combat?”

  “No, he is a god of death,” Arleth Vann replied. “What is the greatest power a man can have in this world?”

  Malus shrugged. “The power of a king.”

  The assassin let out a snort. “A king can die on the field of battle like anyone else. Think again.”

  “Damned sorcery, then.”

  The retainer shook his head. “No, it is simpler than that. The greatest power in this world is the ability to end life. The one thing every man shares, whether he is a slave or the Witch King himself, is a beating heart. The power to stop that heartbeat in a single stroke is what brings us closer to Khaine. We become gods, holding the lives of those around us in the palms of our hands. Do you see?”

  “I believe so,” Malus said. “That is the purpose of the executioners, I suppose?”

  The assassin nodded. “In the days before the temple, every worshipper of Khaine was an executioner: a Sword of Khaine. The true believer killed his opponents with a single, perfect stroke, making it a gesture of worship and enhancing his power with every foe he slew in battle. It was only after the temple was founded and the elders required acolytes to devote themselves to sinful practices like tithe collection that the executioners became an isolated sect.”

  “And the temple witches?”

  Arleth Vann cast a sidelo
ng glance over his shoulder at Malus. “They suffered the worst degradations of all. Once, they were Khaine’s bloody oracles and the enforcers of the Blood God’s divine will. They had the power to summon back the souls of the fallen and partake of their powers. And now? Now they are degenerates, aping the glories of their forebears with drugs and pitiful necromancies. You have seen true blood-witches, my lord. Can the witches of the temple compare to their terrible majesty?”

  “No,” Malus admitted, “certainly not. So what happened?”

  The assassin shrugged. “The blood-witches tried to stay apart from the fray during the early years of the schism. The brides of Khaine did not concern themselves with such petty conflicts. After the true believers were driven from the city and the elders hemmed the rest of the cult into temples, their prestige gradually diminished. There hasn’t been a true blood-witch serving the temple for at least two thousand years.”

  As they walked, Malus began to notice narrow doorways cut into the ropy stonework of the tunnel walls. The doorframes were made of glossy white marble and carved with intricate runes in archaic druchast. Next to the strangely flowing weave of the walls the newer construction still seemed crude and awkward by comparison. “What are these?” he asked.

  “Those? They are tombs,” the retainer said. “The temple has always interred the faithful, despite the Witch King’s edict of cremation. Perhaps the elders venerate the spirits of the dead in the hope they will intercede on their behalf when Khaine returns in his wrath.” He gestured at the doorways with a sweep of his free hand. “The entire hill is honeycombed with tomb complexes, and they reach far into the earth.”

  The two druchii walked on in silence for a time, journeying down the dark road past the doorways of the dead. Some quality of the stone swallowed their footsteps, and for a while it felt as if they had left the physical world behind, trudging like ghosts through some forgotten underworld. Malus considered the implications of everything Arleth Vann had told him. It did go a long way towards explaining the temple’s odd behaviour… but his mind kept drifting back to his meeting with Rhulan, and the wary look on the elder’s face. Urial’s claim casts the entire history of the temple into doubt, the highborn thought, which was ample reason to keep him in seclusion and look for a way to silence him. However, that would be self-evident to anyone familiar with temple dictum. There’s something more going on here, he thought. The elders have a secret that no one, not even the zealots, suspect.