[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm Page 13

  “Patron?” The Drachau frowned. “You mean the Hierophant?”

  “Not at all, dread lord. I mean the person responsible for teaching her the forbidden arts of sorcery and supplying her with the extensive library that filled the upper portion of her tower. It has long been an open secret that she flouted the Witch King’s laws,” Urial glared accusingly at Lurhan, “but no one chose to act upon it. Possibly because no one realised she’d become much more than a mere scholar of the arcane… or possibly because of the identity of the patron involved.”

  “And tell me Urial, who would that patron be?”

  Heads turned at the sound of the cold, powerful voice. Eldire seemed to coalesce from the shadows themselves, gliding soundlessly across the tiled floor towards the dais. No one had heard the tall doors part to admit her. Malus frankly wasn’t certain that they had. The Vaulkhar’s fierce expression disappeared, his previous fury suddenly forgotten. The Drachau eyed Eldire warily but held his tongue in the face of the seer’s unexpected arrival.

  Urial faced the sorceress, his face hard and expressionless. “I… have my theories, but no evidence as yet. Still, there cannot be but a handful of people in the city who could possess such knowledge… and the majority of those reside in the witch’s convent.”

  “I imagine so,” Eldire replied coolly. The rest would be criminals against the state, after all, teaching the arcane arts to those with no right to possess it. Men like yourself, for example.”

  Malus bit his tongue, careful to keep his face neutral as the air grew thick with tension. Urial stiffened, his expression growing strained, but he made no reply.

  “You come into my court unannounced, Yrila,” the Drachau hissed.

  “I am here to report that the city’s coven has extinguished the fire at the tower,” Eldire said dryly. “I had thought you would be pleased to hear it. Shall I tell my sisters to re-ignite the blaze and wait until you are ready to summon us?”

  “You are too impertinent by half, Eldire,” the Drachau said querulously. Tell me of the damage.”

  “The energies released by the spell consumed almost half of the tower—had it gone unchecked it would have continued to burn so long as there was stone to feed it. The entire city could have been lost.” Eldire glared at Urial. “If Nagaira did indeed have a patron then he greatly underestimated her power. The spell she unleashed was beyond the power of a single sorcerer to control. As it is, the rest of the tower will have to be demolished, as the taint of the Chaos magic has seeped through it to the very foundation. Left unchecked that taint will spread throughout the entire city.”

  He, Malus wondered, or she? The highborn eyed his mother with newfound respect… and uncertainty. Were you mentoring Nagaira? If so, why—and what do I have to do with it?

  Tyr considered the news and nodded gravely. “Then you have done your duty well, Yrila. Now, what of the bodies of the highborn in the initiation chamber?”

  Eldire smiled. “The bodies of the cultists were given to the fire, my lord. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do.”

  “You burned them? All of them?” The Drachau was incredulous. “It’s monstrous! Their kin will be up in arms when they hear of this!”

  “As of this moment these cultists are missing, not dead.” Eldire said sharply. The Chaos magic consumed them entirely—what little was left was not even recognisable as druchii, much less who they really were. Tomorrow the story will spread through the Hag that Nagaira and her household were consumed in a sorcerous conflagration, one that no doubt my husband and the Temple alike—” Eldire glared forcefully at both Lurhan and Urial in turn— “will decry as the just fate of all those who would dabble in the forbidden arts. An investigation will be promised and punishments threatened for any other unlawful sorcerers found in the city. If your allies wish to come forward at that point and publicly proclaim that their sons or daughters were present in the witch’s tower when it burned then I should be greatly surprised.”

  The Drachau sat back upon his throne, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What of the presence of the executioners, to say nothing of the Brides of Khaine that were there?”

  Urial shrugged. “They entered by way of the Burrows and left in the same manner. Only my retainers and the Vaulkhar’s troops were seen entering the tower and it can be truthfully said that they were there to put an end to Nagaira’s sorcery.”

  Tyr nodded, a sly smile spreading across his narrow face. “Then that is the story we shall tell,” he declared. “Doubtless there will be private complaints, but that can be mended with time and favours. That only leaves one last matter.”

  “What is that, dread lord?” Malus asked. He had his own matters to discuss, if the opportunity presented itself.

  The Drachau’s expression turned cold. “Whether to kill you now or execute you publicly as a cultist of Slaanesh.”

  “Execute me? This cult was uprooted thanks to me—” Malus looked to Urial for support. The former acolyte said nothing, eyeing the Drachau warily.

  Uthlan Tyr smiled cruelly. “You know the law, Malus. Any druchii that tastes of the forbidden fruit of Slaanesh must die. By your own admission you have done so, have you not?”

  “But you cannot execute me without admitting that the cult was here, hiding under your very nose,” Malus shot back. “And then your allies will call for your hide, dread lord.”

  Tyr rose from his chair. “Then we shall slay you now, far from prying eyes.” The Drachau ignored Eldire’s murderous look, turning instead to Lurhan and Urial. “Have you any objection to this?”

  Lurhan looked to Eldire, then to his lord. “It is my duty to serve,” he said, a little nervously. “Do as you will, dread lord.”

  The Drachau acknowledged his warlord with a nod. “Urial?”

  Urial stared hard at Malus. Anger, desire and frustration alike warred behind his eyes. Finally he turned to the Drachau and shook his head. “No. For now he is an agent of the temple and beyond your grasp, Uthlan Tyr.”

  Tyr recoiled, his eyes widening in surprise. “Are you mad? Have you not been baying for his blood all winter?” The Drachau held out his sword to Urial. “Here. Strike off his head yourself. Bathe in his tainted blood! Is that not what you want?”

  Urial’s jaw clenched. A bitter smile twisted his lips. “What I do, I do for the good of the temple,” he said. There is a task he must do for me. Until then, no man shall threaten him while I live.”

  The Drachau shook his head. “Vbu are a fool, Urial!” He lowered his sword. “I am no oracle, but I warrant you’ll never have another chance like this again.” Tyr glared at Malus. This is twice now you’ve escaped death at my hands, Darkblade. Your luck cannot last forever.”

  Malus smiled, sensing an opportunity. “Doubtless you are correct, dread lord. Thus, I must press my advantage while I’m able. I demand you present me with a writ of iron.”

  Uthlan Tyr laughed. “Shall I give you my concubines and my tower as well?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Malus answered, his tone calm and even. “The writ alone will suffice.”

  “Enough with your impertinence,” Lurhan growled, raising his fist. The Drachau must heed the wishes of the temple, but not I!”

  “No, you have other oaths to consider,” Eldire said. “And the consequences of breaking them would be far more terrible.”

  Lurhan stopped in his tracks, his face turning pale. Tyr’s alarm grew as he watched the exchange. He turned to Malus, all trace of humour gone. “What makes you think I would give a man such as you so much power?”

  “For all the proper reasons: I seek to serve the state in a great endeavour and to bring honour and glory to you and the city,” Malus replied. “And to ensure my silence over what really happened within the tower, of course.”

  “Just what endeavour do you speak of? Do you plan to drink the city dry, or exhaust all the flesh houses in the Corsairs’ Quarter?”

  Malus surprised Tyr with a hearty laugh. “Will you give a wri
t for such a thing? If so I would be glad to have it. No, I need your authority to form an expedition. I will need ships, sailors and skilled raiders and time is short.”

  “For what purpose?”

  The highborn considered his response carefully. “I have recently discovered the lost Isle of Morhaut,” he said. “And I intend to drive the Skinriders from the northern sea.”

  Uthlan Tyr shook his head, his expression incredulous. “That’s impossible. Where did you learn such a thing?”

  “How I did so is unimportant,” Malus said. “Consider what I am offering instead. The Skinriders have harassed our raiding ships and competed with us for plunder. If I am successful we will double our harvest for years to come. Not to mention the fact that the island is legendary for the ships and treasures lost on its shores. As author of the writ you would not only share in the glory, but the plunder as well. The fortunes of our city have suffered greatly in the long feud with Naggor—that can change in the space of just a few months. All I need is the writ.”

  The Drachau started to protest, but Malus could see a spark of interest in the ruler’s eyes. “You wouldn’t stand a chance. The Skinriders would kill you before you got within a mile of the island.”

  “For a man who was about to have me executed, your sudden concern for my welfare comes as a bit of a surprise.”

  The Drachau looked to Urial. “What does the Temple say about this fool’s errand? Did you not just say you have a task for him to perform?”

  Urial sighed. “Issue the writ, Uthlan Tyr. I like it no better than you, but in this he also serves the temple’s interests.”

  The Drachau’s hand tightened on his sword. “I am beset from all sides then,” he said in quiet exasperation. Very well Malus, you will have your writ of iron,” Tyr said. “May it bring you a bounty of blood and fire.”

  “Of that I have little doubt, dread lord,” Malus replied, a steely look of triumph on his face. “And I swear you will share the fruits of it in the fullness of time.”

  Chapter Eleven

  DOORWAYS OF THE DEAD

  HE WAS LOST. There was a door in front of him, black wood with a silver knob worked in the shape of a leering daemon’s face. He pushed it open and saw a hexagonal room beyond. Four staircases rose from the centre of the room, climbing into thin air in four different directions.

  The same it’s all the same it’s all the same… his voice echoed in his head. He pulled the door shut.

  A roar echoed behind him. Closer now than it had been before.

  Before? When?

  The roar echoed again, much closer now. He yanked the door open and found a staircase descending into darkness.

  Now he could hear footsteps. Heavy, ponderous footfalls drumming like the beating of a bestial heart. Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud-

  He ran down the stairs, fleeing the sound of the footsteps.

  The staircase curved abruptly, straightened, then curved back the other way. He raced through an arch—and found himself descending a staircase surrounded by open air, leading to a hexagonal room. Three more staircases rose up from the room, heading in three different directions.

  There was a door of black wood set into one of the walls. As he reached the bottom of the stairs it shook on its hinges beneath a powerful blow. A roar thundered on the other side of the splintering wood.

  * * * * *

  Malus awoke with a shout, sitting bolt upright amid a tangle of bed sheets and groping in the darkness for a weapon. By the time his hand closed on the hilt of the sword leaning beside his bed he realised that he had been dreaming and fell back against the mattress with a shuddering sigh. The cut on his forehead throbbed in time with his racing heart and the ragged scabs on the right side of his face stung as his cheek stretched into a weary grimace.

  Pale moonlight slanted silver-blue through the windowpanes of his sleeping chamber. The night sky was unnaturally clear, with not a shred of cloud in the sky. Malus couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen such a thing—clouds always hung heavy over the Land of Chill, especially during the late winter months. He wondered if it had anything to do with the fire the previous night, or the sorceries used to extinguish it. Everything felt strange, somehow unsettled.

  With a groan Malus pushed himself back upright and rose shakily from the bed. He moved haltingly, the muscles in his back, shoulders and hips singing painfully with each shuffling step. In truth, he felt better than he’d been when he first stumbled back to his tower after the meeting with the Drachau. Delirious with fatigue and loss of blood he’d wandered the fortress for more than an hour before finally fetching up against the black oak doors at the base of his spire. Thinking back now, he couldn’t remember how he’d got inside—an image stuck in his mind of falling inwards as one of the doors was pulled open and hearing Silar’s surprised shout, but little else.

  Malus staggered to the large, circular table that dominated a corner of the sleeping chamber. Among the piles of clutter was a tray with a wine bottle and a goblet. Next to the tray sat the Tome of Ak’zhaal. The highborn snatched up the bottle and pulled the cork with his teeth, spitting it into the nearest corner. He took a deep drink, barely tasting the vintage and opened the book at a random page.

  …Stone he built upon stone, raised with sorcery and madness, as Eradorius built a tower beyond the reach of years…

  A soft knock sounded at the door. Malus frowned, thinking again of the sword beside the bed. He reminded himself that with Nagaira gone, the blood debt to the temple had lapsed and forced himself to relax. “Enter,” he said.

  The door creaked open—few highborn cared for oiled hinges in places where they slept—and one of his retainers stepped into the room. It took a moment before Malus recognised Hauclir’s scarred face. The former guard captain was sporting a few new cuts on his face from the recent battle, including a dramatic wound that ran at an angle from his forehead, across his nose and down to his chin.

  “Do you typically block your opponent’s blade with your face, Hauclir?” Malus said by way of greeting.

  “If the tactic’s good enough for my lord and master it’s good enough for me,” Hauclir deadpanned. “Forgive the interruption, my lord, but your brother Urial is here. He insisted on speaking to you at once, despite the unholy hour.”

  “What time is it?”

  “The hour of the wolf, my lord.”

  “Mother of Night,” Malus cursed, taking another drink to fortify himself. “The man is indeed a monster. Bring me a robe, then send him in.”

  Hauclir scanned the room quickly, went and snatched up a discarded sleeping robe from the end of the bed and tossed it to Malus. The highborn let the bunched-up cloth bounce off his chest and hit the floor. He stared pointedly at the garment and then looked archly at his new retainer.

  “I’ve already worn that.”

  “Excellent,” the former captain answered. “Then we’re sure it fits.”

  “I see,” Malus answered. “Any other night I’d have your backside hung from a meat hook, but I’m too tired to bother just now. Go and get my brother and bring him here.”

  Hauclir bowed. “At once, my lord,” he replied and slipped quietly from the room.

  Malus shrugged the silk robe over his shoulders, careful of the cuts and gouges across his upper back and right arm. No sooner had he cinched up his belt than the bedroom door groaned wide and Urial walked slowly into the room with Hauclir in his wake. The retainer made a clumsy attempt at presenting Urial after the fact, then sketched an awkward bow and retreated from sight.

  “You keep the hours of a bat, dear brother,” Malus said around a swig of wine. He offered the bottle to Urial, who eyed it with disdain.

  “Sleep is for the weak, brother,” Urial replied. “The state never rests, nor does its true servants’

  “I was saying something very similar just a moment ago,” the highborn said, setting the bottle carefully on its tray. “Why are you here?”

  Urial scowled at his brother, dr
awing an object from his belt. It was a plaque of dark metal set in a frame of yellowed bone, about a foot long and four inches wide.

  For all his fatigue and his numerous minor hurts, Malus’ heart skipped a beat upon seeing the Drachau’s writ. “What are you doing with that?”

  “By law and custom the Drachau presents his writ to the temple, who then delivers it to his chosen agent. We do this to bear witness that the delegation of power falls into the proper hands and to act as a guarantor of its temporary nature.” Urial held the plaque before him, his expression strained. He took a deep breath and spoke the necessary words:

  “Malus, son of Lurhan, the Drachau Uthlan Tyr of Hag Graef desires you to perform an extraordinary endeavour in the service of the state and invests in you all the similar authority and power of his station, that you may accomplish the task set before you with honour and dispatch. He binds you with this writ of iron. Bear it before you and no druchii in the land will bar your way.”

  All of a sudden Malus was glad for the wine warming his insides and steadying his nerves. Without preamble he reached out and plucked the writ from Urial’s stiff fingers. The iron plates were thin and surprisingly light; they opened on tiny, oiled hinges to reveal the lettered parchment and elaborate seals protected in the shallow space within. “It’s smaller than I imagined. Is it true that if you fail they melt down the iron plates and pour them down your throat?”

  “I certainly hope so,” Urial muttered. “If my researches are correct you are only the eighth highborn in the history of the city to receive one.” He shook his head incredulously. “And got it by blackmailing the Drachau, no less. The very idea is appalling.”

  “Did your researches mention how the other seven acquired theirs? I expect it was exactly the same way,” Malus said absently, inspecting the parchment with a growing sense of wonder. Within the scope of the writ he effectively had the power of the Drachau himself.

  “Be that as it may, this authority does not extend to the temple or its agents,” Urial said archly. “Let us be clear on this from the start. Now perhaps you will explain to me how this will deliver Yasmir from her wanton existence and into the sacred bounds of the temple?”