[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm Page 14

  Malus closed the covers of the writ and suppressed a frown. He’d hoped to put this conversation off for a while longer. “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “For years our sister has lived like a princess of lost Nagarythe, using her beauty and her wiles to drink the lifeblood of every enterprising nobleman in the upper reaches of the city’s court. They surround her with riches and influence out of proportion to her station, each one hoping to convince her to ask for their hand in marriage. Not one of them has the courage to ask her themselves. And why is that?”

  “Because she is the focus of our elder brother’s affections,” Urial growled, his good hand clenching into a fist.

  “Indeed and Bruglir is a very powerful, very jealous and extraordinarily murderous man,” Malus said. “He fights duels just to test the sharpness of his swords. Any man who presses his case for Yasmir’s hand must answer to Bruglir and so far our father has shown no interest in restraining him.” He gave Urial a curious look. “I’ve always wondered why he never raised a hand to you. It’s not as though you made any secret of your desire for her.”

  Urial’s expression hardened. “Isn’t it obvious? Because he knows without doubt that I’m no threat to him.” The former acolyte abruptly turned and plucked the bottle from the tray. No emotion showed on his face as he carefully filled the goblet, but the bitterness in his voice was evident. “Yasmir told me once that she complained to him about me and he laughed at her. It was the first and only time he’d ever done such a thing, or so she claimed. It made her very angry for a time.”

  “The point, however, is that the cornerstone of Yasmir’s existence is Bruglir. Without him she becomes… vulnerable.”

  Urial nodded thoughtfully, taking a cautious sip of the wine. “So you plan to kill him.”

  “Better to say that I intend to put him into a position that is very likely to end his life,” Malus said carefully. “I don’t dare try to kill him myself. In the first place I don’t want to risk Yasmir’s wrath if I’m caught and in the second place I’m not sure I’d succeed if I tried.” Malus smiled. “No, he will meet a glorious death driving the Skinriders from the north seas and then Yasmir will have to decide where her best interests lie.”

  “An intriguing plan,” Urial said, swirling the wine in his cup. “But where do I fit into this? You mentioned that you needed a sorcerer.”

  Malus nodded. “Yes, indeed.” He pointed to the Tome of Ak’zhaal. “If my researches are correct, the Isle of Morhaut is protected by powerful sorceries. I will need a magic-wielder of great skill to penetrate them so we can reach the island.”

  Urial eyed the book quizzically, as though noticing it for the first time. “Never in my life would I have imagined such a thing.”

  “What? That I need your help?”

  “No, that you can actually read.” Urial stepped forward, setting the goblet down and turning the pages of the tome gingerly with his gloved hand. “So you actually intend to fight the Skinriders?”

  Malus shrugged. “Only so far as I must. What I’m really after lies within a tower on the island—a sanctuary built by a sorcerer named Eradorius during the First War.”

  “The First War? That was thousands of years ago! What makes you think such a place still exists?”

  The highborn didn’t answer for a moment. “Call it intuition,” he said. “I saw things in the Wastes that were even older than Eradorius’ legendary tower, so I know that it’s at least possible.”

  Urial looked up from the book, his brass-coloured eyes boring into Malus’ own. “Does this have anything to do with the skull you took from my tower?”

  Malus met Urial’s stare unflinchingly. “It was Nagaira who suggested robbing you of that skull. I suspect it had something to do with her plans for the cult.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s as much of an answer as you’re going to get,” Malus said flatly. “Does it matter, so long as Yasmir is yours in the end?”

  Urial glanced one last time at the yellowed pages of the tome, then slowly and deliberately closed the cover. “No. I suppose not.”

  Inwardly the highborn breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent. Now the three of us need only prepare for a trip to Clar Karond in the coming weeks. I want to be there the moment Bruglir and his fleet puts in for supplies. With luck I can use the writ to hurry the process along and we can be on our way north within a month.”

  “The three of us?” Urial inquired.

  “We need Yasmir to accompany us on the voyage,” Malus said. “While I may have a writ from the Drachau, neither you nor I are well-loved by our brother and we will be hundreds of leagues from civilisation and surrounded by his army of cut-throats. I intend to use Yasmir to keep Bruglir under control.”

  “Ah, I see. And who will control Yasmir?”

  The highborn chuckled. “I will, of course.” And you will be the rod I will hold over her, Malus thought.

  Urial nodded thoughtfully, his finger tracing the runes inscribed in the cover of the tome. “An interesting plan, brother. But I am concerned about the lengthy delay. Many things can go awry in a month’s time. The Drachau could even grow impatient and rescind the writ if he wished.”

  Malus spread his hands. “I can’t make the winds blow any faster brother. I expect Bruglir hasn’t even begun the voyage home yet. The straits around Karond Kar will be frozen for another couple of weeks at least.”

  Urial gave Malus a wintry smile. “Forgive my ignorance. Unlike the rest of you I was never allowed a hakseer-cruise of my own. Father wouldn’t risk the embarrassment of being unable to hire a crew to go to sea under the command of a cripple. Still,” he added, his smile turning conspiratorial, “what if I said that it was possible to go to Bruglir now? To meet him while his ships are still at sea and begin your expedition immediately?”

  Malus’ eyes narrowed. “So magic is only heretical when it’s being performed by someone outside the temple?”

  “Do not seek to confuse the debased rituals of a cultist with the blessings of the Lord of Murder,” Urial growled.

  Malus’ first instinct was to dismiss the offer. He didn’t care for the notion of being dropped into the middle of Bruglir’s fleet with no warning or preparation, no time to sound out members of his brother’s crew and perhaps test their loyalties with a little gold coin. On the other hand, time was the one commodity he needed most but had the least to spare. I need every day I can get, he thought ruefully. Then a sudden realisation made his heart skip a beat. Does he know? He had the skull of Ehrenlish in his possession for many months—does he know about Tz’arkan and the five relics? Does he suspect what I’m after?

  “Does it matter?” Tz’arkan said. “Does it change the fact that you must reach the island and recover the idol and that you need his sorceries to succeed?”

  “No,” Malus muttered, half to himself. “No, of course not.”

  Urial nodded brusquely. “Then deliver the news to Yasmir and prepare for the journey. You and she may bring one member of your retinue each if you wish—more than that would be too dangerous to risk.”

  “What?” Malus stirred from his internal reverie with a start. “I mean—yes, of course. When will you be ready?”

  “We can depart this evening,” Urial replied, almost enthusiastic at the prospect. “The moon and tides will be propitious. Come to my tower at nightfall, just before the rising of the fog and we will be on our way.”

  Before Malus could think of a response, Urial turned on his heel and limped from the room, leaving the highborn to wonder just what he’d got himself into.

  He held up the writ and considered its iron cover, shaking his head ruefully. Absolute power indeed, he thought.

  The figurine was little more than one foot tall; formed from a single piece of obsidian, it depicted a priestess of the temple drinking the brains from the skull of a defeated foe. It was more than a hundred years old, carved by the infamous artist Luclayr before his spectacular suicide. Easily worth
more than a highborn’s ransom, the figurine made a sharp whirring sound as it spun through the air and exploded into razor-edged shards inches from Malus’ head. The highborn ducked instinctively, grimacing at the shower of razor-sharp splinters.

  “A sea voyage? With him?” Yasmir’s violet eyes glowed with hatred. She stalked through the shadows at the far end of her sleeping chamber, her half-open silk robe trailing in her wake like the shroud of a wight. Her skin was luminous where the weak daylight touched it—she was the classic druchii beauty, at her most alluring when moved to anger. Even Malus had to admit that she was breathtaking, but as he plucked splinters of black glass from his cheek he also mused that the lovelier she became, the more attention he had to devote to staying alive.

  “This was not our bargain,” Yasmir hissed. Another object—a wine goblet—struck the wall near the highborn with a hollow clang. “You asked for my help convincing Bruglir to back your expedition. Nothing more. In return you promised to kill Urial, not put us at the mercy of his blood magic!”

  “Plans change, dear sister,” Malus said, readying himself to dodge another missile. “The Drachau took a keen interest in my plan and gave me his unstinting support, as you have seen,” he pointed to the writ, lying open on a small table near the centre of the room. “With the writ in hand I was able to command Urial to transport us directly to Bruglir’s ship rather than wait so many weeks for his fleet to make port. Time is of the essence, Yasmir and so I must regretfully insist that you accompany me.”

  “Insist!” The word came out in a hissing screech. A barrage of shoes flew across the room, then another small piece of statuary moving too fast to identify before it shattered against Malus’ breastplate. The rest of her furious reply tapered off into a wordless screech of frustration; she had read the writ with exacting care and knew that she had no real power to resist his summons.

  Malus watched Yasmir’s fit with considerable interest, wondering when the last time was that she’d been dictated to about anything. He’d first called upon her early in the day, only to be told by her slaves that she was indisposed. Hours passed, morning to noon and then well into the afternoon and after being rebuffed for a third time Malus had produced the writ and shoved the frightened slaves out of the way. Her retainers had rushed at him like angry cadaver bees, but for once their highborn upbringing proved useful, as one glimpse of the iron plaque had been enough to stop them in their tracks. And so he’d barged into her bedroom just behind a cloud of stammering slaves and sent Yasmir’s rich and powerful bed partners scrambling for their robes.

  At first she’d reacted to his intrusion with the same languid calm she’d displayed at the arena—until she saw the writ. Then her composure gave way to anger. She’s grown too accustomed to being in a position of control, he thought. Take that away and she becomes fearful. And dangerous, he reminded himself.

  “Our bargain still stands, dear sister. It is merely the circumstances that have changed,” he said, trying to sound conciliatory. “I still need your help to encourage Bruglir’s co-operation and I need Urial’s magic to penetrate the sorcerous defences surrounding the island. Once that’s done we can dispatch him at our leisure. In the meantime, you will be able to enjoy the company of your beloved Bruglir for weeks more than you normally would. Haven’t you always wished to sail with him on his long sea raids, taking part in the bloody battles and choosing the choicest baubles from the treasure trove as befits a corsair queen?”

  Yasmir paused. “There is something in what you say, I suppose. It’s not as though I wouldn’t have Bruglir and his crew to keep that vile temple-worm away from me.” Malus heard her take a deep breath and then she stepped back into the light, drawing her robe securely about her graceful body. Very well,” she said, attempting a small measure of her former composure. “Just one companion, you said? And we are to leave in…?”

  Malus considered the light outside. “In just a few hours, sister: just before the fog rises. I tried to tell you earlier, but—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” She drew herself up to her full, regal height. “I shall be ready at the appointed time. Let it not be said that I do not honour my bargains to the letter, Malus. See to it that you do the same.” Yasmir scooped the iron plaque from the table and held it out to Malus. This writ won’t count for much a thousand leagues from the Hag. On the seas the only law will be our dear brother the sea captain.” Her full lips quirked in a cruel smile. “Disappoint me and it might be your head rolling along the deck beside Urial’s.”

  Malus took the plaque from her hand. “I expect nothing less,” he said.

  “Why me? Why not Silar Thornblood, or Arleth Vann?” Hauclir looked up at the ominous bulk of Urial’s spire from the barren courtyard outside its iron-banded doors. The former guard captain’s face was faintly green in the early evening light; like almost everyone else in Hag Graef, he’d heard legends about the dread tower of the Forsaken One. Malus eyed him with some amusement and wondered what the man would think if he told him that all of the stories were true.

  “Because Silar runs my household and is still in the process of rebuilding it. And Arleth Vann doesn’t mix well with members of the temple,” the highborn said. You, on the other hand—”

  “I’m expendable,” Hauclir answered, his face grim. The retainer wore full armour over his kheitan and robes and carried a single sword at his hip. A large pack hung from one shoulder, carrying clothes and supplies for both him and his lord.

  Malus clapped Hauclir on the back. “Come now, Hauclir, it’s not like that. All of my retainers are expendable. You’re just more expendable than the others at the moment.”

  “And to think, I asked for this,” Hauclir grumbled, shifting the pack on his shoulder.

  “Indeed you did,” Malus nodded. “Delightful, is it not?”

  Just then Malus caught sight of a group of druchii entering the courtyard from the opposite side. Yasmir walked amid a group of mournful retainers, several holding witchlight globes aloft on long poles to light their path. A slave walked several paces behind the party, almost doubled over with a huge pack on her shoulders.

  Malus bowed as she approached. “Well met, sister. Are you looking forward to being reunited with our noble brother?” The highborn savoured the stricken looks on Yasmir’s entourage as she nodded. •

  “Indeed I am. It’s the one part of this cursed voyage that I expect to enjoy at all.”

  Yasmir was dressed all in black, with fine woollen robes and a long shirt of fine black mail that covered her arms and hung to just above her knees. A wide belt of nauglir hide circled her narrow waist and she wore two long daggers, one at each hip. Though the fog hadn’t yet risen she wore her silver caedlin. Unlike many highborn who wore night-masks worked in the shape of monsters or daemons, Yasmir’s mask eerily mirrored her own features, almost like a death mask. Malus imagined the shock strangers must have upon seeing that ethereal mask—and then have it pulled away to reveal the startling reality beneath.

  “Then send your hounds away, dear Yasmir. The moons have risen and Urial awaits.”

  To her credit, Yasmir offered no melodramatic farewells—she simply beckoned to her slave and walked away from the noblemen without a single word. Malus felt the heat of their stares on his neck as he led Yasmir to the tower’s tall doorway. As he raised his fist to strike the aged wood, the portal swung soundlessly open, spilling a wash of crimson light onto the cobblestones outside.

  One of Urial’s skull-faced retainers silently beckoned the highborn and their retainers to come inside. Malus found himself entering the tower with some trepidation. He could not help but feel a chill upon seeing the ranks of silver masks lining the walls of the circular room, all too aware of the malevolent beings that watched from behind the masks’ sightless eyes.

  Urial waited in the centre of the room, standing before a large brass cauldron brimming with blood. Beyond the cauldron rose what appeared to be a very tall mirror-frame of etched brass. The glass within the fr
ame was missing and Malus saw that a small set of steps had been set before the empty brass oval. Half a dozen of Urial’s retainers stood at a discrete distance from their master, along with a handful of robed acolytes, their heads bowed in concentration. Malus could hear them chanting in a language that set his hair on end.

  “Your timing is good,” Urial said. The moon is in the proper alignment. Once the doorway is open you will have to move quickly, however—we will have little time.” With that, he turned to the cauldron and spread his arms wide.

  A sonorous chant rose from Urial’s lips, echoed by the acolytes nearby. Yasmir looked to Malus; the highborn shrugged and walked towards the cauldron.

  Within the brass vessel the blood was beginning to stir, as though churned from within by invisible hands. Steam rose from its surface, forming a reddish haze before the mirror frame. The chanting increased in volume and Malus saw a thick tendril of steam begin to twist like the funnel of a whirlpool, extending inexorably towards the empty brass frame.

  The churning mist reached for the space within the wire oval and flattened as though it touched an invisible plane suspended within the wire. Blood radiated across this plane in concentric ripples, shimmering with unnatural power, until they reached the wire rim and rebounded back towards the centre. Malus could now hear a faint howling sound coming from the crimson mirror—was it the souls of the damned? No, he realised. It was the wind off the sea, cold and unbound.

  Suddenly the funnel dissipated. The cauldron was empty and a sheen of bright blood, like a bubble formed in a pool of gore, glistened and trembled within the wire. “Quickly now,” Urial said, his voice strained. “Step through! It will not last more than a few moments.”

  Once again, Yasmir looked to Malus—she had plucked her mask away and he could see the fear deep in her eyes. He gave her a mocking smile and stepped lightly up to the wire, gritting his teeth against his own palpable unease. This close to the portal Malus could hear other sounds above the wind: the creaking of wood and rope and the groan of a ship’s hull as it surged through the waves. He hesitated only a moment, then with a deep breath he stepped into the swirling pattern of blood.