[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm Read online

  Moments later a pair of strong hands grabbed Malus by the arms and pulled him upright. Hauclir was breathing heavily, covered in brick dust and bleeding from a cut on his forehead. The highborn jerked loose of his retainer’s grip. “Your timing could have been better,” he snapped. That thing nearly turned me into paste!”

  “An unforgivable breach of duty, my lord,” Hauclir muttered darkly. “Part of the wall fell on me and I selfishly tried to free myself instead of immediately seeing to your safety.”

  “Just help me up.”

  Grunting painfully, Hauclir managed to drag Malus upright. Urial was already staggering up the splintered stairway, the ichor of the daemon still smoking from the edges of his axe. The highborn pushed away from his retainer’s steadying hands and started after his half-brother.

  “What was that image that flew up from the daemon’s body?” Malus asked as he clambered up the stairs.

  “Something that ought not to be,” Urial answered, his voice troubled. He reached the open doorway and looked out over the cove. Malus reached him a moment later and took in the scene unfolding before him.

  The sea chain had fallen and the druchii wolves were in among the herd. Six nimble corsairs—a seventh was sinking at the mouth of the cove, holed through by stones from the towers—slipped past the huge Skinrider ships, loosing their heavy bolts at point-blank range into the hulls of the enemy ships. The heavy steel heads punched fist-sized holes at the waterline of the raiders, opening their lower decks to the sea. The Skinriders responded with showers of arrows and bolts of their own, but their heavy war engines could not be brought to bear on the corsairs at such close quarters. Already two of the enemy ships were sitting low in the water as their holds slowly flooded. Bodies and debris already littered the surface of the cove and here and there Malus saw churning splashes in the water as the sharks .began to feed.

  “The butcher’s bill will be steep, but we’ve a good chance of winning,” Malus said grimly. The confines of the cove favour us and Bruglir’s corsairs know their work well.”

  “No,” Urial said bleakly. “We are doomed. Each and every one of us.”

  The fatigue and fear in Urial’s voice brought Malus’ head around. He pointed a bloodstained finger at the outskirts of the abandoned village on the far side of the cove.

  Malus squinted, trying to make out details of what was happening at the shore. At first he could make nothing out beyond a huge crowd of Skinriders—and then he realised that none of them were moving. They were frozen in place, as though held in the grip of an unseen fist.

  Then he saw a flash of greenish fire among the raiders and realised what was happening. “The daemon,” he said. “It’s using the Skinriders to make another body.”

  Urial nodded, his expression dark. “It shouldn’t be possible. The spirit should have been hurled back into the Outer Darkness when its first vessel was destroyed. But something is allowing it to remain here, rebuilding its strength and striking at us again.”

  “There are just the three of us left and my power is nearly exhausted. It will keep coming until we are dead and then it will slaughter everyone in the fleet. They’ll be helpless to stop it.”

  “It’s the island,” Malus realised. The tower of Eradorius—”

  The words died in Malus’ throat. Now he remembered why the bricks in the citadel—and here, in the sea wall tower—looked so familiar to him. Moving as if in a dream, he knelt, groping among the broken bricks lying on the floor. He found one that was mostly intact and turned it over in his hands until he found the symbol carved in its surface.

  Urial watched the highborn with a bemused frown. “What are you talking about?”

  Malus traced the incised symbol with his thumb, feeling a fist of ice settle in his gut. “You recall I told you that I sought the Isle of Morhaut to find an item hidden in a tower there. The tower was built by a sorcerer named Eradorius.” He held up the brick. “And the Skinriders tore it down to build their damned citadels’ With a sudden burst of rage he hurled the stone across the chamber. “Who knows? It might have been nothing more than ruins for hundreds of years before the raiders even arrived. We’ll never know now” Or what happened to the cursed idol, the highborn thought. For the first time since Tz’arkan stole his black soul Malus felt utterly lost.

  “What does that have to do with the daemon?”

  The tower was built to escape another daemon. Eradorius used his sorcery to create a sanctum that was outside time and space. He created a place that was a realm unto itself, separate from all the others.” He pointed outside. That daemon hasn’t been hurled back into the Outer Darkness because its pull cannot reach him here. No doubt that’s why it picked this island in the first place.”

  Urial looked at Malus as though he were mad. “But you just said the tower was destroyed long ago.”

  “The tower stood outside time! It was set apart…” the highborn’s voice trailed off as his eyes widened in realisation. “Outside time. Of course. It’s on the shore of the river!”

  Hauclir clambered up beside Malus and peered carefully into his eyes. “I think you need to sit down, my lord,” he said warily. You may have taken a hard knock to your head.”

  Malus pushed the retainer away. “The tower was placed in a realm beyond the reach of time and space. It still exists in a sense—and the idol is still there.” He reached for Urial. When we crossed from the chieftain’s citadel to here, you saw the red plain? The tower on the horizon?”

  “You think that was the tower you speak of?”

  “Yes!” He paced up and down, one finger tapping meditatively at his chin. “It was all there, right in front of me all along! Why didn’t I realise it before?” He turned back to Urial. “You have to use your sorcery to send me there. Now.”

  “But… but the resonance…”

  Malus gestured at the scattered bricks. “We have all the resonance we need!”

  Urial shook his head. “You don’t understand. The… place you’re speaking of is not of this world. It sits on a nether plane, if you will, rather than sitting at the other end.” He paused, his face suddenly weary. “I can open a door and send you through, but it will have to be held open on this side for you to return through. And I don’t know how long I can hold such a portal open. If it fails, you will be trapped there for all time.”

  “And how is that any worse than being eaten alive by that vile thing?” Malus pointed to the distant village, where the daemon was still consuming the Skinriders. “Open the gate! I’ll take my chances on the other side. If I’m successful, the power binding the daemon here will fail and it will be drawn back into the Outer Darkness. It’s our only chance!”

  Urial seemed about to argue further, but one brief look at the chaos on the far shore convinced him. “Very well,” he said hollowly and headed back down the stairs in search of blood.

  “You mentioned an idol, my lord,” Hauclir said quietly. “How will we know how to find it?”

  “We? No, Hauclir. You’re staying behind.”

  The retainer squared his shoulders. “Now see here, my lord—”

  Malus cut him off with a curt wave of his hand. “Be still and listen. You must stay behind to watch over Urial,” he said quietly. “If he means some secret treachery I’ll be helpless to stop him, so you must be the knife at his back. There’s also the Skinriders.” He pointed to the upper floors of the tower. “They may think us dead after the daemon’s attack, but then again they may not. If they come down here you’ll have to hold them off long enough for me to return.”

  The retainer clearly didn’t like what he was hearing, but there was little he could do about it. “Very well, my lord,” he growled. “And what if you don’t return?”

  “If it were me, I’d take my chances with the sharks.”

  “You think I can swim to one of our ships?”

  “No. I think you should jump in the water and hope the sharks get you before the daemon does.”

  There was no
shock of icy cold or sense of dislocation. Malus stepped through the portal and it was as though he walked in the land of his nightmares.

  The ground heaved beneath his feet and the sky churned overhead. The wind cried and moaned in his ears but he could not feel it against his skin. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the oval of pearlescent light floating in the air. Some kind of iridescent mist curled from its edges and somehow the highborn could sense how fragile it was, like a bubble that could burst at any moment. He could just make out the figures of Urial and Hauclir standing before the doorway; Malus raised his sword in salute and then turned his eyes to the dark horizon where the tower stood.

  It was tall and square, its glossy black surface gleaming under the directionless light that permeated the nether realm. The tower seemed far more solid that the Chaotic landscape around it, like an island rising from an angry sea. From where Malus stood it seemed leagues distant. He took a deep breath and began to run.

  The terrain flashed by beneath his feet. His weariness was gone and the pain in his wounded leg had vanished. Then he realised with a start that Tz’arkan was no longer curled like a viper in his chest. The thought almost caused him to stumble. Was it possible, he thought? Could I have found a realm where he truly cannot reach, as Eradorius believed?

  Laughter echoed like thunder through Malus’ body, loud enough to send a tremor through his bones. “Foolish little druchii,” the daemon said. “Look at your hands.”

  Malus stopped. With a growing sense of dread he held up his hand and saw the dark grey skin and pulsing black veins writhing like worms at his wrist. His nails, not quite talons, were black and sharp.

  The strength he felt was Tz’arkan’s. The daemon hadn’t disappeared—only spread through every part of his body, rushing through him like blood.

  “You see,” the daemon said. “Here I am suspended between your pitiful world and the storms of Chaos that empower me.” Tz’arkan’s awareness rumbled through him. “I could never have reached this place from my prison—you were my bridge, in a sense.” The daemon chuckled. “Yes. This place pleases me. I could remain here for a very long time.”

  Malus fought to suppress a surge of terror. “And trade one prison for another? Let’s just get the damned idol and be done with it.”

  “Why, Malus, if I didn’t know any better I would think you were tiring of my company.”

  The highborn ran on.

  The ghosts of his dreams awaited him in the shadow of the tower.

  They clawed their way free of the clotted, bloody earth, reaching for him with clawed, bony hands, flailing tentacles or barbed hooks. Some were human, some elven; many were twisted monstrosities from some sorcerer’s nightmare. They crawled, leapt, flapped and slithered towards him as he ran across the plain.

  A skeletal human with white parchment skin and a mane of snow-white hair reached for his throat; Malus swung his sword through the wraith’s head and the figure wavered like smoke. An undulating mass of blue-veined flesh slithered across the ground and wrapped a thorny tentacle around his leg; the needle-like spikes pierced layers of leather and flesh with ease, leaving his flesh icy and numb. He snarled and slashed downwards and the blade passed harmlessly through the creature.

  “What are these creatures, daemon?” he said.

  “They are the lost,” Tz’arkan replied. “Beings who found themselves thrown upon the shores of the island. When they died, their ghosts remained. Now they hunger for your life force, Darkblade. They haven’t had such a sweet morsel in a very long time.”

  The skeleton’s hands closed around his throat. Malus aimed a cut at its head—only to have a withered elven prince grab his sword arm and trap it against its armoured body. Something locked its jaws on his leg, biting through armour and robes. The cold was seeping inexorably through his body now, sapping his strength. He could hear his heartbeat hammering in his chest. “What can I do to stop them?” he cried as he struggled in their grasp.

  “Why Malus, my beloved son,” the daemon whispered. “You have but to ask for my help.”

  The ghosts pulled him off his feet. He fell beneath a sea of grasping hands and snapping jaws. A creature like an octopus slithered onto his chest and wrapped its tentacles around his face. Its jade-green eyes glittered with malevolent intelligence.

  “Help me, damn you!” Malus cried. Tentacles pushed past his lips and crawled over his tongue. “Help me!”

  “And so I shall.”

  A new wave of cold roared through him—not the icy touch of the ghosts but a flood of black ice that surged from his chest and spread through the rest of his body. Dark steam rose from his pale skin and frost crept along the length of his blade. The ghosts recoiled—all save the octopus-creature, which could not unwind itself swiftly enough. Its skin blackened and its eyes turned pale blue and it let out a whistling shriek before Malus struck it with his hand and shattered it into pieces.

  The white-haired skeleton recoiled from him, arms raised as if to shield itself from harm. Malus leapt to his feet with a roar and slashed his blade through the ghost’s chest. The body blackened in an instant and shattered as it hit the ground. The highborn caught the elven prince in full flight; he laughed like a madman and slashed the prince across the back of his neck.

  Everywhere the ghosts were in retreat, receding from him like ripples in a pond. He slew a one-eyed bear, stabbing deep into the creature’s flank and then ran down two human sailors who cried for mercy with faint, piteous voices as his sword severed their heads.

  Just beyond the sailors ran a druchii corsair. Drunk with slaughter, Malus leapt after him, smoking sword held high. The corsair looked over his shoulder at his pursuer, his dark eyes wide with terror. Malus recognised the scarred form at once, but the withered face was a cruel mockery of Tanithra’s fierce visage.

  The sight brought Malus up short, reminding him of the reason he’d come to this cursed place. He watched her stumble across the broken land for a moment more, then shook his head and resumed his journey to the tower, more determined to reach the idol than ever.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE TOWER OF ERADORIUS

  There were no high walls or imposing gates guarding the Tower of Eradorius; the single dark portal at the base of the featureless structure beckoned almost welcomingly to Malus. Only the invisible currents of power coursing across his skin belied the illusion of safety. The closer the highborn came to the tower the more he felt the warping presence of the power contained therein.

  “Tread carefully, Malus,” Tz’arkan warned. This close to the tower the daemon’s presence seemed to pulse within him, waxing and waning to the beat of Malus’ heart. The most difficult task is yet to come.”

  The highborn frowned. “The Tome of Ak’zhaal says that Eradorius is dead.”

  “Perhaps, but his labyrinth still remains,” the daemon said. “Eradorius built a maze so subtle that he himself was trapped within it. Think on that and be wary, Darkblade.”

  “Spare me your feeble attempts at wisdom,” Malus sneered, crossing the last few yards between him and the tower and stepping through the open doorway. “A maze is naught but an exercise of the mind. Eradorius was mad. But I…” He fell silent, feeling a pall of dread settle over him.

  “Yes, Malus?”

  “Nothing,” the highborn snapped. “I grow weary of your taunts, daemon. Let’s see what secrets this labyrinth holds.”

  Past the doorway lay a short corridor that led to a space Malus first took to be an open-air gallery of some kind. Diffuse green light permeated the interior of the tower, seeming to come from every direction at once. Sword ready, the highborn stepped into the chamber.

  The room’s ceiling was lost in a luminous emerald haze. The highborn saw three doors of dark wood, one to the left, one to the right and one directly ahead of him. Door rings of polished silver gleamed in the light. Malus regarded each one in turn. As he did, he could not shake the sensation he was being watched, but he could not pinpoint its so
urce.

  “The doors are identical,” he said at last. “No markings, no tell-tale footprints in the dust. Nothing to show the proper path.”

  “All paths lead to the centre of the labyrinth,” the daemon whispered. “As you said, it isn’t a test of the feet, but of the mind. Are you certain you are ready to follow it to its conclusion? This maze is aware, Dark-blade. It studies you even as you study it. And it will destroy you if you let it.”

  The highborn laughed coldly. “If I let it? What sort of devious trap is that?”

  “Why, the very worst kind,” the daemon said, but Malus was no longer listening. Acting on impulse, he crossed the room in three quick strides and pulled open the door opposite the one he came in.

  Beyond was nothing but utter blackness, an emptiness so deep it pulled at him, drawing him into its all-encompassing embrace. Malus felt a cold wind on his face and he plummeted into blackness.

  A soft weight pressed against his side. Arms enclosed his chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath. Malus started, sitting bolt upright amid a tangle of silken sheets.

  The air was cool and fragrant with incense. The bed was low and broad, built for a druchii’s tastes and surrounded by layers of drapes to trap body heat. Through the sheer drapes Malus could see an arch of pale light opposite the foot of the bed. All else was plunged into shadow; the woman by his side moaned softly in her sleep and rolled languidly onto her back. The faint light limned a bare shoulder and part of one alabaster cheek. Her lips were strikingly red, as though painted with fresh blood.

  Malus reeled from the sight, stumbling awkwardly from the bed and landing naked on the dark slate floor. The icy shock of the cold tiles brought everything into sharp focus: he was in a richly-appointed bedroom somewhere in Naggaroth. How else to explain the furnishings, or the grey slate tiles, or the peculiar quality of the light streaming in through the drapes across the room?