[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm Page 32

  The highborn’s eye caught a hint of movement in one of the chamber’s shadowy corners. He looked about hurriedly for a weapon and saw his swords draped across an expensive divan near the bed. The sword rasped icily from its scabbard as he launched himself across the room towards the source of the movement. For a fleeting instant he thought he saw the shape of a hooded figure, little more than a deeper shadow among the dark folds of the hanging drapes, but when he reached the corner there was no one there. Malus probed the heavy drapes with the point of his blade, but no one lurked within their depths.

  Malus turned back to the bed dominating the large room, unable to shake a strange feeling of foreboding. Without thinking, he crossed to a nearby table and plucked a goblet of wine from a silver tray. He’d set the wine there just before bed; he could remember it clearly, as though he’d done it only moments before, but the very act of touching it felt wrong somehow.

  “Come back to bed, you scoundrel,” the woman said, her voice sending a shiver down his spine. “I’m cold.”

  He could think of nothing he wanted more than to return to her side and breathe the scent of her creamy skin—but even that held an undercurrent of foreboding that he couldn’t explain. “I… I thought I saw something.”

  To his surprise, she laughed at the thought. “Are you jumping at shadows? Here in the Vaulkhar’s tower? Even the Drachau is not so well protected as you now.”

  Malus froze, the goblet half-raised to his lips. “What did you say?”

  He heard her turn onto her side, silk rippling across her bare skin. “Not even the Drachau is as well protected as you are. Surely you realise this? No one else would dare move against you now. Isn’t that what you’ve been working towards all these years?”

  Malus carefully set the goblet on the tray, fearful that it would drop from his nerveless fingers. Moving as though in a dream, he walked to the window opposite the bed and pulled the heavy drapes aside.

  Watery grey light flooded into the room. Beyond the narrow window Malus saw the blade-like central spire of the Drachau’s citadel. It loomed only a few storeys taller than the tower the highborn watched from—a cluster of smaller spires rose in a black thicket below, comprising the towers of the Vaulkhar’s household.

  He stood in Lurhan’s tower, not his own. Was this the Vaulkhar’s very bedchamber? His heart went cold. This was wrong. Terribly, lethally wrong. “I shouldn’t be here,” Malus said to the woman on the bed.

  The light from the open window shone against the hanging curtains surrounding the bed, rendering them opaque. He heard her body whispering against the sheets and imagined her sitting up, wrapping one arm around her knees. “You didn’t complain last night,” she said with a breathy chuckle. “What difference does one day make? Tonight the Drachau will put the hadrilkar around your throat and then this will all be yours in truth.”

  She moved again and this time Malus saw the silhouette of her body take shape as she crawled closer to the sheer curtains. “I doubt anyone will gainsay your taking ownership of Lurhan’s possessions a day early,” she said. The curtains parted and he saw her, outlined in pale sunlight. She reached for him with a slim hand.

  Malus felt his mouth go dry. Terror and longing seized him with equal strength. Desire raced along his nerves like fire. “My brothers will kill me for this,” was all he could manage to say.

  Her violent eyes regarded him quizzically. “Your brothers? They wouldn’t dare,” she said with a laugh. “You were the one Lurhan chose above all the rest.” She smiled, her red lips pouting wryly. “And to the victor go the spoils.”

  Malus’ hands ached. He looked over to see his fist clutching the thick drapes in a white-knuckled grip. Terror washed through him in waves, even as a part of him reacted to her words with insatiable lust. He took a step, then another and then he was running across the room, reaching for the gleaming silver ring set into the dark-panelled door to the left of the bed. She called after him as he pulled the door wide, sending a spear of longing through him as he plunged into the darkness on the other side.

  He smelled blood and the stink of ruptured bodies.

  The chamber was close and hot with the presence of so many bodies, living and unliving. Sorcerous fire boiled from the broken vessel of a witchlight high on one wall of the hexagonal room. Broken by a flung missile in the furious battle, the wild flames set monstrous shadows capering across the smooth walls.

  Uthlan Tyr lay on his back, his sightless eyes staring towards the ceiling as the last of his life blood pumped from the terrible wound in his chest. His sword dangled from one half-open hand. Malus looked down on the Drachau and felt a hot rush of triumph mingled with fear. The Drachau’s servants and retainers lay scattered about the room; Malus’ retainers had taken them entirely by surprise, hacking them apart in an explosion of carefully planned violence. Tyr and his men never stood a chance.

  There was a sound permeating the thick walls of the chamber—it was the muffled voices of a thousand noble throats, rising and falling like the surf. In the centre of the room stood a suit of elaborate plate armour on a stand of blooded oak. Silar Thornblood and Arleth Vann waited by the harness, their faces splashed with gore and their eyes alight with the heady rush of battle.

  Malus wore simple robes and an unadorned kheitan. There was no hadrilkar around his neck, nor was there the familiar weight of a pair of swords at his hip. Greenish light played on the razor-edge of the blade in the Drachau’s stiffening hand. Without thinking he reached for it, but a voice cut through the thick air, bringing him up short.

  “Do not touch the Drachau’s sword,” the voice said. It was deep and even, surprisingly calm in a room that reeked of the battlefield. “Take nothing from him nor let his blood stain your clothes, or the ancient armour will consume you.”

  Malus turned at the voice. A hooded figure stood by his side, his form concealed beneath heavy black robes. An aura of icy power radiated from the man, taking the highborn aback. He began to ask the man who he was, but an all-too-familiar sense of foreboding made him pause. The figure turned to regard him, the cold voice washing over him from the blackness beneath the hood. “Your triumph is not yet complete, Vaulkhar. The highborn of Hag Graef await. Don the armour and accept their fealty and then no one will be able to challenge your rule.”

  The highborn turned back to the ornate harness. On a nearby stand rested the great enchanted draich that the Drachau carried during the ritual of the Hanil Khar. All at once he knew where he was—how many times had he dreamt of this very moment? How often had he languished in his tower and planned how he would seize the city for himself in the fullness of time?

  Fear gripped him. He looked back at the hooded figure. “Am I dreaming?”

  “Ask the Drachau if this is a dream,” the figure replied. “No doubt he wishes it were so.” The figure stepped closer. This is real. You have made it so, Malus. Do you doubt yourself now, on the verge of your greatest triumph?”

  The highborn took a deep breath, trying to master the doubts that threatened to overwhelm him. What had the hooded man said that had frightened him so? Something about time?

  He knew what awaited him. Once he donned the armour the highborn of the city would bow before him as their Drachau and offer their yearly fealty to him, thinking he was Uthlan Tyr. Once the oaths were sworn, they would belong to him and his usurpation would be complete. With dreamlike languor he stepped to the arming stand and let his retainers begin fitting the harness to his body. Each piece that locked into place sent a thrill of power tingling along his skin.

  Malus longed to surrender himself to the feeling of that power, but part of his mind shrank from it. He tried to focus on what was wrong, but realisation eluded him, slipping like quicksilver through his grasp. As they fitted the ornate breastplate into place he turned and looked back at the way he’d come.

  Just as he did so Malus caught sight of another hooded figure—this one wearing robes and an indigo-dyed kheitan—who stepped back into the
darkness beyond the doorway. A frisson of pure terror struck him like a knife. “There!” he said, pointing at the archway “A man skulking at the threshold!”

  Arleth Vann rushed silently to the doorway, knives glinting in his hands. He peered into the darkness. “There’s no one there, my lord,” he said, shaking his head.

  “There was a man, damn you! I saw him with my own eyes!” Malus’ hand clenched into a fist. “He saw… he saw everything!” He knows, Malus thought fearfully. He knows I’m not who they think I am. The realisation made his blood run cold. “We have to stop him.”

  As he spoke he felt Silar slide the vambraces onto his arms and lock them in place. Then came the helm, settling like a crown of ice onto his brow. The hooded figure stepped forward, holding up a curved piece of silver steel. “Put on the mask,” the figure said. “Wear it and no one will know.”

  Malus felt the mask lock into position over his face. His breath rumbled through the mask’s vents and steam rose before his eyes. Heat suffused his limbs and the air around him took on a crimson sheen. Once again, he felt a surge of power so sweet his body ached in response, but at the same time he felt cruelly exposed.

  The hooded figure turned, gesturing towards a narrow staircase that curved along the wall and rose into darkness. Malus moved to the steps, dimly aware of his retainers bowing their heads in supplication as he passed. High above waited the dais and the great throne where he would preside over the unknowing throng and accept their devotion. Unbidden, his feet began to climb the steps. The muted roar of the assembled throng called to him, promising him power and glory—everything he had craved for so long.

  So long, he thought. So much time.

  Malus stopped. “Time,” he said to himself. He looked back at the hooded figure on the steps behind him. “This is an illusion.”

  “Time is an illusion, Malus,” the hooded figure replied. “You have crossed the river and stand upon its shore, remember?”

  The highborn shook his head, forcing himself to remember through sheer effort of will. “This isn’t real. This isn’t really happening. I’m lost in the labyrinth.”

  “You are wrong,” the hooded one said. This is entirely real. You made this happen, Malus. Is this not what you always wanted, deep in the darkest places of your heart?”

  The highborn staggered, falling back against the hard-edged steps. “Yes,” he said, the word rumbling from the mask. “Is this my future?” he whispered. “Does this glory await me in years to come?”

  For a moment the figure regarded him in silence. “All this and more.” The figure pointed past Malus, to an opening at the top of the stairs. Blackness lay beyond. “Go forth and claim your destiny,” he said.

  The roar of the throng washed over him, tugging at his soul. Malus let himself be pulled along, climbing the stairs into the darkness.

  The heavy flaps of the tent fell away from his armoured form and Malus stepped into the cool, salt air. Rising before him were the tall cliffs of Ulthuan and a forest of spikes rose from the sloping ground in between. More than five thousand elven warriors writhed on those gore-stained spikes, singing a chorus of agony to the fire-tinged sky. The sight staggered him; it was breathtaking in its glory. For a moment he was overwhelmed at the vista of torment spread before him, but then, bit by bit, he became aware of the great pavilion, bordered by tall banner-poles bearing the colours of the Six Cities and the armoured champions standing guard around the tent. He looked down and saw that he wore the rune-carved armour of the Drachau and a shock passed through him.

  This was his army. Naggaroth had marched to war and as tradition demanded, the Drachau of Hag Graef marched at its head. This terrible victory belonged to him.

  Malus strode from the tent, his stride clumsy on the fine, white sand. As far as he could see along the curving shore there stretched the largest druchii army he had ever seen. Thousands upon thousands of warriors, all busy at their tasks preparing for the next battle ahead—every one serving at his whim. “Blessed Mother,” he breathed. “Let this all be true.”

  “It is,” a familiar voice said behind him.

  Malus turned. The hooded figure stood some distance away. “Why do you show me these things?” the highborn asked.

  “I? No. This is your doing. These are the truths the labyrinth has revealed to you.”

  The highborn took a step forward. “So you admit it! I am still in the tower and this is all illusion.”

  “You are in the tower of Eradorius and you are on the shore of Ulthuan,” a hint of impatience in its icy voice. Time and space have no power over you. You see what your mind wishes you to see. No more. No less.”

  “And what are you? Are you the guardian of this place?”

  The figure made no reply.

  Malus sneered at the figure’s silence. “Is this how you guard the tower’s secrets? By plying me with sweet visions of future success?”

  “Success?” the figure echoed. “Do you imagine your tale ends in triumph, Malus Darkblade?”

  Malus’ sneer faded. Cold fear gnawed at his guts. “What do you mean?”

  Before the figure could reply the flaps of the pavilion tent parted again and Malus saw a knot of armoured men issue forth, their expressions grim. He saw Silar and Dolthaic among them, their faces bearing the scars of war, but recognised no one else. They approached him swiftly, their eyes darting this way and that. They have the look of conspirators, he thought, one hand edging towards the knife hilt at his belt. Yet what would it gain them to conspire against me?

  Then he realised. When the armies of Naggor marched, they did not do so alone.

  Silar was the first to reach him. When the retainer spoke, his voice was strained. “You cannot put off the Witch King’s summons forever,” Silar hissed. “You must act, now, or all is lost!”

  “Act?” Malus frowned. “What would you have me do, Silar?”

  Before Silar could reply, Dolthaic stepped between them. “Do nothing rash, my lord!” he said. “You have given Malekith a great victory today! He can’t suspect you!”

  The highborn’s mind whirled as he tried to grasp the events unfolding before him. Suspect him? Did Malekith have cause to suspect anything? Yet even as he asked the question, the answer rose unbidden.

  Of course he does.

  Silar pushed Dolthaic aside. “What does it matter if he suspects or not? After what you have done today the entire camp is offering sacrifices to your name! Malekith won’t countenance a threat to his rule, real or imagined. When you go to his tent, you must be prepared to strike! Now, while the army is behind you! Think of what you might achieve!”

  A riot of emotions raged in Malus’ breast. “Shut up,” he said. “Both of you just shut up and let me think.”

  His mind reeled. It’s an illusion, he thought. It doesn’t matter, he tried to tell himself.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  He tore his eyes away from the pleading looks of his men, his gaze wandering across the crowd of armoured retainers—and just as he did he caught sight of the hooded man slipping away from the rear of the group and stealing silently across the sands.

  “A spy,” he said, his eyes widening with shock. He pointed at the man. “Stop him!”

  Silar and Dolthaic turned, following the panicked gesture. Dolthaic looked back at Malus, his brow furrowing with concern. “What spy? There’s no one there.”

  “Are you mad? He’s right there!” Malus raged, but the men were blind to the retreating figure. Some kind of foul sorcery, Malus thought. He’s watched me from the beginning. He knows my secrets and he’s going to betray everything to the Witch King!

  The shock of his fear hit him like a physical blow and he realised at that moment how terrified he was of having the glories he’d seen taken from him. And then he thought he finally understood the peril of the sorcerer’s labyrinth. The guardian had made his deepest desires come true—and it was going to use them to destroy him.

  Malus shoved his way through the press o
f men, drawing the knife from his belt. He stumbled through the ankle-deep sand, eyes fixed on the back of the hooded man as he disappeared around the side of the pavilion. The highborn bent every iota of his will into forcing his legs to work, gaining speed to keep the guardian from reaching Malekith’s tent.

  The highborn rounded the corner of the pavilion and caught sight of the hooded man again, now just a few yards away. He moved calmly and quietly, unaware of Malus bearing down upon him like a hunting hawk. The highborn’s face twisted into a vicious snarl. The fear he felt—and the ferocity it lent him—was almost exhilarating in its intensity. You’re not going to expose me, he thought furiously. You’re not going to show me for what I really am!

  He leapt upon the figure, knocking him down. The man barely struggled, apparently stunned by the impact. Malus rolled him over, pressing his knife to the man’s throat.

  “You think me a coward?” Malus drove the knife downward, feeling the hooded man’s throat begin to part beneath the blade. “You think me weak, a flawed thing like the rest of my family? How strong are you, then, with my knife digging into your neck?” He laughed wildly at the thought. His face was inches from the darkness within the hood. The man lay still, offering no resistance. “Just as I thought. It is you who are the weakling! You are the coward, skulking and scheming in the shadow of your betters! Let us see your face, guardian! Show me your real guise, or must I drag your guts across the sand in order to compel you?”

  The hooded man did not move. Anger flared fever-bright in Malus’ breast. “Do you hear me, weakling? Show yourself. Show yourself!”

  He ground the knife deeper into the man’s throat. The very air seemed to shimmer around the form, rippling like a disturbed pool.