[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm Read online

  “Masks on top of masks,” the highborn said, pressing the cured skin to his face. It fitted perfectly.

  Chapter Five

  RAIMENT OF BLOOD

  It was another two nights before the grand revel began. At Nagaira’s command, Malus was installed in one of the tower’s apartments and afforded every luxury. A steady procession of slaves presented themselves before him, bearing new clothes, weapons and armour. There were black robes of watered silk to caress his skin and fine outer robes of indigo-dyed wool and a kheitan of the toughest, most supple dwarf hide he had ever seen. An armourer from the Princes’ Quarter delivered a hauberk of fine mail and a fearsome harness of articulated plate that fitted over it. A weapon smith from the famous Sa’hreich forges appeared with an exquisite set of vraith and a human slave to test them upon. The sleek blades were forged with runes that kept the edges razor-keen and able to turn aside all but the most terrible sorcerous weapons without harm. Gifts fit for a prince and accompanied by every form of luxury he could imagine, from wine to flesh to exotic spices and vapours.

  Yet for all that, Malus understood that he was a captive.

  His every request to return to his own tower was met with a cunning denial. Nagaira claimed that he wasn’t yet fully recovered from the healing rites and needed to regain his strength. Then it was because his tower had lain unused for more than two months and needed to be prepared for his arrival. Then it was because the grand revel was imminent and the slaves couldn’t be spared to move his possessions until afterwards. Several times he lost patience with Nagaira’s calm protests, but each time he found himself quickly drained by any heated exchange of words. After a while he began to hope that it was because he was still recovering—the thought that she might have somehow magically rendered him unable to resist her suggestions was too awful a fate to contemplate.

  He had at least been permitted to meet with his retainers the day after the completion of the rites. From Silar he learned that they had been returned to Malus’ service the day that he had been given into Nagaira’s keeping and they had tried to take charge of him immediately thereafter. Nagaira had refused every attempt and there had in fact been points where Silar had considered bloodshed in order to rescue his lord. It was only after the failed assassination attempt in the witch’s tower that the retainer grudgingly admitted that he was better protected under Nagaira’s care than he would be in his own tower and further plans to retrieve him were abandoned.

  Unfortunately, their presence was intermittent at best. There was a palpable tension between Malus’ men and Nagaira’s; evidently word had spread about the deaths of Nagaira’s retainers in the north and somehow that translated into antagonism towards his own. Malus had too few retainers to countenance a violent rivalry between the two camps, so he was ultimately forced to dismiss Silar and the rest to his tower. Had Nagaira wished him ill she’d had plenty of opportunity to harm him already, though it was clear that she had embarked on a comprehensive campaign to keep him isolated from the outside world. For the moment, he was willing to bide his time and wait to see what her next move would be.

  “And what am I to wear to this… revel?” Malus frowned at Nagaira from a high-backed chair near one of the tower windows, sipping wine from his attempted killer’s skull. He looked out over the sharp spires of the city, wreathed in sickly nightfog. It struck him as odd that he felt his confinement more keenly in Nagaira’s possession than he ever did hanging from chains in the Vaulkhar’s tower.

  “Do as you will,” Nagaira answered with a fleeting smile. She stood before a tall mirror, attended by a pair of druchii slaves. Her hair was pulled back in a thick braid and bound in wire; tiny barbed blades glittered evilly from the rope of black hair. The witch’s naked body was covered in a spiralling tattoo she’d taken all day to paint; it reminded him of the marks she’d laid on her body before the raid on Urial’s tower, twisting and pulling at his eyes. This time, however, it seemed to shroud her in a dark allure and his blood raced with each passing glance. “Just leave that cold armour here—I think you’ll find it inconvenient before too long.” As the spoke the slaves slipped a silken robe over their mistress, binding it loosely with a belt formed of silver skulls.

  Grunting, Malus rose from the chair and pulled his kheitan from a dressing-chest. He could countenance leaving the plate and mail behind, but he wanted some measure of protection, even at a revel in his honour. By the time he was done buckling the light armour around his chest, Nagaira was regarding him from behind her own mask. It looked to be druchii hide like Malus’, pale and fine, with long strips of flayed skin around the temples that hung down past the witch’s shoulders. More tattoos traced arcane patterns across the mask’s cheeks, but these were more for ornamentation, Malus sensed, than any sorcerous purpose. “Ready?” she asked, her voice breathy behind her mask.

  “I’ve been ready, woman,” the highborn growled. “Didn’t this revel start an hour ago?”

  Nagaira laughed. “Of course. But you must be the last to arrive. Did your mother teach you nothing of society as a child?”

  “My mother was locked in the convent almost from the moment she arrived in Hag Graef. She had little time for revels.”

  His half-sister gave him a languid smile. “Then this will be an education for you,” she said, beckoning to Malus. “Come.”

  She led the way from her apartments, down the long, curving stair from her quarters near the top of her tower. The two highborn passed numerous armed retainers on the stairs, accoutred in full armour and holding naked steel in their gauntleted hands. For all her pride in her magic, Malus noted that Nagaira was leaving nothing to chance. If the temple sent their acolytes into the tower tonight they would pay a very heavy price.

  Other than the guards, the halls and stairways were deserted. Before, they had buzzed with activity as Nagaira prepared for the revel—the highborn hadn’t realised how many slaves his half-sister had owned until she’d set them scurrying to work like a swarm of ants. Now the silence and stillness of the tower was unsettling by comparison.

  The descent lasted several minutes, ending at last on the tower’s ground floor. The large, circular room was empty, save for a handful of guards standing watch over the spire’s ground floor entrance. The tall, double doors were the way in which most of the tower’s visitors came and went—everyone from slaves to traders and guests from the city. Now the doors were securely barred with lengths of cold iron set securely into heavy brackets on either side of the doorframe. The centre of the chamber was dominated by a tall, imposing statue of a druchii maiden and a crouching manticore, worked in imposing black marble. The expression on the maiden’s face seemed both inviting and menacing all at the same time—not that there were any guests to admire it.

  Malus cast a sidelong glance at Nagaira. “A fair turnout. I can’t say I was expecting any differently for a revel held in my honour.”

  Nagaira grinned, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Stupid boy. When will you learn that nothing in my demesne is what it appears to be?”

  With that she stepped forward swiftly, marching up to the towering statue—and disappearing inside it.

  Tz’arkan stirred. “A passable illusion,” the daemon observed. “It would appear that your sweet sister has a great many talents—sorcerously and otherwise. I wonder where she learned them all?”

  “Perhaps she has a daemon of her own to torment her,” Malus growled under his breath, then steeled himself to follow.

  There was nothing more than a slight tingle as he passed through the illusory image—he had to close his eyes at the last moment because he couldn’t quite convince himself that he wasn’t about to walk face-first into a massive piece of carved marble.

  A small hand on his chest brought him up short. When he opened his eyes he found that he was standing next to Nagaira at the top of a narrow, curving stair that disappeared below the floor. A circle of magical symbols enclosed the stairway landing and the air had a dusky shimmer to it. From
the corner of his eye Malus could almost make out the lines of the statue, seen from the inside out, but the illusion vanished the instant he tried to view it directly.

  “Well,” the highborn responded. What else haven’t you been telling me, dear sister?”

  “Come and find out,” she said, taking his arm.

  They descended into darkness, Malus’ booted feet echoing soft in the confined space. A faint smell rose up the stairwell, tickling his nose with its spicy odour. Just as he was about to ask where the stairs were leading, he turned another tight corner and found himself looking out over a large, subterranean chamber suffused with pale green witch-light.

  Figures awaited them, all concealed behind masks of flesh. These druchii stood in concentric rings surrounding the spiral stairs—six in the first ring, twelve in the next, eighteen in the one beyond that—all facing him and all raising their arms in a gesture of supplication as he appeared. They cried out as he approached, filling the chamber with an exultant chant in a language he could not comprehend.

  Beyond the masked circles lay a sea of writhing flesh.

  Scores and scores of slaves filled the rest of the chamber, sprawled on the stone in a drugged delirium or climbing over one another in the throes of desire. Braziers situated around the room filled the air with incense and mind-altering herbs. Malus’ heart quickened to see such a tempting feast laid before him. His skin tingled with each breath and for once even the daemon seemed to echo his kindled desire.

  The chants of the supplicants washed over him and trembled in his bones. It was like nothing he had ever felt before and it left him intoxicated. Is this what it is like to be worshipped, Malus thought?

  It was something he could grow to like.

  Nagaira continued down the stairs, drawing Malus along with her. At the bottom another figure waited—a druchii in robes of newly-skinned human hide, still glistening with blood. The surface of the robe was tattooed with intricate runes and spiral patterns and a censer steaming with a pungent kind of musk hung on a golden chain from the figure’s neck. Instead of a mask, the figure wore the skull of a great mountain ram, its bony snout hanging well below shoulder height and its long, curved horns gleaming like polished teak in the artificial light. The skull was painted with symbols and the figure’s tattooed hands held a goblet brimming with thick, red fluid that steamed in the air.

  The figure radiated a palpable aura of power and authority, one to which even Nagaira seemed to defer. Malus eyed the figure warily. This is no mere wine-soaked orgy, he thought. What have you drawn me into now, sister?

  As they approached, the figure raised the goblet, offering it to Malus. Nagaira led him to the cup and spoke, her voice pitched to carry across the cavern. “The Prince of the Revel is come! The cup is placed before him!” She turned to Malus, her voice still clear and carrying, but her words were focused directly to him. “Anoint yourself with the nectar of desire and inflame the hunger of your heart. Drink deep!”

  “Drink deep!” The masked figures intoned, their voices trembling with anticipation.

  “Yes. Drink.” Tz’arkan whispered. Did the daemon’s voice tremble as well?

  Moving slowly, as if in a dream, Malus reached out and took the goblet from the figure’s hands. It was heavier than he imagined and he raised it carefully; for some reason he feared to spill the thick, sloshing liquid. He raised the cup to his lips and drank.

  Hot blood filled his mouth, bitter and salty. It slid like oil over his tongue and down his throat and it filled him with hunger. Not just his desires, but the appetites of each and every supplicant who had poured some of his or her blood into the cup. If he closed his eyes he could almost see them in his mind, tasting their pleasure as they slaked their terrible hunger.

  Flesh. Food. Wine. Murder. Every appetite, every scintillating taste, reverberated through him in waves of heat and cold. His body shook and the supplicants roared.

  “Slaanesh! He is come! The Prince of Pleasure is come!”

  His consciousness tumbled like a leaf in the maelstrom of desire. Slaanesh! Malus’ mind reeled. Nagaira, you foolish girl, what have you done?

  Nagaira reached up and pried the cup from his grasp. He was surprised to discover that once he’d begun drinking, he hadn’t paused until the cup was dry. Streamers of anointed blood ran down his chin and stained the front of his kheitan. She raised it high and the exultation of the supplicants fell silent.

  “The Prince of the Revel has drunk deep and accepted the blessing of Slaanesh! Offer yourselves to him! Drink deeply of your desires and praise the Prince of Pleasure! Worship before the throne of flesh!”

  The supplicants roared with a single voice. “Slaanesh!” The name of the Ruinous God reverberated through the cavern until the air itself seemed to curdle with an unholy presence.

  Within Malus, the daemon seemed to swell until it filled him from head to toe, wearing him like an ill-fitting skin. It drew strength from the supplicants’ ecstatic cries, as though it claimed some of the worshippers’ devotion for itself.

  In that moment, Malus Darkblade felt like a god.

  Nagaira pressed against him, the heat of her nearly naked body radiating through Malus’ silken robes. She pointed to the glistening bodies beyond the circle of supplicants. “There lies your feast,” she whispered huskily. “All of it has been prepared in your honour, you who have stood before the Drinker of Worlds. And that is but a foretaste of the gifts that await you.”

  She reached out and propelled him forward. The ram-headed figure stepped aside and the rings of supplicants parted before him. He walked alone and as he passed each ring of worshippers he felt their hands caress him, strike him, claw at him with desire. Malus walked among them as a king, a god and he could feel their devotion to him surrounding him like a silken cloak.

  All his life he had known nothing but hate and it had sustained him like bitter wine. Now he tasted absolute power and he knew that he would do anything to keep it.

  It would not be enough to see his siblings destroyed and his father broken beneath his hand. It would not be enough to wear the armour of the Vaulkhar and go to war in the Witch King’s name. No amount of gold or slaves, no lofty title or terrible authority would ever be enough for him. The entire world might not be enough to slake the hunger that now seethed inside him.

  But he would feast upon it nonetheless.

  Thunderous laughter filled his ears—drunken, lustful and triumphant. He could not be sure if it was his or the daemon’s, but it mattered not one whit as Malus revelled in the delicacies that the Prince of Pleasure laid before him.

  Malus lay upon a bed of moaning bodies, his naked skin hot and streaked with sweat and blood. His dark hair was matted with wine and other fluids and his nerves sang with the effects of the drugged smoke and whetted desires. The air shuddered with release: whispers, moans, screams and cruel laughter, all mingled in a storm of sybaritic devotion. Every breath filled his lungs with a thick musk of drugs, blood, sex and wine. It was the taste of ecstasy and the highborn was surprised to find that it sharpened his mind like nothing ever had before.

  He understood, among other things, why the Witch King had outlawed the Cult of Slaanesh among the druchii. The cold doctrine of Khaine was one thing—hate shaped the soul and sharpened it like a sword and like a sword it could be wielded against the enemies of the state. But desire was something else altogether. It had no limits, nor could it be shaped to suit the whims of a king. Hunger had no respect for states or boundaries—it existed to consume all in its path. Such hunger, when directed at the king on his throne, was a dangerous thing indeed.

  Though legends claimed that the Prince of Pleasure was once the centre of worship for the peoples of lost Nagarythe, when the druchii made their way to Naggaroth the Witch King murdered the priests and priestesses of Slaanesh and elevated the Lord of Murder instead. Though cults of Slaanesh were said to linger amid the great cities of the Land of Chill, the Witch King’s agents ruthlessly persecuted them, e
xecuting any worshipper they could find and enslaving their families as well. The thought that such a cancer lay unseen in the Vaulkhar’s household brought a cruel smile to Malus’ lips.

  Of course, Nagaira had only trusted him with this knowledge because now he was tainted as well. Malekith would make no distinction between family members if the cult was uncovered, from Lurhan the Vaulkhar on down. The question was why. Clearly his half-sister had been part of the cult for some time; indeed she appeared to enjoy considerable rank among its members. Yet she had been utterly circumspect prior to this. If she’d wanted to initiate him into the cult it would have been easy to do so—he was brutally honest with himself and recognised that the taste of desire he’d felt tonight would mark him forever. In fact, if it weren’t for the daemon’s damned hold on him he had little doubt that he would have joined the cult gladly and then worked to manipulate it to his ends.

  Ironically, he was certain that Tz’arkan was the reason that the cult wanted him in the first place.

  Dimly Malus sensed the presence of other druchii surrounding him. He stirred slightly, glancing about with half-lidded eyes. Half a dozen supplicants approached him with a mixture of deference and fear. Malus remembered little of the last few hours—it had been a tempest of gluttony rapine and slaughter. As prodigious as his own magically fuelled appetites had turned out to be, he had also been aware that the daemon had driven him to even deeper depths of depravity. The supplicants behaved as though he were Slaanesh incarnate and he allowed that he had probably come as close to the Prince of Pleasure as any of the cultists had witnessed before.

  One of the supplicants bowed low before him. She was entirely naked save for her mask, her pale skin dappled with patches of dried blood and vomit. Like Malus, her black hair was matted with the fruits of her excess. “Is the wine sweet, my prince? Is the flesh tender and delectable? Are the screams melodious? Are your desires sated by this grand feast?