[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin Page 7

  The passage through the gate was shorter than he expected, barely twelve feet from one end of the tunnel to the other. Beyond lay a small courtyard paved with flagstones of polished slate and bounded by statues of imposing druchii knights and rearing dragons. Above them loomed the sharp-edged towers of Malekith’s citadel and the vassal lords of his warband, casting a deep shadow over the weary travellers. As Malus led Spite into the courtyard he felt the weight of a terrible gaze fall upon him; for a moment he felt like a rabbit caught in the shadow of a swooping hawk, and cold, unreasoning terror seized his heart and turned his muscles to ice. Even Spite felt it, causing the massive warbeast to sink onto its haunches and snap its jaws at the empty air. Just as quickly as it struck, the terrible pressure eased, and Malus caught the hint of a sinuous shifting amid the thick shadows that lay across the paving stones. He stole a glance upwards and caught a faint hint of motion, as though a great serpent were coiling about one of the citadel’s tallest towers. Then he glimpsed the outline of a long, narrow head silhouetted against the moonlight, and a pair of glowing red eyes that brooded over the dark city with lordly disdain. A black dragon, Malus realised with a shudder. His jaw gaped at the terrible sight.

  Malus was so caught up with the sight of the fearsome beast that he paid no heed whatsoever to the highborn that awaited them in the middle of the courtyard until he spoke. “Are you certain you have the right man?” the highborn rasped in a powerful, commanding voice. “He looks like a corpse.”

  The highborn’s tone snapped Malus out of his reverie. He saw the Endless sliding from their saddles and watched the masked warriors bow their heads respectfully to the druchii lord, who returned the gesture with a disapproving scowl. Exhaustion and spite emboldened Malus’ tongue. “Lord Nuarc, I presume?”

  “Did I give you leave to open your damned mouth, boy?” Lord Nuarc snarled. He was a tall and powerfully built druchii, clad in enamelled plate armour ornamented with gilt etchings and potent runes of protection over a skirt of shining ithilmar mail. His paired swords were masterworks, their pommels set with rubies the size of sparrow’s eggs and resting in scabbards decorated with ruddy gold, and a cloak of glossy black dragonscale hung about his broad shoulders. Even without the thick gold hadrilkar circling his neck it was clear that he was a powerful noble and a member of the Witch King’s personal retinue. His sharp nose was scarred in two places by sword-strokes, and a star-shaped dimple of scar tissue on the side of his neck spoke of the spear thrust that had ravaged his voice. The druchii’s black eyes shone with keen wit and hinted at a will stronger than steel. His black hair, streaked with grey, was pulled back from his lean face and bound with a band of gold.

  “He can be no other, my lord,” said one of the warriors, speaking in a voice eerily identical to the witch Malus had spoken with in their time on the road. “We found him in the forest near Har Ganeth as you said. By his name the shades knew him.”

  Malus leaned back and reached his hand beneath the flap of his saddlebag. The idol’s icy surface burned against his fingertips. He tried to visualize a spot back along the road, someplace near woods and hills where he could lie low and plan his next move.

  Nuarc looked Malus over again and shook his head. “I wouldn’t have believed it.” He looked the highborn in the eye. “How did a shrivelled wretch like yourself kill Lurhan of Hag Graef?”

  “With a sword. How else?” Malus sneered, his ire getting the better of him. If Nuarc was expecting excuses or snivelling pleas for mercy he was going to be disappointed. “People have a habit of underestimating me, Lord Nuarc. I tend to make them regret it.”

  Nuarc studied Malus for a moment, then nodded appraisingly. “Brave but stupid,” he declared. “I suspected as much.” He frowned at the highborn. Take your hand out of your bag, boy” he snapped. “We didn’t bring you all this way to steal your trinkets.”

  “No, you brought me here to hang me at the crossroads,” Malus shot back. “Am I supposed to feel grateful that you won’t steal my possessions until after I’m dead?”

  “Dead?” Nuarc exclaimed. “If the Witch King wanted you dead you and I would be having a very different kind of conversation right now.” His lip curled in disdain. “For the moment, Malekith simply wishes to speak to you.”

  Malus had to stop and replay Nuarc’s words in his head. “He wants to speak to me?” he echoed. His exhausted mind couldn’t make sense of what he’d been told.

  “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, boy” Nuarc growled. “Now get out of that damned saddle. The Witch King knows you’ve arrived, but I won’t send you to the Dragon Court

  looking like some flea-bitten autarii.”

  Nuarc’s iron-tinged rasp galvanized Malus’ near-senseless body into motion. Before he was fully aware of it he was climbing down from Spite and standing uneasily on the slate paving stones. As if on cue, a pair of beastmasters with ornate kheitans and beast prods appeared from the shadows, ready to take charge of the sullen nauglir.

  “Follow me,” the warlord commanded, and turned on his heel. Malus, his mind reeling from the sudden change in circumstances, quickly cinched up the saddlebag containing the relics and stumbled after Nuarc.

  What was going on, he thought as he followed the warlord through an ironbound door into the citadel proper. Again, the words of his mother echoed in his mind. Seek the amulet in the lightless halls of the Fortress of Iron.

  What did she know that he didn’t?

  Nuarc led him to a cold, austere apartment in one of the citadel’s towers—it might have been the warlord’s own keep, as far as Malus knew—where a trio of silent, efficient servants waited to make him presentable for an audience with the Witch King. They stripped away his battered armour and kheitan, as well as his stained and tattered robes, and laid out food and wine while they drew a steaming bath to wash away the dust of the road. He ate like a wolf while he waited for the hot water to be poured, eyeing the wine wistfully but leaving the bottle untouched. His wits were addled enough as it was.

  While he waited a pair of masked warriors slipped silently into the apartment with his bags piled in their arms. Malus masked his fear with a curt nod and quickly checked them after they’d gone. For a wonder, nothing had been disturbed.

  Perhaps I’ve fallen asleep in the saddle and this is all a bizarre dream, he thought. Nothing else makes much sense.

  The servants scrubbed him industriously and said nothing about the fresh scars on either side of his torso where Urial’s sword had run him through, nor did they show concern for the web work of black veins that ran from his right hand all the way across his shoulder and up the side of his neck. No doubt the servants were spying on behalf of someone—or several someones—but there was little Malus could do about that. Let them make their report. He doubted it could make his situation any more precarious than it already was.

  The food and the hot water preyed upon him, making his eyelids droop. Malus splashed a bit of water on his face and tried to concentrate on the facts at hand. In retrospect, his treatment at the hands of the Endless now made a bit more sense. He hadn’t been their prisoner at all, just a highborn who had been summoned to the Witch King’s court with all dispatch.

  And now this, Malus thought, his weary gaze sweeping around the apartment. He wasn’t being treated like a guest, necessarily, but certainly as something more than an outlaw. So what could possibly account for that, the highborn thought?

  The obvious answer was that Malekith wanted something from him. Something that couldn’t be got using the end of a red-hot iron or a torturer’s knives.

  He waved the servants away and leaned back in the tub. He eyed his bags piled near the door. Was it the warpsword? He tugged thoughtfully at his lip. From all indications it appeared that Malekith had never received word of the uprising at Har Ganeth, so as far as he knew the blade still rested in the Sanctum of the Sword back at the temple. And even if he did know the truth, it wasn’t as though the Witch King needed his permission to ta
ke it.

  Or did he? Since he’d drawn the sword, did that mean no one else could claim until so long as he lived? Malus grinned ruefully. It wasn’t as though that would be much of a problem for Malekith either.

  What then did he possess that Malekith couldn’t simply take from him? He went over everything Nuarc had said in the courtyard outside the citadel, looking for clues as to why he’d been summoned. All Nuarc had seemed to care about was Lurhan’s death. The highborn’s brows knitted in thought. Could that be it?

  Other than his half-brother Isilvar, who now held their father’s rank and properties, Malus was Lurhan’s only male descendant. And while he was now an outlaw and stripped of any claim to Lurhan’s legacy, Isilvar had secretly broken the Witch King’s laws as well. Both Isilvar and their sister Nagaira had been members of the cult of Slaanesh; indeed, Malus strongly suspected that Isilvar had been the cult’s Heirophant inside the city. After the cult had been exposed and most of its members killed, Malus suspected that Lurhan had discovered his son’s involvement and covered it up.

  Had Malekith found out? If so, there was no one left who could offer proof… except for him. Malus steepled his fingers beneath his chin. That was an intriguing possibility indeed.

  The door to the apartment banged open and Nuarc swept inside like a storm wind, scattering cowed servants like leaves. “This isn’t some damned flesh house, boy,” the warlord growled disdainfully. “Get dressed. The Witch King is waiting.”

  Gritting his teeth, Malus rose from the tub and did as he was told. He heard Nuarc let out a surprised hiss as the warlord got a look at the daemon’s handiwork, but the druchii lord asked no awkward questions.

  The servants had laid out a fine set of black robes and a court kheitan of soft human hide. Hands plucked at his head; he rounded on the servants with a snarl, belatedly realizing the servants were trying to comb his long, tangled hair. Frowning irritably, he let them finish their work and bind the hair back with leather and gold wire.

  There was no armour to replace his old harness, and certainly no paired swords to wear at his hip. It was clear that Malekith’s interest was entirely conditional. The new outfit he wore would look just as fitting hanging from an iron pole as it would at court. “All right,” he said grimly, pulling on a pair of new boots. “Lead on.”

  On the way out the door, Malus spared one last look at his piled baggage. He tried to reassure himself that if Malekith wanted him dead the Witch King wouldn’t have bothered to give him the opportunity to unpack.

  Malus followed Nuarc through a maze of dark, empty corridors, each one as silent as a tomb. Witchlamps set in iron sconces cast solitary pools of light along the way, making the darkness seem even deeper and more oppressive. Before long the silence began to prey upon Malus, setting his nerves on edge. There was none of the hectic bustle he was accustomed to at the citadel of Uthlan Tyr, drachau of Hag Graef. Though it was the centre of power for the entire kingdom, the Iron Fortress was cold and still, filled only with echoes.

  At first he’d tried to memorize their route, but after a quarter of an hour’s worth of twists and turns he gave it up as a lost cause. Like the city outside the fortress, there were no landmarks by which to navigate; only those who belonged there had any hope of finding their way. Malus couldn’t imagine how long one had to wander these funereal halls before they gave up their secrets.

  Lord Nuarc found his way effortlessly. Within half an hour they passed through an archway into a long, empty chamber lit by massive witchlamps suspended by chains along the arched ceiling. Here Malus began to notice the furtive movements of other druchii: masked Endless, nobles going about the business of state, temple bureaucrats and scarred, nervous servants, all gliding quietly through the shadows to and from the Witch King’s court. All made way for the brisk, commanding stride of Lord Nuarc, who swept past them without so much as a nod.

  One long chamber led to another. In most druchii cities a drachau’s audience chamber was divided into two spaces: the throne room proper and the lower room, where lesser highborn and common folk waited in hopes of a brief audience with their overlord. Here Malus counted no less than four lower chambers, each one large enough to hold a thousand druchii or more. Each room was slightly more ornate than the first; bare walls of polished black marble gave way to statues of druchii princes clad in the raiment of lost Nagarythe, which in turn gave way to titanic columns of red-veined basalt and bas-reliefs of mighty battles between the druchii and their foes. The final lower room was dominated by a tremendous flame that rose in a hissing, seething pillar in the centre of the chamber. The shifting light picked out threads of silver and gold in ancient, enormous tapestries that told of Malekith’s suffering in the fires of Asuryan and the Seven Treacheries of Aenarion.

  At the far end of the fiery vault stood a pair of iron doors twenty feet high, engraved with the sinuous forms of rearing dragons. The twin drakes seemed to glare down at Nuarc and Malus as they approached the Witch King’s throne room. Four of the Endless stood watch at the doors with bared blades in their hands. They bowed as Nuarc approached and gave way before their master. With a single backwards glance at Malus, the warlord placed his hands on the great doors and pushed. The massive iron panels swung open on perfectly balanced hinges, throwing a rectangle of shirting blue light across a floor of gleaming black marble.

  Nuarc stepped into the chamber, head held high. As Malus crossed the threshold he felt Tz’arkan contract fiercely around his heart, his power drawing back from his limbs like a swiftly receding tide.

  Step carefully here, little druchii, the daemon hissed. And remember that there are worse things than death.

  Beyond the doorway the Court of Dragons was all but devoid of light. The change brought Malus up short, leaving him near blind and intensely vulnerable in the space of a single step—an effect that of course could only be deliberate. As his vision adjusted to the gloom he saw that he was standing at one end of a surprisingly small octagonal room, barely thirty paces across. Again, after the lofty space of the previous chambers Malus couldn’t help but feel the weight of the dressed stone walls pressing in on him. All around the perimeter of the room stood huge dragons carved cunningly from onyx, their wings spread like cloaks as they bowed in obeisance before the tall dais at the far end of the room. There, in shadows as deep as the eternal Abyss, glowed a pair of red-orange eyes that shone with the banked fire of a furnace.

  The huge iron doors swung silently shut behind Malus, plunging the chamber into darkness. Malus felt the burning gaze of the Witch King upon him and bowed his head in genuine fear and dread.

  Nuarc’s voice rang out in the blackness. “As your dread majesty commands, I have come with Malus the outlaw, formerly of the house of Lurhan the Vaulkhar, late of Hag Graef.”

  The voice that replied sounded like nothing formed from a living throat—it was as hard and unyielding as hammered iron, the words rumbling out like the hot wind from a forge. “I see you, kinslayer,” the Witch King said. Malekith shifted slightly in the darkness, causing red light to seep from between the seams of his enchanted armour. “Did you think to escape my wrath, Malus Darkblade? Your father was sworn to my service, and lived and died by my command alone. There can be no forgiveness for such a crime.”

  Silence fell. Malus blinked owlishly as he considered the Witch King’s words. Was this some kind of test? He shrugged, wondering if Malekith could see the gesture. “As you wish,” he replied.

  There was the sound of steel rasping against steel, and more ruddy light outlined the segments of the Witch King’s form. “Will you not beg for mercy, kinslayer? Will you not bow down before my throne and treat with me, offering all that you possess if only I would stay my wrath V

  The suggestion took Malus aback. “Am I to believe that you would be moved by such a pathetic display? Do I seem so foolish as that?” he said, his tone indignant. “I think not. You are the Witch King. Who am I to persuade you of anything? If you mean to exact your vengeance upon
me, then so be it.”

  “Kneel, then, and show your fealty to me!

  Malus gave the Witch King a bitter smile. Part of his mind gibbered in terror at his effrontery, but he’d suffered enough humiliation at the hands of Tz’arkan to last a dozen lifetimes. “Only a vassal bows his knee,” the highborn said. “But I am a vassal no longer. I am an outlaw now, by your own decree.” He squared his shoulders, drunk on suicidal defiance. “So I believe I would rather stand.”

  The red eyes narrowed, and Malus knew he’d gone a step too far. He drew a deep breath, believing it to be his last—when suddenly a woman’s laughter, rich and cruel, rang from the darkness beside the throne.

  Pale green light flickered to life across the throne room, kindled in the depths of witchlamps set in iron stands arrayed around the chamber. Again, Malus was momentarily disoriented, his defiance forgotten. Through slitted eyes he dimly perceived a tall, black throne at the top of the dais, and upon that seat of barbed iron he glimpsed the terrible visage of Malekith himself.

  But it was the laughter that drew the highborn’s eye. A woman was gracefully descending from the dais, clad in black robes as befitted a druchii witch or seer. She was tall and regal, with features that seemed cruel even in the depths of her mirth. White hair fell past her waist, wound with gold wire and delicate finger bones. Her dark eyes flashed with a cold, draconic intellect, her stare cutting through him as cleanly as an obsidian knife.

  “Tell me,” she said, her voice belling out in the same cold tones as the witches of the Endless, “do you come by such reckless courage naturally, or does it come from the daemon curled around your heart?”

  Chapter Seven

  THE EMISSARY

  The Witch King leaned forward upon his barbed throne. Visible heat radiated from the seams of his armour, blurring the air around him. “Daemon?” Malekith hissed, his burning eyes narrowing further. Behind Malus, just a few steps from his left shoulder, he heard the cold rasp of steel sliding from its scabbard.