[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin Page 8

  Malus felt sharp talons sink into his heart. It might have been a warning from the daemon or it might have been a sudden rush of fear. Regardless, he took a few moments to master his composure before he answered the seer’s question.

  “My recklessness is the very reason there is a daemon inside me, Lady Morathi,” he said. He kept his gaze focused straight ahead, fearful of what else the seer might unearth from the depths of his eyes.

  Morathi glided past him, circling him slowly. He could feel her icy gaze sweep over him, reminding him of the passing stare of the dragon in the courtyard outside. “You are no sorcerer,” she declared, “despite your parentage and the rumours of forbidden practices performed by your siblings.”

  “It is a curse, dread lady,” Malus said quickly. The daemon entrapped me while I was on an expedition into the Chaos Wastes.”

  “Entrapped? To what purpose?” the seer asked, as lightly as if she were inquiring of the weather. Her cold, unnatural voice was sweet, but like any polished tone it was brittle. If it broke, Malus dreaded to hear what lay beneath.

  “It is entrapped in turn, dread lady, inside a crystal far to the north. I have been given a year to perform certain tasks to gain its freedom, or else my soul is forfeit.”

  “Did one of those tasks involve killing your father?” Nuarc growled.

  Malus glanced over his shoulder at the warlord, glad for any excuse to look away from the throne. “Not directly, no,” the highborn said. “Lurhan simply got in my way.”

  “The daemon forced you to do this?” Malekith inquired.

  Malus couldn’t help but frown. Where was all this leading? “Forced? Certainly not, dread majesty. I am master of my own fate. But the circumstances were… complicated.” The highborn tried to think of a way to explain things, but gave up with a shrug. “Let us just say it wasn’t my choice. I did what I had to do.”

  Lady Morathi appeared on Malus’ left side, still studying him intently. They were close enough to touch and the force of her presence was tangible, like a cold razor being drawn delicately across his skin. She radiated power in a way that not even his mother Eldire did. Her face was youthful, her features regal and severe; she was handsome rather than classically beautiful, with a broad face and a rounded chin that was almost square rather than pointed. Her eyes were like windows onto the Abyss, drinking in everything around her. “Does this daemon have a name?” she asked, her lips quirking in wry amusement.

  She knows more than she’s letting on, Malus thought. She’s testing me, seeing how much I know. Again, he affected a shrug. “If it does, it hasn’t shared it with me,” he said. “Why would it? Wouldn’t that give me power to control it?”

  “Daemons go by many names,” Morathi said. “But only one true name, which they hide as best they can.” She stepped forward, pinning him with her gaze. “What does this daemon call itself when it speaks to you?”

  “Itself? Why, nothing,” Malus replied sourly, “although it has more than a few choice names for me!

  Malus heard a harsh bark of laughter from Lord Nuarc. Morathi stared at him for a moment more, a faint smile quirking the corners of her mouth. “I have little trouble believing that,” she said, then turned back to the dais. “It explains much,” she said to the Witch King as she climbed the stairs to take her place beside the iron throne.

  The highborn shook his head in consternation. “From my perspective it explains nothing, dread majesty. Why have I been brought here, if not to answer for my crimes?”

  A rumbling hiss escaped from Malekith’s horned helmet. “Oh, you shall answer for what you have done, Darkblade,” the Witch King said. “But the payment shall be of mine own choosing.” Malekith stretched an upturned hand to the ceiling. “Observe.”

  There was a ponderous groan of machinery overhead. Malus glanced upwards and saw a dark, circular opening in the centre of the domed ceiling. With a thunderous rattle of heavy iron links a spherical shape descended from the opening. First the witchlight picked out curved bars of polished iron, formed into a cage or basket large enough to hold a grown druchii. At first Malus thought the cage was meant for him, but as it sank closer he saw the greenish light reflecting on a huge, uncut crystal held within the iron frame. Suddenly the highborn realised what it was. “The Ainur Tel,” he hissed.

  Malekith nodded slowly. “The Eye of Fate! he said. “One of the few relics of power brought with us out of Nagarythe millennia ago, carved from the root of the world in aeons past.”

  The great crystal was lowered on four massive chains, sinking into the room until it hung directly before Malus’ eyes. With a clash of gears the chains locked in place, and a mote of faint, white light began to glow within the crystal’s depths. Slowly the light began to pulse, like the beat of a tremendous heart. The glow intensified with each beat, growing in strength until the huge crystal shone like a pale sun. Malus could feel its energies washing over his skin in turgid waves, setting his nerves on fire. It was all he could do not to recoil from the legendary relic. Only by a supreme effort of will did he manage to still his shaking limbs and look unflinchingly into the light.

  Morathi’s voice called out to him from the dais. “Stare into the eye, son of Lurhan,” she said. “Cast your gaze a hundred leagues to the north.”

  Frowning, Malus stared fixedly into the white glare. At first he saw nothing. His eyes grew weak and his lids fluttered—then all at once the harsh light faded and Malus saw blurry images take shape within the crystal. He saw a single, blackened watchtower rising above a bleak and desolate plain. The walls of the keep were blasted and broken and the single gate had been smashed aside, buried beneath a mound of twisted, misshapen bodies. Moonlight shone on the armoured bodies of druchii warriors in the tower’s courtyard, and Malus imagined many more in the burnt-out shell of the citadel itself. Hundreds of horned beastmen and savage, tattooed marauders lay among the fallen defenders, struck down by crossbow bolts or pierced by axe or sword. It was clear to him that the watchtower had been taken by storm, its warriors overwhelmed in a single, savage assault.

  Within moments the vision blurred and reformed again. The image showed another watchtower, this one standing atop a rocky hill above a swift-flowing river. Again, the walls of the keep were blackened by fire, and the fortifications were gouged and torn as though clawed by monstrous hands. Armoured corpses were splayed across the battlements, and Malus could see a knot of charred corpses where the last of the citadel’s defenders made their final stand at the foot of their burning tower.

  The image shifted again. Malus was shown another ruined watchtower. His bemused frown deepened into a look of genuine alarm. He glanced worriedly at Morathi—and by the time he looked back at the glowing crystal it was showing yet another border keep that had been put to the torch. This one had been attacked within only a couple of days; tendrils of smoke still rose from the fires smouldering in the wreckage of the tower. Malus’ eyes widened as he saw the rubble of the watch-tower gate, crushed beneath the weight of a giant whose naked body had been riddled by the tower’s powerful bolt throwers.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Malus exclaimed. Raiding parties of Chaos-tainted savages riding out of the Wastes was an ever-present threat, which was why there was a line of watchtower keeps along the northern frontier. But raiders went out of their way to avoid the towers as much as possible rather than spend their strength against them. “I’ve never heard of a border keep being overrun, much less four of them,” he said. A sudden thought sent a thrill down his spine. “Is this an invasion?”

  The Witch King pointed at the relic. “Behold.”

  This time when the vision cleared Malus saw a sky full of fire. A dark tower stood against the backdrop of a burning forest, and beneath that roiling, flame-shot sky raged a horde of howling monstrosities that crashed in a frenzied wave against the watchtower’s battered walls. Spear tips glinted atop the battlements and axes flashed as the beleaguered defenders hacked at scaling-ropes or fended off ladders thro
wn up by maddened beastmen and furious, blood-soaked barbarians. Crossbow bolts flickered in a black rain from the tall watchtower, wreaking havoc among the ranks of the enemy, but for every attacker that fell it seemed that three more rushed to take its place.

  Huge shapes waded through the raging horde: hunched, misshapen trolls and terrible giants dragging clubs made from gnarled tree trunks. As Malus watched, twin streaks of light sped from the top of the watch-tower and struck one of the giants squarely in its muscular chest. In an instant the huge creature was wreathed in unnatural green flame—the terrible, liquid dragon’s fire both prized and feared by druchii alchemists and corsairs alike. The giant reeled in agony, beating clumsily at the hungry flames consuming its body and throwing off gobbets of sizzling, burning flesh that fell upon the Chaos marauders swirling about its huge feet. Malus imagined the furious cheer that no doubt rose from the battlements as the giant staggered, its face melting and its mouth open in a roar of mortal agony as it toppled onto a herd of onrushing beastmen with an earth-shaking crash.

  But the assault did not falter. Other giants lumbered to the watchtower gate and began to batter it with their clubs, seemingly heedless of the stinging bolts that prickled their thick hides. Sorcerous lightning rent the burning sky and flocks of hideous, winged daemons swooped over the battlements, plucking spearmen from the ramparts and dropping them to the stones fifty feet below. Packs of snarling trolls reached the base of the walls and began to climb atop one another to reach the defenders, their beady black eyes glinting hungrily.

  Another bolt of dragon’s fire arced from the watch-tower, striking one of the giants at the gate and setting it alight. The monster dropped its club and stampeded back through the oncoming horde, sowing carnage with every step, but the damage had already been done. Pulverized stone and shattered fittings spun through the air as the remaining giant smote the gate with its club and smashed it to the ground in a cloud of dust and debris. Into the breach swept the tide of savage marauders, and Malus snarled with impotent rage as he saw that the keep was doomed.

  “Bhelgaur Keep has fallen,” Morathi declared, and the vision within the crystal faded to darkness.

  Malus’ mind raced as he tried to make sense of what he’d seen. “I’m not familiar with Bhelgaur or any of the other keeps you showed me, but if they neighbour one another then that horde has torn a hole in our frontier defences more than sixty leagues across,” he said darkly. There must be tens of thousands of them.” He shook his head in terrible wonder. “Such a thing isn’t unheard of in the so-called Old World of the humans, but here? It’s unimaginable.” The highborn turned to the Witch King, his former defiance and suspicion momentarily overcome by the glamour of war. “What more do we know of these invaders, dread majesty?”

  But it was not the Witch King who replied. “Their scouts crossed the frontier almost a month ago,” Nuarc said tersely. “Then came a flood of raiding parties, perhaps twelve or eighteen in number. Four of the watchtowers were struck within days of one another and their defenders put to the sword. Then the raiding parties came together into a single warband and marched on Bhelgaur Keep, the western anchor of our border defences.”

  “That puts them within a few days’ march of the Tower of Ghrond,” Malus exclaimed. If they made it past the Black Tower then the Chaos host would be at the northern end of the Spear Road

  and less than two weeks’ march from the walls of Naggarond itself.

  It was a full-scale invasion the likes of which Naggaroth had never seen before, the highborn realised at once. And it had struck the Land of Chill at the worst possible time, with the campaign season still underway and at least two-thirds of the nobility at sea or away from home. Now Malus understood why the Witch King hadn’t marched on Har Ganeth when he’d learned of the uprising. What was more, he knew all too well how badly weakened the armies of the druchii were after the fighting in the City of Executioners and the brief but savage feud between the Black Ark and Hag Graef.

  “But why now?” Malus said. “Other than small raids the tribes of the Wastes have never warred against us. Who is leading this horde, and what does he want?”

  Morathi eyed the highborn coldly. “What, indeed?” she said.

  At some unspoken command the doors to the throne room swung open, and Malus heard limping, shuffling footsteps slide across the polished floor. He turned -and his pale face twisted into a grimace of revulsion at the horrid figure lurching towards him.

  The highborn’s pallid skin was greenish-grey in the witchlight, darkening to a purple-black around the deep wounds in his forehead and neck. His armour had been savaged by blows from axe, sword and talon, scoring deep lines across his breastplate and tearing his right pauldron completely away. The noble’s mail skirt was rent in a half-dozen places, and the robes beneath were stiff with rotting blood. Half of his left hand had been shorn away by a heavy blade, and his right arm ended in a chewed stump just above the elbow. Malus reckoned by the stench that the highborn had been dead for almost a fortnight.

  Every inch of the noble’s battered armour was covered with intricate runes, apparently inscribed with the druchii’s own blood. His eyes were a ghostly white—no pupil or iris could be seen, and they glowed with sorcerous life under the gleam of the witchlights. The corpse, escorted by a pair of masked warriors, shambled towards Malus, apparently heedless of his presence. Hissing in disgust, the highborn backed away—and the revenant stopped, his head turning at the sound. Blind white eyes searched for Malus. The corpse’s slack lips twitched as it tried to form words.

  Malus’ hand went to his hip, reaching instinctively for a blade that was no longer there. He glanced over his shoulder at Nuarc, who glared balefully at the animated corpse. “What in the name of the Dark Mother is this?” he cried.

  “This,” Nuarc growled, “is Lord Suharc. His watchtower, near as we can tell, was one of the first to fall. Eight days ago a patrol found him stumbling along the Spear Road

  , and they followed him all the way to the gates of Naggarond itself.” The warlord’s hand tightened on the hilt of his drawn sword. “He came bearing a message from the master of the Chaos horde.”

  Before Nuarc could speak further Morathi’s voice rang across the hall. “We have done as you wished, revenant,” she said. “Malus of Hag Graef has been found and stands before you. Now deliver your message.”

  The seer’s command left Malus dumbstruck. But the revenant was galvanized by the news. With a sudden burst of energy the corpse stumbled towards him, reaching for the highborn’s face with what remained of his ruined hand. Malus recoiled from the creature with a startled cry—only to fetch up against Nuarc, who grabbed the highborn by the back of the neck and shoved him rudely at the oncoming creature.

  Cold, stinking flesh closed about Malus’ face. He felt the splintered bones of the highborn’s hand dig into his cheek as the revenant clumsily studied the shape of his features. With a savage cry the highborn wrenched free of Nuarc’s grip and shoved the corpse away. It staggered backwards a few steps but did not fall, turning instead to face the iron throne. Air whistled through the pulped gristle of the revenant’s throat as it filled its shrivelled lungs. When the corpse spoke its voice was a bubbling, croaking hiss, and Malus reeled in terror at the hideous sound. Bad enough that the words issued from the throat of a man long dead—worse still was the awful realization that the voice was one he knew all too well.

  “You hold your salvation in your hands, Witch King,” Nagaira said, speaking through the revenant’s ruined throat. “Even now your watchtowers lie in ruins, and my army marches on the Black Tower of Ghrond. The power of the Black Ark is broken, and Hag Graef has been dealt a crippling blow. Your kingdom lies upon the brink of ruin—unless you give this outlaw to me.” The revenant raised its mangled hand and pointed to Malus. “Deliver my brother, and the war ends in a single stroke. Otherwise the Tower of Ghrond will burn, and Naggarond will follow. Make your choice, Witch King. Naggaroth will burn until you do.” br />
  A rumbling hiss echoed from Malekith’s sealed helm. “I have heard enough.”

  There was a rustle of movement and a flash of steel. The Endless drew and struck the emissary at the same moment, their swords slicing the revenant apart. As the head and the severed limbs struck the floor they burst into hissing flame, filling the chamber with a searing stench.

  Malus swayed on his feet, still thunderstruck at all that had transpired. His half-sister had worshipped Slaanesh in secret for many years, but after he’d betrayed her to the Temple of Khaine months before she had escaped and sworn revenge on him. She had made obscene pacts with the Ruinous Powers that had granted her daemonic powers, but now this…

  “Now the matter is clear,” Morathi said, fixing Malus with an appraising stare. “It is not you she wants, son of Lurhan. She is after the daemon inside you. No doubt she believes that she can bend it to her will.”

  With supreme effort the highborn got hold of himself. “No doubt you are right, dread lady,” he said shakily. And who knows, he thought fearfully. Perhaps Nagaira can.

  But that mattered little to Malus just then. His eyes darted about the throne room, taking in the position of the Endless and trying to gauge where Nuarc was standing. He had to escape, and quickly. Could he reach the warlord and take the druchii’s sword? Could he call upon the daemon’s strength to fight his way free? If he could somehow reach Spite he might have a chance…

  Malus heard footsteps close behind him, crossing slowly from right to left. “The Endless can be ready to ride within the hour,” Nuarc said, sounding near enough to be speaking in the highborn’s ear. “Now that we know where the Chaos horde is, we can give this witch what she wants and see them on their way.”

  The highborn whirled, reaching for the warlord -only to find Nuarc’s sword point less than a finger’s width from his throat. Nuarc chuckled cruelly, shaking his head. “Not so fast, boy,” he said. The witch didn’t say anything about you getting to her in one piece, so if you want to keep your hands and feet you’ll hold as still as a statue.”