Warhammer - Darkblade 04 - Warpsword by Dan Abnett
Malus shrugged. “I don’t know for certain, but I expect it will involve a bit of bloodshed.”
“Remember what I said,” Rhulan whispered. “Everyone knows the sword cannot be defeated in battle. You must find another way to best Urial and take the blade from him, and once in your possession it must never be used, by you or anyone else. Swear it!”
The highborn gave the elder a bemused look. “As you wish, Arch-Hierophant.”
Rhulan nodded. “Good. Very good. When you have the sword, bring it to me, and you will be well rewarded.”
Malus fought to keep his expression neutral. What are you playing at now, he wondered?
Before he could inquire further, a faint sound echoed from the dark passageway to Malus’ left. Everyone in the antechamber froze upon hearing it.
“What is that?” the priestess whispered, clutching her axe.
The sound faded, but the echoes still lingered in Malus’ mind. Setting his jaw, he slowly drew his sword.
“It sounded like a howl,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
THE ABODE OF THE DEAD
The cry came again — a thin, almost despairing sound that wound faintly down the corridors of the crypt. The Khaineites shared apprehensive looks.
Malus looked to Arleth Vann. The assassin drew his twin blades, his expression tense. “Whatever it is, it’s coming this way,” the retainer said.
“Could it be a wight or a guardian spirit?” the highborn asked.
Rhulan answered, a quaver of fear in his voice “We built these tombs to contain the dead, not give them free rein.”
“Then I believe Urial has come looking for us,” Malus growled.
Mereia rose gracefully to her feet. “What do we do?”
“You and Rhulan get out of here. Now.” Malus said. “We’ll buy you as much time as we can.”
The howl echoed down the eastern passage once again — then dissolved into a chorus of shrieking gobbling cries that seemed to draw nearer by the moment. Galvanized by the horrific sounds, Rhulan, Mereia and their escorts dashed for the western corridor. The tattooed elder gave Malus a comradely nod as she passed. “Kill one for me,” she said, drawing a vicious grin from the highborn.
Rhulan’s parting look was far grimmer, as he paused at the mouth of the passageway and turned his gaze on the highborn. “Remember what I said,” he said. “The future of the temple depends on it.”
“I’ll do what must be done,” Malus said gravely. “Count upon it.” Providing I live through the next ten minutes, he thought.
He was in no shape to fight, of that alone he was certain. The wound in his chest ached when he moved, and his limbs felt clumsy and weak. Unbidden, he thought of the daemon. A taste, just the merest taste of Tz’arkan’s power would make all the difference.
Could he take one more sip from the font of corruption without losing himself forever? He could bargain with the daemon. He could ask for just enough to get through the next battle, and no more. He could do that, couldn’t he? If he died here, in the depths of this goddess-forsaken crypt, his soul would belong to the daemon anyway. Was it not better to live in corruption than to die and be enslaved forever?
The cries of the hunters drew nearer, and Malus felt all too keenly just how trapped he’d become.
More sounds emanated from the darkness: wet, slithering sounds, punctuated by the dry scrabbling of claws. One of the loyalists let out a frightened cry and shrank from the passageway. “Blessed Murderer deliver us,” he said, his voice cracking with strain. “We’re all going to die!”
The words sent a tremor through the assembled Khaineites, but the axe-wielding priestess let out a derisive snort. “Speak for yourself, wretch,” she said, spinning the haft of her weapon in her hands. “I’m going to live long enough to make the bastards pay for what they’ve done.”
Arleth Vann chuckled. “Never underestimate the power of sheer, bloody-minded spite,” the assassin said. “Isn’t that right, my lord?”
Malus thought it over. A wolfish smile spread across his face. “Truer words were never spoken,” he said, hefting his sword. “We’ll meet them at the threshold,” he said, the words coming briskly as a plan of action took shape. “Whatever’s coming I’d rather face them one at a time.”
The loyalists took heart from the highborn’s fierce demeanour, readying their weapons and rushing to form a tight semicircle around the open doorway. The sounds of the approaching hunters stalking down the narrow passageway grew louder and more terrible: a cacophony of slithering galloping, clawing madness that sent chills down the highborn’s spine. Suddenly he was reminded of the twisted Chaos beasts that he fought in Urial’s tower, many months past. As bad as those things were, this sounded a great deal worse.
The roiling tide of unnatural motion swept down on them in an avalanche of unsettling noise. Then it suddenly stopped. The druchii stared vainly into the cave-like darkness, more unsettled than ever.
An eerie stillness hung in the air, setting Malus’ nerves on edge. He glanced at the man on his right. “Fetch me one of those lamps,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. The loyalist nodded and quickly snatched a lamp from the base of a broken statue. The brass vessel was hot to the touch as it was pressed into the highborn’s hand.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Malus said, hurling the lamp down the passageway.
The palm sized lamp tumbled end over end, its tiny flame guttering until it struck the stone floor and broke apart. Orange fire whooshed into life as the wick ignited the spreading oil, revealing the hunters in all their horror.
There were three of them, their bulk so great that they could not stand side-by-side in the narrow, bone strewn corridor. Firelight shone on glistening, gelatinous flesh, shot through with thin, black veins and throbbing with unnatural strength. They had lean, powerful bodies similar to those of lions, their broad paws tipped with glossy, black claws, but their heads were like bloated octopi. The closest one to the fire reared back on its paws, its soft, bulbous skull pulsing with rage as it lashed the air with eight long, whip-like tentacles. Hundreds of suckers lined each tentacle, each one fitted with a barbed hook for trapping and shredding prey. At the centre of the mass of tentacles a cruel, glossy beak snapped furiously at the offending flame, unleashing a torrent of thin shrieks and gobbling cries.
The man beside Malus screamed like a child, and the Chaos beasts attacked.
The lead hunter bounded over the pool of flame and leapt for the screaming man, as if drawn by the sound. Its tentacles made a whirring sound in the air as they lashed at the terrified druchii. One slashed across the man’s face, shredding the skin and muscle beneath as if they were rotted cloth. The stench of brine and rotted meat filled Malus’ nostrils, making him gag. More tentacles wrapped around the hapless druchii, in the blink of an eye, enfolding him and pulling him from his feet. Wet, tearing sounds emanated from within the writhing web of fleshy ropes, and the druchii’s frenzied screams of agony made Malus’ blood run cold.
“Kill it!” Malus cried. “In the Dark Mother’s name, kill the thing!” He slashed at the beast’s shoulder with his sword, but the creature’s gelatinous flesh was deceptively strong, and his blade rebounded as if he’d struck solid oak. Arleth Vann darted at the thing, unleashing a flurry of stabbing blows. The blades sank barely an inch into the creature’s flank, producing thin streams of clear, foul-smelling ichor.
Blows rained down on the creature from all sides. The priestess aimed a fearsome, two-handed blow at the creature’s bulbous skull, but the axe blade left only a shallow cut in the heaving flesh. Undeterred, the Chaos beast continued to rip its victim apart. Blood poured from between the thrashing tentacles.
More tentacles whirred through the air, this time from the left side of the doorway. Malus heard a strangled scream and turned to see another man lifted from his feet by a second Chaos beast that clung to the wall of the passage like a spider. One broad paw had reached around the edge of th
“Mother of Night!” Malus cursed fearfully. They didn’t stand a chance against these things. “Run!” he shouted to his dwindling band. “We can’t stop them!”
The loyalists needed no convincing. They broke and ran for the western passage with barely a backward glance. Malus, Arleth Vann and the priestess were the last to break away, leaving the creatures to consume their prey. Though powerful, the beasts didn’t seem to be much smarter than hunting hounds, easily distracted by the smell of blood, which suggested that their handlers were probably somewhere close by.
They were barely halfway across the antechamber when the third beast raced along the right wall of the passage and bounded heavily into the chamber, its tentacles waving sinuously as if it was tasting the air for prey.
The priestess let out a defiant scream and the beast oriented on her at once. Thinking quickly, Malus let out a war scream of his own and the beast turned to face him, spreading its tentacles wide and showing its clashing beak. The highborn raced for the nearest wall as the beast gathered itself and leapt with a keening wail.
It landed less than five paces from Malus, reaching for him with a blur of fleshy whips just as the highborn grabbed up the second of the three oil lamps and flung it at the creature’s head. The lamp burst apart, covering its bulbous skull with blazing oil, and the beast recoiled with a tortured shriek as its wet flesh sizzled in the flame. The highborn took no time to savour the hurt he’d caused. The moment the beast was distracted he ran for the western passage as fast as his feet could carry him.
Malus plunged into near-total darkness without the faintest idea where he was going. He sensed he was in another narrow corridor, the twin of the passageway to the east. Somewhere up ahead he heard faint shouts, so he gritted his teeth and ran towards the sound. His feet struck a pile of spilled bones and he stumbled through the remains, cursing under his breath. Thin howls echoed behind him as the hounds began sniffing for new prey.
He reached a crossroads lit by patches of grave mould and paused, his heart hammering in his chest. The shouts seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, overlaid with the unsettling cries of the Chaos beasts. Thinking quickly, he glanced at the stone floor and saw hints of wet tracks following the passage to the left.
The highborn ran on, swallowed once again by suffocating darkness. The passage curved before he knew it and he bounced along the wall for several feet before it straightened out again. A piercing cry rang out behind him. It sounded as if one of the hounds had reached the crossroads, just a dozen yards or so away. Malus broke into a run, not caring if he ran headlong into another wall.
After another dozen yards the passageway opened into a larger, broader antechamber, bordered by half a dozen crypts and connecting three other passageways. Malus’ heart leapt when he saw a small globe of green witchfire glowing at the mouth of the southern corridor. Arleth Vann beckoned to him urgently. “Hurry, my lord! They’re right behind you!”
An impertinent reply rose to his mind, but Malus elected to save his laboured breathing for more important work. Sharp daggers of pain shot through his chest as he struggled to breathe, and whenever he stood still it felt as if the chamber would start to spin. Focusing his will, he took the deepest breath he could and ran on.
The assassin took the lead, racing down the twisting passageway as fleet as a deer. Arleth Vann pulled steadily away from Malus, even as the sounds of the pursuing hounds drew closer. He could hear their wet, slithering strides and the click of their claws on the stone as they bounded steadily closer.
Malus could only utter a breathless curse as the retainer darted around a sharp corner up ahead, taking the faint light with him. The sounds of pursuit echoed all around him, and he found himself dreading the whip-like touch of the hounds’ lashing tentacles against his back.
He was so focused on the sounds behind him that he missed the turn ahead, crashing against the wall hard enough to lose what meagre wind he had. He rebounded from the stone and reeled like a drunkard with the gobbling cries of the hunters punishing his ears.
He staggered a handful of steps around the corner, and found another long corridor glowing with patches of mould. A broad, jagged fissure ran across the passageway.
Arleth Vann was nowhere to be seen.
Grunting against the pain and loss of air, Malus lurched down the hall. He could hear the whirring of the tentacles. The hounds were just around the corner.
“My lord!”
Malus started at the sound. The assassin’s voice was coming from the fissure. “Down here!” The retainer said. “Quickly!”
There was no time to argue. The first hunter rounded the corner with a wailing roar and Malus threw himself at the fissure. Fierce pain bloomed in his chest as he hit the stone floor and half-slid, half-rolled into the jagged opening. Clawed tentacles scraped the stone just a hand span behind him.
Malus felt a powerful sense of vertigo as he tumbled over the edge. The fissure was no mere cleft in the ground. It was a narrow crevasse, plunging deep into the earth. Arleth Vann let out a warning shout as Malus flailed desperately at the close-set, irregular walls. Pain bloomed in his knees and elbows as he managed to wedge himself tightly enough to stop his fall. His boots hung over empty space, leaving Malus giddy with fear.
“My lord!” the assassin cried from above. “Are you all right?”
“Just fine,” Malus snarled. “These jagged rocks managed to break my fall.”
A sharp howl echoed in the darkness and clawed tentacles lashed against the sides of the crevasse as one of the hunters tried to reach its prey. “Keep going down!” the assassin shouted. “The beasts won’t be able to reach us.”
A tentacle slapped the wall of the crevasse less than a hand span from Malus’ head. The highborn frantically groped about with the toes of his boots, trying to find some kind of foothold, but nothing gave him enough purchase.
Then Malus felt a sharp impact as one of the beast’s tentacles struck him in the cheek. Another tentacle brushed against his neck. With a desperate shout the highborn relaxed his limbs and plummeted into blackness.
Strong hands pulled at Malus’ shoulders, rolling him onto his back. His eyes fluttered open, and then snapped shut as a jagged pain lanced through his chest. The highborn bit back a tortured groan, hearing the sound echo in the space around him.
“My lord?” Arleth Vann said. The assassin bent close, examining Malus’ chest. “You’re bleeding again. I think you tore your wound open in the fall.”
“Where in the Dark Mother’s name are we?” he panted, forcing his eyes open again and peering around in the subterranean gloom. Faint witchlight played on smooth walls and square beams, hewn from living rock. The stone ceiling of the passage was split crosswise by a ragged cleft, its edges still spilling a faint spray of earth from his long, uncontrolled plunge.
“We’re safe, for now,” the assassin said. “The hunters can’t fit into the deft, and their handlers won’t abandon the beasts to come after us alone. They might even think we’re dead.”
Gritting his teeth, Malus tried to sit upright, but another flare of sharp-edged pain forced him to abandon the effort with a frustrated snarl. He pressed his hand to his left side and it came away sticky with fresh blood. “They may not be all that far wrong,” he snarled, “but that doesn’t answer my question. Where in the Dark Mother’s name are we?”
“We’re outside the Lodge of the Delvers,” Arleth Vann said, reaching his hands under Malus’ arms. Slowly, carefully, he pulled the highborn upright. “There may be only a handful of people left in the temple who even know this place exists.”
Biting back waves of pain, Malus allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. The
Arleth Vann helped Malus down the passage, towards the waiting portal. As they came closer, Malus could see that the surfaces of the doors were elaborately carved with underground scenes. Short, stout figures with braided beards came and went in fantastic scenes of subterranean splendour, bringing riches from the deeps and crafting them in works of cunning and art in a wondrous city chiselled from stone. It was like nothing the highborn had ever seen before.
He reached out and touched the surface of the doors, and the massive stone slabs swung inward on perfectly balanced hinges, revealing a broad, low-ceilinged room. A number of bare stone tables stood inside the chamber, each one short and broad. Four were arranged on each of the long sides of the room, their feet facing another, more ornately carved table in the room’s centre. Another set of double doors stood at the chamber’s opposite end.
Malus frowned. “This is where the temple keeps its dwarf slaves?”
“In a manner of speaking,” the assassin replied. “This is where the builders of the temple were entombed.”
The retainer helped Malus into the room, leading him to the central table and leaning the highborn against it. “The elders entombed their dwarf slaves?” Malus asked, unsure at first if he’d heard the assassin correctly.
Arleth Vann nodded. “It was a singular honour, a reward for their labours. Surely you noticed the craftsmanship of the building?”
“I had rather a lot on my mind at that point, but, yes, I noticed,” Malus replied irritably.
“That was just after the schism,” the assassin said, surveying the room appreciatively. “With the dissenters driven out or slain, the first elders began work on the great temple in earnest. Over a hundred and twenty dwarf slaves laboured to build it, and construction took almost half a century. When the building was complete and the warpsword installed in its sanctum, the elders had the dwarfs build this splendid mausoleum for themselves. They told the delvers that their work had earned them a place of everlasting honour among the faithful, and that their spirits would be venerated for all time.”