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Deathblade: A Tale of Malus Darkblade – Extract

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ONE

The enemy of your enemy is your friend.

The words reverberated through the drachau’s brain like rolling thunder. Sharp. Persistent. Insinuating. They spoke to him with an intensity beyond that of simple speech. No sound could convey the depths of meaning and suggestion entwined within them.

The drachau stiffened in his throne of polished malachite and hydra-hide, feeling the dried scales of the seat creak beneath his weight. From the corner of his eye, he gazed longingly at the tiny whalebone table and the bottle of dark wine resting atop it. The promise of release was almost too great to resist. A few glasses and he could silence the slithering inside his skull.

Malus crushed down the urge, strangled it before the merest flicker of his desire could betray itself in his features. The wine would indeed ease the turmoil inside him, but the price for such peace was too high. More than the dark presence boiling inside him would be stifled by the brew. His own wits would be dulled, his own senses retarded by the liquor. He couldn’t afford that, not now when he needed every last dreg of cunning his mind could conceive.

Look at it, Malus. Look at that simpering bag of vice and corruption. Listen to it scheme and plot. Is this petty intrigue the best you can aspire to? You who have walked in the realms of the gods themselves!

The drachau’s eyes narrowed as he studied the elf who knelt before his throne. He watched the ripple that passed through the thin spider-silk cape draped across the druchii’s shoulder each time the elf drew a breath. He scrutinised the subtle play of hue and texture in each scale of the elf’s hauberk. He inspected the quality of the swords thrust through the elf’s dragon-skin belt, the craftsmanship of the engraving on hilt and pommel. His nose drank in the smell of exotic spices and perfumes exuding from the elf’s pale skin and long dark hair. His ears deciphered the practised tonalities and courtly inflections laced into each word.

Yes, everything was there. The druchii crouched before him looked, smelled and sounded the part. If there was deception here, it had been very carefully prepared. Not so long ago, Malus would have still entertained his doubts. A clever enemy would take such pains and invest such care into a plot against him. Now, however, he doubted there was anyone within Naggaroth who had the patience for such delicacy of deception. There simply wasn’t the time for such games any more.

Naggaroth was a land besieged, tearing itself apart in the wake of an unprecedented invasion from the north. A tide of human barbarians, beastmen and daemons had exploded from the Wastes and smashed their way through the ring of watchtowers that guarded the borders of the druchii. There had been no warning, the sorcery of Ghrond and Morathi had failed to alert Naggaroth to its peril. The hosts of Chaos had descended, slaughtering all they confronted, despoiling and destroying everything in their path.

The time for games was over. All the craft and subtlety, the scheming and politicking, all of it was over. A new age was come upon the elves of Naggaroth, an age of crisis and cataclysm, an age that demanded actions, not words.

It was a call to action that had been brought to Malus. As drachau of Hag Graef, he was the most powerful of all the dreadlords, his armies second only to those of Naggarond itself. No, Malus corrected himself, the armies that bent their knee to his banner were mightier now than those who served the black flag of Naggarond. To the soldiery of Hag Graef had been added the warriors of vanquished Naggor and the refugees from Clar Karond, to say nothing of entire tribes of shades who had abandoned the wilds to seek sanctuary within the spires of the drachau’s city. As Malus expanded his forces, those of the Witch King had lessened, bled away by constant conflict against the barbarians and monsters seeking to conquer his kingdom. How many thousands had been killed to break the horde of the daemon-thing Valkia? How many more had been lost on that long march to Ghrond to seek a reckoning with the treacherous Morathi?

Your star rises, Malus, but beware. The star that burns brightest is the first to be extinguished.

Malus gripped the arms of his throne, feeling the cold of the malachite beneath his fingers. He nodded to the messenger, the highborn emissary who had brought him the most tantalising proposition. In every line of the messenger’s face he could read the smug arrogance of breeding and privilege, the surety of one who has had his every whim obeyed without question. By using such a messenger, the one who had sent him was displaying before Malus the magnitude and severity of what he was being offered.

‘You may tell her ladyship that I will meet with her and her confederates,’ Malus decided.

The messenger raised his eyes, just that little spark of condescension betraying itself at the corners of his gaze. ‘The tzatina was certain her offer would appeal to your lordship.’ He bowed his head again. ‘Is there any message you wish me to convey to her?’

‘I will send my own message to Khyra,’ Malus said. In a single, impossibly swift motion, the drachau sprang from his throne and lunged at the messenger. The highborn was quick, fast enough to raise one hand in a warding motion while he reached with the other for a dagger cunningly sewn into the lining of his cape. Malus drove the black edge of his sword down through the messenger’s hand, the enchanted metal ripping through the elf’s mail as though it were butter. Fingers danced across the floor as Malus brought the Warpsword of Khaine shearing through the messenger’s arm and into the druchii’s breast. As blood bubbled over the dying highborn’s lips, the dagger he’d been trying to free from his cape clattered against the ground.

Malus stared down at the bloodied carrion. Breeding and position counted for nothing now. The time for such frivolities was over. All that mattered was ability and ruthlessness, the vision to see and the power to take.

‘Silar!’ Malus called out as he wiped the edge of his sword clean with his victim’s cape. From the shadows of the audience chamber a tall, powerfully built elf marched into the fitful witchlight cast by the overhanging lamps. Like the recently slain messenger, he wore an elaborate cuirass of steel scales and there was upon his face the similar qualities of breeding and nobility. There, however, the resemblance ended. Silar Thornblood was of Hag Graef and none of the sons of the Hag sneered at Malus Darkblade; even in their innermost thoughts they held their drachau in a place of fear. They were too familiar with the dreadlord’s deeds and the fates of his enemies to harbour any delusions about defying him. The nobles of the Hag might hate Malus, but they would never underestimate him.

‘You wish that to be removed?’ Silar asked, pointing to the butchered messenger.

‘Place him somewhere that the tzatina’s agents will be sure to find him,’ Malus said.

Silar bowed his head, not quite daring to match his lord’s gaze as he spoke. ‘The tzatina will know it was you who killed him.’ It was true. No weapon in Naggaroth left a wound such as the warpsword dealt.

‘She will,’ Malus agreed. ‘That is as it should be.’ With a wave of his hand, he dismissed Silar, leaving the warrior to his grisly task. Soon, Silar was trudging off, the messenger’s body wrapped in the silk cape and slung across his shoulder like a sack of meal.

They offer you the scraps of power. I offer you a feast. Why be content with a mortal’s appetite when you can aspire to so much more?

Malus turned and made his way to the table and the bottle resting upon it. He could feel the wine calling out to him, sense the shudder of longing that coursed through his flesh. Freedom lay within that bottle, if only he was weak enough to take it.

You are weak, are you not, Darkblade?

The mockery crawled through his skull, stilling Malus’s hand even as he reached for the bottle. His hand closed into a fist. With an animalistic snarl, he brought his hand smashing across the table. The bottle shattered against the floor, splashing the precious wine everywhere. Malus stared down at the spilled liquid. In his head, the voice suggested he might still drop to all fours and lap it up like a thirsty dog.

‘Was that wise?’ a disapproving voice called out to Malus.

Malus looked away from the wine. Advancing towards him across the audience chamber with a stately, unhurried step, was an elegant figure bedecked in flowing black robes, her carriage framed in a lacy meshwork of tiny pearls and crushed sapphires, her dark tresses bound in a coiffure of gold and jade. Her skin had an alabaster paleness beyond even that of most druchii, telling of an existence spent without the attentions of even Naggaroth’s sickly sun. Across the harsh beauty of her features was stamped the fiercest determination, the sparks of her terrible will blazing in her eyes. In aspect, the elf presented a vision of both desire and dread.

‘Hello, mother,’ Malus greeted the elf as he stepped away from the shattered bottle. ‘Your health looks as inviolate as ever.’

Lady Eldire didn’t allow her son’s remark to bait her. It was only through her intrigue and her assistance that Malus had survived to become drachau of Hag Graef. It was only by her sorcery that he was able to conceal the terrible affliction that gripped him and which, if exposed, would see him torn limb from limb by his own slaves. Her hold over her son was great, but so too was his over her. Lady Eldire was that rarest of creatures, a sorceress who owed no loyalty to Morathi or her convent. She had been a Naggorite, taken from the Frozen Ark by Malus’s father. Only the protection of Hag Graef had kept her from being returned to Naggor or surrendered to Morathi. In placing her son upon the throne of Hag Graef, she had helped to ensure the continued protection of Naggaroth’s second city.

Of late, however, Lady Eldire had been compelled to demand further indulgence from her son. She had discovered her vitality beginning to ebb, the old spells to ensure her youthfulness beginning to slip. The solution had been restorative magic that hearkened back to the forbidden pleasure cults that had corrupted the cities of Ulthuan long ago. Baths drawn from the heart’s blood of elf youths and maidens, the blood of innocence to wash away the stain of age and corruption. Only through the connivance of Malus had Eldire been assured of a steady supply of sacrifices to maintain her vigour.

‘I wish I could say the same for the steadfastness of your mind,’ Eldire reproved him. She smiled at the flicker of disquiet that appeared on his face. ‘You needn’t worry. There are no spies here. I would know if there were.’ She ran her fingers across the curve of her cheek, feeling the silky newness of her revivified skin. ‘As you observe, my vivacity is as keen as ever it was.’

Malus scowled. ‘The Hag pays a high price for your sorcery, mother. I should feel cheated if your powers were not quite as profound as you claim them to be.’ He shook his head and stalked back to his throne. ‘Just the same, I don’t want my… affliction… mentioned in Naggarond. Not even between ourselves.’

Eldire stepped around the shattered glass and spilled wine. ‘I didn’t know you were so afraid of the Witch King. Certainly not after your entanglements with Lady Khyra. A usurper who fears his sovereign has lost before he begins.’

‘Anyone who doesn’t fear Malekith is either mad or a fool,’ Malus returned. ‘No, to have any chance at all, I cannot deny my fear of him.’

The sorceress circled the malachite throne, her boots clicking against the tiled floor. ‘Then you will expose the tzatina’s plot? Forget the chance that providence has given you?’ She leaned close to the throne, her hand closing on Malus’s arm. ‘They are offering you his crown, the Circlet of Iron itself. You would be lord of all the druchii, master of Naggaroth!’

Malus glanced past his mother, staring regretfully at the spoiled wine. ‘I will expose no one. Not yet, at least. I will hear Khyra’s offer, learn how much support I can expect. The killing of her messenger was a warning to the tzatina and the other dreadlords. They must know it is I, not they, who hold the reins of power. They think to make a present to me of something only my strength and the might of the Hag can secure. When they find their highborn messenger lying in the gutter like so much garbage, they will understand that. When the Black Guard fails to arrest Khyra, they will know I haven’t exposed them, that I will listen to what they would pledge to their new king.’

Eldire brought her hand up to Malus’s head, running her fingers through his dark locks. ‘The land is in turmoil. There is talk of treachery everywhere. The noble houses snap at one another’s throats even as the daemons come crawling across their walls. It will take a strong arm to bind them once more to the service of their kingdom. It will take ruthlessness beyond that of the Witch King, savagery unmatched even by daemons, to break their pride and bind them in the shackles of terror.’

Taking hold of his mother’s hand, Malus pressed it to his lips. ‘I have been schooled in the cruelties of Hag Graef, I have endured the horrors of the Wastes themselves. The blood of my own father is on my hands. There is no brutality I would not indulge for the sake of power. You know that.’ The drachau’s grip suddenly grew tight and with a sharp pull, he brought Eldire to her knees beside him, her face level with his own. ‘From the first, I think you foresaw this moment with your magic. Every torture and torment I survived, you saw before it happened. All that I have suffered was known to you, wasn’t it?’

‘And if it was?’ Eldire demanded. ‘If your entire life stood revealed to me while you were still growing inside me, how should that change this moment? Will you curse me for what you have endured or thank me for preparing the way?’

Malus shook his head. ‘Neither,’ he said. ‘The past is done. It is the future I seek. You have brought me to this moment. Tell me what waits beyond.’

The sorceress turned her face, unable to hold the suspicious glare in Malus’s gaze. ‘I have seen this far, but no further. There are rules to magic, boundaries that cannot be defied. This land draws but faintly upon the lighter vibrations within the aethyr and only so much can be achieved with the lower harmonies. Your doom is obscured, but this much I can tell you – the fate of Naggaroth is bound to your own.’

Malus released his mother, sinking back against the rest of his throne. ‘Mine is the doom of Naggaroth,’ he mused. He kept his eyes on his mother as Eldire withdrew from the chamber. He was cautious about trusting her too far with her portents and prophecies. After all, she had benefited the most by placing him on the throne of Hag Graef. Conquest of Naggor had eliminated most of Eldire’s enemies. Malus had to wonder what foes she hoped to involve in this ‘doom’ she now foretold.

It will be a terrible doom. An end to all things, Malus. You will lose all you possess. Nothing will be left.

The drachau pressed his fist against his forehead, trying to blot out the foul whisperings inside his skull. He’d thought himself so strong to deny the succour of the bottle, but now he wondered if he’d been clever. Hadn’t he simply responded to that goading mockery? Done exactly what it wanted him to do.

A different path can be yours. A path of unending glory and horror.

‘Shut up, daemon!’ Malus growled at the voice creeping through his mind.

The caustic laughter of Tz’arkan was the only response to Malus’s fury. The daemon could wait. What was time, after all, to something truly immortal?

‘I expected more of you,’ Malus said as he marched out from a concealed doorway and into the dank crypt.

The crypt was buried beneath the tower that had once been the stronghold of Oereith Kincutter. Oereith and his house had been abolished years ago, exposed as devotees of the profane god Slaanesh. The Witch King had flayed every member of the house, from Oereith himself to the lowest slave, and impaled the wet, raw bodies upon the walls of Naggarond. It had taken weeks for some of the cultists to finally die, the slobbering moans from their tongueless mouths serving as a morbid warning to all druchii that some obscenities were too much even for Naggaroth. Since the abolishment of Oereith’s title, no new dreadlord had been bold enough to claim the shunned tower for his own. There were too many whispers that some of the things Oereith had called from beyond continued to linger in the deserted passageways and chambers. With survivors streaming into the city, with the Black Council and their entourages flocking to answer Malekith’s call, the cursed tower was perhaps the only place in the city that offered the isolation the tzatina’s gathering required.

Resplendent in a silver-lined gown of black, a wispy filigree adorned with bloodstones entwined with the cascade of her raven tresses, Lady Khyra looked incongruous with the macabre surroundings of the soot-blackened crypt, the smashed bones of Oereith’s ancestors strewn about the floor. She looked as though she were attending a royal banquet, not orchestrating a secret plot to overthrow the Witch King. Always possessed of a flawless grace and poise, there was nevertheless something about Khyra that made the blood turn cold in Malus’s veins. Looking past the beauty of her face, the enticing appeal of her body, there was a malignance ghastly even by the jaded standards of the druchii. Gazing on Khyra, for Malus, was like watching some great spider spinning its web, always wondering if the trap was being spun for him.

Malus had been fortunate to escape Khyra’s web when it had been fashioned for him once before. Then he had been foolish enough to underestimate the tzatina, to think that sharing her bed gave him some immunity in her intrigues. It was a mistake he’d been fortunate to survive. Only by a shrewd piece of treachery had he been able to shield himself and leave the Witch King’s wrath to fall upon Khyra.

Khyra had been fortunate, too. Malus felt his eyes drawn to the slender curve of the tzatina’s right arm. It was covered in a sleeve of black adorned with sparkling diamonds and the shimmer of crushed pearl. There wasn’t a real arm beneath that sleeve; it covered a surrogate carved from ivory. Khyra’s real arm was adorning a spike on the battlements of the Black Tower, the price of Malekith’s merciful indulgence. Being one of the Witch King’s consorts, Khyra had rated such beneficent consideration.

Khyra swept past the dozen nobles and highborns who were with her in the crypt. Even the least of her companions had an air about them that betokened outrageous wealth and power. They’d made some effort to conceal their rank by adopting simple cloaks and girding themselves in the plain armour of household knights, but they couldn’t efface the stamp of their breeding from their bearing. Subtle variances in costume suggested to Malus the slave markets of Karond Kar and the mines of Storag Kor, even the now-desolate shipyards of Clar Karond. He even saw a bit of scrimshaw bone adorning the dagger of one elf that was certainly in the decadent style of Har Ganeth. Khyra had cast her web far to draw in such disparate conspirators.

‘I expected you to come alone,’ the tzatina said, her eyes sliding past Malus to glare disapprovingly at his companions.

‘You forget, Lady Khyra, I know you,’ Malus reminded her. ‘I will be able to concentrate on our negotiations better if I know I have someone here to watch my back.’ He made a point of using his right hand as he indicated his two companions. ‘Lord Silar Thornblood of my household guard. Captain Vincirix Quickdeath, commander of the Knights of the Ebon Claw.’

Malus fought down a smile when he saw the slight flush that came into Khyra’s face as he introduced Vincirix. It was probable that the tzatina knew she was his current companion. Was it possible Khyra was jealous? No, not true jealousy, just the bitterness of a spoiled child who sees someone playing with one of her toys. Malus would have to remind Khyra which of them enjoyed the dominant role in this conspiracy.

‘You killed my messenger because you worried if he could be trusted,’ Khyra said. ‘Why should we believe your lackeys can keep a secret any better?’

‘Because they know that to betray me is to betray themselves,’ Malus said. ‘They each have powerful enemies. It is my strength that keeps them at bay.’ Malus marched towards Khyra, pausing before he reached her to run his mailed fist across a section of fire-blackened wall. When last he’d set foot in these crypts, those fires had been raging at full force, devouring the foul creatures Oereith had bound to his service. From the corner of his eye, he watched Khyra, studying her for any trace of unease. He could find none. After what she had endured in these crypts, the hideous fate Oereith had planned for her, she must have ice water in her veins to come back.

Perhaps that was exactly why she’d chosen this place. If anyone suspected her, they’d never think to look for her here.

‘The drachau places great faith in his strength, in the might of the Hag. Maybe too much.’ The speaker was one of the supposed knights. Hearing his words, Malus recognised the voice as belonging to one of the elder sons of Dreadlord Ghalir of Shroktak.

Malus turned a withering look on the noble. ‘The might of Hag Graef is why I’m here, and you all know it. If you didn’t need my armies, you would never have invited me into your confidences. Without the strength of Hag Graef, you have nothing.’

Angry hisses and grumbles rose from the conspirators, idle threats and empty curses that Malus brushed aside like buzzing insects. Before coming here, even before he had cut down Khyra’s messenger, he’d carefully considered every angle. This conspiracy had been hatched without any intention of including him. Likely, it had started as an opportunistic play to take the crown when Malekith failed to return from Ghrond. The Witch King had spoiled those plans, however. He’d survived and come back, putting Khyra and her allies in the worst possible position: a revolt all ready to unfold but without the military might to keep what it seized.

‘You are sure of yourself, drachau,’ Khyra said.

‘Only necessity would make you welcome me back into your arm,’ Malus answered. The look of total hate Khyra darted at him was so black that Silar took a step towards the tzatina. Malus waved him back. He’d read the situation right. Khyra did need him and would put up with anything until that was no longer the case.

‘The Witch King is weak,’ one of the nobles declared. ‘The tyrant’s grip falters. He failed to destroy the daemon-consort Valkia. He lacked the courage to relieve Clar Karond. He couldn’t even bring himself to execute Morathi for her treason. He can dominate us no longer.’

Malus paced across the crypt, digesting the noble’s treasonous words. There was truth in them, even divorced from the greed and hate that made them so enticing. Never in Malus’s lifetime had Malekith been pressed so closely by his enemies. Driving off Valkia’s horde had taxed his strength, while confronting his mother in Ghrond had tested his will. He was weakening, even as the might of Naggarond was weakening. Jackals like Khyra’s allies could smell it, slinking ever closer to seize whatever they could take.

‘But if the Hag were to support Malekith. If my armies were to flock to his banner, who would dare oppose him?’ Malus enjoyed the looks of horror that crept onto the faces of Khyra’s allies.

‘You would not side with the Black Tower?’ one of the highborn gasped.

Malus stopped pacing, let his fingers scrape across the scorched lid of a sarcophagus. ‘Not unless it was in my best interest.’ He turned towards Khyra. ‘You invited me here to make a proposal. What am I promised should my armies support your cause?’

Khyra’s eyes were as cold as a glacier when she answered the drachau. ‘I think you have already decided what you want.’

‘What I demand,’ Malus corrected her. ‘What I demand is the Circlet of Iron. What I demand is rule of Naggaroth. In exchange, I will support your own claims against your enemies and rivals.’

‘Agreed,’ Khyra said. Her answer came much too hastily for Malus’s liking. ‘We will acknowledge you as our king. But if you would be king, you must remove the current one.’

‘Malekith’s armies cannot oppose my own,’ Malus said.

‘Your armies cannot fight Malekith and protect the land from the hordes now despoiling it,’ Khyra told him. ‘It will take all the strength of Naggaroth to drive them back this time. If we spend our blood fighting among ourselves, everything will be lost.

‘No, Malus Darkblade, it is not your armies alone that we need. We need you. We need the one swordsman in all Naggaroth who can do what must be done.

‘You must kill Malekith, the Witch King.’

TWO

You know they are just using you. Once you have done what they need you to do, they will betray you as quickly as they betray their king.

‘You have things backwards, daemon,’ Malus growled at the presence inside his head. ‘I am using them. They serve my purpose, even if their pride refuses to make them understand it. When their usefulness is at an end, even the tzatina will find that she is disposable.’

All flesh is disposable. Ponder this, when the dark reaches out for you.

Malus fought down the impulse to argue with Tz’arkan. The daemon took a perverse delight in goading him into empty arguments. The extra distraction of its poisonous advice was something he couldn’t afford right now. The odds were stacked too heavily against him already.

Lady Khyra’s plan had worked flawlessly thus far. Her knowledge of the Black Tower and the routine of the Black Guard who defended it had proven invaluable. Malus had been able to eliminate the sentry patrolling the desolate stretch of wall abreast of the suspended bridge that connected the tzatina’s own tower to the outer ring surrounding Malekith’s fortress. Silar, bedecked in the armour of the Black Guard, had assumed the sentry’s place, adopting the gold sash that denoted the present rotation of warriors. The sentries wouldn’t be relieved until the first light of dawn. Silar would have to make good his escape before then. Once his vassal withdrew, the empty post would be quickly discovered and real Black Guard would converge on the tzatina’s bridge. Malus was certain Khyra already had some subterfuge prepared to absolve herself from any blame, but that wouldn’t help him. If dawn found him still inside the Black Tower there would be no way out.

He’d be abandoned to the wrath of the Witch King.

That thought was enough to give even Malus pause. The drachau of Hag Graef, stealing through the Black Tower like a prowling shade. It wouldn’t need a mind as crafty and twisted as that of the Witch King to figure out his purpose. In the long centuries of Malekith’s rule there had been many assassins who had tried to depose the tyrant. Their fates had been obscene enough to horrify even the druchii.

Now, Malus was courting just such a doom. His mother’s prophecy did little to cheer him. If there was one being in all the world who had the strength of will to force even fate to obey him, that being was Malekith.

Cold perspiration beaded Malus’s forehead, his breath came in hot little gasps. He could feel the blood quickening in his veins. How much of it was the cocktail of herbs and elixirs he had imbibed to enhance his reflexes and heighten his senses? How much of it was his own fear, the fear that he tried to deny even to himself? He’d braved the quest for Tz’arkan’s five treasures and the long quest to reclaim his soul from the devious daemon. He’d journeyed alone through the wastelands of Chaos and stood within the insane realm of the Screaming God-Child. He had dared the cursed black ark of Naggor and escaped. He’d deposed the former drachau of Hag Graef and installed himself upon the throne. All these things he had faced and survived, yet it was the spectre of his sovereign that filled him with dread.

Here, in the forgotten lower halls of the Black Tower, Malus was surrounded by the essence of the Witch King. Room after room of richly appointed chambers, their walls covered in masterworks that would have driven many a druchii noble to sell his own children into slavery simply to gaze upon them. Rugs of intricate pattern and artistry, their threads so fine that they rippled like water at the softest touch of his foot. Statues rendered from obsidian and amber, jade and crystal, their subjects rendered with such detail that they seemed to breathe as the eye passed across them. Carved tables of the rarest wood, their every curve possessing a grace and dignity that defied estimation. Jewelled goblets, platters encrusted with diamond and ruby, bowls of gold and silver and ithilmar, all of these were arranged upon the tables, awaiting the attention of some passing guest, oblivious to the faint discolouration left behind by the long-decayed viands they had once held.

Wealth beyond measure, enough to overwhelm the greed of the most avaricious druchii, yet here it stood abandoned and forgotten, caked in layers of dust that bespoke centuries of neglect. By their cast and craftsmanship, Malus knew much of the art he stalked past were relics from Nagarythe, the shattered homeland of the druchii. To any of the great houses of Naggaroth, such relics would be priceless heirlooms. To the Witch King, they were naught but idle baubles.

Nothing could impress upon Malus the absolute power of Malekith so demonstrably as this forsaken opulence. It was before the years of any living druchii that the Witch King had last employed these halls. Any living druchii save the immortal Malekith and his witch mother.

Malus ran his fingers across a goblet mired in a patina of dust and decay. Time had worn away the cup to a hollowed-out shell of corruption. It crumbled beneath his touch, collapsing to the floor in a clump of corrosion. Jewels long cheated of their lustre stared forlornly at him from the pile of decay.

The drachau felt cold fingers rush along his spine. These chambers were a lost and haunted place. Each step through the silent halls reinforced the eerie impression. It did not need the daemon’s words to feed the urge to turn back, to flee to the grim horrors of Naggarond’s streets, to be quit of the uncanny malignance of the Black Tower.

Hunger stayed Malus from retreat, the insatiable hunger for power that had ever driven him onwards. He stood before the ultimate power now, the promise of the Circlet of Iron and the throne of Naggaroth.

The spectre of that promise lay etched across the floor – a line of footprints pressed into the scum of dust caked upon the tiles and rugs. Malus wasn’t so versed in the skills of tracking and hunting as the shades who lurked in the wilds or the beast-breakers of ravaged Clar Karond. Even he, however, could read the signs in the dust. The tracks were made by a single elf, his boots long and broad at heel and toe. The steps overlapped several times, denoting repeated circuits of this trail. All of it feeding back to what Khyra had told him about the strange turn the Witch King’s habits had taken.

Since his return from Ghrond, Malekith had become prone to leaving the confines of his royal apartments at the top of the Black Tower. Many nights he spent wandering among the residue of ancient glories, pondering the relics of Nagarythe. No retinue of Black Guard protected him in these solitary forays, no complement of sorceress-consorts to follow behind him and watch over him with their magic. Whatever strange mood had gripped Malekith’s mind, it was a boon for his enemies.

If that enemy was but bold enough to exploit the opportunity.

A bitter smile pulled at Malus’s face. For all her intrigues and the conspiracy of powerful nobles she had gathered to her, Khyra lacked that boldness. All of them did. Only Malus had the determination to strike and slay!

Through the neglect and decay of a thousand years, Malus crept, pursuing the trail written in the dust. Every nerve in his body felt as though it were afire, and his heart beat a rapid tattoo inside his breast. His senses clawed at the stagnant air, straining it for the slightest sound, the merest odour – anything that would betray to the hunter the nearness of his quarry. His hand tightened around the warpsword’s hilt. He could feel the eager pulse of the hungry blade racing up his arm, the sword’s essence impatient to claim a royal soul. Soon, Malus promised, soon he would glut the warpsword’s appetite.

Past a gallery of statuary that might have graced a Nagarythe garden into a broad arcade lined with wooden screens upon which some past master had painted exotic landscapes and ancient legends. Malus licked his lips, tried to moisten a mouth that felt as dry as an autarii’s wit. His eyes roved along the trail he followed, watching with calculated paranoia for evidence of a trap.

The world froze around the drachau as he stepped from one gallery into another. His gaze didn’t linger upon the dust-obscured portraits that filled the hall. He didn’t stare at the jewelled frames and gilded settings. His attention was riveted entirely upon the lone figure who stood amid the desolation.

Tall, armoured from head to toe, an aura of imperious disdain exuded from that apparition of rune-etched metal. It was impossible to mistake the plates of black meteoric iron, the tall helm that supported the horned Circlet of Iron itself, the sheathed evil of the Destroyer hanging from the figure’s hip. Malekith, the Witch King of Naggaroth.

The monarch had his back to Malus, turned to face the portraits lining the wall. Malus didn’t dare breathe, felt a flush of fear at the sound of his own heartbeat. To strike now, to cut down the immortal tyrant, could he really do it? Who was he, after all, to kill an elf who had survived the Flame of Asuryan?

Now, when it is too late, do you question your pride?

The daemon’s mockery poured the required measure of rage into Malus’s veins. His fear was smothered beneath a surge of malice. Pride had indeed led him this far, and it would carry him still farther.

Tightening his grip on the Warpsword of Khaine, Malus leapt out from the darkness. Some slight sound, perhaps the shift of his harness as he lunged, betrayed his presence to the armoured tyrant. Malekith started to turn, fiery eyes blazing from the black depths of his helm.

Then the warpsword was chopping downwards, catching the king’s shoulder, ripping through the ancient mail. The enchanted edge of Malus’s blade tore through the Witch King’s body, shearing through flesh and bone, cleaving ribs and breastbone before exploding from his chest.

Malus panted, gasping for breath, his entire body shivering from the magnitude of what he had done. He had killed Malekith! He had killed the Witch King! By his own hand he had made himself master of all Naggaroth!

For only a heartbeat, the grand images swam through Malus’s mind. It took that long for him to accept the wrongness of what was happening before his eyes. Cut nearly in half by the warpsword, Malekith was reaching for the blade sheathed at his side. Segments of torn plate flopped obscenely about the wound, yet still the ghastly figure persisted. Malus noted that there was no blood pumping from that wound, nor was there blood upon the warpsword’s hungry steel.

As the tyrant began to draw the Destroyer, Malus struck at him again. Pride had fuelled his first assault on Malekith, but the king’s horrible vitality had brought all of the drachau’s fear racing along his spine. Panic drove Malus back to the attack, the panic that only a condemned soul can feel. Having struck the Witch King, he knew there were only two choices now: succeed or die.

Malus struck just as the Destroyer cleared its scabbard. The warpsword came slashing down, a blur of ravenous steel that bit into the Witch King’s hand, cleaving through the rune-etched gauntlet and shattering the hilt of the tyrant’s weapon. The Destroyer’s blade went spinning across the hall, clattering along the dusty tiles. The severed hand flopped to the floor, rolling towards Malus.

Again, Malus was stunned by the lack of blood, the absence of pain exhibited by his foe. Instead of reeling back in agony or clutching at his maimed arm, the Witch King surged forwards, reaching for his attacker with the talon-like claws of his remaining hand. Malus took a single step backwards, then, uttering a snarl of defiance, he brought the warpsword whipping back around. It licked across Malekith’s shoulder, striking sparks from the armour, and tore across the tyrant’s neck.

The helm and its horned crown were sent leaping into the air as Malus chopped through the Witch King’s neck. He gawked in disbelief as the helm went spinning away in the darkness. The headless body remained upright, still reaching for him with its hand. Malus felt cold terror clench his heart as the beheaded tyrant lumbered towards him.

The iron talons of the outstretched hand nearly closed around Malus’s throat. It was more reflex than conscious thought that made the elf dart aside at the last instant, to spin around and drive the warpsword into his attacker. This time he caught the thing in the waist. Fear infused his arms with a desperate strength and the biting edge of his weapon tore its way through the iron plate as though it were butter. When Malus ended his destructive spin, his adversary crashed to the floor in two disparate sections.

Shocked, Malus watched as the armoured legs flopped impotently against the floor. The torso, with its single hand, struggled to flip itself onto its belly. Despite the continued havoc he’d wrought against the body, still there was not a trace of blood – not even a whiff of sanguine scent in the musty air. Malus could see why, now. As the bisected body flailed on the ground, he could see inside it. He could see that the thing was empty, nothing more than a suit of armour invested with the simulacrum of vitality by some profane sorcery.

It would seem you’re not going to add regicide to your accomplishments.

Malus was about to growl a response to the daemon when the sound of strident clapping brought him spinning around. His hands tightened about the warpsword as he saw shapes manifest from the darkness, illuminated by the crystal lanterns several of them bore. Like the supposed Witch King, these elves were armoured from head to toe, and in a style that was impossible to mistake. They were the Black Guard, Malekith’s personal army. Leading them, his hands coming together in jeering applause, was Kouran Darkhand, the Witch King’s loyal dog.

‘The drachau of Hag Graef,’ Kouran said, his voice laced with vicious amusement. ‘How low have the mighty fallen to come slinking into their lord’s tower bent upon murder. Surely you might have hired another to do it for you?’

Malus glared back at Kouran across the still-writhing bits of armour on the floor. He’d been lured into a trap, that he understood the moment he saw the armour was empty, but to have it sprung by a common-born cur like Kouran was too great an insult to bear. As he glared at Kouran, Malus’s mind was already racing. The rest of the Black Guard had come armed, but Kouran had neglected to bring either sword or halberd. That was a mistake Malus was going to ensure the dog regretted for the few moments left to him.

‘When you want something done right, you do it yourself,’ Malus snarled at Kouran. In a blur of motion, he charged the other elf, leaping over the twitching armour to reach his foe. The warpsword came swinging downwards, gleaming in the luminance of the crystal lamps.

Malus heard the wailing shriek as the warpsword bit into its victim, wrenching the soul from the victim as it ripped through his armour. The problem was, his blow had struck the wrong victim. As he lunged for Kouran, the elf seized the arm of the Black Guard closest to him and pulled the warrior into the path of Malus’s blade. Even as Malus was trying to pull free from the warrior he’d struck, Kouran was in motion, smashing the helmeted head of the dead warrior into the drachau’s face.

Blood streaming from his broken nose, Malus staggered back. The weight of the dead Black Guard dragged down the warpsword and as he kicked at the body to free his weapon, Kouran came rushing at him. The captain’s fist slammed into Malus’s face, knocking him back in a spray of blood and curses. The momentum caused the warpsword to tear free from its victim, and as Malus stumbled back, he was able to bring his blade whipping up.

The edge of the warpsword raked across Kouran’s belly, scraping along the black armour in a shriek of grinding metal. The blade failed to do more than scratch the ancient plates, but its effect was pronounced nonetheless. Malus cried out as he was struck by a piercing agony, as though a candle had been set against every nerve in his body.

‘This is the Armour of Grief,’ Kouran laughed, slapping his hand against the breastplate. ‘The enchantment Lord Arnaethron invested into it is quite zealous about punishing those who dare strike its wearer.’

Stunned by the magical backlash of Kouran’s armour, Malus’s blade slipped from his weakened grasp. He staggered back, fighting to recover command of his tortured body. Kouran’s cruel face split in a sadistic leer.

‘Take him,’ the captain ordered his warriors, waving them forwards. ‘I want to bring him alive before the king.’

Kouran’s smile became impossibly colder as the Black Guard swarmed around Malus and beat him down with the butts of their halberds. ‘His highness could do with an amusing diversion. It might be weeks before he tires of torturing this traitor.’

Malus felt a sharp pain against his skull as one of the bludgeoning warriors brought his weapon cracking against his head. He was unconscious when his head slammed against the dusty floor.

Are you awake, Malus? I should think you’d like to see this. There might not be a chance later.

Tz’arkan’s jeers echoed through Malus’s throbbing head. His body felt like one big bruise. He could feel cold iron against his arms and legs, and knew he was shackled upright to some sort of frame. The chill crawling over his flesh told him his armour had been stripped away. He guessed it would prove inconvenient for his torturers. They’d prefer a clean canvas at the start of their performance.

Slowly, Malus opened his eyes, squinting through narrowed eyelids at his surroundings. He wasn’t surprised that he was in a dungeon of some sort. Richly appointed with ghoulish tapestries depicting imaginative cruelties hanging on the walls, it was a room designed to enhance the terror of its occupants. Malus hoped the tapestries were decorative and not a reference guide for his tormentors. He could see them, seven pale-skinned elves wearing long smocks of serpent-hide, their arms branded with tally-marks to commemorate their many victims. Several of the torturers were so scarred that they looked like they were wearing sleeves of boiled leather.

All of the torturers were fiddling about with an assemblage of ghastly tools, arraying them along a marble table, an altar to terrible Ellinill. Tongs and probes, cruel pincers and knives, bone-scrapers and flesh-hooks, each implement the druchii removed from their ebony reliquaries was more grisly than the last. Malus tried not to imagine what sort of havoc would be inflicted upon him for his attempt at regicide. The thought of biting his own tongue and cheating his captors flashed through his mind, but the taste of a metal bit in his mouth told him the same idea had already occurred to the torturers.

Groaning in frustration, Malus tilted his head enough that he could see the black throne standing between the tapestries. In the fitful light cast by the flaming braziers scattered about the torture theatre, the throne’s malachite surface glistened with an oily sheen. He had a sense of foreboding as he looked over at the throne. He knew who it was who would soon occupy that seat, and when he did, then the pain would begin.

‘His highness has a great many duties, drachau.’

The words came from just behind Malus, a scratchy whisper that made his gorge rise. He tilted his head back, drawing his arms up on the chains that bound them, feeling the manacles binding his feet bite against his skin as he stretched. His reward was a view of the speaker. A spindly, almost skeletal elf adorned in robes of black and gold. Malus recognised his old adversary, one who had nearly brought him to ruin once before. It was plain that Ezresor hadn’t forgotten Malus’s earlier escape. It was equally plain that Malekith’s spymaster was eager to make up for that lost opportunity. He reached over his captive’s shoulder and rudely pulled the bit from Malus’s mouth.

Malus spat the taste of metal from his mouth. ‘I won’t tell you anything,’ he said.

Ezresor stepped around the iron framework that held Malus. He stared up at the prisoner, his gaunt face probing into the druchii’s bloodied features. ‘You’ll tell me anything I want to hear,’ he said. He pointed to the torturers. ‘They will make it happen. An hour or a day, it won’t make a difference. They will extract every secret buried in that brain of yours. They’ll pull it out of you and pin it to a board. If you try to lie to them, they’ll know and they’ll make it hurt worse. Keep that in mind, Darkblade. Whatever agony they inflict on you, know they always hold a little back. When you think it can’t get any worse, know that it can.’

‘If I told you what you want to know, it wouldn’t change anything,’ Malus said.

Ezresor tapped a finger against his chin. ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘it wouldn’t. But won’t you feel better knowing the ones who convinced you to betray our king will share your fate?’

Malus managed a derisive laugh. ‘No, carrion-face, I won’t. I’ll feel better knowing they might try again and that if they succeed their first order of business will be feeding your carcass to the harpies.’

The ghoulish spymaster’s hand flew towards Malus. A dagger was in Ezresor’s fist, projected there by some mechanism hidden in the sleeve of his robe. He brought it against Malus’s cheek.

‘You’ll spoil the king’s show,’ Malus warned Ezresor.

Ezresor scowled as he pulled back the dagger. With the sleeve of his robe he wiped away the single bead of blood he had drawn. ‘I can wait, Darkblade. I’ve waited this long, I can wait a little longer.’ A smile slithered onto his emaciated face. He cocked his head to one side, assuming an attitude of attentive listening. He turned his grin on Malus. ‘I think the wait is over,’ he said.

Malus followed Ezresor’s gaze as the spymaster turned towards a particularly horrendous tapestry. The hanging, with its depiction of mutilation and brutality, fluttered outwards as a sudden breeze struck it. Some concealed panel had slid open, ushering in a blast of air even more frigid than that of the dungeon. No, Malus corrected himself, the intense cold was nothing felt by the body. It was a chill that scratched at the soul, even a soul shared by a daemon.

The tapestry was pushed aside and into the torture theatre there marched the same figure Malus had so recently cut to ribbons. This time it was no sorcerous puppet of iron, but the puppeteer himself. Malus could feel the awful power exuding from the Witch King like an aura of cruelty. The eyes that burned within the face of the helm were like twin embers of hate, insatiable and implacable.

‘Your highness,’ Ezresor greeted the tyrant as he fell to his knees. The torturers mirrored his gesture of submission and fealty. Instinctively, Malus felt his own head start to bow. It was an effort to resist the automatic obedience Malekith had compelled from every druchii since the Sundering, but resist he did. As he raised his eyes, he found himself staring into Malekith’s merciless gaze. There seemed a note of sardonic humour in the tyrant’s stare.

‘The fleshtakers await your pleasure, highness,’ Ezresor announced as he started to escort Malekith towards the marble table and the cruel implements arrayed there so that his king might inspect them. Instead, Malekith turned away and approached the frame to which Malus was shackled.

‘Did you really think you could kill me?’ the Witch King asked, his voice like the rumble of an angry mountain. Malus shuddered as the tyrant came towards him, reaching out with a rune-etched gauntlet to close his cold fingers about the prisoner’s jaw. ‘Was your daring so great? Was your arrogance so mighty? Who are you, Darkblade, to think you can kill me? You are druchii, the spawn of this miserable land! You are my creation, moulded and forged like my armour and my blade! I raised you from nothing to command my armies, to lead my warriors in battle.’ With a snarl, Malekith released the captive’s jaw, shoving him back on his chains.

Malus glared back at the tyrant, pride crushing down his instinctive terror of the Witch King. ‘You did nothing,’ he growled. ‘Everything I have achieved I won for myself. I clawed my way from being the vaulkhar’s bastard son to drachau of Hag Graef. I did that, not you! I crushed the black ark of Naggor’s legions and vanquished their Witch Lords! It was I who…’

Ezresor came charging at Malus, the glowing length of a poker held before him. The spymaster shouted in outrage at the temerity of the traitor in daring to defy Malekith. As he ran past the tyrant, the poker was plucked from his hand and sent flying across the chamber. A backhanded swat of Malekith’s gauntlet knocked Ezresor to the floor, blood trickling from his split lip.

‘If my armour fails me, if my blade breaks, I discard it and forge a new one,’ the Witch King declared, still glaring at the shackled elf. ‘But you aren’t broken, are you Malus? You still burn with enough pride to defy me even here.’ Malus could feel the tyrant’s tone grow colder still. ‘I should take great delight in making an example of you, but there is not the time, so I must grant you a reprieve.’ Malekith waved his hand at Ezresor and pointed to the iron framework.

‘Highness?’ the spymaster asked as he picked himself off the floor.

‘Release him,’ Malekith said. His eyes continued to glare into Malus’s. ‘Long ago, the pretender Bel Shanaar sent me into the wilds to be his ambassador among the dwarfs. Crude but clever things, the dwarf-folk. Do you know how they would check for foul vapours in their mines? They would bear with them a tiny bird and hang it from a cage where they could watch it. If the bird expired, they would know the air in the mine was becoming foul and hurry to the surface.’ Malekith pressed his iron finger against Malus’s chest. ‘You are going to be my little bird, Darkblade. I know even you would not dare to strike against me without support from the other dreadlords. If there were time, I would rip each name from your flesh and savour every scream as I did so. But I cannot indulge in such pleasures now. Instead, I will pretend none of this ever happened. I will present the illusion that there was no attempt against my life, that you did not cut down my surrogate. I will restore you to your command of Hag Graef and none will be the wiser.’

Malus rubbed his cramped limbs as Ezresor unlocked his bindings. His mind whirled with the impossible things he was hearing, the unbelievable mercy and forgiveness Malekith was showing. Such qualities were the ultimate sign of weakness in any druchii. The society the Witch King had created was one that had long ago purged itself of such moral degeneracy.

‘How do you know I won’t betray you?’ Malus asked.

The Witch King laughed, a sound that was far from pleasant. ‘You mistake me. You are still my little bird. When I free you, when you go back among the dreadlords without any reprisal from me, what will they think? They will say that Malus has betrayed them. The cowardly ones will flee and I will have no need to worry about them. The bolder ones will stay. They’ll plot against me, to be sure, but before they act they will strike against the bastard who betrayed them. You are my little bird, Malus! When the assassins come for you, that is when I will know to be on my guard.’

Malekith turned and stalked back towards the door hidden behind the tapestry. ‘Ezresor will return your armour and sword to you. The Black Council meets tomorrow. I expect the drachau of Hag Graef to be in attendance.

‘It would pain me to hear he has suffered an accident.’

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First published in Great Britain in 2014.
This eBook edition published in 2014 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Cover and internal artwork by Clint Langley.
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