Warhammer 40,000 - [Weekender 02] Read online

  Ice cracked beneath the heavy, loping tread of the nauglir as it stalked through the snowdrifts. The cold one’s breath turned to mist with each shuddering exhalation, its horned head undulating from side to side with almost mechanical monotony. The brute’s ribs stood stark against its scaly hide, the steel barding lashed about its body sliding back and forth with each step. Oily froth trickled from the corners of its fanged mouth, freezing as it dangled from its jaws.

  The armoured rider in the nauglir’s saddle ran a gloved hand along the beast’s neck. Leaning forwards, he spoke reassuring words to his weary stead.

  “Not much farther, Spite,” he said, his voice crackling with exhaustion. “A few more days. Only a few more days and we will be home.”

  Spite gave no sign that it heard its master’s voice, merely maintaining the steady league-eating trot the cold one had maintained for so many days. The lack of response troubled the nauglir’s master more than any surly snarl or angry hiss could have. It was a sign that Spite was reaching the limits of its formidable endurance. The cold ones were beasts of the reptilian orders, capable of surviving the harsh cold of Naggaroth only by gorging themselves frequently, their metabolisms using the food to maintain their body heat. Without a steady supply of fresh meat, a nauglir would become steadily more lethargic until, finally, it dropped in its tracks.

  It had been days since Spite had last fed. The nauglir’s scaly hide felt like ice beneath its master’s hand. The reptile couldn’t go on for much longer. Once his steed fell, its rider’s chances of survival wouldn’t be worth an asur’s life in Har Ganeth.

  There was one thing that gave Malus Darkblade some hope. For all its seeming mindlessness, Spite was moving with purpose and direction. Once before, the nauglir had made this bold, lonely journey. Even more than its master, the reptile’s brain bore the impression of the long trail that would lead it to Hag Graef. The long trail that would again put the cursed Temple of Tz’arkan behind them.

  A hot rush of anger warmed the elf’s cold flesh as he thought of the scheming daemon that has used him, used him to unleash itself upon the mortal world after millennia trapped within its own temple. For a year, Tz’arkan had coerced and manipulated him, lurking inside his own body, spreading its corruption through his flesh. And when it was through with him, when it had no further use for him, the daemon had betrayed him. It had sought his life, but it had taken only his soul.

  The eyes of the highborn were frozen windows of hate as he thought of what Tz’arkan has stolen from him. His hand closed about the hilt of his sword, not for the first time wondering if he might not have fared better with a lesser weapon in his final confrontation with the daemon. A mortal blade wouldn’t have forced Tz’arkan to abandon its attack. Only a relic of such power as the Warpsword of Khaine could have made the mighty daemon know fear. Without it, Malus would be dead.

  But perhaps death was more merciful than life without a soul.

  A scowl twisted the druchii’s hawkish features. All his life he had struggled against the world. He would not give up now. He would not meekly submit to the cold clutch of Death. If the gods desired an end of Malus Darkblade, they would have to work for it.

  Malus snapped from his thoughts as he felt Spite’s body go tense beneath his caressing hand. The highborn braced himself to leap from the saddle, thinking the nauglir was about to pitch over into the snow. An instant’s reflection, however, had him drawing his sword instead. Spite had long been his steed and he knew the reptile’s every manner and motion better than the back of his own hand. When he saw the nauglir’s neck rigid, its head pointing steadily towards a stand of snow-covered pines, he knew it was not fatigue that had changed the cold one’s attitude. Spite had caught a scent upon the breeze. The scent of an enemy.

  No sooner had his sword cleared its sheath than the highborn’s lurking foes exploded from their hiding places. Crossbow bolts whistled through the air, glancing from Malus’s armour and Spite’s barding, one missile tearing through the scaly ridge of the nauglir’s tail. A fluid curse rolled across the wind, bemoaning the ineffectual marksmanship. Then the ambushers came charging out onto the snow, determined to finish with sword and spear what they had failed to accomplish with crossbows.

  There were five of them, lean druchii in steel dalakoi and long flowing khaitans of black silk. Tall helms with sharply angled bevors and flowing razor-edged horns obscured the visages of each elf, but there was no mistaking the crimson-scaled cold ones they rode, or the bat-winged device branded into each reptile’s scaly hide. It was the device of the Black Ark of Naggor, Har Ganeth’s most bitter rival and enemy.

  “Dogs of Naggor!” Malus shouted at the charging elves. “Come and embrace death!”

  The highborn dug his spurs into Spite’s flanks. The nauglir reared back, its foreclaws pawing at the air, then lurched forwards in a loping sprint. The smell of battle, the sight of foes, invigorated the faltering reptile, pouring fresh strength into its weakened body. Malus clung to the brute’s reins, pressing his legs close to Spite’s sides. He knew his steed’s wind wouldn’t last long. If he would survive, he had to exterminate his enemies before Spite exhausted itself and collapsed beneath him.

  The warriors of Naggor thundered onwards, their cold ones hissing their fury as they bore down upon the highborn. Malus could hear the silver keikalla jangling against their armour, the little spirit bells proclaiming his foes to be knights rather than common killers. Any pretensions to honour were quashed, however, when another crossbow bolt went whistling past Darkblade’s ear. One of the knights hadn’t abandoned his crossbow, but was instead hanging back to allow his fellows to engage Malus while he reloaded his weapon.

  Such slinking treachery brought a sharpness into Malus’s eyes and murderous determination into his veins. If he was fated to die upon this blighted patch of wasteland, his killer wouldn’t be the cowardly bowman.

  A flash of the Warpsword and the foremost of Malus’s antagonists toppled from his saddle, his helmet cleft in half by the magic blade. The dead elf s boot caught in one of the stirrups and as his cold one sprinted away it dragged the corpse after it.

  Snarling like an enraged panther, the second of the knights rushed Malus, striking at him from his left side before the highborn had recovered from killing the first Naggorite. The elf’s blade glanced from Malus’s vambrace as he blocked the blow. Then the Warpsword was driving down at the knight. Malus’s foe tried to emulate the same tactic as the highborn, to turn aside the blow with his steel vambrace. Unlike the Naggorite’s sword, however, Malus’s weapon bit through the thick armour, shearing through it like paper and cleaving the arm beneath. The Naggorite howled in agony, dropping his sword as he clutched at the spurting stump. Mortally wounded, he sagged low in his saddle as his nauglir dashed across the snowfield.

  Another bolt came flying at Malus, this time punching into him with enough velocity that it dented the armour above his heart. Pain flared across his chest as the impacted metal drove the chain aketon biting into his skin. He glared at the circling opportunist, watching as the Naggorite wound back the string of his weapon.

  Before Malus could charge the bowman, the other knights were upon him. Having learned better than to attack him singly, they tried to mount a coordinated assault. The tactic failed only because of the stubborn ferocity of their steeds, each cold one trying to sprint ahead of the other and claim the choicest morsels from the kill. It was in the truculence of the Naggorites’ nauglir that Malus took advantage. When he kicked his heel against Spite’s ribs, his steed didn’t hesitate.

  Far more intelligent than others of its kind, Spite obeyed the direction of its master immediately. Summoning a fresh burst of speed, the nauglir rushed past the first knight and lunged at the second, a tactic that caught both knights and their mounts by surprise. Before they could recover, Spite’s leg delivered a savage, raking kick to the trailing cold one, slashing open its belly. The stricken nauglir’s charge turned into a sprawling fall as it tripped o
ver its own entrails. Its rider cried out in shock as the brute dragged him down with it, then crushed him under its scaly mass as it thrashed about in agony.

  The other knight struggled to wheel his own nauglir back around. As he did so, Spite’s powerful tail came whipping around, slapping across the other cold one’s face. Instinctively, the reptile recoiled, rearing back and raking its foreclaws through the air in an effort to protect its own eyes. The knight could only hang on and curse his steed’s panic, fighting to regain control over the reptile.

  It took the Naggorite only a moment to assert himself, but in that moment, Malus had closed upon him. The Warpsword came slashing at the knight, crunching through his shoulder, splitting the pauldron, hewing through steel and flesh and bone. The magically keen blade didn’t stop until it had cut clean through the elf’s body and sheared away the top of his steed’s skull. Rider and reptile sank to the earth, the centre of a spreading patch of crimson snow.

  Malus turned away from his slaughtered foe, looking for the crossbowman. “Khaine’s Blood,” he cursed when he found no sign of the last Naggorite. Seeing the destruction of his comrades, the last knight had fled back into the safety of the woods. Briefly, Malus considered tracking the elf down, but he could feel Spite stumble when he tried to turn it towards the trees. The nauglir had reached its limits and beyond. Reluctantly, the highborn gave the beast its head and allowed it to stagger over to one of the dead reptiles.

  As a rule, the only flesh a cold one would refuse was that of another cold one. The druchii who rode the reptiles into battle had to smear their bodies with a poisonous ointment to keep them safe from the rapacious appetites of their monstrous steeds. Spite, however, was too hungry to observe such proprieties and tore into the dead nauglir with savage abandon. It was all Malus could do to keep his steed from devouring the poisoned flesh of the dead knight as well.

  “Eat up,” Malus told his steed. He again cast his eyes about, half expecting another steel bolt to come whistling at him from the trees. He had been driving Spite hard in his effort to reach Hag Graef quickly, but with warriors of Naggor on the prowl, the time for speed was past. Now he had to be more cautious. And the first rule of caution was to find a safe place where Spite and himself could rest and recover from their long journey.

  “The stronghold of Yrkool should be near here,” Malus judged as he studied the range of mountains looming in the west.

  The highborn smiled grimly and stroked the neck of his steed. “Feed quickly, Spite. I fear we have a little way yet before either of us can rest.”

  The last of the Naggorites dismounted from the saddle of his cold one. The armoured knight stood staring at the snow-covered pines which surrounded him, watching for any sign of movement, his ears sharp for even the slightest sound that might indicate pursuit.

  The druchii felt sickness boil at the pit of his stomach as he considered the carnage Darkblade had wrought upon them. Five of the Black Ark’s most lethal warriors, and their enemy had abused them like trussed slavelings on the way to Khaine’s altar. Belladon could have sent twenty knights and they might not have been enough. Five against Darkblade had been nothing less than suicide.

  Or perhaps that had been the hag’s intention. Suspicion roared through the elf s heart as he wondered if the witch hadn’t intended for the knights to succeed, if the ambush had been engineered to eliminate them, not the highborn.

  Angrily, the druchii stripped away one of his gauntlets and flung it down into the snow. His nauglir hissed hungrily as the elf raked the edge of his knife across his palm and brought blood bubbling up from the torn flesh. The reptile grew quiet, however, as its master clenched his fist and sent bloody beads dripping onto the ground. Sibilant words rasped across the elf s tongue and the air around him began to shimmer with an icy haze. The cold one slapped its long tail against the trees, even its primitive mind unsettled by the arcane taint of sorcery.

  In a matter of moments, a small puddle of blood had formed in the snow at the knight’s feet. The druchii glared down at the crimson liquid. The words of his incantation fell silent as the image of a face stared back at him from the surface of the puddle. It was a cruel, hard visage, possessed of an infernal beauty at once alluring and terrifying. The knight shuddered as he felt the pitiless eyes staring back at him. Few were they who could meet the gaze of Belladon, Hag of Naggor.

  “I see failure in your face,” Belladon’s lips formed the words, though no sound issued from the puddle.

  The knight clenched his fist, anger racing through him as Belladon reprimanded him. “He cut through us like a raging manticore,” the elf reported. “You should have sent more warriors.”

  Belladon’s expression darkened. “Do not question me. You were given the resources to accomplish your purpose.”

  “The others are dead and the enemy escaped,” the knight stated, striving to keep accusation from his tone.

  “It was Malus Darkblade?” Belladon asked.

  The knight nodded. “It was Eldire’s witch-spawn.”

  The face in the puddle smiled. “That is all I needed to know. You have accomplished your purpose. Another will take up the hunt now.”

  Belladon’s eyes hardened, her slender hands crossing before her lips, fingers splayed in a complex pattern. For an instant, the knight felt fear well up inside him, but before he could act upon the emotion it was too late. The witch’s spell already had him in its coils.

  Passing through the puddle of blood, invisible tendrils of magic wrapped themselves about the knight, seeping through his armour and permeating his flesh. Agonising pain roared through the druchii’s body and he fell to his knees, screaming. Blood gushed from his nose, from his eyes, from his ears. A stream of gore bubbled over his lips, spilling into the snow. The hideous stream flowed into the little puddle, rapidly expanding its dimensions. By the time the knight’s body was bled dry and his corpse collapsed, a pond of steaming gore stained the ground.

  Now masterless, the nauglir hissed angrily at the pond, smelling the stink of sorcery rising from it. The reptile lashed its tail in fright, then turned and ran off into the fastness of the forest.

  From the depths of the pool, a figure began to form. Inch by inch it grew, taking substance from the knight’s blood. As its head took shape, rising from broad shoulders, two burning eyes boiled up from the pits of its skull and cast their vicious gaze upon the desiccated husk of the dead druchii. Fangs gnashed together in a hungry leer as the daemon contemplated the carrion. It lifted a half-formed arm from the edge of the pool, reaching for the corpse.

  Then, reluctantly, the daemon drew back. There was a compulsion it had to fulfil before it could glut its appetite. It had to accomplish the task set before it by the one who had conjured it into the mortal world.

  It had to find Malus Darkblade.

  After hours following the almost invisible forest trails, it was with a supreme sense of relief that Malus saw the black walls of Yrkool suddenly appear through a break in the trees. The stronghold stood upon a small rise, a pinnacle of rock amid the sprawl of the forest. The pines had been cleared away from the fort, placing it at the centre of a half-mile-wide clearing. Banners bearing the heraldry of Hag Graef flanked the simple stone road leading up to the fort’s massive darkwood doors. As Spite walked along the road, Malus noted the long stakes interspersed between the banners, each pole topped with a bleached skull. Druchast letters were cut into each forehead, proclaiming the skull that of a traitor, trespasser or outlaw. Malus’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, as he wondered if any of these titles had been added to his name since last he’d walked the streets of his city.

  The musical cry of a horn brought his eyes back to the fort. A body of armoured elves had appeared on the walls, something Malus had expected from such a lonely outpost. A closer look revealed no weapons in their hands, however, which was far more surprising. The trumpeting call of the horn wasn’t sounding an alarm, but proclaiming welcome. While he watched, the huge doors of the
fortress were drawn inwards and a troop of druchii soldiers filed out onto the road. They formed columns on either flank, arms crossed over their chests in the ancient gesture of respect and honour. An elf in ornate armour and wearing a flowing cloak of finest human leather stood between the two columns, his arm extended in greeting.

  “My Lord Malus!” the druchii commander called out, his accent that of Hag Graef’s lower nobility. “It is an honour unparalleled for the castellan of Yrkool to welcome such a highborn into its humble halls.”

  Malus cast an appraising gaze over the castellan, taking Spite’s reins and stopping the cold one on the road. What was the commander’s game, he wondered? Did the elf hope to weasel favours from him as a reward for Yrkool’s hospitality or was he playing some deeper game? Perhaps he hoped to ingratiate himself into Malus’s good graces and secure a position in the highborn’s retinue, or at least a posting somewhere less forsaken than Yrkool? Lesser druchii had nurtured such ambitions, Malus reflected, thinking of Hauclir, the late captain of Hag Graef’s Spear Gate.

  “Forgive the spartan reception,” the castellan said, walking down the path, his hands spread to either side and well away from the swords belted about his waist. “My scouts only noted your approach a league from the clearing. I fear this was the best I could arrange on such short notice.”

  Malus favoured the castellan with the faintest hint of a nod. “I have travelled a long way,” he said, urging Spite onwards. “My first priority is food and rest. We can discuss any deficiencies in your courtesy later.” The highborn directed his most imperious stare at the smiling castellan. It was a look that had never failed to send servants and retainers hurrying to carry out his demands.

  The castellan, however, simply continued to smile. When Malus saw the elf direct a sidewise glance at his soldiers, the highborn brought his spurs kicking into Spite’s flanks. Whatever trickery the castellan was up to, he would be the first victim of it.