Warhammer 40,000 - [Weekender 02] Read online

  Before Spite had gone more than a few feet, however, the nauglir crashed onto the paving stones. In drawing closer to the fort, Malus had come abreast of the soldiers. At the castellan’s motion, these had thrown open their hands, flinging what looked like dust across the road. Spite’s charge carried it full into the yellow cloud.

  Malus recognised the dust as soon as he noted its colour. It was the powder used by hunters to subdue cold ones in their subterranean lairs. It had a soporific effect upon nauglir, rendering them helpless for hours. Spite crumpled beneath Malus, stricken so swiftly it didn’t even utter a sound. The highborn tried to throw himself from the saddle, but was too slow to leap clear. When Spite slammed against the ground, his leg was pinned beneath his steed.

  “Take him alive!” the castellan shouted at his soldiers. “He’s worth nothing to me dead!”

  Malus ripped his sword free from its sheath, hewing through the arm of the first soldier to close upon him. Then he felt bright stabbing pain explode through his skull as the pommel of a sword was driven against the back of his head. The shock numbed his fingers and before he could recover another soldier was wrestling the Warpsword from his weakened grip.

  “Try not to damage his face,” the castellan ordered as a mass of soldiers used the pommels and flats of their swords to batter Malus into submission.

  “The Drachau will want to recognise Darkblade when he is executed.”

  Nehloth ran a covetous hand along the Warpsword’s scabbard. It didn’t take someone versed in the ancient history of Ulthuan and the elven gods to recognise a blade of quality. Even less so when he had seen with his own eyes the way the sword had sheared effortlessly through bone and steel.

  The castellan leaned back in his chair, glancing apprehensively at the grim walls of his war room. There was no telling how many of his garrison were spies for the Drachau or one of the highborn families of Hag Graef. Any one of them might send word back to the Hag about his capture of Malus. That didn’t worry him; the druchii was an outcast and kinslayer. No one would mourn him when he was gone. Indeed, the Drachau probably would have him executed... if Nehloth returned him to the Hag.

  He wouldn’t, of course. As much as the Drachau might like to see Malus disposed of, the witchlords of Naggor wanted his head even more. It was something Nehloth’s own patron was counting on. Lord Severin was the Drachau’s favoured son, but the highborn wasn’t content with his lot. He intended to become Slavemaster of Hag Graef and wasn’t willing to wait. Towards that end, Severin had been secretly negotiating with the Naggorites, seeking the support of the witchlords in securing his father’s throne. Yrkool, closest of the Hag’s outposts to the Black Ark, was an important rendezvous for the conspirators and Nehloth was deep in Severin’s confidences.

  Not so deep, however, that he was willing to let a weapon like the Warpsword slip through his fingers. The castellan would keep that for himself. When he sent word to the Naggorites about Malus’s capture, they would be waiting to ambush the prisoner when Nehloth sent a few of his soldiers to take him back to the Hag. The escort would be killed, of course, and the only ones around to refute the castellan’s claims that the Warpsword had been sent along with Darkblade would be the Naggorites—and even their ally Severin wouldn’t believe them.

  Yes, Nehloth reflected, it had been a very profitable day. All that was left was to send a messenger to Lord Severin, advising him of Malus’s capture. A mere formality; the castellan already knew what was expected of him, but he knew Severin would take issue if he didn’t keep him informed every step of the way.

  A light snow was drifting down into Yrkool’s courtyard when the messenger was ready to depart. Nehloth watched the elf exit the barracks, muffled in a heavy wolfskin cloak. The castellan knew he could trust this soldier to perform his duty. The elf was one of Severin’s sworn retainers and the oaths he had made to his lord were so terrible they would make even the Dark Mother blanch.

  From his position overlooking the courtyard, Nehloth nodded to the messenger as he mounted his horse. As the elf rode towards the great gates, the castellan gave the order for them to be opened. It was a foolish custom, but at night only a direct command from the castellan could open those gates. The druchii soldiers were well aware of the gruesome penalty for disobeying that custom.

  As the gates swung open, however, Nehloth’s elves had something far more gruesome to occupy their thoughts. Standing just beyond the portal, its eyes glowing in the darkness, was a monstrous shape. Twice the height of an elf, its blood-coloured body glistening with wet sliminess in the moonlight, the thing sprang into motion the moment the gates swung wide, its claws sweeping out for the horrified messenger.

  Colour drained from Nehloth’s face as he saw the monster bring its claws together, one to either side of the messenger’s head. There was a gut-churning crunch as the druchii’s skull disintegrated between the creature’s palms. The elf’s body quivered a moment after it toppled into the snow. Another sweep of the monster’s claws sent the messenger’s decapitated horse collapsing beside him.

  To their credit, the soldiers at the gate didn’t flee even after witnessing their comrade’s horrible demise. With the martial discipline demanded of all Naggaroth’s warriors, they rushed at the monster. The beast hovered over those it had killed, its slimy hide rippling with obscene life as it savoured its handiwork.

  The spear of the first soldier to reach it stabbed clean through its waist. That of the second punched into its side. A third warrior slashed at it with his sword, hacking into its knee.

  The monster rounded upon the elves who had attacked it, eyes burning malignantly from its skull-like visage. Long fangs clacked together as slimy lips pulled back in a sadistic grin. The wounds its attackers had visited upon it were already closing; in the blink of an eye its crimson skin was without the faintest trace of injury. The same could not be said for the beast’s attackers. Their screams echoed across the fort as the monster literally tore them limb from limb.

  Now the horn sounded the alarm, elves rushed from the barracks, crossbowmen manned the walls. Two score druchii warriors converged upon the slimy abomination, glaring with hate as they saw the carnage it had inflicted.

  Nehloth retreated back inside Yrkool’s keep, his body trembling in terror. Forty warriors or four hundred, he knew the garrison had no chance against the monster. He had dealt with the Naggorites long enough to recognise one of their daemons—the hell-fiend they called the Bloodwalker. No mortal blade could harm the daemon. No spell could turn it aside. It existed only to track down the one it had been sent to find—and it would enjoy killing everything that got in its way.

  The castellan rushed back into his war room, seizing the Warpsword from where it rested on the table. Mortal steel might be ineffectual against the Bloodwalker, but a magic blade might pierce its unholy essence. Nehloth turned in alarm as the door to the war room was flung open, but was relieved to find only his terrified adjutant, not the rampaging daemon.

  “The monster is slaughtering the garrison!” the elf fairly shrieked. “We must flee!”

  “And have the Drachau after us for deserting the fort?” Nehloth sneered. “No. We will fight the daemon!”

  “With what?”

  Nehloth stroked the Warpsword, then frowned. The magic blade might indeed work against the Bloodwalker, but was he willing to risk his own life to find out? Even as he asked himself the question, a cunning gleam entered his eye.

  “Come!” Nehloth ordered. “There is a proposition I want to make to our prisoner.”

  Malus stared incredulously at Nehloth as the castellan knelt beside him in the dank squalor of the dungeon. “You want me to do what?”

  “I want you to defend Yrkool,” Nehloth repeated. The daemon doesn’t much care who it kills. You can die down here in chains when it comes for you or die like a druchii with a blade in your hand.”

  “My blade,” Malus said. He had not failed to notice that the castellan carried the Warpsword. Nehloth
nodded in agreement.

  “With the understanding that you will return it to me,” he said. “I want your oath, Malus Darkblade, that you will defend Yrkool against this daemon. When it is vanquished, I shall allow you to leave—after you have returned the sword.” Nehloth craned his head to one side, listening as a thin shriek drifted down to the dungeon from the courtyard. “I want you to swear by your mother’s soul, Darkblade, that you will abide by our pact.”

  The words stabbed into Malus like a dagger. Of all the oaths Nehloth could have demanded, there was none that could pain him more. Better than any living druchii, he knew what it meant to forsake one’s soul.

  “You have my word,” Malus snarled. “Now undo these chains before the daemon brings this whole fort crashing down on our heads.”

  Nehloth grinned as he unlocked Malus’s chains, almost sneering as he handed the highborn his blade. In the back of his mind, the castellan wondered if the Bloodwalker had been sent not to destroy Yrkool, but to kill Darkblade. If so, then whatever happened, the castellan would win.

  The courtyard was a scene of carnage when Malus emerged from the keep. Great blocks of stone had been ripped from the outbuildings and hurled at the battlements, smashing the crossbowmen into crimson rags. Fire raged unchecked in the barracks, devouring its timber roof. Horses screamed as the flames reached out to claim the stables. The ground was strewn with mangled bodies, mutilated in a fashion that even the highborn had never imagined possible. Streams of blood oozed through the snow, crawling with unnatural life to flow towards the Bloodwalker’s feet. Whenever the streams touched the daemon, the monster’s eyes blazed and its body glistened with hellish light. The daemon’s skin writhed and rippled as it absorbed the blood of its victims.

  Malus drew the Warpsword and pondered his next move. The Bloodwalker was busy grinding the face of a soldier into a bloody smear on the wall of the keep, but the moment the highborn stepped out into the courtyard, it lost interest in its savage amusement. The burning eyes of the daemon fixed upon Malus and its long fangs clacked together in a hungry snap.

  “Not good,” the highborn cursed as the daemon lunged towards him. After the beating the soldiers had given him, Malus’s body was too sore to react with its usual quickness. The daemon’s claw licked out, raking across the highborn’s arm. Malus felt an electric shock burn through his body as the daemon’s talons tore open his skin. Blood oozed from the wound, rushing with unnatural speed towards the daemon’s body.

  Malus struck at the Bloodwalker with his blade, the ancient relic slashing across its forearm. The daemon recoiled, howling in pain as black steam boiled from the cut. At the same instant, the stream of blood pulsing from Malus’s wound slowed to a more natural trickle.

  The highborn brought his sword slashing at the daemon’s claw as it came at him again. The Bloodwalker, however, had learned this blade could hurt it. Displaying inhuman agility, the daemon rolled inside the sweep of Malus’s sword. Its claw smashed into his breastplate, hurling him across the courtyard as though he’d been shot from a ballista. Sparks flickered through the druchii’s vision as he crashed against the flagstones.

  The daemon stalked towards him, fangs exposed in a murderous grin. Malus struggled up from the ground, but he knew his battered body was moving too slowly to escape the monster.

  Deliverance came from an unexpected source. Unwisely peering out from the keep to see how Malus was faring, Nehloth’s adjutant made the mistake of catching the daemon’s attention. The slight motion of the elf’s head in the doorway brought the daemon wheeling about, pouncing on the adjutant like a raging lion. Viciously, the Bloodwalker savaged its victim, forgetting about the highborn entirely.

  The grisly scene brought inspiration to Malus. Turning towards the burning stables, the highborn made a valiant dash across the courtyard. The Bloodwalker spotted him when he was passing the keep and with a ghoulish howl, it dropped the mangled adjutant and charged after its quarry.

  Malus reached the stable doors an instant ahead of the daemon. He could see the portals rattling as the panicked horses kicked at them from within. Glancing back at the daemon, he brought his sword slashing down, chopping the steel bar holding the doors shut.

  A dozen terrified horses leaped into the courtyard, smoke and flame billowing behind them. The daemon howled again, lashing out at the beasts as they rushed past it, blood-lust blazing in its eyes.

  Malus left the thing to chase the horses. Throwing a hand before his face to shield it from the smoke, he forced his way into the burning stable. Above the crack of flames and the pop of burning timber, he could hear the furious shrieks of Spite. With as much haste as his bruised muscles could muster, Malus ran towards the source of the shrieks.

  He found Spite chained by a neck-ring to a massive block of granite in a stall at the back of the stable. Burning debris showered down around the reptile, singeing its scales. The cold one snapped angrily at the flames licking down at it from the ceiling, trying to attack its tormentor.

  “I have need of you, old friend,” Malus coughed. A single stroke of the Warpsword snapped the chain. For an instant Spite seemed more inclined to attack the flames than follow its master, but the nauglir quickly reverted to its training.

  Climbing onto Spite’s back, Malus turned the reptile towards the doors. He had seen that the Warpsword could hurt the daemon—what he couldn’t overcome in his condition was its speed. But with a steed under him, the situation had changed.

  With flames and smoke billowing about it, Spite charged out from the inferno like a fiend spat from hell. The Bloodwalker spun around, ignoring the horse it had caught. The daemon howled and bared its fangs.

  “Let’s try this again, shall we?” Malus snarled, raising the Warpsword high. Spite dropped into a crouch, its powerful legs becoming like steel coils. With a terrific display of strength, the cold one sprang at the rushing daemon. The reptile’s lunge carried it clear over the Bloodwalker. As Spite passed the daemon, Malus struck, the enchanted edge of the Warpsword cleaving through its neck.

  Malus was nearly thrown by the impact of Spite’s landing, but he managed to retain sufficient control to not only keep his place, but even turn the nauglir around to face their stricken enemy. The highborn smiled coldly as the decapitated daemon swayed unsteadily upon its cloven feet. As he watched, the slimy body began to disintegrate, melting into a pool of blood and offal.

  “You did it! You actually did it!” The castellan emerged from the keep, gawking with disbelief. Nehloth’s exclamation brought the few surviving soldiers creeping out from their hiding places. Malus cast a disgusted glance at the survivors.

  “You asked me to save Yrkool from the daemon,” Malus stated.

  “You have honoured your oath,” Nehloth replied. “We will make no effort to hold you now.”

  Malus wasn’t sure if there was treachery in the castellan’s words, not that he cared. The elf was already dead and had been the moment he’d extracted that oath from him. “You asked me to save Yrkool from the daemon.” His gaze bore into Nehloth’s eyes. “But who will save the fort from me?”

  Malus Darkblade turned his back on the ruins of Yrkool, spurring Spite into the shelter of the forest. Between himself and the daemon, the garrison had been slaughtered to a soldier. Even Nehloth, who had been quite discomfited when the Warpsword was returned to him, blade first and through his chest.

  Malus rued the petty hate that had made him kill the castellan out of hand. He should have taken his time, learned if the fool had truly been acting in the Drachau’s name when he had tried to arrest him. If so, then it would inflict some adjustment to his plans about returning to Hag Graef.

  Even more troubling had been the presence of the daemon. Had the fiend descended upon Yrkool by mere chance, or had there been purpose behind its rampage? Perhaps it had been following him ever since Malus left the Wastes. More troubling, perhaps it had been dispatched by Tz’arkan to hunt him down.

  The very thought of such a possibility
turned Malus colder than the snow falling around him. The Bloodwalker was dead, destroyed by the Warpsword. Whatever its purpose, it would trouble him no more.

  Ebon wings hovered above the ruins of Yrkool, great demi-reptiles that bore armoured warriors upon their backs. In an instant, they circled the clearing, searching for any tracks. Whatever impressions there had been were lost under the fresh snow.

  One of the warriors reached beneath the folds of his wyvern-hide cloak and drew forth a golden pendant, a huge bloodstone gleaming at the centre of the talisman. The cruel beauty of Belladon stared from the depths of the jewel.

  “My Lady Belladon,” the Naggorite said, his voice betraying a tinge of fear. “We have searched the fortress. There is no sign of Darkblade. Much of the fort is burned. He may have perished in the fire.”

  “He lives,” Belladon’s words hissed through the Naggorite’s mind. “And while he lives, he is a threat to Witchlord Bale.”

  “But we do not know where he has gone,” the Naggorite protested.

  From behind the bloodstone, Belladon’s expression hardened. The Bloodwalker found Malus once; now that it has tasted his blood, it can do so again. Land your doom-wings in the courtyard. Choose the least useful of your witchguard.

  “I’m afraid I will need some of his blood when I call the daemon back.”

  Inquisitor Bronislaw Czevak exchanged the exotic gloom of the webway for the darkness absolute of the death world forest. Without light to navigate by, the inquisitor closed the armoured covers of his map—the Atlas Infernal—and allowed it to fall to his side on its leather shoulder strap. The static of dimensional transference died behind him, leaving Czevak in the thick, warm darkness of Umbra-Epsilon V. Everything was black. Indeed, the only way to tell the sky from the horizon was the star-pricked smear of haze that seemed to spread across the above and beyond like oil on water—for Umbra-Epsilon belonged to the dreadspace of the Eye.