Gotrek & Felix: Slayer (35 page)

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.’

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Deathblade.

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First published in Great Britain in 2015.
This eBook edition published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS UK.

Cover illustration by Slawomir Maniak.
Map artwork by Nuala Kindrade.
Additional artwork by Winona Nelson.

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