Darkblade 4 - Reaper of Souls by Warhammer

Author:Warhammer [Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Epic, Fantasy, Fiction, Action & Adventure, General
ISBN: 9781844161935
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2006-08-08T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

DARK ALLIANCE

Malus put his heels to Spite’s flanks and thundered down the narrow road through the Slavers’ Quarter. Fire and ruin followed in his wake.

The retainer’s armour fitted Malus poorly, shifting and rattling across his chest and shoulders with every one of the nauglir’s heavy steps. The vambraces and greaves felt dangerously loose, threatening to slide from his limbs — there had been little time to tighten all the straps and ensure every buckle was set while a mob of angry slaves rampaged through Master Noros’ house. By the time he’d put the dead man’s hadrilkar and armour on the compound was burning fiercely and armed slaves were spilling into the street, eager to spill more slavers’ blood.

Druchii slavers and their men were stepping into the street at the far end of the lane, listening to the distant commotion and eyeing the rising column of smoke from Noros’ compound with increasing alarm. “Noros’ slaves have escaped!” Malus roared at the men in his path. “They’re burning everything they can reach. Barricade your doors and arm your men!”

The slavers scattered out of the highborn’s way and began shouting orders to their men. Malus galloped on, trusting that none of the druchii would think to question the business of one of Lord Tennucyr’s men.

Within minutes Malus reached the curving passage that connected the many levels of the black ark. The guardsmen collecting tolls from passing druchii frowned at the onrushing highborn, but Malus only spurred his mount harder, scattering soldiers and citizens alike out of his way as he turned right and headed for the highest levels of the ice-locked fortress. “Sound the alarm!” he cried to everyone he passed. “The Slavers’ Quarter is on fire!”

Figures appeared and then receded in the gloom as Malus ascended the long ramp, their pale faces marked by anger or fear. The highborn thought he could smell smoke and imagined the consequences of a major fire in the enclosed vaults of the ark. Just then Malus felt the sensation of dry scales brushing against the insides of his ribs and Tzarkan murmured in his head. “You are going the wrong way, little druchii,” the daemon said coldly. “As ever, you rush headlong into your enemies’ arms.”

Malus shook his head sharply, gritting his teeth at the sudden return of the hated daemon’s presence. When he’d first put on the dead retainer’s armour and collar he’d considered simply riding Spite down the long ramp and barrelling out into the icy wastes. But just as quickly he realised that escaping the ark brought only the illusion of safety. Beyond the walls of the ark he would be a hunted man, dogged by warriors from the Hag and assassins. His only hope was to throw in his lot with Balneth Bale and trust that the Witch Lord’s enmity with Hag Graef — and mysterious detente with Malekith — would be enough to stymie his foes long enough that he could at least free himself from Tz’arkan’s damnable grip. “Such timely concern,” the highborn sneered.

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