Análisis y comentario de las muestras de lengua detectadas

Chapter Thirteen

AMONG THE DEAD

At that moment a chorus of terrified wails erupted from the inner sanctum as the temple elders’

courage finally gave out. The stream of wounded and demoralised temple servants pouring into the outer sanctum suddenly became a raging flood as scores of panicked druchii fled before Urial and his fearsome bride.

“Go!” Malus shouted at Rhulan. “Gather your retainers and make for the temple doors.” Then he turned to face the tide of retreating temple servants and raised his bloodstained sword.

“Stand fast!” he roared, his face a mask of implacable rage. The shout was almost lost in the surf-like roar of the rout, but the leading rank of fleeing druchii saw the highborn’s furious expression and pulled up short. He took a step towards the fearful elders. “Turn and face the enemy!

Defend your elders and the sanctity of the temple, for Khaine is watching!”

Each word was like a dagger, digging into Malus’ chest. His lungs felt thick and swollen, and they couldn’t seem to hold enough air. The daemon was right, Urial had wounded him badly. His chest heaved and he turned his head to spit a gobbet of blood onto the marble floor, but instead of fear, Malus felt only a black, boiling rage.

He stepped fearlessly into the press, forcing frightened men to either side. “Skulls for the Blood God!” he cried, bloody foam flecking his thin lips. The front rank of temple servants turned with him, raising their weapons as Malus forced his way through the crowd towards the narrow door.

He knew that if he could reach the door they could hold it almost indefinitely. The battered temple retainers could form a tight ring around the portal and slay the zealots one at a time if they tried to fight their way through. The doorway was less than twenty feet away, but the path was crammed with thrashing, black-robed figures that contested each and every upward step. Malus snarled like a trapped wolf, laying about the men before him with the flat of his sword and eyeing the doorway with mounting dread. If the zealots could reach it before he did then all would be lost.

“Stand fast!” Malus shouted again, and succeeded in rallying the men closest to him. “Drive for the door!” he ordered, and the men around him tried to force their way upwards, against the tide.

The fleeing druchii pushed back, yelling and cursing. A temple retainer in front of Malus stabbed wildly at the highborn, and Malus split his skull without a moment’s hesitation. He stepped into the gap the fallen man left behind and continued to press forwards. “Hold them at the door!” he repeated. “We’ll stop them here!”

Had they been soldiers, accustomed to following orders amid the chaos of battle, the plan might have worked, but these were elders and temple acolytes, many of whom had not spilled another’s blood except in temple rituals. The death of the Grand Carnifex and the slaughter visited upon them by the vengeful zealots had ground their courage to dust. Malus was halfway to the door when a chorus of thin cries rose to challenge his shouted commands.

“The Swordbearer is come! All hail Urial, the Scourge of Khaine!”

Men screamed as their fellow temple brethren turned on them, crying out Urial’s name and stabbing their kin in hopes of saving themselves. The throng pressed with renewed vigour against Malus and his handful of rallied troops, but this time it was with knifepoints and axe-blades as well as elbows and fists.

The highborn heard the brittle snap of bones as the man in front of him was struck in the back by a retainer’s axe. He fell with a gurgling scream, and his assailant pulled his weapon free with both hands and set upon Malus with a fevered gleam in his dark eyes. Malus blocked the frenzied axe-stroke with his upraised blade and then smashed the man in the face with the round pommel of his sword. The retainer staggered, fetching up against the men behind him, and Malus chopped his sword deep into the turncoat’s neck.

A dagger lashed out from Malus’ left, scoring a narrow track along his left bicep. He coughed and spat more blood, his breath coming in wet, rattling gasps. A short sword chopped at him from the right and Malus blocked the clumsy strokes without conscious thought. The crowd at the top of the stairs surged forwards. A man fell towards Malus, and he stabbed the druchii in the chest, unable to tell whether he was friend or foe. Then he saw it: a white sleeve spattered with red, holding up a bloodstained draich in front of the doorway to the inner sanctum. The zealots had seized the doorway to the sanctum, and there was no holding them back.

Another dagger reached for Malus. Unable to discern who held it in the tangle of bodies he took a swipe at the man’s hand and severed a pair of fingers. Something sharp jabbed at his lower leg, causing him to shout in surprise. He stole quick glances left and right and saw the men beside him putting up a fight, but the weight of numbers had shifted against them. If they stayed where they were they would be overcome within minutes.

Malus gathered in as much breath as he could. “Warriors of the temple!” he cried. “One step back!”

The elders and their men eyed Malus with bewilderment, but their ragged line fell back a step.

Several of the oncoming druchii overbalanced and fell at the feet of the retreating temple loyalists, and Malus was heartened to see his men despatch the turncoats with swift, merciless blows. The highborn risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Arleth Vann right behind him, his swords held low and to either side of his body. Malus noticed the rivulets of blood running from beneath both of the assassin’s sleeves and dripping from his clenched fists, but the highborn had no doubt that his retainer could still fight and kill on command. “We’re retreating to the door!” he shouted.

“Watch our backs and keep the bastards from flanking us once we’re off the stairs!”

Arleth Vann nodded grimly and turned his back on Malus, surveying the chapel floor.

“Warriors of the temple! One step back!” Malus commanded, and the retreat began in earnest.

The eighty paces back to the doorway were the longest steps of Malus’ short life. Every loyal temple servant between Malus and the doorway was dead within moments and there was nothing in front of him but a bloodthirsty mob howling for his head. A man charged headlong at him, brandishing an axe, and the highborn dropped to one knee and stabbed the turncoat in the groin.

Another rushed in and slashed for his face with a short sword. Malus pulled his sword from the axe man and blocked the sword stroke, forcing his assailant backwards with a jab to his face. He regained his feet and stepped backwards, taunting the men in front of him to try their luck against his blade.

And so it went: step, parry, kill and step again. As the temple loyalists came off the steps the mob spilled onto the chapel floor and lapped around the ends of the ragged line, slowly forcing the retreating fighters into a tight knot of weary men. The piled skulls on the chapel floor were a boon to the loyalists, breaking up the turncoat attacks so that they couldn’t press the defenders from all sides. True to his word, Arleth Vann kept the line of retreat open, slaying every turncoat who crossed his path.

When they were slightly more than halfway to the doors, Malus was panting like a dog. Red spots swirled at the corners of his vision as he struggled for breath. He’d picked up a dagger from a fallen turncoat and fought on two-handed, blocking with the heavy northern sword and stabbing foes with the knife. He’d lost track of the number of men he’d killed. The rest paced in his wake like wolves, sensing that he was weakening and waiting for the right moment to strike. The highborn

gasped like a landed fish, hardly daring to glance away from his opponents to see how well the rest of the loyalists were faring.

With each, halting breath he felt the daemon shift inside him, saying nothing but reminding him of its presence. Malus caught himself with the daemon’s name on his lips, more than once, knowing that a single word could fill his lungs with fresh air and turn his blood to deadly ice. Each time he pushed temptation away with a snarl, although whether from fear or sheer, bloody-minded spite he could not say.

It was only when the turncoats redoubled their attacks that Malus knew they were nearly to the door. He heard the tempo of fighting increase to either side of him, and the three men who had been testing his defences for the last few minutes decided to rush him all at once. Two men held short, stabbing swords, while the druchii on the far right hefted a large, single bladed axe.

The axe man nearly got him, rushing forwards just as Malus tried to blink a swarm of bright spots from his eyes. He sensed more than saw the looming shape of his assailant and on instinct alone he leapt forwards and to the right, placing himself within the arc of the axe man’s swing.

Malus’ attacker tried to adjust his aim by pivoting further to his right, but the move was a second too slow and his aim was poor, and the weapon struck one of the swordsmen in the back of the head instead. Before the axe man could recover Malus stabbed him twice in the chest and neck. Then he threw himself at the last swordsman, who was stepping over his fallen mate and thrusting his weapon at the highborn’s throat. The turncoat’s shorter blade meant he had to overextend himself in order to reach his target and the highborn made his foe pay dearly for it, sidestepping the thrust and chopping his sword deep into the side of the man’s neck.

Malus risked a quick look backwards and saw the doorway only a few paces distant. Someone

— probably one of Rhulan’s men — had pulled the doors partly shut, so only one or two men could slip through at a time. Already there were only a bare handful of loyalists led by Arleth Vann remaining on the interior side of the door, barely keeping the escape route open. The highborn would have laughed out loud if he’d had the wind for it. Instead he turned back to the bloodthirsty turncoats, and found himself face to face with one of Tyran’s zealots. The swordsman held his gore-crusted draich at the ready, a rapt smile on his face.

I can’t beat him, damn it. I can barely breathe, he thought. Still, he leapt at the man with a rasping shout, holding his dagger close and feinting at the zealot’s face to gauge his prowess. The swordsman was clearly spent from his exertions performing the Swordbearer’s rite, because his killing stroke was just barely slow enough for Malus to block the blow with the flat of his dagger.

Malus retreated from the swordsman, chest heaving, and the zealot glided after him, his expression hungry and intent.

Malus angled his course to head for the doorway, hoping his memory and blurred eyesight hadn’t deceived him. He threw another short jab at the zealot’s eyes, and pulled back just in time to avoid having his sword arm taken off at the elbow.

The zealot laughed. “You disgrace yourself, blasphemer,” he said. “I had hoped you would be a worthy foe, but you puff and stumble like a drunkard. Why don’t you throw down your swords and accept Khaine’s cold mercy?”

A ghostly grin came and went from Malus’ bloody lips. “Because I know something you don’t.”

The zealot frowned. “Such as?”

“Such as my retainer is about to stab you in the side of the neck.”

The swordsman whirled, raising his blade in a blurring defensive move. Malus leapt at the same time, catching the zealot’s left arm at the crook of his elbow and shearing straight through it. The zealot staggered, but before he could regain his senses the highborn finished him off with a thrust to his neck.

Arleth Vann finished off the turncoat in front of him and took a step back, reaching Malus’ side.

He gave his master an accusatory look. “I heard what you said,”

he declared sternly, “suggesting I would interfere in a sacred duel!”

“I’m a bit surprised he fell for it myself,” Malus replied. He grabbed the assassin by a blood soaked sleeve and pulled him back through the doorway Wide-eyed druchii stood to either side of the threshold, their hands gripping the edges of the tall, oak doors.

“Shut them! Hurry!” Malus ordered. “They’re almost upon us!”

The retainers leapt to obey, pulling hard on the heavy panels. Frantic, bloodstained faces appeared in the narrowing gap and hands pounded fearfully on the closing doors. A pale hand shot through the gap, reaching desperately for Malus. With a curse the highborn stepped to the side and brought his sword down on the offending limb, severing it in a spray of blood. The loyalist’s agonised shriek was lost in the heavy thud of the doors slamming shut.

Malus turned and sought out Rhulan, who stood ashen faced at the foot of the temple steps. “Can you seal it?”

The temple elder started at Malus’ voice, as if lost in a reverie. “Seal?” he asked, blinking owlishly.

“The door, damn you!” the highborn snapped, his voice so sharp that Rhulan and his retainers flinched at the sound. “Do you know some sorcery to lock the doors?”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Rhulan strode forwards, raising his right hand. “Step away from the doors,” he said.

Malus and Arleth Vann cleared the steps, and the rest of the temple servants scattered to either side. The heavy doors began to swing open almost immediately, giving vent to a chorus of fierce cries and pounding fists. A severed head rolled through the widening gap, bouncing wetly down the wide steps to stop at Malus’ feet.

Then Rhulan straightened to his full height and spoke a single word of power that crackled in the air like the lash of a whip. He made a fist with his upraised hand and the twin doors slammed shut with a thunderous boom.

Malus nodded in weary satisfaction, revising his opinion of the frail looking Rhulan somewhat.

He quickly took stock of the motley band of loyalists who’d escaped the debacle within the temple.

Rhulan had six men and women standing in a loose circle around him, and Malus saw the tattooed elder standing a short distance away, surrounded by her own coterie of retainers and hangers-on, including the axe-wielding priestess he’d seen fighting earlier. Four more loyalists stood near Malus at the foot of the steps. They were all that remained of the meagre force he’d led out of the building.

Out of the hundred druchii who’d followed the Grand Carnifex from the Citadel of Bone, less than twenty remained. Malus shook his head bitterly and tried to curse, but all he could manage was a wet, wracking cough that sent spasms of pain through his chest. He swayed on his feet, but Arleth Vann steadied him with a bloodstained grip.

“Are you well?” Rhulan asked, his face paling further.

With an effort, Malus bit back a sharp-tongued reply. He spat another mouthful of blood onto the ground and took a strangled breath. “Well enough,” he managed to say.

“We haven’t long,” the elder said, his voice hollow. “What do we do?”

The daemon stirred. “Listen to him,” Tz’arkan whispered. “Time is running out for you, little druchii. You must choose.”

A sharp spike of pain lanced through Malus’ chest, almost doubling him over with its intensity.

Again, Arleth Vann’s grip steadied him, but Malus jerked his arm away. With nothing but bitter rage to sustain him, he forced himself upright.

“We go talk to these assassins of yours,” he said through clenched teeth, “and then we put an end to these fanatics once and for all.”

After the ivory eminence of the Citadel of Bone and the dwarf-wrought glory of the temple, Malus had no idea what to expect from the sanctum of the temple’s holy assassins. A razor-edged keep

wrought entirely of steel? A palace of ruby and garnet? Many fanciful visions passed through his mind as Arleth Vann shepherded him across the temple grounds.

It turned out to be a hole in the ground.

More accurately, it was accessed by a long, spiralling path, almost a hundred and twenty paces across, that wound its way deep into the earth. Large witchfire globes surrounded the perimeter of the wide spiral, throwing shifting patterns of light across the narrow pathways. The path was wide enough for only one traveller at a time, and it was formed of dark, crimson glass that glimmered like fresh blood in the sorcerous light.

Rhulan took the lead. The temple retainers — even the fearsome priestess with her bloodstained axe — looked to one another apprehensively as they fell into line behind their masters. Even Arleth Vann seemed hesitant to begin the descent, although Malus suspected that he had very practical reasons for avoiding his former comrades. He didn’t expect that the silent knives of Khaine nurtured any compassion for those who broke their oaths and deserted the order.

The descent seemed to go on forever. It was fully five minutes of slow, methodical pacing before they’d completed the first circuit and began to sink below the earth. Malus gritted his teeth, one hand pressed against the wound in his chest, and expected to hear the sounds of pursuit at any moment. He couldn’t imagine that Urial would be delayed overmuch by Rhulan’s ward, nor would he waste a single moment in setting the hounds on his trail.

It was almost another five minutes before they were fully below ground. What in the Dark Mother’s name was taking so long, he wondered? Were there traps for the unwary? Poison needles

It was almost another five minutes before they were fully below ground. What in the Dark Mother’s name was taking so long, he wondered? Were there traps for the unwary? Poison needles