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Chapter Twelve

FROM THE CAULDRON BORN

Malus felt his heart clench in agony as the long blade slid between his ribs. His chest spasmed and he gasped, coughing up blood. Urial’s sepulchral laugh rang in his ears.

“Glory to Khaine, greatest of gods!” Malus’ half-brother shouted, his pale face alight with triumph. “Truly it is a gift to find you here at the moment of my exaltation.” The former acolyte stepped closer, his twisted left foot dragging slightly across the polished marble. His withered right hand was tucked against his breastplate, its deformity hidden within a shell of dark steel armour.

Urial’s gaunt, hawk-like face was lit with a savage grin and his thick, white hair spilled unbound around his shoulders. He looked like a sorcerer prince out of the ancient legends, radiating icy cruelty and implacable power.

“It is fitting that you be the first to die,” Urial said, his voice almost a whisper. “After all you and that whore Eldire have done to me, this will be sweet indeed.” He smiled, flexing his good hand on the warpsword’s hilt. “I’m going to split you from crotch to chin and let you bleed out on these steps. Then I’ll command the blood-witches to call you back, and I’ll look you in the eye as I feast upon your liver.” His grin hardened into a sneer. “Once I’ve eaten of your spirit Darkblade you will be no more. I will take your strength — such as it is — and what is left will be lost to the Abyss forever.”

With a single, fluid motion, Urial jerked the warpsword free from Malus’ torso. A wave of pain spread like ice through the highborn’s body, so great it took his breath away. Blood leaked from his gaping mouth as he swayed on his feet. Then his knees buckled and Malus fell backwards, landing on his back and sliding limply down the marble steps. His sword, clutched in a death grip, rasped and rang as it was dragged along in his wake.

Malus fetched up at the base of the dais, his labouring heart sending cold waves of pain rippling through his chest. Tz’arkan stirred, and for a brief moment the agony subsided. “I’m here, Malus,”

the daemon whispered. “Ask, and I shall heal you. The wound is deep, and you will die unless I intervene.”

It was hard to think and harder still to breathe. “Not… possible,” Malus rasped, bloody froth collecting at the corners of his mouth. “The prophecy…”

Urial looked out over the temple elders and raised the bloodstained sword, savouring their cries of dismay. Behind him came a slow procession of white-robed zealots, stiff and exhausted from their labours. Tyran led the way, his draich unsheathed by his side. He looked down at the crowd of elders and gave them the serene smile of an executioner. “The Time of Blood is at hand!” the zealot leader proclaimed. “Weep for the end of your world, you faithless curs! Khaine’s truth gleams from the edge of the Scourge’s blade Prostrate yourselves at his feet and beg for his forgiveness!”

“Yes. Plead for a clean death to wash away your sins,” Urial hissed at the stricken throng. He brandished the warpsword at the crowd like a burning brand. “When the cauldron spared me you knew that I was blessed by the Lord of Murder. You knew the prophecies of old, and yet you refused to believe the signs that were before your very eyes, because I was a cripple,” he spat, “a bent and twisted man, unfit to wield a dagger, much less this sacred blade!” Urial took another slow step down the stairs. His face was taut with murderous rage and his eyes gleamed with savage glee.

“I say to you that these withered limbs were a warning, revealing your blindness and lack of faith! You chose the pleasing lie over the grim truth of Khaine’s will, and you will reap the bitter fruit of your faithlessness!” The Swordbearer gave a bloodthirsty laugh. “I have claimed the sword, and soon I shall take my magnificent bride. Then the world will burn — oh, how it will burn!—and we shall rise on a tide of blood as high as the stars themselves.” Urial levelled the warpsword at the temple elders. “But these glories are not for the likes of you. The blood-witches will call you back and we will feed your guts to the ravens!”

“Be silent, heretic!” thundered the Grand Carnifex.

The crowd of elders fell away to either side from the fearsome master of the temple as he strode into the chapel and climbed onto the dais beside the bubbling cauldron. The Carnifex’s face was a mask of fearsome, righteous rage, and fresh blood dripped from the long blade of his rune carved axe. The severed heads of the zealots slain outside the temple were clenched in his left fist, and his gold covered kheitan was smeared with dark splashes of gore. He was the image of an avenging hero, anointed in sacred blood, and the ferocious glare he laid upon Urial stopped the Swordbearer in his tracks.

“You are an abomination, Urial of Hag Graef,” the master of the temple proclaimed. “You claim that the cauldron gave you back as a gift from Khaine, but I say the Lord of Murder spared you to test our beliefs, not fulfil them!” The Grand Carnifex surveyed the assembled elders, fixing each one with a stern glare. “The will of the Bloody-Handed God is clear to the faithful: Malekith is his chosen Scourge, who will lead the faithful to glory!” He cast the severed heads into the cauldron and raised his axe to Urial. “You are a deceiver and a false prophet,” he declared. “You have defiled the holy sanctum and laid hands on the sacred blade of the Scourge.” The master of the temple stepped from the dais onto the steps, taking his axe in a two-handed grip. “I condemn you and repudiate you, and it is my joyous duty to slay you in the Blood God’s name!”

To Malus’ surprise, Urial smiled and shook his head. “The first man that dies by this blade is my half-brother. You aren’t fit to bleed on my boots, you fraud.”

“Slay the blasphemer!” Tyran cried, and two zealots answered with a lusty roar, charging down the steps past Urial and brandishing their deadly blades. The Grand Carnifex met them with a howl of righteous fury, his axe whirling in deadly patterns as he advanced on Urial.

The charging zealots reached the Carnifex first, their blades flickering like lightning. The master of the temple gauged their advance, and with skill born of countless battles he shifted his stance and sidestepped to the left, meeting the left-most attacker blade to blade. The zealot’s sword snapped as it met the temple master’s ensorcelled axe, and the Carnifex responded with a lightning return stroke that split the man’s torso crosswise, just beneath the ribs. His sudden dodge threw off the rightmost attacker’s stroke just enough to spoil the man’s killing blow, but not enough to fully escape the reach of the long blade Malus felt the hot droplets of the old druchii’s blood as the zealot’s sword tore a deep cut through the Carnifex’s side.

A torrent of blood and spilled organs tumbled down the steps around the temple master’s feet as the two halves of the slain zealot emptied their contents onto the stairway. “Blood and souls for Khaine!” the Grand Carnifex shouted, pivoting smoothly to meet the remaining zealot’s charge. The old druchii parried a deft swing at his upper thigh and struck back with a reverse stroke at the zealot’s head, but the robed warrior ducked nimbly beneath the blow. The zealot stepped into the temple master’s guard with a blurring backspin, aiming an eviscerating cut at the Carnifex’s midsection, but the old druchii gave ground and parried the blow against the long haft of his axe.

The swordsman skidded slightly in the thick blood coating the stone steps, but with preternatural agility he checked his motion and leapt backwards, getting swinging room for his two-handed blade and chopping downwards into the Carnifex’s right leg. The long sword bit deep into the meat of the temple master’s thigh, but like an old, grizzled boar the Carnifex bellowed in rage and pressed the attack. Twisting slightly to trap the sword in the wound, the old druchii lashed out one-handed with his axe and hacked off the zealot’s right arm just above the elbow.

The zealot let out a sharp hiss of pain, blood pumping from the severed limb, but his left hand tore the draich free from the temple master’s leg and the swordsman got the long weapon into a defensive stance as the Carnifex lurched forwards. Drops of hot blood scattered like rain as the old druchii unleashed a barrage of blows against the zealot’s faltering guard. On the third, ringing stroke the rune-carved axe snapped the draich just above the hilt and the curved blade buried itself in the zealot’s face. Drunk on pain and slaughter the Grand Carnifex pulled the axe free and rounded on Urial. Laughing like a madman he ran his tongue along the edge of the gore-stained blade. “The blood of slain warriors is sweet,” he proclaimed, “but cowardice is bitter! I can smell your blood curdling to vinegar, Urial. The true Scourge of Khaine would not cower and leave others to fight on his behalf.”

The elders of the temple shouted their approval and the zealots responded with a maddened cry as the two sides threw themselves at one another. Robed figures poured around the dais like a black wave, surging up the stairs alongside their master as white-robed zealots rent the air with bloodthirsty howls and rushed to meet them. Blades flashed and rang and more blood poured down the black stairs as the battle was joined in earnest.

Amid the mayhem Malus felt strong hands grab his shoulders and try to pull him upright. Crying out in pain and coughing up more blood, the highborn tried to twist in the unseen grip and came round to find himself staring up into Arleth Vann’s bloodstained face. “Let go of me!” he croaked.

“Let go! You have to get to the Grand Carnifex. When Urial falls, you must claim the sword and bring it to me.”

The former assassin shook his head. “It’s hopeless,” he said in a dull voice. “Urial has the warpsword. Not even the master of the temple can prevail against him.”

“But you can,” Tz’arkan whispered in Malus’ head, “with my help. Take it, Malus! Quickly, before it’s too late!”

The highborn shook his head angrily. “I don’t need your damned help!” he gasped. His knees weakened and he slumped against Arleth Vann, who struggled to hold him upright. The ache in his guts belied his defiance. His lungs felt heavy, as if a great weight was pressing down on them, and a numbing coldness was spreading across his chest. Hissing in frustration, he tried to push himself back upright and catch a glimpse of Urial among the swirling melee raging on the stairway.

Urial and the Grand Carnifex raged at one another like demigods less than fifteen feet away, their sorcerous weapons striking showers of angry sparks as they clashed again and again in a flurry of artless, brutal blows. The master of the temple lashed at Urial relentlessly, but the former acolyte wielded the warpsword one-handed and blocked the Carnifex’s two-handed blows with ease. Still, the Swordbearer was giving ground, falling back towards the sanctum one slow step at a time.

Malus would have taken this as a good sign were it not for the vicious smile on Urial’s gaunt face.

The master of the temple was weakening. Bleeding from deep wounds, any of which would have been enough to kill a lesser man, the old druchii was slowing a little with each murderous stroke.

Whatever strength the Grand Carnifex had stolen from his foes was nearly spent, and Malus realised that with every step he took towards Urial he became more isolated from his fellow elders. He was already a solitary black figure in a surging sea of white.

With a bloodthirsty howl the old druchii feinted at Urial’s waist, and then checked his swing and made a vicious, backhanded blow at the Swordbearer’s knees. Again, Urial blocked the heavy blow with frightening speed, as if he was swinging nothing more than a willow-switch. The Grand Carnifex stumbled slightly, and Urial flicked his blade across the temple master’s face, scattering a thin spray of blood. The old druchii barely flinched from the blow, redoubling his attack with a swipe at Urial’s sword arm. Laughing, the former acolyte swayed back, letting the axe blade whistle through empty air. Then he straightened and slashed open the temple master’s left arm from wrist to elbow.

Urial was toying with him, Malus realised, his heart sinking. He fumbled at his belt for his remaining throwing knife, but the hilt of the blade was slick with his own blood and slipped from

his fingers. His bitter curse was lost amid the cacophony of screams and clashing blades echoing in the steamy air.

The Grand Carnifex reeled as Urial raked his blade across the old druchii’s forehead. Another stroke sliced off the temple master’s left ear. The wounded elder swayed on his feet, his chest heaving. Blood had soaked through his robes, making them gleam dully in the reddish light. Malus saw Urial say something to the Carnifex, but the words were lost in the tumult. The temple master responded with an angry shout and aimed a powerful stroke right at the centre of the Swordbearer’s chest.

Urial blocked the blow easily, a smug expression on his face; one that turned to a look of horror as the canny old druchii hooked the blade of the sword with the beard of his axe and pulled the former acolyte off his feet. The Swordbearer crashed against the Grand Carnifex, his mouth gaping like a gaffed fish as the old druchii closed a powerful hand on Urial’s narrow throat. The axe rose heavenward, trembling in the temple master’s hand, and then plunged downwards into the former acolyte’s left shoulder. Urial screamed in pain and fear as the sorcerous blade pierced his black armour and bit into flesh and bone.

For a moment, Malus thought Urial had dropped the sword. He saw the bloodstained blade dip, but then it flashed upwards, piercing the temple master’s midsection and rising underneath the ribs until the point erupted from the elder’s right collarbone. Both men froze for several long moments, and then the old druchii sagged, sinking to his knees.

A cry of horror went up from the temple elders as they saw their master fall, turning to wails of terror as Urial gritted his teeth and levered his blade upwards, splitting the old druchii’s chest open like a slaughtered steer. The bloodstained axe fell from the temple master’s lifeless hands, his ruptured body toppling onto its side.

“Blessed Mother of Night,” Malus hissed, as the zealots redoubled their attack and the temple elders recoiled in horror. He saw Urial searching the melee intently, and knew who his half-brother was looking for. The highborn looked to Arleth Vann. “This is about to become a rout,” he snarled.

“We’ve got to get out of here!”

The former assassin nodded and without warning heaved Malus back onto the dais. Groaning in pain, the highborn pushed himself across the black marble, close enough to brush the lip of the brass cauldron in passing. He heard an exultant shout over the din: had Urial seen him? Fighting against waves of crushing pain he forced himself to crawl across the dais and into the crowd on the other side.

Shouts of panic and the frenzied cries of the zealots rang out behind Malus, and he felt the crowd around him surge backwards, like a black tide receding towards the far doorway. He let himself be borne along in the press, until he realised that the shouts of the dying were spreading around the sides of the dais like fire through tinder. Tyran and his men were closing in like a pack of wolves. Snarling angrily and spitting streams of dark blood, the highborn threw himself forwards, using the blade of his sword to batter his way through the panicked elders. He stumbled and kicked his way through piles of weathered skulls. “Stand fast!” he managed to shout. “Avenge your master and slay the unbelievers!”

If his words had any effect on the panicked elders and their men he could not say, but the men and women in front of him gave way rather than feel the bite of his sword. Arleth Vann appeared at his side, swords bared and facing back the way they’d come in case the zealots pressed too close.

They had forced their way through the far doorway within moments. Malus paused at the threshold and risked a backwards glance just as a great wail of despair went up from the servants of the temple. He saw that the zealots had swept past the dais and were wreaking a terrible slaughter among the panicked and demoralised elders. On top of the marble platform, shrouded in crimson steam, Urial the Forsaken stood before the great cauldron where he’d been sacrificed as a crippled babe, only to be reborn as one of Khaine’s chosen. He held the Grand Carnifex’s severed head over the mouth of the great vessel, letting streams of dark blood fall into its hissing brew. The

Swordbearer’s eyes were fever bright with divine madness, and his hateful gaze was fixed hungrily on Malus.

Then the contents of the cauldron erupted, showering Urial and the zealots with a rain of steaming fluids as Yasmir burst from the cauldron’s depths. Heat shimmered from her naked form, and blood ran like quicksilver from her alabaster skin. Her raven hair had gone snowy white, and when her eyes opened Malus saw they were luminous and golden. They transfixed him, sinking like hooks into his labouring heart.

Yasmir smiled, revealing curved, leonine fangs. Long, black talons gleamed in the ruddy light as she gripped the edge of the cauldron and climbed gracefully onto the dais. The newborn blood-witch

Yasmir smiled, revealing curved, leonine fangs. Long, black talons gleamed in the ruddy light as she gripped the edge of the cauldron and climbed gracefully onto the dais. The newborn blood-witch