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Bloodwalker – C L Werner

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Bloodwalker

C L Werner

Ice cracked beneath the heavy, loping tread of the nauglir as it stalked through the snowdrifts. The cold one’s breath turned to mist with each shuddering exhalation, its horned head undulating from side to side with almost mechanical monotony. The brute’s ribs stood stark against its scaly hide, the steel barding lashed about its body sliding back and forth with each step. Oily froth trickled from the corners of its fanged mouth, freezing as it dangled from its jaws.

The armoured rider in the nauglir’s saddle ran a gloved hand along the beast’s neck. Leaning forwards, he spoke reassuring words to his weary stead.

‘Not much farther, Spite,’ he said, his voice crackling with exhaustion. ‘A few more days. Only a few more days and we will be home.’

Spite gave no sign that it heard its master’s voice, merely maintaining the steady league-eating trot the cold one had maintained for so many days. The lack of response troubled the nauglir’s master more than any surly snarl or angry hiss could have. It was a sign that Spite was reaching the limits of its formidable endurance. The cold ones were beasts of the reptilian orders, capable of surviving the harsh cold of Naggaroth only by gorging themselves frequently, their metabolisms using the food to maintain their body heat. Without a steady supply of fresh meat, a nauglir would become steadily more lethargic until, finally, it dropped in its tracks.

It had been days since Spite had last fed. The nauglir’s scaly hide felt like ice beneath its master’s hand. The reptile couldn’t go on for much longer. Once his steed fell, its rider’s chances of survival wouldn’t be worth an asur’s life in Har Ganeth.

There was one thing that gave Malus Darkblade some hope. For all its seeming mindlessness, Spite was moving with purpose and direction. Once before, the nauglir had made this bold, lonely journey. Even more than its master, the reptile’s brain bore the impression of the long trail that would lead it to Hag Graef. The long trail that would again put the cursed Temple of Tz’arkan behind them.

A hot rush of anger warmed the elf’s cold flesh as he thought of the scheming daemon that has used him, used him to unleash itself upon the mortal world after millennia trapped within its own temple. For a year, Tz’arkan had coerced and manipulated him, lurking inside his own body, spreading its corruption through his flesh. And when it was through with him, when it had no further use for him, the daemon had betrayed him. It had sought his life, but it had taken only his soul.

The eyes of the highborn were frozen windows of hate as he thought of what Tz’arkan has stolen from him. His hand closed about the hilt of his sword, not for the first time wondering if he might not have fared better with a lesser weapon in his final confrontation with the daemon. A mortal blade wouldn’t have forced Tz’arkan to abandon its attack. Only a relic of such power as the Warpsword of Khaine could have made the mighty daemon know fear. Without it, Malus would be dead.

But perhaps death was more merciful than life without a soul.

A scowl twisted the druchii’s hawkish features. All his life he had struggled against the world. He would not give up now. He would not meekly submit to the cold clutch of Death. If the gods desired an end of Malus Darkblade, they would have to work for it.

Malus snapped from his thoughts as he felt Spite’s body go tense beneath his caressing hand. The highborn braced himself to leap from the saddle, thinking the nauglir was about to pitch over into the snow. An instant’s reflection, however, had him drawing his sword instead. Spite had long been his steed and he knew the reptile’s every manner and motion better than the back of his own hand. When he saw the nauglir’s neck rigid, its head pointing steadily towards a stand of snow-covered pines, he knew it was not fatigue that had changed the cold one’s attitude. Spite had caught a scent upon the breeze. The scent of an enemy.

No sooner had his sword cleared its sheath than the highborn’s lurking foes exploded from their hiding places. Crossbow bolts whistled through the air, glancing from Malus’s armour and Spite’s barding, one missile tearing through the scaly ridge of the nauglir’s tail. A fluid curse rolled across the wind, bemoaning the ineffectual marksmanship. Then the ambushers came charging out onto the snow, determined to finish with sword and spear what they had failed to accomplish with crossbows.

There were five of them, lean druchii in steel dalakoi and long flowing khaitans of black silk. Tall helms with sharply angled bevors and flowing razor-edged horns obscured the visages of each elf, but there was no mistaking the crimson-scaled cold ones they rode, or the bat-winged device branded into each reptile’s scaly hide. It was the device of the Black Ark of Naggor, Har Ganeth’s most bitter rival and enemy.

‘Dogs of Naggor!’ Malus shouted at the charging elves. ‘Come and embrace death!’

The highborn dug his spurs into Spite’s flanks. The nauglir reared back, its foreclaws pawing at the air, then lurched forwards in a loping sprint. The smell of battle, the sight of foes, invigorated the faltering reptile, pouring fresh strength into its weakened body. Malus clung to the brute’s reins, pressing his legs close to Spite’s sides. He knew his steed’s wind wouldn’t last long. If he would survive, he had to exterminate his enemies before Spite exhausted itself and collapsed beneath him.

The warriors of Naggor thundered onwards, their cold ones hissing their fury as they bore down upon the highborn. Malus could hear the silver keikalla jangling against their armour, the little spirit bells proclaiming his foes to be knights rather than common killers. Any pretensions to honour were quashed, however, when another crossbow bolt went whistling past Darkblade’s ear. One of the knights hadn’t abandoned his crossbow, but was instead hanging back to allow his fellows to engage Malus while he reloaded his weapon.

Such slinking treachery brought a sharpness into Malus’s eyes and murderous determination into his veins. If he was fated to die upon this blighted patch of wasteland, his killer wouldn’t be the cowardly bowman.

A flash of the Warpsword and the foremost of Malus’s antagonists toppled from his saddle, his helmet cleft in half by the magic blade. The dead elf’s boot caught in one of the stirrups and as his cold one sprinted away it dragged the corpse after it.

Snarling like an enraged panther, the second of the knights rushed Malus, striking at him from his left side before the highborn had recovered from killing the first Naggorite. The elf’s blade glanced from Malus’s vambrace as he blocked the blow. Then the Warpsword was driving down at the knight. Malus’s foe tried to emulate the same tactic as the highborn, to turn aside the blow with his steel vambrace. Unlike the Naggorite’s sword, however, Malus’s weapon bit through the thick armour, shearing through it like paper and cleaving the arm beneath. The Naggorite howled in agony, dropping his sword as he clutched at the spurting stump. Mortally wounded, he sagged low in his saddle as his nauglir dashed across the snowfield.

Another bolt came flying at Malus, this time punching into him with enough velocity that it dented the armour above his heart. Pain flared across his chest as the impacted metal drove the chain aketon biting into his skin. He glared at the circling opportunist, watching as the Naggorite wound back the string of his weapon.

Before Malus could charge the bowman, the other knights were upon him. Having learned better than to attack him singly, they tried to mount a coordinated assault. The tactic failed only because of the stubborn ferocity of their steeds, each cold one trying to sprint ahead of the other and claim the choicest morsels from the kill. It was in the truculence of the Naggorites’ nauglir that Malus took advantage. When he kicked his heel against Spite’s ribs, his steed didn’t hesitate.

Far more intelligent than others of its kind, Spite obeyed the direction of its master immediately. Summoning a fresh burst of speed, the nauglir rushed past the first knight and lunged at the second, a tactic that caught both knights and their mounts by surprise. Before they could recover, Spite’s leg delivered a savage, raking kick to the trailing cold one, slashing open its belly. The stricken nauglir’s charge turned into a sprawling fall as it tripped over its own entrails. Its rider cried out in shock as the brute dragged him down with it, then crushed him under its scaly mass as it thrashed about in agony.

The other knight struggled to wheel his own nauglir back around. As he did so, Spite’s powerful tail came whipping around, slapping across the other cold one’s face. Instinctively, the reptile recoiled, rearing back and raking its foreclaws through the air in an effort to protect its own eyes. The knight could only hang on and curse his steed’s panic, fighting to regain control over the reptile.

It took the Naggorite only a moment to assert himself, but in that moment, Malus had closed upon him. The Warpsword came slashing at the knight, crunching through his shoulder, splitting the pauldron, hewing through steel and flesh and bone. The magically keen blade didn’t stop until it had cut clean through the elf’s body and sheared away the top of his steed’s skull. Rider and reptile sank to the earth, the centre of a spreading patch of crimson snow.

Malus turned away from his slaughtered foe, looking for the crossbowman. ‘Khaine’s Blood,’ he cursed when he found no sign of the last Naggorite. Seeing the destruction of his comrades, the last knight had fled back into the safety of the woods. Briefly, Malus considered tracking the elf down, but he could feel Spite stumble when he tried to turn it towards the trees. The nauglir had reached its limits and beyond. Reluctantly, the highborn gave the beast its head and allowed it to stagger over to one of the dead reptiles.

As a rule, the only flesh a cold one would refuse was that of another cold one. The druchii who rode the reptiles into battle had to smear their bodies with a poisonous ointment to keep them safe from the rapacious appetites of their monstrous steeds. Spite, however, was too hungry to observe such proprieties and tore into the dead nauglir with savage abandon. It was all Malus could do to keep his steed from devouring the poisoned flesh of the dead knight as well.

‘Eat up,’ Malus told his steed. He again cast his eyes about, half expecting another steel bolt to come whistling at him from the trees. He had been driving Spite hard in his effort to reach Hag Graef quickly, but with warriors of Naggor on the prowl, the time for speed was past. Now he had to be more cautious. And the first rule of caution was to find a safe place where Spite and himself could rest and recover from their long journey.

‘The stronghold of Yrkool should be near here,’ Malus judged as he studied the range of mountains looming in the west.

The highborn smiled grimly and stroked the neck of his steed. ‘Feed quickly, Spite. I fear we have a little way yet before either of us can rest.’

The last of the Naggorites dismounted from the saddle of his cold one. The armoured knight stood staring at the snow-covered pines which surrounded him, watching for any sign of movement, his ears sharp for even the slightest sound that might indicate pursuit.

The druchii felt sickness boil at the pit of his stomach as he considered the carnage Darkblade had wrought upon them. Five of the Black Ark’s most lethal warriors, and their enemy had abused them like trussed slavelings on the way to Khaine’s altar. Belladon could have sent twenty knights and they might not have been enough. Five against Darkblade had been nothing less than suicide.

Or perhaps that had been the hag’s intention. Suspicion roared through the elf’s heart as he wondered if the witch hadn’t intended for the knights to succeed, if the ambush had been engineered to eliminate them, not the highborn.

Angrily, the druchii stripped away one of his gauntlets and flung it down into the snow. His nauglir hissed hungrily as the elf raked the edge of his knife across his palm and brought blood bubbling up from the torn flesh. The reptile grew quiet, however, as its master clenched his fist and sent bloody beads dripping onto the ground. Sibilant words rasped across the elf’s tongue and the air around him began to shimmer with an icy haze. The cold one slapped its long tail against the trees, even its primitive mind unsettled by the arcane taint of sorcery.

In a matter of moments, a small puddle of blood had formed in the snow at the knight’s feet. The druchii glared down at the crimson liquid. The words of his incantation fell silent as the image of a face stared back at him from the surface of the puddle. It was a cruel, hard visage, possessed of an infernal beauty at once alluring and terrifying. The knight shuddered as he felt the pitiless eyes staring back at him. Few were they who could meet the gaze of Belladon, Hag of Naggor.

‘I see failure in your face,’ Belladon’s lips formed the words, though no sound issued from the puddle.

The knight clenched his fist, anger racing through him as Belladon reprimanded him. ‘He cut through us like a raging manticore,’ the elf reported. ‘You should have sent more warriors.’

Belladon’s expression darkened. ‘Do not question me. You were given the resources to accomplish your purpose.’

‘The others are dead and the enemy escaped,’ the knight stated, striving to keep accusation from his tone.

‘It was Malus Darkblade?’ Belladon asked.

The knight nodded. ‘It was Eldire’s witch-spawn.’

The face in the puddle smiled. ‘That is all I needed to know. You have accomplished your purpose. Another will take up the hunt now.’

Belladon’s eyes hardened, her slender hands crossing before her lips, fingers splayed in a complex pattern. For an instant, the knight felt fear well up inside him, but before he could act upon the emotion it was too late. The witch’s spell already had him in its coils.

Passing through the puddle of blood, invisible tendrils of magic wrapped themselves about the knight, seeping through his armour and permeating his flesh. Agonising pain roared through the druchii’s body and he fell to his knees, screaming. Blood gushed from his nose, from his eyes, from his ears. A stream of gore bubbled over his lips, spilling into the snow. The hideous stream flowed into the little puddle, rapidly expanding its dimensions. By the time the knight’s body was bled dry and his corpse collapsed, a pond of steaming gore stained the ground.

Now masterless, the nauglir hissed angrily at the pond, smelling the stink of sorcery rising from it. The reptile lashed its tail in fright, then turned and ran off into the fastness of the forest.

From the depths of the pool, a figure began to form. Inch by inch it grew, taking substance from the knight’s blood. As its head took shape, rising from broad shoulders, two burning eyes boiled up from the pits of its skull and cast their vicious gaze upon the desiccated husk of the dead druchii. Fangs gnashed together in a hungry leer as the daemon contemplated the carrion. It lifted a half-formed arm from the edge of the pool, reaching for the corpse.

Then, reluctantly, the daemon drew back. There was a compulsion it had to fulfil before it could glut its appetite. It had to accomplish the task set before it by the one who had conjured it into the mortal world.

It had to find Malus Darkblade.

After hours following the almost invisible forest trails, it was with a supreme sense of relief that Malus saw the black walls of Yrkool suddenly appear through a break in the trees. The stronghold stood upon a small rise, a pinnacle of rock amid the sprawl of the forest. The pines had been cleared away from the fort, placing it at the centre of a half-mile-wide clearing. Banners bearing the heraldry of Hag Graef flanked the simple stone road leading up to the fort’s massive darkwood doors. As Spite walked along the road, Malus noted the long stakes interspersed between the banners, each pole topped with a bleached skull. Druchast letters were cut into each forehead, proclaiming the skull that of a traitor, trespasser or outlaw. Malus’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, as he wondered if any of these titles had been added to his name since last he’d walked the streets of his city.

The musical cry of a horn brought his eyes back to the fort. A body of armoured elves had appeared on the walls, something Malus had expected from such a lonely outpost. A closer look revealed no weapons in their hands, however, which was far more surprising. The trumpeting call of the horn wasn’t sounding an alarm, but proclaiming welcome. While he watched, the huge doors of the fortress were drawn inwards and a troop of druchii soldiers filed out onto the road. They formed columns on either flank, arms crossed over their chests in the ancient gesture of respect and honour. An elf in ornate armour and wearing a flowing cloak of finest human leather stood between the two columns, his arm extended in greeting.

‘My Lord Malus!’ the druchii commander called out, his accent that of Hag Graef’s lower nobility. ‘It is an honour unparalleled for the castellan of Yrkool to welcome such a highborn into its humble halls.’

Malus cast an appraising gaze over the castellan, taking Spite’s reins and stopping the cold one on the road. What was the commander’s game, he wondered? Did the elf hope to weasel favours from him as a reward for Yrkool’s hospitality or was he playing some deeper game? Perhaps he hoped to ingratiate himself into Malus’s good graces and secure a position in the highborn’s retinue, or at least a posting somewhere less forsaken than Yrkool? Lesser druchii had nurtured such ambitions, Malus reflected, thinking of Hauclir, the late captain of Hag Graef’s Spear Gate.

‘Forgive the spartan reception,’ the castellan said, walking down the path, his hands spread to either side and well away from the swords belted about his waist. ‘My scouts only noted your approach a league from the clearing. I fear this was the best I could arrange on such short notice.’

Malus favoured the castellan with the faintest hint of a nod. ‘I have travelled a long way,’ he said, urging Spite onwards. ‘My first priority is food and rest. We can discuss any deficiencies in your courtesy later.’ The highborn directed his most imperious stare at the smiling castellan. It was a look that had never failed to send servants and retainers hurrying to carry out his demands.

The castellan, however, simply continued to smile. When Malus saw the elf direct a sidewise glance at his soldiers, the highborn brought his spurs kicking into Spite’s flanks. Whatever trickery the castellan was up to, he would be the first victim of it.

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, bloodlust 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.’

About the Author

C L Werner’s Black Library credits include the Space Marine Battles novel The Siege of Castellax, the Age of Sigmar novel Overlords of the Iron Dragon, and the novella ‘Scion of the Storm’ in Hammers of Sigmar, the End Times novel Deathblade, Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter, Runefang, the Brunner the Bounty Hunter trilogy, the Thanquol and Boneripper series and Time of Legends: The Black Plague series. Currently living in the American south-west, he continues to write stories of mayhem and madness set in the worlds of Warhammer 40,000 and the Age of Sigmar.

As the End Times engulf the world, Malus Darkblade is assigned to the vanguard of the Witch King’s last apocalyptic assault on Ulthuan. Will Darkblade seize his chance to claim power, or will he fall?

A Black Library Publication

First published in Black Library Weekender: Volume Two in Great Britain in 2012.
This eBook edition published in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Bloodwalker © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Bloodwalker, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-931-7

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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