This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
The whispering dragged Malus Darkblade back from merciful oblivion. With a snarl he opened sleep-gummed eyes and fumbled in the darkness for the bottle by his side, already wincing in anticipation of the taste of sour wine. Then he realised with a jolt that the low, urgent voice wasn’t muttering in his head, but somewhere in the room nearby.
Malus bolted upright from the tangled sheets, sending a clatter of empty bottles rolling from the ruined bed onto the wooden floor. His mind reeled, and for a few sickening moments the motion swirled in counterpoint to the pitch and roll of the ship around him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the hint of danger, even as he clenched his teeth and tried not to be violently ill. Malus blinked in the blackness of the captain’s cabin, an involuntary groan escaping his lips.
The voice whispered again, this time a little louder and more intelligible. “Forgive me for waking you, my lord—”
Malus squinted in the direction of the voice. The silhouette of a man stood at the foot of the broken bed, limned by the faint glow of a witchlight lantern burning in the passageway beyond the open cabin door. The highborn glared coldly at the apparition, trying to focus his wine-addled thoughts. “Gods Below, Hauclir,” he grated. “If I could kill you with just my eyes you’d be a steaming puddle on the deck. Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Just a bit past midnight my lord,” the retainer said. “That’s why I’m here. It’s happened again.”
The words brought the highborn up short, a vicious curse dying on his thin lips. He bent his head and drew a single, hissing breath, summoning the cold clarity of his rage. When he lurched from the bed his brain still felt swollen and his mouth tasted like a midden heap, but his thoughts were cold and clear.
Wreckage littered the captain’s cabin of the corsair ship Harrier. Resources were scarce. After the battle she’d fought at the Isle of Morhaut almost a month ago, there were always more pressing repairs to be made as the wounded vessel limped home. Squares of triple-layered canvas were nailed over broken window frames on the stern and port side of the cabin. Cabin doors scavenged from other parts of the ship were nailed over holes in the port bulkhead and the ceiling where catapult stones had punched through the ship’s ensorcelled oak. One stone had crossed the cabin and smashed the frame of the polished thornwood bed before coming to rest in the pile of horsehair mattresses; the other was still buried halfway in the deck between the bed and the room’s large map table. Smashed sea trunks, piles of clothes, bits of armour and discarded weapons were piled among chunks of jagged wood and broken crockery. Still wearing a fine coat of blackened mail over his dark leather kheitan and robes, Malus paused only long enough to pull on his boots, then, with practiced familiarity, he wove among the piles of debris and grabbed his heavy cloak and sword belt from the charred map table.
“Let’s go,” he said as he swept past his retainer and into the passageway beyond.
A long, deep-throated groan echoed along the cramped corridor as the Harrier sank into the trough between two waves. Malus adjusted his footing to the sloping deck without breaking stride and shrugged into his woollen sea cloak. In the back of his wine-fogged mind he began counting the seconds as the ship reached the bottom of her descent. Harrier was wallowing in the heavy seas, not riding along the surface of the waves as she should. The highborn counted to five before he felt the hull tremble as the ship nosed into the oncoming wave and then slowly began to rise again.
Malus wondered how much water had just washed along the upper deck and poured into her holds, adding to the weight of the gold and silver loaded there. Too much weight and the ship could spring her seams, drawing yet more water into the ship, until the moment finally came when Harrier would sink to the bottom of a trough and keep on going, straight into the jaws of the Dragons Below.
The plunder had been a necessary evil, Malus thought ruefully as he buckled on his swords. He’d led nine ships and more than a thousand men deep into the North Sea, to find and destroy the lair of a band of Chaos-tainted pirates called the Skinriders. The confrontation with the Skinrider chieftain’s personal war fleet at the island’s anchorage had been a brutal, close-quarters battle between the nimble druchii corsairs and the Skinriders’ larger, heavier warships. In the end, only Harrier and less than a hundred sailors from among the nine ships had survived. Had Malus tried to deny the druchii the spoils of their victory he had no doubt they would have killed him on the spot.
As it was, he was captain only by default. Harrier’s true master and her first mate were both dead and he commanded by virtue of his highborn rank and the writ of authority he carried from the Drachau of Hag Graef. Malus reached the ladder at the end of the passageway and steeled himself for the climb to the upper deck. Like the mounting pressure in the ship’s holds below, he wondered how much longer his authority would hold.
The ship’s ladder climbed through the corsair’s citadel, the aft section of decks that contained the quarters for the ship’s officers, the chart room and the work space for the ship’s chirurgeon. Malus rose as far as the main deck and turned down a cramped, dimly-lit passageway that ended at a sturdy oak door. Two corsairs stood to one side of the door in the fitful glow of a failing witchlamp, their weather cloaks dripping a steady stream of saltwater onto the deck. The druchii sailors straightened perfunctorily as Malus approached, but their eyes were downcast and their expressions sullen. The highborn brushed by them without a glance — he assumed they were part of the watch and as such they had no business being away from their posts. If he acknowledged their presence it meant he had to deal with the infraction and at the moment he wasn’t certain how such a confrontation would play out. The realisation galled him to the core, but his rage was muted beneath the weight of gallons of bad wine. At the moment, Malus wasn’t certain if that was a good or a bad thing, but it was definitely a necessary thing, so long as the balance of power on the ship remained precarious.
Malus pushed the door open and got a sharp spray of cold water against his face and neck that cut through the buzzing in his head like a flensing-knife. A gust of damp wind threatened to pull the heavy door from his hand.
Bracing himself and clutching his cloak tightly about him with one white hand, the highborn stepped carefully out into the night. A sharp wind was blowing from the north, making the Harrier’s sails rattle and bang, keening like a tormented spirit among the frayed rigging above. The chill air buffeted the highborn from above and behind and the deck beneath him heaved as the ship was pummelled by the cold, slate-grey waves. Weak globes of witchlight cast eerie pools of greenish light along the main deck, but beyond the ship’s smashed and splintered rails there was nothing but darkness and the crashing of the sea. It was a mild summer night, as far as the North Sea went.
The highborn paused, finding his feet and Hauclir brushed past him, heading for the main mast. The former guard captain wore dark robes and an indigo-stained kheitan of human hide under a shirt of fine, blackened mail. He wore no heavy cloak to ward off the wind and spray — after years standing watch on the battlements of Hag Graef he was hardened to far worse weather than this. Like the sailors, his skin was a dusky shade of pale, owing to a lifetime spent in the harsh elements, but the scars criss-crossing his hands and face were a testament to battles of a different sort.
The retainer was stocky for a druchii, with powerfully muscled arms and legs. He wore a short, businesslike sword and a heavy, knobbed cudgel at his belt. He was a far cry from the avaricious, dandified officer Malus had first encountered at Hag Graef’s Spear Gate more than five months before, choosing simple utility and efficiency over jewelled weapons and fine robes. His long black hair was bound back into a thick braid tucked into the back of his kheitan and his angular cheeks were fringed with a rakish black beard he’d grown since the battle at the lost isle.
Despite an utter lack of respect for Malus’ rank and an insolent streak that was almost suicidal in its frankness, Hauclir had proved himself a surprisingly capable and loyal retainer since entering the highborn’s service. It was a difficult dance, acting as insubordinate as possible while remaining just indispensable enough not to be slain out of hand and Malus had to admire the man’s dedication and craft.
Hauclir led Malus to the mainmast, altering his course at the last minute to swing wide of a portion of the deck near the mast’s iron fitting. Malus’ boot came down in a puddle of sticky gore.
“Mind your step, my lord,” Hauclir muttered just a moment too late, then pointed halfway up the length of the mast. “Look there.”
The shape was a darker shadow against the Harrier’s black sail; Malus thought he could just hear the creaking of a rope as the body twisted in the shifting wind. As he looked up he felt warm, heavy drops spatter against his face, smelling of hot copper. Though he couldn’t see any details, he knew well enough what hung there — a naked man, his belly opened and his guts pulled out and his eyes no more than red, weeping hollows emptied by crude, clawing hands. Malus growled deep in his throat. The haze of bad wine was starting to thin and a painful buzzing was beginning in the back of his head. “How many does this make?” he asked coldly.
Hauclir folded his arms, his bearded face twisting in a grimace. “Eight, my lord.”
Malus craned his head, picking out the other shapes hanging like grisly trophies from the spars of the battered ship. The first killing had occurred the night after the Harrier had left the lost isle and began her torturous journey home. At the time, neither Malus nor Hauclir had known what to make of it. Was it the settling of some old score, or an obscure offering to the Dragons Below for a safe return home? The highborn had only been on two cruises in his entire life: his traditional hakseer-cruise upon reaching manhood and a single slaving cruise to the Old World many years later. He was a novice in the ways of the sea and Hauclir had never set foot on a ship before the expedition against the Skinriders. Bruglir, Malus’ illustrious brother, had commanded Harrier, but he and his first mate had died in the battle and the crew regarded Malus as an interloper at best. The highborn was reluctant to begin scourging the handful of survivors for information. So he had refrained, willing to ignore the murder as an isolated event and focus on making port in Naggaroth. At first it had seemed like the proper course of action. Then, three days later, another body appeared.
Hauclir studied the bodies and theorised that it had to do with the treasure lying in the corsair’s hold. Every sailor aboard could claim a drachau’s ransom in gold as their share of the loot, but greed was a fever that only grew when fed and sailors were wont to gamble as a way of passing time. The former guardsman concluded that the dead men were hapless souls caught cheating at dice or hassariya and were strung up in a form of sailors’ justice to warn off other gamblers.
Malus mustered the crew the next morning and ordered a stop to the killings, then Hauclir and a cadre of sailors gathered the crew’s swords and locked them away in the ship’s armoury. The crew turned sullen at the order, but they obeyed, and after some consideration Malus declined to press things further by ordering the bodies be cut down. Hundreds of leagues from Hag Graef he knew perfectly well that he had only as much authority as sailing tradition and the crew’s morale lent him.
It was only after the fifth killing that Hauclir noticed a worrying trend — there were only a handful of sailors on board whose loyalty Malus could count on and one by one they were being gutted and left to hang.
Enquiries were made. Sailors were flogged. The morale of the crew worsened, but no one knew who was behind the killings or even why they were committed. Malus ordered the bodies to be cut down, but at the end of the day they still hung from the ship’s spars. Given the choice of pressing the issue and perhaps sparking a confrontation, Malus had gritted his teeth and let the matter slide, unwilling to risk eroding his authority further. He decided on ordering Hauclir and his chosen men to lay in wait for the killers, hoping to catch them in the act and then publicly torture those responsible in the most brutal way he could imagine.
Three more men had died since. Malus rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his thoughts and banish his growing headache. “How did this happen?” he asked, his voice leaden with menace.
Hauclir started to respond, then caught himself. After a moment he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said grimly, showing fashionably filed teeth. “I was watching from the citadel deck. I had men in the masts above and men at the bow. Duras was walking the deck every fifteen minutes, but just after the change of the watch, there it was.”
“It would have taken two men at least,” Malus growled, his fists clenching. “The body is gutted like a pig for the feast, yet there is no trail of blood?”
The former guard captain shrugged. “It could have been wrapped in a spare piece of sailcloth and already tied at the wrists. All they would have to do is throw the line over the mast spar and haul away.” Hauclir cast his eyes about in the cavern-like gloom, his expression tight with anger and frustration. “The deed could have been done in less time than it takes to tell of it and it’s as dark as a witch’s heart out here. I could have had a man standing at the foot of the mast and still not have caught anyone.”
Malus could feel the rage simmering in his chest as the effects of the wine began to recede. “Enough of this,” he hissed. “My patience is at an end. Pick ten men at random and start skinning them. I want names.”
“We can’t do that,” Hauclir said.
The highborn turned and struck the retainer across the face with the back of his hand. The flat crack was lost on the wind in an instant, but Hauclir rocked back on his heels, blood spurting from a split lip.
“I am the captain of this ship,” Malus snapped, “and no one sheds the blood of this crew save me, by law and by custom. I should have started flaying men alive as soon as this began.”
“We couldn’t have done so then and we dare not try it now,” Hauclir said levelly, wiping away a stream of dark blood with the back of his hand. His eyes were bright with pain, but his expression was cold and disciplined. “By the time we’d filled out our crew with survivors from the rest of the fleet there was perhaps one man in ten whose loyalty we could count on. Now there are two. Believe me, my lord, I’ve faced more than one mutinous barracks in my time and I know for a fact that once you’ve shown your hand, only one of two things can happen — the men either back down and accept your authority without question, or they turn on you like a pack of starving nauglir. If you press the issue I don’t think there is much doubt which way they’ll go.”
“And you think it better I appear weak and let these killings go unchecked?”
Hauclir took a deep breath. “I think we avoid starting a fight that we can’t win, my lord.” He jerked his head in the direction of the ship’s wheel. “Old Lachlyr says we’re no more than twenty leagues from the north coast of Naggaroth — how he knows is a mystery to me, but these sea birds have their own instincts about such things. He says we’ll sight land by dawn tomorrow and from there it’s another day or two down the Slavers’ Straits and into the Sea of Chill. We could make port at Karond Kar in three days, pay off the crew and be rid of them. There won’t be another killing before then, so you can avoid a confrontation altogether and keep our skins intact.”
“Unless these men are being killed because there’s a mutiny afoot and the killers are eliminating the loyal crew members before making their move?” Malus considered the dangling corpse thoughtfully. “They could be hanging the victims as a warning to others so as to keep them in line. Sighting land tomorrow might be the signal to make their move and seize the ship and the entirety of the gold for themselves.”
The retainer shook his head. “No, I’ve already thought of that. Why wait? If enough of the crew were willing to kill us and claim all the gold they could have done it any time they liked. Why go to all the trouble to hunt out the loyal ones? These aren’t subtle men, my lord. If anything, they’ve turned more feral since we left that damned island.”
Malus muttered a dark curse, but had to admit that Hauclir was right. At first the crew’s spirits were high in the wake of the battle and the looting that had followed, but once they’d returned to the open sea the mood of the sailors had become increasingly tense. First it had been just the original men of the Harrier, but it had gradually spread to the other survivors as well, like a strange fever. Pain sharpened in time with his thoughts and the buzzing in his head was growing louder. The highborn gritted his teeth. There’s some purpose to these killings, Hauclir. If it’s not mutiny, then what is it? It’s too regular to be anything but a plan…” The highborn’s voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed in realisation.
The pause brought Hauclir’s head around. “My lord?”
“The killings,” Malus said. “How do you know one won’t happen before we reach Karond Kar?”
Hauclir frowned. “Well, each man was killed about four days apart, just at…” The retainer’s eyes widened. “Just at the change of the moons.”
Malus nodded, his expression turning murderous. “Exactly. This isn’t mutiny, Hauclir. This is sorcery.” The highborn turned on his heel, striding quickly back the way he’d come.
It took several moments for the full weight of Malus’ words to sink in. Hauclir’s eyes widened and he hurried after the highborn. “But what does it mean, my lord? Where are you going?”
“To the source,” Malus said angrily. “My dear brother has some explaining to do.”
The oak door had become a grisly shrine.
At first it had been merely carvings — sailors incised their names into the door or the frame, hoping for a blessing, or inscribed small prayers for the death of their foes. Some of the prayers had been embellished over time as the carvers returned and sought to rededicate themselves to their god. Flowing lines of druchast, elegantly carved by calloused hands, were surrounded by vivid depictions of battle scenes comprised of scores upon scores of artful lines cut into the wood. Even Malus was impressed at the artistry and skill of the devoted sailors who had spent hours working their prayers into the steel-hard surface of the door.
Later, however, the offerings became less artful and more direct. Names were painted in blood, or sometimes the aspirant merely pressed a bloody palm print to the door’s wooden surface. Then someone took a carpenter’s nail and put up a severed hand taken from a Skinrider. Severed ears became popular, as well as scalps.
From there it was only a matter of time before the devout began piling severed heads at the foot of Yasmir’s door.
The stench was profound. Malus had not been in this part of the ship since the Harrier had left the Isle of Morhaut and the gory spectacle had been gruesome even then. The highborn counted two score Skinrider heads before giving up in disgust. The pain in his head was much sharper now, beating against the back of his eyes like a drum and an invisible charge seemed to play over the surface of his skin, setting his hair on end. He suddenly found himself craving the taste of that damned sour wine.
Malus paused at the blood-soaked door. As near as he could tell it hadn’t been opened in some time, possibly not at all since they’d left the island. During the few sober moments he’d had over the last few weeks it had seemed like a blessing not to have Urial haunting the main deck like some misshapen crow. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Urial had been in that room with his half-sister for weeks. Malus had no love whatsoever for Yasmir, but the realisation unsettled him nonetheless.
I must still be drunk, the highborn thought sourly, rubbing a hand across his face. Yasmir was beautiful beyond words and as cunning as an adder. Back at Hag Graef she had held the young nobles of the court in the palms of her hands and made them bleed for her sport. Yet it was her love for her brother Bruglir that made her useful to Malus. He needed Bruglir’s fleet in order to reach the island and deal with the Skinriders and with Yasmir’s backing he could ensure Bruglir’s cooperation. Urial, on the other hand, was a bitter and twisted man who had just as much reason to hate his own family as Malus did. Having been given to the Temple of Khaine as a sacrifice, the deformed infant had survived immersion in the sacrificial cauldron — a sign of the god’s favour. He’d become a servant of the temple and had learned many arcane arts and for this reason Malus had need of him as well. So Malus had woven a web of promises and lies that had bound his siblings to him. Or so he’d imagined.
With Urial’s influence as a servant of the temple Malus was able to persuade the Drachau of Hag Graef to issue a Writ of Iron, giving him the power to commandeer Bruglir’s fleet and seek the lost island. Yasmir’s influence was the real iron behind the writ, however; a force that Bruglir could not oppose. Urial, in turn, loved Yasmir and Malus promised that by the end of the campaign Bruglir would no longer stand in Urial’s way.
In the end they were all betrayed to one degree or another.
Bruglir was killed in battle with the Skinrider chieftain, but not before being betrayed by his sea mistress Tanithra. Yasmir was betrayed by Bruglir’s faithlessness and her hatred for him awakened a part of her that had lain dormant during her sheltered years at the Hag. Her desire for slaughter had transformed her into a living manifestation of death — in Urial’s words, a saint of the Bloody-Handed God. Even Malus was forced to admit that her ability to kill with her long knives was supernatural in its terrible grace and skill. The crew saw her fight during a desperate boarding action in the teeth of a late winter gale and afterwards her quarters became a shrine to the Lord of Murder.
Malus raised his hand to the bloodstained door. There was sorcery at work within; he was starting to be able to sense it, like a stench burning at the back of his throat. The buzzing in his head began to take the shape of words, but he focused on the door and its bloody inscriptions instead.
He paused, his hand inches from the dark wood. The skin prickled as it came into contact with currents of unseen power. After a moment, he withdrew his hand. Why knock, he thought? With all that power at his command, Urial no doubt already knows I’m here.
Malus Darkblade raised his boot and kicked the door open in a shower of splinters and twisted metal.
Kicking open the cabin door was like piercing the side of a furnace. Fierce, rippling waves of heat and a blaze of crimson light flooded into the dimly-lit passageway. A sense of dislocation washed over Malus. He raised his hand without thinking, as if to ward off some unseen blow and the buzzing in his head fell silent. A familiar sensation, like a coil of serpents writhing beneath his ribs, constricted tightly around his heart.
Beyond the doorway the air throbbed with otherworldly power. Complex runes and intricate sigils had been carved deeply into the floors, walls and ceiling and fresh blood poured into the channels to tie the mystical geometries together. When the cabin had been Yasmir’s quarters she had rarely left it during the voyage. At the far end of the room she’d raised a shrine of sorts, comprised of the crew’s first, crude offerings and meditated at its feet for hours on end. That crude construction was gone now; in its place was Yasmir herself. She sat in a kind of trance in the centre of the room, her body effortlessly poised and her face bearing the serene, merciless countenance of a queen.
Malus stared in shock, heedless of Urial’s naked, prostrate form stretched at the feet of his regal sister. Yasmir wore a circlet of gleaming brass upon her brow and from her shoulders hung a mantle of bright red and shining black that pulsed with life in time with her beating heart. She wore a cloak of glistening organs, woven together with threads of dark veins and cable-like arteries. Fresh blood shone in the light like enamel upon her breast and a single drop glimmered like a ruby on one perfect cheek.
The highborn looked upon his half-sister and in that moment he glimpsed her as Urial did: transcendent, sublime, a goddess clad in a raiment of slaughter and for the space of a single heartbeat he worshipped her. Words of devotion came unbidden into his mind. I will bow to you on a carpet of bones, he thought, his heart aching. I will bathe you in the blood of nations and fill the air with the music of murdered innocents. I will beat out a dirge upon the surface of the world and bear you beyond, to stars unnumbered.
Cold, cruel laughter, ancient as the bones of the earth, washed away the worshipful litany in his mind. A voice spoke, reverberating hollowly in his chest.
“Look upon her and dismay, little druchii,” Tz’arkan said, his voice sinking like a razor into Malus’ brain. “She is your handiwork — a goddess of blood given form. But you cannot be hers. You belong to me.”
Malus tore his eyes from Yasmir’s face, feeling bile rise in his throat. Mother of Night, how he needed a drink! “I belong to no one, daemon,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Least of all to you.”
Would that it were true, Malus thought bitterly. His hands clenched into fists and he felt the ruby ring upon his finger. He bore it like a shackle, no more able to remove it than he could pull off his own hand. Malus had worn it for almost five months, ever since he’d found it in a temple deep in the Chaos Wastes. He’d gone there in search of wealth and power, but too late he’d realised that he had fallen into a trap.
The temple was also a prison for the great daemon Tz’arkan, bound there aeons before by a cabal of Chaos sorcerers and in a single rash act Malus had inadvertently become Tzarkan’s pawn. Every waking moment since then had been devoted to escaping the daemon’s clutches, for in a year’s time Tz’arkan would claim his soul for all eternity unless he found five relics of power that would free the daemon from his crystal prison. Two were now in his possession: the Octagon of Praan, stolen from the clutches of a clan of beastmen in the north and the Idol of Kolkuth, lifted from its resting place in the Tower of Eradorius on the lost Isle of Morhaut.
Confronting the Skinriders who’d claimed the island as their lair had been nothing more than a ruse to gather the ships and men needed to reach the island and find the tower. The price in men and ships was nothing to the highborn, he’d grind entire continents to dust if that was what it took to win back his soul from the daemon — if any part of it still remained, that is.
The daemon hissed in amusement, slithering around the highborn’s labouring heart. Tz’arkan’s mocking presence was always in the back of his mind, tempting him with powers far beyond mortal ken, but each time the cold, icy force of the daemon’s gifts flowed through his bones it left a stain inside him, corrupting him from within. Wine was the only refuge he’d found from Tz’arkan’s influence, but it was a fleeting, wretched kind of peace. There were times, late at night, when he wondered if he drank to escape the daemon’s taunting whispers, or to protect himself from the temptation of drawing on still more of Tz’arkan’s power.
Just now, however, the thought of tearing his half brother into tiny pieces was very tempting indeed.
“Hello, dear brother,” Malus said, his voice cold with anger. “You’ve been quite the recluse these last few weeks. Had I known you were down here knitting a robe from my sailors’ guts I would have paid a visit much sooner.”
Urial made no reply. Slowly, purposefully, he climbed to his feet, rising carefully on his one good leg. The former acolyte’s naked form was slender, almost boyish. He was lean to the point of emaciation, muscles like steel cord standing out starkly beneath skin so pale as to be nearly translucent. Malus was surprised to see that nearly every inch of Urial’s body, from neck to toes, was incised with hundreds of arcane runes. His thick, white hair fell unbound to his waist and when he turned to face Malus his eyes shone in the reddish light like molten coins of brass. Malus’ eyes were drawn to Urial’s withered right arm and his twisted, foreshortened left leg and he fought a surge of revulsion. His disgust must have shown on his face, because Urial squared his shoulders and drew himself straighter, as though daring his half-brother to point out his weakness. There was a gleam in Urial’s eyes that Malus had seen before, on the deck of the Harrier during that battle in the winter gale when Yasmir had shown her terrible zeal for killing. He was transported in a kind of terrible ecstasy.
The look of joy on his face unsettled Malus more than anything else.
“Greetings, Malus,” Urial said in his sepulchral voice. “I had wondered when you would come. A few moments more and you would have been too late.”
Malus’ eyes narrowed warily. “What in the Dark Mother’s name are you talking about?”
“Do not blaspheme,” Urial said and this time there was the sound of steel in his voice. “Not here. This is a holy place, sanctified by the Lord of Murder.”
“This is my ship, brother,” Malus said, taking a pointed step across the threshold into the cabin. “And my men you have slain.”
Urial smiled. “Your men? I think not. If anyone on this ship can lay claim to being a mutineer, it is you. You murdered their rightful captain.”
“Bruglir died at the hand of a Skinrider,” Malus snapped. “You were there. You saw it just as well as I.”
The malformed druchii’s smile widened further. “Ah, but he was trying to kill you, as I recall. It was simply his ill luck that he got in the way of that monster’s axe.” Urial turned and limped to the cabin’s single cot, ostentatiously turning his back on his sibling. Black robes and kheitan were laid out on the horsehair mattress. “You manipulated him for your own ends, just as you manipulated me.” He began to dress himself, casting a protective glance over his shoulder at Yasmir. “I might have tried to kill you myself, but I had other priorities. The point is, you are the usurper here, not I. In fact, if anyone can now claim to possess the crew’s unswerving loyalty, it is Yasmir. I don’t see the men leaving blood offerings at your door.”
For a moment, Malus was taken aback. This was a side to Urial he hadn’t seen before. What had happened to the dour priest whose iron faith had prevailed against the Skinriders’ daemon hosts?
Tz’arkan stirred. “Beware, Malus. There are dangers here you do not comprehend.”
The highborn shook his head as if to clear the voice from his mind. “Why did you kill those men?” he asked, focusing once more on Urial.
“Kill them? No. You misunderstand,” Urial replied, shaking his head. “They were willing sacrifices, brother. They died for the glory of the living saint, to herald her arrival with offerings of slaughter as she steps through the Vermilion Gate.”
“Stop speaking in riddles!” Malus snarled. “What are you babbling about?”
Urial drew his belt tight, then slipped his kheitan over his shoulders. He turned back to Malus, tightening the kheitan’s side lacings and smiling his secret smile. “There is too much to tell,” he said. “And you are unworthy. But I will say this: in my own way I manipulated you as well.”
Malus paused. He didn’t like where this conversation was leading. “Manipulated, how?”
Urial finished his lacings and adjusted the fit of the leather, then turned and carefully picked up a dark object from the bed. He cradled it in the crook of his crippled arm and Malus saw that it was an ancient, yellowed skull, bound in brass wire. The white-haired druchii caressed the relic gently with a single fingertip, composing his thoughts. Finally he said, “Did you ever think it strange that I was born this way?”
Malus frowned. “No. Some children are malformed. It is the way of things.”
“The way of things? Look at her.” Urial gestured at Yasmir. “She is perfect — the blood of Nagarythe queens courses through her veins. Consider illustrious, betrayed Bruglir, a hero among men. They shared the same mother, the same father as myself.” His expression darkened. “My mother was pregnant with me when Lurhan returned from the black ark with that witch Eldire, your mother.”
“You think she twisted your limbs in the womb?”
“Of course,” Urial said. “She intended to kill my mother and take her place. She used metal salts from the forges and had them slipped into her food. Nothing else explains the wasting sickness that took hold of my mother and slowly sapped her strength for two long months. When she finally died, Lurhan had her servants cut me from her belly in the hope I would survive.” The pale-haired druchii’s smile turned bitter. “According to the servants he took one look at me and said I was the cause of his wife’s terrible death. I was given to the temple straight away. I believe Lurhan would have thrown me into the cauldron himself if he could.”
“And not even Khaine would have you,” Malus snorted in disgust. He was growing tired of Urial’s smug manner.
To his surprise, Urial laughed. “You are a fool, Malus Darkblade. Do you think Khaine cares whose skulls adorn his throne? No! There are never enough offerings to sate his hunger. He only spares those who are meant for a greater destiny.”
Malus stared incredulously at Urial. “You?”
“There have been other men spared by the cauldron, but none as crippled as I. The priestesses at Hag Graef took that as a great omen and sent me to the elders at Har Ganeth, City of Executioners. It was there, years later, that I learned of the prophecy.”
Something stirred within Malus. A vague feeling of unease crept over him. “Prophecy?”
Urial took the skull in his good hand and looked deep into its shadowed eye sockets. “It is old, very old. Perhaps one of the first testaments given by the Lord of Murder to his believers, back in the dawning days of the world.”
“And what does this prophecy speak of?”
“It speaks of a man born to the house of chains, touched by the gods and forsaken by men.” Urial stared intently at the skull, as though daring it to contradict him. “His mother will be taken from him and his father will cast him out, yet by his hate he will prosper.” The former acolyte lowered the skull and turned his gaze upon Yasmir, his expression changing to one of pure desire. “And his sister shall take up the blades of the Bloody-Handed God and be blessed with his countenance and wisdom. She will be the Anwyr na Eruen and the Lord of Murder shall give her to him as his wife, as a sign that his destiny is at hand.”
Malus frowned at the archaic title. “The Bride of Ruin?”
Urial nodded. “Even so.” He took a halting step towards her, a look of rapture on his face. “When I completed my training at the temple, the elders returned me to Lurhan’s household to await the coming of my bride. When I first saw Yasmir at the Court of Thorns I knew she was the one. The years passed and still she remained unmarried, despite the attentions of the finest druchii princes in the city. When she took Bruglir as her lover I was angry at first, but now I see that it was all part of Khaine’s great plan. Without Bruglir’s betrayal she never would have learned of her true self.” He turned to Malus. “And without you his treachery never would have come to light. You have served the Lord of Murder well, Malus and I’ll see to it that you are rewarded for everything you’ve done.”
The highborn found himself shaking his head. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. Could what Urial was saying be true?
“More true than you know,” Tz’arkan said with a gruesome chuckle. “What are men, after all, but the playthings of the gods?”
Malus glanced at Yasmir, his breath catching in his throat. “And what destiny does your precious Lord of Murder intend for the two of you? Will you bring an end to the world?”
The white-haired druchii merely smiled. “Nothing so petty,” he said with a smile. He held up the yellowed skull. “This is one of the most ancient relics of the temple, brother. By rights your life is forfeit just for looking upon it. It is older than even lost Nagarythe and our lore proclaims it to be the skull of Aurun Var, the first of our kind to swear himself to the Lord of Murder. It was he who first heard the prophecy from the lips of Khaine himself and the legend says his shade will speak to the chosen one and set him on the path to his destiny when the time is right.”
Malus eyed his brother warily. A mirthless smile spread across his angular face. “But the skull hasn’t spoken to you yet, has it?”
For a fleeting moment, Urial’s self-assurance faltered. “The prophecy is clear. The skull will speak when the time is right and not before.”
The highborn nodded. “Yes. Of course. But in the meantime, you still need my help.”
“You’ve done all that the Lord of Murder requires of you, Malus Darkblade. We need no more from the likes of you.”
Malus bared his teeth at the old insult. “Do you think Lurhan will simply let you shut his daughter up in one of your temples? He’s the most powerful warlord in Naggaroth, brother. You’ll need my influence to help convince him that she will be better off among the priestesses.” He spread his hands in conciliation. “I only ask a small favour in return.”
“And what would that be?”
Malus walked close to Urial. “I wish to make use of your arcane knowledge, brother,” he said quietly. “I’m searching for a number of artefacts — ancient relics that have been lost for hundreds of years. One of them is a magical weapon called the Dagger of Torxus.” The highborn shrugged. “The reasons for my search are unimportant, but—”
“You seek to release the daemon Tz’arkan from his prison,” Urial said coldly.
Malus staggered back as though struck. His mind reeled. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you take me for a fool, brother?” Urial sneered. “I guessed at your plan before we ever left Naggaroth. I suspected it when you broke into my tower with that witch Nagaira and stole the Skull of Ehrenlish. She sent you to the north in search of his prison, didn’t she?” He snorted in disgust. “When you told me that she was a priestess in the Cult of Slaanesh I knew I was right. You went to the island to claim the Idol of Kolkuth and now you’re after the Dagger of Torxus. What else remains? The Octagon of Praan? The Amulet of Vaurog?” Contempt flashed in his brass-coloured eyes. “I came with you this far for Yasmir’s sake. You’ll get no more help from me.”
“But Lurhan—”
“Lurhan wanted you dead before we left Naggaroth,” Urial snapped impatiently. “Were it not for the Writ of Iron you extorted from the drachau he would have found a way to kill you sooner or later. How do you think he will react when he learns you caused the death of his beloved son and heir?” He shook his head. “No, Malus. You’re finished. You have no value to me.”
“I see,” Malus said. Then with two swift strides he crossed the space between them and snatched the skull from Urial’s hand.
The pale-haired druchii’s eyes went wide with shock and rage. Malus started to speak — but his body jerked with a galvanic shock as sorcerous power split the air in the room with an angry snarl and a voice smote him like a fist.
GO YE TO THE HOUSES OF THE DEAD, O WANDERER, AND SPILL THE BLOOD OF THE FATHER OF CHAINS.
Malus and Urial alike staggered at the force of the words. The air stank of burnt copper as tendrils of smoke rose from the blood laid in the sigils around the cabin. The highborn looked this way and that, seeking the source of the terrible voice.
THE DAGGER LIES BENEATH THE HORNED MOON. YOUR PATH WAITS IN THE DARKNESS OF THE GRAVE.
It was Yasmir. Her raiment of living organs had fallen away as she stood, revealing her naked, luminous form. Streaks of bright blood gleamed against her neck, shoulders and breasts. Her mouth was wide, her full lips trembling and her eyes were discs of burning brass.
The voice faded as swiftly as it arrived, receding in a thunderous silence. Malus staggered, struggling to comprehend what had just happened.
He met Yasmir’s eyes and saw in them nothing but death. Her knives glimmered in her hands.
“Blasphemer!” Urial screamed, his voice twisted with anguish. The white-haired druchii lurched forward, snatching the skull away from Malus. “Daemon’s pawn!” He raised the relic over his head and arcs of crimson fire raced along its surface. “Mine is the birthright! Mine will be the sword and mine will be the Bride of Ruin! The prophecy will be fulfilled!”
Malus stumbled backwards, away from Urial and Yasmir. She watched him with the soulless gaze of a predator and he had no illusions about what would happen if she reached for him with her slender blades.
Words of power crackled from Urial’s lips. An invisible hand grabbed Malus and flung him through the air. He flew through the narrow doorway, striking his shoulder painfully against the frame and crashed into the far wall of the passageway beyond.
When he regained his senses a moment later, all Malus could see beyond the doorframe was a maelstrom of reddish light. A hot wind blew from the doorway like the breath of a dragon, carrying the faint cry of Urial the Forsaken.
“Let the Vermilion Gate swing wide! Rise up, O devoted of Khaine and wash the path of the Ruinous Bride with the blood of sacrifice!”
A groan reverberated through the deck beneath Malus, as though the hull of the wounded ship was bending under an impossible weight. Then he heard the faint sound of screams and the clash of steel from the main deck just above. Cursing bitterly, the highborn rose to his feet and ran to the sounds of battle.
Urial’s words came back to Malus as he burst onto the main deck, sword in hand: I had wondered when you would come. A few moments more and you would have been too late.
A pitched battle raged across the deck, the struggling silhouettes thrown into momentary relief as they were forced into the gleam of the witchlights. Daggers shone in the greenish light as the men of the night watch struggled hand-to-hand with shrivelled forms that once were fellow shipmates.
The hanged men had returned to life.
Malus watched a sailor grapple with a grey-skinned monstrosity, driving a dagger again and again into the creature’s chest. The monster seized the man’s shoulder and held him in a vice-like grip, oblivious to the sailor’s blows and closed a hand over the man’s face. Slowly, inexorably, the fiend bent the sailor’s head back until the druchii’s screams were silenced with a splintering crack of bone. The mummified sailor dropped the corpse to the deck and staggered towards the citadel, where two guardsmen stood with spears ready to defend the ship’s helm.
“Mother of Night,” Malus cursed, gauging the course of the battle. The men on watch were on the verge of being overwhelmed and the rest of the crew was below deck, unaware of the danger. They were all to be sacrificed at Yasmir’s feet.
The highborn looked around at the struggling forms, unable to tell one man from another in the blackness. The crew was at a severe disadvantage, armed only with their knives instead of the curved swords they normally carried at their sides. “Hauclir!” Malus cried, as he moved to intercept the walking corpse approaching the citadel stairs.
“Here, my lord!” came a cry from the darkness, somewhere near the main mast.
“Get below and rouse the rest of the crew, then unlock the armoury! Quickly!”
The retainer shouted a reply, but Malus paid it no mind, focusing on the shambling figure ahead. The corpse was still heading for the stairs, reaching for the rails with torn, shrivelled hands. Maggots writhed in the dead man’s empty eye sockets and tendrils of wrinkled entrails hung from the gaping cavity in his ripped belly. Malus leapt at the monstrosity with a war scream and aimed a powerful blow at the corpse’s neck. Flesh parted beneath the sword’s master-worked edge — then the blade struck the creature’s spine and rebounded with a clang that sent a spike of pain racing up Malus’ arm. The creature’s head turned and seemed to notice him for the first time. The flayed man brushed the sword from his neck just like he would a fly, then grabbed for the highborn with surprising speed.
Malus dodged away from the reaching hand and slashed at it with his blade. Once again, the edge clove through the rancid flesh with ease, only to glance away from the bone with a harsh, metallic sound. The sword deflected from the creature’s wrist, carving a length of leathery meat from the corpse’s forearm and the highborn caught a bright gleam the colour of burnished copper. The sorcery that animated the flayed men had turned their bones to solid brass.
Once again, the corpse reacted with surprising speed, grabbing the highborn’s blade in an iron grip. Razor-edged steel grated against metal bones as the monster dragged the sword out of the way and seized Malus by the throat.
Malus let out a choked cry, drawing in a single gulp of air before the fingers closed like a vice. He writhed in the monster’s grip, pulling vainly at the sword trapped in the creature’s hand, but the hand around his throat continued to tighten.
Tzarkan stirred, uncoiling slowly in Malus’ chest. “You are outmatched, Darkblade,” the daemon hissed spitefully. “Urial spent an entire month creating his executioners, but you were too stupid, too deep in your cups to see the peril until it was too late.”
The highborn’s mouth worked, but no sound escaped past the corpse’s crushing grip. A roaring began in his ears and darkness crept like a rising tide at the edge of his sight.
Tzarkan’s voice hissed like an adder in Malus’ ear. “Shall I make you regret your foolishness, little druchii? Shall I let this puppet of meat and brass crush the life from you? Or shall I lend you my strength?” The daemon’s chuckle seeped into his brain like poison. “What shall I do? Tell me, Darkblade. Tell me what to do.”
Malus grabbed the monster’s forearm with his free hand and braced his feet against the corpse’s hips, pushing for all he was worth. He could feel his limbs weakening and blackness threatened to overwhelm him. Terror, pure and absolute, coursed like lightning down his spine.
Suddenly, the creature staggered backwards. Malus lost his footing on the corpse’s abdomen and slumped to the deck and without warning the monster staggered backwards yet again. The highborn fought to regain his feet and as he did so he noticed the shaft of polished black oak jutting from the creature’s right collarbone. The guard at the top of the citadel stair had driven his spear into the corpse’s shoulder and lodged it against unyielding bone. Now the corsair threw his weight against the spear shaft, threatening to topple the clumsy monster to the deck. Seeing this, Malus threw his weight against the creature as well and that was enough to overbalance it. The mummified body fell backwards, landing heavily against the deck and for the briefest instant the vice-grip slipped.
Malus drew in a thin wisp of air, his eyes blazing with hate and rasped: “Lend me your strength, daemon. Now!”
Tz’arkan’s power suffused Malus like a torrent of foul, icy water. His body went taut; black veins bulged along his neck and hands and crept like strangling vines up the left side of his face. His eyes became pools of deepest night and icy mist curled from his lips. The very air seemed to curdle around him, tainted by the daemon’s touch. As the power coursed through his limbs he could feel it eating away at his insides, like water carving a path through the soft rock of a mountain. One day it would be his demise, but for now it felt glorious.
Malus’ free hand tightened on the monster’s wrist. Dead flesh pulped and putrid fluids trickled between his fingers. Brass wrist bones creaked, bent, then shattered. The highborn staggered backwards, pulling the limp, severed hand from his swollen throat. He dragged the blade from the corpse’s grip, sending five brass-cored fingers rolling on the deck. Still the monster tried to rise, mouth gaping hungrily. Malus lashed out with his blade and sheared through the corpse’s neck bones with one fell stroke. The body collapsed, lifeless, as the head bounced across the deck. It fetched up by the port rail, the jaws still working relentlessly. The highborn reached it in two swift strides and kicked it into the heaving sea.
The battle was over within a few minutes once Hauclir and fifty sailors roared onto the main deck and overwhelmed the flayed men. By then more than a third of the crew was dead.
Malus stood in the middle of his half-sister’s empty cabin. Visions swam before his eyes. One moment he saw the cabin as it was, with scorch marks on the walls and congealing blood dripping from the sigils carved into the ceiling. The next moment the walls blurred and he saw a cavern lit with ruddy light. A throng of figures in black robes and skull-faced porcelain masks bowed in obeisance beneath the outstretched arms of an alabaster-skinned goddess. She and Urial stood with their backs to a free-standing arch worked from reddish stone; he stood beneath the arch itself, feeling as though he watched the scene from the other side of an invisible door.
“You cannot hide from me, brother,” Malus hissed. “Wherever you run to, I will find you. I swear it.”
“Did you say something, my lord?” Hauclir asked wearily from his place at the doorway.
The vision faded. Malus shook his head, exhausted. The daemon’s gifts were potent, but in their wake he felt utterly spent. “lust making a promise to myself,” he replied.
Hauclir studied his master’s face for a moment, long enough to make Malus uncomfortable. For all of the retainer’s rough spots and foibles, he could also be disconcertingly perceptive when he wished. But the former guard captain merely said, “Where do you think they went?”
“I do not know and for the moment I do not care,” he replied. Malus looked around the cabin, trying to remember the words Yasmir — or the voice speaking through Yasmir — had said. Had it been the skull, telling him where he must go? Was such a thing possible?
The dagger lies beneath the horned moon. Your path lies within the darkness of the grave.
“The helmsman says we’ll be at the mouth of the Slavers’ Straits in a few hours,” the retainer continued. “He wants to know where we’ll make port.”
Malus glanced back to the centre of the room, where he’d seen the ghostly image of his brother. Urial had escaped with his would-be bride, but when he’d looked back at Malus, the highborn had seen something new in the man’s brass-coloured eyes.
Fear.
“Set course for Karond Kar,” Malus ordered, nodding thoughtfully to himself. “I must pay a visit to the houses of the dead.”
The Harrier rode easily in the choppy waters of the Sea of Chill, her black hull gliding through the pewter-coloured waves with something approaching her former grace. Sunlight glinted fiercely on the grey sea, etching the whitecaps with a silver sheen that was painful to look at after the weeks of darkness and gloom to the north. The Slavers’ Straits were hours behind them and nearly all of the ship’s crew was on deck, making repairs and speaking to one another in low, sibilant voices.
The men up in the rigging were singing some ancient sailing saga dating back to lost Nagarythe. Their husky voices shifted with the wind, like a chorus of mournful ghosts. The battered corsair was working her way along the sea’s ragged northern coast, passing tall chalk cliffs and forested inlets five miles to starboard. From time to time the dark shape of a wyvern would straighten languidly from the top of a high cliff and spread broad, leathery wings before launching into the cold, clear air. They circled high over the water, their keen eyes hunting for sea pike to sate their voracious appetites.
Karond Kar was a sharp-edged splinter of dark grey stone, nearly invisible against the overcast sky, still some leagues north and west on their present heading. Barely a third of its impressive height was visible above a rocky spur of coastline, but like all druchii citadels it carried an air of menace and authority even at so great a distance.
Malus stood at the ship’s bow as the crew went about their business, his gaze dark and brooding as he studied the distant tower and wondered how much of what Urial had said was true. He wasn’t the sort to put stock in prophecies and the machinations of fate; few druchii did, because it implied a degree of helplessness that was anathema to them. Slavery was a sign of weakness, even on a cosmic scale. The fact that the Temple of Khaine nurtured such notions, even in secret, was disturbing enough. Worse still was the idea that he was somehow tied up in it.
One thing he knew for certain was that his expedition into the Chaos Wastes had not been the bold, unexpected plan he’d thought it to be. Facing debtors and a possible blood feud after a disastrous slave raid the previous summer, he’d been manipulated by his sister Nagaira into thinking that there was a source of great power hidden in the north that was his for the taking. That power had turned out to be the daemon, Tz’arkan and later he had discovered that she, along with his brother Isilvar, belonged to the outlawed Cult of Slaanesh, which worshipped Tz’arkan as one of Slaanesh’s great princes. They had sought to use his ties to the daemon for their own purposes, but he’d turned the tables on them in the end, betraying them to Urial and the warriors of the temple.
Nagaira had been a sorceress of considerable power and she had manipulated him because of his ignorance in the arcane arts. Her illegal pursuits were an open secret in the Hag and a matter of some speculation. No one knew how she could have learned so much so quickly outside Naggaroth’s witch convents. Malus had no proof, but more and more he believed that his mother Eldire had been Nagaira’s secret patron.
Urial claimed Eldire was also the cause of his deformity. Was she orchestrating everything to suit some hidden agenda of her own, or was she also an unwitting pawn of this so-called prophecy? The implications sent a chill down his spine.
“How far back does it all go?” Malus asked himself. “And where will it lead?”
“Into darkness,” Tz’arkan whispered. “The darkness waits, Malus. Never forget.”
Before Malus could say more he heard the sound of footsteps. The highborn turned as Hauclir approached, fixing the retainer with a forbidding glare.
“What now, Hauclir?” Malus snapped.
The retainer stopped at sword’s length and paused, considering his words. “We’re approaching Karond Kar, my lord,” he said.
“Yes, Hauclir, I can see that,” the highborn growled.
Hauclir grimaced, shifting uncomfortably on his heels. “Once we make port it won’t be long before Hag Graef’s agents learn that Bruglir is dead and his fleet destroyed. Word will get back to your father soon after, I suspect.”
Malus shrugged. “It is a possibility.”
The retainer frowned, unhappy with the answer. “Will we be staying at Karond Kar, then? You said something last night about visiting the houses of the dead.”
“What of it?”
The retainer’s jaw clenched, uncertain of how to proceed.
“Spit it out, damn you!” Malus snarled.
“The highborn of old went to the houses of the dead to seek the blessings of the Old Kings before they marched to war,” Hauclir replied, the words coming out in a rush. “Is that your plan? War with your father?”
For a moment all Malus could do was stare incredulously at his retainer’s troubled face. “There. You have it,” he said. “I’m going to pit my fearsome army of one against the household of the most powerful warlord in Naggaroth. Have you gone mad?”
Hauclir bristled at Malus’ tone. “Since entering your service I’ve seen you infiltrate a Slaaneshi cult, blackmail the Drachau of Hag Graef into granting you a Writ of Iron and commandeer a druchii fleet to confront the largest band of pirates in the North Sea. At this point nothing you do can surprise me anymore.” The retainer folded his arms and returned Malus’ glare. “Why the houses of the dead, then? Do you intend to hide in the barrow city until your father forgets about you?”
The highborn’s fists clenched. “Mind your impertinent tongue, lest I pull it out,” Malus warned. “It happens that there is something in the barrow city that I need and I aim to get it.”
Hauclir’s eyes went wide. “So you aim to rob the tombs of the Old Kings?”
“I won’t know until I get there,” Malus replied. “How is it you know so much about the dead city?”
The retainer was momentarily thrown off guard by the change in topic. “I… read a bit when I was young,” he said.
“Indeed?” Malus arched an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Did your readings ever mention a place with a horned moon on it?”
“A horned moon? I don’t know…” The retainer’s voice trailed off as he considered the question. He cocked his head quizzically at Malus. “If I recall correctly, one of the princes of Nagarythe wore a silver crescent moon as his house sigil.” The retainer’s face brightened. “Eleuril the Damned! That was his name.”
“The damned?” Malus sighed. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“He was a kinslayer, if I remember rightly. Murdered his father, his wife and his wife’s father.”
“And?”
“And he was found out.”
“Ah.”
“The story claims he was strangled in his bed by the ghost of his vengeful wife.” Hauclir shrugged. “Of course, that’s just legend. His wife’s family probably had him assassinated. Makes for a good story though. If I remember correctly—”
Malus cut him off with a wave of his hand. “A dreadful story, I’m certain. Does it mention a dagger, by any chance?”
“As I was about to say, my lord,” Hauclir said peremptorily, “Eleuril was a worshipper of Khaine and if I remember rightly he was one of the first princes to convert here in Naggaroth. This was back in the earliest days, when Malekith first outlawed male sorcerers and Eleuril was something of a warlock hunter. He took this dagger from a Slaaneshi sorcerer named… well, never mind his name. I can’t recall. At any rate, he intended to use the dagger to murder his kin and blame it on Slaaneshi cultists.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the dagger was cursed.”
“It certainly seems that way to me,” Malus said darkly.
Hauclir’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re after the dagger, aren’t you?”
“What would I want with such a thing?”
“What would you want with that little statue you’ve got locked up in your cabin, or that strange amulet you were fretting over back at the Hag?” The retainer’s tone was mild, but his dark eyes were suddenly intent. “It seems to me you’re going to a great deal of effort to collect a number of arcane objects.”
Malus took a step towards Hauclir, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. “Your keen eye and your suspicious mind serve you well, Hauclir — so long as they aren’t directed towards me,” he said quietly. “Remember your oath and serve.”
Hauclir stiffened. “Of course, my lord,” he said stonily. “What are your wishes once we make port?”
Malus looked back towards the distant tower. “That will depend upon our reception,” he replied calmly. “If we are allowed to drop anchor in the harbour, you will remain aboard and keep watch over the treasure while I make some enquiries.” The highborn folded his arms tightly against his chest. “If something goes amiss, however, you are to gather my possessions from the captain’s cabin and meet me at a flesh house in the Traders’ Quarter called the Mere-Witch.”
“Is there reason to believe something may… go amiss, as you say?”
The highborn shrugged. “It’s possible I may have offended certain persons of rank the last time I passed this way.”
Silence fell. Hauclir waited, expecting Malus to elaborate, but the highborn offered nothing more. “Very well, my lord,” the retainer said at last, then turned on his heel and walked away.
Tz’arkan chuckled hollowly in Malus’ head. “You keep secrets like a daemon,” he said admiringly. “Is there no one you trust?”
The highborn’s lips curled in disgust. “At the moment I don’t even trust myself.”
The breakwater at Karond Kar was almost three miles long, built up from stone quarried from the forbidding mountains surrounding the Tower of Slaves. The lords of the tower paid enormous sums to a party of sculptors to work the stone at the base of the breakwater into the shapes of slaves, their taut, agonised bodies appearing to rise from the icy waves to support the stone blocks that held the Sea of Chill at bay. For hundreds of years the breakwater had been known as Nheira Vor — the Great Lament. When druchii corsairs arrived at the tower with their holds full of slaves, the cargo would see the lifelike statues and raise a terrible wail, believing that to be their fate. The lords of the tower never tired of the jest.
Karond Kar was the furthest, bleakest and richest of all the six cities in Naggaroth, enjoying enormous wealth as the clearing house for all the slaves taken by druchii raiders across the known world. It was the perfect location to serve as neutral ground in buying and selling the land’s most precious resource — the tower was too distant and too difficult for an army to besiege overland and possessed a powerful fleet of its own to repel assaults from the sea. The six lords of the tower were old and powerful druchii nominated by the Witch King from each of the great cities and thus enjoyed equal influence in the councils of the tower’s drachau. Factors from the most powerful households across Naggaroth maintained permanent residences in the trading town at the foot of the tower and during the summer the population would treble as lesser traders would make the two-week journey by sea to buy stock for the coming year.
This early in the raiding season the tower’s anchorage was nearly empty. Nearly every druchii raider wintered at the city of Clar Karond and would have only just departed on their cruises a few weeks before. The eastern side of the anchorage was dark with the hulls of the tower’s defending fleet — long, sleek-hulled ships that bore a close kinship with the battered Harrier. Malus watched from the citadel deck as one of the tower’s ships weighed anchor and put on sail. The deck of the ship was teeming with warriors, the northern sunlight glinting on their sharp-flanged armour and the tips of their spears.
Hauclir leaned against one of the ship’s aft-mounted bolt throwers, arms folded, eyeing the approaching warship apprehensively. “Is this normal?”
Malus nodded. “They’ll want to inspect the cargo for disease, look for any choice prospects they can tell their patrons about, shake us down for a bribe or two, that sort of thing.” He cast a sidelong glance at the retainer. “Everything you used to do at Hag Graef, only on the water.”
The former guard captain nodded appreciatively. “Shall I break out some coin from the hold?”
To Hauclir’s surprise, Malus shook his head. “Remember those trophies we stowed in the aft hold? Get some men and bring them topside once the inspectors come aboard.”
Hauclir grimaced, but nodded his head. “As you wish, my lord.” He stepped to the rail overlooking the main deck, barked a set of orders in a parade-ground voice, then headed below.
The warship was upon them in minutes, cutting across their bow and then turning to pass them to starboard. The warriors and officers crowding the ship’s rail eyed Malus and the Harrier intently, taking in the ship’s damage and the state of her crew. At one point the highborn caught the eye of a tall, richly appointed officer standing by the wheel of the passing ship. The highborn bowed his head in greeting but got only a haughty glare in reply.
After completing her close inspection the tower warship cut across the Harrier’s wake and slid up along the port side. A broad-chested druchii sailor cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Strike your sails and drop anchor in the name of the tower lords and prepare to be boarded!” The tone in the man’s voice left little doubt as to what would happen if Harrier’s crew failed to comply.
“Strike sail!” Malus ordered, loud enough to be heard on both vessels. The weary crew leapt into action and within minutes the ship’s ragged sheets were furled. By the time the stern anchor was splashing into the bay the tower warship had lowered a long boat full of troops and was rowing across the waves between the two ships.
Malus drew a deep breath. For a moment he wondered if perhaps he should have ordered Hauclir to prepare a bribe, but pushed the thought aside. “Lower lines and prepare to receive inspection party,” he ordered, then headed to the main deck to await the inspector’s arrival.
The long boat was alongside in a few short minutes and no sooner had her hull bumped against the side of the Harrier than the rope ladders went taut and armoured men came scrambling over the port rail. The warriors formed a grim-faced cordon around the rail, naked blades in hand. Unlike most corsairs, the tower men wore full plate harness over their kheitans and mail, offering far greater protection so long as the wearer didn’t fall overboard. Malus noted the armour was of high quality, enamelled in sea green and worked with the insignia of a dragon twined about a narrow tower — the sigil of the Drachau of Karond Kar himself.
Ten armed men were crowded together on the main deck, weapons facing outwards, before the inspector himself appeared at the rail. Malus was surprised to see it was the captain himself. The officer wore a heavy cloak of wyvern hide, fixed to his armour by gold brooches in the shape of sea dragons. His sea-green armour was worked with an ostentatious display of scrollwork and gems glittered from the pommels of the man’s twin swords. He looked very young to be a ship’s captain, with a face unmarked by the scars of battle. It meant he was well-connected, Malus reasoned.
The druchii officer alighted on the deck of the Harrier and took in the condition of the main deck in a single, scowling glance. The captain was tall and whipcord-thin, with gaunt features and a sharply pointed nose. His eyes glittered like chips of obsidian as he fretted with his armoured gauntlets and fixed Malus with a disapproving stare. “Where is your captain? I am Syrclar, son of Nerein the Cruel, Drachau of Karond Kar.” He looked Malus up and down, his lip curling in disdain. “I am not in the habit of speaking with the rank and file.”
At that moment Malus would have liked nothing better than to pitch the man into the sea, but instead he managed a cold smile. “I have the honour of commanding this ship, Lord Syrclar,” he said with a slight bow.
A look of consternation crossed Syrclar’s face. “But this is the Harrier. I would know her anywhere.”
“Indeed so, lord.”
“Then where is Bruglir, son of Lurhan the vaulkhar? This is his ship.”
Malus’ smile broadened. “Ah, now I understand your confusion, lord. Bruglir died in battle, on a campaign against the Skinriders to the north.”
Just then, the doors to the citadel opened and Hauclir appeared at the head of a handful of sailors, dragging several bundles wrapped in stained sailcloth. Malus waved Hauclir over. “You will be pleased to hear, Lord Syrclar, that our campaign was successful.”
Before the young druchii could reply, Hauclir dumped his bundle at the druchii’s feet. It fell open, revealing a pile of severed heads, their putrid flesh black with crusted blood and stinking of corruption. Syrclar’s guards recoiled at the stench, many uttering curses or prayers to the Dragons Below.
Malus bent down and considered the heads like a servant shopping for melons in the market. He grabbed one of the larger ones and tossed it to the young captain. “Here, Lord Syrclar, with my compliments. Hang it from a pike in the Slavers’ Quarter as a sign that the Skinriders will trouble us no more.”
“Dragons Below!” Syrclar screamed as the grisly trophy smacked wetly against his breastplate, leaving a brownish stain on the green enamel. The head hit the deck and bounced among the guards’ feet, sending them scrambling in every direction. The Harrier’s crew on deck watched the men scramble and hissed in derisive laughter.
Syrclar grew pale with fury, rubbing frantically at the fluids staining his armour. “Are you mad, bringing these poxed things aboard?”
“We’ve trophies enough below decks to decorate the walls of every city in Naggaroth,” Malus said proudly. “We thought it was only fitting, as a symbol of Bruglir’s great victory.”
“They’re thick with disease, you fool!” Syrclar screamed. “Every one of you could be tainted.”
Malus glanced around at his men, knowing they were well aware that Urial had cleansed the bodies of any taint before they had been brought aboard. He turned back to Syrclar with a well-rehearsed look of innocent credulity. “But none of us have come down sick,” he said emphatically. “Well, not except for Irhan and Ryvar.” The highborn glanced meaningfully at Hauclir.
The retainer took up the thread without missing a beat. “But we locked Ryvar up in the after hold just as soon as his skin started falling off,” he deadpanned.
Syrclar’s eyes went wide with horror. “And Irhan?” he asked.
“Well, we couldn’t rightly lock him away, dread lord. He was the cook.”
The young druchii pressed a trembling hand to the surface of his breastplate. “Back to the ship!” he commanded his men. “Quickly!” As they began to retreat back over the ship’s rail, Syrclar pointed imperiously at Malus. “Make anchor here, out in the bay! Do not attempt to dock at the harbour or we’ll use dragon’s breath and bum you to the waterline.”
“But we have need of food and supplies,” Malus said, sounding aggrieved. “These men need shore leave—”
“Your men need a priest,” Syrclar said, his voice tight with rage. “If they have any sense of decency they’ll pray for the Dragons to curse you and your house until the end of time.” About a quarter of the inspection party had already disappeared over the rail and the young captain had one leg over the side himself. He paused and shot Malus a furious glare. “What is your name? My father the drachau will hear of this.”
The highborn suppressed a frown of dismay. The ruse had nearly worked to perfection, he thought, sighing inwardly. “Malus, son of Lurhan the Vaulkhar of Hag Graef,” he said gravely.
Syrclar paused. “You’re Malus? The one they call Darkblade?”
“I am,” the highborn replied, making no effort to conceal his annoyance.
The young officer studied Malus for a moment, indecision warring with fear. Finally, he swung his leg back over the rail and gestured at his remaining men. “Seize him,” Syrclar commanded.
Hauclir stepped in front of Malus, his face grave and his hands reaching for his weapons. Malus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Remember my orders,” he said quietly, then pushed his retainer aside. “Seize me?” Malus said to the young officer. “On what grounds?”
“Were you not master of the corsair Shadowblade last summer?”
The highborn drew a deep breath. “I was,” he said.
“And did you not return to Naggaroth five months ago with a cargo of flesh?”
“Yes,” Malus admitted.
“But you did not stop here, as the law of the land requires. The lords of the tower receive a tithe of all slave cargoes brought into Naggaroth, whether they are sold here or not.”
“I am well aware of the law,” Malus said tersely. “I simply chose to ignore it.”
Syrclar gave the highborn a wolfish smile. “Then you were doubly foolish to return here, tainted or no,” he said. “The lords of the tower have long memories and do not forget those who slight them.” He nodded to his men. Two warriors gritted their teeth and took Malus by the arms, while a third stripped the highborn of his weapons.
“By the law of the tower, you will be held captive in the dungeons of Karond Kar until such time as your kin pay the tithe you withheld from us,” Syrclar said with a self-satisfied grin. “I have no doubt your father the vaulkhar will waste no time paying your ransom, so you shouldn’t have to spend more than a month in chains.”
The horses stamped and snorted on the cobblestones of the quay, disturbing the gulls that perched with their meals on the rows of statues lining the waterfront. They croaked disdainfully from the helms and armoured shoulders of stone corsairs, or hopped upon the backs of carved slaves bent beneath the weight of granite chains. Syrclar and his men paid the birds no mind, waiting impatiently on their mounts while two sailors lifted Malus into his saddle. When he was seated, one of the sailors bound his hands to a ring on the saddle’s cantle with several loops of tarred line and a tight square knot. The second sailor passed the reins to one of Syrclar’s men, who nodded to his lord. The young lord raised his hand. “Sa’an’ishar!” he cried. “Form up and move out!” A few minutes later the procession began making its way along the waterfront, headed for the Dolorous Road.
Malus felt the daemon stir as his horse jerked into motion near the end of the line. “It appears once again that you’ve managed to outsmart yourself,” Tz’arkan sneered. “Did you honestly think that little fool wouldn’t ask your name?”
“It was a calculated risk,” the highborn muttered under his breath. “And it nearly worked.”
“Nearly worked,” the daemon repeated mockingly. “Which is to say that it failed.”
“Not entirely. The ship at least is isolated. The crew won’t be able to make off with the gold. And I made it ashore, which is one step closer to my goal.”
“So you mean to say that this was part of your plan?”
Malus gritted his teeth. “Not entirely,” he admitted.
The procession reached the end of the eastern waterfront and turned right into a broad avenue leading inland towards the tower. This was the beginning of the Dolorous Road, the path all slaves took as they were herded to market and the path they all followed back to the ships that would take them to their masters across Naggaroth. It was mid-afternoon and the avenue was largely deserted. Small groups of tradesmen wearing heavy cloaks and riding wagons laden with tools made their way to and from the docks, giving the mounted troop of warriors a wide berth as they passed. A troop of guardsmen marched past, spears at their shoulders. Their officer bowed his head in salute to Syrclar and eyed Malus suspiciously as they marched towards the waterfront.
The avenue continued for almost a hundred yards, fronted on both sides by tall, narrow shops that offered everything from barrels to biscuits; most were doing fitful business with so few ships in harbour. Labourers stood around outside with nothing to do, playing at dice or finger bones or smoking pipes and speaking in low tones.
Malus studied the shops intently, trying to match them to a mental image many years old. He hadn’t been to Karond Kar since his hakseer-cruise and much of the time he’d been ashore he’d been rather drunk. He tried to remember where the Mere-Witch lay among the twisting streets and alleys off the Slavers’ Quarter and for the first time realised that it might not still exist after so much time.
At the end of the row of shops the avenue emptied out into an enormous square, subdivided by rows of empty pens and raised platforms. This was the first and largest of the slave squares, where cargoes were brought and assessed for their value. Slaves suitable for crafts and hard labour were then taken to a smaller auction square to the west, while those fit for household duty or entertainment were sent to the square to the east. The procession continued across the silent and echoing space, heading further north into a narrower road that lay deep in shadow thanks to the tall houses that bordered it. A glimmer of memory tugged at Malus’ mind. Yes, he thought, this was familiar.
The road wasn’t perfectly straight; druchii cities were generally labyrinths, meant to confound and kill intruders. The horses walked on into the gloom beneath the tall houses, overlooked by balconies and murder-holes every step of the way. Servants and messengers went about their business amid the residences of the city’s merchants and factors, ducking into doorways or down alleys to allow the horsemen to pass.
Malus passed a tall house on the right, its iron-studded door decorated with an ornate stone dragon at its arch. The looming head of the dragon reached so far into the narrow lane that several of the mounted warriors had to duck their heads beneath it as they passed. More memories surfaced: the dragon! I remember cracking my head on that cursed thing, the highborn thought. There will be a branch off the main road just up ahead. That’s where it will have to happen.
The highborn’s gloved hands tightened on the saddle’s raised cantle. He glanced over his shoulder. There were four men bringing up the rear, two with crossbows cradled in their laps. They would be the real threat.
Malus straightened in the saddle, trying to see the side road. The warrior ahead of him looked back at the highborn with a warning scowl, tightening his grip on the reins of Malus’ horse.
“Bestir yourself, daemon,” Malus whispered. “I have need of your power.”
Tz’arkan rasped against Malus’ ribs. “Of course,” the daemon said, unctuously. “I am always here for you, Malus. You don’t know how pleased I am to see that you have come to depend upon me in times of need.”
“Shut. Up.” Malus grated, galled to the core that the daemon was right. How had he reached the point where the daemon’s power was just another weapon in his arsenal?
The side road was upon him before Malus realised it — a claustrophobic alley that shot off to the left at an angle to the main road. The highborn clenched his fists. “Now!” he said.
Black ice thundered through his veins. Malus felt his eyes burn and his muscles writhe like snakes beneath his skin. Wisps of steam leaked past clenched teeth as the highborn bent low in the saddle and hung on for dear life as his horse sensed the change come over him and went mad with terror.
Malus’ horse reared with a shriek, tossing its head and pawing at the air. The warrior leading the mount was pulled from his saddle and dragged across the cobblestones, trapped by the reins wrapped in his hand. The air rang with equine screams as the other horses in the procession caught the highborn’s scent and panicked.
Sharp curses and shouted commands echoed off the close-set walls as the druchii warriors tried to regain control of their mounts. Malus fought to keep his seat, his head bent close to the rearing horse’s neck as it turned and bucked in place. Gritting his teeth, he strained against the tarred cords binding his wrists. Red pain lanced up his arms as the ropes creaked, but refused to give.
A crossbow bolt buzzed past the highborn’s spinning head, close enough for him to feel the wind of its passing. Malus caught a glimpse of one of the warriors at the rear of the column, his pale face twisted with rage as he hauled at his horse’s reins and tried to fire his crossbow one-handed. Malus watched helplessly as the warrior’s finger tightened on the trigger and his guts clenched as the weapon fired with a barely audible thump. At the same instant, the crossbowman’s horse shied to the right, throwing the man’s aim off. The bolt went past Malus’ head in a dark blur, followed by the distinctive crack of an iron head striking steel plate. A man screamed and the smell of blood filled the cramped space.
Malus closed his eyes and bent his will against the ropes cutting into his skin. The raw pain of his wrists only fuelled his anger further; the greater the pain the more he strained against the bonds. Hot blood flowed down the cold skin of his arms — then there was an intense flash of pain and a sharp pop that was more felt than heard and the rope fell away from his bloodied hands.
The highborn grabbed frantically for the reins as the warriors around him shouted in alarm. A hand closed on his ankle — Malus looked down into the screaming face of the druchii warrior who’d been leading his horse mere moments before. The man still had Malus’ reins in a white-knuckled grip and now tried to pull the highborn from his saddle. Malus pulled his boot free and brought it down on the warrior’s upturned face. Bones broke and blood sprayed against the horse’s shins and the man fell back onto the cobbles. Yanking the reins free from the senseless druchii, Malus hauled his horse’s head around, aiming for the side road. “Run, you cursed nag!” he roared, putting his heels to the horse’s flanks. The animal bolted forward with a terrified shriek, sending house servants and traders scrambling into sheltered doorways and alleys as it raced down a lane barely wide enough to allow it passage.
Angry curses and fearful shouts echoed in Malus’ wake — at one point a flung earthenware bowl shattered against the wall next to his head — but the highborn only spurred his mount faster, knowing that pursuit was only seconds behind him. He cudgelled his brain for memories as doorways and balconies blurred past to left and right. There was a turnoff… to the north, he thought, but how far? A servant carrying a basket of goods from the market ducked across the horse’s path, shouting obscenities as he dashed for the safety of a recessed doorway.
Snarling wolfishly the highborn smashed his mount’s shoulder into the fleeing figure, hurling the man against a stone wall and sending a shower of fruit and meat into the air. Malus looked back to see the servant’s broken form rebound from the wall and collapse in the middle of the lane. Already the door to the house was open and two servants were dashing out to see to the man, which clogged the path even further.
Malus nearly missed the mouth of the street to the right — he hauled back on the reins at the last moment and sparks flew from the horse’s iron shoes as it skidded across the cobblestones. The animal screamed and bucked, trying to throw him from the saddle, but thanks to the daemon’s strength he clung to its back like a leech. A loud commotion back the way he’d come told Malus that his pursuers were almost on him. He eyed the northern street frantically, searching for familiar details, but found none. Cursing to himself, he spurred his mount up the road just as a druchii warrior with a spear galloped into view back the way Malus had come.
The warrior threw his weapon with an angry shout and Malus threw out his hand, hoping to snatch it from the air. The spear point glanced along the back of Malus’ shoulder blades, popping mail rings and twisting him slightly in the saddle. His hand tried to close on the spear haft but the weapon bounced from his palm and struck the far wall, falling out of reach as the horse shot northwards up the road. The warrior drew a curved sword and gave chase, howling like a vengeful wraith. More riders thundered into the lane in the man’s wake, taking up the chase as well.
A crossbow bolt ricocheted off the wall to Malus’ right and shattered against the stone overhang of a narrow doorway, showering him with shards of stone. This road was a bit wider than the one before, able to permit two horses to travel abreast. There were more druchii on foot, stepping in and out of the shops lining the street. Many were household servants, evidenced by the torcs gleaming at their throats, while others were highborn, tradesmen or off-duty soldiers. The servants scattered at the sound of galloping hooves, while the soldiers eyed Malus with wary curiosity and fingered the hilts of their swords.
“Out of the way, damn your eyes!” Malus shouted at the people in his path, wishing to the Dark Mother that he had a blade in his hand to add weight to the command. Up ahead, one soldier evidently took exception to Malus’ tone and drew his sword. The highborn’s mouth went dry. He aimed the charging horse directly at the man, but the warrior stood his ground. At the last second Malus swerved left and the soldier swung his blade in a blurring arc. The blade parted the horse’s right rein and struck a glancing blow against the highborn’s side. Mail rings popped with a dry crackle, but the armour and the thick leather kheitan beneath absorbed the hit. Malus cursed viciously at the man as he sped past and got an obscene gesture in return.
“What I wouldn’t give for a sword,” Malus muttered angrily as he grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane with his right hand and scanned the shop fronts along the road. He remembered a line of taverns leading up to the Mere-Witch, but all he saw were bakers and fishmongers. His guts churned at the thought that he’d taken a wrong turn.
“Would you like a sword? Nothing could be easier,” Tz’arkan said, its voice cool and slick with malice.
Yes! He thought at once, but the word caught in his throat when he remembered how the daemon had provided him with a way to navigate the labyrinth back at the Isle of Morhaut. “But I don’t need a spur of sharpened bone growing out of my wrist,” he snapped.
“It doesn’t have to grow out of your wrist—”
“Leave the weapons to me, daemon,” Malus snarled, leading the horse around a sharp turn — and heading straight for a gang of labourers standing around a heap of fallen masonry.
Malus jerked back on the reins with a startled shout, but the horse was moving too fast to stop. Human and dwarf slaves scattered left and right, shouting in alarm and whips cracked as the druchii overseers tried to keep their chattels in line. One slave didn’t move quickly enough and was trampled beneath the horse’s hooves, his wild screams cut short as an iron shoe split his skull like a melon.
The mound of bricks spilled across a third of the street — part of a house’s facade that had fallen away in an avalanche of stone. With no other options available, Malus bent low in the saddle and put his heels to the horse’s flanks, driving it up the loose pile of bricks. The horse gamely leapt for the top of the mound, bloodstained hooves scrabbling for purchase. Near the top, the horse started to falter — then a whip struck Malus’ left arm with a sharp crack. The highborn roared in pain, but the sound startled the horse enough that it redoubled its efforts, lunging for the top of the mound and plunging over the summit.
Unfortunately for Malus, his pursuers had been familiar with the construction. When they came around the bend they angled for the far end of the mound and as the highborn’s horse hurtled down the opposite side of the pile he saw two riders already slightly ahead of him and angling in from the left. One was the swordsman he’d seen before; the other carried a spear in an overhand grip, ready to throw or stab. Of the two, the swordsman was the better rider, leading his mount around panicked slaves and small piles of rock and pulling alongside Malus just as the highborn’s horse leapt the last few feet off the brick mound.
Malus threw himself to the right as a backhanded cut tore at his mail shirt just below his shoulder blade. Cursing fiercely, he spurred the lathered horse to greater speed, but the swordsman kept pace, leaning forward in his stirrups and slashing downwards with his sword. The blade struck Malus a hard blow on the left shoulder, just behind the collarbone and a hot spike of pain lanced down his back as the edge bit through the mail and kheitan beneath. The highborn felt his left arm go numb at the blow — and at just that moment his horse screamed in pain and slewed to the left, into the swordsman’s path.
The two horses crashed together in a chorus of anguished cries and fierce oaths from their riders. The druchii swordsman’s horse struck Malus’ mount chest to shoulder and for a sickening instant the highborn feared that his horse would be knocked onto its side. As it was, the two horses grappled with one another, rearing and snapping with broad, square teeth. Malus fought to keep his seat, even as the tower swordsman made a clumsy downward swing at his skull.
Hard-won instincts warned Malus at nearly the last moment. He jerked his head to the side and the blow fell once again on his already-injured shoulder. Fiery pain ignited from the base of his neck to the rounded part of his arm. In desperation he let go of the reins with his left hand and grabbed for the man’s blade. By sheer luck his hand closed on the back of the single-edged sword — he felt the edge of the blade against his fingertips as he grabbed hold of the sword and pulled it towards him. Potent with battle-lust and the daemon’s terrible gifts, he all but yanked the surprised warrior from his saddle; the man was drawn far forward, his wrist well within Malus’ reach. The highborn let go of the sword, lunging for the man’s wrist in an attempt to twist the blade from his hand, but just then Malus’ horse bit the other mount on the neck. The swordsman’s horse shied back with a cry, toppling the man from his saddle even as Malus’ horse gathered itself and leapt forward, fleeing the fight. Malus made a vain grab for the sword as it fell beyond his grasp and was left fighting to stay in the saddle as his horse galloped headlong up the lane and around another sharp turn.
Malus could tell at once that something was wrong with the horse’s gait — looking back over his shoulder he saw a black-shafted spear buried deep in the animal’s rump. Terror was all that was keeping the animal moving forward, but the highborn knew that it wouldn’t last much longer. Still worse, he saw that the buildings had changed from shops to residences, many of which were shuttered or in advanced stages of disrepair. He was definitely on the wrong street. Surprisingly, the highborn heard the sounds of galloping hooves taper off just behind him. He couldn’t imagine why, but he wasn’t going to question his good fortune. His horse was already slowing as they reached another sharp bend in the road. With luck, he thought, he could find an alley up ahead and continue on foot.
He rounded the corner — and saw at once why his pursuers had reined in. The road ran on for another twenty yards and ended in a cul-de-sac overlooked by half a dozen iron-work balconies. They had him cornered.
Malus pulled awkwardly at the single rein, forcing the half-dead horse to come to a stumbling halt. The highborn looked desperately about for a way out of the trap. He could hear his pursuers, hissing orders to one another as they walked their mounts to the corner. They would be on him in moments.
The highborn heard a door open overhead. He looked up to see two highborn children rush out onto the balcony and peer down at him, chattering excitedly. Malus bared his teeth, wishing he had them in arm’s reach.
A thought struck him. He turned the horse in place, studying the overhanging ironworks. Looks risky, he thought, but no more so than a blade in the guts.
Malus urged the staggering horse near one of the stone walls and let it come to a shuddering stop. The first of the riders came around the corner, his spear at the ready. The highborn grabbed the saddle’s can-tie and drew up his right leg. Placing the foot carefully he stood on the animal’s back.
The daemon chuckled as Malus spread his arms for balance. “You look like one of those ugly seagulls,” Tz’arkan said. “Is this some strange form of surrender, or do you intend to fly over your captors?”
“Something like that,” Malus said with a mirthless grin. Just as the lead spearman readied his weapon to throw the highborn took a deep breath, bent slightly at the knees — and jumped.
Without the daemon’s foul strength surging through his limbs he wouldn’t have had a chance. As it was, his fingertips just reached the iron rails of the balcony some ten feet overhead. He grabbed at the rusty metal like a drowning man, his fingers tightening painfully around the hard-edged rails. With an explosive grunt of effort he pulled himself upwards. Below, the spearman let out an amazed cry; a moment later his spear clattered off the stone wall to Malus’ right.
Malus pulled himself upright and peered over the rail — only to duck back again as a crossbow bolt rang off the ironwork. Angry shouts echoed up from the cul-de-sac. Malus grinned. Unless Syrclar had a daemon-possessed retainer they were going to be hard-pressed to catch him.
Of course, he still had more climbing to do.
The highborn eyed his next destination — another balcony, eight feet up and ten feet away on the adjoining building. Before the crossbow-man could reload, he pulled himself onto the rail, took a deep breath and leapt into space with a wild shout. He reached his target easily, grabbing the rail with both hands and vaulting over the side. Immediately he looked to the balcony at the next house. Ten feet away and ten feet higher than where he crouched, the two druchii children watched with wide, fearful eyes. He gave them a hungry smile and they fled inside, screaming in terror.
This time Syrclar’s men were ready. He leapt into a storm of crossbow bolts and flung spears, the projectiles buzzing around him like a swarm of flesh wasps. Malus made the leap easily. In fact, part of him thrilled at the rush of wind against his face and the effortless way his body carried him from one balcony to the next. His shoulder stung fiercely where the sword had cut through his armour, but that, too, only made Malus feel more alive. Laughing to himself, he pulled himself up to the edge of the rail — and came face-to-face with an axe-wielding retainer who had rushed to the children’s aid.
Once again, it was raw instinct that saved Malus. He threw himself backwards as the axe whistled through the air, missing his throat by less than an inch. His fingers slipped as he hit the limit of his reach and for a moment he hung motionless, thirty feet above Syrclar and his men. At the same instant the retainer took another swing with his axe and Malus grabbed for it with both hands. Seizing the haft, he pulled himself forward for all he was worth, pulling the retainer off-balance and sending him hurtling out into space even as the highborn slammed against the balcony rail. The retainer fell and Malus tried his best for one heroic lunge at the man’s axe, but through either ill luck or druchii spite, the man carried his axe with him as he fell to the cobblestones below.
“Damnation!” Malus cursed, staring helplessly at the lost weapon. Within the house he could hear the children screaming and an even greater commotion coming his way, so he wasted no time. Still standing on the outside of the balcony he turned to face the next balcony and leapt the fifteen feet between them. Another crossbow bolt buzzed past, but now there were shouts of wonder and dismay from below, as the men feared that their quarry would escape. Malus paused for long enough to give the men a mocking salute, then leapt from the balcony to the edge of the building’s roof. The slate shingles were slick and the roof steeply pitched, but the highborn wasted no time circling its perimeter until he faced the building to the west. It was a long leap — close to twenty feet, across a narrow road — but he hesitated barely a moment. Malus closed his eyes and flung himself into space with a howl like a maddened wolf.
“Sweet, is it not?” Tz’arkan whispered in his mind. “And this is but a trifle compared to the gifts I offer. And yet you turn your face from me, hiding in fogs of cheap wine. Do you see now how foolish you have been?”
Malus opened his eyes to see the tiles of the oncoming building rushing at his face. He landed hard, sending broken tiles slithering off the edge of the roof, then circled the perimeter of the roof, looking further west. There was another rooftop directly adjacent to this one, then another lane that appeared to open into a small square. That looks familiar, he realised with a grin.
“I am my own master, daemon,” he said, a little breathlessly. “Not you, not my father — not the Witch King himself — may command me. What I do, I do for myself. You are the foolish one.”
“Indeed? And what would happen if you were to try leaping to the next building, only to find that I’d withdrawn my generous gifts?”
“Then I’d fall.”
“And?”
“And I’d have to think of something very quickly before I hit the ground.”
“Stupid druchii,” the daemon spat. “You think you have an answer for everything. You weren’t so clever when you stepped into my chamber and slid that ring on your finger. You fell for that one rightly enough.”
“I fell for it, true,” Malus said, leaping into space. “But I haven’t hit the ground yet, have I?”
The highborn was touching down on the adjoining roof before he realised the daemon had gone silent. Malus took that to be a good sign.
Crossing to the opposite side of the building, Malus looked down on a street lined with taverns and teeming with soldiers, sailors and labourers. He looked further north and there, across the square, he saw the grey sign of the Mere-Witch. Malus smiled and gauged the distance to the next roof: another fifteen feet more or less. He gathered his legs beneath him, took a deep breath and leapt.
No sooner had his feet left the edge of the roof than Malus realised the daemon’s strength had faded.
He flew for six feet and began to fall like an arrow arcing in flight. Ten feet, twenty feet — he could hear the noise of the crowd below growing louder. At twenty-five feet he hit the wall of the building he’d leapt for, striking hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He tumbled, striking the edge of a metal balcony, then fell another five feet before crashing into an overhanging sign. Wood cracked, hinges splintered. Malus and the wooden sign fell the last ten feet to land in a tangled pile on the cobblestones.
Figures crowded around the edges of his vision — pale faces, looking down in horror, shock or disgust. Malus felt a set of tentative fingers pluck at the money belt at his waist. With a snarl he slapped the hand away and rolled painfully to his knees.
There was a rumbling in his ears. Malus shook his head, trying to clear it. The sound continued. Then he felt the vibrations in the palms of his hands and realised what was causing it. Hoof beats.
Malus lurched unsteadily to his feet. He should have guessed that the horsemen would simply try to parallel his movements on the ground. It took a moment to tell his left from his right, but once he did he set off for the flesh house at a run.
He was halfway there when he heard shouts behind him. Something clattered on the cobblestones — a thrown spear? Malus didn’t stop to find out. Druchii scattered out of his way as he staggered to the double doors of the flesh house and pushed his way inside.
Smells of incense and narcotic vapours tingled in his nostrils as Malus stumbled into the heat and shadows beyond the doorway. Servants stepped hesitantly forward, uncertain what to make of a bloodied highborn in battered corsair’s armour reeling drunkenly in the entry hall. An armed retainer stepped forward, one hand outstretched. “Your weapons, sir,” he said.
Malus laughed, showing his empty hands and pushed past the bemused guard. His body moved purely on instinct, acting on drunken memories of years past. The highborn went left, locating the descending stairway almost at once and rushing downwards into scented darkness.
The stairway swept downwards in a broad, lazy spiral, leading past doorways strung with curtains of soft seal hide. Faint sounds issued from within those chambers: laughter, impassioned murmurs or gasps of pain. Music hung in the heavy air, drifting languidly from some hidden room. Malus continued on, picking up his pace when he began to hear urgent cries echoing from above.
His descent came to an end in a circular room lit with glowing braziers. There were eight doors around the perimeter of the chamber, each one leading to a sumptuous suite reserved for the wealthy or the noble-born; servants came and went through the doors, bearing trays of refreshments. Fantastic beasts loomed over each portal: dragons, manticores, chimeras and the like. One doorway was framed by a pair of crouching nauglir. With a hungry smile Malus crossed the room and pushed the door wide.
Beyond lay an octagonal room lit by the banked coals of half a dozen braziers. Carpets and cushions covered the stone floor, surrounding platters heaped with breads, cheeses and fruit. Flagons of wine glittered in the ruddy light and smoke hung thick and blue in the air. Haifa dozen figures in hooded autarii cloaks lounged on the cushions, amusing themselves with a like number of human and elf slaves.
Angry shouts echoed from the stairway. Malus staggered across the room, lurching across the soft and treacherous carpets. Slaves scattered as he made his way towards a platter of roast meat near the centre of the room. His eyes were on the long, broad-bladed knife gleaming beside a long fork at the edge of the platter.
Syrclar and six of his men burst into the room on Malus’ heels, their faces flushed and swords held at the ready. The highborn swept past the platter, his hand closing on a curved wooden grip and turned to face his pursuers.
Malus showed his teeth to the men of the tower and raised the long, twin-tined meat fork he’d grabbed by mistake. Slaves scattered to the far corners of the room. The autarii were motionless, watching the scene from the depths of their hoods.
“I suppose you’d like to discuss terms of surrender,” the highborn said.
Syrclar smiled. “Cut off his hands and pluck out his tongue,” he told his men. “We’ll let his father ransom them back in a jar.”
Malus fell back as the six warriors made their way carefully across the room. He retreated until his back touched the far wall and then waited, meat fork held ready. The warriors spread into a rough semicircle, wary of his strange abilities but confident in their greater numbers.
They were halfway across the room when the autarii sprang into action. Without a word passing between them they drew long knives from their voluminous sleeves and leapt at the tower men. Caught by surprise, the warriors were tackled and pulled to the floor. Knife blades flashed, cutting hamstrings, wrists and throats. Blood soaked the rugs in moments as the warriors thrashed, kicking over plates and flagons in the throes of death.
Syrclar recoiled in horror at the slaughter unfolding before him. The young highborn’s sword wavered, then fell to the floor. He turned to run, but Malus crossed the room in three swift strides, running over the bodies of the dying men and grabbing a handful of the lord’s long, black hair.
The twin tines of the fork plunged deep into the side of Syrclar’s throat. The highborn went rigid, coughing a spray of bright arterial blood. Malus let him go, turning and picking up Syrclar’s fallen sword as the young lord fell to his knees.
Malus studied the blade and nodded approvingly. “Better late than never,” he said with a sigh, then turned and struck Syrclar’s head from his shoulders. The headless body remained upright for a few moments, then toppled onto its side, still spurting blood.
The highborn admired his handiwork for a moment, then turned to the hooded figures. “Would it be too much to ask for a cup of wine?” he asked.
“Ah, there he is,” Malus said as Hauclir was escorted into the rug-lined chamber beneath the flesh house. “I’d begun to think you’d come to some mischief.” The highborn plucked a fat Tilean grape from a tray next to his cushion and waved his retainer to take a seat. “Have some wine and some food. Pay no mind to all the bodies.”
Hauclir carefully lowered one of Bruglir’s old sea chests and set it gently on the floor, his gaze passing from one bloody corpse to the next. Syrclar’s guardsmen still lay where they had fallen, contorted in poses of violent death. The retainer nodded his head at the corpse Malus was using as a footrest. “I take it that would be part of the young Lord Syrclar?”
“The very same,” he said, turning to spit a seed at Syrclar’s severed head. “He proved a capable hunter, but in the end the prey he cornered proved a bit too much for him.”
Quiet chuckles rose from the men surrounding Malus. With the arrival of their lord they had cast aside their autarii cloaks, revealing black-enamelled armour and silver steel torcs worked with the sigil of a nauglir — Malus’ personal insignia. They sipped wine from gold cups and toyed with the young slaves crouching at their sides, eyeing Hauclir with the predatory welcome of a pack of wolves.
The highborn indicated his retainers with a languid sweep of his hand. “You know some of these old dogs — Silar Thornblood, my seneschal, Dolthaic the Ruthless and Arleth Vann. The others entered my service while we were at sea — all I can say for them is that they’re handy with a knife, which counts for much in my estimation.”
Hauclir nodded absently, taking everything in. The retainer set to watch for him brushed past the former guard captain, returning to his own place amid the rugs and cushions. “What’s all this about, my lord?” he asked, slipping a large and heavy pack from his shoulder and setting it beside the chest.
The highborn shrugged, plucking another grape from the bunch in his left hand. A bottle of wine and a brimming cup sat on a low table to his right. Silar had poured it for him hours ago and he’d yet to touch it. “Planning ahead,” he explained, popping another grape into his mouth. “I knew before I left Hag Graef that if I wanted to return home alive my illustrious older brother would have to meet an untimely end. So I made arrangements to meet Silar here instead of going straight home to give my father the happy news.” He favoured his men with a feigned scowl. “They’ve been here spending my coin and living like conquerors for the last month or so.”
Wolfish grins and muted laughter spread across the room. Dolthaic the Ruthless, a young druchii with sharp, angular features and a long horsetail of hair pulled into a corsair’s topknot raised his goblet in salute. “If this is how you go about killing your kin,” he said with a sepulchral laugh, “then I say thank the Dark Mother you have such a large family!”
The other retainers joined in the laughter, some raising their goblets in turn, until a strong voice cut through the merriment like a knife. “Drink and act like fools while you can,” Silar Thornblood declared. “Nothing will be the same after this. It’s war or exile now that Malus has killed Lurhan’s favoured son.”
Malus turned slightly in his seat to face his chief lieutenant. Silar was a young warrior, tall and handsome, his face miraculously unscarred by war. He was a dour, impertinent man at the best of times, but he was loyal and honest and above all, utterly lacking in ambition or guile. On his own he wouldn’t have lasted a month in druchii society, but Malus provided him with an honourable position in an influential household, largely shielded from the ruthlessness of day-to-day life. He sat at Malus’ right hand, staring gloomily into the depths of his wine cup. The highborn frowned and spat a seed at the man.
“Is it any wonder I left you back at the Hag, Silar?” Malus growled good-naturedly. “What talk is this of war? Bruglir died in battle, not at the end of my sword.”
Hauclir let out a snort. Malus fixed the man with a merciless glare and the retainer lowered his eyes.
“He died in a battle you forced on him,” Silar said forcefully. “Bruglir was already a hero ten times over, enough so that even the drachau envied him. All Lurhan will care about is that you took his eldest son and heir into the North Sea and got him killed, along with most of his fleet.” Silar shook his head, staring into his cup as though it were full of poison. “Your father tried to kill you once already and if rumour at the Hag is to be believed, you shamed him in front of the drachau when you forced Uthlan Tyr to give you a Writ of Iron. What do you think he will do when he hears this latest news?” The young retainer took a breath and tossed back a large swallow of wine.
The mood in the room turned sombre. Even Dolthaic’s avaricious grin faded before Silar’s harsh estimation. Malus frowned in aggravation. “Speaking of vile rumours, what other news do you have from the Hag?”
Silar shrugged. “The Witch King declared the campaign season a week earlier than expected, owing to the mild winter. The truce between Hag Graef and the Black Ark of Naggor still holds, miraculously enough. The drachau even went so far as to release his hostage Fuerlan and return him to the ark.” Silar took another sip of wine, judiciously avoiding the incident Malus had caused when he’d tortured Fuerlan nearly to death over a matter of etiquette several months before. “With no major feuds to settle, the highborn of the city who haven’t taken to sea are all out in the countryside looking for something to test their swords on.”
“There was talk before we left that your father was gathering his own men for an expedition to the north,” Dolthaic interjected. “Probably heading up to one of the northern watchtowers to hunt dragons or some such.”
“Indeed?” Malus said with a raised eyebrow. “That could be fortuitous. But what of my brother Isilvar? Lurhan vowed to search the city for the Slaaneshi cultists who were meeting in Nagaira’s tower. Was Isilvar exposed as their hierophant?”
“No,” Silar said gravely. “Lurhan made a show of searching all the towers in the drachau’s citadel, but Isilvar’s servants swore that he’d left the city days before. Of course, no one knew where he had gone and your father seemed content to leave things at that.”
“And the drachau?”
“Lurhan presented the drachau with almost a dozen cultists, dragged by their hair from their residences across the city. Some few of them were high-ranking nobles — all of them, coincidentally enough, well-known enemies of the drachau himself. Uthlan Tyr had them impaled on the walls of the Hag and considered the matter settled.”
“The short-sighted idiot,” Malus hissed. “So Isilvar escaped the drachau’s wrath. Clearly he has more influence with Lurhan than I suspected — or perhaps the vaulkhar fears that if Isilvar is implicated it will taint Bruglir’s reputation.” The highborn paused, tapping his lip contemplatively with a round, purple grape. “It might be interesting to see how things change once news of Bruglir’s death becomes well-known. Regardless, Isilvar remains a threat to be eliminated.”
“You sound as though you intend to ride straight back to Hag Graef and preside from your tower as though nothing were amiss!” Silar declared incredulously.
“Why, Silar, that’s precisely what I intend to do.”
“Then you’re a fool! You’ll be placing your head in the nauglir’s mouth,” Silar exclaimed, lurching unsteadily to his feet. Wine sloshed from his half-empty cup, adding to the stains on the piled rugs. “And ours as well, for what that’s worth. So far you’ve been very good at staying one step ahead of the consequences your rash actions have created, but this…” Silar’s voice faltered as his sense of propriety warred with pent-up frustrations. “This is something you won’t be able to talk your way out of. Can’t you see that?”
No one moved. Dolthaic turned away from Silar, busying himself with refilling his own goblet. The newer retainers looked from Silar to Malus with equal measures of surprise and anticipation, expecting at any moment to see the seneschal die. But Malus simply stared at his lieutenant in silence for several long moments, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts.
“Silar, you have served me loyally and well for many years,” he said at last. Without thinking, he picked up the goblet from the table next to him and idly inspected its contents. “I think you must be very, very drunk to have spoken so carelessly, because normally you would never dare talk out of your place. So I will refrain from ordering these men to skin you alive and feed your private parts to their nauglir, as it would be well within my rights to do.” The highborn met Silar’s eyes. You are here to serve. Never, ever forget that.”
The retainer’s fist closed around the neck of his goblet. The muscles in his jaw bunched as he fought back yet more rash words. Finally, he took a deep breath and tossed the goblet aside. “Of course, my lord,” he said fatalistically. “Forgive my impertinence. It won’t happen again.”
Malus smiled thinly. “I’m certain of it. But,” he continued, raising a finger for emphasis, “your concerns are well-taken, if unfounded, so let me explain to you the way of things.” He sat up from his cushions and paused, realising he’d brought the goblet to his lips. The smell of the dry, dark wine rose from the cup and filled his nostrils and he thought of the daemon’s warning. After a moment’s consideration, he pretended to take a sip, then pointedly set the goblet aside.
“Let us consider the situation as it stands,” Malus told his men. “For Silar’s sake, we shall not mince words — my father the vaulkhar hates me bitterly and would like nothing better than to see me dead. Until recently, he has been prevented from this because of… certain arrangements he made with my mother Eldire.”
“What arrangements?” Hauclir asked, apparently oblivious to the sheer impertinence of such a question.
“I don’t know for certain,” Malus replied. As far as it went, this was true — he had suspicions that Eldire lent her sorcerous powers to Lurhan in return for being given a child, but had no proof that this was the case. “With Bruglir dead, however, Silar feels that Lurhan will accuse me of the murder of his heir and will have ample justification to seek revenge. He would in fact be compelled to act, or risk being seen as weak. So you see, my lieutenant spoke with some degree of good sense.”
Hauclir nodded thoughtfully, folding his arms and leaning back against the sea chest. The other retainers looked to one another with expressions of concern — all except Silar, who began to pace about the perimeter of the room.
“This would indeed be a dire event — if it happens.” Malus leaned back again, settling into the cushions. “I am not at all convinced that it will. We must remember, that whatever else, Lurhan the vaulkhar is a proud and ambitious man who needs an heir to cement his legacy as the warlord of Hag Graef. That man was Bruglir, but now he’s gone. Who remains? Isilvar has lived like a rat in the shadow of his older brother all his life and is currently in hiding because of his ties to a forbidden cult. Urial has close ties to the temple and to the drachau himself, but that can’t change the fact that he’s a cripple and none of the other houses would accept his authority.”
“The vaulkhar could still find a successor through marriage,” Silar pointed out. He’d clearly spent a great deal of time considering the situation while the retainers waited in Karond Kar.
“He might have previously, but Nagaira was consumed by the Chaos storm she unleashed in her tower and Yasmir…” Malus paused, trying to think of a way to explain what his sister had become, “well, she’s gone. Urial took her away and I don’t expect Lurhan will be seeing her any time soon.” The highborn’s gaze sought out Arleth Vann, who crouched apart from the others in a corner of the room where he could watch both the door and everyone in the room. Unlike the others, his pale face remained shadowed within the hood of his cloak and he showed no interest in food, wine or slaves. Malus suddenly wondered what the former temple assassin might know of the prophecy Urial spoke of, or where the Vermilion Gate led. Later, he thought. He and I will have a long talk after we’ve returned to the Hag.
“So you think your father will be forced to call a truce with you because you’re the only hope he’s got for an heir?” Hauclir asked.
Malus smiled. “Precisely. So you see, recent events have actually placed me in a rather advantageous position when looked at in the proper way.” He shifted his seat to face Silar as he crossed behind Malus. “Believe me, Silar, I have no intention to seek exile, much less make war with my father. You know me better than anyone. What do I covet more than anything in the world?”
Silar glanced at Malus. “To be Vaulkhar of Hag Graef.”
“Just so,” Malus said, a fierce gleam burning in his eye. “And from there it is just a small step to the drachau’s throne. That moment is coming, Silar. I’ve clawed my way towards it slowly but surely for many years. What we face now isn’t calamity, but opportunity, if we have but the will to seize it.” He looked about at the assembled retainers and grinned. “I’ve already made you rich men. Soon I will make you powerful men as well. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you!” Dolthaic cried, raising his goblet in salute. “To the Outer Darkness and beyond!”
Malus turned to Hauclir. “And you?”
The retainer shrugged. “It’s a pointless question. I’ve given my oath, so of course I’m with you,” he said, then grinned. “Of course I’ll be happy to shower myself with wealth and power if you order me to.”
The other men laughed, raising their goblets. “Malus!” They cried and Malus laughed with them. Only Silar watched in silence, his expression sombre.
“What is your plan, my lord?” Silar asked gravely.
The highborn considered the question for a moment. “Did you bring everything I asked?”
Silar nodded. “The nauglir are stabled at the city barracks and Spite has your possessions loaded on his back.”
“Excellent,” Malus replied. He’d learned during his numerous encounters with brigands on the trek back from the Chaos Wastes that the best way to protect property was to lash it to a hungry nauglir’s back. “Then eat and drink while you can, men, because we’ll all have to be gone from Karond Kar by morning. There are things to be done before Lurhan returns to the Hag. Besides,” he said, looking at the body beneath his feet, “sooner or later someone is going to miss my footstool here and start asking around.”
Malus climbed to his feet and approached Hauclir and the sea chest. His swords, taken from Lord Syrclar’s horse, lay nearby, propped against the wall. “Hauclir, you will lead the rest of the men back to the Harrier tonight, where you will oversee the payment of the remaining crew. The rest of the treasure will then be taken off the ship and carried back overland to Hag Graef. You and Dolthaic will remain aboard and sail the Harrier to Clar Karond. I’ll give you a letter to authorise repairs from the shipwrights. With the men paid and the rest of the gold removed, the crew will likely set a speed record reaching the City of Ships and getting some shore leave.”
“Very well, my lord,” Hauclir said reluctantly.
“Who will act as ship’s captain?” Dolthaic asked.
Malus grinned. “You can have that honour. I don’t think Hauclir would want the job if you put a knife to his throat.” He waved Hauclir away from the chest and opened it, then began pulling out pieces of his plate armour. Without thinking, Hauclir began unlacing the battered mail shirt covering the highborn’s torso.
“Silar, you and the rest of the men will carry the gold back to the Hag and await my return,” he continued. “Before you depart tomorrow, however, I will need you to locate and hire a guide to lead me to the houses of the dead.”
“The houses of the dead?” Silar asked with a frown. “But why?”
Malus affected a shrug, feeling Hauclir’s stare on the back of his neck. “It’s the campaigning season, as you said. If Lurhan is to see me as a suitable heir I will have to start building a reputation as something other than a libertine, don’t you think?”
“But why go alone? Any guides we find here are likely to be cutthroats and thieves.”
“All the more reason not to tempt them with a fortune in loot, don’t you agree?” Malus pulled off the heavy shirt and began buckling on his armour plates. For the first time he realised how good it felt to be back on dry land, dealing with familiar problems like treachery and intrigue.
“Besides,” he said, grinning at Silar over his shoulder. “If you can find a single druchii in this goddess-forsaken city more ruthless and bloody-minded than me I shall be very surprised indeed.”
Hathan Vor had a face that looked as though it had been held against a grindstone.
“Just here, dread lord, just here,” Vor said, glancing back at Malus through the driving rain. Like the rest of his “brothers”, the guide disdained the use of a cloak or hood and his black hair hung in dripping, ropy strands to either side of his ravaged face.
There wasn’t an inch of flesh, from narrow forehead to pointed chin, that wasn’t worn down by layer upon layer of crisscrossing scar tissue. Vor’s ears and nose were little more than ragged lumps, as though they’d once been gnawed at by rats. His eyebrows were gone and scars at the corners of his large eyes lent them a perpetual squint. The man’s cheeks were lined with rows of scars that seemed to penetrate all the way to the bone; they glistened with tiny streams of water in the weak afternoon light. A particularly long and ragged scar pulled the left corner of his mouth up in a perpetual sneer, revealing a row of brown, pointed teeth. It was a hard face to look at, even for Malus; as bad as the Skinriders had been, they wore skins that covered their diseased flesh like a hood. Vor’s face was that of a fellow druchii and it was alive. That somehow disturbed Malus more than an entire band of skinned, Chaos-tainted pirates.
The other guides, Vor’s supposed brothers, weren’t much better. Every one of them had the scarred face of a petty criminals. In Karond Kar, druchii whose crimes and social status were too minor to warrant the efforts of a proper torturer were simply given a scar on their face to mark them as troublemakers. By Malus’ estimation, Vor must have been stealing bread or cheating at finger bones — and getting caught at it — every day for the last ten years.
Malus leaned back in his saddle and tried to stretch the kinks from his back. His soaked woollen cloak felt heavier than the plate armour he wore beneath. Rain flowed in sheets down Spite’s muscular neck and shoulders, adding a strange lustre to the cold one’s dark green scales. As Malus watched, the cold one raised its blunt, toothy snout to the sky and blew a thin plume of steam from its nostrils. Born and bred in dark, damp caverns deep beneath the earth, cold ones thrived in wet environments. At just that moment, Malus envied the nauglir so much it hurt.
They had been travelling the Slavers’ Road from Karond Kar for almost two full weeks and Malus could not remember a point during that time when it hadn’t been raining. He had learned to eat, sleep and ride while soaking wet. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing in his possession that was dry. The bedrolls were soaked, as was most of the food. After the fifth straight day of rain Malus realised that he hadn’t got so wet in more than a month at sea on the Harrier. He spent the rest of the time afterwards looking for an opportunity to murder someone.
The Slavers’ Road ran along the winding coastline of two contiguous seas. Starting at Karond Kar it worked its way south and west along first the Sea of Chill, then the Sea of Malice, before finally coming to an end at the gates of Naggorond, the Witch King’s fortress. The journey took many weeks by foot, with dark forests and tall, grey mountains to the west and the broad, slate expanse of the sea to the east. There were no inns or taverns along the route, only despatch-forts that kept food and fresh horses ready to relay urgent messages from Karond Kar to Naggorond and back. They slept in small caves or forest clearings just off the road and ate cold, wet food without dry wood for a fire. Malus, who had not so long ago been tortured without respite for more than a week, considered the trek from the slave tower to have been the most miserable time of his life.
Vor pointed proudly at the veritable wall of dense trees and foliage that stood less than a yard from the road. Viewed through the grey haze of the driving rain the forest looked like a solid mass. “What am I supposed to see?” Malus snapped. If the man tries to say something clever, like seeing the trees for the forest, I’ll kill him where he stands, the highborn thought.
“We leave the road here,” the guide said over the drumming rain. “Up into the mountains to find the houses of the dead.”
Malus eyed the treeline warily. “I had been led to believe there would be a road.”
“A road, yes. Stones of black basalt and statues of fierce ladies with sharp teeth,” Vor said, nodding emphatically. “The barrow road, it is called. But that is another two leagues south and it is forbidden to travel on it. There is a hunter’s path here that will take us where we need to go.”
“Forbidden?” Malus frowned within his drooping hood. “By whom?”
“The autarii, of course,” Vor said, as though explaining something to a small child. They guard the city from intruders’
“What?” Malus asked. No one had told him this! “Why would they care about the graves of the Old Kings?”
Vor merely shrugged. “Who knows? They are shades, not normal men. Let’s go,” he said, motioning to his men. “You will feel the rain less under the trees.”
Malus paused as Vor and his seven men trudged up the slight incline and moved one by one into the dense undergrowth. A feeling of dread settled like an icy mantle upon his shoulders.
“That man hopes to cut your throat,” the daemon whispered.
“Of course he does,” Malus said with a shrug. “Who in Naggaroth doesn’t?”
“Surely you do not believe his story of forbidden roads. Look at the scars on his face. He has been an outlaw for many years. No doubt he has murdered a hundred credulous highborn such as yourself.”
“You have a strange sense of humour, daemon,” Malus said sourly. “Those scars are the marks of an amateur. He’s an outlaw all right, but a very bad one. I have no fear of him.” He reluctantly prodded Spite towards the forest, alert to the sudden tension in the reptile’s shoulders and back. The highborn could feel it, too, as they passed beneath the dripping boughs.
They were being watched.
They were among the ruins before Malus realised it. One moment he was walking beside Spite, pushing warily through thick, dripping undergrowth and the next he was pulling up short before a small line of dark grey foundation stones that rose to just above his knees. Ahead the ever-present trees receded to form a clearing of sorts, bound by a square outline of ragged grey walls, the edges of their bricks rounded by great age.
Mossy turf filled the space within the walls, descending steeply to a relatively flat floor some ten feet down — Malus reasoned that the building must have had a lower level at some point that was slowly being reclaimed by the earth. The area within the ruined walls was quite large. From his vantage point Malus could see a large fire pit in the centre of the space, surrounded by a collection of lean-tos made from sturdy logs and roofed with more turf. There was even a spot in one corner that had once been set aside as a small enclosure for horses, complete with a crude fence and a rope gate. Hathan Vor and his men moved into the area with the ease of long familiarity, spreading out to inspect the lean-tos and clear damp leaves from the fire pit.
Malus laid his hand against Spite’s shoulder, feeling the tension in the cold one’s thick muscles. The sensation of being watched had only grown more intense as the group travelled deeper into the forest, but try as he might the highborn saw or heard no sign of who — or what — was following them. He could tell that Vor and his men sensed it as well, but they seemed to accept it as no more of an inconvenience than the constant patter of the summer rain.
It had to be the autarii, Malus reasoned. Vor said they guarded the houses of the dead and he knew firsthand that they could move like ghosts in their native woods. For the first time he was grateful for the rain, since it gave him good reason to keep his drooping hood pulled over his head. There was one autarii clan in particular that he didn’t care to cross paths with again. Of course, the Urhan of the clan had died because of his own traitorous nature, but Malus doubted that the rest of the clan would see it that way. Several times over the course of the day he’d tried to gauge how far away the clan’s territories were. A hundred leagues? More? Less? Only the autarii themselves knew for certain. All Malus could do was hope for the best.
The highborn took Spite’s reins and led the nauglir down the steep, mossy slope into the ruined enclosure. Spite moved forward with a low grunt, the cold one’s broad, clawed feet moving easily over the slick ground. The nauglir’s belly scales rasped over the weathered edge of the foundation bricks and Malus was surprised to see the ancient stone bear up under the nauglir’s one-ton weight.
The warbeast was slightly sluggish, still slowly digesting the steady diet of horseflesh that Silar had fed it during the long stay at Karond Kar. Nauglir were fierce and powerful mounts, ideal for warfare and the hunt, but their volatile natures made them unpredictable and even dangerous riding mounts unless they were kept well-fed. Malus had learned that lesson well during the trip to the Wastes and back and didn’t care to repeat it. If Spite got testy and started eating the guides it would make for an awkward situation indeed.
Malus led Spite to a lean-to on the opposite side of the fire pit from the ones that the guides had claimed. “Stand,” he commanded his mount and the nauglir settled obediently onto its haunches. The cold one raised its blocky snout and growled, causing Malus to look over his shoulder. Vor was approaching with exaggerated care, watching the cold one intently.
“Don’t stare into a cold one’s eyes, Vor,” Malus said, turning to face the man. “They’re pack creatures and take it as a challenge for dominance.”
Vor quickly shifted his attention to Malus. “We’ll be making camp here and press on tomorrow.”
Malus frowned, trying to ascertain how much light they had left in the day. “Surely we have another hour or two before dark,” he said, peering up at the rainy mist hazing the air between the trees.
Vor shrugged. “This is the way it’s done, dread lord,” he said. “Tonight we pay our respects to the shades, then we can continue on unhindered.”
The highborn’s frown deepened. “Pay respects?” He wasn’t certain he liked the sound of that.
“Tonight the shades will take a seat at our fire and share our meat and salt and we will tell them we’re grateful to be allowed to visit the graves of our ancestors,” Vor said. “They’ll leave us alone after that.”
“That’s all?” Malus asked dubiously.
The scarred druchii smiled. “Respect counts for much with the autarii, dread lord. Besides, the houses of the dead belong to all the druchii — we have as much right to walk among the towers as they do.”
“Then why do they claim to stand watch over them?”
Vor shook his head. “I’ve asked them, but they will not speak of it. Perhaps even they don’t remember anymore.”
The highborn gestured at the ruined walls. “Have we reached the outskirts of the necropolis?”
To Malus’ surprise, Vor chuckled. “Oh, no, dread lord. The valley of the Old Kings is still a day’s travel away.” He studied the grey bricks with an enigmatic smile. “The necropolis was built thousands of years ago, not long after our people first came here. These ruins are far, far older. Here, let me show you something.” Vor made a wide circuit around the resting nauglir and made his way to the corner of the structure. Curious, Malus followed.
Vor stood at the base of the wall and touched the bare stone with his fingertips. “Touch it. It’s stone, but it feels like polished steel,” he said. “Smooth and cold, almost like glass. A few summers ago we found enough loose bricks to line the fire pit yonder. They won’t glow or crack no matter how hot the flame gets.”
“Sorcery,” Malus said, his lips twisting in distaste.
“Oh, certainly,” Vor agreed, “but look there.”
He pointed to a band of discolouration running along the wall some twelve feet up. Malus squinted at the varicoloured patch and realised after a moment that he was looking at a mosaic. As the highborn stared, a pattern emerged. “It looks like a seascape of some kind.”
Vor nodded. “An ocean shore, with pale sand and strange fish,” he said. “If you get close enough, you can make out flowers and tall trees and bright sunlight. Here, on the side of a mountain in a land of grey skies and ice.”
Malus nodded thoughtfully. The sight took him back to a strange city even farther north than where they were now, with canals and a beached ship hundreds of leagues from any sea. The memory sent a strange chill down his spine. “Who built this?” he said, mostly to himself.
Vor shrugged once more. “No one knows,” he said, his voice faint with wonder. “These are old mountains, worn down with age and there are deep hollows no druchii has ever seen, much less explored.” His ruined face twisted in a lopsided grin. “One day I hope to stumble upon an ancient treasure trove hidden in a cave and then I’ll go back to Karond Kar and live like a tower lord!”
“Beware what you wish for, Hathan Vor,” Malus said, surprising even himself at the sincerity in his voice. “Some treasures become lost for a reason.”
Vor eyed the highborn. “You sound like you speak from experience. Is it treasure you’re hunting in the houses of the dead, or do you intend to leave something valuable behind?”
The sheer artlessness of the question made Malus laugh. “What druchii travels up into these goddess-forsaken mountains to leave his treasure in some ancient crypt?”
“You would be surprised, dread lord,” Vor answered sombrely. “There are druchii from ancient lineages — some still powerful, others only a shadow of their former glory — who send their sons each year, bearing gifts for their ancestors. The tradition goes all the way back to lost Nagarythe and some families still keep to the ancient ways.”
The highborn eyed Vor warily. “And I suppose they provide a lucrative sideline to enterprising bandits who know the way to the crypts,” he said.
Vor laughed. “No doubt,” he replied, though there was a glint in his eyes that belied his easy tone. “You haven’t mentioned which crypt you are seeking, dread lord.”
“Does it matter?”
“Oh, yes,” Vor said. “The valley is a long one, twisting through the mountains for almost a dozen leagues. The most powerful houses have their towers at the far end of the valley, so it’s a matter of how many more days we must climb.”
Malus considered the question for a moment, then shrugged. He’d have to tell the man sooner or later. “I seek the tomb of Eleuril. His sigil—”
“The sign of the horned moon,” Vor said, nodding. “Yes, I know of it. Another two days’ travel, then, high up into the valley.” His expression darkened.
“What do you know of this crypt?” Malus asked.
Vor started to speak, then thought better of it. He gave another shrug. “It is haunted,” he said simply, “but that is your business, not mine.” The scarred druchii nodded brusquely to Malus. “I must see to the fire and the evening meal, dread lord. The shades will come at midnight, so rest now if you must. You will need to be present when they arrive.”
The guide turned and walked away without another word. Malus watched him go, wondering if he’d given too away too much. Suddenly the unseen presence of the autarii seemed the least of his concerns.
* * *
Dinner was a stew of beans and salt beef boiled over the fire, washed down with water. There was a skin of decent wine in Malus’ pack, but he had no desire to taste it. He wanted all his wits about him when the autarii appeared that night.
The food was bland, but the fire was welcome. The guides had the foresight to keep a pile of wood sheltered beneath one of the lean-tos and within an hour of making camp there was a roaring fire casting strange shadows on the ruined walls. There was a circle of old logs surrounding the fire pit and Malus had staked out a spot before everyone else. Now, hours later, he was feeling dry and warm and fighting sleep as Vor and the rest of his band smoked clay pipes and murmured to themselves in low tones. An iron kettle still bubbled next to the fire and two clean bowls waited nearby, set aside for the expected visitors.
Vor crouched next to the kettle, stirring it slowly with a wooden spoon. His scraggly hair was pulled back from his face and bound with a leather cord — if anything, it lent him an even more fearsome appearance in the shifting light.
Malus folded his arms and stared up at the mist and smoke roiling above the leaping flames. “Tell me of the houses of the dead,” he said, trying to stay alert. “Is it truly a city of stone crypts?”
Hathan Vor smiled faintly. “It is a city of fragments,” he said quietly. “Each crypt is surrounded by buildings and stone gardens — one even has a kind of small market square. But none of them go together, if you take my meaning. It’s as if each family created its crypt in the fashion of the tower they’d left behind in Nagarythe, including as much of the surrounding city as they could afford.”
Malus tried to picture it in his head. It was a strange enough notion to imagine interring the dead at all — druchii had been cremated for generations, according to the dictates of the Temple of Khaine. Worship that was forbidden in those days, Malus reminded himself. “I can understand the towers, I suppose,” he said, “but why the rest?”
The scarred druchii shrugged. “No one alive remembers — except Morathi herself, I suppose. Although there are legends, of course.” His smile widened. “My favourite one claims that the houses of the dead were part of an elaborate spell to raise Nagarythe by the power of necromancy. With each soul interred, the spell would grow stronger, until finally the drowned land would rise from the sea.” Vor chuckled to himself. “Another legend simply says that the old families hoped to recapture a semblance in death of what they lost in life. I suspect there’s some truth to that.”
“Is that why you think the crypt of Eleuril is haunted?” Malus asked.
Vor did not reply. For a moment, Malus thought he’d somehow offended the man, but then he realised that the other guides had fallen silent as well. He straightened, scanning the faces of the men around him — and realised that they were no longer alone.
Two autarii stood at the edge of the firelight — they were so slender, dark and still that for a moment Malus took them to be a trick of the light. Then Vor cleared his throat and said, “I see you there, children of the hills. It is a dark night. Come and share our fire.” The words had a rote quality to them, almost like a ritual chant, but Malus also noted an undercurrent of apprehension. Something wasn’t quite right.
Without a word the two figures glided silently up to the fire pit. They wore long, mottled cloaks of grey, green and black wool, glistening with diamond-bright drops of rain. As one, the shades reached up with slim, pale hands and pulled back their voluminous hoods. Firelight played on angular, fine-boned features and glittered in large, unexpectedly violet eyes. The two shades appeared to be brother and sister; more than that, they could have been twins. Their aristocratic faces were tattooed with identical designs of a coiling dragon, worked in ghostly blue ink. They were strikingly handsome, neither too feminine or masculine and the stillness of their near-identical faces made them both irresistible and disturbingly unreal. Their hair, black and gleaming, was pulled back into a number of tightly-woven braids. Malus noticed that the girl wore hollowed finger bones in her hair. Probably the bones of highborn druchii, he thought apprehensively, remembering that the flesh of druchii nobles was a delicacy to the hill clans.
The two shades took their place by the fire but remained standing, surveying each of the seated druchii in turn. When their gaze settled on Malus, they stopped. The weight of their stares set the highborn’s teeth on edge. Vor glanced warily at him.
With a deep breath, Malus reached up and drew back his hood.
The autarii continued to stare at Malus. Vor picked up a bowl. “Forgive me for not having meat and salt ready for you,” he said hastily. “You are here early tonight. May we share our food with you and pay our respects?”
The boy turned to face Vor, moving with sombre grace. When he spoke, his voice was clear and pure as a bell. “We know you well, Hathan Vor,” he said, “just as we know the rest of your kin. But what of this man?” Violet eyes regarded Malus again. “Do you know his name?”
“He… he is Malus, son of Lurhan the Vaulkhar of Hag Graef,” Vor said, eyeing Malus nervously. “He is a highborn, from an ancient lineage and comes to honour his ancestors in the houses of the dead.”
Beneath his cloak, Malus’ hand inched slowly towards his sword hilt. He didn’t like the way this was going.
The boy shook his head, but it was the girl who replied. “That is one of his names,” she said, her voice dark and husky as smoke. “But we know another. In the hills he is known as An Raksha.”
Malus swallowed a curse. Briefly he contemplated the odds of killing both shades where they stood. There’s probably a dozen more watching from the shadows, he thought sourly. I’d likely not get two paces before a crossbow bolt found my throat. With effort, he forced himself to smile. “I got that name in recognition of a favour I did for Urhan Beg,” he said conversationally. “Oddly, I don’t recall seeing either of you in his clan hall.”
“All the hill clans know you killed the Urhan and his son,” the boy said coldly. “Show us your hands.”
The highborn hesitated. Vor stared angrily at Malus. “Do it!” he hissed.
Slowly, Malus pushed aside his cloak and raised his hands, palms outward. The two shades studied them intently, as though searching for some hidden mark visible only to them.
After a moment, the boy frowned. “His hands are not stained with the blood of the Urhan,” he said to his sister.
“That does not make him innocent, merely clever,” she said. “He must still answer to the Urhan’s kin.” She turned to Vor. “You have taken this man’s gold.” It was more a statement than a question.
Vor looked from her to Malus and back again. “I… yes,” he stammered. “But only that. I do not wear his collar, nor have I sworn any oaths to him.”
The scarred druchii’s voice was faintly pleading, but the autarii were unmoved. “Goodbye, Hathan Vor,” the girl said gravely, then the two shades turned and strode silently into the night.
For a moment no one moved. Hathan Vor didn’t even seem to breathe for several long moments. “They didn’t touch meat or salt,” he finally said, his voice hollow with fear. “We’re trespassers now.” Vor looked to his kin. “Blessed Mother of Night, what are we going to do?”
Malus rose to his feet and slowly drew his sword. He held it out, letting the firelight play on its honed edge and glared out into the darkness. “If I were you, I’d post sentries and keep the fire going,” he growled. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Spite’s warning hiss was like the rumbling of a boiling steam kettle, bringing Malus out of a dreamless slumber. He blinked in the weak light of false dawn, his hand tightening around the naked blade resting in his lap.
A dark figure stood several feet away, shoulders hunched against the falling rain. It took Malus a moment to recognise the druchii’s scarred face. Hadn’t he just closed his eyes a moment ago? No, he realised. It had still been dark when he’d finally decided that the shades weren’t going to try to overrun the camp.
“What is it?” he grumbled.
“Selavhir is gone,” Vor said gravely.
“Gone,” Malus echoed. “You mean dead?”
“I mean gone. He’s disappeared.”
Malus sat upright, rubbing a damp hand over his face. “Was he one of the sentries?”
“He had the early watch, then traded with Hethal at the hour of the wolf. I watched him head back to his bedroll.” Vor looked fearfully at one of the lean-tos on the opposite side of the smouldering fire pit. “But he’s not there now.”
Malus stared dumbly up at the mist roiling overhead, trying to cudgel his mind into alertness. “So he went back to his bedroll, gathered his things and slipped off when you weren’t looking.”
Vorn gave a bitter laugh. “Not even I would be foolish enough to try and walk these woods at night — especially not when they’re crawling with angry shades,” he snapped. “You didn’t tell me the autarii had a feud with you.”
“You didn’t tell me we’d be sitting down to a meal with a pair of shades back when I hired you at Karond Kar,” Malus shot back.
Vor bared his teeth in a twisted snarl. “The shades got Selavhir,” he growled. “They came in here and took him, right under our noses. The Dark Mother alone knows what they’ve done to him.” He glared at Malus. “You won’t be seeing the houses of the dead now, highborn. We’re breaking camp and getting out of here while we still can.”
Malus eyed the man coldly. “I did not pay you to turn and run at the first sign of danger, Hathan Vor. We will continue to the crypt of Eleuril as planned.”
The guide laughed again, but this time there was a tone of desperation in the sound. “You’re mad, highborn! We’re heading back for the Slavers’ Road as fast as we can run — you can either saddle that reptile and come with us or be hanging from a shade’s meat hook by nightfall.”
Now Malus was fully awake. “You listen to me, you half-witted lump of flesh,” he snarled, rising slowly to his feet. “I have men awaiting my return at Karond Kar. If you show your face there without me — or don’t show your face at all within a few weeks’ time — I guarantee they will find you and make you suffer in ways that would make a shade pray for mercy, after they kill every living thing you’ve ever cared about. The only hope you have of surviving this expedition is to get me to the crypt of Eleuril and then guide me safely out of these woods.”
“Is it worth your life to reach this damned crypt?” Vor cried.
“That’s not the point,” Malus said, his voice hard as stone. The point is that it’s worth your life to get there and more besides. Now get your men moving.”
They set off from the ruins at a rapid pace. Malus kept Vor close, leaving three men to scout ahead and three more to bring up the rear. Vor ordered the men to keep in sight of one another at all times, but the dense undergrowth and the steady rain made it next to impossible. The guides travelled with weapons in hand and Malus walked with one hand against Spite’s flank, trusting the nauglir’s senses over his own. The sense of being watched was overpowering, seeming to come from every direction at once.
For hours the small column plunged through the dense forest, trudging up steadily steeper terrain. At mid morning, Vor called a brief halt.
The druchii grouped together under the dripping branches, drinking greedily from their waterskins and chewing strips of dried meat. Vor counted heads.
“Where’s Uvar?” he asked, looking from one man to the next.
One of the men looked back the way they’d come. “He was the last man in the line,” he said fearfully. “I saw him just before we stopped. I swear it!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Malus said darkly. “He’s gone now.” The highborn looked to Vor. “How far to the outskirts of the necropolis?”
“Another four or five hours,” Vor said without thinking. “What of it?”
“Out in these damnable trees the autarii have the upper hand,” Malus said quietly. “Once we reach the streets and towers of the crypts we might be able to even the odds. The shades are like ghosts in the wilderness, but believe me, if you cut them they bleed like normal men. Now let’s go!”
The men climbed to their feet and pressed on, setting a brutal pace. Malus’ plan, such as it was, gave them at least a chance for survival and it kept them moving even as the terrain grew steeper and more treacherous. The rain never let up. More than once Malus considered drawing his crossbow from its oiled wrappings and loading it, but he knew that the damp conditions would damage the weapon in the long run — and besides, he had no targets to shoot at.
Two hours later Vor called another halt. When he counted heads another man was missing. Huril, a tall, stout druchii with a bare blade in each scarred hand had taken the lead at the last stop and had quickly disappeared from sight in the dense foliage. No one knew when the shades had taken him.
Fear gripped the survivors. Malus stood before them with sword in hand and said, “Get up. You can either get moving and take your chances with the shades or stay here and die by my hand! Make your choice!”
The guides fixed Malus with looks of pure hate, but they struggled to their feet and set off. This time everyone stayed as close together as possible, no longer worried about Spite’s dripping jaws or his lashing tail. Vor jogged along just behind Malus, his head swivelling back and forth as he tried to keep all his men in sight.
Even with only a yard or less between each man the dense undergrowth still made it difficult to keep everyone in view at all times. Malus concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, pressing on through the tangled brush as quickly as he could and hoping that beyond the next wall of hanging vines or thicket of dripping ferns he would stumble onto city streets of grey stone.
Almost three hours later the highborn’s single-minded reverie was broken by relieved shouts from up ahead. He pressed forward through a thicket of tall bushes and found himself stumbling along the hard surface of cobblestones hidden within the thick grass at his feet. Ahead he could see that the undergrowth was all but gone and the trees themselves were thinning out, giving way to tall, dark buildings and slender, dagger-like towers bordered by the iron-dark flanks of towering stone crags. Malus could see the two lead druchii just ahead, waving at him excitedly.
“That’s it!” Malus said, baring his teeth in a feral grin. “You see, Vor? The shades are not infallible. They tried their best to stop us and failed. If they follow us into the necropolis, I promise you we will make them pay.”
The scarred guide said nothing. Malus turned, a jibe forming on his lips, but when he looked back his voice died in his throat.
There was no one there. Hathan Vor was gone.
“Blessed Mother of Night,” Malus said breathlessly, staring into the depths of the forest as though Vor might appear from the undergrowth at any moment. Just then the banks of ferns and vines thrashed back and forth and one of the tail-end guides appeared, his eyes wide and fearful. The druchii pulled up short. “Where’s Vor?” he asked, his voice growing thin with panic.
“Run,” Malus said. In one swift movement he swung into Spite’s saddle. The druchii guide simply stared at him, still getting to grips with Vor’s disappearance. Malus clouted the man on the shoulder with the flat of his sword. “Run, damn you!”
The man lurched into motion and Malus spurred his mount into a ground-eating trot. Spite wove easily among the thinning trees, his loping strides carrying him past the lead druchii guides and on into the outskirts of the necropolis. The cold one’s feet slapped against tightly fitted black cobblestones as the highborn brought his mount around and counted the heads of the druchii scrambling in his wake. He saw three of Vor’s men; the druchii charged with bringing up the rear of the column had yet to appear. Malus crouched low in the saddle, trying to make himself as small a target as possible as he scrutinised the tree line for signs of movement.
“Your master is gone,” the highborn told the frightened guides. “The cursed shades plucked him right out of our midst.”
The men looked to one another, their expressions stricken with panic. “What do we do?” one asked.
“What else? We make them pay,” Malus snapped. “They’ve been toying with us since last night, thinking us easy prey. Now we have the chance to make them regret their arrogance.”
“No,” said another of the guides, an older man with a bald pate and a notch carved from his right nostril. “This is madness. We can’t fight the autarii!”
Malus fixed the man with a burning glare. “What would you have us do, then? March like sheep into their stew pots? These savages eat city druchii, just like we would skin and eat a suckling pig. It’s fight or die, fool!”
“It was your stubbornness that got us into this,” the man shot back. “If we’d done as Vor said we’d be on the Slavers’ Road by now.” He turned to his compatriots. “I say we make a run for it and leave the highborn to his fate. It’s him the shades want, not us!”
Malus’ hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He was ready to strike the man’s insolent head from his shoulders when a thin scream echoed from the forest. The last of the guides stumbled through the trees, his face pale and his eyes wild. He saw Malus and his kin and stumbled towards them, his mouth working soundlessly. After a few steps he tripped on a root and tried to catch himself against the bole of a nearby tree, but his hand slipped on the wet bark and he went face down into the grass. Three crossbow bolts jutted from the man’s back and his robes were black with blood. The man shuddered once, then went still.
The highborn turned back to the assembled guides. “That is the fate that awaits you if you go back into those woods,” he said. “If you want to live, stay close to me. Now move!”
Without waiting for a response he kicked Spite into a trot and headed deeper into the shadowy lanes of the necropolis.
Tall buildings of grey stone rose up around Malus, structures that would not have looked out of place in Hag Graef or any other prosperous druchii city. Tall, blade-like towers climbed into the leaden sky just beyond the square buildings, arrayed loosely on the left and right as the city of the dead worked its way along the twisting valley, climbing ever higher between mountains invisible behind clouds of mist and rain. For the first few moments Malus felt a sense of dislocation so powerful it crowded all other thoughts out of his mind. The sense of homecoming was so potent that he caught himself looking to the sky, expecting to see the clustered spires of the Hag.
He rode upon a main avenue of sorts, a road of black stone that followed the valley floor between the serried ranks of crypts and monuments. Side lanes ran off at irregular intervals from the main road, leading to specific tombs. Malus studied the layout keenly and formed a battle plan. The highborn twisted in the saddle to see the three surviving guides hot on his heels, then led Spite down a side lane shrouded in afternoon shadow.
About twenty yards down the lane another road branched away to the right, leading to what appeared to be a decorative stone garden. A large structure stood at the corner — possibly a representation of a flesh house or a house of sport. Strangely tall, square windows lined the building’s facade on both street fronts, black gaps in the grin of a grey skull. It would do, Malus decided, baring his teeth.
He drew Spite to a stop and turned to the men. The highborn indicated two of them with his sword and pointed down the side road in the direction of the garden. “You two keep heading that way,” he ordered. “And make all the noise you can.”
The men nodded, breathing hard. The third man — the bald druchii who had argued for abandoning Malus — looked to the highborn and said, “What about us?”
Malus gestured at the building with his chin. “Inside. When the shades run past, we give them a taste of their own mischief.” He turned back to the two decoys. “When you hear Spite roar, turn back and help us cut some throats.”
The men grinned evilly and headed off towards the garden, their boots splashing through the puddles scattered along the street.
Malus slipped from the saddle and led the nauglir to the closest window. The warbeast sniffed at the darkness beyond the portal and leapt through the opening with surprising agility. The highborn waved the bald druchii inside and then followed right on his heels.
The air inside was musty and dank. He could see nothing beyond the faint squares of weak grey light painted on the floor by the setting sun. Drifts of dust puffed from long cracks that ran in wild patterns across the stone floor and Malus heard an ominous groan echo from the rafters above. Small wonder these old buildings haven’t fallen to pieces in all this time, he thought to himself. It would be just my luck to come this far and die because I leaned against the wrong pillar and brought a ton of rock down on my head.
There was the sound of ponderous flesh sliding over stone as Spite shifted about in the blackness. “Stand,” Malus hissed and was rewarded with the shuffling thud of the nauglir settling onto the stone.
“What now?” the bald druchii whispered.
“Wait and watch,” Malus said, barely loud enough to be heard. “Stand just beyond the light and watch the street outside. Move only when I do.”
The highborn heard a faint grunt in reply. It occurred to him that the bald guide would never have a better opportunity to cut his throat and make a run for it, but Malus pushed the thought from his mind. He counted on the druchii sensibility for vengeance outweighing craven cowardice and turned to watch the shadowy lane.
At once Malus saw a flaw in his plan. Rain made a grey haze in the air and much of both lanes held pools of deep shadow that he couldn’t see into — only a narrow band of roadway running down the middle of both lanes was fully lit. The stealthy autarii could keep out of the dim light and slip right past Malus’ ambush if he wasn’t very careful. The highborn took a deep breath and tried to concentrate, careful to focus on the larger picture in front of him rather than narrow in on a specific area or set of details. When the moment came it would announce itself with subtle shifts in the view outside — motion that would register at the corners of Malus’ vision rather than rushing past in plain sight.
For several long minutes nothing happened. Malus could distantly hear his decoys somewhere in or near the garden, calling out to one another. Nothing stirred in the shadows outside. Could the shades have already slipped past him? There was no way to know.
Spite shifted ever so slightly. Malus almost turned to silence the beast when his eye caught the barest hint of movement, a subtle change in the depth of the shadows opposite the building they were in. It could have been a trick of the light — or his weary mind — but then he saw it again. The shades were creeping down the road, stealing silently up to the men in the garden.
Malus grinned in the darkness. “Up, Spite,” he hissed and as the nauglir rose to its feet he raised his sword. “Now!” he cried and raced for the window.
The highborn leapt into the street with a piercing war scream, his blade held high. Haifa dozen crossbows thumped in response, but the shades had been taken by surprise and the bolts went wide of their mark, shattering against the side of the building in a storm of razor-sharp fragments.
Malus counted at least ten autarii in the shadows outside the building. Six of them worked the reloading levers of their crossbows while the rest leapt at the highborn with short swords glinting wickedly in their hands. A year ago the sight might have filled him with dread, now his heart sang with savage exultation as the battle was joined.
The shades’ weapons were almost a foot shorter than Malus’ lean, curved blade and the highborn took full advantage of it. He rushed at the foremost autarii, feinting at the man’s head with a flurry of blows. The shade was as quick as a snake, blocking left and right with short, ringing strokes — then Malus swept his sword in a wide, downward arc and struck the man’s leg just above the knee. The master-forged blade sliced through layered robes and into the flesh beneath, severing the leg in a shower of dark blood. The shade collapsed with an anguished scream but Malus was already gone, rushing forward to meet the next pair of foes.
They came at him from both sides at once; Malus leapt at the man on his right, driving the shade backwards with a lightning thrust at his eyes. The highborn stepped forward, opening his right side to the second autarii. The shade, seeing his opportunity, lunged forwards, his short blade stabbing for Malus’ throat. The autarii never reached his target; the highborn waited until the man had committed himself to his attack, then spun on his heel with a backhanded slash that struck the shade’s head from his shoulders. Malus spun back to face his second foe — and was surprised when the headless body of the man he’d just killed continued to stagger forward and crashed into him, knocking both of them to the ground.
Hot, salty blood splashed across Malus’ face as he landed on the rain-slicked cobblestones beneath the twitching corpse. There was the unmistakeable ringing sound of steel thudding into flesh — the other shade had rushed in and stabbed the wrong target in his haste. Malus writhed beneath the body, trying to push it aside and swing at the autarii at the same time. The shade leapt nimbly out of reach, which was all Malus could have asked for. He kicked the body off himself in the direction of his opponent and rolled in the opposite direction, getting as much distance as he could so that he could scramble to his feet.
The ground shook and a scaled foot the size of a large shield crashed down mere inches from Malus’ head. Spite let loose a thunderous roar as he charged into the melee, his dripping jaws snapping at the sword-wielding autarii. The shade screamed in fear and turned to run, but didn’t reckon on the nauglir’s surprising speed. Spite lunged, catching the autarii by the shoulder and shaking him like a rat in a terrier’s jaws. Ribs and collarbones snapped in a staccato series of pops and the shade went limp.
Malus changed direction, rolling away from the rampaging nauglir and staggering to his feet. He heard the sound of crossbows firing and more bolts hummed through the air. One glanced off the highborn’s left pauldron and then struck the building opposite. Other bolts struck Spite in the shoulder and flank, eliciting a roar of pure rage from the angry beast. The highborn watched the cold one spin in place, his blunt snout snapping at the shaft of a bolt jutting from his shoulder. Whether by accident or design, his lashing tail smashed into one of the crossbowmen, flinging the shade down the street in a welter of crimson and splintered wood. The highborn caught sight of the bald druchii grappling with another of the shades, the points of their short blades quivering before one another’s throats.
There was a grunt and a metallic clicking sound to Malus’ right. He turned to see another of the autarii intent on reloading his crossbow. The highborn leapt at him with a maddened howl.
Time slowed as he raced across the street, closing the distance with the crossbowman as swiftly as he could. Malus continued to howl like one of the damned, hoping to unnerve the man enough so that he couldn’t ready his crossbow in time. It was a deadly race — one Malus lost.
The autarii levelled the crossbow and fired while Malus was still a few yards out of reach. He tried to twist out of the way, but the bolt flashed across the intervening space like lightning. There was a sharp impact against his shoulder, then a white-hot blast of pain that drove the air from his lungs.
Malus stumbled, struggling to breathe, but caught himself and leapt forward. The shade’s fierce grin turned to a rictus of agony as the highborn drove the point of his sword into the autarii’s groin. The man collapsed, writhing in a spreading pool of blood as the highborn crashed headlong into the stone wall on the far side of the street. He leaned there for a moment, panting for breath and watching heavy drops of red run down the shaft of the crossbow bolt jutting from his left shoulder. They splashed like raindrops at his feet, the sharp pain pulsing in time with his labouring heart.
A shadow loomed on his left side. Malus lunged at it with a feral snarl, his bloody sword raised. At the last minute he recognised the bald-headed guide, who fell back from him with a frightened cry.
“We did it!” the druchii said, holding up his dripping knife. “They’re running for their lives!”
Malus stood on unsteady feet and tried to focus past the pain. He could hear panicked cries over the clashing of Spite’s bony jaws — the nauglir was sating his hunger on one of the dead shades — and after a moment the highborn discerned that the autarii were retreating in the direction of the stone garden. He frowned, shaking his head. That made no sense.
Then he heard the sounds of battle within the garden itself and realised what had happened.
“The damned shades laid a trap of their own,” he growled. “They saw where we were going and sent most of their men down the main road to head us off.” There hadn’t been time to check during the fight, but he could see that neither of the twin shades were among the dead littering the street.
The bald guide’s face went from triumphant to fearful in the space of a heartbeat. “What now?” he asked, his voice tinged with despair.
“First, grab hold of this bolt and pull the cursed thing out,” Malus grated, leaning back against the wall.
The guide gingerly grabbed the bolt’s bloody shaft. “All right,” he said, steeling himself. “On the count of three—”
“Just pull, damn your eyes!” Malus roared and the guide tore the bolt free.
The world seemed to spin. Deep inside his chest, Malus could feel the daemon writhing in ecstasy, floating on a sea of delicious pain.
“Spite!” Malus cried and the nauglir trotted obediently to the highborn’s side. Dark ichor flowed freely from four crossbow bolts jutting from the cold one’s side, but the warbeast’s strength and speed appeared unaffected. Malus stumbled against his mount and quickly pulled the bolts free, then pulled himself painfully into the saddle. Already the sounds of battle in the garden had fallen silent. They were running out of time.
The highborn kicked the cold one into a trot, heading back onto the first side road. “Hurry!” he said to the guide and turned right, heading away from the main avenue.
They passed more ancient, empty buildings in varying states of disrepair. Malus studied each one in turn, looking for something two men could easily defend. For several grim moments it looked as though Malus’ luck had run out — but then, at the end of the lane, he spied a square, windowless building, its four sides carved with elaborate bas reliefs showing a procession of dancing druchii nobles. A single, narrow doorway stood out starkly amid the splendour. Malus kicked Spite into a gallop just as a chorus of howls echoed down the lane behind them. The highborn turned and spied a large band of autarii, possibly as many as thirty or more, standing in a loose pack around two distinctive figures. The twin shades had pulled back their hoods and howled at the weeping sky like a pair of wolves. Even at so great a distance, it seemed to Malus as though their tattoos glowed with a ghostly light.
Spite reached the end of the lane in moments and the last surviving guide was right behind the nauglir as Malus dropped from the saddle and led his mount into the imposing building. Inside, the chamber was a single open space, with a ceiling that soared fifteen feet overhead. Shafts of weak light and streams of rainwater cascaded down in places where the ancient ceiling had given way over the centuries, giving barely enough light to see by. There was a dais at the far end of the chamber and what looked like a weathered altar of dark green stone. Malus led Spite across the rubbish-strewn space and found that there was a ramp behind the dais that descended into cave-like darkness.
Malus ordered Spite to stand, then reached back and pulled his covered crossbow and quiver from his saddle. He tossed them to the guide. “Get up on the dais and shoot any man that gets past me,” he said.
The man caught the bundles with a confused look on his face. “What are you going to do?”
Malus dropped to the ground and drew his second sword. “I’m going to kill every goddess-cursed shade that comes through that door,” he said grimly and walked back the way he’d come.
To the bald man’s credit, he didn’t waste his breath arguing the matter; Malus heard the reassuring click of the crossbow’s cocking lever being worked as he headed to the door. He avoided the shafts of rain and light, sticking solely to the deep shadows. Once he thought he’d gone far enough he whispered to Tz’arkan. “All right, daemon. I know you’ve been waiting for this. Lend me your strength.”
“Of course,” the daemon purred. “For your sake, I hope it will be enough.”
The words sent a thrill of fear coursing down the highborn’s spine. “What does that mean?” he asked, but the question was drowned beneath the cold weight of Tz’arkan’s power. Blood turned to ice; flesh and skin knitted together, leaving a black, star-shaped scar on Malus’ shoulder. He was whole once more. In fact, for the first time in days he felt truly alive.
Shadows played across the doorway. With a joyous smile Malus went to greet them.
The autarii came in a black wave, filling the air with ululating howls. To Malus, they moved as slowly and ponderously as cattle to the slaughter. His twin swords wove a tapestry of death just beyond the door, severing limbs, spilling guts and slashing throats with every sweep of his blades. He laughed like a madman at the red harvest he wrought; many of the shades were dead before they hit the floor, struck down too swiftly to even cry out in terror or pain.
Malus stopped counting how many men lay piled in the doorway. In fact, after the tenth man was struck down the killing became almost mechanical. His laughter faded. He started to become bored.
That was when one of the twin shades nearly killed him.
Dead men were falling lazily to the ground, their wounds just beginning to bleed, when the boy leapt at Malus with a pair of bloody swords in his hands. He struck like an adder, stabbing for the highborn’s face and throat and it was only by purest luck that Malus turned his head at the last moment and had his cheek slashed open instead of his neck. The highborn stumbled backwards, parrying wildly and the autarii slapped aside his swords as he launched another whirlwind attack. Twin blades pummelled his breastplate and pauldrons; joints creaked and pins snapped under the blows. A moment before he’d been a god of death; now Malus found himself fighting for his life.
The shades, it appeared, were not without sorcery of their own.
Up close, Malus could see the dragon tattoo glowing and writhing across the autarii boy’s face. His face was serene, his violet eyes soulless and blank as he hurled a constant stream of blows at Malus. The highborn recovered quickly, parrying each stroke with skill and speed, but the boy was relentless, slipping past Malus’ guard again and again to strike ringing blows against his armour.
Malus gave ground, falling back deeper into the room as he tried to find some weakness in the boy’s defence. He wielded a pair of short blades like the other autarii, but his raw strength and speed more than made up for their short length. Each time Malus pressed forward with an attack, the boy responded with a counterstroke that nearly killed him. Even with the daemon’s power, he was almost outmatched.
The highborn leapt farther backward, gaining a short breathing space. There was the thump of a crossbow over his shoulder and Malus watched the boy swat the bolt aside with one of his swords. In the space of a dozen moments the shade had backed him all the way across the large chamber.
Malus edged to the right. The shade shifted to the left. They circled one another slowly, looking for an opportunity to strike. Malus noted that the autarii wasn’t even breathing hard. “Even now you’re playing with me,” the highborn growled. The boy smiled faintly in reply.
The highborn’s back was to the distant doorway. Malus rocked back, then leapt at the autarii. Swords clashed and Malus continued to drive forward, but the boy stood his ground and the two locked swords. The highborn ground to a halt, his face just inches from the boy’s own. “You can’t win,” Malus said through clenched teeth. “Where does your power come from? Tell me and I’ll let you live.”
The boy laughed. “Empty words, highborn,” he said. “Your swords are no match for mine.”
Malus struggled, but the boy moved not an inch. “True,” he admitted grudgingly. “That’s why I decided to turn this into a battle of wits.”
The boy frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Malus put his boot in the autarii’s chest and shoved. Fuelled by the daemon’s strength, the boy flew backwards through the air — and straight into Spite’s snapping jaws. The shade’s startled cry was cut short by a meaty crunch.
“I know,” Malus answered, swaying on his feet. “Fools like you never do until it’s too late.”
“Dread lord!” the guide shouted. “The ceiling!”
Malus looked up. The shafts of sunlight were flickering as shapes flitted about their edges. Once again, he’d been outmanoeuvred. The assault at the doorway had just been a diversion while the rest of the shades scaled the walls and reached the roof.
The highborn looked back towards the doorway. More shadows were mustering there as well. “Down the ramp!” he cried. “Hurry!”
Malus grabbed Spite’s reins, pulling the beast away from what was left of the dead twin. The guide scrambled off the dais and disappeared down the ramp and Malus was not far behind.
The guide got no farther than the base of the ramp and stopped in his tracks, his one free hand reaching blindly ahead of him as he edged into the darkness. Malus brushed the man aside, trusting that the nauglir’s subterranean-bred senses would alert him to any danger.
He walked perhaps a dozen feet into the abyssal blackness when Spite brushed against something tall and made from stone. There was an ominous crack, Malus smelled dust in the air. The ceiling overhead let out a long, rumbling groan.
Malus froze. It appeared that the real danger had nothing to do with pitfalls or hidden wells. One wrong move and Spite could bring the entire building down on top of them.
The highborn took a deep breath, tasting dank, still air. In the room above, he heard the dead shade’s twin sister let out a cry of mourning that quickly transformed into a bestial shriek of rage.
“That… that boy,” the guide said, his voice thick with fear. “What was he? What are you?”
“Shut up,” Malus hissed. “I’m trying to think of a way out of here.”
“There is one,” the daemon said, the voice seeming to reverberate out of the blackness. “It’s right under your nose, but I doubt you have the wit to see it.”
“This is no time for your damned riddles!” Malus shot back. “Unless you can spirit me out of this hole, I don’t want to hear from you!”
“I can’t… but you can,” the daemon said. “All you lack is the will.”
“The will?” Malus snapped. “The will to do what?”
“The will to use all the tools at your disposal, fool.”
“What in the Dark Mother’s name are you talking about?” Malus looked helplessly around him in the darkness. Glancing back over his shoulder, there was just enough light coming from the room above to see Spite’s hindquarters and beyond that the guide staring fearfully up the ramp. “He’s of no use,” Malus said quietly, “and Spite can’t run fast enough to get me past a score of shades. And I’d have as much luck wielding the Idol of Kolkuth as I would of finding my way through this pit of a room—”
Malus stopped, his mouth hanging open. The idol.
He sheathed his swords and reached back to his saddle bags, fumbling through them in the dim light. After a moment his hand closed on a small, cold shape, wrapped in silk. He drew it out and uncovered it. The brass figure gleamed dully.
Legends said the Idol of Kolkuth had the power to bend space and time. He’d seen its power first hand back on the Isle of Morhaut. But how did it work? What did he know of sorcery?
Something his mother, herself a potent witch, once said echoed in his mind. Power is shaped by the wielder. It is made to serve, as a slave is bent to the master’s will. And what was sorcery, if not power made manifest?
Malus took a deep breath. The daemon’s power had left him and his body felt weak. His will remained undimmed however. It still burned bright, fed with hatred and desire.
He climbed into the saddle. The idol was a cold weight in his right hand. This was madness, he thought. He was no sorcerer! But if he didn’t do something he was going to die, down here in a dank, empty tomb. He would give what was left of his soul to cheat death just a bit longer.
The guide turned. “Mother of Night, I see them! That autarii girl and her kin! They’re coming!”
“Let them,” Malus said. With a cry he tugged at Spite’s reins, whipping the cold one in a tight circle. His thick tail struck the column nearby, smashing it apart with a tremendous crash.
There was another long groan that didn’t fade, but instead grew in strength. Drifts of dust fell from above. Malus held up the idol and envisioned the lane outside the building. He bent all his will into a single, furious command. Take me there!
Malus put his boots to Spite’s flanks, then there was a tremendous, rending crash and the world turned inside out.
There was the sound of wind rushing in his ears and for a sickening moment Malus felt himself suspended over an endless void. He heard himself cry out in terror, but it was too late to turn back. He had stepped from the precipice and realising that, he began to fall.
Destination, he heard a voice murmur in his head. You must walk a path, or be lost to the void forever. Choose!
Malus closed his eyes and mustered his will. He could feel nothing. Was the Idol of Kolkuth still clutched in his hand? He tried to forget the terror of his plunge and focus on the street outside the ancient building. This is my path, he thought. This is where I choose to go. Do as I command!
An invisible fist closed about his guts, squeezing them with merciless strength. Terrible, agonising cold radiated out from his bones and he was grateful for the sensation. Then came a crushing impact and he knew no more.
Malus awoke to the tickling of raindrops on his cheek. He opened his eyes and found himself face down on black cobblestones, his head resting in a pool of brackish water and bile.
With a groan he rolled onto his back, snarling savagely as a wave of painful convulsions wracked his body. For the first time in days the damnable rain felt like a blessing, their tiny impacts outlining the planes and edges of his face. His limbs were weak, his insides hollow and cold. This is what it feels like to lie among the dead, he thought suddenly. I have become a walking corpse.
The sensation of scales sliding against the inside of his ribs disturbed the highborn’s thoughts. “You just had your first taste of sorcery, Malus Darkblade. Was it to your liking?”
“It was terrible,” the highborn said wearily. “But I should have expected no less. Damned sorcery,” he said with a grunt, trying to force himself upright. His limbs trembled and his guts churned at the strain, but after a moment he managed to lever himself onto his elbows. It was then that he noticed the idol still clutched in his right hand. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel much of anything.
He found that he was lying in the narrow lane some ten yards from the windowless temple where he’d made his stand. Two or three torn bodies lay outside the doorway and smears of blood made streaks on the lintel and the grey wall. Long, deep cracks ran along the walls of the building and many of the bas reliefs had broken into pieces, littering the street with debris. A thick pall of dust hung in the air over the structure, slowly sinking to the earth under the weight of the falling rain. From what he could see, not one of the shades had escaped.
“I would do it again, though,” he said with cold certainty. “I will do whatever I must to be rid of you.”
“Of course you will,” the daemon chuckled knowingly. “You will do a great many terrible things before you and I are done, Malus Darkblade. It is your fate.”
“Fate!” Malus spat. “I make my fate, daemon.” Slowly, one finger at a time, he released the idol from his grasp and let it clatter to the cobblestones. “For good or ill, the path I choose in this world is mine and mine alone.”
“Believe what you will,” Tz’arkan said. “In the end, the result is the same.”
“Spare me your games,” the highborn growled. He looked around for Spite and saw the nauglir a few yards behind him. The cold one was lying on its side. That was a very bad sign. Summoning his strength, Malus climbed shakily to his feet.
“There are forces swirling around you, Malus. Even now they exert their pressures on you, shaping the trajectory of your fleeting existence. Blinding yourself to them will not make them go away.”
Angered, Malus drew a knife from his belt and placed the needle-sharp point at his throat. “I could kill myself right now,” he said. “There is no one to prevent it. If I can do that, what does it say about the illusion of fate?”
“An excellent question,” the daemon said. The infernal being sounded genuinely amused. “Let’s test your theory. Kill yourself.”
“What?”
“You heard me, highborn. Drive the dagger into your throat.”
“I…” Malus hesitated. “I have no wish to die, daemon. That’s not the point.”
“Yes it is,” Tz’arkan said. “It is precisely the point. Nothing in the world could make you kill yourself, because it’s not your fate to do so.”
“No, now you’re twisting my argument,” Malus shot back. “I don’t want to kill myself because I wish to make my family suffer for the indignities they have done to me. I wish to claim the title of vaulkhar and more besides. I have ambitions, daemon, worldly ambitions.” He paused to catch his breath and managed a fleeting laugh. “Dying now would be… inconvenient.”
“And so you live… as your fate requires,” the daemon agreed.
“I knew you were going to say something like that,” Malus snarled. He sank to his knees beside Spite, resting a hand on the beast’s flank. The nauglir was breathing shallowly. The highborn crawled over next to the beast’s head and gently pried open one great eyelid. The eye was rolled back, showing only white.
Suddenly the great reptile spasmed, thrashing with all four legs and long, cable-like tail. Malus hurled himself backwards, narrowly escaping a swipe from the nauglir’s foreleg as the cold one leapt to its feet. The one-ton warbeast spun in place, snapping and snarling at thin air, then subsided. It sniffed the air warily, eyeing Malus and letting out a querulous grunt.
Malus shook his head. “Stupid lizard,” he said affectionately. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you fainted.”
The nauglir let out a long rumble, settling tentatively on its haunches. Malus couldn’t say he blamed the beast.
Malus rode throughout the long night, winding his way up the valley in the driving rain.
He had pulled the bolts from Spite’s hide and cleaned them as best he could. The highborn knew from long experience that the cold one’s constitution would heal the punctures within days, so long as the bolts hadn’t been poisoned. With darkness drawing on he’d walked the cold one back to the main avenue and started his quest for Eleuril’s crypt, switching to the saddle only after he became too weary to take another step. The nauglir plodded on tirelessly, scarcely affected by the armoured druchii on its back. Vor had told him that the prince’s tomb was near the head of the valley, another full day’s hike up the black road. With luck he would reach it by dawn and find some place to rest for a while.
Hours passed in silence, save for the steady drumming of the rain and the soft slap of the nauglir’s feet. The numbness had finally ebbed to a kind of pervasive cold that chilled his flesh from head to toe. He craved a warm fire and better yet, a warm goblet of wine, but there was none to be had. More than once his thoughts drifted to the flask of wine in his pack, but each time he pushed the temptation aside. Who knew what other dangers lurked in the houses of the dead? And so he rode on, cold and sore and the daemon’s words preyed upon his mind.
What he needed was a seer. The Witch King and his lieutenants could call upon their services to show them the possible outcomes of their efforts, the better to govern and confound the plans of their enemies. When I return to the Hag, Eldire and I will have much to discuss, he vowed.
Of course, given his suspicions, could he trust anything she said?
He was so lost in brooding that at first he didn’t notice the change in Spite’s gait. The nauglir sank lower to the ground and its gait became slower and more fluid. The cold one’s nostrils dilated, drinking deeply of the wet air and its blunt snout lowered until its chin nearly touched the ground. It was only after the warbeast began a low, throaty rumbling that Malus snapped out of his reverie. He realised at once what was happening. The cold one had caught the scent of its favourite food: horseflesh.
The highborn hurriedly reined Spite in, leading him off the road and into the shadowy depths of a side lane. It was close to dawn, he noticed with a start; the grey sky was turning pearlescent with false dawn. Tendrils of fog curled around the foundations of the empty buildings and the looming towers. Malus studied his surroundings more closely — the buildings were made of finer materials and ornamented with graceful, sinuous carvings that seemed both familiar and alien at the same time. The towers stood in greater profusion, though many had been worn down by untold ages and some few were little more than toppled ruins. He had reached the abode of the Old Kings, the crypts of the last princes of Nagarythe.
“Stand,” Malus ordered and dropped stiffly to the cobblestones. Every sound seemed unnaturally loud in the fog-shrouded stillness, setting the highborn’s nerves on end. Out of habit he reached for his crossbow, only to remember that he’d given it away during the battle with the shades.
Looking quickly about, Malus took stock of his surroundings and noticed a tall pile of rubble farther down the lane. The mass of bricks made a steep slope up the side of a partially fallen tower, the rough summit rising two or three storeys above the buildings in this part of the necropolis.
“Stay” he told Spite, wishing he had a way of hobbling or otherwise corralling the hungry beast — if he was gone too long it was possible that the nauglir’s appetite would override its self-control and it would go hunting for the source of all the tantalising equine smells. Glancing warily over his shoulder, the highborn moved swiftly and silently to the broken tower, then began to scale the heavy, rain-slicked blocks of stone.
The climb took far longer than he expected; the rubble was somewhat unstable and every time a hand or boot touched off a clatter of small stones he froze in place, listening for sounds of alarm. After almost an hour he reached the summit and pressed himself flat against the stones, peering out across the vista of close-set buildings and narrow lanes.
He saw the watch-fires at once: twin pyres set twenty yards apart that sent flames ten feet into the damp air. They had been lit in a small square several hundred yards distant, casting a flickering glow across rows of dark campaign tents and against the carved facade of a mortuary tower at the square’s far end. The faint sounds of restless horses carried over the soft pattering of the rain.
Malus studied the tower more closely, a sick feeling of dread starting to churn in his gut. The stonework decorating the arch of the recessed entryway was a giant bas relief of a druchii prince clad in ornate armour. A clutch of severed heads hung by their hair from the prince’s right fist, while his left hand reached upwards, closing about the curve of a crescent moon.
“Blessed Mother of Night,” he cursed softly. “They’re trying to break into Eleuril’s tomb.”
His questing hands found the Idol of Kolkuth first — the brass statue was colder than ice, despite being wrapped in layers of grimy rags. Malus set it hurriedly on the cobblestones and continued rummaging through his saddlebag. “Of all the places in Naggaroth to come seeking adventure, they had to come here,” he muttered angrily. A quick glance at the sky showed that he had less than half an hour until dawn. The druchii in the camp could wake at any moment. He was going to have to move quickly if he was to have any chance at all.
“Do you imagine this to be mere coincidence, Darkblade?” The daemon sounded genuinely surprised.
Malus found a small object wrapped in cloth and drew it out, then realised at once it was his brother’s skinned face, neatly salted and folded for safekeeping. He returned it to the bag and dug deeper. “It’s the campaigning season,” he said absently. “Druchii lords take to the field in search of glory, or treasure, or both. I don’t doubt that many of them take up grave-robbing if they think they can get away with it.”
“But at the head of so large a force?”
“The woods are full of shades, daemon. If I’d had my choice I’d have brought a small army myself.” His hand closed around a smooth, rounded shape. It sloshed gently as he pulled it free. Malus stared at the flask for a moment, started to put it away, then pulled the stopper free with his teeth and took a deep drink before dropping it back in the bag.
“How many lords could raise such a force, just to go hunting relics?”
“In all of Naggaroth? Dozens, I’m sure,” Malus snapped. “You expect me to believe that this has anything to do with me?”
“Foolish druchii,” the daemon sneered. “Of all the crypts in this valley, that warband just happens to be camped outside the tower you’re looking for.”
“But that would mean that someone else knows I’m looking for the , Dagger of Torxus and knows where the dagger might be found,” Malus said. “And no one—”
The thought brought Malus up short. Urial would know, he realised. Could he have raised a force so quickly? Har Ganeth was only a few days’ ride farther down the Slavers’ Road.
Malus took a deep breath, set his jaw stubbornly and resumed his search. “Perhaps you are right,” he said, “but what does it matter? Whoever the lord might be, he hasn’t got the dagger yet, or he wouldn’t still be here. So I can still beat him to it.”
To the highborn’s surprise, the daemon let out a long, rolling laugh. “You are your own worst enemy, Darkblade,” the daemon said. “So clever, so vicious, so deliriously hateful, but so single-minded. You think the world begins and ends with you.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Malus asked.
“Consequences, Malus, consequences. You have already disturbed the schemes of a great many people in your quest for power. Did you think they would forget you once you were done with them? Even now they lay snares for you, but you are too impetuous to avoid them.”
“And this, coming from a mighty daemon who allowed himself to be trapped in a crystal for thousands of years? I can do without your attempts at wisdom,” the highborn replied. Just then his hand closed on a flat, hard object wrapped in silk. “That’s the one,” he muttered and pulled it forth.
Malus reached into the folds of silk and uncovered an octagonal medallion worked from thick brass and etched with an eye-twisting array of strange runes. The Octagon of Praan was the first of the relics Malus had recovered at the daemon’s behest. Where the Idol of Kolkuth could warp space and time around it, the Octagon protected its bearer from sorcery. Frowning in distaste, he slipped the medallion’s chain around his neck, then picked up a small pack hanging from the cantle of his saddle and slung it over his shoulder. Then, reluctantly, he picked up the idol and returned it quickly to his saddlebag.
On impulse, Malus reached out and patted Spite’s flank. “If I’m not back in a day’s time you have my permission to go over there and eat every living thing you can get your teeth around,” the highborn growled. “In the meantime, stay.”
That done, Malus glanced at the dark sky, trying to gauge the hour. It would take quite a while to work out the positions of the sentries around the druchii camp and still more time to slip past them and reach the tomb. The last thing he wanted was to make it into the tower and then find himself trapped inside as the sun rose and the grave robbers returned to their labours.
“You could always use the idol again,” Tz’arkan whispered coyly. “One step would take you from here to the front doors of the tomb. Imagine that.”
Malus grimaced. “Oh, I can imagine it all too well, daemon,” he said. “That’s why I’ll take my chances with the guards.”
The tomb’s entryway was a short passage less than ten feet long that opened into a square chamber perhaps twenty feet across. Statues of manticores kept a silent vigil to either side of the crypt’s vaulted doors opposite the entryway and the walls of the chamber were decorated with mosaics showing a tall, handsome druchii inflicting terrible tortures on a wide variety of noble-looking men and women.
Malus saw at once that the would-be grave robbers had already gone to work on the crypt’s large doors. Hammers and chisels lay scattered about the threshold and there were deep divots carved out of the doors’ surface. The highborn glanced the other way, out into the square and saw that there was still no one moving among the dark campaign tents. It had taken less time than he’d thought to find his way past the guards. Between the constant rain and the late hour the sentries had taken shelter inside the ruined buildings surrounding the square, leaving him an easy path into camp.
The highborn turned back and crept carefully into the entry chamber, scrutinising the tall doors and the damage the druchii warriors had done to them. “It’s like they’re digging into stone,” he muttered, stepping closer — then he noticed the dark splotches staining the floor in front of the threshold.
So, he thought. Eleuril’s crypt was not without its traps for the unwary.
Malus stepped closer still, careful not to pass between the two manticores. He crouched on his heels, studying the floor for hidden switches or plates. “Wish Arleth Vann was here,” he muttered. “He could probably do this blindfolded. I have no idea what I’m looking for.”
He searched the floor for several long minutes, knowing that he had few of them to spare, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps they set something off when they tried to get through the doors, he thought, studying their iron rings, hinges and fittings.
The highborn stared carefully at the divots carved into the doors. The wood was so dark and ancient it looked like stone.
Malus frowned. He scanned the floor, looking for fragments scattered by the workers’ chisels. After a moment he saw a piece matching the hue of the doors and picked it up. The edges were razor sharp and the fragment had no discernible grain.
The door wasn’t wood hardened to stone. It was stone.
“That’s not the way in,” he realised. “It’s a decoy to distract looters. So… where is the real door?”
The highborn retreated to the centre of the chamber and began to study each wall in turn. He pored over each scene depicted on the walls, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then he considered the scenes as part of a whole and began noticing differences in the appearance of Eleuril himself. There was a definite progression to the scenes, showing a chronology of his exploits as the Witch King’s inquisitor. The last scene in the sequence showed him vivisecting a shrieking warlock with a strange-looking black dagger. Intrigued, Malus approached the mosaic. It was, curiously enough, set at the centre of the right-hand wall.
He reached out and ran his fingers over the smooth stones of the mosaic, testing their solidity. When his fingertips probed at the long, black stone of the dagger’s blade, he felt it depress and heard a gritty click.
Suddenly a greenish blast of light enveloped Malus, sizzling as it coursed over his body like liquid fire. He felt the hot wind of its passage, but the energy itself rolled over him like water and vanished in a rattling boom.
The highborn staggered backwards, his eyes dazzled and his ears ringing from the blast. It took him a moment before he noticed the medallion around his neck glowing like brass hot from the forge and realised that the Octagon of Praan had saved him from the sorcerous trap.
As the ringing in his ears faded Malus heard surprised shouts coming from the square. Malus hesitated, then reached out and pressed against the wall with both hands. A section of the wall swung silently inwards, revealing a narrow stairway winding up and out of sight.
The eyes of the dead were upon Malus as he climbed the stair to the prince’s tomb.
Grey stone gave way to polished black marble within the stairwell and globes of witchlight flickered to life as though awakened by the highborn’s echoing footsteps. Every three feet Malus passed a narrow alcove set into the inner wall of the stairway, its archway chased in gold and carved with delicate runes. A mummified servant stood in each alcove, hands folded and head bowed to their chest in eternal supplication. Their eyes were open — perhaps they had been left that way intentionally, or perhaps their eyelids had receded over the centuries as their bodies slowly succumbed to the forces of time — and they seemed to stare at Malus as he hastened upwards in search of their master.
He could not say how long he climbed, nor how many silent, staring figures he passed before the staircase ended at an open doorway. Beyond lay a circular chamber of polished marble, bathed in sorcerous light.
A thin rug of dark silk ran from the doorway to the centre of the chamber, where a lectern held a massive book bound in dark leather. Beyond this lectern rose an octagonal dais and upon this dais, standing in an upright casket and clad in black enamelled armour, stood the withered corpse of Prince Eleuril.
Eight more caskets lay in a ring around the prince’s dais and from where Malus stood he could see that each one held the body of a druchii knight, laid out in full panoply of war and bearing a long, gleaming sword upon his breast. The highborn hesitated in the doorway. The very air reeked of magic; he could not say why, but he could feel it, like a tingle across his skin.
Faint sounds echoed up the stairwell. To Malus’ ears they sounded like voices. Was it Urial and his men, bursting through the hidden door and racing up the stairs?
Malus turned his eyes back to the prince’s body. Eleuril’s hands were clasped around something on his chest. It could be a dagger, he thought.
Moving cautiously, the highborn crept into the chamber. The air felt heavy with age; an arched ceiling curved thirty feet above and motes of dust danced in the green glow of the witchlights high overhead. He trod carefully along the silk carpet, watching it crumble to dust beneath his feet.
In ancient times the highborn of Naggaroth would come to pay respects to their ancestors in the houses of the dead. They would walk on rugs such as the one Malus now walked on and kneel before books such as the one before the prince’s casket and read of the legendary feats of their forebears. They would be reminded of the glories that were lost when Nagarythe sank beneath the sea and they would swear powerful oaths of revenge in their ancestors’ names. Once upon a time the warlords of the Witch King would make the long trek to the necropolis on the eve of war and invoke the spirits of the Old Kings, as the princes were sometimes called.
But those times were long gone, Malus thought. Ancient ways passed into obscurity. Tomes of great deeds went unread in sepulchral darkness and silk rugs crumbled to dust beneath the feet of a thief. Such was the way of things.
The highborn edged past the great tome and gingerly climbed onto the dais. There was little room on the platform, it being just wide enough to accommodate the prince’s casket and Malus found himself grasping the marble rim to steady himself. Mere inches from the body of the dead prince, Malus could clearly see the long, black dagger clutched in Eleuril’s gauntleted hands. Strange that he was laid to rest with the knife like that, he thought, reaching up to pry the hands apart. One would think he would have preferred a sword.
Malus’ fingers touched the cold silver steel of the gauntlet — and Prince Eleuril screamed.
Terror raced along the highborn’s spine as the prince’s shrivelled eyes snapped open, revealing angry points of bluish light blazing in their black depths. The highborn recoiled and found himself fighting for balance on the edge of the dais, but before he could right himself the prince’s body jerked to unnatural life and a gauntleted hand smashed against Malus’ face.
The wight’s strength was terrible, flinging Malus backward as though he were a child. He crashed through the lectern, knocking the great tome across the polished floor and landed with a crash between two of the knights’ caskets. To Malus’ horror, he saw that they, too, were rising from their silk beds, their eyes ablaze and jaws gaping with wordless cries of rage.
Malus got his feet underneath him and drew both of his swords as the undead knights leapt from their resting places with fearsome speed and attacked from both sides. Their long blades flashed like wands, faster than any living hand could wield them and the force of their blows almost drove Malus to his knees. Instead of giving ground, however, he counterattacked, feinting at the knight to his left and then spinning on one heel with a back-handed slash to the knight on his right. The highborn’s sword caught the undead knight just above the hip; parchment skin and brittle bones snapped, tearing the tomb guardian in half.
Fierce and strong, but fragile, Malus noted with a savage grin as he turned his full attention to the remaining knight. He did so just in time to parry a crushing blow aimed at his chest. The highborn was pushed backwards by the force of the blow — and felt a cold hand close about his ankle. From where he lay on the floor the fallen knight smashed his sword into Malus’ back, the blade biting into the highborn’s armour and stunning him. Another blow from the second knight crashed into Malus’ left arm, sending a jolt of burning pain running from wrist to shoulder and knocking the blade from his left hand.
With a feral snarl Malus stomped on the wrist clutching his ankle, shattering it beneath his heel, then brought back his foot and kicked the fallen knight’s head from his shoulders. As the splintered body collapsed, the highborn threw himself against the second knight, unbalancing it and driving it back against its casket. Dust burst from the seams of its armour as Malus grabbed the knight’s sword arm at the elbow and ripped it from its socket, then drove the hilt of his blade into the leering skull and sent it bouncing across the floor.
Two down, six to go, Malus thought, pushing himself off the crumbling body when a bony hand as hard as steel closed around the back of his neck. The highborn had just enough time to cry out in rage before Eleuril’s wailing cry filled his ears and the Dagger of Torxus plunged into his side.
The Dagger of Torxus bit deep and Malus Darkblade felt himself begin to die. There was a horrible, wrenching pain that wracked him from head to toe and it felt as though a part of him had been torn loose, leaving him unmoored in his own skin. The highborn felt his heart stop and the blood begin to pool in his flesh. All strength left him — distantly he heard the ringing clatter of his sword falling to the stones — and then as darkness flowed like oil into his eyes it seemed like his body was shrivelling from within, the flesh turning black and hard like cured meat and his bones hardening to stone. It was as though the dagger was a shard of the Outer Darkness itself, drawing in every shred of heat and life he had left and leaving behind a misbegotten husk that was neither fully daemon nor fully man. The last sound he heard was his own scream of pure, wordless horror.
He awoke with a gasp, breathing in the dust of the grave.
Dry air rattled in his ravaged throat, provoking a spasm of coughing that sent dull pain throbbing from his side through his entire body. His eyes felt as hard as polished stones, brushed by leathery eyelids. Malus could not say if he was warm or cold; those sensations seemed foreign somehow, as though he were formed of wood or stone instead of pale flesh.
He lay on his back at the bottom of a high-walled casket, his head resting against satin cushions that crackled with age and stank faintly of corruption. His left leg was draped over the lip of the casket and felt heavy and numb. Malus wondered at the sensation, uncertain if the dead ever suffered the indignity of having a limb go to sleep. It seemed unlikely to his battered mind, so he was forced to accept the fact that he was somehow still alive. The damned prince had stabbed him with the dagger and then tossed him aside like a slaughtered rabbit.
It was silent and dark inside the tomb. The musty air was thick with the smell of spilt blood and entrails. Slowly, painfully, Malus raised his left hand. His muscles creaked like old leather as he closed his fingers on the lip of the casket’s side and tried to pull himself upright. Even the faint caress of air against his face felt strange as his body struggled into a sitting position. With a start, it occurred to him that he couldn’t feel the beating of his heart. Had the dagger transformed him into one of the unquiet dead, like the prince and his undead knights?
“But for me it would have, Malus,” the daemon said, the words rasping like saw teeth over Malus’ bones. “I saved you from an eternal prison even worse than my own.”
The highborn leaned against the wall of the casket and used both hands to pull his numb leg over and stretch it out beside the other. For a moment, the limb remained heavy and lifeless, but then little by little he felt a rash of pinpricks spread from knee to toes. Malus gritted his teeth at the pain, but was grateful that he could at least feel something. This is your fault, daemon,” the highborn grated. “Were it not for you and your damnable quest I wouldn’t even be here.”
“Were it not for you and your greed, you mean. No one made you put that ring on your finger, as I recall.”
Malus noticed that a greenish glow was slowly suffusing the chamber, as though the witchlights in the tomb were designed to wake in the presence of the living and he only grudgingly met their criteria. In the waxing light the highborn realised he lay in the middle of a battlefield: dozens of armoured corpses lay in twisted heaps around the marble caskets and the dais of the prince. Sightless eyes stared accusingly at Malus from pale, blood-flecked faces, their expressions contorted in grimaces of terror and pain.
It took several long moments for Malus to take it all in. As many as fifty men lay dead in the prince’s tomb, hacked and torn by the swords of the undead knights, but in the end, victory lay on the side of the living. Not one of the prince’s guardians could be seen and the prince himself was nothing more than a heap of tattered rags and splintered bones that some druchii had placed in an untidy pile at the foot of his upright casket.
“The dagger is gone,” Malus groaned. “The survivors made off with it.” He didn’t need to paw through the bodies to be sure. The men who’d pitched their tents in the square hadn’t come to seek Eleuril’s blessing, but to rob him. If they were gone it meant that the dagger had gone with them.
The highborn rubbed a hand over his face. His skin felt like boot leather. “How long have I lain here?”
“A full day,” the daemon said. “The dagger took every bit of life from you that wasn’t already mine.”
“What does that mean?” Malus said.
“It means that you’re the first mortal to survive the bite of the Reaper of Souls,” the daemon said. “But only because you had no soul for it to take.”
“And for that I should be grateful to you?”
“The alternative was to become a tortured spirit, bound for all time to the spot where you were slain,” the daemon said. “Compared to the cruel power of the dagger I am the most benign of tyrants.”
A hundred peevish comments bubbled to the surface of Malus’ mind, but at that moment he felt too wretched to debate the issue. “So Eleuril was indeed slain by the vengeful spirit of his wife?”
“Him and his knights as well?” Tz’arkan sneered. “No, at the end of his life he allowed himself — and commanded his retainers — to be slain by the dagger in order to protect the druchii people from destruction. And he kept his vigil for millennia… until you came along, that is.”
“Vigil? What are you talking about?”
The daemon sighed. “Eleuril took the dagger from a Slaaneshi warlock named Varcan, who had himself gone into the Wastes and claimed it from a Chaos warlord there. Varcan was seeking the blade because he’d uncovered a prophecy that warned of a soulless man, who would one day take up the dagger and consume the druchii in blood and fire. When Varcan was arrested by Eleuril’s men, he swore to accept whatever punishments the prince deemed appropriate — so long as Eleuril would see to it that the dagger was kept safe. And the prince kept his word, even unto death. He was rather strange, as druchii went. Many thought him to be quite mad.”
“You knew this?” Malus cried. “All along you knew I was walking into an ambush and you said nothing?”
“Why bother?” the daemon replied. “It was just some old story about a prophecy. I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”
The daemon’s laughter was lost beneath a torrent of vicious curses as Malus climbed over the side of the casket and dropped onto the carpet of bodies littering the floor. The highborn was still invoking the wrath of every spirit he could name when he landed on his wounded side and passed out from the sudden explosion of fiery pain.
Some time later Malus’ eyes fluttered open again. The first sensation he registered was the cold feeling of spilt blood staining his aching side. Slowly, gingerly he pulled himself upright. The laboured pulse in his temples was more of a thin tapping than the pounding of a drum. The highborn tried to inspect his wound, but could discern little with his armour on beyond the triangle-shaped hole the weapon had made in his breastplate. “A vicious wound,” he hissed. “Daemon, much as I hate it, you will have to heal this. It will not close on its own.”
“In time, Malus, in time,” Tz’arkan said. “I have already been too generous with my gifts of late. I will replenish some of your strength, but you will have to wait for the rest.”
Malus felt the cold touch of the daemon spread through him and the pain lessened. His limbs regained some of their vigour and his heart ached as it laboured to greater life. The highborn took his mind off his wretched state by heaping still more curses on the daemon. Meanwhile, he began searching among the corpses for his swords.
It was only after turning over the eighth or ninth body that Malus realised something. He studied the face of the man he’d just moved, a chill racing down his spine. “I know this wretch,” he said fearfully. “His father is a member of the vaulkhar’s personal retinue. These aren’t Urial’s men at all.”
The highborn knelt among the bodies, considering the implications. Who else could have raised so large a force and knew of Malus’ interest in the dagger? After a moment, the answer was obvious. “Isilvar,” he hissed, his voice full of dread.
“You suspect your other brother?” the daemon enquired.
“Of course,” Malus said. “He has the money and the influence to raise such a warband and ample reason to oppose me.” The highborn nodded thoughtfully. He was also certain beyond any doubt that the hierophant of the Slaaneshi cult in Hag Graef was none other than Isilvar. Though he’d escaped the destruction of the cult, Malus had given Isilvar a terrible wound in his throat that would be a long time healing, if it ever did. “He knew that I’d been to the temple in the north and that I was your… servant,” Malus admitted. “It’s possible he would also know about the relics and their power to free you.”
“Your logic is inescapable,” Tz’arkan said. Was there a hint of mockery in his voice? Malus couldn’t be certain. “The question is: what will you do about it?”
The highborn saw a familiar sword hilt glinting on the marble floor. He pulled the blade clear of the men lying upon it and used a fallen warrior’s hair to wipe the sword clean. “Clearly it would be a mistake to challenge Isilvar and his men on my own,” Malus said, sheathing his blade. “I’ll have to follow him back to the Hag and pay whatever price he asks in order to get the dagger from him.”
“A costly but prudent plan,” the daemon said approvingly. “You are joking, of course.”
“Of course,” Malus said darkly. “I’m going to run him down like a fox and hang his ears from my belt and if he gives me the dagger without too much trouble I might let him die with his manhood intact.”
“I expected no less,” Tz’arkan replied. “If nothing else, Malus Dark-blade, you can be counted on to react to adversity with as much violence as physically possible.”
It was nearly dawn by the time Malus emerged from Eleuril’s tomb. Every step to the base of the tower had been torture, pushing his ravaged body to the limit of endurance and beyond. By the time he staggered out into the empty square he was a haggard, shambling figure, his limbs working by virtue of sheer, burning hate and little else.
The tomb raiders had wasted no time breaking camp and had at least a day’s ride head start. Malus assumed they would return to the Slavers’ Road and head west, past the blood-soaked walls of Har Ganeth and onward to the safety of Hag Graef. He had no intention of letting Isilvar and his men make it that far.
More time was lost, however, before Malus could get Spite ready to travel. He found the cold one where he had left him, curled up within one of the empty buildings and noisily devouring a pair of horses. Judging by the saddles and tack that were still on the beasts, Malus deduced that the nauglir had succumbed to hunger and attacked the druchii column as it was leaving the necropolis. The cold one’s hide was studded with more crossbow bolts, but the highborn knew better than to approach the warbeast until it had eaten its fill. When the nauglir had finally gorged itself, Malus was able to get to his pack and eat some of the dry rations he had left, washing the dried meat and bread down with two cups of bitter horse’s blood. He still felt perilously weak and he reckoned there were days of hard riding ahead.
By mid-day Spite’s wounds had been tended to and they started on the raiders’ trail. The rain had finally slackened to a cold, clinging mist that distorted sounds and concealed distant objects behind a veil of thick fog. Malus drove the nauglir on in a steady, tireless lope; it was well into the night when the highborn was forced to call a halt. Though Spite could have kept going for many hours yet, Malus had felt his strength leaching away little by little as the day progressed, until he was no longer convinced he could stay in the saddle. He led the nauglir into the empty shell of a smithy and propped himself against Spite’s scaly flank with both swords laid across his lap. Moments later he was asleep.
He awoke at dawn, only slightly more refreshed. His lap and the stone floor were stained with red. Somehow he’d opened the knife wound in his sleep and when he saw the congealing pool of blood Malus wondered how close he’d come to simply not waking up at all. It was all he could do to choke down another meal of dry rations before climbing back into the saddle and setting out again.
Malus spent the day delirious from blood loss and fatigue. Rain showers came and went, alternating with patches of weak grey sunlight that provided little warmth. The nauglir’s rolling gait was hypnotic. All too often he would jerk himself from some blank reverie with a start and realise many miles had passed without him being any the wiser.
By the end of the day he had reached the far end of the valley. The entrance to the necropolis was a tall, free-standing gate, the pillars formed in the shape of two regal and forbidding dragons. The gate was carved in long, curving lines of those sinuous runes Malus remembered seeing in Eleuril’s tomb; he wondered if there was a druchii alive anywhere in Naggaroth that could still read and write the dead language of Nagarythe.
Beyond the gate was a procession of statues, all worked in glossy black marble. They were carved in the image of tall, voluptuous druchii women, their naked bodies evoked in exquisite grace and detail. Long, curved talons grew from their fingertips and their sensuous mouths boasted terrible, leonine fangs. Malus supposed they represented guardian spirits from the forgotten myths of his people. They were forbidding figures and the highborn could not help but feel a sense of unease as he rode beneath their fearsome gaze.
The barrow road was made of the same black stone as the necropolis and was wide enough for two riders to travel abreast. Of the raiders there was no sign.
Malus pressed on after nightfall, determined to make up lost time, but as darkness gathered beneath the trees he found himself struggling to stay awake. He thought to try and swallow a little more dried meat, but after fumbling helplessly at the pack for several minutes he gave up. Before long he was leaning against the cantle, his head bobbing on his chest. The next thing Malus knew, he was lying on the grass beside the road. He hadn’t felt it when he’d hit the ground. The highborn looked around for Spite, but the nauglir was gone. Part of his brain warned that he needed to get up and find the cold one, but instead he curled up in a ball and fell asleep.
He awoke hours later to the sound of crunching bones. Sunlight was streaming through the trees and Spite was resting on his haunches nearby, feasting on a boar he’d caught in the forest. When the warbeast was done with the carcass Malus crawled over and buried his face in the warm flesh, eating every scrap of meat he could reach. When he finally staggered to his feet his pointed chin was stained red and his chalk-white cheeks were streaked with black gore.
As the day wore on Malus felt more of his strength return, until by the evening he was alert enough to notice the abandoned lodge at the base of the mountain. It lay just to the side of the barrow road, with a view of both it and the Slavers’ Road, less than fifty yards further south.
The highborn slid wearily from the saddle and inspected the ancient structure. There were signs it had been used only the day before: there was an intact fireplace sheltered by a large square of solid roof and even a pile of dry wood laid nearby.
The prospect of a warm fire and a roof to keep the rain away practically made Malus giddy with desire, but at the same time he knew that somewhere, farther down the road, the tomb raiders were settling into camp as well. If he didn’t keep moving while they rested, he would never catch them. Shaking his head wearily, the highborn returned to Spite and headed west.
This time he was lucid enough to know when he’d gone as far as he was able and managed to find a crude traveller’s shelter to huddle under out of the rain. He even took a chance on peeling away his breastplate and kheitan to get a good look at the wound Eleuril had given him. To his relief, the triangular puncture had squeezed shut, leaving behind an ugly, star-shaped scar. The daemon had managed to heal the ghastly wound, but it had evidently taken considerable time and effort. Even Tz’arkan’s power had its limits, Malus noted, which elated him almost as much as the scar did.
As his strength gradually returned Malus increased his pace, riding on for hours after sunset until he was too weary to sit upright. He and Spite settled into a routine of sorts: when the highborn could go no further he would lead the nauglir into the tree line bordering the north side of the road and find a black oak or a pine to shelter beneath. With the last of his strength he would unsaddle Spite and turn him loose to hunt and by morning he would have a meal of fresh, bloody meat awaiting him. It was just enough to keep him going, drawing ever closer to the raiders and their plunder.
By the end of the third day on the Slavers’ Road, Spite caught the scent of horses. The change in the cold one’s manner brought Malus from his weary reverie and he reined the warbeast in as he studied the course of the road ahead. In the far distance along the curve of the coast, Malus could see the square towers of Har Ganeth, the City of Executioners. Even leagues away, the sight sent a chill down the highborn’s spine. Much closer, perhaps only a few miles away on the other side of a series of rolling hills, Malus saw the very top of a single, narrow tower — Vaelgor Keep, one of the dozens of despatch-forts that lined the Slavers’ Road. Tendrils of smoke rose in twisting plumes around the spire — camp fires, the highborn reasoned, enough for a large band of druchii.
Night was drawing on. The rain had stopped for the time being and even the heavy grey overcast had broken into scudding clouds, driven by a mild wind from the west. The slate-coloured hills were tinged with deep orange by the setting sun and the Sea of Malice was dark as raw iron. Weak and hollow as he felt, Malus’ heartbeat quickened at the thought that his prey was finally within reach. The highborn slid from the saddle and began to formulate his plan.
A single full moon shone heavy and golden just above the eastern horizon, gleaming against a backdrop of tattered cloud. The wind continued to whisper out of the west, hissing over the sharp edges of the slate hills. Sounds from the encampment carried clearly to Malus from where he hid in the thick trees on the north side of the Slavers’ Road: men talked and cursed over games of dice, or hissed quiet laughter over cups of wine as they sat around one of the many watch-fires. Horses whickered nervously in the despatch-fort’s corral and hammers rang against steel as craftsmen at the fort went to work patching armour and weapons for the visiting warband.
As near as Malus could tell, there were at least a hundred men camped outside the tower — low-ranking warriors and the staff of the fort itself, ejected from their tower to make room for their highborn guests. There were no standards flying within the camp, announcing the identity of the warband, an unusual practice, but not unheard of. Malus suspected that Isilvar had no desire to advertise his movements, possibly hoping to return to the Hag before anyone even suspected he was gone.
The daemon chuckled coldly. “You stand upon the threshold, Malus. Will you take the fateful step?”
Malus paused, his face twisting into a scowl. “What are you talking about, daemon?”
For a moment Tz’arkan lay silent, then: “You were angered when I did not tell you of Eleuril and his prophecy. There is a prophecy at work here as well. Do you wish to hear it?”
Malus’ fists clenched. “You know what will happen when I enter the tower?”
“Oh, yes. The threads were woven centuries ago, Darkblade. Many, many twists and turns of fate have brought you to this point.” Malus could sense a slow revealing of pointed teeth as the daemon smiled, savouring his discomfort. “Shall I tell you?”
“It matters not,” Malus snapped. “I will go into the tower regardless of what you say — if I don’t have the dagger, my soul is forfeit! So amuse me. What waits for me there?”
The daemon’s reply was a whisper, like the intimate voice of a lover. “Ruin,” it said into his ear. “It is here that all your plans will be undone.”
A chill raced along Malus’ spine. For a long moment he was too stunned to speak. “You’re lying,” he finally managed to say.
“Why would I do that?” the daemon said. “Have I lied to you yet, Darkblade? I’m giving you a gift, warning you of the precipice ahead. You can turn aside and save yourself if you choose.”
“You know I cannot!” the highborn raged, snarling under his breath. “If I wait any longer the tomb raiders will be under the protection of Har Ganeth and then later Naggorond itself! I must strike tonight!”
“Then you must accept your fate — as it was foretold long ago,” the daemon said. “The stage is set, Darkblade. Go and play your role.”
Tz’arkan’s laughter echoed in Malus’ head as he broke from the trees and crept through the shadows towards the tower. With every step it felt as though a noose was tightening around his throat, but still he continued, determined to succeed.
At the edge of the encampment, just beyond the light of the watch-fires, Malus crouched on his heels and studied the route he would take through the camp to the doors of the tower. There were few druchii milling about; many were settled down eating, drinking or gambling after another long day’s march.
Malus eyed the moon overhead. Its glow waxed and waned as streamers of cloud blew across its face. After a few moments another tattered shroud of grey fell over the shining orb and the camp was plunged into deep shadow. The highborn closed a hand on the hilt of his sword. It was time. Malus pulled his hood over his face and drew his dark cloak tight around his shoulders, then crept forward.
He passed like a ghost through the camp, his steps so light that they were lost in the rustling of the wind. Most of the men in camp took no notice of him at all. A few caught a glimpse of a dark shape moving at the edge of their vision, but when they looked up from their meals or their dice they saw only darkness.
Malus was across the camp in the space of a few minutes, nestled deep in the shadow of the tower itself. The keep was a tall, square-topped structure, dominated by a round, stained-glass window near the top. Clearly the fort was popular among warlords as a stopover during raids into the mountains to the north.
Moving quietly and swiftly, Malus edged up to the keep’s thick black oak doors. Beyond, he could dimly hear the sounds of revelry. The highborn laid a grimy hand against the dark wood and pushed. It was clearly bolted against the night. Very well, he thought grimly, casting his eyes upwards once more.
By the time he’d climbed the three storeys to reach the great window, his limbs were trembling with exertion. Summoning the last dregs of his bitter hate he drew his blades and pressed himself against the panes of red and cobalt glass. He could see the keep’s main hall below, dominated by the dim outline of the master’s table. There were figures seated there, eating or sipping wine. At the head of the table, a figure rose from his chair, holding an object aloft. The warlord’s voice filled the hall, rising blurrily to Malus’ ears.
“The fabled Dagger of Torxus is ours! Our names will be inscribed in the roll of honour in Khaine’s own temple upon our return!”
The cheers of the men filled Malus with a fiery rage and he threw himself against the window. The window panes shattered and the highborn leapt like a lion into the hall. “No, they will be inscribed on mortuary urns!” he declared as he landed in a shower of coloured glass.
Shouts of alarm and the crashing of chairs filled the hall as half a dozen highborn retainers leapt to their feet. Swords hissed from their scabbards. Then the man at the head of the table turned to face Malus, his regal expression one of shock and anger entwined.
The warlord met Malus’ eyes and the highborn felt the icy knife of recognition punch into his heart.
The warlord fixed Malus with a furious glare. “Who dares intrude here?”
“I do,” Malus heard himself say. The words came out in a tortured growl as the highborn choked back his dismay. He wanted nothing more than to flee the firelit hall, but it was too late for that now. The die was cast.
The warlord’s eyes widened as he studied the sword-wielding figure before him. “You… you are druchii! One of us! What has happened to you?”
Malus paused, his brow furrowing. Then he realised how he must look — a gaunt, haggard figure, covered in layers of dried blood and grime. “Who cares?” He pointed to the dagger in the warlord’s hand. “That is all I am interested in. The Dagger of Torxus — I spent weeks searching for it, only to find that your warband had already looted it.” Malus sheathed his sword and took a step forward, extending his hand. “Give it to me.”
The warlord looked at the dagger, then considered Malus’ outstretched hand. His eyes widened as he saw the thick, black veins pulsing beneath the highborn’s skin, then a look of shock passed over his face as his gaze fell upon the ruby cabochon gleaming dully from Malus’ index finger.
“Wait… I know you now,” he said suddenly. The warlord looked more closely at Malus’ face — and his expression dissolved into a look of blackest rage. “Malus. Malus!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
It was all slipping from his hands. All his careful plans and secret ambitions; he could feel them tumbling from his grasp. Malus drew his second sword and rushed at the warlord with a howl of rage.
The warlord’s face went pale. “Stop him! In the name of Khaine, stop him!” he commanded and his retainers leapt to obey.
The warriors were flush with wine and overconfident in their numbers. They expected Malus to give ground at their approach, but he threw himself at them like a wounded wolf. The first man barely got his blade up in time to parry a savage cut to his face — Malus knocked the warrior’s blade aside and thrust his other sword into the retainer’s neck. Bright blood sprayed from the wound and the man fell, choking on his own fluids.
Blows rained upon Malus from every direction. A sword crashed against his back and rebounded from his armour, another bit a notch from his left ear. The highborn blocked a thrust to his shoulder and brought his other blade down on the attacker’s wrist. The master-forged blade sheared through the jointed wrist and sent the retainer’s hand spinning across the chamber. Sensing an opening, another warrior leapt in from Malus’ left, stabbing for his arm. The blade struck between two armour plates and scored a deep wound across the highborn’s bicep. Without thinking, Malus slashed his blade across the man’s eyes with a backhanded stroke. “Aghhh! My face! My face!” the man screamed, reeling away from the fight.
A sword crashed into Malus’ right shoulder, knocking him sideways — saving him from the second man’s blade, which tore a ragged gash in the highborn’s scalp instead of splitting his skull. Malus felt hot blood spill down the side of his face as he threw himself against the warrior to his right. The retainer tried to forestall the highborn with a cut to Malus’ neck, but the highborn blocked it with his left-hand blade and crashed headlong into the man, knocking him to the floor. Before the warrior could recover the highborn stomped on the retainer’s groin and then cut the man’s agonised scream short with a thrust through his right eye.
Malus jerked his blade free and spun in time to meet the charge of the last warrior. The retainer aimed a flurry of blows at the highborn’s head and neck, driving him backwards across the hall. Malus blocked each stroke with swift slashes of his right-hand blade, holding back his left-hand sword like a viper poised to strike. The warrior steadily beat his way through the highborn’s guard, scoring a cut on Malus’ cheek — and then his foot came down on a spilled goblet and he stumbled. The highborn checked his retreat and thrust with his left-hand sword, taking the retainer in the throat. Two feet of red steel jutted from the back of the man’s neck, severing the spine, and the retainer collapsed lifelessly to the floor.
The highborn’s sword rang on bone as he tore it free from the warrior’s neck. A sudden movement at the corner of his eye made Malus turn, raising his blade just in time as the warlord swung his broad blade at Malus’ chest. “May the inferno take you, you scum!” the warlord cried. The point of the warlord’s blade struck the highborn in the right arm and found an unprotected gap between vambrace and pauldron. Malus scarcely felt the blade slice through his flesh.
The warlord redoubled his attack, slashing furiously at Malus’ chest. The highborn leapt backwards out of the sword’s reach. The sword flashed at Malus’ face and this time he was able to strike the flat of the heavy blade and knock it aside. As it was, he was being driven steadily backwards, towards the far end of the hall. The druchii hammered at Malus without pause, berserk with rage.
The warlord let out an anguished roar and leapt at Malus, his sword held in a two-handed grip above his head. The movement drew the man’s breastplate up and away, opening a narrow gap in his overlapping armour. Without thinking, Malus dropped to one knee and thrust forward with all his strength. The point of the sword hit the mail covering the warlord’s abdomen and split the rings neatly apart. The weight of the druchii’s charge did the rest. He drove himself full onto Malus’ sword, sinking down its razor-edged length almost to the hilt. The warlord groaned, falling to his knees.
Numb with despair, Malus put his boot against the warlord’s chest and pulled his sword free. Dark blood poured from the wound in a torrent. The druchii stared dumbly at the gore staining his palms, then looked up at the highborn.
“Why, Malus, why?” he asked, his mind already succumbing to shock.
The highborn’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “I do what I must,” he replied. “Goodbye, father,” he said bitterly, then struck the warlord’s head from his shoulders.
Lurhan’s body toppled to the stone floor. Malus stared at the corpse and tasted ashes in his mouth. How many times had he longed for such a moment? In his dreams the scene had always played out as a triumph, not a tragedy.
Malus bent down and pulled the dagger from Lurhan’s belt. He’d gained the relic, but at the cost of his own life. He was an outlaw now.
The highborn felt the daemon stir within him. “Father?” Tz’arkan said, his voice thick with feigned shock. “Malus, did you just kill your own father?”
“I got the relic you wanted, didn’t I?” he snarled, half-sick with rage and dismay.
I had no choice, he thought fiercely. I had no choice!
Malus felt the floor beneath him tremble as a heavy weight crashed to the ground several floors below the main hall and faint cries of alarm began echoing up the keep’s central staircase. The highborn whirled, catching sight of a trail of bright crimson leading across the hall and down the tower stair. A quick count showed that one of the vaulkhar’s retainers was missing — the man whose hand Malus had severed early in the fight. The warrior had summoned his courage and staggered downstairs to throw open the doors and warn the camp that their lord had been killed.
The highborn let out a feral snarl as reason warred with animal desperation. The only way out was back the way he’d come. He glanced back at the shattered window. “Daemon!” he cried. “Lend me your strength. Hurry!”
“Vou are too greedy, little druchii!” Tz’arkan replied. “Your veins are already black with my touch and you would have still more?”
“Enough of your mockery!” The highborn got a running start and leapt to the window sill. He barely reached it, his muscles weak from the bite of druchii swords. A cool wind blew against his face, its touch deceptively warm compared to the chill that emanated from his bones. Black night yawned beneath him. Three storeys below, figures with naked steel in their hands charged across the fort’s open square and disappeared into the keep. Malus leaned out into that perilous gulf, his weak fingers straining to keep purchase on the narrow window frame. “Will you give me what I desire, daemon, or shall I simply flap my wings and hope to fly?”
“It matters not to me—” the daemon began.
“Liar!” Malus snapped. “I hold three of the five relics in my hand, you damnable fiend! If I die here this mob will claim them and they will be scattered once again! This is not just my life you toy with, but your own freedom as well. So help me — or resign yourself to another millennium of captivity!”
An enraged cry reverberated in Malus’ head — but at the same time a trickle of icy vigour spread painfully through his limbs. Strength returned and the world snapped back into crystalline focus. Just as the first of Lurhan’s men lumbered clumsily into the hall, Malus swung from the window frame and leapt lightly to a narrow ledge several feet away. Like a spider he descended down the walls of the keep as the retainers searched the hall above in a vain attempt to avenge their lord.
Lurhan’s surviving retainers were all virtuous men — or perhaps they feared the consequences of returning to the Hag without the head of the vaulkhar’s killer. By the time Malus had made his way back to Spite, the air shivered with the cries of hunting horns as the warband set itself upon his trail.
After running the three miles back to his mount, Malus was in no shape to be stealthy. He crashed through the underbrush, slapping aside branches and lumbering through vines as he raced for the nauglir’s hiding place. It was only the slow, rumbling hiss emanating from the small clearing up ahead that brought the highborn up short. In the darkness beneath the trees Malus could just see the shape of the cold one, its shoulders hunched and its head low to the ground. He’d startled the nauglir with his sudden approach, the highborn realised. Another step and he might have been bitten in half.
“It’s me, Spite,” Malus said. He folded his arms and tucked in his head, making himself appear smaller and less threatening. “Calm yourself. We have some hard riding ahead of us tonight.”
He took a step forward. Spite hissed again, louder this time. Malus’ eyes widened. Something’s wrong, he thought. The beast doesn’t recognise me.
Nauglir were famously stupid creatures, but Spite was a rare exception — being a runt compared to other cold ones, the warbeast had survived in the caverns by being cleverer and more vicious than his kin. It’s the daemon, Malus thought. He smells the cursed spirit’s corruption on me.
Moving slowly and carefully, Malus reached back to a small pouch on his belt and drew out a tiny bottle of dark blue glass. Pulling the stopper free, he poured a dollop of clear, acrid liquid onto his palm and wiped the thick fluid over his face and hands. The vrahsha stung where it touched his skin, then within moments the highborn’s exposed flesh was cold and numb. Cold without as within, the highborn thought bitterly.
Malus replaced the vial. Spite had not moved a muscle, still regarding him threateningly. The highborn took another step forward. Spite hissed again, then sniffed the air experimentally. The highborn saw the nauglir’s posture relax slightly. “That’s it,” he said, taking another step forward. “It’s me, you great fool. Now can we go?”
The beast sidled closer to Malus, extending his drooling muzzle. Malus held out his hand and the nauglir sniffed at it with one huge nostril. After a moment, the cold one straightened, but Malus could tell that Spite wasn’t entirely convinced. One day no amount of vrahsha in the world will disguise the daemon’s stink, Malus thought grimly. What will I do then?
A hunting horn wailed off to the west — less than a mile away, to Malus’ ear. He knew that they would have to have senses like an autarii to find his trail, even in the moonlight, but if their horses caught the scent of the nauglir and panicked, that would give him away just as readily. The problem was, he couldn’t go back east, towards Karond Kar, not after the mess he’d left there. Heading due north, into the mountains, meant risking another encounter with the shades. To the west lay Hag Graef and his men, plus a fortune in gold. But he had to slip past Lurhan’s men first.
Malus bit back a curse and considered his options. None of them were very good. The road was out of the question, for the moment. The only choice he had was to work his way through the forest, leading Spite by the reins and paralleling the road. Once he was past the despatch-fort, he could risk returning to the road and riding like a madman for the Hag. If he could arrive in the city ahead of the news of Lurhan’s death, he could gather men and gold and…
The highborn’s thoughts ground to a halt. “And then what?” he said to himself. “Where will I go? Once the drachau — and the Witch King — learn of what I’ve done, there will be no city in Naggaroth that will harbour me.”
Life was cheap in the Land of Chill and any man could die by another’s hand except for the chosen servants of Malekith himself. That included each of the drachau of the six cities and their vaulkhar; they lived and died at the pleasure of the Witch King and no one else. To spill their blood was to invite a blood feud with Malekith himself and by extension the entire druchii people.
The highborn’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Perhaps I’ll let Tz’arkan and Malekith fight for the privilege of tormenting me,” he said to Spite as he took the beast’s reins and led the nauglir deeper into the forest. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll destroy one another and I’ll claim Naggorond for my own.”
It grew steadily darker as the night wore on; the scudding clouds thickened, swallowing the bright moon and the air turned cold. For hours Malus led Spite through the dense forest, attempting to stay parallel to the coast road. From time to time he had to stop and leave the warbeast while he attempted to locate the tree line and regain his bearings.
The clamour around the fort never lapsed; horns and shouted orders echoed up and down the road all through the night as Lurhan’s vengeful retainers tried to find his trail. Malus led the way past the despatch fort well after midnight. By dawn he reckoned he’d covered only a few more miles to the west, but the cold air had brought a thick wall of fog rolling in from the sea, muffling sounds and shrouding the keep in a mantle of grey. Weariness and pain made the decision easier for Malus. He could barely put one foot in front of another after spending almost the entire night struggling through the dense wood, so the risks of the open road seemed almost welcoming by comparison.
Spite was eager to be out of the confusing environs of the forest and set off at a rapid trot down the Slavers’ Road. Malus clung tightly to the reins and fought to stay awake. He’d lash himself to the saddle if that’s what it took. Lurhan’s men had been searching all night; they and their horses had to be almost as tired as he was. Every hour the nauglir spent on the road meant another league or more between them and the keep.
The white fog made it difficult to hear anything, much less see beyond twenty yards or so. At first the change of pace lent Malus an extra burst of energy and alertness, but after half an hour his eyelids grew heavy. He shook his head fiercely, trying to keep awake. Every hour is another league, he reminded himself again and again, like a temple prayer.
Malus was so lost in his fight against the pull of sleep that he did not hear the horses’ hooves until it was far too late.
The horsemen materialised out of the fog directly in Malus’ path, moving along the road at a weary trot; three riders travelling abreast, their spears laid back against their shoulders and their horses’ heads drooping from weariness. Lurhan’s men were no fools. They had hedged their bets by sending search parties in either direction down the Slavers’ Road and Malus had ridden full onto the western search party.
Malus and the retainers saw one another at the same instant. Mouths dropped and eyes widened in shock, but for a moment not a word was spoken. They stared at one another in a kind of fearful wonder, as though they’d crossed paths with a ghost in the morning fog. Then the wind stiffened and Spite caught the scent of horseflesh and the nauglir shattered the stillness with a thunderous roar.
The horses reared and pawed at the air at the sound of the nauglir’s bellow, but they did not panic — these were well-trained warhorses, conditioned to the presence of the fearsome cold ones. It was all the advantage Malus would get and he seized upon it, drawing his sword and putting his heels to Spite’s flanks with a savage war scream.
Spite responded at once, leaping at the closest horse and rider, who saw his doom approaching and raised his spear to stab for the cold one’s eye. The horseman’s thrust was strong, but his rearing horse threw off his aim and the point of the spear raked along the cold one’s snout instead. The retainer cursed and drew back for another strike, but by then the nauglir was upon them, closing its powerful jaws on horse and rider both. Man and animal shrieked as one as dagger-like teeth sheared through flesh and bone. The horse collapsed, its spine broken, and the rider tried to drag himself clear of the thrashing animal, leaving a trail of torn intestines in his wake.
Horsemen rushed at Malus from left and right. Having recovered from their initial shock, Lurhan’s chosen warriors reacted with speed, skill and ferocity. Malus twisted in his saddle, knocking aside a spear thrust on his left side with a sweep of his blade, then parrying the spear on his right with a lightning-fast backhand stroke. The horseman on Malus’ left continued past the highborn, angling for a spear thrust to his back, while the horseman on the right pressed his attack, jabbing his spear at the highborn’s face.
Thinking quickly, Malus jerked on the reins and jabbed his right heel hard into the nauglir’s ribs. On command, the warbeast whipped to the right — slamming its powerful tail into the horse on its left flank. The animal went end-over-end, its front legs snapped like kindling and the horseman went down beneath his crippled steed. Meanwhile Spite lunged for the horse to his right, closing his jaws on the animal’s neck.
The bitten horse went mad with pain and fear, its eyes showing nothing but white as the animal tried to escape the reptile’s jaws. The horseman snarled a furious oath and drove his spear deep into the cold one’s neck. A jolt of fear went through Malus, but he saw at once that the spear had missed the cold one’s vitals — it was a dreadful wound but not a fatal one. He leaned forward as far as he could and hacked at the shaft of the spear, breaking it with two swift strokes.
The retainer threw the splintered shaft at Malus’ head and reached for his own sword — but at that moment Spite’s muscular body gave a single, convulsive wrench and tore the horse’s head from its neck. The animal toppled, spraying Malus with hot, bitter blood. The highborn let out a triumphant yell and kicked Spite into a gallop, leaning down to take a passing swipe at the unhorsed retainer as they leapt over him and raced west down the Slavers’ Road. Malus spared a single glance backwards to see that he’d failed to do the last retainer any serious harm, then turned back to inspect Spite’s spear wound.
Dark shapes materialised out of the fog just ahead. Malus had just enough time to notice the five druchii standing in a rough line across the road before their leader shouted “Fire!” and the crossbow bolts struck home.
At such close range it was impossible for skilled crossbowmen to miss. Spite let out an angry roar and stumbled as a bolt thudded into his muscular chest. The bellow masked the sounds of the three bolts that slammed into Malus — one pierced his left pauldron, penetrating shoulder plate and breastplate alike just below his collar bone, while another struck his left side, just below his ribs. The third bolt smashed into his right calf, just below the knee. By a cruel turn of fate the point hit a small dent and found enough purchase to penetrate the armour plate instead of hitting a more rounded portion and glancing away.
There was no pain. Partly due to the vrahsha, partly due to the shock of so many blows, for a few heartbeats he felt nothing and his mind was eerily clear. He saw the men scatter out of Spite’s path, already reloading their weapons. Beyond them, standing in a protective knot on the north side of the road, waited the retainer’s horses. Malus pulled on the reins, angling Spite for the animals and the battle-frenzied cold one eagerly obeyed. Without riders to steady them, the horses went wild at the nauglir’s charge, scattering in every direction before the reptile’s gaping jaws.
Malus used a combination of knee and rein to aim his mount at a horse fleeing west, noticing with a curious detachment that the bolt in his shoulder had locked the armour plates together, effectively pinning his arm. Ahead, the horse was in full flight, ears back and tongue hanging out as it galloped for its life ahead of the hissing warbeast. Slowly but surely the distance between the animals lengthened; nauglir were tireless and tough as stones, but they were not very swift. Not that Malus cared, all that mattered was plunging as far into the concealing fog as possible before the crossbowmen could shoot again.
A hasty shot from one of the crossbowmen buzzed through the air to Malus’ right. He bent low in the saddle, breathless from the mounting pain. His eyes focused on a steel ring set on a swivel on the cantle of his saddle — in battle the cold one’s reins were fed through the ring to keep them laid close to the reptile’s neck and thus harder to grab or cut.
Malus fumbled for the sword belt, numbly grasping the slack portion and began feeding it through the ring. With an effort of will he took the threaded end and tucked it through the tightened portion of his belt, making a loop.
He heard Spite hiss in frustration as the horse was swallowed by the fog ahead of them. Malus took a deep breath and pulled the belt loop taut, then lost consciousness in an explosion of fiery pain.
Malus awoke to the cold touch of rain on his cheek.
He opened his eyes and saw the pewter surface of the Sea of Malice off in the distance, veiled by shifting curtains of rainfall. They were no longer moving, he realised after a moment and a surge of alarm sharpened his senses and lent a fleeting burst of strength to his limbs. Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself upright, noticing belatedly that he had been slumped almost the entire way out of the saddle, held tenuously in place by less than six inches of belt leather.
The pain hit, starting with his leg. Malus let out an involuntary moan as he continued to push himself back into the saddle. Streaks of dark, dried blood covered the entire left side of his armour, from shoulder to knee. He’d been out for some time. Malus looked to the sky, trying to gauge the position of the sun in the middle of a rainstorm. It felt like the afternoon, but in his state he couldn’t be certain.
First things first, he thought, steeling his resolve. At least the bolts had armour-piercing heads, meaning they were tapered instead of broad and barbed.
He reached down to the bolt jutting from his calf, gripping it carefully. Malus took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and pulled.
The bolt came free in a spurt of fresh blood and breathtaking agony. Malus’ vision swam, but he closed his eyes and breathed deeply until the moment passed. Then he turned his attention to the bolts in his side.
Once he’d drawn the bolts free, he stopped to try and take stock. Neither of the bolts that had hit his torso had penetrated deeply, particularly the shot that had hit his shoulder. The wound in the calf, however, was another matter. It had gone deep into the muscle and hurt more than the other two wounds put together.
“Tz’arkan,” Malus said through gritted teeth. “Aid me.”
The daemon did not reply.
Malus cursed bitterly, calling upon Tz’arkan again and again, but the daemon would not answer him. Had he drawn too much from the daemon’s well of power? For a few, fleeting moments he dared hope that Tz’arkan was gone entirely, unable to maintain his grip on Malus’ soul. One glance at the ring around his finger and the black veins pulsing like worms along the back of his hand quickly dashed any such hopes. In the end the highborn was forced to fall back on a desperate measure that cold one knights had used for centuries. He drew out his bottle of vrahsha and poured a tiny amount of the toxin into each wound. The injuries were numbed in an instant and the highborn breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Using the nauglir slime to treat wounds was fraught with risk — infections, madness and death were real possibilities each and every time he used the toxin on an open wound — but at the moment the benefits actually outweighed the risks. If he wasn’t on the move soon he was dead anyway.
Moving carefully, Malus lowered himself from the saddle and hobbled on his good leg as he checked Spite’s wounds. The stab wound to the nauglir’s throat was deep but would heal in time. The crossbow bolt had been torn free at some point — Malus suspected that the cold one had clawed the aggravating thing loose — and had left a ragged wound that could cause problems if it wasn’t tended. At the highborn’s urging the cold one rose easily to its feet, which was an encouraging sign. If a cold one could stand, it could also run.
The highborn pulled a water skin from his saddle bags and took a long drink, then tried to find his bearings. They were much closer to Har Ganeth now. Malus had a full view of the ominous city and its blood-streaked walls. Looking back, the despatch fort was nowhere to be seen, lost in the rain and the rolling hills.
Lurhan’s men were out there, drawing nearer. He was certain that the survivors of the search party would have raced back to the fort and roused the tired camp. But the winded horses wouldn’t make good time today, especially with the rain, so he had at least a few hours’ lead to decide what to do next.
Har Ganeth offered no safe haven. No sane man set foot in the City of Executioners if he valued his life. And if his suspicions were right and Urial had fled there with Yasmir, he would only be trading one noose for another.
After four more days’ ride west the Slavers’ Road met the Spear Road in the shadow of Naggorond, seat of Malekith himself. Malus suppressed a shudder. Better to try his luck in Har Ganeth than shelter behind the Witch King’s walls!
What did that leave? Hag Graef lay three days south along the Spear Road. Silar waited there with Hauclir and the rest of his men and enough gold to flee Naggaroth if he wished. But that would be where Lurhan’s men would expect him to go; worse still, seven days on the road would give them a good chance of overtaking him with their faster mounts. Malus had no illusions as to what would happen then. He was in no shape to stand, much less fight. And he would sooner cut his own throat and be damned than be marched to the Hag in chains.
That left the desolate, icy north. If he could reach the Spear Road ahead of Lurhan’s men he could throw them off his trail by heading for the Wastes. But what then? There was nothing between Naggorond and the border watchtowers except… Malus straightened, his brow furrowing in thought.
“Do I dare?” he asked aloud. “They have no love for Lurhan or Hag Graef, that’s for certain, but no love for me, either. Still, I can claim ties of blood, which may be enough…”
A plan began to take shape in Malus’ mind. The chances of success were slim, but far better than the other options at hand.
It took him three tries, but after several agonising minutes Malus was able to climb back into the saddle. He gathered up Spite’s reins in his good hand. “Up, Spite!” he ordered and the nauglir obeyed. “We’ve a long ride ahead, but there will be a stable and good, warm horse meat at the end! We ride north, where Lurhan’s men won’t dare to follow. Malekith himself has seen to that. It is high time I met my uncle; with Lurhan dead I expect he and I will have quite a bit to talk about.”
With a tug of the reins and a touch of Malus’ heels Spite lurched into motion, his long, tireless stride carrying them swiftly west. The highborn set his jaw and decided to press on through the night, pushing the nauglir to the limit of its endurance in order to reach the crossroads ahead of his pursuers. Once he was on the road north, Lurhan’s men were welcome to follow him — in fact, their presence would be most helpful.
Lost in his schemes, Malus raced down the Slavers’ Road, heading for the icy wastes and the Black Ark of Naggor, the realm of Balneth Bale.
Days passed; how many days Malus could no longer say for certain. There were times when he couldn’t even say for sure whether it was day or night.
There was no rest, no pause in his flight from Lurhan’s men. The vaulkhar’s vengeful retainers were faster on their horses, so Malus simply never stopped for more than a few minutes at a time. Spite loped along tirelessly, the cold one’s broad, flat feet slapping along the black stones of the Slavers’ Road and Malus slipped in and out of consciousness, delirious from blood loss and fatigue.
They passed Har Ganeth in the night, close enough to hear the wails of the sacrificial mobs within the city walls. The scent of blood was so strong in the air, even more than a mile distant, that Malus had to fight to keep the nauglir on the roadway. The highborn had to fight a three-mile contest of wills with the one-ton warbeast until they were finally upwind of the charnel city.
Things became blurry not long after the food ran out. Spite, Malus knew, could run for a week on the meat it had killed and eaten on the road, but the highborn wasn’t so fortunate. Nor could he afford to let the cold one spend an entire night hunting in the wood. Each morning and evening Malus would study the road back the way they’d come and measure the pall of dust kicked up by his pursuers and by the end of the day it was clear that the swifter hunters had all but erased any gains the highborn had made during the night before. It was all he could do just to stay out of the jaws of the vaulkhar’s hounds.
During the long hours in the saddle he would invoke Tz’arkan’s name and call upon the daemon’s power to heal him. There was never any reply. The highborn cursed the daemon, calling it a coward and a weakling, but the serpents never so much as stirred around Malus’ labouring heart.
Three days and two nights past Har Ganeth Malus was jerked from dreamless oblivion by Spite’s threatening growl. The highborn reeled in the saddle, thinking irrationally that the nauglir had stopped by the side of the road to sleep and Lurhan’s men had caught him, until he heard the faint sounds of wailing hanging in the night air.
Malus gripped the reins with white-knuckled hands, realising as soon as he saw the tall black stakes rising into the night sky ahead that he’d reached the great crossroads where the Spear and Slavers’ Roads met. Bodies in varying states of decomposition were lashed to the forty-foot stakes, their limbs stretched and bones broken as they were wrapped around the unforgiving poles and held there with metal wire. Nearly all of them were limned with a guttering, greenish fire that pooled in sightless eye sockets and gaping mouths.
Some of the bodies had hung on the stakes for days; others had endured for years, worn away by slow inches by the ravages of wind and ice. Each of them had been highborn once, many of them more prominent and powerful than Malus had ever been. Each one had broken one of the Witch King’s laws and now their spirits glimmered in agony as their bodies were consumed by the merciless Land of Chill.
Even Spite sensed the pall of undying pain hanging over the crossroads, snapping irritably at the chill air. There waits my own fate, Malus suddenly realised. The things Lurhan’s men will do to me would be a kindness compared to Malekith’s judgement.
Then he remembered the daemon and his delirious mind once again conjured the image of the Witch King and Tz’arkan wrestling for possession of an outcast’s soul. Laughing wildly, Malus put his heels to Spite’s flanks and trotted among the forest of wailing figures. In the distance off to the west the highborn could see the fortress city of Naggorond, its black spires painted with cold witchlight. A white ribbon of roadway gleamed under the moonlight, winding a sinuous path to the dread city from the western side of the crossroads. Made from the skulls of Aenarion’s cursed kin, the Hateful Road ran to Naggorond alone and many druchii who were called upon to walk that path never came back. On impulse, Malus drew his sword and raised it to the distant fortress in mocking salute, then spurred his mount northwards. Let them come for me now if they dare, he thought wildly. They’ll have to deal with the black ark first.
Two days north of the crossroads Malus saw the first signs of ice. His breath made great plumes of mist in the cold air and the wind felt like a blessing against his feverish skin.
He’d been applying the vrahsha daily to his wounds since the fight near Vaelgor Keep. Without the toxin’s numbing effects he doubted he could have stayed conscious for even one day of hard riding, let alone nearly a week. The toxic slime was even fairly effective at killing mortified flesh, but there had been no time to keep the wounds clean while travelling and at some point they had become infected.
There was no way to know for certain how close he was to the black ark, but there was no point in stopping — he had neither the knowledge nor the materials to treat the wounds properly. All he could do was ride on and hope that rot didn’t take hold. If that happened, Spite would turn on him as soon as he became too weak to assert himself. He was in a race not only against Lurhan’s men, but against his own failing body as well.
He reeled drunkenly in the saddle and bellowed curses at the daemon for hours on end, but Tz’arkan had forsaken him.
Worse, it seemed that the vaulkhar’s retainers were closing the distance. For a while Malus discounted the evidence of his own senses, blaming it on his fever. Every morning the highborn forced himself to turn in the saddle and stare southward, looking for signs of camp fires and since turning north the thin tendrils of smoke seemed a little closer each day.
It was only after Malus passed the third despatch fort on the road that he realised what was happening; the retainers had become desperate enough to begin buying or commandeering fresh mounts at each fort they passed. That would allow them to ride much longer and faster than before, though at enormous cost. The men must have concluded that it was better to risk torture for misusing state resources than lose their honour by returning to the Hag empty-handed. It was a fateful decision, he realised. If he did not reach the limits of Bale’s territory in the next few days, Lurhan’s men would catch him. Time was no longer on his side.
At some point, in desperation, he left the road altogether, hoping that his pursuers wouldn’t spot his trail. He couldn’t recall what made him angle north and east. The terrain was steeper and more forbidding and perhaps, he thought perversely, it was simply par for the course that the only way to his destination was over the most difficult ground possible. Regardless, Lurhan’s men were undaunted. Malus reckoned he gained a few hours before his pursuers realised he was no longer on the road and backtracked far enough to find his trail.
Spite gamely tackled the steep, forested hills, but even Malus could sense that the great beast was growing tired. In this rough terrain the odds between hunter and hunted became roughly even, boiling down to which side was willing to ride harder for their goal.
The night after he left the Spear Road the torturous hills gave way to a rolling, glacial plain that shone pale blue beneath the moonlight. Mountains loomed white and unforgiving on the northern horizon; for hours Malus stared at their irregular lines, hoping to catch a glimpse of the black ark.
Time lost all meaning as he rode over the endless plain. His body burned and trembled and his mind drifted. Dreams came and went. Once he found himself riding among a company of druchii riding their nauglir across the frozen plain. He could not see the faces of the riders, but the voices that echoed in his ears seemed eerily familiar — they laughed and called to one another, sharing jibes and wagers.
Malus tried to speak to them, but they paid him no mind, as though he were a ghost riding among them. After a time, one of the riders sidled alongside, close enough to touch. The knight’s armour was covered in dried gore, as though he were a corpse left on a battlefield. Malus reached out to touch the mounted warrior with a trembling hand and the knight turned to look at him. Eyes glowing with grave mould shone from the helmet’s eye slits, burning with hate. Malus recoiled, fumbling for his sword with a curse. By the time he’d drawn his weapon the vision was gone.
Another time it felt as though someone sat behind him in the saddle. It was a woman — he knew that in the strange omniscience that dreams sometimes granted — and she pressed against him, her hands sliding around his waist and up across his armoured chest. He could feel the passage of her fingers even through the silvered steel; they left a trail of ice along his bones like the passage of a bitter frost. Malus felt a head against his shoulder and smelled fresh earth mixed with grave rot just as the icy hands closed about his throat.
Malus thrashed and twisted, reaching back to wrest the wight from the saddle, but his hands closed on empty air. Suddenly he felt a breath of cool air against his cheek and then came a wrenching impact as his falling body slammed into the glacial ice.
He awoke with a monster looming over him. Spite’s toothy snout nudged his right leg, as though trying to prod some life back into its pack-mate. The head drooped to the highborn’s calf, sniffing at the crusted wound there and Malus watched the nauglir’s lips draw back, revealing yellowed fangs. Malus let out a startled shout and kicked the cold one in the nose. Startled, the beast sidled a few feet away and settled on its haunches, studying Malus with one red eye.
* * *
Malus awoke to painful sunlight and the wailing of horns.
The ground trembled as Spite roared out a challenge. Malus raised an arm that felt heavy as lead and tried to shield his eyes from the painful glare. He saw the nauglir on its feet, snarling back the way they’d come. A horse whinnied fearfully in response and Malus realised that the long race had come to an end.
With a cry of effort Malus rolled onto his side and got his feet underneath him. Lurhan’s men sat on their mounts a hundred yards away, watching their prey from a low ridgeline. Black streamers — the colour of vengeance and the blood feud — snapped in the cold wind from the ends of their long spears. Their horses trembled with exhaustion, but the riders’ faces were stoic, set in frozen masks of unquenchable hate.
As Malus watched, their leader pulled an object from his saddlebag and held it aloft for the highborn to see. It was Lurhan’s severed head, its black hair streaming raggedly in the wind. It was the badge of the feud. When the retainers marched him through the gates of the Hag he would be forced to carry his father’s head in his hands so that the entire city could behold the awful nature of his crime.
Without a word spoken the warriors lowered their spears and began to advance. Spite let out a hungry hiss; ice crunched beneath the war-beast’s feet as it moved between Malus and the horsemen. The highborn fumbled for his sword; it seemed to take forever to pull it free and when he did it was all he could do not to drop it onto the ice.
The retainers advanced warily; there were at least a dozen of them, possibly as many as a score — to Malus’ wavering eyes their dark forms were like a flock of ravens picking their way across the ice. Their spears were reinforced with steel and the heads were broad and razor-sharp; weapons ideal for fighting cold ones from horseback. Through his delirium Malus could see how the battle would unfold. They would surround Spite first, distracting the hungry cold one with tempting horseflesh while other riders drove in from both flanks and stabbed their spears into the nauglir’s vitals. Then once Spite was dead they would come for him. The best he could hope for was to take one or two of the bastards down before they took his sword away.
Malus’ cracked lips worked. His voice came out in a ragged whisper. “Tz’arkan,” he croaked. “Help me. Help me or I’ll tell these men everything. I’ll tell them to give the relics to Eldire. I swear it! You won’t be free until the stars are cinders in the night sky!”
It was the worst threat Malus could think of on the spur of the moment, but it evoked no response. “Curse you,” Malus said. “When they drag me before the drachau and vivisect me before the court you can have the bitter leavings and may you choke on them!”
The highborn closed his eyes and summoned the last of his strength. He would go down fighting, charging at the oncoming men and shedding hot blood — when a roll of thunder echoed from the north and the ground shook beneath Malus’ feet. He spun, staggering from the sudden motion and saw a party of ten cold one knights charging down the slope of the hill to the north, their lances levelled at Lurhan’s men.
The warriors of Hag Graef hesitated but a moment. Given the situation, there was only one possible response. The leader of the hunters turned to his band. “Charge!” he cried over the rumble of the cold ones’ advance and the warriors responded with a fierce cry, hurling themselves at the knights of the black ark.
The retainers swept down the ridge in a wall of galloping horses and glittering spear points. They veered slightly to the right, shying away from the highborn and his hissing mount, but Spite was not to be thwarted so easily. The nauglir’s talons sent shards of ice and frozen dirt in the air as it threw itself at the right flank of the horsemen.
Two men and their mounts went down in a sickening crunch as the one-ton warbeast pounced on them like a hunting cat. Spite rolled across the ice with its huge jaws locked around the shoulder and neck of one of the horses; the second one lay in a twisted heap, its back broken by the nauglir’s impact. The armoured horsemen had fared little better than their mounts: one lay motionless some feet away, his neck clearly broken, while the other struggled to regain his feet while clutching a limp and broken arm. A cold clarity settled over Malus at the sight of the wounded man — hefting his sword he staggered across the ice towards the retainer, coming up on him from behind.
The two mounted forces came together in a rending crash of steel and flesh. Horses, men and cold ones roared and screamed in anger and pain as spears and talons sank into living flesh. Wood splintered as spear hafts shattered against armour or were broken off in their targets.
The sound caught Malus’ attention; the impact was so earth-shaking it brought his head around in spite of himself. He saw warhorses thrown backwards by the collision — one of Lurhan’s warriors was hurled ten feet into the air, still clutching the splintered haft of his weapon. A cold one crashed through the wall of horses, rolling snout-over-tail in a spray of scales, blood and torn earth; the beast had died instantly when a broad-bladed spear had driven deep into its brain. Another nauglir snapped and thrashed like a hound, scattering pieces of mangled armour as it tore a screaming warrior apart. The sturdier cold ones plunged like catapult stones through the line of horsemen, their broad feet clawing for purchase as they tried to slow down and make another pass. Many of the surviving horsemen had already turned their more nimble mounts and were even now bearing down on the cold ones, touching off a swirling melee.
The injured horseman charged Malus with a hateful scream, brandishing his sword in his left hand — had the warrior not given in to his pain and rage he could likely have taken the highborn completely unawares. As it was, Malus got his sword up in a weak block that was barely enough to keep the warrior from splitting his skull with a downward cut. The force of the impact drove Malus backwards, even as the icy thrill of imminent death drove the delirium from his mind.
Still screaming, the warrior aimed a series of clumsy blows against Malus’ head and arms. What the man lacked in dexterity he made up for in vigour. Each blow used up a little more of the highborn’s reserves of strength, making each successive parry a little slower and a little weaker. One of the retainer’s blows left a long, shallow cut on Malus’ right cheek; another smashed into his left pauldron, sending bright streaks of pain shooting along the highborn’s shoulder. A third blow rang against Malus’ right vambrace, nearly knocking the sword from his grasp. Reacting instinctively, the highborn planted his right heel and stopped in his tracks, causing Lurhan’s man to crash against him. The warrior let out an agonised cry as his broken arm hit Malus’ chest, only to scream even louder as the highborn grabbed the injured limb with his free hand and twisted it as hard as he could. Malus watched the man’s face turn the colour of chalk; the retainer’s eyes rolled up and he fainted from the unbearable pain a split-second before the highborn’s sword tore into his throat. It was all the highborn could do to stagger out of the way as the warrior collapsed to the ground. Malus fell to his knees beside the dead man, his own limbs trembling with exertion.
The sound of thundering hooves broke over him like a wave. Malus looked up to see the surviving horsemen fleeing back the way they’d come, their swords and armour stained red. Their leader still survived, clutching the head of his dead lord close to his chest. As he passed Malus some ten yards away he threw the highborn a look of bitterest hate. You’ve won but a small reprieve, those dark eyes told Malus. There will be another reckoning. We do not forgive and we do not forget.
By the time Malus rose unsteadily to his feet the horsemen were gone. The ground shook with the loping strides of the cold ones — only six now — as they moved among the dead. A tall highborn in black and gold armour walked his mount over to Malus, his aristocratic features twisted in a furious scowl.
Malus bent and wiped the blood from his sword with the hair of the man he’d slain. “Well fought, men of the black ark,” he said, sheathing his blade. “I am Malus, formerly of Hag Graef.” He looked up at the knight. “Your lord, Balneth Bale—”
The knight’s boot took him right between the eyes. One moment he was talking and the next he was falling into blackness.
Visions came and went after that, ebbing and flowing like the tide. He saw strange faces peering down at him, their expressions distorted as though reflected in a pool of water. Their mouths moved, but their voices were blurry and vague as well. Only the hatred burning in their eyes was clear and unequivocal. That much at least he understood.
Malus tasted bitter liquid on his tongue. His body felt swollen and burned, like meat left to char in a fire. The sensation stirred memories like rotting leaves. “Father?” he whispered fearfully.
He lay draped on his stomach across a hard, rolling surface. When he opened his eyes he saw nothing but a blur of white. Malus felt his guts heave and he vomited noisily.
There was a creak of saddle leather. Somewhere above him, a disgusted voice, thick with a rustic northern accent, said, “Damn it, there he goes again. Next time we stop, someone else gets to carry him.”
Hissing laughter echoed around him. Malus screwed his eyes shut against the terrible whiteness and lost consciousness once more.
He was shivering, lying naked on the icy ground. Strong hands closed on his ankles and his wrists.
Malus smelled smoke. When his eyes fluttered open he could see a black sky shot through with countless stars. The hands holding him tightened; a circle of silhouetted heads crowded his vision.
Someone grunted. “A bad time to wake up,” a voice said. “This should be fun.”
Just then a tall figure appeared, outlined against the sky. There was a flare of orange light as the figure held the glowing end of a red-hot dagger over Malus. In the reflected light he recognised the man as the knight who’d kicked him.
“Don’t kill me with the dagger,” he heard himself say. “Anything else, but not the dagger.”
“Shut up,” the knight said, crouching beside his men and pressing the glowing steel against Malus’ leg.
He was still screaming and cursing every foul oath he knew when the man pulled the knife free and then put it to the wound in Malus’ arm. The smell of burned flesh hung heavy and sweet in the air. The highborn soiled himself. Someone let out a curse of his own and cuffed Malus in the side of the head.
The knight pulled the dagger away and paused to inspect his work. Apparently satisfied, he rose to his feet, his pale face seeming to recede all the way into the night sky.
“You’re going to a lot of trouble for nothing,” someone said. “Look at his veins, my lord, they’re black with corruption. He won’t last beyond a couple more days, if that.”
“He just has to make it to the auctioneer’s block tomorrow,” the knight growled. “After that the Outer Darkness can take the bastard.”
Malus was already sinking back into darkness when the full import of the man’s words sent a jolt of pure terror coursing up his spine. They meant to sell him in the slave market!
He thrashed violently, managing to pull an arm and a leg free before the warriors surrounding him regained their hold and pinned him to the frozen earth. One of the men bent close and took his jaw in one calloused hand. Iron-hard fingers squeezed, prying open his mouth like he was a new-born calf.
“Give him another taste of the hushalta,” the druchii holding his jaw said gruffly. The warrior was handed an open bottle of milky fluid as he studied the highborn critically. “Who’d pay good coin for this lout?” he muttered. “I wouldn’t cut him up and feed him to my nauglir.” Appreciative laughter hissed in the darkness as the man poured the bitter liquid down Malus’ throat. When he was done, the druchii handed the bottle back and bent to peer closely into the highborn’s eyes.
“Of course, there’s no lack of fools in this world,” the warrior said as darkness swallowed Malus’ sight. “This one here is living proof of that.”
“Awaken Darkblade,” a scornful voice echoed in his head. “Awaken, or spend the rest of your brief life in chains!” The words reverberated through the darkness like a tolling bell. Malus stirred slightly, touching off waves of fiery pain from the burns in his leg and arm. The agony banished the lingering effects of the hushalta and within moments he was awake. He was lying on his stomach, draped once again across the back of a moving nauglir and his hands and feet were bound with rope. The highborn’s stomach felt like a clutched fist, hard and empty and the burnt copper aftertaste of the hushalta left him with a raging thirst. A sudden gust of wind raked icy claws along his back and neck, leaving him shivering but also grateful with the realisation that his fever had finally broken. The crude cauterisations performed by the druchii lord had managed to burn away the infections festering in his wounds.
Malus heard a dry chuckle some distance behind him. “I just saw him shiver, Hathair,” an amused voice said. “Looks like he’s lived long enough to reach the ark after all. That’s a bottle of Vinan you owe me, if memory serves.”
The highborn heard a creak of saddle leather close to his ear. A gloved fist grabbed a handful of Malus’ hair and yanked his head painfully back. The movement took Malus by surprise. On instinct he fought to keep his body relaxed and limp.
“Those are death throes,” a gruff voice said, close enough that Malus could smell the druchii’s foul breath. “It’s a long climb up the southern stair. He’ll be cold and stiff by the time we reach the top.”
Malus heard the first knight laugh and the fist abruptly let go. The highborn’s cheek slapped back against the nauglir’s scaly hide and another wave of fierce pain reverberated across his chest and arm. Again, he steeled himself to show no reaction. The two knights lapsed back into silence and after a few moments the highborn could discern the rhythmic slap of nauglir feet on paved stones. Somewhere ahead came other faint noises: the creak of wagon wheels and the sounds of livestock and the murmur of rustic druchii voices. Slowly, carefully, the highborn opened his gummy eyes a hair’s width and tried to see where he was.
They were on a road, that was clear enough — Malus saw ice-rimed black paving stones, laid wide enough for at least two riders to travel abreast. The cold ones were travelling up a long, gentle slope towards what looked like a steep cliff of rock and ice rising several hundred feet in the air. The highborn opened his eyes a bit more and followed the cliffs rough face to its summit. There, sure enough, he saw black, forbidding fortress walls and a profusion of circular towers interspersed with the splintered remnants of giant oak masts, like the kind found on a sailing ship. The cliff was the side of an enormous shard of rock, topped by nothing less than a small city dominated by an overlord’s fortress. It was the infamous ice-locked ark: the Black Ark of Naggor, seat of the self-styled Witch Lord Balneth Bale.
Ahead of the advancing column Malus saw a commotion as tradesmen and lesser highborns tried to calm their skittish mounts and move to the side of the road to allow the knights to pass. Some distance further on the highborn saw an arch of dark grey stone at the base of the ark, guarded by a company of spearmen. Traffic came and went through this arch like the gates in any other druchii city, but this one led into the tunnels honeycombing the ark itself.
Much of the city was hidden deep within the rock, Malus knew, hollowed out by druchii hands — and later refined by dwarf slaves — after the ark came to rest in the far north. Only the wealthiest and most influential citizens of the ark had the privilege of living in the ancient towers, while the rest lived like cold ones in the warrens below.
It was the first time Malus had ever seen one of the famous arks up close — it was shards of stone such as these that had saved the druchii when Nagarythe had been lost beneath the waves, thousands of years ago. The shard was in fact a piece of lost Nagarythe itself — when the great cataclysm struck the northern part of Ulthuan there were a number of cities and fortresses protected by such powerful sorceries that they survived the onslaught of the waves when the rest of the land around them was washed away. They floated on the angry waves like unmoored islands, holding all that remained of the elves of the north. The arks themselves transformed the people of Nagarythe into the druchii, or so the legends said.
Faced with the loss of everything they’d known, the people on the arks were faced with a choice: abandon their drifting havens and throw themselves on the mercy of the rest of Ulthuan, or harden their hearts and survive on their own. The druchii chose the path of defiance, raising tremendous masts and bending their sorceries to transform the shards into ocean-going fortresses and the black arks were born.
When the druchii reached Naggaroth many of the arks were beached along the eastern coast, becoming outposts for conquering the mainland. Of the remainder, most remained at sea as mobile fiefdoms, terrorising the Old World with small fleets of corsairs. Not so the Black Ark of Naggor. When the druchii reached their new home, Malekith wished to make a display of power that illustrated his dominance of the new land — and the druchii people as a whole. So it was said that he turned to the sorcerers of Naggor, once a famous centre of arcane knowledge in Nagarythe and commanded them to create a spell that would transport his own ark onto the mainland and create a literal and symbolic seat of power he could rule from.
The sorcerers of Naggor complied and at enormous cost they moved Malekith’s ark hundreds of leagues inland, creating the foundation for the great fortress-city of Naggorond. But the sorcerers were not done yet. Not long afterwards they moved their own ark, sending it even farther northward than Malekith’s seat of power. Some legends claimed that the sorcerers simply wished to be able to continue their studies in private, removed from the petty intrigues of the kingdom, while other, more cynical tales suggested that the Naggorites meant to send a message to Malekith, reminding the Witch King that their power had helped cement his pre-eminence.
Not long afterwards Malekith outlawed the male practice of sorcery, sending the Naggorites a message of his own.
The column walked its mounts up the road towards the gate until Malus heard an officious-sounding voice command the knights to halt. “Who goes there?” called the commander of the guard company.
“Lord Tennucyr and his warband, with a prisoner and a nauglir for the flesh market,” one of the warriors replied, making no effort to disguise his annoyance. Malus thought of Hauclir and his brazen attempts at extortion back when he was a guard captain at Hag Graef and wondered if such things were common at fortress gates all across the Land of Chill.
If so, Lord Tennucyr was in no mood for games. “Stand aside, you worm!” he bellowed, drowning out both his retainer and the guard captain. There was the hurried shuffle of feet and the column jerked back into motion. Within moments Malus saw the arch of the great gate and its huge, iron-banded doors slide past and then the knights were plunged into the riotous, stinking gloom of the inner part of the city.
Just past the great gate there was a low-ceilinged cavern full of noise and bustle, much like any small market square anywhere in Naggaroth. Servants, soldiers, slaves and citizens mingled with one another as they went about their daily business. Huge witchlight lamps burned from stone pillars set at intervals across the square; the cold light did little to banish the darkness in the huge space, wreathing the city dwellers and the market stalls in eerie shadows.
Pale faces moved past Malus like disembodied ghosts, studying him and the knights with emotionless faces. The press of the bustling crowd seemed to press against the highborn with invisible hands, squeezing him in their grasp. It was like living in a tomb, he thought, suddenly eager for a breath of fresh wind and the gleam of faint northern sunlight.
The riders turned left in the square and worked their way through the crowds until they reached a broad ramp that wound upwards into shadow. Another group of guardsmen stood at the base of the ramp, taking coin from druchii moving both up and down the curving lane. Servants and highborn on foot paid a toll to the guardsmen to use the tunnel road, which Malus suspected was another tool to keep the masses in their place throughout the city. The soldiers took one look at Lord Tennucyr and his men and quickly shoved the toll lines out of the way, allowing the column to pass unhindered.
Riding along the curving road was not unlike climbing the spiral stair of a druchii spire, only each level took nearly half an hour to reach. Malus counted each level. He made it as far as six before the riders suddenly halted and a set of commands was passed back down the line from Tennucyr. The highborn heard the knight in the saddle beside him grunt an acknowledgement, then nudge his mount out of the column.
Malus watched through slitted eyes as they rode across a small, deserted square and then into a dimly-lit side passage that ran deeper into the rock. Broad feet slapped along the stone in their wake, accompanied by the rhythmic jingle of a heavy chain. Malus risked a quick look backwards and saw Spite being led along in the knight’s wake. The nauglir had been stripped of saddle, tack and bags and for the first time the highborn realised with a shock that Tennucyr had not only his sword and armour, but also the three relics he’d fought so hard to obtain. He fought down a surge of panic. I know who has them, he told himself. And I’ll get them back, preferably over Tennucyr’s dead body.
The passage was flat and smooth as a road and smelled of horse and nauglir. Narrow, inset doorways and shuttered windows slid past at regular intervals; to Malus, it wasn’t unlike travelling down a narrow city street late at night. Familiar sounds carried through the air: the crack of whips and the rustle of chains, screams and angry shouts and the brassy clash of cages slamming closed. He was in the Slavers’ Quarter of the ice-bound ark, where tradesmen bought and sold living goods for highborn towers and flesh houses alike.
They rode on for several minutes and as they went deeper into the quarter Malus noted that the individual “buildings” were separated by narrow, filth-strewn alleys and the structures themselves took on the shape of blocky, thick-walled forts. These were the compounds of the most successful slave dealers in the city, built to hold hundreds of slaves as well as provide training grounds for those meant for the fighting pits of the city’s flesh houses. The nauglir strode past three of these imposing structures before lurching to a halt in front of a fourth. Malus noted that the facade of the slave traders’ compound was worked with bas reliefs of pit fighting scenes, presumably advertising famous pit warriors that came from the owner’s stock.
There was a sudden lurch backwards as the nauglir settled onto its haunches; with a rattle of chains Spite did the same. There was a creak of saddle leather as the knight dismounted, then Malus felt the man grab the back of his kheitan and drag him off the back of the cold one like a bag of grain. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. Try as he might he couldn’t help curling into a ball on the road and groaning for breath.
The retainer cursed softly at Malus’ weak signs of life. “That’s a bottle of good wine you’ve cost me,” he said, aiming a kick at the highborn’s back. The man approached the compound’s double doors and banged against them with the pommel of his sword.
It was several long minutes before a spy-hole in one of the doors slid open. “Master Noros isn’t here,” a man’s voice said. “Come back later.”
“Open the door,” the knight growled. “I’ve got a prisoner and a nauglir to sell, compliments of Lord Tennucyr.”
“The Witch Lord’s cousin?”
“The very same.”
There was a loud clack as the spy door slid shut, then a rattle of bolts being drawn back. One of the large doors swung noisily open and a slight, stooped druchii stepped tentatively outside. He wore stained robes and a faded brown kheitan and carried a cudgel and a coiled whip at his belt. The servant sketched a cursory bow to the retainer and stared down his long, crooked nose at Malus. “Him? He looks half dead.”
The retainer turned his head and spat. “Bastard ought to be entirely dead, but he’s either too mean or too stupid to know it. He’s tough for a city-born.”
“That’s not saying much,” the servant said, crouching on his heels and prying back one of Malus’ eyelids. “He ought to be lying on a bier somewhere,” he muttered disdainfully. “What about this nauglir, then?”
“It’s right over there, fool.”
“That runt? What do you take me for? If Master Noros were here he’d be threatening a blood feud over this. It’s an insult!”
“Do I look like a baker’s apprentice to you, dung worm? I’m not here to haggle with you. Lord Tennucyr said to take this lot to the House of Noros and sell them, so here I am.”
“All right, all right. No need for all the shouting,” the servant said querulously. The man shuffled back to the doorway and let out a sharp whistle. “Cut him loose,” he said to the retainer.
“Why?”
“I want to see if he’s strong enough to stand. If he can’t, he’s not good for anything but nauglir fodder.”
Malus lay perfectly still as the retainer drew his knife and bent to cut the ropes binding the highborn’s wrists and ankles. For a moment he thought his opportunity had arrived, but by the time his bonds had been cut away two large, muscular human slaves had emerged from the compound. They took him by the arms and set him on his feet as though he were a doll. Malus gave them a weak groan and let the two slaves bear much of his weight while the servant studied him critically.
Master Noros’ man was clearly not impressed, but after a moment he sighed. “All right,” he said, “but only as a favour to your lord. Come inside and we’ll settle on a figure.” He turned to the slaves and jerked his head at the doorway. “Take him in and have him branded, then throw him in with the rest of the runts.”
The humans grunted a response and dragged Malus through the doorway into the slaver’s compound. He was taken through a large room furnished with gleaming marble pillars, each one fitted with polished silver steel manacles for displaying the owner’s wares. Malus was surprised to note that the pillars themselves were entirely decorative; in fact, there wasn’t even a ceiling for them to support. Looking up, he saw that the walls of the chamber were uncommonly high, but beyond them there was nothing but shadows and a dim hint of a cavern roof some fifteen feet above.
Beyond the display room was a long, narrow gallery that offered views of a series of training rooms. Each room displayed one or more pairs of slaves being taught the various techniques of pit fighting by scowling druchii instructors. As they passed one of the rooms Malus heard a wretched scream; one of the instructors was demonstrating the different ways to cripple an opponent by cutting the tendons of an emaciated human slave. That’s what they do with their runts, Malus thought grimly.
At the end of the gallery was an imposing iron door. One of the slaves pulled a ring of keys from his belt, unlocked the door and pushed the heavy thing open. Beyond the doorway lay another passageway this time flanked by the iron bars of a number of large cages. Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed Malus as the slaves dragged him down the passage towards a small room at the far end. The highborn’s heart began to race as he smelled burning coals and the stink of hot iron.
Inside the room a heavily scarred druchii sat at a small table poring over ledgers and scribbling notes on a sheet of thick parchment. Whips and cudgels hung from pegs on the walls of the room and a small brazier with a single iron stood in one corner. The man scowled at Malus as the slaves hauled him over to the desk. “What’s this?” he asked scornfully.
“New runt, master,” one of the slaves mumbled. “Master Lohar wants him branded.”
The druchii’s ravaged face twisted in an expression of disbelief. “He paid coin for this? Noros will have his hide,” he said. The man pushed away from the table and limped over to the brazier. “Stretch him over the table,” the man said absently, “just be careful of the ledgers.”
Before Malus knew it the men bent both of his arms behind his back and pushed him face-down across the desk. One of the slaves laid a broad hand between Malus’ shoulders and pinned him in place, while the other grabbed a handful of the highborn’s hair and turned his head so his left cheek was exposed. He felt dry parchment against his face and smelled the bitter tang of fresh ink. A small knife, used for trimming quills, rested inches from Malus’ face, though it might have been on the other side of the Sea of Ice for all the good it did him.
Malus tensed, trying to push away from the table, but he couldn’t move an inch. For a fleeting moment, Malus thought of calling to Tz’arkan for help, but he angrily pushed the thought aside. If the cursed daemon hadn’t helped him when he was near to dying on the Spear Road, why would he share his strength now?
There was a hiss as the druchii pulled the iron free from the coals. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the glowing symbol of a crescent moon — evidently the mark of the House of Noros. The druchii studied the brand carefully, then nodded to himself. “Now don’t let him flinch like the last one,” the man admonished, limping over to the table. “If his eyeball bursts it’ll ruin my papers.”
The brand descended towards Malus’ face, the orange glow beating against his skin like an angry sun. At the last moment Malus closed his eyes and cried out — then picked up his left foot and smashed his heel into the knee of the slave next to him. The human let out a shout of surprise and pain as his leg gave way beneath him and pitched him forward into the path of the brand. The red-hot metal struck his shoulder and the slave’s cry turned to a scream of agony as his woollen robes caught fire. Roaring in pain, the man panicked, letting go of Malus and beating at the fire with his hands. The highborn snatched the quill-knife from the desk and rolled onto his side, stabbing backwards and burying the blade to the hilt in the side of the other slave’s throat. Bright blood sprayed across Malus and the startled druchii slaver as the wounded man collapsed.
Malus pushed away from the table and reversed his grip on the bloody knife. The blade was less than four inches long — hardly a fearsome weapon in the best of circumstances. The slaver recovered from his shock and advanced on the highborn, holding the branding iron ahead of him like a sword. The metal was still glowing a dull cherry-red, more than hot enough to char flesh with a touch.
The slaver crept closer, jabbing at Malus’ face and chest with the hot iron. The highborn retreated, feinting left and right, but every time he tried to get past the man the searing brand was there, reaching for his face. The slaver gave him a lopsided sneer — and Malus flipped his knife end-over-end, caught the tip between two fingers and threw the weapon at the man’s face. The man ducked the thrown knife easily, but it gave Malus time to turn and dash for the nearest wall. With a startled shout the slaver was right on his heels — but not fast enough to prevent Malus from snatching a heavy oak cudgel from its peg. He spun on one heel and lashed out with a vicious swing, connecting solidly with the slaver’s temple. There was a crunch of bone and the scarred man groaned, toppling to the floor.
By this time bedlam reigned among the cages outside the room. Slaves of every race crowded at the bars and shouted for blood. They shook the doors of their cages and caused a thunderous racket. That’s certain to attract unwelcome attention, Malus thought. Sure enough, the highborn glanced down the passage and saw a group of overseers racing towards him, brandishing their cudgels.
Thinking quickly, Malus checked the belt of the dead slaver and found a ring of thick iron keys. He went to the still-twitching slave he’d stabbed and grabbed the second key ring, then tossed them through the bars of the two nearest cages. “Open the doors and pass the keys to the next cages in line!” he bellowed in a commanding voice. “Then arm yourselves as best you can. Now is your chance for revenge!”
The slaves answered Malus with a feral roar that brought a merciless grin to his face. He turned to the overseers, still several yards away and saw at once that they’d seen what he’d done. The highborn took a step towards them, brandishing his cudgel and they turned and ran. Howling like a wolf he set off after them. Behind him the first of the cage doors slammed open and the passageway resounded with the thunder of pent-up feet.
The overseers reached the iron door and left it gaping wide in their hurry to escape. Malus gained on the fleeing men rapidly, listening to their cries of alarm. As the highborn swept down the gallery the druchii instructor who’d been crippling runts minutes before clambered into the hallway ahead of Malus with a confused look on his face. Malus slashed downwards with the cudgel, shattering the man’s knee in passing and left him writhing on the floor for the other slaves to find.
In the display room beyond, Malus found Lohar the slaver standing next to Tennucyr’s retainer. The slaver was shouting frantic commands at the panicked overseers, trying to get them to explain what had happened. When Lohar saw Malus dash into the room with his bloodstained cudgel his face went deathly white. Tennucyr’s man let out a startled shout, as if he’d seen a ghost. Malus bared his teeth hungrily. “Care to make another wager, little man?”
Lohar let out a yell and rushed at Malus, uncoiling his scourge with a swift, fluid motion and aiming a flesh-tearing stroke at the highborn’s face. A slave would have quailed from such a blow, but not a battle-hardened warrior. Malus ducked the blow and rushed at Lohar, swinging the cudgel in a two-handed grip and striking the man in the groin. The slaver doubled over with a choked scream that ended when Malus struck the back of the man’s head with a backhanded blow that dropped him to the floor.
Malus spun to face Tennucyr’s man — and caught a glimpse of the retainer’s back as he dashed through the compound’s open door.
The retainer was running for his mount as fast as he could, not bothering to look back. Malus stepped outside, took careful aim and flung the cudgel at the man as hard as he could. The heavy club spun end-over-end and struck the retainer in the head, sending him tumbling to the ground.
Screams and the sounds of fighting echoed from Master Noros’ house as Malus reached Tennucyr’s retainer and rolled him onto his back. The man was just regaining consciousness as the highborn plucked the man’s dagger from his belt.
Malus knelt on the druchii’s armoured chest and rested the tip of the blade beneath the man’s chin.
“A bad time to wake up,” Malus said coldly. “But I must say your luck has finally turned here at the end.”
The retainer blinked. “My luck? What do you mean?”
The highborn bent close, peering into the man’s eyes. “Because I can’t afford to get any blood on your armour or it will ruin the disguise,” he said and drove the dagger upwards into the man’s brain.
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. “Especially after so much silence when I was being hunted like a wolf after the fight at Vaelgor Keep.”
“Fool,” the daemon spat. “I kept you alive after you blundered into Lurhan’s men and got yourself riddled with bolts. Were it not for me that infection would have taken your leg at the very least, if not killed you after days of pain and delirium. I am your staunchest ally, Dark-blade, but you are too stupid to see it.”
Malus was incredulous. “Ally? You did not tell me it was Lurhan who took the dagger, did you? No, you mocked me with riddles. For all I know this is another one of your cursed games.”
“Have I ever lied to you, Malus?” the daemon hissed. “No. Not once.”
“But when have you ever told me the complete truth?” Malus shot back. “Answer that if you can. I know Bale is my enemy. Everyone in Naggaroth is my foe, you damned spirit. Tell me something useful for once and explain to me why I shouldn’t throw in my lot with him.”
“He will use you against Hag Graef,” Tz’arkan replied. “You will be a weapon that he will aim at the city’s heart.”
The warning was so absurd the highborn could not help but laugh. “Are you so simple as that, daemon? Of course he would do such a thing — did you honestly imagine this wouldn’t have occurred to me? The sword cuts both ways, daemon. He will seek to bend me to his purposes and I will do the same to him. That is how the game is played.” Malus grinned savagely. “No country lord will get the better of a druchii of Hag Graef!”
Spite rounded another corner in the long climb just as a deep, resonant boom resounded through the very stone of the ark itself. The sound rolled like thunder, reverberating through the highborn’s bones and no sooner had its echoes faded than a second beat followed in its wake. It was the beat of a great and terrible drum, spreading a portentous alarm through the tunnels and caverns of the enormous fortress. The sound sharpened Malus’ calculating grin. Chaos and panic were his real allies at the moment; the longer the alarm was raised, the greater his chances of reaching Bale’s fortress and gaining an audience with the Witch Lord himself. Part of his mind was already hard at work formulating a proposal to Bale that he hoped the Witch Lord would be unable to refuse.
The drum was still tolling its alarm when Malus reached the next level above the Slavers’ Quarter. One moment he was speeding through the gloom of the curving passage and the next he was galloping past a group of startled toll-guards and up the side of an enormous cavern. Vast, dank space stretched away to Malus’ right and for a moment the highborn felt a wave of dizziness at the sudden change of surroundings. The chamber was so huge that the far side was lost in the diffuse haze of witchlights, their glow limning the gleaming sides of scores of marble pillars rising almost a hundred feet to the arched ceiling overhead. Among the pillars Malus glimpsed small buildings and more narrow lanes bustling with armed, purposeful druchii. Then the ramp reached the top of the great chamber and the narrow walls of a subterranean passage closed about Malus once more.
Minutes later the highborn smelled fresh, cold air and sensed he was nearing the top of the ark. Then around the corner came the measured tramp of marching feet and the highborn led Spite up against the inner wall of the passageway just in time to avoid the rushing mass of a regiment of Naggorite spearmen marching double-quick to reach the fighting below. Lamplight gleamed on the curved surfaces of their breastplates and glittered like frost on their fine skirts of heavy mail and their faces were lit with anticipation as they rushed past Malus with nary a curious glance. A small detachment of crossbowmen followed in the spearmen’s wake, then a large troop of knights mounted on cold ones, their lances tipped with pennons of black and red. It was a swift and fearsome response, the highborn noted with some admiration. Not even the warriors of Hag Graef could have reacted so swiftly.
Once the troops were past the highborn spurred his mount to extra speed, conscious of the fact that the uprising wouldn’t last for long once the ark’s warriors arrived. He was so intent on speed that he didn’t recognise that the passageway was gradually levelling out and the air was becoming fresher until he rounded a final corner and found himself rushing headlong at a tall gate of iron bars wrought with sharpened, thorn-like spikes.
“Whoa!” Malus cried, dragging at the reins, his eyes widening as Spite slowly recognised the command and started to back-pedal, his broad feet skidding along the smooth stone ramp as they hurtled towards the thicket of sharp iron. Closer and closer the spikes came, until the highborn fought the urge to hurl himself from the saddle. At the last minute the nauglir’s claws found purchase, scoring deep grooves in the stone as the one-ton warbeast skidded to a halt. The gate loomed like a wall to Malus’ right, close enough to touch. A spike glinted less than five inches from his exposed neck; another poked threateningly against his right greave.
A contingent of spearmen stood watchfully on the other side of the gate, their dark eyes wide with shock at the highborn’s sudden and perilous arrival. Malus quickly singled out the leader of the detachment and fixed him with a hard stare. “Open the gate, damn your eyes!” he snapped. “The slaves are in full revolt and I have an urgent message for the Witch Lord!”
The sharp tone of command in Malus’ voice sent the guards scrambling for the winch that controlled the gate. Within moments a sally port creaked open and the highborn guided his cold one through the narrow gap. The guard captain shouted something at Malus, but the highborn ignored him and kicked Spite back into a gallop.
Beyond the gate a broad, arched tunnel ran for almost ten yards. Pale sunlight shone on dark grey walls at the far end. “Almost there,” Malus said to himself and within moments he burst from the tunnel into a wide city square bordered by the citadels of the city elite.
The highborn expected to find market stalls and citizens going about their daily business, instead he rode into the midst of an armed camp. Companies of spearmen stood in black-armoured ranks, arrayed by regiment in huge formations to either side of the tunnel. Across the square light cavalry waited nervously, the warhorses skittish in the presence of a large company of cold one knights in full panoply some distance away. Malus felt a thousand pairs of eyes turn his way as he barrelled from the darkness of the tunnel and he fought to keep his expression neutral as he realised he had no idea where he was going.
Thinking quickly, he scanned the towers looming all around him and picked out the one that rose above all the rest, standing out against a forest of weathered masts off to the northeast. Without slowing, Malus crossed the square in that direction and plunged down the first street he found. To the highborn’s relief, there were no shouts of alarm or sounds of pursuit. He was just one more knight among scores of others, hard about his master’s business.
The streets of the upper city were deserted, the doors of the citadels shut tight at the sound of the tolling drum. Malus made his way through the maze of streets as quickly as he could, keeping one eye on the tall tower at all times. Slowly but surely his haphazard path drew him closer and closer to his goal, until without warning he found himself riding across another large square that stretched at the foot of Bale’s citadel. This open area was also packed with formations of alert troops, many wearing newly polished armour and weapons untouched by the grit and grime of the battlefield. Again, hundreds of eyes followed Malus as he entered the square and on instinct he checked his furious pace, slowing Spite to a brisk lope. These weren’t citizen militia called to action by the riot in the Slavers’ Quarter, Malus realised. They were regular troops, many of them freshly equipped from the Witch Lord’s arsenals. Bale was in the process of raising an army. The black ark was marching to war.
Malus barely had time to consider the implications of such a move as he rode up to a tall, imposing gate of polished iron set at the base of Bale’s citadel. A phalanx of armoured spearmen stood before the portal and lowered their weapons at the highborn’s approach. On either flank of the spear phalanx half a dozen crossbowmen took careful aim at Malus, reminding him of his wounds.
The captain of the guard company stepped forward, his sword pointed — for the moment — at the ground. “Halt!” he ordered. “State your business.”
“I serve Lord Tennucyr,” Malus answered, reining Spite in a dozen yards short of the captain. “I have an urgent message for the Witch Lord.” The highborn resisted the urge to try and order the man aside. This wasn’t some toll-collector who lived in fear of earning a highborn’s ire. Threatening the captain would only garner Malus more attention than he really wanted.
Despite the highborn’s businesslike tone, the captain frowned. “Tennucyr, you say?”
Malus paused, hearing the suspicion in the captain’s voice. He considered his response carefully. “I was sent into the Slavers’ Quarter by my lord to ascertain the situation there and now I must make my report to the Witch Lord.” On impulse, he added: “Several compounds are already ablaze, captain. Time is of the essence.”
At that, the captain nodded. “Very well,” he said and waved to his spearmen to stand aside, then turned to face the battlements above the gate. “A messenger for the Witch Lord!” the captain declared in a powerful voice. “Open the gate!”
There was a pair of dull thuds as bolts were drawn aside and the fifteen-foot iron gates swung open with scarcely a sound. Malus nodded curtly to the captain and kept his face carefully neutral as he spurred his mount forward and entered Balneth Bale’s citadel. As he entered a short tunnel that ran from the gate and through the thick citadel wall, the daemon whispered, “I warned you, Darkblade. When the trap springs shut, remember that.”
“Speak plainly or shut up, daemon,” Malus snarled. “So far you’ve told me nothing I didn’t already know.”
The tunnel opened into a small courtyard bordered by stables, a nauglir pen and a smithy. A tall, forbidding statue of a druchii in stately robes and bearing a rune-carved staff stood imperiously in the centre of the space. A beast handler was waiting as Malus reined in and slid from the saddle and the highborn handed Spite off to him. “Keep him saddled until you hear otherwise,” he told the handler, then strode briskly to the citadel’s entrance.
Malus fought the urge to fidget and rearrange his ill-fitting armour as he approached the citadel’s arched wooden door. It opened silently at his approach and a liveried servant waited upon the threshold. “Where is the Witch Lord?” he demanded of the servant.
The servant bowed and stepped aside to allow Malus to enter the citadel’s entry hall. “My lord holds council in his private chambers,” he said with downcast eyes. “He is not to be disturbed, dread lord.”
“I shall be the judge of that,” the highborn snapped. “I have an urgent message for him from the men fighting in the Slavers’ Quarter. Take me to him.”
The servant did not hesitate. “At once, dread lord,” the man said quietly, then turned and led Malus through the small entry hall and into the great chamber beyond.
The main hall of the citadel was a large, circular space made of seamless, dark grey stone and hung with archaic tapestries depicting the deeds of warlocks long dead. The vaulted ceiling soared more than thirty feet over Malus’ head and when he looked up he was shocked to see a gleaming moon and a scattering of stars glowing in a black velvet sky. Illumination from the illusory moon was the only source of light in the chamber, limning the dais and the iron throne in the centre of the room with a patina of burnished pewter. Statues of warlocks and witches stood in alcoves around the perimeter of the room, their marble faces astonishingly vibrant in the sorcerous light. Beyond the dais, the statue of a wingless dragon rose in a spiralling pillar of stone up into the darkness. Illusory moonlight shone on iridescent dragon scales formed from crushed pearl.
The grandeur of the room stopped Malus in his tracks. The air was heavy with age and solemnity, and for the first time the highborn realised he was in a tower that had once stood in Nagarythe, thousands of years before. It was a remnant of glories past and Malus was surprised at the sudden sense of loss he felt beneath the unblinking light of forgotten stars.
I will not forgive and I will not forget, he swore to himself. Death and ruin to the sons of Aenarion for all that they have taken from us.
The servant was moving swiftly across the gleaming marble floor, oblivious to the wonders surrounding him. Malus shook himself from his reverie and hurried after the retreating form. As he drew near the towering stone dragon he saw that the statue was in fact a cunningly constructed staircase, rising to the tower floors above. The risers were steep and narrow and there was nothing to grip during the climb, but the servant climbed the stairs with quick and nimble steps. The highborn climbed doggedly after the man, focusing his attention on the servant’s feet just a few steps above his eye level.
They climbed into the ghostly night sky. Malus felt no heat from the gleaming points of starlight, but the smell of sorcery was thick in the air. When he reached out his hand to touch the gleaming moon his fingers passed effortlessly through it; skin tingling from the touch of sorcerous energies.
Up into the false twilight they rose, until their steps were all but lost in shadow. They left the main hall behind and after a time Malus dimly glimpsed vague outlines of other tower floors that they passed in the gloom. More sorcery played across his skin, he suspected that some protective spell kept him separate from parts of the tower that Bale did not wish strangers to see.
At length the servant stopped his nimble climb and stepped sideways off the stair. Malus moved quickly after the man, part of him fearing that if he could not keep up with his guide the dragon would keep him in its clutches forever. Leaving the staircase was like emerging from night into false dawn — one moment Malus was peering into twilit gloom and the next he was standing in a room lit with a soft glow, as from nascent sunlight. The chamber was smaller but no less lavishly appointed than the main hall below. Ancient tapestries hung at intervals along the circular wall, interspersed with statuary of arcane creatures like hydras, basilisks and griffons. The air was hushed and sombre, perfumed with the faint scent of incense. Across the chamber stood an arched doorway of dark oak banded with polished iron. Decorative iron bands on the surface of the door depicted a pair of wyverns locked in a mating flight above a range of narrow mountains.
The servant crossed soundlessly to the door and from the surroundings Malus sensed that he’d reached Bale’s private chambers. The highborn took a deep breath and composed himself, tugging impatiently at the hadrilkar that hung loosely around his neck. He would toss the cursed thing aside the moment he found his way into the Witch Lord’s presence; wearing the collar had been galling enough on the way to the tower, much less in the presence of other highborn.
Malus was considering the wording of his offer to the Witch Lord when the servant laid a hand on the iron-bound door and then stepped deferentially aside. The door swung open slowly and silently — just as an armoured highborn came barging through from the other side, flanked by his retainers.
Lord Tennucyr checked his stride just in time to avoid walking into the opening door and scowled fiercely at the man waiting on the other side. His brow furrowed in confusion as he recognised the collar around Malus’ neck as his own — then his eyes went wide when he realised who was wearing it.
“You!” Tennucyr cried. “But how?”
Malus masked his shock with careless grin. “That would be a rather long story, I’m afraid. Let us just say I have a talent for trouble and leave it at that.”
The Naggorite lord went pale with rage. He drew his sword and levelled it at Malus’ throat. “Assassin!” he roared. “Kill him!”
Tennucyr’s men slipped like eels past their lord, their blades glittering in their hands. Malus raised his hand in protest. “My lord, you’re making a mistake!” he said quickly, but then the two retainers were upon him, their swords flickering like adders’ tongues.
Malus retreated from the two men and groped frantically for his own blade. The two men advanced on either side of the highborn, pressing their advantage and slashing at his elbows and knees. The joints of the plate harness were among the armour’s weaker points and the men were well-versed in the art of bringing down fully armoured knights. One sword glanced off Malus’ right elbow joint, knocking the loosely-fitting armature askew and momentarily locking the joint. The second man’s stroke chopped downward and caught the highborn’s left knee joint, snapping pins and popping the metal armature apart. Malus felt a flare of pain from his battered knee and just managed to get his sword drawn in time to block a vicious cut to his throat from the man to his right.
The highborn bit back a savage curse. A fight was the last thing he needed at the moment. If Balneth Bale was in the chamber beyond it would only be a matter of moments before his personal guardsmen became involved, effectively ending any chance to make his case before the Witch Lord. Desperation fuelled his thoughts. “Daemon…” he whispered under his breath.
“Do not ask, fool,” Tz’arkan snapped. “I have given you all that I intend to give. What happens now must be of your own making.”
Malus roared in rage and hurled himself at the two retainers, slashing furiously at their faces and regaining some of the ground he’d lost.
The warriors were thrown off-balance only for a moment, then began to circle around Malus from opposite sides. The highborn fought the urge to turn along with them — if he moved to keep them in sight he would be turning his back on Tennucyr, who stood some ways off with sword in hand, waiting for the moment to strike.
Pain throbbed in Malus’ shoulder, leg and arm and he could feel his limbs burning as he reached the limits of his meagre strength. He had to do something, or all was lost.
Malus locked eyes with Tennucyr just as his two retainers rushed at the highborn from either side. The Naggorite lord grinned mirthlessly and on impulse Malus hurled his sword at the man’s face and charged at him.
Tennucyr’s grin vanished as Malus’ sword spun end-over-end at his face, but the highborn was skilled and swift, ducking and bringing up his own sword to knock the flung weapon aside. Before he could recover, however, Malus crashed into the man and knocked him off his feet. The two nobles crashed to the floor and skidded across the polished tiles and through the doorway.
The room beyond the door was dimly lit and redolent with burning spices. Lit braziers cast a ruddy glow against the eddying smoke and outlined heavy tapestries that hung from the unseen ceiling. The tapestries were set in an archaic style that further subdivided the chamber into smaller spaces, concealing the efforts of servants and retainers as they waited upon the highborn gathered in the centre of the chamber.
Malus took all this in with a single glance as he closed a hand around Tennucyr’s sword wrist and pinned the weapon to the floor. His other hand closed around the Naggorite lord’s throat. Tennucyr’s eyes bulged and his free hand pummelled Malus’ arm and head. Malus heard running feet behind him and knew that his time had almost run out. He raised his head to the silhouetted figures sitting in the room’s central chamber and cried out, “Balneth Bale! Witch Lord of the black ark! I am your kinsman and I have come to offer you a gift.”
The highborn heard the snarled curses of Tennucyr’s men as they raced into the room. Malus tensed, expecting to feel a sword bite into the back of his neck, but one of the dark figures before him straightened slightly and held up a forbidding hand. “That is enough,” the figure said in a cold, commanding voice and Malus heard the men behind him stop in mid-stride. The forbidding hand then beckoned. “Release my cousin and come forward, Malus of Hag Graef,” the figure said. “I would hear of this gift you would give me.”
Relief washed over Malus. With effort, he released Tennucyr and rose unsteadily to his feet, then reached up and unclasped the hadrilkar hanging around his neck. Malus dropped the tore onto Tennucyr’s chest and calmly approached the Witch Lord.
The haze parted like fog as Malus approached the assembled Naggorites. Balneth Bale reclined in a massive throne formed of thorned ebony and wrought with carvings of wyverns on the hunt. The Witch Lord wore finely crafted armour chased with silver and gold and his black hair fell loose about his narrow shoulders. Bale was a handsome man, with an uncharacteristically square chin and high, flat cheekbones; Malus was immediately reminded of his mother Eldire, Bale’s sister and former seer. The Witch Lord’s new oracle, a surprisingly youthful-looking woman, sat just behind and to the left of Bale, clutching a glowing green orb in her slim hands. She was a voluptuous, white-haired figure with piercing black eyes and her sharp features bore an expression of secret mirth as she watched Malus approach.
What does that damned crone know, the highborn wondered?
Three other nobles sat in a rough semicircle before Bale, reclining in ebony chairs of their own and watching Malus with hooded eyes. They, too, wore full armour and sat around a low table set with a parchment map of northern Naggaroth. The part of the map in the centre of the table focussed on the Spear Road between the black ark and Hag Graef.
Now Malus knew where Bale and his army were headed. He smiled, inclining his head in a gesture of respect. “I see you’ve heard the news,” he said.
Bale regarded Malus intently, though his expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “Is it true?” he asked. “Is Lurhan dead?”
Malus nodded. “Your bitterest foe is no more, dread lord. I slew him with my own hand. And now I come to offer you my allegiance as a kinsman and an enemy of Hag Graef.”
“Allegiance. Indeed?” Bale smiled, but the mirth did not reach the obsidian flecks of his eyes. “And what would you ask for in return?”
“Only what is any highborn’s right — property and position within your realm and a place in your army” Malus turned back to Tennucyr, who was being helped to his feet by one of his men. “You could grant me his possessions, for example.”
“Mine?” Tennucyr gasped. “I am the Witch Lord’s cousin!”
“But I am his nephew,” Malus countered. “Who you captured, tortured and attempted to sell into slavery at the house of Master Noros.” The highborn glanced enquiringly at Bale. “If I am not mistaken, even by the laws of the black ark that could be considered treason. You could be stripped naked and impaled on the wall of the ark, my lord. Merely stripping you of your possessions is being generous, to my mind.”
Now the Witch Lord’s smile broadened. “I begin to see the family resemblance,” he said. “Tell me: are there any particular possessions you wish to take from my cousin?”
Malus frowned. He had been thinking specifically of regaining the daemon’s relics, but had no intention of revealing their importance to Bale or anyone else. “I… I’m not certain what you mean, dread liege.”
Bale raised an armoured gauntlet and made a small gesture. Immediately a retainer glided soundlessly from behind a nearby hanging and knelt beside her lord. She held a polished wooden box in her hands, which she held up for the Witch Lord to inspect. Bale reached down and lifted the lid of the box with one steel-clad finger. Within, nestled in red velvet, lay the Octagon of Praan, the Idol of Kolkuth and the Dagger of Torxus.
“Perhaps you take my meaning now, Malus of Hag Graef?”
Tz’arkan shifted uneasily in Malus’ chest, constricting tightly around his heart. The highborn fought to keep his voice calm. “I don’t understand.”
Bale laughed — a hollow, heartless sound. “Your coming was not unexpected, Malus. In fact, it was foreseen! The Witch Lord reached for the seer’s hand, taking it in his own and a brief smile played across the oracle’s cruel features.
Malus started to speak, but words failed him. His mind reeled at the implications of Bale’s words and the room seemed to spin. Bale laughed and his men joined in — along with a thin, cackling voice from the shadows that sounded eerily familiar.
The highborn turned and bolted for the door, reaching for a sword he no longer possessed. Tennucyr’s retainers moved to block the exit, but then Malus heard a sibilant hiss and the air around him seethed with power. The highborn felt as if a net of invisible fire had drawn tight around him, freezing him in place. Lines of searing heat glowed across the surface of his armour and somehow burned the skin beneath. Malus let out a furious groan, but the sorcery held him fast.
Malus watched the fierce expressions of Tennucyr and his men turn into looks of atavistic terror; without a word to the Witch Lord they retreated from the room. The highborn heard another hiss and the lines of fire around him twisted and contracted, forcing his limbs to obey the will of another mind. Slowly, haltingly, he turned back to face the Witch Lord, his expression a mask of fear and loathing. The cackling laughter continued, growing steadily closer.
Balneth Bale still reclined, his black eyes alight with triumph. Two figures stepped from the darkness behind the chair — one a hunched, trembling shape that laughed like a madman, the other a cloaked and hooded figure of medium height who supported the cackling wretch with an outstretched hand.
You will serve us Malus Darkblade,” Balneth Bale said. “Be assured of that. Already you have done our bidding and slain the Vaulkhar of Hag Graef. Soon you will become the instrument of the Hag’s utter defeat.”
The cackling figure stepped into the red-lit haze. Lank black hair hung loosely around a youthful face that was crisscrossed with a pattern of deep and poorly healed scars. Two silver earrings glinted from the chewed nub of his right ear and a patchy grey goatee was the only hair left on the man’s ravaged head.
Malus knew the man at once.
Fuerlan, Balneth Bale’s son and formerly the black ark’s hostage to Hag Graef, looked up at Malus with dark eyes devoid of mercy or reason. When he spoke his voice rasped like broken glass, shattered beneath the weight of hours of agonising screams.
“And when we take that cursed city you will have the honour of placing the drachau’s crown upon my head,” Fuerlan whispered hatefully.
Malus trembled in the sorcerous trap, helpless in the grip of his enemies. Tz’arkan was right, he thought. Mother of Night protect me, the fiend was right.
Perhaps seeing the horror in Malus’ eyes, Fuerlan threw back his head and cackled like a madman. Then the figure at Fuerlan’s side withdrew her hand from the Naggorite’s arm and extended a pale finger at Malus’ forehead. As she did so, the light of the braziers reached inside the depths of her hood and Malus saw a familiar pair of dark, hateful eyes burning into his own.
Nagaira! Malus thought — then the finger rested lightly against his forehead and the world dissolved in an explosion of white light.
Malus awoke with sunlight on his face, lying on a wide bed beneath piles of heavy blankets and furs. He opened his eyes tentatively, squinting against the glare. His mouth felt as though it had been filled with paste and left to set overnight. With a groan he rolled onto his side — there was a faint sense of soreness in his left shoulder and arm and his limbs were weak, as if he’d lain in the grip of a powerful fever. A few feet across the bedchamber stood a small table and upon the table sat a pitcher and a polished metal goblet. Malus took a deep breath, summoning his strength and slid his bare legs out from beneath the blankets. The air in the room was cool and the stone floor was colder still as he shrugged off the covers and slowly rose to his feet. Naked, he padded quickly to the pitcher and poured himself a cup full of dark red wine. He gulped the first cup down greedily, then poured another and sipped it steadily as he surveyed his surroundings.
It was a large room, fit for a well-to-do highborn. The bed, table and chairs were expertly carved from blooded oak and thick hangings covered the smooth stone walls to help keep out the chill. A tall chest of ebony wood stood against one wall. When he opened it, Malus found rich woollen robes and an indigo-dyed kheitan, along with a pair of fine black boots. Next to the chest stood an empty armour stand, which led him to wonder where his plate harness and weapons were.
Stranger still was the fact that the question didn’t trouble him in the least. He felt entirely at ease, despite the fact that he didn’t recognise the room and hadn’t the faintest idea where he was.
Malus finished off his second goblet of wine, savouring the warmth filling his belly and reluctantly set the cup back on the table. The only illumination in the room was the shaft of grey sunlight streaming through the tall window opposite the bed; thin curtains shifted restlessly in the breeze streaming in from outside. The highborn walked to the window and pulled back the curtains enough to peer outside. He looked out on a profusion of tall, slate-roofed towers — and a trio of worn, blackened masts rising more than a hundred and fifty feet into the air.
He was at the Black Ark of Naggor, Malus realised with a start. Then he noticed that the hand holding back the curtains was covered in lines of fine, black script. Bemused, Malus inspected his scarred body and found it covered in line after line of arcane script.
“Some of my best work, if I do say so myself,” said a voice from behind Malus. “It took hours upon hours to get it right, but the end result was quite satisfactory.”
The voice sent a chill down Malus’ spine. It was familiar, seductive — and yet alien, somehow. Something about the timbre of the voice, or the tone… he couldn’t quite say what, but it filled him with unease. He turned, clumsily and saw her sitting in a low chair in a dark corner of the room. She wore heavy, woollen robes dyed a deep red and a kheitan of blackened dwarf hide. Nagaira’s strong fingers were steepled contemplatively as she studied him. He could feel her eyes upon him like a blade against his skin, though her face was masked in deep shadow. “Tell me, dear brother, how do you feel?”
A dozen intemperate responses tumbled through Malus’ mind. He struggled to maintain his composure. “Right now, I feel like having another drink,” he managed to say. “Would you care to join me, sister?”
Nagaira smiled — Malus couldn’t see her expression, but he could feel her amusement — and she shook her head slightly. “I would have a care with this country wine if I were you,” she said. “It’s potent stuff and you’ve been ill for a long time.”
Malus returned to the table and poured another drink while he tried to dredge his memory for clues to his situation. Everything was hazy and indistinct and the more he concentrated, the hazier his recollections became. “How long?” he asked.
“Just over a week. The corruption in your wounds ran very deep — without my sorcery, I doubt you would have survived.”
Malus frowned, taking another sip of wine. Already his head felt light, but he welcomed the feeling. He glanced down at his left shoulder and arm and saw a pink scar on his bicep. “Wounded, you say?”
For a moment, Nagaira was silent. “How much do you remember, brother?”
Malus took a deep breath, grasping mentally at wisps of fog. Fragmentary images came and went, tumbling through his grasp like bits of broken glass.
Glass. An image of a hall in some far-off keep. Dead men lying in pools of blood and a head leaving a trail of steaming blood as it rolled across the stone floor.
The highborn glanced at Nagaira. “Father is dead,” he said simply. “I killed him.”
“Yes. Do you remember why?”
“I needed a reason?” Malus asked with a half-hearted smile. Just as quickly his expression changed to a worried frown. “Honestly, I don’t know for certain. We were in a tower somewhere—”
“Vaelgor Keep,” Nagaira said. “It’s a despatch-fort on the Slavers’ Road near Har Ganeth, or so I’m told. Lurhan had concluded some secret campaign up in the hills and was headed home when you appeared out of nowhere and confronted him.”
“I? Confronted him about what?”
Nagaira spread her hands. “Only you can answer that, brother. No one else survived to tell the tale. You slew Lurhan and his chief retainers single-handedly and fled into the night.”
Malus nodded thoughtfully, reaching for more shards of memory. “There was a fight on the road…”
“More than one, I should think. You’d been shot several times and the wounds were festering by the time you arrived here. You were raving like a madman by the time you encountered a Naggorite patrol. Fortunately for you, the lord in charge was one of the Witch Lord’s cousins and he must have recognised the family resemblance. They chased off Lurhan’s men and brought you here, where I’ve been trying to save you ever since.” She folded her arms and inclined her head thoughtfully. “Loss of memory is common after a long fever, though it should return over time.”
Malus eyed Nagaira warily as he finished his wine. “I must say I’m surprised at your efforts on my behalf.”
Nagaira chuckled. “I see there are some things you have no trouble recalling.”
He could remember her hanging in the air above her ruined tower, surrounded by a swirling vortex of unearthly power. She had tried to lure him into the forbidden Cult of Slaanesh and he’d betrayed her to the Temple of Khaine because… Well, he couldn’t remember exactly why. “I was certain you’d died in that explosion, sister.”
“That’s because you’re no sorcerer,” Nagaira said smugly. “It suited my purposes for Lurhan and the drachau to believe me dead, though.”
“And so you came here.”
“What better refuge for an outlawed witch? Balneth Bale was sympathetic to my plight for a number of reasons,” she said. “I daresay you thought much the same thing or you wouldn’t have come here yourself.”
Malus shrugged, conceding the point. “You still haven’t explained why you went to such lengths to heal me.”
“Instead of weaving a robe out of your living nerves, you mean?”
The highborn suppressed a chill. “The thought had occurred, yes.”
Nagaira sighed, like a cold wind whistling over broken stone. “I was tempted, of course,” she said, a hint of steel slipping into her tone. “You will never appreciate how much knowledge was lost when my library was destroyed. For that alone you deserved to be unwound from your bones an inch at a time. And it may happen yet, dear brother. Do keep that in mind. For now, though, Balneth Bale expects great things from you and I am of course obligated to aid my host in any way I can.”
“Ah,” Malus replied. Things were becoming a bit clearer, even if his memories remained jumbled and vague. “And what exactly does the Witch Lord expect of me?”
“You will have to ask him yourself,” she said. “He has summoned you to attend a war council with the rest of his banner lords.”
“Banner lords?” Malus raised a questioning eyebrow. “I’ve sworn myself to his service?”
“As I said, you were delirious for some time,” Nagaira replied. “When Lurhan’s men entered Bale’s territory to try and catch you they technically violated the terms of the truce between the black ark and Hag Graef. And now that our father is dead the Witch Lord sees an opportunity for a swift campaign against the Hag.”
“A resumption of the feud? To what purpose? It was Lurhan who defeated Bale’s army in the field and conquered the ark all those years ago.”
“That’s so,” Nagaira agreed, “but he did it upon the orders of the drachau, Uthlan Tyr, who got them in turn from the Witch King himself. If Lurhan had simply done as he was ordered and killed Eldire for her crimes Bale’s feud would have been with Malekith alone. Instead the vaulkhar took her as his concubine and the two cities have been fighting ever since. Now, I think Bale intends to seize Hag Graef and install Fuerlan as the drachau and by the laws of blood feud Malekith will have no choice but to sit by and watch.”
Malus gave a snort of disgust. “Bale and his men defeat the army of the Flag? They don’t stand a chance.”
“That, I expect, is where you come in, dear brother.” Nagaira rose smoothly to her feet. There was something in the motion that was vaguely unsettling, but Malus couldn’t put his finger on what. “The council is underway even now, so best not to tarry,” she continued. “Although I would suggest putting some clothes on before we go.”
Malus bit back an angry retort. He wasn’t some hound to be dragged about on a leash and paraded before some country lords! When had he agreed to serve Balneth Bale and why? What had he been thinking?
Conversely, what other choice did he have? After killing Lurhan he obviously thought that Bale would offer him sanctuary — and he’d been right, though at a steep price. He had no stomach for waging war against a city he’d one day hoped to rule himself — but war had a way of creating opportunities for the ambitious, he told himself. Before he knew it he was standing before the chest of clothes and pulling on a robe and boots. “What of my armour and swords?” he asked.
“The armour is being mended. I confess we don’t know what happened to your swords, which is a pity since they cost me a fortune,” Nagaira said.
Malus turned to his sister, a jibe rising to his lips — and the words died in his throat. She had stepped from the shadows of the corner and was pouring herself a cup of wine — but her face was still hidden in deep shadow. It was as though darkness hung about her like a cloak, concealing her features behind a shifting veil of night. Her pale hands almost glowed against the backdrop of sorcerous shadow as she lifted the polished goblet to her lips. She took a drink and noticed Malus’ stare. Nagaira turned, setting the cup deliberately on the surface of the table. He could feel her eyes upon him again like a bared blade.
“My apologies, brother,” she said coldly. “Were you not finished with the wine?”
Two guards in full armour stood with bared blades before the iron-bound door. When Nagaira approached they bowed their heads respectfully and stepped aside — a little too quickly, Malus noted as he followed in his sister’s wake. Not that he much blamed them. If the woman garbed herself in woven darkness, what else might she be capable of? But it was more than just the cloak of shadow — she had changed profoundly since that fateful night in the tower. A price had been paid for calling up the Chaos storm, he surmised, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask what that might have been. In truth, he wasn’t certain he would like the answer.
The witch reached out and laid a fingertip against the entwined necks of the wyverns and the door swung silently open. A rush of sound flooded out into the anteroom: men arguing, bottles clinking against cups, raucous laughter and bitter curses. But for the surroundings, Malus could have sworn he was about to step into a brewhouse rather than a council of war.
Nagaira glided like a ghost across the threshold and the clamour was snuffed like a candle. Malus heard his sister address Balneth Bale. “If it please you, my lord, Malus of Hag Graef has come in answer to your summons and stands ready to assist you in your council of war.”
The highborn stifled a growl at Nagaira’s announcement. Who was she to speak for him so freely? Yet he held his tongue as he entered the presence of the Witch Lord and his lieutenants.
Half a dozen armoured highborn sat in low chairs arranged in a rough circle before a tall chair of thorned ebony. Servants moved among the men, pouring wine or offering trays of food and retreating behind screens of heavy tapestries. A table sat in the centre of the circle, laid out with a large map of northern Naggaroth. On it, someone had drawn an arrow in red ink that ran from the black ark south and east along the Spear Road to Hag Graef.
Balneth Bale sat straight as a banner-pole on his ornate chair, his hands clasped together thoughtfully. On his left sat the ark’s seer, who was peering into the glowing green depths of a crystal orb in her lap and whispering softly to herself.
The Witch Lord nodded gravely as Malus entered the room. “Well met, slayer of Lurhan,” he said formally.
“My lord,” Malus answered, bowing to Bale. The smells of food and wine assailed him, making him dizzy with hunger, but he summoned up his willpower and refused to show any sign of weakness. “How may I serve you?” he said carefully.
The assembled lords eyed Malus with barely concealed disdain. They were all older men, scarred by the kiss of sharpened steel and weathered by years of campaigning. All but one — a young highborn sat at Bale’s right, wearing ornate, rune-marked plate armour. His bald head bore more scars than all the other men in the room combined.
“You could start by throwing yourself on the first enemy lance you find,” Fuerlan muttered into his cup of wine and the rest of the lieutenants laughed along with the young prince.
“Now that our new ally joined us, I will call the war council to order,” Bale said severely, as though Fuerlan hadn’t spoken. He turned to the servants waiting in the shadows. “Bring a chair for Lord Malus.”
Malus smiled. Lord Malus, he thought. I like the sound of that. Two servants rushed from behind a tapestry bearing another low-backed wooden chair and the highborn took his seat in the circle opposite Bale. Nagaira glided soundlessly around the perimeter of the men and took a place just behind and to the left of Fuerlan. The scarred young prince watched her movements and smiled possessively at the witch as she settled into her chosen spot.
What have we here, Malus wondered? Did Bale demand a marriage in return for giving Nagaira sanctuary? Or had she allied herself with Fuerlan as a way to set father and son against one another?
Once Malus was seated, Bale leaned back in his chair and spoke. “All of you here are well aware of the crime committed against us by the men of Hag Graef years ago.” Grizzled heads nodded and growls of assent rose from the assembled lords. “Many of you have lost sons and daughters to the feud and shed blood of your own to win back our lost honour. Time and again we have failed. The forces of Hag Graef were always too numerous and their damned general was a veritable daemon on the field of war. Yet we did not relent. We did not forgive and we did not forget.”
More nods and seething murmurs. Hot glares were turned upon Malus and the highborn met the stares with a cold look of his own.
“The ill winds of war have finally turned in our favour. Lurhan the vaulkhar lies dead at the hands of Eldire’s son and many of Hag Graef’s most powerful lords are on campaign with their warbands or at sea harvesting flesh from the Old World.” The Witch Lord gave his lieutenants a smug grin. “Now you know why I’ve kept you all here at the ark this last month and commanded the marshalling of our allies, besides. Our foes are scattered and reeling from their loss, creating an opening for us to strike at their beating heart.”
The restless murmurs subsided. Wood and leather creaked as men shifted in their chairs and set their goblets aside. Bale had the lords’ complete attention now. Malus studied the scene carefully, considering the implications. Vague memories of city squares full of armed men came and went before his mind’s eye. It was no small thing to call upon ancient agreements and summon one’s allies to war, Malus knew, nor was it wise to confine one’s lords at home at a time when they could be seeking fortune and glory abroad. Bale foresaw all this, Malus concluded and a strange tickle of memory teased at the back of his brain, Had he seen something else when he’d been brought to the ark? The more he concentrated on the thought, the harder it was to resolve.
“The key is to attack swiftly, while the lords of the Hag are still in disarray,” Bale continued, bending over the map set before the council. “Since Lurhan’s intended successor Bruglir has died on campaign in the North Sea, the title of vaulkhar has — for now at least — passed to Isilvar Darkmoon, Lurhan’s second son. By all reports, Isilvar is a libertine and a wastrel, unsuited to the field of war.” Bale glanced across the table. “Do you agree, Lord Malus?”
“He is all that and more,” Malus said, galled to the core at the news. “The man would have a difficult time running a flesh house, much less leading an army to battle.” The assembled lords laughed eagerly at the jibe. Malus stole a glance at Nagaira; her shadowy form was still as death itself, yet he thought he could sense a kind of predatory satisfaction there. She and Isilvar had been conspirators in the Cult of Slaanesh back at Hag Graef. Were they still allies? Was it possible that her presence at the ark was part of some still larger scheme? Malus reached up and rubbed at his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache.
Bale nodded at Malus’ assessment. “The acting vaulkhar has of course accused us of harbouring Lurhan’s assassin and gone to Uthlan Tyr demanding a resumption of the old feud. This has served to complicate the drachau’s plans to name another, more experienced highborn as the city’s war leader, thus sowing more confusion in our enemy’s ranks. The city’s nobles will still be scheming against one another to claim the title when our message arrives at the drachau’s court tomorrow.”
The Witch Lord eyed his lieutenants in turn and smiled wolfishly. “An envoy bearing the severed heads of Lurhan’s retainers will be dropped at Tyr’s feet at midday. Thanks to the sorcerous skills of my son’s betrothed—” Bale indicated Nagaira with a sweep of his hand— “Those heads will proclaim to all assembled how Lurhan’s men invaded our territory and slew our knights in a deliberate raid to seize our new ally Malus. That will give us ample proof to declare Hag Graef in violation of the Witch King’s truce and resume the feud.” Bale chuckled coldly. “By that time, of course, our army will have been six hours on the march.”
Bale leaned forward and ran an armoured finger across the frozen plains from the ark to the Spear Road, then south. “We will make a forced march for the first few days until we’ve passed the Hateful Road and Naggorond. That will place us within three days’ march of Hag Graef.”
“That will leave the men exhausted before they even meet the enemy in battle,” one of the older lieutenants growled.
To Malus’ surprise the Witch Lord accepted the criticism with equanimity. “The point, Lord Ruhven, is to act so swiftly that there will be few enemies to face along the way. If the Dark Mother is with us, we shouldn’t encounter any resistance at all until we reach Blackwater Ford.”
“And then?” Malus asked, growing intrigued with Bale’s plan.
“By that time Hag Graef will have assembled their own force and taken to the field,” Bale said. “Lurhan’s men remain hungry for vengeance and his retainers are powerful men. Isilvar will have to take action to avoid looking weak, so he will have to raise as potent a force as he can manage in a short amount of time and send them north. The only uncertainty at this stage is whether Isilvar will lead this force himself or delegate it to another general.”
“He will not go himself,” Malus declared. Despite himself, he found that he saw great potential in Bale’s strategy. “He has no reputation as a war leader and his power base at home would still be too tenuous. He would remain at home to keep his rivals at bay and claim credit for any victory won against the forces of the ark.”
“Excellent,” Bale said, nodding approvingly. “Then while Isilvar is still at the Hag stirring up political strife with his rivals, a large portion of his available forces will be heading into the jaws of our army — a force many times larger than the vaulkhar or his general will expect.” The Witch Lord’s fist came down on the dark line of the Blackwater River. “We will crush the enemy force decisively and then drive on to Hag Graef. By the time Isilvar learns of the destruction of his force we will be at the gates of the city and while the drachau and Isilvar’s rivals turn on their titular warlord in the wake of his first defeat, we will take the city by storm.”
The assembled lords looked to one another with a mixture of apprehension and battle-lust. If it worked, the plan would bring them glory and riches beyond imagining. If it failed, however, their severed heads would be feeding the crows on the battlements of Hag Graef. One of the older lords put their doubts into words. “Your plan is swift and daring,” the druchii said, “but ends in a siege of one of the most powerful of the six cities. Every day we stay camped outside its walls is another day for the Hag’s scattered nobles to gather into an army to come to the city’s relief.”
At that, Bale reclined in his thorned ebony seat and gave the man a feline smile. “There will be no siege, Lord Dyrval. The witch Nagaira will see to that.”
Eyes turned to the shadowy figure standing at Fuerlan’s shoulder. Bale’s son took a sip of wine, giggling into his cup.
It was Malus who broke the resulting silence. “And how will my esteemed sister bring down the city gates?” he asked.
The Witch Lord replied. “All things in their time, Lord Malus. All things in their time.” Bale raised his empty goblet and surveyed his men as a slave poured fresh wine. “Let us concern ourselves now with who will lead our banners to war.”
Every other question Bale’s lieutenants may have had vanished as the Witch Lord prepared to name the men who would command the divisions of the black ark’s army in the field. It was longstanding tradition for a city’s warlord to assign positions of rank within an army to whomever he deemed most worthy and capable. Typically, this meant that the army was led by allies and political favourites whose fortunes were already closely tied to the warlord himself. Such persons were guaranteed to reap a substantial share of wealth and glory if the army was successful, so competition for these positions was naturally fierce.
Since the black ark was too small to have a vaulkhar of its own, the privilege of assigning rank rested in the hands of Bale himself. Malus steepled his fingers thoughtfully and prepared to take note of whom he would need to curry favour with — and whom he would need to watch out for — in the coming days and weeks.
“According to our heralds, our mustered strength now stands at seven banners of foot and four banners of horse, plus one banner of household knights and a troop of autarii scouts,” The Witch Lord began. “The infantry will be formed into three divisions of two banners each, with one banner held in reserve. The horse will be formed into a single division, as will the household knights.”
Malus nodded to himself. It was a fairly standard organisation of forces. Along with the obligatory captain in charge of the baggage train and the artillery, that would mean six positions of rank in the army forming the general’s field council. A quick count of heads in the room revealed that there would be three highborn besides himself who would be thrown in among the rank and file — providing none of Bale’s choices “fell ill” before the army marched on the morrow.
“The command of the artillery and baggage train will go to Lord Esrahel,” Bale declared and the oldest of the assembled lords set his jaw and bowed his head respectfully, offering no complaint. “Command of the three infantry divisions will go to Lords Ruhven, Kethair and Jeharren.” Ruhven accepted his assignment gravely, while Kethair and Jeharren — both much younger highborn — smiled fiercely and bowed deeply to their lord.
“Command of the cavalry will go to Lord Dyrval,” Bale said and the highborn almost jumped from his seat, his eyes widening in surprise. Many of the other assembled lords stole questioning glances at one another, but held their tongues. For his part, Bale kept his voice level, but there was a hint of a warning in his eyes as he regarded Dyrval. Malus considered the reactions. It appears Bale is giving Dyrval the chance to redeem himself for some past error, he thought. The man must be highly esteemed in the Witch Lord’s eyes to be given such a coveted post, Malus concluded. That’s something to keep in mind.
That left the command of the household knights, a position that promised even less in the way of plunder than the captain of the baggage train, who could at least expect to skim a healthy portion of gold from the army’s own treasury. What the position lacked in profits it made up for in prestige, however, for the captain of knights was the army’s second-in-command and could form alliances with many high-ranking nobles during the course of the campaign.
Malus eyed Fuerlan across the table and tried to hide his disgust. There was little doubt who Bale would assign the position to — and who would likely be his immediate superior in the army. He was lost in thought, contemplating various ways to quietly assassinate the man when Bale made his announcement and was jolted from his idle schemes when several of the lords leapt to their feet in outrage.
“This is an insult!” one of the older highborn shouted. “My household has served the ark with honour for centuries.”
“And mine as well!” cried another noble, his face scarred from years of campaigning. “You cannot do this, my lord!”
“I cannot? I cannot?” Bale said, his voice rising in anger. “It is my right as Witch Lord to assign rank to whomever I please — and slay those who oppose me!” There was a rustle of steel as armoured warriors appeared from the shadows, hands on the hilts of their swords and the angry lords sank back into their seats before the forbidding presence of Bale’s Witch Guard. “He is an expert rider and breeder of nauglir and a fierce warrior in his own right. I have no doubt he will serve well as captain of the knights,” Bale growled at his lords. He turned to Malus. “What say you? Will you take the position?”
Malus paused only for an instant. “It is a great honour, my lord,” he said, rising to his feet and bowing deeply. “I will not fail you or the army, my lord.”
“Naturally not,” Bale replied. “Your life depends on it, after all.” The Witch Lord’s smile did nothing to lessen the weight of his warning. “In addition, you will command the army’s scouts. Have you any trouble working with the autarii?”
“None at all, my lord,” he replied. Will they have trouble working with me? That’s another question entirely. Was that why I was given this role?
“Then there is but one position left to assign,” Bale said.
The lords — including Malus — shared looks of bemusement. Lord Ruhven spoke up. “If I am not mistaken, all divisions have been assigned.”
“That is so, but the commander of the army has not been named,” the Witch Lord said. “Overall command will fall to my son, Fuerlan.”
The stunned silence that followed Bale’s declaration told Malus all he needed to know about Fuerlan’s reputation at the ark. Several of the lords turned pale at the thought. Bale’s son took note of their discomfort and laughed uproariously, sloshing wine from his cup.
Lord Esrahel, the captain of the baggage, looked from son to father. “Surely my lord would wish to command the army himself on the eve of so great a victory?” he began.
The Witch Lord shook his head. “It is enough that I have laid the foundation for Uthlan Tyr’s humiliation,” he said. “My son will rule over the Hag in my name, so it is only fitting that he leads the army that will conquer it.”
It was a clever stroke, Malus had to admit. Having Bale’s idiot son seize the city would only deepen Uthlan Tyr’s humiliation — and by extension Malekith’s as well. And I have been put in a position to ensure his success, the highborn thought grimly, or likely become the scapegoat if he fails.
Bale turned to his son. “Have you anything to say to your men, general?”
Fuerlan brought his goblet to his lips and drained it in two noisy gulps, then threw the cup to the floor. A thin rivulet of wine ran along the ridge of a fine scar that pulled at the corner of his lower lip. He wiped his mouth with the back of an armoured hand and grinned mirthlessly at the lords. “I have no way with words, my lord,” he said with a thin laugh. “Deeds will have to suffice.”
He eyed Malus with a look of black-eyed hate. “We march at dawn, Lord Malus,” he hissed. “One minute later and I’ll have you flogged in front of the rest of the army. Do you understand?”
Malus inclined his head. “Perfectly, lord general,” he said with a wintry smile of his own. Then and there he realised that one of them would die before the campaign was over.
“Then all of you had best get to work,” Fuerlan declared. “Assemble the army at the Great Gate an hour before sunrise for inspection. I will see you then.”
The lords shifted uncomfortably, grappling mentally with the epic task set before them. Esrahel turned to Bale. The captain of baggage already looked haggard and worn. “Do we have leave to depart?”
Bale nodded. “The council is adjourned. May the Dark Mother ride with you and reward your hatred with vengeance and victory.”
The highborn rose from their seats without a sound. Malus followed suit, moving as if in a dream. Hundreds of questions weighed on his mind. How was he going to get an army of thousands ready to march in twelve hours when he didn’t even know where all the companies were camped, much less who commanded them? He could feel Fuerlan’s eyes on him as he strode woodenly from the chamber.
The thought of being flogged in front of thousands of men filled him with rage, but he knew that there was no point dwelling on it. Fuerlan was going to find ways to torment and humiliate him no matter what he did — that much was clear. Better by far to focus on the campaign at hand and watch for opportunities to engineer the young general’s demise.
The antechamber outside the council room was surprisingly crowded. Junior officers in the army had gathered like crows, waiting for word from their lords. As Malus began working his way through the crowd, he heard his sister’s voice behind him.
“A moment, dear brother,” Nagaira said. “I have a gift for you.”
Malus turned to find his sister standing just to the side of the council chamber’s door, attended by a trio of armoured lords and two hooded druchii. Suppressing his irritation, he smiled. “Poisoned wine, perhaps, or an adder stuffed in a bag? Something to abbreviate my misery?”
Once again, he sensed the witch’s smile. “Perhaps,” she said. “A lord, particularly one of your position, needs skilled retainers to fulfil his duties.” Nagaira indicated the assembled group with a pale hand. “So I present to you these warriors, all of them hungry for glory and eager to serve.”
And to spy for you, no doubt, Malus thought. Or stab me in my sleep if you so desire.
“Nothing could please me more,” he said tersely.
Nagaira gestured to the first lord. “Lord Eluthir is a young knight from an old family. He is a fine rider and promises to be a terrible fighter in your service.” The young lord, wearing an old suit of battered armour and a heavy cloak of bearskin, bowed deeply to Malus. His long black hair was wound in a braid and fastened with a pair of gilded finger bones and his features were sharp and inquisitive like a fox’s.
The second lord was an older man, balding and scarred, with a crude false eye made from red glass gleaming dully from his right eye socket. He bowed curtly when Nagaira indicated him. “Lord Gaelthen is a well-respected and knowledgeable warrior who knows the ark’s many household knights by name. He has fought in many battles against Hag Graef and is famous for his hatred of our former home.”
The third lord wore armour of black chased with fine gold scrollwork, his youthful features haughty and aristocratic and his eyes dark with simmering rage. When Nagaira turned to him the lord gave Malus a flat, almost accusatory stare.
“Lord Tennucyr is a rich knight and a fine rider, who has fought many battles with Hag Graef’s men,” Nagaira said. Her voice sounded faintly amused, but Malus couldn’t say for sure if she was mocking himself or Tennucyr. “When he heard that you were entering the Witch Lord’s service he was the first to volunteer to join your household.”
Malus surveyed the men. A young fool, an old fool and a knight with murder in his eyes, he thought with dismay.
The witch turned and beckoned to the hooded figures, who approached Malus on silent feet. “I confess I’ve known the Witch Lord’s intentions for some days,” she told her brother, “and I knew you would also be required to command the army’s scouts. So I searched far and wide in hopes of finding men who could aid in your work with the shades and help translate their slippery tongue. As luck would have it, these autarii had just arrived in the ark and were looking to sign on with the army and were honoured to accept a role in your household.”
The two figures drew back their hoods. One was a young autarii man with few tattoos, his face marred by fading bruises and a still-healing cut over one eye. He bowed his head deeply to Malus, but his body seemed tense and expectant.
The second autarii was but a girl, but her violet eyes were deep with knowledge of terrible deeds. Her black hair was pulled back in a number of tight braids and the tattoo of a coiling dragon worked its way from her slender throat up the side of her aristocratic face.
Another strange tickle of memory plucked at Malus’ mind. A chill ran down his spine. “Have… have we met before?” he asked the girl.
When the autarii spoke, her voice was musical but devoid of warmth. “We have shared neither meat nor salt,” she said gravely.
“No, I suppose not,” Malus said. “No doubt we will have such an opportunity soon.”
The ghost of a smile passed across the shade’s face. “Who can say what the future will bring?”
Malus had been in the saddle three hours before dawn, riding from barracks to barracks across the black ark and readying the army for war. It had been a long, sleepless night, filled with a hectic procession of introductions, assessments and orders, many of which had to be delivered forcefully and in person in order to actually get the companies moving in the right direction. There had been little time for the news of Bale’s new appointments to filter through the rest of the ranks in the wake of the council and few captains were prepared to believe that he, of all people, had the authority he claimed. One particular fool had even gone so far as to call him a liar and laugh in his face. Fortunately his lieutenant had proved to be much more circumspect and sensible after Malus fed the captain to Spite.
Dawn was paling the sky and it looked to be a clear, cold day as Malus sat in his saddle beside the household knights in the sprawling square of the Great Gate. Of all the divisions in the army, the knights had been the easiest to organise and the hardest to command; with their own small army of retainers the knights could pack and be ready to move at a moment’s notice, but convincing them of the need to do so was a tricky business.
After almost an hour of bickering over pride of place in the ranks Malus had lost patience and simply delegated the task to Lord Tennucyr, who was far more familiar with the peccadilloes of the ark’s nobility. He hadn’t seen Tennucyr for the rest of the night, but shortly before false dawn the first knights began filtering into the square and within half an hour the entire division was arrayed in columns before the gate, the pennons on their gleaming lances snapping in the brisk wind.
The first division of foot followed shortly thereafter, marching by company into the square and halting in columns a safe distance from the sluggish and sullen nauglir. The rest of the army was well out of sight, stretching along more than two miles of roadway that wound like a snake among the towers of the ark. Malus had ridden from one end of the line to the other and back again, checking with the other captains to ensure that the divisions were formed and ready for inspection according to Fuerlan’s orders and by some miracle they had done it.
The highborn leaned back in his saddle and studied the sky. As near as he could reckon, Fuerlan was an hour late.
A heavy tread across the cobblestones of the square brought Malus’ head around. Lord Gaelthen trotted down the rank of knights towards Malus, riding a huge cold one almost as old and scarred as he was. Spite growled in warning at the giant nauglir and Malus jerked Spite’s reins with a warning of his own. Gaelthen reined in at a respectful distance and raised his hand in salute. “Lord Esrahel sends his greetings, my lord, and says that there’s no way the baggage train will be ready to move before mid-afternoon at the earliest.”
“Blessed Mother of Night,” Malus cursed wearily. The fighting divisions of the army wouldn’t be clear of the city until mid-morning as it was, but that would still leave the artillery and supplies as many as six hours behind the rest of the force. “What’s the problem?”
The old knight leaned over and spat on the cobblestones. “The leaders of the draughtsmen’s guild decided to hold out for more coin. Said they couldn’t provide enough wagons and oxen on such short notice.”
“And he didn’t make an example out of the thieving wretches?” Malus snarled.
“Of course, but it takes time to crucify twenty men. Once Esrahel had everything sorted it was well into the night. They’re just trying to catch up at this point.”
“Damnation,” Malus growled, his sword hand clenching into a fist. “Do you think Esrahel truly has things in hand, or does he need to be replaced?”
Gaelthen gave Malus a sidelong glance with his one good eye. “Not wise to replace one of the Witch Lord’s appointments, especially before the army’s even marched.”
“I couldn’t care less about politics,” Malus snapped. “Victory is what I’m after. So, does Esrahel know what he’s doing?”
Gaelthen gave the highborn a searching look, then grinned. “Aye, my lord, he does. He’s had a bad throw of the bones and is trying to make the best of it, but he’ll come through.”
Malus let out a loud sigh. “Then mid-afternoon it is,” he said. “It’s not as though we’ll be making camp in the next three days.” Suddenly it occurred to him that he hadn’t checked to be sure each of the companies was carrying enough food and water on their backs to last them through the march. He grimaced. “Gaelthen, I’ve got a job for you.”
Before he could continue Malus heard someone else calling his name across the square. The highborn looked over to see Lord Eluthir riding towards him with a cloth-wrapped bundle across his lap. Malus gathered up his reins and turned back to the scarred knight. “Check with the company captains and make certain they’ve enough rations for the next three days. They carry what they will eat or they’ll go without. Understood?”
A weary look passed across the knight’s face, but he answered without hesitation. “Understood, my lord,” he said and heeled his mount around on yet another errand for his master.
Eluthir arrived as Gaelthen rode off. The younger knight’s mount was smaller than the older retainer’s but it was still a third again as large as Spite. The smaller nauglir tried to sidle away from the newcomer, but Malus checked the motion with a touch of his spurs. “What have you got for me?” the highborn asked.
“Hot bread, cheese and some sausage,” Eluthir said triumphantly, passing the bundle to his lord, then reached back and pulled an earthenware jar from a saddlebag and carefully unclasped the lid. When he pulled the lid away a spiral of steam curled up from the dark liquid within. “And I had one of my men boil a pot of ythrum,” he said triumphantly.
“Ythrum?”
“It’s a drink made from boiled courva root,” Eluthir explained. “Don’t they have it in Hag Graef?”
Malus frowned. “Certainly not. It sounds disgusting.”
“Oh, it tastes truly vile, I’ll give you that,” Eluthir said with a grin. “But it will banish sleep and keep your wits sharp for hours.” He offered Malus the jar. “I thought you might find it useful.”
The highborn eyed the jar suspiciously. “For all I know, this could be poison.”
To his surprise, Eluthir laughed. “Oh, it’s poison, all right,” Eluthir said. “Necessary poison, but poison all the same.”
Just then Malus felt a jaw-cracking yawn come on and reached for the jar. He took a tentative sip, jerking back as the scalding liquid hit his lips. “Gods Below,” he said with a pained expression. “Bitter as a temple maiden’s heart.” After a moment he took a real sip. The taste was just as vile, but he was grateful for the warmth that filled his belly. Malus unfolded the bundle in his lap and began wolfing down the food, realising he hadn’t eaten a bite all day. “Any sign of Fuerlan?” he asked between mouthfuls.
Eluthir took a long drink from the jar. Malus wasn’t sure if the man’s grimace was from the drink or his opinion of the army’s commander. “Word is that he did a tour of the flesh houses last night and wound up sprawled on the steps of the local temple sometime past midnight. He’s been inside ever since.”
Malus finished the quick meal and wiped away the crumbs from the front of his kheitan — then his weary mind registered the fact that he wasn’t wearing armour. He didn’t even have a sword to call his own. “May the Outer Darkness take me,” he growled. “Everyone’s ready for war but me!” He turned to Eluthir. “Have you any idea where Lady Nagaira is?”
“Your sister?”
“Of course, my sister! Who else?”
Eluthir blinked at his lord. “Isn’t that her over there?” he asked, indicating a knot of riders entering the far side of the square.
Malus followed the man’s gesturing hand and saw a hooded figure astride a powerful black warhorse, accompanied by a pair of armoured cavalrymen and what appeared to be a small retinue of mounted servants. He couldn’t tell if the figure was Nagaira or not, but he certainly had no idea who else it could be. He kicked Spite into a loping trot and moved to intercept the small party.
The horses in the group turned skittish when they caught the scent of the assembled cold ones — all except for the black destrier in the lead. Its coal-black eyes glared a challenge at Malus and Spite both as they approached, and the highborn couldn’t shake the sensation of sorcery about the animal as he drew near. Up close, the hooded figure was indeed a woman; when she turned her head to regard him, Malus saw the gleam of silver steel beneath the shadow of the voluminous hood.
“Well met, brother,” Nagaira said, her voice muffled slightly behind an ornately-worked mask made in the shape of a leering daemon. “The army is arrayed in fearsome order. You have done your work well.”
“Yet I look like a poor knight’s squire the day before battle,” he said sourly. “Where are my swords and armour? You said they were being tended to.”
Nagaira raised her hand and two retainers slid from their mounts without a word and began pulling wooden boxes from the backs of their horses. “I had not forgotten,” she said, sounding amused. “The armourer said the plate was of inferior quality, so I commissioned him to take another harness and alter it to suit. A good thing I know your measurements so well, is it not?”
Malus didn’t know whether to be grateful — a galling thought all by itself — or outraged. “Such generous gifts, sister,” he said. “Won’t your betrothed grow jealous?”
“Oh, I’m not paying for these, brother,” she said. “I told the armourer that you had been appointed as the army’s captain of knights and he was more than happy to extend you credit.”
“Credit!” Malus cried. “Now you’ve put me into debt—”
“Be still,” Nagaira snapped. “Climb down off that stinking beast and put your armour on. Fuerlan will be here any moment.”
Malus was halfway out of the saddle before his half-sister’s words even registered on his sleep-deprived brain. He saw the witch’s bodyguards share a surprised glance at his unquestioning reaction and swallowed an angry rebuke. A confrontation with Nagaira at this juncture would just make things worse and if Fuerlan was indeed on the way he didn’t have much time. He stepped away from his mount and the two servants set the boxes containing his armour down beside him. The pair went to work smoothly and skilfully, quickly buckling and lacing the overlapping plates onto his kheitan. He glared angrily at his sister. “You have grown presumptuous since you left the Hag,” he said coldly. “A trait you picked up from your betrothed, no doubt.”
“Don’t be stupid, Malus,” Nagaira said. “I haven’t the time for it. There’s enough to be done without your foolish ego getting in the way.”
The outrage was so extravagant it made Malus’ jaw drop. His face went white with rage, so much so that the men arming him took a worried step back and were careful not to get between the two siblings.
Yet he did not move. No words of rebuke rose to his lips. Nagaira met his stare unflinchingly and after a moment the servants resumed their work.
What’s the matter with me? Malus thought, galled to the core at his inability to lash out at his sister. Did the fever sap my courage instead of my health? He felt another dull ache building in his head and gritted his teeth against the pain.
The servants were done in moments and one of their number presented Malus with a dragon-winged helmet and a fine pair of swords in matched ebony scabbards. He’d just buckled them on when he heard a curious wailing echoing down the street from the north. “What in the Dark Mother’s name is that?”
“That would be Fuerlan,” Nagaira said. “Prepare yourself, brother. He’s probably still drunk.”
Cursing under his breath, Malus climbed back onto Spite’s back and returned to his place beside the knights Lord Eluthir took his place at Malus’ side, but Gaelthen was still not back from his latest errand.
“Sa’an’ishar!” Malus bellowed, standing in his stirrups. “The warlord approaches!”
The cry echoed down the line as the company captains called their footmen to attention. A ripple ran through the thicket of spears as the men dressed their lines. The wailing was much louder now; Malus could make out women’s voices, crying out a shrill chant, then he caught sight of an ornately armoured figure riding an enormous cold one striding into the square.
Fuerlan swayed slightly in the saddle as the huge nauglir tromped over the cobblestones. His bald head glistened with streaks of fresh, steaming blood and he held in his hands a goblet of burnished brass. Behind the warbeast danced a procession of naked, blood-streaked women, chanting fiercely at the sky and slicing their flesh with curved daggers made of brass.
“Mother of Night,” Malus whispered, appalled at the ostentatious scene. “Who does he think he is?”
“The spoiled son of Balneth Bale and the conqueror of Hag Graef,” Eluthir replied, just as quietly. “And mad as a cockatrice these days. He was bad enough before, but his time at Hag Graef changed him for the worse.” Eluthir glanced at Malus. “You’re from Hag Graef, my lord. Do you know how he came to get all those scars?”
Malus shot the young knight a hard glare. “He was overly familiar with his betters,” the highborn said tersely, then kicked Spite into a trot.
Fuerlan’s procession was still streaming into the square when Malus met the general mid-way across the open space. Besides the temple maidens Malus saw that he had brought a troop of retainers, a multitude of servants and at least a dozen pack animals laden with everything from wine casks to furniture. Biting back his annoyance, he halted his mount and sat to attention, ready to report.
The young general glared evilly at Malus and hauled on the reins of his mount, but the old beast tossed its head and snapped at the bridle rings, bellowing in anger. Its tail lashed, whistling through the air like a giant’s club, until even the temple maidens had to stop their chant abruptly and give ground. Fuerlan cursed the animal, spilling thick red liquid from his cup as he alternately kicked and lashed the beast with his reins. Finally the nauglir subsided and Fuerlan glared at Malus as if somehow he was to blame.
Malus took a deep breath. “The army stands ready to march, dread general,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “We await your order.”
“Did I order you to have them ready to march, you idiot?” Fuerlan sneered. “I said have them ready for inspection.”
“And so they were, dread general,” Malus replied stiffly. “An hour before sunrise, as ordered.”
A shiver of rage wracked the blood-soaked prince. “Such impertinence!” he seethed. “You dare mock me?”
“I am merely repeating the orders you gave to me,” Malus replied. “No impertinence was intended.” For just a moment Malus heard Hauclir’s voice in his head, repeating the same words with a carefully neutral expression on his face. Now I understand the man’s infuriating tone, he realised.
“Liar!” Fuerlan snapped. “I’ll have you flogged!”
“As you wish, dread general,” Malus said past clenched teeth. “But may I remind you that your father urged the army to make haste and a proper scourging will cost us several hours’ delay.”
“More impertinence!” the general hissed. “Rest assured, I see through your clumsy artifice! When we make camp I’ll have you stripped naked and flayed down to your bones!”
“Very well,” Malus replied, knowing that they wouldn’t be making camp for at least three days. “Do you wish to address the troops before we march?”
“We will not march yet, you mutinous wretch!” Fuerlan shouted, leaning forward in his saddle. Malus could smell the wine on the man’s breath from fifteen feet away. “I said I wanted to inspect the army and that is what I will do!”
Mother of Night preserve me, Malus thought, struggling with his anger. “Dread general, an inspection will cost us at least an hour of daylight, likely more. Your father—”
“Do not speak to me of my father, you damned kinslayer!” Fuerlan sneered. “I know full well what he expects of me. Just as I know what is expected of you.”
Malus frowned. What does that mean, he thought?
“I will begin by inspecting the scout detachment,” Fuerlan declared imperiously.
“You can’t,” Malus blurted, taken aback by the statement. Traditionally scouts weren’t even considered part of the proper army. “They left the ark at midnight.”
Fuerlan’s eyes went wide. “They left? For what purpose?”
“To scout, what else?” Malus snapped, finally losing his patience. “They can’t be out hunting for the enemy if they’re here kissing your arse!”
“You… you…” Fuerlan stammered, his expression livid. “You mutineer! I’ll have you skinned alive! I’ll have your bones broken! I’ll tear off your privates and stuff them down your throat!”
Malus smiled at the scarred highborn. “The dread general is welcome to try,” he said. “But he would do well to remember what happened the last time he laid a hand upon me.”
The words struck Fuerlan like a physical blow. He trembled with animal rage, the goblet shaking in his hand. He snarled like a maddened wolf, reaching for his sword, until a cold voice stopped him in his tracks.
“My lord is being wasteful with the Lord of Murder’s blessing,” Nagaira said from behind Malus. “You spill his sacred blood upon the stones. It is an ill omen on the eve of war.”
Fuerlan paused, his eyes going to the goblet tilted precariously in his grasp. With an effort he righted it and attempted to regain some of his composure. “This… this treacherous wretch provoked me,” he said, his voice a plaintive whine. “He seeks to sabotage my campaign before it is even begun! Slay him! Slay him now!”
Malus stiffened. Fuerlan was one thing, but Nagaira was another matter entirely. His right hand twitched, creeping for his sword, but his sister’s voice turned stern as she spoke to the general. “I will do nothing of the sort,” she snapped. “Compose yourself, my lord and remember all that we have discussed. Now is not the time for rash action.”
Fuerlan started to make a heated reply, then caught himself as he met Nagaira’s gaze. Malus clenched his fist, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder at his sister and see what passed between them. The general locked stares with the witch for a moment, then lowered his gaze. “You are right, of course,” he grumbled. “Now is not the time.”
“My lord is very wise,” Nagaira replied, like a mother speaking to her child. “Your army awaits, general. Show them Khaine’s blessing and let us begin the journey to Hag Graef, where your crown awaits.”
“Yes. Yes of course,” Fuerlan said, gathering up the reins of his querulous mount. The old nauglir growled and began to walk forward. Malus nudged Spite backwards, out of the general’s path, when the scarred Naggorite kicked his mount savagely and it leapt at Spite.
The older cold one bellowed in rage and charged at its smaller kin, but Spite was not one to back down from a challenge. Malus’ nauglir roared in response and snapped its massive jaws in the cold one’s face. Malus cursed savagely, hauling at the reins and Fuerlan did likewise, turning the old warbeast’s head aside and bringing the two cold ones almost flank-to-flank for a brief moment. When they did, the general glared down at Malus, his face twisted with hate.
“I’ve dreamt of this for months,” he said, a deranged giggle escaping his lips. “Look around you. I have an army waiting on my every command. I don’t need to lay a hand on you in order to destroy you. By the time this campaign is over you will deliver your precious city into my hands. I’ll have you skinned alive and marched through the Court of Thorns to place the drachau’s crown upon my head and after you are dead I’ll have your skull made into a chamber pot. Think on that with the few days left to you.”
Before Malus could reply Spite snapped at the old nauglir’s flanks and the huge beast leapt away, bellowing in rage. Fuerlan cursed and kicked, spilling still more of Khaine’s sacred blood upon the stones. An angry hiss went up from the temple maidens, causing Malus to smile. Nagaira’s mount ducked out of the old nauglir’s path, the fierce warhorse taking a nip of its own at the warbeast’s shoulder.
It was several moments before Fuerlan got the animal under control; when he did he turned the nauglir to face the household knights as though nothing had happened. The highborn warriors watched Fuerlan stonily as he stood in his stirrups and cried out in a thin voice.
“Warriors of the black ark! It is I, the bearer of sacred blood, anointed in Khaine’s cauldron!” Fuerlan held aloft the goblet continuing the ritual benediction. “Before you I drink of the Lord of Murder’s blessing, promising glory and plunder for all those who march beneath my banner!”
Fuerlan raised the goblet to his lips and a ragged cheer went up from the knights and the first division of foot. Malus watched the general tilt the cup farther and farther back, until its base pointed into the air. When Fuerlan straightened and raised the cup in triumph, Malus noted that there wasn’t even a thin stain of red on his lips.
You spilled every drop of holy blood with your stupidity, the highborn thought bitterly. An ill omen indeed.
Malus listened as the young general began barking orders to set the army on the march. Bale’s plan was audacious, but like all daring plans, it was a dangerous gamble. If the army of Hag Graef didn’t do as the Witch Lord predicted in every particular, they could be heading into disaster.
The autarii girl studied him with the dispassionate malevolence of a hunting hawk. Malus ran a gauntleted hand over his face and tried to wipe the dirt of the road and the weight of exhaustion from his eyes. “What do you mean there are enemy troops north of the Blackwater Ford?”
“Horses and spears,” the girl said in her sweet, dead voice. “Many scores of them.” She turned and pointed south along the road, beyond the hill in the distance. “They gather wood and wait among the broken towers to either side of the road.”
Malus straightened in the saddle and tried in vain to work the stiffness from his aching back. The household knights were stretched along a quarter mile of the Spear Road, resting their weary mounts in the late afternoon sun. They were a half day past Naggorond; the black spires of Malekith’s fortress city could still be seen, far to the northwest. Blackwater Ford lay another five miles south, nestled among a line of low hills and pine forests running east to west along the line of the rushing river.
The past few days had stretched into a blur of cold food and constant travel. The household knights had been ordered to march in the vanguard of the army, along with the first division of foot — Malus suspected this was so he would be the first to encounter any trouble along the way. The column paused for fifteen minutes every four hours; men learned to doze fitfully in their saddles and steal quick meals of hard biscuit washed down with brackish water. The highborn couldn’t imagine how the spearmen were keeping up. Even the iron stamina of the nauglir was wearing thin.
They were only a few miles from their intended camp site. According to the plan the army was to make camp just short of the ford and rest for a day and a half while the scouts and dark riders crossed the river in search of the enemy. Unfortunately it seemed that the warriors of Hag Graef had other plans.
“Stand,” Malus ordered and Spite sank eagerly onto the surface of the road. The highborn slid stiffly from the saddle. His face and hands were caked with dust and grime and his lank hair was pulled back with a simple rawhide strap. Curiously the runes Nagaira had painted on his skin remained as clear and vivid as ever — no amount of rubbing seemed to blur their sharp, black lines. The realisation left him uneasy.
Malus beckoned to the autarii and her companions. He’d sent her ahead with the scouts more to keep her out of his hair than anything else — when she was around she lurked like a vengeful ghost, watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Nearby, Eluthir and Gaelthen dismounted as well, joining their lord. Tennucyr remained in the saddle, keeping an eye on the division.
“Show me,” the highborn said, kneeling in the dirt by the side of the road. “Draw me a map.”
The girl sank gracefully into a crouch, drawing a long knife. She gave him a strange look over the point of the blade, then began scratching lines in the soil. “Over the hill yonder the road passes through fields bordered with woods,” she said as she worked. “Half a mile ahead there are ruins to either side of the road — broken towers and fallen statues. The men from the Hag wait there, cutting firewood and driving rails into the earth.”
“Rails,” Malus echoed, studying the autarii’s map. “Likely setting picket lines for the horses. Did you see any nauglir?”
“Dragon kin?” the girl said. “No. Just horses and spears.”
The highborn nodded thoughtfully. Eluthir drank deeply from a water flask and eyed his lord. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“An advance party” Malus said. “Cavalry scouts and foragers sent ahead to establish a camp for the main force, which means the Hag’s army is crossing the ford as we speak.”
The highborn studied the map, trying to ignore the dull headache throbbing between his temples. There would be no way to approach the ruins down the road without being seen and he was sure the advance party would have at least some crossbowmen standing watch. He considered the rough outlines of the forests. “Are there decent trails in these woods?”
“Hunting paths,” the girl said with a shrug. “We have little need for them.”
“But could nauglir use them?”
The girl paused. “Yes,” she said.
Malus studied the map for another few moments, trying to see if there was anything he was missing. If they could strike the enemy army while they were crossing the river they could wreak a terrible slaughter. But they would have to move quickly and the advance force would have to be defeated first.
He checked the map one last time and nodded sharply. “All right,” he said, rising to his feet. “Eluthir, mount up and ride back down the road as fast as you can. Fuerlan and the rest of the army should be only a mile or so behind us. Tell him that the army of the Hag is crossing the Blackwater right now and he is to come with all speed.”
“At once, my lord,” Eluthir said and ran for his mount. Gaelthen watched the boy go and turned to Malus. “What are we going to do in the meantime?”
Malus shrugged. “The men have been marching non-stop for days and they’ve had nothing to eat but hard biscuits and water. We’ve two banners of foot and a single banner of cold ones; the enemy likely outnumbers us and has a strong defensive position.” He turned to the old knight. “What else? We attack.”
The nauglir were not stealthy creatures. Though too tired to do more than grunt irritably at their handlers, the long procession of cold ones along the narrow game trail touched off a near-constant chorus of snapping limbs and rustling brush. Each noise sounded as loud as a thunderclap in Malus’ ears as the household knights worked their way through the dense forest. Like the rest of the division the highborn walked along beside his cold one, his hand tightly gripping Spite’s reins. From his position near the head of the column all he could see were trees and dense brush all around him. For all he knew, the enemy force could be only yards away, but he clung to the thin hope that if he couldn’t hear the activities of the enemy camp they likely couldn’t hear the passage of the knights.
Ahead of Malus, Gaelthen’s cold one abruptly stopped and sank to its haunches. Malus gave Spite’s reins a slight jerk. “Stand,” he said quietly and the nauglir stopped. Behind Malus, the next knight in line repeated the command to his mount and so on down the line. They had been working their way through the forest for almost three hours and the shadows beneath the trees were lengthening. He imagined the main body of Fuerlan’s army bearing down the road as quickly as it would go, eager to come to grips with the enemy. If the knights didn’t get out of the woods and deal with the advance party soon, the army would have to commit to a frontal assault against the camp that would stall their advance on the ford.
A trio of cloaked figures glided down the path towards Malus, crossbows in hand. The autarii paid no heed to the volatile cold ones; the nauglir in fact didn’t seem to notice the shades at all. Malus knew the figure in the lead to be his erstwhile retainer, the autarii girl with the dead voice and disturbing eyes. He reached up and pulled off his dragon-winged helmet as the scouts approached.
The shades reached Malus and settled into a crouch; that was the closest thing to a respectful salute the hill-clans seemed to be capable of. The autarii girl pulled back her hood and Malus was surprised to see her pale face was flushed and her violet eyes were gleaming with excitement. She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees and Malus noticed that her slender hands were stained with fresh blood.
“We are past the enemy camp,” she said, a little breathless.
“Do they know we’re here?” Malus asked.
The girl shrugged. “They have heard the noise, but don’t know what to make of it. City-bred fools,” she sneered. “Your spears have appeared on the ridge and that is all they worry about.”
Malus nodded. He’d told Lord Ruhven to give him two hours to get the knights into position, then march the first division just over the ridge into plain sight. He’d told Ruhven in no uncertain terms that he was not to attack, just hold the enemy’s attention. Hopefully he wouldn’t get any strange notions when he realised that the knights were running behind schedule. “Does the enemy have any scouts in the woods?”
To the highborn’s surprise, the girl actually smiled. “No longer,” she said, reaching beneath her cloak to hold up a cluster of freshly-cut scalps. “Autarii from the rock adder clan. Almost as blind and deaf as the city folk.” The other two shades hissed in quiet amusement.
“How much farther until we can return to the road?”
“Not far,” the girl replied. “A hundred yards or so. There is a field hidden by a bend in the road.”
Malus nodded, replacing his helmet. “Good. Let’s get moving.”
The shades rose as one and headed back up the line. In moments Gaelthen’s cold one rose to its feet and the column was moving again.
Ten minutes later the woods began to thin just ahead and Malus could glimpse a grassy meadow between the trees. Moments later Spite was trotting eagerly through trampled brown grasses. True to the scout’s word, the field was hidden from the ruins to the north by a spur of woodland that would allow them to form up unnoticed.
Malus pulled Spite to a halt and climbed into the saddle. “Form into columns,” he said quietly to each of the knights as they emerged from the trees. “No horns, no banners, no lances.”
The cloudy sky to the west was already iron-grey, shading into purple. Minutes passed as the household knights trotted their mounts across the field and formed into companies by column. Malus strained his ears, dreading the faint sound of trumpets to the north as Fuerlan’s troops appeared on the scene ten minutes too early.
After what seemed like an eternity, the division was formed up and ready to march. Malus kicked Spite into a trot, heading for the front of the column. The autarii waited there on their haunches, showing off their scalps to one another. They straightened as he approached.
Malus drew his sword — a heavy, straight, double-edged blade, forged in the archaic style of the hinterlands — and pointed to the tree line on the other side of the road. “Take position there with the full troop,” he said. “Shoot down any foes who try to flee back down the road.”
The girl gave Malus one of her enigmatic stares. “They won’t escape us,” she said, then trotted into the shadows beneath the trees with her men in tow.
Malus watched her leave, still unable to explain why she discomfited him so. He’d find reasons to keep her well forward with the scout troop until they reached Hag Graef, at least. Once they were gone, Malus wheeled Spite about and addressed the knights. “No one draws steel until I command it. Once the fight begins, kill every man you find.”
A feral mutter went through the assembled force. For just a moment, Malus was struck by the sheer power of the armoured force assembled in the field awaiting his orders. It was almost enough to forget that he was about to make war on his own city. Are you turning sentimental and weak, all of a sudden, he asked himself — Who in this whole land is truly your kinsman? You have slain Hag Graef’s vaulkhar and every hand is turned against you. Your only choice is to run… or fight.
Malus raised his sword. “Sa’an’ishar! Advance in column!”
A ripple went through the ranks as the long column of riders started to move. Malus rode in the forefront, leading the knights to the road and turning right, approaching the ruins from the south. As soon as the front of the column had turned onto the road Malus turned in the saddle. “Household knights!” he called. “Advance at the canter!”
As one, the armoured riders put their spurs to the cold ones’ flanks and the huge animals leapt forward, picking up speed. Malus and the front rank of knights were around the bend of the road in moments and the highborn took in the scene that stretched before him.
The ruins might once have been a village, or a way station for soldiers travelling north — now they were nothing more than tumbled piles of stone and vague square foundations lines. The remnants stretched for fifty yards or more along either side of the road at a point where the forest fell away on either flank and gave a commanding view of the road north and the terrain to east and west. From Malus’ perspective, the white and grey ruins were teeming with black-armoured men, all arrayed in a thin line of spear companies facing north. A reinforced company of spears stood athwart the road in close formation, presenting a thicket of gleaming steel points directed at the dense formation of troops stretching along the ridgeline to the north. The troops of the black ark were formed up for battle, well out of crossbow range, but were ready to sweep down the gentle slope into the ruins at a moment’s notice. Lord Ruhven had chosen discretion over recklessness and looked prepared to hold his men in place until nightfall if necessary.
To the south of the ruins a sizeable force of enemy cavalry waited in loose formation, held in reserve to counter-charge any attack on the camp. The nauglir caught wind of the mass of horseflesh and quickened their steps. To some extent, the hungry warbeasts decided Malus’ tactics for him — better to smash the fast-moving cavalry first and trap the enemy spear companies in the ruins. He could order Ruhven’s men to attack from the opposite side if necessary and grind the enemy between them.
Less than a hundred yards ahead, many of the horsemen turned at the sound of heavy footfalls on the road. A ragged cheer went up from the cavalry, believing that the first units of their main force had finally arrived. Malus grinned mercilessly and let his force draw ever closer. The longer they could approach unchallenged the greater the impact of their charge.
Sixty yards. Fifty. Up ahead, Malus saw a group of riders peel off from the formation and begin trotting towards the oncoming knights. It was likely the cavalry commander — possibly even the overall commander of the advance party himself — heading over to appraise the arriving knights of the situation. The rider in the lead was a tall, aristocratic highborn with ornate armour and a flowing cloak of dragonhide. Malus tightened his grip on his sword and picked him out as his first target.
Forty yards. Thirty. Malus could clearly see the man’s features. He looked familiar. Was he one of his father’s former retainers?
Twenty yards. The expression on the man’s face changed from one of smug viciousness to a blank look of shock. His eyes met Malus’ and the highborn suddenly recognised the man as one of the cabal of nobles who’d invested their coin in his slaving raid the previous summer. The noble let out a shriek of surprise and anger and Malus answered it with a bloodthirsty laugh. He raised his sword high, its edge catching the fading light. “Charge!” he cried and a thousand knights took up the call, shaking the air with their battle-cries.
Spite leapt eagerly into a run, snarling hungrily at the enemy horses. The cavalry mounts snorted and screamed as the onrushing beasts bore down on them and chaos ran like wildfire through the enemy ranks.
The nobleman, seeing death rushing down upon him, grabbed for his sword and put his spurs to his horse’s flanks, charging into the teeth of the Naggorite attack.
Had the noble been better prepared and his horse had more room to run, he might have gained enough speed to strike hard and present a more difficult target, but to Malus the lumbering fool might as well have been standing still. Spite raced past the squealing horse, jaws gaping for another and Malus brought his sword around in a short, precise arc, letting the weight of nauglir and rider provide most of the force behind the blow. The stroke knocked the noble’s weak parry aside and the edge of the heavier sword took the top of the man’s head off in a burst of blood and brain matter.
At once Malus pulled the blade free and aimed an overhand stroke at the rider passing him on the left, striking a glancing blow on the cavalryman’s left pauldron and taking a sword stroke against his own left arm in return. Then Spite crashed headlong into a shrieking warhorse dead ahead and it was all Malus could do to stay in the saddle as the nauglir tore open its thickly muscled neck.
A flung spear came from nowhere, smashing against Malus’ right pauldron and glancing away. Spite’s prey collapsed to the ground in a welter of hot blood and the rider tried to roll away, screaming in fury. The nauglir snapped at the man, catching him by the hip with a crunch of bone and tossing his bleeding form high into the air. “Go, Spite! Go!” Malus cried, kicking at the nauglir’s flanks and sending the beast deeper into the melee.
The knight’s charge had struck home like a hammer against glass, scattering the enemy cavalry in all directions. Panicked mounts stampeded through the ruins, trampling shocked spearmen who were trying to reorient their formation against the sudden threat from their rear. Crossbow bolts buzzed angrily through the air, finding their marks in friend and foe alike. The stink of blood and ruptured organs was thick in the air and Malus’ ears were battered with a surf-like roar of shouts and screams and the clash of steel.
An enemy cavalryman charged at Malus from the right, his spear levelled at the highborn’s chest. With a yell he brought up his sword and parried the sharp, steel spearhead, letting the man’s thrust carry the weapon past him on his right. The druchii rider cursed sharply and drew on his reins, wheeling his mount away — but Malus brought his left heel into Spite’s flank and the nauglir whipped its powerful tail across the horse’s path. The animal pitched over head first, its forelegs snapped and the rider was caught beneath the weight of the wounded beast.
Spite crouched and reared, roaring its bloodlust and Malus bent low against the warbeast’s neck, trying to gauge the course of the battle swirling around him. The bodies of horses and men littered the ground and all he could see immediately around him were blood-stained knights driving their nauglir deeper into the ruins in search of more foes. As near as he could tell the enemy cavalry had been entirely overrun and the knights had carried on into the ranks of the spearmen hiding among the stones. There were screams and the clash of arms among the rocks, as well as the sharp twang of crossbow strings.
Malus found himself wishing he’d kept a trumpeter close by to keep control of his men, but it was too late for that now. The battle was joined and would run its course and he would have to hope that he still had a division left to command when all was said and done.
Malus kicked Spite into motion, following after the red tide of the household knights. The heavily armoured warriors had cut a swath through the disordered ranks of the enemy spearmen, focusing on the company caught in the open in the middle of the road. Nothing but broken spears and shattered bodies remained of the force, their lifeblood soaking into the cinders of the road. Beyond, he could see the knights fighting isolated groups of infantry in the fields north of the ruins and further battles were going on amid the broken foundations themselves. Malus looked left and right, seeking the enemy and spotted a small knot of footmen running down a rock-strewn lane with crossbows in their hands. They saw Malus at the same instant, their faces twisting with rage.
The highborn felt his guts turn to ice and the searing image of a line of crossbowmen silhouetted against a wall of fog brought a near-panicked cry from his throat. “At them, Spite!” he shouted, kicking hard with his spurs. The nauglir spun on its heels and leapt at the four men just as they levelled their weapons and fired. One bolt struck Malus a glancing blow in the chest and bounced away in pieces, while another broke against Spite’s bony skull. The other shots missed, hissing past Malus and the crossbowmen threw down their weapons and ran, screaming in terror. Spite trampled one and Malus smashed the skull of another with a single stroke of his sword, then the cold one lunged forward and caught a third with a clash of its terrible jaws. The fourth man leapt over the remnants of a retaining wall and disappeared from sight.
Malus reined in Spite and realised that the sounds of battle had ceased, replaced by savage cheers. The highborn turned Spite around and returned to the main road, where he saw knights filtering through the ruins singly and in pairs. Freshly severed heads bounced on trophy hooks attached to their saddles. When they saw Malus they raised their swords in salute and he knew then that they had won a crushing victory.
Spurring his mount into a canter, Malus headed for the fields north of the ruins. Many of the knights had collected there, taking trophies from the dead. By the number of bodies on the field it looked as though the enemy spearmen had retreated from the ruins and tried to reform in the open, but the knights had simply run them down. Malus stood in his stirrups. “Gaelthen!” he cried. “Lord Gaelthen!”
“Here, my lord!” came a hoarse response. Across the field, Gaelthen spurred his mount and trotted over to Malus. The older knight was covered in gore, but none of it looked to be his own.
“Assemble the division here in the field,” Malus ordered. “Have them ready for rapid movement.” He gauged the height of the sun. “Fuerlan should be here at any moment and we have just enough time to strike south for the ford.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gaelthen said, then nodding towards the ridgeline. “That might be Eluthir now.”
Malus turned to see a lone nauglir trotting down the slope towards the ruins. He nodded to Gaelthen, who turned away and began shouting instructions to the jubilant knights, then reached up and pulled off his helmet. The cool air felt good against his face and neck and he suddenly realised how bone-weary he truly was. No time to rest now, he thought grimly. We’ve miles to go and more men to slay before the day is done.
Eluthir reined in before Malus, surveying the carnage with an envious grin. “Congratulations on your victory, my lord. I pray that the next time I’ll be along to share in the slaughter.”
Malus chuckled tiredly. “You’ll get your wish before the hour’s done, I’ll warrant. How far is Fuerlan and the main force?”
The young knight’s face fell. Malus frowned. “What has happened?”
Eluthir took a deep breath. “My lord, I delivered your report, but the general has decided to encamp for the night. He orders you to fall back with the vanguard and prepare for an attack on the enemy at dawn.”
Malus couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “An attack at dawn? Is he mad? Did you tell him that the enemy force is crossing the Blackwater Ford right now? We could reach them in an hour and slaughter them piecemeal! By dawn they will be in good defensive positions — right here, most like — and will be ready and waiting for us.”
The young knight gave Malus a pained look. “I explained the situation as clearly as I could, but he said the men needed rest and time to prepare. He… He said he needed time to consider his strategy.”
“Time to tap another cask of wine is more like,” Malus spat. For a moment he was sorely tempted to disregard Fuerlan’s orders and march on the ford with just the household knights and Ruhven’s spears, but without any word as to the size and disposition of the enemy he could easily find himself outnumbered and outmatched. He couldn’t very well stay where he was, either. The enemy could reach the ruins within the next few hours and he would then be facing the entire army with just two divisions of troops. He ground his teeth in frustration. That damned wretch had left him with no other choice.
lust then, Gaelthen returned. “My lord, the division is formed up and awaiting your command,” the scarred old warrior declared. “What shall we do?”
Malus straightened in the saddle, taking one last look at the scene of his first battlefield victory. “We retreat,” he said bitterly.
The tents for the general and his retainers had been erected first, even before the camp’s perimeter had been set. They stood out incongruously in the centre of an exhausted army; some companies were making half-hearted attempts at erecting their own shelters, while other units simply stopped in their tracks, curled up on the ground and went to sleep. Picket lines had gone up for the horses and weary cavalrymen held their own fatigue at bay long enough to see that their mounts were cared for, while men from the baggage trail unpacked provisions and began lighting camp fires for a cursory evening meal.
Weary heads turned as the household knights and Ruhven’s spears made their way into camp. The mounted warriors were a fearsome sight, caked with blood and grime and sporting grisly trophies from the battle at the ruins. Malus dropped out of the procession and reviewed the division as it went past, taking stock of their condition. Casualties had been very light, owing to the knights’ heavy armour and the element of surprise. He doubted they would be so lucky on the morrow and the thought galled him to the core.
Once in the camp, the knights dispersed in search of their tents. Malus headed for the general’s pavilion.
The guards outside Fuerlan’s large campaign tent paled at Malus’ forbidding, bloodstained figure and neither dared challenge him as he stalked like a hungry wolf into the raucous atmosphere within.
He followed the sounds of laughter, passing through small “rooms” created with cloth partitions to allow the general’s servants to do their work without intruding upon his leisure. Malus passed through an antechamber where scribes were busy compiling orders for the following day and emerged into a large space in the centre of the tent where Fuerlan held court amid his retainers and sycophants.
Incense filled the space with a faint blue fog, rising wispily from three small braziers. The chamber was laid with piles of thick rugs and low tables had been set with platters of meat and cheese for the general’s guests. Almost a dozen young highborn sat around the room, drinking wine and talking or playing games of dice in the shifting firelight. Fuerlan sat in the centre of it all like a strange spider, his lanky limbs sprawled over the arms of a high-backed chair of blooded oak as he gulped wine from a gilded skull. When he saw Malus his eyes gleamed with hateful mirth.
“It is about time you arrived,” Fuerlan sneered, his voice slurred by wine. “And looking like you’ve rolled in a midden heap. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Not surprised that I’d choose to fight instead of hiding in a tent with a bunch of toadies?” Malus hissed. “You had a great victory in your grasp and you let it slip away, you scarred, simpering wretch!”
Fuerlan’s eyes went wide. His hands trembled as he went white with rage. “Seize him!” He roared. “Tie him to a pole and skin him alive!”
Two of the lordlings leapt to their feet and rushed at Malus. Without thinking, Malus drew his gore-stained blade. “Come ahead, then, if you dare! I’ll hang your narrow skulls from my saddle!”
“Enough!” Nagaira’s cry cut through the din like a thunderclap.
The lordlings froze. Malus turned to face the source of the witch’s voice. A stir passed through the deep shadows at the far end of the room and she stepped up to the edge of the firelight. Her eyes smouldered like hot coals from the silver edged sockets of the daemon mask, stopping Malus in his tracks.
Of them all, only Fuerlan was bold enough — or foolish enough — to take umbrage at Nagaira’s appearance. “Go back to your tent,” he snapped. “This is no concern of yours.”
“Is it not?” She hissed and Malus saw the light from the braziers go dim. “Think, you twisted fool! Think of the plan and all that remains for Malus to do! Would you kill him now and see all our work undone?”
Malus’ eyes went wide. What is she talking about? Unbidden, his eyes strayed to his sword hand and the lines of precise runes painted there. “What do you mean for me to do?” he said without thinking.
Nagaira turned her gaze on him again and he felt his rage snuffed out like a candle flame. “For now, you will go to your tent and rest. There will be hard fighting tomorrow and you must lead our army to victory.”
It was no true answer, but Malus found he couldn’t bring himself to defy her. He watched, helplessly, as he sheathed his sword and turned on his heel without a word. As he left Fuerlan’s tent he heard Nagaira say something vicious to her betrothed, but he couldn’t make out quite what she said.
A spike of savage pain stabbed through Malus’ head as he stumbled from the general’s tent. The pain made his stomach lurch and his knees weak, but his body kept moving all the same, driven by Nagaira’s powerful compulsion. It was only after he’d walked more than a dozen yards from the tent that he could finally drop to his knees, gasping at the blinding pain.
What has that witch done to me, he thought? And how can it be undone?
The ridgeline was dark with armoured men. Hours before dawn the army of the black ark had been shaken from their bedrolls and fed a cold meal of meat and cheese. Then they’d formed up in column and marched south, where the army of Hag Graef waited. In the pale glow of false dawn they had left the road and formed into line on the reverse slope of the ridge. Dark riders had busied themselves chasing off small parties of scouts and keeping enemy skirmish parties well away from the Naggorite force. The banners of foot were ready and the ground shook beneath the measured tread of twelve thousand men as they crested the ridge and levelled their spears at the enemy waiting for them in the ruins.
Malus sat in his saddle farther back upslope than the waiting infantry divisions, allowing him a clear vantage to glare hatefully down at the ruins a hundred yards south. The enemy general had made good use of the time Fuerlan had foolishly ceded to him. During the night huge blocks of stone had been dragged from the ruins and strewn carefully through the fields to the front of the army’s position, creating fields of obstacles that would make a Naggorite cavalry charge a difficult proposition at best. Units of spearmen were arrayed in serried ranks behind the stone obstacles, ready to impale any foe that drew too near. Behind them, two large building foundations, one to either side of the road, had been built up enough to allow units of cross-bowmen to stand and fire over the spearmen’s heads at oncoming enemy troops.
The highborn glared bitterly at the enemy fortifications and once again counted the number of troops. Three banners of foot and possibly a full banner of horse somewhere back behind them. He kept getting glimpses of men on horseback moving south of the ruins, but never enough of a look to discern how many there were. There was something about the enemy dispositions that bothered him. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t say what. Malus glanced down at the autarii girl, who stood at his left stirrup. “You say they have men watching the woods to either flank?”
She nodded. “Crossbowmen and spears, waiting behind deep ditches to spoil a cavalry charge,” she said. “Perhaps the enemy has a seer amongst them.”
The idea sent a strange tremor of foreboding through Malus, but he pushed it aside with a snarl. “Not likely,” he said. “The drachau won’t call on the witches except in dire emergencies. Too much trouble to deal with otherwise.” He turned his head and spat over Spite’s right side. “No, I’ll wager the enemy captain took a look at how the men and horses were killed and where they fell and pieced it together himself. If nothing else, the men of the Hag are wise in the ways of war.”
“And trickery,” the girl said coldly.
“Even so,” Malus nodded. “It sounds as though you’ve had some experience with them.”
The girl gave Malus another one of her strange looks. “Just once,” she said. “But rest assured I will have my revenge.”
Malus winced as a jolt of pain throbbed behind his eyes. “Is that why you joined the army?” he asked, absently, rubbing his forehead. “You hope to find this man who wronged you?”
“I thought I had already,” the girl said quietly. “But when I looked him in the eye he did not know me.”
Malus chuckled. “Then it likely wasn’t him. You’re not the sort of person who is easily forgotten.”
The autarii gave him an enigmatic look. “Perhaps,” she said. After a moment, she reached up and pointed a tentative finger at the upper part of his bare neck. “How did you come by those markings, my lord?”
Malus’ hand went to his neck. “The runes? My sister put them on me when I was in the grip of a fever and now they won’t come off. Why? Can you read them?”
She shook her head. “I’m no witch, my lord, but it’s clear that she’s laid a spell on you.”
The highborn considered the scout. “Have you any knowledge to remove spells?”
“No. As I said, I’m no witch,” she replied. “But I’ve heard it said that witches carry books and scrolls marked with their spells. Perhaps there is something in her tent that might be of use.”
“Hmmm. Perhaps,” Malus said slowly. “That might be worth pursuing, if an opportunity presents itself.” He leaned closer to the scout. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Oh? What is that?”
“Help me find a way to undo this spell and I will do everything I can to help you find the man that wronged you.”
The girl gave one of her ghostly smiles. “Very well, my lord.”
There was the sound of horns to Malus’ right. He turned and saw Fuerlan climbing the reverse slope of the ridge, surrounded by a crowd of retainers and servants. Some distance behind the crowd Nagaira rode her black warhorse, attended by her own small group of hooded servants.
“First things first,” Malus growled. “The general has finally deigned to join us and now we must find a way to survive the day.” He wheeled Spite around, throwing a parting glance at the scout. “Stay where I can find you,” he ordered. “I may have orders for the scouts depending on how the battle progresses.” Then he kicked Spite into a trot and made his way towards Fuerlan.
He never reached the general. Nagaira saw his approach and spurred her horse forward, blocking Malus’ approach well short of his goal. Spite growled at the destrier, but the warhorse stood its ground and bared its square teeth with a challenge of its own.
“Out of the way, sister,” Malus said. “Or is the great general no longer interested in reports from his own scouts?”
Morning sunlight gleamed on the snarling daemon’s mask that Nagaira wore. The shadows that clung to her skin turned the mask’s eye holes into pools of impenetrable night. “The enemy is arrayed before us,” she said hollowly. “What more need we know?”
The highborn gritted his teeth. “The enemy has three banners of foot and possibly a full banner of horse,” he said tersely. “Their flanks are protected and they are in well-fortified positions controlling the road.”
Nagaira’s masked face regarded the enemy force to the south. “Unless I am much mistaken, we still greatly outnumber them,” she said at length. “They haven’t the strength to defeat us.”
“But they have ample strength to bleed us,” Malus snapped. “And to delay us. This isn’t the only battle we will have to fight, sister. Whatever happens here, we must be able to carry on with enough of an army to still conquer the city. And right now I’ll wager what’s left of my soul that there is a messenger killing horses to get back to the Hag and warn the drachau we’re coming.” The highborn glared at Fuerlan, who sat astride his nauglir some yards away, sipping wine offered by one of his servants. “That fool has already squandered our greatest advantages: speed and surprise. From now on, the closer we draw to Hag Graef, the more we will play into the enemy’s hands.”
Nagaira’s laughter echoed faintly behind her mask. “Have faith, brother. We have more at our disposal than mere soldiery.”
“Then best make use of it now,” Malus shot back. “If you have the same sort of power over Fuerlan as you have over me, convince him to withdraw and lure the enemy into pursuit—”
“I do not know what you speak of,” Nagaira said, but Malus felt her piercing gaze like a wash of heat over his skin. “Do not talk of such foolishness again, Malus. Not to anyone. Do you understand?”
The highborn’s retort was snuffed like a candle flame. He felt his rage sputter and go out, no matter how hard he struggled to maintain it. “I… I understand…” he heard himself say.
“Very good,” his sister said, as though he were some sort of trained beast. “If you are so concerned about the Naggorite army, you will have to find a way to pull them from the fire. I have no great power over Fuerlan. Indeed, the more blood his army spills, the more he hungers to send them into battle. There — you hear? The trumpets have sounded. The battle has begun.”
Sure enough, Malus heard the skirling, wailing cry of trumpets echoing down from the ridge, signalling the army to advance. As one, three banners of infantry lowered their spears and began to march towards the ruins. At either flank, a banner of horse followed slowly in their wake, held back in anticipation of breaking through the enemy line. Down among the stones, the Naggorite trumpets were answered by Hag Graef’s horns, readying the troops for battle.
“Is there no sorcery you can employ?” Malus asked. “Bolts of fire or terrible apparitions? Something?”
His sister merely shook her head. “I must preserve my power for the decisive strike,” she said. “That time is not now.”
“If we don’t triumph here you may not get another chance!”
The witch chuckled, pulling on her reins. “All is going according to plan, brother. You shall see.” She kicked at her horse and set off at a canter towards Fuerlan and his retainers. Malus couldn’t even bring himself to glare at his sister’s back as she left.
Gritting his teeth in frustration, he returned his attention to the battle developing at the base of the slope. The Naggorite spearmen had almost reached the ruins and already the air between the forces was dark with the flitting shapes of crossbow bolts. The spearmen advanced with their shields before them, presenting a moving wall of wood and steel to the hail of bolts. Here and there men fell, clutching at short, feathered shafts that sprouted from chest, neck or leg. Wounded men staggered from the ranks, limping or stumbling back towards the ridgeline or crawling weakly in any direction that would take them away from the awful rain of steel. Highborn officers in the rear ranks bellowed at the spearmen, ordering fresh warriors to fill the gaps and the companies pushed onward.
From his vantage, it appeared to Malus that the initial advance was going well. Losses were minor, so far, but the closer the banners came to the enemy lines the more powerful the enemy crossbows would become and the Naggorites would have to worry about the foes in front of them as well as the bolts falling on them from above. He spied more movement to the south of the enemy’s front line — more horses shifting position, it looked like. The cavalry commander was either an indecisive sort or he was trying to make it appear as though there were many more horsemen around the ruins than there really were.
Where was the general? He started at the far left flank of the enemy force and searched the ruins carefully. He would want to be in a spot with a good field of view, he thought, focusing on tall piles of stone or lanes that afforded a broad view of the battle line.
He caught sight of a nauglir loping slowly down the Spear Road, right in the centre of the enemy position. An armoured highborn sat tall in the saddle, but his hands held neither weapon nor shield. Behind him followed a small retinue of knights mounted on cold ones — only five, too small to make much difference in a pitched battle. The general and his bodyguard, Malus thought. It could be no one else.
As Malus watched, the general reined in some ten yards from the line as the spear companies met with a keening of battle cries and a rattle of steel on wood. The Naggorite banners were arrayed four ranks deep; the front rank thrust their long weapons at neck level, holding their tall shields close to their bodies, while the second rank stabbed overhand, aiming over the heads of the men in the front rank and thrusting downwards at their enemies’ heads. The men of Hag Graef were formed in two lines, allowing them to cover more ground. Ordinarily this would have made the formations less resilient, but their improvised fortifications lent them added protection and deploying only two ranks ensured that every man in the banner was able to fight.
The clatter of blows and the screams of the dying echoed back from the ruins. More and more wounded began streaming back from the Naggorite companies — for now, only a trickle, but each man was like a drop of blood, sapping the formation’s strength. There was no way to tell how badly the enemy was suffering. If just one of Hag Graef’s banners fell back, it would open the way for the horses to break through and wreak havoc. So far, however, the enemy stood firm.
We will grind them down, he knew. We have two banners to their one. Sooner or later they will break, but at what cost?
He studied the battle line from one end to the other, trying to see some weak spot where perhaps the horsemen or the household knights could make their presence felt. But the ground did not allow for it. The dense forests to either side of the road funnelled the Naggorite troops towards the ruins and the line of spear companies completely filled the fields in front of the enemy positions.
The general, Malus decided. The enemy general was the key. If he fell then resistance would swiftly unravel. But how to reach him?
A cheer went up from the battle line. The Naggorite banner in the centre of the line had pushed hard against the Hag Graef spearmen covering the main road, driving them almost ten yards south. The enemy line was bending. When would it reach the breaking point?
Malus looked to his left and caught sight of the autarii girl crouched on her haunches, studying him with dispassionate malevolence. He beckoned to her and she ran like a deer to his side. The highborn gestured over his shoulder. “Find Lord Gaelthen and tell him to bring up the household knights.”
As the scout ran off, more trumpets sounded. When Malus looked back downslope he saw that the Naggorite banner on the right flank was falling back! The relentless hail of crossbow bolts had taken a fearful toll of its companies — from their ragged numbers Malus estimated that the banner had lost at least half of its strength. The spearmen were falling back in good order, facing the enemy and still fighting as much as they could, but the nerve of the division’s leaders had broken. The division’s second banner — led by its captain, Lord Kethair — was already charging down the slope to prevent the flank’s collapse and salvage the division’s honour.
In the centre, the spearmen of Hag Graef continued to give ground. Malus caught sight of the enemy general again, close to the rear rank of the retreating companies. He wasn’t panicking, the highborn realised, and he wasn’t calling for reinforcements.
Just as the Naggorites pushed past the first line of ruins, the reason for the retreat became apparent. Black bolts flashed into the spear companies from either flank as concealed groups of cross-bowmen caught the Naggorite troops in a withering crossfire. Malus watched in horror as the huge block of troops seemed to shrivel before his eyes.
The ground shook beneath Malus as the household knights trotted up the road. A quick glance behind him showed that the division was drawn up in good order and ready for battle. The centre of the Naggorite line couldn’t hold for much longer. The highborn reached a quick decision. Drawing his sword, he stood in the stirrups and cried in a carrying voice. “Sa’an’ishar! The household knights will advance to battle!”
There was the icy rasp of a thousand swords leaping from their scabbards and a lusty roar from a thousand throats hungry for slaughter. Malus roared along with them. “Forward!” he shouted, lowering his heavy blade and kicking Spite into a trot.
Fuerlan’s trumpeter was already blowing urgent notes, but the general had seen the danger a few moments too late. The centre banner would collapse within moments and Lord Ruhven’s remaining troops would not be able to reach them in time. The column of armoured knights crested the ridge and Malus spurred his mount into a canter. Lord Gaelthen, in the front rank, shouted a command and the column picked up speed. Ahead, the spear companies of Ruhven’s second banner parted with hurried shouts of encouragement as the mounted warriors rolled down the Spear Road like a thunderbolt.
With the long slope working in their favour the nauglir covered the hundred yards in the space of just a few seconds, the heavy warbeasts knocking aside or jumping over rocks that would have broken a horse’s leg. Thirty yards from the ruins the first enemy crossbow bolts began to whir angrily through the ranks, cracking against shields and ringing off heavy armour.
Pressed hard from the front and sides and in the path of an impending cavalry charge, the centre Naggorite banner fell apart. Soldiers threw discipline to the winds and ran, dropping their spears and racing for their lives. The enemy spearmen let out a triumphant shout and pressed forward, killing all they could — and realising, too late, that the tables had abruptly turned.
At twenty yards from the enemy line Malus raised his sword once again and brought it down in a sweeping cut. “Charge!” he ordered and the household knights responded with a furious shout, giving their mounts their head. Spite roared and dug in with his clawed feet, leaping for the enemy troops with jaws gaping wide.
The enemy spear line faltered in the face of the Naggorite charge. The front rank recoiled with frightened shouts, bunching up against the men behind them. The thicket of spears that would normally have given a cavalry formation pause became tangled, forcing the deadly points out of alignment. Malus raced at the wall of armoured men and glittering spear points and howled like one of the damned.
Nauglir crashed into the disordered line with a rending crash and a chorus of screams. Spear hafts snapped, sending steel spear points whirling and ricocheting among the ranks. Huge jaws snapped shut on armour, flesh and bone. Somewhere, a nauglir bellowed in mortal pain. Blood sprayed and burst all around Malus as men went down beneath massive cold ones and were torn apart.
He hit the spearmen expecting to be struck in return, but none of the enemy spears found their mark. One of the warriors tried to turn and run but disappeared beneath Spite’s claws. Another had his head bitten clean off and simply collapsed where he stood. Malus brought his sword down on a spearman to his right, finding the gap between the bottom edge of his helmet and his backplate and breaking the man’s neck. He pulled the blade free and held its dripping length over his head. “Forward, knights! Forward!” he cried, spurring his mount ahead.
Spite leapt forward, catching a running man in its jaws in passing and dragging him along as though he were a doll. The man shrieked and gurgled as the nauglir galloped on, driven hard by Malus as the knights shattered the banner of spears and fell like wolves upon the general and his bodyguard.
The sound of horns screamed wildly in the air around Malus as the enemy was hurled back by the fury of the charge. Ahead, he saw the enemy general pull a heavy, long-handled mace from a hook on his saddle. His armour was expertly made and warded with numerous sigils of protection. His face was hidden behind an ornate helmet worked in the shape of a dragon’s skull, but Malus was certain he was one of Lurhan’s chief retainers and a powerful highborn in his own right. His bodyguards were surging forward, trying to get between the Naggorites and their lord, but Spite was smaller and swifter than the larger beasts and Malus was upon the general in the blink of an eye.
Spite leapt for the throat of the general’s cold one, raking the side of the nauglir’s face with its talons and grinding dagger-like fangs against the warbeast’s scaly hide. Malus lunged forward, chopping downwards with his sword, but the blow fell short and glanced from the general’s armoured leg. He heard the lord bellowing behind his dragon-faced helm as he let Malus’ sword slide past and then lashed out with his mace. The blow landed on the highborn’s right pauldron and to Malus it felt as though he’d been hit by a boulder. There was a flare of intense pain at his shoulder joint and his arm went numb to his fingertips. It was only through sheer force of will that he managed to keep a grip on his sword.
Enraged, Malus swung again, but his shorter sword was still almost a foot out of reach. He hauled at the reins and pummelled Spite’s flanks with his spurs, but the nauglir was locked in a life-or-death struggle with the general’s mount and was oblivious to all else. There were shouts and screams all around him as the household knights threw themselves at the general’s bodyguard. Men on foot were running past, cursing and shouting in fear. The highborn glanced to his left and saw Lord Gaelthen just a few feet away, splitting the helm of one of the general’s bodyguards with a vicious stroke of his sword.
Malus caught a flash of movement to his right and turned just as another of the bodyguards charged at him. The man’s nauglir snapped at Spite’s flanks and got a tail in its snout for its trouble; the beast recoiled slightly, spoiling the bodyguard’s aim. The man’s blow fell short and struck Malus hard on the right knee. The armour turned the blow, but the shock of the impact caused his knee to explode in pain. Malus cursed at the man and threw all his strength into a vicious thrust at the bodyguard’s head. He expected to stun the man with a ringing blow to his helm, but by the Dark Mother’s fortune the point of the sword caught in the helmet’s eye slit and drove through into the warrior’s skull. Blood and fluids ran in rivulets down the length of the broad blade as the man screamed and convulsed, then pitched forward out of the saddle with Malus’ sword still lodged in his helmet.
The weight of the armoured man pulled Malus downward as well — and then something struck the back of his helmet with a rending crash and everything went black.
Malus rode through a warm, red haze that swallowed sound and blurred his vision. He couldn’t feel his arms — in fact, he couldn’t feel much at all — but he could tell he was riding in the saddle behind an armoured knight. Each swaying step of the nauglir caused him to brush against the cold steel of the knight’s backplate; he smelled metal and oil, blood and raw earth and old leather. He tried to speak, but his mouth refused to work. Instead, all that escaped his lips was a low groan.
The knight’s head turned ever so slightly. Malus heard the creaking of hide and smelled something like damp mould.
“Do not speak,” the knight said. The voice was deep and sepulchral, as if it echoed from the bottom of a tomb. “Your head has been split and your brains scooped out.”
The knight turned and showed Malus his hand. Clotted clumps of wrinkled brain matter rested in his palm, oozing blood and clear fluids between the knight’s fingers. “You must put them back in before it’s too late.”
Malus screamed in terror, recoiling from the knight and his gruesome gift. The wind of his passing felt strange against the back of his head, touching icily on jagged shards of bone and drying blood. He tried to move his arms but could not and was grateful for it. If he could, he would have reached up to the back of his head, and he dreaded what awful ruin his fingertips would find there.
He heard a strange, muffled shout and invisible hands seized him. The world spun crazily and he screamed again, closing his eyes tightly against the red mist.
Malus felt himself falling like a leaf on a winter breeze, settling gently to the ground. There was a murmur above him, a buzzing of voices that he couldn’t quite make out. Summoning up his will, he forced himself to be calm and slowly opened his eyes.
The fog was receding. He was lying on his back near one of the fires of the Naggorite camp, staring up at the clouds and the mid-morning sun. Two men stood over him; it took a moment to recognise one of them as Lord Eluthir. The young knight’s face was streaked with gore and fresh blood oozed from a deep cut along the side of his right cheek. The other man wore heavy, stained black robes worked with runes in silver thread and his long face was old and seamed. The two men were arguing fiercely, but at first Malus couldn’t make out what they were saying. He tried to raise his head but only managed a few inches before a wave of pain and nausea almost overwhelmed him. The highborn fell back, closing his eyes and tried to take stock of his rebellious limbs.
“Why did you bring him here?” the older druchii said angrily. “He’s a highborn, take him to his tent and let his people care for him. We’ve too much to do as it is.”
“If he had his own healer do you think I’d be wasting my time with the likes of you?” Eluthir answered haughtily. “And he’s no mere highborn, either — he’s Malus of Hag Graef, second-in-command of the army!”
“Mother of Night,” the chirurgeon cursed. “All right,” he said querulously and knelt beside the highborn. “What happened to him?”
“We were in battle, you old fool,” the young knight snapped. “The enemy general struck him in the head with a mace. It was just a glancing blow—”
“Obviously, or else you wouldn’t be here troubling me,” the chirurgeon grumbled. He reached down and grabbed Malus by the jaw with one rough hand, then bent over and peered into the highborn’s eyes. “Can you hear me?” he asked, speaking slowly. Malus grunted an affirmative. The chirurgeon nodded and waggled his fingers in front of the highborn’s eyes. “Well enough,” the older man said, then took his hands and ran them carefully around Malus’ scalp from around the eyes all the way to the back of the skull. Sharp pain blossomed on the left side of his head and Malus hissed warningly at the healer. The chirurgeon nodded and pulled away, his left hand wet with blood.
“There are two sizeable punctures, probably from bits of his broken helmet,” the older druchii said. “His skull seems intact, but I don’t doubt it’s been cracked like a boiled egg. Take him to his tent and get him some hushalta. He should rest for several days and you should have someone watch him closely the entire time. If his health holds up through tonight, he should be all right.”
Eluthir was incredulous. “That’s all? Give him mother’s milk and let him sleep it off like he’s had too much wine?”
The chirurgeon was about to give the young knight a blistering reply when Malus cut in. “Get me up,” he said weakly. “I don’t need a chirurgeon. Let him go about his business, Eluthir.”
The older druchii looked down at Malus and bowed his head respectfully, then hurried off. Malus tried to lever himself into a sitting position and Eluthir took his arm and pulled him clumsily upright. At once the highborn felt a wave of dizziness and nausea sweep over him, but he closed his eyes and bit his lip until it passed. “What happened?” he finally managed to ask. When he opened his eyes, Eluthir was still supporting him. Nearby, Spite and Eluthir’s cold one sat on their haunches, their snouts, forelimbs and chests brown with dried blood. The two highborn were, if anything, even filthier.
“You stabbed one of the general’s men and then he hit you—” Eluthir began.
“I know that part,” Malus snapped. He caught himself reaching back to probe at the back of his skull and forced himself to lower his hand. The vision — or was it a hallucination?—was still strong in his mind. “How goes the battle?”
“Ah, of course!” Eluthir’s face brightened. “We’ve won, my lord. Our charge carried the day — when we broke through the spear companies covering the road, the enemy called up their reserves, but Lord Kethair’s fresh troops hit the enemy’s flank and the enemy spear line broke. The fight in the centre stayed hot for a few minutes more, because the general seemed to realise who he’d hit and ordered his men to seize you. The household knights put a stop to that, though. Lord Gaelthen killed the last of the general’s bodyguards and would have gone after the general himself except that the enemy’s reserves arrived and covered his escape.” The young knight’s face was alight with triumph. “I slew one of the general’s bodyguards myself. Took his fine sword and hung his head from my saddle. He was a quick one, but I—”
“Where is the army now, Eluthir?” Malus prodded.
“The army? Strung out halfway between the ruins and Blackwater Ford by now. Lord Fuerlan ordered a general pursuit with the cavalry and the household knights to hunt down and finish off the enemy banners. The infantry is re-forming at the ruins — from what I could tell, they took a bad beating. Some of the spearmen were saying Lord Kethair himself had been killed, but there’s no way to tell just yet.”
“And the scouts?”
“Well, you can ask them yourself if you want.” Eluthir pointed to a group of shades crouching some distance away. “Fuerlan had no orders for them and your autarii girl took some of her men and followed me back when she heard you’d been wounded.” The young knight eyed Malus and gave him a roguish wink. “That one would make a feisty concubine, wouldn’t she?”
Malus stopped the conversation with a sharp look. His mind was working furiously, trying to take stock of the situation. He eyed the shades and one of the things the autarii girl had told him sprang to mind. The highborn glanced at Eluthir. “One last question: where is Nagaira?”
Eluthir frowned. “Last I saw, she was still with Lord Fuerlan, but that was before he took off with the cavalry. I expect she’s still at the ruins, or on her way back here.”
The highborn nodded. It was the best chance he was likely to get. He looked about the camp, getting his bearings, then beckoned to the shades. They rose to their feet and glided soundlessly to him. The autarii girl pulled back her hood and regarded him closely. “Is my lord well?” she asked.
“Well enough,” Malus answered. “Tell me: do you know where my sister’s tent lies?”
After a moment she nodded. “It is near the general’s tent. Black sides and small runes over the doorframe. It stinks of magic.”
Malus nodded. “Leave one man behind to guide us, then take the rest and scout it out. See if there is anyone inside.”
A knowing look came into the scout’s eye and she nodded, hissing curt orders to her companions in an impenetrable autarii dialect. The shades slipped gracefully among the clustered tents, leaving a young man behind who beckoned to Malus and started off after his mates. The highborn pushed away from Eluthir and followed on unsteady legs.
“My lord?” the young knight said. “My lord? What are we doing?”
Malus looked back at Eluthir and smiled. “Why, we’re going to ransack my sister’s tent, of course,” he said. “There’s something of mine I’m looking for and I think she has it.”
“Oh. I see,” he said, though the bemused look on his face suggested otherwise. “I’ll go and get the nauglir.”
The tent’s doorframe was narrow and formed of some polished, black wood, making the carved runes nearly invisible to the naked eye. Malus peered closely at them, careful not to cross the threshold and tried to make out their meanings, but it was an exercise in futility. “I doubt they are charms to keep the dust and the flies out,” he muttered. He glanced at the autarii girl beside him. “You are certain there is no one inside?”
She nodded. “I counted all her retainers with her on the field this morning and none have returned.” As she spoke, her eyes wandered up and down the lane running past the tent’s entrance. The rest of the shades had disappeared, on the lookout for Nagaira or her men.
Malus scratched at clots of dried blood caking his narrow chin. “I suppose the tent walls are warded as well.”
“Most like, but that is of little consequence.”
“Oh?”
The girl took another look around, then went around to the back of the tent. “A ward on a tent wall only awakens when the fabric is cut,” she said, studying the shelter’s exterior. “So the challenge is to slip past without cutting it.” The autarii’s gaze settled on two tent stakes, about four feet apart. She pointed at one and knelt by the other. “Take hold of that rope and unwind it. Keep it taut, lest the side of the tent collapse.”
The highborn unwrapped the guy rope, digging in his heels at the surprising weight pulling at the line. The side of the tent started to fold, but he took the rope in both hands and pulled it taut again. The scout had undone her own rope and beckoned to Malus with her free hand. “Good. Now pass your rope to me.”
Carefully, Malus worked his way over and guided his rope into her small hand. She wound the line around her wrist and palm and held it effortlessly. “All right,” she said absently and slowly inched forward. The side of the tent started to fold inward, losing tension. Abruptly she stopped. “There. Now you should be able to slide underneath.”
Concealing his surprise at the girl’s strength, Malus edged forward and got down on his belly. There was just enough of a gap for him to wriggle under. Once he was past the tent wall he straightened again and found himself in a narrow compartment where one or more slaves were meant to sleep. He stepped over the neatly stacked bedrolls and pushed aside the inner flap to enter the tent’s main chamber.
The air was close and thick with incense and the black roof let in little light to see by. Three banked braziers cast a dull, red glow over the rug-lined floor. Once he had let his eyes adjust, Malus could make out a low, narrow bed in one corner, then a table with two chairs near one of the braziers. Two large sub-chambers were partitioned off from the main chamber, each on opposite sides of the tent. Both were enclosed by walls of tanned hide and accessed by a heavy leather entry flap. One of the sub-chambers reeked of spilled blood and magic, causing his skin to crawl.
There was nothing of interest in the main room, Malus quickly realised. After a moment, he took a wary step towards the sub-chamber that smelled of fresh blood.
“You are the arrow, Malus.”
Malus whirled. The voice had come from the second sub-chamber, on the other side of the room.
It was the voice from his vision.
“What do you mean?” Malus asked. “Who are you?”
There was no answer. The highborn rushed across the room and drew back the leather entry flap. There was no one there. Instead, Malus saw a chair and a travelling table covered in parchment sheets and heavy, leather-bound books. Another small table was stacked with arcane objects — goblets, bottles of coloured glass, sheathed daggers and a small wooden chest carved with sorcerous glyphs.
“Im hallucinating,” he muttered to himself. “There’s no other explanation.” But what did the voice mean, he wondered?
He went to the desk and began leafing through the pages. They were all very old, the parchment dry and brittle to the touch. Nearly all of the pages seemed to map the sprawling tunnels of an enormous labyrinth, with notes written in faded black ink. The writing appeared to be druchast, but he couldn’t make out a single word. Malus grimaced in annoyance. “Some damned sorcerer’s code.”
Malus studied the curving paths for several moments, trying to divine what they were. They looked familiar somehow, but he couldn’t quite place them.
Outside Malus heard muffled hoof beats. He froze, listening intently, but the riders passed on by the tent. Nagaira could be here any minute, he thought. Keep looking!
He turned his attention to the books piled on Nagaira’s table and picked up the one on top. It was a large, heavy volume, with faded yellow pages and heavy iron clasps binding the cover.
After several moments of fumbling with the clasps, the book fell open to a spot marked with a flat braid of black hair. The pages contained an elaborate drawing of the front and back of a naked druchii male. The body was covered in line after line of elaborate script.
Malus set the open book down and pulled off his left gauntlet. His bare hand trembled slightly as he held it over the book and compared the runes on his hand to the ones on the page. They matched in every particular.
There were lengthy sections of text describing the ritual involved, all written in a language Malus had never seen before. Page after page of writing, evidently detailing a powerful and complex spell. “So you cured me of a fever, dear sister?” Malus hissed.
He was just about to close the book when he noticed a notation in the margin of one of the pages. The ink was fresh and the writing was obviously Nagaira’s: If memories can be walled away, can thoughts be channelled to suit the sorcerer?”
The knight’s voice spoke behind Malus. “Does an arrow choose where it is shot, or who it strikes down?”
When the highborn turned, no one was there. “Speak plainly, spirit!” Malus snapped in frustration. “What does Nagaira intend for me?”
There was no reply, but Malus heard a faint scratching against the side of the tent. “What is it?” he asked in a low voice.
“Horses on the Spear Road,” the autarii girl hissed. “Nagaira has entered the camp.”
“Mother of Night,” Malus cursed. Acting quickly, he closed the book and returned it to its place. He gave the second table a quick once-over, looking for anything of interest. None of the bottles were labelled and he wasn’t about to start tasting them. “Would it be too much to ask for one to have the word ‘antidote’ written on it?” he grumbled.
Lastly he examined the wooden box. The clasps were simple enough and didn’t look to have hidden needles in them. He undid them and opened the lid. Inside he found three strange objects: an octagonal medallion etched with runes, a small brass idol and a long, narrow black dagger. “Now what are these?” he muttered.
The scratching came again. “Hurry, my lord! She is almost here!”
For a moment he was tempted to take the relics, thinking he might use them to force Nagaira to release her hold over him — but then realised that all she had to do was command him to hand them over and he would have no choice but to comply. He snapped the box shut with a snarl and rushed from the chamber, heading for the tent’s entry flap. He gambled that the wards laid upon the entryway weren’t meant to keep people inside from getting out, so he pushed the heavy leather hanging aside and dashed out into the bright sunlight. Only then did he realise that his head was pounding fiercely and his legs would barely support his weight. He took a deep breath and managed to compose himself just as Nagaira and her retinue appeared, trotting their lathered horses down one of the camp’s main avenues.
The witch noticed Malus in an instant and turned towards him. He watched her approach, suddenly aware that the autarii girl had disappeared. Damned useful skill, he thought enviously.
Nagaira reined in her horse a few feet from Malus, close enough that the highborn could feel the destrier’s hot breath on his cheek. The witch’s retainers dismounted, seeing to their own horses and Malus noticed a sheepish-looking Lord Eluthir bringing up the rear with Spite in tow.
“Your retainer says you were looking for me,” Nagaira said forbiddingly.
“I was,” he said, thinking quickly. He held up his bare hand. “I was wondering how I could remove these tiresome marks. It’s been almost a week. Surely you don’t expect my fever to return at this point, do you?”
To Malus’ eyes, Nagaira seemed to relax slightly. “The magic makes the ink difficult to erase,” she said smoothly. “Have patience. You won’t have to worry about it much longer.”
Malus forced himself to smile. “That’s a relief,” he said. “What news of the battle, sister?”
Nagaira slipped from the saddle and passed the reins to one of her men. “Our noble general has chased the enemy nearly all the way back to Blackwater Ford,” she said absently. “The last we heard, he’d sent a messenger back to summon the infantry to join him at the ford. Something about a rearguard of enemy spears guarding the river crossing.”
The highborn frowned. “A rearguard? But that makes no sense. The enemy general had taken pains to ensure we couldn’t slip past him through the woods and cut him off. If he’d had those spears with him at the ruins he could have done us much more harm.” His eyes widened. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
Suddenly Malus realised why the enemy force at the ruins troubled him. “Unless they never meant to stop us at the ruins in the first place,” he said, his pulse quickening. “The bulk of the enemy army is waiting at the ford. Fuerlan has been lured into a trap!”
In retrospect, the clues had been there all along, Malus thought angrily as he and Eluthir raced south along the Spear Road. Shadows raced in the highborn’s wake as the army’s scouts ran along behind the galloping nauglir.
They hadn’t seen a large detachment of knights at the ruins. What army of Hag Graef would march without a large force of knights, especially where the honour of the city was concerned? Also, the advance party Malus and his knights had ambushed the day before had been too large for the relatively small force that had been waiting for them this morning. If he had to guess, Malus figured that the full army had originally intended to camp at the ruins, but the general had changed his plans once he’d learned that his advance party had been destroyed by a large Naggorite force. So he’d laid an ambush at the ford and had gone ahead to present himself as bait. Now the Naggorites had taken the lure and had rushed forward into the trap’s steel jaws.
Malus bit back his rage as he and Eluthir rode up on the last column of spearmen to leave the ruins in response to Fuerlan’s message. The highborn nudged Spite off the road and raced past the tired-looking warriors. He tried to force his aching mind to calculate distances and times. If they were only three miles or so from the ford and all the infantry were on the road in column, then the lead banner of spearmen was at least halfway there. There might still be time to salvage the situation if they moved quickly.
Nearly ten minutes later they reached the head of the long, snaking line of spearmen. Lord Ruhven’s banner was in the lead, the old warrior marching alongside his men as tradition demanded. He glanced over as Malus drew alongside. “I heard you’d had your head knocked off back there in the ruins,” he said in a rough but cheerful voice.
“Wishful thinking I’m afraid,” Malus answered. “But the enemy will have another chance, I think. We’ve been tricked.”
“What?”
“The main enemy force is laying in wait at the ford,” Malus declared. “The battle at the ruins was just to draw us in. Fuerlan and our cavalry are likely fighting for their lives right now. Pass the word down the column: double-time march and prepare to form a line of battle just short of the river crossing. I’m going ahead to try and pull the cavalry out of the trap, but we’ll need a wall of spears to break up the enemy pursuit.”
Lord Ruhven nodded gravely. “We’ll be there, dread lord. Count upon it.” Then he turned and snapped orders to his retainers and trumpets began to wail.
Malus waved the scouts on and kicked Spite back up to a gallop. His heart was racing as the infantry picked up the pace behind him. In his mind he saw the elements of his plan coming together and despite the desperate situation, he thrilled at the power at his command. Blessed Mother of Night, this is what I was born to do, he thought, suppressing a wave of bitterness at the realisation that he would never command a true druchii army in battle. That dream had died along with his father.
The cruelty of the gods never ceased to amaze him. So many lost opportunities: the slave raid, then the expedition to the north that had turned out to be a fool’s errand. Why hadn’t he accepted Nagaira’s invitation to join the cult? What had he been thinking? The pain in his head began to throb again. Malus ground his palm into his forehead as though he could wipe it away by brute force.
“The mind is a mirror,” Malus heard the knight whisper in his ear. It was so real that he could feel the man’s breath against his skin. “It reflects what it is shown.”
Malus didn’t bother looking back. He knew there wasn’t any point. All that mattered was the battle that lay ahead and how he planned to win it.
Malus and Eluthir had gone another half mile when they came upon the first fleeing horsemen. The Naggorite cavalrymen were racing down the road as fast as their mounts would carry them. Their armour was battered and bloody and their faces were white with exhaustion and fear. Malus gritted his teeth and drew his blade. The rout at the ford had already begun.
“Stand fast!” he roared at the oncoming riders. When they didn’t slow he pulled on the reins and put Spite directly in their path. “Stand fast or your lives are forfeit!” he said again and this time the riders drew rein and came to a shuddering stop. “Who is the ranking man among you?” Malus snapped.
The riders looked to one another. One man bowed his head. “I am, dread lord,” he stammered. “You must flee — the enemy is right behind us! They laid a trap at the ford—”
Malus spurred his mount forward and ended the man’s panicked protest with a swift stroke of his sword. The rider’s head bounced along the road. “Now who is the ranking man among you?” he asked.
The surviving men watched with stricken faces as the headless body of their comrade slid from the saddle and hit the ground with a wet thud. Finally, one of the men drew a deep breath and said, “I am, dread lord. What are your orders?”
“You will follow along behind me and collect any more riders retreating from the battle,” he said. “Kill any who refuse to obey. The infantry is just up the road and will be here in minutes. We’re going to turn the tables on the men from Hag Graef. Do you understand?”
The man met the highborn’s eyes and struggled to find his courage. “I… yes, dread lord. I understand.”
“Very good.” Malus turned to Eluthir. “Stay with them. When you’ve got a credible force assembled, advance to the ford and join the battle. Use your best discretion, Eluthir and don’t fail me.”
“You can count on me, my lord,” Eluthir said gravely.
Malus nodded. More riders appeared on the road and the young knight began bellowing at them to halt. Leaving the cavalrymen to their task, the highborn resumed his race to the ford with the silent scouts in tow.
Even at a full gallop, the last mile seemed to last forever. The farther he went, the more fleeing men Malus passed. Many were wounded and struggling to remain in the saddle. They shouted incoherent warnings at him as he rushed past, but he spared them not so much as a glance.
At last he crested a low hill and saw the dark ribbon of the Blackwater only a few hundred yards away. The view was obscured by a seething pall of dust that swirled over the melee raging just short of the river and Malus saw at once that his worst fears had been realised.
Fuerlan, the household knights and what was left of the cavalry were making a last stand on the Spear Road, fighting a pitched battle with horsemen and knights from the Hag within a virtual cordon of spear companies. The trap had been well-sprung and the Naggorites were completely encircled, but those that remained were fighting to the death. As Malus watched, a company of enemy cavalry staggered away, nursing wounded horses back to the safety of their own lines. Two other ragged companies of enemy horse were limping south across the ford, clearly spent and unable to continue the fight. The Naggorites were taking a fearful toll of Hag Graef’s fighting men, but it would not be enough. If they didn’t break out of the encirclement, they were doomed.
There was a banner of enemy spearmen between the trapped Naggorites and the road north, formed in line and waiting to catch any cavalrymen who tried to escape the trap. They were the first obstacle Malus would have to deal with. He turned to the scouts. “Advance and begin firing on those spearmen,” he said, indicating the enemy banner with his sword. “Keep killing them until they advance on you, then retreat back up the road. Lead them back to Eluthir and his riders.”
“What about you?” the autarii girl said.
The answer was obvious to Malus, absurd as it sounded. “Where else? Into the thick of things,” he said with a fierce laugh and charged off down the slope.
Tireless as ever, Spite raced downhill towards the enemy spearmen. Malus angled his charge to pass down the narrow gap between two of the banner’s spear companies, counting on the din of battle to cover his approach until the last moment. As he approached, the first of the enemy spearmen began to fall to the autarii’s crossbow bolts. The scouts were singling out anyone that looked like an officer or a trumpeter, he noted with grim approval.
Ten yards from the rear ranks the spearmen began to realise the threat that had appeared behind them. Heads turned and fingers pointed at the scouts — and the lone rider charging their way. Confusion reigned as the soldiers noticed that their leaders were dead and the spear companies began to react independently of one another. Some of the men broke ranks and tried to block Malus’ path, but it was too little, too late. Spite knocked two of the men flying back into their fellows and bit the arm off another, further adding to the bedlam in the ranks. Malus roared a fierce oath as he raced through the surprised enemy force. Then he was past them and facing the rear of an enemy cavalry unit fighting with the household knights just a few yards away.
The enemy horsemen never heard him coming. Spite fell in among their packed ranks like a wolf among sheep, slashing and snapping with tooth and claw. One horse was borne over by the force of the nauglir’s charge and the rider was crushed beneath Spite’s feet. A horseman to Malus’ right tried to turn and face the new threat and the highborn brought his sword down on the rider’s helmet, splitting it and the head beneath almost completely in two. Without pause Malus pulled his blade free and hacked at the rider on his left, catching the man’s right wrist and chopping off the thumb and first three fingers of his sword hand.
A roar went up from the embattled knights as shock reverberated through their enemy’s ranks and they tore into the cavalrymen with renewed fury. The horsemen in the rear rank were so tightly packed that they couldn’t turn around to face Malus’ unexpected attack. The riders began to fight clear of the press so they could better defend themselves. The unit’s cohesion collapsed as the men scattered and someone panicked and shouted for a retreat. Within moments the horsemen were falling back and the beleaguered knights saw them off with a weary cheer. Several raised their swords in salute to Malus as he entered their ranks.
“Keep fighting!” he called to his men. “Help is on the way!”
The battle continued all around them, with the Naggorite forces having been pushed back into a single loose mass of troops and assailed from all sides. “Where is Fuerlan?” he shouted, but the few men who heard him shook their heads wearily. “Gaelthen then? Where is Gaelthen?”
Helmeted heads turned in every direction, trying to make sense of the chaos around them. Without his own helm, Malus could make out a bit more of the battle, but it was hard to tell one man from another amid the dust and the confusion. Then, a few yards further south, Malus saw nauglir fighting nauglir as the knights of both cities struggled near the river’s edge. Amid the crush of men and cold ones Malus saw the enemy warlord battering away at two Naggorite knights and he realised that if Fuerlan were still alive he was certain to be directly in the warlord’s path.
Not that it mattered, the highborn thought with a fierce grin. He now had another plan. “Keep a lane open to our rear,” he commanded the knights around him. “Watch for our infantry to the north. When they appear we’re going to break out and join them!” Without waiting for a response he kicked Spite’s flanks and dived into the press, working his way inexorably towards the enemy general. Weary knights parted to let him pass as he cut through the centre of the struggling force and joined the fight farther south.
Spite’s clawed feet slapped on crimson-stained sand as Malus reached the river’s edge. Here the battle had become a series of individual fights as the knights grappled with one another at close quarters, neither side willing to give ground to the other. Nauglir tore at one another as their riders traded blows with sword, axe and mace. Armoured bodies littered the ground, some still locked together in bitter struggle even as the last of their lifeblood was spent.
Malus got to within ten yards of the enemy warlord before his path was blocked by knots of struggling men. Had he a crossbow he could have shot the bastard in the head and left the enemy army reeling; as it was he had to watch helplessly as the warlord smashed the skull of one of his opponents and threw himself upon the other.
Right in front of Malus, another Naggorite reeled in the saddle, his hand pressed to a mortal wound in his throat. His foe reached over and grasped the knight’s crested helmet, pulling him forward and hacking off his head with a savage downward stroke. The dead knight’s cold one was still locked in a fight to the death with the victor’s nauglir and neither one gave an inch.
Malus’ frustration reached a boiling point. “If I can’t go through, then by the Dark Mother I’ll go over!” He put his spurs to Spite’s flanks. “Up, Spite! Up!”
Spite gathered himself and jumped, landing on the riderless nauglir’s back. The smaller cold one scrabbled for purchase, digging its claws in. Malus continued to apply the spurs. “That’s it!” he cried. “Forward, beast of the deep earth!”
The nauglir hooked a claw in the dead knight’s saddle and leapt forward again, this time landing squarely on the back of an enemy knight’s mount and smashing its rider from the saddle. The larger nauglir thrashed and roared, snapping at the cold one on its back. The enemy warlord was just a few more yards away, still focused on the opponent in front of him. “Once more!” he shouted. “Forward!”
Spite again tried to gain a claw hold, but this time the cold one beneath them rolled onto its side, taking Spite with it. Huge, drooling jaws snapped shut mere inches from Malus’ leg as he was hurled forward. Instinct took hold and the highborn threw himself from the saddle lest he be crushed beneath the weight of the struggling war-beasts.
Malus hit the sandy ground hard enough to knock the wind from his chest. He rolled for more than a yard and crashed into the side of the warlord’s mount, just as the general finished off his second foe and began looking for someone else to kill.
The highborn gasped for breath as a clawed foot the size of his chest loomed over him. Malus threw himself forward, rolling underneath the cold one and coming up on the beast’s other side.
The warlord struggled with his mount’s reins and tried to turn to face Malus, shouting with surprise and fury. The highborn howled like a fiend and swung his sword in a two-handed grip at the back of the general’s knee. Flesh, bone and jointed steel burst asunder in a spray of gore and the warlord’s shout turned to a howl of agony as he lost balance and pitched sideways out of the saddle. He disappeared from sight on the other side of his mount and without thinking Malus pulled the man’s severed leg from its stirrup, put his foot in the leather loop and vaulted onto the cold one’s back.
The general was trying to crawl across the sand, leaving a bright trail of blood from his ravaged limb. The nauglir tried to snap at Malus, turning in place as it tried to catch him in its jaws, but the highborn paid no heed, launching himself through the air at his retreating foe.
Malus landed a few feet short of the general on the hard-packed sand. Pain spread in fiery waves from his hips and knees but he forced himself forward, scrabbling on all fours like a wolf. The warlord saw him coming and lashed out with his fearsome mace, but Malus anticipated the blow and ducked beneath it. The force of the swing flipped the general onto his back and the highborn clambered onto him, his sword held high. “Congratulations, general,” he hissed. “You came north with an army to find me and here I am.”
The sword flashed down, shearing through the general’s neck and the dragon helm rolled heavily across the sand. Malus crawled after it, picking up the helmet and prying loose the dripping trophy within. He staggered to his feet on the blood-stained sand and held the general’s head aloft. A fierce wave of déjŕ vu inexplicably struck him, quickly transforming into a rush of triumph.
“Naggor!” he roared and he heard a cry of despair go up from the closest of Hag Graef’s knights. At that moment it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.
Malus tucked the general’s head beneath his arm and snatched up his sword, looking wildly about for Spite. He spotted the nauglir limping towards him several yards away and he ran to meet the wounded beast before some enemy knight decided to try and run him down. Another nauglir would have forgotten its rider and thrown itself into the fight, but Spite was smarter than the typical cold one. “Well done,” Malus said as he clambered into the saddle. “Well done, terrible beast!”
He took the general’s head and impaled it on the tip of his sword, then held it high for friend and foe to see. The enemy knights nearby were already in full retreat, shocked and dismayed at their warlord’s death. Household knights saluted Malus with raised swords, shouting his name to the sound of skirling trumpets.
Trumpets! Malus looked to the north. A mass of horsemen were charging down the hill with Eluthir in the lead and a wall of glittering spears following in their wake. The banner of enemy spearmen to the north had held its ground and suffered the murderous fire of the scouts, but now they lost their nerve and retreated from the onrushing cavalry. The jaws of the trap had been broken open and the trapped Naggorites could escape.
A cheer went up from the cavalrymen and just then Malus caught sight of Fuerlan near the centre of the largest mass of knights. The Naggorite general had lost his helmet in the fighting and his face was mad with fear and rage. The highborn turned Spite around and worked his way through the cheering mass to Fuerlan’s side.
“My lord!” Malus cried as he drew near. “The infantry has arrived and Eluthir has opened a path for us to withdraw. We must be swift before the enemy recover from their surprise—”
“Withdraw?” Fuerlan’s dark eyes narrowed hatefully. “The army of the black ark does not retreat! We will press forward and when the battle is done I’ll have you beheaded for cowardice!”
“Press forward?” Malus said incredulously. “Our cavalry is scattered and their strength is spent! We must fall back and regroup — the trap could close again at any moment and we won’t get another chance to break away!”
“Silence!” Fuerlan shrieked, fairly trembling with rage. He held out a gauntleted hand; Malus realised at that moment that the general didn’t even have his sword drawn. “That man’s head belongs in the hands of a true warrior, not a darkblade and a traitor like you. Give it here and get out of my sight. I’ll deal with you when the battle’s done.”
Malus turned away from Fuerlan and searched the eyes of the weary Naggorite horsemen and knights. They watched the scene unfold with barely concealed shock, but none dared gainsay the son of Balneth Bale. The highborn plucked the trophy from the tip of his blade and handed it to Fuerlan without a word, then turned away.
Fuerlan raised the general’s head. “Victory for the black ark!” he cried, as though he’d just hacked the head from the warlord’s body himself. As he did Malus turned back and struck the Naggorite general in the head with the flat of his sword. The Witch Lord’s son let out a groan and toppled from the saddle.
For a moment silence reigned among the Naggorites. Malus waited, eyeing each of the men without a word.
Finally, one of the household knights spoke. “The lord general has been wounded,” he said pointedly to the rest of the men. “That leaves you in command, Lord Malus. What are your orders?”
Malus nodded and carried on as though he hadn’t just committed an act of gross mutiny. He caught sight of Fuerlan’s trumpeter and fixed the man with a commanding stare. “Sound the call for the horse to withdraw,” he said. “The household knights will form up and act as rearguard to cover their retreat. With luck we’ll drag the enemy’s counterattack onto our spears.”
“Aye, my lord,” the trumpeter said hoarsely, then put the trumpet to his lips and played a complicated series of notes. At once, the household knights sprang into motion, spreading the word to their scattered mates. Around them the dust was starting to settle and order asserting itself out of chaos. Their cordon of steel broken, the enemy spearmen had pulled back a dozen yards to the east and west and their cavalry had retreated in the direction of the river. The Naggorite horse was already streaming back towards their lines in ragged groups of three or four. The highborn shook his head grimly. They would be lucky if a single whole company of horsemen remained after the day was done.
The household knights were in equally battered shape. Less than half of the ark’s elite warriors remained, an appalling loss by any standard. And the battle was far from done.
Trumpets sounded among the forces of the Hag. Conflicting signals from different leaders, but Malus reckoned that wouldn’t last long. Most of the horsemen had already reached the Naggorite lines or were nearly there. The highborn raised his sword. “Household knights! Advance at the gallop!”
The haggard formation of knights lurched into motion, picking up speed as the nauglir found their legs and started to run. Almost at once a roar went up from the enemy lines. Malus looked back to see the curving arms of the spear companies surging forward again. The sight of their most hated foes fleeing from their grasp had given them a clear course of action where their commanders could not.
Normally the race would not have been in doubt, but the nauglir had been in a long day of battle and pursuit and even their legendary stamina was nearly spent. Howling spearmen closed in on either side of the retreating formation. Crossbow bolts whirred through the air — but this time they came from the autarii on the hill, firing into the mass of enemy infantry. A hurled spear passed close enough that Malus could have reached out and caught it if he’d been so inclined. To the rear of the formation, he heard the clash of arms; when he looked back he saw that the enemy spearmen had caught up with the rearmost rank of knights and were trading blows with the mounted men.
Ahead, a trumpet sounded and two companies of spearmen shifted left and right, opening a lane for the knights to pass through. A cheer went up as the first of the nauglir thundered through the gap and Malus raised his sword in salute as he went past.
The enemy spearmen crashed into the waiting Naggorites with a rolling thunderclap of steel. Captains bellowed orders to their men; the banners recoiled a step from the impact, then the Naggorites dug in their heels and pushed back. Men in the front ranks were pierced through again and again by the frenzied storm of spear points; the wounded staggered out of the ranks and streamed to the rear, limping or clutching at bloody holes in their chest and arms. The two sides ground at one another like tumbled stones, shedding a red grit of savaged corpses as they wore one another down.
Once safely behind their lines, the knights’ short sprint ground to a halt. Men reeled in the saddle, drunk with exhaustion and bled white from dozens of minor wounds. Malus turned away from the formation and trotted back to the line. The Naggorite spear companies were holding their own against an even number of enemy troops. On the far right flank the autarii continued to send a lethal rain of crossbow bolts into the ranks of the enemy spearmen and Malus noted that the enemy forces had no crossbowmen of their own, so they held a slim advantage there.
Malus’ eyes were drawn to the dark mass of horsemen and nauglir still standing on the north side of the ford, some seventy yards away. Would they enter the battle, or were they too spent to continue fighting? There was no way to tell. It was clear to Malus that unless someone among the Hag nobility asserted himself as the new general, the spear companies weren’t going to retreat. The inertia of their pursuit had carried them into battle with the Naggorite line and they would continue to fight it out until one side or the other lost their nerve and broke.
The battle was his to win or lose, Malus realised. The thought thrilled him to the core.
Within moments he reached his decision. He turned and led Spite back to the exhausted knights, arriving at the same time as Eluthir. The young knight’s face was alight with savage joy. Haifa dozen fresh heads hung from his trophy hooks.
Malus surveyed the group. “Where is Lord Gaelthen?” he asked.
One of the knights cleared his throat and spoke in a rasping voice. “I saw him fall by the river, my lord, during the third or fourth enemy charge.”
“I see,” Malus said gravely, surprised to feel a real sense of loss at the news. “Very well. That’s one more blood debt those bastards owe us,” he said. “And we’re going to collect. Right now.”
The men straightened in their saddles, their expressions blank with exhaustion. Malus met their gaze squarely. “The enemy infantry is fully committed, but their cavalry is wavering. If we hit their foot troops with a charge in the right place, they’ll break. I know it. You’ve seen a lot of hard fighting today and you’ve lost many kinsmen to the hated foe. Their shades are watching you. Will you deny them vengeance?”
A stir went through the weary knights. After a moment one of them spoke. “If you’ll lead us, dread lord, we’ll ride into the Outer Darkness and back!”
Malus grinned like a wolf. “Then follow me,” he said.
The highborn led the knights down the line to the right flank, where Lord Jeharren’s division was punishing the enemy spearmen under cover of the autarii’s crossbow fire. The young captain saluted as Malus and the knights approached. “A good day for fighting, dread lord,” Jeharren said, as though he were discussing the weather or a public execution. The broken stub of a crossbow bolt jutted from his left shoulder, but the Naggorite lord paid it no heed whatsoever.
“My compliments, Lord Jeharren,” Malus said. “The household knights will pass your lines and charge the enemy. When I give the signal you will order your companies to give us a lane into the centre of the enemy formation.”
Jeharren bowed. “Your will be done, dread lord.”
Malus rode back to his men. “Form columns!” he ordered. “Prepare to charge!”
The knights shook themselves into columns quickly and smoothly, despite their exhausted state. When they were ready, he raised his bloodstained sword and saluted Lord Jeharren. The captain nodded and turned to his trumpeter. “Make ready!” Malus shouted, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade.
The trumpet pealed. Ahead, two companies split left and right, opening a gap in the line. Enemy spearmen poured through, shouting exultantly. Malus swept his arm down in a glittering arc. “Charge!”
The household knights leapt forward with a terrible shout, racing at the enemy line. The spearmen pushing into the gap saw their doom approaching and tried to push their way back out of the narrow lane. Many dropped their spears in panic, pushing and beating at the men behind them to give way.
The knights of the black ark struck the enemy line like a spear, crushing the men in their path and plunging deep into the heart of the formation. Malus hacked down at the heads and necks of the tightly packed troops around him, inflicting terrible wounds to upraised faces and exposed throats. He snapped spear hafts and cracked helms, while Spite tossed crushed bodies in the air like a hound among rats. The air reverberated with screams and the sounds of clashing steel and Malus exulted in it, laughing like a madman.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the press of troops receded from the knights like a swift-flowing tide. The spearmen, overwhelmed at the ferocity of the Naggorite charge, broke and ran for the ford. The enemy’s left flank had completely collapsed and now the Naggorites pressed hard on the Hag’s centre and right.
Malus reined in and raised his sword. “Halt! Halt!” he cried to his men. The battle still hung in the balance, depending on what the enemy cavalry did. If they counter-charged, the Naggorites might quickly find themselves fighting for their lives.
He looked for the enemy horsemen farther down the hill — and saw them halfway across the wide river, fleeing south. The enemy knights were riding hard behind them. They’d lost their warlord and with him their will to continue the fight.
Moments later the centre of the enemy line broke and the retreat turned into a rout. Spearmen threw down their weapons and stumbled back down the hill, fleeing for their lives. A trumpet sounded and the Naggorite divisions advanced after them at a measured pace, killing every warrior they could catch. Even the battered cavalry joined in the pursuit, taking their own revenge for the bloody beating they’d taken an hour before.
A cheer went up from the household knights. “Malus! Malus!” they cried and he laughed and cheered along with them, drunk with the red wine of victory.
Eluthir moved his nauglir among the piles of enemy dead and joined him. “Where now, my lord?” he asked.
“Where else? Onward,” Malus said, pointing south with his bloodstained sword. “To Hag Graef!”
Cold rain whispered through the pine boughs over Malus’ head, heavy drops soaking his hair and running beneath the collar of his breastplate into his robes. Rivulets coursed their way down his filthy armour, turning bright pink as they washed away layers of dried gore. He and the other captains of the army stood in a tight ring beneath the sheltering pines, peering at a large oilskin map of the valley ahead. By the time they were done the ground beneath them would be as red as a battlefield, the highborn thought wearily.
It was late in the day and darkness promised to fall early due to the overcast sky. They had marched almost without pause since the battle on the Blackwater; now the army sat by the side of the Spear Road in the driving rain, too tired to do more than pull their cloaks about them as they tried to get some desperately needed rest.
They were less than a mile from the mouth of the Valley of Shadow. Had the sky not turned grey and misty with rain they could have seen the tips of the dark towers of Hag Graef from where they stood, but Malus welcomed the miserable weather and the concealment it gave. During the long march the cavalry and the scouts had been sent far ahead with word to kill any fleeing soldiers heading south or any travellers going north. Malus reasoned that the Drachau of Hag Graef knew of the disaster at Blackwater Ford, but would not guess how close the army of the black ark was to the walls of his city. It was a slim advantage, the highborn knew, but at the moment he would take whatever he could get.
The battle at the ruins and the subsequent fight at the river crossing had badly mauled the Naggorite army. Less than a quarter of their cavalry remained fit for duty, as well as only a third of the household knights. Between the losses at the ruins and the battle at the ford an entire division of infantry had been lost; Malus had ordered the second division reconstituted with the reserve infantry banner and a half-banner of survivors from the original unit. Lord Kethair had died storming the enemy’s left flank at the ruins and Lord Dyrval had died with many of his fellow cavalrymen during the ambush at the ford. Their replacements were both young highborn with little field experience, but the wounds on their faces and the hard look in their eyes showed that they were no strangers to hard fighting and they were willing to do whatever was necessary to claim victory in the war against the Hag.
The problem, Malus thought bitterly, was that he hadn’t the faintest idea how to give it to them.
Heavy raindrops made audible thumps against the dark, wrinkled oilskin. The map looked as though it had been drawn up during the first days of the feud with Hag Graef, many decades ago. Details of the valley and the terrain around Hag Graef were drawn with thick, black brushstrokes. The highborn traced the sinuous line of the Spear Road as it descended into the valley and wound among the thick forests that led to the north gate of the great druchii city. He knew its every turn and twist by heart, just like he knew the walls and heavy gates of the city in every particular. This was his home, the prize he’d longed to claim for his own since the first day he’d been presented to the Court of Thorns many years ago.
He also knew that three divisions of exhausted footmen and a handful of knights and cavalry weren’t nearly enough to take the city by storm, even if they could get past the city gates. During the long afternoon he’d considered the problem from every angle, trying to imagine how Nagaira planned to capture the Hag for her betrothed and he still couldn’t see a way to do it. Even sorcery wouldn’t work, because the drachau could call upon the witches of the convent to counteract Nagaira’s spells. And since the element of surprise had surely been lost, he couldn’t think of any trick that would get an entire army into the city unchallenged.
The only people who knew the full plan were the Witch Lord, Fuerlan and Nagaira. Balneth Bale was more than a hundred leagues away and Malus wasn’t even sure Fuerlan was still alive. He presumed someone in the division would have seen to it that the general had been carried out when the household knights retreated at the ford, but he never saw Bale’s son afterwards and Malus hadn’t the time or energy to bother finding out what had happened to him. For now, he commanded the army and with Hag Graef almost in sight he couldn’t help but be tempted by the thought that he could use Nagaira’s secret plan for his own ends. If she knew a way to put Fuerlan on the throne with the tools at hand, then why not him?
Unless there was no plan at all and this was an elaborate betrayal to cement the power of her ally Isilvar, the new vaulkhar. A great victory over Naggor would give Isilvar much-needed legitimacy among the nobles of the Hag. But if that were the case, what did Nagaira need with him? Why go to all the effort to place him under her control?
You are the arrow, the knight had said. What did that mean? Where did the visions come from?
His head ached. The skin around the punctures in his scalp was hot and painful to the touch and waves of dizziness had come and gone while he sat in the saddle during the march. Every bone in his body cried out for rest. Was he just exhausted, or was he hallucinating from his wounds — or was there something else?
Malus suddenly realised that the captains were staring at him. He shook himself from his fugue, scattering red-tinged droplets from his face. “Yes?”
Lord Esrahel cleared his throat and spoke in a quiet voice. “We were discussing placement of the camp, my lord.”
“Ah, yes,” Malus said, rubbing absently at his forehead. The headaches had grown increasingly worse over the course of the day, pounding inside his skull like a temple drum. He focused his attention on the map once more. “The terrain in the valley is ill-suited to a large encampment and I’m loath to pause in our advance in any event. Speed is of the essence. We must strike while our enemy is reeling.”
“Respectfully, my lord, we’re near to reeling as well,” Lord Ruhven said. The old druchii’s face bore a line of rough stitching that highlighted an ugly spear wound in his cheek. The lord’s face was flushed and his eyes sunken, but his voice remained strong. “The men have fought two hard battles and made a forced march in a single day. They’ll fight if you order them to, but they won’t last long against fresh troops.”
Lord Eluthir nodded. In the wake of Gaelthen’s death and his successful charge at the battle of the ford, Malus had made him his chief aide-de-camp and given him control of the household knights so he could focus on commanding the overall army. “The nauglir are worn out,” he said. “Many of them are wounded and they haven’t been fed for hours. If we push them much harder they’ll die just marching to the fight.”
Malus took a deep breath and wiped the rain from his face. He hated the thought of stopping just short of their goal, but he saw no other choice. “You’re right,” he reluctantly agreed. “There’s no point pressing on in the state we’re in.” He studied the map and referenced the notes made by the Witch Lord detailing the march. “The plan has us making camp here,” he said, pointing to a spot within the valley less than two miles from the city, “but the location is perilous. There’s no room to manoeuvre if the city sends troops against us. We’d be trapped between the forests and the valley walls and smashed to bits by sheer numbers if nothing else.”
Reluctantly he reached a decision, tapping another spot on the map farther north and not far from where they stood. “Lord Esrahel, pitch your tents here,” he said. “The area is abandoned farmland with good fields and plenty of room to move about. We’ll rest the night while I consult with my sister as to our next move. Be prepared for action at first light. If we don’t make our move by then it will be too late.”
“It is already too late,” whispered a cold, dead voice. Malus froze, thinking for a moment that the knight was speaking in his ear — until he noticed the other lords heard the voice as well. He turned and saw the slender form of the autarii girl standing in the shadows of the pine trees at his back.
The highborn felt a chill run down his spine as he met the girl’s dark, empty eyes. “What have you to report?” he asked dully.
“The vaulkhar has taken to the field,” she said simply. “The banner of chains waits outside the city with many spears and dragon kin.”
“Blood of the Dark Mother,” he cursed. “Show me. I want to see this for myself.”
They crouched in the rain with night coming on, huddled in the shadows of a pine wood within half a mile of the city. The autarii girl was tense, holding a bared blade in either hand and searching the darkness beneath the trees with a penetrating stare. The rest of the army’s scouts were out there somewhere, Malus knew, providing a defensive cordon for him. There were enemy scouts stalking the valley as well, the girl said, and from her wary demeanour it was clear that it wasn’t hapless rock adders this time.
Malus lay flat on the rain-soaked ground, staring in dismay at the force assembled in the fields before the city. He could see the vaulkhar’s banner clearly, with its circle of linked silver chains on a red field. Eight banners of spearmen — sixteen thousand men — waited in rough field camps that filled the barren meadows almost to overflowing. Worse, the highborn counted three banners of knights encamped close by the city walls, their nauglir kept close to their dark tents and ready for immediate action.
“Blessed Mother,” the highborn muttered, pointing out another sodden banner of black and red posted close by the vaulkhar’s. “He’s even called out the temple executioners.” He couldn’t even hazard a guess at the number of warriors the temple of Khaine could muster in the city. A thousand? Ten thousand? Who knew? “Isilvar has called up the city militia and somehow marshalled every minor noble in the Hag. Where did he get such influence so quickly?”
“You gave it to him,” the girl said.
Malus glared at her. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve been following their patrols most of the afternoon,” the autarii said. “All they talk about is you. A few survivors reached the city ahead of us and told wild tales of your prowess. You are like a daemon and with the old vaulkhar dead and so many powerful lords away on campaign the city trembles at your approach.”
“It seems I’ve developed a reputation at last,” Malus said bitterly. Frustration burned a searing hole in his heart. “And it has proven our undoing.” His fists clenched. “A messenger must have been sent back to the Hag the day I destroyed that advance party at the ruins. If we hadn’t made camp that day we could have caught the enemy unawares at the ford and made it here before Isilvar could have raised his army.”
“And now?”
“Now we have no choice but to withdraw. Even at our full strength we could not have stood against a force this size.” The highborn turned a calculating eye on the enemy dispositions. “If they have scouts in the woods as you say, then the vaulkhar is likely waiting to hear we’ve entered the valley, where we’ll be hemmed in like cattle. That way he can just throw troops at us until we’re too worn down to keep fighting and then he’ll send in the knights to finish us.” Slowly, cautiously, Malus rose to a crouch. “The plan was a gamble from the start and it failed. Now we have to try and survive the consequences,” he said. “I fear we won’t find the highborn you’re seeking.”
“Perhaps,” the girl said. “Did you learn anything in Nagaira’s tent?”
Malus grimaced. “She has placed some kind of compulsion on me,” he said hesitantly.
“Compulsion? For what?”
“I don’t know,” he growled. “She and Fuerlan have some purpose in mind for me. There were also some maps of a labyrinth of some kind—”
Malus froze, his eyes going wide. Slowly he turned and regarded the dark walls of the city. “Mother of Night,” he hissed. “I’m such a fool. The plan was right there in front of me and I just didn’t see it.” He turned to the girl. “We have to get back to the camp. This whole campaign has been a trick from the very beginning!”
Malus was prepared to run the entire way out of the valley to reach the new campsite. In the event, he and the autarii girl had gone less than two and a half miles before he heard the clatter of hammers and the shouted orders of an army making camp well within the Valley of Shadow.
The highborn stopped dead in his tracks. “What in the Dark Mother’s name is this?” The girl paused, her expression worried, and started to move to the edge of the forest where it ran alongside the Spear Road, but Malus brushed past her, running headlong towards the sound. He didn’t need the oilskin map to know where in the valley they were. Esrahel and the others had disobeyed his orders and gone on to make camp in the spot determined by the Witch Lord — placing them directly in the path of Isilvar’s waiting force.
It was dark on the roadway. The men of the baggage train were hard at work, raising tents and breaking out rations for the evening meal. The Naggorite army staggered like drunkards amid the hustle and bustle of the camp builders; many warriors had simply lain down on the wet ground and fallen instantly asleep. Malus watched the mutiny unfold before him and trembled with frustration and anger. What were they thinking?
“Go find Eluthir,” he told the girl. “Tell him to report to me at Lord Esrahel’s wagon at once!”
The girl slipped away like a fleeting shadow and Malus stalked into the campsite with murder in mind.
He found his bearings quickly enough; all druchii army camps operated along a common plan. The highborn and knights were in the centre, well-protected by rings of spear companies, while the cavalry encamped in two groups to east and west, where they could picket their horses and come and go on patrol with minimal difficulty. The baggage train and artillery camped just north of centre, far enough in to protect the army’s valuable supplies and siege weapons and close enough to provide the highborn with everything they desired.
Malus cut through the narrow alleys between the highborn tents and found himself among a veritable city of enclosed wagons that belonged to the baggage train. Within moments he worked his way among the wagons and the hectic work of their owners and reached Esrahel’s huge conveyance. Witchlight gleamed from the wagon’s narrow windows and the highborn could hear Esrahel inside, snapping orders to his underlings.
Malus drew his blade and rounded the back of the wagon. “What is the meaning of this?” he snapped, his voice as sharp as the sword in his hand.
The highborn pulled up short at the sight of eight armoured men standing at the rear of the open wagon with bared blades in their hands. Malus didn’t recognise them at first, but when they saw him they smiled wolfishly at one another and then looked to a figure standing in the wagon’s open doorway. Malus followed their gaze to the aristocratic-looking highborn glaring haughtily from the narrow doorway. He recognised the man at once. “Tennucyr?” he said with a frown. “What are you doing?”
“Restoring order,” the highborn snapped. “The rightful order of things, you murderous bastard.”
The highborn’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword and he took a step towards Tennucyr, fully intending to kill the man where he stood, but the retainers moved as one man and tackled him in a silent rush. Malus managed a single, outraged shout before an armoured fist crashed into the back of his skull and the world went dark.
Malus awoke with a scream as the point of a knife traced a ragged path across his cheek.
He was stripped naked and hanging by his hands from a thick tent pole and Fuerlan’s leering face was inches from his own. The tent was lit by a pair of large braziers, giving the general’s ravaged face a daemonic cast in the ruddy light. Malus could smell the stink of cheap wine on Fuerlan’s breath and saw the fires of madness dancing in his dark eyes.
The general giggled like a malevolent child. “There, you see? I knew I could bring him around.”
Blood ran down the side of Malus’ face as he looked about the tent. Tennucyr was there, reclining in a camp chair and sipping wine with an expression of hateful disdain. Fuerlan’s retainers and sycophants crowded the main room of the tent, standing silently as though bearing witness to an execution. The highborn wondered if that wasn’t about to be the case.
He didn’t recognise the tent. Malus reckoned it was Tennucyr’s. Clearly he’d rescued Fuerlan back at the ford and sheltered him during the afternoon until the general had regained some of his strength. The highborn shook his head. “I was such a fool,” he seethed.
“For striking me?” Fuerlan asked.
“No — for not finishing the job when I had the chance.”
Searing pain exploded across Malus’ forehead as the general let out a furious cry and struck the highborn with a backhanded slash of his knife. The highborn growled and hung his head low, trying to keep the dripping blood from his eyes.
Fuerlan leaned closer. “It’s a mistake you will soon come to regret, I assure you. I’ve already given the household knights to Lord Tennucyr in reward for his loyalty and courage. You no longer have a place in this army. As a mutineer you can be summarily executed — but I’m going to spend the night skinning you alive instead.” The general raised the knife, watching the firelight play along its stained edge. “I only regret that I have so little time to spare. You don’t know how much I’ve wished for this opportunity, Malus. I’ve dreamed of spending days slowly vivisecting you. I’ve spent a fortune building a special room in my tower where I could have torn you apart, rebuilt you and torn you down again, day after day after day. It would have been glorious.”
Fuerlan grabbed Malus by the chin and inserted the point of his knife into the skin above Malus’ right eye. Slowly, deliberately, he began to cut through the skin, tracing almost a full circle around the socket. The highborn gritted his teeth and trembled at the pain and a nervous smile lit the general’s face. “Have you ever drunk wine from a highborn’s skull, cousin? The vintage soaks into the bones, subtly altering the flavour. By morning I’ll be sitting on the drachau’s throne in Hag Graef and drinking sweet red wine from your brain pan and I cannot wait to see how it tastes.”
Malus gasped at the pain, blinking hot blood from his eye. Dull agony pounded in his skull. Then he heard a voice.
“You are the arrow, Malus,” he heard the knight whisper in his ear.
The highborn started to laugh — a silent heaving of his shoulders at first, swelling in strength and volume as he saw the fear glimmer in Fuerlan’s eyes. “If you kill me, you fool, who will do your assassin’s work then?”
The general recoiled. “What are you talking about?”
“I see your plan now, cousin,” Malus spat. “This whole campaign has been a diversion to draw out the armies of the Hag. I’ve been thinking of every trick and tactic I know to take the city with the forces at your disposal but I haven’t been able to think of a single way to do it — and that’s because you never intended to capture the city in the first place. I’m supposed to sneak into the city through the burrows and assassinate the drachau for you — then you’ll step from the shadows and claim the crown for your own. That’s the compulsion Nagaira put in my head, twisting my memories to make me forget, isn’t it?”
Fuerlan took a step back, his eyes widening in surprise. “She… She said you wouldn’t remember.”
Malus saw a figure moving through the shadows of the tent. The tall knight was lit in silhouette, hiding his features. “The arrow does not choose where it is shot, or who it strikes down,” the apparition warned in its sepulchral voice.
“I needed no memories. The clues were right in front of me,” Malus snapped. “Once you’ve got the crown, no one can take it from you except by force of arms or the declaration of the Witch King. That is the law and you can call upon the powers of temple and convent to enforce it. A young and inexperienced vaulkhar and an army of conscripts will think twice before tempting the wrath of the city’s witches, so I expect that after some initial resistance Isilvar will accept the status quo. By the time the more powerful lords return from campaign your power base will be solidified and they will have no choice but to accept it.” The highborn smiled bitterly. “Being the assassin my life is forfeit of course, but if I manage to survive the attempt you can hand me over to Malekith for execution and gain tacit support for your rule. It’s actually a brilliant plan, which makes me suspect my sister was the one who devised it.”
“Such flattery,” Nagaira sneered. “It would be charming, were you not such a cold-hearted, treacherous bastard.”
The witch swept into the tent like a cold wind, coming up behind Malus and looming over Fuerlan like a vengeful ghost. She had dispensed with her silver mask and thrown back the hood of her sodden cloak and the shadows veiling her head seemed to writhe like billowing smoke. Only her eyes could be seen clearly and they blazed with sorcerous fire. The general quailed at her approach and started to speak, but the witch struck him across the face with a ringing slap that nearly drove him to his knees.
One of Fuerlan’s retainers let out an angry shout and leapt at Nagaira with a dagger in his hand. The witch spoke a word that curdled the air in the tent and caused the braziers to flare and the man fell dead at her feet.
“Get up you wretch,” she snapped at Fuerlan. “Have you taken leave of what’s left of your senses?”
“He committed an act of mutiny on the field of battle!” Fuerlan said querulously. “I couldn’t let that go unanswered.”
“Of course you could!” she hissed. “You can do anything you want, you stupid little man. Do you think this is how a drachau behaves, giving in to his petty desires when there are greater things at stake? Are you worthy of the Court of Thorns or not, son of the Witch Lord?”
“How dare you address me in that way” Fuerlan shot back. “When I’m drachau, I’ll—”
“Ah, but you aren’t the drachau yet, are you? Nor will you be without him,” Nagaira said, pointing a finger at Malus. “Cut him down and get him dressed. Time is short.”
Glaring hatefully at the witch, Fuerlan gestured sharply to his retainers, who cut Malus free and brought him his clothes. The highborn shook his head ruefully, wincing in pain as he slipped on his robes. “Why the hurry, sister?”
Before the witch could answer there was the thunder of heavy footfalls outside the tent. Nagaira’s luminous eyes narrowed warily and she stepped back towards the far wall of the tent, all but disappearing into the shadows. As she did, she stepped unknowingly past the shadowy knight, who seemed to stare impatiently at Malus.
“What a witch gives, only a witch can take away” the figure said. The knight leaned close and Malus saw his face for the first time. It was not the sharp features of a druchii, but the malevolent face of a daemon. “And they tell no truths but their own.”
The tent’s entry flap was yanked unceremoniously aside and Malus turned to see Lord Eluthir and a dozen grim-looking knights crowd their way into the tent. The young knight took in the scene with a sweeping glance and bowed to Fuerlan. “My apologies for the intrusion, my lord,” Eluthir said smoothly. “I was looking for Lord Malus.” He turned to the highborn, pointedly ignoring the cuts on his face. “The household knights are formed up and ready for inspection as ordered,” he said.
“Lord Malus is no longer your captain,” Fuerlan interjected.
To the general’s surprise, the young knight laughed. “A fine jest, my lord,” Eluthir said. “Lord Malus led us to victory at Blackwater Ford and slew the Hag’s general in personal combat. Remove a hero from his command? How absurd! Think of the dissent it would cause in the ranks, to say nothing of the insult it would mean to your father, who gave him the command in the first place.” The knight smiled appreciatively. “I had no idea my lord general had such a refined sense of humour.”
Fuerlan could only stare at the man, his jaw working in frustration. Eluthir turned back to Malus. “The men are waiting, my lord. Shall I carry your armour?”
“I’ll put it on as we go,” the highborn said, slipping the kheitan over his shoulders and picking up the pieces of his plate harness. He gave Fuerlan a pointed look. “A captain’s work is never done,” he said with a grin. “You will excuse me, my lord. The men are tired and hungry and apt to become… unruly… if they are kept waiting too long.”
Once outside, Eluthir leaned close to Malus. “My apologies for taking so long, my lord. We searched nearly every tent in the camp before we found you.”
The rain stung in his open wounds, but the highborn turned his face to the sky and savoured the pain. It was like a benediction from the goddess, a reprieve from the bonds of slavery. “Apologise for nothing, Eluthir. You did well. Now we must hurry, if we are to avoid disaster.” He took a deep breath, focusing his thoughts as he put on his armour. “Gather all the captains and have them come to my tent at once. We have to get out of here.”
Eluthir frowned. “We’re retreating?”
“We have no choice,” the highborn said. “The campaign was never meant to succeed. It was just a diversion for a grander scheme. It was meant to draw the warriors of Hag Graef out of the city and it succeeded. If we aren’t clear of the valley by first light the army will be destroyed.”
“You’re talking about mutiny. Real mutiny,” Eluthir said gravely. “Fuerlan intends to stay and fight, doesn’t he?”
“No, he intends to sneak away while you are getting killed,” Malus said. “You can either stay here and die or return to the ark and take your chances with the Witch Lord. I’ll wager he abhors wasting good troops as much as I do.”
Eluthir thought it over a moment, then made his decision. “I’ll go and get the captains,” he said.
Malus nodded. A line of tired-looking nauglir waited in the road outside the tent, including Spite. The highborn ran his hand along the back of the cold one’s scaly neck and climbed wearily into the saddle. “Get to my tent as quickly as you can, then get the knights ready to move. We may need them to overcome any resistance to the plan.”
Eluthir nodded and led the knights away. Malus headed in the opposite direction, following the methodical layout of the camp until he reached the spot where he knew his tent would be. His mind was whirling as he tried to formulate a plan to withdraw the army in the dead of night, right under Isilvar’s nose. We’ll see how Nagaira and Fuerlan plan to compel me with an army at my back, he thought grimly.
He’d hoped to find one or more of the scouts waiting at the tent. Without servants of his own there was no one to light the braziers in the tent or fetch food from the kitchens. Malus pushed the tent flap aside and darted in, surprised to find the two braziers already lit and filling the tent with a warm, red glow.
They would probably have to leave all the baggage behind, Malus thought. Less noise, less weight and less time to get ready to leave. That decision made, he headed for the nearest fire, reaching out to dry his wet hands and the four hooded men standing to either side of the door closed in behind him, their swords gleaming in the firelight.
Just as Malus reached the brazier the daemon-faced knight spoke. “Beware! Your enemies are upon you!” He whirled, his hand reaching for his sword and the four men moved as one, hemming him in with a sudden, silent rush. They wore black-dyed leather armour and short, woollen cloaks with deep hoods that hid their faces in shadow, but Malus knew they were men from the Hag. “Assassins!” he shouted, just as the lead attacker leapt upon him.
The two men crashed together, knocking Malus back against the brazier and toppling it over in a shower of angry sparks. Moisture in his sodden cloak hissed into steam as Malus landed amid the hot iron and coals. His sword arm was trapped beneath the assassin’s knee and the hooded man closed his left hand about the highborn’s throat. A short, broad-bladed sword rose above the highborn’s head.
Malus let out a choking cry and threw a handful of burning coals into his attacker’s gaping hood. The assassin recoiled with a pained shout and the highborn shoved him away. Immediately, the three other men swept in, but the highborn tore his sword from its scabbard and swept it in a vicious arc at their knees. The smell of burning wool and canvas was heavy in the air as the scattered coals smouldered hungrily against the tent’s fabric walls.
The highborn’s swing drove the men back for an instant and he took the chance to roll away from the pile of cinders and struggle to his feet.
He rose to a crouch just as one of the men rushed him, stabbing at his throat with a long-bladed knife. Malus parried the thrust, then snarled in pain as the attacker smashed his wrist with a heavy, knotted cudgel. The blow knocked the sword from his hand and before Malus could grab for it he had to hurl himself back to avoid a deadly slash aimed at his throat.
Malus felt waves of heat against the back of his neck. The inside of the tent was burning and the attackers were skilfully hemming him in against the flames. Another swordsman darted in from the right — Malus drew his second sword and narrowly blocked a powerful cut to his shoulder. As he did, the second attacker’s cudgel came at him from the left and struck him just behind the temple, dashing him to the ground.
It felt as though he lay on the steaming ground for a long time, blinking flashes of white pain from his eyes. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion — he saw his hand groping numbly for the sword he’d dropped, only to see a leather boot slowly kick it aside. A gloved hand closed around a handful of his hair, pulling his face back until he could see tongues of flame licking across the tent’s canvas ceiling. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but all that came out was a tortured groan.
Two of the assassins stood over him, staring inscrutably at him from the depths of their cloaks. A third man stood nearby, standing upright like a judge about to pass sentence.
“Finish it,” the third man said gravely. Malus blinked, trying to remember where he’d heard the voice before.
The fourth assassin staggered to his feet, shaking his hooded head. Smoke curled from the fabric where the coals had found their mark. He moved through a nimbus of flame, his sword red with reflected fire. When he reached Malus, he placed the sword’s razor edge to the highborn’s throat and pulled back his hood. The man’s pale face was blotched with angry red burns and his long, white hair was singed. Eyes the colour of hot brass regarded Malus with a mixture of burning anguish and hate.
Malus looked into that face and felt his heart freeze. “Arleth Vann?”
“Well met, my lord,” the former assassin said in a dead voice. “But I fear it is for the last time. You have broken the Witch King’s law and betrayed your city to its foes and as your sworn men we have all been tainted by your infamy.”
The man at the front of the tent pulled back his hood. Silar Thorn-blood’s handsome face was twisted with rage. “You have ruined us, Malus. Every hand in Hag Graef is set against us because of your crime. We are less than slaves now!”
Arleth Vann’s sword sank a fraction of an inch into Malus’ throat. “If we are to reclaim our honour, you must die,” he said. “There is no other way.”
The two men at Malus’ side drew back their own hoods. Dolthaic the Ruthless spat in Malus’ face. “Do it,” he snarled.
Hauclir’s expression was bleak. There was no anger in his eyes, nor any hint of surprise. He looked at Malus searchingly. “Tell me this is part of some plan,” he said. “Tell me you meant for all this to happen and there’s a point to everything we’ve suffered since we returned to Hag Graef. Tell me you have a way to make things right again.”
Malus met his retainer’s pleading stare. “Can you give me a moment to think?” he asked, attempting to smile.
“Kill him,” Dolthaic said. “Get it over with.”
Distantly the sound of horns echoed in the night air. Arleth Vann shuddered, then sank to his knees before Malus, his eyes wide with surprise. The assassin let out a groan and fell against him and the highborn saw the three crossbow bolts that jutted from his back.
The shades rushed into the tent from three sides, charging through the entryway and from two rents torn in the side of the burning tent. Silar let out a yell and was immediately thrown back by the fierce attacks of two autarii scouts, his sword flashing as he parried their short, stabbing blades. Dolthaic let out a curse and made to strike off Malus’ head, but staggered back with a shout of pain as another crossbow bolt sprouted from his shoulder.
An autarii with twin swords rushed at Hauclir, his blades dancing like vipers. The former guard captain let Malus go and drew his knife, feinting a stroke at the shade’s face. The autarii ducked the blow and Hauclir’s cudgel smashed into his forehead. As the scout fell, Hauclir grabbed Arleth Vann’s arm and pulled him off the ground with surprising strength. “Run!” he said to Dolthaic and dragged the unconscious assassin towards the rear of the tent. Weaponless, Dolthaic gave Malus a passing glare of hate and ran at the wall of flames, plunging through the weakened fabric and out into the rain.
As the wall burst apart, the tent began to collapse. Malus felt hands grip his arms and drag him from the fire. He caught one last glimpse of Hauclir and Dolthaic dragging Arleth Vann around the corner of a nearby tent and then they were lost from sight.
The night air trembled with horns and the sound of fighting. A slender form knelt in front of the highborn, setting Malus’ swords by his side. The autarii girl peered searchingly in his eyes, then slipped a small piece of bark between his lips. The taste was painfully bitter. He gagged and bent over, retching into the grass.
“Are you well, my lord?” she asked. “You must gather your wits at once — the camp is under attack!”
Malus paused, tasting bile in his mouth and gasping for breath. The sounds echoing among the tents suddenly gained a dreadful meaning: Isilvar had found the camp and decided not to wait for dawn, launching a surprise attack on the exhausted and disorganised Naggorite troops.
The highborn clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut until his entire body trembled from the effort. He forced himself to clear his mind of distractions, pushing the sight of Hauclir’s pleading face into the dark depths of his brain. “Find Eluthir,” he said. “The captains are with him.” As he considered the situation and their options the seeds of a plan started to fall into place. “Tell Eluthir to counter-attack with all the knights he can find, then tell Esrahel to set fire to the baggage to cover the infantry’s retreat.” Slowly, he gathered up his swords and rose to his feet, forcing himself to focus solely on the situation at hand. “Tell the infantry commanders to gather their companies and make a fighting retreat north.”
“Retreat to where?” the girl asked.
“Anywhere but here!” Malus snapped. “Let’s get the army moving and we’ll worry about the rest later.” The highborn sheathed his swords and forced his legs to move, making his way to Spite.
The girl snapped orders in her thick autarii dialect and most of the shades scattered like crows. She nodded to the three that remained and they stole quietly into the shadows nearby. Malus frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Watching over you,” she said quietly, her eyes searching the shadows. “I believe we are approaching the end of things,” she said, her voice distant. “Your campaign is at an end and your enemies circle like wolves.”
“It was never my campaign,” Malus said, surprised at the bitterness in his voice.
She turned to him. “And the witch’s curse?”
He shook his head. The daemon knight’s words came back to him. “What a witch gives, only a witch can take away,” he said, reaching Spite and quickly checking his saddle and reins.
“So be it,” the girl said gravely. She slipped up behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Turn around, my lord. There is something I must say to you.”
Malus started to turn — but Nagaira’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Night has fallen, brother,” the witch said as she stepped from the darkness into the guttering light thrown by the blazing tent. “It is time.”
He paused, reaching stealthily for the dagger at his belt then remembered he’d lost it in the fight. “Time to flee, sister,” he said, stalling for time. “The army is in grave danger.”
“The army? The army’s purpose is to die,” the witch said. “I have another task in mind for you. Turn around.”
He turned, his eyes seeking the autarii by his side, only to find that the girl had vanished.
Nagaira stood some distance away, flanked by a dozen black-garbed retainers. Fuerlan stood close by with a naked blade in his hand. The former general’s expression was twisted with rage and fear.
The witch’s glowing eyes narrowed and Malus could feel the cold weight of her smile. “You will do exactly as I say” she commanded. “Follow me.”
Pain faded as Nagaira exerted her hold over him. A terrible vigour swelled in his chest, writhing like a bundle of snakes around his heart. His feet began to move of their own accord.
Malus looked wildly about. Where were the shades? Why weren’t they doing anything? In desperation, he turned to Spite as he walked towards his sister. “Up, Spite! Hunt!” he commanded. He would be damned if the beast died because it waited in vain for him to come and claim it.
The nauglir was still sitting on its haunches as Nagaira led Malus and her companions into the darkness.
Isilvar’s knights and cavalry had attacked up the Spear Road from the south. Nagaira led Malus and her companions west, out of the camp and into one of the dense woods that dotted the valley floor. Malus followed in his sister’s wake like a trained dog, listening helplessly to the shouts and screams of the army — his army — as it died. He prayed to the Mother of Night that Eluthir and the household knights escaped, or at least received warriors’ deaths. If Tennucyr was leading them, neither possibility was assured.
He couldn’t stop moving, no matter how hard he tried. No amount of will, or rage, or fear could stop his limbs from carrying him wherever Nagaira went. However, he found that he could slow down, dropping back through the ranks of the group only as far as he could without losing sight of his sister. He could move off the path if he wished, so long as his sister stayed in sight and could increase his pace. It appeared that he was compelled to follow Nagaira’s commands to the letter, if not necessarily abiding by them in spirit. That left him more freedom than he expected and his mind worked furiously as they picked their way through the dark woods, looking for a way to capitalise on his discovery.
They travelled into the forest for half a mile before they came to a huge, granite boulder rising out of the earth. The rock was the size of a small cottage and created a small clearing for itself in the middle of the tangled wood. Rain fell steadily, gleaming off the clear patches of the stone. At once, Nagaira’s retainers spread out around the rock, half-assuming a posture of prayer and the other half taking up sentry positions around the clearing as Nagaira summoned a globe of witch-fire and began to examine the rock.
More than once during the trek Malus thought he detected signs of stealthy movement in the trees. The shades were following them, of that he was certain. But why hadn’t they acted? Were they biding their time, waiting for an opportune moment far away from Isilvar’s men? Standing at the edge of the clearing, he eyed Nagaira and the two Naggorite highborn warily. The witch was oblivious to her surroundings, immersed in the study of the stone, but Fuerlan was almost on the point of panic.
“I’ve been thinking, sister,” Malus ventured. “How did our illustrious brother manage to assemble a punitive force to attack Naggor so swiftly? Bale had every reason to believe that we wouldn’t see any serious resistance until we were past the Blackwater and I daresay he knows the Hag and its leaders as well as anyone.”
“It would appear that Isilvar is a much more effective leader than anyone imagined,” the witch said absently.
“Or you and he were working together this entire time. Did you warn him of the ark’s plans?”
Fuerlan turned to Nagaira, his eyes widening. “Is that true?”
“Why would I do such a thing, you little fool?”
Malus wasn’t certain who she was referring to, but Fuerlan took offence. “None of this has gone according to plan!” he shouted. “You never said my army would be destroyed! How am I supposed to control the city without loyal troops?”
An idea suddenly occurred to Malus. Suddenly a number of pieces fit neatly into place. “You aren’t,” he declared, his brows furrowing as he contemplated his theory. “I do believe you’ve been betrayed.”
Fuerlan slowly turned to regard Malus. A nervous tic began to pull at his right eye. “Shut up,” he said. “You’re just trying to turn us against one another!”
Malus laughed in the man’s face. “She and Isilvar have been allies for years, you little wretch! They’re both Slaaneshi cultists!” He took a savage pleasure at the look of horror that dawned on the man’s face. “Did she not tell you? But I thought the two of you were betrothed!” He chuckled. “Don’t you Naggorites ever talk to your potential wives?”
Fuerlan turned to Nagaira, his face pale. “Is this true?”
“Oh, yes,” Nagaira said absently, tracing a finger across an indentation in the stone.
“She means for me to kill the drachau, but who else would benefit from his assassination? Isilvar, of course.” Malus said. “After he destroys your army he will be lauded as a hero. Then when he returns to the Hag and learns of the drachau’s death who will gainsay him if he assumes the throne?” He grinned at the Naggorite. “I assume you’ll be handed over so Isilvar can parade you through the streets during the victory celebration.”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Fuerlan was trembling with rage. “Nagaira, tell him he’s wrong. You could never rule beside Isilvar. Only I could make you a queen!”
The witch straightened and turned to face the two men. “Malus,” she said peremptorily. “Come here.”
He grimaced as his body lurched into motion, quickly increasing his step to assuage his pride and make it look less like he was his sister’s plaything.
Nagaira beckoned to one of her retainers. The hooded figure came forward and presented a familiar wooden box. “Open it,” the witch said.
He did. Within were the same three relics he’d seen before.
“Do you see the dagger there?” Nagaira said.
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Pick it up and kill Fuerlan with it.”
Malus took the black dagger in his hand. Fuerlan screamed in terror. “You lying whore!” he cried. The Naggorite raised his sword. “You think to kill me, son of the Hag? Come ahead, then! I’ve trained with the finest duellists in the ark—”
His words were cut short by the flat sound of steel striking steel. The Naggorite’s mouth still hung open, his eyes locked on Malus several feet away. Slowly, slowly, his gaze fell to the hilt of the dagger jutting from his breastplate. Fuerlan’s last breath spilled from his lips in a startled sigh as he sank to one knee and then toppled onto his face.
“An impressive throw,” Nagaira observed.
“Anything to shut him up,” Malus replied sourly.
The highborn watched as a retainer rolled Fuerlan over and used two hands to pull the black dagger from the Naggorite’s chest. Malus was struck by the look of utter terror on the man’s face. What had he felt in the last moment of his life that had been so awful? Whatever it was, he thought it wasn’t half of what the fool deserved.
But where were the shades? He looked anxiously into the woods. Why hadn’t they made their move?
Nearby, Nagaira chanted softly and there was a flash of blue light. When Malus looked back at her, she was standing before a hole in the massive rock that seemed to curve downwards into the earth.
The witch turned to him, her eyes gleaming with unnatural light. “Let us go home, brother,” she said.
For a while, Malus began to think Nagaira was lost.
Not that it would have been difficult to lose oneself in the twisting labyrinth known as the burrows. The tunnels ran for miles, twisting and turning back on themselves again and again in a pattern no logical mind could fathom. According to legend, the burrows were centred on Hag Graef, and no one knew how deep into the earth they went.
They were made one winter, several hundred years after the city was built and close to the surface the passageways cut through cellars and sewers alike. The tunnels were home to a fearsome number of vicious predators, from nauglir to cave spiders, but a clever — or desperate — soul could use them to come and go throughout the city without being seen.
Nagaira was well-versed on the layout of the tunnels, or at least those close to the Hag itself. Now, however, she held the sheets of parchment Malus had first seen in her tent, consulting them closely as she led the group on a circuitous path through the burrows. He had long since lost track of time, following her orb of witchfire through the endless tunnels. It could have been hours or days since they left the surface world behind.
The witch appeared to be looking for something, but Malus couldn’t fathom what. Every now and again when they reached an intersection she would pause, bow her head and utter an incantation in a language that he couldn’t understand yet set his teeth on edge just the same.
Finally, their path led them to a dead end of sorts — a huge pit whose bottom was lost in abyssal darkness. Noxious fumes rose from the blackness, making Malus cough. The air above the pit was still and cold and no sound echoed up from below.
Nagaira stepped to the edge of the pit and peered into the emptiness. Apparently satisfied, she turned and beckoned to one of her retainers. The man stepped forward and drew back his hood, looking at the witch with an expression of serene adoration. She reached up, holding what looked like a glittering ruby in her hand and slipped it between the retainer’s lips. “My gift to you,” she said.
The retainer smiled. “I sleep in darkness so the dreamer may awake,” he said and stepped into the pit. He fell without a sound.
Nagaira turned from the pit and headed back the way they’d come.
They returned to the twisting tunnels and Nagaira consulted her maps. Some time later they came upon another pit and another of her worshipful followers took her gift and stepped into oblivion.
Malus watched with growing horror as the ritual continued. After the third retainer went to sleep in darkness, he began to feel a charge building in the air. Were these sacrifices Nagaira was making and if so, to what or whom? What did it have to do with her plan to kill the drachau?
In the end, six retainers were given to the darkness. The dank air in the tunnels seethed with built-up power — Malus could feel it shifting and pulsing against his skin like a living thing. It felt as though they had been wandering the labyrinth for an eternity and finally the highborn could take no more. “Will we walk these accursed tunnels until the fall of Eternal Night?” Malus exclaimed, angry at himself at the unease that was plain in his voice. “Bad enough you’ve turned me into your assassin’s arrow, sister. Loose me on the drachau or throw me down one of your bottomless pits. I really don’t care which anymore.”
Nagaira slowly turned to face him. “Very well,” she said, her tone icy and amused.
She extended her hand at a pile of rubble that covered the side of a nearby wall and spoke a word of power. The air rippled like water at the sound and the pile of stones blew outward, away from the witch’s hand. When the dust cleared, Malus saw a ragged hole in the burrow wall and some kind of chamber beyond.
“We have arrived,” Nagaira said.
The witch pointed to the hole and Malus stepped through it as though moving in a dream. Backlit by Nagaira’s witchfire, he could tell that he stood in a small, rough-hewn chamber. Pairs of manacles were evenly spaced around the walls, their cuffs hanging open. Near the centre of the room he saw a mound of dusty skeletons, piled between two overturned braziers. On the other side of the chamber another opening hinted at an even larger space beyond.
A chill ran down Malus’ spine. He knew where he was.
Nagaira stepped into the room, her light flooding the space with pale green light. She crossed the room, pausing to touch the piled bones and then continued into the revel chamber beyond.
The huge cavern was empty. The holes in the walls where the executioners of Khaine had unleashed their deadly ambush were bricked over and the many bodies had long since been taken away and burned. Malus followed his sister as she walked to the spiral staircase that soared up to the chamber’s vaulted ceiling.
“It took me a decade to carve out this place,” Nagaira said. “I smuggled a score of dwarf slaves from Karond Kar to do the work. A score. Imagine the expense.” She laid a hand on the curved balustrade of the stair. “And that was just the construction. I spent twice that much time and sacrifices unnumbered to build the cult here in the city.” The witch turned to face him. “All of that undone in a single night.”
Malus stared into her gleaming eyes. “Shall I pity you, sister?”
“There is no sorcery in the world strong enough to wring pity from your cold heart,” Nagaira snarled. “And neither will you have any from me.” She raised her hand, pointing to his forehead. “I know of your ambitions, Malus. I have watched you in the Court of Thorns and seen how you yearned to place the crown of the drachau upon your brow. Now you will destroy those dreams with your own hand. My compulsion is upon you, Malus Darkblade,” she intoned. “It is written into your flesh and carved into your brain. Go to the drachau’s fortress and fulfil it.”
Bloodlust flowed like black ice in Malus’ veins. The hunger to kill caused his muscles to twitch, propelling him ever upward, climbing the curving staircase in Nagaira’s wrecked tower and through its ruined entry chamber. Collapsed, partially melted rubble filled the once-grand room and the heavy double doors hung from broken hinges, each propping the other upright by virtue of its massive weight. Malus half-stumbled, half-crawled across the debris-strewn chamber, his body trembling with barely contained power. His limbs felt swollen with unnatural strength, his heart hammering with sorcerous vigour. The highborn’s skin burned in thin, razor-edged lines of script as the spell Nagaira etched into his flesh drove him onwards, into the jaws of death.
He threw himself at the tower’s double doors with a bestial snarl, sending them crashing to the cobblestones in the courtyard beyond.
Malus staggered into the night air, his chest heaving. He no longer felt his wounds, or the fatigue of days marching and fighting on the road to the Hag. There was nothing but the gnawing hunger to find and kill his prey. If he stood still too long he could feel the urge burning like a coal in his guts, growing fiercer by the moment. Steam curled from his lips as he bared his teeth to the starry sky. It was all he could do not to howl like a blood-starved wolf.
Instead, he tried to harness the fury he felt, turning it back upon itself in order to resist Nagaira’s compulsion. The coal searing his insides grew hotter and hotter. He staggered across the rubble-strewn courtyard, past a makeshift bier where scores of Slaaneshi worshippers were taken from the tower and burned only a few months before. The air still hung heavy with the smell of burnt flesh and spilled blood.
The centre of the courtyard contained a broken fountain, its decorative stonework pitted and melted. He fell against the curved lip of the pool and buried his face in the brackish water that remained there.
When Malus pulled his head from the polluted water he disturbed enough of the rubbish floating on its surface that he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the pool’s oily surface. His black hair was lank with grime and dried blood, his pale face stained with a layer of mud and gore that transformed him into a leering daemon. He looked back at the twisted visage of the knight from his visions and heard his words once more: What a witch gives, only a witch can lake away.
Malus ground his teeth in frustration, staring at the knife-like spires of the drachau’s tower rising into the night sky. His doom called to him, pulling at every fibre of his body. He could no more turn back and retrace his steps to his sister than he could breathe the turgid fountain water rippling beneath his chin. His stomach roiled at the sensation of snakes writhing within his chest. What terrible seed had his sister planted within him and what horrible fruit would it soon bear?
His mind churned, desperate for a way to escape the witch’s compulsion. “What do I know of damned sorcery?” he seethed. “I am no witch like my mother!”
The thought struck Malus like a blow between the eyes. Thunderstruck, he slid from the edge of the fountain and sprawled upon the cobblestones. The angry coal of his sister’s compulsion burned still hotter, spreading waves of pain through his gut, but for a brief moment the possibility of freedom gave him the strength to endure its pain.
Eldire, he thought. Of course.
He struggled to his feet and studied the drachau’s tower once more. The convent was part of the fortress’ inner complex of towers, accessible only through a single passage within the central keep itself.
The first challenge was to make it inside the keep. Malus grinned mirthlessly. For a time at least he could make the power of Nagaira’s compulsion work in his favour.
The fortress of the drachau was almost a city unto itself. Surrounding the central spires of the ruler’s keep were a host of subordinate towers that were the residences of the city’s highest-ranking nobles and their children. Many of these spires were interconnected by narrow, delicate-seeming walkways, built by dwarf slaves hundreds of years in the past. Few of the subordinate towers connected directly to the drachau’s keep, but one exception to the rule was the tower of the city’s vaulkhar.
The inner courtyards and the passages of the great fortress were deserted and dark; it appeared as though every able-bodied druchii who could bear arms had been conscripted by Isilvar to swell the ranks of the army in the face of the Naggorite threat. Malus could not help but admire the foresight and thoroughness of his sister’s scheme as he stole swiftly and easily though the dark byways of the outer courtyards until he came to the doors of the vaulkhar’s tower itself.
There were no guards standing watch before the tall double doors. Malus pressed his hands against the old wood, bound by iron and ensorcelled to be stronger than steel. The highborn smiled cruelly. “Let me in,” he whispered to the power that boiled beneath his skin. He planted his feet, bent his head and pushed.
The fire in his belly dimmed, hardening to a solid knot of unbreakable will. At first the doors did not budge; Malus growled beneath his breath and pushed all the harder. He willed the black ice in his veins to flow outward, into the planks of hardened oak and the iron bolts beyond.
There was a faint creak. Blood leaked from Malus’ nose and his limbs trembled from the strain. Somewhere distant, thunder grumbled across the sky.
Malus heard a single, splintering crack. Then another. Beyond the door, Malus heard a faint, muffled shout. He rejoiced in the despairing sound and pushed with all his might, his voice rising into a feral roar. Then, with a rending crash, the bars securing the great doors warped and burst from their moorings and the great portal swung wide with a groan of tortured iron.
A handful of servants cowered in the vaulkhar’s grand entry hall, covered in stone dust. They screamed in terror as he stalked across the broken threshold and fled at the sound of his maddened laughter. Malus crossed the great chamber, with its soaring roof and pillars worked in the shape of watchful dragons and climbed the main stairway. He had never seen the vaulkhar’s personal apartments, but he knew enough of the tower to be able to find them.
The tower had the feel of a deserted town; hallways and landings were silent and echoing as he climbed the long, twisting staircase. Lurhan’s men were gone and Isilvar had yet to create his own large retinue, so there was no one to stand in Malus’ way as he smashed open the double doors to the warlord’s personal quarters and crossed the modest antechamber to a single, unassuming door.
Malus twisted the iron handle from its fittings and pushed the door open into blackness and rushing wind. Thunder rolled again, apparently nearer this time, though he could see the cold points of stars glimmering in the sky overhead. Knees crouched and head bent against the treacherously shifting wind, Malus trod implacably along the narrow walkway towards the dark bulk of the drachau’s keep.
He took the two guards for statues at first; within the sheltered alcove surrounding the drachau’s door the wind did not even pluck at the sentries’ heavy cloaks. As it was, he was caught by surprise when one of the armoured men took a half-step forward and extended his spear to bar passage into the alcove. The sentry’s voice sounded uncertain. Who was this black-cloaked stranger crossing from the tower of the vaulkhar? “You may not enter, dread lord,” he shouted, trying to be heard over the angry wind. “The drachau does not wish—”
Malus grabbed a handful of the guard’s thick cloak and pitched him off the bridge as though he were no more than a child’s doll. His terrified scream was swallowed by the keening wind and another rumbling groan of thunder.
The second sentry froze. Malus reached the man with two swift steps, grabbed the front of the guard’s helmet and smashed him against the iron-bound door at his back. The door shook on its hinges but did not give, so Malus struck it twice more in quick succession. Wood cracked and metal crumpled; the guard in Malus’ grip writhed and twitched in his death throes. After a fourth blow the door swing open and Malus tossed his bloodstained ram aside. The guard room beyond was empty. He stood there for a few moments, listening for the sound of an alarm over the torrent of blood thundering in his temples.
All was silent. The coal in his gut seethed, driving him onward. Taking his bearings, he found a narrow set of stairs leading down into the lower floors and headed for the witches’ convent.
The drachau’s keep was just as deserted as the rest of the fortress. Malus wondered how many druchii servants and men at arms were out in the forests beyond the city, slitting throats and looting the bodies of the Naggorite dead.
There were armed men waiting outside the black door of the witches’ convent.
By tradition, the guardsmen standing watch outside the Brides’ Door did so with bared steel in their hands: long, two-handed draichs, wrought with sorcery to give their edges supernatural keenness and power. The two guards stood at their customary posts, but were reinforced by four more men carrying the heavy axes of the drachau’s personal troops.
Malus fell upon them without a word, drawing his sword and stepping from the shadows in one graceful, silent motion. The first of the axe-wielders fell, blood pouring from a slashed throat; the highborn plucked the axe from the man’s hand and hurled it into the face of one of the swordsmen near the door.
As the swordsman’s brains spilled out on the floor Malus dropped to one knee and swung his sword two-handed at another axeman’s legs. Knee joints popped and metal tore as he severed both legs in a single, powerful stroke. Again, the highborn snatched the axe from the dying man’s hand just in time to block a furious downward stroke from the third guardsman’s axe. Fuelled by sorcerous strength, Malus stopped the blow with ease, swept the man’s weapon aside and stabbed his sword into the man’s screaming mouth. Vertebrae popped wetly as the guardsman collapsed, his spine shorn through.
The last axe-wielder swung wide of Malus, swinging a vicious blow at the back of the highborn’s head. He ducked, feeling the wind of the keen blade’s passing, then slashed at the man with a powerful backhanded blow that caught the guardsman behind his right knee. Leather, flesh and muscle parted in a fan of bright blood and the warrior collapsed as his leg gave way beneath him. Before the man could recover Malus continued to turn and severed the guardsman’s head with a sweep of his axe.
A thin whistling of shorn wind was the only warning Malus got as the last warrior’s draich flashed down at his head. He brought sword and axe into an X above his head and caught the downward blow, staggering slightly at the power of the man’s swing. With a roar Malus surged to his feet, sweeping the draich away with his axe and spinning on his heel to strike the warrior’s head from his shoulders.
He was at the black door before the last body had fallen to the ground. Unlike all the others, the entry to the convent swung open at the slightest touch.
The door was bare, flat black marble, unpolished and cold. At his touch, its stone surface flared with the magic runes laid into its surface and a portentous shiver trembled through the air. As he crossed the threshold from the drachau’s keep into the sacrosanct tower, he felt the fire in his belly flare into agonising fury. The black snakes in his chest squeezed tightly around his heart, making it nearly impossible to breathe. With all his will, he forced his body to move forward.
Let my skin blacken and my bones crack, he thought, teeth grinding at the pain. Better by far to suffer and die than become the killing hand of another!
Beyond the doorway was a short, dimly-lit passage, alcoves to either side held tall, forbidding statues of crones from ancient times. Pale light, like moonlight, gleamed faintly at the end of the corridor.
Malus staggered down the passage, biting back his screams as Nagaira’s compulsion ravaged him from within. He all but fell across the threshold at the far end, into a huge, cathedral-like chamber lit by dozens of glowing witchfire globes. Huge pillars soared to the arched ceiling high overhead, supporting tier upon tier of galleries that looked out onto the devotional space below. At the far end of the space rose a statue of Malekith himself, the cold husband to the brides of the convent.
Before the statue, surrounded by a small group of novice witches, stood Eldire, the eldest and most potent of the seers of Hag Graef. Her cold beauty and forbidding stare made the majestic statue behind her seem small and ill-formed by comparison. The seer’s eyes narrowed at Malus’ approach.
A man stood before Eldire, his hands open in supplication. At the sound of Malus’ approach he turned, his thin, boyish face taut with apprehension and fatigue.
Uthlan Tyr’s face went white with shock as he recognised the tortured face before him and Malus let out a terrible groan as Nagaira’s compulsion bore its final, bitter fruit.
Pain and rage exploded inside Malus’ chest, spreading through his entire body like searing fire. He felt his veins shrivel and his muscles writhe like serpents — and then they swelled with vigour, pressing against the insides of his armour. It felt as though some rough beast crouched within his skin, freshly awakened and hungry for hot blood. When Malus threw back his head and howled, the voice bore no resemblance to his own.
“Mother!” he cried hungrily, his face transported with murderous ecstasy as he looked upon the object of his sister’s compulsion and craved nothing more than to hold her beating heart in his hands. Thunder groaned, reverberating through the stone and earth and the floor shook with the awakened fury of a titan.
He threw himself at his mother, stained blades flashing in the pale light. Uthlan Tyr fell back with a terrified cry, reaching for his sword. The novices raised their hands and spat words of power and black flames arced like lightning into Malus’ chest. The bolts traced molten lines across the highborn’s breastplate, burning like blades deep into his chest, but the beast within scarcely felt the pain. Women screamed as the highborn plied axe and sword in a deadly dance; blood flew and torn bodies crumpled to the floor. A figure rushed at Malus from the corner of his eye. With a contemptuous flick of the wrist he sent the drachau reeling backwards, clasping his hands to his ruined face and screaming like a child.
The last of the novices leapt at Malus, her fingers transformed into iron knives shimmering with molten heat. He cut her in half with a swipe of his heavy sword and leapt through the shower of blood and organs, hurling himself at his mother.
Eldire was already fleeing beyond his grasp, receding like a shadow before the moon. He roared in fury as she simply dwindled from sight, flowing like smoke across the devotional chamber and receding up a long, narrow staircase at the far end of the room.
The whole tower seemed to shake as Malus took to the stairs, chasing after his mother like a starving wolf. Thunder roared and rumbled as he ran on, blind to everything else but his mother’s pale face. Lost to compulsion and battle lust, he was oblivious to bolts of sorcerous fire and flashes of green lightning that lashed and scored his body as witches emerged from their cells and unleashed their power upon the intruder. He could feel his skin melt and his muscles fray, but the beast inside him would not yield. It knit his body together with skeins of black ice and he laughed as pale figures were caught in his path and were cut down by his gore-stained blades. Malus ran through the stark, grey galleries, climbing ever higher and leaving red ruin in his wake.
She was always just out of reach, receding like a distant dream. It seemed as though he would run forever, loping across a black landscape and whetting his bloodlust with the slender bodies of novices and witches alike. His armour was falling away in pieces, the straps burnt through and the joints split by savage spells and a haze of smoke from his own burnt flesh wrapped him like a shroud.
His feet fell upon another stair, this one steeper and narrower than the rest. He climbed in a tight spiral, shrouded by darkness, reaching for the haunting vision of Eldire. Without warning, he emerged from the darkness into roaring wind and rumbles of thunder. Then the blackness surrounding him fell away like a curtain and he found himself on top of the square tower of the convent. Eldire stood less than a dozen feet away, settling like a raven into a spot among a circle of chanting crones.
All at once, Malus realised he was surrounded by witches and stood within a sprawling sigil that covered much of the tower’s roof. Without hesitation he leapt for Eldire — just as she spoke a word of fearsome power and he found himself wrapped in chains of fire.
The beast within Malus roared with madness and hate. He writhed and thrashed in the grip of the sorcerous bonds, but the magic of the crones held him fast. The highborn crashed to the stone roof, feeling as though his skin would burst from the fury of the spirit within him.
A shadow fell over him. Eldire rose above Malus, her arms outstretched. She chanted words that froze the air around the highborn and unseen, icy fingers plunged into his chest. He doubled over, screaming in agony as the sorceress bent her will against the furious spirit. For a moment the two wills contested and neither could gainsay the other, but Eldire had the power of the convent to draw upon and slowly but surely the beast’s strength began to wane. Shrinking like a flame starved of oil, the beast grew weaker and weaker beneath Eldire’s power and Malus felt more of his sanity return. He lay, trembling and insensate, as the fire of the murderous spirit dwindled beyond his ability to ken.
Then Eldire pointed a long finger at Malus’ face and spoke another command and his body began to burn.
Lines of transcendent pain burned bright against his skin. He lay rigid, frozen into motionlessness by the sheer power of his suffering. His staring eyes watched tendrils of twisting fire rise from his skin and he realised how they took the shape of symbols.
Eldire was burning Nagaira’s compulsion from his body and as it was consumed, Malus’ buried memories rose once more to the surface. Illusions faded. No more was he a highborn of Naggor or Hag Graef. No more a general, no more a hero or a leader of men. He was an outlaw, forsaken of his oaths and honour. He was a spent arrow, lying broken on unyielding stone and he wept tears of rage beneath the howling wind.
Malus looked up at his mother. “You… knew I would come…?”
Eldire fixed her son with a cold, black stare. The ghost of a smile passed across her perfect lips. “It was foreseen,” she said.
“But why? Why you and not the drachau?”
“Because cities and crowns mean nothing to one such as her, not anymore,” Eldire replied. “She cared nothing for Isilvar’s aims, or Fuerlan’s, or your own,” the seer explained. “Nagaira returned to the Hag for the purest of all motives: revenge.”
It was then that Malus noticed the red glow staining the sky. The wind was warm and carried with it the scent of smoke. Thunder rumbled and he felt the great tower shudder beneath him. Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet. The sigil was dark — indeed, its quicksilver traceries had been burned black in the monumental test of wills. The circle of witches glared at Malus with implacable hate, but no one moved to stop him as he made his way to the tower’s edge.
Hag Graef was burning.
From where he stood, Malus could see collapsed buildings and pillars of fire rising high into the night sky. Great arcs of glowing destruction cut through the narrow streets and districts. Steam rose from terrible rents in the earth and the edges glowed with molten stone.
The rumble of thunder came again and this time Malus saw a gleam of pure yellow-white as a ribbon of fire broke the surface of the ground and slid like a ruinous worm through the Blacksmiths’ Quarter. Where the ribbon touched, stone melted and split and houses burst into flame. Sparks scattered beneath the worm’s writhing course; it took but a moment for Malus to realise the sparks were the burning bodies of people.
“Mother of Night,” Malus gasped. “What has she done?”
“She has called up the Dreaming Ones,” Eldire said. “Nagaira has found a spell to disturb them from their sleep and now they vent their rage on the city.”
“Dreaming Ones?” Malus replied. A memory flowed across his mind’s eye of Nagaira’s acolytes stepping soundlessly into darkness.
“This is an old world,” Eldire said. “For all that we laugh at the foolishness of humans, we are little older than they compared to the span of this world’s existence. Countless races have come and gone; empires rose and fell aeons past that never knew the light of day. An empire of worms, some legends say, that burrowed up from the burning heart of the world.” She joined Malus, looking out at the devastation. “Some of their children — mere infants — still linger, slumbering in the deep places of the earth.”
“The burrows,” Malus said, suddenly realising how the tunnels beneath the city had been made. “Will they destroy the city?”
Eldire nodded. “No stone will remain, which is why you must return to Nagaira and stop her.”
“Stop her?” one of the sorceresses cried. At the witch’s outburst the sisters of the coven stepped forward, their expressions twisted with rage.
“If anyone will stop that child it will be us, Eldire,” the witch continued, “and then you will face a reckoning of your own for the meddling you’ve done.”
Eldire turned to the witches and her alabaster face twisted with black rage. “Be still, you worthless hags,” she said and the air suddenly bristled with power. The circle of sorceresses was flung backwards by an invisible wind, the energy so intense their bodies burst into ravening flame upon contact. Their screams were lost in the howling wind and naught but blackened bones remained by the time they were cast off the tower’s edge.
Malus watched the display of power with wide-eyed awe. When Eldire turned back to him her face was tight with strain but her voice was calm and even. “Nagaira sought to slay me because she believed I was the only power within the city strong enough to stop her. She used her power to mould you into her weapon, fuelling the compulsion with the daemon’s own energies but erasing the memories of Tz’arkan’s possession from your mind so you would suspect nothing — until it was too late.”
The highborn’s face twisted into a grimace as he thought of the daemon — he could still feel Tz’arkan inside him, weak but ever-present. Then the import of Eldire’s words struck him like a physical blow. “Tz’arkan!” he exclaimed. “You knew?”
“Of course,” she said tartly. “It was my machinations that sent you north in the first place.”
For a moment Malus couldn’t speak. Fire bloomed as the city died behind him, but all he could hear were his mother’s words, over and over in his mind. “Nagaira was doing your bidding all along?” he asked.
“I’m certain she thought otherwise at first, but yes,” Eldire replied. Suddenly she reached out and laid a hand on his cheek. His skin stung at even that faint touch, but he did not flinch. Her hand was cold as marble. “She was just another pawn in a game I have played for a great many years,” she said proudly. “You are the culmination of all my labour, child. From becoming the Witch Lord’s concubine to returning to the Hag with Lurhan, from poisoning Lurhan’s wife and youngest child to becoming Nagaira’s secret patron — all of these acts and more I have done to make you who you are tonight.”
Malus tried to imagine the tangled skein of manipulations that Eldire described and the sheer magnitude of it took his breath away. “But why?” he asked. Then he remembered Urial’s accusations back on that fateful night aboard the Harrier. “Does it have to do with that damnable prophecy? With my fate?”
“You make your own fate, child, much good may it do you,” Eldire snapped. “Everything in this world is defined by action and reaction. With causes and effects. If you stab a man, he dies, does he not? When a man reacts to the forces of the world around him, he becomes one link in a chain of events stretching back to the beginning of the world. When he is stabbed, he dies. It is his fate. Do you see?”
Malus frowned. “When a man’s actions are shaped by events around him, he is acting according to fate.”
“Exactly,” Eldire said. “Divination has nothing to do with sorcery, Malus, though it is a talent that few possess. Seers intuitively read the tapestry of cause and effect and discern how future events will unfold. A prophecy is a likely outcome — a consequence of a sequence of events that could occur a year, or ten years, or a thousand years from now. They can happen of their own accord — or be fulfilled by design, if one has the foresight to orchestrate them.”
The highborn’s mind whirled, struggling to grasp the implications. “And you deliberately set this prophecy into motion? You forced this future upon me?”
“Yes.”
Malus reeled, his eyes wide with horror. “You sent me into Tz’arkan’s clutches for the sake of some goddess-forsaken scheme?”
“You are my child, Malus,” Eldire said coldly. “It is my right to do with you as I wish.”
He struggled with a new spark of rage. “If you know so much then — if my every step has been charted out by you before I was even born — then tell me, do you see my future?”
Eldire looked out at the burning city. “Your fate, you mean? Yes.”
“And where does it lead?”
“To your destruction. To fire and misery and enslavement.”
“Mother of Night,” Malus breathed. He fought against a rising tide of despair. “No. You’re wrong, mother. I won’t allow it!”
To the highborn’s surprise, the seer smiled enigmatically. “So you reject your fate?”
“Of course!” Malus snarled.
“Good,” Eldire said, nodding to herself. “It is a simple thing to say, but far harder to achieve. For too long you have let yourself be shaped by the actions of others. You have lived from moment to moment, thinking yourself too swift or too clever to be caught up in the consequences of your actions.” Again, she smiled. “But all along you have placed yourself at the mercy of fate and look where it has brought you.” She turned, looking out over the burning cityscape. “She has learned the lesson, child. And it has made her dangerous indeed.”
Malus considered Eldire’s words. “And if I reject my fate and choose my own path… what then?”
Eldire looked at him, her eyes alight. “That will be for you to decide,” she said. “In time, you will see that what has happened to you up to this point has been a gift. You have been given the potential for great power and with the death of Lurhan you have lost everything you have ever valued or desired.” She grasped his hand, holding it up to his face. Malus saw the thick, ropy black veins and the dark, corrupted skin. “Fate can no longer touch you unless you permit it. Choose your path, lest it be chosen for you,” she said. “Glories undreamt of lie within your grasp.”
Malus studied his mother for a moment, trying in vain to fathom the purpose behind her black eyes. Slowly, he clenched his fist. “Very well,” he said at last. “First, the daemon.”
Eldire nodded. “First the daemon. Nagaira has the three relics — she is using them as the key instruments of her spell.”
The highborn raised an eyebrow. “They can be used to cast spells?”
“Not precisely. Their abilities can be used as tools to make certain spells possible,” Eldire explained. “The relics were more than just possessions wielded by the five sorcerers who bound Tz’arkan — they were integral to the process that bound him to the physical realm. That is why he must have them if he is to undo the binding laid upon him.”
She reached into the sleeve of her robe and produced a slim band of silver. “Take this,” she said, placing the ring upon his finger. “After tonight you will not be able to return to Hag Graef. With this ring we can speak to one another whenever the moon is bright. Now you must go,” she said, gently pushing him away. “Once you have dealt with Nagaira and regained the relics, you must seek the Warpsword of Khaine in the city of Har Ganeth. Step carefully in the City of Executioners — your brother Urial awaits you there, scheming to make the sword his own.”
“Along with my lovely bride,” Malus said grimly. “I look forward to the reunion.”
He stepped to the tower’s edge, clutching his weapons tightly. The dark courtyard lay thirty feet below. “By now the drachau has called out the guard. I expect they’re searching the convent.”
“Yes,” Eldire said. “They will be here in a few moments.”
Malus glanced at Eldire and smiled mirthlessly. “Give him my regards,” he said and leapt into the red-tinged night. His cape billowed like a dragon’s wings as he plummeted into darkness.
Eldire’s sorcery enfolded Malus as he fell, slowing his descent until his landing was no harder than stepping off a staircase. He landed without losing a beat and began to run, heading for Nagaira’s tower.
On the ground, the rampage of the worms was much more apparent. Waves of heat rose from the paving stones and the ground roiled without warning. Poisonous steam burst from rents in the ground, forcing Malus to cover his face with his cloak and alter his course more than once. Above the groaning of the tortured earth there was a howling sound in the air, as though a cyclone was building overhead. The sky was a deep, bloody red from horizon to horizon as more and more buildings caught fire. From what Malus could see, the damage was still confined to just a few portions of the city, but unless something was done soon Hag Graef would be destroyed.
Once, just short of the witch’s tower the entire courtyard heaved up before him and a furnace-like blast of heat drove him back as though he’d run into a stone wall. As he watched in horror an incandescent hump of flesh, larger than a nauglir, rose and fell before him like a sea serpent in a rocky ocean. It sank almost as quickly as it appeared, disappearing in a cloud of poisonous vapour. He saw neither head nor tail and thanked the Dark Mother for small blessings.
It felt as if he spent half the night running through the ruined courtyards of the fortress, until at last he reached his sister’s ravaged tower. With all the destruction at work around him he was amazed the half-melted structure still stood — but then he realised that if Nagaira was inside she would have taken precautions to ensure her own survival. The dead savour nothing, as the old proverb went. Revenge was a pleasure for the living.
He reached the open doorway and halted, feeling waves of magic rippling across his skin. Tz’arkan lay almost dormant in his chest — the daemon had been leeched of much of its vitality by Nagaira’s compulsion and then Eldire’s spell — so he knew that he could not count upon its strength. His armour was wrecked, hanging loosely from his ravaged kheitan. After a few moments’ consideration he stripped off the remaining pieces, as they were more likely to hinder his movements than provide real protection from Nagaira’s spells. He was only now beginning to feel the pain from his injuries and fatigue was rolling over him in a slow, black tide. If he did not act soon, he wouldn’t be able to act at all.
Not that he had the slightest idea how he was going to stop her. The memory of his sister killing one of Fuerlan’s men with a single word stood out starkly in his mind. How was he going to deal with that kind of power?
The earth trembled and groaned and a hiss of molten stone filled the air as one of the worms broke the surface again. Malus listened to the terrible sound and the beginnings of a plan took shape. Gripping the hafts of his weapons tightly, he entered the ruined tower.
The entry chamber was deserted, as he expected it to be. Malus crossed to the staircase and descended into darkness.
He hadn’t gone more than a few steps before he heard the chanting — six voices working in frenzied chorus, braiding words of power together into an ongoing spell. As Malus crept down the spiral staircase the darkness became tinged with a faint blue luminescence. After a few more turns the light grew brighter, until finally he emerged into the open air high above the cavern floor and saw Nagaira’s magical power unveiled in all its terrible glory.
She stood in the centre of a huge sigil carved into the cavern floor. Silver bubbled and boiled along the arcane markings, glowing blue with sorcerous power. In her hand was the Dagger of Torxus and at her feet lay the Octagon of Praan and the Idol of Kolkuth. How they figured into her workings Malus could not guess and didn’t care to understand.
Beyond the ring of magic lay yet another, broader circle, attended by Nagaira’s six surviving acolytes. It was their chanting he heard as they faced away from his sister and raised their hands forbiddingly against the cavern’s shadows.
The highborn nodded, his suspicions confirmed. They were her protection. She raised the worms and her followers kept them from intruding upon her. He bared his teeth and descended the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. By the time he reached the cavern floor he was at a full run, charging for the nearest acolyte. The chanting druchii was almost lost in a trance, concentrating on maintaining his part of the complex chant. At the last moment his eyes widened as he realised his peril and his chanting voice turned to a momentary scream before Malus brought down his axe and split the man’s skull.
The chanting stopped and Malus thought he felt their ward collapse, washing over his skin in jagged little sparks of power. Before the first man fell he was charging at the next, howling like one of the damned. The druchii screamed and drew a broad-bladed knife and Malus laughed at the man’s helplessness as he severed the acolyte’s knife hand with a sweep of his axe and then plunged his sword into the acolyte’s chest. He collapsed with a bubbling scream, pink froth gathering on his lips from a punctured lung.
Then the world exploded in pain as an arc of green lightning lashed across Malus’ back. He staggered, half-turning to see an acolyte on the other side of the circle drawing back his hand and chanting furiously, preparing another bolt. With a roar the highborn hurled his axe and the acolyte’s fierce expression turned to one of shock as the weapon buried itself in his abdomen.
Malus staggered as invisible hands closed about his chest and legs. He struggled out of reflex, as though he could wrestle free of the sorcerous bonds, but only succeeded in toppling to the stone floor. Then a lash of bright green fire ripped across his left hip and leg, tearing a scream of agony from his tortured throat. On the far end of the circle, the surviving acolytes approached him, their hands glowing with malevolent force.
Through a haze of pain, Malus saw Nagaira notice what her acolytes were doing. She turned to see who they were focussing their energies upon. Surrounded by a corona of power, the tone of her chanting voice changed from anger to shock as she saw Malus lying within her protective circle.
“Hello, sister,” he gasped, as the sound of thunder swelled in the chamber. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Nagaira’s voice grew thick with rage — then the wall five yards behind her dissolved in a wave of heat and caustic steam as one of the great worms burst into the chamber. The three remaining acolytes screamed in agony as their bodies burst into flame and Nagaira herself staggered backwards, raising her free hand as if to block the wave of blistering air that swept through the cavern.
With the acolytes’ death, the lines of force enclosing Malus vanished. His throat burned at the touch of the poisonous vapour, but he forced his ravaged body to work, lurching to his feet and charging at Nagaira with the last of his strength. He tackled her and they fell together in the centre of the magical circle. She writhed like a snake in his grasp, turning beneath him and spitting words of power. In desperation he closed a hand around his sister’s throat, choking off her incantation, then ripped the knife from her clutches and plunged it into her chest.
Nagaira’s body lurched and the witch screamed in agony — then she placed her hands against his chest and hurled him into the air with a thunderous blast of power.
Malus landed in a smoking heap several yards away, pain shooting through his body from burns and bruised ribs. He still held the Dagger of Torxus in his hand — the fingers of which were stained with dark ichor instead of blood. The highborn looked to the centre of the magical circle and saw to his horror that Nagaira was climbing slowly to her feet. Black ooze bubbled and spilled from the triangular hole in her kheitan.
The witch howled in rage and pain as she extended her hand and hurled a ghostly black dart at Malus’ head. Before it had crossed half the distance to its intended target the spell failed, dissolving into nothingness. Nagaira sank back to one knee and as the highborn watched, the shadows wreathing her face disappeared. He found himself looking into eyes that were orbs of unrelieved blackness. Her face, angular and fierce like her father’s, was now a pallid grey. A network of thick, pulsing black veins covered her cheek and throat. Malus’ heart went cold with fear. His sister was no longer a mere druchii. She had become a daemonhost!
Nagaira attempted a laugh, a thin stream of ichor running down her chin. “The dagger cannot take what is no longer there,” she said, laughing mirthlessly. “I have you to thank, dear brother. Had you not driven me to take shelter in the storms of Chaos I would have never looked upon the Dark Ones in all their terrible glory. And they found me worthy, Malus,” she said, a terrible echo reverberating in her voice that hinted at the unnatural power singing in her veins. “They have blessed me with power you cannot dream of and they have given me this world to burn in their names.”
Malus stared at his half-sister, suppressing a shudder of dread. “You do not frighten me, witch,” he said, managing to sound scornful despite his fear. “For all your power, your scheme has failed. Eldire still lives and the city will be rebuilt. I’m no warlock, but even I know that the Ruinous Powers do not tolerate failure.”
To Malus’ surprise, Nagaira laughed. “You little fool,” she said, her black eyes glittering with hate. “All goes according to plan, Malus. The only failure here is your own.” The daemon-ridden witch straightened, glaring haughtily at him. “You have earned yourself a small reprieve, brother. Hide in this pile of stones or flee to the far ends of the earth, if you wish. When the time comes I will find you. Tz’arkan will bow before me and the world will end.” Nagaira smiled, her teeth stained black with curdled blood. “It has been foreseen.”
She placed an ichor-stained hand over her wound and spoke a single, terrible word. Shadows congealed from the air itself, enveloping Nagaira. When they faded, she was gone.
He was one more battered, bloody figure making his painful way through the chaos of Hag Graef’s rubble-strewn streets. Soldiers and citizens raced past Mains, struggling to put out the many fires burning across the city. No one paid any attention to him as Malus stumbled through the city’s northern gate and disappeared into the darkness. Tz’arkan’s relics lay like lumps of ice in a bag at Malus’ hip.
Two hours later he reached the ruins of the Naggorite camp. The dead lay heaped in great piles and fires still burned where wagons had been tipped over and set alight. Somehow, the devastation amid the charred tents struck him more powerfully than all the broken buildings in Hag Graef. The city would be rebuilt in short order, but the proud army Malus had led from the black ark would never march again.
Malus found Spite at the western outskirts of the camp, not too far from where his tent had stood. The nauglir was feasting on dead flesh, his thick hide marked with half a dozen minor wounds, but he rose from his haunches and trotted immediately over to the highborn when Malus called.
They headed into the woods, retracing Nagaira’s steps from earlier in the night. The clearing with the stone outcropping seemed as good a place as any to make camp for a few hours’ rest.
After another half an hour’s searching he managed to find enough dry wood for a fire. By the time he’d returned to the camp Spite had found more carrion to eat. Fuerlan’s body was gone from the waist down, the crumpled plates of his armour spat out into a neat pile nearby. While the nauglir ate, the highborn got the fire going, then sat down on the wet ground and stared into the flames.
He never heard the autarii girl settle down on the other side of the fire. One moment he was alone and the next his gaze was following a dancing tongue of flame and he found himself looking into a pair of violet eyes.
They stared at one another for several moments. A look of mutual recognition passed between them.
The autarii girl leaned forward slightly, her hands on her knees. “I am Ahashra Rhiel, of the hill dragon clan,” she said gravely. “My brother was Nimheira.”
Malus let out a sigh. “I know you well, Ahashra,” he said wearily. He affected a grin. “Will you share meat and salt with me?”
“You know I will not,” she replied in her dead voice. “There is a blood feud between us. My brother’s shade cries out for revenge.”
“Yes. Of course,” Malus said. “It’s a pity. I would have enjoyed your company under other circumstances.”
Ahashra watched him with cold, catlike eyes. “No. From this night forward you walk alone, Malus of Hag Graef. I see now how much has been taken from you. You have lost your name and your honour. Your dreams lie in the dust. There is nothing left for you in this life but loneliness, fear and pain.”
Malus frowned. “So you will not kill me after all?”
The shade studied him silently for several moments. “No,” she said at last. “You deserve no such mercy.” Then she rose to her feet and stepped back into the darkness, seeming to vanish before Malus’ eyes.
He stared long and hard into the small fire for some time afterwards, lost in thought. Try as he might, he found it difficult to argue with the autarii’s logic.
“Blessed Mother, I need a drink,” he croaked, shambling weakly to his feet. Spite had stopped eating and watched him incuriously as he walked over and began rummaging through his saddlebags until his hand closed on his half-empty flask. On his way back to the fire his foot struck a soft lump that bounced away across the rough ground. Fuerlan’s head rolled to a stop within the circle of firelight, the look of terror still plastered on his scarred face.
Malus sat down by his cousin’s head. The black hair was starting to singe in the heat and he drew the grisly trophy towards him. Ahashra was right. Death meant an end to suffering, but also an end to ambition. He picked up the skull and stared into Fuerlan’s sightless eyes. “We’ve both lost everything,” Malus said. “But unlike you, I can build again.”
First, he thought, there was Har Ganeth and the Warpsword of Khaine to consider. Once word spread of the disaster at Hag Graef, Urial might very well think him dead. He smiled. It was an advantage he would make good use of.
Malus set Fuerlan’s head on the ground and drew his sword. A single, careful stroke clipped off the top of his cousin’s skull. Setting the sword aside, he scooped out what little he found within and tossed it into the flames, then sat back down on his haunches. Grasping the flask’s stopper in his teeth, he opened it with a quick pull and poured himself a good dollop into Fuerlan’s brain pan.
“To fate,” Malus said, raising the skull in a toast to the darkness and drinking deep.
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