[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin

by Dan Abnett

  as they came at last to the Plain of Ghrond. A light snow was falling, stirred into stinging gusts by a cold north wind that whispered among the dark pines.

  At the top of the ridgeline Malus reined in Spite and surveyed the broad plain, baring his teeth at the biting wind. His cheeks and nose were already chapped from the cold, but the pain kept him awake and alert better than any dose of barvalk could. His exhausted, aching body reeled in the saddle; Nuarc had commanded the Endless to bear him to the Black Tower with all dispatch, and their pace had made the trip down the Slaver’s Road seem leisurely by comparison. They stopped only once every few days for a cold meal and a ration of the dwarf liquor, and what little sleep the highborn got was on the move. Malus could no longer say for certain what day it was, but to the best of his reckoning they’d covered the week-and-a-half ride to the Black Tower in just four days. Even the dark steeds seemed to be at the limits of their endurance, something the highborn hadn’t thought possible.

  Below him the lead riders of the Endless stirred up a cloud of pale grey dust as they galloped along the black ribbon of road that crossed the desolate plain. The ashen expanse stretched to east and west as far as the eye could see, while the horizon to the north was edged with a broken, iron-grey line of mountains that marked the edge of the Chaos Wastes. Perhaps a league to the north, rising out of the pale ash like a sentinel’s black spear, rose the Tower of Ghrond.

  Each of Naggaroth’s six great cities served a purpose for the druchii as a whole: Karond Kar built the sleek black ships that corsair captains used on their slave raids, while Klar Karond was the clearing-house for the flesh trade that the corsairs supplied. Similarly, Har Ganeth forged the weapons and armour that armed the warriors of the state, while the Black Tower could be said to be the forge that made the warriors themselves.

  Every unit of troops raised across the Land of Chill was sent to the Black Tower to be trained in the arts of war. Units of spearmen and cavalry took their turn manning the watchtowers along the northern frontier and blooded themselves on cross-border raids into the Wastes, led by sons of prominent highborn families who were there to learn the rudiments of command. The Black Tower was the lynchpin of the northern marches, built during a time when the druchii feared that an invasion from the Wastes was an ever-present threat.

  The nauglir reached the base of the steep slope in a few loping strides, grumbling querulously as the highborn spurred the cold one into a ground-eating trot. What little he knew of the Black Tower had come from books in his father’s library; Lurhan hadn’t thought it necessary to give his bastard son the customary training that his elder sons had received.

  Ghrond was a city only in the sense of its population and density of structures; in reality it was a permanent military camp, its buildings devoted solely to martial pursuits. The fortress city had a hexagonal-shaped outer wall more than forty feet high that was wide enough at the top for a troop of knights to ride their nauglir two abreast along its length. Each corner of the hexagon was further fortified into a triangular-shaped redoubt that was a citadel unto itself, with its own barracks, armoury and storerooms. The redoubts extended some ways out from the walls, so that archers and bolt throwers could fire down their length and catch attackers in a withering crossfire. Like the redoubts, the city’s two gates were likewise fortified with imposing gatehouses that could rain death upon any attempt to break through their iron-banded doors.

  From the southern gatehouse the sentries could see the entire length of the Spear Road

  , all the way back to the far ridge. As the Endless drew closer the forbidding wail of a horn rose above the battlements and the massive portal slowly swung open. One look at the silver faces of the riders and their black steeds was enough to convince the sentries of their identity.

  Within minutes Malus was riding beneath the arch of the southern gate and into a narrow tunnel lit only by a handful of witchlamps. Heavy stone blocks seemed to press in from every side, and the highborn made out narrow murder-holes and arrow slits along both the walls and ceiling of the space. After about ten yards, the highborn was surprised to find the tunnel angle sharply to the right, then dogleg back to the left again. It made a difficult turn for wagons and an impossible one for a battering ram, he noted with approval. An attacker who managed to penetrate the first gate would find himself stuck in the dark confines of the tunnel and ruthlessly slaughtered by the gatehouse’s defenders.

  After another ten yards the highborn emerged from the inner gate into a small marshalling square lined with low, stone barracks. Foot soldiers were drilling in formation in the square, and the air rang with the clash of hammers from nearby forges as armourers readied the garrison for battle. The commander of the footmen raised his sword in salute as the riders passed, then resumed bellowing orders to his men.

  The space between the outer wall and inner wall of the city was close-packed with barracks, stables, storehouses, forges and kitchens, organized into fortified districts that could operate as independent strongpoints in the event the outer wall was breached. An invader would have to spend precious time and thousands of lives clearing these buildings and fighting along the narrow streets before he even reached the inner wall itself. Malus had read somewhere that each building had been further built so that the people inside could collapse it when all hope was lost, further denying its fortifications to their conquerors.

  Unlike other druchii cities, the streets of Ghrond were laid out in neat, orderly lines to facilitate the rapid movement of troops. Malus and the Endless made good time riding down the bustling avenues. Ahead of them loomed the black bulk of the fortress’ inner wall, its spiked battlements rising sixty feet above the city’s fortified districts.

  Like the outer wall, the inner wall was built in a hexagonal shape with six small redoubts of its own and a single, solidly built gatehouse. Beyond rose the black tower itself, supported by lesser towers like any drachau’s citadel and bristling with spiked turrets fitted with an array of heavy bolt throwers. As the highborn and the Endless were admitted through the inner gatehouse he could not help but shake his head in admiration. All of the power of the watchtowers combined could not equal the strength built into this fortress. A few thousand druchii could hold the Black Tower against a force more than ten times their number. It was an expertly designed death-trap, built solely to ruin an invading army. And he, Malus noted bitterly, was meant to be the bait.

  Beyond the inner wall Malus found himself in a small, shadowy courtyard at the feet of the great tower. A troop of Black Guard stood watch at the courtyard’s far end, their white faces impassive and their wicked-looking halberds held ready. Attendants in light armour and the livery of the tower’s drachau raced from an adjoining stable as the Endless slipped heavily from their saddles. Malus did likewise, pausing only to check the pack containing the daemon’s relics and to run a possessive hand over the wrapped hilt of the warpsword. He felt its banked heat through the layers of cloth and was sorely tempted to draw it free and buckle it to his harness. Who here would recognize it, after all? But the memory of the slaughter at Har Ganeth forced him to push the temptation aside. He couldn’t afford another mindless slaughter here. With a deep breath the highborn pulled his hand away, removing instead the axe from its loop on the nauglir’s saddle and then checking to make certain that the writ was securely tucked into his belt. As he did so there was a clatter of steel as a young highborn dashed from the tower into the courtyard.

  The young druchii clearly came from a wealthy family. The hilts of his twin swords were chased with gold and set with small rubies, and his lacquered armour was embossed with silver runes of warding and decorated with gold scrollwork. A hadrilkar of silver encircled his slender neck, worked in the shape of twining serpents. His narrow, pointed face was flushed from his quick sprint, and tendrils of black hair had come loose from the band of gold at the base of his neck. He surveyed the assembled riders quickly and sized up Malus as their obvious leader. The young highborn advanc
ed to a proper hithuan and bowed deeply. “Welcome to the Black Tower, my lord,” he said. “I am Shevael, a knight in service to the drachau, Lord Myrchas. How may I assist you?”

  Malus could well imagine the thoughts going through the young highborn’s mind. His new armour was filigreed with gold and wrought with its own powerful spells of protection, and the heavy gold hadrilkar of the Witch King hung about his neck. Yet he bore no swords to mark his station; instead he clutched the worn hilt of a battle-axe in his had. The boy probably thinks I’m Malekith’s own executioner, come to pay a call on his lord the drachau, the highborn thought. And, as it happens, he’s not far wrong.

  “Where is Lord Myrchas and his vaulkhar?” Malus said, his voice hoarse from exhaustion.

  Shevael’s eyes widened. “I… he… that is, they are in council at present—”

  “Excellent,” Malus replied. “Take me there.”

  The young highborn went pale. “But… that is, perhaps you would care for some refreshment after your long ride?”

  “Did I ask for refreshment?” Malus snapped. He let the axe hang loosely from his hands. Take me to your master, boy, or would you rather hear the Witch King’s decree yourself?”

  Shevael took a step back. “No, of course not, my lord! That is—I mean—please follow me!”

  The young druchii turned on his heel and strode swiftly to the tower. Malus followed, grinning wolfishly, and the Endless fell silently into step around him.

  Chapter Nine

  THE WITCH KING’S VOICE

  The drachau’s council chambers lay near the very top of the tower, which did nothing to improve Malus’ mood. The climb, up narrow, twisting stairways and down dimly-lit, bustling corridors, seemed to last for hours. By the time the young knight led him and his Endless bodyguards into the council chamber’s anteroom he was entirely out of patience. Pulling the writ from his belt he pushed past the startled Shevael and strode purposefully up to the chamber door. The two Black Guard halberdiers assigned to watch the door glanced from Malus to his silver-masked attendants and stepped carefully aside.

  Smiling grimly, Malus put his boot against the door and kicked for all he was worth.

  The oaken door swung open, rebounding from the stone wall with a thunderous bang. Nobles and retainers in the room beyond leapt to their feet with startled shouts and wrathful curses. Malus rushed within, catching the recoiling door with the flat of his axe and stopping it with a hollow clang.

  Across the large, square chamber lay a broad table, covered with maps, parchment notes, wine goblets and pewter plates littered with half-eaten meals. A dozen armoured highborn and their retainers glared fiercely at Malus’ intrusion, many with their hands on the hilt of their blades. Four more Black Guardsmen dashed from the shadows, two on either side of the axe-wielding highborn, the spearheads of their halberds aimed for Malus’ throat.

  Opposite the chamber door, at the far end of the table, sat an older highborn clad in ornate, enchanted armour. Sigils of coiled serpents were worked in gold across his lacquered breastplate, and his right hand was encased in a taloned gauntlet of a type that Malus knew all too well. It was the literal Fist of Night, the magical symbol of a drachau’s authority. Lord Myrchas, the drachau of the Black Tower, studied Malus with small, bright black eyes. His long face, accentuated by a narrow, drooping moustache, was marked by dozens of minor scars from the bite of sword and claw. He reminded Malus somewhat of his late father Lurhan, which blackened the highborn’s mood even further.

  At the drachau’s right hand stood a towering, lanky figure in ornate armour, marked with the sigil of a tower engraved upon his breastplate. He was older than Malus, but not so old as the drachau, and his skin was darkened by years of exposure from campaigning in the field. His sword belt and scabbards were studded with gems, doubtless looted on dozens of raids into the Wastes. The lord was bald as a nauglir’s egg, and his face and scalp bore the marks of a great many battles. He might have been handsome once, but that changed the day his nose was broken for the fourth time and his right ear was shorn almost completely away by some foeman’s blade. His left cheek was scarred and crumpled, lending his angry scowl a horrid, unbalanced cast. “What is your name, fool?” the scarred druchii roared. “I want to know whose head I’ll be hanging from the spikes atop the inner gate.”

  “I am Malus of Hag Graef,” the highborn replied coldly.

  Lord Myrchas straightened. “Malus the kinslayer?” he exclaimed. The outlaw?”

  Malus smiled. “No longer.” He raised the writ for the assembled lords to see. “His dread majesty the Witch King has seen fit to put my notorious talents to good use.”

  The drachau held out his taloned hand. “Let me be the judge of that,” he declared. “I’ve heard of your deeds, wretch. For all I know there’s nothing in between those metal plates but a fish-wife’s tally sheet.”

  Malus bowed his head, genuinely amused by the drachau’s accusation, and passed the plaque to the nearest lord, who in turn handed it around the table to Lord Myrchas. As the drachau opened the plaque and studied the parchment within, Malus waved a hand at the Endless. “I suppose these would be the fish-wife’s daughters in disguise?”

  Lord Myrchas read the parchment, then scrutinized the seal closely. His face turned pale. “Blessed Mother of Night,” he said softly, raising his eyes to Malus. The world has turned upside down.”

  “As it is wont to do from time to time,” Malus said darkly. Which is why the Witch King requires the services of people like myself.”

  The drachau blanched even further, and Malus couldn’t help but feel a rush of cruel glee. This was a role he could come to enjoy, he thought. He turned to the tall lord next to Myrchas. “Now you have me at a disadvantage, my lord. Who might you be?”

  The glint of rage in the druchii lord’s eye faltered slightly at the sudden change of events. “I am Lord Kuall Blackhand, Vaulkhar of the Black Tower.”

  Malus’ smile widened. “Ah, yes, Lord Kuall. I’ve come a long way in a very short time to bring you a message from the Witch King himself.”

  A stir went through the assembled nobles. Even the drachau leaned back in his chair and stole a bleak look at the vaulkhar. Lord Kuall straightened at the news, the muscles bunching at the sides of his scarred jaws. Whatever his failings, the vaulkhar of the tower was no coward. “Very well,” he said, his voice tight. “Let’s hear it then.”

  Malus nodded formally. “As you wish. My lord and master has watched your efforts here in the north since the coming of the Chaos horde, Lord Kuall, and he is displeased with what he has seen. Very displeased.”

  Worried murmurs passed through the assembled lords, and the drachau’s eyes narrowed warily. Lord Kuall, however, went white with rage. “And what would Malekith have me do?” he cried. “Meet that damned multitude in the field?” He snatched up a pile of parchments and threw them across the table at Malus. “Has the Witch King read my scouts’ reports? The Chaos horde is immense! When it moves it raises so much dust that you can see it from the sentry posts at the top of the tower. You expect me to form lines of battle and try to defeat such a force? We would be completely overrun!” He banged his armoured gauntlet on the heavy table, causing the goblets to jump. “I’ve commanded the army of the tower for two hundred years, and I’ve lead countless raids into the Wastes. In all that time I’ve never seen a horde such as this. This fortress—” Kuall pointed a finger at the ceiling— “was built to break a Chaos horde against its walls. If you had an ounce of sense you could have seen that just riding through the gates. The only sensible course of action is to conserve our forces and prepare for the coming onslaught, where we can bleed the enemy dry against our fortifications.”

  The assembled lords listened and nodded, casting uneasy glances between Lord Kuall and Malus. But the highborn was unimpressed.

  “So while you cowered in your hole like a rabbit the enemy has systematically destroyed nearly a third of our frontier watchtowers,” he replied coldly, �
��not to mention slaughtered hundreds of isolated troops who stood their ground expecting reinforcements that never arrived. Instead you cowered behind these walls to preserve your own skin, and now the kingdom will be vulnerable to Chaos raids for years to come.”

  “The Chaos horde must overcome the Black Tower if they hope to press further into Naggaroth!” Kuall shot back. “They have no choice but to attack us, and here we are in a position of strength.”

  “Are you?” Malus said. “If I recall correctly, slightly more than half your garrison is made up of cavalry. How useful will they be to you in a protracted siege, unless you plan on putting the cavalrymen on the walls and sending their mounts to the kitchens?” He glared hotly at the vaulkhar. “You have a powerful, and above all, a mobile force at your command, Lord Kuall, and yet you feared to put it to the test against a mass of ignorant savages. Out of timidity you hoped to fight the enemy with half an army while you sat here in your chair and waited for Malekith to come to your rescue. That is not how our people fight, Lord Kuall. That is not how the state responds to animals that trespass on our domain.”

  “You dare call me a coward!” Kuall shouted, tearing his sword from its scabbard. The gathered nobles backed hurriedly away from the enraged lord, knocking over chairs and upending cups in their escape.

  “I call you nothing,” Malus sneered. “When I speak it is with the Witch King’s own voice, and he calls you nothing less than a failure.” Malus gestured to the Endless. Take this wretch and impale him upon the spikes above the inner gate. With luck he’ll live long enough to witness the defeat of the horde.”

  The masked bodyguards swept forward in a silent rush, swords suddenly appearing in their hands. With a cry of rage, Kuall gave ground, threatening the implacable Endless with the point of his blade. But the warriors scarcely broke stride, advancing fearlessly into reach of the lord’s long sword and trapping it with their own. Two more warriors seized Kuall by the arms, and within moments they were dragging the thrashing druchii across the chamber and out the door.