[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin

by Dan Abnett

  “A dream. A terrible dream,” he said to himself, rubbing dazedly at his chin. His body ached and his mouth tasted like a chamber pot. “I drank too much,” he said absently. “Never again. Do you hear that Hauclir? Never again, you damned rogue. No matter how much I beg.”

  “Hauclir, my lord?” the figure said worriedly. “It’s me, Shevael. The drachau assigned me to serve as your retainer. Don’t you remember?”

  Malus turned away from the balcony rail and stared closely at the man beside him. “Ah. Yes. Shevael,” he said in a hollow voice. “Shevael. Never mind my rambling, lad. It’s just wine and memories.”

  “Yes, my lord, of course,” the young highborn said, sounding anything but reassured. “How did you come to be on the balcony in the first place? When I last checked you were sound asleep in your bed.”

  Malus rose unsteadily to his feet. The double doors leading from the bedroom to the balcony were wide open; within he could see the banked glow of a pair of braziers, weakly illuminating the wide bed and the tangle of bed sheets that pointed like a trail to where he lay.

  “I must have got up in the night,” he said weakly. But he recalled the time in the forest when he’d awoke far from where he’d bedded down. What in the Dark Mother’s name is happening to me, he thought? For the first time he found himself missing the constant presence of the Endless. After escorting him safely to the Black Tower and seeing him installed as the commander of the army their duty was done, and they left him to begin the task of preparing a set of chambers for the Witch King’s imminent arrival.

  The highborn let Shevael lead him back to the bed and pile the sheets and blankets over him. Malus stared at the ceiling. “What is the hour?”

  “It is the hour of the wolf, my lord,” the young highborn answered. “Dawn will break in another hour and a half. Light comes early this far north.”

  “I know, lad, I know,” Malus answered. “Let me rest here until daybreak, then turn me out. We’ll be on the march by midday.”

  “Very good, my lord,” the young highborn answered, and retreated from the room. At the door he paused to glance fearfully at the highborn, then slipped out of sight.

  Malus paid no heed. He was lost in thought, staring though the open balcony doors at the shifting lights to the north.

  The thunder of three thousand marching feet reverberated down the length of the marshalling square and vibrated against Malus’ ribcage. He felt the measured tramp of boots through the heavy stone of the outer gatehouse, and it brought a feral smile of joy to his pallid face.

  He had issued his orders scarcely an hour past dawn, and the forces he’d chosen had assembled in good order barely three hours after that. To their credit, his highborn staff hadn’t blinked an eye when he’d laid out his plan. Possibly they’d drunk their fears into submission the night before, much as he had.

  The scouts, as always, were the first to depart. They’d left almost immediately after meeting with his lieutenants. Lord Rasthlan had left with them, garbed in dark robes and mail just like the autarii themselves. Glancing up at the midday sun, Malus reckoned that the shades were leagues away by now.

  Just an hour before a fanfare of horns sounded from the outer gatehouse, and the first three banners of cavalry left as the army’s vanguard. The last few squadrons of those horsemen were just departing through the massive gate, and the regiment of Black Guard were crossing the square next. Their captain raised his sword in salute to Malus as they passed beneath the high arch, and he returned the gesture proudly with his upraised axe.

  Beyond the Black Guard waited two more regiments of spearmen, then the household knights and the cold one chariots, destined for the battlefield at last. Farther still waited the remaining three banners of the light cavalry to act as the rearguard. The garrison’s entire cavalry force and almost a quarter of its infantry—almost half of the entire army, on balance—were being wagered on a single, desperate gamble. The thought chilled him to the marrow, but anything less would have doomed the expedition to certain failure.

  Suddenly a loud commotion arose at the far end of the battlements. Malus heard angry shouts over the heavy tramp of feet and glanced along the walkway to see what was happening. The soldiers of the gate watch who were watching the army alongside him suddenly shifted and dodged about as a single figure stormed down the battlements in Malus’ direction. The highborn couldn’t see who it was, but he had a fairly good idea.

  He straightened and made certain his gleaming armour was presentable as the drachau of the Black Tower burst into view. Lord Myrchas was livid, his entire body trembling with rage.

  “What do you think you are doing?” the drachau said in a strangled voice. “Stop this madness at once and return these troops back to their barracks!”

  Malus bowed his head regretfully. “I cannot,” he replied. “And you have no authority to command me, even if I were your vaulkhar.”

  For a moment it looked as though Myrchas would reach for his sword. His hands trembled with fury… and no small amount of fear, the highborn imagined. “You cannot defeat the horde in pitched battle!” the drachau cried. “You’re sending these men to certain death and leaving the Black Tower defenceless!”

  “Defenceless?” the highborn arched an eyebrow. “Hardly I’ve left you with thirteen thousand well-trained spearmen to defend the fortress walls. That should be more than sufficient to hold the Black Tower against ten times their number. And if my plan succeeds, they will not be needed at all.”

  The drachau would not be mollified. “But the horde—”

  “My lord, I have no intention of fighting the Chaos army in a pitched battle,” Malus snapped, fixing Myrchas with a fiery stare. “A horde like that is not held together by training or discipline. It is a clumsy weapon wielded rather tenuously by its war leader. If the leader dies, the army will turn upon itself like a pack of maddened dogs.” Malus pointed a gauntleted finger northward. “I am taking the most mobile force I can manage and I plan to launch a night attack aimed right at the horde’s beating heart. We’re going to cut our way to the war leader’s tent and I plan on splitting her skull myself.”

  “Her?” the drachau said, momentarily confused.

  “Never mind, my lord,” Malus said. “The point of the matter is that a quick, decisive strike could stop this invasion in its tracks. I need the cavalry’s mobility and hitting power, and the spearmen will provide a solid rearguard for the squadrons to rally behind.” He leaned close to the drachau. Think of the glory when Malekith arrives with his army to find the war leader’s head hanging from a gatehouse spike. They’ll sing of your heroism the length and breadth of Naggaroth.”

  Myrchas thought it over. A faint gleam of avarice shone in his eyes. “The rewards for such a victory would be great,” he allowed, then frowned worriedly. “Are you absolutely certain this will work?”

  The highborn shook his head. “Nothing in war is certain, my lord. But believe me when I tell you that while the Chaos war leader is a mighty sorceress, she has no experience whatsoever as a general. She will not expect an attack like this, which gives us a great advantage. At worst we will be able to inflict tremendous losses and sow terrible confusion on the enemy, which will allow us to retire back to the fortress in good order.”

  Malus put every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his argument. He believed in the plan; it was the only one he could conceive that would give him a chance of escaping Malekith’s clutches, locating the relic and fleeing northward in time. If he could kill Nagaira before the Witch King arrived with his army then he would be able to use his temporary authority to search for the relic in the Black Tower—and the ruins of the Chaos encampment if necessary—without interference. Then he could slip out of the fortress and disappear into the Wastes with no one the wiser.

  The highborn struggled to remain patient while the drachau thought it over. Finally, Myrchas nodded. “I can find no fault with your plan,” he said at last. “Go with the Dark Mother’s blessing and s
ow fear and loathing among our foes.” He smiled. “Naturally I regret not being able to accompany you—”

  “Say no more, my lord,” Malus assured him. “Someone must remain behind to command the garrison and await the Witch King’s arrival. With luck I should return with the army in about five days.”

  The drachau smiled. “We will be awaiting your return,” he said. “And now that you mention it, there are a great many matters that I must see to before the Witch King arrives, so I will take my leave.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Malus said, bowing deeply. He held the bow as the drachau hurried away, hiding the grim smile of satisfaction on his lips.

  The army marched for the rest of the day and well past nightfall. Malus kept the pace brisk but measured; he’d had enough forced marches in the last two weeks to last a lifetime. Spite seemed to have recovered completely from his exertions on the road with little more than a day’s rest and half a ton of horseflesh to renew his strength.

  On the following day they marched at a cautious pace through the foothills, awaiting the first reports from the far-ranging scouts. Malus kept the army moving at a walk, both to minimize the amount of telltale dust and to avoid running headlong into the oncoming Chaos army. Timing their approach to the horde would be the trickiest part of the attack.

  At midday Lord Rasthlan appeared before the vanguard with a pair of autarii in tow. Malus called a halt and met the scouts beneath the shadow of a copse of fir trees on the reverse slope of a low hill.

  “Where are they?” the highborn asked as Shevael passed bread, cheese and wine to the tired-looking scouts.

  “About five leagues to the north,” Rasthlan said, drinking deeply from his cup. The shades crouched beneath the trees and ate in silence, gazing inscrutably at Malus. Lord Rasthlan tore off a hunk of bread and stuffed it quickly in his mouth, nearly swallowing it whole. “They’ve picked up their pace somewhat, but they shouldn’t cover more than two or three leagues before nightfall,” he continued.

  Malus nodded thoughtfully. The distance would be just about perfect. “Do you know for certain where the war leader’s tent can be found?”

  Rasthlan grimaced and shook his head. “The Chaos savages are thick as flies along the ground,” he said. “From the edge of their encampment it is nearly three miles to the centre. Too risky to penetrate, even for these ghosts,” he said, indicating the autarii. “The war leader’s tents will lie in the middle of the camp. They should be easy to find, even in the dark.”

  The highborn nodded. “Will your men be ready by nightfall?”

  One of the autarii snorted disdainfully. Rasthlan grinned. “They are ready now, my lord,” he said. “We will uphold our end of the plan, never fear.”

  “Very well,” Malus replied, feeling the first twinges of anticipation. “Then we wait here until nightfall.” He turned to Shevael. “Summon the division commanders to attend a war council in three hours to go over final preparations,” he ordered. As the young highborn rushed off, Malus turned back to the scouts. “And as for you, I suggest you get some rest. It will likely be a very long night.”

  The larger of the two moons was still low on the horizon when the army rose from their temporary camp and began their march to the enemy encampment. During the day they had wrapped their arms, armour and tack in layers of cloth to muffle any telltale noises while they moved. Each regiment and banner marched with a pair of autarii in the lead, holding small, shuttered witchlamps to signal their fellows and act as pathfinders, guiding the army to its objective.

  Solitary flakes of snow drifted from a seemingly clear sky, and Malus’ breath sent frosty plumes into the air as he rode alongside the household knights. They travelled in remarkable silence for so huge a force, and the highborn could not help but admire the mettle of the troops under his command. A general with sufficient daring could do much with such an army at his back, he mused, and smiled up at the starry sky.

  It took more than two hours to navel two leagues across the foothills, then the pathfinders raised their lanterns and called a halt. As the army slowly ground to a stop, Rasthlan suddenly appeared at Malus’ side. “You may form your lines here, my lord,” he whispered, as though the Chaos Troops were just on the other side of the hill instead of nearly a mile away. “We will go ahead from here and deal with their sentries,” he said. “Wait for the signal.”

  Malus nodded. “The Dark Mother’s fortune be with you, Rasthlan,” he said, and the old druchii vanished like a spectre.

  Lantern signals were passed all along the column, and slowly, carefully, the army formed line of battle behind the slope of a long, wooded ridge. Once again, the shades and their shuttered lanterns were invaluable, guiding each regiment and banner into the proper position with a minimum of confusion. Still, it was nearly two hours before the army was properly arrayed. After that there was nothing to do but watch the moons creep across the sky and try not to focus too much on the battle ahead.

  The wait seemed to last forever. Each moment Malus strained his senses to detect the slightest sign of alarm, even though he knew intellectually that he was too far away from the enemy camp to hear anything short of war horns. Knights shifted uneasily in their saddles, the creak of leather seemingly sharp as a thunderclap to the highborn’s strained nerves. Nauglir grunted and stamped. Tiny bits of harness jingled despite every precaution. After almost an hour Malus discovered that his fingertips had gone numb from holding the reins in a nervous, white-knuckled grip. With a deep breath the forced himself to relax and slowly unclenched his aching hands.

  Then came the sign they were waiting for. A hunched figure appeared at the top of the hill and flashed open the cover of his shuttered witchlamp: once, twice, thrice. Other pathfinders were sending the same signal all along the druchii line; the shades had done their deadly work and slain the enemy sentries along a one-mile front. There would be no one to give warning to the beastmen and marauders slumbering in their tents until it was far too late.

  Malus looked to the left, just spying the edge of the banners of horse that stretched away to his flank; a similar formation waited at the right end of the knight’s battle line, their loose formations stretching for more than a mile to either side. To his immediate right, the bristling line of the household knights checked their reins and stirrups and quietly drew their blades. Behind the knights waited the long line of scythe-armed chariots. A torch burned low in the back of each war machine, ready to light the arrows of the archers who waited alongside the charioteers. Still farther back, the highborn could see the three regiments of spearmen, dressing their lines in long ranks of two. Their spearheads glinted cruelly in the moonlight, though if all went well the footmen would never enter the battle at all. They were a veritable wall of silver and steel that disorganised cavalry units could retreat to and shake off any pursuers so they could rally and return to the fight.

  Slowly and deliberately the highborn reached down and unhooked the axe from his saddle. He’d been sorely tempted to carry the warpsword into battle instead, but once again the episode at Har Ganeth gave him pause. What if he succumbed to the killing madness again at a time when he needed to be clear-headed and issue orders to the army? There were no guarantees, he finally admitted, and so he’d left the blade—and the bag with the relics—back at the Black Tower. As much as it worried him to leave the artefacts untended, worse still was the thought of them falling into the hands of his half-sister by some awful mischance. She’d already taken the items from him once before; Malus doubted he’d be so lucky as to retrieve them again.

  He turned to the household knights, arrayed in a gleaming line two ranks deep that stretched off into the darkness for more than half a mile, well beyond his line of sight. Closest to the highborn were Lord Suheir, the knight-captain and Malus’ retainer Shevael. Both eyed him with a mixture of excitement and wary unease. Every man in the small army knew what they were up against; he’d made certain of it before the troops left the Black Tower. If they won, the Chaos thr
eat would be over. If they lost, few if any of them would return home again. They had to win or die.

  Malus leaned over in his saddle and spoke quietly to Suheir and Shevael, certain that his words would be repeated on down the line. “Remember, we are the spear tip,” he said, his expression fierce. “Leave the chariots and the light cavalry to do most of the butcher’s work. Our only task is to cut our way to the Chaos war leader’s tent at the centre of the camp, regardless of the cost. Once we’re there, I’ll put an end to this invasion once and for all. Clear?”

  Both men nodded solemnly. Already he could hear the next men in line whispering his words to the comrade beside him.

  Lord Suheir raised his curved sword in salute. “We are with you, my lord,” he rumbled.

  Malus nodded and sat up straight. At that moment he realised that twelve thousand men hung on his next word, awaiting the command to unleash a grim slaughter upon their foes. He smiled to himself, savouring the sensation of power. Suddenly the risks inherent in his plan became meaningless. Could any risk in the wide world be great enough to sour the terrible joy he felt?

  The highborn turned his gaze to the summit of the wide hill before him and raised his axe high into the air. “The household knights will advance,” he said in a low voice, then brought the weapon down in a shining arc. “Forward!”

  Spite lurched forward at a steady walk, head lowering as it sensed that a battle was close to hand. The cold ones of the front rank followed suit, rippling forward like the flick of a long, steel whip. Malus spurred the cold one up the hill slope, eager to crest the summit and see what he could of the vast movement occurring around him.

  When he reached the top of the hill he looked immediately ahead and found only more rolling terrain stretching off to the horizon, but to left and right the light horse were surging in a black tide over their own series of foothills, moonlight burning coldly on the tops of their long spears. Behind him came the faint rattle and groan of chariot wheels, growing steadily quieter as the war machines picked up speed.