[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin

by Dan Abnett

  Malus narrowed his black eyes. “I could order you.”

  Meiron stiffened. “Then you’d make me a mutineer, my lord,” he said. “You’d best get the nauglir and those dandy horsemen moving. I don’t expect we have much time now.”

  A look of understanding passed between the two druchii. Malus nodded. “Very well, Lord Meiron,” he said darkly. “I will not forget this, and I swear to you, neither will the enemy.”

  The druchii lord nodded solemnly. “I’ll hold you to that, Malus of Hag Graef. In this life and the next.” Without another word the infantry commander turned on his heel and marched back to his men.

  Malus watched him go, his heart bitter. “In this life and the next,” he said to himself, and drew upon the reins. He kicked Spite to a trot and headed for the waiting knights. With enough of a head start the mounted troops could reach the tower safely, and it shamed him to think that a part of him was glad to be escaping Nagaira’s trap.

  You will pay for this, sister, he thought. By the Dark Mother I swear it. You will suffer a hundredfold for every man of mine you slay.

  He reached Dachvar and the knights and spoke a few, quiet orders, then turned about and rode to the light horse. The cavalry he ordered to move at once, then as they started for the tower he went to the chariots and got them moving as well. The last to go were the knights, and behind them all rode Malus himself.

  The black clouds were past the ridgeline now, heading inexorably south towards the tower. Lighting lashed across the sky and smote the backs of the mounted men with blows of thunder.

  The last sight Malus had of the battered ranks of spearmen was a line of straight backs and a thicket of spears, aimed towards the storm rolling from the north. He caught sight of Meiron’s square-shouldered form standing in the front rank of his regiment, eyes forward, awaiting the coming of the foe.

  Along the rear ranks of the spear regiments, young druchii stole quick glances over their shoulder at the retreating cavalry and knights, their faces pale and uncomprehending.

  The storm clouds paced the dispirited riders all the way back to the tower, dogging their heels with flashes of pale lighting and imprecations of thunder. It took them nearly an hour to reach the high, black walls, and the entire time Malus would catch himself looking back over his shoulder, wondering if Meiron and his men still fought on.

  Sombre faces lined the outer walls as the riders made their way to the tower gate. As they came near the gatehouse Malus saw four banners flying from the battlements, their heavy fabrics shifting listlessly in the faint wind. He saw a black crag on a white field surmounted by a silver circlet, and a blue banner with three black masts. Between them was a grey banner with a rearing, dark green nauglir, and above all rose the cloth-of-gold banner of lost Nagarythe, bearing the sign of the dragon and the crown.

  Malekith had arrived with his army, and the armies of Clar Karond, Hag Graef and the Black Ark of Naggor rode with him.

  On the long ride northward he’d imagined returning to the tower at the head of a victorious army, listening to a fanfare of trumpets from the walls as he bore the head of his sister before him. Now he returned in defeat, with but a broken remnant of the warriors he once led. He felt the weight of each soldier’s stare as he led Spite aside and watched the survivors of his army make their way inside the fortress. As the last of his knights disappeared inside the walls, a mournful chorus of horns rose from the gatehouse. The highborn turned in the saddle to see the white plain behind him awash with a black tide of marching troops. Nagaira’s horde had reached the Black Tower at last.

  With a creak of great hinges the gates of the fortress began to grind shut. Malus took a last look northward before spurring his nauglir inside.

  The remainder of his troops waited in the marshalling square beyond the gate, arrayed in parade ranks to either side of the centre path. A single druchii waited in the centre of the square, sitting astride a huge black destrier. Malus approached the old general wearily. Even Spite was too tired to more than sniff in the horse’s direction.

  Nuarc crossed his hands over the cantle of his saddle and gave the highborn an appraising stare. “You look like someone dragged you through a butcher’s shop,” he said without preamble.

  “A burning butcher’s shop,” Malus corrected, glaring back at the general.

  To the highborn’s surprise, Nuarc nodded sombrely. “I know the place,” he said quietly. His expression turned businesslike. “Malekith wishes to hear your report.”

  “Yes, I expect he does,” Malus answered with a sigh. A bitter smile played across his bloodstained face.

  Nuarc frowned. “Something amuses you?”

  “I was thinking that a thousand brave druchii just gave their lives so I could safely make it to my execution,” he said. “Lead on, Nuarc. Let’s not keep the Witch King waiting.”

  * * * * *

  Nuarc offered to give Malus time to clean up, but he declined with a mirthless smile. Better that the Witch King and the assembled lords see what the future held for them, he thought.

  The general led the weary highborn through the inner gate and into the high tower. Malus’ gait was as unsteady as a babe’s. Belatedly he realised that he’d been in the saddle for two days straight. It was a wonder his legs worked at all.

  He did notice that he felt no pain from his wounds. Some experimental prodding along his scalp and his knee hinted that the injuries were healing very quickly indeed, thanks to the daemon’s black corruption. The highborn wondered perversely how many strokes . a headsman would need to take off his head. Would his body keep wriggling for hours afterward, like a snake?

  Nuarc cast a curious look over his shoulder at the highborn. Had he laughed aloud? He couldn’t recall.

  The general led him to a pair of tall doors etched with the tower sigil of Ghrond. A score of black-robed Endless watched Malus impassively as the doors swung open and he was admitted inside.

  Malekith studied him with burning eyes from an iron throne no less impressive than the one he presided from at Naggarond. The throne room was larger than the Court of Dragons, built to admit several hundred nobles and their retinues. At the foot of the dais were four ornate chairs, arranged in a semicircle. Four druchii nobles, clad in martial finery, bolted to their feet as Malus and Nuarc made the long walk across the echoing chamber. Malus felt their hot glares like irons against his skin, but the heat made little impression upon him after all the fire he’d recently endured.

  He recognized Lord Myrchas at once. The Drachau of the Black Tower was pale with rage, but a glitter of fear shone in his black eyes as Malus was brought before the assembled lords. No doubt he remembers our conversation at the tower, the highborn thought, and he fears that I shall pull him down with me. A not unreasonable assumption.

  Then Malus recognized the druchii standing beside Myrchas and felt his heart skip a beat. For a moment he fancied that the vengeful shade of his father Lurhan had risen from the Abyss to torment him. He recognized his father’s ornate armour and the great sword Slachyr, the ancient blade of Hag Graef s vaulkhar, but the face of the man wearing the armour looked strange to him. The last time he’d seen his half-brother Isilvar’s face it was a pallid green, soft and paunchy from decades of fleshy decadence. Now all that soft skin had melted away, leaving sharp bones and deeply sunken eyes that glittered with almost feral hate. His black hair, still bound in wires with hidden barbs and hooks, was held back with a golden circlet, and his ropy neck was bound by the thick gold hadrilkar of the Witch King’s retinue. Malus noted that Isilvar wore his collar of service on the outside of a high collar of supple suede. No doubt to keep the heavy gold from chafing his delicate skin, the highborn thought sarcastically.

  Next to Isilvar stood a lanky druchii clad in vivid blue robes and polished silver armour, and of all the nobles in the room only he looked at Malus with something other than anger or hate. Malus supposed he was the drachau of Clar Karond, the one ruler of the six cities he hadn’t managed to morta
lly offend in the last year. The drachau regarded the highborn bemusedly, as if uncertain what all the fuss was about. It took him a moment to realise that the ruler of Clar Karond was somewhat drunk.

  On the opposite side of Lord Myrchas stood a tall, narrow-shouldered figure in ornate armour chased with silver and gold. He had a long face and a small, square chin—a handsome man that reminded Malus at once of his mother Eldire. But there was nothing welcoming in Balneth Bale’s eyes, only a black gulf of endless hate.

  If the assembled lords expected him to quail before their withering stares they were disappointed. He spared them only the briefest of glances, focusing the majority of his attention on the armoured figure upon the throne. When he reached the foot of the dais—surrounded by the circle of hateful lords—he sank slowly to one knee. “I come at your command, dread majesty,” he said simply.

  “Have you done my bidding, Malus of Hag Graef?” Malekith asked, his voice seething from his ornate helm like air from a banked forge.

  “I live to serve, dread majesty.”

  “Then tell me of all you have done.”

  And so he did, relating his arrival at the Black Tower and his failed attack on Nagaira’s camp. He left out no particular—even, to his surprise relating the heroism and self-sacrifice of Lord Meiron and his spearmen. “It was because of their courage that I stand here to relate these facts, dread majesty,” Malus said. “I am ashamed that I led so many of your finest warriors to their deaths.”

  “There, you see, he freely damns himself!” Lord Myrchas declared, levelling an accusing finger at the highborn. Once it became clear that Malus wasn’t going to scapegoat him for the loss of the battle, the drachau’s demeanour had reverted to type. “He deserves the same fate that Lord Kuall suffered! At least Kuall didn’t throw away ten thousand of our best men!”

  “For all we know, he led those men to their deaths as part of a plan he’s worked out with Nagaira herself,” said the new Vaulkhar of Hag Graef. Isilvar’s voice, once silken and refined, was now a guttural ruin, worse even than the hoarse growl of Nuarc. The sound brought a smile to Malus’ face, though he was careful to keep his face turned to the floor. “He and my sister have engaged in conspiracies for years, dread majesty. It was she who wrought such ruin in my home city last spring, and it was he who so disfigured our drachau that he remains convalescing to this day. It is clear to me that they were working together to destroy Hag Graef, and I believe they now conspire to destroy the Black Tower and perhaps supplant you as well. He should be slain at once!”

  “If he is to die, dread majesty, let it be by my hand!” swore Balneth Bale. The self-styled Witch Lord of the Black Ark stepped beside Malus, his hands clenched into fists. “He led my son and his army to ruin before the walls of Hag Graef. This is a matter of blood feud!”

  “Let Balneth Bale strike him down dread majesty!” Isilvar declared. “Let him avenge his son and the feud between our cities will end as well!”

  But Malekith seemed not to hear the pleas of his own vassals. “What of this second Chaos champion?” he asked.

  Malus shrugged. “I do not know, dread majesty. His appearance in Nagaira’s tent was a surprise to me. But he is mighty; he bears tokens of favour from the Ruinous Powers, and his body cannot be harmed by mundane weapons. I suspect that he is the real power behind the horde. The warriors serve him, while he in turn serves Nagaira.”

  “And how large is the host that is arrayed against us?”

  Malus paused. Now he knew how Rasthlan had felt when he’d put the man to the question days earlier. “I would say that the enemy still numbers around a hundred thousand warriors, dread majesty.”

  The number shocked even Isilvar into silence. Malus could clearly hear the scrape of steel against steel as the Witch King turned his head to regard Nuarc. “How does our own army fare?”

  “We were able to muster forty-four thousand troops, dread majesty: eighteen thousand from Naggarond, two thousand from the Black Ark, and ten thousand each from Hag Graef and Clar Karond, plus two thousand mercenaries scraped from the harbour leavings at the City of Ships. Taking Malus’ losses into account that puts the garrison here at around fourteen thousand. So we can muster fifty-eight thousand effectives against Nagaira’s host—more than enough to bleed her army dry against these walls. When our additional forces from Karond Kar and Har Ganeth arrive we will be in position to pin the enemy against the walls of the fortress and destroy them.”

  “Providing Nagaira employs none of her sorcery,” Isilvar said darkly. “Or we face treachery from within.”

  Malus could take no more. He was battered and torn, physically exhausted and now his knees were beginning to ache. With painful effort he struggled to his feet. “If it please your dread majesty to slay me then let us be done with it,” he said. “I acknowledge my failure in the field. What is your decision?”

  For a moment no one spoke. Even Malekith seemed taken aback by the highborn’s weary frankness. T see no failure here,” the Witch King said at length. “You drew Nagaira to the Black Tower as I commanded.”

  “But, dread majesty,” Myrchas exclaimed. “He lost half the army—”

  “Lost?” the Witch King said. “No. He spent them as a warlord must to achieve his aims, fighting an enemy that has invaded our kingdom. Something none of you have done!

  “But… you can’t intend to install him as Ghrond’s vaulkhar!” Myrchas cried. “I won’t have it, not with all the offences he has perpetrated against my fellow lords.”

  “No. He will not be Vaulkhar of the Black Tower,” Malekith said. “He will no longer command armies in the field.” The Witch King leaned forward on his throne and stretched out a claw-like hand to Malus. “Instead, I name him my champion, to confront the enemies of the state and slay them on my behalf.”

  “You can’t mean that,” Malus heard someone say. It took a moment to realise it was him.

  “It is my decree, Malus of Hag Graef that you will be named my champion, and will bear the three golden skulls of Tyran upon your armour so that both friend and foe know that you fight in my name. The honour of the kingdom rests upon your shoulders. Do not forsake it, or the wrath of the Dark Mother shall be upon you.”

  “I… I hear and obey, dread majesty,” Malus replied, bowing before the throne. This wasn’t a true reward, he knew, but another facet of Malekith’s game. He was just too tired to see what the Witch King’s stratagem was. Regardless, it wasn’t as though he could refuse.

  “How can this be?” said Isilvar, his ruined voice charged with genuine outrage. “He has committed grave crimes against the kingdom, and against you personally, dread majesty. How is it he not only continues to live, but is deemed worthy of such an honour.”

  “He lives because it serves the Witch King’s purposes that he do so,” said an iron voice from across the hall. Morathi slid silently out of the shadows, her eyes glittering with cold menace and authority. “It is a lesson that all of you would do well to learn.”

  “What of my brides, Morath?” Malekith asked, referring to the witches cloistered in the Black Tower’s convent.

  “They are foolish, weak-willed girls,” Morathi replied disdainfully. “But we may yet get some decent work out of them before the siege is finished. There are gaps in their training I must take steps to rectify.”

  “Make it so,” the Witch King said, then regarded his vassal lords once more. “Go now, and prepare for the coming assault. Nagaira’s warriors encircle the city even as we speak. Serve me well, and your rewards will he great.”

  None of the assembled lords had any question what the alternative would be.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE TEMPLE OF TZ’ARKAN

  The Chaos Wastes, first week of winter

  Beyond the shadowy portal of the great temple an inky darkness awaited, pulsing with blasphemous power. It swirled and eddied about Malus as he staggered along the narrow processional, recoiling from the possessed druchii as if in supplication to the da
emon that rode within him.

  The temple was much changed since he’d last been inside. No, it was changing—potent energies coursed through the ponderous stones and prickled invisibly across his icy skin. Tz’arkan swelled painfully within the highborn’s tortured frame, and the forces at work within the great building responded, ordering themselves according to the daemon’s will.

  Malus’ body moved of its own volition, driving him forward like one of the risen dead. At the far end of the processional he reached the temple antechamber. More than a hundred figures dressed in ceremonial robes lined the narrow aisle that ran through the large hall. The ancient forms had knelt in obeisance for so long that the bodies within had long since crumbled to dust, leaving behind only petrified shells of leather garments and rune-carved bone. He remembered the first time he’d seen these wretched figures, and how he’d wondered what sort of awful terror could have inspired the temple slaves to press their foreheads to the stone floor until they finally died.

  Now he knew all too well.

  His boot heels echoed forlornly along the dusty marble floor as he walked among the ranks of the damned. Suddenly he heard a rustling sound, like the crumbling of ancient parchment and the crackle of ruined leather, and his heart went cold as he saw the ranks of the temple servants slowly, jerkily straighten. Dust swirled within the depths of their drooping hoods, coalescing in the ghostly shapes of skeletal faces. Green globes of bale-light shone eerily from their shadowy eye sockets and their spectral mouths moved in silent adoration of their returning overlord. Ethereal hands brushed against his boots and the hem of his robes, and Tz’arkan’s cruel will measured his every step, basking in the horrid worship of those agonized souls. At the far end of the chamber corroded steel creaked wearily as the armoured shells standing guard over the chamber raised their rusting blades in salute. Green fires burned within the oculars of the guards’ helmets, and the runes worked into their Chaos armour crawled with sorcerous energies.