[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin

by Dan Abnett

  Suddenly Malus was very alert. The shapes resolved further. He could see Nagaira clearly now. She was sitting in a chair, tucked close to a banquet table, turning a silver goblet in her black-veined hands. Her touch left lines of black tarnish across the gleaming curve of the metal. A knife and fork rested at the edges of the plate set before her, which was piled with steaming cuts of bloody meat. She took no notice of Malus at all, fixing the black emptiness of her gaze upon the being sitting opposite her.

  “It is not so simple as that,” the daemon replied. Malus turned his head to look upon the daemon, but its shape was concealed in deep shadow. A plate of bloody meat sat untouched before it. “You are thinking in such immediate terms, my child. Consider the implications of my plan in their full measure, and what it will mean for you once we have returned from the north.”

  “Then he must be persuaded to act,” the druchii witch said. She carefully set the goblet on the table before her.

  “Of course,” Tz’arkan replied. “Do as you think best.”

  Malus tried to move, but the sheets pulled tight, trapping him fast. Nagaira looked down at him, reaching to touch his cheek with a long, claw-like nail. “How much of my brother will remain, after all is said and done?”

  “Enough,” the daemon said at length. The shadowy figure reached forward and dipped a clawed hand into Malus’ chest. The highborn glanced down, past his chin, to see Tz’arkan lift his still-beating heart from the gaping cavity of his chest. “You see? It is still quite strong. So is his mind. He should satisfy your appetites for some time to come.” The daemon leaned back in his chair and gestured expansively at the highborn’s ravaged body. “Will you take any more for your plate, child?”

  Nagaira leaned forward, peering thoughtfully at Malus’ face. “I should like his eyes,” she said. “I’ve always loved them, you know.”

  A strong hand clamped down on Malus’ forehead, pressing it to the table. Another figure entered his field of vision, looming over him from above. Lhunara bent over him, her ravaged face lit with a lover’s smile. Wriggling maggots fell onto his cheek from the gaping wound in her head.

  She pressed a cracked thumbnail to the corner of his eye and he began to scream.

  Hands were pressing him down onto the bed. Malus kicked and thrashed, screaming in rage and fear. He heard low voices cursing above him, and for a dizzying instant he wasn’t sure if he was waking or still trapped in the dream. With a wild effort he tore his arms and shoulders free, shoving away the shadowy figures looming over his bed, and rolled to its edge just in time to vomit a large quantity of rancid wine onto the stone floor.

  “I told you those last two bottles were mostly vinegar,” Hauclir said from across the room. “But you wouldn’t listen. Of course, you might have been too drunk to hear me at that point, but I thought it was worth a try.”

  Early morning light filtered in through the bedchamber’s open window. Hauclir sat in a chair near the balcony entrance, his wounded leg propped up on a low table dragged over for just that purpose. Vague figures moved quietly about in the darkened chamber, patching armour or sharpening their weapons. Pockets and Ten-thumbs were roasting meat over a brazier near the foot of the bed, whispering to one another in low voices.

  Malus writhed his way out of the sodden bed sheets and staggered onto his feet. His mind swam from the after effects of wine and shock. The dream still hung in his mind with dreadful clarity. Was it real? Was the daemon consorting with Nagaira now? How could he know for certain? He looked to Hauclir, but what could he say that the daemon wouldn’t also hear? “What is the hour?” he asked blearily.

  “Early morning,” Hauclir said. Too early in fact. And thank you for asking about my wound. It’s not nearly as bad as I feared.”

  “We have to get to the nauglir pens,” the highborn interjected. “Now.”

  Hauclir studied Malus carefully. “You’re still drunk, my lord.”

  “Since when has that ever made a difference? Help me get into my armour,” the highborn replied, tugging at his stained nightshirt.

  Butchers’ cleavers rose and fell outside the nauglir pens within the citadel’s expansive inner compound, and vast lakes of blood glittered in the early morning sun. As Malus and Hauclir approached the low stone structure a group of young servants were pulling the bodies of beastmen and marauders from the back of a wagon and lining them up for the cutters to inspect. Several hundred nauglir consumed a great deal of meat in a given day, and the druchii saw no reason to waste anything that came their way.

  The roar of battle from the inner wall, less than half a mile distant, had continued unabated since the day before. Chaos warriors were hurling themselves in endless waves against the high walls. Hauclir said that soon they wouldn’t need ladders at all, but could scale the walls over the piles of their own dead.

  The former guard captain was limping painfully along beside Malus, using an improvised crutch made from a pair of spear hafts. “Why the sudden rush to visit your cold one?” he asked, a glint of suspicion showing in his dark eyes. “If you’re planning on a quick ride into the country I don’t think you’re going to get very far.”

  “I need to get something from my saddlebags,” the highborn said curtly. His mind was still churning over the implications of his dream. In retrospect, he should have expected this, he thought angrily. Now that he’d enlisted the aid of his mother Eldire and then bound himself to the warpsword, Tz’arkan was bound to try and find ways to outmanoeuvre him and retain the upper hand. He had no idea that the daemon could speak to Nagaira through his dreams. Was it also responsible for his many nightmares about Lhunara? The thought both terrified and enraged him.

  He’d been a fool to put the warpsword away, risk or no risk. That was going to change.

  Malus rushed past the bloodstained butchers and down the ramp into the pens. The chamber was dark and the air dank and acrid with the scent of scores of the huge warbeasts. Each nauglir had its own pen, not unlike a horse’s stall, but made of dressed stone rather than wood and secured by a stout gate of iron.

  It took several minutes before the highborn found the pen where Spite was kept. The nauglir was dozing on the sandy floor, snout tucked behind its curved tail. The warbeast stirred as Malus quickly unshackled the gate and slipped inside the pen. Hauclir, his clothes still stained with fresh blood, wisely chose not to follow.

  “There you are, beast of the deep earth,” Malus said. At the sound of its master’s voice the cold one rose quickly to its feet. Force of habit led the highborn to check the cold one’s claws, teeth and hide for signs of illness. “It looks as though these imbeciles are treating you well,” he muttered, eyeing the bloodstained sand nearby. “And your appetite is good.”

  Malus moved his inspection to his saddle and tack, then to the saddlebags still strapped to the cold one’s back. The bag containing the relics was still safely secured, and next to it lay the long, wrapped bundle of the warpsword. He fancied he could already feel the heat of the burning blade, like a brazier of banked embers waiting to be stirred to life. Taking a deep breath, the highborn reached for the sword.

  Instantly a spasm of burning pain shot through Malus’ body. He doubled over with an agonised groan, his hands clenching into trembling claws. Spite started at the sound, glancing back at Malus with a warning growl.

  The daemon shifted and tensed beneath the highborn’s skin. Oh, no, little druchii, Tz’arkan purred. I don’t think so.

  “My lord?” Hauclir cried. “Are you all right?”

  But the highborn couldn’t speak; indeed, he could scarcely breathe for the pain that wracked his chest and arms. He dimly saw Spite slinking slowly away from him, and his experienced eye immediately recognized that he was in dire trouble. Beyond the roaring in his ears he heard the cold one rumble deep in its throat.

  He forced every iota of his will into forcing words past his gritted teeth. “Re… lease me,” he grated.

  Oh, I shall, little druchii, the daemon said. But
first, perhaps I’ll let this beast of yours bite off your sword arm. I can make you stick your hand in its mouth if I wish. Would you like to see?

  A violent tremor wracked the highborn’s body… and his right arm slowly, haltingly, began to rise.

  “My lord!” Hauclir cried. “What in the name of the Outer Darkness are you doing?”

  Across the pen, Spite let out an angry bellow. Immediately the other nauglir in the pens took up the roar, shaking the air with their thunderous cries.

  Such weak, crude flesh you have, Darkblade, the daemon said. It’s no great loss if a part of it is torn away. In fact, I’m entirely happy to let your stinking beast bite both of your arms off, if that’s what I must do to keep you away from that sword. I have new allies now, you see. They can finish the job you started and give me what I want.

  A thin, despairing wail rose from Malus’ lips as he watched his right arm fully extend. His body moved like a children’s doll, turning jerkily towards the cold one. Spite’s head was lowered, its powerful tail lashing tensely across the sandy floor. The cold one was about to strike.

  Suddenly a robed form lurched across the sand and knocked Malus to the floor just as the nauglir struck. Its blocky jaws clashed shut, scattering sprays of venomous drool right where Malus had been standing moments before.

  “Back, you damned lump of scales!” Hauclir roared, lashing at the beast’s face with his crutch in one hand and trying to drag Malus clear with the other. Spite snapped at the offending stick and ground it to splinters, but it bought Hauclir enough time to drag Malus halfway across the pen. The highborn’s legs flailed at the sandy floor, trying to help push them along. The cold one let out another furious bellow, its talons digging furrows in the sand, but before it could gather itself to charge, Hauclir pulled the highborn through the gate and slammed the iron barrier closed.

  “Gods Below, my lord, what was that all about?” Hauclir demanded, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Fresh blood spotted the bandage wrapping his thigh.

  Before Malus could speak, the daemon whispered warningly in his ear. Be very careful what you say, Dark-blade, he warned. Or the next time you wake you’ll find every one of your precious servants with their throats cut.

  The highborn gritted his teeth. “I… was just checking on my belongings,” he said. “The damned beast just didn’t care for my scent. Too much wine, as you said.”

  The former guard captain frowned. “Are you certain that’s all?” he said, his dark eyes scrutinizing his former master.

  “What else could it be?” Malus snapped, his voice bitter. Before Hauclir could reply he cut the druchii off with a wave of his hand. “No more questions. I want to go to the wall and check on the state of the siege. I’ve got a terrible suspicion that something big is about to happen.”

  Chapter Twenty—One

  BETWEEN THE LIVING AND THE DEAD

  Columns of greasy, black smoke rose from behind the inner wall of the fortress, and the air was thick with the smell of roasting flesh. Every half-mile along the avenue behind the wall rose a pyre for the druchii dead, each one tended by a score of exhausted servants and a couple of hollow-eyed officers who noted down each soldier given over to the flames. The orderly removal of corpses to the funerary furnaces had been abandoned days ago. The dead were piling up far faster than the removal crews could handle, and most of the men had been pressed into service on the battlements besides.

  The piles of the enemy dead were vaster still, rising in stinking heaps more than twelve feet high in places and running the entire perimeter of the wall. Malus was awed by the sheer scope of the slaughter and more than a little disturbed at the Chaos horde’s near-suicidal zeal. They will bury us in their own dead if they must, he realised with a mixture of worry and admiration. All that matters to them is victory and ruin, and they will keep coming at us until their leaders are dead or the last barbarian has been cast from the walls.

  He caught himself wondering what sorts of things he might accomplish with such an army at his back and ruthlessly forced such thoughts aside.

  With Hauclir limping along in his wake he made his way up the long, bloodstained ramp to the battlements alongside the northern gatehouse. Bodies and bits of armour plunged past the two druchii in a grisly hailstorm as the troops on the parapet cleared away the detritus of the latest assault. The most recent attack had been seen off as the highborn had crossed the inner compound from the nauglir pens, and the sudden silence along the battlements was eerily disturbing after what seemed like hours of screams and bloodshed.

  The highborn was appalled at the scene of carnage atop the wall. The dark stone parapet was mottled with a thick layer of blood, sawdust and viscera, and druchii spearmen sat or slept amid the filth, too exhausted and numbed to even notice. Broken weapons, bits of armour and pieces of flesh littered the entire length of the wall. Great ravens hopped and croaked at one another as they sought for choice morsels among the motionless bodies of the living. Even Malus, who had recently walked the blood-soaked streets of Har Ganeth, was stunned by what he saw. He glanced back at Hauclir and saw that the former guard captain’s face was pale and grim.

  Beyond the walls the outer city was a wasteland of burnt buildings and rude tents. Exhausted Chaos warriors sprawled like packs of wild dogs along the filth-strewn avenues, and hundreds upon hundreds of dead bodies carpeted the killing ground before the inner wall as far as Malus’ eyes could see. Howls and gibbering cries rose and fell among the ruins, barking curses in a language none of the defenders could understand, but whose meaning was utterly clear. Soon, all too soon, the killing would begin once more.

  There was a commotion ahead as Malus neared the door to the gatehouse. A trio of spearmen were struggling with a fourth warrior, who was shouting and struggling wildly in their grip. “They won’t stop! They won’t stop coming!” he cried, his dark eyes wide in a face covered in dried blood and grime. “We can’t stay here! We can’t!” The warriors struggling with the panicked druchii exchanged frightened glances. One of the soldiers drew his stabbing sword.

  “What’s all this?” Malus snapped, the sharp tone in his voice surprising even himself. The struggling warriors started at the barked command, and even the panicked druchii subsided in their arms.

  The troops looked to one another, and the most senior man cleared his throat and replied. “It’s nothing, dread lord. We’re just taking this man off the wall. He’s unwell.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with this soldier,” Malus snarled, stepping forward and pushing his way into the knot of spearmen. He grabbed the panicked druchii by the scruff of the neck and forced him to stand. “You’ve got both your eyes and all of your limbs,” he snapped. “So what’s wrong with you?”

  The spearman trembled in the highborn’s grip. “We can’t stay here, dread lord,” he moaned. “It’s been days, and they just keep coming—”

  Malus shook the man like a rat. “Of course they keep coming, you damned fool,” he growled. “They’re animals.

  “It’s all they know how to do.” He shoved the man against the battlements, forcing his body in the direction of the enemy camp. “Listen to them! What do you hear?”

  “Howls! Black curses!” the druchii shouted angrily. They never let up! It goes on and on for hours!”

  “Of course it does!” Malus shot back. “Every single one of those beasts are sitting out there in the muck and cursing your name loud enough that all the Dark Gods can hear it! Do you know why? Because they want nothing more than to get past these walls and slaughter every living thing they can reach, but you won’t let them. They’re the biggest damned army that’s ever marched against Naggaroth, and you are standing up here on the wall with your spear and keeping them from the one thing they desire.”

  The highborn dropped the man onto the filth-encrusted parapet. “It’s ridiculous! Absurd! They rise from their stinking tents each day and caper like fools before their twisted altars, working themselves into a blood-soaked frenzy that nothi
ng on earth could stand against—and every day they slink back to their tents with their tails between their legs and lick their wounds in the shadow of these black walls. Of course they curse your name! The very thought of you bums like a coal in their guts because you’ve beaten them every time they’ve come against you. Every damned time.” He pointed out at the enemy camp. “You should savour those sounds, soldier, because they are a lament. They’re the sounds of fear and desperation. And it’s all because of you.”

  The spearman stared at Malus in shock. The highborn looked down at him and smiled. “Victory is in your grasp, soldier. Are you going to let it slip away now, or will you beat these bastards once and for all?”

  “You can count on us, dread lord! We’ll kill every last one of the beasts!” cried a spearman just a few yards away. Malus was startled by the outcry; looking over, he realised that most of the warriors had risen to their feet while he spoke, and now they hung on his every word. Their dirty, bloodied faces beamed with fierce pride.

  The panicked spearman rose shakily to his feet. He swallowed hard and looked Malus in the eye. “Let them come, dread lord,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for them.”

  A cheer went up from the assembled troops. Malus grinned, a little uncomfortably, and waved to the survivors of the regiment. “Get some rest,” he shouted, and waved in the direction of the enemy camp. “Enjoy the music while you can.” The warriors laughed, and Malus turned away, striding swiftly for the gatehouse.

  Nuarc was waiting for him at the entrance to the fortification. The general’s face was as filthy as any common soldier, its lines deepened by exhaustion and hunger. Nevertheless, he gave Malus an admiring grin. “That was well done, boy,” he said quietly. “I probably would have just let his file mates take care of the problem.”

  The highborn shook his head. “Then we’d just be doing the enemy’s work for them,” he said. “I’m spiteful enough to want to make those beasts work for every single one of us they kill.”