[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  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 smil
ed 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.”