[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  At once Malus pulled the blade free and aimed an overhand stroke at the rider passing him on the left, striking a glancing blow on the cavalryman’s left pauldron and taking a sword stroke against his own left arm in return. Then Spite crashed headlong into a shrieking warhorse dead ahead and it was all Malus could do to stay in the saddle as the nauglir tore open its thickly muscled neck.

  A flung spear came from nowhere, smashing against Malus’ right pauldron and glancing away. Spite’s prey collapsed to the ground in a welter of hot blood and the rider tried to roll away, screaming in fury. The nauglir snapped at the man, catching him by the hip with a crunch of bone and tossing his bleeding form high into the air. “Go, Spite! Go!” Malus cried, kicking at the nauglir’s flanks and sending the beast deeper into the melee.

  The knight’s charge had struck home like a hammer against glass, scattering the enemy cavalry in all directions. Panicked mounts stampeded through the ruins, trampling shocked spearmen who were trying to reorient their formation against the sudden threat from their rear. Crossbow bolts buzzed angrily through the air, finding their marks in friend and foe alike. The stink of blood and ruptured organs was thick in the air and Malus’ ears were battered with a surf-like roar of shouts and screams and the clash of steel.

  An enemy cavalryman charged at Malus from the right, his spear levelled at the highborn’s chest. With a yell he brought up his sword and parried the sharp, steel spearhead, letting the man’s thrust carry the weapon past him on his right. The druchii rider cursed sharply and drew on his reins, wheeling his mount away—but Malus brought his left heel into Spite’s flank and the nauglir whipped its powerful tail across the horse’s path. The animal pitched over head first, its forelegs snapped and the rider was caught beneath the weight of the wounded beast.

  Spite crouched and reared, roaring its bloodlust and Malus bent low against the warbeast’s neck, trying to gauge the course of the battle swirling around him. The bodies of horses and men littered the ground and all he could see immediately around him were blood-stained knights driving their nauglir deeper into the ruins in search of more foes. As near as he could tell the enemy cavalry had been entirely overrun and the knights had carried on into the ranks of the spearmen hiding among the stones. There were screams and the clash of arms among the rocks, as well as the sharp twang of crossbow strings.

  Malus found himself wishing he’d kept a trumpeter close by to keep control of his men, but it was too late for that now. The battle was joined and would run its course and he would have to hope that he still had a division left to command when all was said and done.

  Malus kicked Spite into motion, following after the red tide of the household knights. The heavily armoured warriors had cut a swath through the disordered ranks of the enemy spearmen, focusing on the company caught in the open in the middle of the road. Nothing but broken spears and shattered bodies remained of the force, their lifeblood soaking into the cinders of the road. Beyond, he could see the knights fighting isolated groups of infantry in the fields north of the ruins and further battles were going on amid the broken foundations themselves. Malus looked left and right, seeking the enemy and spotted a small knot of footmen running down a rock-strewn lane with crossbows in their hands. They saw Malus at the same instant, their faces twisting with rage.

  The highborn felt his guts turn to ice and the searing image of a line of crossbowmen silhouetted against a wall of fog brought a near-panicked cry from his throat. “At them, Spite!” he shouted, kicking hard with his spurs. The nauglir spun on its heels and leapt at the four men just as they levelled their weapons and fired. One bolt struck Malus a glancing blow in the chest and bounced away in pieces, while another broke against Spite’s bony skull. The other shots missed, hissing past Malus and the crossbowmen threw down their weapons and ran, screaming in terror. Spite trampled one and Malus smashed the skull of another with a single stroke of his sword, then the cold one lunged forward and caught a third with a clash of its terrible jaws. The fourth man leapt over the remnants of a retaining wall and disappeared from sight.

  Malus reined in Spite and realised that the sounds of battle had ceased, replaced by savage cheers. The highborn turned Spite around and returned to the main road, where he saw knights filtering through the ruins singly and in pairs. Freshly severed heads bounced on trophy hooks attached to their saddles. When they saw Malus they raised their swords in salute and he knew then that they had won a crushing victory.

  Spurring his mount into a canter, Malus headed for the fields north of the ruins. Many of the knights had collected there, taking trophies from the dead. By the number of bodies on the field it looked as though the enemy spearmen had retreated from the ruins and tried to reform in the open, but the knights had simply run them down. Malus stood in his stirrups. “Gaelthen!” he cried. “Lord Gaelthen!”

  “Here, my lord!” came a hoarse response. Across the field, Gaelthen spurred his mount and trotted over to Malus. The older knight was covered in gore, but none of it looked to be his own.

  “Assemble the division here in the field,” Malus ordered. “Have them ready for rapid movement.” He gauged the height of the sun. “Fuerlan should be here at any moment and we have just enough time to strike south for the ford.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Gaelthen said, then nodding towards the ridgeline. That might be Eluthir now.”

  Malus turned to see a lone nauglir trotting down the slope towards the ruins. He nodded to Gaelthen, who turned away and began shouting instructions to the jubilant knights, then reached up and pulled off his helmet. The cool air felt good against his face and neck and he suddenly realised how bone-weary he truly was. No time to rest now, he thought grimly. We’ve miles to go and more men to slay before the day is done.

  Eluthir reined in before Malus, surveying the carnage with an envious grin. “Congratulations on your victory, my lord. I pray that the next time I’ll be along to share in the slaughter.”

  Malus chuckled tiredly. “You’ll get your wish before the hour’s done, I’ll warrant. How far is Fuerlan and the main force?”

  The young knight’s face fell. Malus frowned. “What has happened?”

  Eluthir took a deep breath. “My lord, I delivered your report, but the general has decided to encamp for the night. He orders you to fall back with the vanguard and prepare for an attack on the enemy at dawn.”

  Malus couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “An attack at dawn? Is he mad? Did you tell him that the enemy force is crossing the Blackwater Ford right now? We could reach them in an hour and slaughter them piecemeal! By dawn they will be in good defensive positions—right here, most like—and will be ready and waiting for us.”

  The young knight gave Malus a pained look. “I explained the situation as clearly as I could, but he said the men needed rest and time to prepare. He… He said he needed time to consider his strategy.”

  “Time to tap another cask of wine is more like,” Malus spat. For a moment he was sorely tempted to disregard Fuerlan’s orders and march on the ford with just the household knights and Ruhven’s spears, but without any word as to the size and disposition of the enemy he could easily find himself outnumbered and outmatched. He couldn’t very well stay where he was, either. The enemy could reach the ruins within the next few hours and he would then be facing the entire army with just two divisions of troops. He ground his teeth in frustration. That damned wretch had left him with no other choice.

  lust then, Gaelthen returned. “My lord, the division is formed up and awaiting your command,” the scarred old warrior declared. “What shall we do?”

  Malus straightened in the saddle, taking one last look at the scene of his first battlefield victory. “We retreat,” he said bitterly.

  The tents for the general and his retainers had been erected first, even before the camp’s perimeter had been set. They stood out incongruously in the centre of an exhausted army; some companies were making half-hearted attempts at erecting their own shelters,
while other units simply stopped in their tracks, curled up on the ground and went to sleep. Picket lines had gone up for the horses and weary cavalrymen held their own fatigue at bay long enough to see that their mounts were cared for, while men from the baggage trail unpacked provisions and began lighting camp fires for a cursory evening meal.

  Weary heads turned as the household knights and Ruhven’s spears made their way into camp. The mounted warriors were a fearsome sight, caked with blood and grime and sporting grisly trophies from the battle at the ruins. Malus dropped out of the procession and reviewed the division as it went past, taking stock of their condition. Casualties had been very light, owing to the knights’ heavy armour and the element of surprise. He doubted they would be so lucky on the morrow and the thought galled him to the core.

  Once in the camp, the knights dispersed in search of their tents. Malus headed for the general’s pavilion.

  The guards outside Fuerlan’s large campaign tent paled at Malus’ forbidding, bloodstained figure and neither dared challenge him as he stalked like a hungry wolf into the raucous atmosphere within.

  He followed the sounds of laughter, passing through small “rooms’ created with cloth partitions to allow the general’s servants to do their work without intruding upon his leisure. Malus passed through an antechamber where scribes were busy compiling orders for the following day and emerged into a large space in the centre of the tent where Fuerlan held court amid his retainers and sycophants.

  Incense filled the space with a faint blue fog, rising wispily from three small braziers. The chamber was laid with piles of thick rugs and low tables had been set with platters of meat and cheese for the general’s guests. Almost a dozen young highborn sat around the room, drinking wine and talking or playing games of dice in the shifting firelight. Fuerlan sat in the centre of it all like a strange spider, his lanky limbs sprawled over the arms of a high-backed chair of blooded oak as he gulped wine from a gilded skull. When he saw Malus his eyes gleamed with hateful mirth.

  “It is about time you arrived,” Fuerlan sneered, his voice slurred by wine. “And looking like you’ve rolled in a midden heap. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Not surprised that I’d choose to fight instead of hiding in a tent with a bunch of toadies?” Malus hissed. “You had a great victory in your grasp and you let it slip away, you scarred, simpering wretch!”

  Fuerlan’s eyes went wide. His hands trembled as he went white with rage. “Seize him!” He roared. Tie him to a pole and skin him alive!”

  Two of the lordlings leapt to their feet and rushed at Malus. Without thinking, Malus drew his gore-stained blade. “Come ahead, then, if you dare! I’ll hang your narrow skulls from my saddle!”

  “Enough!” Nagaira’s cry cut through the din like a thunderclap.

  The lordlings froze. Malus turned to face the source of the witch’s voice. A stir passed through the deep shadows at the far end of the room and she stepped up to the edge of the firelight. Her eyes smouldered like hot coals from the silver edged sockets of the daemon mask, stopping Malus in his tracks.

  Of them all, only Fuerlan was bold enough—or foolish enough—to take umbrage at Nagaira’s appearance. “Go back to your tent,” he snapped. This is no concern of yours.”

  “Is it not?” She hissed and Malus saw the light from the braziers go dim. Think, you twisted fool! Think of the plan and all that remains for Malus to do! Would you kill him now and see all our work undone?”

  Malus’ eyes went wide. What is she talking about? Unbidden, his eyes strayed to his sword hand and the lines of precise runes painted there. “What do you mean for me to do?” he said without thinking.

  Nagaira turned her gaze on him again and he felt his rage snuffed out like a candle flame. “For now, you will go to your tent and rest. There will be hard fighting tomorrow and you must lead our army to victory.”

  It was no true answer, but Malus found he couldn’t bring himself to defy her. He watched, helplessly, as he sheathed his sword and turned on his heel without a word. As he left Fuerlan’s tent he heard Nagaira say something vicious to her betrothed, but he couldn’t make out quite what she said.

  A spike of savage pain stabbed through Malus’ head as he stumbled from the general’s tent. The pain made his stomach lurch and his knees weak, but his body kept moving all the same, driven by Nagaira’s powerful compulsion. It was only after he’d walked more than a dozen yards from the tent that he could finally drop to his knees, gasping at the blinding pain.

  What has that witch done to me, he thought? And how can it be undone?

  Chapter Seventeen

  SHIELDS AND SPEARS

  The ridgeline was dark with armoured men. Hours before dawn the army of the black ark had been shaken from their bedrolls and fed a cold meal of meat and cheese. Then they’d formed up in column and marched south, where the army of Hag Graef waited. In the pale glow of false dawn they had left the road and formed into line on the reverse slope of the ridge. Dark riders had busied themselves chasing off small parties of scouts and keeping enemy skirmish parties well away from the Naggorite force. The banners of foot were ready and the ground shook beneath the measured tread of twelve thousand men as they crested the ridge and levelled their spears at the enemy waiting for them in the ruins.

  Malus sat in his saddle farther back upslope than the waiting infantry divisions, allowing him a clear vantage to glare hatefully down at the ruins a hundred yards south. The enemy general had made good use of the time Fuerlan had foolishly ceded to him. During the night huge blocks of stone had been dragged from the ruins and strewn carefully through the fields to the front of the army’s position, creating fields of obstacles that would make a Naggorite cavalry charge a difficult proposition at best. Units of spearmen were arrayed in serried ranks behind the stone obstacles, ready to impale any foe that drew too near. Behind them, two large building foundations, one to either side of the road, had been built up enough to allow units of cross-bowmen to stand and fire over the spearmen’s heads at oncoming enemy troops.

  The highborn glared bitterly at the enemy fortifications and once again counted the number of troops. Three banners of foot and possibly a full banner of horse somewhere back behind them. He kept getting glimpses of men on horseback moving south of the ruins, but never enough of a look to discern how many there were. There was something about the enemy dispositions that bothered him. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t say what. Malus glanced down at the autarii girl, who stood at his left stirrup. “You say they have men watching the woods to either flank?”

  She nodded. “Crossbowmen and spears, waiting behind deep ditches to spoil a cavalry charge,” she said. “Perhaps the enemy has a seer amongst them.”

  The idea sent a strange tremor of foreboding through Malus, but he pushed it aside with a snarl. “Not likely,” he said. The drachau won’t call on the witches except in dire emergencies. Too much trouble to deal with otherwise.” He turned his head and spat over Spite’s right side. “No, I’ll wager the enemy captain took a look at how the men and horses were killed and where they fell and pieced it together himself. If nothing else, the men of the Hag are wise in the ways of war.”

  “And trickery,” the girl said coldly.

  “Even so,” Malus nodded. “It sounds as though you’ve had some experience with them.”

  The girl gave Malus another one of her strange looks. “Just once,” she said. “But rest assured I will have my revenge.”

  Malus winced as a jolt of pain throbbed behind his eyes. “Is that why you joined the army?” he asked, absently, rubbing his forehead. “You hope to find this man who wronged you?”

  “I thought I had already,” the girl said quietly. “But when I looked him in the eye he did not know me.”

  Malus chuckled. “Then it likely wasn’t him. You’re not the sort of person who is easily forgotten.”

  The autarii gave him an enigmatic look. “Perhaps,” she said. After a moment, she
reached up and pointed a tentative finger at the upper part of his bare neck. “How did you come by those markings, my lord?”

  Malus’ hand went to his neck. “The runes? My sister put them on me when I was in the grip of a fever and now they won’t come off. Why? Can you read them?”

  She shook her head. “I’m no witch, my lord, but it’s clear that she’s laid a spell on you.”

  The highborn considered the scout. “Have you any knowledge to remove spells?”

  “No. As I said, I’m no witch,” she replied. “But I’ve heard it said that witches carry books and scrolls marked with their spells. Perhaps there is something in her tent that might be of use.”

  “Hmmm. Perhaps,” Malus said slowly. That might be worth pursuing, if an opportunity presents itself.” He leaned closer to the scout. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “Oh? What is that?”

  “Help me find a way to undo this spell and I will do everything I can to help you find the man that wronged you.”

  The girl gave one of her ghostly smiles. “Very well, my lord.”

  There was the sound of horns to Malus’ right. He turned and saw Fuerlan climbing the reverse slope of the ridge, surrounded by a crowd of retainers and servants. Some distance behind the crowd Nagaira rode her black warhorse, attended by her own small group of hooded servants.

  “First things first,” Malus growled. The general has finally deigned to join us and now we must find a way to survive the day.” He wheeled Spite around, throwing a parting glance at the scout. “Stay where I can find you,” he ordered. “I may have orders for the scouts depending on how the battle progresses.” Then he kicked Spite into a trot and made his way towards Fuerlan.