by Dan Abnett
The household knights were in equally battered shape. Less than half of the ark’s elite warriors remained, an appalling loss by any standard. And the battle was far from done.
Trumpets sounded among the forces of the Hag. Conflicting signals from different leaders, but Malus reckoned that wouldn’t last long. Most of the horsemen had already reached the Naggorite lines or were nearly there. The highborn raised his sword. “Household knights! Advance at the gallop!”
The haggard formation of knights lurched into motion, picking up speed as the nauglir found their legs and started to run. Almost at once a roar went up from the enemy lines. Malus looked back to see the curving arms of the spear companies surging forward again. The sight of their most hated foes fleeing from their grasp had given them a clear course of action where their commanders could not.
Normally the race would not have been in doubt, but the nauglir had been in a long day of battle and pursuit and even their legendary stamina was nearly spent. Howling spearmen closed in on either side of the retreating formation. Crossbow bolts whirred through the air—but this time they came from the autarii on the hill, firing into the mass of enemy infantry. A hurled spear passed close enough that Malus could have reached out and caught it if he’d been so inclined. To the rear of the formation, he heard the clash of arms; when he looked back he saw that the enemy spearmen had caught up with the rearmost rank of knights and were trading blows with the mounted men.
Ahead, a trumpet sounded and two companies of spearmen shifted left and right, opening a lane for the knights to pass through. A cheer went up as the first of the nauglir thundered through the gap and Malus raised his sword in salute as he went past.
The enemy spearmen crashed into the waiting Naggorites with a rolling thunderclap of steel. Captains bellowed orders to their men; the banners recoiled a step from the impact, then the Naggorites dug in their heels and pushed back. Men in the front ranks were pierced through again and again by the frenzied storm of spear points; the wounded staggered out of the ranks and streamed to the rear, limping or clutching at bloody holes in their chest and arms. The two sides ground at one another like tumbled stones, shedding a red grit of savaged corpses as they wore one another down.
Once safely behind their lines, the knights’ short sprint ground to a halt. Men reeled in the saddle, drunk with exhaustion and bled white from dozens of minor wounds. Malus turned away from the formation and trotted back to the line. The Naggorite spear companies were holding their own against an even number of enemy troops. On the far right flank the autarii continued to send a lethal rain of crossbow bolts into the ranks of the enemy spearmen and Malus noted that the enemy forces had no crossbowmen of their own, so they held a slim advantage there.
Malus’ eyes were drawn to the dark mass of horsemen and nauglir still standing on the north side of the ford, some seventy yards away. Would they enter the battle, or were they too spent to continue fighting? There was no way to tell. It was clear to Malus that unless someone among the Hag nobility asserted himself as the new general, the spear companies weren’t going to retreat. The inertia of their pursuit had carried them into battle with the Naggorite line and they would continue to fight it out until one side or the other lost their nerve and broke.
The battle was his to win or lose, Malus realised. The thought thrilled him to the core.
Within moments he reached his decision. He turned and led Spite back to the exhausted knights, arriving at the same time as Eluthir. The young knight’s face was alight with savage joy. Haifa dozen fresh heads hung from his trophy hooks.
Malus surveyed the group. “Where is Lord Gaelthen?” he asked.
One of the knights cleared his throat and spoke in a rasping voice. “I saw him fall by the river, my lord, during the third or fourth enemy charge.”
“I see,” Malus said gravely, surprised to feel a real sense of loss at the news. “Very well. That’s one more blood debt those bastards owe us,” he said. “And we’re going to collect. Right now.”
The men straightened in their saddles, their expressions blank with exhaustion. Malus met their gaze squarely. “The enemy infantry is fully committed, but their cavalry is wavering. If we hit their foot troops with a charge in the right place, they’ll break. I know it. You’ve seen a lot of hard fighting today and you’ve lost many kinsmen to the hated foe. Their shades are watching you. Will you deny them vengeance?”
A stir went through the weary knights. After a moment one of them spoke. “If you’ll lead us, dread lord, we’ll ride into the Outer Darkness and back!”
Malus grinned like a wolf. “Then follow me,” he said.
The highborn led the knights down the line to the right flank, where Lord Jeharren’s division was punishing the enemy spearmen under cover of the autarii’s crossbow fire. The young captain saluted as Malus and the knights approached. “A good day for fighting, dread lord,” Jeharren said, as though he were discussing the weather or a public execution. The broken stub of a crossbow bolt jutted from his left shoulder, but the Naggorite lord paid it no heed whatsoever.
“My compliments, Lord Jeharren,” Malus said. “The household knights will pass your lines and charge the enemy. When I give the signal you will order your companies to give us a lane into the centre of the enemy formation.”
Jeharren bowed. “Your will be done, dread lord.”
Malus rode back to his men. “Form columns!” he ordered. “Prepare to charge!”
The knights shook themselves into columns quickly and smoothly, despite their exhausted state. When they were ready, he raised his bloodstained sword and saluted Lord Jeharren. The captain nodded and turned to his trumpeter. “Make ready!” Malus shouted, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade.
The trumpet pealed. Ahead, two companies split left and right, opening a gap in the line. Enemy spearmen poured through, shouting exultantly. Malus swept his arm down in a glittering arc. “Charge!”
The household knights leapt forward with a terrible shout, racing at the enemy line. The spearmen pushing into the gap saw their doom approaching and tried to push their way back out of the narrow lane. Many dropped their spears in panic, pushing and beating at the men behind them to give way.
The knights of the black ark struck the enemy line like a spear, crushing the men in their path and plunging deep into the heart of the formation. Malus hacked down at the heads and necks of the tightly packed troops around him, inflicting terrible wounds to upraised faces and exposed throats. He snapped spear hafts and cracked helms, while Spite tossed crushed bodies in the air like a hound among rats. The air reverberated with screams and the sounds of clashing steel and Malus exulted in it, laughing like a madman.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the press of troops receded from the knights like a swift-flowing tide. The spearmen, overwhelmed at the ferocity of the Naggorite charge, broke and ran for the ford. The enemy’s left flank had completely collapsed and now the Naggorites pressed hard on the Hag’s centre and right.
Malus reined in and raised his sword. “Halt! Halt!” he cried to his men. The battle still hung in the balance, depending on what the enemy cavalry did. If they counter-charged, the Naggorites might quickly find themselves fighting for their lives.
He looked for the enemy horsemen farther down the hill—and saw them halfway across the wide river, fleeing south. The enemy knights were riding hard behind them. They’d lost their warlord and with him their will to continue the fight.
Moments later the centre of the enemy line broke and the retreat turned into a rout. Spearmen threw down their weapons and stumbled back down the hill, fleeing for their lives. A trumpet sounded and the Naggorite divisions advanced after them at a measured pace, killing every warrior they could catch. Even the battered cavalry joined in the pursuit, taking their own revenge for the bloody beating they’d taken an hour before.
A cheer went up from the household knights. “Malus! Malus!” they cried and he laughed and cheered along with them,
drunk with the red wine of victory.
Eluthir moved his nauglir among the piles of enemy dead and joined him. “Where now, my lord?” he asked.
“Where else? Onward,” Malus said, pointing south with his bloodstained sword. “To Hag Graef!”
Chapter Twenty
THE VALLEY OF SHADOW
Cold rain whispered through the pine boughs over Malus’ head, heavy drops soaking his hair and running beneath the collar of his breastplate into his robes. Rivulets coursed their way down his filthy armour, turning bright pink as they washed away layers of dried gore. He and the other captains of the army stood in a tight ring beneath the sheltering pines, peering at a large oilskin map of the valley ahead. By the time they were done the ground beneath them would be as red as a battlefield, the highborn thought wearily.
It was late in the day and darkness promised to fall early due to the overcast sky. They had marched almost without pause since the battle on the Blackwater; now the army sat by the side of the Spear Road in the driving rain, too tired to do more than pull their cloaks about them as they tried to get some desperately needed rest.
They were less than a mile from the mouth of the Valley of Shadow. Had the sky not turned grey and misty with rain they could have seen the tips of the dark towers of Hag Graef from where they stood, but Malus welcomed the miserable weather and the concealment it gave. During the long march the cavalry and the scouts had been sent far ahead with word to kill any fleeing soldiers heading south or any travellers going north. Malus reasoned that the Drachau of Hag Graef knew of the disaster at Blackwater Ford, but would not guess how close the army of the black ark was to the walls of his city. It was a slim advantage, the highborn knew, but at the moment he would take whatever he could get.
The battle at the ruins and the subsequent fight at the river crossing had badly mauled the Naggorite army. Less than a quarter of their cavalry remained fit for duty, as well as only a third of the household knights. Between the losses at the ruins and the battle at the ford an entire division of infantry had been lost; Malus had ordered the second division reconstituted with the reserve infantry banner and a half-banner of survivors from the original unit. Lord Kethair had died storming the enemy’s left flank at the ruins and Lord Dyrval had died with many of his fellow cavalrymen during the ambush at the ford. Their replacements were both young highborn with little field experience, but the wounds on their faces and the hard look in their eyes showed that they were no strangers to hard fighting and they were willing to do whatever was necessary to claim victory in the war against the Hag.
The problem, Malus thought bitterly, was that he hadn’t the faintest idea how to give it to them.
Heavy raindrops made audible thumps against the dark, wrinkled oilskin. The map looked as though it had been drawn up during the first days of the feud with Hag Graef, many decades ago. Details of the valley and the terrain around Hag Graef were drawn with thick, black brushstrokes. The highborn traced the sinuous line of the Spear Road as it descended into the valley and wound among the thick forests that led to the north gate of the great druchii city. He knew its every turn and twist by heart, just like he knew the walls and heavy gates of the city in every particular. This was his home, the prize he’d longed to claim for his own since the first day he’d been presented to the Court of Thorns many years ago.
He also knew that three divisions of exhausted footmen and a handful of knights and cavalry weren’t nearly enough to take the city by storm, even if they could get past the city gates. During the long afternoon he’d considered the problem from every angle, trying to imagine how Nagaira planned to capture the Hag for her betrothed and he still couldn’t see a way to do it. Even sorcery wouldn’t work, because the drachau could call upon the witches of the convent to counteract Nagaira’s spells. And since the element of surprise had surely been lost, he couldn’t think of any trick that would get an entire army into the city unchallenged.
The only people who knew the full plan were the Witch Lord, Fuerlan and Nagaira. Balneth Bale was more than a hundred leagues away and Malus wasn’t even sure Fuerlan was still alive. He presumed someone in the division would have seen to it that the general had been carried out when the household knights retreated at the ford, but he never saw Bale’s son afterwards and Malus hadn’t the time or energy to bother finding out what had happened to him. For now, he commanded the army and with Hag Graef almost in sight he couldn’t help but be tempted by the thought that he could use Nagaira’s secret plan for his own ends. If she knew a way to put Fuerlan on the throne with the tools at hand, then why not him?
Unless there was no plan at all and this was an elaborate betrayal to cement the power of her ally Isilvar, the new vaulkhar. A great victory over Naggor would give Isilvar much-needed legitimacy among the nobles of the Hag. But if that were the case, what did Nagaira need with him? Why go to all the effort to place him under her control?
You are the arrow, the knight had said. What did that mean? Where did the visions come from?
His head ached. The skin around the punctures in his scalp was hot and painful to the touch and waves of dizziness had come and gone while he sat in the saddle during the march. Every bone in his body cried out for rest. Was he just exhausted, or was he hallucinating from his wounds—or was there something else?
Malus suddenly realised that the captains were staring at him. He shook himself from his fugue, scattering red-tinged droplets from his face. “Yes?”
Lord Esrahel cleared his throat and spoke in a quiet voice. “We were discussing placement of the camp, my lord.”
“Ah, yes,” Malus said, rubbing absently at his forehead. The headaches had grown increasingly worse over the course of the day, pounding inside his skull like a temple drum. He focused his attention on the map once more. “The terrain in the valley is ill-suited to a large encampment and I’m loath to pause in our advance in any event. Speed is of the essence. We must strike while our enemy is reeling.”
“Respectfully, my lord, we’re near to reeling as well,” Lord Ruhven said. The old druchii’s face bore a line of rough stitching that highlighted an ugly spear wound in his cheek. The lord’s face was flushed and his eyes sunken, but his voice remained strong. “The men have fought two hard battles and made a forced march in a single day. They’ll fight if you order them to, but they won’t last long against fresh troops.”
Lord Eluthir nodded. In the wake of Gaelthen’s death and his successful charge at the battle of the ford, Malus had made him his chief aide-de-camp and given him control of the household knights so he could focus on commanding the overall army. “The nauglir are worn out,” he said. “Many of them are wounded and they haven’t been fed for hours. If we push them much harder they’ll die just marching to the fight.”
Malus took a deep breath and wiped the rain from his face. He hated the thought of stopping just short of their goal, but he saw no other choice. “You’re right,” he reluctantly agreed. “There’s no point pressing on in the state we’re in.” He studied the map and referenced the notes made by the Witch Lord detailing the march. “The plan has us making camp here,” he said, pointing to a spot within the valley less than two miles from the city, “but the location is perilous. There’s no room to manoeuvre if the city sends troops against us. We’d be trapped between the forests and the valley walls and smashed to bits by sheer numbers if nothing else.”
Reluctantly he reached a decision, tapping another spot on the map farther north and not far from where they stood. “Lord Esrahel, pitch your tents here,” he said. “The area is abandoned farmland with good fields and plenty of room to move about. We’ll rest the night while I consult with my sister as to our next move. Be prepared for action at first light. If we don’t make our move by then it will be too late.”
“It is already too late,” whispered a cold, dead voice. Malus froze, thinking for a moment that the knight was speaking in his ear—until he noticed the other lords heard the voice as well. He turned an
d saw the slender form of the autarii girl standing in the shadows of the pine trees at his back.
The highborn felt a chill run down his spine as he met the girl’s dark, empty eyes. “What have you to report?” he asked dully.
“The vaulkhar has taken to the field,” she said simply. The banner of chains waits outside the city with many spears and dragon kin.”
“Blood of the Dark Mother,” he cursed. “Show me. I want to see this for myself.”
They crouched in the rain with night coming on, huddled in the shadows of a pine wood within half a mile of the city. The autarii girl was tense, holding a bared blade in either hand and searching the darkness beneath the trees with a penetrating stare. The rest of the army’s scouts were out there somewhere, Malus knew, providing a defensive cordon for him. There were enemy scouts stalking the valley as well, the girl said, and from her wary demeanour it was clear that it wasn’t hapless rock adders this time.
Malus lay flat on the rain-soaked ground, staring in dismay at the force assembled in the fields before the city. He could see the vaulkhar’s banner clearly, with its circle of linked silver chains on a red field. Eight banners of spearmen—sixteen thousand men—waited in rough field camps that filled the barren meadows almost to overflowing. Worse, the highborn counted three banners of knights encamped close by the city walls, their nauglir kept close to their dark tents and ready for immediate action.
“Blessed Mother,” the highborn muttered, pointing out another sodden banner of black and red posted close by the vaulkhar’s. “He’s even called out the temple executioners.” He couldn’t even hazard a guess at the number of warriors the temple of Khaine could muster in the city. A thousand? Ten thousand? Who knew? “Isilvar has called up the city militia and somehow marshalled every minor noble in the Hag. Where did he get such influence so quickly?”
