[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  “You gave it to him,” the girl said.

  Malus glared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve been following their patrols most of the afternoon,” the autarii said. “All they talk about is you. A few survivors reached the city ahead of us and told wild tales of your prowess. You are like a daemon and with the old vaulkhar dead and so many powerful lords away on campaign the city trembles at your approach.”

  “It seems I’ve developed a reputation at last,” Malus said bitterly. Frustration burned a searing hole in his heart. And it has proven our undoing.” His fists clenched. “A messenger must have been sent back to the Hag the day I destroyed that advance party at the ruins. If we hadn’t made camp that day we could have caught the enemy unawares at the ford and made it here before Isilvar could have raised his army.”

  “And now?”

  “Now we have no choice but to withdraw. Even at our full strength we could not have stood against a force this size.” The highborn turned a calculating eye on the enemy dispositions. “If they have scouts in the woods as you say, then the vaulkhar is likely waiting to hear we’ve entered the valley, where we’ll be hemmed in like cattle. That way he can just throw troops at us until we’re too worn down to keep fighting and then he’ll send in the knights to finish us.” Slowly, cautiously, Malus rose to a crouch. The plan was a gamble from the start and it failed. Now we have to try and survive the consequences,” he said. “I fear we won’t find the highborn you’re seeking.”

  “Perhaps,” the girl said. “Did you learn anything in Nagaira’s tent?”

  Malus grimaced. “She has placed some kind of compulsion on me,” he said hesitantly.

  “Compulsion? For what?”

  “I don’t know,” he growled. “She and Fuerlan have some purpose in mind for me. There were also some maps of a labyrinth of some kind—”

  Malus froze, his eyes going wide. Slowly he turned and regarded the dark walls of the city. “Mother of Night,” he hissed. Tin such a fool. The plan was right there in front of me and I just didn’t see it.” He turned to the girl. “We have to get back to the camp. This whole campaign has been a trick from the very beginning!”

  Malus was prepared to run the entire way out of the valley to reach the new campsite. In the event, he and the autarii girl had gone less than two and a half miles before he heard the clatter of hammers and the shouted orders of an army making camp well within the Valley of Shadow.

  The highborn stopped dead in his tracks. “What in the Dark Mother’s name is this?” The girl paused, her expression worried, and started to move to the edge of the forest where it ran alongside the Spear Road

  , but Malus brushed past her, running headlong towards the sound. He didn’t need the oilskin map to know where in the valley they were. Esrahel and the others had disobeyed his orders and gone on to make camp in the spot determined by the Witch Lord—placing them directly in the path of Isilvar’s waiting force.

  It was dark on the roadway. The men of the baggage train were hard at work, raising tents and breaking out rations for the evening meal. The Naggorite army staggered like drunkards amid the hustle and bustle of the camp builders; many warriors had simply lain down on the wet ground and fallen instantly asleep. Malus watched the mutiny unfold before him and trembled with frustration and anger. What were they thinking?

  “Go find Eluthir,” he told the girl. Tell him to report to me at Lord Esrahel’s wagon at once!”

  The girl slipped away like a fleeting shadow and Malus stalked into the campsite with murder in mind.

  He found his bearings quickly enough; all druchii army camps operated along a common plan. The highborn and knights were in the centre, well-protected by rings of spear companies, while the cavalry encamped in two groups to east and west, where they could picket their horses and come and go on patrol with minimal difficulty. The baggage train and artillery camped just north of centre, far enough in to protect the army’s valuable supplies and siege weapons and close enough to provide the highborn with everything they desired.

  Malus cut through the narrow alleys between the highborn tents and found himself among a veritable city of enclosed wagons that belonged to the baggage train. Within moments he worked his way among the wagons and the hectic work of their owners and reached Esrahel’s huge conveyance. Witchlight gleamed from the wagon’s narrow windows and the highborn could hear Esrahel inside, snapping orders to his underlings.

  Malus drew his blade and rounded the back of the wagon. “What is the meaning of this?” he snapped, his voice as sharp as the sword in his hand.

  The highborn pulled up short at the sight of eight armoured men standing at the rear of the open wagon with bared blades in their hands. Malus didn’t recognise them at first, but when they saw him they smiled wolfishly at one another and then looked to a figure standing in the wagon’s open doorway. Malus followed their gaze to the aristocratic-looking highborn glaring haughtily from the narrow doorway. He recognised the man at once. “Tennucyr?” he said with a frown. “What are you doing?”

  “Restoring order,” the highborn snapped. “The rightful order of things, you murderous bastard.”

  The highborn’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword and he took a step towards Tennucyr, fully intending to kill the man where he stood, but the retainers moved as one man and tackled him in a silent rush. Malus managed a single, outraged shout before an armoured fist crashed into the back of his skull and the world went dark.

  Malus awoke with a scream as the point of a knife traced a ragged path across his cheek.

  He was stripped naked and hanging by his hands from a thick tent pole and Fuerlan’s leering face was inches from his own. The tent was lit by a pair of large braziers, giving the general’s ravaged face a daemonic cast in the ruddy light. Malus could smell the stink of cheap wine on Fuerlan’s breath and saw the fires of madness dancing in his dark eyes.

  The general giggled like a malevolent child. “There, you see? I knew I could bring him around.”

  Blood ran down the side of Malus’ face as he looked about the tent. Tennucyr was there, reclining in a camp chair and sipping wine with an expression of hateful disdain. Fuerlan’s retainers and sycophants crowded the main room of the tent, standing silently as though bearing witness to an execution. The highborn wondered if that wasn’t about to be the case.

  He didn’t recognise the tent. Malus reckoned it was Tennucyr’s. Clearly he’d rescued Fuerlan back at the ford and sheltered him during the afternoon until the general had regained some of his strength. The highborn shook his head. “I was such a fool,” he seethed.

  “For striking me?” Fuerlan asked.

  “No—for not finishing the job when I had the chance.”

  Searing pain exploded across Malus’ forehead as the general let out a furious cry and struck the highborn with a backhanded slash of his knife. The highborn growled and hung his head low, trying to keep the dripping blood from his eyes.

  Fuerlan leaned closer. “It’s a mistake you will soon come to regret, I assure you. I’ve already given the household knights to Lord Tennucyr in reward for his loyalty and courage. You no longer have a place in this army. As a mutineer you can be summarily executed—but I’m going to spend the night skinning you alive instead.” The general raised the knife, watching the firelight play along its stained edge. “I only regret that I have so little time to spare. You don’t know how much I’ve wished for this opportunity, Malus. I’ve dreamed of spending days slowly vivisecting you. I’ve spent a fortune building a special room in my tower where I could have torn you apart, rebuilt you and torn you down again, day after day after day. It would have been glorious.”

  Fuerlan grabbed Malus by the chin and inserted the point of his knife into the skin above Malus’ right eye. Slowly, deliberately, he began to cut through the skin, tracing almost a full circle around the socket. The highborn gritted his teeth and trembled at the pain and a nervous smile lit the general’s face. “Have y
ou ever drunk wine from a highborn’s skull, cousin? The vintage soaks into the bones, subtly altering the flavour. By morning I’ll be sitting on the drachau’s throne in Hag Graef and drinking sweet red wine from your brain pan and I cannot wait to see how it tastes.”

  Malus gasped at the pain, blinking hot blood from his eye. Dull agony pounded in his skull. Then he heard a voice.

  “You are the arrow, Malus,” he heard the knight whisper in his ear.

  The highborn started to laugh—a silent heaving of his shoulders at first, swelling in strength and volume as he saw the fear glimmer in Fuerlan’s eyes. “If you kill me, you fool, who will do your assassin’s work then?”

  The general recoiled. “What are you talking about?”

  “I see your plan now, cousin,” Malus spat. “This whole campaign has been a diversion to draw out the armies of the Hag. I’ve been thinking of every trick and tactic I know to take the city with the forces at your disposal but I haven’t been able to think of a single way to do it—and that’s because you never intended to capture the city in the first place. I’m supposed to sneak into the city through the burrows and assassinate the drachau for you—then you’ll step from the shadows and claim the crown for your own. That’s the compulsion Nagaira put in my head, twisting my memories to make me forget, isn’t it?”

  Fuerlan took a step back, his eyes widening in surprise. “She… She said you wouldn’t remember.”

  Malus saw a figure moving through the shadows of the tent. The tall knight was lit in silhouette, hiding his features. “The arrow does not choose where it is shot, or who it strikes down,” the apparition warned in its sepulchral voice.

  “I needed no memories. The clues were right in front of me,” Malus snapped. “Once you’ve got the crown, no one can take it from you except by force of arms or the declaration of the Witch King. That is the law and you can call upon the powers of temple and convent to enforce it. A young and inexperienced vaulkhar and an army of conscripts will think twice before tempting the wrath of the city’s witches, so I expect that after some initial resistance Isilvar will accept the status quo. By the time the more powerful lords return from campaign your power base will be solidified and they will have no choice but to accept it.” The highborn smiled bitterly. “Being the assassin my life is forfeit of course, but if I manage to survive the attempt you can hand me over to Malekith for execution and gain tacit support for your rule. It’s actually a brilliant plan, which makes me suspect my sister was the one who devised it.”

  “Such flattery,” Nagaira sneered. “It would be charming, were you not such a cold-hearted, treacherous bastard.”

  The witch swept into the tent like a cold wind, coming up behind Malus and looming over Fuerlan like a vengeful ghost. She had dispensed with her silver mask and thrown back the hood of her sodden cloak and the shadows veiling her head seemed to writhe like billowing smoke. Only her eyes could be seen clearly and they blazed with sorcerous fire. The general quailed at her approach and started to speak, but the witch struck him across the face with a ringing slap that nearly drove him to his knees.

  One of Fuerlan’s retainers let out an angry shout and leapt at Nagaira with a dagger in his hand. The witch spoke a word that curdled the air in the tent and caused the braziers to flare and the man fell dead at her feet.

  “Get up you wretch,” she snapped at Fuerlan. “Have you taken leave of what’s left of your senses?”

  “He committed an act of mutiny on the field of battle!” Fuerlan said querulously. “I couldn’t let that go unanswered.”

  “Of course you could!” she hissed. “You can do anything you want, you stupid little man. Do you think this is how a drachau behaves, giving in to his petty desires when there are greater things at stake? Are you worthy of the Court of Thorns or not, son of the Witch Lord?”

  “How dare you address me in that way” Fuerlan shot back. “When I’m drachau, I’ll—”

  “Ah, but you aren’t the drachau yet, are you? Nor will you be without him,” Nagaira said, pointing a finger at Malus. “Cut him down and get him dressed. Time is short.”

  Glaring hatefully at the witch, Fuerlan gestured sharply to his retainers, who cut Malus free and brought him his clothes. The highborn shook his head ruefully, wincing in pain as he slipped on his robes. “Why the hurry, sister?”

  Before the witch could answer there was the thunder of heavy footfalls outside the tent. Nagaira’s luminous eyes narrowed warily and she stepped back towards the far wall of the tent, all but disappearing into the shadows. As she did, she stepped unknowingly past the shadowy knight, who seemed to stare impatiently at Malus.

  “What a witch gives, only a witch can take away” the figure said. The knight leaned close and Malus saw his face for the first time. It was not the sharp features of a druchii, but the malevolent face of a daemon. “And they tell no truths but their own.”

  The tent’s entry flap was yanked unceremoniously aside and Malus turned to see Lord Eluthir and a dozen grim-looking knights crowd their way into the tent. The young knight took in the scene with a sweeping glance and bowed to Fuerlan. “My apologies for the intrusion, my lord,” Eluthir said smoothly. “I was looking for Lord Malus.” He turned to the highborn, pointedly ignoring the cuts on his face. The household knights are formed up and ready for inspection as ordered,” he said.

  “Lord Malus is no longer your captain,” Fuerlan interjected.

  To the general’s surprise, the young knight laughed. “A fine jest, my lord,” Eluthir said. “Lord Malus led us to victory at Blackwater Ford and slew the Hag’s general in personal combat. Remove a hero from his command? How absurd! Think of the dissent it would cause in the ranks, to say nothing of the insult it would mean to your father, who gave him the command in the first place.” The knight smiled appreciatively. “I had no idea my lord general had such a refined sense of humour.”

  Fuerlan could only stare at the man, his jaw working in frustration. Eluthir turned back to Malus. “The men are waiting, my lord. Shall I carry your armour?”

  “I’ll put it on as we go,” the highborn said, slipping the kheitan over his shoulders and picking up the pieces of his plate harness. He gave Fuerlan a pointed look. “A captain’s work is never done,” he said with a grin. “You will excuse me, my lord. The men are tired and hungry and apt to become… unruly… if they are kept waiting too long.”

  Once outside, Eluthir leaned close to Malus. “My apologies for taking so long, my lord. We searched nearly every tent in the camp before we found you.”

  The rain stung in his open wounds, but the highborn turned his face to the sky and savoured the pain. It was like a benediction from the goddess, a reprieve from the bonds of slavery. “Apologise for nothing, Eluthir. You did well. Now we must hurry, if we are to avoid disaster.” He took a deep breath, focusing his thoughts as he put on his armour. “Gather all the captains and have them come to my tent at once. We have to get out of here.”

  Eluthir frowned. “We’re retreating?”

  “We have no choice,” the highborn said. “The campaign was never meant to succeed. It was just a diversion for a grander scheme. It was meant to draw the warriors of Hag Graef out of the city and it succeeded. If we aren’t clear of the valley by first light the army will be destroyed.”

  “You’re talking about mutiny. Real mutiny,” Eluthir said gravely. “Fuerlan intends to stay and fight, doesn’t he?”

  “No, he intends to sneak away while you are getting killed,” Malus said. “You can either stay here and die or return to the ark and take your chances with the Witch Lord. I’ll wager he abhors wasting good troops as much as I do.”

  Eluthir thought it over a moment, then made his decision. “I’ll go and get the captains,” he said.

  Malus nodded. A line of tired-looking nauglir waited in the road outside the tent, including Spite. The highborn ran his hand along the back of the cold one’s scaly neck and climbed wearily into the saddle. “Get to my tent as quick
ly as you can, then get the knights ready to move. We may need them to overcome any resistance to the plan.”

  Eluthir nodded and led the knights away. Malus headed in the opposite direction, following the methodical layout of the camp until he reached the spot where he knew his tent would be. His mind was whirling as he tried to formulate a plan to withdraw the army in the dead of night, right under Isilvar’s nose. We’ll see how Nagaira and Fuerlan plan to compel me with an army at my back, he thought grimly.

  He’d hoped to find one or more of the scouts waiting at the tent. Without servants of his own there was no one to light the braziers in the tent or fetch food from the kitchens. Malus pushed the tent flap aside and darted in, surprised to find the two braziers already lit and filling the tent with a warm, red glow.

  They would probably have to leave all the baggage behind, Malus thought. Less noise, less weight and less time to get ready to leave. That decision made, he headed for the nearest fire, reaching out to dry his wet hands and the four hooded men standing to either side of the door closed in behind him, their swords gleaming in the firelight.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DARKNESS AND RUIN

  Just as Malus reached the brazier the daemon-faced knight spoke. “Beware! Your enemies are upon you! He whirled, his hand reaching for his sword and the four men moved as one, hemming him in with a sudden, silent rush. They wore black-dyed leather armour and short, woollen cloaks with deep hoods that hid their faces in shadow, but Malus knew they were men from the Hag. “Assassins!” he shouted, just as the lead attacker leapt upon him.

  The two men crashed together, knocking Malus back against the brazier and toppling it over in a shower of angry sparks. Moisture in his sodden cloak hissed into steam as Malus landed amid the hot iron and coals. His sword arm was trapped beneath the assassin’s knee and the hooded man closed his left hand about the highborn’s throat. A short, broad-bladed sword rose above the highborn’s head.