by C. L. Werner
‘This blasted wilderness has never been our home. It was a refuge, nothing more. Petty ambitions have allowed this place to become an anchor to the destiny of the druchii. Would you spend the blood of your warriors to protect a land that you despise, a bleak desolation that has within it nothing but scorn and mockery? I tell you, I tell all of you, this will not be! We will not bleed our armies defending this abominable wilderness. If we are to fight, then we will fight a war that is worth fighting. We will fight to take the land that belongs to us. We will fight to claim the land that is our heritage and birthright. Naggaroth? Let it burn. Let it rot. Let it fall to daemons and beasts. It is Ulthuan we desire, it is Ulthuan that is the destiny of the druchii. Ulthuan and the crown of Aenarion. Ulthuan and the birthright of Malekith!’
Ezresor was the first to raise his voice, the spymaster’s tone cautious. ‘The defences of Ulthuan are considerable. Even with the asur embattled by daemons, we must consider lines of supply and retreat…’
Malus could almost feel sorry for the spymaster when Malekith rounded on him and fixed him with his fiery gaze. ‘There will be no retreat,’ he declared. ‘Naggaroth will die along with all who remain behind.’ He turned, letting his gaze linger on each of the dreadlords. ‘Any who try to return will die too. Do not mistake necessity for hubris. We must retake Ulthuan or perish in the Rhana Dandra. Victory or death, these are the only choices left to the druchii.’
The dreadlords sat in shocked silence, their outrage and resentment cowed by the mad passion of their king. Malus could guess their thoughts, for he doubted they were much different to his own. He had struggled hard to become drachau of Hag Graef. His rise had been bought with blood, far too much of it his own. Now, at the pinnacle of power, when he was the second most powerful elf in Naggaroth, it was all being cast aside, thrown away because their king believed the End Times were upon them. He was reminded of a warning Lady Eldire had given him once about prophecy: those who thought to see the future often brought it into being. Malekith believed the Rhana Dandra was upon them and now he was doing his utmost to ensure just such an apocalypse. Doom to both Naggaroth and Ulthuan.
Ulthuan. Malekith knew his people well. In his heart of hearts, every druchii coveted the lands of his forefathers. Naggaroth was a harsh, unforgiving desolation, a land of exile, not a land of glory. Nothing could change that brutal fact, not even the Circlet of Iron.
Even if he wanted to, Malus knew it would be impossible to hold Hag Graef on his own. Looking about the other dreadlords, he knew they would have reached the same conclusion. Their lands were forfeit, by royal decree. They would follow the Witch King in one final assault against Ulthuan, spending the last strength of the druchii. Either they would win new lands or they would give their lives in a final act of vengeance. Whichever doom was to be theirs, it was an ending that found harmony in the spiteful soul of every druchii.
The host of Hag Graef would follow Malekith in this final war against the asur. Malus would strip his city of every warrior, leaving only the old and the sick behind. He would muster the greatest warhost among all the druchii and, when battle was joined, the glory of victory would be his. The Witch King was selfish enough to believe this would be his war, but in any war, fortune was a fickle mistress. If Malekith showed any weakness, Malus would be there to seize upon it.
‘Conquest or extinction,’ the Witch King decreed. ‘Naggaroth will never recover. Will the druchii stay to slowly dwindle and die, cowering behind our walls? No! We are scions of Nagarythe, the people of Aenarion. We will reclaim what is our birthright or die!’ Malekith strode back to his throne as the assembled nobles cheered and shouted, each more eager to show his loyalty and support for the king than the elf beside him. Much of it was political theatre, but Malus could see that there were a few who seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the campaign ahead.
The Witch King motioned his dreadlords to silence. ‘Before you depart the Black Tower, before you return to your cities to gather your warriors… a demonstration. A reminder of what must befall all who betray their king.’
Carefully Malus reached for the dagger hidden in the lining of his cloak. He froze as he saw Kouran rise to his feet. The captain wasn’t interested in the drachau, however, instead marching towards the iron throne to stand beside his master. Any relief Malus might have felt vanished in the next instant. Emerging from the shadowy recesses of the chamber were the torturers who had so lately entertained him in the Black Tower’s dungeons. One of the elves bore before him an ebony reliquary, which held the grisly tools of their trade.
Malus kept his hand around the dagger, every nerve on edge as he waited for some hidden foe to fall upon him. Was this why Malekith had freed him, simply to make an example of him before the whole Black Council? Watching Kouran approach the king gave him another idea. Perhaps it wasn’t Malus the tyrant wanted to make an example of. Maybe it was Drusala who was the focus of the king’s wrath. Making an example of her might silence some of those who thought him weak for not executing Morathi.
Kouran stood before the iron throne, the torturers flanking him at either side. The captain turned towards Drusala, then in a sudden whirl he fell upon Ezresor. The spymaster was caught utterly by surprise, the blade he’d hidden in the sleeve of his robe pinned against his wrist as Kouran restrained him. Ezresor was forced to his feet as the captain bent his other arm behind his back and pulled.
Malekith took hold of the struggling elf. His iron hand gripped Ezresor’s gaunt face, forcing his mouth open. ‘You were the eyes and ears of the Black Tower,’ the king snarled. ‘But what good are eyes and ears when the tongue will not relate what has been seen and heard?’ The Witch King’s iron talons reached inside Ezresor’s mouth. A gargled cry escaped the spymaster as the tyrant ripped the tongue free. Malekith held the bloodied strip of flesh for all the Black Council to see. ‘One of you bought Ezresor’s tongue. Look well upon what you purchased.’
Dropping the gory talisman on the floor, the king withdrew from the chamber. Kouran waved the torturers forwards, supervising them as they helped him lower the mutilated Ezresor back into his chair. The elf bearing the reliquary opened the wooden box, disclosing an assortment of clawed mallets and long iron nails. While half of the torturers held Ezresor in place, the others began nailing him into his seat. When Malekith’s armada sailed from Naggaroth, it would do so without the spymaster. He’d been condemned to remain behind and watch over the abandoned riches of Naggarond.
Malus shook his head. He’d suspected something untoward with Ezresor when the druchii had removed the bit from his mouth down in the dungeon. The spymaster had given Malus the chance to cheat Malekith by killing himself before any torture began. There was only one reason for extending such a mercy – Ezresor had been afraid of what Malus might say. Pride had kept Darkblade from taking such a cowardly choice. Now he rather suspected Ezresor regretted the transparency of such a mistake. He’d aroused Malekith’s suspicions. Whether Ezresor was a part of Khyra’s conspiracy or simply seeking to exploit it towards his own ends, the Witch King had paid him in full for his intrigues.
As he watched the torturers nailing the elf to his chair, Malus glanced across at Lady Khyra. Perhaps he’d been wrong; maybe she hadn’t been leaning away from Ebnir but towards Ezresor. If so, with such a graphic display, Malekith had made the idea that the drachau had betrayed the conspiracy doubly convincing.
Malus knew Khyra wouldn’t dare to act until the host of Hag Graef was embarked and on its way to Ulthuan. There was too much resting on the invasion to risk any delay in mustering the armies and setting sail. But after that, after that Malus would have good cause to worry.
His army might see the shores of Ulthuan, but would he be there to lead it?
FOUR
Malus watched as the towering spires of Hag Graef receded into the distance. The great black ark Eternal Malediction was bearing the bulk of his forces out into the Gulf of Naggarond.
There they would join the rest of Malekith’s armada before voyaging out into the Sea of Malice.
Hag Graef. How long and hard had he struggled to seize her crown? He’d fought against monsters and daemons, endured exile in the barbarous lands of humans and the deadly wastes of Chaos itself. He’d defeated the dread armies of Naggor on the battlefield and enslaved the Naggorites. The blood of brother and sister alike stained his hands, the life of his father had dripped down his sword. He had forfeited his soul to Tz’arkan and dared the forbidden world of the Screaming God-Child. Nothing and no one had been beyond the reach of his lust for ultimate power. Hag Graef, the second city of Naggaroth, and he had been its despotic master!
Now he watched as his kingdom faded away into the distance. Malus felt no regret at abandoning the city. The Witch King was right when he said that no druchii loved the chill wastes of Naggaroth. In their hearts burned the urge to reclaim the land to which they truly belonged, not the desolation of mocking exile. Hag Graef was a prison, a refuge, nothing more. It was in Ulthuan that true power and true glory lay, a realm worth ruling. The siren call of such a promise had fired the pride of Malus and every dreadlord in the land. Only the crazed inhabitants of Har Ganeth had refused Malekith’s call, content to remain in their city, glutting their insatiable appetite for murder on the beasts and barbarians besieging their lands. Crone Hellebron and the Cult of Khaine had whipped up the people of Har Ganeth into a frenzy of blood-lust worthy of their ghastly city. It was as well for the druchii that Malekith had abandoned them to their madness.
The scenes Malus had left behind in Hag Graef were little better. Only the strong and useful had been taken aboard the Eternal Malediction and the other ships of the fleet. The rest of the city’s population had been left to their fate, consigned to whatever horrible doom the creatures of the Wastes would bring to them once their hordes reached the Dark Crag. As his army withdrew from the city, the terror and turmoil boiling up around him had been thrilling to the drachau’s black heart. He’d watched with amusement as corrupt old merchants and courtiers had tried in vain to bribe their way into the army, as though their wealth could make any warrior exchange the promise of glory in battle for the miserable end awaiting the city. He’d seen flesh traders auctioning off exotic slaves for almost nothing, seen those same slaves butchered on the spot by buyers interested only in indulging their jaded thirst for slaughter. He’d watched noble towers looted and burned, seen the mortuary vaults smashed open and the bones of ancient rivals ground into the streets under the vengeful boots of drunken wastrels. Some of the temples had been thrown open, their priests murdered by mobs of disillusioned elves, venting their feelings of divine betrayal against those who served the gods. Other temples, like that of Bloody-Handed Khaine himself, became centres of crazed worship and devotion, zealots dragging screaming sacrifices to the gore-soaked altars, as though in this last hour their religious frenzy might yet move their god to protect them.
As chaotic as the rioting and unrest in the streets was, Malus knew things were far worse in the mines below. In stripping Hag Graef of every able-bodied warrior, Malus had dispatched Kunor Kunoll’s Son to gather the overseers and slavemasters in the pits below the city. He would need such experienced taskmasters to drive the captive Naggorites into battle. Leaving them behind to administer the vast numbers of human, dwarf and greenskin slaves under Hag Graef would simply be wasteful. There hadn’t been time to massacre the slaves; Kunor simply withdrew the guards and locked the gates. Even as he was arranging the destruction of his own wine cellars so that no looter would profit off what he was forced to leave behind, word reached Malus that the mine slaves were in revolt. Panicked by their abandonment, the terrified throng was battering down the gates that confined them. It would only be a matter of hours before the horde won their way clear of the tunnels and spilled out into the streets.
Malus was irate he couldn’t stay to watch that. It would have been amusing to behold the ragged host of starveling dogs tear their way through the decadent druchii he’d deemed unfit to fight against the asur. He was certain the carnage would be unprecedented in the history of the Hag, a final atrocity of epic scope before the foul city was blotted out.
‘Do you mourn your kingdom, my lord?’
Malus turned as he felt the soft touch of Vincirix’s hand against his forearm. He’d heard the knight’s approach, of course. She was one of the few he trusted enough to get so near to him. It wasn’t that she was beyond treachery – after all, she’d conspired with him to murder her own father – but the simple fact that she owed her position to him. Without his patronage, her own warriors would soon dispose of her. She was well aware of that. Malus wondered if that dependency added an extra note of urgency to her passion when they were alone. Certainly she’d proven to be the most delicious companion to share his bed in a long time.
The drachau rolled across the silk sheets and slid his hand down his lover’s tender throat. The black arks were floating cities in their own right and the master of the Eternal Malediction had turned the tallest of its spires over to his fearsome passenger. The sprawling bed chamber Malus had taken for his own was very near the summit of that tower, with great windows set into three of its four walls. The resulting view was astonishing, making him feel almost as though he soared among the clouds rather than sailed upon the sea. It was easy to understand how the masters of the black arks could develop such a lordly opinion of themselves; feeling unbound by the very laws of nature, how could they respect the rules of kings and tyrants? Malus considered that it was a good thing his warriors outnumbered the black ark’s corsairs by several orders of magnitude. It might remind them who exactly was in charge.
Lifting one finger, Malus stroked the knight’s chin. There was just the hint of a scar there, the unhealed residue of a manticore’s sting. She had far worse scars elsewhere. It had cost Vincirix much pain to impress her father, to rise through the ranks of her siblings. In some ways, her ruthless jockeying for position paralleled his own. Though, of course, his own ambitions had been much grander in scale and he, at least, had needed no help to kill his father.
He could feel Tz’arkan stirring deep inside him. Of all the things he had done, for some reason it was the vaulkhar’s murder that actually seemed to disgust the daemon. Malus had never been able to figure out why. Perhaps it made the daemon question exactly how far its host would go to get what he wanted.
Vincirix tensed under his touch. She would never dare to say anything to him, but Malus knew she hated it when he ran his fingers along the lines of her scars. It reminded her that she had been weak, that she bore the marks of that weakness on her like the brand of a slave. Malus enjoyed reminding her of their respective positions. It reinforced how much she stood to lose if he tired of her.
‘Do you still weep for Clar Karond?’ Malus asked the knight, cupping her chin and drawing her head back so he could stare into the rich depths of her eyes. ‘Do you miss the sights and smells of the slave markets, the roars from the beast-pits? Do you regret not walking the bridges between its great towers, passing between the great houses in the dead of night? How much of your heritage was lost there? How much of your blood is entombed within its tortured earth? How many companions did you leave behind, I wonder?’
The knight smiled at him, hugging him close against her in a tight embrace. ‘I have no love but you, Lord Malus. What ardour could match yours? What passion could equal yours?’
Malus drew back, his hand twining Vincirix’s dark locks. ‘Then you are content? A pity. It is a mark of the petty that they become content. Those who aspire to greater things must never lose the flame of ambition.’ Pulling her hair, he turned Vincirix back towards the diminishing image of Hag Graef. ‘If I were petty, I should be content to keep the Hag. I would marshal my army and defy the Witch King’s decree. I would strive to hold my realm against all foes. This I would do, if I were content to be master of a diseased dung-heap. No, Vincirix,
the fire of ambition burns in me. I will have a kingdom worthy of me! Of what consequence then is the Hag or Clar Karond? Let them burn. Let them rot. They are the ghosts of the past, the symbols of our people’s disgrace. The glory of the druchii doesn’t lie with them. It is in Ulthuan, not Naggaroth, where our people belong!’
‘You speak like Malekith,’ Vincirix observed. Malus laughed and kissed her neck.
‘Does that mean I sound like a king?’ he asked her. He leaned back and stared again into her eyes. ‘How great is your own ambition, I wonder? How far do you expect it to take you?’
Vincirix matched his stare. ‘As far as it would carry my lord,’ she said.
Malus laughed again and drew the knight to him.
In that moment, the great window staring out in the direction of Hag Graef burst inwards in a shower of glass and splintered wood. A lithe, nearly naked figure swept into the drachau’s chamber, hip-high boots of chimera-hide and a gilded mask cast in the shape of a shrieking daemon the only raiment affected by the weird intruder. A small buckler ringed with razors was bound about the invader’s right arm while in her left she gripped a hooked whip. The elf cast her masked gaze about the chamber and a hideous peal of gleeful laughter erupted from her as she spied Malus lying upon the bed.
Malus shoved Vincirix towards the masked intruder, at the same time throwing himself from bed to floor. The masked druchii swerved around Vincirix’s diving form and lunged forwards at the bed. The invader’s whip slashed down almost at the same moment, slicing into the bed and sending down billowing into the air. Before his attacker could fully recover, Malus kicked out with his foot, catching the elf in her shin. Instead of collapsing beneath the blow, she turned her fall into a violent spin, the razors lining her shield cutting across Malus’s bare forearm. The bleeding drachau rolled away as his foe’s spin brought the crooked sword sweeping towards him once again.
