Deathblade: A Tale of Malus Darkblade

by C. L. Werner

  Malus scowled at the news that the asur fortress was still as formidable as it had been during the druchii invasions of ages past. Those assaults had broken upon the Eagle Gate, floundered in a futile siege until relief could arrive. The proximity of Caledor worried Malus. Prince Imrik could unleash his dragons against the host of Hag Graef. The flying wyrms were a foe that Malus didn’t have the resources to vanquish. Such dragons as remained to the druchii were with Malekith and the army of Naggarond – even the beastmasters of Karond Kar had been compelled to turn over their dragons to the Witch King. Without dragons of his own to call upon and drive off any force from Caledor, there were only two choices open to Malus. He could withdraw back into the Shadowlands and try to seek shelter among the rocky hills, or he could press forward and take the fortress. If his troops were in command of the Eagle Gate, even Imrik’s dragons wouldn’t be able to drive them out.

  Sitting atop her cold one, Vincirix listened with mounting unease as the scout related the condition of the Eagle Gate. The dark riders had suffered five dead and twice as many wounded by the archers lining the battlements. He had marked the positions of at least half a dozen bolt throwers and suspected there might be a score more concealed on the walls. The scout had noted the banners of many asur nobles and even the colours of Caledor among the defenders.

  ‘Caledor?’ Vincirix said, running a nervous finger across the flanges of her mace.

  Malus smiled at her alarm. When he spoke, it was in a voice loud enough to carry to the nearby troops. ‘It is wrong to underestimate the cunning of the asur. Never let hate blind you to an enemy’s ability. If the garrison is so bold as to display the colours of Caledor, it is because they want to frighten me with the idea that they’ve got a dragon or three hiding behind those walls.’ He glared down at the scout. ‘But if they did have dragons, is it not more likely they would do nothing to put that idea in my head? They’d want to lure me in and then unleash the wyrms on me.’ In a single flourish, Malus drew the warpsword from its scabbard and drove the blade across the scout’s neck. The stunned captain collapsed, pawing at the gushing wound in his throat. Whatever ambitions the elf had entertained were spurting into the dirt.

  The drachau turned from the dying scout. ‘They think to delay me here,’ he mused. ‘They are playing for time, trying to exploit my worries.’

  ‘But, dreadlord, if the defences are as formidable as…’ Vincirix fell silent when she saw the glare in Malus’s eyes.

  ‘I will test them,’ Malus said. ‘And when the asur have shown me their mettle, I will unleash my full fury against them. The Eagle Gate will fall. The glory of conquest will be mine.’

  Bragath Blyte bit his lip as the lash cracked across his shoulder. The Naggorite’s hands tightened about the spear he held. For the chance to drive that shaft into the belly of his tormentor… But to do so wouldn’t lessen his misery or that of his people. Kunor Kunoll’s Son had a vile imagination when it came to punishing rebellion. A clean death in battle might at least earn a reprieve for a slave’s soul, see it carried into the Pale Queen’s underworld rather than the infernal toils of Slaanesh. But broken by Kunor’s tortures, his soul would be too foul to pass the Keeper of the Last Door.

  No, there was nothing a war-leader of Naggor could do except swallow his pride and endure. Hope for a noble death in battle and to pass into the underworld of Mirai.

  ‘Faster, you dogs! Close ranks!’ The sharp voice of Kunor rang out above the cracking whips of his helpers. Under the bite of the lash, the slave-soldiers marched onwards.

  It had been years since the Witch Lords of Naggor loosed their armies against Hag Graef. The Witch Lords had lost that battle, their sorcery and daemons unequal to the ruthlessness and cunning of Malus Darkblade. The bastard kinslayer had prevailed, seizing the crown of his own city even as he vanquished the legions of Naggor. The conquered had become slaves, chattel for the wars of the Hag. Once there had been several thousand Naggorites under Darkblade’s banner. Now there were barely half that number. Privation, abuse and neglect had claimed many. Hundreds had died fighting hopeless battles when Malus rode to rescue the refugees of Clar Karond and bind what was left of their might to that of the Dark Crag.

  How many more would perish today, Bragath wondered. Would his name be among those of the slain? Or would some perverse whim of providence sustain him yet again?

  Staring out across the ranks of the slave-soldiers, the warrior inside Bragath cringed at the state of his comrades. Was his armour as sorry as that of his fellows, cracked and dented, crudely mended with bits of leather and scraps of cloth? Were his limbs as lean and wasted as those of the elves who marched beside him? Did his face have the same starveling thinness, the same sickly yellow colour?

  Bragath turned his head and raised his eyes. Ahead, at the far side of the pass, there loomed the Eagle Gate. Hundreds of feet high, built from immense blocks of granite, the fortress blocked the pass utterly. Tier upon tier of battlements, each piled atop the last. At the centre, the gigantic sculpture of an eagle with outstretched wings. One wing merged into the side of the mountains that flanked the pass. The talons stabbed downwards, perched upon the lowest level of battlements. Between the legs, the great bronze doors rose, immense portals that were fifty feet high and nearly again as broad. The body of the eagle bulged out from the face of the fortress, each feather carved with lifelike fidelity. Bragath’s keen eyes could see the little gaps between the feathers that marked the windows behind which asur archers were lurking. The enormous head of the eagle with its open mouth was more obvious in its menace, a pair of immense bolt throwers standing inside the beak.

  A legion of Malekith’s Black Guard couldn’t take this fortress, yet Darkblade had commanded Kunor to drive the Naggorites to the attack. Bragath didn’t need to turn his head to know that the rest of Malus’s army was hundreds of yards behind them. They were following the advance of the slave-soldiers, but keeping well to the rear. It needed no tactical acumen to guess the purpose Darkblade had chosen for his captives. The Naggorites had been given the cheerful task of goading the asur into making the first attack.

  Each step closer made the sweat drip into Bragath’s eyes. It wasn’t fear of death that caused his heart to pound and his back to shiver. He was resigned to death – all of the Naggorites were. It was the horror of anticipation, of knowing what must soon come but not knowing when it would strike.

  At the head of the Naggorite formation, a tall standard rose into the sky. Bragath looked uneasily up at the frame of wood and iron atop the pole. Bound to that frame was the mangled body of a druchii. Korbus, the late consort-retainer of Lady Eldire. Darkblade had been especially vicious in dealing with the traitor. The conjurer’s hands had been hacked off with an axe, his lips sewn shut with wire. A metal cage bound his head in place, so that Korbus couldn’t hide his face. The elf’s eyes had been pinned open with needles that transfixed his eyelids. Across his stripped body, glyphs representing the most abominable curses had been carved into his flesh. Over his heart, Malus himself had cut the most profane symbol of them all, the emblem of Slaanesh the Devourer. Even for a dreadlord, such a ghastly punishment as deliberately invoking the Prince of Chaos to claim his enemy’s soul was obscene.

  Stoutly, the slave-soldiers maintained their march while the slavemasters barked and snapped their whips. Then a new sound entered the battle. From the walls there came a noise of whistling. The tall standard writhed and jerked as arrows slammed into the living emblem of Darkblade’s hate. Blood streamed down the pole as Korbus was pin-cushioned with arrows. Then the archers on the walls turned their bows against the warriors of Naggor. Driven by the powerful longbows, the arrows arched high above the pass before streaking downwards to skewer the druchii slaves. The rude, poorly maintained armour of the Naggorites was small protection against the broad-headed missiles. By the dozen, they fell, dead or maimed.

  Bragath Blyte raised his shield, feeling an
asur arrow slam into it a second later. He could see the dead steel head where it had punched clean through the laminated wood. He scowled at the missile that had come so close to finishing him. Was this the warrior’s death for which he’d endured years of suffering as the captive of Hag Graef?

  Hate caused him to crash the shaft of his spear against his shield, breaking the arrow embedded in it. Bragath howled his fury to the uncaring sky and the asur safe behind their walls.

  It was a truth the druchii had long ago learned. Where hope is lost, hate alone can drive a warrior onwards. With enough hate in his heart, a druchii could accomplish anything.

  Even revenge.

  Malus studied the march of Naggor with the same intensity as a gem-cutter might inspect a diamond before deciding how best to cut it. He watched every step, observed each slave-soldier as an arrow brought them down. A hundred elves lay in the dirt, killed by enemy archers or trampled by the feet of their comrades, and still the Scion of Hag Graef sat and brooded. Sometimes his hand would move to pat Spite’s head as the brute’s senses became excited by the smell of blood, but otherwise he was as still as a statue.

  Finally, with an abruptness that caused Vincirix and Dolthaic to jump in surprise, Malus turned to the captains of his knights. ‘The shooting from the right is weaker than that of the centre and the left,’ he declared. ‘They’ve tried to hide it, but there’s a break in the fortifications there. A swift strike by cavalry to secure the ground followed by a rush of infantry to assault the wall.’ He clenched his fist, grinding his fingers against his palm as though he were crushing the enemy in his hand. ‘They try to feign strength where they are weak and weakness where they are strong, but the asur panicked at the last. They didn’t want Kunor’s dogs to get close to that right flank so they loosed their arrows on him too soon. Their caution has exposed their weakness instead of protecting it.’

  One of my brothers has paved the way for you, Malus. This place was beset by my kind not long ago. A great plague daemon smashed his way through six of the eight walls. It is that wound your enemy hopes to protect. Do you understand now the power that could be yours?

  Malus clenched his teeth against the urge to snarl down Tz’arkan’s voice. Always tempting, always trying to seduce him with the promise of power. The daemon knew the desires of his heart only too well after all the years the thing had been festering inside him. The urge to quiet the daemon with wine was even greater than the fiend’s wheedling, but Malus could afford neither. He had to keep his head clear if he was going to command his troops. More, with Eldire gone, he didn’t know how he was going to replenish the dwindling supply of the draught he added to his wine. Drusala could make more, he was certain, but that would make him dependent on her. He still wasn’t certain how much of his affliction she understood. There was great risk in adding to such knowledge as she already possessed.

  She knows too much, fool! Kill her and have done before it is too late.

  Malus looked down the line of knights, to where a small squadron of horsemen were galloping out, weaving a path between the main body of the army and the embattled Naggorites. His doomfire warlocks, hurrying to the attack. Even at this distance, he could see the fiery runes blazing upon their exposed hands and faces. Little coils of smoke drifted away from them as the hellish curse Malekith had inflicted upon them slowly dragged their souls into the realm of Slaanesh. The warlocks could save themselves only by sacrificing others in their stead. The murderous souls of Naggorites had done little to appease the curse – they needed pure, courageous souls to sacrifice and earn themselves a few days of respite. They needed souls such as they would find among the defenders of the Eagle Gate.

  The doomfire warlocks, on their dark chargers and with their black cloaks billowing about them, weren’t the focus of Malus’s attention, however. Among the warlocks rode Drusala. Just as he’d tasked Kunor with drawing out the asur’s physical defences, so he had charged Drusala and the warlocks with engaging the gate’s magical defences. Just as the only way to defend against a dragon was with another dragon, so the only way to defend against magic was with magic of your own.

  She would wait, Malus decided as he watched the sorceress ride towards the fortress. Whichever way he decided, it would wait until after the battle. The daemon inside him would just have to be patient. For now, there was the breach in the wall to exploit.

  ‘Wait until the riders are closer,’ Malus told his captains. ‘Then we use them as a screen while we rush the weak point.’

  ‘That will be hard on the warlocks,’ Vincirix observed.

  Malus smiled at her. ‘It’s a hard life, being a warlock. They should have learned that by now.’

  Drusala could feel the aethyric vibrations that pulsated around the Eagle Gate. She was surprised to find them in such a sorry condition, shocked to find the protective harmonies in such a state of discord. Extending her senses, closing her mind to the crude physical essences around her, she was able to fixate upon the ruinous energies that saturated the pass. It seemed that Malus wasn’t the first enemy to try his luck against the Eagle Gate. The malefic discord of hundreds of vanquished daemons oozed all around the place. The asur had been thrown into such turmoil by the calamities besieging Ulthuan that they hadn’t even been able to take the time for a proper cleansing ritual.

  Such unpreparedness wasn’t like the hidebound asur. This truly was the prime opportunity to attack. Malekith had been wise to abandon the wastes of Naggaroth and stake everything on this chance to seize the lands that were his birthright.

  She let her witchsight canvass the walls of the fortress. She noted the great breach to the right of the gate, a gap in the defences that went beyond simply the physical. Whatever had wrought such havoc upon the Eagle Gate had done so on far more than a material level. The very atmosphere around the place was like an open wound. She could feel the dark energies bubbling and boiling there.

  Turning in her saddle, Drusala wasn’t surprised to find the cold one knights rushing for the breach. Both the ‘household guard’ of Malus Darkblade – the mercenary Knights of the Burning Dark – and the Clar Karond exiles of Vincirix Quickdeath – the Knights of the Ebon Claw – were charging down the pass. The Scion of Hag Graef was forsaking the idea of a prolonged siege and throwing his lot into a lightning assault. That he was using both the Naggorites and the doomfire warlocks to shield the initial rush of his advance was a bit of callousness that wasn’t lost on her. Darkblade valued no life more than he valued his own ambition.

  A flash of brilliant white light among the battlements drew Drusala’s attention. Gazing upwards, she watched as a small flock of immense birds took wing. As they rose into the sky, the very plumage of the creatures burst into flame, scorching the air as they climbed. Phoenixes, great raptors whose very essence was saturated with the magical energies of the Flamespyres. Unlike most of the animals changed and twisted by the magic in the Annulii, there was a certain intelligence in the mind of a phoenix, a rationality that made the creatures respond with friendship towards the asur. The fiery birds were a powerful ally for the garrison and a terrible foe for the invaders. Attuned to aethyric harmonies, the phoenixes had been roused by the approach of the doomfire warlocks. Drusala had little doubt who the beasts had chosen for their prey.

  As the birds came hurtling earthwards, Drusala urged her mount skywards. The glamour that had cloaked her steed fell away as great leathery wings unfurled from its sides. Snorting and stamping, the dark pegasus shed the illusion of being a common steed. It fanned its great wings, upsetting the ranks of the mounted warlocks. The riders cursed and raged as Drusala’s steed climbed into the air. She had no need to fear reprisal. The warlocks would quickly have problems enough just surviving the assault of the phoenixes.

  Soaring aloft, the pegasus gave the diving phoenixes a wide berth. Drusala could feel the heat from the creatures as they passed, could smell the acrid scent of their burning plumage.
She wove her own sorcerous defences a bit more tightly around herself, hiding her presence from the hunting raptors. Soon, her flying steed had borne her high above the embattled warlocks and their bestial foes.

  Drusala might have lent aid to the warlocks, but to do so would mean squandering some of her own arcane power. She needed her full strength right now, for it was her intention to go beyond the foes the warlocks had drawn out. From the aethyric harmonies of the Eagle Gate, she knew that someone, some powerful mage, had been making his own attempt at cleansing the daemonic taint. That he thought himself knowledgeable enough to attempt such a purification on his own was a testament to either his ability or his arrogance.

  Drusala intended to discover which.

  Warning trumpets blared from the battlements as eagle-clawed bolt throwers cast their missiles down into the pass. Drusala saw two Knights of the Burning Dark skewered by the immense shafts, their carcasses tumbling through the dust, crushed beneath the bodies of their cold ones. The rest of the knights charged onwards, however, goaded to the attack by the merciless fury of Darkblade himself.

  The asur knew the objective Malus had in mind. The trumpets were calling troops down to defend the broken walls, to block the breach before the cold one knights could seize it. Archers scrambled along the battlements, but there were too few near the breach to render much help. A knight’s armour wasn’t so easily pierced as that of a Naggorite slave and a cold one’s scaly hide was more resilient than that of a horse. The only hope the garrison had lay in the armoured spearmen who filed down into the gap.

  The spearmen, and the mage whose presence Drusala now perceived. He must have worn some talisman or charm to conceal his aethyric aura, probably a ward prepared against the daemons raging across Ulthuan. Now, however, he was drawing too deeply from the stream of magic to conceal himself. Drusala could see him as a sun-like beacon of light, luminous with the power he was drawing into himself.