Deathblade: A Tale of Malus Darkblade

by C. L. Werner

  The commanders subordinate to Yvarin didn’t agree with his conclusion. Jariel had demurred at his suggestion that the Talons of Tor Caldea withdraw from the fight on the walls and strike out to the slopes of the pass to support the Eataine Guard at the breach. She’d posited that the druchii were reforming in order to rush in once the hydras were through the gate. She didn’t agree with Yvarin’s observation that the enemy would have put fresh warriors at the ready to act as shock troops. The druchii were as merciless to their own as they were to their enemy – she’d seen as much fighting raiders along the coasts of Caledor. She wasn’t about to pull her troops out of the fight to support an attack she didn’t feel was coming. The other commanders held similar views, and impressed on Yvarin that to pull any warriors from where there was already an attack would be to weaken their positions just at the time when they needed them at their strongest.

  Yvarin was certain, however, that the real attack would be here. So it was back to the breach, back to the Eataine Guard, where he felt his place must be. When Darkblade made his move, it would be too late. Yvarin felt he’d anticipated the enemy. If his commanders were right, the absence of one asur on the walls wouldn’t count for much. If, as he was convinced, the druchii moved again against the breach, his presence there might make all the difference. He was, after all, a hero now.

  The salutes of his soldiers warmed Yvarin even more than the poultice Shrinastor had provided him. He returned their salutes with the terse nod that was expected of an elven prince, but his shining eyes told them how deeply their esteem was valued. Of all his troops, there were none he felt closer to than these warriors. To have earned their respect was a richness beyond gold.

  Oerleith, the captain of the regiment, his family heraldry picked out in crimson thread against the white cloak he wore over his silver-chased armour, bowed as the prince approached him. ‘Your highness, you do us a supreme honour,’ he said, his eyes downcast. ‘Everything has been quiet in this quarter. Except for the odd harpy dropping down from the sky, the enemy has lost interest in us.’

  A tinge of hurt crept into Yvarin’s eyes. Even these, his proud Eataine Guard, felt he should be elsewhere, that he should be up on the walls or at the gates inspiring his troops where the fighting was at its worst. They too didn’t see the threat that Yvarin saw.

  ‘I haven’t lost interest in you,’ Yvarin said. ‘The breach here is the key to the Eagle Gate. Darkblade knows that as keenly as I do. Why should we believe he won’t attack here?’

  The captain raised his head, turning a look of confusion and astonishment on his prince. ‘The druchii are already assaulting the walls and the gate. Darkblade is losing hundreds of his soldiers. He’d gain nothing by such an expensive feint.’

  ‘He’d gain something more precious to him than the lives of his warriors,’ Yvarin said. ‘He’d gain time.’

  Even as he spoke, warning horns sounded from the battlements. Yvarin and Oerleith rushed to the piled carcasses of the cold ones. They watched as the reformed slave-soldiers came marching towards the breach. More significantly, however, beyond them marched thousands of druchii regulars, the banners of the Dark Crag itself flying above them. Too late, Yvarin’s captains on the wall saw the accuracy of their prince’s premonition. An orderly redeployment was impossible now. The dribs and drabs that could make their way down from the walls would be merely a gesture. If the breach were to hold, it would be thanks to the Eataine Guard.

  Yvarin hoisted himself on top of one of the cold ones, his boot resting on the reptile’s head. He drew his sword, the same blade that had killed the druchii captain. He turned and faced his warriors, the finest in his garrison, the comrades-in-arms who had held this position against the cold one knights. They’d braved the best Darkblade could throw at them. It was important that they knew this as the black tide of the tyrant’s army came surging towards them.

  ‘Sons of Ellyrion! Daughters of the Summer Kingdom! Gaze upon the desperation of your foe! You, who stood here and cut down the vanguard of his horde. You who shattered the point of his spear. Now he sends a flood of dogs to drown you in blood. He thinks to strike fear into your noble hearts by this show of force. I say to you that you spit on dogs! I say to you that your hearts know no fear! You are the Eataine Guard. Let Hag Graef send a hundred slaves against us. We will slay them all and ask the scum for another thousand. We will show them what the song of Khaine means when it is sung by those with valour in their hearts and courage in their souls!’

  A great cheer rose from the Eataine Guard. With spears crashing against shields, the asur answered the fiery words of their hero. Almost eagerly, they ran to the grisly pile of dead reptiles, ready to repel the first waves of Darkblade’s army. Their faith in their prince had blotted out the doubt that might have ruled them otherwise. They had longed for battle, and now that battle was coming to them. With Prince Yvarin fighting beside them, how could they fail to be victorious?

  Malus’s retainers stacked the corpses of the knights he had executed into a pile. Digging his spurs into Spite’s flanks, he sent the horned one scrambling up onto the decaying mound. The reptile snarled, digging its claws into the dead flesh until it found the purchase it wanted. Malus waited until his steed was settled before he unsheathed the warpsword and raised it high. With a downward sweep, he thrust the blade in the direction of the breach. A single word left his lips, arctic in its tone.

  ‘Advance!’

  Obediently, the warriors of Hag Graef trooped towards the rampart of dead cold ones. Already the Naggorite slave-soldiers were engaging the asur, throwing themselves at the entrenched enemy with the fatalism of all sword-fodder. They were dying by the droves, but it was of little consequence. They weren’t there to win; they were there to occupy the enemy long enough for Malus’s real troops to bear down on the position. Indeed, if the Naggorites did manage to hold their ground they’d be slaughtered by the soldiers coming up from behind them for being in the way. Malus considered the promise of spilling Naggorite blood before laying into the asur to be something of a reward to the soldiers of Hag Graef. The heap of dead knights beneath Spite’s claws was a reminder of the punishment they’d get if they proved unworthy of that reward.

  The dreadspears stabbed their way through the few Naggorites holding against the asur. A blast from the serpent-tooth horn the first regiment carried announced that they were confronting the defenders. Malus watched for the signal flag to be raised, the signal that the spearmen were through. His patience wore thinner with each passing breath. After ten minutes had elapsed, he could see that the first regiment was beginning to fall back. The second regiment advanced, thwarting the withdrawal of the first. Malus smiled coldly as he saw the warriors of the reinforcing regiment cutting down any druchii trying to retreat from the front. The orders he had issued to his captains hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. Every one of them understood what was expected.

  Still, even the advance of the second regiment wasn’t enough to break the defenders. Worse, they themselves were beset from the flank by Caledorian archers, who’d crept out onto the face of the cliffs flanking the pass. From their precarious perches, the bowmen harassed the second regiment. Darkshards were brought up to oppose the Caledorians, but the crafty asur had positioned themselves beyond the range of the druchii’s crossbows.

  The third and fourth regiments swarmed forwards now, rushing to bolster the flagging strength of the second and the remnants of the first. At last, Malus thought, the breach would be taken. His anger boiled inside him as the asur continued to hold. Minute after minute, with only the Caledorian bowmen to support them, the Eataine Guard held their ground. Outnumbered a hundredfold, they refused to yield!

  Elsewhere, Malus could see that his feinting attackers were faltering. The corsairs were a ravaged shell of their original strength, their robust assaults reduced to cautious probes. The harpies had been burned from the sky by the phoenixes, leaving far too many of the
magical birds free to menace the druchii sorceresses.

  At the gate itself, the assault of the war hydras was likewise losing its impetus. Malus saw Griselfang scorched by a shower of arcane fire poured down on it from the spouts set into the fortifications above the gate. While the huge beast writhed in pain, bones popping through its charred hide, one of the phoenixes swooped down on it. A great bird of ice and crystal, larger and older than its fiery kin, the phoenix tore into Griselfang with talons that froze the hydra’s mangled hide and caused its scales to crumble into shards of frost. As the phoenix beat at the hydra with its wings, each buffet seemed to drain more of the vitality and resistance from the reptile. Its heads drooped wearily as their long necks sagged to the earth. Its lashing tail became sluggish, incapable of swatting down its avian tormentor.

  Too intent on Griselfang, the cold phoenix was taken by surprise when Snarclaw charged at it. Three of the hydra’s heads sank their fangs into the bird, snowy ichor dripping from the grievous wounds it had inflicted. Even as frost began to form around the jaws that held the phoenix, Snarclaw was wrenching the creature free from the dying Griselfang. The bird slapped at the reptile with its great wings, freezing scales and sapping warmth with each touch of its icy pinions. Its other heads hissing at its prey, the hydra began to pull the phoenix apart with the jaws embedded in its body. Shrieking in agony, the phoenix was ripped to shreds, each portion of its mutilated frame freezing as it died, transforming into nothing more than slivers of ice.

  Snarclaw had no time to savour its triumph. As it stood over the wreckage of the phoenix, the vengeful fire of the garrison stabbed down into it. Bolt throwers and bowmen all across the wall sought to avenge the cold phoenix. The hydra’s scaly hide was pierced again and again by the missiles. In its agonies it threw itself towards the gates, there to have its flesh scorched by the same kind of molten fire that had burned Griselfang. Howling in agony, the reptile lumbered back, half of its heads lying dead and dragging behind it in the dust. Before it got more than a few yards, however, a great bolt of lightning hurtled down from the beak of the stone eagle, sent from the staff of the blue-robed elf who stood there. The arcane energies sapped the last of the hydra’s monstrous vitality. With a final shudder, Snarclaw crashed to the ground and its remaining heads wilted into the dirt.

  Malus cursed lividly as he saw his prize hydras cut down. The brutes had cost him a fortune. With them gone, he knew the runts Clar Karond had salvaged from their collapsing city wouldn’t be able to batter their way through the gates. The asur would soon realise that, too. Then fresh forces would be diverted to the breach.

  The breach! Seven regiments had now been thrown into the attack and still the Eataine Guard held their ground. What would it take to break those preening asur swine! Minutes of defiance stretched into hours. Fresh defenders could be seen scrambling down from the battlements to support the position, but the main opposition remained the Eataine Guard. Callously, Malus threw fresh troops into the assault. The ground around the breach became a mire of blood and bodies, yet he wouldn’t relent. Any captain who dared think of withdrawal was butchered where he stood.

  Finally, as night fell over the pass, even Malus had to accept the hideous truth. The attack had failed. He’d spent thousands of his soldiers, but the asur had held. With the darkness, the phoenixes diverted their attentions to the troops massed at the breach, swooping down on them in blazing dives that charred their victims and shattered the morale of those remaining. Assaulted from one flank by the Caledorian’s arrows, the aerial attacks of the phoenixes were too much for the druchii. Their strength still in the thousands, the host of Hag Graef turned and retreated back down the pass.

  Malus watched his soldiers run, cursing each and every one as a coward and worse. Threats of reprisal and revenge slashed across the fleeing warriors until the drachau’s throat felt like a raw wound. Promises to torture their descendants to the fifth generation were not enough to turn his warriors back.

  Turning away from the rout, Malus glared at the rampart of dead cold ones. He could see the Eataine Guard standing atop the bodies, jeering and mocking the fleeing druchii. One asur captain was even so bold as to hold out a captured banner, inviting the enemy to come back and take it.

  These scenes were forgotten, however, when Malus trained his eyes on the solemn figure standing atop the rampart. There was a magical glow about the elf’s shoulder and side, the place the warpsword had kissed. Malus recognised the helm and the sword in the asur’s hand. Prince Yvarin, the foe who had cut down Vincirix!

  Say the word, Malus. Set me loose and we can kill him. Now. We can avenge your little flesh-friend. Set me loose and we’ll rip through the asur and make that princeling beg for death.

  Angrily, Malus dug his heels into Spite, compelling the horned one to leap down from its perch. With a tug of the reins, he sent his steed loping back towards the druchii camp. He didn’t trust himself to remain within sight of the enemy.

  Not with the daemon’s whispers in his ear.

  THIRTEEN

  There was no rest for the druchii warriors, no time for the drachau’s slaves to lick their wounds. By dawn, the second assault against the Eagle Gate had been beaten back. An hour later, captains were forcing their regiments back into formation as slavemasters beat their charges back into the line. Through it all, the merciless gaze of Malus Darkblade swept across his soldiers. Every warrior could feel the hair at the back of his neck prickle and his skin crawl as he imagined the kiss of the warpsword against his flesh.

  A stack of skulls rested before the drachau, heads cut from the latest victims of his ire. One soldier from every regiment, that had been the army’s tithe to the dreadlord’s wrath. Malus had personally cut down a hundred victims, playing the warpsword with such ferocity that his face was lost behind a patina of gore, his armour stained crimson with elven blood. Drusala and the sorceresses had been impressed into hasty service, atoning for their own failure in the battle by stripping the heads down to grinning skulls with their magic.

  It was not enough. Not even the slightest gesture towards sating the fury burning inside Malus’s black heart. He could feel Tz’arkan goading him on, growing stronger with each victim he claimed. He cared little. If these craven maggots lost the battle, he was dead anyway. It would be fitting punishment to turn the daemon loose upon them.

  Malus crushed down that idea. That was the daemon talking, trying to make its desires sound like the drachau’s own thoughts. There was still a chance for glory here, if he were bold and swift. But it had to be soon. Already, he knew his army was on borrowed time. Scouts ranging behind his army had reported the Tiranocii force drawing closer. Hours, perhaps, remained before they would reach the pass. Malus had the scouts executed before word of what they had seen could be disseminated. His warriors had only one purpose – to take the Eagle Gate. Anything else was but a distraction. If they seized the fortress, there was no need to fear the chariots of Tiranoc. If they floundered before the walls again, death beneath the wheels of the Tiranocii was a better fate than they deserved.

  Despite the contempt he held them in, Malus appreciated that a reckless attack would get him nowhere. Once the regiments were reformed and the wounded dispatched, he restrained himself. Hard as it was, he sat on Spite’s back and watched as the sun slowly climbed into the sky. He could see the gleam of armour on the battlements, the fiery glow as the light reflected off the phoenixes’ burning plumage. The enemy was there, waiting. They too were biding their time, thinking it to be their ally.

  Malus intended to teach them the error of their thinking.

  When the sun reached its zenith, when its brilliant rays shone down upon the pass and straight into the eyes of the elves on the battlements, Malus drew the warpsword and again snarled out the order to attack.

  Thousands of druchii advanced upon the fortress once more. Great blocks of infantry moved towards the great gates of starwood and silver,
their faces pitted and scarred by the war hydras the day before. Aeich and the corsairs were doubly eager to claim the glory of seizing the gates – from their regiments Malus had demanded two victims instead of one. At their sides marched Naggorite slave-soldiers and the dreadspears of Clar Karond, both forces employing their heavy shields to fend off the archery of the asur. Harpies, those that had survived the night and been recaptured, were set loose to harry the defenders. Minds maddened by torture and magic, the harpies ran amok as they reached the asur, dragging them from behind the crenellations and tearing into them with claw and fang.

  Drusala and the other sorceresses acted in concert now. They didn’t ply their magic in individual duels with Shrinastor and the asur mages. Instead, they concentrated it into a great protective shell, raising it above the druchii army. While the sun thwarted the accuracy of the archers, the witches thwarted the accuracy of the spells loosed by the dragon mages and astromancers. The dark magic caught and twisted the lightning and fire called down by the asur mages, pooling the arcane energies into a dark, writhing cloud. When the cloud was powerful enough, Drusala herself sent it hurtling into the battlements. Elven warriors were slaughtered by the roiling fog of aethyric malevolence, tendrils of darkness whipping out to corrode armour and devour flesh, leaving only glistening skeletons behind.