Deathblade: A Tale of Malus Darkblade

by C. L. Werner

  Malus quickly took up the thread the sorceress dangled before him, remembering more details of the story she had so hurriedly fed him before sending him to treat with his king. ‘They fled towards Ellyrion, so that would make the most sense.’

  ‘So ardent was your pursuit that you abandoned your horned one, Spite?’ The Witch King’s words slashed at Malus like knives. ‘You abandoned your clothes? You cast aside your armour in the midst of battle?’

  ‘Forgive me, majesty, for I made an imprudent decision when the fighting for the wall was at its fiercest.’ Malus looked across the still-gloating faces of the nobles. He tried not to let his gaze linger on Drusala, but couldn’t resist directing a sharp look her way. If Malekith didn’t buy her story, if there was any opportunity at all Malus was going to make sure she shared his fate.

  ‘To heighten my prowess in battle,’ Malus explained, ‘I drank some of the witch brew of Khaine. Just a mere mouthful to strengthen my sword-arm. I did not anticipate its effects. When an asur champion pulled me from Spite’s saddle, my mind seemed to be engulfed by flames. I cut the traitorous cur in two almost as soon as I left the saddle, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy the song of Khaine blazing through my veins. In my fervour, my Khaine-blessed fury to slaughter the Ellyrians, I stripped off my armour, which was weighing me down…’

  Laughter rose from many of the nobles as they heard Malus explain his nudity. Before the drachau was fully aware of what he was doing, he seized the warpsword and turned on the jeering druchii lords. Belatedly he noted Kouran start towards him, but a gesture from Malekith called his hound back.

  ‘You laugh?’ Malus snarled at the nobles. ‘You who allowed the king’s enemies to escape? You would allow them respite? Allow the damned asur to rally and fight us again?’ The drachau’s eyes were nearly as fiery as those of the Witch King as he glared at the mocking crowd. Nothing so fanned the fires of his rage as the sneers of those who thought themselves his betters.

  Malekith raised his hand and at once the laughter was silenced. He stared at Malus in silence for a moment. ‘You cast aside your armour in order to pursue the enemy with greater speed?’

  Falling to his knee once more, Malus bowed to his king. ‘It is even as you say, majesty.’

  The Witch King turned and pointed an iron finger at Drusala. ‘You vouch for this story?’

  The sorceress bowed her head. ‘Even so, your majesty. Lord Malus may not remember, but he came to me last night in a battle-fever and confessed what happened.’ Her voice took on the slightest note of amusement. ‘He was seeking my advice, your majesty, on how to apologise for his excesses during the fight.’ She produced a length of bloodied cloth and held it towards the Witch King. ‘He came to me with this. He thought it to be of great importance.’

  A flick of Drusala’s hand and the cloth unfurled, displaying the device of silver wings upon a field of white and blue. A snarl came from Kouran as the warrior recognised the torn banner Drusala held. ‘The banner of Eagle Gate,’ the warrior said, reaching out to take it from the sorceress. ‘The Ellyrians tried to escape with it?’

  Malus looked at the banner, feigning astonishment, pressing his hand to his head as though to massage memories back into his mind. He turned to Malekith. ‘Majesty, I have no reason to doubt the Lady of Ghrond’s statements. My own recollections before this morning are, I fear, somewhat hazy.’

  The Witch King gestured to Kouran. Malekith and his faithful dog conferred for a moment, only snatches of their conversation reaching Malus’s ears. What he did hear made the drachau anxious. The king wasn’t buying their lies. With that thought in mind, Malus was shocked when Malekith turned to address him.

  ‘Your persistence in the fight is commendable, even if your tardiness to my council is less than exemplary. Your appearance is disrespectful, offensive to your king and the sensibilities of these refined highborn. It needs more than an asur shroud to be presentable at my court, whatever the custom might have been in Hag Graef.’

  The king’s mockery brought more jeers from the watching nobles. Malus started to raise the warpsword when Malekith again motioned for silence.

  ‘I will overlook this discourtesy, friend Malus,’ the king declared. ‘The campaign ahead of us will need leaders as persistent and audacious as yourself. To you I will entrust the defeat of the Ellyrians. Your army has suffered keenly in the fighting. You will need fresh forces to bring battle to Ellyrion. To that end, I place at your disposal the warriors of Tullaris Dreadbringer. After your experience with the witch brew of Khaine, the two of you should have more in common than ever.’

  Malus clenched his jaw tight as he heard the king’s words. Tullaris Dreadbringer, commanding a force of executioners bigger than any left to the armies of the Witch King. With him were such warriors and soldiers as had left Har Ganeth before Hellebron declared her entire city one giant altar to Khaine. The lack of amity between Malus and the disciples of Khaine was renowned. His half-brother Urial had been a priest of the Bloody-handed God, determined to bring about an ancient prophecy surrounding the Chosen of Khaine and the Bride of Khaine. For a time, it had seemed Malus himself was the Chosen, but that had been the daemon Tz’arkan twisting fate so that his mortal slave might gain the Warpsword of Khaine and restore the daemon to corporeal form. Urial had been one of the casualties in that web of deception. So had a great many others who were involved in the cult of Khaine.

  Tullaris had long been held as the Hand of Khaine, the Lord of Murder’s favoured son. Now, he was universally accepted as the Chosen of Khaine by the entirety of the cult, not simply those in Har Ganeth. Violent, moved by dark dreams of carnage and slaughter, Tullaris had seized everything in his brutal life with his own hands. His accomplishments were littered with the corpses of his victims. To have the acknowledgement of his right as Chosen essentially passed over to him by Malus was a source of unending vexation to the executioner. Malus had often wondered how many of the assassins who’d tried to kill him had been dispatched on Tullaris’s orders. He suspected very few – this was one enemy who would suffer no blade but his own to end the drachau’s life.

  One of his most dire enemies, yet Tullaris had one great mark in Malus’s favour: he bore no love for Malekith. The Witch King had many times proclaimed himself as Khaine’s mortal avatar. Tullaris made no secret of the divine dreams that moved and inspired him to his acts of atrocity and massacre. He presented himself as Khaine’s herald, a mortal touched by the Lord of Murder. For Malekith, the executioner’s claims were close to treachery. For Tullaris, the Witch King’s posturing as a divine avatar was nothing less than blasphemy.

  ‘In this war, the divine favour of Khaine is of more value than a thousand dragons,’ Malus said, trying to make the statement sound sincere. ‘I would deem it an unmatched distinction if I might be given command of the army brought here by Lord Tullaris. Unworthy of such command as I may be.’

  ‘You will strike out with them across the interior of Ellyrion,’ the Witch King commanded. ‘It is a very simple task we set before you, Malus. We simply want you to put every settlement between here and Evershale to the sword. Do you think you can manage that?’

  ‘If I didn’t think I could achieve the task you set before me, majesty, I would be unfit for the command,’ Malus said. He stood up and would have turned to walk away, but a last question from the Witch King stayed his retreat.

  ‘What weapons will you use against the asur?’ Malekith demanded.

  Malus stared back at the Witch King. ‘The greatest weapons of them all, majesty. The ones that have been burned into the souls of every druchii since we were cast from our homeland.

  ‘Deceit and treachery.’

  The flayed skin that formed the backing of the folding campaign chair creaked as Malus settled himself into his seat. He couldn’t remember now who the skin had belonged to originally. He thought it had been one of his father’s old retainers, one of th
e ones who had lacked the caution to treat him with proper respect while he was growing up. Emit? Razmat? He couldn’t remember now. Whoever it had been, their skin surely hadn’t been as comfortable to wear as it was to sit against.

  Cold fury burned inside Malus every time his mind contemplated his surroundings. Despite the fawning obeisance he’d paid the Witch King, it had been his army that had beaten the garrison. It had been his leadership that broke the Eagle Gate and left it open to conquest. Malekith’s contribution to the battle was little more than gutting a shark after it was already hooked and hauled into the boat. Yet the despotic monarch and his entourage were ensconced inside the fortress while Malus was left to the spare comforts of his army’s camp. Instead of the prestige of sleeping in the chambers of a conquered foe, he was left to sleep in a tent like all the common sword-fodder of his army!

  Despite, or rather because of, his rage, Malus was in a perversely good humour. It had been a very long time since he’d been able to indulge himself in a proper temper. Even under the influence of his mother’s wine, he’d always had to be careful lest some excess of emotion allow Tz’arkan to exert too much control over him. Since Drusala’s spell, however, there hadn’t been a peep from the daemon. He could still feel it there, cowering in some corner of his soul, but the sorceress’s magic had certainly curbed the spectral parasite.

  That knowledge only further aroused Malus’s temper. He hadn’t risen to become drachau of Hag Graef by allowing anyone to have a hold over him. He’d refused the advances of Naggor’s Belladon, refused to accept a throne on the witch’s terms. It would have been easier, but to assume power at such a price would have been a shallow illusion. He would have been a slave dancing to the tune of a hidden master. He’d had enough of that sort of thing from Tz’arkan. He wouldn’t simply swap the daemon for Drusala.

  His eyes strayed towards the sorceress. Again, she lounged upon his divan, seemingly careless of her provocative appearance as Malus conferred with his closest advisors. She didn’t fool anyone, of course, that she wasn’t aware of either her beauty or the desire she provoked. But that didn’t make it any easier for them to ignore her. Malus noted Dolthaic in particular attending a bit too much attention each time Drusala shifted her position and exposed a bit of her thigh. He’d have to remind the knight later about where his priorities should be. At least if he didn’t want to end up as a chair.

  By contrast, Tullaris Dreadbringer and his second, a noble warrior named Sarkol Narza, seemed to be sizing up a slab of meat any time their attention diverted to the sorceress. The two executioners were appropriately terrifying in their stylised armour, long-handled draichs slung over their backs, the withered heads of a few choice victims dangling from their belts. Tullaris was a tall, cheerless sort of killer, his face marked with the ghoulish imprint of the true fanatic. Sarkol Narza was more compactly built, almost stocky for an elf, but his face was no less villainous than that of his master. Matched monsters, two semi-rabid wolves in the service of Khaine. Malus had heard that Tullaris didn’t even balk at offering up the hearts of those already devoted to his god when the mood struck him, once going so far as to kill a dozen witch elves during one of Khaine’s holy festivals.

  At present, fortunately, Tullaris gave the appearance of being far more controlled and rational. Indeed, after that exhibition of hate in the Witch King’s court, the executioner had become strangely resigned to taking orders from his old enemy. What Malus couldn’t decide was how much of the killer’s attitude was genuine acceptance and how much was pretence. Either way, he wasn’t about to let his guard down.

  ‘If it pleases you, dreadlord,’ Silar Thornblood addressed Malus, ‘I think it would be best to integrate our forces gradually. Fleetmaster Aeich is dead and his corsairs almost exterminated on the walls, the Clar Karond contingent is a shell of its original strength, and the Knights of the Ebon Claw remain leaderless…’

  Malus waved his hand as though swatting aside an annoying insect. ‘Fold whatever is left of Vincirix’s knights into Dolthaic’s command. If any of them complain… the cold ones could probably use fresh meat after such a long battle. As for the rest, if they have any problems with our new allies, I suggest they get over them quickly.’

  Silar turned and glowered at the imposing Tullaris, exhibiting more nerve than Malus would have given him credit for. ‘I was more concerned about the discipline of our “allies”, dreadlord. The denizens of Har Ganeth aren’t renowned for their… professionalism… on the battlefield.’

  An ophidian smile stretched across Tullaris’s face. ‘Is my lord Silar questioning the valour of my warriors?’

  ‘Not their valour, only their restraint,’ Silar said. It was clear he appreciated the menace in the executioner’s tone. Even under the watching eyes of Malus there was no guarantee that Tullaris wouldn’t kill him where he stood. It was a bold display on Silar’s part. Maybe not wise, but certainly bold.

  ‘Has it occurred to you that that is why Malekith threw this task to Tullaris?’ Drusala asked. Her tone conveyed the disgust she felt, not just for the herald of Khaine but for Malus’s decision to join his fate to that of the infamous marauder. ‘The Witch King wants the countryside laid to waste. While we’re running about butchering farms and hermitages, what do you think the Ellyrians will be doing? They’ll be mustering their forces to march against us. Malekith expects us to bypass Tor Elyr and Whitefire Tor, to leave them unchallenged at our back while we strike towards Evershale and Avelorn. We will have two armies behind us and the forces of Avelorn before us.’

  ‘Does the prospect frighten you?’ Malus asked.

  Drusala’s eyes narrowed as she gazed over at the drachau. ‘I am saying this force is nothing more than a sacrifice, Malekith’s offering to Khaine so that his own victory may be assured. We draw out the hosts of Tor Elyr and Whitefire Tor, and once those armies are engaged with us, the Witch King can take the cities they’ve left weak and unguarded. We die while he claims all the glory.’

  ‘Is that not the role of any dutiful subject?’ Malus relished the flash of fire that came into Drusala’s eyes.

  ‘You’ve conveniently allowed the Witch King to put all of his worst rivals into a single force,’ Drusala accused.

  ‘And you’ve forgotten what I told Malekith,’ Malus said. ‘I warned him that my weapons would be deceit and treachery. I just didn’t tell him who I’d use them against.’ He rose from his chair and began to pace the floor. ‘Tomorrow we march into Ellyrion, just as Malekith expects. We will begin carving a path of blood, as he has commanded. But we won’t forget Tor Elyr, as he wants.’ He pointed at Drusala. ‘It will be your duty, witch, to observe the city. When their army sallies forth to put an end to our rampage, I need your magic to tell me.’

  ‘And what will we do when the host of Tor Elyr comes seeking vengeance?’ Dolthaic asked.

  Malus grinned, his face becoming almost as bloodthirsty as those of Tullaris and Sarkol. ‘We show the Witch King what a massacre really looks like.’

  It was long into the night before Malus came stealing into the tent of Tullaris Dreadbringer. It was a gruesome spectacle, stitched together from the skins of sacrificial victims, the brand of Khaine still visible on each desiccated forehead. Scalps and dried fingers adorned the tent posts, fluttering in the fitful wind moaning down the pass. A mat fashioned from the facial bones of a hundred skulls grinned up at the drachau, taunting him, daring him to cross the threshold.

  It would take more than that to give Malus pause, however. At his gesture, Dolthaic preceded him and drew back the curtain of witch elf hair that covered the door of the tent. A smell of blood and death wafted out from the darkened interior. Malus gave himself a moment to get accustomed to the stench. The bones in the mat cracked and creaked as his armoured boots strode across the fleshless faces and into the executioner’s domain.

  Tullaris was waiting for him. The Chosen of Khaine knelt on the ground, c
lad only in a loincloth. A pair of thin, sickly looking slaves attended him, their scarred arms rubbing at him with blood-soaked sponges. A third slave lay crumpled in a wide, trough-like basin, her blood streaming from the dozens of cuts inflicted upon her body. Sarkol Narza stood over the bleeding slave, a strange instrument gripped in his hand. It was shaped like a branding iron, but what was fitted at its end was more like a set of razors, each blade crossing and recrossing the others to form a perfect representation of the Sign of Khaine. As Malus watched, Sarkol pressed the bladed instrument into the slave’s side, leaving a crimson imprint for a brief moment before the streaming blood obscured it.

  ‘Is this how you receive your master?’ Malus growled, glaring at Tullaris and his minions.

  Tullaris matched the heat in the drachau’s gaze. ‘I serve but one master, Darkblade, and you are not Him.’

  Another elf, even a dreadlord, would have been intimidated by the cold passion in Tullaris’s voice, the gleam of fanaticism in his eyes. Malus had seen too much, survived too much, suffered too much, to feel impressed. ‘I wonder, Tullaris. Does Khaine truly speak to you, or are you simply mad?’

  From the corner of his eye, Malus noticed Sarkol reach for the dagger on his belt. He could hear Dolthaic start to draw his sword and move to intercept the executioner. He kept his own gaze upon Tullaris. The slaves were retreating from their master, cowering away from him. Even now, they were more frightened of the unarmed executioner than the armoured drachau standing a few feet away.

  ‘I should have killed you, Darkblade,’ Tullaris said, every word dripping with hate and bitterness. ‘Pretender. Imposter. Blasphemer. You used the title that belongs to me towards your own purpose. For your own gain you have profaned and defiled the holy name of Khaine.’

  Sarkol had turned to face Dolthaic. If it came to a fight, Malus wasn’t certain he’d put his wager on the knight, even with the longer reach of his sword. At close quarters, a fanatic was more dangerous than a professional soldier.