Deathblade: A Tale of Malus Darkblade

by C. L. Werner

  From atop one of the volcanic spurs that rose above the field, Drusala observed the well-ordered ranks of infantry being brought into the battle. Already engaged with the Phoenix Guard and their supporting troops, the army of Hag Graef was too dispersed to react quickly enough to Korhil’s advance. She could see the tall, powerful elf lord, his body draped in the hide of Charandis as he led his White Lions towards the fray. Regiments from Ellyrion and Lothern and Avelorn followed, their banners snapping in the fading light. The druchii had lost the advantage of numbers, and likewise the advantage of cohesion. There was little Drusala could do about the former, but she had tried to influence the latter, shifting regiments around the battlefield with her dark magic.

  The violation of time and space had sapped her powers, however. To work the feat she now had in mind, she would need to draw upon the powers of the Blood Coven.

  ‘Sisters, I must call upon your strength,’ Drusala called to the three witches. It was a formality, really. When she’d defeated them before, she placed upon each of them a binding that laid their souls bare to her. They were as much her slaves as Absaloth and the Voiceless Ones, even if they weren’t aware of it.

  The Blood Coven clawed handfuls of gore from their cauldron, bathing themselves in the lifeblood of murdered druchii, drawing into themselves the terrible potentialities of the aethyr. To Drusala’s attuned eyes, the three witches began to blaze with flames of dark power, each becoming a crackling pillar of arcane energy. Stretching forth her hand, she began to draw that energy into herself, to use it to shift and manipulate the fabric of reality. She ignored the cries of pain her leeching drew from the Blood Coven. It was their honour to be used by the sorceress, to fuel such a vast magical working. What matter if it would shred their souls and shatter their minds? They should be thankful for the opportunity to serve Queen Morathi.

  Scattering the strands of reality, Drusala wove them into new patterns and shapes on a far greater scale that she had before. The last of the Clar Karond beastmasters in the host of Hag Graef found themselves transplanted from the flank of Caradryan’s encircled forces to the fore of Korhil’s White Lions. The remaining hydras in the druchii force snapped and tore at the stunned asur, decimating their front ranks as they suddenly appeared right in the path of their march.

  All about the battlefield, the theme was repeated. Dreadspears manifested upon the rear of Avelorn archers, bleakswords were transferred into the path of marching Ellyrian warriors. Malignantly, Drusala stretched her will to seize the well-ordered asur regiments. One by one she scattered them about Reaver’s Mark in chaotic disarray. Warriors who thought themselves protected on either side by friends now found themselves surrounded by foes. Archers ready to loose their arrows reappeared far across the field with no enemy within range. The Lothern Sea Guard were dropped in the midst of the Iceblades and the corsairs, the bewildered asur hurriedly locking their shields together in a circle of protective steel.

  Drusala laughed in vicious triumph, channelling more and more power through herself. She could feel the Blood Coven being sucked dry by her magic, but it was of no concern to her. To feel this kind of power, to exert this kind of force, she would drain the lives of a dozen sorceresses! A hundred!

  Lost in her hubris, Drusala failed to notice the tiny strands of magical energy that were being diverted away from her. The Blood Coven were bound to her now, and compelled to obey her, but still they had found a way to defy the sorceress. Each little coil of power that they diverted away from Drusala they sent pouring into Malus Darkblade. The process had started with the first great ritual that had sprung the drachau’s ambush against Caradryan. Now, as Drusala drew more heavily upon her living fuel, so did the witches send more aethyric power into the drachau himself.

  Through their arcane connection to Drusala, the Blood Coven had learned of Tz’arkan. Now they were feeding the daemon, using it to empower Malus. With enough power, the drachau would be free of Drusala’s control. When he was, he would come seeking his revenge.

  It was only when one of the witches was finally drained dry and her withered body wilted to the ground that Drusala noticed the energies that were being redirected. With a shriek of fury, she cut off the flow of power, leaving the two surviving witches collapsed upon the ground.

  Drusala didn’t spare the prostrate witches another thought, but immediately focused on what they had done. She could see the dark energies blazing within Malus. The witches had stirred up Tz’arkan’s power while leaving the daemon’s consciousness in retreat. Malus Darkblade with the full might of a daemon king flowing through his flesh! The prospect was one that made even her shudder.

  To stop Malus now would mean horrendous risk, risk that Drusala didn’t dare. Casting her awareness about the battlefield, she hesitated, wondering if there weren’t perhaps another way. She saw Tullaris and the Bloodseekers cutting their way through the Fangs of Chrace. Just as they had their foe on the run, a company of darkshards under the command of Silar began to shoot down the executioners. More deceit and treachery from Malus. First the drachau had connived to have Drusala transplant Tullaris and the Ossian Guard nearest the enemy, now the drachau set his soldiers the task of outright assassination.

  The Chosen of Khaine harboured a long grudge against the Scion of Hag Graef. This treachery on the battlefield would only enflame that hate. Tullaris would be her weapon against Malus.

  Unable to tap into the Blood Coven’s magic, Drusala exerted her own energies to once again pervert the rules of time and space. A ring of coruscating light formed around the Bloodseekers, whirring about them in a blinding spiral. When it seemed the light could spin no faster, both it and the Bloodseekers vanished. Right from under the bolts of Silar’s troops, Tullaris was snatched to another part of the field, dropped down some little distance from Malus and his Knights of the Burning Dark.

  Exhausted by her exertion, Drusala sank against the side of the volcanic spur. She had seen the executioners safely across the field, placed Tullaris where he could exact revenge upon Malus. What she didn’t see as she tried to regain her strength was Tullaris order his troops away from the Knights of the Burning Dark. She didn’t see him lead his elves towards the Ellyrian knights.

  Revenge was a powerful force in the heart of Tullaris Dreadbringer, but the voice of Khaine was more powerful still.

  Malus felt as though the strength of a god were in his limbs. The asur he struck down were cut asunder as if their armoured bodies were no more than pieces of bread. By his strength alone, the knights ruptured the asur regiment, decimating the warriors in an orgy of bloodshed. Cold ones ripped gory giblets from the slaughtered foe while knights stabbed their lances into the wounded elves writhing on the ground. Malus held the banner of the vanquished regiment overhead. He waved it back and forth, mocking the rest of the enemy army. Then, with no more than a snap of his fingers, he broke the stout silverwood pole and tossed the broken banner into the bloody morass of shattered warriors and feeding reptiles.

  The whole of Ulthuan would tremble at his name. The asur would cower in their palaces and temples, praying to Asuryan and all the indifferent Cadai for deliverance from Malus Darkblade. He would raise a mountain of skulls such that even Malekith would beg him for mercy!

  A low hiss from Spite drew Malus’s attention. He followed the horned one’s gaze. Red fury boiled up inside him. He’d been aware that Drusala and the Blood Coven were continuing to bend space and time to shift forces about the battlefield so that the fighting would favour the druchii. What he hadn’t been aware of was the translocation of Tullaris and the Bloodseekers. The executioners had appeared a few hundred yards from the Knights of the Burning Dark. Malus could see Hag Graef crossbow bolts sticking in the armour of the Har Ganeth killers, some of them dropping to the ground from their wounds even as he watched. The sorceress had used her magic to save Tullaris just as Silar was about to destroy the Chosen of Khaine.

  Drawing ba
ck on Spite’s reins, Malus expected the executioners to come rushing at his knights. Instead, Tullaris goaded them forwards. It took only a second for Malus to understand his rival’s intentions. Tullaris was still focused on his original purpose – determined to strike down Tyrion. Even balanced against the recent treachery of the drachau, Tullaris was intent on the asur prince. Malus felt a cold chill rush through him, wondering if the fanatic thought the voice of Khaine were guiding him to such an encounter. More disturbingly, he wondered if that voice might in fact be real.

  Real or not, he was determined to reap the glory from this battle. ‘The Regent!’ Malus shouted at his knights, jabbing the warpsword in the direction of the Ellyrian reavers. The cavalry had won their battle, scattering the Clar Karond contingent, but it had been a costly fight. They started to turn back towards the asur positions, but thanks to the shifting magic of Drusala, there was no battle line to return to, only a hundred small skirmishes unfolding all around Reaver’s Mark.

  Malus saw Tyrion raise Sunfang over his head, a gesture of challenge as ancient as Aenarion. The drachau hefted the warpsword in reply, accepting the call to battle. But when the Ellyrians came galloping across the field, they wheeled to the right, away from the cold ones and their lord! Malus roared in outrage when he saw that they were charging the Bloodseekers. Tullaris, too, had raised his weapon in challenge and it was to Tullaris that the asur now drove their frothing steeds.

  ‘I want the Regent,’ Malus snarled at his knights. ‘I want his blood. I want his flesh. I want his soul!’ Spite growled hungrily as the drachau urged the reptile to greater effort. ‘The Regent,’ Malus snapped at the knights riding around him. ‘Kill anyone who stands between us and the Regent!’

  He knew his Knights of the Burning Dark. They wouldn’t hesitate to obey his command, however murderous. The execution of Dolthaic would be a reminder to them of what it meant to offend their master.

  Panic gripped Silar Thornblood when he saw the Bloodseekers vanish right from under the assault of his darkshards. From his vantage, he could see the executioners reappear across Reaver’s Mark. They had rematerialised only a small distance from Malus and the Knights of the Burning Dark. At once he recognised the treachery at work here. Drusala had employed her sorcery to bring Tullaris against Malus. After the murderous fire from Silar’s troops, the Chosen of Khaine would be even more enraged and maniacal than usual. He’d avenge himself on Malus, given the opportunity.

  The drachau was the only one who could hold together the dwindling might of Hag Graef. Malus was the only lord with the strength and determination to rekindle the blood of the Dark Crag. Silar felt this in his heart. If his people were to have any legacy at all, Darkblade must live!

  Spotting one of the mounted messengers who relayed commands between the drachau’s generals, Silar broke away from the darkshards and waved the horseman towards him. As soon as the messenger was near, the noble seized him and dragged the elf from the saddle. A slash from his sword ended the messenger’s protest at Silar’s thievery. The smell of its former master’s blood excited the black charger, the horse rearing and snorting as it tried to throw Silar from its back.

  The noble jerked the reins savagely, forcing his new mount to turn. Once he had the horse pointed towards the Bloodseekers, Silar swatted its flank with the flat of his sword. The steed galloped off, its hooves pounding across the corpse-littered terrain. Dead and dying elves were smashed by the racing animal. Asur stragglers stabbed at Silar with spears and swords, druchii survivors cried to him for aid. Silar ignored them all, intent upon the desperate purpose that now ruled him. He had to save Malus. He had to honour his old oaths. The future of the Hag depended upon it.

  Ahead, Silar could see the Ellyrians rushing to engage the Bloodseekers. For a moment, he debated drawing back, leaving the asur to settle with Tullaris. With Tyrion commanding them, there was every chance the Chosen of Khaine would meet his end.

  Silar shook his head and urged his horse onwards. He couldn’t take the chance. If Tullaris survived, it was certain that he would prosecute his vengeance against Malus. Silar was realistic about his chances against the executioner – at least in a fair fight. But he didn’t intend to fight Tullaris at all. He intended to ride him down while the killer was focused on the Ellyrians.

  Away to his flank, Silar could see Malus and his knights charging towards the melee. The proximity of his lord made him hurry his mount to still greater effort, lashing its flank until blood streamed down its legs. He couldn’t let Darkblade fall! Not when it had been his duty to kill Tullaris in the first place. Not when so much depended on the drachau’s survival.

  Murderous and vicious as they were, the Bloodseekers still had a certain degree of discipline. Those at the rear of their formation parted ranks to allow Silar to pass through them, mistaking him for a mounted messenger. The noble drove his horse between the executioners. From his vantage, he soon spotted Tullaris.

  Lashing the horse once more, Silar drove for the infamous fanatic. This time he didn’t wait for the Bloodseekers to step aside, but used the mass of his horse to batter them aside. He saw the Ellyrians being cut down by the vicious Tullaris. He could hear the grisly Khainite chant that rose from the executioner’s lips.

  Raising his sword high, Silar charged his horse straight for the embattled Tullaris. Something, some uncanny sense, warned the executioner at the last instant. In a blindingly fast motion, Tullaris shifted away and brought the First Draich sweeping upwards. The murderous blade struck the horse in the neck, shearing through muscle and bone to send the animal’s head flying away. The decapitated brute ploughed onwards for several yards, crashing into the Ellyrians.

  Silar tried to leap clear of the saddle, but his boot caught in the stirrup. When the momentum of the beast was spent and its carcass crashed to the earth, he was pinned beneath its weight. Desperately, he tried to free himself, tried to drag his now broken leg clear of the dead animal.

  A dark shadow suddenly fell across the trapped Silar. He grabbed for his sword, but even as he did, the gory blade of the First Draich came scything down, shearing through his shoulder and leaving his arm lying in the dirt.

  ‘Loyalty to that cretin was ever your weakness, Silar,’ Tullaris snarled at the maimed noble. A cruel smile twisted the executioner’s face. ‘Khaine warned me you would try to save your master. Fear not, he will be joining you soon enough.’

  Tullaris hefted the First Draich, swinging it high above his head and bringing the murderous blade crunching into the trapped Silar’s skull.

  The Ellyrians crashed into the ranks of the Bloodseekers, lances piercing mail and stabbing flesh, bones crushed beneath the pounding hooves of elven steeds. Tyrion was there at the centre of the fight, his burning sword strewing the corpses of executioners all around him, his great stallion, Malhandhir, cracking skulls and shattering ribs with every kick of its powerful hooves.

  Amidst the carnage, Tullaris butchered his way towards the Regent, his draich impaling foes on its blade with every thrust. Elves and horses died wherever the Chosen of Khaine stepped, their blood added to the gore already coating the butcher’s armour. A low, sadistic chant rasped across Tullaris’s lips as he stalked through the melee, an appeal to the Lord of Murder that the massacre should never end. A world of endless blood and slaughter, such was the only prayer Tullaris thought fit to offer up to Khaine.

  When the Knights of the Burning Dark crashed into the fray they attacked with wanton abandon. Executioners were crushed beneath the claws of cold ones even as Ellyrian cavalry were lifted from their saddles by druchii lances. The warpsword sang its deathly song as Malus carved a path through enemy and ally alike. The strength of the daemon made his muscles feel as though they were corded iron; every slash reduced his victim to a mangled heap, every cut ripped through armour and pulverised bone. The drachau shouted at the magnitude of his havoc, exuberant in the glory of his might.

 
Ahead of him, Malus could see the banner of the Phoenix King, the standard that had been entrusted to Tyrion as Regent of Ulthuan. Redoubling his assault, the drachau cleared a way ahead. As the last Ellyrians were hacked to pieces by the warpsword, Malus drove Spite forwards in a ferocious charge that demanded every last mote of the reptile’s strength.

  Malhandhir smelt the horned one before it charged. Whinnying in warning, the elven steed turned towards Malus as the drachau came rushing at Tyrion. By the narrowest margin, the Regent raised Sunfang and blocked the descending strike of the warpsword. Sparks of antithetical magic flew from the crashing blades. Despite the daemonic strength flowing through the drachau’s arms, Malus was unable to shatter the enchanted sword as he had the lesser blades of lesser foes. But he could see that Tyrion trembled from the strain of trying to drive back Malus’s strike.

  Malus reared back in his saddle, driving the warpsword again and again at Tyrion. Sunfang parried each blow, the two swords shrieking as they scraped against one another. With each strike, Malus could see Tyrion’s endurance put to the test. Each assault made him drop a little lower in the saddle, each parry was just that little bit slower than the last to intercept his blade. The Regent was weakening while with every breath Malus felt his own strength growing.

  Spite snapped at Malhandhir with its fangs, forcing the horse to shift and dodge the flashing jaws, further taxing the skill of its master to block Malus’s attacks. Breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat, the drachau was winning.

  Emboldened by the weakening of his foe and the daemonic might burning within his own body, Malus wasn’t prepared when Tyrion changed his tactics. When the warpsword came flashing down at the Regent’s head, instead of blocking the blow as he had before, Tyrion urged Malhandhir into a sidewise twist. Malus’s sword cleft nothing but empty air. Without the expected impact of blade against blade, the drachau was overbalanced, falling forwards across his saddle.