by Dan Abnett
Malus savoured the shocked silence that fell upon Lord Kuall’s sudden exit. His black eyes sought out the drachau and he waited for Lord Myrchas to make the next move.
The drachau met the highborn’s stare, and Malus could see that Myrchas was weighing his options. For the moment the drachau was untouchable; as one of the Witch King’s personal vassals he was beyond Malus’ reach, but the reverse was true as well. Finally his expression softened slightly and the highborn knew he’d won.
“What is our dread majesty’s command?” the drachau asked.
“The Witch King is assembling the army of Naggaroth and preparing to march here at once,” the highborn replied, feeling a thrill of triumph. “Until such time as he arrives I will command the forces of the Black Tower.”
Myrchas bristled at the news. “Malekith cannot name you vaulkhar without the approval of the tower lords!”
The highborn cut off the drachau’s protest with a raised hand. “I did not claim to be the vaulkhar, Lord Myrchas. I said that I will command the army. It is a fine distinction, but an important one, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Very well,” the drachau said darkly, realizing that he’d been outmanoeuvred.
“Excellent,” Malus said, then raised his axe and embedded it in the tabletop with a thunderous crash. All of the assembled highborn leapt back with startled oaths, and Malus leaned forward and picked up an empty wine goblet with a fierce grin. “Now as my first official command I want a bottle of good wine brought out, then you can tell me who you are and report as to the disposition of our forces.”
The reports lasted for almost three hours. Malus listened closely to each and every one, forcing himself to stay awake and drinking in every detail he could. His brief time as the lieutenant of Fuerlan’s small force had in no way prepared him for the magnitude of commanding the army of the Black Tower.
Malus struggled with the names of the many highborn who came forward to report on one of the many facets of the garrison and the tower’s defensive preparations. Lists were presented, detailing the numbers of troops in each regiment, the status of their equipment and their overall readiness, the quantity and quality of their food and the amount of time left in their training period before they were to be sent to their home city. Detailed tallies were given of arrows, crossbow bolts, heavy bolts, spare armour, spare shields, swords, spearheads, arrowheads, catapult stones, gallons of oil, bundles of torches —
“All right, all right!” Malus interjected, waving his goblet at the pair of highborn who were currently reporting on the status of the kitchens. “I’ve heard enough.” The two druchii bowed quickly and returned to their seats, grateful to have escaped Malus’ notice with their skins intact. Wincing painfully, the highborn shifted in the uncomfortable council chair and drained the dregs of the goblet in a single gulp.
The highborn did his best to collect his scattered impressions as he held out his goblet to be refilled by a waiting attendant. The Endless had taken up positions by the door, watching the council members from behind their implacable masks.
“It is clear to me that the Black Tower has not squandered its time since the appearance of the horde. Your preparations were misguided, but your dedication and effort are to be commended,” he said. The assembled highborn nodded their heads respectfully. Beside Malus, the drachau’s high-backed chair stood empty. Lord Myrchas had taken his leave a couple of hours before.
The highborn focused on a druchii noble across the table who had introduced himself as the commander of the cavalry. He was a whipcord-lean figure in dark armour, swathed in a heavy cloak of glossy bearskin. Malus couldn’t remember the druchii’s name to save himself. “Let us get back to basics. How many light cavalry did you say we had, lord…”
“Irhaut, dread lord,” the highborn replied smoothly. Lord Irhaut had a long, hooked nose and three gold earrings that glinted roguishly in his left ear, hinting at a successful former career as a corsair. “We currently muster six thousand light horse, arrayed in six banners.”
Malus nodded. “Very good.” He turned to the broad-shouldered highborn sitting beside Irhaut. “And our infantry, Lord Murmon?”
“Meiron, my lord,” the highborn corrected with a pained expression. He had blunt, craggy features and unusually shaggy brows for a druchii. Malus wondered idly if Lord Meiron’s mother hadn’t mated with a bear to produce such a child. Lord Meiron consulted his reports and drew himself straight. We currently muster fifteen thousand spearmen and a thousand Black Guard in sixteen banners, although four of those banners are scheduled to return home—”
“No one is going home until the horde has been destroyed,” Malus said sternly. Lord Meiron blinked beneath his shaggy brows and nodded hesitantly. The highborn scowled. They’ve been training troops and leading raids for so long that they can’t seem to comprehend anything else, he thought. Well, they’d have a chance to revise their thinking soon enough.
Malus realised his goblet was full and took a deep, appreciative draught. He made a mental note to get a tally of the fortress’ wine stores when he had a moment. “Lord Suheir,” he said, turning to the armoured giant on his right. “How fare the household knights?”
Lord Suheir turned slightly in his chair to face Malus, appearing a bit surprised that his new commander actually remembered his name. Suheir was head and shoulders taller than any other druchii in the room, and looked strong enough to crack walnuts with his hands. If Lord Meiron’s mother had mated with a bear, then Suheir’s ill-fated dam had lain with a nauglir. He had a wide face and an almost square chin, an unfortunate combination for a druchii lord. “The household knights are fifteen hundred strong,” he replied in a booming voice. “As well as five hundred chariots that haven’t been used in a single battle as far as I know.”
Malus rolled the numbers over in his mind as he swirled the wine in his cup. Twenty-four thousand troops! It was easily twice the size of any other garrison in Naggaroth, with the possible exception of Naggarond itself. The notion was far more intoxicating than any vintage he’d ever drunk. The amount of power at his disposal was immense. As he contemplated this his eyes fell to the burnished silver plaque resting on the table before him.
Now he understood Nuarc’s words all too well.
The highborn took a deep breath. “All right. What have we learned about the enemy?”
Heads turned. At the end of the table the oldest druchii present sat up straight in his chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. Lord Rasthlan’s hair had more grey in it than black, and was pulled back and plaited with plain finger bones and silver wire. Unlike the other highborn he wore only a shirt of close-fitting mail over a kheitan cut in a rustic, almost autarii style. His right cheek was decorated with a swirling tattoo of a snarling hound—a mark of considerable honour among the shades, if Malus’ memory served him correctly. Rasthlan certainly looked more at home among the cushions and rugs of an autarii lodge than sitting at a table with civilized folk.
“Our scouts have been tracking the horde since it came together after sacking the majority of the hill forts almost a month ago,” Rasthlan said in a gravelly voice. “Kuall spoke truly: the army is the largest I have ever seen. Tens of thousands of beastmen, and human tribes besides.”
“Any heavily armoured troops?” Malus asked.
“None that my scouts saw, dread lord,” the scout commander replied. “But there were giants, and great hill-trolls, and possibly even more terrible things marching along with them in the centre of the host. It appears the horde is led by a very powerful sorcerer or shaman, for the air reeked of dark magic.”
“You may be assured of that,” the highborn replied. “So, what is your most honest estimate? How large a force are we facing?”
Rasthlan paused, swallowing hard. He looked to the men beside him. “I could not say for certain, dread lord.”
Malus’ dark eyes bored into the older lord. “Give me your best guess, then. Thirty thousand? Fifty tho
usand?”
The druchii’s gaze fell to the table. “I wouldn’t want to guess…”
“I understand,” Malus said, a hint of steel creeping into his voice. “So you may take this as an order: tell me, in your best estimate, how large you think the Chaos horde is.”
Lord Rasthlan took a deep breath, then met the highborn’s gaze. “A hundred and twenty thousand, give or take,” he said levelly “I’ve seen them myself. They darken the plains with their numbers. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
The rest of the highborn looked uneasily at one another, shock evident in their expressions. Lord Suheir looked at his wide hands. “Kuall had the right of it,” he said slowly. There’s no way we can challenge such an army in the field. It would be a massacre.”
Even Malus himself was shocked at such a number, but he kept his face carefully neutral. He studied Rasthlan closely. “Are you certain of this?” he asked.
The scout commander nodded at once. “I didn’t want to believe it myself, which is why I went and counted their numbers myself.”
Malus nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the map spread across the table. “And where are they now?”
Rasthlan rose from his chair and came around the table. “The horde moves slowly” he said, “Less than a dozen miles or so a day. After razing Bhelgaur Keep they turned towards the Black Tower, which means they would be about here.” He pointed to an area of foothills north and west of the Plain of Ghrond, perhaps fifteen leagues distant.
Malus considered the distances and studied the terrain. For the last four days he’d been thinking over all that Nuarc had told him, trying to find a way out of the many snares that had been laid for him. One plan after another had been discarded, until an idea struck him in the early hours of the morning that suggested a possibility of success. Now, looking at the map, he made up his mind. “Very well. My thanks to you gentlemen. You’ve given me everything I need to develop a plan of action.” He threw back his head and finished off the contents of the goblet, then set the wine cup carefully on the tabletop. “It’s been a very long day for all of us, I expect. I’m going to find a bed and get a few hours’ sleep. We will meet again on the morrow, when I will provide detailed orders for each of the divisions.” Bracing his hands carefully on the arms of his chair, the highborn pushed himself to his feet. “Until then, you are dismissed. I suggest you all get as much rest as you can. There will be little of it to go around in the next few days.”
The army staff rose to their feet, exchanging bewildered glances as Malus strode purposely towards the door. Finally it was Lord Suheir who summoned up enough courage to speak. “Dread lord?”
Malus paused, his head swimming with wine and fatigue. “Yes?”
“Is there something you know that we don’t?” he rumbled. “Lord Rasthlan says that the horde is moving only a dozen miles a day. That means they won’t reach the Black Tower for almost a week.”
Malus looked at the captain of knights and gave him a wolfish smile. “I know. That gives us just enough time to launch our attack.” Then he disappeared from the room, bounded by the swift shadows of the Endless.
Chapter Ten
WARRIOR OF NAGGAROTH
Malus dreamt he was back in the forest near the City of Executioners, racing through the close-set trees beneath the light of the twin moons. Something was following him; he could hear its ponderous footfalls and the brittle crack of the tree boughs as it forced its way through the woods in his wake. And he knew somehow that if whatever it was managed to catch him it would consume his very soul.
His armour and axe were gone, and the brambles tore at his face and clothes. Like razor-edged claws they shredded his thick kheitan and the robes beneath, and peeled away the skin across his cheeks and forehead. Hot blood coursed down his skin, but he felt no pain. He felt nothing but pure, mortal terror that the thing was going to catch him no matter how hard he ran.
And, sure enough, the heavy footfalls sounded closer, as though his pursuer were a giant, covering leagues with every step. Choking back a cry of fear he ran all the harder, the branches and the briars cutting ever deeper into his skin. He longed to find Spite, but the nauglir was nowhere to be seen. Malus strained to hear the familiar howl of the cold one, thinking it had to be hunting somewhere deep in the wood, but he could hear nothing over the pounding of his heart and the steady thump of his pursuer’s tread. It sounded as though it was just a few scant yards behind him now; the skin on the back of his neck prickled, but he didn’t dare look back, fearful of what might be reaching for him with outstretched talons.
Then without warning he burst into a thickly wooded hollow, finding himself on his knees on a narrow game trail running along its length. With a shudder of relief he realised where he was.
The tree. He had to find the tree. If he could climb back inside his pursuer couldn’t find him.
Frantically he leapt to his feet and ran north along the path until he found the bloodstain he remembered on the trail. His heart hammering in his throat he risked a quick glance behind him, and saw that for the moment his pursuer was still just out of sight. Quickly he circled the broad stain and dived deep into the woods on the western side of the path. Thorny vines and brambles cut deep into already bleeding wounds, but he pushed on nonetheless, praying to the Dark Mother that the darkness and the vegetation would conceal him.
Within moments he found himself beside the blasted tree. The old trunk shone softly in the moonlight, like a gift from the goddess. Stifling a cry of relief he forced himself into the dark cleft. Showers of insects and rotten wood rained down on him as he straightened in the darkness, and he took it as a blessing from the goddess.
In his dream the tree was larger inside than without. He turned as the footsteps drew nearer, backing away from the thin slice of moonlight coming through the cleft from outside.
The footfalls were so close now that he could feel the earth tremble with each step. Thud. Thud. Thud. He held his breath, his eyes fixed on the thin slant of moonlight before him.
A shadow passed across the cleft. Malus saw a pair of booted feet through the slanted opening, barely a yard away from his hiding place. He took another involuntary step back, deeper into shadow.
The boots shifted left, then right. A voice called out. “I know you’re here little druchii,” Tz’arkan said, his voice slick and deadly as oiled steel. “It’s no use hiding. I can smell you. You’re almost close enough to taste!
A shudder passed through Malus at the sound of the daemon’s voice. The boots shifted back to the right -then paused. One foot stepped towards the tree.
“Are you in there?” the daemon said. “Yes, I think you are.”
A scream bubbled up in Malus’ throat. He took another step back and fetched up against the uneven bole of the tree. He smelled rot and the wet stink of earthworms. The substance behind him gave slightly beneath his weight, like soft flesh.
Then a hand reached around him and pressed tightly over his mouth and another snaked tight around his waist. Malus smelled the stink of the grave and tasted putrefied flesh on his lips. Worms wriggled from the dead thing’s wrist and landed, squirming, on his throat.
“Do not fear, my lord,” a familiar voice breathed in his ear. A cold breath, foul with the stench of rotting meat, lay damply along his cheek. “The daemon cannot have you. I claimed you first.”
Malus writhed and squirmed in Lhunara’s embrace, but her dead limbs held him in an iron embrace. He could smell nothing now but fleshy rot and the bitter smell of grave-dirt. His frantic gaze turned to the shaft of light and he saw the daemon pause outside, suddenly unsure. He tried to scream, to call out the daemon’s name. Better to offer up his soul to the daemon’s hunger than linger one moment more in Lhunara’s foul embrace! But her gelid hand clamped his mouth tightly shut, and he could not get enough air through the reeking miasma that seeped from her decaying skin.
Outside, the boots turned slowly away. “You can’t hide forever, Darkb
lade,” the daemon called. “It’s only a matter of time before I find you.” Then, to Malus’ horror, Tz’arkan walked away. The heavy footsteps receded quickly into the distance.
A cold, slimy tongue traced lightly along the side of Malus’ neck. “You see, I told you I would keep you safe,” Lhunara said, her breath close against his throat. “No one is going to hurt you but me.”
Then her perfect teeth bit deep into his skin, and for the first time he found the breath to scream.
“My lord! My lord, wake up!”
Malus awoke staring upwards at a starry sky framed by an arch of stone. He lay upon his back, dressed only in a sleeping robe that had somehow tangled around his legs. A cold wind blew against his cheek, tasting of snow. His heart laboured painfully in his chest, hammering like the drumming feet of a charging nauglir.
A dark silhouette hovered over him, backlit by the moonlight. He thrashed violently, still partially in the grip of the nightmare and the figure gripped his arm tightly. “Be still, my lord! You could throw yourself over the rail!”
The sharp warning penetrated his dulled senses. He blinked away the last vestiges of the dream and realised that he lay on the floor of a narrow balcony, high up on the flank of the Black Tower. Moving slowly and cautiously, he sat upright, helped along by the strong hands of the shadowy attendant. Malus looked out across the white plain, which shimmered faintly in the moonlight. He saw the dark mountains off to the north, limned with the shifting light of the northern aurora. Off to the northwest he could just make out a faint white line of foothills. Beyond them, many leagues north and west, lay Nagaira and the Chaos horde.