by Dan Abnett
The druchii army swept across the low hills like storm clouds, low thunder murmuring in the fall of thousands of shining hooves. Malus raised his axe once more at the top of the next hill and swept it downwards. As one, eight thousand knights and cavalrymen spurred their mounts to a trot.
Now the earth shook with the heavy tread of the cavalry, and the iron wheels of the chariots added their own deep-throated rumble as they picked up speed. The barren hills were flashing past now. The nauglir of the household knights were gliding over the rolling terrain like hunting hounds, venomous drool trailing from their dagger-like fangs. As they rode the wind shifted, and in the distance a herd of northern ponies shrieked in terror as they caught the cold ones’ scent. Malus could just catch glimpses of dark tent roofs a half-mile ahead, just beyond a trio of low, broken hills.
The highborn swung his axe over his head and put the spurs to Spite’s flanks, urging him into a canter.
Spite plunged down the steep slope and bounded swiftly up the opposite hillside, long legs at full extension and a growl rumbling from the cold one’s snout as it scented prey just ahead. This time when they streaked over the summit Malus saw that the rolling slopes beyond were carpeted in low, round tents made from crudely sewn hides. The tents of the horde covered everything from horizon to horizon, darkening the hillsides and hollows like a vile disease. The stench of spilled blood and corrupted flesh rolled over him like a cloud, thick enough to hang like a faint haze over the squalid tents of the camp.
The sheer size of the horde struck Malus like an invisible blow. It was one thing to comprehend what a hundred thousand troops represented, but another thing entirely to see it with one’s own eyes. We’re like a bucket of water being thrown into a furnace, he finally realised. How can we possibly defeat such a foe?
Despair began to seep like poison into his heart—but just then a tent flap opened almost a dozen yards away and a bewildered beastman staggered out into the night air. Its heavy, horned head swung left and right, taking in the oncoming druchii riders and struggling to make sense of what it saw. Then, in a single moment its expression changed from aggravation to stark panic, and the highborn grinned like a daemon from the Abyss.
One foe at a time, he realised. We beat them one foe at a time.
I’m coming for you, dear sister, the highborn thought with savage joy. Now, after so many months, so many schemes and betrayals, there will finally be a reckoning.
Fixing the terrified beastman with a predatory glare Malus raised his axe and screamed to the heavens. “Warriors of Naggaroth! CHARGE!”
Chapter Eleven
NIGHT AND FIRE
Shevael raised a long, curving horn to his lips at Malus’ command and blew a wild, howling note that was answered up and down the druchii line. The household knights roared their bloodlust to the heavens and broke into the Chaos camp in a storm of steel and red ruin.
Malus screamed like a tormented shade, his face alight with daemonic wrath as he drove Spite down a narrow, filth-strewn lane between leaning rawhide tents. Tent ropes parted like threads and poles crackled like kindling as the heavy cold ones smashed headlong through the closely-packed tents. Shouts and screams echoed from within as the nauglir crushed trapped beastmen underfoot or snapped at flailing shapes struggling to escape their collapsed shelters. Geysers of red sparks shot skyward as fires were scattered or stomped by rushing, scaly feet, and orange flames flared brightly where coals landed on brittle hides or oily bedding.
A dark, hulking shape burst from a tent just ahead and to Malus’ right. He dropped his reins and raised his axe in a two-handed grip, striking the beastman in the side of the head in a vicious, underhanded swing that shattered the monster’s skull. Another beastman erupted from the shadows of his tent ahead and to the left, brandishing a long, rusty sword. The horned fiend swung at Spite’s toothy snout, but the nauglir ducked its bony head and bit off the attacker’s left leg just above the knee. The beastman’s wail of agony swept over the onrushing highborn and was quickly lost behind him as Malus drove ever deeper into the enemy encampment.
Sounds of battle and the thunder of hooves mingled into an echoing roar like the grinding fury of an avalanche. Pandemonium reigned inside the Chaos camp; some beastmen ran for their lives while others lashed out at anything that moved. Swarms of fiery motes traced glowing arcs overhead as the druchii charioteers shot flaming arrows deeper into the camp. Horns blew, horses screamed and marauders shouted hoarse, blasphemous curses to the sky.
Ahead, the reeking path abruptly jogged to the right around a tent festooned with skulls and bloody scraps of freshly skinned druchii hides. Snarling, Malus put his spurs to Spite’s flanks and ran right over the rawhide shelter. Something wailed and gibbered within, its cries cut short by one of the nauglir’s stamping feet. On the opposite side of the tent a dark shape stumbled out into the open, clutching a curling staff of grey wood. Malus caught a brief glimpse of the bray shaman whirling on its cloven hooves and raising a clawed hand to cast some terrible spell before Spite lunged at the beastman and bit its head off.
The highborn leaned back in the saddle as his mount leapt clear of the collapsed tent. Malus looked frantically to the right, trying to keep track of his knights, but saw only the reeling sides of half-collapsed tents and glimpses of helmeted heads and hacking, red-stained swords rising above the low shelters. Where had his trumpeter gone? “Shevael!” he shouted, his voice instantly swept away in the maelstrom of battle.
“Here, my lord!” came a faint reply, just on the other side of the tents to Malus’ right. One of the shelters burst apart in a cloud of tattered hides and flailing ropes as the young highborn rode his nauglir through it. The knight’s pale face was streaked with blood and his eyes shone with battle-lust. “We have them on the run!” he said, shouting to be heard even though he and Malus were only a few yards apart. “I’ve never seen such a slaughter!”
“Stick close to me, lad!” Malus shouted back. “Sound the signal for the knights to rally! We’re getting scattered by these damned tents!” The highborn knew that time was not on their side. For now they had the advantage of surprise, but once the shock wore off the Chaos horde could overwhelm the druchii attackers by sheer force of numbers.
Shevael, wrestling with the reins of his agitated cold one, stared quizzically at Malus. “What was that about the tents?” he shouted. Then suddenly his eyes went wide. “Look out, my lord!”
Malus whirled, but Spite had seen the onrushing beastmen first. The cold one spun to the left, nearly throwing Malus out of the saddle, and the axe blow aimed for Malus’ neck glanced off his left pauldron instead. The highborn cursed, fighting for balance, and threw a wild swing at the beastman’s upturned snout that hacked off part of the misshapen beast’s left horn.
Four of the goat-headed monstrosities had rushed out of the darkness at Malus, and now they swarmed around the flank of the cold one, aiming blows at both Spite and Malus alike. One of the beastmen thrust a spear at the cold one’s snout, gouging a deep furrow just above the warbeast’s upper fangs, while another slashed at Spite’s neck with a heavy, broad bladed cleaver. The axe-wielder brayed a blasphemous oath and swung again at Malus’ chest. Malus anticipated the blow and tried to lean back out of the weapon’s reach -but the fourth beastman leapt up and grabbed the highborn’s left arm, trying to drag him from the saddle.
Whether by accident or design, Malus was pulled full into the axe’s path and the weapon struck him in the chest, just over his heart. A mundane steel breastplate would have crumpled under the savage blow, but the sigils of protection woven into the armour held fast and turned the blade aside with a discordant clang and a “Shower of blue sparks. Before the beastman could recover and strike another blow Malus shouted a curse and brought down his axe on the warrior’s head, striking the beastman right between the eyes. The warrior fell, spilling blood and brains from the cleft in his skull, and the highborn planted a heel in Spite’s right side before the creature holding his
arm could pull him to the ground. On command the warbeast pivoted right, slashing its powerful tail in an arc to the left. It struck the unwary beastman full in the back with bone-crushing force, tearing the warrior free from Malus and sending its broken body hurtling through the air.
Foam dripping from its fanged snout, the beastman with the cleaver switched targets and charged at Malus, but Spite lunged forward and caught the running warrior in its teeth, shaking the creature like a dog shakes a rabbit. Bones crackled and snapped, and the cleaver spun out of the beastman’s lifeless hands. The nauglir took a quick, convulsive bite and the warrior fell in two bloody pieces. That left the lone spearman who turned and ran for its life, bleating in terror as it headed deeper into the camp.
Malus settled himself back in the saddle and grabbed the reins in his left fist. “Sound the call for the knights to rally and follow me!” he shouted at Shevael, and kicked Spite into a run.
The sky above the Chaos camp glowed a dull orange from the fires of burning tents. Sounds of battle echoed from every side; he wondered how the cavalry was faring to either side of his knights but there was no way to tell from where he was sitting. He cut the straightest path through the camp he could manage, driving Spite over and through any tent in his path. Behind him he heard Shevael sound his war-horn and then distant shouts and thudding feet as the household knights responded.
Trusting that the knights were right behind him, Malus plunged ahead, searching desperately for any signs he was nearing Nagaira’s tent. How far into the camp was he? A mile, a mile and a half? There was no way to be sure. The scouts said three miles to the centre of camp, he thought grimly, watching hunched-over beastmen scramble out of the path of the charging cold one. One of the creatures stumbled on a rope, and before it could recover he hacked off its head as he swept by, splashing dark blood against the side of a nearby tent.
Without warning Spite burst into a large, cleared area surrounded by tents. Malus quickly stole a look behind him to see if Shevael and the knights were back there, and the lapse of attention very nearly cost him his life.
Suddenly the air rang with the shrill scream of horses and the bitter oaths of men. Two small objects struck Malus in quick succession, one bouncing off his breastplate and the other ricocheting from his pauldron and scoring a bloody line across his cheek. Startled, the highborn brought his head around just as another hand axe spun by, missing his nose by inches.
He’d ridden right into an improvised picket line where a band of marauders had tied up their horses for the night. The small, grassy space was packed with a dozen screaming, rearing horses and their men, who now turned on the highborn and attacked him with whatever weapons were to hand.
Spite, smelling horseflesh, bellowed hungrily and leapt for the nearest animal. The horse shrieked and reared, slashing at the air with its hooves as its rider shouted vile oaths and struggled to keep his seat. Malus was in a similar predicament, shouting and cursing at the warbeast as it clamped its jaws around the horse’s neck and pushed forward on its powerful hind legs, trying to bear the animal to the ground.
Another axe hissed past Malus’ head. Shouting, tattooed warriors rushed at him from left and right, brandishing swords and short spears. The highborn jerked at the reins, trying to get Spite to release the squealing horse, but the nauglir refused to give up its prey. The nauglir surged forward, driving the animal over onto its side. Its rider leapt clear, but Malus, caught unawares by the sudden movement was catapulted from the saddle. He flew over Spite’s bloodied head and landed just on the other side of the thrashing, dying horse—a few scant feet from its enraged owner.
The marauder was on him in an instant, bellowing a war cry in his barbarian tongue. A rough hand seized the highborn’s dark hair and pulled his head up, exposing his throat to the marauder’s upraised blade. Malus caught the downward-sweeping sword against the side of his axe, and then drove the end of its haft into the marauder’s leg just above the knee. The blunt haft rebounded from the human’s thick muscles, but the painful blow staggered him for a moment. Malus jabbed him again, this time in the groin, and the marauder’s grip on his hair loosened. The highborn tore himself free and rolled quickly away, scrambling to his feet beside the dying horse to receive the barbarian’s charge—and a hurled axe flew out of the darkness and hit Malus in the side of the head.
The axe had been poorly thrown, and struck Malus with the top edge instead of the blade. But the world dissolved in a flash of searing pain, and he dimly felt the impact as his body hit the ground once more. Sounds came and went, and though he could still see, his mind couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening. He felt, distinctly, a rivulet of ichor make its way slowly down the side of his head and begin to pool in the hollow of his throat.
He felt the ground shake beneath him, and an awful, low moaning reverberate through the air. The world seemed to grow dark, and for a moment an icy rage galvanized him at the thought that he was about to die.
At that moment, everything snapped back into place—and he saw that the darkness was the shadow of the howling marauder, looming over him with sword upraised.
With a shout Malus tried to roll further away but fetched up against the twitching corpse of the marauder’s horse. The sword swept down in a blurring arc and the highborn caught the blow on the haft of his axe. More blows rained down amid a stream of burning curses, several slipping past his guard and ringing off his enchanted armour. Gritting his teeth, Malus threw up his left arm and caught the next blow on his vambrace, then chopped one-handed at the human’s right knee. He felt the keen blade split the kneecap and the man fell onto the highborn’s lower body, bellowing in rage and pain.
Quick to follow up on his success, Malus sat up and swung hard for the marauder’s shaggy head—but the man caught the haft of the axe in his left hand and stopped it cold. Glaring balefully from beneath craggy brows, the marauder let out a lunatic chuckle and flexed his powerful shoulders and arms, forcing the weapon back. Malus cursed and spat, the axe quivering in his hands, but the human’s fearsome strength was far greater than his own. Slowly but surely the highborn was pushed backwards and the Chaos warrior dragged himself up the highborn’s body, drawing a long, serrated dagger from a sheath at his belt.
Malus’ axe was forced past his head and the curved blade driven into the blood-soaked ground. The marauder loomed over him, his scarred lips pulling back to reveal crudely filed teeth. Hot, foetid breath blew in the highborn’s face. The marauder whispered something in his bestial tongue and raised his dagger to strike.
Suddenly the highborn’s body spasmed and searing ice flowed through his veins. He cried out in shock as needles of pain wracked his eyes. The marauder, seeing what was etched in them, recoiled from Malus with a shriek of wordless terror that ended in a bone-jarring crunch as Spite lunged over the horse’s ravaged body and bit the man cleanly in half. Malus was deluged in a shower of blood and spilled entrails as the marauder’s lower torso emptied itself onto his chest.
“Mother of Night!” Malus cursed furiously, shoving the steaming remains away and climbing to his feet. Spite had returned to feasting on the horse’s innards, and the highborn swatted the nauglir across its bloody snout with the flat of his axe. “Stop thinking with your damned stomach, you great lump of scales!” he shouted hoarsely. The nauglir flinched from the blow, shaking its gore-stained snout like a large dog, and lowered obediently onto its haunches.
Druchii knights swarmed through the cleared area, and the mangled bodies of horses and marauders lay in bloody heaps all around. Malus staggered over to the nauglir and rested his pounding head against the saddle for a moment before putting his foot in the stirrup and levering himself back into his seat.
“My lord!” Shevael cried from the other side of the cleared area. He hauled on his reins and trotted quickly to his master’s side, his bloodstained sword resting against his shoulder. “I saw you go down, and then the marauders came at me, and—Blessed Murderer! You’re wounded!”
The highborn rubbed at the sticky mess covering his face and neck. “Most of this isn’t mine,” he growled, scanning the area quickly. He counted close to fifty knights milling about the picket area, their armour splashed with streaks of gore. Overhead the sky glowed a fierce orange, and the stink of burning hair hung like a pall over the battlefield. There were faint shouts off to the north and the east, but the sounds of fighting had all but tapered away. “Where are the chariots?” he demanded, spitting bits of human flesh out of his mouth.
Shevael gave Malus a blank look. “I… don’t know,” he said sheepishly. “We lost sight of them right after I sounded the call to rally. We must have got separated in the confusion.”
Malus cursed under his breath. He had been depending on the chariots to support their withdrawal after they killed Nagaira. The highborn stood as straight in the saddle as he could and tried to see over the leaning tops of wrecked tents, but with the darkness and the columns of smoke rising from nearly every direction it was impossible to see where his troops were. The sea of rough tents was acting against the druchii now, channelling the riders into a dark, twisting maze that worked to separate the banners from one another. “It’s too quiet,” he said uneasily.
“It’s been like that for several minutes,” Shevael said. The Chaos horde is in full flight. The attack has filled them with panic!” he said excitedly.
But the highborn shook his head worriedly. “Something’s not right,” he said. “We’ve got to get moving, Shevael. Where is Lord Suheir?”
Shevael pointed to the north. “He continued on with most of the knights a few moments ago,” the young highborn replied. “He said that he caught sight of a cluster of tents on a nearby hill that might be the war leader’s pavilion.”
Malus gathered up Spite’s reins. “That’s where we need to be,” he snapped. “Household knights!” he cried, raising his gory axe. “With me!”