by Dan Abnett
Lord Suheir’s knights had blazed broad trails through the jumble of tents, trampling everything in their path as they drove relentlessly north. Malus picked the centre path and led the knights along at a brisk trot, searching the twisting side lanes for enemy activity as they rode. Could the enemy have panicked so completely? If so, would Nagaira still be in her tents? He tried to guess how long it had been since the attack began: five minutes, perhaps? Ten? It was hard to be sure. Time became elastic in the heat of battle, seeming to rush by in some moments and slow to a crawl in others.
They rushed forward into darkness, hearing the roaring of the flames swell around and ahead of them. Fires had leapt out of control among the filthy tents, and the night sky was thickening with stinking smoke. His eyes strained to make out the nearby hill that Shevael spoke of, but he could see nothing in the shifting murk. Worry started to eat at his nerves; his army was no longer under his control, which meant that he had almost no way of pulling them back if something went disastrously wrong. In case they were separated, all of the banner and regimental officers knew a series of locations to retreat to along the route back to the Black Tower, but would they turn back in time? A moment’s indecision could cost thousands of lives. For a moment he was tempted to order Shevael to sound a general retreat, then lead the household knights himself on to find Nagaira’s tent. But the Chaos horde would hear the horn as well, and once they saw the druchii forces breaking away they would rush in pursuit, leaving Malus and his men advancing right into their teeth. He beat his armoured gauntlet on the cantle of his saddle in frustration. There were no good options that he could determine.
Suddenly a wild shout and the clash of arms echoed through the murk in the near distance. As if on cue, the wind shifted, drawing back the veil of smoke and revealing a roughly circular cluster of low, indigo-hued tents covering a broad hill less than a quarter mile ahead. A fierce melee had erupted at the base of the hill; Malus could see Lord Suheir’s knights hacking away at a large force of beastmen, who fought with ferocious zeal against their better-armed foes. Suheir’s larger force was moving quickly to surround the base of the hill completely, cutting it off from the rest of the camp. Clearly the knight-captain believed that he’d found their objective, and looking up at the cluster of tents, Malus agreed.
“This is it!” he cried to the knights following in his wake. “Forward up the hill—kill everything that gets in your way!” With a shout, the knights of the Black Tower spurred their mounts forward, forming into a wedge formation as compact and powerful as a spearhead. “Shevael, sound the charge!”
The young highborn let out a long, howling note from his horn and like a bolt shot from a crossbow the wedge of knights hurtled towards the hill. Lord Suheir’s knights heard the horn and saw Malus’ approach, and riders scrambled to open a gap in their lines for the wedge to pass through. Howling, roaring beastmen swarmed into the gap, oblivious to the doom bearing down on them.
At the point of the wedge, Malus raised his axe above his head and gave his foes a savage, red-toothed grin. Horned heads turned at the thunder of the knights’ approach. Braying calls rang out from the knot of beastmen, and the huge creatures hefted clubs, mattocks and axes to receive the highborn’s charge.
The highborn gauged the distance carefully, glaring balefully at the snarling mob of beastmen. At the last moment, just before Spite crashed into their ranks, he planted his heels in the nauglir’s flanks and hauled back on the reins. “Up, Spite!” he cried. “Up!”
With a thunderous roar the cold one bent low—and leapt into the mass of enemy troops. The one-ton war-beast smashed into the enemy like a hammer, scattering and trampling the beastmen with bone-crushing force. Malus chopped at upturned snouts and chests, alternating blows to his left and his right, inflicting horrific wounds on his stunned foes. Thick, bitter blood burst from ruptured arteries and shattered skulls.
But the rear ranks of the beastmen refused to give way—if anything they redoubled their attack in the face of Malus’ charge. A howling beast rushed at the highborn from the right, smashing his club into Malus’ hip. His armour turned aside much of the blow, but he roared out in pain and buried his axe deep in the beastman’s shoulder. Spite lunged forward and bit off another beastman’s head, its skull and horns crunching between the nauglir’s jaws like brittle wood. An axe blow glanced from the highborn’s left leg. Malus yanked his weapon free from his victim’s shoulder and brought it down on the head of his foe to the left. Brains spattered against the highborn’s face. Then a surge of armoured figures swept up on Malus’ flanks as the rest of the knights cut their way to his side.
“Again, Spite! Up!” he shouted, kicking his heels. The nauglir obeyed, gathering itself and leaping up and through the thin line of beastmen blocking their way. As they landed, Malus pivoted the nauglir hard to the right, using its powerful tail to smash aside a pair of beastmen that had escaped the cold one’s rush. Their numbers scattered by the brute force of Malus’ manoeuvre, the beastmen became easy prey to the knights following in his wake, and the remaining warriors fighting against Lord Suheir’s troops began a fighting withdrawal up the hill. Malus turned to his men and pointed at the beastmen with his axe. “At them! Into their flanks!” He put his spurs to Spite’s flanks and led the knights up the hill at a shallow angle, intercepting the retreating beastmen. Pressed hard from behind and now attacked from the flank, the beastman rearguard collapsed.
Malus kept Spite moving steadily uphill, riding down a fleeing beastman and burying his axe into the warrior’s back. Spite lunged forward and caught another in its jaws, biting through its abdomen and letting legs and torso roll bloodily downhill. The nauglir’s lashing tail accounted for another foe, breaking its legs with a vicious sweep and leaving the beastman to be trampled by the oncoming knights.
Ahead, a single surviving beastman disappeared inside the shadowy opening of the first tent. Malus reined in Spite outside the enclosure and leapt to the ground, axe at the ready. Within moments he was surrounded by a half-dozen more knights, including Shevael and Lord Suheir. “Well done, Suheir,” Malus said, saluting the knight-captain, then he addressed the assembled druchii. “Remember, we’re after a potent sorceress. She’s no doubt defended by all manner of magical traps and summoned beasts. When we reach her, hold our line of retreat open and let me deal with her.”
Suheir and the knights nodded their helmeted heads, saving their breath for the hard fighting ahead. Malus adjusted his grip on the blood-slick axe haft. You’ll not escape me this time sister, the highborn thought grimly. You should have fled while you had the chance.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Weapons ready, the druchii entered the gloomy confines of the first tent. The enclosure was dimly lit by a few guttering oil lamps, and the air was thick with a musky incense. Within lay piles of metal that glittered dully in the weak light: fine swords and battered armour, many still marked with dried blood and bits of flesh, as well as silver plates, goblets and other bits of valuable plunder looted from the razed watchtowers. Lord Suheir eyed the piles with some bemusement. “A funny place for a treasure trove,” he murmured.
“They are offerings to the sorceress,” Malus replied. The beastmen and the marauders give her their best plunder as a sign of subservience. It’s a statement of power, not greed.”
“It sounds as though you know this sorceress well,” Suheir mused.
“More than I’d like,” the highborn replied, edging across the enclosure.
At the far end of the wide tent lay a heavy hanging of red-dyed canvas. Malus paused before the hanging, uncertain of what lay beyond. Suheir shouldered his way through the group, hefting his shield. “I’ll go first,” he said quietly, stepping carefully up to the covered opening. He studied the cloth and its borders carefully, and finding no strange markings, he slashed his sword across the hanging, revealing the beastman waiting in ambush on the other side.
With a braying roar the horned warrior lun
ged at Suheir, chopping at the knight’s helmeted head. Suheir absorbed the blow against the face of his shield and stabbed low with his sword, catching the beastman in the belly. The warrior staggered, bellowing in rage and pain, and the knight-captain slashed his sword across the creature’s abdomen, spilling its guts onto the grassy floor. The beastman collapsed with a groan and Suheir knocked it aside with his shield, then advanced warily into the space beyond with Malus close behind.
The second enclosure was even darker and smokier than the previous one. Huddled shapes knelt in groups of eight in each corner of the space, their heads bowed in supplication as they faced four pathways through the square space. Each pathway led to another cloth hanging, including the one the druchii entered through. Suheir started upon seeing the silhouetted figures, then bent close and prodded one with the point of his sword. “Dead,” he grunted. “Looks like mummified beastmen. The incense covers the stink, I suppose.”
Malus nodded silently, gooseflesh racing down his spine as he remembered a similar chamber in the daemon’s temple far to the north. “We’re in the right place,” he whispered. “Head through the opening on the other side of the tent.”
Suheir stepped warily among the mummified corpses and cut down the hanging on the opposite end of the tent. Beyond lay a long, rectangular tent, lit at the far end with two small witchlamps. Along the length of the tent treble rows of kneeling figures lined both sides of a narrow aisle. “Blessed Murderer,” Suheir cursed softly, studying the mummified attendants.
They were not beastmen this time, but druchii highborn, clad in battered armour and ragged, bloodstained kheitans. Some had limbs and heads crudely stitched back into place. Their helmets had been removed, revealing gaping head wounds here and there, and showing the looks of fear and agony frozen on their pallid features.
“More tribute for the war leader,” Malus growled. “We’re close now. Press on.”
Suheir took a deep breath and nodded gravely, then edged his way down the long aisle. At the far end lay a pair of hangings this time, their indigo panels stitched with arcane sigils in gold and silver thread. An invisible nimbus of magic hung about the portal, setting Malus’ hair on end.
The highborn turned to the men behind him. “Wait here,” he said. “Suheir and Shevael, come with me.”
Steeling himself, he shouldered past the knight-captain and pushed his way past the heavy cloth panels. Everything about this felt wrong. Where were the attendants? The guards? He feared that the pavilion had been abandoned when the attack began, and their bold assault had been for nothing.
Malus stepped past the hangings into a spacious tent set with tables, small bookshelves and chairs, all of which were piled with books, papers and yellowed scrolls. Candles burned on several tables, and a pair of braziers near the centre filled the space with reddish light.
At the far end of the enclosure, on a small dais set with a low-backed chair, sat a solitary figure in a dark, hooded robe.
For a moment Malus was too stunned to react. He could feel the intensity of the figure’s gaze smouldering hatefully from the shadows of the wide hood.
“It’s a trap,” he declared, and knew with an awful certainty that his intuition was true. He couldn’t imagine how Nagaira could have anticipated his attack, but she’d waited here in her tent, knowing that he would come for her.
Grabbing his axe tightly, Malus charged across the room. “Hear me, Tz’arkan!” he hissed. “Grant me your gifts!” It was the one and only advantage he possessed, and he’d planned to use it when he came face-to-face with his sister. Now he prayed that if he struck swiftly enough he could forestall whatever ambuscade she’d devised.
Black corruption seethed in Malus’ veins, spreading like a cold fire beneath his skin. He crossed the room in an eye blink propelled by a daemonic wind. With a savage curse burning on his lips he struck at the hooded figure with all his strength.
The axe blurred through the air, straight for the figure’s head. Quicker than the eye could follow, a pair of long blades swept up from beneath the robes and blocked the highborn’s downward stroke with a flare of sparks and a ringing clash of steel. The loose robe fell away and the figure rose, effortlessly pushing Malus backward off the dais.
Instead of Nagaira, Malus found himself face-to-face with an armoured Chaos knight, clad in armour similar to a druchii knight but covered in patterns of blasphemous runes painted in blood. Red light seeped sullenly from gaps in the sorcerous armour, and shone from the oculars of the champion’s ornate, horned helmet. Twin druchii longswords held Malus’ axe at bay with fearsome strength. Around the champion’s neck rested a heavy, red-gold torc.
The Amulet of Vaurog! Tz’arkan hissed, roiling inside Malus’ chest.
And with that, the trap was sprung.
Chapter Twelve
SHIELDS AND SPEARS
A second champion, Malus realised with a sense of ominous dread. Suddenly the tremendous size of the Chaos horde made terrible sense. Nagaira hadn’t raised the horde alone, but had allied herself with a powerful warlord and won him to her cause.
There was a tremor in the air of Nagaira’s tent, like the movement of unseen spirits, and suddenly a chorus of screams and the clash of steel rang out in the antechamber behind the druchii. Then in the far distance Malus heard a roaring, skirling sound that cried out from all along the invisible horizon—it was the wailing of hundreds of war horns, loosing the Chaos horde at last.
With a shriek of rage Malus drew back his axe and hammered the Chaos champion with a storm of vicious strokes at head, neck, chest and arms. Sparks flew and tempered steel sang, but the champion blocked the furious blows with superhuman speed. A return stroke slipped easily past Malus’ guard and rang off his pauldron; another struck like an adder and glanced off his right wrist. The champion’s twin swords clashed and whirled in a graceful, deadly dance, driving the highborn inexorably backwards in spite of Tz’arkan’s potent gifts.
Malus blocked a lightning thrust to his stomach with the haft of his axe and thrust upwards, hoping to catch the champion beneath the chin with the weapon’s curved upper edge, but the armoured warrior checked his advance at the last moment and let the axe slide harmlessly by. Without stopping the highborn pivoted smoothly on his heel and swung around and down, aiming for the warrior’s right knee, but the champion anticipated the blow and his right-hand sword parried the stroke with ease. At the same time his left-hand blade blurred at Malus’ head, and only the daemon’s inhuman reflexes drew him back in time. Even so, the sword drew a shallow cut across the highborn’s forehead, sending thick streams of ichor down the side of his face.
He’d heard tales of the phenomenal power and skill of warriors chosen by the Chaos gods, but the reality was far more terrifying than he’d imagined. Even the zealots of the cult of Khaine, who worshipped the art of killing, could not compare with the champion’s implacable skill. Thinking quickly, Malus retreated from the armoured warrior, desperately looking for some way to turn the battle to his advantage.
The momentary distraction was nearly enough to seal his fate. A sword leapt like lighting at the highborn’s face; Malus twisted at the last moment, dodging the blow with a hiss of surprise, but realised, too late, that the attack was a feint. The champion’s second sword swung down in a vicious arc and caught his left leg, just above the side of the knee. Fiery pain shot up Malus’ leg and it gave way beneath him, toppling him to the matted earth. He fetched up next to an oak table plundered from one of the fallen watchtowers as the champion pressed his advantage and loomed over the highborn like a swooping hawk.
Malus threw a frantic swing at the warrior’s midsection, hoping to spoil his attack, but the swing was off-balance and only served to leave him more exposed than before. The champion’s right-hand blade rose above his helmeted head and chopped down in a backhanded blow that struck the haft of Malus’ axe above his right hand and sheared through it like a sapling. The warrior’s left-hand sword plummeted like a thunderbolt, a
nd the highborn raised the severed length of axe-haft and caught the fearsome blow on the seasoned oak between his white-knuckled fists. The keen blade split the haft once again and the sword struck the highborn’s breastplate hard enough to drive the air from his lungs.
Then Malus heard a roar like an angry bull and an onrushing shadow swept over him from behind. There was a crash of steel against iron and a shower of fiery orange coals seemed to drift lazily through the air as Lord Suheir smashed aside one of the braziers in a headlong charge at the Chaos champion. The powerfully built knight-captain swung a fearsome stroke at the champion’s helm, but the warrior swayed backwards with serpentine grace and let the blade pass harmlessly by, then lashed out with his right-hand sword in a backhanded stroke that struck Suheir’s vambrace a glancing blow. Malus saw a spray of blood burst from the point of impact, then watched as the champion thrust with his left-hand sword and stab its reinforced point into the knight-captain’s side. The sword punched cleanly through Suheir’s breastplate and sank an inch deep, just above the waist. Suheir staggered for just a moment, then lashed out with a backhanded stroke of his own that knocked the champion’s stabbing blade aside before rushing the armoured warrior with his steel-rimmed shield held before him. For the first time the champion seemed taken by surprise, and back-pedalled furiously in the face of Suheir’s bull-like charge.
Hands grabbed at Malus’ shoulders, trying to pull him upright. The highborn looked up to see Shevael’s pale, terrified face. The young knight’s movements seemed clumsy and slow to the highborn’s daemonic reflexes. “How do we kill him?” Shevael moaned.
The Chaos champion’s retreat was swift, but not swift enough. With a roar, Suheir struck the warrior’s breastplate with the edge of his shield and set the champion crashing backwards through a small bookcase. Malus grabbed Shevael’s arm and staggered upright, biting back a savage curse at the pain in his damaged leg.