[Darkblade 05] - Lord of Ruin

by Dan Abnett

  The retreat to the inner wall had begun well enough; the Black Tower’s garrison was familiar with the plans for such a manoeuvre, as laid down by Lord Kuall, the previous vaulkhar, and they had even drilled for it regularly. But once the gate fell and the Chaos horde came swarming into the city, confusion and panic quickly took hold. With no clear chain of command there was no one to organize a rearguard to hold the attackers at bay so the rest could get to safety. Worse, the regiments from Malekith’s army had to deal with their own set of conflicting orders from their individual drachau, commanding them to think of themselves first and everyone else second, if at all. The retreat quickly became a free-for-all. Regiments from the same city stuck together and left their rivals behind. Entire regiments were isolated in the city and wiped out, while there were rumours that there were at least three instances of druchii regiments fighting one another for the chance to escape the enemy.

  Nuarc and Malus had done what they could, gathering up stray units and forming an ad hoc rearguard that managed to hold the central avenue outside the inner gate for some three hours before finally being forced to retreat. At this point Malus had no idea whether they’d done any good or not. Now night was drawing in, and the highborn found it hard to believe he’d been standing on the outer wall just eight hours before. He was more tired than he’d ever been in his life, and at that moment he wanted nothing in the world so much as the chance to reach over and tear out his brother’s throat with his bare hands.

  Isilvar met Malus’ burning gaze without flinching. “The fart remains that you were on the wall—in fact, according to your own report, you were adjacent to the main enemy attack all along. Yet you did nothing to stop it, interestingly enough.”

  “I was in the middle of a battle,” Malus shot back. “Where were you? In the bath? Having your teeth filed?

  “You’re the damned Vaulkhar of Hag Graef, the most powerful warlord of the most powerful city in Naggaroth. Do you even know how to use that sword you’re carrying?”

  Isilvar leapt to his feet, his dark eyes glittering. “I could show you if you like.”

  “You had your chance to show me in the cult chamber beneath Nagaira’s tower,” Malus replied with an evil grin. “But you ran like a frightened deer, then. Did you tell yourself you were escaping for the sake of Slaanesh and her cult, or did you save the self-serving excuses for later?” He leaned over the edge of the table. “I should think that if anyone here is familiar with conspiring with Nagaira, it would be you.”

  The vaulkar went pale—with rage or fear Malus wasn’t entirely sure. “You… you have no proof of such a thing!” he rasped, his hand rising unconsciously to his throat.

  “Care to put that to the test, dear brother?” Malus said, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He noticed Myrchas, Bale and even Jhedir casting long looks at the trembling figure of the vaulkhar.

  Across the marble-floored chamber, Hauclir cleared his throat. When Malus didn’t respond, he tried again, louder this time.

  The highborn turned to regard Hauclir. “Are you well?” he said icily.

  “Well enough, my lord,” he said, straightening. The former guard captain gestured to the balcony with his knife. “I think there’s something out here you might want to see.”

  “Do I look busy to you, Hauclir?” Malus snapped, indicating the assembled nobles with a sharp sweep of his hand.

  “Of course, my lord, but—”

  “Can it wait?”

  Hauclir frowned. “Well, I suppose it can,” he said.

  “Then trouble me with it later!” the highborn said with a look of exasperation.

  The former guardsman folded his arms, glowering at his one-time master, then shrugged. “As you wish,” he said, turning back to the open archway.

  Malus turned back to Isilvar, trying to recapture his train of thought. Isilvar still glared at him from across the table, his hand in the hilt of his blade. His face seemed a bit calmer now, the highborn noted with a frown.

  But before he could continue there was a thunderous boom that rolled through the open archway beside Hauclir. Everyone except Malekith jumped at the sound.

  Malus glanced worriedly at Hauclir. “What in the Outer Darkness is that?” he cried.

  The former guardsman gave the highborn a sardonic glare. “Evidently nothing of any import,” he said peevishly.

  Snarling, Malus rushed to the archway with Nuarc in tow. Even Isilvar and the drachau rose from their chairs and made their way warily across the room.

  With a passing glare at his impertinent former retainer, Malus stepped onto the balcony and looked down from a dizzying height at the top of the inner wall and the glittering ranks of the troops massed to defend it. Beyond lay the corpse-choked streets and the smouldering buildings of the outer city, teeming with looting bands of beastmen and drunken marauders.

  In a wide square a few hundred yards from the inner gate however was a sight that made Malus’ heart skip a beat. Long lines of straining beastmen were pulling a pair of enormous catapults down the long avenue and into firing positions alongside a third siege engine whose throwing arm was already being winched back for another shot. A pall of stone dust hung in the air above the gatehouse, indicating the catapult’s intended target.

  Beside Malus, Nuarc let out a low curse. “They must have been assembling them under cover of that damned darkness,” he muttered. “Your sister is more resourceful than I imagined.”

  “She lacks martial experience, but she’s well read,” Malus said grimly. “Do you think they can knock down the gatehouse with those things?”

  The warlord grunted. “Of course they can. All they need is time and ammunition, something they seem to have in abundance.”

  Malus fought down a swell of frustration. Nagaira wasn’t giving him a chance to catch his breath for a single moment. He didn’t have to consider the situation very long before he realised what must be done. Turning on his heel he strode back into the chamber. Isilvar and the drachau retreated as he swept inside, as though he carried some kind of plague.

  The highborn turned to Lord Myrchas. “Is there a tunnel?”

  “Tunnel? What do you mean?”

  “Is there a tunnel leading from the citadel into the outer city?” Malus snapped. “Surely there must be some way to launch raids in the event the outer wall is breached.”

  The drachau of the Black Tower started to speak, then paused. He frowned in bemusement.

  “For the Dark Mother’s sake, Myrchas! Don’t you know?”

  Before the drachau could embarrass himself further, Nuarc spoke up. “There is such a tunnel. I saw it once when I was studying the plans of the citadel.”

  The highborn nodded curtly. “All right then. Lead on, my lord,” he said to Nuarc, then gestured at Hauclir. “Let’s go and get the men.”

  But an armoured figure stepped into Malus’ path. Isilvar stood nearly nose-to-nose with his half-brother. “And where do you think you’re going?” he said, hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Furious, Malus stepped forward, catching Isilvar’s sword arm and the wrist with one hand and shoving him hard with the other. The vaulkhar fell in an undignified heap, his scabbarded sword tangled beneath him.

  “While the rest of you sit here peeling grapes and squabbling like children I’m going to take care of those catapults,” he snarled. “No doubt by the time I return you’ll have invented some other set of excuses to explain away your clean hands and faint hearts.”

  Isilvar’s face turned white with fury, but he made no reply. Malus gave his half-brother a mocking salute, then, glaring angrily at the assembled drachau, he motioned for Nuarc to take the lead and followed him from the room.

  Meanwhile, in the shadows, the Witch King watched Malus go and kept his own silent counsel.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE DRAGON’S BREATH

  “Oh, for the Dark Mother’s sake!” Hauclir hissed in exasperation, holding open the small burlap bag so the mercena
ries could see the clinking contents within. Which one of you halfwits thought it was a good idea to let Ten-thumbs carry the incendiaries?”

  The cutthroats exchanged sheepish looks. In the light of the single witchlamp in Malus’ hand, the three mercenaries looked like mischievous shades. Pockets smirked at the former guard captain. “Ten-thumbs only drops stuff he’s trying to steal,” she said, her voice pitched just loudly enough to carry down the line of waiting troops. “Besides, we figured if he went up in flames no one would miss him.”

  Thin hisses of laughter echoed up and down the line. Even Malus found it hard not to grin. They were twenty feet underground, at the far end of a mile-long tunnel that ran from the citadel into the outer city, right in the midst of the bloodthirsty Chaos horde. The tunnel seemed well-made, its square stones slick with dark patches of moss and dripping slime, but everyone eyed the tarred black cross-beams holding up the low ceiling with evident worry. Even weak attempts at humour were welcome.

  “Easy for you to say, Pockets. He doesn’t owe you any coin,” Hauclir replied. Working carefully, he reached into the bag and pulled out the globes of dragon’s breath one at a time. Each glass sphere was wrapped in thick wads of rough cotton to conceal the distinctive green glow and keep the volatile contents safe. He parcelled out the incendiaries among the group, handing one to Pockets, one to Cutter, one to Malus and keeping one for himself, then—with a look of pure trepidation—handing one back to Ten-thumbs. The young cutpurse accepted the deadly orb with as much aggrieved dignity as he could manage.

  “I’ll take the extra one,” Malus said, holding out his hand. “And never mind what I may or may not owe you.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Hauclir said, handing the orb over. The highborn set the incendiaries carefully at the bottom of a carry-bag tied to his belt, then looked over the raiding party one last time. There were only seven mercenaries, counting Hauclir; Malus felt that a smaller group had a better chance of getting close enough to the siege engines to hit them with the orbs and then slip away again in the confusion. Three of the cutthroats carried crossbows, and Malus had managed to appropriate one for himself from the citadel armoury. Hauclir had further assured him that both Cutter and Pockets were light on their feet and good with their knives.

  “All right,” the highborn said, turning and raising the witchlamp to illuminate the narrow shaft at the end of the tunnel. Rusting iron staples had been hammered into the packed earth, providing a ladder to reach the surface. “According to Nuarc, this opens into a warehouse in the armourer’s district. Once we’re on the surface, no lights or unnecessary talking.”

  Pockets gave Malus a slow wink and a feline smile. Her alabaster skin and sharp features reminded the highborn of a maelithii. The black eyes and filed teeth didn’t help. “No worries, my lord,” she said in her rough harbour accent. “We’ve a bit of experience in this sort of thing.”

  “Except usually we’re breaking into the warehouses instead of breaking out of them,” Ten-thumbs said. He was the youngest of the mercenaries, with a long, lean face and large, nervous eyes.

  “Let’s get on with this,” growled Cutter, flexing his gloved hands. The assassin was shorter than the average druchii, and slightly darker of skin, giving him an exotic appearance. His face was scarred by a pox he’d had as a child, and his right ear looked like it had been chewed by rats. As near as Malus could tell he was also unarmed; he couldn’t see a knife anywhere on the druchii’s body.

  Malus took a deep breath and nodded. “Cutter, Pockets, you first. See what’s up there and report back.”

  Cutter went right for the rungs and climbed swiftly up the shaft. Pockets moved with a bit more caution, following slowly in the assassin’s wake. As the two cutthroats climbed the shaft, Malus snuffed out the witchlamp and set it carefully on the tunnel floor. He turned his head in Hauclir’s direction. “Now we just hope that there isn’t a crate of iron bars sitting atop the trap door,” he muttered.

  They waited in silence and utter darkness, breathing softly and listening for the slightest sound. Above them, Malus thought he heard the faint scrape of a door, and distant, muffled noises—voices, perhaps? He held his breath. Were there Chaos warriors in the warehouse?

  The tiny noises faded, leaving only silence.

  As the darkness and silence enfolded him like a shroud, Malus was left with only his thoughts—and the presence of the daemon.

  Devoid of sensory distractions, the highborn was hyper-aware of his physical form. All at once he felt the weight of fatigue bearing down upon his shoulders and blurring his mind. He felt hunger, and pain from a half-dozen minor wounds, but as sensations they were cold and somehow distant, as though sensed from the other side of a wall of stone.

  He flexed his hands, feeling them brush against the insides of his armoured gauntlets, but again, the sensation was diffused. Alarmed, he reached up and touched his face, feeling the cold steel fingertips of the gauntlet as a dull pressure against his cheek. His heart quickened fearfully, and he felt the daemon shift slightly in response. This time, however, it wasn’t a sensation of snakes coiling in his chest—he felt the daemon move through his entire body, like a leviathan sliding beneath his skin.

  It wasn’t a barrier that separated Malus from his own body—it was Tz’arkan itself. The daemon’s hold upon him was more complete than he’d dared imagine. It was as if their roles had been reversed, and now he was the dispossessed spirit lurking in a form not his own.

  Immediately the daemon’s presence subsided, like a predator pausing warily in mid-stride. Gritting his teeth, Malus forced himself to calm down, to slow the ragged beating of his heart. Tz’arkan was paying close attention to his reactions. Clearly the daemon did not want him to know the extent of its control. But why?

  The answer suggested itself immediately. The warpsword. It had the power to counter the daemon’s influence. No doubt Tz’arkan feared that if he knew how much control the daemon truly had over him, it would drive him to take up the burning blade again. So long as the warpsword remained in its scabbard on Spite’s back the daemon had the upper hand—and, the highborn realised with growing horror, more freedom of action than it would have otherwise.

  The nightmares, he thought. What if I wasn’t stumbling about in my sleep? What if it was the daemon, moving me about like a puppet?

  Suddenly there was a muffled shout from above, and the sound of running feet. Malus heard a choking cry that sounded almost directly overhead—then something metal came rattling and clanging all the way down the twenty-foot shaft, striking sparks from the iron rungs as it fell. Malus and the cutthroats spat muted curses as the object struck the floor of the tunnel next to the highborn’s boot with a muted thud.

  Malus bent down and groped around for the object. His armoured fingertips rang faintly on metal, then his hand found the hilt of a sword.

  Faint movement sounded overhead. “All clear,” Pockets whispered.

  The highborn frowned up into the darkness. “Is there any point whispering now?” he asked in a normal voice.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” The gambler sounded defensive. “Can’t be too careful, right?”

  “Evidently not,” Malus growled back. “We’re coming up. Try not to drop anything on our heads in the meantime.”

  The highborn took the lead, reaching for the first of the iron rungs and then slowly working his way upwards in the cave-like darkness. His hands seemed to find the rungs effortlessly, and he wondered now if the daemon was subtly guiding his hand, using senses beyond the highborn’s ken.

  As he neared the top, Malus found the darkness lessened somewhat by a faint, orange glow that etched hard lines and black silhouettes out of the greater gloom. He found the top edge of the shaft and levered himself up out of the hole, finding the dark shape of Pockets waiting for him a few feet away. Large crates, many filled with what looked like metal bars or sheet stock, stood in orderly rows around the hidden trapdoor. Next to Pockets sprawled the body of a marauder,
his scarred hand seemingly outstretched towards the open shaft.

  “We found a group of these animals cooking meat over a small fire on the other side of these crates,” the druchii cutthroat whispered. “Cutter and I got the lot of “em, but this one must have been off taking a piss somewhere. It was his sword went down the shaft.”

  Malus straightened and looked about. They were near the front of the building, and the orange glow he’d seen earlier came from the marauder’s small fire and the shifting light of much larger fires streaming in through the building’s large, open doorways. The highborn moved quietly across the cluttered space and peered warily outside. As night had fallen the Chaos horde had started fires all across the outer city, and pillars of flame and smoke billowed into the air from the warehouses scattered across the city’s districts. A warm, hungry wind whispered through the eaves of the warehouse, stirred to life by the churning columns of fire, and Malus thought he could hear the faint cries of the horde borne aloft on the hot air as they celebrated their victory.

  For the moment the nearby streets appeared to be empty. Malus breathed a sigh of relief. He glanced back at Pockets. “How many marauders were there?”

  “Five, counting this one,” she said.

  The highborn nodded. “Strip them of their cloaks and furs. We’ll need them.”

  As Pockets went to work the first of the mercenaries began appearing from the shaft. Malus kept watch in the meantime, going over his battle plan one last time and looking for possible weak points. After the debacle in the north he was determined not to tarnish his honour with yet another costly defeat.