by Dan Abnett
When Malus opened his eyes he was lying on a cold, stone floor and his kidneys were aching like they’d been kicked.
“I apologize for that, my lord,” he heard Hauclir say. “But you gave me little choice.”
He tried to move, and found himself tangled in something heavy and voluminous. With a groan he rolled onto his back and found himself wrapped in a bed sheet and blanket. Hauclir stood over him with a grim look on his face, holding his cudgel in his scarred hands. Five livid scratches ran down the right side of his face.
“Do you know who I am this time?” the former guardsman said. “Or do I have to jog your memory again?”
“Jog my organs is more like,” Malus said with a grimace. “Help me up, you damned rogue.”
With a grunt, Hauclir bent and pulled the highborn awkwardly to his feet. Malus looked about and realised he was standing in the hallway outside his quarters. He hissed a bitter curse. “Again,” he muttered.
“You mean this isn’t the first time you’ve walked in your sleep and assaulted people?” Hauclir grumbled.
“No. Not the first time,” Malus replied, entirely oblivious to Hauclir’s impertinent tone. What in the Dark Mother’s name is happening to me?”
“If I didn’t know you, I’d say you were going mad,” Hauclir replied. “Unfortunately, I do know you.” He glanced about quickly, ensuring that they were alone. “Is it the daemon?” he whispered.
Malus frowned. “I don’t know. It’s possible. I’ve lately wondered the same thing myself.” He pulled irritably at the sheets wound around his legs. “Let’s get out of this corridor before someone sees me like this. What is the hour?”
“A bit past midmorning, my lord,” Hauclir answered, setting aside his cudgel and bending to help unwind the highborn. “Lord Nuarc told us that we were to stand down and get some rest while we could. Do you remember?”
Malus stepped out of the sweat-stained sheets and tried to focus his thoughts. “The last thing I remember clearly is crawling across the floor of my room and climbing into bed.” He registered a familiar taste in his mouth and winced. “There was wine involved, wasn’t there?”
“Just a bit,” Hauclir agreed.
“I think I could stand some more,” Malus said, and staggered back through the open door into his apartments.
The doors to the balcony were open again, letting in a long rectangle of pale sunlight that stretched halfway across the room. His shuffling feet sent dark bottles clinking and spinning across the floor. “Gods Below, Hauclir,” the highborn cursed, looking over the array of empty bottles. “How much did we drink?”
“We, my lord?”
There wasn’t a single bottle left with so much as a drop of useful liquid inside it. Growling irritably, the highborn staggered towards the balcony. A terrible disquiet lurked at the back of his mind, and he couldn’t quite say why.
Or perhaps better to say I’m having a hard time being specific, the highborn thought ruefully. The Dark Mother knows I have more than enough to vex me at the moment.
Malus shaded his eyes with his left hand and squinted into the morning light. A muted clamour rose from the inner wall, and from his high vantage point he could see that the Chaos horde was assaulting the inner fortress. The sight filled him with apprehension, for reasons he couldn’t explain.
“How long has the attack been going on?” Malus asked.
“Started right at dawn,” Hauclir replied, joining Malus at the balcony. They’ve been at it ever since.” He eyed the highborn. “Good thing we’re up here resting and drinking wine instead of down there fighting,” he said pointedly “Isn’t that right, my lord?”
“Wine,” the highborn said thoughtfully. “Right. Fetch another bottle will you? And something to eat. Bread, cheese—whatever you can find. I’ve got to get into my armour.”
The former guardsman opened his mouth to protest, but gave it up for a lost cause. “As you wish, my lord,” he grumbled.
Malus found Lord Nuarc giving orders by the inner gatehouse, directing three regiments of spearmen against seemingly endless waves of Chaos warriors. A battering ram still burned fitfully a few yards short of the gate, surrounded by the charred bodies of its operators, and warriors continued to repel long siege ladders cast up by swarms of enemy troops. Crossbow bolts filled the air like swarms of flies, surrounding the ladders nearest the gatehouse with dark clouds of death. A steady rain of bodies fell on either side of the high wall as marauders and beastmen were slain upon the battlements or shot through as they clung to the sixty-foot ladders.
Heads turned as the highborn reached the battlements. Spearmen from Hag Graef and the Black Ark raised their weapons in salute as he passed, and a ragged cheer followed Malus and Hauclir all the way to the gatehouse itself. The daring raid on the catapults -now just a trio of charred hulks in the square to the north—had turned Malus and the cutthroats into heroes overnight. It was a small victory, in the grand scheme of things, but it was the first of its kind for the weary defenders, and they celebrated it as only desperate soldiers can.
Even Nuarc’s customary glare was tempered with a modicum of respect as the highborn joined him above the gatehouse. “I thought I told you to get some sleep,” the warlord shouted over the din.
“I tried, but you’re making too much noise down here,” the highborn shouted back. “I don’t suppose you could keep it down a bit?”
The general laughed. “I can’t help it if the bastards won’t die quietly,” he replied.
Shaking his head, Malus studied the battle raging along the walls. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“We’re actually doing well so far,” Nuarc replied. “We’ve got twice as much manpower here than we had at the outer wall, and it’s a higher and more difficult climb. Also, the enemy attacks are fierce, but uncoordinated this time. I think you must have stirred something up when you destroyed those siege engines last night.”
“Stirred something up,” the highborn echoed thoughtfully, looking out at the wreckage in the square. “Has there been no sign of Nagaira or her champion?”
“None,” the general said. “I don’t know why, but I’ve learned long ago not to question good fortune when it comes my way.”
But the more Malus thought about it, the more troubled he became.
“Something wrong, my lord?” Hauclir inquired.
“I don’t know,” Malus answered. “Wait—no. Something’s not right. I just can’t figure out what it is.”
Hauclir surveyed the activity on the walls and shrugged. “Everything looks in order from up here.”
“That’s part of the problem,” Malus said. “Nuarc thinks we stirred something up last night when we attacked the catapults, but I don’t think so. They were expecting a raid, and had troops waiting to ambush us.”
The former guard captain thought it over. “They laid their trap and we blew it up in their faces. That would be enough to stir anyone up, don’t you think?”
A spark of realization struck Malus. The catapults were bait,” he said, a look of dread dawning on his face.
Hauclir’s frown deepened. “I suppose so,” he said. “But we foiled the trap.”
“No!” Malus cried. “That’s not the point. They knew we would have no choice but to attack those catapults. In fact, they counted upon it!”
“To what purpose?”
“What else? Now they know we have another way out of the castle.”
Hauclir’s jaw dropped. “And if we can get out, they can get in. Gods Below, my lord. Could they be that clever?”
“This is Nagaira we’re talking about. Of course they can be that clever,” Malus growled. Suddenly his dream took on an awful clarity that sent a chill down his spine. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Hauclir asked, though the tone in his voice suggested he already knew the answer.
“To gather your cutthroats and see how clever my sister truly is,” the highborn replied.
The entrance to the long tunnel lay
in the bowels of the Black Tower itself, on the same level as the fortress’ vast cisterns. Holding aloft a half-dozen witchlamps on long slender poles, Malus, Hauclir and all thirty mercenaries rushed though the cavernous, arched chambers, passing broad, stone-capped basins that held the tower’s water supplies. Their weapons were ready and they cast wary glances into every shadowy corner they passed. Malus led the way, fearful that they were already too late.
“Even supposing your theory is correct,” Hauclir said breathlessly, “the beasts would still have to find the entrance to the tunnel, and I know for a fact we weren’t followed.”
“They don’t need to see us to be able to track us,” Malus said grimly. “They could set hounds on our scent; they could set beastmen on our scent, for that matter. We’re just fortunate they haven’t found their way into the fortress yet.”
Pockets, jogging along behind the two druchii, piped up. “I don’t suppose either of you brought some more of those terrible little orbs with you?”
Malus shook his head. “We’ve few enough left as it is, and if we tried to use one in the tunnel it would eat through the wooden supports and bring the thing down on our heads. And I don’t want to cut off our only escape route unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
The druchii loped along to a dark alcove at the far end of the cistern network. There, some ways off from the rest of the storage containers, lay a circular, wooden cover similar to the ones that sealed the tower’s real cisterns. At Malus’ direction two of the cutthroats pulled the cover aside to reveal a spiral staircase winding down into darkness.
“Crossbows up front,” Hauclir ordered, then the former guard captain turned to Ten-thumbs. “You stay up here,” he said. “If you hear fighting, you head upstairs as fast as you can and get reinforcements. I don’t care who they are.”
“Yes, Captain,” the young thief said, his eyes wide and fearful.
Malus plucked a crossbow from a nearby cutthroat’s hands and quickly loaded it. Cutter cleared his throat and spoke. “We should douse the lights,” he said.
The mercenaries shared anxious looks. Pockets frowned. “You want us to go down there blind?”
“Better to go in dark than lit up like daybreak,” the assassin replied. “If those animals have found their way in, they’re likely carrying torches, which gives us easy targets.”
The highborn saw the wisdom of it at once. “Do as he says,” he commanded. When all of the lights had been extinguished, the small band of warriors were swallowed by absolute darkness. “The two men with lamps farthest back will bring theirs along,” he said. The rest, leave yours aside. When I call for light, you ignite your lamps. Understood?”
Murmurs of assent rose from the back of the party. Malus nodded, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. “All right, let’s go.”
They descended the winding staircase totally blind, shuffling along one shallow step at a time. Men stumbled against one another, whispering curses, and occasionally a scabbard or sword tip would clink against the stone. The air turned chill and dank by slow degrees. Malus held his crossbow levelled, listening for the slightest sound of footsteps coming up to meet him.
At length, Malus felt his boot scrape against earth. A wisp of cold air caressed his cheek and he shuddered at the memory of the dream he’d had, little more than an hour before. Men shuffled into place on either side of him. “Hst!” he whispered, just loud enough for keen druchii ears to hear. “We’ll walk forward slowly for a few yards and stop. Listen for my signal.” Quiet grunts to either side and behind him acknowledged the order.
They edged forward down the long tunnel, careful to make as little noise as possible. The blackness was total; infinite. The mercenaries could hear nothing but the sound of their own breath, hissing between clenched teeth. Finally, after Malus reasoned that nearly all of the troops had reached the bottom of the stairs, he whispered, “Halt. Front rank, kneel.”
He and the two men beside him sank slowly to one knee, clutching their crossbows tightly. They peered into Abyssal blackness and listened for the slightest sound on an oncoming foe.
Minutes passed. Malus saw no hint of light in the darkness or heard any sounds of movement. There was an unmistakeable tension in the air, but his own troops could easily account for that.
Time dragged slowly on. Warriors shifted uncomfortably, drawing hissed warnings from Hauclir. Malus bared his teeth. They were out there. He was certain of it.
The warrior immediately behind Malus bent low and whispered in the highborn’s ear. “Message from Hauclir. He wants to know if we should advance down the tunnel.”
“No,” the highborn whispered. “The enemy will have to come to us, and we’re better situated here—”
He froze. Was that a faint scuff of a foot somewhere ahead? Malus listened, not daring to breathe. Another sound—perhaps the tiny rattle of a buckle or chain. Or it could be his imagination, stoked by tension and absolute blackness.
Malus thought the situation over and reached a decision. He raised his crossbow to his shoulder, aimed at waist height, and fired.
The thump of the crossbow was loud enough to startle the warriors behind Malus—but nothing like the agonized scream that rent the darkness farther down the tunnel.
“Both ranks, open fire!” Malus ordered, quickly reloading his crossbow. More bowstrings thumped, and heavy bolts thudded into shields or glanced from steel armour with glints of bright blue sparks. Some of the bolts sank into flesh, drawing more bloodcurdling screams, and then the tunnel echoed with the thunder of running feet as the Chaos troops began their charge.
The close confines of the tunnel rang with frenzied shouts and blasphemous war cries. It sounded like a thousand warriors were bearing down on Malus and his meagre force. There was no real way to tell how close they were in the bedlam of shouts and screams echoing all around him. “Keep shooting!” he shouted into the din. “Aim low. They can’t get to us if we block the tunnel with their bodies!”
Fire. Reload. Fire. For almost a minute Malus’ arms worked in deadly rhythm, working the loading lever of his repeater crossbow and firing into the darkness. Marauders screamed and stumbled with a clatter of mail and steel-rimmed shields. The sharp smell of blood and voided bowels thickened the subterranean air.
Malus fired again, and this time his victim’s agonized scream sounded almost directly in front of him. “Front rank, pass your crossbows back and draw steel!” he roared. He shoved his own weapon back to the warriors behind him and yelled back at the mercenaries as he drew his twin blades. “Lights!” he called.
The order came just barely in time. Cold, green light flooded the narrow tunnel and revealed an axe-wielding barbarian not three feet from Malus. The human’s face was twisted in a rictus of rage and pain, and a crossbow bolt was buried to the fletchings in his muscular left shoulder. The sudden glare from the witchlamps blinded the warrior for an instant, and the highborn lunged forward and thrust his right-hand blade through the muscles of the marauder’s upper thigh. A fountain of arterial blood poured from the wound, and the warrior staggered, howling in pain. But before he could recover he was dashed against the side of the tunnel by the warrior behind him as his frenzied tribe-mate rushed to come to grips with his foes.
“Stay on your knees!” Malus ordered the men to either side of him. The howling barbarian came right at the highborn, his shield held low. Malus feinted with his right-hand sword and blocked a sweeping axe-stroke with his left—and then the druchii behind Malus shot the warrior point-blank in the face. The steel bolt punched clean through the warrior’s skull and struck the marauder behind him in the throat.
Yet no sooner had both men collapsed than their tribe-mates were clambering over them to hack at the hard-pressed druchii line. Malus and the men in the front rank fought like rats, stabbing at exposed knees, feet, thighs and groin. They slit men’s bellies where they could, and where the enemy’s guard was too strong they held the barbarian off long enough for a druchii crossbow to fe
ll him.
And yet there seemed to be no end to the bastards. Bodies began to pile so high in front of the druchii that the marauders had to drag them aside in order to reach their foes. Malus’ knee was sodden with spilled blood. He soon lost count of the number of men who died trying to force their way down the tunnel, and his arms began to burn with exhaustion from near-constant battle.
The fight seemed to rage for hours, but Malus knew that it was most likely only a handful of minutes. The druchii exhausted their ammunition before long, and the second rank drew their own blades and joined in the swordplay. The marauders were able to press them more closely after that, but they still faced the difficult task of fighting two swordsmen at once.
Exhaustion began to take its toll. The druchii to Malus’ right faltered for only a moment and a barbarian axe dashed out his brains. Instantly another warrior leapt forward and knelt in his place as Malus cut the barbarian’s hamstring with a quick flick of his wrist. Other druchii died behind him, struck down by flung axes or the thrust of saw-edged blades. Their formation contracted slightly, falling back a few feet towards the stairs. Malus began to wonder when the reinforcements were going to arrive.
And then suddenly a horn wailed down the tunnel from out of the darkness, and the marauders fell back at once. They dragged away as many of the dead as they could, something Malus had never known the marauders to do before. A ragged cheer went up from the surviving druchii, but Malus cut them off with a sharp wave of his hand. Something wasn’t right.
Then he heard it. The heavy tread of armoured feet, rolling like thunder towards the battered druchii warriors. Suddenly he realised that the enemy had used the barbarians to wear them down and soak up their ammunition, preparing them for the hammer blow.
“Mother of Night,” he cursed. “On your feet!” he called to the men beside him. “Get ready!”
But by then it was already too late.