by Dan Abnett
Malus barely had time to consider the implications of such a move as he rode up to a tall, imposing gate of polished iron set at the base of Bale’s citadel. A phalanx of armoured spearmen stood before the portal and lowered their weapons at the highborn’s approach. On either flank of the spear phalanx half a dozen crossbowmen took careful aim at Malus, reminding him of his wounds.
The captain of the guard company stepped forward, his sword pointed—for the moment—at the ground. “Halt!” he ordered. “State your business.”
“I serve Lord Tennucyr,” Malus answered, reining Spite in a dozen yards short of the captain. “I have an urgent message for the Witch Lord.” The highborn resisted the urge to try and order the man aside. This wasn’t some toll-collector who lived in fear of earning a highborn’s ire. Threatening the captain would only garner Malus more attention than he really wanted.
Despite the highborn’s businesslike tone, the captain frowned. “Tennucyr, you say?”
Malus paused, hearing the suspicion in the captain’s voice. He considered his response carefully. “I was sent into the Slavers’ Quarter by my lord to ascertain the situation there and now I must make my report to the Witch Lord.” On impulse, he added: “Several compounds are already ablaze, captain. Time is of the essence.”
At that, the captain nodded. “Very well,” he said and waved to his spearmen to stand aside, then turned to face the battlements above the gate. “A messenger for the Witch Lord!” the captain declared in a powerful voice. “Open the gate!”
There was a pair of dull thuds as bolts were drawn aside and the fifteen-foot iron gates swung open with scarcely a sound. Malus nodded curtly to the captain and kept his face carefully neutral as he spurred his mount forward and entered Balneth Bale’s citadel. As he entered a short tunnel that ran from the gate and through the thick citadel wall, the daemon whispered, “I warned you, Darkblade. When the trap springs shut, remember that.”
“Speak plainly or shut up, daemon,” Malus snarled. “So far you’ve told me nothing I didn’t already know.”
The tunnel opened into a small courtyard bordered by stables, a nauglir pen and a smithy. A tall, forbidding statue of a druchii in stately robes and bearing a rune-carved staff stood imperiously in the centre of the space. A beast handler was waiting as Malus reined in and slid from the saddle and the highborn handed Spite off to him. “Keep him saddled until you hear otherwise,” he told the handler, then strode briskly to the citadel’s entrance.
Malus fought the urge to fidget and rearrange his ill-fitting armour as he approached the citadel’s arched wooden door. It opened silently at his approach and a liveried servant waited upon the threshold. “Where is the Witch Lord?” he demanded of the servant.
The servant bowed and stepped aside to allow Malus to enter the citadel’s entry hall. “My lord holds council in his private chambers,” he said with downcast eyes. “He is not to be disturbed, dread lord.”
“I shall be the judge of that,” the highborn snapped. “I have an urgent message for him from the men fighting in the Slavers’ Quarter. Take me to him.”
The servant did not hesitate. “At once, dread lord,” the man said quietly, then turned and led Malus through the small entry hall and into the great chamber beyond.
The main hall of the citadel was a large, circular space made of seamless, dark grey stone and hung with archaic tapestries depicting the deeds of warlocks long dead. The vaulted ceiling soared more than thirty feet over Malus’ head and when he looked up he was shocked to see a gleaming moon and a scattering of stars glowing in a black velvet sky. Illumination from the illusory moon was the only source of light in the chamber, limning the dais and the iron throne in the centre of the room with a patina of burnished pewter. Statues of warlocks and witches stood in alcoves around the perimeter of the room, their marble faces astonishingly vibrant in the sorcerous light. Beyond the dais, the statue of a wingless dragon rose in a spiralling pillar of stone up into the darkness. Illusory moonlight shone on iridescent dragon scales formed from crushed pearl.
The grandeur of the room stopped Malus in his tracks. The air was heavy with age and solemnity, and for the first time the highborn realised he was in a tower that had once stood in Nagarythe, thousands of years before. It was a remnant of glories past and Malus was surprised at the sudden sense of loss he felt beneath the unblinking light of forgotten stars.
I will not forgive and I will not forget, he swore to himself. Death and ruin to the sons of Aenarion for all that they have taken from us.
The servant was moving swiftly across the gleaming marble floor, oblivious to the wonders surrounding him. Malus shook himself from his reverie and hurried after the retreating form. As he drew near the towering stone dragon he saw that the statue was in fact a cunningly constructed staircase, rising to the tower floors above. The risers were steep and narrow and there was nothing to grip during the climb, but the servant climbed the stairs with quick and nimble steps. The highborn climbed doggedly after the man, focusing his attention on the servant’s feet just a few steps above his eye level.
They climbed into the ghostly night sky. Malus felt no heat from the gleaming points of starlight, but the smell of sorcery was thick in the air. When he reached out his hand to touch the gleaming moon his fingers passed effortlessly through it; skin tingling from the touch of sorcerous energies.
Up into the false twilight they rose, until their steps were all but lost in shadow. They left the main hall behind and after a time Malus dimly glimpsed vague outlines of other tower floors that they passed in the gloom. More sorcery played across his skin, he suspected that some protective spell kept him separate from parts of the tower that Bale did not wish strangers to see.
At length the servant stopped his nimble climb and stepped sideways off the stair. Malus moved quickly after the man, part of him fearing that if he could not keep up with his guide the dragon would keep him in its clutches forever. Leaving the staircase was like emerging from night into false dawn—one moment Malus was peering into twilit gloom and the next he was standing in a room lit with a soft glow, as from nascent sunlight. The chamber was smaller but no less lavishly appointed than the main hall below. Ancient tapestries hung at intervals along the circular wall, interspersed with statuary of arcane creatures like hydras, basilisks and griffons. The air was hushed and sombre, perfumed with the faint scent of incense. Across the chamber stood an arched doorway of dark oak banded with polished iron. Decorative iron bands on the surface of the door depicted a pair of wyverns locked in a mating flight above a range of narrow mountains.
The servant crossed soundlessly to the door and from the surroundings Malus sensed that he’d reached Bale’s private chambers. The highborn took a deep breath and composed himself, tugging impatiently at the hadrilkar that hung loosely around his neck. He would toss the cursed thing aside the moment he found his way into the Witch Lord’s presence; wearing the collar had been galling enough on the way to the tower, much less in the presence of other highborn.
Malus was considering the wording of his offer to the Witch Lord when the servant laid a hand on the iron-bound door and then stepped deferentially aside. The door swung open slowly and silently—just as an armoured highborn came barging through from the other side, flanked by his retainers.
Lord Tennucyr checked his stride just in time to avoid walking into the opening door and scowled fiercely at the man waiting on the other side. His brow furrowed in confusion as he recognised the collar around Malus’ neck as his own—then his eyes went wide when he realised who was wearing it.
“You!” Tennucyr cried. “But how?”
Malus masked his shock with careless grin. “That would be a rather long story, I’m afraid. Let us just say I have a talent for trouble and leave it at that.”
The Naggorite lord went pale with rage. He drew his sword and levelled it at Malus’ throat. “Assassin!” he roared. “Kill him!”
Tennucyr’s men slipped like eels past the
ir lord, their blades glittering in their hands. Malus raised his hand in protest. “My lord, you’re making a mistake!” he said quickly, but then the two retainers were upon him, their swords flickering like adders’ tongues.
Malus retreated from the two men and groped frantically for his own blade. The two men advanced on either side of the highborn, pressing their advantage and slashing at his elbows and knees. The joints of the plate harness were among the armour’s weaker points and the men were well-versed in the art of bringing down fully armoured knights. One sword glanced off Malus’ right elbow joint, knocking the loosely-fitting armature askew and momentarily locking the joint. The second man’s stroke chopped downward and caught the highborn’s left knee joint, snapping pins and popping the metal armature apart. Malus felt a flare of pain from his battered knee and just managed to get his sword drawn in time to block a vicious cut to his throat from the man to his right.
The highborn bit back a savage curse. A fight was the last thing he needed at the moment. If Balneth Bale was in the chamber beyond it would only be a matter of moments before his personal guardsmen became involved, effectively ending any chance to make his case before the Witch Lord. Desperation fuelled his thoughts. “Daemon…” he whispered under his breath.
“Do not ask, fool,” Tz’arkan snapped. T have given you all that I intend to give. What happens now must be of your own making.”
Malus roared in rage and hurled himself at the two retainers, slashing furiously at their faces and regaining some of the ground he’d lost.
The warriors were thrown off-balance only for a moment, then began to circle around Malus from opposite sides. The highborn fought the urge to turn along with them—if he moved to keep them in sight he would be turning his back on Tennucyr, who stood some ways off with sword in hand, waiting for the moment to strike.
Pain throbbed in Malus’ shoulder, leg and arm and he could feel his limbs burning as he reached the limits of his meagre strength. He had to do something, or all was lost.
Malus locked eyes with Tennucyr just as his two retainers rushed at the highborn from either side. The Naggorite lord grinned mirthlessly and on impulse Malus hurled his sword at the man’s face and charged at him.
Tennucyr’s grin vanished as Malus’ sword spun end-over-end at his face, but the highborn was skilled and swift, ducking and bringing up his own sword to knock the flung weapon aside. Before he could recover, however, Malus crashed into the man and knocked him off his feet. The two nobles crashed to the floor and skidded across the polished tiles and through the doorway.
The room beyond the door was dimly lit and redolent with burning spices. Lit braziers cast a ruddy glow against the eddying smoke and outlined heavy tapestries that hung from the unseen ceiling. The tapestries were set in an archaic style that further subdivided the chamber into smaller spaces, concealing the efforts of servants and retainers as they waited upon the highborn gathered in the centre of the chamber.
Malus took all this in with a single glance as he closed a hand around Tennucyr’s sword wrist and pinned the weapon to the floor. His other hand closed around the Naggorite lord’s throat. Tennucyr’s eyes bulged and his free hand pummelled Malus’ arm and head. Malus heard running feet behind him and knew that his time had almost run out. He raised his head to the silhouetted figures sitting in the room’s central chamber and cried out, “Balneth Bale! Witch Lord of the black ark! I am your kinsman and I have come to offer you a gift.”
The highborn heard the snarled curses of Tennucyr’s men as they raced into the room. Malus tensed, expecting to feel a sword bite into the back of his neck, but one of the dark figures before him straightened slightly and held up a forbidding hand. “That is enough,” the figure said in a cold, commanding voice and Malus heard the men behind him stop in mid-stride. The forbidding hand then beckoned. “Release my cousin and come forward, Malus of Hag Graef,” the figure said. “I would hear of this gift you would give me.”
Relief washed over Malus. With effort, he released Tennucyr and rose unsteadily to his feet, then reached up and unclasped the hadrilkar hanging around his neck. Malus dropped the tore onto Tennucyr’s chest and calmly approached the Witch Lord.
The haze parted like fog as Malus approached the assembled Naggorites. Balneth Bale reclined in a massive throne formed of thorned ebony and wrought with carvings of wyverns on the hunt. The Witch Lord wore finely crafted armour chased with silver and gold and his black hair fell loose about his narrow shoulders. Bale was a handsome man, with an uncharacteristically square chin and high, flat cheekbones; Malus was immediately reminded of his mother Eldire, Bale’s sister and former seer. The Witch Lord’s new oracle, a surprisingly youthful-looking woman, sat just behind and to the left of Bale, clutching a glowing green orb in her slim hands. She was a voluptuous, white-haired figure with piercing black eyes and her sharp features bore an expression of secret mirth as she watched Malus approach.
What does that damned crone know, the highborn wondered?
Three other nobles sat in a rough semicircle before Bale, reclining in ebony chairs of their own and watching Malus with hooded eyes. They, too, wore full armour and sat around a low table set with a parchment map of northern Naggaroth. The part of the map in the centre of the table focussed on the Spear Road
between the black ark and Hag Graef.
Now Malus knew where Bale and his army were headed. He smiled, inclining his head in a gesture of respect. “I see you’ve heard the news,” he said.
Bale regarded Malus intently, though his expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “Is it true?” he asked. “Is Lurhan dead?”
Malus nodded. “Your bitterest foe is no more, dread lord. I slew him with my own hand. And now I come to offer you my allegiance as a kinsman and an enemy of Hag Graef.”
“Allegiance. Indeed?” Bale smiled, but the mirth did not reach the obsidian flecks of his eyes. And what would you ask for in return?”
“Only what is any highborn’s right—property and position within your realm and a place in your army” Malus turned back to Tennucyr, who was being helped to his feet by one of his men. “You could grant me his possessions, for example.”
“Mine?” Tennucyr gasped. “I am the Witch Lord’s cousin!”
“But I am his nephew,” Malus countered. “Who you captured, tortured and attempted to sell into slavery at the house of Master Noros.” The highborn glanced enquiringly at Bale. “If I am not mistaken, even by the laws of the black ark that could be considered treason. You could be stripped naked and impaled on the wall of the ark, my lord. Merely stripping you of your possessions is being generous, to my mind.”
Now the Witch Lord’s smile broadened. “I begin to see the family resemblance,” he said. “Tell me: are there any particular possessions you wish to take from my cousin?”
Malus frowned. He had been thinking specifically of regaining the daemon’s relics, but had no intention of revealing their importance to Bale or anyone else. “I… I’m not certain what you mean, dread liege.”
Bale raised an armoured gauntlet and made a small gesture. Immediately a retainer glided soundlessly from behind a nearby hanging and knelt beside her lord. She held a polished wooden box in her hands, which she held up for the Witch Lord to inspect. Bale reached down and lifted the lid of the box with one steel-clad finger. Within, nestled in red velvet, lay the Octagon of Praan, the Idol of Kolkuth and the Dagger of Torxus.
“Perhaps you take my meaning now, Malus of Hag Graef?”
Tz’arkan shifted uneasily in Malus’ chest, constricting tightly around his heart. The highborn fought to keep his voice calm. “I don’t understand.”
Bale laughed—a hollow, heartless sound. “Your coming was not unexpected, Malus. In fact, it was foreseen! The Witch Lord reached for the seer’s hand, taking it in his own and a brief smile played across the oracle’s cruel features.
Malus started to speak, but words failed him. His mind reeled at the implications of Bale’s wor
ds and the room seemed to spin. Bale laughed and his men joined in—along with a thin, cackling voice from the shadows that sounded eerily familiar.
The highborn turned and bolted for the door, reaching for a sword he no longer possessed. Tennucyr’s retainers moved to block the exit, but then Malus heard a sibilant hiss and the air around him seethed with power. The highborn felt as if a net of invisible fire had drawn tight around him, freezing him in place. Lines of searing heat glowed across the surface of his armour and somehow burned the skin beneath. Malus let out a furious groan, but the sorcery held him fast.
Malus watched the fierce expressions of Tennucyr and his men turn into looks of atavistic terror; without a word to the Witch Lord they retreated from the room. The highborn heard another hiss and the lines of fire around him twisted and contracted, forcing his limbs to obey the will of another mind. Slowly, haltingly, he turned back to face the Witch Lord, his expression a mask of fear and loathing. The cackling laughter continued, growing steadily closer.
Balneth Bale still reclined, his black eyes alight with triumph. Two figures stepped from the darkness behind the chair—one a hunched, trembling shape that laughed like a madman, the other a cloaked and hooded figure of medium height who supported the cackling wretch with an outstretched hand.
You will serve us Malus Darkblade,” Balneth Bale said. “Be assured of that. Already you have done our bidding and slain the Vaulkhar of Hag Graef. Soon you will become the instrument of the Hag’s utter defeat.”