by Dan Abnett
“Yes. Yes of course,” Fuerlan said, gathering up the reins of his querulous mount. The old nauglir growled and began to walk forward. Malus nudged Spite backwards, out of the general’s path, when the scarred Naggorite kicked his mount savagely and it leapt at Spite.
The older cold one bellowed in rage and charged at its smaller kin, but Spite was not one to back down from a challenge. Malus’ nauglir roared in response and snapped its massive jaws in the cold one’s face. Malus cursed savagely, hauling at the reins and Fuerlan did likewise, turning the old warbeast’s head aside and bringing the two cold ones almost flank-to-flank for a brief moment. When they did, the general glared down at Malus, his face twisted with hate.
“I’ve dreamt of this for months,” he said, a deranged giggle escaping his lips. “Look around you. I have an army waiting on my every command. I don’t need to lay a hand on you in order to destroy you. By the time this campaign is over you will deliver your precious city into my hands. I’ll have you skinned alive and marched through the Court of Thorns to place the drachau’s crown upon my head and after you are dead I’ll have your skull made into a chamber pot. Think on that with the few days left to you.”
Before Malus could reply Spite snapped at the old nauglir’s flanks and the huge beast leapt away, bellowing in rage. Fuerlan cursed and kicked, spilling still more of Khaine’s sacred blood upon the stones. An angry hiss went up from the temple maidens, causing Malus to smile. Nagaira’s mount ducked out of the old nauglir’s path, the fierce warhorse taking a nip of its own at the warbeast’s shoulder.
It was several moments before Fuerlan got the animal under control; when he did he turned the nauglir to face the household knights as though nothing had happened. The highborn warriors watched Fuerlan stonily as he stood in his stirrups and cried out in a thin voice.
“Warriors of the black ark! It is I, the bearer of sacred blood, anointed in Khaine’s cauldron!” Fuerlan held aloft the goblet continuing the ritual benediction. “Before you I drink of the Lord of Murder’s blessing, promising glory and plunder for all those who march beneath my banner!”
Fuerlan raised the goblet to his lips and a ragged cheer went up from the knights and the first division of foot. Malus watched the general tilt the cup farther and farther back, until its base pointed into the air. When Fuerlan straightened and raised the cup in triumph, Malus noted that there wasn’t even a thin stain of red on his lips.
You spilled every drop of holy blood with your stupidity, the highborn thought bitterly. An ill omen indeed.
Malus listened as the young general began barking orders to set the army on the march. Bale’s plan was audacious, but like all daring plans, it was a dangerous gamble. If the army of Hag Graef didn’t do as the Witch Lord predicted in every particular, they could be heading into disaster.
The autarii girl studied him with the dispassionate malevolence of a hunting hawk. Malus ran a gauntleted hand over his face and tried to wipe the dirt of the road and the weight of exhaustion from his eyes. “What do you mean there are enemy troops north of the Blackwater Ford?”
“Horses and spears,” the girl said in her sweet, dead voice. “Many scores of them.” She turned and pointed south along the road, beyond the hill in the distance. “They gather wood and wait among the broken towers to either side of the road.”
Malus straightened in the saddle and tried in vain to work the stiffness from his aching back. The household knights were stretched along a quarter mile of the Spear Road
, resting their weary mounts in the late afternoon sun. They were a half day past Naggorond; the black spires of Malekith’s fortress city could still be seen, far to the northwest. Blackwater Ford lay another five miles south, nestled among a line of low hills and pine forests running east to west along the line of the rushing river.
The past few days had stretched into a blur of cold food and constant travel. The household knights had been ordered to march in the vanguard of the army, along with the first division of foot—Malus suspected this was so he would be the first to encounter any trouble along the way. The column paused for fifteen minutes every four hours; men learned to doze fitfully in their saddles and steal quick meals of hard biscuit washed down with brackish water. The highborn couldn’t imagine how the spearmen were keeping up. Even the iron stamina of the nauglir was wearing thin.
They were only a few miles from their intended camp site. According to the plan the army was to make camp just short of the ford and rest for a day and a half while the scouts and dark riders crossed the river in search of the enemy. Unfortunately it seemed that the warriors of Hag Graef had other plans.
“Stand,” Malus ordered and Spite sank eagerly onto the surface of the road. The highborn slid stiffly from the saddle. His face and hands were caked with dust and grime and his lank hair was pulled back with a simple rawhide strap. Curiously the runes Nagaira had painted on his skin remained as clear and vivid as ever—no amount of rubbing seemed to blur their sharp, black lines. The realisation left him uneasy.
Malus beckoned to the autarii and her companions. He’d sent her ahead with the scouts more to keep her out of his hair than anything else—when she was around she lurked like a vengeful ghost, watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Nearby, Eluthir and Gaelthen dismounted as well, joining their lord. Tennucyr remained in the saddle, keeping an eye on the division.
“Show me,” the highborn said, kneeling in the dirt by the side of the road. “Draw me a map.”
The girl sank gracefully into a crouch, drawing a long knife. She gave him a strange look over the point of the blade, then began scratching lines in the soil. “Over the hill yonder the road passes through fields bordered with woods,” she said as she worked. “Half a mile ahead there are ruins to either side of the road—broken towers and fallen statues. The men from the Hag wait there, cutting firewood and driving rails into the earth.”
“Rails,” Malus echoed, studying the autarii’s map. “Likely setting picket lines for the horses. Did you see any nauglir?”
“Dragon kin?” the girl said. “No. Just horses and spears’
The highborn nodded thoughtfully. Eluthir drank deeply from a water flask and eyed his lord. “What does it mean?” he asked.
“An advance party” Malus said. “Cavalry scouts and foragers sent ahead to establish a camp for the main force, which means the Hag’s army is crossing the ford as we speak.”
The highborn studied the map, trying to ignore the dull headache throbbing between his temples. There would be no way to approach the ruins down the road without being seen and he was sure the advance party would have at least some crossbowmen standing watch. He considered the rough outlines of the forests. “Are there decent trails in these woods?”
“Hunting paths,” the girl said with a shrug. “We have little need for them.”
“But could nauglir use them?”
The girl paused. “Yes,” she said.
Malus studied the map for another few moments, trying to see if there was anything he was missing. If they could strike the enemy army while they were crossing the river they could wreak a terrible slaughter. But they would have to move quickly and the advance force would have to be defeated first.
He checked the map one last time and nodded sharply. “All right,” he said, rising to his feet. “Eluthir, mount up and ride back down the road as fast as you can. Fuerlan and the rest of the army should be only a mile or so behind us. Tell him that the army of the Hag is crossing the Blackwater right now and he is to come with all speed.”
“At once, my lord,” Eluthir said and ran for his mount. Gaelthen watched the boy go and turned to Malus. “What are we going to do in the meantime?”
Malus shrugged. “The men have been marching non-stop for days and they’ve had nothing to eat but hard biscuits and water. We’ve two banners of foot and a single banner of cold ones; the enemy likely outnumbers us and has a strong defensive position.” He turned to the old knight. “What els
e? We attack.”
Chapter Sixteen
A TERRIBLE COMPULSION
The nauglir were not stealthy creatures. Though too tired to do more than grunt irritably at their handlers, the long procession of cold ones along the narrow game trail touched off a near-constant chorus of snapping limbs and rustling brush. Each noise sounded as loud as a thunderclap in Malus’ ears as the household knights worked their way through the dense forest. Like the rest of the division the highborn walked along beside his cold one, his hand tightly gripping Spite’s reins. From his position near the head of the column all he could see were trees and dense brush all around him. For all he knew, the enemy force could be only yards away, but he clung to the thin hope that if he couldn’t hear the activities of the enemy camp they likely couldn’t hear the passage of the knights.
Ahead of Malus, Gaelthen’s cold one abruptly stopped and sank to its haunches. Malus gave Spite’s reins a slight jerk. “Stand,” he said quietly and the nauglir stopped. Behind Malus, the next knight in line repeated the command to his mount and so on down the line. They had been working their way through the forest for almost three hours and the shadows beneath the trees were lengthening. He imagined the main body of Fuerlan’s army bearing down the road as quickly as it would go, eager to come to grips with the enemy. If the knights didn’t get out of the woods and deal with the advance party soon, the army would have to commit to a frontal assault against the camp that would stall their advance on the ford.
A trio of cloaked figures glided down the path towards Malus, crossbows in hand. The autarii paid no heed to the volatile cold ones; the nauglir in fact didn’t seem to notice the shades at all. Malus knew the figure in the lead to be his erstwhile retainer, the autarii girl with the dead voice and disturbing eyes. He reached up and pulled off his dragon-winged helmet as the scouts approached.
The shades reached Malus and settled into a crouch; that was the closest thing to a respectful salute the hill-clans seemed to be capable of. The autarii girl pulled back her hood and Malus was surprised to see her pale face was flushed and her violet eyes were gleaming with excitement. She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees and Malus noticed that her slender hands were stained with fresh blood.
“We are past the enemy camp,” she said, a little breathless.
“Do they know we’re here?” Malus asked.
The girl shrugged. “They have heard the noise, but don’t know what to make of it. City-bred fools,” she sneered. “Your spears have appeared on the ridge and that is all they worry about.”
Malus nodded. He’d told Lord Ruhven to give him two hours to get the knights into position, then march the first division just over the ridge into plain sight. He’d told Ruhven in no uncertain terms that he was not to attack, just hold the enemy’s attention. Hopefully he wouldn’t get any strange notions when he realised that the knights were running behind schedule. “Does the enemy have any scouts in the woods?”
To the highborn’s surprise, the girl actually smiled. “No longer,” she said, reaching beneath her cloak to hold up a cluster of freshly-cut scalps. “Autarii from the rock adder clan. Almost as blind and deaf as the city folk.” The other two shades hissed in quiet amusement.
“How much farther until we can return to the road?”
“Not far,” the girl replied. “A hundred yards or so. There is a field hidden by a bend in the road.”
Malus nodded, replacing his helmet. “Good. Let’s get moving.”
The shades rose as one and headed back up the line. In moments Gaelthen’s cold one rose to its feet and the column was moving again.
Ten minutes later the woods began to thin just ahead and Malus could glimpse a grassy meadow between the trees. Moments later Spite was trotting eagerly through trampled brown grasses. True to the scout’s word, the field was hidden from the ruins to the north by a spur of woodland that would allow them to form up unnoticed.
Malus pulled Spite to a halt and climbed into the saddle. “Form into columns,” he said quietly to each of the knights as they emerged from the trees. “No horns, no banners, no lances.”
The cloudy sky to the west was already iron-grey, shading into purple. Minutes passed as the household knights trotted their mounts across the field and formed into companies by column. Malus strained his ears, dreading the faint sound of trumpets to the north as Fuerlan’s troops appeared on the scene ten minutes too early.
After what seemed like an eternity, the division was formed up and ready to march. Malus kicked Spite into a trot, heading for the front of the column. The autarii waited there on their haunches, showing off their scalps to one another. They straightened as he approached.
Malus drew his sword—a heavy, straight, double-edged blade, forged in the archaic style of the hinterlands—and pointed to the tree line on the other side of the road. “Take position there with the full troop,” he said. “Shoot down any foes who try to flee back down the road.”
The girl gave Malus one of her enigmatic stares. “They won’t escape us,” she said, then trotted into the shadows beneath the trees with her men in tow.
Malus watched her leave, still unable to explain why she discomfited him so. He’d find reasons to keep her well forward with the scout troop until they reached Hag Graef, at least. Once they were gone, Malus wheeled Spite about and addressed the knights. “No one draws steel until I command it. Once the fight begins, kill every man you find.”
A feral mutter went through the assembled force. For just a moment, Malus was struck by the sheer power of the armoured force assembled in the field awaiting his orders. It was almost enough to forget that he was about to make war on his own city. Are you turning sentimental and weak, all of a sudden, he asked himself—Who in this whole land is truly your kinsman? You have slain Hag Graef’s vaulkhar and every hand is turned against you. Your only choice is to run… or fight.
Malus raised his sword. “Sa’an’ishar! Advance in column!”
A ripple went through the ranks as the long column of riders started to move. Malus rode in the forefront, leading the knights to the road and turning right, approaching the ruins from the south. As soon as the front of the column had turned onto the road Malus turned in the saddle. “Household knights!” he called. Advance at the canter!”
As one, the armoured riders put their spurs to the cold ones’ flanks and the huge animals leapt forward, picking up speed. Malus and the front rank of knights were around the bend of the road in moments and the highborn took in the scene that stretched before him.
The ruins might once have been a village, or a way station for soldiers travelling north—now they were nothing more than tumbled piles of stone and vague square foundations lines. The remnants stretched for fifty yards or more along either side of the road at a point where the forest fell away on either flank and gave a commanding view of the road north and the terrain to east and west. From Malus’ perspective, the white and grey ruins were teeming with black-armoured men, all arrayed in a thin line of spear companies facing north. A reinforced company of spears stood athwart the road in close formation, presenting a thicket of gleaming steel points directed at the dense formation of troops stretching along the ridgeline to the north. The troops of the black ark were formed up for battle, well out of crossbow range, but were ready to sweep down the gentle slope into the ruins at a moment’s notice. Lord Ruhven had chosen discretion over recklessness and looked prepared to hold his men in place until nightfall if necessary.
To the south of the ruins a sizeable force of enemy cavalry waited in loose formation, held in reserve to counter-charge any attack on the camp. The nauglir caught wind of the mass of horseflesh and quickened their steps. To some extent, the hungry warbeasts decided Malus’ tactics for him—better to smash the fast-moving cavalry first and trap the enemy spear companies in the ruins. He could order Ruhven’s men to attack from the opposite side if necessary and grind the enemy between them.
Less than a hundred yards ahead, many o
f the horsemen turned at the sound of heavy footfalls on the road. A ragged cheer went up from the cavalry, believing that the first units of their main force had finally arrived. Malus grinned mercilessly and let his force draw ever closer. The longer they could approach unchallenged the greater the impact of their charge.
Sixty yards. Fifty. Up ahead, Malus saw a group of riders peel off from the formation and begin trotting towards the oncoming knights. It was likely the cavalry commander—possibly even the overall commander of the advance party himself—heading over to appraise the arriving knights of the situation. The rider in the lead was a tall, aristocratic highborn with ornate armour and a flowing cloak of dragonhide. Malus tightened his grip on his sword and picked him out as his first target.
Forty yards. Thirty. Malus could clearly see the man’s features. He looked familiar. Was he one of his father’s former retainers?
Twenty yards. The expression on the man’s face changed from one of smug viciousness to a blank look of shock. His eyes met Malus’ and the highborn suddenly recognised the man as one of the cabal of nobles who’d invested their coin in his slaving raid the previous summer. The noble let out a shriek of surprise and anger and Malus answered it with a bloodthirsty laugh. He raised his sword high, its edge catching the fading light. “Charge!” he cried and a thousand knights took up the call, shaking the air with their battle-cries.
Spite leapt eagerly into a run, snarling hungrily at the enemy horses. The cavalry mounts snorted and screamed as the onrushing beasts bore down on them and chaos ran like wildfire through the enemy ranks.
The nobleman, seeing death rushing down upon him, grabbed for his sword and put his spurs to his horse’s flanks, charging into the teeth of the Naggorite attack.
Had the noble been better prepared and his horse had more room to run, he might have gained enough speed to strike hard and present a more difficult target, but to Malus the lumbering fool might as well have been standing still. Spite raced past the squealing horse, jaws gaping for another and Malus brought his sword around in a short, precise arc, letting the weight of nauglir and rider provide most of the force behind the blow. The stroke knocked the noble’s weak parry aside and the edge of the heavier sword took the top of the man’s head off in a burst of blood and brain matter.