[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  He never reached the general. Nagaira saw his approach and spurred her horse forward, blocking Malus’ approach well short of his goal. Spite growled at the destrier, but the warhorse stood its ground and bared its square teeth with a challenge of its own.

  “Out of the way, sister,” Malus said. “Or is the great general no longer interested in reports from his own scouts?”

  Morning sunlight gleamed on the snarling daemon’s mask that Nagaira wore. The shadows that clung to her skin turned the mask’s eye holes into pools of impenetrable night. “The enemy is arrayed before us,” she said hollowly. “What more need we know?”

  The highborn gritted his teeth. “The enemy has three banners of foot and possibly a full banner of horse,” he said tersely. “Their flanks are protected and they are in well-fortified positions controlling the road.”

  Nagaira’s masked face regarded the enemy force to the south. “Unless I am much mistaken, we still greatly outnumber them,” she said at length. “They haven’t the strength to defeat us.”

  “But they have ample strength to bleed us,” Malus snapped. “And to delay us. This isn’t the only battle we will have to fight, sister. Whatever happens here, we must be able to carry on with enough of an army to still conquer the city. And right now I’ll wager what’s left of my soul that there is a messenger killing horses to get back to the Hag and warn the drachau we’re coming.” The highborn glared at Fuerlan, who sat astride his nauglir some yards away, sipping wine offered by one of his servants. That fool has already squandered our greatest advantages: speed and surprise. From now on, the closer we draw to Hag Graef, the more we will play into the enemy’s hands.”

  Nagaira’s laughter echoed faintly behind her mask. “Have faith, brother. We have more at our disposal than mere soldiery.”

  “Then best make use of it now,” Malus shot back. “If you have the same sort of power over Fuerlan as you have over me, convince him to withdraw and lure the enemy into pursuit—”

  “I do not know what you speak of,” Nagaira said, but Malus felt her piercing gaze like a wash of heat over his skin. “Do not talk of such foolishness again, Malus. Not to anyone. Do you understand?”

  The highborn’s retort was snuffed like a candle flame. He felt his rage sputter and go out, no matter how hard he struggled to maintain it. “I… I understand…” he heard himself say.

  “Very good,” his sister said, as though he were some sort of trained beast. “If you are so concerned about the Naggorite army, you will have to find a way to pull them from the fire. I have no great power over Fuerlan. Indeed, the more blood his army spills, the more he hungers to send them into battle. There—you hear? The trumpets have sounded. The battle has begun.”

  Sure enough, Malus heard the skirling, wailing cry of trumpets echoing down from the ridge, signalling the army to advance. As one, three banners of infantry lowered their spears and began to march towards the ruins. At either flank, a banner of horse followed slowly in their wake, held back in anticipation of breaking through the enemy line. Down among the stones, the Naggorite trumpets were answered by Hag Graef s horns, readying the troops for battle.

  “Is there no sorcery you can employ?” Malus asked. “Bolts of fire or terrible apparitions? Something?”

  His sister merely shook her head. “I must preserve my power for the decisive strike,” she said. That time is not now.”

  “If we don’t triumph here you may not get another chance!”

  The witch chuckled, pulling on her reins. “All is going according to plan, brother. You shall see.” She kicked at her horse and set off at a canter towards Fuerlan and his retainers. Malus couldn’t even bring himself to glare at his sister’s back as she left.

  Gritting his teeth in frustration, he returned his attention to the battle developing at the base of the slope. The Naggorite spearmen had almost reached the ruins and already the air between the forces was dark with the flitting shapes of crossbow bolts. The spearmen advanced with their shields before them, presenting a moving wall of wood and steel to the hail of bolts. Here and there men fell, clutching at short, feathered shafts that sprouted from chest, neck or leg. Wounded men staggered from the ranks, limping or stumbling back towards the ridgeline or crawling weakly in any direction that would take them away from the awful rain of steel. Highborn officers in the rear ranks bellowed at the spearmen, ordering fresh warriors to fill the gaps and the companies pushed onward.

  From his vantage, it appeared to Malus that the initial advance was going well. Losses were minor, so far, but the closer the banners came to the enemy lines the more powerful the enemy crossbows would become and the Naggorites would have to worry about the foes in front of them as well as the bolts falling on them from above. He spied more movement to the south of the enemy’s front line—more horses shifting position, it looked like. The cavalry commander was either an indecisive sort or he was trying to make it appear as though there were many more horsemen around the ruins than there really were.

  Where was the general? He started at the far left flank of the enemy force and searched the ruins carefully. He would want to be in a spot with a good field of view, he thought, focusing on tall piles of stone or lanes that afforded a broad view of the battle line.

  He caught sight of a nauglir loping slowly down the Spear Road

  , right in the centre of the enemy position. An armoured highborn sat tall in the saddle, but his hands held neither weapon nor shield. Behind him followed a small retinue of knights mounted on cold ones—only five, too small to make much difference in a pitched battle. The general and his bodyguard, Malus thought. It could be no one else.

  As Malus watched, the general reined in some ten yards from the line as the spear companies met with a keening of battle cries and a rattle of steel on wood. The Naggorite banners were arrayed four ranks deep; the front rank thrust their long weapons at neck level, holding their tall shields close to their bodies, while the second rank stabbed overhand, aiming over the heads of the men in the front rank and thrusting downwards at their enemies’ heads. The men of Hag Graef were formed in two lines, allowing them to cover more ground. Ordinarily this would have made the formations less resilient, but their improvised fortifications lent them added protection and deploying only two ranks ensured that every man in the banner was able to fight.

  The clatter of blows and the screams of the dying echoed back from the ruins. More and more wounded began streaming back from the Naggorite companies—for now, only a trickle, but each man was like a drop of blood, sapping the formation’s strength. There was no way to tell how badly the enemy was suffering. If just one of Hag Graef s banners fell back, it would open the way for the horses to break through and wreak havoc. So far, however, the enemy stood firm.

  We will grind them down, he knew. We have two banners to their one. Sooner or later they will break, but at what cost?

  He studied the battle line from one end to the other, trying to see some weak spot where perhaps the horsemen or the household knights could make their presence felt. But the ground did not allow for it. The dense forests to either side of the road funnelled the Naggorite troops towards the ruins and the line of spear companies completely filled the fields in front of the enemy positions.

  The general, Malus decided. The enemy general was the key. If he fell then resistance would swiftly unravel. But how to reach him?

  A cheer went up from the battle line. The Naggorite banner in the centre of the line had pushed hard against the Hag Graef spearmen covering the main road, driving them almost ten yards south. The enemy line was bending. When would it reach the breaking point?

  Malus looked to his left and caught sight of the autarii girl crouched on her haunches, studying him with dispassionate malevolence. He beckoned to her and she ran like a deer to his side. The highborn gestured over his shoulder. “Find Lord Gaelthen and tell him to bring up the household knights.”

  As the scout ran off, more trumpets sounded. When Malus looked
back downslope he saw that the Naggorite banner on the right flank was falling back! The relentless hail of crossbow bolts had taken a fearful toll of its companies—from their ragged numbers Malus estimated that the banner had lost at least half of its strength. The spearmen were falling back in good order, facing the enemy and still fighting as much as they could, but the nerve of the division’s leaders had broken. The division’s second banner—led by its captain, Lord Kethair—was already charging down the slope to prevent the flank’s collapse and salvage the division’s honour.

  In the centre, the spearmen of Hag Graef continued to give ground. Malus caught sight of the enemy general again, close to the rear rank of the retreating companies. He wasn’t panicking, the highborn realised, and he wasn’t calling for reinforcements.

  Just as the Naggorites pushed past the first line of ruins, the reason for the retreat became apparent. Black bolts flashed into the spear companies from either flank as concealed groups of cross-bowmen caught the Naggorite troops in a withering crossfire. Malus watched in horror as the huge block of troops seemed to shrivel before his eyes.

  The ground shook beneath Malus as the household knights trotted up the road. A quick glance behind him showed that the division was drawn up in good order and ready for battle. The centre of the Naggorite line couldn’t hold for much longer. The highborn reached a quick decision. Drawing his sword, he stood in the stirrups and cried in a carrying voice. “Sa’an’ishar! The household knights will advance to battle!”

  There was the icy rasp of a thousand swords leaping from their scabbards and a lusty roar from a thousand throats hungry for slaughter. Malus roared along with them. “Forward!” he shouted, lowering his heavy blade and kicking Spite into a trot.

  Fuerlan’s trumpeter was already blowing urgent notes, but the general had seen the danger a few moments too late. The centre banner would collapse within moments and Lord Ruhven’s remaining troops would not be able to reach them in time. The column of armoured knights crested the ridge and Malus spurred his mount into a canter. Lord Gaelthen, in the front rank, shouted a command and the column picked up speed. Ahead, the spear companies of Ruhven’s second banner parted with hurried shouts of encouragement as the mounted warriors rolled down the Spear Road

  like a thunderbolt.

  With the long slope working in their favour the nauglir covered the hundred yards in the space of just a few seconds, the heavy warbeasts knocking aside or jumping over rocks that would have broken a horse’s leg. Thirty yards from the ruins the first enemy crossbow bolts began to whir angrily through the ranks, cracking against shields and ringing off heavy armour.

  Pressed hard from the front and sides and in the path of an impending cavalry charge, the centre Naggorite banner fell apart. Soldiers threw discipline to the winds and ran, dropping their spears and racing for their lives. The enemy spearmen let out a triumphant shout and pressed forward, killing all they could—and realising, too late, that the tables had abruptly turned.

  At twenty yards from the enemy line Malus raised his sword once again and brought it down in a sweeping cut. “Charge!” he ordered and the household knights responded with a furious shout, giving their mounts their head. Spite roared and dug in with his clawed feet, leaping for the enemy troops with jaws gaping wide.

  The enemy spear line faltered in the face of the Naggorite charge. The front rank recoiled with frightened shouts, bunching up against the men behind them. The thicket of spears that would normally have given a cavalry formation pause became tangled, forcing the deadly points out of alignment. Malus raced at the wall of armoured men and glittering spear points and howled like one of the damned.

  Nauglir crashed into the disordered line with a rending crash and a chorus of screams. Spear hafts snapped, sending steel spear points whirling and ricocheting among the ranks. Huge jaws snapped shut on armour, flesh and bone. Somewhere, a nauglir bellowed in mortal pain. Blood sprayed and burst all around Malus as men went down beneath massive cold ones and were torn apart.

  He hit the spearmen expecting to be struck in return, but none of the enemy spears found their mark. One of the warriors tried to turn and run but disappeared beneath Spite’s claws. Another had his head bitten clean off and simply collapsed where he stood. Malus brought his sword down on a spearman to his right, finding the gap between the bottom edge of his helmet and his backplate and breaking the man’s neck. He pulled the blade free and held its dripping length over his head. “Forward, knights! Forward!” he cried, spurring his mount ahead.

  Spite leapt forward, catching a running man in its jaws in passing and dragging him along as though he were a doll. The man shrieked and gurgled as the nauglir galloped on, driven hard by Malus as the knights shattered the banner of spears and fell like wolves upon the general and his bodyguard.

  The sound of horns screamed wildly in the air around Malus as the enemy was hurled back by the fury of the charge. Ahead, he saw the enemy general pull a heavy, long-handled mace from a hook on his saddle. His armour was expertly made and warded with numerous sigils of protection. His face was hidden behind an ornate helmet worked in the shape of a dragon’s skull, but Malus was certain he was one of Lurhan’s chief retainers and a powerful highborn in his own right. His bodyguards were surging forward, trying to get between the Naggorites and their lord, but Spite was smaller and swifter than the larger beasts and Malus was upon the general in the blink of an eye.

  Spite leapt for the throat of the general’s cold one, raking the side of the nauglir’s face with its talons and grinding dagger-like fangs against the warbeast’s scaly hide. Malus lunged forward, chopping downwards with his sword, but the blow fell short and glanced from the general’s armoured leg. He heard the lord bellowing behind his dragon-faced helm as he let Malus’ sword slide past and then lashed out with his mace. The blow landed on the highborn’s right pauldron and to Malus it felt as though he’d been hit by a boulder. There was a flare of intense pain at his shoulder joint and his arm went numb to his fingertips. It was only through sheer force of will that he managed to keep a grip on his sword.

  Enraged, Malus swung again, but his shorter sword was still almost a foot out of reach. He hauled at the reins and pummelled Spite’s flanks with his spurs, but the nauglir was locked in a life-or-death struggle with the general’s mount and was oblivious to all else. There were shouts and screams all around him as the household knights threw themselves at the general’s bodyguard. Men on foot were running past, cursing and shouting in fear. The highborn glanced to his left and saw Lord Gaelthen just a few feet away, splitting the helm of one of the general’s bodyguards with a vicious stroke of his sword.

  Malus caught a flash of movement to his right and turned just as another of the bodyguards charged at him. The man’s nauglir snapped at Spite’s flanks and got a tail in its snout for its trouble; the beast recoiled slightly, spoiling the bodyguard’s aim. The man’s blow fell short and struck Malus hard on the right knee. The armour turned the blow, but the shock of the impact caused his knee to explode in pain. Malus cursed at the man and threw all his strength into a vicious thrust at the bodyguard’s head. He expected to stun the man with a ringing blow to his helm, but by the Dark Mother’s fortune the point of the sword caught in the helmet’s eye slit and drove through into the warrior’s skull. Blood and fluids ran in rivulets down the length of the broad blade as the man screamed and convulsed, then pitched forward out of the saddle with Malus’ sword still lodged in his helmet.

  The weight of the armoured man pulled Malus downward as well—and then something struck the back of his helmet with a rending crash and everything went black.

  Chapter Eighteen

  INTO THE TRAP

  Malus rode through a warm, red haze that swallowed sound and blurred his vision. He couldn’t feel his arms—in fact, he couldn’t feel much at all—but he could tell he was riding in the saddle behind an armoured knight. Each swaying step of the nauglir caused him to brush against the cold steel of the knig
ht’s backplate; he smelled metal and oil, blood and raw earth and old leather. He tried to speak, but his mouth refused to work. Instead, all that escaped his lips was a low groan.

  The knight’s head turned ever so slightly. Malus heard the creaking of hide and smelled something like damp mould.

  “Do not speak,” the knight said. The voice was deep and sepulchral, as if it echoed from the bottom of a tomb. “Your head has been split and your brains scooped out.”

  The knight turned and showed Malus his hand. Clotted clumps of wrinkled brain matter rested in his palm, oozing blood and clear fluids between the knight’s fingers. “You must put them back in before it’s too late.”

  Malus screamed in terror, recoiling from the knight and his gruesome gift. The wind of his passing felt strange against the back of his head, touching icily on jagged shards of bone and drying blood. He tried to move his arms but could not and was grateful for it. If he could, he would have reached up to the back of his head, and he dreaded what awful ruin his fingertips would find there.

  He heard a strange, muffled shout and invisible hands seized him. The world spun crazily and he screamed again, closing his eyes tightly against the red mist.

  Malus felt himself falling like a leaf on a winter breeze, settling gently to the ground. There was a murmur above him, a buzzing of voices that he couldn’t quite make out. Summoning up his will, he forced himself to be calm and slowly opened his eyes.

  The fog was receding. He was lying on his back near one of the fires of the Naggorite camp, staring up at the clouds and the mid-morning sun. Two men stood over him; it took a moment to recognise one of them as Lord Eluthir. The young knight’s face was streaked with gore and fresh blood oozed from a deep cut along the side of his right cheek. The other man wore heavy, stained black robes worked with runes in silver thread and his long face was old and seamed. The two men were arguing fiercely, but at first Malus couldn’t make out what they were saying. He tried to raise his head but only managed a few inches before a wave of pain and nausea almost overwhelmed him. The highborn fell back, closing his eyes and tried to take stock of his rebellious limbs.