by Dan Abnett
“What?”
“The main enemy force is laying in wait at the ford,” Malus declared. “The battle at the ruins was just to draw us in. Fuerlan and our cavalry are likely fighting for their lives right now. Pass the word down the column: double-time march and prepare to form a line of battle just short of the river crossing. I’m going ahead to try and pull the cavalry out of the trap, but we’ll need a wall of spears to break up the enemy pursuit.”
Lord Ruhven nodded gravely. “We’ll be there, dread lord. Count upon it.” Then he turned and snapped orders to his retainers and trumpets began to wail.
Malus waved the scouts on and kicked Spite back up to a gallop. His heart was racing as the infantry picked up the pace behind him. In his mind he saw the elements of his plan coming together and despite the desperate situation, he thrilled at the power at his command. Blessed Mother of Night, this is what I was born to do, he thought, suppressing a wave of bitterness at the realisation that he would never command a true druchii army in battle. That dream had died along with his father.
The cruelty of the gods never ceased to amaze him. So many lost opportunities: the slave raid, then the expedition to the north that had turned out to be a fool’s errand. Why hadn’t he accepted Nagaira’s invitation to join the cult? What had he been thinking? The pain in his head began to throb again. Malus ground his palm into his forehead as though he could wipe it away by brute force.
“The mind is a mirror,” Malus heard the knight whisper in his ear. It was so real that he could feel the man’s breath against his skin. “It reflects what it is shown.”
Malus didn’t bother looking back. He knew there wasn’t any point. All that mattered was the battle that lay ahead and how he planned to win it.
Chapter Nineteen
DEATH ON THE BLACKWATER
Malus and Eluthir had gone another half mile when they came upon the first fleeing horsemen. The Naggorite cavalrymen were racing down the road as fast as their mounts would carry them. Their armour was battered and bloody and their faces were white with exhaustion and fear. Malus gritted his teeth and drew his blade. The rout at the ford had already begun.
“Stand fast!” he roared at the oncoming riders. When they didn’t slow he pulled on the reins and put Spite directly in their path. “Stand fast or your lives are forfeit!” he said again and this time the riders drew rein and came to a shuddering stop. “Who is the ranking man among you?” Malus snapped.
The riders looked to one another. One man bowed his head. “I am, dread lord,” he stammered. “You must flee—the enemy is right behind us! They laid a trap at the ford—”
Malus spurred his mount forward and ended the man’s panicked protest with a swift stroke of his sword. The rider’s head bounced along the road. “Now who is the ranking man among you?” he asked.
The surviving men watched with stricken faces as the headless body of their comrade slid from the saddle and hit the ground with a wet thud. Finally, one of the men drew a deep breath and said, “I am, dread lord. What are your orders?”
“You will follow along behind me and collect any more riders retreating from the battle,” he said. “Kill any who refuse to obey. The infantry is just up the road and will be here in minutes. We’re going to turn the tables on the men from Hag Graef. Do you understand?”
The man met the highborn’s eyes and struggled to find his courage. “I… yes, dread lord. I understand.”
“Very good.” Malus turned to Eluthir. “Stay with them. When you’ve got a credible force assembled, advance to the ford and join the battle. Use your best discretion, Eluthir and don’t fail me.”
“You can count on me, my lord,” Eluthir said gravely.
Malus nodded. More riders appeared on the road and the young knight began bellowing at them to halt. Leaving the cavalrymen to their task, the highborn resumed his race to the ford with the silent scouts in tow.
Even at a full gallop, the last mile seemed to last forever. The farther he went, the more fleeing men Malus passed. Many were wounded and struggling to remain in the saddle. They shouted incoherent warnings at him as he rushed past, but he spared them not so much as a glance.
At last he crested a low hill and saw the dark ribbon of the Blackwater only a few hundred yards away. The view was obscured by a seething pall of dust that swirled over the melee raging just short of the river and Malus saw at once that his worst fears had been realised.
Fuerlan, the household knights and what was left of the cavalry were making a last stand on the Spear Road
, fighting a pitched battle with horsemen and knights from the Hag within a virtual cordon of spear companies. The trap had been well-sprung and the Naggorites were completely encircled, but those that remained were fighting to the death. As Malus watched, a company of enemy cavalry staggered away, nursing wounded horses back to the safety of their own lines. Two other ragged companies of enemy horse were limping south across the ford, clearly spent and unable to continue the fight. The Naggorites were taking a fearful toll of Hag Graef s fighting men, but it would not be enough. If they didn’t break out of the encirclement, they were doomed.
There was a banner of enemy spearmen between the trapped Naggorites and the road north, formed in line and waiting to catch any cavalrymen who tried to escape the trap. They were the first obstacle Malus would have to deal with. He turned to the scouts. “Advance and begin firing on those spearmen,” he said, indicating the enemy banner with his sword. “Keep killing them until they advance on you, then retreat back up the road. Lead them back to Eluthir and his riders’
“What about you?” the autarii girl said.
The answer was obvious to Malus, absurd as it sounded. “Where else? Into the thick of things,” he said with a fierce laugh and charged off down the slope.
Tireless as ever, Spite raced downhill towards the enemy spearmen. Malus angled his charge to pass down the narrow gap between two of the banner’s spear companies, counting on the din of battle to cover his approach until the last moment. As he approached, the first of the enemy spearmen began to fall to the autarii’s crossbow bolts. The scouts were singling out anyone that looked like an officer or a trumpeter, he noted with grim approval.
Ten yards from the rear ranks the spearmen began to realise the threat that had appeared behind them. Heads turned and fingers pointed at the scouts—and the lone rider charging their way. Confusion reigned as the soldiers noticed that their leaders were dead and the spear companies began to react independently of one another. Some of the men broke ranks and tried to block Malus’ path, but it was too little, too late. Spite knocked two of the men flying back into their fellows and bit the arm off another, further adding to the bedlam in the ranks. Malus roared a fierce oath as he raced through the surprised enemy force. Then he was past them and facing the rear of an enemy cavalry unit fighting with the household knights just a few yards away.
The enemy horsemen never heard him coming. Spite fell in among their packed ranks like a wolf among sheep, slashing and snapping with tooth and claw. One horse was borne over by the force of the nauglir’s charge and the rider was crushed beneath Spite’s feet. A horseman to Malus’ right tried to turn and face the new threat and the highborn brought his sword down on the rider’s helmet, splitting it and the head beneath almost completely in two. Without pause Malus pulled his blade free and hacked at the rider on his left, catching the man’s right wrist and chopping off the thumb and first three fingers of his sword hand.
A roar went up from the embattled knights as shock reverberated through their enemy’s ranks and they tore into the cavalrymen with renewed fury. The horsemen in the rear rank were so tightly packed that they couldn’t turn around to face Malus’ unexpected attack. The riders began to fight clear of the press so they could better defend themselves. The unit’s cohesion collapsed as the men scattered and someone panicked and shouted for a retreat. Within moments the horsemen were falling back and the beleaguered knights saw them off with a wear
y cheer. Several raised their swords in salute to Malus as he entered their ranks.
“Keep fighting!” he called to his men. “Help is on the way!”
The battle continued all around them, with the Naggorite forces having been pushed back into a single loose mass of troops and assailed from all sides. “Where is Fuerlan?” he shouted, but the few men who heard him shook their heads wearily. “Gaelthen then? Where is Gaelthen?”
Helmeted heads turned in every direction, trying to make sense of the chaos around them. Without his own helm, Malus could make out a bit more of the battle, but it was hard to tell one man from another amid the dust and the confusion. Then, a few yards further south, Malus saw nauglir fighting nauglir as the knights of both cities struggled near the river’s edge. Amid the crush of men and cold ones Malus saw the enemy warlord battering away at two Naggorite knights and he realised that if Fuerlan were still alive he was certain to be directly in the warlord’s path.
Not that it mattered, the highborn thought with a fierce grin. He now had another plan. “Keep a lane open to our rear,” he commanded the knights around him. “Watch for our infantry to the north. When they appear we’re going to break out and join them!” Without waiting for a response he kicked Spite’s flanks and dived into the press, working his way inexorably towards the enemy general. Weary knights parted to let him pass as he cut through the centre of the struggling force and joined the fight farther south.
Spite’s clawed feet slapped on crimson-stained sand as Malus reached the river’s edge. Here the battle had become a series of individual fights as the knights grappled with one another at close quarters, neither side willing to give ground to the other. Nauglir tore at one another as their riders traded blows with sword, axe and mace. Armoured bodies littered the ground, some still locked together in bitter struggle even as the last of their lifeblood was spent.
Malus got to within ten yards of the enemy warlord before his path was blocked by knots of struggling men. Had he a crossbow he could have shot the bastard in the head and left the enemy army reeling; as it was he had to watch helplessly as the warlord smashed the skull of one of his opponents and threw himself upon the other.
Right in front of Malus, another Naggorite reeled in the saddle, his hand pressed to a mortal wound in his throat. His foe reached over and grasped the knight’s crested helmet, pulling him forward and hacking off his head with a savage downward stroke. The dead knight’s cold one was still locked in a fight to the death with the victor’s nauglir and neither one gave an inch.
Malus’ frustration reached a boiling point. “If I can’t go through, then by the Dark Mother I’ll go over!” He put his spurs to Spite’s flanks. “Up, Spite! Up!”
Spite gathered himself and jumped, landing on the riderless nauglir’s back. The smaller cold one scrabbled for purchase, digging its claws in. Malus continued to apply the spurs. “That’s it!” he cried. “Forward, beast of the deep earth!”
The nauglir hooked a claw in the dead knight’s saddle and leapt forward again, this time landing squarely on the back of an enemy knight’s mount and smashing its rider from the saddle. The larger nauglir thrashed and roared, snapping at the cold one on its back. The enemy warlord was just a few more yards away, still focused on the opponent in front of him. “Once more!” he shouted. “Forward!”
Spite again tried to gain a claw hold, but this time the cold one beneath them rolled onto its side, taking Spite with it. Huge, drooling jaws snapped shut mere inches from Malus’ leg as he was hurled forward. Instinct took hold and the highborn threw himself from the saddle lest he be crushed beneath the weight of the struggling war-beasts.
Malus hit the sandy ground hard enough to knock the wind from his chest. He rolled for more than a yard and crashed into the side of the warlord’s mount, just as the general finished off his second foe and began looking for someone else to kill.
The highborn gasped for breath as a clawed foot the size of his chest loomed over him. Malus threw himself forward, rolling underneath the cold one and coming up on the beast’s other side.
The warlord struggled with his mount’s reins and tried to turn to face Malus, shouting with surprise and fury. The highborn howled like a fiend and swung his sword in a two-handed grip at the back of the general’s knee. Flesh, bone and jointed steel burst asunder in a spray of gore and the warlord’s shout turned to a howl of agony as he lost balance and pitched sideways out of the saddle. He disappeared from sight on the other side of his mount and without thinking Malus pulled the man’s severed leg from its stirrup, put his foot in the leather loop and vaulted onto the cold one’s back.
The general was trying to crawl across the sand, leaving a bright trail of blood from his ravaged limb. The nauglir tried to snap at Malus, turning in place as it tried to catch him in its jaws, but the highborn paid no heed, launching himself through the air at his retreating foe.
Malus landed a few feet short of the general on the hard-packed sand. Pain spread in fiery waves from his hips and knees but he forced himself forward, scrabbling on all fours like a wolf. The warlord saw him coming and lashed out with his fearsome mace, but Malus anticipated the blow and ducked beneath it. The force of the swing flipped the general onto his back and the highborn clambered onto him, his sword held high. “Congratulations, general,” he hissed. “You came north with an army to find me and here I am.”
The sword flashed down, shearing through the general’s neck and the dragon helm rolled heavily across the sand. Malus crawled after it, picking up the helmet and prying loose the dripping trophy within. He staggered to his feet on the blood-stained sand and held the general’s head aloft. A fierce wave of déjà vu inexplicably struck him, quickly transforming into a rush of triumph.
“Naggor!” he roared and he heard a cry of despair go up from the closest of Hag Graef’s knights. At that moment it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.
Malus tucked the general’s head beneath his arm and snatched up his sword, looking wildly about for Spite. He spotted the nauglir limping towards him several yards away and he ran to meet the wounded beast before some enemy knight decided to try and run him down. Another nauglir would have forgotten its rider and thrown itself into the fight, but Spite was smarter than the typical cold one. “Well done,” Malus said as he clambered into the saddle. “Well done, terrible beast!”
He took the general’s head and impaled it on the tip of his sword, then held it high for friend and foe to see. The enemy knights nearby were already in full retreat, shocked and dismayed at their warlord’s death. Household knights saluted Malus with raised swords, shouting his name to the sound of skirling trumpets.
Trumpets! Malus looked to the north. A mass of horsemen were charging down the hill with Eluthir in the lead and a wall of glittering spears following in their wake. The banner of enemy spearmen to the north had held its ground and suffered the murderous fire of the scouts, but now they lost their nerve and retreated from the onrushing cavalry. The jaws of the trap had been broken open and the trapped Naggorites could escape.
A cheer went up from the cavalrymen and just then Malus caught sight of Fuerlan near the centre of the largest mass of knights. The Naggorite general had lost his helmet in the fighting and his face was mad with fear and rage. The highborn turned Spite around and worked his way through the cheering mass to Fuerlan’s side.
“My lord!” Malus cried as he drew near. “The infantry has arrived and Eluthir has opened a path for us to withdraw. We must be swift before the enemy recover from their surprise—”
“Withdraw?” Fuerlan’s dark eyes narrowed hatefully. The army of the black ark does not retreat! We will press forward and when the battle is done I’ll have you beheaded for cowardice!”
“Press forward?” Malus said incredulously. “Our cavalry is scattered and their strength is spent! We must fall back and regroup—the trap could close again at any moment and we won’t get another chance to break away!”
“Silence!�
� Fuerlan shrieked, fairly trembling with rage. He held out a gauntleted hand; Malus realised at that moment that the general didn’t even have his sword drawn. “That man’s head belongs in the hands of a true warrior, not a darkblade and a traitor like you. Give it here and get out of my sight. I’ll deal with you when the battle’s done.”
Malus turned away from Fuerlan and searched the eyes of the weary Naggorite horsemen and knights. They watched the scene unfold with barely concealed shock, but none dared gainsay the son of Balneth Bale. The highborn plucked the trophy from the tip of his blade and handed it to Fuerlan without a word, then turned away.
Fuerlan raised the general’s head. “Victory for the black ark!” he cried, as though he’d just hacked the head from the warlord’s body himself. As he did Malus turned back and struck the Naggorite general in the head with the flat of his sword. The Witch Lord’s son let out a groan and toppled from the saddle.
For a moment silence reigned among the Naggorites. Malus waited, eyeing each of the men without a word.
Finally, one of the household knights spoke. “The lord general has been wounded,” he said pointedly to the rest of the men. That leaves you in command, Lord Malus. What are your orders?”
Malus nodded and carried on as though he hadn’t just committed an act of gross mutiny. He caught sight of Fuerlan’s trumpeter and fixed the man with a commanding stare. “Sound the call for the horse to withdraw,” he said. The household knights will form up and act as rearguard to cover their retreat. With luck we’ll drag the enemy’s counterattack onto our spears.”
“Aye, my lord,” the trumpeter said hoarsely, then put the trumpet to his lips and played a complicated series of notes. At once, the household knights sprang into motion, spreading the word to their scattered mates. Around them the dust was starting to settle and order asserting itself out of chaos. Their cordon of steel broken, the enemy spearmen had pulled back a dozen yards to the east and west and their cavalry had retreated in the direction of the river. The Naggorite horse was already streaming back towards their lines in ragged groups of three or four. The highborn shook his head grimly. They would be lucky if a single whole company of horsemen remained after the day was done.