by Dan Abnett
Malus reached Spite, running his hand across the cold one’s armoured flank. He checked first to make certain the nauglir had finished eating — forcing a cold one to give up his meal was begging for disaster. “Up, Spite,” Malus whispered, prodding the cold one behind the foreleg with the pommel of his dagger. The nauglir rose to his feet and padded quietly forward.
The edge of the forest was a mere fifteen yards away. Already Malus could see the pale light of dawn brightening the dark sky over the mountain. Faintly, he could hear the shuffling movements of the other cold ones off to his right — they formed a loose line nearly five yards across, but the plan was to tighten up considerably once they’d broken cover. The shock value of the cold ones alone would be enough to keep most of the beastmen back, at least at the beginning, but any organised resistance had to be hit quickly and with maximum force before the enemy could regroup.
Malus climbed into the saddle and looked to the notch in the mountainside. Hadar had said that the first light of dawn would send a shaft of light down the cleft and would serve as the signal for the attack. The highborn twisted his left hand in the reins and slowly, quietly, drew his sword. Much depended on the outcome of the next few minutes. If his plan worked, he would have the upper hand on Hadar. If not…
Darkness faded in thin shades of grey, and a thin shaft of light shone down into the camp. Malus raised his sword and let out a long, ululating scream that was echoed along the line of trees. The highborn put his spurs to Spite’s flanks, and the attack began.
The cold ones burst from the forest growth in an explosion of leaves and branches, stretching themselves into a run up the steep slope of the mountainside. Instinctively the knights marked one another’s positions and nudged their mounts closer together, until the riders were less than a sword’s length apart. Honed sword blades gleamed in the weak light, and a howl of shock and dismay went up from the camp. Malus grinned like a wolf at the prospects of spilled blood and slaughter.
True to Hadar’s prediction, many lone beastmen scattered out of the way of the thundering knights, their eyes wide with surprise. Halfway up the slope, however, Malus caught sight of a large knot of warriors racing around the corner of a large tent, weapons held ready Many looked to be deep in their cups, but they were nevertheless ready for a fight. The highborn levelled his sword at the mob of beastmen and the knights put the spurs to their mounts, going to a full gallop as they rushed to meet their foe.
The beastmen remained resolute until nearly the last moment, when the thundering menace of the charge caused several of the warriors in the front ranks to waver. They turned to their fellows and tried to push through their ranks, spreading more confusion and fear. The mob surged one way and then the other, trying to rally itself with shouts and angry barks, but by then it was too late. The seven knights struck the disordered mass like a hammer on glass.
Lhunara spurred Render to leap headlong into the mob, her two curved swords held high and her face a terrible mask of death. The swords flickered and sang as they sheared through muscle and bone, and beast-men reeled away in an arc before her, dead and dying from gruesome wounds in head, throat and chest. Beside her, Vanhir slew the panicked beastmen with swift, economical strokes, knocking weapons aside and shattering skulls with rhythmic precision. The knights swayed in their saddles as though riding the deck of a storm-tossed ship, fighting their foes as the cold ones beneath them twisted and lashed out at the tempting flesh surrounding them. Bones shattered beneath their powerful paws and bodies were flung into the air with every toss of their armoured heads.
Malus swept his sword in a vicious arc that hacked a beastman’s skull open, spraying its fellows with blood and brain matter. Two other warriors were flung through the air by the impact of Spite’s rush, and a third lost an arm and much of its shoulder to the nauglir’s powerful jaws. A beastman struck the cold one a jarring blow on his left shoulder with a heavy, knotted club.
As the warrior drew back for another blow, Malus darted forward and jammed the point of his sword through the beastman’s eye. The huge warrior fell backwards, almost dragging the blade from the highborn’s grip, but Malus pulled the sword free with a convulsive wrench, the steel point ringing on bone.
“Forward!” Malus cried to his knights. “Forward. Press on!” He dug his spurs into Spite’s flanks and the cold one leapt ahead, scattering maimed and retreating beastmen left and right.
Hadar wanted to use the druchii cavalry as shock troops, brushing aside any early resistance so Yaghan and his champions would have a clear path to Machuk. Malus had no intention of giving Yaghan or any other beastman the opportunity to slay the usurper. That not only meant brushing aside the enemy as quickly as possible, but also required the druchii to beat the charging beastmen to Machuk’s tent and defeat the herd’s best troops in the space of a few minutes.
The beastmen scattered, howling in despair. Spite snapped at one retreating warrior and neatly snipped the horned head from the beastman’s neck; the body continued to run a dozen paces more before collapsing. The knights broke from the press and carried on up the slope, bloody swords held ready.
Another small group of beastmen tried to block the druchii’s path, rushing from behind the shadow of another large tent to take the riders in the flank. But the charge was ill-timed, appearing too soon, and Malus simply angled Spite into the mass, aiming the cold one for the largest brute in the crowd. The nauglir smashed his blunt head into the beast’s chest and tossed him through the side of the nearby tent, while Malus leaned out from his saddle and slashed open the throat of another warrior with a swipe of his blade. He hauled on the reins and Spite cut to the left, trampling two more warriors before closing back into line with the other knights.
The usurper’s tents were just up ahead — a large, round tent surrounded by a constellation of smaller ones, all made from thick animal hide and wood frames. Machuk and his champions waited there. The rush of the druchii cavalry left little doubt as to their ultimate objective, and the usurper had used his time to assemble his best warriors and arrange them in something resembling a formation.
Malus noted that the lead warriors hefted large swords and battle-axes, just like Yaghan and his men, and the beastmen looked like they knew how to use them. This is going to be grim work, Malus thought. If only I had the time for a few good crossbow volleys first — but that would give Yaghan the time he needs to climb the slope and join the fight, and I can’t allow that.
Malus raised his sword and sought out the usurper Machuk among the ranks of beastmen. Hadar’s former lieutenant was, if anything, even larger than the shaman, and unlike Hadar, Machuk wore heavy armour like Yaghan, and carried a large sword in his hands. He’ll carve me like a roast with that cleaver, Malus thought. I’d best be quick and close if I’m going to beat him.
He pointed his sword at the beastman and howled a challenge, one the usurper angrily accepted. The highborn drew a long, needle-pointed dagger from his belt and let go of the reins just as the knights’ charge crashed home.
Machuk’s huge sword was fearsome but slow, a near-irresistible force that took time to get into motion. It was a matter of heartbeats at most, but fights were decided in such tiny, crucial increments.
Using his knees, Malus swerved Spite to the left at the very last moment, just as the usurper drew back his sword, and the highborn leapt from the saddle, blades out, right for Machuk’s chest.
The din of impact was incredible. The champions held their ground, and the sound of the cold ones smashing against their line was a thunderous crash of flesh and steel. Blood sprayed in the air from friend and foe alike. Malus barrelled into Machuk, throwing his sword arm around the usurper’s neck and stabbing at the beastman’s throat with his keen dagger. The needle point danced across the thick bronze scales covering Machuk’s neck and shoulder, and the huge beastman bellowed in rage, fanged mouth inches from the druchii’s own neck.
Dark Mother preserve me, Malus thought. That didn’t go accordi
ng to plan.
The highborn clutched Machuk in a deadly embrace, his feet dangling nearly a foot from the ground as he pinned the beastman’s left arm against his chest. Machuk thrashed and heaved with his trapped arm and the highborn’s body bucked in the air, his feet going parallel to the ground. Malus held onto the beastman’s neck for dear life, still trying to find a weak point with his knife. The point struck a leather and bronze collar guarding the usurper’s neck and the tip broke off against a metal boss.
Machuk let go of his great sword with his left hand, grabbed Malus by the neck and slammed his thick, horned skull into the highborn’s forehead.
The next thing Malus knew he was crashing to the ground. He landed on his back against the packed earth and skidded several feet, half-blind with pain. It felt like his skull had cracked like a boiled egg. Dimly, he heard a roar, and knew that Machuk was almost upon him, sword held high. Move. Move his mind railed.
On instinct, he rolled to the right, and the beast-man’s huge sword struck him a glancing blow across his pauldron; the shoulder guard crumpled under the blow and a spike of searing pain shot across Malus’ chest. He roared in shock and anger, and the highborn’s vision returned as the red rage of battle-lust consumed him.
Malus rolled again — this time forwards, towards the towering figure of the beastman. Once again he placed himself within the powerful arc of the usurper’s massive sword, and the highborn found himself staring up at Machuk’s armoured calves and a gap of bare thigh between greave and scale coat. He lunged with his sword and the point bit deep in the beastman’s right thigh, severing flesh and muscle and spilling a stream of thick, dark blood.
A less-experienced fighter would have retreated from such an attack, but Machuk was a hardened veteran. He roared his fury at the highborn and brought his left foot down on Malus’ chest, pinning him in place. Then the great sword raised skyward and plunged like a thunderbolt.
The only thing that saved Malus was that he was so much smaller than the beastman and presented a poor target in his current position. Machuk struck at Malus’ waist, and at the last moment the druchii rolled as far onto his hip as he could. Fully a third of the sword buried itself into the ground, but the blade struck the articulated steel plates covering his hip and bit through them. The blade’s edge felt like ice beneath his skin; then the sensation was lost in the shock of the blow and the hot surge of blood and pain.
Malus snarled like a maddened beast, dropped his sword and scrabbled for the pommel of the knife jutting from his right boot. With a convulsive heave he bent far enough forward to snag the small knife and pull it free. As Machuk brought his sword up for another devastating blow, Malus drove the dagger into the back of the beastman’s left knee, sawing the blade left and right through the cable-like hamstring.
Machuk screamed in fury and toppled onto Malus, his left knee smashing into the highborn’s face. Blood spurted from the druchii’s nose and lips, and for a moment he knew nothing but the ringing in his head and a world of red-shot blackness. The beastman’s knee was still in his face, and the highborn blindly stabbed upwards with the small knife, plunging it again and again into Machuk’s groin. The beastman screamed, now a tortured wail of agony, and fell forward, taking his weight off Malus. The highborn rolled away, blinking in an attempt to restore his vision.
When his sight cleared a moment later, there were two of Machuk’s champions standing over him as they tried to reach their stricken lord. One bent down and grabbed a fistful of Malus’ hair, pulling his head back and exposing his neck as he raised his ponderous axe one-handed. Suddenly there was a flash of light and a dagger sprouted from the beastman’s eye. The champion froze, his expression one of mild surprise, and then he toppled to the side.
The second champion had pushed past and was trying to help Machuk to his feet. Malus snarled in rage and lurched to his feet. His left hip blazed in pain and his leg collapsed beneath him, causing him to fall heavily against the beastman. Before the champion could react, Malus drove his small knife into the beastman’s exposed neck, sawing forward to sever the thick veins in a torrent of hot, bright blood. The champion let out a choking gasp and fell to one side, and Malus threw himself onto Machuk’s back.
The usurper’s wounds were mortal. Arterial blood pumped steadily from the cut to his thigh, and a huge pool of blood and fluids spread from the stab wounds in his groin. Still, Machuk was struggling to regain his feet, his thick arms trembling with effort. He didn’t seem to notice the highborn’s extra weight at all.
Malus caught sight of Machuck’s sword off to the side, and snagged its pommel with his fingertips. He pulled the blade to him and raised its ponderous weight above his head. “Well fought, Machuk,” he croaked through swollen lips, and brought the sword down with all his remaining strength. The heavy blade cut into the side of Machuk’s neck and buried itself in his spine. The usurper gave a gasp from compressed lungs and collapsed face-first onto the blood-soaked ground. With a savage cry Malus pulled the sword free and struck once again, and Machuk’s bloody head rolled across the grass.
There was a roar of fury from farther down the slope. Yaghan and his men had arrived, and the champion glared at Malus with undisguised rage. The highborn gave the champion a bloodied, bestial smile. Too late, Yaghan, he thought. Too late. He tangled his fingers in the tuft of fur atop Machuk’s forehead and lifted the dripping trophy high.
“Glory to the Dark Mother and the Hag!” Malus cried, and heard his companions take up the shout in the melee around him.
A cry of despair went up from the surviving champions as they realised their leader was dead. Malus sensed rather than saw their ranks waver around him, and then a booming voice echoed across the field. Kul Hadar had appeared, striding up the slope with his staff held high. The highborn couldn’t understand a word the creature was saying, but the intent was clear: The king is dead. Long live the king.
The sounds of fighting dwindled abruptly, punctuated by sharp cries from the druchii as they fought to rein in their battle-frenzied mounts. Malus thrust Machuk’s sword point-first into the ground and used it to push himself painfully to his feet. He could feel blood seeping down his left leg and pooling in his boot, and his left arm was already swelling and growing stiff. He spat blood onto the ground and took slow, methodical steps towards Kul Hadar.
The shaman was turning slowly on the spot, levelling his fierce gaze at each and every member of the herd he could see. He continued to address the beast-men in low, sonorous tones, clearly laying down the new law of the herd in the wake of Machuk’s demise.
Malus stood beside the shaman, raising the usurper’s severed head for all to see despite the quaking of his wounded arm. The gathering herd took in the scene with various expressions, ranging from delight to dismay to weary resignation. Their stares alternated between Hadar, Machuk’s head, and Malus himself. The highborn kept his gaze neutral, but his bloodied expression was none the less fierce for it.
At length Hadar turned to Malus. The shaman’s bestial visage made it hard to discern his expression, but the highborn assumed that Hadar was trying to appear studiously grave for the benefit of the herd. “This was not the plan, druchii,” the shaman hissed. “Machuk was to be killed by my champion Yaghan! You knew this!”
Malus met the shaman’s gaze calmly. “Resistance was lighter than expected, great Hadar. I and my men reached Machuk first, and he wasn’t in a mood to wait.” He offered the usurper’s head to the shaman. “The end result is the same, is it not? He is dead, and you rule the herd once more.” Though you rule by virtue of me and my men, and your herd knows it, he thought. And that gives me leverage to keep your own treacherous knives at bay.
Hadar ground his teeth in evident frustration, but within a moment he had mastered himself and took the severed head from Malus’ hand. He raised it high before the herd and howled, and the assembled beastmen dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground. He then handed it to Yaghan, and began barking order
s to his champions.
As the battle-lust faded, Malus became more and more aware of his surroundings. Fully half of Machuk’s champions lay on the blood-soaked ground, hacked and hewn or crushed by powerful blows. Two nauglir and their riders also lay amid the bodies of the foe, the armoured druchii and their mounts split apart by the champions’ heavy swords and axes. The sun was still not fully risen — in all, perhaps five or six minutes had passed from the moment the druchii’s charge began.
Malus turned and sought out Lhunara and Vanhir. They both stood nearby, splashed with blood and bits of flesh, but otherwise uninjured. The sight of them made the highborn feel a peculiar sense of relief. “Lhunara, gather the men and take the nauglir back down the slope,” he said, the words slurred somewhat by his swollen lips. “It would be impolitic if they started feasting on the fallen warriors here in the middle of camp. Take Spite as well — I don’t know that I can walk so well at the moment.”
Lhunara frowned with concern, starting to realise that much of the blood covering the highborn’s armour was in fact his. “We should tend to your injuries, my lord—”
“Do as I say, woman,” he said, though the command had little heat behind it. At the moment, all he wanted to do was find somewhere to sit and rest, but there was still much to be done. As the retainers gathered their mounts and headed down the mountain slope, the highborn turned to find Kul Hadar waiting nearby. There was an expectant look on the shaman’s face.
Malus summoned up a conciliatory smile. “My congratulations on your victory, great Hadar,” he said, wincing in pain as he limped closer to the beastman. “I expect you will need some time to sort things out with the herd before we may begin to plumb the secrets of the skull.”