Deathblade: A Tale of Malus Darkblade

by C. L. Werner

  At the centre of the chamber stood the ancient throne of Aenarion, the first Phoenix King. Crafted from obsidian and iron, the massive seat was a stern reminder of Malekith’s royal heritage. Of the Witch King’s right to claim the Phoenix Crown.

  Down the length of the hall, a blood-red carpet ran, streaming towards the great throne like a river of gore. Ornate chairs of lacquered wood flanked each side of the carpet. In each chair, some infamous leader of the dark elves reposed. Terrible names of might, equally feared and envied throughout Naggaroth. Behind each chair, standing in steely silence only a short distance away, was a warrior of the Black Guard. The halberds they bore were far from ceremonial affectations as would be normal at a meeting of the Black Council – as they had gruesomely demonstrated after Malus had himself announced by a pair of heralds. In response to the arrogant flaunting of decorum, two of the Black Guard had cut down the servants, leaving their remains strewn about the doorway.

  The drachau scowled down the length of the hall to one of the chairs situated at the foot of the throne. Kouran matched Malus’s glare. It had been on his order that the Hag Graef heralds had been killed, a not-so-subtle reminder to Malus of who was in command here.

  Malus cast his gaze across his fellow dreadlords. He could almost smell the uncertainty and fear oozing from their pores. Ebnir Soulflayer, the general of the Witch King’s armies, had died in battle – choosing death over Malekith’s wrath, so the story went – and his successor tried his best to exude an air of scornful confidence and pride, but Malus could see through the warrior’s pretence. The failure of Naggarond’s army to utterly destroy the mongrel daemon Valkia was a responsibility that many whispered could be laid upon his shoulders rather than those of the king. He had passed blame to half a dozen lesser commanders, sealing each one alive within one of the obsidian mausoleums lining the approach to the Black Tower, but it was always possible Malekith would need one more life for his army to atone for the sin of failing him.

  Hellebron’s body was a shrivelled husk. The bloodthirsty Hag Queen of Har Ganeth was in her decrepit phase, but Malus had seen for himself the grisly vitality that remained in her withered bones. Entering the hall, she had paused beside the carcasses of his slain heralds to paw about in the gory wreckage. Fresh blood yet stained her fingers, and Hellebron would lick at them from time to time with her blackened tongue. Malus wasn’t certain if it was magic, madness or narcotic delusions that so unhinged the Hag Queen, but whatever the cause, she was the most dangerously unpredictable of the dreadlords.

  Shifting in his chair, Malus reconsidered that opinion. Hellebron might have a rival for the title of ‘most dangerously insane’. Sitting across the aisle from her was Tullaris Dreadbringer, the feared executioner who had assumed the title ‘Chosen of Khaine’, an epithet that Malus himself had once affected when exploiting the religious mania of his half-brother Urial. With Tullaris, however, it was no mere affectation. The executioner truly believed himself marked by the Lord of Murder, to such an extent that he claimed to hear Khaine’s voice inside his head. He was even bold enough to quietly decry Malekith’s claims of being an avatar of the Bloody-handed God.

  Lady Khyra, her false arm festooned with ornaments of pearl and silver in an audacious display of the favour Malekith had shown her – the Witch King had settled for just an arm when he might have had her executed – was several chairs to the left of Ebnir’s replacement, but the way she leaned ever so slightly away from the general’s direction made Malus suspicious. Was he one of her confederates, one she hadn’t seen fit to let the drachau know about? The few nobles seated between the two were of such minor significance as to make their usefulness to Khyra too paltry to provoke any uneasiness. Malus was almost disappointed in the tzatina. Surely she hadn’t taken it in mind to pit a fool like the general against him? A single troop of doomfire warlocks would be enough to rout any force brought against the host of Hag Graef. Malus caught Khyra’s eye as he looked across at her, feeling a touch of bitter amusement at the mix of suspicion and alarm that flickered in those lustrous depths. It was natural she should worry, about how Malus was still alive and what he had told Malekith.

  Ezresor, the sinister spymaster of Naggarond, was sitting further down the line from Khyra. The cadaverous elf sneered when he caught Malus looking at him. There was such a stamp of superiority in that caustic smile that the drachau at once found himself questioning his own security. Had Malekith reconsidered the usefulness of his ‘little bird’ and decided to make an example of him during the meeting of the Black Council? Or had Ezresor concocted some scheme of his own? Or was he simply trying to get under the drachau’s skin? Malus smiled back at the spymaster and ran a finger along his cheek, mirroring the fresh scar Ezresor had suffered in the recent fighting against the barbarians. The ugly light that crept into Ezresor’s eyes told Malus that the insult had struck home.

  There were other lords, great and small. Venil Chillblade, Lokhir Fellheart and Drane Blackblood. Representing the Shade clans was the savage figure of Saidekh Winterclaw, his fur-trimmed armour festooned with the tongues and ears of foes slain in the recent fighting.

  Seated opposite Kouran Darkhand at the foot of the throne was a newcomer to the Black Council. Never before had Ghrond been represented by anyone other than the Witch King’s mother, Morathi, herself. Now, that ancient tradition had been broken. Drusala, one of the queen’s handmaidens, sat in place of the exiled sorceress.

  Malus had encountered Drusala only a few times over the years, typically trying to avoid any intrigues that involved Ghrond for the sake of his own sorceress-mother. Lady Eldire was the most potent enchantress in all Naggaroth who hadn’t fallen under the sway of Morathi and her convent. That made her a valuable weapon in the arsenal of Hag Graef and a threat to Morathi’s dominance of magic.

  Malus remembered Drusala as strikingly beautiful. He found, however, that his recollection of her was far from reality. Her face was like that of a goddess rendered in flawless alabaster, milky and pale, unmarked by the stresses of time and turmoil. Her hair was a river of midnight, lustrous dark streams that swept across her shoulders and down past her waist. Charms and talismans of gold and silver and precious ithilmar were looped within her locks, tiny jewels sparkling from their polished settings. A gown of vibrant crimson hugged her shapely figure, clinging to her with all the affection of a second skin, slit at the sides to afford the greatest exposure to her slender legs. A jewelled girdle straddled her waist, tiny filigree spites clawing at one another with equal degrees of amour and violence. In her hands she held a silver chain, from which hung a pendant of Hekarti. A wispy necklace that might have been the crystallised ghost of a spider’s web encircled her neck and fell across the swell of her breasts, a silver brooch in the shape of a spider holding the ethereal jewellery against the silk of her gown. Across her forehead sat a circlet of diamonds, each gemstone shaped and carved by magical rites until it looked as though it had been spun from the first frost of winter. Like icicles, two diamonds dangled from the bottom of the circlet, drawing the enraptured gaze of an observer down to the sorceress’s eyes. Malus couldn’t name a colour to describe Drusala’s eyes. They had the same shifting, phantom quality as the aethyric aurora a bold fool might behold deep within the Wastes.

  What intrigues was Morathi’s handmaiden engaged in? Was she here on behalf of the king’s mother, trying to pacify Malekith’s ire, or was she here on some purpose of her own, without the knowledge of her patroness? And what of the Witch King? Was he privy to her schemes, a partner in them? Or was he simply keeping Drusala close as a way of monitoring a potential threat? What, Malus wondered, was her status on the Black Council? Was she Morathi’s surrogate, her replacement or her scapegoat?

  While he watched the sorceress from the corner of his eye, Malus saw Drusala’s bosom exhibit the most momentary of shudders. A flicker of disquiet, something that senses less keen than those of an elf who had hunted a daemon lor
d alone across the Wastes would certainly have missed.

  Malus felt resentment grow within him. He knew the cause of Drusala’s disquiet. Brazenly, he looked about the hall and called out to his fellow dreadlords. ‘So now we must await the pleasure of our august majesty?’ He could sense the Witch King’s presence, he knew Malekith was nearby. He also knew that whatever would happen had already been decided. There was nothing more to risk by making a bold show. ‘I wonder how long it will be before he graces us with his presence.’

  The Witch King’s essence seemed to pour into the hall. The throne was suddenly filled with his cruelty, his fiery eyes burning from the depths of his iron armour. ‘Not long, my good friend Malus.’ The iron-encased monarch rose to his full, imposing height. He took a step down from the throne, the touch of his boot causing the carpet to smoulder. ‘Not long at all,’ the despot said, sweeping his gaze along the seated dreadlords.

  The Witch King had kept the Black Council waiting most of the day. It was a common tactic he employed to remind his dreadlords of their status, to impress upon them who was master and who was vassal. In calmer times the king’s tardiness was a necessary annoyance that the nobles knew they must suffer, but now, with cities being razed by barbarians and daemonic beasts, Malekith’s eccentricity was almost unendurable. With each heartbeat, the dreadlords had wondered how far the invaders had progressed, how much of their own holdings and how many of their slaves had fallen to the enemy. To placate the tyrannical humour of their king under such circumstances was intolerable.

  Malus quelled his petulant thoughts as he felt the Witch King’s gaze upon him once more. He fought the urge to cower before that malignant glare. He was still somewhat in disbelief that Malekith had extended to him such left-handed leniency. He was certain that there was more to it than his king’s talk of drawing out Lady Khyra and the other conspirators. Maybe if the kingdom weren’t suffering such a crisis as now faced it, he would have accepted Malekith’s words. But the last few weeks had shown just how nebulous the tyrant’s reign had become.

  Many of the dreadlords had been able to get away with acts of independence and defiance that would have been met with the most violent of reprisals only months before. The swelling of Hag Graef’s armies to a point where they rivalled – if not outright exceeded – that of Naggarond was, to Malus, proof that the Witch King couldn’t afford to check the autonomy of his subjects. Naggaroth had to fight the enemy without; the king didn’t have the resource to also fight the enemy within.

  Let him claim he had extended mercy to Malus; the truth was that the Witch King needed him, needed him to hold the great host of Hag Graef together. He couldn’t afford the time that would be lost as the Dark Crag’s nobles fought for Malus’s title and power.

  The Witch King turned away from Malus and again looked across the assembly. ‘Lord Vyrath Sor shall not be joining us,’ said Malekith, his voice echoing across the chamber, as cold as the iron that encased his charred body. ‘He was slow to answer my summons and only arrived this morning. I reminded him of his obligations to the Circlet of Iron. The harpies should carry what’s left of him back to his tower by sunset. It would pain me if the garrison of Nagrar were to think their master had fallen victim to some lesser fate.’

  To emphasise his story, Malekith tossed an object out onto the carpet. The gold chain clattered as it came to rest. Though caked in blood and shreds of flesh, there was no mistaking the sigil that had represented Vyrath Sor etched onto the chain’s clasp.

  ‘Do not mourn Vyrath Sor,’ the king advised with mock sympathy. ‘He decreed his own doom when he placed the defence of his miserable outpost before his duty to his master. The same doom any one of you might have earned by defying me.’

  ‘Shagrath is lost, then?’ The question was uttered by Venil Chillblade, one of the admirals of the eastern corsair fleets. With much of his power and many of his holdings concentrated in Karond Kar, it was easy to understand why anxiety had overcome prudence and gained mastery of the elf’s tongue. The watchtower of Shagrath was to the north of Slaver’s Gate; if the fortress had fallen, Karond Kar itself would be in jeopardy. To see it suffer the fate of its rival Clar Karond was a terror that threatened Venil’s every dream and ambition.

  The Witch King made a deprecating wave of his hand. ‘An inconsequence,’ he declared. ‘The garrison will fight to the last because they have no choice. They will die as druchii should, shedding their blood on behalf of their king. When the tower falls, the advance of the barbarians will falter. They will be some time plundering their conquest and slaughtering such captives as they take. It will take their warlords still more time to gather their animals back into a fighting horde.’

  ‘But they will continue their advance, your highness?’ The hesitant voice of Thar Draigoth, the great flesh-merchant, sounded more like a rodent’s squeak than the words of Naggaroth’s most infamous slaver. Like Venil, he had extensive holdings in Karond Kar. After seeing his interests in Clar Karond massacred by the triumphant invaders, he was doubly worried about protecting the rest of his property.

  ‘Let them come,’ Ebnir Soulflayer declared. ‘With the consent of his highness, I will lead the host of Naggarond against these animals and scatter them to the winds. You may send your hunters to collect whatever strays my army leaves alive,’ he told Draigoth in a tone of haughty contempt.

  ‘Your eagerness for battle is commendable, Soulflayer,’ the king said, ‘but I will waste no more blood fighting these savages and daemons.’

  If lightning had struck the council chamber, it wouldn’t have upset the Black Council as thoroughly as Malekith’s hissed words. Many of the nobles sprang to their feet, all colour draining from their faces at the madness of what they had heard. The king wasn’t going to fight? He wasn’t going to loose the hosts of Naggaroth, the strength of the druchii, against these marauders? Was he simply going to sit back and watch his kingdom burn?

  Malus could feel the incredulity of his fellow dreadlords blackening into outright hostility. The Witch King ruled by fear, it was true, but the greater part of that fear wasn’t that he could take a life, however slowly and inventively, but that he could take away everything a noble had schemed so long to possess. To lose one’s life was inevitable, but to lose wealth and power before that life was through – this was a fate no druchii would accept.

  With his own words, Malekith had fertilised the fields of discontent. Battle with Valkia and the treachery of his own mother must have upset the balance of his mind. It was the only explanation for why the king would incite such unrest at a time when his own reign was at its most vulnerable.

  Malekith glared at his horrified vassals. ‘The blood of the druchii belongs to me,’ he snarled. ‘I and I alone have made you what you are. Mine is the will that has stripped all weakness from your hearts. Mine is the vision that has poured strength into your bodies. All you think, all you dream, all that you are is as I have made it. The druchii are mine, formed from my hate, moulded by my spite. From the pathetic tatters of a vanquished realm I have built a great and terrible people.’ The Witch King set his hand against the arm of his throne. ‘To what purpose, then, have I done all this? To sulk in these black halls like a child of Drakira, supping from the poison of bitterness?’

  Malekith let the question linger in the air. He waited several heartbeats, biding his time before springing whatever surprise he had in store for the Black Council. Malus was certain it could be no more shocking than the decision to keep his armies from the field of battle. In this, Malus soon found himself to be wrong.

  ‘The Rhana Dandra is coming,’ the Witch King proclaimed, his voice booming through the hall. ‘These are the End Times. In your heart, each of you knows this to be true. Each of you has felt it in your soul.’ For just an instant, Malekith stared directly at Malus. The drachau winced under that scrutiny, wondering if his king knew something more about his soul than he would like.

&n
bsp; ‘Daemons and northlanders howl at the gates of our cities. They infest the land as never before. But it is not Naggaroth alone that is besieged.’ Malekith paused again, letting anticipation build among his dreadlords. ‘Ulthuan too is beset. Usurpers and faint-hearts strive to defend our ancient home against a foe they cannot defeat. If our people – all of our people – are to survive, they must have strong leaders. Leaders forged on the anvil of Naggaroth.’

  A babble of voices rose as the dreadlords offered their full support to their king’s latest campaign against Ulthuan. The nobles of Clar Karond and Karond Kar offered their warriors once the invaders were repulsed and their cities restored. The captains of the watchtowers likewise promised to dispatch elements from their garrisons once the present crisis was under control.

  A grisly chuckle rose from the depths of the Witch King’s armour. ‘You misunderstand my intent. The End Times are coming. Chaos rises to devour the world. The northlanders will pillage everything that has not yet been warped by the storm of magic descending upon us. They will squat in our fallen towers to be preyed upon in turn by the daemons loosed by the Dark Gods they think they serve.’

  Malus watched the Witch King stalk away from his throne, footprints burning into the carpet as he strode past the assembled dreadlords. Malekith stopped when he stood upon the great sigil of Aenarion set into the floor in lines of gold and malachite. An auric glow began to rise from the sigil as it reacted to the heat of Malekith’s tread. Bathed in its light, the despot closed his hand about the hilt of the Destroyer hanging from his belt.