Deathblade: A Tale of Malus Darkblade

by C. L. Werner

  She could sense his purpose as well. The mage was conjuring a spell to strike down Malus, to cut the head from the force threatening the breach. There was enough power in his magic that Drusala considered the enemy had a very real chance of working harm upon Malus. There was no question that if the tyrant were incapacitated, the attack would falter.

  Worse, if the mage managed to kill Malus, he might be freeing something Drusala wasn’t certain she was ready to face. And that was something she wasn’t willing to risk.

  A bolt of rippling black energy leapt from Drusala’s staff, cleaving through the crackling blaze of power the mage was loosing against Malus. The antithetical waves of magic, light and dark, collided with tempestual fury. A dull boom roared across the battlefield, a roar that had within it the violence of both spells.

  The mage turned towards her. Drusala could see a lean elf in sapphire robes bedecked in gold and pearl, a tall helm rising above his thin visage. There was pride and vanity stamped across that face. In her mind she could hear the mage announcing himself. ‘I am Shrinastor, Loremaster of Hoec, Hierophant of the Golden Way, Magus of the Emerald Light. This place is under my protection.’

  Drusala could feel Shrinastor drawing power into himself. The loremaster intended to fight her, to pit his magic against her sorcery. Twisting the reins of her pegasus, she jerked the beast’s head to one side and turned it back towards the druchii lines.

  Let Shrinastor think he’d frightened her off with his magic. She’d achieved her immediate purpose. Malus had reached the breach. His knights were engaged with the asur soldiers. The loremasters were always squeamish about destroying their own troops with their magic. The drachau would be safe from Shrinastor for the moment.

  More importantly, Drusala had the answer to her own question: whether her asur adversary was moved by ability or arrogance.

  Their next encounter would end quite differently now that she knew who she was facing.

  ‘Set spears! Hold your ground!’ As the orders were shouted, hundreds of spears slammed into the earth, a knee set against each to help brace the weapon against the coming attack. Tall, iron-banded shields, each standing as high as the elf who carried it, were lowered across the body of each warrior. There was no expression of fright, no thought of retreat as the soldiers prepared to receive the charge of the most monstrous cavalry in the druchii horde.

  Prince Yvarin, even in the midst of the battle, felt his heart pound with pride. Among his officers, he knew there had been questions about his decision to deploy these troops here, at the breach, when the position could be held by lesser troops. They had urged a sally against the druchii, to take the battle to the invader before a prolonged attack could be mounted. For such an assault, they had wanted the best warriors in the fortress. That meant these elves, the Eataine Guard.

  The prince had endured the implications that he was unwise or inexperienced when he’d disagreed with the idea of an offensive attack. His officers were right – holding the Eagle Gate against a prolonged siege would be difficult with the breach in the walls. That was why he’d chosen to exploit the weakness. Turn it into a killing ground for the best their foe could send against them.

  Doubt had ruled him as he saw the attack unfold, as he watched the Tyrant of Hag Graef himself leading a host of cold one knights towards the breach. Yvarin felt a sense of foreboding, the feeling that he gazed upon his own doom. It was hopeless to try and stand against such a foe. The Eagle Gate was lost, what good could come of selling their lives to no purpose? The temptation to call the retreat vexed him, nagged at him with songs of safety and peace.

  The feel of the sword in his hand steadied his resolve. That blade had been handed down for fifty generations of his house. Many times, it had been borne home with the body of its owner laid upon a shield, entrusted to the living heir by a fallen hero. Never had that blade fled from battle. Ever had the elves who bore it done their duty to the Phoenix King and the people of Ulthuan. Yvarin knew what duty demanded of him this day.

  He knew that to hold the gap in the outer walls was the key to maintaining the security of the Eagle Gate. Yvarin also knew that it was here the fighting would be at its hardest. The troops deployed here were effectively being given a death sentence. One and all had adopted cloaks of white before marching to the breach, a mark of purity and resolve before their final sacrifice for Ulthuan, the colour of mourning for when that sacrifice had been made. For that reason, if no other, Yvarin had decided to entrust this role to none but his personal retinue of warriors, the Eataine Guard. For that reason, he had determined to stand beside them in battle. If they prevailed, the fortress would hold. If they failed, no command he could issue would delay the catastrophe.

  The stink of the Naggarothi steeds swept over the prince, bringing tears to his eyes and a cough to his throat. It was a mark of how far the druchii had degenerated since they’d followed the merciless Witch King into exile that they could abide such foul beasts.

  ‘Ready arms,’ Yvarin told his warriors. ‘We fight for the Phoenix Crown! Let none of this scum past!’

  The fierce cries of the druchii, the monstrous roars of their reptilian steeds rose in a deafening din. Many of the asur turned their faces behind their shields as the enemy charged their position. They could feel the ground shuddering beneath their feet as the weight of the attack came thundering towards them.

  Lesser troops would have broken. The Eataine Guard held fast. Reptilian roars turned to shrieks of pain as many of the cold ones impaled themselves upon the waiting spears. Then there came the shrieks of elves as the druchii knights drove their cruel lances through the thick ironwood shields. Dozens of asur perished as the knights drove their attack home. The white cloaks of the first line were quickly stained red with the blood of friend and foe alike.

  ‘Forward!’ Yvarin cried. At his command, the second line of warriors advanced, thrusting their spears at the enemy. The druchii charge had decimated the front line, slaughtering four-fifths of the warriors, but the impetus of their assault had been blunted. Wounded cold ones flailed upon the ground, their claws slashing at anything that came near, forcing the knights behind to finish them before they could advance. Dead bodies tripped up those cold ones that tried to rush into the breach, leaving their riders exposed to the spears of the Eataine Guard. Black-armoured knights cast aside their lances, hurling them spitefully into the faces of their foes. The lance was the weapon of the charge, and the druchii charge had faltered. Now the knights drew sword and mace from their belts, the weapons best suited to close quarters.

  Yvarin struck down one knight, his sword chopping through the killer’s arm as he tried to negotiate his way past a thrashing cold one. The stricken knight’s reptilian mount snapped at him, striving to bring him down. The axe of Yvarin’s standard bearer smashed into the brute’s skull, sinking almost to its jaw. The cold one collapsed in a heap, dragging the standard bearer down with it.

  Before the standard bearer could regain his feet, another druchii knight was lunging at him. The reptilian mount’s claws raked open his side while the knight’s clawed mace dented his helm and shattered his skull. The knight snatched at the standard, catching it before it could fall to the ground. Viciously she raked her bloodied mace across it, tearing the ancient silk and fouling the emblem of the Eataine Guard.

  Prince Yvarin felt fear roar through his veins. He’d watched this knight during the charge. She was one of Darkblade’s war-leaders, a position she could have earned only through the most heinous atrocities. What was he beside such a fiend?

  Surprisingly, Yvarin found the answer, felt it as a roar that deafened the fear inside him. Who was he? He was the commander of the Eagle Gate!

  ‘For the Phoenix!’ Yvarin screamed as he drove himself upon the war-leader. Her clawed mace crashed against his shield, but he ignored the stinging numbness the impact sent racing up his arm. Spun around by the brutal impact, he turned hi
s rotation into a sidewise slash. It was a strategy he’d practised a thousand times in his father’s palace. Now it served him well. Outstretched by the brutal blow she had struck, his enemy was exposed to the sweep of Yvarin’s sword. The ancient blade rang out as it crashed against her armour, splitting the spiked pauldron and driving a sliver of the compromised mail back into the face of the knight’s helm.

  Blood gushed from the helm. A muffled scream rang from behind the metal mask. The clawed mace fell from a hand that now snatched at the chin-strap holding the mask in place. A moment later, it came free, or at least one side of it did. The rest simply hung in place, pinned to the war-leader’s face by the sliver of steel that had impaled her eye.

  Yvarin struck again, thrusting his blade at the knight. The thrust stabbed into her throat, drawing a hideous gargle from her as her body slumped sidewise in the saddle. The reptile, panicked by the dying elf slumped across it back, scrabbled away from Yvarin, snapping and barking at the other cold ones as it fled back into the pass.

  The death of their war-leader appeared to embolden the knights who bore her symbol. Even as the Eataine Guard cheered Yvarin’s triumph, the prince felt himself struck from behind. His shield shattered, the arm behind it cut almost to the bone. As he crashed to the ground, he saw a ghastly figure glaring down at him from the back of a horned reptile. The prince braced himself for death. He knew who this enemy was and he knew better than to expect mercy from Malus Darkblade.

  The villain raised his sword, Yvarin’s blood steaming on its blade; then the masked tyrant seemed to think better of it. Leaning forwards, he hissed into the earhole of his steed. ‘Feed, Spite.’

  Before the horned one could lunge at Yvarin, spears stabbed at Malus from almost every quarter. The tyrant lashed out, shearing through each weapon as it was thrust at him. Darkblade looked around and an animalistic cry of rage rose from behind his mask.

  Painfully, Yvarin raised himself on one elbow and looked to see what had so enraged the infamous murderer. What he saw was beyond belief. The druchii attack had failed. The second group of knights, the ones following after the she-elf’s company, had broken and fled. Sight of the dead captain’s steed retreating through their ranks had panicked them and thrown them into headlong flight. The surviving knights of the first company, who had been holding the breach, were now falling back as well.

  Seeing the fight was lost, Malus drove his spurs into his reptile’s flanks. The horned beast spun around, smashing several asur with its tail, then leapt over the carcasses between itself and the breach. Archers chased Malus as he retreated back into the pass.

  Attendants hurried to Yvarin’s aid, but the wounded prince barely took notice of them. His wounds, his fatigue, even the terror he’d felt when he found himself facing Malus Darkblade, all of these were forgotten. His entire world now consisted of a sound. A sound that was like the roar of the ocean. A sound that rang from the walls and battlements.

  The Eagle Gate had held against the druchii attack and now its defenders were cheering. A cheer that took the form of a name, a name that only days before they had still held in doubt.

  ‘Yvarin! Yvarin! For the Phoenix and Yvarin!’

  ELEVEN

  Malus could feel the rage building up inside him. Gazing back into the pass, he could see the asur dragging the cold ones that had been killed in the assault out from behind the walls. They were building a rampart of dead flesh out ahead of their broken fortifications, an obstacle that was well within range of the archers on the battlements. There had been a chance to end the battle quickly, to establish a foothold within the fortress itself. Now that opportunity was lost.

  The drachau stalked among the commanders of his knights. The Knights of the Burning Dark. His household guard. Mercenary trash that had broken at the first setback! If they’d kept their nerve, if they’d maintained the momentum of the assault… But, no, the slinking vermin had fled. They’d seen Vincirix’s cold one come galloping back with her body hanging from the saddle and they’d fled.

  The Warpsword of Khaine sang out as Malus removed the head from one of the disgraced commanders. Bound hand and foot, the scum awaited his rage. Silar marched behind his master, raising each gory head as Malus cut it free. Grimly, he lifted each one by its hair and cast it into the jeering mob of infantry and horsemen who’d been assembled to watch the executions. There was little sympathy for the arrogant, highborn knights. Not from the common soldiers, who were so often abused by their noble comrades.

  ‘Have pity, dreadlord! When we saw Vincirix’s body, we thought you had been slain as well.’ The cries came from Dolthaic. The captain had been lashed to a skinning rack and positioned so that he could see every moment of punishment as it was meted out upon his officers.

  Malus hesitated, as though considering Dolthaic’s words. Then he stepped to the next bound officer. The warpsword came chopping down once again, shearing through the elf’s neck. Deep inside his soul, he could feel Tz’arkan exult in the vindictive carnage. It annoyed Malus that the daemon found vengeance so satisfying when it had no vested interest in what was being avenged. For the daemon, it was all nothing more than an amusing game.

  He thought again of the dwindling supply of the draught. Could he afford to indulge himself this way if it gave Tz’arkan strength? Malus dismissed the worry as unworthy. His attack had failed. If he didn’t punish someone, discipline in his army would break down. His soldiers would think him weak, unfit to lead. They’d entertain ideas that someone more capable and ruthless should be their general.

  The warpsword sang out again and another grovelling knight fell to the ground without his head. This last one had been a Knight of the Ebon Claw. They had their own responsibility for the failure to take the breach. If they’d fought harder, if they’d been more loyal to their captain, perhaps she wouldn’t have been cut down by that damn asur prince!

  When Malus struck next, it wasn’t the neck of the knight he saw, but that of Prince Yvarin. The cursed asur! He’d killed Vincirix, taken away his lover and war-leader. Malus wasn’t one to form deep attachments with his possessions, but he considered it an unforgivable slight when anyone took away something he owned. That the cretin had rallied the asur troops by killing Vincirix made the trespass still more insulting.

  There would be retribution. Malus vowed that by Khaine he’d face Yvarin again. He’d make the prince answer for Vincirix’s death. He’d make him watch as the druchii tore down his fortress stone by stone. He’d keep him alive long enough to see his family butchered like hogs. Only when the cup of vengeance had been drained to its dregs would Malus allow the scum to die.

  Why stop there, Malus? It is in your power to make vengeance an eternal state of being. All you need do is stop fighting against me. Embrace the inevitable, and we can enjoy this sensation until Khorne’s rage consumes all existence. You could take the soul of Yvarin and torture it until the moons crash into the sea and the sun collapses into a smouldering ember.

  Quaking from the intensity of the daemon’s presence, Malus hesitated as he raised the warpsword to strike down another victim. At the last instant, he kicked the wretch kneeling before him, knocking the knight into the dirt. In a loud voice, he cried out to the watching legions of druchii. ‘Let this be a reminder to every captain and highborn. Let it be a lesson to every soldier and slave. The life of every one of you belongs to me. Spend it well, or by Khaine, I will claim your death for myself!’ He raised the warpsword high once more, the blood of its last victim still sizzling upon the blade. The cheers and jeers of the infantry as they had watched the executions had faded now, the warriors cowed by the threat of the tyrant they served.

  Malus glowered at his army, his eyes roving from elf to elf, fixing each with his merciless stare. He didn’t need their loyalty, he didn’t want their love. Those were the weak motivations of the contemptible asur. What he wanted was their obedience. What he needed was their fear. As he
gazed upon them, Malus could see that he had claimed both. Sheathing the warpsword, the drachau dismissed his troops.

  ‘Free the last of them,’ Malus told Silar as he turned away. There were still a few officers of the Knights of the Burning Dark who had kept their heads.

  Silar looked doubtful. ‘Is that wise, my lord?’

  An ugly chuckle rose from the drachau. He waved his hand at the officers he had spared. ‘The knights will need leadership in the coming attack, and these will fight much harder than any others now that they know the fate which awaits failure.’ Malus clapped his hand on Silar’s shoulder. ‘They are afraid of me now, too afraid to plot and scheme. By the time they gain the courage for revenge, I’ll have already spent their lives taking the Eagle Gate.’

  Leaving Silar to cut the bonds of the disgraced officers, Malus strode up to the skinning rack where Dolthaic’s body was stretched. He stared coldly at the commander of his household guard, the mercenary renegade he’d taken into his service so long ago. ‘You have wounded me, this day, old comrade.’

  Dolthaic’s eyes were like two pits of terror as he looked up at his master. ‘Dreadlord, have I not always served you well? Have my knights not done everything you’ve asked of them?’

  Malus scowled at Dolthaic. ‘A drachau doesn’t ask. A drachau commands,’ he snarled. ‘Your landless wastrels have accomplished the one thing that is unforgiveable. They’ve failed to bring me victory.’

  Upon the rack, Dolthaic struggled in his bonds, his terror mounting with each word that left Malus’s lips. ‘Mercy! I will not fail you again!’

  ‘Vincirix is dead,’ Malus said, his hand closing about the jewelled dagger sheathed alongside the warpsword. ‘You let that preening asur prince take her from me. The breach remains in the hands of the enemy. You allowed them to keep it from me. What punishment for a mere sell-sword who dares do such things to his master?’