by C. L. Werner
Dolthaic cried out as Malus ripped the dagger from its sheath and slashed at him. His scream turned into a grunt of astonishment as he felt his left arm fall loose from the frame. When he dared to open his eyes, he saw Malus returning the blade to his belt. It took him a moment to fight through his own disbelief to understand that the drachau had cut him loose.
‘Do not mistake a reprieve for forgiveness,’ Malus cautioned. ‘You’ve served me well over the years, Dolthaic. Because of that, I am giving you a chance to earn back your right to live. If the Knights of the Burning Dark redeem themselves, riches and glory await you. If they fail me again, it would be best for you to die on the battlefield.’
Turning his back on Dolthaic, a gesture of scornful disdain for one druchii to show another, Malus stalked off towards his tent. He could trust that Dolthaic would drive his knights mercilessly from now on. The dispossessed noble knew first-hand how vicious his master could be. There’d be no restraint any more; if Dolthaic were to fall in battle, he’d make sure his followers shared that fate.
What remained now was for Malus to decide exactly how he was going to spend their lives.
Execute them. Kill them all. Have a little fun, you miserable cretin.
‘Shut up, daemon.’
The moment Malus stepped inside his tent, he could feel the icy touch of magic crawling across his skin. Deliberately he suppressed any reaction to the uncanny atmosphere. After his many audiences with his mother and the Witch Lords of Naggor, he’d become quite accomplished at denying the instinctual repugnance sorcery provoked. Calmly, he set his helmet on the ebony stand near the doorway. Without looking, he addressed the personage he knew was somewhere nearby.
‘Make yourself at home,’ he advised. ‘Unless you already have.’
‘I predicted your invitation,’ Drusala’s voice called to him as he started to unbuckle his sword belt.
The drachau turned his head, following the sound of her voice. To call the strip of black silk that Drusala had somehow squirmed into immodest would be like calling an orc irritable. Despite his distrust and, if he were honest, fear of the she-elf, Malus felt the blood in his veins quicken as he looked on her. She was lounging across one of the divans that had been brought all the way from Hag Graef. He’d kept it through the years, a memento of when he’d conspired with the old drachau’s daughter, Malgause, to seize the Dark Crag’s crown. How his ardour had burned for her and the power she had represented. He might even have kept her as his wife if she hadn’t plotted to betray him with her brother.
Now, gazing upon Drusala, Malus couldn’t even remember what Malgause looked like. He was sure the comparison wouldn’t be favourable. It would take Atharti herself to equal that vision of seduction and desire.
Lose your head and lose your head.
Tz’arkan’s voice was but the merest whisper, barely more than imagination, but it struck Malus like a peal of thunder. His nose wrinkled as he caught the subtle aroma, the soft hint of exotic perfume. He could imagine how exotic. He’d seen the degenerate slaves of Slaanesh, the barbarian marauders who devoted themselves wholly and unashamedly to the Prince of Chaos. Their shamans could obliterate the minds of those they offered up to their insidious god simply by holding a tiny flower under their nose. The scent would arouse such feelings of passion that the victim would tear out his own throat to escape the torment of longing and despair.
The key to defying any enchantment was being aware it was being cast. Malus didn’t hang his sword belt on the stand with his helmet, but kept a loose grip about the sheathed length of the warpsword. Draped across the divan, Drusala’s eyes exhibited just the tiniest flash of alarm. She knew Malus hadn’t been caught in the web of her charms.
‘Was I overbold in coming here?’ Drusala asked, leaning back to better display the supple curve of her legs.
It was an effort of self-control for Malus to keep his gaze focused on her eyes. The witch didn’t need perfumes or magics to enchant her prey. She was perfectly dangerous all on her own.
‘I have not yet lit the pyre for Vincirix Quickdeath or entreated Nethu to allow her soul to pass the Last Door,’ Malus said, trying to inject a steely firmness into his voice.
Drusala raised one eyebrow in surprise. ‘Sentiment from the Scion of Hag Graef? I did not think you capable of such… indulgence. The little she-sword of Clar Karond is dead. Her usefulness to you is over.’
‘And the usefulness of Drusala, lap-dog of Ghrond, is only beginning,’ Malus replied venomously.
The sorceress smiled at his anger. ‘Magic is always useful, drachau. Your mother should have taught you that.’
Mention of his mother only inflamed his anger. Malus stalked towards the divan. He started to reach for Drusala, but something even more primal than Tz’arkan warned him back. She was trying to goad him. He might not know why, but that didn’t mean he had to walk blindly into her trap. Shaking his head, he lowered his arm and walked away.
‘Your magic wasn’t terribly impressive today,’ Malus scolded her, ‘for all your airs of arcane power and your claims of being Morathi’s favourite disciple. My warlocks have been decimated by the phoenixes, but a few survived. They tell me you abandoned them when the birds came.’
Drusala matched his cold smile. ‘I went to fight another, still greater enemy. He calls himself Shrinastor, one of the asur loremasters. Quite a formidable mage. Left unchecked he could have wrought great havoc on your forces.’ A scolding note entered Drusala’s tone as she wagged a finger at Malus. ‘When you tried to kill the asur prince, did you not wonder that the warpsword failed to slay him outright? That was Shrinastor’s doing. He worked a charm to dull the efficacy of your blow and allow the prince to live.’
Malus was silent a moment, thinking about Drusala’s claim. It was true, the warpsword should have killed the asur prince with one blow. Instead the elf had only been wounded. If the frustration of his revenge was the doing of Shrinastor, then he owed the mage a debt of slow death.
‘My warlocks have been reduced to a mere shell of their former strength,’ Malus said. ‘I am told they were unable to overcome the phoenixes. Lady Eldire cautioned that the birds are drawn to magic like a leech to blood. If that is true, how do you hope to prevail against both the birds and the mage?’
‘Reinforcements are coming,’ Drusala said. She glanced at her hand and a large ring fitted to one finger, a band of obsidian with a great sphere of crystal. ‘I have seen it. By nightfall, Fleetmaster Aeich will reach your camp, bringing along a small army of corsairs and all of his surviving seers.’
‘Aeich will bear me no friendship after leaving him to rot on the beach,’ Malus observed.
‘True, but after you left, the Tiranocii attacked. They managed enough damage to scare Aeich away from the black ark. You might have no friends among the corsairs, but they understand that their one hope for survival is to join your horde.’ The sorceress tapped a finger against her chin. ‘I doubt Aeich will try to have you assassinated until after the Eagle Gate is taken. A pirate knows it takes a general to capture a fortress.’
Malus clenched his fist in frustration. If it needed only a general to take the fortress, it would already be in his hands. No, after failing to seize the breach today, it would need something more. It would need luck. He had but the briefest window in which to take the gate. After that, the Eagle Gate itself would be reinforced. Worse, the dragon princes of Caledor might send a few of their wyrms to intercede. If that happened, Malus would have no chance of victory. He’d be disgraced, at best. Dead, at worst. Most likely, that had been Malekith’s plan all along.
The drachau walked across the tent to the mahogany cabinet where he kept his special wine. For the first time in many months, he needed the drink not to quiet Tz’arkan but to stifle his own fears.
‘You should be careful not to imbibe too freely,’ Drusala called to him from the divan. ‘A general must
keep a clear head… and a clean spirit.’
Malus turned and scowled at her. ‘Be careful how much you presume, witch. No one is indispensable.’ Returning to the stand near the door, he snatched up his helmet and stormed from the tent.
Drusala watched the drachau depart. ‘We shall see,’ she whispered. By her estimate, a few more weeks and there would be no more of Eldire’s draught left. If Malus lived that long, things would get quite interesting.
She would make a fine match for you. She wants to be lover and mother all at once. I wonder which you need more, Malus.
The most frustrating thing about the daemon was having nothing to lash out against when its taunts cut too deep. Malus growled at Tz’arkan to relent. Much more of its baiting and he’d go back to the tent and drain an entire bottle to smother the daemonic presence. That might play right into Drusala’s plans for them – and he emphasised that concern. The triumph he felt when Tz’arkan receded back into the shadows of his subconscious wasn’t as satisfying as he needed it to be. Something had to suffer for all the rage bottled up inside him.
Malus found that his lonely walk through the camp had brought him to the crevasse where the slave-soldiers of Naggor had been bivouacked. The grubby survivors of the day’s fighting lay heaped on the ground, panting like dogs beneath ragged blankets and threadbare cloaks. A few of the vermin had been granted the privilege of starting small fires to warm themselves against the night. It was an indulgence that Kunor typically reserved for those Naggorites who informed on their fellows – or those Naggorites he wanted their fellows to believe were informants.
As he glowered at the slaves, Malus thought of the many battles he had fought against them. The war between Naggor and Hag Graef had been vicious and bloody, but in the end he had been the ultimate victor. He’d risen from being an outlaw and outcast to becoming the Dark Crag’s greatest hero and drachau. In a way, he owed his position to the Naggorites. Perhaps that was why he despised them more now than even at the height of the war. That vindictiveness was why he’d brought them along, shackled in the holds of the black ark, when he’d left so many others behind.
To be strong, a druchii needed something to hate.
Malus saw the empty, beaten looks the slaves gave him – at least those brave enough to even look at their conqueror. Dogs! Vermin! To call these wretches druchii was to defile the name.
The despot turned as he heard armoured figures come rushing towards him. Silar Thornblood and a few of his guards. With them was Kunor Kunoll’s Son, fresh blood smearing the leather smock the slavemaster wore. Malus knew it was Kunor’s custom to personally attend the most sorely wounded of his slaves. Any Naggorite with half a brain in his head made sure to bite his own tongue rather than fall into the slavemaster’s hands.
‘Dreadlord!’ Silar shouted, anxiety in his tone. ‘You should not be alone.’
Malus waved his hand in contempt at the exhausted Naggorites. ‘Your concern amuses me, old friend. What danger is there here? A whipped dog forgets how to bite.’
‘And we have ways of making them forget if they remember,’ Kunor grinned.
Silar stiffened at the slavemaster’s mirth. He’d always pressed Malus to treat the Naggorites with some measure of consideration and restraint. They were, in his mind at least, fellow druchii. ‘I was worried about asur infiltrators,’ Silar said. ‘The ashencloaks continue to strike down our pickets and spoil our supplies. If one of them should have the chance to strike at you…’
‘Then he would end this battle with one arrow,’ Malus said. The drachau’s gaze became almost murderous. ‘If such is my doom, the gods will answer for their jest.’ He turned back around, staring across the huddled Naggorites. ‘Kunor, how many troops do you still have?’
‘Dreadlord, the asur struck down three score and six,’ the slavemaster replied. ‘Another score or so have expired from their wounds.’
Malus nodded. A grotesque strategy was occurring to him. If Drusala’s prediction was right, and she would hardly have made the claim unless she was certain, he’d soon have Aeich and a host of corsairs for the next attack. Warriors accustomed to scaling the battlements of their black ark, they’d be the perfect shock troops to send against the walls of the Eagle Gate. But for him to do so, the asur would need a more immediate threat to keep them occupied.
‘Your entertainment is over, Kunor,’ Malus said. ‘The injuries of the wounded are to be bound. You’ll also pick out a hundred of the dogs in this camp. Once you’ve gathered them together, march them to where the beastmasters have penned the war hydras. Tell them to slather every one of the Naggorites you bring them with fellbrew.’
Silar’s face went pale with shock. ‘You can’t mean to do such a thing?’
Malus laughed. ‘Old friend, I need the war hydras at their most ferocious when we attack tomorrow. When they devour prey that has been coated in fellbrew, it will drive them berserk. Given their slow digestion, six hours should suffice to gain me the results I want.’
‘But you could use horses or cold ones…’ Silar protested.
‘You are too timid to ever amount to anything,’ Malus reproved the highborn. ‘I need every horse and every cold one. I have extra Naggorites.’
Laughing at his cruel jest, the despot stalked away. Silar ordered the guards he had brought with him to follow Malus. The future of Hag Graef depended on the drachau. He wasn’t going to risk that future because of their lord’s hubris.
Kunor lingered long enough to give Silar a cold look of contempt before he rushed away to rouse his henchmen and carry out the drachau’s command. Silar was left alone at the mouth of the crevasse. He stayed there while he heard the cries rising from the sick-tent where the injured Naggorites had been taken. It would be like Kunor to tell the wounded what was going to happen to them even as their hurts were being bandaged.
Disgusted, Silar started to walk away from the slave compound. He had only gone a short way, however, when he found his step restricted. He looked down just as the noose his foot had stepped into was jerked tight and he was sent crashing to the ground. Before he could roll onto his back, he felt the weight of a body slam on top of him, pushing his face into the dirt.
‘Now, Darkblade, vengeance!’ a venomous voice hissed.
Silar felt a blow against the back of his head. The thick steel of his helmet prevented the blade from striking his neck, but he knew his attacker would correct his aim for the next blow. Flailing about, Silar tried to rise, but there were other foes now, enemies who had hold of his arms. Growling in frustration, he struggled to break free before the killing blow could be struck.
‘This isn’t Darkblade!’ a shocked voice rang out.
Silar’s head was pulled back, his chinstrap snapping as his helmet was ripped free. He found himself looking into the scarred countenance of a wiry Naggorite. The slave returned his scowl with interest.
‘Who is it, Lorfal?’ one of the other ambushers asked.
‘Silar Thornblood,’ Lorfal grunted in contempt. ‘One of the tyrant’s lapdogs.’
The pressure on Silar’s back vanished. To his surprise, the elves holding his arms released their grip. Slowly, the highborn rose to his feet. There were half a dozen slaves around him, each armed with some manner of blade. Silar was careful to keep his hands away from his own weapons. He was surprised to recognise the ambusher who’d been on top of him as Bragath Blyte, one of old General Ralkoth’s captains. They’d crossed swords before, when Naggor had still been free.
Bragath saw the recognition in Silar’s eyes. ‘Yes, it is I. You see, I’ve survived all these years. When Darkblade conquered us and put all the captains of Naggor to the sword, you could have pointed me out to him.’
Silar nodded, his eyes watching the other Naggorites, wary for the first sign of treachery. ‘You were a worthy foe. You deserved a death in battle, your chance to impress Khaine and Ereth Khial.’
‘If you would kill me, give me the same chance to die with a sword in my hand I gave you,’ Silar said.
‘That is my intention,’ Bragath said. He pointed his dagger at the scarred Lorfal. ‘We thought you were Darkblade himself. That is why we attacked. It was an opportunity that could not be squandered.’
The chastened Lorfal hung his head in contrition. ‘The tyrant was here. I heard him speak.’
Bragath motioned the elf to silence. ‘We didn’t intend to attack you, Silar, but we were looking for you. Alone among those close to Darkblade, you might give us a chance to get close to him. I know you have disagreed with his ruthless orders. A drachau must be merciless, but Darkblade goes beyond what his title demands of him.’
‘You seek to draw me into a conspiracy against the dreadlord?’ Silar asked, stunned by the outrageousness of such a thing.
‘Indeed,’ Bragath said. ‘That is what we ask. What is your answer?’
Silar started to reach for his sword; then, in the distance, he heard another of the wounded Naggorites scream. Druchii fed to war hydras like so much carrion. It was a callous waste of life, an almost unthinkable atrocity.
Silar let his hand fall to his side. Looking Bragath straight in the eye, he answered the slave’s question.
‘Whatever you are planning, I don’t think you could do it without me.’