by C. L. Werner
Creeping through the darkness, the trio of killers soon passed the perimeter of the Naggorite compound. The sentry who should have spread a warning turned away when he saw Bragath and his companions. Suddenly he found the eerie mage-light in the sky above of far more interest than the killers slinking over the enclosure wall. It had taken a good deal of gold to buy the cooperation of guards like this, but many harboured their own resentments where the drachau was concerned and they could be depended upon to look the other way if it boded ill for Malus.
‘I still think it would be wiser to wait for Lord Silar to return,’ Lorfal whispered as they stole down the narrow alley between the rows of tents. Inside each bivouac, ten warriors of the Hag slumbered. There was no knowing how many of them had celebrated with a skin of drugged wine and how many would need but the slightest noise to spring from their sleep. This was the most dangerous leg of their excursion, and the murderers knew it well.
Bragath scowled at Lorfal’s trepidation. ‘Silar could help us,’ Bragath agreed. ‘But would he? It is better to strike now while he is away with Sarkol Narza. Once the deed is done, he will be unable to deny the role thrust upon him as the new drachau.’
‘But would he thank us for his succession?’ Brek shook his head.
‘He could be no worse to our people than Malus,’ Bragath answered. ‘Even a quick death would be preferable to this slow hell of denigration and humiliation.’
The killers had moved through one lane and were stealing towards another when Lorfal suddenly stopped. He shook a trembling finger at one of the tents. An armoured druchii was slumped on a bench outside, her head cradled against her shoulder and a skin of wine lying at her feet. It wasn’t the sight of a drugged guard that provoked Lorfal, however. Jubilantly, he wagged his finger at the banner leaning against the sleeping warrior, and at the glyph emblazoned across it. It was a symbol known and reviled by all the Naggorites.
‘Kunor Kunoll’s Son,’ Lorfal spat. ‘The swine must be inside that tent.’ The murderer started towards the structure, but Bragath caught him by the shoulder.
‘There isn’t time,’ Bragath hissed. ‘We must strike down Malus before sunrise. Think of the greater goal.’
Lorfal pulled away from Bragath’s grip. Scowling, he turned his head and displayed the scar on his neck, a scar left by Kunor’s whip. ‘I can think of no greater goal than this. Malus will wait. If there isn’t time for Kunor, then we make the time.’
Bragath would have protested further, but Brek was already rushing past him, stealing like a hungry wolf towards the slavemaster’s tent. Conceding defeat, he followed after Lorfal. While Brek stabbed his poisoned blade into the sleeping guard, Lorfal tore open the flap covering the door of the tent.
Kunor lay sprawled upon a bed of furs, moaning slightly in his drugged sleep. A skin of wine lay dangling from one hand, spilling its last dregs onto the ground.
The three Naggorites glared balefully at the sleeping slavemaster. Kunor had been their persecutor long before the invasion fleet landed in Ulthuan, but it was those recent indignities that were the most fresh in their minds. To an elf, not one of them had failed to dream of a scene like this: their enemy lain out helpless before them.
Lorfal charged at the sleeping druchii. Knife raised high, he drove it full into Kunor’s chest. Dark blood was just bubbling up from the wound when Lorfal struck again. In rapid fashion, the vengeful slave-soldier stabbed his victim over and over, spattering the walls of the tent with Kunor’s blood. The killer’s hands became foul with gore, his face splashed crimson, yet still he stabbed and struck.
‘Enough,’ Bragath finally declared, pulling Lorfal away from his mutilated prey. ‘He is dead.’
‘I wanted a scream,’ Lorfal growled, still glaring at Kunor’s body. ‘The drug has cheated me of my scream.’
‘Then we had best find the drachau’s tent,’ Brek stated. ‘Malus fears poisoners so he keeps his own stock of wine. He won’t be drugged insensible like this dog. Stab Malus and you’ll have your scream.’
Leaving the butchered Kunor behind them, the Naggorites slipped back into the night.
Silar Thornblood’s heart felt as though it would burst. For hours he had been racing back to the druchii war-camp, scrambling through the underbrush and rocks as he hurried down from the foothills. His elven stamina had been taxed to the utmost by his ordeal and the haste with which it was made. Every time his boot slapped against the ground he could feel the impact throbbing in the small veins behind his eyes. The sound of his pounding blood was like a dull roar in his ears. His breath came in thin, burning gasps now, scorching his lungs and sending little slivers of suffering throughout his body.
The need for haste had never been greater. Silar was the lone survivor of the attack on Drusala. Why the sorceress had spared him and commanded the Knives of Khaine to let him go wasn’t a mystery, however. Drusala had been obliging enough to explain that Silar was necessary for continuance, that the host of Hag Graef might soon demand a new leader. If Silar wasn’t there to step into such a role, she was concerned that Tullaris Dreadbringer would appoint himself general. She was quite frank about her doubts that she could enjoy the same influence over the executioner that she did over the drachau. Whoever the drachau might be.
Silar clenched his teeth tight against the sensation of self-reproach that flared through him. Why had he allowed himself to be involved in the schemes of Bragath Blyte? Had it been pity for the Naggorites that kept him silent about the plot, or had he been looking for some opportunity to exploit the scheme towards his own ends? Whichever way, he knew Drusala was aware of his involvement. If anything happened to Malus, the sorceress would have a powerful piece of blackmail to wield against him. As drachau, Silar would be little more than her puppet. He knew he didn’t have the strength of will to resist Drusala. It needed a resolve as mighty as that of Malus to oppose Morathi’s handmaiden.
The highborn pushed himself still faster, moaning as he saw the stars of early dawn begin to creep up over the horizon behind the sheen of swirling magic crackling down from the Annulii. By the hints and suggestions Drusala had made, Bragath and his conspirators would be making their move before sunrise, while the camp was asleep. If Silar was going to warn Malus, he had to reach the camp before dawn.
The faintest hint of a rustle among the underbrush had Silar whipping around, sword in hand. The Knives of Khaine. He was certain that at least a few of the autarii were following him. Their master, Merikaar, had taken Drusala’s decision to let Silar go with ill grace. He wondered if Merikaar had given the shades special orders to attend to him once he was away from the sorceress.
Silar forced his sword back into its scabbard. Even if the shades were following him, he couldn’t let their presence distract him from his purpose. He had to take it on faith that Merikaar and his tribesmen understood the scope of Drusala’s powers and the impossibility of concealing any treachery from her. Silar could testify to that last part from his own experiences.
After what seemed a lifetime, Silar saw the watch fires burning around the perimeter of the camp. Carefully, he forced his racing steps into a trot, smothered the panic he was feeling inside. He’d be within sight of the sentries soon. Warriors of the Hag might allow a calm, commanding highborn into the camp without too much question, but they would be certain to detain one who looked as though he’d just slipped past Nethu’s gate. Adopting an imperious aloofness he didn’t feel, Silar unclasped the brooch pinning his cloak in place. It was the representation of a Naggorite murder-hound, a favourite emblem of Malus’s inner circle and one that would be known to any soldier of the Dark Crag.
Ahead of him, two guards materialised out of the darkness. One held a crossbow at the ready, while the other gripped the lethal length of a barbed spear. Before the soldiers could issue a challenge, Silar was holding the brooch towards them.
‘Lord Silar Thornblood,’ he announced in his
haughtiest tone. ‘Returning from an errand for the drachau.’ His lip curled in a withering sneer. ‘If you value your heads, let me pass.’
The spearman gave a brief inspection of the brooch and an even briefer glance at Silar. The guard turned pale as he found himself recognising both. ‘Forgiveness, Lord Silar,’ he said, bowing before the highborn.
Silar ignored the soldiers, marching past them with long, stately strides. The sky overhead was growing darker now, the false night before the first dawn. It was a monumental effort for Silar to maintain a measured pace until he was within the camp itself. Once out of sight of the guards, however, he broke into a frantic run. Bragath and the others had had months if not years to make their plans. Even Malus might not be able to slip through their scheme.
Hurrying towards the grand tent where the Scion of Hag Graef had ensconced himself, Silar saw the first intimations of disaster. The guards outside the tent were laying face-down in the dirt, their hauberks slashed in such a way that the mail looked as though it were partly melted. As he rushed towards the tent, Silar saw a pair of shadowy figures dart inside. A third assassin charged towards him, streams of smoke rising from the poisoned weapon in his hand.
The killer froze in mid-strike, Bragath gazing in shock at the elf he had been about to attack. ‘Lord Silar?’ the Naggorite gasped.
‘It is I, Bragath,’ Silar answered. ‘Stay your hand.’
Bragath smiled at the highborn. ‘With the dawn, you will be drachau. Stand with us, Lord Silar. Keep your promise to my people.’
Silar looked past Bragath, at the tent where Malus slept. There was no time for debate. He had to act now. Before the Naggorite knew what was happening, the noble’s sword was flashing from its scabbard and slicing a deep furrow in his chest. ‘I must do what is best for the Hag,’ Silar hissed. ‘I must keep the oath I made to Malus!’ He blocked the vengeful sweep of Bragath’s blade and knocked the killer back with a kick of his boot. ‘Alarm!’ Silar shouted. ‘Lord Malus, awaken! The daggers of Naggor are upon you!’
Snarling like a beast, Bragath hurled himself at Silar. A downward slash of the highborn’s blade took the ear from the killer’s head. The anointed knife raked across Silar’s shin, the acidic hydra venom sizzling against his steel armour. The noble buffeted Bragath aside with the pommel of his sword, smashing the killer’s jaw and spilling teeth into the dirt. With the Naggorite at bay, Silar hastily cut free the plate the dagger had scratched, knocking it loose before the caustic venom could burn its way down to his flesh.
Bragath glared at Silar, but instead of lunging at the highborn who had betrayed them, he spun about and charged towards the tent. Divested of his compromised armour, Silar hurried after the killer. He was just a few steps behind Bragath when the Naggorite threw open the flap.
Bragath froze in the doorway, stunned by the scene unfolding before him. That moment of surprise was all that Silar needed. Rushing up behind the Naggorite, he slammed his sword into the elf’s back, driving it up under the steel backplate Bragath wore. Shuddering, the killer slid downwards, blood bubbling from his mouth as he collapsed onto the woven mats lining the floor of Malus’s tent.
Silar stepped over Bragath’s body. It was his turn to share the sense of shock and surprise experienced by the Naggorite. Far from finding Malus asleep and defenceless, Lorfal and Brek were engaged with a furious, armoured drachau!
‘Your warning is appreciated, Lord Silar, if a bit tardy.’ Malus whipped a heavy dragon-skin cloak at Lorfal, snagging the poisoned knife the Naggorite held. While Lorfal struggled to free his blade, Malus spun around, slashing the warpsword across Brek’s neck. The killer’s head rolled from his shoulders, bouncing across the tent. Before the decapitated body could collapse, Malus was lunging at Lorfal.
The Naggorite had just ripped his envenomed knife free of the cloak when he found the drachau charging him. Lorfal slashed at his foe, but the enraged Malus ducked beneath the sweeping blade and drove the warpsword full into the druchii’s chest. Snarling at the thwarted assassin, Malus plunged his sword still deeper into Lorfal’s body, impaling him upon the hungry steel. When a foot of blade stood out from the Naggorite’s back, Malus gave a sidewise twist, ripping the warpsword free in a move that cut Lorfal in two.
Silar gazed in awe at the havoc his master had wrought in but a few heartbeats. Malus sneered at the dead slaves. ‘When you kick a dog, sometimes it shows its teeth.’ He spat into the cold eyes of Brek’s head. ‘When that happens you have to kick it harder.’
Silar bowed, nodding his head. ‘The Naggorites sought your life, my lord.’
‘And they will suffer for it,’ Malus vowed. ‘The cold ones will be wanting lively fare before they are fit to march and we took too few asur captive to suit that purpose.’ His eyes narrowed and he studied his vassal for a moment. ‘How is it that you have had the good fortune to arrive just when you did? Shouldn’t you be with Sarkol Narza?’
Silar winced at the accusation, but kept all emotion from his face. Drusala had told him what to say, the explanation that would satisfy his tyrannical lord. She’d promised to fabricate whatever evidence Silar needed to back up his story. ‘Sarkol Narza was a traitor, dreadlord. He plotted with Tullaris to dispose of you and me so that they could assume control of your forces. That is why he urged you to kill Drusala and abduct the Blood Coven. He knew that sorcery was the one thing that could upset his plans.’
Malus paced across his tent, blood still dripping off the warpsword’s blade. ‘If Sarkol wanted your life, how is it you are here to tell the tale?’
‘Drusala foresaw my peril and sent her vassals, the Knives of Khaine, to intercede. They killed Sarkol and his retinue,’ Silar said. ‘I knew if they’d been bold enough to murder me, they wouldn’t fail to send someone against you.’
The drachau paused above the body of Bragath. The Naggorite stirred feebly. Blood streaming from his mouth, the dying elf glared at Silar and reached a trembling hand towards him. ‘This one seems to know you, Silar,’ Malus said. He punctuated the statement by stabbing the warpsword into the druchii’s back. Bragath shuddered once and fell still.
‘He doubtless hoped I might display mercy towards him,’ Silar suggested. ‘He wouldn’t be foolish enough to expect such weakness from the drachau.’
Malus nodded, satisfied with the explanation. ‘You have fought beside me a long time, Silar. You would do well to remember your oath.’
‘I remember my duty to the Hag,’ Silar answered. He frowned, considering the implications of Drusala’s lie about Sarkol and Tullaris. ‘What will you do about the executioners?’
‘Nothing. For the moment,’ Malus said, wiping the warpsword clean on Bragath’s vestment. ‘They have made their play and failed. It will be a time before they work up the courage to try again. Until they do, it will be best to feign ignorance. Tullaris will fight harder if he thinks I’m unaware of this plot of his. Once his usefulness on the battlefield is at an end, so is he.’
‘And… Drusala?’ Silar wondered.
‘A reprieve,’ Malus decided, the word sour on his tongue. ‘She will be needed now to counter the Blood Coven. The irony of that isn’t lost on me, Silar. I don’t appreciate being made a fool of.’
An ugly light shone in the drachau’s eyes. ‘I think a hundred Naggorites fed alive to the cold ones will remind everyone what comes of trifling with me.’
EIGHTEEN
There was a chill in Malus Darkblade’s heart as he received the dignitaries Drusala conducted into his tent. Not so long ago, these elves would have been his most dire enemies. Now, by the edict of the Witch King himself, all who wore the World Dragon were allies to the druchii.
It wasn’t the presence of the three Caledorians that discomfited the drachau. It was the knowledge that beyond the perimeter of his camp the beasts these princes had ridden awaited their return. Dragons. The strength of Caledor and by extension the might
of all Ulthuan. On its own, one of the reptiles could slaughter hundreds of soldiers. In concert with its fellows and with the strategic guidance of the elven princes, the havoc these wyrms could wreak was incalculable. The threat of having such power unleashed against his troops was exceeded only by the intoxicating vision of what Malus might do with three such monsters under his command.
‘Prince Iktheon of Caledor and his brothers,’ Drusala announced as she presented the Caledorians. The bows they sketched might hardly have qualified as a nod. Malus wasn’t certain if that was more due to arrogance or contempt for the alliance Prince Imrik had forged between their peoples.
‘Well met, Iktheon,’ Malus greeted the Caledorian. He glanced around at the generals and nobles who’d come to attend this audience between the dreadlord and their new allies. He noted with some pleasure the hint of uneasiness exhibited by Tullaris. First Sarkol Narza was slain in the failed plot against Drusala and now the sorceress was bringing to the army a power far in excess of the Ossian Guard and all of Tullaris’s executioners. Even if Malus didn’t need the dragons for the battles ahead, they would be useful to remind Tullaris who was in charge. While the wyrms were around, Malus would be able to depend on the sincerity of the Chosen of Khaine.
The more troubling issue was determining how much control Drusala had over the Caledorians that she could draw them away from the armies ransacking Tor Elyr. The sorceress was taking pains to make herself indispensable to Malus. He didn’t care for that, because he knew there would be a price for her services. And when it came to a sorceress as powerful as Drusala, he was certain the price would be too dear to pay.