Deathblade: A Tale of Malus Darkblade Page 23

  Tullaris turned his head towards his lieutenant and nodded. Reluctantly, Sarkol relented and slammed his dagger back into its sheath. Tullaris looked back at Malus, a bitter smile appearing on his face. ‘I should have killed you, Darkblade, but I do hear the voice of Khaine. I have seen, in my dreams, that you are the key to destiny. It has been granted that you shall atone for your blasphemies by bearing me to my apotheosis. We will walk to the Throne of Khaine together, you and I. The Witch King’s pretensions of divinity shall be cast down and the true glory of Khaine will be revealed.’

  With each word the executioner spoke, Malus felt his anxiety increase. Better than anyone, he knew what it was to have another voice inside one’s mind. He wasn’t sure which possibility was more disturbing – that Tullaris was mad or that he really did have something speaking to him.

  ‘Before the Witch King offered you the choice, I knew that our doom was joined,’ Tullaris continued. He rose from the ground, his body dripping with the blood his slaves had anointed him with. His brawny chest was a confusion of scars, overlapping layers of cuts, each slash representing the Mark of Khaine. ‘Before you knew what you would do, I knew we would march together.’

  Malus scowled at the executioner. ‘Prophecy is unerringly accurate after the fact,’ he sneered. ‘It may interest you that my closest advisors urged me to join forces with Venil Chillblade.’

  ‘But you didn’t, Darkblade. You made the choice that Khaine demanded.’ Tullaris’s eyes narrowed, his tone dropping to one of warning. ‘The sorceress. You must eliminate her.’

  ‘She is… useful to me,’ Malus said. He wondered if Tullaris had merely guessed or if the executioner really knew that Drusala was the ‘advisor’ who’d urged him against siding with the Har Ganeth exiles.

  ‘She is a creature of the Witch King,’ Tullaris said. ‘She is the handmaiden of Morathi, a product of her convents. All the sorceresses of Ghrond serve Morathi, however far they fare and whatever deceits they weave.’

  That idea gave Malus pause. He was certain Drusala was playing her own game, trying to fulfil some scheme that would benefit herself. Was it possible that at the same time she was acting as an agent of Morathi or the Witch King? Could it be all the seeming disfavour in which Malekith held her was simply a pretence? He already considered the witch a threat, but one that could be attended to later when the opportunity arose. If she was an agent of Malekith, however, her elimination was crucial.

  ‘It needs magic to fight magic,’ Dolthaic said. Although Sarkol had relented, the knight remained on his guard, poised to protect his master’s back and flank should treachery arise.

  ‘Only those with little ability fall outside the power of Ghrond,’ Malus said. ‘It will need more than a petty enchantress to oppose Drusala.’

  Tullaris stepped over to the basin and the bleeding slave. He ran his hand through the dazed she-elf’s hair. ‘Was the Lady Eldire a petty enchantress? She opposed Morathi herself and remained independent of her control.’ The executioner locked eyes with Malus. ‘Perhaps that is why she was murdered.’

  It took the iron resolve of a drachau not to allow any sign of emotion to show on his face. The loss of his mother was a pain Malus had yet to face. Korbus had claimed he acted for the Witch King, but what if he wasn’t alone? It would need powerful magic or careful treachery to overcome someone like Eldire. Or, perhaps, a mix of both. He was reminded of what he’d witnessed while locked inside Tz’arkan’s twisted form. He’d felt rather than heard Drusala’s voice rising from Absaloth’s tongue. Had she employed similar magic when Korbus was exposed?

  Malus looked over at Dolthaic. ‘The problem remains. It needs magic to fight magic. As you say, my mother was the single most powerful sorceress to defy Morathi’s control.’

  Almost absently, Tullaris shoved the head of his slave forwards, pushing her face under the film of blood at the bottom of the basin. ‘There is no single sorceress who can equal Lady Eldire,’ he said. ‘But there are three whose powers combined can suit our needs.’ He smiled as the slave’s body thrashed about. Drowning, she had snapped from her weary stupor. Her fingers clawed at the executioner’s arms, scratching at him in her agonies.

  Sarkol explained his master’s words. ‘Three sorceresses fled Ghrond long ago. They sought shelter in Har Ganeth and the protection of Hellebron. They have become the Blood Coven, their combined sorcery enough to oppose even the great daemons of the Wastes. Perhaps only Morathi herself is the equal of their united power.’

  ‘This Blood Coven is among your entourage?’ Malus asked.

  Tullaris frowned. The resistance of the drowning slave was growing weaker. ‘They are not with us, but they could be. Malekith mistrusts Morathi for failing to warn him of the daemonic invasion. That suspicion runs to all who serve the convents. He knows the value of having in his keeping a body of sorceresses with no love for his mother. He has kept the Blood Coven close in case he must use them against his mother’s disciples.’

  ‘The Blood Coven appreciates how precarious their position has become,’ Sarkol continued. ‘They know that should Malekith reconcile with Morathi as he has so often before, they would be lost. Given the chance, they should again like the protection of Har Ganeth and the favour of Khaine.’

  ‘Say the word, Darkblade, and when we march, the Blood Coven will march with us,’ Tullaris said. He released his grip on the now unresisting slave. There was just a flicker of life left in her. If she had the strength, she might yet save herself. If she was too weak, it was a sign Khaine had accepted this offering of murder. ‘Sarkol Narza knows where they are being held. He will liberate them and bring them to you. By the time their escape has been discovered, we will already be deep in Ellyrion.’

  Malus pondered the offer. Not for an instant did he doubt that Tullaris had motives of his own for rescuing the Blood Coven. But it might be that such motives echoed his own. Anything that might give him an edge over Drusala was a gamble he felt he had to take. Even more now that the seed of suspicion was there.

  ‘Very well, Tullaris,’ Malus decided. ‘Bring your witches.’

  Tullaris smiled as he watched the last bubbles of air rise in the basin and the first touch of death steal upon the drowned slave. ‘Khaine blesses this compact, Darkblade,’ he said, jabbing his thumb at the unmoving corpse. ‘Together, He will lead us to our destiny.’

  Silar could hear the cries of agony even before he reached the compound where the Naggorites had been interred after the battle. A ring of impaled bodies greeted him, the still-living husks of those slave-soldiers wounded in battle. There were scores of them, hands bound behind them, slivers of silverwood torn from the great doors of the Eagle Gate thrust through their vitals. It was a slow, hideous death, the kind of death usually reserved for traitors and cowards, not warriors whose only failing had been to fall victim to the caprice of battle.

  Such was the viciousness of Kunor Kunoll’s Son, however. An inveterate sadist, the brute never squandered an opportunity for cruelty. As Silar approached, he saw the slavemaster and two of his henchmen standing over a Naggorite who’d been staked on the ground. They were busy heaping the armoured bodies of fallen slaves on the wretch, gradually pressing the elf to death. Silar noted with a start that the druchii Kunor was torturing was Bragath Blyte. One word from the tormented slave and Silar could find himself branded a traitor.

  There was nothing to do, however, except keep walking. Kunor had already noted the highborn and would think it curious to see him withdraw without some manner of explanation. Silar glanced down at Bragath. For just an instant there was a silent appeal in the Naggorite’s eyes.

  ‘Has the great Silar Thornblood decided to go slumming among the commoners?’ Kunor laughed. ‘I thought you didn’t care for this kind of diversion. Too crude for your refined palette.’ He laughed again as he hefted the corpse he was holding onto the one already on Bragath’s chest. The weight of two full
y armoured elves now pressed down on the captive.

  ‘I find little to enjoy in savagery without purpose,’ Silar said. ‘There is an art to torture that I despair of you ever appreciating, Kunor. This,’ he gestured to Bragath, ‘is like comparing the murmur of an idiot to the song of a diva. They are alike only in that both are sounds.’

  Kunor glared at the highborn. ‘I’ll teach the swine to sing,’ he growled, motioning for his henchmen to lug another corpse onto the pile. The slavemaster’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘What did bring you here?’

  ‘Orders from the drachau,’ Silar said, letting the weight of that statement sink in. ‘He commands that you have your Naggorites ready to march in the morning.’ He glanced around the compound, at the great dark stretches between the campfires of the slave-soldiers. Over half of the Naggorites had perished over the course of the campaign. ‘Such as are left,’ he added with a mocking smile. ‘I wonder, Kunor, how long it will be before your command vanishes completely. What use will Malus have for a slavemaster without any slaves?’

  Kunor raised his hand, arresting the action of his helpers as they prepared to dump the third corpse onto Bragath’s chest. ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.

  Silar shook his head. ‘Surely you don’t expect Lord Malus to give you command of a company of dreadspears or a troop of dark riders? You aren’t a leader, Kunor, you are a taskmaster. You don’t lead, you drive. You bully and terrorise your warriors, but you don’t lead them. The host of Hag Graef may need new leaders when this war is over, but it won’t need a slave-driver. Not to command troops on the battlefield.’ Silar glanced down at Bragath. ‘I wonder what you’ll do when they’re all gone. Perhaps the drachau will reward you with a post in his kitchens.’

  The slavemaster shook from an apoplexy of rage. He ripped the whip from his belt, but when he played his lash, it was across the faces of his henchmen. ‘Put that carrion down! Go and check that the rest of these dogs are fit to march in the morning!’

  Rubbing his slashed face, one of the henchmen pointed at Bragath. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Leave him,’ Kunor growled. ‘If he lives until morning, cut him loose and put him in line with the rest.’ The slavemaster turned back towards Silar, but the highborn was already walking away. He glared hatefully at the noble, damning him for the doubt and fear he’d set in the slavemaster’s mind.

  Silar walked slowly through the darkness, away from the slave compound. He’d done what little he could for Bragath. He hoped the Naggorite understood that. He hoped it would be enough to keep the elf’s silence.

  ‘Unusual friends for a noble of Hag Graef,’ a soft voice whispered to Silar from the darkness.

  Surprised by the abruptness of the words, Silar spun around. He discovered Drusala staring at him, an enigmatic expression on her face.

  ‘Beasts like Kunor are an unfortunate necessity in a time of war,’ Silar said.

  ‘War makes strange bedfellows indeed.’ Drusala stepped closer and slowly turned to face back at the slave compound. ‘You were a hero of the war that saw Hag Graef victorious against the black ark of Naggor. It is strange to see you with such sympathy for your old enemies.’

  Silar tried to hide the flash of alarm that coursed through him. How much did the sorceress know and how much did she simply guess? Or was Drusala simply fishing for a reaction, trying to tease out from him with craft what she couldn’t with magic?

  ‘That war is over. The Naggorites fight alongside Hag Graef now,’ Silar said. ‘I simply do not like to see Lord Malus’s resources squandered needlessly.’

  ‘A most thoughtful vassal,’ Drusala said. ‘It is rare to find such loyalty among the highborn. Usually it makes them too weak to accomplish anything of merit.’

  As abruptly as she had appeared, so too did the sorceress depart, vanishing into the darkness of the druchii camp. Even after she was gone, however, Silar could smell the tang of her perfume and feel the uncanny chill of her presence.

  SIXTEEN

  For five days the druchii raged across the Ellyrian countryside, slaughtering and burning everything in their path. No settlement was too small to escape their hate, no victim to insignificant to be spared their wrath. The crucified bodies of tortured asur marked the march of Malus Darkblade, every victim bearing the brand of Khaine upon their brow.

  Dark riders ranged far and wide, scouting the terrain, studying the lay of the land. While Drusala and the other sorceresses kept their focus upon Tor Elyr, the Griffon Gate and Whitefire Tor, the scouts fed the army a complete survey of the land. On the sixth day of their rampage, Malus had cause to put that intelligence to use.

  The ravages of the druchii were known to the asur. Day by day, the outrages inflicted by the invaders continued to build until at last an army stirred from each of the great Ellyrian cities. The hosts of Tor Elyr and Whitefire Tor marched to intercept that of Naggaroth, but Malus was careful to avoid being trapped between them. His army ranged deeper into the countryside, drawing the asur after them. Eventually, the two Ellyrian armies merged, forming a united front against the despoilers of their kingdom.

  It was then that Malus ordered his army to retrace their march, fading back towards the Annulii Mountains. The asur were coming for his bait, now it was time to give battle. Battle under his terms and on ground of his choosing.

  From a rocky outcropping on the foothills, Malus and his generals watched the asur army closing upon them. Around a stand of forest that had been partially burned by the druchii, the Ellyrians came, their banners fluttering in the breeze, their armour gleaming in the eternal summer of Ellyrion’s sun. A war-chant, as old as Aenarion’s reign, rose from the marching soldiers. As it reached them, some of Malus’s warriors added their own voices to the song, a reminder to the asur that it was the druchii who were the true heirs of Aenarion.

  ‘They outnumber us, dreadlord,’ Silar cautioned Malus. ‘Why give battle to them at all? We can fade into the hills and force them to divide their command to pursue us.’

  Malus reached down and gave Spite an affectionate pat. He appreciated the horned one’s unquestioning loyalty, especially at times like these. ‘After all the hard work to bring my enemies together, dividing them again is the last thing I want.’

  ‘If you were to draw them back towards the Eagle Gate, the dragons would be able…’

  An icy glare silenced Silar. ‘The last thing I want is to make a present of my victory to either Imrik or Malekith. This victory will be mine! It won’t be stolen from me as the Eagle Gate was.’ Raising his hand, Malus brought his mailed fist flashing down. At his signal, a horn sounded, its dolorous note echoing among the rocks. Below the rise upon which Malus and Silar conferred, a great body of troops rushed out towards the enemy. Mounted slavemasters cracked their whips against the soldiers, driving them like cattle.

  Silar felt his insides go cold as he watched the Naggorites herded towards the asur. He knew the slave-soldiers were greatly outnumbered, that Malus didn’t expect them to stop the Ellyrian push. Well was he aware of his lord’s callous deployment of the Naggorites and the fiendish plan behind it. The knowledge didn’t make him like the scheme any better. Vanquished, enslaved, the Naggorites were still druchii. That meant something to Silar, much more than it had before Naggaroth was abandoned. They were the last of a breed, the last sons of the Land of Chill. To spend their lives in such a ruthless manner made him sick.

  ‘The passes will hide the numbers of Kunor’s dogs,’ Malus laughed. ‘For all that the asur can tell, the whole of my host is descending upon them. Our magic will prevent them from piercing that deception. When the Naggorites break, the asur will smell victory and pursue.’ Malus clenched his fist, his face contorting into a visage of complete hate. ‘Then they are mine. Sacrifices to my glory. Not that of the Witch King!’

  Silar looked down into the pass. The first line of the Naggorites was just emerging out onto the
plain. Immediately, a rain of arrows and spears rose from the asur lines. Scores of druchii were brought down, falling in their droves as the missiles struck their formation. Kunor and the mounted slavemasters whipped fresh troops into the gaps, driving them on, allowing them no pause for thought or fear. Yard by yard, the Naggorites clawed their way across the field towards the asur front. Beneath their feet they trampled the bodies of their own dead and wounded, deaf to the cries of the maimed and dying.

  Before the Naggorites could reach the Ellyrians, a block of swordsmen in suits of mail stepped forwards. They met the initial rush of the slave-soldiers with cleaving strokes of their double-handed blades. The asur swords scythed through the druchii, cleaving through armour as though it were paper and taking scant notice of the flesh and bone within.

  Kunor and the slavemasters continued to beat and threaten their troops, forcing more and more of them into the fray. At last, however, even the fatalistic determination of the Naggorites reached its limit. The surge of black-armoured elves receded, turned back upon itself. Raw, primitive cries of despair and alarm rose from the druchii as they fled back into the passes, stampeding those before them into full retreat.

  The asur, the song of Khaine already sounding in their souls, the smell of enemy blood in their hearts, pursued their reeling foes. Shouting triumphantly, the Ellyrians charged after the druchii, cutting down any unfortunate enough to fall into their hands.

  Upon the rise, Malus smiled, an expression of such murderous glee that it might have provoked envy in Tullaris had the executioner been there to see it. Once again, the drachau raised his hand high. Carefully he watched the Naggorites pouring back into the pass below, studying the numbers and progress of the asur pursuing them.

  ‘Can we not wait until our warriors are clear?’ Silar asked.

  Malus didn’t bother to look aside at his retainer. ‘The Naggorites die to serve the Hag. It is all they are good for.’ Extending forefinger and thumb, he gave the signal the troops positioned on the rise had been watching for.