“The key is to attack swiftly, while the lords of the Hag are still in disarray,” Bale continued, bending over the map set before the council. “Since Lurhan’s intended successor Bruglir has died on campaign in the North Sea, the title of vaulkhar has—for now at least—passed to Isilvar Darkmoon, Lurhan’s second son. By all reports, Isilvar is a libertine and a wastrel, unsuited to the field of war.” Bale glanced across the table. “Do you agree, Lord Malus?”
“He is all that and more,” Malus said, galled to the core at the news. The man would have a difficult time running a flesh house, much less leading an army to battle.” The assembled lords laughed eagerly at the jibe. Malus stole a glance at Nagaira; her shadowy form was still as death itself, yet he thought he could sense a kind of predatory satisfaction there. She and Isilvar had been conspirators in the Cult of Slaanesh back at Hag Graef. Were they still allies? Was it possible that her presence at the ark was part of some still larger scheme? Malus reached up and rubbed at his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache.
Bale nodded at Malus’ assessment. “The acting vaulkhar has of course accused us of harbouring Lurhan’s assassin and gone to Uthlan Tyr demanding a resumption of the old feud. This has served to complicate the drachau’s plans to name another, more experienced highborn as the city’s war leader, thus sowing more confusion in our enemy’s ranks. The city’s nobles will still be scheming against one another to claim the title when our message arrives at the drachau’s court tomorrow.”
The Witch Lord eyed his lieutenants in turn and smiled wolfishly. “An envoy bearing the severed heads of Lurhan’s retainers will be dropped at Tyr’s feet at midday. Thanks to the sorcerous skills of my son’s betrothed—” Bale indicated Nagaira with a sweep of his hand—Those heads will proclaim to all assembled how Lurhan’s men invaded our territory and slew our knights in a deliberate raid to seize our new ally Malus. That will give us ample proof to declare Hag Graef in violation of the Witch King’s truce and resume the feud.” Bale chuckled coldly. “By that time, of course, our army will have been six hours on the march.”
Bale leaned forward and ran an armoured finger across the frozen plains from the ark to the Spear Road
, then south. “We will make a forced march for the first few days until we’ve passed the Hateful Road
and Naggorond. That will place us within three days’ march of Hag Graef.”
“That will leave the men exhausted before they even meet the enemy in battle,” one of the older lieutenants growled.
To Malus’ surprise the Witch Lord accepted the criticism with equanimity. “The point, Lord Ruhven, is to act so swiftly that there will be few enemies to face along the way. If the Dark Mother is with us, we shouldn’t encounter any resistance at all until we reach Blackwater Ford.”
“And then?” Malus asked, growing intrigued with Bale’s plan.
“By that time Hag Graef will have assembled their own force and taken to the field,” Bale said. “Lurhan’s men remain hungry for vengeance and his retainers are powerful men. Isilvar will have to take action to avoid looking weak, so he will have to raise as potent a force as he can manage in a short amount of time and send them north. The only uncertainty at this stage is whether Isilvar will lead this force himself or delegate it to another general.”
“He will not go himself,” Malus declared. Despite himself, he found that he saw great potential in Bale’s strategy. “He has no reputation as a war leader and his power base at home would still be too tenuous. He would remain at home to keep his rivals at bay and claim credit for any victory won against the forces of the ark.”
“Excellent,” Bale said, nodding approvingly. “Then while Isilvar is still at the Hag stirring up political strife with his rivals, a large portion of his available forces will be heading into the jaws of our army—a force many times larger than the vaulkhar or his general will expect.” The Witch Lord’s fist came down on the dark line of the Blackwater River. We will crush the enemy force decisively and then drive on to Hag Graef. By the time Isilvar learns of the destruction of his force we will be at the gates of the city and while the drachau and Isilvar’s rivals turn on their titular warlord in the wake of his first defeat, we will take the city by storm.”
The assembled lords looked to one another with a mixture of apprehension and battle-lust. If it worked, the plan would bring them glory and riches beyond imagining. If it failed, however, their severed heads would be feeding the crows on the battlements of Hag Graef. One of the older lords put their doubts into words. “Your plan is swift and daring,” the druchii said, “but ends in a siege of one of the most powerful of the six cities. Every day we stay camped outside its walls is another day for the Hag’s scattered nobles to gather into an army to come to the city’s relief.”
At that, Bale reclined in his thorned ebony seat and gave the man a feline smile. “There will be no siege, Lord Dyrval. The witch Nagaira will see to that.”
Eyes turned to the shadowy figure standing at Fuerlan’s shoulder. Bale’s son took a sip of wine, giggling into his cup.
It was Malus who broke the resulting silence. “And how will my esteemed sister bring down the city gates?” he asked.
The Witch Lord replied. “All things in their time, Lord Malus. All things in their time.” Bale raised his empty goblet and surveyed his men as a slave poured fresh wine. “Let us concern ourselves now with who will lead our banners to war.”
Every other question Bale’s lieutenants may have had vanished as the Witch Lord prepared to name the men who would command the divisions of the black ark’s army in the field. It was longstanding tradition for a city’s warlord to assign positions of rank within an army to whomever he deemed most worthy and capable. Typically, this meant that the army was led by allies and political favourites whose fortunes were already closely tied to the warlord himself. Such persons were guaranteed to reap a substantial share of wealth and glory if the army was successful, so competition for these positions was naturally fierce.
Since the black ark was too small to have a vaulkhar of its own, the privilege of assigning rank rested in the hands of Bale himself. Malus steepled his fingers thoughtfully and prepared to take note of whom he would need to curry favour with—and whom he would need to watch out for—in the coming days and weeks.
“According to our heralds, our mustered strength now stands at seven banners of foot and four banners of horse, plus one banner of household knights and a troop of autarii scouts,” The Witch Lord began. The infantry will be formed into three divisions of two banners each, with one banner held in reserve. The horse will be formed into a single division, as will the household knights.”
Malus nodded to himself. It was a fairly standard organisation of forces. Along with the obligatory captain in charge of the baggage train and the artillery, that would mean six positions of rank in the army forming the general’s field council. A quick count of heads in the room revealed that there would be three highborn besides himself who would be thrown in among the rank and file—providing none of Bale’s choices “fell ill” before the army marched on the morrow.
“The command of the artillery and baggage train will go to Lord Esrahel,” Bale declared and the oldest of the assembled lords set his jaw and bowed his head respectfully, offering no complaint. “Command of the three infantry divisions will go to Lords Ruhven, Kethair and Jeharren.” Ruhven accepted his assignment gravely, while Kethair and Jeharren—both much younger highborn—smiled fiercely and bowed deeply to their lord.
“Command of the cavalry will go to Lord Dyrval,” Bale said and the highborn almost jumped from his seat, his eyes widening in surprise. Many of the other assembled lords stole questioning glances at one another, but held their tongues. For his part, Bale kept his voice level, but there was a hint of a warning in his eyes as he regarded Dyrval. Malus considered the reactions. It appears Bale is giving Dyrval the chance to redeem himself for some past error, he thought. The man must be highly esteemed in
the Witch Lord’s eyes to be given such a coveted post, Malus concluded. That’s something to keep in mind.
That left the command of the household knights, a position that promised even less in the way of plunder than the captain of the baggage train, who could at least expect to skim a healthy portion of gold from the army’s own treasury. What the position lacked in profits it made up for in prestige, however, for the captain of knights was the army’s second-in-command and could form alliances with many high-ranking nobles during the course of the campaign.
Malus eyed Fuerlan across the table and tried to hide his disgust. There was little doubt who Bale would assign the position to—and who would likely be his immediate superior in the army. He was lost in thought, contemplating various ways to quietly assassinate the man when Bale made his announcement and was jolted from his idle schemes when several of the lords leapt to their feet in outrage.
“This is an insult!” one of the older highborn shouted. “My household has served the ark with honour for centuries.”
“And mine as well!” cried another noble, his face scarred from years of campaigning. “You cannot do this, my lord!”
“I cannot? I cannot?” Bale said, his voice rising in anger. “It is my right as Witch Lord to assign rank to whomever I please—and slay those who oppose me!” There was a rustle of steel as armoured warriors appeared from the shadows, hands on the hilts of their swords and the angry lords sank back into their seats before the forbidding presence of Bale’s Witch Guard. “He is an expert rider and breeder of nauglir and a fierce warrior in his own right. I have no doubt he will serve well as captain of the knights,” Bale growled at his lords. He turned to Malus. “What say you? Will you take the position?”
Malus paused only for an instant. “It is a great honour, my lord,” he said, rising to his feet and bowing deeply. “I will not fail you or the army, my lord.”
“Naturally not,” Bale replied. “Your life depends on it, after all.” The Witch Lord’s smile did nothing to lessen the weight of his warning. “In addition, you will command the army’s scouts. Have you any trouble working with the autarii?”
“None at all, my lord,” he replied. Will they have trouble working with me? That’s another question entirely. Was that why I was given this role?
“Then there is but one position left to assign,” Bale said.
The lords—including Malus—shared looks of bemusement. Lord Ruhven spoke up. “If I am not mistaken, all divisions have been assigned.”
“That is so, but the commander of the army has not been named,” the Witch Lord said. “Overall command will fall to my son, Fuerlan.”
The stunned silence that followed Bale’s declaration told Malus all he needed to know about Fuerlan’s reputation at the ark. Several of the lords turned pale at the thought. Bale’s son took note of their discomfort and laughed uproariously, sloshing wine from his cup.
Lord Esrahel, the captain of the baggage, looked from son to father. “Surely my lord would wish to command the army himself on the eve of so great a victory?” he began.
The Witch Lord shook his head. “It is enough that I have laid the foundation for Uthlan Tyr’s humiliation,” he said. “My son will rule over the Hag in my name, so it is only fitting that he leads the army that will conquer it.”
It was a clever stroke, Malus had to admit. Having Bale’s idiot son seize the city would only deepen Uthlan Tyr’s humiliation—and by extension Malekith’s as well. And I have been put in a position to ensure his success, the highborn thought grimly, or likely become the scapegoat if he fails.
Bale turned to his son. “Have you anything to say to your men, general?”
Fuerlan brought his goblet to his lips and drained it in two noisy gulps, then threw the cup to the floor. A thin rivulet of wine ran along the ridge of a fine scar that pulled at the corner of his lower lip. He wiped his mouth with the back of an armoured hand and grinned mirthlessly at the lords. “I have no way with words, my lord,” he said with a thin laugh. “Deeds will have to suffice.”
He eyed Malus with a look of black-eyed hate. “We march at dawn, Lord Malus,” he hissed. “One minute later and I’ll have you flogged in front of the rest of the army. Do you understand?”
Malus inclined his head. “Perfectly, lord general,” he said with a wintry smile of his own. Then and there he realised that one of them would die before the campaign was over.
“Then all of you had best get to work,” Fuerlan declared. “Assemble the army at the Great Gate an hour before sunrise for inspection. I will see you then.”
The lords shifted uncomfortably, grappling mentally with the epic task set before them. Esrahel turned to Bale. The captain of baggage already looked haggard and worn. “Do we have leave to depart?”
Bale nodded. “The council is adjourned. May the Dark Mother ride with you and reward your hatred with vengeance and victory.”
The highborn rose from their seats without a sound. Malus followed suit, moving as if in a dream. Hundreds of questions weighed on his mind. How was he going to get an army of thousands ready to march in twelve hours when he didn’t even know where all the companies were camped, much less who commanded them? He could feel Fuerlan’s eyes on him as he strode woodenly from the chamber.
The thought of being flogged in front of thousands of men filled him with rage, but he knew that there was no point dwelling on it. Fuerlan was going to find ways to torment and humiliate him no matter what he did—that much was clear. Better by far to focus on the campaign at hand and watch for opportunities to engineer the young general’s demise.
The antechamber outside the council room was surprisingly crowded. Junior officers in the army had gathered like crows, waiting for word from their lords. As Malus began working his way through the crowd, he heard his sister’s voice behind him.
“A moment, dear brother,” Nagaira said. “I have a gift for you.”
Malus turned to find his sister standing just to the side of the council chamber’s door, attended by a trio of armoured lords and two hooded druchii. Suppressing his irritation, he smiled. “Poisoned wine, perhaps, or an adder stuffed in a bag? Something to abbreviate my misery?”
Once again, he sensed the witch’s smile. “Perhaps,” she said. “A lord, particularly one of your position, needs skilled retainers to fulfil his duties.” Nagaira indicated the assembled group with a pale hand. “So I present to you these warriors, all of them hungry for glory and eager to serve.”
And to spy for you, no doubt, Malus thought. Or stab me in my sleep if you so desire.
“Nothing could please me more,” he said tersely.
Nagaira gestured to the first lord. “Lord Eluthir is a young knight from an old family. He is a fine rider and promises to be a terrible fighter in your service.” The young lord, wearing an old suit of battered armour and a heavy cloak of bearskin, bowed deeply to Malus. His long black hair was wound in a braid and fastened with a pair of gilded finger bones and his features were sharp and inquisitive like a fox’s.
The second lord was an older man, balding and scarred, with a crude false eye made from red glass gleaming dully from his right eye socket. He bowed curtly when Nagaira indicated him. “Lord Gaelthen is a well-respected and knowledgeable warrior who knows the ark’s many household knights by name. He has fought in many battles against Hag Graef and is famous for his hatred of our former home.”
The third lord wore armour of black chased with fine gold scrollwork, his youthful features haughty and aristocratic and his eyes dark with simmering rage. When Nagaira turned to him the lord gave Malus a flat, almost accusatory stare.
“Lord Tennucyr is a rich knight and a fine rider, who has fought many battles with Hag Graef s men,” Nagaira said. Her voice sounded faintly amused, but Malus couldn’t say for sure if she was mocking himself or Tennucyr. “When he heard that you were entering the Witch Lord’s service he was the first to volunteer to join your household.”
Malus surveyed th
e men. A young fool, an old fool and a knight with murder in his eyes, he thought with dismay.
The witch turned and beckoned to the hooded figures, who approached Malus on silent feet. “I confess I’ve known the Witch Lord’s intentions for some days,” she told her brother, “and I knew you would also be required to command the army’s scouts. So I searched far and wide in hopes of finding men who could aid in your work with the shades and help translate their slippery tongue. As luck would have it, these autarii had just arrived in the ark and were looking to sign on with the army and were honoured to accept a role in your household.
The two figures drew back their hoods. One was a young autarii man with few tattoos, his face marred by fading bruises and a still-healing cut over one eye. He bowed his head deeply to Malus, but his body seemed tense and expectant.
The second autarii was but a girl, but her violet eyes were deep with knowledge of terrible deeds. Her black hair was pulled back in a number of tight braids and the tattoo of a coiling dragon worked its way from her slender throat up the side of her aristocratic face.
Another strange tickle of memory plucked at Malus’ mind. A chill ran down his spine. “Have… have we met before?” he asked the girl.
When the autarii spoke, her voice was musical but devoid of warmth. “We have shared neither meat nor salt,” she said gravely.
“No, I suppose not,” Malus said. “No doubt we will have such an opportunity soon.”
The ghost of a smile passed across the shade’s face. “Who can say what the future will bring?”
Chapter Fifteen
BEARER OF SACRED BLOOD
Malus had been in the saddle three hours before dawn, riding from barracks to barracks across the black ark and readying the army for war. It had been a long, sleepless night, filled with a hectic procession of introductions, assessments and orders, many of which had to be delivered forcefully and in person in order to actually get the companies moving in the right direction. There had been little time for the news of Bale’s new appointments to filter through the rest of the ranks in the wake of the council and few captains were prepared to believe that he, of all people, had the authority he claimed. One particular fool had even gone so far as to call him a liar and laugh in his face. Fortunately his lieutenant had proved to be much more circumspect and sensible after Malus fed the captain to Spite.