Malus let out a choking cry and threw a handful of burning coals into his attacker’s gaping hood. The assassin recoiled with a pained shout and the highborn shoved him away. Immediately, the three other men swept in, but the highborn tore his sword from its scabbard and swept it in a vicious arc at their knees. The smell of burning wool and canvas was heavy in the air as the scattered coals smouldered hungrily against the tent’s fabric walls.
The highborn’s swing drove the men back for an instant and he took the chance to roll away from the pile of cinders and struggle to his feet.
He rose to a crouch just as one of the men rushed him, stabbing at his throat with a long-bladed knife. Malus parried the thrust, then snarled in pain as the attacker smashed his wrist with a heavy, knotted cudgel. The blow knocked the sword from his hand and before Malus could grab for it he had to hurl himself back to avoid a deadly slash aimed at his throat.
Malus felt waves of heat against the back of his neck. The inside of the tent was burning and the attackers were skilfully hemming him in against the flames. Another swordsman darted in from the right—Malus drew his second sword and narrowly blocked a powerful cut to his shoulder. As he did, the second attacker’s cudgel came at him from the left and struck him just behind the temple, dashing him to the ground.
It felt as though he lay on the steaming ground for a long time, blinking flashes of white pain from his eyes. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion—he saw his hand groping numbly for the sword he’d dropped, only to see a leather boot slowly kick it aside. A gloved hand closed around a handful of his hair, pulling his face back until he could see tongues of flame licking across the tent’s canvas ceiling. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but all that came out was a tortured groan.
Two of the assassins stood over him, staring inscrutably at him from the depths of their cloaks. A third man stood nearby, standing upright like a judge about to pass sentence.
“Finish it,” the third man said gravely. Malus blinked, trying to remember where he’d heard the voice before.
The fourth assassin staggered to his feet, shaking his hooded head. Smoke curled from the fabric where the coals had found their mark. He moved through a nimbus of flame, his sword red with reflected fire. When he reached Malus, he placed the sword’s razor edge to the highborn’s throat and pulled back his hood. The man’s pale face was blotched with angry red burns and his long, white hair was singed. Eyes the colour of hot brass regarded Malus with a mixture of burning anguish and hate.
Malus looked into that face and felt his heart freeze. “Arleth Vann?”
“Well met, my lord,” the former assassin said in a dead voice. “But I fear it is for the last time. You have broken the Witch King’s law and betrayed your city to its foes and as your sworn men we have all been tainted by your infamy.”
The man at the front of the tent pulled back his hood. Silar Thorn-blood’s handsome face was twisted with rage. “You have ruined us, Malus. Every hand in Hag Graef is set against us because of your crime. We are less than slaves now!”
Arleth Vann’s sword sank a fraction of an inch into Malus’ throat. “If we are to reclaim our honour, you must die,” he said. There is no other way.”
The two men at Malus’ side drew back their own hoods. Dolthaic the Ruthless spat in Malus’ face. “Do it,” he snarled.
Hauclir’s expression was bleak. There was no anger in his eyes, nor any hint of surprise. He looked at Malus searchingly. “Tell me this is part of some plan,” he said. “Tell me you meant for all this to happen and there’s a point to everything we’ve suffered since we returned to Hag Graef. Tell me you have a way to make things right again.”
Malus met his retainer’s pleading stare. “Can you give me a moment to think?” he asked, attempting to smile.
“Kill him,” Dolthaic said. “Get it over with.”
Distantly the sound of horns echoed in the night air. Arleth Vann shuddered, then sank to his knees before Malus, his eyes wide with surprise. The assassin let out a groan and fell against him and the highborn saw the three crossbow bolts that jutted from his back.
The shades rushed into the tent from three sides, charging through the entryway and from two rents torn in the side of the burning tent. Silar let out a yell and was immediately thrown back by the fierce attacks of two autarii scouts, his sword flashing as he parried their short, stabbing blades. Dolthaic let out a curse and made to strike off Malus’ head, but staggered back with a shout of pain as another crossbow bolt sprouted from his shoulder.
An autarii with twin swords rushed at Hauclir, his blades dancing like vipers. The former guard captain let Malus go and drew his knife, feinting a stroke at the shade’s face. The autarii ducked the blow and Hauclir’s cudgel smashed into his forehead. As the scout fell, Hauclir grabbed Arleth Vann’s arm and pulled him off the ground with surprising strength. “Run!” he said to Dolthaic and dragged the unconscious assassin towards the rear of the tent. Weaponless, Dolthaic gave Malus a passing glare of hate and ran at the wall of flames, plunging through the weakened fabric and out into the rain.
As the wall burst apart, the tent began to collapse. Malus felt hands grip his arms and drag him from the fire. He caught one last glimpse of Hauclir and Dolthaic dragging Arleth Vann around the corner of a nearby tent and then they were lost from sight.
The night air trembled with horns and the sound of fighting. A slender form knelt in front of the highborn, setting Malus’ swords by his side. The autarii girl peered searchingly in his eyes, then slipped a small piece of bark between his lips. The taste was painfully bitter. He gagged and bent over, retching into the grass.
“Are you well, my lord?” she asked. “You must gather your wits at once—the camp is under attack!”
Malus paused, tasting bile in his mouth and gasping for breath. The sounds echoing among the tents suddenly gained a dreadful meaning: Isilvar had found the camp and decided not to wait for dawn, launching a surprise attack on the exhausted and disorganised Naggorite troops.
The highborn clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut until his entire body trembled from the effort. He forced himself to clear his mind of distractions, pushing the sight of Hauclir’s pleading face into the dark depths of his brain. “Find Eluthir,” he said. The captains are with him.” As he considered the situation and their options the seeds of a plan started to fall into place. Tell Eluthir to counter-attack with all the knights he can find, then tell Esrahel to set fire to the baggage to cover the infantry’s retreat.” Slowly, he gathered up his swords and rose to his feet, forcing himself to focus solely on the situation at hand. Tell the infantry commanders to gather their companies and make a fighting retreat north.”
“Retreat to where?” the girl asked.
“Anywhere but here!” Malus snapped. “Let’s get the army moving and we’ll worry about the rest later.” The highborn sheathed his swords and forced his legs to move, making his way to Spite.
The girl snapped orders in her thick autarii dialect and most of the shades scattered like crows. She nodded to the three that remained and they stole quietly into the shadows nearby. Malus frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Watching over you,” she said quietly, her eyes searching the shadows. “I believe we are approaching the end of things,” she said, her voice distant. “Your campaign is at an end and your enemies circle like wolves.”
“It was never my campaign,” Malus said, surprised at the bitterness in his voice.
She turned to him. “And the witch’s curse?”
He shook his head. The daemon knight’s words came back to him. “What a witch gives, only a witch can take away,” he said, reaching Spite and quickly checking his saddle and reins.
“So be it,” the girl said gravely. She slipped up behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Turn around, my lord. There is something I must say to you.”
Malus started to turn—but Nagaira’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“
Night has fallen, brother,” the witch said as she stepped from the darkness into the guttering light thrown by the blazing tent. “It is time.”
He paused, reaching stealthily for the dagger at his belt then remembered he’d lost it in the fight. “Time to flee, sister,” he said, stalling for time. “The army is in grave danger.”
“The army? The army’s purpose is to die,” the witch said. “I have another task in mind for you. Turn around.”
He turned, his eyes seeking the autarii by his side, only to find that the girl had vanished.
Nagaira stood some distance away, flanked by a dozen black-garbed retainers. Fuerlan stood close by with a naked blade in his hand. The former general’s expression was twisted with rage and fear.
The witch’s glowing eyes narrowed and Malus could feel the cold weight of her smile. “You will do exactly as I say” she commanded. “Follow me.”
Pain faded as Nagaira exerted her hold over him. A terrible vigour swelled in his chest, writhing like a bundle of snakes around his heart. His feet began to move of their own accord.
Malus looked wildly about. Where were the shades? Why weren’t they doing anything? In desperation, he turned to Spite as he walked towards his sister. “Up, Spite! Hunt!” he commanded. He would be damned if the beast died because it waited in vain for him to come and claim it.
The nauglir was still sitting on its haunches as Nagaira led Malus and her companions into the darkness.
Isilvar’s knights and cavalry had attacked up the Spear Road
from the south. Nagaira led Malus and her companions west, out of the camp and into one of the dense woods that dotted the valley floor. Malus followed in his sister’s wake like a trained dog, listening helplessly to the shouts and screams of the army—his army—as it died. He prayed to the Mother of Night that Eluthir and the household knights escaped, or at least received warriors’ deaths. If Tennucyr was leading them, neither possibility was assured.
He couldn’t stop moving, no matter how hard he tried. No amount of will, or rage, or fear could stop his limbs from carrying him wherever Nagaira went. However, he found that he could slow down, dropping back through the ranks of the group only as far as he could without losing sight of his sister. He could move off the path if he wished, so long as his sister stayed in sight and could increase his pace. It appeared that he was compelled to follow Nagaira’s commands to the letter, if not necessarily abiding by them in spirit. That left him more freedom than he expected and his mind worked furiously as they picked their way through the dark woods, looking for a way to capitalise on his discovery.
They travelled into the forest for half a mile before they came to a huge, granite boulder rising out of the earth. The rock was the size of a small cottage and created a small clearing for itself in the middle of the tangled wood. Rain fell steadily, gleaming off the clear patches of the stone. At once, Nagaira’s retainers spread out around the rock, half-assuming a posture of prayer and the other half taking up sentry positions around the clearing as Nagaira summoned a globe of witch-fire and began to examine the rock.
More than once during the trek Malus thought he detected signs of stealthy movement in the trees. The shades were following them, of that he was certain. But why hadn’t they acted? Were they biding their time, waiting for an opportune moment far away from Isilvar’s men? Standing at the edge of the clearing, he eyed Nagaira and the two Naggorite highborn warily. The witch was oblivious to her surroundings, immersed in the study of the stone, but Fuerlan was almost on the point of panic.
“I’ve been thinking, sister,” Malus ventured. “How did our illustrious brother manage to assemble a punitive force to attack Naggor so swiftly? Bale had every reason to believe that we wouldn’t see any serious resistance until we were past the Blackwater and I daresay he knows the Hag and its leaders as well as anyone.”
“It would appear that Isilvar is a much more effective leader than anyone imagined,” the witch said absently.
“Or you and he were working together this entire time. Did you warn him of the ark’s plans?”
Fuerlan turned to Nagaira, his eyes widening. “Is that true?”
“Why would I do such a thing, you little fool?”
Malus wasn’t certain who she was referring to, but Fuerlan took offence. “None of this has gone according to plan!” he shouted. “You never said my army would be destroyed! How am I supposed to control the city without loyal troops?”
An idea suddenly occurred to Malus. Suddenly a number of pieces fit neatly into place. “You aren’t,” he declared, his brows furrowing as he contemplated his theory. “I do believe you’ve been betrayed.”
Fuerlan slowly turned to regard Malus. A nervous tic began to pull at his right eye. “Shut up,” he said. “You’re just trying to turn us against one another!”
Malus laughed in the man’s face. “She and Isilvar have been allies for years, you little wretch! They’re both Slaaneshi cultists!” He took a savage pleasure at the look of horror that dawned on the man’s face. “Did she not tell you? But I thought the two of you were betrothed!” He chuckled. “Don’t you Naggorites ever talk to your potential wives?”
Fuerlan turned to Nagaira, his face pale. “Is this true?”
“Oh, yes,” Nagaira said absently, tracing a finger across an indentation in the stone.
“She means for me to kill the drachau, but who else would benefit from his assassination? Isilvar, of course.” Malus said. After he destroys your army he will be lauded as a hero. Then when he returns to the Hag and learns of the drachau’s death who will gainsay him if he assumes the throne?” He grinned at the Naggorite. “I assume you’ll be handed over so Isilvar can parade you through the streets during the victory celebration.”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Fuerlan was trembling with rage. “Nagaira, tell him he’s wrong. You could never rule beside Isilvar. Only I could make you a queen!”
The witch straightened and turned to face the two men. “Malus,” she said peremptorily. “Come here.”
He grimaced as his body lurched into motion, quickly increasing his step to assuage his pride and make it look less like he was his sister’s plaything.
Nagaira beckoned to one of her retainers. The hooded figure came forward and presented a familiar wooden box. “Open it,” the witch said.
He did. Within were the same three relics he’d seen before.
“Do you see the dagger there?” Nagaira said.
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Pick it up and kill Fuerlan with it.”
Malus took the black dagger in his hand. Fuerlan screamed in terror. “You lying whore!” he cried. The Naggorite raised his sword. “You think to kill me, son of the Hag? Come ahead, then! I’ve trained with the finest duellists in the ark—”
His words were cut short by the flat sound of steel striking steel. The Naggorite’s mouth still hung open, his eyes locked on Malus several feet away. Slowly, slowly, his gaze fell to the hilt of the dagger jutting from his breastplate. Fuerlan’s last breath spilled from his lips in a startled sigh as he sank to one knee and then toppled onto his face.
“An impressive throw,” Nagaira observed.
“Anything to shut him up,” Malus replied sourly.
The highborn watched as a retainer rolled Fuerlan over and used two hands to pull the black dagger from the Naggorite’s chest. Malus was struck by the look of utter terror on the man’s face. What had he felt in the last moment of his life that had been so awful? Whatever it was, he thought it wasn’t half of what the fool deserved.
But where were the shades? He looked anxiously into the woods. Why hadn’t they made their move?
Nearby, Nagaira chanted softly and there was a flash of blue light. When Malus looked back at her, she was standing before a hole in the massive rock that seemed to curve downwards into the earth.
The witch turned to him, her eyes gleaming with unnatural light. “Let us go home, brother,” she said.
For a whil
e, Malus began to think Nagaira was lost.
Not that it would have been difficult to lose oneself in the twisting labyrinth known as the burrows. The tunnels ran for miles, twisting and turning back on themselves again and again in a pattern no logical mind could fathom. According to legend, the burrows were centred on Hag Graef, and no one knew how deep into the earth they went.
They were made one winter, several hundred years after the city was built and close to the surface the passageways cut through cellars and sewers alike. The tunnels were home to a fearsome number of vicious predators, from nauglir to cave spiders, but a clever—or desperate—soul could use them to come and go throughout the city without being seen.
Nagaira was well-versed on the layout of the tunnels, or at least those close to the Hag itself. Now, however, she held the sheets of parchment Malus had first seen in her tent, consulting them closely as she led the group on a circuitous path through the burrows. He had long since lost track of time, following her orb of witchfire through the endless tunnels. It could have been hours or days since they left the surface world behind.
The witch appeared to be looking for something, but Malus couldn’t fathom what. Every now and again when they reached an intersection she would pause, bow her head and utter an incantation in a language that he couldn’t understand yet set his teeth on edge just the same.
Finally, their path led them to a dead end of sorts—a huge pit whose bottom was lost in abyssal darkness. Noxious fumes rose from the blackness, making Malus cough. The air above the pit was still and cold and no sound echoed up from below.
Nagaira stepped to the edge of the pit and peered into the emptiness. Apparently satisfied, she turned and beckoned to one of her retainers. The man stepped forward and drew back his hood, looking at the witch with an expression of serene adoration. She reached up, holding what looked like a glittering ruby in her hand and slipped it between the retainer’s lips. “My gift to you,” she said.