Nevertheless, when the horns began to wail he had buckled on his harness and headed for the wall.
He’d hoped that when the attack began it would be led by Nagaira’s champion. The warrior, aided by the Amulet of Vaurog, would be a literal engine of destruction atop the city walls, but Malus hoped that with enough spearmen behind him the champion could be pulled down long enough for him to pull the artefact from around his thin neck. After that they could hack the bastard to pieces and hang his helmeted head from the battlements, and Malus would find a way to slip out of the fortress and make his way into the Wastes.
But nothing had gone according to plan so far. The champion had yet to show himself among the screaming throngs, and most of the warriors on the wall regarded Malus with open resentment and hostility. The spearmen of the Black Tower had heard the stories of his disastrous expedition to the north, and blamed him for the loss of their mates and of their commander, Lord Meiron. But they were far from the worst—as Malus walked the battlements he came upon warriors from Hag Graef and the Black Ark, both of whom saw him as the blackest of villains after the ill-fated events of the previous spring. They were just as likely to stab him in the back or throw him from the walls in the middle of an attack, Witch King’s champion or no. He’d stayed so long with the regiment from Clar Karond simply because he was just another officer to them.
The crossbows along the battlements were firing now, and Malus could hear the screams of the dying, forty feet below. “Ladders coming up!” one of the warriors shouted, and the highborn rushed up to the battlements to see how many had landed nearby.
There were only two: one was very close to the redoubt at his right, while the other was almost ten yards to his left. Others going up farther down the line were someone else’s problem. Swift-footed barbarians were already scrambling up the long ladders, many with a throwing-axe gripped in their teeth. More barbarians at the base of the wall were flinging axes up at the defenders, but the druchii paid them little heed.
“Crossbows cover the ladders!” the highborn yelled, although there was little need. The men on this part of the wall knew the routine well by now. Bolts from their crossbows and from the firing slits of the nearby redoubt raked along the line of men climbing hard for the wall. The marauders advanced fearlessly into the storm of black-fletched bolts, pressing on even after being shot multiple times. When they could climb no more they hurled themselves clear of the ladder, screaming or laughing like madmen the whole way to the ground, and those below would redouble their efforts to reach the top.
And reach the top they would. They always did, despite the appalling losses they suffered. The crossbows could only fire so fast, and the Chaos warriors had no fear of death. Slowly but surely the line of warriors inched closer to the battlements.
“Four men on each ladder!” Malus roared, rushing forward to welcome the first foe who came over the battlements. Obediently the troops crowded close around the end of each ladder, ready to strike the attackers from multiple directions at once. This wasn’t duelling or elegant swordplay—this was pure butchery, killing men as quickly and efficiently as possible. So long as they kept the enemy warriors from gaining a foothold on the battlements they could almost slaughter the oncoming attackers at will.
Suddenly the air hummed with half-a-dozen thrown axes, burning through the air in short, glittering arcs as the warriors closest to the top let fly. There was a clash of steel and a warrior beside Malus toppled without a sound; a hurled axe had cleft the spearman’s helmet and buried itself in his forehead. “Shields up, damn you!” the highborn shouted. “Mind their axes!” He himself reached up and checked the strap on his new helmet. Malus hated wearing the thing, but it was far better than the alternative.
A face appeared at the top of the ladder, grinning like a daemon. Malus leapt at him with a shout, and just missed having a hurled axe embedded in his face. His sudden move threw the man’s aim off, sending the spinning projectile blurring past his ear, and before the warrior could drag out his sword Malus stabbed him through the throat. Blood poured in a flood down the barbarian’s tattooed chest, but the warrior kept coming, forcing his way up the ladder and onto the battlements. Spearmen dashed in from both sides, stabbing and hacking at the man, and Malus tucked his shoulder in and crashed into the reeling man’s bloody midsection, sending him flying out into space.
But the warrior’s last seconds bought more time for the man behind him. A sword thrust slid off Malus’ armoured belly, and then the screaming beastman lowered his horned head and butted the highborn in the chest. The force of the impact hurled him back a few feet, and the bellowing warrior leapt quickly onto the battlements. Druchii warriors pressed in on either side of the foe, stabbing and slashing with their short blades. Roaring in fury, Malus leapt back into the fray as well, catching the warrior in the middle of a turn and hacking through the side of his neck. Hot blood sprayed across the spearman as the horned warrior staggered beneath the blow. One of the spearmen rushed at the warrior, intent on finishing the creature off, but the beastman was far from finished. With a braying shout it lowered its broad sword and caught the onrushing spearman with a thrust to his right thigh that tore clean through the muscle and cut a major artery. The druchii fell with a scream, clutching at the mortal wound, while his companions plunged their blades into the beast-man’s back.
A barbarian reached the battlements next and leapt over the dying beastman straight at Malus, his face twisted with madness and his arms outstretched in a deadly embrace. Snarling in disdain the highborn ducked clear of the warrior’s foolhardy attack, then rushed after the madman’s tumbling body and kicked it off the edge of the inner wall. The dying druchii was trying to drag his way clear of the melee, leaving a thick trail of blood through the newly lain sawdust.
Another druchii fell to the paving stones, grappling with a dagger-wielding barbarian. Malus rushed over, planted a foot between the marauder’s shoulders and split his skull with a downward sweep of his sword. Two more Chaos warriors had made their way onto the battlements, and a third waited at the top of the ladder, looking for a space to clamber across. Cursing lustily, the highborn dived back into the fray, using his longer swords to telling effect.
One beastman went down, his neck carved to the spine while he traded blows with a nearby spearman, while the marauder to the beastman’s left collapsed with the point of the highborn’s left-hand sword buried in his kidney. The warrior on the ladder leapt to take their place, but Malus was ready for him. He rushed in as the barbarian jumped, effectively moving in beneath the hulking warrior and stabbing upwards into the man’s unprotected belly. The barbarian screamed, bringing his axe down on the highborn’s back, but his enchanted plates turned aside the powerful blow. Gritting his teeth, Malus staggered beneath the weight of the dying warrior, but he summoned up his hate and pushed forwards with all his might, unloading the limp form onto the next man scrambling up the ladder.
Taken by surprise, both marauders plummeted, screaming, to the ground.
The next warrior up the ladder never reached the top before a crossbow bolt buried itself in the side of his head. For the space of a few seconds the defenders had some precious breathing room. “Close up ranks!” Malus shouted. He pointed to the limp form of the mortally wounded druchii. “Someone drag him out of the way. Quickly now!”
A quick check of the other ladder showed that the druchii there had things well in hand; so far none of the attackers had even reached the battlements before dying underneath the defenders’ blades.
More spearmen rushed over to surround the ladder next to Malus. Breathing heavily, the highborn stepped back to let the fresh warriors take their turn. He rubbed a gauntleted hand across his mouth, inadvertently smearing his lips with a foeman’s blood. Mother of Night, I could use a drink, he thought.
Just then he heard a shrill note sounding from the redoubt to his right. He frowned, trying to puzzle out his meaning—then he heard the guttural roars and agonized screams
coming from the next wall over. Spitting a blasphemous curse, Malus turned and ran for the redoubt’s iron door, just a few yards to his right. He pounded on the portal with the hilt of his sword shouting imprecations to the druchii on the other side. Within moments the bolts were drawn back and the heavy door opened to admit him.
The highborn brushed past the sentry at the door and ran down the long, narrow passageway that connected to the next wall over. Shouts and commands echoed up and down the corridor from the crossbow and bolt thrower teams firing from inside the fortification, calling out targets and shouting for more ammunition. He passed barrels of water that held long, heavy bolts tipped with glass orbs that glowed a baleful green: they were dangerous and volatile dragonsfire bolts, held in reserve in case the enemy horde sent giants or other huge creatures against the walls.
The passage ran on for almost fifty yards, then angled sharply right. Another fifty yards later and the highborn reached another iron door, watched over by a pair of nervous sentries. Hands and sword hilts were pounding frantically on the other side of the door. The sentries saw Malus coming and snapped to attention. “The enemy has reached the wall,” one of the warriors began.
“I heard the horn,” Malus snapped. “Open the door and let me through.”
The two men hesitated—then saw the fearsome look on the highborn’s face. As one, the warriors turned to the door and drew back the heavy bolts.
Almost at once there were panicked warriors pushing the door open from the outside. Snarling with rage, Malus drew the iron portal open and roared at the men on the other side. “Stand to, you worthless dogs!” he said, blocking the doorway with his bloodstained form.
The white-faced spearmen recoiled at the wrathful figure standing before them, and Malus quickly stepped into the space they vacated. Behind him the iron door slammed shut again and the bolts shot home. “Where do you bastards think you’re going?” the highborn raged. “You’re here to defend this wall or die in the attempt. Those were the orders the Witch King gave you!”
But Malus saw at once that the situation was very grave indeed. The battlements near the redoubt were littered with dead and dying spearmen, and marauders were pouring over the battlements. There were fifty spearmen between Malus and the raging battle, all crammed tightly against the side of the redoubt. As far as he could tell the enemy was also pushing hard in the other direction, trying to reach one of the ramps that led down into the city proper. If that happened there might well be no stopping them.
There was a ramp just to Malus’ right, and the marauders were fighting hard to reach it. Only the sheer press of the panicked spearmen were holding them momentarily at bay. “Move forward, damn your eyes!” the highborn commanded. “There’s no safety back here! If the foemen don’t kill you I surely will!”
The men wavered, weighing their options. One look at Malus showed that the highborn was deadly serious and perfectly capable of carrying out his threat. One of the spearmen, a senior warrior, exclaimed “Our commander is dead, highborn, and we don’t have enough soldiers to drive the enemy back!”
Malus considered calling for reinforcements from the redoubt, but quickly cast the notion aside. Jostling a pair of spearmen aside, he checked the avenue at the base of the ramp and saw no less than two hundred druchii poring through the piled bodies at the base of the wall. “Who are they?” he demanded, pointing at the corpse-handlers with his sword.
The exasperated trooper glanced down at the druchii band. Despite his panic, his lip curled in distaste. “Mercenaries,” he replied. “Harbour scum hired by the drachau of Clar Karond. Captain Thurlayr refused to have them on the wall. Said gulls like them were only fit for picking over the dead.”
Malus shook his head in disbelief. “That kind of thinking is what got Thurlayr killed, soldier,” he snapped. He grabbed the front of the trooper’s mail shirt and pulled him close. What’s your name?”
The warrior looked into the highborn’s black eyes and went pale. “Euthen, my lord.”
“Well, now you’re Captain Euthen,” Malus hissed. “Take charge of these fools and get them back in the battle by the time I return or I’m throwing you off the wall myself. Do you understand?”
“Y… yes sir. Clear sir.”
“Then get to it, Captain,” Malus shouted, pushing the man away. Without waiting for a reply he shoved past another spearman and raced down the long ramp towards the mercenaries.
The harbour rats had the look of corsairs, from what Malus could see at a distance. Tattered robes of different hues, lightweight kheitans and blackened mail were common, and the warriors carried a wild assortment of weapons, including a profusion of daggers and looted throwing axes. Approximately half the mercenaries were poring over the bodies at the base of the wall, stripping them not only of weapons and armour but valuables as well. As he watched, one of the druchii took a dagger to the ring finger of a druchii officer, popping the digit loose with a practiced motion—and then losing it among the pile of corpses beneath him. The rest of the mercenaries sat on the paving stones of the avenue and played at dice or dragon’s teeth, seemingly oblivious to the desperate battle being waged on the battlements above.
“Form up!” Malus shouted at the cutthroats. “The enemy is on the battlements, and it’s time you earned your keep!”
The corsairs looked up at the distant figure of the highborn as though he were speaking in a foreign tongue. The looter who’d been groping among the corpses for the officer’s severed finger frowned up at Malus. “We’re not allowed,” he shouted back in a bemused voice. This one here—” he pointed at the officer’s corpse— “said we weren’t fit to stand ’mongst real soldiers.”
“Besides,” chuckled a female, scooping up her dice, “it’s a good deal safer down here.”
“It won’t be for long once the enemy reaches the ramps!” Malus snapped. “And you can’t spend your ill-gotten coin if you’re hanging from some beastman’s banner-pole! Now get off your arses and get up here!”
The cutthroats looked to one another, considering their options. Malus didn’t wait for them to reply -arguing with them would only weaken his already shaky authority, so it was better to act as though he expected them to obey. He turned and ran back up the ramp, and within moments was gratified to hear someone down below start barking orders in a surprisingly professional tone. At least someone down there knows what he’s doing, Malus thought.
On the battlements, things looked grim indeed. The Chaos foothold was already more than fifteen yards wide and expanding steadily. Euthen had managed to bully the panicked spearmen back into the fight, but their numbers were too few to accomplish much more than keeping the enemy away from the near ramp.
Malus shoved his way into the crowd. “Form a wedge!” he shouted, elbowing cursing spearmen into a rough semblance of the formation. “Wider! All the way to the edges of the parapet!”
Trusting that the soldiers would follow his command, the highborn worked his way to where the tip of the wedge would begin. He found Euthen the erstwhile captain there, fighting valiantly against a leering Chaos marauder wielding twin axes in his knotty hands. As Malus approached, he watched the marauder carefully, looking for a sign that he was about to strike. Euthen lunged in, attempting a half-hearted swipe at the marauder’s leg, and the barbarian tore into the spearman with a terrible howl, hacking into the druchii’s left shoulder with one axe while the other sent the captain’s short sword spinning off the edge of the parapet. But while the warrior was savaging the hapless Euthen, Malus rushed in and stabbed the barbarian cleanly through the heart.
The warrior sank to the stones with a curse on his lips. Meanwhile, Malus took the injured Euthen by the collar and gave him a gentle shove in the direction of the ramp. “Warriors of Clar Karond!” he cried, raising his sword. “Form wedge on me!”
No sooner had he said this than a red-haired barbarian rushed at Malus with a savage yell, his greatsword swinging in a wide arc for the highborn’s head. Malus saw the
move and hissed disdainfully, ducking and stepping into the stroke so that the wild blow passed harmlessly overhead, then stabbing the warrior in the groin with both of his blades. The man fell with a terrible scream, and Malus quickly stepped past him, deeper into the press of foes. “Advance!” he ordered.
Miraculously, the spearmen did. Now Malus had foes on three sides, but the men to the left and right aimed their blows at the soldiers in front of them. The warrior before Malus snarled and chopped at him with his axe; the highborn blocked the blow with his left-hand sword and then slashed open the thigh of the warrior to his right. The injured marauder faltered and the spearman in front of him finished the man with a thrust to the neck. When the axe-wielding barbarian attacked again, Malus blocked with his right-hand sword and stabbed his other blade into the marauder on the left. Then he devoted his sole attention to the warrior in front of him, trapping the warrior’s axe with a sweep of his left sword and stabbing the marauder in the eye with the blade in his right.
And so the slaughter began. Coldly, methodically, the druchii began to reduce the Chaos foothold. Malus knew that if they could at least fight their way to the enemy ladders then they could cut off their foes’ reinforcements, then eventually sheer numbers would eliminate the rest of the marauders that had made it to the walls.
Working together the spearmen made steady progress. Soldiers were struck down to either side of the highborn, only to be replaced by the next spearmen in line. After almost ten yards there were no spearmen left, but Malus saw that the corpse-pickers had taken their place. The mercenaries were clearly in their element in this style of fighting, accustomed as they were to the tight quarters and close sword-work of boarding actions aboard ship. They struck down barbarians with underhanded cuts to their legs, or knives flung into their throats. Sometimes Malus would strike at a man to his flank and then look back to see the foe in front of him collapsing with a throwing axe buried in his skull.