Finally they’d cut off all of the enemy ladders and had cut the marauders down to less than a dozen warriors -and that was when things became truly dangerous. The surviving marauders realised they were trapped, and as one they decided to take as many of their hated foes with them as they could.
A warrior came screaming at Malus with a bloodstained sword in his right hand and a battered shield in his left. Eyes wild and foam flying from the corners of his mouth, he unleashed a flurry of blows that the highborn had to devote all his energy to deflect. He tried to knock the man off his stride with a lightning stroke to his eyes, but the marauder simply caught the blow on the edge of his shield and barrelled on, hammering away at Malus’ guard.
So intent was the highborn on this frenzied warrior that he failed to notice when the man on his left slipped in a pool of blood and went to one knee. His opponent crowed in triumph and brought down his heavy warhammer—against the side of Malus’ head.
The shock was all-powerful. One moment Malus was locked in a deadly battle with the man in front of him and the next he was hurtling to the ground. He bounced off the paving stones face-first, his brain unable to grasp how he’d got there.
There was a roaring in his ears, like a raging surf that ebbed and flowed just above his head. Everything blurred; the only thing he felt with perfect clarity was a thin trickle of ichor leaking down his cheek.
I’m bleeding, he thought stupidly, and realised that he was likely about to die.
But instead of seeing a sword or hammer descend on his skull, he saw a druchii boot heel come down just inches from his face. The roaring continued, and the boot moved on, to be replaced by another.
He lay there watching boots stamp and slide past him for what seemed like a very long time, and it wasn’t until the roaring in his ears tapered away that he realised he hadn’t been killed after all.
The next thing he knew there were rough hands pulling at him, trying to roll him over. “That was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, if you don’t mind me saying so, captain,” said a voice. “Reminds me of this damn-fool highborn I used to know—”
The hands rolled him over, and Malus found himself looking up into a dark-eyed, grinning face. He recognized the scarred features at once, and let out a bemused grunt.
“There you are, Hauclir, you damned rogue,” he said. “Where is that wine I asked for?” And with that the world went utterly dark.
Chapter Sixteen
DAEMONS AND CUTTHROATS
Cold water splashed Malus in the face. He came to, sputtering and coughing, propped up against the hard stone of the battlements. Pools of blood and body parts littered the paving stones around him.
A figure knelt in front of the highborn, holding an upended water bottle. “Sorry to wake you, my lord,” Hauclir said calmly, “but it looks like we’re about to be attacked again, so I don’t have the luxury of allowing you to sleep off that little knock you got on the head. You and I have a bit of talking to do while we’re both still able to do it.”
Malus tried to rub the water out of his rheumy eyes. When his vision returned, he found Hauclir to be studying him intently, paying especial attention to his face and neck. The former guard captain was dressed much like the rest of the mercenaries, though the cut of his robes were finer and better kept, and his kheitan was thick, sturdy dwarf-hide. He wore his customary mail hauberk, and his short sword sat in its oiled scabbard. A long, knotted oak cudgel dangled loosely from his right hand.
The highborn shook his head bemusedly. “I thought I was dreaming,” he muttered thickly. With tentative fingers he reached up and prodded at the side of his head.
“I had much the same reaction,” Hauclir said dryly His lips twisted in a sarcastic grin, but his dark eyes were cold and hard. “Now, I’m not going to ask how you somehow went from a closely-hunted outlaw to the Witch King’s personal champion; I’ve seen the way your damned mind works, and nothing you do surprises me any more. Instead, I want you to tell me, in very compelling detail, why you saw fit to betray each and every man in your service after we left you at Karond Kar.”
Malus’ own expression hardened. His former retainer’s impertinent tone caused the highborn to bristle. “You were my damned vassal!” he snapped. “Your life was mine to use as I pleased! I owe you no explanation.”
But Hauclir was far from cowed by the highborn’s imperious tone. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his scarred, angular face. “Look around you, my lord. Do you fancy you’re reclining in your high tower back at the Hag? No. You’re sitting on a battlefield, surrounded by blood and spilled guts, and the nearest nobleman for two miles is lying at the bottom of the wall with the rest of the rubbish. Right at the moment I own this part of the fortress wall, so you’re going to play things by my rules. So let’s hear your story, my lord, and it better be a good one, or else I’ll chuck you over this damned wall myself.”
The former retainer’s tone was light, even cheerful, but Malus looked in his eyes and saw the anger burning there. He had absolutely no doubt that Hauclir meant every word he said. So he shrugged, and told the former guardsman everything.
Or at least he tried to. He hadn’t got much past receiving Tz’arkan’s curse when the next wave of attackers came howling at the walls. Malus was forced to wait while Hauclir and his men drove off the assault. His weapons had been taken from him, and he wasn’t sure he could stand up yet, anyway.
They were interrupted twice more by enemy assaults before Malus finally got Hauclir to the moment their paths crossed once again. The former retainer sat wearily against the battlements beside Malus, picking dried bits of blood from his haggard face. For a long time he didn’t speak at all. “So. A daemon, you say?”
Malus nodded. “A daemon.”
Hauclir grunted. “Well, that explains your eyes. And the fact that your head wasn’t splattered across the flagstones by that damned hammer.”
The highborn sighed. “I don’t deny there are certain advantages to the situation.”
“And you had no idea it was your father who was at Vaelgor Keep?” the former guardsman asked. “Who else did you think it could be?”
“It could have been anyone, Hauclir. Lurhan wasn’t flying his banner outside the keep, after all. At the time it made more sense that it was Isilvar, working in conjunction with my sister.”
Hauclir grudgingly nodded. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.” He looked sidelong at his former master. “But you realise that now I have an even more compelling reason to throw you over the wall.”
Malus spread his hands. “You wanted the truth, Hauclir. Can I have my swords back now?”
“Certainly not. You’re a damned daemonhost!”
“For the Dark Mother’s sake, Hauclir!” Malus snapped. “I had a daemon inside me from the moment I returned from the north. Did I ever once try to kill you? No. In fact, I made you a very rich man.”
“Before you broke one of the cardinal laws of the land and I had it all stripped away from me.”
The highborn folded his arms tightly about his chest. “Shall I beg your pardon, then? What do you want from me, Hauclir? I did what I had to do. Do you think you could have done any better in my place?”
“Gods Below, my lord. I have no idea,” the former guardsman said. He sighed. To be honest, it didn’t hit me as hard as some of the others. Your man Silar took it the worst, him and Arleth Vann. Dolthaic, he was just angry about losing all the gold.”
Malus nodded thoughtfully. “Arleth Vann thought that all of you had gone to sea after the battle outside Hag Graef.”
The former retainer shrugged. “That was Silar and Dolthaic’s idea. I just followed along. Couldn’t stay in Hag Graef any more, so why not? The two of them put to sea a day after we got there. Looked up the master of the Shadowblade; Dolthaic said he knew the captain from a raiding cruise the summer before. They asked if I wanted to go, but I’ve seen all the ocean I ever want to see. So, I stayed on around the dockyards, picking up the odd wo
rk here and there. And then I fell in with these rats,” he said, indicating the mercenaries sitting a discreet distance away. “We were shaking down bridge travellers for tolls when Malekith’s call to arms reached the city. The drachau scooped a lot of the gangs up after that. I’m sure he hopes none of us survive to go back and dirty up his precious city.”
Malus nodded. He reached down and picked up his dented helmet. “So, it appears I owe you my life.”
“Again.”
The highborn grinned. “Yes. Again.”
“You don’t expect me to serve you again, do you?” Hauclir asked. “I’m not your man any more, my lord. Not after all that’s happened.”
Malus shook his head. “I’m still technically an outlaw, despite all the finery. I couldn’t hold you to your oath if I wanted to.”
“But you still need my help,” Hauclir said.
“Do I?”
“Oh, yes, my lord, you do. And you damned well know it.”
The highborn spread his hands. “Nothing escapes you, it seems. All right. Name your price.”
Hauclir made a show of thinking things over. “That Chaos champion has the amulet you need, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And your sister’s tent was chock full of loot, correct?”
“Before I burnt it to the ground, yes.”
The former guardsman nodded. “Well, I expect your path is going to take you back into her vicinity before all is said and done,” he said thoughtfully. “Me and mine get all the loot we can carry, and we’re yours for the asking.”
The highborn looked at Hauclir bemusedly. “You’re a fool. You realise that, I trust?”
“So my mother told me,” he answered. “Do we have a deal, or not?”
Malus nodded. “Done.”
“All right then,” Hauclir said, rising to his feet. “I’ll go and explain things to the troops.”
The highborn watched his former retainer go, shaking his head in amazement. For the life of him, he couldn’t be certain who was getting the better end of the deal, but all of a sudden he felt much better about his chances of getting the amulet and getting out of the Black Tower alive.
Sometime later Hauclir remembered to return Malus his swords. The rubies in both pommels had been carefully pried away.
It was not long after the twelfth assault that the roiling darkness suddenly receded, leaving the fortress’ defenders blinking wearily in the pale light of early morning. Cheers went up from within the city, as the soldiers took the sunlight as a sign the siege had been lifted, but the exhausted warriors holding the battlements saw the enemy encampment for the first time and knew that their ordeal was perhaps only just beginning.
The Chaos horde was camped in a broad band that completely surrounded the fortress city. Cook fires by the hundreds sent thin tendrils of smoke into the sky, and herds of northern horses mingled in great corrals around the camp’s circular perimeter. The dusty ground seethed with motion, the dark figures moving about on their errands like a multitude of ravening ants. Malus looked out over the part of the encampment opposite his part of the wall and shook his head in awe. Was there no end to the damned beasts?
If he stood at the far left end of the wall and leaned out far enough to see past the rightward redoubt he could glimpse a pavilion of indigo-dyed tents, just like the ones he’d burned a few days ago. There was a strange distortion in the air above and around the tent, similar to the haze of hot air over a forge. That was where Nagaira and her champion would be found.
His eyes ached and his stomach rumbled, and he hadn’t been clean since the Dark Mother alone knew when. Most of the mercenaries were sound asleep, stretched out on the filthy paving stones with their weapons across their chests. Over the last two days he’d got to know many of the sell-swords in the company. None of them had names; only nicknames, to make it harder for the city watch or anyone else to track them down using sorcery. He met a professional killer named Cutter, an unlucky cutpurse named Ten-thumbs, a gambler named Pockets and too many others to count. The highborn learned at length that Hauclir’s nickname was Knock-knock, which privately amused Malus.
There were nearly a hundred of the cutthroats to begin with, but after throwing back no less than seven attacks their numbers had dwindled to sixty-five. Almost half that number was wounded to a greater or lesser degree; supposedly there were aid stations and orderlies to patrol the walls and remove injured soldiers, but they’d seen nothing like that since taking charge of their stretch of wall. They had long since run out of bolts for their crossbows as well. Malus had tried to use his authority to get more from the closest redoubt, but the captain in charge had flatly refused, claiming that only Lord Myrchas could authorise such a transfer. The highborn hadn’t pursued the matter further. The less he had to deal with that den of snakes in the citadel the better.
He did send some of his more talented foragers into the city in search of food and drink, once it became clear that no one was going to send them anything to eat. In this, the mercenaries were singularly successful, returning to the wall with roast fowl, boiled eggs, fresh bread and cheese and several bottles of decent wine.
Malus didn’t ask any questions, and the foragers were happy to not give any answers.
Three hours into the morning, Malus was sipping from one such bottle when the iron door of the far redoubt swung open and a ramrod-straight figure in gleaming armour strode into the sunlight. Nuarc made his way slowly but purposefully down the length of the wall, eyeing the snoring mercenaries with a look that was somewhere between outrage and bemusement. The few cutthroats still awake returned the general’s gaze with the flat stare of hungry wolves.
When the general reached Malus’ reclining form his expression of shock only deepened. “By the Dark Mother!” he exclaimed. “We were starting to think you’d been killed. No one’s seen you at your apartments for days.” Nuarc jerked his head in the direction of the mercenaries. “What in the Blessed Murderer’s name are you doing with this rabble?” he asked. Then his face turned deadly serious and he leaned close to the highborn. They aren’t holding you for some sort of ransom, are they?”
The notion gave Malus the first real laugh he’d had in a very long time. “No, my lord. They know very well that I’m not worth the trouble.” He cocked his head at the general. “Out for a stroll in the sunshine, general?”
Nuarc glowered at the grinning highborn. “Out to see what the enemy is up to, and to check on things along the wall,” he said darkly. “And to get away from those caterwauling fools back at the citadel, truth be told.”
Malus held up the pilfered bottle. “Can I interest you in some wine, general?” Much to the highborn’s surprise, Nuarc accepted the offer and took a deep draught before handing it back. The gesture sobered Malus at once.
“How bad is our situation, my lord?”
On reflex, the general glanced at the mercenaries some feet away to make certain they were out of likely earshot. “Things could be better,” he admitted. “We’ve held the walls for almost three days now, but the regiments have taken a bad beating. The hardest hit units have been rotated off the walls, but our reserves are being stretched thin.”
“Rotated?” Malus exclaimed. “We’ve been up here for two days! No one’s brought us food or ammunition, and no one’s sent orderlies for our wounded.”
“That’s because no one knows you’re here,” the general answered grimly. “None of the mercenary companies are part of the army’s muster list, and no one back at the citadel is capable of thinking past their own damned agendas.”
The thought shocked Malus. “You mean to tell me no one is in command?”
Nuarc shook his head. “Each drachau thinks of nothing but his own honour and prestige. They intrigue against one another constantly, and no one will cooperate towards the city’s defence. They’ve staked out which walls belong to each drachau, and they spare no thought for the others.”
“But… but that’s absurd!” Malus crie
d. “What does the Witch King say about this?”
The general shrugged. “He watches and waits to see which lord will assert himself. It’s his way. But Myrchas is too timid, Isilvar is too inexperienced, Balneth Bale is too weak and Jhedir of Clar Karond is too drunk. About the only consensus Myrchas, Isilvar and Bale have reached is that you have to be put to death at the first available opportunity. Fortunately for you, they can’t decide what manner of execution to use.”
Malus shook his head in stupefied wonder. “What about our reinforcements, then?”
Nuarc took a deep breath. “Any forces from Karond Kar would have a long way to travel, even if they commandeered every available boat and sailed them to the western shore of the Sea of Malice,” he said. They aren’t expected for a week or more. Troops from Har Ganeth, on the other hand, should have been here by now. No one knows what could have caused their delay.”
Malus could venture a guess, but thought it wiser not to say. He took a long draught from the bottle and rolled it around his tongue. “I regret that I cost the army a further ten thousand troops,” he said bitterly.
“Nonsense,” the old general barked. “I might have done the same thing. It was a good plan, but you assumed too much.”
The highborn considered this, and nodded. “All right. What do you think we should do now?”
“Me?” Nuarc replied, a bit surprised at the question. He looked out at the enemy encampment for a moment before replying. “I would pull the army back to the inner wall.”
Malus blinked. “But then we’d be trapped.”
“We’re trapped now, boy,” the general shot back. “The inner wall is higher, and there’s less ground to have to defend. We could rotate units more often and still make the enemy pay a steep price every time they tested us. We’re very well supplied, so Nagaira can’t starve us out, and ultimately time is not on her side. Our warriors at sea are returning home even now, and within a month she would be facing a powerful army of highborn marching up from the south.” The general shrugged. “But no one has asked my thoughts on the matter.”