He fought his way along twenty yards of blood-soaked parapet, felling everything that rose before him. The battle seemed go on for hours, until the slaughter became a kind of terrible dance. Malus heard the furious shouts of the warriors behind him as they followed in his wake, and howled like a wolf loose amid the sheep. For the first time since the march on Hag Graef, many months past, he felt truly alive.
When he reached the far end of the wall it took the highborn by surprise. A pair of headless revenants slumped to the paving stones and his blades struck sparks against the wall of the far redoubt just behind them. More of the undead were trying to force their way onto the parapet, but now a solid knot of druchii spearmen at Malus’ back had reached the top of the ramp and were hacking at the monsters with murderous efficiency. The highborn fetched up against the wall of the redoubt and tried to shake off the battle-madness as best he could.
Just then there was a crackling whoosh, and a sheet of green flame shot skyward along the back of the inner wall. Cheers went up among the druchii as the dragon’s breath ignited among the shambling horde. Malus turned and saw Anuric staggering towards him, a look of weary relief plain on the young druchii’s face. The spearman raised his hand in salute, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed face-first onto the parapet. A pair of marauder throwing axes jutted from the spearman’s back.
Beyond the spearman’s prone form the druchii line was a seething mass of fierce battles as waves of Chaos warriors poured over the battlements and leapt at the defenders. The druchii were holding on by their teeth, but there seemed to be no end to the furious assault.
Leaving the spearmen to hold the ramp, Malus advanced on the wavering line. As he passed Anuric’s body he paused, then after a moment’s consideration he knelt and rolled the young druchii’s body off the edge of the wall, giving him over to the ravening flames as befitted a son of Naggaroth. Then he opened himself once more to the battle-madness and leapt howling into the fray.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE BLOOD OF HEROES
There seemed no end to the killing.
As the corrupting rain fell and the wind howled its fury Malus stalked like a mountain cat along the length of the embattled druchii line, falling like a thunderbolt on the Chaos attackers and then passing on to the next desperate battle, leaving hewn limbs and twitching bodies in his wake. Always he struck the enemy from an unexpected angle, sliding a quick thrust into an unsuspecting warrior’s ribs or slicing his hamstrings as he focused on the druchii in front of him. His deadly efforts had nothing to do with honour or glory; it was cold, calculated slaughter, repeated again and again all along the length of the blood-soaked wall.
The druchii fought back like the cornered animals they were. With the seething green fires raging at their backs, the spearmen knew there was nowhere to run, and so the harder they were pressed the more vicious they became. Marauders and beastmen were seized and thrown bodily into the hungry flames that raged along the ramp, or set upon from every angle like a deer beset by a pack of wolves. The druchii fought on despite grievous wounds, falling only after the last of their blood had been spilled onto the paving stones. It was as if Malus’ battle-madness had infected them as well, and little by little the tide began to turn back in their favour. The knots of struggling Chaos warriors dwindled, driven further and further back towards their rain-slick ladders, then before long the defenders were standing at the ladders themselves and raining blows down on the heads of anyone who tried to scale them.
Malus could not say how long they fought. The storm raged on and on, showing no signs of slacking, and time lost all meaning, measured in lunatic flashes of green light. Again and again he caught himself searching among the struggling warriors, looking for a glimpse of Lhunara. Strangely, Nagaira’s champion made no appearance during the desperate battle.
When the final wave broke against the battlements he was back at the far end of the line beside the gatehouse, standing behind a trio of roaring, blood-drenched spearmen who were crouched like snakes beneath the battlements opposite the last of the scaling ladders. For a long time they’d lurked there and ambushed each warrior that had come over the wall, stabbing upwards into the man’s legs, belly and groin and then throwing the screaming victim into the fire. They had slain so many men this way that it had become a kind of routine, and so when a massive, bull-headed beastman came roaring up out of the darkness the spearmen were caught completely off-guard.
With a furious bellow the minotaur leapt over the battlements in a single bound, landing amongst the startled spearmen and laying about with a pair of enormous hand axes. One druchii was cleft in twain from shoulder to hip with a single blow; another took a splintering blow to the chest that hurled her broken body end-for-end over the inner side of the wall. The third druchii, still consumed with bloodlust, leapt at the towering beast with a fierce shout, burying his stabbing sword in the minotaur’s side. But the blade penetrated barely a finger length in the monster’s thick hide, and the minotaur struck the spearman a desultory blow with the back of one axe that tore the druchii’s head from his body. Malus bared his teeth at the monster before him and rushed in with both swords flashing.
His first stroke slashed across the monster’s enormous, muscular thigh, drawing a pained roar and the whistling stroke of a bloodstained axe. Malus tried to twist out of the way of the blow, but the weapon still caught the trailing edge of his right pauldron and the impact hurled him back against the gatehouse wall as though he’d been kicked by a nauglir. The impact knocked the breath out of him and his head struck the stones with a resounding crack that left him momentarily blind. His hearing, however, worked just fine, and he could hear the minotaur’s furious bellow as it rounded on Malus and moved in to finish the highborn off.
Acting on pure instinct, Malus threw himself forward, rolling between the minotaur’s legs as the beast’s twin axes carved furrows in the gatehouse’s stone wall. Still blinking stars from his eyes, the highborn rose to his feet and slashed his swords across the cable-like tendons behind the minotaur’s knees. The crippled beast collapsed with an agonized roar, and Malus brought his swords down in a scissor-like motion that sliced open both sides of the creature’s thick neck almost to the spine. Red blood sprayed in steaming arcs across the stone wall of the gatehouse, and Malus spun on his heel in search of more foes.
And that was his mistake. He’d finished with the minotaur, but the minotaur wasn’t finished with him.
The highborn heard a furious bellow at his back, then a tremendous impact smashed into his left shoulder and hurled him to the paving stones. Fiery pain spread in a red wave down the left side of his back, but Malus had little time to appreciate the extent of his injury. Still roaring, the minotaur launched itself at Malus, half-leaping, half-dragging its huge bulk after him.
Cursing in pain, Malus rolled onto his back as the bull-headed monstrosity loomed over him. A heavy axe smashed into his breastplate; Malus cried out as ribs cracked beneath the ensorcelled steel, but the axe-head glanced aside from the curved plate. The minotaur drew back its weapon for another strike, but Malus lashed out like a viper, severing the creature’s hand with a deft stroke of his right-hand blade. Roaring maddened by blood loss, the monster smashed the jagged stump of its wrist into Malus’ face. Splintered bone gouged the highborn’s cheek and hot blood poured thickly into his eyes.
Screaming in rage, Malus lashed out blindly with his sword and connected with something as resilient as a young sapling. He struck again and sheared through -and the minotaur’s head fell free, smashing the highborn in the face.
Then the heavy body, still spurting blood, collapsed on top of him.
Hot liquid flowed over the highborn’s face and neck, filling his nostrils and pouring into his gasping mouth. I’m going to drown on a castle parapet in the middle of a plain of ash, he thought wildly. Coughing and sputtering, he tried to push the minotaur’s heavy body aside, but the dead weight refused to budge.
&nb
sp; After what felt like hours, the flood of gore tapered away. Dimly, Malus heard pounding foot steps and muffled shouts. The body of the minotaur shifted slightly, then suddenly rolled free. Cold rain lashed at the highborn’s face—not the foetid corpse-rain of before, but honest, clean water. Malus gaped like a fish, greedily drinking it in. He rubbed thick ooze out of his eyes and blinked at the stormy sky. Green lightning still raged overhead, but the darkness had thinned somewhat, paling to an iron-grey.
Hands pulled at the highborn’s arms. Silhouettes crowded at the corners of his vision. Lightning flashed, and he made out the thin, worried face of Ten-thumbs and Hauclir’s cynical grin. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute without you getting into some kind of mischief, can I, my lord?” the former guard captain said.
Malus flopped about in their arms like a drunkard, wincing in pain no matter which way he turned. “Perhaps if you’d actually been here for the battle this might not have been necessary,” the highborn snarled.
“Well, we’d have been here sooner—mind the leg, my lord!—but some fool set fire to the ramp.”
Malus found himself on his knees, using Hauclir like a ladder to haul himself upright. A black handprint stood out prominently on his bandaged thigh. Peering past Hauclir’s shoulder, Malus saw the spearmen rolling the last of the enemy dead off the forward edge of the battlements. The dragon’s breath had finally exhausted itself, having run out of fuel to burn. The survivors of the spear regiment staggered about in a weary daze, their bloodstained faces slack with shock and exhaustion. Malus was stunned at how few of them were left. He counted less than three score where just a short while ago there had been almost a thousand.
No one cheered. There were no celebrations of victory. The few survivors were glad enough to still be alive. That was all the glory that mattered to them.
Malus pushed himself away from his former retainer. Already the pain was subsiding, and an icy knot in the side of his chest spoke of the daemon’s power knitting his broken bones back together. He looked about at the dozen cutthroats that had followed Hauclir back from the citadel. Cutter and Pockets were busy looting the enemy dead; the wounded assassin had a bloodstained bandage plastered to his shoulder and was busy pointing out places for Pockets to search. Ten-thumbs was chasing a bouncing gold earring along the parapet, his young face a mask of exasperated determination.
Malus shook his head wearily. “Did Nuarc make it back to the citadel?”
Hauclir nodded. “We got out just before those damned revenants started to stir and made damned good time getting back to the tower,” he said. “Getting back here was a different story. There are packs of those revenants all over the inner compound now.”
“Did we hold the rest of the wall?”
The former guard captain nodded. “Khaine alone knows how, but we did. For now, at least.”
Malus frowned. “What’s that mean?”
Hauclir looked back over his shoulder at the exhausted troops, then nodded his head at the gatehouse. “Let’s talk inside,” he said quietly.
A sense of foreboding crept over the highborn. Nodding wordlessly, he led the cutthroats into the gatehouse. Out of the rain, however, the stink of spilt blood and the oily residue of Nagaira’s sorcerous rain rose like a cloud around the highborn, half-choking him. “Upstairs,” he gasped. “We’ll talk on the roof.”
They found the spiral staircase leading to the top of the gatehouse and emerged once again into the howling wind and rain. Cloaked druchii huddled together around the four large bolt throwers mounted along the battlements, paying little heed to the small band of warriors at the far end of the broad, flat space.
Malus pulled off his armoured gauntlets and tried to clean them in a large puddle of rainwater. “All right, what’s going on?” he said quietly.
Hauclir knelt beside the highborn. “Nuarc ordered me to remain once we’d reached the citadel in case he needed to relay any messages back to you. He was in talking to the Witch King for quite a while, and when he came out he wasn’t alone. Your half-brother left first, looking like he’d been made to swallow a live coal, and then came a whole flock of messengers. Nuarc came out last of all, and had some interesting news.”
Malus splashed water on his face and rubbed it through his matted hair. “Well, what did he say?”
“He said that the Witch King is getting ready to make his move,” Hauclir replied. “Malekith is pulling the best regiments from the inner wall and bringing them inside the citadel even as we speak, as well as all the nauglir from the pens.”
Malus thought the news over. “So we’re letting the Chaos horde take the inner wall?”
Hauclir shrugged. “At this point I’m not certain we could stop them if we wanted to. The Witch King’s leaving behind enough of a rearguard to slow down the next assault, but no more.”
All at once Malus felt wearier than he’d ever felt in his life. He glanced down at the layers of blood and ichor coating the scarred surface of his armour and shook his head in frustration. “And what does Nuarc and the Witch King ask of me?”
“Well, that’s the interesting thing,” Hauclir replied. “I’m to return you to the citadel at once.”
Malus frowned. “And did Nuarc say why?”
“Not in so many words,” the former guard captain said. “All Nuarc told me was that he thought Isilvar had failed the Witch King’s test… and that put you in an interesting position.”
The highborn let Nuarc’s words sink in for a moment. “Are… are you telling me that Nuarc thinks the Witch King is going to name me Vaulkhar of Hag Graef over Isilvar?”
“Frankly I have no idea what I’m telling you,” Hauclir replied. “Nothing you highborn do makes any sense to me. I’m just relating to you what Nuarc said.”
Malus nodded to himself. Would Malekith do such a thing? Why not? He’d already made Malus his champion—was it so far a leap to hand him the rank of vaulkhar? The thought of it quickened his pulse. How sweet a victory that would be: to humble Isilvar before the assembled lords and see him humiliated in the court of Hag Graef!
Only Tz’arkan stood in his way. The highborn’s hands clenched into fists. Was there a way to claim his due from Malekith and still ride into the north to put an end to the daemon’s infernal curse?
Perhaps, he thought. If he saw to it that the siege was broken and Nagaira destroyed.
Malus said, rising swiftly to his feet. “I’ll go straightaway to the citadel, but I want you and your warriors to get to the nauglir pens and make certain that Spite is brought into the tower.”
Hauclir chuckled. “I’m sure the beast can take care of itself, my lord.”
“It’s not Spite I’m worried about so much as the gear on its back,” the highborn said. There are… relics amid my saddlebags that must not fall into Nagaira’s hands. Do you understand?”
The former guard captain gave Malus a searching look. “Yes, my lord,” he said carefully. “I understand clearly.”
“Then get moving. I don’t want to keep Nuarc waiting.”
But just as the highborn and his cutthroats headed for the gatehouse stairs the air reverberated with the sullen rumble of drums.
The sound came from the broad square at the edge of the outer city. Malus hesitated, torn between a desire for haste and the need to know what the enemy was up to. Finally he turned and shouldered his way through the mercenaries, cursing under his breath as he strode swiftly to the gatehouse battlements.
His keen eyes saw a throng of bare-chested beast-men filling the square, their chests and arms painted in blood. They brandished bloody axes and bundles of severed druchii heads, still streaming trails of fresh gore. Malus could just make out the sound of a guttural chant weaving in and out of the rhythm of the great drums.
Behind the beastmen came a long line of stumbling, naked figures, spurred on by the barbed lashes of a dozen marauder overseers. Each of the druchii prisoners had suffered brutal tortures at the hands of their captors, their bodies mar
ked with crude strokes of knife and iron.
Hauclir joined Malus’ side and sneered disdainfully at the procession. “If they think to break our will with a little torture they’ve come to the wrong place.”
“No,” Malus said warily. This is something else.”
The prisoners were herded into groups of eight and made to kneel at specific points in a rough circle at the centre of the square. Then came a band of beastmen wearing brass tokens and necklaces of skulls, each carrying a wide brass bowl and a longhaired brush. Filling the air with savage yells and barking cries, the beastmen dipped their brushes in the gleaming bowls and began to trace a complicated symbol across the stones of the square.
As they worked, Malus saw a figure clad in a dark robe and gleaming armour plate approach the edge of the square. It was no beastman or hulking marauder; Malus recognized the commanding stride of his half-sister at once.
He turned to the druchii gunners nearby. “Can you hit those bastards from here?”
One of the warriors shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“What if you used dragon’s breath?”
The gunner let out a disgusted snort. “We’re out. Some damned officer came and took them all during that last attack.”
Nagaira walked gracefully into the centre of the expanding sigil, accompanied by a pair of hulking minotaurs who carried another druchii prisoner between them. The wretched figure had suffered the attentions of Nagaira’s torturers far more than any of the other prisoners. His pale skin was covered with deep scars or fresh brands that stretched over almost every inch of his exposed skin, and his arms were bound in chains of brass. The prisoner’s head rose at the sound of the drums, and even from so great a distance Malus recognized the druchii’s face.