The Siege of Naggarond

  S P Cawkwell

  Season of Blood, Year 223 of the Age of Vengeance

  The horde snaked its way towards Naggarond, a black and crimson serpent of doom that brought horror, destruction and chaos wherever it went. From his vantage point riding along the cliff, Kruath could see it far below him. In the wake of the army’s advance lay desecration of the highest order, even in so bleak a place as the Land of Chill, shattered buildings, broken bodies and enough blood to sate the thirstiest barbarian for a lifetime.

  Still they marched, their destination and ultimate intention clear. But they were not the only ones making for the seat of druchii power. Alone, Kruath raced ahead of the marauder army to bring warning of what was to come... for what little good it might do. He spurred the horse harder, determined and desperate.

  The horse was a fine animal, a perfect example of the dark steeds of lost Nagarythe, and he could feel the play of powerful muscles beneath its flesh as it galloped towards the south. Kruath had been riding hard for days. Weariness was growing and he had no idea how much longer he and the horse could maintain the pace. Still the need to get home, to bring news of the oncoming storm, kept him going, and the horse served him admirably.

  A fine animal it may have been, the warrior thought morosely, but even a fine animal had limits and the horse’s pace was noticeably slowing. Foam flecked its mouth and it was panting steam into the morning air. They had ridden hard with only necessary pauses to feed and water the animal. Every rest break increased the warrior’s anxiety. There were things that ran and flew ahead of the Chaos army that would not just kill him were they to catch up to him; they would feast on his flesh while he still drew breath. He had to keep riding.

  Patting the creature’s neck as it snorted, the warrior looked south, towards Naggarond. Bleak tundra stretched as far as the eye could see, occasionally broken by shattered spars of black rock and equally black streams and becks. Standing sentinel over the frigid waste, the Iron Mountains stabbed at the clouds like infernal talons. Not so very long ago, Kruath would have been glad to return to the city of his birth. For all its labyrinthine threats and tangled knots of political intrigue, the city was infinitely preferable to the lengthy turn of duty all warriors had to serve on the watchtowers. Like the countless others who thronged through its black veins, the dark elf was fiercely proud of the jewel of Naggaroth. Now, though, the pleasure of returning was soured by the knowledge of what followed in his wake.

  Two more hours brought him within sight of Naggarond, the city’s dark, implacable walls and towers soaring in his vision. Palaces and spires broke the skyline like a needle-toothed smile, and looming over it all, its cyclopean menace oppressive and inescapable, stood the Black Tower of the Witch King. With the exhaustion he felt, the northern gate seemed agonisingly distant, although it could only be a few more miles. Kruath’s determination forced him onwards, even when the horse stumbled.

  He covered the last few miles in a haze, focusing on nothing but his destination. He was within shouting distance of the gate when the horse’s legs finally buckled and it crumpled downwards, pitching Kruath heavily to the ground. The warrior hit the cold earth of his homeland and remained there for a moment, stunned. He regained his senses with the urgency of the moment and left the dying horse thrashing on the ground. He began to run. At the gates, warriors were shouting and several crossbows were trained on him. A phalanx of spearmen barred the passage and, minutes later, Kruath stumbled up to the menacing shield line and fell to his knees.

  He lifted his head, inhaling deeply, struggling to catch his breath. Permanently burning sacrificial fires filled the air with their acrid scent. It was both invigorating and disturbing, but the familiarity of it and the passion that burned beneath it fired the determination in Kruath’s blood once again and he raised his head. Pride surged and his spine straightened. He got to his feet.

  ‘The Tower of Volroth,’ he said, his voice clear and robust, giving no sign of the dramatic ride that had brought him here. ‘It has fallen.’

  ‘The forces of Chaos – barbarians, trolls, beastmen and other twisted things I could not even put names to – struck the tower hard and fast.’ Kruath ran his fingers through his long, dark hair as he relayed what had become of the Tower of Volroth. A steadfast, long-standing rallying point, the tower was a sprawling edifice, a huge structure that housed hundreds of troops when at its capacity. It had stood proudly for decades and had always been a staunch bulwark against the forces of the north. But now...

  ‘We were overwhelmed, my lord. The garrison was devastated in a few short hours. The horde poured in... kept pouring in... in numbers too many to count.’ Kruath stood stock-still, his gaze locked firmly in front of himself whilst Kouran Darkhand, Captain of the Black Guard, walked a slow, considering circle around him.

  ‘Continue,’ said his superior, this single word the first reaction he had made since Kruath had begun to give his report.

  ‘We fought hard and we matched the vile denizens with skill and spite enough to equal their frenzy. But they had the advantage of greater numbers. They came at us from all angles and kept coming.’ Kruath shook his head, more in frustration than shame. ‘They were too many, and we too few. When the gates fell, the defence turned into a rout. There were a few of us who fell back within the curtain wall in an ordered withdrawal, but by then, it was too late.’

  The captain’s pacing ceased and he came to a stop opposite Kruath, returning the other warrior’s gaze.

  ‘You abandoned your post.’ It was a statement rather than a question and Kruath stiffened at the accusation.

  ‘No, my lord, I did not. Four of us were sent to bring news back to Naggarond.’

  ‘Four of you?’

  ‘The others must have fallen along the way.’

  The captain said nothing for a long moment, as if weighing up the worth of Kruath’s words, perhaps mentally determining whether the other messengers had been felled by enemies or by Kruath, and then he resumed his circling.

  ‘Proceed. Tell me of this horde.’

  Kruath took a deep breath and relayed everything he had seen.

  Blood. So much of it. Kruath had witnessed the carnage of battle on countless occasions. He had seen rituals to Khaine which were brutal and bloody as was appropriate and necessary to please the lord of murder. But the mindless violence of the forces who had struck the Tower of Volroth was something different. What they brought with them was carnage for the sake of carnage, violence as its own end. There was no skill or strategy to their method of battle. No grace, no purity. But there was definitely energy and determination. The Chaos warriors simply tore through the ranks of dark elves, driven to acts of horror by their insatiable lust for blood.

  His own captain had been torn apart, limbs ripped from his still-living body by two barbarians who had been quarrelling over the prize and fighting to claim the right to the kill. As the captain had died screaming, his attackers had turned on one another. The brawl ended moments later when the smile of another barbarian’s axe cut through the scrap, biting into the throat of one of the fighters. The head was severed and the other barbarian snatched up the prize and held it aloft, screaming guttural cries to praise the Blood God.

  Such exultation on the faces of the attackers. Kruath knew the holy ecstasy of ritual. There had been one time when he had been so caught up in the passion of the kill that he thought he might lose himself to Khaine’s embrace. But this was something different and something without reason. This was not sacrifice or appeasement. This was slaughter and destruction to feed an appetite that knew no mortal bounds and could never be sated. Even when there were no enemies left.

  They killed and killed and killed again. When they could not reach a foe they tore down tree and stone alike, blighting and burning the world with their touch. When there was nothing left for them to destroy, they destroyed each other, washing themselves in the polluted blood of their own and lofting their skins as banners. It was what had always served to contain them within the north, what controlled their numbers. There were few forces who could direct such rage. Few individuals who could contain such raw power.

  But she was one of them. Her. The apparition gliding on leathered wings at the head of the horde. A great and terrible being, made flesh from the stuff of nightmares, she burst through the freezing morning mists, a slender, red-clad form who rode the cinders and the pillars of smoke. She was like a dark, avenging angel.

  He knew who she was. He had heard the legends.

  ‘Speak her name, boy.’ The captain’s voice came so quietly and softly that Kruath blinked out of his recollection. ‘Confront the truth and give us knowledge of our enemy.’

  Kruath knew that the captain had worked out the identity of the Chaos army’s commander, but he nodded nonetheless.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ He took a long, calming breath. ‘It was the Blood Queen.’

  The Blood Queen was just one of the names that belonged to the notorious daemon princess of the northlands whose legends were told to children at night to ensure their compliance and obedience. The Blood Queen. The Gore Queen. The Consort. Valkia the Bloody. A name that sent thrills of terror and desperate yearning for battle down the spine in equal measure.

  The captain inclined his head and nodded.

  ‘Continue,’ he said, as though

Kruath’s revelation had not surprised him at all.

  Kruath knew that the appearance of Valkia the Bloody would sit in his thoughts until the moment he died. She had flung her beautiful, cruel face to the sky, screaming a guttural battle cry in a language beyond his comprehension. Her daemonic wings bore her aloft, every eye on the battlefield raised to look upon her terrifying, otherworldly presence. Kruath could not tear his eyes from her. The sheer majesty of her was overwhelming and it was all that the dark elf could do not to fall to his knees. He knew one thing for certain.

  I am in the presence of the divine.

  Despite the horror of her blasphemous appearance, there was no denying the sense of power radiating from Valkia. Her spear struck heads from shoulders and punched through armour with ease, delivering perfect killing blows to any of those who were unfortunate to be in its path. Kruath felt the adulation directed towards this horrendous daemon woman, felt it emanating from those who even now slaughtered his people. It was she who led this unstoppable wave. It was she who drove them further, bringing the tide south into the Witch King’s realm. Kruath and three other warriors were despatched with due haste to bring warning to Naggarond. If they failed in their task, Valkia’s unnatural and unholy army would smash over the city’s threshold. They would consume the great stronghold and leave nothing but blood and ashes in their wake.

  Of the four messengers who had set out from the tower, only Kruath remained.

  Naggarond will not fall.

  He had believed it then, he had believed it as he raced the horse across the distance from the tower, and he believed it now. Kruath’s weariness was great, but desperation gave him strength and he was back on his feet in seconds following his dramatic arrival.

  When his news was delivered, they had sent word to the captain of the guard, who in turn summoned Kruath to deliver his news first-hand. And now, here he was. His frantic race ahead of the enemy had brought them little time to prepare for the onslaught and that was an advantage that Volroth had not been granted.

  A fresh sword and tall shield were located for Kruath and he was marched up on to the walls with hundreds of other warriors. They took up their defensive positions, preparing themselves for the battle to come. The attentions of all were deeply focused on the protection of their city and when the light drained unnaturally from the sky, given the earliness of the hour, they witnessed the approach of the Chaos horde. Its arrival was heralded by a darkness that seeped across the land, bringing horror in its wake. The people of the city were unperturbed. Let the enemy come. They would greet any attack in kind.

  Barbed, iron portcullises barred the gates and a ring of enraptured blue fire surrounded the walls, its unnatural light flickering from their obsidian surface. Bolt throwers creaked as they were winched into readiness within the narrow towers and the parapet bristled with spears, halberds and serrated blades. Naggarond was a black jewel in a crown of blood-forged iron, a monument to cruelty and the dark, poisonous heart of a ruthless nation.

  What approached this glistening jewel, stamping with murderous intent from the north, was madness – unmatched and undiluted insanity that would eagerly tear everything down, caper in the ruins and make sport of all for the amusement of the Dark Gods. Kruath knew his histories, and that the Chaos warbands had rarely ventured this far south. It had engendered a certain arrogance in the dark elves that could now prove to be their undoing. For too long they had believed nothing would or could come against them, that nothing could threaten their city.

  Now she was coming.

  Kruath’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. His eyes roamed the lines of warriors. Every face was turned towards the direction of the oncoming army. The commander of this stretch of the wall had not yet spoken or issued any orders, but Kruath recognised Kouran Darkhand in the armour and livery of the Witch King’s own Black Guard. Darkhand held the haft of a huge halberd. The jagged runes on its barbed head read ‘Crimson Death’, a name earned through its reputation. Kruath’s tired body found a new lease of life. Underneath this leader, they would achieve victory. He was certain.

  A red cloak fluttered behind the commander in the light westerly breeze. Unlike that of others, there were no designs or details embroidered into the fine fabric. It was plain and straightforward, much like Darkhand himself.

  Kruath knew little about Darkhand, but what he did know reassured him. Less inclined to playing the game of politics than other nobles of the city, Darkhand’s focus was on the defence of his city and on getting things done. Right now, knowing what was about to arrive, Kruath could appreciate this.

  Kouran Darkhand, Captain of the Black Guard, may have been low-born but as a warrior he was matchless, and serving under his command was something many warriors of Naggarond simultaneously feared and yearned for. Now, Kruath thought with bitterness, it would likely be the first and only time he had a chance to impress the captain. The thought excited him and brought rage in equal measure. He embraced the feeling. It would not do to underestimate Valkia and her forces. There would be no escape here as there had been at Volroth. Here, it would be victory or death. Retreat was not a route they could take.

  Captain Darkhand turned from his vigilant post at the wall and let his sharp eyes roam up and down the line of warriors. Kruath watched his commander’s every move with intense concentration. For over a thousand years Darkhand had battled and fought, protected and defended. He was a living legend.

  When he spoke, Kruath noted that it was not in the usual arrogant tones of other commanders under whom he had served. He did not raise his voice or roar in strident defiance. Kruath watched the infamous warrior with something approaching fascination. He forces us to strain in order to hear him, he noted. As if the words are not for us, but for some higher power. He does not ask. He expects simply to be obeyed.

  ‘These walls have stood since we claimed this land as our own and you will hold them. In the name of the Witch King you will hold them. Look beyond the walls, my brethren. The enemy comes,’ Darkhand said. He spoke with eloquent ease, choosing his words with care. ‘An enemy that dares the wrath of the druchii. An enemy that thinks it cannot know fear. But mark this, each and every one of you, mark my words. They will be stopped here. They will die here, every last one of them, before they see the inside of Naggarond. If your death is required for our victory, then I expect it of you.’

  Darkhand’s words stirred loyalty and determination in Kruath’s gut and he let his pride swell. Death in defence of Naggarond. It was no more than was expected of any of them and yet the captain managed to remind them, without speaking the actual words aloud, that any signs of cowardice would result in swift retribution, undoubtedly at the end of the serrated dagger he wore at his waist.

  Overhead, the skies darkened and flickered with unnatural light. Forks of scarlet lightning split the heavens and a hot wind tainted with the stink of blood and iron washed across the walls. A few fat, black drops of rain pattered off the parapet and Kruath tightened his grip on the weapon in his hand in anticipation. The army approached. Its very presence was a blight upon the world and the fiends amongst its great host were sustained by its dark power.

  Kruath felt his blood stir at the captain’s simple but powerful choice of words. An exultant cry rose up in his chest and burst forth, only to be lost amongst the cheers of his fellow dark elves. When the noise settled once again, Darkhand continued.

  ‘The animals of the north do not think. They have no great scheme or plan.’ Darkhand’s lithe form paced up and down the line as he spoke. ‘They will come at us with mindless savagery and beat themselves bloody on our walls. There will be no glory here. I expect you to butcher them like the vermin they are.’ He stopped his pacing and his eyes roamed once more. They flickered briefly over Kruath, who inclined his head in acknowledgement of his commander’s gaze. ‘Nothing more, nothing less. If you are still living when we cleanse this filth from our lands, then you can consider that your greatest accolade.’

  There was the pause of a heartbeat and the captain finished his speech with four words that caught light like a match to a fuse.

  ‘For the Witch King.’

 

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