Like any settlement the army camp had its distinctive areas and quarters, each with a character of its own. Immediately within the picket of sentries were the cloth-roofed corrals of the dark riders, where patrols and messengers came and went without hindrance. Sturdier stables of timber and chain housed the reptilian cold one mounts of the knights and nobles – the hideous smell of the beasts ensured that only slaves and the most disfavoured druchii held their quarters downwind.
The shamble of bivouacs and rough hide shelters that housed the slaves had grown slightly since the army had left Naggarond, swelled by northlanders that had been foolish enough to allow themselves to be taken prisoner. Though born into hardship in the cold wastes, they nevertheless yammered and howled their torment as icy wind cut through the sparse canopies protecting their lodgings and snow quenched their few attempts to start warming fires.
In slightly better state were the beastmasters, whose mammalian, reptilian and monstrous charges were also kept on the outskirts of the tent city. Few of the greater beasts – hydras, manticores and dark pegasi – had survived the battles of late, but some of these larger animals were bound by chains and staves, their grunts and howls muted by the snow and carried away by the wind. Hounds and smaller hunting reptiles yammered and yowled and hissed in their pens, woken by the dim grey of dawn.
The bulk of the encampment was made up of tent rows in plain black, white and purple, organised by allegiance to the various regiments and noble houses that had answered Malekith’s call to battle.
To the south the Khainites had gathered, a great pyre in the centre of their camp, their conical tents strung with gaudy and gory trophies from the preceding battles. The bodies of sacrifices to the Lord of Murder charred in the sacrificial flames and their hearts sizzled in ornate black iron braziers. Their bloodlust sated by the night’s revelries the murder cultists slumbered still, their drug-fuelled ceremonies adding to the exhaustion of marching and war.
Closer to the centre of the encampment, a coven of sorceresses still loyal to Malekith had pitched their pavilions. No others had set their tents within three dozen paces of the witches, fearful of the miasma of magical energy that permeated the air. The nights were wracked by otherworldly screams and screeches and each fresh dawn saw a pile of dead acolytes bloodying the snow outside the sorceresses’ tents.
The grandest tents belonged to the noble families of Naggaroth, each clustered around their lord’s or lady’s banner like young sucklings at a mother, feeding off their power and reputation. The peace here was uneasy, the truce between rival dynasties, warring sects and opposing factions kept only by the presence of Black Guard companies patrolling the neutral ground between camps. Even so there had been no few elves that had fallen to ambush and assassination during the long march and ancient hostilities were constantly on the verge of breaking out into open conflict.
At the heart of the druchii camp, glowering down upon all around it, rose Malekith’s pavilion, a conglomeration of steel-ringed hide and linen, black-lacquered wood and bare iron that approximated the Black Tower of his capital. It rose far higher than any other, six corners held by ramparted towers that were broken down, transported and assembled with each march, manned by Black Guard under the supervision of Kouran.
A killing ground two hundred paces across separated the rest of the army’s lodgings from their ruler, covered by repeater bolt throwers mounted in pits dug into the frozen earth by slaves.
As if these were not barrier enough to any wishing to assail Malekith there was, aside from the malice of the Witch King himself, one final obstacle. Beside the black-walled tent slumbered a beast of such proportion that at first it might be mistaken for a blackened hillock until one noticed the pattern of plate-sized scales and claws as long as bastard swords.
She slumbered, Seraphon the Supreme, but alert to the smallest hint of danger to her master. Progeny of Sulekh, greatest of the black dragons, first honoured mount of the Witch King, Seraphon would allow none to approach that did not brandish Malekith’s seal like a shield before them. Her breath spread a bank of mist around the pavilion, tinged with a poisonous gas. A yellow eye opened a slit as shouts broke the stillness.
Beyond this enclave of stillness and dormant power the camp was engulfed by tumult. Riders returned with news of an approaching army, coming south at some speed and seemingly impervious to the blizzard that had trapped the elves upon the ridge for the last five days. The scouts could not state for sure the nature of the foe, for those of their number that approached too close did not return. Of their fate, nothing could be said, but there was rumour of powerful magic and malign influence.
War drums called the companies to muster. Bleakswords, dreadspears and darkshards armed with repeating crossbows fell into rank at the shouted commands of petty nobles and professional captains. Knights and lordlings called for retainers to bring their cold ones while chariots rumbled from the stables to await their masters. The beastmasters whooped and hollered their strange cries, whips cracked and goads struck scaled and furred flesh.
The witch elves and sisters of slaughter roused from their sleep and drank deep of the libations drawn from the cauldrons of the hags that led them. Soon their dismal drug-aches were forgotten as fresh stimulants raced through their bodies and lit their senses. Their battle-screeches and praises to Khaine split the air at the soon-to-commence bloodshed.
About the flag poles and spire-like masts of the Witch King’s pavilion dark, winged shapes unfurled themselves like banners. Chittering to one another, a cloud of harpies hundreds-strong launched into the air, startled by the sudden noise.
‘The enemy host approaches, my king,’ said Kouran, presenting his halberd in salute as he bowed. There was no carpet underfoot, just weathered hide scorched in many places by the hot tread of his master. ‘Do you wish to lead the army into battle?’
Malekith barely heard his lieutenant, just as he was almost unaware of the braying horns and crashing drums. Kouran had proven himself not only a skilled warrior but an adept general. His defence of Naggarond during Malekith’s absence demonstrated beyond doubt that he was more than just a blade-wielder.
The Witch King’s concern was not set upon the thousands of unwashed, hairy barbarians that were advancing upon his army, but much further afield, beyond this battle, beyond the next battles, to a far grander war. The reclamation of Naggaroth was a necessary distraction, but he would not let such matters intrude upon his longer strategy.
He waved a dismissive hand, indicating that he was content for Kouran and the lower commanders to direct the battle in his stead. Malekith wondered, briefly, if he should have wiped out the humans when he had been granted the chance millennia before they had become civilised. Though they had become a tiresome thorn in his side, they had provided something of a bulwark also, fighting each other as much as they raided the lands of the druchii.
In the end it mattered nothing to him. They were, for the most part, such short-lived, savage creatures it was impossible to know how their fates might have changed. Like the orcs and the half-beasts and the tunnelling ratmen, the humans had bred and spread across Elthin Arvan in the wake of the great war between the elves and the dwarfs, and but for the tribes of the north had played little part in the affairs of elves until the last few centuries.
Malekith revised his earlier contempt. There were some from the race of humanity that had placed their mark upon history far more deeply than one might have expected, and another had added his name to that rolclass="underline" Archaon. The so-called Everchosen – the title had spilled from the lips of prisoners easily enough, rendered in the dozens of dialects of the northern tribes – had roused the northlanders in such strength that not elf or man or dwarf had ever seen the like before.