by Dan Abnett
Nagaira had been a sorceress of considerable power and she had manipulated him because of his ignorance in the arcane arts. Her illegal pursuits were an open secret in the Hag and a matter of some speculation. No one knew how she could have learned so much so quickly outside Naggaroth’s witch convents. Malus had no proof, but more and more he believed that his mother Eldire had been Nagaira’s secret patron.
Urial claimed Eldire was also the cause of his deformity. Was she orchestrating everything to suit some hidden agenda of her own, or was she also an unwitting pawn of this so-called prophecy? The implications sent a chill down his spine.
“How far back does it all go?” Malus asked himself. “And where will it lead?”
“Into darkness,” Tz’arkan whispered. The darkness waits, Malus. Never forget.”
Before Malus could say more he heard the sound of footsteps. The highborn turned as Hauclir approached, fixing the retainer with a forbidding glare.
“What now, Hauclir?” Malus snapped.
The retainer stopped at sword’s length and paused, considering his words. “We’re approaching Karond Kar, my lord,” he said.
“Yes, Hauclir, I can see that,” the highborn growled.
Hauclir grimaced, shifting uncomfortably on his heels. “Once we make port it won’t be long before Hag Graef s agents learn that Bruglir is dead and his fleet destroyed. Word will get back to your father soon after, I suspect.”
Malus shrugged. “It is a possibility.”
The retainer frowned, unhappy with the answer. “Will we be staying at Karond Kar, then? You said something last night about visiting the houses of the dead.”
“What of it?”
The retainer’s jaw clenched, uncertain of how to proceed.
“Spit it out, damn you!” Malus snarled.
“The highborn of old went to the houses of the dead to seek the blessings of the Old Kings before they marched to war,” Hauclir replied, the words coming out in a rush. “Is that your plan? War with your father?”
For a moment all Malus could do was stare incredulously at his retainer’s troubled face. “There. You have it,” he said. “I’m going to pit my fearsome army of one against the household of the most powerful warlord in Naggaroth. Have you gone mad?”
Hauclir bristled at Malus’ tone. “Since entering your service I’ve seen you infiltrate a Slaaneshi cult, blackmail the Drachau of Hag Graef into granting you a Writ of Iron and commandeer a druchii fleet to confront the largest band of pirates in the North Sea. At this point nothing you do can surprise me any more.” The retainer folded his arms and returned Malus’ glare. “Why the houses of the dead, then? Do you intend to hide in the barrow city until your father forgets about you?”
The highborn’s fists clenched. “Mind your impertinent tongue, lest I pull it out,” Malus warned. “It happens that there is something in the barrow city that I need and I aim to get it.”
Hauclir’s eyes went wide. “So you aim to rob the tombs of the Old Kings?”
“I won’t know until I get there,” Malus replied. “How is it you know so much about the dead city?”
The retainer was momentarily thrown off guard by the change in topic. “I… read a bit when I was young,” he said.
“Indeed?” Malus arched an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Did your readings ever mention a place with a horned moon on it?”
“A horned moon? I don’t know…” The retainer’s voice trailed off as he considered the question. He cocked his head quizzically at Malus. “If I recall correctly, one of the princes of Nagarythe wore a silver crescent moon as his house sigil.” The retainer’s face brightened. “Eleuril the Damned! That was his name.”
“The damned?” Malus sighed. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“He was a kinslayer, if I remember rightly. Murdered his father, his wife and his wife’s father.”
“And?”
“And he was found out.”
“Ah.”
“The story claims he was strangled in his bed by the ghost of his vengeful wife.” Hauclir shrugged. “Of course, that’s just legend. His wife’s family probably had him assassinated. Makes for a good story though. If I remember correctly—”
Malus cut him off with a wave of his hand. “A dreadful story, I’m certain. Does it mention a dagger, by any chance?”
“As I was about to say, my lord,” Hauclir said peremptorily, “Eleuril was a worshipper of Khaine and if I remember rightly he was one of the first princes to convert here in Naggaroth. This was back in the earliest days, when Malekith first outlawed male sorcerers and Eleuril was something of a warlock hunter. He took this dagger from a Slaaneshi sorcerer named… well, never mind his name. I can’t recall. At any rate, he intended to use the dagger to murder his kin and blame it on Slaaneshi cultists.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the dagger was cursed.”
“It certainly seems that way to me,” Malus said darkly.
Hauclir’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re after the dagger, aren’t you?”
“What would I want with such a thing?”
“What would you want with that little statue you’ve got locked up in your cabin, or that strange amulet you were fretting over back at the Hag?” The retainer’s tone was mild, but his dark eyes were suddenly intent. “It seems to me you’re going to a great deal of effort to collect a number of arcane objects.”
Malus took a step towards Hauclir, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. “Your keen eye and your suspicious mind serve you well, Hauclir—so long as they aren’t directed towards me,” he said quietly. “Remember your oath and serve.”
Hauclir stiffened. “Of course, my lord,” he said stonily. “What are your wishes once we make port?”
Malus looked back towards the distant tower. “That will depend upon our reception,” he replied calmly. “If we are allowed to drop anchor in the harbour, you will remain aboard and keep watch over the treasure while I make some enquiries.” The highborn folded his arms tightly against his chest. “If something goes amiss, however, you are to gather my possessions from the captain’s cabin and meet me at a flesh house in the Traders’ Quarter called the Mere-Witch.”
“Is there reason to believe something may… go amiss, as you say?”
The highborn shrugged. “It’s possible I may have offended certain persons of rank the last time I passed this way.”
Silence fell. Hauclir waited, expecting Malus to elaborate, but the highborn offered nothing more. “Very well, my lord,” the retainer said at last, then turned on his heel and walked away.
Tz’arkan chuckled hollowly in Malus’ head. “You keep secrets like a daemon,” he said admiringly. “Is there no one you trust?”
The highborn’s lips curled in disgust. “At the moment I don’t even trust myself.”
The breakwater at Karond Kar was almost three miles long, built up from stone quarried from the forbidding mountains surrounding the Tower of Slaves. The lords of the tower paid enormous sums to a party of sculptors to work the stone at the base of the breakwater into the shapes of slaves, their taut, agonised bodies appearing to rise from the icy waves to support the stone blocks that held the Sea of Chill at bay. For hundreds of years the breakwater had been known as Nheira Vor—the Great Lament. When druchii corsairs arrived at the tower with their holds full of slaves, the cargo would see the lifelike statues and raise a terrible wail, believing that to be their fate. The lords of the tower never tired of the jest.
Karond Kar was the furthest, bleakest and richest of all the six cities in Naggaroth, enjoying enormous wealth as the clearing house for all the slaves taken by druchii raiders across the known world. It was the perfect location to serve as neutral ground in buying and selling the land’s most precious resource—the tower was too distant and too difficult for an army to besiege overland and possessed a powerful fleet of its own to repel assaults from the sea. The six lords of the tower were old and powerful druchii nominated by the Witch King from each of t
he great cities and thus enjoyed equal influence in the councils of the tower’s drachau. Factors from the most powerful households across Naggaroth maintained permanent residences in the trading town at the foot of the tower and during the summer the population would treble as lesser traders would make the two-week journey by sea to buy stock for the coming year.
This early in the raiding season the tower’s anchorage was nearly empty. Nearly every druchii raider wintered at the city of Clar Karond and would have only just departed on their cruises a few weeks before. The eastern side of the anchorage was dark with the hulls of the tower’s defending fleet—long, sleek-hulled ships that bore a close kinship with the battered Harrier. Malus watched from the citadel deck as one of the tower’s ships weighed anchor and put on sail. The deck of the ship was teeming with warriors, the northern sunlight glinting on their sharp-flanged armour and the tips of their spears.
Hauclir leaned against one of the ship’s aft-mounted bolt throwers, arms folded, eyeing the approaching warship apprehensively. “Is this normal?”
Malus nodded. “They’ll want to inspect the cargo for disease, look for any choice prospects they can tell their patrons about, shake us down for a bribe or two, that sort of thing.” He cast a sidelong glance at the retainer. “Everything you used to do at Hag Graef, only on the water.”
The former guard captain nodded appreciatively. “Shall I break out some coin from the hold?”
To Hauclir’s surprise, Malus shook his head. “Remember those trophies we stowed in the aft hold? Get some men and bring them topside once the inspectors come aboard.”
Hauclir grimaced, but nodded his head. “As you wish, my lord.” He stepped to the rail overlooking the main deck, barked a set of orders in a parade-ground voice, then headed below.
The warship was upon them in minutes, cutting across their bow and then turning to pass them to starboard. The warriors and officers crowding the ship’s rail eyed Malus and the Harrier intently, taking in the ship’s damage and the state of her crew. At one point the highborn caught the eye of a tall, richly appointed officer standing by the wheel of the passing ship. The highborn bowed his head in greeting but got only a haughty glare in reply.
After completing her close inspection the tower warship cut across the Harrier’s wake and slid up along the port side. A broad-chested druchii sailor cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Strike your sails and drop anchor in the name of the tower lords and prepare to be boarded!” The tone in the man’s voice left little doubt as to what would happen if Harrier’s crew failed to comply.
“Strike sail!” Malus ordered, loud enough to be heard on both vessels. The weary crew leapt into action and within minutes the ship’s ragged sheets were furled. By the time the stern anchor was splashing into the bay the tower warship had lowered a long boat full of troops and was rowing across the waves between the two ships.
Malus drew a deep breath. For a moment he wondered if perhaps he should have ordered Hauclir to prepare a bribe, but pushed the thought aside. “Lower lines and prepare to receive inspection party,” he ordered, then headed to the main deck to await the inspector’s arrival.
The long boat was alongside in a few short minutes and no sooner had her hull bumped against the side of the Harrier than the rope ladders went taut and armoured men came scrambling over the port rail. The warriors formed a grim-faced cordon around the rail, naked blades in hand. Unlike most corsairs, the tower men wore full plate harness over their kheitans and mail, offering far greater protection so long as the wearer didn’t fall overboard. Malus noted the armour was of high quality, enamelled in sea green and worked with the insignia of a dragon twined about a narrow tower—the sigil of the Drachau of Karond Kar himself.
Ten armed men were crowded together on the main deck, weapons facing outwards, before the inspector himself appeared at the rail. Malus was surprised to see it was the captain himself. The officer wore a heavy cloak of wyvern hide, fixed to his armour by gold brooches in the shape of sea dragons. His sea-green armour was worked with an ostentatious display of scrollwork and gems glittered from the pommels of the man’s twin swords. He looked very young to be a ship’s captain, with a face unmarked by the scars of battle. It meant he was well-connected, Malus reasoned.
The druchii officer alighted on the deck of the Harrier and took in the condition of the main deck in a single, scowling glance. The captain was tall and whipcord-thin, with gaunt features and a sharply pointed nose. His eyes glittered like chips of obsidian as he fretted with his armoured gauntlets and fixed Malus with a disapproving stare. “Where is your captain? I am Syrclar, son of Nerein the Cruel, Drachau of Karond Kar.” He looked Malus up and down, his lip curling in disdain. “I am not in the habit of speaking with the rank and file.”
At that moment Malus would have liked nothing better than to pitch the man into the sea, but instead he managed a cold smile. “I have the honour of commanding this ship, Lord Syrclar,” he said with a slight bow.
A look of consternation crossed Syrclar’s face. “But this is the Harrier. I would know her anywhere.”
“Indeed so, lord.”
“Then where is Bruglir, son of Lurhan the vaulkhar? This is his ship.”
Malus’ smile broadened. “Ah, now I understand your confusion, lord. Bruglir died in battle, on a campaign against the Skinriders to the north.”
Just then, the doors to the citadel opened and Hauclir appeared at the head of a handful of sailors, dragging several bundles wrapped in stained sailcloth. Malus waved Hauclir over. “You will be pleased to hear, Lord Syrclar, that our campaign was successful.”
Before the young druchii could reply, Hauclir dumped his bundle at the druchii’s feet. It fell open, revealing a pile of severed heads, their putrid flesh black with crusted blood and stinking of corruption. Syrclar’s guards recoiled at the stench, many uttering curses or prayers to the Dragons Below.
Malus bent down and considered the heads like a servant shopping for melons in the market. He grabbed one of the larger ones and tossed it to the young captain. “Here, Lord Syrclar, with my compliments. Hang it from a pike in the Slavers’ Quarter as a sign that the Skinriders will trouble us no more.”
“Dragons Below!” Syrclar screamed as the grisly trophy smacked wetly against his breastplate, leaving a brownish stain on the green enamel. The head hit the deck and bounced among the guards’ feet, sending them scrambling in every direction. The Harrier’s crew on deck watched the men scramble and hissed in derisive laughter.
Syrclar grew pale with fury, rubbing frantically at the fluids staining his armour. “Are you mad, bringing these poxed things aboard?”
“We’ve trophies enough below decks to decorate the walls of every city in Naggaroth,” Malus said proudly. “We thought it was only fitting, as a symbol of Bruglir’s great victory.”
“They’re thick with disease, you fool!” Syrclar screamed. “Every one of you could be tainted.”
Malus glanced around at his men, knowing they were well aware that Urial had cleansed the bodies of any taint before they had been brought aboard. He turned back to Syrclar with a well-rehearsed look of innocent credulity. “But none of us have come down sick,” he said emphatically. “Well, not except for Irhan and Ryvar.” The highborn glanced meaningfully at Hauclir.
The retainer took up the thread without missing a beat. “But we locked Ryvar up in the after hold just as soon as his skin started falling off,” he deadpanned.
Syrclar’s eyes went wide with horror. “And Irhan?” he asked.
“Well, we couldn’t rightly lock him away, dread lord. He was the cook.”
The young druchii pressed a trembling hand to the surface of his breastplate. “Back to the ship!” he commanded his men. “Quickly!” As they began to retreat back over the ship’s rail, Syrclar pointed imperiously at Malus. “Make anchor here, out in the bay! Do not attempt to dock at the harbour or we’ll use dragon’s breath and bum you to the waterline.”
&nb
sp; “But we have need of food and supplies,” Malus said, sounding aggrieved. These men need shore leave—”
“Your men need a priest,” Syrclar said, his voice tight with rage. “If they have any sense of decency they’ll pray for the Dragons to curse you and your house until the end of time.” About a quarter of the inspection party had already disappeared over the rail and the young captain had one leg over the side himself. He paused and shot Malus a furious glare. What is your name? My father the drachau will hear of this.”
The highborn suppressed a frown of dismay. The ruse had nearly worked to perfection, he thought, sighing inwardly. “Malus, son of Lurhan the Vaulkhar of Hag Graef,” he said gravely.
Syrclar paused. “You’re Malus? The one they call Darkblade?”
“I am,” the highborn replied, making no effort to conceal his annoyance.
The young officer studied Malus for a moment, indecision warring with fear. Finally, he swung his leg back over the rail and gestured at his remaining men. “Seize him,” Syrclar commanded.
Hauclir stepped in front of Malus, his face grave and his hands reaching for his weapons. Malus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Remember my orders,” he said quietly, then pushed his retainer aside. “Seize me?” Malus said to the young officer. “On what grounds?”
“Were you not master of the corsair Shadowblade last summer?”
The highborn drew a deep breath. “I was,” he said.
“And did you not return to Naggaroth five months ago with a cargo of flesh?”