by Dan Abnett
He rounded the corner—and saw at once why his pursuers had reined in. The road ran on for another twenty yards and ended in a cul-de-sac overlooked by half a dozen iron-work balconies. They had him cornered.
Malus pulled awkwardly at the single rein, forcing the half-dead horse to come to a stumbling halt. The highborn looked desperately about for a way out of the trap. He could hear his pursuers, hissing orders to one another as they walked their mounts to the corner. They would be on him in moments.
The highborn heard a door open overhead. He looked up to see two highborn children rush out onto the balcony and peer down at him, chattering excitedly. Malus bared his teeth, wishing he had them in arm’s reach.
A thought struck him. He turned the horse in place, studying the overhanging ironworks. Looks risky, he thought, but no more so than a blade in the guts.
Malus urged the staggering horse near one of the stone walls and let it come to a shuddering stop. The first of the riders came around the corner, his spear at the ready. The highborn grabbed the saddle’s can-tie and drew up his right leg. Placing the foot carefully he stood on the animal’s back.
The daemon chuckled as Malus spread his arms for balance. “You look like one of those ugly seagulls,” Tz’arkan said. “Is this some strange form of surrender, or do you intend to fly over your captors?”
“Something like that,” Malus said with a mirthless grin. Just as the lead spearman readied his weapon to throw the highborn took a deep breath, bent slightly at the knees—and jumped.
Without the daemon’s foul strength surging through his limbs he wouldn’t have had a chance. As it was, his fingertips just reached the iron rails of the balcony some ten feet overhead. He grabbed at the rusty metal like a drowning man, his fingers tightening painfully around the hard-edged rails. With an explosive grunt of effort he pulled himself upwards. Below, the spearman let out an amazed cry; a moment later his spear clattered off the stone wall to Malus’ right.
Malus pulled himself upright and peered over the rail—only to duck back again as a crossbow bolt rang off the ironwork. Angry shouts echoed up from the cul-de-sac. Malus grinned. Unless Syrclar had a daemon-possessed retainer they were going to be hard-pressed to catch him.
Of course, he still had more climbing to do.
The highborn eyed his next destination—another balcony, eight feet up and ten feet away on the adjoining building. Before the crossbow-man could reload, he pulled himself onto the rail, took a deep breath and leapt into space with a wild shout. He reached his target easily, grabbing the rail with both hands and vaulting over the side. Immediately he looked to the balcony at the next house. Ten feet away and ten feet higher than where he crouched, the two druchii children watched with wide, fearful eyes. He gave them a hungry smile and they fled inside, screaming in terror.
This time Syrclar’s men were ready. He leapt into a storm of crossbow bolts and flung spears, the projectiles buzzing around him like a swarm of flesh wasps. Malus made the leap easily. In fact, part of him thrilled at the rush of wind against his face and the effortless way his body carried him from one balcony to the next. His shoulder stung fiercely where the sword had cut through his armour, but that, too, only made Malus feel more alive. Laughing to himself, he pulled himself up to the edge of the rail—and came face-to-face with an axe-wielding retainer who had rushed to the children’s aid.
Once again, it was raw instinct that saved Malus. He threw himself backwards as the axe whistled through the air, missing his throat by less than an inch. His fingers slipped as he hit the limit of his reach and for a moment he hung motionless, thirty feet above Syrclar and his men. At the same instant the retainer took another swing with his axe and Malus grabbed for it with both hands. Seizing the haft, he pulled himself forward for all he was worth, pulling the retainer off-balance and sending him hurtling out into space even as the highborn slammed against the balcony rail. The retainer fell and Malus tried his best for one heroic lunge at the man’s axe, but through either ill luck or druchii spite, the man carried his axe with him as he fell to the cobblestones below.
“Damnation!” Malus cursed, staring helplessly at the lost weapon. Within the house he could hear the children screaming and an even greater commotion coming his way, so he wasted no time. Still standing on the outside of the balcony he turned to face the next balcony and leapt the fifteen feet between them. Another crossbow bolt buzzed past, but now there were shouts of wonder and dismay from below, as the men feared that their quarry would escape. Malus paused for long enough to give the men a mocking salute, then leapt from the balcony to the edge of the building’s roof. The slate shingles were slick and the roof steeply pitched, but the highborn wasted no time circling its perimeter until he faced the building to the west. It was a long leap—close to twenty feet, across a narrow road—but he hesitated barely a moment. Malus closed his eyes and flung himself into space with a howl like a maddened wolf.
“Sweet, is it not?” Tz’arkan whispered in his mind. And this is but a trifle compared to the gifts I offer. And yet you turn your face from me, hiding in fogs of cheap wine. Do you see now how foolish you have been?”
Malus opened his eyes to see the tiles of the oncoming building rushing at his face. He landed hard, sending broken tiles slithering off the edge of the roof, then circled the perimeter of the roof, looking further west. There was another rooftop directly adjacent to this one, then another lane that appeared to open into a small square. That looks familiar, he realised with a grin.
“I am my own master, daemon,” he said, a little breathlessly. “Not you, not my father—not the Witch King himself—may command me. What I do, I do for myself. You are the foolish one.”
“Indeed? And what would happen if you were to try leaping to the next building, only to find that I’d withdrawn my generous gifts?”
“Then I’d fall.”
“And?”
“And I’d have to think of something very quickly before I hit the ground.”
“Stupid druchii,” the daemon spat. “You think you have an answer for everything. You weren’t so clever when you stepped into my chamber and slid that ring on your finger. You fell for that one rightly enough.”
“I fell for it, true,” Malus said, leaping into space. “But I haven’t hit the ground yet, have I?”
The highborn was touching down on the adjoining roof before he realised the daemon had gone silent. Malus took that to be a good sign.
Crossing to the opposite side of the building, Malus looked down on a street lined with taverns and teeming with soldiers, sailors and labourers. He looked further north and there, across the square, he saw the grey sign of the Mere-Witch. Malus smiled and gauged the distance to the next roof: another fifteen feet more or less. He gathered his legs beneath him, took a deep breath and leapt.
No sooner had his feet left the edge of the roof than Malus realised the daemon’s strength had faded.
He flew for six feet and began to fall like an arrow arcing in flight. Ten feet, twenty feet—he could hear the noise of the crowd below growing louder. At twenty-five feet he hit the wall of the building he’d leapt for, striking hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He tumbled, striking the edge of a metal balcony, then fell another five feet before crashing into an overhanging sign. Wood cracked, hinges splintered. Malus and the wooden sign fell the last ten feet to land in a tangled pile on the cobblestones.
Figures crowded around the edges of his vision—pale faces, looking down in horror, shock or disgust. Malus felt a set of tentative fingers pluck at the money belt at his waist. With a snarl he slapped the hand away and rolled painfully to his knees.
There was a rumbling in his ears. Malus shook his head, trying to clear it. The sound continued. Then he felt the vibrations in the palms of his hands and realised what was causing it. Hoof beats.
Malus lurched unsteadily to his feet. He should have guessed that the horsemen would simply try to parallel his movements on the ground. It took a moment to tell his le
ft from his right, but once he did he set off for the flesh house at a run.
He was halfway there when he heard shouts behind him. Something clattered on the cobblestones—a thrown spear? Malus didn’t stop to find out. Druchii scattered out of his way as he staggered to the double doors of the flesh house and pushed his way inside.
Smells of incense and narcotic vapours tingled in his nostrils as Malus stumbled into the heat and shadows beyond the doorway. Servants stepped hesitantly forward, uncertain what to make of a bloodied highborn in battered corsair’s armour reeling drunkenly in the entry hall. An armed retainer stepped forward, one hand outstretched. “Your weapons, sir,” he said.
Malus laughed, showing his empty hands and pushed past the bemused guard. His body moved purely on instinct, acting on drunken memories of years past. The highborn went left, locating the descending stairway almost at once and rushing downwards into scented darkness.
The stairway swept downwards in a broad, lazy spiral, leading past doorways strung with curtains of soft seal hide. Faint sounds issued from within those chambers: laughter, impassioned murmurs or gasps of pain. Music hung in the heavy air, drifting languidly from some hidden room. Malus continued on, picking up his pace when he began to hear urgent cries echoing from above.
His descent came to an end in a circular room lit with glowing braziers. There were eight doors around the perimeter of the chamber, each one leading to a sumptuous suite reserved for the wealthy or the noble-born; servants came and went through the doors, bearing trays of refreshments. Fantastic beasts loomed over each portal: dragons, manticores, chimeras and the like. One doorway was framed by a pair of crouching nauglir. With a hungry smile Malus crossed the room and pushed the door wide.
Beyond lay an octagonal room lit by the banked coals of half a dozen braziers. Carpets and cushions covered the stone floor, surrounding platters heaped with breads, cheeses and fruit. Flagons of wine glittered in the ruddy light and smoke hung thick and blue in the air. Haifa dozen figures in hooded autarii cloaks lounged on the cushions, amusing themselves with a like number of human and elf slaves.
Angry shouts echoed from the stairway. Malus staggered across the room, lurching across the soft and treacherous carpets. Slaves scattered as he made his way towards a platter of roast meat near the centre of the room. His eyes were on the long, broad-bladed knife gleaming beside a long fork at the edge of the platter.
Syrclar and six of his men burst into the room on Malus’ heels, their faces flushed and swords held at the ready. The highborn swept past the platter, his hand closing on a curved wooden grip and turned to face his pursuers.
Malus showed his teeth to the men of the tower and raised the long, twin-tined meat fork he’d grabbed by mistake. Slaves scattered to the far corners of the room. The autarii were motionless, watching the scene from the depths of their hoods.
“I suppose you’d like to discuss terms of surrender,” the highborn said.
Syrclar smiled. “Cut off his hands and pluck out his tongue,” he told his men. “We’ll let his father ransom them back in a jar.”
Malus fell back as the six warriors made their way carefully across the room. He retreated until his back touched the far wall and then waited, meat fork held ready. The warriors spread into a rough semicircle, wary of his strange abilities but confident in their greater numbers.
They were halfway across the room when the autarii sprang into action. Without a word passing between them they drew long knives from their voluminous sleeves and leapt at the tower men. Caught by surprise, the warriors were tackled and pulled to the floor. Knife blades flashed, cutting hamstrings, wrists and throats. Blood soaked the rugs in moments as the warriors thrashed, kicking over plates and flagons in the throes of death.
Syrclar recoiled in horror at the slaughter unfolding before him. The young highborn’s sword wavered, then fell to the floor. He turned to run, but Malus crossed the room in three swift strides, running over the bodies of the dying men and grabbing a handful of the lord’s long, black hair.
The twin tines of the fork plunged deep into the side of Syrclar’s throat. The highborn went rigid, coughing a spray of bright arterial blood. Malus let him go, turning and picking up Syrclar’s fallen sword as the young lord fell to his knees.
Malus studied the blade and nodded approvingly. “Better late than never,” he said with a sigh, then turned and struck Syrclar’s head from his shoulders. The headless body remained upright for a few moments, then toppled onto its side, still spurting blood.
The highborn admired his handiwork for a moment, then turned to the hooded figures. “Would it be too much to ask for a cup of wine?” he asked.
Chapter Five
WILES AND STRATAGEMS
“Ah, there he is,” Malus said as Hauclir was escorted into the rug-lined chamber beneath the flesh house. “I’d begun to think you’d come to some mischief.” The highborn plucked a fat Tilean grape from a tray next to his cushion and waved his retainer to take a seat. “Have some wine and some food. Pay no mind to all the bodies.”
Hauclir carefully lowered one of Bruglir’s old sea chests and set it gently on the floor, his gaze passing from one bloody corpse to the next. Syrclar’s guardsmen still lay where they had fallen, contorted in poses of violent death. The retainer nodded his head at the corpse Malus was using as a footrest. “I take it that would be part of the young Lord Syrclar?”
“The very same,” he said, turning to spit a seed at Syrclar’s severed head. “He proved a capable hunter, but in the end the prey he cornered proved a bit too much for him.”
Quiet chuckles rose from the men surrounding Malus. With the arrival of their lord they had cast aside their autarii cloaks, revealing black-enamelled armour and silver steel torcs worked with the sigil of a nauglir—Malus’ personal insignia. They sipped wine from gold cups and toyed with the young slaves crouching at their sides, eyeing Hauclir with the predatory welcome of a pack of wolves.
The highborn indicated his retainers with a languid sweep of his hand. “You know some of these old dogs—Silar Thornblood, my seneschal, Dolthaic the Ruthless and Arleth Vann. The others entered my service while we were at sea—all I can say for them is that they’re handy with a knife, which counts for much in my estimation.”
Hauclir nodded absently, taking everything in. The retainer set to watch for him brushed past the former guard captain, returning to his own place amid the rugs and cushions. “What’s all this about, my lord?” he asked, slipping a large and heavy pack from his shoulder and setting it beside the chest.
The highborn shrugged, plucking another grape from the bunch in his left hand. A bottle of wine and a brimming cup sat on a low table to his right. Silar had poured it for him hours ago and he’d yet to touch it. “Planning ahead,” he explained, popping another grape into his mouth. “I knew before I left Hag Graef that if I wanted to return home alive my illustrious older brother would have to meet an untimely end. So I made arrangements to meet Silar here instead of going straight home to give my father the happy news’ He favoured his men with a feigned scowl. “They’ve been here spending my coin and living like conquerors for the last month or so.”
Wolfish grins and muted laughter spread across the room. Dolthaic the Ruthless, a young druchii with sharp, angular features and a long horsetail of hair pulled into a corsair’s topknot raised his goblet in salute. “If this is how you go about killing your kin,” he said with a sepulchral laugh, “then I say thank the Dark Mother you have such a large family!”
The other retainers joined in the laughter, some raising their goblets in turn, until a strong voice cut through the merriment like a knife. “Drink and act like fools while you can,” Silar Thornblood declared. “Nothing will be the same after this. It’s war or exile now that Malus has killed Lurhan’s favoured son.”
Malus turned slightly in his seat to face his chief lieutenant. Silar was a young warrior, tall and handsome, his face miraculously unscarred by war. He was a dour,
impertinent man at the best of times, but he was loyal and honest and above all, utterly lacking in ambition or guile. On his own he wouldn’t have lasted a month in druchii society, but Malus provided him with an honourable position in an influential household, largely shielded from the ruthlessness of day-to-day life. He sat at Malus’ right hand, staring gloomily into the depths of his wine cup. The highborn frowned and spat a seed at the man.
“Is it any wonder I left you back at the Hag, Silar?” Malus growled good-naturedly. What talk is this of war? Bruglir died in battle, not at the end of my sword.”
Hauclir let out a snort. Malus fixed the man with a merciless glare and the retainer lowered his eyes.
“He died in a battle you forced on him,” Silar said forcefully. “Bruglir was already a hero ten times over, enough so that even the drachau envied him. All Lurhan will care about is that you took his eldest son and heir into the North Sea and got him killed, along with most of his fleet.” Silar shook his head, staring into his cup as though it were full of poison. “Your father tried to kill you once already and if rumour at the Hag is to be believed, you shamed him in front of the drachau when you forced Uthlan Tyr to give you a Writ of Iron. What do you think he will do when he hears this latest news?” The young retainer took a breath and tossed back a large swallow of wine.
The mood in the room turned sombre. Even Dolthaic’s avaricious grin faded before Silar’s harsh estimation. Malus frowned in aggravation. “Speaking of vile rumours, what other news do you have from the Hag?”
Silar shrugged. “The Witch King declared the campaign season a week earlier than expected, owing to the mild winter. The truce between Hag Graef and the Black Ark of Naggor still holds, miraculously enough. The drachau even went so far as to release his hostage Fuerlan and return him to the ark.” Silar took another sip of wine, judiciously avoiding the incident Malus had caused when he’d tortured Fuerlan nearly to death over a matter of etiquette several months before. “With no major feuds to settle, the highborn of the city who haven’t taken to sea are all out in the countryside looking for something to test their swords on.”