by Dan Abnett
Now Malus was fully awake. “You listen to me, you half-witted lump of flesh,” he snarled, rising slowly to his feet. “I have men awaiting my return at Karond Kar. If you show your face there without me—or don’t show your face at all within a few weeks’ time—I guarantee they will find you and make you suffer in ways that would make a shade pray for mercy, after they kill every living thing you’ve ever cared about. The only hope you have of surviving this expedition is to get me to the crypt of Eleuril and then guide me safely out of these woods.”
“Is it worth your life to reach this damned crypt?” Vor cried.
“That’s not the point,” Malus said, his voice hard as stone. The point is that it’s worth your life to get there and more besides. Now get your men moving.”
They set off from the ruins at a rapid pace. Malus kept Vor close, leaving three men to scout ahead and three more to bring up the rear. Vor ordered the men to keep in sight of one another at all times, but the dense undergrowth and the steady rain made it next to impossible. The guides travelled with weapons in hand and Malus walked with one hand against Spite’s flank, trusting the nauglir’s senses over his own. The sense of being watched was overpowering, seeming to come from every direction at once.
For hours the small column plunged through the dense forest, trudging up steadily steeper terrain. At mid morning, Vor called a brief halt.
The druchii grouped together under the dripping branches, drinking greedily from their waterskins and chewing strips of dried meat. Vor counted heads.
“Where’s Uvar?” he asked, looking from one man to the next.
One of the men looked back the way they’d come. “He was the last man in the line,” he said fearfully. “I saw him just before we stopped. I swear it!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Malus said darkly. “He’s gone now.” The highborn looked to Vor. “How far to the outskirts of the necropolis?”
“Another four or five hours,” Vor said without thinking. “What of it?”
“Out in these damnable trees the autarii have the upper hand,” Malus said quietly. “Once we reach the streets and towers of the crypts we might be able to even the odds. The shades are like ghosts in the wilderness, but believe me, if you cut them they bleed like normal men. Now let’s go!”
The men climbed to their feet and pressed on, setting a brutal pace. Malus’ plan, such as it was, gave them at least a chance for survival and it kept them moving even as the terrain grew steeper and more treacherous. The rain never let up. More than once Malus considered drawing his crossbow from its oiled wrappings and loading it, but he knew that the damp conditions would damage the weapon in the long run—and besides, he had no targets to shoot at.
Two hours later Vor called another halt. When he counted heads another man was missing. Huril, a tall, stout druchii with a bare blade in each scarred hand had taken the lead at the last stop and had quickly disappeared from sight in the dense foliage. No one knew when the shades had taken him.
Fear gripped the survivors. Malus stood before them with sword in hand and said, “Get up. You can either get moving and take your chances with the shades or stay here and die by my hand! Make your choice!”
The guides fixed Malus with looks of pure hate, but they struggled to their feet and set off. This time everyone stayed as close together as possible, no longer worried about Spite’s dripping jaws or his lashing tail. Vor jogged along just behind Malus, his head swivelling back and forth as he tried to keep all his men in sight.
Even with only a yard or less between each man the dense undergrowth still made it difficult to keep everyone in view at all times. Malus concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, pressing on through the tangled brush as quickly as he could and hoping that beyond the next wall of hanging vines or thicket of dripping ferns he would stumble onto city streets of grey stone.
Almost three hours later the highborn’s single-minded reverie was broken by relieved shouts from up ahead. He pressed forward through a thicket of tall bushes and found himself stumbling along the hard surface of cobblestones hidden within the thick grass at his feet. Ahead he could see that the undergrowth was all but gone and the trees themselves were thinning out, giving way to tall, dark buildings and slender, dagger-like towers bordered by the iron-dark flanks of towering stone crags. Malus could see the two lead druchii just ahead, waving at him excitedly.
“That’s it!” Malus said, baring his teeth in a feral grin. “You see, Vor? The shades are not infallible. They tried their best to stop us and failed. If they follow us into the necropolis, I promise you we will make them pay.”
The scarred guide said nothing. Malus turned, a jibe forming on his lips, but when he looked back his voice died in his throat.
There was no one there. Hathan Vor was gone.
Chapter Seven
THE HOUSES OF THE DEAD
“Blessed Mother of Night,” Malus said breathlessly, staring into the depths of the forest as though Vor might appear from the undergrowth at any moment. Just then the banks of ferns and vines thrashed back and forth and one of the tail-end guides appeared, his eyes wide and fearful. The druchii pulled up short. “Where’s Vor?” he asked, his voice growing thin with panic.
“Run,” Malus said. In one swift movement he swung into Spite’s saddle. The druchii guide simply stared at him, still getting to grips with Vor’s disappearance. Malus clouted the man on the shoulder with the flat of his sword. “Run, damn you!”
The man lurched into motion and Malus spurred his mount into a ground-eating trot. Spite wove easily among the thinning trees, his loping strides carrying him past the lead druchii guides and on into the outskirts of the necropolis. The cold one’s feet slapped against tightly fitted black cobblestones as the highborn brought his mount around and counted the heads of the druchii scrambling in his wake. He saw three of Vor’s men; the druchii charged with bringing up the rear of the column had yet to appear. Malus crouched low in the saddle, trying to make himself as small a target as possible as he scrutinised the tree line for signs of movement.
“Your master is gone,” the highborn told the frightened guides. “The cursed shades plucked him right out of our midst.”
The men looked to one another, their expressions stricken with panic. “What do we do?” one asked.
“What else? We make them pay,” Malus snapped. They’ve been toying with us since last night, thinking us easy prey. Now we have the chance to make them regret their arrogance.”
“No,” said another of the guides, an older man with a bald pate and a notch carved from his right nostril. This is madness. We can’t fight the autarii!”
Malus fixed the man with a burning glare. “What would you have us do, then? March like sheep into their stew pots? These savages eat city druchii, just like we would skin and eat a suckling pig. It’s fight or die, fool!”
“It was your stubbornness that got us into this,” the man shot back. “If we’d done as Vor said we’d be on the Slavers’ Road by now.” He turned to his compatriots. “I say we make a run for it and leave the highborn to his fate. It’s him the shades want, not us!”
Malus’ hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He was ready to strike the man’s insolent head from his shoulders when a thin scream echoed from the forest. The last of the guides stumbled through the trees, his face pale and his eyes wild. He saw Malus and his kin and stumbled towards them, his mouth working soundlessly. After a few steps he tripped on a root and tried to catch himself against the bole of a nearby tree, but his hand slipped on the wet bark and he went face down into the grass. Three crossbow bolts jutted from the man’s back and his robes were black with blood. The man shuddered once, then went still.
The highborn turned back to the assembled guides. “That is the fate that awaits you if you go back into those woods,” he said. “If you want to live, stay close to me. Now move!”
Without waiting for a response he kicked Spite into a trot and headed deeper into the shado
wy lanes of the necropolis.
Tall buildings of grey stone rose up around Malus, structures that would not have looked out of place in Hag Graef or any other prosperous druchii city. Tall, blade-like towers climbed into the leaden sky just beyond the square buildings, arrayed loosely on the left and right as the city of the dead worked its way along the twisting valley, climbing ever higher between mountains invisible behind clouds of mist and rain. For the first few moments Malus felt a sense of dislocation so powerful it crowded all other thoughts out of his mind. The sense of homecoming was so potent that he caught himself looking to the sky, expecting to see the clustered spires of the Hag.
He rode upon a main avenue of sorts, a road of black stone that followed the valley floor between the serried ranks of crypts and monuments. Side lanes ran off at irregular intervals from the main road, leading to specific tombs. Malus studied the layout keenly and formed a battle plan. The highborn twisted in the saddle to see the three surviving guides hot on his heels, then led Spite down a side lane shrouded in afternoon shadow.
About twenty yards down the lane another road branched away to the right, leading to what appeared to be a decorative stone garden. A large structure stood at the corner—possibly a representation of a flesh house or a house of sport. Strangely tall, square windows lined the building’s facade on both street fronts, black gaps in the grin of a grey skull. It would do, Malus decided, baring his teeth.
He drew Spite to a stop and turned to the men. The highborn indicated two of them with his sword and pointed down the side road in the direction of the garden. “You two keep heading that way,” he ordered. And make all the noise you can.”
The men nodded, breathing hard. The third man—the bald druchii who had argued for abandoning Malus—looked to the highborn and said, “What about us?”
Malus gestured at the building with his chin. “Inside. When the shades run past, we give them a taste of their own mischief.” He turned back to the two decoys. “When you hear Spite roar, turn back and help us cut some throats.”
The men grinned evilly and headed off towards the garden, their boots splashing through the puddles scattered along the street.
Malus slipped from the saddle and led the nauglir to the closest window. The warbeast sniffed at the darkness beyond the portal and leapt through the opening with surprising agility. The highborn waved the bald druchii inside and then followed right on his heels.
The air inside was musty and dank. He could see nothing beyond the faint squares of weak grey light painted on the floor by the setting sun. Drifts of dust puffed from long cracks that ran in wild patterns across the stone floor and Malus heard an ominous groan echo from the rafters above. Small wonder these old buildings haven’t fallen to pieces in all this time, he thought to himself. It would be just my luck to come this far and die because I leaned against the wrong pillar and brought a ton of rock down on my head.
There was the sound of ponderous flesh sliding over stone as Spite shifted about in the blackness. “Stand,” Malus hissed and was rewarded with the shuffling thud of the nauglir settling onto the stone.
“What now?” the bald druchii whispered.
“Wait and watch,” Malus said, barely loud enough to be heard. “Stand just beyond the light and watch the street outside. Move only when I do.”
The highborn heard a faint grunt in reply. It occurred to him that the bald guide would never have a better opportunity to cut his throat and make a run for it, but Malus pushed the thought from his mind. He counted on the druchii sensibility for vengeance outweighing craven cowardice and turned to watch the shadowy lane.
At once Malus saw a flaw in his plan. Rain made a grey haze in the air and much of both lanes held pools of deep shadow that he couldn’t see into—only a narrow band of roadway running down the middle of both lanes was fully lit. The stealthy autarii could keep out of the dim light and slip right past Malus’ ambush if he wasn’t very careful. The highborn took a deep breath and tried to concentrate, careful to focus on the larger picture in front of him rather than narrow in on a specific area or set of details. When the moment came it would announce itself with subtle shifts in the view outside—motion that would register at the corners of Malus’ vision rather than rushing past in plain sight.
For several long minutes nothing happened. Malus could distantly hear his decoys somewhere in or near the garden, calling out to one another. Nothing stirred in the shadows outside. Could the shades have already slipped past him? There was no way to know.
Spite shifted ever so slightly. Malus almost turned to silence the beast when his eye caught the barest hint of movement, a subtle change in the depth of the shadows opposite the building they were in. It could have been a trick of the light—or his weary mind—but then he saw it again. The shades were creeping down the road, stealing silently up to the men in the garden.
Malus grinned in the darkness. “Up, Spite,” he hissed and as the nauglir rose to its feet he raised his sword. “Now!” he cried and raced for the window.
The highborn leapt into the street with a piercing war scream, his blade held high. Haifa dozen crossbows thumped in response, but the shades had been taken by surprise and the bolts went wide of their mark, shattering against the side of the building in a storm of razor-sharp fragments.
Malus counted at least ten autarii in the shadows outside the building. Six of them worked the reloading levers of their crossbows while the rest leapt at the highborn with short swords glinting wickedly in their hands. A year ago the sight might have filled him with dread, now his heart sang with savage exultation as the battle was joined.
The shades’ weapons were almost a foot shorter than Malus’ lean, curved blade and the highborn took full advantage of it. He rushed at the foremost autarii, feinting at the man’s head with a flurry of blows. The shade was as quick as a snake, blocking left and right with short, ringing strokes—then Malus swept his sword in a wide, downward arc and struck the man’s leg just above the knee. The master-forged blade sliced through layered robes and into the flesh beneath, severing the leg in a shower of dark blood. The shade collapsed with an anguished scream but Malus was already gone, rushing forward to meet the next pair of foes.
They came at him from both sides at once; Malus leapt at the man on his right, driving the shade backwards with a lightning thrust at his eyes. The highborn stepped forward, opening his right side to the second autarii. The shade, seeing his opportunity, lunged forwards, his short blade stabbing for Malus’ throat. The autarii never reached his target; the highborn waited until the man had committed himself to his attack, then spun on his heel with a backhanded slash that struck the shade’s head from his shoulders. Malus spun back to face his second foe—and was surprised when the headless body of the man he’d just killed continued to stagger forward and crashed into him, knocking both of them to the ground.
Hot, salty blood splashed across Malus’ face as he landed on the rain-slicked cobblestones beneath the twitching corpse. There was the unmistakeable ringing sound of steel thudding into flesh—the other shade had rushed in and stabbed the wrong target in his haste. Malus writhed beneath the body, trying to push it aside and swing at the autarii at the same time. The shade leapt nimbly out of reach, which was all Malus could have asked for. He kicked the body off himself in the direction of his opponent and rolled in the opposite direction, getting as much distance as he could so that he could scramble to his feet.
The ground shook and a scaled foot the size of a large shield crashed down mere inches from Malus’ head. Spite let loose a thunderous roar as he charged into the melee, his dripping jaws snapping at the sword-wielding autarii. The shade screamed in fear and turned to run, but didn’t reckon on the nauglir’s surprising speed. Spite lunged, catching the autarii by the shoulder and shaking him like a rat in a terrier’s jaws. Ribs and collarbones snapped in a staccato series of pops and the shade went limp.
Malus changed direction, rolling away from the rampaging nauglir an
d staggering to his feet. He heard the sound of crossbows firing and more bolts hummed through the air. One glanced off the highborn’s left pauldron and then struck the building opposite. Other bolts struck Spite in the shoulder and flank, eliciting a roar of pure rage from the angry beast. The highborn watched the cold one spin in place, his blunt snout snapping at the shaft of a bolt jutting from his shoulder. Whether by accident or design, his lashing tail smashed into one of the crossbowmen, flinging the shade down the street in a welter of crimson and splintered wood. The highborn caught sight of the bald druchii grappling with another of the shades, the points of their short blades quivering before one another’s throats.
There was a grunt and a metallic clicking sound to Malus’ right. He turned to see another of the autarii intent on reloading his crossbow. The highborn leapt at him with a maddened howl.
Time slowed as he raced across the street, closing the distance with the crossbowman as swiftly as he could. Malus continued to howl like one of the damned, hoping to unnerve the man enough so that he couldn’t ready his crossbow in time. It was a deadly race—one Malus lost.
The autarii levelled the crossbow and fired while Malus was still a few yards out of reach. He tried to twist out of the way, but the bolt flashed across the intervening space like lightning. There was a sharp impact against his shoulder, then a white-hot blast of pain that drove the air from his lungs.
Malus stumbled, struggling to breathe, but caught himself and leapt forward. The shade’s fierce grin turned to a rictus of agony as the highborn drove the point of his sword into the autarii’s groin. The man collapsed, writhing in a spreading pool of blood as the highborn crashed headlong into the stone wall on the far side of the street. He leaned there for a moment, panting for breath and watching heavy drops of red run down the shaft of the crossbow bolt jutting from his left shoulder. They splashed like raindrops at his feet, the sharp pain pulsing in time with his labouring heart.