by Dan Abnett
“Why did you bring him here?” the older druchii said angrily. “He’s a highborn, take him to his tent and let his people care for him. We’ve too much to do as it is.”
“If he had his own healer do you think I’d be wasting my time with the likes of you?” Eluthir answered haughtily. “And he’s no mere highborn, either—he’s Malus of Hag Graef, second-in-command of the army!”
“Mother of Night,” the chirurgeon cursed. “All right,” he said querulously and knelt beside the highborn. “What happened to him?”
“We were in battle, you old fool,” the young knight snapped. The enemy general struck him in the head with a mace. It was just a glancing blow—”
“Obviously, or else you wouldn’t be here troubling me,” the chirurgeon grumbled. He reached down and grabbed Malus by the jaw with one rough hand, then bent over and peered into the highborn’s eyes. “Can you hear me?” he asked, speaking slowly. Malus grunted an affirmative. The chirurgeon nodded and waggled his fingers in front of the highborn’s eyes. “Well enough,” the older man said, then took his hands and ran them carefully around Malus’ scalp from around the eyes all the way to the back of the skull. Sharp pain blossomed on the left side of his head and Malus hissed warningly at the healer. The chirurgeon nodded and pulled away, his left hand wet with blood.
“There are two sizeable punctures, probably from bits of his broken helmet,” the older druchii said. “His skull seems intact, but I don’t doubt it’s been cracked like a boiled egg. Take him to his tent and get him some hushalta. He should rest for several days and you should have someone watch him closely the entire time. If his health holds up through tonight, he should be all right.”
Eluthir was incredulous. “That’s all? Give him mother’s milk and let him sleep it off like he’s had too much wine?”
The chirurgeon was about to give the young knight a blistering reply when Malus cut in. “Get me up,” he said weakly. “I don’t need a chirurgeon. Let him go about his business, Eluthir.”
The older druchii looked down at Malus and bowed his head respectfully, then hurried off. Malus tried to lever himself into a sitting position and Eluthir took his arm and pulled him clumsily upright. At once the highborn felt a wave of dizziness and nausea sweep over him, but he closed his eyes and bit his lip until it passed. “What happened?” he finally managed to ask. When he opened his eyes, Eluthir was still supporting him. Nearby, Spite and Eluthir’s cold one sat on their haunches, their snouts, forelimbs and chests brown with dried blood. The two highborn were, if anything, even filthier.
“You stabbed one of the general’s men and then he hit you—” Eluthir began.
“I know that part,” Malus snapped. He caught himself reaching back to probe at the back of his skull and forced himself to lower his hand. The vision—or was it a hallucination?—was still strong in his mind. “How goes the battle?”
“Ah, of course!” Eluthir’s face brightened. “We’ve won, my lord. Our charge carried the day—when we broke through the spear companies covering the road, the enemy called up their reserves, but Lord Kethair’s fresh troops hit the enemy’s flank and the enemy spear line broke. The fight in the centre stayed hot for a few minutes more, because the general seemed to realise who he’d hit and ordered his men to seize you. The household knights put a stop to that, though. Lord Gaelthen killed the last of the general’s bodyguards and would have gone after the general himself except that the enemy’s reserves arrived and covered his escape.” The young knight’s face was alight with triumph. “I slew one of the general’s bodyguards myself. Took his fine sword and hung his head from my saddle. He was a quick one, but I—”
“Where is the army now, Eluthir?” Malus prodded.
“The army? Strung out halfway between the ruins and Blackwater Ford by now. Lord Fuerlan ordered a general pursuit with the cavalry and the household knights to hunt down and finish off the enemy banners. The infantry is re-forming at the ruins—from what I could tell, they took a bad beating. Some of the spearmen were saying Lord Kethair himself had been killed, but there’s no way to tell just yet.”
“And the scouts?”
“Well, you can ask them yourself if you want.” Eluthir pointed to a group of shades crouching some distance away. “Fuerlan had no orders for them and your autarii girl took some of her men and followed me back when she heard you’d been wounded.” The young knight eyed Malus and gave him a roguish wink. That one would make a feisty concubine, wouldn’t she?”
Malus stopped the conversation with a sharp look. His mind was working furiously, trying to take stock of the situation. He eyed the shades and one of the things the autarii girl had told him sprang to mind. The highborn glanced at Eluthir. “One last question: where is Nagaira?”
Eluthir frowned. “Last I saw, she was still with Lord Fuerlan, but that was before he took off with the cavalry. I expect she’s still at the ruins, or on her way back here.”
The highborn nodded. It was the best chance he was likely to get. He looked about the camp, getting his bearings, then beckoned to the shades. They rose to their feet and glided soundlessly to him. The autarii girl pulled back her hood and regarded him closely. “Is my lord well?” she asked.
“Well enough,” Malus answered. Tell me: do you know where my sister’s tent lies?”
After a moment she nodded. “It is near the general’s tent. Black sides and small runes over the doorframe. It stinks of magic.”
Malus nodded. “Leave one man behind to guide us, then take the rest and scout it out. See if there is anyone inside.”
A knowing look came into the scout’s eye and she nodded, hissing curt orders to her companions in an impenetrable autarii dialect. The shades slipped gracefully among the clustered tents, leaving a young man behind who beckoned to Malus and started off after his mates. The highborn pushed away from Eluthir and followed on unsteady legs.
“My lord?” the young knight said. “My lord? What are we doing?”
Malus looked back at Eluthir and smiled. “Why, we’re going to ransack my sister’s tent, of course,” he said. “There’s something of mine I’m looking for and I think she has it.”
“Oh. I see,” he said, though the bemused look on his face suggested otherwise. “I’ll go and get the nauglir.”
The tent’s doorframe was narrow and formed of some polished, black wood, making the carved runes nearly invisible to the naked eye. Malus peered closely at them, careful not to cross the threshold and tried to make out their meanings, but it was an exercise in futility. “I doubt they are charms to keep the dust and the flies out,” he muttered. He glanced at the autarii girl beside him. You are certain there is no one inside?”
She nodded. “I counted all her retainers with her on the field this morning and none have returned.” As she spoke, her eyes wandered up and down the lane running past the tent’s entrance. The rest of the shades had disappeared, on the lookout for Nagaira or her men.
Malus scratched at clots of dried blood caking his narrow chin. “I suppose the tent walls are warded as well.”
“Most like, but that is of little consequence.”
“Oh?”
The girl took another look around, then went around to the back of the tent. “A ward on a tent wall only awakens when the fabric is cut,” she said, studying the shelter’s exterior. “So the challenge is to slip past without cutting it.” The autarii’s gaze settled on two tent stakes, about four feet apart. She pointed at one and knelt by the other. Take hold of that rope and unwind it. Keep it taut, lest the side of the tent collapse.”
The highborn unwrapped the guy rope, digging in his heels at the surprising weight pulling at the line. The side of the tent started to fold, but he took the rope in both hands and pulled it taut again. The scout had undone her own rope and beckoned to Malus with her free hand. “Good. Now pass your rope to me.”
Carefully, Malus worked his way over and guided his rope into her small hand. She wound the line around her wr
ist and palm and held it effortlessly. “All right,” she said absently and slowly inched forward. The side of the tent started to fold inward, losing tension. Abruptly she stopped. “There. Now you should be able to slide underneath.”
Concealing his surprise at the girl’s strength, Malus edged forward and got down on his belly. There was just enough of a gap for him to wriggle under. Once he was past the tent wall he straightened again and found himself in a narrow compartment where one or more slaves were meant to sleep. He stepped over the neatly stacked bedrolls and pushed aside the inner flap to enter the tent’s main chamber.
The air was close and thick with incense and the black roof let in little light to see by. Three banked braziers cast a dull, red glow over the rug-lined floor. Once he had let his eyes adjust, Malus could make out a low, narrow bed in one corner, then a table with two chairs near one of the braziers. Two large sub-chambers were partitioned off from the main chamber, each on opposite sides of the tent. Both were enclosed by walls of tanned hide and accessed by a heavy leather entry flap. One of the sub-chambers reeked of spilled blood and magic, causing his skin to crawl.
There was nothing of interest in the main room, Malus quickly realised. After a moment, he took a wary step towards the sub-chamber that smelled of fresh blood.
“You are the arrow, Malus.”
Malus whirled. The voice had come from the second sub-chamber, on the other side of the room.
It was the voice from his vision.
“What do you mean?” Malus asked. Who are you?”
There was no answer. The highborn rushed across the room and drew back the leather entry flap. There was no one there. Instead, Malus saw a chair and a travelling table covered in parchment sheets and heavy, leather-bound books. Another small table was stacked with arcane objects—goblets, bottles of coloured glass, sheathed daggers and a small wooden chest carved with sorcerous glyphs.
“Im hallucinating,” he muttered to himself. “There’s no other explanation.” But what did the voice mean, he wondered?
He went to the desk and began leafing through the pages. They were all very old, the parchment dry and brittle to the touch. Nearly all of the pages seemed to map the sprawling tunnels of an enormous labyrinth, with notes written in faded black ink. The writing appeared to be druchast, but he couldn’t make out a single word. Malus grimaced in annoyance. “Some damned sorcerer’s code.”
Malus studied the curving paths for several moments, trying to divine what they were. They looked familiar somehow, but he couldn’t quite place them.
Outside Malus heard muffled hoof beats. He froze, listening intently, but the riders passed on by the tent. Nagaira could be here any minute, he thought. Keep looking!
He turned his attention to the books piled on Nagaira’s table and picked up the one on top. It was a large, heavy volume, with faded yellow pages and heavy iron clasps binding the cover.
After several moments of fumbling with the clasps, the book fell open to a spot marked with a flat braid of black hair. The pages contained an elaborate drawing of the front and back of a naked druchii male. The body was covered in line after line of elaborate script.
Malus set the open book down and pulled off his left gauntlet. His bare hand trembled slightly as he held it over the book and compared the runes on his hand to the ones on the page. They matched in every particular.
There were lengthy sections of text describing the ritual involved, all written in a language Malus had never seen before. Page after page of writing, evidently detailing a powerful and complex spell. “So you cured me of a fever, dear sister?” Malus hissed.
He was just about to close the book when he noticed a notation in the margin of one of the pages. The ink was fresh and the writing was obviously Nagaira’s: If memories can be walled away, can thoughts be channelled to suit the sorcerer?”
The knight’s voice spoke behind Malus. “Does an arrow choose where it is shot, or who it strikes down?”
When the highborn turned, no one was there. “Speak plainly, spirit!” Malus snapped in frustration. “What does Nagaira intend for me?”
There was no reply, but Malus heard a faint scratching against the side of the tent. “What is it?” he asked in a low voice.
“Horses on the Spear Road
,” the autarii girl hissed. “Nagaira has entered the camp.”
“Mother of Night,” Malus cursed. Acting quickly, he closed the book and returned it to its place. He gave the second table a quick once-over, looking for anything of interest. None of the bottles were labelled and he wasn’t about to start tasting them. “Would it be too much to ask for one to have the word “antidote” written on it?” he grumbled.
Lastly he examined the wooden box. The clasps were simple enough and didn’t look to have hidden needles in them. He undid them and opened the lid. Inside he found three strange objects: an octagonal medallion etched with runes, a small brass idol and a long, narrow black dagger. “Now what are these?” he muttered.
The scratching came again. “Hurry, my lord! She is almost here!”
For a moment he was tempted to take the relics, thinking he might use them to force Nagaira to release her hold over him—but then realised that all she had to do was command him to hand them over and he would have no choice but to comply. He snapped the box shut with a snarl and rushed from the chamber, heading for the tent’s entry flap. He gambled that the wards laid upon the entryway weren’t meant to keep people inside from getting out, so he pushed the heavy leather hanging aside and dashed out into the bright sunlight. Only then did he realise that his head was pounding fiercely and his legs would barely support his weight. He took a deep breath and managed to compose himself just as Nagaira and her retinue appeared, trotting their lathered horses down one of the camp’s main avenues.
The witch noticed Malus in an instant and turned towards him. He watched her approach, suddenly aware that the autarii girl had disappeared. Damned useful skill, he thought enviously.
Nagaira reined in her horse a few feet from Malus, close enough that the highborn could feel the destrier’s hot breath on his cheek. The witch’s retainers dismounted, seeing to their own horses and Malus noticed a sheepish-looking Lord Eluthir bringing up the rear with Spite in tow.
“Your retainer says you were looking for me,” Nagaira said forbiddingly.
“I was,” he said, thinking quickly. He held up his bare hand. “I was wondering how I could remove these tiresome marks. It’s been almost a week. Surely you don’t expect my fever to return at this point, do you?”
To Malus’ eyes, Nagaira seemed to relax slightly. “The magic makes the ink difficult to erase,” she said smoothly. “Have patience. You won’t have to worry about it much longer.”
Malus forced himself to smile. “That’s a relief,” he said. “What news of the battle, sister?”
Nagaira slipped from the saddle and passed the reins to one of her men. “Our noble general has chased the enemy nearly all the way back to Blackwater Ford,” she said absently. The last we heard, he’d sent a messenger back to summon the infantry to join him at the ford. Something about a rearguard of enemy spears guarding the river crossing.”
The highborn frowned. “A rearguard? But that makes no sense. The enemy general had taken pains to ensure we couldn’t slip past him through the woods and cut him off. If he’d had those spears with him at the ruins he could have done us much more harm.” His eyes widened. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
Suddenly Malus realised why the enemy force at the ruins troubled him. “Unless they never meant to stop us at the ruins in the first place,” he said, his pulse quickening. The bulk of the enemy army is waiting at the ford. Fuerlan has been lured into a trap!”
In retrospect, the clues had been there all along, Malus thought angrily as he and Eluthir raced south along the Spear Road
. Shadows raced in the highborn’s wake as the army’s scouts ran along behind the galloping nauglir.
They hadn’t seen a large detachment of knights at the ruins. What army of Hag Graef would march without a large force of knights, especially where the honour of the city was concerned? Also, the advance party Malus and his knights had ambushed the day before had been too large for the relatively small force that had been waiting for them this morning. If he had to guess, Malus figured that the full army had originally intended to camp at the ruins, but the general had changed his plans once he’d learned that his advance party had been destroyed by a large Naggorite force. So he’d laid an ambush at the ford and had gone ahead to present himself as bait. Now the Naggorites had taken the lure and had rushed forward into the trap’s steel jaws.
Malus bit back his rage as he and Eluthir rode up on the last column of spearmen to leave the ruins in response to Fuerlan’s message. The highborn nudged Spite off the road and raced past the tired-looking warriors. He tried to force his aching mind to calculate distances and times. If they were only three miles or so from the ford and all the infantry were on the road in column, then the lead banner of spearmen was at least halfway there. There might still be time to salvage the situation if they moved quickly.
Nearly ten minutes later they reached the head of the long, snaking line of spearmen. Lord Ruhven’s banner was in the lead, the old warrior marching alongside his men as tradition demanded. He glanced over as Malus drew alongside. “I heard you’d had your head knocked off back there in the ruins,” he said in a rough but cheerful voice.
“Wishful thinking I’m afraid,” Malus answered. “But the enemy will have another chance, I think. We’ve been tricked.”