by Dan Abnett
Before Malus knew it, his sword was naked in his hand and he’d crossed half the distance to Vanhir when Lhunara let out a sharp hiss. “Horse’s hooves! Someone’s riding fast up the road from the Hag!”
Malus restrained himself with an effort of will. He cocked his head, straining to hear over the restless wind, but heard nothing. But the highborn knew better than to doubt Lhunara’s keen senses. He leapt into the saddle, blade still in hand. “Off the road! Quickly!”
The three druchii spurred their mounts back to the rest of the warband. Malus quickly sized up the terrain. They were in the foothills north and west of the Dragonspines, a place of dense woods and treacherous marshes. Off the road to the left were stagnant pools and stands of tall thorngrass, leading back to dense woods and underbrush on the other side of a shallow pond. “That way!” he pointed with his sword. “Into the tree line across the pond!”
Dalvar was kneeling by the fallen warrior, whose convulsions had eased but who still seemed incapable of moving. “What about him?”
“Put his sword in his hand and leave him, or stay behind and die at his side!”
For a moment, Dalvar looked ready to protest, but the sound of distant hoof beats galvanised him into action. He drew the man’s sword and pressed it into the druchii’s palm, then scrambled into the saddle and joined the warband as they dashed across the fen.
The cold ones handled the terrain with ease, something a horse would have been hard-pressed to emulate. They nosed into the thick undergrowth, panicking small animals in their path and brushing aside thickets of brambles without slowing their stride. Once out of sight, the druchii dismounted, and Malus led them back to the edge of the trees. “Crossbows ready,” he ordered as they settled down behind fallen logs and thick underbrush. “No one fires unless I give the word.”
Malus took cover behind a broad oak tree. Dalvar settled into a crouch beside him. “Another minute and he’d have been ready to move,” the retainer growled.
“Then it’s fortunate for us that our pursuit came early and Atalvyr could still serve us as bait.”
Before Dalvar could reply, a group of riders swept into view riding tall black warhorses. They wore heavy black cloaks with full hoods, and held long, ebon-hafted spears in their hands. One of the riders surveyed the area surrounding the fallen druchii, and Malus saw moonlight glint on a silver steel night-mask. Urial’s men all right, Malus noted. They must have left right on our heels to have caught up with us so quickly. He counted only five riders, however, which surprised him. Possibly an advance force, hurriedly dispatched ahead of a larger hunting party? He and his men would make short work of these riders, and hide the bodies in the fen.
Until he noticed that something wasn’t quite right about the men and their mounts. Steam curled from the horses’ muscular flanks, and they pranced and pawed at the earth as though fresh from the stables, not at the end of leagues of hard riding. And there was something strange about the riders themselves -the way their masked faces turned first one way and then another, like hounds searching for a scent.
Suddenly the air shook with a deep-throated roar as Atalvyr’s cold one rose from its haunches and crept up onto the road. The slow-witted beast had finally caught the horses’ scent; nauglir loved the taste of horseflesh.
Malus’ concern deepened when none of the horses panicked at the nauglir’s hunting roar. The riders reined their mounts around to face the approaching cold one, moving as though driven by a single mind. Malus felt the cold touch of dread run a talon down his spine.
The cold one leapt, and the riders spurred their mounts to meet it. At the last minute they split to either side of the beast, but one horse was not as fast as its mates and the nauglir knocked it to the ground with its powerful shoulder, then locked its jaws around the animal’s neck. The horse screamed — not a cry of fear or pain, however, but of rage. Its rider rolled easily out of the saddle and sprang to his feet, readying his spear.
The other riders struck at both of the cold one’s flanks, driving their spears deep into the beast’s side. The nauglir roared and lashed its tail, catching one rider full in the chest. There was a splintering sound and the rider flew backwards out of the saddle, landing in a misshapen heap almost fifteen feet away.
“That’s one!” Dalvar hissed triumphantly.
“No,” Malus said. “Look.”
The broken, twisted shape was still moving. As they watched, the man pushed himself to his knees, then climbed to his feet. One arm hung limp, and the man’s ribcage was clearly smashed — yet he stood, and drew his sword, and rejoined the fight.
Even the horse the cold one had bitten had scrambled back up and bolted away from the creature, blood pouring from its neck.
The cold one thrashed and spun in a wide circle, trying to attack all its tormentors at once. Its flanks bristled with long spears, and a huge pool of crimson melted the snow beneath its scaly body. The first dismounted rider was edging closer, his spear levelled at the nauglir’s right eye, waiting for the right moment to strike. Sensing his opportunity, he leapt forward -right into the creature’s gaping jaws.
The beast had not been as oblivious to the man’s approach as it had appeared. It moved like a striking snake, taking man, spear and all into its fanged mouth up to the rider’s waist. It bit down with a shattering crunch, spraying blood in a wide fan, and shook the man in its teeth like some great terrier with a rat.
The other riders paused, seemingly considering their next move — then suddenly the cold one let out a strangled cry. It shook its head fiercely once more, then swayed on its feet. Suddenly Malus saw the creature’s skin start to bulge slightly, just behind the eyes, and then with a sharp cracking sound, a silver steel spearhead punched through the nauglir’s skull from the inside out. Blood and brain matter stained the sharp point. The beast gave a shudder, then collapsed.
“Blessed Mother of Night,” Dalvar said, his voice strained. “What are those things?”
“They are… murder given form,” Malus said, struggling to believe what he’d seen with his own eyes. “Urial must be very, very angry.” Or possibly afraid, he thought with a start. If so, the treasure that awaits must be very great indeed.
While they watched, the remaining three riders dismounted and drew their swords. One began cutting into the nauglir’s side, while the others started hacking the beast’s skull apart to free their companion. Within a few moments’ time the spearman staggered free, his entrails spilling from his ravaged belly and catching on the beast’s jagged teeth.
The third swordsman pulled the nauglir’s steaming heart from its chest and held it up to the sky. The other four lurched over to him, and one by one pressed the great organ to their bodies, sluicing gouts of sticky blood across their chests. The two wounded riders seemed to gain strength from their enemy’s lifeblood; their wounds did not heal, but neither were they any longer a hindrance. Suddenly moonlight glinted on a spinning blur of metal and a dagger sprouted from the throat of one of the riders. Atalvyr let out a fevered howl of challenge, holding his sword before him as he swayed on unsteady feet.
The riders turned to face the warrior as if noticing him for the first time. The stricken rider reached up and slowly pulled the needle-bladed knife from his throat.
As one, they advanced.
Malus considered the odds and bit back a curse. “That’s it. I’ve seen enough. We’re getting out of here, as quickly as we can.”
“But our crossbows—” Dalvar began.
“Don’t be a fool, Dalvar. It wouldn’t make any difference.” The highborn’s hand went to the cold lump of metal and stone beneath the lip of his breastplate. “The only reason we’re still alive right now is because of your mistress’ talismans, but I’ll wager that if these hounds get much closer they’ll be able to sense the skull no matter what, and then we’ll be finished.”
There was a clash of steel back by the road. Malus turned away. Dalvar watched, his eyes widening. “Where are we going to go?�
�
“Back through these woods, for a start, and then up into the hills. These… killers… are going to be searching the Spear Road for us, all the way to the Tower of Ghrond and possibly beyond. We must find another way across the frontier and into the Wastes.”
Dalvar’s eyes widened. “Back into the hills? But they’re full of Shades!”
“That’s what I’m counting on. If anyone can get us through the mountains unseen, it is they.”
The retainer’s face twisted in fear. “You’re mad! The things they do to trespassers—”
“I would rather try my luck with a foe that dies when I pierce his heart!” Malus snarled. “If we stay here, we die.”
The highborn pulled back deeper into the woods, and one by one, the rest of the warband followed. The screams of the man they’d left behind echoed through the snowy trees long after he was lost to sight.
Chapter Nine
FELL SHADOWS
Spite lowered on his haunches and leapt again, rear legs clawing for purchase on the frozen, leafy ground. The talons of his left hind leg caught on a thin sapling. For a moment the green wood held, then splintered under the huge beast’s weight. The cold one started to slide again and Malus threw himself against Spite’s hindquarters, pushing for all he was worth. The weary nauglir leapt as though stung, whipping about and snapping at the highborn in irritation.
Dagger-like teeth clashed shut less than a foot from Malus’ face, spraying him with thick tendrils of poisonous slime. Malus snarled and punched the cold one full on the nose, and the beast whipped back around with a roar, stomping further up the slope. The highborn wiped his face and thanked the Dark Mother that they’d at least managed to climb a little further up the hill.
It had been two days since the terrible encounter on the Spear Road, and Malus doubted that they’d covered more than ten miles in the rugged, densely-wooded terrain of the Dragonspine foothills. Each night the warband made camp wherever they happened to be when the weak sunlight faded from the cloudy sky. Each time they built a small fire and roasted some of their precious store of meat, and each time they laid out a generous portion on a plate in a place of honour, hoping that one of the hill-druchii would accept the invitation and enter the camp. So far, the Shades had kept to themselves.
Malus was certain they were out there. The legends said that when the druchii came to Naggaroth, some two thousand men, women and children turned their backs on the great Black Arks and the nascent great cities, travelling instead into the mountainous wilderness to live according to their own laws.
No one knew how many had survived those first few years in the pitiless Land of Chill, but it was well known that the Autarii — the Shades — claimed much of the mountain country north of Hag Graef as their own, and did not suffer intruders lightly. At various times he’d felt his scalp prickle with the undeniable sensation that they were being watched, but not even the nauglir smelled any threats nearby. For whatever reason, the hill-folk were keeping their distance.
Privately, Malus hoped that the Autarii would take their invitation soon. After only two days in the hills he’d begun to seriously consider heading back for the road and taking his chances with Urial’s riders. Hour after hour of steep slopes, frozen ground and treacherous underbrush had sapped the warband’s strength.
The nauglir were hungry and irritable because Malus had been forced to ration their meat. Each beast could easily consume a full-grown deer or a human body each day, and the highborn was very leery of sending out hunting parties when the risk of ambush was so great. The warband bore the conditions stoically, though more than once Malus had caught sight of Dalvar whispering quietly among Nagaira’s other retainers. It could be nothing, but he couldn’t afford to take that chance. The question, Malus thought, is what could he do about it?
Spite paused, and Malus suddenly realised that they had reached the top of the slope. He reached out and tugged on the beast’s thickly muscled tail. “Stand,” he commanded, a little breathlessly, and the cold one eagerly complied, snowflakes steaming off its scaly hide.
Malus clambered up alongside the cold one and saw that the trees were considerably thinner on the reverse slope, affording a good view of the next hill over and the small vale in between. In the far distance, he could see the dark, broken teeth of the Shieldwall, the huge east-west mountain range that marked the beginning of the frontier. Leagues and leagues away, Malus thought tiredly. It’ll take a thousand years to get there at this pace.
The crackle of brush behind him brought Malus’ head around. Dalvar clambered up alongside him using a roughly carved cedar stick for support. The druchii’s normally smug face was flushed and worn. “It will be dark soon,” the retainer said, leaning a little on his makeshift staff. “The men are exhausted, dread lord, and the nauglir besides. If we make camp now, we might have a little light left over to hunt for some fresh meat.”
Malus shook his head. “No hunting, Dalvar. I’ll not lose men to Autarii crossbows.” He indicated the vale below. “There is some clear ground down there, and what looks to be a stream. We’ll set up camp there.”
Dalvar surveyed the vale wearily. “We’ll get weaker every day at this pace. Soon the Autarii won’t need to pick us off one by one — they’ll just send their striplings in to round us up with willow switches.”
“City living has made you soft,” Malus said with a snort. “Right now the Shades are testing us, gauging our strength. Each day sees us a few miles deeper into their domain. As long as we keep our force together and afford them no opportunity for easy ambushes, the Shades will have to choose a different tactic — and accepting our invitation is the simplest and easiest option available. They know we’re interested in talking with them,” Malus said confidently. “Sooner or later they’re bound to become curious.”
It was well known that, like any druchii, the Autarii had a mercenary streak. Shades served wealthy warlords as hired scouts and skirmishers, and when the Witch King rode to war, entire tribes of Shades marched in the vanguard and claimed their share of the plunder.
“Or they could simply wait until we’re too weak from hunger to fight back and take us all captive. Your man Vanhir says that the Autarii bargain only when they have no other choice.”
You’ve been talking to Vanhir, have you? How disquieting, the highborn mused. I’ll have to have a talk with Lhunara about that. “If they ambush us as a group, we can fight them off — possibly even kill one or more of them. They’re excellent woodsmen, but they lack good armour and we have the nauglir on our side. The cold ones will warn us if they catch the scent of a large ambush party. No, I think we still hold a slight advantage here if we stay disciplined.”
Dalvar gave Malus a long look that was frankly doubtful, if not outright challenging. “Then I suppose we’ll see what the night brings,” he said, then turned and made his way carefully back down the slope.
Malus watched him go. “Tread carefully, Dalvar,” he said. “The footing here is more dangerous than it appears.”
“Thank you for the warning, dread lord,” the rogue replied over his shoulder. “You’d do well to remember that yourself.”
You’re going to have to die, Dalvar, Malus thought. And it is going to have to happen soon, unless I can find a way to discredit you in the eyes of your men. But how?
“Up,” Malus commanded, slapping Spite’s flank. “It’s downhill from here, and then you can rest.”
The nauglir lurched forward, muscles bunching in its shoulders and hips as it negotiated its way down the slope. Malus had to jog to keep pace, until suddenly the cold one let out a barking roar and broke into a run. “Spite! Stand!” he called, but the nauglir sped on, head low and tail stiff as a spear. He’s hunting, Malus realised. What’s he got wind of? A deer?
Then, farther upslope, he heard the other nauglir take up the roar as well, and Malus suddenly realised he was in the path of a multi-tonne stampede. Thinking quickly, the highborn cut to the left and slightly back upslope
, knowing that there weren’t any trees or boulders large enough to protect him from an out-of-control cold one. He could only get out of the way as much as possible and hope for the best.
The hillside shook with dozens of pounding feet. The nauglir, being pack animals at heart, thundered down the slope in a single, lumbering mass, kicking up a huge cloud of powdery snow as they went. In their wake scrambled their owners, clambering down the hill and shouting ineffectual commands at the galloping beasts. Under other circumstances it might even have been amusing, but suddenly Malus felt very vulnerable indeed.
A deer wouldn’t have set them off like this, he reasoned. Not the entire pack. They only responded like that when they were hungry and there was blood in the air. Someone’s baited them, he thought. There’s probably a fresh deer kill in the copse of trees, its body opened to the cold air.
Malus felt his guts turn to ice. He saw that the nauglir were already halfway across the small meadow at the bottom of the hill, galloping for a small copse at the far end. The druchii were in hot pursuit, running lightly across the snowy field.
The warrior in the lead suddenly stumbled and fell. A heartbeat later the druchii behind him collapsed. Then the third warrior in line spun in a half circle, and this time Malus caught the blurred flight of the blunted crossbow bolt that struck the man in the centre of the forehead and dropped him to the snow. The ambushers were firing from the dense tree line on the opposite side of a winding streambed, and Malus’ men had nowhere to hide.
There was a faint scuffling sound behind him. Malus whirled, his sword springing from its scabbard, and caught the knobbed end of the Autarii’s club right between the eyes.