by Dan Abnett
Someone was forcing a thin, bitter liquid down his throat. Malus gagged and spat, jerking his head violently away from the wooden tube that was being pushed between his lips. The motion set a flare of agony blooming behind his eyes and his stomach roiled. A calloused hand grabbed him by the jaw and despite the awful sickness he jerked his head once more and snapped at the offending hand, sinking his teeth deep into the flesh between forefinger and thumb. He tasted blood and his stomach finally betrayed him. The hand pulled free as he retched a thin stream of bile, and then the blackness behind his eyelids exploded with white fire as a fist smashed into his cheek.
The next thing he felt was a blade against his cheek. It was cold, rough and sharp, and he cried out in fury as it was slowly drawn against his skin, slicing easily through into the flesh beneath. The white-hot pain sharpened his senses into full awareness. He blinked his eyes as warm blood leaked down his face and when he could focus he saw the silhouette of a short, lean-limbed druchii standing before him.
The Shade’s sharply-angled features were covered in spiral tattoos of indigo and red, giving him a snarling, daemonic expression even when in repose. When he leered at Malus, his face was the very image of otherworldly hate. The man wore layers of loose robes and soft, leather boots, and an assortment of daggers protruded from a wide belt at his waist. He was backlit by a roaring fire that illuminated a small clearing surrounded by a circle of trees. More of the Shades crouched or paced around the roaring flames, most wearing cloaks of mottled greens and browns that blended artfully with the shadows of the forest. Each druchii in Malus’ warband was tied to one of the surrounding trees, as he was himself.
It was difficult to focus, despite the pain. It was full dark, with both moons shining in an unusually clear sky. Malus tried to think. How long was I out? Hours? Days? He tried to concentrate, tried to summon up the fires of his anger. “Misbegotten runt,” he snarled. “Is this how you treat an embassy from the great Vaulkhar of Hag Graef?”
The Shade cocked his head at the highborn’s outburst, then with a smile he brought the knife to his lips and licked the blood from its edge. His eyebrows rose appreciatively, and he turned to his compatriots, speaking in such thickly-accented druhir that Malus couldn’t understand a single word of. The men around the fire laughed, and the highborn didn’t like the sound.
“Have a care, my lord. The short one likes the way you taste.”
With an effort, Malus forced himself to turn his head towards the sound of the voice. Vanhir was bound to the tree immediately next to Malus, his face a mass of purple bruises. He spoke with effort through swollen lips. “The blood and flesh of highborn warriors is a delicacy to the hill clans, so I wouldn’t mention your father quite so forcefully if I were you.”
“You’re mad!” Malus exclaimed. “They wouldn’t eat their own kin—”
Vanhir managed a pained laugh. “We aren’t their kin,” he said. “We’re city folk, and prisoners besides. We’re just meat to them, fat and soft, like those Bretonnians were to us.”
There was a rattle and clink of metal near the fire. Malus looked and saw one of the Shades unfolding a roll of soft leather sewn with a number of different-sized pockets. A bone or wood handle protruded from each pocket. As the highborn watched, the short Autarii drew forth a pair of flensing knives and a well-polished bone saw.
“If you’re lucky and they’ve eaten recently, they might settle for just a hand or a forearm,” Vanhir said. “They’re very good at taking only what they need and keeping the victim alive for later.”
The short Autarii spoke, and several of his fellows went to work. One shook out a length of rope and looped it over a sturdy branch hanging near the fire. Another Shade took the end of the rope and walked over to Malus, looping the cord around the highborn’s ankles in a few swift, practiced strokes. Two others untied the bonds that held Malus to the tree, leaving his hands bound tightly behind his back.
“You wouldn’t dare!” Malus roared. “Touch me again with your filthy knives and by the Mother of Eternal Night I will call a curse down on you that will blight these hills for a thousand years!”
The short Autarii made a disgusted sound and barked a short command. Two of the Shades hauled on the rope and Malus was hoisted upside down, his body swinging perilously close to the fire. Rough hands stopped his pendular motion, and another Shade set a large brass bowl underneath his head.
Malus watched the short Autarii pull a sickle-shaped knife from the leather cloth. His body was trembling like a plucked wire, seething with white-hot rage. “Kill me and the Vaulkhar of the Hag will hunt you and your kind to extinction.”
The Shade stepped close and smiled, showing a mouth full of jagged teeth. “You are nothing but smoke, high man,” the Shade whispered, “in a moment — puff! You will be gone, as though you had never been. Your Vaulkhar will never know what became of you.”
The knife was cold as ice against Malus’ throat.
Chapter Ten
TRIALS AND TORMENTS
Suddenly there was a shout from the other side of the roaring fire, and the Shade paused. A harsh voice barked commands in rustic druhir, and the short Autarii answered in rapid-fire retorts that Malus couldn’t follow.
Without warning, the highborn was dropped to the ground, landing painfully on his shoulder and neck. Malus rolled onto his back, craning his head around to try to see what was going on.
There were a number of Shades standing at the edge of the firelight, led by a broad-shouldered Autarii with tattoos on both his face and hands. The other Shades who had been slinking about the fire backed away from these new Autarii, treating them with a mixture of deference and fear.
The heavily-tattooed Shade surveyed the bound druchii and rattled off a long query to his shorter cousin, who spat a quick reply. The newcomer asked another question, and this time got a longer response. The Shade rubbed his chin with a tattooed hand.
They’re haggling over us, Malus realised. And the prospective buyer doesn’t much care for the price.
The bigger Shade turned as if to say something to his fellows — and abruptly tackled the shorter Autarii. The two men rolled back and forth over the damp earth, and firelight glinted from the knives that had appeared in their hands. I see some things are still the same between us and the hill-folk, Malus noted.
There was the sound of steel against flesh, and the bigger Shade snarled in pain, but then Malus saw a tattooed hand shoot up and plunge its knife down with a meaty smack. The larger Autarii stabbed again and again, and the shorter man let out a single, bubbling cry before the struggling finally ceased.
The victor staggered to his feet, blood oozing from a cut to his arm. One look at the remaining Shades set them to work cutting Malus’ retainers from their trees.
A pair of rough hands hauled the highborn to his feet, and a knife slashed through the bonds at his ankles. The broad-shouldered Autarii spared him a single, appraising stare, then nodded in satisfaction and began looting the body of his dead foe. Before Malus could speak, he was spun around and propelled forward with a hard shove, towards the deep shadows beyond the fire.
Malus staggered a few steps, then regained his balance. Suddenly he spun, and in a few swift strides he reached the spot where his former captor lay. The highborn bent as close as he could to the Shade’s tattooed face; he was pleased to see the fading glow of life still there. “Savour your feast of blood and cold steel, runt,” he hissed. “I warned you what would happen if you trifled with me.”
There were angry shouts behind Malus, and the burly Shade reached up with a broad, scarred hand and shoved the highborn backwards with surprising ease. Malus crashed into two strong bodies. Hands grabbed his arms and a dark sack smelling of sweat and vomit was thrown over his head and tied loosely around his neck.
He marched for hours in stifling blackness with a rough hand clasping each of his arms, keeping him upright no matter how many roots he stumbled over.
Over time his head cleared,
and Malus strained to hear every sound emanating around him. He could hear the footfalls and curses of his warband, strung out in a line behind him. From the quiet conversations around him, he suspected that he’d been taken by a large group of Autarii, easily twice the size of his small band. From the relaxed way they talked, they were somewhere within their home territory, and thus had no fear of being attacked. He was further shocked to hear the somnolent groan of a nauglir far to the rear of the column; how the Shades had managed to handle the volatile cold ones was a mystery to him.
Time ceased to have meaning. The Shades seemed tireless, never pausing in their swift, ground-eating march. Malus concentrated on making his legs work, putting one foot in front of the other, until finally his whole world boiled down to a cycle of simple, rhythmic motion. Thus, he was surprised when his senses registered the smell of wood smoke and new voices penetrating the darkness of his hood.
Without warning, his minders came to a halt, and there was a brief exchange between them and their broad-shouldered leader. Just as abruptly the men were moving again, this time leading him off to the side and away from the rest of the group. They walked for several yards, and then a hand at the base of his neck bent him in an awkward bow and he was hurled unceremoniously forward. His foot hit something soft and he sprawled headlong, landing in what felt like a pile of furs or blankets.
There was another curt exchange of words behind him, and then the sounds of movement. Strong hands grasped him and turned him over, and then nimble fingers plucked at the ties around the hood. The vile sack was pulled away, and Malus greedily gulped at the smoke-tinged air.
His eyes, already accustomed to blackness, quickly took in his surroundings. He lay on his back amid a pile of furs, in what looked like a tent with a curved roof. There was a banked fire nearby, reflecting a wan, orange light against bent wood poles with rawhide lashings. There were three figures crouched over him, their hands gliding over his face and body. Fingertips brushed his head, lingering briefly at the swollen lump on his forehead, then floating over his patrician nose and down across his lips. Their touch was feather-light, unnaturally gentle. Then someone stoked the embers of the fire, and as the fire bloomed back into life Malus saw why.
Three druchii women crouched over him, each one dressed in a simple tunic of doeskin. Their heads were bald and tattooed with identical glyphs on their foreheads. Collars of beaten iron rested around their necks. Their ears were gone; nothing but lumps of gnawed scar tissue remained. The tips of long, ropy scars peeked from beneath the top and bottom of their collars, showing how their vocal chords had been crudely cut. The faces of the slaves hovered above him in the wavering light, their expressions seemingly rapt. Pools of darkness swallowed up the light in the holes where their eyes had once been.
“You lie in the tent of Urhan Calhan Beg,” croaked an old, implacable voice somewhere near the firelight. “You are to be treated as a guest, but first you must make the guest-oath.”
The blind slaves reached down as one and pulled Malus upright. He fought, but could not quite suppress, a shudder of loathing. To cripple a person — a druchii — in such a way, to rob them of their essential strength and then deny them the release of death was cruel beyond belief.
Once he was sitting up, Malus caught sight of the crone sitting by the fire. She was ancient, her alabaster features grown lustreless and still, like cold marble. The old woman moved slowly and carefully, as if each motion threatened to crumble her into dust. She reached out a long-fingered hand and fetched an object from a low shelf next to her.
The crone whispered a command and one of the blind slaves moved silently and surely to take the object from the crone’s hand and hold it before Malus. It was a statue, shaped from a dark rock that swallowed the light and was as cold as death itself. The carving was of a woman, sharp and slender as a blade, with cruel, cold features and deep-sunken eyes. The age of the thing surrounded it like a mantle of frost. It could have been carved in lost Nagarythe, thousands of years past.
“Swear upon the Dark Mother that you will make no attempt to escape from this camp, nor do any harm to your caretakers while you are a guest here.”
Malus considered for a moment, then nodded. “Before the Mother of Night, I swear it,” he said, and pressed his lips to the ancient stone.
The crone nodded solemnly as the slave returned the statue to her frail hands. “Undo his bonds.”
Two of the slaves undid the ropes around his wrists. Malus stretched his shoulders and tried to massage the feeling back into his hands. “Where are my men?” he asked.
The crone shrugged.
“Was it the Urhan who brought me here?”
“No. That was his second son, Nuall. I expect you are intended as an offering to appease his father’s wrath.”
“His wrath? Why?”
“Enough questions,” the crone hissed. “You are hungry. Eat.”
While he and the crone were talking the slaves had retreated to the other side of the tent. Now they returned, bearing a platter of bread and cheese and a goblet of spiced wine. The highborn ate swiftly and methodically, taking only small sips of the wine. The crone watched in funereal silence.
By the time Malus was done, a man’s face appeared at the entrance to the tent. “Come,” the Autarii said, beckoning to him. The highborn bowed respectfully to the impassive crone and stepped carefully into the night.
Once outside, Malus discovered that the night was all but gone; the sky above was paling with the touch of false dawn. Through the dimness, the highborn could see that he stood at the end of a narrow, wooded canyon that ended in a sheer wall of rock. Numerous other domed tents crouched amid the tall trees, surrounding a large, permanent structure of cedar logs and piled stone built out from the sheer cliff face — the longhouse of the Urhan. The Autarii headed for the building and Malus squared his shoulders and followed.
The air in the longhouse was raucous and smoky. Two large fireplaces dominated the long walls of the building and a blue haze of pipe-smoke curled and eddied among the cedar rafters of the ceiling. Piles of furs and floor pillows were thrown over a thick carpet of rushes, and the Autarii lounged about the single great room like a pack of wild dogs.
At the far end of the longhouse the Urhan Calhan Beg presided over his clan, sitting in the building’s single chair on a raised dais while attended by three female slaves. The druchii women had been blinded and rendered mute like the others in the Urhan’s tent. Malus watched as one of the slaves carefully served Beg a goblet of wine; he noted that the wretched creature was missing both of her thumbs.
Calhan Beg was an old, grey wolf of a man. He was lean and wiry and bore a multitude of scars from a lifetime spent battling man and beast alike. Half of his left ear had been gnawed away at some point, and a sword had cut a deep notch from the top of his prominent nose. Intricate tattoos covered face, neck, hands and forearms, speaking volumes of his deeds as warrior and chieftain. Beg had a long, drooping grey moustache and piercing blue eyes as cold and hard as sapphires. At present that pitiless stare was fixed on the man standing at the foot of the dais — his second son Nuall.
Malus’ guide picked his way across the crowded floor and the highborn passed in his wake, carefully ignoring the looks of challenge aimed his way. When Nuall caught sight of them, he indicated Malus with a sweep of his arm.
“And here is another mighty gift to you, father — a highborn prisoner, son of the Vaulkhar of Hag Graef. He will fetch you a great ransom from his decadent kin.”
The Urhan shot Malus a cold look of contempt before refocusing his ire back on his son. “Did I tell you to go fetch me slaves and hostages, Nuall? Is this my tribute day, that you seek to shower me with gifts?”
Several of the Shades in the hall laughed derisively. Nuall’s jaw clenched. “No, father.”
“No, indeed. I sent you to reclaim our family’s honour and return to me the treasure of our household. But where is it? Where is the medallion?”
; “It… I know where it is, father, but we couldn’t reach it! The river—”
“Be silent, whelp!” the Urhan roared. “Enough of your witless puling! You think to excuse your failure with gifts, as though I’m some tent-wife? You’re no fit son, not like your brother,” Beg growled. “Perhaps I’ll have a dress made for you and see if I can get you married off to some blind old Autarii in need of a bed warmer.”
The assembled crowd howled with laughter, and Nuall’s face went chalk-white with rage. His trembling hand went to the long knife at his hip, yet his father made no attempt to protect himself, frankly challenging Nuall with his stare. After a moment’s hesitation the younger man snarled and spun on his heel, staggering clumsily through the crowd of jeering clansmen and slamming the door of the longhouse in his wake.
Beg watched his son’s retreat with evident disdain. “All muscle and no guts,” he grumbled, drinking deeply from his cup. “Now I’ll have to watch for vipers in my boots or stray arrows on the hunt, or some other such callow thing.” He eyed Malus balefully. “No doubt you found that entertaining.”
Malus took his time before responding, considering the situation carefully. “All fathers want for strong sons,” he said at length. “In that, we are not so very different, great Urhan.”
“You have children?”
The highborn shook his head. “No, I am a son with something to prove to his father.”
Beg cocked his head to one side and studied Malus closely for the first time. “So you’re one of Lurhan’s sons, eh? Not his eldest, and not that twisted thing he gave to the temple. The middle son, perhaps?”
Malus smiled coldly. “No, great Urhan. Lurhan’s late wife had no part in my making.”
At that, Beg’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re that witch’s whelp. The one they call Darkblade.”
“My name is Malus, great Urhan,” the highborn replied. “Dark blades are flawed things, objects of scorn. That’s a name only my enemies use.”