by Dan Abnett
A few minutes and as many feet later, he came to a place where his way was blocked by a thick root broader than his leg. The only way ahead was to swim beneath it and for the first time the idea gave him pause The dank air beneath the tree smelled like a crypt, and a palpable aura of dread hung over Malus’ head like a funeral shroud. I didn’t come this far to drown beneath some damned old tree, he thought angrily. At the same time, he wasn’t about to leave his warband to be mutilated at the hands of Beg and his savages.
No one steals my property from me, he thought grimly. With a sharp intake of breath, he slipped beneath the water and pushed his way under the great root, trusting that there would be another pocket of air on the other side.
There was — but the space was much tighter than he’d imagined, barely enough to hold his head. He gasped at the agonising cold, only dimly aware that the narrow space was brightly lit by the greenish mould. Malus filled his lungs and dived again, pushing himself ahead.
He came up — and his head struck a springy net of roots. Further, he thought. With an effort, he pushed himself lower and farther on, running his hand along the tangled mass above him.
Two feet. Three feet. Still nothing. His lungs began to burn. Do I turn back? He fought the first stirrings of panic.
Four feet. Five feet. No end in sight. The burning in his chest became an ache. It was hard to resist the urge to press his face against the ceiling of roots, hoping to find a mouthful of air.
Six feet — and the ceiling of roots began to curve sharply downwards. It was all he could do to keep from opening his mouth and gasping for air that didn’t exist. Mother of Night, Malus thought, help me!
Malus turned around, struggling to keep his bearings in the darkness, when suddenly his ears filled with a slow, torturous groan. The entire mass of roots around him shifted — and the current shifted with it. The powerful force he’d been pushing against abruptly pulled him downwards and deeper towards the centre of the tree.
He tumbled in the vortex, striking roots that were tough as iron. His hands and feet caught in loops and sharp bends and were just as roughly yanked free. There was a buzzing in his ears, and the last breath in his lungs burst from his mouth and nose in a thin stream. Succumbing to panic, his eyes snapped open in the tumult — the pain was sharp and numbing causing him to blink fiercely — and he caught a glimpse of greenish luminescence ahead of him. He struck another root, and this time he grasped it with a drowning man’s iron grip. With all his failing strength he worked his way hand over hand towards the grave-glow, his eyes squeezed shut with the effort.
Malus’ head burst through the surface of the churning water with a whooping gasp for air. It reeked of the sickly sweet taste of decay, but the highborn drank it down all the same. For a moment it felt as though he couldn’t possibly inhale enough.
And then a pair of cold, rotting hands closed about his throat.
The highborn’s eyes snapped open in shock. The glow came not from grave-mould, but from the figure of a woman. Rotting skin sagged like melted wax from her bones, which themselves were stained dark with age, like the bark of the tree.
Much of her hair was gone, and beneath her shrivelled cheeks her lips had rotted completely away, leaving only a death’s-head snarl. Her eyes were empty sockets, but Malus could still see the burn scars around the edges, and the remnants of a rusted iron collar around her withered neck.
Silent and hateful, the Willow Hag pushed him downwards, until the raging water was roaring in his ears. She was not strong, but she had leverage and she was tireless as death. Malus beat at her rotting arms, feeling the bones flex like willow roots. His strength was failing fast, and her bony fingers closed inexorably tighter around his neck.
Desperate, Malus pulled at the hands until he could draw a thin stream of breath. “Hateful wight, release me!” he gasped. “I am a druchii of Hag Graef, not a Shade like those who blinded you! Let me live, and I’ll give you another chieftain’s son to pour your hate upon!”
For a terrifying second, nothing happened. Then there was another groaning sound, and Malus felt his surroundings shift once again. The churning water grew still. With eerie slowness, the fingers loosened their grip on his throat. As soon as he was free, Malus pushed away, putting as much space between himself and the wight as possible.
He was in a hollow of sorts, possibly directly under the tree itself. Walls, ceiling and floor were shaped by an impenetrable web of strong, layered roots. Skeletons, dozens of them, were enmeshed there, held together by tatters of clothing.
The stench of rot hung like a haze in the air, coating the inside of his nostrils and throat. At the same time this realisation struck home, Malus’ backwards-reaching hand sank into a soft, pulpy mush. Gelid body fluids oozed around his splayed fingers. The highborn turned and found his hand buried in the rotting goo of a dead Autarii’s stomach. Well met, Ruhir, Malus thought, pulling his hand free of the mess with a frown of disgust. Beg’s son was splayed on a rack of tree roots like the Hag’s other victims; beneath the mangled throat hung a silver medallion worked with the image of a rearing stag.
Malus turned back to the Hag, his mind working furiously. Clearly the wight was the hate-filled spirit of an Autarii slave who’d escaped her captors, only to stumble blindly into the river and die beneath the tree. Studying the rotting form, he saw by the ragged kheitan she wore that she’d once been a noble. In the uncertain light, it appeared that the tree’s roots pierced the body in dozens of places; indeed, it was difficult to tell where the tree ended and the Hag began.
“Hear me, fell spirit,” Malus said hoarsely. “Even now, another chieftain’s son waits nearby to murder me when I emerge from your chambers. He means to make slaves of my warriors, just as he enslaved you. I mean to see him dead, and it would please me to deliver him into your hands. If you allow me to leave here with the medallion around this corpse’s neck, I’ll give him and his men to you. That’s seven lives for the price of one, and sweeter prey besides. I give you my oath as a highborn.”
The wight regarded him silently for long moments. Dark water lapped gently at the tree roots, and insects crawled and chattered through Ruhir’s decaying corpse. Then, suddenly, the hollow shifted again, elongating and contracting, pushing Malus inexorably closer to the Hag.
She stood less than a foot away when the movement finally stopped. Cold air wafted down from above. Malus looked up to see that a channel had opened through the roots at a slight angle, opening to the dark sky a dozen feet or so above. With a creak of old sinew and leather the wight pointed silently upwards.
Malus bowed his head to the Hag. “Your wish is my command,” he said with a cruel smile.
Shivering in the cold wind, Malus looped his sword belt over an overhanging branch that stretched out over the river on the upstream side. With a grunt of effort, he pulled the limb back until he could reach it, then hung the Ancri Dam from it and carefully returned it back to its original place.
The black willow’s overhanging branches and long, black tendrils created a curtain of foliage that encompassed a space larger than a campaign tent. Plenty of room to manoeuvre, he thought. Next, he concealed his swords amid a cluster of roots close to the water’s edge. Once all was in place, he turned and ran inland, bursting through the curtain of foliage into full view.
“Nuall!” he shouted, having no difficulty sounding tired and hurt. “Show yourself! I know you’re out here! I have a bargain for you!” Malus walked a few yards from the tree and sank to his knees.
Wind whispered in the bushes and shook the branches of the trees. Malus peered warily into the darkness. Then, without warning, seven Shades coalesced out of the shadows, surrounding him with bared blades. Nuall grinned at the shocked look on the highborn’s face. “I’ll make you a bargain,” the chieftain’s son replied. “Give me the medallion and I’ll kill you quickly.”
“I don’t have the medallion, you fool,” Malus said contemptuously. “Your father neglected to mention tha
t the Hag was haunted. I’m lucky to have gotten away with my life.”
Nuall took a step forward, extending the point of his sword until it was scant inches from Malus’ eye. “Well, your luck just ran out.”
“Wait!” Malus cried, holding up a warding hand. “I saw the medallion. I know where it is. Let me live and I’ll take you to it. You can have the Ancri Dam and my warband besides. I’ve had enough of your damned hills.”
The chieftain’s son thought it over, clearly struggling with the competing urge to please his father and sate his bloodlust. Finally he nodded. “Very well.”
“I want your oath, Nuall!”
“All right, my oath on it! Now show me the medallion!”
Malus rose painfully to his feet. Surrounded by the Shades, he turned and walked back to the tree. The Autarii hesitated when they reached the curtain of black tendrils, but when the highborn passed through without harm they quickly followed suit.
He led them up to the base of the old tree. Nuall looked around. “All right, now what?”
“The medallion is hanging from a limb on the opposite side. We’ll have to work our way over across the tops of the roots—”
“You’re mad, highborn!” Nuall exclaimed.
“Or you’re a coward,” Malus answered. Before Nuall could respond, the highborn stepped onto the tangled mass of roots. “It’s slick, but not impossible to cross. Now, are you coming?”
Nuall gave him a glare of pure murder, then set his jaw stubbornly and followed Malus onto the roots. As he did, he turned and pointed at three of his men. “You go around the other way and meet us.”
Reluctantly, the Autarii obeyed. Malus turned and walked carefully along the roots, working his way around the wide bole of the tree. Nuall followed closely, growing bolder with every step. Finally, Malus pointed to the medallion, turning gently on its chain out over the river.
“There it is,” he said. “If two stout men can climb onto the branch enough to bend it back towards the tree, a third man could grab the medallion.”
Nuall nodded. “A good plan.” Just then, the retainers who’d made the journey on the opposite tack around the tree stepped carefully into view. Nuall pointed at them. “Two of you get up on that branch and start bending it towards us. You—” he pointed at Malus—“grab the medallion and hand it to me.”
Malus nodded, trying to look fearful. “If you insist.”
The two Autarii climbed nimbly up the bole of the willow and began edging their way along the limb. Slowly but surely the branch dipped, bending closer and closer to the trunk. Malus crouched, as though to steady himself. His right hand felt between the roots beside him and closed on the hilt of one of his swords.
The medallion inched towards him. Malus stretched out his left hand, while the other loosened the sword in its scabbard. Just a little bit more…
“Ha!” Nuall cried, lunging forward without warning and closing his fist around the medallion. “Kill the highborn!”
Just as I expected, you oath breaking bastard, Malus thought scornfully, and leapt a heartbeat after Nuall. He grabbed Nuall’s wrist and heaved downwards, drawing his sword in the same motion. The chieftain’s son let out a yell, and the branch cracked like a thunderclap, spilling one of the Shades into the river. Nuall overbalanced and fell in as well, dragging Malus with him.
All around them, the Willow Hag groaned hungrily, and the undertow at once became a ravenous vortex. Malus pressed back against the roots, held momentarily in place by the force of the undertow rushing through a gap just beneath his boot heels.
The Shade disappeared beneath the surface with a startled gasp. Nuall thrashed about, groping for the shifting tree roots. He held the Ancri Dam in a white-knuckled grip. “Release me!” he roared, threatening to pull Malus away from the roots and into the undertow.
“As you wish, fool,” Malus snarled. His sword flickered in the moonlight, slicing through Nuall’s forearm just below the highborn’s own clutching hand.
The chieftain’s son screamed, bright blood pumping from the severed limb. Broken ends of bone gleamed pale white in the moonlight. Malus repositioned himself carefully, digging his boots into the network of roots for support.
“Your brother is waiting below, Nuall,” he said coldly, “along with a serving girl eager to take you into her arms!”
Nuall screamed as Malus brought his blade down on the Autarii’s other wrist. Blood bloomed darkly beneath the water, and then the chieftain’s son was gone.
Suddenly there was a sharp blow along the top of Malus’ head, tracing a line of fire along his scalp. The highborn cried out in pain as hot blood poured down the side of his head. The second Autarii still clung from the overhanging branch directly above Malus, swinging down at him with a short, broad sword. Much of the man’s body was protected by the dark wood, an advantage the Shade was trying to use to its fullest effect. Of the other Autarii, nothing could be seen, though the Hag’s roots were writhing hungrily like a bed of snakes.
Malus pushed against the roots beneath him and hacked upwards, getting a shower of wood chips for his efforts. He struck again, and this time the Shade took the opportunity to slash at his forearm, leaving a deep cut just behind the highborn’s sword wrist. Malus thrust at the Shade’s leering face, but the distance was too great, and the tip faltered well short of its target. The Autarii lashed downwards again with a stroke that left a shallow cut on the back of the highborn’s sword hand.
The highborn let out a roar and slashed his long blade in a backhanded arc that buried the blade in the tree branch — and widened the crack made earlier. With a grinding crash the limb broke away, plunging the terrified Shade into the river. Autarii and limb hit the water with a flat slap, but only the limb surfaced again, spinning lazily along the surface of the river.
With a supreme effort, Malus pulled himself up onto the mass of writhing roots. His left hand still clenched Nuall’s severed forearm; its hand still held the medallion in a death grip.
Unwilling to let go of his sword and lose it in the roiling mass of roots, Malus sank his teeth into Nuall’s stiff fingers and pried each one away from his prize. The medallion fell away, and the highborn hurriedly tossed the severed limb into the whirlpool at the base of the tree. Immediately, the palpitating tendrils fell still. Malus rolled onto his back and managed a breathless laugh. “Such an appetite,” he said to the tree stretching above him. “That’s the kind of epic hate I can truly admire.”
He lay there in the cold for some time, catching his breath and contemplating a nap. Just a short one, he thought. The roots aren’t so bad. Just a short nap, to get my strength back. But finally a tiny, strident voice in the back of his mind pushed itself to the fore and warned him that if he paused to rest for much longer he would never get up again.
Groaning Malus pushed himself upright, then clambered carefully to his feet. He buckled on his sword belt and fumbled the medallion over his blood-caked head. The cut on his scalp ached and burned, and he focused on the pain, drawing strength from it. The wisdom of the Dark Mother, he thought, his mind turning back to the catechisms of his childhood. In pain, there is life. In darkness, endless strength. Look upon the night and learn these lessons well.
Malus worked his way carefully around the tree. There was a cold wind blowing down into the valley, and the branches of the Willow Hag rustled and whispered above him.
Wait, Malus thought. This tree doesn’t shift in the wind—
The highborn turned just as the Shade leapt onto him from one of the willow’s broad branches, and the knife stroke meant for Malus’ heart tore a ragged furrow along his back instead. Both men went down, howling for one another’s blood.
Malus snarled like a wolf and drove the pommel of his sword into the Autarii’s face, crushing the man’s left cheekbone like brittle wood. He pushed away from the Shade and hacked down with his sword in the same motion, but the man threw up his left hand to protect his exposed throat.
The sword rang lik
e a struck chime as it hit the soft flesh between the man’s middle fingers and split his hand down to the wrist. Runnels of bright blood poured down the Shade’s forearm, but incredibly the berserk Autarii clenched his fist and twisted his hand, pinning the sword in his grip. The man rolled onto his back and stabbed wildly with his knife, scoring another bloody line across Malus’ cheek. Another quick stab sank the point of the Shade’s knife two inches deep in the highborn’s shoulder. Roaring Malus grabbed the Shade’s knife wrist and leapt atop him, trying to pull his sword free for the killing stroke.
There was a rumbling beneath the Shade, and the ground began to sink around the combatants. Sensing what was happening, Malus let go of his sword and grabbed the Autarii by the throat, pressing him down into the earth’s embrace. Then the ground parted, and both men were plunging down a chute of pulsating roots.
The plunge stopped as swiftly as it began. The chute had narrowed, and the Shade was at the bottom, wedged headfirst down the hole. Without warning the chute constricted and the Shade began to scream and thrash, his feet beating desperately against the glistening roots. The walls of the chute closed in around Malus as well, pushing the two men apart. The screams rose to a crescendo amid the creaking of pliant wood. There was a sound like a melon dropped onto cobblestones and the Shade spasmed, then went still.
More creaks and groans filled the chute, and the walls continued to constrict. Malus felt a surge of anger, but it guttered like a candle in a gale. He was all but spent. With his last burst of strength he grabbed at the hilt of his sword and drew it firmly into his grip.
It took a few moments to realise that he was being pushed steadily upwards. Malus glanced down and saw the soles of the Shade’s boots disappearing amid the tangled roots. Soon his head was in the open air again, and he weakly managed to push himself the rest of the way out of the hole.
His ravaged body cried out for rest, but he was wary of that siren song now. The highborn forced himself to his feet, facing the old, black tree. Wearily he raised his sword in salute. “You keep your oaths better than the living hateful wight,” he said. “If it lies within my power, I’ll see you’re well fed for years to come.”