by Dan Abnett
The Urhan looked Malus in the eye and for the first time he smiled. “On your head be it, then. As it happens, the moons and the season are in a very favourable alignment, so the road should be easy to follow. Gather your men, Darkblade; we will leave an hour before sundown.”
“And in the meantime?”
Beg leaned back in his chair, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “In the meantime take what joy of the sunlit world you can.”
By late afternoon Malus had roused his warband and set them to making preparations for travel. Despite Urhan Beg’s ominous warnings, he was eager to be moving once more.
Malus uncorked the glazed earthenware jug and poured another dollop of viscous fluid onto the silken cloth in his hand. For an instant, the poisonous slime was shockingly cold against his bare skin, but within moments the affected area had gone numb from the effects of the toxin. Over time, most cold one knights lost all feeling in their skin — in some cases, even the ability to smell and taste — after years of exposure to the nauglir’s slime. But those were concerns for the future. Today, Malus needed the use of his nauglir, Spite, and so he paid the necessary price.
Lhunara waited patiently in the dark confines of the tent, holding the backplate of the highborn’s armour as Malus shrugged into his robes and kheitan. “Any sign of Beg?” Malus asked.
“None, my lord. The crone in his tent says she has not seen him since last night. I don’t think he’s anywhere in the camp.”
Malus pulled the laces on the kheitan tight, then picked up his breastplate and fitted it into place. With the ease of long practice, Lhunara fitted the snug backplate around the highborn’s shoulders and waist, and then began to buckle the two halves together. Malus grunted thoughtfully as Lhunara drew the straps tight. “Possibly out looking for his son, or planning some other sort of mischief. Inform the men to keep their crossbows ready once we set out.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The highborn paused. “How long until Vanhir’s oath runs its course?”
“Three more weeks,” the retainer answered. “Do you suspect something?”
“I always suspect something, Lhunara. He’s been talking a lot to Dalvar, and Dalvar has been talking to the Urhan. His oath doesn’t allow him to act directly against me, but that wouldn’t stop him from sharing what he knows about me with anyone who will listen.”
Lhunara picked up the highborn’s left vambrace and slipped it over his arm, sliding it up to Malus’ shoulder like a jointed steel sleeve. “You never should have accepted his oath,” she said darkly. “Far better to have taken his life and been done with it.”
Malus shrugged, a gesture mostly lost beneath the weight of his armour. “He comes from a powerful household. I thought it would be useful to have something to hold over them. And at the time, binding him to me seemed like the most humiliating punishment I could imagine. It was a fair wager, and his pit fighter lost.”
“His nauglir lost,” Lhunara corrected. “You were wagering on the cold one fights after the gladiatorial games.”
Malus frowned. “Were we? No matter — he bet against me and lost. And since then he’s observed the particulars of his oath with ruthless, hateful punctiliousness. I greatly admire him for that, truth be told.”
“Do you still intend to kill him?”
“Oh, yes. Possibly even today. Keep a close eye on him and Dalvar. If Beg tries any treachery and either of them tries to help the Urhan, make certain you kill them both.”
The afternoon sky had turned leaden, and drifts of snow whirled about in the cold air. The cold ones were saddled and drawn up in line, under the wary eyes of their riders — five days in a corral had left them snappish and sullen despite regular meals of venison and boar. It was already getting dark beneath the snow-covered limbs of the forest, and Malus was growing increasingly impatient. Sensing his master’s mood, Spite clawed restlessly at the frozen earth and rumbled deep in his throat.
Malus paced down the length of the column, making a show of inspecting the warband as a way of concealing his unease. Lhunara sat in her saddle at the end of the line, her crossbow in her lap, her eyes searching the shadows to either side of the column.
Dalvar and his mount were in the centre of the column. Malus came upon Nagaira’s man as he was checking the girth-straps on his saddle. “I believe you still have something of mine,” the highborn asked, holding out his hand.
The rogue grinned up at Malus, and the small iron knife seemed to magically appear in his palm. “Are you certain you don’t want me to hold onto it?” Dalvar asked. “We still have Urhan Beg to deal with.”
“Do you think he’ll try to turn on us?”
Dalvar shrugged. “Of course. Don’t you?”
Malus plucked the blade from Dalvar’s hand. “You’ve been spending time in his hall. What do you think?”
“I think he believes you’ve killed his son. Even if you didn’t, you embarrassed him by recovering that medallion of his when Nuall couldn’t.” The druchii pulled the last strap tight and turned to face Malus. “Frankly, he’s obligated to betray you. They’re rustics, but they aren’t that much different from us. If he doesn’t get the better of you at this point his clan will think him weak. That wouldn’t bode well for his future.”
Malus studied the retainer carefully. “And how do you suppose he’s going to do this?”
Dalvar shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve tried to get a sense of the man in the last few days, but he’s a canny one. If you want my advice, my lord, you’ll keep him close at hand once we’ve started on this path he’s been so ominous about.” The druchii straightened and glanced past Malus’ shoulder. “There’s the old wolf now.”
Malus turned to see Beg and two of his men standing in the shadow of a snow-covered cedar, speaking quietly among themselves. The highborn looked back at his men. “Sa’an’ishar!” Malus called. “Mount up!”
As the druchii swung into their saddles, the highborn approached Urhan Beg. The Autarii chieftain eyed him with undisguised malice.
“My men are ready, great Urhan,” Malus said. On closer inspection, the highborn saw that the old Shade’s boots and breeches were damp. You’ve been searching by the river, Malus thought.
“Ready? That remains to be seen,” sneered Beg. “But we’ll find out soon enough. Stay close — we’ve much ground to cover before nightfall.” With that, the three Autarii set off at a silent, ground-eating pace, slipping through the camp and heading north. Malus was forced to jog back to Spite and mount quickly before the scouts were lost to sight.
“Forward!” Malus ordered, grabbing up the reins. He caught sight of the scouts’ retreating backs and put the spurs to his nauglir’s flanks.
Let the game begin, he thought.
* * *
It was not long at all before Malus and his warband were forced to dismount, prodding their recalcitrant mounts up steep and overgrown slopes as they had in days past. After the first hour, however, Malus began to note that the wildlife in the area was much more subdued — if not entirely nonexistent.
With each mile northwards, the sounds of the woods grew quieter, and fewer birds darted between the black-boled trees. The growing stillness conveyed a sense of menace that set the highborn’s nerves on edge. He could tell the rest of the warband felt it too, from the way they eyed every deep shadow they passed. Some of the men had taken to carrying their crossbows at the ready, as if expecting an ambush at any moment.
After less than two hours, the light started to fade in the western sky. Strangely, the going became somewhat easier; the trees and undergrowth had grown sparse and taken on a grey, sickly cast. Malus began to notice a chill in the air — not the dry cold of the winter wind, but a kind of clammy stillness that ran along the ground beneath the trees and sank deep into one’s bones.
Soon the landscape was painted in hues of inconstant, otherworldly light, as the auroras of the Chaos Wastes lit the northern horizon. Against this unset-ding display, Malus could
see that the hills ahead were giving way to larger, broader mountains — the old, granite bones of the earth, stripped bare by millennia of wind and snow. The highborn focused his eyes on the dark-robed figures several yards ahead and drove Spite onwards, wondering how much further they had yet to go.
As it happened, when Malus led Spite over the next hilltop, he found the Autarii waiting for him halfway down a long, fairly gentle slope leading to a broad valley. The slope was dotted with dozens of moss-covered boulders and tussocks of low grass. Everything was silhouetted in shifting, pale-green light, making the wisps of fog in the valley below seem to glow with a life of their own.
Beg and his men waited near one of the boulders. Malus hoisted himself into the saddle and urged Spite in their direction. He relaxed minutely, more comfortable in the open terrain than he had been in the overgrown hills behind him.
The Urhan’s eyes were hidden in shadow as Malus approached, but the highborn could feel the weight of his stare all the same. “We’ve come to the beginning of the path,” the chieftain said. “We will walk along with you for a way, but the rest of the journey is for you alone.”
“What is this place?” Malus asked, shifting in the saddle.
“It is called the Wighthallows,” Beg answered. “It is a place where the dead do not rest easy. Does this frighten you, city-dweller?”
Malus glared at the man. “I’ve faced one wight already, Urhan. I can face another.”
Beg chuckled. “We shall see.”
The Shades turned and made their way downslope. Malus paused to make certain the rest of the column had crested the hill and had closed the distance behind him, then sent Spite padding along after the Autarii.
As the column proceeded, Malus noticed that the boulders and the scattered tussocks grew more numerous closer to the bottom of the slope. The boulders themselves were oddly shaped, with a mix of rounded and sharp edges that seemed maddeningly familiar.
Suddenly there was a strange, metallic crunch and Spite’s gait stumbled a bit. Malus glanced down and saw that the cold one had stepped on one of the tussocks. The gleam of bare metal winked in the ghostly light. Malus realised with a start that he was looking at a crumpled steel breastplate, covered in a thin layer of dirt and grass.
They had come upon the edge of a great battlefield.
Ahead, the Autarii had all but disappeared into the lambent mist. Malus fought down a rising sense of unease and pressed on.
The fog hungrily swallowed rider and beast, restricting vision and muffling all sound. Spite balked at the change in atmosphere, but Malus nudged him on. Shapes came and went in the mist. Two great obelisks appeared to either side of Malus, carved in the looping sigils of old Ulthuan. Faintly, Malus could hear Spite’s talons clicking along bare stone. Were they on a roadway?
More shapes appeared, clustered on either side of the path. Malus took them for more boulders at first, but upon second glance he realised they were elven chariots, their wheels rotted away and their armoured flanks dented and rent. He caught sight of helmets, rusted swords and spearheads, their hafts long gone to dust.
The highborn looked about for any sign of the Autarii. He felt a vague sense of dislocation. It’s the fog he thought. Or was it?
He could just see the shapes of the scouts ahead. Malus kicked Spite into a trot, expecting to catch up with them in moments, but the fog had apparently distorted his sense of distance. It felt like long minutes before he caught up with Beg and his men. “What happened here?” Malus asked. His voice sounded strange and indistinct, even to his own ears.
“One of old Aenarion’s generals built a road here during the First War,” Beg replied, his voice sounding as though it were coming from a long way off. “It winds through these valleys for many, many leagues -in the daylight you can just see the black stones of the roadway poking up from the earth. Legend says it was built for a siege against a city of daemons, far to the north, but no one knows for certain. If such a place ever existed, it’s long gone now.
“The general took his mighty army north and met with tragedy. Some stories say he was betrayed — a rare few even go so far as to accuse your great Witch King of the deed — while others claim the general was simply a fool. Regardless, the great march turned into a bloody, bitter retreat, fraught with sorcery and slaughter. Every mile of this road is soaked in blood, the stories go. The stones of the road are mortared with bone.”
Malus felt a chill sweep across his skin. The wind moaned faintly in the darkness — or was that the sound of a distant horn?
“It is said that such was the power of the daemon host that they fixed the moons in their courses and fought beneath a mantle of perpetual night. The echoes of that power — and the restless spirits of the dead — linger here even now. When the proper season comes around and the moons are in the right phase, that long night resumes once more.”
The fog appeared to be thinning now; it lingered like a pall at the edges of his vision, but at the same time Malus could see more of his surroundings. Piles of armour, splintered shields and notched swords, ruined chariots with the barding of their horses resting in their rotted traces. A banner pole leaned at a drunken angle amid a tangle of breastplates, helmets and mail. The standard was heavy with dried gore, hanging listlessly in the mist. Malus could taste the dread in the air. It had a coppery tang like spilled blood.
They travelled on. Malus began to notice more details as they went: the elaborate carvings of chariots and armour stood out in sharp relief. Polished ithilmar glowed with a pale, bluish light. He began to see the bones of skeletons amid the piles of armour. Once he passed an upturned helm still holding the skull of the man who wore it. The jaws gaped wide in a silent scream of anguish or rage.
There was a light up ahead. A bluish radiance suffused the mist, growing in intensity as they drew nearer. The sides of the road were crowded with chariots and wagons — the detritus of an army on the retreat Their sides were raked and torn, hewn and hacked by tooth, claw and blade. The bodies of the dead were everywhere, still clutching their weapons in skeletal hands.
The air trembled. Malus felt the vibration against his skin. It shook with the din of battle, but no sound reached his ears. The highborn reached for his sword, taking some comfort in the familiar solidity of its hilt.
He could feel the presence of others around him -horses and men, moving past him, away from the nightmare they’d found in the far north.
The air quivered with silent screams.
Suddenly there were robed figures on either side of him. The Shades had stopped and he hadn’t realised it. Their gaze was focused on the road ahead. As Malus reined in his mount, he saw the horror they beheld.
An army of the dead stood astride the road, gleaming with the unearthly glow of the grave. Enamelled armour shone in the pale, blue light, hanging on the skeletal frames of soldiers and horsemen. Some held spears and swords, while others held up grasping, claw-like hands. Points of cold blue light gleamed from the pits of their eyes, and their jaws gaped in silent cries of despair.
At their head stood a great prince, his armour enamelled in silver and gold. In his right hand he held a fearsome-looking sword, its length etched with runes of power. His left hand held a torn standard. Its ragged hem dripped with fresh blood.
“Who disturbs our rest?” The undead prince cried. His voice was a thin, keening whisper, like the sound of wind whistling over stone.
Chapter Thirteen
FIELDS OF DESPAIR
The ghostly prince’s helmeted head turned to regard Malus, the weight of his burning gaze falling on the highborn like the blow of a sword. He reeled from the wight’s baleful stare, feeling his heart turn to ice. Around him he could dimly sense his warband pulling up, the druchii hauling back on their reins in shock and fear. One of the men let out a wail of terror, and the ranks of the dead lunged a half-step forward at the sound, as if hungry to set themselves against a foe who would bleed and die beneath their blades.
Befor
e Malus could master his own tongue and make a reply to the fearful apparitions, Beg took a measured breath and spoke in a loud, strained voice. “We are but travellers on the road, mighty prince! Forgive us our trespass, and we will honour you with obeisance… and sacrifice.”
Sacrifice! Malus’ mind raced. Now the Urhan’s scheme was all too clear.
The prince took another step towards the terrified warband with a creak and rattle of harness and ancient steel. “Sacrifice!” The wight whispered hungrily. “Who will stand atop my cold, stone bier and warm my bones with a libation of hot blood?”
With a cry of desperate rage Malus tore his eyes from the prince’s paralysing stare and ripped his sword from its scabbard. Before Beg could reply, the highborn rose in his saddle and raised his blade high. “Ride!” he called to his men. “Ride for death and ruin, warriors of the Hag! RIDE!” The highborn clapped his spurs to Spite’s flanks and the nauglir charged at the ghostly horde with a thunderous roar. A heartbeat later the unearthly air rang with the war-howls of Hag Graef as the cold one knights bared their steel and charged the fearsome host at the command of their lord.
The air filled with the shrieks of the damned as the spectral host charged to meet its foes. Malus lost sight of the banner-wielding prince amid a mob of howling wights as the two forces met with a great, rending crash. The charging cold ones ploughed into the elf army in a rough wedge, shattering ancient bodies and flinging bits of armour and bone in a gruesome shower back upon the ranks of their fellows.
Swords flickered and scythed through the frenzied ranks of the dead, shearing through limbs, torsos and skulls. Withered flesh and sinew parted in white clouds of rot; bleached bone was ground to powder beneath the stamping tread of the cold ones. A mortal host would have reeled in shock from the sheer ferocity of the warband’s charge, but the howling dead swept around the druchii like a flood. Every warrior torn asunder was instantly replaced by another, all of them hammering at the armoured warriors with blades, spears, axes and claws.