by Dan Abnett
Malus frantically worked to reload his crossbow as Spite thrashed and snapped at the lion. The cold one’s jaws closed on the lion’s ribs, and the lion lashed out with its claws, raking deep furrows across the nauglir’s shoulder just scant inches from the highborn’s free leg. He could feel the cold one twisting trying to roll onto his back. Suddenly the crossbow’s string locked into place with an authoritative clack, and a bolt popped into the track. Malus braced himself with his free foot and fired the bolt point-blank into the lion’s eye.
The lion leapt from the nauglir with a strangled cry, its head snapping around in pain. The huge creature spun in a circle, howling in torment, then its legs collapsed beneath it and it fell in a twitching heap.
Spite rolled to his feet, hissing angrily at the creature’s corpse, and Malus jerked his trapped leg free from the stirrup. He looked frantically about as he reloaded the crossbow, but the other lions had disappeared. “Where did they go?” he shouted to no one in particular.
Dalvar’s voice answered. “They ran on past us!”
Malus leapt to his feet, crossbow at the ready. “But why…” He looked to the north, and suddenly he understood.
The darkness he’d taken to be the horizon swept over them like a thrown blanket, and suddenly the howling wind rose to a terrible roar. Hot rain lashed at his face, running down his neck. He could barely see more than two feet in front of him. “Circle up!” he shouted over the wind. “Cold ones on the outside, men inside! Quickly!”
By the time he’d grabbed Spite’s reins he could see the dark bulks of other cold ones looming around him. It was a manoeuvre that every knight was taught before he went on campaign as a way to shield them-self in a blizzard. Within minutes the great beasts were arranged in a circle and the druchii slumped down against their flanks, shielded somewhat from the worst of the wind.
It was only after Malus had huddled against Spite’s heaving flanks that he noticed the cold one was covered in red. Rivulets of crimson ran down his sides and pooled in the grass.
The highborn held out his hand, listening to the rain spatter on his palm. He brought it to his lips.
It was raining blood.
Malus tried to peer through the dark rain, dimly seeing his men huddled in their cloaks against the sides of their mounts. They looked exhausted beyond measure. If they were aware of the strange nature of the storm, they gave no sign of it.
The highborn pulled his own cloak around his shoulders, drawing its hood over his head. Drops of blood drummed against the cloth.
We’re well and truly in the wasteland, he thought grimly, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
HUNTERS AND THE HUNTED
The damned plains seemed to go on forever.
They rode from sunrise until well after dark, navigating by the lunatic glow of the northern lights and stopping only after they were too tired to go any further. Yet when they awoke the next day they seemed no closer to the dark mountain and its surrounding forest.
The warband rode beneath a sky of swirling cloud, forever shrouding the light of the sun. Night and day were merely different degrees of grey and black, shading from one to the other in a subtle, stealthy pattern that robbed the mind of any sense of time. Storms came and went, often blowing up without warning and passing just as swiftly. They no longer paused to wait them out, instead just huddling in their cloaks and spurred their mounts forward toward the elusive forest and the hope of shelter.
Food was also becoming a concern. They were down to iron rations now; rock-hard biscuits and thin strips of dried meat, enough for one meal per druchii per day. They saw very few animals during the day -mostly dark shapes like vultures, soaring low over the hilltops in the distance. Once, one of the birds strayed too close to the column and Lhunara shot it out of the air with her crossbow. But when the hungry druchii cut the bird open they found its guts riddled and squirming with pale worms.
There were howls and hunting cries at night. Some sounded like the lions they’d encountered in the past, while others were like nothing the druchii had ever heard before. In camp the nauglir would rise off their haunches and bellow a challenge when one of the creatures came too close — jolting everyone from fitful attempts at sleep and sending them scrambling for their weapons. Finally, Malus had ordered the cold ones’ saddles removed and left them free to hunt every night.
The huge beasts had to eat regularly or even their legendary stamina would start to fail, and the highborn couldn’t imagine anything on the plains that could fight off an entire pack of hunting nauglir. From what he could tell, however, it didn’t look as though they were having much better luck than the druchii. They were becoming increasingly short-tempered, sometimes snapping at their riders when approached with saddle and reins. Unless something changed soon, their aggressive behaviour would become a much more serious problem.
The druchii took to sleeping in their saddles during the day, weaving drunkenly with their mounts’ rolling gait. Malus pushed them as hard as he dared, both to reach the forest as quickly as possible and to keep the warband too tired to contemplate rebellion in the meantime.
To the best of Malus’ reckoning, it was their fifth day on the plain when they stumbled upon the tribesmen. Spite had been acting tense for close to an hour, sniffing the air and growling deep in his chest, but the highborn had been too tired and hungry to consider the cause. Then he began to hear a faint clatter every time the wind shifted from the north. Finally his fatigued mind recognised the sound for what it was — steel clashing on steel. The sound of battle.
After a quarter of a mile the plain began to slope gently upwards, rising to a low ridgeline another half a mile ahead. The closer they came to the ridge, the louder the sound grew, punctuated now by screams and bloodthirsty shouts. The other members of the warband had heard it as well by this point, and several had their crossbows loaded and ready.
As they ascended the ridge, Malus raised his hand and signalled for the knights to form into line. Just as they crested the top, a small part of his mind observed that they might have been better off sending a couple of scouts ahead to see what was happening before committing the entire force. The highborn cursed quietly to himself; exhaustion and hunger were getting the better of his judgement.
The battle was effectively finished by the time the druchii edged over the ridgeline; more than a quarter of a mile away the victors were surrounding the remnants of their foe and systematically slaughtering them. Bands of horsemen galloped about in the plain below, hemming in smaller groups of riders and bringing them down with thrown spears and axes.
Dozens of bodies, both horses and men, littered the churned earth. The warriors were human, from what Malus could tell, wearing furs and mismatched pieces of armour. They rode stout, shaggy ponies that seemed to make up what they lacked in size with nimbleness and stamina. Near the centre of the swirling mass, Malus made out what appeared to be the remnants of a camp.
The highborn brought Spite to a shuddering halt. The nauglir pawed at the earth, excited by the presence of so much horseflesh within reach. “Vanhir!” Malus called as he wrestled with the reins.
Obediently the knight swung out of line and wrestled his cold one over to Malus. “My lord?”
Malus indicated the battle on the plain with the point of his chin. “What do you make of that mess?”
“Feral humans,” the knight said at once. “Nomadic tribesmen by the looks of their ponies. We’re close to their tribal lands, and I would guess this is a raiding party on their way back to winter quarters.”
Malus frowned. “Who are they fighting?”
“One another,” Vanhir said disdainfully. “A falling-out over plunder, I expect. They are close enough to their home range that some must have felt it safe to start cutting others out of their share.”
Not so different from us, then, Malus thought. He tried to estimate the number of tribesmen on the field — at least thirty, victors and vanquished combined.
“Greater numbers, but poor armour,” the highborn mused. “Do you think they’ve seen us yet?”
Just then one of the cold ones reared onto his haunches, its patience exhausted, and let out a hunting roar that the rest of the nauglir took up as well. By the time the druchii had their mounts under control the plain was covered in rearing ponies and shouting, gesticulating nomads.
“You were saying, my lord?”
“Never mind,” Malus hissed. “What will they do now?”
Vanhir seemed shocked that the highborn would ask such a question. “Why, they’ll attack, my lord,” he said. “The nomads worship the Lord of Skulls. You see — here they come now!”
Sure enough, the tribesmen had gotten over their initial surprise, and now the raiders — all of them, apparently united against a common foe — had formed into a loose mob and were trotting their way. They waved bloody axes over their heads and shouted ululating war cries as they rode.
“Very well. Back in line, Vanhir,” Malus ordered, then stood in the stirrups. “Sa’an’ishar! Crossbows ready!” he commanded. “Two volleys on my order, then prepare to charge!”
Malus reached back and grabbed his own weapon just as the nomads urged their ponies into a canter. They were nearly at the base of the ridge. At this distance, he could see that their faces were painted with a white paste that gave them the look of skulls. Thick heads of braided hair flapped wildly in the wind. Each rider, the highborn saw, had a clutch of severed heads tied by the hair to their saddles. “Make ready!” he cried, lifting the crossbow to his shoulder.
His eyes scanned the front ranks of the oncoming mob, looking for their chieftain. He settled on a huge nomad riding a shaggy black pony and carrying a massive battle-axe in one broad hand. The man’s head had been shaved bald and tattooed with crude, red sigils, and his face had more in common with a wolf than a man. As Malus watched, the nomad bared pointed teeth and let out a howl, and the horde spurred to a gallop.
“Fire!” Malus cried, and the crossbow thumped in his hand. The wolf-headed nomad reeled in the saddle as a black-fletched bolt punched into his chest. He clung to the saddle for the space of two heartbeats, then the great axe fell from nerveless fingers and he pitched backwards onto the ground.
The highborn was already working the reloading mechanism with swift, sure movements, honed by years of hard practice. A half dozen tribesmen had fallen, shot from the saddle or thrown from dying ponies and trampled by their fellows. The raiders were halfway up the slope now, streamers of blood trailing from their axes. Malus’ crossbow clicked into firing position and he chose another target.
“Ready!” he cried, hearing answering yells from his men. Malus picked a rider at random who was hefting a short throwing spear. “Fire!” The crossbow thumped and the bolt took the man in the throat, punching cleanly through and severing his spine; there was a bloom of red around the nomad’s skull and he toppled bonelessly to the earth.
Malus hooked the crossbow onto the saddle and drew his sword. The humans were almost upon them. Blades rasped from their scabbards along the druchii line.
“Charge!”
The nauglir leapt forward with a frenzied roar. For a moment it was all Malus could do to stay in the saddle as Spite leapt hungrily at the closest pony. The animal shrieked in terror and tried to swerve away, but the cold one caught the pony by the throat and bit through in a fountain of hot blood. The rider was thrown forward by the impact, sprawling across the back of Spite’s neck, and Malus buried his sword in the nomad’s skull. Another raider swept past on the right and struck the highborn a resounding blow across his breastplate, knocking Malus flat against the back of the saddle and sending his sword spinning through the air. Grabbing the saddle, he spurred the cold one savagely away from his impromptu meal and fumbled his second sword from its scabbard as he pulled himself painfully upright.
Another rider galloped at Malus from the left. The highborn hauled left on the reins, pulling Spite’s head into the nomad’s path, and the cold one snatched the man from the saddle. The raider screamed in rage and found the strength to hack weakly at the cold one’s snout before Spite bit through the man’s torso and sent limbs and head tumbling to the ground.
By now the raiders had swept past the druchii and were reining around at the top of the ridge. A dozen nomad bodies littered the slope, and one of the druchii lay in a crumpled heap — his famished nauglir had pounced on the first pony it reached and rolled downslope with its prey, crushing the rider to a pulp. Less than half the raiders were left, but the wild-eyed tribesmen showed no signs of abandoning the fight.
Malus brought Spite around and spurred him back up the slope, and the nomads rushed to meet him.
Once again, Spite lunged for the nearest pony, but this time the nomad was an expert rider and mad with battle-lust to boot. At the last moment he jumped his pony over the cold one’s head, and Malus found himself staring wide-eyed at the animal’s bunched legs and broad chest as the beast hurtled at him like a falling boulder. Before he could react, Spite caught the hurtling pony’s hindquarters in his jaws and suddenly riders, mounts and all were tumbling end-over-end back down the slope.
The nomad’s pony struck Malus a glancing blow and sent him flying from the saddle. He landed hard nearly a dozen yards away in a shower of dirt and grass, but the blow had very likely saved his life. Spite and the dying pony crashed past, the animal shrieking wildly in terror and pain. The raider fetched up close by, stunned senseless by the fall, and Malus leapt upon him while he was helpless, severing his head with a stroke of his sword.
By the time Malus staggered back to his feet, the battle was over. Riderless ponies shrieked and galloped in every direction, some pursued by out-of-control nauglir as their riders cursed and wrestled with their reins. A dismounted nomad lurched down the slope at one of the druchii, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side. Malus watched Dalvar pluck a knife from his belt and send it in a glittering arc to bury itself in the back of the raider’s skull.
Lhunara caught sight of Malus and trotted over, Vanhir following in her wake. Her own bone-weariness had vanished in the thrill of the charge, and the wolfish grin on her face was the first he’d seen in days. “A pleasant afternoon’s diversion, my lord!” she called.
“Any prisoners?” Malus asked.
Vanhir shook his head. “The tribesmen aren’t the sort one captures,” he said. “They’ll fight with their teeth and the splintered stumps of their arms if that’s all they have.”
“Orders, my lord?” asked Lhunara.
Malus snatched a handful of brown grass and started cleaning the blood from his sword as he surveyed the battlefield. “Dismount the warband and let the nauglir eat their fill. The men can plunder the camp while the cold ones gorge themselves. There are bound to be valuables among the tents, and the men have earned a reward. Then we’ll take all the food we can find and be gone from here before nightfall.”
Vanhir frowned. “If we let the cold ones stuff themselves they’ll become sluggish—”
“When the nauglir get hungry enough they turn on the weaker members of the pack — in this case, that’s us.” Malus said. “This was a gift,” he said, taking in the battlefield with a sweep of his sword. “I want to take as much advantage of this as possible, because who knows when we’ll have so much meat on hand again?”
The knight considered this and shrugged. “As you wish,” he said, and turned his mount back upslope. Lhunara watched him go.
“He looks disappointed.”
Malus shrugged. “He might well be. With their bellies full and their pouches heavy with gold the men will have less reason for slitting my throat tonight.”
“True enough,” she said, then looked down at the highborn with a wry smile. “Of course, there’s always tomorrow” The retainer then turned her own mount around and headed off to issue Malus’ orders.
The city seemed to appear from nowhere. One moment there was nothing but arid plains and a steel-grey horizon, and t
hen they were crossing a low ridge and the ruins were rising into the sky from the plain to the north less than half a mile away. The druchii sat in their saddles on the reverse slope and tried to make sense of the thing. We couldn’t see it before because of the dust, Malus thought. Nothing else makes sense. But then, this is the Wastes.
Malus fidgeted with the scarf pulled over his nose as another gust of wind sent a billow of dust and sand into their faces. It had been days since they’d left the nomad camp behind, and the terrain had gone from grassland to cracked earth and clouds of dirt. The gusts of wind were hot and stank of sulphur, like breaths of air from an open furnace, even though the heavy grey clouds overhead threatened snow. The mountain, at least, appeared closer now. At least Malus believed it did. He was no longer certain. “Well, Vanhir, what do you make of that?” Vanhir sat to Malus’ right, holding his scarf to his face “I don’t know what it is, my lord,” he said, shaking his head. “We never roamed this far north when my household hunted the humans.” He paused, studying the toppled walls and broken towers in the distance. “It appears deserted — at least, I don’t see any signs of activity. Perhaps it’s the daemon city Urhan Beg spoke of outside the Wighthallows?”
“If the place is deserted, I don’t care who built it,” Lhunara said irritably. She sat her mount to Malus’ left, her hood pulled up over her head and her night-mask protecting her face. “I’d fight a daemon if it meant getting out of this damned dust storm for an hour or two!”
Malus considered his options. The ruined city did appear deserted, but such an impression could easily be deceiving. It looked to be the size of Hag Graef, and a hundred raiders could shelter there with no one the wiser. Still… “If someone built a city in this place, there must be a well in there somewhere,” he said. “And we’re running low on water.”