by Dan Abnett
She shrugged. “Something to think about,” she said, and shut the door.
Malus turned and scowled thoughtfully at Silar. “Damnation,” he muttered.
* * *
For a week the Manticore crossed the cold sea, curving south and east with the currents as they drew closer to Ulthuan. News of their destination had made its way inexorably to the ears of the crew, and their mood had turned ever more anxious and grim with each passing day. Malus tried a few games of dice with the sailors, determined to lose a bit of coin to lighten the mood, but none of the sea birds would try him. Master Gul kept to his cabin, relaying instructions to the navigator and the first mate by way of Amaleth, the second mate.
By the sixth day the fog-shrouded bulk of the Blighted Isle loomed on the eastern horizon. The sighting brought Gul to the fortress deck, and he spent several tense minutes conversing with Shebyl and Lhunara. Finally, it was decided to cleave as closely to the isle and its mists as possible, in the hopes of avoiding enemy patrols. By the end of the day the black hull of the raider was wreathed in cold mists that clung to the skin like grasping fingers, chilling the druchii to the bone.
The master’s plan was a good one, but luck wasn’t with the Manticore. On the following morning, Malus was shaken roughly awake by Silar.
“Mother of Night!” the highborn exclaimed, tangled in sheets and glaring up at his retainer. “What in the name of the Abyss are you doing?”
The young knight’s face was tense. “The lookout’s spotted a sail.”
Malus was awake at once. “What time is it?”
“First light.”
“Have they seen us?”
“Lhunara seems to think so.”
“Damn it all,” Malus breathed. “All right. Get me my boots.”
By the time Malus and Silar reached the fortress deck the master and his mates were already in the middle of a heated debate. Dawn was stretching pale streamers of light across the sky, outlining the vague shape of the Blighted Isle to their north. Malus went to the rail and peered into the fading darkness. There, off to the north-east, he could make out a pale triangle of sail. The enemy patrol ship had their stern to the Manticore, and seemed to be getting smaller with each passing second.
The highborn turned to Lhunara. “What’s happening?”
Lhunara shot him a worried look. “The ship changed course almost as soon as we spotted it. It’s possible that it’s just following a standard patrol route.”
“Or it might have seen us and is running for help,” Master Gul interjected, his teeth glinting coldly.
“All right,” Malus said. “What do we do?”
Lhunara spoke first. “We have to catch it. We can’t take the chance that it didn’t see us.”
“Or we could give up this fool’s errand and turn back now!” Gul urged. “The enemy won’t give chase. This is our only chance to escape.”
“Escape?” Malus growled. “That ship there is trying to escape,” he said, pointing off at the receding elven ship. “And with good reason. Lhunara, can we catch it?”
The first mate nodded. “The wind is with us. I believe we can.”
“All right then. Lower all the sails, or start rowing, or whatever it is you do,” he replied, waving in the general direction of the masts. “And prepare the crew for battle.”
And with that, the chase was on. Red hides crackled in the wind as Manticore put on full sail, and boots drummed over the deck as the crew readied their weapons and counted the distance between them and their prey.
For a time, it seemed as though nothing changed between pursuer and pursued. The sun rose into the cloudy sky, and Malus could see little more than the fleeing ship’s sail, an angular chip of white on the horizon. But slowly, steadily, as the hours wore on into the morning, the elven ship took shape. Malus moved forward to the citadel deck, where the bowmen and the reaper bolt thrower crews waited for action.
Then, at mid-morning, the corsair’s luck turned with the wind. It shifted from north-east to north-west, blowing towards the Blighted Isle, and the fleeing patrol ship lost some of her headway. The distance shrank quickly after that, until Malus could clearly see the outline of the enemy vessel. She was low and sleek like Manticore, with three masts and angular sails. Her twin hulls were painted a rich blue and her ship’s fittings were golden. Sunlight glinted coldly off the points of spears and silver helmets arrayed at the stern of the ship.
“Gul is an odious bastard, but he was right this time,” Lhunara said quietly, just over Malus’ shoulder. The young highborn felt his heart leap into his chest, but struggled not to show it.
“How’s that?”
“With every minute we draw closer to Ulthuan,” she said. “That ship could be leading us right into a trap. Ulthuan’s patrol ships frequently work in pairs. We could very easily be getting into something we have no way of getting out of.”
“Are we going to catch them?”
“As long as the wind holds and nothing drastic happens.”
Just then Malus caught a glint of light flash from the stern of the fleeing ship. A slender shape blurred through the air and plunged into the sea barely twenty yards from the corsair. A moment later another bolt splashed down, this one five yards closer.
“Something like that?” Malus asked.
Lhunara stepped beside the highborn and grinned like a wolf. “Here’s where things get interesting,” she said. The first mate gave Malus a searching look. “We’re past the point of no return now. If we live long enough to reach Ulthuan, you do have a plan for getting inside whatever village we find, right? There will be a garrison, a wall and a barred gate. You’ve thought of that, right?”
Before Malus had to lie to her the reaper bolt thrower crew cut in. “Do your jawing somewhere else,” the chief bowman yelled as the weapon swung their way. “Unless you want to get to that ship a whole lot faster than you planned.”
The two druchii ducked out of the way, and the reaper bolt thrower banged against its mount. After a moment the corsairs in the citadel let out a cheer. Malus squinted at the enemy ship. Had they hit it? He couldn’t tell.
The highborn turned to Lhunara and was about to ask her what happened when there was a humming sound in the air and an elven shot struck the forward rail. The yard-long bolt smashed the wooden rail to splinters and flashed overhead, burying itself in the forward mast. Cries of pain and bitter curses filled the air as wounded corsairs lurched aft, pawing at jagged splinters that jutted from their arms, faces and chests.
Another bang resounded from the citadel, and this time Malus saw the long, black bolt punch a neat hole through the patrol ship’s aft sail. The chief bowman laughed like a devil. “We’ve got them now!” he cried. “Bring up the pitch-pots!”
On the heels of the command came another crash, and this time Malus heard the disconcerting sound of steel meeting flesh. Hot blood sprayed his face, and a druchii let out a gurgling scream. A corsair less than ten paces away fell to the deck, his left arm and shoulder torn away by a glancing blow from an enemy bolt.
“Don’t bunch up!” Lhunara yelled to the druchii manning the citadel. “Spread out and duck your heads when the bolts come in! You can’t fight a damned thing with a splinter in your eye!”
For ten long minutes the two ships exchanged shots as the range dwindled. The elven repeater bolt throwers laid down a withering fire: heavy blows hammered into the prow and smashed more of the railing, and bolts flashed overhead to puncture sails and split ropes like wet threads. One horrifying shot seemed to slither through a group of corsairs, ricocheting between their bodies and smashing them to a pulp before caroming off into the sea. The citadel reeked of spilt blood and entrails. Malus knelt beside Lhunara and wondered when his turn would come.
Then a pair of corsairs clambered onto the deck with buckets of pitch and a lit torch in their hands. They took one of the bolts and dipped it in the thick tar, then loaded it and set it alight. The reaper bolt thrower banged, and a streak of f
ire arced like a meteor through the leaden sky. Malus watched it plunge toward the enemy ship and bury itself in the aft mast. In moments the sail and rigging were ablaze.
A blood-hungry howl went up from the corsairs. Lhunara turned to Malus. “Now we go to work,” she said. To the surviving archers the first mate called, “Get ready!” Then she leaned over the aft rail and shouted down at the main deck. “Hooks and lines, starboard side!” she ordered. “Gold and glory!”
“Gold and glory!” the corsairs answered lustily, and leapt into action.
Lhunara led Malus down to the main deck, where the boarders were gathering. Druchii stood at the rail with grappling hooks and coils of heavy cable, surrounded by corsairs bearing crossbows, swords and axes. Silar was waiting for Malus there, a blade in one hand and a small crossbow in the other. Amaleth, similarly armed, stood a short way off. The second mate’s expression was focused and intent.
Suddenly, Malus was very aware of the mob of armed druchii surrounding him. Any one of them could be Lurhan’s hidden assassin.
Lhunara readied her weapons and looked over Malus and Silar, noticing for the first time that both were still in their plate armour. “You’ll want to watch your step,” she said pointedly, adjusting the weight of her own chainmail hauberk.
Malus tried not to think about it. “Have you made your decision?”
Just as she was about to reply the bowstrings on the citadel hummed, and the roar of flames filled the air. Without warning the heaving flank of the elven patrol ship loomed alongside, and a sleet of deadly arrows rained down on the waiting corsairs. The druchii with the grappling hooks suffered the worst; more than half of them fell, their bodies riddled with white shafts from neck to waist. But before they died they hurled their grapples through the air, and most of them found purchase on the enemy ship, snagging the patrol craft’s port hull. Crossbows snapped in response to the Ulthuan volley, and answering screams drifted across the space between the two ships as more corsairs ran forward and hauled on the cables. Moments later there was a shuddering crash as predator and prey slammed together in a lethal embrace.
“At them!” Amaleth roared, and the air rang with battle-screams as a black tide of corsairs swept onto the burning enemy ship. They leapt onto the elven ship’s narrow port hull and clawed their way up and over the rail, slipping and stumbling on the bodies of the dead as they charged at the closed ranks of the Lothern Sea Guard.
Malus found himself carried along in the rush, roaring and shouting along with the rest. When he reached the rail he leapt as hard as he could, and landed on the far deck with a jarring thud. With a start, the highborn realized he hadn’t yet drawn his sword. He dragged his blade from its scabbard just as the mob of corsairs surged forward again, and he was shoved toward the Lothern shield wall.
The enemy spearmen were all but completely hidden behind their tall, oval shields, and they held their weapons in an overhand grip, ready to stab downward at exposed faces and throats. Malus smashed full onto a foeman’s shield, throwing off the warrior’s aim enough that the answering spear thrust missed his head by inches. The highborn let out a scream and fumbled for the spear haft with his left hand. He seized the ebon shaft and pulled it towards him, then chopped at the hand holding it. The sword bit into fingers and wooden haft, and the spearman screamed in agony. Malus smashed the pommel of his sword into the warrior’s face and the spearman recoiled from the blow.
Screaming incoherent curses, Malus forced his way into the spear wall, lashing wildly at the warriors to either side of him. He smashed a spearman’s jaw and opened his throat with a vicious cut, then struck the helm of the second. The warrior he’d driven backwards collapsed onto the deck, and the highborn nearly fell with him. He drove his sword into the fallen warrior’s neck, then lurched forwards once more to discover that the enemy formation had melted away around him. Malus saw that most of the warriors were falling back towards the ship’s main mast, which had now caught fire as well. He gave chase, howling like a madman.
The first warrior he reached glanced behind him a moment before it was too late, and turned to raise his shield against the highborn’s killing blow. The enemy’s spear lunged at Malus, glancing off his breastplate; he feinted at the spearman’s helmet and then swung low, chopping into the side of the warrior’s knee. The spearman fell with a shout and the highborn literally ran over him, charging for the next enemy in line. As he ran, a hard blow rang off his shoulder blade, nearly unbalancing him, and the distraction almost cost him his life. At that exact moment the next warrior spun on his heel and thrust his spear at the highborn’s midsection. The tip struck him squarely, just above the navel, and lodged in a chink in his armour. Without thinking he hacked at the spear haft with his sword and it splintered before the keen steel point could drive into his midsection. The spearman dropped the broken weapon with a curse and fumbled for the short sword at his side, but Malus kept on coming, driving the point of his blade into the warrior’s left eye. Dead instantly, the body collapsed, taking Malus’ sword with it. He stumbled, nearly wrenched off his feet before he could drag the weapon clear.
The next thing Malus crashed into was the ship’s mast. The retreating warriors had fled even further, retreating towards the bow. Burning ash and pieces of flaming rope fell all around him as the highborn leaned against the splintered trunk and tried to catch his breath. Druchii with dripping blades rushed past him, chasing after the foe.
Bodies littered the deck all around him. A dead spearman looked up at Malus with glazed eyes, his handsome features spattered with red. Wisps of pale hair fluttered in the sea breeze. So like us, he thought, shaking his head, and yet so foul. And just like that, he realized how they were going to get inside the walls of the coastal town.
“My lord!” Silar cried, rushing to join Malus at the mast. His armour was streaked with gore; somewhere in the brief fight he’d lost his crossbow, but his sword was stained with crimson. “Lhunara says the enemy captain is dead and the ship is ours. What do we do now?”
“Get some sailors and start collecting the bodies of the spearmen,” Malus gasped. “We need to take them to the Manticore.”
For a moment it looked as though the young knight might argue, but instead he turned and shouted to a nearby group of druchii. Malus inspected the bodies carefully, looking for those whose gear was most intact. The corsairs seized a half-dozen of the bodies and began dragging them back to the ship. Malus and Silar chose two more and followed as quickly as they could. Around them, other druchii were looting the corpses of their Ulthuan cousins, taking anything of value they could carry.
Just as Malus got to the ship’s rail, a horn wailed from the Manticore’s fortress deck. Shouts went up from the corsairs on the deck of the burning patrol ship, but the highborn paid them no heed. “Get this body across, then come back for another,” Malus told Silar, then turned and ran back into the thickening smoke. Silar shouted something in reply, but it was drowned out amid the clamour.
Malus searched the remaining bodies more carefully, hoping to find one of the ship’s mates or perhaps her captain. His eyes stung from the smoke; by now, all three masts were blazing torches, and flaming debris had spread the blaze to parts of the deck as well. Moving quickly, he checked a dozen more corpses, but none suited his needs. Then came a rending crash as part of the main mast toppled onto the deck nearby, and the highborn reckoned he’d run out of time.
Suddenly he realized that Silar was nowhere to be seen. The corsairs were gone as well. He was the only druchii left aboard the ship.
Fighting a surge of panic he turned and ran for the rail, plunging through billows of choking smoke. Coughing and cursing, he emerged from the haze and saw the Manticore—now almost a yard apart from the patrol ship and getting further by the moment. Someone had ordered the cables cut, and the burning ship was drifting away!
“Mother of Night!” Malus cried. He thought of the heavy armour enclosing him and the grey sea waiting below, but still he clenched hi
s teeth and ran for the rail as fast as he could. At the last moment he leapt, hurling himself through space—and immediately saw that he wasn’t going to make it.
The highborn hit the hull of the ship with a clatter of steel, and one flailing hand grasped the base of the rail. Icy water washed up over his legs, almost to his hips. He could feel the strength in his fingers failing and roared in desperation—then a hand closed about his wrist and he felt himself being drawn upward.
Silar Thornblood heaved Malus onto the deck, amid a throng of cheering corsairs. The retainer knelt beside the highborn. “Didn’t you hear the horn?” he said. “I tried to tell you not to go back—”
“What in the name of the Dark Mother is going on?” Malus gasped.
“We’ve spotted another enemy ship,” Silar replied. “South of us, but closing fast. They must have seen the fire on the horizon. Master Gul and Lhunara are going to make for the Blighted Isle and try to lose the pursuer in the mists.”
The highborn clambered to his feet and headed for the fortress deck. He found Lhunara and Gul standing by the aft rail, studying the enemy warship on the horizon. It was a big one, Malus saw at once, easily as large as Manticore, or larger.
“Why are we running?” he snapped. “We’ve wrecked one ship today already.”
Lhunara shot Malus an irritated look. “They’ve got the wind at their backs, a large crew and probably more bolt throwers than we do. The fight would be too much in their favour. No, we’ll shake them off in the mists around the Blighted Isle. They won’t dare follow us in there.”
“She’s right,” Gul said emphatically. “Now do you see the folly of your plan? We should turn around at once.”
Malus stared thoughtfully at the ship’s master, wondering if perhaps the order to cut the cables had been more calculated than he’d imagined. You almost had me there, he thought. Another minute and I would have been lost. He nodded slowly. “We’ll shake them off in the mists, right enough,” he said, “but tonight we make for the coast of Ulthuan.”