by Dan Abnett
Even Lhunara looked worried at the thought. “That patrol ship will spread the alarm for miles in every direction.”
Malus nodded. “But they’ll be expecting us to flee now, won’t they? They’ll circle around to the western side of the Blighted Isle and try to catch us as we come out of the mist. So we’ll go the other way, and hit them where they least expect us.”
“That’s madness!” Gul exclaimed. “You’re taking too many damned chances with my ship, and I won’t have it!”
Malus stepped close to Gul. “I should be more concerned about the chances you’re taking with me, Master Gul. Sooner or later they’ll come back to bite you.”
The ship’s master paled slightly and turned away. Behind Gul’s back, Malus gave Lhunara a conspiratorial look. She nodded, and the highborn smiled. He was gaining the upper hand.
As he turned to go, the first mate said. “What’s that on your shoulder?”
Malus frowned. “How should I know? I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”
Lhunara stepped forward. The highborn felt a sharp tug and heard a scrape of steel. At once, he remembered the blow he’d taken on the patrol ship as he’d run towards the main mast.
The first mate held something out to him. It was a druchii crossbow bolt.
“I guess wearing all that plate was a good idea after all,” she said.
Streamers of silver cloud wreathed a solitary moon, painting the rocky headland in patterns of shadow. The druchii raiders kept to the darkness beneath the trees that ran alongside the curving coastal road. Just ahead, around the bend of a rocky outcrop, lay their objective.
Malus pulled the cloak of Ulthuan wool tighter about his shoulders. The ship’s crew had washed out as much of the blood as possible, and they had to hope that the darkness would conceal the rest. In his right hand he held a looted spear, and the Sea Guard’s heavy shield hung from a strap on his left arm. Beneath the cloak he wore a hauberk of druchii chainmail, similar in size and bulk to Ulthuan scale armour. The silver helm was too big, and kept wanting to slide down over his eyes. He had hoped that the spearman’s long, blond scalp would have given him the extra padding he needed, but it still wasn’t enough.
There were nearly a hundred corsairs in the raiding party—slightly more than two-thirds of the Manticore’s surviving crew. Malus had been forced to leave Master Gul, Amaleth, and the navigator Shebyl back on the ship with a skeleton crew; if the treacherous ship’s master wanted to abandon him, he’d be leaving most of his corsairs behind as well. The highborn hoped that would be enough to give the bastard pause.
Gul had put the raiding party ashore just before midnight, five miles further north. After recovering his boats, the ship’s master was supposed to take the Manticore farther out to sea to avoid detection, then swing back to a point two miles south of the town to pick up the raiders and their plunder. By Malus’ reckoning they had less than two hours left to make the attack and reach the pickup point.
Lhunara, Silar and four other corsairs were also disguised in Ulthuan cloaks and wargear. The rest of the attackers wore dark cloaks and unadorned helms; in the darkness, they could pass for Lothern Sea Guard so long as no one looked too closely. Malus turned to the first mate. “Are you sure the rest of the raiding party knows what to do?”
She scowled at him from beneath the brim of her dented helm. “It’s not exactly complicated,” she replied. “They’ve done this sort of thing before, you know.”
“Fine,” Malus growled. “Lead on.”
The disguised druchii stepped out onto the road, and Lhunara took a few moments to make sure the “spearmen” were arrayed in proper marching order before heading off. Malus walked alongside her, his spear resting against his shoulder.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she muttered.
“Neither can I,” Malus said.
“This was your idea!”
The highborn chuckled under his breath. “Well, yes. I just wasn’t sure I’d live long enough to get this far.”
Just past the outcrop of rock the druchii found themselves at the north end of a broad, shallow cove, edged with forests of dark green pine. The coast road ran on for another hundred yards or so, and ended before the high gate of the elven town. As Malus watched, the moon slipped from behind the clouds, and the pearly light gleamed off the white stone of the town’s high wall and its tall, graceful buildings. He suppressed a shudder at the sight of the place: it was decadent and debased, with its gleaming white stone and jewel-like lamps. The highborn could almost smell the weakness of its inhabitants, and felt the sudden urge to put it all to the torch.
Globes of turquoise-coloured light shone at regular intervals along the top of the town wall, and Malus saw solitary figures pacing along its length. Lhunara muttered a curse. “They’ve been alerted,” she murmured. “I warned you about this.”
“So what does that mean, exactly?”
“At this hour, about a third of the town watch will be on the walls and guarding the gates. The rest will be sleeping nearby in full armour.”
“How many warriors will there be?”
She shrugged. “For a town this size? Maybe a hundred.”
Malus grunted. “Is that all? We can take them.”
“If we can get inside the walls!” Lhunara hissed.
“Well, then, you’d best be convincing, hadn’t you?”
They marched along the road in plain view, their helmeted heads bowed as if in weariness. Malus could feel the eyes of the sentries upon him as they came up to the gate.
“Who goes there?” spoke a cold, quiet voice from above. The language of Ulthuan was a debased relative of druhir, but close enough that Malus could make out most of what the sentry was saying.
“A shore patrol from the White Lion,” Lhunara answered, her husky voice thick with feigned weariness. “The captain put us ashore north of here to look for signs of the druchii raiders. Have any of you seen anything?”
“None,” the sentry replied. “You say you’re from the White Lion? I don’t know that ship.”
“This isn’t our normal patrol route,” the first mate replied without skipping a beat. “We’d been out hunting pirates west of the Blighted Isle and were heading back to port at Lothern when we got word there was a raider in the area.” Lhunara shifted from foot to foot. “May we enter, cousin? We’d like a place to rest our feet and get some food if we could. We’ve got another five leagues to march before the dawn.”
The sentry didn’t reply right away. Malus kept his gaze focused on the paving stones at his feet and tried to appear tired and bedraggled. Finally the warrior spoke. “Very well. Come inside.”
A ripple of tension ran through the raiders as quiet orders were passed beyond the gate, and the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back. The highborn turned and surreptitiously glanced back at the outcropping a hundred yards distant. He hoped the raiders were paying attention, and were fast on their feet.
The tall gates swung open. Malus waited until Lhunara started to move, then fell in line beside her. His hand tightened on the haft of his spear.
There were two warriors on each of the gates, their spears laid aside as they wrestled the portals open. Beyond them the road continued through an open square—where almost two score soldiers slept or tended their weapons in a temporary bivouac.
Malus felt his blood run cold. “Blessed Mother of Night,” he cursed under his breath.
One of the warriors on the gate next to him raised his head at the sound. “Did you say something, cousin?” he asked.
The highborn glanced up at the warrior, trying to think of a quick lie—and met the spearman’s gaze. Too late, he saw the look of shock on the warrior’s face as the warrior noticed the highborn’s dark eyes, and knew that their ruse was finished.
“At them!” he yelled, smashing the rim of his oval shield into the spearman’s face. The elf staggered backwards with a cry, blood spurting from his broken nose, and the highborn buried his spear
in the soldier’s throat.
Shouts of alarm rang through the air all around the druchii. Lhunara threw off her cloak and helm and attacked the spearmen to her left with a feral shriek. Silar dropped spear and shield and drew his long sword, readying himself as the first of the soldiers camped in the square charged at them.
The second spearman to Malus’ right turned and dashed for his weapon. The highborn reversed his grip on the spear and hurled it at the warrior, striking the elf between the shoulder blades. “Stay beneath the arch!” he warned the corsairs. They just had to hold the gate open long enough for their reinforcements to arrive, but with seven against forty, he didn’t think they were going to last very long.
Malus raced up to join Silar just as the enemy spearmen attacked. The young knight knocked a thrusting spear aside and caught his attacker full in the face with a backhanded cut. Another elf warrior charged forwards and stabbed two-handed with his spear, driving the keen point through the mail covering Silar’s left shoulder. Malus stepped in with a snarl and severed the spearman’s left arm at the elbow, hurling him back in a spray of steaming blood. As Silar pulled the spear free, the highborn stepped past him and caught another spear-thrust against his looted shield. The enemy warrior, in his haste, had forgotten his own shield, and Malus made him pay for the error. His blade slipped beneath the edge of the spearman’s scale hauberk and plunged deep into the warrior’s guts.
Screams and shouts of pain sounded all around Malus. More and more soldiers were joining the battle, and he was forced to give ground in the face of a thicket of stabbing spears. Two of the corsairs lay dead beneath the gate arch, and another bled from a wound in his chest. Malus caught a trio of spearmen swinging wide to his right, and realized they were trying to reach the gate. They could use the oak barrier to push the druchii outside.
Cursing, Malus turned to rush at them—and then a spear-thrust from his left glanced off his stolen helmet and knocked the rim down over his eyes. Yelling, he raised his shield to ward off another blow and fumbled with the unfamiliar helm, trying to shift it around and hold onto his sword at the same time. There was a searing pain in his left leg as a spear point sank into his thigh. Furious and blind, he knocked the weapon loose with the rim of his shield. Then a huge impact on his back knocked him off his feet and a triumphant roar echoed in his ears.
Malus covered himself with his shield as he hit the ground, and the bone-jarring impact sent the helmet flying. Heavy footfalls shook the ground all around him; the highborn looked about frantically and realized that the bulk of the raiders had finally arrived. Screaming corsairs raced out of the night and swept in a black tide over the startled defenders, driving them past the gate arch and back into the square. Within seconds the battle was receding into the distance as the surviving spearmen retreated deeper into the town.
Safe for the moment, Malus cast aside his shield and tried to check on the wound in his leg. Blood had already soaked through his robes and was dripping freely on the ground. Silar stood nearby, stuffing a bloodstained rag into the hole in his armour. Seeing the highborn’s wound, the young knight forgot what he was doing and joined Malus. “How bad is it?” Silar asked.
Malus grimaced. “Damned if I know,” he said. “It hurts like the blazes, but I think I can stand.”
“It’s bleeding freely, my lord. Best let me bandage it first,” Silar replied, and began tearing strips from a dead spearman’s cloak.
By the time Silar had knotted the field dressing tight the battle in the town was over. Lhunara came jogging back to the gate, her sword dripping red and her face spattered with gore. “I was wondering what happened to the two of you,” she said.
“Never mind us,” Malus growled. “What of the battle?”
The first mate grinned. “The town is ours,” she said. “The garrison is finished, and we’re searching the houses for captives. Looks like the women and children fled earlier in the day, though. Probably hiding somewhere up in the hills. Lots of plunder, though, so we won’t be leaving empty-handed.”
Malus nodded as Silar helped him to his feet. It wasn’t a total victory, but not a total loss, either. “Take everything you can, but be quick. We’re running short on time.”
It was just over an hour before the raiders were ready to move again, with three looted wagons laden with plunder and a coffle of thirty slaves. Losses among the raiders had been light, and despite the precariousness of their situation the corsairs were jubilant as they set off down the southern coast road. Malus rode in the lead wagon, cursing the wound in his leg. He could walk, but there was no way he could keep up the pace to get to the rendezvous in time. The druchii gave their captive cousins a taste of the lash to hurry them along.
They raced down the curving road, trading caution for speed and trusting to the fickle luck of the gods to see them through. It was just past the hour of the wolf when Lhunara gave the signal to leave the road and make for the narrow strip of beach to their right. Malus focused his tired eyes and peered into the darkness offshore. If the Manticore was out there, she was invisible in the night.
Exhausted, the coffle of slaves collapsed onto the sand. Lhunara barked another set of orders and the corsairs got to work posting lookouts and unloading the wagons. Silar came up alongside the highborn and searched the dark horizon as well. “You don’t think he left us, do you?” the young knight asked, giving voice to Malus’ fears.
“Gul’s chances of making it back to Clar Karond with such a small crew would be very slim,” Malus said. “Even I know that.” Still, he thought, it could be done. He wished he’d insisted on having the navigator accompany the raiding party, but it was likely that even the crew would have balked at such a reckless notion.
“They could have run into that other patrol ship,” Silar mused. “Or hit a squall and had their masts carried off.”
“Mother of Night!” Malus hissed. “Are you always this gloomy?”
“I prefer to say I’m no stranger to misfortune,” the young knight replied.
“More’s the pity,” Malus said. Then a glimmer of movement caught his eye. “There!” he said, pointing out to sea.
The first of Manticore’s longboats heaved into view, its rowers straining mightily against the oars. A ragged cheer went up from the corsairs until a hissed warning from Lhunara put their minds back on business.
Within minutes all four of the corsairs’ longboats were being dragged ashore, and Manticore herself had hove into view less than a mile from the beach, outlined like a ghost ship in the moonlight. Amaleth jogged up the strand, eyeing the raiders’ haul. “Sailors and plunder first,” the second mate suggested to Malus. “Then the rest of the crew and the slaves.” He noticed the bloodstained bandage on the highborn’s leg. “Will you head back with the loot?”
And look weak in front of the men, Malus thought? Oh, no. That would only encourage Lurhan’s hidden assassin. The highborn shook his head. “Get the boats loaded as quickly as you can,” he said. “I’ll go with the second wave.”
The second mate nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said with a faintly mocking smile. Before Malus could reply, Amaleth had turned and was running back to the boats.
They loaded the plunder aboard double-quick, and less than ten minutes later the longboats were rowing back to Manticore, burdened with loot and a third of the surviving raiders. Once there, however, it seemed to take hours to unload their cargo. Before long Malus was looking worriedly to the east, expecting to see the first rays of dawn at any moment. “What’s taking them so long?” Malus muttered.
Just then there was a commotion from farther down the south road. One of the lookouts came charging onto the beach and delivered a breathless report to Lhunara. The first mate sent the corsair back the way he came and hurried over to Malus, her expression grim.
“There’s a column of troops coming up fast along the coast road,” she said. “Looks like Sea Guard.”
“By the Dark Mother!” Malus swore. “How did they get here so fast
?”
Beside him, Silar pointed out to sea. “That’s how,” the young knight said.
It was the warship that had chased Manticore into the mists near the Blighted Isle, her white sails billowing like wings in the moonlight. She was bearing down fast upon the druchii corsair, eager for revenge. The hunters had now become the hunted.
“Can our boats make it back to us in time?” he asked Lhunara.
“It doesn’t look like it,” she said, her voice hollow. Malus turned to the first mate and saw she was staring at the distant Manticore. The corsair ship was taking her boats aboard. Gul was abandoning the rest of the raiding party to its fate.
In an awful flash of intuition Malus saw the trap that Gul had sprung on him. The ship’s master had delayed the offloading at the ship as long as he could to increase the chance they would be found. It was possible he’d even taken steps earlier to make the corsair easier to discover. And the timing had worked out to perfection. Gul now had a hold full of treasure and just enough sailors to make it back home and claim Lurhan’s reward.
Lhunara looked up at Malus, a stricken expression on her face. “The Sea Guard will be here any minute,” she said. “What do we do now?”
Malus straightened in his seat and took stock of their situation. Around fifty corsairs waited on the sand, surrounding thirty increasingly defiant slaves. Bile rose in Malus’ throat. He shook his head. There was only one thing left to do.
“We die,” the highborn said.
Ten minutes later came the soft jingle of harness and the drumming of swift feet along the coast road, and the relief column of Sea Guard troops came swarming down onto the beach, weapons at the ready. The sight that awaited them left many of the young warriors reeling in shock.
The white sands were black with blood in the fading moonlight. Dark-robed bodies lay everywhere, their limbs strangely contorted in death. Bloodstained figures in the simple garb of fisherman sat or staggered about the scene of carnage, many with slave manacles still dangling from their wrists. Many wielded gory knives as they stalked among the dead.