[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm

by Dan Abnett

  “What about torture?”

  “How?” Bruglir snorted in disgust. “Their skin turns to mush and slides from their bones. Their flesh seethes with pestilence and their veins are filled with corruption. Open them up with your knives and all you get are diseases raging like a fire through your crew.”

  Malus scowled into the depths of his cup. “Then we’ll have to raid one of their hideouts.”

  Bruglir nodded. “My thoughts exactly. But such a thing is easier said than done.” He leaned back in his high-backed chair and folded his arms. “Vou aren’t the first highborn to try and exterminate these vermin. I even attempted it myself several years ago. No one has succeeded, for two reasons. Firstly, the whole area is like a hornet’s nest—every little bolt-hole on these islands is within a day’s sail of another, so word of an attack spreads very quickly. Each hideout keeps at least one vessel crewed and ready to sail at a moment’s notice. At the first sign of trouble it will flee and spread the alarm and within two days the seas around the island will be full of Skinrider ships seeking vengeance. Secondly—and most importantly—there is the problem of plague. Their ships are bad enough, but their hideouts are cesspits, seething with every imaginable sickness. Bring a single scrap of parchment back aboard your ship and your crew would be decimated within days.”

  “I spoke to Urial before leaving the Hag and he says he has a means of combatting the Skinriders’ pestilence,” Malus said. “Can you guarantee that you can keep any Skinrider ships from escaping during the raid?”

  Bruglir pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I have enough ships to cordon off a small island,” he said, “and the Skinriders are indifferent sailors at best. Nothing is certain, but I believe our chances are good.”

  “Very well,” Malus nodded, not entirely happy with the answer. “Have you an island in mind?”

  A scarred finger tapped a speck of ink on the chart. “This one,” Bruglir said. The Skinriders may have a name for it, but it’s just a knob of rock jutting from the sea, perhaps three miles across. They’ve kept a small way station there for years because it lies so close to our northern raiding route. We’ll have to approach the island carefully—there will be scouts and regular patrols in the area, so I plan on separating the fleet into three small squadrons and disperse us on different courses. Harrier, Sea Dragon and Black Razor are the fastest, so we’ll travel together. We can be there in two days’ time.”

  “And you’re certain that there will be charts there?”

  “Am I a Skinrider? Of course I’m not certain,” Bruglir growled. “But it’s the best place I can think of to look.”

  “Then that will have to do,” Malus said, rising to his feet. He finished the wine and set the cup on the table. “I’ll inform Urial to begin his preparations.” Halfway to the cabin door the highborn paused, then looked back at the captain. “You also might want to give your cross-bowmen some time to practise, as well. The man you ordered to murder me during the boarding action was a terrible shot.”

  Bruglir’s eyes widened slightly. “Did someone try to murder you, brother? I had no idea. Perhaps it was Tanithra—she’s talked of nothing but slitting your throat since you brought our dear sister on board.”

  Malus smiled. “That’s an idle threat, brother. Your first officer may not like me, but she gains nothing from my death. She’s more likely to try her hand at Yasmir than to attempt to kill me. You, on the other hand, have much to gain by my death, not least of which is freedom from the power of the writ.” The highborn chuckled. “And as for Tanithra, I’d be more concerned for my own health were I you. She has to know that Yasmir is going to force the issue between the three of you sooner or later and she has a great deal riding on the choice you must make. Choose wisely. I daresay your life depends on it.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Malus turned on his heel and left the cabin, his boots thudding softly on the creaking deck. Hauclir, who had been leaning against a bulkhead outside the cabin, rose from his reverie and trailed along in his master’s wake.

  “Did you tell him about the crossbow bolt?” Hauclir asked.

  “Yes,” Malus said over his shoulder, making no effort to conceal his annoyance.

  “What did he say?”

  “He denied it, just as I expected he would. But it let me plant the seed I needed to about Tanithra. What have you learned from the crew?”

  “Some interesting things, as a matter of fact,” Hauclir said, checking the passageway fore and aft for potential eavesdroppers. “If you’d asked these birds three weeks ago whom they’d follow in place of Bruglir, they’d have said Tanithra, hands down.”

  Malus paused. “And now?”

  “Now they don’t much care for her feud with Yasmir. Seems these sea ravens have got it into their heads she’s some kind of saint, what with her beauty and her strange airs and the way she cut through those Bretonnians back during the storm. Have you seen the door to her cabin lately? Sailors have taken to carving little prayers into the wood, asking for her protection on the voyage.”

  “Indeed? That is interesting news.” Malus tapped his chin with a long forefinger. “It appears she’s enamoured more than just my brothers. And they don’t care much for Tanithra’s ire?”

  “No, my lord. They think she’s putting them all at risk by plotting against Yasmir.”

  The highborn considered this and smiled. “Excellent. Feed the fire, Hauclir. Spread the rumour that Urial fears if Yasmir were to be murdered that Khaine himself will take vengeance upon the crew.”

  Hauclir eyed Malus warily. “So you’ve settled on how you’ll play your hand?”

  “Nearly so,” the highborn responded. “But don’t worry, Hauclir,” he said, turning and clapping his retainer on the shoulder. “You’re still in the running. I may kill you yet before this whole thing is done.”

  Two moons spread a blanket of silver across the restless sea. He breathed and the air stank of corruption, a foetid reek that sank into his lungs like a thick mist and festered there. His skin felt loose and greasy, sliding over flesh and bone.

  In the distance he saw a tall mast and a black, triangular sail, rising like a dreadful banner on the horizon.

  The air rippled like water, turning grey and cold and he couldn’t breathe. There were bony hands wrapped around his throat, bending him backwards beneath the surface of a pool of slimy water. He thrashed and kicked, snarling and spitting filthy liquid from his mouth. He pushed back with all his strength, forcing himself upwards—and found himself face to face with a horrific creature, its rotten form swathed in drapes of pus-stained skin that hung from its frame like a poorly-stitched robe. He could feel the pulpy flesh of the creature’s fingers weep rotten blood as they tightened around his throat. Its eyes were little more than grey-green orbs of mould, burning with hate from the depths of a faceless hood made of rotting human skin. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat filled with the stink of rotting corpses, choking off his words in a surge of bitter bile.

  Another sickened creature joined the first, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him back down towards the water. They were going to drown him in the bilges of the ship! More hands grabbed at his arm, waist and leg, lifting him off the ground. His head dipped back into the filthy, cold water. He writhed in their stinking grip, but they held him fast…

  Malus fell from the chart table with a strangled cry, tangled in sweat-stained bed sheets. He hit the deck with a painful thud, rapping his elbow hard against the polished wood. But the bright flare of pain did little to dispel the waves of vertigo or the blurring vision that left him dizzy and confused.

  “Damn this!” Malus rolled onto his back, screwing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth at the waves of dislocation that rippled through him. “Bestir yourself, daemon! Help me!”

  Tz’arkan slithered against his ribs. “But Malus, I’ve already done all I can. You must find your own way out of this labyrinth.” The daemon chuckled cruelly to itself, as though amused by some private j
oke.

  The highborn snarled, beating the back of his head against the deck until the pain forced the dizziness from his mind. After a moment he opened his eyes, teeth bared at the ache in his skull. It was late and the twin moons hung low in the sky, sending a shaft of silver-blue light slanting through the small porthole above his makeshift bed.

  He studied the pale light and a powerful feeling of dread came over him. Malus levered himself to his feet, pulled on boots and sword-belt and headed topside.

  The night was cool and windy and the deck of the ship was silent save for the rumble of sails and the creak of the hull as the Harrier sped north. Off to starboard Malus saw the rakish silhouette of one of the corsair’s sister ships, her sleek bow slicing effortlessly through the steel-grey waters. The highborn stood at the rail for several long moments, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness along the horizon. Finally he gave up and made his way forward to the fortress deck.

  The upper deck at the bow was twice the length of the citadel, mounting four bolt throwers instead of two and coiled boarding ropes with hooks stowed by the rail. Ruuvalk, the ship’s second mate, stood nearby, smoking from a long-stemmed pipe and idly supervising the bow lookouts. The sailor gave Malus a suspicious stare. “Come to stand the wolves’ watch with us?”

  “There’s a ship out there,” Malus said. “A tall mast with a triangular black sail.”

  Ruuvalk stiffened, his expression suddenly alert. “Where?”

  “I… I don’t know.” The highborn looked about, now cudgelling his brain to remember the image of the ship in his dream. He compared the image in his mind with the one before him, looking off the starboard bow. There,” he said, pointing. “Somewhere out there.”

  The lookouts on the starboard side turned in that direction, unable to resist the highborn’s commanding tone. Ruuvalk stared at Malus, slowly shaking his head. “Pardon, dread lord,” the corsair said carefully, “but are you drunk?”

  “Sail ho!” One of the lookouts flung out a hand, pointing to the north-east. “Four points off the bow.”

  Ruuvalk’s eyes went wide. With a parting glance at Malus, he rushed to the rail, forcing himself in between the lookouts. “Damn me, a black triangle,” he muttered, staring into the darkness. “A Skinrider scout, I warrant. Have they seen us?”

  “Most like,” the lookout said grimly. “She’s come about sharply. Looks like she’s getting ready to make a run for it.”

  “Damn! I thought we’d get closer than this before the alarm went out,” Ruuvalk muttered. “We’ve got calm seas and a good wind, though. Those plague dogs haven’t got away yet.” He leaned back from the rail and looked to the stern. “Black sail off the starboard bow,” Ruuvalk bellowed to the junior officer of the deck. “Sound the call to battle! Lay on full sail and come three points to starboard.”

  As the first wailing notes of the war-horn echoed through the night air Ruuvalk turned back to Malus. “If we hadn’t known where to look, we’d have never seen her. She could have turned tail and slipped over the horizon with no one the wiser. How did you know she was out there?”

  Malus met the sailor’s stare, considering any number of possible answers. Finally he shrugged and settled on the truth.

  “I saw it in a dream.”

  The Skinriders’ ship was once a Lustrian vagabond, or so the druchii sailors called her—low to the water and broad at the stern, long and twin-masted, but with sharp-edged triangular sails instead of a Bretonnian’s squares. She was nimble enough, like a dancer in the face of the druchii corsairs, but she couldn’t cut through the waves like the black hulls of her pursuers and little by little the druchii ships closed the distance, stalking the vagabond like a trio of hungry wolves.

  Hauclir grunted softly as he tightened the last set of the buckles on Malus’ armour. The highborn rotated his arms slowly, testing the way the harness fit, then nodded curtly to his retainer and returned to the group of druchii watching the pursuit from the bow. Bruglir and Tanithra stood side-by-side at the rail, occasionally sharing observations in low, professional tones a short distance from the starboard lookouts. The starboard bolt throwers had been uncovered and made ready, the crews idling near their mounts. As Malus walked to the rail his progress was momentarily checked by a trio of grunting sailors carrying an open-topped barrel full of water. Three long bolts jutted from the barrel, their steel heads wrapped in cotton and submerged in the dirty water. The sailors inched along the deck, mindful of the explosive dragon’s breath bolts they carried. Even with the steel heads and their glass bulbs cushioned in layers of cotton batting, a greenish glow from the sorcerous compound turned the sloshing water bright emerald.

  One of the lookouts suddenly pointed. “Arrows!” he cried. Black-shafted arrows made a momentary flurry of splashes in the water between the two ships. After two and a half hours of pursuit, the corsairs were only just now coming into firing range. The moons had set and the pale glow of false dawn was lightening the sky to the east.

  “How much longer?” Malus asked, leaning against the rail to the captain’s right.

  Bruglir turned away from Tanithra and eyed him with evident distaste, as though he’d barged his way into a private function. “A few minutes more. We’ll start by trying to cut their rigging and spill their sails, then pull alongside and set them afire.”

  Malus grunted. “I’m surprised they’re not coming about and trying to put up a fight.”

  The captain shrugged. “Spreading the alarm is more important. Every minute they remain under weigh is another minute that might bring them closer to another Skinrider ship. If they can spread the word, they’ve won. Nothing else matters to them.” Bruglir turned to the bolt thrower crews. “Try a ranging shot. Let’s see how close we are.”

  Malus watched absently as the crews ratcheted back the heavy steel cables and loaded standard bolts onto the long tracks. The Skinriders fired another volley of arrows, again falling short of the druchii ship. The bolt throwers banged on their mounts; two seconds later one of the six-foot bolts buried itself in the planks of the vagabond’s stern with a splintering crash.

  Bruglir nodded approvingly. “Switch to mast cutters,” he ordered.

  Suddenly, Malus stiffened. “Alarm…” he muttered. Then the highborn turned and beckoned to Hauclir. “Go and get Urial and bring him here.”

  As the bolt thrower crews reloaded, Malus tapped Bruglir on the arm. “We must capture the Skinriders’ ship,” he said to his half-brother.

  Bruglir looked at Malus as though he were mad. “That leaky old scow? If you’re hungry for prize money there’s little to be had in that worm-ridden old hull.”

  “Prize money be damned,” Malus hissed. That scout is our way into the Skinriders’ hideout. We can sail in close and make our way into their camp without raising any alarms!”

  The captain shook his head. “That vessel is a plague den—”

  “Their hideout will be even worse. You said so yourself. Better to see if Urial can combat their pestilence here than once we’re ashore, don’t you think? Send me over with a boarding party and cast off. If we can’t protect ourselves from the sickness onboard, you’ve only lost a few dozen crew.” And the man holding a writ over your head, he thought, but didn’t say so aloud.

  Perhaps Bruglir read the unspoken thought in Malus’ eyes, because his expression became pensive. “Who will command the prize?”

  Tanithra surprised them both. “I’ll do it. Let me pick my boarding party and we’ll sail her right into the pirates’ cove,” she said. The first officer glanced at her captain, then turned her gaze back to the vagabond with a frown. “Probably the closest I’ll get to a real command.”

  If Bruglir caught the bitterness in Tanithra’s voice, he gave no sign. “Very well,” he said brusquely. “Round up your men, Tani. I’ll need to pass signals to Black Razor and Sea Dragon! The captain headed aft to the citadel, where the signalman and his lanterns waited. Tanithra followed close behind, calling out the names of men
who would seize the Skinrider ship.

  The men at the bolt throwers finished winding their weapons and now the loaders were fitting special bolts into the firing tracks. Instead of a pointed steel head, these had large, crescent shapes like sickle blades. They were capable of inflicting horrific damage to a ship’s crew, but their primary function was to sever rigging and split sails. At close range the curved blades could split masts like saplings. The bolt throwers banged and the mast cutters arced across the water. One landed somewhere on the deck and the other clipped the rearmost mast, scattering a fan of splinters from the blow and spinning away in a glinting pinwheel to crash into the water on the other side.

  “You called for me?”

  Malus turned to Urial. “Back at the Hag you said you could counter the pestilence of the Skinriders. Well, your powers are about to be put to the test.” He nodded at the enemy ship. “We’re going over there in just a few minutes. Can you be ready by then?”

  Urial nodded. “I must pray. Summon me when it is time,” he said, limping away.

  Malus turned his attention back to the developing battle, just in time to catch sight of another flight of arrows arcing from the stern of the enemy ship. This time the raiders were in range and black arrows drummed against deck and hull. A sailor staggered backward with a vicious curse, clawing at the shaft jutting from his shoulder.

  They were close enough now that Malus could see the archers standing by the stern rail; broad, misshapen men wreathed in dirty grey vapours, fitting arrows to dark recurve bows made of sinew and horn. They looked like the hideous creatures of his dream, their bodies covered with ragged surcoats of crudely stitched hide that covered their arms, chest and much of their heads. His nostrils wrinkled as he caught a faint stench trailing from the fleeing scout; it was the sickly sweet smell of rotting meat, like a battlefield under a hot summer sun.