by Dan Abnett
“None of your sorcerer’s riddles, brother,” Malus growled. “I’m tired and I smell like a midden heap and I’m in no mood for games.”
“Then listen and learn,” Urial said, leaning towards him. “Imagine that you are standing in the middle of a river.”
Malus grunted. “That’s easy enough. I’ve been dreaming about a bath for hours now.”
“In the middle of a river, all you are aware of is the water rushing past your waist. Your only point of reference is the spot on the riverbed where you are standing. All else is in motion, changing from moment to moment before your very eyes. That is how most mortals perceive the flow of time.”
Malus considered this, frowning in thought. “All right.”
“Now imagine stepping out of the river and standing on the bank. Your perspective has changed. You can look back at the river and see its course in both directions. If you want, you can catch a glimpse of a floating piece of wood and trace its course along the moving stream. You can see where it came from and where it will go, because you can see the totality of its course. That is how seers perceive the future—by altering their perspective and taking in the totality of existence.”
Malus thought about what the acolyte had said, formulating his response. “Is… is it possible for someone who isn’t a seer to alter their perspective in this way?”
For a long time Urial was silent. “It is possible,” he said at last. “If a man were to step outside the realm of the physical world he could look back at the river of life and view its course. Or he might receive visions if he were being possessed by a potent enough spirit.” The acolyte studied him intently. “Why do you ask?”
Before Malus could reply, a hooded figure peered over the lip of the hatch, barely discernible in the abyssal darkness. “We’re sailing into the cove,” he whispered. “Landing party topside.”
Glad for the interruption, Malus nudged Hauclir with his boot. The retainer was awake in an instant and rising silently to his feet. Malus, Hauclir and four corsairs, all hand-picked for their ability to move and kill silently, gathered together near the topside ladder.
Urial rose as well and limped forward. “You are all still protected by the aegis of the Bloody-Handed God,” he said in a low voice. “But the power of the enemy will be much stronger within the camp. Touch nothing save what you must, or even my power may not be enough to protect you.
“Next thing you’ll say is that we can’t kill anyone,” Hauclir said sourly.
Urial smiled coldly. “Have no fear on that score. Spill blood in Khaine’s name and his blessing will remain strong.”
“Then let’s go do our holy duty,” Malus growled, nodding for the men to follow him as he started up the ladder.
The sea breeze was cool and brisk as Malus made his way onto the deck, but he had barely a moment to savour it. Tanithra was waiting for him at the top of the ladder, draped in one of the raiders’ stinking hides. The lower part of her face was all the highborn could see from beneath the surcoat’s crude hood, but he sensed that she was worried. “We have a problem,” she hissed and pointed over his shoulder.
Malus turned. The island cove spread before him, the waters glittering in the pale moonlight. Six Skinrider ships lay in the anchorage, every one a seagoing raider twice the size of the little vagabond. It was almost midnight, yet Malus could see crewmen swarming over the big ships, clearly readying them for sea. Longboats scurried to and fro between the squadron and the shore, carrying supplies to the waiting ships. The highborn bit back a curse. “Someone’s planning a major raid,” he growled.
“And I’ll wager this old boat was out scouting for them,” Tanithra said. We don’t have much time before whoever’s in charge realises we’re not supposed to be here and sends someone to ask a lot of awkward questions.”
“Then we’re going to have to hurry,” Malus said, forestalling the question he read in the corsair’s eyes. “I didn’t come this far to leave empty-handed. Be ready to sail the instant we return.”
Malus scanned the rocky shoreline until he found the point where the Skinriders were loading the grounded longboats with supplies. From there, he gazed deeper inland, following the antlike procession of labourers until he spied a squat tower, almost invisible against the background of dark fir trees about half a mile from the shore. He pointed to the tower. “That’s where the charts will be kept,” he told the assembled druchii. “We’ll have to move overland—the shore is too exposed.”
Malus dashed silently to the starboard rail, where a group of sailors had lowered the ship’s longboat into the placid waters of the cove. Without a backward glance Malus threw his leg over the rail and clambered down a rope ladder into the boat. He was no sooner settled in the bow when Hauclir landed in the boat behind him, holding a loaded crossbow. The retainer passed the weapon to Malus and settled down beside him. The remaining members of the landing party took their positions swiftly and silently. At a nod from Malus the portside oarsman pushed them away from the hull of the vagabond with his oar and within moments they were rowing towards the shoreline, their course largely concealed by the bulk of their anchored ship.
The trip to shore seemed to last forever. Malus listened to the faint sounds of the Skinriders at work on the distant ships, expecting to hear a thin cry of alarm at any moment. His attention was so fixed on the sounds carrying in the night air that the sudden grounding of the boat in the shallows took the highborn by surprise. Two sailors leapt from the boat, landing in the water with scarcely a splash as they stabilised the boat for the others to disembark. Malus stepped over the gunwale and stalked quietly into the shadows as the corsairs dragged the heavy boat onto the shore.
There was little light beneath the trees, but compared to the tangled woods of the far north the forest on the island was almost free of undergrowth. The landing party moved silently beneath the tall trees, drawn by the sounds of the loading crews. Malus was surprised to find no sentries or patrols keeping guard over the wooded approach—likely every man that could be spared had been dragooned into readying the ships for sea.
The Skinrider camp was actually a small fort, with a wooden tower three storeys high rising amid a cluster of wooden buildings surrounded by a wooden stockade. The corsairs crouched at the edge of the forest and watched a steady stream of men pushing wheelbarrows past the stockade’s open gates. Tall torches had been driven into the ground at regular intervals along the route, providing ample light for the labourers—and the guards standing watch at the entrance.
Malus felt Hauclir crouch silently down beside him. “All this hustle and bustle will serve us well,” the retainer said. “The inside of that compound is likely to be busier than a beehive—one more group of labourers isn’t likely to attract any unwanted attention. And the guards will all be focusing their efforts on the traffic moving through the gate.” He indicated the tower with a jerk of his head. “Let’s have a look on the back side of the stockade and see if it can be scaled.”
The corsairs rose silently and slipped like shadows beneath the towering fir trees, circling around the camp’s perimeter until they stood by the wall directly opposite the gate. There they sank onto their bellies and crawled through the sparse scrub and fern until they had a clear view of the stockade and the square tower beyond. After several long minutes of study, Malus and Hauclir exchanged looks. There were no sentries to be seen. The appalling lack of defences made Malus’ hair stand on end. There was something here that he wasn’t seeing, but he couldn’t imagine what it was and there was no time to waste puzzling it out. Finally he shrugged and waved two of the corsairs forward.
The men rose from cover and raced across the cleared area leading up to the wall. They disappeared in the shadow of the wall, then Malus heard a low whistle. The scouts had determined that the wall was scalable. The highborn rose to a crouch and the rest of the raiding party followed.
The logs were made from the local fir trees, broad and sturdy and pegged together by thick iron na
ils. White mould grew in the chinking between the logs and swarms of insects crawled along the wood’s countless fissures. The highborn made a conscious effort to ignore the squirming carpet of life covering the palisade and focused on the faces of the scouts. “Wall’s not too high,” one of the men said. “We can boost a man up and go over in relays’
Malus nodded. “All right. Hauclir, you first.”
Hauclir gave his lord an impertinent stare. “I live to serve,” he whispered and put his boot into one of the scouts’ interlaced hands. With a faint grunt the scout propelled Hauclir upwards and the retainer immediately found good handholds on the wall. He wedged his armoured form between the pointed ends of two of the logs and then bent down, reaching for the next man. Moments later a second man straddled the top of the wall and both men together began pulling the rest of the raiding party up and over as fast as they could grab them.
Malus was last to go. The two druchii took his hands and pulled him up to the top of the wall as though he were a straw doll. Without pausing he swung his legs over the palisade and dropped to the other side, drawing his crossbow as he landed. From his vantage point Malus could see that the square tower was built at the far end of a long feasting hall, similar to ones the autarii or even the barbarian norsemen liked to build. There were lights burning beyond narrow arrow slits set into the walls of the great hall and sickly-sweet smoke rose from the hall’s two chimneys. Nearer to the wall were two square wooden buildings, their windows dark and shuttered. The raiding party was taking cover in the shadow of these buildings and Malus raced to join them. Within moments Hauclir and the remaining corsair were off the wall and ducking behind the building opposite the one where Malus crouched.
They watched and listened for several minutes. There was no sign of activity around the corsairs. Malus waited as long as he dared, then rounded the corner of the small building and led the raiding party to the tower.
The closer they came to the tower, the more Malus felt a kind of tension in the air, like the sky just before a summer storm. Sorcery, he thought bitterly. He was getting all too familiar with the sensation.
Up close to the tower, it looked as though there were plenty of footholds for a skilled climber. The walls were made of the same fir logs as the palisade, though some kind of glistening membrane had been stretched across their surface. Malus reached out a hand and touched it and it parted like rotting parchment, releasing a horrid stench like a ruptured bowel. Squirming insects poured from the hole and raced along the ground. Beneath the membrane the wall appeared chinked with some kind of moist red clay.
Malus eyed the tower with a grimace. “No wonder they don’t rely on guards,” he hissed. “Who in their right mind would want to seize such a place?” He looked up, gauging the length of the climb. Finally he sighed and reached for a handhold, splitting the membrane further and filling the air with more noxious gas.
The corsairs, accustomed to scrambling up wet rigging day and night, scaled the tower with ease. Malus and Hauclir quickly fell behind, taking the climb one hand and foothold at a time. There was a narrow window frame inset at each storey and the raiders took special care to pass them with wide margins.
Malus and Hauclir were almost at the second storey when suddenly a silhouette leaned out of the open frame and looked left and right along the wall. The highborn froze, pressing himself against the insect-infested wood and praying to the Dark Mother that the diseased creature didn’t think to look directly below him. The crossbow, still cocked and loaded, was slung on his back, for all intents and purposes a thousand miles away.
The highborn watched the hooded form of the pirate scan the walls of the tower one last time and then pause in thought. Was he trying to explain away the strange sounds he’d heard? After a moment the figure receded—then abruptly leaned back out and looked down. Malus found himself staring into a pair of sickly grey eyes only five feet from his own.
There was a rustle of fine metal, like the unravelling of a necklace, then Malus sensed Hauclir make a sudden, sweeping move off to his right. A fine length of chain lashed like a whip through the air and wrapped tightly around the Skinrider’s throat. The hooded man barely had a moment to gasp for air before the retainer hauled backwards and pulled the man from the window. The body hurtled silently past them and hit the ground with a wet smack!
Malus glanced at Hauclir and gave him a nod of approval and the two resumed their climb. Minutes later they joined the rest of the raiding party.
The top of the tower was crenellated and afforded a commanding view of the entire camp. The four corsairs lay on their bellies in the middle of the floor, keeping out of sight. Malus crawled over to them. One of the druchii pointed towards one of the floor’s corners. The highborn spied a trapdoor there, inset with a dark iron ring.
As Hauclir settled down beside the corsairs and gasped for breath, Malus crawled to the far side of the tower and rose up enough to peer over the battlements at the activity below. There was a large open field just past the main gate of the camp and it was packed with crates and barrels, many protected from the elements by large hide tarps. The torchlight field was swarming with Skinriders—possibly the entire camp and a sizeable portion of the crews of the anchored ships.
Movement near the gate caught Malus’ attention. A Skinrider had run up empty-handed to the gate and was speaking excitedly to the sentries. After a moment the most senior of the guards appeared to reach a decision and pointed to the tower. Without hesitation the man ran on. Clearly he had news for someone.
Malus turned to his men. “It looks like someone in the cove has noticed the ship,” he said in a low voice. “We’ve run out of time.”
Chapter Seventeen
THE EMERALD FIRE
Malus edged backwards from the battlements, his mind racing. Had the ships in the cove already attacked the vagabond and killed Tanithra and the rest of the crew, or were they asking for permission to challenge the new arrival? Worse still, what if some sharp-eyed lookout had spotted the longboat?
On the other hand, it could have nothing to do with us whatsoever, Malus the highborn thought angrily. There was no way to be certain, but it seemed wise to expect the worst.
He crawled to the trapdoor inset at the north-east corner of the floor, motioning for Hauclir and another druchii with a crossbow to join him. Malus pointed to Hauclir and then at the iron ring, then rose into a crouch, aiming his crossbow at the doorway. The second druchii mirrored his movements on the opposite side of the door.
The retainer took up the ring with both hands, took a deep breath and swung it open slowly and carefully. Reddish torchlight rose from the doorway and transformed the three druchii into hellish figures doused in crimson and orange. The stench of rot and rendered fat rose in a smoky cloud from the spaces below.
Below, Malus saw the top of a curving flight of stairs and a broad landing lit by torches fitted into sconces along the walls. Much of the landing lay in shadow, but he could clearly see a wooden door almost directly below. Malus passed the crossbow to Hauclir without a word and reached for the ladder waiting below the open door.
Descending into the tower was like sinking into a steam bath. The air was rank and humid and seemed to tremble with a life of its own. It pressed against Malus’ exposed skin like oil, sliding greasily into every crevice and hollow and his flesh tingled sharply at the touch. He edged stealthily towards the door and drew one of his swords. There was an indistinct rumble of noise rising up the stairwell from the floors below—Malus imagined the long hall filled with Skinriders preparing for their voyage. By now they would be looking curiously at the messenger darting through their midst.
The highborn eyed the progress at the ladder—Hauclir was the last man to descend, already halfway to the floor with the rest of the corsairs spread out around the stairs and looking to him for orders. Malus told two men with crossbows to cover the stairway and motioned the rest to accompany him. Then he turned and laid a hand on the door’s iron ring. Moving c
autiously, Malus eased the door open and peered through a narrow gap into the room beyond. The chamber was dimly lit; light from two banked braziers cast a faint glow across what looked to be a table of some kind. A figure struggled weakly on the platform, apparently bound there by rope. The stink of spilled blood hung heavy in the room, along with the familiar odour of decay.
Malus swung the door wide and rushed into the room, sword ready and peering into the dimly lit comers for waiting foes. But for the wretch twitching on the table in the centre of the room, there was no one there. The highborn looked about for a moment with a mixture of relief and consternation.
The room was like a rustic shrine to the Bloody-Handed God. The wooden table in the centre of the room was worn and stained with layer upon layer of dried gore and the wooden floor was tacky with pools of old blood. The shuddering figure bound spread-eagled to the tabletop was naked and had been—rather crudely, Malus noted in passing—skinned from the waist up. Maggots, flies and red wasps crawled over the glistening flesh. Yellowed teeth shone from the tortured gums and exposed musculature of the jaw; the mouth worked, but nothing more than a tortured whisper rose from the man’s ravaged throat.
Hide curtains had been stretched across alcoves lining three of the room’s walls. In the midst of the wall opposite the door stood a life-size statue of what appeared to be a broad-shouldered Skinrider, his hood decorated with a pair of massive, downward-curving horns and his right hand extended towards the skinning table as if demanding the portion of flesh that was due him. The Skinriders had laid voluminous hide robes on the armature of the statue, lending the figure a disturbing degree of life. The folds of the robe shifted slightly in the draft created by the open door.
Hauclir stood in the doorway, studying the room with a grimace of distaste. “What is this place?”
Malus shrugged. There was an undercurrent of tension in the air, ebbing and flowing like the slow beat of an unseen heart. More sorcery, he suspected. “Some kind of shrine, perhaps,” he said, pointing at the statue with his sword. “Whatever it is, it’s important to the Skinriders. Search the alcoves.”