[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  “Yes,” Malus admitted.

  “But you did not stop here, as the law of the land requires. The lords of the tower receive a tithe of all slave cargoes brought into Naggaroth, whether they are sold here or not.”

  “I am well aware of the law,” Malus said tersely. “I simply chose to ignore it.”

  Syrclar gave the highborn a wolfish smile. “Then you were doubly foolish to return here, tainted or no,” he said. The lords of the tower have long memories and do not forget those who slight them.” He nodded to his men. Two warriors gritted their teeth and took Malus by the arms, while a third stripped the highborn of his weapons.

  “By the law of the tower, you will be held captive in the dungeons of Karond Kar until such time as your kin pay the tithe you withheld from us,” Syrclar said with a self-satisfied grin. “I have no doubt your father the vaulkhar will waste no time paying your ransom, so you shouldn’t have to spend more than a month in chains.”

  The horses stamped and snorted on the cobblestones of the quay, disturbing the gulls that perched with their meals on the rows of statues lining the waterfront. They croaked disdainfully from the helms and armoured shoulders of stone corsairs, or hopped upon the backs of carved slaves bent beneath the weight of granite chains. Syrclar and his men paid the birds no mind, waiting impatiently on their mounts while two sailors lifted Malus into his saddle. When he was seated, one of the sailors bound his hands to a ring on the saddle’s cantle with several loops of tarred line and a tight square knot. The second sailor passed the reins to one of Syrclar’s men, who nodded to his lord. The young lord raised his hand. “Sa’an’ishar!” he cried. “Form up and move out!” A few minutes later the procession began making its way along the waterfront, headed for the Dolorous Road

  .

  Malus felt the daemon stir as his horse jerked into motion near the end of the line. “It appears once again that you’ve managed to outsmart yourself,” Tz’arkan sneered. “Did you honestly think that little fool wouldn’t ask your name?”

  “It was a calculated risk,” the highborn muttered under his breath. “And it nearly worked.”

  “Nearly worked,” the daemon repeated mockingly. “Which is to say that it failed.”

  “Not entirely. The ship at least is isolated. The crew won’t be able to make off with the gold. And I made it ashore, which is one step closer to my goal.”

  “So you mean to say that this was part of your plan?”

  Malus gritted his teeth. “Not entirely,” he admitted.

  The procession reached the end of the eastern waterfront and turned right into a broad avenue leading inland towards the tower. This was the beginning of the Dolorous Road

  , the path all slaves took as they were herded to market and the path they all followed back to the ships that would take them to their masters across Naggaroth. It was mid-afternoon and the avenue was largely deserted. Small groups of tradesmen wearing heavy cloaks and riding wagons laden with tools made their way to and from the docks, giving the mounted troop of warriors a wide berth as they passed. A troop of guardsmen marched past, spears at their shoulders. Their officer bowed his head in salute to Syrclar and eyed Malus suspiciously as they marched towards the waterfront.

  The avenue continued for almost a hundred yards, fronted on both sides by tall, narrow shops that offered everything from barrels to biscuits; most were doing fitful business with so few ships in harbour. Labourers stood around outside with nothing to do, playing at dice or finger bones or smoking pipes and speaking in low tones.

  Malus studied the shops intently, trying to match them to a mental image many years old. He hadn’t been to Karond Kar since his hakseer-cruise and much of the time he’d been ashore he’d been rather drunk. He tried to remember where the Mere-Witch lay among the twisting streets and alleys off the Slavers’ Quarter and for the first time realised that it might not still exist after so much time.

  At the end of the row of shops the avenue emptied out into an enormous square, subdivided by rows of empty pens and raised platforms. This was the first and largest of the slave squares, where cargoes were brought and assessed for their value. Slaves suitable for crafts and hard labour were then taken to a smaller auction square to the west, while those fit for household duty or entertainment were sent to the square to the east. The procession continued across the silent and echoing space, heading further north into a narrower road that lay deep in shadow thanks to the tall houses that bordered it. A glimmer of memory tugged at Malus’ mind. Yes, he thought, this was familiar.

  The road wasn’t perfectly straight; druchii cities were generally labyrinths, meant to confound and kill intruders. The horses walked on into the gloom beneath the tall houses, overlooked by balconies and murder-holes every step of the way. Servants and messengers went about their business amid the residences of the city’s merchants and factors, ducking into doorways or down alleys to allow the horsemen to pass.

  Malus passed a tall house on the right, its iron-studded door decorated with an ornate stone dragon at its arch. The looming head of the dragon reached so far into the narrow lane that several of the mounted warriors had to duck their heads beneath it as they passed. More memories surfaced: the dragon! I remember cracking my head on that cursed thing, the highborn thought. There will be a branch off the main road just up ahead. That’s where it will have to happen.

  The highborn’s gloved hands tightened on the saddle’s raised cantle. He glanced over his shoulder. There were four men bringing up the rear, two with crossbows cradled in their laps. They would be the real threat.

  Malus straightened in the saddle, trying to see the side road. The warrior ahead of him looked back at the highborn with a warning scowl, tightening his grip on the reins of Malus’ horse.

  “Bestir yourself, daemon,” Malus whispered. “I have need of your power.”

  Tz’arkan rasped against Malus’ ribs. “Of course,” the daemon said, unctuously. “I am always here for you, Malus. You don’t know how pleased I am to see that you have come to depend upon me in times of need.”

  “Shut. Up.” Malus grated, galled to the core that the daemon was right. How had he reached the point where the daemon’s power was just another weapon in his arsenal?

  The side road was upon him before Malus realised it—a claustrophobic alley that shot off to the left at an angle to the main road. The highborn clenched his fists. “Now!” he said.

  Black ice thundered through his veins. Malus felt his eyes burn and his muscles writhe like snakes beneath his skin. Wisps of steam leaked past clenched teeth as the highborn bent low in the saddle and hung on for dear life as his horse sensed the change come over him and went mad with terror.

  Chapter Four

  THE HOUSE OF FLESH

  Malus’ horse reared with a shriek, tossing its head and pawing at the air. The warrior leading the mount was pulled from his saddle and dragged across the cobblestones, trapped by the reins wrapped in his hand. The air rang with equine screams as the other horses in the procession caught the highborn’s scent and panicked.

  Sharp curses and shouted commands echoed off the dose-set walls as the druchii warriors tried to regain control of their mounts. Malus fought to keep his seat, his head bent close to the rearing horse’s neck as it turned and bucked in place. Gritting his teeth, he strained against the tarred cords binding his wrists. Red pain lanced up his arms as the ropes creaked, but refused to give.

  A crossbow bolt buzzed past the highborn’s spinning head, close enough for him to feel the wind of its passing. Malus caught a glimpse of one of the warriors at the rear of the column, his pale face twisted with rage as he hauled at his horse’s reins and tried to fire his crossbow one-handed. Malus watched helplessly as the warrior’s finger tightened on the trigger and his guts clenched as the weapon fired with a barely audible thump. At the same instant, the crossbowman’s horse shied to the right, throwing the man’s aim off. The bolt went past Malus’ head in a dark blur, followed by the distin
ctive crack of an iron head striking steel plate. A man screamed and the smell of blood filled the cramped space.

  Malus closed his eyes and bent his will against the ropes cutting into his skin. The raw pain of his wrists only fuelled his anger further; the greater the pain the more he strained against the bonds. Hot blood flowed down the cold skin of his arms—then there was an intense flash of pain and a sharp pop that was more felt than heard and the rope fell away from his bloodied hands.

  The highborn grabbed frantically for the reins as the warriors around him shouted in alarm. A hand closed on his ankle—Malus looked down into the screaming face of the druchii warrior who’d been leading his horse mere moments before. The man still had Malus’ reins in a white-knuckled grip and now tried to pull the highborn from his saddle. Malus pulled his boot free and brought it down on the warrior’s upturned face. Bones broke and blood sprayed against the horse’s shins and the man fell back onto the cobbles. Yanking the reins free from the senseless druchii, Malus hauled his horse’s head around, aiming for the side road. “Run, you cursed nag!” he roared, putting his heels to the horse’s flanks. The animal bolted forward with a terrified shriek, sending house servants and traders scrambling into sheltered doorways and alleys as it raced down a lane barely wide enough to allow it passage.

  Angry curses and fearful shouts echoed in Malus’ wake—at one point a flung earthenware bowl shattered against the wall next to his head—but the highborn only spurred his mount faster, knowing that pursuit was only seconds behind him. He cudgelled his brain for memories as doorways and balconies blurred past to left and right. There was a turnoff… to the north, he thought, but how far? A servant carrying a basket of goods from the market ducked across the horse’s path, shouting obscenities as he dashed for the safety of a recessed doorway.

  Snarling wolfishly the highborn smashed his mount’s shoulder into the fleeing figure, hurling the man against a stone wall and sending a shower of fruit and meat into the air. Malus looked back to see the servant’s broken form rebound from the wall and collapse in the middle of the lane. Already the door to the house was open and two servants were dashing out to see to the man, which clogged the path even further.

  Malus nearly missed the mouth of the street to the right—he hauled back on the reins at the last moment and sparks flew from the horse’s iron shoes as it skidded across the cobblestones. The animal screamed and bucked, trying to throw him from the saddle, but thanks to the daemon’s strength he clung to its back like a leech. A loud commotion back the way he’d come told Malus that his pursuers were almost on him. He eyed the northern street frantically, searching for familiar details, but found none. Cursing to himself, he spurred his mount up the road just as a druchii warrior with a spear galloped into view back the way Malus had come.

  The warrior threw his weapon with an angry shout and Malus threw out his hand, hoping to snatch it from the air. The spear point glanced along the back of Malus’ shoulder blades, popping mail rings and twisting him slightly in the saddle. His hand tried to close on the spear haft but the weapon bounced from his palm and struck the far wall, falling out of reach as the horse shot northwards up the road. The warrior drew a curved sword and gave chase, howling like a vengeful wraith. More riders thundered into the lane in the man’s wake, taking up the chase as well.

  A crossbow bolt ricocheted off the wall to Malus’ right and shattered against the stone overhang of a narrow doorway, showering him with shards of stone. This road was a bit wider than the one before, able to permit two horses to travel abreast. There were more druchii on foot, stepping in and out of the shops lining the street. Many were household servants, evidenced by the torcs gleaming at their throats, while others were highborn, tradesmen or off-duty soldiers. The servants scattered at the sound of galloping hooves, while the soldiers eyed Malus with wary curiosity and fingered the hilts of their swords.

  “Out of the way, damn your eyes!” Malus shouted at the people in his path, wishing to the Dark Mother that he had a blade in his hand to add weight to the command. Up ahead, one soldier evidently took exception to Malus’ tone and drew his sword. The highborn’s mouth went dry. He aimed the charging horse directly at the man, but the warrior stood his ground. At the last second Malus swerved left and the soldier swung his blade in a blurring arc. The blade parted the horse’s right rein and struck a glancing blow against the highborn’s side. Mail rings popped with a dry crackle, but the armour and the thick leather kheitan beneath absorbed the hit. Malus cursed viciously at the man as he sped past and got an obscene gesture in return.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a sword,” Malus muttered angrily as he grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane with his right hand and scanned the shop fronts along the road. He remembered a line of taverns leading up to the Mere-Witch, but all he saw were bakers and fishmongers. His guts churned at the thought that he’d taken a wrong turn.

  “Would you like a sword? Nothing could be easier,” Tz’arkan said, its voice cool and slick with malice.

  Yes! He thought at once, but the word caught in his throat when he remembered how the daemon had provided him with a way to navigate the labyrinth back at the Isle of Morhaut. “But I don’t need a spur of sharpened bone growing out of my wrist,” he snapped.

  “It doesn’t have to grow out of your wrist—”

  “Leave the weapons to me, daemon,” Malus snarled, leading the horse around a sharp turn—and heading straight for a gang of labourers standing around a heap of fallen masonry.

  Malus jerked back on the reins with a startled shout, but the horse was moving too fast to stop. Human and dwarf slaves scattered left and right, shouting in alarm and whips cracked as the druchii overseers tried to keep their chattels in line. One slave didn’t move quickly enough and was trampled beneath the horse’s hooves, his wild screams cut short as an iron shoe split his skull like a melon.

  The mound of bricks spilled across a third of the street—part of a house’s facade that had fallen away in an avalanche of stone. With no other options available, Malus bent low in the saddle and put his heels to the horse’s flanks, driving it up the loose pile of bricks. The horse gamely leapt for the top of the mound, bloodstained hooves scrabbling for purchase. Near the top, the horse started to falter—then a whip struck Malus’ left arm with a sharp crack. The highborn roared in pain, but the sound startled the horse enough that it redoubled its efforts, lunging for the top of the mound and plunging over the summit.

  Unfortunately for Malus, his pursuers had been familiar with the construction. When they came around the bend they angled for the far end of the mound and as the highborn’s horse hurtled down the opposite side of the pile he saw two riders already slightly ahead of him and angling in from the left. One was the swordsman he’d seen before; the other carried a spear in an overhand grip, ready to throw or stab. Of the two, the swordsman was the better rider, leading his mount around panicked slaves and small piles of rock and pulling alongside Malus just as the highborn’s horse leapt the last few feet off the brick mound.

  Malus threw himself to the right as a backhanded cut tore at his mail shirt just below his shoulder blade. Cursing fiercely, he spurred the lathered horse to greater speed, but the swordsman kept pace, leaning forward in his stirrups and slashing downwards with his sword. The blade struck Malus a hard blow on the left shoulder, just behind the collarbone and a hot spike of pain lanced down his back as the edge bit through the mail and kheitan beneath. The highborn felt his left arm go numb at the blow—and at just that moment his horse screamed in pain and slewed to the left, into the swordsman’s path.

  The two horses crashed together in a chorus of anguished cries and fierce oaths from their riders. The druchii swordsman’s horse struck Malus’ mount chest to shoulder and for a sickening instant the highborn feared that his horse would be knocked onto its side. As it was, the two horses grappled with one another, rearing and snapping with broad, square teeth. Malus fought to keep his seat, even as the tower swordsma
n made a clumsy downward swing at his skull.

  Hard-won instincts warned Malus at nearly the last moment. He jerked his head to the side and the blow fell once again on his already-injured shoulder. Fiery pain ignited from the base of his neck to the rounded part of his arm. In desperation he let go of the reins with his left hand and grabbed for the man’s blade. By sheer luck his hand closed on the back of the single-edged sword—he felt the edge of the blade against his fingertips as he grabbed hold of the sword and pulled it towards him. Potent with battle-lust and the daemon’s terrible gifts, he all but yanked the surprised warrior from his saddle; the man was drawn far forward, his wrist well within Malus’ reach. The highborn let go of the sword, lunging for the man’s wrist in an attempt to twist the blade from his hand, but just then Malus’ horse bit the other mount on the neck. The swordsman’s horse shied back with a cry, toppling the man from his saddle even as Malus’ horse gathered itself and leapt forward, fleeing the fight. Malus made a vain grab for the sword as it fell beyond his grasp and was left fighting to stay in the saddle as his horse galloped headlong up the lane and around another sharp turn.

  Malus could tell at once that something was wrong with the horse’s gait—looking back over his shoulder he saw a black-shafted spear buried deep in the animal’s rump. Terror was all that was keeping the animal moving forward, but the highborn knew that it wouldn’t last much longer. Still worse, he saw that the buildings had changed from shops to residences, many of which were shuttered or in advanced stages of disrepair. He was definitely on the wrong street. Surprisingly, the highborn heard the sounds of galloping hooves taper off just behind him. He couldn’t imagine why, but he wasn’t going to question his good fortune. His horse was already slowing as they reached another sharp bend in the road. With luck, he thought, he could find an alley up ahead and continue on foot.