by Dan Abnett
“There was talk before we left that your father was gathering his own men for an expedition to the north,” Dolthaic interjected. “Probably heading up to one of the northern watchtowers to hunt dragons or some such.”
“Indeed?” Malus said with a raised eyebrow. That could be fortuitous. But what of my brother Isilvar? Lurhan vowed to search the city for the Slaaneshi cultists who were meeting in Nagaira’s tower. Was Isilvar exposed as their hierophant?”
“No,” Silar said gravely. “Lurhan made a show of searching all the towers in the drachau’s citadel, but Isilvar’s servants swore that he’d left the city days before. Of course, no one knew where he had gone and your father seemed content to leave things at that.”
“And the drachau?”
“Lurhan presented the drachau with almost a dozen cultists, dragged by their hair from their residences across the city. Some few of them were high-ranking nobles—all of them, coincidentally enough, well-known enemies of the drachau himself. Uthlan Tyr had them impaled on the walls of the Hag and considered the matter settled.”
“The short-sighted idiot,” Malus hissed. “So Isilvar escaped the drachau’s wrath. Clearly he has more influence with Lurhan than I suspected—or perhaps the vaulkhar fears that if Isilvar is implicated it will taint Bruglir’s reputation.” The highborn paused, tapping his lip contemplatively with a round, purple grape. “It might be interesting to see how things change once news of Bruglir’s death becomes well-known. Regardless, Isilvar remains a threat to be eliminated.”
“You sound as though you intend to ride straight back to Hag Graef and preside from your tower as though nothing were amiss!” Silar declared incredulously.
“Why, Silar, that’s precisely what I intend to do.”
“Then you’re a fool! You’ll be placing your head in the nauglir’s mouth,” Silar exclaimed, lurching unsteadily to his feet. Wine sloshed from his half-empty cup, adding to the stains on the piled rugs. “And ours as well, for what that’s worth. So far you’ve been very good at staying one step ahead of the consequences your rash actions have created, but this…” Silar’s voice faltered as his sense of propriety warred with pent-up frustrations This is something you won’t be able to talk your way out of. Can’t you see that?”
No one moved. Dolthaic turned away from Silar, busying himself with refilling his own goblet. The newer retainers looked from Silar to Malus with equal measures of surprise and anticipation, expecting at any moment to see the seneschal die. But Malus simply stared at his lieutenant in silence for several long moments, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts.
“Silar, you have served me loyally and well for many years,” he said at last. Without thinking, he picked up the goblet from the table next to him and idly inspected its contents. “I think you must be very, very drunk to have spoken so carelessly, because normally you would never dare talk out of your place. So I will refrain from ordering these men to skin you alive and feed your private parts to their nauglir, as it would be well within my rights to do.” The highborn met Silar’s eyes. You are here to serve. Never, ever forget that.”
The retainer’s fist closed around the neck of his goblet. The muscles in his jaw bunched as he fought back yet more rash words. Finally, he took a deep breath and tossed the goblet aside. “Of course, my lord,” he said fatalistically. “Forgive my impertinence. It won’t happen again.”
Malus smiled thinly. “I’m certain of it. But,” he continued, raising a finger for emphasis, “your concerns are well-taken, if unfounded, so let me explain to you the way of things.” He sat up from his cushions and paused, realising he’d brought the goblet to his lips. The smell of the dry, dark wine rose from the cup and filled his nostrils and he thought of the daemon’s warning. After a moment’s consideration, he pretended to take a sip, then pointedly set the goblet aside.
“Let us consider the situation as it stands,” Malus told his men. “For Silar’s sake, we shall not mince words—my father the vaulkhar hates me bitterly and would like nothing better than to see me dead. Until recently, he has been prevented from this because of… certain arrangements he made with my mother Eldire.”
“What arrangements?” Hauclir asked, apparently oblivious to the sheer impertinence of such a question.
“I don’t know for certain,” Malus replied. As far as it went, this was true—he had suspicions that Eldire lent her sorcerous powers to Lurhan in return for being given a child, but had no proof that this was the case. “With Bruglir dead, however, Silar feels that Lurhan will accuse me of the murder of his heir and will have ample justification to seek revenge. He would in fact be compelled to act, or risk being seen as weak. So you see, my lieutenant spoke with some degree of good sense.”
Hauclir nodded thoughtfully, folding his arms and leaning back against the sea chest. The other retainers looked to one another with expressions of concern—all except Silar, who began to pace about the perimeter of the room.
“This would indeed be a dire event—if it happens.” Malus leaned back again, settling into the cushions. “I am not at all convinced that it will. We must remember, that whatever else, Lurhan the vaulkhar is a proud and ambitious man who needs an heir to cement his legacy as the warlord of Hag Graef. That man was Bruglir, but now he’s gone. Who remains? Isilvar has lived like a rat in the shadow of his older brother all his life and is currently in hiding because of his ties to a forbidden cult. Urial has close ties to the temple and to the drachau himself, but that can’t change the fact that he’s a cripple and none of the other houses would accept his authority.”
“The vaulkhar could still find a successor through marriage,” Silar pointed out. He’d clearly spent a great deal of time considering the situation while the retainers waited in Karond Kar.
“He might have previously, but Nagaira was consumed by the Chaos storm she unleashed in her tower and Yasmir…” Malus paused, trying to think of a way to explain what his sister had become, “well, she’s gone. Urial took her away and I don’t expect Lurhan will be seeing her any time soon.” The highborn’s gaze sought out Arleth Vann, who crouched apart from the others in a corner of the room where he could watch both the door and everyone in the room. Unlike the others, his pale face remained shadowed within the hood of his cloak and he showed no interest in food, wine or slaves. Malus suddenly wondered what the former temple assassin might know of the prophecy Urial spoke of, or where the Vermilion Gate led. Later, he thought. He and I will have a long talk after we’ve returned to the Hag.
“So you think your father will be forced to call a truce with you because you’re the only hope he’s got for an heir?” Hauclir asked.
Malus smiled. “Precisely. So you see, recent events have actually placed me in a rather advantageous position when looked at in the proper way.” He shifted his seat to face Silar as he crossed behind Malus. “Believe me, Silar, I have no intention to seek exile, much less make war with my father. You know me better than anyone. What do I covet more than anything in the world?”
Silar glanced at Malus. “To be Vaulkhar of Hag Graef.”
“Just so,” Malus said, a fierce gleam burning in his eye. “And from there it is just a small step to the drachau’s throne. That moment is coming, Silar. I’ve clawed my way towards it slowly but surely for many years. What we face now isn’t calamity, but opportunity, if we have but the will to seize it.” He looked about at the assembled retainers and grinned. “I’ve already made you rich men. Soon I will make you powerful men as well. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you!” Dolthaic cried, raising his goblet in salute. “To the Outer Darkness and beyond!”
Malus turned to Hauclir. “And you?”
The retainer shrugged. “It’s a pointless question. I’ve given my oath, so of course I’m with you,” he said, then grinned. “Of course I’ll be happy to shower myself with wealth and power if you order me to.”
The other men laughed, raising their goblets. “Malus!” They cried and Ma
lus laughed with them. Only Silar watched in silence, his expression sombre.
“What is your plan, my lord?” Silar asked gravely.
The highborn considered the question for a moment. “Did you bring everything I asked?”
Silar nodded. “The nauglir are stabled at the city barracks and Spite has your possessions loaded on his back.
“Excellent,” Malus replied. He’d learned during his numerous encounters with brigands on the trek back from the Chaos Wastes that the best way to protect property was to lash it to a hungry nauglir’s back. Then eat and drink while you can, men, because we’ll all have to be gone from Karond Kar by morning. There are things to be done before Lurhan returns to the Hag. Besides,” he said, looking at the body beneath his feet, “sooner or later someone is going to miss my footstool here and start asking around.”
Malus climbed to his feet and approached Hauclir and the sea chest. His swords, taken from Lord Syrclar’s horse, lay nearby, propped against the wall. “Hauclir, you will lead the rest of the men back to the Harrier tonight, where you will oversee the payment of the remaining crew. The rest of the treasure will then be taken off the ship and carried back overland to Hag Graef. You and Dolthaic will remain aboard and sail the Harrier to Clar Karond. I’ll give you a letter to authorise repairs from the shipwrights. With the men paid and the rest of the gold removed, the crew will likely set a speed record reaching the City of Ships and getting some shore leave.”
“Very well, my lord,” Hauclir said reluctantly.
“Who will act as ship’s captain?” Dolthaic asked.
Malus grinned. “You can have that honour. I don’t think Hauclir would want the job if you put a knife to his throat.” He waved Hauclir away from the chest and opened it, then began pulling out pieces of his plate armour. Without thinking, Hauclir began unlacing the battered mail shirt covering the highborn’s torso.
“Silar, you and the rest of the men will carry the gold back to the Hag and await my return,” he continued. “Before you depart tomorrow, however, I will need you to locate and hire a guide to lead me to the houses of the dead.”
“The houses of the dead?” Silar asked with a frown. “But why?”
Malus affected a shrug, feeling Hauclir’s stare on the back of his neck. “It’s the campaigning season, as you said. If Lurhan is to see me as a suitable heir I will have to start building a reputation as something other than a libertine, don’t you think?”
“But why go alone? Any guides we find here are likely to be cutthroats and thieves.”
“All the more reason not to tempt them with a fortune in loot, don’t you agree?” Malus pulled off the heavy shirt and began buckling on his armour plates. For the first time he realised how good it felt to be back on dry land, dealing with familiar problems like treachery and intrigue.
“Besides,” he said, grinning at Silar over his shoulder. “If you can find a single druchii in this goddess-forsaken city more ruthless and bloody-minded than me I shall be very surprised indeed.”
Hathan Vor had a face that looked as though it had been held against a grindstone.
“Just here, dread lord, just here,” Vor said, glancing back at Malus through the driving rain. Like the rest of his “brothers’, the guide disdained the use of a cloak or hood and his black hair hung in dripping, ropy strands to either side of his ravaged face.
There wasn’t an inch of flesh, from narrow forehead to pointed chin, that wasn’t worn down by layer upon layer of crisscrossing scar tissue. Vor’s ears and nose were little more than ragged lumps, as though they’d once been gnawed at by rats. His eyebrows were gone and scars at the corners of his large eyes lent them a perpetual squint. The man’s cheeks were lined with rows of scars that seemed to penetrate all the way to the bone; they glistened with tiny streams of water in the weak afternoon light. A particularly long and ragged scar pulled the left corner of his mouth up in a perpetual sneer, revealing a row of brown, pointed teeth. It was a hard face to look at, even for Malus; as bad as the Skinriders had been, they wore skins that covered their diseased flesh like a hood. Vor’s face was that of a fellow druchii and it was alive. That somehow disturbed Malus more than an entire band of skinned, Chaos-tainted pirates.
The other guides, Vor’s supposed brothers, weren’t much better. Every one of them had the scarred face of a petty criminals. In Karond Kar, druchii whose crimes and social status were too minor to warrant the efforts of a proper torturer were simply given a scar on their face to mark them as troublemakers. By Malus’ estimation, Vor must have been stealing bread or cheating at finger bones—and getting caught at it—every day for the last ten years.
Malus leaned back in his saddle and tried to stretch the kinks from his back. His soaked woollen cloak felt heavier than the plate armour he wore beneath. Rain flowed in sheets down Spite’s muscular neck and shoulders, adding a strange lustre to the cold one’s dark green scales. As Malus watched, the cold one raised its blunt, toothy snout to the sky and blew a thin plume of steam from its nostrils. Born and bred in dark, damp caverns deep beneath the earth, cold ones thrived in wet environments. At just that moment, Malus envied the nauglir so much it hurt.
They had been travelling the Slavers’ Road from Karond Kar for almost two full weeks and Malus could not remember a point during that time when it hadn’t been raining. He had learned to eat, sleep and ride while soaking wet. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing in his possession that was dry. The bedrolls were soaked, as was most of the food. After the fifth straight day of rain Malus realised that he hadn’t got so wet in more than a month at sea on the Harrier. He spent the rest of the time afterwards looking for an opportunity to murder someone.
The Slavers’ Road ran along the winding coastline of two contiguous seas. Starting at Karond Kar it worked its way south and west along first the Sea of Chill, then the Sea of Malice, before finally coming to an end at the gates of Naggorond, the Witch King’s fortress. The journey took many weeks by foot, with dark forests and tall, grey mountains to the west and the broad, slate expanse of the sea to the east. There were no inns or taverns along the route, only despatch-forts that kept food and fresh horses ready to relay urgent messages from Karond Kar to Naggorond and back. They slept in small caves or forest clearings just off the road and ate cold, wet food without dry wood for a fire. Malus, who had not so long ago been tortured without respite for more than a week, considered the trek from the slave tower to have been the most miserable time of his life.
Vor pointed proudly at the veritable wall of dense trees and foliage that stood less than a yard from the road. Viewed through the grey haze of the driving rain the forest looked like a solid mass. “What am I supposed to see?” Malus snapped. If the man tries to say something clever, like seeing the trees for the forest, I’ll kill him where he stands, the highborn thought.
“We leave the road here,” the guide said over the drumming rain. “Up into the mountains to find the houses of the dead.”
Malus eyed the treeline warily. “I had been led to believe there would be a road.”
“A road, yes. Stones of black basalt and statues of fierce ladies with sharp teeth,” Vor said, nodding emphatically. The barrow road, it is called. But that is another two leagues south and it is forbidden to travel on it. There is a hunter’s path here that will take us where we need to go.”
“Forbidden?” Malus frowned within his drooping hood. “By whom?”
“The autarii, of course,” Vor said, as though explaining something to a small child. They guard the city from intruders’
“What?” Malus asked. No one had told him this! “Why would they care about the graves of the Old Kings?”
Vor merely shrugged. “Who knows? They are shades, not normal men. Let’s go,” he said, motioning to his men. “You will feel the rain less under the trees.”
Malus paused as Vor and his seven men trudged up the slight incline and moved one by one into the dense undergrowth. A feeling of dread settled like an icy
mantle upon his shoulders.
“That man hopes to cut your throat,” the daemon whispered.
“Of course he does,” Malus said with a shrug. “Who in Naggaroth doesn’t?”
“Surely you do not believe his story of forbidden roads. Look at the scars on his face. He has been an outlaw for many years. No doubt he has murdered a hundred credulous highborn such as yourself.”
“You have a strange sense of humour, daemon,” Malus said sourly. Those scars are the marks of an amateur. He’s an outlaw all right, but a very bad one. I have no fear of him.” He reluctantly prodded Spite towards the forest, alert to the sudden tension in the reptile’s shoulders and back. The highborn could feel it, too, as they passed beneath the dripping boughs.
They were being watched.
Chapter Six
BLOOD AND SALT
They were among the ruins before Malus realised it. One moment he was walking beside Spite, pushing warily through thick, dripping undergrowth and the next he was pulling up short before a small line of dark grey foundation stones that rose to just above his knees. Ahead the ever-present trees receded to form a clearing of sorts, bound by a square outline of ragged grey walls, the edges of their bricks rounded by great age.
Mossy turf filled the space within the walls, descending steeply to a relatively flat floor some ten feet down—Malus reasoned that the building must have had a lower level at some point that was slowly being reclaimed by the earth. The area within the ruined walls was quite large. From his vantage point Malus could see a large fire pit in the centre of the space, surrounded by a collection of lean-tos made from sturdy logs and roofed with more turf. There was even a spot in one corner that had once been set aside as a small enclosure for horses, complete with a crude fence and a rope gate. Hathan Vor and his men moved into the area with the ease of long familiarity, spreading out to inspect the lean-tos and clear damp leaves from the fire pit.
