by Dan Abnett
Malus laid his hand against Spite’s shoulder, feeling the tension in the cold one’s thick muscles. The sensation of being watched had only grown more intense as the group travelled deeper into the forest, but try as he might the highborn saw or heard no sign of who—or what—was following them. He could tell that Vor and his men sensed it as well, but they seemed to accept it as no more of an inconvenience than the constant patter of the summer rain.
It had to be the autarii, Malus reasoned. Vor said they guarded the houses of the dead and he knew firsthand that they could move like ghosts in their native woods. For the first time he was grateful for the rain, since it gave him good reason to keep his drooping hood pulled over his head. There was one autarii clan in particular that he didn’t care to cross paths with again. Of course, the Urhan of the clan had died because of his own traitorous nature, but Malus doubted that the rest of the clan would see it that way. Several times over the course of the day he’d tried to gauge how far away the clan’s territories were. A hundred leagues? More? Less? Only the autarii themselves knew for certain. All Malus could do was hope for the best.
The highborn took Spite’s reins and led the nauglir down the steep, mossy slope into the ruined enclosure. Spite moved forward with a low grunt, the cold one’s broad, clawed feet moving easily over the slick ground. The nauglir’s belly scales rasped over the weathered edge of the foundation bricks and Malus was surprised to see the ancient stone bear up under the nauglir’s one-ton weight.
The warbeast was slightly sluggish, still slowly digesting the steady diet of horseflesh that Silar had fed it during the long stay at Karond Kar. Nauglir were fierce and powerful mounts, ideal for warfare and the hunt, but their volatile natures made them unpredictable and even dangerous riding mounts unless they were kept well-fed. Malus had learned that lesson well during the trip to the Wastes and back and didn’t care to repeat it. If Spite got testy and started eating the guides it would make for an awkward situation indeed.
Malus led Spite to a lean-to on the opposite side of the fire pit from the ones that the guides had claimed. “Stand,” he commanded his mount and the nauglir settled obediently onto its haunches. The cold one raised its blocky snout and growled, causing Malus to look over his shoulder. Vor was approaching with exaggerated care, watching the cold one intently.
“Don’t stare into a cold one’s eyes, Vor,” Malus said, turning to face the man. They’re pack creatures and take it as a challenge for dominance.”
Vor quickly shifted his attention to Malus. “We’ll be making camp here and press on tomorrow.”
Malus frowned, trying to ascertain how much light they had left in the day. “Surely we have another hour or two before dark,” he said, peering up at the rainy mist hazing the air between the trees.
Vor shrugged. “This is the way it’s done, dread lord,” he said. “Tonight we pay our respects to the shades, then we can continue on unhindered.”
The highborn’s frown deepened. “Pay respects?” He wasn’t certain he liked the sound of that.
“Tonight the shades will take a seat at our fire and share our meat and salt and we will tell them we’re grateful to be allowed to visit the graves of our ancestors,” Vor said. “They’ll leave us alone after that.”
“That’s all?” Malus asked dubiously.
The scarred druchii smiled. “Respect counts for much with the autarii, dread lord. Besides, the houses of the dead belong to all the druchii—we have as much right to walk among the towers as they do.”
“Then why do they claim to stand watch over them?”
Vor shook his head. “I’ve asked them, but they will not speak of it. Perhaps even they don’t remember any more.”
The highborn gestured at the ruined walls. “Have we reached the outskirts of the necropolis?”
To Malus’ surprise, Vor chuckled. “Oh, no, dread lord. The valley of the Old Kings is still a day’s travel away.” He studied the grey bricks with an enigmatic smile. The necropolis was built thousands of years ago, not long after our people first came here. These ruins are far, far older. Here, let me show you something.” Vor made a wide circuit around the resting nauglir and made his way to the corner of the structure. Curious, Malus followed.
Vor stood at the base of the wall and touched the bare stone with his fingertips. “Touch it. It’s stone, but it feels like polished steel,” he said. “Smooth and cold, almost like glass. A few summers ago we found enough loose bricks to line the fire pit yonder. They won’t glow or crack no matter how hot the flame gets.”
“Sorcery,” Malus said, his lips twisting in distaste.
“Oh, certainly,” Vor agreed, “but look there.”
He pointed to a band of discolouration running along the wall some twelve feet up. Malus squinted at the varicoloured patch and realised after a moment that he was looking at a mosaic. As the highborn stared, a pattern emerged. “It looks like a seascape of some kind.”
Vor nodded. “An ocean shore, with pale sand and strange fish,” he said. “If you get close enough, you can make out flowers and tall trees and bright sunlight. Here, on the side of a mountain in a land of grey skies and ice.”
Malus nodded thoughtfully. The sight took him back to a strange city even farther north than where they were now, with canals and a beached ship hundreds of leagues from any sea. The memory sent a strange chill down his spine. “Who built this?” he said, mostly to himself.
Vor shrugged once more. “No one knows,” he said, his voice faint with wonder. These are old mountains, worn down with age and there are deep hollows no druchii has ever seen, much less explored.” His ruined face twisted in a lopsided grin. “One day I hope to stumble upon an ancient treasure trove hidden in a cave and then I’ll go back to Karond Kar and live like a tower lord!”
“Beware what you wish for, Hathan Vor,” Malus said, surprising even himself at the sincerity in his voice. “Some treasures become lost for a reason.”
Vor eyed the highborn. “You sound like you speak from experience. Is it treasure you’re hunting in the houses of the dead, or do you intend to leave something valuable behind?”
The sheer artlessness of the question made Malus laugh. “What druchii travels up into these goddess-forsaken mountains to leave his treasure in some ancient crypt?”
“You would be surprised, dread lord,” Vor answered sombrely. “There are druchii from ancient lineages—some still powerful, others only a shadow of their former glory—who send their sons each year, bearing gifts for their ancestors. The tradition goes all the way back to lost Nagarythe and some families still keep to the ancient ways.”
The highborn eyed Vor warily. “And I suppose they provide a lucrative sideline to enterprising bandits who know the way to the crypts,” he said.
Vor laughed. “No doubt,” he replied, though there was a glint in his eyes that belied his easy tone. You haven’t mentioned which crypt you are seeking, dread lord.”
“Does it matter?”
“Oh, yes,” Vor said. “The valley is a long one, twisting through the mountains for almost a dozen leagues. The most powerful houses have their towers at the far end of the valley, so it’s a matter of how many more days we must climb.”
Malus considered the question for a moment, then shrugged. He’d have to tell the man sooner or later. “I seek the tomb of Eleuril. His sigil—”
“The sign of the horned moon,” Vor said, nodding. Yes, I know of it. Another two days’ travel, then, high up into the valley.” His expression darkened.
“What do you know of this crypt?” Malus asked.
Vor started to speak, then thought better of it. He gave another shrug. “It is haunted,” he said simply, “but that is your business, not mine.” The scarred druchii nodded brusquely to Malus. “I must see to the fire and the evening meal, dread lord. The shades will come at midnight, so rest now if you must. You will need to be present when they arrive.”
The guide turned and walked away without another wor
d. Malus watched him go, wondering if he’d given too away too much. Suddenly the unseen presence of the autarii seemed the least of his concerns.
* * * * *
Dinner was a stew of beans and salt beef boiled over the fire, washed down with water. There was a skin of decent wine in Malus’ pack, but he had no desire to taste it. He wanted all his wits about him when the autarii appeared that night.
The food was bland, but the fire was welcome. The guides had the foresight to keep a pile of wood sheltered beneath one of the lean-tos and within an hour of making camp there was a roaring fire casting strange shadows on the ruined walls. There was a circle of old logs surrounding the fire pit and Malus had staked out a spot before everyone else. Now, hours later, he was feeling dry and warm and fighting sleep as Vor and the rest of his band smoked clay pipes and murmured to themselves in low tones. An iron kettle still bubbled next to the fire and two clean bowls waited nearby, set aside for the expected visitors.
Vor crouched next to the kettle, stirring it slowly with a wooden spoon. His scraggly hair was pulled back from his face and bound with a leather cord—if anything, it lent him an even more fearsome appearance in the shifting light.
Malus folded his arms and stared up at the mist and smoke roiling above the leaping flames. “Tell me of the houses of the dead,” he said, trying to stay alert. “Is it truly a city of stone crypts?”
Hathan Vor smiled faintly. “It is a city of fragments,” he said quietly. “Each crypt is surrounded by buildings and stone gardens—one even has a kind of small market square. But none of them go together, if you take my meaning. It’s as if each family created its crypt in the fashion of the tower they’d left behind in Nagarythe, including as much of the surrounding city as they could afford.”
Malus tried to picture it in his head. It was a strange enough notion to imagine interring the dead at all—druchii had been cremated for generations, according to the dictates of the Temple of Khaine. Worship that was forbidden in those days, Malus reminded himself. “I can understand the towers, I suppose,” he said, “but why the rest?”
The scarred druchii shrugged. “No one alive remembers—except Morathi herself, I suppose. Although there are legends, of course.” His smile widened. “My favourite one claims that the houses of the dead were part of an elaborate spell to raise Nagarythe by the power of necromancy. With each soul interred, the spell would grow stronger, until finally the drowned land would rise from the sea.” Vor chuckled to himself. “Another legend simply says that the old families hoped to recapture a semblance in death of what they lost in life. I suspect there’s some truth to that.”
“Is that why you think the crypt of Eleuril is haunted?” Malus asked.
Vor did not reply. For a moment, Malus thought he’d somehow offended the man, but then he realised that the other guides had fallen silent as well. He straightened, scanning the faces of the men around him—and realised that they were no longer alone.
Two autarii stood at the edge of the firelight—they were so slender, dark and still that for a moment Malus took them to be a trick of the light. Then Vor cleared his throat and said, “I see you there, children of the hills. It is a dark night. Come and share our fire.” The words had a rote quality to them, almost like a ritual chant, but Malus also noted an undercurrent of apprehension. Something wasn’t quite right.
Without a word the two figures glided silently up to the fire pit. They wore long, mottled cloaks of grey, green and black wool, glistening with diamond-bright drops of rain. As one, the shades reached up with slim, pale hands and pulled back their voluminous hoods. Firelight played on angular, fine-boned features and glittered in large, unexpectedly violet eyes. The two shades appeared to be brother and sister; more than that, they could have been twins. Their aristocratic faces were tattooed with identical designs of a coiling dragon, worked in ghostly blue ink. They were strikingly handsome, neither too feminine or masculine and the stillness of their near-identical faces made them both irresistible and disturbingly unreal. Their hair, black and gleaming, was pulled back into a number of tightly-woven braids. Malus noticed that the girl wore hollowed finger bones in her hair. Probably the bones of highborn druchii, he thought apprehensively, remembering that the flesh of druchii nobles was a delicacy to the hill clans.
The two shades took their place by the fire but remained standing, surveying each of the seated druchii in turn. When their gaze settled on Malus, they stopped. The weight of their stares set the highborn’s teeth on edge. Vor glanced warily at him.
With a deep breath, Malus reached up and drew back his hood.
The autarii continued to stare at Malus. Vor picked up a bowl. “Forgive me for not having meat and salt ready for you,” he said hastily. “You are here early tonight. May we share our food with you and pay our respects?”
The boy turned to face Vor, moving with sombre grace. When he spoke, his voice was clear and pure as a bell. “We know you well, Hathan Vor,” he said, “just as we know the rest of your kin. But what of this man?” Violet eyes regarded Malus again. “Do you know his name?”
“He… he is Malus, son of Lurhan the Vaulkhar of Hag Graef,” Vor said, eyeing Malus nervously. “He is a highborn, from an ancient lineage and comes to honour his ancestors in the houses of the dead.”
Beneath his cloak, Malus’ hand inched slowly towards his sword hilt. He didn’t like the way this was going.
The boy shook his head, but it was the girl who replied. “That is one of his names,” she said, her voice dark and husky as smoke. “But we know another. In the hills he is known as An Raksha.”
Malus swallowed a curse. Briefly he contemplated the odds of killing both shades where they stood. There’s probably a dozen more watching from the shadows, he thought sourly. I’d likely not get two paces before a crossbow bolt found my throat. With effort, he forced himself to smile. “I got that name in recognition of a favour I did for Urhan Beg,” he said conversationally. “Oddly, I don’t recall seeing either of you in his clan hall.”
“All the hill clans know you killed the Urhan and his son,” the boy said coldly. “Show us your hands.”
The highborn hesitated. Vor stared angrily at Malus. “Do it!” he hissed.
Slowly, Malus pushed aside his cloak and raised his hands, palms outward. The two shades studied them intently, as though searching for some hidden mark visible only to them.
After a moment, the boy frowned. “His hands are not stained with the blood of the Urhan,” he said to his sister.
“That does not make him innocent, merely clever,” she said. “He must still answer to the Urhan’s kin.” She turned to Vor. “You have taken this man’s gold.” It was more a statement than a question.
Vor looked from her to Malus and back again. “I… yes,” he stammered. “But only that. I do not wear his collar, nor have I sworn any oaths to him.”
The scarred druchii’s voice was faintly pleading, but the autarii were unmoved. “Goodbye, Hathan Vor,” the girl said gravely, then the two shades turned and strode silently into the night.
For a moment no one moved. Hathan Vor didn’t even seem to breathe for several long moments. “They didn’t touch meat or salt,” he finally said, his voice hollow with fear. “We’re trespassers now.” Vor looked to his kin. “Blessed Mother of Night, what are we going to do?”
Malus rose to his feet and slowly drew his sword. He held it out, letting the firelight play on its honed edge and glared out into the darkness. “If I were you, I’d post sentries and keep the fire going,” he growled. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Spite’s warning hiss was like the rumbling of a boiling steam kettle, bringing Malus out of a dreamless slumber. He blinked in the weak light of false dawn, his hand tightening around the naked blade resting in his lap.
A dark figure stood several feet away, shoulders hunched against the falling rain. It took Malus a moment to recognise the druchii’s scarred face. Hadn’t he just closed his eyes a momen
t ago? No, he realised. It had still been dark when he’d finally decided that the shades weren’t going to try to overrun the camp.
“What is it?” he grumbled.
“Selavhir is gone,” Vor said gravely.
“Gone,” Malus echoed. “You mean dead?”
“I mean gone. He’s disappeared.”
Malus sat upright, rubbing a damp hand over his face. “Was he one of the sentries?”
“He had the early watch, then traded with Hethal at the hour of the wolf. I watched him head back to his bedroll.” Vor looked fearfully at one of the lean-tos on the opposite side of the smouldering fire pit. “But he’s not there now.”
Malus stared dumbly up at the mist roiling overhead, trying to cudgel his mind into alertness. “So he went back to his bedroll, gathered his things and slipped off when you weren’t looking.”
Vorn gave a bitter laugh. “Not even I would be foolish enough to try and walk these woods at night—especially not when they’re crawling with angry shades,” he snapped. “You didn’t tell me the autarii had a feud with you.”
“You didn’t tell me we’d be sitting down to a meal with a pair of shades back when I hired you at Karond Kar,” Malus shot back.
Vor bared his teeth in a twisted snarl. “The shades got Selavhir,” he growled. They came in here and took him, right under our noses. The Dark Mother alone knows what they’ve done to him.” He glared at Malus. You won’t be seeing the houses of the dead now, highborn. We’re breaking camp and getting out of here while we still can.”
Malus eyed the man coldly. “I did not pay you to turn and run at the first sign of danger, Hathan Vor. We will continue to the crypt of Eleuril as planned.”
The guide laughed again, but this time there was a tone of desperation in the sound. “You’re mad, highborn! We’re heading back for the Slavers’ Road as fast as we can run—you can either saddle that reptile and come with us or be hanging from a shade’s meat hook by nightfall.”
