[Darkblade 03] - Reaper of Souls

by Dan Abnett

  “It’s me, Spite,” Malus said. He folded his arms and tucked in his head, making himself appear smaller and less threatening. “Calm yourself. We have some hard riding ahead of us tonight.”

  He took a step forward. Spite hissed again, louder this time. Malus’ eyes widened. Something’s wrong, he thought. The beast doesn’t recognise me.

  Nauglir were famously stupid creatures, but Spite was a rare exception—being a runt compared to other cold ones, the warbeast had survived in the caverns by being cleverer and more vicious than his kin. It’s the daemon, Malus thought. He smells the cursed spirit’s corruption on me.

  Moving slowly and carefully, Malus reached back to a small pouch on his belt and drew out a tiny bottle of dark blue glass. Pulling the stopper free, he poured a dollop of clear, acrid liquid onto his palm and wiped the thick fluid over his face and hands. The vrahsha stung where it touched his skin, then within moments the highborn’s exposed flesh was cold and numb. Cold without as within, the highborn thought bitterly.

  Malus replaced the vial. Spite had not moved a muscle, still regarding him threateningly. The highborn took another step forward. Spite hissed again, then sniffed the air experimentally. The highborn saw the nauglir’s posture relax slightly. “That’s it,” he said, taking another step forward. “It’s me, you great fool. Now can we go?”

  The beast sidled closer to Malus, extending his drooling muzzle. Malus held out his hand and the nauglir sniffed at it with one huge nostril. After a moment, the cold one straightened, but Malus could tell that Spite wasn’t entirely convinced. One day no amount of vrahsha in the world will disguise the daemon’s stink, Malus thought grimly. What will I do then?

  A hunting horn wailed off to the west—less than a mile away, to Malus’ ear. He knew that they would have to have senses like an autarii to find his trail, even in the moonlight, but if their horses caught the scent of the nauglir and panicked, that would give him away just as readily. The problem was, he couldn’t go back east, towards Karond Kar, not after the mess he’d left there. Heading due north, into the mountains, meant risking another encounter with the shades. To the west lay Hag Graef and his men, plus a fortune in gold. But he had to slip past Lurhan’s men first.

  Malus bit back a curse and considered his options. None of them were very good. The road was out of the question, for the moment. The only choice he had was to work his way through the forest, leading Spite by the reins and paralleling the road. Once he was past the despatch-fort, he could risk returning to the road and riding like a madman for the Hag. If he could arrive in the city ahead of the news of Lurhan’s death, he could gather men and gold and…

  The highborn’s thoughts ground to a halt. “And then what?” he said to himself. “Where will I go? Once the drachau—and the Witch King—learn of what I’ve done, there will be no city in Naggaroth that will harbour me.”

  Life was cheap in the Land of Chill and any man could die by another’s hand except for the chosen servants of Malekith himself. That included each of the drachau of the six cities and their vaulkhar; they lived and died at the pleasure of the Witch King and no one else. To spill their blood was to invite a blood feud with Malekith himself and by extension the entire druchii people.

  The highborn’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Perhaps I’ll let Tz’arkan and Malekith fight for the privilege of tormenting me,” he said to Spite as he took the beast’s reins and led the nauglir deeper into the forest. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll destroy one another and I’ll claim Naggorond for my own.”

  It grew steadily darker as the night wore on; the scudding clouds thickened, swallowing the bright moon and the air turned cold. For hours Malus led Spite through the dense forest, attempting to stay parallel to the coast road. From time to time he had to stop and leave the warbeast while he attempted to locate the tree line and regain his bearings.

  The clamour around the fort never lapsed; horns and shouted orders echoed up and down the road all through the night as Lurhan’s vengeful retainers tried to find his trail. Malus led the way past the despatch fort well after midnight. By dawn he reckoned he’d covered only a few more miles to the west, but the cold air had brought a thick wall of fog rolling in from the sea, muffling sounds and shrouding the keep in a mantle of grey. Weariness and pain made the decision easier for Malus. He could barely put one foot in front of another after spending almost the entire night struggling through the dense wood, so the risks of the open road seemed almost welcoming by comparison.

  Spite was eager to be out of the confusing environs of the forest and set off at a rapid trot down the Slavers’ Road. Malus clung tightly to the reins and fought to stay awake. He’d lash himself to the saddle if that’s what it took. Lurhan’s men had been searching all night; they and their horses had to be almost as tired as he was. Every hour the nauglir spent on the road meant another league or more between them and the keep.

  The white fog made it difficult to hear anything, much less see beyond twenty yards or so. At first the change of pace lent Malus an extra burst of energy and alertness, but after half an hour his eyelids grew heavy. He shook his head fiercely, trying to keep awake. Every hour is another league, he reminded himself again and again, like a temple prayer.

  Malus was so lost in his fight against the pull of sleep that he did not hear the horses’ hooves until it was far too late.

  The horsemen materialised out of the fog directly in Malus’ path, moving along the road at a weary trot; three riders travelling abreast, their spears laid back against their shoulders and their horses’ heads drooping from weariness. Lurhan’s men were no fools. They had hedged their bets by sending search parties in either direction down the Slavers’ Road and Malus had ridden full onto the western search party.

  Malus and the retainers saw one another at the same instant. Mouths dropped and eyes widened in shock, but for a moment not a word was spoken. They stared at one another in a kind of fearful wonder, as though they’d crossed paths with a ghost in the morning fog. Then the wind stiffened and Spite caught the scent of horseflesh and the nauglir shattered the stillness with a thunderous roar.

  The horses reared and pawed at the air at the sound of the nauglir’s bellow, but they did not panic—these were well-trained warhorses, conditioned to the presence of the fearsome cold ones. It was all the advantage Malus would get and he seized upon it, drawing his sword and putting his heels to Spite’s flanks with a savage war scream.

  Spite responded at once, leaping at the closest horse and rider, who saw his doom approaching and raised his spear to stab for the cold one’s eye. The horseman’s thrust was strong, but his rearing horse threw off his aim and the point of the spear raked along the cold one’s snout instead. The retainer cursed and drew back for another strike, but by then the nauglir was upon them, closing its powerful jaws on horse and rider both. Man and animal shrieked as one as dagger-like teeth sheared through flesh and bone. The horse collapsed, its spine broken, and the rider tried to drag himself clear of the thrashing animal, leaving a trail of torn intestines in his wake.

  Horsemen rushed at Malus from left and right. Having recovered from their initial shock, Lurhan’s chosen warriors reacted with speed, skill and ferocity. Malus twisted in his saddle, knocking aside a spear thrust on his left side with a sweep of his blade, then parrying the spear on his right with a lightning-fast backhand stroke. The horseman on Malus’ left continued past the highborn, angling for a spear thrust to his back, while the horseman on the right pressed his attack, jabbing his spear at the highborn’s face.

  Thinking quickly, Malus jerked on the reins and jabbed his right heel hard into the nauglir’s ribs. On command, the warbeast whipped to the right—slamming its powerful tail into the horse on its left flank. The animal went end-over-end, its front legs snapped like kindling and the horseman went down beneath his crippled steed. Meanwhile Spite lunged for the horse to his right, closing his jaws on the animal’s neck.

  The bitten horse went mad wit
h pain and fear, its eyes showing nothing but white as the animal tried to escape the reptile’s jaws. The horseman snarled a furious oath and drove his spear deep into the cold one’s neck. A jolt of fear went through Malus, but he saw at once that the spear had missed the cold one’s vitals—it was a dreadful wound but not a fatal one. He leaned forward as far as he could and hacked at the shaft of the spear, breaking it with two swift strokes.

  The retainer threw the splintered shaft at Malus’ head and reached for his own sword—but at that moment Spite’s muscular body gave a single, convulsive wrench and tore the horse’s head from its neck. The animal toppled, spraying Malus with hot, bitter blood. The highborn let out a triumphant yell and kicked Spite into a gallop, leaning down to take a passing swipe at the unhorsed retainer as they leapt over him and raced west down the Slavers’ Road. Malus spared a single glance backwards to see that he’d failed to do the last retainer any serious harm, then turned back to inspect Spite’s spear wound.

  Dark shapes materialised out of the fog just ahead. Malus had just enough time to notice the five druchii standing in a rough line across the road before their leader shouted “Fire!” and the crossbow bolts struck home.

  At such close range it was impossible for skilled crossbowmen to miss. Spite let out an angry roar and stumbled as a bolt thudded into his muscular chest. The bellow masked the sounds of the three bolts that slammed into Malus—one pierced his left pauldron, penetrating shoulder plate and breastplate alike just below his collar bone, while another struck his left side, just below his ribs. The third bolt smashed into his right calf, just below the knee. By a cruel turn of fate the point hit a small dent and found enough purchase to penetrate the armour plate instead of hitting a more rounded portion and glancing away.

  There was no pain. Partly due to the vrahsha, partly due to the shock of so many blows, for a few heartbeats he felt nothing and his mind was eerily clear. He saw the men scatter out of Spite’s path, already reloading their weapons. Beyond them, standing in a protective knot on the north side of the road, waited the retainer’s horses. Malus pulled on the reins, angling Spite for the animals and the battle-frenzied cold one eagerly obeyed. Without riders to steady them, the horses went wild at the nauglir’s charge, scattering in every direction before the reptile’s gaping jaws.

  Malus used a combination of knee and rein to aim his mount at a horse fleeing west, noticing with a curious detachment that the bolt in his shoulder had locked the armour plates together, effectively pinning his arm. Ahead, the horse was in full flight, ears back and tongue hanging out as it galloped for its life ahead of the hissing warbeast. Slowly but surely the distance between the animals lengthened; nauglir were tireless and tough as stones, but they were not very swift. Not that Malus cared, all that mattered was plunging as far into the concealing fog as possible before the crossbowmen could shoot again.

  A hasty shot from one of the crossbowmen buzzed through the air to Malus’ right. He bent low in the saddle, breathless from the mounting pain. His eyes focused on a steel ring set on a swivel on the cantle of his saddle—in battle the cold one’s reins were fed through the ring to keep them laid close to the reptile’s neck and thus harder to grab or cut.

  Malus fumbled for the sword belt, numbly grasping the slack portion and began feeding it through the ring. With an effort of will he took the threaded end and tucked it through the tightened portion of his belt, making a loop.

  He heard Spite hiss in frustration as the horse was swallowed by the fog ahead of them. Malus took a deep breath and pulled the belt loop taut, then lost consciousness in an explosion of fiery pain.

  Malus awoke to the cold touch of rain on his cheek.

  He opened his eyes and saw the pewter surface of the Sea of Malice off in the distance, veiled by shifting curtains of rainfall. They were no longer moving, he realised after a moment and a surge of alarm sharpened his senses and lent a fleeting burst of strength to his limbs. Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself upright, noticing belatedly that he had been slumped almost the entire way out of the saddle, held tenuously in place by less than six inches of belt leather.

  The pain hit, starting with his leg. Malus let out an involuntary moan as he continued to push himself back into the saddle. Streaks of dark, dried blood covered the entire left side of his armour, from shoulder to knee. He’d been out for some time. Malus looked to the sky, trying to gauge the position of the sun in the middle of a rainstorm. It felt like the afternoon, but in his state he couldn’t be certain.

  First things first, he thought, steeling his resolve. At least the bolts had armour-piercing heads, meaning they were tapered instead of broad and barbed.

  He reached down to the bolt jutting from his calf, gripping it carefully. Malus took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and pulled.

  The bolt came free in a spurt of fresh blood and breathtaking agony. Malus’ vision swam, but he closed his eyes and breathed deeply until the moment passed. Then he turned his attention to the bolts in his side.

  Once he’d drawn the bolts free, he stopped to try and take stock. Neither of the bolts that had hit his torso had penetrated deeply, particularly the shot that had hit his shoulder. The wound in the calf, however, was another matter. It had gone deep into the muscle and hurt more than the other two wounds put together.

  “Tz’arkan,” Malus said through gritted teeth. “Aid me.”

  The daemon did not reply.

  Malus cursed bitterly, calling upon Tz’arkan again and again, but the daemon would not answer him. Had he drawn too much from the daemon’s well of power? For a few, fleeting moments he dared hope that Tz’arkan was gone entirely, unable to maintain his grip on Malus’ soul. One glance at the ring around his finger and the black veins pulsing like worms along the back of his hand quickly dashed any such hopes. In the end the highborn was forced to fall back on a desperate measure that cold one knights had used for centuries. He drew out his bottle of vrahsha and poured a tiny amount of the toxin into each wound. The injuries were numbed in an instant and the highborn breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Using the nauglir slime to treat wounds was fraught with risk—infections, madness and death were real possibilities each and every time he used the toxin on an open wound—but at the moment the benefits actually outweighed the risks. If he wasn’t on the move soon he was dead anyway.

  Moving carefully, Malus lowered himself from the saddle and hobbled on his good leg as he checked Spite’s wounds. The stab wound to the nauglir’s throat was deep but would heal in time. The crossbow bolt had been torn free at some point—Malus suspected that the cold one had clawed the aggravating thing loose—and had left a ragged wound that could cause problems if it wasn’t tended. At the highborn’s urging the cold one rose easily to its feet, which was an encouraging sign. If a cold one could stand, it could also run.

  The highborn pulled a water skin from his saddle bags and took a long drink, then tried to find his bearings. They were much closer to Har Ganeth now. Malus had a full view of the ominous city and its blood-streaked walls. Looking back, the despatch fort was nowhere to be seen, lost in the rain and the rolling hills.

  Lurhan’s men were out there, drawing nearer. He was certain that the survivors of the search party would have raced back to the fort and roused the tired camp. But the winded horses wouldn’t make good time today, especially with the rain, so he had at least a few hours’ lead to decide what to do next.

  Har Ganeth offered no safe haven. No sane man set foot in the City of Executioners if he valued his life. And if his suspicions were right and Urial had fled there with Yasmir, he would only be trading one noose for another.

  After four more days’ ride west the Slavers’ Road met the Spear Road

  in the shadow of Naggorond, seat of Malekith himself. Malus suppressed a shudder. Better to try his luck in Har Ganeth than shelter behind the Witch King’s walls!

  What did that leave? Hag Graef lay three days south along the Spear Road

  . Silar waited
there with Hauclir and the rest of his men and enough gold to flee Naggaroth if he wished. But that would be where Lurhan’s men would expect him to go; worse still, seven days on the road would give them a good chance of overtaking him with their faster mounts. Malus had no illusions as to what would happen then. He was in no shape to stand, much less fight. And he would sooner cut his own throat and be damned than be marched to the Hag in chains.

  That left the desolate, icy north. If he could reach the Spear Road

  ahead of Lurhan’s men he could throw them off his trail by heading for the Wastes. But what then? There was nothing between Naggorond and the border watchtowers except… Malus straightened, his brow furrowing in thought.

  “Do I dare?” he asked aloud. They have no love for Lurhan or Hag Graef, that’s for certain, but no love for me, either. Still, I can claim ties of blood, which may be enough…”

  A plan began to take shape in Malus’ mind. The chances of success were slim, but far better than the other options at hand.

  It took him three tries, but after several agonising minutes Malus was able to climb back into the saddle. He gathered up Spite’s reins in his good hand. “Up, Spite!” he ordered and the nauglir obeyed. “We’ve a long ride ahead, but there will be a stable and good, warm horse meat at the end! We ride north, where Lurhan’s men won’t dare to follow. Malekith himself has seen to that. It is high time I met my uncle; with Lurhan dead I expect he and I will have quite a bit to talk about.”

  With a tug of the reins and a touch of Malus’ heels Spite lurched into motion, his long, tireless stride carrying them swiftly west. The highborn set his jaw and decided to press on through the night, pushing the nauglir to the limit of its endurance in order to reach the crossroads ahead of his pursuers. Once he was on the road north, Lurhan’s men were welcome to follow him—in fact, their presence would be most helpful.