by Dan Abnett
He held out his hand. Hauclir laid the handle of the cosh against his palm. The highborn took a last moment to make sure the corsairs were in place. “Remember,” he said in a barely audible whisper. “Move fast. Don’t give her any chance to react.”
Heads nodded. Malus took a deep breath, pushed the door open and rushed soundlessly into the dimly lit cabin beyond.
The air inside was hot and stuffy. The deck planks were tacky with splashes and loops of spilled blood, sticking noisily to the soles of his boots. Across the cabin six candles had burned low, spilling long trails of wax over the lip of a narrow shelf and extending gleaming pillars all the way to the deck.
The cabin’s single narrow bunk was empty, its blankets neatly arranged. Yasmir knelt in the centre of the room, her black hair unbound and spilling like a mantle across her naked shoulders. Her skin glowed in the soft candlelight, showing the gleaming red trails of the intricate patterns of cuts on her arms, legs and shoulders. Her back was to the corsairs as they swept into the room, but Malus took one look at Yasmir and knew that things had already gone terribly wrong.
He was halfway across the room when she rose to her feet, turning with an almost languid grace at his approach. Her face was beatific, unmarred by the razor edges that had decorated much of her naked body; her violet eyes were half-lidded and serene, as though she moved in a dream. It was the serenity of the executioner, the elegance of death incarnate.
Long, narrow-bladed knives made silver arcs in her seemingly delicate hands as she rushed towards Malus and instincts born of bloody-handed experience told him that if he let her reach him he was dead. She smiled, spreading her arms like a lover as she came to him and Malus threw himself to the deck rather than fall into that deadly embrace.
Malus rolled across the blood-spattered planks. He piled into a table and chair, knocking empty bottles of wine and a tray of breadcrumbs onto his head. Then came the sound of razor-edged steel slicing leather and skin and Malus heard a bubbling gasp where he’d stood only moments before.
Two bodies hit the deck with a single, muffled thud. Malus had ducked out of Yasmir’s deadly rush and the two corsairs behind him had borne the brunt of her charge instead. Her knives had struck like adders, killing the men as they gaped at the unearthly vision before them.
Yasmir passed between the dead men as they fell and the corsairs beyond scattered like sheep before the wolf. One man who didn’t move quite fast enough died with a knife through his temple and then there was no one between Yasmir and Tanithra. The female corsair snarled a wordless challenge and drew her heavy sword from its sheath. Malus scrambled to his feet, knowing that he would never reach the two women in time. For all her skill, Tanithra would be dead in moments and Malus was going to need an entirely new plan.
Suddenly there was the dry rustle of metal links and Yasmir fell forward. Hauclir pulled for all he was worth, dragging Yasmir backward by the chain he’d looped around her ankle.
Tanithra lunged for Yasmir and Malus leapt as well, determined to reach her first. His half-sister rolled onto her back as he loomed over her and her hands blurred in the air. Malus gritted his teeth and lashed out with the cosh, striking Yasmir squarely in the forehead. The back of her skull struck the deck with a sharp thump and she went limp. The highborn toppled to the deck beside her and Tanithra came up short, checking her sword stroke at the last moment.
Hauclir was beside Malus at once, standing between his lord and the female corsair. One of Yasmir’s daggers jutted from the retainer’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” he whispered in a strained voice.
The highborn nodded, rolling onto his back. He gritted his teeth and reached down to his right thigh, his hand closing on the knife hilt and drawing the weapon from his leg. A hot rush of blood poured over his thigh, soaking into the woollen robes.
The retainer knelt, ignoring the blade in his own arm and probed Malus’ leg through the hole in his breeches. “Missed the artery by less than a finger’s width,” he said grimly, then reached up and pulled Yasmir’s other blade free. “Let’s hope she isn’t the sort to poison her knives. I hear that’s fashionable among the ladies this season.”
Malus ignored him, gritting his teeth against the swelling tide of pain as he glared up at Tanithra. “I suppose you were planning to knock her out with the flat of your blade?”
“Of course not,” Tanithra spat. “If she’d taken another step I’d have hacked her open like a sausage. You saw what she did to my men.”
“Then it’s good for us that my man got to her first,” the highborn replied. Biting back a groan he pushed himself to his feet. “Get her wrapped up. Now.”
“What about my men?” Tanithra exclaimed, pointing to the bodies in the middle of the room.
“Keep your damned voice down!” Malus hissed. “Leave them. No one will come calling on Yasmir until the battle’s done and by then it won’t matter if they’re found. Now get her tied up before she regains consciousness and we have to do this all over again!”
Tanithra snapped her fingers and the surviving corsairs leapt into action, binding Yasmir’s hands and feet and gagging her with a strip of hide before rolling her up in the sail. With a grunt the two men levered the wrapped hide onto their shoulders and the female corsair ducked her head through the open door to make certain the coast was clear. Satisfied, she gestured to the men, who rushed from the cabin and down the passage.
Malus limped after Tanithra, wincing with every step. It surprised him how tempted he was to call upon the daemon to heal him, even in front of witnesses, but he steadfastly resisted the urge. “Get back to the raider,” he told her, “and see to it she suffers no accidents along the way. Remember, Bruglir must be made to kill her, or else you gain nothing by her death.”
Tanithra regarded him with an implacable stare. Saying nothing, she pushed past the wounded highborn and trailed after her men.
Once she was out of earshot, Malus turned to Hauclir. “Do you have Yasmir’s knives?”
The retainer nodded, pointing to where the hilts of the two weapons protruded from his belt. Hauclir’s eyes never left Tanithra as she receded down the passageway. “That one’s not to be trusted, my lord,” he said, his voice tight with pain. “She’s too unpredictable.”
Malus shook his head. “The die is already cast, Hauclir. She won’t kill Yasmir now that I’ve reminded her of the consequences and she has no one else to turn to. We hold the upper hand.”
“For now, my lord,” Hauclir said darkly. “For now.”
* * * * *
Malus walked slowly onto the deck of the captured raider, trying to conceal his limp as he climbed the narrow stairway. With great reluctance he’d allowed Hauclir to give him a small draught of hushalta and the stab wound ached fiercely as the drug did its work. The narcotic effects of the drink had kept him below as Bruglir and Urial had come aboard and the raider made its way once again through the mists surrounding the island. Already the sands were flowing through the glass; in less than two hours the rest of the fleet would follow Urial’s charts and the attack would begin.
The highborn stepped onto the main deck under a dark sky, with the narrow towers guarding the island’s sea wall looming ominously above the captured ship. They were less than half a mile from the opening to the cove and closing fast under a full spread of sail. Already Urial was moving among the crew, touching each man and imparting the blessing of Khaine to ward them from the corrupting touch of the Skinriders. Bruglir stood at the bow, studying the cove with a sharp eye. The highborn turned and caught sight of Tanithra at the helm, her expression grim. Hauclir was nowhere to be seen. Malus imagined that he was already below, waiting in the shadows near the cargo hold where Yasmir lay.
Malus worked his way forward, moving slowly and deliberately to the bow. He’d removed the light mail and now wore his customary full armour and the twin swords Nagaira had given him. Bruglir, by comparison, wore battered but functional plate armour and a single sword that had been well
-cared for and obviously saw regular use. The highborn was irritated to see that his half-brother managed to arm himself like a knight of simple means and yet appear regal and heroic at the same time. Malus stood at the bow rail and squinted into the gloom. “Any sign they’ve lowered the chain yet?”
“Not yet,” Bruglir answered. They’ll likely wait until the last moment.” He pointed to the towers on the sea wall. “Probably wondering what we’re doing here and trying to find someone who recognises the ship.”
It hadn’t occurred to Malus that the men standing watch at the tower might not be familiar with the captured raider and bar its entry on general principles. The thought was both absurd and terrifying all at the same time. “You don’t suppose they can tell we aren’t Skinriders?”
Bruglir chuckled. “Not unless they’ve stuck hawk’s eyes in their skulls. They’ll know us by the cut of our sails and the shape of our hull and that’s all.” He nodded to the big ships anchored in the cove. Things will get interesting when we have to run that gauntlet, however.”
They were almost at the entrance to the cove. Malus eyed the tower to port. From this distance he could see how roughly it was made. Parts of the circular wall and the facings of the tower had fallen away and the top of the citadel was ragged and uneven. The firing positions near the top of the tower looked well-made, though and were perfectly sited to fire on ships approaching the cove. He couldn’t see the squat stone-throwers or their piles of carefully hoarded stones, but he knew they were there. The windows of the citadel gleamed with pale light.
“There!” Bruglir pointed into the darkness ahead. Malus followed the gesture but all he saw were turgid waves and more shadow. “Someone must have recognised us. They’re lowering the chain.”
The captured ship sailed past the towers into the cove. Now that they were on the other side of the sea wall, Malus spied the huge links of the sea chain running from the portside tower, the greased links still playing out into the water as the barrier was lowered into the depths. Again, he was struck by the nature of the tower’s construction. He supposed that the Skinriders had found their way to the island, saw the sea walls were undefended and did what they could to rectify the problem. It was crude but effective work, the highborn had to admit, but where did they get the materials?
Muted orders from the helm set the riggers to work overhead. Sails were brought in, slowing the ship. Bruglir placed a boot on the rail and leaned forward, resting his arms on his bent knee as he studied the distant coast. “Those big ships draw too much water to move close to shore, but we should be able to tie up somewhere if we can find a pier.”
They were already coming up on the nearest Skinrider ships—two large Empire warships with old, wide mouthed brass culverins gaping like dragon’s jaws both fore and aft. Malus wondered if the Skinriders still had powder for those huge cannon and if they could still fire without bursting apart. If they could the damage they would wreak would be appalling.
Hooded figures moved on the warship’s main deck, shambling to the rail and looking down on the smaller raider as it sailed by. The druchii made no effort to conceal themselves and Malus fancied that he heard shouts of consternation on the deck of the towering warship as it receded into the distance.
The Skinrider armada was scattered across the breadth of the cove, maintaining enough distance from one another to allow them to get under weigh without risking a collision. Tanithra guided the ship past the two older Empire vessels and wove a seemingly meandering course past a Bretonnian guardship and two Tilean arrow-ships, their decks bristling with serried ranks of crude bolt throwers. Bruglir caught sight of a stone pier at the far end of the cove and barked orders to Tanithra. The clear, carrying orders, spoken in druhir, brought a chorus of startled shouts from the Skinrider ships nearby. Within moments a Norse horn winded an eerie, skirling note from the closest vessel, a sound soon taken up by every other ship in the cove, like the baying of a pack of wolves.
Shouts and gibbered cries echoed across the cove as the Skinrider crews boiled like ants from below decks and rushed to get a look at the interloper sailing past. Many carried lanterns gleaming with pale light and in their sickly glow Malus saw that these raiders were not merely skinless, but also hideously bloated and gangrenous, their bodies twisted by the corrupting power of the vile god they worshipped. Clouds of insects raged in the air above their putrefying bodies, stirred to frenetic activity by the Skin-riders’ distress. Officers—or what Malus presumed to be officers—bawled commands at the pestilent crew, ordering them back to work. Long-limbed, swollen figures climbed the rigging of the ships like gangly spiders, scrabbling for the stays binding up the tattered sails.
“Are they going to weigh anchor?” Malus mused aloud.
Bruglir shook his head. “Unlikely I expect they just want to be prepared in case they’re called into action.”
“So they’ll respond all the more quickly when your ships arrive,” the highborn said grimly and was surprised when Bruglir laughed.
“Believe me, once that chain falls it will be like wolves among the sheep. We could tell them right now that the fleet was coming and it wouldn’t make any difference. In two hours this cove will be burning from end to end and we’ll be hauling gold by the ton from their treasure houses’ The captain’s dark eyes glittered with avarice and Malus smiled.
The captured raider came about slowly, aiming for the pier. It was made of cut stone, far better built than the ramshackle towers of the Skinriders and Malus wondered who might have made it. How many people had claimed this island in the thousands of years since Eradorius landed here? For the first time he felt a real tremor of doubt. What if the tower was no more and the idol long since taken by some enterprising sailor?
His dreadful reverie was broken by a roar that reverberated from the shoreline. A mob of Skinriders had rushed to the edge of the long pier, brandishing corroded weapons and thundering a challenge at the approaching corsairs. Lanterns bobbed on long poles above the mob, throwing their diseased faces into flickering relief.
Bruglir glanced at Malus and grinned. “They’ve given us a welcome fit for a king,” he said dryly. “I wonder if there will be slave girls and carafes of wine?”
Malus and the corsairs nearby laughed and everyone took heart from the sepulchral sound. Before, Bruglir seemed diffident about the plan, but now that the enemy was before him he had come alive, fearless in the face of peril and his men responded in kind. It was a revelation that filled Malus with surprise and bitter envy.
The raider pulled up alongside the pier. Bruglir turned to the men on deck. “Cast away lines and make fast!” he ordered and the men leapt to obey. Heavy ropes went over the port side and men followed with nimble assurance, heedless of the raging mob howling at them only a few yards away. The captain smiled, pleased with his men’s courage. “Ready the gangplank!” he cried.
There was a groan of coiled ropes and the deck beneath Malus shifted as the big ship slowed against the pier. Almost immediately the raider’s gangplank came down with a rattle and bang and Bruglir was on the move, forcing Malus to grit his teeth and lumber along painfully in his wake. Urial administered the last of his benedictions, hefted his axe and moved to join them, his masked retainers taking formation around him like a murder of brooding crows. Three heavily armed corsairs already waited at the gangplank, ready to provide escort for their captain.
“Tani, you have the ship,” Bruglir called. “You know what you must do.”
Tanithra said nothing, watching the captain depart with a resentful scowl. Farewell, Tanithra, Malus thought. The Dark Mother grant we never meet again.
The highborn made his way carefully down the bouncing gangplank. Bruglir and his men were already halfway down the pier, forcing Malus to hobble along quickly to try and catch up.
Malus noted similar movement at the far end of the pier. Someone with rank had evidently asserted their control over the mob, because the shouts had fallen silent and the crowd was making way f
or a tall figure flanked by a handful of guards. As the figure approached the druchii on the pier, Bruglir started forward as well, intending to meet the Skinrider halfway. As soon as they were within shouting distance, Bruglir spoke something in a harsh, guttural language and Malus was surprised when the Skinrider answered in accented druhir.
“Don’t humiliate yourself trying to speak our tongue,” the Skinrider said, his voice a harsh, bubbling rasp. The raider was clothed in thick hide that reminded Malus of a cold one’s scales, crudely stitched together around his broad-shouldered, muscular form. Over the hide the Skinrider wore a Norscan’s heavy chain hauberk that hung to his knees and his skinless hands gripped the haft of a huge, double-bitted axe. A black woollen mantle with a voluminous hood covered the raider’s head, concealing most of it in shadow. When the Skinrider spoke, Malus could see gleaming muscles moving the raider’s jaw and torn lips pulling back from pointed teeth. “I can understand your pathetic mewlings well enough.”
Bruglir glared haughtily at the man. “Do you speak for your chieftain, Skinrider? Because I did not sail for thousands of leagues to be met at the shore by a pack of his lapdogs.”
The Skinrider’s jaw shifted in what Malus took for a smile. “It is well that my men cannot understand your pulings. They would tear you to pieces for saying such things.”
“Then explain it to them, skinless one, or spare me your empty threats. I’ve come with a rich offer for your master.”
“Tell me what it is and I will decide if it is worth my master’s attention.”
“Dogs have no place in their master’s business,” Bruglir sneered. Take me to him and you will have served your purpose.”
“You think me a fool to allow you into my lord’s presence? A pack of filthy, treacherous dark elves not worthy to lick the excretions from my master’s feet?”
