by Dan Abnett
Bruglir laughed in the man’s face. “Does your great chieftain fear a dozen druchii that much?” The captain took a step forward. “Are all the legends about the infamous Skinriders mere bedtime tales, meant to frighten soft human children?”
The Skinrider roared in anger, meaning to raise his heavy axe, but Bruglir fixed him in place with a single look. “Raise a hand against me, you slug and it will be the last mistake you ever make,” the captain said.
A tense silence stretched between the two men. Finally the Skinrider lowered his axe. “Follow me,” he growled.
The Skinrider turned, bellowing a command in Norse to the men at the end of the pier. Bruglir followed with a disdainful scowl, but to Malus there was no mistaking the cold glitter of triumph in his eyes.
Savour it while you can, the highborn thought. He followed along like a ghost in his brother’s wake, smiling secretly to himself as he watched his scheme unfold.
You play your part well, brother, thought Malus as they began the long climb to the citadel on the cliff. But you forget that I am its author and this is a tale writ in blood.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DARKNESS FALLS
The citadel was built upon the bones of the dead. From the pier at the base of the cliff the Skinriders led the druchii through an empty village of stone houses, their walls covered in moss and their roofs rotted to dust many centuries past. They had the appearance of a cairn-yard, the stone outlines arrayed like barrows in orderly rows and left for the ravages of time. As they walked through the narrow lanes between the buildings Malus noticed how still and silent the air was; not a breath of wind or wild sound disturbed the funereal silence. Open doorways and empty windows seemed to tug at them as they passed by, tempting them with ancient mysteries hidden in their abyssal shadows. The highborn thought he could feel unseen stares scrutinising him from those ruined buildings—the flat, implacable gaze of restless ghosts, waiting in the darkness for the fleeting warmth of a mortal too curious for his own good.
Past the haunted village was a broad, slightly sloping field that had been cleared of trees at some time in the distant past—Malus could see dozens of mounds of very old tree stumps rising from the grass and low shrubs. A path worked its way across the field and forked on the other side. The left-hand path began to climb the cliff face in a long series of switchbacks that rose to the citadel, while the right hand path led to the wooden gates of a log stockade built against the base of the cliff itself. Vines climbed the logs of the palisade and green moss grew from the chinks between them. The narrow firing slits in the two corner towers and the windows of the stockade house that rose from behind the wall were black and empty as those in the village, but here the blackness exuded malignant, debased hatred. Even the Skinriders gave the abandoned structure a wide berth and Malus once more wondered how many other seafarers had come to the island over the millennia, seeking fortune or safe haven but finding only madness and ruin instead.
It was a long and arduous climb up the cliff face. The paths were steep and narrow and the Skinriders set a relentless pace. About midway up the cliff they began to encounter gaping holes high in the cliff walls, often in groups of two or three set side by side and exuding thick streams of smoke or mist that reeked of decay. Once or twice he heard a high-pitched rumble, like the hiss of a hot spring reverberating through the stone.
After a time the highborn tried to distract himself by looking out over the cove and the surrounding shore. He saw more abandoned buildings, broken monuments and even the rotted hulls of ships, all piled on top of one another over the progression of years. The twin towers of the sea wall stood in stark relief against a wall of mist that rose into the dark sky in every direction. The highborn tried to work out how long it had been since they’d passed through that barrier themselves. Had it been an hour? An hour and a half? How close were the ships of the fleet and was the landing party in position to lower the chain? There was no way to tell, he finally admitted to himself. Time was slippery on this side of the mist. It wasn’t long before he caught himself stealing glances out to sea, dreading the sight of tall masts and black sails that meant the fleet had somehow arrived early and was headed for disaster.
They had reached the top of the cliffs before Malus realised it. The path turned sharply and entered an arched alcove that ended in a crumbling, stone stairway. He could feel the weight of the citadel looming over them, a pile of old stone built by skinless, diseased hands and mortared with blood and bone.
The stink of rotting blood was thick in the air. Up close, Malus could see the crumbling, rust-coloured cement clinging to smooth, glassy bricks that could have been ten thousand years old. He ran his fingers over the surface of one brick and felt a tingle of power sink through his fingertips. Something nagged at the back of his mind; a sense of familiarity that he couldn’t quite place. Before he could consider it further the stairway made a turn to the left and Malus rose into a realm of utter madness.
The stairway emerged into the base of the citadel—or so Malus suspected, since he could see no walls from where he stood. The air was thick and humid, suffused with a greenish glow that shone through narrow, stitched curtains of skin that hung from somewhere high above. Streaks of blood and bile ran across the surface of the glistening hides, the pulsing flow drawing Malus’ attention. After a moment he squeezed his stinging eyes shut and turned away, unable to shake the sense that there were patterns in the flow of sickly fluid, promising knowledge and power if he would open his eyes to them.
Clouds of blue and black flies hung like smoke in the air, filling the space with a keening buzz that played counterpoint to a chorus of ragged screams that echoed from somewhere high above. Drops of blood spattered down from the heights, falling upon the druchii’s head and shoulders in a warm, bitter rain.
The curtains of skin made close spaces and narrow lanes in the interior of the citadel; Malus wondered if the whole structure was in fact an empty shell, partitioned by tapestries of torture and disease. The flaps of skin swayed in a faint breeze, seeming to reach for the druchii as they followed the Skinriders through the stinking labyrinth.
He turned to Urial, who was marching stolidly along behind Malus with his axe held across his chest like a sceptre. “Have you any idea how long it’s been since we entered the mists?” Malus whispered.
Urial shook his head. “I can’t say for certain, but it feels as though our time is nearly up.”
Malus nodded, his head turning this way and that as he attempted to keep his bearings in the confusing maze of rotting skin. “I feel the same way” He shot the former acolyte a pointed look. “We may have to find our own way out when things become heated.”
Urial shrugged. “If we are in an audience with their chieftain when our friends arrive we might be able to turn the situation to our favour,” he whispered, “but if we’ve been here as long as it seems then there should already be alarms sounding from one of the sea wall towers. We’ve heard nothing yet and that worries me.”
The highborn felt a chill run down his spine—the faintest, teasing caress of Fate. “Tanithra is a seasoned raider,” he replied quickly. There’s no telling how many times she’s stolen upon a watchtower in the dead of night and cut the throats of the men inside.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Urial said, but his expression was grim. “We will know soon enough.”
It seemed as though they walked for a long while down the green, fleshy corridors, turning this way and that without apparent rhyme or reason. The drippings from the ceiling stained their shoulders and the sleeves of their robes. One of Bruglir’s retainers stumbled and doubled over, retching violently. The rest of the procession filed on by, saying nothing. As bad as it was, Malus expected it was going to get much worse.
At length the procession came to a halt, bunching up in a group at the top of another curving stairway. This one led down, following the rough-hewn wall of a circular shaft that sank down into the cliff. A pillar of mist like the ones in
the cliff wall outside rose from the depths, filling the inside of the tower with the festering stink of corruption. As Malus sidled through the crowd to stand beside Bruglir he heard a clattering sound echo from overhead. Pieces of glossy black brick flashed in the green light as they tumbled into the pit, bouncing from one wall to the next.
The huge armoured Norscan stood to one side, his axe propped on one mailed shoulder. The raider’s skinless chin and white teeth gleamed eerily in the light as he spoke. “Our lord waits below,” he said, pointing with a clawed finger. He made a rasping sound that might have been a chuckle. “Present your gifts to him, druchii and he will make a place of honour for you at his side.”
A twinge of uneasiness passed through Malus, but before he could consider the situation more carefully Bruglir shot the Norscan a defiant look and started downwards, moving quickly and purposefully along the dripping stairs. Without hesitation Malus followed in his wake, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to check the progress of the rest of the party. Bruglir’s retainers were the next to move, casting angry glares at the highborn for inadvertently shaming them. Urial came next, his shoulder pressed to the rough wall as he negotiated the steps with his twisted leg. His eyes were fixed on the mist and the depths below, as though trying to discern what lay at their source.
Just beyond Urial, Malus saw a Skinrider slide between the fleshy curtains and bow his head before the Norscan. The Skinrider’s shoulders were heaving and he spoke to the tall warrior in quick gasps. The highborn felt his heart skip a beat as the Norscan stiffened and shot Malus an accusing look. That’s it then, Malus thought. He’s learned about the attack on the tower. But just as Malus went for his sword the Norscan pushed the messenger aside and rushed off the way he’d come, leaving the Skinrider loping along in the big warrior’s wake.
Now what was all that about, Malus thought? Perhaps the raiders had learned something was amiss at one of the towers, but weren’t certain exactly what. The Norscan suspects, though, the highborn thought. Urial caught his eye with an arched eyebrow and Malus shrugged in reply, then turned and went down the stairs.
Bricks continued to fall in a steady trickle from the top of the crumbling tower, sometimes striking the rock wall close enough to shower the druchii with dust as the projectiles hurtled past. The further they descended the thicker the air seemed to become, until Malus fancied that the tendrils of mist had taken on a life of their own. They swirled about his head and plucked coyly at his lashes with sticky, ghostly fingers, pulled at his lips and reached down his throat. He could feel Tz’arkan stir angrily in his breast, like a bear cornered in its den. Every time the mist seemed to thicken in his lungs, he could feel the daemon swell, scattering the fog and pushing it from Malus’ body.
The descent seemed to last an eternity. After a time the air quivered with a stentorian hissing, like a dragon’s hot breath issuing from below. Malus was reminded of the hot geysers that blasted skyward on the Plain of Dragons in Naggaroth, but as they descended still further he could hear an undertone to the loud exhalation of steam. There was a curious, piping note that rose and fell in pitch, almost too faint to hear beneath the sharp blast of trapped air. The sound seemed to come from dozens of sources at once, rising and falling in perfect unison. Despite the close atmosphere the tremulous wail chilled him to the bone.
As they descended further the mist thickened, surrounding them and making their footing difficult. Malus stumbled ahead, barely able to see where to put one foot ahead of the other and trying to focus on the hazy outlines of Bruglir’s shoulders and head. The highborn took another step—and came up short, realising that their descent had ended at last. He walked forward hesitantly, enveloped by stinking clouds of pestilence, until Bruglir’s tall form resolved itself out of the haze. The captain had his hand on the hilt of his sword, peering warily into the mists around him. He caught sight of Malus and for a moment he actually seemed relieved. The hissing sound—and the chorus of cries that rose beneath it—resounded thunderously from the rock walls around them.
Then, without warning the mist billowed—and then abruptly receded, retreating like an ebb tide towards an irregular circle of grey light that grew in brightness and definition as the fog thinned. After a moment Malus realised that the circle was one of the rough openings that decorated the side of the cliff. A stiff wind had blown up, racing across the cliff face and drawing the steam away for the moment.
Any sense of relief the highborn might have felt vanished in a single instant as he saw what the mists were concealing. Beside Malus, Bruglir recoiled with a startled curse.
They stood in a natural hollow within the cliff, with a rough but relatively level floor that stretched almost eighty paces across. In the centre of the chamber lay a circular pit approximately fifteen paces at its widest point. Steam rose in gusts from a thick, heaving surface of red and yellow. Arms, legs and hairless heads rolled and bobbed in the horrific stew; lifeless fingers seemed to wave as the hands rose and fell with the escape of trapped gases. The gangrenous air over the mass seethed with flies, their buzzing rasp lost in the reverberating voice of the pit.
With growing revulsion Malus’ shocked mind took in every detail of the pit’s hideous contents and a small part of him realised that it was a stew of melting bodies, tossed in by the hundreds and left to ferment in the steam. The whole surface heaved with an eruption of stinking gas and as the highborn watched, the heads riding the surface of the mass rolled back on melting necks and moaned. Their voices were the source of that terrible symphony of pain that rose with the steam and the highborn was stunned in awe and horror at the sight.
“Mother of Night and the Dragons of the Deep Sea,” Bruglir whispered. “What monsters are these?”
“Supplicants of the Ruinous Powers,” Malus said gravely. Worshippers of the god of pestilence and decay. You knew this from the beginning, Bruglir. You said it yourself.”
“Yes, but…” the captain’s voice trailed away as he tried to grapple with the enormity of the scene before him. “I never imagined…”
The surface of the pit heaved again, but this time it wasn’t the roiling pressure of steam behind the motion; the fleshy skin of the human stew stretched like a caul as a powerful figure rose from the depths before the stunned druchii. Malus watched the clinging mass of skin and jellied bone drape like a cloak around a broad-shouldered, muscular figure. Yellow-green folds of soft skin stretched from the tips of huge, downward-sweeping horns and then parted, tearing a hole that settled around the top of the creature’s head like one of the Skinriders’ crude hoods. Two green points of light burned where the beast’s eyes should be and the flesh of the hood ran down its dark cheeks in a mockery of tears.
The Skinrider chieftain raised his powerful arms, draped in sleeves of skin and bone and turned his blazing eyes upon the druchii. Malus met that baleful stare and understood that the creature before him might have been a man long ago, but now a fell daemon possessed the body standing before him. Tz’arkan noticed as well and this time Malus sensed the daemon recoil warily in the face of this new threat.
“Come forward.” The daemon’s voice was like the death-rattle of a god, a sound like pooled blood and pus bubbling from a diseased wound. Malus’ guts shrivelled at the sound and he heard Bruglir groan in dismay as the captain took a lurching step forward and then another. Malus felt the pull as well, though it seemed distant and dreadful rather than an iron fist that defied resistance. He could hear the rest of the party take halting steps toward the daemon and the highborn joined in rather than reveal his advantage to the chieftain.
“Ah,” the daemon sighed, “the flesh of Naggaroth. The sweet blood of the lost elves. Bones like fine, cool ice. You are welcome here. I will savour you in my embrace and you will entertain me with song.”
The daemon spread his powerful arms in welcome. Malus saw the molten heads in the chieftain’s raiment shudder, the mouths working in a chorus of madness and horror. Milky eyes rolled in their sockets, focu
sing on the druchii lumbering helplessly to their doom.
“You will not defile the chosen sons of Khaine!”
The words cut through the air like the shriek of a red-hot iron against skin. Urial the Forsaken limped fearlessly towards the daemon, his axe held high. His pale cheeks were deeply slashed and his own blood burned like a fiery brand from the razor edges of the arcane weapon. Urial’s voice thundered in the cavernous space. “The chosen of Khaine are not for you or your master to touch! They are marked for fields of gore, not the stinking pit of human mud!”
Bubbling laughter echoed from the towering figure. “And what will you do, poor cripple, if I choose to take them anyway? Will the Bloody-Handed God make his presence known through a flawed vessel such as yours?”
Urial met the daemon’s blazing eyes and smiled. “My body is weak, yes, but my faith is like shining gold. Go ahead, daemon. Tempt the wrath of the Lord of Murder and feel the full measure of his terrible vengeance.”
The chieftain started to reach for Urial with one taloned hand—and then hesitated. The former acolyte faced him with the fiery zeal of the true believer and in that moment Malus saw the faintest tinge of doubt creep into the daemon’s eyes. “Very well,” the chieftain said at length and the highborn felt the being’s terrible presence lift from him like a collar of iron. “Say what you have come to say and I will decide if it is worth your lives.”
Bruglir took a silent breath, composing himself and then took a measured step forward. There was no mistaking the terror in his eyes, but the captain’s voice was steady and sure. “I and my men wish to join your ranks, terrible one. We wish to become Skinriders ourselves.”
Another croaking chuckle. “Indeed? You chosen sons of Khaine would abandon your god and your precious white skin and serve me like dogs? Why?”
