Malus carefully sheathed his stained sword and staggered into the night. The branches of the Willow Hag rustled faintly in a nonexistent breeze, and then settled down to savour its fleshy feast.
In pain there is life. In darkness, endless strength. Or, as Malus’ childhood sword master was fond of saying: as long as you’re hurting, you’re still living.
Malus had stopped hurting some time ago. He wasn’t exactly sure when. He crawled like an animal up the slopes, over the brambles and around the many trees, and then tumbled down the opposite sides. Sometimes the climb took longer than usual -he’d be climbing and then realise that for a while he hadn’t been moving at all, just staring down at his bloodstained hands.
When he finally hit level ground the change was so profound it left him stunned for quite some time. It was only when he noticed that he could see the blue tinge to his hands that he realised false dawn was colouring the sky overhead. Malus looked up and saw the round shapes of tents not far away, and the long-house beyond. He took a deep, shuddering breath and forced himself to stand. There were the shadows of men lingering at the corners of his vision — sentries, his exhausted mind supposed, trailing along behind him but unwilling — or afraid — to lend him aid.
The next thing he knew, he was pushing the long-house doors open. Inside, the Autarii were sprawled about on their pillows, and the Urhan passed out in his chair. Malus’ retinue sat in a tight knot near the hearth, their eyes wide upon seeing their lord’s return. The warmth of the room touched the highborn’s frozen skin, and now his body awoke in a grinding onslaught of pain.
Malus let out a roar that was born of triumph and agony intertwined, and the Autarii leapt to their feet with steel in hand, believing themselves under attack. The highborn laughed wickedly at their distress, then fixed his eyes on the astonished face of Urhan Beg.
Slowly, painfully, Malus pulled the Ancri Dam from around his neck and tossed it at the Urhan’s feet.
“A gift from the Willow Hag,” Malus said, “plucked from the gold and pieces of jewellery scattered upon her cold breast. There is a king’s ransom down there among her roots, but this was all I escaped with. Much good may it do you.”
Pandemonium erupted in the great hall, but Malus was already falling, down into oblivion’s waiting arms.
Chapter Twelve
THE WIGHTHALLOWS
The old, weathered skull had the chill of the grave about it, even in the fire-lit warmth of the Autarii tent. The delicate silver wire felt like a thread of pure ice beneath Malus’ slender finger as he traced its convoluted path. During his first, tortured glimpse of the relic he’d believed that the wire was meant to hold the skull and the lower jaw together, but now he could see that this wasn’t so. It was one continuous loop that turned and twisted upon itself again and again, enclosing the bone within a weave that had a pattern and a purpose to it that was maddening in its complexity.
The skull itself felt like cold, unyielding stone — it leeched the heat from his hand, leaving it numb and aching even as the rest of him sweltered in the tent’s hot, smoky air. Worst of all were the skull’s empty eye sockets. The black pits swallowed up the firelight and revealed nothing of their depths, yet for all that Malus could feel the cold weight of the skull’s penetrating stare. It was as if some remnant of the owner’s malignant intelligence still haunted the empty braincase and studied him with cold, reptilian interest.
Damned sorcerous thing, Malus thought. I’d just as soon take a mallet to it. He knew next to nothing about sorcery, and what Malus didn’t know, he didn’t trust. Not for the first time he wished he’d forced Nagaira to come along and take charge of the relic. She would have had its riddles unravelled in a moment, leaving him to focus on getting to the temple and reaping its hidden treasures.
Malus sat propped against a pile of floor pillows near the tent’s fire pit, with a weight of furs and wool blankets lying over his lower body. The cuts to his hand, forearm and scalp had been neatly stitched, and the healing skin itched fiercely despite the soothing ointment covering the wounds. A wooden tray dusted with crumbs and an empty water flagon lay on its side close by, next to the highborn’s swords and his saddlebags. The journal of Urial the Forsaken lay in Malus’ lap, the parchment pages opened to the book’s final entry.
There was the sound of rustling leather, and Malus glanced over to see Lhunara stooping through the entryway of the tent. She let out a grunt of surprise at the sight of him. “Awake at last!” she said, clearly relieved. “We were starting to fear you’d sleep through the winter, my lord.”
Malus frowned. He knew from the aches in his muscles and joints that he’d been lying asleep for some time. “How long?”
“Nearly four days, my lord.” She shuffled across the tent and began adding fresh sticks to the fire. The first day was the worst — you were like ice, and nothing we did would warm you up. The Autarii who were guarding the camp said you looked like a vengeful spirit when you came staggering down out of the hills. Even the Shades in the longhouse thought you were a ghost come back to haunt them. That’s what they’re calling you now: An Raksha.”
The highborn chuckled. “The Wight, eh? If only they knew.” Unconsciously, his free hand went to his throat, where he could still feel the long bruises left by the Willow Hag’s implacable grip. “Is it morning or night?”
“Night, and late at that. I’ve just got back from checking the men keeping watch on the nauglir. Dalvar and Vanhir are drinking with Urhan Beg in the longhouse.”
Nothing good can come of that, Malus thought. “Whose tent is this?”
Lhunara shrugged. “Yours now, my lord. It was Nuall’s, but Beg ordered his things moved into Ruhir’s old tent, since he’s now the eldest surviving son. Not that anyone has seen Nuall in the last four days or so.” The retainer gave Malus a pointed look. “The Urhan wants to talk to you as soon as you’ve awakened.”
“Yes, I imagine he does,” Malus said, ignoring the implication in Lhunara’s tone. “I expect he wants to fulfil his part of the bargain and be rid of us just as quickly as he can.”
Lhunara poked at the embers with a short length of kindling, then indicated the skull with the stick’s smoking end. “Has it given up any secrets yet?”
“No,” the highborn said reluctantly, reaching for his saddlebags. “And there’s very little that makes sense in Urial’s journal.” Malus pulled a thick scarf from the saddlebag, wound it tightly around the relic and carefully placed it back in the bag. “Unless I’m much mistaken, I don’t think Urial knew much more about the skull than we did.”
“Why do you say that, my lord?”
Malus leaned back against the pillows, concealing a sigh of relief. He was startled at how weak he felt after the ordeal in the hills. A small part of his mind reeled at the thought of how close he’d come to dying. No, he thought fiercely. It proves that if my will is strong, nothing can stop me.
He picked up the journal, flipping back through the delicate sheets of human parchment. “Urial’s notes make reference to a number of sources—The Saga of Crimson, The Ten Tomes of Khresh, and others — but very few direct observations about the skull itself. No insights about the runes or the silver wire. Either he was already familiar with the runes and what they said, and knew what the wire did, or—”
“Or they weren’t relevant to the mystery of the temple and its contents, which leaves us with nothing to go on.”
Malus suppressed a smile. You’re almost too clever sometimes, Lhunara, he thought. Good thing for me you have nowhere else to go.
“That’s true. But,” he said, raising a long finger, “the journal does mention a few possible clues.” The highborn searched the entries carefully. “Here we are. There’s a note here that reads ‘Kul Hadar in the North’, and describes ‘a wooded valley, haunted by beasts, in the shadow of a mountain cleft by the axe of a god’. Then—” he flipped through a few more pages- “there’s a reference here to ‘the key to the Gate of Infinity, and the tem
ple beyond’.”
Lhunara frowned. “And this Kul Hadar is the name of the valley?”
“Or the temple perhaps,” Malus said. “I’m not sure.”
The retainer poked at the fire some more, considering her next words carefully. “I thought Nagaira said the skull would lead us to the temple.”
“She did.”
“And yet…”
“And yet it’s doing nothing of the sort,” Malus replied. “It’s possible that Nagaira didn’t know as much about the skull as she let on.”
Lhunara nodded slowly, her face carefully neutral. “Perhaps so, my lord. That being the case, is it wise to continue at this point? As weak as you are—”
“Weak? Weak?” Malus flung the furs and blankets aside Anger burned along muscle and sinew in his chilled limbs, propelling him to his feet. He leapt at Lhunara, one hand snatching a half-burned stick from the fire while the other closed about his retainer’s throat “I should put a red coal under your tongue for such insolence! Do not presume to judge my strength, Lhunara. I will find this temple and reap whatever treasures it holds and nothing will stand in my way — least of all you.”
Lhunara had gone rigid at Malus’ touch. She met her lord’s eyes with a cold, black stare of her own. “No one questions your terrible will, my lord,” she said with preternatural calm. She eyed the red-hot ember hanging scant inches from her face. “Shall I quench the hot coal with my tongue?”
With an effort, Malus reined in his temper. He dropped the stick back in the fire. “And how would you give orders to the men afterwards?” The highborn gave her a rude shove that sent her sprawling. “Go to the Urhan and tell him I am coming,” he said. “And don’t question my strength ever again.”
“Yes, my lord,” Lhunara replied, her face carefully neutral. She rose smoothly to her feet and slipped gracefully from the tent.
Malus waited for the space of two more deep breaths and then collapsed onto the blankets. His arms and legs quivered in the wake of the sudden burst of energy. His mind roiled with a tumult of thoughts. It was bad enough that he’d taken such a gamble with Lhunara — she could have handled him like a kitten if her anger had gotten the better of her, as his had. Worse, it was foolish to make an enemy of one’s own lieutenant on an expedition as risky as this one.
But worst of all was the suspicion that now festered like poison in the back of his mind. If Nagaira knew less about the skull than she’d let on, perhaps she had other reasons for remaining back at the Hag. Had she made a cat’s paw out of him?
The notion did little to improve his humour, but the anger soon quelled his rebelling muscles and returned a little fire to his veins. Slowly and deliberately the highborn rose to his feet and started to dress.
As drained as he was, Malus still felt more at ease with his armour on and his swords belted in place. It was indeed well past midnight, and one moon shone full and bright in a sky crowded with tatters of high-flying cloud. The pale light glimmered on a carpet of freshly-fallen snow. He drank in the cold air gratefully, a little surprised at how pleasant it felt. Not so cold as the Willow Hag’s embrace, Malus thought ruefully as he made his way to the long-house.
The great hall was practically empty; a light dusting of ash from the fireplaces lay on the tumbled floor pillows and rugs. Dalvar, Vanhir and a half-dozen older Shades sat near the Urhan’s dais, passing a wineskin between one another and smoking from pale clay pipes. Neither of Malus’ men appeared drunk, though it was clear that several of the Shades were deep in their cups. Urhan Beg had evidently declined the wine, and instead reclined in his great carved chair, brooding over a pipe of his own. Lhunara was nowhere to be seen.
Vanhir rose silently to his feet as the highborn approached the dais, his expression calculating. Dalvar finished off a long swig from the skin and raised it in salute. “My lord An Raksha walks the world of the living once more,” he said with a roguish grin. The other Autarii chuckled respectfully. The Urhan made no reply.
“My thanks, great Urhan, for your hospitality,” Malus said, “and your generosity to my men. I trust they haven’t been seduced from their duties by your fine wine and warm hearth.”
The Urhan shrugged. “It’s no affair of mine if they have.”
“As it happens, my turn at watching the nauglir is almost at hand,” Vanhir said smoothly, then offered Malus a short bow. “With your leave, my lord, I will depart.”
Malus nodded severely, but the knight made no reaction, instead bowing to the Urhan and striding quietly from the hall.
“And you, Dalvar?” the highborn inquired.
Nagaira’s man shrugged expansively. “The morning watch is mine, dread lord, but there’s plenty more night left for sleeping. In the meantime, I’m learning what I can at the feet of these old ghosts.”
And what are they learning from you, I wonder? Malus thought. Since his realisation about Nagaira, his mind had started to boil with suspicions. The sooner they were in the Wastes the better. Fighting for one’s life left little time for treachery.
“What brings you walking in the snows so late at night, city-dweller?” Beg asked, his gaze hard and appraising.
The highborn bowed to Urhan Beg. “My lieutenant informed me that you wished to speak with me as soon as I awoke, great Urhan. I did not wish to keep you waiting.”
“Your lieutenant,” Beg sneered. “A woman bearing swords and armour in peacetime? It’s unseemly.”
Malus shrugged. “The brides of Khaine bear arms all year long and no one faults them. Lhunara Ithil went to war and found she liked the taste of it. What’s more, she is very, very good at it. I would be a fool to overlook such skills simply because Naggaroth is not at war now. Regardless, as you so clearly pointed out, my retainers are no affair of yours. Now what did you wish to speak to me about?”
Beg leaned forward in his chair, his hand going to the medallion at his neck. “The Ancri Dam is a powerful relic,” the chieftain said, rubbing the polished ithilmar thoughtfully. “With it, I know when a man lies to me. I haven’t seen my son Nuall for almost four days, not since you left to visit the Willow Hag. Did you see him that night?”
Malus considered Beg carefully. He could be bluffing, Malus thought. Do I take that risk? “Yes. I saw him,” the highborn said after a moment’s thought “He waited until I left the tree and tried to steal the medallion from me.”
Several of the Autarii shook their heads at the news. They didn’t seem much surprised. The Urhan eyed Malus balefully. “Did you kill him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did you hurt him?”
Malus smiled, holding up his stitched arm. “I gave as good as I got, great Urhan. But there were seven of them.”
“Then what happened to Nuall and his men?”
“I can’t say for certain,” Malus replied. “I had the medallion, they tried to take it from me, and I escaped. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
For a long time the Urhan said not a word, staring into the highborn’s dark eyes as though he could pore through them like a book. Eventually he gave a snort of disgust and leaned back in his chair. “Stupid boy,” he muttered, half to himself. “What’s the point of having the medallion if there’s no one to pass it on to?”
You should have thought of that before you set him against me, Malus thought, suppressing a smile.
One of the Shades spoke up as he reached for the wineskin. “What about the story Janghir told, about those dark horsemen near Seven Tree Hill?”
“Horsemen!” Beg spat. “Who brings horses into these hills?”
Malus saw Dalvar stiffen. He shot a surreptitious glance at Malus, who kept his face impassive. Dark riders, Beg, filled with Khaine’s wrath, the highborn thought. Horses and men who do not suffer from wounds, fatigue or fear. Deathless, patient and relentless…
“I can appreciate your concern for your son, great Urhan,” Malus said. “And I do not wish to distract you from the search for Nuall and his men. So let us be on our way and crea
te no further distractions for you or your clan.” The highborn drew himself to his full height and folded his arms imperiously. “I require a guide to the frontier, one who can lead me past the druchii watchtowers and to the edge of the Chaos Wastes.”
“Why not take the Spear Road?”
“I don’t recall personal questions being included as part of our bargain, Urhan Beg. It’s enough for you to know that I need to get to the frontier quickly and quietly.”
“What part of the Wastes are you trying to reach?”
Malus squared his jaw. “There is a mountain in the Wastes that looks as though it were split by the axe of a god. Somewhere near the foot of that mountain is Kul Hadar.”
The assembled Shades stirred uneasily, throwing dire looks at one another. Beg gave Malus a bemused look, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. “You’re looking for Kul Hadar? Why?”
“Questions, Urhan Beg. Can you get me to that part of the frontier or not?”
The Urhan thought it over for some time, while the Autarii passed the wineskin between them and muttered under their breath. “Yes, this can be done,” he said carefully. “In fact, it can be done very quickly, if your heart is up to the task.”
“Now I ask you to speak plainly, Urhan Beg. What do you mean?”
Beg tapped the stem of his pipe against his stained lower teeth. “There is a path through the hills,” he said. “A… a path that’s not entirely of this world. At certain times, it is possible to walk that path from one end to another and cover a hundred leagues in a single night. I did it myself once, many years ago. But it is not for the faint of spirit.”
Malus smiled. “Believe me, we have no small experience with such places. I’m certain we are up to the journey.”