Then there remained the challenge of slipping through the camp undetected. Although many of the beastmen would likely be intoxicated in the wee hours of the morning, his silhouette would still give him away as not being a member of the herd. He needed some way to change his appearance.
Malus looked down at the body by his feet. He considered the beastman for a moment, then bent over the body and began skinning it.
He wore the beastman’s skin over his armour like a cloak. It hung poorly, but it only had to fool the herd from a distance, and then only for a momentary glimpse. Or so he hoped.
Malus crouched at the edge of the woods, scanning each of the three bonfires as carefully as he could. As far as he could tell, Kul Hadar was nowhere to be seen. Not a part of the herd, are you Hadar? No wonder they eventually ran you off.
The good news was that he counted less than a hundred beastmen in camp. Between those lost to Urial’s riders and the terrible battle at the temple gate, the herd had been decimated. Those that he could see around the fire seemed well and truly drunk.
The highborn stepped from the woods and began his ascent to Kul Hadar’s large tent. He kept to the shadows, moving no faster than a walk, and tried to put tents and shelters between himself and the bonfires whenever possible. No one challenged him as he moved deeper into camp.
As he approached Kul Hadar’s tent, Malus noted that the smaller satellite tents were dark. If those belonged to Yaghan and his champions, it likely meant that they were still out searching for him in the woods. That would make his task much easier.
The highborn circled around to the rear of the great tent and pressed himself against the layered hides. He could smell wood smoke, and faintly heard someone moving quietly inside. Malus pulled out his dagger and, quietly and carefully, cut a slit in the hide long enough for him to be able to pry the leather apart and peer inside.
There was a figure sitting next to an iron brazier in the centre of the tent, facing the central door flap. He heard a faint murmur, like chanting. Kul Hadar was possibly praying to his gods for protection, or deliverance, or to pass the blame for the defilement of the grove onto someone else. Malus grinned fiercely to himself and began to slowly widen the slit, cutting carefully in the direction of the ground. When the slit was large enough for him to slip through, he let the skin of the beastman fall to the ground and crept quietly into the tent.
The interior of the tent was carpeted in thick rugs and hide-covered pillows; either Machuk or Hadar before him had lived like an Autarii Urhan, lounging like country lords on plump pillows. They muffled Malus’ movements as he crept closer to the figure chanting by the fire. When the highborn was slightly more than an arm’s length away, the sound of chanting suddenly stopped, and the horned figure tensed. Without hesitation, Malus leapt at the beastman, grabbing one horn and placing the dagger to the figure’s throat. “Not a sound, Hadar, or I’ll slice you from one horn to the other.”
The cloaked figure let out a bleat of alarm and Malus knew at once that it wasn’t Hadar he had caught. Within moments, hanging panels around the perimeter of the tent were pushed aside, revealing connecting entrances with the satellite tents ranged around the central tent. Yaghan and his champions rushed inside, weapons held ready. In their wake stepped Kul Hadar, clutching his staff and baring his fanged smile.
Furious, Malus cut the throat of the beastman he’d caught, stepping back as Hadar’s decoy convulsed and bled onto the piled rugs.
The shaman was undeterred. “When Yaghan and his warriors lost track of you in the forest, he came to me and asked what you might do next.” Hadar’s horned head shook from side to side. “I told him that if you weren’t still running, it meant you would be coming back here. Predictable, druchii, predictable. What I do not understand is why?”
Malus grinned wolfishly. “I’m here to deal with you Hadar,” he said. “I’m looking for a talisman, something called the Octagon of Praan. I’ve been told you have it.” The highborn held out his hand. “Give it to me and I’ll share with you everything I’ve found in the temple.”
The beastman threw back his head and laughed, a coarse, braying sound. “You amuse me, druchii. Here, I’ll make you a counter-offer. Put down that knife and tell me everything you know about the temple, and I promise I won’t skin you alive before I sacrifice you in the sacred grove.”
“An interesting offer, Hadar. Let me think about it a moment,” Malus said, and threw his knife at the shaman’s head. Hadar knocked it out of the air with his staff, but by that point Malus had drawn his sword and was charging across the tent.
Yaghan roared, and the champions rushed forward. One burly warrior made to grab Malus, and the highborn gave him a backhanded swipe with his blade that severed most of the champion’s fingers. As the warrior bellowed in agony, Malus reversed his stroke and ripped open the beastman’s throat.
Another of the champions lashed out with a gnarled fist and struck the highborn just below his right temple. Malus’ vision went red and spots danced before his eyes. Another set of powerful hands grabbed the highborn’s sword arm and pinned it; the gnarled fist lashed out again and Malus received another stunning blow to the head. He felt his left arm being grabbed and pinned back, and then when his vision cleared Yaghan was standing before him, brandishing his enormous battle axe. The champion showed Malus the cruel edge of both axe heads, and with a swift movement he reversed the axe and drove the weapon’s butt into Malus’ midriff.
There was the sound of crumpled metal and an icy shock convulsed his body. The highborn looked down as Yaghan drew back the butt of his axe and pulled its four-inch-long triangular spike from the hole it had punched in his gut. Dark blood bubbled out of the hole, and then the pain hit, wiping everything else away.
Chapter Twenty-three
FEAST OF SOULS
They took his swords and armour away and beat him with their fists until his robes and kheitan were soaked with blood. Blood still seeped from the wound in his gut, and the pain made any movement all but impossible. They lashed him to one of the thick poles in Hadar’s tent, and the shaman questioned him at length about what he’d found in the temple.
Malus told him everything. He even overstated the amount of treasure waiting in the room with the terrible crystal. Let the beastmen kill one another trying to get there. If the Dark Mother was kind, Hadar would actually succeed, and Tz’arkan would claim him as he’d claimed Malus. Hadar said he didn’t believe a word, and once again threatened to skin the highborn alive. Malus just laughed at him, which under the circumstances was torture in and of itself.
Soon he would be in the clutches of a daemon for all eternity, the highborn said. What could Hadar do that would possibly compare to that?
“You do not have to die as yet,” the daemon’s voice echoed in his head. “If you wish it, I can heal your wounds. I can lend you great strength and speed. I can—”
“No,” the highborn muttered.
“No? You’re refusing me? You would rather suffer as my slave for all eternity?”
“Shut up,” Malus hissed.
A heavy blow rocked the side of his head. Pain exploded through his midsection, and Malus passed out for several seconds.
When he came to, Hadar was crouching on his knees, looking up at Malus. “Don’t die on me yet, druchii,” the shaman grunted. “We still have some things to discuss before you go up the slope to atone for your sins in the grove. Now, what does Tz’arkan want with the Octagon of Praan?”
The highborn blinked slowly, trying to focus his thoughts. “He wants to be free. The Octagon belonged to one of the sorcerers who imprisoned him.”
“All the more reason to keep it from him, then,” Hadar said. “Praan was the great shaman who founded this herd, many centuries ago. The talisman is one of the herd’s most sacred treasures.”
Malus wasn’t listening. His head had drooped to his chin, and a thin stream of bloody drool trickled onto the rug. Hadar pushed the highborn’s head back and thumbed
one eyelid open.
“He’s nearly finished,” Hadar told Yaghan. “Take him to the circle. I must prepare myself for the sacrifice.”
As the champions untied Malus’ bonds, Hadar retreated to the far side of the tent, where a copper bowl brimmed with clear water. The shaman began washing the blood from his hands and face, purifying his body for the ceremony to come. “You know, Malus, for all the carnage you have wrought, I look upon you as a blessing from the gods. Truly I do. You brought the Skull of Ehrenlish, killed Machuk and opened the Gate of Infinity for me. Now you have given me priceless information about the dangers of Tz’arkan and the temple, knowledge I will use to approach the crystal on my own terms and bend the daemon to my will. And finally, thanks to your foolishness, I will cut your throat in the circle of stones, and your blood will purify the grove you so recently defiled.” He turned to face Malus as the champions prepared to carry him from the tent. “I look forward to eating your heart at the bonfire later tonight, Malus. You have done a great service for me and my herd.”
Hadar’s deep laughter accompanied Malus into the darkness.
Malus left a trail of blood behind him the entire way up the hill. His limbs were growing cold, and his vision came and went. He had never been so close to death before; he could sense it, just at the edge of his being, seeping into his body like a winter chill.
The daemon spoke inside his head every step of the way, offering to heal his wounds. The highborn savoured the subtle edge of desperation mounting in Tz’arkan’s voice. The daemon might be telling the truth about his eternal servitude after death, but it was still clear to Malus that Tz’arkan would much rather keep him alive. He also found it interesting that the daemon couldn’t heal him without receiving permission. What other limitations did he have? The thought quenched some of the pain he felt. It was good to have even a thin sliver of control over his own fate.
Yaghan and the remaining champions, four in all, carried him effortlessly up the mountain slope. The dark trees rustled hungrily as they passed, no doubt sensing the spilled blood on Malus’ body. The standing stones had been shattered by the magical energies unleashed there earlier in the day, but the circle within was clear of debris. Someone, perhaps the surviving priests, had cleared the many bodies away. Many of them were probably being served around the cook fires downslope.
There was a handful of priests still clearing away debris outside the sacred circle. They bowed to the champions as Yaghan barked orders to his warriors. The beastmen stepped reverently into the circle and laid Malus on the stone, then retreated beyond its border. They hadn’t bothered to bind him, and why should they? He was unarmed and nearly dead.
At least, for the moment.
Malus carefully opened his eyes. The champions were standing around the outside of the stone circle with their weapons grounded. Yaghan stood off to one side, watching both his warriors and the activities of the priests.
“Tz’arkan,” Malus whispered, the words coming forth in a faint hiss. “You said you could heal me. Make me stronger and faster.”
“That is so. I can make you stronger and faster for a short time, but there will be a price to pay later. Do you wish it?”
“Yes,” Malus said, and hated himself for it.
Black ice raced through his veins, freezing his blood and causing his wounds to burn. Every muscle clenched at the pain; his shoulders and legs came off the stone slab and hung there for several agonising seconds. Then he collapsed against the stone, half-delirious with the absence of suffering, and when his senses cleared he realised that he was whole again. Whole and powerful.
He didn’t want to think how much deeper Tz’arkan had sunk his talons into him after he’d made that request. He would pay whatever price he had to and count the cost later.
Malus slowly turned his head. He spied a large stone outside the circle, less than a foot from where one of the champions stood. As quietly as he could he rolled onto his side and scrambled for it.
It felt as though he was made of fine steel wire, light and strong. He all but flew the intervening feet over to the rock, and plucked it from the ground as though it were a pebble. The champion was just starting to turn, his eyes going wide, when Malus took the rock and crushed the beastman’s skull. The champion’s eyes bulged and blood flew in a lazy spray as the warrior toppled to the ground. Malus had the champion’s great sword in hand and was rushing to the next warrior in line before the first one had hit the ground.
The next champion bleated out a warning and raised his axe as Malus struck, slashing the beastman along the midsection and cutting him in two without breaking stride. The highborn raced through an expanding cloud of blood and viscera and set his sights on the next warrior, who had stepped forward and raised his sword to parry the highborn’s attack. Malus slipped effortlessly under the beastman’s guard and disembowelled him with a swift slash of his blade, then left the champion clutching at its guts as he sought out the last of Yaghan’s warriors.
The remaining champion was running towards him, axe raised high. Out of the corner of his eye, Malus saw Yaghan attempting the same, approaching from the side and a little behind the highborn. Malus focused his attentions on the beastman in front of him — and without warning the steel was gone from his step and the attacking champion seemed to leap directly in his path. The highborn howled inwardly. Cursed daemon and your paltry gifts, he raged.
“You asked for help and I gave it,” the daemon replied coldly. “Ask, and you may taste of my strength again.”
Acting instinctively Malus ducked left and swept low with the great sword, just as the champion’s axe plummeted towards his head. The beastman missed, and Malus’ sword sheared off the champion’s right leg at the knee. The warrior toppled forward with a scream, and Malus took two steps past and then spun to receive Yaghan’s charge.
Yaghan came on like a charging bull, roaring a challenge and holding his axe high. If he hits me solidly, even once, I’m dead, the highborn thought. Without armour, the two-handed axe would split him like kindling.
Malus watched Yaghan approach, waiting until the axe started to fall before dropping the point of his sword and ducking to the left. The axe whistled into the ground less than a finger’s width away, and Malus took the opening this presented by raising the point of the blade enough to stab deep into the champion’s massive right bicep. The champion howled and swept the axe at Malus with a backhanded stroke that he barely ducked in time.
Before the highborn could fully recover, the powerful champion reversed his stroke and slashed for the highborn’s head. Malus ducked lower still and threw himself forward, this time digging the point of the blade through Yaghan’s thickly muscled thigh. Flesh and muscle parted easily before the sharp point, tearing a deep trench from front to back along the outside of the champion’s upper leg.
The highborn propelled himself past Yaghan as quickly as he could — but not quickly enough. Another lightning fast backhand stroke made a glancing blow on his right shoulder, making a deep, painful cut. Blood poured in a hot stream down his arm and the highborn stumbled. Malus gritted his teeth and spun to face the champion while he tried to plan his next move.
Again, Yaghan dictated the exchange, rushing forward and knocking Malus’ sword aside with a powerful blow that nearly wrenched the blade from the highborn’s hands. But instead of remaining still, Malus rushed forward as well, so when Yaghan’s backhand swing came again, the highborn was inside the weapon’s arc and could not hit. Again, Malus threw himself past Yaghan, and again chopped at the champion’s thigh in passing. Blood now poured down the beastman’s leg.
Yaghan turned about and rushed again almost immediately, but he was slower now, and his swing a tiny bit less powerful. As he charged, Malus spun and suddenly thrust his sword at the beastman’s face, causing the champion to check his advance instinctively. As soon as he did, Malus dropped the point of his sword and buried it deep into the champion’s wounded thigh.
This time the leg
collapsed out from under the beast-man. As he fell, Malus raised his blade and rushed in, bringing it down on Yaghan’s outflung left arm. The heavy blade chopped nearly through the thick limb, leaving it hanging by a thin strip of muscle.
Yaghan let out a bellow of anguish and fell forwards in a pool of his own blood. Yet despite his terrible wounds, the champion tried to push himself back upright with his one working arm. Malus raised his sword and spared the champion further anguish. The blade sang against flesh and bone and Yaghan’s head went bouncing down the steep mountain slope.
A chorus of yells went up from the priests, almost immediately answered from the camp below. Malus thought he could make out Kul Hadar’s bellow among the mingled cries. He had little doubt the shaman and the rest of his herd would be storming the grove in moments.
If he were going to claim the Octagon of Praan it would be now or never. Fortunately, Hadar had given him the one clue he needed to uncover its resting place. Where better to keep the most sacred relics of the herd?
Gripping the bloody sword in both hands, Malus ran for the cave at the top of the cleft and the holy sanctum within.
Chapter Twenty-four
THE DAEMON’S CURSE
There were two priests hiding just beyond the cave mouth; Malus stabbed one through the chest while the other pushed past him and ran braying down the slope. More crystal formations lent a greenish glow to the small, rough-hewn chamber. Scattered around the room were small altars to numerous beast-headed gods — minor deities, perhaps, that the herd worshipped in addition to the terrible Ruinous Powers that ruled the wild north.
In truth, the space wasn’t so much a discreet chamber as it was an exceptionally broad bulge in a rough-hewn passage that led deeper into the mountain. Alert for signs of danger, Malus pressed onward.