“What are you doing?” Nagaira cried. “The burrows—”
“The burrows be damned!” Malus snarled, dragging the doors open. Beyond lay a short corridor that, to his relief, led into the drachau’s fortress. Praying the maelithii could not travel out of Urial’s tower, he bolted down the passage.
The far end of the corridor opened onto a small courtyard. A light snow was falling, blowing in fine drifts across the cobblestones. Malus paused, gasping in the freezing air. A pair of druchii highborn conversing at the other end of the courtyard reached for their swords as the raiding party came to a halt outside Urial’s spire, but one look at the raiders’ stained armour and frenzied expressions convinced them that this was something they wanted no part of. They faded quickly into the shadows as Nagaira and Dalvar appeared, bringing up the rear.
Malus gave his half-sister a baleful look. “You stupid witch!” he snarled. “What did you take from the sanctum?”
“I took what I pleased, brother,” she shot back. “Is that not the right of the plunderer? If anything triggered Urial’s trap, it was most likely your theft of the skull!”
“Does it matter at this point?” Lhunara cried. “Urial could be here at any time, with a troop of the drachau’s guard with him. We need to get to the stables and get out of here before someone orders the gates closed.”
“She’s right,” Nagaira said. “If you move quickly you may just escape—”
“Me?” Malus said. “What about you?”
“I have to get back to my tower,” Nagaira replied. “Urial will waste no time uncovering who attacked his sanctum and made off with his prize. He’ll call upon all the forces at his command to try and recover the skull. If I stay behind I can call on forces of my own to conceal your trail and at least slow any pursuit.” She eyed her men. “Dalvar, you will take the rest of the men with Malus. See to it that he reaches the temple. Do you understand?”
“Of course, mistress,” Dalvar replied, clearly unhappy with the order.
Malus’ mind whirled. Things had gotten completely out of hand. Was Nagaira abandoning him to Urial’s wrath? His brother would find Aricar’s body, and that would lead him to Malus. Nothing as yet pointed towards Nagaira’s involvement in the raid. Malus considered his options. Did it matter?
Let her go, the highborn thought. I still have the skull. “Go then,” he spat. “I will reach the temple and return when I can. Then we’ll meet again.” By then I’ll have thought of a hundred ways to make you pay for this, he promised.
If Nagaira sensed the hatred in his voice, she gave no sign of it. “Until then, Malus. I will be waiting.” Then she turned and raced off towards her tower, quickly disappearing from sight.
Malus straightened wearily, his bloody cheeks stiff from the cold. In the distance he could hear shouts and the blowing of the horn from the Hag’s city gate. Someone was coming through in a hurry. He sheathed his sword and resettled his cloak around his shoulders. “To the stables,” he ordered, pulling his cloak over his head. “I want to be a league from the Hag before Urial realises who trespassed in his tower.”
Chapter Eight
RIDERS ON THE ROAD
The air reeked of scorched iron and the seared flesh of slaves. The caustic night fog of Hag Graef swirled and eddied in the roads and alleys, a thick greenish-yellow pall that oozed down into the valley from the chimney vents of the forges on the mountain slopes above. Silver steel, the precious, semi-magical metal prized by the druchii, was difficult and expensive to make, and thousands of slaves died every year around the great crucibles, their throats and lungs ravaged by the poisonous fumes.
Malus wore a nightmask of black iron worked in the shape of a snarling nauglir, his cloak pulled close around his head to keep the fog from his neck and scalp. His cold one, Spite, loped along the Spear Road at a steady, ground-eating pace. Occasionally he would toss his head and snap at the stinging clouds of mist that attacked his nostrils and eyes.
They had slipped from the drachau’s fortress without incident, swinging into the saddles and setting off as soon as they reached the stables. Malus knew that the drachau would take no personal interest in a family feud — the highborn were encouraged to fight amongst themselves, ensuring that the strongest and smartest survived to fight for the Witch King. Yet it was possible that Urial had enough influence at court to order the gates of the city closed against him. Trapped within the city, he could much more easily be located and retaliated against. Urial could conceivably turn him over to the Temple of Khaine, ensuring an agonising death for his half-brother and gaining increased favour from the priestesses besides.
Speed was of the essence. Right now, Malus imagined Urial restoring order and having the entire tower searched while he rushed to his sanctum to ensure that his most precious relics were safe. When he realised the skull was missing, Urial would spare no effort to keep the thieves from escaping.
How long Malus wondered? How long until his brother realised what had happened? How quickly will he react?
The city’s north gate, also known as Spear Gate, was just ahead. Normally reserved solely for military traffic heading north to the watchtowers near the Chaos Wastes, it was the closest way out of the city. Malus turned in his saddle to look back along his small column of riders. The druchii who’d been stung by one of Urial’s guard beasts, a man named Atalvyr, was getting steadily worse as the creature’s poison ravaged his body. They’d stuck a cloth in the wound and lashed Atalvyr to his saddle. He hoped the guard-captain at the gate wouldn’t inspect the warriors too closely and wonder why they were leaving for the frontier with a wounded man in the column.
Snow was still falling from the leaden sky, turning to mist as it descended through the currents of warm night fog. The city wall gained definition as they approached, resolving itself from a looming, dark grey band into a smooth, black barrier some thirty feet high and crowned with spiked merlons all along its length. The north gatehouse was well lit with witchfire globes, gleaming like the eyes of a huge, patient predator. The maw-like opening of the great gate was shut against the darkness outside.
Malus was nearly beneath the gatehouse’s massive overhang when a muffled voice from above cried, “Halt! Who goes there?”
The highborn reined in Spite, raising a hand to halt the column. “I am Malus, son of Lurhan the Vaulkhar!” Malus shouted up at the invisible sentry.
For a moment, there was no reply. Then: “The gate is closed for the night, dread lord. What is your business?”
Malus gritted his teeth in aggravation. “My father has ordered me to lead a party of men north to the Tower of Ghrond, and to go with all haste.”
This time the silence stretched uncomfortably long. They’re trying to make heads or tails of the situation, Malus thought. On the one hand, it meant they have no specific orders concerning him. On the other hand, the longer they dithered, the greater the chance that such orders could arrive. He straightened in the saddle. “Will you make me wait here until dawn?” he cried. “Open the gate, damn you!”
The echoes of his shout were still reverberating from the walls when there was a rattle of metal at one of the gatehouse’s doors, and a guard captain in full armour stepped into view. Spite hissed menacingly and took a half-step towards the man before Malus jerked the nauglir’s head aside with a pull of the reins. “Stand,” Malus ordered, and the cold one settled onto its haunches. The highborn slid smoothly from the saddle, throwing a glance over his shoulder to Lhunara, who was second in the column. Her expression was inscrutable behind her nightmask, but her hands hovered close to the crossbow hooked to her saddle.
Malus walked over to the guard captain, pulling aside his iron mask so that his impatience was clearly evident. “I’ve had men skinned alive for making me wait this long,” he said with an air of casual malevolence.
The guard captain was no callow recruit, however; his pale, scarred face regarded Malus impassively. “We don’t open the gate after nightfall, dread lord,” he sai
d calmly. “Orders from your father the Vaulkhar. It’s been that way since the start of the feud with Naggor.”
The highborn’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. You could have told me that from behind a firing slit, he thought. What are you really after, captain? “I’m certain Lurhan is well aware of the standing orders, captain. I’d also say that if anyone can make exceptions to those orders, it would be him.” He lowered his voice. “Is there anything I can offer you as proof?”
The captain inclined his head thoughtfully, studying the gatehouse overhang. They were both outside the line of sight of the guards above. “Well,” he said, running his tongue along carefully filed front teeth. “If you could show me some written orders, dread lord… or some other proof of authority…”
Malus smiled mirthlessly. “Of course.” I ought to ram my dagger through your eye, he thought brutally, but that wouldn’t get the gate open.
Just then a high-pitched, querulous piping floated through the snowy air overhead. Malus looked up in time to see a long, almost snake-like shape furl broad, leathery wings and arrow through one of the gatehouse’s narrow windows. He caught a glimpse of long, indigo coloured jesses dangling from the reptile’s taloned feet. The guard captain frowned. “That’s a message from the Hag,” he said. “Perhaps that’s word from your father there, dread lord.”
My father? No, the highborn thought. Malus reached into a pouch at his belt. “Here is proof of my authority, captain.” He pressed a ruby the size of a bird’s egg into the man’s palm. It was one of the last pieces of treasure left from his summer raid.
The guard captain held the gem up to his eye and his face went slack with wonder. “That’ll do,” he breathed, tucking it into his coin purse. “Of course, you’ll need proof of authority to get back into the city upon your return as well.”
The highborn laughed at the sheer audacity of the man. On one hand, he had to admire such implacable avarice. On the other hand, extorting money from above one’s station demanded a brutal reprisal. “Don’t worry, captain,” he said. “I’ve an excellent memory. When I return to the Hag I’ll make certain you’re amply attended to. You have my oath on it.”
The guard captain smiled. “Excellent. I’m always at your service, dread lord. If you’d kindly mount up, I’ll have the gate open in a moment.” The druchii spun smartly on his heel and stepped back inside the gatehouse, closing the ironbound door behind him.
Malus fought the urge not to run back to Spite. One man is ordering the gate opened, he thought. Another is reading the letter from Urial and deciding what to do. Which one will trump the other? “Make ready!” Malus hissed to the column as he swung into the saddle.
From within the gatehouse came a rattle of enormous chains. Slowly, slowly, the enormous iron gates began to pull back, revealing the tunnel leading to the outer portal. At once, Malus kicked Spite into motion, waving the column to follow. We could get trapped inside, he thought, gritting his teeth. They could shut the inner gate, trap us between the two portals and rain fire down on us if they wish.
He made a snap decision: if he couldn’t see the outer gate starting to move he’d wheel the column about and race into the city. We’ll climb the wall at another point if we have to, he raged inwardly. I will not be caged here like a rabbit!
Spite’s leathery feet slapped along the cobblestones, eager perhaps for the open country and relief from the biting fog. The gate swung ponderously on its ancient hinges; it was just wide enough to allow a nauglir to pass. Malus spurred his mount forward, his eyes straining to pierce the gloom beyond. Was that a shaft of grey light? Yes!
“Ha!” Malus cried, jabbing sharply with his spurs. Spite lurched into a run. The sounds of heavy footfalls reverberated through the narrow passage beneath the gatehouse, an echoing rumble like sullen thunder. Malus could see a bar of wan moonlight just ahead and bared his teeth triumphantly. Too late, brother, the highborn thought. Spite leapt through the yawning gates with a rumbling growl, his clawed feet slipping on the snow-covered road.
There was a shout from above and a sharp thump as a bolt as long as Spite’s tail punched into the frozen ground a hand span to their left. There was a whickering sound and another shaft blurred past the cold one’s scaly snout causing the nauglir to snap its jaws and shy to the side.
The druchii in the tower had evidently reached a compromise: let the riders out onto the killing field before the gate and present a pile of corpses to Urial when he arrived. Corpses thoroughly picked clean of valuables, of course.
“Faster!” Malus cried, applying the spurs. Another bolt went wide, ricocheting off the hard surface of the road and skimming its icy surface like a steel-headed viper. The highborn stole a look over his shoulder: most of the warband was already clear. Two of the riders were looking back over their shoulders as well, aiming their crossbows one-handed and firing bolts at the narrow embrasures mostly for Spite’s sake.
Already the walls of the city were losing focus, their edges going grey behind gusts of snow as the highborn sped farther down the Spear Road. There was another thump from the gatehouse, and Malus watched the black diamond shape of a heavy bolt swell in his vision. But the gunner on the wall had misjudged the range, and the bolt fell short, striking a rider a yard behind the highborn.
The armour-piercing point punched through the rider’s breastplate with a loud crack and plunged on into the back of his nauglir’s thick skull. Rider and mount tumbled end for end, kicking up a spray of blood-tinged snow, then fetched up in a broken heap in the middle of the road. Malus steeled himself for another shot, but when he glanced warily back at the gatehouse he saw that Hag Graef was just a ghostly smudge, grey against the winter night.
Malus gave a wild, vicious laugh, hoping the guards at the gatehouse could hear him. That was your best chance to catch me, brother, he thought. Now, every league will carry me further from your grasp. Soon there will be nothing more for you to do than wait in your twisted spire and dread my return. “Run, Spite!” the highborn called to his mount. “Tireless beast of the deep earth! Carry me north, where the tools of vengeance await!”
They’d covered half a dozen leagues in the darkness and the snow before Atalvyr toppled from his saddle.
The first indication Malus had of a problem was the change in the sound of the loping nauglir. The steady run of a dozen cold ones was not quiet; even on the snowy road they moved with a low rumble of heavy-footed thunder. Suddenly, the rumble slackened. Looking back, Malus could not at first discern why the column had stopped.
He reined Spite around and headed back down the road until he found Dalvar and the rest of Nagaira’s men clustered around their fallen comrade. Atalvyr’s cold one had wandered off the road and rested on its haunches in a snowy field nearby. Lhunara had kept the rest of the warband mounted, eyes scanning the road and the surrounding countryside. Malus slid from the saddle, seething with impatience. The snow had slackened as they’d moved north, and he was counting on it to cover their tracks as much as possible. “What’s this?” he said to Dalvar.
Dalvar looked up from Atalvyr’s writhing form. “That damned poison! He had some kind of spasm and snapped his lashings, then fell from the saddle. I thought the venom would have run its course by now, but it’s getting worse.”
The wind shifted, and the highborn’s nose wrinkled. “He’s putrefying,” Malus snapped. “The venom is eating him from within. Cut his throat and have done — we’ve many more miles to go before dawn.”
Nagaira’s men studied Malus coldly. Dalvar slowly shook his head. “I have some potions in my saddlebag. Let me see if I can slow the poison’s work, get him back in the saddle—”
“And what then? Ride another few leagues before he collapses again? Speed is our only ally now — we must make it past the watchtowers before Urial can organise a pursuit.”
Dalvar stood, folding his arms. “Would you squander a fighting man for a few minutes’ riding time? We’ll need every sword we can muster in the Wastes. Surely you
know that.”
Malus ground his teeth, fighting the urge to strike the man’s head from his shoulders. A move against Dalvar would bring out the knives from every quarter. When the dust settled, his warband would be cut in half, no matter the outcome. “Ten minutes,” he said, then headed back to Spite.
He heard the leathery tread of a nauglir sidling up behind him. Malus looked back to see Lhunara and Vanhir pacing him back along the road. “He’s going to be a problem,” Lhunara murmured, the wind whipping long strands of dark hair about her pale face.
“They’re all a problem,” Malus replied sourly. “I trusted Nagaira to keep her thugs in line once we’d left the Hag — her greed for the power hidden in the temple would have ensured her cooperation, at least to a point. Dalvar is another matter. If we move against him, no matter how subtly, the rest will turn on us. And I expect he’s right; we’ll need every sword we can muster where we’re going.”
“Has my lord never hunted in the Wastes?” Vanhir’s tone was utterly cold, his formerly melodious voice now flat and portentous as a dirge.
Malus glared over his shoulder at the highborn knight, but the warrior was watching the forest opposite their side of the road. Vanhir had suffered every night on the weeklong march from Clar Karond to the Hag; he’d lost enough skin to make Malus a fine pair of boots, all told. Since then the knight’s hatred had crystallised into a cold hardness that Malus couldn’t quite fathom. It was as if Vanhir had reached a decision about something, and was only just biding his time. Was the knight ready to cast aside his famous honour for the sweet wine of treachery?
“I have not,” Malus said evenly. “I took a turn with the garrison at Ghrond, during my father’s misguided attempts to get me killed in some border raid. But no, I have never travelled into the Wastes. Have you?”
Vanhir turned to regard his erstwhile master. His dark eyes were like polished basalt. “Oh, yes, dread lord. The best hunting can be found there, just a week’s ride or so from the frontier. My family made its wealth ambushing nomadic raiders along the steppes.” He straightened in the saddle and shot Malus a challenging look. “It is not a place for the brash or the foolish, or warriors of poor mettle.”