The bolt throwers fired again. Splinters flew from the scout’s port quarter, then sprung rigging and shroud lines leapt into the air as the mast cutter slashed through the lower half of the aft sail. As Malus watched, the second bolt skimmed right over the stern rail and tore through the archers. Two men caught squarely by the curved blade simply exploded in a rain of green and yellow bile. What horrified Malus even more was another man who was struck a glancing blow that tore through his chest like a sword stroke. Thick fluid burst from the man’s body in a putrid spray of bilious green. He staggered back a step—then bent to retrieve his dropped arrow as though nothing had happened. Malus felt his mouth go dry.
With half her sails gone, the scout lost speed quickly. “Bolt throwers! Make ready to fire grappling lines,” Tanithra ordered as she strode purposefully across the fortress deck. Men streamed up the stairs in her wake, some carrying crossbows while others hefted spears, swords and shields. The shield men pushed their way up to the rail, while the crossbowmen crouched and began to load their weapons. An eager kind of tension began to spread among the men as the druchii looked forward to the prospect of battle.
More Skinriders took up position at the stern and began firing arrows as quickly as they could ready their bows. The druchii boarders crouched behind their shields as the arrows struck home. Minutes passed and the Harrier swept down on the vagabond like a hunting hawk. “Get Urial,” Malus ordered Hauclir. “It’s nearly time.”
Tanithra crouched close by Malus’ side. She wore a hauberk of light mail over a jerkin made of cork—steel armour was useful in a fight but a death sentence if one went over the side—and carried her cleaver-like sword unsheathed at her side. “Will your bloody handed sister not be joining us?” she asked darkly.
Malus shrugged. “She’s not mine to command, Tanithra. Khaine alone knows her mind these days.”
A stir went among the crowded boarders. Malus looked over and saw Urial working his way through the group, touching each man on the head and muttering a short phrase as he went. Each man he touched shook himself like a dog, then watched the crippled man limp away with a look of mingled fear and awe.
Tanithra raised a little to peer over the shield wall. “Bolt throwers ready! Take aim! Fire!” Both weapons fired as one, the heavy boarding ropes uncoiling with a frenetic hiss. Malus straightened as well. He could see the Skinriders clustering along the port side of the ship, brandishing rusty swords and axes and taunting the druchii in a harsh, croaking tongue. The grappling lines sped in a flat line for the hull of the enemy ship, the barbed heads biting deeply into the planks of the ship’s port quarter.
The first officer turned to the boarders. “Belay and haul!” Tanithra ordered. The men raced to a pair of great wooden windlasses set just aft of the bolt throwers and began to wind them as fast as they could. Within moments the boarding ropes grew taut and the two ships began to draw relentlessly together. On cue, the crossbowmen pushed their way to the rail, sniping at Skinriders who tried to dislodge the ropes or cut them with their blades.
Malus felt fingertips brush his forehead and a voice mutter words that crackled in the early morning air. At once a wave of heat washed through him; for a brief moment the cold touch of the daemon faded and he felt vibrant and powerful. I’m invincible, his body seemed to say, but then the cold tendrils of Tz’arkan coiled once more around Malus’ heart and the fire Urial had kindled dwindled to a sullen coal.
“He cannot have you!” Tz’arkan said with surprising intensity. Whether the daemon meant Urial or perhaps Khaine himself, Malus wasn’t certain.
A sickening miasma settled over the fortress deck, as though the ship were downwind of a charnel house. The smell of rotten blood, festering skin and spilled entrails made a stench that Malus could almost physically see. There was a discordant buzzing in the air. At first the highborn thought it was the sound of distant voices, but then he realised it came from swarms of huge black flies, hanging over the refuse that choked the deck of the Skinrider vessel.
At this range the exchange of missiles was fierce. One druchii swordsman fell limply to the deck with an arrow buried in his eye. Another let out a yell and staggered backwards, staring in shock and surprise at an arrow that had penetrated his shield and the arm beneath. Crossbow bolts were raining down on the enemy crew as well, striking bodies with a glutinous slap! that sparked gobbling cries of rage and pain. The image of the Skinrider shrugging off the blow of the mast cutter hung in his mind. What had he got himself into this time? Malus turned to Tanithra. “If we kill their captain will they surrender?”
The druchii threw back her head and laughed. “Skinriders don’t surrender,” she said. The fight is over when the last of them is dead. And don’t forget to make sure you’ve killed your man—crush his skull or sever his head. With these things, nothing else is certain.”
Just then the two ships met with a bone-jarring thud. Malus pitched forward, propping himself up with an outflung hand, but Tanithra leapt nimbly to her feet. “Away boarders!” she cried and with a thunderous chorus of war screams the corsairs leapt to obey.
Chapter Sixteen
THE RAIDING PARTY
The crossbowmen at the rail let fly a ragged volley of bolts and then dropped to their knees. Tanithra and the first wave of boarders vaulted the rail and dropped onto the Skinrider ship, their weapons glinting in the weak morning light. Almost immediately the sounds of battle rose from the deck of the enemy ship. Malus surged forward with the second wave, checked his grip on his sword and leapt nimbly to the rail.
A desperate battle was raging less than twelve feet below. The volley of crossbow bolts had killed or wounded a handful of the Skinriders, but the rest had held their ground by the rail, awaiting the druchii onslaught with inhuman determination. Tanithra and her corsairs had literally fallen on them from above, slashing and stabbing, but the Skinriders had not retreated an inch. Tanithra fought against two of the corrupted raiders, warding off their blows with savage parries of her heavy sword as they pushed her step by step back towards the rail.
Roaring out a warcry of his own, Malus vaulted the rail and dropped onto the Skinrider ship, aiming to land beside one of the raiders hammering at Tanithra. As he fell, however, another Skinrider rushed at the female druchii, reaching for one of her legs with a short-hafted bill hook and stepped directly into Malus’ path. The highborn’s feet struck the Skinrider on his hooded head and both he and Malus collapsed to the noisome deck in a clatter of weapons and armoured limbs.
The deck planks stank of rot, covered in puddles of brown and yellow fluids and mounds of decaying refuse. Malus’ furious snarl caught in his throat as he choked on the miasma rising from the corrupted ship. He slipped and slid in the greasy fluids, trying to get his feet as the Skinrider he’d landed on pulled a corroded dagger from his belt and leapt at him with a gurgling cry.
Malus checked the Skinrider’s rush with a raised boot, planting his heel in the raider’s shoulder. The Skinrider’s knife jabbed against Malus’ breastplate; the tip of the blade snapped, but the raider only stabbed all the harder, searching for a vulnerable point to sink the weapon into the highborn’s chest.
Malus slid backwards along the slippery deck, unable to find purchase until his head and shoulders fetched up against the ship’s port rail. The Skinrider loomed over him, dagger raised, but the highborn moved with the speed of a striking snake. He made a backhand slash with his sword, striking the raider at the base of his jaw and shearing through his skull from right to left. The Skinrider’s head burst like an over-ripe melon, pouring out a stinking mush of rotting blood, brains and squirming maggots. Cursing viciously, Malus got his boot planted on the raider’s chest and kicked the corpse away.
Roaring and spitting, Malus leapt to his feet, sparing a glance at Tanithra, who was still locked in combat with two raiders less than five feet away. Both of her foes were intent on battering through her defences and so Malus caught them unawares as he darted towards the nearest one a
nd sliced the raider’s head from his misshapen shoulders.
Tanithra despatched her opponent and added her own sword to the battle going on to her right. More boarders were coming across as the initial counterassault faltered and the druchii were widening their hold on the stern of the enemy ship. Malus looked aft and saw the ship’s wheel, guarded by the ship’s captain and a pair of Skinriders with spears. The highborn drew his second sword with his left hand and circled to starboard, hoping to catch the raiders unawares. He stepped around the raised coaming of the aft hold—a large square hatch fifteen feet across and a third again in length—and as he rounded the hatch’s starboard quarter he ran headlong into a crouching group of Skinriders coming the opposite way.
There was but a moment to react and Malus threw himself at the enemy with a snarl of rage. The first raider tried to rise, bringing up a battered buckler to shield his head, but the highborn knocked it aside with his left-hand sword and beheaded the man with a sweeping stroke from his right. Malus kicked the raider’s body backwards onto the next man in line and surged forwards, both blades singing through the air in a deadly, interlocking pattern.
The raiders fell back, more and more of them forced to their feet and exposed to the fire of the crossbowmen nearby. Bolts buzzed angrily through the air, tearing through bloated muscle and sacks of rotting viscera. A Skinrider suddenly leapt at Malus, stabbing for his belly with a broad-bladed spear. The highborn pivoted on the ball of his right foot and let the spear point slide past, then slashed open the raider’s throat. The Skinrider staggered and Malus gave him a backhanded stroke that completed the job and sent the raider’s head bouncing wetly across the deck. The highborn threw back his head and shouted in exultation, lost in the joy of the slaughter.
A Skinrider roared in response and charged at him, empty hands reaching for his throat. Acting instinctively, Malus levelled his sword and ran the man through, the steel blade sliding cleanly between the raider’s ribs and bursting from the man’s back. Too late, Malus realised that his blade was now trapped—and the Skinrider was still coming, his swollen lips twisted in a grimace of rage.
Another raider dashed around the first and came at Malus from the side, throwing himself on the highborn’s sword arm. Malus barely had time to cry out before the Skinrider he’d impaled crashed against him, spattering the highborn with stinking fluids from the gaping wound in his chest. Malus staggered against the blow—then his boot stepped in something slick and went out from under him and he fell backwards, crashing against the aft hatch cover. The rotting wood gave way and the highborn and his foes were falling through cold, foetid darkness.
Malus felt a spine-jarring crash as they landed in the bottom of the aft hold below. Something like old bone crunched beneath his shoulders and the weight on his left arm fell away with a grunt, but then there was another grinding, splintering crunch of rotten wood and he was falling again, this time landing in a pool of reeking fluid that closed greasily over his head.
The bilges! They’d landed among the bones of the decrepit scout, thrashing about in the polluted water standing in the bottom of the hull. The image from Malus’ dream returned with sickening force, just as the raider he’d stabbed tightened his rotting hands around the highborn’s throat and forced him deeper into the filthy water.
Malus thrashed and heaved, trying to gain some kind of leverage, but his right arm was trapped underneath the weight of his attacker. His left hand was empty—at some point on the way down his off-hand sword had been torn from his grasp—and he beat uselessly at the rotting hood. Flailing desperately, the highborn grabbed hold of the hood, groping with his fingers for an eye socket. He found one and sank his thumb into it, feeling cold, thick liquid run down his wrist. The Skinrider thrashed and Malus pushed against him, managing to pull his head out of the foul water. He gasped for breath, gagging at the vile taste in his mouth and blinking furiously at the oily water stinging his eyes. All he could see was a ragged hole far above him and a patch of grey light—everything else was dark in the cavernous space below the hold. The raider was weakening. Malus remembered the dagger at his belt and fumbled for it—just as the Skinrider he’d shaken off in the hold above dropped down through the hole and threw himself against Malus’ shoulders.
The highborn drew in a mouthful of air as his head was once more pushed beneath the water. It felt as though a wall had fallen on him—no matter how hard he fought against the weight of the two men he couldn’t budge them an inch. There was a roaring in his ears and the skin on his cheeks began to tingle. He tried to speak, to call for the daemon’s power, but his mouth filled with reeking water. Precious air burst from his throat in a cloud of bubbles. His chest began to ache and the need to breathe was like a fist twisting in his lungs.
Suddenly there was another heavy impact, strong enough to drive the back of Malus’ head against the curved ribs of the ship—and then the weight on his chest was gone. The highborn flailed weakly, no longer certain if his hands were out of the water or not until a strong grip seized him and pulled him from the bilge.
“You shouldn’t go running off on your own like that, my lord,” Hauclir said casually. “It’s hard enough work guarding your back without having to chase after you all the time.”
Malus managed to roll onto his knees in the stinking water, coughing and spitting as he tried to shake the oily liquid from his hair and ears. “The damned Skinriders took me on a tour of their ship and I wasn’t in a position to argue,” he gasped. “How go things topside?”
“The last I saw, Tanithra had killed the Skinrider captain and was sending men forward to finish off the last of the crew,” the retainer said.
“And she’s welcome to them,” the highborn said, rolling over the body of the raider that had trapped his blade and grabbing the long hilt with both hands. The sword came free with a sucking sound. “Mother of Night, these Skinriders stink,” he said, feeling his gorge rise. “Let’s find the stairs and get back on deck and pray there’s a stiff wind blowing.”
By the time Malus and his man had reached the open air the battle was finished. Tanithra’s men had forced the surviving crewman into a tight knot at the far end of the bow and then methodically slaughtered them with crossbows and blades. The bodies were stripped of their hide surcoats and thrown over the side and the dead corsairs were wrapped in their cloaks and taken aboard the Harrier after one last benediction from Urial.
The next few hours were spent taking on supplies and tools from the Harrier to repair the damaged mast. The boarders bent to the task with a will, splicing severed ropes and hauling a spare hide sail from one of the holds below. By midmorning the vagabond’s damage was repaired and the ship was ready to get under weigh.
“If the wind remains favourable you should reach the hideout by midnight,” Bruglir said, shouting at Malus and Tanithra from the fortress deck of the Harrier. “We’ll be just over the horizon to the southwest, waiting for your return. Remember to keep a sailing watch ready so that you can leave as soon as you’ve secured the charts.”
The highborn nodded. “How many raiders are there likely to be on the island?” Malus asked, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up at the captain.
Bruglir shrugged. “There is no way to know. Maybe a couple of ships, plus a small garrison. Their numbers change with the season and the whims of the raiders. With luck, you’ll have little problem slipping into the camp.”
“Just be where you say you’ll be after midnight. I’ve no doubt the Skinriders will chase us to the Outer Darkness and back once they realise what we’ve taken.”
“Cast off!” Bruglir ordered his men. “We’ll be waiting, Malus,” he said, then raised his arm to Tanithra in salute. “Good hunting, captain! Take good care of your new ship!”
The crew on the fortress deck laughed as the Harrier pulled apart from the rotting vagabond. Tanithra returned the salute, but only Malus could see the corsair’s teeth clench at the hoots of derision thrown her way. “I’m sure he?
??s speaking in jest,” the highborn said.
Tanithra didn’t reply, staring darkly at Bruglir’s dwindling form. Inwardly, Malus smiled in satisfaction. Things were coming together nicely.
They’d opened every hatch cover to let in the sea breeze, but it still did nothing to lessen the stench. Malus leaned against the bulkhead, staring up at the square of night sky overhead and listening to the hiss of the sea against the ship’s hull. Things could be much worse, he reminded himself. The handful of sailors on deck had been forced to put on the hide surcoats they’d stripped from the bodies of the dead crew.
Two score druchii corsairs sat in the reeking hold, cleaning their weapons or gambling with one another in tense, whispered voices. They kept a respectful distance from Malus and Urial, giving up the aft part of the hold to the highborn. Hauclir rested his head against the bulkhead to Malus’ right, snoring softly and rocking in time to the swaying of the ship. As tired as he was, Malus couldn’t bring himself to sleep. The stench was terrible, but more than that he feared what terrible visions waited for him in his dreams.
Malus sought out his half-brother, who sat on the deck just a few feet away with his bad leg stretched out before him. “I’ve a question for you, brother,” he said.
Those cold eyes turned his way, fixing him with an owl-like stare. “You may ask,” Urial said, promising nothing.
The highborn grinned mirthlessly, hearing his words thrown back at him. “How is it that seers can peer into the future?”
Urial blinked. “Because there is no such thing.”
“None of your sorcerer’s riddles, brother,” Malus growled. “I’m tired and I smell like a midden heap and I’m in no mood for games.”