As the sun was rising Urial came on deck, joining Malus and Hauclir at the stern, his expression troubled. The former acolyte carried his rune-inscribed axe, clutching it more like a talisman than a weapon of war. “No sign of Bruglir yet?”
Malus shook his head. “It shouldn’t be long now, or so Tanithra says. An hour perhaps, or less.”
“We may not have even that much time,” Urial replied, glancing back at the Skinrider ships. “I can feel the sorcerer on board the lead ship. He is summoning terrible power to unleash against us.”
“Isn’t there something you can do to make us go any faster?” Malus said, a trace of exasperation slipping into his voice.
“My skills lie in different disciplines than wind and waves,” Urial said. “I believe I can counter much of the Skinriders’ spells, but I will be sorely tested in the process.”
Malus shook his head. “The Skinriders won’t need spells to finish us. Those big ships mount catapults, just like Bretonnian coastal ships. They can smash us to kindling or turn us into a flaming wreck and there’s little we can do about it.”
“Then we’d best pray that Bruglir is where he said he would be.”
Before Malus could respond a lookout cried, “They’re shooting!”
A rough-hewn rock arced high into the air from the bow of the lead Skinrider vessel, speeding towards the vagabond. Malus watched its trajectory, feeling his throat go dry. The small boulder fell well short of the fleeing ship, striking the water with a tremendous splash.
“A ranging shot,” Malus said, his expression grim. “We’re still out of reach, but not for too much longer. If you’ve power of your own to summon, I suggest you get started now.”
The highborn left Urial at the stern and joined Tanithra at the wheel. Her one good eye flickered from sail to horizon to the nearby sea and back again as she constantly made small adjustments to the wheel. The expression on her face was strained, but Malus thought he saw a faint smile on her lips as she led the sea chase.
“I don’t suppose we can go any faster?” Malus asked.
Tanithra gestured at the nearest mast. “Why don’t you climb up there and blow into the sail? Put that hot air to some good use.”
Malus grinned. He was growing to like the rough-edged corsair.
A cry echoed from the forward mast. “Sails on the horizon!”
Malus bent, trying to see beneath the low booms of the sails and past the bow at the distant sky. He couldn’t see a thing, but Tanithra let out a shout and pointed just slightly to starboard. “There! Two points to starboard! But I only count three ships. Where are the other six?”
“Who knows?” Malus replied. “Four against six is much better odds than we had a moment ago!”
Tanithra altered course to intercept the oncoming druchii ships, just as the Skinriders tried another shot. The boulder spun through the air and ploughed into the water close enough to douse the stern with spray. “More like three against six,” Tanithra said angrily. There’s nothing we can do against those ships.”
Malus managed a gallows laugh. “Well, we’re doing a pretty good job of drawing their fire.”
Two more boulders plunged into the sea around the vagabond, one ahead and the other behind the little ship. The Skinriders were redoubling their efforts to cripple or sink the fleeing ship. One of the corsairs at the stern shouted, pointing aft. Malus turned and saw a greenish-black nimbus surrounding the lead raider, the air curdling like a bruise as the enemy sorcerer mustered his strength.
The druchii ships had seen the vagabond and her pursuers and two of the ships turned to starboard, angling to intercept the captured scout while the third held its course and continued north. If the vagabond held its course it would pass between the druchii ships and lead the Skinriders into a crossfire. Malus watched the sleek corsairs slicing through the grey water like sharks, moving swiftly even with the wind on their bow. Looking aft, Malus saw the Skinrider formation spread out to meet the new threat. Two ships angled to the south-east and one ship angled to the south-west, heading right for the druchii ships. That left three raiders bearing down on the vagabond.
Malus saw a speck of green fire appear at the bow of the closest enemy ship. The sorcerer had revealed himself at last. Urial straightened, spotting the enemy sorcerer as well and raising the axe as if to ward off a blow.
A stone flew from the bow of the lead Skinrider ship. Malus watched its trajectory and saw that this time their luck had run out. “Take cover!” he yelled to the men at the stern. The corsairs scattered left and right as the boulder struck the aft rail in an explosion of long, needle-like splinters. The rock crashed along the deck like the hammer blows of a god, making the ship buck and quiver with each blow. It missed the wheel by less than a yard, struck the aft mast a glancing blow and plunged through a hatch cover.
Tanithra spun the wheel hard to port. “Lyrvan!” she called to one of the corsairs nearby. “Get below and see if that rock went through the hull! If we’re holed below the waterline we’re finished!”
Wounded men writhed on the deck, clutching at splinters jutting from arms, legs and torsos. One corsair kicked in his death throes, his lifeblood spreading in a vast pool from the jagged piece of wood jutting from his throat. There was a dark blur as another boulder whipped through the air over Malus’ head and punched a hole in the aft sail before plunging into the sea on the other side of the ship. The Skin-riders were mediocre sailors, but their aim was another matter entirely. The three Skinrider ships pursuing them hadn’t altered course at all and looked as though they would cut across the vagabond’s stern, heading south as the scout moved to the south-west. For the moment they were closing the range rapidly. The highborn gritted his teeth in frustration, wishing for a way to pay the enemy back, blow for blow.
Then came an angry sizzling sound that cut through the air from farther south. Malus looked back in time to see a tongue of green flame streak through the sky and plunge onto the deck of one of the pursuing ships. The sphere of dragon’s fire fixed to the bolt shattered and spread a sheet of all-consuming magical fire across the bow of the raider. Hooded figures fled from the hungry flames, many of them blazing like torches. The druchii cheered and Malus joined in.
With surprising agility, the other two pursuers came about, pointing their bows directly at the vagabond and trying to pull away from the corsairs further south. Malus saw the sorcerer clearly now and watched the blazing figure raise his hands into the air. The highborn felt his heart grow cold and cried out a warning just as the sorcerer unleashed a jagged arc of lightning. The green bolt seemed to reach directly for Malus—then diffused with a sharp thunderclap against a hemisphere of reddish light just a few feet from the ship’s stern.
The air hissed and crackled to Malus’ right. He turned and saw Urial staring defiantly at the enemy sorcerer, his axe held high. The runes inscribed in the weapon’s twin blades glowed a fiery red and the air around them shimmered with heat. For a fleeting moment the highborn felt a surge of relief—then a stone from the second raider passed overhead and struck the aft mast with a splintering crash. Iron fittings flew across the deck and ropes parted with a sharp snapping sound as the mast toppled sternwards like a felled tree. Tanithra was forced to dive across the deck as the mast crashed against the wheel. The vagabond began to heel over into a port turn, heading back towards her pursuers.
Malus raced across the pitching deck, knowing even as he did so that his efforts were in vain. The wheel was buried beneath hundreds of pounds of oaken mast and tangled in a web of frayed rigging. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the bow of the Skinrider ship pointed at them like an axe blade and drawing closer with every passing second. There was no way they were going to avoid a collision.
“Ready boarding ropes!” Malus roared. “Brace for impact!”
The Skinrider ship struck the vagabond amidships with a thunderous boom of broken timbers, stopping the smaller craft dead in the water. Malus was hurled from his feet as the dec
k canted sharply to starboard, throwing him against the fallen mast. For a moment it looked as though the vagabond wouldn’t recover from the blow, but then she swung heavily back upright, grating against the prow of the enemy raider. The two ships were locked together and Malus saw that for the moment there was as much shock and confusion on the enemy ship as there was on his own. The enemy sorcerer was nowhere to be seen.
Men shouted in fear and rage and the highborn struggled free of the entangling ropes, drawing his sword and raising it into the air. “At them, sea birds!” he cried. “Away boarders!”
The corsairs responded with a savage yell, eager to repay the Skin-riders for the punishment they’d endured. Boarding ropes were cast onto the raider and the druchii clambered aboard, striking savagely at the stunned raiders. Hauclir and Urial joined Malus by the wheel. Urial moved with a surprising degree of strength and agility and his eyes were fever-bright. The axe still glowed brightly in his hand. Malus eyed him appraisingly. “Do you think you can make it onto the enemy ship?”
“It’s either that or swim!” Tanithra interjected angrily, coming around the end of the fallen mast with her sword in hand. “Between that first stone and the collision, this old tub has sprung her seams. She’s sinking fast!”
There was a blaze of greenish light on the enemy ship and men shrieked in terror and pain. “Hauclir, get below and grab the charts!” Malus commanded. “Tanithra, take command of the boarders. Urial and I are going to kill that sorcerer!”
Malus ran to the port side of the sinking ship with Urial close on his heels. He leapt onto the splintered rail, grabbed a quivering boarding rope and nimbly scaled his way up onto the deck of the enemy raider.
The highborn landed amid a scene of carnage. Dead raiders lay everywhere, spilling corrupted blood and vile fluids onto the deck. Arrows and stones buzzed through the air, fired by Skinriders high in the ship’s twin masts. Another flare of emerald caught Malus’ eye and he saw the enemy sorcerer at the waist of the ship with his back to the main mast. Crossbow bolts and broken, rusting weapons protruded from his chest and in his rage he lashed out at every man within his reach, be they friend or foe. A bolt of jagged lightning played across a knot of Skinriders and corsairs locked in fierce melee, reducing all of them to blackened bones and stinking mush.
Urial pushed in front of Malus. “Stay behind me,” he said, his mouth twisted into a fierce grin. He made for the sorcerer at a steady, deliberate pace, holding his axe at the ready with his one good hand. Malus drew his knife with his left hand and followed warily behind him.
The press of battle around the mast all but vanished as the combatants fled in every direction to escape the sorcerer’s fury. Malus watched the Skinrider straighten painfully, his eyes and open mouth blazing with green fire as he spoke words of power and surrounded himself with a nimbus of energy. The weapons piercing his body disintegrated, decaying in an instant.
Two fleeing Skinriders stumbled across Urial’s path. The axe flashed in a crimson arc and the two raiders fell to the deck, their bodies ruptured and steaming. The fiery light surrounding the axe seemed to glow slightly brighter as Urial spoke in a thunderous voice.
“Servant of Corruption! Slave to the Lord of Decay! The cleansing fire of the Bloody-Handed God is upon you! Redeem yourself upon the razor edge of his mercy or I will cast your soul into the Outer Darkness for all time!”
Druchii and Skinrider alike reeled from the unearthly power seething through Urial’s voice. Even Malus, who had walked at the edges of the Realm of Murder and peered across the Abyss into undreamt-of worlds, heard the voice of Khaine resounding from his mouth and was amazed.
The sorcerer reeled back as though struck, his shoulders striking the main mast hard enough to send cracks shooting along its length—then he rebounded, opening his mouth wide and vomiting a torrent of black bile at the axe-wielding druchii.
The virulent gout of acidic slime washed over Urial’s wards and burst into crimson flames, spattering the deck with burning globules that ate through the oak planking in an instant. Malus crouched low, bent slightly forward as though advancing against a storm wind and let the blazing mess fly over him. They advanced steadily upon the sorcerer and the axe in Urial’s hand was glowing now like a desert sun.
Words of power burst from the sorcerer’s drooling lips and every surviving Skinrider within thirty paces groaned in pain and terror. Arcs of greenish fire played across their bloated bodies and they staggered awkwardly, as though no longer in full control of their limbs. Then a single, despairing wail rose from a dozen cankered throats and the raiders hurled themselves at Urial.
The devoted servant of Khaine met their frenzied charge with a joyous laugh and the slaughter began in earnest. The Skinriders struck a ward made of enchanted, razor-edged steel; the axe whirled in a hungry blur, hurling the raiders back with shorn limbs and shattered torsos, their blood burning in an offering to the Lord of Murder. But such was the mindless fury of the raiders’ charge that Urial’s advance faltered. Swords clashed against his armour and gangrenous hands groped for his throat for fleeting moments, each blow slowing the druchii a bit more, until he was nearly at a standstill. The sorcerer gave Urial a mocking, fiery smile and then spread his hands, rising slowly on a crackling pillar of emerald lightning.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Malus said coldly, stepping around from behind Urial and hurling his knife.
The keen blade flew straight and true for the sorcerer’s heart. The Skinriders blazing eyes widened and at the last moment he brought up his hand and took the silver steel dagger through his palm. The sorcerer snarled in pain and uttered a virulent curse as he clenched his fist and dissolved the knife in a rain of glittering rust. It was only a moment’s distraction, but it caused the sorcerer’s ascent to falter and in that instant of hesitation Malus hurled himself at the servant of decay.
He crashed into the sorcerer’s chest, surprised to find rock-hard muscle instead of the bloated, bulbous flesh of the other raiders the highborn had fought. Malus rolled onto the sorcerer and raised his blade, but the Skinrider seized him by the throat and caught his sword wrist in an iron grip. And then he began to draw Malus downward, towards his blazing eyes and fiery lips.
Tz’arkan writhed and hammered beneath Malus’ ribs and the highborn looked into the twin orbs of the sorcerer’s eyes and saw the face of another daemon staring back at him.
Malus felt Urial’s blessing begin to sputter, like a candle that had reached the end of its wick. The pure fire scouring his skin began to wane, leaving an unhealthy fever in its wake. Black smoke rose from the possessed sorcerer’s hungry mouth and Malus could feel vermin writhing within it as the vapours slid down his throat. He could feel the corruption blooming in his lungs and taking root in his guts. Thick trails of pus leaked from his eyes, oozing down his cheeks.
The sorcerer drew Malus downwards until their faces were inches apart. The highborn could feel the presence of the pestilential spirit roiling within the Skinrider. The possessed man chuckled, his true voice bubbling up from corrupted lungs. “Look into the face of a daemon and despair,” the sorcerer said.
Malus met the sorcerer’s eyes and gave a cold laugh of his own. “As you wish,” he said. “Show him your face, o Drinker of Worlds.”
Black ice surged through his veins, freezing the pestilence in his flesh and swelling his limbs with inhuman power. The highborn’s eyes were swallowed in utter blackness, the endless cold of eternal night. His fingernails stretched into talons and his teeth sharpened into terrible fangs. The sorcerer stiffened. The daemon inside him quailed before Tz’arkan’s fury and the Skinrider screamed in terror.
Malus plunged his left hand into the sorcerer’s belly, his razor-edged talons tearing out the man’s guts. “Slither, slither little worm,” Malus said in a voice not his own. “Flee down your burrows of tumour and rot, but you’ll not escape me.”
His sword tumbled to the deck. The sorcerer writhed and shrieked, begging for mercy and the hig
hborn tore the man apart. He emptied the man’s chest, split his ribs and reached up his throat and into the man’s skull, until at last he pulled free a long, black worm that twisted madly in his dripping hands. Malus crushed it in his fist, sensing Tz’arkan’s ecstasy as the lesser daemon was hurled screaming back into the nether realms.
It was long moments before Malus realised the daemon’s presence had subsided. He was sitting on the deck and a roaring noise echoed in his ears. Tendrils of frozen mist rose from his gore-splashed armour. There was little left of the sorcerer that was still recognisable.
After a moment, the roaring resolved itself as the sounds of battle and Malus remembered where he was. A thrill of terror ran down his spine as he grasped the implications of what he’d done. He looked about wildly, expecting to find Urial standing above him, his fiery axe poised to strike.
Instead he had given in to his own unearthly master, transported by the ecstasy of battle. He’d slain every Skinrider the sorcerer had thrown at him and grown drunk on bloodshed, charging further aft where the fight for the ship still raged. He’d fallen upon the ship’s defenders like a thunderbolt and the corsairs, recognising the touch of the divine, had taken heart and redoubled their efforts as well. There had been no one to witness Malus’ transformation save the dead and for the moment he was alone among them.
The highborn rose to his feet, feeling weary to his bones. All around the ship, the sea was red with fire. Off to starboard, the last of the three ships that had chased after the vagabond now drifted with the wind, its deck a raging inferno. A trio of black ships slipped past the blazing hulk, gliding effortlessly south before turning back upwind. Farther off to starboard the Harrier cruised north, battered but unbowed. The raider that had turned her way at the start of the battle was now a blazing pyre sinking below the waves.