There was another terrible, bubbling shriek. Malus stole a frantic look over his shoulder and saw another of Urial’s retainers dissolving in the daemon’s hands. A draich protruded from the chieftain’s skull; the daemon reached up with one hand and crumbled it in a rain of blood-red rust. Then Malus locked eyes with the chieftain and the daemon snarled a challenge, tossing the melted warrior aside and striding purposefully towards him.
Malus sliced through the ropes around Yasmir’s ankles. He reached for her wrists. “Sister, we’re going to have to run,” he began and then a shadow fell over him.
He looked up. A Skinrider loomed over him, a bloody axe dangling in one gloved hand. The highborn’s eyes went wide and he tensed himself to leap—until the raider dropped the axe and reached for the drooping hood. With one hand he pulled the slimy surcoat free and Malus stared in shock at the stained face of Hauclir.
The retainer hefted a stitched leather bag, like a wineskin, its rough seams dripping water. “You’re going to want to duck, my lord,” Hauclir said and flung the bag at the daemon.
Malus looked back at the chieftain. The daemon saw the ungainly projectile lobbed at him and caught it deftly with one hand. Smiling, the creature closed its fist, crushing the bag in a spray of water—and smashing the globe containing the dragon’s fire hidden within.
In the blink of an eye the daemon was engulfed in a cloud of ravenous green fire. The sorcerous compound seethed across the chieftain’s body, eating through muscle and bone as though they were old parchment. The daemon whirled, shrieking and beating at the hungry flames, but the dragon’s fire was not to be denied. The surviving Skin-riders fell back, crying in dismay as the possessed man let out a long, tormented scream and ran, leaving pools of burning fat in its wake as it hurled itself through the hole in the cavern wall and out into the open air three hundred feet above the cove.
“Blessed Mother of Night,” Malus rasped, unable to tear his eyes from the burning puddles of human tallow stretching across the cavern floor. “You stole a globe of dragon’s fire?”
Hauclir grunted, wiping vile fluids from his face with the back of his hand as he drew one of Yasmir’s needle-like daggers from his belt and began sawing at her bindings. “You had me stealing from Bruglir’s brandy cabinet. Taking a globe of dragon’s fire was much less dangerous by comparison.” He shrugged. “I thought it might come in handy somewhere down the road.”
Malus shook his head ruefully and turned to reply as the last of Yasmir’s bindings fell away. He caught a glimpse of violet eyes and luminous skin as she moved with the soulless grace of a hunting cat, rising like smoke between the two men and plucking her knives from Hauclir as though he were a child. The highborn looked up at Yasmir with a mix of wonder and fear, black daggers glinting balefully in the green light. Her face was serene, her mind lost in dreams of slaughter as she faced Tanithra’s smoking form.
The druchii corsair stood less than ten feet away, smoke rising from deep wounds burnt by drops of dragon’s fire flung from the chieftain’s writhing body. She swayed on her feet, the last foe still standing in the bloodstained chamber and her sword was pointed unerringly at Yasmir’s throat. Urial lay nearby, knocked senseless by a glancing blow to the head. He’d been less than a heartbeat from death when Yasmir had risen, drawing Tanithra’s undivided attention.
“Ah, how I’ve longed for this,” Tanithra hissed through scorched lips. She managed a halting, hateful smile. “Bruglir escaped me, but we’ll dance, you and I and I’ll make you pay.”
Yasmir said not a word. She opened her arms like a lover and rushed at the battered corsair, her black hair flowing behind her like a cloak of raven’s feathers. Tanithra made as if to shout, raising her sword, but Yasmir flowed effortlessly past her guard and wrapped her naked arms around her foe. Tanithra stiffened, drawing a single breath, her eyes going wide as she looked into depthless violet pools and felt twin daggers slide beneath the base of her skull and into her brain.
Malus watched his sister stare into the corsair’s dying eyes, watching the light fade from them and feeling Tanithra’s death tremors on her naked skin. At last, the corsair’s body went limp and Yasmir stepped away, letting the corpse crumple to the ground. Then she turned her gaze upon Malus.
For the space of a single heartbeat they stared into one another’s eyes. Slowly and deliberately, Malus set his sword upon the floor and then bowed deeply, until his forehead touched the rough stone.
When he rose from his bow she was gone.
It was several moments before Malus realised the melee was over. Bodies and pieces of bodies were scattered everywhere. One of Urial’s surviving retainers was checking out each one and killing wounded Skinriders with a stroke of his sword. The other silver-masked warrior was helping Urial to his feet; his face was smeared with blood and his armour was pierced in a few places. Bruglir’s man knelt by the body of his captain, his eyes hollow with shock.
Malus turned to Hauclir. “Where… where did she go?”
The retainer pointed upwards. “She went upstairs like a puff of smoke. Hunting for more raiders to kill, I reckon. Those eyes of hers were hungry.”
Urial groaned as he was pulled upright. “You looked into those eyes,” he said, staring at Malus. “What did you see?”
The highborn started to speak, then thought better of it. Finally, he just shrugged. “Plains of brass and rivers of blood,” he said. “I saw death. No more, no less.”
Hauclir raised his hand. “Wait. What’s that sound?”
Malus looked to his retainer and strained to hear what Hauclir was talking about. After a moment he heard it, too; a chorus of piping wails, riding the winds above the sheltered cove.
“Horns,” he said. “Our fleet’s arrived and they’re sailing to their deaths’
Chapter Twenty-Four
ACROSS THE RIVER OF TIME
Black sails stood out in sharp contrast to the misty horizon, rising like upswept raven’s wings from the surface of the grey sea as the druchii fleet bore down on the Skinrider ships nestled in the small cove. Malus and Hauclir stood at the lip of the ragged opening in the cliff side and watched the frenetic movements on the decks of the anchored ships as the raiders prepared for action. The huge, broad-bellied ships were not meant for cut-and-thrust duels close to shore; for all their seagoing power and greater numbers they were almost helpless in their present position, sheep before a sleek pack of wolves. Except, that is, for the sea chain.
Malus ground a fist against the rock wall. “Surely they can see that the damned chain is still up!”
The retainer nodded grimly. “Most likely they do and are expecting us to drop it at the last minute, the better to surprise the raiders.”
But it was the druchii who were heading for a brutal surprise. With the wind at their backs they would be forced against the heavy iron chain and pinned there while the stone throwers in the sea wall citadels would smash them to bits.
Careful not to put any weight on his aching leg, Malus leaned out from the cliff opening. Hundreds of feet below, he could see the abandoned village near the shore, now seething with bands of Skinriders who had answered the call of the horns. The highborn studied the rock walls to either side and tested the strength of the wind. Far below, in the open field between the village and the abandoned stockade, he saw a smouldering shape still licked with the occasional tongue of emerald flame.
“No climbing down this,” he snarled. And even if we could, the chain towers are at least two or three miles away. We’d never reach them in time.”
“Pity we can’t ride on green lighting like the Skinriders can,” Hauclir said ruefully. He peered down at the smoking remains of the chieftain. “Not that it seemed to work so well for him, mind.”
Malus stiffened. “Not lightning perhaps, but…” He turned to Urial. We need to get to the tower across the cove. What about that spell you used to get us to the Harrier?”
Urial leaned wearily on his axe. The blood and magic it had dra
nk was all but gone now, leaving the wounded druchii pale and exhausted. He shook his head. “What I did was build a bridge,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I need a resonance with the destination. Last time I used Yasmir’s connection to Bruglir to bridge the distance…”
“You need a resonance? A connection?” Malus limped quickly across the chamber and scooped a small object from the floor. He held it up, revealing a broken chunk of glossy brick. “All of these towers are made from the same scavenged brick. Would that be enough?”
Urial closed his eyes, concentrating on the problem. “Perhaps,” he said at length. Yes, it’s possible. But I would also need a frame—an enclosed circle that we could step through.”
Malus frowned, his gaze sweeping the room. Finally he pointed to the opening in the cliffside. “Use that. And do it quickly—time is running out.”
Urial studied the irregular opening, his expression uncertain. “The geometries are poor,” he said. “I cannot guarantee the spell will work. If it fails, you will step through and plummet to your death.”
“The alternative is to be marooned here!” Malus snapped. The Skin-riders will sink or capture every ship in the fleet—worse, they will kill every druchii the sharks don’t get to first. We have no other choice.”
Faced with the alternatives, Urial nodded quickly and snapped orders to his surviving men, then limped to the opening. The retainers rooted through the bodies until they found the severed head of the Norscan warrior and brought it to their lord. Urial took the grisly trophy, inspected it like a servant buying a melon at market, then used his axe to split the skull in half and tossed the lower section aside. Then he passed the axe reverently to one of the retainers and went to work, dipping his fingers in the Norscan’s brain pan and daubing crimson sigils around the rim of the opening. When he was done, he held out his hand for the piece of brick; Malus handed it over and surveyed his meagre force. Urial’s two surviving men were unhurt and despite having to conceal himself in the stinking surcoat of a Skinrider, Hauclir seemed none the worse for wear. Bruglir’s surviving retainer had spent several long minutes whispering over the body of his fallen captain before rising silently and taking his place with the rest of the party.
Six men to storm a citadel, he thought. It would have to be enough, somehow.
Bruglir held the segment of the Norscan’s skull in both hands and began to chant. At first, nothing happened. Then a single, trembling tendril of steam rose from the brain pan, flowing towards the opening as though drawn by the wind. The tendril waxed and waned in strength, spreading blood and brains across the pane of sorcery until a thin red sheen gleamed across the rough opening.
Malus frowned. Something didn’t look quite right. For one thing, he could still clearly see the grey sky beyond the faint membrane.
“Quickly now!” Urial hissed, his voice tight with strain. “I cannot hold this for long!”
The highborn felt a touch of dread. It was one thing to speak boldly of a blind leap to death or glory and another thing entirely to come upon that last, momentous step. Then another thought struck him. What if the spell was only an illusion? What if Urial saw this as an opportunity to eliminate him? “Are you certain the bridge is established?” Malus said.
“Of course I’m not sure!” Urial shot back. “Hurry!”
No time for doubt, Malus thought, drawing his bloody sword. If the spell doesn’t work we’re likely dead anyway.
Taking a deep breath, the highborn ran forward, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg and leapt through the opening.
He stumbled across a heaving plain of blood, under a raging crimson sky. Howls of the damned filled his ears. Malus looked over his shoulder and saw a black tower rising in the distance just before a wave of searing cold washed over him…
Malus fell, rolling across a rough stone floor littered with refuse. Hoarse shouts echoed around him, sounding surprised and angry.
The highborn rolled onto his back. He lay on the floor of a circular room, its stone walls slick with slimy moss. A crumbling stone stairway rose along the outside of one of the walls, rising to a partially-collapsed ground floor and an open doorway that led somewhere outside. Just a few feet away he could see a faint crimson oval shining in the dimness, wavering and insubstantial. The spell had worked.
Then Malus heard shouts and heavy footfalls and remembered that he wasn’t alone.
He rolled quickly to his feet, sword in hand and realised with a start that the Dark Mother had blessed his audacious plan—he stood only a few feet from an enormous capstan, not unlike the ones used to haul in ships’ anchors except that it was far larger. Massive links of rusted chain were wound around the huge wooden drum. Urial’s spell had taken him directly to the sea chain.
The rest of the chamber was heaped with bits of broken wood and piles of rubble from the collapsed floor above. When Malus had arrived there were Skinriders loading rubble into a large basket suspended from a rope and pulley system running through the gaping hole above—more ammunition for the stone throwers at the top of the tower, the highborn surmised. Now the raiders had recovered from the shock of his sudden arrival and rushed at him with everything from swords to chunks of broken brick.
There was an electrical crackle and the thud of a body behind Malus and the charging Skinriders pulled up short at the sudden flare of magic. The highborn took advantage of their hesitation and charged at them. His blade flashed, slicing though the skull of one raider and he stepped over the corpse’s body and swung at the next man in a single, fluid motion. The Skinrider blocked the cut and fell back with a startled shout, piling into the men behind him. Malus pressed his advantage, hammering at the raider’s guard until he was able to draw the man off-balance and bury his sword in the Skinrider’s neck. The keen edge split the man’s spine and left his head hanging by little more than a strip of flesh and diseased muscle.
Dismayed by the ferocity of the highborn’s attack, the surviving Skinriders broke and ran for the stairs, shouting an alarm to other men somewhere above. Malus chased them all the way to the base of the stair, then turned at the sound of a sharp thunderclap to find Urial and the three surviving retainers staggering over to the capstan. “Look for a lever to release the chain!” Malus cried.
“No need,” Urial said wearily, pushing the retainers aside. He raised his axe over his head and spoke a word of power, then brought the blade down on the taut chain. Iron links parted like soft cheese and the unwound links disappeared through the feed chute in the wall with a thunderous rattle, followed by a churning splash in the sea outside.
Ears ringing, the druchii looked at one another, unsure what to do next. Hauclir blinked like an owl. “Well,” he said. That was easy.”
No sooner had he spoken then the entire tower shook beneath a tremendous blow. A section of wall just above ground level blew apart, showering the druchii below with jagged stones and enveloping them in a pall of gritty dust.
Malus whirled, coughing in the dust cloud and heard something large slither wetly through the opening. Peering into the haze, the highborn caught a glimpse of two pinpoints of greenish light rushing at him and leapt to one side barely in time as a seething mass of shifting flesh landed in the spot where he’d stood.
The daemon was a pulpy mass of melted bodies, welded together by magic and supernatural will. Arms and legs protruded haphazardly from the pulsating mass; some hands still clutched corroded weapons while others grasped spasmodically at the air. Distorted faces gaped and moaned across the yellow-brown mass. As the highborn watched in horror the shape contracted, producing a head on top of a thick neck of maggot-ridden flesh that rose above the amorphous body and vomited a stream of brown bile at Urial and his men. Urial brought up his axe in an instinctive move and the arcane weapon blazed with light, deflecting the spray away from its wielder. Urial’s two men were not as fortunate as their master, however. They howled in agony as the acid splashed across them, melting armour, cloth and flesh with ho
rrifying ease.
Without thinking, Malus threw himself at the daemon, slicing a deep cut into the fleshy mass that oozed steaming bile but otherwise seemed to have little effect. The long-necked head, still dripping bile from its malleable jaws, snapped around and regarded him with blazing eyes. The creature’s body bulged and long tentacles studded with jagged bits of teeth burst from the mass, wrapping around Malus’ waist and throat.
There was a wild scream of fury from the other side of the daemon and Bruglir’s man clambered onto the creature, running up onto the monster’s side and swinging his blade at the towering neck. The thick cord of foul muscle parted in a fountain of acidic bile and the head bounced wetly across the floor. At that, the creature’s entire body seemed to recoil, hurling the frenzied retainer into the air, then it gave a huge spasm and lunged at the airborne druchii with a giant maw like a frog snapping at a fly. It swallowed the man whole and Malus grimaced at the sizzling sound as the monster’s stomach juices dissolved the man in seconds.
The highborn slashed his sword through the tentacles around his throat, the blade slicing through them like they were pliable vines. The ropy tendrils around his wrist constricted, drawing him closer to the monster. Malus saw the skin near the tendrils bulge and a new head began to emerge from the depths of the creature, green eyes burning with hate.
Gangrenous skin stretched like a caul as the head pushed free of the daemonic mass. Its mouth opened—and uttered an agonised scream as Urial buried his enchanted blade in the monster’s body.
Sensing his opportunity, Malus reached forward and grabbed the taut tendrils pulling at his waist and used them to haul himself even closer to the daemon, thrusting forward with his sword at the same time. He stabbed the creature right between his fiery green eyes and a jolt like lightning shot up his sword arm, throwing him back onto his back. There was a hideous crackling sound, like popping grease and the daemon’s fleshy body lost its stability, melting into a spreading pool of bile and rotting flesh. Staring at the ceiling, the highborn saw a pall of greasy yellow mist rise from the body—and fly like a tattered wraith through the gaping hole in the wall above.