He stood in the great tower of Naggaroth, looking out over a landscape full of darkness and storms.
The highborn’s questing hand closed on something cold and hard. He plucked the idol from its resting place and there was a flash of blinding white light.
Malus staggered from Urial’s portal into the midst of a raging storm. Wind and rain lashed at the citadel, howling through the hole battered by the Skinrider daemon. The cold rain felt like a blessing from the Dark Mother as the highborn fell to his knees. Steam curled from the seams in his armour and he gasped greedily at the damp air.
Urial staggered, his strength all but spent, reaching out to prop himself against a nearby wall with a trembling hand. Hauclir stood at the foot of the tower stair, surrounded by the bodies of half-a-dozen Skin-riders. Blood and bile pooled at the retainer’s feet, thinned by the driving rain.
Hauclir rushed to Malus’ side. “Are you well, my lord?”
Malus nodded. “Well enough for now,” he said. “How long have I been gone?”
“Only a few minutes,” Hauclir said, shouting over the wind. “One minute things were the way you left them and then all of a sudden we heard this terrible cry and the wind blew up.”
“It was the daemon,” Urial said wearily. The magic surrounding the island has failed and the spirit was drawn back into the Outer Darkness.”
“What about the storm?” Malus asked.
“The world is reclaiming the island,” Urial answered. “It is a storm of time breaking over the isle and everything upon it.” As he said this there was a series of sharp noises and a huge spiderweb of cracks radiated through the bricks that comprised the nearby wall. We’d best be getting out of here!”
The druchii staggered into the wind and spray. Outside was a scene of terrible devastation. The Skinrider fleet was burning or in the throes of deadly boarding actions with the survivors of the druchii fleet. Of Bruglir’s seven vessels, only three survived and of those two looked too damaged to return to sea. There were loud reports echoing from the cove as the sorcery that held the Skinrider ships together began to fail, causing rotting seams to burst apart and masts to break from their mountings. On the shore a pall of smoke rose from the abandoned village as building after building collapsed under the avalanche of years.
There was a terrible groan from high overhead. As one, the highborn scrambled down the slope of the sea wall and found an overhang to duck under just as the citadel behind them collapsed. Ancient bricks exploded into powder as they struck the sea wall. A stone thrower weighing as much as a dozen men arced overhead and landed in the cove with a tremendous splash. Across the water there was another grinding roar as the chieftain’s tower collapsed as well, spilling its contents down the face of the cliff.
As the last of the bricks broke apart or splashed into the waters of the cove the wind and rain abated, dwindling almost to nothing. Out in the cove the Skinrider ships were settling into the water as their holds flooded. Shattered hulls blazed across the length of the harbour, sending plumes of smoke high into the sky. Distantly, Malus heard the war screams of the druchii corsairs as they recovered from the shock of the storm and hurled themselves upon their demoralised opponents. The battle was over; now the slaughter and celebration would begin.
When the wind shifted in the right way Malus could hear the screams of the dying Skinriders.
They’d taken a few hundred prisoners in the wake of the battle and the survivors of Bruglir’s shattered fleet had sated their lusts for pain upon their enemies’ already tortured bodies. Despite the popular wisdom that the raiders were beyond suffering, the druchii found ways to make the Skinriders suffer for what they’d done.
The cavern beneath the ruined citadel still stank with the miasma of decay, but Malus barely noticed. He moved across the cavern floor, picking his way carefully among the twisted bodies. Every now and then he could faintly hear the cries of other druchii sailors as the corsairs searched for their living saint. Urial remained convinced that Yasmir had survived the battle and would be found unharmed. The crew certainly believed him and that was all that mattered. When the corsairs weren’t looking for Yasmir they were breaking open the treasure vaults deeper beneath the citadel and hauling chests of gold out into the light of day. Hauclir had taken charge of the recovery efforts, which were proceeding apace.
Malus knelt beside the body of a druchii in corsair’s armour. The corpse was stiff, but the body had yet to putrefy in the cool air. He rolled the dead figure on its back, frowning when he discovered that it wasn’t the one he sought. The highborn sat on his haunches, surveying the carnage. His eyes lit on another figure, this one closer to the sacrificial crater. Nodding to himself, Malus made his way to the body.
It had been three days since the battle in the cove. Since he’d emerged from the portal Malus’ sleep had been free of portents. Now it was his waking thoughts that filled him with unease.
He reached the corpse and knew at once that he’d found who he sought. With a grunt of effort Malus rolled the body onto its back and considered it thoughtfully. After a moment he drew a thin-bladed knife from his belt and bent over the ravaged face. The razor-edged blade sank effortlessly into the loose skin. The highborn smiled faintly as he worked, making cuts with long, smooth strokes.
There would be a reckoning when he returned to Hag Graef, Malus knew. Lurhan would be furious when he learned of the death of his firstborn son. Bruglir had been the Vaulkhar’s chosen successor, his pride and joy, but he was also a pragmatic man. Another son would have to step forward and take Bruglir’s place.
The highborn set the knife by his side and lifted his prize away with gentle fingers. In a few months he would return to the Hag as a conquering hero and both the Drachau and his father would have to treat him as such. From there, the possibilities were limitless.
Malus raised Bruglir’s face to the light and carefully laid it over his own. “Masks on top of masks…” he smirked. It suited him well.
Scanning, formatting and basic
proofing by Undead.
Dan Abnett, [Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm
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