A WARHAMMER STORY

THE BLOOD PRICE

Darkblade 00.1

Dan Abnett & Mike Lee

(An Undead Scan v1.5)

A forest of black oak masts shifted and swayed in the bitter wind blowing from the Sea of Malice, causing the druchii sailors to hunch their shoulders and curse the Dragons Below as they went about their work. Captains bellowed between the gusts and leather lashes cracked. Slaves struggled beneath the weight of crates, baskets and canvas sacks, staggering up shifting gangplanks to unload their burdens in the black holds of sleek-hulled raiding ships. The docks at Clar Karond, City of Ships, bustled like an ant hive as the corsairs of Naggaroth made ready for sea.

At the far end of the docks a captain of the city guard nosed his black warhorse into the chaotic crowds, hissing curses and laying about with his cudgel to clear a path through the bedlam. A half-dozen guardsmen walked their mounts behind his, glaring and shouting at the cursing tradesmen and the rough-voiced merchants as they made a path for the black-armoured highborn in their midst.

Malus of Hag Graef slumped forward in the saddle, bound hands clasped to the rim of the high cantle, and gritted his teeth against the savage pounding in his skull. The reins dangled loosely in his fingers as he let his borrowed horse follow its fellows through the crowd. The inside of his mouth tasted like boot leather and his bones felt like they’d been pulled out through his ears, smashed to jagged bits and poured back in again. Every sound was like a dagger thrust between his eyes. As his escort ploughed their way across the dockyard he fought to keep his stomach in its proper place and swore to every god he could think of that he would never touch another drop of wine for the rest of his miserable life.

His escort shouldered its way across the traders’ square and along the granite quays, passing one rakish vessel after another. Each ship crawled with dark-robed sailors working feverishly underneath the baleful gaze of their captain and his mates. Though the first day of spring was still a week away, it was a two-week journey to the Slavers’ Straits in the north, and the corsair captains planned to be there the moment the narrow passages were free of ice and open to the ocean beyond. The first ships out would be the first ships to reach the rich coasts of the Old World, and to them would go the choicest spoils. A druchii slave raider had barely five months out of each year to make his fortune, and the competition for flesh and plunder was merciless and often lethal.

Down the long line of ships they went, until Malus began to wonder if the guard captain meant to drive his escort off the stone pier and into the icy waves. Finally, near the very end of the quay, the captain gave a satisfied grunt and reined in beside the gangplank of a black-hulled raider that rolled and creaked uneasily against its mooring ropes. Unlike the other ships at dock, there were no long lines of slaves labouring up to its deck. Members of the ship’s crew hung like crows in the nets and rigging, studying the guardsmen with sullen interest. Standing on the dock just a few feet from the gangplank waited a solitary druchii knight, his patched cloak flapping fitfully against his armoured legs. The knight raised his pointed chin in greeting as the guard captain reined in. There was a sombre cast to his youthful features, and his black hair was drawn back in an unadorned braid. A silver steel hadrilkar gleamed about his neck, worked with the sigil of a nauglir.

“And who are you, then?” the guard captain growled into the gusting wind. His breeches and cloak were stiff with salt spray, and his plate armour was speckled with rust.

The proud knight would have bristled at the captain’s tone. “Silar Thornblood, of Hag Graef—”

“So I thought,” the captain said with a sharp nod. He jerked his thumb at Malus. “This here is your man. His father paid good coin to see he got on board.” The captain turned to one of his men. “Cut his bonds.”

One of the guardsmen slid from his saddle, a dagger gleaming dully in his hand. Malus held out his bound wrists with a baleful glare, but the guardsman paid the highborn no mind. The leather straps parted with an expert jerk of the blade, and then a strong hand pulled Malus firmly from the saddle. The highborn managed barely a single step before a sharp flare of pain in his thigh brought him to his knees.

The captain twisted in his saddle and reached back for a bundle of saddle bags. “The young master made the acquaintance of most of the lower taverns last night,” he said, tugging at the binding straps. “Cheated at dice, started a fight with a gang of sailors and damned near gave us the slip. He’d made it through the city gate and was a half-mile back to Hag Graef when we caught up to him.” The captain tugged the bags free and dropped them beside Malus with a weighty thud.

Silar’s dark eyes widened in shock as the captain’s words sank in. “This is outrageous!” he snarled. “You lowborn thugs can’t treat a highborn in this fashion!”

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got my orders, young sir,” he growled. “And your master put a knife in two of my men when we tried to turn him back to Clar Karond.” He glared down at Malus. “So here he is. Now he’s your problem.”

With a nod to his men, the captain nudged his horse around and headed off down the pier without a backwards glance. Silar stared helplessly after them, one hand still gripping the hilt of his sword.

“If you’re going to challenge them, be my guest,” Malus said darkly. “But don’t expect any thanks from my father if you do.”

The highborn’s voice brought Silar’s head around. “Your father’s thanks? What has that to do with anything? I’m your sworn man—”

Malus cut him off with a bark of laughter. “Bought and paid for by Lurhan of Hag Graef,” he snapped.

The young knight stiffened. “A highborn embarking on his hakseer-cruise ought to have a retinue attending him,” he replied. “Your father wishes—”

“Do not presume to tell me what my father wishes,” Malus shot back. “You’re here because no self-respecting highborn back home would swear himself willingly to my service, and it would reflect badly upon Lurhan if I went on this cruise alone.” He shot a bitter look at the young knight. “The Vaulkhar of Hag Graef must think of his image, after all. Now help me up, damn you!”

Silar’s jaw bunched angrily at the highborn’s tone, but the young knight leapt to obey. With an awkward heave and a clatter of armour he pulled his new master to his feet. The two druchii were of a similar age, both at the cusp of adulthood, though Silar stood a head taller than Malus and was broader across the shoulders. The retainer’s articulated plate armour was old and plain but well cared-for, its surface burnished and gleaming, and his twin swords were unadorned and functional.

Grimacing in pain, Malus eyed the young knight up and down. “Whose wargear is that? Your grandfather’s?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” Silar answered sharply. “They aren’t much, but they’ve seen their share of battles. Can my lord say the same for his?”

Malus glanced down at his own harness. The armour was expertly made but likewise devoid of ornamentation, its edges still gleaming with oil from the armourers’ shop. “Like you, my wargear was provided for,” he muttered. Silar made to reply, but the highborn cut him off with a raised hand. “Enough, Silar. My head is pounding and my guts are tied in knots. Neither one of us wants to be here, so let’s just call a truce and try to get through this damned cruise without killing each other, all right?”

“As my lord wishes,” Silar replied coldly.

“Fine,” Malus said, and as Silar turned to gather up the highborn’s saddlebags the highborn quietly resolved to kill the young knight just as soon as he possibly could. Lurhan probably told you to wait until we were well out to sea before slitting my throat, Malus thought grimly. Or perhaps one of my brothers promised you a bag of gold to slip some poison into my food.

While the young knight struggled with his and his master’s possessions, Malus took a few tentative steps with his right leg. The muscles were still weak and ached down to the bone, but he forced himself to remain upright.

Silar eyed the highborn’s halting movements and frowned. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “Did the guardsmen beat you?”

“Oh, most assuredly,” Malus answered, “but this was a going-away present from one of my siblings, I think. Someone slipped a rock adder into my wardrobe yesterday morning. Fortunately it bit both my body-servants first before it got to me, so it had little venom left.”

“Ah. I see,” Silar replied. “Will you need help climbing the gangway?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Malus hissed, turning his back on the retainer and eyeing the long gangplank balefully. Then, setting his jaw, he started upward.

By the time Malus reached the deck of the corsair the crew had passed word of his coming back to the ship’s master, who arrived to greet the highborn at the rail.

Hethan Gul was sleek as an eel in a fine black kheitan of human hide and a shirt of expensive chainmail. His robes were of thick wool, and his high boots were supple leather, too new to be stained with sea salt and tar. Rings glittered on his scarred fingers, and a single, heavy cutlass hung from a studded leather belt.

“Welcome aboard the Manticore,” he said smoothly, his thin lips pulling back to reveal a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. Gul bowed low, causing the weak sunlight to glint on the gold bands that secured his corsair’s topknot. The long tail of hair was streaked with grey. “We are honoured to have been chosen for your proving cruise, young lord.”

Malus paused at the rail, surveying the deck and the assembled crew. Sailors wearing faded robes and kheitans of orc or human hide climbed nimbly up the raider’s ice-coated lines or busied themselves stowing the last crates of provisions into the Manticore’s forward hold. Blackened mail covered their chests and upper arms, and their wide belts bristled with a vicious assortment of knives, cudgels and heavy, single-edged swords. Their faces were lean and weathered, scarred from long years prowling the sea lanes, and they studied the highborn with cold, predatory stares.

The ship was an old one, as far as he could tell, but the lines and fittings were new, as well as the deep, red sails furled overhead. New weapons shone in notched wooden racks set at intervals along the length of the ship, and the reaper bolt throwers fore and aft showed signs of recent installation. Likewise, the cluster of officers at Gul’s shoulder wore armour and weapons as freshly minted as the highborn’s own.

“Quite a lavish honour indeed,” Malus growled. “I see my father spared no expense to refit your ship, captain.”

The corsair’s golden grin widened. “Of course, young lord. No son of Lurhan should put to sea without the best that Clar Karond can offer. But you must not call me captain,” he said. “From the moment you set foot upon this deck, that title belongs to you. You will refer to me as Master Gul, and I will be at your service in all things.”

Malus’ gaze sank to the scarred planking on the other side of the ship’s rail. One more step and there was no turning back, he thought. He wouldn’t be able to back out of the cruise without appearing weak, and he’d sooner die that give his family that satisfaction.

Of course, once he stepped onto the Manticore he’d be as good as dead anyway. Up until now, Malus’ entire world had been the tall spires of Hag Graef, never far from the distant but watchful eyes of his mother Eldire. The hakseer-cruise, a right of passage for all druchii highborn, was his father’s first and best chance to have him killed without fear of repercussion from his sorceress concubine.

Still, he thought, better dead and bold than dead and weak. Gritting his teeth, he stepped down onto the oaken deck.

“Excellent,” Gul murmured, nodding to himself. He turned to the assembled crew. “Hark, sea ravens! The sea calls, and your captain heeds her summons! Malus, the young son of Lurhan commands you. May he guide us to a red tide of gold and glory!”

“Gold and glory!” the crew shouted as one. Gul turned to Malus and grinned. “Your success is assured, young lord,” he whispered. “Have no fear of that. I know just where to go for you to reap a fine fortune in gold and slaves.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Malus replied, “since a third of the plunder goes to you and the crew.” The highborn wondered who would get his share if he died on the long voyage. Would it go to Lurhan instead? It wouldn’t surprise him one bit.

Gul indicated a trio of nearby corsairs with a sweep of his arm. “Captain, your ship’s officers stand ready to pay their respects.”

“Let’s get on with it then,” the highborn replied, gesturing impatiently to the officers.

Each druchii stepped forward in turn and knelt before Malus. First came Shebyl, the ship’s navigator, a thickset, pox-scarred corsair with bright, rodent-like eyes. Next came the ship’s second officer, a square shouldered, fierce-looking raider named Amaleth. He muttered the proper words of allegiance, but his gaze was direct and challenging.

Malus was surprised to find that the last of the three was female. She was tall and fit, her skin made dusky by months of life at sea. Fine, pale battle scars cross-hatched her high cheeks. Her dark hair was pulled back in dozens of fine braids and bound up in a corsair’s topknot. The worn hilts of a pair of highborn swords rested at her hip.

“Lhunara Ithil, first mate of the Manticore,” she said in a husky voice as she sank to one knee. “Through wind and storm, red rain and splintered shields, I will serve thee, captain. Lead, and I will follow.”

The highborn’s eyes widened at the sight of her. Perhaps this voyage wouldn’t be entirely unpleasant after all. “Perhaps I’ll lead you to my cabin and keep you there,” he said with a predatory grin.

Howls and hisses of laughter rose from the assembled crew. Lhunara looked up at the highborn with a broad smile, her eyes gleaming. She rose to her feet in a fluid motion and punched Malus full in the face. The highborn’s feet flew in the air and he hit the deck with a tremendous crash.

“Try it and I’ll feed your guts to the gulls,” she said, still smiling.

There was a hiss of steel and Silar leapt onto the deck, sword in hand. With a startled shout, Gul leapt between the young knight and the first mate. “Stay your hand, young lord!” he said to Silar. “You’re aboard ship now, not at a highborn court. She was well within her rights to reply as she did.”

But Silar refused to yield. “What would you have me do, my lord?” he said to Malus.

For a moment, Malus was sorely tempted to turn Silar loose on the first mate. Lhunara was a bit older than the young knight and looked like she knew how to use those swords she carried. He could certainly vouch for the strength of her hands, he thought, wiping blood from his chin. At worst, he would be rid of Lurhan’s hired man. After a moment’s thought, however, he shook his head. “Put away your sword,” he told Silar. “I’ll not go stirring up a feud among the crew.”

“Well said, captain,” Gul said quickly, bending to help Malus to his feet. Lhunara gave Silar a disdainful look before turning on her heel and striding away, snapping orders to the ship’s crew as she went.

“All is in readiness,” Gul continued as he pulled the highborn to his feet. “The crew was at work all night long to ready Manticore for sea. If we’re to find the best pickings for you, it’s crucial we cast off and make for the straits as soon as possible.” The gold-toothed corsair’s unctuous expression faltered a little, and he looked over the rail at the empty pier. “Ah, has my young lord arrived earlier than planned? Normally one’s father and mother are present to commemorate the occasion. Why, it is well-known that Lurhan sent his eldest sons on their first cruises with great fanfare—”

Malus spat a stream of red over the rail. “There will be no fanfare, Master Gul,” he snapped. “My father has done what he must to protect his reputation, and that’s as far as his regard for me extends.”

“I… see,” Gul replied thoughtfully. “Do you wish to give the order to depart then?”

The highborn turned about and scowled at the complicated array of rope, tackle, mast and sail. “Master Gul, I know that those upright poles are masts, and the cloth bundles up there are sails. I know I’m standing on a deck, and I assume there’s an anchor around here somewhere, but I wouldn’t know where to look for it. That is the sum total of my knowledge of sailing,” he said. Malus waved his hand dismissively at Gul. “You’re the ship’s master. Get us out of here.”

If Gul was appalled at his captain’s utter lack of skill, he gave no sign of it. If anything, his grin only broadened further. “Of course, sir,” he said, bowing once again. “Leave everything to me. You are in good hands aboard the Manticore.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” Malus replied sourly. “I’m going below. Wake me when we get to Bretonnia.”

Slate-coloured waves crashed against the Manticore’s sleek hull, spraying icy water along the deck. Near the forward citadel deck a group of corsairs huddled together in their sealskin cloaks and crouched low next to the wooden bulkhead.

The three dice clattered across the damp planks and rebounded from the bulkhead, showing a trio of sharpened bones: the horns, a losing toss. “Damnation!” Malus hissed angrily, and the sailors covering him from the elements chuckled and hissed their amusement. Grimy hands reached down and plucked coins out of the highborn’s winnings. “Another go,” Malus grumbled. “All this damned pitching and heaving is souring the dice.”

Some of the corsairs shifted about on their heels and grumbled. One of the men, a one-eyed druchii with half a nose, ducked his head fearfully. “Most of us have to stand watch, dread lord…”

“Not if I say otherwise!” Malus snapped. “We’ll go until I say we stop, and that’s an order!”

The corsairs looked to one another and shrugged. Coins were pressed to the deck, and Malus picked up the dice. There were definite advantages to being the captain, he thought.

The Manticore was riding rough seas up the neck of the Slavers’ Strait, and according to the navigator they would slip into the wide ocean in less than a day. Then—as Master Gul constantly reminded Malus—his proving cruise would well and truly begin.

Once free of the harbour at Clar Karond the raiding ship had made excellent time, racing across the inland seas a day or more ahead of their rivals. Malus had spent the first few days in utter misery, too sick to eat or drink anything stronger than water. When he’d finally got his sea legs and felt hungry again, Silar had tried to serve Malus in his cabin, but the highborn refused, fearful of the possibility of poison. Instead, Malus went to the ship’s cooks directly for his meals. Not long after, he fell into gambling with them.

Eventually he hit upon the notion of hiring one or two of the crewmen to murder Silar. The young knight often walked the decks after dark once the highborn had dismissed him from his duties. Surely it would be simple enough to knock him in the head and toss him over the side? And the sooner the better, Malus reckoned; the farther they got from Naggaroth, the greater the odds that Lurhan’s paid man would try to make his move. So far though, the highborn hadn’t managed to find any useful candidates for the job. To a man, the crew preferred to keep its distance from him, despite all the games of dice he played with them. Perhaps I shouldn’t keep taking so much of their coin, he mused, rolling the dice in his palm.

The knot of crouching sailors around Malus shifted suddenly, letting in a gust of freezing air and sea spray. Malus glanced up, a snarl curling his lip, and caught sight of Silar. The young knight surveyed the gamblers with a disapproving frown. “Master Gul wishes to speak to you in his cabin, my lord,” he said coldly.

Malus growled under his breath. He was tempted to tell the unctuous ship’s master to wait while he won back his silver. The highborn eyed the sad handful of coins at his side and decided to try and build a bit of goodwill with the men. He shrugged, gathering up his paltry winnings. “You’ve plucked me to the bone this time, you sea birds,” he said to the corsairs. “We’ll see who the gods favour next time.”

The corsairs gathered up their coins and got back to work, grinning to themselves. Malus sighed and waved his hand at Silar. “All right. Take me to him,” he said.

Silar led him through a narrow door in the fortress deck aft, then down to the master’s cabin. A corsair stood watch outside Gul’s cabin door. At the sight of Silar and Malus, the scarred druchii pushed the door open and stepped aside.

Tall, narrow windows dominated the aft bulkhead of Gul’s cabin, throwing bars of weak, grey light across the broad expanse of the master’s oaken table. A huge map was spread across its surface, showing Naggaroth, Ulthuan and the domain of the humans etched in fine, black lines. Gul sat on the far side of the table, sipping wine and smiling to himself as he traced the sinuous lines of prevailing currents across the map. The navigator Shebyl sat nearby, consulting a thick set of scrolls marked with astronomical charts. Lhunara stood off to one side, arms folded tightly across her chest. She studied Malus and Silar thoughtfully as they entered the cabin.

“Welcome to my humble quarters, Captain Malus,” Gul said, opening his arms expansively. “Please, sit. Have some of this fine wine. I stole it in a raid off Ulthuan many years ago, and it only gets better with time.”

Malus picked up a goblet and poured from a crystal flagon set on a tray at the end of the table. It was the first time he’d been invited into Gul’s personal quarters, and he was impressed at its luxurious appointments: a feather bed, expensive chairs of oak and dwarf hide, shelves of books and an impressive collection of trophies, from gilt skulls to jewel-encrusted ceremonial daggers and silver-inlaid armour. Whatever else Gul may be, Malus had to admit the gold-toothed corsair knew a thing or two about his trade.

“Far be it from me to turn down an offer of wine and hospitality,” he said, taking a deep drink. “What is the occasion?”

Gul tapped the map with a calloused finger. “We’re nearly to the open sea, my captain,” he said. “Time for you to approve the course I and the good navigator have laid out.”

Malus sampled some more of the wine. It was, indeed, quite fine. “All right,” he said with a shrug. “Tell me.”

“Since your father approached me last winter I’ve been thinking about a course that would be suitable to your, ah, level of skill,” he said. “There is a great deal riding on this cruise, after all. You are about to enter highborn society. The wealth and fame you win on the Manticore will determine your initial status at court, after all.”

The highborn cast a momentary glance at Silar. “Provided some human doesn’t dash in my skull or I suffer a similar misfortune along the way.”

Gul smiled. “Well, life is about risk, is it not?” He leaned forward over the map. “But have no fear. I have gone to great effort to chart a route that minimizes such risk, but will still yield a handsome profit over time.”

Provided my damned retainer doesn’t find some way to kill me between now and then, Malus thought. “Show me.”

“Well, to start with, with your father’s coin I was able to hire a good crew, and outfit them with proper weapons and armour,” he began. “We’ve not enough men to hazard a large human city or fortress, such as your older brother Bruglir might, but there are any number of towns that would be easy pickings along the Bretonnian coast.” Gul’s finger traced a long arc, dipping south of Ulthuan and then north and east to the shores of the human kingdom. “We will avoid cities like Bordeleaux or l’Anguille and strike at the small fishing towns that stretch between them. Sweep in at midnight, kill any who resist, and cart everything else back to the ship. Nothing left but ashes by morning.” Gul traced a seemingly meandering route up the coastline, past l’Anguille and then east. “We take a bite here and a bite there, always staying a few days ahead of the Bretonnian forces. By late summer we could be at the inlet leading to Marienburg, by which point our holds will be bursting, and it will be time to head for home. After a brief stop at Karond Kar to unload our slaves, you would arrive at Clar Karond a rich and successful young highborn.”

Gul leaned back in his chair and folded his slim hands across his chest, clearly pleased with himself.

Malus scowled down at the map. “I see none of these small towns you speak of on this map.”

Gul chuckled. “Rest assured they are there, young captain. I’ve plied this route many a time myself. Slow, perhaps, but safe and profitable. Just the sort of thing to prove your worth to the nobles back at Hag Graef. So. What do you say? Shall I tell Shebyl to chart the course?”

The highborn thought it over. Near Marienburg by late summer, he thought. Five months at sea, by the Dark Mother! He took a contemplative sip from his cup.

“No,” he said at last.

Gul’s gleaming smile faltered. “What did you say, my lord?”

“I’m here to make my reputation,” he said, “and I won’t go back to the Hag after five long months smelling like a fishmonger. We’ve got a good ship and good men, so let us take a prize that’s worthy of our mettle.” He glanced down at the map and let his finger fall with a portentous thump.

The ship’s master paled. “Ulthuan?” he stammered. “Surely you jest.”

“Did I say something amusing, Master Gul?” the highborn said darkly.

Gul managed an uneasy chuckle. “No doubt the young captain is aware that Ulthuan is very well defended,” he began. “Its shores are constantly patrolled, and our traitorous cousins have ships nearly as swift and deadly as our own. Not even your older brother and his fleet have dared strike there.”

Malus grinned mirthlessly. “Then I’ll truly have something to boast about when I reach home,” he said. The highborn waved dismissively at the map. “Chart us a course to take us close around the southern tip of the Blighted Isle, then on to the west coast of Ulthuan,” he said. “That shouldn’t be too demanding, should it? We’ll find a good-sized town and sack it, and make our fortunes in a single stroke.”

“But… you can’t do this!” Gul sputtered. His face was white as alabaster. “It would be suicide! I forbid this!”

“You may be the master of this ship, but for the duration of this voyage, I am the captain,” Malus snarled. “And I know very well what my rights are regarding mutineers.” He looked at the navigator. “Chart the course. Now.”

“I…” Shebyl began, then recoiled at the look in Malus’ eyes. “Very well, sir.”

Malus nodded. “That’s more like it.” He drained the cup. “Good wine,” he said, setting the goblet on the table. “Hopefully there’s more where that came from.”

Silar Thornblood was waiting for Malus when he returned to his cabin after the evening meal. The young knight stood opposite the narrow, wooden door, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

This is it, Malus thought the moment he caught sight of his hired retainer. On reflex, his hand darted to the sword at his belt, then he realized that as far as he could tell Silar hadn’t armed himself. The highborn paused in the doorway, uncertain how to proceed. We’re an hour away from the straits, Malus realized, but if Silar is here to kill me he’s picked a damned strange way to go about it.

Finally the highborn stepped inside the cramped room. “What in the Dark Mother’s name do you want?” he growled. “Shouldn’t you be up pacing the deck or something?”

The young knight gave Malus a hard stare. His jaw worked as he struggled to find the right words to say. Finally, he simply blurted out, “What in the name of all the gods is wrong with you?”

Malus blinked. “What?”

“Were you dropped on your head as a child? Kicked by a horse? Was your mother cursed?” The young knight’s voice rose as a tide of pent-up frustration bubbled forth. “Master Gul handed you a chance at easy wealth, but you’d rather die at Ulthuan instead?”

“Mind your damned tongue!” the highborn snapped. “Another word out of you and I’ll have the first mate strip the skin from your back!”

“You don’t know the first thing about sailing. You waste your time gambling with the common sailors. I haven’t made sense out of a single thing you’ve done since I met you,” Silar replied. “And with all the advantages you’ve been given—”

“Advantages?” Malus spat. “Is the cheese in the trap an advantage for the rat? Mother of Night! Who do you think you are, Silar Thornblood?”

The young knight let out a derisive snort. “Merely a very poor knight from an all but extinct house,” he answered. “My grandfather made the mistake of scheming against your father, long before you and I were born. Lurhan destroyed my grandfather and all but wiped out our house. We’ve no property, no patrons, no allies at the Hag. We’re little better than common folk now.” He glared angrily at Malus. “There will be no hakseer-cruise for me. No one will hand me a fortune in slaves and gold, plucked from the coasts of the human kingdoms. I have to take a paltry wage, like a tradesman, and be glad for it.”

Malus was speechless. His anger was overwhelmed by a wave of sheer incredulity. “And here I thought you might actually be dangerous,” he muttered to himself. “Is that what you think is going on here? Ask yourself this, then: if my future is so damned bright, why do you imagine my father had to hire you to be my one and only retainer?”

Silar paused. “I thought Lurhan was just trying to humiliate me,” he said. “A final slap in the face for the last of my grandfather’s line.”

The highborn sighed. “If he’d hired you to serve anyone but me, you’d probably be right,” Malus said. “But I’m nothing to Lurhan. Nothing. I was the price he had to pay when he brought my mother back from the Black Ark of Naggor. He wanted a sorceress, and she wanted a son. He’s been dreaming of killing me ever since, and now the opportunity has arrived. This isn’t a glory cruise; it’s a death sentence. My father has no doubt gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that I don’t return to Naggaroth alive.”

Silar’s eyes widened. Before he could reply, there came a knock at the cabin door.

Both druchii frowned in consternation. Malus turned, reaching for his sword, and opened the door with his left hand.

Lhunara Ithil stood outside. “I want to talk to you,” she said quietly, glancing surreptitiously up and down the passageway.

For a moment, Malus didn’t know what to say. Finally he shrugged. “Well, come in then,” he replied, and stepped aside. “We’ll have just enough room left over to strangle each other.”

Lhunara gave Silar a passing glance and leaned against the forward bulkhead. Malus took the bulkhead opposite. She waited to speak until the cabin door latched shut. “How did you know about Gul’s trap?” the first mate asked.

Malus scowled. “Trap?”

Her brow furrowed quizzically. “Lurhan paid Gul to get you killed in Bretonnia,” she said. “Didn’t you know?”

Malus gave Silar a sidelong look. “And how did he plan to do that, exactly?”

“Gul has an arrangement with one of the coastal barons,” she said. “Each year the baron empties out his dungeons and hands the prisoners over to us—sometimes he throws in a servant or two if it’s been a lean year. We leave his towns and crops alone in return.” Lhunara shrugged. “Gul was going to stage a raid on one of the baron’s villages, and then let the baron kill you when he and his men arrived.” She shrugged. “It was a good deal for both sides, because the baron could make a big show of killing a druchii corsair captain while Gul sailed home to claim Lurhan’s reward.”

The young knight scowled at the first mate. “That sounds like a great deal of trouble just to kill a single highborn,” he said. “There are dozens of simpler ways to kill someone aboard ship. Accidents happen at sea all the time.”

“Accidents happen,” Malus agreed, “but no one with any sense would believe it—even if it was true. And Lurhan must be very careful, or he risks the wrath of my mother, Eldire.” He tapped his lip thoughtfully. “If she believes he was a party to my death, she would spare no effort to destroy him.” He gave Silar a sidelong glance. “Previously, I suspected that someone had simply been instructed to stick a knife in my ribs once we were so far from Naggaroth that my mother could no longer watch over me with her sorcery. But this… this plan is much cleverer, actually. By arranging to have me killed on the battlefield, Lurhan places himself above suspicion. Gul reaps a fine reward in stolen loot, and no one else is the wiser.”

After a moment, Malus gazed at the first mate thoughtfully. “Why are you here, Lhunara?”

She considered her words carefully before replying. “I thought that if you knew what Gul was up to, he was living on borrowed time, which suits me fine.”

“You don’t care much for Master Gul, then?” the highborn asked.

“I think he’d look just fine hanging off the end of my sword,” she replied matter-of-factly. “If he hadn’t made me first mate I’d likely have killed him before now.”

Malus smiled. “I’m told there aren’t many female corsairs. How did you wind up on the Manticore?”

She shrugged. “I marched with the Witch King’s army during the last invasion of Ulthuan,” she said. “I got a taste of war and found that I liked it. Since there’s no place for a female in a highborn’s warband, it was the sea or nothing. Now, tell me: how did you know what Gul was planning?”

“I didn’t,” the highborn replied.

Lhunara frowned. “Then why—”

“I looked at the map and saw that Ulthuan was half the distance from Naggaroth than Bretonnia,” he said simply. “That meant a shorter cruise and less time trapped on this damned ship.”

The two druchii gaped at Malus. He studied them in turn, contemplating his sudden change of fortune. The question was, did he dare trust them?

“It would seem that all of us have a vested interest in my continued survival,” he suggested.

Silar stole a glance at Lhunara, then regarded his erstwhile lord. “And how is that, exactly?”

“I represent an opportunity for both of you,” the highborn replied. “Alone, I believed that my chances of surviving this voyage were slim.”

“You’re leading us on a raid to Ulthuan,” Lhunara said. “I’d say your chances are still pretty poor.”

Malus raised his hand. “Let’s leave that aside for the moment. It’s possible that, with help, I could return to Hag Graef a very wealthy druchii.”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Silar grumbled.

“No, we haven’t,” Malus replied. “I would return home rich and powerful. And I would have need of retainers. Druchii I could trust.” He gave Lhunara a meaningful look.

“You’d take me into your service?”

“Of course,” Malus replied.

“And you’ll raid Bretonnia?”

Malus shook his head. “Certainly not. Going to Ulthuan has thrown Gul off-balance. I want him to stay that way.”

Silar shook his head. “You’d take my oath, knowing how much your father hates my house?”

“For that reason especially,” Malus replied with a grin. “Imagine how much it will vex him.”

The young knight considered this, and a baleful light came to his eyes. “I’ll swear whatever oath you desire.”

Malus turned to Lhunara. The first mate hesitated. “I need to think on this some more,” she said.

The highborn suppressed his irritation. “As you wish. But do not wait too long. My patience is notoriously short.”

With a nod, Lhunara went to the door. At the threshold she paused. “One thing more,” she said. “Gul has done this sort of thing before, helping fathers deal with troublesome sons.”

“What of it?” Malus asked.

“Well, most times these fathers don’t like to leave matters to chance,” she replied. “They’ll have a fallback in case Gul can’t get the job done.”

Malus frowned. “So you’re saying there could be an assassin among the crew as well.”

She shrugged. “Something to think about,” she said, and shut the door.

Malus turned and scowled thoughtfully at Silar. “Damnation,” he muttered.

* * *

For a week the Manticore crossed the cold sea, curving south and east with the currents as they drew closer to Ulthuan. News of their destination had made its way inexorably to the ears of the crew, and their mood had turned ever more anxious and grim with each passing day. Malus tried a few games of dice with the sailors, determined to lose a bit of coin to lighten the mood, but none of the sea birds would try him. Master Gul kept to his cabin, relaying instructions to the navigator and the first mate by way of Amaleth, the second mate.

By the sixth day the fog-shrouded bulk of the Blighted Isle loomed on the eastern horizon. The sighting brought Gul to the fortress deck, and he spent several tense minutes conversing with Shebyl and Lhunara. Finally, it was decided to cleave as closely to the isle and its mists as possible, in the hopes of avoiding enemy patrols. By the end of the day the black hull of the raider was wreathed in cold mists that clung to the skin like grasping fingers, chilling the druchii to the bone.

The master’s plan was a good one, but luck wasn’t with the Manticore. On the following morning, Malus was shaken roughly awake by Silar.

“Mother of Night!” the highborn exclaimed, tangled in sheets and glaring up at his retainer. “What in the name of the Abyss are you doing?”

The young knight’s face was tense. “The lookout’s spotted a sail.”

Malus was awake at once. “What time is it?”

“First light.”

“Have they seen us?”

“Lhunara seems to think so.”

“Damn it all,” Malus breathed. “All right. Get me my boots.”

By the time Malus and Silar reached the fortress deck the master and his mates were already in the middle of a heated debate. Dawn was stretching pale streamers of light across the sky, outlining the vague shape of the Blighted Isle to their north. Malus went to the rail and peered into the fading darkness. There, off to the north-east, he could make out a pale triangle of sail. The enemy patrol ship had their stern to the Manticore, and seemed to be getting smaller with each passing second.

The highborn turned to Lhunara. “What’s happening?”

Lhunara shot him a worried look. “The ship changed course almost as soon as we spotted it. It’s possible that it’s just following a standard patrol route.”

“Or it might have seen us and is running for help,” Master Gul interjected, his teeth glinting coldly.

“All right,” Malus said. “What do we do?”

Lhunara spoke first. “We have to catch it. We can’t take the chance that it didn’t see us.”

“Or we could give up this fool’s errand and turn back now!” Gul urged. “The enemy won’t give chase. This is our only chance to escape.”

“Escape?” Malus growled. “That ship there is trying to escape,” he said, pointing off at the receding elven ship. “And with good reason. Lhunara, can we catch it?”

The first mate nodded. “The wind is with us. I believe we can.”

“All right then. Lower all the sails, or start rowing, or whatever it is you do,” he replied, waving in the general direction of the masts. “And prepare the crew for battle.”

And with that, the chase was on. Red hides crackled in the wind as Manticore put on full sail, and boots drummed over the deck as the crew readied their weapons and counted the distance between them and their prey.

For a time, it seemed as though nothing changed between pursuer and pursued. The sun rose into the cloudy sky, and Malus could see little more than the fleeing ship’s sail, an angular chip of white on the horizon. But slowly, steadily, as the hours wore on into the morning, the elven ship took shape. Malus moved forward to the citadel deck, where the bowmen and the reaper bolt thrower crews waited for action.

Then, at mid-morning, the corsair’s luck turned with the wind. It shifted from north-east to north-west, blowing towards the Blighted Isle, and the fleeing patrol ship lost some of her headway. The distance shrank quickly after that, until Malus could clearly see the outline of the enemy vessel. She was low and sleek like Manticore, with three masts and angular sails. Her twin hulls were painted a rich blue and her ship’s fittings were golden. Sunlight glinted coldly off the points of spears and silver helmets arrayed at the stern of the ship.

“Gul is an odious bastard, but he was right this time,” Lhunara said quietly, just over Malus’ shoulder. The young highborn felt his heart leap into his chest, but struggled not to show it.

“How’s that?”

“With every minute we draw closer to Ulthuan,” she said. “That ship could be leading us right into a trap. Ulthuan’s patrol ships frequently work in pairs. We could very easily be getting into something we have no way of getting out of.”

“Are we going to catch them?”

“As long as the wind holds and nothing drastic happens.”

Just then Malus caught a glint of light flash from the stern of the fleeing ship. A slender shape blurred through the air and plunged into the sea barely twenty yards from the corsair. A moment later another bolt splashed down, this one five yards closer.

“Something like that?” Malus asked.

Lhunara stepped beside the highborn and grinned like a wolf. “Here’s where things get interesting,” she said. The first mate gave Malus a searching look. “We’re past the point of no return now. If we live long enough to reach Ulthuan, you do have a plan for getting inside whatever village we find, right? There will be a garrison, a wall and a barred gate. You’ve thought of that, right?”

Before Malus had to lie to her the reaper bolt thrower crew cut in. “Do your jawing somewhere else,” the chief bowman yelled as the weapon swung their way. “Unless you want to get to that ship a whole lot faster than you planned.”

The two druchii ducked out of the way, and the reaper bolt thrower banged against its mount. After a moment the corsairs in the citadel let out a cheer. Malus squinted at the enemy ship. Had they hit it? He couldn’t tell.

The highborn turned to Lhunara and was about to ask her what happened when there was a humming sound in the air and an elven shot struck the forward rail. The yard-long bolt smashed the wooden rail to splinters and flashed overhead, burying itself in the forward mast. Cries of pain and bitter curses filled the air as wounded corsairs lurched aft, pawing at jagged splinters that jutted from their arms, faces and chests.

Another bang resounded from the citadel, and this time Malus saw the long, black bolt punch a neat hole through the patrol ship’s aft sail. The chief bowman laughed like a devil. “We’ve got them now!” he cried. “Bring up the pitch-pots!”

On the heels of the command came another crash, and this time Malus heard the disconcerting sound of steel meeting flesh. Hot blood sprayed his face, and a druchii let out a gurgling scream. A corsair less than ten paces away fell to the deck, his left arm and shoulder torn away by a glancing blow from an enemy bolt.

“Don’t bunch up!” Lhunara yelled to the druchii manning the citadel. “Spread out and duck your heads when the bolts come in! You can’t fight a damned thing with a splinter in your eye!”

For ten long minutes the two ships exchanged shots as the range dwindled. The elven repeater bolt throwers laid down a withering fire: heavy blows hammered into the prow and smashed more of the railing, and bolts flashed overhead to puncture sails and split ropes like wet threads. One horrifying shot seemed to slither through a group of corsairs, ricocheting between their bodies and smashing them to a pulp before caroming off into the sea. The citadel reeked of spilt blood and entrails. Malus knelt beside Lhunara and wondered when his turn would come.

Then a pair of corsairs clambered onto the deck with buckets of pitch and a lit torch in their hands. They took one of the bolts and dipped it in the thick tar, then loaded it and set it alight. The reaper bolt thrower banged, and a streak of fire arced like a meteor through the leaden sky. Malus watched it plunge toward the enemy ship and bury itself in the aft mast. In moments the sail and rigging were ablaze.

A blood-hungry howl went up from the corsairs. Lhunara turned to Malus. “Now we go to work,” she said. To the surviving archers the first mate called, “Get ready!” Then she leaned over the aft rail and shouted down at the main deck. “Hooks and lines, starboard side!” she ordered. “Gold and glory!”

“Gold and glory!” the corsairs answered lustily, and leapt into action.

Lhunara led Malus down to the main deck, where the boarders were gathering. Druchii stood at the rail with grappling hooks and coils of heavy cable, surrounded by corsairs bearing crossbows, swords and axes. Silar was waiting for Malus there, a blade in one hand and a small crossbow in the other. Amaleth, similarly armed, stood a short way off. The second mate’s expression was focused and intent.

Suddenly, Malus was very aware of the mob of armed druchii surrounding him. Any one of them could be Lurhan’s hidden assassin.

Lhunara readied her weapons and looked over Malus and Silar, noticing for the first time that both were still in their plate armour. “You’ll want to watch your step,” she said pointedly, adjusting the weight of her own chainmail hauberk.

Malus tried not to think about it. “Have you made your decision?”

Just as she was about to reply the bowstrings on the citadel hummed, and the roar of flames filled the air. Without warning the heaving flank of the elven patrol ship loomed alongside, and a sleet of deadly arrows rained down on the waiting corsairs. The druchii with the grappling hooks suffered the worst; more than half of them fell, their bodies riddled with white shafts from neck to waist. But before they died they hurled their grapples through the air, and most of them found purchase on the enemy ship, snagging the patrol craft’s port hull. Crossbows snapped in response to the Ulthuan volley, and answering screams drifted across the space between the two ships as more corsairs ran forward and hauled on the cables. Moments later there was a shuddering crash as predator and prey slammed together in a lethal embrace.

“At them!” Amaleth roared, and the air rang with battle-screams as a black tide of corsairs swept onto the burning enemy ship. They leapt onto the elven ship’s narrow port hull and clawed their way up and over the rail, slipping and stumbling on the bodies of the dead as they charged at the closed ranks of the Lothern Sea Guard.

Malus found himself carried along in the rush, roaring and shouting along with the rest. When he reached the rail he leapt as hard as he could, and landed on the far deck with a jarring thud. With a start, the highborn realized he hadn’t yet drawn his sword. He dragged his blade from its scabbard just as the mob of corsairs surged forward again, and he was shoved toward the Lothern shield wall.

The enemy spearmen were all but completely hidden behind their tall, oval shields, and they held their weapons in an overhand grip, ready to stab downward at exposed faces and throats. Malus smashed full onto a foeman’s shield, throwing off the warrior’s aim enough that the answering spear thrust missed his head by inches. The highborn let out a scream and fumbled for the spear haft with his left hand. He seized the ebon shaft and pulled it towards him, then chopped at the hand holding it. The sword bit into fingers and wooden haft, and the spearman screamed in agony. Malus smashed the pommel of his sword into the warrior’s face and the spearman recoiled from the blow.

Screaming incoherent curses, Malus forced his way into the spear wall, lashing wildly at the warriors to either side of him. He smashed a spearman’s jaw and opened his throat with a vicious cut, then struck the helm of the second. The warrior he’d driven backwards collapsed onto the deck, and the highborn nearly fell with him. He drove his sword into the fallen warrior’s neck, then lurched forwards once more to discover that the enemy formation had melted away around him. Malus saw that most of the warriors were falling back towards the ship’s main mast, which had now caught fire as well. He gave chase, howling like a madman.

The first warrior he reached glanced behind him a moment before it was too late, and turned to raise his shield against the highborn’s killing blow. The enemy’s spear lunged at Malus, glancing off his breastplate; he feinted at the spearman’s helmet and then swung low, chopping into the side of the warrior’s knee. The spearman fell with a shout and the highborn literally ran over him, charging for the next enemy in line. As he ran, a hard blow rang off his shoulder blade, nearly unbalancing him, and the distraction almost cost him his life. At that exact moment the next warrior spun on his heel and thrust his spear at the highborn’s midsection. The tip struck him squarely, just above the navel, and lodged in a chink in his armour. Without thinking he hacked at the spear haft with his sword and it splintered before the keen steel point could drive into his midsection. The spearman dropped the broken weapon with a curse and fumbled for the short sword at his side, but Malus kept on coming, driving the point of his blade into the warrior’s left eye. Dead instantly, the body collapsed, taking Malus’ sword with it. He stumbled, nearly wrenched off his feet before he could drag the weapon clear.

The next thing Malus crashed into was the ship’s mast. The retreating warriors had fled even further, retreating towards the bow. Burning ash and pieces of flaming rope fell all around him as the highborn leaned against the splintered trunk and tried to catch his breath. Druchii with dripping blades rushed past him, chasing after the foe.

Bodies littered the deck all around him. A dead spearman looked up at Malus with glazed eyes, his handsome features spattered with red. Wisps of pale hair fluttered in the sea breeze. So like us, he thought, shaking his head, and yet so foul. And just like that, he realized how they were going to get inside the walls of the coastal town.

“My lord!” Silar cried, rushing to join Malus at the mast. His armour was streaked with gore; somewhere in the brief fight he’d lost his crossbow, but his sword was stained with crimson. “Lhunara says the enemy captain is dead and the ship is ours. What do we do now?”

“Get some sailors and start collecting the bodies of the spearmen,” Malus gasped. “We need to take them to the Manticore.”

For a moment it looked as though the young knight might argue, but instead he turned and shouted to a nearby group of druchii. Malus inspected the bodies carefully, looking for those whose gear was most intact. The corsairs seized a half-dozen of the bodies and began dragging them back to the ship. Malus and Silar chose two more and followed as quickly as they could. Around them, other druchii were looting the corpses of their Ulthuan cousins, taking anything of value they could carry.

Just as Malus got to the ship’s rail, a horn wailed from the Manticore’s fortress deck. Shouts went up from the corsairs on the deck of the burning patrol ship, but the highborn paid them no heed. “Get this body across, then come back for another,” Malus told Silar, then turned and ran back into the thickening smoke. Silar shouted something in reply, but it was drowned out amid the clamour.

Malus searched the remaining bodies more carefully, hoping to find one of the ship’s mates or perhaps her captain. His eyes stung from the smoke; by now, all three masts were blazing torches, and flaming debris had spread the blaze to parts of the deck as well. Moving quickly, he checked a dozen more corpses, but none suited his needs. Then came a rending crash as part of the main mast toppled onto the deck nearby, and the highborn reckoned he’d run out of time.

Suddenly he realized that Silar was nowhere to be seen. The corsairs were gone as well. He was the only druchii left aboard the ship.

Fighting a surge of panic he turned and ran for the rail, plunging through billows of choking smoke. Coughing and cursing, he emerged from the haze and saw the Manticore—now almost a yard apart from the patrol ship and getting further by the moment. Someone had ordered the cables cut, and the burning ship was drifting away!

“Mother of Night!” Malus cried. He thought of the heavy armour enclosing him and the grey sea waiting below, but still he clenched his teeth and ran for the rail as fast as he could. At the last moment he leapt, hurling himself through space—and immediately saw that he wasn’t going to make it.

The highborn hit the hull of the ship with a clatter of steel, and one flailing hand grasped the base of the rail. Icy water washed up over his legs, almost to his hips. He could feel the strength in his fingers failing and roared in desperation—then a hand closed about his wrist and he felt himself being drawn upward.

Silar Thornblood heaved Malus onto the deck, amid a throng of cheering corsairs. The retainer knelt beside the highborn. “Didn’t you hear the horn?” he said. “I tried to tell you not to go back—”

“What in the name of the Dark Mother is going on?” Malus gasped.

“We’ve spotted another enemy ship,” Silar replied. “South of us, but closing fast. They must have seen the fire on the horizon. Master Gul and Lhunara are going to make for the Blighted Isle and try to lose the pursuer in the mists.”

The highborn clambered to his feet and headed for the fortress deck. He found Lhunara and Gul standing by the aft rail, studying the enemy warship on the horizon. It was a big one, Malus saw at once, easily as large as Manticore, or larger.

“Why are we running?” he snapped. “We’ve wrecked one ship today already.”

Lhunara shot Malus an irritated look. “They’ve got the wind at their backs, a large crew and probably more bolt throwers than we do. The fight would be too much in their favour. No, we’ll shake them off in the mists around the Blighted Isle. They won’t dare follow us in there.”

“She’s right,” Gul said emphatically. “Now do you see the folly of your plan? We should turn around at once.”

Malus stared thoughtfully at the ship’s master, wondering if perhaps the order to cut the cables had been more calculated than he’d imagined. You almost had me there, he thought. Another minute and I would have been lost. He nodded slowly. “We’ll shake them off in the mists, right enough,” he said, “but tonight we make for the coast of Ulthuan.”

Even Lhunara looked worried at the thought. “That patrol ship will spread the alarm for miles in every direction.”

Malus nodded. “But they’ll be expecting us to flee now, won’t they? They’ll circle around to the western side of the Blighted Isle and try to catch us as we come out of the mist. So we’ll go the other way, and hit them where they least expect us.”

“That’s madness!” Gul exclaimed. “You’re taking too many damned chances with my ship, and I won’t have it!”

Malus stepped close to Gul. “I should be more concerned about the chances you’re taking with me, Master Gul. Sooner or later they’ll come back to bite you.”

The ship’s master paled slightly and turned away. Behind Gul’s back, Malus gave Lhunara a conspiratorial look. She nodded, and the highborn smiled. He was gaining the upper hand.

As he turned to go, the first mate said. “What’s that on your shoulder?”

Malus frowned. “How should I know? I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”

Lhunara stepped forward. The highborn felt a sharp tug and heard a scrape of steel. At once, he remembered the blow he’d taken on the patrol ship as he’d run towards the main mast.

The first mate held something out to him. It was a druchii crossbow bolt.

“I guess wearing all that plate was a good idea after all,” she said.

Streamers of silver cloud wreathed a solitary moon, painting the rocky headland in patterns of shadow. The druchii raiders kept to the darkness beneath the trees that ran alongside the curving coastal road. Just ahead, around the bend of a rocky outcrop, lay their objective.

Malus pulled the cloak of Ulthuan wool tighter about his shoulders. The ship’s crew had washed out as much of the blood as possible, and they had to hope that the darkness would conceal the rest. In his right hand he held a looted spear, and the Sea Guard’s heavy shield hung from a strap on his left arm. Beneath the cloak he wore a hauberk of druchii chainmail, similar in size and bulk to Ulthuan scale armour. The silver helm was too big, and kept wanting to slide down over his eyes. He had hoped that the spearman’s long, blond scalp would have given him the extra padding he needed, but it still wasn’t enough.

There were nearly a hundred corsairs in the raiding party—slightly more than two-thirds of the Manticore’s surviving crew. Malus had been forced to leave Master Gul, Amaleth, and the navigator Shebyl back on the ship with a skeleton crew; if the treacherous ship’s master wanted to abandon him, he’d be leaving most of his corsairs behind as well. The highborn hoped that would be enough to give the bastard pause.

Gul had put the raiding party ashore just before midnight, five miles further north. After recovering his boats, the ship’s master was supposed to take the Manticore farther out to sea to avoid detection, then swing back to a point two miles south of the town to pick up the raiders and their plunder. By Malus’ reckoning they had less than two hours left to make the attack and reach the pickup point.

Lhunara, Silar and four other corsairs were also disguised in Ulthuan cloaks and wargear. The rest of the attackers wore dark cloaks and unadorned helms; in the darkness, they could pass for Lothern Sea Guard so long as no one looked too closely. Malus turned to the first mate. “Are you sure the rest of the raiding party knows what to do?”

She scowled at him from beneath the brim of her dented helm. “It’s not exactly complicated,” she replied. “They’ve done this sort of thing before, you know.”

“Fine,” Malus growled. “Lead on.”

The disguised druchii stepped out onto the road, and Lhunara took a few moments to make sure the “spearmen” were arrayed in proper marching order before heading off. Malus walked alongside her, his spear resting against his shoulder.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she muttered.

“Neither can I,” Malus said.

“This was your idea!”

The highborn chuckled under his breath. “Well, yes. I just wasn’t sure I’d live long enough to get this far.”

Just past the outcrop of rock the druchii found themselves at the north end of a broad, shallow cove, edged with forests of dark green pine. The coast road ran on for another hundred yards or so, and ended before the high gate of the elven town. As Malus watched, the moon slipped from behind the clouds, and the pearly light gleamed off the white stone of the town’s high wall and its tall, graceful buildings. He suppressed a shudder at the sight of the place: it was decadent and debased, with its gleaming white stone and jewel-like lamps. The highborn could almost smell the weakness of its inhabitants, and felt the sudden urge to put it all to the torch.

Globes of turquoise-coloured light shone at regular intervals along the top of the town wall, and Malus saw solitary figures pacing along its length. Lhunara muttered a curse. “They’ve been alerted,” she murmured. “I warned you about this.”

“So what does that mean, exactly?”

“At this hour, about a third of the town watch will be on the walls and guarding the gates. The rest will be sleeping nearby in full armour.”

“How many warriors will there be?”

She shrugged. “For a town this size? Maybe a hundred.”

Malus grunted. “Is that all? We can take them.”

“If we can get inside the walls!” Lhunara hissed.

“Well, then, you’d best be convincing, hadn’t you?”

They marched along the road in plain view, their helmeted heads bowed as if in weariness. Malus could feel the eyes of the sentries upon him as they came up to the gate.

“Who goes there?” spoke a cold, quiet voice from above. The language of Ulthuan was a debased relative of druhir, but close enough that Malus could make out most of what the sentry was saying.

“A shore patrol from the White Lion,” Lhunara answered, her husky voice thick with feigned weariness. “The captain put us ashore north of here to look for signs of the druchii raiders. Have any of you seen anything?”

“None,” the sentry replied. “You say you’re from the White Lion? I don’t know that ship.”

“This isn’t our normal patrol route,” the first mate replied without skipping a beat. “We’d been out hunting pirates west of the Blighted Isle and were heading back to port at Lothern when we got word there was a raider in the area.” Lhunara shifted from foot to foot. “May we enter, cousin? We’d like a place to rest our feet and get some food if we could. We’ve got another five leagues to march before the dawn.”

The sentry didn’t reply right away. Malus kept his gaze focused on the paving stones at his feet and tried to appear tired and bedraggled. Finally the warrior spoke. “Very well. Come inside.”

A ripple of tension ran through the raiders as quiet orders were passed beyond the gate, and the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back. The highborn turned and surreptitiously glanced back at the outcropping a hundred yards distant. He hoped the raiders were paying attention, and were fast on their feet.

The tall gates swung open. Malus waited until Lhunara started to move, then fell in line beside her. His hand tightened on the haft of his spear.

There were two warriors on each of the gates, their spears laid aside as they wrestled the portals open. Beyond them the road continued through an open square—where almost two score soldiers slept or tended their weapons in a temporary bivouac.

Malus felt his blood run cold. “Blessed Mother of Night,” he cursed under his breath.

One of the warriors on the gate next to him raised his head at the sound. “Did you say something, cousin?” he asked.

The highborn glanced up at the warrior, trying to think of a quick lie—and met the spearman’s gaze. Too late, he saw the look of shock on the warrior’s face as the warrior noticed the highborn’s dark eyes, and knew that their ruse was finished.

“At them!” he yelled, smashing the rim of his oval shield into the spearman’s face. The elf staggered backwards with a cry, blood spurting from his broken nose, and the highborn buried his spear in the soldier’s throat.

Shouts of alarm rang through the air all around the druchii. Lhunara threw off her cloak and helm and attacked the spearmen to her left with a feral shriek. Silar dropped spear and shield and drew his long sword, readying himself as the first of the soldiers camped in the square charged at them.

The second spearman to Malus’ right turned and dashed for his weapon. The highborn reversed his grip on the spear and hurled it at the warrior, striking the elf between the shoulder blades. “Stay beneath the arch!” he warned the corsairs. They just had to hold the gate open long enough for their reinforcements to arrive, but with seven against forty, he didn’t think they were going to last very long.

Malus raced up to join Silar just as the enemy spearmen attacked. The young knight knocked a thrusting spear aside and caught his attacker full in the face with a backhanded cut. Another elf warrior charged forwards and stabbed two-handed with his spear, driving the keen point through the mail covering Silar’s left shoulder. Malus stepped in with a snarl and severed the spearman’s left arm at the elbow, hurling him back in a spray of steaming blood. As Silar pulled the spear free, the highborn stepped past him and caught another spear-thrust against his looted shield. The enemy warrior, in his haste, had forgotten his own shield, and Malus made him pay for the error. His blade slipped beneath the edge of the spearman’s scale hauberk and plunged deep into the warrior’s guts.

Screams and shouts of pain sounded all around Malus. More and more soldiers were joining the battle, and he was forced to give ground in the face of a thicket of stabbing spears. Two of the corsairs lay dead beneath the gate arch, and another bled from a wound in his chest. Malus caught a trio of spearmen swinging wide to his right, and realized they were trying to reach the gate. They could use the oak barrier to push the druchii outside.

Cursing, Malus turned to rush at them—and then a spear-thrust from his left glanced off his stolen helmet and knocked the rim down over his eyes. Yelling, he raised his shield to ward off another blow and fumbled with the unfamiliar helm, trying to shift it around and hold onto his sword at the same time. There was a searing pain in his left leg as a spear point sank into his thigh. Furious and blind, he knocked the weapon loose with the rim of his shield. Then a huge impact on his back knocked him off his feet and a triumphant roar echoed in his ears.

Malus covered himself with his shield as he hit the ground, and the bone-jarring impact sent the helmet flying. Heavy footfalls shook the ground all around him; the highborn looked about frantically and realized that the bulk of the raiders had finally arrived. Screaming corsairs raced out of the night and swept in a black tide over the startled defenders, driving them past the gate arch and back into the square. Within seconds the battle was receding into the distance as the surviving spearmen retreated deeper into the town.

Safe for the moment, Malus cast aside his shield and tried to check on the wound in his leg. Blood had already soaked through his robes and was dripping freely on the ground. Silar stood nearby, stuffing a bloodstained rag into the hole in his armour. Seeing the highborn’s wound, the young knight forgot what he was doing and joined Malus. “How bad is it?” Silar asked.

Malus grimaced. “Damned if I know,” he said. “It hurts like the blazes, but I think I can stand.”

“It’s bleeding freely, my lord. Best let me bandage it first,” Silar replied, and began tearing strips from a dead spearman’s cloak.

By the time Silar had knotted the field dressing tight the battle in the town was over. Lhunara came jogging back to the gate, her sword dripping red and her face spattered with gore. “I was wondering what happened to the two of you,” she said.

“Never mind us,” Malus growled. “What of the battle?”

The first mate grinned. “The town is ours,” she said. “The garrison is finished, and we’re searching the houses for captives. Looks like the women and children fled earlier in the day, though. Probably hiding somewhere up in the hills. Lots of plunder, though, so we won’t be leaving empty-handed.”

Malus nodded as Silar helped him to his feet. It wasn’t a total victory, but not a total loss, either. “Take everything you can, but be quick. We’re running short on time.”

It was just over an hour before the raiders were ready to move again, with three looted wagons laden with plunder and a coffle of thirty slaves. Losses among the raiders had been light, and despite the precariousness of their situation the corsairs were jubilant as they set off down the southern coast road. Malus rode in the lead wagon, cursing the wound in his leg. He could walk, but there was no way he could keep up the pace to get to the rendezvous in time. The druchii gave their captive cousins a taste of the lash to hurry them along.

They raced down the curving road, trading caution for speed and trusting to the fickle luck of the gods to see them through. It was just past the hour of the wolf when Lhunara gave the signal to leave the road and make for the narrow strip of beach to their right. Malus focused his tired eyes and peered into the darkness offshore. If the Manticore was out there, she was invisible in the night.

Exhausted, the coffle of slaves collapsed onto the sand. Lhunara barked another set of orders and the corsairs got to work posting lookouts and unloading the wagons. Silar came up alongside the highborn and searched the dark horizon as well. “You don’t think he left us, do you?” the young knight asked, giving voice to Malus’ fears.

“Gul’s chances of making it back to Clar Karond with such a small crew would be very slim,” Malus said. “Even I know that.” Still, he thought, it could be done. He wished he’d insisted on having the navigator accompany the raiding party, but it was likely that even the crew would have balked at such a reckless notion.

“They could have run into that other patrol ship,” Silar mused. “Or hit a squall and had their masts carried off.”

“Mother of Night!” Malus hissed. “Are you always this gloomy?”

“I prefer to say I’m no stranger to misfortune,” the young knight replied.

“More’s the pity,” Malus said. Then a glimmer of movement caught his eye. “There!” he said, pointing out to sea.

The first of Manticore’s longboats heaved into view, its rowers straining mightily against the oars. A ragged cheer went up from the corsairs until a hissed warning from Lhunara put their minds back on business.

Within minutes all four of the corsairs’ longboats were being dragged ashore, and Manticore herself had hove into view less than a mile from the beach, outlined like a ghost ship in the moonlight. Amaleth jogged up the strand, eyeing the raiders’ haul. “Sailors and plunder first,” the second mate suggested to Malus. “Then the rest of the crew and the slaves.” He noticed the bloodstained bandage on the highborn’s leg. “Will you head back with the loot?”

And look weak in front of the men, Malus thought? Oh, no. That would only encourage Lurhan’s hidden assassin. The highborn shook his head. “Get the boats loaded as quickly as you can,” he said. “I’ll go with the second wave.”

The second mate nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said with a faintly mocking smile. Before Malus could reply, Amaleth had turned and was running back to the boats.

They loaded the plunder aboard double-quick, and less than ten minutes later the longboats were rowing back to Manticore, burdened with loot and a third of the surviving raiders. Once there, however, it seemed to take hours to unload their cargo. Before long Malus was looking worriedly to the east, expecting to see the first rays of dawn at any moment. “What’s taking them so long?” Malus muttered.

Just then there was a commotion from farther down the south road. One of the lookouts came charging onto the beach and delivered a breathless report to Lhunara. The first mate sent the corsair back the way he came and hurried over to Malus, her expression grim.

“There’s a column of troops coming up fast along the coast road,” she said. “Looks like Sea Guard.”

“By the Dark Mother!” Malus swore. “How did they get here so fast?”

Beside him, Silar pointed out to sea. “That’s how,” the young knight said.

It was the warship that had chased Manticore into the mists near the Blighted Isle, her white sails billowing like wings in the moonlight. She was bearing down fast upon the druchii corsair, eager for revenge. The hunters had now become the hunted.

“Can our boats make it back to us in time?” he asked Lhunara.

“It doesn’t look like it,” she said, her voice hollow. Malus turned to the first mate and saw she was staring at the distant Manticore. The corsair ship was taking her boats aboard. Gul was abandoning the rest of the raiding party to its fate.

In an awful flash of intuition Malus saw the trap that Gul had sprung on him. The ship’s master had delayed the offloading at the ship as long as he could to increase the chance they would be found. It was possible he’d even taken steps earlier to make the corsair easier to discover. And the timing had worked out to perfection. Gul now had a hold full of treasure and just enough sailors to make it back home and claim Lurhan’s reward.

Lhunara looked up at Malus, a stricken expression on her face. “The Sea Guard will be here any minute,” she said. “What do we do now?”

Malus straightened in his seat and took stock of their situation. Around fifty corsairs waited on the sand, surrounding thirty increasingly defiant slaves. Bile rose in Malus’ throat. He shook his head. There was only one thing left to do.

“We die,” the highborn said.

Ten minutes later came the soft jingle of harness and the drumming of swift feet along the coast road, and the relief column of Sea Guard troops came swarming down onto the beach, weapons at the ready. The sight that awaited them left many of the young warriors reeling in shock.

The white sands were black with blood in the fading moonlight. Dark-robed bodies lay everywhere, their limbs strangely contorted in death. Bloodstained figures in the simple garb of fisherman sat or staggered about the scene of carnage, many with slave manacles still dangling from their wrists. Many wielded gory knives as they stalked among the dead.

In moments the leader of the column arrived at the beach, and he, too, was stunned by the brutality of what had happened. He pulled his winged helm from his head, his face pale with shock. “For pity’s sake, help them,” he commanded his troops, and the spearmen put down their weapons and moved to help the survivors.

The lieutenant bit back a wave of despair as he surveyed the awful scene. His gaze fell upon another villager, sitting alone against the side of a wagon’s wheel. He approached the hunched figure, kneeling respectfully at his side.

“We came as soon as we could, cousin,” the lieutenant said. “What you did here was… very brave.”

The figure sighed. “I know,” he replied in a dead voice. “But we had no choice.” Before the lieutenant could reply Malus drew a dagger from within his sleeve and stabbed the sorrowful elf in the eye.

As one, the “villagers” leapt at the surprised spearmen, slashing and stabbing with their knives. Other corsairs leapt from the sands and attacked the elves from behind. In moments the slaughter was complete.

Lhunara pulled off the villager’s tunic she’d worn over her armour. Breathless, she staggered over to Malus. “The Lord of Murder favoured us,” she gasped. “But what now?”

The highborn levered himself painfully to his feet and pulled off his own disguise. “All is not yet lost.” He gestured out to sea. “Manticore wasn’t as fleet-footed at Master Gul hoped.”

Delayed by taking on her boats and with only a minimal crew to work her sails, the corsair had been quickly overtaken by the elven warship, and now they were grappled together in a brutal boarding action.

“These Sea Guard must have come ashore a few miles to the south,” Malus said. “Their boats are likely waiting for them on the beach. If we can reach them in time we can still rescue Manticore and get ourselves out of this mess.”

Lhunara thought it over and nodded. “We’ll load everyone into the wagons and ride the horses to death if we must,” she said with a fierce grin, and turned to shout orders to the corsairs.

As the raiders clambered aboard the wagons Malus surveyed the bloodstained sands one last time. Killing the slaves had been the only way, he realized, but the loss still ate at him. “Worth their weight in silver,” he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. “I’ll likely not see such wealth again.”

Manticore wallowed in the cold swells of the Sea of Malice as she limped the last few leagues back to port. It had been a long voyage back; the raider had suffered considerable punishment at the hands of the vengeful elves, and by the time Malus and the raiding party had managed to sneak onto the enemy warship’s deck, Gul’s troops had already been decimated. But the enemy captain had been overconfident, believing his troops had finished the raiders trapped on the beach, and had never expected a sudden attack from shore. By the time he realized his mistake it had been far too late. The battle ended swiftly after that. Malus ordered the warship set ablaze and the Manticore made good her escape, and rewarded the crew with the plunder he’d taken from the village in Ulthuan, in a single stroke he’d won the allegiance of the crew away from Hathan Gul.

Master Gul had abased himself at Malus’ feet when the fighting was done. His apologies were voluminous, and his pleas for mercy were most sincere. The highborn gave the treacherous slug every opportunity to convey the depth of his regret, slicing off only a small part of Gul’s body each day. The ship’s master was still alive when Malus offered him to the sea witches as they passed the tower of Karond Kar.

Standing at the prow of the crippled ship, Malus fished into the small coin pouch at his belt. His fingers closed on a handful of rough objects and he held them up to the sunlight. “All that plunder, and this is all the gold I have to my name,” he said, showing Silar and Lhunara a handful of Gul’s teeth.

The young knight shook his head and turned his gaze back to the docks of Clar Karond, just a few miles off the bow. Lhunara chuckled. “Melt them down and have them made into a set of dice,” she suggested.

“Perhaps I will,” the highborn mused.

“What happens once we reach port?” Silar asked. “We’re more than three months early, and you’ve nothing to show for your cruise.”

The highborn shrugged. “I could have come back dragging Teclis by the hair and it wouldn’t have mattered,” he said. “I’ll return to Hag Graef and start plying the flesh houses again. Who knows? I might even start breeding nauglir.” He regarded Silar thoughtfully. “I misjudged you, Silar. A poor knight you may be, and too honest for your own damned good, but you served me well. I’ll release you from your oath here and now if you wish. You needn’t accompany me back to that den of vipers at the Hag.”

Silar chuckled. “And miss the look on your father’s face? No, my lord. I’ll accompany you.”

Malus nodded, then turned to Lhunara. “You, on the other hand, never gave me any oath. Gul is dead, and Amaleth was killed in the battle off Ulthuan. By law, Manticore is your ship now.”

“True enough,” the first mate said, “but I’m done with sailing the seas. If you’re still serious about taking me into your retinue, then I’ll give you my oath.” She smiled. “But I expect to be well rewarded for my service.”

“You may wind up with more than you bargained for,” the highborn answered sardonically.

“Speaking of bargains,” Silar interjected. “There’s still the matter of who shot you on board that patrol ship off the Blighted Isle.”

Malus frowned. “Ah, yes. Lurhan’s hidden assassin. That was Amaleth, I expect. I saw him with a crossbow just before the battle.”

“It was him, right enough,” Lhunara said. “I paid a couple of corsairs to shadow him during the battle.” Her expression soured. “They weren’t supposed to let him take a shot at you without my permission, though.”

“Your permission?” The highborn’s eyes went wide with shock. “You knew Amaleth was Lurhan’s assassin the whole time?”

“Of course. I kept him alive as insurance, just in case you had any treachery of your own in mind,” Lhunara replied. “What, did you imagine I would take you at your word?”

For a moment, Malus was speechless, torn between murderous outrage and grudging admiration. Silar leaned against the rail and chuckled softly, staring out to sea.

“We’ll be the death of you yet, my lord,” the young knight said.

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