[Darkblade 02] - Bloodstorm Read online

  The corsairs went to work with their knives, slashing open the curtains and examining the items stacked behind them. There were dusty tomes and scrolls, jewelled skulls and gilded weapons, jars of arcane liquids and sealed boxes inscribed with curious runes and bound with silver wire.

  “Looks like a treasure room,” Hauclir said, eyeing a matched pair of bejewelled swords with an avaricious grin.

  “Remember what Urial said,” Malus warned. “Touch only what you must, unless you want to end up watching your skin melt from your body.” The highborn studied the stacks of plunder carefully. “Unusual treasures,” he muttered. “Not a sack of coin among them, which means that the bulk of their treasure is stored somewhere else. So they’re keeping only their most valuable items here.” He frowned, poking at one of the books with the point of his blade. “If that’s so, then the charts must be up here as well.”

  His gaze ran along the alcoves, peering into their shadowy depths. There was something about the room that wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t place what. He turned in a complete circle, studying the walls, until finally returning to the horned statue looming over the corsairs across the room. The robes shifted silently and then Malus realised what was missing.

  “There was a window on this level,” he said as he stepped up to the statue. The highborn reached out with his sword and pushed the hanging robes aside. Behind the hanging cloth wasn’t the body of a statue, but a narrow wooden door.

  Grinning like a wolf, Malus grasped the door’s iron ring and pushed. The door swung open, revealing a second room lit only by a narrow band of pale moonlight from the window opposite. From where he stood, Malus could see wooden bins filled with tall rolls of parchment and his heart quickened. Then, from the deep shadows in one of the room’s far corners, he heard the faint rustle of chains.

  “A torch,” Malus said, holding out his hand. “Quickly!”

  Hauclir was by his side in moments, having taken a torch from one of the sconces by the stairwell. Malus tore the robes from the wall, stirring up a cloud of iridescent flies as the stained cloth tumbled to the floor. Holding the torch high, he edged slowly inside.

  The room was indeed a repository for the camp’s sea charts, the bins arranged around a wooden table similar to the layout aboard the Harrier. There was a sharp rattle of chains as the torchlight spilled into the room; Malus oriented on the sound and walked forward, sword held ready.

  Ruddy light pushed back the shadows, finally reaching the corner and revealing a huddled, emaciated figure shackled at wrists and ankles, its naked body covered in grime and weeping sores. The human raised thin arms as if to shield itself from the bright light, then suddenly it froze. Above the hissing of the torch, Malus heard furtive sniffing.

  The human stiffened. His face, shadowed by a fall of greasy, black hair, turned towards the highborn. Malus saw that the slave’s eyes had been put out, leaving raw, burnt holes where hot metal had cauterised the wounds. The human sniffed the air like a hunting hound and began to tremble. His toothless mouth gaped as the wretched creature pointed a crooked finger at Malus and unleashed a horrific, paralysing shriek.

  It was no mere noise that erupted from the human’s throat, but a sorcerous force that cut through the druchii like a freezing wind. The scream froze the corsairs in their tracks, their hands pressed to their ears in shock and pain. And the sound went on and on, long past the point when a mortal’s lungs would have failed.

  Teeth bared, Malus roared back at the slave, feeling the paralysis waver in against the heat of his rage and he ran across the room, his sword held high. The curved blade flashed downwards and sent the creature’s head bouncing across the floor.

  The sudden silence was deafening. Malus staggered, trying to clear his head, but the rising thunder of scores of feet pounding up the tower stairs quickly focused his thoughts. He rounded on his men. “Take those braziers in the skinning room and anything else that will burn and empty them onto the stairs—throw the torches, the robes, everything! With luck this tower will burn like a candle wick.”

  Hauclir leapt into action, snapping orders at the men with the forceful tone of a proven officer and the corsairs leapt to obey. Satisfied his orders were being carried out, Malus turned back to the wooden bins and pulled out the largest and thickest charts he could find, binding them in sheaves with twine he pulled from his belt. The sheaves then went out the narrow window as quickly as he could throw them.

  There were screams from the stairwell behind him and the thump of crossbow strings. The braziers were tipped over with a loud crash and then a general commotion ensued, punctuated by the clash of steel. Malus grabbed the wrist of the slave and dragged the body into the centre of the room until the chain pulled taut. About eight feet each, he calculated and began hacking off hands and feet. Once the chains were free, he pulled at the iron staples holding the chains to the walls, but no amount of tugging would tear them free. He turned back to the doorway. “Bring me an axe!”

  One of the corsairs dashed into the room, bleeding from a cut to his forehead. “The stairs are burning, lord,” he gasped. “But the Skinriders keep charging through the flames. I don’t know how long we can hold them.”

  The highborn pointed at the wall. “Get three of those chains loose—only three—and we won’t have to hold them long at all.”

  “Your will, my lord,” the druchii said and bent to the task. A few sharp strokes later and he was holding three chains in his free hand. Malus took them and rushed to the doorway. “Fall back into the skinning room!” he called to the men defending the stairwell. “And bar the door!”

  As the corsairs retreated from the burning landing, Malus went to work on the chains. He threaded one chain through the closed manacle of the second, drawing them together until the two manacles met. Then he picked up one of the U-shaped staples from the floor and threaded it first through the closed manacle of the chain still stapled to the wall and then through the last link of one of the freed chains. Malus held out his hand for the axe and used its hammer-shaped back to beat the soft iron staple shut. With one quick check of his handiwork he tossed the now-elongated chain out the window. “It won’t reach all the way to the ground,” he said, passing back the axe, “but it will be close enough. Now go!”

  The corsair nodded and went out of the window without a word. Malus leaned out and watched the man scramble down the length of the chain and nimbly drop the last few feet onto the ground. Satisfied, he ran back into the skinning room. The corsairs had dragged the heavy skinning table and its tethered victim across the room and braced it against the door and now they watched the smoking portal with mounting dread.

  “Everyone out of the window,” Malus ordered. “Once you’re on the ground grab as many charts as you can and then run for the wall!”

  The corsairs leapt to obey. Hauclir retreated to stand by the highborn’s side. “Something’s going on,” he said, eyeing the door warily. The shouting’s stopped, but I think I can hear chanting over the sound of the fire.”

  Tz’arkan stirred. “I smell sorcery,” the daemon whispered. “Potent sorcery. You’ve made someone very angry, Darkblade.”

  “Out of the window,” Malus snarled. “Hurry!”

  “You first, my lord,” Hauclir insisted and then the door across the room exploded in a ball of greenish flame.

  Shards of burning wood buzzed lethally across the room, trailing streamers of fire. The heavy skinning table flew over Malus and Hauclir and shattered against the head and shoulders of the horned Skinrider, showering both druchii with debris. There was a figure in the doorway, limned by firelight; Malus caught a passing glance of a naked, skinless form, the thick layers of muscle across his chest incised with complex magical runes and eyes that were globes of seething green fire. Everything else was a blur as he turned and ran for the open window as fast as his feet could carry him.

  Malus leapt upon the chart table and snagged the chain with his free hand. There was the sound of steel strikin
g flesh behind him, followed by a torrent of words that hissed venomously in the air. There was a flash of greenish light and a powerful blast smote Malus in the chest, hurling him through the window. He fell for almost twelve feet before his body slammed back against the wall of the tower, partially slowing his descent. Still half-blind with pain, he managed to get his legs around the chain and control the speed of his plunge the rest of the way down. When his feet hit the ground it surprised him so much his knees went out from under him and he collapsed on his side. Hauclir hit the ground beside him a heartbeat later, his robes smouldering and much of his short hair burned away.

  Hands pulled at him, trying to draw him to his feet. Malus staggered upright, looking up at the tower. Green light seethed from the narrow window and the square tower top was haloed in angry flames. Malus glanced at his retainer. “What did you do?”

  The retainer rose shakily to his feet. “I threw my knife at him. I didn’t think he would be in much shape to cast his spells with a blade sticking out of his chest.” He ran a hand across his scalp, his palm coming away black with charred hair. “Apparently that was a mistake.”

  “Or perhaps it’s the reason we’re still alive.” The highborn said. “Let’s not push our luck any further. Grab some charts and let’s get out of here.”

  Despite his orders, none of the corsairs had fled for the wall. Any other time the gesture of loyalty would have pleased him, but now he jostled and shoved at the men to get them moving. Hauclir may have wounded the sorcerer, but Malus knew from experience how difficult such men were to kill.

  He was just a few paces short of the wall when the wooden palisade was lit by a flare of greenish light. Energy sizzled through the air and Malus looked back to see a jagged bolt of emerald lightning arc from the top of the tower and play along the ground in the wake of the fleeing corsairs. Malus could see the dark form of the sorcerer silhouetted in the window frame. “Hurry!” he cried to the laden druchii.

  The first man reached him and leapt into Malus’ waiting hands. The highborn caught the foot and propelled it upwards, hurling the corsair skyward. The man nimbly caught the top of the wall and swung one leg over, reaching down for the next man in line. Malus sent him upwards as well and the second corsair settled into place and reached down to help the others across.

  Another arc of lightning crackled through the air, burning a jagged line across the ground and licking up the side of one of the camp’s outbuildings. The log structure didn’t explode so much as disintegrate, rotted into a steaming mush by the sorcerous bolt. Howls and angry cries echoed from the far side of the hall. Malus helped the third and fourth men up and over the palisade. Only Hauclir was left and this time he made no attempt to bring up the rear, his face sickly with fear as he put his foot in Malus’ hands and leapt for the top of the wall.

  A crowd of running Skinriders turned the corner of the outbuilding closest to the hall just as the sorcerer let loose another bolt. This time the lightning clipped the corner of a nearby building and then boiled across the ground to within a yard of where Malus stood. Shouting a startled curse, he leapt for the outstretched hands of the men on the wall. They grabbed him on the first attempt and all but hurled him over the row of sharpened logs.

  Malus staggered as he hit the ground, turning back to yell for the men on the palisade when there was another flash of green light. The corsairs straddling the wall were blotted out in a blaze of emerald fire and the men below were caught in a shower of steaming flesh and bone. The highborn stumbled and fell backwards, staggered by the horrific effects of the blast. Not only the two druchii, but a sizeable portion of the wall they sat upon was simply gone. Through the wisps of steam rising from the ravaged logs, Malus saw a figure wreathed in green fire step lightly from the top of the tower and descend on a seething pillar of emerald light.

  “Blessed Mother of Night,” Malus breathed, his eyes wide. He scrambled to his feet, turning to his stunned, gore-slicked men. “Fly, you sea birds, fly!” he said, breaking into a run.

  By the time the palisade dissolved under the sorcerer’s magical bolts the druchii were gone, running for their lives through the shadowy depths of the forest.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE DRAGON’S KISS

  It was as if Malus was back in the Chaos Wastes again, hunted through the forests like an animal. The dark woods echoed with howls and cries of fury as the Skinriders poured from the camp into the shadows beneath the trees. To the highborn it sounded as though the raiders were fanning out in a wide circle, which told him that they were poor trackers to begin with and unsure of the direction he and his men had fled in. The surviving members of the landing party raced along in a ragged line behind Malus, leaving little trace of their passing. Every yard of distance they gained from the Skinrider camp made their trail that much harder to find.

  Malus paused to gain his bearings. Off to the right he thought he could see the waters of the cove through the gaps between the trees. He reckoned that their longboat was two and a half miles from the camp and they’d covered half that distance so far. The cries of the raiders were fainter now, but he knew from experience that sounds could be deceiving inside a thick wood. Hauclir and the surviving corsairs caught up to the highborn, their faces taut with fear. Malus jerked his head in the direction of the trail and ran on.

  There was a loud shout in the distance, followed by a chorus of baying voices.

  Several minutes later Malus veered off the path and headed towards the shore. There were no landmarks to point out his location but the terrain and the amount of time they’d been travelling felt right to him. He plunged from the trees onto the rocky shoreline and was relieved to see the longboat just a dozen yards away.

  There were shouts from further up the shoreline. Malus turned to see a knot of Skinriders brandishing torches and charging across the rocks. “Hurry!” he called to his men.

  The corsairs were already at the longboat, pushing it into the cold water. Hauclir waited nearby, a crossbow in his hands. Malus raced like a madman over the treacherous shale. “Get in the boat, damn you!” he roared.

  Hauclir waited until the highborn ran past, firing a parting shot down the shoreline before wading out into the surf and clambering aboard the boat. The corsairs were already at the oars and as Malus grabbed his retainer by the collar and pulled him aboard they dipped the oak paddles into the water and accelerated into the bay. The Skin-riders pulled up at the edge of the water, shouting and cursing. Arrows buzzed through the air and made thin splashes in the sea. One struck the hull of the longboat with a sharp thunk!, making Malus duck. The remaining arrows fell short as the longboat pulled steadily out of range. The highborn watched the crowd fire a few more arrows, then after a moment they turned and began lumbering down the shoreline towards the camp’s landing area.

  The sky above the camp roiled with black smoke and rising clouds of bright cinders. It appeared that the Skinriders were having little luck extinguishing the burning tower. A large mob had gathered at the landing and longboats were rowing furiously between the shore and the six raiders at anchor in the bay. Malus looked back over his shoulder at the vagabond, growing closer with every broad sweep of the oars. He saw pale-faced figures racing along the decks; Tanithra and the rest of the corsairs had cast off any pretence of deception and were readying the ship to sail as quickly as they could.

  Minutes later the longboat pulled up alongside the reeking hull of the captured scout. Malus and Hauclir scrambled up the rope ladder onto the ship, clutching crumpled sheaves of stolen charts under their arms.

  Tanithra was waiting for them on the main deck, her expression tense. “So much for guile and secrecy,” she said.

  “Sorcery makes a mockery of us all,” Malus growled. “Where is my esteemed half-brother?”

  “He went below as soon as the thunder started onshore.”

  Malus grunted. “Let’s hope he’s preparing a surprise for their sorcerer. How soon can we make sail?”

 
“We’re taking in the anchor now.” She nodded at the crumpled charts. “Did you find what you were after?”

  “I have no idea,” Malus said with a shrug. The Skinriders weren’t being very obliging.” He handed his load of charts over to “Haudir and went to the rail, looking out at the Skinrider ships. “What do you think they’re going to do?”

  “Normally, I’d say they would scatter, spreading the alarm to the rest of the nearby hideouts. But if they know you’ve run off with their sea charts, I’d expect they’d chase us all the way to Clar Karond to get them back.” She pointed at the frantic efforts of the Skinrider longboats. The good news is that a lot of their crews were ashore and their ships aren’t ready to sail. The captains over there will have a hard time sorting themselves out.”

  At that moment the crowd on the shore scattered like rats as a figure wreathed in green fire moved in their midst. When the sorcerer reached the water’s edge he raised his hand and rose on a crackling pillar of emerald lightning. Higher and higher the sorcerer rose, like a fiery arrow shot into the air over the bay, then he plunged slowly and steadily down onto the deck of one of the nearer enemy ships. Skin-riders scrambled across the deck, backlit by the angry glow of the sorcerer’s presence.

  “I think the captains are going to be encouraged to hurry,” Malus said, his voice tinged with dread. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Dawn found the vagabond well south of the Skinriders’ island, racing along the waves with the wind strong and bearing on her starboard quarter. Tanithra had put on all the sail the little ship had and with her hands on the wheel the scout was as nimble as a race horse, plunging headlong for the horizon with a pack of sea wolves loping in her wake.