00.1 - The Blood Price

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.”