00.1 - The Blood Price (4 page)

“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.”