00.1 - The Blood Price by Dan Abnett, Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

 
 
    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