by C. L. Werner
‘The king fights from sorrow and revenge,’ Morgrim said. ‘That would be enough for you or I or Forek, but he needs more than that. He fears for the kingdom, fears for the future of the dawi. He needs to fight with hope in a victory worth winning.’
‘An elf sword will do all that?’ Morek scoffed.
‘No,’ Morgrim said. ‘But it will remind him of what I have overcome. Who I have overcome. It will remind him of the warrior who stays sheathed in his halls.’
‘Then where will he find this hope you say he needs?’ the runelord wondered.
Morgrim’s eyes became like chips of granite. ‘Let the king send me back into battle, and the victories I bring him will give him all the hope he needs. Reforge Bitter-Blade for me. Let me carry the elf sword to Gotrek’s throne and show him that I have already vanquished the best the elgi have to send against us.’
Lord Ilendril scowled as he cast his gaze across the bleak shoreline of sand and scrub. Away across the western horizon, the opposite shore rose, much nearer than the elf lord found comfortable. The Iron Gulf wasn’t exactly friendly waters for an elven galley like the Cormorant. When he looked at the ship’s captain from the corner of his eye, he could see the trepidation there. The captain knew better than to voice such concerns to a highborn like Ilendril, of course. It made things so much easier when a peasant knew his place. It wasn’t the captain’s business to wonder if the object of this voyage was worth the dangers it entailed. It was simply his duty to obey.
Dismissing the captain’s worries from his thoughts, Ilendril studied the barren shore, searching for whatever markers might yet remain of Feillas, the tiny port that had once been the gateway to the city of Oeragor. Even before the fall of Oeragor, Feillas had been destroyed by dwarf warships, annihilated a few years after the Phoenix King struck down a dwarfish prince in single combat.
‘There is a ship to starboard.’ The words were but a whisper, but they struck Ilendril like a lash. He spun around, forgetting for an instant the detached poise demanded of a highborn. There was no one near him on the deck, no one close enough to whisper in his ear. That left only one possibility. Regaining his composure, he walked across the deck to where a lone elf leaned against the starboard rail.
‘Ashelir,’ the elf lord said, studying the cloaked figure. Not for the first time Ilendril appreciated why the crew shunned their passenger. The taint of Nagarythe was something unmistakable, a coldness of bearing, a practised furtiveness that coloured the elf’s every motion. The steel blades that hung from his broad belt had been forged in Nagarythe. His crescent-headed arrows had been fletched with feathers from Nagarythe’s fisher-hawks. His grey cloak, seeming to shift between hues with each breath, was wrapped in the magics of Nagarythe. Nagarythe, the broken land that had spawned Malekith, the Witch King of Naggaroth.
There were few among the asur who tolerated the elves of Nagarythe, however loudly they declared their loyalty. For most, there was little difference between the shadow warriors and the druchii they fought. Ilendril, however, was more pragmatic. If there was one thing he could appreciate, it was the hate one could bear for his own people. In a way, it made Ashelir and himself kindred souls.
‘A dwarf ship,’ Ashelir said, his eyes still staring out across the sea. There was more than a little magic about the shadow warrior. He couldn’t work any mighty spells like the mages of Saphery, but he had abilities that strayed down arcane paths. The lineage of his bloodline strayed to sorcery – at least before the Sundering.
Blood will call to blood. It was an old parable, but one that Ilendril had invested a great deal of faith in.
‘They will find us?’ Ilendril asked.
Ashelir kept his face towards the horizon. ‘If we stay this course.’
‘We stay the course,’ Ilendril declared. He glanced back at the captain. It would be some minutes before the lookouts spotted the enemy ship. He could pass along Ashelir’s warning now, but to do so might cause the crew to decide that flight was the prudent course. Ilendril wouldn’t allow their timidity to waste his time and threaten his venture.
‘I’ll rouse Vithrein from his meditation,’ Ilendril said. ‘Keep your eyes on the enemy. Warn the captain just before his own spotters catch sight of it.’ It was an effort to keep his pace unhurried as he left Ashelir and made his way below deck. It took only a few moments to reach Vithrein’s cabin and rouse him from his trance. Ilendril only needed a single word to explain the situation to the other elf.
‘Dwarfs.’
The word caused Vithrein’s lean, pale features to slip into a grimace. An ugly light shone in the depths of his jade-green eyes. One swift motion brought him to the gem-crusted box lying upon its silken pillow. A gesture of his hand and the lid of the box spiralled open like the petals of a flower. Vithrein reached down and removed a long spur of what looked like charred bone. Ilendril knew the object was a piece of horn. More than that, he knew what manner of creature it belonged to.
As the two elves climbed back on deck, the frightened shouts of the crew struck their ears. The dwarf warship was a dark speck on the horizon. Ilendril felt his heart jump when he saw plumes of black smoke belch from the enemy ship. The dwarfs had spotted the Cormorant and were shovelling fuel into their engines.
‘My lord, the dwarfs have seen us!’ The Cormorant’s captain had the dignity not to outright beg as he called to Ilendril, but the highborn caught the note of entreaty in the peasant’s voice.
‘We cannot outrun them,’ Ilendril stated. ‘The open sea is behind us. Ahead of us is naught but the neck of a bottle with Barak Varr at the end.’ He turned towards the crew as they hurried to tack on more sail and cast stowage over the side. ‘By the grace of Mathlann, we are not fated to die in a mud-digger’s puddle. I did not bring you so far just so a bearded runt could brag about sinking us in some brewhall burrow. Behold the might of Tor Javril!’
As he spoke, Ilendril made a furtive wave of his hand to Vithrein. The mage sat down upon the rolling deck and brought the horn to his lips. No sound rose from the blackened spur – at least no sound that could be heard by elven ears. The melody Vithrein played was meant for something else.
Long minutes passed. With each breath the dwarf warship came steaming closer. The iron plating of its hull was distinct now, as were the grotesque battlemasks bolted to its sides. Ballistae mounted in the fore and aftcastles could be seen rotating on their mounts, being brought to bear upon the elf ship. Bearded warriors raised their axes and howled their savage war-cries.
The Cormorant’s captain came down from the foredeck, hurrying to Ilendril’s side. In his alarm, he almost forgot decorum and reached out for the highborn. At the last instant, he pulled back, remembering the insult his common fingers would inflict upon noble flesh. ‘My lord, we cannot fight them,’ he reported, as though Ilendril were ignorant of so obvious a fact.
‘We won’t have to,’ Ilendril said. Before the captain could question his meaning, the Cormorant was rocked by a series of unexpectedly savage waves. Sailors began shouting in shock, pointing at the water. Ilendril followed the captain to the side. Together they watched as a massive shape undulated through the waves, keeping itself just beneath the surface. Great rolls of azure and white, slithering through the water like some vast serpent. Ilendril imagined the captain would be upset if he knew the beast had been following them ever since they’d left port in Ulthuan. Of course, watching the thing speed straight towards the dwarf warship made such deception perfectly justified.
The dwarf ship was still beyond the range of its ballistae when the merwyrm rose from the depths, exploding from the waves with the violence of a water spout. In its first rush, the enormous sea serpent crumpled the vessel’s portside plating and smashed its forecastle bolt thrower into the sea. Dwarf warriors rushed at it with axe and hammer, but the great serpent twisted away. Rearing back, the merwyrm spilled itself across the deck, smashing dozens of dwarfs be
neath its coils. The enormous head, more like that of a dragon than the bronze effigy mounted to the ship’s prow, snapped its jaws around the bolt thrower in the aftcastle, ripping it free in a shower of splinters and twisted metal.
Ilendril fought to remain composed as he watched the mighty merwyrm wreak destruction upon the dwarfs. Sometimes he glanced over at Vithrein blowing upon the horn, directing the mammoth reptile with his arcane melody. The focus and direction of an asur mind married to the elemental might of a sea serpent! If they weren’t such contemptible barbarians, he might even find it possible to feel pity for the dwarfs.
A primordial cry, half howl and half hiss, erupted from the merwyrm’s maw as its flippers swatted armoured dwarfs into the sea. The dwarfs sank like anchors as they struck the waves. Even as they vanished from sight, the serpent looped another coil of its sinuous body around the vessel. Tightening its hold, the merwyrm began to crush the stout warship.
The elf lord smiled. Vithrein’s magic had survived its first test but it would need to do much more before Ilendril was satisfied.
Much more indeed.
Chapter Three
Elven Blades
239th year of the reign of Caledor II
She could almost see the hate boiling from her companions, like waves of heat rising from the desert. Every motion, every gesture, every breath was invested with the deepest loathing. It was a testament to how much they needed her that she was still alive. Once that need was gone, the only question would be which of them would strike first. Would it be Ashniel or Malchior? Which of her old acolytes was bold enough?
Drutheira gazed into the flames of the fire Malchior had kindled. The smoke rising from the fire had a bluish tinge, a little something extra for the benefit of the savages native to these forsaken wilds. Over the years enough of the skin-clad primitives had died by sorcery that the rest had learned to give the druchii a wide berth. The blue cast to the smoke would remind them that the sorcerers they feared were yet abroad in these lands.
Wastes, that was what they were: miserable, sun-bleached desolation as far as the eye could see. Even the chill frontiers of Naggaroth were preferable to this brown ruin of dead sand and leafless scrub. That there was life here at all was something Drutheira still found astonishing. Yet there was game enough to be had, fruit of a sort that could be harvested from the thorny scrub and scraggly trees. Somehow, even the packs of tribal humans managed to survive, persisting in lands neither dwarf nor goblin saw fit to inhabit.
‘Do you wonder how the war fares?’ Malchior asked. The sorcerer sat across from Drutheira, roasting some small creature over the flames. She couldn’t be certain if it was a lizard or a rat. She was more worried that her old acolyte was eavesdropping on her thoughts again. It was a bad habit he’d developed as soon as he figured out her powers were too weak to guard against his spying.
‘It is of small consequence to us,’ Drutheira said. ‘Whether it is the asur or the dawi who prevail, the victor will hardly welcome us.’
‘Perhaps we should try to contact Naggarond again?’ Ashniel’s voice carried an almost pathetic hopefulness. Drutheira could almost pity her, if any such emotion were still possible for a druchii. There had been a time when she’d considered Ashniel the more dangerous of her acolytes, more calculating and subtle than Malchior. She’d even been more capable in the black arts, possessing a greater affinity for the dark Wind of Dhar.
‘I think our king has heard all he wants from us,’ Malchior told Ashniel. His words weren’t merely blunt; they were deliberately cruel, punctuated by a sneer and a mocking laugh. He looked over at Drutheira. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘There is no room for weakness in Naggaroth,’ Drutheira declared. ‘Even if we were able to appeal to Malekith for help, the act itself would diminish us. Rivals and enemies would see us as easy prey. No, if we are to return, we must do so on our own.’
Malchior tore one of the charred legs from his meal and took an experimental bite of it. He frowned and thrust the carcass back into the fire. ‘So you have been saying. We’ve spent a long time waiting for you to recover your powers and show us the way. It would pain me to think all that time and effort had been wasted.’
Drutheira clamped down on the thoughts that formed in her mind. She’d allowed Malchior to pick too many secrets from her brain already. He couldn’t know the truth about her condition. Her link to Bloodfang had been crude and hasty, magic of necessity rather than caution. At the time she’d been arrogant enough to believe she was capable of wielding such power. Only now did she understand the true price she’d paid for her presumption. Alive, she’d poked and prodded Bloodfang’s mind, enslaving the beast to her will. That connection hadn’t been severed when the dragon was struck down by the asur mage Liandra and her drake. Even now she couldn’t break the connection. She could feel Bloodfang lying at the bottom of the sea, its scales rotting away, fish swimming between its bones, worms nibbling away at its flesh. The weight of the sea was constantly pressing down on her, making her head pound with sympathetic pressure. Her magic was yet bound to the dragon’s carcass, drawn out of her as though by some blood-sucking ghost.
As she watched Malchior, Drutheira saw the sudden change that came into his eyes. His lips spread in a malignant smile. At once, she knew he’d slipped through her defences and discovered the truth she’d tried to hold from him. ‘You disappoint me,’ he declared. ‘It seems we will have to find a way back without you.’
Drutheira drew the wisps of aethyr that would still respond to her will into a hurried conjuration, an arcane barrier between herself and the sorcerer. She remembered how she’d destroyed the dwarf fire-wizard those long years ago, the mighty death magic she had evoked to bring the creature to ruin. Now it was an ordeal to summon even a fraction of such power.
Malchior’s attack took the shape of a jagged spear, a thing of writhing shadows and moaning shades. It flashed from his outstretched hand, shrieking across the camp at her. The hasty ward she’d erected to defend herself crackled, flaring from unseen force to a sparking shell of purple light. The shell fractured as the spear stabbed into it, then crumbled apart as the sorcerer threw more energy into his magic. Drutheira cried out as the arcane shadow seared across her arm. She could feel the flesh wither where it brushed past her, sense the vitality ebbing away as the sorcery sucked some of her life essence out of her.
The sorcerer laughed and began to draw energy into himself for another conjuration. Drutheira knew she couldn’t resist another attack. Malchior’s next assault wouldn’t merely wound her, it would leave her crippled and helpless. She knew him better than to expect a swift, clean death. No, he’d take his time, savouring every scream and every cut.
In desperation, Drutheira looked to Ashniel, hoping that her acolyte would intervene. It wasn’t that the sorceress had any more love for her than Malchior, but she had to know what would happen if he prevailed. Bitter rivals, the two acolytes tolerated one another only because they needed each other. Once Drutheira was gone, it was doubtful Malchior would have further use for Ashniel.
Ashniel remained sitting at the edge of the camp. Incredibly, it seemed she was oblivious to the arcane duel being fought only a few yards away. There was a vapid look in her eyes, a lax cast to her features. Like some idiot thing, she just sat there, not even watching what was happening around her.
Then Ashniel’s body slumped forwards, exposing the grey-fletched arrow that had pierced her from behind. Sight of that arrow brought a surge of horror rushing through Drutheira’s heart. She knew that kind of arrow, had seen them strike down minions and companions many time before. But that had been in lost Nagarythe. To see the same kind of arrow here, in the unmapped wastes of Elthin Arvan, was impossible.
Her distraction made her defence even weaker. The sorcerous shell Drutheira had cast about her body exploded in a burst of shadow as Malchior’s magic slammed into it. She was hurled backwards,
every inch of her skin feeling as though it had been scalded by a burning coldness. Hoarfrost coated her robe, dripped from her hair, clung to her flesh. It was an agony just to open her lips and try to utter a protective incantation.
Malchior scowled at her. ‘I lived in terror of you, once. Now you will live in terror of me. For a time.’ He glanced aside abruptly, belatedly noticing the prostrate form of Ashniel and the arrow sticking in her back. It was the sorcerer’s turn to attempt a hasty protective ward. His hand had just started the first gesture of his evocation when an arrow whistled out from the barren wastes and transfixed his head. Malchior swayed for a moment as the magic he’d drawn into his body gradually bled away. Then he crashed face first into the fire, crushing his last meal beneath him.
Drutheira took no comfort in her unexpected reprieve. The effects of Malchior’s spell were fading away now that he was dead, but they weren’t dispersing fast enough. She could barely breathe, much less manage any sort of conjuration. She could only look on helplessly as a shape rose from among the sandy dunes. At first it seemed like part of the dune had become animate and was gliding towards her. With each step a bit more of the illusion was cast aside. The walking drift of sand took on a humanoid outline, then resolved itself into the tall, lean shape of an elf. His enchanted cloak darkened, losing its sandy appearance to become a thing of dull grey, much like the fletching of the arrows in the quiver at the elf’s side.
‘Yours must have been a long hunt, shadow-crawler,’ Drutheira spat at the approaching elf. There was no mistaking the taint that clung to this apparition, the stigma of those of Nagarythe who shunned their rightful king, Malekith, to follow the line of pretenders led by the first Caledor.
‘I should have trailed you into the crypts of the Pale Queen,’ the shadow declared. Each word was laced with a bitterness that struck Drutheira like a lash. ‘Glory to Khaine that my hunt did not demand I go that far.’ Grimly, the elf lifted his hand to his face and pulled down the fold of cloth that covered his visage.
