by C. L. Werner
Drutheira’s eyes went wide with horror as she gazed on that countenance. It was a face that had haunted her darkest nightmares for centuries. ‘Ashelir,’ she gasped.
A sepulchral laugh escaped the shadow’s lips. ‘I am pleased you remember me. I had thought you’d forgotten the family you abandoned and left to die when you chased after the usurper and supported his cause.’
The druchii closed her eyes, unable to meet the gaze of her enemy. Shame, something she thought had been burned out of her soul long ago, raced through her veins. ‘Now my son comes to kill me,’ she whispered. Truly the gods had a cruel sense of humour that she should come to such a finish so far away from the lands that had been their home.
Ashelir drew one of the knives from his belt. For an instant, it seemed he would pounce upon her and sink the blade deep into her heart. Instead, the hate in his eyes subsided. ‘I am here for more than revenge,’ he declared. ‘I am here on behest of my patron. Here to serve the Phoenix Crown and the true king of Ulthuan.’ He cut a length of silvery rope from the coil that hung from the lining of his cloak. Sheathing his knife, he tested the strength of the cord.
‘I have come for you,’ Ashelir said. ‘To bring you back to my patron. Alive.’
Drutheira didn’t resist as her son bound her hands together. ‘It must disappoint you, to have looked forward to this day and be cheated of it because your master holds you back.’ She cried out in pain as Ashelir drew the cord tight.
‘There will be a great hole inside me when you are gone, witch,’ Ashelir snarled. ‘Hate and revenge have been my strength for so long, I don’t know what I will be without them.’
‘Then we have much in common,’ Drutheira said.
Ashelir reached to his knife again, caressing its ivory handle. ‘The only thing we have in common is the blade that will end your life. Make no mistake, witch, when my patron is finished with you, then you are mine.
‘Khaine himself won’t stay my hand then.’
‘Riposte! Riposte!’
Thoriol darted to the side as the Chracian came at him again. The warrior’s blade flashed towards him, glancing across his shoulder as he swung away from his adversary’s strike. Sparks flashed from his pauldron, little flecks of crimson enamel scraped away by the kiss of steel. The prince slashed his own blade at the warrior’s back, frowning when his foe twisted away at the last second.
‘Feint to your right! The right!’
Each time a new direction was barked at him, Thoriol felt his face turn red. He knew he was indifferent when it came to the sword, but he didn’t need to be reminded of it. Not from that quarter, anyway. When his instructors told him he was doing something wrong, it was to make him better. When his uncle did it, it was to emphasise his failings.
When Envaldein came around again, Thoriol deliberately overstepped, thrusting at the White Lion with enough carelessness that the Chracian was quick to jab at his ribs. Thoriol felt the teakwood button fixed to the tip of his opponent’s sword slap against his armour.
King Caledor II rose from his golden throne, his emerald robes swirling about his tall frame as he hastened down the dais and across the tiled floor. For a moment, Thoriol saw a touch of alarm on the royal visage, but it was quickly subdued by an expression of disappointment.
The king ignored Envaldein as he stepped past the warrior. After scoring his hit against Thoriol, the White Lion had bowed and laid his sword on the floor. He kept his eyes averted as the king swept past him. The Chracian was an astonishingly skilled swordsman – among the best in all the ten kingdoms – but his king extended to him the same degree of courtesy he might show a dog. It was a display that never failed to disgust Thoriol no matter how often he saw it.
‘That was an underwhelming exhibition,’ Caledor sighed. ‘If you had been crossing swords with a druchii, you’d be dead now.’ The king reached out, pulling the button from the point of Thoriol’s sword. He frowned as he looked at the blade. ‘Hardly an elegant weapon. Your position entitles you to a much finer blade. A sword of ithilmar, keen as the beak of a phoenix and light as an eagle’s feather.’
Thoriol bowed his head. ‘A gracious offer, my liege.’
Caledor sighed. ‘An offer you have already refused.’ He tossed the teakwood button on the floor. A file of servants stood along the far side of the room, arrayed to attend their king. One of them hurried out from the line, snatching up the button while it was still rolling and swiftly disposing of it.
‘Such ingratitude is unseemly.’ The sharp retort came from a thin, pale elf wearing heavy robes of scarlet trimmed in gold. The expression of resentment on the asur’s face was undisguised. There was no love between Thoriol and Hulviar, the king’s seneschal. The slightest hint of royal disapproval and the mask of polite propriety would slip away and expose the hostility lurking beneath. It was easy enough to appreciate that hostility: before Thoriol joined the king’s court, Hulviar had been his closest advisor. Caledor’s new interest in his nephew had created competition for the royal ear.
‘I am not ungrateful,’ Thoriol corrected Hulviar. He held the sword upright, displaying the polished steel of the blade, the intricate lettering that flowed down the edge, the delicate carving of the hilt and guard, the metal dragon with folded wings that served as the pommel. It was many years since he’d been presented with this sword. He had abandoned it once, cast it aside on the slopes of the Dragonspine. He had found it again when going through his father’s effects in Tor Alessi.
Thoriol stiffened his back and returned Hulviar’s hostile gaze. ‘This sword is important to me,’ he said. ‘No other blade could ever take its place. If I will ever become the warrior my liege wishes me to become, it must be with this blade and no other.’
‘And this isn’t the arrogance of youthful pride?’ Hulviar sneered. Too late the seneschal recognised the trap he’d walked into. His sneer withered when he saw Thoriol turn towards the king.
‘This is the sword given to me by my father,’ Thoriol told Caledor.
The king was silent for a moment, his expression inscrutable even to Hulviar. At length, Caledor gave the slightest of nods. ‘Prove worthy of it,’ he said. ‘You have a great legacy to live up to. The House of Tor Caled is the line of kings and heroes. There is none greater.’
The veil of propriety was back when Hulviar addressed his king. ‘My liege, forgive me, but we have received new reports from the colonies.’
Caledor gestured to the kneeling Envaldein, dismissing the warrior. Slowly, the king retraced his steps to his throne. As he seated himself, he stared out of the arched window that looked eastwards. ‘It is always the colonies,’ he said. His look was sharp when Hulviar approached the throne. ‘And it is always bad news from the colonies. What are these fools doing to let a rabble of mud-dwelling savages vex them so?’
‘The colonial council in Tor Alessi reports that the dwarfs have assaulted Athel Toralien again. Dwarf ships also bombarded the waterfront in Sith Remora, the first time they have dared to attack the port. There are also rumours–’
‘I care nothing for rumours!’ Caledor snapped, his fist crashing against the jewelled arm of his throne. ‘It is clear that the council is too incompetent to conduct this war. They have squandered every consideration shown to them. They hide behind their walls and leave these savages free to range where they will.’
‘I was there at the Fourth Siege of Tor Alessi,’ Thoriol reminded him. ‘The dawi are a powerful enemy. One that is not easily challenged.’
Hulviar shook his head. ‘They do not seem to challenge the dwarfs at all,’ he said. ‘They have adopted a defensive mindset. They lose a few dragons to some mud-skulker trickery and they retreat. They don’t send word of victories. Instead they plead for more. More warriors. More weapons. More dragons.’
‘If they ask for more, perhaps they need it,’ Thoriol suggested.
‘We have nothing
to spare for the colonies,’ Hulviar said. ‘Everything is committed to the campaign against Naggaroth. Malekith is in retreat – his disciples will not be able to resist much longer.’
‘How long can our colonies resist?’ Thoriol wondered.
‘As long as they are expected to,’ Hulviar said. ‘Once the druchii problem is resolved, the whole might of Ulthuan can be set against the dwarfs.’
Thoriol directed a cold smile at the seneschal. ‘Then you make a good case for them to remain on the defensive. To wait out the dwarfs…’
‘We will not wait to punish those animals,’ Caledor snarled. ‘In their burrows they celebrate the murder of my brother. I will not allow that disgrace to continue. The dwarfs will learn what it means to shed the blood of a prince of Tor Caled.’
Hulviar glanced anxiously at the throne. ‘You will draw troops away from the Naggaroth beachhead?’
Caledor nodded. ‘We have Malekith in retreat. We can spare the warriors to teach these mud-diggers a lesson.’ The king leaned back in his seat, his expression growing pensive. ‘More important than fresh troops, however, is fresh leadership. The council has proven their ineffectiveness at prosecuting the war. No war is won through defence. Battle must be taken to the enemy. Imladrik understood that. I know he disagreed with the necessity of war, but he did understand how to win that war. The council doesn’t.’
‘You will send one of your generals to take charge, as you did with Imladrik?’ Hulviar asked. ‘Perhaps Lord Belicar or Thirian?’
The king laughed, and in that laugh was all the scorn and contempt in his royal body. ‘There is no need to draw any of my best generals away from eradicating the druchii. These mud-lickers don’t warrant such consideration. Lord Myrion has no pressing duties.’
‘Lord Myrion is but a garrison commander in Cothique,’ Hulviar objected. ‘He’s never commanded more than a few companies at one time.’
‘He is my choice just the same.’ Caledor’s voice was cold as he made the statement. ‘Myrion chafes under garrison duties. He is eager to do anything to bring glory to his name. Let the colonials try to hide behind their walls with Myrion commanding them. Just let them try! When I cast him upon the shores of Elthin Arvan, I shall be loosing a wild griffon upon the dwarfs.’
Thoriol rushed to the throne, prostrating himself at the king’s feet. ‘Please, majesty, allow me to accompany Lord Myrion.’ His hand clenched about the dragon pommel of the sword at his side.
Caledor shook his head, a hint of sadness in his expression. ‘No. Not this time,’ he told Thoriol. ‘Hunting savages in the wilds is no place for the House of Tor Caled.’ Again, he looked through the eastward window, seeming to stare across the ocean to those distant shores. ‘It never was,’ he added, and just for a heartbeat, Thoriol thought he saw a tear gleaming in his uncle’s eye.
A wave of heat rose from the forge, carrying with it a faint flicker of amber light. Rune magic, aethyric power bound into the forge itself. Only a runesmith could work such a forge – only his mind was trained to appreciate the intricacies of dealing with bound magic. A normal smith would find his mind wandering, his imagination seized by flights of fancy inspired by the escaping energies. He would lose the discipline and concentration demanded by his work. Whatever he cast would fail and bring disgrace to his name.
Morek knew how those smiths who had defied convention and attempted to use a rune forge must have felt. Even he, accustomed as he was to binding magic into stone and steel, felt his will put to the test as he laboured over Morgrim’s sword. Weird emanations rose from the broken blade, strange harmonies that set his brain pounding and his heart racing. Once, the elven enchantments had even provoked a nosebleed, though he’d been on his guard for such malignant vibrations since.
It had been the better part of a year already and Morek had yet to reforge the blade. Before he started his work it had been necessary to familiarise himself with the sword, to understand the enchantments bound within it. He’d had to study the blade’s communion with the rune forge, find a way to bring their disparate vibrations into harmony.
Forek had helped for a time. His command of the elven tongue and elven letters had been of immeasurable help, though Morek was reluctant to confess that to anyone. The former ambassador had deciphered the name of the sword: Ifulvin. Morgrim had called it ‘Bitter-Blade’ and such, Morek understood, was the name’s translation. But to work proper magic upon anything it was vital to know its true name. By knowing the sword’s name in the elven tongue, the runesmith hoped to tame it, subdue its enchantment enough to bring it under control.
The whole process had been too slow for Forek. His translation work done, the steelbeard had withdrawn. Morek understood that he had left Karaz-a-Karak entirely. Like Morgrim, Forek burned to return to battle, balking at each and every delay. The steelbeard would have gladly followed Morgrim’s banner, but with Elgidum restrained by High King Gotrek’s order, he had been compelled to seek another general to serve – one who would lead him to battle with the elgi and give him the chance to avenge even a small part of the great shame that had been done to him.
Morek watched the heat of the forge rippling along the length of Ifulvin. If they felt any shame at all, he imagined that the elves would be dishonoured to lose such a sword. He had discovered a grudging admiration for it as he laboured upon it. Far from being the fragile, delicate thing he’d expected, he had discovered a weapon of terrible potency and astounding craftsmanship. Certainly dwarf craftsmanship had proven better – hadn’t Azdrakghar broken Ifulvin? – but it was foolish to believe that the elgi swordsmiths were without skill. Ifulvin was a blade built for speed and finesse, as different from the heavy, sturdy axes of the dawi as the mountains from the sea. Perhaps there was a lesson there, something about the psychology of both peoples. The elgi, swift and flighty. The dawi, slow and enduring.
Of more importance to Morek, however, was deciphering the weird magic the elves had infused into the blade. It was frustrating – strange and yet familiar all at once. Perhaps the way the elves used magic was a key to overcoming them. Where a runesmith harnessed magic, bound it into solid shapes, chained it into a semblance of substance, an elf mage worked much differently. They seemed to leave the magic as it was, letting it alter the things it was focused upon rather than having the focus change the magic. It was a difficult concept to work his mind around, as strange to him as learning that fire burned cold or that water could be dry. Deep down inside, his spirit rebelled at the wrongness of such concepts, much less seeing them put into practice.
‘This is what keeps you from your duties?’
Morek swung around as the voice smacked across his ears. A flush crept into the runelord’s face as he watched his mentor and master march into the crypt-like hall that held the rune forge. Ranuld Silverthumb’s long beard was tucked into the broad belt he wore over his fur-trimmed robes. Jewelled torcs glittered on his arms and a circlet of gromril topped by a piece of polished malachite rested upon his brow. Runes sparked from the stones set in the rings he wore, and about his neck hung a ponderous granite pectoral upon which were set several potent symbols of power.
Ranuld would have cast a magnificent image were it not for the wizened appearance of his skin, the drawn look of his face. His eyes weren’t as vibrant as they had once been. Morek knew they’d lost much of their lustre when the High Runelord’s authority began to be defied. None openly flaunted Ranuld’s advice or outright ignored his requests, but they were refused just the same. The kings didn’t wish to send their runelords abroad, even to convene the Burudin. The same kings saw no reason not to allow their runesmiths to craft weapons Ranuld told them were too dangerous to forge. Few could comprehend the drive to seek out ‘old magic’ in the oldest deeps when there were so many more immediate uses for their runesmiths to be put to.
Morek was one of the few who continued to stand by Ranuld and trust completely to his wisdom. He was
almost a living ancestor, old enough that he had walked these halls during the glory days of the Karaz Ankor. If a dwarf didn’t respect that, then he was unworthy of his beard. It pained him that his master could think he’d defied one of his orders.
‘Master, I did as you wished,’ Morek explained. ‘I have been back for nearly a year now. Do you not remember when I brought back word from the rest of the Burudin?’
Ranuld pressed a hand to the side of his head, kneading his temple as though to stir the memory into being. A confused look came into his eyes. He lowered his hand and pointed at Ifulvin. ‘You are recasting an elf blade?’ He made a disapproving grunt at the back of his throat. ‘Wilful things, elgi enchantments. You have to keep your eye on them every second or they slip away. King Snorri Whitebeard had an elgi sword. A gift from their Prince Malekith. That was… oh… a very long time ago. Before you were born.’
Morek didn’t think it was prudent to remind Ranuld that it was before the High Runelord’s time as well. These last years, Ranuld’s mind had started to wander, losing focus on what he considered petty trivialities. Things like what year it was or what a person’s name might be.
‘I am fixing this blade for Morgrim Bargrum,’ Morek explained. ‘He won it in battle with an elgi prince.’
Ranuld nodded, stroking his beard. Strands of hair came away as they caught in his rings. ‘Elgidum,’ he said. ‘He who will slay the dragon and become king.’
Again Morek bit his tongue. He had heard from Morgrim how Ranuld had chanced upon Prince Snorri and his cousin deep beneath Karak Krum. He’d muttered his prophecy then, but had failed to tell Snorri he was speaking of Morgrim rather than the prince. Now Morek wondered if the prophecy was even meant for Morgrim. The only dragons that had been felled in the war were those at Kazad Mingol – one claimed by the crews of the doomed skryzan-harbark and another finished off by Rundin Torbansonn of the skarrenawi.
