“Damn your husk of a corpse to the End Times and back! You’ll get what’s coming to you.”
After the tempest of colourful invective had passed, Ghow finally summoned the courage to sidle up to Roth.
“Your orders, sir?”
“Blast it all, Ghow, we’re stuck here like fools—stuck here ’til the tides return. Fly the flag o’ parley, we may as well make use of the wait. Get the others over here, moor their auxiliaries to us and gather the captains in the Sanctum Templus.”
Ghow raised a heavily-pierced eyebrow with a soft ching.
“Yes, even the elf,” said Roth. “This is far from over. By the blood of my kin, this isn’t over yet.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The ghost of Sigmarite prayer-incense still lingered in the inner sanctum of the Heldenhammer’s Grand Templus. Roth sat bolt upright in the Theogonist’s command throne, the largest of twelve high-backed wooden seats arranged around a long table made from polished jade. In the vaulted dome high above him were the broken remains of twelve stained glass windows, all bar one of which had been shattered by the fury of battle. Jagged shards crunched underfoot and fragments of priceless iconography lay scattered across the table and the floor. Only one window remained intact: a stained-glass scene that depicted Sigmar’s victory over the Great Necromancer.
Lounging in the throne-chair to Roth’s left was Aranessa Saltspite, paler than ever in the sanctum’s candlelight. A soot-blackened strip of cloth was wound tightly about her neck. She had kissed Roth passionately when she had come aboard, but she had barely said a word to him since. Her contradictory behaviour had done nothing to improve Roth’s foul mood.
By contrast, the Golden Magus was practically bouncing up and down in his seat.
“I tell you, Jaego old boy, there is nothing like staring over the brink of death to make a man feel truly alive, eh? That most golden of Magi was seconds away from being wrenched below. But of course you would consider such a thing trivial, a die-hard buckler of swash such as yourself. Ah, noble adventure. The tang of victory. Can you taste it, my brave sculptors of fortune? A sea-change is coming, no less. Surely we are only a few hours from immortality. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
Aranessa scowled and opened her mouth to make a barbed comment, but she was interrupted by the sanctum’s thick oaken door slamming open, rebounding with a judder from the empty bookcases lined around the walls.
A shockingly tall and slender elf stood in the vaulted archway. His mane of silver-red hair gleamed in the candlelight, and fires danced in his slanted black eyes.
Ghow Southman peered around the elf’s stylised shoulder guards with an apologetic grimace, his pierced slab of a face in stark contrast to the newcomer’s fine features.
The elf stared unblinking around the glass-strewn sanctum. His uncomfortably intense gaze fell on each of the pirate captains in turn. Red Brokk bristled under the Ulthuan commander’s scrutiny. He had refused to take a chair when he heard that an elf was coming aboard, muttering that he preferred to stand in case of elven treachery.
“Well met, given the circumstances,” said the elf, raising his chin. “A brief respite in which to share counsel. To whom does this remarkable vessel belong?”
Roth stood up and leaned forward, fixing the strange newcomer with an unflinching stare of his own.
“Well met. It belongs to Grand Theogonist Volkmar,” said Roth, motioning for Ghow to leave, “but it’s me at the helm. Let’s dispense with the formalities. This isn’t the Phoenix Court.”
“No indeed,” said the elf, a slight sneer upon his cupid’s bow lips. He slid fluidly into the seat furthest away from the dwarf and inclined his head towards Roth. The captain was reminded of an eagle choosing its moment to swoop claws-first upon its unsuspecting prey.
“Continue, please,” he said in his musical voice. “Some introductions are in order, I believe.”
“My name is Captain Jaego Roth,” answered the captain. “This is the Golden Magus, an old friend of mine from El Khabbath. The captain to my left is Aranessa Saltspite, known to men as the Queen of Tides, and the doughty gentleman standing across from you is Brokk Gunnarsson, a master engineer out of Barak Varr.”
“Quite a gathering,” breathed the elf. “I know all of you by reputation, save the dwarf of course. My lady,” said the elf, bowing his head to Aranessa, “it is an honour. Your father has been good to me over the years.”
Roth and the Golden Magus shared a brief glance as the elf continued his introduction.
“My name is Prince Yrellian, the first-born son of Phoenix King Finubar. My origins are of little importance here in the Uluthain, truth be told. Hence I will respect the good captain’s wishes and aim for the heart of the matter.”
“Suits me,” grumbled the dwarf, eyes narrowed. “I always aim for the heart where elves are concerned.”
“It would appear that we share a common cause,” continued the elf, ignoring the master engineer’s thinly-veiled threat. “The banishment of the evil that claims our lost kin.”
“I’m here to cut off Noctilus’ head and spit into the hole when I carve out his heart,” said Roth. “But yes, I suppose they amount to the same thing.”
“Not quite, Jaego, not quite,” interjected the Golden Magus, waggling a beringed finger. The elf looked at the sorcerer for a long moment before continuing.
“It is the fate of my kind to sacrifice ourselves for the good of the world. Aenarion and Caledor taught us this. But martyrdom is wasted without consequence.” The elf bowed his head once more. “So I thank you all. I fear that without your timely intervention, all would be lost.”
Aranessa shut her eyes hard, rubbing the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger.
“Look, you clearly know your way around a warship,” she said, “and frankly we need all the help we can get. You’re alive, too, which is a good start in this place. But you’re not going to impress us with pretty words and suspiciously clean hair. We’re here to kill.”
She stabbed a long-nailed finger at him like a knife. “Just tell us the truth. If you were here with old man Finubar’s navy, there’d be a lot more of you pointy-ears around, wouldn’t there?”
Red Brokk chuckled fondly into his beard and leant over towards Roth.
“I see why you like her so much, Jaego,” he whispered loudly.
The elf looked thunderstruck at Aranessa’s interjection. Emotions flowed across his fine features like clouds across the sun—first indignation, then bitter grief, and then a guilt so profound that it was difficult to behold. He took a deep breath and hung his head.
“I am, as you surmise, here without the Phoenix King’s consent. I have, in truth, been absent from his court for over a dozen moons.”
“So what are you doing in here?” asked Aranessa. “Trying to take down Noctilus and his puppets with what, a single warship and a couple of giant lizards? Don’t you realise what you’re up against?”
“It is a matter of honour. I must redeem myself.”
At this, Red Brokk’s head slowly rose up. Stowing the oily marlinspike he was using to pick his teeth, he pulled up a chair. His eyes never left the elf as he joined the captains at the table.
“My brother’s soul is in here, somewhere,” continued the elf prince, his face a mask of pain. “He is stranded in this dismal realm. Bel-Alhor the Golden, youth and hope incarnate. Taken by a leech wyrm some fourteen moons ago.”
There was a respectful silence. The elf closed his almond eyes.
“The fault was mine,” he whispered.
The admission hung in the air. The tallow candles above the table flickered and spat. The dwarf stared at the elf, a strange expression on his rivet-studded face.
Composing himself, Yrellian continued, eyes still screwed shut.
“I had hoped to find him here. I thought that I could pluck him from the vampire’s grasp and, in bringing him back to Ulthuan, find absolution. I commanded the Seadrake, jewel of my fleet, and wi
th me flew the bond-dragons Symiel and Aragnir. How could I fail?” he said bitterly.
His voice hardened into a determined monotone. “I now realise that it is not even close to enough. This place has claimed a thousand times a thousand spirits, lost souls that have become little more than mist. Mighty Symiel lies broken upon the rocks, another of my brothers lost to little more than pride.”
The elf opened his eyes. “I have learned my lesson, though the cost has been dear. Now I seek a different path: to end the curse of the Uluthain itself.”
“Speak plain, elf,” said Gunnarsson, gruffly. “Like the seamaid said.”
“Less of that, Brokk,” said Aranessa, a slipknife appearing between her fingers in place of her middle digit. “I’m every bit as mortal as you are.”
“He means the Galleon’s Graveyard,” said Roth, gesturing for Aranessa to put the blade away. “The elves call it the Uluthain. Go on, friend Yrellian.”
“This realm into which we have ventured,” continued the elf prince, “is not of the mortal plane. Rather, it exists upon the threshold of pure Chaos. It is so saturated with magic that all the seas of the world are held in its sway. He who controls it has an almost limitless reservoir of energy at his disposal.”
The elf paused for a second, letting the gravity of his statement sink in before continuing.
“Using the ancient rituals of the Great Necromancer, the one you call Noctilus has translocated his castle to this place, far from the power struggles of his vampiric brethren. He has forged a vision of undeath to rival Nagash himself. As the master of this realm, he is able to pass from here into the oceans of our world and back again.”
“But how do we kill him?” said Roth.
“He cannot truly be killed, not in the mortal realm at least. All those who die at sea are pulled into the Uluthain to rise again as the living dead. Should the creature that was once Nyklaus von Carstein die, he would swiftly be drawn back here and given unlife once more by the magic of this place.”
“So how can it be done?” spat Roth. “Every time I have him under my guns he just melts away!”
The elf opened his hands palm upwards, as if revealing a rare petal of truth.
“We must end the curse that blights these waters and spills out into the oceans we love. That alone will prevent his rebirth. He must be drawn out of his castle, for a tyrant will risk his crown only when someone moves to take it from him. If he were to be slain within this realm and the curse lifted, then Nyklaus would meet his final death.”
The Golden Magus leaned forward, his dark eyes peering over a steeple of ringed fingers. “The urns, Jaego.”
“Yes, yes,” said Roth, distractedly. “Have them brought here immediately.”
The sorcerer sat back in his throne once more. “It is already done.”
“So, this curse,” said Aranessa. “It’s the maelstrom, right? The spiral?”
“Yes,” said the elf, nodding slowly. “That is the blight.”
“It draws in the dead.”
“It does, just as its counterpart west of Cathay draws in life.”
The Magus nodded knowingly as this last comment, but for once he kept quiet.
“All right,” said Aranessa. “All right. That tallies with of a lot of things, for me at least. I believe you, Prince Yrellian. Remind me, Magus, how are we supposed to kill this thing again?”
The elf’s attention was suddenly and completely transferred to the sorcerer, who paled visibly.
“Well, I have no small ability in the mystic arts,” said the Magus. “That is to say, I have bound into my service those who have the power to disrupt, if not to actually destroy, the maelstrom.” He grinned nervously before continuing. “Though my studies indicate that a critical disruption would be enough, for as Al Razhed taught us, a vortex that is denied its circular momentum will dissipate under the force of its own energies.”
Ignoring the expressions on the faces of his fellows, the Magus plunged on.
“I long ago acquired the means to effect such a change, and I have taken the liberty of transferring the artefacts in question to the deck outside. Under armed guard, of course.”
For Yrellian’s eyebrows to have climbed any higher they would have had to joined forces with his impeccable mane of hair.
“They contain a great spell of some kind, I take it?”
“Aha,” said the Magus. “You ask for the keys to my closest secret, though your guess is not too far from the mark. The solution I have in mind is elemental in nature, not merely Chaotic. Very much elemental, in fact. Surely you saw how I dispatched the Kraken before we were forced into our little impasse?”
“Dispatched it?” harrumphed Red Brokk. “It’ll take a lot more than some watery bint wrestling away at a tentacle to dispatch the Gulgraz Krannak.” The dwarf bared his teeth in anger. “Tordrek Hackhart, damn his black soul. Must have taken a leaf out of Noctilus’ book, the traitorous trickle-legged coward; he won’t stay put long enough to get hit. But I have to end his worthless life somehow. A dwarf that tries to kill his own brothers needs to die, simple as that.”
“Betrayed by your own kind, eh?” grumbled Aranessa. “I know what that feels like. At least you weren’t thrown off a cliff as a child, just for being different.”
“Perhaps, my dwarf friend,” said Prince Yrellian, “just as with the vampire, one must stray into the beast’s domain in order to kill it. Striking the sword does not slay the wielder.”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” said Red Brokk impatiently. “The Thunder is the most revolutionary ironclad Barak Varr’s ever seen, but I built her to stay above the water, for Grimnir’s sake, not below. And as dwarfs cannot actually breathe brine, attacking the Krannak’s tentacles is about the only way I have of hurting it.”
“That reminds me, Aranessa dear,” said the Golden Magus, leaning over towards the female captain. “I finished my little project. There’s a present awaiting you in a crate upon your forecastle; something to restore you to your former glory.”
“You… you made something for me?” said Aranessa, looking stunned. “Really?”
“I hope you don’t think me too forward, it is just there is a distinct possibility that you might find it rather useful. You never know, after all the fates can be so very fickle. Especially if—”
Roth slammed his sickle-hand down sharply on the table with a loud bang. Nessa had brought it to him when she came aboard, cleaned of blood and good as new.
“Enough, Magus! We don’t have time for platitudes and prattle! We’re here to destroy Noctilus, remember? We need to draw him out. That means getting close to the centre of the maelstrom whilst keeping ourselves from going in.”
Roth pulled out his father’s depiction of the Galleon’s Graveyard, spread it across the table and weighted its curling ends with the two halves of the map case.
“We’re here, by my reckoning, just the other side of the volcanic belt,” said Roth, picking at the centre of the map with the point of his sickle. “When the tides rise again, we can push through this field of shipwrecks and emerge out of the other side. Then it’s through this tight circle of islands to the maelstrom beyond. It’s dense, but we’ll find a way through, even if we have to pass through Sculler’s Gate.”
“Sculler’s Gate?” said Red Brokk.
“It’s as far as my father ever got before turning back into the storm, the gatehouse to Noctilus’ inner keep. He always depicted it as a pair of giant skulls with gnashing teeth. I can’t blame him for not pressing on if the maelstrom lies beyond that wall.”
“And you think the vampire’ll come out in order to stop us from getting in?” said Aranessa.
“I believe so, at least,” said Roth, meeting Yrellian’s gaze. “We threaten the seat of his power, and he’ll do everything he can to ensure that we go no further. Once he commits to the fight…”
Roth smiled without humour, clapping the back of his sickle-hand into the palm of the other with a sharp slap.
; “I doubt we’ll find it that easy,” said Aranessa cautiously. “Have you ever seen one of those things fight? I saw Luthor Harkon take out a Bretonnian galleon once, east of Lustria. Didn’t sleep for a week.”
“Just get me a clear path to the Reaver,” said Roth. “That’s all.”
“Easy to say,” she persisted, “but, what with the rest of ’em clinging to Noctilus like a barnacle to a whale’s backside, not so easy to pull off. We’ll do our best to keep them away from you, though. Shame we didn’t finish off that Zandrian monster when we had the chance.”
“Magic. There’s not much you can do about it,” muttered Roth. “At least we have some of our own. That structure atop its deck, it’s the same pyramid I looted in Nehekhara, rebuilt stone for stone. The whole warship’s a curse, a curse on me and mine in particular.”
“Aye, well, cursed or not, the bloody thing can burn,” said Brokk.
“So burn it,” said Roth.
“At least we know we can hurt it,” said Aranessa, “When I rammed the Shadewraith back at the Vigils it was more mist than timber.”
“We haven’t seen it since Tilea.” said Roth.
“That doesn’t mean it’s not out there. You said Noctilus will throw everything he can at us if we threaten the source of his power. The idea of a broadside battle against something we can’t hurt doesn’t appeal.”
“Only magic can slay that which exists between worlds,” said Prince Yrellian.
The temple-ship shifted and the two halves of the map case slid off the edge of the table. Prince Yrellian caught them both before they hit the floor and handed them back to Roth with a bow. The Heldenhammer righted itself, and the groan of timbers filtered through from the hull outside.
“Thank you,” said Roth, looking up at the swinging candelabra above them. “Looks like the tide is turning.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” said Aranessa. “We fight our way through to the heart of the vampire’s lair and buy Roth the time he needs to push into the maelstrom. Once there, he and the Magus will use magic to break the spiral. If Noctilus is killed in the process, then so much the better. Is that right, gentlemen?”
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