by William King
There was a strong stink of magic in the air. Takalen was no mage but like all elves she was sensitive to the flows of magic. She could tell that something dark and awful had been done here. She pushed on into the main building, knowing already that what she would find would be terrible.
The air was close and foetid. Flies buzzed everywhere, brushing against her face, getting in her long ash-blonde hair, skittering across her exposed skin. There were too many of them for this to be entirely natural. The stink of dark magic was stronger here.
The old furniture was broken. It was as if a crowd of maniacs had rushed through this place, breaking everything precious they could find. Discarded clothing, blood-soaked, lay everywhere. There were odd outlines of elven shapes imprinted on the walls. It took the trained tracker long minutes to work out what had happened simply because her mind did not want to accept it. It looked like lust-maddened elves, and other things, had rolled in blood and had wild sex against the walls.
What in the name of Isha had happened here?
Takalen had heard rumours that some of the locals had been dabbling in the old rites of the Cult of Luxury. It looked like they had gone beyond dabbling here. It looked like they had taken to summoning things using the old dark magic.
Slaanesh! She deciphered another of the words crudely written on the walls, smeared in blood and excrement. Her lips curled. Her nose wrinkled. Slaanesh. The word was repeated again, mixed with other names, and curses and imprecations.
N’Kari was one of those names, an appellation almost as dreadful as that of the daemon lord of forbidden pleasures. It belonged to the Keeper of Secrets responsible for the Rape of Ulthuan in the dawn ages, a creature twice destroyed by the mighty Aenarion and thought gone forever.
N’Kari has returned.
The sentence was sometimes spelled out in crude block characters and sometimes in the graceful looping script of modern Elvish. It was repeated over and over again like the monotonous repetitions of a lunatic.
N’Kari will have vengeance.
In the great hall she found the remains of what might have been a daemonic orgy or a cannibal feast or some dreadful combination of both. Staked out in the middle of a curious ritual circle was the naked body of Fayelle, or at least something that might have looked like her, if her corpse had been desiccated and aged a thousand years.
It was a long time before Takalen could think clearly and do what had to be done.
chapter fifteen
Tyrion put on his old clothes. He stepped out onto the balcony and looked down into the street. It was late but there were people moving around down there still. Along this street he could see that the villas and mansions were all well lit but whole huge areas of the city were in darkness. Buildings loomed large in the moonlight. There was just no one in them as far as he could tell.
He felt excitement build up in him. He was really going to do this. He was going to slip out into the night and explore the city. He felt as if he were planning a prison break. It was not as if he was really a prisoner in the Emeraldsea Palace. He was sure they would let him go out if he asked. It was just that they would hem him around with guards and chaperones of other sorts and this was not what he wanted. He wanted to be on his own, to look at things at his own pace, to explore. He remembered some things about the city of his birth. He wanted to see how well it matched his childhood memories.
He considered waking Teclis to tell him what he was doing, but pushed the thought to one side. His brother would most likely want to come and that would make the logistics of the expedition so much more difficult. He would tell him about it tomorrow, when he returned. Tonight would just be a reconnaissance. There would be other nights or even days.
Plus, he wanted this for himself. He wanted to do it alone.
He lowered himself off the balcony. There was plenty of climbing ivy on the wall beneath but he doubted it would take his weight. Instead he used the gaps between the blocks of stone that made up the wall for foot and finger holds and made his way down, dropping the last ten feet to the ground. As soon as he hit, he picked himself up, dusted himself off and strolled away, whistling nonchalantly, walking with confidence as if what he was doing was perfectly normal.
As he walked he paused for a moment to study his surroundings and get his bearings. He felt certain he could find this place again. Things looked different at night but the Emeraldsea Palace was distinctive, so massive and with its towers greenly lit. He stared up at the hills above the harbour. A few lights glittered up there but not many. He knew what he was seeking was there though and he headed off, selecting a path that would take him up hill.
It was not long before the streets became much quieter, and he was alone in them. He moved more cautiously now prompted by instincts that told him in lonely places there was danger. He had his sword with him, strapped to his back for the climb. He adjusted the position of the scabbard to his waist so that it would be easier to draw, and practised unsheathing it a few times so that he could bring it forth, if needed, with eye-blurring speed. He enjoyed that. It made him feel like the hero in a story.
The buildings around him were old and gave off a fusty smell. No lights showed in any of them; they were empty. The windows of some had been boarded up. Others seemed completely abandoned. No one had lived in these places for many years. If he wanted to, he could simply pick one of these buildings and go and live in it.
For a moment he entertained the fantasy of dwelling like a castaway in the shell of one of these forgotten mansions. It made him smile to think about but then it struck him that all of these houses had once been lived in by his own people, by whole families and their retainers and cousins and distant kin. Now all of those people were gone. For the first time ever it really struck him that the elves were a dying people, were vanishing from the face of the world, never to return. Every one of these empty houses represented a great noble family that was now extinct.
How had they died? Had they been killed in war? Had they simply faded away with fewer children born every century and the old dying off? Had they died in accidents, one after the other, year after year, century after century, assassinated by chance and unlucky fate?
He supposed it did not really matter. The simple, melancholy truth was that they were gone. He suddenly understood in his gut, as he had never really understood it before, what it was that Korhien had meant when he said every elf life was precious. There were so few of them left now that each death was another small defeat for the entire people, the putting out of another candle in a vast echoing chamber that would soon be dark and empty.
It was not exactly that the thought frightened him. It made him uneasy and sad. Briefly he considered abandoning his whole expedition and returning to the palace. Doing so would be to admit a defeat though, or at very least a failure of courage, so he pushed on up the hill, following the promptings of half-remembered memories from when he was very small, until at last he found it, or at least what he was fairly certain was it; the house where he had lived when he and Teclis had been very young children.
It sat high on the hill in a row of other houses just like it. In some of these lights still shone. They had not been entirely abandoned. Their old house stood tall and old and proud. It was older by far than the Emeraldsea Palace, built in ancient days when his father’s ancestors had looked down on the merchants literally beneath them. It was tall and narrow and five storeys high and each window facing outward on this side had a balcony. He could remember standing on one of these balconies as a child and looking down into the harbour. He had been too young and too small then to really understand anything that was going on around him. He felt much older than that now.
He walked to the door. It was chained. Someone had taken the trouble to lock the place up and it looked like someone visited every so often to see that it was maintained. He suspected it must be people in the employ of his mother’s relatives. They seemed like the sort who would be careful about property. He supposed that he could p
ry open the locks or the rings of the chain if he really wanted to but it seemed a bit like sacrilege. So he clambered up the front of the building and onto the first balcony.
Memories came flooding back. He had been here before when the barrier had been so high he had to stand on tiptoes to look over it and his father and his father’s friends had seemed like giants.
He knew there would be an even better view from above so he clambered up until he had reached the highest balcony and the ground was a dizzying drop beneath him. All of those hours spent clambering around in the rigging of the Eagle of Lothern proved their worth then. He was neither nervous nor afraid. He enjoyed the physical activity of the climb, almost as much as he enjoyed the view that was his reward.
He was very high above the city of Lothern now, and he could see all the way down into the harbour. The waves glittered silver in the moonlight. The thousands of ships looked like shadows. Their masts were like a forest floating on water.
Large patches of the city were lit up, a blaze of lights and life. Even larger parts were dead, all darkness and shadow and silence. It was as if a cancer was eating out the heart of Lothern. He was sure it had not been quite this bad when he was young, but it must have been. In the timescale of elves, a decade was an eye-blink. He had simply been young and unaware.
He saw the Foreigners’ Quarter was ablaze with light. Down there, naked flames burned and torch bearers walked through darkened alleys and thousands of people went about their business in the flickering shadows. It was fascinating and attractive and he knew that at some point he was going to have to visit it. But tonight he had other things on his mind.
He went to the shuttered windows. There were no chains on the outside, and there was a bar that was easily lifted by slipping the blade of his sword through the gap in the wood. The air inside smelled musty and stale but it still had the smell of the place he remembered – waxed floors, incense, the metallic tang of something connected with his father’s researches. It was dark within but he did not feel at all uneasy. He felt, in truth, as if he was coming home.
He went within and more memories came flooding back. The house was much larger than it looked from the street. It was tall and narrow but it ran a long way back from the road and it had many, many chambers. There was lots of furniture all covered in sheets and tarpaulins and there were mirrors in wooden cases that opened to reveal the glass within. He found a glow-globe and rubbed it to life. Its faint illumination was enough for him to see by. There were odd noises, bumping and creaking sounds as the wooden floors settled. There were probably rats moving around as well, although what they found to eat here he could not guess.
He strolled through the house until he came to the room he was looking for, and he found the thing he sought. A full length portrait of his mother looked down on him. She looked very lovely and very frail and there was something of Teclis in her features and appearance. Perhaps that was why Father has always preferred his twin. Not that it mattered much. He studied the portrait as he had done as a child, wondering what this woman had been like, and what she would say to him if she could talk to him now.
But she could not speak and there were no answers. He was walking through a city of ghosts, he thought. This was a place where the dead outnumbered the living and there were more mementoes of the past than people to remember events.
Sadness settled on him as he contemplated this beautiful frail stranger he had never met. After a while he got up and left, walking away from the dead and back towards the bright life of the Emeraldsea Palace. He doubted anyone would challenge him if he came in through the front door, but he went back to his room the way he had left, clambering up the walls and sliding easily over the balcony.
‘Where have you been?’ Teclis asked. He was sitting there, a book open on his knee, the moonlight bright enough to read by for someone with elven vision.
‘I went to see the old house.’
‘I always hated that place.’
‘It’s not so bad. I always liked it.’
‘Did you see her?’ There was no need to ask who was meant.
‘Yes. She looked the same.’
‘I would be very surprised if she looked any different,’ said Teclis, rising from the chair and limping painfully to the door. ‘She’s been dead for a long time.’
Tyrion wanted to tell his brother that it was not so long in the elven scheme of things but he kept his silence and watched his brother go.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Urian strode confidently into the audience chamber. He glanced around. Many of the Phoenix King’s advisors were already present. Lady Malene was there along with half a dozen other powerful wizards he recognised. A lovely woman, Urian thought but very severe. She caught him looking at her and gave him a sour smile. He smiled back as if unaware of her dislike.
Five minutes in my harem, woman, and you would learn to smile properly, he thought.
Urian loved these midnight councils. They reminded him of being home. He had lost count of the number of times he had spent plotting late into the night with his confederates back in Naggaroth.
Of course, this was not exactly the same. The chances were that no one would be murdered because of tonight’s events. There would not even be a significant change of power in the realm of Ulthuan unless something went very wrong.
No, it was the atmosphere he loved, the idea of being part of a cabal of people, meeting in secrecy under the shroud of darkness, whose decisions might affect the whole kingdom. There was an energy to such meetings that he fed on, that made his heart beat faster and pandered to his elven love of intrigue. He felt as if he really was someone, set apart from the common herd.
And, he thought sourly, in this he was like every other elf who had ever lived.
More wizards and scholars were arriving by the minute. All of them wore the worried looks of powerful people summoned in the dead of night to a secret council. Korhien Ironglaive entered, went over to his paramour and started talking in hushed tones with her.
Urian wondered what was going on here. It was not every night he was summoned to the Palace. Something big was happening. He would need to report it to Malekith.
A huge table dominated the room. On it were plates of cold meat, loaves of bread, jugs of wine, pitchers of water. There were books and scrolls and maps. It looked like someone was anticipating a long session.
‘What is wrong?’ Urian asked. Everyone looked shocked. No one was eating. The silence deepened and glancing around, Urian realised that Finubar had appeared. He was wearing his robes of state which made him look taller and more slender. The Phoenix King’s gaze was distant but his voice was as resonant and powerful as ever.
‘Do not mind me,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘Carry on with your discussions as if I were not here. I need to hear what you all have to say.’
‘There has been another attack, sire,’ Archmage Eltharik said, stroking his white goatee beard, a thing unusual in an elf male. He looked old. His skin was nearly translucent. His hair was white as bleached parchment. He was a specialist in all sorts of mystical lore, particularly that to do with summonings. ‘The daemons have struck again. They completely destroyed a small town in Ellyrion.’
Malene let out a long breath. ‘How did the word come in?’
‘A mage survived. He performed a Sending.’
So that was what had caused Korhien to rush off earlier from their drinking party. The summons had been most urgent.
‘How bad?’ Malene asked.
A certain morbid curiosity filled Urian. It was obvious that many of those here knew more than he did. It looked as if some of the rumours he had picked up on were correct. There was some new threat to the realm and one the present Phoenix King was trying very hard to keep secret, at least for the moment.
‘The town was burned down. All of the inhabitants had been subjected to the most hideous torture. Their flayed bodies had been laid out in a pattern that spelled the name N’Kari in the ashes. Along with o
ther things. Threats, warnings, promises.’
‘That’s the name of the daemon who led the forces of the Lord of Pleasure during the reign of Aenarion,’ Finubar said. He looked at Urian, who suddenly understood why he was here. His scholarship in all matters concerning the line of the first Phoenix King was famous.
‘A greater daemon, a Keeper of Secrets no less,’ said Urian. This was indeed news, Urian thought. If such a creature had emerged out of legend, it was epochal. There were few more deadly creatures on the face of creation. ‘A being unseen since the time of Aenarion. Is someone trying to invoke him?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Eltharik. ‘All we know is reports are coming in from all across Ulthuan about attacks by daemons and their worshippers. There have been at least a dozen so far from locations as far north as Cothique, and as far west as Tiranoc. All of them involve Slaanesh worshippers and evil magic and powerful daemons. In most of them the name of N’Kari has come up either from survivors or from inscriptions on the site.’
A White Lion appeared. He carried a map of Ulthuan. When it was unrolled on the table, Urian could see the location of all the attacks had been marked on the map in red elven runes. They were widely scattered. Too widely spaced for it to be the work of one group, he thought. The distances were too great for any one army, even one mounted on eagles, to cover in the time available.
‘Why now?’ Archmage Belthania asked. She was a tall dark-haired elf woman who did not look her five centuries of age. It was rumoured she kept a stable of younger lovers tired out in her bedchambers. She was known to have a penchant for all manner of hallucinogenic mushrooms as well. It did not prevent her from being one of the sharpest scholars of the Vortex alive, although it kept all manner of strange rumours swirling around her.
