Felix felt like punching the elf on the nose, even though he had thought the same thing just seconds before. It was different to say it out loud.
“High one, control your tongue!” said Max sharply. “She did the best she could.”
“I’m sorry. I was too weak,” said Claudia, clutching her head as she came out of her faint. “You were too many. I have never tried so complex an incantation before.” She turned to Gotrek, frowning. “You were very slippery, master dwarf. Very hard to hold.”
“Dwarfs are very resistant to magic,” said Max. “And the Slayer more so than most, I would think.”
Felix extricated himself at last and crossed to Gotrek to offer him a hand. Two of the Reiksguarders joined him.
Behind them, Aethenir inclined his head briefly towards Claudia. “My apologies, seeress. I spoke harshly out of distress. I see you have done as much as a human can do.” He looked to Max as she glared at his back. “But what now, magister?” he asked. “We are still stuck here. We have only delayed our death.”
“I will try again,” said Claudia, seething. “But I will need some time to gather my paltry human energies.”
“Let us pray then that there is time enough,” said the high elf nodding politely to her again, and apparently oblivious to her sarcasm.
“Lord magister,” called Captain Oberhoff. Max and the others turned. He was pointing to the mud a short distance away from him. “Look, milord. Footprints.”
Max and Aethenir’s eyes widened.
Max slogged forwards, the mud sucking at his feet with every step. “Are you certain?”
“Aye, sir,” said the captain.
With Felix and the Reiksguarders’ help, Gotrek pulled himself free of the muck at last, and he and Felix joined Max and Aethenir beside the captain. The holes in the mud were definitely footprints—many pairs of them—and all leading further into the city. Because the wet mud had oozed back into the holes, it was impossible to tell who or what had left them, but whatever they were, there appeared to be about twenty of them.
“Someone else has fallen down this hole,” said the captain.
“Or caused it to be created,” said Max, ominously. He turned to Aethenir. “Do you know what place this is, high one?”
Aethenir looked around, frowning at the distant buildings. “It is one of the elven cities that sank during the Sundering, perhaps Lothlakh, or Ildenfane. Without maps and books I cannot be sure.” He returned his gaze to the mud. “But of one thing I can be certain. Whoever has exposed it like this, whoever has come seeking within it, can be up to no good.”
Claudia stood upright, swaying only slightly. “Yes. This is the place. This is the heart of it. There is where the evil will be found that will destroy Marienburg and Altdorf.”
Of course it is, thought Felix, stifling a groan.
Max stroked his muddy beard and sighed. “I suppose we better go have a look then, hadn’t we?”
It was hard going, at least at first, each step a strenuous effort as the mud sucked at their feet and clung to their cloaks and robes. It got easier nearer to the city when they found the remains of a paved road. It too was covered with silt, but not nearly as deep.
It was one of the strangest environments Felix had ever travelled through—the delicate white walls of the elven buildings and the slender, jutting towers, now crumbled and covered in a wild phantasmagoria of ornament—shells, starfish and draperies of kelp, baroque filigree of dull-coloured coral, mossy algae, colonies of clinging clams, and stranger, tentacled things that looked like trees from the Chaos Wastes in miniature. Dead fish and feebly gesturing lobsters lay in the mud of ancient alleyways while water dripped from gutters that had known no rain for centuries. And above it all, the impossible green walls of seawater.
Felix couldn’t help but look back at them nervously every few steps, afraid they might drop when he wasn’t looking. At the gates of the city, a high white arch the wooden doors of which had long ago rotted away, he turned one last time and saw something within the water, a strange black shape bigger than a whale, gliding slowly past like a fish within a fishbowl.
“Gotrek! Max!” he cried, pointing, but by the time everyone turned around, the shape was gone, vanished back into the green murk beyond the whirlpool.
“What is it, Felix?” said Max.
“A shape,” he said. “In the water. Like a whale.”
Max looked at the wall, waiting for something to appear, then shrugged. “Perhaps it was a whale.” He turned and entered the gate.
The others followed. Felix scowled, feeling foolish, and took up the rear.
Within the walls, the full glory of the elven architecture became apparent. Though much of it had fallen, much more still stood, and it was glorious. The doors and windows were all tall and thin and topped with graceful arches. The columns were delicate and fluted. The streets were wide and well laid out, so that every corner was a new and breathtaking vista.
The party followed the footprints into the heart of the city, where the buildings became even taller and more ostentatious. These were obviously temples and palaces and places of public entertainment, and those that still stood were awe-inspiring in their scale and delicacy—at least to Felix.
“Flimsy elf rubbish,” grumbled Gotrek as he looked at it. “No wonder it sank.”
Felix expected a retort of some kind from Aethenir, but he was too busy staring at the city. The elf was so fascinated by what he was seeing that he seemed to have lost all fear. “Yes,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “It is just as my studies said it would be. This is definitely Lothlakh. The Diary of Selyssin describes the tower of the loremasters just so, but… no, if this is Lothlakh, then surely the Temple of Khaine is meant to be just to the left of the baths. Perhaps it is Ildenfane after all.”
At last the footprints led them to a sprawling, symmetrical palace with high, buttressed towers at each end and a pair of golden doors in the centre, flanked on either side by tall golden statues of regal elves holding swords and staffs. The gold of both the doors and the statues was filthy with black mud and crusted with barnacles and mussels, but they were all still whole.
Gotrek nodded approvingly. “That’s dwarf work,” he said. “Made before the elves attacked and insulted us.”
Even that failed to raise a response from Aethenir. He was walking towards the palace like a sleepwalker, his hands waving vaguely at the various details of architecture and placement. “It is Lothlakh!” he said. “It must be. This is the palace of Lord Galdenaer, ruler of Lothlakh, described exactly in Oraine’s Book of the East. To think that I have lived to see this.”
“It is indeed beautiful,” said Max. “But we should perhaps approach it with more caution. It appears that those we seek may be within.”
Aethenir looked down at the footsteps leading to the golden doors, and a nervous look appeared in his eyes as he awoke from his scholar’s dream. “Yes,” he said. “Yes of course.” He turned to the captain of his house guard. “Rion, take the lead.”
The elf captain bowed and his elves moved towards the broad, muck-covered marble steps to the golden doors. The others followed. Gotrek and Felix and the Reiksguard took up the rear, watching all around.
The doors had been pulled open—by what means Felix couldn’t guess—just enough to allow them passage one at a time. The first of the elves slipped through the opening while the others waited. After a moment he reappeared and beckoned the others through. The party followed him into an enormous entry hall. Felix and the rest looked with wonder upon the gold-chased columns, the crumbling obsidian statues, and the high arched ceiling. Windows that had once been filled with coloured glass were now gaping holes, through which watery green sunshine streamed in, giving the impression that the palace was still under the sea.
The mysterious footprints led across the silt-covered marble floor to a wide stairway that descended into darkness. Max created a small light—less bright than a candle—that he sent ahead of t
he elf warriors so they could follow the footprints. The silt was heavier here, making the stairs treacherous. Felix gripped the marble banister to steady himself. One flight down, Captain Rion held up his hand and everyone stopped. From below came the faint sounds of movement and conversation, and a bright noise of metal rubbing on metal, like someone endlessly scraping a dagger around the inside of a bell. Felix strained his ears, but could not make out the words or the language that was being spoken. The high elves looked at each other, but said nothing. They continued down the stairs, as silent as cats. Felix and the others tried to do the same.
At the base of the stairway there was an archway that glowed with a strange purple light. The high elves crept to one side of the archway, keeping out of sight, then leaned their heads out cautiously. Felix, Max and Gotrek followed their example.
Through the arch was a moderately large chamber with decorative pillars running down both sides and, at the far end, at the top of three wide marble stairs, a pair of enormous steel, granite and brass doors. Standing on the broad dais before the doors were a number of tall, thin figures, silhouetted in the glow of a purple light that hovered over the head of the one nearest the door—an elven woman in long black robes with black hair to her waist. Her hands were raised towards the door, and weird words poured from her lips in a sinuous melody. Five other robed women surrounded her, while surrounding them were twelve warriors in black enamelled scale mail and helms that were faced with silver skull masks. The tallest of the women wore an elaborate headdress and held a metal wand aloft, spinning a silver hoop on it. It was from this that the metallic ringing sound came.
Aethenir shrunk back behind the arch. “Druchii!” he hissed.
“Sorceresses of Morathi’s cult,” said Rion, his hand tightening convulsively on the hilt of his sword. “And Endless, the Witch King’s personal guard.”
“At last,” rumbled Gotrek. “Elves I can kill.”
Rion turned to Aethenir. “Lord, we humble house guards are no match for such as these. Even swordmasters of Hoeth would find themselves in difficulty here.”
Aethenir returned his attention to the room, biting his noble lip. “We may have no choice,” he said, his voice quavering.
At the vault, the sorceress with the waist-length hair finished her incantation on a high, sustained note and then stepped back. With a rumble of hidden counterweights and a grinding of stone on stone, the massive doors began to swing out. She turned and smiled at her black-clad companions, motioning them to enter.
When he saw her face, Aethenir gasped and staggered back. “Belryeth!” he whispered. “It can’t be!”
NINE
Max turned and looked at the high elf, raising a questioning eyebrow. “You know this dark elf?”
Captain Rion was looking at Aethenir with a much colder look on his face.
Aethenir looked from one to the other, stepping back. “I didn’t know she was druchii.”
Captain Rion’s eye got colder yet. “I believe that requires explanation, Lord Aethenir.” He motioned the elf back up the stairs, out of sight of the door.
“Yes,” said Max, following. “I believe it does.”
The others crept back up to the first landing with them, then everybody turned to face the high elf.
“Now, my lord,” said Rion. “Pray continue. How do you know this druchii?”
Aethenir swallowed. “Ah, yes, well, you see, when last she came to me, she claimed to be a maiden in distress. Belryeth Eldendawn she called herself, and she told me—”
“You mistook one of the fallen ones for a true elf?” asked Rion, his voice like ice.
“She didn’t look like she does now!” squealed Aethenir. “Her hair was blonde and she had a beautiful, noble face, and a voice like the sweetest, saddest song ever sung by…”
The high elf caught Captain Rion’s eye and faltered. Felix had never seen an elf blush before. From down the stairs came crashings and smashings and the tinkling of broken crystal. It sounded like the druchii were tearing the contents of the vault apart.
“Go on, my lord,” said the elf captain.
Aethenir nodded. “She came to me,” he said, “begging for help. She said that her family was in disgrace and could not approach the tower directly, but she must learn something hidden in one of the volumes in the library. Her grandfather, it seemed, had lost a precious family heirloom during the Sundering when he was stationed in one of the cities of the Old World. Recovering it was the only way she could fend off an odious marriage, now that her father had lost the family’s fortune and all honour in a disastrous trading scandal. Her misfortunes moved me to tears.”
Felix rolled his eyes. The poor sheltered elf had obviously never seen a Detlef Sierck melodrama.
“She swore that all she wanted was the information contained in one book,” Aethenir continued. “A book that told of that time and of those cities.”
“Do you mean the book that was stolen from the tower?” asked Max. “Did she learn its location from you? Is she the thief?”
Aethenir hung his head. “It was not stolen from the tower. As I said before, none may find the tower if the loremasters do not wish them to.” He hesitated, then went on. “I borrowed it from the tower, and she stole it from me.”
Rion went rigid, his eyes blazing. “What?”
Aethenir shrunk before that terrible gaze. “I swear I didn’t know until now! She promised me that we would always look at the book together and it would never leave my sight, but the night I brought the book to her we were assaulted by masked assassins. I saw her killed! Then they leapt at me, knocking me out. When I awoke from my swoon, her body was gone, and so was the book.” He looked down the stairs towards the vault. “All this time I thought her dead.”
Max coughed. “I had always read that no books were allowed to be borrowed from the Tower of Hoeth. That they were never to leave the premises.”
Neither Rion or Aethenir acknowledged that he had spoken. They seemed to have forgotten that anyone else was there.
“My lord,” said Rion, with a dangerous softness. “You told me that you had discovered that the book was missing, and that the loremasters had sent you to find it as a test of your worthiness to be taught the arts of Saphery. You told your father this.”
Aethenir covered his face with a shaking hand. “I lied,” he whispered, so low Felix almost couldn’t hear him.
“So the loremasters of Hoeth know nothing of the truth?” Rion asked.
Aethenir shook his head. “I ran away from the tower. It has been my hope that I might, with your help, find the book and return it to the library before they know it is missing.”
Captain Rion’s head sank and his fists clenched. “My lord,” he said, “were it not my sworn duty to protect your life, I would kill you here and now.”
Aethenir paled and stepped back at that, but Rion made no move against him.
“You have not only compromised your own honour,” the elf captain continued, “but by asking your father for money and assistance in this misbegotten quest, you have compromised his honour, and the honour of all House Whiteleaf. Not to mention jeopardising the safety of our beloved homeland.”
Aethenir hung his head. It looked like he was sobbing.
Rion carried on mercilessly. “Recovering the book will not win back House Whiteleaf’s honour, my lord. The crime is too great. But it must be recovered even so, for to leave it in enemy hands would be an even greater crime.”
“Yes,” said Aethenir, still looking at the ground. “It must be done. It is the least that I can do.”
“I am pleased that you think so, my lord,” said Rion, stepping closer to him. “Because if you swerve from the path of honour—if you fail in the duty to your father and your house,” he curled the front of Aethenir’s robe in his fist and jerked it up so that the young elf’s jaw came up and he was forced to look the captain in the eye, “I will kill you.”
“I won’t fail, Rion,” said Aethenir, trembling. “I
promise you.”
Rion stepped back and bowed, very formal. “Thank you, lord. That is all I ask.”
“lust a moment,” said Max. “I wish to be clear. Ulthuan has no knowledge of this quest? You are not here by the authority of the Tower of Hoeth, as you previously implied? You are not an initiate?”
“No, magister. I am the merest novice.”
“And you are entirely on your own in this?”
“Yes, magister.”
Max sighed. “Had I known this, I would not have so blithely…” He paused, then shook his head. “Never mind. What’s done is done. The danger is still the same and we must still face it.”
Gotrek grunted. “Are you through? Can we kill some elves?”
Captain Rion turned and glared at him, seemingly displeased with his turn of phrase, but then nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Whatever these fiends mean to do, it can only mean dark days for Ulthuan if they succeed.”
“Good,” said Gotrek. He turned on his heel and started down the stairs again.
“Slayer,” whispered Max after him. “We must be cautious! It is the sorceresses who maintain the whirlpool. If they die…”
But Gotrek was already striding through the arch into the antechamber. Felix and the others trailed in his wake, whispering after him urgently, as the sounds of smashing and shifting continued from the vault.
“Wait, Gotrek,” said Felix.
“Stop, dwarf,” hissed Captain Rion. “We need a strategy.”
“Bring him back,” cried Aethenir.
“Here’s your strategy,” rumbled Gotrek. “We kill everyone except the one with the stick and the hoop, then force her to take us out the way she got in.”
“Very good,” said Max, trotting along beside him. “But how?”
“Like this,” said Gotrek and strode up the low stairs to the half-open vault doors. “Come on, you corpse-faced scarecrows!” he roared. “Show me you’ve got more courage than your white-livered cousins!” Then he charged into the vault.
Aethenir gasped. Max groaned. The Reiksguard and Rion’s elves exchanged grim glances and prepared to follow him in.
[Gotrek & Felix 10] - Elfslayer Page 13
