by Nick Kyme
Bagrik surveyed the pandemonium of his Great Hall left in the elves’ wake: the dwarfs milling around the stone plaza scratching their heads and muttering amongst one another; the disgusted tones of the glowering longbeards, their pipes smoking furiously; the dark glances passing between the guildmasters, and the other clan lords and thanes, that he, Bagrik, had given sanction for this debacle.
He felt the presence of Brunvilda nearby, about to reassure him, and clenched his fists.
‘Say nothing!’ he snarled between his teeth, turning his furious gaze onto Kandor, who seemed somehow lost standing below him.
Rugnir’s voice broke the tomb-like atmosphere.
‘Who died?’ he asked, jovially. ‘Let the elgi get their beauty sleep, there is still more drinking to be done.’
A few of the younger clansdwarfs seemed to warm to the idea at once, Nagrim included.
Bagrik shattered the levity in an instant.
‘No!’ he raged, struggling to his feet and casting his steely gaze about the room. He had bent over backwards for these elves, allowed them into his home, turned a blind eye to their affronts, their arrogance and rudeness. They had thrown his hospitality in his face like grobi dung. Bagrik was incensed, and in no mood to make merry. ‘Back to your clan halls, all of you, the party is over!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dark Secrets
It was several hours before Malbeth returned to the Hall of Belgrad, now turned into an elven enclave. After leaving the Great Hall, he had waited for Kandor. The dwarf merchant had emerged soon enough, having exchanged curt words with his king, or rather had words foisted upon him, which he had attended to in silence. Ashen-faced from his berating, the merchant had then taken the elf to his private halls and the two had discussed the evening at length, Kandor expressing the king’s concerns over the elves’ behaviour and Malbeth giving the dwarf his assurances that they were merely teething troubles and an accord could be reached over the trade agreement. The long debate had left the elf weary, but he had managed to convince Kandor that there was still an alliance to be salvaged from the carnage of the feast.
Even so, it was with some trepidation that Malbeth approached the tent of the prince. Korhvale was outside, the White Lion and a handful of other guards and servants the only ones yet to retire to their makeshift abodes. Malbeth knew Korhvale would stay at his post all night, eschewing sleep or even meditation, to watch over his master.
Arms folded like bands of iron, the muscular bodyguard grunted as Malbeth came near, stepping aside so that he could enter.
Low lamps burned within the tent, creating a warm, cloying atmosphere in the opulent surroundings. Ithalred was laid out on a pile of plump cushions and divested of his princely robes, bare-chested and wearing loose-fitting cotton breeches. A soft melody pervaded the room, the two harpists from earlier playing quietly nearby. Two further maidens, wearing precious little, but enough to preserve their dignity, were decanting wine into the prince’s goblet and massaging his neck and shoulders. At Malbeth’s appearance in the room they looked up and smiled lasciviously before continuing with their duties.
A blue-green smoke drenched the atmosphere, lingering about Malbeth’s feet like autumnal glade mist. The elf ambassador saw Lethralmir sitting cross-legged as he supped from a long-handled marble pipe, a fifth maiden combing his long black hair.
The two nobles had been laughing as Malbeth had entered, enjoying the tail end of some jest he was not privy to. Still smiling, Lethralmir blew a large ring of smoke into the air. It held its form for a short while before it dispersed into lingering aroma.
‘Prince Ithalred,’ said Malbeth, his tone serious, ‘we must talk about what happened at the feast. The dwarfs are unhappy.’
Ithalred closed his eyes and leaned further back, wallowing in the decadence of his private pavilion. He beckoned with his ringed fingers and one of the scantily-clad maidens came over with a platter of fruit, which the prince accepted with hedonistic torpor.
‘The dwarfs are unhappy, I am unhappy,’ he replied, nonchalant. ‘Let us just be done with these trade talks so that we can return to Tor Eorfith and some semblance of civilisation. I swear by Asuryan, if I spend much longer in the burrows of these hirsute dwarfs, I shall be sprouting hair from my own chin.’
Lethralmir smirked.
Ithalred wasn’t jesting.
‘With respect,’ said Malbeth, ignoring the blade-master, ‘amends must be made if the trade talks are to go ahead.’
Ithalred sighed in agitation, waving away the servant girls as he levered himself up onto his elbows.
‘What would you have me do, Malbeth? Our cultures are utterly opposite to one another. A clash was inevitable.’
‘It is more than a clash,’ said Malbeth with growing exasperation. ‘We have offended our hosts in their very home! I, too, long for the lofty towers of Eorfith, for the sky and the wind and all that I hold dear about Ulthuan and Eataine, but there is too much at stake here to jeopardise in the name of selfish desire and petulance.’
He’d gone too far. The sneering smile spreading across Lethralmir’s face, just visible in the corner of his eye, told Malbeth as much.
‘You forget yourself, ambassador,’ snapped Ithalred, sitting up and nearly tipping over his wine.
‘I apologise, my prince,’ Malbeth replied humbly, ‘but the fact remains that Tor Eorfith will not survive without the dwarfs’ aid.’
‘We do not know that for certain,’ said Lethralmir, even now stirring the pot.
Malbeth whirled around to face him, though he kept his anger at bay. But only just.
‘We know it all too well, Lethralmir,’ he said fiercely. ‘Do not allow your arrogance to obscure your already clouded mind.
‘Prince Ithalred,’ Malbeth continued, turning back to his lord without waiting for a response from Lethralmir. ‘I am urging you – apologise to the dwarfs, make amends for all that has transpired. You know as well as I what this trade pact truly represents, what we hope to gain from it. Please… please, do not lose sight of that.’
Ithalred’s expression promised another angry retort, but he stopped short as if realising the truth in Malbeth’s words and at last capitulated.
‘Very well. I’ll do as you ask, Malbeth. I will regain the respect of the dwarfs. It is my duty to safeguard the future of Tor Eorfith, so there is little else I can do, is there,’ he added, clearly unhappy with the position he was in, with the position that they were all in. ‘Now, go…’ he said after a moment, his face suddenly darkening. ‘It is late, and I tire of politics.’
One of the maidens, seeing her lord’s distemper, slid over to resume massaging his neck.
‘Leave it!’ he snarled, and she shrank back as if scalded by his words. ‘All of you,’ he added, glaring around the room, ‘get out!’
Hurriedly gathering their things, and some of their clothes, the quintet of maidens made a hasty exit, eyes down as they left the prince’s private abode for fear of further reproach.
Lethralmir seemed bemused at Ithalred’s reaction, particularly his dismissal of the wenches, whose company he had been enjoying profusely.
‘Was that strictly necessary, Ithalred?’ he asked, taking a long draw on his pipe and reaching for his wine.
‘You too, Lethralmir,’ the prince said quietly.
The raven-haired elf opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it.
‘As you wish, my lord,’ he said with forced deference, clearly incensed at being expelled from his prince’s presence like a common slave.
Malbeth watched the entire display and felt no satisfaction. He saw only Ithalred at last coming to terms with the gravity of their situation and the stark reality that theirs was a precarious position indeed.
Bowing slightly, he departed immediately after Lethralmir had stormed out, his mood no better than when he had first entered the pavilion.
‘Wait…’ called Malbeth, once they were a few feet from the prince’s tent and the imposing
figure of Korhvale, ‘…I would speak with you, Lethralmir.’
The raven-haired elf turned. He was on the way to his own tent, determined to summon a pair of the wenches that Ithalred had just dismissed. He let Malbeth come to him before he gave his reply.
‘I have nothing to say,’ he told the ambassador, still smarting over the prince’s rebuttal.
‘Then merely listen,’ Malbeth countered, guiding the blade-master by the shoulder around the side of one of the tents. Once out of Korhvale’s eye-line, he seized Lethralmir by the arm and drew him close.
‘Do not think your blatant attempts at sabotage have gone unnoticed,’ said Malbeth, his eyes hard. ‘I don’t know what your reasons are, but it will stop… now. And you would do well to stay away from Arthelas,’ he warned.
Lethralmir went rigid at her name. His cerulean eyes were like diamonds as they regarded the ambassador, his dark smile etched as if in ice.
‘Your behaviour towards her is unseemly,’ Malbeth continued. ‘I have turned a blind eye to it for long enough. Do not think that Ithalred will continue to do so, either. The prince has no desire to see his sister sullied by one such as you. Her gifts, her sight – they are precious… I am telling you, Lethralmir–’
‘No,’ the raven-haired elf hissed, grabbing Malbeth’s robes, all trace of his sarcastic vainglory evaporated, and in its place… malicious, undiluted bile. ‘I am the only one doing the telling here. Or do you want me to reveal your true nature to the prince, to your precious bearded swine?’ He sneered hatefully, though his expression betrayed his fear.
Malbeth’s loosened his grip, the sudden creeping dread of discovery shaking his resolve.
It was no idle threat. Lethralmir meant every word. There was anger in his eyes now, the same impotent fury that there had been all those years ago…
Malbeth still held him in his grasp, remembering the day they had first crossed swords, in the sheltered arboretum of his uncle’s villa in Eataine, the pale sandstone walls flecked with darkness, Elethya dying in his arms. Her hot blood was a baptism for the rage and anguish that would manifest in Malbeth. And just like that, the feelings that he had fought so hard to repress, the fury that lay in his cursed soul, came boiling to the surface in a tempest.
Lethralmir saw it in the ambassador’s eyes, saw him glance to the jewelled dagger the blade-master wore at his belt.
‘Go on…’ said the raven-haired elf, his lip curling in a sneer ‘…Do it.’ Lethralmir released Malbeth’s robe, let his arm drop in submission. ‘Give in.’
It would be easy…
Elethya… dying in his arms…
Malbeth let him go, then turned away, heading towards his tent without saying another word.
Lethralmir smoothed down his robes, releasing a long breath as he tried to stop shaking. He told himself it was anger, but in truth he was afraid; afraid of what Malbeth might have done if pushed.
That could be useful, he thought, if properly channelled.
Recovering his composure, he managed to swagger off, imperiously staring down any servants that had seen or overheard his altercation with the ambassador and dared to meet his gaze. He was intent on finding the masseurs – their attentions would be a welcome distraction right now – when he changed his mind. He bypassed his own tent, and went straight for Arthelas’s instead.
Bastard, Malbeth, threaten me will you?
Lethralmir’s route took him back towards Ithalred’s domicile and the stern-faced Korhvale, who glared at the raven-haired elf as he approached.
‘The prince asked me to see how his sister was feeling,’ he lied, flashing a broad smile in Korhvale’s direction. The White Lion stiffened in response, his leather gauntlets cracking as he made fists.
Lethralmir gave him no further thought, passing by and continuing on to where Arthelas was waiting.
‘I am bored,’ Lethralmir declared, as he entered the tent, ‘and I have charged you with entertaining me,’ he added, sweeping into the room and down to Arthelas’s side, where she reclined on a chaise-long of white wood, upholstered with sumptuous red velvet and fashioned into the image of a swan in repose. Lethralmir noticed several servants hovering at the periphery, their faces veiled by the thin cotton shrouds that hung throughout the room, and carrying silver carafes and broad, paper fans. There was no food in sight – the seeress seldom ate. Lethralmir dismissed the servants with a few curt commands.
‘Finally alone…’ he purred, once they were gone, letting the insinuation linger. He drew close to her, the scent of her in his nostrils more potent than any perfume as it enflamed his ardour.
Arthelas pushed him away, but her protest lacked conviction.
‘My brother would have you killed if he knew what you were intending,’ she said, sighing as she rested the back of her hand across her forehead in an overtly dramatic gesture. ‘I am tired Lethralmir, and in no mood for your advances tonight.’
Lethralmir sniffed contemptuously, and recoiled.
‘You are in a fouler mood than your brother, the prince,’ he replied.
‘He is a fool,’ said Arthelas, looking at Lethralmir for the first time. There was darkness in her eyes, bitterness in her voice. ‘I am a seeress first and a sister second to him. Ithalred’s mood is foul because he does not like it when he doesn’t get his way. He is annoyed because he must listen to Malbeth’s counsel, because he must make parlay with these dwarfs.’
She almost spat the words through clenched teeth as the demure and elegant façade slipped completely.
Lethralmir gazed back at Arthelas, her words meaningless as he drank deep of her azure eyes, and became lost in their fathomless beauty. Determined to lighten the mood, he moved over to the tent flap by which he had entered.
‘I have something that will cheer you,’ he said, smiling conspiratorially and beckoning her over.
Arthelas exhaled loudly, sitting up, ostensibly annoyed as she padded over.
Lethralmir ignored the histrionics, opened the tent flap and gestured outside.
‘Look…’
Arthelas sighed again, signalling her impatience, but did as she was asked. Peering through the flap, she saw Korhvale, brooding outside her brother’s tent.
‘No more than a crack,’ Lethralmir warned, as the White Lion stared in her direction but then swiftly averted his gaze as if suddenly ashamed.
‘Look how forlorn he is,’ the raven-haired elf said sarcastically.
‘I don’t like the way he watches me.’
‘The dumb and dutiful lion,’ Lethralmir sneered, revealing his true feelings. ‘His mawkish attempts to gain your favour are only marginally less laughable than the antics of the earth-dwellers,’ he added, growing more serious. ‘What need do the asur have for these diminutive swine? If Ithalred possessed any backbone at all he would raise the army at Tor Eorfith and turn back the northern hordes closing on our borders. Yet instead, at Malbeth’s insistence,’ he spat, ‘he seeks to yoke the strength of these rough creatures and their crude ways. What will they do, bite the ankles of the northern savages? No,’ he scoffed, ‘there is nothing to fear from men.’
‘I am not so certain…’ said Arthelas, finding no more amusement in watching Korhvale, and closed the tent flap.
‘Why?’ Lethralmir asked. His eyes narrowed as he regarded her, suddenly understanding. ‘What have you seen?’
In that moment, all expression seemed to vanish from Arthelas’s face and her eyes glazed over like pale moons. The heady scent of her perfumed boudoir was gone, the smell of the sea, of cold, glacial air, and the tang of salt came in its place.
‘Our ships,’ said Arthelas, her voice far away, ‘ablaze on the ocean…’
‘Hasseled’s Hawkships,’ Lethralmir whispered, realising at once what she meant. Just before they had set off for the dwarf hold, Ithalred had ordered a defensive blockade to be erected far out at sea against northmen vessels the elves had seen from their watchtowers, sailing the Sea of Claws. Commander Hasseled was to lead them
, assess the enemy’s strength and destroy them if he could. It seemed the good commander had failed.
‘Their crude vessels riding through a storm…’ Arthelas continued. ‘They make landfall… the sentinels are just the beginning…’
‘The watchtowers are lost?’ hissed Lethralmir.
Arthelas turned to him, vehement, fear in her eyes – the sense of it exaggerated by her dream-trance.
‘They already burn… All are dead, all of them.’
She wept, the tears rushing down her face in a flood, and Lethralmir held her.
‘Let it go,’ he said softly, stroking her hair, ‘Let it all go.’
Arthelas looked into his eyes, coming out of it at last.
‘All dead…’ she whimpered, softly.
Lethralmir took her chin gently, tilting Arthelas’s head so she had to look into his eyes. He caressed her neck and drew in close.
‘What are you doing?’ she hissed, fear and excitement warring in her voice.
‘Your brother has no need of a seer, anymore.’
‘I can’t,’ she said in a cracked whisper.
‘You must…’ Lethralmir replied huskily, parting his lips and pressing them to hers…
Blood. Endless blood. The battlefield was soaked in it, a crimson-tinged isle of pounded dirt. Ragged banners fluttered on a fitful breeze that reeked of copper, and smoke from burning cities rendered into ruined shells by the carnage. Hollow, pleading cries and the clash-scrape of metal filled the rancid air, borne upon a hot wind that swirled about in tired eddies and whispered… death…
Malbeth awoke, lathered in sweat. He sat up sharply as if the pallet where he lay were a bed of spikes, and he’d just felt the first prick. His head was swimming, visions slipping in and out of focus – a war against creatures not of this world, screaming terror and a bloody-handed god exulting in the slaughter. A sense memory spoke of metal and fire, the stench of smoke lingering impossibly in Malbeth’s nostrils.
The coldness of the dwarf stone, penetrating even the cushioned floor of his tent, brought him around. Sodden sheets clung to his body, and Malbeth cast them off like they were shackles that incarcerated him in the dream. Dull and resonant hammering, the ever-present din of the dwarf forges working day and night, reminded him again of the battlefield as Malbeth lost himself once more to memories that weren’t his to recall.
