Kul’s senses were no longer those of a mortal, enhanced and refined by Shornaal to better savour the agonies of his victims and the ecstasies of his triumphs. Even as he concentrated, he could feel a rasping iron breath in his head, as though a great engine pulsed in the depths of the tower and the echoes of its efforts were carried up its length. He could feel a presence within his mind, a clawing, scraping thing that sifted through his memories and desires to reach the very heart of him.
He knew he was being tested and welcomed the intrusion, confident that he would be found the equal of the task he had been summoned to perform. The clammy thought-touch withdrew from his mind and he relaxed as he felt the awesome power of the Witch King recede, apparently satisfied.
The darkness of the chamber appeared to diminish and Issyk Kul saw a great obsidian throne upon which sat a mighty statue of black iron, one hand resting on a skull-topped armrest while the other clasped a colossal sword, its blade burnished silver and glittering with hoarfrost. Kul knew that the magic of his own blade was powerful, but the energies bound to this terrible weapon were an order of magnitude greater and he could feel the enchantments worked upon his armour weakening just by its presence.
A great shield, taller than Kul himself, rested against one side of the great throne and upon it burned the dread rune of Shornaal—though the druchii did not use the northern names for the gods, and named his patron as Slaanesh. A circlet of iron sat upon the horned helm of the statue and at the sight of this monstrous god of murder, Kouran dropped to his knees and began babbling in the tongue of the elves.
Kul had to fight the urge to drop to his knees alongside Kouran and give praise to this effigy of Khaine, for Shornaal was a jealous god and would surely strike him down. Even in the holiest of holy places to Shornaal, Kul had never felt such awe and sheer physical presence of his own god as he felt now. The druchii were fortunate indeed to have a god of such potent physicality.
Even as he stared in awe at the magnificent and terrible idol, he felt the approach of another presence behind him and a voice, laden with lust said, “Do you not pay homage to my son? Is he not worthy of your obeisance?”
Pale and slender hands slipped around his neck, the nails long and sharp. They caressed his throat and he felt himself respond to their touch, a tremor of arousal and revulsion working its way down his spine. He knew who came upon him by her touch as surely as though she had whispered in his ear.
Her hands slid over the plates of armour covering his chest, sliding down to the bare flesh of his abdomen and stroking the curve of his muscles.
“Your son?” said Kul, twisting his head to the side and catching sight of her bewitching beauty. Pale skin, dark-rimmed eyes of liquid darkness and full lips that had worked their way around his body on more than one occasion.
“Yes,” said Morathi, slipping gracefully around his body to stand before him. “My son.”
She was exquisite, as beautiful as the day she had first wed Aenarion thousands of years ago, and draped in a long gown of purple with a slash that ran from her collar to her pelvis. An amber periapt hung between the ivory curve of her breasts and Kul had to force his gaze upwards lest he be reduced to a quivering wreck of raging desire, as had countless suitors and lovers before him.
Mother and, some said, unholy lover of the Witch King, Morathi’s sensuous splendour was like nothing he had ever experienced and her epithet of the Hag Sorceress seemed like such a hideous misnomer to Kul, even though he knew the hellish reality behind her wondrous appearance.
“Lady Morathi,” said Kul, bowing extravagantly before her. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Yes it is,” she said, backing away from him and toying with her amulet.
Kul took a step forward and Kouran rose to his feet, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. Not only was Kouran the captain of the city guard, but also bodyguard to its rulers.
“I received your summons, Lady Morathi,” said Kul. “Is there news from the isle of mists?”
“There is,” she said, “but first tell me of my messenger. He was to your tastes?”
Kul laughed and said. “He was most enjoyable, my lady. He will not be returning to you.”
“I had not thought that he would.”
Kul waited for Morathi to continue, spellbound by her monstrous beauty and already picturing the violation he would wreak on her flesh if given the chance. As he stared at the Hag Sorceress, her features rippled as though in a heat haze, and a flickering image of the passage of centuries was etched upon his eyeballs, the wreckage of age and the ruin of years heaped upon flesh unable to sustain it.
Such was the dichotomy of Morathi, her beguiling beauty and her loathsome reality, one maintained at the expense of the other by the slaughter of countless innocent lives. Kul could only admire the determination and depths Morathi had plumbed to retain her allure.
“It is time for us to make war upon the Asur,” said Morathi, breaking his reverie.
“First blood has been spilled?” he said, unable to keep the relish from his voice.
“It has indeed,” said Morathi. “The Black Serenade encountered a handful of their ships a few days ago. Many lives were taken and one vessel was allowed to escape to carry word back to Lothern.”
“Fear will eat at them like a plague,” said Kul. “They will be ripe for blooding.”
“And fire will be stoked in their hearts,” said Kouran, practically spitting each word. “The Asur are proud.”
“As it should be,” said Morathi. “Much depends on the fire of Asuryan’s children being directed correctly. The thrust of our sword must draw our enemy’s shield to enable the assassin’s blade to strike home.”
“Then we must set sail,” said Kul, flexing his fists and running his tongue along his lips. “I long to practise my arts on the flesh of the Asur.”
“As I promised you, Issyk Kul,” said Morathi. “We will set sail with our warriors soon enough, but there are yet offerings to be made to Khaine and sport to be had before we wet our blades.”
Kul nodded towards the great iron statue behind Morathi and snapped. “Then make your offerings to your god and be done with it, sorceress. My blade aches for the bliss of the knife’s edge, the dance of blades and the pain that brings pleasure.”
Morathi frowned, then, as realisation of Kul’s meaning became clear, threw back her head and laughed, a sound that chilled the soul and reached out beyond the chamber to slay a hundred carrion birds that circled the tower. She turned to the figure of iron and spoke in the harsh, beautiful language of the druchii.
Kul took a step back, reaching over his shoulder for his sword as he saw emerald coals grow behind the thin slits of the statue’s helmet and felt a horrific animation build within the terrible armour, though it moved not a single inch.
No statue of Khaine was this, he now realised, but the Witch King himself…
With a speed and grace that ought to have been impossible for such a monstrous being bound within this vast armour of iron and hate, the Witch King rose from his obsidian throne. He towered above the Chaos champion, breath hissing from beneath his helmet and the light of his evil putting the paltry debaucheries of Kul to shame with the weight of suffering he had inflicted.
The great sword of the Witch King swept up and Kul felt certain that this would be his death, such was his terror of this moment.
“Mother…” came a voice so steeped in evil that Kul felt tears of blood welling in the corners of his eyes.
“My son?” said Morathi, and to Kul’s amazement, her tone was awed.
“We sail for Ulthuan,” said the Witch King. “Now.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Travellers
Anurion the Green’s villa was like nothing Daroir had ever seen before. His idea of a palace was marble walls, soaring ceilings and graceful architecture that celebrated the craftsman’s art while blending sympathetically with the surrounding landscape. At least on this last count, the palace more
than exceeded his expectations.
The palace was a living thing, its walls seemingly grown from the rock of the cliffs, shaped and formed according to the whims of its creator—and he was a person of many whims, Daroir was to discover. Living things grew from every nook and cranny, vines creeping across walls and columns of trees forming great vaults of leaves to create grand processionals.
Not only was the natural architecture astounding, but also confounding, for no sooner had a passageway formed than it would reshape itself or be reshaped as the palace’s master wandered at random through his home and caused new blooms to arise in his wake. Every open space within Anurion’s palace was a place of wonder and beauty and Daroir again imagined that this must be what Athel Loren was like.
He had thought that Kyrielle was leading him straight to her father, but Anurion the Green, it appeared, followed no one’s timetable but his own and when they had reached the palace at the top of the cliff, it had been to eat a meal of bread and fresh fruit and vegetables—many of which Daroir could not recognise or had outlandish names that were not elven or of any language he could recognise.
The next three days were spent regaining his strength and in discovery as he and Kyrielle explored her father’s palace, the ever growing and changing internal plan as new to her as it was to him. Aside from Kyrielle, he saw only a very few servants and some spear-armed guards around the palace. Perhaps the full complement of Anurion’s retainers remained in Saphery.
Each morning they would survey the magnificent landscape of Yvresse from the tallest tree-tower, savouring the beauty of the rugged coastline fringed with dense coniferous forests and long fjords that cut into the landscape from the ocean.
Deep, mist-shrouded valleys thrust inland and hardy evergreen forests tumbled down to the water’s edge, where the ocean spread out towards the Shifting Isles and the Old World beyond. To the west, the foothills of the Annulii marched off to distant peaks towering dramatically into the clouds. The tang of magic from the raw energies contained within them set his teeth on edge.
Kyrielle pointed to the south and he saw the tips of glittering mansions and towers that were all that could be seen of Tor Yvresse, the only major city of this eastern kingdom and dwelling place of the great hero, Eltharion. Daroir had to choke back his emotions at the sight of it, such was the aching beauty of its distant spires.
He would often return to the tree-towers just to see the lights of the city, knowing that soon he would need to journey to Tor Yvresse to cross the mountains and return to the inner kingdoms of Ulthuan.
Each day was spent in flitting conversation, with Kyrielle’s rapid subject changes unearthing a wealth of sophistication within him he had not known he possessed.
As they spoke it soon became apparent that knowledge of poetry was not the only artistic talent of which he had hitherto been unaware. One morning Kyrielle had presented him with a lyre and asked him to play.
“I don’t know how to,” he had said.
“How do you know? Try it.”
And so he had, plucking the strings as though he had been playing since birth, producing lilting melodies and wonderful tunes with the practiced grace and elan of a bard. Each note flew from his hands, though he could feel no conscious knowledge of what he was doing and had no understanding of how he could create such beautiful music when he could remember nothing of any lessons or ability.
Each day brought fresh wonders as he discovered that as well as playing music he could also create it. Now aware he could play, an unknown muse stirred within him and he composed laments of such haunting majesty that they brought tears to the eyes of all that heard them. Each discovery brought as many questions as it did answers, and Daroir’s frustration grew as he awaited an audience with his unseen host.
Each piece of the puzzle of his identity that fell into place brought him no closer to the truth and each day he fretted over the silver ring on his finger. Every day spent without knowledge of his true identity was a day that someone mourned his loss: a friend, a brother, a father, a wife…
On the morning of the fourth day of his sojourn at Anurion’s palace, Kyrielle entered the bright arbour in which he sat, and he looked up from the ghost of his memories and saw that she brought him a weapon.
Without a word she handed him a leather belt upon which hung a long-bladed dagger sheathed in a scabbard of what felt like a dense, heavy metal. The scabbard was banded with three rings of gold along its length, but was otherwise plain and unadorned.
“What’s this?” he said. “Do you want to see if I can fight?”
She shook her head. “From the wounds you bear, I’d say that’s a given. No, you were wearing this when I found you on the beach. Do you recognise it?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t remember seeing it before.”
“Not even when you were in the sea?”
“No, I was too busy trying to hold onto the wreckage to worry about what I was wearing. What was I wearing anyway?”
“You were dressed in the tunic of the Lothern Sea Guard. I’m told the heraldry on your arm was that of Lord Aislin.”
“The Sea Guard? I have no memory of serving aboard a ship, but then I’ve had no memory of lots of things I’ve been able to do since you took me in, haven’t I? Maybe I should head to Lothern after I’ve spoken to your father?”
“If you like…” said Kyrielle. “Though, I hoped you would stay with us a little longer.”
He heard the beguiling tone of her voice and knew she was working her charms upon him. He pushed aside thoughts of remaining here and said, “Kyrielle, I may very well have a wife and family. When my strength is returned I should get back to them.”
“I know, silly,” she said, “but it has been so wonderful having you here and trying to help you regain your memory. I’ll be sad to see you go.”
“And I’ll be sad to leave, but I can’t stay here.”
“I know,” she said. “I will send a messenger to Lothern to take word to Lord Aislin that you are here. Perhaps he will know what ship you were on.”
He nodded and returned his attention to the dagger she had given him. Turning it over in his hands he was surprised at its weight. The workmanship was plain, though clearly of elven manufacture, for there was a sense of powerful magic to it. Though he spoke truthfully in saying that he did not recognise the blade, Daroir felt a connection to the weapon, knowing somehow that this weapon was his, but not how or why…
“I feel I should recognise this,” he said, “but I don’t. It’s mine, I know that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me, I don’t remember it.”
Daroir grasped the hilt of the dagger and attempted to pull it from the scabbard, but the weapon remained firmly in its sheath and no matter how hard he pulled, he could not draw the blade.
“It’s stuck,” he said. “I think it’s probably rusted into the scabbard.”
“An elven weapon rusted?” said Kyrielle. “I hardly think so.”
“You try then,” he said, offering her the scabbard.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want to touch it again.”
“Why not?”
“I felt… wrong. I don’t know, I just didn’t like the feel of it in my hand.”
“The magic… is it dark?”
“I do not know. I cannot tell what kind of enchantment has been laid upon it. My father will have a better idea.”
Daroir stood and slipped the belt around his waist. One hole in the belt loop was particularly worn and he was not surprised when the buckle fit exactly within it. He adjusted the dagger on his hip so that it was within easy reach, though a dagger that could not be drawn was not much protection.
Kyrielle stood alongside him and straightened his tunic, brushing his shoulders and chest with her fingertips.
“There,” she said with a smile. “Every inch the handsome warrior.”
He returned her smile and sensed a growing attraction for her that had nothing to do with her magical abili
ty. She was beautiful and there was no doubt that he desired her, but he wore a pledge ring that suggested his heart belonged to another…
Though he knew that he should not feel such an attraction to Kyrielle, some deeper part of him didn’t care and wanted her anyway. Was that part of who he really was? Was he a faithless husband or some reckless lothario who maintained the facade of family life while making sport with other women?
That felt like the first thing that made sense to him since he had been plucked from the ocean. The idea of betrayal stirred some deep current within him, dredging up a forgotten memory of a similar cuckolding, but was it one he had perpetrated or a wrong that had been done to him?
He looked into Kyrielle’s eyes and felt no guilt at the feelings he had for her. Reflected in her features was the same attraction and he reached up to brush his palm against her cheek.
“You are beautiful, Kyrielle,” he said.
She blushed, but he could see his words had struck home and sensed a moment of opportunity that felt deliciously familiar. He leaned forward to kiss her, her eyes closing and her lips parting slightly.
Before their mouths touched, a rustle of leaves sounded as a wall of branches parted behind them and a tall figure swathed in green robes who muttered to himself lurched into the arbour with his arms outstretched.
A flickering ball of light floated between his hands, like a million tiny fireflies caged in an invisible globe of glass.
He turned to face them and frowned, as though not recognising them for a moment, before saying, “Ah, there you are my dear. Would you mind helping me with these? I created a new form of honey bee this morning, but they’re rather more vicious than I intended and I rather feel I’ll need your help to make sure they don’t do any more damage…”
Finally, thought Daroir, Anurion the Green.
Eldain watched the city of Tor Elyr recede as Captain Bellaeir eased the Dragonkin through the sculpted rocky isles of the bay and aimed her prow, freshly adorned with the Eye of Isha, through the channels that led to the Sea of Dusk.
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