The Great Betrayal

by Nick Kyme

  Halfway up the ramp, Forek shook the dwarf’s proffered hand and felt whale grease and spit between his fingers.

  ‘This is your ship?’ he asked, for want of a better reply.

  ‘Aye, the Azuldal,’ he said proudly. ‘Come aboard.’

  Up on deck, the Azuldal looked even more fortified. It was a keep, just one that floated on water.

  ‘There are no sails?’ Forek asked, noticing a hooded figure sitting at the ship’s forecastle. He faced in the direction of the sea, clutching an ornate staff in both hands.

  ‘That’s right, lad. Paddles, oars and solid dawi grit is how we’ll make passage.’ He jerked a thumb at the mysterious passenger. ‘Oh, and a little rhun won’t hurt us either,’ he added in a conspiratorial whisper.

  This must be Thorik Oakeneye, Forek supposed, the runelord who would break the veils clouding Ulthuan.

  ‘How many times have you travelled across the Great Ocean before, Captain Hammerfoot?’ Forek asked, still beguiled by the runesmith.

  ‘Never.’ He was already shouting to his crew, getting them to make ready for depature. With a creaking refrain, the paddle at the ship’s stern began to turn and the long sweeps pierced the dark water as they started to pull.

  ‘Then how do you know you can successfully navigate it?’ asked Forek urgently.

  Nugdrinn scratched under his patch at his missing eye.

  ‘I don’t, but that’s where the adventure comes in, lad.’ His good eye narrowed as he caught on. ‘You look concerned. It’s not the navigating that should worry you, it’s the blood-hungry creatures of the deep.’ He laughed, loud and hearty, stomping towards the helm.

  Forek watched him go, only vaguely aware of Gilias Thunderbrow’s warriors making ready behind him. He felt a hand upon his shoulder.

  It was Gilias. The hearthguard’s eyes followed Nugdrinn limping up every step of the helm until he reached the ship’s wheel.

  ‘Thorik Oakeneye will guide us, but he will keep us afloat. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ said Forek, unconvincingly.

  Gilias laughed. ‘Of course not.’

  Nugdrinn was pointing at the horizon with a grubby finger.

  ‘We’re under way!’ he cried, ‘To the land of the elgi with all haste!’ He looked down at Forek. ‘You should tie yourself down, ufdi. It’ll be a rough passage, I’d warrant. Ha, ha!’

  ‘He’s mad,’ he hissed to Gilias.

  ‘He’d need to be to venture where we’re going.’

  ‘Aren’t you concerned?’ he asked the hearthguard.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am more concerned with what happens if you fail.’

  Forek could find no argument with that, and as the Azuldal pulled out of Barak Varr and drove towards the Black Gulf, he wondered what would await when they arrived on Ulthuan.

  If they arrived on Ulthuan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Hunted

  Heavy rain peeled off the hood of Sevekai’s cloak, teeming in rivulets of dark water that pooled at his already sodden feet. Brooding clouds overhead showed no sign of abating and an ever-present thunder promised worse weather to come.

  The skull-headed rock seemed to glower down at him, presaging darker times ahead. Sevekai glared back, unimpressed.

  ‘Hell’s Head indeed,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll need to summon more than just rain to kill me, spirit.’ He cursed with all the names of the dark elf gods of the underworld. It had been days, but still no sign. ‘Boredom might, however,’ he admitted.

  Crouched in the lee of the Hell’s Head crag, there was little else to do but wait. She said she would be there and though it went against every instinct he possessed he had to trust her.

  A biting wind was blowing off the mountains, chilling the air and turning the rain to sleet. Drawing his cloak tighter around his body, Sevekai tried to imagine warmer climes.

  ‘Why are we still here?’ moaned Verigoth. The grey-pallored shade looked more sullen than usual. ‘Our task is finished. The asur will soon be at war. Why must we remain?’

  Sevekai didn’t have the heart to tell him they would not be returning to Naggaroth any time soon, that Malekith had left them here to rot or find passage back to the frozen island for themselves. No, it wasn’t a lack of heart; he just preferred the other dark elf to suffer.

  ‘We are here because our dark lord wills it.’ A raven had perched on the overhanging rock, seemingly oblivious to the rain, and cawed at the bedraggled warriors. Flitting from one settlement to the next, often sleeping on bare rock or under shadowed trees, they looked ragged. Verigoth wasn’t alone in his displeasure. At least they were alive. For now. If she got her way, the other bitch making Sevekai’s life torment, then the situation might change. ‘And even this far from his court, do not think for a moment that his eye isn’t ever watchful.’

  In truth, though, Sevekai had begun to wonder the same thing. Not why they were still here, but rather why they were in the Old World at all. What would a war between elves and dwarfs achieve? It would not restore the druchii to glory. Not for the first time he considered his position but was wise enough to keep his misgivings hidden beneath his surface thoughts. Drutheira might be close and reading his mind. Worse still, Malekith could be listening.

  The raven took flight, and Sevekai prayed to the gods of the underworld that it wasn’t a Naggarothi messenger.

  For the last eight years, ever since murdering the dwarf wizard or whatever he was, the shades had gone to ground. Occasionally they had resurfaced to attack a band of dwarfs or ambush a caravan. Discord needed to be nurtured if it was to flourish into something as permanent and debilitating as enmity. Sevekai had curtailed their activities deliberately. Flames had been fanned, they merely needed to watch and see where they spread. The dwarf king had shown more resilience than he had expected in resisting a declaration of war. In part, this forced the shades out of hiding, but the other mud-dwelling lords had fomented the inevitable war nicely with their bigotry and greed.

  The message from Drutheira came as a surprise. He had neither seen nor heard from her since they had been reunited in the gorge. They were evading a band of dwarf rangers – heavier patrols along the roads had made travelling more difficult – when her face had manifested in the rotting intestines of a dead raven. Perhaps the one on the rock earlier had been looking for its mate.

  She had bidden Sevekai meet her at this place, and wait there until she arrived. The sending was so incongruous, so unlike her in its tone and desperation that he decided to believe the witch. Any chance to see Drutheira squirm, whatever the cause, was worth taking. And, besides, there was something more than lust which compelled him.

  The others didn’t chafe much. Likely they hoped she would spirit them away with sorcery. Sevekai let them believe that, even though he knew that though Drutheira was powerful she did not possess that kind of craft, even with her lackeys. Only one of the party seemed sceptical.

  ‘You still think she will come?’ asked Kaitar.

  Sevekai met the cold bastard’s gaze and suppressed a shudder, telling himself it was caused by the wind.

  Losing Numenos at the gorge had been a blow. Now they were five, and could ill-afford to lose anyone else, but he wished bitterly there was one less of their number. Verigoth was rumoured to have a witch elf for a mother, his pale skin indicative of Hag Graef, the lightless prison city. Hreth and Latharek were twins from Har Ganeth, City of Executioners, and as hard as druchii came but even they looked ill at ease around Kaitar.

  Sitting in a circle around a guttering fire that was more smoke than heat, every face was forlorn.

  All except for Kaitar. He was smiling.

  ‘I see little to be pleased about,’ said Hreth, a dangerous edge to his tone.

  ‘Perhaps he likes the rain,’ suggested Latharek, smirking with his brother.

 
Kaitar grinned, showing perfect teeth. Ignoring the brothers, he turned to Sevekai. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Will the witch still come, because if not…’

  Sevekai didn’t look up. ‘She’ll be here.’

  Hreth got to his feet, rain hammering against his cloak and running down the broad-bladed knife he wore at his hip. ‘Where is it exactly you hail from again, Kaitar?’

  Kaitar didn’t look back. ‘Many places, none. It doesn’t really matter.’

  ‘I think it does,’ said Latharek, standing up next to his brother.

  Sevekai edged back, hand slipping furtively to his sickle daggers, but otherwise content to let it play out.

  ‘You don’t want to know where I am from, Hreth,’ Kaitar answered, staring into the embers of the fire which seemed to spit and flare into life.

  Hreth would not be dissuaded. ‘I have been to many of the dark cities but never met one such as you.’

  Latharek joined in, ‘Yes, you are barely druchii at all.’

  Kaitar laughed, goading Hreth.

  ‘Something amuses you?’

  ‘Only your foolishness.’ He looked up from the fire.

  Sevekai licked his lips, anticipating violence. Verigoth remained still and silent.

  ‘Sit down,’ Kaitar told the brothers.

  Eight years had frayed tempers, stoked discontent to the point where it was about to spill over into something more lethal. Perhaps this was how Malekith had intended to deal with his errant scouts, by having them kill each other.

  ‘Now,’ Kaitar added.

  Sevekai’s skin tingled and he thought he detected a slight resonance to the warrior’s voice.

  Hreth and Latharek sat down as ordered, as if pole-axed and struck dumb.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Kaitar. ‘Is that any way to behave when we have guests?’ He turned to Sevekai, who couldn’t stop his flesh crawling nor the itch behind his teeth. ‘You were right.’

  ‘About what?’ Sevekai asked.

  Kaitar pointed to the tip of a craggy rise.

  ‘She did come.’

  Drutheira had arrived with Ashniel and Malchior.

  Sevekai gave Kaitar one last look before greeting the witch.

  ‘Enter, stranger…’ He gave a mock bow, masking his discomfort with absurd theatrics.

  Drutheira did not appear to be impressed.

  ‘We do not have much time,’ she hissed, glancing at the brooding sky overhead. Now he saw them up close, Sevekai thought the coven looked more ragged than his own tattered followers.

  ‘You’ve been prettier, my dear,’ he said, betraying a mote of concern at Drutheira’s appearance.

  ‘Like a cold one sniffing blood,’ she spat, seeming not to hear the gibe. Her fingers were thin, almost like bone, and her sunken cheeks reminded Sevekai of a cadaver that had yet to realise it was dead. ‘It has taken all of my power to stay hidden.’

  The two at her side bristled at this.

  Her power?

  Sevekai could almost hear their thoughts, slipping porously through their hateful eyes.

  ‘The elf woman? I thought we had eluded her years ago.’

  Drutheira rounded on him, snarling. ‘She is a mage, idiot! Such creatures cannot be eluded. She has found my magical spoor, tracked me, dogged me without relent.’

  ‘Then you must flee.’

  ‘I am fleeing, my love,’ she said, ‘to you. I need you to kill her for me.’

  Now Sevekai laughed. ‘And her beast too, I suppose?’ His face hardened. ‘You reap your own harvest, Drutheira. Leaving a stain on that gorge was a mistake, one that will hound you to the edge of the Old World.’

  ‘Do you know how many settlements I have razed to ash over the last eight years?’ she asked, fashioning a coruscating orb of dark energy in her hand. ‘And my wrath is far from spent.’ The orb writhed as if constricted in Drutheira’s grip, oily tendrils coiling and uncoiling in agony, eager to be unleashed.

  Sevekai stepped back.

  ‘This black horror will strip flesh from bone,’ she promised. ‘I saved your miserable life in that gorge. That dwarf would have killed you all had I not intervened. Now,’ she said, the summoning receding into trailing smoke that left a dark scar on her open palm, ‘the balance of that must be accounted.’

  ‘What makes you think I can kill her?’

  ‘You are not fixed in her eye. She won’t see the blade until she’s already dead from its poison.’ She cast another glance skywards, imagining the beat of heavy wings, a shadow overhead…

  Sevekai smiled.

  ‘You are weak, aren’t you?’

  Drutheira came close, so only he could hear her.

  ‘She has hunted me for eight years, Sevekai. I am exhausted,’ she said, with a furtive glance at her predatory cohorts, but they were just as wasted. Drutheira’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘She will kill me.’

  Appealing to the heart of an assassin is no easy thing but despite their ostensible enmity Sevekai did not want harm to come to the sorceress.

  ‘I know a hidden path, one that will take us south, beyond the mountains and to the coast. There is a ship waiting in dock that can take us to the Sour Sea and from there we’ll make our way back.’

  Drutheira dragged Sevekai close and hissed, ‘I will not make it that far. She must die.’ Her face darkened, blackness pooled in her sunken eyes and a shadow of a grin lifted her features. ‘You have no choice.’

  Sevekai threw her off.

  ‘Another dagger in my back, Drutheira?’ he snarled. ‘You led her here deliberately.’

  All of a sudden, the sorceress did not appear so weak or desperate.

  ‘I’m sorry, my love, but our survival depends on us working together. Our dark lord has decreed it. I need the elf bitch dead. She is interfering with my plans.’

  Murderous intent flashed over Sevekai’s face.

  ‘How close?’

  ‘A day, if that. It is Malekith’s will that the dragon rider dies.’

  The shade shook his head, ‘And here I was thinking all I had to be concerned about was the rain.’

  ‘And one other thing,’ Drutheira said, keeping her voice low as her gaze lit on Kaitar. ‘That is not a druchii.’

  With the coming of the dream, she smelled smoke and heard the crackle of fire…

  Cothique was burning.

  Liandra ran through the streets, crying out for her mother, desperate to see her father and brothers. She was young, too young to wield a sword or spear. Not like them. They would have killed the raiders, put them to flight, but the warriors defending Cothique were all dead and only women and children remained.

  A terrible clamour raked the air, and it took a few minutes for Liandra to realise the sound belonged to gulls, screaming as the air in which they flew was set aflame.

  The port was ablaze, half-burned bodies face down in the water from where they’d tried to douse themselves. Quarrels protruded from their backs like spines.

  Everything was haze and shadow, muffled by the flames, clouded by the smoke. Liandra coughed, bringing up a ropey phlegm that spoiled her summer dress. She was crawling before she realised she had fallen, hands and knees in the dirt and blood. It sluiced down the streets in a river.

  Somewhere, she couldn’t tell precisely in her dark occluded world, a horn was braying. Liandra knew that sound, just as she knew the raiders were taking flight, their black galleons brimming with slaves. Lothern had answered, their ships had come and sent fear running through the hearts of the druchii.

  Reaching out, half blind with smoke, Liandra found the edge of a broken cart. She began to crawl beneath it when an iron-hard grip seized her ankle. She screamed as she was pulled, looking back through tear-streaming eyes into the face of a wraith.

  Though her brothers had told her tales, she had ne
ver seen a druchii before. He was pale, his features so like and yet unlike her own; appearing sharper, as though she would cut herself on his nose or cheekbones.

  She screamed again and the druchii laughed, drinking in her terror. His face was painted in cruel, angular runes that made Liandra’s eyes hurt, or that might just have been the fire. She kicked wildly, connecting with the druchii’s face, and he snarled in anger at her. She tried again, but he caught her ankle, twisted it hard until she thought she might pass out from the pain.

  ‘Khaine’s hells are reserved for little ones like you,’ the raider hissed, drawing a curved dagger with serrated teeth along its edge.

  His breath smelled of blood.

  She struggled, looking around for help, but there was no one. Only fire and smoke. The warriors from Lothern would not reach her in time. Gutted on a druchii’s blade or a prisoner on their foul ships, either way she was as good as dead. But Liandra was a princess of Caledor, she had a warrior’s heart and fire in her veins to fuel it. She would not die without a fight.

  A heavy punch to her jaw put the fight out of her and she mewled like a milksop farm girl, blacking out for a second. When she opened her eyes again, the dagger was all she could see, filling her eye line. She noticed the blade was black, or rather, stained that way.

  She wept. ‘Mother…’

  The druchii grunted, the dagger falling from Liandra’s sight, a grimace marring the raider’s porcelain features. A woman stood over him, a broken spear haft clutched in her shaking hands.

  ‘Get off her, you bastard!’

  Liandra wept again, even as the druchii parried a second swipe of the spear haft and disarmed its wielder with ease. ‘Mother…’

  ‘Run!’ she cried to Liandra, urging her daughter with all the swiftness of Kurnous. ‘Flee, Liandra!’