Sword of Caledor (9 page)

Chapter Seven

General Dorian Silverblade, master of the army of the north, Lord of Halustur, by grace of Malekith, keeper of the iron key and lord high marshal of the realm of Naggaroth waited nervously in the antechamber of the Witch King’s throne room.

Frantically he reviewed all of his words and deeds for the past few months to see if there was anything that could possibly have caused a fall from grace. As far as he could tell there was nothing. Not even his most ambitious subordinate could have found an action or a speech that could possibly have been construed as disloyal. If they had made something up, they would swiftly discover the folly of spreading lies to the Witch King. Malekith had his own sources, and he checked and double-checked everything.

No. Dorian had performed his duties in an exemplary, some would say superlative fashion. He had held the border against Chaos for decades and he had overseen the arrival of the new allies Morathi had recruited as well as it was possible to do. There had been a minimum of fuss and trouble with the followers of the Dark Gods since their unexpected conversion to the cause of the rightful heir of Aenarion. If they planned treachery while within Naggaroth they would find themselves swiftly manoeuvred into a position where they could be destroyed by the druchii armies shadowing them.

Dorian knew that even the most diligent performance of one’s duties did not always guarantee Malekith’s favour, but it was unusual for the Witch King to take against those who served him well. Still, like every other dark elf he had skeletons in his closet that could be held against him. He supposed that there was always that business with his accursed half-brother Urian which ensured that the whole family would be forever tainted, and then there was his relationship with Cassandra, sorceress and follower of many secret paths, not all of them particularly favoured by Malekith.

He doubted that even those meant that much. If Malekith had been going to punish him for Urian’s transgressions he would already have done so. He had made his displeasure with Poisonblade known in the most spectacular fashion possible. For a thousand years druchii would talk about his fate in fearful whispers.

Dorian shuddered when he thought of his last sight of his brother hanging half-flayed from hooks over that blood-filled cauldron. Leather-clad torturers had driven truesilver spikes through his empty eye-sockets into the pleasure centres of his brain, and then muttered spells which turned agony into ecstasy and pleasure into pain. They had done it randomly so that the most awful torture became orgasmic pleasure, and the most gentle painkillers turned into nerve-wracking toxins.

Of course, Urian had gone mad many times, but he had always been nursed back to health. His body had hung there for thirteen months in this antechamber, kept alive by food and water pumped into his stomach through leather tubes and transfusions of blood from dying slaves hooked up to vampiric engines. Then one day Urian was just gone. Never mentioned again in Malekith’s hearing, his body tossed unmourned on some rubbish heap in Naggarond.

All because of one ill-considered joke. And he had been a favourite of Malekith’s up to that moment. His skill as a pit fighter and his wit and scholarship had all contributed to making him so. Malekith had made an example of him though, and now few considered speculating on how the armoured Witch King entertained himself in the privacy of his personal chambers.

Dorian had never liked his younger brother but it was a waste. Urian had been perhaps the greatest swordsman Naggaroth had seen in twenty generations. He had been a scholar of peculiar lore, an expert on poisons who had delighted in demonstrating their uses in the pits in which he had fought and made his name. He was merry and terrifying and entirely too self-confident. Dorian did not mind admitting now that he had feared him in a manner in which it was not entirely seemly to fear a younger sibling.

And yet he found he still missed him sometimes. They had come from the same place, poor scions of an impoverished ancient line. They had chosen different paths to fame and fortune at the court of Naggaroth, Urian in the fighting pits and bedchambers, he on the battlefield. They had both achieved success. One of them had gone on to demonstrate how transitory that could be. Dorian hoped he was not about to do the same.

Had he said anything about this to Cassandra, he wondered, and had his sorceress lover betrayed him for it? She was loyal to Morathi, in the same way as he was loyal to Malekith, but that meant nothing. The mother and the son shared information about their minions even as they manoeuvred for advantage against each other. It had been that way in Naggaroth for millennia.

He wondered whether Cassandra could be the cause of this summons. Had he said anything outrageous to her when they were drunk on narcotic wine? He somehow doubted it. His tolerance for such things was better than his lover’s. Of course, she was a sorceress, a follower of Morathi and that was automatically suspect, but Malekith knew about this. Dorian had reported the contact as soon as it happened. He was as much a spy on Cassandra as she was on him. It was the way the realm functioned.

There was always the chance he had missed something, or Malekith was going to bring up some long-forgotten, by Dorian anyway, indiscretion and punish him for it. It would not be the first time it had happened. He had known generals summoned to the royal presence who fully expected a promotion, only to have a centuries-old conversation repeated verbatim to them, and a treasonous slant put on it. His old commander, Hartelroy, had gone that way, which was a pity for he had been a good general and a decent enough druchii.

Dorian knew it was pointless looking through his past for acts of weakness or sins of treason. If Malekith wanted to find them, he would, no matter how blameless a life Dorian had led. And their entire system was set up so that no one could lead an entirely blameless life. If you did not criticise the king, you criticised his enemies in the Cult of Khaine, only to discover a decade later that those enemies were now trusted allies once more and your criticism of them could be construed as treason.

It was better to keep your mouth shut and say nothing at all, but what druchii could do that? There were so many parties, so many orgies, so many great public festivals at which drunkenness was not only expected, it was practically mandatory, as was narcotic indulgence.

And after all, if you were sober what was it you were trying to hide? And once you were drunk, tongues always wagged. In private gatherings, with friends, under the warming influence of the black grape, people suddenly felt compelled to speak things better left unsaid. And ears were always listening. No matter how small the group, how trusted the friends, there was always someone who saw some way of gaining some advantage from an indiscretion.

Dorian liked to think he could hold his drink, and with the example of his brother constantly before him he had every reason to, but even he had sometimes said things, let words slip that might be used against him. Perhaps that time was at hand.

The massive stone door to the great throne room slid open. The chamberlain, sumptuously garbed in ermine and purple silk, emerged. ‘His majesty will see you now, General Dorian,’ he said. There was no clue in his manner whether Dorian was going to reward or execution. It was always the same.

Dorian entered the great audience chamber. It was cold. No fires burned. Malekith did not need them and it would have been in bad taste to remind him of the time he had attempted to pass through the Flame. Icicle stalactites clung to the ceiling. Dorian’s breath came out in chilly clouds. He pulled his cloak tight about his shoulders and began the long slow march towards the throne. He kept his back straight, determined to be a soldier to the end.

The audience chamber was vast and empty and his metal shod footsteps echoed within it. He walked between lines of bodyguards who might have been statues for all the movement they showed. Doubtless some of them were elves he had once known, who might even have served under his command in the old days, but none of them showed the slightest flicker of recognition, which was as it should be.

Even at this distance, Malekith dominated the chamber. He was huge, out of all proportion to his surroundings. His bodyguards looked like children. His massive armoured figure looked even more like a statue than his guards did. Only the cold flicker of his eyes showed there was something living in there, an intelligence that had outlasted the millennia.

It was not just by sheer physical size that the Witch King dominated the room. He had an aura about him such as a dragon had. He radiated power and a force of will that was terrifying. He was god-like in his way. You only had to get near him to realise it. There could be no doubt that you were in the presence of a king, and something more than a king.

Another figure flanked the throne, an elf woman of astonishing beauty. Chains hung from her limbs that contained powerful, binding magic. Dorian was surprised that he had never seen or heard of her before. Hers was the sort of loveliness of which poets would sing. She studied Dorian with languorous eyes, erotic interest all too visible. He did his best to ignore it. She was standing beside Malekith which would make any such encounter dangerous, no matter how exciting it might prove to be.

‘General Dorian, it is good to see you’ said Malekith. His still-beautiful voice boomed out. It was not exactly jovial. It was always going to be too cold and remote and impersonal for that, but at least there was no anger in it which was a good sign, unless the Witch King was playing with him as a cat toys with a mouse.

Dorian bowed. ‘It is kind of you to say so, sire.’

‘You have done a sterling job protecting our borders and your work supervising the arrival of our new allies has been exemplary.’

The terror started to lift from Dorian’s mind. It was like a massive downward pressure on his whole body had been removed. Evidently he was still in the Witch King’s favour.

‘I live only to serve you, sire,’ he said.

‘If only more of my subjects felt that way,’ said Malekith. Was he making a joke, Dorian wondered? It seemed very unlikely. Be careful, he told himself. He felt like he was moving onto very new, very uncertain, very dangerous ground.

‘I am sure they are all as loyal as I, sire.’

‘Spoken with true druchii ambiguity, Dorian,’ said Malekith. ‘But I can assure you that very few are, which is why you are standing in front of me now. I have new duties for you, more important than any you have been assigned in the past. If you carry them out to my satisfaction you will be rewarded as no elf has ever been rewarded before. If you fail in them you will be punished as no elf ever has been.’

It was typical of Malekith that he had to mention punishment, Dorian thought. He could have left it unsaid. They both would still have known it was the case anyway, but the Witch King liked to remind his subjects and himself who held all the power.

‘I shall not fail you, sire,’ said Dorian.

‘See that you don’t. Say nothing of what you hear today to anyone until I give you permission to do otherwise. Is that clear?’

Dorian knew he was expected to speak. He nodded and said, ‘Yes, sire.’

‘Very good, Dorian. Now I will satisfy your curiosity as to why you have been summoned.’

The Witch King spoke on then, and Dorian knew why he had been sworn to secrecy. His heart filled with wonder and terror as Malekith outlined his plan and Dorian’s part in it. Truly nothing like this had been attempted in all the long years of history. By the time Malekith finished, Dorian was holding his breath. He also knew that the Witch King was not joking. If he succeeded in playing his part he could name his own reward. It was that important.

‘Rest assured I shall not fail you, sire,’ he said. ‘And I would like to thank you for selecting me for this.’

‘The only thanks I require will be your success,’ said Malekith. ‘In a few hours there will be a general staff meeting. You need not attend it. You will be selecting the troops you need and equipping them with the special amulets I have prepared.’

‘As you wish, so shall it be, sire.’

Malekith studied his assembled generals. They represented the most powerful elves in his kingdom. They were feared throughout the lands of Naggaroth. They were soldiers, sorcerers and skilful politicians without equal. Yet here, in his presence, they quivered with barely restrained terror.

He would have preferred it to be different. Yet he knew there was no way that it could be so. He was no longer like any other elf, if he ever had been. His armour saw to that. It did more than protect him. It was a barrier to any natural contact between him and any other member of his race. Sometimes that had its advantages. Sometimes he wished things were otherwise.

He dismissed these feelings of weakness when he saw that the daemon’s eyes were upon him. N’Kari watched him intently as always, even when he appeared not to be doing so. Malekith did not need his own eyes to know this. He could sense the daemon’s attention through the bond they shared, the bond that had been created by the binding.