PERILOUS VISIONS
by Mike Lee


IT WAS ONLY just midsummer, but the narrow, arched door at the top of the Harath-uin was sealed with an inch of grey ice. The door's heavy iron ring rattled agitatedly in its rusty socket, then heavy blows shook the dark, blooded oak panels until sprays of ice flew from the seams and the portal swung open on creaky hinges. A gust of sharp, freezing air stabbed into the arched doorway like a sword-thrust, drawing a curse from the young druchii standing upon the threshold.
Tethyr stepped gingerly onto the broad stones of the walkway, remembering the warnings of the guards they'd passed on the long climb up the tower. In the predawn gloom the flagstones looked dry and worn, but almost at once the young highborn skidded silently on an invisible coating of black ice. More than one sentry had fallen from the tip of the God-spear, the tower guards said, especially when the moon was down and the summer winds blew. Steadying himself with another muted curse, the young highborn could see why.
The tip of the Harath-uin was the tallest point in all of Naggaroth, a blade-like tower of black stone rising two hundred and fifty feet above the fortress of Karond Kar, which itself sat on a granite cliff more than four hundred feet above the sea. The walkway at the top of the tower was no more than four paces across, with a smooth stone parapet that rose to the middle of a druchii's chest.
Without warning the wind shifted direction, banging the heavy door against the side of the tower and buffeting the highborn from behind. Even with the harness of articulated plate armour and mail skirts Tethyr wore beneath his heavy bearskin cloak the young druchii staggered beneath the blow, his hands flailing out before him for support. For a dizzying instant it felt as though the wind was going to fling him right off the walkway, and on impulse the highborn staggered to the lip of the parapet so he would have something solid to hang on to.
He fetched up hard against the stone and found himself leaning out into empty air, nearly seven hundred feet above the restless sea. A thin rime of ice crunched beneath Tethyr's hands as he gripped the lip of the parapet. The slate rooftops of the slave markets and the merchant quarter looked as small as nauglir scales from where he stood.
'Good place to murder someone.'
At the sound of his master's rasping voice Tethyr took a deep breath and forced himself to stand upright. He even hazarded a weak grin as the wind clawed at his narrow face and thick, black hair. 'Indeed so, my lord,' the young druchii replied. 'Have I reason to be concerned?'
Tethyr was the image of a dashing, cold-hearted druchii knight: large, dark eyes as sharp as flint, deep-set over strong cheekbones and a hawk's bill nose. His teeth were white and even, filed expertly to sharp, fashionable points, and he smiled with the wolfish charm of a druchii just coming into his prime.
In contrast, the tall figure that limped slowly through the arched doorway bore the weight of years like the heavy cloak of dragonscale that hung from his shoulders. Lord Nuarc's enamelled plate armour was etched in gilt and marked with powerful wards of protection, buckled over a wide skirt of ithilmar mail that shone like frost in the weak light. The paired swords buckled at his waist were set with dark rubies the colour of cooling blood, resting in scabbards ornamented in ruddy gold. Armour and weapons together amounted to a drachau's ransom, and they had been hard earned on more than a hundred battlefields.
The old general's face was dreadful to behold. Years before on a raid into Ulthuan, a griffon's talons had drawn three jagged furrows across the left side of Nuarc's head, clawing away half of the general's ear and putting out his eye before leaving his sunken cheek and upper lip in tatters. The left side of Nuarc's face was misshapen, a broken ruin, and the scar tissue had pulled the corner of his upper lip into a permanent snarl. The bridge of his long nose was notched in two places by slashing sword strokes, and the side of his lean neck was dimpled by the scar of a spear thrust that had ravaged his once commanding voice.
The thick, golden hadrilkar, his collar of service, still bore the deep mark where it had turned aside the deadly blow. Wrought in the shape of a sinuous dragon, it marked him as one of the Witch King's personal retainers and by rights one of the most powerful nobles in all the Land of Chill. There was more iron grey than black in the general's dark hair, which was drawn back and bound with a band of gold to help cover the lines of hairless scar tissue that ran across the side of his head.
Tendrils of steam rose from a large, clay goblet in Nuarc's hand. He splashed a bit of the hot wine across the paving stones and studied its effects with his one good eye. 'If I'd wanted you dead, boy, I could think of a dozen ways to do it that don't involve climbing so many damned stairs,' he said with a grunt. 'Take out that glass of yours and let's see what's out there.'
From the top of the God-spear a sharp-eyed druchii could observe nearly the entire length of the Sea of Chill and watch the coastal Slavers' Road for more than a hundred leagues as it wound its way westward, past Har Ganeth and on to the black walls of Naggarond itself. South and east, less than twenty leagues away, stood the mouth of the Slavers' Straits, the twisting passage that druchii corsairs took on their raids to Ulthuan and the human lands beyond. Another passage to the sea lay only a dozen miles due north, beyond a set of narrow islands called the Witch's Knives. Not even the sea-wise druchii hazarded the Witch's Straits however; the narrow channel was rife with deadly ice floes even in the height of summer, and home to dreadful sea creatures born in the Chaos-tainted seas further north. A sole ferryboat crossed the mouth of the strait during daylight hours, carrying flesh traders from the Slavers' Road to the slave markets at the foot of Karond Kar.
The ferry's first run wouldn't begin for several hours yet. The coastline around Karond Kar and the twin straits was wreathed in shifting layers of pearlescent fog. South and west the sky was still deep indigo, scattered with the cold gleam of countless icy stars. Dawn was little more than a pale grey tinge on the eastern horizon, its wan light all but eclipsed by the shifting patterns of colour bruising the sky to the north above the Chaos Wastes.
Tethyr brushed the melting flakes of ice from his gauntlets and pulled a long, dark cylinder from his belt. The dwarf-wrought spyglass had been borrowed from Karond Kar's drachau.
Tethyr opened the spyglass and raised the cold, brass ocular to his eye. 'If I haven't said so before, my lord, I'm grateful you chose me for this task.'
Nuarc let out a snort. 'As it happens, you've got a number of qualities that made you a good choice for this little errand,' the general said. 'Two good eyes, for starters. Now tell me what you see.'
Tethyr frowned and swept the spyglass slowly from east to west. 'Darkness and fog,' he replied. 'What exactly am I looking for, my lord?'
'You'll know it when you see it,' Nuarc said, sipping noisily at his wine.
The young highborn swallowed his irritation. Secrets within secrets: that was the way of things at court. Malekith told no one, least of all his personal retainers, any more than they absolutely needed to know. He hadn't even known he was leaving Naggarond until Nuarc had arrived at his apartments, packed and ready for the journey to Karond Kar.
Tethyr swept the spyglass back from west to east, his young eyes straining to pierce the early morning darkness. They had been ordered to stand here, at this particular time and on this particular day, to watch for something, but what? Are we looking for a particular corsair?' the young highborn asked. 'Someone sneaking out of Clar Karond?'
'It's midsummer,' the general rasped, 'every ship that's seaworthy has already left port for the raiding season.'
'Someone sneaking back in, then?'
Nuarc didn't reply at first. 'Keep an eye on the straits,' he said carefully.
Aha, the young highborn thought triumphantly. He turned the glass on the Slavers' Straits. 'Thick fog,' he reported. 'Only a fool would be out sailing in it before sunrise.'
'Undoubtedly,' Nuarc agreed, 'but I think you're looking in the wrong direction.'
Tethyr glanced at the general. 'I don't understand.'
Nuarc jerked his scarred head to the north.
'The Witch's Straits?' the young highborn asked, incredulous.
The general nodded. 'Put it down to an old warrior's intuition,' he said.
Tethyr shifted position so he could cover the narrower approach. He swept the glass over the ferry dock and found the broad-beamed boat tied up where she was supposed to be. Scowling, he studied the length of the Witch's Knives, their wooded shorelines fading in and out through the fog. He was just about to lower the glass when he caught a tiny hint of movement out beyond the furthest island.
He focused on the spot, but the fog had closed in once more. Tethyr rested his elbows against the parapet, suddenly forgetting all about the height and the treacherous wind. After a moment he shifted the glass slowly to the west.
'There, a glimpse of red and white!'
'What is it?' Nuarc demanded.
The light was improving. The wind shifted again, and the fog parted.
Tethyr jerked his eye away from the ocular as though stung. 'Impossible!' he hissed.
'Tell me,' the old general said in a steely voice.
The young highborn glanced over his shoulder at Nuarc. 'Twin masts and race-cut sails,' he said in disbelief. 'A ship from Ulthuan!'
If the old general was surprised at all by the bizarre news his scarred face gave no sign of it. 'Just one?'
Tethyr turned back to the spyglass. After a few minutes he nodded. 'Just the one, my lord,' he said at last. 'She's clear of the straits and heading out into the middle of the sea.'
'They'll cross the Sea of Chill by mid-morning and then follow the southern coastline,' the general mused. 'If they followed the north coast they'd be in full view of the Slavers' Road the entire way.'
'The entire way where?'
Nuarc scowled at the young druchii. 'The west coast of the Sea of Malice,' he said gravely, 'within a few days' march of Naggarond. Where else?'
Tethyr gaped at the old general. 'Is this an invasion?'
'A single ship?' Nuarc sneered. 'Don't be stupid, boy. It's a raid.'
'Through the Witch's Straits and across the inner seas?' Tethyr shook his head in wonder. 'They're brave, I'll give them that.'
'They're fools,' Nuarc growled, 'but that doesn't make them any less dangerous.'
'What do we do now? Alert the harbour squadron?'
Nuarc stared into the depths of his cup. 'No,' he said. 'We tell no one. We're to secure a pair of neshuin from the aerie and fly immediately to Naggarond with the news.' Only couriers charged with the most crucial information were permitted to use the flying horses quartered at the kingdom's six great cities.
Tethyr's brow furrowed. 'But... that makes no sense.'
'It makes as much sense as it needs to, boy,' Nuarc said. 'Those are our orders.'
'But...' The young druchii looked out to sea. Without the aid of the spyglass the raider was invisible in the faint light. 'I mean... how did Malekith know?'
'His mother has some minor skill at divination,' Nuarc snapped. 'Name of Morathi, perhaps you've heard of her?'
Tethyr bristled at the rebuke. 'I just meant-'
The old general cut him off with a wave of his hand. 'I know what you meant, boy,' he said gravely. 'The raid is being led by Eltharion, the blind swordmaster. Malekith's had his eye on him ever since he took that wound at the Dragon's Gate.' The old druchii sighed. 'Now his obsession has doomed us all.'
'Doomed?' Tethyr echoed. Something in Nuarc's voice sent a chill down the young highborn's spine. 'How can that be?'
Nuarc glared balefully into the darkness. 'Because Naggaroth is a cold and unforgiving place, and we have never been a numerous people,' he said, his ravaged lips twisting at the bitter taste of the words. 'The only way we have been able to survive here, to till the poor soil and draw iron from these ancient hills, is through the labour of tens of thousands of slaves.' He turned to the young highborn. 'At any given time there are a hundred slaves for every single druchii in Naggaroth, and that's still not enough. We spend four to five months out of every year at sea hunting for more.' Nuarc gave Tethyr a hard look. 'What do you think would happen if we had no flesh harvest one year?'
Tethyr frowned. 'It's happened before, or near enough. We survived.'
'It hasn't happened in your lifetime, boy,' Nuarc snarled. 'I remember the last one. The price for slaves soared. Flesh houses closed, and then the mines and forges went idle. Cities raided one another for slaves in the dead of winter. And that was one bad season,' the general said. 'Imagine what two seasons would cost us, or three.'
'But that would never happen,' Tethyr said.
'Oh, but it could,' Nuarc replied. 'It's been our secret nightmare for hundreds of years.' The general pointed, first to the Slavers' Strait, then the Witch's Strait. 'They are the choke points. Right now all of our ships are at sea on raiding cruises. Imagine what would happen if they returned and found an enemy fleet waiting for them in the straits, outnumbered, heavily laden, no room to manoeuvre...'
'They wouldn't stand a chance,' Tethyr said, his expression grim.
The general nodded. 'Exactly, and a blockading fleet would only have to stay in place for a few weeks to a month, right at the end of summer. Once the straits freeze over in early autumn they sail for home, leaving us without a flesh harvest. And they can do it again the next year, and the year after that.'
Tethyr's eyes widened as he realised the implications. 'Then why haven't our enemies ever attempted such a thing?'
'For the simple reason that Ulthuan hasn't known how vulnerable we are,' Nuarc said, 'until now.' He pointed out into the darkness. 'The elves in that boat have just seen with their own eyes how easy it would be to choke off our supply of slaves. If even one of those raiders make it back to Ulthuan with an accurate report of the straits our worst fears will one day come true.'
'Blessed Murderer,' Tethyr cursed. 'Is there nothing we can do?'
'There is,' Nuarc said quietly. 'We end the long war with our brethren. We make peace with Ulthuan.'
For several long moments Tethyr could only stare in shock at the old general. 'You're mad,' he finally said.
'Mind your tongue, boy,' Nuarc hissed. 'I was fighting against Ulthuan four hundred years before you were even born. I'm being realistic. We can either negotiate a peace that's favourable to us now or have one forced on us later. Which would you choose?'
Tethyr shook his head. 'This is treason. Malekith would never agree to such a thing.'
To the young druchii's surprise, the general only nodded. 'On this much at least we agree, which is why we must overthrow him.'
'We?' Tethyr exclaimed.
'I'm not the only one at court who can see the danger we are in,' Nuarc said. 'A number of us have been talking about this for some time. So long as Malekith remained strong we counted ourselves secure, but since he was wounded in Ulthuan it's clear that a change has come over him. He's not the ruler he once was.'
'But Malekith-'
'The Witch King is one man, Tethyr. With all his power and all the power of Morathi behind him he still cannot rule the druchii without the support of the nobility.' Nuarc edged closer to Tethyr, pointing out to sea. 'The Witch King has all but invited our foes to Naggaroth's shores. This obsession has made him reckless and weak. We can use this to our advantage, letting Eltharion and his elves give us the opportunity we need.'
Tethyr swallowed, his face grey with horror. 'What does any of this have to do with me?'
'Isn't it obvious? As the lowest ranking member of Malekith's retinue you're his Master of Horse and Gate. Naggarond's Dark Riders and the fortress guards are under your command. Eltharion and his pitiful band can only be here for one purpose: to finish what the swordmaster began during the duel at the Dragon Gate.' The general gave the young highborn a ghastly smile. 'Normally they wouldn't get within a mile of the Witch King's tower, but with your help...'
'No.' Tethyr said forcefully. 'You're not going to make a traitor out of me! I should report this to the Witch King at once-'
Swift as an arrow, Nuarc's left hand shot out and seized Tethyr by the front of his cloak, bending the young highborn backwards over the edge of the parapet. Gasping in terror, Tethyr grabbed Nuarc's wrist and tried to twist away from the general, but the old druchii's grip was like iron.
'You forget yourself, boy,' Nuarc rasped. 'Your oaths are to me, not Malekith. It was my patronage that got you where you are today. I'm a general with centuries of loyal service and countless battlefield honours, while you are nothing but a landless knight without a single ally at court. Your denunciations would come across as nothing more than a clumsy grab for power, and Malekith would have you vivisected for it.' Nuarc's gruesome smiled widened. 'At the same time, if my scheme fails, the Witch King will have you and your family crucified simply because of your association with me. You are a part of this plan, Tethyr; I've groomed you for your role for the past ten years. At this point your only hope of survival is to do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?'
Tethyr glared at the old general. 'What would you have me do, my lord?' he asked through clenched teeth.
Nuarc nodded his approval. 'I knew you'd come around,' he said, drawing the young highborn back over the parapet. 'For now we only watch and wait,' he said. 'We follow orders as always. It will take the enemy two weeks to make the passage across the inner seas and reach the coast near Naggarond. I expect that Malekith will choose to meet them at the cliffs. Keep your eyes open,' the general cautioned. 'Judge the Witch King by his actions, and you will see why we must take matters into our own hands.'
Tethyr clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. A glimmer of defiance still burned in his dark eyes. 'What if you're wrong?' he asked.
Once again, the general surprised him with a grating laugh. 'If I'm wrong, we're both dead men,' he said, 'so there's little use in worrying. Let's get out of this damned wind and find some more wine. It will be a cold flight back to Naggarond.'
With a humourless grin, the general limped for the doorway. Tethyr had little choice but to follow.

DACHLAN KEEP WAS a typical druchii watchtower, a single square citadel some three storeys high with a good view of the cliffs and the Sea of Malice to the south. Smoke rose from the blacksmith's forge, set in a low stone building close by the tower, and a trio of despatch horses whinnied nervously from a wooden corral nearby. Both moons shone just above the western horizon, limning the citadel in silver and throwing lanes of deep shadow between the clustered tents of the small army camped around the keep.
The retreat had been an orderly one, Nuarc observed, watching balefully as the battered columns of spearmen limped up the narrow road into the encampment. No one spoke as the ragged companies shuffled along. Only hours ago these same warriors had marched from camp singing the dire war songs of their people. Now many of them returned empty-handed, their spears broken in battle and their pale faces caked with dust and drying blood. An aura of defeat hung over the soldiers like a poisonous fog.
'Disgraceful,' Lord Saarha growled, studying the broken army over the rim of his wine cup. Orange light from the iron brazier outside Nuarc's campaign tent picked out the gilt scrollwork ornamenting his plate armour. The sullen glow cast deep shadows in the highborn's sunken cheeks and accentuated his sharply angled features. 'Better they had died defending our shores than slink back here like whipped curs!' Several of the knights in Saarha's company murmured in agreement as the highborn took another sip of Nuarc's wine.
'Had we been there, things would have gone differently,' Lord Ashrul hissed, his arms tightly folded over his ornamented breastplate. Unlike his companions, Ashrul was bald as an egg. A rival had employed a shade caster to kill him almost a century ago and the battle had turned his hair as white as a temple witch. He'd shaved his scalp ever since. 'One good charge, lances levelled, and we'd have thrown them all back into the sea,' Ashrul declared, his thin lips curling into a snarl.
'We had our orders,' Nuarc said flatly. Like the other members of Malekith's retinue, he was clad in his full panoply of war, awaiting a call to battle that had never come. Late in the day, when it had become apparent that they would take no part in the fighting, Nuarc had invited his fellow highborn to share some food and drink he'd brought with him from Naggarond. He studied the seven nobles and their attendants carefully as they stood around the brazier and watched the army's return. 'Clearly the Witch King felt we weren't needed.'
Saarha shook his head bitterly. 'Left to guard the campsite like a bunch of conscripts,' he grumbled. 'If I didn't know better I'd say Malekith meant to insult us.'
Several of the highborn shifted uneasily, casting glances to the low hill several hundred yards away where the Witch King had put down his pavilion. The assembled lords could hear the rambling hisses of the great dragon Seraphon as it was attended to by Naggarond's beast masters.
A whipcord lean druchii to Nuarc's right cleared his throat and spoke carefully. 'No doubt our lord saw no need for our strength in the face of such a pitiful force,' Lord Uran said. His gaze never rose from the shifting embers of the brazier.
A deep voice chuckled further to Uran's left. Lord Indir swirled the dregs of his wine and studied its shadowy depths. Spots of colour shone on the highborn's sharp cheekbones. 'Rumour has it that Eltharion is leading the enemy force. Perhaps our great lord intended to settle things himself and his courage failed him.'
An uneasy silence enfolded the assembled lords. Indir glanced up from his wine. 'It's the wound,' he explained. 'Am I the only one who's noticed the change?'
'No,' Nuarc said, casting his gaze around the circle and daring anyone to gainsay him. 'We've all seen it, whether we care to admit it or not. I've served Malekith longest of all of us, and I say he's different now. Eltharion's blade cut him more deeply than anyone suspected.'
Lord Ashrul eyed Nuarc warily. 'Are you claiming that Malekith is... unfit?'
'I claim nothing,' the old general replied. 'The facts, however, are hard to deny.'
'What facts?' Uran asked quietly.
Nuarc spread his hands, 'look around you,' he said. 'Malekith knew Eltharion and his troops were coming more than two weeks ago. He could have called out ships from Clar Karond to intercept them at sea or ordered Lord Malus to march Hag Graef's army to meet the invaders at the shore. Instead, the Witch King summoned the executioners from Naggarond's temple, a single squadron of cavalry scouts and a few meagre companies of city guardsmen: no cold ones save our own, no crossbows, and no witches. He didn't give the order to march until well past dawn, giving the enemy plenty of time to disembark. I defy any of you to tell me you'd have done the same thing.'
Uran shrugged. 'I'm certain Malekith has a plan.'
'To do what? Humiliate us?' Nuarc shot back. 'This is the first time in the history of Naggaroth that invaders have trespassed on our soil, and Malekith has all but handed them a great victory. Eltharion and a handful of troops have driven us back from our own shores! It makes us look weak. What possible reason could Malekith have for such a thing?'
The nobles shifted uncomfortably, letting the question hang in the air. In the ensuing silence the faint cries of the wounded sounded across the druchii camp. On the south road the spearmen had given way to the ragged band of temple executioners, who marched to their own tents in grim, mournful silence. If anything they seemed to have suffered worse than the spearmen, having borne the brunt of the fighting with Eltharion's Swordmasters. A troop of Dark Riders brought up the rear, the heads of their mounts drooping from the exertions of covering the army's retreat. As the riders reached the outskirts of the camp their leader spurred his horse into a trot and wove his way through the camp towards Nuarc's tent.
Nuarc indicated the approaching rider with his wine cup. 'Here's Tethyr,' the old general said. 'Now we'll hear what happened.'
A pair of servants hurried from the general's tent to take the reins of Tethyr's mount and help the young lord to the ground. His armour was covered in dust and grime, but was otherwise unmarked. He approached Nuarc and bowed curtly.
'Report,' Nuarc commanded.
Tethyr straightened. The muscles of his jaw clenched as he struggled for the proper words. 'You were right,' he managed to say. 'It's Eltharion. He landed with a force of Swordmasters and Shadow Warriors, perhaps two hundred of them, all told.'
Murmurs of consternation rose from the assembled highborn. 'We outnumbered them almost four to one,' Ashul snarled, 'four to one! Your horsemen should have slaughtered their scouts and then ground the Swordmasters under your hooves!'
The young highborn glared hody at Ashul. 'We were not permitted to do so, my lord,' he said tightly. 'Our orders were to harangue the enemy and keep them from manoeuvring around our flanks, nothing more.'
'Go on,' Nuarc commanded.
Tethyr took a deep breath. 'There's not much else to say,' he continued. 'Malekith ordered the infantry to advance with the executioners in the centre and the spear companies on the flanks. The executioners went right for the Swordmasters and kept the spearmen from using their weapons to any great effect. Eltharion and his men just stood their ground and killed any druchii that got close.'
'What of the Witch King?' Indir asked. 'Did he take no part in the battle?'
'No, dread lord,' Tethyr said bitterly. 'He kept his distance, circling overhead on his dragon.' His lips curled in disgust. 'We kept waiting for him to swoop down and hit the enemy from behind. One pass and he could have turned their ranks to ash, but he never did.' Tethyr looked Nuarc in the eye. 'It was almost as though he was afraid to fight.'
'What of Eltharion?' Nuarc asked.
'Struck down late in the day, Khaine be praised,' the young highborn replied. 'Malekith sent one of the temple assassins against him. The Swordmaster was poisoned, but just as it seemed that the tide might turn, a company of Sea Guard arrived from the shore and the Witch King ordered a retreat.'
'Did Eltharion survive?' Nuarc asked.
Tethyr shrugged. 'I can't say, my lord. The last I saw of him he was being carried off the field by a group of Shadow Warriors.'
'An assassin,' Indir spat. 'He sent an assassin after Eltharion rather than face him directly, even with Seraphon at his side.'
The scarred general nodded gravely. Then he asked Tethyr, 'Has the Witch King issued any orders or sent any despatches by your men? Has he summoned reinforcements from Naggarond or Hag Graef?'
'No, my lord,' the young highborn responded. 'The standing order is to enter camp and await further commands.'
The nobles eyed one another in the stunned silence. Saarha shook his head and tossed the dregs of his wine onto the brazier, making the coals hiss like an angry nauglir. 'It's madness,' he said. 'They'll hit us tonight, just after the moons set.'
Tethyr frowned. 'How can you be so certain, dread lord?'
'Because he is here,' Nuarc interjected, nodding in the direction of Malekith's pavilion. 'And because the only other major target within striking distance of here is Naggarond. Eltharion will have to deal with the keep before pressing further inland, and the best time to strike will be tonight. It's likely we'll be driven back to Naggarond if that happens.'
'What do we do?' the young highborn asked.
Nuarc shrugged. 'There's nothing we can do. Malekith remains in command.' The general turned to his peers. 'Thus, we must consider what happens afterwards.'
Ashul studied Nuarc warily. 'What do you propose?'
'Don't be coy,' the general snapped. 'It's clear we have to take action. Today's debacle proves that the Witch King is no longer the ruler he once was. He must be forced to cede his authority, one way or another.'
'This is Malekith you're talking about,' Indir hissed. 'We aren't any match for him!'
'We don't have to be,' Nuarc countered. 'Eltharion has wounded Malekith once before, and he's come here to finish the job. All we need do is ensure that the Swordmaster gets his chance. Once we're back at Naggarond we can make that happen.' He shrugged. 'Afterwards we can discuss how we'll divide the kingdom between us.'
Ashur nodded curtly, the hungry gleam in his eye belying his impassive expression. Saarha stared into the brazier's glowing depths, and then gave his assent as well.
Nuarc turned to Indir and Uran. 'We've talked of this for years and now the moment is upon us my lords,' he said. 'What say you?'
Indir met Nuarc's eyes and started to speak, but thought better of it. Finally he shook his head. 'I do not know, Nuarc,' he said softly. 'It's a terrible gamble you're contemplating. Let me think on it further.'
'He's right,' Uran blurted, suddenly very sober. 'We should think on this a bit more.'
Nuarc's composure never changed. 'Very well,' he said. 'You have until we return to the city before you must make your decision. After that things will have to happen very quickly.'
The two nobles nodded curtly and took their leave. 'Thank you for the wine,' Uran said, setting his goblet on the ground, before retreating into the darkness.
Nuarc turned and considered the three remaining noblemen, who had held their tongues while their betters spoke. Lord Diaran, Lord Temvel and Lord Myrthen were all young nobles who owed their current wealth and power to Nuarc's patronage. As one, they inclined their heads to the old general and murmured their assent.
'Then the rest of us are agreed,' the old general rasped. 'Let's adjourn and make what preparations we can. I have no doubt Lord Saarha's prediction is correct, so we have only a few hours before Eltharion and his men launch their attack.'
With curt bows the gathered nobles dispersed, stealing quietly down the dark lanes between the campaign tents. Tethyr waited until the last of the conspirators had disappeared from sight before addressing his master. 'You haven't told them of your plans for Ulthuan,' he said.
Nuarc shrugged. 'First things first, boy,' he said, drawing a poker from the brazier and stirring the coals. 'Once Eltharion finishes with Malekith he'll make an ideal choice for carrying our message back to the Phoenix Court, and our compatriots will be in more of a position to listen to reason,' he said. The general shrugged. 'Of course, it might not have to come to that. It's possible that the threat of facing Eltharion will be enough to force Malekith to cede much of his power to us. That would be the ideal outcome, since the Witch King could reign as a figurehead and allow the rest of us to govern the kingdom from the shadows.'
Tethyr looked out into the darkness. 'What of Indir and Uran? Do you trust them?'
'I trust that they won't betray us immediately, if that's what you mean,' the general replied. 'No, those two can be as timid as mice sometimes. They have to think everything through, forwards and backwards, before they'll commit to anything.' With a snarl Nuarc thrust the poker deep into the coals, sending up a cyclone of fiery sparks. 'Do what you can for your troops and plan a retreat to Naggarond,' the general said, 'then be back here before the moons have set. Once the attack begins there will be important work to be done.'

NO SOONER HAD the bright moons disappeared over the horizon than the attack began.
Shouts and screams rose from three sides of the druchii encampment, and almost at once orange flames leapt from one tent to the next as the Ulthuan raiders tossed torches and knocked over lamps to sow chaos among their foes. Hoarse shouts and confused orders rang through the air as officers tried to rally the spear companies to resist the attack. Black-fletched arrows hummed lethally out of the darkness. Warriors fell, gasping their last breaths, while their comrades raced in panic down the camp lanes striking out at any shadowy figure in their path.
Tethyr leapt from Nuarc's tent into the cacophonous darkness with his long sword ready. From where he stood the fighting was still some way off, and the fires from the burning tents glowed in a ragged line from west to east. A druchii spearman ran past the general's tent, his eyes wide and his pale face streaked with blood. He shouted something unintelligible to the highborn and ran on into the night.
Nuarc slipped from the tent right after Tethyr, his heavy dragonscale cloak held tightly around his armoured body. The old general took stock of the situation with an experienced eye. 'The raiders are well within the camp,' he growled. 'They'll be at the keep in no time. We have to move quickly!'
Without waiting for a reply, the general limped off down the lane to the west. Despite his age and his injuries Nuarc moved with speed and purpose, navigating easily in the dim light. He knew the layout of the camp, and sped like an arrow to his objective.
There were no guards outside Lord Uran's tent; perhaps they'd been sent to fetch the highborn's mount or had been caught up in the confusion of the attack. Nuarc pushed the flap aside and entered. Inside, a pair of braziers filled the wide space with heat and ruddy light.
Uran sat on a stool while a pair of servants buckled on his ornate greaves and breastplate. The highborn had a half-drawn sword in his hands as Nuarc and Tethyr burst into the tent, but Uran relaxed at once when he saw who it was. 'Blessed Murderer, Nuarc!' the highborn shouted. 'I might have killed you!'
'I know,' Nuarc rasped. 'That's why I'm here.' Then he threw open his heavy cloak and levelled a small repeater crossbow at Uran's face. The heavy bowstring thumped and the bolt struck Uran just beneath his left eye, punching through the cheekbone and exiting the back of the highborn's skull with a sharp, wet crunch. As the highborn's lifeless body slid from the stool Tethyr dashed across the room and beheaded the first of the servants, spraying a fan of bright crimson across the back wall of the tent. The second servant screamed in terror and tried to flee, but the young highborn caught up with the druchii in three swift strides and drove his sword between his ribs.
Nuarc reloaded his crossbow. 'Well done,' he said. Then he put a boot against one of the braziers and kicked it over, spraying fiery coals across the tent. 'Now let's go catch our other mouse.'
Uran's tent was just starting to burn as the two nobles dashed back into the darkness. They passed half a dozen bodies strewn along the lane, slain by the arrows of the shadow warriors. A horse careened across their path, its empty saddle covered in blood. Shouts and the clash of steel rang through the air near the stone flanks of the keep, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh.
Indir wasn't in his tent. Even the servants had fled for their lives.
'What now?' Tethyr asked as they surveyed the wreckage strewn within the tent. It appeared the servants had helped themselves to Indir's valuables before taking flight.
Nuarc shook his head irritably, considering his options. Just then, a fierce war shout sounded nearby, followed by the ringing notes of swordplay and screams. 'That way!' the general ordered, and the two druchii dashed outside.
A fierce battle raged not twenty yards from Lord Indir's tent. At once, Tethyr and Nuarc saw the long, straight blades of a pair of Hoeth Swordmasters flashing and clanging against the shorter blades of Lord Indir and a pair of his retainers. Four spearmen of the Sea Guard hemmed in the druchii from either flank, cutting off their escape as the Swordmasters closed in for the kill. As Nuarc watched, one of the Swordmasters slid forward and slipped past his opponent's guard with fearsome speed, splitting the retainer's helmeted skull from crown to chin.
'At them!' Nuarc hissed, his one eye gleaming balefully. Tethyr dashed forward, and was upon the two closest spearmen before they realised their peril. The young highborn split the air with a savage war scream and swept his blade up in a vicious arc, severing a spearman's right arm at the shoulder. The raider collapsed with a horrid cry, blood pouring down his side.
Nuarc raised his crossbow and shot one of the Swordmasters in the chest. The Hoethi staggered, blood bursting from his lips as the armour piercing bolt punched through his breastplate. Then he fell to the ground. The second Swordmaster decapitated the last of Indir's retainers with a quicksilver stroke of his two-handed blade, and then rushed at Indir. Tethyr turned his attention to the second spearman as Nuarc tossed aside the crossbow and drew his twin swords with a savage war cry of his own.
The two remaining Sea Guard ran wide of the duel between Indir and the Swordmaster and charged at Nuarc with spears levelled. Nuarc let them come, grinning fiercely. Then, at the last moment, he sidestepped into the rightmost spearman's path. His left-hand sword knocked the oncoming spearhead aside, letting it pass harmlessly by. Then Nuarc pivoted on his left foot and chopped his right-hand sword into the spearman's side. The enchanted steel cut through the spearman's mail hauberk as though it were rotted cloth, slicing below the ribcage and severing the warrior's spine.
As the dying spearman collapsed his companion lunged in from the left, aiming for Nuarc's heart. The spear tip struck the general's breastplate and was turned aside, slipping between Nuarc's chest and left arm. Without thinking, the general damped his arm tightly to his side, trapping the spear haft. Then he stabbed the spearman through the throat with his right-hand blade.
There was a ringing crack of steel against steel, then a hoarse, bubbling scream. Indir staggered backwards, his sword tumbling from his hands and his face twisted in agony. The Swordmasters blade had rent him open like a slaughtered steer, the long blade shearing through his shoulder and down into his breastbone. The Hoethi put a boot against the noble's breastplate and dragged his blade free. Indir was dead before he hit the ground.
Nuarc advanced on the Swordmaster, smiling a hungry wolfs smile. 'You've done me a good turn,' he told the Hoethi. 'For that I'll do you one as well.'
The Swordmaster charged at Nuarc with his deadly blade held high. The old general met the charge with cold, calculating skill, using both swords to block each powerful blow. Rather than give ground he drove himself against the Swordmaster, advancing inside the longer sword's reach. Realising he was in peril, the Swordmaster checked his forward momentum and began to back-pedal, but it was too late. Nuarc's right-hand sword stabbed deep into the elf's hip. As the Swordmaster staggered, the general pulled the blade free and struck his foe on the brow of his steel helm. Sparks flew and the helmet fell away in pieces as the Swordmaster plunged to the ground.
Tethyr pulled his sword free from the last spearman's chest and joined Nuarc beside the fallen Swordmaster. 'I don't think he's dead,' the young highborn warned, studying the elf's bloodstained face.
'He's not. I have a purpose in mind for this one,' Nuarc said. Suddenly a flare of orange light filled the sky to the south-east. Dachlan Keep was on fire. 'Bind him quickly, and then go and fetch my mount. He's coming with us back to Naggarond.'

THE TORTURE CHAMBER was silent, save for the soft dinking of barbed chains and the soft shuffle of boots as the torturers went about their labours. The Swordmaster's back was arched in agony, his arms and legs dangling off the narrow vivisection table. His jaws were clenched tight against the excruciating pain, and a trickle of blood seeped down his chin where he had bitten through his lips. Drops of crimson pattered steadily onto the dark slate tile, echoing softly in the vaulted chamber.
Tethyr slipped silently through the chamber door and joined Nuarc. The old general was sipping wine and studying the torturers' work with professional interest. He acknowledged the young highborn with a distracted nod. 'Impressive, is it not? They manipulate the nerves in such a way that the subject's body clenches in reaction to the pain, so that he cannot utter a single sound unless they permit it. Screaming is a release, you know. It's a way to expel the tension brought on by pain. Take that away and the subject breaks all the more quickly.'
The young highborn glanced at the torturers' efforts. They had clearly been working on the Swordmaster for hours, and had moved from gross physical injury to more delicate manipulations. Already they had peeled back the skin on the prisoner's forearms and were separating the muscles beneath with fine steel tools. Tethyr swallowed. 'Have we learned anything yet?'
Nuarc shrugged. 'No. That's why they're working on the arms. The longer he holds out the more harm they inflict. Soon they will damage the muscles so severely that he'll never wield a sword again. That's a far worse fate for one such as him. I expect it will be his undoing.' The old general took a few steps forward, peering intently at the open workings of the elf's forearms. 'What have you to report?' he commanded.
'I've finished inspecting the garrison and doubled the watches,' Tethyr said, 'and the officers on duty have been warned to expert an attack at any time. We also have mounted and foot patrols combing the foothills outside the fortress day and night. There's no way Eltharion can get inside Naggarond at this point.'
Nuarc chuckled. 'Never underestimate the power of hate, Tethyr. With hatred, all things are possible.' He nodded curtly. 'You've done well. The only vulnerable point is the sally port where the patrols enter and leave the fortress. Which port are you currently using?'
The highborn shifted uncomfortably. 'The brass portal, my lord, on the east side of the fortress.'
'Good. Order your men to keep a careful watch. When Eltharion strikes, it will be there.'
'Do you really think the raiders will get past the walls?' Tethyr asked.
'We have to assume they will. When the attack begins, the safety of the Witch King will be paramount. When the alarm is sounded we will meet Malekith in the throne room and defend him from there.'
A shudder wracked the Swordmaster's body and a terrible hiss slipped past his torn lips as his body went limp. The torturers put aside their tools and rose to their feet. Their leader turned to Nuarc and bowed regretfully. 'We can do no more for now,' the torturer said softly, 'his mind and body are spent, and he lies near death.'
'And he told us nothing?' Nuarc said.
The torturer shook his head. 'His will is strong, dread lord. He would rather live as a cripple than give us what we wish for.'
Nuarc grinned. 'Admirable. See to it that he gets his wish. For now though, bind him up and give him some hushalta. I don't want him dying on us too quickly.' The torturers bowed again, and Nuarc turned on his heel and headed for the door.
Tethyr followed the general from the room into an antechamber that connected to Nuarc's personal apartments. Armoured sentries stood before each of the eight doors leading from the marble floored room, and a pair of servants waited with a bowl of warm water and towels in the event that their master needed to cleanse himself.
Nuarc waved the servants away. 'What of my orders regarding the garrison?'
The young highborn took a deep breath, composing his thoughts. 'It is as you commanded, my lord. I've hand picked the watch officers and given them their instructions.'
'It is crucial that they understand their task,' Nuarc said, giving Tethyr a penetrating stare. 'They are to press the raiders closely and drive them in the direction of the throne room. Whittle down their numbers without rendering them powerless. It will require considerable finesse.'
'I understand, my lord,' Tethyr replied, clearly unhappy with the plan. 'I've put my best men in place. Do you believe the attack will come soon?'
Nuarc nodded. 'Of course, time is the one thing the raiders cannot spare. They will strike as soon as they are able, which I expect will be tonight.' He turned and levelled a finger at Tethyr's chest. 'Eltharion will be a dagger aimed right for Malekith's heart,' he said, tapping the young highborn's breastplate for emphasis. 'And through his demise a new age will dawn for Naggaroth.'

THE TORTURER'S EYES were wide with surprise, his thin lips slack with wonder. Specks of fresh blood glistened on the polished silver grip of the flensing knife buried in the druchii's throat.
With a clatter of plate armour Tethyr burst through the doorway into the torture chamber. 'My lord, word from the brass portal - blessed Murderer! What's happened here?'
Nuarc looked up from the body of the dead torturer. The chamber, formerly kept scrupulously neat, had been transformed into an abattoir. Streaks of blood cooled on the dark walls and spread in viscous lakes across the slate floor. The torturer and his four companions lay in a rough semicircle around the vivisection table, their bodies punctured and torn by expensive and delicate instruments. There was no sign of the Hoethi Swordmaster, save for a trail of bloody footprints leading towards the door.
'It would appear that our prisoner was not as helpless as he'd led us to believe,' the old general rasped thoughtfully.
'He's escaped?' Tethyr cried.
The general nodded. 'About three hours ago. See how the blood has cooled around the corpses?'
'But... he heard us talking this afternoon. He'll find Eltharion and tell him everything!'
Nuarc rose to his feet with a grunt. 'Of course he will, boy. Why do you think I dismissed the guards in the antechamber?' The general surveyed his handiwork and smiled coldly. 'Now he'll lead the blind zealot exactly where we want him to go.'
The young highborn gaped at Nuarc. 'This... this was part of your plan?'
'This is what it means to be a general, boy,' Nuarc hissed, 'thinking two steps ahead of your foe and making him dance to your tune.'
Tethyr eyed the dead men. 'And these...'
The general shrugged. 'An expensive bit of misdirection, but necessary. I couldn't make the escape seem too easy. Now, about the brass portal?'
With effort, the young highborn tore his gaze from the carnage. 'Eltharion and his men are in the fortress.'
'How long?' the general snapped.
'No more than half an hour. One of the roving patrols found the bodies of the gatekeepers just a few minutes ago. I've alerted the garrison. They're drawing the noose tight.'
'Excellent,' Nuarc replied. 'The time has come at last.'
The general crossed the room in half a dozen strides, leaving the startled Tethyr scrambling to keep up. Nuarc crossed the empty antechamber and pushed open a tall, oak door. A large, dimly-lit receiving room lay beyond. Witch lamps glowed from hanging fixtures suspended from the arched ceiling, casting pools of greenish light over tables set with bottles of wine and trays of rare meats. Armoured druchii rose from low-backed leather chairs as Nuarc entered the room; Saarha, Ashul, Diaran, Teruvel and Myrthen, along with almost a dozen trusted retainers accompanying the two older lords.
'Eltharion has entered the fortress,' Nuarc began without preamble, his voice strong and assured as the prospect of battle drew near. 'The garrison has been alerted, and word will have reached Malekith, who will be in his throne room awaiting our report.' The general laid a gauntleted hand on the pommel of one of his swords. 'For centuries Malekith has ruled us with an iron fist, treating us as little better than slaves. We have served him without question for too long! Tonight there will be a reckoning, and we shall become masters of our own fate!'
Ashul raised his goblet. 'Power and glory!' he cried.
Nuarc nodded. 'Power and glory.'
'And peace,' Thethyr shouted, his voice echoing from the stone walls. 'Tell them, Nuarc! Tell them about your plan for Ulthuan!'
Silence fell among the conspirators. Nuarc turned slowly, his one eye burning with rage as he stared at the young highborn.
Ashul frowned. 'What is he talking about, Nuarc?'
Before the general could speak, Tethyr lunged into the breach. 'He means to end the war with Ulthuan!' he cried, his face twisted with anguish. 'Damned, hateful peace! He would betray our righteous hate by seeking terms from the Phoenix Court.' The young highborn stood straight and tall, fixing Nuarc with a look of triumph. 'I've borne his secret for more than a fortnight, and I can bear it no longer. He wishes to overthrow Malekith and make cowards of us all!'
For the first time, the canny general was caught unprepared. His scarred lips trembled with rage, but permitted no reply.
The young Lord Myrthen turned to his erstwhile patron. 'Is this true, my lord?'
'What I do, I do in the name of all the druchii,' Nuarc growled, his face white with fury.
'You intend to ruin us!' Lord Diaran said.
'What do you know of ruin, stripling?' Nuarc roared, rocking the young druchii back on his heels. 'I've fought this war for longer than you've been alive. I can see where it is leading, and we must change our tack before it's too late.'
'Better death than surrender!' Diaran shot back. He drew his sword. 'You won't tarnish my honour with your weakness, Nuarc!'
'We don't have time for this!' Nuarc snarled. 'Eltharion is fighting his way to Malekith even now.'
'Let him,' Tethyr said, drawing his sword. 'He will die at the Witch King's hands and we will deliver his severed head to our debased cousins in Ulthuan. 'This is the way of war, Nuarc!'
The general turned to Saarha and Ashul. 'You know the truth as well as I do. Tell them!'
Saarha stared coldly at the old general. 'How long have you been planning this, Nuarc?'
'Seize him!' Teruvel cried, and the young lords leapt at Nuarc like a pack of nauglir.
But the old general was not so easily overcome. With a bestial roar he drew his enchanted blades and met their charge head-on. A less experienced swordsman might have faltered before four attackers, but Nuarc let them come. At the last moment he dodged to the left, bringing his right-hand sword around in an arc from left to right that caught Lord Diaran's slashing blade and deflected it into Lord Myrthen's face. Myrthen fell with Diaran's sword buried in his forehead, and Nuarc used the opportunity to bring up his left-hand blade and thrust the sword into Diaran's neck. The young highborn faltered, choking on his own blood, and the return stroke of Nuarc's right-hand sword took off the top of Diaran's skull.
With a shouted curse, Tethyr swung wide of Nuarc, striking a ringing blow on the general's breastplate. Teruvel recovered at the same moment, lunging forward with a thrust that scored the side of Nuarc's head. The general swung both of his blades at the young lord, and his right-hand sword sliced through Teruvel's right pauldron and vambrace as if they were paper, slashing open the druchii's arm from shoulder to wrist. Teruvel's sword fell from nerveless fingers, moments before Nuarc thrust his enchanted sword deep into the young highborn's chest.
At that moment Tethyr seized his chance. With a furious cry he brought his sword down on Nuarc's right arm. The stroke was well aimed and should have severed the general's arm at the elbow, but the sorcerous runes crafted into the steel turned aside the blow. As it was, the violence of the blow knocked Nuarc backwards, causing him to lose his grip on his blade. Tethyr lunged forward, swinging for the general's exposed head, but Nuarc parried the blow with his left-hand sword.
'You're a fool, Tethyr,' Nuarc hissed. 'I showed you the truth and you shrank from it.'
'You're mad,' the young highborn shot back. 'I said so at Karond Kar! But now your plan is finished, your conspirators have deserted you. You're just one man,' he snarled. 'Not even you can overthrow the kingdom alone.'
Tethyr charged forwards, hammering Nuarc with a rain of razor edged blows that struck at head, shoulder, waist and hip. The general parried each stroke save the last. He raised his blade and let the young highborn's blow smash against his mail fauld, misting the enchanted armour to turn the blade aside. Then he slashed his sword across Tethyr's face. At the last moment the young highborn saw the danger and attempted to leap out of the way. The sword raked across Tethyr's cheek, spinning the druchii around and knocking him into Saarha's arms.
Tethyr sagged against the highborn. His sword arm drooped. With a trembling hand, he pushed himself away from Saarha and stared down at the hilt of the dagger protruding from a seam in his breastplate. He swayed on his feet. Slowly, his gaze rose to Saarha's face.
Saarha's expression was bleak. 'You, too, are just one man,' he said to Tethyr.
The young highborn toppled to the floor.
Saarha and Ashul exchanged looks, and then turned to regard Nuarc with cold, predatory eyes. 'You have some explaining to do,' he said.
Nuarc pulled his sword free from Teruvel's body. 'None of that matters so long as Malekith still reigns,' he said. 'Let's seize power first, then worry about what to do with it afterwards.'

* * *

THE DOORS TO the Court of Dragons were forged from solid blocks of iron more than twenty feet high, etched with coiling drakes.
Malekith's guards raised their weapons in salute as Nuarc, Saarha and Ashul approached with their men. Nuarc laid his hands on the great doors, and the mighty portal swung open on silent hinges.
The Witch King's throne room was no place for multitudes. The entire octagonal chamber was barely thirty paces across, its walls set with broad niches where stone dragons bowed in obeisance before the high throne at the far end of the room. Tall iron stands arrayed along the gleaming marble floor held aloft large witch light lamps that bathed the chamber in greenish light, but all of them combined paled before the terrible white light that seethed from its iron cage above the centre of the room. The Ainur Tel - the Eye of Fate - was a roughly faceted crystal the size of a small boulder set in a framework of enchanted iron. Legend had it that the crystal had come with the druchii out of lost Nagarythe, and before that it had been quarried from a mountain deep in the Chaos Wastes many thousands of years ago. A druchii of surpassing willpower could look upon any spot in the world with it, no matter how far away. The Eye hung from the ceiling by four enormous iron chains, raised to a level whereby the druchii seated on the high throne could view its depths at his whim.
Malekith the Witch King, tyrant of Naggaroth and bane of Ulthuan, sat upon a throne fashioned of razor-edged barbs, on a high dais that loomed from the shadows above the gleaming witch lamps. Shrouded in darkness, the Witch King's form was discernible only by the furnace-like glow seeping from the joints in his ancient armour and the oculars of his homed helmet.
A lesser druchii would have quailed in terror at the sight, but the old general was unfazed. Leading the conspirators, he marched stiffly to the foot of the throne and raised his face to the king.
'Speak to me, Nuarc,' the Witch King said in a voice of ringing iron.
Nuarc took a deep breath, feeling his heart labouring in his chest. He could sense the forces of destiny swirling around him like an invisible storm, propelling him onward. 'Eltharion and his men have entered the fortress,' he said, feeling a surge of triumph. 'He has come to finish what he began at the Dragon Gate.'
A fearful hiss rose from the depths of the Witch King's helmet. 'You have failed, me, old one,' the Witch King said. It was tantamount to a sentence of death.
'No, Malekith, it is you who have failed,' the scarred general fought back. 'You have brought us to the edge of a precipice in your blind war with Ulthuan, and your obsession with Eltharion has brought defeat and humiliation upon our warriors.' Now that the words had been spoken he found his courage increasing as the last elements of his plan fell neatly into place. 'For too long we have allowed you to rule unquestioned over the land of Chill,' he declared. 'Well, that time is over. After leading our forces to defeat on our very shores, you have proven that you are no longer worthy to rule over us.' Nuarc turned and gestured at his fellow conspirators. 'It is our wish that you continue to hold your place as our father and protector, Malekith, but your time of unquestioned authority must end. We have agreed that you may remain as king over Naggaroth, but you must swear an oath to Khaine, here and now, that you will relinquish your temporal authority to us as your royal council. Otherwise, when Eltharion arrives you will have to face your destiny alone.'
The echoes of Nuarc's voice fell away, leaving only silence. There was no bellow of rage or torrent of fiery curses from the armoured form high above, and the old general knew he'd won.
Then Malekith began to laugh. It was the most terrible sound Nuarc had ever heard.
'You fool,' Malekith said, his cruel mirth raking at the stone walls. 'The great general has succumbed to the most elementary gambit of all.'
Nuarc's hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. 'What are you talking about?'
'Feigning weakness to lure one's enemy into the open,' the Witch King said. 'I suspected you for some time, Nuarc, but I wondered how deeply your conspiracy ran. Once I learned of Eltharion's coming I knew he would make a fine stalking horse to lure out my true foes.'
The world seemed to tilt away from Nuarc. He staggered, struggling to come to grips with what he'd learned. With a savage cry he drew his swords and raised them to the throne. 'If that is so, then you've outsmarted yourself and welcomed your own doom into your hall!' he said. 'There is still Eltharion to reckon with, and if the Swordmaster wounded you once, he can do so again.' Even as he spoke, shouts and the clash of steel echoed in the hall outside the throne room. 'He comes even now, Witch King,' the general said, steel creeping back into his voice. 'My offer still stands.'
'I have no interest in fighting the Swordmaster, here or anywhere else,' Malekith said. There was a creak of ancient armour as the Witch King rose from his deadly throne. 'If you are so eager to be reunited with your Ulthuan cousins, however, you are welcome to it.'
Before Nuarc could reply there was a clap of thunder and a flash of blue light that enveloped Malekith. When the light faded, the Witch King was gone.
Then the iron doors to the Court of Dragons swung open on silent hinges and the old general turned to meet his doom.

* * *

THE ELF SHIPS were beating out to sea, riding the iron grey waves as the sun set against the jagged mountains to the west. With luck and two weeks' hard sailing they would reach the Witch's Strait and then the open sea.
Invisible against the storm clouds high overhead, Malekith watched the two ships begin their long journey home. He imagined the weary sailors climbing the cold, wet shroud lines and staggering numbly across the deck, exhausted by days of hard fighting in a bleak and foreign land. Later, perhaps, they would sing of their triumph, having made a daring raid into the very heart of Naggaroth and lived to tell the tale. For now though, he expected that the victory had the taste of ashes to it.
For a spiteful instant he considered giving the great black dragon its head and swooping down on the hapless elves, turning their boats, and their hopes, to ash and cinders. Yet he contained himself. Better by far that the blind Swordmaster return to court and fester there, fuelled by sweet hatred and tempted by the possibility of even greater triumphs to come.
Alone and safe from prying eyes and ears, the Witch King admitted to himself that he'd played the gambit a bit too close to the edge. He'd never imagined that Eltharion would know about the Eye of Fate, much less grasp how to use it. But for Alith Anar, the Swordmaster might have dealt the druchii people a mortal blow. The thought that he owed a debt to the Shadow Warrior curdled Malekith's insides. One day he would repay it in fountains of blood.
The elves of Ulthuan were worthy foes, Malekith thought. In fact, he'd counted upon it. He'd known all along that Nuarc had been right. Naggaroth was vulnerable, and once the Phoenix Court realised it, the elves would stir themselves and mount a real invasion. And that was something he dearly wished to see. He had learned to his bitter regret how costly such an effort could be. Instead of striking out at Ulthuan again and again, he would draw them to Naggaroth and let the elves bleed away their strength on his cold and lonely shores.
Malekith watched the two elf ships racing west into the welcoming darkness and laughed into the icy wind.