‘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
