‘Can you return the bodies to Karaz-a-Karak, Rundin?’ he asked.
‘Of course, brother. Are you not going back, then?’
‘Not yet. I have to find out who these watchers are and what, if any, role they played in this slaughter. Dead dawi on the Old Dwarf Road this close to Everpeak is brazen, but I must go back to the High King with more than just questions and suspicions.’
Rundin got to his feet. ‘Need some company?’
Furgil eyed the deep wood, his gaze sweeping across the ridgeline, the low hills, rivers and the crags. They could be anywhere, travelling under any guise. Killing a dwarf on the threshold of his own domain took skill; killing six who were armed and looking for danger took something much, more dangerous than that.
The ranger was about to break one of his own rules. He plucked an arrow from one of the bodies, placed it carefully in his satchel for when he’d need it later.
‘No. I’ll travel faster on my own.’
The raider ship was several miles behind them, sunken to the bottom of the river bed, its crew likewise. Weighed down by their armour, over a dozen exsanguinated bodies would putrefy and succumb to the slow rot of the dead.
Drutheira and her coven had been swift about the murder of the vaulkhar and his warriors. Gorged but not yet slaked, the witches’ power swelled with the stolen blood. The way north would be long and not without peril, but there was much to do beforehand. Not least of which was finding Sevekai and his warriors.
Its presence burned into Drutheira’s mind as if by a brand, a settlement was visible on the next rise. Fortified with an outer wall, tower and gate, it was a permanent outpost. Elf and dwarf banners hung from its crude battlements, fluttering on a low breeze blowing in off the distant gulf.
Malchior had not walked far when he began to moan. ‘I am not a pack mule, Drutheira.’ He adjusted the rough satchel on his back and it clanked with the swords and spears within. ‘Could we not have stolen some horses? What merchant travels on foot anyway?’
Malchior no longer had the pale skin of a druchii, nor did he wear the arcane trappings of a sorcerer. A white skullcap enclosed his head, and a skirt of light lamellar mail clad his body. There were vambraces, shin greaves, calfskin boots and a travelling cloak that attached to small pauldrons on his shoulders. Healthy sun-kissed skin described a rough but noble face.
He still wore a viper’s smile, no enchantment could conceal that, but his appearance was already different from the one that had sailed into the Black Gulf from Naggaroth.
‘And why must I be the beast of burden when she carries nothing?’
Ashniel had undergone a similar transformation, but wore a circlet instead of a skullcap with a diadem at its centre. Her distaste at the pearl-white robes beneath her breastplate was obvious in the sneer on her face. She grinned darkly at Malchior’s displeasure, though.
Drutheira flashed a deadly glare at Malchior. ‘Because I need her abroad in the settlement, doing the dark lord’s work. You are welcome to explain to him why you disagree with that.’
Malchior fell silent, but Ashniel was unafraid to show her disgust.
‘My skin crawls with this pretence.’ She too carried nothing save for the jewelled athame at her waist and the small flask concealed beneath the belt of her robes.
‘Silence,’ hissed Drutheira. Her own disguise was akin to that of her coven, albeit more impressive and ostentatious. She had no skullcap or circlet, but wore a gilded cuirass and a velvet cloak with ermine trim. She’d kept her raven hair, masquerading as a noblewoman with two servants. Her eyes were on the outpost and the guards occupying its tower and in front of its gate. Dwarfs and elves; it was a strange sight to behold such apparent harmony. Each of them carried either a bow or crossbow.
‘We can be seen from this distance. Do not fail me here,’ she warned them both, her voice changing mid-sentence. Gone were the barbed tones of the druchii and in their place the more lyrical, lilting cadence of the asur.
‘Besides,’ she said, allowing the slightest dagger of a smile. ‘What need have I of horses when the two of you carry all of my wares and do my bidding?’
Malchior hid his sneer behind a bow, though Ashniel was more brazen and showed her displeasure openly. Drutheira could not have cared less.
‘Remember your roles,’ she said, hiding her contempt for the nearest guard behind a warm smile. She purposefully kept her eyes off the archers in the tower, as not to do so would arouse potential suspicion. ‘We are weaponsmiths, servants of Vaul from across the sea and the rugged hills of Cothique.’
‘Must we play as rural peasants, Drutheira?’ whined Malchior. ‘Why not vaunted nobles of Saphery or Lothern?’
‘Because nobles of Ulthuan would not be caught dead in a hole like this,’ she said through her teeth. ‘And they would certainly possess horses. Of course, if you want to be flayed then by all means please continue complaining.’
Malchior spoke no further, but gave a deathly glance to Ashniel who didn’t bother to hide her amusement.
As she approached the gate Drutheira tried to ignore the nocked bows, the ready swords and axes loose in their scabbards. She made the rune of sariour with her empty hands, adding a shallow incline of the head in mellow greeting.
Sariour symbolised the moon, its aspect that of a crescent. Especially to merchants and traders, it meant ‘fortune’ and would be taken as a positive sign by the guards. But like most elven runes, it had a darker interpretation too. For sariour also signified ‘evil deeds’ and ‘destruction’. The obvious duplicity, the plain threat it embodied amused Drutheira greatly as they passed through the gate and into the settlement without incident.
It was as much a backwater as its exterior suggested but large, with at least a hundred elves
