Prologue

The keikallu, or spirit bell, gave a strangely ominous rattle-ring as he walked. Vallash had commissioned the piece from a talented artisan in Karond Kar’s merchant district, using the skull he’d taken from an exalted champion of the chaos-touched human barbarians almost eight centuries ago. It hung from a trophy chain hooked to his belt of human hide and heralded his coming with its sepulchral chime on every right step. Keikalla were lucky charms of a kind, said to ward away malign spirits. The skull’s previous owner, however, could not have been considered lucky. After having his limbs severed and having been chained behind Vallash’s chariot, he’d been dragged several miles before being fortunate enough to die.

The druchii rarely counted the passage of time in the way that the chroniclers of more infantile races did. By humanity’s reckoning, however, Dreadlord Vallash Heartshiver, second son of the late Vaulkhar, Kyrakis Vayn, had lived for more than a millennium. To mankind’s eyes, almost all specimens of elvenkind could be considered creatures of alien beauty, possessed of a natural grace and dignity that they could never achieve. The druchii were different. The beautiful contrast of their alabaster skin and dark hair was forever overshadowed by their aura of unparalleled hatred. The crimes of the asur, their high elf cousins, had changed them forever. The dark elves had emptied themselves of anything resembling empathy or pity. Without such weaknesses, the druchii ensured they would never be victims, never be taken for granted again, and all the creatures of the world would feel the coldness of their contempt and the reach of their vengeance. All would suffer for the druchii’s loss.

Some civilizations, either by good fortune or by merit of being too insignificant, would never come to know of the black arks. In a cataclysmic event long before human memory, the elven kingdom of Nagarythe, ancestral home of the druchii, was destroyed. Buried beneath a tidal wave that reached the very heavens, the land broke itself apart. Though thousands had perished, the people of that once glorious kingdom used their magics to detach their fortresses and towers from the dying land. It was upon these floating refuges, that the dispossessed people ruled by immortal Malekith found Naggaroth, the land of chill.

These ‘black arks’ became the flagships of the dark elf fleets ever since, leading the raids that brought despair across the world. Without seeing such a thing, their scope would be difficult to fathom. Maintained by dark sorceries, they were literal floating fortresses, constructed in an age of valour and inspiration that the world would never know again. Some were the size of small cities, capable of housing entire armies and their warbeasts, as well as countless numbers of corsair crew. When a black ark and its satellite fleet were seen on the horizon, those that witnessed its coming knew incomparable awe and terror.

The Dreadwake, was just such an edifice. As it crossed the great ocean, Vallash made his way through the upper spires. Though not wearing his armour, he was most certainly armed. The customary paired swords that were a sign of nobility were belted to his hip, together with several knives. His home city of Karond Kar dominated a peninsula within the sea of chill, and thus its fashions often adopted those of the corsair fleets that docked there.

His footsteps echoed with the measured pace of a heartbeat beneath the high boots he wore over his leather breeches, and the war-torn hem of his high-collared khaitan robe drifted behind his legs with the pace of his stride. With the mildly warm climate of the old world becoming increasingly irksome, he’d taken to tying most of his hair up, keeping it in place with a decorative human rib. Silver rings pierced his lip, right eyebrow and left ear.

He was not alone. A respectful distance behind him, just beyond a single sword’s length, marched his lieutenants. Unlike him, they’d donned their full wargear.

“Is this wise?” Even in repose, Cynnar sounded like an affronted viper, his voice hissing from his fanged maw. Cynnar, ‘the Flenser,’ was originally from Hag Graef, a city from which it was currently fashionable for the highborn to file their teeth to sharp points. Rarely seen out of his armour, in the fashion common to most dark elf knights, he cut an imposing figure of flared pauldrons and a high bevor. Pierced to the flesh hooks on his shoulders was the reason for his epithet. In any military campaign, the Flenser made a point of commemorating the first of any captives he took by relieving them of their skin. He cured the hides himself, and kept an impressive gallery in his chambers within Vallash’s tower. The soft asur-skin cloak he now wore fluttered gently behind him.

“I agree. The convent’s auguries are fickle at best,” spoke Merkusia. Unlike Cynnar who was the image of druchii knighthood, Merkusia carried herself like a dockside cutthroat. The greater volume of her raven hair was bound on top, pinned in place with a pair of harpy talons, while the rest had been cut at an angle that diagonally bisected her face. Like Vallash, she wore the over-knee boots that were common among corsairs when wading ashore, though hers reached high enough that they almost met the tassets connected to her cuirass. Over her back plate was a raggedly cut cloak of the sea dragon hide that was prized among black ark crews. “Their word is as capricious as an asur’s courage; you shouldn’t depend on anything they have to say,” she continued.

An asymmetric smile tugged at the corner of Vallash’s angular face that never reached his eyes, slightly slanted ovals the colour of freshly cut lead. “Have a care in what you say, Merkusia,” he said. “‘Dependence,’ as you put it, would imply reliance, and that in turn implies vulnerability,” he punctuated the last word with breathy accusation.

“Please forgive the impropriety of my manners, Dreadlord, but the potential dangers still stand.” She replied tersely.

Vallash laughed inwardly at that. For Merkusia the act of apologising must have felt akin to swallowing a wasp. She was a singular creature. Normally a disregard for the social cautions the nobility exhibited, such as Merkusia’s, would result in a severed tongue. It nearly had, in fact. Before being executed for his failures, her father had been one of Vallash Heartshiver’s vassals. When presiding over the fate of his only daughter, she had spat her unashamed defiance with a torrent of oaths and obscenities that would nearly have constituted poetry. As one of his retainers had moved to put an end to her tirade, she had reacted like quicksilver. Despite the manacles that bound her at the wrists and ankles, she’d lurched forward using her own bodyweight to bare her executioner down. She’d smashed the man’s nose to red ruin with her forehead, and crushed his windpipe with her knee before she could be restrained. Vallash had been impressed enough that Merkusia had been wearing his hadrilkar – a colour of service – ever since. If not for her incaution, she would be the ideal of the druchii mindset. Even in the face of destruction she did not accept helplessness. Even in futility, her spiteful defiance would not allow her to show weakness.

Vallash sighed, a gesture that had more to do with impatience than exasperation. “I’m not unaware of the risks. The nature of the convent’s cooperation is different, but you’ll find the means of securing it to be quite familiar. Ashniel and her entourage will do their utmost to be of assistance, just so long as it complies with their own interests.”

“Sounds like a statement of the obvious,” Merkusia replied. Belatedly she added, “With respect, Dreadlord.”

Cynnar rasped with derisive laughter. “Then more’s the fool that doesn’t grasp it.” Although they were behind him, Vallash was sure he could almost sense Merkusia’s withering return glare.

“The point,” the Dreadlord continued, “Is that all we need do, is to keep their interests just out of reach until our own have been met with first. We may not be able to trust in them but we can trust in their avarice. They’re not unlike any common mercenary, regardless of the air of grandeur they flaunt. The sorceresses all have things that they want and they respond just as well to bribery and threats as anyone else.”

“One must be careful about threatening a sister of the convent, Dreadlord,” Cynnar interjected, “The Witch King doesn’t permit others to break his toys, only himself.” He had a point.

Any druchii woman with the talent and diligence to practise the sorcerous arts was strictly required to join the convent of sorceresses, where they could not only be schooled, but also watched. They were wedded to Malekith upon their induction and sworn to celibacy. Thus, Malekith was the Witch King, and as all sorceresses belonged to him, they lived and died by his will.

Whenever Vallash needed the talents only one learned in the arcane could provide, he turned to Ashniel Emberrain, a high sister of the Karond Kar convent. Although free of the social and political entanglements of the nobility, the competition for rank and status among the sorceresses was no less ruthless. They were sisters in name only, forever striving to stand above their peers. Therefore, each individual sorceress had goals that weren’t always in the interests of the convent as a whole. Ashniel’s rise had paralleled Vallash’s own, and the two had had struck many accords and exchanged many favours over the centuries.

A black ark was maintained and kept afloat by sorcery, and therefore kept its own coven for that purpose. In the interest of preventing any potential enmity, the Lord of the Dreadwake, Fleetmaster Ihliac, had ensured that separate accommodations had been provided for the convent’s representatives, as far as possible from his own coven.

Vallash and his retainers kept any further conspiratorial talk to a minimum as they reached the top of a spiral stair and passed down a long stretch of corridor. At the end of the passage lay a pair of arched double doors, crafted from black iron and wide enough to permit entry to five people abreast. Beyond them lay the chambers that had been given over to Ashniel’s retinue. Two men stood guard before the portal.

Long ago, it had been prophesied that one day a dark king would fall to a sorcerer. Believing himself to be the monarch to which the prophecy referred, Malekith had outlawed the practice of sorcery to all men but himself. The price of defiance was a fate that the creative mind of the Witch King had conceived and was, therefore, an order of magnitude far beyond death. There were always illegal practitioners of the art, however, and many Dreadlords would prefer to seek their aid rather than be indebted to the convents. If discovered, the price these warlocks paid was to be dragged to Naggarond and brought before Malekith himself. The Witch King meted out their punishment with his own terrible power, cursing them at the level of their very souls. Not only did they shine like beacons to the watchful eye of Slaanesh, a god of the chaos pantheon, but they also suffered a never-ending hollowing. Every moment their essences drained away that little bit more, sinking ever closer to Slaanesh’s ever-thirsting maw. Oblivion was a blessing compared to such an end. The hollowing could never be undone, only delayed with rituals that sacrificed other souls to replenish the warlocks’ vitality.

Ashniel and her sisters kept several of the scum as servants. They were coerced into utilising their powers as little more than living weapons for their mistresses, and in return they were permitted to practice the rites that would extend their feeble lives a little longer. They wore nothing above the waist, save for their hadrilkar stamped with the sigil of the convent, a pair of rune-etched manacles and leeringly grotesque silversteel masks. They were without personal identity and had no need of a face; they were not druchii any longer.

The two standing guard before the doors bowed low as Vallash approached. “We bid you greeting, Dreadlord,” said the one to his left, his voice sounding flat and tinny behind his horned mask.

Vallash was tempted to simply push past them, but stopped at the last. “I seek an audience with the puppetmistress, not her toys. Now, stand aside,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Lady Ashniel has ordered solitude at present. If my Lord would wait here, I shall see if she is willing to receive.”

The warmthless smile played at the corner of Vallash’s lips once more, smothering his irritation. A future Vaulkhar didn’t wait to be announced like a pedlar at the door. “No need for that,” he said, “I can announce myself.” He immediately started forwards again. As he approached the doors, one of the warlocks forgot himself and reached out a hand to stop the highborn... that was severed by Merkusia as she drew her blade, in one smooth motion. The extremity hit the ground with a wet slap, and its former owner recoiled, mewling behind his mask and clutching the bloody stump.

Merkusia’s smile was as sweet as it was false. “I wonder,” she began, “When She Who Thirsts devours your soul, what happens to the detritus left behind?” Both she and Cynnar had their swords trained on the warlocks’ throats. They advanced, forcing the warlocks to withdraw, pushing the double doors wide as they did so.

The sorceresses had evidently wasted no time in making themselves comfortable aboard the Dreadwake. The octagonal antechamber Vallash and his retainers entered, was thick with exotic scents. Censers breathed out a perfumed haze, stained a weak violet hue from the witchlight sconces upon the walls. Book and scroll cases lined the room, together with various reliquaries containing esoteric trickets Vallash would struggle to name. A spiral stair wound its way around the room’s circumference, leading higher into the spire’s upper chambers like a corkscrew. Mixed reactions greeted them as they entered.

In centre of the room several chaises and piled cushions were arranged around low tables. Tomes and parchments lay all around, some marked with runic annotations in the margins. Vallash presumed some of the sorceresses to be busying themselves elsewhere in the tower, but two of Ashniel’s convent sisters reclined amongst the organised chaos. A handful of other warlocks stood sentinel around the room, ready to see to the sorceresses’ needs. Most made ready to draw their scimitars at the armed intrusion, but halted when they saw who it was that had arrived.

Naxva Nightcaller, one of the witches that ranked below Ashniel Emberrain, hadn’t spared them a single glance. She feigned to continue reading the open tome that lay beside her and held out a crystal glass which one of the warlocks dutifully began to fill with dark wine.

The other she-elf present was Yrikoh, a younger apprentice. She was shorter than what was common for an elf, but marginally fuller in figure. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, resting the soles of her boots upon a table. In contrast to Naxva, she made utterly no effort to hide her curiosity as she watched Vallash and his retainers come in. She smiled and made a show of cleaning her nails with a curved sacrificial knife. It was clear that she welcomed a confrontation if one occurred. Vallash immediately decided that he liked her, but doubted she would last long in the convent if her unguarded demeanour persisted.

The other figure in the room stood out like a lizard in a bird’s nest. He wore full, heavy robes bedecked with gems and glyphs. His mask was sculpted like those worn the kings of ancient civilizations upon death, framed by a horned skullcap. He held an ornate staff, its head fashioned into the likeness of a large, impaled heart. Ruby blood drops had been worked into the surface of its black shaft.

He bowed in a surprisingly courtly manner, lowering his head and spreading his free hand out widely in welcome. “Dreadlord Heartshiver,” he intoned warmly, as though his arrival had been expected. “On behalf of my mistresses, those representing the Karond Kar sisterhood, please accept our apologies for your being so improperly greeted.” He rose, holding his head up high. Ihmaer Shadowscribe was the only one among the warlocks to be afforded any kind of authority, even if it only extended to those who shared in the hollowing. That meant he had proven himself to be either very useful, very dangerous, or, in all likelihood, both. “Please be assured that those responsible will be shown the error of their conduct,” he said. The two warlocks that had been guarding the door seemed to visibly shrink in Ihmaer’s sight.

 “I’m here to see Lady Ashniel,” Vallash said. “Where may I find here?”

“Of course,” Ihmaer replied gesturing to another set of doors opposite to those by which the highborn had just entered. “My mistress is within, Dreadlord.”

Vallash turned to his lieutenants, “Wait here.”

“As you wish, Dreadlord,” Cynnar replied, sheathing his sword.

“Delighted to,” Merkusia answered, in a tone that suggested she most assuredly wasn’t.

As Vallash slipped into the adjoining chamber his senses were overwhelmed instantly. Blood. It was thick in the air; a combined tang of rust and brine. Slaves, their throats opened and bleeding freely into silver ewers, hung upside down from hooks chained to the vaulted ceiling. The ewers were attended to by a cadre of perhaps two dozen druchii women.

They wore little in the way of raiment, affecting only ceremonial breastplates, loincloths and tall boots. Any allure one might feel toward them was quashed by the masks they wore. Like the warlocks, Ashniel’s handmaidens forsook their identities. The silversteel masks they wore, however, were more otherworldly in visage. They resembled the Rephalim, dark minions Ereth Khial, pale queen of the underworld, was said to dispatch in order to retrieve the spirits of the elves when they died. Ashniel called them her Nagherith, her cold kiss.

The moment Vallash allowed the doors to close behind him, several of the Nagherith brandished short-shields with recurved blades, and uncoiled whips capped with barbed hooks. They halted when their mistress raised her hand.

Ashniel stood at the opposite end of the chamber. She was facing a small set of steps that led to a shallow bath set into the stone floor, which the Nagherith dutifully filled with the brimming ewers. The body of a female asur slave lay at Ashniel’s boots, her heart evidently cut from its moorings. She held the dripping organ over the bath and whispered words in a rhythmic language Vallash didn’t recognise. When the verse had ended, she crushed the heart in her hand, letting it fount from between her fingers.

“Interrupting a woman’s solitude, Dreadlord?” the witch said as she turned to face him. “I confess myself disappointed. I had expected better manners from a highborn.” Ashniel’s midnight eyes, shadowed in kohl and indigo, betrayed her amusement, and the pout of her lips twisted into a wry yet subtle smile.

“By solitude, you mean the squandering of a small fortune in flesh for the sake of vanity?” Vallash replied, eying the dripping cadavers that hung around the chamber’s circumference. His own sardonic smirk returned. “I’m surprised, Lady Ashniel. I didn’t think you were old enough to require such rituals to renew your vitality.”

Her eyes narrowed. Ashniel was a vision of druchii desire, her fair skin juxtaposed against the river of coal black hair that reached her waist. Nothing enhanced Vallash’s appreciation for her art more than the act of making her angry. She waved her hand in cursory admonishment and looked back at the sanguine bath, as though noticing it for the first time. “This?” she asked. “It serves no ritual purpose at all, beyond my own amusement that is, Dreadlord.” Her faint smile returned, “The cantrip I just invoked was merely to prevent the liquid from cooling or congealing.”

She ordered the Nagherith out of the room once they’d finished the business of emptying all of the ewers. The husks chained to ceiling continued to spill the last dregs of their vitae on the floor in a rhythmic drip-drip-drip that sounded like dying rainfall. Vallash approached the high sorceress, “We must speak, you and I.”

“I’m certain you must think so,” she answered, giving nothing away. Ignoring him completely, she shrugged her brief robe onto the floor. Clad in her loincloth only she began to walk into the bath until the vermillion depths reached her hips.

The highborn’s amused air evaporated. “I’m serious, shobhein. We’ve had many trysts and many profitable concords, but this time I question the mutuality our endeavour. Of all the human cities, Marienburg is a fat pig waiting to be butchered, teeming with wealth. We gain nothing from raiding a place like this Nordland beyond slaves we could find anywhere. It is a place of woodland, coastal fishermen and a handful of miners, scratching the barest trace of silver from the hills.”

Vallash strode fully clothed into the bloodbath, the gore soaking into the bottom of his khaitan. He studied her with his metal-grey stare, “You are the one who insisted we make this place our target, Ashniel. If I am to expend my assets, I must know what I stand to gain from the expense. Not only that, but I must make it worth the fleetmaster’s while as well.”

Ashniel was unconcerned. She waded to the opposite end of the bath and reclined against its edge, the crimson depths rising just enough to cover her breasts. “You could always kill Ihliac and take control of the Dreadwake for yourself,” she said, as though discussing nothing more than the weather.

Vallash hissed, “Mind what you say, witch. The coven Ihliac employs aboard the ark could have means of hearing us.”

The sorceress laughed, “Of course they did. Nullifying the petty charms the hags had cast was the first thing my sisters and I saw to when we arrived.”

The highborn rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “In any case, the bulk of the human empire’s navy is within the sea of claws. We will need Ihliac’s expertise for now. One more risk to this raid you would have me gamble on.”

The sorceress was still unperturbed. “Karond Kar is the wealthiest of all of Naggaroth’s cities,” she sighed, idly spiralling her fingertips through the pool. “I’m beginning to think the opulence is skewing your ambitions, Vallash.” She gestured to the dead slaves on their chains, “Flesh, gold, mineral resources, these are all just a means to an end. Power is the one true commodity that matters. It is the one goal to which all others are transitory. Its acquisition is worth any price.”

The Dreadlord approached closely and lowered himself opposite the sorceress. “I don’t require a lecture such as those you’d present to an ignorant, nubile apprentice, Ashniel. Simply tell me what you have seen, and what you know.”

The witch pursed her lips, debating how much she should give away, but relented. “I have scried an opportunity that will be lost if not acted upon soon. One of the humans, an explorer, has unearthed something that has lain undisturbed across the millennia. A fragment of an age long past. He will arrive in Nordland by ship soon, it is too late for us to intercept his vessel. However, he will be the house guest of Nordland’s provincial ruler for some time before an escort can arrive from the Empire’s capital.” She wormed a hand into Vallash’s khaitan, “I want what he carries.”

The highborn reached out and caressed the witch’s neck, before applying pressure with his thumb against the well of her throat. “You’ve still not told me what this little trinket of yours is, shobhein. Nor have you explained how I am to gain from it.” He leaned forward until they were almost nose-to-nose.

She grinned and scored deep furrows into his chest with her black-lacquered nails. “The dormant egg of an emperor dragon,” she said, delighting in the disbelief and avarice that crept into the Dreadlord’s stare.

Visions of glorious destruction danced before the highborn’s eyes. Emperor dragons were immense beasts of unparalleled size and power, symbols of ultimate strength. No druchii currently laid claim to such a monster. Not Rakarth, the most accomplished of Karond Kar’s beastmasters, nor even the Witch King, since his once legendary mount, Sulekh, had long ago perished. The wyrms of today, though still devastating in their grandeur, were but shadows by comparison. The notion soon guttered out. Emperor dragons were a rare sight now, having lain dormant over the long centuries. Those that had awoken in the last millennium could be counted on one hand. “An exercise in futility,” Vallash snorted derisively. “If it hasn’t awoken already after being disturbed by this human’s sweaty little hands, then it likely never will.”

Ashniel’s expression never wavered. “I said nothing about awakening such a beast, Dreadlord. Power exists in life, even in a dormant state, and the coven holds many secrets about tapping such stolen vitae for oneself. With such a thing fuelling my aethyric energy, I could become a demigoddess.” She smiled at him like a daemonette, “Think what wonders I could work then. I could reduce your brother to dust and cast his tower into the sea. You wish to be Vaulkhar, Dreadlord? I can make it happen.”

As Vallash Heartshiver stalked back across the length of ramparts that led back to his own private spire, he became aware that Ashniel’s enchantment was wearing off. The blood that drenched him almost to the neck was becoming irritable as it coagulated and became sticky.

Now he knew what the prize was, but he needed to make certain it was he that claimed the egg first. If the sorceress was faster, she might not be so inclined to keep her word. Not only that, but if one of Ashniel’s sisters took it, they could use it for their own ends.

                “Dreadlord,” Cynnar hissed to gain his attention, and inclined his head further along the causeway. A group of the ark’s corsairs were advancing towards them. Beneath their cloaks of sea dragon hide they were wearing mail hauberks. In order to minimise the risk of drowning, corsairs typically wore leather armour at sea, only adopting mail and breastplates when raiding dry land.

                The Dreadlord’s retainers positioned themselves either side of their master, while still maintaining a respectful distance. The other group, half a dozen men, halted about twelve feet away. But not the one leading them. When he took a further three paces towards the highborn, Cynnar and Merkusia’s hands strayed to their hilts. They had noticed it too.

                “Dreadlord,” the lead corsair sketched a bow as he spoke. “Forgive the interruption but the fleetmaster has an urgent message he wishes to convey.”

                “Amateurs,” Vallash sighed. Slowly his asymmetric grin pulled at his lips again, an expression filled with false humour. “Would you like to know your mistake?”

                The corsair’s brow furrowed in confusion, “Dreadlord?”

                “You came too close,” the highborn explained. “I could overlook the wearing of armour under your cloaks, but even so, stolen clothes will only get you so far. Even the sea rats know the hithuan code!” Even before he finished speaking, Vallash rushed the man before him. Cynnar and Merkusia were also charging forwards with steel rasping from their scabbards.

The highborn closed the distance quickly enough that he caught the imposter’s wrist before he could fully draw his weapon, driving his other fist smashing into the seized assassin’s throat. Reaction more than conscious thought made him pull the gagging man towards him. The crossbow bolt that had been meant for the highborn embedded itself into the cranium of his impromptu shield instead. In a heartbeat Vallash pulled a knife free from his belt and pitched it into the crossbowman’s eye, just as his lieutenants began crossing blades with another pair of the assailants. That left two more.

                To their credit, they moved to attack the highborn as one; the first wielded a wickedly edged billhook, while the other drew a serrated knife. Vallash drew one of his paired swords, keeping it concealed behind the dead man he still held upright. As the one with the billhook came close, he thrust his blade through the dead man’s cloak and into the charging druchii’s midsection.  He was forced to abandon his sword, as the knifeman had already closed the distance before he could pull it free. He rocked backwards just as the knife swung for his face and grabbed the wrist holding it. The highborn allowed himself to fall onto his back and with the momentum he put his boot into the final attacker’s chest, flipping him overhead.

Before the other elf could recover, Vallash climbed atop his adversary and drew another of his own knives. He met his would-be killer’s eyes and flashed a mirthless leer. As the druchii beneath him struggled in vain, he used both his own knife as well as his opponent’s to scissor into the pinned assassin’s neck. Blood, bright and arterial, spurted across Vallash’s face in time with his victim’s failing pulse. He leaned closer. “And that is why mongrels do not approach their betters,” he growled. “See you in mirai!” he said as he watched the impotent rage leave his would-be killer’s eyes.

As he stood up to survey the carnage, Vallash observed that the situation had been resolved. Cynnar’s face was likewise awash with gore, evidently having torn his opponent’s throat out with his sharpened teeth. Merkusia was just dispatching the last of them, driving him to the edge of the Dreadwake’s battlements. After she pulled her sword free, she kicked the corpse over the edge. A murder of harpies from the black ark’s eyrie’s screeched, swooping down after the carrion feast as it crashed against the bedrock below, hoping to catch it before it was lost to the sea. They’d no doubt fall upon the rest of the bodies once the victorious party left.

“Well,” Cynnar began conversationally, “That was a pleasant distraction.”

Vallash laughed as he retrieved his weapons, wiping them clean against the bodies of the slain. “I would have thought my brother could afford a real assassin from the Temple of Khaine. Either he’s fallen on hard times, or he merely meant to insult me with such a paltry effort. For all his faults, he always did have a fine sense of humour!”

The knife bit deeply into the war table, impaling the map at a point in the sea of claws dotted with rocky formations. “Then it’s settled,” spoke the fleetmaster. Ihliac was a tall, cadaverously thin elf, resembling a mythical reaper of souls within his heavy cloak. “The fleet will position itself at Wrecker’s Point. That way any Empire vessels that seek to dislodge us must either traverse Manann’s Teeth, becoming easy prey for the helldrakes, or circumnavigate the rocks, giving us time to react.” It was a sound plan. No vessel was a match for a black ark, but the entire imperial navy’s worth of cannons would do irrevocable damage in a straightforward fight. Thus, the druchii had opted not to fight fair.

“We’ll cover the entire area with a sorcerous mist. My coven has used it to great effect before. If they’re unable to attack us by sea, they’ll be forced to defend themselves from the land,” Ihliac continued.

                “What about slaves?” asked a druchii whose dagger-point face seemed stretched by the double topknot his hair was tied into. Naliryan Kinkiller was another of Vallash’s retainers, and held overall command of the Uraithen infantry regiments. “Once we press further inland, it’ll mean we must march any captives for longer distances. We’ll lose time and manpower by escorting them back to the ark.”

                “He’s right,” Vallash agreed. Although he now wore his full armour, he hadn’t bothered to wash away the assassin’s blood that still coated his face. He’d decided that it would be far more appropriate to attend the war council just so anointed. “We can establish a base of operations where we can keep the slaves penned for a while, but eventually we’ll need the ark to advance across the coast in support.”

                “Then how do you propose we combat the navy?” the fleetmaster inquired.

                “What if we don’t have to?” the highborn answered. “They maintain a heavy presence within the sea of claws in the event of an attack from the barbarians to the north. What if we used them to our advantage?”

                It was Vimere who spoke next, a lieutenant among Ihliac’s corsairs. “I see your meaning, Dreadlord. A handful of our faster reaver ships could raid the Norscan coast ahead of our attack. We can easily outrun their longships and lure them directly into the teeth of the Empire navy here,” he pointed on the map, “In this wide bay to the east.”

                “Indeed,” Ihliac agreed, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “They’ll be forced to defend themselves on two fronts. Their primary port is here, in a town named Dietershafen,” he practically spat the human name out, finding the language distasteful. “Once our ground forces push this far they could capture the port and use it for our own ends. Then we can ferry slaves and troops between the mainland and the ark far more easily.”

                “And we’ll have established a fortified position from which we can advance on the castle at Nordland’s heart,” Vallash continued. “But first we must take advantage of the element of surprise. We’ll deploy a large force on the ground at Wrecker’s Point. They will draw the humans’ attention southwards along the Shaukel River, but the true target is here,” he announced, punching another dagger into the map at a point where a tower overlooked the coast. “Hargendorf is the first town in our way, but they are provided advanced warning from this coastal watchtower. Therefore,” the Dreadlord ginned like a wolf, “We must blind their eyes, before we tear out their throats.”

                “We never forgive,” began Vallash.

                “We never forget,” the rest of the assembly finished.