PART XIV: Balneth Bale
or: The Next Obstacle
The hall at the base of the central citadel was bigger that any other room Makareth has seen in the upper part of Naggor; it was fifty swords in width and fifty in length, of a vaguely circular form. Along the walls were tapestries depicting battles and scenes at court in the lives of the warlocks of Naggor, though Makareth could not say he recognized any of the figures depicted; between them, statues of winged creatures with fierce faces and slender bodies of female Druchii held bronze plates on which candles and witchlight lanterns were placed, and reliefs of wyverns, hydras and basilisks wound into the height above the statues. The hall ended in an arch as wide as the wall itself; serpentine carvings in the dark stone in the arch framed a passage to a low podium. Broad stairs of polished black marble lead to a throne made of the blackened metal and ivory and adorned with barbed vines of pure gold. Behind the throne was an enormous figure of a wingless dragon, towering over it protectively, and Makareth thought to recognize stairs built into the scaly body, leading to upper floors of the tower that were obscured by sorcery, an illusory night sky with stars glimmering above. The throne stood in the middle of the podium, but the face of the figure sitting on it seemed obscured by shadow.
Along the curving walls of the hall, in front of the tapestries, stood Druchii in ceremonial black armor, forged in an old-fashioned way, the surfaces of the plates covered with depictions of dragons and serpents. Each of them was armed with two swords, and additionally the archaic weapons called the ghlaith and the lakelui, symbols of their belonging to the high nobility; and their faces behind the dragon-wing-like face-guards of their helmets were pale and marked by age and the scars of uncountable fights. They were the famous Witchguard, and they stood so still that they seemed to be as lifeless as the figures of the winged women.
Lykaon advanced and fell down on one knee in front of the podium, bowing his head to the one sitting on the throne. The unsteady light sparked golden reflections upon the red-purple and black plates and golden spikes of Lykaon armor and the crescent moon in his hair. Makareth looked at the reflections and thought that the figure of the lord, in this pose of respect and in this light, on the background of darkness, looked like a statue carved in crimson gemstone and lined in gold, just another work of that eerie sculptor that made the stone harpies, the unmoving warriors in their black plate, and the dark silhouette on the ivory throne.
"My lord, I have returned, and I bring you a tribute from the raid!" Lykaon broke the silence. At a waving of his hand, servants rushed forwards and placed an iron-bound chest at the foot of the stairs. They opened the lid, and the golden coins and jewels inside it shone and shimmered in the flickering yellow and green of the lanterns and candles. "I hope you will accept this offer; and with this, as always, accept my service and loyalty to you."
"Lykaon." The voice from the throne was a warm baritone, and Makareth thought to hear a faint chuckle in it. "I accept. Welcome back."
Makareth and Hadranir, both three steps behind Lykaon, stayed on their knees as well. Makareth tried to distinguish features in the shadow of the podium, but could only make out a five-horned helmet and shoulders covered by a cloak of black bear hide.
Balneth Bale spoke again. "As I said, Lykaon, I accept your oath. But I cannot grant you what you have asked for in your message sent to me some time ago. Your young servant will not be accepted as a noble at my court."
"But my lord, I have described you his virtues and his excellent skill as a warrior!" Lykaon suddenly reached out and opened his hand. Bright blue beams radiated from his clawed fingers, in which he held a pendant of a blue stone encased in reddish gold. "This pendant belonged to an archmage of a fleet from Cothique; the boy I am asking you about has slain the mage all by himself. I present you this artifact as a tribute, too – it is full of arcane power that a wise sorcerer like you will be able to use."
Balneth Bale stood up and walked to the top of the stairs. Finally, Makareth saw him; his five-horned helmet was depicting a skull with a big jewel as a third eye; the black armor, adorned with silver and gold, was of an elegant, simple design and polished to an unearthly shine. A great long sword in a scabbard with emeralds and small rubies, glistening like blood drops on the metal ornaments covering the black leather, was at his side. He was tall and slender, and his movements were graceful like those of a lynx. His face, or what was seen of it, had no scars, and despite a greyish undertone to his skin, it seemed hardly touched by age. A feline smile was on his lips. To his surprise, Makareth thought that the Witchlord, despite the majestic attire, looked more like a mischievous youth than like a frightening warrior, attractive, but not to be taken seriously. It felt strange to see Lykaon, whose aura of enigmatic might was almost tangible, kneeling in front of this grinning Druchii.
"That is a nice gift." The Witchlord nodded contently, walked down the stairs with a light pace and snatched the pendant from Lykaon's clawed hand. "But don't get me wrong – I would gladly grant you this wish. I know you mourn the loss of your eldest nephew," Here Balneth Bale chuckled again, his dark eyes radiating sarcastic amusement, "And your wish to have another loyal warrior at your side is understandable, especially one that has proved his worth to you, is understandable. I would have agreed, if it was not for Belladon's vision."
"Belladon's vision?" Lykaon sounded worried; he shifted on his knee, as if the position was becoming uncomfortable for him.
"Yes." Balneth Bale turned around, his fur cloak swaying, and moved back to his throne and sat down. "My beautiful Seeress has given me a warning. She saw misery and destruction in the path of the boy that you bring to my court; dreadful events that would engulf Naggorond, our capital; she saw him standing in a circle of arcane flames, before an army of hideous beasts summoned from the realms of horror; and she saw other things of which even I would not dare to speak. How can I give a title to someone who might bring such a fate upon our lands? It would fall back on me, and I might be considered guilty; and I do not have the need to be sentenced to death at a stake on great Malekith' walls."
Makareth listened to the speech, and his eyes went wider with every word, his heart beating painfully loud. A fear so intense that it almost made him retch took hold of him, and he felt sweat drops running down his brow. They believed he would be a danger to Naggaroth; that would mean they would certainly kill him. His hand slid to he handle of his sword. If they would attack him, he thought, he could at least take two or three with him into the halls of Ereth Kial.
Lykaon growled in frustration at such an answer, but seemingly forced himself to calm again. When he spoke, his voice lacked any emotion. "What will you do now, my lord? Will you order the Witchguard to slay him, and Hadranir and me as well?"
"No." The Witchlord looked at the shining pendant. "I will not kill him. Nor will I kill you. I am loyal to our king, and to Naggorond as our capital; but I do not know the nature of the threat this boy imposes on Naggaroth. The Orb of Malkin didn't directly imply him to be the one who causes the desaster; and who knows, maybe his fate will even bring advantages to us. He might be the one who defends the capital against this army of monstrosities instead of leading them in their assault; Belladon's vision wasn't clear enough to see what his role will be. But you will have to send him away. His presence here is a risk."
"Send him away?" Lykaon clenched his fists. "If it is your order, my lord, I will do so; but please give me a couple of weeks to organize everything for his depart. He is a relative of mine, and that is why I hoped he could take Niodar's place in my household; I don't want him to return to Hag Graef, where he would certainly be executed for treason."
The young Druchii breathed in and out, concentrating on the sound and feel of the air that left and entered his lungs. Thinking of leaving the lord was unpleasant; but thinking about returning to Hag Graef, to the misery of selling hair-dye the threats of his aunt, after coming so close to a fulfillment of his dreams, was painful beyond compare.
Balneth Bale closed his gauntleted hand around the pendant. "Yes, a few weeks you will be granted; but do not make it too long. You can leave now, Lykaon."
The Dreadlord lowered his head and rose, walking past Makareth and Hadranir who instantly bowed to the Witchlord and then stood up to follow their liegelord.
"Lykaon?" Bale's voice echoed in the hall. "Maybe you should be careful in the next time; I heard the Hag of the Temple of Khaine in Hag Graef has a personal matter to discuss with you."
Two days later, Makareth still remembered each word Balneth Bale had said, and each time when he recalled the events, he felt his hands shake and his heart skip a beat.
The audience had taken place the day after their arrival. Since then, Lykaon still hadn't told Makareth what his plans were.
The smoke rose from the brazier. The smell of bitter and spicy herbs from Lustria filled the air of the study. Makareth sat on the floor, turning the pages of a book the pages of which were made from human hide. Writing in Druhast covered the delicate material.
He had never expected Niodar to have been a poet. And the idea of writing a diary in verses amused him even more. He read the dead Druchii's words, and they were sweeter than dried berries of the northern forests to him; Niodar had played with words like other Dark Elves would with blades.
In the last two days he had felt betrayed and angry. He was so close to finally achieving his goal, and it was ripped out of his hand in the last moment. He wished he had stayed with Laggoran – that would have at least meant more possibilities to find glory. His choice seemed to have proven wrong. Now he had only a couple of weeks left, and then it would be back to the gutter, or even worth, death. He had paced his chambers like a hungry nauglir for hours, trying to think of a possibility to change the situation, but he had no idea how. Against the powers of a Seeress he was helpless.
The verse diaries that he had discovered in dead Niodar's study at least distracted him. In his worry, he didn't have enough patience to learn about tactics or to read about the history of Naggaroth, and had searched through the cases for something easier to understand when he found the poetry written by Lykaon's former vassal.
Some of the poetry was about battles, often describing the whole battlefield, and then changing the view to one of a single warrior. One of the poems was a longer one, weaving the battle at the beginning into a greater legend which had filled an entire book.
But most verses were about women, mostly noble ladies from Naggor. Makareth enjoyed Niodar's descriptions, sometimes ironic, sometimes admiring, and the rather explicit language describing his numerous adventures.
But in this book that he held in his hands he found something unusual, and despite enjoying the beautiful words, he felt himself tensing up when he understood what the poem was about. Why hadn't Lykaon discovered it before?
The lady that Niodar had written in these verses about must have been a person to whom he felt deep respect. The amused or lustful tone of the other poems was absent here; instead, the verses showed the lady as a creature of exceptional beauty, pureness and power. The poem told about her qualities in battle and about her wisdom, praised her passionate being but didn't include any erotic details. Only at the end did Niodar describe her physique, before ending the poem with the conclusion that he would never touch her, no matter how great his devotion to her might be; unless it would be in the kiss of death that she would grant him, should he fail in the quest she had sent him on.
Makareth thought about the poem, laying the book aside. Niodar had mentioned that the lady had white hair and fiery eyes, that she was moving faster than the wind, her daggers being almost a part of her body, and that she wore blood instead of garments. It was an enticing picture, yes. But it was clear that the woman depicted was a Witch Elf.
Niodar, Makareth thought, had sworn allegiance to a priestess of the Temple of Khaine. So much Lykaon already knew, as the young Druchii had heard the lord mentioning Adragil's and Dolus', two of his enemies', connections to the Temple; but who was this particular Witch Elf? Maybe she was the key to Lykaon's problems with the Khainites.
The young Druchii took the book and left his part of the tower. He asked one of Lykaon's servants to announce to the lord that he would like to speak to him, and waited, sitting on the bench under a window, looking at the tapestries. The birds on one of it seemed to move their long feathers from time to time, and suddenly Makareth realized that under this tapestry there must be a door; it was the draft that moved the fabric and created the illusion of movement. He wondered where the door would lead to.
Lykaon called him from a distance. "You wanted to say something?" The lord's voice was unusually cold, or at least Makareth perceived it to be; it was as if something had stood between them since their audience with the Witchlord.
"Yes. I think I might have found out something, my lord. Can we talk somewhere where no one else can hear us?"
The lord nodded and gestured him to follow.
They walked through the door leading to the spiral stairs that went up into the highest chamber of the tower. Makareth hadn't been to Lykaon's rooms yet. He was surprised by the fact that there were no tapestries on the walls in the large area that seemed to serve both as a bedroom and a study, and that all furniture was made of unadorned, dark wood – a table, two chairs, many high cases with scrolls and books, a chest, the lid open, its contents silk robes in dark colors thrown in without visible order. A bed covered with a heap of tangled woolen blankets and linen sheets stood at one of the walls, and a fireplace was giving warmth and light. The room was such a contrast to the rest of the tower that Makareth had seen so far, that he wasn't able to believe that the lord actually lived here.
"Sit down." Lykaon pointed at one of the chairs.
Makareth obeyed. "Lord, I have found these verses in Niodar's study." He held out the vellum-bound book.
"Verses?" Lykaon sat down on the edge of his bed and laughed. "How wonderful. One of my nephews paints pictures, and the other had written poetry. Did you really read it?"
"Yes." Makareth felt heat in his cheeks, suddenly ashamed at his own behavior. Reading sentimental poems was more fitting for a weakling Asur than for a Druchii. "I have found something that you should know."
The Dreadlord shook his head, his features distorted in an expression of disgust. "His verses are of no use to me. What importance could the dreams of a madman hold?"
The young Druchii swallowed. "He wrote of a Witch Elf he seemed quite enamoured with... I thought it might explain his connection with the Temple of Khaine, given that they seem to be after you."
Lykaon looked at him for a long while. Slowly, the expression changed to a milder, tired one. "I have already found out what I needed to know when I subjected him to torture, Makareth. I know that he had tried to betray me, that he asked Highborn families and the Temple of Khaine in Hag Graef for help in annihilating me. But it was years after his obsession with poetry." The lord walked over to the table, taking the iron goblet standing on it. He drank from it and put it back on the table, not offering any of the beverage to Makareth. "The chambers that you inhabit now were only his till he married eleven years ago; I have never cared to change their interieur because I didn't need the additional rooms and have kept it this way for the days when he stayed at my tower after the rituals. The Witch Elf he had desired is dead; she was one of those few priestesses from Ghrond that live at the shrine here in Naggor, and she was killed in that useless war between us and Hag Graef, during the battle in which I saw you fighting for the first time."
Makareth felt like a fool. Had he really imagined that the lord would not have known about Niador's deeds and plans? Lykaon must be offended, he thought. "Please excuse the disruption of your rest then, my lord. I will retire to my chambers until you need me." He stood up, his eyes cast down, and quickly went to the door that lead to the staircase.
"Wait." Lykaon's voice was at once full of enticing dark tones again. "I consider it a sign of your loyalty that you wished to inform me of possible enemies. Stay with me for a while; I will call for something to eat, and then we should discuss your future."
Makareth stopped in his tracks. Lykaon's voice almost never missed to send a shiver down his spine when he spoke like that, and the young Druchii wouldn't be able to walk on even if he wanted. But it was not this effect that made his heart beat faster. It was the relief that the lord finally wanted to talk to him about the terrible result of their audience with Bale; the hope that maybe something, somehow, could be done about it.
The Asur slave with the flower ornaments on her limbs and flaxen hair, the one he had already met on his first day in Naggor, brought a silver tray with freshly baked bread and roast meat as well as a pitcher with wine and two cups. She cast a side glance at Makareth when walking out, and he felt like being watched by something malicious for a moment. Maybe the last days spent in anxiety had taken their toll, he thought.
He poured wine for Lykaon, and then for himself, and took a piece of bread. He could barely taste it, so excited by his own hope that everything still could turn out well that he felt a lump in his throat.
Lykaon took a sip of the wine and put the cup onto the table. "There is a problem to be solved," he said thoughtfully, "And this problem is Belladon."
Makareth looked at his liegelord, stupefied. "Belladon? But how can I solve this problem? And what was that catastrophe that Balneth Bale was talking about at all?"
The lord smiled his shark smile. "Belladon is the one who doesn't want you here. Bale listens to her, even more, he relies on her prophetic powers for every decision. But Belladon doesn't like me. She knows what I am, her prophetic powers are great. But she hasn't passed word to the king or the king's mother that I escaped the extinction of the Dru Perim, though only because she fears the revenge of those faithful to me. Still, she will do anything to spite me in lesser matters. I suspect that it was not a vision that told her about you but my old acquaintance Danarius. Do you remember him? I had told you to be careful with him."
The young Druchii nodded.
"The reason why you should be especially cautious is not the fact that he is a favorite of Balneth Bale, or that he is a particularly valuable warrior; he isn't. But he is one of Belladon's paramours, and quite influential due to that. He had seen us at the gates, and recognized Niodar's armor on you. He would never leave out a chance to provide possibly useful information to the Seeress in exchange for her benevolence towards him. And since Bale consults her in all matters, she probably already knew of my petition to accept a new warrior as a noble at Naggor's court." He picked the cup up again and raised it, as if he wanted to drink to something. "Now if she interpreted the vision to your favor, the Witchlord would at least allow you to stay in Naggor as my retainer."
Makareth stared at the his liegelord, bewildered. "But she will never do so if she hates you!"
Lykaon drank another gulp and looked at his young vassal through half-closed eyes. "Persuade her to change her mind."