can hardly be of much concern to us, for good or ill, can he? What of the other one?’
‘Tyrion does indeed seem to be of the line of Aenarion, sire. He is tall and well-formed and very fast and strong. If he lives he will become a most formidable warrior.’
‘As good as you, Urian?’
‘I doubt he will live that long, sire. Word has it that the Cult of the Forbidden Blade already plans his death.’ The Cult plotted the death of any they felt might be able to draw the Sword of Khaine and thus end the world. They were idiots, but they were dangerous idiots, and they numbered some very deadly duellists as part of their ancient conspiracy.
‘But if he does live, Urian?’
‘Then, yes, sire. It is possible he would be my match.’
‘He must be formidable indeed.’
‘He is, sire. And by all accounts he is quick of mind and gifted at tactics.’
‘Does he bear any signs of the Curse, Urian? The Curse?’
‘Not as yet, sire, but he is very young. What would you have me do about him?’
‘Keep a close eye on him, Urian. If he shows any signs of the Curse, we shall let him live. If not...’
‘As you wish, sire. And the other, the sickly one?’
‘It does not sound like he will be a problem, does it?’
‘No, sire. It does not.’
‘You like them, don’t you, Urian?’
As always Iltharis was surprised by the perceptiveness of his master. He did not know why that should be. It was impossible to rule a kingdom like Naggaroth for long ages without great insight into the elven heart.
‘I do, sire,’ Iltharis said. He always felt that honesty, insofar as he was able to manage it, was the best policy when dealing with his master. He had known too many elves suffer terrible fates through lying to Malekith.
‘I do hope you are not becoming soft over there among our degenerate kinfolk, Urian.’
‘I will do whatever is needed, sire. As I always do.’
‘I know Urian. That is why you are my most trusted servant.’
He made a gesture and the great mirror went dark. Iltharis once again found himself facing his own reflection. He laughed out loud at his master’s final words. Malekith trusted no one. Iltharis began to suspect that he himself might be marked for death.
‘No one lives forever,’ he muttered to himself. Not even you, Malekith, he thought but he kept that part to himself. Even down here, you never knew who might be listening. The Witch King had eyes and ears everywhere.
Urian looked at himself in the now dormant mirror. He was not sure he recognised himself any more. He touched the long dark hair that ran down to his shoulders. Back in the beginning, before he had been singled out to become what he was today, his hair had been white. He was fairly sure of that. His skin had been pale and he had a few freckles. His eyes had been a simple green. His nose had been snub for an elf. Or perhaps his hair had been the colour of copper. He truly could not remember. His memories were twisted and there had been times when he had been less than sane. He was certain of that.
So many times now, his skin had been peeled from him and replaced with the flayed flesh of others. The bones in his face had been restructured. His eyes had been replaced by orbs stolen from someone else’s sockets and kept preserved in jars of alchemical brine. He touched his eyelids now, wondering who these eyes had once belonged to; an elf, of course, but whether a high elf or a dark elf he could not tell. There was no real difference between the two, after all. Who knew that better than him?
How many hours had he spent chained to the altars in Naggarond while sorcerer-surgeons worked on him with blood-stained scalpels, peeling off his skin, magically grafting on new flesh? How many days had he spent with his brain magically altered to perceive pleasure as pain and pain as pleasure, except for those moments when the surgeons for their own amusement had chosen to let the spells lapse? How many weeks would he one day spend claiming his vengeance on those same magi?
He raised his glass and toasted himself. The wine was pallid and tasteless but he kept it here to give him something to steady his nerves after his little chats with his master. He missed the hallucinogenic vintages of