Divided Loyalties, part 1

Part 1 – By my father’s sword

Remus stood just outside the closed door for a few minutes and listened to the muffled voices. He had heard Makelin’s shouts from down the hall. Makelin was a minor lordling serving Remus’s parents and grand commander of Blackstar keep’s army. He had also become a tutor to Remus in all things including warfare and politics since his parents were both killed in battle.

“This is nothing short of insurrection!” he had said. “This fortress, the soldiers, the surrounding lands, the servants and every last Khaine forsaken steed and stinking cold one belongs to him by birthright!”

“Well of course it does,” said another sycophantic but nonetheless patronising voice, “but we must ensure that this domain is properly managed until our young Lord comes of an age that’s appropriate to inherit.”

It was then that he opened the door, halting the debate instantly and turning the heads of everyone present as he entered. “Young master,” Makelin said respectfully with a bow of his head. Everyone else around the conference room simply stared at the marginally adult vagabond in front of them. He had just been hunting and thus Remus was not quite dressed for the war room. His long, dark hair was a tangled mess with several strands hanging low over his face and his leathers were smeared with patches of mud. He also wore a regal, purple sash around his waist that came down the back of his legs in a kind of half skirt. The keeps emblem of a black star embroidered into the back was similarly spattered with dirt and blood. Their attention was also drawn to his billowing black cloak that had been ripped and frayed at the end, before he unclasped and threw it into the corner of the room.

“Ah the Blackstar prince himself,” announced the finely dressed man at the head of long rectangular solid obsidian table, quoting the nickname his parents used to call him. As far as dark elves go, he was as badly aged as they came. His once black hair was dominated by grey while his flesh was severely withered, but he always wore the newest, most elaborate robes made by the slaves. He was also the one who had been speaking before Remus came in. Abbadon. A backstabbing suck up who had been a retainer in matters of governance to his parents.

Remus stood aside and held the door open for the previously unseen individual behind him. While the attention drawn to Remus’s entrance was a mixture of outrage and surprise, hers was a mixture of fear and lust. Everyone at either side of the table reacted in at least some small way, a widening stare, a parting of lips and the occasional gasp. The sorceress Naxva was beauty embodied and showcased. Her graceful form was barely concealed in her armour that was little more than a leather bodice with narrow metal plates that covered her breasts, before winding up onto her shoulders in the form of flaring spaulders that her purple cape was attached to. The bodice was met by a belted purple loincloth and several strips of leather that made up a short skirt. As she walked in her stiletto healed, armoured boots announced her coming as they rapped loudly against the stone floor. As is the way with dark elf women, she had a fondness for ludicrously attention-grabbing attire. The reason was that she knew full well that she was untouchable unless she desired the adverse. Naxva served Remus as his most trusted advisor in all things. She also brought her powers to devastating use when she served on the battlefield. And above all else, she served as his consort.

“Thank you for joining us young master,” Abbadon said with a farcical bow.

“Strangely enough Abbadon,” sneered Remus, “I never received the message that this meeting was taking place. If anyone was sent at all that is.” His tone of voice was almost casual. After all anyone that didn’t expect deceit among the Druchii was a fool.

“My apologies master. I’ll have the man I sent severely beaten.”

“Of course you will,” sighed Remus in a manner that would make his distrust of Abbadon obvious. “In the mean time I see you’ve been keeping my chair warm for me.”

Abbadon smiled and stepped away from the head of the table taking the place to the right of the throne. There were eight places along each side of the table. Each chair was high backed and elaborately carved in ebony. However the black granite throne at the head of the table dwarfed them all with its dark majesty. Remus took Naxva’s hand in his and led her to it, every man seated at the table shivered as she walked behind them. Instead of sitting in the throne himself, Remus held her hand aloft and motioned for Naxva to sit there instead. For himself he took the empty chair to her left, opposite Abbadon and next to Makelin. As he sank into the chair he made a show of slamming the heels of his boots down onto the surface of the table and crossing his legs as mud flecked onto the surface.

Obviously enjoying his student and master’s intervention Makelin leaned back and gave Abbadon a malicious grin. In response Abbadon stood back up, “Perhaps now we can continue?”

“Yes,” Makelin stood to face him. “This fortress stands here for a reason. As a lookout post, and a forward base of operations for King Malekith should he the need arise. It is time we marshalled our forces into the army they once were.”

“And what better training could they have than by making raids?”

Remus simply closed his eyes and listened as a dozen others joined the debate.

“The garrison isn’t ready! Even if we did as you suggested, the keep would never have the manpower to defend itself if we came under attack while the army was off gallivanting around the old world.”

“Or perhaps you military morons are just enjoying using the army as your own personal servants while you grow fat and lazy! Such decadence is more fitting for our weak Ulthuan brothers!”

“One could say the same about your desire to them to go and capture slaves!”

“Not my desire. The Witch King’s. He has decreed that now is the perfect time to take what is ours while the rest of the world is blind. Distracted by the incursion of the forces of chaos.”

“Enough!” roared Remus as he stood and slammed a clawed gauntlet against the table, which left a spider web shaped crack on its surface. “We will bide our time and draft more men into our ranks. Once they’re…”

Abbadon burst into laugher, finding Remus’s command genuinely humorous. “With respect my young...” he never got to finish his sentence. In one fluid motion the sword belted at Remus’s side sang as it was drawn from its scabbard. A vicious longsword with a raven’s head sculpted into the guard and a tip that curved out from the otherwise straight blade like the end of a cutlass. He threw it with enough force that it screamed through the air and sheathed itself in Abbadon’s chest cavity, pinning him to the wall.

Within seconds two more men down the same row as Abbadon had drawn their weapons, only to be thrown slamming back into the wall as incandescent energy crackled across their bodies. “Dogs should stay in their kennels,” smiled Naxva wryly with her hand outstretched before her.

“As I was saying,” Remus said as he stepped up onto the table and pulled his sword free, allowing Abbadon’s body to tumble, like a puppet after having its strings cut.  “Only after they’re drilled into real warriors of the Blackstar garrison will we send them to teach the slave races why they all bow to the Malekith, the Druchii and to Kaela Mensha Khaine. By my father’s sword.”