Editing Takeda BW XXXV

“My queen,” called a pale-skinned elf, dressed in a black cloak under which was a white robe and purple tunic. He was stood before a huge, iron double door at one end of a great hall, which was carved out of basalt.  The hall had two rows of huge, black pillars arranged to form a wide central aisle with two, narrower, walkways either side.  The walls of these walkways were adorned with statues, tapestries and great skulls from all manner of beasts.  The vaulted ceiling was lower on either side of the central nave, which reached at least fifty feet high. From the roof hung gibbets in which were dead, dying, or decaying creatures.  “It was impossible to re-forge the blade entirely, as the hilt was so powerfully aligned against us,” continued the elf nervously, “So, we have separated it from the blade and constructed a new hilt.  Our prisoners continue to serve Hel well, my Lady,” he added optimistically, before finishing, “Whilst it is no Avenger, this new sword has many powers.”

“Good,” came the blunt response from the far end of the hall, opposite to where the elf made an entrance. The voice was a female’s, higher in pitch, which carried effortlessly across the room. {''Inwe''}

The elf looked nervous again, his blue eyes darting to the ceiling and back to look down the nave,  “What would you have us do with the current hilt?” he asked with a slight tremble in his voice.

“Bring it to me,” the female’s tone was laced with malice and threat, “our Lady wishes to study it further.”

“Yes my queen,” stammered the elf before departing hurriedly, narrowly missing another of his kind as he entered the hall.

“You summoned me, my Queen,” he said as he entered, stepping slightly to his right to allow the fleeing elf passage. The same deep-blue, cold, eyes peered into the hall.  His black robe was lined with purple and hung from a gold chain clasped at his neck with a jet broach fashioned into the face of a dragon. Underneath he wore a leather tunic, loosely tied with leather laces that criss-crossed up its centre. A half-black, half-white girdle was at his waste, hanging from which was a pouch, but no weapons were visible. Loose, black silk trousers were tucked into high soft riding boots that tapped gently on the stone floor as he paced steadily down the nave.  His long, black hair was swept back into a ponytail which bounced as he moved.  A single circlet of platinum adorned his head.  Deathly-pale skin was stretched over his chiselled features and high, prominent cheek bones, giving him a hawkish look.  He stopped mid-way down the nave and bowed deeply.

“[[Dun Kur]], my wonderful son,” the female voice greeted him as he, again, strode forward, “here is a gift that I know you will use wisely.”  Takeda’s vision swept down the centre aisle to where a beautiful woman sat; she was dressed in a long black satin gown, tied at the waist with a purple girdle. The dress was low cut, revealing much of her ample, white breasts. Her neck was long and rose to a smooth, elegant jaw line. Around her neck was a black satin choker with an image of the goddess, Hel, at the front, fashioned from platinum and jet. Her hair was tied up in a French plait on top of which was a beautifully ornate platinum tiara studded with black sapphires. Her face was pale but stunningly beautiful: full lips, painted black, large round eyes as deep as wells, sculptured eyebrows and a straight, strong nose which complimented her high cheek bones. She held before her a bastard sword, scabbarded in blackened bone, with a beautifully carved rampant dragon forming the handle and hilt.

“Thank you mother,” he said reaching out to take the sword and testing its balance.

“It was re-forged from the Blade known as Fastlor,” the she-drow continued, “once wielded by our mightiest of foes; now to be wielded by you.” 

Knowing that this was not a gift, that he’d have to earn this prize, he asked, “What would you have me do in return?”

“You know me so well,” the lady chuckled standing and stepping away from the enormous iron throne on which she had sat. The throne was fashioned into a scale model of a grey dragon – the seat was where its chest curved backwards before turning into a long serpentine neck, which was topped with a dragon’s head, mouth open to bear its teeth,. “I need you to take care of a prisoner for me;” she continued and, turning back to face her son, said, “his name is Yagitamo, a once powerful samurai.”

“I know of him,” Dun Kur nodded, “Now why would you ask me to do something so simple?”  It was the male’s turn to pace, rubbing his chin in a manner that over-emphasised that he was thinking, “Aha,” he said as if suddenly stumbling on the truth, “now I have it: you mean for his daughter to attempt a rescue and fall into your hands; is that not so?”

“Precisely,” said the she-drow, smiling wickedly.

“I suppose you have let someone know where he is being held?” Dun Kur continued to muse exaggeratedly, “Someone that you have had contact with.  Someone that posed no real threat to us, but could influence the Prime?”

A broad smile showed the lady’s favour towards her son, as he divined her intent, “Yes,” she said nodding, before looking beyond her son and staring into the distance as if recalling some exquisite memory.  “She took much of his life force,” the Queen continued looking up to a place behind her dragon-throne where Takeda could just make out a huge and beautifully proportioned statue of Hel leaning forward as if to bless whoever was sat on the throne.  “But she ensured he saw clearly enough a route to your realm,”  the queen finished and licked her lips as if savouring something; Dun Kur knew better than to interrupt as his mother continued, “And gave him the determination to set out alone.”

“He?” Dun Kur looked confused, “Not the daughter?”

No longer smiling, and fixing her son with her gaze, she simply responded, “No.”

“Oh…” the real intent dawned on the drow, “you mean for the rescue to succeed.  That is why I must hold the prisoner at [[Frasgrad]], so the enemy will still have no idea where to locate you.  Why do you want to lose the Oriental?” 

“Because I need him to rally his forces against Orcus, to weaken the Demon in Amarsland, so that the Prince of Everlost cannot turn against my men,” she asserted confidently, as if there were no other way.

As if buying time to think, Dun Kur asked the obvious, “You think he would turn on you after you betrayed him at Fontainver?”

“He might,” the Queen mused, knowing that it was extremely likely.

The penny dropped, “Is that why you also make overtures to the other one?”  {''Inwe potentially linking with Demogorgan as a hedge against Orcus''}

“Yes,” the lady confirmed before beginning to pace once again, considering other issues that had been on her mind, “but also because this is the seventh age – the last age of the Prime, and I hope that, between us, the servants of Hel will have the upper hand in the wars to come.”  Pausing to consider her next moves carefully, it seemed to dawn on her that giving her chosen path voice made it real, “We cannot allow those of the lowest planes take control.  Pitting them against each other and offering some small hope to the humans by throwing them into the same fight can only serve us well.”

Dun Kur considered his Queen’s proposition carefully, “So you do not want to risk more men in the service of others – good!”  Having reassured himself of his mother’s perspective, Dun Kur seemed to want to speak his mind, “That damn fool, Malor, is highly overrated.  Why she” he pointed at the statue, “has not taken him, I cannot fathom.”

The Queen stopped and smiled at her son, “Be careful, son, our Lady hears all.  Anyway, Iki will meet his end soon enough but we need his Army.”  No longer pacing, the Drow Queen stood directly in front of her son, “Do not forget that Hel herself thinks highly of him – he brings her souls,” she said.  Putting her hands on his shoulders and looking up, directly into his eyes the she-drow attempted to reassure her offspring, “If it were not for Orcus and his underling, your cousin, and the somewhat troublesome northern dwarves, Iki would have had Amarsland sown up by now.”

“I hear he has failed to turn the elves as well,” Dun Kur replied, not convinced by his mother’s treatise.

“Yes, that is true,” answered the Queen removing her hands from her son and walking back towards her throne, “they may yet feel our wrath – Malor expects us to help in the south, but we cannot afford to let him get too powerful either.”

“Then why do we not depose Malor?” Dun Kur’s hatred of the Oriental was clear.

Unmoved by her son’s outburst, the she-Drow simply stated the truth, “It is a tricky game, my son, and time is running out for us all.” 

Slowly another piece of the jigsaw fell into place in Dun Kur’s mind, “And that is why [[Magreb]] secretly supplies the northern dwarves – who think it is Milai’s ships that brings them steel from Ashoria,” he postulated. “But why did our men engage these dwarves near Fontainver?”

“We were surprised,” the Queen answered, a flicker of anger crossing her pale face, “Magreb did his best to avoid battle but they were waiting.  Anyway, it is done now and Mercantire leads a strong force for us, which I have set to task.”

“Should he not have this sword?” Dun Kur asked holding up the scabbarded blade.

“Not yet, my son.  Once we have persuaded the most powerful part of the Avenger to our cause then he will be given a new blade to rival any on the Prime.  Our Lady will combine it with a sword that once belonged to Grasgal – the Sword of Death.”

“And what if these new upstarts, that gave Orcus such a problem at Fontainver, decide to accompany your weakling to Frasgrad in search of the Oriental.”

“Then use the sword my son, but ensure Yagitamo gets to the Prime.”

“Yes my Queen.”