Really, the scarred man consoled himself; they’re not giving me any choice.

The Chaos Lord’s instructions had arrived as they always did, a short, cryptic message in the same, familiar handwriting. A time, a place, step through a portal, and settle a dispute. So he went, finding icy-cool sorceresses in long pale robes in constant danger of falling open (or off), facing down fiery, (minimally) leather-clad witch elves bristling with weaponry. With (comparatively overdressed) silent druchi assassins along to referee.

A room with no exits, filled with sudden, painful, dark elven death.

His only regret was that it wasn’t sudden, painful, full-contact nude oil-wrestling death. Instead they seemed bent on whining him into the grave. He grinned happily.

Seth Garrick, Chaos Lord of Slaanesh, managed to keep the enrapt, slightly dazed look on his face even as he slid to his right, clamping his left hand to the throat of the oblivious old elf sitting next to him. Quickly he dragged the unresisting figure back toward the cold stone corner of the small chamber.

Three hours ago conversation in the chamber had begun with glacial politeness, steadily rising toward white-hot hostility since. Now the silence coiled and poised to explode into outright violence.

“Seth-bway.” Big Smoke, ale stein slightly raised, still comfortably seated at the table, flicked his heavy braids away from his scarred face with a shake of his shaggy head. “Wha’ch tink be doin’, mon?”

“Shut up, Smoke. I’m handling this.” Seth snarled back at his Kha-neth. So far the big monkey had limited his supervisory responsibilities to demolishing tankard after tankard of ale and studiously and ostentatiously leering at the voluptuous environment. The fool had practically crushed one of the sorceresses staggering from the portal to his chair at the table. Seth snorted, then addressed the room. “All this friendly debate is starting to give me a serious pain in the eyes. And I come from a land which offers credited degrees in Pompous Bombast.”

He stopped to consider.

“It must be your language. It amazes me how a gang of colonial bumpkins can take something as beautiful and lyric as asuryea, and devolve it to the sound of malicious children stomping a stained glass window to death.”

The druchi sorceresses on the left slitted their eyes. The witch-elves on the right began, ever so slightly, to foam at the mouth. More ominously than either, the assassins at the far end of the table did nothing at all, only shifting their weight slightly to better focus on the Chaos Lord and his hostage.

“I have no idea who this old coot is, or why he might be here, but seeing the way you all look his way when you think you’ve said something clever made me thoughtful.” The old coot in question continued to babble softly under his breath, but seemed content where he was. “And now, seeing the way you flinch, just a little, when I threaten to smash his creaky old carcass makes me think that he just might be of value.” Seth smiled, very glad to have the upper hand in this nest of vipers.

"I think our little brainstorming session might benefit from a restatement of our aims and goals.” He smiled. “I’m here to seal a deal. Open doors of perspective. Build better bridges of communication. Whatever. And what I require is a simple ‘yea’ or ‘nay’. Since Big-Daddy-Methuselah here he hasn’t got more than a dime’s worth of copper left rattling around his piggy-bank, it’s unlikely his two cents are immediately forthcoming.” He gave the limp form a shake to demonstrate. “So, in order to achieve the required monosyllabic breakthrough in a timely and efficient manner, chairmanship of this committee will be reassigned. Now. To me. Any problems with that?” Seth lifted the old man, and prepared to bring the group to order using gran’pa as his gavel.

Tension screamed through the room, but no one moved.

“Glad to see you’re taking me seriously. Now to address a few relevant points.” Seth tilted his head to display the twisting scars marking his left cheek. A brand of ownership from his patron God. “Quite aside from my long-debated and well established sub-status arising from my non-druchi heritage, I think my religious affiliation is posing problems to quick and easy settlement of this issue.”

This was something of an understatement: In Naggarond, the icy land of the Dark Elves, Slaaneshi worship was officially outlawed. Khaine the bloody-handed, elven God of Murder and Bloodshed was the state religion, and it tolerated no competition. The assassins were his human acolytes, the witch-elves his brides. Execution without trial was punishment unmasked Slaaneshi worshippers would pray for if their dogma didn’t espouse protracted pain and torture. As it was, Khainites typically applied themselves to exceeding even the most pious Slaaneshi creative standards when it came to dealing with heretics.

So imagine the scandal, the outrage, when a Chaos Lord of Slaanesh comes calling, seeking wisdom and training from these very skillful much feared Khainite assassins. Seth tittered.

“Sorry to disappoint you all,” he continued. “But I’m not here to overthrow the government, conduct a religious crusade, or taint your young folk by recruiting disciples to follow in my filthy, perverse, vile, bloody, pagan footsteps. Gods know there’s more than enough of that sort of sort of business going on here already.”

With a scream of rage, one of the witch-elves threw herself forward, serrated blades weaving forward, promising pain and death.

Seth pivoted neatly and took the first perfect strikes across the biceps of his right arm, holding the old elf upright by the throat with his left. The blades sheared through flesh and bone with a sinister whisper, severing the limb in an eyeblink. Seth grunted thoughtfully, noting the others in the room beginning to rise from the table, then snapped the metal boot on his right foot into her sternum with a wet crunch.

The elf fell like the bag of meat she had become. Seth quickly brought his boot down hard across the side of her neck, snap-crackle-pop, ensuring no further threat from that quarter. Then he addressed the room again.

“I’m hoping we can avoid any further disputes of a combative nature.” He motioned with his chin to another of the witch-elves, apparently their leader. “You. Come here.”

The slender elf rose, translucent outfit molding perfectly to her flawless white skin, weapon hilts peeking from behind over slim hips. The killing rage was on her. It was obvious.

“Be a dear and pick that up for me?” Seth motioned again, to the arm on the floor.

The occupants of the room then noted the lack of gushing blood from the stump of Seth’s arm. The bleeding had stopped nearly instantly, and apparently the injury itself was causing no distress to the young Chaos Lord.

The Witch-Elf Commander glided forward and bent suggestively downward. These elves do everything suggestively, Seth thought to himself. More’s the pity they worship a musty old prude like Khaine. The elven warrior seized the gauntleted limb like an Ulthan high elf might pick up a favorite quill.

Seth swung the stump forward. “Business end toward you, darlin’.” He grinned boyishly. The elf snarled, but complied, and in a moment the fingers that had lain dead and cold in their metal casing twitched as life returned to them.

Then Seth gave the witch-elf a quick backhand with the solid metal glove.

She hissed from the floor, readying for a lethal lunge, but the Chaos Lord swung the wizened elf in front of him, blocking access to her target. She sank back abruptly, abandoning her frenzy. The elder drooled slightly in protest of all this activity but was otherwise silent.

“Continuing from where we were,” he smirked. “I’m not here as an insult, or attack, or a trick, or a stratagem. I am a supplicant, here to train. Gods be merciful, we’ll never set eyes on each other afterwards. If your answer is no, that’s just fine. I can live without your assistance.” He sneered. “Gran’pa here might not, but I think I can.”

Even the ‘sympathetic’ sorceresses were clenching their fists and shaking with suppressed anger. Seth knew he’d have to fight his way out of the sealed chamber, most likely dragging Smoke along the way. He’d sensed it radiating from the other occupants of the room the moment he’d walked through the portal and watched it snap shut behind him: Negotiations would inevitably arrive at a violent, bloody resolution.

Goodie-goodie, he grinned. He loved that sort of negotiation.

There was a twinge in his leg.

Then he was lying in an untidy pile on the floor.

What?

He leapt to his feet. Only he didn’t. He managed to blink and open his mouth half an inch, but his feet were in no danger of being leapt to. What-what-what?

Slowly the old elf, standing steadily, turned and looked down at the fallen Chaos Lord. Slowly he crouched down, motioning to the others in the room to remain where they were. Seth noted Smoke was still calmly nursing the dregs from his stupid mug.

When the aged fey spoke, it was in the clear, melodic sounds of Ulthan.

“I think I have enough copper remaining to offer an opinion on the subject at hand, youngster.” He beamed. “I love it when they send Slaaneshi. So colorful. So vain. They always think themselves so sly, yet never question the presence of a helpless old elf in a room full of young, vigorous killers.”

Speaking in the accents of the Blessed Isle of the High Elves was not against the law in the Land of Chill. Of course, few survived their next three steps after speaking those reviled tones, neatly abbreviating legal arguments. Only those immune to or unafraid of such repercussions might speak so.

Seth suddenly realized this doddering old elf was both.

“Gah…maghh” slurred the Chaos Warrior.

The Grand Master of the Dark Elf Assassins blinked. “That’s more articulate than most in your position, young man. But as you suggest, we should keep this short.” He reached down and turned Seth’s jaw, so the helpless man might look directly into his face, yet when he began again, he was obviously speaking to he other occupants of the room.

“Students, what have we learned from Mr. Garrick today?”

Seth could see all of the elves in the room, not just the assassins at the foot of the table had knelt in deference. One at a time, they began to answer.

“The Chaos mon-keighs are animals without patience.”

“They lack subtlety and discipline.”

‘They are easily goaded.”

“They respond violently, without provocation.”

“They are ignorant and unobservant.”

“They…”

The Master waved off further comment. “And what have we learned from student Geb’rand?”

Silence.

The elf turned and stared at the fallen ‘witch elf’. Seth could only now see the clever padding in the scandalously sheer outfit. Dark pansies are too pretty for their own good…

“Student Geb’rand, children,” he continued. “Teaches us this: Impatient, obvious, undisciplined, goadable, violent, ignorant, and oblivious these mon-keighs may be, they will kill you if given half a chance. And trampled to death beneath the hooves of a distressed bovine is no more or less glorious a demise than perishing in a perfectly executed ambush set by a Master Assassin: You are dead, and of no use whatsoever to anyone save farmers fertilizing their crops.”

“Geb’rand showed great promise. Now he’s worm food.” He paused to look down at the corpse, hesitating to hawk a gob of runny phlegm into its upturned face. Then he returned to his lecture.

“Student Geb’rand demonstrated arrogance, lack of obedience, inability to maintain discipline any better than this Slaaneshi hooligan.” He returned to Seth, still talking to his students, yet seeming to focus directly into the Chaos Warrior’s eyes. “We are not marauders. Not a blood-crazed mob. Not hydrophobic animals. We are assassins. We kill when we are paid to kill. Or when we must. To do otherwise cheapens our talents, profanes our skills.”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “To do so slanders our Holy Patron. We are his knife in the dark, his arrow in the night, his lightning from a clear sky.”

“His knife, his arrow, and his lightning.” echoed the students.

The master waved them to their feet. One spoke a few quiet words and lit a candle in it’s recessed alcove in the wall, and a fiery loop appeared in the air on the opposite side of the room. Wordlessly the assassins moved through into the chamber beyond. Two equally silent hobgoblins then entered, took up the corpse, and carried it as gently as their brutal hands were able.

The Master had not moved. “Knife, arrow, and lightning, Chaos-child. What are you to that? Slaanesh’s eye-gouge? His Kick-to-the-Groin?” he shook his head.

“Rauuuughhhhh!” muttered Seth.

The old elf almost smiled. “I imagine that was something suitably profane. But I’m about out of coppers for today.”

“I know you have talent, Mr. Garrick. You’re still alive, and that says as much. Most don’t survive long enough to get the needle.” The smile grew and became genuine. “Which is really the point of the exercise.”

He continued, growing serious. “You are a degenerate member of an inferior race. You are coarse, brash, lacking in refinement and subtlety, and worse, without patience or the ability to improvise outside precipitating violence.”

"That said, you have a trace of a glimmer of a whisper of a ghost of a murmur of talent. Buried somewhere down deep in the filthy, reprehensible swamp of your moronic, puerile…”

“Noafff!” babbled Seth, almost forcefully.

The old elf grinned self-depreciatingly. “You’re right. I do go on. Must be the elf in me. But to the point: I will stand to our part of the bargain, Slaaneshi mon-keigh. You earned it.”

"The amount of time it normally takes to find a male druchi and forge him into a fully trained assassin would put a human into their dotage. But let it not be said we have not adapted to the circumstances of our bargain.”

“Ten years, Chaos Lord. Can you stay here as a lowly student for ten years? Not just survive, because I assure you, you will be well occupied by our attempts to snuff out your life: we will try our very best to kill you. But to stay, submit to our teachings, learn our methods, glean what you may.”

“Right now you’re a brawler with a hard streak and a flash of talent, young man. Give us ten years, mon-keighs, and we’ll make you a stone killer.”

Absently he plucked the needle from Seth’s thigh, rose, and walked to the portal. He glanced over at Big Smoke, still seated, drinking the last of the dregs from his mug. “You’re his minder, Mr.… Smoke, was it?” the elf asked. “You very nearly lost him today.”

Smoke set down his tankard, let loose an enormous belch, and smiled. “Doncha be ‘earin’ ‘im, mon? Says ‘Ee’s ‘andlin’ it’.” The big warrior shrugged philosophically. “Him jus’ supafine, babylon.”

The Master nodded. “The candle only burns a few minutes. If you’re here when it goes you, it could be a while before the taper on the other side is lit again. Quite a goodish while.” He warned. Then he proceeded through.

Slowly Seth crawled up the wall to his feet. “Bastard.”

Smoke smiled. “Ain’t s’bad, mon. Mebbe a bit set in ‘is ways.”

Seth’s lip curled. “I meant you.”

The big man’s grin expanded. “So did I.”

The Chaos Lord tried to catch his breath from his exertions. “You knew. All along.”

“T’ought it funny, all them ladies meetin’ and meddlin’ in assasins business. Course, din’t know nuttin’ till I grab a-goosie on that bit o’ cracklin’ comin’ to me seat. Paddin’s nice, but it ain’t got the feel o’ da real t’ing, mon.”

The warrior had finally recovered. “You’ve been playing them. Us. Drinking water to throw them off and playing drunk.”

“Bite ya tongue, bway.” Smoke looked mortified. “Ain’t na water eve’ touch dis cup. Jus’ a wee libation, mon. Keeps the mind limber an’ da nerves steady.” He stood, and easily poured another round into his mug. The yeasty odor of hops drifted to Seth’s nostrils. Smells like he’s pouring a loaf of bread, thought Seth.

A draft of wind caused the candle to flicker. A small light in a pool of wax was all that remained. Seth’s eyes narrowed, glancing through the portal into the chamber the elves had departed into. “This was a set up, Smoke. Some sort of deal between big noises in the Wastes and Naggarrond. To drop us into the wringer. I don’t think I want to spend ten years jumping through hoops for these folks.”

Big Smoke shrugged. “Mon, prob’ly longer’n that before they op’n da door ta here again, once she close. An’ we be jumpin’ t’roo hoops wed’ we stay or go, Captain.”

A short silence, made much longer by the flickering candlelight.

Seth felt something surge inside of him. Something strange. This must be what respect for others feels like, he thought. How novel.

Smoke took another pull from his mug, looking rather resigned.

“You don’t look like you’re much interested in heading over to elfland, either.” stated Seth.

Big Smoke shrugged. “I be Kha-neth, mon. Ain’t sup’ose d’be intress’d in ‘em, mon. Sup’ose d’be in’tress’d in you, Captain. You wan’ stay ‘here, bway, we stay ‘ere.”

The novel sensation seemed to swell.

“A trip in the colonies might be good for a few laughs.” Seth’s voice coarsened to a rough, country accent. “And they shore is pretty.”

The big man said nothing.

The doorway itself was flickering. Time’s up.

“Kept ‘em in suspense long enough, Smoke. Let’s do this.”

Seth sprang powerfully through, tucking into a roll and coming to his feet on the far side. Smoke came through in an identical maneuver. Seth had only a moment to wonder how the Undivided champion had managed to avoid spilling a drop from his flagon in the process.

Then darkness fell on them.

Months had passed since Seth and Smoke had come to Naggarond. Seth had begun his training, and suitable work had been found for his companion in the stronghold’s kitchens. Apparently the big ape had some practical skills after all. Perhaps more than a few, if rumors arising from certain visiting witch elf dignitaries with a taste for the drunken and hirsute held any truth.

Seth looked out over the frozen lands surrounding Ghrond, the assassin’s center of power. How sitting naked on the icy flagstones atop a high spire for days at a time could make a man a better killer was beyond the Chaos Lord. But then, that was why he was here, he supposed. To learn. To train.

All this nude exposure to the elements. Training for a druchi marriage bed, he thought, snickering.

Something amusing, Student Garrick?”

The old elf hadn’t been there a second ago. Yet now he was.

Seth knew better than to lie. “Yes, Master.”

“You are too easily amused, Mr. Garrick.”

“Yes master.” Seth agreed. “Every day I strive to harden my mind. To become knife, arrow, and lightning.”

The Master snorted. “I have heard how you harden yourself. Mostly from laundry maids and scullery cooks.” The voice became as cold as the air. “Perhaps you’d be more somber without that quick tongue of yours? Report to the Penance Master when you are finished here Mr. Garrick. Bring what he gives you to me afterward.”

“Yes master.”

The Chaos Lord was speaking to the wind.

He gritted his teeth. He knew his tongue would grow back, as did the Master. As a punishment, it was more insulting than injurious.

The Master knew this as well.

Seth sighed. Nine years, nine months, and fifteen days to go. I can do this. I’m a bloody Chaos Lord. I can do anything. This time his smirk did not touch his lips.

He composed himself, focussing. Seth’s cluttered mind slowly emptied.

The winds howled past, not caring about the man, the tower, the cold, or time itself.

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