The End Times | The Curse of Khaine

One The Witch King Rises

At some point lost in the depths of time someone had called it the Black Tower. Perhaps it had been black then, and perhaps it had been merely a tower. Now it was the highest pinnacle at the centre of Naggarond. The sprawling fortress had grown hundreds of outer fortifications and buttresses, spawned a warren of alleys and streets, rooftop passages and arcing bridges, becoming a settlement unto itself where the only law was the shifting will of the Witch King, alliances were fleeting and death a constant risk.

Its walls were festooned with the heads and corpses of the thousands that had displeased Malekith over the preceding millennia. Some were hung upon hooks and chains, others in nooses and gibbets. Hundreds were skeletons, preserved by dire magic, but dozens were more recent, mouldering flesh clinging to bones gnawed by the clouds of harpies that circled over the bastion seeking new victims to scavenge.

The Black Tower.

A name filled with more grief and terror than three simple words could describe, etched into the last memories of the unfortunates upon the wall, burned into the agony of those still writhing in the dungeons that were dug into the bedrock beneath the high walls and banner-wreathed ramparts.

None remembered who had first named it, not even Malekith himself as he sat upon his iron throne in a grand hall atop the tallest keep. He did remember a time when Naggarond had not existed, one of only a handful of beings across the entire world.

He had grown up in the Black Tower, the grim atmosphere overshadowed by the brooding presence of his father, Aenarion, and the wicked, bloody machinations of his mother, Morathi. His opponents had claimed that those decades had laid a similar darkness upon his heart.

The Witch King no longer possessed lips, but the irony of history would have caused them to twist into a cruel smile. A face ravaged by holy fire contorted beneath hot iron in an approximation of humour, the sort of humour that delighted in looking out of the window at the heads of a dozen generals who had failed Malekith during the recent war against the barbarous northmen. He viewed them now, taking satisfaction from the screams that had filled this chamber as their bodies had been split apart by dark magic and heated blades.

He looked out past these tokens of his anger, to the surrounding fortress and the high curtain walls beyond. Past them dark shadows pierced the sky, none quite as tall as the Black Tower, shrouded in the dismal chill mists of Naggaroth.

Naggarond.

But this was not the city of his birth, though the Black Tower had been his childhood home. That honour belonged to a fallen place, razed and raised again and again throughout the turning epochs, built upon the blood-soaked soil of ancient Nagarythe.

Anlec.

Capital of Aenarion, once the strongest city in the world, shaming even Karaz-a-Karak of the dwarfs. Anlec, envy of Ulthuan, which had fallen in battle only once, and that had been to Malekith himself and allies within the walls.

All now was ruin. The Black Tower was all that remained of Anlec. The memory was sharp even though six thousand years old.

The storm-wracked seas crashed against a harsh shore of rock pinnacles, foaming madly. The skies were in turmoil, blackened by dark magic. Through the spume and rain dark, massive shapes surged across the seas, towering edifices of battlement and wall.

The castles of Nagarythe followed in the wake of the largest floating citadel, upon the highest tower of which stood Malekith. The lashing rain steamed from his armour as he turned at the sound of Morathi’s voice from the archway behind him.

‘This is where we flee to?’ she said, anger flashing in her eyes. ‘This cold, bleak land?’

‘They will not follow us here,’ replied the Witch King. ‘We are the Naggarothi – we were born in the north and in the north we will be born again. This land, bleak as it is, shall be ours. Naggaroth.’

‘To build a new kingdom?’ sneered Morathi. ‘To accept your defeat and start afresh as if Nagarythe had never existed?’

‘No,’ replied Malekith, flames leaping from his iron body. ‘We will never forget that which has been taken from us. Ulthuan belongs to me. If it takes a thousand years, ten thousand years, I will claim my rightful place as king. I am the son of Aenarion. It is my destiny.’

Time – mortality – was a concern for lesser beings. Millennia meant nothing to the Witch King. The tally of false Phoenix Kings that had been crowned and fallen over the course of Malekith’s life could not be numbered on two hands and he had greeted the death of each with little regard.

Sometimes he lost entire days reliving the events of his past, withdrawing into his thoughts when the burning agony of his physical shell became too much to bear. The temptation was in him again to reflect on ages past, not to escape pain, but to alleviate the boredom that gnawed at his wits.

‘My king?’

Malekith turned his gaze back from the window and his contemplations. It was Ezresor that had spoken, though it took the Witch King a moment to focus and remember his name. Malekith’s oldest agent flinched as the burning stare of his master fell upon him.

‘You have a question?’ Malekith’s voice was a rasp, edged with the scrape of metal and crackle of flames. ‘A comment, perhaps?’

‘You were about to tell us your will,’ said Venil, assassin-turned-advisor, patron of many pirate fleets, still known as the Chillblade.

Fire flared through the cracks in Malekith’s armour, reacting to his displeasure, forcing Venil to take a step back, face flushed with the sudden heat.

‘Is that so?’ Malekith moved his attention to the last of the triumvirate.

Kouran met the flaming stare of his lord without a flicker of movement. Malekith stood more than a head taller than most of his minions, but Kouran was almost his equal in presence. Grim-faced, dark-eyed, he was surrounded by an air of chilling hostility in contrast to the burning iron of his lord. Alone of the three council members, Kouran was armed and armoured – the only individual in the world Malekith trusted with a blade close at hand. The captain held his halberd, Crimson Death, to one side, the blade symbolically averted from his king. While Malekith’s war plate and scale were wreathed with heat, the black steel of Kouran’s armour was like oil, shifting constantly with the trapped souls of sacrifices.

‘The prosecution of the war, the pursuit against the one they call Valkia and the hunt for your mother,’ Kouran prompted without hesitation. The captain had become perhaps too comfortable with Malekith’s lapses of focus, but the Witch King knew that alone of all his subjects Kouran would not use such information against him.

‘Why is Ebnir not here? I would hear from the Soulflayer about the state of my armies and the forces opposed to them.’

‘He is dead, your majesty,’ said Ezresor. ‘As I just informed you.’

The spymaster’s tone irritated Malekith. Insolence. Not enough to warrant death, that would be wasteful, but in pressing times control had to be total. Censure needed to be swift and obvious. The Witch King gave the slightest of nods to Kouran, who knew well enough what his master required.

The captain smashed a gauntleted fist into Ezresor’s face, bloodying his nose and sending him flailing to the floor. Widening his stance ready for a kick, Kouran looked back to his king but received a shake of the head.

‘Of course he is dead,’ said Malekith. ‘He is not stupid. He allowed the watch tower at Vartoth to fall and then compounded the error by leading a host of my warriors onto the glaciers to be slain by these hairy wretches from the Wastes. I am sure when the battle turned against him he threw himself on his own blade, or at least allowed one of the northmen to gut him like a pig, rather than face the fate he knew would await him in my dungeon.’

Ezresor pushed to his feet, uncertain, and shared a glance with Venil. The spymaster wiped the blood from his lip with the cuff of his robe and bowed in apology.

‘Hellebron has not answered my summons,’ said Malekith.

‘She fights in Har Ganeth still,’ said Ezresor. Malekith was pleased that his counsellor offered fact rather than unrequested opinion.

‘The city is nothing but ruins,’ added Venil. ‘The temples to Khaine have been thrown down.’

‘Pride keeps her there,’ said Malekith, understanding the motive of the hag queen better than most. ‘She was humiliated and now she salves her embarrassment with the blood of stragglers and the lost. I will indulge her a while longer.’

‘Forgive my surprise, majesty, but there are lords and ladies that have refused summons and paid dearly for the affront.’ Venil licked his lips and chose his next words with care. ‘I would not wish Hellebron to become a bad example to others.’

‘Hellebron is too useful to have killed,’ Malekith said bluntly. ‘I’m not sure there is anyone capable of the feat even if I desired her death, and I cannot spare another army.’

‘Shadowblade…’ suggested Kouran.

‘Is an uncertain weapon at the moment,’ Malekith replied. ‘He answers to me in this world, but his loyalty is to Khaine, and Hellebron is yet the ranking mistress to the Lord of Murder. There is little to be gained by asking of him such taxing questions at this time. Hellebron will return in time. There is no need to yank the leash just yet.’

‘There is division in Ulthuan, your majesty,’ Venil said with some glee. ‘Prince Imrik of Caledor has quit the court of the absent Phoenix King, having exchanged harsh words with Prince Tyrion about his claim to be regent in Finubar’s absence. The Dragon of Cothique, it seems, will not be able to draw upon the dragons of Caledor in his defence of the realm.’

‘I am sure Tyrion will prevail, even without the dragon princes,’ said Malekith.

‘As to the matter of the Hag Sorceress, master?’ ventured Ezresor. ‘She holds court in Ghrond, perhaps believing that you will not dare confront her in her own convent.’

‘Perhaps?’ Malekith lingered on the word. It suggested speculation, and in speculating it was possible that Ezresor thought there would be cause for Malekith’s mother to believe herself safe from his retribution.

‘We have had no direct contact with Ghrond for many years, your majesty,’ Ezresor added quickly. ‘It is hard to be certain of anything. It is unlikely, but your mother may be dead.’

‘No, she is very much alive, you can be sure of that,’ said Malekith. ‘When death finally catches up with Morathi the world will hear her screams of disappointment, mark my words. Do you not think I will know when she has perished? She gave me her life-force, sustained me in my darkest hour and guided me through the many tribulations that I faced. She is as much a part of me as this armour.’

Venil stroked his chin, his mood contemplative.

‘It was not wholly the fault of Ebnir that we received no warning of the northlanders’ attack. The loss of one watch tower could have been prevented had the seers at Ghrond foretold the incursion.’ He paused, licked his lips again and spoke slowly. ‘It seems unlikely that the Convent of Sorceresses would choose to abandon their duties on a whim, so we must be forced to conclude that the oversight was deliberate.’

‘Who could command the convent to betray their lord in such fashion?’ asked Ezresor.

‘Cease this embarrassing performance,’ snapped Malekith, slamming a fist onto the arm of his throne, throwing up a shower of sparks. ‘If you have an accusation to level against my mother, make it plain to me.’

‘Apologies, majesty,’ said Ezresor, bowing low with a flicked glance towards Kouran. ‘I am certain Morathi deliberately kept word of the Chaos attack, ensuring that we would be poorly prepared.’

‘And why do you suppose she would do such a thing?’ said Kouran. ‘Ghrond cannot stand alone against all that the Chaos Wastes vomit forth.’

‘Do not underestimate the nihilism of spite,’ said Venil. ‘For longer even than our lord she has coveted the rule of Ulthuan. Perhaps she sees some advantage in letting Naggaroth fall to disaster.’

All three advisors turned to Malekith, remembering that they spoke in his presence. None of them uttered a word but cast their eyes down at the floor and fell silent.

‘You were speaking of my mother,’ Malekith prompted, looking at Venil. ‘Continue.’

‘Begging your majesty’s pleasure, it was wrong to resurrect old arguments and vexatious issues,’ said the former assassin, wielding his words as carefully as he once wielded poisoned daggers.

‘Ezresor?’ Malekith’s dark gaze fell upon the spymaster. ‘You wish to add comment?’

‘Your mother believed you were dead, your majesty. She underestimated you, as have many, but she intended no direct assault upon your power.’

‘Without her support, I would have lost Naggarond in the absence of our king,’ Kouran growled at the others. ‘She erred, and when the error was made clear she did all in her power to protect the rule of Malekith.’

‘Usurpers had imprisoned her,’ said Ezresor, a sneer twisting his lips. ‘She would have sought alliance with a bastard shade born of a harpy if it would have helped her cause. She desires the throne of Ulthuan and has used any means to lay her hands upon it, making them puppets when they believed they were following their own will.’

‘Including your king?’ Malekith finished the sentiment. Ezresor’s pale skin seemed to whiten even further and he took a step back, putting distance between himself and his master, throwing a worried look at Kouran for good measure. Malekith laughed but it did not ease Ezresor’s fright. ‘Do you think I am so blind to my mother’s machinations, Ezresor? You may be the lord of my agents, the master of ten thousand cultists and spies, but do not think I know only that which you tell me. I know very well the manner of creature that spawned me, and the deeds of which she is capable.’

A high priestess, lithe and athletic, presided over the despicable ceremony from a dais littered with corpses and blood. Her white robes were spattered with gore, and a daemonic bronze mask covered her face. Her eyes glowed with a pale yellow light from within, and her pupils were tiny points of blackness in pools of luminescence.

In one hand, she held a crooked staff, wrought from bones and iron, and tipped with a horned skull with three eye sockets. In the other, she wielded a curved dagger still slick with the blood of many sacrifices.

Malekith charged across the chamber, cutting down any cultist who barred his path. He was but a few steps from the dais when the priestess thrust forward the tip of her staff and a bolt of pure blackness leapt out and struck the prince full in the chest. The prince’s heart felt like it would explode. With a cry of pain torn from his lips, Malekith faltered and fell to his knees. He was as much shocked as hurt, for he knew of no wizard who could best the sorcerous abilities granted to him by the Circlet of Iron.

He gazed in amazement at the priestess. She stepped down from the dais with languid strides and walked slowly towards the injured prince, the tip of her staff fixed upon him.

‘My foolish child,’ she sneered.

The priestess let the sacrificial dagger slip from her fingers to clatter in a shower of crimson droplets upon the floor. With her hand thus freed, she pulled off her mask and tossed it aside. Though caked with blood, the priestess’ lustrous black hair spilled across her bare shoulders. Her face was pristine, the very image of beauty. In her were aristocratic bearing and divine magnificence combined.

The assembled captains and knights gazed dumbly at this apparition of perfection, ensorcelled.

‘Mother?’ whispered Malekith, his sword slipping from his numb fingers.

‘My son,’ she replied with a wicked smile, eliciting from those that looked on lust and fear in equal measure. ‘It is very rude of you to butcher my servants so callously. Your time amongst the barbarians has robbed you of all manners.’

Malekith said nothing but simply stared up at Morathi, wife of Aenarion, his mother.

‘Her loyalty extends as far as necessity and no further,’ Malekith explained. ‘Her attempts to usurp my power, subtly or directly, are not new to me. Of far graver concern is her ambivalence. If she is willing to let Naggaroth drown beneath the blades of the northlanders it is because she deems our lands, our people, no longer of value. Her greatest plans require powerful patrons and large sacrifices. It is very plausible that she has relented of her disdain for the Chaos Gods and now seeks to buy their favour in its entirety, offering up thousands of Naggarothi in return for their boons.’

‘A treachery far worse than any she has committed before,’ said Venil. ‘It is not my place to instruct you, majesty, but I think it is finally time that we were rid of her meddlesome double-dealing.’

‘You are correct,’ said Malekith. Venil’s smug smile faded as the Witch King continued. ‘It is not your place to instruct me. I will deal with my mother as I see fit.’

‘But you will deal with her?’ said Venil, unable to keep silent but cringing even as he uttered the words as though his mouth had betrayed him. He offered obeisance with bowed head and spread hands. ‘We have lost too much to allow old wounds to continue to fester.’

‘I will think on the matter,’ said Malekith, turning his stare back to the window.

He spent a few moments in contemplation, imagining Venil’s near-dead carcass dancing on one of the barbed chains on the tower opposite. It brought him only a few moments of pleasure before his desire for cruel punishment was superseded by a colder, more pragmatic need.

‘The world is in upheaval,’ he said. ‘Forces of life and death stir and the gaze of the gods falls upon us all. The winds of magic have not been so turbulent since the last great war against the Dark Gods’ servants. The tempest of Chaos obscures unnatural sight, so you must bring me all news from across the globe. I will know what rumour passes in Lothern and Tor Achare. You will tell me what counsel is spoken to the ears of the human kings and Emperor. Armies march, alive and dead, and I would know their disposition and strength. All of this you will bring to me, or you are of no more use.’

‘From your will, majesty, to my hands,’ Venil said, wetting his lips once more. ‘I shall be your eyes and ears, as always.’

Two Destiny’s Master

Malekith dismissed Ezresor and Venil, and sat down on his iron throne to consider their counsel. At a gesture from his lord, Kouran approached the throne and stood to one side, awaiting instruction.

Malekith looked at the backs of the other two elves for a moment before the huge double doors closed behind them. It was too easy to dismiss their concerns out of hand. Seven millennia had delivered many crises and setbacks to Malekith but he had overcome these disappointments. Recent events seemed at first to be world-shattering, especially to his minions that did not share their king’s advantage of such long perspective.

Weighed against the risks of over-reaction was the price of complacency. The barbarians had been at the walls of Naggarond itself, during the Witch King’s absence, and that was almost unthinkable. This was not just another incursion by the cultureless hordes of the north, this was a far rarer moment, a genuine mass migration, an expansion of the Chaos Wastes that could signify a great change in the course of history.

None other than Malekith, save perhaps his mother, understood the importance of harnessing the turning points of history to one’s own end. He looked at Kouran.

‘Destiny,’ said the Witch King, ‘is a lazy device invented by simpleton philosophers, endorsed by inadequate playwrights and poets, and thrown around by half-blind mages. The gods rarely care to interfere in the life of a single mortal, and the wider universe certainly does not pause in its cycle or shape itself for the betterment of a single person. If one believes in destiny, one forfeits the right to choose a path, giving away all credit and taking no blame for one’s actions.’

‘I understand, my king,’ said Kouran.

Malekith regarded his lieutenant, looking for a sign that this was merely platitude. It was not, and Malekith could tell.

‘Of course, my dear captain, there are few better examples of a self-made elf than you. Gutterspawn you were, am I right? Raised in the streets and alleys, orphaned?’

‘I was, my king. I fought for food, for survival. The Black Guard took me in and gave me something else to fight for.’

‘For a master?’ said Malekith, knowing the truth but curious to see if he could tease it from his loyal bodyguard.

‘Respectfully, no, my king. Though I am honoured to serve and would give my life for yours, it was not loyalty to you that drove my ascension through the ranks. The Black Guard gave me a chance to earn respect.’

‘Do they respect you, or do they fear you?’ It was a question Morathi had oftentimes asked of Malekith down the centuries. Malekith had always been ambivalent to the difference but he sensed it meant something to Kouran.

‘A mixture of both,’ the captain replied with a rare half-smile. ‘Those that do not know me, fear me, and that is enough. A few that know me, they respect me. I would hope, my king, that you do not fear me, but that I have your respect.’

Malekith nodded thoughtfully.

‘Yes, my dear Alandrian, you have my deepest respect. So few do, these days.’ Malekith was in a strange mood and felt like confiding in his companion something he had not shared with any other. ‘The truth is, I do not fear you, and perhaps you are the only mortal I do not fear. The others are weak and venal and would strike me down in a heartbeat if given the chance.’

‘Surely you are too powerful to be overthrown in such fashion, my king?’

‘I can die, despite my longevity. It is not a casual dread, of mortality, but an ever-present knowledge that I am not loved, and those that serve, except for you, serve me out of fear not respect. I wonder, Alandrian, if I should have tried harder to win them to my cause rather than coercing them into servitude.’

‘My name is Kouran, my king,’ the captain said, his voice edged with concern.

‘Yes, I know that,’ Malekith snapped. ‘What of it?’

‘Twice in the last few breaths you called me Alandrian. One of your earliest lieutenants, I think.’

‘Did I really?’ Malekith tried to recall what he had said but could not remember misnaming his companion. There was, unusually for Malekith’s retainers, no cause for Kouran to lie so the Witch King accepted the correction without doubt. ‘Take it as a compliment, Kouran. Alandrian was an exceptional commander, an accomplished negotiator and orator, and one of my most loyal servants. He helped me forge the colonies across the water in Elthin Arvan.’

‘I recall now, my king. You made him Regent of Athel Toralien. He was Hellebron’s father.’

‘The past vexes me,’ Malekith said suddenly. ‘That must be why I was thinking of Alandrian. The past is returning. It repeats itself, coming in cycles, birth and death and rebirth. Ever has it been so, since before my time, until the End Times. The gods rise and fall, are worshipped and cast aside, and the lives of mortals pass like the heartbeats of the world.’

‘What about the past particularly vexes you this day, my king?’

‘Something is changing. Like a familiar smell, of blood and hot iron, these past days remind me of a time long, long passed.’

‘We have fought many wars with the northmen – it is not strange to be reminded of such events when the barbarians come south again.’

‘It is not the northmen that I can smell, my dear Kouran. I smell something far older and far deadlier. Chaos in its raw form. The portal opens and the Realm of the Gods expands, polluting the world. The winds of magic are changing. Death shrouds the world.’ Malekith took a breath, the flames of his body dimming to ruddy embers as he shuddered. ‘Daemons, Kouran. I smell the spoor of daemons. They have come again to Ulthuan – the hosts of the Chaos Gods’ minions throw themselves upon the spears of our weaker cousins.’

‘Yes, my king, we have received reports that the upstart Tyrion leads the armies of the Phoenix King in defence of our ancestral isle. What does it mean?’

What did it mean? Malekith knew. He had known this time would come for six thousand years.

His glowing hand reached up to the spiked crown upon his head – the Circlet of Iron – and the Witch King’s thoughts drifted back across the ages to a strange city in the north, wherein he and his expedition had found a temple unlike any other, and within that temple Malekith had found a prize that promised the world.

Seven figures sat upon low square stools, more opulent versions of the skeletons below with more pearls and brooches of the same dark, black material. Six sat facing outward, each one facing one of the lines upon the ground below as far as Malekith could tell. They had no hoods but instead wore simple crowns, each nothing more than a narrow band about the skull with a black gem that reflected no light.

The seventh figure sat facing Malekith, though he suspected that he would have faced the intruders regardless of from which direction they had approached. His crown was much larger, of a silver-grey metal, with curling, horn-like protrusions, the only organic shape they had seen since entering the city.

‘Highness!’ snapped Yeasir, and Malekith turned, his hand on his sword hilt. It was only then that he realised that his other hand had been reaching out towards the skeletal king, to pluck the crown from his skull. Malekith had no recollection of having crossed the dais and shook his head as if dazed by a blow.

‘We should touch nothing,’ said Yeasir. ‘This place is cursed, by the gods, or worse.’

Malekith laughed and the noise seemed stifled and flat, with none of the ringing echoes of his earlier shout.

‘I think this great king rules here no more,’ said Malekith. ‘This is my sign, Yeasir. What greater statement about my destiny could I make? Imagine returning to Ulthuan with such a crown upon my head, an artefact of the time before.’

‘Before what?’ asked Yeasir.

‘Before everything!’ said Malekith. ‘Before Chaos, before the Everqueen, before even the gods themselves. Can you not feel it, the great antiquity that fills this place?’

‘I feel it,’ growled Yeasir. ‘There is ancient malice here, can you not sense it? I say again, there is a curse upon this place.’

‘You were willing to follow me to the Gate of Chaos,’ Malekith reminded his captain. ‘Would you rather we left this treasure here and continued north?’

Yeasir’s muttered reply was inaudible, but Malekith took it to be his captain’s acquiescence. Not that the prince needed the permission of anyone to take whatever he wanted, from wherever he wanted. Magic had guided him to this place and Malekith knew that there was purpose behind it. Whether it was the gods or some other will that had led him here, it was to stand before this prehistoric king and take his crown.

With a smile, Malekith lifted the circlet from the dead king’s skull; it was as light as air and came away with no difficulty.

‘You have it, now let us leave,’ said Yeasir, fear making his voice shrill.

‘Calm yourself,’ said Malekith. ‘Does it not make me kingly?’

With that, the prince of Nagarythe placed the circlet upon his head and the world vanished.

A kaleidoscope of clashing colours swarmed around Malekith. He was filled with the peculiar sensation of rising high up into the air while at the same time plummeting down towards some bottomless depth. His head swam and his skin tingled with power. He was lost in sensation, his whole being pulsing and vibrating with unknown energy.

In time – moments or an eternity, Malekith could not tell – the swirling colours began to coalesce around him. They formed into a nightmarish landscape above the centre of which floated the elf prince. The skies boiled with fire and black clouds, and beneath him stretched an arcane plateau that stretched on for infinity: the Realm of Chaos.

In one direction Malekith spied an unending garden, forlorn and decaying, filled with drooping willows and sallow grasses. A miasma of fog and flies drifted up from the overgrown copses of bent and withered trees, and rivers of oozing pus flowed between fronds of clinging fungi and piles of rotted corpses. Marshes bubbled and boiled and pits of tar gurgled, spewing gaseous vapours into the thick air.

At the centre of the unkempt morass rose up a mansion of titanic proportions, a grandiose but tottering edifice of crumbling stone and worm-eaten wood. Peeling paint and flaking brick stood upon cracked stone and bowed beams, crawling with sickly yellow ivy and immense black roses. Fumes belched from a hundred chimneys and gargoyle-headed pipes spat and drooled gobbets of ichor across cracked tiles and mouldering thatch.

In the smog and gloom shambled daemons of death and plague: immensely bloated creatures with pestilent flesh and pox-marked skin, and slobbering beasts with slug-like bodies and fronds of tentacles dribbling noxious emissions. Swarms of boil-like mites scrabbled over the sagging walls and roofs of the manse, while a legion of cyclopean daemons, each with a single cracked horn, meandered about the wild gardens chanting sonorously.

Turning his gaze from the filth and squalor, Malekith then looked upon a mighty citadel made up of glimmering mirrors and crystal. Its surface shimmered with a rainbow of colours, translucent yet transparent, shifting with eddies and swirls of magic. Doors yawned like devouring mouths and windows stared back at the prince like lidless eyes. Fires of all colours billowed from the spires of thin towers, sending fountains of sparks trailing down to the ground below.

All about the bizarre palace was an immense maze, of shifting walls of crystal. The twisting, contorted pathways overlapped above and below, and passed through each other via unseen dimensions. Arcing gateways of flame linked parts of the immense labyrinth together, flickering from blue to green to purple and to colours not meant to be seen by mortals.

The skies about the horrifying tower were filled with shoals of creatures that climbed and swooped upon the magical thermals, shark-like and fearsome. Formless, cackling things cavorted and whirled about the maze, flashing with magical power. Daemons with arms that dripped with fire bounded manically along the winding crystal passages, leaping and bouncing with insane abandon. Malekith felt his eyes drawn back to the impossible fortress and saw that a great gallery had opened up.

Here stalked arcane things with multicoloured wings and bird-like faces, with contorting staves in their hands and robes of glistening pink and blue. One of the creatures paused and looked up at him. Its eyes were like pits of never-ending madness, deep oceans of swirling power that threatened to draw him into their depths for eternity.

Breaking that transfixing stare, Malekith then looked upon a blasted wasteland, surrounded by a great chain of volcanoes that spewed rivers of lava down their black sides and choked the air with their foul soot. Immense ramparts were carved from the mountainsides, huge bastions of dread hung with skulls and from whose jagged battlements fluttered a thousand times a thousand banners of red.

Within the encircling peaks the land was rent by great tears and chasms that welled up with blood like wounds, as if it had been constantly rent by the blows of some godly blade. The skeletons of unimaginable creatures were piled high amongst lakes of burning crimson, and all about were dunes made of the dust of countless bones. Hounds the size of horses with red-scaled flesh and enormous fangs prowled amongst the ruination, their howls tearing the air above the snap and crack of bone and gristle.

At the centre of this desolation grew a tower of unimaginable proportion, so vast that it seemed to fill Malekith’s vision. Of black stone and brass was it made, tower upon tower, wall upon wall, a castle so great that it would hold back the armies of the whole universe. Gargoyles spouted boiling blood down its brazen fortifications and red-skinned warriors with wiry frames and bulbous, horned heads patrolled its ramparts. Upon its highest parapet there stood a thing of pure fury: rage given bestial, winged form. It beat its broad chest and roared into the dark skies.

Shuddering, Malekith turned fully about and stood bewitched by a panorama of entrancing beauty. Enchanting glades of gently swaying emerald-leafed trees bordered golden beaches upon which crashed white-foamed waves, while glittering lakes of tranquil water beckoned to him. Majestic mountains soared above all, their flanks clad in the whitest snow, glistening in the unseen sun.

Lithe creatures clad in the guise of half-maidens cavorted through the paradise, laughing and chattering, caressing each other with shimmering claws. Across emerald meadows roamed herds of sinuous beasts whose bodies shimmered and changed colour, their iridescent patterns hypnotising to the elf prince. Malekith felt himself drawn onwards, ensnared by their beauty.

Suddenly realising his peril, Malekith tore his gaze away from the mesmerising vision. He became distinctly aware that he was being watched and could feel the attention of otherworldly beings being turned in his direction. Feeling as if his soul were about to be laid bare and flayed before the gaze of the Chaos Gods, Malekith felt terror gripping him. He sought somewhere to flee, but in every direction spread the domains of the Dark Gods. With a last dread-driven effort, he wished himself away and was surrounded again by the twirling energies of magic.

When his vision had cleared again, Malekith found himself hovering far above the world, as if stood upon the edge of creation itself and looking down upon the realms of men and elves and dwarfs and every other creature under the sun. He could see the jungle-swathed forests of Lustria where lizardmen scuttled through the ruins of the Old Ones’ cities. He saw orc tribes massing in the blighted wilderness, carpeting the ground in tides of green.

Over everything drifted the winds of magic, now more clear to him than they had ever been. The prince saw them streaming from the shattered Gate of Chaos in the north and spreading out across the northlands. He saw the vortex of Ulthuan as a great swirl of power, drawing the energy out of the world. He saw sinkholes of darkness and blazing mountains of light.

In that instant it all became clear to Malekith. The whole world was laid out before him, and he saw as perhaps only his mother had before seen. There were torrents of power that swept across the lands untapped by mortal kind. The very breath of the gods sighed over oceans and plains, down valleys and across forests. From Chaos came all magic, whether good or ill. It was stunning in its beauty, just as a storm-tossed sea can enthral those not caught in its deadly grip.

Malekith lingered awhile, now aware of the crown burning upon his head. It acted as some kind of key, some artefact created by the races that had come before the rise of elves, before even the coming of the Old Ones. It would be easy for him to stay here forever, marvelling in the rich, random choreography of the dancing winds of magic. He could spend an eternity studying their heights and depths with the circlet and still not unlock all of their secrets.

Something nagged at his mind however, a sensation deep within his soul that threatened to break his reverie.

Malekith summoned the willpower to master the Circlet of Iron and returned to the mortal world. With the power of the crown, Malekith could see the magical forces binding the skeletons together and the ancient commands that blazed within their empty skulls. It was simplicity itself to order them to stop and then with another thought, the prince bade them return to their eternal slumber. All about him the hall was filled with great golden arches and glittering pillars, unseen to all except him.

Given extraordinary awareness by the circlet he could look upon the magic of the ancient architects of the city, the curving galleries and arching balconies constructed from mystical forces that even he had been unaware of. This was why the chamber had been devoid of other magic, for it contained its own power, far stronger than that of the fitful winds of magic. Just as air cannot pass into a solid object, so too the winds of magic found no room to creep into the enchantment-filled chamber.

Now gifted the insights granted by the crown, there was no telling how acutely the Naggarothi prince might master the power of Chaos. With the circlet to act as his key, Malekith could work such spells as would make the witchery of Saphery seem insignificant. Had he not looked upon the realm of the Chaos Gods itself? Did he not now know their lands, and had he not dared them and survived?

Elation filled Malekith, more majestic than any triumph he ever felt before. His mother had warned that Chaos was the greater enemy; the perils of orcs and the armies of the beastmen paled into insignificance against those legions of daemons that Malekith had seen. The Chaos Gods plotted and waited, for they had an eternity to ponder their plans and to make their schemes. The elves could not shelter behind the power of the vortex forever, Malekith realised, for he had felt the slowly growing power of the Chaos Gods even as he had stood in their midst.

It all came together in the prince’s mind. The men of the north were vassals of the Dark Gods, and as they prospered and multiplied, so too would the influence of their ineffable masters. There might come a day when the bulwark of the vortex would fail, and again the hordes of Chaos would be unleashed upon the world. Ulthuan was utterly unprepared for such an eventuality. Bel Shanaar could not hope to meet such a threat. It was an apparent truth to Malekith that he alone, with the power of the circlet, now bore the means by which the elves might be protected from this greater doom.

Slowly, with much effort, Malekith took the crown from his head. The great magical architecture faded from his vision and he found himself back in the strangely-angled hall beneath the prehistoric city. His Naggarothi surrounded him, staring at their lord with eyes full of wonder and fear.

Malekith smiled. He now knew what he must do.

‘It means,’ Malekith said slowly, ‘that a time of destiny is upon us. An opportunity to shape the future and seal fates presently caught in the balance.’

‘You plan to move on Ulthuan once again?’

‘Not yet, there is too much turmoil in Naggaroth with the army of that blood-bitch Valkia still roaming my lands, and Morathi haunts Ghrond with further mischief in mind, I am sure. There can be no fresh attack while these matters are yet to be decided.’ Malekith stood, the flames from his body erupting into fresh life, so hot that Kouran was forced to take a step back, his armour glittering in the orange and yellow light. ‘Assemble my army and call for my generals. Send the word to all that have fought beneath my banner and let them know that I demand their service again. The Witch King marches forth.’

Three The March North

A city of tents dominated the high ground, walls and banners flapping in the incessant breeze that brought its icy touch across Naggarond from even more northerly climes. In more comfortable lands it was spring, but the Land of Chill had been well named in the first years after Malekith had arrived with his exiles. Snow covered the frozen ground, broken by patches of hardy grass and low-growing shrubs with tiny leaves and long thorns.

To the west the Iron Mountains heaped steeply from the foothills, charcoal against the pale sky. To the east the tips of the Spiteful Peaks could just about be seen, as jagged as their name suggested. The gap was the only way to reach Ghrond, and though for that day the blizzard had paused in its ferocity, many thousands of the Naggarothi host had already succumbed to the ceaseless march and deadly weather. As many again had fallen to northlander blades and mauls, slain during raids and pitched battles that had dogged the army as it had forged north, marching into the night for the daylight hours were far too few, progress slowing as their destination neared and the weather worsened.

Like any settlement the army camp had its distinctive areas and quarters, each with a character of its own. Immediately within the picket of sentries were the cloth-roofed corrals of the dark riders, where patrols and messengers came and went without hindrance. Sturdier stables of timber and chain housed the reptilian cold one mounts of the knights and nobles – the hideous smell of the beasts ensured that only slaves and the most disfavoured druchii held their quarters downwind.

The shamble of bivouacs and rough hide shelters that housed the slaves had grown slightly since the army had left Naggarond, swelled by northlanders that had been foolish enough to allow themselves to be taken prisoner. Though born into hardship in the cold wastes, they nevertheless yammered and howled their torment as icy wind cut through the sparse canopies protecting their lodgings and snow quenched their few attempts to start warming fires.

In slightly better state were the beastmasters, whose mammalian, reptilian and monstrous charges were also kept on the outskirts of the tent city. Few of the greater beasts – hydras, manticores and dark pegasi – had survived the battles of late, but some of these larger animals were bound by chains and staves, their grunts and howls muted by the snow and carried away by the wind. Hounds and smaller hunting reptiles yammered and yowled and hissed in their pens, woken by the dim grey of dawn.

The bulk of the encampment was made up of tent rows in plain black, white and purple, organised by allegiance to the various regiments and noble houses that had answered Malekith’s call to battle.

To the south the Khainites had gathered, a great pyre in the centre of their camp, their conical tents strung with gaudy and gory trophies from the preceding battles. The bodies of sacrifices to the Lord of Murder charred in the sacrificial flames and their hearts sizzled in ornate black iron braziers. Their bloodlust sated by the night’s revelries the murder cultists slumbered still, their drug-fuelled ceremonies adding to the exhaustion of marching and war.

Closer to the centre of the encampment, a coven of sorceresses still loyal to Malekith had pitched their pavilions. No others had set their tents within three dozen paces of the witches, fearful of the miasma of magical energy that permeated the air. The nights were wracked by otherworldly screams and screeches and each fresh dawn saw a pile of dead acolytes bloodying the snow outside the sorceresses’ tents.

The grandest tents belonged to the noble families of Naggaroth, each clustered around their lord’s or lady’s banner like young sucklings at a mother, feeding off their power and reputation. The peace here was uneasy, the truce between rival dynasties, warring sects and opposing factions kept only by the presence of Black Guard companies patrolling the neutral ground between camps. Even so there had been no few elves that had fallen to ambush and assassination during the long march and ancient hostilities were constantly on the verge of breaking out into open conflict.

At the heart of the druchii camp, glowering down upon all around it, rose Malekith’s pavilion, a conglomeration of steel-ringed hide and linen, black-lacquered wood and bare iron that approximated the Black Tower of his capital. It rose far higher than any other, six corners held by ramparted towers that were broken down, transported and assembled with each march, manned by Black Guard under the supervision of Kouran.

A killing ground two hundred paces across separated the rest of the army’s lodgings from their ruler, covered by repeater bolt throwers mounted in pits dug into the frozen earth by slaves.

As if these were not barrier enough to any wishing to assail Malekith there was, aside from the malice of the Witch King himself, one final obstacle. Beside the black-walled tent slumbered a beast of such proportion that at first it might be mistaken for a blackened hillock until one noticed the pattern of plate-sized scales and claws as long as bastard swords.

She slumbered, Seraphon the Supreme, but alert to the smallest hint of danger to her master. Progeny of Sulekh, greatest of the black dragons, first honoured mount of the Witch King, Seraphon would allow none to approach that did not brandish Malekith’s seal like a shield before them. Her breath spread a bank of mist around the pavilion, tinged with a poisonous gas. A yellow eye opened a slit as shouts broke the stillness.

Beyond this enclave of stillness and dormant power the camp was engulfed by tumult. Riders returned with news of an approaching army, coming south at some speed and seemingly impervious to the blizzard that had trapped the elves upon the ridge for the last five days. The scouts could not state for sure the nature of the foe, for those of their number that approached too close did not return. Of their fate, nothing could be said, but there was rumour of powerful magic and malign influence.

War drums called the companies to muster. Bleakswords, dreadspears and darkshards armed with repeating crossbows fell into rank at the shouted commands of petty nobles and professional captains. Knights and lordlings called for retainers to bring their cold ones while chariots rumbled from the stables to await their masters. The beastmasters whooped and hollered their strange cries, whips cracked and goads struck scaled and furred flesh.

The witch elves and sisters of slaughter roused from their sleep and drank deep of the libations drawn from the cauldrons of the hags that led them. Soon their dismal drug-aches were forgotten as fresh stimulants raced through their bodies and lit their senses. Their battle-screeches and praises to Khaine split the air at the soon-to-commence bloodshed.

About the flag poles and spire-like masts of the Witch King’s pavilion dark, winged shapes unfurled themselves like banners. Chittering to one another, a cloud of harpies hundreds-strong launched into the air, startled by the sudden noise.

‘The enemy host approaches, my king,’ said Kouran, presenting his halberd in salute as he bowed. There was no carpet underfoot, just weathered hide scorched in many places by the hot tread of his master. ‘Do you wish to lead the army into battle?’

Malekith barely heard his lieutenant, just as he was almost unaware of the braying horns and crashing drums. Kouran had proven himself not only a skilled warrior but an adept general. His defence of Naggarond during Malekith’s absence demonstrated beyond doubt that he was more than just a blade-wielder.

The Witch King’s concern was not set upon the thousands of unwashed, hairy barbarians that were advancing upon his army, but much further afield, beyond this battle, beyond the next battles, to a far grander war. The reclamation of Naggaroth was a necessary distraction, but he would not let such matters intrude upon his longer strategy.

He waved a dismissive hand, indicating that he was content for Kouran and the lower commanders to direct the battle in his stead. Malekith wondered, briefly, if he should have wiped out the humans when he had been granted the chance millennia before they had become civilised. Though they had become a tiresome thorn in his side, they had provided something of a bulwark also, fighting each other as much as they raided the lands of the druchii.

In the end it mattered nothing to him. They were, for the most part, such short-lived, savage creatures it was impossible to know how their fates might have changed. Like the orcs and the half-beasts and the tunnelling ratmen, the humans had bred and spread across Elthin Arvan in the wake of the great war between the elves and the dwarfs, and but for the tribes of the north had played little part in the affairs of elves until the last few centuries.

Malekith revised his earlier contempt. There were some from the race of humanity that had placed their mark upon history far more deeply than one might have expected, and another had added his name to that roll: Archaon. The so-called Everchosen – the title had spilled from the lips of prisoners easily enough, rendered in the dozens of dialects of the northern tribes – had roused the northlanders in such strength that not elf or man or dwarf had ever seen the like before.

This time was different. Malekith felt it again, the subtle shift of fates uncoiling, history parting from the normal cycle of victory and defeat. The gods were stirring. Old gods, dead gods, coming back to life to meddle in the affairs of mortals once again. His charred skin prickled at the thought.

‘Wait.’

The single word froze Kouran at the opening to the Witch King’s main pavilion.

‘My king?’ he asked, turning around, pleased at Malekith’s sudden interest. ‘You will lead us?’

‘Perhaps,’ the Witch King replied, standing up. ‘If required. I shall watch the battle. You may proceed with whatever preparations you deem fitting.’

‘As you command, my king.’ Kouran bowed again and left, with considerably more enthusiasm than when he had entered.

‘So loyal,’ Malekith said to himself. ‘So easily pleased.’

His infamous sword, Urithain the Destroyer, was already at his hip but his shield hung on a stand behind the throne. He took it up, almost as high as he was tall, emblazoned with runes that seemed like empty gouges in the plate rather than anything forged by mortal hand.

Malekith left his pavilion and called for Seraphon. The black dragon responded swiftly, flying over the outer tents to land a few paces from her lord. She did not share the gift of speech that many of her kin from Caledor possessed, but there was a gleam in her eye that betrayed her desire for battle.

Like a supplicant debasing herself before making petition, Seraphon lowered to the ground and bent down her neck so that Malekith could mount the throne-saddle on her back. At a command from the Witch King she rose up, her wings outstretched, dwarfing all but Malekith’s pavilion.

‘Up,’ the Witch King told her and she bound into the air, carrying Malekith away from the tent city with half a dozen mighty beats of her wings, the downdraught of her strokes kicking up a snowstorm through the tents below.

From on high Malekith could see only a little more clearly. The blizzard was abating and in that he felt magic stirring, the end of the snows not a coincidence. The storm had concealed the Naggarothi for a while, but also it had held them some ten days march from Ghrond, and he suspected his mother of orchestrating the terrible weather. Now its purpose had been fulfilled, delivering the army into the path of the northlander host no doubt.

There was more than just wind-sorcery in the air. Malekith ordered Seraphon to circle while he allowed the circlet upon his helm to reveal the turbulent winds of magic.

Sure enough there was something powerful approaching, but it was not magical, but rather a bottomless pit of anti-magic, a great presence that swallowed the mystical power like a lodestone bending iron towards itself.

The army marched forth, ordering itself to Kouran’s scheme, the infantry holding the right and centre with melee units interspersed with the darkshards, while the beasts, chariots and cavalry massed on the left. Dark riders and small pockets of scouts – wicked outcasts from the Blackspine Mountains known as shades – drifted ahead of the army, seeking the foe and testing the treacherous ground for the regiments to follow.

Soon Malekith was not alone in the air. Two manticores swept up from the beastmaster’s pens followed by the dark pegasi of a trio of sorceresses. The harpies were drawn to the Witch King’s presence, descending in a noisy cloud that was soon driven off by roars and clouds of noxious breath from Seraphon, always ready to jealously guard her master. Disappointed, the harpies drifted down towards the army, alighting between the advancing companies and then lifting off again to slowly circle overhead, waiting for easy targets to present themselves.

Some distance away it appeared as though the land was bleeding. A great column of crimson moved down the pass towards the elven line, which appeared pitifully thin compared to the mass of destruction bearing down upon it.

No mortal host this, Malekith knew.

The smell of blood filled the air, making Seraphon snort heavy draughts while the manticores roared in anticipation of the slaughter. The harpies rose in a flock once more, lashing out at each other with clawed fingers, snarling and biting. A grumble of unease and disconcerted whispers rippled through the army of Malekith.

At the forefront of the daemon army came the flesh hounds – immense beasts with ruddy-scaled hides and scorpion tails, snarling and howling as they led the hunt. Not far behind rumbled chariots of gold and brass pulled by the same, while others, even larger, were drawn into battle by immense juggernauts of daemonic flesh and bronze armour, snorting and bellowing. Horned bloodletters rode on the backs of these chariots, their axes and swords glinting with a light that came not from the storm-swathed sun.

The ground itself trembled at the approach of the infernal host, thousands of clawed and hoofed feet marching in unison to the crash of hellish drums, beating out the doom of their foes. Standards of bone, dripping with gore, rose from carmine ranks alongside tattered banners and skull-adorned icons of the Blood God. Brass trumpets sounded the glorious advance, their sound cutting the air like a whetstone shrieking along a blade.

Rank after rank of armoured minions marched shoulder to shoulder, glaring with dead, white eyes, curling horns splayed from their heads, fangs bared in permanent snarls. The air around them seethed with magic pouring forth from the Realm of Chaos. Their presence melted the snow and caused the ground to crack and blister as they passed, corrupting the soil they trod upon. Their leaders, the heralds, howled challenges on the wind and swore oaths to the Master of War to slay all they encountered in His name.

Daemon princes moved amongst the masses, thrice the height of any elf, some mounted on juggernauts with reins of iron, others borne aloft with wings like bats or pinions covered in raven-black feathers. Porcine, hound-like, human, all manner of faces stared down at the defiant followers of Malekith, seeing nothing but corpses yet to be made.

At the centre of the oncoming host strode a bestial figure greater still than the daemon princes. Its face was a mask of feral rage, tusked and fanged, surrounded by flowing dark hair that spilled between ridged horns that protected its head like a helm, the immense mane spreading down a back humped large with crimson-skinned muscle. From its back sprouted the ragged remnants of two wings, broken and burned.

Its body was clad in brass and bronze, plates and scales marked by savage runes of Chaos that made the eyes ache to look upon. Skulls were woven into bloodied mail, still possessed of their souls, wailing and gnashing their teeth in eternal torment, repeating the words of their killer as it snapped commands. In response the daemons broke away from each other into blood-hungry companies, baying and growling, spreading out to engage the whole of the elven line.

Malekith knew the nature of this beast, one of Khorne’s High-handed Slayers, Destroyers of Worlds, Killers of Hope and Lords of Battle.

Bloodthirster.

Four Visions in Blood

The bloodthirster’s rage came before it like an aura, sweeping down onto the druchii like a hot wind. Infernal anger seeped into their thoughts. Immortal hatred stirred the blood. Against this daemonic influence the elves had no defence. Mutterings became battle-cries and agitation broke into violence as Malekith’s underlings suddenly sought vent for their unnatural fury.

Kouran reacted quickly, leading the host into the enemy from the front of the Black Guard, giving the elves a clear foe upon which to sate their bloodlust. There was no finesse, no manoeuvring for superior position – such niceties were boiled away in their frenzy to spill blood. The druchii line charged down the ridge, meeting the chariots and cavalry surging up towards them. Even the darkshards and shades abandoned their crossbows and set into the enemy with drawn knives and short swords.

The clash was horrendous, bodies churned beneath scythed wheels, warriors decapitated by strokes of bronze swords and axes. Undeterred the elves weathered the impact of their foes, fuelled by the daemon-rage. They quickly surrounded their enemies, tearing into them with sword and spear.

Heedless of the danger, the elves pressed on, swarming past the scant remains of their first victims. Into the teeth of the foe they charged, metaphorically and literally, drawn towards the bloodthirster as moths are drawn to flame and with similarly deadly result.

Both sides hacked at one another without thought, driven mad by the blood-rage of Khorne. Those elves that could not lay weapon or hand upon an enemy fell upon each other, slashing and tearing without relent. Even Kouran and his Black Guard, cold-blooded killers to the last elf, were swept away by the orgy of violent release, cleaving like a dark spear into the heart of the daemonic army. The Khainites were driven beyond even their zealous battle-hunger, and cut themselves to let even more blood flow, glorifying in their own wounds as much as the injuries inflicted on their enemies. Their piercing wails lifted higher than the screeching of the harpies as they fell upon the incapacitated of both sides, sating flesh-famine and bloodlust in equal measure.

The manticores descended like comets of rage, slamming into the daemon regiments with claws and fangs slashing like dozens of swords. Hydras and war dogs matched the baying and screeching of the flesh hounds as they ripped bloody chunks of unnatural flesh from bone and in turn were eviscerated and beheaded.

The bloodthirster smashed through friend and foe alike, a massive rune-axe in each hand that lofted limbs and severed heads high into the air with every swing. Like a mariner wading to shore, the greater daemon stood thigh-deep in the bodies of its victims, pushing on without mercy or pause, a bloody explosion of pure rage.

Malekith watched it all in a detached manner. Seraphon was touched by the blood-thirst too but a growl from the Witch King silenced her protest. He felt the anger pulsing around him, bringing visions of slaughter and victory.

He laughed.

The bloodthirst of Khorne was nothing compared to the hatred and anger that had burned in his heart for six thousand years. The Blood God’s promises of conquest and glory were faded temptations, long since outgrown by Malekith’s own ambition and towering desire for vengeance. Every day the Witch King fought the need to vent frustration and exact bloody retribution and today was no different.

With a derisive snort, he ordered Seraphon to descend. The battle was going poorly for his warriors, all advantage of superior strategy and skill washed away by the demands of unquestioning bloodlust. There was only one way to even the odds and avoid certain defeat.

The bloodthirster noticed Malekith’s descent and, tossing aside the broken body of a manticore, lifted both axes in challenge to the Witch King. Malekith replied with a bolt of pure dark magic that earthed along the unholy blades, sending the greater daemon reeling. Black sparks flew from its iron collar as the power of Khorne dissipated the remaining magical energy.

‘It seems your master’s protection against sorcery is not all it once was,’ Malekith laughed as Seraphon circled the brute, one wingtip almost brushing the ground. The Witch King threw another crackling bolt, but this time the collar earthed its power before any harm was done, spraying the magic away from the bloodthirster in a shower of sable lightning.

‘Know that I am thy doom, weak mortal,’ the beast roared back, clashing its axes together. ‘I am Skarbrand, the Deathbringer, the Corpsemaker, Son of Slaughter.’

‘I know of you, Exiled One,’ Malekith sneered. ‘Shamed, humbled, by the simplest of tricks, abandoned by the Lord of Skulls. And shame again you will know for daring to attack the army of the Witch King, Malekith the Great.’

‘Ignoble Malekith, the kinslayer,’ laughed Skarbrand. ‘Much is the blood that has flowed through my master’s domain at your behest. Your skull shall make a fine adornment for Khorne’s throne. Fight me, coward, as a true warrior would fight.’

Skarbrand leapt, one of its axes leaving a ruddy trail through the air as it swung towards Seraphon’s wing. The old dragon was too wily to be caught by surprise and flicked her wing out of the way, soaring above the bloodthirster’s head. Letting forth an enraged bellow, Skarbrand turned in mid-air, the other axe extended for another swing.

Seraphon caught the creature’s wrist in two claws, warding away the deadly blow. Striving with fierce growls, she bore the bloodthirster aloft. Before the daemon’s other blade could be brought back into play, Malekith struck, driving Urithain to the hilt into its eye. The tip of the blade erupted from the back of Skarbrand’s skull. Seraphon released her grip as Malekith ripped his sword free and the body tumbled groundwards, crushing dozens of the greater daemon’s minions with the impact.

Like a wind suddenly changing and freshening, the aura of death and violence that had emanated from the bloodthirster was swept away by the cold winds of the north. The bloodletters and flesh hounds were thrown into disarray by the death of their general, while the elves recovered a measure of their senses, both sides recoiling from each other in the moments that followed.

The elves recovered more swiftly, still driven by the aftermath of Skarbrand’s rage, heeding the commands of Kouran as the elven general issued swift orders to set a proper attack into motion.

As Seraphon lifted Malekith towards the snow-laden clouds, the Witch King considered returning to his pavilion, confident that his servants would know victory after his intervention. He stopped himself from withdrawing a moment later, looking at the broken body of Skarbrand far below.

The mage had foretold this day, in typically cryptic fashion. He had offered several prophecies as evidence that he spoke the truth and indeed was guided by the will of the goddess Lileath. Three visions he had spoken of, three events that would steer Malekith to their common cause.

‘I remember when the lords of Saphery ruled from a flying city,’ said Malekith, looking around the circular chamber near the pinnacle of the White Tower.

‘Beautiful Saphethion,’ his host said wistfully, thin fingers tapping together at his chin. ‘Destroyed by your ambition.’

‘It was not my ambition that brought low your floating city, but the actions of meddling mages,’ Malekith replied. ‘How little you learn.’

‘It is not a scheme of my own devising that I follow, but a divine plan from the watcher of fates herself, Lileath of the Pale Moon.’

‘You seek alliance from me?’ Malekith shook his head in disbelief, and in doing so caught a glimpse of himself in the silver reflection of an oval mirror set behind the mage’s desk. His projection here was as he had been in his early life. No iron-and-fire, no armour of midnight. A tall, darkly handsome elf with lustrous hair and sharp cheekbones regarded him solemnly. But for all that this apparition appeared healthy and hearty, the fires still burned and Malekith felt the pain of his enduring curse. His mood soured swiftly. ‘It was you that reawakened that ancient flame in my soul, resurrecting an agony of ages in my heart and bones. You are mistaken if you think I desire anything other than your drawn-out, horrendous death, Teclis.’

‘You do yourself a disservice, Prince Malekith,’ said the mage. He stood and started to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. ‘There are many things you desire far more than my demise. You would let me live in return for your rightful return to the Phoenix Throne. You would gladly spare me if I released you from the torment Asuryan inflicted upon you so many centuries ago. Your vengeance has never been anything more than a veil for your frustrated ambition.’

Malekith reached out, his insubstantial hand passing through the mage’s throat. He tightened his fist regardless, keen to prove his point.

‘I do not expect you to trust me, any more than I trust you,’ Teclis continued. ‘You are called the Deceiver by many with good cause. Nor do I expect you to believe me without proof.’

‘You can prove that the End Times are upon us? You have proof that Lileath will guide us to the means by which Chaos can be defeated? Lay it before me now and let me judge how trustworthy your words can be.’

‘The power of three is well known to us, and so three dooms my mistress has laid upon you, as maiden, mother and crone, Morai-heg, Ladrielle and Lileath. When they have come to pass, I shall be brought to you again and you will know the truth of what I have told you.’

‘Prophecy,’ muttered Malekith. ‘Some vague declarations that could be construed to mean just about anything. Has not my own doom been prophesied? Is not the curse laid upon you and your twin nothing more than the utterings of a demented seer driven to grief by the rejection of my father?’

Teclis said nothing as he picked up his staff, the image of Lileath at its tip gleaming silver in the moonlight that came through the window. Malekith flinched, for moments before it had been noon daylight, but now he saw a full moon rising above the forested mountains to the east.

Words came from Teclis’s lips, but the voice was not his. Mellow and lilting, the female voice slipped into Malekith’s thoughts like a lover entwining arms around him, leaving the memory of the words embedded deep.

‘In tide of blood it will begin, a crimson fate that covers all. He that fell will fall again, Lord of Battle will fight no more.

‘The serpent will come forth, fangs hidden behind the snow, with scales of black and eyes of blood. Its venom shall be the doom of ambition.

‘And comes forth the Crippled One’s bane, the forgotten maker shall be found. On mercy’s anvil shall hope be forged, and godly silence shall be unbound.’

Malekith considered these words carefully as Teclis slumped back into his chair, his face even more wan than usual. His eyes were dull, his hair lank and lifeless. Coughing wracked the mage for a few moments until, with a faltering hand, he drew a phial of liquid from a drawer and took a swift draught. Almost immediately his pallor improved, the light returned to his gaze and he smiled.

‘You cannot stop him,’ Teclis said. ‘Not without my aid.’

‘If you think this is the path to anything but utter damnation, you are wrong, my nephew.’ Malekith loomed over the mage. ‘Believe me when I tell you that I have looked into the abyss where this course of action leads. If you trust anything, trust my experience. I have never been short of spite for those that disowned me, but I will warn you that you will destroy everything you love if you insist on following this road to its end. I have walked it far longer than you.’

Teclis sighed, his look one of regret. ‘A wrong six thousand years old cannot be righted in a moment. The time will come when old wounds,’ he reached out a hesitant hand and for a heartbeat Malekith’s true form was revealed, shorn of glamour and armour, incandescent and scarred for eternity, ‘the gravest of wounds even, can be healed.’

Fate was in motion. Morai-heg had foretold this day, but Malekith would not leave to her cruel whim that which he could decide for himself. With a growled command, he directed Seraphon back to the battle. There would be no mistakes this time, no confusion or setbacks or failure by lesser servants.

By his might, the Phoenix Throne would be his again. He was starting to believe.

Teclis had promised it.

The gods willed it.

Five An Unexpected Barrier

It was not long past noon but in the northern reaches of the world the sun was barely a paler disc behind the clouds, the lands of Naggaroth shrouded by twilight. Bearing magical lanterns that burned with cold, blue fire the Naggarothi army appeared like a host of ice statues given life, the bleak light reflected from black enamelled armour plates and silver mail.

A host of knights led the vanguard, five thousand strong, mounted on reptilian cold ones. The stench of the creatures was matched by the steam of foetid breath that rose from their ranks, swathing the riders in a bank of fog that made their appearance even more ethereal.

At their heart rumbled a company of chariots drawn by more of the beasts, twenty of them, flanking the massive war engine of Malekith while Seraphon flew overhead. Malekith’s chariot was a construction of black iron, drawn by four cold ones bedecked with barbed armour over their glistening blue scales. The chariot itself was hung with chains and hooks, the wheels spinning with jagged blades to slash the legs from under any unfortunate foe or beast that came close.

The host followed a road of cracked stones, cleared of snow by a legion of slaves driven ahead of the host by whips and hunger. The rag-shrouded corpses of those that had collapsed during their labours were heaped in the snow drifts beside the ancient slabs, faces frozen in pale-skinned grimaces, limbs protruding from the white banks with icicles dangling from splayed fingers.

A lone rider appeared out of the white haze and approached, swathed in a black riding cloak. His horse, also the colour of midnight, was tall and sleek, bred from stock stolen from the fair plains of Ellyrion in generations past, the flanks marked by the brand of Lord Ezresor.

Ezresor’s dark steed whinnied and cowered at the stench of the cold ones, almost throwing him as he pulled to a walk a few paces from Malekith’s chariot. The high agent dipped his head, sunken eyes betraying nothing as they rose again to meet his king’s gaze.

‘Your majesty, the riders report that the way to Ghrond is blocked,’ Ezresor told the Witch King. The spymaster’s steed gnashed at its bit and whinnied, shying away from Malekith. He yanked the reins and dug spurs into the creature’s scarred midriff, hauling it in a circle to come alongside the Witch King once more.

‘More vagrant northlanders?’ Malekith replied. ‘Call the captains to arms.’

‘No, your majesty, it is not a foe that confronts us,’ the spymaster said. He looked perplexed. ‘It is… Well, they said we should go and look for ourselves.’

This was a deeply unsatisfactory answer but Malekith could see from Ezresor’s expression that no further detail would be forthcoming, regardless of coercion or cajoling. He raised a hand and signalled for Seraphon to descend.

The journey from the van of the column did not take long. Soon the cold one knights were left behind and he saw a group of outriders coming south, riding hard along the road. Ezresor galloped out to meet them and returned swiftly to bring their reports to his master who had landed a short distance behind. The riders departed into the bleak wilderness, moving off the road to give Malekith a wide berth, turning hooded heads to dart looks back to the north.

‘They come with a warning, your majesty. Several riders and shades attempted to breach the barrier just before midday,’ Ezresor explained. ‘They have not been seen since.’

‘Barrier?’ The Witch King did not mask his displeasure. ‘You are being obtuse, Ezresor, and I would know the reason.’

‘Your indulgence, for a little while longer, your majesty,’ said Ezresor though there was little hint of pleading in his tone. He pointed ahead, to where Malekith could see a darker blur against the white horizon.

‘Where is Ghrond?’ the Witch King said slowly, looking left and right as though he was lost. ‘We should be able to see the pinnacle of the convent by now.’

‘That, your majesty, was what we cannot explain.’

Malekith did not press the matter further at that time, but followed Ezresor along the road until the darkness in the distance became clearer. It looked as though a forest had sprung up from the tundra, of black, twisted trunks and stunted branches. It stretched east and west almost as far as the eye could see, and stood many times taller than an elf.

Coming closer Malekith saw that it was not a forest that barred his path but a giant thicket of dead-looking vines, each thicker than his arm, jagged with scimitar-like thorns. The stench of magic contorted the air, undulating as a black and purple aurora.

Malekith studied the barrier for some time, feeling the ebb and surge of the magic sustaining it, watching the lash of mystical wind that caused the thorny extrusions to sway and bend. He barely noticed the clatter of armour as Kouran arrived with a company of Black Guard. Behind them a thousand knights of Naggarond waited on their cold ones. Several of the dark riders had returned and were riding the edge of the obstacle, not so close that they would be caught, seeking any weakness in the wall of thorns. Other druchii – lordlings and petty commanders – had followed Malekith from the army and waited a short distance away, quietly discussing their own theories on the phenomenon that barred their onward route.

‘The Chaos Wastes extend south,’ said Malekith, confident of this explanation.

‘Not so, your majesty,’ corrected Ezresor, his gaze fixed firmly on the thorny growths so as to hide any hint of accusation. ‘My riders say that it can be circumnavigated, though it would take us two or more days to do so. It is not daemonic in nature.’

‘Morathi.’ Malekith growled his mother’s name. ‘She thinks that this will stop me from reaching her in Ghrond. A girdle to protect her dignity, and as sharp as her tongue has ever been.’

He dismounted to approach the looming barricade on foot. At his approach the thorny growths stirred, moving slowly towards him. A spiked tendril slithered towards his shoulder and he seized hold of it. Fire burned in his fist and the thorny tentacle shook violently, trying to rip itself from his hot grasp. Opening his hands a few heartbeats later he let the charred remnants drop to his feet.

‘It would take an age to burn through with sorcery, your majesty, even for one of your puissance,’ said Ezresor, keeping his distance and a wary eye on the unnatural hedge.

As he looked more keenly, Malekith saw that the thorns heaped higher and higher, merging with the magical storm overhead, taller than Ghrond itself.

‘Seraphon could not penetrate this mass,’ the Witch King said to himself. ‘And let us not even waste time contemplating digging to the tower.’

‘How do we proceed, your majesty?’

Malekith considered his options. Brute force was unlikely to work. Morathi would be wary of any attempt at trickery. There were, however, other types of guile.

‘How many sisters of the Dark Convent remain loyal to me?’

‘None within Ghrond that we know of, your majesty.’ The spymaster shrugged. ‘Had any desired to betray Morathi we would have received warning of the northlanders’ attack. We must assume that any that attempted as much died before their treachery bore fruit.’

‘A shame,’ said Malekith, remembering the first time he had been forced to confront his mother in similar fashion. She had usurped rule of Nagarythe and turned Anlec against him. On that occasion princes from House Anar loyal to Malekith had infiltrated her defences and opened the gates to allow entry to his army. He could not expect help from the interior this time. ‘I expect that the only course of action left to us is to undo the binding of the enchantment, and that will be laborious work.’

As the last of these words left Malekith’s ravaged lips, there was movement in the magical thicket. The vines twitched and curled, parting from each other to reveal a slender, pale-skinned figure standing less than a dozen paces away.

She was garbed in a robe of dark fur, edged with the white pelt of a snowcat. The same trimmed her high boots. Emerald rings glistened on slim fingers, matching the eyes that regarded Malekith from beneath a black shock of hair that was entwined with black brambles that twitched with a life of their own. There were mutterings of approval from the assembled druchii warriors, but Malekith knew that none would be judged worthy of such a prize – not even Ezresor or Kouran.

‘Drusala,’ Malekith whispered, as the sorceress bowed low, right leg crossed over the left. As she straightened, a fleeting smile passed her lips.

‘King Malekith,’ said the witch, assuming a demure pose, hands clasped at her waist, head slightly tilted forward, though this made her appear more coy than deferential. Her eyes glittered – literally – as she half turned and gestured along the path. ‘My Queen Morathi, beneficent ruler of Ghrond, Eternal Hekarti Reborn, bids you welcome to her demesne and invites you to attend conference at your earliest convenience.’

This caused a different sort of stirring in the elves that heard the declaration. Ezresor moved closer, his voice barely a whisper though Malekith knew that Drusala would hear his words easily enough despite this precaution.

‘Morathi declares herself to be divine?’ The spymaster wrung his hands, looking more worried by this than any news of rampaging northmen hordes and fallen cities. ‘She names herself the goddess of sorcery. There can be only one purpose to such a claim.’

‘To cow any further ambition within her sisterhood,’ said Malekith. It was a move he himself had used in the past, assuming the mantel of Khaine’s avatar to head off the growing power of Hellebron and her bloody cultists. ‘Perhaps she is not as certain of her position as leader of the convent as you thought.’

‘She would put herself above even you, my king,’ snarled Kouran. ‘To claim to be Hekarti is an affront to all the Cytharai.’

‘My Queen awaits your pleasure,’ said Drusala, as if this answered Malekith’s doubt.

The Witch King considered rebuffing the invitation, just to remind his mother that she answered to him, not the other way around. He rejected the notion as petty. The real prize was Ulthuan and the longer he delayed at Ghrond the greater the chance that Prince Tyrion and his allies would defeat the latest daemonic intrusion and recover to meet any Naggarothi attack. The season of the sun was just beginning, an ideal time of year for a fresh offensive to reclaim their homeland. If Morathi wanted to play these mind games, Malekith could put aside his pride long enough to gain entry to Ghrond, if not any longer.

‘Take me to your queen,’ said the Witch King, stepping towards Drusala. ‘At my pleasure.’

‘Of course, your highness,’ replied the sorceress.

Six The City of Ghrond

Behind Malekith, the wall of thorns closed, cutting him off from his advisors and army. He did not even turn to look as Drusala led him deeper into the bramble-maze, the path opening up before them, the thorns entwining again when they had passed.

The magical entanglement continued as far as the walls of the city itself, which were unmanned.

‘You trust to magic more than the spears of our people?’ Malekith said to Drusala.

‘Spears are of little use against daemons, your majesty,’ replied the sorceress. ‘Better that the garrison stays away from the bloodthorns, lest unseemly incidents occur.’

Passing through the great gate beside Drusala, Malekith found the streets empty. Now and then a terrified face appeared at a window or a shutter would creak open, revealing dread-filled eyes for a moment before closing. All was shrouded in near-darkness, the cold light of the sun blocked out by the dome of thorns, broken only by a ghostly green glow that emanated from the pinnacle of the Tower of Ghrond.

The heart of the city was a lone spire almost as high as the tallest pilaster of the Black Tower. A solitary finger of dark rock topped the Convent of Sorceresses, and this tower was tipped with a faceted crystal sphere from which the sisterhood commanded by Morathi would gaze north into the heart of the Wastes, into the Realm of Chaos itself, gauging its moods and movements. The summit of the tower was partly obscured by the wavering miasma of energy sustaining the thornwall.

The atmosphere of dread was as palpable as the dark magic that Malekith felt moving sluggishly through the foundations of the city. The buildings were low and squat for elf construction – barely a tower four storeys high broke the skyline away from the convent. Slate roofs gave the city a grey appearance, broken by the silver and gold of talismans hanging over doorways and windows. Some walls were painted with red or white or pale blue runes of protection, others with names of the Cytharai and many decorated with intricate mural-geometric designs incorporating the name-icon of Hekarti.

‘Upon the edge of damnation it is wise to appease all patrons,’ Drusala said, noticing the Witch King’s stare lingering on these totems. She pointed to his shield. ‘The antithetical rune of the supreme witch protects you in battle, my lord.’

‘You find judgement where only curiosity exists,’ said Malekith, scrutinising Drusala closely. She seemed more defensive than during previous encounters. ‘Of more interest to me is my mother’s assertion to possess the mantel of Hekarti. It is not the first time in recent memory that one has claimed to me that the gods are ascending and descending to the mortal realm.’

‘Really?’ Drusala regretted her interested outburst immediately, looking away shame-faced. When she looked at Malekith again she had regained her composure, though there was stiffness in her tone. ‘Apologies, your majesty. We are indeed in tumultuous times and the gods themselves will play their part in events to come. Forgive my intrusive demand.’

‘It excites you? The possibility that we enter the End Times?’

‘There are no endings, your majesty, only beginnings that have not been exploited yet. The world turns upon cycles, and we stand on the brink of a fresh era of growth and dominance.’

‘To which ‘we’ do you refer? The Convent of Sorceresses? The Naggarothi? Mortals?’

Drusala kept her expression neutral when she replied. ‘Your people, of course, your majesty. We are all your subjects.’

‘Even Morathi?’

‘I would not speak for the incarnation of Eternal Hekarti, your majesty, but your mother has long laboured for your power and best interests. Was it not her that aided Kouran in holding together your dominion when you were cast adrift in the Realm of the Dark Lords? If she had desired to usurp your majesty’s position, she would have done so then, would she not?’

‘My mother does not support me – she fears the reprisals of the princes should one of them ever seize power.’

Drusala clamped her mouth shut, cheeks drawn in as she kept whatever remark she had to herself. It was obvious that Malekith’s barbed words had touched a nerve. He was not sure if the sorceress was offended, or upset in some other fashion by his comments. Certainly she held Morathi in very high esteem and it pained her to hear Malekith talk of his mother in such an off-hand fashion.

They continued without speaking. Drusala’s footfalls made no noise as she strode along the paved streets, but the impact of Malekith’s boots rang hollow from the buildings, each step a knell that announced his passage through the city. More and more faces peered at his approach, some of them now showing curiosity more than fear. Once or twice he caught the expectant gaze of a noble or servant, quickly replaced with fear as his dread gaze fell upon them.

He could imagine the whispered conversations, the rumour. The bloodthorn wall kept out news as surely as it guarded against attack, and perhaps that was Morathi’s true purpose. Had the people of Ghrond known that the rest of Naggaroth was being destroyed by the bloodied horde there might have been dissent, even rebellion. He knew his subjects were not overtly loyal to one another, but enlightened self-interest and the risk of total destruction always ensured they would come together against an external foe.

What lies had Morathi and her sisters spun to the military commanders? That it was safe to stay here, waiting for reinforcements that Morathi hoped would never arrive? As time dragged on she would speak of how Malekith had been absent, and how the lords of Naggarond had cared nothing for the people of the other cities. By such half-truths was a new centre of power created, and by such manipulation of events were loyalties shifted.

Drusala was right in one regard. The End Times was an unnecessarily grandiose name for a period of change no worse than any Chaos influx the world had seen before. The magical vortex of Ulthuan ensured that no matter how far the Realm of Chaos expanded, never again would the touch of Chaos corrupt the whole world as it had done during the daemonic invasions that had beset Aenarion. If the latest news from Ulthuan was true, Prince Tyrion was ably impersonating his ancestor in holding back the latest daemon surge.

It was all so repetitive. The cycle of the world, the endless ebb and flow of nations and battles, and here was Malekith again, about to take his mother to task for opposing him, for testing him. He would have hoped that she of all other people would understand the pointlessness of trying to resist his will, but her vanity always urged her to the wrong path at the most untimely moments.

I’ve been here before, he thought.

Not literally, but the similarity to events in the far past made him wonder if he was an actor in a play being staged again and again with a few alterations to the script between performances.

At the far end of the hall sat Morathi, clad in a draping wind of golden cloth that obscured very little of her nakedness. She held her staff of bone and iron across her lap, her fingers toying with the skull at its tip. Morathi was sitting in a simple wooden chair next to the mighty throne of Aenarion, which was cut from a single piece of black granite, its back shaped like a rearing dragon, of which Bel Shanaar’s throne was but a pale imitation. Magical flame licked from the dragon’s fanged maw and glowed in its eyes.

Malekith’s eyes were drawn to the throne above all other things, ignoring even his mother, for this was the strongest memory he had of this place, of his father girded for war sat upon that immense chair, in counsel with his famed generals.

The memory was so vivid that Malekith could hear his father’s soft yet strong voice echoing around the throne room. The prince was but a child, sat in the lap of his mother beside the Phoenix King, and Aenarion would occasionally pause in his conversation and look down upon his son. Always stern was that look: not unkind, yet not compassionate either, but full of pride. For years Malekith had gazed back at those strong, dark eyes and seen the fires that raged behind their quiet dignity. Malekith imagined that he alone knew the sinister spirit that hid within, clothed in the body of a noble monarch, masked against the eyes of the world lest it be recognised for what it truly was.

The soul of a destroyer, the wielder of the Godslayer.

And the sword! There across the Phoenix King’s lap lay Widowmaker, Soulbiter, the Sword of Khaine. Even at a young age, Malekith had noticed that only he and his father ever looked upon its blood-red blade, for all other elves averted their gaze and would look anywhere else but directly at it. It was like a secret shared between them.

‘Yet you did not pick up the Blade of Murder when it was offered to you,’ said Morathi, dispelling the illusion that had so gripped her son.

Malekith shook his head, confused by the enchantment cunningly wrought upon him by his mother. Truly they were real memories she had stirred, but her spell had made them as tangible as life, if only for a moment.

‘I did not,’ replied Malekith, slowly, realising that Morathi had seen into his thoughts and learned of his episode on the Blighted Isle, of which he had spoken to nobody.

‘That is good,’ said Morathi.

She was sitting in stately pose, despite her near-nudity, and exuded regal poise. Not here the barbarous priestess who tore living hearts from the breasts of her victims, not the seductive, wily seeress who wove lies with every word and manipulated all around her into a tapestry to her liking. Here she was as queen of Nagarythe, full of quiet majesty and grandeur.

‘The sword controlled your father,’ the queen said, her tone hushed, reassuring. ‘Since his death, it has yearned for you to seek it out. I was worried that you would be ensnared by its power as well, but I am proud that you resisted its bloodthirsty call. None can truly be its master, and if you are to rule, then you must be master of everything.’

‘I would rather the world devoured by daemons than unleash that fell creation upon the world again,’ Malekith said, sheathing Avanuir. ‘As you say, once drawn it will consume its wielder until nothing but blood remains. No person can become a king with its power, only a slave.’

‘Sit down,’ Morathi said, waving a hand of invitation towards the grand throne.

‘It is not yet my place to sit there,’ replied Malekith.

‘Oh?’ said Morathi, surprised. ‘And why is that?’

‘If I am to rule Nagarythe, I shall rule it alone,’ said Malekith. ‘Without you. When you are slain, the army of Nagarythe will be mine again. I shall hold power over the pleasure cults and with them secure the Phoenix Throne.’

Morathi remained silent, looking at her son with ancient eyes, gauging his mood and motive. A sly smile then twisted her lips.

‘You mean to slay me?’ she whispered, feigning shock.

‘While you live, always will your ambition be a shadow upon mine,’ said Malekith, angry at his mother’s charade. ‘You cannot help but be my rival, for it is not in your nature to serve any but yourself. I cannot share Ulthuan with you, for you could never truly share it with me. Even my father was not your master. I would exile you, but you would rise up again in some forgotten corner, a contender for everything that I aspire to.’

‘Cannot share power,’ Morathi said, ‘or will not?’

Malekith pondered for a moment, examining his feelings.

‘Will not,’ he replied, his eyes full of intent.

‘And to what is it that you aspire, my son?’ Morathi said, leaning forward eagerly.

‘To inherit my father’s legacy and rule as Phoenix King,’ Malekith replied, knowing the truth of the words even as he spoke them. Never before had he so openly admitted his desire, not even to himself. Glory, honour, renown: all but stepping stones towards his ascension to the Phoenix Throne. The circlet had revealed to him the true nature of the forces that now ruled the world, and he would not stand by while Ulthuan slowly succumbed to them.

‘Yes, Chaos is strong,’ Morathi told him.

‘Stay out of my thoughts,’ Malekith snarled, taking an angry step forward, his hand straying to the hilt of Avanuir.

‘I need no magic to know your mind, Malekith,’ said Morathi, still gazing fixedly at her son. ‘There is a bond between mother and son that does not need sorcery.’

‘Do you submit yourself to your fate?’ Malekith said, ignoring her obvious reminder of their relationship, an attempt to stay his hand.

‘You should know better than to ask such a pointless question,’ Morathi replied, and now her voice was stern, harsh even. ‘Have I not always told you that you were destined to be king? You cannot be king unless you are prince of your own realm, and I will not surrender it willingly. Prove to me that you are worthy of ruling Nagarythe. Prove to the other princes that the strength within you is greater than any other.’

They came to the great barbican of the convent. The gates were open, and above the portal to the entrance hall blazed a rune of Hekarti, made of polished bones inscribed with smaller rune-shapes that flickered with their own life. Octagonal obsidian tiles paved the floor of the first hall, inset with channels stained dark with dried blood. Walls of granite were painstakingly carved with similar runnels in arcane patterns, the thaumatic geometry spreading up the tower to the sacrificial temples just below the summit. In dire times the whole of the palace could be charged with blood magic, fuelled with death for the mystics to pierce the veil of Chaos or for the sorceresses to take more direct action against a foe.

‘Queen Morathi will be with you shortly,’ announced Drusala, moving away from the Witch King. She waved her hand towards a spiralling stair. ‘In the hall of welcoming.’

The sorceress slipped away through a curtained archway and Malekith was alone, though he could sense the presence of others very close at hand, watching him without eyes. He waited for several heartbeats to see if a new guide would come forth to lead him to his destination, but the palace seemed strangely empty.

Annoyed by the unseemly lack of proper welcome and ceremony, Malekith headed towards the steps, determined that his mother’s transgressions would be punished this time.

Seven Mother and Queen

The audience chamber was glorious in its sumptuousness. Golden drapes hung from every wall, and basalt tiles, polished to a mirrored sheen, were barely visible beneath the wine-dark rugs. Marble statues, studies in flawless physique, lined the chamber.

Malekith regarded the statuary with contempt. He recognised a few faces as previous members of his court, who had supported Morathi and in turn been granted her boons, both pleasurable and political.

He had been made to wait for some time, no doubt on purpose. His mother had always been theatrical, and could never resist the opportunity to make a grand entrance. Making him wait upon her pleasure also enforced the notion that she held the power here, not her son. The truth was that Malekith had learned to be above such petty manipulation. There were many that accused him of arrogance, and probably with good right, but such was his towering confidence that he was able to shrug off the minor insults and oversights that drove lesser leaders to rave and punish.

He would never give his mother the satisfaction of seeing her attempts to rile him had succeeded.

A chair was set next to a table before the throne, a ewer of dark wine and a goblet ready for his refreshment, but Malekith barely needed such sustenance these days. It was another goad, for Morathi knew well that the fire that had ravaged his body had all but destroyed his sense of smell and taste as well. The finest meats were as ashes on his tongue and the wine, no doubt liberated from some grand terrace in Ellyrion or Saphery, would be like brackish water.

Wishing to make a point of his own, Malekith stepped past the chair and sat down on the great throne of bloodrock at the end of the hall. He closed metal-lidded eyes and considered what he would say.

The click of heels on tiles and the faintest breeze from the opening door alerted Malekith to a new arrival. He opened his eyes as Morathi entered, and watched as she strode across the rugs, her gaze lingering on a few of the statues that lined the approach to the throne.

A momentary sour look marred her beautiful face as she noticed where he was sitting, an expression of annoyance that was swiftly replaced with a humourless smile. She gave a deep nod of greeting – never a bow, Malekith noted, for that would imply subservience – and crossed to greet her son.

‘You have travelled far to speak with me, my child. Should I feel honoured, or afraid?’

‘I have yet to believe that either of those words holds any meaning for you, mother,’ said Malekith coldly.

‘Will you not be seated?’ he went on, inviting her to accept his position, the throne, but she would not accede even that.

‘I am quite content as I am,’ she replied, eyes narrowing. She was weighing up Malekith, trying to judge his mood, but it was impossible even for his mother to know what crossed his mind when his ravaged flesh was hidden behind his helm.

On the other hand, he was well aware of Morathi’s mood, though to any other the subtle signs would have been lost. Seven millennia had shown him the slight tension in the shoulders, the merest curl of the lip, were danger signs. She made no overt effort, but subtly the winds of magic were shifting, gathering, funnelling down from the thorn-wreathed sky into the tower of Ghrond and seeping up from the dark rock beneath.

Surely she did not mean to engage in a magical contest? It would be a desperate move. Malekith was not certain he would win such a duel, but neither could Morathi start such a battle with full confidence. It would be a last cast of the bones, and it seemed Morathi was far from cornered and finished. She had tried direct confrontation before, when both of them had been far less experienced.

At some silent command, four figures emerged from the shadows, two to Malekith’s left and two to his right. They were sorcerers by their garb, two male and two female, swathed in black robes, tattooed with dark sigils.

Malekith struck out with a blast of magic, materialising as a thunderbolt from his fingertips. Instantly Morathi was surrounded by a shadowy sphere of energy, which pulsed as the bolt struck it. Her adepts unleashed spells of their own, fiery blasts that rushed in upon Malekith in the guise of howling wolf heads, and the prince cast his own shield of darkness to ward them away.

The sorcerers and sorceresses closed in, hurling fireballs and flares of dark power. Malekith protected himself, drawing in more and more magic from the energy seething around the throne room as the spells cascaded towards him.

Morathi sat contentedly upon her chair while her followers unleashed their hexes and curses, watching with interest as Malekith countered each. Churning and bubbling, magic flowed around the hall, growing in intensity as both Malekith and his foes reached their minds out further and further, drawing energy from the city outside.

‘Enough,’ barked Malekith, letting free the energy that he had pulled into himself, releasing a blast of raw magic not shaped by any spell.

The power blazed, surrounding each of the dark wizards, filling them with mystical energy, more than they could control. The first, a red-haired witch, began to quiver, and then spasmed so hard that Malekith heard her spine snapping as she flopped to the ground. The other sorceress screeched in agony as her blood turned to fire and exploded out of her veins, engulfing her in a tempest of lightning and flames. The third of them flew into the air as if struck, his nose, eyes and ears streaming with blood, his ragged body smashing against the distant wall. The last was consumed by the ravening magic and collapsed in upon himself, crumpled like a ball of paper until he disintegrated into a pile of dust.

‘Your followers are weak,’ said Malekith, rounding on Morathi.

The seeress remained unconcerned.

‘There are always more minions,’ she said with a dismissive wave of a beringed hand. ‘That trinket upon your head gives you impressive power, but you lack subtlety and control.’

Quicker than Malekith’s eye could follow, Morathi’s hand snapped out, her staff pointed at his chest. He fell to one knee as his heart began to thunder inside his ribs, drowning him with pain. Through the haze of the agony, Malekith could feel the slender tendrils of magic that extended from Morathi’s staff, almost imperceptible in their delicacy.

Whispering a counterspell, Malekith chopped his hand through the intangible strands and forced himself back to his feet.

‘You never taught me that,’ said Malekith with mock admonition. ‘How unmotherly to keep such secrets from your son.’

‘You have not been here to learn from me,’ Morathi said with a sad shake of her head. ‘I have learned much these past thousand years. If you put aside this foolish jealousy that consumes you, then perhaps I can tutor you again.’

In reply, Malekith gathered up the coiling magic and hurled it at the queen, the spell materialising as a monstrous serpent. Morathi’s staff intercepted it, a shimmering blade springing from its haft to slice the head from the immaterial snake.

‘Crude,’ she said with a wag of her finger. ‘Perhaps you impressed the savages of Elthin Arvan and the wizardless dwarfs with these antics, but I am not so easily awed.’

Standing, the seeress-queen held her staff in both hands above her head and began to chant quickly. Blades crystallised out of the air around her, orbiting her body in ever-increasing numbers until she was all but obscured from view by a whirlwind of icy razors. With a contemptuous laugh, Malekith extended his will, looking to knock them aside.

His dispel met with failure, however, as Morathi’s magic swayed and changed shape, slipping through the insubstantial grasp of his counterspell. A moment later and the shardstorm tore through the air towards him, forcing the prince to leap aside lest they rip the flesh from his bones.

‘Slow and predictable, my child,’ Morathi said, stepping forwards.

Malekith said nothing, but lashed out with his sorcery, a whip of fire appearing in his hands. Its twin tips flew across the room and coiled about Morathi’s staff. With a flick of his wrist, Malekith wrested the rod from his mother, sending it skittering across the tiled floor. With another short hand motion Malekith dashed the staff against the wall, shattering it into pieces.

‘I think you are too old for such toys,’ said Malekith, drawing Avanuir.

‘I am,’ snarled Morathi, her face contorting with genuine anger.

Something invisible scythed through the air and connected with Malekith’s legs. He felt his shins crack and his knees shatter and a howl of pain was wrenched from his lips as he crashed to the floor. Letting Avanuir fall from his grasp, he clutched at his broken legs, writhing and screaming.

‘Stop making such a noise,’ said Morathi irritably.

Making a fist, she wove a spell that clenched Malekith’s throat in its grip, choking him. The pain befuddled his mind, and as he flailed and gasped he could not muster the concentration to counter the spell.

‘Focus, boy, focus,’ spat Morathi as she stalked forwards, her fist held out in front of her, twisting it left and right as Malekith squirmed in her mystical grasp. ‘You think you are fit to rule without me? I expect such ingratitude from the likes of Bel Shanaar, but not from my own kin.’

The mention of the Phoenix King’s name acted as a lightning rod for Malekith’s pain and anger and he lashed out, a sheet of flame erupting from him to engulf the queen. She was unharmed, but had released her spell to protect herself. Malekith rolled to his side, coughing and spluttering.

The prince was then flipped to his back and he felt a great weight upon his chest. Numbness enveloped him as the weight pressed down harder and harder, and Malekith fought against losing consciousness. As black spots and bright lights flickered in his vision, he thought he glimpsed a shadowy, insubstantial creature crouched upon his chest, a slavering horned daemon with a wide, fang-filled maw and three eyes. Pushing aside the aching of his body, he tried to focus his mind to break the spell, but still his body could not move.

Morathi stood beside her son, looking down dispassionately. She reached down and grasped Malekith’s helm in one hand and pulled it from his head. The queen regarded it closely for a moment, her eyes analysing every scratch and dint in its grey surface, her fingers lingering close to the circlet but never touching it. Gently, she crouched beside Malekith and placed the helm behind her, out of reach. Malekith fought back a surge of panic. He felt strangely naked and powerless without the circlet.

‘If you do not know how to use it properly, you should not have it,’ she said gently. She laid a hand upon his cheek, caressing him, and then placed her fingers upon his forehead as a mother soothing the brow of a fevered child. ‘If you had but asked me, I would have helped you unlock its real power. Without it, your magic is weak and unrefined. You should have paid more attention to what your mother taught you.’

‘Perhaps,’ Malekith said. With a shout of pain, he swung his gauntleted fist at Morathi, punching her clean in her face and sending her slamming to her back. ‘I learned that from my father!’

Stunned, Morathi lost her concentration and her spell evaporated. Malekith felt the invisible weight lifting from his body. With an effort, he drew magic down into his ruined legs, fusing bone back into place, knotting ruined muscle and sinew together.

Whole again, the prince stood, looming over Morathi. With a flick of his hand, Avanuir jumped from the floor and landed in his grasp, its point a finger’s breadth from Morathi’s face, unwavering.

His face grimly set, he swung Avanuir over his left shoulder and brought it down in a backhand sweep towards Morathi’s neck.

‘Wait!’ she shouted and Malekith’s arm froze, the blade no more than a hand’s span from the killing blow.

Here, in her stronghold, the sorceress was far from defenceless, but that did not mean she relished the prospect of testing her skill against that of her progeny. Any such contest would turn Ghrond into a blasted ruin before a winner was determined.

‘Why have you come?’ she asked, a sharpened fingernail resting on her slender chin.

‘You gave no warning of the northlander invasion, as was your duty,’ Malekith intoned, savouring each damning syllable. ‘Moreover, you have held back from Naggaroth’s defence. I should be quite furious with you. Indeed, for a long time, I cherished no thought so well as your broken body beneath the lash.’

The Witch King rose from the throne and began to pace the room, pausing before each statue in turn to gaze into its eyes. Some he recognised, past members of his council, watch commanders and generals that had assisted Morathi in one way or another. He could sense the life energy still trapped within the statues and wondered if any of his mother’s favourites had ever escaped her gorgon-like wrath when the relationship inevitably became too much of a burden for her.

‘Because of you, Naggaroth is all but fallen.’ He did not look at her, but stopped before the image of Cruidahn of Hag Graef, who had been Morathi’s consort more than a thousand years earlier. ‘Before the year is out, it will be but another ruin in a world already full of them. Yet I find that I feel no sadness for the loss.’

‘Pathetic! You disgrace your father’s memory.’ Morathi spat, unexpectedly flushing with anger.

‘Not at all. Indeed, I intend to honour him as never before. Our folk had fallen into weakness and squalor.’ Malekith snorted with derision. ‘We had grown fat and lazy, a herd of dull-witted beasts no longer fit for the great destiny I shall provide.’ He turned to face his mother and spread his hands expansively. ‘Now the herd has been thinned, the weak slaughtered by the northlanders’ axes. I have you to thank for that, though I am sure you did not intend matters to unfold thus. Those who remain are warriors and survivors all. They will be my army, and Ulthuan’s ruin, for they will survive only through seizing the land that is theirs by right. The throne of the ten kingdoms will at last be mine.’

‘I have heard you say such things before,’ Morathi sneered.

‘Before, I did not have aid. The Phoenix King is already slain, betrayed by one of his closest advisors. He died broken and screaming, his last dignity a memory before I choked the life from him.’

‘The Five Gates will defeat you, as they have in the past.’

‘They will not,’ Malekith assured her, ‘for I now hold the key to those fortresses, placed in my hand by one of their own. Besides, Ulthuan is as beset as we. While I do not doubt that our cousins will endure, they will not have the good sense to let the times purge their weaklings.’

‘If victory is so assured, what do you wish of me?’

‘You are my mother and, despite your myriad treacheries, you yet command my regard. Join your armies to mine, and the past will be forgotten. You shall be Ulthuan’s queen once more – glorious, regal and beautiful as the night.’

Morathi sighed contemptuously.

‘You still think like a mortal, when you should aspire to be a god.’

‘You are many things, mother, but you are no goddess.’

‘And who is to say that? The power of Hekarti pulses through my veins. As the magic rises, I can be anything I wish, and that is all that matters as the Rhana Dandra begins.’

‘You’re not the first to speak to me of the End Times, yet I remain somewhat unconvinced.’

‘The mage, I suppose,’ Morathi said, her contempt clear. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t hear him whispering to you during your journey? What lies did he tell you?’

‘It hardly matters. He serves my goals, whether he realises it or not.’

‘Of course,’ Morathi mocked. ‘You are not one to accept any wisdom other than your own. Look around you. The world cries out in torment, the skies bleed, the twin-tailed comet blazes, and you look for more proof? The Dark Gods are rising, and they will swallow us all.’

‘If what you say is proven true, then I shall fight them, as my father once did. I will not be denied my birthright.’

Morathi let forth shrill laughter, bordering on the hysterical. ‘You’re a fool! These are the End Times. Only those who embrace their true nature will survive. Yours is not that of a victor. Yours is to lose, and to blame others for the loss. Go back to Naggarond. Take what pleasures you may before the tides of Chaos close over your head. I will not waste my strength on foolishness.’

Malekith found himself consumed by a sudden and bitter mirth and matched her insane humour with a mad laugh of his own. ‘And your nature is to languish in this ensorcelled tower, I suppose, a jilted princess pining for her love until darkness falls?’

He enjoyed the contorting agony of her features as he revealed his knowledge of her earlier interference with Prince Tyrion and her declarations of affection, unseen and unremembered by all others but revealed to Malekith as he had sought escape from self-banishment in the Realm of Chaos.

‘You understand nothing,’ Morathi spat. ‘He will be mine again. I have foreseen it.’

‘How very convenient for you,’ Malekith replied calmly. ‘And might I ask what you foretell concerning my future?’

There was a long pause. Morathi watched him closely, and could not fail to sense the edge of his anger growing sharper, but equally she could not resist the opportunity to display her superiority. Malekith listened to what she had to say expecting half-truths and outright lies.

‘If you go to Ulthuan, you will lose everything,’ she proclaimed at last. ‘Your realm will fall, your purpose will waver. Everything that makes you who you are – everything that makes you my son – will crumble to naught. Even your name will no longer be your own. I would sooner see you dead.’

‘Then it seems that this will be our last farewell, mother,’ said Malekith scornfully. He searched for some hint of a lie, but he could find none. He realised that she had not confessed her true reason for allowing Naggaroth to fall into ruin, but he knew now, looking at her, that she would never tell him.

He turned to leave, but could not resist one more jibe. ‘Out of fond regard, I grant you one last gift: your life. Your treason is not forgiven, but it will go unpunished. Sit in your tower and rot.’

‘My king!’

Kouran’s shout caused Malekith to wheel his chariot about, turning to face the company of Black Guard. Behind them the thornwall was rippling with power, first moving like sinewy limbs, the movements increasing to a wild thrashing, as though the enchantment was tearing itself apart.

A huge swathe of the black-thorned barrier lifted and parted, the tearing of mystical tendrils like the scream of tortured children.

Where the thornwall had been now marched a column of armoured warriors, decked in black mail and plate, the regimental standards displaying the scarlet runes of Ghrond. Hundreds – thousands – of soldiers advanced along the old road from the gates of the city within. The warriors eyed the recoiling thornwall with fear and suspicion, many of them no doubt remembering the fate of comrades that had perhaps tried to break free or strayed too close.

The entire army of the north city marched forth.

A cabal of sorceresses led the dreadblades at the vanguard of the army. Mounted on a dark pegasus, Drusala flew over the army, the beat of bat-like wings in time to the drums that marked the tempo of the march.

The sable-skinned beast settled not far from Malekith’s chariot, tossing its head in disgust at the stench, spiralled horns embedded with gems catching the dim light. The sorceress bowed in the saddle, her pale skin stark against the dark fur collar of her robe.

Malekith looked at Drusala, not with mortal eyes but the gaze of the Witch King. He could see the winds of magic coiled about her, and the shadow of dark magic that shielded her soul from the mutating effects of the heightened magical power. There was something else in the spirit-gloom, deeper and darker even than the shadow, but Malekith did not know what it was – some power bargained from a daemonic entity no doubt, which would claim her eventually.

As the thunderous tread of the approaching army rang out on the frost-dusted stone of the road Malekith was struck by the scene, reminiscent of the second prophecy of Lileath.

The serpent will come forth, fangs hidden behind the snow, with scales of black and eyes of blood. Its venom shall be the doom of ambition.

Drusala spoke, breaking the chain of thought.

‘Queen Morathi, Hekarti Eternal, sends these gifts to her son as acknowledgement of her failings to treat him with due hospitality, and for neglecting her duties in times recent past. She would have it known that she hopes this offering of her host and most favoured coven will make some amends to heal the broken faith of late, and that ever the Witch King is the subject of not only her loyalty but her best intentions.’

Malekith looked at Drusala for some time, not speaking. His stare moved to the column of troops now reaching the Witch King’s host and back to the sorceress. Kouran was close at hand, awaiting his master’s command. Malekith directed a single, curt nod to his lieutenant, who raised his glaive in salute and turned to issue orders.

The Master of the Black Guard understood his king very well, and directed the garrison of Ghrond to precede the knights and Black Guard. He sent messengers ahead for the rest of the army to break camp and be ready to march by the time the expedition had returned, placing the Ghrondites in the centre of the column, close to the Witch King. This was no honour, as might be taken by others, but a precaution against potential treachery from Morathi’s servants.

Eight The Witch King Commands

Turning south and then east, the army of the Witch King left the lands on the edge of the Chaos Wastes and moved back towards Naggarond. Heralds were sent to Clar Karond and Hag Graef, Karond Kar and Har Ganeth, summoning the remaining armies of the druchii to stand ready for fresh conflict. The lords and ladies of these realms were bidden to come to Naggarond to attend Malekith’s council – a demand not an invitation, couched in words that left the recipients in no doubt as to the consequences of refusal. Even Hellebron and the hag queens of Khaine realised that they were no longer above retaliation and sent word that they would attend.

While these missives moved back and forth across the breadth of Naggaroth other preparations were undertaken. Through sorcerous means word was sent to the corsair fleets still abroad in the world, raiding distant coastlines and taking slaves from far-flung settlements of many different races. The captains of the fleets and black arks were commanded to return to their cities of berth for a new endeavour. They were likewise offered no alternative when Morathi’s sorceresses placed a geas upon the distant seafarers – a curse that filled their minds with tormenting dreams, dusk to dawn each night until they set foot again on Naggaroth’s land.

Some thirty days after reaching Ghrond the Witch King was back in his capital and his council brought together. Of the one hundred nobles, slavemasters, city rulers and beastlords that had once attended such gatherings, only a score still remained following the attacks of the northlanders and Malekith’s recent purges of any that had shown past disloyalty.

Malekith brought the council together in the great throne room of the Black Tower. Normally this huge hall remained empty, the throne of Aenarion unoccupied. Even Malekith was never so arrogant that he wanted to be measured against his father, but on this occasion, with the announcement he was going to make, comparison would be inevitable and it would be good to remind his subjects that the Witch King’s heritage outshone any other elf alive.

The hall was of such vast dimension that its vaulted ceiling and pillared walls vanished into darkness. Massive buttresses, every inch of their surface adorned with intricate carvings, loomed inwards. Stone gods glowered down from the pillars, Ellinill the Lord of Destruction and his wrathful progeny. The eyes of each god were crafted from enormous gemstones, their lustre enhanced by an enchantment that caused them to glow with a smouldering malevolence. Between the buttresses the walls were lost behind macabre tapestries fashioned from scalps encrusted with gore, a silent reminder of the many who had defied the Witch King’s authority and the ultimate fate for such defiance.

At the centre of the chamber stood a great circular table fashioned from a single block of obsidian. Glyphs carved into the table’s rim denoted each of the noble houses that had been privileged to sit there. Many times a smaller glyph, outlined in crushed rubies, followed the first symbol, noting a house that had been abolished by Malekith and extirpated from both the Black Council and the world of the living.

One hundred seats were set around the table, ghoulish thrones crafted from blackened bones and flayed skin. In many chairs some infamous leader of the dark elves reposed, though not all amongst that assembly were alive. Dozens of the seats were occupied by corpses, some of them fresh and reeking of decay, others withered by time into dried husks caked in dust and cobwebs. The most notorious traitors and disappointments were afforded a permanent position on the Black Council by the Tyrant of Naggarond.

A few paces behind each of the twenty chairs to be occupied stood one of the Black Guard, their halberds gleaming and sharp. Malekith waited on the throne, bathed in shadow, the fires of his curse dimmed by an effort of will so that he seemed an immobile statue of pitted black iron.

The gathering commenced in solemn quiet, with none of the pomp and posturing of previous councils. Not only was the circumstance no cause for celebration, the messengers from the Witch King had made it plain that he expected utter obedience in this testing time and no one was prepared to call undue attention to themselves while Malekith was in such a lethal mood.

The nobles of several cities came first, those of Clar Karond wearing cloaks of sea dragon scales, whips and pendants shaped like goads signifying their accomplishments as slave-takers. Rivals from Karond Kar followed, beastmasters that wore the pelts of manticores and hydras, and bore scarred faces and limbs with pride. They sat upon chairs opposite the Clar Karond delegation, whispering taunts and darting murderous glares that were returned in kind. Lady Khyra arrived shortly after, who took her customary place between the skeletal remains of Drusith Eldraken and the empty seat formerly occupied by Ebnir Soulflayer.

Drusala came next, standing in for the Queen of Ghrond. No other had ever represented the city before and the feuding city nobles fell silent as the import of Drusala’s attendance settled in their minds. They watched her take a seat almost at the foot of the throne dais, her hands neatly clasped in her lap, a chain of silver hung with a pendant of Hekarti wrapped about her fingers. She turned and smiled at the lords and ladies and the atmosphere grew chiller still.

The next councillors to arrive hailed from Naggarond: Ezresor and Venil Chillblade. The spymaster had of late been forced to take up arms himself and there was a raw scar on his cheek from a northman’s blade. With the pair came Drane Brackblood and Lokhir Fellheart as representatives of the corsair fleets, having arrived directly from their black arks which now filled a bay not far along the coast from the harbour of Naggarond. Other great citadels of the sea and smaller vessels had clustered into the ports at Clar Karond and Karond Kar, disgorging cargoes of slaves and loot in unprecedented numbers.

A representative for the shade clans, Saidekh Winterclaw, arrived swiftly after. His bald head was tattooed with tribal designs, face pierced and fingers beringed with blood-red metal. He was dressed in fur-lined dark leather armour set with bronze rings, and about his neck hung a necklace of rotting ears and tongues from his latest victory duels with other chieftains of the mountains. The others looked on the highlander with unconcealed contempt as he took his place, returning their looks of disgust with a leer of mutual hatred for the city-dwellers.

Two watch commanders, one male, the other female – the only two surviving watch commanders – had come from far to the east and west, the towers of Shagrath and Drackla Spire, and marched in step down the carpet with helms under their arms, faces raised in haughty disdain for the nobles that had seemingly abandoned them. They glared at their Black Guard escort, unused to such close attention, but sat down without comment.

Kouran arrived next, without ceremony, and took his place beside the throne on the opposite side to Drusala, his magical glaive held upright beside him, within the visor of his helm his eyes moving from one attendee to the next in constant motion, never stopping.

There was a pause until a pair of elves entered, dressed in tabards of red and purple, of a somewhat nervous disposition. They eyed each other and then lifted the clarions they were carrying to their lips. After a further agitated pause they blew a series of rising notes that rang along the length of the hall, disturbing the still. As the last echoes of the peel reverberated into nothing, they lowered their instruments and hailed loudly.

‘Presenting the Warpsword, Tyrant of Hag Graef, Daemon’s Bane, Lord Malus Darkblade!’

Lips pursed, a strut in his step, Darkblade entered the hall and stopped on the threshold surveying the scene. All eyes turned towards his gauche entrance and there was a shaking of heads and discontented muttering. Seemingly oblivious to his indiscretion Malus sauntered down the carpet and sat next to Kouran, who fixed the Tyrant of Hag Graef with a piercing stare. The captain of the Black Guard gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and a moment later the two heralds at the door screamed as their guts splashed across the floor.

The two Black Guards that had disembowelled them emerged from the shadow of the doors and dragged the unfortunates away, leaving a trail of gore, their shrieks fading with distance.

‘By all the Cytharai, you have chosen to make an enemy of me,’ snarled Darkblade, launching to his feet to confront Kouran, who remained seated, though he flexed his fingers on the haft of Crimson Death.

Any further protest was silenced by a husky but powerful voice at the doorway.

‘Do I smell fresh blood?’

Everyone turned to watch the arrival of the last council member. The Hag Queen of Khaine was in her decrepit phase, her skin a thin veil over wasted muscle and bone, only partially obscured by a robe of flayed elfskin. Hellebron’s face was a dreadful mask of sunken flesh, eyes ringed with black kohl that turned them into a shocking glare. Despite this she carried herself without sign of infirmity. Her movements were smooth and assured, and in defiance of her haggard appearance it was clear that she had once possessed outstanding beauty. A wig of white hair stained with bloody smears hung to her waist, kept in place by hooks that bit into the flesh of her forehead, stretching the wrinkled skin. Hands like claws opened and closed like a striking raptor.

She crouched, dipping a curling fingernail into the blood by the door. She licked the fluid from her fingertip and smiled, revealing cracked teeth that had been filed to points, gums bloodless and pale, a tongue stained black by millennia of narcotic abuse flicking between them, savouring the taste of life.

Hellebron had not always been so. All the recent talk of gods incarnating in the land of mortals reminded Malekith of Death Night seven hundred years before, when he had travelled to Har Ganeth for a very special conclave with the witch elves of Khaine.

It was an even choice which grated on his nerves more – the shrieking of the Khainites, the incessant drumming or the smell of burning viscera. The first was like the scrape of a broken blade across his nerves, the second was so monotonous it made him doubt time and sanity and the third was too much of a reminder of his physical condition.

He endured it all as he endured that immortal pain, in silence.

The temple of Khaine in Har Ganeth was an open forum of black pillars with an iron dome across the top hung with decaying organs and bones that swayed and rattled in the thermals of hot air rising from the sacrificial fire and a thousand braziers. In layout it was a good approximation of the ancient site upon the Blighted Isle where the Sword of Khaine rested in its dark stone altar, but considering the heat coming from the sacred fires – heat he could barely feel but had to be near-lethal for the cavorting worshippers – he wondered if the open aspect of the shrine was more practical than symbolic.

Such thoughts amused Malekith as he watched the ceremony continue. Out in the streets of the city, as in all the other cities of Naggaroth and any settlement where there was a shrine to Khaine, the witch elves were celebrating Death Night. The cultists prowled the streets and rooftops, seeking victims for the temple. In times past only those found outside their homes had fallen prey, but as the millennia had passed generations had grown wise to the perils and now in order to meet the bloody demands of their god the Khainites were not above breaking into buildings to snatch away those that could not defend themselves. Across the city howls of grief and the clash of weapons signalled successes and failures in this quest.

The unfortunates were dragged screaming up the temple steps, their bodies already bleeding from dozens of cuts, leaving a trail of blood on the red-veined marble. Hellebron and her coterie of hag queens stood beside an immense cauldron scored with diabolic runes. Wrought from black iron also, hollow with flames burning within, a statue of Khaine was set behind the cauldron, wicked blades held over the magical vessel. There was a fire lit beneath the cauldron, in which a growing pool of blood bubbled and steamed.

The sacrifices were heaved up onto the altar and their arteries opened wide, spilling crimson life fluid into the channels carved into the stone, running down into the dungeon beneath the temple where slaves laboured with cloths and buckets, passing pails of the spilt blood up slick steps to the priestesses in the shrine. Uttering their shrill prayers to the Lord of Murder the witch elves poured their bloody libation into the cauldron for their high priestesses.

Incredibly the victims did not die from this bleeding, but remained as shambling things kept alive by the magic of the temple. That is, until they stumbled into the grim-faced Executioners that lined the columned space, their two-handed draichs slick with blood. Each victim was finished with a single strike and lesser acolytes fell upon the bodies, some to rip out the hearts to toss into the holy flames, others fighting for possession of the heads to flense and gild as trophies. The rest of the remains were dragged away by whip-scarred slaves, to the workshops where they would be rendered down for components used in the Khainites’ narcotics and poisons, the remaining organs and body parts illicitly sold on to magical practitioners not willing to draw the eye of the Convent of Sorceresses.

For the whole of Death Night this continued, until just before dawn the Cauldron of Blood was nearly full. Ascending on steps wrought of bones and sinew, Hellebron and her hag queens bathed in the heated blood, laughing and splashing like children in a pool. Malekith watched closely. His unnatural gaze, aided by the Circlet of Iron upon his brow, could see the winds of dark magic binding to the cauldron through ritual and sacrifice. The magic flowed into the blood, energising it, and passed into the hag queens within.

Hellebron emerged as the first rays of dawn shone through the gate-pillars of the temple, her pale flesh bronzed by the sun’s early light. She was exquisite, possessed of such youthful vibrancy, her hair lustrous and thick, every limb and feature perfectly proportioned. Malekith knew well why his mother had scorned Hellebron when Alandrian’s daughter had asked for favour in the queen’s service many millennia ago: simple jealousy. For all her politics and machinations, Morathi was sometimes prone to folly caused by her primal need for superiority. Had she been able to stomach the presence of a maiden more beautiful than her, Morathi would have made a powerful servant rather than an enemy six thousand years old.

He snapped himself out of his lustful contemplation, remembering that there was a particular reason he had come to Har Ganeth on this of all nights. Morathi’s pleasure cults were growing again, inveigling their way into the courts and armies of Naggaroth as they had Ulthuan in the time before the oceans had swallowed Nagarythe. For the most part they were harmless, but Malekith was never content to allow his mother free rein, and a message had to be sent reminding Morathi that the Witch King was aware of her ploys.

Malekith paced across the temple as the last of the hag queens pulled her lithe, blood-coated body from the great cauldron. He extended his will, letting Asuryan’s flame burn from the cracks and gaps in his armour. The resemblance to the statue of Khaine was uncanny and it was this that had given Malekith inspiration.

‘You know me as your king,’ he intoned, ascending the steps to stand above the mighty cauldron of the Lord of Murder. He opened his arms, flame burning from his palms. ‘Know me now also as the incarnate vessel of your lord and god, Khaine the Ruthless, the Bloody-Handed Messenger, Jaguar of the Night, the Manticore. In me has He invested His power in the mortal realm, so that He might lead you on the crusade of death.’

Hellebron had known this was to come and she hid her distaste well enough as she watched Malekith stepping down into the blood. The thick liquid roiled at the heat of his entry, bursting and splashing over the rim of the cauldron. Malekith crouched, allowing his head to sink beneath the surface, feeling the dark magic crawling across his armour. He latched onto the threads of energy and poured his own magic back along their channels.

The outside of the cauldron started to glow. The runes grew brighter and brighter until they blazed with ruddy energy, filling the temple with blood-red light. As Hellebron and the assembled Khainites watched, Malekith ascended from the blood, the life fluid blackened, caked across his armoured flesh. He turned his eyes on Hellebron and after a moment – a moment that signalled displeasure but obedience – she lowered to one knee and bowed her head, prompting the rest of the Khaine worshippers to do likewise.

‘Send the word out across the world,’ Hellebron intoned. Malekith emitted a little of his magical power, shattering the burned blood from his armour with a burst of fire. ‘Celebrate and give thanks to the mighty Lord of Murder for delivering unto us his world-born son. We have been blessed and in His name we shall bare our blades in readiness for His will as voiced by His avatar. Hail Malekith, Eternal Khaine Incarnate.’

After Hellebron came two more from the blood cults: Tullaris, most infamous of the Executioners, and Satikha, Handmaiden of Shards, priestess of Eldrazor the god of blades. They each offered obeisance to what seemed to them the image of Malekith on his throne.

The last empty chair became the next subject of attention, until Lord Saesius of Karond Kar informed everybody that his sister had been slain during a northlander ambush en route to the capital.

‘So now we must await the pleasure of our august majesty, as usual?’ said Darkblade, sitting down. ‘I wonder how long it will be before he graces us with his presence.’

Unseen by the Tyrant of Hag Graef, the Black Guard standing behind him took a pace closer, hands shifting grip on her halberd.

Malekith allowed his essence to burst forth, opening eyes like two pits of fire. Darkblade visibly flinched, hands grabbing the arms of his chair.

‘Not long, my good friend Malus,’ said Malekith, standing up to his full height, glaring down at the assembled council. ‘Not long at all.’

Nine A Salutary Example

To his credit, Darkblade calmed his squirming and offered no defence or apology. Malekith regarded the master of Hag Graef carefully, seeing something writhing in the dreadlord’s heart, some daemonic power granted by illegal rite the Witch King suspected. There were whispers that the title Daemon’s Bane was not mere affectation but also not entirely truthful.

Malekith looked away, assuring himself that Malus would receive his justified fate soon enough. Malekith’s gaze swept over the others and finished upon Hellebron, who was staring with suspicion at Drusala, eyes narrowed like a cat’s.

‘Welcome back to Naggarond, chosen bride of Khaine,’ Malekith said slowly, extending a hand of greeting to the leader of the Khainites. ‘I offer my regrets that your temples have been so despoiled and your city ravaged.’

‘Had your bitch mother played her part we would have seen the human cattle slaughtered at the walls.’ Hellebron shuddered with excitement, eyes closing fully for a moment. She composed herself. ‘No matter. The temples of Khaine have been anointed in battle. It is a dedication, not a desecration.’

Malekith accepted this with a nod and took a moment, one hand upon the hilt of his sword.

‘Lord Vyrath Sor shall not be joining us,’ Malekith’s voice echoed across the chamber. ‘He was slow to answer my summons and only arrived this morning. I reminded him of his obligations to the Circlet of Iron. The harpies should carry what’s left of him back to his tower by sunset. It would pain me if the garrison of Nagrar were to think their master had fallen victim to some lesser fate.’

To emphasise his story, Malekith tossed an object onto the obsidian table. The gold chain clattered as it came to rest. Though caked in blood and shreds of flesh, there was no mistaking the sigil that had represented Vyrath Sor etched onto the chain’s clasp.

Malekith stalked about the periphery of the chamber, drifting between the shadows like some prowling tiger. ‘Do not mourn Vyrath Sor,’ the king advised with mock sympathy. ‘He decreed his own doom when he placed the defence of his miserable outpost before his duty to his master. The same doom any one of you might have earned by defying me.’

‘Nagrar is lost, then?’ the question was uttered by Venil Chillblade.

The Witch King made a deprecating wave of his hand.

‘An inconsequence,’ he declared. ‘The garrison will fight to the last because they have no choice. They will die as druchii should, shedding their blood on behalf of their king. When the tower falls, the advance of the barbarians will falter. They will be some time plundering their conquest and slaughtering such captives as they take. It will take their warlords still more time to gather their animals back into a fighting horde.’

‘But they will continue their advance, your highness?’ The hesitant voice of Thar Draigoth, the great flesh-merchant, sounded more like a rodent’s squeak than the words of Naggaroth’s most infamous slaver. Like Venil, he had extensive holdings in Karond Kar. After seeing his interests in Clar Karond massacred by the triumphant invaders, he was doubly worried about protecting the rest of his property.

Malekith came around behind Lady Khyra’s seat, one of his iron claws reaching down to stroke the shoulder to which her false arm was attached. The king glanced along the table, sweeping his gaze across each of his dreadlords.

‘The Rhana Dandra is coming,’ he announced. ‘The End Times are upon us and the moment for action is nigh. You have all felt it, I am sure, and we have certainly all witnessed it as daemons and northlanders bayed at the gates of our cities. Ulthuan stands on a precipice. Usurpers and faint-hearts defend our ancient isle against a foe they cannot defeat. If our people – all of our people – are to survive the coming onslaught they will need strong leaders. Leaders only Naggaroth can provide.’

‘The weakness of our cousins shall finally be their downfall,’ said Lady Khyra. ‘As soon as our city’s defences have been repaired, we shall assemble the fleets and await your command.’

‘Karond Kar suffered also,’ added the dreadlord Eillhin, eyes flicking towards his rivals, ‘but you can count upon our ships and warriors no less than any other city.’

‘Once the northlanders have been driven back, all of Naggaroth will heed the call to arms,’ said the male watch commander, whose name Malekith had not bothered to learn.

‘You misunderstand my intent,’ the Witch King told them, stilling their enthusiasm. ‘The End Times are coming. The Realm of Chaos seeks to devour the world and the Chaos Wastes expand. The northlanders will pillage everything that has not been warped by the storm of magic descending upon us, and will squat in our fallen towers where they will be preyed upon by daemons sent by the masters they seek to serve.’

He stepped down from the throne dais and paced along the hall. All eyes followed him until he stopped upon the seal of Aenarion set in gold and malachite in the floor. The sigil began to writhe, infused with the heat from Malekith’s tread, seeming to come to life to light the Witch King with an auric glow.

‘This blasted wilderness has never been our home. It was a refuge, nothing more, and it has become an anchor to our ambitions. It is time to cast free ourselves from its cold burden, and direct our fullest intention to the only home we have ever desired.’

‘The defences of Ulthuan are considerable, even if our cousins are busy fighting daemons,’ Ezresor said carefully. ‘Lines of supply and retreat…’

‘There will be no retreat.’ Malekith’s words echoed along the hall like tomb-slabs of mausoleums closing on the council. ‘Naggaroth will die and any that remain or try to return will die also. Do not mistake necessity for vanity. We must reclaim Ulthuan or perish in the Rhana Dandra. Put all other thoughts from your minds. There is no failure on this expedition, only death or victory.’

This announcement was greeted with outbursts of disbelief and horror. The Black Guards stood ready and Kouran’s eyes were fixed on Malekith waiting for the simplest of signals, but Malekith gave no indication of his displeasure. The Witch King saw his captain cast his gaze about the room, no doubt noting who protested the most, or did not, either perhaps a sign of a deeper plotting. Kouran turned his halberd in his hands, unnoticed by the others, until the blade pointed towards Ezresor, who was sneering and shaking his head at the posturing nobles.

Malekith would have killed any for such dissent only a year earlier, but his resources were dwindling rapidly and he needed these leaders of druchii society to support him. He allowed protests and veiled threats to wash over him, salving his pride with the knowledge that despite their haranguing every elf present would do exactly as Malekith commanded. Voicing a difference of opinion was one matter, openly disobeying the Witch King’s orders another.

Hellebron’s cackle cut through the uproar.

‘Khaine’s feast grows daily, and you think you can avoid the banquet?’ Fingernails like daggers scratched the surface of the table. She turned her attention to the Witch King. ‘All that is left is the bloodletting – what does it matter where the droplets fall?’

‘The blood of the druchii belongs to me,’ Malekith snarled. ‘I and I alone have made you what you are. Mine is the will that has stripped all weakness from your hearts, mine is the vision that has poured strength into your bodies. All you think, all you dream, all that you are is as I have made it. The druchii are mine, formed from my vision, moulded by my cause. From the pathetic tatters of a vanquished realm I have built a great and terrible people.’

‘But how does that help us save Naggaroth?’ Malus asked, confidence obviously fuelled by the disapproval voiced by the others. Malekith cared nothing for their opinions, only for their uses.

‘Ereth Khial take Naggaroth!’ Malekith spat. ‘Our treacherous kin are ripe for conquest! What would you do, spend the blood of your warriors to protect a land that you despise, a bleak desolation that has within it nothing but scorn and mockery? I tell you, I tell all of you, this will not be! We will not bleed our armies defending this abominable wilderness! If we are to fight, then we will fight a war that is worth fighting! We will fight to take the land that belongs to us! We will fight to claim the land that is our heritage and birthright! Naggaroth? Let it burn! Let it rot! Let it fall to daemons and beasts! It is Ulthuan we desire, it is Ulthuan that is the destiny of the druchii! Ulthuan and the crown of Aenarion! Ulthuan and the birthright of Malekith!’

The Witch King’s eyes flared from the black depths of his helm. ‘We will not waste our strength defending Naggaroth. We will instead gather every warrior in the realm, every knight and corsair, every beastmaster and shade. We will muster such a host as has never sailed against the shores of Ulthuan. Every black ark, every helldrake and galley, any ship worthy of the sea will assemble in the greatest armada the gods have ever seen. In the past, the druchii have faltered against the asur because always you restrained yourselves, you held something back. This time, such cowardice will not be permitted. You will throw the full strength of your realms against Ulthuan. Nothing will be held back, for there will be nothing to come back to. There will be only victory or death!’

There were nods of agreement, some more forced than others, but Malekith could see that the truth had lingered in their hearts for some time but was only now being acknowledged. The attacks of the northlanders had been bitter, but no more bitter for Malekith than the last six millennia of frustration and disappointment. Now his subjects could feel an iota of what he had felt for so long, trapped behind their walls, seeing all they had built brought to ruin by the failings and machinations of others.

‘Naggaroth will never recover,’ the Witch King continued, erasing all doubt from the minds of his councillors. He knew they would obey his command; they always did. He needed more. He needed them to believe in their cause with greater passion than ever before. For one time only, the entirety of the druchii had to be bound together by a common purpose: conquest or extinction. His voice rose to a shout. ‘It is not the will of our people to slowly dwindle and die, cowering behind our walls. We are the bloodied blade that delivers fate’s end. We are the hunters from whom no prey escapes. We are the victors of a thousand wars, the lords of countless lesser creatures, and we do not bow meekly to Morai-heg’s decree. We are scions of Nagarythe, the people of Aenarion! We will reclaim our birthright or die!’

The dread lords and ladies sat in shocked silence at this decree, none daring to look at any other except their lord, who prowled around the table and stopped before his throne, standing between Drusala and Ezresor. Malekith looked at the sorceress and then the spymaster.

‘Before you depart the Black Tower. Before you return to your cities to gather your warriors, a demonstration. A reminder of what must befall all who betray their king.’

Kouran rose to his feet and joined his master. From the darkness behind his Black Guards emerged Malekith’s personal torturers bringing with them the wickedly barbed, hooked and pointed implements of their profession.

Kouran stood before the iron throne, the torturers flanking him at either side. The captain turned towards Drusala, then in a sudden whirl he fell upon Ezresor. The spymaster was caught utterly by surprise, the blade he had hidden in the sleeve of his robe pinned against his wrist as Kouran caught him, the point of Crimson Death a hair’s breadth from the spymaster’s throat. Ezresor was forced to his feet as the captain bent his arm behind his back.

Malekith seized hold of the struggling elf. His iron hand gripped Ezresor’s gaunt face, forcing his mouth open.

‘You were the eyes and ears of the Black Tower,’ the king snarled. ‘But what good are eyes and ears when the tongue will not relate what has been seen and heard?’ The Witch King’s iron talons reached inside Ezresor’s mouth. A gargled cry escaped the spymaster as Malekith ripped the tongue free, blood sizzling on the Witch King’s fingertips. He held the bloodied strip of flesh for all the Black Council to see, the organ charring rapidly. ‘One of you bought Ezresor’s tongue. Look well upon what you purchased.’

Dropping the gory talisman on the floor, the king stormed from the chamber, leaving Kouran to make an example to the others.

As the Witch King ordered, so it was to be.

Though Naggaroth was to be surrendered, it was not to be gifted to the northlanders and daemons. The slaves were slaughtered in their millions, their departing souls used to cast vile enchantments upon their bodies to bring plague upon those that came after. The earth itself was cursed so that no crop or grass or flower would grow again from the blood-soaked soil. The snows and the water courses were poisoned, and the subterranean rivers and seas of the Iron Mountains were spoiled. The sky was choked by a bank of black smoke from the burning cities and towers. Nothing was left as loot or comfort for the invaders.

Only Morathi remained at Ghrond, and the most demented of Khaine’s acolytes fought endless war with Hellebron against the Bloodied Horde at Har Ganeth. All others of elven blood followed their lords to the coast and prepared not for an attack but for a migration, back to the land of their ancestors.

Because the fates have ever had a sense of drama, even at the hour of setting forth, as the sails of the corsairs’ ships darkened the ocean and the great shadows of the black arks stretched across storm-tossed waves, so the last of the daemons attacking Ulthuan fell to the Sunfang, Lacelothrai, the blade of Prince Tyrion, and his brother Teclis banished their kind from the shores of the elven homeland at great cost to his own health and future. Tired were the defenders but they knew their enemies would think them weak and vulnerable. Muted were the celebrations as the dead were buried and the fortifications repaired.

Thus was set the stage for the opening scene of Ulthuan’s last war.