The End Times | The Curse of Khaine

Ten The Battle of Eagle Gate

This was his land, his soil, and countless were the elven lives that had been sacrificed upon it. Malekith could almost feel the souls of millions of dead, lamenting their demise from the depths of the underworld in Mirai, who had shed their blood for the region the asur called the Shadowlands.

It was a disdainful name, dismissive of the great history that had been forged on the cold plains that had once been known as Nagarythe. This was the land of Aenarion, who had saved Ulthuan from the daemons, yet it was now regarded as a fell realm, spoken of in whispers. It was so typical of the elves of Ulthuan that they should dismiss so much of their heritage while lauding the weaker descendants of those that had created their civilisation.

More blood was watering the spiny plants and short grasses of the Nagarythe mountainsides as another column of druchii warriors marched up the valley towards the immense fortification known as Eagle Gate. No other elven keep or castle had ever rivalled the gates of the Annulii Mountains in size or imposition to attack. Each stretched across the valley it defended a score times the height of an elf, many walls deep, protected by batteries of bolt throwers, warded by the ancient enchantments of Saphery and garrisoned by thousands of Ulthuan militia.

Eagle Gate was perhaps the most impressive of all, protecting the approaches to Ellyrion on the Inner Sea. The walls were as white as the snow that topped the two peaks that flanked the awe-inspiring barrier. They had once been fashioned so well that not a crack or fingerhold would have been found on their smooth surface, but of late the relentless attacks of the druchii, and before that the assaults of the daemons, had defaced the ancient stone more than the proceeding millennia. The ramparts had suffered a battering by bolt throwers and sorcery, jagged in places like broken teeth, the slender battlements and arched revetments hastily replaced in parts by whitewashed wooden defences.

Of the eight curtain walls, only two remained whole. The outer walls had been breached in the recent daemon war and in place of enchanted stone the defence was held by resolute elves clad in white and gold. The colours of Tiranoc and Ellyrion and several of the other kingdoms rippled on the banners above the host. Here and there a few flags bore the red-and-green of Caledor, but only a few, belonging to warriors and knights that had come to the gate in defiance of Prince Imrik’s wishes.

The bows of the defenders sang as clouds of arrows fell upon the advancing host, who were as yet out of range with their crossbows, unable to loose any retaliation that might drive the asur from the rampart. The snaking column of black that was the Naggarothi host seemed beset in a sea of foaming white as chariots and riders from Tiranoc to the south engaged them from the flank. From above, mages hurled purple fireballs into the ranks of attackers, setting fires in the flesh of the druchii, charring clothing and melting mail armour. Jagged blue lightning ripped into the silver-and-purple-clad warriors, turning living soldiers into drifting clouds of smoke and molten steel.

Beside Malekith Seraphon stirred, emitting a low growl that made the promontory rumble beneath the Witch King’s feet. He patted her neck, her scales adequate protection against his burning palm.

‘You hunger for the battle,’ he said, sensing the bunch of her muscles as her instincts told her to hunt and rend. ‘Not yet, faithful Seraphon. In time you shall be allowed to the banquet, but not yet. Their claws need a little more dulling, or we shall regret our haste.’

It was not the first attack Eagle Gate had weathered since the druchii had arrived, but Malekith was determined that it would not stand against him this time. He had given the honour, dubious though it was, to Malus Darkblade, but it was not to the warriors of Hag Graef nor the knights of the Tyrant that the Witch King truly entrusted victory. It was a simple fact that from the moment the immense druchii fleet had landed on the shores of Nagarythe and disgorged its hosts towards Ellyrion, the fate of Eagle Gate had been sealed, and the efforts of Darkblade and his regiments was simply a bloody teaser of the violence to come – a test of Malus’s dedication to maintaining his veneer of loyalty to Malekith.

Malus was doomed to failure from the outset, and probably knew as much. He had saved his most precious troops, protecting them like a dwarf king hoards his gold, but the time had rapidly come when the first assaults had failed and the Tyrant was forced to commit his household troops: the knights of Burning Dark. He led them now on a desperate charge through the defenders, assisted by Drusala and her sorceresses.

No doubt the sight of Malekith standing beside Seraphon watching the proceedings did little to hearten the Tyrant. The Witch King was content to observe the lord of Hag Graef while he expended his forces, weakening his power with every failed attack, unable to defy his king. And the true beauty was that the attacks of Malus served Malekith’s purpose in another fashion, drawing the eye of the enemy outwards to the Shadowlands, bringing in more of their reserves and forces from across the nearby kingdoms. Malus did not know that knights from Ellyrion had arrived, and dismounted they waited now amongst the bolstered ranks of the defenders. Flame-winged phoenixes drove away the harpies that had been scavenging the dead in the upper towers and then swooped upon the vanguard of Malus’s latest assault threatening to scatter them as the early attacks had been thwarted. Every elf that died defending the gate was one less Malekith would face when he finally made his move, or one less to support Malus should he survive the encounter and make a claim for the crown.

Despite the forlorn situation, Malekith admired the knights and warriors bearing down upon the defenders. It was rare for him to contemplate such lowly subjects but he took a moment to acknowledge the unswerving dedication and bravery demonstrated by their sacrifice below. Many of them would die, of course, without knowing such regard existed, but the fortunate few that survived to see the dusk Malekith would reward for their endeavour, further undermining Malus’s power. He was, after all, a magnanimous ruler when required. That which could not be coerced with dread was easily bought with gold and favour, and in the new world they would carve on these shores the druchii knew only a few would rise to the top of society and would happily betray each other for such position.

There was a great commotion at the front of the assault, but Malekith could not see clearly what passed. He saw an explosion of daemonic energy and the asur army was in disarray for a while. No doubt Malus had unleashed whatever power it was Malekith had sensed at the council. It mattered little; the assault was grinding to its inevitable stop.

The mountains rang then with deafening roars, followed by a tumult of cheering from the ramparts of the gate. A palpable aura of despair engulfed the druchii host pressing into the valley, from spearmen to knights, sorceresses to the beastmasters that drove Malus’s two monstrous hydras into battle. Malekith turned to the south, knowing what it was that had caused such consternation so quickly, broken lips twisted into a smile.

Dragons.

There were dozens of the immense creatures, each ridden by one of the proud knights of Caledor. A rainbow of colours against the summer sky, a glittering chromatic display of raw strength. The surprise and delight of the defenders was all the greater for recent events. Imrik of Caledor had declined to help Tyrion against the daemon assault and had withdrawn his forces to the borders of his kingdom.

His aid had been unlooked for, but now it seemed the tide would be turned by Imrik’s intervention.

Such relief and joy was untimely.

Malekith pulled himself up into Seraphon’s saddle-throne and picked up the iron chains of her reins.

‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘Go to your cousins.’

Shouts of encouragement from the druchii followed Malekith into the sky as those below thought he sought to take on the squadrons of Caledor single-handed. Jeers rang out from the defenders, mocking his arrogance.

The jeers faded and the praise of the druchii fell to silence as Malekith and Imrik guided their monstrous mounts towards each other, weapons bared. As he closed with the Caledorian prince, Malekith was surprised by just how alike he was to his ancestor whose name he had taken. It was impossible for the Witch King not to think back to a day of destiny, a battle fought six millennia before above the fields of Maledor to the north.

Sulekh’s tail lashed, smashing into Athielle’s horse, turning it to a pulp of blood and broken bones. The princess was flung through the air and landed heavily, left leg twisting beneath her. Malekith channelled dark magic, ready to unleash another blaze of fire to finish off the Ellyrian. A movement caught his attention, a swiftly approaching blot against the clouds. He looked up to see a massive red dragon plunging towards him, a golden-armoured figure on its back.

‘Finally,’ the Witch King said, all thoughts of Athielle forgotten. He raised his voice in challenge, his words a metallic roar that carried over the din of battle. ‘Come to me, Imrik! Come to me!’

The companies of the White Lions and Phoenix Guard surged forward into the Naggarothi below while Malekith’s black dragon leapt up to meet the Phoenix King head-on. Maedrethnir plunged down from the clouds uttering a roaring challenge. The shock of the dragons’ impact almost threw Imrik from the saddle-throne, the two titanic beasts slamming into each other in a ferocious welter of claws and fangs. As a blast of fire from the red dragon splashed across Sulekh, Malekith laughed; even dragonfire was no threat to one that had survived the flames of Asuryan.

The two beasts parted and circled, gashes pouring blood from both. Imrik levelled his lance for the next pass, aiming for Malekith’s chest. The Witch King spoke a single word, the True Name of Khaine, and the baneful sorcery of his shield was unleashed. The blood-red symbol on its surface bombarded Imrik with the cacophony of war and the taste of blood filled his mouth as Khaine’s gift roused the Phoenix King’s rage.

Malekith was almost upon his foe as he shook his head to clear away the effects of the dread rune. Just as the Witch King was about to strike, Imrik swung his lance as Maedrethnir rolled to the right, the weapon’s shining tip scoring a wound across the flank of the black dragon as she passed by overhead.

The black dragon turned swiftly, almost catching Maedrethnir’s tail in her jaw. The dragon dipped in the air to avoid the attack, exposing Imrik to Sulekh’s raking claws. He turned and brought up his shield just in time, claws as hard as diamond ripping across its surface as protective energies blazed.

Gliding towards the ground, the two dragons closed again, snarling and roaring. Fire sprang from Malekith’s sword, surrounding Imrik with crackling intensity. The enchantments of his armour protected the Phoenix King from harm, the blue flames passing around him harmlessly. Maedrethnir grappled with the black dragon, their long necks swaying as each sought to sink fangs into the other. Claws raked back and forth, sending scales and blood spilling to the ground.

Bucking and twisting, the dragons descended, locked together by jaw and claw. Imrik let his lance fall from his grasp and pulled free Lathrain, just as the Witch King lashed out with Avanuir. The two swords met with an explosion of lightning and blue fire. The shock threw back Imrik’s arm and Malekith struck again, amazed when his foe managed a last-moment parry, turning aside Malekith’s blade as it screamed towards the Phoenix King’s head.

The dragons gave no thought to their riders as they savaged each other. Imrik was tossed left and right as Maedrethnir struggled with his foe, wings flapping and tail whipping. Malekith clung to his golden reins with his shield hand, steam and smoke rising from his armour.

The gaze of the Phoenix King met the eyes of the Witch King. Malekith poured forth his scorn in the form of a blood-curse, his eyes locked to the pale gaze of the Caledorian usurper. The Sapherian charms hanging on Imrik’s armour glowed as they warded away the Witch King’s sorcery. Again Imrik turned aside a stroke from Avanuir as the two dragons came close enough for Malekith to strike.

The battle continued to rage around them. In their frenzy, the dragons trampled over friend and foe without distinction, Khainites and Ellyrians, White Lions and Naggarothi clawed and trampled by the two behemoths.

Imrik kept his focus on the Witch King, seeking an opening to strike. When the black dragon reeled back from an attack from Maedrethnir, the Phoenix King seized his opportunity. His sword cut down into the Witch King’s shoulder, biting deep with a scream of tearing metal. Malekith felt the sorcery of his armour exploding from his wounded limb, snaking up the sword that bit into his flesh.

Maedrethnir gave a pained howl as the black dragon’s claws found purchase around his neck. Jaw snapping, Imrik’s mount seized hold of his enemy’s wing, biting through bone and sinew until the black dragon released its grip in a spasm of pain. Blood was gushing from Maedrethnir’s neck. The red dragon stumbled back leaving a stream of crimson on the rucked earth.

As the Witch King wrenched on the chain of the black dragon’s reins, the beast lunged at Imrik. Her jaws closed around his arm, teeth cracking against the ensorcelled ithilmar. Lathrain tumbled from his grasp. The straps of the Phoenix King’s harness parted as the black dragon shook her head, dragging Imrik from the saddle-throne, casting him to the ground.

Heaving in a gasping breath, Imrik pushed to his feet, seeking Lathrain. He saw the glitter of metal in a tussock not far away and set towards it, hand outstretched.

Malekith smashed Avanuir into Imrik’s back, launching him from the bloodied ground. The Phoenix King crashed down amidst the bodies of the slain Ellyrians, coming face-to-face with Finudel’s dead visage.

The black dragon struggled as Malekith tried to goad and steer her towards the fallen Phoenix King, eager to pursue Maedrethnir who had withdrawn, limping heavily, flanks scored with dozens of ragged gashes. The black dragon fared little better, her wings tattered, face and neck marked by claws and fangs.

The will of the Witch King prevailed and the dragon’s head turned towards Imrik. Flapping ragged wings, Sulekh pounded forwards, jaws wide, dripping bloodied saliva.

Imrik looked up, fear written across his face as Sulekh’s fangs reflected in the gems of his armour. Malekith laughed in triumph.

Victory had been so close that day. A single sword stroke away. By such margins had Malekith been thwarted on occasion, and history would have been so different but for the constant prickling of Morai-heg’s twists of fate. Incompetence in the druchii ranks, infighting by the nobles and commanders, untimely storms, two Phoenix Kings committing suicide and the gods themselves had barred Malekith’s path to ultimate victory.

Not today. Today there would be no intervention to spare Malekith’s foes. He fixed this new Imrik with his dread gaze and lifted Urithain.

Cries of surprise and dismay sounded from the mountainsides as Imrik saluted with his lance and the two dragonriders turned towards Eagle Gate, the lord of Caledor following behind the Witch King of Naggaroth. In their wake came the gold and silver and red and blue scales of Caledorian mounts, but amongst them more ebon-hued beasts raised by the masters of Clar Karond and Karond Kar.

There was already fighting on the walls as Caledorian knights that had been part of the garrison revealed their true loyalty. Even as the dragons descended with claws and deadly breath the great portal of Eagle Gate’s seventh wall was opening.

The druchii roar of glee was almost as thunderous as the cries of the dragons as Malekith’s followers surged into the pass, intent on the doomed fortification.

Eleven An Alliance of Necessity

‘You have betrayed us all,’ hissed Imrik as Teclis stepped aside to reveal his companion. Even though Malekith’s avatar bore his original unmutilated form, his features were well known to the descendants of Caledor Dragontamer. ‘You invite… that thing into the heart of my city?’

‘Put down your weapon,’ Malekith said calmly. He waved an incorporeal hand through one of the alabaster pillars that held up the domed roof of the private audience chamber. ‘Even your ensorcelled blade will not harm this projection.’

Imrik pivoted, the point of his sword towards Teclis. ‘This traitor is real enough for blood to be drawn.’

‘Did you not receive my gift?’ said Malekith, continuing to approach. ‘I trust my ambassador was convincing in his entreaties.’

‘The dragon eggs?’ Imrik’s sword arm wavered. ‘I could not believe it was by your hand that they were returned.’

‘This must be far harder for you than it is for me,’ Malekith admitted in a conciliatory tone. ‘I know that I have had many conflicts with your ancestors, starting with your namesake, the first Imrik of Caledor, but I have never harboured any hatred for your kingdom or your people.’

‘So easily lies spill from your lips, kinslayer,’ Imrik snarled. His attention moved back to Malekith, allowing Teclis to retreat several steps, content at the moment to allow the two elves to continue without interruption. ‘You waged war upon Caledor as much as any other realm.’

‘I resent the accusation,’ said Malekith, genuinely offended by this claim. ‘Never once did I send my armies into the mountains of the south. My agent, Hotek, was given explicit instructions never to cause direct injury to your forefathers or their realm.’

‘You did not invade because you knew you would lose,’ Imrik said boldly. He sheathed his sword and folded his arms, but Malekith could already sense that the prince’s indignation was now more by habit than deeply felt.

‘I did not invade because I knew I would have to destroy Caledor to achieve victory.’ Malekith’s apparition shrugged. ‘When I gain my rightful place as ruler of our people, the dragonlords will be the vanguard of my army. Only lesser kings would desire peasant woodsmen from Chrace as their personal guard when they could have the dragon princes of Caledor.’

Imrik’s defiance wavered and his gaze slid to Teclis.

‘You have told him of what we discussed before? Concerning the visitation of my ancestor?’

‘I have not,’ said Teclis. ‘I wished Malekith to seek his own bargain with you, and that is why he is here.’

Imrik slumped into his chair, a gauntleted hand held to his forehead for several moments. When he looked up his expression was pained, directed at the mage.

‘There is no other way?’

Malekith answered before Teclis could reply. ‘It takes a great leader to wage war, but it takes a greater leader still to forge peace, Imrik. None should claim to have greater grievance than I. Six thousand years I have borne the weight of my deeds without regret.’ Malekith paused, suddenly aware of the emotion he was feeling. He had intended his words to be a salve to Imrik’s pride but as the Witch King spoke, the truth of his claim choked his speech. ‘Millions have died, but we have the chance to end that now. It is easy to cling to history, to be popular. It is far harder to be right.’

The thought that his heart’s desire, his birthright, was so close to his grasp focused Malekith’s thoughts, but it was with a surprisingly tired sword arm that he hewed his blade through the defenders of Eagle Gate while Seraphon gouged and slashed her way into their ranks.

Tower after tower tumbled under the assaults of the dragons while poisonous gas and dragonfire scoured the ramparts of life. Malekith’s attacks were methodical, machine-like, and as he cut down a Tiranocii captain the Witch King wondered why he did not take more delight in the moment of victory.

He cast his gaze towards the dragon princes, where Imrik led the charge into a regiment of Ellyrians, though his lance seemed bereft of blood for the moment. Was the victory tainted by the Caledorians’ betrayal? Did it somehow rob Malekith of the sense that it had been fought for and earned? Was it the deeper feeling that Imrik’s alliance was driven by something other than loyalty, Malekith’s unease fuelled by an inherent distrust of Teclis who had arranged the pact? Malekith had come too close to allow his future triumph to be built on such shallow foundations.

Or was it something even more fundamental that robbed the Witch King of joy at the very moment he overthrew the bulwark that had kept him at bay for so long? Perhaps a momentary acknowledgement that had he not bided his time a little longer, sought to woo the Caledorians and others more strongly, he might have legitimately succeeded Bel Shanaar?

But this Imrik was not the same as his forefather. He was wrought of softer mettle, though he did not realise it. Caledor the First had never been prideful. Stubborn, taciturn and often ill-mannered, but ambition had never been a weakness to be exploited. The first Imrik had never wanted to rule. Already disenfranchised and distanced by the Phoenix King, ignored by Prince Tyrion, the current Caledorian ruler had been ripe for the turning.

He saw Imrik pause, his dragon alighting on the ruins of a gate tower less than a bowshot away. He was shouting directions to his warriors, calling off the attack as the defenders fled by the thousands along the pass to Ellyrion. Malus’s forces were ill-placed for pursuit either into the mountains or towards Tiranoc, and the Caledorians bore up such knights and warriors of their own realm from the ruins of the gate, carrying them out of the path of the encroaching druchii.

Malekith hacked his way out of a press of defenders caught on a battlement, as content as Imrik to see his fellow elves escape. As much as he had wished them dead before the fortress had fallen, now Malekith viewed them as future subjects. When the Rhana Dandra engulfed the world he would need as many warriors as possible and the spear- and bow-armed militia of Ulthuan would make a fine first wave to absorb the venom of any Chaos attacks.

He directed Seraphon to land alongside the Caledorian prince, pulling tight on her chains before she lunged for the other dragon. Cowed, the black dragon hung her head and lapped at the puddles of blood on the wall.

Imrik turned in the saddle, his lance swinging towards Malekith’s heart, but the Witch King kept his weapon lowered.

‘Was that so difficult?’ Malekith asked, waving Urithain towards the broken walls.

‘The hardest thing I will ever do,’ replied Imrik, the pain fresh in his eyes.

‘I think not,’ Malekith replied. ‘Today is just the beginning. A battle, nothing more. Today was easy, a military objective to be achieved. Harder days will come.’

‘How so?’ said the Caledorian, shaking his head. ‘What could be harder than slaying those I once called neighbour?’

‘Meeting their families and asking them to follow you,’ Malekith replied from experience.

As dusk fell Malekith waited in the uppermost chamber of one of the few towers that remained of Eagle Gate, and with him his new ally. Imrik was dressed in all his armour and finery, a resplendent figure of gold and rubies and jade surcoat, as bright and colourful as Malekith was dark and menacing, one the sunlight, the other the ember ready to spark into violent life. The expression of the Caledorian prince did not match his ensemble, sombre to the point of bitterness.

‘Needless blood was shed today,’ said the prince, pacing back and forth across the chamber. The room was sparsely furnished with desk, three chairs and a bookcase filled with tomes of watch rotations and the tower captain’s journal. ‘If I had made known my alliance with you before you attacked, the garrison would have surrendered if offered safe haven or retreat.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Malekith, ‘but now your warriors have raised blade and lance against their kin, and the princes of Caledor have signed the pact with blood. The show of strength will also serve as an apt demonstration to the other kingdoms. Only by the strength of Caledor have I been thwarted before, and now that strength is mine to command.’

‘Mine to command,’ Imrik said sharply, stopping beside the desk. Malekith watched the prince’s hand stray unconsciously to the hilt of his sword – the Witch King had allowed his ally to bear arms in his presence as a sign of trust and equality. The truth was that Imrik had nothing to gain and everything to lose if he tested himself against Malekith’s battlecraft. ‘We are your allies, not your subjects, Malekith.’

‘Of course,’ Malekith said softly, gesturing to the bottle of wine and two glasses set on the desk. ‘I did not mean to imply otherwise.’

‘Many a truth falls from slipped tongue,’ said Imrik, regarding the Witch King with suspicion.

They stood in silence for a while longer, until Malekith realised that Imrik was not going to drink the wine.

‘You think it poisoned?’ Malekith said with a laugh. ‘Tonight, so soon after sealing our common purpose?’

‘History teaches that it is unwise to be a guest at your table,’ said the prince. ‘Bel Shanaar’s shade would warn me to be cautious.’

‘I would partake myself, but my… condition renders even the finest Cothique red a tasteless experience.’

‘Why two glasses?’

‘I am awaiting another guest.’

Silence descended again and Malekith moved to the window to look out over the two armies encamped in Eagle Pass. The druchii laughed harshly at their bonfires, singing victory songs as looted wine passed from lips to lips and bloodthirsty tales and exaggerated deeds of deadly prowess were swapped. Further towards the peaks the Caledorians camped in silence, the great shadows of their dragons dark against the rock, a few lanterns the only light to betray their presence.

Something caught Malekith’s eye. It was a movement, or rather a lack of it, a space where there should have been something but was not. With mortal eyes he watched the patrols of the Naggarothi pacing around the limits of the camp, but with his magical sense, enhanced by the Circlet of Iron, he felt the twisting of the winds of magic, creating a swiftly-moving pocket, a void that passed between the sentries without notice.

The shadow that was not a shadow quickly negotiated the gates and ruins, coming to the foot of the tower unheralded. There was a flutter of shadow magic dispersing and a moment later a figure hooded and cloaked in grey appeared at the ruined door of the tower, stepping over the threshold before any other bore witness to the arrival.

‘He is here,’ said Malekith, turning back to Imrik.

The Caledorian prince looked towards the door, where a few moments later the cowled newcomer appeared. He threw back his hood to reveal an almost painfully thin face, gaunt to the point of wasted, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. A quivering hand removed a small phial from a pouch at his belt and the blue contents were quickly imbibed. The elf closed his eyes and breathed out a long sigh. When he opened his eyes again some colour and vigour had returned and his gaze was alert, flicking between Malekith and Imrik.

He cast the cloak over one of the chairs, revealing white robes beneath an outer mantel of twilight blue that seemed to contain pinpricks of star light that waxed and waned as the elf moved to the table and poured the wine into the two glasses. Magical sigils gleamed in the cloak of stars, dappling the floor with gold and red.

‘Teclis,’ said Imrik, instinctively taking the goblet of wine as it was handed to him by the mage. ‘How? How are you here?’

‘By great effort,’ the High Loremaster replied. ‘And I cannot remain long. I must be at my brother’s camp by dusk two days hence.’

‘He is so close at hand?’ said Imrik, shocked. ‘Two days’ march from here?’

‘Relax, Imrik, the steed of shadows bears me across Ulthuan faster than any mortal horse. Tyrion remains in Lothern,’ the mage assured them. He took a long draught of wine and smiled. ‘Events continue to pass as Lileath prophesied, and to each will come the allotted role. The gods will come again, in mortal form, and by their presence we will be delivered from Chaos and the Rhana Dandra.’

‘The more you speak,’ the Witch King said, ‘the more I am convinced that you have taken council with my mother, who imagines that she is Hekarti reborn.’

‘And perhaps she is,’ Teclis replied. ‘Perhaps she always was. Is it so hard to believe? We know Isha and Kurnous dwell in Athel Loren.’

‘You hold that our gods walk amongst us?’

‘Not all of them, but enough. The cycle of history has a momentum that overwhelms even kings. Willingly or not, we will repeat that cycle in mimicry of those who came before. What is the Rhana Dandra, if not the echo of our gods’ last battle?’

‘I am Nethu,’ said Imrik, referring to the Keeper of the Last Door, Guardian of the Underworld, his whispered words spoken in sudden awareness of a hidden truth. ‘I have opened a door that should have remained closed.’

‘Say rather that you have opened the path to the flame,’ Teclis corrected. ‘But yes, the comparison is otherwise apt. Nethu’s actions, though a betrayal, prevented disaster, and so have yours.’

Malekith considered this, alarmed by what he saw as Teclis’s intent. He would no more be the vessel for a god than he would a daemon, and certainly not one whose mantle he had so casually assumed for purely political gain. When he spoke, his discontent was plain to hear. ‘It is your contention, then, that I am to play the role of Khaine?’

‘No, your path is not Khaine’s. You have worn his persona as a cloak only when it has suited you.’

‘Then whom?’ the Witch King demanded, casting through the candidates in his mind: Malus, Hellebron, Tullaris? ‘Who else is fit to bear the mantle of the Destroyer?’

‘Khaine is not yet come. You know the stories – though he began the war of the gods, it was long before he showed his hand. At present he slumbers trifurcated, trapped in prisons of blood, soul and steel. Only when these three are one will he awaken. Your path lies elsewhere.’

Malekith’s reply was forestalled by a screech from outside, the shriek of a harpy. He glanced at the window and saw the creature flash past, perhaps chasing a bat or night bird.

‘There is only one god that can aid us,’ Teclis said. ‘Your father called upon him and laid down his life in supplication to protect his people.’

‘Asuryan?’ Malekith’s laugh was like rusted blades on stone. ‘The one that made me into this… this abomination?’

‘The all-seeing king of the gods, patron of Aenarion,’ Teclis continued quietly.

‘My father would have better spent his time taking up the Widowmaker first than entreating the all-knowing, patronising Asuryan! If he had, perhaps he would not have seen his wife die.’

‘And you would not exist,’ Teclis replied with a sly chuckle. ‘Is that what you really want? No. You must do as your father did. The other kings were frauds, you know this. Protected by the spells of their mages they lived, but you must die to be reborn.’

‘Impossible!’ Malekith’s shout echoed long in the bare-walled chamber. The mention of stepping back into the flames caused a pain deep inside Malekith to flare into life. Teclis was right in one respect – death would be certain.

‘No, it is the truth.’ Teclis’s voice was still calm. ‘That is why almost all succumbed to madness. It was the price of that betrayal.’

‘Leave, both of you!’ Malekith snarled. ‘Before I forget the services you have rendered, and let my Black Guard amuse themselves with your bones.’

Imrik looked as though he would argue but thought better of it, slamming his goblet on the table before departing with clenched fists and hunched shoulders. Teclis waited a while longer, eyeing Malekith carefully. They did not speak a further word but the look they shared conveyed a whole conversation – warning and counter-warning that they were both unleashing forces on the edge of comprehension and that the other would do well to remember the follies of the past.

Confident that his purpose was understood, Teclis wrapped himself about with his cloak and drew in the power of Ulgu to shield himself from perception, becoming one with the Wind of Shadow.

Twelve Servants to a Higher Cause

Eagle Pass made for a strange scene the following morning. Malekith had sent command to his minions that no hostile act was to be perpetrated against any son or daughter of Caledor and for the dark hours that decree had been obeyed, doubtless in no small part to Kouran’s vigilance and the patrols of the Black Guard. Overnight the druchii and Caledorians had made their camps, the former amongst the ruins of the stronghold that had thwarted them so often, the latter on the higher slopes of the mountains. Dusk had swiftly laid a dark cloak over the aftermath of the day before, but as the dragons basked in the rising sun the full horror of what had occurred was laid bare.

Not a tower stood, and not a stretch of wall for more than thirty paces. The white stones were blackened, drifts of ash made of the bodies of the defenders piled high by the prevailing wind. Amongst the charred remnants were contorted, skin-sloughed remains of those that had succumbed to the breath of the black dragons. In other places the fortifications were coated with dried blood, splashed across the pale stones like the creation of some insane artist dedicated to Khaine’s labours. Harpies, hydras and black dragons scavenged on the piles of corpses, gulping down the carrion feast as if there were not enough to last the day, though the piles of bodies were in places dozens deep.

Malekith had not slept – it was rare that his tormented dreams granted him any peace – and had paced the ruins trying to feel a sense of accomplishment. It had eluded him throughout the slaughter and it eluded him still as the magnitude of the carnage was revealed. He considered his words to Imrik the day before and realised that the Caledorian’s experience was far different from his own. For Malekith, the choice to do what was right, what was needed, had been no less difficult, but the moment of action had been far less public.

It was the day before Bel Shanaar and Malekith were due to leave Tor Anroc for the council upon the Isle of Flame when the Phoenix King commanded the prince of Nagarythe to attend him in his throne room. Malekith walked quickly to the audience chamber, his instinct for intrigue curious as to what the Phoenix King had to say.

‘I have been thinking deep upon your words,’ Bel Shanaar proclaimed.

‘I am pleased to hear that,’ said Malekith. ‘May I ask what the nature of your thoughts has been?’

‘I will put your idea to the princes,’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘A single army drawn from all kingdoms will prosecute this war against the vile cults.’

‘I am glad that you agree with my reasoning,’ said Malekith, wondering why Bel Shanaar had brought him here to tell him what he already knew.

‘I have also been giving much thought to who is best qualified to lead this army,’ said Bel Shanaar, and Malekith’s heart skipped a beat in anticipation.

‘I would be honoured,’ said the prince of Nagarythe.

Bel Shanaar opened his mouth to say something but then closed it again, a confused frown upon his brow.

‘You misunderstand me,’ the Phoenix King then said. ‘I will nominate Imrik to be my chosen general.’

Malekith stood in stunned silence, left speechless by the Phoenix King’s announcement.

‘Imrik?’ he said eventually.

‘Why not?’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘He is a fine general, and Caledor is the most stable of all the realms at the current time. He is well-respected amongst the other princes. Yes, he will make a good choice.’

‘And why do you tell me this?’ snapped Malekith. ‘Perhaps you seek to mock me!’

‘Mock you?’ said Bel Shanaar, taken aback. ‘I am telling you this so that you will speak in favour of my decision. I know that you have much influence and your word will lend great weight to Imrik’s authority.’

‘You would raise up the grandson of Caledor over the son of Aenarion?’ said Malekith. ‘Have I not forged new kingdoms across the world at the head of armies? If not my bloodline, then my achievements must qualify me above all others.’

‘I am sorry that you feel this way, Malekith,’ said Bel Shanaar, unabashed. ‘The council will endorse my choice, you would do well to align yourself with me.’

At this, Malekith’s frayed temper snapped utterly.

‘Align myself to you?’ he snarled. ‘The hunter does not align himself to his hound! The master does not align himself to his servant!’

‘Choose your next words carefully, Malekith!’ warned the Phoenix King. ‘Remember who it is that you address!’

The Naggarothi prince mastered his anger, biting back further retorts.

‘I trust that my protest has been recognised,’ he said with effort. ‘I urge you to reconsider your decision.’

‘You are free to speak your mind at the council,’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘It is your right to argue against Imrik, and to put forward yourself as candidate. We shall let the princes decide.’

Malekith said nothing more, but bowed stiffly and left, silently seething.

In the corridor around the corner from Bel Shanaar’s main chambers Palthrain stood with a tray upon which were stood a silver ewer and goblet, and a plate of cured meats and bread. Palthrain passed him the tray but Malekith’s hands were shaking and the chamberlain quickly retrieved it.

Malekith took deep breaths, trying to calm himself as if summoning the power for a difficult spell. Ignoring the purposefully blank expression of Palthrain, the prince took the tray once more, now in control of his body.

‘Are you sure this will work?’ demanded Malekith. ‘It must be final!’

‘It is used in certain practices of the Khainites, to numb the senses,’ Palthrain replied. ‘In small doses it will render its victim incapable for several hours. With the amount I have put in the wine, it will be fatal. At first he will be paralysed. Then his breathing will become difficult as his lungs freeze, and then he will fall into a coma and pass away.’

‘No pain?’ said Malekith.

‘Not that I am aware of, highness,’ said Palthrain.

‘What a pity,’ said Malekith.

The Naggarothi prince walked down the passageway to Bel Shanaar’s chambers, forcing himself to stride slowly so as not to garner attention. He knocked at the door and waited for Bel Shanaar’s call for him to enter.

The Phoenix King was sitting at a writing desk, no doubt penning corrections to his speech for the council.

‘Malekith?’ he said, startled.

‘Forgive the intrusion, your majesty,’ said Malekith with a low bow. He stepped across the room and placed the tray on the desk.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Bel Shanaar. ‘Where’s Palthrain?’

‘I apologise for waylaying him, majesty,’ said Malekith. ‘I wished to bring you your wine as a peace offering.’

‘Peace offering?’

‘I wholeheartedly wish to offer my apologies,’ replied Malekith, pouring the poisoned wine into the goblet. ‘I spoke out of misplaced anger earlier, and I caused great offence. My anger is not with you, though it might have seemed that way. I have endeavoured to earn your trust and to be a loyal subject, and it is my failings not yours that have led you to choose Imrik. I will be happy to support your choice.’

The prince passed the cup to Bel Shanaar, his face a mask of politeness. The Phoenix King frowned and for a moment Malekith feared that he suspected something. The Phoenix King took the goblet however, and placed it on the desk.

‘Your apology is accepted,’ said Bel Shanaar. ‘I do trust you, my friend, but you have personal concerns that far outweigh any duty to me. I choose Imrik not just on ability, but on the fact that I would have you address the problems of your kingdom without distraction. I would have you direct your energies solely to restoring your rule, not pandering to the whims of other kingdoms.’

The goblet remained on the desk.

‘Your consideration heartens me greatly,’ said Malekith, keeping his eyes fixed firmly upon the Phoenix King lest he dart a betraying glance towards the wine.

‘You will offer your support in the council?’ Bel Shanaar asked, finally lifting the cup to his lips and taking a mouthful of the wine.

It was not enough for the poison to work and the prince silently willed Bel Shanaar to drink more.

‘When the debate rages, none will argue harder than I,’ said Malekith with a smile.

Bel Shanaar nodded and took another sip of wine.

‘If that is all, then I wish you a fair evening and look forward to sailing with you in the morning,’ said Bel Shanaar with a polite nod.

Malekith stood there watching for some sign of the poison’s effect.

‘What are you staring at?’ asked the Phoenix King.

‘Is the wine not to your satisfaction?’ said the prince, taking a step closer.

‘I am not thirsty,’ said Bel Shanaar, placing the goblet back on the desk.

Malekith twisted and picked up the goblet and sniffed it.

‘It is very fine wine, majesty,’ he said.

‘I am sure it is, Malekith,’ said Bel Shanaar, pursing his lips. His voice became more insistent. ‘However, I feel a little sleepy all of a sudden. I shall retire for the night and see you in the morning.’

Stifling a frustrated shout, Malekith lunged forwards and seized Bel Shanaar by the throat. The Phoenix King’s eyes widened with terror as Malekith forced open Bel Shanaar’s mouth and emptied in the contents of the goblet. The goblet tumbled from the prince’s fingertips and spilt a cascade of red droplets over the white boards of the floor.

Clamping one hand over the Phoenix King’s nose and mouth and dragging his head back by his hair, Malekith choked the king until he swallowed the deadly draught. He then released his grip and stepped back to watch his future unfold.

‘What have you–’ panted Bel Shanaar, clawing at his throat and chest.

Malekith lifted the parchment from the desk. As he had suspected, it was a draft of the Phoenix King’s speech for the council. Thinking it better that no evidence of Bel Shanaar’s support for Imrik was found, he crossed the room and tossed it into the fire burning in the grate. Turning, he saw that there was still life in Bel Shanaar’s bulging eyes.

Malekith padded forwards until he was very close, and bent towards the dying elf’s ear.

‘You brought this upon yourself,’ the prince hissed.

With a last gurgle, Bel Shanaar died, his face purple, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Malekith stood for a while, absent-mindedly looking at the contorted face, not quite believing that it was almost over.

‘Well, I have to leave you now,’ he said at last, affectionately patting the Phoenix King’s head. ‘I have a throne to claim.’

Kings and princes, all had thought to rob Malekith of his rightful inheritance and they all had been sent to the underworld of Mirai for their efforts. Malekith had some respect for Imrik for the simple fact that he had been able to break the cycle of history, realising that his future was beside the true Phoenix King, not against him. If only his forefathers had been so astute the carnage and waste of elven lives would have been avoided.

Malekith turned away from the evidence of the battle, wondering why he was so preoccupied with thoughts of death and the countless lives sacrificed in endless battle for possession of Ulthuan. It was a recent phenomenon, this train of thought, having grown in frequency in the couple of centuries since his defeat at Finuval Plain and his escape through the Realm of Chaos. Perhaps back then he had sensed the rising tide of Chaos that had engulfed the world and it had nagged at his thoughts.

It was strange also that while he did not regret a single druchii life lost in service to his claim, Malekith found it harder to contemplate the losses of the asur. His own folk were driven by greed and revenge, base desires that hung on the cloak of Malekith’s quest for justice. In contrast, the asur’s stubbornness had been a constant vexation to him, their blindness to his natural right and authority an affront, but all the same his hatred for their weak society and hand-wringing rulers had been tempered by respect for their tenacity in defending such a flawed civilisation.

A shadow passed over him and he looked up to see Imrik descending on his dragon. The prince left his monstrous steed on the broken ground between walls three and four and crossed the bloodied rubble with long strides.

‘The dead should not be left to suffer such outrage,’ the prince snapped, waving a hand towards the beasts devouring the corpse banquet.

‘What would you have me do?’ Malekith asked, knowing that it was too early in the alliance to simply dismiss the prince’s squeamish concerns. ‘Their souls are in Mirai now and the mortal remains behind make good fodder for my beasts.’

‘Bury them, or at least make a pyre to mark their sacrifice.’

‘An interesting idea,’ replied Malekith, warming to the notion. ‘The stones of Eagle Gate would make a fitting mausoleum and monument to those who died here. It is a shame that we do not have time to tarry to raise such an edifice. A pyre perhaps would serve better, and its pall would mask our advance from prying eyes.’

To make his point, Malekith gestured towards the cloudy skies, where the silhouettes of great eagles and the glitter of phoenix wings betrayed the avian allies of their foes. Imrik glanced up and shrugged.

‘My dragons will teach them to be more circumspect.’

‘Our dragons would be better employed securing the eastern end of the pass, until my vanguard arrives.’

Imrik considered this, not looking at Malekith, obviously caught between the logic of the Witch King’s declaration and a desire to defy his will brought about by long centuries of stubborn defiance. No doubt the need to feel on an equal footing with his former foe also weighed on the Caledorian’s thoughts. In the end Imrik’s military sense prevailed and he nodded.

‘The Ellyrians will desire to make a counter-attack. We shall dissuade them,’ he said. ‘Who is to lead your vanguard? It will be a risky position, for surely Tyrion will bring his whole force to bear upon our advance.’

‘Riskier still considering I have no intention of following them along Eagle Pass.’ Malekith laughed at Imrik’s confusion. ‘Your people are driven constantly by history, yet forever miss its lessons. I would no more march directly into confrontation with Tyrion than I would lay aside my shield in battle. I know that his bravery cannot be questioned and his sword arm is strong, but let us see whether this upstart who claims the blood of Aenarion can wield an army with the same skill as his blade.’

‘You will march north, and attack Chrace?’

‘We will, Imrik,’ corrected Malekith.

Imrik said nothing, fingers toying with the hilt of his sword.

‘Speak, or depart, but cease your vacillation,’ said Malekith.

‘When this is done, when we have won this war and you rule Ulthuan, what then?’

‘Grief, strife and war,’ Malekith answered plainly. ‘I do not promise to end suffering, but under my leadership we will prevail against the adversity that is to come. I offer nothing but victory, Imrik, bear no misunderstanding in this matter. Should Tyrion be victorious, the elven race is doomed.’

‘Perhaps it is simply the sealing of a doom that began long ago, and we should resist it no longer.’

‘Feel free to end your own life if you desire,’ said Malekith, turning away. ‘Just leave me your dragons.’

Thirteen The Tyrant Shamed

‘My king.’

Kouran’s quiet warning drew Malekith’s attention away from the map he was studying with his generals. They stood just out of the shadow cast by the toppled fourth wall, marshalling the columns of druchii moving through the fortress while harpies nearby picked at the corpses buried in the rubble. The captain’s gaze guided Malekith’s eye to a figure standing beneath the arch of a gatehouse a short distance away.

Malus Darkblade was a forlorn figure, almost wraith-like in his pale nakedness. All that protected his dignity was the tattered remnant of a cloak, still smeared with the blood of the corpse it had been torn from. Around his neck hung his signature heavy talisman and in his hand he still bore the warpsword of Khaine, but save for these accoutrements his battlegear had disappeared.

He pushed himself away from the stone and tottered forwards a few steps, drawing the attention of the other druchii nearby. The whispers began a heartbeat later, subtle at first, but Naggarothi had never been known to hide their cruel humour and soon their taunts and jibes followed Darkblade across the ruin.

His bared flesh was marred with small cuts and bruises amongst older scars, and in places there were puncture wounds that looked as though his bones had split the skin, though he moved without any sign of physical pain. A particularly dramatic slash of lacerated flesh stretched from navel to throat, white in the morning light. Malus’s eyes seemed darker and more sunken than usual, bloodshot and rimmed with the shadow of fatigue. Not all the blood was his; his skin was marked with bloody handprints and other smears.

Ignoring the sharp stones underfoot, Malus came directly towards Malekith. The Witch King eyed the warpsword in Darkblade’s hand, the enchantment within the blade a blaze of colour in his magical sight. Numbered amongst the few weapons that could easily penetrate the armour of midnight, the warpsword was one of the reasons Malus had risen to the top of Hag Graef in a comparatively short time. Its true origins remained a mystery to Malekith, but knowing that Malus possessed such a weapon had sometimes been a source of some concern to the Witch King. He doubted whether Malus would ever dare test the magical sword against Urithain, but there was a crazed look in the Tyrant’s eye as he approached and Kouran moved forward, Crimson Death at the ready.

Malus stopped about two dozen paces away. He seemed oblivious to the sneering remarks of the other elves at hand, gaze focused on Malekith. He swayed slightly, one eye twitching. The Witch King saw the Tyrant flexing his fingers on the grip of the warpsword and moved his hand to the hilt of Urithain.

‘You are alive,’ said Malekith, looking the haggard figure up and down. ‘Mostly.’

A degree of focus returned to Malus’s gaze and a frown creased his brow. He turned to glare at the other elves that were drifting closer to witness what transpired next, before concentrating on the Witch King.

‘Mostly alive, yes, your majesty,’ he said, bowing with a flourish. He lowered to one knee, the point of the warpsword in the ground, head bowed against the hiltstone. ‘My apologies, Lord Malekith, for my tardiness in reporting for my next commands. I was otherwise engaged during yesterday’s triumph and could not share your victory.’

Malekith paced around Malus, who kept his eye on the Witch King for as long as possible until he was behind the Tyrant of Hag Graef. The king stopped behind Darkblade, noting the fresh cuts upon his back.

‘Tell me, dear Malus, what matters of such import took your insightful counsel from my ears last night?’

Darkblade did not reply immediately, his head turning left and right in an effort to catch a glimpse of his tormentor. He sighed, long and languorous. ‘Alas, our revered king, I was so caught up by Khaine’s thirst that I pursued the enemy far beyond reasonable strategy and have only this dawn returned.’

‘You were overwhelmed with bloodlust?’ said Malekith, remaining behind Malus.

‘That is true, your majesty.’

‘And you pursued the enemy so vigorously that it took the night to return?’

‘Apparently so, your majesty.’

‘And which enemies did you pursue?’

‘The traitors that held Eagle Gate, your majesty.’

‘Be more specific, dear Malus. Which of the traitorous enemy did you pursue?’

‘I believe they were Ellyrians, your majesty,’ interjected Drusala, emerging from the crowd to Malekith’s left. Malus stood up and faced the sorceress, quickly hiding a moment of confusion behind an indifferent mask.

‘That would make sense,’ said the Darkblade. ‘They fled towards Ellyrion.’

‘And so furious was your pursuit that you abandoned your cold one? Spite, isn’t it?’ asked the Witch King.

‘In the melee before the gate was breached I was pulled from my saddle,’ admitted Malus. ‘I lost my mount and hope that one of my knights has recovered him and he awaits me in the camp of my household.’

‘And your clothes and armour?’

Malus looked down at himself, as if realising his nudity for the first time. His gaze moved back to the Witch King and then to Drusala, and then around the gathered crowd who awaited his reply with unconcealed smirks and leering.

‘Discarded, your majesty.’ Malus looked at Malekith directly, daring him to gainsay a word of his testimony. Malekith had no idea what had happened and it was clear that only torture would loosen the Tyrant’s lips.

‘Discarded? In battle?’

‘Forgive me, your majesty, for I was foolish and to heighten my battle prowess I imbibed some of the witch brew of Khaine before the fighting began. Just a mouthful, of course. Just enough to strengthen my sword arm for a long day of bloodletting. I did not realise how delayed its effects might be and in my Khaine-blessed rage to get at the Ellyrians I stripped off my armour which had been weighing me down, suffering as it had much damage during the fray so that many straps and buckles were broken and its efficacy much reduced.’

This was greeted with harsh laughter from much of the crowd, and shouts of derision. Malus rounded on the watchers with the warpsword raised. Kouran was about to take another step but Malekith gestured for him to remain where he was.

‘You laugh, who allowed the enemies of our king to retreat without harassment?’ Malus railed, spittle flying in his false indignity, eyes wide. ‘You would let them rally and fight again, their resistance, their existence, an affront to our ruler? Smirk if you dare, those that were less than worthy.’

Malekith silenced the audience with a gesture and Malus’s attention returned to him.

‘You threw off your wargear so that you could pursue the enemy with more speed?’ The Witch King shook his head, trying to decide if he was entertained or outraged by such an obvious lie.

‘Yes, your majesty, it is just as you say. He fell to his knee once more, a fist clasped to his chest. ‘I feel so ashamed, but there was nothing I could do to stop myself. I understand now why Hellebron and her bloody sisters wear so little.’

It took all of Malekith’s will to quench the laugh that rose from his gut. He knew that he should have Kouran take off the treacherous dog’s head there and then, but if lying was to be a capital crime under his rule he would have no subjects left. It was hard to see to what benefit Malus’s current display was turned. There was no advantage to Malus being absent for the night – all of the most powerful druchii had been in camp with Malekith, so no collusion had been possible. There was a chance that he had conspired with agents of the asur, perhaps seeking to make a common foe of Malekith, but Malus was despised across Ulthuan almost as much as his king. Tyrion did not have the benefit of Imrik’s flexible morality and Malekith had ensured there would be no politicking from the Phoenix King, Finubar.

‘You vouch for this account?’ he snapped, turning his wrath on Drusala. She met his infernal gaze without flinching, her face set in an expression of sincere attention. Her part in this worried Malekith more. She was Morathi’s creature, no doubt, and if the queen was truly breaking bonds with Malekith the Tyrant of Hag Graef would make a well-positioned ally. Though the host of Hag Graef had been badly mauled in the three assaults upon Eagle Gate, if they were to combine with the army of Ghrond Malekith’s resources would be outmatched, in the short term at least. ‘How can you be so certain of friend Malus’s movements?’

‘He perhaps does not remember it, but he came to me last night, in a battle-fever, confessing what had happened and seeking my advice.’ Malekith could not see Malus’s face to see any reaction this stirred. Drusala approached, holding a bloodstained cloth in outstretched hands. ‘He gave this to me, asking if I would present it on his behalf. Malus thought it terribly important, although I must confess my ignorance.’

She let the wind unfurl what she held, revealing a torn banner of light blue and white, with a prancing horse in gold thread stained with blood. The remains of a device of spread wings in silver could be seen beneath the grime.

‘The banner of Eagle Gate,’ said Kouran, stepping up to take the trophy from Drusala. He looked at Malus. ‘The Ellyrians tried to escape with it?’

Malus tried not to look surprised, and failed miserably. He addressed his answer to Malekith. ‘I have no reason to doubt the lady of Ghrond’s account, your majesty, though my recollection of events before the sun rose this morning are… hazy.’

It was impossible to believe that they were telling the truth, but the threadbare nature of the story being woven by Drusala and Malus was enough for Malekith to believe it had not been prefabricated. They were extemporising, to what end Malekith did not know, but there was no sign of former conspiracy. Malekith was hardened to the fact that most of his subjects that did not hate him lusted after his position, and to consider every scheme a direct and immediate threat would have turned him into a paranoid lunatic many millennia ago. It also meant that the druchii were very adept at hiding their lies, so the obvious subterfuge confused him.

He gestured for Kouran to join him.

‘What do you wish to do with these liars, my king?’ asked the captain.

‘You think their story lacks merit?’

‘Barely a word they have spoken is truth,’ Kouran answered with a shake of the head, ‘but I can offer no proof to discount their version of events. Malus was pulled from Spite during the battle and then disappeared, that much I witnessed myself. He is not a coward, so I do not think he fled the fighting. What happened next, only Malus can tell us. Shall I summon your torturers?’

‘I think not,’ said Malekith. ‘The day is too fraught to make any bold moves. Malus is always scheming about something, and I am sure Drusala has her own agenda, but it serves no purpose to create turbulence on the day after our greatest victory. I have allies now,’ he waved a hand towards the dragons on the peaks, ‘and should Imrik sense disquiet in my camp, the hint of division between my armies, I think he would reconsider which side he has taken.’

‘We could slay them, my king, just to be sure,’ suggested Kouran, running the fingers of his right hand along the flat of his halberd’s blade. ‘No mess, just a swift death.’

‘Malus and Drusala both know that I need their warriors if I am to capitalise on the surprise of Imrik’s turning and our victory here. I have a far better plan.’

‘Friend Malus,’ said Malekith, turning back to the Tyrant, motioning for him to stand. ‘I must admonish you for your tardiness and appearance. It smacks of disrespect to turn up late to my council wearing nothing but an asur shroud.’ Malus clenched his jaw and the tip of the warpsword in his hand rose a little, like the tail of a scorpion moving before the strike. ‘Let the humiliation you have felt coming to kneel before me and my subjects be a lesson to keep good manner about you at all times. As for the reasons for your dishevelled look and late coming, I am impressed by your persistence. It is that sort of attitude that will be required to defeat the Ellyrians.’

‘The Ellyrians, your majesty? What of them?’

‘Fast, mounted, never staying in the same place. An elusive foe, but no match for one with your stubbornness, am I right?’

‘No match at all, your majesty,’ said Malus, taken aback. ‘I will bring the Ellyrians to battle and crush them.’

‘Very good, Malus,’ said Malekith. ‘I am sure you require to make preparations. Your army shall be the vanguard – have them take supplies for the march to Ellyrion and then lead them east.’

Malus said nothing for several heartbeats, eyes flicking between the king and Kouran, and then to the crowd, who were starting to disperse. His eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, but he simply accepted the command with a deep bow.

‘And Malus,’ said the Witch King as the seething Darkblade turned to leave, ‘try to keep your armour on next time.’

Fourteen Chracian War

Of the ten kingdoms, Malekith hated Chrace the most. In his mortal years he had found it a joyless, backward region ruled by peasant-princes and ignorance. When he had sought to claim Ulthuan’s throne it had been Chracian hunters that had saved Imrik from Morathi’s assassins – ever after honoured as the White Lions of the king’s bodyguard – and it had been the Chracians that had stubbornly refused to bow to Malekith’s rule despite every invasion and calamity he had set upon them. In short, the Chracians were far too stupid to realise when they were beaten, scrapping to the last breath for a mountainous wilderness that had nothing to recommend itself except for a certain savage beauty.

The rain rattled from Sulekh’s scales and hissed into steam where it hit the Witch King’s armour. Rivers cascaded down the mountain slopes, swelled to bursting from the spring deluge. The low clouds clung to the peaks like a shroud, swathing the pass in a thick haze. Malekith’s army picked their way down a slope strewn with boulders and fallen trees, a winding column of black that disappeared into the grey mist.

Closing his eyes, the Witch King felt the bubbling winds of magic washing over the Annulii. With the circlet, he could see every slender strand, the smallest ebb and eddy of mystical energy. He searched for disturbances hidden to normal eyes, seeking the telltale swell and whirl of living things. Giant eagles nested in the heights of the peaks; mountain goats bounded up the slopes in large herds, gorging themselves on grass revealed by the recent thaw; a bear ambled from its cave seeking food; the trees were delicate slivers of life burrowing deep into the soil.

There was something else.

Further down the pass, Malekith detected the glow of fire, drawing the magic of flames to it. A camp. Several camps. Around them he spied the silvery flicker of elven spirits. He turned to the cluster of messengers who sat astride their black horses a short distance from Sulekh, their blinkered mounts trembling with fear.

‘Warn the vanguard,’ said Malekith. ‘There are Chracians on the northern slope, where a bridge crosses a river. It may be an ambush.’

One of the riders nodded and headed off down the mountainside, his steed galloping hard, grateful to be heading away from the presence of the Witch King and his dragon.

It is almost an insult, thought Malekith. Did Caledor rate him so lowly that he thought the Witch King would be caught by such a simple trap? His armour creaking as Malekith turned his unnatural gaze back towards the east, where his army was still crossing the last shoulder of the mountain. It would be noon before they were all in the valley. It did not matter; he was in no hurry. He wanted his enemies to know where he was.

Malekith looked up, rain hammering into the mask of his helm. Droplets danced and spat on the hot armour. He tried to remember when he had last drunk water. He could not. The fires that burned inside him left him with a ravening thirst but he could not quench it. It was the same with food. Not a morsel had passed his lips since he had been sealed inside the armoured suit. Sorcery alone kept him alive, the magic sustained by the sacrifices bound within the plates of his artificial skin. It was sad in some ways, liberating in others. He could taste nothing but the ash of his own near destruction, but he could dimly recollect the sweetness of honey, the richness of wine.

Simple pleasures, taken from him by cowards and traitors. The jealous priests of Asuryan had cursed the flames so that they would not accept him. Yet their trickery had not succeeded. He had emerged from the flames with the blessing of the lord of gods. He would throw them into the fires they had tainted with their subterfuge and let them know what their god’s judgement felt like.

The ground trembled. Malekith sensed it through a shift in the magical winds, a turbulence that flowed south along the vortex. His ravaged ears could hear little over the constant crackling of the flames, but the Witch King’s magical sense was far more accurate. Boulders and logs tumbled down the slope from the camps by the bridge. He heard the screams of the warriors who had crossed over to attack the Chracians and felt their bodies crushed by the avalanche unleashed by the mountain-dwellers. The spirit of every dying elf flickered briefly, a pinprick of darkness that was swallowed up by the ever-shifting tides of magic.

There were more shouts and sounds of fighting. A column of march was no formation for battle and the vanguard had allowed itself to be surrounded, despite Malekith’s warning. With a growl, he jerked Sulekh’s iron reins and the monstrous beast launched herself from the rock, plunging down the valley in a swirl of cloud.

Nearing the bottom of the pass, Malekith saw several hundred Chracians fighting against his warriors. He saw the slew of debris blocking the bridge over which the vanguard had crossed, cutting off any reinforcement. Naggarothi warriors called for axes and bars to be brought forward so that the blockage could be cleared.

‘Stand back!’ Malekith roared as Sulekh landed on the near side of the river, clawed feet sinking into the soft mud of the bank.

He waited while the startled soldiers hurried back from the bridge. When they were clear of the crossing, the Witch King extended a hand, drawing in the threads of magic that invisibly wound down the valley, crushing them into pure energy with his force of will. He felt the icy touch of the circlet in his mind as he shaped the magic, a bolt of forking lightning leaping from his fist to smash into the boulders and hewn tree trunks. Stone and wood splinters exploded upwards, cutting arcs through the mist before drifting down on to the foaming water of the river.

‘Is it safe?’ one of the captains called out. The bridge had taken some of the blast, its stone wall collapsed for half its length on one side.

‘That is not my concern,’ said Malekith. ‘Follow me!’

Sulekh leapt across the river and with a single flap of her vast wings carried Malekith up the far slope to where his embattled soldiers were encircled by axe- and spear-wielding Chracians. Some wore the prized white lion pelts for which their kingdom was famed, the furs heavy with moisture from the rain.

As soon as they saw Malekith approaching, the Chracians scattered, breaking off their attack to sprint back into the woods. Not all reached the safety of the eaves; Malekith unsheathed his sword, Avanuir, and launched a flurry of fiery blue bolts at the retreating warriors, slaying a handful with each detonation. The Witch King drew in more magic and with a shout unleashed it in a broad wave. Where it struck, the trees exploded into black flame, the fire quickly raging up the slope, engulfing even more of the Chracian hunters. Sap exploded and leaves turned to ash as the wave of fire continued along the mountainside, engulfing the tents and wagons of the Chracian camps.

Sustaining the magical fire took all of Malekith’s concentration; as he weaved his metal-clad hand back and forth the fires spread further and further, the heat of the flames dissipating the mist as they engulfed the mountainside. The surge of dark energy flowing through him resonated with the runes of his armour, igniting dead nerve-endings, sending a shiver across the metal plates as if it were his skin.

With an effort, the Witch King cut off the flow of dark magic, pulling himself back from the brink of intoxication. The mystical flames guttered and died, revealing blackened stumps and bones littered across the mountain. The clatter of armour attracted his attention and he turned to see a squadron of knights galloping across the bridge.

‘Captain, come to me,’ Malekith said, beckoning to the elf who had been in charge of the vanguard.

The captain came forward, a bloodied sword in his hand, breastplate rent open from a Chracian axe. He dropped to one knee, eyes averted.

‘My apologies, king,’ said the soldier.

He knelt trembling, head bowed, as Malekith steered Sulekh to loom over him. The crest of the captain’s helmet fluttered with each of the dragon’s breaths, wisps of poisonous vapour coiling from her nostrils. The Witch King could feel the elf’s fear dripping from his shuddering body.

‘Do not fail me again,’ said the Witch King. The captain looked up, surprised and delighted. ‘Continue the march!’

The officer bowed and hurried away, anxious that his master might have a sudden change of heart. In truth, the captain had been ordered into the trap by Malekith and could not be blamed. His mother might dispense summary executions in such a situation, but her acts of spite were wasteful. The Witch King suffered no illusions about his opponents and knew he would need every soldier if he was to claim Ulthuan for his own.

Uncertainty keeps soldiers alert, Malekith told himself. He would not want to become predictable.

Half a dozen pairs of dead eyes stared at Malekith as he stepped out of his pavilion. The heads of the dreadlords were displayed on stakes around the entrance to the great marquee, each bearing the inverted rune of senthoi carved in their foreheads, a symbol of broken promises. The generals’ remains served as an example to their successors that Malekith was in no mood for further setbacks, and certainly had no time for equivocation and excuses.

The druchii camp spread down the ridge below, and from his vantage point Malekith could see clear six leagues along the valley to the north. The forests of the snow-drenched slopes were known as the Whiteweald, a hunting ground of manticores and griffons, home to phoenixes and great eagles.

This had once been a wilderness jewel of Ulthuan, where princes and kings had hunted beasts and sojourned with their courts. Now it was a ravaged, twisted mockery of its former beauty. Even before the druchii had come Chrace had suffered dearly during the daemonic intrusion. Swathes of the forest had been warped by their presence, the ground itself ripped and buckled in abhorrence of their invasion. Mountaintops had tumbled and avalanches cut swathes through trees that had stood proudly for several thousand years.

The course of the daemonic attack could be charted by the warped, withered remains of the trees left in their wake: some were petrified, leaves of stone grey and lifeless; others had become ice structures, slowly melting as the season turned to summer, crystalline imitations of what had come before; whole mountainsides were desolate, nothing left but rotting stumps and a thick slurry of decaying mulch.

At first Malekith had been encouraged, finding Phoenix Gate barely held against him, and the advance across the Annulii had been swift. Trusting that his plan to draw the bulk of Tyrion’s forces south with Darkblade’s army had succeeded, the Witch King had readied his host to plunge down into the foothills and plains of Chrace, to sack Tor Achare and seize the coast where the crossing to the Blighted Isle was shortest.

From then nothing had quite played out as he had planned. The people of Chrace knew their lands as well as they knew their own families, and they used every part of it to their advantage.

The Chracians would not meet his force in pitched battle preferring, as they had done during previous wars, to wage a guerrilla campaign of ambushes and feint attacks. The mountains were dotted with concealed fortresses – outposts that could sustain a thousand warriors yet not be seen even if a scout passed within bowshot.

Even though the landscape had suffered much brutality in recent times, its ways and means were still a secret to be unlocked. The Whiteweald was no place for dragons to fight, the cover of the deep forests and caves more than enough sanctuary against the mightiest beasts of the sky. Whole Naggarothi regiments disappeared pursuing their foes into the wilds, but despite this the commanders who now adorned the rough trail leading to Malekith’s pavilion had sent thousands to their doom in fruitless efforts to catch the elusive enemy.

Kouran approached, secretly alerted to his master’s emergence by the Black Guard standing sentry around the pavilion. His face was stern as he saluted the king.

‘My king, another three regiments were lost in the night,’ the captain reported. He motioned to the right flank of the advance, on the other side of the steep valley. ‘From the Ghrond host stationed to the north.’

‘The north?’ Malekith growled. ‘You told me yesterday that our northern flank was secure. Not even a Chracian hunter would pass the picket, you claimed.’

Kouran answered with a silent bow of the head, admitting his mistake and accepting whatever chastisement Malekith was prepared to dispense. The Witch King glanced at the heads around him and knew that killing Kouran would almost certainly seal the fate of the expedition. With Morathi in Ghrond and the traitor Ezresor slain, Malekith relied almost wholly on the captain of the Black Guard to keep order and ensure the loyalty of his subjects.

‘The blame is not yours,’ said Malekith. ‘There is more than the skill of peasant hunters at play here.’

He tilted his head back, closing his eyes to concentrate on his magical sense, allowing his consciousness to flow into the Iron Circlet. There was a jarring transition as part of his mind slipped into the Realm of Chaos and then back to the mortal world, for all intents and purposes detached from his physical form.

It was harder to maintain a sense of self in these mountains, where the howling winds of magic were funnelled into Ulthuan’s vortex. The influx of daemonic energy and the expansion of the Chaos Wastes had turned the vortex into a wild maelstrom. In Naggarond it had been simplicity to move his thoughts from one part of the world to another, and even to project his avatar into far-flung locations. From the Annulii it was a trying task simply to maintain a coherent pattern of thoughts amidst the buffeting mystical storm.

Drawing on the depths of his will, Malekith moved his roaming eye from the camp, momentarily lifting away towards the clouds for an overview of his situation.

The black tents of the druchii cut across the valley about a third of the way from its heights, crossing the river at the base and up both sides. Reaper bolt throwers in wooden forts protected the outer reaches of the camp, but there were too many warriors for them all to stay within the watch of these guard posts. Several thousand tents spread east and south down the curving vale, until swallowed by the trees at the lower altitudes. The advance parties had done their best to cut trails through the forest, but every few leagues the vanguard regiments disappeared, slain by the Chracians. Their latest efforts were like pale scars in the canopy, gashes of brown and black against the snow.

Even so, progress should have been swifter, and now that he was suffused with the winds of magic Malekith could see why. Against the flow of the vortex tendrils of magic drifted north from beyond the mountains, bringing mystical life to the trees and rocks of Chrace. Malekith knew this magic well, the energy of Avelorn, the power of the Everqueen.

He searched the valley for a sign of the asur’s spiritual ruler but there was no pocket of earth power to betray her presence. Instead Malekith detected smaller pools of life magic, and he swooped down upon the largest of these magical concentrations.

The trees themselves quivered with the magic, alerted to the presence of the druchii, filled with vengeance for the axes and fire they brought with them. Treemen and dryads, spirits that normally did not stray far from the Gaen Vale, had come north to aid the Chracians. Other beings, elemental creatures of air and stone, had been roused to attack the Ghrondian forces, moved to battle by the presence of an elf enchantress.

Her spoor was mingled with that of the tree-kin, sharper than the musty magic of ancient centuries. Malekith found her, a handmaiden of Avelorn, marshalling regiments of the Everqueen’s maiden guard not far to the east.

She was garbed in a flowing gown of deep green embroidered with blooms in reds and blues and purples, the lighter green of their leaves creating a swirl of lines and waves along the hem of the dress. Bangles of bronze set with topaz and opals and amber hung on the handmaiden’s wrists and about her slender neck was a pendant of pure sapphire, neatly inscribed with the rune of quyl-Isha, signifying the tears of Isha, a symbol of mourning and sad defiance. Her hair was golden, heavily braided and pinned to leave a single plait hanging down each sharp cheek. Eyes that matched the colour of the sapphire regarded the dispersing maiden guard with affection and contentment.

The handmaiden emanated calm resolve, like the deep spring that feeds the well or the roots of the ancient trees. The grass at her feet stood straighter, the petals on the flowers close at hand gleamed brighter in her presence.

Malekith detested the enchantress immediately.

It was just this sort of moon-faced pining for the peaceful prehistory of his people that had made them weak. The world before the Coming of Chaos would never return and no amount of poetry and prayers to Isha would change that. Only strength of will and strength of arms had protected the elves since, no matter the protestations of the Everqueen and her ilk.

The presence of the handmaiden reminded Malekith that he would have to deal with the Everqueen before the matter was settled. His previous attempts to kidnap her had been thwarted by the same individual that now sought to oppose him: Tyrion. He had it on good authority that the prince was Alarielle’s lover, and she would doubtless support her consort against Malekith’s ambition. When Chrace was in his hands, a full scale invasion of Avelorn would follow, and this time he would not leave the destruction to a feckless host of daemons led by the vain and jealous N’Kari.

The female archers, several hundred of them, were following warriors cloaked with lion pelts along the hidden tracks of the woods, ready to spring their attacks on the advancing companies of Naggarothi. They broke into groups of a dozen or fewer warriors, able to move swiftly and unseen along the game trails and hidden paths.

More than that, the Witch King realised as the enchantress started binding the winds of magic to her will. The energy swirled, delving into the life-force of the forests. Roots burst from the ground and branches bowed down, forming an archway twice the height of an elf, broad enough for several to walk abreast. Fresh shoots erupted along the outline of the gateway, bright leaves and flowers catching the light of the early sun.

The interior of the gate shimmered with magic, an image of blurred brown and green that resolved into a vision of a forest glade. Malekith could see that beyond the gate lay a tunnel that wound its way through the vortex, leading to the south. By this means did the warriors of Chrace and Avelorn bypass the sentries and patrols.

‘I’ve found you,’ declared Malekith, manifesting a projection of his spirit in front of the enchantress.

The maiden guard reacted quickly, surrounding the apparition of the Witch King with a ring of golden spears and arrowheads. The handmaiden looked shocked, but her fear dissipated as she realised that Malekith was present in spirit only.

‘Tell me your name,’ said the Witch King, ‘so that your kin can lament your passing in proper fashion.’

‘I am Ystranna,’ said the handmaiden. ‘I am the right hand of Astarielle and by her command I will not let you pass.’

‘You think to stop me with an army of vagabonds and hunters, earth-witch?’ sneered Malekith. ‘Or perhaps you hope that the blessings of Isha will be a match for my magic?’

‘Strength eternal guards our lands, despoiler,’ Ystranna replied, tilting her head to one side to regard Malekith with sapphire eyes. ‘Have you not learned the lesson yet? Ulthuan does not want you as her king.’

‘Ulthuan will be bound to my will just the same as every creature upon it,’ Malekith said. He clenched a fist in front of Ystranna, fire leaking from the gaps in the gauntlet. ‘You can tell Ulthuan that I will cut such wounds across her that she has never known and when I am finished she will never remember the days of green that once blessed her.’

The Witch King became aware of a nagging sensation, something relevant to his physical body. He looked at the maiden guard that surrounded him and waved them away with contempt.

‘This is the elite of Avelorn? My Black Guard shall water the trees you love so much with your blood, and they shall fertilise the ground with your bones. If you desire peace, return now to your mistress and lay down your weapons. Only those that resist need fear my retribution.’ None of the warrior-maidens moved. All regarded him with cold, unflinching stares. ‘I thought not, but the warning has been given. Ystranna of Avelorn, you must bear full responsibility for what happens next.’

Malekith did not give her time to reply as he banished his projection and allowed his spirit to fly back to his mortal shell. Opening his eyes, he saw that Kouran had been joined by two elves dressed in the manner of the shades, and by a herald swathed in the cloak of a dark rider.

‘A witch of Avelorn has bolstered the forces of the Chracians,’ Malekith told his lieutenant. Blazing eyes regarded the scouts. ‘You have fresh news of your own, I see.’

‘An army from the west, my king,’ reported Kouran. ‘Less than a day’s march away.’

‘From Nagarythe,’ Malekith said quietly. ‘It seems that Alith Anar has decided he wants to play.’

‘My king, our position has become vulnerable,’ Kouran added quietly. ‘If we press into Chrace the shadow warriors of Anar will attack the rear echelons.’

‘And if we turn to face Anar the Chracians will do likewise.’ Malekith turned his eye to the mountains in the west, where the sky was still purple, barely touched by the spreading dawn light. ‘I presume that you bring me this news accompanied by a suggested strategy.’

‘We should turn south and leave the forest to the tree-witch and her kin,’ said Saidekh Winterclaw, whom Malekith had not recognised beneath the mask of blood dried on his face. His voice was husky and dry, never more than a whisper.

‘A tempting thought,’ said Kouran, nodding his agreement. ‘There is little force in Ellyrion to stop a swift march. We would fall upon Tyrion’s host unexpectedly. Perhaps we will even reach them before they have eliminated Darkblade’s army, and the prince will be set upon from two directions, instead of us.’

‘Tempting, but wrong,’ said Malekith. ‘We merely delay the entrapment. Anar’s army can cross the mountains more swiftly than mine, and if not to bring battle then to speed warning to Tyrion. Even should they remain solely in pursuit, I cannot afford to leave a sizeable force at the rear, gnawing away at my reserves, threatening to attack any day.’

Before the Sundering he had made the mistake of not cowing every kingdom completely before moving on, driven by unseemly haste. Though time was short – all time was short if Teclis was to be believed – Malekith would not fall prey to the same impulses that had beset him before. ‘We will crush Chrace and seize the crossings to the Blighted Isle and with that route secured move into the weaker eastern kingdoms. The plan has not changed.’

The daemons had ravaged much of Chrace, but Malekith would see the remainder wiped out. No resistance would remain, and the death of the kingdom would serve as a warning to the others. The message would be learned – that this time Malekith would see Ulthuan accept him as its ruler or be totally destroyed. While his own armies were driven by the knowledge that there was no place for them to return, the princes of the ten kingdoms would come to realise that the only future left to them was at the mercy of the Witch King.

‘But the threat that arises in the west, my king,’ Kouran said to Malekith as the Witch King surveyed the mountain pass, knowing it was filled with traps and foes but there was no other way to get to his goal. ‘The traitor warriors of Nagarythe have followed us along Phoenix Pass and will attack within the next day or two.’

‘Let them,’ said Malekith. ‘If we turn to confront Anar he will disappear as surely as the shadows from which he takes his name. Archers in front and behind, and not an elf amongst them willing to stand and fight like a true warrior. I tell you, Alandrian, I will not be thwarted this time. Saidekh, gather together all of your clans – you are to lead the next attack. If the Chracians think their wild homeland has made them expert woodsmen and hill fighters, let them test their blades against the best of the Iron Mountains.’

‘Their skin will make fine cloaks and we will gamble around the fires with their teeth,’ said the shades’ leader. ‘Their hair we will weave into trinket bags for our children and their bones we shall leave as an offering to the Cytharai, whose wrath we will embody.’

‘Just make sure their resistance is broken – what you do with them afterwards is no concern of mine.’ Malekith looked at the dark rider, who had been summoned by Kouran to take messages to the army. ‘Have Imrik and his dragons raze the lower slopes. Burn everything. If Ystranna and her allies wish to retreat from this valley, they must do so through dragonfire or across a charred desolation. She can risk the open ground or face the blades and missiles of Saidekh – the choice is hers.’

The rider turned towards his steed but was called back by Malekith.

‘Ask Prince Imrik nicely,’ the Witch King added. ‘Be sure to say “please”.’

Fifteen The Battle of the Whiteweald

For the remainder of the day it was as Malekith commanded. In their hundreds the shades swept through the forest, a match for any Avelorn spearmaiden or Chracian hunter. Ahead of them, to the east, the dragon princes set about turning the forest to cinders. Dragonfire scoured the mountainside, slaying hundreds of beasts large and small but not a single elf corpse was found amongst the charred remains. Night fell but full darkness never came to the Whiteweald. A twilight cast by the burning forest lit the sky while smoke swathed the moons and stars.

To Malekith’s growing anger, his foes would not show themselves. While his army stood guard in their camps, laughter and singing taunted the druchii and Caledorians. Arrows scythed from the darkness to slay sentries and patrols, but none dared go after the hidden archers while fey lights flickered between the trees and mysterious hisses and groans were carried on the wind.

Kouran arrived at Malekith’s pavilion early the next morning, trailing muddy footprints across the hide rugs, blood on his armour from recent fighting. He bent to one knee before the Witch King’s throne, Crimson Death held out before him as an offering to Malekith.

‘The fighting sounds close,’ remarked the Witch King. ‘It is as though I can hear the blades crashing and the arrows singing from here. Have the enemy finally decided to fight?’

‘They have, my lord, but our forces fare poorly,’ said Kouran, avoiding his master’s eye. ‘The initial attack came not from Anar’s shadow warriors but out of the Whiteweald. Our eye had been drawn to the west too far, my king, and now the enemy have already slain the outer companies and are pressing towards the encampment.’

‘The forces to the west moved in response and the traitor Naggarothi attack from Phoenix Pass?’

‘Just as you say, my king. While the Karond Kar regiments broke camp the shadow army fell upon them. Three thousand are dead – the rest have formed a defensive encirclement and are surrounded.’

‘A well-coordinated assault.’ Malekith rose and strode past his underling, keen to see for himself the unfolding battle. ‘Clearly Ystranna and Anar have been communicating in some fashion I have been unable to detect.’

Malekith stepped out into the dawn light. The sky overhead was still grey, the mountain clouds low despite the summer season. The distinct noise of battle rang through the valley, the clash of weapons, battle cries and screams of the dying and wounded. A constant whispering of bowstrings and arrows added a counterpoint to the more raucous sounds. Dragons roared and flames crackled as the Caledorians to the east responded to the Chracian and maiden guard offensive. Malekith could detect the hiss of hydras and snarl of cold ones.

There were other noises, of a more supernatural origin. The creak of trees and thrash of leaves magnified a hundredfold, accompanied by booming voices and the trilling of smaller forest spirits. The ground rumbled as animated boulders smashed through ranks of warriors, while the air carried a sibilant chorus from hundreds of wind sprites.

He smelt the smoke of dragonfire and the reek of cold ones, mingled with the aroma of sweat and fear. The pine resin scent of the forest was swamped by the iron tang of fresh blood, driving the army’s manticores into a frenzy of frustrated bellowing as they strained at their chains.

‘The ravens, my lord.’ Kouran stopped a few paces from Malekith, cautious of the flames rippling across his armour. ‘The shades caught several yesterday and learned that they were working for the Shadow King. We sent harpies to hunt them down but…’

Malekith turned his head to look down at Kouran. ‘There are a lot of ravens in Chrace?’

Kouran nodded. ‘Yes, my king.’

Malekith had to concede one point of admiration to his foes – when they committed to the attack they did not do so in half measures. It was as though the forest itself assaulted his army. More than a dozen treemen led the attack, crashing into the outer companies of druchii with fists pulping bodies and whip-crack branches severing limbs and necks. Behind them came smaller tree-kin and the dryad spirits, flooding around the treemen to despatch those trying to surround the ancient forest herders.

The Chracians formed one flank of the attack, driving a wedge into the darkshards and corsairs to the north-east, while the maiden guard formed a solid line to the north-west, their wall of glittering spears keeping knights and dark riders at bay while their bows took a toll of the same with relentless volleys of white-fletched arrows.

More archers rained arrows from a secondary line, targeting the druchii war machines and beast handlers. These were aided by several mages, including Ystranna. Malekith could detect the swirling winds of magic where the spellcasters summoned energy for their enchantments. Scything, razor-edged leaves swept out of the trees to slash through a regiment of shades that were trying to go around the flank of the asur force, while muddy behemoths rose up from the ground to wrestle with hydras and dragons. More traditional fireballs and magical lightning betrayed the presence of at least two Sapherian mages assisting the handmaiden of the Everqueen.

The western approaches were no less embattled. Overnight Alith Anar and his shadow warriors had stalked within striking distance and dawn had marked the start of the attack. The first volleys had cut down lookouts and patrol captains, silencing any alarm that might have been raised. The shadow warriors had stolen into the encampment and sliced the throats of hundreds of warriors in their sleep before the contingent from Karond Kar had finally been roused. Their leaders assassinated, enemy in their midst, the Ghrondians had retreated piecemeal to higher ground and were now being whittled down by deadly archery from an enemy hidden by surrounding gullies and boulders.

The Caledorians were slow to assemble, the princes fatigued by the previous day’s labours scorching the lower slopes. The crackle of dragonfire was intermittent as some of the Caledorians sought to counter the awakened woodland bearing down on their camp while the horns of other princes summoned their steeds from their slumbering.

The speed and ferocity of the enemy attack was almost overwhelming. After endless days of chasing shadows, the druchii army had been taken unawares by the sudden change in strategy.

‘What are your orders, my king?’

Malekith realised that his host was in danger of being overrun before it was fully mobilised. Kouran’s question snapped Malekith from his contemplation.

‘Give ground,’ he said. ‘Consolidate. Our line is too long, and we need to draw their archers out of the trees. Summon the tower captains of your regiment to stop it turning into a rout, and tell them that we must make an orderly withdrawal three hundred paces. Tell Imrik to form his dragons into two wings, one to act as a reserve to cover the withdrawal and counter any enemy breakthroughs, the other to harass the shadow army to the west. The two asur forces must not be allowed to link up, despite the retreat.’

‘As you wish, my king,’ said the captain. ‘And the mages?’

Malekith could see a pair of sorceresses supporting the Ghrond army, but they were ill-matched against the handmaiden and Sapherians. Drusala had, of her own volition, left with Malus Darkblade’s army of Hag Graef, which left only one other option.

‘Leave Ystranna and her cantrip-pedlars to me.’

Before Malekith could say anything else, another armoured figure approached, her helm dented, breastplate scored and scratched by spear blows. There was the broken shaft of an arrow jutting from her shoulder. She buried her axe into a tree stump as Kouran took a step towards her with Crimson Death raised, and approached unarmed. Her name was Aravenna, and she had been in charge of the Clar Karond host for only two days.

‘Deepest regrets and apologies, your majesty,’ she said, bowing before Malekith. ‘We expected the Anar army to attack first. They were the better positioned for such an assault. I regret that we fell for the enemy ploy.’

‘You believe it was a mistake to redeploy our forces to the west?’ Malekith asked, turning his full attention on the newly promoted commander. She averted her eyes, shoulders slumping.

‘In hindsight, that would seem the case.’

‘The order for the redeployment came from me, Lady Aravenna.’ Malekith’s quiet words dripped with threat. ‘Do you think I was outwitted by one of the Everqueen’s soppy tree-lovers and a group of peasant hunters?’

‘I…’ Aravenna looked at Kouran, seeking support or perhaps a swift end. He gave her neither, replying to her plaintive stare with a casual shrug.

‘Answer your king, Lady Aravenna,’ said the captain. He flexed his fingers on Crimson Death. ‘Swiftly and with brevity.’

‘It was an impossible decision, your majesty,’ the commander said, the words coming so quickly she was barely comprehensible. ‘Nobody could know that the attack from the forest would come first, but to ignore the Anars would have been equally ill-considered, but given all that we know of the shadow warriors’ hatred for us it would be reasonable to conclude they would seek the greater part of the bloodletting, and that a handmaiden of the Everqueen would be loathe to commit to battle.’

As Aravenna paused to take a breath, Malekith held up a hand to stop her.

‘It hurts to know you have such a lack of faith in my abilities as your military commander,’ said the king. Aravenna started to tremble, a reaction that clearly embarrassed her. A look of such self-disgust moved across her face that Malekith almost laughed.

‘Return to your army and prepare for a counter-attack,’ Malekith told her. ‘The enemy are far more stupid than I had hoped.’

‘Your majesty?’ Aravenna clenched her jaw, conflicted, fighting back tears though she fought also to stop a smile of relief twisting her lips. ‘I do not understand.’

‘I deliberately weakened the eastern defence to bait the enemy into this bold venture. They have surrendered all of their natural and strategic advantages to face us in open battle, and now we will punish them for their lack of warcraft. I cannot imagine Ystranna ordered the attack, but some Chracian prince has made a fool of himself. Anar has been forced to move in support, though I believe he would have far rather preferred to kill us one at a time, never revealing himself. We must destroy them before they see the error of their assault.’

‘As you command, your majesty.’ Aravenna hesitated, her gaze lingering on the Witch King.

‘You have a question?’

‘How will we stop the enemy simply retreating back into the forests, your majesty? I do not wish to fail you again.’

‘That is not your concern. Trust me in this matter as you failed to trust in my grander strategy.’

‘Yes, your majesty. I have one other question.’

‘You test my patience, but the thought of putting these wretches to the sword lightens my mood, so ask your question.’

‘The Karond Kar army will likely be heavily mauled.’ She shook her head, disbelieving, as she looked westwards. ‘You knew this, your majesty? You sacrificed them to draw out the Chracians?’

‘Your observation is correct, general. Be thankful that the host of Clar Karond was not in their place.’

Aravenna bowed again and hurried away, pulling her slender axe free as she departed. Malekith watched her run back down the slope to where her regiments were mustering behind the army of Karond Kar, which had taken the brunt of the Chracian assault as Malekith had planned.

‘You spared her,’ said Kouran, apparently so surprised by this fact he forgot to say ‘my king’.

‘She may not survive the battle, but if she does she will fight doubly hard to prove her loyalty, and from now on she will not question my orders. If I kill her I will simply have to repeat the lesson with another.’

Kouran accepted this wisdom with a thoughtful expression and a nod.

‘The Chracians and the aesenar of the Shadowlands seem to be making quite a headway through my troops,’ Malekith remarked, watching the lead elements of the two converging forces moving towards each other. ‘Go now and convey my orders to the generals. I wouldn’t want to accidently lose this battle when it promises such a sweet victory.’

When Kouran had departed he made his way up the ridge to where Seraphon had made her temporary lair. The other black dragons were already in the sky, duelling with great eagles, griffons and phoenixes, but Malekith’s mount lay in the shade of a great outcrop, gaseous breath billowing down the slope.

‘Come,’ said the Witch King as Seraphon raised her head, opening her long mouth to reveal rows of wickedly serrated teeth. A draught of noxious air washed over Malekith, hot and wet. ‘It is time that we educated these peons in the true art of war.’

The black dragon carried Malekith north, towards Ystranna and her maiden guard companies. It was her presence that was the greatest threat – without Ystranna the spirits of the forest would depart and the magic that bolstered the resolve of her followers would be broken.

As he scanned the forest below Malekith felt something glance from his armour. Turning in his saddle as he wheeled Seraphon to the left, an arrow ricocheted from his shoulder. Three great eagles rose up towards him, an elf prince atop the back of each, their bows levelled at the Witch King. Another flurry of arrows converged on him, sparking from the scales of his mount and deflecting from his breastplate. Malekith was about to turn away from his attackers, their missiles inconsequential, when something stinging lodged in his arm.

An arrowhead that glowed with golden energy had pierced his armour. Another mystical shaft sped past, leaving a welt across the side of his helm, a finger’s breadth from his throat. He followed the flickering trail of magic back to one of the eagle-borne princes, who was fitting another enchanted arrow to his bow.

Flicking the chains with one hand, Malekith rolled Seraphon towards the impudent asur lordling. Even as the black dragon heeled around to face the eagle, the prince steered his mount higher, climbing over the great beast. More arrows skidded from Malekith’s armour from the other two princes, a further distraction.

Leaving a wake of gold, another magical arrow sped towards Malekith as Seraphon laboured to turn after the far more agile great eagles, her tail lashing with rage. It struck the black dragon in the neck, parting scales with a spurt of thick blood. Seraphon snarled with pain, thrashing her head away from the impact, almost jarring the chains loose from Malekith’s grasp.

‘Enough,’ rasped the Witch King, pointing Urithain at the offending prince. A bolt of black energy leapt from the tip, but the eagle had foreseen the attack and folded its wings, dropping beneath the blazing flash of magic. Malekith loosed another bolt and another, chasing the eagle down towards the forest, his prey twisting and turning. Pivoting on the immense bird’s back, the asur prince shot another arrow, which tore through the skin of Seraphon’s left wing, eliciting a further screech of pain.

Changing tactic, Malekith coiled the winds of magic to his will and focused on the prince’s mind. A protective amulet about his neck started to glow, resisting the attack, but Malekith gritted his teeth and pushed harder. The amulet shattered, overloaded with dark magic. Reaching out across the gap between them Malekith let his hatred flow, filling the other elf’s brain with shards of pure agony.

He saw the prince stiffen and cry out, his bow falling from flailing fingers as he toppled from the eagle’s back. The bird stooped down to catch the falling elf but Malekith was ready and hurled another dark bolt that struck the eagle square on the spine, turning feathers to ash and flesh to dust. Crippled, the eagle spiralled down after its rider, the wail of the latter drowned out by the dying shriek of the former.

Shadow darkening the regiments below, Seraphon flattened her dive and ascended again. The other two eagles broke away, unable to harm the mighty black dragon and her immortal master.

More Chracians had joined the attack, charging from under the trees in lion-drawn chariots, driving deep into the flank of a spear regiment as they tried to fall back alongside a company of Black Guard. The white lions fell upon the druchii with claws and fangs, manes matted with splashed blood, while the chariot riders hewed to the left and right with long, slender-headed axes, cutting down those that eluded the wrath of the lions.

The attack threatened to turn the whole flank of the withdrawal, leaving Malekith no choice but to intervene. Seraphon’s climb became another dive, claws outstretched as she crashed into the lead chariots like a thunderbolt, carving apart Chracians and druchii without discrimination. She seized a mighty lion in her jaws as Malekith swept down Urithain to behead the two chariot riders behind. Three bone-crunching bites and a huge gulp later and the lion was no more.

Traces and yokes whipped and cracked as the black dragon continued on her bloody rampage, sword-long talons dragging tatters of white lion hide and viscera. Malekith’s sword crackled with dark power, blood fizzing from the infernal flame that burned along the blade. Another sweep cut a Chracian from groin to shoulder and a third sheared a lion in half across the midriff.

The impetus of their charge abated by the Witch King’s attack, the lion chariots floundered and were soon beset by the Black Guard, who spilled around and over the chariots with halberds flashing, their hate-filled snarls and battle cries as ferocious as any mountain lion’s. His task complete, Malekith steered Seraphon away, seeking the real enemy.

He arrowed the dragon towards the tree line, following the tendrils of forest magic to their source. In parts, the woods themselves had moved, encroaching upon the paths cut by the druchii the day before, following the lead of the treemen and their kind. The boughs of the moving forest were too close together for any mortal eye to penetrate, obscuring all sign of Ystranna. Malekith would have to hunt her down another way.

Seraphon seemed to feel his intent and strained at her chains to swoop down into the Avelorn contingent, her muscles bunching as she prepared for the dive. Malekith hauled back on the reins, dissuading her from the manoeuvre, eliciting a growl of frustration.

‘I have a far more fitting fate in mind,’ Malekith told the dragon. ‘She thinks to rouse the spirit of Ulthuan against me? She will learn who is the true master of this isle.’

Sheathing Urithain, Malekith reached out his will into the forest below. The life magic pouring through the woods bucked at his approach, veering away from his presence in serpentine coils. Turning the extension of his self into a stiletto point, he struck out, pinning part of the retreating Ghyran with his mind. It writhed beneath his attention but could not escape, and slowly through the blade of the imaginary poniard Malekith poured forth his dark thoughts.

Sixteen Ghyran, the Power of Life

Like ink spreading in water, the Witch King’s magic started to pollute the stream of Ghyran brought forth by Ystranna. It was like forging against a river current, pushing against the resistance, but slowly, heartbeat by heartbeat, Malekith infected the magical current with his own will, corrupting it to his desire, perverting its nature.

The grass began to wither and the branches on the trees drooped as the life-force of the forest started leeching into Malekith’s dark magic. The power that had sustained the greenery now fed his wrath, and the longer he suckled on its foul-tasting purity the stronger his own sorcery grew.

Suddenly there was a flash of golden sunlight, arrowing down through the canopy, enveloping Malekith’s extension of will with an aura of warmth. He felt himself drawn out of his body, and blinked unreal eyes against the sudden light.

He stood in a quaint grotto, the sun overhead dappled by lustrous foliage swaying in a warm summer breeze. He could smell wild flowers on the banks of the dell – a sensation he had not enjoyed for several thousand years. His armour was no more, and he was clad in garlands of blooms and leaves, which coiled about him with a comforting embrace. A stream trickled through the grotto from a tinkling waterfall, fish of all colours darting to and fro beneath the surface.

‘Why hate so much?’ asked Ystranna. ‘Hate has never created anything.’

She appeared part maiden and part light and part tree, her hair spilling like willow branches, her eyes wells of sunshine. Streamers of flowers grew from the ground at her feet and enveloped her nakedness with a gown of rainbow hues, shimmering like the sunlight on the waterfall.

‘My hate created Naggaroth,’ said Malekith.

‘And what now of that creation? It has fallen, exposed as the pale imitation of life that it was. Something raised out of jealousy can never endure.’

‘What do you hope to achieve here? To sway my mind away from destroying you and taking back that which rightfully belongs to me?’ Malekith walked across the dell, feeling the soft turf beneath his bare feet, the grass between his toes. He closed his eyes, unable to avoid the memories stirred by the sensation. Memories of living flesh when he had thought he might love and be loved, fulfilled by duty and belonging.

‘No, Malekith, I do not. This is not for you. Nature can be harsh as well as beautiful. I am here to kill you with kindness.’

Ystranna’s expression changed. Her eyes became shards of ice and the garlands that wreathed Malekith revealed themselves to be the roots of the immense tree whose boughs spread over the dell, casting darkness across the Witch King. The roots tightened around his limbs and throat while thorns erupted from the tendrils, piercing his flesh, his splashing blood nurturing the ground to bring forth more bramble-like appendages.

The handmaiden stalked closer, her skin now like the bark of white trees, her fingers the clawing taproots that could prise open the foundations of castles and penetrate the walls of cities. Green and golden Ghyran continued to pulse through her body as she approached, hand outstretched.

‘I think not,’ said Malekith, letting free the bonds he had placed on his power to conceal it from Ystranna’s awareness. Aqshy, fire magic, surged through him, burning away the grasping roots and branches in a moment, turning his avatar into a pillar of fire.

‘You cannot harm me,’ the handmaiden said, her scornful expression written in creased bark and cracked leaves. ‘This is my realm and you are nothing but a projection of your will.’

The Witch King lunged at Ystranna’s apparition and before she realised what was happening, insubstantial fingers closed on her throat. She gasped in shock as the fires of his projection died, leaving a shadow-figure in their place.

‘Your realm?’

Ystranna looked around to see that the trees were withered, twisted things hunched over sickly-looking fungal growths. The ground had become a black mire, the river bubbling with the movement of fanged, slithering eels, the sun obscured by storm clouds.

‘My will is strong indeed, Ystranna,’ Malekith mocked. His blackened fingers become iron claws, digging into the flesh of Ystranna’s neck, puncturing the blood vessels. His spite bubbled from the wounds like acid, flowing into her body to create a spider’s web of blackening veins and arteries. ‘Thank you so much for coming to me. You are the taproot, the motherstone, the source of the power and now you have opened it to me. You should have stayed hidden.’

Ystranna’s flesh blistered and burned from within, pustules erupting to release clouds of spores that stung her eyes and choked her. She was immobile in Malekith’s grasp, unable to put up the slightest resistance.

‘Ulthuan will never be yours,’ the handmaiden gasped. Ystranna’s swollen veins started to pulse, splitting her bark-skin to allow sap-like fluid to run free, washing away Malekith’s venom. Her form shrank, becoming a tangle of blossoming vines that fell from the Witch King’s grasp. The blooms shattered like glass and where the shards landed, the decay of dark magic was dispelled, greenness and life returning to push back Malekith’s curse.

Assuming his usual form, the Witch King stamped a flaming foot on the spreading patch of earth magic, leaving a cindered footprint. The patch continued to grow, running up the hunched boles of the trees leaving fresh shoots in its wake, cleansing the filth from the brook, changing pale, eyeless eels into gleaming fish once more.

‘So crude, so clumsy,’ Ystranna said, her voice coming to Malekith from all around, carried on the rustle of jade leaves and the trickle of fresh water, the creak of branches and swish of grass mocking him with subtle laughter. The words tore at his pride, so close to those barbed comments his own mother had made.

‘Is that so?’ he snarled in reply, striding up to the closest tree. He punched his fist through the bark and opened his fingers in the heartwood, letting his frustration loose as a flame that consumed the tree from within. Steam and smoke billowed from the wound as the core of the tree disappeared, leaving the mass of branches to collapse in a welter of splinters and cracking wood.

The sun broke through, a ray piercing the storm gloom to light Malekith with a pale glow, blinding him momentarily, forcing him back into the grotto.

‘How can you defeat me when you cannot even find me,’ taunted the handmaiden. As the Witch King recovered his sight he spied a faerie light bobbing in the shadows cast by the canopy, whirling left and right, up and down.

‘You forget to whom you speak, child,’ Malekith said as his body slewed into a new shape, armour dissipating like mist, his form becoming that of a giant panther with burning amber eyes, claws and fangs of iron. With a roar he pounced into the woods towards the light. The gleam dodged and fled, zigzagging between the trees, Malekith’s claws tearing up the mulch as he chased it just a few steps behind, snarling and snapping.

The light cut sharply to the left behind the bole of a huge oak, and Malekith lost sight of it. He skidded to a stop, his gaze like a lantern beam as he passed it to and fro in the arboreal twilight. Suddenly he spied the hovering wisp of energy but before he could set off another appeared, a little further away. A third emerged from the leaves of a holly bush just a little way to his right. Within a dozen heartbeats there were scores of floating spheres, a tiny winged figure with the face of Ystranna in the heart of each.

Malekith looked past the glamour of the artificial world they had created to visualise their immaterial duel, seeing the raw winds of magic at work. Malekith was a knot of raw power, bloated and seething with unreleased energy. Dark magic required a focus, a fulcrum in the real world through which its power was harnessed. For the most powerful magic this was usually a sacrifice, to avoid the corruption of the mortal body of the sorcerer, but Malekith’s immortal form placed him beyond such petty consideration.

In stark contrast, Ystranna’s spirit was dispersed across the forest, absorbing Ghyran from everywhere. It was a structure of harmony and balance, kept alive by the interplay of energies themselves, taking from one area and giving to another. It was a creation of great intricacy, requiring intense concentration to maintain. There was no central point, no convergence for him to use to locate Ystranna. She was, as far as it mattered for the winds of magic, everywhere.

‘Impressive,’ he growled. ‘But your parlour trick has run its course. I do not need to find you to defeat you.’

Malekith’s panther body shuddered, black fur falling away, flesh becoming a thorn bush, his limbs extending and splitting into roots that delved deep into the earth. Down and down the Witch King pushed his avatar, striking out to find the roots of the trees, the rivulets of water that sustained them, deeper even than the Ghyran that Ystranna commanded. Spreading like an oil slick, Malekith’s dark magic pooled beneath the forest, cutting it off from the swell of the winds of magic, forcing Ystranna to shift the balance of her counter-spell. Malekith probed and stretched, claw-like roots rasping at Ystranna’s enchantment, seeking to tear through the harmonic web that made it possible.

He felt a stab of white fire as the other mages lent their support to the handmaiden, sensing that Malekith’s plan might work. Their panic only strengthened his resolve and bolstered the dark magic coursing through his projection. Their fire guttered and died, leaving silver trails back into the minds of the Sapherians. Malekith’s glee gave haste to his next attack. He pulsed dark magic into the thoughts of the mages and on the ground above they shrieked their horror as blood leaked from their eyes and bones split within their flesh.

‘You should choose your allies more carefully,’ Malekith gloated, feeling the pool of Ystranna’s power dwindling with every moment.

The handmaiden was losing control of the Ghyran, unable to maintain the balance of power as Malekith’s assault switched and veered from one place to the next, making inroads towards her.

All of a sudden Malekith felt the closeness of Ystranna, her magical presence within reach. He made a metaphysical grasp at her, ensnaring her will with his own. A moment later they both materialised back in the grotto, Malekith’s fist inside Ystranna’s chest, clutching her heart.

Feeding on the earth power the handmaiden commanded, Malekith’s magical presence swelled, growing and growing to gigantic proportion, towering above the forest like a tornado of dark wind, crackling with lightning. Her projection crumbled into dust as she fled, cutting herself off from the winds of magic, but it was too late. Malekith laughed as her avatar slipped away, leaving a slender thread of green and golden sunlight in his hands, pulsing beneath armoured fingers. He had all the power he needed, Ghyran stripped of all its earth power to become raw magic. Swelled by this he became a bloated thundercloud of destruction that flowed between the trees and billowed into the air.

Atop Seraphon’s back, Malekith opened his eyes. Much of the day had passed during his metaphysical battle; his forces below had been pushed steadily back and now formed a semi-circle around the encampment, hard pressed on three sides. Dusk was not far off, and defeat closer still.

With a grim smile, he unleashed his spell.

The ground shuddered, throwing asur and druchii alike from their feet, toppling trees and treemen. As the broken remnants of the forest swayed, the thunderous grinding grew even stronger until the Witch King’s magic burst forth, fuelled by the strength of mountain roots, gushing directly from the vortex that whirled in the bedrock of Ulthuan. An immense chasm cracked open, swallowing hundreds of Ystranna’s maiden guard in a tumble of boulders and broken trees.

Like a volcano erupting, the Ghyran-fuelled dark magic spewed into the sky, a black-tinged fog spreading out through the daemon-cursed trees, freezing every living thing it touched but bringing life to dead branches, filling petrified trees with vitality so that they lifted up limbs and roots and set upon the archers cowering beneath them with thorn-nailed hands.

Higher and higher swelled the sorcerous mass, touching the clouds that roiled overhead. Fire and lightning flickered in their depths and rain started to fall, droplets of flame that quickly became a burning hail and then a storm of flaming meteors that crushed elves and chariots, set fire to tree-kin and lions, obliterated shadow warriors and great eagles.

Malekith felt the burning in his heart first. The spell was channelling more and more power through his body, trying to break free of his control, the peripheral effect causing his already ravaged flesh to steam with fresh vigour, the fires that had crippled him burning behind his eyes and in his bones.

With a last snarl of hatred, Malekith let the spell end, collapsing exhausted in the saddle-throne. Seraphon continued to circle, keeping any potential attack at bay with blasts of gaseous breath and roars, while below the druchii surged out of their defensive line to charge the devastated Chracians and Avelorn maiden guard. To the west the aesenar slunk back towards Phoenix Pass, their retreat covered with hails of black arrows.

His vision dimming, Malekith directed Seraphon to the mountainside and dismounted, almost collapsing as his feet touched the magic-scoured rock. Hidden by the bulk of the black dragon, he knelt down, light-headed, limbs trembling.

Time passed but the Witch King could not mark how long. Eventually the crackle of ancient fires died in his ears and some measure of strength returned to his body. He opened iron-lidded eyes with some effort. It was dark but the clouds parted to reveal the Chaos moon in full ebb, the red orb glaring down like the eye of a wrathful god. The Witch King rose to his feet, flakes of ash drifting from his armour, and stepped past Seraphon to regard the battle below.

Total victory seemed certain. The spirits of the forest had gone, either destroyed by Malekith’s spell or fled from the vengeful counter-attack of the Naggarothi. Malekith’s army advanced in three prongs, while the Caledorians had flown eastward to the bottom of the valley in pursuit of the phoenixes and great eagles.

Malekith moved to pull himself up to Seraphon’s saddle but stopped a pace away, sensing something changing in the winds of magic. He looked up, drawn to the Chaos moon, and it appeared as though its cratered surface were a skull glaring down at him.

Death. Death filled the air.

The winds of magic stilled, impossibly, as though the entire world had frozen. Malekith’s breath steamed on air that had been hot a moment before. In the pass below both sides came to faltering stops as the embattled elves, always sensitive to magical change, felt the unnatural stillness. A cold terror filled the hearts of asur and Naggarothi together as they gazed up at the skull moon.

Malekith realised what was happening and he too felt a chilling dread. What if Teclis had been wrong? What if the Great Necromancer had awoken with all of his power?

Seventeen The Great Necromancer

‘I suddenly feel… inadequate,’ Malekith told his companion.

‘Not even the Tower of Hoeth can rival it,’ replied Teclis.

It had once been a mountain, standing on the edge of a massive crater caused by a meteoric impact during the Coming of Chaos. Centuries of labour had turned the peak into a fortress the like of which could not be found anywhere else in the world. Countless battlements and leagues of crenellations wound their way up the lower slopes, and as the mountain narrowed, jutting turrets by the hundred marked its flanks. Windows in the tens of thousands gleamed, lit from within by a pale witchlight. The summit was clad in permanent cloud, glowing fitfully with magical energy.

It was surrounded by rings of walls that made the great gates of the Annulii look like a fence between troublesome neighbours. In the depth of the crater stretched an inland sea, the waters murky, bubbling, tainted by the huge deposit of warpstone. The touch of that ancient meteorite was death and mutation to everything in the vicinity, leaving only the ghoulish descendants of cannibalistic humans to scavenge the mutant fish and loathsome slugs that survived in the tainted waters, when they did not feast on captives from rival tribes.

The warp-taint was so strong it pervaded everything, even the dry air, so that jutting stones had rictus faces. Plants resembled dangling bones and the only flowers that bloomed were black-headed roses with thorns like daggers. The wind hissed ghostly warnings on the edge of hearing that might have just been the fluttering of the thousands of tattered banners that decorated one of the shorelines, trophies taken during millennia of conquest and despotism. Arches of bone grew from the bare rock, an ossuary-avenue that led three leagues to the outermost gates of the fortress.

Nagashizzar, the most dread-inspiring fortress in the world.

Beneath the horrific castle toiled an endless army of the dead. Skeletal soldiers patrolled walls cracked and pitted by millennia of desert winds from the west. On the highest steeples and spires perched enormous dragons, ragged wings furled around half-skeletal bodies, drawn here from their dying fields on the Plain of Bones. Like monstrous gargoyles they appeared, hunched and malevolent, ready to drop down on any interloper, clouds of desiccating fume dribbling from dead lungs between cracked fangs.

Beneath the dark clouds swooped other dead things. The remains of enormous crows and buzzards, large enough to carry off a full grown elf, were themselves dwarfed by reanimated griffons and manticores that circled on endless watch beside horrific creations made from stitched body parts and bound together with necromantic magic.

The Wind of Death, Shyish, was ever-present, clinging to the rocks like fog, dribbling up through cracks and fissures in invisible steaming clouds. Wraiths haunted the deep caverns in the base of the mountains. On the higher flanks stood the cairns of wights, revenants of kings long dead sworn to the service of the Great Necromancer after whom the citadel was named.

Nagash.

Even thinking the name sent a thrill through Malekith, in equal measure jealousy and concern. There were few truly immortal beings in the world and Malekith was amongst them, but even he marvelled at the magical power that had once been at the command of the Great Necromancer. First in his Black Pyramid in Nehekhara to the south and later here, at Cripple Peak, his sorceries had blighted whole empires and laid low entire civilisations. Even the catastrophe of the Sundering unleashed by Malekith paled in comparison to such devastation.

In spirit form he and Teclis walked along a path of skulls that ran between two outer buttresses of grey rock. They passed into the shadow of Nagashizzar, the heat of the sun lost, and Malekith shuddered despite the fact that his avatar felt no mortal sensation. It was more than temperature that caused the reaction.

‘You have never come here before?’ Teclis asked. ‘Never before been tempted to look on this grandest of evil works?’

‘I had other matters to keep me occupied,’ said Malekith, not willing to admit that he had dared not come here before, for reasons both of vanity and security. ‘Besides, what purpose would it have served? There is nothing here except the mindless dead serving commands uttered three ages past.’

‘Is that so?’ Teclis made a gesture and the two of them disappeared, their spirits coalescing before an immense gatehouse, one of four that guarded the approaches to the citadel.

The gate itself was made of some black material that shone like burnished obsidian. Bone-coloured towers flanked it, each grander than the keep of Tor Achare, stouter than the forts of Karak Kadrin.

On the battlements above, motionless skeletons stood beside war machines of fused bone and sinew – bolt throwers loaded with the thigh bones of giants etched with dire runes and catapults whose phalangeal baskets held ensorcelled skulls that would burst into flame when launched.

Standing against the wall of each tower, to either side of the gate, were two rows of giant beings, made from the bones of dragons, hippogryphs, nameless lizards of the southlands and other huge creatures, bound together by enchanted gold bands. The undying guardians held spears as tall as buildings and carried bows that could fire arrows capable of splintering trees.

The pair stopped before the immense barrier and looked up, invisible even to the eyes of the undead.

‘You mean to enter?’ said Malekith. ‘To what purpose?’

‘To show you the truth,’ Teclis replied. He looked at Malekith with an infuriating half-smile. Few patronised the Witch King, and no other lived long after.

‘Not walls alone protect this place,’ warned the Witch King. ‘There are some powers that even I would not stir.’

‘Did you think that the Great Necromancer would lie dormant for eternity?’ Teclis stepped through the gate. Malekith, feeling ashamed that he hesitated, followed a moment after. Protective runes flared at the intrusion but Malekith was a strong enough sorcerer to bend aside the magical barriers set within the gate itself, emerging from the dark material to find Teclis waiting for him on a long road made from crushed bone.

‘You mean to wake… him?’ Malekith’s projection flickered as he slid ahead of the mage to stand in his way. ‘You tell me that the End Times come, that the Great Powers unite to bend their will to the enslavement of the world, and you seek to bring further ruin upon us?’

‘The gods must return,’ Teclis said, leaning on his staff, out of habit rather than tiredness. The top of the rod was cast in the shape of the moon goddess, his muse and mythical sponsor. ‘The gates of Mirai must be opened, and there is only one that can wrest control of the underworld from Ereth Khial.’

Malekith almost said the name but thought better of it. Names had power and here in the Great Necromancer’s fortress it was impossible to predict what attention the name of its creator might bring. ‘You are mad. Even as the tide of Chaos comes in, you would raise up a cliff of the undead to crush us against.’

‘Not so,’ said Teclis, passing through Malekith’s projection. Around them dead masons, withered to skin and bone, tapped with hammer and chisel at hieroglyph-covered walls, endlessly chronicling the turning of the world, day after day. The dead paid no heed to the wizards as they accelerated, becoming a blur of white and black until they reached the inner gates of Nagashizzar.

The presence of the warpstone was stronger here, making everything seem more tangible, a thickness to the air, of primordial, unrefined magic that invested every rock and bone. Sentinels crafted from the remains of trolls and ogres lined the corridor inside the gate, heads replaced with facsimiles of old Nehekharan gods, twice the height of Malekith, their scythe-like blades gleaming in the glow of green corpselight that suffused the innards of the fortress.

‘The dead do not change. He that raised this citadel desires nothing but a world of the dead enslaved to his will.’ Malekith noted that Teclis shared his caution regarding the name of the dread castle’s architect. ‘The powers of Chaos thrive on the changing ambitions of mortals, to provide the answers to questions only mortals ask. The dead have no need of rage and ambition, despair and charisma.’

‘Two forces opposed,’ muttered Malekith, seeing the clash in his mind’s eye, the legions of the dead on one side, the daemon hordes of the Chaos Powers on the other. There was one problem with that scenario. ‘And of those caught between? You choose to be a puppet of the Great Necromancer rather than the mutated spawn of Chaos?’

‘We need a bulwark against Chaos. I have done what I can to prepare the humans, the dwarfs will do as they always have done and protect their own. In Lustria the great minds of the Old Ones’ servants account nothing for our survival in their astromantic equations. This place holds our greatest chance of resisting the onslaught to come.’

They ascended, level after level as though they climbed through Mirai itself, the caverns of the damned. The dead in their hundreds of thousands waited in endless ranks for the return of their creator or laboured in mines and forges to furnish wargear to an army three thousand years in the making.

‘He will attempt the Great Ritual of Awakening,’ Malekith said as they came upon the dread throne room, a cavernous hall at the height of the dead city. A hundred thousand tallows made of the fat of the living burned in sconces and candelabras across the titanic chamber.

In the flickering lights a platform of skulls heaped up at one end of the hall, becoming an immense throne of bones. It was empty, leaving Malekith disappointed and relieved in equal measure.

About the Great Necromancer’s dais circled the only living things to be found in Nagashizzar, his disciples, necromancers brought here in fits of madness, chanting his praises as they made offering to the incarnation of undeath.

Malekith could sense the energy of Nagash pulsing like a shadow within the shadows, a constant murmuring on the edge of hearing.

‘I have put in motion a series of events that will bring him back,’ Teclis confessed. ‘It is already too late to prevent his reincarnation.’

‘I am prideful, but your arrogance puts mine to shame,’ hissed Malekith. ‘These are not forces we can control.’

‘When you sought to shut down the vortex and bring about the tide of Chaos, did you think twice?’ Teclis asked, suddenly as bitter as the Witch King. ‘A deed so insane that even now we must deal with its consequences. It is not pride but desperation that pushes me to these extreme deeds.’

‘My past actions do not alter the folly of your current plans. I will not allow this.’

The hall trembled, almost imperceptibly. The winds of magic that had been so sluggish started to swirl, eddying around the throne. The acolytes gave gasps of surprise and fear as the dark winds caused the skulls of the throne to begin chattering their teeth, the echoes of their chorus a hideous cacophony that filled the immense hall.

‘Too late,’ whispered Teclis.

The black furnace of Nagash’s soul was growing in power. More brands on the wall burst into life – the blaze of a thousand torchlights brought fresh horror to the scene. Every surface of the chamber was covered in runes and hieroglyphs, which now danced in the flame light with a life of their own, melting and reforming to channel the winds of magic into the throne, the rumbling growing stronger with every passing heartbeat.

‘All is in hand,’ Teclis tried to assure Malekith. ‘I have made sure that the Great Ritual of Awakening will not succeed, not in its entirety. Nagash will return, strong enough to thwart Chaos for a while yet not so strong that we will not be able to undo what has been done.’

Malekith thought he saw an apparition on the throne, wraith-like but terrifying, armoured and cowled, one hand replaced with a claw of metal clutching the arm of the chair, in the other dead grasp a staff of black iron wrought with Nehekharan sigils. The Great Necromancer raised his head, revealing a skull face, eyes blazing with warp-light. Though Malekith and Teclis were concealed by the greatest enchantments of stealth and darkness that they could weave, for an instant the Witch King was sure that the pale green light of those eyes fell upon him and saw him. There was no life there, no expression that could be read. The visitation lasted only a moment before disappearing.

A sudden blast of Shyish swept along the hall, the magic of death extinguishing every flame, hurling the acolytes to the floor. There was nothing else in the chamber, nothing physical at least, but Malekith sensed a pulsing in his head, as of a deep voice vibrating inside his mind. It was in a human language long dead outside these walls, but in his thoughts he recognised the concept behind the words.

I RETURN

Without thought or word between them, the spirits of Teclis and Malekith fled.

‘Teclis, you are a fool,’ snarled Malekith, aware of the tide of Shyish that was building in the Ulthuan vortex. Darkness swept over the pass as clouds of pure death magic swallowed the Chaos moon. Malekith pulled himself into the throne-saddle, iron skin fizzing with the energy of unlife. ‘Your meddling will destroy us yet.’

He was too spent from his duelling with Ystranna and the opening of the great fissure to counter the rising tide of necromantic power. Likewise the handmaiden and her allies, if they sensed at all the catastrophe about to engulf them, were powerless to prevent the influx of Shyish.

Seraphon sensed something amiss too, snorting and whining with discontent that she had never displayed before. Malekith wrestled the chains of her reins, forcing her to launch into the skies, towards the roiling storm of undeath gathering above. The higher he climbed, the more awestruck Malekith was by the magnitude of the incantation being unleashed. The Circlet of Iron was like a crown of ice on his brow, as the Wind of Shyish blew across Ulthuan, across the whole world, shifted and congealed to a single purpose, bent to a single indomitable will.

Through the power of the Circlet of Iron Malekith’s spirit soared, unexpectedly. Buoyed up by the swell of death magic, the Witch King felt his essence tugging at the bonds of flesh, unwillingly torn from the near-dead shell that had bound his spirit to the realm of the living for six millennia.

In that instant his senses were focused upon a single point, halfway across the world in tainted lands that sat overshadowed by the great mountains of the dwarfs. The region was awash with Shyish, spewing its revivifying energies across the whole of the world. Nagash had returned to the mortal world and now attempted to unleash the Great Awakening once more, as Malekith had feared.

The Witch King was caught on the outer edge of the impossibly powerful conjuration, and with all his willpower strained to maintain a grip on his armoured form, still sat astride Seraphon’s throne-saddle far below. He focused his thoughts on the burning armoured figure of his body, turning his spirit against the raging current of the Great Necromancer’s sorcery, diving back through the storm like a hawk caught in a tornado. Straining, pushing every iota of his last strength into the effort, Malekith seized hold of his body once more, hurling his essence back into the withered husk.

The pain of burning, the agony of Asuryan’s curse, was the most welcome sensation he had ever felt. Tossed upon the brink of oblivion, almost drawn into the dark abyss of endless Mirai, Malekith cried tears of fire, so great was his joy at cheating death, so invigorating was the opportunity to claw another handhold in mortal existence. The pain was life, the agony proof that he could still achieve his ambitions.

Gasping and laughing, Malekith shuddered with ecstasy as around him the necromantic storm raged.

Nagash’s curse of the Great Awakening, the most powerful spell ever unleashed, began with a single shaft of pale green lightning. Where the bolt touched the mountainside the body of a Chracian hunter twitched. Missing an arm, the dead warrior struggled to her feet, her blood staining the fur of her lion pelt cloak. Ghostlight shone from her eyes and with jerking steps she advanced towards the Naggarothi nearby, who stood transfixed by the storm above.

Another lightning strike hit the corpse of a Black Guard, coruscating across silver armour. He pushed himself to his feet, more viscera spilling from the axe wound in his gut, halberd levelled in dead hands.

‘No,’ murmured Malekith as the two dead things fell upon the Naggarothi, who cried out in horror moments before being cut down. ‘No. Not like this. Not now.’

More lightning struck, again and again, increasing in frequency until the whole valley was ablaze with flashing energy. A fog of undeath sprang up from the ground, reanimating all that it touched, shambling figures advancing within the green mist to beset the druchii companies that had stalled in their counter-attack.

Malekith watched as the eagle he had slain earlier flapped ragged wings, digging itself out from under a pile of broken branches. Its rider, the asur prince with the bow, emerged from the fog and mounted the great bird, and the two soared aloft, together in death as they had been in life.

Across the pass the Naggarothi counter-attack had advanced over thousands of dead and now the slain were returning, striking from behind their lines. Beset by the undead the regiments of druchii fractured, losing all coherence and strategy. Malekith bellowed out his rage, cursing Teclis’s name, vowing to gut the meddling Sapherian when they next met, no matter the consequences.

All was not lost, despite Malekith’s tirade. Even as the undead clawed and dragged down his warriors, so they also fell upon the asur. The Whiteweald had been a battleground for the past few days and before that the daemons had slaughtered thousands of Chracians. Now the Wind of Death breathed new vigour into rotting flesh and half-stripped bones. With sinews of magic driving them, the dead of the Whiteweald rose, falling on Chracian and maiden guard, aesenar and druchii without discrimination.

Malekith swooped low over the battlefield, searching for some presence of Ystranna. Though he had perverted the winds of magic to his needs, he had unfinished business with the handmaiden of Avelorn.

There was no sign of her, either mystical or physical, and Malekith bit back his frustration. She had escaped, no doubt with other commanders and mages. Her army was retreating, fighting through the dead of the Whiteweald, but protected from pursuit by the reanimated corpses of the recent battle.

The Witch King considered going after them, or commanding Imrik to wipe out the Chracians, but the present threat of the undead curtailed the urge. Such had been the ferocity of the battle and the daemon invasion the undead outnumbered his host and the dragons were needed protecting what army he had remaining. It would avail him nothing to wipe out Ystranna’s force only to have no army of his own to exploit the slaughter.

For most of the night he held the tide with Urithain and Seraphon, putting to the sword reconstituted manticores and hydras, slaying again dragons that had the day before been killed by war machine bolts and magic.

When his constitution had recovered sufficiently, in the greyness just before dawn Malekith tapped into the well of magic opened by his confrontation with Ystranna. He let the winds of magic spill forth from the fissure that broke the flank of the mountain, a wave of pure Ghyran washing away the taint of Shyish as one might cleanse infection from a wound, sending the last of the animated dead back to their graves.

All across the Whiteweald walking corpses collapsed, the light going from their eyes, undead grasps losing grip of weapons and shields. The druchii stumbled around in the aftermath, in no position to fight or pursue, their voices lifted in praise to their king and the gods and goddesses of the underworld.

Malekith could do no more and bid Seraphon to bear him back to his pavilion. Dismissing the dragon he issued one last command to the Black Guards that stood watch: he was not to be disturbed by anybody.

As soon as he passed out of their sight, Malekith slumped, overwhelmed by the exertions of the day. He staggered to his iron throne and collapsed into its embrace, weary in mind and body.

Sleep came, but brought with it a nightmare of death. Malekith’s dream was filled with visions of Nagash’s Great Ritual as the dead of the world burst forth from ancient graves and slid open the portal stones of their tombs.

In the Northern Wastes above the empire of the humans the corpses of thousands of dead marauders returned to life, breaking out of crude cairns to savage their former kinsmen. Chaos-cursed armies and knightly expeditions of battles long past fought again their wars of pillaging and retribution.

Across the realm of the dwarfs, runes and seals cast to prevent such magical incursion melted and burned, releasing tormented spirits that moaned and wailed through the chambers and halls of the mountain cities.

The gardens of Morr, the humans’ guardian of the dead, were awash with the Great Necromancer’s power, the rituals of the priests availing naught against the sorcery of the first Necromancer. The bodies of burghers and nobles clambered from ornate mausoleums while in the potters’ fields beyond the walls of towns and cities generations of dead were revivified and fell upon the slumbering citizenry.

Eventually darkness came and Malekith dreamed no more.

Eighteen Fresh Plans

Though rested in mind and in body, Malekith awoke with a restlessness of spirit.

At first he could not fathom what disturbed him so. It was like an appointment he could not remember, or that he had misplaced some object and had forgotten that he should be looking for whatever was missing. He sat on the throne trying to work out what it was that vexed him, when suddenly he realised what it was.

There were only seven winds of magic.

The Wind of Death, Shyish, was gone. Not abated or dampened as he might expect following the immense raising of the dead by Nagash, but completely gone. Like a grin missing a tooth the winds blowing from the north were incomplete and it was this sensation that was so irritating to his psyche.

His smouldering form burned into fresh life as he bellowed for Kouran to attend him. With full wakening returned memory, and the recollection that Ystranna had escaped the trap she had unwittingly sprung.

‘How long since the battle?’ the Witch King demanded before Kouran could even offer a bow or salute.

‘Three days, my king,’ replied the captain. ‘And two more nights. I despatched scouts by horse and foot and wing but there is no sign of the Chracians or the host from Avelorn.’

‘Of course not,’ snarled Malekith, standing. ‘They have been bloodied and seek to bind their wounds. The mountains hold not only hunting lodges and peat-burners’ huts. There are fortresses here, hidden, dug into the stone like dwarf-holes. The Chracians have gone to ground and wait for us to make our next move.’

‘We shall not disappoint them, my king. The army is ready to march north at your word.’

‘North?’

‘To the coast, my king. Is it not your intent to seize the harbours and crossing to the Blighted Isle?’

This seemed presumptuous of Kouran, to explain strategy to the Witch King, but Malekith knew no insult was intended and let it pass.

‘I would no more have that tree-witch dogging my heels than I would the Anars. We will scour Chrace until she and her army are destroyed.’

‘My king, it could take a season to find them and they are ensconced within their hidden keeps, another season and more to break their defences.’

‘I have three score of dragons!’ Malekith roared, smashing a fist into the other hand, sending up a fountain of red sparks. ‘Did you not see what happened at Eagle Gate? Have we not advanced further than on any campaign since I was first ejected from this isle? Ystranna cannot hide from me. I know her now, and many are the ways in which she can be hunted down.’

‘If Tyrion grants us the leisure of such a pursuit, my king,’ Kouran argued. Any other advisor would have uttered such sentiment with softer words, but Kouran showed no remorse for his indelicate tone. In fact Malekith could see nothing in the other elf’s expression except earnest intent, so alien on the features of the druchii the Witch King barely recognised it.

‘Tyrion.’ Malekith spat the name. ‘Tyrion? Let Tyrion come. Let this pretty prancing prince try his might against mine. He is nothing without…’ Malekith stopped himself naming Tyrion’s brother, not wishing to reveal his involvement with Teclis, even to Kouran. The alliance was best kept secret, a source of power hidden from his rivals, both in the asur camp and his own army. ‘Without Imrik he wields a lesser force.’

‘My king, you hunt rats with a hydra,’ said the Black Guard captain. ‘Ystranna’s force is barely a fifth of ours. It is entirely her intent that we expend our limited days seeking her. It was only with a bait of ten thousand warriors that you were able to draw out her strike in the Whiteweald. She will not be tricked twice. Nor, I think, your own commanders. Alith and his aesenar have disappeared and Ystranna will not show herself again soon.’

‘Until we turn our back on her,’ Malekith said pointedly. It riled him that he had been so close to eliminating the handmaiden and her army, it felt like defeat to let her slip away unmolested. The dead rising had spoiled everything, ruining a perfectly executed strategy. ‘The moment we head north the Chracians will be nipping at our heels, a company lost here, a war machine battery there. You would have us bleed from a thousand tiny bites.’

‘We can spare a third of the army as rearguard, my king, and still have sufficient force to seize Tor Achare and the coastal towns.’

‘A third? Which part of my army would you trust with such duties? The Ghrondians, who I am sure still answer to Drusala though she is absent? Perhaps the remnants from Karond Kar? They must be bursting with loyalty to my cause. There is not a contingent or commander that I can trust out of sight or further than my reach. I burned their cities to ensure they cannot retreat, but should they find welcome in the ranks of the asur…’ Malekith held up his fist and slowly splayed his fingers. ‘Your rearguard would melt quicker than ice in my grasp.’

‘I would stand, my king.’ Kouran said the words with pride, and Malekith did not doubt the captain. ‘The Black Guard will hold the pass for you.’

‘A worthy offer, Alandrian, but one I must decline. I have greater need of your eyes and your blades in my camp, lest those untrustworthy elements I speak of seek a more direct means of betraying me.’

‘That leaves only one choice, my king, one part of the army that you can trust.’

Malekith thought about this for a moment. ‘The Caledorians?’

‘If Imrik gives his word he will keep it, my king.’

‘If…’ Malekith sat down again, settling his body to settle his thoughts. Kouran was right, of course, in principle. The death of Ystranna achieved nothing save to satisfy Malekith’s desire for revenge. Her taunts still smarted and her continued existence was an insult.

But to slay her at the expense of the greater scheme was madness. His arguments against Kouran’s course of action were revealed as thin excuses to allow the Witch King his vengeance. Malekith looked at the captain, who was waiting patiently for his master’s next utterance.

‘How do I deserve such loyalty, Kouran?’ he asked.

The captain frowned, confused that the question had to be asked. ‘You are my king.’

‘Many others seek to be your king, or queen – what makes me so worthy that you cut them down at my word?’

‘You are the true king of the elves, Malekith,’ said Kouran, uttering his master’s name for the first time since joining his service. ‘You are the son of Aenarion, champion of the Daemon War, heir to the Phoenix Crown. It is your right by deed, merit and birth and I would give my life to see that ancient wrong reversed and your rightful position restored. As an elf I can think of no higher calling.’

Malekith received this testament in shocked silence. Not even his mother had ever spoken in such bald terms, and the words were like crystal water cooling his burning flesh. The simplicity of Kouran’s assertion calmed Malekith’s ire. He felt a moment of affinity with the captain, believing for the first time in his long life that there was perhaps one other who truly understood the nature of the pain that coursed through him – not the physical agony but the spiritual torment of rejection.

Pride was his greatest weakness. Malekith knew this, and it had perhaps been the undoing of his father but the affront that had been done to him, the insult to Aenarion’s house, was so great that justice demanded an equally immense retribution.

But not yet. Kouran’s short speech salved the wounded pride of the Witch King, clearing his thoughts.

‘Go to Imrik,’ he said. ‘Bid him to pursue the Chracians and Ystranna to every corner of Chrace if necessary. I want her dead. We will march north, and with his dragons he will guard our advance.’

‘As you say, my king,’ said Kouran, showing no sign of jubilation or conceit.

‘You really are unique amongst our kind,’ Malekith said. ‘Your dedication, your obedience and loyalty are like no other.’

‘It is a lament that the Naggarothi do not value such traits as they once did,’ said Kouran. ‘I cleave to an older time, when Aenarion’s word was his bond and his selfless sacrifice prevented the extinction of our kind.’

‘Not just the Naggarothi,’ said Malekith. ‘All of elfdom. My father would have gladly fought beside you. If only you had been born in such distant times, and perhaps borne aloft his standard instead of that traitor Eoloran Anar, our history may have been very different.’

‘I think not, my king,’ Kouran confessed, ‘though I take it as great praise. Khaine desired your father’s wrath and the Great Powers feared him regardless of those he consorted with. Perhaps now we have the chance to restore what was broken.’

‘We do, Kouran, we have that opportunity.’

Kouran saluted and left, leaving Malekith to plan the march north.

Nineteen A Hasty Council

The Witch King had studied the maps and reports from the scouts in great detail and was just about ready to call for his generals when he heard a commotion outside his pavilion. He heard one of his guards issuing a challenge and a sharp rebuke from Kouran – Malekith had expected Kouran to have been gone for the rest of the day and had left instruction that he was not to be disturbed, still weary from his recent efforts.

The argument grew louder and then ended suddenly with the sound of a sword swiftly drawn, a wet chopping noise and a dull thud.

Malekith turned to the door, half drawing Urithain as he did so, expecting treachery. The thought that even Kouran had, at the last, turned on him was almost as hurtful as the fires that raged in his body. The captain of the Black Guard strode into the chamber and stopped. Before the Witch King could say anything, another elf entered – Imrik, with blood-slicked blade bared.

‘Were all your words as empty as your oaths of allegiance?’ snarled Malekith, drawing his sword fully, squaring his stance to face-off against the two elves, the tip of Urithain moving from one to another.

‘It is not as you fear, my king,’ said Kouran. To prove himself, he tossed Crimson Death aside and held up his empty hands. ‘There is no treachery.’

‘Your guard threatened me first,’ Imrik said, by way of explanation. He flicked the blood from his sword and sheathed it.

‘I should think so too,’ said Malekith, lowering Urithain a fraction. ‘That is what guards are for when unwelcome visitors arrive.’

‘He would not listen to my command,’ said Kouran.

‘My command had been explicit.’ Malekith could see that there was no immediate threat and sheathed his blade. He sat down in his throne and beckoned the two elves to approach. ‘Kouran, only one of my four guards saw fit to deny you entry. He has unfortunately lost his life for his dedication. The other three should fare no better for their disobedience.’

‘I will attend to it presently, my king,’ said Kouran, retrieving his weapon. ‘There is a more pressing concern.’

Before Malekith could ask, the drape across the chamber entrance moved aside as Teclis entered, leaning heavily on his staff, looking even worse than he had at Eagle Gate. There was a dangerous look in the mage’s eye nevertheless and he thrust his staff towards Malekith while with his other hand he made an arcane gesture and threw up a semi-transparent wall of gold that surrounded the mage and Witch King. Kouran slashed his halberd at the barrier and was rewarded by an explosion of sparks that threw him halfway across the throne chamber.

‘I knew I could count on the treachery of one of you, at least,’ snarled Malekith. His hand moved towards the hilt of his sword again, but stopped just short. A fight with Teclis would not be conducted with steel, no matter how ensorcelled. The Witch King started to summon the winds of magic to his will. ‘Do you think me a fool?’

‘The arch-traitor stands in accusation of me?’ Teclis’s rage was almost as great as Malekith’s finest tirades. ‘You have conspired and misled me since I first came to you in your dreams, and now you think that I have betrayed you? You are a gutless serpent, Malekith, and I curse the day I ever thought to trust you.’

‘Perhaps it is your mistress, goddess Lileath, that has led you awry,’ snapped Malekith. ‘You come to my camp and threaten me, but it is I that is the traitor? How contrary.’

‘Do not deny that you and your wretched mother have been trying to manipulate me from the outset.’

Malekith was stunned by the idea and was lost for words to utter any such denial. Instead he laughed, finding the accusation so ridiculous there was no other way to answer it.

‘Even now she whispers into the ear of my brother, guiding him to his destruction.’

‘You have taken leave of your senses, nephew. Morathi broods in Ghrond surrounded by thorns and northlanders. If she desires to whisper into the ear of any mortal it would be mine.’

Teclis hesitated, his anger wavering. ‘She left Ghrond with you, in the guise of Drusala. You brought her to Ulthuan and then sent her with Malus to confront my brother, where she infiltrated his camp by means of another glamour.’

‘Nonsense. You are getting confused in your fatigue. Drusala is one of my mother’s chief sorceresses.’

‘Drusala was Morathi.’

‘I would see through such a guise in moments,’ protested Malekith, but uncertainty gnawed at his confidence. ‘Do you think I would not sense the soul of my mother?’

‘And that is why I concluded that you must have been colluding with her,’ said Teclis, but his tone was uncertain. He waved a hand and the shimmering barrier dissipated.

‘No!’ snapped Malekith as Kouran readied to launch himself at the mage. Imrik stood beside the captain looking confused. ‘Something is wrong here. I will hear him speak.’

‘Apologies, my king, but he lied to us,’ said Kouran, glaring at Teclis with unconcealed homicidal intent.

‘A lie of omission, perhaps,’ admitted Teclis, never moving his eyes from the Witch King. ‘I told you that my brother now marches north and that I needed to speak to your master. Both of these facts are still true.’

‘Tyrion seeks battle,’ said Malekith, pondering the import of this news.

‘We need to prepare if Tyrion advances on our position,’ said Imrik.

‘What of Malus Darkblade and the vanguard?’ asked the Witch King. ‘Has he also turned against me?’

‘Malus is dead,’ said Teclis.

‘Finally some good news,’ Malekith exclaimed with a contemptuous laugh. ‘I hope his demise was painful.’

‘He was possessed by a daemon, which tore him apart from inside, before being slain by Tyrion.’

The elves thought about this in silence for several moments, even Malekith’s bitter humour dissipated by the gruesome revelation.

‘Settle this matter,’ insisted Malekith. ‘You swear that Drusala was my mother wrapped in a glamour?’

‘I swear by Lileath,’ said the mage. ‘I recognised her immediately, as did my brother.’

‘And I did not…’

‘Sometimes the closest are the easiest to deceive,’ said Teclis, pacing across the chamber to stop just short of Malekith. ‘A riddle to resolve another day. Of import is that her deception has succeeded. My brother, in his vulnerable mental state, has fallen under her bewitchment. She has persuaded him that he must draw the Widowmaker.’

‘The Sword of Khaine?’ Malekith thought on this and then snorted with derision. ‘Oh Morathi, you poor enamoured soul. You think that this princeling is Aenarion reborn.’

‘I thought it odd that she relinquished him so easily before,’ said Teclis.

‘What are you two talking about?’ demanded Imrik. ‘You speak in half measures, and I would know everything we must face.’

Teclis looked at Malekith, intrigued. ‘I did not realise you were aware of the event. You were, as I recall, indisposed.’

Malekith grimaced, remembering the time well.

‘It is true that I was not of the mortal realm at that time, due to your efforts, nephew. You of all people should remember that we see much more when we have a different perspective and the Realm of Chaos gave me the greatest vantage point one might wish for.’

‘What happened, my king?’ asked Kouran.

‘The Blighted Isle, one hundred and fifty years ago,’ said Malekith. ‘Always it seems our fates revolve around that little bloodied dark altar to the God of Murder.’

It was the blood magic that attracted his attention. It made ripples in the Realm of Chaos, drawing attention from across the spaceless abode of the Ancient Powers. The first drops quickly became a waterfall, channelled by a powerful mind into a torrent of energy that blazed across the immaterial skies like a beacon.

He had been drawn to it out of instinct, moving to its source with a shoal of other near-mindless entities to lap at the delicious sacrifice. More powerful creatures, servants of the Chaos Gods, followed swiftly, causing the lesser denizens to scatter, but he remained, the scent of the blood, the feel of it flowing through him and over reminding him of something he had once been.

As more blood was spilled on the altar of the elves’ God of Murder further power thrashed through the Realm of Chaos, drawing a crimson scene upon the ever-changing world. He saw the rocks of an island – a place he had known – and two armies clashing. An altar of black stone was awash with blood, the basin-like temple around it filled with corpses of slaves and sorceresses. By the altar itself stood a tall figure, hair thick with gore, wickedly jagged sacrificial blade in hand, her naked form bathed in blood.

Looking upon the face, he remembered.

Morathi. His mother.

He was Malekith, king of the elves, and he had cast himself into the Realm of the Gods to avoid death at the hands of the mage, Teclis. He had no idea how long had passed in the mortal world, but as he watched the scene unfolding in the pools of blood around him he realised that something was amiss.

There was another with Morathi and at first Malekith was stunned by recognition. It was his father, Aenarion, the defender of Ulthuan and first of the Phoenix Kings. But the scene did not resemble any act he remembered occurring before his self-imposed banishment. His father had travelled alone to the Blighted Isle, both to retrieve the Sword of Khaine and to replace it. Morathi did not belong there.

With a shock Malekith understood. It was not Aenarion that stood slack-eyed and entranced by the Hag Sorceress, but one of his descendants, the Prince Tyrion. Malekith had no idea how Morathi had come to capture the prince, or the Blighted Isle, but it was obvious that her possession of these two at the same time was not coincidence.

Becoming fully aware of himself and his sense of being, Malekith was able to stretch forth his will into the Realm of Chaos around him. The Circlet of Iron on his brow throbbed as it guided his power, allowing him to move the image of the scene as he desired. He saw that the asur army besieging the Shrine of Khaine was led by Teclis, the twin of Tyrion, fighting desperately to free his brother.

Morathi’s intent became clear. She was trying to use Tyrion as a vessel for restoring Aenarion’s soul to the mortal sphere. She was bargaining in blood for Khaine to return the first Phoenix King, to instil Aenarion’s essence into the body of the prince.

In short, Morathi was trying to replace Malekith and put Tyrion on the throne of Ulthuan.

He raged as he saw the ceremony reaching its crescendo, cursing his mother and urging Teclis and his host to greater efforts, impotently trapped in the immortal but immaterial world. Whether the ritual would succeed looked doubtful, but Malekith wanted his mother to fail, for throwing her son aside in favour of this gullible young prince, and for disturbing the eternal rest of his father.

Malekith’s anger lent him strength, the same strength that had sustained him for thousands of years. He would not be usurped again!

Through an extension of pure will, Malekith reached into the mind of one of the Naggarothi looking on, one of the final line of defence against the asur counter-attack. The druchii’s thoughts were filled with selfish desires and hatred of the approaching asur and it took only the smallest of influences for Malekith to subvert the elf’s mind and turn it to his will.

With stolen body Malekith drew close to Morathi, stepping between the bodies of the dead, unnoticed as the Hag Sorceress shrieked her supplications and promises to Khaine. Drawing his blade, he thrust the sword between his mother’s shoulder blades and tore it free as she fell. Another stroke cut the bonds around Tyrion, but the prince just blinked and looked dumbfounded, drugged or worse.

‘Move, you cretinous dog,’ Malekith snarled, slapping the prince across the cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Wake up!’

Tyrion murmured and blinked again, as though rousing from a heavy sleep. Morathi was already pushing herself to her feet, the wound in her back sealing with magical energy.

‘Go!’ Malekith thrust the sword into Tyrion’s hands as other druchii closed on him and the prince. ‘Your brother approaches!’

Guided by instinct, Tyrion blocked a sword aimed at his throat and disembowelled the elf that had attacked him. Malekith threw his purloined body in front of a hail of repeater crossbow bolts, saving the prince as he charged the closing ring of Naggarothi. Blotting out the pain from his stolen flesh, the spirit of the Witch King had one last glimpse of Tyrion cutting his way free and then his new body died, sending his essence wailing back to the Realm of Chaos.

Imrik listened to the end of the tale with a look of disbelief, while Kouran nodded silently, absorbing the import of what Malekith had said.

‘I did not realise that you had intervened,’ said Teclis, brow creased with a shallow frown. ‘Rumour followed that an agent of Hellebron had freed my brother to confound Morathi.’

‘A rumour I did not quash on my return,’ said Malekith.

‘Why did you not slay her when you returned, my king?’ asked the Black Guard captain.

‘My mother stood by me for five thousand years, and even when I sided with Bel Shanaar and took her into custody she never gave up on my destiny to become Phoenix King.’ Malekith took a deep breath, his lungs burning and ragged while the pain of recollection swamped his thoughts. He shook his head to clear them. ‘She thought I was dead, and sought another to fulfil her ambitions. I could not blame her.’

‘The ritual guided you back from oblivion,’ said Teclis, eyeing Malekith with wonder. ‘When you disappeared into the Realm of Chaos I thought you lost forever, and wondered how it was that you managed to return.’

‘It was the spark that reignited the flame of my spirit and gave me purpose again,’ Malekith replied. His mood soured. ‘Though it appears my leniency was misplaced and since that time she has been seeking to reunite with Tyrion again. I accused her of wasting away in Ghrond like a pining lover but her greater intent becomes clear. She did not warn of the northlander attack hoping that Naggaroth would be devastated, too weak to ever reclaim Ulthuan, and she would swoop upon Tyrion and usher him to the Phoenix Throne over the bodies of any that defied him.’

‘That part of the plan has so far failed,’ said Teclis, ‘but the cycle of history turns again and this time we shall suffer for it if we do not act.’

‘Why did you not dispel her bewitchment?’ demanded Imrik. ‘This matter would be simply resolved if you broke the hold Morathi has on Tyrion.’

‘I cannot, for his heart is bound to her now by something stronger than magic.’

‘Surely he cannot love her?’ Imrik shook his head in disgust.

Teclis took a moment to drink one of his life-giving potions, gaining himself time to think. He looked directly at Malekith. ‘What first drove your father to the Sword of Khaine and the embrace of your mother?’

‘Grief,’ Malekith replied without hesitation. ‘His wife and children slain, or so he believed, he reached his darkest nadir and sought only vengeance for the ill that beset him and his people.’

‘Tyrion’s daughter is dead,’ announced Teclis, looking away. Was it an expression of guilt? Malekith wondered. ‘Princess Aliathra died trying to thwart the return of the Great Necromancer.’

‘Aliathra was Finubar’s child, the next Everqueen,’ said Imrik, confused. ‘Are you saying… ?’

‘I knew it!’ said the Witch King, earning himself looks of interest from the mage and Imrik together, but he did not care for their feelings. ‘Well, I was almost certain, and now you confirm my suspicions. And here you are, nephew, at my camp, rather than at your brother’s side doing your best to counter the machinations of my mother. Why might that be?’

Teclis did not answer.

‘Answer Malekith’s question, mage,’ insisted Imrik. ‘Your efforts would have been better spent curtailing the threat at source rather than bringing news of its unfolding to us.’

‘Tyrion blames me for Aliathra’s death. I was forced to flee.’

‘Is that so?’ crowed Malekith. ‘An intrigue going amiss, nephew?’

Teclis said nothing but the Witch King saw his expression saddening even further, fingers tightening on his staff, jaw clenched.

‘Or perhaps something worse,’ Malekith continued, relentless, recognising the self-loathing behind Teclis’s grief. His voice was filled with savage glee. ‘You meant for her to die, did you not?’

The mage quivered with emotion, almost collapsing, but none of his companions made a move to assist him.

‘Is this true?’ demanded Imrik, while Kouran laughed with scorn.

‘Enough!’ snarled the mage, with such vehemence that Imrik and Kouran retreated a step. He glared at all three of them with eyes blazing with golden energy. ‘She was my niece and I feel the loss no less for the fact that it was necessary.’

Malekith stepped down from his throne and loomed over the mage. ‘You have always intended for Tyrion to draw the Widowmaker.’

Teclis nodded, defiant. ‘By drawing again His sword, the curse of Khaine will be lifted from our line.’

‘You would unleash the Godkiller on the world again?’ Imrik’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Just to rid your family of their curse?’

‘We have no future while the curse remains,’ said Teclis, dismissing Imrik’s concerns with a wave of the hand. He slumped and looked earnestly first at Imrik and then Malekith. ‘None of us. What better time for the Godslayer to be drawn than during the Rhana Dandra? I had planned to be beside my brother, to guide him through the turmoil so that he would be able to return the blade when the End Times were over and Chaos thwarted again.’

‘You reckoned without the interference of my mother,’ said Malekith, pacing away. ‘It seems that your mistress’s prophecies are not worth much, nephew.’

‘It is too late to give up,’ said Teclis. He hesitated before continuing. ‘Nagash has returned and attempted to become the living embodiment of Shyish. As I promised, he was too weak and for the moment he has drawn the power to the land the humans call Sylvania. He seeks to regain his pyramid in Khemri and if he does so, perhaps he will also regain the means to take the Wind of Shyish into himself fully.’

‘The embodiment?’ Malekith had never thought such a thing possible. ‘A physical avatar of a magical wind?’

‘As I say,’ said Teclis, looking uneasy at the mention of such a thing, as though he regretted having to bring it up. Malekith let his suspicions remain unspoken for the time being. ‘Even now, across the ocean, the Great Necromancer’s armies and the humans fight a great incursion from the northlands. The Chaos Gods have their attention focused on the realm of Sigmar and the endless legions of Nagash’s lieutenants for the moment, but it will not linger there forever. Sooner or later the daemons will come again for Ulthuan and we must be united and ready. Lileath has shown me the way to victory and though my own plans follow a twisted path, the destination has not changed.’

‘I did not say I had given up,’ said Malekith, turning back to the others. ‘We must seize the Blighted Isle first.’

‘Do you intend to take up the Sword of Khaine, my king?’ asked Kouran, who had observed the whole exchange without voicing any opinion. His expression betrayed no thought regarding whether he thought this a good or bad idea.

‘It is not a gift, it is a trap,’ said Malekith, remembering previous experience. ‘One I have already avoided. It would be folly to put myself in such a position again on purpose.’

‘You must, if it would prevent its power being controlled by Morathi,’ insisted Teclis.

‘How do we stop Tyrion if he wields the Widowmaker?’ Imrik asked, aghast at the thought.

‘I do not know,’ admitted Teclis.

‘That is why I plan to get there first,’ Malekith said, avoiding the answer to the question. In this area he was beholden to the guidance of Teclis, and it irked the Witch King to trust the Sapherian, but he had no choice. This was a road he had chosen to follow, throwing in his fortune with the fate of others, and now he was required to follow its course to the end, bitter or otherwise. ‘I suggest you impose upon your allies and cousins a sense of urgency.’

Twenty The Shadow of Khaine

The battle had descended into an anarchy of bloodletting and savagery as the violent shroud of Khaine fell upon all that participated in the fighting. The Blighted Isle was His domain and all blood shed on its shores belonged to Him, and all that lifted blade or bow offered up a prayer to His power. Manoeuvre and strategy, wheel and counter-wheel, lines of advance and echelons of attack had become meaningless as the druchii threw themselves at the small contingent of elves defending the Shrine of Khaine.

Kouran and his Black Guard were at the centre of the attack, the steel point of the spear thrust into the heart of the enemy, cleaving through archers and spearmen that fought beneath the colours of Yvresse, the banner of Naggarond flying proudly beside Malekith’s lieutenant. The spears and arrows of Tor Yvresse’s silverin guard met the tide of black-and-purple-clad Naggarothi dreadspears while the darkshards of the Witch King unleashed a continual storm of repeater crossbow bolts into the foe.

Overhead wheeled mages on pegasi and colourfully-blazoned knights of Tor Gavel riding griffons, where black dragons duelled with flame-winged phoenixes and Sapherian loremasters aboard flying skycutters drawn by eagles and hippogriffs.

On the periphery of the battle stalked the aesenar, who had tailed Malekith’s army through Chrace and made their own hidden crossing, led by the Shadow King. Many had been cut down by the advance of the Black Guard but the survivors sniped at regimental captains and slew the handlers of hydras and packs of war dogs, adding to the confusion and dread that reigned over Khaine’s domain. They were not the only descendants of Nagarythe fighting in defence of the shrine, for the Revenants of Khaine held the grounds of the temple itself, ready to slay and be slain to prevent the Widowmaker being seized.

Not long ago it had started raining blood, crimson streaking down pale flesh and shining armour as a benediction of Khaine’s pleasure at the slaughter. It hissed and spat from the armour of the Witch King as he tried his best to maintain some semblance of control over his bloodthirsty warriors.

Teclis stood not far away. As yet the mage had not committed to the fighting and was reserving his magical strength for some deed yet to come. The Sapherian felt the Witch King’s gaze upon him and turned.

‘Whatever happens, we must not let Tyrion take the Sword of Khaine.’

‘My army bleeds to that end, nephew – what more do you ask?’

‘Promise me that you will take up the Widowmaker instead, if that is what is needed.’

‘What a strange life you have led. Does it shame you to think of the times you and your kin thwarted me in my attempts to rule, or are you simply filled with the warm glow of satisfaction from the realisation of my rightful claim? It must be so heartening that your life’s work, your dedication, has led to this moment, when you would rather see me wielding the Widowmaker than your brother.’

Teclis said nothing more and simply glared at the Witch King.

‘Worry not,’ said Malekith, Urithain blazing to life in his grasp, ‘your brother forfeited his hands the moment he started grasping for my crown. He will possess no fingers with which to claim the Godslayer.’

‘That is not a promise,’ Teclis replied, but the Witch King’s thoughts had moved on, dismissing the mage.

Malekith’s second wave of warriors were being torn apart by the griffons and their riders and with a gesture to the dozen black dragons that accompanied him, he took to the sky on Seraphon. As he rose higher, the crash of battle dimmed and the stench of blood lessened, and it reminded him of how different it had been the first time he had set foot upon this bare rock.

Malekith came to a wide, flat expanse near to the centre of the Blighted Isle. Here jagged black rocks veined with lines of red thrust up into the ruddy skies like a circle of columns. The ground within was as flat as glass and black as midnight. At the centre there stood a block of red-veined rock and something only partly visible shimmered above it. This was clearly the Shrine of Khaine, but as Malekith looked around he could see no sign of his father’s resting place nor any remains of Indraugnir. They must have come here, for Aenarion had returned the Sword of Khaine to the very altar close to which Malekith now stood.

Even as his thoughts touched upon the Godslayer, there came to Malekith’s ears a distant noise: a faint screaming. Now that it had attracted his attention, the prince looked at the Altar of Khaine more closely. As he did so, the sounds around him intensified. The screams of agony were joined by howls of horror. The ring of metal on metal, of fighting, echoed around the shrine. Malekith heard a thunderous heart beating, and thought he saw knives carving wounds upon flesh and limbs torn from bodies on the edge of his vision.

The red veins of the altar were not rock at all, but pulsed like arteries, blood flowing from the altar stone in spurting rivers of gore. He realised that the beating heart was his own, and it hammered in his chest like a swordsmith working at an anvil.

A keening sound, like a note sung by a sword’s edge as it cuts the air, rang in Malekith’s ears. It was not unpleasant, and he listened to it for a while, drawn by its siren call to take step after step closer to the altar. Finally, the prince of Nagarythe stood transfixed before that bloody shrine just as his father Aenarion had been.

The thing embedded in the rock shimmered before Malekith’s eyes, a blur of axe and sword and spear. Finally a single image emerged, of a bulbous mace studded with gems. Malekith was confused, for this was no weapon, but rather reminded him of the ornamental sceptres often carried by other princes. It seemed very similar to the one borne by Bel Shanaar when he had visited the colonies.

It was then that the meaning came to Malekith. All of Ulthuan would be his weapon. Unlike his father, he needed neither sword nor spear to destroy his foes. He would have the armies of an entire nation in his grasp, and would wield them however he pleased. If he but took up Khaine’s sceptre, there would be none that could oppose him. Like a vision, the future unfolded before Malekith.

He would return to Ulthuan and go to Tor Anroc, and there cast down the gates of the Phoenix King. He would offer up the body of Bel Shanaar to Khaine and become undisputed ruler of the elves. He would reign for eternity as the bloody right hand of the God of Murder. Death would stalk in his shadow as he brought ruination to the empire of the dwarfs, for such was the power of the elves that they need not share the world with any other creature. Beastmen were put to the sword by their thousands, and the carcasses of orcs and goblins spitted upon poles lined the roads of his empire for hundreds of miles.

Malekith laughed as he saw the rude villages of humans being put to the torch, their menfolk tossed onto pyres, their women with their hearts ripped out, whole families with their heads dashed in upon the bloodied rocks. Like an unstoppable tide, the elves would conquer all that lay before them, until Malekith presided over an empire that covered the entire globe and the fumes of the sacrificial fires blotted out the sun. Malekith was carried forwards on a giant palanquin made from the bones of his vanquished enemies, a river of blood pouring out before him.

‘No!’ cried Malekith, breaking his gaze from the sceptre and hurling himself face-first to the rocky ground.

He lay there for a long while, eyes screwed shut, his heart pounding, his breathing ragged and heavy. Slowly he calmed himself, and opened an eye. There seemed to be nothing amiss. There was no blood or fire. There was nothing but silent rock and the hiss of the wind.

The last rays of the day bathed the shrine in orange, and Malekith pushed himself to his feet and staggered from the circle, not daring to look back at the altar. Knowing that his father would not be found, Malekith gathered his senses as best he could and made for the boat, never once looking back.

Twenty-One The Battle of the Blighted Isle

The Blighted Isle was a battle-ravaged boneyard. For five millennia the druchii and asur had contested control of the island, neither willing to sacrifice their hold on the Widowmaker’s resting place. Even before Nagash’s spell the dead had never rested easily here, their spirits taken by Khaine, denied their eternal rest in Mirai. Now those dead were silent, the magical wind that had sustained them stilled by the return of the Great Necromancer. The bones of five thousand years lay knee-deep in places, the corpses of the last years’ skirmishes still fresh on top of the charnel pile.

The white was splashed crimson with the blood of those now selling their lives for possession of the shrine, and great must have been Khaine’s mirth at the carnage being wrought to deny his return to the world. Elves foundered through the bone-drifts, cracking bleached ribs underfoot while hydras and griffons snapped vertebrae and crushed skulls. Companies of spears crashed together, wading through mires of blood and rotting flesh, the scene made all the more grisly by the crimson storm that continued to pour from the black clouds overhead.

Desire and desperation found equal purpose in Malekith’s heart and he fought with a fervour and strength he had not possessed for many an age. Not since the battles of his first war for Ulthuan had he known such spectacle and the pivot of history was swinging in his favour. If he prevailed this day all of Ulthuan would be his, as it should have been so many centuries before.

The knights of Tor Gavel could not match him. Urithain was a blur in his hand, cutting and slashing, severing griffon wings and princes’ heads with equal abandon. Malekith trusted to the armour of midnight to protect him from harm. As his iron skin absorbed blows from the blessed steel of Yvressian princes so his spellshield devoured the bolts and flames of Sapherian enchantments. Seraphon shared her master’s mood, claws and fangs leaving a tattered trail of bloody carcasses in their wake as they tore across the skies like a black thunderbolt. Behind them the other black dragons fell upon the archers and bolt throwers lining the boulder-strewn approaches to the Shrine of Khaine, cleaving bloody furrows in the ranks of the Yvressian militia.

While Malekith’s blade cut flesh and bone, his magic consumed an equal number of foes with dark lightning and organ-charring flames. Armour melted as bolts of dark magic leapt from his fingertips and Yvressian knights shrieked their last breaths as his mind tore apart their innards and pulverised their bones. Pegasi fell from the skies like swatted insects, hearts stopped by a simple gesture from the Witch King, their riders’ plunging death screams lost in the din of the armies clashing below.

Flying the colours of Lothern, a squadron of skycutters pulled by great eagles swept down into Malekith, the riders’ spears glinting with magic. Seraphon turned into the descending skycutters, a barbed wing raking the guts from one of the eagles while her jaws snapped around the neck of another. Malekith was surrounded by a welter of claws and speartips that glanced shrieking from his armour, a flurry of feather and beaks blotting all view. Urithain split one of the attacking birds from eye to tail while a coruscating black flame incinerated the skycutter it had been pulling. The other skycutters fell away quickly, pursued by the vengeful Witch King, the roars of Seraphon hastening their retreat.

Malekith drew in the winds of magic, forming a storm of power around his upraised blade. It felt strange, the Wind of Shyish missing from the enchantment, but the vanished Wind of Death did nothing to lessen the raw power of his sorcery.

He sighted on the nearest of the Lothern chariots and unleashed the spell, but no sooner had the ball of fire left his hand than it fizzled into smoke, dispersing along the wind. Disgruntled, Malekith flung out a hand, willing bolts of power to leap across the sky towards his doomed victim. Sparks crackled across his fingertips but nothing more.

The Witch King felt the twisting of the winds of magic that had thwarted his sorcery. All thoughts of the griffons and skycutters forgotten, he steered Seraphon groundwards, seeking the elf that had thought to test their magic against his. Flying just out of bowshot above both armies, he found his prey upon a hillside to the west. The elf that confronted him was a young princess, and her features seemed familiar though he could not place them. More recognisable was the cage of magical energy that surrounded her, emanating from an amulet around her neck. As he descended on her, the Witch King thought he could hear dry, dead voices whispering on the winds, casting counter-spells against his sorcery, edged with the silvery-frost of Sapherian magecraft.

The Yvressian princess was so taken with her dispelling that she paid no heed to the black doom diving down upon her. Malekith saw her flinch, distracted, and at the same time he felt a pulsing on the winds of magic, a surge of grief that flowed from the princess’s thoughts, a moment of severance. Her counter-spell scattered by this shock, the princess looked up to see Seraphon’s plummeting form, her face a mask of terror.

Malekith laughed as he saw her pitiful attempts to reclaim the winds of magic from him. He snatched the whirling energy from her grasp, tearing it from her control as though plucking candied fruits from a child. He thought to obliterate her with magic for the affront of her resistance, but had not accounted for the speed of Seraphon’s attack.

Two of the black dragon’s claws punched into the princess like lances as Seraphon swept over the crest of the hill, lifting her from the ground. Flexing massive digits, the dragon pulled the maiden apart, separating her spine as innards spilled free. With a thunderous crack of wings flapping, downdraft knocking Yvressians to the ground, the dragon powered skywards again, flicking the two halves of the princess’s corpse deftly into her mouth.

Malekith was about to order her to strike again, his eye drawn to a prince trying to rally a regiment of spearmen against a breakthrough by Kouran’s Black Guard, when a chorus of horn blasts split the air. Ascending, Malekith looked to the east and saw the glitter of a new army arriving, marching beneath the colours of Lothern and Chrace. At their head, astride a pure-white steed greater than any normal horse, sat a figure in blazing gold armour, his sword lifted to the skies burning with amber flame.

‘The so-called Dragon of Cothique,’ shouted the Witch King. ‘Welcome, Prince Tyrion, to your final battle.’

He was about to steer Seraphon towards the advancing column of Tyrion’s host when he felt a shimmer on the winds of magic. It felt as though someone rode behind him on the saddle-throne and he heard the calm voice of Teclis.

‘The Widowmaker, Malekith. Protect the shrine at all costs. I will meet you there.’

The mage’s spirit was gone again in an instant, and Malekith considered ignoring his meddling advice. He would spit Tyrion on the point of Urithain and the battle would be over in moments, the Shrine of Khaine safe again. All of elvendom would know that their king had returned.

He was about to bring around Seraphon for the fateful attack when another thought struck him, as though from somewhere else. It was a moment of foreboding that sent a prickle of apprehension through his fire-ravaged body.

If he faced Tyrion he would die.

The thought suddenly seemed as solid as the world, as certain as the sun rising every dawn. Only the knowledge that he was meant to be king was as sure to Malekith for that heartbeat.

It was enough to give him pause for thought. Almost immediately Malekith suspected it was some trick of Teclis, an enchantment left in the Witch King’s thoughts when the mage had contacted him. His anger started to rise again, but not so swiftly that it outpaced reason. Malekith’s pride had often been his bane. He had seen this weakness in himself when he had been forced to flee Finuval Plain through the Realm of Chaos. His disembodied, timeless wandering had forced him to realise that often the greatest architect of his failure was his own arrogance. He had vowed never again to let ire be his guide, nor pride to steer his strategy.

This was the moment that such an oath had to be upheld. Morathi believed that Tyrion was Aenarion reborn. Regardless of the truth or not of such a claim, the prince was a naturally gifted warrior who had honed his skills in countless battles, and hardened the edge of his anger against the latest daemon incursion. Aenarion had triumphed with the Widowmaker and Tyrion had succeeded without, foregoing drawing the deadly blade of Khaine until Morathi’s intervention.

There was no need for Malekith to confront his foe just yet. A whole army stood between Tyrion and his goal and if that proved insufficient, if the Dragon of Cothique was able to best thousands of warriors and a dozen Naggarothi captains and princes, Malekith would be on hand to finish the task. At the very end, if no other opportunity presented itself, he would draw the Widowmaker and kill Aenarion’s heir, ending the curse by another means.

By such justification was Malekith able to quell the rage he felt at the insult shown him by Tyrion’s opposition. When Tyrion was dead, when Malekith showed his eviscerated corpse to the pitiful weaklings that continued to oppose his claim to the Phoenix Throne, then Malekith would be satisfied and his pride sated.

He turned Seraphon and headed towards the Shrine of Khaine. A company of elves still guarded the megalith-circled temple, spears and bows at the ready. Armies could not match Seraphon and the Witch King together; a few hundred militia would be little more than a diversion.

Seraphon stooped, picking up speed as dragon and rider dropped towards the black stones of the shrine. A dozen heartbeats from crashing into the unforgiving rock the dragon snapped open her wings, turning the plunge into an effortless glide, jaw open, claws outstretched. Malekith leaned to his right with Urithain poised while the winds of magic churned at his command.

Something flashed past Malekith’s left shoulder and his steed uttered a piercing cry of pain. The most majestic, powerful predator of the skies became a screeching mess of flying scales and blood, wing shredded by some missile from below. Malekith barely glimpsed a hooded, cloaked figure skulking in the shadows of the shrine – Alith Anar with moonbow in hand – before Seraphon’s descent turned into a tumbling crash, ground and sky whirling together.

Dragon and rider ploughed across the bone-strewn hillside, spraying ivory-coloured shards in their wake. Malekith clung tightly to the dragon’s chains, turning upside down over and over, his armour battering against uncaring rock every couple of heartbeats, ears ringing from the impacts on his helm. He lost his grip and fell under the rolling beast, only the armour of midnight stopping the last breath being crushed from his lungs.

They eventually came to a stop, sliding down a gore-slicked hillock some distance down the slope from the shrine. Dazed, Malekith lay with Seraphon’s bulk across his legs, staring up at the turbulent sky. He thought he heard his mother’s voice, a single clear word that called out to him, but it was on the winds of magic that the voice came to him and he knew it to be a word of command.

He heard other voices, coming closer. The defenders of the shrine encircled the fallen monster and its rider, spears levelled, bowstrings taut as the ring of warriors tightened. Stars flashed across Malekith’s vision, painfully bright.

Seraphon stirred, growling. Bone jutted awkwardly from her ragged wing and the jagged ground had torn wounds through the flesh and scales of her flank, but she heaved herself up, the broken remnants of the saddle-throne falling from her back. The asur backed away, suddenly uncertain of their oaths to protect the shrine unto death.

The dragon looked at him and Malekith saw hunger in her eyes. He saw himself reflected in the dark orbs, a twisted figure of metal and fire, and he knew he had not been a kind master. Hurting, lips rippling with the effort, the black dragon stood over Malekith, ropes of bloodied saliva drooling from her fangs.

With a bass whimper, the dragon dipped her good wing, dropping her flank so that Malekith could climb upon her bare back.

The Revenants attacked, loosing their arrows from the summit of the shrine while others charged down the slope with their spears gleaming. Seraphon swept out her good wing, blocking the storm of arrows falling through the sky, even as Malekith retrieved Urithain from amongst the broken bones. He hauled himself onto her back, spitting a curse that unleashed a hail of icy shards towards the shrine. A few heartbeats later dozens of archers fell, their bodies ripped asunder by the storm of magical splinters, skin turned to rags, flesh flensed from breaking bones.

Seraphon met the descending phalanx of spears head-on, crashing through the glistening points, jaws snapping. The Witch King leaned low to slash with his magical blade, splitting white-hafted spears and scale armour with broad sweeps. His gaze became death, shredding the minds of any that dared meet his fiery stare.

As Seraphon laboured up the hill towards the megaliths marking the perimeter of the shrine, Malekith cast his attention back to the battle. The druchii ranks had split. Elements from Ghrond were fighting against each other, while banners in the other contingents were splitting away, turning on their own kind.

Morathi.

Her single word had been a summons, calling those faithful to her to throw off the concealing veil of loyalty. The Black Guard remained steadfast at the centre of the attack, but the flanks were giving way as dreadspears turned on bolt thrower crews, bleakswords fought amongst themselves and sorceresses directed their spells against regiments of darkshards still following the Witch King.

Everything was collapsing into anarchy but there was no time to worry about the larger battle. The Witch King saw a white and gold blur carving its way through the disrupted line straight towards the Shrine of Khaine – Tyrion leading the charge. He had broken ahead of his army, leaving knights, white lions and militia to battle through in his wake. Above, Malekith spied a phoenix burning with a white fire cutting across the sky towards him. Alith Anar was already close at hand.

His enemies were growing in number and time was growing shorter.

Dragging her wounded wing like a ship that had lost a mast, Seraphon carried her lord up to the summit of the shrine-hill, leaving gouged and poisoned corpses in drifts behind her. At the moment they breached the crest, Malekith laid eyes upon the black rock of the altar.

Where the Godslayer had first appeared to him as a sceptre, a symbol that he could destroy the world with all of elvenkind as his weapon, now there rested a spear with a head of crimson lightning and a shaft of bone. It wailed to Malekith, begging him to take up his rightful gift from the God of Murder. Khaine had chosen him just as He had chosen Aenarion, and millennia of suffering had resulted from Malekith’s denial of his birthright.

A last defender wearing the plume of a captain heaved himself clear of the dismembered remains of his warriors and stood before the Witch King and his monstrous steed, breaking Malekith’s trance-like fascination. The other elf held his sword levelled at Seraphon’s chest and there was blood trickling from a wound across his cheek, but the resolute defiance in his eyes stopped Malekith.

‘I’m impressed,’ said the Witch King. ‘Your company died well. So will you.’

‘I am Caradon, last of the Revenants of Khaine,’ spat the elf, blood flying from broken lips. ‘I curse thee, Malekith. I curse th–’

Urithain took off his head as Seraphon shouldered past a standing stone and Malekith leaned low on her back. The Witch King looked again at the altar and the spear that beckoned to him with subtle words of praise and promise.

A noise, barely audible amongst the cacophony of war and the patter of raining blood. A flutter, the faintest rustling of cloth. The sound of droplets pattering on metal.

Malekith acted without thought, Urithain spearing out as he turned towards the sound. The black-clad assassin twisted in mid-air as he leapt from the monolith, the Witch King’s magical blade flashing just past his scalp. It was enough, the killing blow directed towards Malekith’s neck missing its mark, though the blackened dagger tore through his iron-skinned shoulder, the enchanted blade splitting the armour of midnight as though it were a common mail coat.

Twenty-Two Khaine’s Promise

Malekith roared, lashing out with raw dark magic as the assassin tried to land on Seraphon’s back. The instinctive spell smashed into the Khainite, hurling him into the piled bones at the shrine’s edge. As the would-be killer rolled through the charnel debris, Malekith recognised his face. It was Shadowblade, most infamous of his calling since Urian Poisonblade, once Malekith’s deadliest weapon and most effective defence against traitors. It seemed that Shadowblade’s mistress, Hellebron, had decided to defy the Witch King, though to what ends he could not guess.

‘Why is everyone trying to kill me?’ bellowed Malekith, exasperated at another delay and distraction. ‘Don’t you know that I’m trying to save the world?’

The assassin staggered to his feet and with a flick of the wrist Malekith hurled another bolt of dark magic, smashing Shadowblade against a standing stone. As the Khainite stood up again, he shook his head and looked around as though waking up, an expression of confusion on his face. Startled by this reaction, Malekith held his next bolt for a moment. A moment too long.

The clatter of hooves and a flash of gold heralded the arrival of a foe even more dangerous than the stunned assassin. Malekith cast a glance towards Prince Tyrion as his steed forged up the slope of the shrine. He cast his spell even as he wheeled Seraphon to face the fresh danger, but Shadowblade was gone, the sorcerous blast turning a standing stone into a cloud of black splinters.

The Dragon of Cothique was a magnificent sight, clad in burnished plate and scale, his winged helm plumed with white feathers. He rode Malhandir, a steed as renowned as the prince, larger and swifter than any stallion of Ellyrion, as white as the snows of the Annulii.

In Tyrion’s grasp flashed the Sunfang, Lacelothrai, a sword as long as Malekith’s arm inscribed with runes that burned with the light and heat of the sun. The prince’s armour was of pure ithilmar, forged on the Anvil of Vaul for Aenarion himself, reclaimed from the Blighted Isle after the first Phoenix King’s disappearance.

Malekith gasped, for the vision that thundered up to the shrine was the image of his father, even the burning wrath that lit the Dragon of Cothique’s eyes.

Their eyes locked and in that moment the separation of centuries disappeared, the bloodline that locked the destiny of both elves united again. No words passed their lips as they raised their swords, but nonetheless their thoughts spoke to each other.

‘I see why they call you the Defender reborn, nephew.’

‘And I know why they call you the Betrayer.’

‘Give up! To draw the Sword of Khaine is to doom our people. My mother has bewitched you.’

‘What do you care of our doom, architect of the Sundering? I will end your treacherous existence!’

‘Do you not think I would have drawn the Widowmaker an age ago if I thought it would bring me victory? None that wield it can hope to survive its influence. Not even my father, and certainly not some spoiled prince of Cothique!’

‘You shall see how strong flows the blood of Aenarion in my veins. And when I open them, how weakly in yours.’

Malhandir cleared the last of the slope with an almighty leap and Tyrion stretched out his sword arm, faster than any stroke Malekith had ever witnessed. The two warriors passed each other and Malekith wondered where the blow had struck, but he felt no fresh pain. The answer came when Seraphon arched back her head and let out a plaintive whine. Dark, thick blood bubbled from a glowing cut across her throat. Seraphon swept out her uninjured wing, barbs flexing, but Malhandir darted aside so that the blow caught only the crest of Tyrion’s helm and tore it off, golden locks spilling free.

‘Not nearly good enough.’ Malekith swept down Urithain as Seraphon scrambled after the steed and prince, keeping her body low to bring the Witch King’s crackling sword into range.

‘You are correct.’ Tyrion turned in the saddle and Lacelothrai was a golden shimmer meeting Malekith’s sword with a flash of sparks and fire. ‘You are not good enough, nor fast enough.’

The burning tip of the Sunfang looped around Malekith’s guard and scored a deep wound across his breastplate, releasing a fountain of fire and blood, almost knocking him from the back of Seraphon. Sensing her master’s injury, the black dragon heaved herself away while Malekith gritted his teeth against the pain of shattered ribs and cut flesh. The dagger still in his shoulder vexed his bones and muscles, making every movement an agony.

‘You are fine with a blade,’ admitted Malekith, drawing on the winds of magic. ‘But without your brother, you cannot hope to defeat my sorcery.’

Seraphon attacked with wide jaws, forcing Malhandir back. Tyrion stared grimly at Malekith as the Witch King pointed Urithain, black flames burning along the sword’s length. The fires became an inferno, rushing out to engulf the asur prince, but again his steed was too swift, circling around the Altar of Khaine, the magical flames splashing harmlessly from bone and rock just behind rider and mount.

‘I do not need my pathetic twin to fight fire.’

Tyrion raised the Sunfang, drawing on the enchantment placed on the blade by the loremasters of Hoeth centuries past. The blinding light of the noon sun exploded from the sword, carving into the black flames of Malekith’s rage, the two spells meeting above Khaine’s sacrificial stone. The Witch King drew in more power, blocking out the pain of his injuries, his resentment and rage further fuelled by a growing fear. Tyrion had never been so fast and determined before, and Malekith was already badly hurt and spent from a day of battle.

The thought returned that Tyrion would kill him.

The sudden dread of this thought surged through Malekith, but it did not cause him to falter, but steeled his will, the fear of failure falling on his rage like oil cast upon a fire. The black flame swept towards Tyrion even as the bolt from Lacelothrai waned, engulfing the prince.

Malhandir let out a piercing, chilling scream as the black fires fell upon his pure-white flank, while the runes of Aenarion’s armour, forged as proof against even dragonfire, shone with magical power. But the regent of the Phoenix Throne had lost his helm. The black fire caught in his hair and scorched across his handsome face.

Despite the horrific injuries, Tyrion forced Malhandir towards Malekith, into the heart of the flame, driven by the battle-lust of Khaine. There were no taunts and threats between them now, only the silence of lethal purpose. With mane and tail burning, Malhandir leapt the altar, bringing Tyrion next to Malekith again. Lacelothrai crashed into Malekith’s arm as he clumsily raised Urithain to fend off the blow, throwing him from the back of Seraphon.

His head swam as he landed heavily in a pile of shattering bones, Urithain almost jarred from his grasp. A cut ran the length of his forearm. It was a near-miracle that the limb had not been severed by Tyrion’s blow.

Malhandir shuddered into a convulsing, burned heap beside the altar, but Tyrion did not pause, leaping effortlessly from the ash-stained saddle, Lacelothrai held at the ready. Seraphon made a last effort, the blood from her throat now a trickle, but even as she raised a claw to dash Tyrion against the altar her strength failed and she collapsed, chest heaving.

Malekith lay amongst the ruin and looked up at the golden figure striding towards him, the flicker of flames dying on his charred face, a shaft of sunlight gripped in his fist. How the daemons must have quailed at that vision, he thought, just as they had done when Aenarion took back Ulthuan. There seemed to be nothing that would stop the Dragon of Cothique, and he had not yet even taken up the Widowmaker.

It was not the first time Malekith had stood upon the threshold of Mirai’s portal. He remembered well the blood-soaked day of Maledor Field.

Lacking any weapon, Malekith set about the servants of his tormentor with flaming fists, his iron hands punching through breastplates and ripping off limbs. Towering above the Phoenix Guard, he summoned dark magic, feeding off the escaping life-force of his foes, twisting it to his own ends.

He tried to draw the magic into himself, to heal the rents in his armour. The dark magic swerved and writhed, failing to take purchase in his body. Where the blades of the Phoenix Guard had marked him, tiny golden flames burned, keeping the dark magic at bay.

Dread filled Malekith’s heart. Unable to heal his wounds, which streamed with rivulets of molten metal like blood, he realised he was about to die.

‘Never!’ he roared.

He drew himself up to his full height. The dark magic he had summoned to cure his wounds swirled around him, forming blades of blackened iron that slashed through the Phoenix Guard. With a final pulse of dark magic, he blasted the forest of magical swords into his foes, driving them back.

Leaking metal and fire and blood, Malekith turned and ran, leaving burned prints in the bloodied grass. He would not die yet, not here on this dismal moor, with the usurper looking on, laughing. The Witch King drew on the power of his circlet, reaching out into the winds of magic, grabbing all of the power he could. An oily black cloud formed around him, flickering with lightning, obscuring him from his pursuers. It spread further and further, a churning, living mass that snatched up the Phoenix Guard who came after him, twisting their bodies and snapping their bones.

He had fled then, and there were other times since when retreat had been the only recourse to avoid death. He felt no shame at this, for cowardice would have been to accept failure and to eke out his dwindling days in cold Naggaroth.

This time was different. Blood streaming from his many wounds, molten iron running with it, Malekith stood up, his left arm useless, Urithain in his right.

Malekith tried to draw in magical energy, to summon up an incantation that would shred Tyrion’s flesh from his bones, would shatter those bones to splinters, would pulverise his organs and set a burning agony into his mind, but the fog of pain that invaded his thoughts was too thick. There was a more sinister sensation that had been spreading from the dagger in his shoulder.

Poison carried from the wound caused by Shadowblade.

The winds of magic swirled sluggishly so close to Khaine’s altar and the Witch King found them slipping through his grasp. He could feel a fluttering on the winds of magic, a disturbance in Ulgu, the power of shadow, but he was too weary to make any sense of it.

The Sunfang flashed towards his throat and only at the last moment was Malekith able to raise Urithain to weakly deflect the blow. The enchanted blade exploded at the touch of Tyrion’s sword, scattering shards of black metal. Pain seared up the Witch King’s arm but it quickly dissipated, swamped by the numbness that was filling Malekith’s whole being.

Malekith could do nothing as Tyrion’s next blow, impossibly fast, crashed into the gorget protecting his throat. The impact staggered the Witch King, and he fell to his knees, a moment before his foe’s armoured boot caught him in the face, breaking his cheek. His head crashed against the black Altar of Khaine and he slid to the bloodied ground, nearly all feeling lost in his limbs.

The Dragon of Cothique loomed over the Witch King. Tyrion’s eyes were orbs of blood-red as he looked at the altar. In that moment Malekith and Tyrion were connected, and they too with Aenarion, who so long ago had set the Curse of Khaine upon his bloodline.

There was a sense of dislocation, of timelessness. Malekith looked on the fire-ravaged face of his distant nephew, but saw only the features of his father. The cycle came about, and all things that were ancient were renewed. Perhaps it was right that this happened. Perhaps he had fought against his real destiny for six thousand years. Together the Witch King and Ulthuan’s regent witnessed the moment that had defined the existence of the elves for seven thousand years.

Even as Aenarion’s thoughts touched upon the Godslayer, there came to his ears a distant noise: a faint screaming. The ring of metal on metal, of fighting, echoed around the shrine. Aenarion heard a thunderous heart beating, and thought he saw knives carving wounds upon flesh and limbs torn from bodies on the edge of his vision. The red veins of the altar were not rock at all, but pulsed like arteries, blood flowing from the stone in spurting rivers of gore. He realised that the beating heart was his own, and it hammered in his chest like a swordsmith working at an anvil.

Aenarion stood transfixed before that bloody shrine. The thing embedded in the rock danced and wavered before the Phoenix King’s eyes, a blur of axe and sword and spear and bow and knife and strange weapons not known to the elves. Finally a single image emerged, of a long-bladed sword, cross guard curled into the rune of Khaine, its black blade etched with red symbols of death and blood.

Aenarion reached out… and stopped, his fingers a hair’s breadth from the hilt of the sword. All became silent; not a movement stirred the air as the world and the gods held their breath.

Aenarion knew this would be his doom. All of the warnings came back to him, the words of Caledor merged with dire predictions of the daemons and the pleading of his dead wife. It all mattered nothing to him, for his spirit was empty and only the Sword of Khaine could fill the void within him.

As Tyrion switched the Sunfang to his left hand and reached out with his right, Malekith managed a sneer.

‘At least my father paused a moment,’ he snarled between bloody coughs. ‘I turned away. You have no willpower.’ Tyrion paid him no heed as he drew back, his prize in hand.

Widowmaker, Godslayer, Doom of Worlds, Spear of Vengeance, Deathshard, and Heavenblight. By many names it was called, by mortals and daemons and gods. But one name alone it truly held: Sword of Khaine, the Lord of Murder.

Tyrion admired the weapon with wide eyes. In his fist he held a warped mirror of the Sunfang. Where Lacelothrai was shard of sunlight, bright and golden, this new blade was as black as a starless night and as cold as the deepest abyss of space.

The storm clouds overhead roiled with cracks of thunder and shafts of blood-red lightning. Tyrion held up his new sword, lips curled in a manic grin. Malekith looked up helplessly, unable to move a muscle in retaliation.

‘Larhathrai,’ Tyrion whispered, naming the blade.

Icefang.

Twenty-Three Brother against Brother

Something black and grey surged between the perimeter slabs of the shrine, a thick shadow bunching and releasing like the muscles of an immense horse. Slowing, the apparition did indeed become a half-formed image of a horse with midnight flanks and streamers of shadow for a mane. Teclis swung a leg and dismounted a few paces from Malekith and Tyrion.

‘Brother, don’t do this!’ the mage shouted through the blood rain.

Tyrion gave no sign of heeding the words. He flexed his fingers around the Widowmaker’s grip and swept the sword up. At once, the shadows about Malekith lengthened and the rain grew colder. Thunder cracked against the turbulent sky and dark laughter billowed in its wake. The ground shook; the skulls chattered and gibbered in sudden mirth and then fell eerily silent.

The shadow steed vanished, its magic undone by the Widowmaker’s presence, and Malekith felt the winds of magic grow thin about him.

‘I should be surprised to find you here,’ the regent said at last, turning to face his brother, ‘but little you do surprises me any longer.’ His blackened lips cracked into a cruel smile as he prodded Malekith with his toe. ‘Yet I find that I am pleased to see you. This… thing… is not yet slain, and I would like one witness to my triumph, even if it is a treacherous one.’

Thing? thought Malekith, but he had not the strength to utter a contemptuous riposte.

‘You cannot kill him,’ Teclis said urgently. ‘If you do, our people are doomed.’

Listen to your brother, Malekith willed, eyes drawn to the abysall blackness of Larhathrai. I am the saviour of our people. Pay attention!

‘Our people will never falter while I am alive to lead them,’ Tyrion laughed. ‘Or at least, to lead those who prove worthy. The coming war will winnow out all others.’

Malekith managed a grimace, recalling similar words coming from his lips for these past thousands of years. Tyrion had been so noble, so exemplary of the finest traits of elvenkind only days earlier, now as bloodthirsty and cold as Malekith after six thousand years of hate-filled war. He looked at the fire-ravaged features of the Dragon of Cothique and could not help but make comparison to himself, ragged and burned by another flame. It made the Witch King remember, painfully, that like Tyrion he had once been lauded by the greatest of elvenkind as the epitome of elven nobility.

‘Listen to yourself. These are not your words,’ warned Teclis, staring at his brother but not moving. Malekith had to wonder if they had ever really been his, or put into his thoughts by another. ‘This is our curse! This is the madness of Khaine!’ As he spoke, Teclis’s expression was desperate, betraying the doubt in his heart that his cautionary words would be heeded.

‘There is no madness. The Dark Gods are rising.’ Tyrion glanced at Malekith and the Witch King would have flinched except that fatigue and terror paralysed him in equal measure. There was unalloyed death in the prince’s eyes. ‘I see that now. Our folk are too soft to fight them as we are, but I will forge them into something better, something stronger.’

‘And who has told you that? Morathi?’ Teclis demanded, his voice raw with emotion. The words cut Malekith far more than Tyrion, who shrugged away his twin’s concern. It was too much for Malekith to believe that six thousand years had been spent fighting for the ambitions of his mother, his whole existence a mocking puppetry of life as Tyrion’s had now become. ‘She’s using you.’

‘Is she now?’ Tyrion asked amenably, but then his tone grew far darker. ‘Then how very different in your dealings you are.’ He raised the icefang high and Malekith’s dread increased, though he had thought it impossible to be more afraid a moment ago. Seven thousand years, a whole civilisation wasted because he had been too weak to beat this upstart princeling. Worse, because he had been too scared to draw the Godslayer himself, or to kill his mother when given every justification and opportunity. ‘It matters not. Today our ancient enemy dies, and a new sun rises.’

Larhathrai swept down.

Tyrion, dullard that he was, had been completely ignorant of the Hysh coalescing around Teclis. The power of light was heavy, but the archmage was well versed in tapping its deep roots, and to Malekith’s eyes was becoming a twining column of white energy.

As the icefang began its descent Teclis let free streamers of Hysh that became ribbons of pure light that snared around Tyrion’s arms, stopping the deathblow. Light magic twined about the prince’s quivering limbs, growing brighter and thicker as Teclis released more of his accumulated Hysh.

If only Malekith could have moved even a finger or murmured a word of conjuration. As it was, he stared dumbly at the two brothers, watching the dark power of Khaine spilling from His bloodied altar, staining the purity of the Hysh that struggled up through the chattering skulls and clattering bones.

The enchantment broke with a crack as the blessings of Khaine poured into Tyrion. The edge of icefang gleamed blood-red as Tyrion turned on his brother. Hurriedly, Teclis threw together a shield of pure magical energy, thrashing together power from the seven remaining winds. The golden circle hovered in front of the mage for only a heartbeat before Tyrion swept through it, the hand clasping Lacelothrai knocking Teclis to the ground with one blow.

From his position propped against the altar, Malekith could see several things that the two brothers could not, intent as they were upon each other. The eddy of shadowy Ulgu power shimmered close to one of the standing stones at the edge of the shrine, and concealed behind the cloak of shadow crouched Alith Anar. Malekith saw a glint of silvery light as the Shadow King lifted the fabled moonbow and fitted a shaft to the slender string.

A white spark was also bright against the clouds above the shrine, growing larger. Malekith watched the gleam resolve into the shape of a stooping bird – a white-and-blue feathered frostheart phoenix. The ancient magical bird, its flames turned to ice by longevity, was ridden by a figure in white and ithilmar, bearing a blazon of Asuryan upon his armour. The Witch King knew from the reports of his agents that this must be Caradryan, the captain of the Phoenix Guard, silent warden of the Shrine of Asuryan.

There seemed to be no shortage of foes ready to kill Malekith. The moment of terror, of soul-destroying failure, had passed, and the Witch King found himself in a calm mood. He was not yet reconciled to his ending, but such were the horrific consequences of his death, the infernal pacts he had made that would now be paid, the lengths he had gone to in order that he would survive as long as he had, he could not comprehend it all and instead his thoughts retreated to a banal place of utter normality. He idly wondered which of his closing enemies would finish him first, and hoped it was not Tyrion.

The frostheart phoenix swept low over the shrine and Caradryan slipped from its back, halberd in hand. He landed sure-footed amongst the detritus of bones, skidding to a stop between Teclis, Tyrion and Malekith. Past the Phoenix captain, Malekith spied Alith Anar moving position, his shot blocked by Caradryan’s arrival.

Tyrion laughed without mirth.

‘I am in no need of your aid, captain, though you might restrain my errant brother for me, if you wish to serve.’

Caradryan held his position. Malekith could not see his expression but apparently Tyrion read something there, a look of defiance perhaps. Little comfort to the Witch King that he had seemingly acquired another ally, as he watched the Shadow King emerge from the gloom on the other side of the standing stone, moonbow rising once more.

Tyrion’s eyes widened in sudden realisation.

‘All about me are traitors now?’ the regent demanded. ‘Stand aside!’

Caradryan shook his head. Then, with an effort, he uttered the first word to pass his lips in decades.

‘No.’

Tyrion laughed bitterly at Caradryan’s refusal. He half turned away, then spun back, the Widowmaker hissing out to take the captain’s head.

At that same moment, Alith Anar loosed his arrow, the shaft speeding true for Malekith’s heart.

Suddenly there was nothing.