Bane of Malekith

by William King

  ‘You don’t seem surprised that I found you.’

  ‘You have a habit of showing up when least expected.’

  ‘How did you find us?’ Alarielle asked.

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ Teclis said.

  ‘Don’t ask him,’ Tyrion said. ‘He’s a wizard. He will just look mysterious and talk about divinations and the winds of magic.’

  ‘I followed the trail of corpses you left across Avelorn, if truth be told,’ Teclis said. Tyrion had fallen asleep again.

  ‘At least I got the last word,’ Teclis murmured. ‘That happens little enough.’

  ‘That really is the War Crown, isn’t it?’ Alarielle asked.

  ‘I am surprised you recognised it. It has not been out of the tower for centuries. Most people think it’s a legend.’

  ‘She recognises it,’ Alarielle said. ‘She has seen it many times. It was always worn by heroes.’

  ‘Not this time, I am afraid,’ said Teclis. ‘They made the mistake of giving it to me.’

  ‘I don’t think they made a mistake.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ said Teclis, reddening. ‘What is that staff you are carrying?’

  ‘It is the Moonstaff of Lileath,’ Alarielle said. ‘I rescued it from the cache in the Winterwood Palace.’

  ‘I wish I had had it when I was fighting N’Kari,’ Teclis said. ‘It is a powerful magical amplifier. Do you mind if I look at it?’

  Alarielle handed the staff over. It fitted Teclis’s hand as if it had been moulded for it. He studied the ancient workmanship and the runes inscribed in the shaft. Power flowed through it and around it and he instinctively knew how to use it. With great reluctance, he handed it back to the Everqueen.

  ‘A wondrous thing,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Although I have not been able to make it work.’

  ‘It was intended for certain types of magic.’

  ‘It carries the blessing of the moon goddess, so that is not surprising. She is a patron of spellworkers.’

  Teclis said, ‘I could tell.’ He settled down again by the fire. He was starting to feel restless, stuck here in one place while all around armies of druchii were on the move. Alarielle watched him thoughtfully across the flames.

  Teclis studied the chains that had once bound the Keeper of Secrets. They were a potent artefact indeed, ancient, powerful and wrought with complex, sinister magic. Power flowed through them still. There was a sense of presence to them, one not simply associated with the daemon.

  He concentrated on them fully, extending his magesight to the point where he no longer looked upon the world of light and shadow, only the flows of magic. He saw the glittering souls of those near him, and the gigantic, deeply hidden power that worked through Alarielle. He saw the whirlpools of magic that vanished into the chains and flowed out again somewhere else. He reached out with a divinatory spell and touched them, and in a lightning-like flash made sharp, shocking contact.

  Suddenly he was elsewhere, in a land of cold grey skies, of ice and fire, where glaciers flowed from the north, and lava pits spurted burning rock. Before him stood a massive armoured figure. It turned to look at him with cold, cruel eyes. Teclis knew at once who he faced. He had made a mistake. The chains were still connected with N’Kari’s binder, the Witch King of Naggaroth.

  Malekith looked at him. Teclis felt himself being judged by a being older than kingdoms, only little less than a god. Malekith had walked the world in the time of Aenarion. He was one of the oldest sentient beings on the planet, perhaps the mightiest. The Witch King’s mere presence made Teclis acknowledge his own insignificance.

  He forced himself to meet Malekith’s gaze and smile.

  The eyes surprised him. There was a sadness and a loneliness in them that shocked Teclis, mingled with an astonishing, rapacious lust to dominate was a sense of black wisdom. Most of all there was pride – the pride of one who had sought to emulate a living god and could not admit that he had failed, had been judged and found wanting. Malekith was a titan who had once defied the will of the gods and defied it still even though the struggle was hopeless.

  Teclis had expected to feel hatred and fear. What he had not expected to feel was pity.

  ‘You look like him,’ Malekith said in a voice like a brazen gong being smote deep underground. There was power and assurance in that voice, a timbre acquired from aeons of chanting time-lost spells and bellowing commands across long-forgotten battlefields. It rang with malice and hatred and something else it took Teclis a moment to recognise – loneliness.

  There was no need to ask who he was. Malekith could mean only one being, his father, Aenarion.

  ‘You do not,’ Teclis forced himself to say. It took an effort of will comparable to invoking the most recalcitrant elemental. He made it sound effortless. Nothing else would do.

  Malekith laughed, and Teclis felt himself lashed by the Witch King’s bitterness and scorn. ‘I can see why Urian liked you, little cripple. You are somewhat alike.’

  ‘Urian?’

  ‘You know him by a different name, but no matter. He told me about you, Teclis.’

  ‘I have banished your daemon,’ Teclis said. ‘You will no longer be able to move so freely around Ulthuan.’ Teclis felt he had somehow caught the Witch King’s interest. Malekith was not used to being challenged. His curiosity was piqued. He was like a great cat amusing itself with a small mouse before the kill.

  ‘So you have learned that secret, have you?’ Malekith said. ‘And defeated the Keeper of Secrets again. Hell will be filled with its screams of frustration this day.’

  Malekith sounded amused. Teclis was surprised to discover he had a sense of humour. He noticed something else in the air, a psychic scent he had encountered before; it came from Malekith. It was the faintest trace of the Flame of Asuryan. Of course, Teclis thought. It still burned within the flesh of the tyrant, must have done so since his attempt at apotheosis all those millennia ago. The merest beginning of an idea occurred to Teclis. Perhaps there was a way to defeat Malekith using magic, if only he could get close enough.

  ‘Leave Ulthuan,’ Teclis said. ‘You can do yourself only harm here.’

  ‘It is not for you to tell me what to do, little cripple.’

  ‘If you do not, this little cripple will give you a lesson in using magic.’

  Malekith laughed. Teclis did not flinch. He had endured a lifetime of mockery from his fellow elves. He had schooled himself to endure it.

  ‘You do not lack for confidence, I will give you that,’ Malekith said. ‘There is power in you, youth, power such as I once saw in Caledor, but it takes more than power to make a wizard. It takes centuries of experience and a willingness to face the deepest, darkest secrets of the universe.’

  That caught Teclis’s attention, as any mention of magical secrets always did. He thrust his curiosity to one side. ‘Perhaps, but to achieve victory, it only takes knowledge of one spell, if that spell is the correct one.’

  ‘Do not let your triumphs over N’Kari make you overconfident. I am not some bound daemon.’

  ‘Nonetheless, if you face me, you will know defeat.’

  Malekith regarded him steadily, as if taking him seriously for the first time. He was looking at him, really looking at him. It was not the sort of attention that was calculated to make anyone comfortable. ‘I have known defeat many times,’ Malekith said, at last. ‘But I doubt you are one to inflict it upon me.’

  ‘Then face me if you dare.’

  ‘That day will come soon enough,’ said Malekith. ‘When it dawns it will be your last.’

  A wave of power erupted from him. The link with the chains that had bound N’Kari was broken. Teclis opened his eyes and looked upon Alarielle and his sleeping brother. It seemed as though his audience with the Witch King was over. It was just as well. Through the link he had sensed that Malekith was much closer than he had expected. It would not take the Witch King long to come find them.

  Malekith broode
d. The incursion of the young sorcerer Teclis into his very thoughts was unexpected.

  The youth had shown a power that was awesome. It had taken Malekith millennia to become so strong. Teclis had been born into it. Now, Malekith regretted not instructing Urian to kill the mage when he was still a youth. In the course of a century he had become powerful enough to challenge Malekith himself. If he lived, he would become one of the great powers of this world.

  It seemed that like his brother, Teclis was destined to be a thorn in Malekith’s side, to spoil his plans at every turn. Tyrion had saved the Everqueen. Teclis had saved Tyrion from N’Kari. They were his own kin in a distant way, blood of Aenarion. He supposed that they had some claim to the throne of Ulthuan and Naggaroth too. It was another reason to wipe them from the face of the earth. He would brook no challengers to his mantle of power.

  Malekith knew roughly where Teclis was now. The link had given him a sense of that. He lay along the path that Malekith had to take anyway, to find the Everqueen and crush all asur resistance in this part of the world.

  When the time arose he would find this Teclis and destroy him. Yet there was something in the youth’s confidence that troubled him. Could it be that Teclis knew something he did not? Was he about to endure another setback to his great plan?

  No matter, he told himself. Whatever happened, he would endure and ultimately triumph. He summoned Urian and his generals to him. He knew now where Teclis was through the link the chains had given him. He knew he would find Tyrion and the Everqueen there too. It was time for the hunt to begin.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Caledor studied the gameboard. So much was happening now, so many pieces were in play, it was difficult to keep track of everything. At least part of his plan had worked, and for that he felt grateful. Tyrion and Teclis were reunited and between them they had saved the Everqueen. Two of his greatest enemies, two of the greatest challenges facing him had been removed from the board – Morathi and N’Kari were both out of play. All that remained now was Malekith, and he was sure to prove the most difficult of all.

  A small part of his mind whispered that he could stop now, with the removal of Morathi and the Keeper of Secrets his great work was safe for the moment, but he knew this was a lie. If Malekith ruled Ulthuan, Morathi would find some way to undo his spell, or the secret masters of the Cult of Luxury would, or perhaps even Malekith himself would be tempted. The druchii still needed to be stopped and he still needed to do what was necessary.

  All of Ulthuan was a great swirl of confusion. Armies were on the move. Forces from everywhere were being drawn into a great whirlpool of violence, moving through forests, along the coasts, across the Inner Sea. Caledor found his attention inevitably drawn to this great nexus of conflict. His vision settled on the vast flat expanse of Finuval Plain in Saphery. This was the place where the crisis would come, where this conflict would be resolved for good or ill. It was there that the small, embattled force of high elves would make their stand and the fate of the world would be decided.

  Malekith was in Saphery, uniting a great force of barbarians with his army. One by one he was bringing their chieftains and warlords to heel. He knew now where Teclis was and Tyrion and the Everqueen, and they were still central to the struggle. Malekith had a huge army of humans and druchii with him, as well as his own not inconsiderable talents as a sorcerer. He could still triumph all too easily.

  One by one, forces of high elves were converging together to oppose him, small warbands coming from all over the island continent, drawn by rumours of imminent conflict and the news that the Everqueen was still alive. They were drawn to her banner from every part of the island. Many of them had been pilgrims on their way to visit Avelorn when the invasion came. Some of them had survived the invasion itself. Wizards came from Saphery. Riders from the proud land of Ellyrion. Mountain-dwellers from Cothique and Chrace. At first they gathered together in their scores, then scores became hundreds and then hundreds became thousands. They went from fighting a guerrilla war to becoming an army, albeit one that was hugely outnumbered in its own homeland.

  There was one last thing he could do. He reached out to a small pawn, travelling with a reforged suit of armour across the length of the plain. He nudged its thoughts and dreams in a certain direction. He needed what the figure carried to be in the right place at the right time.

  Caledor was at the end of his strength. He knew now that there was very little more he could do to influence events. The fate of the elves was in other hands than his.

  Dorian looked at the captain. The warrior looked tired. There were dark shadows underneath his eyes and his face was leaner. He did not look like part of the victorious army. He looked like many a soldier Dorian had seen before, one who had been fighting for too long without respite and with too little rest.

  ‘You were attacked,’ Dorian said. It was not a question. He could see from the way the elf’s arm was bandaged and from the bruises on his face that he had been in a fight. The fact that half the captain’s soldiers looked just as battered told the same story. The captain nodded.

  ‘Yes, general.’ Dorian realised that he had made another mistake. He smiled sourly. It was just the last of many in a stream that no doubt would put an end to his career once Malekith found out about them.

  His army had ploughed through southern Avelorn, meeting no resistance. They had put the few elf villages that they had encountered to the sword or the torch when they had been inhabited. They had been abandoned by those who had lived there in the face of the oncoming dark elf army. He followed up all the reports of trails that might have led to the Everqueen and her mysterious defender. Malekith’s assassins had not returned, nor had the sorcerers Morathi had sent. Something told Dorian they never would.

  He had kept his trackers out there looking for the Everqueen and hordes of warriors who could be trusted to find their way around in the deep woods. That had been a mistake.

  Now at last the asur had begun to organise themselves. At first, the resistance had been almost pitiful. There had been a few ambushes committed by young and inexperienced elves. They had resulted in few casualties. Some of the attackers had been caught and made an example of by the druchii. They had learned though. They had gained in experience and they had been joined by others, silent, grim elves from the deep woods who knew how to track and avoid being tracked, who came and went like shadows in the night, leaving behind them sentries with slit throats and dead dark elves.

  They had added hallucinogenic poisons to the food supplies, which left some of the druchii dying, screaming that they were being attacked by ghosts. He had been forced to regroup his forces into larger units, which made progress slower and following the trails harder. There had been more ambushes by larger groups of asur, and attacks that resulted in things that were almost as large as full-scale battles. His forces had taken more and more casualties. The offensive into Avelorn was being bogged down. Resistance was becoming stiffer. Morale was getting worse. The quest for the Everqueen still had not borne fruit.

  Things might have become grim indeed had he not received reinforcements from a most unexpected quarter. Humans were starting to find their way into Avelorn in greater and greater numbers. He was not sure where they were coming from. It seemed like entire tribes and warbands had become detached from Morathi’s offensive in the north and had somehow drifted south into Avelorn.

  He sensed that there was more to this than a simple loss of cohesion in the great invasion force. These humans seemed to have their own agenda although they were not talking about what it was they wanted.

  Now they too were stalking the woods and joining with the asur in battle. There were far more of them than there were druchii, it seemed like they were keeping more and more of the high elves busy. His troops were starting to come across battlegrounds where humans had fought with high elves. They had found the bodies of the tattooed invaders and their black-armoured leaders mingled with those of the denizens of Avelorn. Having spent
a great deal of his career fighting against the servants of Chaos, Dorian felt a certain satisfaction. He was not looking upon the bodies of dead allies when he saw the worshippers of Chaos lying there. He was looking upon the corpses of potential enemies.

  There were tales of some mighty wizard stalking the forest as well. A messenger had reached him from his starting point at the tournament grounds, telling him of a great massacre that had taken place there. It seemed impossible to believe that one magician, no matter how powerful, could have destroyed the holding force he had left behind to guard his evacuation route, but there had been no mistaking the truth in the messenger’s words or the fear on his face when he described the massacre this wizard had perpetrated.

  Not for the first time, he wished that Cassandra was still with him. She would have been able to advise him on how to deal with this wizard. She had not only been a very powerful sorceress but she had been very skilled in the tactics needed to overcome her fellow mages. He missed her more than he could find the words to say. It was just as well there was no one left for him to say them to.

  It was clear that the captain before him was looking to him for orders and encouragement. Dorian could not find the words for that either. Instead he dismissed the captain with a gesture and said, ‘Go, get some food and then some sleep. Tomorrow we shall set out and find these ambushers and teach them not to attack our forces.’

  Horns sounded. A troop of riders rode up to his tent. One of them was Lord Telmar, a high noble from Malekith’s entourage. Dorian was shocked. He knew this druchii should be hundreds of leagues away.

  Telmar gave him an ironic salute that revealed the signet of Malekith. ‘General Dorian, you are not an easy elf to find. Our king requests your presence, General Dorian, along with all your army. He has work for you out on Finuval Plain.’

  Briefly Dorian considered refusing, but it was pointless. The alternative was to remain here until his command was slaughtered by the asur. ‘He requests my presence personally?’ Dorian asked.