They saw not a soul as they rode, although here and there they passed tumbled-down remains of ancient cottages and towers, scattered across the landscape as if discarded by the hand of some god. There was no road to follow, not the slightest track nor path, and it was clear that these lands had long ago been abandoned. They paused once again in the middle of the afternoon, allowing their mounts to water from a swift-moving brook. A few scattered stones marked the remains of an ancient mill beside the waterway; of its wheel and gears, nothing remained.
Carathril’s gaze was drawn to a lone hill, not far from the stream, which rose steeply from the yellowing grass: a mound of bare, blackened rock. At its summit, Carathril could just about see a tumbled monolith, its white stone stark against the darkness of the hillock.
“Elthuir Tarai,” whispered a deep voice, causing him to start. One of the raven heralds stood directly behind him. His black horse stood close by, neither grazing nor resting, but alert and ready. The rider’s face was all but hidden in the shadow of his deep hood, but Carathril could see a pair of emerald green eyes. It was Elthyrior.
“What did you say?” said Carathril.
“Yonder hill,” said the raven herald, pointing towards the barren knoll. “It is the Elthuir Tarai, where Aenarion first wielded the Godslayer in battle. A thousand years ago, there was a town here, called Tir Anfirec, and all the lands about were farms and meadows. The daemons came and unleashed foul sorcery upon the ground, and their curse lingers here still. Upon that mount, Aenarion first drew the Sword of Khaine in anger, and struck down a host of the daemons. I am grandson to Menrethor, who fought here beside the king.”
“Then you are a prince?” said Carathril.
“In name only,” said Elthyrior, looking away. “These were once the lands of my family, now they belong to nobody.”
“What happened to the town?” asked Carathril.
“It is said that the unnatural blood of the daemons seeped into the earth and poisoned it. The filth of their existence stained the fields and rivers, and Tir Anfirec withered and died like a plant without water. Dark magic saturated every granule, root and leaf, so that cattle died of fever, babes were stillborn and no living thing could flourish. Caledor came to this place and erected a lode-stone, even as he planned his creation of the vortex. The waystone, like all the others, siphoned away the dark energy of the daemons, and over the centuries life slowly returned. Not enough for people to return, but sufficient for a few blades of grass and the odd insect nest. Then, perhaps fifty years ago, worshippers of the darkness came here and toppled the stone and undid its enchantments. Now the dark magic is returning, gathering again.”
“Why not raise up the stone again?” said Carathril.
“None in Nagarythe have the knowledge or means,” said Elthyrior. “At least, none with the will or desire to do so. Perhaps there are loremasters in Saphery that have understanding of such things, and when peace prevails once more, they can restore the waystone. I fear that no living thing shall ever grow again upon Elthuir Tarai, for it was upon that slope that Aenarion sealed his pact with Khaine, and the God of Blood will share it with no other.”
Malekith was calling for the riders to mount up once more. With no further word, Elthyrior leapt into his saddle and his horse quickly wheeled away, leaving Carathril alone with his thoughts. He looked again upon that desolate hill and shuddered, pushing from his mind the frightening images the raven herald’s tale had conjured.
As they went further north, the lands became more welcoming, now covered here and there with high yellow grass that reached to the riders’ knees as they rode. In the full light of day, this dreary heath was more cheering than the dark wilds they had passed through, and the mood of the company lightened considerably. There were scattered conversations along the column, and here and there the riders even joked and laughed, as if to ward away the apprehension that had grown.
Carathril found himself riding alongside the squadron of Ellyrian reaver knights, beside Aneltain who had been chosen by Malekith to lead them. They were more lightly armoured than the knights of Anlec, wearing only breastplates and shoulder guards and trusting in their speed and agility to avoid the foe. Their high helms were crested with long feathers taken from the tails of colourful birds. The Ellyrion steeds were uniformly white, not as broad nor tall as the Naggarothi mounts, and were harnessed with blue-lacquered tack. Each reaver knight carried a short thrusting spear with a broad, leaf-shaped head, and a small but powerful bow, with arrows fletched with blue feathers.
Of all the assembled elves, they were the most garrulous, and chatted freely amongst themselves as they rode. Aneltain was no different and quickly struck up conversation with Carathril.
They talked at first about their homelands, as warriors from different realms naturally do: compared the beauty of their women, the quality of wine and the relative merits of their people. Soon their talk moved on to their current surrounds, as both were strangers in these lands, and then onto the Naggarothi themselves.
“They are taciturn, that is for certain,” said Aneltain. “Of course, by Ellyrian measure, all other elves are tight-lipped, but these Naggarothi will utter only a single word when ten would be natural, and nothing when one would suffice.”
“Prince Malekith seems eloquent enough,” countered Carathril.
“The prince? Sure, he can weave a speech with the best of them,” admitted the Ellyrian. “But then, he has been Bel Shanaar’s ambassador to the High King of the dwarfs, and from what I hear they are a race not known for their wagging tongues. I suspect he’s spent the last two hundred years having to talk just to fill their silence. No, there’s something different about these Naggarothi, some shadow upon their spirit that makes me feel uneasy.”
“You distrust them?” said Carathril, his voice dropping to a whisper as he glanced at the knights of Anlec only a short distance ahead.
“That is too strong a word for it,” replied Aneltain. “I would gladly fight beside them, and I would trust them to watch my back. No, they just make me feel uneasy. There is a grimness about their mood that disturbs me. They don’t laugh enough for my liking, and when they do it is with dark humour.”
“It is impossible to understand them, I admit,” said Carathril. “We cannot hope to think what drives such folk. They are people of Aenarion. Many of them, like the prince, fought at his side. Even those too young to have been raised in those benighted times were raised by parents that were. Perhaps they are right not to laugh, for they have much still to grieve for. They suffered more than most, and their scars run deep.”
“Laughter cures all ills,” said Aneltain. “It lifts the spirits and banishes dread.”
“I fear there are some ills too heavy to be lifted,” said Carathril. “I for one am glad that I ride beside them and not against them. A great many of them quit these shores for the new colonies, driven by the need for battle, keen to escape the peace. I cannot understand the mind of one who seeks such peril, but it is the way of the Naggarothi to hail the warrior above other callings. I have no doubt that each one of those riders ahead has drawn more blood across the seas than either of us will do in our lifetimes.”
“That is for sure, and it makes them no less disconcerting,” said Aneltain. “I have heard that in Anlec they still practise the rites set down by Aenarion: that a spear and sword are forged upon the birth of every child and they are presented to them upon their twentieth year. They learn the names of their weapons before those of their parents, and for their first years sleep upon the inside of a shield as a crib. But, as you say, it is better that we ride to battle with them than against them.”
Having come to this agreement, they then descended into a debate concerning the unique customs of their own homes, and the afternoon passed swiftly.
The leagues swept past as they rode ever northwards, and the sun was fast dipping towards the west when Malekith called them to halt once more. The company gathered in a circle about their leader. None
of the raven heralds were to be seen.
“Night comes quickly, and we must be ready,” the prince announced. “We are yet out of sight of Ealith, and the raven heralds clear a path through the pickets of the foe so that we might pass. Once they return and bring word that all is well, we ride with all speed. Sariour rises above the mountains before midnight and we must be within the passageway before she spills her celestial light upon us. We cannot know what awaits us inside, and once we move on, I cannot give you clearer orders, for we must move as silently as ghosts.”
Malekith turned about on the spot, meeting the gazes of his company with a fierce stare.
“I have but these words for you,” he said. “Spare those that surrender, spare not those that resist. I cannot say what horrors we might face, what depravities these cultists have already performed within the walls of their fortress.
“Let nothing distract you. Guard your fellows and they will guard you. Look to your swords for guidance, for though we are merciful I would have none of us fall this night. Pray to Asuryan, offer thanks to Isha, but remember to save a word for Khaine, for it is into his crimson realm that we must ride tonight!”
With these grim words still ringing in their ears, the company waited in silence, as the sun dropped beyond the sea and plunged them into starlight. A wind grew steadily, blowing chill from the north, and Malekith hugged his cloak tighter about himself. The riders checked each other’s gear, to ensure no metal would catch the light and no rogue piece of harness would make noise at an untimely moment.
Malekith dismounted and stretched his legs, pacing to and fro as he waited for the order to move on. He did not linger long, for soon one of the raven heralds returned, almost invisible in the darkness. The prince mounted again, his legs sore from many days spent riding, and soon they were off at a trot on the last stage of their journey.
—
A Foe Revealed
The riders of Malekith skirted eastwards before heading south, having circled around Ealith to come at the fortress from the north. Through the gloom, the prince could see the castle in the distance, lit by fires from within so that the walls seemed to glow yellow and red. The keep was upon a great spur of rock that jutted several hundred feet from the surrounding grasslands. Laughter and shrill cries could be heard in the distance and strange shadows danced about the towers.
Upon its highest pinnacle a slender tower reached into the stars, and a strange green light emanated from its narrow windows. Malekith flinched as that light flickered for a moment, filled with the unshakeable belief that he had somehow been seen. Such a thing was impossible though, for the company were as shadows, swathed as they were by the dark cloaks of the raven heralds.
A stand of trees obscured Ealith from view, and Malekith was forced to duck as they rode beneath the boughs into the heart of the copse. Here was almost utter blackness, save for a few glimmers of starlight that broke through the almost solid canopy of leaves. The company dismounted, following the lead of their prince, and walked their steeds further into the trees.
At their centre there rose a great oak, as mighty as a guard tower, and Malekith led his horse between two massive roots and to the others he seemed to disappear. In fact where they thought there was earth and tree was a large opening, as wide and as high as a city gate, the roots of the ancient oak forming a twisting archway. Beyond lay the passageway, walled with grey stone, high enough to mount once more and for three riders to move abreast. At their head, Malekith drew his sword and its blue flame glimmered in the darkness like a beacon. Lanterns were passed down the line and one rider in ten set a glimmering light upon his saddlebags so that those behind could follow. As will-o’-wisps the company wound along the corridor, plunging deeper and deeper beneath the earth.
Soon the cut stone of the entrance gave way to bare rock, carefully but plainly carved by unknown hands. Malekith felt the corridor rising again and it began to turn to the right in a tightening spiral, and narrowed to the point that they had to ride single file for a short while. As the passage levelled out, at the same height as Ealith’s inner walls, it widened again so that five horses could walk side-by-side. Malekith raised a hand to halt the column.
Ahead was a wall of bare rock, with no sign of door or gate. Malekith sat upon his horse in front of the wall and began to chant softly; ancient spell-words whose meanings were lost on the others. As the prince spoke, he traced lines through the air with the tip of his gleaming sword and where it passed a flickering trail of blue fire lingered, sparkling in the darkness. A rune of fire hung in the air, growing in intensity. With a final word, Malekith slashed through the sigil with his blade and a blinding flash filled the corridor. A wide archway now stood where the wall had been, and beyond lay the courtyard of Ealith.
“Ride forth!” shouted Malekith, heeling his mount into a gallop and leaping through the archway.
The company broke into a charge, lowering spears and lances as they thundered from the secret passageway into the castle. Malekith held his blade at the ready, unconsciously ducking slightly as he passed through the portal though it was easily high enough for a rider to pass.
The courtyard was thrown into pandemonium. A dozen fires burned in bronze braziers, giving off an acrid smoke. Vile runes had been daubed in blood upon the white walls, and clusters of wailing prisoners were chained to each other in small groups. The cultists were taken completely unawares; some had been tending the braziers, others tormenting their captives.
Everywhere cultists leapt up with cries of alarm and shouts of terror as the knights crashed across the pale flagstones with a wall of lances and spear tips, striking down all within reach. Malekith bellowed wordlessly as he cut left and right, despatching a cultist with each blow. The ringing of steel echoed from the high walls, mixed with war cries and the screams of the wounded. Malekith singled out a fresh target: an elf with a pair of serrated daggers in his hands, naked but for a brightly patterned cloak and kilt, standing menacingly over a cowering elf maiden. The cultist turned his head as Malekith charged, his face a mask of dread. The prince did not hesitate, and as he raced past, he slashed downwards with his blade, catching the cultist a deadly cut across the neck.
Panting with excitement, Malekith slowed his steed and cast about for another foe. Dozens of bodies littered the ground, pools of blood spreading across the white paving. Everywhere enemies were flinging down their blades and hurling themselves to their knees with shouts of surrender. A few tried to resist further and were swiftly and mercilessly overwhelmed by the knights. Malekith jumped from his saddle and dashed towards the doors of the central citadel, which towered two hundred feet above the courtyard.
“Ellyrians, stand guard!” the prince shouted. “All else, follow me!”
The gate had been barred from the inside, but this proved little barrier to the prince of Nagarythe. His sword blazed with magical energy as he raised it high. He brought the enchanted blade down and struck a mighty blow against the door in an explosion of blue fire that shattered the keep gate into charred planks. Without hesitation, Malekith leapt into the hallway beyond.
Though mere moments had passed since the attack had begun, the cultists were recovering quickly. Inside the citadel was a great staircase that spiralled to the upper levels of the tower. Archways led from the entrance hall to chambers all around, and scores of cultists poured from these rooms in a shrieking wave that engulfed Malekith and his company.
Screeching like a wild cat, a female cultist with red body paint and a shaven head hurled herself at Malekith, spitting and biting. He smashed the back of his hand across her face and sent her hurtling to the ground, where she lay unmoving. He barely parried a dagger aimed for his throat, and cut down the ranting zealot who wielded it.
All around the elves of Malekith fought back to back, as more of their companions tried to press through the splintered doors to aid them.
As the prince swept out with Avanuir there was another detonation of magical fire, and a d
ozen cultists were launched high through the air, trailing smoke and burnt flesh, to crash against the walls. Malekith raised up his left hand and blue flame danced from his fingertips. With howls of pain and fear the cultists hurled themselves away, some prostrating themselves and gibbering abjectly, others running back through the doorways to escape the wrath of the prince.
“Upwards!” cried Malekith, pointing towards the stairway.
Carathril joined the prince as he leapt up the steps three at a time, followed by a handful of knights. Others led pursuits into the chambers below. The next level of the citadel was devoid of life and they continued upwards until they reached a wide chamber at the top of the tower. The stairs led them into the middle of a circular room that filled the space of the tower. Here lanterns blazed with the green radiance Malekith had seen from outside, and the eerie light showed scores of elves in horrifying acts of torture and debauchery; a plateau of vileness that would be forever etched into Malekith’s memory. All that he heard and all that he had yet seen was not enough to prepare him for the horrors he witnessed in his own lands.
A high priestess, lithe and athletic, presided over the despicable ceremony from a dais littered with corpses and blood. Her white robes were spattered with gore, and a daemonic bronze mask covered her face. Her eyes glowed with a pale yellow light from within, and her pupils were tiny points of blackness in pools of luminescence.
In one hand, she held a crooked staff, wrought from bones and iron, and tipped with a horned skull with three eye sockets. In the other, she wielded a curved dagger still slick with the blood of many sacrifices.
Malekith charged across the chamber, cutting down any cultist who barred his path. He was but a few steps from the dais when the priestess thrust forwards the tip of her staff, and a bolt of pure blackness leapt out and struck the prince full in the chest. The prince’s heart felt like it would explode. With a cry of pain torn from his lips, Malekith faltered and fell to his knees. He was as much shocked as hurt, for he knew of no wizard who could best the sorcerous abilities granted him by the Circlet of Iron.
[Sundering 01] - Malekith Page 25