[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  Yeasir could not help but laugh, out of relief more than humour. A glance told him that the Chracians had finished off their monstrous foe, though they stood about its body chopping and hacking with their blades to ensure that it regenerated no further.

  Malekith’s whereabouts still a mystery, Yeasir turned and looked for the prince. He spied him then upon the wall, talking with Eoloran, the prince of House Anar. Telling his spearmen to stand guard for fresh attack, Yeasir left the company and headed towards the steps.

  Malekith saw Yeasir striding up the stairway to the gate wall, and waved him forwards. With the prince stood Eoloran, his son Eothlir and his grandson Alith. All were dressed in silver armour and black cloaks, and carried bows etched with magical sigils. The three were grim-faced, but Malekith was in good humour as he looked at the bloody savagery being unleashed in the plaza below. He introduced Yeasir to his companions, clapping a hand to his second-in-command’s shoulder in an encouraging fashion.

  “Well done!” the prince exclaimed. “I knew you would not let me down.”

  “Highness?” said Yeasir.

  “The city, you fool,” laughed Malekith. “Now that we are in, it is only a matter of time. I have you to thank for that.”

  “Thank you, highness, but I think you deserve more credit than I,” said Yeasir. He looked at the Anars. “And without these noble warriors, I would still be stood outside, or perhaps lying outside with an arrow in my belly.”

  “Yes, well, I have thanked them enough already,” said Malekith. “It would be best not to give them too much credit, otherwise who knows what ideas they might get.”

  “How did they come to be here?” asked Yeasir.

  “Malekith sent word to us many days ago,” said Eoloran. He was an ageing elf, of hawkish features and a deep voice. “When he told us of his intent to attack Anlec, at first we thought him mad. By secret means, he outlined his plans for the attack, and it became clear that this was to be no idle gesture. We were only too happy to play our part in ridding Nagarythe of this wretched regime of darkness. Ten days ago we came into the city, dressed in the manner of Salthites and Khainites, and all manner of other vile worshippers of the cytharai. We met in secret and gathered together to await Malekith’s attack. We could not open the gates sooner for the square below was filled with Khainites… Well you know that, since you faced them. Once the square was undefended, we struck as swiftly as we could to take the gate.”

  “Well, you have my gratitude, prince,” said Yeasir with a deep bow. He turned to Malekith with a frown. “I must admit to being somewhat hurt that you did not feel that you could trust me with this counsel, highness.”

  “Would that I could have,” said Malekith airily. “I trust you more than I trust my own sword arm, Yeasir. I could not divulge my plan to you lest it affect your actions in battle. I wanted the defenders to know nothing was amiss until the gates were opened, and foreknowledge of the Anars’ presence may well have meant that you held back until the gates were already flung wide. We needed to keep the pressure on so that all eyes were turned outwards rather than inwards.”

  Malekith then turned to Eoloran.

  “If you would excuse me, I believe my mother is waiting for me,” the Naggarothi prince said, now empty of all humour.

  There was still fierce fighting in the plaza, and the knights of Anlec arrived to take their share of the glory, driving hard into cultists and beasts with their lances.

  Designed as a fortress, Anlec was laid out in a fashion so that there was no direct route to the central palace. Along twisting streets, harassed by archers from roofs and windows, the army of Malekith advanced cautiously, aware that by alley and underground passage there were many ways by which a foe could come at them from every direction and then melt away into the city.

  Fortunately for Malekith, the defenders had committed a greater part of their strength to the defence of the walls, confident that no enemy had ever passed into the city by force of arms. This left the remaining defenders scattered, and as most were simple cultists they attacked in haphazard, uncoordinated fashion and were easily dealt with.

  At one stage the advance was halted, as a fearsome figure atop a manticore descended on the column from the skies. Malekith recognised him as Prince Kheranion, and knew him of old.

  He wore armour of ithilmar inscribed with protective runes and bound with enchantments of warding, forged in the Shrine of Vaul, against which it was said no mortal weapon would draw blood. The beast upon which the prince rode had the body of a gigantic lion, with bat-like wings that swathed the street in shadow as the traitor plunged down from the air, his mount roaring ferociously.

  The knights at the head of the advance were taken by surprise as the prince dropped from above, their armour gouged by his monster’s teeth, their horses cast down upon the cobbles.

  In his hand the prince wielded the fell lance Arhaluin, the shadowdeath that Caledor had forged for Aenarion before he had wielded the Sword of Khaine. Seeing the weapon in the hands of his foe sent Malekith into a rage. He raced forwards, his steed’s hooves striking sparks from the pavement as the prince gathered magical power for a sorcerous blast.

  Before Malekith could confront Kheranion, Morathi’s captain steered his mount into the air once more and swooped over the rooftops. Moments later he dived into the attack once more, crashing into the Yvressian spearmen further down the road.

  For several minutes the prince hit-and-ran in this fashion, halting the advance and allowing other defenders to gather in numbers around the column. Doorways and windows spat arrows into the attackers. Red-robed cultists leapt from hidden trapdoors to snatch warriors and drag them from sight before their comrades could react. Chilling screams began to echo through the streets, unnerving the attackers further.

  Beset from above and below, Malekith shouted in frustration and urged the army to move onwards.

  The Naggarothi prince knew that ahead lay a wide killing ground, where his army would be vulnerable to attack, but there was no option but to press on towards the palace. Soon the winding streets led them to a rectangular space lined on all sides by high walls punctured with murder holes. As arrows rained down from these narrow slits, Malekith summoned the energy for a spell.

  Here, in the heart of Anlec, there was much dark magic, drawn here by the murder and suffering of the cultists’ victims. Aided by the circlet, Malekith was able to tap into this flowing energy and harness it. He tried to form a magical shield around his troops, but the dark magic contorted and thrashed in his mental grasp, refusing his will.

  With a snarl, Malekith allowed his frustration full vent and let loose a stream of magic as a cloud of black darts that exploded outwards, each small missile twisting and turning to seek out an embrasure or opening. Screams and shouts resounded from the corridors within the walls around the cloister as the darts found their targets, and blood from the slain dribbled from windows and under door.

  Kheranion attacked again, plunging downwards with lance ready. Malekith hurled a bolt of lightning at the stooping monster, but Kheranion raised his silvered shield and the spell earthed itself harmlessly within the enchanted guard.

  Kheranion was not without some sorcery himself and a dark nimbus surrounded him before erupting into a flock of evil crows that descended upon Malekith’s army, pecking at eyes and exposed skin, causing disarray and panic. With a contemptuous sweep of his arm, Malekith dispelled the curse and the crows evaporated into burning feathers.

  So intent was Kheranion on his magical duel with Malekith that he did not spy a shape coming upon him from the clouds. It appeared first as a speck, but rapidly grew larger until the shape of Bathinair’s griffon could be seen. Hearing its screech, Kheranion turned, but too late. In Bathinair’s hand, Nagrain trailed icy shards and its crystalline point bit deep into the muscle and bone where the manticore’s right wing met its body. With a strange yelp, the manticore twisted and raked its claws across the chest of Redclaw, and the two snarled and snapp
ed at each other as they dug in their long claws.

  Bathinair avoided a thrust from Kheranion as the two monsters locked together and spiralled towards the ground. Nagrain leapt again but Kheranion deflected the attack with his shield, his own magical lance piercing the throat of Redclaw. In its death throes, the griffon clamped its beak about the left foreleg of the manticore and both beasts and riders crashed into a tiled roof before spinning onto the cobbles of the open ground.

  The manticore lashed its tail sting forwards, catching Bathinair a raking blow across the chest and sending him flying from the throne upon which he had been seated. Discarding Arhaluin, Kheranion drew a sword whose blade was made wholly of flame. The prince advanced purposefully towards the stricken Bathinair. The manticore righted itself and lunged forwards lopsidedly, its wounded wing trailing uselessly behind it.

  Malekith drew Avanuir and urged his horse forwards, eyes intent on Kheranion.

  Another shadow eclipsed Malekith for a moment as Merneir swept across the square atop his pegasus, his staff blazing with golden light. With a shout, the mage unleashed a ball of blue fire that hurtled across the open space and detonated with a flash beside Kheranion. The prince was hurled into the air and the manticore flung sideways by the blast. The gold-shod hooves of his steed flailing, the mage descended upon the manticore with his sword, hacking away at its venom-tipped tail while Kheranion shook his head and groggily stood.

  Behind the renegade prince, Bathinair rose to his feet also, Nagrain grasped in both hands. His face was a mask of anger as blood trickled across the left side of his face from a cut on his forehead. He swept the point of the spear towards Kheranion and a hail of icy shards erupted from the weapon’s tip, slamming into the prince’s armour and smashing him from his feet once more. The firesword spun from his grip.

  Out of desperation, Kheranion flung forwards an outstretched hand and a blast of power caught Bathinair full in the chest, sending him crashing into the wall a dozen paces distant. The prince collapsed to one knee, panting hard, while Kheranion scrabbled on all fours to reclaim his blade.

  Just as Kheranion’s fingers curled around the hilt of the accursed sword, Malekith arrived. He leaned low in the saddle and Avanuir carved a furrow into the renegade’s armour and bit into his spine. Malekith leapt from the back of his horse as it galloped on and landed cat-like next to the stricken prince. Kheranion stared into Malekith’s eyes and saw the prince of Nagarythe’s murderous gaze.

  “Spare me!” begged Kheranion, falling to his back and tossing away his magical sword. “I am crippled and no more a threat!”

  Malekith saw that this was true, for the prince’s legs hung limply from his body as he dragged himself away across the cobbles.

  “Perhaps you would have me end your suffering?” said Malekith, taking a step forwards, the point of Avanuir aimed towards his foe’s throat.

  “No!” cried Kheranion. “Though I am undone, perhaps my wound is not beyond that of the finest healers.”

  “Why would I allow you to live, so that like a pet serpent you could rise up and bite me again?”

  Kheranion sobbed with pain and fear, and held up an arm as if to ward away the killing blow.

  “I denounce Morathi!” Kheranion shouted, his voice reverberating around the courtyard. “I will swear anew my oaths to Malekith!”

  “You are a traitor, and yet have not the conviction to stand by your treacherous path,” snarled Malekith. “Betrayal can be forgiven, cowardice cannot.”

  With that, Malekith drove the point of Avanuir downwards and Kheranion shrieked, but the tip of the sword stopped a fraction from the fallen prince’s throat.

  “Yet I also swore to be merciful,” said Malekith, lifting away his blade. “Though you have done many wrongs against me, I must stand by that oath and offer clemency to those who repent of their misdeeds. Perhaps I will find a way even for a creature as craven as you to make amends.”

  With an agonised grunt, Kheranion threw himself forwards and grasped Malekith around the leg and whimpered meaningless gratitudes. Malekith kicked him away with a sneer.

  “Pathetic,” the prince rasped, turning away.

  ——

  A Destiny Manifested

  The closer Malekith and his host drew to the central palace, the more disturbing Anlec became. Many of the buildings here had been turned into immense charnel temples, their steps stained dark with blood, the entrails and bones of the cultists’ victims hung upon their walls as decoration. Hundreds of braziers burned fitfully, spewing noxious, acrid fumes through the streets. The air itself clung with the stench of death and all was silent save for the crackling of flames and the tread of the warriors on the bloodstained tiles of the streets. They came at last upon the palace of Aenarion, a large building that doubled as the central citadel of Anlec. It appeared deserted, and the broad doors were opened wide. Dismembered skeletons, rotting organs and other detritus littered the steps leading up to the entrance.

  Malekith stopped at the foot of the steps and looked up into the beckoning door, seeking an ambush. Lanterns glowed with ruddy light from within, but there was no sign of any other living thing.

  Slowly, Malekith ascended the steps, Avanuir in hand. His knights dismounted and followed a short way behind, similarly ready for attack. Malekith paused before he stepped across the threshold and checked one more time for hidden attackers. Satisfied that there was no immediate threat, he strode through the doors into the chamber beyond.

  It was as he remembered from a millennium ago. A long colonnaded hall led away from the doors, much like a larger version of the entrance of Ealith’s keep. There was no evidence of the murder and slaughter of the rest of the city here. The floor was a vast mosaic of a golden blade upon a storm-filled sky, and Malekith remembered it from when he was a child.

  He had crawled upon this floor and happily stroked the golden tiles even as his father had told him of its story, for it was a depiction of a dream, the vision that had beset Malekith’s father and spurred him to take up the war against the daemons. Though his father had not known it at the time, it had been the Sword of Khaine calling to him, from hundreds of leagues distant, suddenly awoken from its eons-long slumber by the anger of Aenarion.

  The slamming of the doors behind him shattered Malekith’s thoughts and he spun around, expecting attack. He heard thuds and thumps as his followers outside attempted to open them, but Malekith knew it would be fruitless; the tinge of ancient magic hung about the portal, spells laid upon it in the time of Caledor.

  “Come to me,” a voice echoed along the empty halls, and Malekith recognised his mother’s tone.

  Still wary of attack, Malekith stalked along the hallway, all childhood thoughts forgotten. His eyes roved across the archways and high galleries, seeking any sign of a hidden assassin, but there was none. Passing through the great doorway at the end of the entrance hall, Malekith came to an antechamber from which two sets of stairs spiralled upwards to the left and right.

  The one on the left led to the bedchambers, guardhouses and other domestic rooms on the first floor, while the stair to the right wound higher to the throne room of Aenarion. Without hesitation, Malekith turned to his right and slowly ascended the marble stair, a carpet of deep blue running down its centre. His footfalls made no sound as he walked, and in the silence there came a noise on the very edge of his hearing.

  It was weeping, a constant low sob. Stopping, Malekith listened more intently but the noise could be heard no more. Walking again, Malekith heard a distant, dim shriek and a yammering for mercy. Halting once more to listen, the sound faded away again, leaving only silence.

  “Spare us!” said a voice behind Malekith, and he spun, sword in hand, but there was nothing there.

  “Mercy!” pleaded a whisper in Malekith’s right ear, but turning his head he saw only empty air.

  “Not the blade!”

  “Free us!”

  “Give us peace!”

  “Justice!” />
  “Show us pity!”

  Malekith twisted left and right, seeking the source of the voices, but he was alone on the stairway.

  “Begone,” the prince growled, holding up Avanuir.

  In the flickering glow of the blade, Malekith finally saw movement: ghostly figures dimly reflecting the blue glare of Avanuir’s fire. He could see the spirits only in glimpses, and saw flashes of headless bodies, children with their hearts ripped out, mutilated women and victims of all kinds of vile torture. They reached out with broken hands, skin hanging in flaps from mutilated arms. Some were eyeless, others had their mouths stitched shut or their cheeks pierced with spikes.

  “Get away from me!” snarled Malekith, turning and leaping up the stairs, casting glances over his shoulder as he hurried upwards. The swirling ghosts chased the prince up the steps and he slashed at them with Avanuir, parting their insubstantial forms with its glowing blade.

  Panting, he reached the upper landing and stood before the high double doors that led to the throne room. Soundlessly, they opened inwards, bathing Malekith in the golden light from many lanterns within.

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

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