The memory was so vivid that Malekith could hear his father’s soft yet strong voice echoing around the throne room. The prince was but a child, sat in the lap of his mother beside the Phoenix King, and Aenarion would occasionally pause in his conversation and look down upon his son. Always stern was that look; not unkind, yet not compassionate either, but full of pride. For years Malekith had gazed back at those strong, dark eyes and seen the fires that raged behind their quiet dignity. Malekith imagined that he alone knew the sinister spirit that hid within, clothed in the body of a noble monarch, masked against the eyes of the world lest it be recognised for what it truly was.
The soul of a destroyer, the wielder of the Godslayer.
And the sword! There across the Phoenix King’s lap lay Widowmaker, Soulbiter, the Sword of Khaine. Even at a young age, Malekith had noticed that only he and his father ever looked upon its blood-red blade, for all other elves averted their gaze and would look anywhere else but directly at it. It was like a secret shared between them.
“Yet you did not pick up the Blade of Murder when it was offered to you,” said Morathi, dispelling the illusion that had so gripped her son.
Malekith shook his head, confused by the enchantment cunningly wrought upon him by his mother. Truly they were real memories she had stirred, but her spell had made them as tangible as life, if only for a moment.
“I did not,” replied Malekith, slowly, realising that Morathi had seen into his thoughts and learned of his episode on the Blighted Isle, of which he had spoken to nobody.
“That is good,” said Morathi. She was sat in stately pose, despite her near-nudity, and exuded regal poise. Not here the barbarous priestess who tore living hearts from the breasts of her victims; not the seductive, wily seeress who wove lies with every word and manipulated all around her into a tapestry to her liking. Here she was as queen of Nagarythe, full of quiet majesty and grandeur.
“The sword controlled your father,” the queen said, her tone hushed, reassuring. “Since his death, it has yearned for you to seek it out. I was worried that you would be ensnared by its power as well, but I am proud that you resisted its bloodthirsty call. None can truly be its master, and if you are to rule, then you must be master of everything.”
“I would rather the world was devoured by daemons than unleash that fell creation upon it again,” Malekith said, sheathing Avanuir. “As you say, once drawn it will consume its wielder until nothing but blood remains. No person can become a king with its power, only a slave.”
“Sit down,” Morathi said, waving a hand of invitation towards the grand throne.
“It is not yet my place to sit there,” replied Malekith.
“Oh?” said Morathi, surprised. “And why is that?”
“If I am to rule Nagarythe, I shall rule it alone,” said Malekith. “Without you. When you are slain, the army of Nagarythe will be mine again. I shall hold power over the pleasure cults and with them secure the Phoenix Throne.”
Morathi remained silent for a moment, looking at her son with ancient eyes, gauging his mood and motive. A sly smile then twisted her lips.
“You mean to slay me?” she whispered, feigning shock.
“While you live, always will your ambition be a shadow upon mine,” said Malekith, angry at his mother’s charade. “You cannot help but be my rival, for it is not in your nature to serve any but yourself. I cannot share Ulthuan with you, for you could never truly share it with me. Even my father was not your master. I would exile you, but you would rise up again in some forgotten corner, a contender for everything that I aspire to.”
“Cannot share power,” Morathi said, “or will not?”
Malekith pondered for a moment, examining his feelings.
“Will not,” he replied, his eyes full of intent.
“And to what is it that you aspire, my son?” Morathi said, leaning forwards eagerly.
“To inherit my father’s legacy and rule as Phoenix King,” Malekith replied, knowing the truth of the words even as he spoke them. Never before had he so openly admitted his desire, not even to himself. Glory, honour, renown; all but stepping stones towards his ascension to the Phoenix Throne. The circlet had revealed to him the true nature of the forces that now ruled the world, and he would not stand by while Ulthuan slowly succumbed to them.
“Yes, Chaos is strong,” Morathi told him.
“Stay out of my thoughts,” Malekith snarled, taking an angry step forwards, his hand straying to the hilt of Avanuir.
“I need no magic to know your mind, Malekith,” said Morathi, still gazing fixedly at her son. “There is a bond between mother and son that does not need sorcery.”
“Do you submit yourself to your fate?” Malekith said, ignoring her obvious reminder of their relationship; an attempt to stay his hand.
“You should know better than ask such a pointless question,” Morathi replied, and now her voice was stern, harsh even. “Have I not always told you that you were destined to be king? You cannot be king unless you are prince of your own realm, and I will not surrender it willingly. Prove to me that you are worthy of ruling Nagarythe. Prove to the other princes that the strength within you is greater than any other.”
At some silent command, four figures emerged from the shadows, two to Malekith’s left and two to his right. They were sorcerers by their garb, two male and two female, swathed in black robes, tattooed with dark sigils.
Malekith struck out with a blast of magic, materialising as a thunderbolt from his fingertips. Instantly Morathi was surrounded by a shadowy sphere of energy, which pulsed as the bolt struck it. Her adepts unleashed spells of their own, fiery blasts that rushed in upon Malekith in the guise of howling wolf heads, and the prince cast his own shield of darkness to ward them away.
The sorcerers and sorceresses closed in, hurling fireballs and flares of dark power. Malekith protected himself, drawing in more and more magic from the energy seething around the throne room as the spells cascaded towards him.
Morathi sat contentedly upon her chair while her followers unleashed their hexes and curses, watching with interest as Malekith countered each. Churning and bubbling, magic flowed around the hall, growing in intensity as both Malekith and his foes reached their minds out further and further, drawing energy from the city outside.
“Enough,” barked Malekith, letting free the energy that he had pulled into himself, releasing a blast of raw magic not shaped by any spell.
The power blazed, surrounding each of the dark wizards, filling them with mystical energy; more than they could control. The first, a red-haired witch, began to quiver, and then spasmed so hard that Malekith heard her spine snapping as she flopped to the ground. The other sorceress screeched in agony as her blood turned to fire and exploded out of her veins, engulfing her in a tempest of lightning and flames. The third of them flew into the air as if struck, his nose, eyes and ears streaming with blood, his ragged body smashing against the distant wall. The last was consumed by the ravening magic and collapsed in upon himself, crumpled like a ball of paper until he disintegrated into a pile of dust.
“Your followers are weak,” said Malekith, rounding on Morathi.
The seeress remained unconcerned.
“There are always more minions,” she said with a dismissive wave of a beringed hand. “That trinket upon your head gives you impressive power, but you lack subtlety and control.”
Quicker than Malekith’s eye could follow, Morathi’s hand snapped out, her staff pointed at his chest. He fell to one knee as his heart began to thunder inside his ribs, drowning him with pain. Through the haze of agony, Malekith could feel the slender tendrils of magic that extended from Morathi’s staff, almost imperceptible in their delicacy.
Whispering a counterspell, Malekith chopped his hand through the intangible strands and forced himself back to his feet.
“You never taught me that,” said Malekith with mock admonition. “How unmotherly to keep such secrets from your son.”
“
You have not been here to learn from me,” Morathi said with a sad shake of her head. “I have learned much these past thousand years. If you put aside this foolish jealousy that consumes you, then perhaps I can tutor you again.”
In reply, Malekith gathered up the coiling magic and hurled it at the queen, the spell materialising as a monstrous serpent. Morathi’s staff intercepted it, a shimmering blade springing from its haft to slice the head from the immaterial snake.
“Crude,” she said with a wag of her finger. “Perhaps you impressed the savages of Elthin Arvan and the wizardless dwarfs with these antics, but I am not so easily awed.”
Standing, the seeress-queen held her staff in both hands above her head and began to chant quickly. Blades crystallised out of the air around her, orbiting her body in ever-increasing numbers until she was all but obscured from view by a whirlwind of icy razors. With a contemptuous laugh, Malekith extended his will, looking to knock them aside.
His dispel met with failure, however, as Morathi’s magic swayed and changed shape, slipping through the insubstantial grasp of his counterspell. A moment later and the shardstorm tore through the air towards him, forcing the prince to leap aside lest they rip the flesh from his bones.
“Slow and predictable, my child,” Morathi said, stepping forwards.
Malekith said nothing, but lashed out with his sorcery, a whip of fire appearing in his hands. Its twin tips flew across the room and coiled about Morathi’s staff. With a flick of his wrist, Malekith wrested the rod from his mother, sending it skittering across the tiled floor. With another short hand motion Malekith dashed the staff against the wall, shattering it into pieces.
“I think you are too old for such toys,” said Malekith, drawing Avanuir.
“I am,” snarled Morathi, her face contorting with genuine anger.
Something invisible scythed through the air and connected with Malekith’s legs. He felt his shins crack and his knees shatter and a howl of pain was wrenched from his lips as he crashed to the floor. Letting Avanuir fall from his grasp, he clutched at his broken legs, writhing and screaming.
“Stop making such a noise,” said Morathi irritably.
Making a fist, she wove a spell that clenched Malekith’s throat in its grip, choking him. The pain befuddled his mind, and as he flailed and gasped he could not muster the concentration to counter the spell.
“Focus, boy, focus,” spat Morathi as she stalked forwards, her fist held out in front of her, twisting it left and right as Malekith squirmed in her mystical grasp. “You think you are fit to rule without me? I expect such ingratitude from the likes of Bel Shanaar, but not from my own kin.”
The mention of the Phoenix King’s name acted as a lightning rod for Malekith’s pain and anger, and he lashed out, a sheet of flame erupting from him to engulf the queen. She was unharmed, but had released her spell to protect herself. Malekith rolled to his side, coughing and spluttering.
The prince was then flipped to his back and he felt a great weight upon his chest. Numbness enveloped him as the weight pressed down harder and harder, and Malekith fought against losing consciousness. As black spots and bright lights flickered in his vision, he thought he glimpsed a shadowy, insubstantial creature crouched upon his chest: a slavering horned daemon with a wide, fang-filled maw and three eyes. Pushing aside the aching of his body, he tried to focus his mind, but his body would not move.
Morathi stood beside her son, looking down dispassionately. She reached down and grasped Malekith’s helm in one hand and pulled it from his head. The queen regarded it closely for a moment, her eyes analysing every scratch and dint in its grey surface, her fingers lingering close to the circlet but never touching it. Gently, she crouched beside Malekith and placed the helm behind her, out of reach. Malekith fought back a surge of panic. He felt strangely naked and powerless without the circlet.
“If you do not know how to use it properly, you should not have it,” she said gently. She laid a hand upon his cheek, caressing him, and then placed her fingers upon his forehead as a mother soothing the brow of a fevered child. “If you had but asked me, I would have helped you unlock its real power. Without it, your magic is weak and unrefined. You should have paid more attention to what your mother taught you.”
“Perhaps,” Malekith said. With a shout of pain, he swung his gauntleted fist at Morathi, punching her clean in her face and sending her slamming to her back. “I learned that from my father!”
Stunned, Morathi lost her concentration and her spell evaporated. Malekith felt the invisible weight lifting from his body. With an effort, he drew magic down into his ruined legs, fusing bone back into place, knotting muscle and sinew together.
Whole again, the prince stood, looming over Morathi. With a flick of his hand, Avanuir jumped from the floor and landed in his grasp, its point a finger’s breadth from Morathi’s face, unwavering.
His face grimly set, he swung Avanuir over his left shoulder and brought it down in a backhand sweep towards Morathi’s neck.
“Wait!” she shouted and Malekith’s arm froze, the blade no more than a hand’s span from the killing blow.
It was no spell that had stayed his hand, but the tone in her voice. It was not desperation or fear, but anger and frustration, as she had used so many times before when he was a child about to do something wrong.
“What?” he asked, confused by his own reaction.
“Use your mind, think about what is for the best,” said Morathi slowly. “How will this truly aid you?”
“What do you mean?” Malekith said with narrowed eyes full of suspicion. He lowered Avanuir but kept the blade ready to strike the moment he detected the merest hint of a conjuration.
“Do you think that killing me will give you the throne of Nagarythe?” Morathi said, lying as still as a statue, her gaze never moving from her son’s eyes. “Do you think that my death will usher you to the rule of Ulthuan?”
“It cannot harm my cause,” Malekith said with a shrug.
“But it will not help it,” Morathi said. “Slay me here, unseen by any other, and the truth of your victory will never really be known. ‘Malekith slew his mother’, the chronicles will say, and then the deed will be forgotten, hidden away like a shameful secret.”
“And if I let you live?” Malekith asked warily.
“I will turn the cults to your bidding,” said Morathi. “You cannot hope to control them, and without me they will splinter and either turn against you or simply vanish altogether.”
“If I let you live, you will use the cults of luxury against me,” said Malekith. “You will undermine my power even as it grows until I am forced to treat with you. Do not think I will be so easily fooled. Better that you die here even if it means I must start afresh.”
“There is another way, Malekith,” Morathi told him. “For the cults, you can imprison me as hostage against their loyalty. What better symbol of your new power than to see the sorceress-queen of Nagarythe bound in chains? Better yet, present me as your captive to Bel Shanaar. Your mercy will earn you great credit in the court of the Phoenix King and amongst the other realms. Would you be known to them as a merciless killer, or as a magnanimous victor? Which do you think they would choose as Bel Shanaar’s successor? They have scorned your inheritance once already, naming you as a bloody slayer unfit to rule. Will the blood of your mother change their minds?”
“I care not concerning the opinions of lesser princes,” said Malekith, raising Avanuir again to strike.
“Then you are a fool!” spat Morathi. “If you would wrest the crown of Ulthuan by force, then go now to the Blighted Isle and take up the sword your father wielded, for you will need it. If you would perhaps take up your rightful inheritance and reign in glory, then you must make the other princes your followers. Already they look up to you; many would have you replace Bel Shanaar right at this moment. Woo them! Show them your kingly virtues, and the blood of Aenarion will prove its worth.”
For a second time, Malekith lowe
red his blade. He looked deep into his mother’s eyes, seeking some deceit or falsehood, but saw only sincerity.
“You would be humbled before all of Ulthuan,” Malekith said. “Your station, your rank would be worthless.”
“I care as little about such matters as you,” Morathi said. “I am confident in you, and have much patience. When you become Phoenix King, I will be rightfully restored to my proper position. I have humbled myself before priests and gods to gain what I have. It is no hardship to masquerade for a while as prisoner to Bel Shanaar.”
Malekith sheathed Avanuir and lifted his mother to her feet. He laid a hand upon her shoulder and pulled her close.
“I will spare you,” he whispered to her. “But if you wrong me, or play me false, I shall kill you without a second thought.”
Morathi clasped her son in a tight embrace, a hand on the back of his head, her lips close to his ear.
“You have proven that to me,” she sighed. “That is why I am so proud of you.”
—
The Wheels of Power Turn
As Morathi had predicted, there was much rejoicing when news of Malekith’s victory spread across Ulthuan. Once Anlec was firmly under his control the prince rode to Galthyr to lift the siege there. The Naggarothi commanders threw themselves on Malekith’s mercy and swore new oaths of loyalty to the prince. By secret command from Morathi, many of the cultists vanished into the wilds and their leaders hid themselves amongst the folk of Nagarythe. Prince Malekith sent word to the other rulers of Ulthuan that some measure of order had been restored, and feasts of celebration were held across the isle.
Malekith escorted Morathi south to Tor Anroc, accompanied by the three Sapherian mages Thyriol, Merneir and Eltreneth to guard against any sorcery from the seeress. With great show of humility, Malekith went incognito through the towns and villages, sparing his mother the spite of the elves she had all but enslaved.
[Sundering 01] - Malekith Page 30