by Gav Thorpe
The elves recovered more swiftly, still driven by the aftermath of Skarbrand’s rage, heeding the commands of Kouran as the elven general issued swift orders to set a proper attack into motion.
As Seraphon lifted Malekith towards the snow-laden clouds, the Witch King considered returning to his pavilion, confident that his servants would know victory after his intervention. He stopped himself from withdrawing a moment later, looking at the broken body of Skarbrand far below.
The mage had foretold this day, in typically cryptic fashion. He had offered several prophecies as evidence that he spoke the truth and indeed was guided by the will of the goddess Lileath. Three visions he had spoken of, three events that would steer Malekith to their common cause.
‘I remember when the lords of Saphery ruled from a flying city,’ said Malekith, looking around the circular chamber near the pinnacle of the White Tower.
‘Beautiful Saphethion,’ his host said wistfully, thin fingers tapping together at his chin. ‘Destroyed by your ambition.’
‘It was not my ambition that brought low your floating city, but the actions of meddling mages,’ Malekith replied. ‘How little you learn.’
‘It is not a scheme of my own devising that I follow, but a divine plan from the watcher of fates herself, Lileath of the Pale Moon.’
‘You seek alliance from me?’ Malekith shook his head in disbelief, and in doing so caught a glimpse of himself in the silver reflection of an oval mirror set behind the mage’s desk. His projection here was as he had been in his early life. No iron-and-fire, no armour of midnight. A tall, darkly handsome elf with lustrous hair and sharp cheekbones regarded him solemnly. But for all that this apparition appeared healthy and hearty, the fires still burned and Malekith felt the pain of his enduring curse. His mood soured swiftly. ‘It was you that reawakened that ancient flame in my soul, resurrecting an agony of ages in my heart and bones. You are mistaken if you think I desire anything other than your drawn-out, horrendous death, Teclis.’
‘You do yourself a disservice, Prince Malekith,’ said the mage. He stood and started to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. ‘There are many things you desire far more than my demise. You would let me live in return for your rightful return to the Phoenix Throne. You would gladly spare me if I released you from the torment Asuryan inflicted upon you so many centuries ago. Your vengeance has never been anything more than a veil for your frustrated ambition.’
Malekith reached out, his insubstantial hand passing through the mage’s throat. He tightened his fist regardless, keen to prove his point.
‘I do not expect you to trust me, any more than I trust you,’ Teclis continued. ‘You are called the Deceiver by many with good cause. Nor do I expect you to believe me without proof.’
‘You can prove that the End Times are upon us? You have proof that Lileath will guide us to the means by which Chaos can be defeated? Lay it before me now and let me judge how trustworthy your words can be.’
‘The power of three is well known to us, and so three dooms my mistress has laid upon you, as maiden, mother and crone, Morai-heg, Ladrielle and Lileath. When they have come to pass, I shall be brought to you again and you will know the truth of what I have told you.’
‘Prophecy,’ muttered Malekith. ‘Some vague declarations that could be construed to mean just about anything. Has not my own doom been prophesied? Is not the curse laid upon you and your twin nothing more than the utterings of a demented seer driven to grief by the rejection of my father?’
Teclis said nothing as he picked up his staff, the image of Lileath at its tip gleaming silver in the moonlight that came through the window. Malekith flinched, for moments before it had been noon daylight, but now he saw a full moon rising above the forested mountains to the east.
Words came from Teclis’s lips, but the voice was not his. Mellow and lilting, the female voice slipped into Malekith’s thoughts like a lover entwining arms around him, leaving the memory of the words embedded deep.
‘In tide of blood it will begin, a crimson fate that covers all. He that fell will fall again, Lord of Battle will fight no more.
‘The serpent will come forth, fangs hidden behind the snow, with scales of black and eyes of blood. Its venom shall be the doom of ambition.
‘And comes forth the Crippled One’s bane, the forgotten maker shall be found. On mercy’s anvil shall hope be forged, and godly silence shall be unbound.’
Malekith considered these words carefully as Teclis slumped back into his chair, his face even more wan than usual. His eyes were dull, his hair lank and lifeless. Coughing wracked the mage for a few moments until, with a faltering hand, he drew a phial of liquid from a drawer and took a swift draught. Almost immediately his pallor improved, the light returned to his gaze and he smiled.
‘You cannot stop him,’ Teclis said. ‘Not without my aid.’
‘If you think this is the path to anything but utter damnation, you are wrong, my nephew.’ Malekith loomed over the mage. ‘Believe me when I tell you that I have looked into the abyss where this course of action leads. If you trust anything, trust my experience. I have never been short of spite for those that disowned me, but I will warn you that you will destroy everything you love if you insist on following this road to its end. I have walked it far longer than you.’
Teclis sighed, his look one of regret. ‘A wrong six thousand years old cannot be righted in a moment. The time will come when old wounds,’ he reached out a hesitant hand and for a heartbeat Malekith’s true form was revealed, shorn of glamour and armour, incandescent and scarred for eternity, ‘the gravest of wounds even, can be healed.’
Fate was in motion. Morai-heg had foretold this day, but Malekith would not leave to her cruel whim that which he could decide for himself. With a growled command, he directed Seraphon back to the battle. There would be no mistakes this time, no confusion or setbacks or failure by lesser servants.
By his might, the Phoenix Throne would be his again. He was starting to believe.
Teclis had promised it.
The gods willed it.
FIVE
An Unexpected Barrier
It was not long past noon but in the northern reaches of the world the sun was barely a paler disc behind the clouds, the lands of Naggaroth shrouded by twilight. Bearing magical lanterns that burned with cold, blue fire the Naggarothi army appeared like a host of ice statues given life, the bleak light reflected from black enamelled armour plates and silver mail.
A host of knights led the vanguard, five thousand strong, mounted on reptilian cold ones. The stench of the creatures was matched by the steam of foetid breath that rose from their ranks, swathing the riders in a bank of fog that made their appearance even more ethereal.
At their heart rumbled a company of chariots drawn by more of the beasts, twenty of them, flanking the massive war engine of Malekith while Seraphon flew overhead. Malekith’s chariot was a construction of black iron, drawn by four cold ones bedecked with barbed armour over their glistening blue scales. The chariot itself was hung with chains and hooks, the wheels spinning with jagged blades to slash the legs from under any unfortunate foe or beast that came close.
The host followed a road of cracked stones, cleared of snow by a legion of slaves driven ahead of the host by whips and hunger. The rag-shrouded corpses of those that had collapsed during their labours were heaped in the snow drifts beside the ancient slabs, faces frozen in pale-skinned grimaces, limbs protruding from the white banks with icicles dangling from splayed fingers.
A lone rider appeared out of the white haze and approached, swathed in a black riding cloak. His horse, also the colour of midnight, was tall and sleek, bred from stock stolen from the fair plains of Ellyrion in generations past, the flanks marked by the brand of Lord Ezresor.
Ezresor’s dark steed whinnied and cowered at the stench of the cold ones, almost throwing him as he pulled to a walk a few paces from Malekith’s chariot. The high agent dipped his head, sunken eyes
betraying nothing as they rose again to meet his king’s gaze.
‘Your majesty, the riders report that the way to Ghrond is blocked,’ Ezresor told the Witch King. The spymaster’s steed gnashed at its bit and whinnied, shying away from Malekith. He yanked the reins and dug spurs into the creature’s scarred midriff, hauling it in a circle to come alongside the Witch King once more.
‘More vagrant northlanders?’ Malekith replied. ‘Call the captains to arms.’
‘No, your majesty, it is not a foe that confronts us,’ the spymaster said. He looked perplexed. ‘It is… Well, they said we should go and look for ourselves.’
This was a deeply unsatisfactory answer but Malekith could see from Ezresor’s expression that no further detail would be forthcoming, regardless of coercion or cajoling. He raised a hand and signalled for Seraphon to descend.
The journey from the van of the column did not take long. Soon the cold one knights were left behind and he saw a group of outriders coming south, riding hard along the road. Ezresor galloped out to meet them and returned swiftly to bring their reports to his master who had landed a short distance behind. The riders departed into the bleak wilderness, moving off the road to give Malekith a wide berth, turning hooded heads to dart looks back to the north.
‘They come with a warning, your majesty. Several riders and shades attempted to breach the barrier just before midday,’ Ezresor explained. ‘They have not been seen since.’
‘Barrier?’ The Witch King did not mask his displeasure. ‘You are being obtuse, Ezresor, and I would know the reason.’
‘Your indulgence, for a little while longer, your majesty,’ said Ezresor though there was little hint of pleading in his tone. He pointed ahead, to where Malekith could see a darker blur against the white horizon.
‘Where is Ghrond?’ the Witch King said slowly, looking left and right as though he was lost. ‘We should be able to see the pinnacle of the convent by now.’
‘That, your majesty, was what we cannot explain.’
Malekith did not press the matter further at that time, but followed Ezresor along the road until the darkness in the distance became clearer. It looked as though a forest had sprung up from the tundra, of black, twisted trunks and stunted branches. It stretched east and west almost as far as the eye could see, and stood many times taller than an elf.
Coming closer Malekith saw that it was not a forest that barred his path but a giant thicket of dead-looking vines, each thicker than his arm, jagged with scimitar-like thorns. The stench of magic contorted the air, undulating as a black and purple aurora.
Malekith studied the barrier for some time, feeling the ebb and surge of the magic sustaining it, watching the lash of mystical wind that caused the thorny extrusions to sway and bend. He barely noticed the clatter of armour as Kouran arrived with a company of Black Guard. Behind them a thousand knights of Naggarond waited on their cold ones. Several of the dark riders had returned and were riding the edge of the obstacle, not so close that they would be caught, seeking any weakness in the wall of thorns. Other druchii – lordlings and petty commanders – had followed Malekith from the army and waited a short distance away, quietly discussing their own theories on the phenomenon that barred their onward route.
‘The Chaos Wastes extend south,’ said Malekith, confident of this explanation.
‘Not so, your majesty,’ corrected Ezresor, his gaze fixed firmly on the thorny growths so as to hide any hint of accusation. ‘My riders say that it can be circumnavigated, though it would take us two or more days to do so. It is not daemonic in nature.’
‘Morathi.’ Malekith growled his mother’s name. ‘She thinks that this will stop me from reaching her in Ghrond. A girdle to protect her dignity, and as sharp as her tongue has ever been.’
He dismounted to approach the looming barricade on foot. At his approach the thorny growths stirred, moving slowly towards him. A spiked tendril slithered towards his shoulder and he seized hold of it. Fire burned in his fist and the thorny tentacle shook violently, trying to rip itself from his hot grasp. Opening his hands a few heartbeats later he let the charred remnants drop to his feet.
‘It would take an age to burn through with sorcery, your majesty, even for one of your puissance,’ said Ezresor, keeping his distance and a wary eye on the unnatural hedge.
As he looked more keenly, Malekith saw that the thorns heaped higher and higher, merging with the magical storm overhead, taller than Ghrond itself.
‘Seraphon could not penetrate this mass,’ the Witch King said to himself. ‘And let us not even waste time contemplating digging to the tower.’
‘How do we proceed, your majesty?’
Malekith considered his options. Brute force was unlikely to work. Morathi would be wary of any attempt at trickery. There were, however, other types of guile.
‘How many sisters of the Dark Convent remain loyal to me?’
‘None within Ghrond that we know of, your majesty.’ The spymaster shrugged. ‘Had any desired to betray Morathi we would have received warning of the northlanders’ attack. We must assume that any that attempted as much died before their treachery bore fruit.’
‘A shame,’ said Malekith, remembering the first time he had been forced to confront his mother in similar fashion. She had usurped rule of Nagarythe and turned Anlec against him. On that occasion princes from House Anar loyal to Malekith had infiltrated her defences and opened the gates to allow entry to his army. He could not expect help from the interior this time. ‘I expect that the only course of action left to us is to undo the binding of the enchantment, and that will be laborious work.’
As the last of these words left Malekith’s ravaged lips, there was movement in the magical thicket. The vines twitched and curled, parting from each other to reveal a slender, pale-skinned figure standing less than a dozen paces away.
She was garbed in a robe of dark fur, edged with the white pelt of a snowcat. The same trimmed her high boots. Emerald rings glistened on slim fingers, matching the eyes that regarded Malekith from beneath a black shock of hair that was entwined with black brambles that twitched with a life of their own. There were mutterings of approval from the assembled druchii warriors, but Malekith knew that none would be judged worthy of such a prize – not even Ezresor or Kouran.
‘Drusala,’ Malekith whispered, as the sorceress bowed low, right leg crossed over the left. As she straightened, a fleeting smile passed her lips.
‘King Malekith,’ said the witch, assuming a demure pose, hands clasped at her waist, head slightly tilted forward, though this made her appear more coy than deferential. Her eyes glittered – literally – as she half turned and gestured along the path. ‘My Queen Morathi, beneficent ruler of Ghrond, Eternal Hekarti Reborn, bids you welcome to her demesne and invites you to attend conference at your earliest convenience.’
This caused a different sort of stirring in the elves that heard the declaration. Ezresor moved closer, his voice barely a whisper though Malekith knew that Drusala would hear his words easily enough despite this precaution.
‘Morathi declares herself to be divine?’ The spymaster wrung his hands, looking more worried by this than any news of rampaging northmen hordes and fallen cities. ‘She names herself the goddess of sorcery. There can be only one purpose to such a claim.’
‘To cow any further ambition within her sisterhood,’ said Malekith. It was a move he himself had used in the past, assuming the mantel of Khaine’s avatar to head off the growing power of Hellebron and her bloody cultists. ‘Perhaps she is not as certain of her position as leader of the convent as you thought.’
‘She would put herself above even you, my king,’ snarled Kouran. ‘To claim to be Hekarti is an affront to all the Cytharai.’
‘My Queen awaits your pleasure,’ said Drusala, as if this answered Malekith’s doubt.
The Witch King considered rebuffing the invitation, just to remind his mother that she answered to him, not the other way around. He rejected the no
tion as petty. The real prize was Ulthuan and the longer he delayed at Ghrond the greater the chance that Prince Tyrion and his allies would defeat the latest daemonic intrusion and recover to meet any Naggarothi attack. The season of the sun was just beginning, an ideal time of year for a fresh offensive to reclaim their homeland. If Morathi wanted to play these mind games, Malekith could put aside his pride long enough to gain entry to Ghrond, if not any longer.
‘Take me to your queen,’ said the Witch King, stepping towards Drusala. ‘At my pleasure.’
‘Of course, your highness,’ replied the sorceress.
SIX
The City of Ghrond
Behind Malekith, the wall of thorns closed, cutting him off from his advisors and army. He did not even turn to look as Drusala led him deeper into the bramble-maze, the path opening up before them, the thorns entwining again when they had passed.
The magical entanglement continued as far as the walls of the city itself, which were unmanned.
‘You trust to magic more than the spears of our people?’ Malekith said to Drusala.
‘Spears are of little use against daemons, your majesty,’ replied the sorceress. ‘Better that the garrison stays away from the bloodthorns, lest unseemly incidents occur.’
Passing through the great gate beside Drusala, Malekith found the streets empty. Now and then a terrified face appeared at a window or a shutter would creak open, revealing dread-filled eyes for a moment before closing. All was shrouded in near-darkness, the cold light of the sun blocked out by the dome of thorns, broken only by a ghostly green glow that emanated from the pinnacle of the Tower of Ghrond.
The heart of the city was a lone spire almost as high as the tallest pilaster of the Black Tower. A solitary finger of dark rock topped the Convent of Sorceresses, and this tower was tipped with a faceted crystal sphere from which the sisterhood commanded by Morathi would gaze north into the heart of the Wastes, into the Realm of Chaos itself, gauging its moods and movements. The summit of the tower was partly obscured by the wavering miasma of energy sustaining the thornwall.