by Gav Thorpe
‘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 the 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 to break the spell, but still his body could 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 ruined 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.
Here, in her stronghold, the sorceress was far from defenceless, but that did not mean she relished the prospect of testing her skill against that of her progeny. Any such contest would turn Ghrond into a blasted ruin before a winner was determined.
‘Why have you come?’ she asked, a sharpened fingernail resting on her slender chin.
‘You gave no warning of the northlander invasion, as was your duty,’ Malekith intoned, savouring each damning syllable. ‘Moreover, you have held back from Naggaroth’s defence. I should be quite furious with you. Indeed, for a long time, I cherished no thought so well as your broken body beneath the lash.’
The Witch King rose from the throne and began to pace the room, pausing before each statue in turn to gaze into its eyes. Some he recognised, past members of his council, watch commanders and generals that had assisted Morathi in one way or another. He could sense the life energy still trapped within the statues and wondered if any of his mother’s favourites had ever escaped her gorgon-like wrath when the relationship inevitably became too much of a burden for her.
‘Because of you, Naggaroth is all but fallen.’ He did not look at her, but stopped before the image of Cruidahn of Hag Graef, who had been Morathi’s consort more than a thousand years earlier. ‘Before the year is out, it will be but another ruin in a world already full of them. Yet I find that I feel no sadness for the loss.’
‘Pathetic! You disgrace your father’s memory.’ Morathi spat, unexpectedly flushing with anger.
‘Not at all. Indeed, I intend to honour him as never before. Our folk had fallen into weakness and squalor.’ Malekith snorted with derision. ‘We had grown fat and lazy, a herd of dull-witted beasts no longer fit for the great destiny I shall provide.’ He turned to face his mother and spread his hands expansively. ‘Now the herd has been thinned, the weak slaughtered by the northlanders’ axes. I have you to thank for that, though I am sure you did not intend mat
ters to unfold thus. Those who remain are warriors and survivors all. They will be my army, and Ulthuan’s ruin, for they will survive only through seizing the land that is theirs by right. The throne of the ten kingdoms will at last be mine.’
‘I have heard you say such things before,’ Morathi sneered.
‘Before, I did not have aid. The Phoenix King is already slain, betrayed by one of his closest advisors. He died broken and screaming, his last dignity a memory before I choked the life from him.’
‘The Five Gates will defeat you, as they have in the past.’
‘They will not,’ Malekith assured her, ‘for I now hold the key to those fortresses, placed in my hand by one of their own. Besides, Ulthuan is as beset as we. While I do not doubt that our cousins will endure, they will not have the good sense to let the times purge their weaklings.’
‘If victory is so assured, what do you wish of me?’
‘You are my mother and, despite your myriad treacheries, you yet command my regard. Join your armies to mine, and the past will be forgotten. You shall be Ulthuan’s queen once more – glorious, regal and beautiful as the night.’
Morathi sighed contemptuously.
‘You still think like a mortal, when you should aspire to be a god.’
‘You are many things, mother, but you are no goddess.’
‘And who is to say that? The power of Hekarti pulses through my veins. As the magic rises, I can be anything I wish, and that is all that matters as the Rhana Dandra begins.’
‘You’re not the first to speak to me of the End Times, yet I remain somewhat unconvinced.’
‘The mage, I suppose,’ Morathi said, her contempt clear. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t hear him whispering to you during your journey? What lies did he tell you?’
‘It hardly matters. He serves my goals, whether he realises it or not.’
‘Of course,’ Morathi mocked. ‘You are not one to accept any wisdom other than your own. Look around you. The world cries out in torment, the skies bleed, the twin-tailed comet blazes, and you look for more proof? The Dark Gods are rising, and they will swallow us all.’
‘If what you say is proven true, then I shall fight them, as my father once did. I will not be denied my birthright.’
Morathi let forth shrill laughter, bordering on the hysterical. ‘You’re a fool! These are the End Times. Only those who embrace their true nature will survive. Yours is not that of a victor. Yours is to lose, and to blame others for the loss. Go back to Naggarond. Take what pleasures you may before the tides of Chaos close over your head. I will not waste my strength on foolishness.’
Malekith found himself consumed by a sudden and bitter mirth and matched her insane humour with a mad laugh of his own. ‘And your nature is to languish in this ensorcelled tower, I suppose, a jilted princess pining for her love until darkness falls?’
He enjoyed the contorting agony of her features as he revealed his knowledge of her earlier interference with Prince Tyrion and her declarations of affection, unseen and unremembered by all others but revealed to Malekith as he had sought escape from self-banishment in the Realm of Chaos.
‘You understand nothing,’ Morathi spat. ‘He will be mine again. I have foreseen it.’
‘How very convenient for you,’ Malekith replied calmly. ‘And might I ask what you foretell concerning my future?’
There was a long pause. Morathi watched him closely, and could not fail to sense the edge of his anger growing sharper, but equally she could not resist the opportunity to display her superiority. Malekith listened to what she had to say expecting half-truths and outright lies.
‘If you go to Ulthuan, you will lose everything,’ she proclaimed at last. ‘Your realm will fall, your purpose will waver. Everything that makes you who you are – everything that makes you my son – will crumble to naught. Even your name will no longer be your own. I would sooner see you dead.’
‘Then it seems that this will be our last farewell, mother,’ said Malekith scornfully. He searched for some hint of a lie, but he could find none. He realised that she had not confessed her true reason for allowing Naggaroth to fall into ruin, but he knew now, looking at her, that she would never tell him.
He turned to leave, but could not resist one more jibe. ‘Out of fond regard, I grant you one last gift: your life. Your treason is not forgiven, but it will go unpunished. Sit in your tower and rot.’
‘My king!’
Kouran’s shout caused Malekith to wheel his chariot about, turning to face the company of Black Guard. Behind them the thornwall was rippling with power, first moving like sinewy limbs, the movements increasing to a wild thrashing, as though the enchantment was tearing itself apart.
A huge swathe of the black-thorned barrier lifted and parted, the tearing of mystical tendrils like the scream of tortured children.
Where the thornwall had been now marched a column of armoured warriors, decked in black mail and plate, the regimental standards displaying the scarlet runes of Ghrond. Hundreds – thousands – of soldiers advanced along the old road from the gates of the city within. The warriors eyed the recoiling thornwall with fear and suspicion, many of them no doubt remembering the fate of comrades that had perhaps tried to break free or strayed too close.
The entire army of the north city marched forth.
A cabal of sorceresses led the dreadblades at the vanguard of the army. Mounted on a dark pegasus, Drusala flew over the army, the beat of bat-like wings in time to the drums that marked the tempo of the march.
The sable-skinned beast settled not far from Malekith’s chariot, tossing its head in disgust at the stench, spiralled horns embedded with gems catching the dim light. The sorceress bowed in the saddle, her pale skin stark against the dark fur collar of her robe.
Malekith looked at Drusala, not with mortal eyes but the gaze of the Witch King. He could see the winds of magic coiled about her, and the shadow of dark magic that shielded her soul from the mutating effects of the heightened magical power. There was something else in the spirit-gloom, deeper and darker even than the shadow, but Malekith did not know what it was – some power bargained from a daemonic entity no doubt, which would claim her eventually.
As the thunderous tread of the approaching army rang out on the frost-dusted stone of the road Malekith was struck by the scene, reminiscent of the second prophecy of Lileath.
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.
Drusala spoke, breaking the chain of thought.
‘Queen Morathi, Hekarti Eternal, sends these gifts to her son as acknowledgement of her failings to treat him with due hospitality, and for neglecting her duties in times recent past. She would have it known that she hopes this offering of her host and most favoured coven will make some amends to heal the broken faith of late, and that ever the Witch King is the subject of not only her loyalty but her best intentions.’
Malekith looked at Drusala for some time, not speaking. His stare moved to the column of troops now reaching the Witch King’s host and back to the sorceress. Kouran was close at hand, awaiting his master’s command. Malekith directed a single, curt nod to his lieutenant, who raised his glaive in salute and turned to issue orders.
The Master of the Black Guard understood his king very well, and directed the garrison of Ghrond to precede the knights and Black Guard. He sent messengers ahead for the rest of the army to break camp and be ready to march by the time the expedition had returned, placing the Ghrondites in the centre of the column, close to the Witch King. This was no honour, as might be taken by others, but a precaution against potential treachery from Morathi’s servants.
EIGHT
The Witch King Commands
Turning south and then east, the army of the Witch King left the lands on the edge of the Chaos Wastes and moved back towards Naggarond. Heralds were sent to Clar Karond and Hag Graef, Karond Kar and Har Ganeth, summoning the remaining a
rmies of the druchii to stand ready for fresh conflict. The lords and ladies of these realms were bidden to come to Naggarond to attend Malekith’s council – a demand not an invitation, couched in words that left the recipients in no doubt as to the consequences of refusal. Even Hellebron and the hag queens of Khaine realised that they were no longer above retaliation and sent word that they would attend.
While these missives moved back and forth across the breadth of Naggaroth other preparations were undertaken. Through sorcerous means word was sent to the corsair fleets still abroad in the world, raiding distant coastlines and taking slaves from far-flung settlements of many different races. The captains of the fleets and black arks were commanded to return to their cities of berth for a new endeavour. They were likewise offered no alternative when Morathi’s sorceresses placed a geas upon the distant seafarers – a curse that filled their minds with tormenting dreams, dusk to dawn each night until they set foot again on Naggaroth’s land.
Some thirty days after reaching Ghrond the Witch King was back in his capital and his council brought together. Of the one hundred nobles, slavemasters, city rulers and beastlords that had once attended such gatherings, only a score still remained following the attacks of the northlanders and Malekith’s recent purges of any that had shown past disloyalty.
Malekith brought the council together in the great throne room of the Black Tower. Normally this huge hall remained empty, the throne of Aenarion unoccupied. Even Malekith was never so arrogant that he wanted to be measured against his father, but on this occasion, with the announcement he was going to make, comparison would be inevitable and it would be good to remind his subjects that the Witch King’s heritage outshone any other elf alive.
The hall was of such vast dimension that its vaulted ceiling and pillared walls vanished into darkness. Massive buttresses, every inch of their surface adorned with intricate carvings, loomed inwards. Stone gods glowered down from the pillars, Ellinill the Lord of Destruction and his wrathful progeny. The eyes of each god were crafted from enormous gemstones, their lustre enhanced by an enchantment that caused them to glow with a smouldering malevolence. Between the buttresses the walls were lost behind macabre tapestries fashioned from scalps encrusted with gore, a silent reminder of the many who had defied the Witch King’s authority and the ultimate fate for such defiance.