by Gav Thorpe
‘Nonsense. You are getting confused in your fatigue. Drusala is one of my mother’s chief sorceresses.’
‘Drusala was Morathi.’
‘I would see through such a guise in moments,’ protested Malekith, but uncertainty gnawed at his confidence. ‘Do you think I would not sense the soul of my mother?’
‘And that is why I concluded that you must have been colluding with her,’ said Teclis, but his tone was uncertain. He waved a hand and the shimmering barrier dissipated.
‘No!’ snapped Malekith as Kouran readied to launch himself at the mage. Imrik stood beside the captain looking confused. ‘Something is wrong here. I will hear him speak.’
‘Apologies, my king, but he lied to us,’ said Kouran, glaring at Teclis with unconcealed homicidal intent.
‘A lie of omission, perhaps,’ admitted Teclis, never moving his eyes from the Witch King. ‘I told you that my brother now marches north and that I needed to speak to your master. Both of these facts are still true.’
‘Tyrion seeks battle,’ said Malekith, pondering the import of this news.
‘We need to prepare if Tyrion advances on our position,’ said Imrik.
‘What of Malus Darkblade and the vanguard?’ asked the Witch King. ‘Has he also turned against me?’
‘Malus is dead,’ said Teclis.
‘Finally some good news,’ Malekith exclaimed with a contemptuous laugh. ‘I hope his demise was painful.’
‘He was possessed by a daemon, which tore him apart from inside, before being slain by Tyrion.’
The elves thought about this in silence for several moments, even Malekith’s bitter humour dissipated by the gruesome revelation.
‘Settle this matter,’ insisted Malekith. ‘You swear that Drusala was my mother wrapped in a glamour?’
‘I swear by Lileath,’ said the mage. ‘I recognised her immediately, as did my brother.’
‘And I did not…’
‘Sometimes the closest are the easiest to deceive,’ said Teclis, pacing across the chamber to stop just short of Malekith. ‘A riddle to resolve another day. Of import is that her deception has succeeded. My brother, in his vulnerable mental state, has fallen under her bewitchment. She has persuaded him that he must draw the Widowmaker.’
‘The Sword of Khaine?’ Malekith thought on this and then snorted with derision. ‘Oh Morathi, you poor enamoured soul. You think that this princeling is Aenarion reborn.’
‘I thought it odd that she relinquished him so easily before,’ said Teclis.
‘What are you two talking about?’ demanded Imrik. ‘You speak in half measures, and I would know everything we must face.’
Teclis looked at Malekith, intrigued. ‘I did not realise you were aware of the event. You were, as I recall, indisposed.’
Malekith grimaced, remembering the time well.
‘It is true that I was not of the mortal realm at that time, due to your efforts, nephew. You of all people should remember that we see much more when we have a different perspective and the Realm of Chaos gave me the greatest vantage point one might wish for.’
‘What happened, my king?’ asked Kouran.
‘The Blighted Isle, one hundred and fifty years ago,’ said Malekith. ‘Always it seems our fates revolve around that little bloodied dark altar to the God of Murder.’
It was the blood magic that attracted his attention. It made ripples in the Realm of Chaos, drawing attention from across the spaceless abode of the Ancient Powers. The first drops quickly became a waterfall, channelled by a powerful mind into a torrent of energy that blazed across the immaterial skies like a beacon.
He had been drawn to it out of instinct, moving to its source with a shoal of other near-mindless entities to lap at the delicious sacrifice. More powerful creatures, servants of the Chaos Gods, followed swiftly, causing the lesser denizens to scatter, but he remained, the scent of the blood, the feel of it flowing through him and over reminding him of something he had once been.
As more blood was spilled on the altar of the elves’ God of Murder further power thrashed through the Realm of Chaos, drawing a crimson scene upon the ever-changing world. He saw the rocks of an island – a place he had known – and two armies clashing. An altar of black stone was awash with blood, the basin-like temple around it filled with corpses of slaves and sorceresses. By the altar itself stood a tall figure, hair thick with gore, wickedly jagged sacrificial blade in hand, her naked form bathed in blood.
Looking upon the face, he remembered.
Morathi. His mother.
He was Malekith, king of the elves, and he had cast himself into the Realm of the Gods to avoid death at the hands of the mage, Teclis. He had no idea how long had passed in the mortal world, but as he watched the scene unfolding in the pools of blood around him he realised that something was amiss.
There was another with Morathi and at first Malekith was stunned by recognition. It was his father, Aenarion, the defender of Ulthuan and first of the Phoenix Kings. But the scene did not resemble any act he remembered occurring before his self-imposed banishment. His father had travelled alone to the Blighted Isle, both to retrieve the Sword of Khaine and to replace it. Morathi did not belong there.
With a shock Malekith understood. It was not Aenarion that stood slack-eyed and entranced by the Hag Sorceress, but one of his descendants, the Prince Tyrion. Malekith had no idea how Morathi had come to capture the prince, or the Blighted Isle, but it was obvious that her possession of these two at the same time was not coincidence.
Becoming fully aware of himself and his sense of being, Malekith was able to stretch forth his will into the Realm of Chaos around him. The Circlet of Iron on his brow throbbed as it guided his power, allowing him to move the image of the scene as he desired. He saw that the asur army besieging the Shrine of Khaine was led by Teclis, the twin of Tyrion, fighting desperately to free his brother.
Morathi’s intent became clear. She was trying to use Tyrion as a vessel for restoring Aenarion’s soul to the mortal sphere. She was bargaining in blood for Khaine to return the first Phoenix King, to instil Aenarion’s essence into the body of the prince.
In short, Morathi was trying to replace Malekith and put Tyrion on the throne of Ulthuan.
He raged as he saw the ceremony reaching its crescendo, cursing his mother and urging Teclis and his host to greater efforts, impotently trapped in the immortal but immaterial world. Whether the ritual would succeed looked doubtful, but Malekith wanted his mother to fail, for throwing her son aside in favour of this gullible young prince, and for disturbing the eternal rest of his father.
Malekith’s anger lent him strength, the same strength that had sustained him for thousands of years. He would not be usurped again!
Through an extension of pure will, Malekith reached into the mind of one of the Naggarothi looking on, one of the final line of defence against the asur counter-attack. The druchii’s thoughts were filled with selfish desires and hatred of the approaching asur and it took only the smallest of influences for Malekith to subvert the elf’s mind and turn it to his will.
With stolen body Malekith drew close to Morathi, stepping between the bodies of the dead, unnoticed as the Hag Sorceress shrieked her supplications and promises to Khaine. Drawing his blade, he thrust the sword between his mother’s shoulder blades and tore it free as she fell. Another stroke cut the bonds around Tyrion, but the prince just blinked and looked dumbfounded, drugged or worse.
‘Move, you cretinous dog,’ Malekith snarled, slapping the prince across the cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Wake up!’
Tyrion murmured and blinked again, as though rousing from a heavy sleep. Morathi was already pushing herself to her feet, the wound in her back sealing with magical energy.
‘Go!’ Malekith thrust the sword into Tyrion’s hands as other druchii closed on him and the prince. ‘Your brother approaches!’
Guided by instinct, Tyrion blocked a sword aimed at his throat and disembowelled the elf t
hat had attacked him. Malekith threw his purloined body in front of a hail of repeater crossbow bolts, saving the prince as he charged the closing ring of Naggarothi. Blotting out the pain from his stolen flesh, the spirit of the Witch King had one last glimpse of Tyrion cutting his way free and then his new body died, sending his essence wailing back to the Realm of Chaos.
Imrik listened to the end of the tale with a look of disbelief, while Kouran nodded silently, absorbing the import of what Malekith had said.
‘I did not realise that you had intervened,’ said Teclis, brow creased with a shallow frown. ‘Rumour followed that an agent of Hellebron had freed my brother to confound Morathi.’
‘A rumour I did not quash on my return,’ said Malekith.
‘Why did you not slay her when you returned, my king?’ asked the Black Guard captain.
‘My mother stood by me for five thousand years, and even when I sided with Bel Shanaar and took her into custody she never gave up on my destiny to become Phoenix King.’ Malekith took a deep breath, his lungs burning and ragged while the pain of recollection swamped his thoughts. He shook his head to clear them. ‘She thought I was dead, and sought another to fulfil her ambitions. I could not blame her.’
‘The ritual guided you back from oblivion,’ said Teclis, eyeing Malekith with wonder. ‘When you disappeared into the Realm of Chaos I thought you lost forever, and wondered how it was that you managed to return.’
‘It was the spark that reignited the flame of my spirit and gave me purpose again,’ Malekith replied. His mood soured. ‘Though it appears my leniency was misplaced and since that time she has been seeking to reunite with Tyrion again. I accused her of wasting away in Ghrond like a pining lover but her greater intent becomes clear. She did not warn of the northlander attack hoping that Naggaroth would be devastated, too weak to ever reclaim Ulthuan, and she would swoop upon Tyrion and usher him to the Phoenix Throne over the bodies of any that defied him.’
‘That part of the plan has so far failed,’ said Teclis, ‘but the cycle of history turns again and this time we shall suffer for it if we do not act.’
‘Why did you not dispel her bewitchment?’ demanded Imrik. ‘This matter would be simply resolved if you broke the hold Morathi has on Tyrion.’
‘I cannot, for his heart is bound to her now by something stronger than magic.’
‘Surely he cannot love her?’ Imrik shook his head in disgust.
Teclis took a moment to drink one of his life-giving potions, gaining himself time to think. He looked directly at Malekith. ‘What first drove your father to the Sword of Khaine and the embrace of your mother?’
‘Grief,’ Malekith replied without hesitation. ‘His wife and children slain, or so he believed, he reached his darkest nadir and sought only vengeance for the ill that beset him and his people.’
‘Tyrion’s daughter is dead,’ announced Teclis, looking away. Was it an expression of guilt? Malekith wondered. ‘Princess Aliathra died trying to thwart the return of the Great Necromancer.’
‘Aliathra was Finubar’s child, the next Everqueen,’ said Imrik, confused. ‘Are you saying… ?’
‘I knew it!’ said the Witch King, earning himself looks of interest from the mage and Imrik together, but he did not care for their feelings. ‘Well, I was almost certain, and now you confirm my suspicions. And here you are, nephew, at my camp, rather than at your brother’s side doing your best to counter the machinations of my mother. Why might that be?’
Teclis did not answer.
‘Answer Malekith’s question, mage,’ insisted Imrik. ‘Your efforts would have been better spent curtailing the threat at source rather than bringing news of its unfolding to us.’
‘Tyrion blames me for Aliathra’s death. I was forced to flee.’
‘Is that so?’ crowed Malekith. ‘An intrigue going amiss, nephew?’
Teclis said nothing but the Witch King saw his expression saddening even further, fingers tightening on his staff, jaw clenched.
‘Or perhaps something worse,’ Malekith continued, relentless, recognising the self-loathing behind Teclis’s grief. His voice was filled with savage glee. ‘You meant for her to die, did you not?’
The mage quivered with emotion, almost collapsing, but none of his companions made a move to assist him.
‘Is this true?’ demanded Imrik, while Kouran laughed with scorn.
‘Enough!’ snarled the mage, with such vehemence that Imrik and Kouran retreated a step. He glared at all three of them with eyes blazing with golden energy. ‘She was my niece and I feel the loss no less for the fact that it was necessary.’
Malekith stepped down from his throne and loomed over the mage. ‘You have always intended for Tyrion to draw the Widowmaker.’
Teclis nodded, defiant. ‘By drawing again His sword, the curse of Khaine will be lifted from our line.’
‘You would unleash the Godkiller on the world again?’ Imrik’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Just to rid your family of their curse?’
‘We have no future while the curse remains,’ said Teclis, dismissing Imrik’s concerns with a wave of the hand. He slumped and looked earnestly first at Imrik and then Malekith. ‘None of us. What better time for the Godslayer to be drawn than during the Rhana Dandra? I had planned to be beside my brother, to guide him through the turmoil so that he would be able to return the blade when the End Times were over and Chaos thwarted again.’
‘You reckoned without the interference of my mother,’ said Malekith, pacing away. ‘It seems that your mistress’s prophecies are not worth much, nephew.’
‘It is too late to give up,’ said Teclis. He hesitated before continuing. ‘Nagash has returned and attempted to become the living embodiment of Shyish. As I promised, he was too weak and for the moment he has drawn the power to the land the humans call Sylvania. He seeks to regain his pyramid in Khemri and if he does so, perhaps he will also regain the means to take the Wind of Shyish into himself fully.’
‘The embodiment?’ Malekith had never thought such a thing possible. ‘A physical avatar of a magical wind?’
‘As I say,’ said Teclis, looking uneasy at the mention of such a thing, as though he regretted having to bring it up. Malekith let his suspicions remain unspoken for the time being. ‘Even now, across the ocean, the Great Necromancer’s armies and the humans fight a great incursion from the northlands. The Chaos Gods have their attention focused on the realm of Sigmar and the endless legions of Nagash’s lieutenants for the moment, but it will not linger there forever. Sooner or later the daemons will come again for Ulthuan and we must be united and ready. Lileath has shown me the way to victory and though my own plans follow a twisted path, the destination has not changed.’
‘I did not say I had given up,’ said Malekith, turning back to the others. ‘We must seize the Blighted Isle first.’
‘Do you intend to take up the Sword of Khaine, my king?’ asked Kouran, who had observed the whole exchange without voicing any opinion. His expression betrayed no thought regarding whether he thought this a good or bad idea.
‘It is not a gift, it is a trap,’ said Malekith, remembering previous experience. ‘One I have already avoided. It would be folly to put myself in such a position again on purpose.’
‘You must, if it would prevent its power being controlled by Morathi,’ insisted Teclis.
‘How do we stop Tyrion if he wields the Widowmaker?’ Imrik asked, aghast at the thought.
‘I do not know,’ admitted Teclis.
‘That is why I plan to get there first,’ Malekith said, avoiding the answer to the question. In this area he was beholden to the guidance of Teclis, and it irked the Witch King to trust the Sapherian, but he had no choice. This was a road he had chosen to follow, throwing in his fortune with the fate of others, and now he was required to follow its course to the end, bitter or otherwise. ‘I suggest you impose upon your allies and cousins a sense of urgency.’
TWENTY
The Shadow of Khaine<
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The battle had descended into an anarchy of bloodletting and savagery as the violent shroud of Khaine fell upon all that participated in the fighting. The Blighted Isle was His domain and all blood shed on its shores belonged to Him, and all that lifted blade or bow offered up a prayer to His power. Manoeuvre and strategy, wheel and counter-wheel, lines of advance and echelons of attack had become meaningless as the druchii threw themselves at the small contingent of elves defending the Shrine of Khaine.
Kouran and his Black Guard were at the centre of the attack, the steel point of the spear thrust into the heart of the enemy, cleaving through archers and spearmen that fought beneath the colours of Yvresse, the banner of Naggarond flying proudly beside Malekith’s lieutenant. The spears and arrows of Tor Yvresse’s silverin guard met the tide of black-and-purple-clad Naggarothi dreadspears while the darkshards of the Witch King unleashed a continual storm of repeater crossbow bolts into the foe.
Overhead wheeled mages on pegasi and colourfully-blazoned knights of Tor Gavel riding griffons, where black dragons duelled with flame-winged phoenixes and Sapherian loremasters aboard flying skycutters drawn by eagles and hippogriffs.
On the periphery of the battle stalked the aesenar, who had tailed Malekith’s army through Chrace and made their own hidden crossing, led by the Shadow King. Many had been cut down by the advance of the Black Guard but the survivors sniped at regimental captains and slew the handlers of hydras and packs of war dogs, adding to the confusion and dread that reigned over Khaine’s domain. They were not the only descendants of Nagarythe fighting in defence of the shrine, for the Revenants of Khaine held the grounds of the temple itself, ready to slay and be slain to prevent the Widowmaker being seized.
Not long ago it had started raining blood, crimson streaking down pale flesh and shining armour as a benediction of Khaine’s pleasure at the slaughter. It hissed and spat from the armour of the Witch King as he tried his best to maintain some semblance of control over his bloodthirsty warriors.