The Curse of Khaine

by Gav Thorpe

  Seraphon met the descending phalanx of spears head-on, crashing through the glistening points, jaws snapping. The Witch King leaned low to slash with his magical blade, splitting white-hafted spears and scale armour with broad sweeps. His gaze became death, shredding the minds of any that dared meet his fiery stare.

  As Seraphon laboured up the hill towards the megaliths marking the perimeter of the shrine, Malekith cast his attention back to the battle. The druchii ranks had split. Elements from Ghrond were fighting against each other, while banners in the other contingents were splitting away, turning on their own kind.

  Morathi.

  Her single word had been a summons, calling those faithful to her to throw off the concealing veil of loyalty. The Black Guard remained steadfast at the centre of the attack, but the flanks were giving way as dreadspears turned on bolt thrower crews, bleakswords fought amongst themselves and sorceresses directed their spells against regiments of darkshards still following the Witch King.

  Everything was collapsing into anarchy but there was no time to worry about the larger battle. The Witch King saw a white and gold blur carving its way through the disrupted line straight towards the Shrine of Khaine – Tyrion leading the charge. He had broken ahead of his army, leaving knights, white lions and militia to battle through in his wake. Above, Malekith spied a phoenix burning with a white fire cutting across the sky towards him. Alith Anar was already close at hand.

  His enemies were growing in number and time was growing shorter.

  Dragging her wounded wing like a ship that had lost a mast, Seraphon carried her lord up to the summit of the shrine-hill, leaving gouged and poisoned corpses in drifts behind her. At the moment they breached the crest, Malekith laid eyes upon the black rock of the altar.

  Where the Godslayer had first appeared to him as a sceptre, a symbol that he could destroy the world with all of elvenkind as his weapon, now there rested a spear with a head of crimson lightning and a shaft of bone. It wailed to Malekith, begging him to take up his rightful gift from the God of Murder. Khaine had chosen him just as He had chosen Aenarion, and millennia of suffering had resulted from Malekith’s denial of his birthright.

  A last defender wearing the plume of a captain heaved himself clear of the dismembered remains of his warriors and stood before the Witch King and his monstrous steed, breaking Malekith’s trance-like fascination. The other elf held his sword levelled at Seraphon’s chest and there was blood trickling from a wound across his cheek, but the resolute defiance in his eyes stopped Malekith.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said the Witch King. ‘Your company died well. So will you.’

  ‘I am Caradon, last of the Revenants of Khaine,’ spat the elf, blood flying from broken lips. ‘I curse thee, Malekith. I curse th–’

  Urithain took off his head as Seraphon shouldered past a standing stone and Malekith leaned low on her back. The Witch King looked again at the altar and the spear that beckoned to him with subtle words of praise and promise.

  A noise, barely audible amongst the cacophony of war and the patter of raining blood. A flutter, the faintest rustling of cloth. The sound of droplets pattering on metal.

  Malekith acted without thought, Urithain spearing out as he turned towards the sound. The black-clad assassin twisted in mid-air as he leapt from the monolith, the Witch King’s magical blade flashing just past his scalp. It was enough, the killing blow directed towards Malekith’s neck missing its mark, though the blackened dagger tore through his iron-skinned shoulder, the enchanted blade splitting the armour of midnight as though it were a common mail coat.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Khaine’s Promise

  Malekith roared, lashing out with raw dark magic as the assassin tried to land on Seraphon’s back. The instinctive spell smashed into the Khainite, hurling him into the piled bones at the shrine’s edge. As the would-be killer rolled through the charnel debris, Malekith recognised his face. It was Shadowblade, most infamous of his calling since Urian Poisonblade, once Malekith’s deadliest weapon and most effective defence against traitors. It seemed that Shadowblade’s mistress, Hellebron, had decided to defy the Witch King, though to what ends he could not guess.

  ‘Why is everyone trying to kill me?’ bellowed Malekith, exasperated at another delay and distraction. ‘Don’t you know that I’m trying to save the world?’

  The assassin staggered to his feet and with a flick of the wrist Malekith hurled another bolt of dark magic, smashing Shadowblade against a standing stone. As the Khainite stood up again, he shook his head and looked around as though waking up, an expression of confusion on his face. Startled by this reaction, Malekith held his next bolt for a moment. A moment too long.

  The clatter of hooves and a flash of gold heralded the arrival of a foe even more dangerous than the stunned assassin. Malekith cast a glance towards Prince Tyrion as his steed forged up the slope of the shrine. He cast his spell even as he wheeled Seraphon to face the fresh danger, but Shadowblade was gone, the sorcerous blast turning a standing stone into a cloud of black splinters.

  The Dragon of Cothique was a magnificent sight, clad in burnished plate and scale, his winged helm plumed with white feathers. He rode Malhandir, a steed as renowned as the prince, larger and swifter than any stallion of Ellyrion, as white as the snows of the Annulii.

  In Tyrion’s grasp flashed the Sunfang, Lacelothrai, a sword as long as Malekith’s arm inscribed with runes that burned with the light and heat of the sun. The prince’s armour was of pure ithilmar, forged on the Anvil of Vaul for Aenarion himself, reclaimed from the Blighted Isle after the first Phoenix King’s disappearance.

  Malekith gasped, for the vision that thundered up to the shrine was the image of his father, even the burning wrath that lit the Dragon of Cothique’s eyes.

  Their eyes locked and in that moment the separation of centuries disappeared, the bloodline that locked the destiny of both elves united again. No words passed their lips as they raised their swords, but nonetheless their thoughts spoke to each other.

  ‘I see why they call you the Defender reborn, nephew.’

  ‘And I know why they call you the Betrayer.’

  ‘Give up! To draw the Sword of Khaine is to doom our people. My mother has bewitched you.’

  ‘What do you care of our doom, architect of the Sundering? I will end your treacherous existence!’

  ‘Do you not think I would have drawn the Widowmaker an age ago if I thought it would bring me victory? None that wield it can hope to survive its influence. Not even my father, and certainly not some spoiled prince of Cothique!’

  ‘You shall see how strong flows the blood of Aenarion in my veins. And when I open them, how weakly in yours.’

  Malhandir cleared the last of the slope with an almighty leap and Tyrion stretched out his sword arm, faster than any stroke Malekith had ever witnessed. The two warriors passed each other and Malekith wondered where the blow had struck, but he felt no fresh pain. The answer came when Seraphon arched back her head and let out a plaintive whine. Dark, thick blood bubbled from a glowing cut across her throat. Seraphon swept out her uninjured wing, barbs flexing, but Malhandir darted aside so that the blow caught only the crest of Tyrion’s helm and tore it off, golden locks spilling free.

  ‘Not nearly good enough.’ Malekith swept down Urithain as Seraphon scrambled after the steed and prince, keeping her body low to bring the Witch King’s crackling sword into range.

  ‘You are correct.’ Tyrion turned in the saddle and Lacelothrai was a golden shimmer meeting Malekith’s sword with a flash of sparks and fire. ‘You are not good enough, nor fast enough.’

  The burning tip of the Sunfang looped around Malekith’s guard and scored a deep wound across his breastplate, releasing a fountain of fire and blood, almost knocking him from the back of Seraphon. Sensing her master’s injury, the black dragon heaved herself away while Malekith gritted his teeth against the pain of shattered ribs and cut flesh. The dagger still in his shoulder vexed his bo
nes and muscles, making every movement an agony.

  ‘You are fine with a blade,’ admitted Malekith, drawing on the winds of magic. ‘But without your brother, you cannot hope to defeat my sorcery.’

  Seraphon attacked with wide jaws, forcing Malhandir back. Tyrion stared grimly at Malekith as the Witch King pointed Urithain, black flames burning along the sword’s length. The fires became an inferno, rushing out to engulf the asur prince, but again his steed was too swift, circling around the Altar of Khaine, the magical flames splashing harmlessly from bone and rock just behind rider and mount.

  ‘I do not need my pathetic twin to fight fire.’

  Tyrion raised the Sunfang, drawing on the enchantment placed on the blade by the loremasters of Hoeth centuries past. The blinding light of the noon sun exploded from the sword, carving into the black flames of Malekith’s rage, the two spells meeting above Khaine’s sacrificial stone. The Witch King drew in more power, blocking out the pain of his injuries, his resentment and rage further fuelled by a growing fear. Tyrion had never been so fast and determined before, and Malekith was already badly hurt and spent from a day of battle.

  The thought returned that Tyrion would kill him.

  The sudden dread of this thought surged through Malekith, but it did not cause him to falter, but steeled his will, the fear of failure falling on his rage like oil cast upon a fire. The black flame swept towards Tyrion even as the bolt from Lacelothrai waned, engulfing the prince.

  Malhandir let out a piercing, chilling scream as the black fires fell upon his pure-white flank, while the runes of Aenarion’s armour, forged as proof against even dragonfire, shone with magical power. But the regent of the Phoenix Throne had lost his helm. The black fire caught in his hair and scorched across his handsome face.

  Despite the horrific injuries, Tyrion forced Malhandir towards Malekith, into the heart of the flame, driven by the battle-lust of Khaine. There were no taunts and threats between them now, only the silence of lethal purpose. With mane and tail burning, Malhandir leapt the altar, bringing Tyrion next to Malekith again. Lacelothrai crashed into Malekith’s arm as he clumsily raised Urithain to fend off the blow, throwing him from the back of Seraphon.

  His head swam as he landed heavily in a pile of shattering bones, Urithain almost jarred from his grasp. A cut ran the length of his forearm. It was a near-miracle that the limb had not been severed by Tyrion’s blow.

  Malhandir shuddered into a convulsing, burned heap beside the altar, but Tyrion did not pause, leaping effortlessly from the ash-stained saddle, Lacelothrai held at the ready. Seraphon made a last effort, the blood from her throat now a trickle, but even as she raised a claw to dash Tyrion against the altar her strength failed and she collapsed, chest heaving.

  Malekith lay amongst the ruin and looked up at the golden figure striding towards him, the flicker of flames dying on his charred face, a shaft of sunlight gripped in his fist. How the daemons must have quailed at that vision, he thought, just as they had done when Aenarion took back Ulthuan. There seemed to be nothing that would stop the Dragon of Cothique, and he had not yet even taken up the Widowmaker.

  It was not the first time Malekith had stood upon the threshold of Mirai’s portal. He remembered well the blood-soaked day of Maledor Field.

  Lacking any weapon, Malekith set about the servants of his tormentor with flaming fists, his iron hands punching through breastplates and ripping off limbs. Towering above the Phoenix Guard, he summoned dark magic, feeding off the escaping life-force of his foes, twisting it to his own ends.

  He tried to draw the magic into himself, to heal the rents in his armour. The dark magic swerved and writhed, failing to take purchase in his body. Where the blades of the Phoenix Guard had marked him, tiny golden flames burned, keeping the dark magic at bay.

  Dread filled Malekith’s heart. Unable to heal his wounds, which streamed with rivulets of molten metal like blood, he realised he was about to die.

  ‘Never!’ he roared.

  He drew himself up to his full height. The dark magic he had summoned to cure his wounds swirled around him, forming blades of blackened iron that slashed through the Phoenix Guard. With a final pulse of dark magic, he blasted the forest of magical swords into his foes, driving them back.

  Leaking metal and fire and blood, Malekith turned and ran, leaving burned prints in the bloodied grass. He would not die yet, not here on this dismal moor, with the usurper looking on, laughing. The Witch King drew on the power of his circlet, reaching out into the winds of magic, grabbing all of the power he could. An oily black cloud formed around him, flickering with lightning, obscuring him from his pursuers. It spread further and further, a churning, living mass that snatched up the Phoenix Guard who came after him, twisting their bodies and snapping their bones.

  He had fled then, and there were other times since when retreat had been the only recourse to avoid death. He felt no shame at this, for cowardice would have been to accept failure and to eke out his dwindling days in cold Naggaroth.

  This time was different. Blood streaming from his many wounds, molten iron running with it, Malekith stood up, his left arm useless, Urithain in his right.

  Malekith tried to draw in magical energy, to summon up an incantation that would shred Tyrion’s flesh from his bones, would shatter those bones to splinters, would pulverise his organs and set a burning agony into his mind, but the fog of pain that invaded his thoughts was too thick. There was a more sinister sensation that had been spreading from the dagger in his shoulder.

  Poison carried from the wound caused by Shadowblade.

  The winds of magic swirled sluggishly so close to Khaine’s altar and the Witch King found them slipping through his grasp. He could feel a fluttering on the winds of magic, a disturbance in Ulgu, the power of shadow, but he was too weary to make any sense of it.

  The Sunfang flashed towards his throat and only at the last moment was Malekith able to raise Urithain to weakly deflect the blow. The enchanted blade exploded at the touch of Tyrion’s sword, scattering shards of black metal. Pain seared up the Witch King’s arm but it quickly dissipated, swamped by the numbness that was filling Malekith’s whole being.

  Malekith could do nothing as Tyrion’s next blow, impossibly fast, crashed into the gorget protecting his throat. The impact staggered the Witch King, and he fell to his knees, a moment before his foe’s armoured boot caught him in the face, breaking his cheek. His head crashed against the black Altar of Khaine and he slid to the bloodied ground, nearly all feeling lost in his limbs.

  The Dragon of Cothique loomed over the Witch King. Tyrion’s eyes were orbs of blood-red as he looked at the altar. In that moment Malekith and Tyrion were connected, and they too with Aenarion, who so long ago had set the Curse of Khaine upon his bloodline.

  There was a sense of dislocation, of timelessness. Malekith looked on the fire-ravaged face of his distant nephew, but saw only the features of his father. The cycle came about, and all things that were ancient were renewed. Perhaps it was right that this happened. Perhaps he had fought against his real destiny for six thousand years. Together the Witch King and Ulthuan’s regent witnessed the moment that had defined the existence of the elves for seven thousand years.

  Even as Aenarion’s thoughts touched upon the Godslayer, there came to his ears a distant noise: a faint screaming. The ring of metal on metal, of fighting, echoed around the shrine. Aenarion heard a thunderous heart beating, and thought he saw knives carving wounds upon flesh and limbs torn from bodies on the edge of his vision. The red veins of the altar were not rock at all, but pulsed like arteries, blood flowing from the stone in spurting rivers of gore. He realised that the beating heart was his own, and it hammered in his chest like a swordsmith working at an anvil.

  Aenarion stood transfixed before that bloody shrine. The thing embedded in the rock danced and wavered before the Phoenix King’s eyes, a blur of axe and sword and spear and bow and knife and strange weapons not known to the elves. Finally a sing
le image emerged, of a long-bladed sword, cross guard curled into the rune of Khaine, its black blade etched with red symbols of death and blood.

  Aenarion reached out… and stopped, his fingers a hair’s breadth from the hilt of the sword. All became silent; not a movement stirred the air as the world and the gods held their breath.

  Aenarion knew this would be his doom. All of the warnings came back to him, the words of Caledor merged with dire predictions of the daemons and the pleading of his dead wife. It all mattered nothing to him, for his spirit was empty and only the Sword of Khaine could fill the void within him.

  As Tyrion switched the Sunfang to his left hand and reached out with his right, Malekith managed a sneer.

  ‘At least my father paused a moment,’ he snarled between bloody coughs. ‘I turned away. You have no willpower.’ Tyrion paid him no heed as he drew back, his prize in hand.

  Widowmaker, Godslayer, Doom of Worlds, Spear of Vengeance, Deathshard, and Heavenblight. By many names it was called, by mortals and daemons and gods. But one name alone it truly held: Sword of Khaine, the Lord of Murder.

  Tyrion admired the weapon with wide eyes. In his fist he held a warped mirror of the Sunfang. Where Lacelothrai was shard of sunlight, bright and golden, this new blade was as black as a starless night and as cold as the deepest abyss of space.

  The storm clouds overhead roiled with cracks of thunder and shafts of blood-red lightning. Tyrion held up his new sword, lips curled in a manic grin. Malekith looked up helplessly, unable to move a muscle in retaliation.

  ‘Larhathrai,’ Tyrion whispered, naming the blade.

  Icefang.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Brother against Brother

  Something black and grey surged between the perimeter slabs of the shrine, a thick shadow bunching and releasing like the muscles of an immense horse. Slowing, the apparition did indeed become a half-formed image of a horse with midnight flanks and streamers of shadow for a mane. Teclis swung a leg and dismounted a few paces from Malekith and Tyrion.