by Gav Thorpe
The war that followed was a terrible time, fought as bitterly and savagely as when Malekith had first attempted to seize the Phoenix Throne. Wherever Tyrion rode the Shadow of Khaine followed, filling elves with a bloodlust and desire for battle that brought them flocking to his banner. To counter this Malekith and the Everqueen seemed to be everywhere, calling on the elves of Ulthuan to swear allegiance to the new Phoenix King.
Malekith’s army had one great advantage over Tyrion’s, and that was Alarielle’s mastery of the World Roots. These ancient magical paths were the means by which the warriors of Athel Loren had come to Avelorn, and they allowed bodies of troops to move from kingdom to kingdom, across the mountains and Inner Sea, undetected and unopposed.
It was well that the Phoenix King’s host had such advantage. Though victories and defeats seemed in equal measure between the two sides, always it seemed that Tyrion’s army was swelled by every conflict and Malekith’s diminished.
Too many are the tales to be told of that bloody affair, of armies routed and scores of dragons duelling in the skies. Morai-heg laid many a twist and turn on fate’s path over the coming seasons, so that the battle for Ulthuan was marked as much by treachery and rebellion as it was valour and sacrifice.
Most notable of these events was when Korhil, who had led Tyrion’s army to the walls of Lothern, broke free of Tyrion’s grip and Morathi’s enchantments. In a daring episode, the captain of the White Lions took the Widowmaker and attempted to bring it to Malekith’s camp.
Morathi’s hunters scoured the wilds for Korhil and the stolen Sword of Khaine but in a twist that would have made Morai-heg cackle with joy, they were set upon by rival Khainites under the command of Hellebron. The hag queen had finally abandoned Har Ganeth, and having learned that her favoured assassin Shadowblade had been ensorcelled by Morathi when he attacked Malekith, sought to avenge herself on the Hag Sorceress and her consort. Long was the rivalry between Har Ganeth and Ghrond and now that enmity was given full freedom. Cothique and Yvresse were awash with blood as the two sects of devotees to the Lord of Murder tried to outdo each other in their dedication and bloody sacrifice, but it availed Korhil nought, for he was captured and the Widowmaker returned to Tyrion. For his bravery the Lionmane was beheaded with his own axe.
The fighting moved to the mountains of Saphery, where the vortex of magic swirled strong and beasts of all size and manner were brought to the battles by both sides – manticores and chimeras, griffons and hydras. While spell and counter-spell lashed across the peaks the roars and bellows of the beastmasters’ charges heralded a deadly confrontation of fangs and claws, scorpion-stings and petrifying stares. The skies were split by thunderbolts and the earth trembled with the summoning of elementals.
The threat of assassination and treachery was rife. Though the direct attempts on Malekith or Alarielle were few, greater were the desertions and small coups. Garrisons would hail for Tyrion and ambush supply caravans destined for the armies, while ship’s captains and town elders would transport and hide the agents of Morathi, conveying the spies into the heart of Malekith’s holdings in return for promised riches and power when Tyrion was victorious.
Word often reached Malekith’s ear of a prince’s wavering loyalty or of seditious words spread through the companies of a particular general. Having learned from the fiasco of Brackblood’s execution Malekith did not act overtly against these naysayers and faint-hearts, but sent them to the areas where the fighting was hardest, allowing Tyrion’s warriors to cull the dissenters.
And throughout the war Malekith and Tyrion avoided matching each other blade to blade. Both knew that they were evenly matched. Malekith had fresh experience and his pride still smarted from his last confrontation with the Dragon of Cothique, while Tyrion was wary of Malekith’s new-found power and reforged blade, reminded that in the old myths Khaine was laid low by Asuryan’s wrath.
Even when by miscalculation or poor fortune the two found themselves on the same battlefield they would be circumspect in their fighting, such clashes becoming brief skirmishes before both sides withdrew.
At Tor Ellian Malekith’s army faced a disastrous defeat and only the arrival of warriors and spirits from Athel Loren along the World Roots allowed the Phoenix King’s forces to disengage in any semblance of order. Alarielle herself had almost been slain and the elves from beyond the Great Ocean vowed that they would never leave her side.
Tor Ellian signalled a shift in fortunes for Malekith. No matter what he tried, still Tyrion’s forces prevailed more than they lost. Engulfed by the Shadow of Khaine they would fight to the last, selling their deaths dearly while Malekith’s warriors were forced to retreat again and again to fight another day. With each encounter the Shadow of Khaine spread to more soldiers and princes once loyal to Malekith, sapping the strength of his hosts even more.
THIRTY-THREE
A New Ending
His desperation growing, Malekith sent Teclis across Ulthuan, demanding of the princes not yet committed to show themselves loyal to the Phoenix Throne, in battle. A great many of the nobles finally sent forth their households, but as many that declared for Malekith were matched by the number that moved to the camp of Tyrion, and an equal number refused to pick between two equally bloodthirsty tyrants.
No matter how bloody a pursuit became, nor if an army was outmanoeuvred and on the brink of destruction, there was one kingdom of Ulthuan that neither side violated. Nagarythe, a fog-shrouded desolation, was home to the Shadow King and his aesenar and neither side dared the borders of Aenarion’s ancient realm for fear of rousing the wrath of Alith Anar. Now Malekith risked the Shadow King’s neutrality and despatched Teclis to seek audience with the self-appointed ruler of Nagarythe.
It was with some trepidation that Malekith awaited his emissary’s return. In the guise of a flock of crows Teclis came back to the camp of the Phoenix King as the army was camped on the shore of the Inner Sea close to the border between Eataine and Saphery. Malekith knew immediately from Teclis’s expression that his advances had been rebuffed.
‘The ranks of the aesenar swell, as they did when the Anars first raised their banner in opposition to Morathi before the Sundering, your majesty,’ said the mage. ‘Tens of thousands of refugees from across the kingdoms have sought sanctuary under his banner, turned aside from the other kingdoms.’
‘A force that could swing the war yet he sits on his hands like a coward,’ snarled Malekith. ‘Does he not know that Tyrion and Morathi will slaughter them all once they have secured Ulthuan?’
‘He does not care, I think,’ admitted Teclis. ‘He is a bitter spirit, and your treachery still burns cold in his heart.’
‘My treachery?’ The king’s protest was like iron scraping on stone. ‘The Anars swore their oaths to me, delivered Anlec to me, and then they turned on me. He owes me an army!’
‘Nevertheless, there will be no army from Nagarythe, your majesty,’ said Teclis. The two of them walked to Malekith’s pavilion and stopped under the shade of the great awning over the entrance. Servants brought Teclis wine but he waved them away and instead imbibed one of his constitution restoratives.
‘We are being beaten, nephew,’ Malekith said quietly. ‘The time fast approaches when I must risk all or we shall lose by degrees everything we have until there is no army left to fight with.’
‘Personal combat?’ Teclis flexed his fingers as though they were stiff and rolled his shoulders with a pained expression. As much as anyone the war had taken its toll on him. ‘Do you think you can win?’
‘I think the first problem is drawing Tyrion into a fight he cannot avoid,’ said Malekith. ‘His army grows stronger every day, and with each the reasons to match his blade against mine lessen. I have misjudged this war. The Shadow of Khaine lies too deeply over our people, and loyalty to the Phoenix Throne is scarce.’
‘What do you suggest, your majesty?’
‘Do not be coy, nephew.’ Malekith stepped inside the pavilion and Teclis follow
ed. He did not speak again until they were alone in his audience chamber. ‘You have always harboured a grander plan for the conclusion of this effort, have you not? Do not seek to dissemble any longer – the time is upon us for frank discussion.’
‘You speak of the vortex, your majesty.’ The mage did not look at the Phoenix King but busied himself at a platter of meats and breads on a side table. ‘An attempt to harness the winds of magic to end forever the threat of Chaos and the daemons.’
‘I knew it would be grandiose, nephew, but I never quite thought you could have such a high ambition! Ultimate victory over Chaos? Peace and love in our times? Wolf and lion living in harmony? I am surprised you waited this long before making your confession.’
Teclis turned but before he could speak Malekith stopped him with a raised hand.
‘You are aware that I have some personal experience in this matter, yes?’ said the Phoenix King. ‘Interfering with the vortex, I learned at great cost, can have severe consequences.’
The throne room at the heart of Aenarion’s palace was shrouded in darkness. The only light came from the glow of the Witch King’s armour, casting flickering shadows from the twelve figures that stood before him.
The humiliation hurt more than his wounds, though they were grievous; the blows of the Phoenix Guard had reignited the fire of Asuryan that had been set in his flesh. Malekith did not retreat from the pain as he had done before. He embraced it. He nurtured it. The agony in his body fuelled the rage in his spirit.
‘I will not be denied,’ Malekith growled.
‘We are defeated, master,’ said Urathion, the sorcerer-lord who ruled over the citadel of Ullar. ‘There are barely enough troops to defend the walls and the army of the accursed Anars will surely come soon.’
‘Silence!’ Malekith’s shout reverberated around the hall, echoing from the distant walls. ‘There will be no surrender.’
‘How can we resist with our armies scattered?’ asked Illeanith. The sorceress, daughter of Thyriol, asked the question in a whisper, voice full of fear. ‘It will take too long to withdraw our garrisons to the city.’
‘We will have a new army, one that Imrik and his fawning minions will never defeat,’ said Malekith.
The Witch King stood up, armoured feet ringing on the stone floor as he took several steps closer to the ring of wizards. He held out a smoking hand and cut the air with a finger. A line appeared, bulging with energy; a torrent of formless colour and noise screamed from the tear in reality. The line widened to a gap, pulled apart by clawed hands to reveal leering daemonic faces. A scaled arm reached through.
The rift into the Realm of Chaos wavered. The arm withdrew as the rent sealed itself, disappearing with the sound of tearing metal. It had lasted a few moments, but left no trace of its existence.
‘Daemons?’ said Urathion.
‘An endless army to command,’ said Morathi, stepping into the circle, her skull staff in hand. ‘Immortal and impervious. What better host to serve the lord of Nagarythe?’
‘It would take all of our power to summon a handful of daemons,’ said Drutheira, once an acolyte of Morathi, now a fully accomplished sorceress. Her dark hair was twisted with silver and her pale skin painted with runes. ‘There are yet the artifices of Vaul that can destroy a daemon’s form, enough weapons to defeat any host that we might conjure.’
‘We do not have to summon them,’ said Malekith. ‘We need only to break the bars that keep them imprisoned in the Realm of Chaos.’
There was silence as the cabal considered what this meant. It was Urathion that broke the quiet.
‘You mean Caledor’s vortex?’ said the sorcerer.
‘It cannot be done,’ said Drutheira. ‘The vortex is powered by the lodestones of Ulthuan. We would have to destroy them, and most are in the lands of our enemies.’
‘It can be done,’ said Morathi. ‘Not by destroying the lodestones, but by overloading them.’
‘A sacrifice,’ said Malekith. ‘Together we will create a surge of dark magic, enough to disrupt the harmony of the vortex. Its own power will do the rest, dragging that blast of energy into its heart.’
‘Is this wise?’ asked Urathion. ‘Without the vortex, the Realm of Chaos will be set free upon the winds of magic. Not even together can we control that power.’
‘It does not need to be controlled, simply directed,’ said Malekith. He raised a smouldering finger to the circlet set into his helm. ‘With that power turned to our ends, I have the means to focus its energies. Our enemies will be swept aside by a tide of daemons. Only those favoured by me shall survive. I will have both victory and vengeance in one stroke.’
The cabal looked at each other. Some seemed eager, others more concerned.
‘What other choice do we have?’ asked Auderion, dragging black-nailed fingers through his white hair. His gaze flickered nervously from one member of the cabal to another, never stopping. ‘We cannot hold out forever, and our lives will be forfeit.’
‘Our spirits are already forfeit,’ whispered Illeanith. ‘Bargains we have made and promises of blood have not been kept. I will not go easily to that fate.’
‘Imagine their terror,’ said Drutheira. ‘Imagine the horror unleashed upon those that scorned us, abandoned us. We will rid the world of the Dragontamer’s legacy, reverse the mistake he made and erase the insult upon Aenarion’s legend.’
Some of the cabal remained silent, not daring to speak though their unease was as palpable as the heat from Malekith’s armour. Worried eyes glittered in the gloom.
Urathion bowed his head to Malekith.
‘Forgive my objections, master,’ he said, dropping to one knee. ‘What must we do?’
‘Return to your castles and gather such acolytes and slaves as you still possess. Morathi will furnish you with the details of the ritual you must undertake. At the appointed hour, midnight ten days from now, we will begin. The blood of our sacrifices will draw the dark magic and our incantations shall send it as a storm into the vortex.’
‘What of the Sapherians?’ said Illeanith. ‘My father and his mages will try to stop us.’
‘How can they?’ said Morathi. ‘By the time they know what is happening, it will be too late for them to intervene.’
‘Even if they do, they do not have the power to stop us,’ said Malekith. ‘The vortex was wrought by Caledor Dragontamer at the height of his strength. Not even your father can contest such a spell.’
There were no further questions or objections. The sorcerers and sorceresses bowed and departed, leaving Malekith alone with Morathi.
‘If you are wrong?’ said Morathi. ‘If we cannot harness the vortex?’
‘The daemons will rampage across the world and all will be destroyed,’ said Malekith.
‘And you are sure you wish to risk such an end?’ said Morathi.
‘Risk it?’ Malekith replied with a harsh laugh. ‘I embrace it! If Ulthuan will not be mine, then none will rule. I would rather our people perished than see them laid low by the hand of another. Better it is to see the world torn asunder than suffer this eternal torment.’
‘I would not seek to break the vortex, but to channel it away from the lodestones into fresh vessels,’ Teclis explained, his expression thoughtful. ‘The stasis upon the Isle of the Dead is already weakening. The Dragontamer has sent his spirit to Imrik and has passed on his wisdom to me. In this time when the Realm of Chaos expands the vortex is not powerful enough. Only a living, immortal host can contain the power unleashed.’
‘What happened with Nagash and the Wind of Shyish…? The Great Necromancer has become the embodiment of death magic. You would do this with the other seven winds?’
‘The return of the gods is not a metaphor, Malekith, it is a necessity. Lileath has shown me how it can be done.’
‘And these other avatars, who would they be? You have chosen them already?’
‘You would be one, your majesty. Think on what you have achieved wrapped as you are in a shel
l of sorcery, as bound to your armour as a fish is to the ocean. Now imagine being freed, becoming an incarnation of magic, a source of power that would never wane.’
Malekith imagined it, and the thought was pleasing.
‘Alarielle, obviously, yourself, Imrik – who else is on your list?’
‘For the moment it does not matter, your majesty. Much can happen between now and the moment the vortex is released. The winds will find their way to the most suitable vessels – we need only unshackle them from the lodestones and help them on their way.’
‘That might cause some problems,’ Malekith said with an affected wave of the hand. ‘You weren’t there so I forgive you forgetting, but the last time I tried to “unshackle” the vortex, I sank two kingdoms beneath a wave.’
Teclis grew solemn and he did not speak for some time. When he did his voice was quiet.
‘Ulthuan will not survive,’ he admitted softly, meeting Malekith’s gaze. ‘Without the vortex our island will sink beneath the waves entirely. For seven millennia the winds of magic have eaten at the bedrock of Ulthuan and now there is nothing but the magic to keep us afloat. When it is gone, Ulthuan will drown.’
It was Malekith’s turn to remain silent for a considerable period, shocked by what Teclis was proposing. Talk of the vortex brought back an ancient, conflicted memory.
The hall was awash with blood. It moved with its own sluggish life, hissing and sizzling at Malekith’s feet, lapping over the twisted bodies of his victims. Morathi chanted, staff held above her head, an incantation calling upon all of the daemons and powers with which she had made pacts during her long life. The air seethed with dark energy, flowing from walls to ceiling, making the symbols and runes painted in blood on the stone glow with ruddy power.
Through the circlet, the Witch King could feel the rising tide of dark magic across Nagarythe. In castles and towers across the barren kingdom his followers despatched their sacrifices and used their deaths to draw on the winds of magic, the mystical forces congealing together under the sorcerous influence of the Naggarothi.