by Gav Thorpe
The alleys and passageways became swirling rivers, the rising sea smashing through doors to fill the subterranean workshops and stores, the walls and buildings of the noble manses pulverised by the deluge. The great towers at the gate were cast down, crumbling stone by stone into the all-encompassing flood.
Finally the great pinnacle of Tor Anroc toppled. Magic flaring as the needle-like structure fell, for a brief moment the blue fire of the Phoenix King burned again, before it too was drowned by the incoming waters.
Far to the south, Dorien was awoken from a deep sleep during which he had dreamed of an army of daemons besieging Tor Caled. Roused from his slumber, he sat up in bed, haunted by the strange voices that lingered after the dream had passed.
He felt the first tremors shaking the bed and was filled with foreboding. Pushing himself to his feet, he was hurled off the ground as the whole of the palace rose and fell in a moment, followed by an ear-splitting crack.
Alarm bells and gongs were ringing all across the city. The prince fumbled his way to the great windows that led onto the balcony overlooking Tor Caled. Throwing open the doors, he moved out to the rail and turned to look back at the mountains, which shouldered up over the city.
Fire burst from the peak of Anul Caled. Flame and smoke wreathed the mountaintop and burning rocks sailed high into the skies. Cracks were opening up on the mountainside, venting flame and vapour, rivulets of lava beginning to pour from the breaches.
There were shouts and screams from the city below. Dorien looked down across the levels of Tor Caled and saw torches and lamps moving in the darkness as elves fled from their homes. The fortifications were tumbling down and buildings collapsing as Tor Caled continued to buck and heave alongside the volcanoes’ eruptions.
The moat of lava surged and raged against the magical wards holding it in check. The bridges across the fiery river swayed and fell, their stones disappearing into the red depths. Dorien looked on in horror as those trying to flee the city were plunged to their flaming deaths.
They were trapped inside the city.
A cloud of hot ash swept down from Anul Caled, a billowing miasma of darkness and death that engulfed the city in moments. Dorien fought for breath in the superheated air, choking on the fumes and heat of the cloud. Along with thousands of those over whom he had been guardian, the prince was quickly engulfed by the ash, his clothes and hair burning, his skin peeling away even as his flesh petrified.
To the east, across the great expanse of the Inner Sea, the mages of Saphery had been lending their weight to the duel for control of the vortex. In the palace of Saphethion, Menreir and a cohort of fellow mages chanted and channelled, seeking to avert the disaster befalling their isle.
They too felt the reappearance of Caledor Dragontamer and paused in their incantations, wondering at the import of the event. As they watched the counter-vortex begin to take shape, the crystalline nervous system of Saphethion started to resonate with the new wave of magic pouring into the world. The diamond-like heart of the city quivered and shook in its golden nest, vibrating in tune with the whirling storm of magic and anti-magic raging through the vortex.
With a detonation that resounded in the minds of the mages, the crystal heart shattered, rocking the city from within. Magic exploded along the crystal lodeways, splitting rock with showers of fire and lightning.
Saphethion seemed to sag in the air.
Horrified, the mages could do nothing as the floating city descended towards the foothills of the Annulii. The streets outside the palace were quickly thronged with elves, screaming and shouting, while eagles and pegasi launched from the stablehouses, taking their riders to safety.
Menreir and the others did what they could to slow the city’s descent, but it was too little. Towers and buildings were flattened as Saphethion crashed into a hillside, roofs collapsing, filling the streets with debris, crushing hundreds of elves with falling masonry and beams.
Secondary magical detonations rocked the city, causing blazes to spread through some quarters as tanneries and workshops caught fire. The palace itself was wreathed in magical energy, lightning forking from tower tops to walls, while within the building the many magical artefacts and devices of the Sapherians burned and glowed, hissed and spat with more magic than the world had seen for an age.
In Nagarythe, Malekith’s sorcerous followers watched in horror as the tidal wave engulfed their lands. They used the last of their dark powers to protect their citadels, casting enchantments that sundered the foundations of their towers, allowing them to be lifted up by the wave like immense ships.
In Anlec, Morathi wreathed the palace of Aenarion with her magic, though she could not protect the rest of the city. Water crashed against the towering pinnacle, smashing away stone and brick. Calling upon her daemonic allies, the sorceress ripped the immense palace free from the city, the water boiling and frothing below it as the massive edifice rose up above the waves and Anlec was tumbled into ruin.
EPILOGUE
Thousands had been slain by the catastrophe. Whether slain during the brief but deadly daemonic incursion, drowned by the tidal wave or crushed by the earthquakes, all of Ulthuan had suffered the wrath of the vortex’s detonation. Caledor made his way immediately to the Isle of the Flame, knowing that it was to the Shrine of Asuryan that the princes would come.
Over time they did, each bringing tales of woe and loss from their kingdoms. Thyriol did not arrive though, and Caledor sent an expedition to seek him. They returned from the Isle of the Dead with the grim news that they had found the Sapherian prince, locked in stasis surrounded by Caledor Dragontamer and the other mages of old.
Of the druchii there was no sign.
Word was sent to Alith Anar, who despatched Carathril back with a bitter message full of grief and hatred. Western Nagarythe was destroyed and the east ravaged by the vengeful wave. It was a dead land now, laid to waste by the hubris of Malekith. Tor Anroc and the surrounding countryside was now a chain of islands, surrounded by treacherous waters that still spumed and boiled. The druchii sorcerers who had managed to escape had steered their towers north, towards the ocean.
‘And of Malekith and Morathi, the Shadow King believes that they still live,’ concluded Carathril. ‘Anlec is a ruin, but there is no sign of Aenarion’s palace. What do you think that means?’
Caledor’s reply was simple
‘The war is not over. We shall never know peace.’
The storm-wracked seas crashed against a harsh shore of rock pinnacles, foaming madly. The skies were in turmoil, blackened by dark magic. Through the spume and rain dark, massive shapes surged across the seas; towering edifices of battlement and wall.
The castles of Nagarythe followed in the wake of the largest floating citadel, upon the highest tower of which stood Malekith. The lashing rain steamed from his armour as he turned at the sound of Morathi’s voice from the archway behind him.
‘This is where we flee to?’ she said, anger flashing in her eyes. ‘This cold, bleak land?’
‘They will not follow us here,’ replied the Witch King. ‘We are the Naggarothi, we were born in the north and in the north we will be born again. This land, bleak as it is, shall be ours. Naggaroth.’
‘To build a new kingdom?’ sneered Morathi. ‘To accept your defeat and start afresh as if Nagarythe had never existed?’
‘No,’ replied Malekith, flames leaping from his iron body. ‘We will never forget that which has been taken from us. Ulthuan belongs to me. If it takes a thousand years, ten thousand years, I will claim my rightful place as king. I am the son of Aenarion. It is my destiny.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GAV THORPE has been rampaging across the worlds of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 for many years as both an author and games developer. He hails from the den of scurvy outlaws called Nottingham and makes regular sorties to unleash bloodshed and mayhem. He shares his hideout with Dennis, a psychotic mechanical hamster currently trying to employ Skype as a mind-control
network.
Gav’s previous novels include fan-favourite Angels of Darkness and the epic Malekith, first instalment in the Sundering trilogy, amongst many others.
You can find his website at:
mechanicalhamster.wordpress.com
And last but not least, the brothers and sisters across the world.
A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION
Published in 2011 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK
Cover illustration by Jon Sullivan.
Map by Nuala Kinrade.
© Games Workshop Limited 2011. All rights reserved.
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A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-85787-152-7
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Time of Legends
Map
Part One
One: Pride of Caledor
Two: The Prince Returns
Three: The Flames are Fanned
Four: The Council of Princes
Part Two
Five: A King is Chosen
Six: The Hunters Set Forth
Seven: The Road to Chrace
Eight: A New Legend
Nine: From the Flames
Ten: Lothern Attacked
Eleven: The Black Dragons
Twelve: Avelorn Withers
Thirteen: An Age Ends
Part Three
Fourteen: Rivers of Blood
Fifteen: The Hammer of Vaul
Sixteen: A New Power
Seventeen: More Blood on the Plains
Eighteen: The Phoenix Resurgent
Nineteen: A Deadly Dance
Twenty: A Fateful Clash
Twenty-One: The Sundering
Epilogue
About The Author
Legal
eBook license