01 - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  In this last matter, Malekith’s intuition was roused and he secretively took more interest in affairs back on Ulthuan. He subtly inquired over the coming years as to the nature of life in Nagarythe, both through his missives to Morathi and from loyal Naggarothi who still sailed between the isle of the elves and the colonies.

  The news from the merchants worried him on occasion, for there was talk of cabalistic cults dedicated to the more sinister elven gods, and of pleasure sects that lost themselves in luxury and excess. Malekith’s suspicions were tempered by the letters of Morathi.

  “Jealous of Nagarythe’s prominence despite the Phoenix King’s court being in Tor Anroc,” she explained in one of her letters, “many of the ruling princes are waging a subtle and insidious campaign against me and my council. They will not accuse me outright of any misdeed, but through innuendo and rumour imply that we are in league with some unknown dark power.”

  Malekith could imagine how the envy of the princes would lead them to such actions, and believed his mother when she assured him that the so-called pleasure cults and dark sects were nothing more than ancient rituals the Naggarothi had always undertaken for the appeasement of the less fondly regarded elven gods.

  “The Phoenix King has even hinted that he looks unkindly on the Naggarothi’s connections to Khaine,” she continued. “Our oldest gods he would see forgotten, while he decorates his halls with gold brought to his coffers by the spears of our warriors.”

  In his reply Malekith told his mother to do nothing to antagonise the princes or move openly against the Phoenix King, and she promised him it was so, though her tone was ever defiant to their authority.

  Something of what Malekith had heard began to seep into life in the colonies. Always the elves had enjoyed wine and song, and the reading of poetry both beautiful and satirical. However, Malekith stayed for months, sometimes years at a time away from the cities, and so the slow but subtle changes wrought upon them seemed more stark to him upon his returns.

  A softness of spirit and a laxity that Malekith had detested in Ulthuan began to creep into the culture of Athel Toralien. Many of his subjects were now second- and even third-generation colonists, who had not had to raise a sword in anger to defend their lands, and Malekith feared that the very stability he had fought to bring to this realm was undermining the heart of his people. Not wishing to appear tyrannical, Malekith did not openly oppose the many wine houses and pleasure dens that now seemed to be found in every other building of the city.

  Instead, he commanded his council to institute a formal practice of inducting Naggarothi who came of age into the ranks of his army. What once had been tradition Malekith now enforced with law, in the hope that discipline and military life would breed into a new generation the will and power of the elves who had first followed him here.

  Malekith’s growing contact with mankind awoke his inquisitive spirit, and he was filled with a passion to deepen his knowledge of this race, and also of the shadowy powers that held sway over the Chaos Wastes. Deeper and deeper into the north he ventured, sometimes alone, other times with a host of his warriors. Though the wild forests had all but been tamed by the elves, Malekith drove his armies northwards possessed by a bloodthirsty spirit that worried those who knew the prince well.

  It was upon returning from one such campaign that the prince visited his dwarfen allies in Karak Kadrin. The mood in the hold was sombre as Malekith entered the throne room of King Brundin, who had inherited the hold’s rule from his father a few years previously. The king was surrounded by solemn-faced nobles, amongst them the venerable Kurgrik whose fortunes had risen considerably since his days of humble logging.

  Malekith’s oldest dwarf companion turned and hurried down the steps towards the prince, stroking his exceptionally long beard in an agitated fashion.

  “What is amiss?” asked Malekith.

  “The High King lies upon his deathbed,” said Kurgrik, wringing his fingers through his beard. “Messengers scour the northlands searching for you. He asks for you, elven prince. You must go to Karaz-a-Karak!”

  Malekith glanced up at the throne dais and saw the crowd of earnest, grief-stricken faces, and knew that this was no exaggeration.

  “Convey my regrets to King Brundin, but I leave now,” said Malekith.

  The prince turned on his heel and ran from the hall. He dashed through the doors, ignoring the shouted concerns and questions of his companions. Down tunnel and across gallery sped Malekith, until he came upon the great gate. Outside, the elves’ steeds were corralled on the hillside. Malekith leapt the fence and headed straight for the tallest of the horses, his own mount. He did not wait for saddle or bridle and instead leapt onto the steed’s bare back. Malekith turned southwards and the horse broke into a thundering gallop at a whispered word from her rider. Vaulting the corral, the pair sped down into Peak Pass.

  Though Malekith journeyed swiftly south, fear that he might arrive too late gnawed at him. When his steed was all but dead from exhaustion, he turned westwards until he came upon one of the elven towers that guarded the borders of the great forest of Elthin Arvan. Here he commandeered a new mount and continued southwards. Driven by worry, Malekith did not eat or sleep, and rode by the light of the moon as much as the sun. After three days he neared the hold of Zhufbar. Dwarfs laboured digging a fresh mineshaft not far from the road, and the prince wheeled his steed towards them. The dwarfs looked up in astonishment, unexpectedly confronted by the ambassador of the elves.

  “What news from Karaz-a-Karak?” Malekith demanded.

  “No news,” replied their gangmaster, a rugged, tanned dwarf with a greying golden beard and a hook for a left hand.

  “The High King still lives?” said Malekith.

  “The last we heard, he does,” said the dwarf.

  Without further word Malekith heeled his mount into a fresh gallop and sped towards Black Water, where so many years before he had fought alongside the High King. His mind was devoid of fond memories, so possessed was Malekith to see his ally before he passed away. Along the shore he raced, his horse throwing up a wave of spray in its wake as the prince urged his mount on at dangerous speed.

  The following day Malekith took the southern road from Karak Varn direct to Karaz-a-Karak. Wide enough for many carts, the road was built of brick and stone, and his passage was swift. He weaved amongst the dwarfen carts until he spied an elven caravan. Bringing his tired steed to a halt before the lead caravan, Malekith dismounted and signalled for the driver to stop.

  “Prince Malekith?” said the driver. “What brings you here?”

  “I need one of your horses,” said Malekith, already untying the traces on the foremost of the three beasts drawing the wagon.

  “You can ride with me, highness,” offered the driver, but the prince paid him no heed and away he galloped without explanation or payment.

  Two more days Malekith rode hard until finally he came before the great gates of Karaz-a-Karak. For the first time he did not marvel at their golden majesty, nor regard with awe the huge towers and buttresses that flanked the huge doors. His steed sweating hard, he galloped up the road. The guards at the gate made to step forwards to bar his route but he did not slow. Recognising the prince and seeing his intent, the guards hurled themselves out of his path, pushing away other dwarfs to clear a passage.

  Through the gate raced the prince, the clatter of his horse’s hooves on the dies echoing from the high vaults. Dwarfs were sent ducking into doorways and scurrying in every direction as he pounded through the winding tunnels towards the king’s chambers. Only when he saw a crowd of the king’s advisors pressed around the door to one of the king’s rooms did he slow down. Leaping from the back of the horse, he ran forwards and grabbed the closest of the nobles, a loremaster called Damrak Goldenfist.

  “Am I too late?” he demanded.

  The stunned dwarf said nothing for a moment and then shook his head. Malekith let go of Damrak and slumped against the wall.

  �
��You misunderstand me, ambassador,” said Damrak, laying a gnarled hand on Malekith’s arm. “The king still awaits you.”

  The solemn beating of drums could be heard echoing along the halls and corridors of Karaz-a-Karak. The small chamber was empty save for two figures. His face as pale as his beard, King Snorri lay on the low, wide bed, his eyes closed. Kneeling next to the bed, a hand on the dwarfs chest, was Malekith. He had stood vigil with the ancient dwarf for three days since arriving, barely sleeping or eating in that time.

  The room was hung with heavy tapestries depicting the battles the two had fought together, suitably aggrandizing Snorri’s role. Malekith did not begrudge the king his glories, for was not his own name sung loudly in Ulthuan while the name of Snorri Whitebeard was barely a whisper? Each people to their own kind, the elf prince thought.

  Snorri’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal cloudy, pale blue eyes. His lips twisted into a smile and a fumbling hand found Malekith’s arm.

  “Would that dwarf lives were measured as those of the elves,” said Snorri. “Then my reign would last another thousand years.”

  “But even so, we still die,” said Malekith. “Our measure is made by what we do when we live and the legacy that we leave to our kin, as any other. A lifetime of millennia is worthless if its works come to naught after it has ended.”

  “True, true,” said Snorri with a nod, his smile fading. “What we have built is worthy of legend, isn’t it? Our two great realms have driven back the beasts and the daemons, and the lands are safe for our people. Trade has never been better, and the holds grow with every year.”

  “Your reign has indeed been glorious, Snorri,” said Malekith. “Your line is strong; your son will uphold the great things that you have done.”

  “And perhaps even build on them,” said Snorri.

  “Perhaps, if the gods will it,” said Malekith.

  “And why should they not?” asked Snorri. He coughed as he pushed himself to a sitting position, his shoulders sinking into thick, gold-embroidered white pillows. “Though my breath comes short and my body is infirm, my will is as hard as the stone that these walls are carved from. I am a dwarf, and like all my people, I have within me the strength of the mountains. Though this body is now weak, my spirit shall go to the Halls of the Ancestors.”

  “It will be welcomed there, by Grungni and Valaya,” said Malekith. “You shall take your place with pride.”

  “I’m not done,” said Snorri with a frown. His expression grim, the king continued. “Hear this oath, Malekith of the elves, comrade on the battlefield, friend at the hearth. I, Snorri Whitebeard, High King of the dwarfs, bequeath my title and rights to my eldest son. Though I pass through the gateway to the Halls of the Ancestors, my eyes shall remain upon my empire. Let it be known to our allies and our enemies that death is not the end of my guardianship.”

  The dwarf broke into a wracking cough, blood flecking his lips. His lined faced was stern as he looked at Malekith. The elf steadily returned his gaze.

  “Vengeance shall be mine,” swore Snorri. “When our foes are great, I shall return to my people. When the foul creatures of this world bay at the doors to Karaz-a-Karak, I shall take up my axe once more and my ire shall rock the mountains. Heed my words, Malekith of Ulthuan, and heed them well. Great have been our deeds, and great is the legacy that I leave to you, my closest confidant, my finest comrade-in-arms. Swear to me now, as my dying breaths fill my lungs, that my oath has been heard. Swear to it on my own grave, on my spirit, that you shall remain true to the ideals we have both striven for these many years. And know this, that there is nothing so foul in the world as an oath-breaker.”

  Malekith took the king’s hand from his arm and squeezed it tight. “I swear it,” the elf prince said. “Upon the grave of High King Snorri Whitebeard, leader of the dwarfs and friend of the elves, I give my oath.”

  Snorri’s eyes were glazed and his chest no longer rose and fell. Malekith’s keen hearing could detect no sign of life, and he did not know whether his words had been heard. Releasing Snorri’s hand, he folded the king’s arms across his chest, and with a delicate touch from his long fingers, Malekith closed Snorri’s eyes.

  Standing, Malekith spared one last glance at the dead king and then walked from the chamber. Outside, Snorri’s son Throndik stood along with several dozen other dwarfs.

  “The High King has passed on,” Malekith said, his gaze passing over the heads of the assembled dwarfs and across to the throne room. He looked down at Throndik. “You are now High King.”

  Without further word, the elf prince picked his way gracefully through the crowd and out across the nearly empty throne chamber. He stopped halfway towards the throne and gazed up at the high dais. He remembered perfectly the first time he had been here. At the time Malekith’s attention had been focused on Aernuis; the High King had barely registered in his thoughts. Now all he could think about was the dwarf now lying still in that small bedchamber.

  The throne was empty. Everything was empty. The wars against the orcs and the beasts had been won. The forests had been tamed by the elves and the mountains conquered by the dwarfs. Bel Shanaar had robbed him of rulership of the colonies. It was as if Snorri had unknowingly taken the last days of glory to his grave. His friend was dead and there was nothing else to fight for.

  Nothing except the Phoenix Throne.

  Over the following decade, Malekith became ever more distant from his court in Athel Toralien. As he had done so in Nagarythe, he appointed a wise and well-regarded council of fellow princes and other dignitaries to rule in his stead, and passed on the mantle of ambassador to Carnellios, a prince of Cothique who had been part of the original talks and whom the dwarfs had come to trust. Once content that all was in order, the prince declared that he would go into the north again, for many years, perhaps never to return, and he asked for volunteers to accompany him.

  After issuing his proclamation, Malekith set out on a tour of the castles and citadels that protected the lands of Athel Toralien, to extend his offer to all of their garrisons. He picked the finest captains, knights and archers from amongst their number and returned to the city with seventy warriors.

  Riding upon the west-east road to Athel Toralien, the prince and his company came upon a great encampment outside the city’s walls, stretching for almost half a mile. Great marquees and pavilions housed rich nobles, while more moderate tents were numbered in the many hundreds.

  Yeasir was at the east gate to greet his master.

  “Thank the gods you have returned,” said the captain, grabbing the bridle of Malekith’s steed to allow the prince to dismount.

  “Some emergency?” said Malekith, handing the reins to one of his companions. “An orcish horde perhaps? Beasts from the north?”

  “No, no,” said Yeasir. “There is no threat.”

  “Then why do I have an army of vagabonds and princes at my gate?” demanded Malekith, turning to stare at the tent-city stretching along the road.

  “They all wish to accompany you on your voyage,” Yeasir said breathlessly.

  “All of them?” said Malekith, eyebrows raised.

  “Six thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight,” said Yeasir. “Well, according to the roll of volunteers that Alandrian was forced to begin. They filled the city at first and there was no room in the docks or markets. We had to send them outside, and provided many with shelters.”

  “I cannot take more than five hundred,” said Malekith. “Send away any that have wives or children, and any that have never drawn blood in battle. That should thin out the numbers a little.”

  “Yes, highness,” said Yeasir. “Many are not Naggarothi, do you wish them to accompany you?”

  “Only if they swear loyalty to Nagarythe,” said the prince with a frown. “And I don’t want anyone under three hundred years old. I need experience; seasoned veterans.”

  “There are eighteen princes of various realms,” Yeasir said. “What shall I do with them?”

&n
bsp; “They seek to glorify themselves in the glow of my deeds,” snapped Malekith. “Any that are not of Nagarythe, and I mean Nagarythe, not this city, send them home. I will talk to any you feel are worthy of my attention.”

  “As you wish, highness,” said Yeasir, bowing as he left.

  Malekith stared out along the road as news of his return began to spread through the camp. Horns sounded, and more and more elves came out of their tents and began to converge on the city. Hundreds of them soon packed the road, crying out to the prince for his attention. Malekith turned his back on them and walked into the city. He turned his head to one of the guards.

  “Shut the gate until they go away,” the prince snapped.

  Five hundred elves Malekith chose to be his companions; enough to man a ship and fight, but few enough to feed and supply out in the wilds. Almost half were nearly as old as Malekith and some had journeyed with him from Ulthuan. All were without family, for Malekith knew that he ventured into the truly unknown, and whatever perils lay ahead he was determined that his wanderlust would not leave a legacy of widows and orphans.

  Alandrian organised the provisioning of the expedition and the repatriation of those who had been turned away. Amongst his many duties he managed to catch up with Malekith one evening.

  “Is all ready?” asked the prince, sitting on a low chair upon the balcony of his city house. He gestured for Alandrian to help himself to the contents of a crystal decanter perched on a small table. Alandrian poured himself a goblet of golden wine and sat down.

  “If I could make a suggestion, your highness,” Alandrian said delicately. “Perhaps five hundred and one companions would be better for you.”