by C. L. Werner
‘You have a question?’ Malekith’s voice was a rasp, edged with the scrape of metal and crackle of flames. ‘A comment, perhaps?’
‘You were about to tell us your will,’ said Venil, assassin-turned-advisor, patron of many pirate fleets, still known as the Chillblade.
Fire flared through the cracks in Malekith’s armour, reacting to his displeasure, forcing Venil to take a step back, face flushed with the sudden heat.
‘Is that so?’ Malekith moved his attention to the last of the triumvirate.
Kouran met the flaming stare of his lord without a flicker of movement. Malekith stood more than a head taller than most of his minions, but Kouran was almost his equal in presence. Grim-faced, dark-eyed, he was surrounded by an air of chilling hostility in contrast to the burning iron of his lord. Alone of the three council members, Kouran was armed and armoured – the only individual in the world Malekith trusted with a blade close at hand. The captain held his halberd, Crimson Death, to one side, the blade symbolically averted from his king. While Malekith’s war plate and scale were wreathed with heat, the black steel of Kouran’s armour was like oil, shifting constantly with the trapped souls of sacrifices.
‘The prosecution of the war, the pursuit against the one they call Valkia and the hunt for your mother,’ Kouran prompted without hesitation. The captain had become perhaps too comfortable with Malekith’s lapses of focus, but the Witch King knew that alone of all his subjects Kouran would not use such information against him.
‘Why is Ebnir not here? I would hear from the Soulflayer about the state of my armies and the forces opposed to them.’
‘He is dead, your majesty,’ said Ezresor. ‘As I just informed you.’
The spymaster’s tone irritated Malekith. Insolence. Not enough to warrant death, that would be wasteful, but in pressing times control had to be total. Censure needed to be swift and obvious. The Witch King gave the slightest of nods to Kouran, who knew well enough what his master required.
The captain smashed a gauntleted fist into Ezresor’s face, bloodying his nose and sending him flailing to the floor. Widening his stance ready for a kick, Kouran looked back to his king but received a shake of the head.
‘Of course he is dead,’ said Malekith. ‘He is not stupid. He allowed the watch tower at Vartoth to fall and then compounded the error by leading a host of my warriors onto the glaciers to be slain by these hairy wretches from the Wastes. I am sure when the battle turned against him he threw himself on his own blade, or at least allowed one of the northmen to gut him like a pig, rather than face the fate he knew would await him in my dungeon.’
Ezresor pushed to his feet, uncertain, and shared a glance with Venil. The spymaster wiped the blood from his lip with the cuff of his robe and bowed in apology.
‘Hellebron has not answered my summons,’ said Malekith.
‘She fights in Har Ganeth still,’ said Ezresor. Malekith was pleased that his counsellor offered fact rather than unrequested opinion.
‘The city is nothing but ruins,’ added Venil. ‘The temples to Khaine have been thrown down.’
‘Pride keeps her there,’ said Malekith, understanding the motive of the hag queen better than most. ‘She was humiliated and now she salves her embarrassment with the blood of stragglers and the lost. I will indulge her a while longer.’
‘Forgive my surprise, majesty, but there are lords and ladies that have refused summons and paid dearly for the affront.’ Venil licked his lips and chose his next words with care. ‘I would not wish Hellebron to become a bad example to others.’
‘Hellebron is too useful to have killed,’ Malekith said bluntly. ‘I’m not sure there is anyone capable of the feat even if I desired her death, and I cannot spare another army.’
‘Shadowblade…’ suggested Kouran.
‘Is an uncertain weapon at the moment,’ Malekith replied. ‘He answers to me in this world, but his loyalty is to Khaine, and Hellebron is yet the ranking mistress to the Lord of Murder. There is little to be gained by asking of him such taxing questions at this time. Hellebron will return in time. There is no need to yank the leash just yet.’
‘There is division in Ulthuan, your majesty,’ Venil said with some glee. ‘Prince Imrik of Caledor has quit the court of the absent Phoenix King, having exchanged harsh words with Prince Tyrion about his claim to be regent in Finubar’s absence. The Dragon of Cothique, it seems, will not be able to draw upon the dragons of Caledor in his defence of the realm.’
‘I am sure Tyrion will prevail, even without the dragon princes,’ said Malekith.
‘As to the matter of the Hag Sorceress, master?’ ventured Ezresor. ‘She holds court in Ghrond, perhaps believing that you will not dare confront her in her own convent.’
‘Perhaps?’ Malekith lingered on the word. It suggested speculation, and in speculating it was possible that Ezresor thought there would be cause for Malekith’s mother to believe herself safe from his retribution.
‘We have had no direct contact with Ghrond for many years, your majesty,’ Ezresor added quickly. ‘It is hard to be certain of anything. It is unlikely, but your mother may be dead.’
‘No, she is very much alive, you can be sure of that,’ said Malekith. ‘When death finally catches up with Morathi the world will hear her screams of disappointment, mark my words. Do you not think I will know when she has perished? She gave me her life-force, sustained me in my darkest hour and guided me through the many tribulations that I faced. She is as much a part of me as this armour.’
Venil stroked his chin, his mood contemplative.
‘It was not wholly the fault of Ebnir that we received no warning of the northlanders’ attack. The loss of one watch tower could have been prevented had the seers at Ghrond foretold the incursion.’ He paused, licked his lips again and spoke slowly. ‘It seems unlikely that the Convent of Sorceresses would choose to abandon their duties on a whim, so we must be forced to conclude that the oversight was deliberate.’
‘Who could command the convent to betray their lord in such fashion?’ asked Ezresor.
‘Cease this embarrassing performance,’ snapped Malekith, slamming a fist onto the arm of his throne, throwing up a shower of sparks. ‘If you have an accusation to level against my mother, make it plain to me.’
‘Apologies, majesty,’ said Ezresor, bowing low with a flicked glance towards Kouran. ‘I am certain Morathi deliberately kept word of the Chaos attack, ensuring that we would be poorly prepared.’
‘And why do you suppose she would do such a thing?’ said Kouran. ‘Ghrond cannot stand alone against all that the Chaos Wastes vomit forth.’
‘Do not underestimate the nihilism of spite,’ said Venil. ‘For longer even than our lord she has coveted the rule of Ulthuan. Perhaps she sees some advantage in letting Naggaroth fall to disaster.’
All three advisors turned to Malekith, remembering that they spoke in his presence. None of them uttered a word but cast their eyes down at the floor and fell silent.
‘You were speaking of my mother,’ Malekith prompted, looking at Venil. ‘Continue.’
‘Begging your majesty’s pleasure, it was wrong to resurrect old arguments and vexatious issues,’ said the former assassin, wielding his words as carefully as he once wielded poisoned daggers.
‘Ezresor?’ Malekith’s dark gaze fell upon the spymaster. ‘You wish to add comment?’
‘Your mother believed you were dead, your majesty. She underestimated you, as have many, but she intended no direct assault upon your power.’
‘Without her support, I would have lost Naggarond in the absence of our king,’ Kouran growled at the others. ‘She erred, and when the error was made clear she did all in her power to protect the rule of Malekith.’
‘Usurpers had imprisoned her,’ said Ezresor, a sneer twisting his lips. ‘She would have sought alliance with a bastard shade born of
a harpy if it would have helped her cause. She desires the throne of Ulthuan and has used any means to lay her hands upon it, making them puppets when they believed they were following their own will.’
‘Including your king?’ Malekith finished the sentiment. Ezresor’s pale skin seemed to whiten even further and he took a step back, putting distance between himself and his master, throwing a worried look at Kouran for good measure. Malekith laughed but it did not ease Ezresor’s fright. ‘Do you think I am so blind to my mother’s machinations, Ezresor? You may be the lord of my agents, the master of ten thousand cultists and spies, but do not think I know only that which you tell me. I know very well the manner of creature that spawned me, and the deeds of which she is capable.’
A high priestess, lithe and athletic, presided over the despicable ceremony from a dais littered with corpses and blood. Her white robes were spattered with gore, and a daemonic bronze mask covered her face. Her eyes glowed with a pale yellow light from within, and her pupils were tiny points of blackness in pools of luminescence.
In one hand, she held a crooked staff, wrought from bones and iron, and tipped with a horned skull with three eye sockets. In the other, she wielded a curved dagger still slick with the blood of many sacrifices.
Malekith charged across the chamber, cutting down any cultist who barred his path. He was but a few steps from the dais when the priestess thrust forward the tip of her staff and a bolt of pure blackness leapt out and struck the prince full in the chest. The prince’s heart felt like it would explode. With a cry of pain torn from his lips, Malekith faltered and fell to his knees. He was as much shocked as hurt, for he knew of no wizard who could best the sorcerous abilities granted to him by the Circlet of Iron.
He gazed in amazement at the priestess. She stepped down from the dais with languid strides and walked slowly towards the injured prince, the tip of her staff fixed upon him.
‘My foolish child,’ she sneered.
The priestess let the sacrificial dagger slip from her fingers to clatter in a shower of crimson droplets upon the floor. With her hand thus freed, she pulled off her mask and tossed it aside. Though caked with blood, the priestess’ lustrous black hair spilled across her bare shoulders. Her face was pristine, the very image of beauty. In her were aristocratic bearing and divine magnificence combined.
The assembled captains and knights gazed dumbly at this apparition of perfection, ensorcelled.
‘Mother?’ whispered Malekith, his sword slipping from his numb fingers.
‘My son,’ she replied with a wicked smile, eliciting from those that looked on lust and fear in equal measure. ‘It is very rude of you to butcher my servants so callously. Your time amongst the barbarians has robbed you of all manners.’
Malekith said nothing but simply stared up at Morathi, wife of Aenarion, his mother.
‘Her loyalty extends as far as necessity and no further,’ Malekith explained. ‘Her attempts to usurp my power, subtly or directly, are not new to me. Of far graver concern is her ambivalence. If she is willing to let Naggaroth drown beneath the blades of the northlanders it is because she deems our lands, our people, no longer of value. Her greatest plans require powerful patrons and large sacrifices. It is very plausible that she has relented of her disdain for the Chaos Gods and now seeks to buy their favour in its entirety, offering up thousands of Naggarothi in return for their boons.’
‘A treachery far worse than any she has committed before,’ said Venil. ‘It is not my place to instruct you, majesty, but I think it is finally time that we were rid of her meddlesome double-dealing.’
‘You are correct,’ said Malekith. Venil’s smug smile faded as the Witch King continued. ‘It is not your place to instruct me. I will deal with my mother as I see fit.’
‘But you will deal with her?’ said Venil, unable to keep silent but cringing even as he uttered the words as though his mouth had betrayed him. He offered obeisance with bowed head and spread hands. ‘We have lost too much to allow old wounds to continue to fester.’
‘I will think on the matter,’ said Malekith, turning his stare back to the window.
He spent a few moments in contemplation, imagining Venil’s near-dead carcass dancing on one of the barbed chains on the tower opposite. It brought him only a few moments of pleasure before his desire for cruel punishment was superseded by a colder, more pragmatic need.
‘The world is in upheaval,’ he said. ‘Forces of life and death stir and the gaze of the gods falls upon us all. The winds of magic have not been so turbulent since the last great war against the Dark Gods’ servants. The tempest of Chaos obscures unnatural sight, so you must bring me all news from across the globe. I will know what rumour passes in Lothern and Tor Achare. You will tell me what counsel is spoken to the ears of the human kings and Emperor. Armies march, alive and dead, and I would know their disposition and strength. All of this you will bring to me, or you are of no more use.’
‘From your will, majesty, to my hands,’ Venil said, wetting his lips once more. ‘I shall be your eyes and ears, as always.’
Click here to buy The End Times | The Curse of Khaine
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First published in Great Britain in 2014.
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