The end times, p.1
The End Times, page 1
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Contents
Cover
Warhammer
The End Times: Doom of the Old World
THE CURSE OF KHAINE
Map – The Curse of Khaine
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
PART TWO
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
PART THREE
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter twenty-six
Chapter twenty-seven
Chapter twenty-eight
Chapter twenty-nine
Chapter thirty
Chapter thirty-one
Chapter thirty-two
Chapter thirty-three
Chapter thirty-four
Chapter thirty-five
Epilogue
THE RISE OF THE HORNED RAT
Map – The Rise of the Horned Rat
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
PART TWO
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
PART THREE
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter twenty-six
Chapter twenty-seven
THE LORD OF THE END TIMES
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
PART TWO
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
PART THREE
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Epilogue
In the Void
THE SIEGE OF NAGGAROND
BRIDE OF KHAINE
About the Authors
An Extract from ‘Realmslayer: Legend of the Doomseeker’
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The world is dying, but it has been so since the coming of the Chaos Gods.
For years beyond reckoning, the Ruinous Powers have coveted the mortal realm. They have made many attempts to seize it, their anointed champions leading vast hordes into the lands of men, elves and dwarfs. Each time, they have been defeated.
Until now.
In the north, Archaon, a former templar of the warrior-god Sigmar, has been crowned the Everchosen of Chaos.
He stands poised to march south and bring ruin to the lands he once fought to protect. Behind him amass all the forces of the Dark Gods, mortal and daemonic, and they will bring with them a storm such as has never been seen. Already, the lands of men are falling into ruin. Archaon’s vanguard run riot across Kislev, the once-proud country of Bretonnia has fallen into anarchy and the southern lands have been consumed by a tide of verminous ratmen.
The men of the Empire, the elves of Ulthuan and the dwarfs of the Worlds Edge Mountains fortify their cities and prepare for the inevitable onslaught. They will fight bravely and to the last. But in their hearts, all know that their efforts will be futile. The victory of Chaos is inevitable.
These are the End Times.
THE CURSE OF KHAINE
Gav Thorpe
PROLOGUE
This is where it all began, before history was recorded. A forest raised from sacred ground by the gods themselves, seeded by the Great Powers that shaped the world. Beneath jade and golden boughs, the elves were taught how to manipulate the energies that permeated the world and its surrounds: they learned magic.
A matriarch ruled over them, and in time she became known as the Everqueen, her immortal spirit reborn into her offspring with each passing generation. These were times of accord, of peaceful bliss and innocent harmony.
Let us be honest and call it what it was: grave naivety.
There were other powers, far older and greater than the tutors of the elves. They had been wronged, their domains trespassed upon, their authority stolen by upstarts. In their anger they laid low the Old Ones and staked their claim to the world.
Mighty was their anger and terrible were the hosts they poured forth to conquer the lands crafted by the usurpers. The pure magic of the timeless aeons was broken, split into the Eight Winds, and the gods of the elves were laid low, exposed as powerless figments. One power ruled, and one power alone: Chaos.
The daemons were their servants. The elves suffered the daemons’ wrath more than any, for the elven isle, the realm of Ulthuan, was steeped in the magical energy that sustained the avatars of the Chaos Powers. Great was the torment and slaughter visited upon the Everqueen and her followers, and in the strife of the elves the Great Powers drank rich from despair and hope, fear and rage.
Yet the dominion of Chaos was not to be.
Not then.
Aenarion, spear-wielder, scale-clad, dragon-rider, united the elves and fought the daemons. Sacrificing himself in the flames of Asuryan, Aenarion was reborn as a figure of myth, the Phoenix King, and his presence was anathema to the daemons.
Even so, Aenarion’s defiance was not enough. Still the daemons came.
Caledor the Dragontamer, magic-wielder, mage-lord of the southern mountains, allied his cause with Aenarion and the two great leaders of the elves stemmed the tide of Chaos for a millennium.
And this was not enough.
Already imbued with the power of one god, Aenarion sought the aid of another when his beloved wife Astarielle the Everqueen was slain, and he believed his children dead also. Aenarion took the Sword of Khaine from its bloodstained altar upon the Blighted Isle. The Widowmaker, the Bane of Gods, the Deathshard. Nothing, not mortal or daemon, could stand before his ire.
But bloodshed alone could not defeat the power of Chaos. Strife is their fodder, war their platter. It was Caledor Dragontamer that devised the true path to victory. He constructed a network of standing stones upon Ulthuan, making a pattern of monoliths and lodestones that created a magical vortex, siphoning the energy of the daemons out of the mortal realm.
At the end of the war, Caledor and his mages were trapped within the vortex they had created and Aenarion was mortally wounded as was his dragon, Indraugnir. The Phoenix King’s final act was to return the Sword of Khaine to its shrine upon the Blighted Isle, but neither king nor faithful steed was seen again.
So the victory of the elves should have been. The daemons were banished, trapped in the Realm of Chaos and the Northern Wastes. The elves should have claimed dominion over the world and ruled benevolently as the inheritors of the Old Ones and Chaos would have been thwarted.
Chaos is not so easily defeated.
What they could not win with war, the Old Powers sought with guile. The whispers of the Chaos Gods polluted the counsel of the elves as they sought to choose a successor to Aenarion.
The princes met in the Glade of Eternity, a great amphitheatre of trees at the centre of which stood a shrine to Isha, the goddess of nature, matron of the Everqueen. Grown of twining silver roots and branches, with emerald-green leaves festooned with blooms in every season, the Aein Yshain glowed with mystical power. By the light of the moons and the stars, the First Council convened, bathed in the twilight of the open skies and the aura of the blessed tree.
Morathi and Malekith were there. Dark-haired and coldly beautiful, the seeress wore a dress of black cloth so fine that it appeared as a diaphanous cloud that barely conce aled her alabaster skin. Her raven hair was swept back by bands of finely-woven silver threads hung with rubies, and her lips were painted to match the glittering gems. Slender and noble of bearing she stood, and bore a staff of black iron in her hands.
Malekith was no less imposing. As tall as his father and of similarly dark eyes, he wore a suit of golden mail, and a breastplate upon which was embossed the coiling form of a dragon. A long sword hung in a gold-threaded scabbard at his waist, its pommel wrought from the same precious metal, a dragon’s claw grasping a sapphire the size of a fist.
With them came other princes of Nagarythe who had survived the fighting on the Isle of the Dead. They were dressed in their fine armour, and wore dark cloaks that hung to their ankles, and proudly bore the scars and trophies of their wars with the daemons.
The sinister princes of the north were arrayed with knives, spears, swords, bows, shields and armour wrought with the runes of Vaul, testaments to the power of Nagarythe and Anlec. Banner bearers with black and silver standards stood in attendance, and heralds sounded the trumpets and pipes at their arrival. A cabal of sorcerers accompanied the Naggarothi contingent, clad in robes of black and purple, their faces tattooed and scarred with ritual sigils, their heads shaved.
Another group there was, of princes from the lands founded by Caledor in the south, and from the new realms to the east – Cothique, Eataine, Yvresse and others. At the fore stood the young mage Thyriol, and golden-haired Menieth, son of Caledor Dragontamer.
In contrast to the Naggarothi these elves of the south and east were as day is to night. Though all had played their part in the war against the daemons, these princes had cast off their wargear and instead carried staves and sceptres, and in the place of war helms they wore golden crowns as symbols of their power. They were clad predominantly in white, the colour of mourning, in remembrance of the losses their people had suffered; the Naggarothi eschewed such affectation even though they had lost more than most.
‘Aenarion has passed on,’ Morathi declared to the council. ‘The Godslayer, the Widowmaker, he returned to the Altar of Khaine so that we can be free of war. In peace, my son wishes to rule, and in peace we would explore this new world that surrounds us. Yet, I fear peace now is a thing of memory, and perhaps one day to be nothing more than myth. Do not think that the Great Powers that now gaze upon our world with hungry, immortal eyes can be so easily defeated. Though the daemons are banished from our lands, the power of Chaos is not wholly exiled from the world. I have gazed far and wide this past year, and I have seen what changes the fall of the gods has wrought upon us.’
‘In war, I would follow no other king,’ said Menieth, striding to the centre of the circle formed by the princes. ‘In Nagarythe is found the greatest strength of arms upon this isle. The war is over, though, and I am not sure that the strength of Nagarythe lies in tranquillity. There are other realms now, and cities where there were castles. Civilisation has triumphed over Chaos on Ulthuan, and we shall take that civilisation across the seas and the elves shall reign where the gods have fallen.’
‘And such arrogance and blindness shall see us humbled,’ said Morathi. ‘Far to the north, the lands are blasted wastelands, where creatures corrupted by dark magic crawl and flit. Ignorant savages build altars of skulls in praise of the new gods, and spill the blood of their kin in worship. Monstrous things melded of flesh and magic prowl the darkness beyond our shores. If we are to bring our light to these benighted lands, it shall be upon the glittering tip of spear and arrow.’
‘Hardship and bloodshed are the price we pay for our survival,’ argued Menieth. ‘Nagarythe shall march at the forefront of our hosts and with the valour of the Naggarothi we shall pierce that darkness. However, we cannot be ruled by war as we were when Aenarion strode amongst us. We must reclaim our spirits from the love of bloodshed that consumed us, and seek a more enlightened path towards building a new world. We must allow the boughs of love and friendship to flourish from the roots of hatred and violence sown by the coming of Aenarion. We shall never forget his legacy, but our hearts cannot be ruled by his anger.’
‘My son is the heir of Aenarion,’ Morathi said quietly, menace in her soft voice. ‘That we stand here at all is the prize wrested from defeat by my late husband.’
‘But won no less by my father’s sacrifice,’ Menieth countered. ‘For a year we have pondered what course of action to take, since the deaths of Aenarion and Caledor. Nagarythe shall take its place amongst the other realms – great in its glory, yet not greater than any other kingdom.’
‘Greatness is earned by deeds, not bestowed by others,’ said Morathi, striding forwards to stand in front of Menieth. She planted her staff in the ground between them and glared at the prince, her grip tight upon the metal rod.
‘It is not to fall upon each other that we fought against the daemons and sacrificed so much,’ said Thyriol hurriedly. Clad in robes of white and yellow that glimmered with golden thread, the mage laid a hand upon the shoulder of Morathi and upon the arm of Menieth. ‘In us has been awakened a new spirit, and we must temper our haste with cool judgement, just as a newly forged blade must be quenched in the calming waters.’
‘Who here feels worthy enough to take up the crown of the Phoenix King?’ Morathi asked, glaring at the princes with scorn. ‘Who here save my son is worthy of being Aenarion’s successor?’
There was silence for a while, and none of the dissenters could meet Morathi’s gaze, save for Menieth, who returned her cold stare without flinching. Then a voice rang out across the glade from the shadows of the trees encircling the council.
‘I have been chosen!’ the voice called.
From the trees walked Bel Shanaar, ruling prince of the plains of Tiranoc.
One decision, poorly taken, and the defeat of the Chaos Gods was thrown away. One decision and the seeds were sown of a doom that was seven thousand years in the growing.
It is a cruel trick of Chaos that prophecy so often becomes self-fulfilling.
That was how it began.
This is how it ends.
PART ONE
A World in Upheaval
A Battle with Daemons
Fate Revealed
A Long-delayed Confrontation
The Call to War
CHAPTER ONE
THE WITCH KING RISES
At some point lost in the depths of time someone had called it the Black Tower. Perhaps it had been black then, and perhaps it had been merely a tower. Now it was the highest pinnacle at the centre of Naggarond. The sprawling fortress had grown hundreds of outer fortifications and buttresses, spawned a warren of alleys and streets, rooftop passages and arcing bridges, becoming a settlement unto itself where the only law was the shifting will of the Witch King, alliances were fleeting and death a constant risk.
Its walls were festooned with the heads and corpses of the thousands that had displeased Malekith over the preceding millennia. Some were hung upon hooks and chains, others in nooses and gibbets. Hundreds were skeletons, preserved by dire magic, but dozens were more recent, mouldering flesh clinging to bones gnawed by the clouds of harpies that circled over the bastion seeking new victims to scavenge.
The Black Tower.
A name filled with more grief and terror than three simple words could describe, etched into the last memories of the unfortunates upon the wall, burned into the agony of those still writhing in the dungeons that were dug into the bedrock beneath the high walls and banner-wreathed ramparts.
None remembered who had first named it, not even Malekith himself as he sat upon his iron throne in a grand hall atop the tallest keep. He did remember a time when Naggarond had not existed, one of only a handful of beings across the entire world.
He had grown up in the Black Tower, the grim atmosphere overshadowed by the brooding presence of his father, Aenarion, and the wicked, bloody machinations of his mother, Morathi. His opponents had claimed that those decades had laid a similar darkness upon his heart.
The Witch King no longer possessed lips, but the irony of history would have caused them to twist into a cruel smile. A face ravaged by holy fire contorted beneath hot iron in an approximation of humour, the sort of humour that delighted in looking out of the window at the heads of a dozen generals who had failed Malekith during the recent war against the barbarous northmen. He viewed them now, taking satisfaction from the screams that had filled this chamber as their bodies had been split apart by dark magic and heated blades.
