The end times, p.13
The End Times, page 13
‘He perhaps does not remember it, but he came to me last night, in a battle-fever, confessing what had happened and seeking my advice.’ Malekith could not see Malus’s face to see any reaction this stirred. Drusala approached, holding a bloodstained cloth in outstretched hands. ‘He gave this to me, asking if I would present it on his behalf. Malus thought it terribly important, although I must confess my ignorance.’
She let the wind unfurl what she held, revealing a torn banner of light blue and white, with a prancing horse in gold thread stained with blood. The remains of a device of spread wings in silver could be seen beneath the grime.
‘The banner of Eagle Gate,’ said Kouran, stepping up to take the trophy from Drusala. He looked at Malus. ‘The Ellyrians tried to escape with it?’
Malus tried not to look surprised, and failed miserably. He addressed his answer to Malekith. ‘I have no reason to doubt the lady of Ghrond’s account, your majesty, though my recollection of events before the sun rose this morning are… hazy.’
It was impossible to believe that they were telling the truth, but the threadbare nature of the story being woven by Drusala and Malus was enough for Malekith to believe it had not been prefabricated. They were extemporising, to what end Malekith did not know, but there was no sign of former conspiracy. Malekith was hardened to the fact that most of his subjects that did not hate him lusted after his position, and to consider every scheme a direct and immediate threat would have turned him into a paranoid lunatic many millennia ago. It also meant that the druchii were very adept at hiding their lies, so the obvious subterfuge confused him.
He gestured for Kouran to join him.
‘What do you wish to do with these liars, my king?’ asked the captain.
‘You think their story lacks merit?’
‘Barely a word they have spoken is truth,’ Kouran answered with a shake of the head, ‘but I can offer no proof to discount their version of events. Malus was pulled from Spite during the battle and then disappeared, that much I witnessed myself. He is not a coward, so I do not think he fled the fighting. What happened next, only Malus can tell us. Shall I summon your torturers?’
‘I think not,’ said Malekith. ‘The day is too fraught to make any bold moves. Malus is always scheming about something, and I am sure Drusala has her own agenda, but it serves no purpose to create turbulence on the day after our greatest victory. I have allies now,’ he waved a hand towards the dragons on the peaks, ‘and should Imrik sense disquiet in my camp, the hint of division between my armies, I think he would reconsider which side he has taken.’
‘We could slay them, my king, just to be sure,’ suggested Kouran, running the fingers of his right hand along the flat of his halberd’s blade. ‘No mess, just a swift death.’
‘Malus and Drusala both know that I need their warriors if I am to capitalise on the surprise of Imrik’s turning and our victory here. I have a far better plan.’
‘Friend Malus,’ said Malekith, turning back to the Tyrant, motioning for him to stand. ‘I must admonish you for your tardiness and appearance. It smacks of disrespect to turn up late to my council wearing nothing but an asur shroud.’ Malus clenched his jaw and the tip of the warpsword in his hand rose a little, like the tail of a scorpion moving before the strike. ‘Let the humiliation you have felt coming to kneel before me and my subjects be a lesson to keep good manner about you at all times. As for the reasons for your dishevelled look and late coming, I am impressed by your persistence. It is that sort of attitude that will be required to defeat the Ellyrians.’
‘The Ellyrians, your majesty? What of them?’
‘Fast, mounted, never staying in the same place. An elusive foe, but no match for one with your stubbornness, am I right?’
‘No match at all, your majesty,’ said Malus, taken aback. ‘I will bring the Ellyrians to battle and crush them.’
‘Very good, Malus,’ said Malekith. ‘I am sure you require to make preparations. Your army shall be the vanguard – have them take supplies for the march to Ellyrion and then lead them east.’
Malus said nothing for several heartbeats, eyes flicking between the king and Kouran, and then to the crowd, who were starting to disperse. His eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, but he simply accepted the command with a deep bow.
‘And Malus,’ said the Witch King as the seething Darkblade turned to leave, ‘try to keep your armour on next time.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHRACIAN WAR
Of the ten kingdoms, Malekith hated Chrace the most. In his mortal years he had found it a joyless, backward region ruled by peasant-princes and ignorance. When he had sought to claim Ulthuan’s throne it had been Chracian hunters that had saved Imrik from Morathi’s assassins – ever after honoured as the White Lions of the king’s bodyguard – and it had been the Chracians that had stubbornly refused to bow to Malekith’s rule despite every invasion and calamity he had set upon them. In short, the Chracians were far too stupid to realise when they were beaten, scrapping to the last breath for a mountainous wilderness that had nothing to recommend itself except for a certain savage beauty.
The rain rattled from Sulekh’s scales and hissed into steam where it hit the Witch King’s armour. Rivers cascaded down the mountain slopes, swelled to bursting from the spring deluge. The low clouds clung to the peaks like a shroud, swathing the pass in a thick haze. Malekith’s army picked their way down a slope strewn with boulders and fallen trees, a winding column of black that disappeared into the grey mist.
Closing his eyes, the Witch King felt the bubbling winds of magic washing over the Annulii. With the circlet, he could see every slender strand, the smallest ebb and eddy of mystical energy. He searched for disturbances hidden to normal eyes, seeking the telltale swell and whirl of living things. Giant eagles nested in the heights of the peaks; mountain goats bounded up the slopes in large herds, gorging themselves on grass revealed by the recent thaw; a bear ambled from its cave seeking food; the trees were delicate slivers of life burrowing deep into the soil.
There was something else.
Further down the pass, Malekith detected the glow of fire, drawing the magic of flames to it. A camp. Several camps. Around them he spied the silvery flicker of elven spirits. He turned to the cluster of messengers who sat astride their black horses a short distance from Sulekh, their blinkered mounts trembling with fear.
‘Warn the vanguard,’ said Malekith. ‘There are Chracians on the northern slope, where a bridge crosses a river. It may be an ambush.’
One of the riders nodded and headed off down the mountainside, his steed galloping hard, grateful to be heading away from the presence of the Witch King and his dragon.
It is almost an insult, thought Malekith. Did Caledor rate him so lowly that he thought the Witch King would be caught by such a simple trap? His armour creaking as Malekith turned his unnatural gaze back towards the east, where his army was still crossing the last shoulder of the mountain. It would be noon before they were all in the valley. It did not matter; he was in no hurry. He wanted his enemies to know where he was.
Malekith looked up, rain hammering into the mask of his helm. Droplets danced and spat on the hot armour. He tried to remember when he had last drunk water. He could not. The fires that burned inside him left him with a ravening thirst but he could not quench it. It was the same with food. Not a morsel had passed his lips since he had been sealed inside the armoured suit. Sorcery alone kept him alive, the magic sustained by the sacrifices bound within the plates of his artificial skin. It was sad in some ways, liberating in others. He could taste nothing but the ash of his own near destruction, but he could dimly recollect the sweetness of honey, the richness of wine.
Simple pleasures, taken from him by cowards and traitors. The jealous priests of Asuryan had cursed the flames so that they would not accept him. Yet their trickery had not succeeded. He had emerged from the flames with the blessing of the lord of gods. He would throw them into the fires they had tainted with their subterfuge and let them know what their god’s judgement felt like.
The ground trembled. Malekith sensed it through a shift in the magical winds, a turbulence that flowed south along the vortex. His ravaged ears could hear little over the constant crackling of the flames, but the Witch King’s magical sense was far more accurate. Boulders and logs tumbled down the slope from the camps by the bridge. He heard the screams of the warriors who had crossed over to attack the Chracians and felt their bodies crushed by the avalanche unleashed by the mountain-dwellers. The spirit of every dying elf flickered briefly, a pinprick of darkness that was swallowed up by the ever-shifting tides of magic.
There were more shouts and sounds of fighting. A column of march was no formation for battle and the vanguard had allowed itself to be surrounded, despite Malekith’s warning. With a growl, he jerked Sulekh’s iron reins and the monstrous beast launched herself from the rock, plunging down the valley in a swirl of cloud.
Nearing the bottom of the pass, Malekith saw several hundred Chracians fighting against his warriors. He saw the slew of debris blocking the bridge over which the vanguard had crossed, cutting off any reinforcement. Naggarothi warriors called for axes and bars to be brought forward so that the blockage could be cleared.
‘Stand back!’ Malekith roared as Sulekh landed on the near side of the river, clawed feet sinking into the soft mud of the bank.
He waited while the startled soldiers hurried back from the bridge. When they were clear of the crossing, the Witch King extended a hand, drawing in the threads of magic that invisibly wound down the valley, crushing them into pure energy with his force of will. He felt the icy touch of the circlet in his mind as he shaped the magic, a bolt of forking lightning leaping from his fist to smash into the boulders and hewn tree trunks. Stone and wood splinters exploded upwards, cutting arcs through the mist before drifting down on to the foaming water of the river.
‘Is it safe?’ one of the captains called out. The bridge had taken some of the blast, its stone wall collapsed for half its length on one side.
‘That is not my concern,’ said Malekith. ‘Follow me!’
Sulekh leapt across the river and with a single flap of her vast wings carried Malekith up the far slope to where his embattled soldiers were encircled by axe- and spear-wielding Chracians. Some wore the prized white lion pelts for which their kingdom was famed, the furs heavy with moisture from the rain.
As soon as they saw Malekith approaching, the Chracians scattered, breaking off their attack to sprint back into the woods. Not all reached the safety of the eaves; Malekith unsheathed his sword, Avanuir, and launched a flurry of fiery blue bolts at the retreating warriors, slaying a handful with each detonation. The Witch King drew in more magic and with a shout unleashed it in a broad wave. Where it struck, the trees exploded into black flame, the fire quickly raging up the slope, engulfing even more of the Chracian hunters. Sap exploded and leaves turned to ash as the wave of fire continued along the mountainside, engulfing the tents and wagons of the Chracian camps.
Sustaining the magical fire took all of Malekith’s concentration; as he weaved his metal-clad hand back and forth the fires spread further and further, the heat of the flames dissipating the mist as they engulfed the mountainside. The surge of dark energy flowing through him resonated with the runes of his armour, igniting dead nerve-endings, sending a shiver across the metal plates as if it were his skin.
With an effort, the Witch King cut off the flow of dark magic, pulling himself back from the brink of intoxication. The mystical flames guttered and died, revealing blackened stumps and bones littered across the mountain. The clatter of armour attracted his attention and he turned to see a squadron of knights galloping across the bridge.
‘Captain, come to me,’ Malekith said, beckoning to the elf who had been in charge of the vanguard.
The captain came forward, a bloodied sword in his hand, breastplate rent open from a Chracian axe. He dropped to one knee, eyes averted.
‘My apologies, king,’ said the soldier.
He knelt trembling, head bowed, as Malekith steered Sulekh to loom over him. The crest of the captain’s helmet fluttered with each of the dragon’s breaths, wisps of poisonous vapour coiling from her nostrils. The Witch King could feel the elf’s fear dripping from his shuddering body.
‘Do not fail me again,’ said the Witch King. The captain looked up, surprised and delighted. ‘Continue the march!’
The officer bowed and hurried away, anxious that his master might have a sudden change of heart. In truth, the captain had been ordered into the trap by Malekith and could not be blamed. His mother might dispense summary executions in such a situation, but her acts of spite were wasteful. The Witch King suffered no illusions about his opponents and knew he would need every soldier if he was to claim Ulthuan for his own.
Uncertainty keeps soldiers alert, Malekith told himself. He would not want to become predictable.
Half a dozen pairs of dead eyes stared at Malekith as he stepped out of his pavilion. The heads of the dreadlords were displayed on stakes around the entrance to the great marquee, each bearing the inverted rune of senthoi carved in their foreheads, a symbol of broken promises. The generals’ remains served as an example to their successors that Malekith was in no mood for further setbacks, and certainly had no time for equivocation and excuses.
The druchii camp spread down the ridge below, and from his vantage point Malekith could see clear six leagues along the valley to the north. The forests of the snow-drenched slopes were known as the Whiteweald, a hunting ground of manticores and griffons, home to phoenixes and great eagles.
This had once been a wilderness jewel of Ulthuan, where princes and kings had hunted beasts and sojourned with their courts. Now it was a ravaged, twisted mockery of its former beauty. Even before the druchii had come Chrace had suffered dearly during the daemonic intrusion. Swathes of the forest had been warped by their presence, the ground itself ripped and buckled in abhorrence of their invasion. Mountaintops had tumbled and avalanches cut swathes through trees that had stood proudly for several thousand years.
The course of the daemonic attack could be charted by the warped, withered remains of the trees left in their wake: some were petrified, leaves of stone grey and lifeless; others had become ice structures, slowly melting as the season turned to summer, crystalline imitations of what had come before; whole mountainsides were desolate, nothing left but rotting stumps and a thick slurry of decaying mulch.
At first Malekith had been encouraged, finding Phoenix Gate barely held against him, and the advance across the Annulii had been swift. Trusting that his plan to draw the bulk of Tyrion’s forces south with Darkblade’s army had succeeded, the Witch King had readied his host to plunge down into the foothills and plains of Chrace, to sack Tor Achare and seize the coast where the crossing to the Blighted Isle was shortest.
From then nothing had quite played out as he had planned. The people of Chrace knew their lands as well as they knew their own families, and they used every part of it to their advantage.
The Chracians would not meet his force in pitched battle preferring, as they had done during previous wars, to wage a guerrilla campaign of ambushes and feint attacks. The mountains were dotted with concealed fortresses – outposts that could sustain a thousand warriors yet not be seen even if a scout passed within bowshot.
Even though the landscape had suffered much brutality in recent times, its ways and means were still a secret to be unlocked. The Whiteweald was no place for dragons to fight, the cover of the deep forests and caves more than enough sanctuary against the mightiest beasts of the sky. Whole Naggarothi regiments disappeared pursuing their foes into the wilds, but despite this the commanders who now adorned the rough trail leading to Malekith’s pavilion had sent thousands to their doom in fruitless efforts to catch the elusive enemy.
Kouran approached, secretly alerted to his master’s emergence by the Black Guard standing sentry around the pavilion. His face was stern as he saluted the king.
‘My king, another three regiments were lost in the night,’ the captain reported. He motioned to the right flank of the advance, on the other side of the steep valley. ‘From the Ghrond host stationed to the north.’
‘The north?’ Malekith growled. ‘You told me yesterday that our northern flank was secure. Not even a Chracian hunter would pass the picket, you claimed.’
Kouran answered with a silent bow of the head, admitting his mistake and accepting whatever chastisement Malekith was prepared to dispense. The Witch King glanced at the heads around him and knew that killing Kouran would almost certainly seal the fate of the expedition. With Morathi in Ghrond and the traitor Ezresor slain, Malekith relied almost wholly on the captain of the Black Guard to keep order and ensure the loyalty of his subjects.
‘The blame is not yours,’ said Malekith. ‘There is more than the skill of peasant hunters at play here.’
He tilted his head back, closing his eyes to concentrate on his magical sense, allowing his consciousness to flow into the Iron Circlet. There was a jarring transition as part of his mind slipped into the Realm of Chaos and then back to the mortal world, for all intents and purposes detached from his physical form.
It was harder to maintain a sense of self in these mountains, where the howling winds of magic were funnelled into Ulthuan’s vortex. The influx of daemonic energy and the expansion of the Chaos Wastes had turned the vortex into a wild maelstrom. In Naggarond it had been simplicity to move his thoughts from one part of the world to another, and even to project his avatar into far-flung locations. From the Annulii it was a trying task simply to maintain a coherent pattern of thoughts amidst the buffeting mystical storm.
