The end times, p.17
The End Times, page 17
‘He will attempt the Great Ritual of Awakening,’ Malekith said as they came upon the dread throne room, a cavernous hall at the height of the dead city. A hundred thousand tallows made of the fat of the living burned in sconces and candelabras across the titanic chamber.
In the flickering lights a platform of skulls heaped up at one end of the hall, becoming an immense throne of bones. It was empty, leaving Malekith disappointed and relieved in equal measure.
About the Great Necromancer’s dais circled the only living things to be found in Nagashizzar, his disciples, necromancers brought here in fits of madness, chanting his praises as they made offering to the incarnation of undeath.
Malekith could sense the energy of Nagash pulsing like a shadow within the shadows, a constant murmuring on the edge of hearing.
‘I have put in motion a series of events that will bring him back,’ Teclis confessed. ‘It is already too late to prevent his reincarnation.’
‘I am prideful, but your arrogance puts mine to shame,’ hissed Malekith. ‘These are not forces we can control.’
‘When you sought to shut down the vortex and bring about the tide of Chaos, did you think twice?’ Teclis asked, suddenly as bitter as the Witch King. ‘A deed so insane that even now we must deal with its consequences. It is not pride but desperation that pushes me to these extreme deeds.’
‘My past actions do not alter the folly of your current plans. I will not allow this.’
The hall trembled, almost imperceptibly. The winds of magic that had been so sluggish started to swirl, eddying around the throne. The acolytes gave gasps of surprise and fear as the dark winds caused the skulls of the throne to begin chattering their teeth, the echoes of their chorus a hideous cacophony that filled the immense hall.
‘Too late,’ whispered Teclis.
The black furnace of Nagash’s soul was growing in power. More brands on the wall burst into life – the blaze of a thousand torchlights brought fresh horror to the scene. Every surface of the chamber was covered in runes and hieroglyphs, which now danced in the flame light with a life of their own, melting and reforming to channel the winds of magic into the throne, the rumbling growing stronger with every passing heartbeat.
‘All is in hand,’ Teclis tried to assure Malekith. ‘I have made sure that the Great Ritual of Awakening will not succeed, not in its entirety. Nagash will return, strong enough to thwart Chaos for a while yet not so strong that we will not be able to undo what has been done.’
Malekith thought he saw an apparition on the throne, wraith-like but terrifying, armoured and cowled, one hand replaced with a claw of metal clutching the arm of the chair, in the other dead grasp a staff of black iron wrought with Nehekharan sigils. The Great Necromancer raised his head, revealing a skull face, eyes blazing with warp-light. Though Malekith and Teclis were concealed by the greatest enchantments of stealth and darkness that they could weave, for an instant the Witch King was sure that the pale green light of those eyes fell upon him and saw him. There was no life there, no expression that could be read. The visitation lasted only a moment before disappearing.
A sudden blast of Shyish swept along the hall, the magic of death extinguishing every flame, hurling the acolytes to the floor. There was nothing else in the chamber, nothing physical at least, but Malekith sensed a pulsing in his head, as of a deep voice vibrating inside his mind. It was in a human language long dead outside these walls, but in his thoughts he recognised the concept behind the words.
I RETURN
Without thought or word between them, the spirits of Teclis and Malekith fled.
‘Teclis, you are a fool,’ snarled Malekith, aware of the tide of Shyish that was building in the Ulthuan vortex. Darkness swept over the pass as clouds of pure death magic swallowed the Chaos moon. Malekith pulled himself into the throne-saddle, iron skin fizzing with the energy of unlife. ‘Your meddling will destroy us yet.’
He was too spent from his duelling with Ystranna and the opening of the great fissure to counter the rising tide of necromantic power. Likewise the handmaiden and her allies, if they sensed at all the catastrophe about to engulf them, were powerless to prevent the influx of Shyish.
Seraphon sensed something amiss too, snorting and whining with discontent that she had never displayed before. Malekith wrestled the chains of her reins, forcing her to launch into the skies, towards the roiling storm of undeath gathering above. The higher he climbed, the more awestruck Malekith was by the magnitude of the incantation being unleashed. The Circlet of Iron was like a crown of ice on his brow, as the Wind of Shyish blew across Ulthuan, across the whole world, shifted and congealed to a single purpose, bent to a single indomitable will.
Through the power of the Circlet of Iron Malekith’s spirit soared, unexpectedly. Buoyed up by the swell of death magic, the Witch King felt his essence tugging at the bonds of flesh, unwillingly torn from the near-dead shell that had bound his spirit to the realm of the living for six millennia.
In that instant his senses were focused upon a single point, halfway across the world in tainted lands that sat overshadowed by the great mountains of the dwarfs. The region was awash with Shyish, spewing its revivifying energies across the whole of the world. Nagash had returned to the mortal world and now attempted to unleash the Great Awakening once more, as Malekith had feared.
The Witch King was caught on the outer edge of the impossibly powerful conjuration, and with all his willpower strained to maintain a grip on his armoured form, still sat astride Seraphon’s throne-saddle far below. He focused his thoughts on the burning armoured figure of his body, turning his spirit against the raging current of the Great Necromancer’s sorcery, diving back through the storm like a hawk caught in a tornado. Straining, pushing every iota of his last strength into the effort, Malekith seized hold of his body once more, hurling his essence back into the withered husk.
The pain of burning, the agony of Asuryan’s curse, was the most welcome sensation he had ever felt. Tossed upon the brink of oblivion, almost drawn into the dark abyss of endless Mirai, Malekith cried tears of fire, so great was his joy at cheating death, so invigorating was the opportunity to claw another handhold in mortal existence. The pain was life, the agony proof that he could still achieve his ambitions.
Gasping and laughing, Malekith shuddered with ecstasy as around him the necromantic storm raged.
Nagash’s curse of the Great Awakening, the most powerful spell ever unleashed, began with a single shaft of pale green lightning. Where the bolt touched the mountainside the body of a Chracian hunter twitched. Missing an arm, the dead warrior struggled to her feet, her blood staining the fur of her lion pelt cloak. Ghostlight shone from her eyes and with jerking steps she advanced towards the Naggarothi nearby, who stood transfixed by the storm above.
Another lightning strike hit the corpse of a Black Guard, coruscating across silver armour. He pushed himself to his feet, more viscera spilling from the axe wound in his gut, halberd levelled in dead hands.
‘No,’ murmured Malekith as the two dead things fell upon the Naggarothi, who cried out in horror moments before being cut down. ‘No. Not like this. Not now.’
More lightning struck, again and again, increasing in frequency until the whole valley was ablaze with flashing energy. A fog of undeath sprang up from the ground, reanimating all that it touched, shambling figures advancing within the green mist to beset the druchii companies that had stalled in their counter-attack.
Malekith watched as the eagle he had slain earlier flapped ragged wings, digging itself out from under a pile of broken branches. Its rider, the asur prince with the bow, emerged from the fog and mounted the great bird, and the two soared aloft, together in death as they had been in life.
Across the pass the Naggarothi counter-attack had advanced over thousands of dead and now the slain were returning, striking from behind their lines. Beset by the undead the regiments of druchii fractured, losing all coherence and strategy. Malekith bellowed out his rage, cursing Teclis’s name, vowing to gut the meddling Sapherian when they next met, no matter the consequences.
All was not lost, despite Malekith’s tirade. Even as the undead clawed and dragged down his warriors, so they also fell upon the asur. The Whiteweald had been a battleground for the past few days and before that the daemons had slaughtered thousands of Chracians. Now the Wind of Death breathed new vigour into rotting flesh and half-stripped bones. With sinews of magic driving them, the dead of the Whiteweald rose, falling on Chracian and maiden guard, aesenar and druchii without discrimination.
Malekith swooped low over the battlefield, searching for some presence of Ystranna. Though he had perverted the winds of magic to his needs, he had unfinished business with the handmaiden of Avelorn.
There was no sign of her, either mystical or physical, and Malekith bit back his frustration. She had escaped, no doubt with other commanders and mages. Her army was retreating, fighting through the dead of the Whiteweald, but protected from pursuit by the reanimated corpses of the recent battle.
The Witch King considered going after them, or commanding Imrik to wipe out the Chracians, but the present threat of the undead curtailed the urge. Such had been the ferocity of the battle and the daemon invasion the undead outnumbered his host and the dragons were needed protecting what army he had remaining. It would avail him nothing to wipe out Ystranna’s force only to have no army of his own to exploit the slaughter.
For most of the night he held the tide with Urithain and Seraphon, putting to the sword reconstituted manticores and hydras, slaying again dragons that had the day before been killed by war machine bolts and magic.
When his constitution had recovered sufficiently, in the greyness just before dawn Malekith tapped into the well of magic opened by his confrontation with Ystranna. He let the winds of magic spill forth from the fissure that broke the flank of the mountain, a wave of pure Ghyran washing away the taint of Shyish as one might cleanse infection from a wound, sending the last of the animated dead back to their graves.
All across the Whiteweald walking corpses collapsed, the light going from their eyes, undead grasps losing grip of weapons and shields. The druchii stumbled around in the aftermath, in no position to fight or pursue, their voices lifted in praise to their king and the gods and goddesses of the underworld.
Malekith could do no more and bid Seraphon to bear him back to his pavilion. Dismissing the dragon he issued one last command to the Black Guards that stood watch: he was not to be disturbed by anybody.
As soon as he passed out of their sight, Malekith slumped, overwhelmed by the exertions of the day. He staggered to his iron throne and collapsed into its embrace, weary in mind and body.
Sleep came, but brought with it a nightmare of death. Malekith’s dream was filled with visions of Nagash’s Great Ritual as the dead of the world burst forth from ancient graves and slid open the portal stones of their tombs.
In the Northern Wastes above the empire of the humans the corpses of thousands of dead marauders returned to life, breaking out of crude cairns to savage their former kinsmen. Chaos-cursed armies and knightly expeditions of battles long past fought again their wars of pillaging and retribution.
Across the realm of the dwarfs, runes and seals cast to prevent such magical incursion melted and burned, releasing tormented spirits that moaned and wailed through the chambers and halls of the mountain cities.
The gardens of Morr, the humans’ guardian of the dead, were awash with the Great Necromancer’s power, the rituals of the priests availing naught against the sorcery of the first Necromancer. The bodies of burghers and nobles clambered from ornate mausoleums while in the potters’ fields beyond the walls of towns and cities generations of dead were revivified and fell upon the slumbering citizenry.
Eventually darkness came and Malekith dreamed no more.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FRESH PLANS
Though rested in mind and in body, Malekith awoke with a restlessness of spirit.
At first he could not fathom what disturbed him so. It was like an appointment he could not remember, or that he had misplaced some object and had forgotten that he should be looking for whatever was missing. He sat on the throne trying to work out what it was that vexed him, when suddenly he realised what it was.
There were only seven winds of magic.
The Wind of Death, Shyish, was gone. Not abated or dampened as he might expect following the immense raising of the dead by Nagash, but completely gone. Like a grin missing a tooth the winds blowing from the north were incomplete and it was this sensation that was so irritating to his psyche.
His smouldering form burned into fresh life as he bellowed for Kouran to attend him. With full wakening returned memory, and the recollection that Ystranna had escaped the trap she had unwittingly sprung.
‘How long since the battle?’ the Witch King demanded before Kouran could even offer a bow or salute.
‘Three days, my king,’ replied the captain. ‘And two more nights. I despatched scouts by horse and foot and wing but there is no sign of the Chracians or the host from Avelorn.’
‘Of course not,’ snarled Malekith, standing. ‘They have been bloodied and seek to bind their wounds. The mountains hold not only hunting lodges and peat-burners’ huts. There are fortresses here, hidden, dug into the stone like dwarf-holes. The Chracians have gone to ground and wait for us to make our next move.’
‘We shall not disappoint them, my king. The army is ready to march north at your word.’
‘North?’
‘To the coast, my king. Is it not your intent to seize the harbours and crossing to the Blighted Isle?’
This seemed presumptuous of Kouran, to explain strategy to the Witch King, but Malekith knew no insult was intended and let it pass.
‘I would no more have that tree-witch dogging my heels than I would the Anars. We will scour Chrace until she and her army are destroyed.’
‘My king, it could take a season to find them and they are ensconced within their hidden keeps, another season and more to break their defences.’
‘I have three score of dragons!’ Malekith roared, smashing a fist into the other hand, sending up a fountain of red sparks. ‘Did you not see what happened at Eagle Gate? Have we not advanced further than on any campaign since I was first ejected from this isle? Ystranna cannot hide from me. I know her now, and many are the ways in which she can be hunted down.’
‘If Tyrion grants us the leisure of such a pursuit, my king,’ Kouran argued. Any other advisor would have uttered such sentiment with softer words, but Kouran showed no remorse for his indelicate tone. In fact Malekith could see nothing in the other elf’s expression except earnest intent, so alien on the features of the druchii the Witch King barely recognised it.
‘Tyrion.’ Malekith spat the name. ‘Tyrion? Let Tyrion come. Let this pretty prancing prince try his might against mine. He is nothing without…’ Malekith stopped himself naming Tyrion’s brother, not wishing to reveal his involvement with Teclis, even to Kouran. The alliance was best kept secret, a source of power hidden from his rivals, both in the asur camp and his own army. ‘Without Imrik he wields a lesser force.’
‘My king, you hunt rats with a hydra,’ said the Black Guard captain. ‘Ystranna’s force is barely a fifth of ours. It is entirely her intent that we expend our limited days seeking her. It was only with a bait of ten thousand warriors that you were able to draw out her strike in the Whiteweald. She will not be tricked twice. Nor, I think, your own commanders. Alith and his aesenar have disappeared and Ystranna will not show herself again soon.’
‘Until we turn our back on her,’ Malekith said pointedly. It riled him that he had been so close to eliminating the handmaiden and her army, it felt like defeat to let her slip away unmolested. The dead rising had spoiled everything, ruining a perfectly executed strategy. ‘The moment we head north the Chracians will be nipping at our heels, a company lost here, a war machine battery there. You would have us bleed from a thousand tiny bites.’
‘We can spare a third of the army as rearguard, my king, and still have sufficient force to seize Tor Achare and the coastal towns.’
‘A third? Which part of my army would you trust with such duties? The Ghrondians, who I am sure still answer to Drusala though she is absent? Perhaps the remnants from Karond Kar? They must be bursting with loyalty to my cause. There is not a contingent or commander that I can trust out of sight or further than my reach. I burned their cities to ensure they cannot retreat, but should they find welcome in the ranks of the asur…’ Malekith held up his fist and slowly splayed his fingers. ‘Your rearguard would melt quicker than ice in my grasp.’
‘I would stand, my king.’ Kouran said the words with pride, and Malekith did not doubt the captain. ‘The Black Guard will hold the pass for you.’
‘A worthy offer, Alandrian, but one I must decline. I have greater need of your eyes and your blades in my camp, lest those untrustworthy elements I speak of seek a more direct means of betraying me.’
‘That leaves only one choice, my king, one part of the army that you can trust.’
Malekith thought about this for a moment. ‘The Caledorians?’
‘If Imrik gives his word he will keep it, my king.’
‘If…’ Malekith sat down again, settling his body to settle his thoughts. Kouran was right, of course, in principle. The death of Ystranna achieved nothing save to satisfy Malekith’s desire for revenge. Her taunts still smarted and her continued existence was an insult.
But to slay her at the expense of the greater scheme was madness. His arguments against Kouran’s course of action were revealed as thin excuses to allow the Witch King his vengeance. Malekith looked at the captain, who was waiting patiently for his master’s next utterance.
