The sundering, p.17
The Sundering, page 17
‘Your mother is better placed than I to judge events on Ulthuan, highness,’ said Alandrian, and then quickly continued after receiving a cold stare from his master. ‘What she says confirms my own belief. Though Tiranoc grows rich, there are some princes who feel that Bel Shanaar does not lead his people. The true glory of our people is in the colonies. On Ulthuan, life has become so luxurious that none need fight nor labour. Fields are not tilled, no game is hunted. All she now desires is sent from the cities across the world: sacks of grain, spiced meats, cut gems and dwarfen trinkets. Ulthuan grows indolent and her people lose themselves in poetry and song, wine and debauchery.’
Malekith frowned and stroked his chin.
‘I cannot refuse him directly,’ the prince said. ‘The other cities are keen for his patronage still.’
‘Many are jealous of you, beneath their smiles and plaudits,’ said Alandrian. ‘They seek strength from the Phoenix Throne so that they might become more independent of Athel Toralien.’
‘They simply swap one master for another,’ snarled Malekith. ‘I helped build them. I keep their lands safe. How do they repay my dedication? They cry to Bel Shanaar and hope that he will shield them from the cruel reality of the world.’
‘Perhaps there is opportunity here,’ said Alandrian. ‘If the dwarfs see Bel Shanaar as weak compared to your greatness, your position grows stronger.’
‘No, that will not do,’ said Malekith. ‘King Snorri believes our people to be united, as are his. If Bel Shanaar is seen as weak the High King will see all elves as weak, including me. He believes that all of Ulthuan and her princes are as strong as Nagarythe and me. We cannot undermine that useful illusion by showing him otherwise.’
‘I cannot see how we can turn this to your advantage, highness,’ admitted Alandrian.
‘Why now?’ Malekith mused to himself. ‘Why, after one thousand two hundred years does Bel Shanaar visit us now?’
It was a question that was to vex Malekith over the long winter months as he brooded in Athel Toralien. The prince was painfully aware that all the talk in the colonies was of the Phoenix King’s visit, his own exploits and glory now forgotten by the fickle, gossiping elves of the other cities.
The prince was further insulted by the news that Bel Shanaar planned to visit the city of Tor Alessi first. Taken at face value, this was reasonable, for the city had been founded by princes from Tiranoc, the Phoenix King’s own realm. Yet Malekith knew that this was in fact a subtle slight, for Athel Toralien was paramount in size and power in Elthin Arvan. Athel Toralien was a capital in all but name, more than equal in power to Tor Anroc. Bel Shanaar’s intent was to show that despite this, there were lands still beyond Malekith’s control.
It was mid-summer when the Phoenix King and his entourage arrived at the Naggarothi city. Malekith ensured that his welcome of the Phoenix King left Bel Shanaar in no doubt as to where the rule of Elthin Arvan truly lay. He recalled the greater part of his army, some two hundred thousand Naggarothi, and lined the road to the city with regiments of black-clad archers, magnificently armoured knights and grim-faced spearmen.
Such military spectacle had never before been seen, on Ulthuan or anywhere else. The Naggarothi host dwarfed the guard of the Phoenix King, even bolstered as the Tiranoc force was by troops from Tor Alessi. Malekith hoped the comparison between the two armies was not lost on the other princes.
Not to be outdone by the Phoenix King’s wealth, Malekith lavished his guests with the finest gifts and hosted banquets in their honour for thirty days. Herein was another subtle snipe, for Malekith dedicated each night of festivities to a different guest: one for the Phoenix King and one each for the twenty-nine princes who accompanied him. Malekith’s message was clear: Bel Shanaar was the first amongst equals, no greater than any other.
The day before Bel Shanaar was due to leave, Malekith invited the Phoenix King to inspect the warriors of Athel Toralien. They drilled before the city walls, where Malekith stood with his rival upon the massive northern gate tower with his rival. A dozen other princes watched with them, forcing Malekith to choose his words carefully.
‘I see that you are impressed, majesty,’ said Malekith.
‘Against what threat do you maintain such a force?’ asked Bel Shanaar, turning his gaze from the marching columns of spearmen filing past far below the gatehouse.
‘The lands of Elthin Arvan are still home to beasts and orcs,’ Malekith said. ‘I maintain garrisons in dozens of citadels between the ocean and the realm of the dwarfs. There is also the ever-present threat from the north.’
‘Bands of marauders, scattered tribes of thuggish humans?’ Bel Shanaar laughed.
‘The Dark Gods and their daemonic legions,’ said Malekith, and was pleased to see the princes momentarily fearful.
‘Caledor’s vortex remains strong,’ Bel Shanaar said dismissively. ‘Such caution is unnecessary.’
‘I inherited a duty from my father,’ Malekith said, his voice pitched so that it easily carried to the gathered nobles. ‘I shall protect my people against any threat, and stand ready to do the same for Ulthuan.’
Bel Shanaar cast a sideways glance at the princes and said nothing. The Naggarothi continued their manoeuvres until the sun was setting over the ocean.
‘Well, that was enlightening,’ said Bel Shanaar with a clap of his hands. He turned towards one of the gate towers and then spun back on Malekith. ‘I regret that I must depart so soon, but there are others who have begged me to attend their cities and palaces. The Naggarothi cannot have me all to themselves, you know.’
Before Malekith could retort, the Phoenix King had moved away and was surrounded by a gaggle of princes. The Naggarothi prince stormed off in the opposite direction. He felt the need to vent his frustration and wondered where Alandrian would be hiding.
The culmination of this tour was the Phoenix King’s arrival at Karaz-a-Karak. Wishing to display his splendour and power, Bel Shanaar arrived with an entourage of three thousand elves, and a bodyguard of ten times that number. The most high-ranking were housed by the dwarfs, and the others lived in a huge camp that spread for miles along the road that led to the hold.
The greeting ceremony was like nothing either dwarf or elf had ever seen before, as both sides attempted to outdo each other in grandiosity and spectacle. The High King summoned all the kings of the holds to gather to greet Bel Shanaar; hundreds of lesser princes and nobles and every ruling prince of Ulthuan attended the Phoenix King—including Malekith. It was Snorri’s wish that Malekith introduce him to the Phoenix King, and out of friendship Malekith therefore attended the reception of the Phoenix King, backed by five thousand of his Naggarothi knights.
The procession was almost a mile long, and more than a hundred banners fluttered above the column as it made its way up the road to Karaz-a-Karak on the appointed day. The dwarfs lined the highway cheering and clapping, and many had been drinking for days on end beforehand to get in the right spirit. Five hundred kings and thanes stood as guard for the High King, each accompanied by his banner and shield bearers, while great runelords and master engineers stood proudly with their guild standards, surrounded by the clan elders of every hold.
As was to be expected there was a huge feast and many speeches, so that the whole thing took more than eight days to complete, for every king and thane had to meet and be formally introduced though many had fought and even lived beside each other for hundreds of years.
Throughout the celebrations Malekith was on hand to offer whatever advice and information the Phoenix King required; he deigned to act as translator for Bel Shanaar. The climax of all this activity came on the eighth night, as the High King and Phoenix King finally stood together upon the throne dais of Snorri’s audience hall. Bel Shanaar spoke at length upon the benefits of the alliance and the splendid welcome of the dwarfs. He praised the princes for the creation of this corner of the vast empire, and concluded with an announcement that tested Malekith’s tolerance to the limit.
‘Elf and dwarf shall be bound forever in immortal friendship,’ Bel Shanaar declared. ‘As long as our empires endure, may we know peace between us. As a sign of our dedication to this common cause, we shall appoint an ambassador to this court, one of our greatest sons. He is the architect of my empire and the forger of this alliance, and his authority in these lands shall be as mine. His words will be my commands. His will shall be my wish. I name Prince Malekith as embassy to Karaz-a-Karak, and bestow the blessings of all the gods upon his endeavours.’
Malekith fumed inside at these words, and had to fight to keep his expression one of gratitude. ‘My empire,’ Bel Shanaar had said. ‘His will shall be my wish,’ a voice raged inside Malekith’s head. All that he had laboured and fought to create these many centuries, Bel Shanaar had taken from him with those few words. What right did the Phoenix King have to claim anything that Malekith had made possible?
Ambassador? Malekith already had absolute authority over these lands; he needed no permission from Bel Shanaar. The colonies had been his, wrested from the wilderness and the hordes of darkness by his own hands. Blood he had spilt and agonies he had known in the birth of this great empire, while Bel Shanaar had sat upon his throne in Tor Anroc and gorged himself upon the spoils of Naggarothi endeavour. Holding his ire in check, the prince turned and bowed stiffly to the Phoenix King, avoiding Snorri’s gaze lest he recognise some hint of the anger that burned within.
For the remainder of the visit, Malekith excused himself from Bel Shanaar’s company, claiming that he was needed back in Athel Toralien. In reality, he sought the sanctuary of the forests, for such was Malekith’s anger he could not look upon the face of another elf for several months.
Eventually the prince calmed and tried as best he could to return to a normal life. In the five decades that followed Bel Shaanar’s visit Malekith sent messages to Morathi frequently, and she replied with equal regularity. Always she was keen to praise her son for his achievements, but there was also gentle admonishment that he ignored his father’s legacy on Ulthuan. Ever she had insisted that he return to the isle to take up his birthright, and her writing became even more strident following Bel Shanaar’s visit to Karaz-a-Karak. She too had felt the slight caused by the Phoenix King’s words and deeds, and Morathi had ranted at length in her next letter, decrying the hypocrisy of Bel Shanaar, who spoke out against supposed decadence in Nagarythe.
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 tiles 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.
