The end times, p.18
The End Times, page 18
‘How do I deserve such loyalty, Kouran?’ he asked.
The captain frowned, confused that the question had to be asked. ‘You are my king.’
‘Many others seek to be your king, or queen – what makes me so worthy that you cut them down at my word?’
‘You are the true king of the elves, Malekith,’ said Kouran, uttering his master’s name for the first time since joining his service. ‘You are the son of Aenarion, champion of the Daemon War, heir to the Phoenix Crown. It is your right by deed, merit and birth and I would give my life to see that ancient wrong reversed and your rightful position restored. As an elf I can think of no higher calling.’
Malekith received this testament in shocked silence. Not even his mother had ever spoken in such bald terms, and the words were like crystal water cooling his burning flesh. The simplicity of Kouran’s assertion calmed Malekith’s ire. He felt a moment of affinity with the captain, believing for the first time in his long life that there was perhaps one other who truly understood the nature of the pain that coursed through him – not the physical agony but the spiritual torment of rejection.
Pride was his greatest weakness. Malekith knew this, and it had perhaps been the undoing of his father but the affront that had been done to him, the insult to Aenarion’s house, was so great that justice demanded an equally immense retribution.
But not yet. Kouran’s short speech salved the wounded pride of the Witch King, clearing his thoughts.
‘Go to Imrik,’ he said. ‘Bid him to pursue the Chracians and Ystranna to every corner of Chrace if necessary. I want her dead. We will march north, and with his dragons he will guard our advance.’
‘As you say, my king,’ said Kouran, showing no sign of jubilation or conceit.
‘You really are unique amongst our kind,’ Malekith said. ‘Your dedication, your obedience and loyalty are like no other.’
‘It is a lament that the Naggarothi do not value such traits as they once did,’ said Kouran. ‘I cleave to an older time, when Aenarion’s word was his bond and his selfless sacrifice prevented the extinction of our kind.’
‘Not just the Naggarothi,’ said Malekith. ‘All of elfdom. My father would have gladly fought beside you. If only you had been born in such distant times, and perhaps borne aloft his standard instead of that traitor Eoloran Anar, our history may have been very different.’
‘I think not, my king,’ Kouran confessed, ‘though I take it as great praise. Khaine desired your father’s wrath and the Great Powers feared him regardless of those he consorted with. Perhaps now we have the chance to restore what was broken.’
‘We do, Kouran, we have that opportunity.’
Kouran saluted and left, leaving Malekith to plan the march north.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A HASTY COUNCIL
The Witch King had studied the maps and reports from the scouts in great detail and was just about ready to call for his generals when he heard a commotion outside his pavilion. He heard one of his guards issuing a challenge and a sharp rebuke from Kouran – Malekith had expected Kouran to have been gone for the rest of the day and had left instruction that he was not to be disturbed, still weary from his recent efforts.
The argument grew louder and then ended suddenly with the sound of a sword swiftly drawn, a wet chopping noise and a dull thud.
Malekith turned to the door, half drawing Urithain as he did so, expecting treachery. The thought that even Kouran had, at the last, turned on him was almost as hurtful as the fires that raged in his body. The captain of the Black Guard strode into the chamber and stopped. Before the Witch King could say anything, another elf entered – Imrik, with blood-slicked blade bared.
‘Were all your words as empty as your oaths of allegiance?’ snarled Malekith, drawing his sword fully, squaring his stance to face-off against the two elves, the tip of Urithain moving from one to another.
‘It is not as you fear, my king,’ said Kouran. To prove himself, he tossed Crimson Death aside and held up his empty hands. ‘There is no treachery.’
‘Your guard threatened me first,’ Imrik said, by way of explanation. He flicked the blood from his sword and sheathed it.
‘I should think so too,’ said Malekith, lowering Urithain a fraction. ‘That is what guards are for when unwelcome visitors arrive.’
‘He would not listen to my command,’ said Kouran.
‘My command had been explicit.’ Malekith could see that there was no immediate threat and sheathed his blade. He sat down in his throne and beckoned the two elves to approach. ‘Kouran, only one of my four guards saw fit to deny you entry. He has unfortunately lost his life for his dedication. The other three should fare no better for their disobedience.’
‘I will attend to it presently, my king,’ said Kouran, retrieving his weapon. ‘There is a more pressing concern.’
Before Malekith could ask, the drape across the chamber entrance moved aside as Teclis entered, leaning heavily on his staff, looking even worse than he had at Eagle Gate. There was a dangerous look in the mage’s eye nevertheless and he thrust his staff towards Malekith while with his other hand he made an arcane gesture and threw up a semi-transparent wall of gold that surrounded the mage and Witch King. Kouran slashed his halberd at the barrier and was rewarded by an explosion of sparks that threw him halfway across the throne chamber.
‘I knew I could count on the treachery of one of you, at least,’ snarled Malekith. His hand moved towards the hilt of his sword again, but stopped just short. A fight with Teclis would not be conducted with steel, no matter how ensorcelled. The Witch King started to summon the winds of magic to his will. ‘Do you think me a fool?’
‘The arch-traitor stands in accusation of me?’ Teclis’s rage was almost as great as Malekith’s finest tirades. ‘You have conspired and misled me since I first came to you in your dreams, and now you think that I have betrayed you? You are a gutless serpent, Malekith, and I curse the day I ever thought to trust you.’
‘Perhaps it is your mistress, goddess Lileath, that has led you awry,’ snapped Malekith. ‘You come to my camp and threaten me, but it is I that is the traitor? How contrary.’
‘Do not deny that you and your wretched mother have been trying to manipulate me from the outset.’
Malekith was stunned by the idea and was lost for words to utter any such denial. Instead he laughed, finding the accusation so ridiculous there was no other way to answer it.
‘Even now she whispers into the ear of my brother, guiding him to his destruction.’
‘You have taken leave of your senses, nephew. Morathi broods in Ghrond surrounded by thorns and northlanders. If she desires to whisper into the ear of any mortal it would be mine.’
Teclis hesitated, his anger wavering. ‘She left Ghrond with you, in the guise of Drusala. You brought her to Ulthuan and then sent her with Malus to confront my brother, where she infiltrated his camp by means of another glamour.’
‘Nonsense. You are getting confused in your fatigue. Drusala is one of my mother’s chief sorceresses.’
‘Drusala was Morathi.’
‘I would see through such a guise in moments,’ protested Malekith, but uncertainty gnawed at his confidence. ‘Do you think I would not sense the soul of my mother?’
‘And that is why I concluded that you must have been colluding with her,’ said Teclis, but his tone was uncertain. He waved a hand and the shimmering barrier dissipated.
‘No!’ snapped Malekith as Kouran readied to launch himself at the mage. Imrik stood beside the captain looking confused. ‘Something is wrong here. I will hear him speak.’
‘Apologies, my king, but he lied to us,’ said Kouran, glaring at Teclis with unconcealed homicidal intent.
‘A lie of omission, perhaps,’ admitted Teclis, never moving his eyes from the Witch King. ‘I told you that my brother now marches north and that I needed to speak to your master. Both of these facts are still true.’
‘Tyrion seeks battle,’ said Malekith, pondering the import of this news.
‘We need to prepare if Tyrion advances on our position,’ said Imrik.
‘What of Malus Darkblade and the vanguard?’ asked the Witch King. ‘Has he also turned against me?’
‘Malus is dead,’ said Teclis.
‘Finally some good news,’ Malekith exclaimed with a contemptuous laugh. ‘I hope his demise was painful.’
‘He was possessed by a daemon, which tore him apart from inside, before being slain by Tyrion.’
The elves thought about this in silence for several moments, even Malekith’s bitter humour dissipated by the gruesome revelation.
‘Settle this matter,’ insisted Malekith. ‘You swear that Drusala was my mother wrapped in a glamour?’
‘I swear by Lileath,’ said the mage. ‘I recognised her immediately, as did my brother.’
‘And I did not…’
‘Sometimes the closest are the easiest to deceive,’ said Teclis, pacing across the chamber to stop just short of Malekith. ‘A riddle to resolve another day. Of import is that her deception has succeeded. My brother, in his vulnerable mental state, has fallen under her bewitchment. She has persuaded him that he must draw the Widowmaker.’
‘The Sword of Khaine?’ Malekith thought on this and then snorted with derision. ‘Oh Morathi, you poor enamoured soul. You think that this princeling is Aenarion reborn.’
‘I thought it odd that she relinquished him so easily before,’ said Teclis.
‘What are you two talking about?’ demanded Imrik. ‘You speak in half measures, and I would know everything we must face.’
Teclis looked at Malekith, intrigued. ‘I did not realise you were aware of the event. You were, as I recall, indisposed.’
Malekith grimaced, remembering the time well.
‘It is true that I was not of the mortal realm at that time, due to your efforts, nephew. You of all people should remember that we see much more when we have a different perspective and the Realm of Chaos gave me the greatest vantage point one might wish for.’
‘What happened, my king?’ asked Kouran.
‘The Blighted Isle, one hundred and fifty years ago,’ said Malekith. ‘Always it seems our fates revolve around that little bloodied dark altar to the God of Murder.’
It was the blood magic that attracted his attention. It made ripples in the Realm of Chaos, drawing attention from across the spaceless abode of the Ancient Powers. The first drops quickly became a waterfall, channelled by a powerful mind into a torrent of energy that blazed across the immaterial skies like a beacon.
He had been drawn to it out of instinct, moving to its source with a shoal of other near-mindless entities to lap at the delicious sacrifice. More powerful creatures, servants of the Chaos Gods, followed swiftly, causing the lesser denizens to scatter, but he remained, the scent of the blood, the feel of it flowing through him and over reminding him of something he had once been.
As more blood was spilled on the altar of the elves’ God of Murder further power thrashed through the Realm of Chaos, drawing a crimson scene upon the ever-changing world. He saw the rocks of an island – a place he had known – and two armies clashing. An altar of black stone was awash with blood, the basin-like temple around it filled with corpses of slaves and sorceresses. By the altar itself stood a tall figure, hair thick with gore, wickedly jagged sacrificial blade in hand, her naked form bathed in blood.
Looking upon the face, he remembered.
Morathi. His mother.
He was Malekith, king of the elves, and he had cast himself into the Realm of the Gods to avoid death at the hands of the mage, Teclis. He had no idea how long had passed in the mortal world, but as he watched the scene unfolding in the pools of blood around him he realised that something was amiss.
There was another with Morathi and at first Malekith was stunned by recognition. It was his father, Aenarion, the defender of Ulthuan and first of the Phoenix Kings. But the scene did not resemble any act he remembered occurring before his self-imposed banishment. His father had travelled alone to the Blighted Isle, both to retrieve the Sword of Khaine and to replace it. Morathi did not belong there.
With a shock Malekith understood. It was not Aenarion that stood slack-eyed and entranced by the Hag Sorceress, but one of his descendants, the Prince Tyrion. Malekith had no idea how Morathi had come to capture the prince, or the Blighted Isle, but it was obvious that her possession of these two at the same time was not coincidence.
Becoming fully aware of himself and his sense of being, Malekith was able to stretch forth his will into the Realm of Chaos around him. The Circlet of Iron on his brow throbbed as it guided his power, allowing him to move the image of the scene as he desired. He saw that the asur army besieging the Shrine of Khaine was led by Teclis, the twin of Tyrion, fighting desperately to free his brother.
Morathi’s intent became clear. She was trying to use Tyrion as a vessel for restoring Aenarion’s soul to the mortal sphere. She was bargaining in blood for Khaine to return the first Phoenix King, to instil Aenarion’s essence into the body of the prince.
In short, Morathi was trying to replace Malekith and put Tyrion on the throne of Ulthuan.
He raged as he saw the ceremony reaching its crescendo, cursing his mother and urging Teclis and his host to greater efforts, impotently trapped in the immortal but immaterial world. Whether the ritual would succeed looked doubtful, but Malekith wanted his mother to fail, for throwing her son aside in favour of this gullible young prince, and for disturbing the eternal rest of his father.
Malekith’s anger lent him strength, the same strength that had sustained him for thousands of years. He would not be usurped again!
Through an extension of pure will, Malekith reached into the mind of one of the Naggarothi looking on, one of the final line of defence against the asur counter-attack. The druchii’s thoughts were filled with selfish desires and hatred of the approaching asur and it took only the smallest of influences for Malekith to subvert the elf’s mind and turn it to his will.
With stolen body Malekith drew close to Morathi, stepping between the bodies of the dead, unnoticed as the Hag Sorceress shrieked her supplications and promises to Khaine. Drawing his blade, he thrust the sword between his mother’s shoulder blades and tore it free as she fell. Another stroke cut the bonds around Tyrion, but the prince just blinked and looked dumbfounded, drugged or worse.
‘Move, you cretinous dog,’ Malekith snarled, slapping the prince across the cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Wake up!’
Tyrion murmured and blinked again, as though rousing from a heavy sleep. Morathi was already pushing herself to her feet, the wound in her back sealing with magical energy.
‘Go!’ Malekith thrust the sword into Tyrion’s hands as other druchii closed on him and the prince. ‘Your brother approaches!’
Guided by instinct, Tyrion blocked a sword aimed at his throat and disembowelled the elf that had attacked him. Malekith threw his purloined body in front of a hail of repeater crossbow bolts, saving the prince as he charged the closing ring of Naggarothi. Blotting out the pain from his stolen flesh, the spirit of the Witch King had one last glimpse of Tyrion cutting his way free and then his new body died, sending his essence wailing back to the Realm of Chaos.
Imrik listened to the end of the tale with a look of disbelief, while Kouran nodded silently, absorbing the import of what Malekith had said.
‘I did not realise that you had intervened,’ said Teclis, brow creased with a shallow frown. ‘Rumour followed that an agent of Hellebron had freed my brother to confound Morathi.’
‘A rumour I did not quash on my return,’ said Malekith.
‘Why did you not slay her when you returned, my king?’ asked the Black Guard captain.
‘My mother stood by me for five thousand years, and even when I sided with Bel Shanaar and took her into custody she never gave up on my destiny to become Phoenix King.’ Malekith took a deep breath, his lungs burning and ragged while the pain of recollection swamped his thoughts. He shook his head to clear them. ‘She thought I was dead, and sought another to fulfil her ambitions. I could not blame her.’
‘The ritual guided you back from oblivion,’ said Teclis, eyeing Malekith with wonder. ‘When you disappeared into the Realm of Chaos I thought you lost forever, and wondered how it was that you managed to return.’
‘It was the spark that reignited the flame of my spirit and gave me purpose again,’ Malekith replied. His mood soured. ‘Though it appears my leniency was misplaced and since that time she has been seeking to reunite with Tyrion again. I accused her of wasting away in Ghrond like a pining lover but her greater intent becomes clear. She did not warn of the northlander attack hoping that Naggaroth would be devastated, too weak to ever reclaim Ulthuan, and she would swoop upon Tyrion and usher him to the Phoenix Throne over the bodies of any that defied him.’
‘That part of the plan has so far failed,’ said Teclis, ‘but the cycle of history turns again and this time we shall suffer for it if we do not act.’
‘Why did you not dispel her bewitchment?’ demanded Imrik. ‘This matter would be simply resolved if you broke the hold Morathi has on Tyrion.’
‘I cannot, for his heart is bound to her now by something stronger than magic.’
‘Surely he cannot love her?’ Imrik shook his head in disgust.
Teclis took a moment to drink one of his life-giving potions, gaining himself time to think. He looked directly at Malekith. ‘What first drove your father to the Sword of Khaine and the embrace of your mother?’
‘Grief,’ Malekith replied without hesitation. ‘His wife and children slain, or so he believed, he reached his darkest nadir and sought only vengeance for the ill that beset him and his people.’
