The end times, p.19
The End Times, page 19
‘Tyrion’s daughter is dead,’ announced Teclis, looking away. Was it an expression of guilt? Malekith wondered. ‘Princess Aliathra died trying to thwart the return of the Great Necromancer.’
‘Aliathra was Finubar’s child, the next Everqueen,’ said Imrik, confused. ‘Are you saying… ?’
‘I knew it!’ said the Witch King, earning himself looks of interest from the mage and Imrik together, but he did not care for their feelings. ‘Well, I was almost certain, and now you confirm my suspicions. And here you are, nephew, at my camp, rather than at your brother’s side doing your best to counter the machinations of my mother. Why might that be?’
Teclis did not answer.
‘Answer Malekith’s question, mage,’ insisted Imrik. ‘Your efforts would have been better spent curtailing the threat at source rather than bringing news of its unfolding to us.’
‘Tyrion blames me for Aliathra’s death. I was forced to flee.’
‘Is that so?’ crowed Malekith. ‘An intrigue going amiss, nephew?’
Teclis said nothing but the Witch King saw his expression saddening even further, fingers tightening on his staff, jaw clenched.
‘Or perhaps something worse,’ Malekith continued, relentless, recognising the self-loathing behind Teclis’s grief. His voice was filled with savage glee. ‘You meant for her to die, did you not?’
The mage quivered with emotion, almost collapsing, but none of his companions made a move to assist him.
‘Is this true?’ demanded Imrik, while Kouran laughed with scorn.
‘Enough!’ snarled the mage, with such vehemence that Imrik and Kouran retreated a step. He glared at all three of them with eyes blazing with golden energy. ‘She was my niece and I feel the loss no less for the fact that it was necessary.’
Malekith stepped down from his throne and loomed over the mage. ‘You have always intended for Tyrion to draw the Widowmaker.’
Teclis nodded, defiant. ‘By drawing again His sword, the curse of Khaine will be lifted from our line.’
‘You would unleash the Godkiller on the world again?’ Imrik’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Just to rid your family of their curse?’
‘We have no future while the curse remains,’ said Teclis, dismissing Imrik’s concerns with a wave of the hand. He slumped and looked earnestly first at Imrik and then Malekith. ‘None of us. What better time for the Godslayer to be drawn than during the Rhana Dandra? I had planned to be beside my brother, to guide him through the turmoil so that he would be able to return the blade when the End Times were over and Chaos thwarted again.’
‘You reckoned without the interference of my mother,’ said Malekith, pacing away. ‘It seems that your mistress’s prophecies are not worth much, nephew.’
‘It is too late to give up,’ said Teclis. He hesitated before continuing. ‘Nagash has returned and attempted to become the living embodiment of Shyish. As I promised, he was too weak and for the moment he has drawn the power to the land the humans call Sylvania. He seeks to regain his pyramid in Khemri and if he does so, perhaps he will also regain the means to take the Wind of Shyish into himself fully.’
‘The embodiment?’ Malekith had never thought such a thing possible. ‘A physical avatar of a magical wind?’
‘As I say,’ said Teclis, looking uneasy at the mention of such a thing, as though he regretted having to bring it up. Malekith let his suspicions remain unspoken for the time being. ‘Even now, across the ocean, the Great Necromancer’s armies and the humans fight a great incursion from the northlands. The Chaos Gods have their attention focused on the realm of Sigmar and the endless legions of Nagash’s lieutenants for the moment, but it will not linger there forever. Sooner or later the daemons will come again for Ulthuan and we must be united and ready. Lileath has shown me the way to victory and though my own plans follow a twisted path, the destination has not changed.’
‘I did not say I had given up,’ said Malekith, turning back to the others. ‘We must seize the Blighted Isle first.’
‘Do you intend to take up the Sword of Khaine, my king?’ asked Kouran, who had observed the whole exchange without voicing any opinion. His expression betrayed no thought regarding whether he thought this a good or bad idea.
‘It is not a gift, it is a trap,’ said Malekith, remembering previous experience. ‘One I have already avoided. It would be folly to put myself in such a position again on purpose.’
‘You must, if it would prevent its power being controlled by Morathi,’ insisted Teclis.
‘How do we stop Tyrion if he wields the Widowmaker?’ Imrik asked, aghast at the thought.
‘I do not know,’ admitted Teclis.
‘That is why I plan to get there first,’ Malekith said, avoiding the answer to the question. In this area he was beholden to the guidance of Teclis, and it irked the Witch King to trust the Sapherian, but he had no choice. This was a road he had chosen to follow, throwing in his fortune with the fate of others, and now he was required to follow its course to the end, bitter or otherwise. ‘I suggest you impose upon your allies and cousins a sense of urgency.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE SHADOW OF KHAINE
The battle had descended into an anarchy of bloodletting and savagery as the violent shroud of Khaine fell upon all that participated in the fighting. The Blighted Isle was His domain and all blood shed on its shores belonged to Him, and all that lifted blade or bow offered up a prayer to His power. Manoeuvre and strategy, wheel and counter-wheel, lines of advance and echelons of attack had become meaningless as the druchii threw themselves at the small contingent of elves defending the Shrine of Khaine.
Kouran and his Black Guard were at the centre of the attack, the steel point of the spear thrust into the heart of the enemy, cleaving through archers and spearmen that fought beneath the colours of Yvresse, the banner of Naggarond flying proudly beside Malekith’s lieutenant. The spears and arrows of Tor Yvresse’s silverin guard met the tide of black-and-purple-clad Naggarothi dreadspears while the darkshards of the Witch King unleashed a continual storm of repeater crossbow bolts into the foe.
Overhead wheeled mages on pegasi and colourfully-blazoned knights of Tor Gavel riding griffons, where black dragons duelled with flame-winged phoenixes and Sapherian loremasters aboard flying skycutters drawn by eagles and hippogriffs.
On the periphery of the battle stalked the aesenar, who had tailed Malekith’s army through Chrace and made their own hidden crossing, led by the Shadow King. Many had been cut down by the advance of the Black Guard but the survivors sniped at regimental captains and slew the handlers of hydras and packs of war dogs, adding to the confusion and dread that reigned over Khaine’s domain. They were not the only descendants of Nagarythe fighting in defence of the shrine, for the Revenants of Khaine held the grounds of the temple itself, ready to slay and be slain to prevent the Widowmaker being seized.
Not long ago it had started raining blood, crimson streaking down pale flesh and shining armour as a benediction of Khaine’s pleasure at the slaughter. It hissed and spat from the armour of the Witch King as he tried his best to maintain some semblance of control over his bloodthirsty warriors.
Teclis stood not far away. As yet the mage had not committed to the fighting and was reserving his magical strength for some deed yet to come. The Sapherian felt the Witch King’s gaze upon him and turned.
‘Whatever happens, we must not let Tyrion take the Sword of Khaine.’
‘My army bleeds to that end, nephew – what more do you ask?’
‘Promise me that you will take up the Widowmaker instead, if that is what is needed.’
‘What a strange life you have led. Does it shame you to think of the times you and your kin thwarted me in my attempts to rule, or are you simply filled with the warm glow of satisfaction from the realisation of my rightful claim? It must be so heartening that your life’s work, your dedication, has led to this moment, when you would rather see me wielding the Widowmaker than your brother.’
Teclis said nothing more and simply glared at the Witch King.
‘Worry not,’ said Malekith, Urithain blazing to life in his grasp, ‘your brother forfeited his hands the moment he started grasping for my crown. He will possess no fingers with which to claim the Godslayer.’
‘That is not a promise,’ Teclis replied, but the Witch King’s thoughts had moved on, dismissing the mage.
Malekith’s second wave of warriors were being torn apart by the griffons and their riders and with a gesture to the dozen black dragons that accompanied him, he took to the sky on Seraphon. As he rose higher, the crash of battle dimmed and the stench of blood lessened, and it reminded him of how different it had been the first time he had set foot upon this bare rock.
Malekith came to a wide, flat expanse near to the centre of the Blighted Isle. Here jagged black rocks veined with lines of red thrust up into the ruddy skies like a circle of columns. The ground within was as flat as glass and black as midnight. At the centre there stood a block of red-veined rock and something only partly visible shimmered above it. This was clearly the Shrine of Khaine, but as Malekith looked around he could see no sign of his father’s resting place nor any remains of Indraugnir. They must have come here, for Aenarion had returned the Sword of Khaine to the very altar close to which Malekith now stood.
Even as his thoughts touched upon the Godslayer, there came to Malekith’s ears a distant noise: a faint screaming. Now that it had attracted his attention, the prince looked at the Altar of Khaine more closely. As he did so, the sounds around him intensified. The screams of agony were joined by howls of horror. The ring of metal on metal, of fighting, echoed around the shrine. Malekith heard a thunderous heart beating, and thought he saw knives carving wounds upon flesh and limbs torn from bodies on the edge of his vision.
The red veins of the altar were not rock at all, but pulsed like arteries, blood flowing from the altar stone in spurting rivers of gore. He realised that the beating heart was his own, and it hammered in his chest like a swordsmith working at an anvil.
A keening sound, like a note sung by a sword’s edge as it cuts the air, rang in Malekith’s ears. It was not unpleasant, and he listened to it for a while, drawn by its siren call to take step after step closer to the altar. Finally, the prince of Nagarythe stood transfixed before that bloody shrine just as his father Aenarion had been.
The thing embedded in the rock shimmered before Malekith’s eyes, a blur of axe and sword and spear. Finally a single image emerged, of a bulbous mace studded with gems. Malekith was confused, for this was no weapon, but rather reminded him of the ornamental sceptres often carried by other princes. It seemed very similar to the one borne by Bel Shanaar when he had visited the colonies.
It was then that the meaning came to Malekith. All of Ulthuan would be his weapon. Unlike his father, he needed neither sword nor spear to destroy his foes. He would have the armies of an entire nation in his grasp, and would wield them however he pleased. If he but took up Khaine’s sceptre, there would be none that could oppose him. Like a vision, the future unfolded before Malekith.
He would return to Ulthuan and go to Tor Anroc, and there cast down the gates of the Phoenix King. He would offer up the body of Bel Shanaar to Khaine and become undisputed ruler of the elves. He would reign for eternity as the bloody right hand of the God of Murder. Death would stalk in his shadow as he brought ruination to the empire of the dwarfs, for such was the power of the elves that they need not share the world with any other creature. Beastmen were put to the sword by their thousands, and the carcasses of orcs and goblins spitted upon poles lined the roads of his empire for hundreds of miles.
Malekith laughed as he saw the rude villages of humans being put to the torch, their menfolk tossed onto pyres, their women with their hearts ripped out, whole families with their heads dashed in upon the bloodied rocks. Like an unstoppable tide, the elves would conquer all that lay before them, until Malekith presided over an empire that covered the entire globe and the fumes of the sacrificial fires blotted out the sun. Malekith was carried forwards on a giant palanquin made from the bones of his vanquished enemies, a river of blood pouring out before him.
‘No!’ cried Malekith, breaking his gaze from the sceptre and hurling himself face-first to the rocky ground.
He lay there for a long while, eyes screwed shut, his heart pounding, his breathing ragged and heavy. Slowly he calmed himself, and opened an eye. There seemed to be nothing amiss. There was no blood or fire. There was nothing but silent rock and the hiss of the wind.
The last rays of the day bathed the shrine in orange, and Malekith pushed himself to his feet and staggered from the circle, not daring to look back at the altar. Knowing that his father would not be found, Malekith gathered his senses as best he could and made for the boat, never once looking back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE BATTLE OF THE BLIGHTED ISLE
The Blighted Isle was a battle-ravaged boneyard. For five millennia the druchii and asur had contested control of the island, neither willing to sacrifice their hold on the Widowmaker’s resting place. Even before Nagash’s spell the dead had never rested easily here, their spirits taken by Khaine, denied their eternal rest in Mirai. Now those dead were silent, the magical wind that had sustained them stilled by the return of the Great Necromancer. The bones of five thousand years lay knee-deep in places, the corpses of the last years’ skirmishes still fresh on top of the charnel pile.
The white was splashed crimson with the blood of those now selling their lives for possession of the shrine, and great must have been Khaine’s mirth at the carnage being wrought to deny his return to the world. Elves foundered through the bone-drifts, cracking bleached ribs underfoot while hydras and griffons snapped vertebrae and crushed skulls. Companies of spears crashed together, wading through mires of blood and rotting flesh, the scene made all the more grisly by the crimson storm that continued to pour from the black clouds overhead.
Desire and desperation found equal purpose in Malekith’s heart and he fought with a fervour and strength he had not possessed for many an age. Not since the battles of his first war for Ulthuan had he known such spectacle and the pivot of history was swinging in his favour. If he prevailed this day all of Ulthuan would be his, as it should have been so many centuries before.
The knights of Tor Gavel could not match him. Urithain was a blur in his hand, cutting and slashing, severing griffon wings and princes’ heads with equal abandon. Malekith trusted to the armour of midnight to protect him from harm. As his iron skin absorbed blows from the blessed steel of Yvressian princes so his spellshield devoured the bolts and flames of Sapherian enchantments. Seraphon shared her master’s mood, claws and fangs leaving a tattered trail of bloody carcasses in their wake as they tore across the skies like a black thunderbolt. Behind them the other black dragons fell upon the archers and bolt throwers lining the boulder-strewn approaches to the Shrine of Khaine, cleaving bloody furrows in the ranks of the Yvressian militia.
While Malekith’s blade cut flesh and bone, his magic consumed an equal number of foes with dark lightning and organ-charring flames. Armour melted as bolts of dark magic leapt from his fingertips and Yvressian knights shrieked their last breaths as his mind tore apart their innards and pulverised their bones. Pegasi fell from the skies like swatted insects, hearts stopped by a simple gesture from the Witch King, their riders’ plunging death screams lost in the din of the armies clashing below.
Flying the colours of Lothern, a squadron of skycutters pulled by great eagles swept down into Malekith, the riders’ spears glinting with magic. Seraphon turned into the descending skycutters, a barbed wing raking the guts from one of the eagles while her jaws snapped around the neck of another. Malekith was surrounded by a welter of claws and speartips that glanced shrieking from his armour, a flurry of feather and beaks blotting all view. Urithain split one of the attacking birds from eye to tail while a coruscating black flame incinerated the skycutter it had been pulling. The other skycutters fell away quickly, pursued by the vengeful Witch King, the roars of Seraphon hastening their retreat.
Malekith drew in the winds of magic, forming a storm of power around his upraised blade. It felt strange, the Wind of Shyish missing from the enchantment, but the vanished Wind of Death did nothing to lessen the raw power of his sorcery.
He sighted on the nearest of the Lothern chariots and unleashed the spell, but no sooner had the ball of fire left his hand than it fizzled into smoke, dispersing along the wind. Disgruntled, Malekith flung out a hand, willing bolts of power to leap across the sky towards his doomed victim. Sparks crackled across his fingertips but nothing more.
The Witch King felt the twisting of the winds of magic that had thwarted his sorcery. All thoughts of the griffons and skycutters forgotten, he steered Seraphon groundwards, seeking the elf that had thought to test their magic against his. Flying just out of bowshot above both armies, he found his prey upon a hillside to the west. The elf that confronted him was a young princess, and her features seemed familiar though he could not place them. More recognisable was the cage of magical energy that surrounded her, emanating from an amulet around her neck. As he descended on her, the Witch King thought he could hear dry, dead voices whispering on the winds, casting counter-spells against his sorcery, edged with the silvery-frost of Sapherian magecraft.
The Yvressian princess was so taken with her dispelling that she paid no heed to the black doom diving down upon her. Malekith saw her flinch, distracted, and at the same time he felt a pulsing on the winds of magic, a surge of grief that flowed from the princess’s thoughts, a moment of severance. Her counter-spell scattered by this shock, the princess looked up to see Seraphon’s plummeting form, her face a mask of terror.
