The Curse of the Phoenix Crown

by C. L. Werner

  Just as the elves tried to undermine the dwarf strategy, so too did Morgrim loose his own plans to blunt the elgi attack. ‘Give the sign,’ Morgrim shouted into Khazagrim’s ear. The old warrior hefted the thane’s banner high, thrusting it up and down several times in the air. In response, trumpeters hidden in the buildings on the left flank of the square blew a blast of monstrous noise from their instruments. The roaring cachinnation struck when the charge was still many yards away from the dwarf formation. Assailed by the noisy tumult, many of the horses were thrown into panicked confusion. They reared back, stamping their hooves and kicking at the air. Some were bowled over by the horses coming after them, spilling across the square in a miserable tangle of injured mounts and riders.

  Not all of the cavalry were undone. The boldest of the steeds managed to maintain their charge, rushing at the dwarfs in a wave of steel barding and silk tabards. At their head, an ivory-gripped lance held before him, was Caledor himself. The Phoenix Crown was dazzling, almost blinding as the king brought his knights smashing into the dawi ranks. Morgrim conceded a grudging respect that the Phoenix King had ensured his foes would recognise him even in the fury of battle.

  The elven knights slammed into the dwarfs, slaughtering a dozen in their first rush, the steel-tipped lances driven clean through their thick armour by the momentum of the attack. The locked shields and stubborn resistance of the dawi prevented the charge from punching through to the rearward ranks, however. After that first horrendous crash, the elves found themselves pinned in place by Morgrim’s warriors. The elves didn’t waste time trying to free their lances, but cast the weapons aside the instant their charge faltered. With almost machine-like synchronisation, the knights drew their swords and cast about them at their foes.

  Morgrim fended off the blade of one knight, blocking it with the haft of his axe before bringing Azdrakghar swinging around to cleave the leg from the elgi’s horse. As the animal collapsed, he brought the axe chopping down into the knight’s head, splitting helm and skull like a melon.

  Turning from his vanquished foe, Morgrim was barely able to avoid the downward slash of another elgi blade. He jerked back, almost stumbling over the horse he’d killed. The thane blinked in shock when he saw the elf behind the slashing blade. ‘Caledor!’ he roared, spitting the name as though it were the vilest of curses.

  ‘You are the vaunted Elfdoom?’ the elgi king taunted, his words rolling off his tongue in a precise if stilted Khazalid. ‘You are the maggot who killed my brother?’ The king’s blade flashed out once more, slicing across Morgrim’s pauldron and nearly splitting the steel in half. Forged for the Great War against Chaos, Dawnkiller was meant to spill the essence of the mightiest daemons. Before the enchantments woven into the blade, Morgrim’s armour was little more than paper.

  ‘You are the scum who killed my prince,’ Morgrim snarled back. He lunged at the elf lord, but Caledor kicked his horse, causing Torment to rear and lash out at the dwarf with its steel-shod hooves. One of the flailing hooves cracked against Morgrim’s helm, staggering him and forcing him back.

  Caledor moved to exploit the opening, stabbing down with Dawnkiller. The ithilmar blade pierced Morgrim’s shoulder, drawing a ragged cry from the hero, but instead of reeling, he brought Azdrakghar swinging back around. The axe cracked against Caledor’s shield, almost splitting it in two. Morgrim grunted as he tried to pull his blade free, then his breath caught in his throat. The axe was stuck fast, refusing to budge from the rent in the shield.

  The elf king cried out in pain – the impact of Morgrim’s axe had nearly broken his arm. Digging his spurs into the flanks of Torment, Caledor brought the animal spinning around, dragging Morgrim after it. The dwarf was battered as the horse’s stomping hooves pounded against him, but he held fast to the haft of his axe. Even as the hooves knocked teeth from his mouth, turned his nose to pulp and crushed one of his ears, he maintained his hold. At last, as the animal’s fury waned, Morgrim set his feet and, exerting the full limit of his strength, wrenched his axe free.

  Or so he thought. As Caledor turned to face him once more, Morgrim saw that he hadn’t freed Azdrakghar at all – the elf king had simply released his shield, leaving it caught on the axe. Glaring at the thane, Caledor prepared to ride down the dwarf.

  The thunderous roar of hundreds of voices howling the dawi war-cry boomed across the square. Dwarf warriors in their thousands had converged upon the battle. They swiftly spread out, surrounding the elgi king and his knights. More dawi drove in from the sides of the square, pushing before them the infantry Caledor had kept in reserve. Defying the arrows still whistling down at them from the roofs, the dwarfs were forcing their foes out, pushing them towards the fountains and the obelisk.

  Caledor arrested Torment’s charge, managing to maintain control over the horse even in the fury of the dwarf war-cry. The elf king kept Dawnkiller pointed at Morgrim and slowly turned his head, staring with consternation at the masses of bearded warriors all around him. Morgrim’s bloodied face pulled back into a smile. Caledor was trapped and he was being forced to face that fact.

  ‘So this is how it ends,’ Caledor growled at Morgrim. ‘A lion brought down by jackals.’

  ‘No, a dragon felled by a king,’ a grim voice called out from the direction of the broken gate. Both Morgrim and Caledor turned to see the hearthguard forcing their way through the press of dwarf warriors. Behind them, carried aloft upon the shoulders of his thronebearers, seated upon his ancient Throne of Power, was High King Gotrek Starbreaker.

  When his thronebearers reached the square, Gotrek bade them lower him to the ground. Tightening his hold on the haft of his axe, the king stepped out from among his hearthguard.

  Caledor sneered at the dwarf king. ‘I had imagined that the High King would be taller,’ he mocked. ‘Am I to understand that you mean to challenge me?’

  ‘If you have the spine for it,’ Gotrek snarled back in the rudimentary Eltharin he’d learned from Forek many years ago. The way the elf smiled at his pronunciation only fed the fury boiling inside him. ‘You killed my son, elgi. If you’d paid the wergild demanded by my kingdom, I would have been obliged to let you live.’ Gotrek spat at the ground beneath Caledor’s steed. ‘Now I am under no such obligation.’

  Caledor slowly dismounted. He looked into Torment’s eyes, then with a shout and a swat of his hand against the animal’s flank, he sent the horse galloping back towards the municipal hall where the elgi still held command. He watched the horse for a moment, then turned back towards Gotrek. ‘What are the terms you offer, dwarf? What do I gain when I kill you, other than the pleasure of removing one more mole from this world?’ He looked around at the glowering faces that lined the square. His surviving knights had withdrawn into a circle, presenting swords and shields to their enemies, but the dwarfs were making no effort to close upon them. Around the fountains of Mathlann and Vaul, hundreds of elgi soldiers were being squeezed by a ring of dawi axes. Even there, the fighting had stopped. All eyes were turned towards the two kings.

  Gotrek unlimbered the axe strapped to his back. It was the most potent and venerable weapon in his armoury, a relic from the time of legend. The Axe of Grimnir, an heirloom from one of the ancestor gods, an artefact hoary with myth and history. As the High King took the weapon up in his hands, the ancient runes etched into its blade began to pulse with a violent crimson glow.

  ‘Kill me, and there will be no grudgement,’ Gotrek declared. ‘You and your people will be allowed to leave with your lives.’ He raised his hand, stifling the protest he saw in Morgrim’s face. ‘No dawi will defy the words of their High King.’

  Caledor nodded, then abruptly sprang forwards. Dawnkiller licked out, raking across the meteoric iron of Gotrek’s mail and striking sparks from the rune-etched armour. ‘Fair enough,’ the elf said. ‘Let’s have this done, shall we?’

  Gotrek cracked the butt of his axe against Caledor’s leg, driving t
he enemy king back. Then he tried to press his attack, bringing the Axe of Grimnir spinning about in a whirling sweep. The elf nimbly darted aside, retaliating with a gruesome jab that notched the dwarf’s ear and sent blood coursing down his neck.

  ‘Surely you can do better than that?’ Caledor said.

  ‘I intend to,’ Gotrek growled back. The Axe of Grimnir flashed out in a murderous arc, striking for the elgi’s legs. Caledor leapt over the strike, slashing down at the dwarfish axe. The impact unbalanced Gotrek, causing him to stagger forwards. The elf cracked Dawnkiller’s pommel against the back of Gotrek’s helm, provoking a further stagger.

  Gotrek could feel the eyes of his ancestors, the eyes of Snorri, watching him as he reeled from Caledor’s strike. The thought brought him spinning back around, slashing out with the Axe of Grimnir even as the elf king moved to exploit his foe’s loss of balance. Caledor twisted to one side, fright on his features as the axe ripped across his waist and tore away his silk surcoat.

  The High King of the Karaz Ankor would not be humiliated by this elgi. Gotrek wouldn’t dishonour his ancestors in such fashion. He wouldn’t allow the memory of Snorri Halfhand to become a mockery, to force his son’s spirit to wander Gazul’s halls lost and unavenged!

  With a bestial roar, Gotrek turned his stagger into a charge, rushing at Caledor. A furious cascade of blows forced the elf into retreat, driving him back across the mosaics. Gotrek sneered as he watched Caledor’s boots scrape across the face of ancient elgi heroes. That was the difference between elgi and dawi: the dawi honoured their ancestors, the elgi stepped on them.

  The Axe of Grimnir raked down the blocking blade of Dawnkiller, both weapons seeming to scream as sparks flashed from them. Gotrek felt the tremble of Caledor’s resistance rush down his own arm. Agility, finesse, these were the assets of the elgi, not strength and endurance. That failing would seal the fate of the Phoenix King.

  With a hiss, Caledor swung away from Gotrek, freeing Dawnkiller and twisting away before the dwarf could bring his axe chopping back around. The elf leapt away, hopping onto the alabaster basin of one of the square’s many fountains. The water that lapped about his armoured feet was dyed a vivid crimson and the golden statue that loomed above him was a grisly, savage-looking god with red water spilling from his snarling mouth.

  ‘Do not look to your gods for help, tall-ears!’ Gotrek snarled. He thrust up at Caledor, his axe missing the elf as he twisted away and instead cleaving a great gouge in the side of the basin. Gotrek cried out in sudden pain as Caledor brought Dawnkiller flashing back around, slashing the sword across the back of the dwarf’s helm.

  The meteoric iron was gashed by the blow, but even Dawnkiller was unable to penetrate the protective runes that defended the High King. A few wisps of hair were all that clung to Caledor’s blade when he pulled it out from Gotrek’s helm.

  Bellowing in fury, Gotrek brought the Axe of Grimnir crashing against Caledor’s shin. The gilded plate, despite the vaunted enchantments woven into it, split apart beneath the blow. The dwarf grinned when he saw blood boil up from beneath the cleft armour.

  The next instant, Gotrek was knocked back, his nose split by a kick from Caledor’s steel boot. He blinked as red pain seared across his vision, spat as the taste of his own blood streamed down into his mouth. He glared up at the elf, now circling above him on the rim of the basin. Caledor matched his gaze with one equally savage.

  ‘That was almost admirable,’ Caledor said, dabbing at his injured shin with a strip torn from his surcoat. Wincing in pain, he stuffed the silk down the rent in his armour, trying to stop the blood leaking from his body. When he spoke to Gotrek, however, it was with a scornful bravado. ‘This duel might be interesting after all. Much more memorable than the one I had with your son. What was his name again?’

  Hearing the elf mocking his dead son sent daggers of hate stabbing into Gotrek’s brain. He trembled, feeling every muscle in his body engorged with the magnitude of his fury. Snarling, he lunged at his enemy, all craft and care abandoned in his bloodthirsty urge to kill.

  Caledor was ready for him. Spinning around, he raked Dawnkiller across Gotrek’s arm, slashing across the meteoric iron. The armour of Gotrek’s gauntlet, however, wasn’t so thick and ancient as the rest of his vestment and when Dawnkiller reached it, Caledor gave it a vicious twist. The turning steel ripped open Gotrek’s hand, sending two of his fingers leaping in the air.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Caledor grinned. ‘Halfhand was what they called him.’

  The elf had expected Gotrek to reel back in pain after his mutilation. He wasn’t prepared when the dwarf spun back around and brought the Axe of Grimnir licking at his belly. Caledor was able to turn aside, but the blow caught him just the same, cleaving deeply into his knee. He cried out in agony as his leg crumpled under him.

  The High King glared up at his reeling foe, vicious satisfaction in his eyes as he watched Caledor’s blood dripping down into the fountain. ‘Snorri Halfhand, son of Gotrek Starbreaker,’ Gotrek snarled at his enemy. ‘Felled by a treacherous elgi king unworthy to cross blades with a grobi.’ He brought his axe flashing around once more.

  Even injured, Caledor was able to bring Dawnkiller flashing out to intercept the descending axe. Again, the two weapons shrieked as the kings ground them against one another, striving to overwhelm the might of their foe.

  ‘Your people are unworthy of us,’ Caledor declared. ‘What right have you to dare to contest the destiny of the asur? You should be honoured that we thought enough of you to let you see the majesty of our accomplishments!’

  Gotrek ducked as Caledor brought Dawnkiller slashing at his head. The enchanted blade ripped across his helm once more, this time carving a deep notch in its side. Clenching his teeth against the pain from his mangled hand, fighting to keep his fingers firm on the haft of his axe despite the blood streaming down them, Gotrek struck back at his foe.

  Caledor again tried to twist away. Even with his injured leg, the elf’s agility might have served him once more if his foot hadn’t settled in the notch the Axe of Grimnir had carved into the basin. Gotrek felt a thrill of anticipation when he saw his enemy unbalanced. It was only a heartbeat, only the briefest of moments, but it was enough. The Axe of Grimnir, impossible to dull, impossible to defy, slammed into Caledor’s side. No glancing blow but a solid impact that made Gotrek’s arms quiver. He could feel the golden armour break beneath that impact, he could hear the sharp crack as he split the elf’s ribs.

  Caledor slumped from the lip of the basin down into the crimson waters of the fountain. Now a darker red stained the mouth of Khaine as the Phoenix King’s blood dripped down into the pool and was drawn up into the golden statue. Caledor stared in shock as Gotrek climbed into the fountain after him, the king’s blood splashed across the Axe of Grimnir.

  ‘You’ve drowned both our kingdoms in blood,’ Gotrek growled at his enemy. ‘But for your scornful pride, none of this had to happen.’ He raised his axe on high, clasping it with both hands. Blood from his cut fingers dripped down onto the prostrate Caledor’s face.

  ‘Elthin Arvan is yours,’ Caledor moaned. ‘My kingdom will pay the wergild you ask. I will make full restitution for your losses.’

  Gotrek glared down into the wounded king’s eyes. He imagined the scene, that long-ago day when this villain had stood over his dying son and cut off his hand as a trophy to carry back to Ulthuan. Any semblance of pity was crushed in the High King’s hate. ‘Ask the gods for mercy. You’ll find none in me.’

  The Axe of Grimnir came chopping down, striking Caledor in the side of his neck. Bright arterial blood sprayed from the elf king’s wound. The dying monarch clutched at his neck as though he might staunch the ebbing of his life with his own hands. It was a futile effort. Soon the gushing blood slowed to a trickle and Caledor II, Phoenix King of Ulthuan, collapsed in the red waters of the fountain. Above him, the golden statue of Khaine spat out a
stream of royal blood.

  The awed silence that had held the onlooking elgi and dawi crumbled as Caledor fell. From the elves, a terrible wail arose. Staring in stunned horror, the elgi watched as Caledor’s killer reached down and plucked the Phoenix Crown from the dead king’s head.

  ‘Let this be the end of it,’ Gotrek shouted, holding the crown high in his maimed hand. ‘Let this be an end to the killing! I claim the crown of Caledor as restitution, as recompense for all that the Karaz Ankor has endured, for all of our dead, for all of our crippled!’ The High King looked over at Morgrim, cast his eyes across the throng of dwarf warriors gathered in the square. His gaze hardened as he looked again at the elves. ‘Go to your ships, elgi. Leave the Old World. There is no place for you here.

  ‘There never was.’

  Epilogue

  Thoriol stared back at Tor Alessi from the deck of his ship. Smoke billowed from the burning buildings. The broken stumps of towers reared into the sky like shattered teeth. The palaces on the hill overlooking the bay were little more than heaps of rubble, smashed to ruin by the dwarfish siege engines. He could see elves still making their way down to the harbour flanked by escorts of armoured dawi. The dwarfs were taking no chances, it seemed, that any asur would try to stay behind. Whatever their own feelings, they were following the decree of High King Gotrek to the letter. No elf would be harmed as long as they didn’t try to remain in Elthin Arvan.

  Elthin Arvan. Despite all the blood and treasure that had been spent trying to maintain the colonies, in the end they’d been lost just the same. Bitterness and regret tried to seize him, but all he could manage was a woeful weariness. He felt like a mourner watching as the body of a loved one was consigned to the flames.

  More than just the colonies had been lost, however. Ulthuan had lost its king. Caledor II, the great warrior, cut down by Gotrek Starbreaker, the Phoenix Crown taken away as a trophy by the dwarfs. Briefly, Thoriol had entertained the idea of landing the warriors his uncle had placed under his command far down the coastline and trying to intercept the dawi before they could return to Karaz-a-Karak. The thought of losing the Phoenix Crown, of having such a priceless relic captured and carried off by an enemy, was almost too much to bear.