[Sundering 02] - Shadow King
Page 46
Mid-morning brought shouts from the east, where a rider had been spotted coming down from the mountains. Alith sent word that he was to be allowed to approach, knowing that it would be Elthyrior. He would not be anywhere else on such a momentous day.
Sure enough, the raven herald rode into the ruins, his steed picking its way nimbly though the tumbled stones and hummocks of earth that concealed so many of the dead. His hood was thrown back, revealing his pale, pinched features. In his right hand he carried a spear, but something was bound along half its length, wrapped in a waxed canvas shining with water droplets.
Elthyrior spied Alith and directed his steed towards the Shadow King.
“I see it is not only my enemy that I have brought out of hiding,” said Alith as Elthyrior dismounted.
“The time has come to return this,” said the raven herald, handing Alith the bound spear shaft.
“What is it?”
“Cut free the bindings when the Witch King comes,” said Elthyrior, “and you will see.”
“Do you know who the Witch King is?” asked Alith. Elthyrior shook his head.
“You have far more eyes and ears than I, Alith,” he said. “Besides, did you not venture into Anlec to find out?”
“I got distracted,” Alith replied, though he had the decency to blush while he said it. “I am glad that you are here.”
“There are few of us left, and I do not think the raven heralds will survive this war,” replied Elthyrior. “Our time has passed.”
Alith was disturbed by this. If there had been one constant throughout his turmoil of so long, it had been Elthyrior. The raven herald had been many things—a guardian, an ally and companion—though never quite friend.
“The Shadow King watches over Nagarythe,” said Elthyrior with a lopsided smile. “Morai-heg gives way to Kurnous, and moves her all-seeing gaze upon others.”
Alith could think of nothing to say, and so the two of them stood side-by-side in silence, looking to the west. It was not long before the druchii army could be seen, marching along the road from the north-west, cutting across the foothills in ribbons of black. Alith scanned the skies, searching for sign of dragon riders or manticores, but there was nothing. It seemed that Alith’s plan had succeeded: the Witch King would confront him personally.
For all that he had experienced, Alith felt a slight twinge of nervousness as the druchii army spread out across the hills. Their number was inconceivable, more than a hundred thousand at a rough guess. Where had so many warriors come from Alith had no idea. Had Morathi hoarded so many troops all of these years, perhaps waiting for the right leader to emerge?
Some distance away the army halted, out of bolt thrower range. The intent was clear: Alith was to feel no immediate threat and stay where he stood.
Whispers and shouts of alarm caused Alith to look at his shadow warriors. They pointed to the skies, where a dragon appeared through the clouds, descending slowly. It was the largest beast Alith had seen, half-again as big as the dragon that had carried Kheranion. Alith was about to call for his army to flee to the hills but stopped as the dragon circled back towards the druchii army, landing in front of it.
A tall figure dismounted, dropping to the ground beside the monster. The air shimmered around him, a haze of dark mists and rising heat. Alith watched closely as the Witch King approached.
He was far taller than any elf, and clad in an all-encompassing suit of black armour. He carried a shield adorned with a gold relief of a hateful rune that burned Alith’s eyes when he looked upon it. The sword in his right hand was enveloped by blue flame from hilt to tip, casting dancing shadows on snow.
It was the armour that caught Alith’s full attention. When the Witch King was less than a hundred paces distant, striding purposefully up the hill, Alith could see that it was not wholly black, but a ruddy light glowed from within. Wisps of steam swirled around the warrior. Alith realised with horror that the plates and mail of the armour smouldered, every joint and rivet still hot as if recently forged. The Witch King left molten snow and scorched earth in his wake while the air itself recoiled from his presence, streaming away from his body in whirling vortices.
The shadow warriors watched the Witch King carefully, bows in hand. Alith had ordered them not to attack until his command; he needed to know who dared call himself ruler of Nagarythe. Having seen the strength of the Witch King’s host, there was no doubt that this warrior commanded the loyalty of Anlec.
As the Witch King advanced through the tumbled remnants of the old gate, Alith’s gaze was drawn in by his eyes. They were pits of black flame, empty and yet full of energy. Nothing could be seen of his face save those terrible orbs; the Witch King’s head was enclosed in a black and gold helm adorned with a circlet of horns and spines made from a silvery-grey metal that reflected no light.
Remembering Elthyrior’s gift, Alith drew his knife from his belt and cut away the cords binding the canvas around the spear in Alith’s left hand. He shook the shaft to dislodge the bag, which fluttered away in the wind. Stirred by the breeze a flag snapped out from the shaft, tied with gold-threaded rope.
The banner was tattered and stained, ragged with many holes and frayed stitching at its edges. It had once been white, but was now dirty brown and grey. The design upon it was indistinct but Alith recognised it immediately as a golden griffon’s wing: the standard of House Anar.
Alith felt a surge of courage flow through him, dispelling the dread surrounding the approaching Witch King. The banner had flown in this place since the time of Aenarion and Alith drew on its strength, on the power of centuries that even the blood of the Anars could not wash away. Emboldened, Alith stared at his foe.
“By what right do you enter these lands without the permission of Alith Anar, lord of house Anar, Shadow King of Nagarythe?” Alith demanded, raising the ragged banner above his head. “If you come to treat with me, hear my oath to the dead. Nothing is forgotten, nothing is forgiven!”
The Witch King stopped half a dozen paces away, the heat from his body prickling at Alith’s skin. His infernal gaze moved up to the flag. The Witch King sheathed his sword and gestured at the banner, a mere flick of a finger.
The standard burst into black flames and disintegrated into a flutter of charred flakes that were quickly taken away by the wind, leaving Alith holding a burnt staff. He let the smoking wood drop from his fingers.
“House Anar is dead,” intoned the Witch King. His voice was echoing and deep, as if coming from a distant hall. “Only I rule Nagarythe. Swear loyalty to me and your past will be forgotten, your treachery forgiven. I will grant you these lands to rule as your own, your fealty owed only to me.”
Alith laughed.
“You would make me a prince of graves, a custodian of nothing,” he said. He grew serious, eyes narrowing. “By what right do you demand such loyalty?”
The Witch King stepped forwards and it took all of Alith’s nerve to hold his ground. Strange voices hissed at the edge of hearing—spirits of sacrifices bound within the armour. The heat was near unbearable, causing Alith’s eyes to water, his skin cracking with dryness. Alith licked his lips but his mouth was also parched. Worst was the crawling, filthy sensation of dark magic that leaked through Alith, drawing the life from his blood, chilling his heart.
“Do you not recognise me, Alith?” the Witch King said, bending close, his tone quiet, swathed in a charnel aura of burning and death. “Will you not serve me once more?”
The voice of the creature in front of Alith was cracked and hoarse, but the Shadow King recognised it. A lifetime ago it had spoken words upon which Alith had hung all his hopes and dreams. Once, in the distant past, that voice had sworn to Alith to set Nagarythe free from tyranny and he had believed it. Now it called for him to surrender.
It was the voice of Malekith.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gav Thorpe has been rampaging across the worlds of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 for many years as both an author and games develo
per. He hails from the den of scurvy outlaws called Nottingham and makes regular sorties to unleash bloodshed and mayhem. He shares his hideout with Dennis, a psychotic mechanical hamster currently planning the overthrow of a small South American country.
Gav’s previous novels include fan-favourite Angels of Darkness and the epic Malekith, first instalment in the Sundering trilogy, amongst many others.
You can find his website at: mechanicalhamster.wordpress.com
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