[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  A WARHAMMER “TIME OF LEGENDS” NOVEL

  MALEKITH

  Sundering - 01

  Gav Thorpe

  (An Undead Scan v1.1)

  No act from the Time of Legends is so profound, so despicable, as the fall of Malekith. His is a story of great battles, fell magic and a world conquered by sword and spell.

  There was once a time when all was order, now so distant that no mortal creature can remember it. Since time immemorial the elves have dwelt upon the isle of Ulthuan. Here they learnt the secrets of magic from their creators, the mysterious Old Ones. Under the rule of the Everqueen they dwelt upon their idyllic island unblemished by woe.

  When the coming of Chaos destroyed the civilisation of the Old Ones, the elves were left without defence. Daemons of the Chaos Cods ravaged Ulthuan and terrorised the elves. From the darkness of this torment rose Aenarion, the Defender, the first of the Phoenix Kings.

  Aenarion’s life was one of war and strife, yet through the sacrifice of Aenarion and his allies, the daemons were defeated and the elves were saved. In his wake the elves prospered for an age, but all their grand endeavours were to be for naught. All that the elves strived for would be laid to ruin by another of Aenarion’s legacies—his son, Prince Malekith.

  Where once there was harmony, there came discord. Where once peace had prevailed, now came bitter war.

  Heed now this tale of the Sundering.

  PART ONE

  The Passing of Aenarion

  The Conquering of Elthin Arva

  The Grand Alliance

  Prince Malekith Becomes Aware of his Destiny

  ——

  Broken Legacy

  None knew at the time that the greatest saviour of the elves would also be their doom. Yet there was one who foresaw the darkness and death to come: Caledor Dragontamer. When Aenarion the Defender, bulwark against the daemons and first of the Phoenix Kings, drew the Sword of Khaine from its black altar, Caledor, greatest mage of Ulthuan, was gifted with a dark prophecy.

  Caledor saw that in taking the dire blade forged for the God of Murder, Aenarion awakened the bloodthirsty spirit that had been buried deep within the elves. In Aenarion’s line more than any other, the call for war and the thrill of battle was stirred, and across the isle of Ulthuan love of bloodletting was kindled and the innocence of the Everqueen’s rule passed forever.

  That Aenarion drew the sword at all was born out of grief and anger, and its call haunted him until the day he drove it back into the fell altar of Khaine just before he died. It was that same anguish and loss that drove him to marry the seeress Morathi, whom the Phoenix King had rescued from the grip of Chaos.

  Morathi wielded the power of magic without reserve, eager to harness the great energies unleashed upon the world by the coming of Chaos. There were those who saw such practices as obscene and dangerous, and there were whispers that Morathi had bewitched Aenarion. That she craved power was plain for many to see, yet Aenarion was oblivious to their protests and banished them from his presence.

  At Anlec, Aenarion and Morathi held court, and in that bleak time their palace was a fortress of war and sorcery. The deadliest warriors came and learnt at Aenarion’s hand, while the most gifted spellweavers were taught the deepest secrets known to Morathi. With spell and spear, the warriors of Anlec carved the kingdom of Nagarythe from the grip of the daemons, wielding grave weapons forged in the furnaces of Vaul the Smith God by the servants of Caledor.

  It was into the midst of destruction and vengeance that Malekith was born, son of Aenarion and Morathi. As was the tradition of those times, a blade was forged for him at the hour of his birth, and he was taught to wield it as soon as his limbs were strong enough to hold it aloft.

  From his father, he learnt the skills of rulership and warcraft, and from his mother, Malekith was gifted the power to bind the tempests of magic to his will.

  Into Malekith, the Phoenix King poured all of his wisdom and knowledge, but also his thirst for revenge upon the daemons that had taken his first wife and the children borne by her. Into Malekith, Morathi invested her will to achieve anything no matter the cost, and the hunger for glory and greatness.

  “Remember that you are the son of Aenarion,” she told Malekith when he was but a child. “Remember that you are the son of Morathi. In your blood flows the greatest strength of this isle.”

  “You are a warrior born,” Aenarion said. “You shall be fell with blade and bow, and you shall wield armies as lesser elves wield their swords.”

  Day after day they told their son this, from before he was old enough to understand their words, to the day Aenarion died.

  It was to the lament of Aenarion that the tide of daemons did not cease, and his constant battles were thus ever in vain. Caledor it was that created the great vortex, which to this day siphons away the power of Chaos and drains it from the world. With the magical energy needed to sustain their material forms now much diminished, the daemons perished, though Caledor and his mages were trapped in stasis within the vortex, cursed to fight against the encroachment of Chaos for eternity. Aenarion gave his life defending Caledor and his mages, and with his last strength returned to the Blighted Isle and restored the Godslayer to the black altar of Khaine.

  In the time after the daemons had passed, the great princes of the elves—those warriors and mages who had fought alongside Caledor and Aenarion—came together to decide the path of the future rule of Ulthuan. In the forests of Avelorn, from where the slain Everqueen had ruled, they held the First Council a year after Aenarion’s departure.

  The princes met in the Glade of Eternity, a great amphitheatre of trees at the centre of which stood a shrine to Isha, the Goddess of Nature, matron of the Everqueen. Grown of twining silver roots and branches, with emerald-green leaves festooned with blooms in every season, the Aein Yshain glowed with mystical power. By the light of the moons and the stars, the First Council convened, bathed in the twilight of the open skies and the aura of the blessed tree.

  Morathi and Malekith were there. Dark-haired and coldly beautiful, the seeress wore a dress of black cloth so fine that it appeared as a diaphanous cloud that barely concealed her alabaster skin. Her raven hair was swept back by bands of finely woven silver threads hung with rubies, and her lips were painted to match the glittering gems. Slender and noble of bearing she stood, and bore a staff of black iron in her hands.

  Malekith was no less imposing. As tall as his father and of similarly dark eyes, he wore a suit of golden mail, and a breastplate upon which was embossed the coiling form of a dragon. A long sword hung in a gold-threaded scabbard at his waist, its pommel wrought from the same precious metal: a dragon’s claw grasping a sapphire the size of a fist.

  With them came other princes of Nagarythe who had survived the fighting on the Isle of the Dead. They were dressed in their fine armour, and wore dark cloaks that hung to their ankles, and proudly bore the scars and trophies of their wars with the daemons.

  The sinister princes of the north were arrayed with knives, spears, swords, bows, shields and armour wrought with the runes of Vaul, testaments to the power of Nagarythe and Anlec. Banner bearers with black and silver standards stood in attendance, and heralds sounded the trumpets and pipes at their arrival. A cabal of sorcerers accompanied the Naggarothi contingent, clad in robes of black and purple, their faces tattooed and scarred with ritual sigils, their heads shaved.

  Another group there was, of princes from the lands founded by Caledor in the south, and from the new realms to the east—Cothique, Eataine, Yvresse and others. At the fore stood the young mage Thyriol, and golden-haired Menieth, son of Caledor Dragontamer.

  In contrast to the Naggarothi the
se elves of the south and east were as day is to night. Though all had played their part in the war against the daemons, these princes had cast off their wargear and instead carried staves and sceptres, and in the place of war helms they wore golden crowns as symbols of their power. They were clad predominantly in white, the colour of mourning, in remembrance of the losses their people had suffered; the Naggarothi eschewed such affectation even though they had lost more than most.

  “Aenarion has passed on,” Morathi declared to the council. “The Godslayer, the Widowmaker, he returned to the altar of Khaine so that we can be free of war. In peace, my son wishes to rule, and in peace we would explore this new world that surrounds us. Yet, I fear peace now is a thing of memory, and perhaps one day to be nothing more than myth. Do not think that the Great Powers that now gaze upon our world with hungry, immortal eyes can be so easily defeated. Though the daemons are banished from our lands, the power of Chaos is not wholly exiled from the world. I have gazed far and wide this past year, and I have seen what changes the fall of the gods has wrought upon us.”

  “In war, I would follow no other king,” said Menieth, striding to the centre of the circle formed by the princes. “In Nagarythe is found the greatest strength of arms upon this isle. The war is over, though, and I am not sure that the strength of Nagarythe lies in tranquillity. There are other realms now, and cities where there were castles. Civilisation has triumphed over Chaos on Ulthuan, and we shall take that civilisation across the seas and the elves shall reign where the gods have fallen.”

  “And such arrogance and blindness shall see us humbled,” said Morathi. “Far to the north, the lands are blasted wastelands, where creatures corrupted by dark magic crawl and flit. Ignorant savages build altars of skulls in praise of the new gods, and spill the blood of their kin in worship. Monstrous things melded of flesh and magic prowl the darkness beyond our shores. If we are to bring our light to these benighted lands, it shall be upon the glittering tip of spear and arrow.”

  “Hardship and bloodshed are the price we pay for our survival,” argued Menieth. “Nagarythe shall march at the forefront of our hosts and with the valour of the Naggarothi we shall pierce that darkness. However, we cannot be ruled by war as we were when Aenarion strode amongst us. We must reclaim our spirits from the love of bloodshed that consumed us, and seek a more enlightened path towards building a new world. We must allow the boughs of love and friendship to flourish from the roots of hatred and violence sown by the coming of Aenarion. We shall never forget his legacy, but our hearts cannot be ruled by his anger.”

  “My son is the heir of Aenarion,” Morathi said quietly, menace in her soft voice. “That we stand here at all is the prize wrested from defeat by my late husband.”

  “But won no less by my father’s sacrifice,” Menieth countered. “For a year we have pondered what course of action to take, since the deaths of Aenarion and Caledor. Nagarythe shall take its place amongst the other realms; great in its glory, yet not greater than any other kingdom.”

  “Greatness is earned by deeds, not bestowed by others,” said Morathi, striding forwards to stand in front of Menieth. She planted her staff in the ground between them and glared at the prince, her grip tight upon the metal rod.

  “It is not to fall upon each other that we fought against the daemons and sacrificed so much,” said Thyriol hurriedly. Clad in robes of white and yellow that glimmered with golden thread, the mage laid a hand upon the shoulder of Morathi and upon the arm of Menieth. “In us has been awakened a new spirit, and we must temper our haste with cool judgement, just as a newly forged blade must be quenched in the calming waters.”

  “Who here feels worthy enough to take up the crown of the Phoenix King?” Morathi asked, glaring at the princes with scorn. “Who here save my son is worthy of being Aenarion’s successor?”

  There was silence for a while, and none of the dissenters could meet Morathi’s gaze, save for Menieth, who returned her cold stare without flinching. Then a voice rang out across the glade from the shadows of the trees encircling the council.

  “I have been chosen!” the voice called.

  From the trees walked Bel Shanaar, ruling prince of the plains of Tiranoc. Behind him strode a gigantic figure, in shape as of a tree given the power to walk. Oakheart was his name; one of the treemen of Avelorn who had acted as guard to the Everqueen and tended the sacred shrines of the elves’ homeland.

  “Chosen by whom?” asked Morathi contemptuously.

  “By the princes and the Everqueen,” Bel Shanaar replied, standing to one side of the holy tree of Isha.

  “Astarielle was slain,” Morathi said. “The reign of the Everqueen is no more.”

  “She lives on,” said a ghostly, feminine voice that drifted around the glade.

  “Astarielle was slain by the daemons,” Morathi insisted, casting her gaze about to spy whence the voice had come, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  The leaves on all of the trees began to quiver, filling the glade with a gentle susurrus as if a wind whispered through the treetops, though the air was still. The long grass of the glade began to sway in the same invisible breeze, bending towards the Aein Yshain at the clearing’s centre. The glow of the sacred tree grew stronger, bathing the council in a golden light dappled with sky blues and verdant greens.

  In the shimmering brightness, a silhouette of greater light appeared upon the knotted trunk, resolving itself into the form of a young elf maiden. Morathi gasped, for at first it seemed as if Astarielle indeed still lived.

  The maiden’s golden hair hung to her waist in long plaited tresses woven with flowers of every colour, and she wore the green robes of the Everqueen. Her face was delicate, even by elven standards, and her eyes the startling blue of the clearest summer skies. As the light dimmed, the elf’s features became clearer and Morathi saw that this newcomer was not Astarielle. There was a likeness, of that Morathi was aware, but she relaxed as she scrutinised the girl.

  “You are not Astarielle,” Morathi declared confidently. “You are an impostor!”

  “Not Astarielle, you are right,” replied the maiden, her voice soft yet carrying easily to the furthest reaches of the glade. “I am not an impostor, either. I am Yvraine, daughter of Aenarion and Astarielle.”

  “More trickery!” shrieked Morathi, rounding on the princes with such an expression of anger that many flinched from her ire. “Yvraine is also dead! You conspire to keep my son from his rightful inheritance.”

  “She is Yvraine,” said Oakheart, his voice a melodic noise like the sighing of a light wind through branches. “Though Astarielle remained to protect Avelorn against the daemons, she bid us to take her children to safety. To the Gaen Vale I carried them, where no other elf has trod. There my kin and I fought the daemons and kept Yvraine and Morelion safe those many years.”

  At this there were gasps from the Naggarothi, none louder than the exclamation of Malekith.

  “Then my half-brother also still lives?” the prince demanded. “Aenarion’s first son is alive?”

  “Calm yourself, Malekith,” said Thyriol. “Morelion has taken ship and sailed from Ulthuan. He is a child of Avelorn, as is Yvraine, and he seeks no claim to the rule of Nagarythe. He is blessed of Isha, not a scion of Khaine, and seeks neither dominion nor fealty.”

  “You kept this from Aenarion?” Morathi’s tone was full of incredulity. “You allowed him to believe his children were dead, and raised them separated from their father? You have hidden them from—”

  “I am the beloved of Isha,” said Yvraine, her voice stern, silencing Morathi. “In me is reborn the spirit of the Everqueen. Anlec is a place of blood and rage. It could not be my home, I could not live amongst the taint of Khaine, and so Oakheart and his kind raised me in the manner and place fitting for my station.”

  “I see now your conspiracy,” said Morathi, stalking across the glade to confront the princes. “In secrecy you have muttered and whispered, and kept the Naggarothi from your counsels. You s
eek to supplant the line of Aenarion with one of your own, and wrest the power of Ulthuan from Nagarythe.”

  “There is no power to wrest, no line to break,” replied Thyriol. “Only in pain and death does Nagarythe prevail.

  “We sent messengers to Anlec and you turned them away. We sought to include you in our deliberations, but you would send no embassy. We gave you every right and opportunity to make the claim for your son and you chose to tread your own path. There is no conspiracy.”

  “I am the widow of Aenarion, the queen of Ulthuan,” Morathi snarled. “When the daemons preyed upon your people, did Aenarion and his lieutenants stand by and discuss matters in council? When Caledor began his spell, did he debate its merits with the peons? To rule is to wield the right to decide for all.”

  “You are queen no longer, Morathi,” said Yvraine, ghosting softly across the glade, her steps as light as settling snowflakes. “The Everqueen has returned and I shall rule with Bel Shanaar, just as Aenarion reigned with my mother.”

  “You will wed Bel Shanaar?” asked Morathi, turning on Yvraine.

  “As Aenarion wed my mother, so the Everqueen will marry the Phoenix King, and ever shall it be down all of the ages,” Yvraine declared. “I cannot marry Malekith, my half-brother, no matter what his entitlement or qualities to succeed his father.”

  “Usurpers!” shrieked Morathi, raising up her staff. Malekith leapt forwards and snatched the rod from her grip—

  “No more!” the prince of Nagarythe cried out. “I would not have the realm forged by my father torn asunder by this dispute.”

  Malekith laid a comforting hand upon the cheek of his mother, and when she was calmed he returned her staff to her. With a last venomous glare at Yvraine and Bel Shanaar, the seeress turned her back upon them and returned to the Naggarothi contingent to glower and sneer.