“Is this the sign for which you have been waiting?” said Morathi. “Will you now return with me to Nagarythe?”
“Not without my father!” said Malekith.
Calling for a boat and crew to be made ready, the prince then ordered the ship’s master to bring Indraugnir to a stop. Malekith then changed out of his fine robes and garbed himself in his golden armour, ready to be taken over to the Blighted Isle. Morathi stood at the ship’s side as the boat was lowered into the water. She smiled at her son as he leapt up to the rail and seized hold of a rope. With a boyish grin of excitement that Morathi had not seen for hundreds of years, the prince of Nagarythe slid down the rope into the waiting boat.
The boat pushed away and was instantly carried from the ship’s side by the surging waves. The fifteen elves of the boat crew erected the mast quickly and turned the boat south, heading towards the south-east end of the isle, the part most sheltered from the prevailing wind and waves. Finding a small inlet, they made the boat secure but only Malekith leapt ashore while the crew tried their best not to touch the cursed rock.
The Blighted Isle was devoid of all life; a bleak upthrust of crags that was home to neither plant nor animal. No grasses clung to life in crevasses. No beetles scuttled in the shade beneath toppled boulders. No crabs dwelt in the dark pools of water by the sea’s edge. The wind seemed to quieten as Malekith walked inland, picking his way through scattered rocks and stones.
Having no particular course or goal, Malekith wandered for a long while, absently making for what he deemed to be higher ground towards the west of the island, so that he might spy the location of his father’s remains. Pulling himself up a rocky ridge, the prince looked to the west and saw that the afternoon had all but passed and the sun was not far from the horizon. Though dismissive of the superstitions of the sailors, Malekith had no desire to be out on the Blighted Isle in the dark, and resolved to find his father’s remains and return to the boat before nightfall.
With more purpose, Malekith continued his search, his eyes scanning the valleys and hollows for a glimmer of metal or glint of bone. He found nothing, and was despairing of success as the long twilight shadows surrounded him. He was just beginning to think about returning to the boat and resuming his search the next day when he suddenly paused, caught by a strange instinct.
Though he heard no voice, nor saw no sign, Malekith felt a pull to the south, as if he were being called. The lure was strong, like a singing in his blood. With a last glance towards the setting sun, Malekith followed the strange sensation and turned south, bounding over the rocks at speed.
It was not long before 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, while babies had 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.
Even when he was back aboard Indraugnir he ordered the captain to sail north with all speed until the Blighted Isle could no longer be seen. None questioned this command, although Morathi regarded her son with renewed curiosity as he strode to his cabin with unseemly haste.
Sailing further, they came upon the trade lanes of Ulthuan’s western ports. Having found none of his father’s remains, Malekith refused to return to Ulthuan and instead transferred his mother to one of the many merchant ships returning to Ulthuan from the east. Despite her protestations, Morathi was seen off Indraugnir with very little ceremony, and the shocked master of the eastern trader found himself gifted with a small fortune of gold and gems in return for taking the seeress-queen to Galthyr.
By the time they had completed the short journey, during which Morathi had complained constantly and her sorcerers had terrified more than a few of the crew, the ship’s captain wished he had asked for more.
—
The Finding of the Circlet
For Malekith, his new freedom was as intoxicating as wine. He turned Indraugnir north and headed for the lands of ice that girded the Realm of Chaos. For several years Malekith and his crew explored the coastline of the frozen northlands, foraying eastwards and westwards in attempts to make charts for fut
ure visitors. It proved impossible, as the proximity of the Chaos Wastes and the ever-shifting nature of the ice itself changed the landscape with the passing of every season.
Likewise, any attempt to map the scattered human settlements proved fruitless, for they were nomadic and followed the erratic migrations of elk and other animals. Unlike the men who lived just north of the colonies, these humans were both fierce and terrified. Their weapons and armour were more advanced, forged of bronze, yet there was something about the elves that filled them with horror and they would flee whenever Malekith landed with a shore party.
There was good hunting on the outermost edges of the snowy plains: deer, bears and birds aplenty. The elves fished also, but were forced to head south in the coldest parts of the year, where they traded with other ships for grain and wine. Though some of his followers grumbled about the conditions, most were content, as was Malekith. For many this was the opportunity for them to wrest control from the elements, to forge something entirely new out of the unforgiving wilderness, just as they had done in the forests east of Athel Toralien.
For all the enthusiasm of the Naggarothi, these lands were harsh and resources were scarce. These were not the bountiful forests of the east, but a bleak expanse of unrelenting snow and rock. That the crude humans could survive here was testament that there was some worth in these lands, but Malekith knew that there would be no glittering cities of marble and alabaster. However, he was determined that the north would yield to his will.
Many years after setting out from Athel Toralien, Malekith landed upon an icy coast with the greater part of his followers. They carried their food and tents upon sleds pulled by teams of sturdy horses and were wrapped in coats of fur, and wore thick gloves and boots to protect them from the freezing wind. A few souls were left aboard Indraugnir and told to return to this place every fifty days to watch for the expedition’s return. With that, Malekith and his warriors forged inland to see what secrets the northern blizzards concealed.
In the Chaos Wastes, the Naggarothi found foes more fell than any they had met before. The lands teemed with monstrous creatures warped by the power of Chaos, and every time that the elves made camp the sentries would be tested by some terrifying winged beast or mindless, shambling thing.
The men of this realm were also far in advance of their cousins further south. Whether from unknown allies or gifted dark knowledge by the Chaos Gods, these humans had thick armour of leather and bronze, and hardened weapons. They wielded swords and axes with surprising skill, and some had shamanic powers and assailed the Naggarothi with spells drawn from the dark magic that swirled in great strength throughout the north.
Many of the humans showed signs of Chaos corruption, and had bloated muscles or bestial faces. No few carried ensorcelled weapons gifted to them by the Chaos gods. Malekith slew a chieftain with bat-like wings and scales instead of skin, who wielded a jagged sword that constantly screamed in some arcane and dreadful language. Avanuir also took the life of a tribal champion who had a snake’s body and was clad in armour made of iron-hard bone.
Though Malekith never ventured into the Realm of Chaos itself, often his expedition came close to its uncertain borders. The air shimmered with magical aurorae and crackled with mystical energy. Vast and insane landscapes hovered upon the edge of vision: nightmarish forests of flesh, mountains of bones, rivers of blood and burning skies all lurked beyond the invisible boundary. Even in the Chaos Wastes, the blasted shadowlands surrounding the Realm of Chaos, the daemonic and the unnatural held sway. For the first time in over a thousand years, Malekith pitted his sword against the blades of the daemonic legions of Chaos.
Malekith took ever greater risks, searching for some doom or myth that never materialised. The prince drove his army further and further westwards and northwards, seeking some sign that only he would recognise.
In truth, Malekith was growing ever more despondent. Nearly fifteen years had passed since he had left Athel Toralien and it seemed to the prince that he was no closer to achieving the great glory he desired. There was no army to overthrow, just scattered warbands of humans and transient daemonic apparitions to banish. There were not boundless riches to send back to Ulthuan, just the unending bleakness of snow, rock and ice: an eternal grinding battle of attrition.
With his company much reduced by hardship and fighting, Malekith felt his search growing ever more in vain. Northwards they pressed once more, unto the very edge of the Realm of Chaos. Though he shared his despair with no one else, the Naggarothi could sense Malekith’s growing frustration and worried what desperate act he might be considering.
For days they were engulfed by a mighty tempest of wind and snow, and though the Naggarothi struggled onwards eventually Malekith called them to a halt to wait out the unnaturally savage storm.
During the night, the tents of the Naggarothi camp buffeted by blizzard, Yeasir confronted his lord. The two were alone in Malekith’s pavilion, wrapped in their heavy furs as they sat upon the cold ground around a burning magical stone; the only fire that could be lit. Canvas cracked and slapped around them, and the wind howled all about.
“If you but let us know what it is you wish, then we would help you,” said the Naggarothi captain.
“What if I was to tell you that I would dare the Gate of Chaos itself?” said Malekith. “Would you still follow me?”
Yeasir did not answer immediately but his look of horror was all the reply Malekith needed.
“So there is a boundary across which the Naggarothi dare not cross?” said the prince.
“I would counsel against it, your highness,” said Yeasir, picking his words carefully. “Yet, if after my protestations were heard you were still intent upon such a course, I would follow you as would the others.”
“And what arguments would you make to dissuade me?” asked Malekith.
“That no living soul has ever entered the Realm of Chaos and returned,” replied Yeasir.
“Is that not the point of such an endeavour?” said Malekith. “Were we to venture into the heart of Chaos itself and return, would that not be a legend worth telling for a thousand years?”
“If we return,” cautioned Yeasir.
“I did not know that the cold had cut so deeply into your veins, Yeasir,” said Malekith with scorn.
“It is not fear that holds me back,” said Yeasir sharply. “I would gladly march against any foe, mortal or daemonic, but there is no valour in matching a hundred spears against the might of the Dark Gods! If we were to dare such a thing, we would be remembered as fools led by stupidity and vanity, not glory. Worse still, we would not be remembered at all, for if we should cross over to the worlds beyond and not return, then our tale will end with nothing. ‘They were lost in the snows of the north’, the chronicles would read, and our names would go unremembered.”
Malekith scowled, not out of anger but frustration. He knew that Yeasir’s points were valid, but in his heart he yearned for something more. The longer he remained in the north, the more chance that Bel Shanaar would be succeeded by another prince before Malekith’s return. The prince of Nagarythe could not bear the thought of slinking back to Ulthuan after all this time, to spend his days living out the fading glories of an age past.
“I will make no decision now,” Malekith declared. “The morning sun may bring fresh counsel.”
And it did.
Before dawn, the storm abated and a calm settled upon the tundra. Yeasir came to Malekith’s tent as the sun was breaking, much excited. Following his captain, Malekith emerged from his pavilion to see what had stirred the camp.
To the north, in the growing light of the day, could be seen distant structures. Upon a snow-swept hill, outlandish buildings rose up from the ice, carpeted with white but unmistakable nonetheless. Their exact shape could not be discerned from this distance, but grey and black rock hewn by hand rather than nature jutted at strange angles from drifts and hills of snow. The early morning sunlight sparkled from icicles hanging from
strange balconies and glinted from odd-shaped domes. Malekith gave the order for the company to break camp and make ready to march with all speed.
What Malekith had taken to be a few miles turned out to be several leagues, the distance deceptive in the otherwise featureless snow plain. It took hours of marching before the Naggarothi came upon the outskirts of the strange buildings. No outer wall guarded their border and they seemed deserted. In design they were unlike anything the elves had seen before; not of elven, dwarfish or human hand.
The buildings were made of solid stone, but appeared not have been carved from the naked rock but fused seamlessly from some other stone. The walls met at strange angles, and the empty doorways and windows formed odd shapes of darkness, with no corner square. There were no curves either, no rounded arches or elegantly pointed arcs. Some buildings were low, so that their roofs were no higher than Malekith’s head, while others had several storeys, each of which was a dozen feet high or more.
To begin, the Naggarothi wandered the wide, uneven streets, up sweeping terraces and lines of stairs that changed in height at every step. The roads joined at irregular intervals, and met in uneven, star-shaped plazas. Other than the cold stone there was nothing else, no wood nor metal, and Malekith judged the settlement to be ancient indeed. After an hour’s searching it was clear that the city was vast, larger than anything Malekith had ever encountered.
[Sundering 01] - Malekith Page 17
