[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  No prince could agree to allow another to control the armies of their house, nor could they comfortably consent to having the troops of another realm stationed in their lands. To Carathril’s simple mind it seemed as if they ever postured and manoeuvred for aid whilst never offering their own. Once enamoured of these lofty rulers, Carathril was quickly tiring of their political ways. In short, Carathril realised, the majority of the princes—both those that ruled over a realm and those that served them—considered the wider purging of the cults to be somebody else’s problem.

  It seemed as if a few of the princes felt the same as the herald. Of all the princes, Carathril considered Imrik to be closest to the herald in outlook and opinion. He was plain-speaking, thought of as gruff, even rude, by some of his peers, and feared inaction more than anything.

  As the grandson of the great Caledor Dragontamer, he was considered the noblest of all the princes, and this stirred jealousy in the hearts of others. They all feared the power of the kingdom of Caledor, for it was from here the dragon knights hailed, a force greater than any mustered by other realms. As was the way of powerful individuals, many of the princes were loath to surrender control of their forces to another, and for his part Imrik was unwilling to shoulder the responsibilities he thought were being shirked by the other princes.

  Carathril missed Lothern dearly. He had passed through his home city some fifty days earlier to bear news to Prince Haradrin, now ruler of the realm of Eataine. What he had seen, the suspicion and fear in the eyes of his people, made Carathril long to be dispensed from the Phoenix King’s service so that he might return and aid his folk. Yet it was not to be, for Bel Shanaar ever sought more diplomacy with the princes, and Carathril was required to be on hand at short notice.

  Carathril felt alone amongst these high-ranking personages, for Aerenis had left for Lothern only a few days after they had first arrived. Those few elves that Carathril knew in Tor Anroc were cordial enough, but it quickly became evident that his position as herald not only denied him much time for personal matters and socialising, but also made those around him wary of speaking their mind. They persistently enquired of delicate matters from Carathril, seeking confirmation of rumours and nuggets of information from the Phoenix King’s court, and Carathril was reluctant to confide what little he really knew for fear of being seen as a gossip, unworthy of the trust bestowed upon him.

  The more Carathril learned of the secretive nature of the cults—of how many of the members led plain and normal lives on the surface but performed hedonistic and despicable acts in private—the more he became distrustful. Eventually, he had decided to forego his rare excursions to the rest of the city and now stayed solely within the confines of the palace when he was in Tor Anroc.

  A stir amongst the court roused Carathril as two more joined their number. He recognised them immediately as Prince Finudel, ruler of Ellyrion and his sister, Princess Athielle. They had arrived only two days ago and caused much commotion with promises of cavalry and spearmen for the cause. Carathril leaned forwards, his chin cupped in his hand, and listened to what was being said.

  “It matters not if the horsemasters of Ellyrion stand ready to ride forth,” Prince Bathinair of Yvresse was saying. “Who are they to ride forth against, my dear Finudel? You can hardly lead a cavalry charge through every village and town in Ulthuan.”

  “Perhaps you seek to upset the harmony between the realms for your own ends,” added Caladryan, another of Yvresse’s nobility. “It is no secret that of late the fortunes of Ellyrion have waned. War suits those with little to lose, and it costs those who have the means. Our endeavours across the oceans bring us wealth and goods from the colonies; perhaps Ellyrion is jealous of that.”

  Finudel opened his mouth to speak, his anger etched in creases across his brow, but Athielle quickly laid a hand on her brother’s arm to still him.

  “It is true that we have perhaps not prospered as much as some,” the Ellyrian princess said quietly. “In part that is because we of the Inner Kingdoms must pay the taxes of Lothern to pass our fleets into the Great Ocean. If not for those taxes, I suspect that the Outer Kingdoms would perhaps have less of a monopoly of trade.”

  “We cannot be held to account for the quirks of geography,” sneered Prince Langarel, one of Haradrin’s kin from Lothern. “The sea gates must be maintained, and our war fleet stands ever ready for the benefit of all. It is fitting, then, that all should contribute to the cost of maintaining these defences.”

  “And against whom do you defend us?” growled Finudel. “Men? Hut-dwelling savages who can barely cross a river, and an ocean divides us from them. The dwarfs? They are content to dig in the mountains and sit in their caves. The slaves of the Old Ones? Their cities lie in ruins, their civilisation swallowed by the hot jungles. Your fleet is not required, a token of the hubris of Lothern kept gilded by the labours of the other realms.”

  “Must every old slight and rankle be dredged up before me every day?” demanded Bel Shanaar, his voice cutting sharply through the raised voices of the princes. “There is nothing to be gained from this bickering, and everything to be lost. While we argue over the spoils of our growing colonies, our cities here at hand are being devoured by decadence and forbidden pursuits. Would you have us abandon our roots and settle in the newly grown branches of our realm? The world has riches enough for us all, if we could set aside these incessant arguments.”

  “The power of the cults grows, that much is clear,” said Thyriol, from where he sat upon one of the ring of innermost benches surrounding the hall. All turned to the mage in expectation.

  “The vortex holds the winds of magic in check for the moment, but dark magic is gathering in the mountains. Strange creatures have been seen in the highest peaks, unnatural things spawned from the power of Chaos. Not all things of darkness were purged by the blade of Aenarion and the vortex of Caledor. Hybrid monsters of flesh, mutant and depraved, dwell still in the wilderness. The dark magic feeds them, emboldens them, makes them stronger and cannier. Even now, the passes become ever more dangerous to travel. In the winter when the hunters and soldiers cannot keep these growing numbers of beasts at bay, what then? Will we have manticores and hydras descend into the lowlands to attack farms and destroy villages? If we allow the cults to grow unchecked, perhaps even the vortex itself will fail and once more plunge the world into an age of darkness and daemons. Is there one here with the will to prevent that?”

  The assembled princes stood in silence, eyeing each other, avoiding the gaze of the Phoenix King.

  “There is one perhaps that has the will,” a voice called out, echoing along the audience chamber from the doorway. Its timbre was firm and deep, filled with authority.

  A ripple of gasps and whispers spread through the court as the newcomer strode purposefully across the lacquered floor, the fall of his riding boots sounding like the thunder of war drums. He was dressed in a long skirt of golden mail and his chest was covered with a gold breastplate etched with the design of a dragon, coiled and ready to attack. He wore a cloak of shadow-black across his shoulders, held with a clasp adorned with a black gem set into a golden rose. Under one arm he carried a tall war helm, fixed with a strange circlet of dark grey metal that had jutting, thorn-like spines. A complex headband of golden threads swept back raven hair that fell about his shoulders in twisted plaits tied with rings of rune-etched bone. His eyes were piercing, dark, as he stared at the nervous princes and courtiers. He radiated power, his energy and vigour surrounding him as surely as light glows from a lantern.

  The princes parted before the newcomer like waves before a ship’s prow, treading and stumbling upon robes and cloaks in their eagerness to back away. A few bowed stiffly or nodded heads in unthinking deference as he swept past to stand in front of the Phoenix King, his left hand, gloved in supple black leather, resting on the golden pommel of a sword hanging in an ebon scabbard at his waist.

  “Prince Malekith,” said Bel Shanaar evenly, stroking his bottom
lip with a slender finger. “Had I known of your coming I would have arranged suitable welcome.”

  “Such ceremony is unnecessary, your majesty,” replied Malekith, his tone of voice warm, his manner as smooth as velvet. “I thought it prudent to arrive unannounced, lest our enemies be warned of my return.”

  “Our enemies?” said Bel Shanaar, turning a hawkish look upon the prince.

  “Even across the oceans, as I fought against vile beasts and brutal orcs, I heard of the woes that beset our home,” Malekith explained. He paused and turned to face the princes and their counsellors. “Alongside the dwarfs, beside their kings, I and my companions fought to keep our new lands safe. Friends I had that gave their lives protecting the colonies, and I would not have their deaths be in vain, that our cities and our island here would fall to ruin even as we raise sparkling towers and mighty fortresses across the length and breadth of the world.”

  “And so you have returned to us in our hour of need, Malekith?” said Imrik haughtily, stepping in front of Malekith with his arms crossed defensively.

  “You must also have heard that which vexes us most,” said Thyriol softly, standing up and pacing towards the prince of Nagarythe, stepping between Malekith and Imrik. “We would wish to prosecute our war against these insidious evils across all of Ulthuan. All of Ulthuan.”

  “That is why I have returned,” replied Malekith, meeting the mage’s keen gaze with his own piercing stare. “Nagarythe is gripped by this torment no less than other lands; more I have heard on occasion. We are one island, one realm under the rule of the Phoenix King, and Nagarythe will not be party to insurrection, nor shall we tolerate black magics and forbidden rituals.”

  “You are our greatest general, our most sound strategist, Prince Malekith,” said Finudel, his voice hesitant with hope. “If it pleases all present, would you take up the banner of the Phoenix King and lead the fight against these miserable wretches?”

  “In you runs the noblest blood of all princes,” gushed Bathinair, one of the Yvressian princes present. “As you fought the darkness alongside your father, you could again bring the light back to Ulthuan!”

  “Eataine would stand by you,” promised Haradrin with a clenched fist held to his chest.

  A chorus of pleading and thanks bubbled up from the assembled nobles, but fell silent the moment Malekith raised a hand to still them. The Naggarothi prince turned his head and looked at Bel Shanaar, saying nothing. The Phoenix King sat in thought, his lips pursed, steepling his slender fingers beneath his chin. Bel Shanaar then looked at Imrik’s stern expression, an eyebrow raised in question upon the Phoenix King’s face.

  “If it is the will of the Phoenix King and this court, then Caledor will not oppose Malekith,” Imrik said slowly, before turning away and stalking from the room.

  An almost imperceptible expression of relief softened the furrows in Bel Shanaar’s frown, and he sat back and gave a perfunctory nod towards the prince of Nagarythe.

  “As it pleases this court, so shall I act,” declared Malekith. “A company of my finest warriors, fighters hardened by war across the seas one-and-all, rides even now to Anlec to announce my return. The army of Nagarythe shall be roused, and no hall nor cave nor cellar shall avoid our gaze. The raven heralds shall ride forth again, and all rumour shall come to our ears so that our foe might not hide. With mercy we shall temper our vengeance, for it is not our desire to slay needlessly those who are simply misguided. By trunk and root we shall tear free this tree of rotten fruit that feeds upon our fair nation, and we shall set free those trapped beneath its dark bower. No matter how high that tree reaches, no matter how powerful or prominent its leaders are, they shall not escape justice.”

  ——

  A Journey to Darkness

  Northwards marched the caravan of Malekith. At their head, the prince led the column from atop an immense black steed bridled with silver and black leather. Behind him rode six hundred knights of Nagarythe, their silver and black pennants snapping in the chill autumn air. With them, they had brought news that already many cultists had surrendered to Malekith’s soldiers, throwing themselves upon the mercy of the prince. The people of Nagarythe, long cowed by the cultists who had held sway in Malekith’s absence, had come forth from their homes in celebration. Many of Nagarythe’s citizens had been forced into serving the cults against their will, enslaved with threats of sacrifice and violence. As if unshackled from a great yoke, they had thrown off the tyranny of the dark priests and priestesses and taken to the streets to proclaim the victorious return of their rightful ruler.

  Not only fair wishes from Bel Shanaar accompanied Malekith on his march north; three hundred chariots of Tiranoc went with him as a symbol of the Phoenix King’s support. More horsemen had recently arrived from Ellyrion, despatched on the orders of Finudel. Seven hundred reaver knights had crossed the Annulii Mountains along the Unicorn Pass, the Eyin Uirithas, and met the caravan some one hundred leagues from Anlec. In their wake came ten thousand spearmen, assembled from across Eataine and Yvresse; even now they crossed the Inner Sea to join the host that marched against the dark cultists.

  With them came a long baggage train, as any army on the march needed an unending tide of supplies to keep it on the move. The wagons of Tor Anroc were as larger versions of their sleek chariots, each pulled by four high-stepping steeds, the backs of the wains covered with gaily covered awnings and hung with pennants and flags of the kingdom. A hundred in all followed in the army’s wake, filled with cooks and fletchers, smiths and ostlers, bakers and armourers and all the gear of their trades. Priests and priestesses came also, of Asuryan and Isha, and astromancers of Lileath, diviners of Kourdanrin and other such soothsayers, chroniclers and clerics as Bel Shanaar had seen fit to grant the expedition.

  Though the elves of Tiranoc and Ellyrion were glad of such mystical companions, the Naggarothi, and in particular Malekith, paid them little heed and avoided their gatherings.

  Amongst the host rode Carathril, still under oath as Bel Shanaar’s herald, to act for the Phoenix King in this endeavour. He felt as much relief and anticipation as the princes, and riding alongside the prince of Nagarythe filled him with a confidence he had never before felt.

  * * *

  One bright morning they came upon a stone bridge that soared elegantly across a frothing river. This was the Naganath, which spilled straight from the mountains and across to the sea in a sweeping torrent. Beyond its foaming waters lay Nagarythe.

  Malekith’s gaze was distant, directed even further north, towards Anlec. His face betrayed no emotion, yet inside his thoughts were mixed. For almost his entire life he had sworn never to set foot here again until he was ready to take his rightful place. Excitement bubbled up inside him at the prospect of the events he saw unfolding in his head. Yet they were tinged with sadness, and not a little regret. Just before they crossed the bridge, Malekith signalled the column to halt and swung down from his saddle. Sensing Carathril’s gaze upon him, Malekith turned to the herald and smiled.

  “It has been more than thirteen hundred years since I last trod upon those lands,” Malekith said, his voice quiet. “It has been more than one-and-a-half thousand since I took up the crown of Nagarythe, under the shadow of my father’s sacrifice. Of that time, I have spent more of my life upon foreign soil than I have my homeland.”

  “It must feel good to return,” said Carathril.

  “Yes, it does feel good,” said Malekith with a nod. He nodded even more firmly and then grinned. Then he broke into a laugh and his eyes glittered. “Very good!”

  Carathril laughed with him, realising how much of an understatement he had uttered. Malekith’s mood swiftly turned sombre though, and once again he cast his gaze northwards.

  “I have been remiss in my duties as ruler,” Malekith said. “It is in my absence that these depraved and reckless cults have flourished. From my lands, from the realm forged from the blood of my father, has grown a dark canker that poisons the heart of U
lthuan. That is a shame I cannot bear, and I will expunge it.”

  “You cannot be blamed for the weaknesses and corruptions of others,” Carathril said with a shake of his head. “The guilt for this malaise is not yours.”

  “Not mine alone, I accept that,” replied Malekith. “Yet we all bear some responsibility for this degeneration of authority and tradition, and I bear more than most.”

  The prince swung himself back upon his steed and turned to face the halted column. His voice rang loud and crisp in the morning air.

  “Remember that these are the sovereign lands of Nagarythe,” he cried. “It is here that Aenarion the Defender built Anlec, and from here that he rode forth to battle the daemons. I do not return to lead an invasion. We do not come here as conquerors. We are liberators. We are here to free this realm from the dark and terrible grip of its depression and immorality. We are here to bring light where darkness has sealed. None shall be slain who offers repentance for his misdeeds. None shall be punished who turns from his wayward path to rejoin the side of the righteous. Fight first with your hearts before your swords. Pity those that stand against us, but do not fear them, and do not hate them. It is fear and hatred that has laid them so low, so we shall bring them hope and we shall bring them salvation.”

  Malekith drew his sword and held it aloft; its rune-etched blade glimmered with blue fire. His voice rose to a triumphant shout.

  “The blood of our forefathers stains this earth! This is Nagarythe and she bows to no darkness! I am prince here, these are my lands! I am Malekith!”