[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  A great roar erupted from the assembled army, from the throats of both Naggarothi and elves of other realms.

  Malekith sheathed his sword and snatched the standard from the hand of his aide. Wheeling his steed with a flourish, Malekith urged on his mount and galloped across the bridge, the silver and black banner of Nagarythe fluttering above him. Still chanting, the column surged after him.

  As the company made their way through Nagarythe, the truth of the situation became ever clearer. In the first village they entered, cheering crowds cast petals and blossoms, and a choir of children sang praises to the soldiers accompanied by flutes and harps. The village elder, a venerable elf with silver hair whose tresses reached her waist, presented Malekith with a garland of mountain laurel, and showered thanks upon Carathril and the others as they passed.

  Dark-haired maidens presented the marching warriors with bundles of flowers, and a few leapt upon the chariots to hug and kiss the crews. Not even on the carnival days of Isha had Carathril known such celebration, and his heart soared to see the joy in the eyes of the villagers.

  As they reached the central square, the mood changed. Here the white-washed buildings were stained with soot, their doors and windows charred. In the centre of the plaza huddled a group of some thirty elves, surrounded by villagers with knives and spears at the ready.

  The black dresses and robes of the captives were tattered and bloody, and many bore grazes and bruises. A few bore more severe injuries, cradling broken arms and bandaged cuts. Some had crudely shaven heads, while others had runes of Asuryan daubed with white dye on their exposed flesh.

  A handful of cultists regarded the soldiers with defiant and sullen eyes, their faces twisted with sneers; most had vacant gazes of shock, and a few looked down in shame and buried the heads in their hands, weeping. Pity, Malekith had said, and it was pity that filled the prince as he looked upon these poor wretches. Malekith signalled for Carathril to stop, and waved on the rest of the troop. The ruler of these desperate people sat upon his majestic steed and looked down at the prisoners, his face unmoving.

  “Traitor!” shouted one of the cultists, a young elf clad only in a loincloth, his bare flesh cut with dozens of small incisions; self-made rather than inflicted by his captors. “Khaine shall not forgive such treachery!”

  Malekith did not react but simply continued to stare at the cultists, though from the corner of his eye he saw Carathril flinch at the mention of the Lord of Murder.

  “Ereth Khial will devour you, son of Aenarion!” spat another degenerate, an old man whose black and dark blue robes were torn to shreds.

  “Silence!” said Carathril, drawing his sword and urging his steed forwards. The cultists shrank back, cowed by his anger. “We do not openly speak these names for a reason. That you consort with such gods is proof of your guilt. Save your hexes and curses!”

  A lissom elf, her hair waxed into long spines and dyed orange, stood and bared herself to the company with a lewd smile. Scenes of licentious acts were painted in blue dye across her breasts, stomach and thighs.

  “Perhaps Atharti’s blessings would please you more, my lord,” she said, running a hand over her pale skin. “There are those here who can attend to your pleasure, whatever your desires may be.”

  Malekith waved Carathril back and dismounted. He stood in front of the consort of Atharti. Though she was attractive, it was disgust rather than ardour that Malekith felt. Dark magic polluted her comely body. Hiding his feelings, the prince calmly took off his cloak and wrapped it around her, covering her naked form.

  “There is no pleasure in the degradation of others,” Malekith said, stroking the girl’s hair. “It is love not lust that we bring with us. I see fear in your eyes, and that I understand. It is the retribution of mortals not gods that fills you with dread. And I say to this, do not be afraid. We are not here as executioners. We have not come to seek vengeance in blood. Whatever your crimes, you shall be treated fairly and with dignity. We do not judge you for your doubts and your desperation. Your weakness is regrettable but no cause for punishment. Some, I have no doubt, have trodden upon this path willingly and with malice, and in time justice will find them. But even for them, there is mercy and forgiveness. Healers shall attend to your ills, both physical and spiritual. We shall bring forth the darkness that lingers within you, and free you from its grip. In time, you will know peace and harmony once more.”

  Malekith ordered that the villagers bring fresh clothes for the captives, and food and water. While the prince marshalled this activity himself, he sent the greater part of the column onwards towards Anlec. Once fed and clothed, the cultists were taken under escort and Malekith resumed the march.

  From the village, the road turned north-east, towards the mountains, and rose steadily for several miles before cutting into thick woodland. Tall pines formed a wall on either side of the column, and as the day wore on the caravan was swathed with long shadows. No sound could be heard; an eerie quiet stilled all noise from bird and mammal.

  “This is a queer land,” Carathril remarked to himself. One of the knights of Anlec heard him and heeled his horse over beside the herald.

  “This is Athel Sarui,” the knight told him. “Forest of Silence” the name meant, but Carathril had not heard of this place before.

  “I see why it is so named,” said Carathril. “Are you from this land?”

  “No,” the knight replied quickly, taken aback by Carathril’s question. “No living souls save for the trees live here. It is said that beyond the forest, at the feet of the mountains, there is a great cave. It is one of the Adir Cynath, a gate to Mirai, the underworld. To wander close to the mountains is to risk the gaze of Ereth Khial, and to be taken into her darkness by the rephallim.”

  Carathril shuddered at the mention of these forbidding names, of the dark goddess of the dead and her bodiless servants. To hear them spoken openly was unheard of in Lothern, for the cytharai, as the deeper gods were known, were not openly worshipped by right-thinking folk. The cults had embraced the dark promises of these thirsting entities, and by that act even now plunged Ulthuan into turmoil. The knight recognised Carathril’s expression of concern.

  “Fear not, captain,” he said calmly, and produced a silver amulet from beneath his mail shirt. It was shaped in the symbol of yenlui, the rune of balance, and studded with three shining diamonds. “This was a gift from a friend in Saphery, it will protect us. Those of us who dwell in the north must oft speak these distasteful names, for many of the darkest shrines to the dwellers beneath lie in our lands.”

  “And how is it that the heartland of Aenarion allows such practices?” asked Carathril.

  “The cytharai must be appeased, from time to time,” said the knight. “One does not ignore the gods without peril, especially those of vile and short temper. And does not that blackest of places, the shrine to the God of Murder, lie beyond our northern coast? Once it was that a single priest or priestess would tend the shrines of the nightly lords and ladies. He or she would entreat them to still their vengeance, and placate them with sacrifices.”

  The knight cast his gaze downwards.

  “On occasion, in desperate times, one must visit these dire abodes, for there are some things beyond even the knowledge of Asuryan and Isha. Even Aenarion sought their wisdom, and that is not to be undertaken lightly. Many are the wards and blessings the priests can bestow upon those who would supplicate themselves before the cytharai.”

  “Yet how did worship of gods so abhorrent spread so widely?” said Carathril.

  “In indolence or sorrow, more of our people turned to the cytharai to ease their minds, to seek answers to questions perhaps best not asked,” the knight told him. “Of loved ones long dead; of secrets lost in time; of joys forgotten with the coming of Chaos. Fortified and gratified by their indulgences, these misguided souls opened up the dark mysteries and learned their ways. They perverted the rituals of appeasement and turned them into ceremonies of praise. These dark acts
they took with them, ever in secret, and founded new shrines in other lands. In the shadows, beyond the sight of right-minded folk, they practised their evils, perfecting them, luring others into their depravity. For more than five hundred years they have spread across Ulthuan, insinuating themselves into homes and hostels, from the lowliest to the highest. Be aware, the task we now undertake will be neither swift nor easy.”

  “And you, how did you not become ensnared or enslaved by these pernicious shrine-folk?” asked Carathril.

  The knight tucked his talisman back beneath his shirt and then pulled back his long black hair from the nape of his neck. A scar was there, etched into his skin, in the shape of a curved dagger.

  “Who said that I did not?” the knight said. “For many years I laboured with the blades of Khaine, a holy executioner in Anlec. My father had raised me within the cult, and I knew no different. It was only when he asked me to cut out the heart of my sister that I slew him and fled with her. We travelled across the sea to escape those that hunted us, and in time I met with the prince and told him of the travails of our people. I am Maranith, captain of Nagarythe under oath to Malekith, and it was I he sent to rouse this army ready for his return. I cannot hope to expunge the stain upon my spirit, but if my labours free others from its trap, I shall die content.”

  “And I am proud to labour beside you,” said Carathril, extending a hand. The knight gripped it firmly in his own gauntleted fist and shook it firmly.

  “What we have started here will change Ulthuan forever, Carathril,” Maranith said. “Fight with the prince, and history will remember you for eternity.”

  Carathril gave a nod and rode away. Filled with curiosity, he dropped down the column and pulled his horse to a walk beside the prisoners, observing them. The girl who had so brazenly offered herself to him now seemed demure, wrapped in white linen, her blonde hair washed and plaited, her skin cleansed of its obscene marks. She cast coy glances occasionally at Carathril, the wildness that had filled her eyes before now utterly gone. Carathril smiled at her and waved for her to approach. He dismounted and led his horse as she stepped up beside him. “Tell me your name,” said Carathril.

  “I am Drutheira,” she replied hesitantly.

  “I am Carathril, from Lothern,” the herald told her. “It is uncommon for the maidens of Nagarythe to have straw hair such as yours.”

  “I am not from Nagarythe, my lord,” Drutheira said.

  “There is no need to call me lord, I am no prince, merely a captain of the guard. You may call me Carathril, or captain, as you please. How come you to be here, then?”

  “I am from Ellyrion, captain,” she told him. “A while ago, twenty years or more, my brother and I were running the herd in the foothills of the mountains. Riders came, clad in black cloaks, and we thought that they had come for the horses. Galdarin, my brother, tried to fight them, but he was slain. They left the horses, but took me. They bore me here, where they had built a temple to Atharti.”

  “Twenty years?” gasped Carathril. “It must have been hideous, enslaved to such diabolic rites.”

  “At first I was terrified,” admitted Drutheira. “They beat me and whipped me, until I could no longer feel pain, I no longer cried. I cared not what happened to me. Then they brought me calmleaf and black lotus, and we feasted and dined in honour of Atharti. I learned the skills of the consort, and daily gave myself to the pleasures of Atharti. When Helreon died, I succeeded her as priestess and learned the inner mysteries of our goddess.”

  Her voice had become strident and defiant, but suddenly she paused. Without warning, she began to sob.

  “Oh, captain, today is the first day in twenty years I have seen clearly what I have become,” she moaned. “Other girls I ordered brought to the shrine, and enslaved them as I was enslaved. What terrible things I have seen; have witnessed with joy in my heart. I was lost in the bliss of Atharti, never looking upon those vile acts in the way I see them now. What have I done?”

  Carathril hushed her and laid a comforting hand upon her shoulder. She did not look up at him, but instead hung her head and continued to cry. He searched for the words to ease her, but could find none. He was not gifted with a lyric nature, and part of him still reviled what she had become. To give herself, body and spirit, so wholly to the forbidden gods was an idea he found utterly abhorrent. Unable to marry the loathing he felt with the pitiful sight of her so distraught, he chose to remain silent.

  They walked thus for some time, until her crying ceased. He turned to see her gazing at him, her face streaked with tears, her eyes shot with red.

  “What is to become of me?” she asked.

  “As Prince Malekith promised, you will not be harmed,” Carathril assured her. “In all likelihood, when you are fully cured of this affliction you can return to Ellyrion. I am sure your family think you dead, and would be overjoyed to find you alive and well.”

  She said nothing but simply nodded.

  “Tell me of Ellyrion,” Carathril said, uneasy with the prospect of more silence between them. He has visited many realms as herald, but wished to hear how Drutheira remembered her land of birth.

  “It is fairest in the evening, as the sun sinks upon the mountains and bathes the meadows in gold,” Drutheira told him. “Pastures of grass as high as your waist, as green as emeralds, stretch out as far as one can see. White horses run wild through the foothills, calling to our herds and leading them astray. We listen to their voices on the breeze; hear them taunting their cousins who are caught beneath bridle and saddle.”

  “Does that not make you sad?” asked Carathril. “Would you not have all horses run free like their wild cousins?”

  She laughed, a startlingly beautiful sound to Carathril’s ears.

  “You are silly, captain,” Drutheira said. “The steeds of Ellyrion are proud of our friendship, and call their wild cousins stupid and backwards. They love the jangle of harness and the glitter of silver tack. You should see them prance and hear them laugh when they ride forth. They have lush grass to eat and warm stables at night, and call upon their cousins to join them when the winter rains come.”

  Carathril was about to say more when he heard his name called from ahead.

  “Forgive me, it appears that I am needed,” he said with a rueful smile. “I would like to talk to you again soon.”

  “And I, you,” Drutheira replied. “Perhaps you could tell me of Lothern.”

  “I shall,” he promised, and swung himself upon his horse. He was about to flick the reins and ride ahead when a thought struck him. “Tell me, Drutheira of Ellyrion, what does my horse think of me?”

  She frowned slightly and then smiled. Laying a hand upon the horse’s cheek, she leaned close and whispered into his ear. She giggled as the horse neighed and whinnied.

  “What?” said Carathril petulantly. “What did he say?”

  “He is very happy to bear you,” Drutheira informed him. “You have ridden far together, and you look after him well.”

  “What is so funny?”

  “He said that for all the riding you have done, you have grown to be a heavier not lighter burden to bear with each trip. He thinks you have become a little plump on grain.”

  Carathril gave an indignant snort, before laughing himself.

  “The palaces of princes would never live to see a herald of the Phoenix King go hungry,” he said. “Perhaps I need to learn how to say no.”

  With a word, he encouraged his steed forwards, breaking into a swift trot. Behind him, Drutheira’s smile went unseen; it was a sly expression, filled with a cunning amusement. She returned to the other prisoners and they began to whisper amongst themselves.

  As Carathril neared the head of the column, Prince Malekith was deep in conversation with one of the raven heralds. The newcomer was mounted upon a jet-black steed and upon his shoulders he wore a long cloak made of dark feathers. He was hooded, revealing only glimpses of his pale, drawn face. The rider held a long-hafted spear, and he had a compac
t bow tied amongst his saddlebags next to a quiver of black-fletched arrows. The prince of Nagarythe turned to Carathril.

  “May I present Captain Carathril of Lothern, herald of Bel Shanaar,” said Malekith. “This is Elthyrior, one of the raven heralds of Nagarythe.”

  “I am honoured,” said Carathril, receiving a silent nod from Elthyrior as his only reply.

  “Very well,” said the prince to the raven herald. “Call your brethren to Anir Atruth, and watch for spies and agents of the cults. We shall meet you there in three days, and then march upon Ealith.”

  Malekith commanded his horse into a trot and Carathril did likewise.

  “You have never met one of Elthyrior’s order before?” asked the prince. “Not on all your long travels?”

  “I know little of the heralds of the northlands,” said Carathril. “I cannot say what is fact and what is myth, but all I hear is sinister.”

  Malekith laughed.

  “There is something of a darkness about them, I would agree,” said Malekith. “Few elves ever meet one of their kind: ever solitary figures only seen on lonely moors and wild mountain passes, and the stories of such encounters are whispered around campfires, and in hushed tones in the wine halls.”

  “Where do they come from?” asked Carathril.

  “From Nagarythe,” said the prince. “While we laud the exploits of the greatest heroes of the past, the raven heralds are content to be forgotten. It was my father who founded their company, when the lands were beset by hosts of daemons. Formed of pure magic, the daemons of Chaos could arrive and attack at will, and it was the raven heralds who watched for their appearance and took swift word to the army of Aenarion.”

  “And they are loyal to you?” said Carathril.

  “They are loyal to Nagarythe,” said Malekith. “For the moment I am content that their cause and ours are the same. Elthyrior brings grave news from ahead. It seems that we have sparked our foes into action. Upon word of our crossing into Nagarythe, a great many cultists quit Anlec and have marched south. They have made their lair in Ealith, south of Anlec. It is an old fortress, one of the ancient gatekeeps built by my father to protect the road we now travel. We cannot reach Anlec without confronting them.”