[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  He gazed in amazement at the priestess. She stepped down from the dais with languid strides and walked slowly towards the injured prince, the tip of her staff fixed upon him.

  “My foolish child,” she sneered.

  The priestess let the sacrificial dagger slip from her fingers to clatter in a shower of crimson droplets upon the floor. With her hand thus freed, she pulled off her mask and tossed it aside. Carathril gave a yelp of astonishment. Though caked with blood, the priestess’ lustrous black hair spilled across her bare shoulders. Her face was pristine, the very image of beauty. In her were aristocratic bearing and divine magnificence combined.

  Carathril felt himself spellbound. Around him, the other knights gazed dumbly at this apparition of perfection, similarly ensorcelled.

  “Mother?” whispered Malekith, his sword slipping from his numb fingers.

  “My son,” she replied with a wicked smile that sent a shiver down Carathril’s spine; of lust and fear in equal measure. “It is very rude of you to butcher my servants so callously. Your time amongst the barbarians has robbed you of all manners.”

  Malekith said nothing but simply stared up at Morathi, wife of Aenarion, his mother.

  “You have been weak, Malekith, and I have been forced to rule in your stead,” she said. “You trot across the world at the bidding of Bel Shanaar, ever eager to risk your life for him, while your lands fall into ruin. You grovel on bended knee to ask this upstart Phoenix King to rule your own realm. You are a cur, happy to eat the scraps from the tables of Tiranoc, Yvresse and Eataine while your people starve. You build cities across the ocean, and navigate the wide world, while your home festers in filth and decay. You are not fit to be a prince, much less a king! Truly your father’s blood does not run in your veins, for no true son of Anlec would allow himself to be so cowed.”

  Malekith looked up at his mother, his face twisted with pain.

  “Kill her,” he managed to spit through gritted teeth.

  As if those words had broken a spell, Carathril found himself able to move again. Sheathing his sword, he snatched his bow from the quiver across his back and set an arrow to the string. As he pulled back his arm, Morathi swung her staff towards him and he leapt aside just as a dark bolt cracked the stone of the floor where he had been standing a heartbeat earlier. As if also broken from trances, the cultists lounging around the room leapt to their feet with snarls and shouts. Malekith pushed himself to his feet, but another blast of Morathi’s sorcery hurled him across the floor with a clatter of armour.

  This inner coven fought with a feral tenacity, deranged from narcotic vapours and their dedication to Morathi. Carathril tossed aside his bow and drew his sword again as an elf with gem-headed pins piercing her lips and cheeks ran at him with a flaming brand in her hands. Shouts and shrieked curses filled the room and pungent smoke billowed as braziers were knocked over in the struggle. Carathril felt the heat of the brand in the cultist’s hands wash over him as he ducked a sweeping attack.

  He struck out at the elf’s naked legs and cut her down at the knee, sending her toppling to the floor. Even lying upon her back, Carathril looming over her, she hurled abuse and thrust the brand at him. He pushed the tip of his blade into her chest and she slumped to the marble flagstones.

  “There will be no welcome for you in Anlec,” Morathi snarled above the din, having retreated to the dais. “Go back to that usurper and do not return.”

  Malekith gave a roar that nearly deafened Carathril and hacked with wild abandon at the cultists who had surrounded him, dismembering and decapitating with wide, sweeping blows. A gap opened up in the melee between the prince and his mother and he stalked towards her, his sword shining with magical energy. A look of panic swept the sorceress’ face and she began to back away. Even as Malekith’s front foot fell upon the dais, Morathi raised her staff above her head in both hands and a shadow enveloped her, spreading like diaphanous wings to either side. Her body melted and dissipated as those spectral wings beat thrice and swept upwards, and then she was gone.

  More knights of Anlec raced up from the stairwell and soon the remaining cultists were slain or pacified. Carathril looked at Malekith, where he still stood upon the dais. Where he had expected to see the prince still in shock or perhaps wrought with grief, instead Malekith was a picture of cold fury. The flame of his blade burned white-hot as he gripped it in both hands before him, and his eyes glittered with barely controlled magic.

  The prince’s stare moved across the room until it fell upon Carathril, who flinched at Malekith’s fell gaze. Carathril was locked in that stare, fixed by two raging orbs of hate, and for a long heartbeat the captain thought that the prince would attack him. The moment passed and Malekith slumped, his sword falling from his fingertips to ring upon the stone floor.

  “Nagarythe has fallen into darkness,” he whispered, and now his eyes were filled with tears.

  At dawn, Malekith stood upon the rampart of Ealith and watched the sun rising over the Annulii. In the light of day, the events of the past night seemed dim, distorted. He could barely bring himself to believe that Morathi had been the architect behind the rise of the cults. Now that he considered it, he realised he should not have been at all surprised. It was just like his mother: a network of spies and agents across all of Ulthuan, power over the weak princes and their armies. He cursed himself for allowing Morathi to spread her dark touch into Athel Toralien and feared what he had left behind in Elthin Arvan.

  Yet there was logic to her plan that Malekith could not dispel. Had he not already started to use the cultists to his own end? The army of Nagarythe was but one weapon, an unsubtle one at that; the cults of luxury were a far more insidious force and all the more dangerous for it. Morathi had told him as much on her visit to the colonies. Religion and belief could be exploited for power, he had but to steel himself against his distaste to wield them.

  A shadow moved up the road towards the citadel and Malekith saw that it was a swift-moving rider: one of the raven heralds. He watched as the dark figure raced up the causeway and through the gates. It was not long before Elthyrior strode up the steps to the wall and gave the prince a nod of acknowledgement.

  “Grave news, Malekith,” said the raven herald. “Ealith is ours, but Nagarythe rises up in support of Morathi.”

  “How so?” demanded the prince.

  “Some of my company have been corrupted by your mother,” Elthyrior admitted. “It was they who brought us here, to lure you into the clutches of Morathi. We cannot know her intent, but I believe she sought to turn you to her cause.”

  “In that she has failed,” said the prince. “I have escaped her trap.”

  “Not yet,” warned Elthyrior. “The cults are strong and much of the army is loyal to your mother. Even now they march on Ealith, seeking to surround you and destroy you. There is no sanctuary here.”

  “Thank you, Elthyrior,” said Malekith. “If I could ask but another favour of you. Ride forth with those you know to be loyal to me. Gather what warriors and princes you can and send them south to Tiranoc.”

  “And you?” asked Elthyrior.

  Malekith did not reply for a moment, for what he was about to say pained him more than any physical wound.

  “I must retreat,” he said after a long while. “I am not yet ready to challenge Morathi and we cannot be caught here.”

  As Malekith ordered, so it was. The army marched westwards with all speed, ever aware that ahead and behind the worshippers of the forbidden gods were gathering in greater numbers. At Thirech Malekith faced a motley army of several thousand, but the cultists were poorly led and easily shattered by the charges of Malekith’s knights, quickly fleeing into the fields and forests around the town.

  For four days and five nights Malekith’s host marched onwards without relent, seeking the harbour at Galthyr.

  Just after dawn on the fifth day after the battle at Ealith, the army rode into sight of Galthyr. Malekith ordered the army to wait out of bowshot from th
e walls. On the prince’s orders, Yeasir rode slowly towards the gate, shielding his eyes against the glare of the morning sun reflected from the white walls. Figures moved upon the parapet, with bows drawn. Yeasir reined his horse to a halt less than a stone’s throw from the gate tower.

  “I am Yeasir, captain of Malekith!” he called out. “Stand ready to receive the prince of Nagarythe!”

  There was no reply for quite some time, until several new figures appeared upon the gatehouse battlement and stared down at the newcomer. There was a brief consultation between the group, and then one raised a curled golden horn to his lips and let free a clear, resounding note. At the same time, a pennant broke free and fluttered from the flagpole, silver and black.

  “The clarion of Anlec!” laughed Malekith. “And the banner of my house!”

  A great cheer welled up from the army as Malekith waved them forwards and the gates opened before them. At a gallop they raced along the road, passing swiftly into the town beyond, the rest of the army marching with haste behind them. No sooner had the last of them passed than the gates swung closed again with a mighty crash.

  Galthyr was half-ruined, with many buildings burnt or collapsed. Wounded soldiers were gathered in the city’s squares, tended to by healers of Isha. Malekith spied Prince Durinne walking amongst the casualties and hailed Galthyr’s commander as he dismounted.

  “I see that we have not been fighting alone,” said Malekith.

  “Indeed not,” said Durinne, shaking Malekith’s hand. “Your fleet is safe in the harbour, though only by the valiant efforts of my warriors.”

  “Morathi’s cultists?” asked Malekith.

  “Some amongst the city’s populace were her creatures and we drove them out,” explained Durinne. “They returned two days ago with the armies of Prince Kheranion and Turael Lirain. The prince demanded that I open the gates and surrender Galthyr to his authority. He did not take kindly to having arrows shot at him…”

  “You have my thanks,” said Malekith. “It seems that the list of my allies grows shorter each day. I have not room on my ships for many more, but you are welcome to leave with me.”

  “Galthyr can stand for a while yet,” said Durinne. “When you have left there is little of value here for Morathi to covet. There are other ports already under her sway.”

  “Yet she might wish to see you destroyed out of spite for resisting her,” said Malekith. “Come with me.”

  “I will not abandon my city or my people!” Durinne said. “When the time comes to leave, I have the means to make it happen. Do not spare any more thought on my wellbeing, Malekith.”

  Malekith laid a hand on Durinne’s shoulder, the gesture expressing the gratitude he felt better than any words he could say.

  Malekith was in no mood to tarry in Galthyr, for he was sure that even now other ships would be making their way down the coast to blockade the port. Only a few hundred townsfolk remained, but Malekith trusted them not and would not allow them to evacuate upon the ships. The tide and wind were fair, so that no sooner had the host arrived at Galthyr than they left upon Indraugnir and another two great dragonships, and seven hawkships. Three more hawkships Malekith sent north, to forestall any pursuing fleet.

  Heading south for several days, Malekith’s weary force was met by ships from the Tiranoc fleet and escorted to the port of Athel Reinin. Here Malekith left the greater part of his knights, and sent the Ellyrians back to their homeland, warning them not to attack Nagarythe on their own, but to protect the passes across the mountains. Carathril and the charioteers of Tiranoc, who had been forced to burn their chariots at Galthyr, formed a guard for the prince and they rode with all haste. Messages were sent ahead by hawks from the watch towers of Athel Reinin, carrying brief word of what had happened and counselling Bel Shanaar to send troops to his northern border.

  Eleven days after fighting for his life in Ealith, Malekith found himself back once again in the council chamber of the Phoenix King. He was still shocked at all that had happened; it hardly seemed possible that his world could have changed so much in so little time. He felt sick at the thought of the treachery of Morathi. The prince had requested private audience with the Phoenix King, and had asked Carathril to accompany him in his role as herald to Bel Shanaar, to provide unbiased account. The king was sat upon his throne, dejected and weary, while the prince and Carathril sat upon chairs in front of him.

  “You understand that while Morathi holds power, you will never regain Nagarythe?” Bel Shanaar said upon the conclusion of Malekith’s tale. “And to end her grip, she must be imprisoned or slain.”

  Malekith did not answer immediately but stood up and paced away from the throne. He despised Bel Shanaar, and despised himself more for needing his help. Whatever his feelings for the Phoenix King, it was clear to Malekith that he would never take his rightful place unless he reigned over Nagarythe once more. He could not fight Morathi alone, and so he was forced to humble himself before this usurper who now sat before him. The simple truth was that Malekith needed Bel Shanaar and would have to put aside his own ambitions for a time. Morathi had abandoned her son and he no longer owed her any loyalty.

  “I disown her!” Malekith declared, spinning on his heel. “Ever she has clawed for power, and whispered in my ear that it is I who should wear that cloak and crown. From the moment of Aenarion’s death, she has ceaselessly pushed me to rule this isle. You remember how she screamed and railed when I was the first to bend my knee to you, and ever since she has sought to control me, to force me to power so that she might be queen again. I know not why my father wed her, for she is conniving and vain, and for all my life I remember nothing but her sharp tongue and unbridled ambition. She has cast me aside, and even now, I suspect, she raises up some other puppet in my place. She will not relent until she holds sway over all of Ulthuan, and that is something that I shall not abide.”

  “And yet, she is for all that, still your mother,” said Bel Shanaar with concern upon his face. “If it comes to such, would you be able to drive your blade through her heart? Would your sword arm remain strong as you struck off her head?”

  “It must be done, and I would have no other do it,” replied Malekith. “There is a wicked irony that I should send from this world she who brought me into it. Such considerations are yet far from our immediate concern, for Nagarythe must be reclaimed first. I do not know what hold she has over the other princes and nobles of Nagarythe. I hope that some still resist her, but they will be scattered and few. She will twist and distort my actions to those who waver, so that it appears that it is I who is the aggressor. Our folk are loyal but they are not imaginative. We are raised to obey orders, not to ask questions, yet there are many still who would raise their banners beside their true prince. I shall march to Anlec and overthrow the witch-queen!”

  ——

  Malekith’s War

  It was too late in the year for Malekith to mount another expedition into his homeland, and so he spent the winter gathering what troops he could from the other princes, while all the while the raven heralds slipped across the border to bring news of what passed in the north. Such reports were disquieting, for it seemed that now she had revealed herself as the witch-sorceress she had long been, Morathi had thrown aside all regard for pretences and now wholly embraced her dark nature.

  Nagarythe seethed with activity and to Malekith’s further dismay, when spring-finally came, unsettling word arrived from the colonies that the same racial ennui that had so beset Ulthuan was now taking hold in the cities to the east. In response to Malekith’s requests for troops, Alandrian could only send a fraction of the Naggarothi army from Athel Toralien; the rest he needed to guard against growing numbers of orcs moving into Elthin Arvan from the south.

  Other fighters joined the prince’s army from Nagarythe; individually and by company they had cautiously made their way south into Tiranoc, risking not only the wrath of Morathi but also the ire of the Tiranoc army guarding the border against a
ny who crossed. Malekith had hoped for many more, but it seemed as if a good many of his former captains and lieutenants were content to serve his mother, either in loyalty or out of fear, while a cadre of princes still faithful to Malekith were isolated in the mountains of Nagarythe, gathered under the banner of the lords of House Anar.

  Malekith had learned well the lesson of Ealith. He knew that the army under his command could not march directly from Tiranoc to Anlec, for the host of Nagarythe would be prepared for such an attack. Yet Malekith did not let despair grip his counsel, and as he sought for support from the other princes, he paid especial attention to befriend Haradrin of Eataine, who had at his command the greatest fleet of the elves and the staunch Lothern Sea Guard. Malekith still had Indraugnir under his charge, and with several more dragonships from Lothern he was sure that he would be able to overpower the Nagarythe fleet. Malekith brooded a long while on what few advantages he had, and by the time spring began to thaw the snow in the mountains he had envisioned a bold plan of action.

  It began with the army of Tiranoc forming into hosts not far from the Naganath. Knowing well that Morathi’s spies and magic would discern such movement, Malekith hoped to lure the Naggarothi into believing that an attack was imminent, and thus draw their forces southwards.

  * * *

  In the last days of winter, Malekith rode alone into the Annulii east of Tor Anroc. He took with him the Circlet of Iron, and headed into the high peaks. He found himself a sheltered spot and sat upon the ground out of the biting wind. Placing the circlet upon his head, Malekith closed his eyes and allowed the ancient artefact to direct his mind.