by Gav Thorpe
The atmosphere of dread was as palpable as the dark magic that Malekith felt moving sluggishly through the foundations of the city. The buildings were low and squat for elf construction – barely a tower four storeys high broke the skyline away from the convent. Slate roofs gave the city a grey appearance, broken by the silver and gold of talismans hanging over doorways and windows. Some walls were painted with red or white or pale blue runes of protection, others with names of the Cytharai and many decorated with intricate mural-geometric designs incorporating the name-icon of Hekarti.
‘Upon the edge of damnation it is wise to appease all patrons,’ Drusala said, noticing the Witch King’s stare lingering on these totems. She pointed to his shield. ‘The antithetical rune of the supreme witch protects you in battle, my lord.’
‘You find judgement where only curiosity exists,’ said Malekith, scrutinising Drusala closely. She seemed more defensive than during previous encounters. ‘Of more interest to me is my mother’s assertion to possess the mantel of Hekarti. It is not the first time in recent memory that one has claimed to me that the gods are ascending and descending to the mortal realm.’
‘Really?’ Drusala regretted her interested outburst immediately, looking away shame-faced. When she looked at Malekith again she had regained her composure, though there was stiffness in her tone. ‘Apologies, your majesty. We are indeed in tumultuous times and the gods themselves will play their part in events to come. Forgive my intrusive demand.’
‘It excites you? The possibility that we enter the End Times?’
‘There are no endings, your majesty, only beginnings that have not been exploited yet. The world turns upon cycles, and we stand on the brink of a fresh era of growth and dominance.’
‘To which ‘we’ do you refer? The Convent of Sorceresses? The Naggarothi? Mortals?’
Drusala kept her expression neutral when she replied. ‘Your people, of course, your majesty. We are all your subjects.’
‘Even Morathi?’
‘I would not speak for the incarnation of Eternal Hekarti, your majesty, but your mother has long laboured for your power and best interests. Was it not her that aided Kouran in holding together your dominion when you were cast adrift in the Realm of the Dark Lords? If she had desired to usurp your majesty’s position, she would have done so then, would she not?’
‘My mother does not support me – she fears the reprisals of the princes should one of them ever seize power.’
Drusala clamped her mouth shut, cheeks drawn in as she kept whatever remark she had to herself. It was obvious that Malekith’s barbed words had touched a nerve. He was not sure if the sorceress was offended, or upset in some other fashion by his comments. Certainly she held Morathi in very high esteem and it pained her to hear Malekith talk of his mother in such an off-hand fashion.
They continued without speaking. Drusala’s footfalls made no noise as she strode along the paved streets, but the impact of Malekith’s boots rang hollow from the buildings, each step a knell that announced his passage through the city. More and more faces peered at his approach, some of them now showing curiosity more than fear. Once or twice he caught the expectant gaze of a noble or servant, quickly replaced with fear as his dread gaze fell upon them.
He could imagine the whispered conversations, the rumour. The bloodthorn wall kept out news as surely as it guarded against attack, and perhaps that was Morathi’s true purpose. Had the people of Ghrond known that the rest of Naggaroth was being destroyed by the bloodied horde there might have been dissent, even rebellion. He knew his subjects were not overtly loyal to one another, but enlightened self-interest and the risk of total destruction always ensured they would come together against an external foe.
What lies had Morathi and her sisters spun to the military commanders? That it was safe to stay here, waiting for reinforcements that Morathi hoped would never arrive? As time dragged on she would speak of how Malekith had been absent, and how the lords of Naggarond had cared nothing for the people of the other cities. By such half-truths was a new centre of power created, and by such manipulation of events were loyalties shifted.
Drusala was right in one regard. The End Times was an unnecessarily grandiose name for a period of change no worse than any Chaos influx the world had seen before. The magical vortex of Ulthuan ensured that no matter how far the Realm of Chaos expanded, never again would the touch of Chaos corrupt the whole world as it had done during the daemonic invasions that had beset Aenarion. If the latest news from Ulthuan was true, Prince Tyrion was ably impersonating his ancestor in holding back the latest daemon surge.
It was all so repetitive. The cycle of the world, the endless ebb and flow of nations and battles, and here was Malekith again, about to take his mother to task for opposing him, for testing him. He would have hoped that she of all other people would understand the pointlessness of trying to resist his will, but her vanity always urged her to the wrong path at the most untimely moments.
I’ve been here before, he thought.
Not literally, but the similarity to events in the far past made him wonder if he was an actor in a play being staged again and again with a few alterations to the script between performances.
At the far end of the hall sat Morathi, clad in a draping wind of golden cloth that obscured very little of her nakedness. She held her staff of bone and iron across her lap, her fingers toying with the skull at its tip. Morathi was sitting in a simple wooden chair next to the mighty throne of Aenarion, which was cut from a single piece of black granite, its back shaped like a rearing dragon, of which Bel Shanaar’s throne was but a pale imitation. Magical flame licked from the dragon’s fanged maw and glowed in its eyes.
Malekith’s eyes were drawn to the throne above all other things, ignoring even his mother, for this was the strongest memory he had of this place, of his father girded for war sat upon that immense chair, in counsel with his famed generals.
The memory was so vivid that Malekith could hear his father’s soft yet strong voice echoing around the throne room. The prince was but a child, sat in the lap of his mother beside the Phoenix King, and Aenarion would occasionally pause in his conversation and look down upon his son. Always stern was that look: not unkind, yet not compassionate either, but full of pride. For years Malekith had gazed back at those strong, dark eyes and seen the fires that raged behind their quiet dignity. Malekith imagined that he alone knew the sinister spirit that hid within, clothed in the body of a noble monarch, masked against the eyes of the world lest it be recognised for what it truly was.
The soul of a destroyer, the wielder of the Godslayer.
And the sword! There across the Phoenix King’s lap lay Widowmaker, Soulbiter, the Sword of Khaine. Even at a young age, Malekith had noticed that only he and his father ever looked upon its blood-red blade, for all other elves averted their gaze and would look anywhere else but directly at it. It was like a secret shared between them.
‘Yet you did not pick up the Blade of Murder when it was offered to you,’ said Morathi, dispelling the illusion that had so gripped her son.
Malekith shook his head, confused by the enchantment cunningly wrought upon him by his mother. Truly they were real memories she had stirred, but her spell had made them as tangible as life, if only for a moment.
‘I did not,’ replied Malekith, slowly, realising that Morathi had seen into his thoughts and learned of his episode on the Blighted Isle, of which he had spoken to nobody.
‘That is good,’ said Morathi.
She was sitting in stately pose, despite her near-nudity, and exuded regal poise. Not here the barbarous priestess who tore living hearts from the breasts of her victims, not the seductive, wily seeress who wove lies with every word and manipulated all around her into a tapestry to her liking. Here she was as queen of Nagarythe, full of quiet majesty and grandeur.
‘The sword controlled your father,’ the queen said, her tone hushed, reassuring. ‘Since his death, it has yearned for you to seek
it out. I was worried that you would be ensnared by its power as well, but I am proud that you resisted its bloodthirsty call. None can truly be its master, and if you are to rule, then you must be master of everything.’
‘I would rather the world devoured by daemons than unleash that fell creation upon the world again,’ Malekith said, sheathing Avanuir. ‘As you say, once drawn it will consume its wielder until nothing but blood remains. No person can become a king with its power, only a slave.’
‘Sit down,’ Morathi said, waving a hand of invitation towards the grand throne.
‘It is not yet my place to sit there,’ replied Malekith.
‘Oh?’ said Morathi, surprised. ‘And why is that?’
‘If I am to rule Nagarythe, I shall rule it alone,’ said Malekith. ‘Without you. When you are slain, the army of Nagarythe will be mine again. I shall hold power over the pleasure cults and with them secure the Phoenix Throne.’
Morathi remained silent, looking at her son with ancient eyes, gauging his mood and motive. A sly smile then twisted her lips.
‘You mean to slay me?’ she whispered, feigning shock.
‘While you live, always will your ambition be a shadow upon mine,’ said Malekith, angry at his mother’s charade. ‘You cannot help but be my rival, for it is not in your nature to serve any but yourself. I cannot share Ulthuan with you, for you could never truly share it with me. Even my father was not your master. I would exile you, but you would rise up again in some forgotten corner, a contender for everything that I aspire to.’
‘Cannot share power,’ Morathi said, ‘or will not?’
Malekith pondered for a moment, examining his feelings.
‘Will not,’ he replied, his eyes full of intent.
‘And to what is it that you aspire, my son?’ Morathi said, leaning forward eagerly.
‘To inherit my father’s legacy and rule as Phoenix King,’ Malekith replied, knowing the truth of the words even as he spoke them. Never before had he so openly admitted his desire, not even to himself. Glory, honour, renown: all but stepping stones towards his ascension to the Phoenix Throne. The circlet had revealed to him the true nature of the forces that now ruled the world, and he would not stand by while Ulthuan slowly succumbed to them.
‘Yes, Chaos is strong,’ Morathi told him.
‘Stay out of my thoughts,’ Malekith snarled, taking an angry step forward, his hand straying to the hilt of Avanuir.
‘I need no magic to know your mind, Malekith,’ said Morathi, still gazing fixedly at her son. ‘There is a bond between mother and son that does not need sorcery.’
‘Do you submit yourself to your fate?’ Malekith said, ignoring her obvious reminder of their relationship, an attempt to stay his hand.
‘You should know better than to ask such a pointless question,’ Morathi replied, and now her voice was stern, harsh even. ‘Have I not always told you that you were destined to be king? You cannot be king unless you are prince of your own realm, and I will not surrender it willingly. Prove to me that you are worthy of ruling Nagarythe. Prove to the other princes that the strength within you is greater than any other.’
They came to the great barbican of the convent. The gates were open, and above the portal to the entrance hall blazed a rune of Hekarti, made of polished bones inscribed with smaller rune-shapes that flickered with their own life. Octagonal obsidian tiles paved the floor of the first hall, inset with channels stained dark with dried blood. Walls of granite were painstakingly carved with similar runnels in arcane patterns, the thaumatic geometry spreading up the tower to the sacrificial temples just below the summit. In dire times the whole of the palace could be charged with blood magic, fuelled with death for the mystics to pierce the veil of Chaos or for the sorceresses to take more direct action against a foe.
‘Queen Morathi will be with you shortly,’ announced Drusala, moving away from the Witch King. She waved her hand towards a spiralling stair. ‘In the hall of welcoming.’
The sorceress slipped away through a curtained archway and Malekith was alone, though he could sense the presence of others very close at hand, watching him without eyes. He waited for several heartbeats to see if a new guide would come forth to lead him to his destination, but the palace seemed strangely empty.
Annoyed by the unseemly lack of proper welcome and ceremony, Malekith headed towards the steps, determined that his mother’s transgressions would be punished this time.
SEVEN
Mother and Queen
The audience chamber was glorious in its sumptuousness. Golden drapes hung from every wall, and basalt tiles, polished to a mirrored sheen, were barely visible beneath the wine-dark rugs. Marble statues, studies in flawless physique, lined the chamber.
Malekith regarded the statuary with contempt. He recognised a few faces as previous members of his court, who had supported Morathi and in turn been granted her boons, both pleasurable and political.
He had been made to wait for some time, no doubt on purpose. His mother had always been theatrical, and could never resist the opportunity to make a grand entrance. Making him wait upon her pleasure also enforced the notion that she held the power here, not her son. The truth was that Malekith had learned to be above such petty manipulation. There were many that accused him of arrogance, and probably with good right, but such was his towering confidence that he was able to shrug off the minor insults and oversights that drove lesser leaders to rave and punish.
He would never give his mother the satisfaction of seeing her attempts to rile him had succeeded.
A chair was set next to a table before the throne, a ewer of dark wine and a goblet ready for his refreshment, but Malekith barely needed such sustenance these days. It was another goad, for Morathi knew well that the fire that had ravaged his body had all but destroyed his sense of smell and taste as well. The finest meats were as ashes on his tongue and the wine, no doubt liberated from some grand terrace in Ellyrion or Saphery, would be like brackish water.
Wishing to make a point of his own, Malekith stepped past the chair and sat down on the great throne of bloodrock at the end of the hall. He closed metal-lidded eyes and considered what he would say.
The click of heels on tiles and the faintest breeze from the opening door alerted Malekith to a new arrival. He opened his eyes as Morathi entered, and watched as she strode across the rugs, her gaze lingering on a few of the statues that lined the approach to the throne.
A momentary sour look marred her beautiful face as she noticed where he was sitting, an expression of annoyance that was swiftly replaced with a humourless smile. She gave a deep nod of greeting – never a bow, Malekith noted, for that would imply subservience – and crossed to greet her son.
‘You have travelled far to speak with me, my child. Should I feel honoured, or afraid?’
‘I have yet to believe that either of those words holds any meaning for you, mother,’ said Malekith coldly.
‘Will you not be seated?’ he went on, inviting her to accept his position, the throne, but she would not accede even that.
‘I am quite content as I am,’ she replied, eyes narrowing. She was weighing up Malekith, trying to judge his mood, but it was impossible even for his mother to know what crossed his mind when his ravaged flesh was hidden behind his helm.
On the other hand, he was well aware of Morathi’s mood, though to any other the subtle signs would have been lost. Seven millennia had shown him the slight tension in the shoulders, the merest curl of the lip, were danger signs. She made no overt effort, but subtly the winds of magic were shifting, gathering, funnelling down from the thorn-wreathed sky into the tower of Ghrond and seeping up from the dark rock beneath.
Surely she did not mean to engage in a magical contest? It would be a desperate move. Malekith was not certain he would win such a duel, but neither could Morathi start such a battle with full confidence. It would be a last cast of the bones, and it seemed Morathi was far from cornered and finished. She had tried direct co
nfrontation before, when both of them had been far less experienced.
At some silent command, four figures emerged from the shadows, two to Malekith’s left and two to his right. They were sorcerers by their garb, two male and two female, swathed in black robes, tattooed with dark sigils.
Malekith struck out with a blast of magic, materialising as a thunderbolt from his fingertips. Instantly Morathi was surrounded by a shadowy sphere of energy, which pulsed as the bolt struck it. Her adepts unleashed spells of their own, fiery blasts that rushed in upon Malekith in the guise of howling wolf heads, and the prince cast his own shield of darkness to ward them away.
The sorcerers and sorceresses closed in, hurling fireballs and flares of dark power. Malekith protected himself, drawing in more and more magic from the energy seething around the throne room as the spells cascaded towards him.
Morathi sat contentedly upon her chair while her followers unleashed their hexes and curses, watching with interest as Malekith countered each. Churning and bubbling, magic flowed around the hall, growing in intensity as both Malekith and his foes reached their minds out further and further, drawing energy from the city outside.
‘Enough,’ barked Malekith, letting free the energy that he had pulled into himself, releasing a blast of raw magic not shaped by any spell.
The power blazed, surrounding each of the dark wizards, filling them with mystical energy, more than they could control. The first, a red-haired witch, began to quiver, and then spasmed so hard that Malekith heard her spine snapping as she flopped to the ground. The other sorceress screeched in agony as her blood turned to fire and exploded out of her veins, engulfing her in a tempest of lightning and flames. The third of them flew into the air as if struck, his nose, eyes and ears streaming with blood, his ragged body smashing against the distant wall. The last was consumed by the ravening magic and collapsed in upon himself, crumpled like a ball of paper until he disintegrated into a pile of dust.
