The Curse of Khaine

by Gav Thorpe

  At the centre of the chamber stood a great circular table fashioned from a single block of obsidian. Glyphs carved into the table’s rim denoted each of the noble houses that had been privileged to sit there. Many times a smaller glyph, outlined in crushed rubies, followed the first symbol, noting a house that had been abolished by Malekith and extirpated from both the Black Council and the world of the living.

  One hundred seats were set around the table, ghoulish thrones crafted from blackened bones and flayed skin. In many chairs some infamous leader of the dark elves reposed, though not all amongst that assembly were alive. Dozens of the seats were occupied by corpses, some of them fresh and reeking of decay, others withered by time into dried husks caked in dust and cobwebs. The most notorious traitors and disappointments were afforded a permanent position on the Black Council by the Tyrant of Naggarond.

  A few paces behind each of the twenty chairs to be occupied stood one of the Black Guard, their halberds gleaming and sharp. Malekith waited on the throne, bathed in shadow, the fires of his curse dimmed by an effort of will so that he seemed an immobile statue of pitted black iron.

  The gathering commenced in solemn quiet, with none of the pomp and posturing of previous councils. Not only was the circumstance no cause for celebration, the messengers from the Witch King had made it plain that he expected utter obedience in this testing time and no one was prepared to call undue attention to themselves while Malekith was in such a lethal mood.

  The nobles of several cities came first, those of Clar Karond wearing cloaks of sea dragon scales, whips and pendants shaped like goads signifying their accomplishments as slave-takers. Rivals from Karond Kar followed, beastmasters that wore the pelts of manticores and hydras, and bore scarred faces and limbs with pride. They sat upon chairs opposite the Clar Karond delegation, whispering taunts and darting murderous glares that were returned in kind. Lady Khyra arrived shortly after, who took her customary place between the skeletal remains of Drusith Eldraken and the empty seat formerly occupied by Ebnir Soulflayer.

  Drusala came next, standing in for the Queen of Ghrond. No other had ever represented the city before and the feuding city nobles fell silent as the import of Drusala’s attendance settled in their minds. They watched her take a seat almost at the foot of the throne dais, her hands neatly clasped in her lap, a chain of silver hung with a pendant of Hekarti wrapped about her fingers. She turned and smiled at the lords and ladies and the atmosphere grew chiller still.

  The next councillors to arrive hailed from Naggarond: Ezresor and Venil Chillblade. The spymaster had of late been forced to take up arms himself and there was a raw scar on his cheek from a northman’s blade. With the pair came Drane Brackblood and Lokhir Fellheart as representatives of the corsair fleets, having arrived directly from their black arks which now filled a bay not far along the coast from the harbour of Naggarond. Other great citadels of the sea and smaller vessels had clustered into the ports at Clar Karond and Karond Kar, disgorging cargoes of slaves and loot in unprecedented numbers.

  A representative for the shade clans, Saidekh Winterclaw, arrived swiftly after. His bald head was tattooed with tribal designs, face pierced and fingers beringed with blood-red metal. He was dressed in fur-lined dark leather armour set with bronze rings, and about his neck hung a necklace of rotting ears and tongues from his latest victory duels with other chieftains of the mountains. The others looked on the highlander with unconcealed contempt as he took his place, returning their looks of disgust with a leer of mutual hatred for the city-dwellers.

  Two watch commanders, one male, the other female – the only two surviving watch commanders – had come from far to the east and west, the towers of Shagrath and Drackla Spire, and marched in step down the carpet with helms under their arms, faces raised in haughty disdain for the nobles that had seemingly abandoned them. They glared at their Black Guard escort, unused to such close attention, but sat down without comment.

  Kouran arrived next, without ceremony, and took his place beside the throne on the opposite side to Drusala, his magical glaive held upright beside him, within the visor of his helm his eyes moving from one attendee to the next in constant motion, never stopping.

  There was a pause until a pair of elves entered, dressed in tabards of red and purple, of a somewhat nervous disposition. They eyed each other and then lifted the clarions they were carrying to their lips. After a further agitated pause they blew a series of rising notes that rang along the length of the hall, disturbing the still. As the last echoes of the peel reverberated into nothing, they lowered their instruments and hailed loudly.

  ‘Presenting the Warpsword, Tyrant of Hag Graef, Daemon’s Bane, Lord Malus Darkblade!’

  Lips pursed, a strut in his step, Darkblade entered the hall and stopped on the threshold surveying the scene. All eyes turned towards his gauche entrance and there was a shaking of heads and discontented muttering. Seemingly oblivious to his indiscretion Malus sauntered down the carpet and sat next to Kouran, who fixed the Tyrant of Hag Graef with a piercing stare. The captain of the Black Guard gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and a moment later the two heralds at the door screamed as their guts splashed across the floor.

  The two Black Guards that had disembowelled them emerged from the shadow of the doors and dragged the unfortunates away, leaving a trail of gore, their shrieks fading with distance.

  ‘By all the Cytharai, you have chosen to make an enemy of me,’ snarled Darkblade, launching to his feet to confront Kouran, who remained seated, though he flexed his fingers on the haft of Crimson Death.

  Any further protest was silenced by a husky but powerful voice at the doorway.

  ‘Do I smell fresh blood?’

  Everyone turned to watch the arrival of the last council member. The Hag Queen of Khaine was in her decrepit phase, her skin a thin veil over wasted muscle and bone, only partially obscured by a robe of flayed elfskin. Hellebron’s face was a dreadful mask of sunken flesh, eyes ringed with black kohl that turned them into a shocking glare. Despite this she carried herself without sign of infirmity. Her movements were smooth and assured, and in defiance of her haggard appearance it was clear that she had once possessed outstanding beauty. A wig of white hair stained with bloody smears hung to her waist, kept in place by hooks that bit into the flesh of her forehead, stretching the wrinkled skin. Hands like claws opened and closed like a striking raptor.

  She crouched, dipping a curling fingernail into the blood by the door. She licked the fluid from her fingertip and smiled, revealing cracked teeth that had been filed to points, gums bloodless and pale, a tongue stained black by millennia of narcotic abuse flicking between them, savouring the taste of life.

  Hellebron had not always been so. All the recent talk of gods incarnating in the land of mortals reminded Malekith of Death Night seven hundred years before, when he had travelled to Har Ganeth for a very special conclave with the witch elves of Khaine.

  It was an even choice which grated on his nerves more – the shrieking of the Khainites, the incessant drumming or the smell of burning viscera. The first was like the scrape of a broken blade across his nerves, the second was so monotonous it made him doubt time and sanity and the third was too much of a reminder of his physical condition.

  He endured it all as he endured that immortal pain, in silence.

  The temple of Khaine in Har Ganeth was an open forum of black pillars with an iron dome across the top hung with decaying organs and bones that swayed and rattled in the thermals of hot air rising from the sacrificial fire and a thousand braziers. In layout it was a good approximation of the ancient site upon the Blighted Isle where the Sword of Khaine rested in its dark stone altar, but considering the heat coming from the sacred fires – heat he could barely feel but had to be near-lethal for the cavorting worshippers – he wondered if the open aspect of the shrine was more practical than symbolic.

  Such thoughts amused Malekith as he watched the ceremony continue. Out in the streets of
the city, as in all the other cities of Naggaroth and any settlement where there was a shrine to Khaine, the witch elves were celebrating Death Night. The cultists prowled the streets and rooftops, seeking victims for the temple. In times past only those found outside their homes had fallen prey, but as the millennia had passed generations had grown wise to the perils and now in order to meet the bloody demands of their god the Khainites were not above breaking into buildings to snatch away those that could not defend themselves. Across the city howls of grief and the clash of weapons signalled successes and failures in this quest.

  The unfortunates were dragged screaming up the temple steps, their bodies already bleeding from dozens of cuts, leaving a trail of blood on the red-veined marble. Hellebron and her coterie of hag queens stood beside an immense cauldron scored with diabolic runes. Wrought from black iron also, hollow with flames burning within, a statue of Khaine was set behind the cauldron, wicked blades held over the magical vessel. There was a fire lit beneath the cauldron, in which a growing pool of blood bubbled and steamed.

  The sacrifices were heaved up onto the altar and their arteries opened wide, spilling crimson life fluid into the channels carved into the stone, running down into the dungeon beneath the temple where slaves laboured with cloths and buckets, passing pails of the spilt blood up slick steps to the priestesses in the shrine. Uttering their shrill prayers to the Lord of Murder the witch elves poured their bloody libation into the cauldron for their high priestesses.

  Incredibly the victims did not die from this bleeding, but remained as shambling things kept alive by the magic of the temple. That is, until they stumbled into the grim-faced Executioners that lined the columned space, their two-handed draichs slick with blood. Each victim was finished with a single strike and lesser acolytes fell upon the bodies, some to rip out the hearts to toss into the holy flames, others fighting for possession of the heads to flense and gild as trophies. The rest of the remains were dragged away by whip-scarred slaves, to the workshops where they would be rendered down for components used in the Khainites’ narcotics and poisons, the remaining organs and body parts illicitly sold on to magical practitioners not willing to draw the eye of the Convent of Sorceresses.

  For the whole of Death Night this continued, until just before dawn the Cauldron of Blood was nearly full. Ascending on steps wrought of bones and sinew, Hellebron and her hag queens bathed in the heated blood, laughing and splashing like children in a pool. Malekith watched closely. His unnatural gaze, aided by the Circlet of Iron upon his brow, could see the winds of dark magic binding to the cauldron through ritual and sacrifice. The magic flowed into the blood, energising it, and passed into the hag queens within.

  Hellebron emerged as the first rays of dawn shone through the gate-pillars of the temple, her pale flesh bronzed by the sun’s early light. She was exquisite, possessed of such youthful vibrancy, her hair lustrous and thick, every limb and feature perfectly proportioned. Malekith knew well why his mother had scorned Hellebron when Alandrian’s daughter had asked for favour in the queen’s service many millennia ago: simple jealousy. For all her politics and machinations, Morathi was sometimes prone to folly caused by her primal need for superiority. Had she been able to stomach the presence of a maiden more beautiful than her, Morathi would have made a powerful servant rather than an enemy six thousand years old.

  He snapped himself out of his lustful contemplation, remembering that there was a particular reason he had come to Har Ganeth on this of all nights. Morathi’s pleasure cults were growing again, inveigling their way into the courts and armies of Naggaroth as they had Ulthuan in the time before the oceans had swallowed Nagarythe. For the most part they were harmless, but Malekith was never content to allow his mother free rein, and a message had to be sent reminding Morathi that the Witch King was aware of her ploys.

  Malekith paced across the temple as the last of the hag queens pulled her lithe, blood-coated body from the great cauldron. He extended his will, letting Asuryan’s flame burn from the cracks and gaps in his armour. The resemblance to the statue of Khaine was uncanny and it was this that had given Malekith inspiration.

  ‘You know me as your king,’ he intoned, ascending the steps to stand above the mighty cauldron of the Lord of Murder. He opened his arms, flame burning from his palms. ‘Know me now also as the incarnate vessel of your lord and god, Khaine the Ruthless, the Bloody-Handed Messenger, Jaguar of the Night, the Manticore. In me has He invested His power in the mortal realm, so that He might lead you on the crusade of death.’

  Hellebron had known this was to come and she hid her distaste well enough as she watched Malekith stepping down into the blood. The thick liquid roiled at the heat of his entry, bursting and splashing over the rim of the cauldron. Malekith crouched, allowing his head to sink beneath the surface, feeling the dark magic crawling across his armour. He latched onto the threads of energy and poured his own magic back along their channels.

  The outside of the cauldron started to glow. The runes grew brighter and brighter until they blazed with ruddy energy, filling the temple with blood-red light. As Hellebron and the assembled Khainites watched, Malekith ascended from the blood, the life fluid blackened, caked across his armoured flesh. He turned his eyes on Hellebron and after a moment – a moment that signalled displeasure but obedience – she lowered to one knee and bowed her head, prompting the rest of the Khaine worshippers to do likewise.

  ‘Send the word out across the world,’ Hellebron intoned. Malekith emitted a little of his magical power, shattering the burned blood from his armour with a burst of fire. ‘Celebrate and give thanks to the mighty Lord of Murder for delivering unto us his world-born son. We have been blessed and in His name we shall bare our blades in readiness for His will as voiced by His avatar. Hail Malekith, Eternal Khaine Incarnate.’

  After Hellebron came two more from the blood cults: Tullaris, most infamous of the Executioners, and Satikha, Handmaiden of Shards, priestess of Eldrazor the god of blades. They each offered obeisance to what seemed to them the image of Malekith on his throne.

  The last empty chair became the next subject of attention, until Lord Saesius of Karond Kar informed everybody that his sister had been slain during a northlander ambush en route to the capital.

  ‘So now we must await the pleasure of our august majesty, as usual?’ said Darkblade, sitting down. ‘I wonder how long it will be before he graces us with his presence.’

  Unseen by the Tyrant of Hag Graef, the Black Guard standing behind him took a pace closer, hands shifting grip on her halberd.

  Malekith allowed his essence to burst forth, opening eyes like two pits of fire. Darkblade visibly flinched, hands grabbing the arms of his chair.

  ‘Not long, my good friend Malus,’ said Malekith, standing up to his full height, glaring down at the assembled council. ‘Not long at all.’

  NINE

  A Salutary Example

  To his credit, Darkblade calmed his squirming and offered no defence or apology. Malekith regarded the master of Hag Graef carefully, seeing something writhing in the dreadlord’s heart, some daemonic power granted by illegal rite the Witch King suspected. There were whispers that the title Daemon’s Bane was not mere affectation but also not entirely truthful.

  Malekith looked away, assuring himself that Malus would receive his justified fate soon enough. Malekith’s gaze swept over the others and finished upon Hellebron, who was staring with suspicion at Drusala, eyes narrowed like a cat’s.

  ‘Welcome back to Naggarond, chosen bride of Khaine,’ Malekith said slowly, extending a hand of greeting to the leader of the Khainites. ‘I offer my regrets that your temples have been so despoiled and your city ravaged.’

  ‘Had your bitch mother played her part we would have seen the human cattle slaughtered at the walls.’ Hellebron shuddered with excitement, eyes closing fully for a moment. She composed herself. ‘No matter. The temples of Khaine have been anointed in battle. It is a dedication, not a desecration.’


  Malekith accepted this with a nod and took a moment, one hand upon the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Lord Vyrath Sor shall not be joining us,’ Malekith’s voice echoed across the chamber. ‘He was slow to answer my summons and only arrived this morning. I reminded him of his obligations to the Circlet of Iron. The harpies should carry what’s left of him back to his tower by sunset. It would pain me if the garrison of Nagrar were to think their master had fallen victim to some lesser fate.’

  To emphasise his story, Malekith tossed an object onto the obsidian table. The gold chain clattered as it came to rest. Though caked in blood and shreds of flesh, there was no mistaking the sigil that had represented Vyrath Sor etched onto the chain’s clasp.

  Malekith stalked about the periphery of the chamber, drifting between the shadows like some prowling tiger. ‘Do not mourn Vyrath Sor,’ the king advised with mock sympathy. ‘He decreed his own doom when he placed the defence of his miserable outpost before his duty to his master. The same doom any one of you might have earned by defying me.’

  ‘Nagrar is lost, then?’ the question was uttered by Venil Chillblade.

  The Witch King made a deprecating wave of his hand.

  ‘An inconsequence,’ he declared. ‘The garrison will fight to the last because they have no choice. They will die as druchii should, shedding their blood on behalf of their king. When the tower falls, the advance of the barbarians will falter. They will be some time plundering their conquest and slaughtering such captives as they take. It will take their warlords still more time to gather their animals back into a fighting horde.’