by Gav Thorpe
‘But they will continue their advance, your highness?’ The hesitant voice of Thar Draigoth, the great flesh-merchant, sounded more like a rodent’s squeak than the words of Naggaroth’s most infamous slaver. Like Venil, he had extensive holdings in Karond Kar. After seeing his interests in Clar Karond massacred by the triumphant invaders, he was doubly worried about protecting the rest of his property.
Malekith came around behind Lady Khyra’s seat, one of his iron claws reaching down to stroke the shoulder to which her false arm was attached. The king glanced along the table, sweeping his gaze across each of his dreadlords.
‘The Rhana Dandra is coming,’ he announced. ‘The End Times are upon us and the moment for action is nigh. You have all felt it, I am sure, and we have certainly all witnessed it as daemons and northlanders bayed at the gates of our cities. Ulthuan stands on a precipice. Usurpers and faint-hearts defend our ancient isle against a foe they cannot defeat. If our people – all of our people – are to survive the coming onslaught they will need strong leaders. Leaders only Naggaroth can provide.’
‘The weakness of our cousins shall finally be their downfall,’ said Lady Khyra. ‘As soon as our city’s defences have been repaired, we shall assemble the fleets and await your command.’
‘Karond Kar suffered also,’ added the dreadlord Eillhin, eyes flicking towards his rivals, ‘but you can count upon our ships and warriors no less than any other city.’
‘Once the northlanders have been driven back, all of Naggaroth will heed the call to arms,’ said the male watch commander, whose name Malekith had not bothered to learn.
‘You misunderstand my intent,’ the Witch King told them, stilling their enthusiasm. ‘The End Times are coming. The Realm of Chaos seeks to devour the world and the Chaos Wastes expand. The northlanders will pillage everything that has not been warped by the storm of magic descending upon us, and will squat in our fallen towers where they will be preyed upon by daemons sent by the masters they seek to serve.’
He stepped down from the throne dais and paced along the hall. All eyes followed him until he stopped upon the seal of Aenarion set in gold and malachite in the floor. The sigil began to writhe, infused with the heat from Malekith’s tread, seeming to come to life to light the Witch King with an auric glow.
‘This blasted wilderness has never been our home. It was a refuge, nothing more, and it has become an anchor to our ambitions. It is time to cast free ourselves from its cold burden, and direct our fullest intention to the only home we have ever desired.’
‘The defences of Ulthuan are considerable, even if our cousins are busy fighting daemons,’ Ezresor said carefully. ‘Lines of supply and retreat…’
‘There will be no retreat.’ Malekith’s words echoed along the hall like tomb-slabs of mausoleums closing on the council. ‘Naggaroth will die and any that remain or try to return will die also. Do not mistake necessity for vanity. We must reclaim Ulthuan or perish in the Rhana Dandra. Put all other thoughts from your minds. There is no failure on this expedition, only death or victory.’
This announcement was greeted with outbursts of disbelief and horror. The Black Guards stood ready and Kouran’s eyes were fixed on Malekith waiting for the simplest of signals, but Malekith gave no indication of his displeasure. The Witch King saw his captain cast his gaze about the room, no doubt noting who protested the most, or did not, either perhaps a sign of a deeper plotting. Kouran turned his halberd in his hands, unnoticed by the others, until the blade pointed towards Ezresor, who was sneering and shaking his head at the posturing nobles.
Malekith would have killed any for such dissent only a year earlier, but his resources were dwindling rapidly and he needed these leaders of druchii society to support him. He allowed protests and veiled threats to wash over him, salving his pride with the knowledge that despite their haranguing every elf present would do exactly as Malekith commanded. Voicing a difference of opinion was one matter, openly disobeying the Witch King’s orders another.
Hellebron’s cackle cut through the uproar.
‘Khaine’s feast grows daily, and you think you can avoid the banquet?’ Fingernails like daggers scratched the surface of the table. She turned her attention to the Witch King. ‘All that is left is the bloodletting – what does it matter where the droplets fall?’
‘The blood of the druchii belongs to me,’ Malekith snarled. ‘I and I alone have made you what you are. Mine is the will that has stripped all weakness from your hearts, mine is the vision that has poured strength into your bodies. All you think, all you dream, all that you are is as I have made it. The druchii are mine, formed from my vision, moulded by my cause. From the pathetic tatters of a vanquished realm I have built a great and terrible people.’
‘But how does that help us save Naggaroth?’ Malus asked, confidence obviously fuelled by the disapproval voiced by the others. Malekith cared nothing for their opinions, only for their uses.
‘Ereth Khial take Naggaroth!’ Malekith spat. ‘Our treacherous kin are ripe for conquest! What would you do, spend the blood of your warriors to protect a land that you despise, a bleak desolation that has within it nothing but scorn and mockery? I tell you, I tell all of you, this will not be! We will not bleed our armies defending this abominable wilderness! If we are to fight, then we will fight a war that is worth fighting! We will fight to take the land that belongs to us! We will fight to claim the land that is our heritage and birthright! Naggaroth? Let it burn! Let it rot! Let it fall to daemons and beasts! It is Ulthuan we desire, it is Ulthuan that is the destiny of the druchii! Ulthuan and the crown of Aenarion! Ulthuan and the birthright of Malekith!’
The Witch King’s eyes flared from the black depths of his helm. ‘We will not waste our strength defending Naggaroth. We will instead gather every warrior in the realm, every knight and corsair, every beastmaster and shade. We will muster such a host as has never sailed against the shores of Ulthuan. Every black ark, every helldrake and galley, any ship worthy of the sea will assemble in the greatest armada the gods have ever seen. In the past, the druchii have faltered against the asur because always you restrained yourselves, you held something back. This time, such cowardice will not be permitted. You will throw the full strength of your realms against Ulthuan. Nothing will be held back, for there will be nothing to come back to. There will be only victory or death!’
There were nods of agreement, some more forced than others, but Malekith could see that the truth had lingered in their hearts for some time but was only now being acknowledged. The attacks of the northlanders had been bitter, but no more bitter for Malekith than the last six millennia of frustration and disappointment. Now his subjects could feel an iota of what he had felt for so long, trapped behind their walls, seeing all they had built brought to ruin by the failings and machinations of others.
‘Naggaroth will never recover,’ the Witch King continued, erasing all doubt from the minds of his councillors. He knew they would obey his command; they always did. He needed more. He needed them to believe in their cause with greater passion than ever before. For one time only, the entirety of the druchii had to be bound together by a common purpose: conquest or extinction. His voice rose to a shout. ‘It is not the will of our people to slowly dwindle and die, cowering behind our walls. We are the bloodied blade that delivers fate’s end. We are the hunters from whom no prey escapes. We are the victors of a thousand wars, the lords of countless lesser creatures, and we do not bow meekly to Morai-heg’s decree. We are scions of Nagarythe, the people of Aenarion! We will reclaim our birthright or die!’
The dread lords and ladies sat in shocked silence at this decree, none daring to look at any other except their lord, who prowled around the table and stopped before his throne, standing between Drusala and Ezresor. Malekith looked at the sorceress and then the spymaster.
‘Before you depart the Black Tower. Before you return to your cities to gather your warriors, a demonstration. A reminder of what must befall all who betray their
king.’
Kouran rose to his feet and joined his master. From the darkness behind his Black Guards emerged Malekith’s personal torturers bringing with them the wickedly barbed, hooked and pointed implements of their profession.
Kouran stood before the iron throne, the torturers flanking him at either side. The captain turned towards Drusala, then in a sudden whirl he fell upon Ezresor. The spymaster was caught utterly by surprise, the blade he had hidden in the sleeve of his robe pinned against his wrist as Kouran caught him, the point of Crimson Death a hair’s breadth from the spymaster’s throat. Ezresor was forced to his feet as the captain bent his arm behind his back.
Malekith seized hold of the struggling elf. His iron hand gripped Ezresor’s gaunt face, forcing his mouth open.
‘You were the eyes and ears of the Black Tower,’ the king snarled. ‘But what good are eyes and ears when the tongue will not relate what has been seen and heard?’ The Witch King’s iron talons reached inside Ezresor’s mouth. A gargled cry escaped the spymaster as Malekith ripped the tongue free, blood sizzling on the Witch King’s fingertips. He held the bloodied strip of flesh for all the Black Council to see, the organ charring rapidly. ‘One of you bought Ezresor’s tongue. Look well upon what you purchased.’
Dropping the gory talisman on the floor, the king stormed from the chamber, leaving Kouran to make an example to the others.
As the Witch King ordered, so it was to be.
Though Naggaroth was to be surrendered, it was not to be gifted to the northlanders and daemons. The slaves were slaughtered in their millions, their departing souls used to cast vile enchantments upon their bodies to bring plague upon those that came after. The earth itself was cursed so that no crop or grass or flower would grow again from the blood-soaked soil. The snows and the water courses were poisoned, and the subterranean rivers and seas of the Iron Mountains were spoiled. The sky was choked by a bank of black smoke from the burning cities and towers. Nothing was left as loot or comfort for the invaders.
Only Morathi remained at Ghrond, and the most demented of Khaine’s acolytes fought endless war with Hellebron against the Bloodied Horde at Har Ganeth. All others of elven blood followed their lords to the coast and prepared not for an attack but for a migration, back to the land of their ancestors.
Because the fates have ever had a sense of drama, even at the hour of setting forth, as the sails of the corsairs’ ships darkened the ocean and the great shadows of the black arks stretched across storm-tossed waves, so the last of the daemons attacking Ulthuan fell to the Sunfang, Lacelothrai, the blade of Prince Tyrion, and his brother Teclis banished their kind from the shores of the elven homeland at great cost to his own health and future. Tired were the defenders but they knew their enemies would think them weak and vulnerable. Muted were the celebrations as the dead were buried and the fortifications repaired.
Thus was set the stage for the opening scene of Ulthuan’s last war.
TEN
The Battle of Eagle Gate
This was his land, his soil, and countless were the elven lives that had been sacrificed upon it. Malekith could almost feel the souls of millions of dead, lamenting their demise from the depths of the underworld in Mirai, who had shed their blood for the region the asur called the Shadowlands.
It was a disdainful name, dismissive of the great history that had been forged on the cold plains that had once been known as Nagarythe. This was the land of Aenarion, who had saved Ulthuan from the daemons, yet it was now regarded as a fell realm, spoken of in whispers. It was so typical of the elves of Ulthuan that they should dismiss so much of their heritage while lauding the weaker descendants of those that had created their civilisation.
More blood was watering the spiny plants and short grasses of the Nagarythe mountainsides as another column of druchii warriors marched up the valley towards the immense fortification known as Eagle Gate. No other elven keep or castle had ever rivalled the gates of the Annulii Mountains in size or imposition to attack. Each stretched across the valley it defended a score times the height of an elf, many walls deep, protected by batteries of bolt throwers, warded by the ancient enchantments of Saphery and garrisoned by thousands of Ulthuan militia.
Eagle Gate was perhaps the most impressive of all, protecting the approaches to Ellyrion on the Inner Sea. The walls were as white as the snow that topped the two peaks that flanked the awe-inspiring barrier. They had once been fashioned so well that not a crack or fingerhold would have been found on their smooth surface, but of late the relentless attacks of the druchii, and before that the assaults of the daemons, had defaced the ancient stone more than the proceeding millennia. The ramparts had suffered a battering by bolt throwers and sorcery, jagged in places like broken teeth, the slender battlements and arched revetments hastily replaced in parts by whitewashed wooden defences.
Of the eight curtain walls, only two remained whole. The outer walls had been breached in the recent daemon war and in place of enchanted stone the defence was held by resolute elves clad in white and gold. The colours of Tiranoc and Ellyrion and several of the other kingdoms rippled on the banners above the host. Here and there a few flags bore the red-and-green of Caledor, but only a few, belonging to warriors and knights that had come to the gate in defiance of Prince Imrik’s wishes.
The bows of the defenders sang as clouds of arrows fell upon the advancing host, who were as yet out of range with their crossbows, unable to loose any retaliation that might drive the asur from the rampart. The snaking column of black that was the Naggarothi host seemed beset in a sea of foaming white as chariots and riders from Tiranoc to the south engaged them from the flank. From above, mages hurled purple fireballs into the ranks of attackers, setting fires in the flesh of the druchii, charring clothing and melting mail armour. Jagged blue lightning ripped into the silver-and-purple-clad warriors, turning living soldiers into drifting clouds of smoke and molten steel.
Beside Malekith Seraphon stirred, emitting a low growl that made the promontory rumble beneath the Witch King’s feet. He patted her neck, her scales adequate protection against his burning palm.
‘You hunger for the battle,’ he said, sensing the bunch of her muscles as her instincts told her to hunt and rend. ‘Not yet, faithful Seraphon. In time you shall be allowed to the banquet, but not yet. Their claws need a little more dulling, or we shall regret our haste.’
It was not the first attack Eagle Gate had weathered since the druchii had arrived, but Malekith was determined that it would not stand against him this time. He had given the honour, dubious though it was, to Malus Darkblade, but it was not to the warriors of Hag Graef nor the knights of the Tyrant that the Witch King truly entrusted victory. It was a simple fact that from the moment the immense druchii fleet had landed on the shores of Nagarythe and disgorged its hosts towards Ellyrion, the fate of Eagle Gate had been sealed, and the efforts of Darkblade and his regiments was simply a bloody teaser of the violence to come – a test of Malus’s dedication to maintaining his veneer of loyalty to Malekith.
Malus was doomed to failure from the outset, and probably knew as much. He had saved his most precious troops, protecting them like a dwarf king hoards his gold, but the time had rapidly come when the first assaults had failed and the Tyrant was forced to commit his household troops: the knights of Burning Dark. He led them now on a desperate charge through the defenders, assisted by Drusala and her sorceresses.
No doubt the sight of Malekith standing beside Seraphon watching the proceedings did little to hearten the Tyrant. The Witch King was content to observe the lord of Hag Graef while he expended his forces, weakening his power with every failed attack, unable to defy his king. And the true beauty was that the attacks of Malus served Malekith’s purpose in another fashion, drawing the eye of the enemy outwards to the Shadowlands, bringing in more of their reserves and forces from across the nearby kingdoms. Malus did not know that knights from Ellyrion had arrived, and dismounted they waited now amongst the bolstered ranks o
f the defenders. Flame-winged phoenixes drove away the harpies that had been scavenging the dead in the upper towers and then swooped upon the vanguard of Malus’s latest assault threatening to scatter them as the early attacks had been thwarted. Every elf that died defending the gate was one less Malekith would face when he finally made his move, or one less to support Malus should he survive the encounter and make a claim for the crown.
Despite the forlorn situation, Malekith admired the knights and warriors bearing down upon the defenders. It was rare for him to contemplate such lowly subjects but he took a moment to acknowledge the unswerving dedication and bravery demonstrated by their sacrifice below. Many of them would die, of course, without knowing such regard existed, but the fortunate few that survived to see the dusk Malekith would reward for their endeavour, further undermining Malus’s power. He was, after all, a magnanimous ruler when required. That which could not be coerced with dread was easily bought with gold and favour, and in the new world they would carve on these shores the druchii knew only a few would rise to the top of society and would happily betray each other for such position.
There was a great commotion at the front of the assault, but Malekith could not see clearly what passed. He saw an explosion of daemonic energy and the asur army was in disarray for a while. No doubt Malus had unleashed whatever power it was Malekith had sensed at the council. It mattered little; the assault was grinding to its inevitable stop.
The mountains rang then with deafening roars, followed by a tumult of cheering from the ramparts of the gate. A palpable aura of despair engulfed the druchii host pressing into the valley, from spearmen to knights, sorceresses to the beastmasters that drove Malus’s two monstrous hydras into battle. Malekith turned to the south, knowing what it was that had caused such consternation so quickly, broken lips twisted into a smile.
