The Curse of Khaine

by Gav Thorpe

  Dragons.

  There were dozens of the immense creatures, each ridden by one of the proud knights of Caledor. A rainbow of colours against the summer sky, a glittering chromatic display of raw strength. The surprise and delight of the defenders was all the greater for recent events. Imrik of Caledor had declined to help Tyrion against the daemon assault and had withdrawn his forces to the borders of his kingdom.

  His aid had been unlooked for, but now it seemed the tide would be turned by Imrik’s intervention.

  Such relief and joy was untimely.

  Malekith pulled himself up into Seraphon’s saddle-throne and picked up the iron chains of her reins.

  ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘Go to your cousins.’

  Shouts of encouragement from the druchii followed Malekith into the sky as those below thought he sought to take on the squadrons of Caledor single-handed. Jeers rang out from the defenders, mocking his arrogance.

  The jeers faded and the praise of the druchii fell to silence as Malekith and Imrik guided their monstrous mounts towards each other, weapons bared. As he closed with the Caledorian prince, Malekith was surprised by just how alike he was to his ancestor whose name he had taken. It was impossible for the Witch King not to think back to a day of destiny, a battle fought six millennia before above the fields of Maledor to the north.

  Sulekh’s tail lashed, smashing into Athielle’s horse, turning it to a pulp of blood and broken bones. The princess was flung through the air and landed heavily, left leg twisting beneath her. Malekith channelled dark magic, ready to unleash another blaze of fire to finish off the Ellyrian. A movement caught his attention, a swiftly approaching blot against the clouds. He looked up to see a massive red dragon plunging towards him, a golden-armoured figure on its back.

  ‘Finally,’ the Witch King said, all thoughts of Athielle forgotten. He raised his voice in challenge, his words a metallic roar that carried over the din of battle. ‘Come to me, Imrik! Come to me!’

  The companies of the White Lions and Phoenix Guard surged forward into the Naggarothi below while Malekith’s black dragon leapt up to meet the Phoenix King head-on. Maedrethnir plunged down from the clouds uttering a roaring challenge. The shock of the dragons’ impact almost threw Imrik from the saddle-throne, the two titanic beasts slamming into each other in a ferocious welter of claws and fangs. As a blast of fire from the red dragon splashed across Sulekh, Malekith laughed; even dragonfire was no threat to one that had survived the flames of Asuryan.

  The two beasts parted and circled, gashes pouring blood from both. Imrik levelled his lance for the next pass, aiming for Malekith’s chest. The Witch King spoke a single word, the True Name of Khaine, and the baneful sorcery of his shield was unleashed. The blood-red symbol on its surface bombarded Imrik with the cacophony of war and the taste of blood filled his mouth as Khaine’s gift roused the Phoenix King’s rage.

  Malekith was almost upon his foe as he shook his head to clear away the effects of the dread rune. Just as the Witch King was about to strike, Imrik swung his lance as Maedrethnir rolled to the right, the weapon’s shining tip scoring a wound across the flank of the black dragon as she passed by overhead.

  The black dragon turned swiftly, almost catching Maedrethnir’s tail in her jaw. The dragon dipped in the air to avoid the attack, exposing Imrik to Sulekh’s raking claws. He turned and brought up his shield just in time, claws as hard as diamond ripping across its surface as protective energies blazed.

  Gliding towards the ground, the two dragons closed again, snarling and roaring. Fire sprang from Malekith’s sword, surrounding Imrik with crackling intensity. The enchantments of his armour protected the Phoenix King from harm, the blue flames passing around him harmlessly. Maedrethnir grappled with the black dragon, their long necks swaying as each sought to sink fangs into the other. Claws raked back and forth, sending scales and blood spilling to the ground.

  Bucking and twisting, the dragons descended, locked together by jaw and claw. Imrik let his lance fall from his grasp and pulled free Lathrain, just as the Witch King lashed out with Avanuir. The two swords met with an explosion of lightning and blue fire. The shock threw back Imrik’s arm and Malekith struck again, amazed when his foe managed a last-moment parry, turning aside Malekith’s blade as it screamed towards the Phoenix King’s head.

  The dragons gave no thought to their riders as they savaged each other. Imrik was tossed left and right as Maedrethnir struggled with his foe, wings flapping and tail whipping. Malekith clung to his golden reins with his shield hand, steam and smoke rising from his armour.

  The gaze of the Phoenix King met the eyes of the Witch King. Malekith poured forth his scorn in the form of a blood-curse, his eyes locked to the pale gaze of the Caledorian usurper. The Sapherian charms hanging on Imrik’s armour glowed as they warded away the Witch King’s sorcery. Again Imrik turned aside a stroke from Avanuir as the two dragons came close enough for Malekith to strike.

  The battle continued to rage around them. In their frenzy, the dragons trampled over friend and foe without distinction, Khainites and Ellyrians, White Lions and Naggarothi clawed and trampled by the two behemoths.

  Imrik kept his focus on the Witch King, seeking an opening to strike. When the black dragon reeled back from an attack from Maedrethnir, the Phoenix King seized his opportunity. His sword cut down into the Witch King’s shoulder, biting deep with a scream of tearing metal. Malekith felt the sorcery of his armour exploding from his wounded limb, snaking up the sword that bit into his flesh.

  Maedrethnir gave a pained howl as the black dragon’s claws found purchase around his neck. Jaw snapping, Imrik’s mount seized hold of his enemy’s wing, biting through bone and sinew until the black dragon released its grip in a spasm of pain. Blood was gushing from Maedrethnir’s neck. The red dragon stumbled back leaving a stream of crimson on the rucked earth.

  As the Witch King wrenched on the chain of the black dragon’s reins, the beast lunged at Imrik. Her jaws closed around his arm, teeth cracking against the ensorcelled ithilmar. Lathrain tumbled from his grasp. The straps of the Phoenix King’s harness parted as the black dragon shook her head, dragging Imrik from the saddle-throne, casting him to the ground.

  Heaving in a gasping breath, Imrik pushed to his feet, seeking Lathrain. He saw the glitter of metal in a tussock not far away and set towards it, hand outstretched.

  Malekith smashed Avanuir into Imrik’s back, launching him from the bloodied ground. The Phoenix King crashed down amidst the bodies of the slain Ellyrians, coming face-to-face with Finudel’s dead visage.

  The black dragon struggled as Malekith tried to goad and steer her towards the fallen Phoenix King, eager to pursue Maedrethnir who had withdrawn, limping heavily, flanks scored with dozens of ragged gashes. The black dragon fared little better, her wings tattered, face and neck marked by claws and fangs.

  The will of the Witch King prevailed and the dragon’s head turned towards Imrik. Flapping ragged wings, Sulekh pounded forwards, jaws wide, dripping bloodied saliva.

  Imrik looked up, fear written across his face as Sulekh’s fangs reflected in the gems of his armour. Malekith laughed in triumph.

  Victory had been so close that day. A single sword stroke away. By such margins had Malekith been thwarted on occasion, and history would have been so different but for the constant prickling of Morai-heg’s twists of fate. Incompetence in the druchii ranks, infighting by the nobles and commanders, untimely storms, two Phoenix Kings committing suicide and the gods themselves had barred Malekith’s path to ultimate victory.

  Not today. Today there would be no intervention to spare Malekith’s foes. He fixed this new Imrik with his dread gaze and lifted Urithain.

  Cries of surprise and dismay sounded from the mountainsides as Imrik saluted with his lance and the two dragonriders turned towards Eagle Gate, the lord of Caledor following behind the Witch King of Naggaroth. In their wake came the gold and silver and red and blue scales of Caledorian mounts, but amongst t
hem more ebon-hued beasts raised by the masters of Clar Karond and Karond Kar.

  There was already fighting on the walls as Caledorian knights that had been part of the garrison revealed their true loyalty. Even as the dragons descended with claws and deadly breath the great portal of Eagle Gate’s seventh wall was opening.

  The druchii roar of glee was almost as thunderous as the cries of the dragons as Malekith’s followers surged into the pass, intent on the doomed fortification.

  ELEVEN

  An Alliance of Necessity

  ‘You have betrayed us all,’ hissed Imrik as Teclis stepped aside to reveal his companion. Even though Malekith’s avatar bore his original unmutilated form, his features were well known to the descendants of Caledor Dragontamer. ‘You invite… that thing into the heart of my city?’

  ‘Put down your weapon,’ Malekith said calmly. He waved an incorporeal hand through one of the alabaster pillars that held up the domed roof of the private audience chamber. ‘Even your ensorcelled blade will not harm this projection.’

  Imrik pivoted, the point of his sword towards Teclis. ‘This traitor is real enough for blood to be drawn.’

  ‘Did you not receive my gift?’ said Malekith, continuing to approach. ‘I trust my ambassador was convincing in his entreaties.’

  ‘The dragon eggs?’ Imrik’s sword arm wavered. ‘I could not believe it was by your hand that they were returned.’

  ‘This must be far harder for you than it is for me,’ Malekith admitted in a conciliatory tone. ‘I know that I have had many conflicts with your ancestors, starting with your namesake, the first Imrik of Caledor, but I have never harboured any hatred for your kingdom or your people.’

  ‘So easily lies spill from your lips, kinslayer,’ Imrik snarled. His attention moved back to Malekith, allowing Teclis to retreat several steps, content at the moment to allow the two elves to continue without interruption. ‘You waged war upon Caledor as much as any other realm.’

  ‘I resent the accusation,’ said Malekith, genuinely offended by this claim. ‘Never once did I send my armies into the mountains of the south. My agent, Hotek, was given explicit instructions never to cause direct injury to your forefathers or their realm.’

  ‘You did not invade because you knew you would lose,’ Imrik said boldly. He sheathed his sword and folded his arms, but Malekith could already sense that the prince’s indignation was now more by habit than deeply felt.

  ‘I did not invade because I knew I would have to destroy Caledor to achieve victory.’ Malekith’s apparition shrugged. ‘When I gain my rightful place as ruler of our people, the dragonlords will be the vanguard of my army. Only lesser kings would desire peasant woodsmen from Chrace as their personal guard when they could have the dragon princes of Caledor.’

  Imrik’s defiance wavered and his gaze slid to Teclis.

  ‘You have told him of what we discussed before? Concerning the visitation of my ancestor?’

  ‘I have not,’ said Teclis. ‘I wished Malekith to seek his own bargain with you, and that is why he is here.’

  Imrik slumped into his chair, a gauntleted hand held to his forehead for several moments. When he looked up his expression was pained, directed at the mage.

  ‘There is no other way?’

  Malekith answered before Teclis could reply. ‘It takes a great leader to wage war, but it takes a greater leader still to forge peace, Imrik. None should claim to have greater grievance than I. Six thousand years I have borne the weight of my deeds without regret.’ Malekith paused, suddenly aware of the emotion he was feeling. He had intended his words to be a salve to Imrik’s pride but as the Witch King spoke, the truth of his claim choked his speech. ‘Millions have died, but we have the chance to end that now. It is easy to cling to history, to be popular. It is far harder to be right.’

  The thought that his heart’s desire, his birthright, was so close to his grasp focused Malekith’s thoughts, but it was with a surprisingly tired sword arm that he hewed his blade through the defenders of Eagle Gate while Seraphon gouged and slashed her way into their ranks.

  Tower after tower tumbled under the assaults of the dragons while poisonous gas and dragonfire scoured the ramparts of life. Malekith’s attacks were methodical, machine-like, and as he cut down a Tiranocii captain the Witch King wondered why he did not take more delight in the moment of victory.

  He cast his gaze towards the dragon princes, where Imrik led the charge into a regiment of Ellyrians, though his lance seemed bereft of blood for the moment. Was the victory tainted by the Caledorians’ betrayal? Did it somehow rob Malekith of the sense that it had been fought for and earned? Was it the deeper feeling that Imrik’s alliance was driven by something other than loyalty, Malekith’s unease fuelled by an inherent distrust of Teclis who had arranged the pact? Malekith had come too close to allow his future triumph to be built on such shallow foundations.

  Or was it something even more fundamental that robbed the Witch King of joy at the very moment he overthrew the bulwark that had kept him at bay for so long? Perhaps a momentary acknowledgement that had he not bided his time a little longer, sought to woo the Caledorians and others more strongly, he might have legitimately succeeded Bel Shanaar?

  But this Imrik was not the same as his forefather. He was wrought of softer mettle, though he did not realise it. Caledor the First had never been prideful. Stubborn, taciturn and often ill-mannered, but ambition had never been a weakness to be exploited. The first Imrik had never wanted to rule. Already disenfranchised and distanced by the Phoenix King, ignored by Prince Tyrion, the current Caledorian ruler had been ripe for the turning.

  He saw Imrik pause, his dragon alighting on the ruins of a gate tower less than a bowshot away. He was shouting directions to his warriors, calling off the attack as the defenders fled by the thousands along the pass to Ellyrion. Malus’s forces were ill-placed for pursuit either into the mountains or towards Tiranoc, and the Caledorians bore up such knights and warriors of their own realm from the ruins of the gate, carrying them out of the path of the encroaching druchii.

  Malekith hacked his way out of a press of defenders caught on a battlement, as content as Imrik to see his fellow elves escape. As much as he had wished them dead before the fortress had fallen, now Malekith viewed them as future subjects. When the Rhana Dandra engulfed the world he would need as many warriors as possible and the spear- and bow-armed militia of Ulthuan would make a fine first wave to absorb the venom of any Chaos attacks.

  He directed Seraphon to land alongside the Caledorian prince, pulling tight on her chains before she lunged for the other dragon. Cowed, the black dragon hung her head and lapped at the puddles of blood on the wall.

  Imrik turned in the saddle, his lance swinging towards Malekith’s heart, but the Witch King kept his weapon lowered.

  ‘Was that so difficult?’ Malekith asked, waving Urithain towards the broken walls.

  ‘The hardest thing I will ever do,’ replied Imrik, the pain fresh in his eyes.

  ‘I think not,’ Malekith replied. ‘Today is just the beginning. A battle, nothing more. Today was easy, a military objective to be achieved. Harder days will come.’

  ‘How so?’ said the Caledorian, shaking his head. ‘What could be harder than slaying those I once called neighbour?’

  ‘Meeting their families and asking them to follow you,’ Malekith replied from experience.

  As dusk fell Malekith waited in the uppermost chamber of one of the few towers that remained of Eagle Gate, and with him his new ally. Imrik was dressed in all his armour and finery, a resplendent figure of gold and rubies and jade surcoat, as bright and colourful as Malekith was dark and menacing, one the sunlight, the other the ember ready to spark into violent life. The expression of the Caledorian prince did not match his ensemble, sombre to the point of bitterness.

  ‘Needless blood was shed today,’ said the prince, pacing back and forth across the chamber. The room was sparsely furnished with desk, three chairs and
a bookcase filled with tomes of watch rotations and the tower captain’s journal. ‘If I had made known my alliance with you before you attacked, the garrison would have surrendered if offered safe haven or retreat.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Malekith, ‘but now your warriors have raised blade and lance against their kin, and the princes of Caledor have signed the pact with blood. The show of strength will also serve as an apt demonstration to the other kingdoms. Only by the strength of Caledor have I been thwarted before, and now that strength is mine to command.’

  ‘Mine to command,’ Imrik said sharply, stopping beside the desk. Malekith watched the prince’s hand stray unconsciously to the hilt of his sword – the Witch King had allowed his ally to bear arms in his presence as a sign of trust and equality. The truth was that Imrik had nothing to gain and everything to lose if he tested himself against Malekith’s battlecraft. ‘We are your allies, not your subjects, Malekith.’

  ‘Of course,’ Malekith said softly, gesturing to the bottle of wine and two glasses set on the desk. ‘I did not mean to imply otherwise.’

  ‘Many a truth falls from slipped tongue,’ said Imrik, regarding the Witch King with suspicion.

  They stood in silence for a while longer, until Malekith realised that Imrik was not going to drink the wine.

  ‘You think it poisoned?’ Malekith said with a laugh. ‘Tonight, so soon after sealing our common purpose?’

  ‘History teaches that it is unwise to be a guest at your table,’ said the prince. ‘Bel Shanaar’s shade would warn me to be cautious.’

  ‘I would partake myself, but my… condition renders even the finest Cothique red a tasteless experience.’

  ‘Why two glasses?’

  ‘I am awaiting another guest.’

  Silence descended again and Malekith moved to the window to look out over the two armies encamped in Eagle Pass. The druchii laughed harshly at their bonfires, singing victory songs as looted wine passed from lips to lips and bloodthirsty tales and exaggerated deeds of deadly prowess were swapped. Further towards the peaks the Caledorians camped in silence, the great shadows of their dragons dark against the rock, a few lanterns the only light to betray their presence.